Teacher's Pet

We've all known them. We've all hated on them.

Teacher's pets.

Those sniveling kids that have all the answers, know all the random facts, have the teacher's address memorized. (hopefully not...) Those kids that just THRIVE off the attention and approval of the teacher.

I'm not one of those kids. Never have been, never will be. I'll do my best in class, but I don't really care what the professor thinks of me as a human being, one way or the other. I typically sit towards the back and keep to myself, seldom answering questions, never asking them, and just trying to mind my own business.

For some reason, some teachers choose me. I'm not sure why, maybe they see some hidden potential in me, maybe they see me as a younger version of themselves, heck, maybe they do it just because they know I hate the attention. But sometimes, inadvertently, I am the teacher's pet.

This is the case for my Monday night class this semester.
Before I had any real contact with her, she would stare into my eyes during lecture. Not just a casual glance sort of look, I mean really looking into and searching the depths of my soul sort of a look. She reminds me a bit of myself if ever I get older like her. Brown hair, grey eyes, sort of quirky and quiet, quietly analyzing type of a person. Things escalated on the level of teacher's pet when she finally spoke to me directly outside of class. It all started back a few weeks, when I wore a Totoro shirt to class. The prof gently grabbed my arm, stared at my shirt for a second or so, and asked me "You like Totoro?" Completely shocked that she would even have half an idea what or who Totoro even was, I managed a "yes... You know it?" to which she launched off into a long story about her ex husband, and how he had worked for an animation company, and how they had both loved and adored everything Miyazaki has ever done. Even more shocked, I then told her about my recent experience of seeing some Miyazaki movies on the big-screen, to which she expressed both approval and jealousy. I politely invited her to the final showing of "Castle in the Sky" that would be showing at the end of the month and took my seat.
Ever since then, she's asked me my opinions during class, always compliments me on my work, writes really nice things on my papers, etc. She still smiles at me and looks into my soul while teaching, too.

Well, tonight, things got real out of hand. At the beginning of class, she came up to me and asked if I was alright. Apparently i looked kind of... rough around the edges or something. I told her I hadn't gotten much sleep over the weekend, hadn't been feeling well so i hadn't eaten in a long time, etc. She expressed her sympathy, then began class. In class, she assigned us an exercise to write a poem. Most of my classmates were terrified and complaining at the prospect of having to write a poem. Obviously, as you may have figured out by now, I don't really mind writing all that much. So i set about writing a short poem. I finished far before the rest of the class. The prof was going around, silently reading everyone's poems... She read mine, and gave me high praises on it. I thanked her quietly, getting kind of red in the face for the recognition. Meanwhile, a few of the girls across from me were talking about their poems and how clever they were, etc. They were very pleased with themselves, to say the least. Well, the prof went over there and read over their poems, too. Just gave them a simple "very nice" without really meaning it. Well, horror of horrors, we finish the activity and she utters the most terrifying of phrases... "Who would like to read their poem to the class?" Silence. Not even the oh-so-confident teacher's pet wannabes volunteered. Then, the teacher said something even scarier than she had said before. "Well, I really loved Kristin's poem. It was one of, if not, my favorites that i read. It really speaks to me. Kristin, will you please read your poem to the class?" Everyone turned and stared at me... Hesitantly, I said I would. I read the poem to the class, feeling my face become redder and redder. I finished the poem, and the professor stood up and applauded me. The class hesitantly followed. I could feel the hatred of those girls burning through their eyes... Without even trying, I had become both the teacher's pet AND made enemies of half of my classmates. I sunk down into my chair and tried to appear uninterested in both the accolades of my professor and the hateful whispers and glares from my classmates.

Time went on, my cheeks faded back to a normal color again, i tried to forget about the poetry incident. At 8:45pm, the prof made an announcement. "It has come to my attention that some of you have been working very hard on your annotated bibliographies, and a few of you are outright exhausted. So I'm letting you all leave an hour early tonight." As she said all this, she was looking at me the entire time. Again i felt my malnourished, zombie-state face reddening. The class looked around, mildly confused but ecstatic at the prospect of leaving early.  We all turned in our poems that we had written, and left. I thanked my professor for letting us out early, and she smiled and said "you go get some rest now. Take care!" and i went on my way.

