I Am Number Four

I finished a book recently, called I Am Number Four by Pittacus Lore (this is a pseudonym for the real authors Jobie Hughes and James Frey), and I am surprised by how much I enjoyed reading it. At first, I did not enjoy it because it was written in present time, and most (if not all) of my favorite books are written in past tense, but as I got more and more used to it, I began to really enjoy it. It took me roughly three days to finish it, and that is a record for me because it can take me up to a month to finish a book (but this is only if I am not really that interested in it). I remember reading Ella Enchanted when I was eight, and I was proud that it only took me two months to complete it.

                Anyways, I Am Number Four depicts the tale of a young sophomore, who has named himself John Smith (this is a temporary name for him) that happens to be an alien from a planet named Lorien. He left his home on a space ship that traveled to earth when he was a toddler because the Mogadorians (another living species of aliens from the planet Mogadore) had attacked and destroyed Lorien. There were nine toddlers (including himself) and nine Cêpan (which are the caretakers and trainers of the Garde, or aliens) on the ship and in order to not be found and murdered by the Mogadorians, a charm has been placed upon them: they have been given numbers, and can only be killed in that order. Three have been killed, and this is the tale of Number Four (the boy, John Smith).

                I really enjoyed this book, because it opened my mind to all of the possibilities, meaning that there could actually be aliens, that appear to be human but really aren’t. It makes me believe in the impossible, or the unlikely (although it seems crazy to do so). I have realized that I really enjoy reading sci-fi novels, and hope to keep reading books of this genre. I would recommend this book to anybody who is interested in this genre because it describes events that seem unlikely, but because it is written in first person it causes the reader to really believe everything that is going on. I was unhappy when I finished the book, but it is said to be the first book in a series, so I am excited for the next arrivals. 

Something More Positive

I was reading my blog the other day, and while doing so, I noticed that in the last two entries I wrote about the negative sides to my life. I realize it’s unfair to simply pinpoint those moments that are unhappy, and that I probably blew them out of proportion. Yesterday, I was reviewing the photos that were taken of my family during our trip to China last summer, and I realized how much I love my family and how despite all of the negative moments, I wouldn’t trade them for the world. That is why I have decided that this blog post will be about something more positive. I have therefore decided that this blog post will not have the word ‘not’ in it because ‘not’ is a negative word and I am trying to see a more positive side to life.

I am very interested in photography, and in my painting class my favorite part is choosing the photograph that I will paint as opposed to painting them. I took various photos during this trip, and when I showed my sister she encouraged that I become a photographer. My favorite part of photography is finding beauty in unexpected places, and taking pictures of moments when a person is truly happy and not just smiling for the camera. I once took my camera and walked around my back yard and I realized beautiful things that I had previously disregarded. I love looking for different angles and perspectives when taking pictures because they make an image more visually interesting, and I always like to borrow my father’s camera when he is not around and taking pictures of what is around me. What I find rather funny, is the expression on my family’s face when they look at me taking photographs; they are always looking at me like I have gone mad because I like taking pictures of the patterns on the floor or of the shapes in the clouds.

 I think working creatively calms me, because when I am angry or frustrated, and I walk into my watercolor class, after a couple of minutes of me concentrating on my work I realize that I am no longer angry. Working creatively, whether it involves taking photographs or painting is my outlet and it helps me blow off some steam. Having a class once a week gives me something to look forward to, and knowing that I will have a full three-hour session to be creative makes me happy. 


Sincerely,

                Me

Not Good Enough

I am seen as the rebel of the family. And maybe that’s a good trait to have in the real world, but as far as things go in my family it is not. I don’t try to be a rebel; I just don’t see why we should follow orders when they are wrong or unfit to the situation that we are currently in. I feel like my family does not care about me as much as they care for my other sisters, and as much as I try to put a positive spin on my situation, I am currently finding it impossible to do so. Today, for example, I came home late due to the fact that I was in the play, and as I am working hard to finish the day’s work and go to bed my father came to tell me that I should leave and sleep. It all starts well with a good intention, but somewhere along the line things get messy.

I don’t know why I have a tendency to disobey my parents, but sometimes I just feel like they are making a mistake and that they do not understand me as much as they think they do. They see me as a rebel teenager who is just acting immaturely and does not care to fix this and mature. I feel that seeing as I have a sister who is graduating in a year, they think that I should be more like her and therefore expect more than I can give them. What I don’t think they realize is that I am not my sister and I will never be like her. I feel that when they are not comparing me to my siblings, my mother especially, tends to compare me to herself at my age. She describes herself as the golden child who never did anything wrong and always did what was told of her and went beyond; in her eyes she was a mother’s perfect daughter. When I supposedly misbehave (even though I don’t see what my mistake was: another thing that my parents see in my that is wrong) my mother compares me to herself and goes on and tells me for the billionth time that when she was my age she did not do such things. I actually do not believe such stories where she is described as perfect because I am sure as most teenagers, she did rebel against her parents at one time or another; this is part of growing up.

At times, this is why I feel alone when I am at home, and it pains me that my parents do not understand (and I tend to feel as if they don’t care enough to) me. I wake up every morning wishing that this day will be better, but it never is. I hope that I will do something correctly and for the first time, in a long time, my parents will compliment me on the little things I do correctly instead of pointing out my flaws. This is especially brought up in conversations about my grades; I brought up the subject a couple weeks ago to tell my mother I got a B+ in Math for the quarter, and instead of congratulating me for a job well done she asked me why I did not achieve a higher grade; she tells me that I should have gotten an A and that she only likes As. They look at my sister as she tells them about how when she was in my math class, two years ago, she aced through it and it was easy for her. I feel sometimes that they do not realize that I am not my sister, or them.

Fifteen minutes ago I promised my father that I would work for another twenty minutes before going to bed, but I have not. I cannot work when my heart is filled with such anguish. You can ask my closest friends about how stressed I have become recently due to grade issues. I hate it. I cannot stand how I feel as if my parents are pressuring me to strive for my best, but they set the standard so high that it is impossible to reach. At the end of the quarter I got a B+ in math, and that means that I am above standard. But my parents don’t see it this way. They think of a B+ as falling short of what is expected. When I got a low, but passable grade on my math test (the one that brought my grade down) I cried. I saw the grade in red pen on my test and I could not hold back the tears that began to glide down my cheeks. The thing is, that I was proud of myself for getting the grade because I had thought I did so much worse. I was happy and satisfied with my grade. But I knew that as soon as the report card came out, that I would hear it from my parents, and they told me to work harder I could hear the dissatisfaction in their voices. I could feel their disappointment, and most days I feel that what I do is never good enough for them and that I will never be good enough for them.

                Sincerely,

                                Me.