Naa er jeg lei av teite Blogspot som ikke vil laste bilder og alltid lager problemer, saa jeg kommer til aa fortsette aa blogge paa addressen nedenfor:
http://andreagabrielsen.wordpress.com/
Kommer til aa fortsette aa la denne leve, siden bloggen min paa mange maater har blitt en dagbok for tiden min her i USA.
Haaper dere foelger med paa den nye bloggen da :)
søndag 26. oktober 2008
lørdag 25. oktober 2008
Shake it like a Polariod-picture
Naa har jeg kjoept meg Polaroid-camera. Jippi!
Gleder meg til det kommer i posten. Betalte 14.80 USD for pakken + shipping, som tilsvarer 106.7 NOK. Det er et sx-70 kamera, som det ikke lenger selges film til, men det sies at det skal gaa an aa bruke 600 film til det. Noen som har noe peiling? Haaper iallefall det gaar, uansett sitter jeg igjen med et kamera jeg bare helt forelsket meg i. Se saa soett det er, da!!
Jeg faar eske, kamera og manual..
Som sagt, hvis det er noen der ute som har noen slags form for peiling, vaer saa snll og ta kontakt :)
Black out i kaldt vaer
Ikke saa uvanlig at de maler kroppen, men aa gaa i bar overkropp i 5 grader?!Kom akkurat hjem fra en kjempemorsom fotballkamp!
I kveld spilte Sparkman mot Bob Jones. De er erkerivalene vaare, og dette er virkelig den store kampen i fotballsesongen.
Vi begynte med aa kle oss opp:
Onsdag: vi skulle enten kle oss skikkelig "preppy" (over the top-fine klaer) eller nerder. Denne dagen kledde jeg meg ikke opp, siden jeg fikk vite det saa kort tid foer. Eller skulle jeg gjerne kjoept meg noen nerde-briller og hatt buksestrikk etc. Dette gjorde vi fordi de kledde seg opp som rednecks. Tro meg, det er rednecks overalt, ikke bare paa Sparkman og ikke minst ikke bare i Huntsville.
Torsdag: denne dagen skulle vi kle oss opp i en farge etter klassetrinnet. Hvitt for sophomorsene, roedt for juniorene, svart for seniorene og graatt for laererene. Jeg tok paa meg en roed kaape og en kort kjole under.
Fredag: BLACK OUT! Her skulle alle kle seg i svart, det var liksom temaet vaart mot Bob Jones. Da vi kom paa kampen i dag var alle ogsaa kledt i svart.
Bob Jones klarte aa score innen de foerste 15 sekundene, og det var kjipt. Alle bare sto der og sa "What, har kampen begynt?!" og var klare til aa gaa hjem igjen. Men etter en liten stund fikk vi touchdown, og da var vi med i kampen igjen. Men sluttresultatet ble da 16-40 til Bob Jones.. Aaida.. Det hoeres mye ut, men det er faktisk bare tre touchdowns mere enn oss. Uff, det er mye allikevel.
Etter kampen kjoerte vi til Wendy's for en liten is, men koen var saa langt at jeg ikke hadde saa lyst paa isen. Saa jeg satt og snakket med folka rundt meg, ganske saa koselig.
Her er et bilde av meg og Noel paa fotballkampen :)
Ciao <3
torsdag 23. oktober 2008
Slitsom skoledag..
Jeg er lei av ekle gutter som ser paa meg hele tiden, jeg er lei av folk som gaper i timene, jeg er lei av respektloese folk, jeg er lei av hvite folk som behandler svarte folk annerledes; jeg er lei av svarte folk som behandler hvite folk annerledes.
Jeg er lei av aa sitte med folk som er to aar yngre enn meg i lunsjen, jeg er lei av falske folk. Jeg er lei av aa fryse, jeg er lei av air-conditioning.
