Being a homeschooler, I never had the high school experiences that are apparently a crucial part of the growing up process. So my friend decided to give me an experience that I likely will not ever forget. Last week I attended a high school dance.

After walking into the room just outside of the dance floor, I quickly found my best friend waiting to greet me with the familiar warm hug. After the embrace however, the feeling of eyes drilling holes in the back of my scull as well as burning through my dress and heels was overwhelming. The incredibly strong feeling of discomfort was coursing through my veins. The feeling was unpleasant, instead of the natural cooling sensation of adrenaline running through my veins, it felt more like icicles. The night was off to a fantastic start.

The dance floor was an experience all its own. My initial reaction after scanning the entire room was that of surprise. The girls and boys who were standing in the room before had now filed onto the dance floor. Once they began dancing, it was as if they were animals that had just been let out of their cages. The modest girls that I had seen just minutes ago outside now had their dresses hiked up to their stomachs dancing with their partners in a manner that made me want to avert my eyes. This was a mating ritual. Watching this made me realize we are nothing more than animals with the ability to speak.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

When people tell me to grow up, I begin laughing to the point of tears. It's funny to me because I have to wonder what do people really mean when they say grow up? I know that it is a phrase that is widely used, or perhaps overused, and I believe that people don't really know what they mean when they say it. What does it mean to grow up and act like an adult? One might say acting like an adult means going through life with years of stress weighing down the spring in their step. Or one might say acting like an adult means taking on excess responsibility muttering things about taxes and pension plans.



The reason this caught my attention was because of a recent encounter with a group of high school students. My best friend who is in high school invited me to go to dinner with a group of his friends. At this dinner, we made the usual small talk, in an attempt to get acquainted. I had a nice time, as I thought the rest of the group had too. Later, I had a discussion with my friend about how he thought the night went. His reaction to the night was unexpected. He told me that his friends thought I was too mature. I made an effort to find topics that we could all relate to, but my effort may have proven to be a lost cause after all. The topic of conversation wasn't the issue, I was told that it was the smaller things that counted more. The example my friend used to illustrate why his friends thought I was was too mature was that I "ordered my food like an adult at the restaurant". The question that has lead to endless sleepless nights remains the same, is it such a bad thing to be mature?


Sometimes I wish I could categorize rapid maturation as a mental illness. Maybe call it something like Early Onset Maturity (EOM). To some it really is a flaw. When a young person is deemed smart and responsible, or dare I say, mature, they are guaranteed to hear a few audible gasps resonating around them. To this day, no evidence has shown being mature at a young age is a bad thing. I try to keep my eyes peeled for a study that will determine the potential problems that may arise from Early Onset Maturity. We will have to see what the professionals say.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

I write a paper. I make sure my margins are 1" all around. I make sure my font is the standard 12 pt. Times New Roman. I make sure my sources have been cited. I make sure there is only one staple, because I know two staples will get me docked 5 points. The paper means nothing to me. The topic is standard, with no originality or room to be creative. Citing my sources alone took me longer than writing the paper, what with the double checking of each period and underline. I edit, print and repeat.

I know that that at the end of the paper, I'm one step closer to getting that grossly overpriced piece of paper that acts as the ticket to my future successes. But I can't help but question if that piece of paper actually makes me more qualified to succeed in my chosen profession. The only quasi-answer I can come up with is that it shows my dedication. It shows that no matter how monotonous the paper, or how trivial the multiple choice Scantron exam I take, my piece of paper will show Yale Medical School that I have the ability to apply myself and stick to my goal.

I know every student who sits beside me in class has a way to cope with the stress, and sometimes the boredom. We pick up crutches that help ease the pain, like coffee for instance. This beautiful habit is the one that will help you to write the paper you forgot to write for your morning class, it will help you deal with the teachers that give you bad grades just because you disagree with them, and it will help you fall asleep. Decaf that is.

Without these coping mechanisms, college students would drown in a sea of syllabi, using their Macbooks as flotation devices. But in the end, when the degrees are given, and the first pay stub is framed on the wall, it makes it all seem worth it. Or at least I hope that is how it goes. If not, we can at least have an arsenal of random knowledge to throw around the dinner table at Thanksgiving.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

I sing Jazz. I sing Jazz because it makes me feel like I can escape the 21st century if only for five minutes. I believe music is the most truthful depiction of a generation, and because I feel like I am not actually from this generation, I listen to the music of a generation I can relate to on a more personal level.

When the lights fade away on the stage, the lights fade on my life as a 21st century being. I feel as though the mic I am about to sing into becomes an old fashioned mic that more resembles a cheese grater, than a modern mic. I feel like my modern shirt and blue jeans melt into a beautifully flowing, long, black dress that belongs in a small, dimly lit nightclub. When I sing about a woman scorned, I swear I can feel the lyricist's scorn flowing through me and into the microphone. I have the ability to become whatever woman sang the song before me, and It feels powerful.

While Jazz is the music that inspires me and while Jazz is the music that I believe my voice was designed to sing, it is a style that few find seeping into their record players, or rather CD players. Instead of singing about what I love, I find myself falling into the abyss that is Pop music. Sure, I put a little Blues spin on it, but no amount of scatting can ever change the fact that it is still fundamentally Pop music. I don't love the new Pop genre. I don't love it because I don't feel it. No amount of vocal skill can ever replace the lack of feeling in a song. If the singer doesn't embody the song, they are simply not as good as the singer who can embody it, and feel it.

Or at least I thought that was the case. Yet time and time again, I sing a fantastic Jazz song from 1943 and I lose the singing competition. Then the following year, I choose a current Top 40s song, and I win. I may win that handy little cash prize, but I lose the love I once had for my craft. I know the times change, and music is bound to follow in the same path, but I can't help but feel a little disappointed. Maybe I am simply an old soul that hasn't let go of a past life, I don't know. All I do know is, singing means the world to me, when I sing what I feel, when I sing what I want. What I want to sing is Jazz, I hope someone will listen.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop