Red Nose Day

Did you happen to catch it last night? Do you even know what it is? I know about it because of One Direction. In case you don't know, it's this fundraiser to get kids out of poverty, and all kinds of good things like that. I watched last night. Of course I did, One Direction was apart of it.

It was good. It was sad. This one part in particular really, really got to me. Jack Black went to Uganda and they were playing clips of it throughout the show. This part, around the three minute mark especially, really hit home to me. Really devastated me.

The environment, to me at least, was really similar to India. It broke my heart when Felix said he wanted to go home with Jack. I also found it really cruel to play Lay Me Down by Sam Smith during that clip, man. As if that song needed to be anymore touching.

There were at least, like, 11 Felixs for me in India. A massive upwards of 11, surely, if you count all the kids we met who actually had parents. Here are just a few of my Felixs.

These beautiful girls were at the orphanage we visited. They spoke amazing English and they were asking all kinds of questions like our favorite flowers, and they sang for us, and they asked Melanie and Autti to take our picture. We told them how we loved momos (a really yummy Indian dish that I mentioned earlier. Sticky, steamed dough filled with meat or vegetables. Flipping delicious) and one of the girls said she knew how to make them. One of my companions joked that we should take her home. This little girl actually looked at one of the caregivers, wondering if she could go with us. 

My word, my heart.

They all gave us hugs before we left. The girl in the center kissed my cheek, too.

One night we were in a rickshaw, my grandma, David, and I. It was dark, and late, and I was feeling a little homesick. I was texting my mom (and I racked up a massive bill on my grandma's phone. Sorry Grandma!) and a little beggar boy came up to us when we stopped. This was nothing new at that point, but that night it really got to me. It seemed to be a really long stop, and I fought crying so hard while he was there. He was so little. He was wearing a Snoopy onesie. My little brother Asher's room is covered in Peanuts characters. I got to thinking about what if that were Asher out on the streets in a little Snoopy onesie. As we pulled away from him, I don't know if I did well at hiding my tears from my grandma and David, but they didn't say anything.

We went to Wete's that night and my mind was wrapped around him. I remember walking back to get another rickshaw back to our hotel, just wondering if I could get him on the plane home with us, if I could adopt him somehow, if there was any way. I asked my poppy about it the next morning at breakfast. He told me to ask Sarah. It was a bit of an anecdote during his sermon at church.

For some reason, I get chatty at night. If you're interested in getting to know me, you might want to try to keep me out late. Ha. Anyway, Autti and I were talking about him. I told her if we saw him again, I didn't think there was any way I could keep myself from pulling him into the rickshaw with me and kidnapping him. (Would it really be kidnapping? I'd give him a better life. But... Yes, I know it's kidnapping if it's against his will. :/) We got onto the subject of what I should name him. I jokingly suggested Snoopy because of his shirt (It's also often that I get a bit silly later at night) and she said John Cashmere because John cracked my back and his co-worker kept trying to get us to go to Cashmere, where he lived, and we never got his name.

I also threw in that his last name could one day be Styles, but I think that's a whole different topic that I'm not going to talk about right now. Though it is getting late. Maybe give me a few minutes and I'll bare my soul even more while laughing at myself and the things you add. 

Anyway, Red Nose Day did its job of getting me to think and whatever. They also mentioned that some of the money they raise is going to Nepal. It's funny because, obviously, watching videos of kids in poverty has always affected me, it always affects everybody, but I feel like it's worse now that I've been somewhere like that. I wouldn't have even been able to tell you where Nepal was before I went to India (geography is not one of my strong points. I would have said Italy). Now, not only do I know where it is, I know people whose family lives there. Sarah and Wete come from Nepal. Their parents still live there.

So mostly I just wanted to vent tonight. The kids of India have been weighing me down, in the best possible way-strumming on my heart strings, as Ed Sheeran would say (oh, yeah, I also get rambly at night)-and I just wanted to talk about them. Red Nose Day is still open to donations if you're interested.

http://www.rednoseday.com/

One last thing, I'd like to dedicate this blog post to all of the girls of the orphanage, to Robin and Sylis, to the girl with the smile, and her sleepy brother. To Anu, to the little boy who blushed when I hugged him. To the boys at the slums that held hands while crossing the busiest street I've ever seen and getting to the other side before we did. There's a lesson in that we all should learn. To the little waiter at our restaurant in Agra who carried my coffee like a champ and whose hands must have gone numb a long time ago. To the boy who followed us around in Agra and blew my mind by getting back to our taxi so quickly. To the boy who followed us around the Taj Mahal that I wanted to cry over when I barely whispered cello to (or however you spell that word, which means go). To Snoopy John Cashmere. To all of the kids that stole my heart in India. You were my highlight.

