They Are What Try To Define You

Standardized tests. They are what helps you but they are what also try to define you. Students in high school, and not just high school but middle and elementary school too, are taking these standardized tests every year in each subject just to pass their grade and class. They even help you get into college, only if you have the good grade they are looking for. But every year these students take a test on a subject so that the score can define them for the rest of their educational and maybe social lives.

It's true, standardized test do help a student in many ways like getting into college and being able to pass their grade level and move up with the rest of their classmates without staying behind. But the reason for an education system is to learn. It is to learn, not memorize. It is to learn and not learn just the bare minimum of what needs to be known to pass a test. The reason for education is to gain knowledge. How are students supposed to gain knowledge and learn but not to memorize and learn the bare minimum when standardized tests are what America's education systems are based upon.

Getting into college is what a student's goal is once getting into high school. It is what almost everyone is working towards. But in order to get into college a students needs to take a series of standardized tests (SAT, ACT, SOL etc.) so in order to prove something of themselves. It can define their literate level and what college their scores will allow them to get into. But when on these standardized test a student gets a bad score, it makes the students feel like they are worth nothing. All because a paper said that they have failed.

There are many smart people in this world, many with brilliant minds and talents that are being categorized by these standardized test into two. The intelligent and the non-intelligent . Why is it that a person who has talent and is smart but be categorized as a failure if he or she has failed a test? Why is it that a piece of paper should define a person into a single category. It is like saying that everything is black and white when it is not true. Nothing is ever just black and white. there are shades upon shades of grey.

As The Pages Fly Away

The Child With Green And The Man In Green

There is this red liquid on the gravel. Dark red liquid. It is smeared all over the ground. As the screen pans you see a green shirt stained with this dark red liquid. Soon you see a man in a green shirt. His face is bruised. Purple, red, blue. His lip is cut, cheeks swollen and blue. He can't even open his eyes because they are bruised so badly. His cloths are teared apart. Like a cat clawed his chest but worse, like a monster or an animal with sharp claws clawed him and his cloths apart. His hair stained with the dark red liquid. All seems still, he isn't moving an inch. Standing above him is a dark, black hell-hound. The hell-hound picks the man up and slowly healing him. All the man's wounds and bruises are slowly healing and disappearing. The man is good as new. Like nothing ever happened. Not a single scratch on the body. His cloths are mending together and not a single thread out of place.

There he is again. But this time he is on a wooden floor sitting upright against the wall. The same dark red liquid around his mouth and a black eye. But this time it is not a black hell-hound that helps him up. It is a man that looks exactly like the one beaten up. Except his eyes are as black as the eyes of a demon. The black eyed man picks him up and starts healing and takes all the pain away. In this man's green eyes are tiredness, loneliness, sadness, and fear. The fear, tiredness, loneliness, and the sadness disappear as the black eyed demon washes away the pain and the wounds. The constant fear of death are being washed away as he starts to shrink. The wrinkles in his face disappear as his youth appears. His eyes regain the brightness and his innocence he had lost long ago.

As life throws its darkness and complications at you, soon you loose your youth, your innocence, the inexperience that you wish to get back so you forget all the complexity, the mentality of that everything has to be in the black and white, that there are no grays. The incorruptibility you are born with soon disappear as you grow, as you learn that there are different shade of gray in between the shades of black and white. The adulthood comes with a certain price that many don't know about at the moment but regret once known. As life throws it's complications at you, soon you miss the youth that can never be given back once given up. 

The Woman In The Black And White Photograph

I was going through old photographs for my photography class. We were told that our assignment was to bring in an old picture that needed to be fixed or we could use a photo that we took earlier on in the year to fix using Photoshop. I found a big purple envelope in a cupboard where all our pictures were. In the envelope were many old photographs I have never seen before. I took them down to my room to look at them so I could choose which one I would use for my assignment. 

I come across a photograph that looks like it was taken in around the 1950's or the 60's. There are yellow stains on the black and white photograph. There was a girl. No a young woman. The woman had wavy-curly black hair. She looked no later than in her mid-20's. She looked very young and innocent. She isn't smiling but she doesn't look sad either. I stared deep into the eyes of this woman in the black and white photograph, trying to figure out her emotions. She was beautiful. A natural beauty, an innocent beauty. She looked frail in the photo, small, delicate, and fragile. But absolutely beautiful.

Who knew this woman who once looked so fragile, delicate, and vulnerable was the strongest woman I will ever come to know of. This woman was my Grandmother, my Dadu. All of a sudden I am sitting next to my father and listening to him talk about his wonderful and strong-willed mother. He had this glow in his eyes every time he talks about her. They all do, every single one of her nine amazing children. Every time Baba talks about her he has this admiring tone in his voice, like he is proud and blessed to have such a woman as his mother, a widowed mother who had raised all nine children on her own. . A mother who hadn't failed to teach her children all the important lessons she had learned throughout her life. A mother who never failed to be there for her children. 

I look down at the photo and see her slender body, her fragile and delicate smile, and I am back in Bangladesh for the last time. I am looking down at her and she has that same smile on her face like the one from the photograph. I didn't realize it then but she once again looks small, like the world can crush her, unlike what I have heard from the stories, she looked once again fragile and vulnerable. Who knew that would be the last time I would ever see her. I felt something in my chest, like there is a block right in the middle of my chest making me unable to breath and my throat choking up. I can feel the tears collecting but I wipe it away before anyone can see. I want her to remember me smiling during our goodbyes. 

I once again come to reality. It all feels like a dream. Then I am once again back into the past. This time it’s the day I come home after a good day only to hear my mother tell me in a whispered voice that she is dead. 

"Subah. Subah she died today." 

"...Wait…what do you mean?"