Jeg er lei av mennesker som mobber; jeg er lei av laerere som mobber. Jeg er lei av aa ikke kunne si hva jeg mener, jeg er lei av aa vaere Utveklsingsstudenten. Jeg er lei av aa se paa mens en hel klasse henger jenta ut, jeg er lei av aa banne paa norsk til all urettferdigheten, jeg er lei av aa faa taarer i oeynene av aa vite at det er saa lite jeg kan gjoere.
Men dagen er bare halvveis, det er enda mye tid til aa gjoere en daarlig dag til en god.
Jeg er lei av aa sitte med folk som er to aar yngre enn meg i lunsjen, jeg er lei av falske folk. Jeg er lei av aa fryse, jeg er lei av air-conditioning.
Jeg er lei av mennesker som mobber; jeg er lei av laerere som mobber. Jeg er lei av aa ikke kunne si hva jeg mener, jeg er lei av aa vaere Utveklsingsstudenten. Jeg er lei av aa se paa mens en hel klasse henger jenta ut, jeg er lei av aa banne paa norsk til all urettferdigheten, jeg er lei av aa faa taarer i oeynene av aa vite at det er saa lite jeg kan gjoere.
Men dagen er bare halvveis, det er enda mye tid til aa gjoere en daarlig dag til en god.
onsdag 22. oktober 2008
søndag 19. oktober 2008
Ka-ching!
Da var stipendet paa 24 655 kr kommet inn paa konto!
Det er 23 835 kroner for aa vaere en student her i USA, og 820 kroner for utstyrsstipend, som alle elever i den norske skolen faar hvert aar.
Etter jul faar jeg enda 23 835 kr.
Det er 23 835 kroner for aa vaere en student her i USA, og 820 kroner for utstyrsstipend, som alle elever i den norske skolen faar hvert aar.
Etter jul faar jeg enda 23 835 kr.
Vel og merke skal alle pengene untatt utsyrsstipendet overfoeres til mamma og pappa siden de er saa herlige og har lagt ut for det.
Jeg er saa utrolig glad for at jeg er norsk statsborger, jeg kan ikke faa sagt det mange ganger nok.
Jeg er saa utrolig glad for at jeg er norsk statsborger, jeg kan ikke faa sagt det mange ganger nok.
Takk saa meget til velferdsstaten Norge!
Lets play in a corn field
I used to walk bare-foot through the soft, high green carpet that like a wood stick in water would surround my feet. Two months of playing outside had made the skin under the tanned legs hard, a contrast to all the softness I saw around me. I used to pass time and make the wait a little shorter by peeling off some of the rugged skin under the shadow of a pine tree. Those summer days used to pass by so fast, but this summer had been different. Between the tall strays of corn were where we used to play hide and seek. The corn would give in for the weight of us, making it easy to follow one and others path deep into the unknown, big corn field. You used to pretend you did not see tracks of me; I pretended I didn’t know what you were doing.
It was the summer I stopped wearing shoes. You told me shoes felt like the last thing standing between you and total freedom, and you sounded so smart with your big words and your ideas of how things should be. As you said it I felt it too, I felt how my mother’s talk about dressing proper and the importance of acting like a young lady put chains around my short legs. Most of all I wanted to rip up the stupid, yellow dress I wore and run around with nothing but my white panties with matching yellow butterflies all over them, hugging my hips that were so skinny they couldn’t really be called hips. Feel the air on my chest, the sun in my hair and the grass surround my legs. I never did ruin my mother’s dear gown, you always helped me undress and I taught you how to fold clothes, so our mothers wouldn’t notice the long lines and wrinkles that mothers always notice on their daughters’ clothes. Your panties never matched your dress, your hips could actually be called hips and your smile were a thousand million bigger, brighter, whiter than my, and I envied you for all of those reasons.
