Smiling with My Eyes

While I used to be the type of person who read Perez Hilton religiously, talked about the celebrities on the cover of US Weekly as if they were my BFFS, and dream about stardom, these days have since passed. I’ve shifted my daily distractions to TFLN and FML and MLIA—you know, real life things—and aspire to become world famous for my incredible writing talent rather than my dramatic skills.

However, when presented with the occasion to meet the one and only Tyra Banks, I was not one to pass up this once-in a lifetime opportunity (until I win ANTM cycle 17, that is).

Tyra, for as long as I can remember, has been my favorite celebrity. Perhaps it’s her stunning beauty, her quirky phrases and outbursts, her mission to make all women feel gorgeous and perfect. Regardless, Tyra is quite beloved and dear to me. She’s been on locker posters, T-shirts, been there to chat with me after-school when all I wanted to do was stuff my face with pasta, taught me how to work the runway, smile with my eyes, and rock my natural hair without a weave. Maybe I don’t actually need a weave, but seriously, Tyra is my girl!

I probably shrieked for an hour when I learned I had the opportunity to breathe the same air as her. While Tyra may provide us with episodes like “10 women, 5 vaginas” and “Marijuana Moms,” I still wholeheartedly enjoy her hour-long afternoon talk show. After doing my makeup as well as she taught me, picking out a cute outfit, and downing a coffee, I felt ready for my day in her studio. I couldn’t contain my excitement as I cheered and clapped and screamed for my role model long before she even stepped on stage. I volunteered myself for all the diversions until filming began; I finally was called upon to stand onstage and answer Tyra trivia, and won a free t-shirt. My favorite t-shirt.

Tyra finally pranced down her runway, tall and glamorous and flawless, and I was unsure what to think. I don’t really remember thinking. I remember staring and shrieking more and doubting that Tyra Banks stood twenty feet away from me. The taping went by quickly, although the producers continuously paused to push Tyra’s curls around with a strange stick, I went home with more than enough Valentine’s day gifts from my lady and a never-ending smile on my face.

It seemed that everyone I saw that day needed to know that I saw Tyra, shared her space, seen the legend in person. Shockingly enough, people listened, or maybe they were just hoping for some of the two pounds of Godiva chocolate she gave me...

So here’s the thing: it may seem stupid to have a celebrity icon, to look up to someone you don’t know, aspire to be her, meet her, befriend her, there’s a specialness about this impossibility that makes our lives more interesting. While I never actually believed I would meet Tyra (I swear she waved at me after the taping!), seeing her in person reaffirmed my belief in the distant. Tyra, the first African American model for Sports Illustrated and Victoria’s Secret; the star of Lindsay Lohan’s television movie debut, Lifesize; a face in Michael Jackson’s iconic “Black or White” video has always been this distant superstar, a force so powerful and far away, she barely seemed real. And now, I’ve seen her. I believe in the things she’s done and the things I’m capable to do. Tyra encourages me to release my silly side, imitate the “Single Ladies” dance on national TV (is now a good time to drop that Beyoncé was on the show), feel beautiful and perfect and just be who I am.

And while my celebrity life may be far in my past, my hours spent with Tyra will keep me smiling with my eyes for a long, long time….

Looking for Paradise

Querida Mama Tierra,

Tengo que confesarte algo. Es difícil porque, te quiero mucho, pero, pienso que ahora es tiempo para decirte esto:

I’m not really an outdoorsy kind of girl. I’m not quite one to appreciate the silence of an open field, or the calming clicking of crickets at night, or untouched moss growing on the side of an ancient tree. It’s really just not my thing.

I much prefer hearing the sounds of ambulances and speeding taxis as I try to sleep at night, never seeing the stars because of the lights of the skyscrapers (or pollution—not that I’m justifying this), always being surrounded by strangers I will never see again.

Te quiero, es la verdad. Quiero conservarte y tenerte para siempre. I take my canvas bags when to stuff with organic produce at Whole Foods, I recycle, I don’t leave the water running when I brush my teeth, I usually opt for public transportation or even walk! In fact, I’d consider myself a pretty green person.

So don’t tell me I don’t care about you.

But here’s the thing:

On my recent trip to Costa Rica, I realized, that while I absolutely adored snapping photos of Capuchan monkeys inches away from my face, travelling in boats surrounded by crocodiles, and searching for tiny lizards on any flat surface, the wildlife was best appreciated at a safe distance from myself. As fluffy and adorable as those monkeys were, the second they brushed against my hair a horrid shriek escaped from my mouth. As beautiful as the flowers and wildlife were, surrounding me with luscious colors and scents, I could not help but tip-toe around, terrified of a snake or scorpion intruding on my path.

No voy a decir que soy “squeamish”— that’s a wimpy excuse. I’m pretty atrevida- taking dares and exploring as I wish. I remember skipping down the streets of Cusco, never knowing if I’d find my way home again or striding down sidewalks in Harlem, refusing to believe any area to be dangerous.

