Stage Fright to Stage Delight

I have terrible stage fright.  I can barely speak up in class; I start to sweat, I begin to shake, and I can barely articulate a coherent thought.  I’m quiet in groups, always the butt of the sarcastic joke, “Don’t be so loud” and “You’re hogging the conversation.”  To top it off, I have a soft voice.  So when I do speak up, usually no one hears me and I am forced to repeat myself, over and over again, and the more embarrassed and flustered I become.  And yelling…not my thing.

But, despite my uber stage fright, somehow I manage to read my poetry to strangers in a coffee shop.  And not only do I simply read, I’ve polled people in the cafe and I tell them brief anecdotes.  I wouldn’t go so far to say that I am comfortable on stage.  I’m not an actor nor am I performer.  I cannot be completely vulnerable in front of a crowd.  However, the spotlight and having one’s attention is appealing and exhilarating.

Sophomore year of high school there was an open mic night called Coffeehouse.  Typically, there were only musical acts, but I decided to read poetry with some friends because I knew I couldn’t handle it alone.  No one messed up reading, but I remember freaking out the entire night, before and after presenting.  I don’t remember any one clapping, and I remember it was over quite quickly.  And I swore I’d never do that to myself again.

I don’t know what changed, but now every other week, or as often as I can, I read my poetry at open mic nights.  I even go so far to create an event on Facebook and invite everyone I’ve met who lives near me to attend.

savannah.hipcalendar.com

I don’t like being the center of attention.  But, for once, I am extremely proud of what I’ve written and I’m excited to share it with other people.  It’s enchanting, reading something you’ve written and knowing you’re affecting people in some way.  I’ve had people, after a poetry reading, tell me they’ve felt the same way before, or that my piece almost made them cry.  It’s empowering.  And though my poems are fleeting for the few minutes I speak, I feel so relevant and like I have something to give to the world.

Here It Goes…

I’ve been itching to write this blog post, so here it goes:

Ever since 7th grade, approximately, I knew I wanted to get a tattoo.  There was something about the art, the permanence, the meaning of the image that appealed to me.  I recall drawing things on my arm in pen, and liking the fact that I had art on myself.  Sure it washed off with water after a few rinses, but the idea of it interested me.  No one that I live with has tattoos, so I wasn’t around the body art on a regular basis.

At one point, I had wanted to get some type of bleeding or broken heart tattoo.  I was obsessed with broken hearts (and still am), and I even had a folder on my computer of images I’d collected for inspiration.  But, eventually I realized that I didn’t want to permanently have a broken heart on my body, implying I’d be broken forever.  Then sophomore year of high school one of my best friends got a tattoo on her hip.  She was 16 at the time and because she wasn’t legally an adult, her mom had to sign away for her to get her tattoo.  She chose to get a black and green star on her hip.  She’d always wanted a tattoo for the idea of it and chose her hip because she didn’t want certain people to see it.  I had always thought her star was bittersweet.  It’s a nice piece of art, but it didn’t mean anything; there was a hollowness to her tattoo that I didn’t care for.  I always felt like a tattoo deserved to have a story behind it or a reason for getting it.  I’m not saying my friend’s tattoo isn’t good enough or that I’m judging her, but I swore when I got my tattoo it wouldn’t be just because I could get one, it’d because it’d mean something to me.

After my friend got her tattoo, one of my favorite albums was released: The Used’s Artwork.  I adore their lyrics and I think this is their best album to date, and after much consideration, I thought I would get the word Artwork on my hip in a font from their previous album.  They were one of my favorite bands, the album meant a lot to me, and I saw my own body as a piece of artwork.  Eventually the idea fizzled out for whatever reason, but I knew from then on I wanted to get words on my body.

Then when my friend turned 18 she got another tattoo as a birthday gift from a friend, and this time she got a feather on her foot, and again, the tattoo had no meaning or reason behind it other than she wanted a tattoo.  At this point I had told myself, when I turned 18 I would, as a gift to myself, get myself a tattoo.  It was then that the conception of my tattoo that I now have came to be.  The band Pierce the Veil had grown on me tremendously in the last few years.  When their album Collide With the Sky was released, everything changed for me.  I listened to it on repeat, I read their lyrics, and I still do, and I knew I had to get their lyrics as a tattoo.  I poured over all of their songs one day, picking out lyrics I liked that could go on my body: “True love comes from more than just the heart,” “We’ll start a new revolution now,” “We bleed like watercolors,” and a few more.  As i narrowed down my search, I kept coming back to the same 4 words: We bleed like watercolors.  This was not off their latest album, rather from the first album I ever acquired of theirs.  And this wasn’t the first time I had dwelled on that particular lyric.  I had actually tried to recreate the lyric in my poems, and ever since I had heard the song it was from, The Boy Who Could Fly, I adored the imagery, the lyrical quality of it, the art that it was, the emotion it evoked, and the dark quality it radiated.  I was hooked and I knew I had to have it.  But, I waited, a little over a year, to be sure it was what I wanted.

During my first year of college, my best friend got her third tattoo.  She sent me pictures of it via Facebook and told me she and some friends had gone to get them as a group and she had decided on hers the night before after browsing the internet for interesting things.  Again it didn’t have a background story, other than impulse at its best.  While at college, tattoos came up in conversation.  Attending an art school and all, there happens to be many students with tattoos and bodily piercings and crazy colored hair and so forth.  Many of my friends spoke of wanting tattoos, and as the year went on and I kept meeting new people during my freshman year, and the same conversations came up.  And still, when asked about tattoos I’d respond, “I do not have one, but I want one, and I know exactly what I want.”