I remember this one time you were chasing me. You were closing up on me, and just as you reached over to grab a hold on me, I tripped. My hands took the fall, and I cut my ring finger. In the years to come I would never forget your face as you used your blunt knife to cut your own finger. A face motionless and calm as brown eyes watched the knife go deeper into the skin until it finally gave after, and opened up to reveal pumping blood. I had never seen you bleed before. I didn’t know what I believed you blood would look like, just not like that. I had thought it would be darker and thicker. Like tar. My parents had told me your blood was dirty, but I could not understand how blood could be dirty and still hold the same color as the red coming out from my body. You took your dark hand on mine, made me hold it up. “Sisters in blood” you said in your dark voice. “Sisters in blood”, I mumbled, and we sealed our sisterhood with one hand white as sun rays on white covers, the other hand dark as the night. Your big smile revealed the white teeth, and you started singing. First a low humming. As you got on your knees and stood up, your hands were embracing the blue sky as your humming turned into a song. I had never heard that kind of singing before. Exotic, mystic. Not close to any of the melodies we sang in my church every Sunday. A crispy, dark voice singing a song from another continent, a lifetime away from freedom and equality. Away from home.
My mother never really understood how the skin under my feet got so hard during those long hours I was supposed to read my Latin, but when she caught me humming an exotic and mystic song from another continent at the beginning of fall, she wouldn’t let me out on my own anymore.
And like a play in a cornfield, I pretended I didn’t see your trail, and you pretended you didn’t know what I was doing.
Still I find myself, even after all these years, feeling trapped in my dead mothers words, longing for that feeling of freedom when bare toes meets soft summer grass..
It was the summer I stopped wearing shoes. You told me shoes felt like the last thing standing between you and total freedom, and you sounded so smart with your big words and your ideas of how things should be. As you said it I felt it too, I felt how my mother’s talk about dressing proper and the importance of acting like a young lady put chains around my short legs. Most of all I wanted to rip up the stupid, yellow dress I wore and run around with nothing but my white panties with matching yellow butterflies all over them, hugging my hips that were so skinny they couldn’t really be called hips. Feel the air on my chest, the sun in my hair and the grass surround my legs. I never did ruin my mother’s dear gown, you always helped me undress and I taught you how to fold clothes, so our mothers wouldn’t notice the long lines and wrinkles that mothers always notice on their daughters’ clothes. Your panties never matched your dress, your hips could actually be called hips and your smile were a thousand million bigger, brighter, whiter than my, and I envied you for all of those reasons.
I remember this one time you were chasing me. You were closing up on me, and just as you reached over to grab a hold on me, I tripped. My hands took the fall, and I cut my ring finger. In the years to come I would never forget your face as you used your blunt knife to cut your own finger. A face motionless and calm as brown eyes watched the knife go deeper into the skin until it finally gave after, and opened up to reveal pumping blood. I had never seen you bleed before. I didn’t know what I believed you blood would look like, just not like that. I had thought it would be darker and thicker. Like tar. My parents had told me your blood was dirty, but I could not understand how blood could be dirty and still hold the same color as the red coming out from my body. You took your dark hand on mine, made me hold it up. “Sisters in blood” you said in your dark voice. “Sisters in blood”, I mumbled, and we sealed our sisterhood with one hand white as sun rays on white covers, the other hand dark as the night. Your big smile revealed the white teeth, and you started singing. First a low humming. As you got on your knees and stood up, your hands were embracing the blue sky as your humming turned into a song. I had never heard that kind of singing before. Exotic, mystic. Not close to any of the melodies we sang in my church every Sunday. A crispy, dark voice singing a song from another continent, a lifetime away from freedom and equality. Away from home.
My mother never really understood how the skin under my feet got so hard during those long hours I was supposed to read my Latin, but when she caught me humming an exotic and mystic song from another continent at the beginning of fall, she wouldn’t let me out on my own anymore.
And like a play in a cornfield, I pretended I didn’t see your trail, and you pretended you didn’t know what I was doing.
Still I find myself, even after all these years, feeling trapped in my dead mothers words, longing for that feeling of freedom when bare toes meets soft summer grass..
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