So I must confess Im Still unsure, what to do, so I started both, and I would like your opinions on which one do you believe I should pursue.
Story Telling
I believe in story telling, as Pullman once said ““After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” Its through stories that we accomplish many things, be it through entertainment, education, cultural preservation, or instilling moral values. Story telling will always have a place in my heart, given the large role it played throughout my childhood.
It’s hard for people to comprehend now because my dad has built an amazing business. Yet, as a child, I had very little. We were “dirt poor”. My parents worked endless shifts just to provide food. We had to boil our tap water so it could be drinkable because we lived in a bad neighborhood in a house that was off-the-grid in Venezuela. Our water was not from the normal city water supply. Instead of dolls I played with the five chickens my grandfather had in the house, running around the chicken coup, paying a game of “Catch me of you Can.” Yet, throughout this hardship, all I have are happy memories, memories my father gave me through story telling.
My father’s stories shielded me from the desperation he and my mom felt. They shielded me from our poverty. He taught me life lessons through his fiction and that one can find happiness from the littlest things. These stories, their consistency, always left me with hope for a better future. My dad’s wildly imaginative tales about dragons, ogres, trolls, and a whole array of creatures gave us something so strong to connect ourselves to. At some age, and as we transitioned into some less difficult years, my dad let me help him with the stories and the plot development. They were never too intricate, just the right amount of detail, always. The bad moments that my parents tell me about now are not even in my memory, as everything has to do with adventures and stories we would spend an entire day crafting for each other. When my dad began to travel, he would bring home a little “treasure” accompanied by a magical myth about how it was acquired. His arrivals, to this day, fill me with excitement. Now, his stories are not always made up, rather they reflect something interesting about work or the place he had to go and something unusual he came across while he was there.
(So this is all I have for now with my story telling I believe.)
Imperfections
Have you ever doubted yourself? Have you ever felt you weren’t good enough? That no matter how much you worked towards something, all you work would end up being fruitless, all your hopes dashed. “If God made all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?”
I believe in Imperfections, I believe that flaws are what make us who we truly are.
There is always some form of doubt within a person; be it small or large, some just hide it better than others. No one is perfect, and now one knows it better than the person staring back at you from the mirror. I find it distasteful when girls are hanging out, and as soon as they walk by a mirror they begin to degrade themselves, either your butt is too large, your cellulite is too noticeable, or you have too many stretch marks, to that point you have world map imprinted on your thighs.
I remember during Junior high when I still hadn’t gone through puberty. I was a four-eyed short little girl, who never brushed her hair, wearing braces, smiling my way through school. It’s funny how we seem to remember some of the worst times of our lives, that no matter how much you wish to forget it, the more you try, the more you remember. We were in spanish class, and our teacher decided to play a game, the concept of the game was to think of a celebrities name and make it our own, then we would shout different names, if it was your alias name they called, it was your turn to shout another name. I clearly remember feeling excited as I looked around the class hoping someone would call my name, out of nowhere I hear one of the guys say
“Ugly Betty!”
The room went silent as we all looked around, attempting to figure out who was the poor idiot who chose that name. Once again the boy repeater
“Ugly Betty!”
I felt dread welling up inside me as he turned to stare at me and shouted
“Wait… Veronica, aren’t you ugly betty?”
(So this is all I have for my Imperfections I believe) For Now