Minding the gaps and burning bridges

Will we ever get to a point where no longer default to a comment on appearance whenever we see nieces, nephews, babies, and other children so that they aren’t starved for compliments focused on their physical image as they get older?

Think about it.

Over the holidays. How many babies, toddlers, kids, and teens did you see? And how many of them did you comment on how they looked?

Oh, you’re getting so big!

I love her chubby cheeks!

Oh, you’re growing up and becoming so beautiful!

Ok, time out.

I get it. You haven’t seen someone in a while, and as you literally see them walk up, you go for the easy way out and comment on your first reaction, what you see. But look at this way…

They don’t see you often. When they do, you comment on how they look. More times than not you’re probably feeding them, giving them a second helping, or telling them to eat more and put some meat on their bones.

Before we even talk about commercials, magazines, red carpet specials, movies, music videos, billboards, ads, EVERYTHING THEY SEE EVERY DAY…the small network of people they subconsciously rely on for their safety and well being is setting them up to focus on one thing…

How. They. Look.

Maybe I should take another step back.

You’ve probably heard about the trend of the thigh gap.

I read something today about boasting a bikini bridge.

The article was shared online with a tagline referring to how there aren’t already enough ways for girls to feel bad about their bodies.

First off, it isn’t just girls that have image issues, boys to too. As do women, and men.

Secondly, Jennifer Lawrence has nothing to do with how you feel about your body. Nor does Alyssa Milano, or Jay Mohr.

You do. And whether you’re reading this pertaining to yourself, or as a parent, uncle, or aunt in regards to your favorite children, it’s still up to you.

So don’t go blaming the media for forcefeeding this impossible images into their heads. Don’t blame the fashion industry for hiring stick thin models to show off clothes you’ll never afford nor wear on any regular day when you work in your office, school, restaurant, or home. Don’t blame musicians, artists, politicians, or any of them.

How about this? Don’t blame anyone.

But start the re-education in your own home, better yet, in your own mind.

Try refraining from commenting on someone’s image and talk to them for a bit. Compliment them on their successes in soccer this year, or a science project they rocked out. Ask them about what book they’re reading, or what sports team they like, and have a conversation about why you think One Direction is to them what N’Sync was to you, or The Beatles or Taylor Swift.

Try broadening your own perspective and encouraging them with more than physical appearances, and if you do want to comment on their appearance, try something new like:

You look so healthy!

You look happy!

Or flip the perspective:

I’m so glad to see you!

I’ve missed you so much!

I’ve been missing this hug all year.

Give and show them worth in regards to their relationship with you. Not based on what you see. Because the less you see, the less they become, not just to you, but to themselves.

And one more thing in regards to weight, size, and fashion…stop obsessing over what size you are, because no one’s going to stop you and say, “oh, those 14s are too small.” Why not? Because they don’t know the size you’re wearing, they just see how it fits your body. And guess what? Clothes are made in so many different sizes for a reason. So don’t focus on fitting a size. Focus on wearing what amplifies your awesome. Show off the intangibles they can’t see, and use what they can see to make it spectacular.

UPDATE: I saw this video today (2/28/14) and knew I had to add it to one of my blogs about children because it says so poignantly what I want to drive home. So here it is...

Countdown to Midnight

Fifteen minutes before midnight on January 1^st and I’m clacking away at the keys on the laptop. What a difference a day makes, yes? New Year’s Eve is something celebrated around the world in many ways: fireworks, feasts, clubs, dancing, DJs, board games, house parties, a quiet night with a loved one, or even working through the night away from all the festivities. For others, they go to sleep at a traditional time and wake up the next day like every other.

Maybe we can take a hint from those folks some may label as “party poopers” or “old people” or “boring folks”.

Look at it this way: what if we treated every midnight as a new opportunity to start fresh? What if we partied every night like that? What if we lay ourselves down to sleep and woke up the next morning with an invigorated feeling that presented us with a clean canvas?

