I slowly composed myself enough to make my way over the crest as well, ignoring all comfort offered by my comrades. I cried ten more times in the first nine days of my Outward Bound twenty-two day mountaineering course in the High Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. Mostly I would cry when I was writing in my journals. I sat atop boulders thinking through all of the unresolved issues in my life. Just before junior year I nearly lost my father to heart disease, and with it lost a sense of stability. I never emotionally processed that lack of control, which slowly began to show itself. I let my grades drop because they had become simply letters on paper to me. Once my grades began dropping I started taking on responsibilities that I didn’t enjoy trying to prove to everyone around me that I had the control that I secretly longed for. I volunteered to be Vice President of the Political Science Club, as well as of the Outdoors Club, to practice soccer everyday, to hold down a weekend job and to manage a youth website at my community center. I ended up spreading myself thin among causes and people that I wasn’t passionate about. With each day I could feel the ground beneath me slipping more and more but told no one. That buried anxiety made my pack heavier than I could imagine.

On the eleventh day our assignment included climbing up and over Alta peak. As navigator for the day, I examined the peak from below. Rather than roll my eyes and trudge unwillingly up the mountain, I began to dissect it piece by piece. To the surprise of my patrol, I began plotting our path around ridges, contouring up along the face to the pass. I planned out where we would rest and set time goals. Previously I had seen the peaks as hurdles that we had to jump in order to get to camp; now I was seeing them more as puzzles to solve. When solving a puzzle the first two pieces one picks up rarely fit together. I realized the same applied when my initial path actually fell through, and many of the assumptions that I had made about the terrain were incorrect. But that was okay. Maybe I hadn’t read the map correctly, or I hadn’t listened when somebody had suggested a different route. Only a few days earlier I would have cried when that happened, but I realized I had no time to feel sorry for myself when my patrol depended on me.

By course end I had fallen 26 times, cried 14 times, and sprained both ankles twice. My instructors told me they were sure I was going to go home after the first week. Truthfully, that first week I really did want to go home. But I knew that I couldn’t leave. I signed up for this trip because I needed to know who I was beneath my façade, and because I knew I could not learn that in a comfortable environment. I hiked distances and scaled peaks that I would never even have considered attempting and gained self-confidence as a result. With each 14,000-foot peak that I conquered I was able to test my own personal limitations. I know what I am capable of, and what I am passionate about. I am more at peace than I have ever been before. I have trimmed my extracurricular schedule down to those activities that I enjoy. I still play soccer and work on the website at my community center most days of the week, but now set aside ample time to do my homework as well as just relax. I no longer view grades as letters on paper; like those High Sierra peaks that once dissuaded me as well, I see them as challenges as well as marks of accomplishments.

I was well into the second semester of my ninth grade, virtually unchanged from my middle school days, when my race began to feel more important to me. I was completing a homework assignment in my Strategies for Success class while in the midst of two peers talking over my head. Their names were Marcos and Paulo and over the course of the semester we had grown to be rather close. They teased me sometimes about being “whitey” in an all Latino classroom, but I had never taken them seriously. This one day Marcos asked me something that still stings in my ears when I think about itâ⒬¦

“Hey, Elena. Why do you hang out with so many white people?”

The question lingered in the air as I sat up in my chair. I could feel my eyebrows crinkle up as I looked for answers somewhere on the face of my desk.

” I don’t know,” I responded without confidence.

” Why don’t you hang out with any white kids?”

It was really a rhetorical question, and Marcos didn’t say anything for a moment. The conversation didn’t pick up again, so I went back to my homework and Marcos returned to his conversation with Paulo.

At that moment I felt as if I had just been interrogated. Was Marcos looking to attack me? What’s wrong with the fact that I hang out with white kids? I am more white than Mexican, yet if I want to be considered Mexican at all I have to stop hanging out with white kids? Point blank I hang out with people that I share things in common with. If they happen to be white, am I disgracing a culture that I don’t even subscribe to? Have I sold myself out? Am I only Mexican on paper? In a school that is racially segregated these questions really mattered. Suddenly I felt as if I didn’t belong anywhere and that no matter what I did I would be defying some aspect of my past.

