Olivia Grace Hill
Born:  February 11, 1993
Height:  Approximately 5′ 6″
Hair:  Straight, Brown
Eye Color:  Dark Brown (not to be confused with black)
Position on Coolness Scale:  17 (with 17 being the coolest and 0 being the lamest – Examples of 17′s are people like Jon Foreman, Charlie Fink, Natalie Portman, John Steinbeck, and Abraham Lincoln.  Examples of 0′s are people like Adolph Hitler, Judas Iscariot, and that girl from Twighlight.  The rankings are based on scientific, mathematical calculations that are probably too hard for you to understand.)

You may have seen her around.  You undoubtably have noticed her.  Cause when you look at her, the first thing you think is, “That’s just not fair.”  It’s not fair that someone can be pretty, cool, and one of the most loving people ever all at the same time.

And you’re right.  It’s just not fair.  But that’s life, folks, and we have to deal with it.  She’s a great, talented, funny, beautiful, caring, driven, smart, and all-around rad gal.  And guess what, I’m related to her.

Those Deschanel sisters ain’t got nothin’ on us, Livvy.

She's not just cool because she's being compared to Uncle Ricky and Duane...

I loved writing, though.  I always had, but this was also back when I thought I was going to be a journalist who would live in Africa and change the world with a Pullitzer Prize-winning article.  Poetry and books weren’t my thing.  And whenever my dad would mention me writing a book, I’d yell at him because that’s what you do when you don’t have anything else to do.  Oh, how things have changed.

This is how the story goes:  I came to college as a journalism major, concentrating on international correspondence.  I changed it the spring of my freshman year to journalism, concentrating on urban America.  Then I gave in, followed what I realized God had actually called me to do and switched it all around.  Now I’m an anthropology major, and I’m staying in America.  And what’s even worse, I’m basically a creative writing minor.  Novels, essays, short stories, songs, and yeah, poetry.

I’ve come to realize that all of these forms of writing are ways to creatively express feelings and emotions.  And as someone who’s not too good at doing that, creative writing has become my outlet.  I love writing it, I love reading it.  And it’s become the thing that I’m the most passionate about.

But I’ve also realized that there’s more to creative writing than just the words on the paper.  It’s the meaning behind it, the purpose and the importance.  It’s writing something that matters, and wearing it on your sleeve.  It’s opening your heart to making an impact by expressing what you believe to be the most detrimental information you could ever tell anyone.  It’s the tears and smiles that are sewn into every word, each one dripping with importance.  It’s more than flowery sentences or complex jargon.  It’s what the sentences stand for.

Today, thanks to my excellent facebook stalking skills, I stumbled upon a guy named David Bowden.  He does spoken word.  He writes his own poetry and then records videos of himself speaking it out, usually with a sunset or forest in the background, and I’ve never seen him without his hipster beanie on his head.  But as a comment on one of his videos stated, God can speak through anyone, even a hipster.  Because God is truly speaking through every single word that is coming out of David’s mouth.  He’s not just reciting lyrics that sound good.  He’s declaring what he believes to be absolute truth that can change the world.

You know this because, when you watch him, every word is soaked in meaning.  You see it in his eyes, his mannerisms, his expressions.  The words that he speaks are heavy.  And this is creation.  This is his creation that he is using to magnify his Creator.

And the rhythm of his lyrics is like the chorus of a song, but it’s a little different because he controls how each sentence is said, how each word is emphasized.  It’s creative, and it’s beautiful.

I think poetry is impacting and lovely, but there’s something even BIGGER about it when it’s spoken aloud, declared if you will.  It’s saying, this is what i believe!  This is what I feel!  This is what I know!

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it screams, “This is my praise!”

Thanks to this little old boob tube, I was introduced to one of the greatest shows of all time – Smallville.  I started watching it on Thursday nights in eighth grade during season four.  It was the first show I really ever watched alone, as we only had one TV set before Grandma donated this one.  I felt like I had finally become a really cool, hip teenager sitting on my beanbag in my room at 8 pm, watching Smallville in black and white.  I had made it.

Okay, so it’s this story about young Superman, high school Clark Kent.  His on and off relationship with Lana Lang was the greatest love story an eighth grader could think up.  His friendship with his future enemy was so endearing but sad at the same time because everyone knows Lex Luthor ends up being one of the worst villains in superhero history.

The characters were great too.  Tom Welling?  I mean, come on now.  Lana Lang is an adorable love interest.  Chloe Sullivan, Clark’s best friend is annoying for a while when she’s in love with him, but she gets better over the years.  And who doesn’t love the great sidekick who’s smart and has all the “ins” about everything.  I love Lex Luthos.  Like, love him.  He truly cares about his friends, until he becomes evil, of course.  And the show has awesome guest stars, like Jonathon Taylor Thomas, Christopher Reeve, Teri Hatcher, Amy Adams, and Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.  We’re not gonna spend time talking about Lois Lane because she’s annoying and obnoxious, and I’m in denial that she ever becomes Clark’s love interest.