I’ll share a secret with you—you don’t have to wait for New Year’s Eve each year to start over.

Let go of the dumb shit whenever you want. Start fresh whenever the feeling welcomes you. Maybe even if it doesn’t.

Wake up each morning with a little bit more excitement than you did the night before, and go to bed each night a little more victorious than you were the night prior.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a party as much as the next person does, but don’t rely on the public to give you a moment to start fresh. Drop your own illuminated ball on the Times Square in your house. Shoot off fireworks every time you brush your teeth or play with your dog.

Resolve to live each day within the year. Don’t wait for the calendar to change so that you can. Change and let the calendar catch up with you.

Happy 2014 folks. Happy January. Happy Thursday. Happy day.

The Duck Call Heard Round the World

People are funny. Anyone that has hung around me for more than fifteen minutes knows I like to laugh and that my sense of humor is awesomely broad, finding entertainment in so many things. But that’s not the kind of funny I’m talking about tonight.

I’m talking about how you use your voice. And not in a technical, vocal theory, Seth Rudetsky kind of way, but in the speak up for yourself and voice your opinion, first Amendment use your voice kind of way.

If you’re on social media sites a lot (which is probably applicable if you’re reading this, by nature of the beast), then you have probably noticed a swarming of posts regarding Phil Robertson, aka the Duck Commander of A&E’s Duck Dynasty. If you haven’t, or haven’t read any of the articles, here are a couple to get you going

The GQ article by Drew Magary that launched this online hornet’s off

An Entertainment Weekly article

A CNN update

So here’s the quick version.

Drew asked Phil a question. Phil answered and shared his opinion about homosexuality and some chatter about growing up in Louisiana. This opinion was taken as a huge kick in the pants and spit in your eye to those in support of marriage equality and pro-LGBT communities. After this article was released, A&E places Phil on “hiatus” and suspends him from the show.

There are two general posts I’ve noticed about this situation:

1. Down with Phil and the whole Duck Dynasty crew for believing in something different from what I do.

2. Hooray Phil for speaking what I believe in.

How about this, folks, when it comes to your opinion…

You’re right.

We’re all right in our opinions, and surprise, there will always be someone with a different view.

Yes, I agree with the principle that a man was asked his opinion and that he shared it. There’s nothing illegal about that. There isn’t anything illegal about publishing it either.

And I don’t work for A&E nor do I know what the conversation was that led to his suspension from the highly-favored show he is affiliated with. For all I know, the suits behind the show may have wanted this backlash to occur and arranged this as a stunt to really bolster viewers in support of Duck Dynasty, filtering out those that don’t share in Phil’s views. But I don’t, so I kick back and watch so many people flail about the online pool of bullshit.

Here’s where the crowds wake up, which leads me to my view of how people are funny.

Social media posts are a great substitute for current event news shows. Whenever someone dies, a major event happens, someone farts in church, anything. I can gauge how grand something is by the variety of people that post about it. When Nelson Mandela died? A few posts here and there. But Obama’s Selfie-gate? That turned into as big a deal as him getting re-elected. Paul Walker’s death. Everywhere. Billie Jean King going to Sochi. (High five if you didn’t have to Google that, or Billie Jean King.) Barely anything.

People like to sound off when it’s something people are talking about, and it’s usually something that doesn’t affect them directly, but they have an opinion about.

Shocker. You can have an opinion about something. Tell me what you had for lunch, I’ll have an opinion about it and tell you a story about why that pisses me off.

And I get it. I really do. It’s easy to share an opinion when it’s about something that doesn’t directly affect you, reflect on you, or make an actual difference in your own life. Because if you do share something about how feel and you offend someone or ruffle their feathers, then, oh snap, you’re getting ignored, blocked, defriended, or worse, not paid attention to.