I never asked for this. I never tried for it. But it's happening. And if we can get out of class early because of it, I think I can manage, and hopefully my classmates won't judge so harshly. :)

Identity Crisis

     I was raised irish.
For the first 14 or so years of my life, I assumed I was Irish. I always knew I was adopted, but it never occurred to me that I would be of a different ethnic background than my family. Mom's dad was from Ireland, so her family is very very Irish-ly oriented. St. Patrick's day is second in glory only to Christmas and Easter for us Mulligan-Thompsons. When I was young, I was an Irish dancer (I know, laugh it up haha). I always just figured I was Irish, and I was darn proud of it.

Until one fateful trip to the post-office.

I was about 13-14 years old at that time. I was in the car with my dad; we were going to the post-office. I remember telling him how much I loved being Irish. Then, for reasons unbeknownst to me, even to this day, he told me "but you're not Irish."

Not Irish? What? Of course I was Irish... Everything about me was Irish. There was no other culture (except possibly the French) that I loved more than Irish. Not Irish? This man I called father must have been delusional.

I asked him "what do you mean I'm not Irish?" and he told me "You're French. And Portuguese."

What.

The emotions that ensued from that were of utmost dismay and disappointment, but also of joy. (I was French! a dream come true.) But not Irish? I said to him "No part of me is irish?" and he said "No, you're French-Portuguese. Didn't you already know this?"

Obviously not, judging by the tears streaming down my cheeks at that point. Up until then, I felt like everything I was, everything I did, was a lie; a fake. All those years I had been a dancer I should have been taking French lessons? I should have been taking ceramics instead of traveling to competitions?

My world had been shaken. It took a long time to get over the shock of it all. I didn't want to be stupid Portuguese! I wanted to be Irish! I was mad and confused. I didn't always love being Portuguese. In the beginning, I hated it.

Obviously, as the title of this blog would imply, I now thoroughly embrace being Portuguese (and French), but I realized that I'm still Irish. Even more than being legally Irish, being raised in the Irish culture does something to you. I'm proud to have been raised in that culture, I'm proud that my family is Irish, and mostly I'm proud of my grandfather, who immigrated to America from Ireland in his twenties.

Sadly, I lost my grandfather in 1995, when I was just 5 years old. I really wish he was still here so he could tell us the stories of the old country. I wish he had been there to see me dance. I wish he could see me and my brother grow up. I often spend time at the cemetery, at the grave site. I try to keep the weeds off it, sometimes on special days i bring flowers. I didn't know him too well, but I love hearing the stories of him from my family.

I'll always be Irish in my heart, and I'm thankful for all aspects of my heritage.

May you have warm words on a cold evening,
a full moon on a dark night,
and the road downhill all the way to your door.

:)

Activity Report

12:13pm : woke up. proceeded to message Dixie on IM for a while before getting out of bed and actually going to physically talk to her.

1:00pm : drove to school to get friend to drive to Sylmar. While waiting for said friend, sat alone on a bench. Russian girl sat in an awkward proximity to me on said bench, and proceeded to make a call. Overhear Russian girl making appointments, think nothing of it. Russian girl starts talking about rates, alcohol/drug use, and other unsavory things. Conclude that Russian girl is prostitute. Continue waiting for friend, Russian girl continues talking on phone about disgusting and unmentionable things.

1:15pm: girl walks past me, staring at me coldly. I smile at girl, girl disregards gesture of friendliness and scowls harder. Girl runs into hedge. I laugh in amusement and ask if she is alright. She says nothing, scowls, and walks away.

1:30pm: russian girl is off the phone now, sitting awkwardly next to me. Friend arrives. walk to friend's car with friend and drive to Sylmar.

2:10pm : arrive at Sylmar. go into classroom and set up. welcome parents/children with a smile but receive no response (as per usual). Hand out juice and sandwiches.

2:30pm: play Loteria game with families. I win. the prize was a glass piggy bank. having no need for this, i give it to small child in closest proximity to me.

2:40pm: read children's book out loud. accidentally read spanish word in english accent. children all laugh at me. some parents scold their children for it. I apologize and explain that my spanish is not too good.

3:30pm: class over. children/parents leave. small girl runs up and randomly hugs me for a while. sign the log, and proceed to leave with friend.

4:00pm: arrive at CSUN again. get in my car and drive to Chili's to meet other friend.

