My Hair Has Deceived Me

When I reflect and reminisce on my past hairstyles, though I not often do, a pressing question that seems to flood my mind: will any hairstyle stand the test of time? I’ve watched as my hair changed from a cute curly top to a typical-high-school-girl style, and all the abhorrent styles in between. Each time, I seem to remember thinking my hair actually looked good, though I now see I was fooled by a huge act of deceit.

Stage one, I was Shirley Temple. You may think you know what she looks like, with her springy curls and dancing ringlets, but you’re wrong; I was Shirley Temple, or at least I should have been. For every befuddling, bouncing bit of hair on Shirley Temple’s head, I had twice the befuddling, and twice the bouncy bit right on top of my head.
 

Stage two, I was a poodle. Some might call me curly top, or refer to my hair as “that mop on your head,” but it was all the same to me. I was no longer the image of that dancing singing sensation, I was a composite of frizzy, puffy, and overwhelmed. My own hair was out to get me, and it barely even hung past my chin.

Stage three, I was mistaken to be a boy. When my dad was given the freedom to cut my hair for me-- meaning he took the liberty to do it himself no matter what anyone else said-- he discovered he was not meant to be a barber, at my expense. My hair was short and thin and lacking in so many voluminous ways, because now my beautiful curls were taken from me.

Stage four is what most would call a “half-Shirley”, because although I’d like to pretend my cute stage lasted forever, I know that it actually deteriorated as I got older. Thankfully, I still had a “half-Shirley” left on the first day of Pre-Kindergarten, because I don’t think it was my dashing charm that first wowed my teachers. I thank my hair for my generous treatment that year.

Stage five was the Great Depression. From first grade to seventh grade, my hair fell flat. The curls were feeling too heavy to bounce back up, so instead they hung with droopy arches and burdened excitement. No haircut would ease the turmoil. No braid, pigtail, or headband could put an end to the overwhelming hopelessness. It was hard to tell if we’d ever get out of our slump, my hair and I, but we found a light at the end of the tunnel.

          Stage six, I discovered that short hair isn’t for everyone. Short hair certainly wasn’t for me, despite the thirteen years I spent trying to convince myself that short hair was a good look for me. I often contemplated telling people I was Medusa, just so they wouldn’t look at me. I’ve gained some valuable insight from my middle school hair extravaganza; always tell the barber to cut off less hair than you actually want cut. They struggle with the concept of specific inches.

Stage seven, I figured out the key to my never-ending puzzle of hair. Maybe it was the new-school adrenaline pumping through my veins, or maybe I finally had some sense knocked into me, but I made the important discovery during freshman year. My hair needs to stay long. After fourteen years of uncertainty, good fortune, and shame, I finally just let my hair grow, and in turn, my contentedness too. My hair finally hung with purpose and poise. The frizz and the bouncing manifest itself in tamed curls. It was time for a comeback.

          Stage eight continues to surprise me every day. Each morning is like waking up on Christmas day to see all of the presents under the tree. However, I never know if I’m going to end up opening the big box from my parents, that is exactly the right size to fit the gift I wanted, or the little box from my Great Aunt I’ve never heard of before, who lives on a farm in Nebraska. Sometimes my hair is just how I want it to be, but sometimes I end up with messes and situations I’ve never encountered before. It’s a confusing ride with my hair, but I can’t really get off, unless I decide to go Lindsay Lohan on the whole mess, but even I know that that is a point of no return. No matter what horrendous or despicable stages I encounter, it never seems to last very long, though, so I just hope that in the mean time my hair doesn’t do anything too hideous, destructive, or unbearable.

The Old Powers Family Farm

        In a small valley above the Allegheny River sits the remnants of the old Powers Family farm. Every morning, I wake up to light peering through the same shagbark hickory that watched over my mother as a child. My house is held up by eighty-year-old logs, offspring of the ancient red oaks that have framed my family's land since 1780. I walk to school along Powers Run Road, named after my ancestors, and pass O’Hara elementary school, which resides over the old Powers' strawberry fields.
        Growing up in an environment so full of my mother's Protestant history has separated me from my Jewish heritage, so I do not know what grew around my father's family. I can only assume that wheat and soybeans were among their staple crops like other Eastern European Jews. My backyard instantly connects me to the Powers family, but I had to go to a screening of Woman in Gold in order for the Holocaust to resonate with me after seventeen years. That same night I returned home in an attempt to further process my peoples' suffering, but I could not ignore the irony of gaining such awareness while standing on land colonized by my mother's family.
        Before that night I thought that the Powers farm had only been covered with strawberries, lettuce, yams, and other produce that sustained the region. Today, I notice more of the broomrape that came over with my European ancestors. This foreign, parasitic plant lacks any chlorophyll, so it latches onto the roots of its host, sucking away nutrients. Today, I reflect on the Shawnee Native Americans who once thrived across Western Pennsylvania in a small valley above the Allegheny River before colonialism was brought from overseas.
The roots of colonialism extend from my yard out, constricting indigenous people around the globe. I first witnessed this expanse while teaching visual art and music with my parents in Nicaragua. In the rural coffee cooperative of El Porvenir, we worked to foster creative and critical thinking in response to the poverty caused by foreign intervention from 16th Century Spanish imperialism to late 20th century U.S. political presence in the Nicaraguan Revolution. During our two visits to El Porvenir, our goal was to create not artists and musicians, but observers and questioners who can see their environment and their reality differently and can thus self-determine their futures against the pressures of oppressive foreign endeavors.
        I returned home from Nicaragua awakened to my role as a descendant of both the oppressors and the oppressed. As a white male raised and nurtured off of stolen land, I must actively decolonize my mind from thoughts of white supremacy, misogyny, and all other systems of inequality that benefit me. As I remove the broomrape from my yard, I see how the Powers farm is a model for the world - one that I can help to decolonize by making policies which challenge the advantages of my ancestry and create equal opportunity for all people.