What about the last time you ordered food at a restaurant and your order was wrong and you didn’t say anything because you “didn’t want to be that customer” or “cause any trouble.” Or the time that awkward co-worker keeps ogling you or making obscene comments about your sister, wife, or daughter. Or what about any other situation like bullying, harassment, or using words like “gay” or “retarded” in a derogatory manner. Did you speak up then?

Probably not. And I’ll be the first to tell you that I’ve been guilty of this too. But I’ll tell you what…in the last two years, I’ve made a conscious effort to say something when someone says something is “gay” or refers to something as “retarded.”

Because that can actually help. That’s using my voice to make me world around me a little better.

Complaining about what someone else did, or defending them when they don’t know you from Adam just feels like waste of time. And maybe I’m wasting my own time, telling you that it’s a waste of time. And so what if it’s ironic that I’m sharing my own opinion?

I guess what I’m really trying to say is, relax. Take some of that energy you have, some of that pomp in your step, and some of that fire in your pocket and refocus it. Try thanking people for things that you make take for granted. Try helping someone out. Try asking someone how they’re doing and actually hang around long enough for them to tell you.

I don’t agree with Phil’s point of view, but I’m not mad at him for sharing it. He was asked. But I look at him like any other celebrity. Yeah, he’s a public figure and people enjoy him and his family for entertainment, and yeah he’s supposed to be aware of what he says, and I’m sure he is. But is what he says or does paying your bills or raising your kids? (well maybe it is the latter if your tv is raising your kids, but that’s a different story.) Is the private life of an athlete really going to make you stop rooting for your team? Or is the social life of an actor or actress really going to make you enjoy their beautiful performance any less?

Because if it is, then you should probably take a vacation. By yourself. For a while.

I believe in marriage equality, human rights, civil rights, and the pursuit of happYness.

I acknowledge that there are still racial inequalities and that makes me sad.

I hope to see the day where there is no more salary disparity between women and men.

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people, and no amount of regulations, background checks, waiting periods, or anything will keep a criminal from committing a crime.

Regulations don’t keep people from taking drugs. Education and experience does.

Music doesn’t make people commit suicide, shoot up schools, movie theatres, or cause riots. Whether it’s rap, rock, opera, or classical, it doesn’t matter. Music tells stories, invokes action, and amplifies your soul.

The act of going to a church doesn’t make you a better person. And neither does not going. You make yourself a better person.

Will there always be people I disagree with? Yes. And some of those people are some of the coolest I may ever meet, but I’ll tell you this, at least they know what they stand for, whether it’s what I stand for or not. And as long as they listen more than they preach, I’ll sit and chew the fat with you.

So preach on, Phil Robertson. Speak your mind. I do, but I don’t have the millions to be famous enough for anyone else to care. This may not be read by even twenty people. But I said it. And I’ll say it again.

I’m sorry you feel that way, because the world is changing for the better whether you like it or not.

But who am I to you? No one. I’m just some Asian kid from the bay area livin in the heartland of America, and guess what? That’s totally cool, because you have your opinion and I have mine, and I can respect that.

I just wish people would use their voices more powerfully. To do something that’ll actually make a difference, and not just spend it on topics that won’t change anyone’s life.

Love yourself. Speak with honesty and conviction. Worry about the safety of your family and don’t think you’re above anyone. Your marriage won’t hurt mine. My owning a gun won’t have anything to do with your grandchildren. My vote in the booth is for my children. And don’t think my appreciation for country music is an attempt to blend in with the crowd. I’ll bump some Tupac too, but don’t be afraid, I won’t  cut you.

Diving into snow

Looking out the window of my kitchen this morning, I was drawn in by the erratic paths individual snowflakes fly. Yes, we’ve heard it all before…

“People are like snowflakes, unique and beautiful in their own way.”

But what I saw led me to these subsequent thoughts:

Snowflakes are like people in many ways, but obviously not completely.

We travel individual paths, but not completely out of our own control. (At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.)

A gentle breeze may blow us around, dusting the earth with wintry highlights, but as we accumulate, we can bring destruction upon things that are not ours.