It has been a despicable amount of time...

I know. It's really rather awful. I'll give you my excuse: I wrote down a general list of the things I did in India down, by day, in a binder. I turned said binder into my local high school to get evaluated, and I still haven't gotten it back. I need to take care of that. I should get that done soon, and start up with the India account again. I just don't want to leave anything out in these blog posts, and I honestly would have a hard time remembering which day was which.

Why am I writing now, you ask, after all this time? Well, yesterday was the anniversary of the day that I left for India. I've been going through pictures, rewatching this video from my trip:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Cz73xkSuY4
and doing basically every reminiscent thing that I can. Including rereading my four blog posts about it. That lead me to rereading all of my blog posts. Which lead to me wanting to write something for my blog.

There's been a lot of stuff that's happened since my last blog post that I could write about, I'm sure. For instance, I published another book called The Way He Looks at Me. That's a biggy.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Way-He-Looks-Volume/dp/1502898292

I'd rather write about one of the items I've checked off of the list that I detailed in my first blog post. That is, to go to New York [for the first time]. It makes me so happy to think of all the things I've done in the last few years. It's so strange that a few years ago, I wasn't going anywhere, I wasn't doing anything, just hoping to some day get to New York, just thinking I was stuck where I am. It felt like such a far off possibility. A lot of things did.

The first time I went to New York was Thursday, April 18, 2013. Kevin and Danielle Jonas were doing a meet and greet in the NBC store to promote their show, Married to Jonas. I was supposed to go to visit a college with my grandparents that weekend. It was scheduled and everything. After a lot of deliberating, I canceled the college tour.

My mom hadn't been to NY either, but we hopped on a bus and went. We were really late by the time we got to the NBC store, and therefore pretty far back in the line. We weren't the last ones to arrive, though.

We stood in line for a long time, and people only trickled out in small groups after spending a ton of time in the store. I thought it was nice. Obviously they were taking the time to actually be with the fans. Or, er, the people that showed up to see them, anyway. Not all of them were fans. They shamelessly admitted so in the line. I've got to be honest, I was incredibly anger about that. Why would you hop in line to see someone you don't even like? I know why-just to be able to say you've met them-but it drives me crazy. I was there because I actually love Kevin and Danielle. The people who were in line who didn't care about them were taking away from the people who actually love them. Imagine if the people who didn't care for him weren't in line. Then everyone who did care would have more time with him. Probably every one would have gotten to see him without him having to make himself late.

Sorry. Rant over. It's just that fake fans really bother me.

As I alluded to, while we were still standing outside, some security said Kevin and Dani had to go. They were already late. They were going to try and squeeze in as many more people as they could.

I'm not going to hold you in suspense. I was one of the last people in. God was so good to me. I can't imagine how devastating it would have been if I'd waited all that time, in a massive city I'd never been to before, to be turned away from a member of the band I had loved the most.

My mom pointed him out through the store window when we were still waiting, still hoping we'd make it, but unfortunately for me, I couldn't tell with my bad vision. I don't wear contacts and I hate glasses. Makes things difficult, I guess, but I'm stubborn about this.

Anyway, back to the story.

We were finally ushered inside to this little roped off line and Kevin and Dani were right there. When it was my turn, I handed someone my iPod, my mom shook Kevin's hand, then I hugged him. That moment was a bit of a blur for me. I probably attacked him with a hug when he wanted a hand shake again, but oh well. We threw our arms around each other, smiled for the picture:

then we were in the store for a bit, looking around, and Kevin even walked by us with a body guard. It was incredibly cool.

We went to the M&M store, Disney store, and Forever 21 before we got back on the bus. As we were rushing to the station, this guy tried to hit on my mom, too, so that was fun.

Moral is, that was the first of many incredible trips I've taken to New York. I just wanted to go to New York because it was New York, but God made my first trip there more incredible than I could have imagined or asked for.

One last thing, I think I should mention that I have a website now and I've been writing an author update for that once a month. You can read and subscribe if you please. I just added a contact me section yesterday.

http://jewelsk96.wix.com/julianamae

Thanks for reading!

Jules ♥

I...He...We Need You to Know

This may seem random to you, but it’s really not for me. There is a point. It's not just a story. But hopefully you'll like it for more than one reason. Please stick with me.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I was super excited about something, and my mind just kept going, and I've never felt the word "buzzing" applied so well. I went to bed at 11, and I knew by that point it must have been 12 at least. I knew I should be getting to sleep, but I was just too awake. Now that I've established the situation, I think I'll switch into present tense.