4:10pm: arrive at chili's, have awkward confrontation with waitress, requesting to just wait for my friend. Waitress demands i go sit at table. I sit at table, somewhat bewildered.

4:15: friend arrives. Randomly, 2 other friends arrive as well. We hug each other, and proceed to sit at our own tables. Coincidences are strange. I tell my friend that Life has not met its quota for giving me weird situations today. Friend laughs and agrees. Proceed to tell friend about events beginning at 12:13pm through 4:10pm. Waitress arrives and takes our order.

4:30pm: food arrives. amusingly, my friend is served a bowl of cheese. We eat our food and talk about boys and school and jabba the hutt professors.

5:00pm : finish eating. wait around forever until waitress brings check+refills. continue joking around about random things.

5:30pm: waitress at last brings check. takes a long time to process our money.

5:45pm: we leave restaurant. bad things happen, so we decide to get ice cream. We decide to meet at northridge mall. get in separate cars and go to mall.

6:00pm: arrive at northridge mall. text friend to see where she is. sit on bench waiting for reply. Group of boys approaches me. One comes up to me, asks if i have money for the bus fare. I reply with "i have no money, not even coins to give you... i'm sorry." guy then tells me that his friend thinks i'm hot and wants to buy me something nice. I look at boy and say no thanks, that's okey. Boy then asks how old i am. I ask "why do you want to know that?" boy asks again, "well, just how old are you? over 18?" I reply with "i'm 21. why?" Boy asks "can you go into that store and buy a pack of smokes for my friend over there?" i say "for your friend? he's underage? nah, dude, i don't do stuff like that... it's illegal..." boy says "aww c'mon... i thought you were cooler than that." i say "nah, man... i don't do stuff like that. you kids shouldn't be smoking, anyways. you'll regret it later on in life." receive text. friend is on other side of mall.  boy says "aww, okey. well, thanks for your time, have a good night!" and i say "ya, have a good night. be good and stay out of trouble! you're too young for cigarettes." he laughs and I get up and go find my friend.

6:10pm: find friend. tell her about events that transpired at 6:00pm. friend is shocked that i could get into so much trouble in just the few minutes she left me alone. many laughs are had.

6:15pm: buy friend gelato. life gets a little bit better. we proceed to walk through mall, making fun of fashions incorporating floral "homeschool/granma" prints while being cut in a slutty manner. I make comment "oh yes, because that's what a guy wants to be thinking about when he sees a hot girl. his grandmother or a socially inept homeschooled kid." friend proceeds to lapse into asthmatic fit of laughter. I begin to become concerned for the well-being of my friend. Friend begins breathing again, still laughing quite hard. we proceed to walk through mall.

6:30pm: we go into vitamin store. girl working there asks us why we're in there. friend buys vitamins. girl working is confused, but rings up my friend for the purchase. says something about rewards club. we ignore her. we leave vitamin world.
6:35pm: wander around mall aimlessly making fun of fashions in forever 21, sidecca, hot topic, those expensive stores that no one can afford, etc. friend goes to bathroom. points out weird stall with two toilets in it. friend takes picture. we laugh heartily over it.

7:00pm go to asian store. muse over all of the awesome things including a pikachu suit. We go up the escalator, planning how to get guys. we decided that the best way to get a guy's number is to crash your car into the guy (in or out of his car) and get his insurance and phone number written down. a great way to meet people.

7:30pm: we get in our cars and leave.

10:45pm: finish writing this blog 

Forgotten Camping Trip

This is a somewhat fictitious account of a camping trip I had a long while back with a dear friend of mine. Some of the things may or may not be entirely or not at all true or false all or none of the time.

