Tapping in Silence

     I've been tapping just about since I learned how to walk. I've learned several other forms of dance such as ballet, jazz, modern, contemporary, hip-hop and lyrical, but tap has always been a favorite of mine, despite the fact that it isn't as popular as it was years ago.
     When I was thinking about composing a song without traditional instruments, for a while, I knew I wanted to work with taps in some sort of way. Beyond that, I was lost. I let the idea sink in over my Thanksgiving break as I relaxed. During my time off, I relived part of my childhood and played "The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker." Since I've played this game more times than I can count, as I played this past week, I paid special attention to the music in the game. I always loved and appreciated the soundtrack; however the interaction between the player and the songs became a highlight for me. When the main character struck an enemy with his sword, the music would react: a burst of string instrumentation would play.
    This interaction between player and music truly enhanced the experience of the game, and made the fights much more dangerous and thrilling. But this concept of interactive music was really what fascinated me. Listening to music is usually a passive experience. "Wind Waker" challenged this idea of passivity and it paid off in the long run, making the music more entertaining and adding to the game itself.
     I wanted to recreate this idea of interactive music with the art of tap dancing.
     After much thought, I decided to let my song be the soundtrack or background music for a group of people playing Ninja. There is the basic beat of the person striking the shoes with the taps removed, while there is the contrary metallic sound of the taps whenever a player strikes or gets hit. The piece itself is simple and the listeners will most likely tune it out after a while. In a sense, this song is also a metaphor for tap dancing in modern times: barely alive in mainstream society and something one can ignore fairly easily, yet it is still an interesting and unique form of dance.
     I don't want anyone to forget of tap. I hope this song will do the art justice while conveying the message of an interesting, dying art.

"This is a shoebox. It's also my written composition, written on a forgotten object. It's a simple piece, just to animate the silence of the room ... Use this as background music for a game of Ninja. You may forget the song is playing after a while, and that's okay. Tap is a fading art, a style of dance that is no longer common. Don't let tap fade completely, though. It's still a beautiful art, after all."

Roots of the Cocoa Bean: Connectivity

     I love chocolate.
     I also love metaphors and writing and connections and making things work when they shouldn't and run-on sentences can be fun sometimes, too. It all depends on where the inspiration stems from and how we choose to use it.
     I just read through a segment of "What to Listen for in the World" by Bruce Adolphe. He touched upon inspiration, the flow of ideas and how certain things, like chocolate, can find their way into everyday inspiration.

"Music can be like chocolate because chocolate can be like music. Poetry is commutative. Knowing this, we can begin to understand the various mysteries by relating them to each other."

    The sort of idea that everything is interconnected and intertwines in an almost poetic way. Even when we least expect it.

    This idea of creativity derived from connectivity is not something I had always thought of throughout my life, and maybe now I will start thinking about it as such. Creativity, after some thought, may just be several ideas floating around in a space. It's up to the creator's imagination to process this information — this swarm of ideas — and organize them into something beautiful.

     That is nothing short of a challenge.

     Upon this idea of connectivity, I'm reminded of one of my favorite shows, "Avatar: the Last Airbender." During one episode of this show, the three main characters find themselves lost in a maze, separated, far from home, stuck in a swamp. They find themselves detached from society and from their relationships fairly easily, until someone comes to their rescue.

    Someone to tell them that home is closer than they had originally thought. That every relationship is connected. That all of their thoughts connect to another. That every bit of the swamp they found themselves in is connected to one central tree: one overarching idea.

    And that connectedness truly boggled my mind.

The Seven Deadly Humans

"The world is not created for or about humans."

     Last week, my college was bestowed with the honor of having Stephen Greenblatt as a guest speaker. He focused his lecture on a number ideas from paintings, religion and ancient studies. He covered a range of themes in his speech; however, the above quote was truly what impacted me as an audience member.