I hear Asher cry out, just once, just a little. A moment of silence. Now it's turned into one of those long cries that I don't see coming to an end any time soon. I hope my mom wakes up and gets him. I remember how hard it was being in his position.

To my relief, she does. She gets him, and I hear her take him back to her own bed. And he keeps crying. I hear them go into the bathroom, and I hear her patience draining as she asks him over and over what is wrong. He continues to cry as I imagine it's a stomach ache-that was (is, actually) my usual ailment-and he's stuck standing in there when I'm sure he wants to just be lying in bed.

My mother becomes exasperated and says if he'd just tell her what was the matter, she would help him. She wants to help him. He just keeps crying, and I feel that pang of panic that only lives in childhood, a fear that can hardly be described, but I'm going to try. I have to try. I'm a writer, and it is my job to tell you stories, and make you feel things, and I feel this is an incredibly important thing for you to understand. In that moment, I'm not the 18-year-old that I've grown to become. I'm four year old me. I am four year old Asher.

You see, Asher-as I did before him-hears what she's saying. He does. It enters his mind, but he can't even think about telling her the problem. The problem is so obvious to him, that he expects her to know it. I'm not saying it's fair, or right, I'm not abdicating it, I know people aren't mind readers. I'm just telling you how it is. He can't tell her. He needs her to know.

This is how it is during the day as well, of course. But at night, as I assume you know, everything bad is magnified. Everything is so much worse at, say, one in the morning. It's not even really the night itself. It's not really the dark per say, it's not really what's in the dark. It's the feeling that you get during the night that doesn't really have anything to do with any of that.

Have you ever been laying in bed in the middle of the night, and thought you heard someone walking around, or just noises, and you're so afraid, and you don't want to check? Then you tell yourself oh, it was just the neighbors, or oh, it was just something outside, the noises your house naturally makes. For Asher, there is no rationalizing. He is paralyzed in fear, a heavy fear. A mind boggling fear that weighs on him and kind of shuts the rationalizing part of his brain off, and starts running through the bad things. He starts losing himself.

I lie in my bed for a few minutes, listening to Asher crying in my mom's room once again. He just wants his mom. He just wants to be cuddled. He needs her comfort. She is there, but she's impatient because he won't tell her what's the matter. I don't blame her, but I am Asher, and I know what he needs.

Then, almost unconsciously, I've decided I need to help him. I need to do for him what I needed to be done for me. I am in the hallway, and then I am in my parents' room as my dad is leaving it. My mother says something about Asher waking us all up, is worried about him waking our neighbors. I am not. I am him.

I crawl into bed, and I stroke his hair. I whisper that it's okay, and I know. I know exactly how he feels, but I also know there is really no way to make him realize that, no way to use that as comfort to him. He keeps crying, and I keep stroking. He just wants mom, I tell myself.

I whisper in his ear, ask him if his belly hurts, I ask him if he had a bad dream. He doesn't answer. It doesn't matter. I ask him, "What's the matter?" and he turns to my mom, reaching out, but then rolling back to face me again.

"You want mom," I state, which as I've told you, I knew all along. He is glad I know, though. That I acknowledge it.

Slowly but surely, he begins to calm down, but still cries.

My other brother, who isn't like us, comes in clapping. He congratulates Asher on waking him up.

"You don't know," I want to tell him. "You don't know what it's like."

But I say nothing to him, instead whispering to Asher again. We cuddle a little closer together, and I know that he wants me near. He wants me to be there. He moves my hands away, only allowing one in his hair, not on his side, too, and I know it's because he wants me, but at the same time, he doesn't really know what he wants. I am patient with him, I wait for him to be patient with me again. The next moment he lets me put my hand back on him, but removes the one in his hair. I'm finally able to pat his side, and he finally seems to be falling asleep.

He's silent for a moment, then starts up again. He does this so many times, I start to laugh, mostly because of how much tension I feel, how much pressure, how much emotion. I need to let it out somehow, and short, bubbly spurts of laughter is the thing I see as the best option.

He finally falls asleep, I think, and become sure when I whisper it to the room and he stays silent. I move, and he seems to wake up. I freeze, and try again in a moment. I can't leave him when he is like this. I have to make sure he will stay asleep. I'm successful.

"Thank you, Jules," my mother says.

I don't even remember if I so much as mumbled an "mhm", because the truth is, I didn't do it for her, I didn't do it for my dad who was waiting to get back into his bed, I didn't do it for my brother who had school in the morning, I didn't do it for the defenseless neighbors. I did it for Asher. And I did it for me.