    There I sat. Or lay, rather. Couldn't much sit up very well, having to sleep on a shelf. I lay there, planning my escape. Pinned up 5 inches above my nose were the blueprints i had drawn up, amongst other calculations. Blueprints on how to tunnel out of the current bug-infested predicament, and I do mean that literally. Holed up in a trailer, filled with mosquitoes and moths, watching a movie about a boy who thought he was from mars (and fallaciously claimed to taste colours) with my friend and her family. It was frighteningly hot during that time of year. But it wasn't so much the heat as it was the bugs. And the food. All of the food was pork. Sausages, bacon, ham sandwiches, all pork. Heat, bugs, pork; I was melting, being eaten alive, and starved, simultaneously. A torturous occasion, on all accounts, to be certain. We had dined previously in the day at an Italian restaurant. Italian food is akin to pork for my taste; practically intolerable. I managed to smuggle back 3 prawns, which i carefully cut up and rationed out over the next few days. I kept it in the corner of my shelf-bed, hoping no one would notice and deprive me of my food source from the sea. There I lay, smacking at the mosquitoes, in a feeble attempt to stay unscathed by there ever-probing stings and bites. I had planned an escape route, and calculated the time it would take me to either walk home or hitch-hike, if at all possible. I had enough rations for about 9 days, if i allotted one small piece of shrimp for each day of the return journey. I would also try and procure some sort of balm for the bites, as it was almost certain that i would contract malaria or gangrene. Another all too real possibility was the contraction of scurvy, seeing as how i didn't have any good source of vitamin C at the time. At this point, I decided to create my last will and testament. With trembling hand, I bequeathed all of my earthly possessions to my brother, and wrote fondest regards to my mum and dad. I would put into action my plan the next day.

I never got the chance, we ended up at some kind of water park in a current-driven river sort of attraction. We wore ridiculous hats, and I was much ashamed of my existence at that point in time. At least it was a chance to escape from those infernal insects. We returned from this venture, somehow sunburnt despite the large-brimmed hats we adorned out sweaty heads with. Another night spent on the shelf.

I was jolted from sleep in the middle of the night. I couldn't remember where i was. As i sat up rather abruptly, i hit my head quite hard (and rather loudly, i'm afraid) on the ceiling above the shelf. This only added to the disorientation and terror. Not to mention it elicited a concerned question from someone that had been roused from sleep due to the sound produced from my skull smashing against the ceiling. I rubbed my head in confusion, then remembered where I was. An insect infested inferno. 

I never did manage to escape. Instead, we all drove home the very next day. I returned home, only my epidermis and pride ridden with wounds and disease.


~end

this was inspired by a discussion had today with my friend from the story, recounting this camping trip in both amusement and something akin to flashbacks to the horrors of war. :P much love to my friend and her delightful family! it wasn't really all that bad of a time.