    Too often do we as a member of society (or even as an inhabitant on this very planet) forget such a moral. Several creatures and species made Earth their home long before humans had ever occupied even a corner of the Earth. Why do we see ourselves as so important? Why have we placed such a high regard on ourselves, and why have we not done something about it?

    I suppose all of this, like Greenblatt was saying, goes back to the bible. The Seven Deadly Sins exist as a reminder not to fall into such a trap: lust, gluttony, greed, envy, sloth, wrath and pride. An excess of one or more of such sins will ultimately lead to the demise of an individual.

    But what if these sins weren't meant to signal the fate of a single person, but rather society as a whole? What if these sins mirror all human beings and foreshadow what is to come of us as a species? Consumed by such frivolous and silly traits — have we truly begun to believe that the world was created for humans and none else?

    Perhaps this may be true but it is up to us as people to recognize this fact, act on it, and change it. Otherwise, we will all eventually be each of the seven deadly sins.

Bridges

   
    For my collage, I decided to create a piece that attempts to capture the essence of time passing. Too often do I find myself with choices on how I should devote the time I am given in my life. What exactly should I be devoting the majority of my time to? Reading? Writing? Socializing? Studying? All of the above? Where do I gather the motivation and inspiration for these choices?
     As those ideas run through my head often, I drew inspiration from them and put them toward my collage. I made the focus of the piece the bridge because it resonates a sense of infinity, that deciding what to do with my time will always be a question I will ask. The bridge also represents an obstacle: that this decision is something I would need to cross if I want to move forward.
     On the left and right of the bridges, I included two different letters: one in golden text and the other in black, each on opposite sides of the bridge. This further goes back to the idea of choice but more so focuses on the notion of inspiration. The gold text represents a clear inspiration that I can draw from: that I know I'm about to spend my time wisely. The black letter, paling in elegance to the gold message, represents the poor decisions I choose to make with my time. Those days where I fall down the rabbit hole of procrastination because of one poor choice to watch a new television show or decide to spend too much time on the Internet.
     But at the end of the bridge, I still spent my time doing something, no matter what it was, hence the clock and the setting sun. There will always be consequences for my actions and my choices, from beginning to end. There will always be a new bridge to cross and a new choice to make with inspiration surrounding me.

Adding Connections, Subtracting Independence

     "So we live exclusively in relation to others, and what disappears from our lives is solitude."

     Being alone, since I've moved in to college, has become a rare occurrence. Some may view the idea of solitude as a treat while others see it as a curse.
     William Deresiewicz, a writer who commentates on topics such as higher education and culture authored an article entitled "The End of Solitude," explores society's evolution in connectivity. Deresiewicz emphasizes the importance of technology in this commentary, stating, "The camera has created a culture of celebrity; the computer is creating a culture of connectivity."
     This sense of
     C+O+N+N+E+C+T+I+V+I+T+Y,
     in my eyes, is synonymous to
     D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-C-Y.
     Why wait for your best friend to text you a "hello" in order to smile for the first time today? Why wait for something interesting to pop up in your YouTube feed before starting a homework assignment? Why rely on others' schedules, quirks and moods in order to carry on with your day?
     The idea of leading a dependent life such as that has always baffled me.
     In the article, Deresiewicz writes,

     "I once asked my students about the place that solitude has in their
     lives. One of them admitted that she finds the prospect of being
     alone so unsettling that she'll sit with a friend even when she has a
     paper to write. Another said, why would anyone want to be alone?"
   
     I could not help but be appalled by such statements from students.
     Does no one cherish their own individual mind anymore? Does no one appreciate themselves anymore? Does anyone take the time to reconnect with themselves and solve any internal qualms?
     Ignoring solitude is synonymous to ignoring yourself and your problems. No conflicts disappear when shrugged off. They'll only fester and become more complicated.
     I love the idea of solitude. Since I began college, I've found myself surrounded by students my age nearly every waking — and even non-waking — moment of my day. It's been difficult to find alone time. Having difficulty finding that solitude drives me insane.
     It's all too much sometimes.
     On those days, I need to take a step back. Step back, evaluate what's going on in my life, and then talk to friends once again.
     We cannot forget who we are.
     In the end, it is truly all that we have.