When seen from inside, behind the safety of a window, we are safe from the masses and are protected from the bitter cold they are flown in with.

When molded and forced to collaborate by children, artists, and free spirits, snowmen are created, erecting something joyful for others to appreciate.

Snowflakes only exist in certain conditions, in select parts of the world, during specific times of year. Some people feel they can only survive in certain conditions, whether it’s year-long tropics or seasonal, metropolitan or secluded.

We’re part of a cycle that, as many understand, to be finite and quantifiable, but can be viewed as snowflakes do, recycling over centuries, traveling great distances between continents and oceans, sharing the same planet that prehistoric creatures did and future generations will to come.

Sometimes, if you jump early, you can be smothered by those that follow blindly, or even by chance, but in someone or something else’s search for life or food, you can be unearthed, discovered, and redirected.

White is a color of purity for many people, and as the white snow falls to the ground, cars drive by, and dirt is mixed in, leaving it dingy and different, but not necessarily wrong or repulsive. As people, we enter the world without judgments, needing security and food, but as we travel our own roads and are kicked around by other travelers and become dirty ourselves, we can appear repulsive to others, but we are still ourselves.

And when the sun shines again we have lived through our time. Hopefully we have brought joy to others, but there will undoubtedly be those numbers that cause pain, suffering, and hardship for many they don’t know.

Bruce Lee said, "Be water, my friend" and snow is still water with a little persuasion from the elements, so I think we’re still capable of doing some good.

Snowmance

“How can you not get romantic about baseball?”

–Brad Pitt as Billy Beane in Moneyball.

That’s the voice I heard in my head as I drove home from work today. In a light snow, well after the sun has set, I thought, “How can you not be romantic about winter?”

Don’t get me wrong, I miss my California family, and I’m excited as all hell to see them for Christmas, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not really looking forward to the warmer weather.

Call me crazy, and many of you already do when it comes to this, but the lack of four seasons where I’ve lived on the west coast isn’t my preferred weather cycle.

Yes, I love 70 degree weather and the days like April 25^th where all you need is a light jacket (don’t judge, it was on tv yesterday and my wife was watching it), but this past year, seeing the seasons actually change here in one of Jason’s “flyover states,” I miss having four seasons even more than I thought I would when I left Virginia to come back to California years ago.

Tonight, as I drove home, and also when I admired the fresh powder on the grass walking up to the door, I realized why I love snow in the winter so much—it has been a part of a few winters along the path of growing up.

In the winter after boot camp, I was still in Illinois for a couple months before transferring to South Carolina. For this California kid’s first winter in the Navy, the snow from the Great Lakes piled higher than waist level around base.

On a North Atlantic deployment with The Mighty Rickover, this time twelve years ago I was in Norway. Yeah, it was cold. Definitely the coldest place I’ve ever been in my life, but damn was it gorgeous. Taking the tram up the mountain and seeing the fjords as snow drifted down from the heavens is something I’ll never forget. Walking through the plazas past decorated buildings, snow filling the cracks of cobblestone walkways. Truly breathtaking. Standing outside the club eating pizza from a place nearby because we felt like a food break between shots and dancing.

A couple of weeks in Maryland, working at Aberdeen Proving Ground and getting a taste of Baltimore.

My last winter in Virginia Beach, playing in the park during the day and driving around in my truck at night to see the Christmas lights.

And now this winter, living with my wife, driving home from my one, full-time job to spend time with my wife in our toasty, little apartment with our mild-mannered Christmas tree and a couple of dorm-lifestyle chairs.

Eventually the winters will be spent in California again, and when they are, I’m sure we’ll enjoy our time with our family and friends who are much closer geographically than they are now. But at some point, I’ll think back to the snow. The places where jackets are actually needed for warmth and snowball fights and snow angels aren’t just pipe dreams.

Because, how can you not be romantic about a white Christmas?