I wonder if that is selfish of me as I head back into my room. And then I lay in my bed, and I begin to sob.

Being Asher's big sister has been hard for me, in this way and others. I feel like Asher and I need you to know this, but I couldn't say it when I was his age, and I know he can't say it now. I told my mother this morning a little of how I remember feeling, presenting it gently, telling her I just wanted her to know, because, as she has always told me, she never knew what to do for me. Now I can express it, and now, maybe I can help Asher. The child in me hurts, but the adult in me feels a little proud. So I'm doing it for him, for me, for us, for anyone who reads this.

I...He...We need you to be patient with us, even when we can't tell you what's wrong and we're pushing you away. Especially then.

Sorry to interrupt, but...

Well, this is my blog so technically I can do whatever I want, but this post isn't going to be about India. There will be more on India, but I have something else I'd like to mention.
Today, I went to my home school elevator and basically I'm a graduate! :D Here's a little picture for you:
https://www.facebook.com/JulsieMaeHales/photos/a.1416752851932734.1073741828.1415395062068513/1429452517329434/?type=1&notif_t=like
Also, I wanted to share an incredible experience with you that I had just a few weeks ago. I'll give you a hint, it involves a band I love very much. :D So check it out!

http://www.movellas.com/story/201406201921071401-off-the-record

My Trip to India Part 4

Wete found us at the cafe, right before the cafe's power went out. I was told that happens often.
Wete got us a rickshaw, and we drove to the school he and Sarah are in charge of. Sarah had the kids sing for us. A lot of it was in English, too. They loved singing. It was so adorable. Then a couple of the kids gave us each cards that they had made themselves and signed (OH MY GOSH THEY ARE SUCH GOOD ARTISTS!) and a rose.
We went upstairs where Sarah was allowing a family to stay. It was a 17 year old boy whose kidney was failing I think. I think it was his brother and sister-in-law that were staying with him...Sarah's husband David was also upstairs with them. Anyway, we prayed with the boy and Sarah translated afterward that he said he felt lighter. We prayed with another family who lived in another room, then Sarah took us to the house of one of the girls from her school.
The stairs were very, very narrow, there were plenty of them, and I was wearing a skirt. That's basically when I started hating steps and skirts, and I had a whole week of them in front of me.
 We were led to a room with a family, some chairs, and a sleeping boy. They wanted him to wake up, but he was so tired. And cute. We prayed with the family and tried to communicate with the kids. Ellie tried to tell the girl she had a pretty smile. She misunderstood and thought Ellie meant she had something on her face. The problems of language barriers, ladies and gentlemen. 
A group of at least five teenage boys came. They didn't know what was going on, but were encouraged to come in. They were told about Jesus, and they all prayed before we left. It was an incredible thing to see. They took pictures with us with their cell phones, then we headed out.
The little girl held my hand as walked down the street. There were more people out than there had been when we'd gotten there. They stared as we walked by. Kids began to follow us. We amassed a very large crowd. The little girl waved goodbye to everyone, smiling big and pretending she'd be going home with us.
She switched to holding Ellie's hand before we got on bicycle rickshaws and waved goodbye to all the kids. Sarah took us to an outdoor market. Mostly people were selling material. As everyone else shopped, I listened to David telling my grandfather about how the women there were taken behind buildings and raped, how they lost track of the number of times they were raped, how the police knew and didn't do anything about it.
The market wasn't really what Ellie was looking for, so we went to another one. I believe it was much more what Ellie was looking for it. It was also much busier. The first store we went into was a jewelry store. A guy there tried to sweet talk me into buying a necklace. He picked out one-that was actually probably the closest to my taste-and put it on for me. Ellie ended up buying it.
Anyway, we spent the rest of the evening walking around the market. We had delicious momos. I was really tired and also extremely thankful when Ellie went into a store where there were two chairs. She tried on clothes and I got to rest for a bit. She ended up buying something and when she was ready to go, I told her I wasn't ready to get off the chair. One of the guys who worked there who had helped Ellie shop told me to stand up and put my hands behind my head, elbows out. I was nervous about it, but when I looked to my grandparents, they didn't seem concerned. It seemed to always work out that way-when Ellie and I were scared, they were fine, when they were scared, Ellie and I were rolling our eyes.
I did as he told me. He came up behind me and before I knew it, he'd lifted my feet in the air. My back cracked loudly, he set me down and...I felt better! More awake. It had been a long time since my back had been cracked. He told us his name was John. We didn't get the name of the other man working there, but we nicknamed him Cashmere because that's where he told us he lived and he was trying very hard to get us to visit.

