But perhaps you’re not perfect at tennis. Maybe you don’t play at Wimbledon. Maybe every time you swing your racket, you’ll miss. Maybe once in a while, when you actually hit it, the ball doesn’t go anywhere where you expect it.

But you know what? You keep on going. You don’t stop. Because that’s what sports – that’s what tennis – is about: trying, failing, and trying, until you succeed. And enjoying every step of the way. Because whether you’re playing against a brick wall, or whether you’re playing with friends at night and the mosquitoes are biting and the heat is stunning but you don’t care, or even if you play at Wimbledon along with the big names, or even if you are one of the big names in tennis – you don’t stop.

Because that’s what tennis is all about. That’s what sports are about. Now stop reading, go forth, go for your dreams, and keep in mind these principles that I’ve used for tennis – don’t stop, keep going, and try, fail, try, and succeed. Most importantly, have fun every step of the way.

Instead of watching soccer – World Cup is only on so much of the time – or playing outside (and getting all sweaty and gross), around ten people chose to watch chess.

The idea of watching chess anywhere else but “nerd camp” may be strange. It is very hard to invite a friend over and ask them to play chess. While chess is certainly a fun game, given many other options, it’s usually not a person’s first choice.

The keyword in the above sentence, however, was “given many other options”. Because unlike inviting friends over, when there aren’t many options, chess becomes a strangely interesting thing to do. Even when you aren’t playing, there’s something strangely interesting about chess.

And so, having discovered this new passion, many of us decided to even skip the World Cup games on television. Instead, we grab a bag of chips and dip and sit down in the hallway to watch the chess game.

It’s much less exciting than television – commentating is generally frowned on, and concentration requires peace and quiet. Chess is not exciting. It is, however, strangely riveting.

It’s interesting what people will do when options are taken away. But when they’re given back, it’s strange what they won’t leave behind.

Food for thought.

“The visiting times have ended,” a nurse said to Jason. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but rules are rules, and you’ll have to leave now. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow morning.”

Jason watched the heart monitor screen fluctuate – up and down, up and down. IV tubing delivered medicines and saline into his daughter Eliza’s arm. Her face bore no emotion.

He was quiet. Eliza’s skin was pale. Jason reached forward, touching her tender lips. He wanted her to talk. To speak to him. To smile. To say hello.

No sounds came out of her lips. She did not move. The steady beeps of the heart monitor continued. Memories flashed through Jason’s mind.

His daughter fleeing his home. I’m sorry, Dad, she had yelled at him as he had watched speechless. A bright flash. A police officer. Put the drugs down now! The officer gesturing with his weapon. His daughter running away as fast as she could. Help me, she had yelled. The officer pulling the trigger.

His daughter falling to the ground. The officer running over. Him, trying to stop the officer from touching his beloved daughter. I’m sorry, sir. The officer had said as she was carried away on a stretcher. It’s my job.

Then, staking out the officer’s home. Relying on his training from his days as a special ops soldier – installing small cameras. Watching him. Swearing that one day, the officer would pay.

He would pay for his daughter with his life.

Jason turned around and left the hospital, a faint smile on his face.

- – – – – – – -

“Attention passengers: the #12 train will depart in three minutes.”

Standing on the North Platform of the Los Angeles Transportation Station, Jason had assumed the identity of Jonathan Adams, an administrator at the train station. He watched the #12 train carefully.

This was the train that Officer Richardson – the police officer that had killed Jason’s daughter – was taking. He was sure of it – Jason had hacked into the Annual Law Enforcement Convention’s attendee list. James Richardson was on the list. He was also a passenger listed on the #12 train.

Today, he was going to die.

It was imperative that no one find out who Jason truly was. Jonathan Adams was him now, he reminded himself. He turned around again as a melody played. “#12 train now departing.” The Maglaser train began to depart from the station, seemingly floating in midair, while in actuality being held up by invisible laser tracks.

Jason watched the 360 degree cameras. A large and burly man stopped in front of him, carrying a suitcase. It was the perfect opportunity. He instantly turned around and ran down a staircase marked “Employees”.

At the bottom, he typed in “J ADAMS” into a keyboard and swiped his ID card. The door opened. Jason was in the Heart.

In year 2396, the Heart of the station was what kept everything moving – a control center of sorts. A line of computers on the wall, workers staring at them, kept the ten nuclear reactors running, and those reactors in turn kept the Maglaser systems working.