I can’t say when I decided I needed my tattoo on my wrist, but I remember going through my options: if I get it on my hip I wouldn’t be able to read it, it’d be upside down; if I got it on my back I wouldn’t be able to see it, I didn’t like the idea of it on my legs, I didn’t want it on my stomach.  I was picky about its placement, and eventually settled upon my wrist, and I knew it would face me.  I wanted to see it everyday, and I wanted to read it and appreciate it whenever I could.

Days before I got my tattoo I’d look at my wrist, and wish it was already there; I already felt like it was a part of me.  I knew I was ready to get it.

At the tattoo parlor, I brought in the quote printed on paper in the font I wanted.  My tattoo artist did up the stencil and placed it where I wanted it.  I turned the stencil around and told her, “I want the words to face me.”  I knew exactly what I wanted.

For those of you who are not familiar with the tattooing process, the artist first makes up a stencil and presses it onto your skin so the artist has a map to follow, basically.  My stencil had to be placed, and washed off, three times before its location was where I wanted it to be.  While my tattoo artist went about her job, I got to listen to the Pierce the Veil album that the song whose lyrics I was getting on my body were from.  My best friend held my hand the entire time.  I enjoyed a very nice conversation with my tattoo artist.  And the pain was very minimal, more irritating that painful anyway.  And when my tattoo was finished, in a way I felt complete.

Now I realize there is a stigma with tattoos, and that getting a job can be difficult if one has a visible tattoo.  A tattoo can leave a bad first impression upon someone.  Some people see tattoos as nothing more than destroying your body.  Some people feel that one should never get a tattoo because we are not the same people when we wake up each morning and thusly choosing one piece of art to remain on your body is too difficult a choice.  People have their opinions, and I have mine.  People may not agree with my tattoo and they may judge me, but my tattoo is a reminder for me everyday, and when I look at it, it makes me happy, and I am very proud of it.  It’s my body and I may do as I want with it.

Now, for those who are wondering, I talked about the reason and story behind tattoos quite a bit, but have failed to mention the backstory of mine.  Here it goes:

Photo Creds to Shannan at Muse Tattoo and Fine Art Gallery

This is how the tattoo appears on my wrist.  As I said before the lyric comes from a Pierce the Veil song, The Boy Who Could Fly, off their album Selfish Machines, the first album of theirs that I ever owned.  They are my favorite band.  And being heavily involved in art and writing, I appreciate the poetry and artwork.  I chose the wrist not only because of my need to see the words everyday, but because of a dark past.  And for me the lyric implies that there is beauty in pain, and that helps me get through life and view the world.  My writing is also very dark, and I take inspiration from these four words.  It may not be a grand story, and it may seem like a jumble of thoughts glued together by four words, but again, it’s on my body; I am happy with it, I look at it everyday, and it completes me.

Soccer

I’m actually shocked that I have not mentioned my family’s obsession: soccer.  A fanatic can be described as someone possessing extreme enthusiasm.  Let’s just say fanatic is an understatement when it comes to my family and soccer.  If we don’t discuss soccer for at least two hours each day, something must be wrong.  Both my parents are coaches, and my dad still plays and has played since he was a child.  Our house is littered with soccer balls, corner flags, soccer cleats, pinnies, and whenever we do laundry, the majority of the clothes are jerseys and practice garb.  We own various soccer DVDs, my brother has a collection of soccer videogames, and my dad DVRs soccer games.  Our lives revolve around soccer: is there practice tonight, a tournament this weekend, what time is the game, etc.  But, I can’t imagine life any other way.

 

The other night my mom showed me a text my dad had sent her that read: 5296.  I was utterly confused, so my mom explained, “Your brother is at the soccer field with your dad, and that’s his new juggling record.”  Now that, is impressive as anything. It took him over half an hour to achieve that high of a number.

 

Our lives have always been entangled with the sport.  Once I could walk, I was given a soccer ball and began dribbling.  As soon as I was old enough, I was signed up for soccer camps.  My brother would attend my soccer practices, and I his.  We had our own personal trainer, our own fitness trainer, and basically we ate, slept, and breathed soccer.  If I needed an excuse as to why I couldn’t hang with a friend, I said soccer practice because 10 times out of 10 that statement was true.  And every Sunday (or Saturday), I looked forward to playing in my game because that was when nothing else mattered, it was just me and the field.  And as I grew older and appreciated my brother’s soccer games, despite the distance, I looked forward to being the obnoxious cheerleader on the sidelines.

 

I remember the day when I knew my brother was not just any ordinary soccer player.  We had been in our backyard juggling, and I had beaten my brother’s previous record with a whopping 96.  My brother, determined to not let his sister beat him, reached 100 something.  From there, my brother went on to achieve 500 juggles, 1000, 2000, and now he’s got 5296.  He went on to conquer tricks that even some pros cannot do.  He proved himself to be the best player on his high school soccer team, easily as an incoming freshman.  He proved to be the best player on his club team, and went on to guest for other teams and prove that he was pegs above the other players.  And once September first comes, college coaches will officially be allowed to contact my brother and recruit him.  And let’s just say talent like my brother’s is in high demand.  I wish him the best, and while I am away at college I want my parents to contact me every time my brother gets contacted by a college coach.  I am going to brag about my lil’ brother so much.

 

Check out how my brother’s mad soccer skills, and you can view more videos on his youtube channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/SoccerInfinity7/videos