My Trip to India Part 3

So, while we were waiting to be picked up, we decided to go to this cute little café two buildings down. There were two boys at the house, Syilus and Robin. They followed us and sat outside. It was so cute. The last time my grandfather was in India, the café had Wi-Fi. This time it did not. Ellie, Melanie, and I each ordered a chocolate shot there. I thought it was going to be, like, a mini cup of coffee that was actually mostly chocolate flavored or something, you know? But, no, it was actually a plastic shot glass full of chocolate mousse and chocolate crumbs. It was quite scrumptious. The café itself looked quite like a café in America, I'd say. A couple of couches, tables, a counter, even a flat screen TV on the wall playing Bollywood music videos. It was really nice.

Sarah's brother, Wete, picked us up from the café, and we took our first rickshaw to Sarah and Wete's school/church. My first impression of the rickshaw and India's traffic in general was, "This does not feel safe." Rickshaws are kind of like a glorified Indian golf cart. And they're street legal. Google it. Really, anything flies on the streets of India to be honest. Anyway, there are tons of rickshaws in India. I'd say there's a pretty even amount of cars, motorcycles, and rickshaws.

If there are physical, white, painted lanes on the street, they are not at all respected in India. All the vehicles squeeze in as tight as possible-including little streets and alleyways, which was quite annoying if you were a pedestrian-coming literally within inches of each other at any and all times. And they go fast in India. There is no speed limit. There are barely any traffic lights. Like, we might have seen twenty in the almost two weeks we were there, and actually stopped at half of them. There are speed bumps in places. And they speed right over them. They don't even slow down. That was usually painful...A whole ton of trust was required in India. You had to trust your driver not to get into an accident, to get you to the right place. We didn't speak the language. That was a huge problem.

The driving is insane, but it completely worked. It doesn't make any sense at all-a lot of things in India didn't make any sense at all, actually-but, it totally worked. I actually came to love the India traffic. I was still a little worried when we'd come inches from running into another car, but I think that's normal. The weather was absolutely perfect on the first day, but it seemed to get hotter and hotter every day, and the rickshaws were nice and breezy. The one thing I didn't like about the India traffic was the horns. There was literally always someone honking. The backs of a bunch of trucks actually said "horn please". I mean, I can see how the horn could be useful, but after a point it's just like come on. Especially when someone honks at you because you're walking in their way, you lock eyes with them, you're clearly unable to move or go any faster, or perhaps you're obviously working on it, and they just stare you down, their hand just laying on the horn. That was frustrating.

My Trip to India Part 2

So, today is not tomorrow...Sorry about that, in case you were waiting anxiously for more about my trip.

Before I tell you more about my trip, though, I'd like to inform you that I was published in J14 Magazine! Ellie and I found my magazine in JFK airport which was so cool. Made me quite happy.

Alsoly, my book In the Heart of an Unsocial Butterfly, is now available on Kindle.

Anyway, I left off at the hotel. It wasn't really a hotel, per say. Really, it was someone's house. People rented the top floor and the owners shared their actual house with us. Ellie, Melanie, and I got this adorable room with three beds, a bathroom, and three futons...I think that's what they're called anyway. I fell asleep sometime around five in the afternoon and was awake on and off until around 7:30, just a minute or two before my grandma came to wake us up because the people of the house had made us tea.

We sleepily stumbled to my grandparents' room down the hall and sat at their little coffee table and had some really yummy tea. The food in India is quite delicious. The people of the house also brought us a bucket of hot water. For bathing.

I used my grandparent's bathroom the first morning. Thankfully the bathrooms at the place we were staying actually had toilets. We had to fill up a bucket it and dump the water in the toilet to flush it, but it could have been worse.

The bathrooms in India are called washrooms. I'm not sure if you know this, but in India there's not a whole lot of toilet paper. We'd brought our own. The bathrooms have drains in the floor, to clean (at least what I did) you have a bucket of steaming hot water, a smaller bucket with a handle kind of in the fashion of a mug, and you have two faucets on the wall. You fill the small bucket with part hot water and part colder water and that is how you rinse yourself. You just rinse and the water just goes all over the bathroom floor and eventually it goes down the drain.

The people of the house gave us a choice of hard boiled eggs or omelets. I chose hard boiled and my family ate while I was getting ready so I was also brought toast. I had time to eat about half of it before Sarah showed.

And I'll stop myself now. Tell you more soon.