I still don’t know how to answer all of these questions. It has been a long time since the ninth grade. In my school, race defines what one wears, where one hangs out and with whom. I haven’t changed the people that I hang out with because I don’t think that race and culture are one in the same nor do I think that those things should ever set limits as to who it is acceptable to spend time with. One thing I have learned since the ninth grade is that my culture is unique to myself, regardless of my race. What I believe and what I experience in my life create who I am and that makes me different from everyone else. Although I do believe that race influences what one will experience and therefor what she believes it should never set standards for someone’s behavior. I live in San Francisco, which is one of the most beautifully diverse places in the world. If I accede to only one of these cultures, I am only limiting myself. Since the ninth grade I have grown to understand that being biracial, I will never truly relate to one culture over another, and that I will have to create my identity from scratch without set cultural understandings or knowing exactly where I fit in.

The curtains peel off, and a blank screen reveals itself to the anxious audience. As the screen begins to light up, confused whispers are heard. As an experienced moviegoer I was prepared for previews, but never this. The guy next to me remarks annoyingly to his date, " What the hell is this?" I can’t deny that I am also a little flabbergasted by some office executives sitting around discussing a slug marketing campaign. The scene ends and the culprit is identified. The screen reads, " Image is nothing, obey your thirst…. DRINK SPRITE." Moments later another advertisement appears on screen. Bouncing letters spell out HOLLYWOOD.COM. This one even comes complete with a jingle. Finally the movie previews begin, with everyone in the audience a little baffled.

Personally I felt a little violated. First of all, I didn’t pay nearly ten dollars to watch commercials. Second of all, there was no escape. When you are at home you have the option to change the channel. Inside a theatre, there is nowhere to run, and no way to escape. There are no lights on, and one sits confined within her seat, surrounded by others. Anyway, commercials are annoying. I don’t want to listen to some company tell me why I need their products. Movies are supposed to be entertaining, not intrusive.

Maybe this is just another sign that capitalism has gone too far. Individuals are trying to make money anyway that they can, even tastelessly if they have to. The sad part is that these tycoons are not advancing their products. If anything, I doubt that the people in that theatre will buy sprite because their advertising techniques were so uncouth.

Also, aren’t there any limits as to where and how companies can advertise? I know that there are limits in size for signs, and an entire movie screen definitely violated that. There must be limits or else we will lose what little culture we have. This is not to say that I am anti-progressive. With so much changing technologically in the 1990′s, there is little to hold on to. San Franciscans are living in an explosive economy, as is obvious from the new 20 screen theatres, and housing developments on every spare inch of land. Now, we can’t even enjoy a movie without being commanded to further expand the economy. What I’m trying to say is that some things are better left untouched. Movies are one of them.

It’s true if you think about it, people with the most meaningless jobs behold themselves to be the most integral instruments in society. Meter maids, crossing guards, librarians, and hair stylists all fall under this category. Hair stylists are the absolute worst. They truly presuppose that it is their job to keep America beautiful, whether America wants it or not. How many times have you ever gotten the haircut you asked for from a stylist? Maybe I am just cursed, but stylists hate me. I ask for light layers, I get Jennifer Anniston in the mid nineties. I pleaded once with a woman to just cut my hair straight. I don’t know what to call what she did to me. It wasn’t pretty. That’s why I have opted for Salon Elena where for the last six months I have been cutting my own hair. It’s actually not that bad, remarkably straight. The entire process takes about a week because there is the initial cut , and then the next six days I trim the random strands that I missed. I would take the SAT’s privately if I could, but I haven’t ever seen them advertised. To avoid the anally retarded one must take matters into her own hands.

In all seriousness, I love my Nana more than any other 98 years old in the world. She may have lost her mind, but not her character. Nana is the only person whose vanity I admire. Not only is she partially balding, but she still gets her hair colored and permed once a week – like anyone is really going to think it is natural. She takes straight gin and whisky in a 70 year long backlash against prohibition and has been partying like it’s 1999 for the last four decades. A woman so wise that no parent can argue her policies, particularly her ice cream for breakfast one. Institutionalizing her continues to be one of the most painful things my family has ever been through.

I would have probably been happy to put my Nana in a place where she could socialize with people her own age. But after visiting a convalescent home this Christmas, I can’t help but consider this move a loss. For community service hours, the Outdoors Club at my school wrapped presents for the San Francisco Community Convalescent Home. Because I mentally prepared myself for smelly old people in diapers, I was able to handle them.

