The Californian Logic (and Other Rants About Cold Weather)

I wake up and look over at my alarm clock on the window sill: 6:20. I've beat my alarm to the punch: AGAIN. I snuggle under the covers for a few minutes and go into a half-slumber until my alarm goes off. I throw off the covers and make my bed, setting my husband pillow and cushions back on the covers in a day-bed fashion.
I open my door to be greeted by the freezing hallway. I think to myself, When the hell are we going to get that un-closeable window in the common room fixed?
I trudge down to the bathroom and am embraced by the warm steam of someone else's shower.

Finished with my morning ritual, I return to my room and pick out today's class dress: a black skirt, a shell, and that annoying Brooks Brothers blazer with the golden buttons that my parents forced on me.

Arleen, Haley, Lucy, Francis, and I are going to breakfast together, like we have since last Monday. We step out the front door, and my be-flip-flopped toes cry out for justice. I begin to appreciate the woolen blazer, gold-buttoned though it may be. We stop in the middle of the lane, just short of the white picket fence, consumed by creeping roses, that lines Main Street. Haley forgot her closed-shoes for Chem. I think of my friends back home, roasting in the literally 100 degree oven called the San Fernando Valley. And yet, here I stand, no longer surprised by my breath, visible on a September morning.

Haley finally arrives with her Chem shoes, as well as a fleece jacket. I curse my Californian logic which states, "If you're only going to be out in the cold for ten minutes, why bother?" Oh, if only I had known it would be fifteen!

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OMG, Shoes

As the weather turns colder, I am reminded of my childhood dream of wearing a fashionable pair of leather boots. Growing up in LA, boots were a frivolous fantasy. Unlike the tube-top, booty-shorts, Ugg sporting girls who were my age, I was a sensible sort. If I ever got to wear boots, it might be on the one day of the year that our freakish desert weather suffers a bout of bipolarity.

I was also fairly particular about flip flops. I refused to wear flip flops until the height of summer. We're talking, 100-degree, old people having heat strokes, are-those-mirages-or-am-I-drunk, sort of heat. My feet suffered the consequences, as the 14-year farmer's tan began to rear its ugly head.

And yet, my arrival at Deerfield has changed me for good. Well into October, I was still wearing flip flops every day, rain or shine, 80 or 50 (once upon a time, the temperature when I was supposed to "bundle up"). And now that the weather has turned cold, my childhood dream has been fulfilled: I proudly sport my black leather riding boots daily.

Hurrah!

A Bit of Poetry

Ha. I fooled you there. You thought I actually took time to do some creative writing outside of school context? THINK AGAIN.
This is a poem we had to write during the orientation for A Better Chance this summer. The "I am from..." format was given to us.
Even so, this might tell you something about me.

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I Am From Mah Jong Tiles and Purple Yams

I am from kitchens,
smelling of roasting garlic and onion.
I am from pots of rice
and the sound of sizzling meat,
sweet aromas increasing hunger tenfold.

I am from mangoes and cantaloupe,
a million fruits which have no English name,
pigs roasted whole,

and ice cream of purple yams.

I am from kisses on your cheek,
"Oh how you've grown!", and
hugs all around.

I am from giggling aunts and chuckling uncles.

I am from corny jokes and puns,
the kind you only understand if you're bilingual.
I am from karaoke off-key and
the shuffling of mahjong tiles,

I am from basketball players with dancer's grace,

but bruised shins and fingers caught in doors as well.
I am from Tetris and Pacman,
screens flashing night into morning,
wrists swollen with carpal tunnel.

I am from conversations of three languages
and exasperated cries of "Leche!" and "Punyeta!"

I am from "OHMYGOD" and "like" in between every word.
I am from oversized sunglasses indoors,

t-shirt weather winters,

and concrete storm drains called "rivers".

I am from smoggy valleys,
pink sunsets,
and the warm desert winds of November.

I am from cardboard boxes and packing tape,
goodbyes and friends left behind.

I am from sheets made with military discipline,

and a machete under Papa's bed, because
"Well you never know…"

I am from a flashlight under sheets,

"Go to bed already!" and
"Just a few more minutes!"
How many trees died
to feed a hunger for literature?

I am from rides on big brother's feet,
clinging to tree trunk legs,

a kind face looking down from 6 feet above.

I am from, "Who's this!?" and
"You stay away from my sister, punk."

I am from artificial-ivory keys and

seas of black dots and lines.
I am from Mozart, Chopin, and Debussy.
I am from rondos alla Turca,

valses sentimental, and

douche reveries.

I am from fifty voices,
female five part harmony,

breath control,
diction, and
enthusiasm!

I am from Ella, first lady of jazz,

Louie Armstrong, and

Nat King Cole.

I am from the rhythm of the falling rain,
the shaking of groove things, and
calls just to say I love you.

I am from "finish your dinner" and
"the starving children back home."
I am from dreams swept under rugs, and
"we came to this country for you."
I am from sighs of disappointment
and an American dream yet to be achieved.

-Camille Villa

An Introduction

Hello all. The name's Camille.

Now that all that "Wow-you're-going-to-a-boarding-school" sheen has worn off, I doubt any of you folks from back home want to hear about day to day affairs anymore. And I doubt anyone at Deerfield needs to hear it either.

But I still need a place to write.

Do not be mistaken. I am no creative writer. I don't write poetry, short stories, or novels. I can't spin fiction with that kind of talent.
Rather, I put a thin coat of varnish on an otherwise insignificant life. My own.

I will be the first to admit I'm soft-spoken. I'll tell you it's by inclination, not choice. It's in my nature; it's the way I was raised.

But perhaps you think because I'm quiet, I don't have much to say.

Listen.

You'll find otherwise.