All the workers were busy. He was safe. On a large screen above the workers, a dynamic map displayed the status of trains. A moving dot labeled “#12 – LAX to SEA” slowly moved away from a larger block labeled “LAX North”.

His eyes travelled down to a wall of switches, protected behind a glass wall. Those switches controlled the status of the Maglaser trains. Jason was going to shut the trains down with the switch. Two guards stood in front of it, however, armed with laser pulse weapons. They were too strong for Jason to subdue.

Jason walked over to a rack. He swiped Adams’ ID card. Instantly a laptop was ejected into his hands. He grabbed the laptop, swiping his ID card once more, and logged into the framework. He would divert the guards away. Adams was a high-clearance worker. It would help him.

A schematic of the Heart loaded in, with points all across the map labeled with the name of each worker. He tapped on numbers 4159K and 5124P, the two guards protecting the switches, and entered commands for them to divert to a training center.

“4159K, 5124P – by order of Adams, abandon positions and report to TC4.” An automated voice rang out through the Heart. Two lights on both men’s uniforms also flashed on. The two looked at each other, confused, and then started forward.

The switch was unattended.

For fear of power outages, all major switches were protected by hard key locks. No swipe cards or fingerprints were allowed. That meant the lock could be quickly picked.

Over a century ago, traditional lock picking tools were abandoned in favor of automated ones. They were so easy to use and prone to abuse, however, that the government kept a close watch on them.

No matter – Jason had a solution just as well: a special lock picking key and a torque wrench. He gently nudged each pin until he felt the lock open. With a click, the glass door swung aside.

One button, the Main System Shut Down, was all that was needed to shut down all the Maglaser systems. Hundreds of trains would seemingly fall from the sky. One police officer will have died as he rode the train to his convention. Finally, Jason would receive revenge for his daughter.

But is it right to sentence the innocent to death too? Jason thought in his mind. After all, by shutting it down, thousands would die too.

That officer deserved it. It was his fault, Jason decided. He pressed the button. Now he would finally die.

He was wrong.

Instantly a light flashed on behind him, alerting the engineers. He should have noticed it, but he didn’t. The glass door swung shut behind him. Only then did alarms begin to sound.

“Sector 58. Decoy switchboard activated.”

Three guards ran over to him, pulling out laser pulse weapons. He was caught, and he was going to die. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Jason pulled out an explosive, attaching it to the glass wall, then carefully turned it so it wouldn’t hit him as well. He detonated it instantly. The shrapnel hit a few wires and one of the guards – a success.

“Communications circuit down in Sector 58,” the loudspeakers announced but he didn’t care. Already, he was running for the exit. Determined to get through, he ducked around machinery.

A laser pulse singed his shirt as the guards began firing shots at him.

He ran even faster.

- – – – – – – -

The heart monitor’s steady beats quickened. Somewhere down the hall, an alarm sounded. Nurses hurried over to the room, checking the IV tubing.

“Someone, inject some sedatives!” a doctor yelled. A nurse grabbed a syringe and injected them into Eliza’s IV.

The beeping slowed.

- – – – – – – -

Jason ran faster than he had ever run before. He felt the wind against his skin as he tore through the Heart. Alarm bells were sounding. Too many.

He tore through an emergency exit, running up the staircase. He was outside now, back on the station. He could smell the fresh air now. He could see the skyscrapers in the distance.

He was free.

But the North Platform of the Los Angeles Transportation Station was locking down. Passengers looked around in confusion as the #95 train, about to leave, abruptly slowed down and returned to the station. The exits were shut down.

“Please stay calm,” a loudspeaker said over and over again. “A lock down has been ordered by LAPD and should not affect you.” In downtown Los Angeles, a CBS news crew was heading out to investigate.

Back in the Heart, employees monitored the status of trains. On the large map, a dot labeled “#95 – LAX to JFK” left “LAX North”. Abruptly, it halted, a message flashing up next to it – “Returning to LAX North due to a Code 54 Breach”. The dot slowly moved back.

Around it, #46 (LAX to HOU), #72 (LAX to RDU), and #17 (LAX to DFW) all did the same. The “LAX North” box glowed a bright red, indicating total lockdown. And further out on the map, “LAX South” and “SAN North” (San Diego) glowed yellow, indicating partial lockdown. An urgent supervisor spoke with the FBI on the phone.

