The Senses

Its amazing how connected our senses are to each other. Ever so often, a taste or a smell will come along that will flash a memory into my mind. Out of all the pastries I grew up around due to the talent of my mother, the taste of fresh tart dough brings back the strongest memories of sitting on top of the flour bin in the little kitchen of Chocologue. Chocologue was the my mom's second baby, a pastry shop she opened in down town Norfolk, Virginia shortly after moving there when I was 2 years old. Out of all the memories and events I am told happened during the year the shop was open, I remember only a handful of things.

I remember the lights. The lights were glowing orbs of multiple colors. I remember the tiles on the front of the counter that my mom had so intricately painted by hand that again exist today in Popacuchu, her new baby here in Cuenca. Most of all, I remember the tart dough. When I was a child it's sweet taste to later be filled with lemon filling and white chocolate ganache was the best thing in the world. The other taste I could never forget, was my constant urge to like the chocolate covered coffee beans. Being 3 years old, chocolate was a delight, but coffee was a taste a had not yet acquired. Even so, I would attempt to enjoy the chocolate covered coffee beans every few days or so to no avail. The beans I always found at every center filled my mouth with a bitter and unsatisfying flavor. Did I ever give up on my attempts to enjoy this chocolate bean? As I recall, never.

Some smells have the ability to bring back memories I didn't even know where there. Earlier this evening as I entered the elevator with my dogs, I joined a man on his way up as well. Carrying his briefcase and proudly wearing a pinstriped suit, the combination of his cologne and whatever brand of cigarette he had been smoking flashed a memory of my dad's first apartment after the divorce of my parents. This smell wasn't a bad smell to me, just a familiar one. I remember the big red couch that sat in his living room, the constant sound of SpongeBob on the TV that entertained me for hours on end, and the taste of the toothpaste he used that I had never seen in anyone else's house... ever.

The man I encountered in the elevator earlier tonight was very polite and got out on the 2nd floor. During the time that I enter the lift, smelled his cologne and cigarette combo, let him out on two, and made it to my own floor was the time that all of these thoughts crossed my mind. There are many memories inside my head that I enjoy remembering, sometimes they just need a little kick. The smells and tastes that surround me hold the keys to unlock the wonders located in my subconscious. When I do have the privilege to be reminded of when I was a child, I enjoy every second.

Definition

~Too fat, too skinny, ugly, too pretty, mean, beautiful, talented, gringa, slut, too stupid, loving.

These are some of the words that have defined me by those who have despised me and loved me over the years. Often, I wonder who it is that I am or who I am suppose to be. I have struggled with the idea of who I am due to the criticism of the many people I have encountered during my 16 years of life. What defines me as a person? What makes me, me?

When I really think about this, what comes to mind is who I am to the people I love. I am a daughter, a big sister, a girlfriend, a waitress, a student, a friend, a leader, a role model, and a foreigner in the place I call home. Or, have I always been a foreigner? I was a teacher's daughter in a rich kid's school, which meant my tuition was free and I was suddenly considered to be less significant. Then I was a 'rich girl' in the eyes of the public school system year one of high school, which made me more valuable, yet discriminated against by the less fortunate. But still, these are the definitions given to me by other people. None of these names have been self- given or self- proclaimed, therefore, I still do not know who I am. My name given at birth was Melina Mora Marks, the only daughter of Michelle Bakeman and Scott Marks, but what does that name on a piece of paper actually mean?

So I must beg the question once again, who am I? What defines me? Am I a slut because I am found attractive by the opposite sex? Or am I fat and ugly because my thighs touch? Am I beautiful because my mom and my boyfriend tell me so? Am I a writer because they say I have talent? Was I born to do something great, or will I live and die along with my name for no one to remember? I simply don't know who I am, or who I am suppose to be.

These are the things that I do not know, but there are things that I do understand. I do know that the world is grand and beautiful and deserves to be explored, while at the same time it can be cruel and unforgiving. I know that love is real and only comes once in a lifetime. I know that love comes with happiness and sadness, joy and pain. I know that some bonds can never be broken, I know that kindness, forgiveness, and understanding can save anyone. Above all, I know that everyone has a future and everyone has a chance, it is just up to the one person alone to make a life for themselves.

I cannot yet say that I am comfortable in my own skin. I cannot say I know who I am or what I will do with this short life I have been given. I also cannot say that the words given to me by the world thus far have successfully built me up or torn me down. I lastly cannot say that I have given up finding who I am, and hopefully one day soon I will know who I am meant to be.