Social Experiment

My last post was about my ideas regarding make-up and normal fashion and whatnot. I got to thinking, "what would life be like if I DID dress like a 'normal' person and wear make up and everything?" so i decided to conduct a series of experiments, the first of which i carried out today.
     Tonight, I had class from 4-7. So I had plenty of time to "get ready" (i'm actually not sure what the current terminology for this is...) So i put on a simple black dress, black flats (didn't want to bother with heels; i'm not that dedicated.) put on eyeliner, and, ::shudders:: lipstick. I did nothing different with my hair, as usual, like i said, not that dedicated. I wanted to know if I would receive the same amount of attention, or more, or less, if i dressed like most normal girl university students. Usually, I wear simple clothes, i.e. power rangers t-shirts, pullover hoodies, mexican ponchos, sweater boots, and other apparently socially odd things. Not to mention i usually have large headphones on, which is also apparently odd for a 5'2 white girl to wear.
Now i actually get a fair amount of attention dressed like i normally am (albeit unwanted attention); people talk to me (albeit weird people, usually) and occasionally i get hit on (albeit awkwardly). So people aren't deterred by my deviation from current fashion trends and make up wearing. Some people even seem more drawn to me because I'm "different".
     So the main idea of this experiment was to gauge how people would react to a "normalized" Kris Thompson. So i put on normal clothes, and normal make-up, and went to class.
     Most people were actually friendlier, in general, smiling at me, saying "hello", and the like. Mind you, RANDOM people, not people i know. Not even people in my class. People held doors open for me, and actually let me onto the elevator (which was nice, because that elevator takes a long time to get anywhere, and if you have to wait for the next one to arrive, it takes a while.) Usually people just sort of let doors close on my face, and make me wait for the next lift. Apparently, if you look normal, you have better luck getting places at a normal pace. And you also won't get slammed in the face by a closing door if you don't happen to be paying good attention. Finally arrived to class (a bit of a trek, parking at school's a monstrosity) and walked through the door. Suddenly, the room seemed to snap to attention and looked at me like i had just been beamed down from Mars. I got over the shock of being noticed and took my seat. There's a guy in my class (well, there are several, which is not the normal for my line of study) and apparently he's considered to be "the hottest guy in class" by all the girls (and a few guys). All the girls practically throw themselves at him, almost fighting to sit next to him. I don't see the big deal over him, he's nothing special by my standards; i sit on the opposite side of the room with the other more apathetic students. The popular guy has never before spoken to me (a fact with which i'm more than okay), but he stares at me the entire time throughout class (a fact which i less than appreciate.) Ever since first day of class, he sits sideways and stares at me the whole time for the duration of the class and 15minute break. Mind you, this is what happens when I'm dressed as my regular self. Today, dressed as a normal person, he approached me during break. Now, this is what i was wondering about. WOULD PEOPLE IN CLASS VIEW ME DIFFERENTLY (metaphorically, obviously) AND THEN ACT ON THAT? the answer was undeniably YES. He came up to me, and said "Wow! are you going somewhere?" (presumably thinking i was dressed differently because I was going to an event) to which I replied "no". He then said, and I kid you not, "Well, would you LIKE to be going somewhere?" with his popular-guy cocky-grin. I replied "No thanks, I'm cool." Apparently that's a socially unacceptable response to that question, because the look of disbelief on his face was almost comical. After he recovered from this apparently stunning response, he regained composure and said "Oh, okay. Maybe next time. Well, you look really nice." and smiled again and returned to his chair. The girl next to me also seemed to think it was a socially unacceptable response, and gave me a look of disapproval, as if my turning him down was an act akin to Judas's betrayal of Jesus. I simply smiled at her and returned to reading whatever i was reading at the time. As if that incident weren't enough proof that things really ARE different when you dress like a normal person, the professor actually took notice of me (a terrifying thing, really, as this professor is prone to cussing out students). He looked me over and proceeded to pay me the most epic compliment I have ever received: "You look like a badass Audrey Hepburn." I simply said "thank you..." and tried to smile (i was scared out of my wits at his acknowledgement of my existence). He then returned to texting, and I did the same.
     Don't get me wrong, I'm no narcissist (if you know me in real life you probably already know that.) I'm perfectly happy to just go through life (and especially school) completely unnoticed. And I'm definitely no fan of vanity or conceit. I conducted this experiment of sorts out of pure curiosity, to see if people really do treat better-dressed people with more respect and kindness. The results of this experiment? I get attentions either way, it's just sort of a different kind. When I'm dressed like my regular self, people talk to me and notice my personality, and genuinely seem to want to get to know me. Also when I'm dressed like my regular self, i end up waiting for a lot of elevators (people are jerks) and getting doors slammed in my face. When I dressed "up to par" with the norms of what girls my age wear, I got more respect, but also ended up encountering people that were only interested in my appearance. So, in conclusion, I'd much prefer to wear headphones and a power ranger shirt and get the door slammed in my face than a dress and makeup and get hit on by shallow people that think the world is owed to them on a silver platter.

Pork and Beans and How Everything Fell Into Place

Tonight, I was writing up an assignment, drinking a Dr Pepper and eating a bowl of pork and beans. Two things come to mind when i eat pork and beans. 1.) Weezer. 2.) i feel like a hobo. (a third and inconsequential thing also comes to mind whilst consuming said delicacy; a type of succulent plant named after the edible, due mainly to the bean-like appendages of the plant. I digress.)

     So first off, i automatically start singing Pork and Beans by Weezer. A song about shirking social normality and self acceptance. Then i start thinking "OMG i'm totally just like a hobo eating this stuff LOLZ". Then my mind wandered back to a thing I've been contemplating for a little while now: should i start wearing make-up again? If ever you've hung out with me or seen me in real life in the past year, you know I'm not beauty queen. I rock the soccer-mom-at-age-21 look, usually sporting a pullover hoodie/poncho and sweater boots. (yes, they're technically slippers but i swear you can wear them outside.) I don't typically brush or style my hair (it basically manages itself, i just shampoo it then leave it alone. doesn't typically tangle/mat.) I've stopped wearing make-up all together in the past year, only rarely wearing it for a special event or whatnot. ANYWAY I digress again. So i've been contemplating wearing it again, and trying to look "cute" or "normal" (haha that word makes me laugh...) again. So i was singing the song and feeling like a hobo.