Siding on the Sidelines

    "And we are living in a society where people are not happy with their everyday lives."
     I don't want to contribute to the muck; I don't want to contribute to the lies, the stories and the tales that make people unhappy with their everyday lives. I don't want to take sides.
     It's instances like these when I begin to realize that yes, there are two sides to every story, but it doesn't mean that either of them are true. Both are contrived, twisted and tailored to match the needs of the story teller. This even stumps the audience: the third side.
     "Fires in the Mirror: Crown Heights, Brooklyn and Other Identities" by Anna Deavere Smith follows the true points of views of several black and Islamic residents in Crown Heights during the riots of 1991. This play is in the form of a series of interviews set up as monologues. The story itself is cut and dry: an Hasidic man accidentally hits a young African-American child with his car. This then is the trigger for riots, outbursts and the incident is then used as a reason to justify acts of violence unto the other race.
     The other night, I was able to see a live performance of the play in a black box. The only times I had ever gone to see a play was when the performers were strictly bound to a stage. Being able to have the actors directly interact with the audience was a new and interesting concept for me. While the execution of this play was nearly flawless, I did have some qualms with it. Like the two distinct sides presented in the play, I thought it would be appropriate to examine this play in two distinct sides: the positives and the negatives.


·      I could feel the animosity when he threw props in my direction.

·      I could see the pain she felt when she looked directly at me.

·      I could hear his compassion when he yelled at an audience member.

·      The costumes took me back 20 years.

·      The dialects were well achieved by the actors.

·      I felt like a part of Crown Heights: a member of the community.

·      An intermission was needed.

·      I found myself losing interest at times.

·      Some of the monologues could not hold my attention.

·      There was no third-party opinion to balance out the feuding sides.

·      There was never an absolute resolution at the end of the play, although the director toyed with a possible solution that didn’t necessarily correlate with the dialogue.

   

     If you were to examine each of these bulleted points individually and out of context, you might find yourself taking sides. For example, if you were to only read the negative review, you would probably avoid the play. Likewise if you only read the positive review, you'd most likely be disappointed because of how much you'd expect of the play. Both of these lists represent a one-sided argument. There is no middle ground and no balance.
     Just like the blacks and the jews of Crown Heights.
     It's difficult to pick a side when only given one half of the whole picture. But when you can examine and synthesize both sides — like reading both the positive and negative lists and hearing words from both races in Brooklyn — you can form a more well-rounded opinion on the matter. That's why I loved "Fires in the Mirror" so much: There was the perfect balance of both sides. This balance helped me pick a side.
     The side that allows people to be happy with their everyday lives: no side at all.

MusiCANs' Importance

            Music hath contain history. 'Tis the pinnacle of representation; thine world hath been encased within such notes. Methinks such a concept is often overlooked.

            How can we show culture to the world? Andrew Ford displayed these feelings and worries in an article for Inside Story. “The arts in general are how we explain ourselves to each other and to future generations,” he explains in his story and I can’t help but full-heartedly agree. How can we show the development of society, its values and its place during a given time period? It’s difficult to portray passion and emotions in a more concrete manner through writing and/or hard facts. Sure, everything is poured onto a paper in a, presumably, poetic way, but can the reader truly understand a feeling or a mood? Punctuation and diction can only go so far.

            For instance, I could write a message to a friend saying, “I obviously fell in love with him instantly.”  Does the “obviously” denote a sense of reassurance, or a sense of sarcasm? Does this mean that I’m infatuated with someone? Does this mean I’m mocking his potential cocky personality? My friend won’t know unless she hears from me directly.

            Key word: “hears.”

            Music not only combines the art of poetry but also the art of writing. Put together, perhaps the clearest image of any thought can be conveyed. It is for this reason that music is such a wonderful representation of history.