A response to Adora Bull's Paul Walker article on MWD

The following post is in response to reading the article from Modern Woman Digest by Adora Bull, "Top Five Reasons Why I'm Glad Paul Walker is Dead".

I, like many others, accept and enjoy satirical posts from The Onion and Cracked.com. I don't consider myself to be an expert on really anything, but I sure as hell haven't heard of Modern Woman Digest to be a satire-posting site.

That being said, I'm utterly stunned at this post that was written to be published with whom I'm assuming to be loyal readers, knowing there would be a massive influx of new ones. Granted, there is a disclaimer from MWD at the end of the article, and there was a link to a follow up article regarding the author's moving into protective custody, but damn, this is some really messed up stuff.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who's going to take a sick day because someone whom I'm never met has passed in a wreck that some may say was deserved. But what I will stand for is respecting the dead and perceiving them as a friend or family of someone else who is grieving. Someone who caused me no harm, regardless of what happens in his private life. (So yeah, feel free to comment and “take a side” about his 23 year old girlfriend who he had been with since she was 16, I’ve read those articles too.)

Also, I see posts like this and it makes me hurt for the community of journalists, storytellers, and writers that aren’t out for shock value and hit counts. Writers like these get their posts shared, and I wholly acknowledge that my furthering the process is only aiding the intended result, but I’m not doing it without adding my commentary, obviously.

Yes, the comments within the article’s post are there, and many of them are commonplace to any opinionated article, but seriously though…

This is probably one of the most disrespectful posts I’ve ever read.

I don’t think I’ve read anything else by Adora Bull, and maybe I will, just to see how far off the deep end she’s gone with this one, but part of me hopes that the majority of her posts are as grossly inhumane and disrespectful as this one.

Full knowing you may never read this post, my sincerest apologies for the article that this is in response to, family and friends of Paul Walker.

My First Throwback Thursday Blog

Typically, the hashtag #tbt would live in my Twitter and Instagram feeds, but I'm spinning it a little differently this week.

As some of you may now, I'm participating in NaNoWriMo 2013. If you don't know what that means (or Google it before reading further) it's National Novel Writing Month, and it's an annual online event that I'm partaking in for the first time this year.

Normally, I hear about it well into November, but when I caught wind of it in the Twittersphere mid-October, I knew I had to sign up. I had no idea what I was going to write about, I just knew that I did.

So, I've been cranking away at the keyboard most nights, and by the time my birthday and Turkey weekend rolls around, I should have what resembles a 50,000 novel.

But going back, for Throwback Thursday, I'm sharing an old essay. One from 2006, the first time I took Freshman English in college. Yes, I said the first time, because I took it again to receive credit for it so that I could transfer to a university. The first time I took Freshman English, I earned a solid "D" grade.

Yup. Me. Who loves writing, editing, and storytelling, nearly failed Freshman English at a community college. And now I'll be sharing with you an essay I wrote for that class.

Tonight, I give you, (unedited)...

Marlon Deleon

English 122-2000

Mckenzie

February 1, 2006

Mrs. Potato Head

Not too long ago, not so far away was a town by the name of Walnut Grove, affectionately, “The Grove.” The Grove is not so different from your average city. There were schools, paved roads, traffic lights, shopping malls, supermarkets, and the like. The McElroys were a young successful couple residing in the heart of this town. They weren’t millionaires, but they were in good standing, and quite comfortable in their five-bedroom, ranch style home. Julian is a lawyer, and is on his way to becoming head of the firm he works at. He has a commanding look about him, some compare him to Denzel Washington, only taller, standing at 6’4.” Nothing about his Black-Irish form would hurt a fly, he’s a big teddy bear. Mariela is his lovely wife, born to a kind Irish-Mexican couple not too far away. With curly red hair and crystal blue eyes, her father’s Irish genes are inarguable, but she is built like her mother, five and a half feet tall, built like a gentle mother hen, arms open to welcome you into her embrace. She is the senior underwriter at her branch of the national insurance company she works for, and her iron-clad work ethic has her on a path for promotional greatness. They are proud parents of twin boys, Jamal and Seamus, and they undoubtedly take after their father. They are only five years old, but are almost at Julian’s waistline. These two boys are one and the same, as they redefine the connection that identical twins often have, communicating almost through telepathy. This tag-team of fast growing McElroys has their pee-wee football team in stitches, and all the parents talk of them becoming superstars of the WFL, the World Football League. This family of four is as happy as happy can be, without a care in the world. However, this is all about to change.

