From Bethany [My Twin]

So I usually do write my own original stuff on my blog, just for the record, even though the last 2 entries (and now this one) have been quoted from other people. But I was reading my friend Bethany's blog a minute ago and I came across the following entry. She and I went to high school together in Africa, and people often got us mixed up because we kinda look alike. I got used to answering to "Bethany," and she got used to answering to "Melissa"... anyway, here's what she wrote.


Reflections on l'Afrique de l'Ouest

Something about West Africa attaches itself to you; it holds on and never lets go. The sights, the sounds, even the smells, become ingrained in you, pulling you back. You often wonder how and why this continent gets in your blood; after all, first impressions of the Conakry airport in Guinea generally arouse a certain repulsion. Not only is everything brown because of layers upon layers of dirt, but the smell of Conakry is overwhelming, a combination of body odor, urine, and car exhaust. Inside the airport, everyone is packed together, like the cliche 'tuna in a can.' And that's meant that quite literally. You've barely room to put your boxes on the airport floor. But beyond first impressions, beyond intense crowdedness, beyond ugly smells are the lives of a people struggling to survive in third world countries.

There are people working hard day in and day out just to survive, plowing through entire mountain sides in 100 degree weather with a small hoe that consists of a two to three feet wooden handle and a small, round, steel blade. There are orphanages where children with such sweet smiles, so happy, so innocent, look up into your eyes and your heart breaks not knowing whether or not they'll end up as one more sad statistic lost in Africa. There are beggars on the sides of the street, poor beggars, beggars who plead with you to leave them just 100 francs. You begin to talk to people, to realize these people, these people who are some of the poorest in the world, somehow still have hope. They laugh. They sing. They dance. You discover their inside jokes, the constant bickering between the Baas and the Diallos, their plays on words. You see little children driving their homemade wire cars, playing a game of soccer in flip flops, dancing out in the first rain after the dry season. You listen at night to the far off sounds of drumming, knowing that somewhere out there, people are taking a break after their hard day of labor.

How, you might ask, can these people still find joy when their countries are in such turmoil? And why is it that all you can remember are the bright smiles of a proud people and the giggling of little children? Nothing really answers these questions; it is simply how it is. People hold on to whatever they can in order to survive life; somehow, you find a way to smile, to laugh, and then to cry when the time is right. Hope is still there for West Africa; it is not until that hope is gone that laughter will cease. Perhaps it's the determination of the people that draws you to this region.

Whatever it is, it holds onto you like nothing else. When you're gone away from West Africa, anything slightly related to the region brings thousands of memories to the forefront of your mind. You remember looking at the African sky, seeing thousands of stars in a cloudless sky. You remember the marketplaces, with bright, scattered colors and the noise of the people bartering overwhelming your senses. You remember the smell of dirt after the first rains. You remember shaking thousands of hands and going through millions of greetings before starting the 'real' conversations. You remember watching old taxis so beaten up you can't even know their original color was yellow. They are crammed full of people, even to the point of boys riding on the roof or holding on to the back. You remember a simpler life, a slower life, where time is not so important. It is these memories that draw you back, making you miss what you used to call home.

Africa gets in your blood; it never leaves.


Well put, Bethany.

Ode to the Nice Girls

I came across this the other day on the internet... it's pretty long but it's good, you should read it.


Ode to the Nice Girls
This rant was written because a nice girl finally snapped.

I've read the Ode to Nice Guys; this is my response.

This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.

This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.

This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.

This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear. This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys.

This is what I don't understand. Men sit and question and whine that girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them and belittle them and don't appreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex and think of little else than where their next conquest will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling, who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good women want to share in their lives, that girls play mindgames, that girls love to keep them hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one of these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling, interesting and intelligent and sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were you to give her your number and wait for her to call... and if you were to receive a call from her the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you that she finds you intriguing and attractive and interesting and worth her time and perhaps material from which she could fashion a boyfriend, would you or would you not immediately call your friends to tell them of the "stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called you and wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth? And would you, or would you not, refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again, and once again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for this "nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find? Because therein lies the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere. But you're not looking for a nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely interested in your intermural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you keep having with your father; you're looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were using during it.

So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass us up on every step you take. Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes when that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won't answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a nice girl in whore's clothing - - we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone and I'll be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through the disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those advances. You don't want the nice girl.. so don't say you're looking for a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things we're willing to extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion and loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express. Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congradulatory hug (and yes, if she's a nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness probably won't matter), hoping against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.

So maybe it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn in their running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we're waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each other, that silly race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what's a concession stand at a race without some chocolate?)

by Jessica Leigh Griffith.

"That's her."

"Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will stay awake just to watch you sleep. Wait for the boy who kisses your forehead, who wants to show you off to the world when you are in your sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends, who thinks you're just as pretty without makeup on. Wait for the one who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares about you and how lucky he is to have you. Wait for the one who turns to his friends and says, '...that's her.'"

– Nikster, on his away message.. too good not to quote!

I ran into Tyler today for the first time since... November. It's been a long time since I've seen anyone from the Newman Center, mostly because they're not so cool with me anymore. It's a strange thing, feeling completely unwelcome at a church. Tyler and I sat on the trunk of my car in the Newman parking lot and just talked for a long time. It's weird how it was just like old times with him, even though there's a lot of stuff under the surface that we aren't saying.