Then it hit me. I was singing a song about self-acceptance and not caring what the world thinks, feeling like an awesome hobo (i love hobos. it's a thing.) and my question pretty much answered itself. However, i thought i'd try it again, just for the heck of it. I brushed my hair out until it was like corn silk, then put on eyeliner and pink lipstick. I looked like a doll. I looked like a NORMAL girl my age. I looked at my face in the mirror and broke out into a stupid grin. I can look normal, i can look decent, and, dare i say, i can look GOOD.

But that's not who I am.

I'm a simple person, typically, and that's usually reflected in my fashion choices (or lack thereof haha). I feel so fake with make up on... Nothing against it for other people, for sure, but I feel like I'm wearing a mask... I feel shallow, and normal; both feelings that i abhor.

So I'll continue to go out in a Mexican poncho and sweater boots. And I'll hold my head high, knowing that I CAN look good, but choose to abandon the societal norms for a simpler and more honest lifestyle. And I'll be happy that way.

Lyrics to "Pork and Beans" by Weezer
They say
I need some Rogaine
To put in my hair
Work it out at the gym
To fit my underwear
Oakley makes the shades
That transform a tool
You'd hate
For the kids to think
That you lost your cool

I'mma do the things
That I wanna do
I ain't got a thing
To prove to you
I'll eat my candy
With the pork and beans
Excuse my manners
If I make a scene
I ain't gonna wear
The clothes that you like
I'm fine and dandy
With the me inside
One look in the mirror
And I'm tickled pink
I don't give a hoot
About what you think
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/w/weezer/pork_and_beans.html ]
Everyone likes to dance
To a happy song
(Hey, hey)
With a catchy chorus and beat
So they can sing along
(Hey, hey)
Timbaland knows the way
To reach the top of the charts
Maybe if I work with him
I can perfect the art

I'mma do the things
That I wanna do
I ain't got a thing
To prove to you
I'll eat my candy
With the pork and beans
Excuse my manners
If I make a scene
I ain't gonna wear
The clothes that you like
I'm fine and dandy
With the me inside
One look in the mirror
And I'm tickled pink
I don't give a hoot
About what you think

No I don't care
I don't care

I'mma do the things
That I wanna do
I ain't got a thing
To prove to you
I'll eat my candy
With the pork and beans
Excuse my manners
If I make a scene
I ain't gonna wear
The clothes that you like
I'm fine and dandy
With the me inside
One look in the mirror
And I'm tickled pink
I don't give a hoot
About what you think

Origin

I'm adopted.

My life started on August 22, on a doorstep outside of a Portuguese orphanage in Lisbon. There came a sharp rap at the door of the orphanage at 6:37am. A nun opened the door, looked around, seeing nothing. About to close the door,  she chanced look down, where, lo and behold, a baby lay quietly in a basket. She gasped, then, after looking around in vain for the person that left the baby, brought the baby inside. Inside my basket, the nun found two items: a tattered old newsboy hat belonging to my father, and, in the grasp of my chubby fist, a silver locket containing a picture of my mother. These were the only evidences I had of my birthparents. The nun looked inquisitively into my watery grey eyes, which evinced no answers to the mystery of my origins.

5 years later, I sat on Sister Assunção's lap, as she retold the story of the first day I arrived at  São Paulo's orphanage, and explained to me the significance of the raggedy hat and tarnished locket that I possessed. After hearing the story, I was sent back to my chores. In the orphanage, chores consisted of creating dishes and pottery that the orphanage sold to the local town to turn a profit, glazing the dishes and working the kilns that cooked the dishes was a chore reserved for those children 5 years and above. Sweeping and mopping floors was a chore designated for younger children. The children aged 7 and older prepared the meals, mostly consisting of old tortillas and dried cod. On this day, having just turned 5, I was now eligible to run the kiln. Sister Assunção assigned an 8 year old boy to teach me how to manage the kiln. His name was Antonio, a quiet boy, generally liked by all the orphans. Both of us, barefoot and dressed in rags, went to the kiln. He showed me how to change the temperature to ensure that the glaze and ceramic wouldn't crack, and how to turn off the flames. After I had been sufficiently taught, we proceeded to go to dinner. In the old hall, we sat on the rustic wooden benches, silently consuming our dried cod. All of a sudden, Sister Ana-Maria flew into the room, waving a fistful of papers around wildly. Sister Assunção asked what the ruckus was about. Sister Ana-Maria walked over to me, with tears in her eyes, and showed me the papers she held. They were my adoption papers. A family in America had adopted me. I looked up at her, my once grey and listless eyes now shining and full of questions. I ran my fingers along the brim of my old hat, then clutched my locket close to my chest, feeling my heart pumping fervently at the idea of a new life in America. That was the best birthday I had ever experienced.