Mariela and Julian are expecting their third child, and to add to the excitement of having another McElroy enter the world, they have decided to leave the gender of this new addition a surprise. The day approaches quickly, and tonight, as they are all having dinner in their quaint little home, Mariela speaks up,

“Now listen here boys, your father and I don’t know if you’re going to have a little sister or a little brother...”

“I want a brother!” exclaims Jamal.

“I want a sister! Jamal smells!” adds young Seamus.

“But, no matter what, you two are the older siblings, and you will always protect the baby, however old you are, wherever you may be.”

The boys reply in unison, “Yes, mother, we will always look out for the baby.”

Julian leans over Mariela in the hospital, holding her hand, helping her focus on breathing techniques they learned in class together. After a while, the doctor stands up beaming, and says to the panting parents, “It’s a girl!” The nurse brings the crying bundle to the parents, and looks down at the baby and up at the parents, a puzzled look on his face. Mariela looks at the little girl, and then up at Julian, noticing the look of shock in his face is similar to the look on her own.

“Those are the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen on a baby,” Julian utters, “and they’re really far apart. What color are they?” His wife simply stares at the child, and they exchange glances again, seemingly disappointed. Composing himself, he says, “she’s still our daughter, and we will love her no matter how she looks.”

Later on that evening, Seamus and Jamal are ushered in to the recovery room and they come up to their mother on opposite sides of her bed, sizing up their newborn sister.

“She has green eyes,” notices Seamus.

“No stupid, she has brown eyes,” Jamal states victoriously.

Their tired mother looks up at them both and sets them straight, “He’s not stupid, you’re both right. Her left eye is green and her right is brown.”

“No matter what color they are, they’re still huge,” mutters Julian, chin still in his chest, as if he cannot bear to look at his new daughter.

Almost on cue, the twins yell, “They are huge! Freak!”

“Stop that! Both of you. Remember what we talked about at dinner that night?”

“Yes, mother. We’re sorry. What’s her name?”

“Your father hasn’t brought up any names at all, but I’m fond of Daisy.”

“Like the duck?” inquires young Seamus as he starts quacking at the baby. “Daisy the little duckling.”

“Yeah, the little ugly duckling,” snaps Jamal.

Julian picks his head up in disgust, “You boys stop that right now. Daisy’s your sister and you will always look out for her. Got it?”

“Yeah we will,” they say together.

The boys never spoke of their sister at school, or at football, or anywhere else for that matter, because whenever anyone did ask them about the baby, someone would ask what color her eyes were. And when they would answer, that one was green and the other brown, the response they got was never good. “That’s weird,” was the popular response amongst the other schoolchildren.

As the days went by, more and more people would talk of her mismatched eyes, and the boys could do nothing but defend themselves and their little sister. It didn’t stop there, sad to say. Young Daisy McElroy was destined to be different, and grew herself a full head of blonde hair. Not dirty blonde, nor strawberry blonde, but bright, bleached, platinum blonde hair, like no one has ever seen. Her parents were so shocked as this came about, and were utterly disgusted with it. They covered her in little caps and pulled them down low so that her humongous eyes were hidden from ridicule.