“Your Dadu died. Today."

I just looked at her and turned around, my backpack still on my back. I didn’t even take off my shoes when I came rushing in the house. I didn't realize that I went by the sofa in the living room before my knees gave in and I was sitting on the couch. I heard her say it. But I felt as if the words didn't go through me. That she is just pulling a prank on me. My Dadu did not die today. She is just in the hospital, lying down and resting. With her all her children by her bedside. That's it. She is not dead. I can just call her and hear her voice again and it will be all right. She is not dead. Dadu is not dead! My Dadu is not dead!  

Later on that night my father had called from Bangladesh to check in on my mother, my sister, and I.

“Assalamualaikum Baba.”

“Walaikumassalam Subi...Subah, my mother died today...Subi, my best friend is gone.” He said and his voice faltered when he said it. It sounded like he was about to cry and that made me cry. All I wanted to do at that moment was be there with him in Bangladesh and hug him. Hug him and make all his hardship go away. I got that feeling again. My throat started to choke up and I tried as hard as I could to cover my voice up so he didn’t notice that my voice would shake at any moment and I would burst. It was that moment I had finally realized that she was really gone. My Dadu is gone. But most of all my Baba had lost his Ma that day too. He had lost his best friend that day.

I have seen much of her in each and every one of her children. Her humor in my Choto Fuppi. Her selflessness in my Baba. Her caring nature in my Mejo Fuppi. Her discipline in my Lal Fuppi. Her patience in my Mejo Chachu . Her loving nature in my Nashid Baba. Her responsibility in my Boro Chachu Her generous personality in my Boro Fuppi. Last but not least, her joyfulness in my Chejo Fuppi. To each and every one of her children she was more than a mother to them. She was a teacher, a mentor, and an inspiration. She is my inspiration, my mentor. I want to be as strong as her. To be loved by her children, daughter-in-laws, grandchildren, and great grandchildren as much as her. To be selfless like her. To be able to be a good friend like she was. To be able to be the best sister I can be like she was to her siblings. To not let anything bad get to me like she did. I want to be like my Dadu, The most selfless and strongest person I know.

This one tiny photograph brought bittersweet memories back. All the wonderful time spent with my beloved Dadu but the regrets are rushing through me, I am drowning in regrets. If only I had spent more time with her when I last went. Why hadn't I spent more time? Why? What about when I want to hear her story? Her love story? What about how my Dada was like? What kind of man was he to make my beautiful and strong Dadu fall in love with him? What was it like having nine children being constant reminders of her beloved husband that died too young? Looking at that photograph began to drown me in regret that I can never get rid of. It made me realize that people will leave. They always leave, whether or not they intend to or not. Death is inevitable, even to the strongest. Never take anything or anyone for granted. That is what I had learned. I had believed my Dadu would always be there but that is not how this world works. People always leave. You just have to make the most of it and make as minimum of regrets as possible.

Graphite in Wood

I turn to a new crisp sheet in my scrapbook. There is a newly sharpened pencil in my hand, ready to create, reading to draw. Once I lay the tip of my pencil on the new sheet I hear faint scrap against paper. There is now a thin line on the paper. The pencil in my hand starts to move, its creating curves, lines, dots, and shadings. I take my finger and I start to rub against the graphite on the paper to create shadow. There is now a black grayish stain on my index finger. Once again my pencil starts to frantically move against the page, eventually creating a tear looking drop. Unconsciously my hand and my pencil start to make two half moon shapes together. It looks like the beginning of an eye shape. The pencil is being pushed against the paper harder now creating a darker circle with lines in the middle with another small round circle. Soon there is a rectangle shape connected by a small triangular shape.

There is now an eye on the page. Eyes that looked pained. Eyes that have been through unspeakable things. There are tears on the page and lashes drowning in the salty water dripping from her sad eyes. And a pencil diagonally placed across these sad eyes. A pencil who had just created something so haunting, sad, and deep. When someone looks at a pencil, what do they think? All it is to them is something to write down. This simple has accomplished many great things. It has created many constitutional things within history. And we take advantage of it. We over look at this frail piece of wood. It's graphite allows someone to create, someone to express, someone to write, someone draw. It give motivation and it gives freedom to express. And yet we sit here taking advantage, never giving credit to something so small ,physically, but powerful in theory. 

There is more to it than just a story

There is more to everything than just a story. More to a person than just their appearance and to what they tell you. There is more to things that are underestimated. A lot more to everything that people don't understand and to everything that people understate. Like the hidden meaning behind the texts are hidden traits one forgets to look for in a person before judging them. We may have read the story but do we truly understand it? Or just because we have read it we are supposed to understand it? Do we understand the significance of it? What about what the lyrics that an artist is trying to tell you in a song? What is their point that they want to reach out to us? I am a person who has been misunderstood their whole life. In many ways people understand me but only what I allow the things to seep through my interior. But they also refuse to look deeper into what and who I really am.

That is what I want this blog to be about. I want to be able to write about something that will help someone. About the things people underestimate, the things people forget about sometimes. I believe there is always more to someone then what they show you. I want people to realize the important things and those usually are the things that are never said but observed. This blog can maybe help someone understand it all, to realize that they have to search for that hidden meaning to truly understand. I want to be able to reach out to those who are in the same position as me. Those who are just as misunderstood as I am. Those who seek music, books, art, etc. to feel understood without having to get hurt.

I fear that I wont be able to write everything just about there being more. Sometimes there will probably be something totally random. That things won't always go as planned. But that's life right? Not everything goes as planned and sometimes you just have to be spontaneous and deviate from a certain path and just go where life takes you. And maybe the random blogs I post will help those I want to help more than my other blogs post will. Lets just see where life takes us.