            Can you name the presidents of each decade? Probably not, but I’m sure you can list the popular styles of music.

            '20s and '30s: Jazz.

            '40s and '50s: Swing; show tunes.

            '60s: Classic rock

            '70s: Disco

            '80s: Hard rock

            '90s and 00s: Pop; boy bands

            Music is a way of keeping in touch with the past, be it factually or emotionally. This notion of “keeping in touch” with the past only reminds me of Joan Didion’s non-fiction piece "Slouching Towards Bethlehem." In one chapter, she talks about the importance of keeping a notebook. “It all comes back,” she writes. “Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one’s self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it; I think we are well advised to keep nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not … It is a good idea, then, to keep in touch.”

            Keeping in touch. Remembering the past and working toward the future. This is what music has taught us over the years. Simple melodies and harmonies will always have a way of finding a poignant moment in history or in our lives. The mood of the lyrics and the instrumentals is far too difficult to ignore. It’s our job to keep in touch with the past, and anyone can do so with the art of music and “… plug in to a form of philosophical discourse.”

Fragmentation Recreation

“I forget everything and behave like a madman.” 

            Until somebody walks into the realm of my madness. Then the illusion is shattered, broken, and only restorable through fragments. Fragments of. Words and. Ideas and. Emotions.

            Through a series of letters to friends, composer Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky tells his ideas behind creativity and the process surrounding it. Throughout these letters, he focuses on the world people enter whilst creating anything. Waiting for bouts of inspiration is equivalent to waiting for the rain in a season of drought to water the garden. Being interrupted while working helps piece together different worlds of creativity. Nothing is seamless and everything is stitched without the help of a perfect machine.

            While reading this piece, I couldn’t help but glance back to my writing notebook that I’ve been keeping since I was 14. Glancing through pages and looking over the messy pre-writes: highlighted phrases in colors of green, orange and pink; red ink dabbled next to the black words; green arrows connecting ideas.

            Until I got something that resembled prose.

            Until stanzas tumbled down the page.

            Until sentences were no longer

            Sentences but rather

            A rhythm and a

            Feeling.

            But it never came all at once: it was over several hours of work, tweaking, revisiting, editing, deriving and critiquing. “The parts appear as a completely welded hole,” Tchaikovsky wrote. They appear welded in the most methodic and beautiful sense of the word: a completed and a touched up work of art.

            I never truly understood that artists were supposed to go through this kind of process. I always had this contrived image that someone who creates knows exactly what they want and how to properly execute it.

            But what if their ideas change? What if the artist CHAnges halfway through their creation? What if he/she is interrupted by other thoughts and events?

            What of their work then?

            It’s the job of the artist to meld these notions together. Working with the obstacles and the challenges only adds to the piece in the end.

            Being a madman. Helps to. Restore those.

            Matted

                        Fragments.

                                    And pieces of

                                                Life

                                                            Into something

            Beautiful.

Why Are You Called That? (Creative Writing)

            It was off Martino Road on the corner of Gauthier. She knew the land well, but perhaps she didn’t. It was past city limits and the people of Caruso don’t associate with the people of Curran.

            She knew the land well. She didn’t know it lied in Nagy. But no one knew of Nagy. And neither did she.

            She slipped out of her house one day when she had the place to herself. They’ll never know how long I’ve been gone and where I wandered off to, she thought. They don’t need to know. They’d only be worried. She stuffed a piece of paper into her pocket, tied her shoes, and went down the steps, being sure to keep quiet as not wake her neighbors that lived downstairs.

            Leaving the apartment, she began to walk. She walked, she strolled, she roamed, and she dodged the cars on the edge of the road. She walked until her feet reached mud and the pavement stopped. Several miles, though it’s hard to say how many. Her foot sank into the earth and caught her by surprise. “Am I still in Caruso?” She wondered. “Curran? But I’ve never heard of Martino Road or Gauthier Avenue.” She didn’t stop; she ventured on.