Daisy grew up, but she was often quiet, playing in a corner, or far off in the schoolyard, apart from the other children. She had no friends, and being her older brothers were on the road to athletic stardom, everyone knew the McElroy ugly duckling, since they always walked to and from school together. The other schoolchildren gave her nicknames, ridiculing her hair or her eyes, sometimes even both. Some would call her “flashlight” because her head was so bright, others, “Mrs. Potato Head,” inferring that her she was thrown together like a little toy. One green eye, one brown eye, ultra-blonde hair, all painted on a skinny, lanky, olive-tanned body.

Throughout gradeschool, Daisy tried to find her niche, soccer, softball, painting, band, all in vain. Her mother suggested acting, but the soft-spoken, almost mute, Daisy would never think of getting up in front of hundreds of people at a time. She was deathly afraid of crowds, and would barely speak loud enough for waitresses to hear on the rare occasion the family would go out, since they didn’t enjoy the attention of gawkers. High school came about and these young boys and girls were becoming adults. Jamal and Seamus had graduated high school and had both received full football scholarships to La Salle University, six hours south of Walnut Grove.

And so, Daisy was alone, a freshman, ready to start high school, what her brothers called, “the best years of their lives.” As we all know, at this point in our lives, we start to change, physically, emotionally, and everything is a blur. Little boys and girls don’t have “cooties” anymore, and all of a sudden, “popularity” becomes a four-letter word. Daisy was still quiet, and still possessed her “Mrs. Potato Head” look, but the boys started to notice her more, because she was developing into quite the beautiful young lady. Almost as tall as her father at the end of her sophomore year, she was turning heads left and right, and she started to talk more, being more guys were approaching her.

One weekend towards the end of the summer she went for a run down at the beach. Shorts and a sports top were all that clung to her olive colored body, blonde hair in a tight pony tail, sunglasses protecting her captivating eyes from the midday sun. She noticed a large group of students in the distance, and as she approached she discovered they were all from La Salle University, the same school her brothers were attending. As she ran closer, their conversations started to fade, and the guys turned to see this attractive young lady running down the beach. They called for her to stop, and as she slowed to talk to them, she removed her sunglasses.

“Wait a minute, you’re the McElroy twins’ sister, right?” one of the boys inquired, the others in silence, still in awe of the amazing sight in front of them.

“My name’s Daisy, and yes, they are my brothers,” she said, almost insulted.

One of the other college boys piped in, “I knew it!” After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, that same stunned student said, “What happened to you?”

“I got older and grew up, like we all do. I’m still the same person,” and with that she was off.

A yell came from the crowd, “Wait up! There’s a party tonight at the golf course club uptown. It’s my sister’s birthday, you should come.” She thought nothing of it and continued down the beach.

Later that night she was driving around town and noticed a large traffic flow going uptown. Intrigued, she followed, and ended up at that same party that she was half-way invited to. As she walked in, there were greetings from every direction. Word had quickly spread that Daisy McElroy might possibly arrive, and there were high school students and alumni spread about the club. It was a birthday party, and everyone was having a grand time, but it came time to sing “Happy Birthday.” The crowd was eventually hushed, and they all started to sing. After the first “Happy birthday to you,” almost everyone stopped singing. Almost. As soon as Daisy opened her mouth to sing, those around her noticed her amazingly soulful voice, more powerful than anyone could ever imagine coming out of her soft-spoken self. Daisy sang with her eyes closed, and didn’t notice everyone staring at her until she was done singing, as she slowly reopened her eyes to look at everyone else.

“Daisy...that was...amazing,” said a young girl next to her, and the entire club burst into wild applause. 

“I had no idea you could sing like that.”

“Neither did I,” she said shakily. “I usually only sing in my car, and in the shower, but I’ve been having such a good time here, that I just let it all out.”

As junior year started, she changed her schedule, auditioned and was welcomed into the concert choir and the locally known traveling performance group that the choir teacher also taught. She finally found her niche, and went on to become an infamous singer/songwriter and a model, performing all over the globe. She was never called Daisy the ugly duckling ever again.