The Communicator • A Student Voice

ALSO APPEARS IN The Communicator, Volume 24, Edition 5

Andrea, the Razo's maid and Julia Kortberg

When I compare my life to hers, I am extremely lucky. We are both sixteen-years-old, residing in different countries and living very different lives. I just celebrated my birthday, I am excited about getting my driver’s license this month, and I spent mid-winter break with my family in Mexico. That’s where she lives – she works for the Razos, our family friends, who we stayed with on our one-week vacation. She cleaned the rooms we slept in, made dinner for all of us and helped out with their baby. Her name is Andrea. With the limited amount of Spanish I knew, I tried to communicate with her – mostly relying on body language and smiles as she passed me and occasionally met my gaze.

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ALSO APPEARS IN The Communicator, Volume XXV, Edition 7

I’m not a Republican or a Democrat. I don’t take an overwhelming amount of classes and I watch the Food Network religiously. I found my bed on Craig’s List and my Nike Dunks on eBay. I base my three main meals of the day around the free samples available at Whole Foods, use my right turn signal when turning, and being naked is the best feeling I can think of.

I feel that clothes are a prison, my sculpted body is the inmate, and my belt is the hooded executioner.

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For my entire life I have told people that I am not athletically inclined. I complain about my lack of hand-eye coordination and grimace when a soccer ball rolls towards my feet. I am legitimately scared of Frisbees. I didn’t know that baseball game had 9 innings until last year. But the truth is, I am athletically inclined. Just not in your most conventional way.

When I was three years old my mom signed me up to play on a Rec & Ed soccer team called the Koalas. I learned how to kick the ball, distinguish which goal to score in, and how to pass only to your teammates. But despite the weekly practices and the enthusiasm of my fellow pre-schoolers, the majority of these soccer games I spent in the corner of the field. I picked flowers, played with the grass, and watched the other kids play. But most of all, I twirled. I stood in my iridescent purple soccer shorts and shin guards that came half way up my thigh and twirled. I was not a soccer player. I was a ballerina.

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