            She began to fall into a rhythm as she walked: something she hadn’t choreographed but rather something that matched the voice of the wind and the tumble of her thoughts. Curious thoughts that never stopped to rest or disrupt the consistent beat.

Dogwoods, elms, spruces, poplars.

Velvet grass.

Wildflowers.

Green.

Completely monochromatic with shy peaks and greetings from dandelions. And the sienna path she walked on.

So much of one color, but where is the gray? Where is the fog, the smog, and the screech of tires? The blinking red and yellow headlights? The glint of stained glass windows from the church? The silent roar of conversations: of whispers, topics, and controversy? Where is the cacophony of busy lives?

She couldn’t fathom this peace. This silence. A silence in which she could hear nothing but herself and the natural sounds that circled and danced around her.

And she couldn’t help but smile. Smile, twist her head, and breathe the same breath the wind used to sing. “Couldn’t be Curran,” she thought and then chuckled to herself. “Definitely too peaceful.” She’d never been to Curran, the neighboring town to her home of Caruso. She only heard the stories of violent actions: of robberies and murders and injustice. The people of Curran were selfish and cutthroat. Inconsiderate, greedy, yet urban just as Caruso is.

But nothing bad ever happened in Caruso. Crime never found its way. It was always diverted to Curran. Caruso is safe. It’s secure, friendly, and yet always gray with the smog of the city blanketing the area. “The people of Caruso bring color to the community,” everyone had always said and agreed. And how they all hated Curran because of it.

The rhythm she fell into never seemed to veer off-track, even though her thoughts certainly had.

Walking.

Thinking.

Venturing.

Pondering.

Exploring.

Contemplating.

“…Hello?”

Her rhythm finally shattered, quickly stopped by the voice of another. For a moment, there was complete silence. She was in a daze until she realized there was someone before her. Another girl, probably the same age as her. Short in stature with an intimidating face. She had a sense of confidence and authority in her voice that cut through the gentle wind. Her blonde hair swayed across her shoulder blades, as if the dance it was doing softened her stare and diluted the navy waters that flooded and colored her irises. Or maybe it was her thin frame that made her seem more inviting: fragile, yet with an aura that could cut through dry ice.

“You seem a bit… lost.” The girl cocked her head and placed her hands on her hips. “Like you’re not from around here. Like you’ve never seen a poplar before or you’ve never walked on the grass barefoot just because you could.”

“… I’m sorry?” The other girl questioned. The spark of interest she had for this place became a flame kindled by the words of the stranger. She mimicked the shorter girl, towering over her with her hands now on her hips and staring down with eyes that matched the dogwoods and bouncy, brown curls that sprung up and down with each word she spoke and each thought she created. “Just because I come from Caruso doesn’t mean I can’t explore this place.”

“Ah, Caruso, you say?” She shot back.

“Yeah. Why, are you from Curran or something?” The curious flame continued to grow with a passion for information, but also for Caruso as well.

The blonde girl snickered.

“Honey,” she began. “Don’t even get me started on that.”

“On what?” The girl of Caruso questioned.

“Whatever silly battle you two cities are involved with.”

“It’s not silly! People of Curran are horrible, selfish, greedy people I don’t want to associate with. Simple as that, really.”

“Okay. Then why are you here.”

“I’m not allowed to leave Caruso? Maybe I just like adventure.”

“Oh no, certainly not. You are allowed to explore.”

“Then that’s why I’m here.”

“But why here, specifically? There are several other dirt paths closer to Caruso you could have ventured down. Why this one? Why so far away?”

The wanderer paused for a moment. She had a distinct motivation and reason for traveling so far from home. She moved her hand closer to her pocket, where she had stuffed the piece of paper earlier. She pulled it out without thinking.

“I found this,” she said, smiling and feeling accomplished for having a decent answer for the stranger. She handed it to the blue-eyed girl.

“So you’re just going to give me this?” she inquired. “You don’t even know where I’m from, hell you don’t even know my name. I could be from Curran for all you know.  I could be this ‘selfish greedy’ person you were describing. And you’re just going to give me this without knowing a single thing about me?”

“Well then…. What is your name?”

“Out of all of that, you think the most important thing is my name?”

“Um, no, but —“

“Dear…. You have a lot to learn.”

They both stood there. The short girl read over the paper as the other stared at the dirt path and how it contrasted with the rich grass. It reminded her of the emeralds she saw in the jewelry stores all over Caruso and how it made the ugly mixture of brown and red in the dirt path only that much more distasteful. Her eyes stayed fixated on the ground, even when she asked her next question.

“So you’re from Curran, I gather?”

“No. I’m from here.” She kept her eyes on the paper as she spoke.

“Where is ‘here?’” She picked her head up and made a gestured to the green area around her when she asked that question.

“The name of this place is not important,” she replied as she gave the note back to the girl. “What is important is how you got that note.”

“What do you mean the name of this place isn’t important?” Her brown curls were now leaping. The flame in her eyes became a bonfire. “And does it really matter where I got this note from?”

“Yes, actually. Where you got this note is very important. And don’t worry: I’m on your side. I’m not greedy or selfish or a bad person. Just please don’t stay fixated on trivial details like names and places.”

The fire in her eyes began to die down a bit. “Sorry,” she said. “I can get a bit defensive when I’m frustrated.”

“No need for apologies. Like I said, I’m on your side.”

A breath of silence, a vocal note from the wind.

“All I ask is where you got that note.”

“I found it attached to one of my essays from English class.”

“And where do you go to school?”

“Caruso Academy.”

“Caruso Academy? Attached to one of your papers? That’s a new one. Your teacher put it there then?”

“I asked him about it and he didn’t answer. He said he never saw it before.”

The girl of the forest slowly smiled and a sparkle found its way into her eye.

“Very interesting,” she answered. “So why did you decide to come along, venture out here at such a young age? You weren’t afraid? You trusted the author of this note?”

“Well… yeah, I guess. I mean… I don’t know. I really didn’t think about it. It looked interesting so I came here.” She answered the questions with hesitation in her voice.

So quick to trust.

So quick to respond.

And what if it all crumbled? What if she found herself facing her death, or deep within the city of Curran, never able to find her way back to Caruso safely?

“You don’t seem so sure…” the other girl commented.

“I saw the opportunity so I took it.”

“Alright… I can see that.” Easy to trust, and very naïve, the native girl thought. That’s unusual for a Caruso. But then again, nothing is usual for them either, I suppose. All of them so incredibly diverse and unique. “Your teacher,” she continued. “Is his last name Patterson?

She shook her head with disgust. “No, he transferred to Curran.” She rolled her eyes. “I have Hull.”

“Hull?!” Her eyes widened with astonishment.

“Yeah, you know him?”

“…Perhaps. Again, just more information that’s not important.”

“Um, okay.”

“Anyway,” she diverted the conversation and regained her sense of awareness and confidence. “I think it’s time you’ve ventured a bit further into this place.”

The two of them continued. The Caruso native decided to take her shoes off at one point and feel the grass under her feet.

Tickle her toes.

Cushion her soles.

Relax her heels.

The song of her tumbling thoughts and the vocal wind returned to her as the petite girl let her walk in silence, allowing her to take everything in at once. It’s so serene, she thought. Why concentrate on the dirt path when there’s an olive carpet and growing trees around me? Why did I ever love the city so much and why have I never truly left the bustle?

* * *

After a few minutes, they reached what looked like a village straight out of a fairy-tale.

Gardens.

Squirrels.

Foxes.

Butterflies.

Dandelions.

Children playing tag.

Everything hit her quickly and potently, one after another. She grasped the environment around her in quick bursts, even the subtlest details making the strongest impact on her.

Welcome mats in front of each door.

Wind chimes in the gardens.