What I could not handle was my job. Each resident got a wheelchair blanket with their name written on a patch in the left hand corner. I was instructed to fold the blankets, wrap them up, and sign a name to the package. I did not expect to be so affected by my own emotions as the task itself was not difficult. We wrapped for three hours. Names like Rose McGowen, Art Plikus, Mary Wolstencraft passed through my hands as I wrapped the same blanket over and over again, for people I didn’t even know. Storybook names without faces and presents without care for people without families. This arena of helplessness overwhelmed me. Droopy faces and glassy eyes lined the hallways and the thought of my Nana with these moping corpses was something I could not think about. My Nana can’t belong in a home. I don’t care how friendly the staff is or how lovely the grounds are.

I feel like my family is simply putting her out of her misery, like putting a dog to sleep. This Social Darwinism cannot possibly apply to my Nana. There is no other solution. At least now she will get more exercise, walking to the cafeteria for three meals a day. But that is not her home, that is not the way she has lived for the last 98 years. It feels like she is being punished for not dying like everyone else.

Mentally, yes, she may have turned sour, but not even Alzeihmers has been able to suppress her good humor. I think maybe people should broaden their appetite and consider sour wine to be just as fine as regular wine. Social consciousness has broadened to appreciate all cultures and taught people to learn from each other. So, why are we shoveling old people into homes where they never even get to see the light? I don’t have a solution to this problem; I’ve just never recognized it until now.

There is no way for Nana to understand that this move is forever. I don’t think she realizes that most people expect her to die. Nana cannot understand that her days of moving, shaking, growing and changing are over. After everything my Nana has witnessed in her life, her trek is over.

Nana’s rollercoaster is nearing the end of its run. I use this analogy to explain her Alzheimer’s. I figure, that by the end of a rollercoaster you have been thrown, dipped, knocked, and teased. By the end of it, you are scared shitless and aren’t really sure which direction is up, let alone whether you even enjoyed it. You are so exhausted that reality is the last thing on your mind. After the ride, most people either puke or ride again, or puke then ride again. For Nana, I’ll assume the latter. I understand she has been on too many rides in her life and her body is shutting down; she will ride in her next life. I cannot believe that any spirit could ever leave this world. Maybe I will meet her again in my next life, and we can ride together.

My sister , who is only about 921.5 days older than I am, is going to college next year and it will also be the most important year of my life for getting into college. I don’t even know what college I want to go to, what I want to study , or whether I even want to stay in California for college. All that I do know is that I have to get in somehow. I also know I have to take the SAT test and score at least 1180, but I don’t even really understand what an 1180 means. I’ve been told it just means you are an above average intelligent person, but I can tell them that without having to take any stupid test. I have figured that in only 730 days I will be where my sister is now. She knows where she is going and what she will be studying, but I don’t think she’s really figured out what she wants to do with her life either.

What I also know is that within these 730 days, when I will be making my "big" decisions, there will be some distractions. In 19 days I will register for classes, and in 20 days I will begin attending classes. With classes comes soccer practice everyday after school, JSA, the hiking club, as well as having a tutor and a weekend job. With weekends come late night parties which I usually recover from by Sunday afternoon, just in time to organize my room and do my homework. Along the way there will be Bamboozled meetings twice a week with which I still am not sure how I will keep up when I haven’t even been able to go as often as I’d like even in the summer. Winter will roll in and all my friends and I will grab some guy and head to WinterBall in outfits that took us two months to perfect, and hair that will have so much hairspray that even el Nino can’t bring it down. The Holiday break will be short and I will probably be working every day and going out every night. So, I will probably be more exhausted by the time I’m back in school rather than as relaxed as I should be. When school picks up again, there will be finals, which are actually kind of fun because you don’t have to go to class all of time. Exhausted? We aren’t even onto the second semester yet. Second semester will be the most important semester of my life and the most hectic. Soccer season will be in full swing and I will be getting home at 8pm almost every night, with games on the weekend as well, and clubs , and Bamboozled , and parties, and jobs, and SAT’s and college, and boys, and Junior Prom, and finals, and stress, and finally summer. Summer will be the break. I will probably be in the same state of mind that I am in now then, only a lot more scared. I will also try to write about it but I’m not sure if I will have a forum like the internet to present my feelings on. So, I will just keep it to myself like most young people do and hope for the best but expect the worst.