And don’t even get me started on the music selection.  Want a blast from the past?  Just listen to the tunes on this soundtrack, and you’ll be back in the middle school days of awkward hair cuts and the start of puberty.  There’s so much to choose from:  lots of Lifehouse, Weezer, Third Eye Blind, Simple Plan, The All-America Rejects, Five for Fighting, Snow Patrol, The Goo Goo Dolls, Coldplay, Hoobastank, Keane, Switchfoot (which makes the show that much better), and that song “Collide” that we all can sing along to.

Let me just say, I’m in no way complimenting the quality of this show.  It’s not like it’s gonna win an Emmy or anything.  And you must also disregard the show from season six on.  Just forget any of that ever happened because the next five seasons were horrible.  After six (which was bad), I wasn’t gonna pull for it anymore.

But as an eighth and ninth grader, Smallville was everything I ever wanted.  There was a hot, strong hero, a dramatic high school relationship that was always back and forth, keeping us on the edge, funny and loyal best friends, a surprisingly relatable setting of the small Kansas town, even though it was a story about an alien coming to earth, and a secret that no one could know.

This past summer, I got to rewatch the first three seasons, in color this time!  My friend Natacha and I spent hours each day drinking mahogany coffee and eating sweet chili doritos in front of her computer, gawking over the love story, freaking out every time Clark and Lana almost kiss or every time Clark almost tells Lana his secret.  Or singing along to every emo song by Lifehouse (playing them later on our itunes).  It was like junior high all over again.  It’s probably the only memory of that period that I don’t mind revisiting.

And I can’t wait to watch my seasons four, five, and six with Nacho when I get back to DC.  I can’t wait to listen to the intro song, wait for the build up, play the air drums, and belt out the lyrics “Somebody saaaaaave me…”  Who cares if I have schoolwork.  It’s all about priorities really.

Clark + Lana Forever and ever and ever.

This post is dedicated to the one and only Natacha Barghout.  I’m bringing home some Kenyan coffee for our Smallville dates, which are gonna happen all day, errrrday.

Back in the days of flannel inequality, it was characteristically only worn by lumberjacks and farmers.  They were warm and cozy, so the comfy plaid shirts filled the dresser drawers of people who lived in log cabins and who cut down trees.

But in recent history, a couple obscure hipsters stormed the figurative flannel headquarters with their expensive cigarettes and oversized headphones and demanded flannel equality for everyone.  Their success is evident in the many forms and personalities flannel now accommodates.

There’s a flannel for every season:  nice pastel colors in the spring that you can wear to Easter brunch, light-weight shirts for the summer months, oranges and browns and a bit thicker for raking fall leaves, and thick, heavy shirts for the winter.

Know what I love?  I love cozying up with a book in my house on my couch with a nice warm flannel and a pair of thick socks (don’t worry, I’ll have a post for those soon enough).  I love wearing a light one with a pair of shorts in the summer.  I love wearing matching flannel with The Super Fun Folk Time Band (guys, we need to get a new name), complete with acoustic instruments and matching bowties.  I love wearing them open with a shirt that doesn’t match underneath.  I love singing along at a Noah and the Whale concert with the plaid garment.  And maybe I love wearing one with a leather jacket and a pair of skinny jeans with my earphones in.  So what?

Ya’ll can jone all you want, but just try one on and tell me you don’t love it too.  You can’t.

It was great, it really was.  I’ve never been that close to wild monkeys before, but I couldn’t help but think that I know one monkey who beats them all.  His name is Milton.

Many of you may know Milton, as he has faithfully watched over whatever bed I sleep in for about 20 of my almost 21 years.  His pink and black fur is matted after years of wear, but all his limbs are in tact and every thin patch is evidence of years of love.  I don’t know if Papa Kelly knew the day he won Milton at a carnival for little 2-year-old Natalie that she would spend every night with him.  Papa Kelly passed away only a few months after he won that game, but Milton has always stuck around.

What’s that?  An almost 20-year-old shouldn’t be sleeping with stuffed animals anymore?  Don’t hate.  Milton’s the best, and no one can every tell him otherwise.  He has faithfully slept by my side my whole life, come to sleepovers with me, camp, college, Kenya.  Mom’s worried about when I get married cause my husband will have to deal with Milton in our bed with us.  Future husband, it’s a package deal.  And if you love me enough, you’ll learn to love Milton too.

Whatever, maybe it’s weird.  Natalie + Milton 4EVA!

