Me, A History
**Had to write a short about me for some scholarships**
This was my honest to Gawd reaction after finishing it all 🙌🏽✌🏽️
My name is [ommitted unless you give me money]. I also answer to my alias, Rumé [ommitted] (an alias I came up with after watching too much Travel Channel and becoming too enthralled with the French culture). Occasionally I'll acknowledge the Raquel and Raychee that gets thrown my way at work. I even go by my blog name, Rasela Müller, the former being the Samoan translation of my name and the latter after the wondrous German forward and former FIFA Golden Boot recipient, and my dream boat, Thomas Müller. I hail from a long line of Samoan chiefs dating back to the times Jesus Christ and George Washington, or so my grandmother used to tell me time and time again; I would have liked to point out the disparity with the time periods, but who was I to burst her bubble? That cross could've been carved out of a cherry tree for all I know. But I digress. My heritage is what makes me me; in a documentary about the Lost Boys of Sudan dubbed God Grew Tired of Us, one of the boys proclaimed, "A person without culture is like a human being without land". Useless, that's what you are. I hail from a rich culture that I am immensely proud of although, admittedly, I was not always so eager to preserve. I'd roll my eyes and groan when they had me do the siva samoa in front of all my uncles and aunties and cousins. I hated being in class learning English only to go home and get yelled at for not speaking Samoan to my grandparents. Aua ke fiapoko! Don't be a know-it-all! I even hated food from home, kalo (taro) smothered in coconut milk, pisupo (corn beef) fried with corn, or palusami (a magical concoction of fish, coconut milk, note the recurring ingredient theme, and banana leaves) with ulu (breadfruit).
My name is [ommitted unless you give me money]. I also answer to my alias, Rumé [ommitted] (an alias I came up with after watching too much Travel Channel and becoming too enthralled with the French culture). Occasionally I'll acknowledge the Raquel and Raychee that gets thrown my way at work. I even go by my blog name, Rasela Müller, the former being the Samoan translation of my name and the latter after the wondrous German forward and former FIFA Golden Boot recipient, and my dream boat, Thomas Müller. I hail from a long line of Samoan chiefs dating back to the times Jesus Christ and George Washington, or so my grandmother used to tell me time and time again; I would have liked to point out the disparity with the time periods, but who was I to burst her bubble? That cross could've been carved out of a cherry tree for all I know. But I digress. My heritage is what makes me me; in a documentary about the Lost Boys of Sudan dubbed God Grew Tired of Us, one of the boys proclaimed, "A person without culture is like a human being without land". Useless, that's what you are. I hail from a rich culture that I am immensely proud of although, admittedly, I was not always so eager to preserve. I'd roll my eyes and groan when they had me do the siva samoa in front of all my uncles and aunties and cousins. I hated being in class learning English only to go home and get yelled at for not speaking Samoan to my grandparents. Aua ke fiapoko! Don't be a know-it-all! I even hated food from home, kalo (taro) smothered in coconut milk, pisupo (corn beef) fried with corn, or palusami (a magical concoction of fish, coconut milk, note the recurring ingredient theme, and banana leaves) with ulu (breadfruit).
But there comes a time where you come to appreciate all things quintessentially you. The flat, slightly broad nose that you and all your cousins seem to be sporting. The tangles you brush through as you attempt to tame your hair, the same as your grandmother you note, before your mom makes good on her promise and chops it all off. The sly eye-lock and head nod you give to a fellow islander, followed by a "What's up uce? Ua mai oe? How are you?" while those in the vicinity wonder what kind of secret language are you're speaking and if you're talking about them. And when you become tired of all the Burger King dinners and late-night MacDonald's run, and you will get tired of them, you will even miss the island cooking. That's why culture, any culture, is so important to me and I take any opportunity to immerse myself in different cultures: I'll write little notes on my calendar in German, a language I have spent seven years studying and will minor in as well (in preparation for hopefully one day living and working in Deutschland); I'm having my co-corkers teach me Spanish so I can order lunch at Frank's Mexican Grill by myself (and also, this is Southern California so "no habla espanol" is not an option); I listen carefully as my Filipino friend's mom shows us how to properly wrap lumpia (No, no. It's no egg roll. Skinny, skiiiinnneeee); and I help calm down my El Salvadorian friend as she complains about other people's ignorance (Just because I speak Spanish doesn't mean I'm Mexican. He's no better than the Argentinians. Calm down, Em). The point being, my cultural heritage made me who I am, but it, and other cultures, continue to shape me into someone new. And I welcome the change.
In the last year, I've changed my major from computer science to liberal studies. I want to teach. I've always had it in the back of my mind, but I was never too keen on jumping head first and had an increasing sense of fear of getting to the classroom filled with a twisted image of children who are quickly melting, much like candle wax, onto the carpet while their parents are standing outside screaming at me and all because I ran out of white board markers. It's how I imagine first-time parents feel when they get handed this bundle and are expected to raise it for eighteen years, except in my case, it would be twenty-seven bundles all crying to be fed or put to sleep and I'll be a single mother (Go, single moms!) and instead of the cool, efficient AC hospital, I'll probably be in a trailer classroom next to the faculty parking lot. If you couldn't already tell, teaching scares me. But if you're feeling anything at all, that's a good sign you're alive (another wise remark from my late grandma). I know it will be an uphill battle with Common Core breathing down my neck, rowdy students to my left and uncompromising administration to my right, needy parents clutching me from underground and unsafe school environments raining from up above, but I still want to fight the good fight. I'm definitely not joining the cavalry for the pay, but rather, for the chance to give children some semblance of what I was given by my wonderful teachers: the love of not only learning, but the support they can provide (the late after-school class study sessions, the mediation between you and some other teacher who hates you for no good reason, the kind words they provide on your letter of recommendations even when you feel undeserving of them). I only hope to do half as much justice to my kids as my teachers have done to me.