Right now, I'm remembering everything I had, everything I went through, everyone who turned on me, and everything I lost. It kinda hurts to think about it. I pretty much just want to get in my car and leave town. Then, I think about everything I have now and I think about my College Republicans. It's not just a club... it's a lifestyle!

I think I'll go see a movie or something to keep my brain occupied. Everybody has stuff to do, but I'm happy chillin' with my movie friends. Maybe I'll go for a drive. I wish it would rain because I just got new windshield wipers today and I can't wait to use them.

In life, where do you draw the line between past, present, and future? Where does the present become the future and where does the future blend with the past? What happens when the past and the present are two completely different worlds that have nothing in common? How do you bring the past into the future?

So basically, I did a lot of driving today, to and from Salem for the Oregon Right to Life conference, etc., and too much time alone always makes my brain start going about a gajillion miles per hour. On I-5, I drove by the exit that takes you to a friend of mine's house, a friend from Africa. I think he goes to OSU now, but I don't even really know. He and I were never super best friends or anything, but we've known each other since I was in 5th grade and it kinda makes me sad that nobody really knows the Africa part of me or the Switzerland part of me. Or the pre-uprooting-of-life part of me.


So within Melissa Faith Tucker, here are my personas:

1) Melissa. Born in Nazareth, Israel, lived in California until she was 9. Moved schools often. Super outgoing, kinda an annoying kid, if you ask me.

2) Mel. Moved to Switzerland at the age of 9 to learn French, before going to Africa. Became extremely withdrawn and hardly even spoke for at least a year, perhaps more. I actually hated it when the Swiss people started calling me Mel. But then it grew on me. Now, I love nicknames because you only give someone a nickname if they're important to you. I also later came to the realization that if I married Mel Gibson, my name would be Mel Gibson, which is SUPER COOL.

3) Mélissa. Moved to Africa at the age of 10, lived through civil wars and evacuations and near deaths. Lived in 3 different African countries and the only material thing that traveled with her the whole time was her barbies. And her doll, Zoey. I don't think anyone in Eugene has ever met Zoey. She's super cool.

4) Mrs. Richardson. 7th grade, lived in America for a year. Became obsessed with the boybands of 1999. Mr. Richardson's name is Kevin, and he's a Backstreet boy. My best friend Analicia was married to Nick Carter from the Backstreet boys and my other best friend Raylene was married to Nick Lachey from 98 Degrees. Mr. Lachey is now married to Jessica Simpson. My marriage to Kevin Richardson expired in 9th grade, when he married some other girl. I still wear my wedding ring, only it's on my right hand now.

5) Melt. Was born in study hall in 9th grade, when she and Ruben and Travis had the entire library to themselves for an entire hour every morning. Ruben came up with the nickname, from Mel T. The name stuck, and I was Melt for the rest of high school. I'm still Melt with all my Africa friends and my brother.

6) Melly. Freshman and Sophomore year of college, back in America. She was Catholic. The nickname actually came from Father Dave, the preist at the Newman Center. Melly learned a lot of things, really fast. Experienced a lot of culture shock and tried to just completely put Melissa, Mel, Mélissa, and Melt behind her. Especially Melt.

7) Tuck. College Republican, Junior year. The nickname was started by Anthony, the newly inducted honorary member of my Africa crew. Tuck is only recently trying to figure out how to make Melissa Faith Tucker one again by talking about Africa with her friends. Test subject number one is Anthony, hence the abduction. I think it's going pretty well becuase he's still my friend. This might work and I might try it on others. I might try it on YOU if you're not careful. Tuck is also trying to understand American culture and trying to figure out what her culture is.


Besides my parents, the only person who is a part of each me is Sir Joshua Benjamin Wayne Tucker. One of my friends says she's convinced that Josh and I are actually twins. But really, he's the 22-year-old that lives it the garage. My mom kicked him out of the house for being too loud. So he lives in the garage.

I love my College Republicans.


A♥

I almost bought a bright pink hula hoop at Wal-Mart just now.

Shoot, I should've gotten it. I could be hula hooping right now. Instead of doing what I'm doing, which is pretty much nothing. Dangit.

So just to recap, the OFCR (Oregon Federation of College Republicans) conference in Sunriver this weekend was crazy, and not in a good way. I still can't believe the stuff that went on and the tempers that flared and... ugh, the people that won. All I can say is, nobody messes with the UO College Republicans. Nobody.

I left Sunriver feeling very negative and bitter but fortunately, the "Official F**k the OFCR Party" at Christine's tonight was tons of fun and ended the whole thing on a happier note. I still can't believe everything that happened today, though. To quote A-Warren, "Did this all happen today??" Yeah.

Ummmmm, happy daylight savings time - SPRING FORWARD!! So all of a sudden, it's 3 AM instead of 2 AM and I need to get to bed.

Goodnight. Don't let the bed bugs bite. And if they do, take your shoe and WHACK 'EM 'TIL THEY'RE BLACK & BLUE!!!!!!!! (Don't worry, it's just the lasting effects of boarding school. Nothing too serious.)


P.S. I'm getting my wisdom teeth pulled on the morning of April 22nd, which is 8 days before my birthday. In case I don't live to see my 20th year, please celebrate it without me.

For now, though, it definitely hurts to chew because I have teeth coming in in the back of my mouth. Ow.