No.

Just, no.

This is not my life story. This is most likely NOBODY'S life story.  Is it amusing? Maybe. Does it evoke a sense of romance and adventure? Probably. But this isn't real.

There is no hat.
There is no locket.
There is no Sister Assunção.
There is no orphanage.

I'm adopted.
My life started on August 22nd, 1990, in a hospital in Montclair. Soon after I was born, I went home with my family. Not my biological family, my REAL family. The family that would raise and love me more than any family has ever done before.

Sorry if that's "boring", but it's real. I've only had dried cod once in my life. I've never run a kiln. Heck, I've never even been to Portugal. My name is Kristin Joye Thompson. Born in Montclair, raised in West Hills. I have a loving mother and father, and a younger brother. That's my life story.

Diverting from the aforetold stories of ridiculousity, let's discuss some common misconceptions regarding adoption. Some FAQs, if you will. I and my other adopted friends commonly have to field such questions as these, so I will here attempt to dispel the idiotic preconceived notions that seemingly most people have regarding adoption as an institution, and adoptees as people.

Q: Oh wow! You're adopted! Were you like, an orphan?
A: Yes, I'm adopted. No, I'm not an orphan. The media's done a capital good job of jumbling this all up in peoples' heads. Every instance of adoption in the media has been portrayed as the classic Oliver Twist style orphan adoption process. THIS IS NOT TRUE. We don't come from orphanages; we come from hospitals, here in America, and we don't even get to SEE our birthmother usually; we're given over to our "legal," or REAL parents, if you will, not long after we're born.

Q: You have a brother? Is he like, your REAL brother?
A: Of course he's like, my REAL brother. I've grown up with him, I love him very much as my brother, and while we may not be blood related, we most CERTAINLY are "real" siblings.
~~~note here~~~ let's talk about the word "real". Really? "REAL" parents? "REAL" brother? what does that even mean? Let's interchange "real" with "biological" for a second. Do i know my real biological parents? no. Is Brian my real biological brother? no. However, I DO consider him to be my REAL brother. There is no realler love than the love i have for my brother. The same goes to my parents, my "legal" parents. They ARE my "real" parents. End of story. I hope that clears things up between real/biological usuage.

Q:Do you know your REAL parents?
A: If by "real" you mean "biological", then no. I don't feel a need to find them. Why would I? My life is great with my REAL family, be they biological or not.

Q: Do you feel weird or different being adopted?
A: The media says I'm supposed to feel weird about it. I love being adopted, MY parents actually wanted me, and cherish me in ways that biological families can't understand. And I'M happy to be adopted, given a better life than what probably would have been. So different in a good way, but I don't feel BAD or ASHAMED about it at all. God blessed us with the gift of LIFE in a situation where abortion was a very realistic option. Not only were we NOT aborted, we were placed by the loving hands of God Himself into our families. Being adopted means being blessed beyond meausre.

Those are the usual questions people ask us kids. Most of us are cool about it, not a huge deal to have to answer this stuff. It's just amusing how misinformed most people are on the subject. "Adopted" is barely uttered and suddenly grand pictures of Oliver Twist and grimy old orphanages pop into their minds. Orphans in ratty clothes and newsboy caps, freezing to death, never having enough to eat, etc. Obviously, as I have mentioned prior to this, we don't come from these dark and mysterious oprhanages, Our origins are simple, humble beginnings, and out current lives are normal and happy.
We love our families very very much, and consider them to be our REAL families. Blood ties mean nothing to us. All that matters is the bonds shared between us all, and the love that runs deeper than that of the deepest sea. And throughout all of this runs the bonding tie of the Lord's  great love and wisdom.

We're adopted.
We're normal people, with normal families, maybe just a little more blessed than most, and we have a different and greater appreciation for the families that we DO have, and for the LORD that provided them.