Crowded
I listened as they chanted my name, over and over, a video looping ever onwards. My spine tingled, my mind became numb. Every step I took out onto the stage sent shivers through my whole body. And yet, despite my nerves and fear, I felt excitement bubbling up in my stomach. I didn’t dare look to my right. The ear blasting noise they were creating was enough proof to their existence. I had to breath, keep walking. Left, right, left, right. God this was exhausting! Finally, I reached center stage and turned. Thousands upon thousands of people sat in the audience, chanting and screaming to their hearts content. “Oh-h-h... My... God...” I whispered through my slightly chattering teeth. I took a second to breath, then raised my right arm in silent hello. The noise grew louder at the sight, forcing my nerves to slowly flush away and my enthusiasm to heighten. I continued waving, my hand spazzing crazily above my head out of raw excitement. That’s when I heard it... a slow, steady beat beginning to pound over the audience, etch a sketching it’s way through my mind, getting my knee to bob along. What to do now? What comes next? I peered down in front of me where a microphone had appeared, seemingly out of nothing. My instincts took over and I grasped onto it. Ok, I thought, Now what? I looked over the crowd as the tune slowly became more and more familiar, clicking switches within my head, putting my body on autopilot. I listened now, pushing everything else out of my mind. It was almost time.... But what if it wasn’t? Coming up fast now... What if I miss is? Here it comes... But... NOW!
I sucked air into my lungs and sang.... and I had never been more happy.
I sucked air into my lungs and sang.... and I had never been more happy.
Three
I do not have just one passion, I have three. Actually I have lots, more than I could possibly count at the moment. But, to keep this short, I’ll stick with three.
My first passion is music. I can’t help myself, but bust a move to, “Hammer Time” or belt out every word I can remember to Disney movies. It’s hard not to get addicted. The notes seem to flutter to my ears, perfect in pitch with every rhyme, every drum beat, every pluck of the guitar string. Each time I hear the ascending notes on a piano, pushed one after another with lightning speed and then the soft hum of the low notes, achingly allowing the little noise to escape, I grow goose bumps all across my arms and shivers run down my spine. It’s beautiful, all music. Yes, even some songs with explictive lyrics have the most perfect horn blast or guitar solo stretched within the middle.
My second passion would have to be writing. Pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard, whatever the type, whatever the touch, writing is always a fascinating thing to me. I used to hate writing. The words were just too hard to find and the descriptions were too difficult to pull from my brain. It was a bother. But then I got into it. I started not caring about the words people would want and really focused on the feeling of pressing my pencil against that pearly white page, waiting to be scratched and itched until all the space was occupied. Writing is an art, with no need for precision, unless it comes from your own mind. I’ve learned that other opinions are irrelevant.
My third and final passion would have to be swimming. Most people don’t know this about me, but I love to swim. It’s that feeling when you dive in and in one second there is air all around you, but the next you’re immersed in the cool water and creating the feeling of freshness all around your body. It eats away the pain and sadness that you’ve had throughout your day. For me swimming takes away stress and replaces it with blank, emptiness. Nothing but the water and the need to breath on occasions. It’s the speed that you feel as you rocket through the water, diving underneath someone to get passed or charging ahead to finally beat your challenger. It’s the joy in blowing a bubble ring successfully and watching as it ripples and writhes in snake like patterns until it burst into the open air, exploding at the surface. It’s the need for air, your lungs beginning to compress and your legs starting to lose feeling as the Oxygen slowly dies away, but your mind saying, “No, let me stay, just a little longer, please?”
It’s perfect. They’re all perfect. And they make me feel perfect, my mind at ease and my escape from reality. They are my saviors, my loves, my passions,... My three.
My first passion is music. I can’t help myself, but bust a move to, “Hammer Time” or belt out every word I can remember to Disney movies. It’s hard not to get addicted. The notes seem to flutter to my ears, perfect in pitch with every rhyme, every drum beat, every pluck of the guitar string. Each time I hear the ascending notes on a piano, pushed one after another with lightning speed and then the soft hum of the low notes, achingly allowing the little noise to escape, I grow goose bumps all across my arms and shivers run down my spine. It’s beautiful, all music. Yes, even some songs with explictive lyrics have the most perfect horn blast or guitar solo stretched within the middle.