The thing is, la cosa es, I guess I’m just more of a people person. I love people. I connect with people, I understand people, I see people. On Pandora, in Avatar-land, it’s all about Eywa and the spirits and the connection, but I won’t go there.

The things I take away from my trips around the world- and I learn so many things- is the knowledge about people, their culture, their ways of life. I feel a connection, a bond. Whether I’m tempted to order a Costa Rican brew at Starbuck’s or buy asparagus imported from Peru, I feel like I’m making informed choices, understanding more about the world and where everything comes from and who is responsible for it.

Last week, I found myself at a flea market on the Upper West Side. I dawdled around the copious booths, wondering why exactly I wanted to spend my afternoon at the largest rummage sale ever. Only towards the end of my visit did I stumble upon a woman knitting mittens that looked shockingly like the hat on my head, a hat I purchased in Puno eight months earlier. We chatted in Spanglish about Peru and her upbringing, alpaca wool, her emigration to New York, and her frequent visits to her family in South America.

I have an uncountable amount of gloves at home. I am also living on a college student’s budget AKA no income, no cash, no shopping (well, within reason). I didn’t need another pair of mittens to sit on my winter shelf.

Oh but I did. There was no way I was leaving without those colourful mittens. Although they cost at least twice as much as they would have in their native country, I could not have left those mittens behind. I felt such a bond with this Peruana, a connection of understanding and curiosity and a desire to support her that I knew I had to purchase her knitting.

I walked home in my matching set, confident that yes, New York really does have it all (who knew I would ever find a match to my Peruvian hat?!) and even happier that I still had this link to a culture far from my own.

Para concluir, solo quiero clarificar una cosa: Mama Tierra, te quiero, pero de una distancias segura. Me encanta tus personas, tus culturas, tu diversidad, Pero las arañas y los serpientes no son para mi. Quiero viajar por el mundo, pero el mundo salvaje no es exactamente que estoy buscando. Me gustaría sentir el gusto de los sabores ricos de los platos del mundo, hablar con gente, ver el arte y escuchar la música. Hay tanto que quiero comprender y tengo ganas de hacerlo.

Besos y abrazos,
issa

Ivy Isn't Always Greener

So here I am in the library, two days before Christmas, studying for my last final exam. The halls buzz with pretentious students eagerly memorizing more physics equations and reciting Latin phrases and boasting about their high GPAs. The Culties all call me up via Skype, and I see their bright beautiful faces beaming with laughter, full after a dinner of seven different types of tofu at our favorite restaurant. There’s absolutely nowhere I’d rather be than on those soft carpeted floors of my best friends’ house back in the Midwest, lying on sleeping bags and playing truth or dare like we are thirteen again. But, alas… Oh how I hate school right now.

In my first weeks of school, I learned to hate the Ivy League. It’s this elite illusion, a way to simultaneously enlighten and torture the world’s brightest and/or richest while all the while making you question if you even fit into either of these categories. Someone’s always going to one up you: the girl sitting next to you in a seminar already published two novels, the student sharing your desk (if you are even lucky enough to grab one) at the library is writing his thesis in seven languages, that person has better shoes, this person has a private jet… The competition here just felt way out of my league. Pun intended.

And then I got my first essay back. For weeks, I slaved over the paper. Picking perfect adjectives to modify my nouns, strong verbs to excite my sentences, brilliant quotations to make my IQ seem higher than it actually is. That was why I came to Columbia after all, to prove myself as the Pulitzer Prize winning author I aspire to be. But, of course, a week later I get the paper back, exhilarated at flipping the cover page to discover my grade and read my praise: B-.

What? No! That can’t be right! My teacher said I was a talented writer. WHAT?

The B- haunted me through the weekend: never before had a received such a low grade on a written assignment, let alone one worth 25% of my grade. I walked across with my head down, swiveling between high school valedictorians, star athletes, international superstars. Will I ever be good enough?

Seventy two hours later I sat down with my teacher, discussed the issues of my paper, and arranged a process for the re-write. He assured me that “a B- at Columbia is much better than an A at most other schools.” I slouched down on the library steps and wondered how I would explain that to Harvard Law.

For the rest of the semester, I labored even more meticulously over my work, ensuring that everything was not just perfect, but even better. As well as I could write, someone else could probably write better, but I wasn’t going to let that show. So what if they went to an elite boarding school? So what if they have the highest academic ranking in the country? So what if their family name is recognized worldwide? Suddenly, I regained my footing in the competition. Yeah, I may not have come from an even starting ground as the rest of my league, but I sure could catch up, and I was determined win.

Perhaps I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t just discover I got an A in the class. That my hard work paid off and I felt I earned what I deserved. But it did and I did. I worked harder for that A than almost any other grade in my entire life; seeing that letter brought a bigger smile to my face than it ever did on a high school report card.

And while this could have happened at any school, in any class, it happened here. I still maintain that the Ivy League is overrated, with its nonsensical traditions and proudly displayed green flags, but I guess I’ve learned not to hate it quite so much.

Only Got 4 Minutes?

There’s never enough time.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting next to two elderly women on the subway. One of them arranged her floral-patterned suitcase on an empty seat as her friend explained to her how to transfer trains and then get home on the bus.

“This was so lovely. Thanks so much for having me,” the visitor acknowledged as she blinked back tears.

“No, thank you for coming! Remember, there’s always room for you in my apartment,” the New Yorker confirmed as she ran her fingers through her thin gray hair.

“No, really, thank you, I’d love to come back soon…” The lady trailed off into a story about her grandchildren and her cats and her reading group.

Before they knew it, the train arrived at 72nd street and the extended goodbye had to come to a close. I watched them compare their matching bracelets (at this point I may or may not have almost cried…) and wave goodbye slowly as they parted ways.

“There’s never enough time,” The New Yorker sighed.

And I had to agree. No matter how much we do, how much we pack into our already unbelievable busy schedules there’s never enough time. There’s never enough time to spend with other people, never enough time for ourselves.

As I travelled home for Thanksgiving, I realized that I never truly have enough time. The night before I left school, I stayed up all night talking with my friends; the night I got home I talked with my family for hours, woke up to the same routine, spent the rest of the weekend sharing stories until Sunday night, where my friends and I chatted until dawn.

And what came out of those endless talks? We just wanted more. More time. More stories. More reasons to love each other.

As I returned to New York, I returned to late nights eating ramen and ice cream out of the carton, never wanting to sleep because I have to much to say to my friends, so much to laugh about, so much to plan and explore.

Every day goes by so quickly.

There’s never enough time.

Monet to buy Degas to make the Van Gogh...

An older relative recently asked me, “What do you do for fun? Are you on a sports team? In the band?” And while I scanned through my mind, envisioning the rainbow of iCal tasks and events I accomplish everyday, I could not come up with a solid answer. I could talk about how I write for some blogs (let’s ignore the fact November was a homework-heavy month and I kind of took a writing vacation…) or how I go running to clear my mind or how I arrange my schedule to allow adequate time to visit museums and galleries or how I never let my camera out of my hand. I could have mentioned the fact that I love reading a great novel or revealed that I enjoy creating new pasta recipes and I adore blasting music for spontaneous dance parties in my room. However, in trying to make my interests sound appealing, I felt like most of my pursuits were rather trivial.

“I like community service…” I offered. Which is true, I spend six hours a week teaching kids to read, write, and speak English but I guess that’s not quite the same as training for the varsity volleyball team. He looked in satisfied. “And I sing in chorus.” There. I’m part of a group. Ha. See, I do have fun!

“Do you want to be a singer?” No. I sit there and hope that no one really hears me, actually…

“Well, actually, I just have a wide variety of interests, so I don’t really concentrate on one I guess. I want to be a writer…” I’m not going to lie, I felt pretty insecure.

Why can’t I have fun? Since when does an eighteen year old in New York City not know how to have fun?

I continued pondering the question as I made my way to The Met the next week. The thing about The Met is that it’s just too big, too grand and overwhelming to see all at once. Even if you walk through all the galleries, there’s no possible way you can internalize everything you’ve seen. So I choose a period to focus on each visit. Sometimes I want to go back to see my old friend Botticelli and escape into his mythical world, other times I want to visit my ladies Frida and Georgia and maybe even Vincent or Pablo, just enjoy the moderns, and other days I find myself moved by Manet or Daumier or Redon or Watteau or anyone else who picked up a paintbrush or some charcoal or a camera and decided to capture the very essence of his or her existence.

A great work of art remains unmatched, unchallenged, unafraid to exist and persistent in its own reality. You can walk between Dali and Miro and question your morality, your desires, your future or you can just admire the colors. You can walk past a Monet and think that a poster with his floral pattern would perfectly match the décor in your powder room or you can really look at it. You can look at it and see the signature in the corner, you can know that Claude’s hand once signed this very canvas, you can consider everything that ran through his head as he created this scene, you can imagine the thousands of people who have seen this painting, the thousands of feet who have stood in your exact same spot and the thousands of eyes which have glanced at the paint and thought something about their lives.

I’m not a great artist. I grew up with a crayon in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, but I’ve never completed a Met-worthy masterpiece. However, I find that the solace I discover in these creations, in artworks at the Art Institute in Chicago or the Guggenheim in Venice or the Reina Sofia in Madrid or even a tiny gallery in SoHo, somehow makes me a better person. Art makes me think of the greater world around me, an individual’s ability to create and impact the world. You look at the brush strokes, these thin lines in the paint, and know what one person accomplished this, someone had this idea and shared it with the world. Art inspires me. It makes me want to do good things, to see the world and learn languages and teach others what I know and create my own masterpieces, whatever they may be.

And while I know a great majority of people who would not classify visiting a museum as “fun,” I find that that’s where I’m happiest. That’s where I find inspiration and ideas to enhance other aspects of my life, bringing fun and joy to whatever I do, whether it be jogging through Central Park to and from Museum Mile, going out with friends, or just singing a little more loudly in my choir rehearsals.