Let me just tell you about my mother before I leave you to read the other myriad of essays. My mom is the type of person who, within minutes of meeting her, will become your BFF. She's just easy-going and bantering is her thing. She is everyone's best friend; she has two jobs since she and my father divorced, but I like to joke that she has three and her third as a smooth operator because she and that phone of hers are inseparable. When she's commuting to her first job she is talking to my Uncle Ray in Samoa and then my Auntie Ta'u in Seattle. When she's coming home she's on the phone gossiping with her co-workers from her first job about the co-workers at the second job. After she parks the car she's messaging with her cousins in Texas about setting up a date with her friend from the second job. In the evening she's talking to her BFF from high school about how smart I was to get into college but still didn't wash the dishes after dinner. And she's got this embarrassing laugh that I unfortunately inherited. It starts off like a quiet giggle and then BAM! Full blast cackling! And then as she waits for the punchline or whatever the person on the other end is saying breaks, then comes the second wave of cackling. It reaches to Mariah Carey-esque high note proportions until it wheezes and fizzles out. Rinse. Repeat. Everyone loves her, even her high pitched mating call of a laugh. And I am no exception. She's not the first born, and being the elder in anything in Samoan culture is a must, but all her siblings still look at her for advice on what to do, even the eldest, my Uncle Ray, because she always knows what to do. She is so funny. Even if her jokes are lame, you can't help but smile and laugh along. She's beautiful. A little lipstick here, a smudge of mascara, the right eyeliner and _voila_! Angelina Jolie's tanner twin. I on the other hand, cannot begin to tell you the difference between foundation and blush, lip liner and eyeliner,etc. And she is tough. I've seen her work with kids; she runs that classroom tighter than the marines run, well, the marines. But she is also just as kind. We would be driving past the 78 and she will pull over at Smart & Final and say, "Rachael, go and buy that huge bag of hot cheetos for my kids. Oh, and get them some Pixie Sticks." She's always thinking of them. Year in and year out the students change, but they always come back to visit Ms. Patsy. I tell you of her not to note my short comings, but because she is my strongest role model. A lot of kids run away from the idea of being like their parents, but I hope to one day be like her.
So with that in mind, I'd like to leave off with a quote from my beloved, Thomas Muller: "I'm slowly but surely getting the feeling that I can do more with my left foot than just get up and fetch a beer (FIFA)". After three years at CSUSM, I do not have everything figured out, but that's okay. As Professor Yanez always say, put your best foot forward in anything you do, even the menial tasks. I know what I want in my life and that is all I need right now in ways of direction.
"Well, at least you went the right way mentally"-Thomas Muller (FIFA website)
Let me just tell you about my mother before I leave you to read the other myriad of essays. My mom is the type of person who, within minutes of meeting her, will become your BFF. She's just easy-going and bantering is her thing. She is everyone's best friend; she has two jobs since she and my father divorced, but I like to joke that she has three and her third as a smooth operator because she and that phone of hers are inseparable. When she's commuting to her first job she is talking to my Uncle Ray in Samoa and then my Auntie Ta'u in Seattle. When she's coming home she's on the phone gossiping with her co-workers from her first job about the co-workers at the second job. After she parks the car she's messaging with her cousins in Texas about setting up a date with her friend from the second job. In the evening she's talking to her BFF from high school about how smart I was to get into college but still didn't wash the dishes after dinner. And she's got this embarrassing laugh that I unfortunately inherited. It starts off like a quiet giggle and then BAM! Full blast cackling! And then as she waits for the punchline or whatever the person on the other end is saying breaks, then comes the second wave of cackling. It reaches to Mariah Carey-esque high note proportions until it wheezes and fizzles out. Rinse. Repeat. Everyone loves her, even her high pitched mating call of a laugh. And I am no exception. She's not the first born, and being the elder in anything in Samoan culture is a must, but all her siblings still look at her for advice on what to do, even the eldest, my Uncle Ray, because she always knows what to do. She is so funny. Even if her jokes are lame, you can't help but smile and laugh along. She's beautiful. A little lipstick here, a smudge of mascara, the right eyeliner and _voila_! Angelina Jolie's tanner twin. I on the other hand, cannot begin to tell you the difference between foundation and blush, lip liner and eyeliner,etc. And she is tough. I've seen her work with kids; she runs that classroom tighter than the marines run, well, the marines. But she is also just as kind. We would be driving past the 78 and she will pull over at Smart & Final and say, "Rachael, go and buy that huge bag of hot cheetos for my kids. Oh, and get them some Pixie Sticks." She's always thinking of them. Year in and year out the students change, but they always come back to visit Ms. Patsy. I tell you of her not to note my short comings, but because she is my strongest role model. A lot of kids run away from the idea of being like their parents, but I hope to one day be like her.
So with that in mind, I'd like to leave off with a quote from my beloved, Thomas Muller: "I'm slowly but surely getting the feeling that I can do more with my left foot than just get up and fetch a beer (FIFA)". After three years at CSUSM, I do not have everything figured out, but that's okay. As Professor Yanez always say, put your best foot forward in anything you do, even the menial tasks. I know what I want in my life and that is all I need right now in ways of direction.
"Well, at least you went the right way mentally"-Thomas Muller (FIFA website)
http://www.fifa.com/news/y=2014/m=9/news=they-said-it-thomas-muller-2439272.html
Comments
Post a Comment