My second passion would have to be writing. Pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard, whatever the type, whatever the touch, writing is always a fascinating thing to me. I used to hate writing. The words were just too hard to find and the descriptions were too difficult to pull from my brain. It was a bother. But then I got into it. I started not caring about the words people would want and really focused on the feeling of pressing my pencil against that pearly white page, waiting to be scratched and itched until all the space was occupied. Writing is an art, with no need for precision, unless it comes from your own mind. I’ve learned that other opinions are irrelevant.
My third and final passion would have to be swimming. Most people don’t know this about me, but I love to swim. It’s that feeling when you dive in and in one second there is air all around you, but the next you’re immersed in the cool water and creating the feeling of freshness all around your body. It eats away the pain and sadness that you’ve had throughout your day. For me swimming takes away stress and replaces it with blank, emptiness. Nothing but the water and the need to breath on occasions. It’s the speed that you feel as you rocket through the water, diving underneath someone to get passed or charging ahead to finally beat your challenger. It’s the joy in blowing a bubble ring successfully and watching as it ripples and writhes in snake like patterns until it burst into the open air, exploding at the surface. It’s the need for air, your lungs beginning to compress and your legs starting to lose feeling as the Oxygen slowly dies away, but your mind saying, “No, let me stay, just a little longer, please?”
It’s perfect. They’re all perfect. And they make me feel perfect, my mind at ease and my escape from reality. They are my saviors, my loves, my passions,... My three.
That is not my name
My name... How do I explain my name? It is complicated... How do I explain why my parents, 14 years, 10 months and 3 days ago, chose to give me such a dizzying headache in the years to come.
“Your name is Savannah?” people still question me and I can’t help but wonder if they busted their eardrums recently. Savannah is not my name, nor do I want it to be.
Savannah is not the name my mother came up with that day in the car, windows down, music swirling from the radio and into the sticky, afternoon air. Savannah is not the name of the band that my mother felt fit perfect as a puzzle piece with my already chosen middle, Catalina. Savannah is not the name so beautiful and spine chilling in the spanish language, yet bestowed upon someone who cannot speak a word of it. I am not Savannah and Savannah is not me.
I am Santana. The last name of the artist who breathed latin life into the music we have today. I am music, swimming through the air around our heads, taking refuge in the warm caves that are our ear drums. I am words that seem to flitter off of books or shoot from my hand, through my pencil and onto a crisp new page. I am the comfort of the warm, summer night air, bleeding through the cracks of spring in may.
And Santana isn’t simply my name. It is my personality, my hopes, my dreams. Santana is my motivation, what keeps me moving in school or at home or in a pool. I must work hard, in fear of disappointing and soiling what Santana means. Santana is tough, nice, funny, difficult. Santana is rain and sun, moon and stars. Santana is everything I could’ve ever asked for. Unlike Savannah, Santana is me.
“Your name is Savannah?” people still question me and I can’t help but wonder if they busted their eardrums recently. Savannah is not my name, nor do I want it to be.
Savannah is not the name my mother came up with that day in the car, windows down, music swirling from the radio and into the sticky, afternoon air. Savannah is not the name of the band that my mother felt fit perfect as a puzzle piece with my already chosen middle, Catalina. Savannah is not the name so beautiful and spine chilling in the spanish language, yet bestowed upon someone who cannot speak a word of it. I am not Savannah and Savannah is not me.
I am Santana. The last name of the artist who breathed latin life into the music we have today. I am music, swimming through the air around our heads, taking refuge in the warm caves that are our ear drums. I am words that seem to flitter off of books or shoot from my hand, through my pencil and onto a crisp new page. I am the comfort of the warm, summer night air, bleeding through the cracks of spring in may.
And Santana isn’t simply my name. It is my personality, my hopes, my dreams. Santana is my motivation, what keeps me moving in school or at home or in a pool. I must work hard, in fear of disappointing and soiling what Santana means. Santana is tough, nice, funny, difficult. Santana is rain and sun, moon and stars. Santana is everything I could’ve ever asked for. Unlike Savannah, Santana is me.