Wells a few feet from each cottage.

But what seemed to stick out the most to her was the peace that each person had with one another. People hopped from cottage to cottage, sharing vegetables from their gardens, exchanging friendly conversations, yet keeping a sort of peaceful harmony. There was no commotion here. Everything fit together melodiously.

 The native girl watched the outsider’s reaction and simply grinned.

“Welcome to Nagy,” she introduced the village to her, though not much information seemed to pass through the curious girl’s mind as the beauty around her hit her like a bag of bricks. “’Have you ever left your front door? Surely you’d like to see what this world has to offer and more. Venture around. Leave home You’ll listen to wonderful sounds, and find beautiful places to roam. We’re friendly here, dear. We love all, even though right now we are quite small,” she quoted the note.

“It’s… beautiful,” the city girl said in complete awe. “Not only the surroundings but also the peace. I can tell everyone genuinely loves and cares about one another, like they’ve earned their trust.”

“Want to hear something interesting?” The short girl shot her a glance. “Each cottage that makes up the village is half Caruso, half Curran.”

Half Caruso, Half Curran.

Half Caruso.

Half Curran.

Half.

Caruso.

Half.

Curran.

The girl’s hair stopped bouncing. The flame in her eyes froze. She remained still.

“Everyone here was tired of the fighting. Tired of the judgment. They wanted to see if they could get along together, half Caruso, half Curran. They found out they really had no differences at all. The views they had of each other were tired stereotypes and propaganda. They had more in common than they thought. So they got together and formed Nagy.

“Nagy will let anyone move in. We just want to stop the feud. That’s why we send out messages to people. Some of your teachers even live here, working to keep the peace. And some don’t. Some work, I guess you could call it ‘undercover’ in Curran and Caruso. That’s why Hull came as a surprise to me, because he does not live here.”

She dumped the entire story onto this girl so quickly and swiftly.

But that’s how it ultimately stuck for her.

“Those notes,” the city girl snapped out of her daze and asked, turning her head to the girl. “Did you write those? Then give them out to those who wish to keep this peace?”

“Of course, dear,” she answered.

“You’re incredible.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I just write the notes and help the people find their way here.”

“All on your own?”

“Of course.”

“But… how are they getting along so well?”

“Because they’re people, like you and me.” She chuckled a bit, still surprised that some people don’t understand that concept. “Want to hear a secret?” She continued. “I’m was born and spent most of my childhood in Curran.”

She looked at the tiny girl in awe. “But we just started getting along so well. I started valuing your words and finding so much genius in you. So much kindness, compassion, and caring. You’re from Curran?”

“It doesn’t matter where I’m from. We’re all just people, aren’t we?”

She thought about this. How this made so much sense, yet she never seemed to believe such obvious logic until now.

“And that’s why your name never mattered. It never mattered where you were from either. That stuff isn’t important.”

Hearing the words repeated back to her, the girl’s blue eyes softened and became more friendly, yet wise and authoritative. “Now you’re getting it.”

“But for the sake of my friends and family, for the sake of your friends and family…. I must know your name. So brave and wise at such a young age. I think someone like you deserves to live on in some way.”

“I promise you it isn’t important. No one here even knows my true name because I think it’s so insignificant.”

“I’m Mitzi,” the taller girl said.

The other girl sighed. “I’m Christie. My parents made sure that something fantastic, wise, and impossible found its way into my name, so they made sure to include Christ. The rest was their imagination.”

“Christie…” Mitzi repeated, “I’ll have to remember that name. The name of a brave, clever girl who opened my eyes to the truth in such a short amount of time.”

Mitzi carried the information with her the rest of her life. The village of Nagy never left her as word began to spread and the hate began to dissolve.

Years passed, and then Mitzi found herself in the Nagy Hospital one day, cradling her first-born child on the first of June.

“Christie,” she said to her husband. “That will be her name. Just like the girl who showed me Nagy and lead the revolution in peace.”