The Storm

Hi everyone!

As you all are aware, fall semester is in full swing, and for seniors that means college application season. As such, I unfortunately don't have time to go into everything I'd like to talk about for this post (more on that next time!), but I thought I'd share a piece I wrote for English. I hope you guys enjoy!

The Storm

At first, it starts

the pitter-patter of the sleek, black panther, of the rain

broken

by dusk’s glistening bluffs of cool stone,

by the supple sway of whispering grasses.

The heavens pull up

their soft, grey blanket,

but it is a fitful sleep,

and the sheets roil and blacken.

The wind coos as it whistles through

palmy, leafy rustles -

an omen of a darker tune.

The starlings alight in

a tormented dance

rolling in and out of chaos

among the gathering darknesses.

Then

the skies are alive.

The rain, at panther’s pace,

swells to the stampede of a hundred elephants,

besieging the soft earth with watery bolts,

roaring in the night.

The wind thunders its rage

at the helpless flora,

shackled to the earth

who so gently bore them.

All who can creep or crawl

have fled.

It is in this madness that the sparks

dance.

Falling, falling

a strained elegance imbibed in their

microscopic pirouettes

swirling in rivulets

among the bombast of the blustering wind,

among the noble indifference of the rain’s assault.

They court their earth-borne brothers,

prancing amid the whirling tempest

bound in a precarious harmony.

They join hands -

a flash -

and they crack the sky in two.



Thanks everybody! See you next time.

Che.

Sailing and AP Classes

My favorite thing about sailing is the people. Most jobs have their own stereotypes about them, but sailors are as kaleidoscopic as the ocean. I find that the only things sailors have in common are their love for adventure and willingness to work hard.

I've met some of the most interesting people I know while working on a tall ship. Being surrounded by people with diverse backgrounds and life stories got me to understand the importance of getting to know people, and once I started making it a goal to cut down on the number of strangers in my life, I started becoming a happier person.

Most sailors when sailing.

The other thing I learned over the summer was the importance of having a job. It teaches you so much more than just responsibility. Privileged people have the tendency to look at unskilled jobs as easier, more brainless, and I admit that I thought that too. And when I started out working as a hostess, I got a huge reality check...

I take AP classes, and sure, I don't get As in all of them, but I take pride in what I've accomplished as a student. But during my first weeks working as a hostess, I felt like the dumbest person in the room. There were people I worked with who had a different high school experience than I had and they were flawlessly doing their job. I admire all my coworkers. I've gained respect for people like them, and I've seen people who work from 9 to 9 in jobs like mine. My coworkers all had their own stories, and like my sailing friends, I've come to love the stories they tell me.

My challenge this year was finding a way to learn from people our high school, where everyone has essentially the same life story -- that is to say, not much. However, we are still surrounded in life by people who do have stories and a slew of life decisions that we are too young to make. Your barista at the coffee shop might have been friends with a star soccer player in her youth. Your bus driver might have overcome leukemia. That old man who lives in your neighborhood might have captured ten Nazi soldiers in World War II, or might have been captured by ten Nazi soldiers and survived.

The difficult thing about our generation is that sometimes, we view ourselves as the most interesting people in the room. The reality is that almost always, we are not.

This year, I've chosen a class schedule that gives me a lot of free time. I've decided that in that free time, I'm going to learn as much as I can from everyone around me. I challenge you to do the same.

When you meet a someone --maybe a cashier at a grocery store, maybe whoever has a locker near yours, maybe a teacher-- find out what they know most about, and in whatever time you have, try to learn. I guarantee that you'll come to the same conclusion that I've reached: we aren't better than the people we encounter, we just know different things about life.

Get To Know the Tapestry Staff: Helen P.

Hey Everyone!

My name is Helen, and I am a sophomore on the Tapestry Senior Staff.  I’m excited to be the layout apprentice as my Tapestry job this year!

I can’t believe it’s already October!  The first month of school flew by.  Even though I still don’t want to believe that it’s too cold to go out in shorts and sandals anymore, I’m excited about the new fall season.

For my first post on the Tapestry blog, I thought I’d share a little more about me, along with a few things that I’ve thought are awesome lately.  Enjoy :)

I enjoy all types of art, filmmaking, and design.  I love watercolor paintings, and I think this pretzel print is so much fun!

Pretty stationery and paper is the best.  The print on the notebook to the right  is even called “Tapestry”!

I love every type of food (sweet & savory), and I’m always open to trying something new.  The food in these photos look delicious!

Apples and grapes are some of my favorite fruits.

Confetti Tape!!  This just makes me want to wrap a bunch of presents!

Hope everyone has a great week!

~Helen P.