I practically live at Nairobi Java House, and I drink about four cups when I’m at school here, mostly because you can’t beat a 25 cent mug.  It’s not that I’m addicted to the caffeine.  It doesn’t really do a good job at keeping me awake anyway, and I don’t really get headaches when I don’t have it.  I just love the coffee itself.

Here’s the thing, I think I equate coffee with only good things.  Is there really ever a time when we drink coffee and it’s not a nice moment?  This is what I mean.

At home when I drink coffee, there are a couple different scenarios.  1.  I wake up in the morning, and I’m in the home that my family’s in.  I don’t get to be there much anymore, so it’s already nice being there.  Mom’s usually out grocery shopping or at school, Dad’s at work, Olivia’s asleep, and it’s just me and Nora the pitbull.  I make a small pot of Tim Horton’s ground coffee, and I drink it at our little kitchen table, flipping through the newspaper or just thinking, waiting for the others to come around.  2.  I’ll wake up, and Mom will have already brought me a Tim Horton’s coffee home after being out.  It’s sitting on the counter for me.  3.  Amy’s place – it’s this adorable, artsy restaurant in the city that my mom and sister and I always go to.  It’s for special occasions, just the three of us.  They have the best coffee.  It’s smokey yet smooth.

All of this means comfort to me.  The smell reminds me of home, a place I no longer spend much time.

Or it reminds me of the mahogany blend Natacha found this summer.  The description is something like, “your favorite armchair you snuggle in by the fire with a good book.”  It basically describes me in a coffee blend, and I love it.  I spent all last summer drinking lots of it.

Or how about coffee dates?  I’ve spent so much time talking with people, getting to know them, having heart-to-hearts over ordered cups of coffee.  I don’t care what ya’ll say, the Dav at AU is awesome, and I’ve spent so much time in relationship with people there.  And DC has so many great coffee shops around.  That porcelain mug steaming it’s smokey aroma represents friendship and conversation and meaning.

Maybe I’m just trying to find an excuse to drink too much coffee than is good for me.  Can there really be that much meaning in a couple crushed up coffee beans, some boiled water, a few drops of cream, and a teaspoon of sugar?  I don’t know, I’ve always found it somewhere in the bottom of that cup.

Now if you’ll excuse me, It’s 8:30 am.  I need to find a cup o’ joe.

But I’m sure many of you are having a huge dilemma because Christmas music doesn’t fit your hipster persona.  You want to sing tunes about baby Jesus, but can you sacrifice the weird voices, banjos and mandolins, underground albums, and lyric-heavy music that defines your obscure kind?  Christmas music is played on the radio.  It’s so mainstream!  What do you do?

Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people! (Luke 2:10 ESV) Indie weirdo musician Sufjan Stevens has a Christmas album!!  Actually he has five volumes of songs for the season – Vol. I – Noel, Vol. II – Hark!, Vol. III – Ding! Do, Vol. IV – Joy, Vol. V – Peace.  He’s got everything, an indie voice, girls humming the harmony in the background, banjos, ukuleles, a random brass band, some wind chimes, a range of song topics, and obscure song titles like “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella,” and “Get Behind Me, Santa!”

Here’s the thing about my man Suf.  I love him.  I think he’s crazy and innovative and incredibly awkward (all good things).  But I can usually only take so much of him.  I mean, have you listened to his latest album The Age of Adz?  It’s weird, man.  Like, really weird.  After listening to him for a little bit, I need some sort of constant melody…so I move to other bands you’ve probably never heard of (let me clarify, that was me making fun of pretentious hipsters).  But this is not the case for his Christmas music.  I listen to it throughout the whole Christmas season.  It’s just the right amount of weird.  For instance, his song “Come On!  Let’s Boogey to the Elf Dance!” sings, “Santa Claus is coming, hear the banjos strumming.”  Who plays banjos at Christmas time??  Well, Sufjan Stevens of course.  So clever and unique, that guy.

And that’s what Christmas is all about, right?  Embracing the weird and welcoming it out of the cold and into your home?  Well, Sufjan, you’re welcome to come over to my place and have dinner anytime.  Happy Christmas-ing!

I mean Family, Friends, and Food.

Today I’m kind of celebrating the tradition of Americans giving thanks to whatever entity they imagine by stuffing their faces with food and watching bad football teams play each other.  Only this year is a little different seeing as I’m in a country that doesn’t celebrate holidays that are only celebrated in America.

