Perks of Being a Junior I

   I woke up to a soothing 5:30 a.m. alarm and instinctively tossed my hand in the general direction of my cell phone. Upon “sliding to stop alarm,” I realized that today is August 26^th. There are only 7 days left of summer. 7 days until the sh!t hits the fan. Once the shock of that realization wore off, I proceeded with my usual routine, dressing myself in burgundy flat-front chinos; a light-gray, finely checked button-down and a pair of black oxfords – my quasi-uniform.

            I find that during the summer, the days of the week tend to blend together; weekends lose their novelty. Today, however, is a Monday. That errant day whose name rings shrilly in ears all over the world. For me, Mondays mean a trip to Manhattan to prepare for the number one perk of being a junior: the SAT.

            Ah, the SAT. The letters stand for nothing whatsoever since their entity is no longer capable of fulfilling an actual title. The score you receive measures nothing besides how coachable your brain is. So why do we subject ourselves to this? The answer’s simple: because everyone else does. I often wonder if I am actually a viable student, or just a guinea pig running on a mechanized wheel set to a speed of the SAT, SAT II’s, AP’s, GPA, et cetera. My fears are allayed only when I pick my head up and look at the plethora of successful individuals who are also products of this abbreviation-obsessed mentality. My use of the work “plethora” only goes to show that CollegeBoard has executed a successful incursion into my brain and taken out all my defenses.

            Evidently, what was supposed to be an uplifting, cheery, “good luck this year”-post morphed into an oddly personal foray into my wardrobe tendencies, followed by an even weirder metacognitive rant regarding our deficient education system. With that disclaimer and with the following quote from my sagacious SAT instructor, I leave you to your summer assignments:

“Junior year will not be a bag of sh!t”

Happy Fourth of July!

           Happy Fourth of July! Every year on this day, people go around saying how much they love America and how great a nation it is. This patriotism is a good thing, of course, but it sometimes feels empty and void of true belief on behalf of the public. Phrases like “I love my country” and “The USA is amazing” have become July 4^th’s equivalent to the cashier’s “Have a nice day!” They are said only because not saying them would be rude and socially unacceptable. Therefore, instead of just posting a status on Facebook with the generic Happy Fourth (yes, I know it’s the title of this post), I’ve decided to share a story with that reveals one of America’s true virtues.

            As many of you know, I am a first-generation American; my parents’ and grandparents’ generations were born and raised in the Soviet Union. When the USSR collapsed in 1991, my mother and her parents found themselves in the middle of a civil war in Moldova (a former Soviet Republic). As with all multinational empires throughout history, nationalist sentiments were a perpetual and powerful force in the Soviet region. Thus, uprisings broke out in many republics post-1991. My maternal grandmother is a Ukrainian Jew; on its own, this made her, as well as her husband and daughter, into targets for persecution. To make matters worse, my grandfather is Russian Orthodox and at the time, was a very highly ranked Russian army officer. This mix of ethnicity and religion made the Moldovan crisis into a terrible ordeal for my mother and her parents. The native Moldovans rallied with anti-Semitism and nationalism, pushing Jews, Russians and all other non-Moldovans back to their homelands during the Trans-Dniester crisis.

            My family’s attempt to wait out the war was short-lived. Residence, jobs, and even basic amenities and food products were extremely scarce. My grandparents could no longer live a humane lifestyle, let alone find a future for their 21 year old, college-educated daughter. Thus, they began the immigration process to the United States. My grandmother’s two brothers as well as my uncle already lived here; this gave them grounds for approval. After a maze of paperwork my mother and her parents were approved to come to America.

            The United States took in thousands of refugees that found themselves in the same predicament as my family. For that, I believe, this country should be recognized. By no means is everything perfect here, the flaws are countless. However, America has been a beacon of hope and a promised land for millions throughout its young history. As this nation gets one year older, we owe it to celebrate this fact. With that, have a happy Independence Day!

There's a first time for everything

     Hello all. The title of this post speaks for itself- this is my first blog post. Ever. So if this seems awkward, that's why (or it's just my personality). My initial goal was to produce some quality writing and to use this as a tool to improve my writing. Throughout my research, however, I realized that I could use a blog as a medium for expression. Naturally this thought didn't occur to me beforehand.
     I'm slightly apprehensive about this whole thing; I doubt my ability to write well, to entice readership, and to commit my time. As is probably obvious by now, I'm not familiar with casual writing. Or casual talking, for that matter. Considering the number of sentence fragments I've written already, I'd say this is progress.
    I leave you with the following: don't judge me (or anyone, for that matter) and give this a shot. Thank you.