What do I miss most while in Kenya on the best American food holiday of the year?  Let me paint you a scenario:

You’re sitting in a house out in the boondocks of Holland, New York.  The dining room window looks out into the wooded backyard.  There’s a little bit of snow covering the grass, but the heat in the house and the many bodies keep you nice and toasty.  There are three long tables stretching in a line from one end of the kitchen to the other end of the living room, stopping right before the wood-burning stove. Each place setting’s assigned.  I don’t know why – we always sit in the same spot, kids on one end, adults on the other.  The aunts and girl cousins are standing around the island in the kitchen, some on the high stools, picking at the what seems like hundreds of dishes that smell like Heaven itself.  Lindsey’s cooking her brussels sprout and bacon dish, and Aunt Lynne’s seasoning the stuffing.  Uncle Mark is shaving the turkey, Mom’s unwrapping her refreshing cranberry relish, Aunt Janet’s acting goofy and making us laugh, and Grandma Kotecki’s yelling at Courtney to stop picking at the food.  Dad’s arguing with Josh and Andy about how bad the Bills are, and Uncle Ricky’s already dosing off in front of the television.  Then Miss Betty, the neighbor, comes in with her unsalted assorted nuts.  No one likes them, but they’re gone at the end of the night anyway.

As you sit down at the steaming table of tin foil-covered dishes, Uncle Mark prays over the food and the family and the few straggling visitors we always manage to find along the way.  Someone’s usually tearing up, and Aunt Lynne’s praying in the Spirit. And then the room lights up with conversation and laughter as the food finds its way into our mouths.

More than anything, this is family to me – 25 to 30 people eating together and loving each other.  Some are blood relatives, some aren’t.  We’ve stopped being able to tell over the years.  Family is the visible affection you can see at the Thanksgiving table.  It’s the stories, the laughs, the embarrassing comments.  It’s the prayers and the love and the familiarity.

That’s what I miss most this year.

Then there’s the food.  I LOVE FOOD.  I don’t mean to brag or anything, but my family makes the best Thanksgiving meal ever created in the history of mankind.  I think Thanksgiving is gonna be celebrated in Heaven, and God’s gonna hire my family to prepare it.  There’s turkey cooked to perfection, gravy made from scratch, three kinds of stuffing, mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, corn casserole, green bean casserole, four different kinds of cranberries, sweet potatoes, assorted dinner rolls, pumpkin pie, apple pie, homemade whipped cream, Eileen’s Bakery’s cut-out cookies, and I’m sure I’m forgetting something.  There’s the pop (yes, it’s pop) table in the corner with the plastic cups and the convenient marker for personalizing our drinks.  And then there’s days and days of leftovers.  It’s amazing.

That’s another thing I miss this year.

But then there’s friends.  That’s what I have this year.  Sure it’s not really traditional this time around.  I’m in Africa with people I didn’t know at this time last year.  But we’re still celebrating.  We’re still trying to make the most American Thanksgiving day meal we can find at Nakumatt.  We’re making new traditions, and that’s worth remembering too, even though it’s a bit different.

So today, I love all of these things – my family, food, whether American or Kenyan-American, and friends.  And maybe what blends them all together is tradition.

Happy Thanksgiving, wazungu.

Jone (v.) – to hate on someone; to make fun of; to come up with a good “your mom” joke

Usage:  Whatever you do, don’t pronounce the “g” in joning.  That’s not cool.  If you pronounce the “g,” there’s no avoiding it – you’re as white as they come.  It’s like the white man’s overbite while dancing.  You can’t do it.  Likewise, you can’t pronounce the “g.”

Ex.)  Paul Patrick Barrett’s always jonin’ on me for liking Noah and the Whale, even though he secretly loves them.
Ex.)  Everyone’s always jonin’ on me for my 12-year-old boy phase.  (It was a hard transitioning period, and if I could burn all the      pictures, I would.)

Joning:  A Brief History
I don’t really know the history.  All I know is it’s a DC thing.  It slapped me in the face when I worked at an inner city summer school program.  Third and fourth graders use it constantly, but it’s an urban thing.  It’s not something you can use in a pretentious, snobby manner.  Nope, this is cool, remember?  When I asked Eugene, a boy in my fifth grade class, what it meant, he just looked at me with those attitude eyes.  You know the attitude eyes – one eyebrow raised, head tilted.  He said, “Miss Natalie, where have you been?”  That’s when I knew I was getting old.  I didn’t know the cool lingo…and he called me Miss Natalie.  I had to quickly escape my mid-life crisis, I asked Antwon (a boy with less of an attitude eye) to tell me what it meant, and I was back to being fly like the good ‘ol days.  I later consulted my old, not-so-cool college friends who worked in the elementary schools, and they expressed this newfound discovery too.  From then on, we started saying it, and it stuck.

I’ve been away for a while, and I’ve forgotten what’s in.  But I was reminded of it again today, and I remember now how much I love being cool.  I have made it my duty to spread the love.

Jonin’ is back.  It’s cool.  It’s hip.  It’s fly.  Tell the world.