It was a state of pandemonium.

- – – – – – – -

The #12 train slowed down, and then completely stopped.

“Attention passengers,” a loudspeaker announced. “A security hazard has been detected. Stay calm while this train returns to the station.”

Officer Richardson looked around in confusion. What was going on? He shifted uneasily as the passengers looked at him – he was in full uniform – as if he knew what was going on.

“Unit Alpha fourteen to HQ. What’s going on at LAX North?” He enunciated clearly into his radio.

“HQ to Alpha fourteen, switch to private,” the police headquarters radioed back. Richardson put in his earphone. “Terror attack. Code 54 breach,” answered the headquarters.

Code 54, Richardson thought, stunned. An attempted terrorist attack.

Glancing around at the passengers, Richardson announced, “Everyone, I’m in no position to make any orders, but please stay calm. We have a bit of a problem here.”

- – – – – – – -

Jason ran through Station 62, tearing through the crowds. Cameras locked on to him, automatically following his body. In a SWAT team’s MCC (Mobile Control Center) in the back of a black van, quickly driving to the station, five men watched Jason run through the crowds.

One of the cameras captured a face shot. In seconds, he was identified as Jason Witts – former Special Operations soldier – single and the father of Eliza Witts, who was currently in Intensive Care at the Los Angeles Medical Center.

“You are clear to fire,” a controller said into a mike in the MCC. A helicopter flying over the station targeted Jason. A single shot was fired.

Jason was running. Suddenly, he stopped. It seemed as if the world was turning away. Perhaps gravity wasn’t functioning properly. That would be funny, wouldn’t it? He looked down.

Back in the MCC, the controller received a response from the helicopter.

“One tranquilizer dart, bullet code Oscar Delta Bravo one five nine.” On the screen in the MCC, “Bullet – ODB159” showed up on the screen. The words “Successfully hit target” appeared next to it.

Jason looked down at himself again, dizzy. Something dark red was blossoming across his chest. A strawberry milkshake, perhaps. Jason liked milkshakes.

He fell onto the floor and blanked out.

- – – – – – – -

In the Intensive Care ward at the Los Angeles Medical Center, patient 491’s – Eliza Witts – eyes opened. Doctor Petrov’s pager sounded. It announced a message to him –

“491 regained conscious.”

- – – – – – – -

Jason woke up. He tried to move his arms, but became suddenly aware that he could not move his body. There were no handcuffs or bindings, yet strangely he could not move. A tranquilizer, he decided.

A police officer came in. He had a clean shaven face and had a solid built body. Jason stared at him. He seemed oddly familiar.

“You Jason Witts? The crazy man that tried to blow up North Platform?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing on.

“I want you to know how much trouble you’re in right now. Your actions caused ten stations to shut down, and we had to mitigate one million passengers. Do you realize how hard that is? And then our brain analysts looked up why you wanted to blow us all up. And, man oh man, I’m surprised.”

The identity of the police officer hit Jason before he said it.

“I’m Officer James Richardson, Jason, and today you tried to kill me.”

- – – – – – – -

Eliza sat up, confused on her bed. A nurse ran into the room with a cup of water. Opening Eliza’s mouth for her, she forced the water down her throat. “Drink it,” she said. Eliza had no chance to reply.

The nurse checked her vitals and then withdrew her IV. They spread a jelly on the IV location, stopping the bleeding. Some kind of medication labelled “Post-IV” was injected into her arm.

“I want to talk to my dad,” Eliza said – the first words she had said in three months. She was surprised her voice still worked. Her eyes seemed woozy but shone with a fierce determination.

“I want to talk to my dad,” she said again.

“All right, honey, just let me look up where your dad is.” Typing in Jason’s name, she hit Enter on the keyboard.

Jason Witts – Currently under ARREST at the Los Angeles Detention Facility.

Eliza’s face fell as she watched the nurse’s face contort in surprise. The nurse looked at Eliza. “Honey, there’s – there’s been a small problem and you can’t see your daddy just yet. But it will be okay, all right?”

The nurse clicked the “More information” button out of curiosity.

CLASSIFIED under H.R. 3162 Patriot Act.

The Patriot Act – the terrorism laws passed hundreds of years ago. But what did it have to do with Eliza’s father?

- – – – – – – -

“Richardson,” a man interrupted, barging into the detention room. “Terribly sorry, but I’ve got news.”

“Oh, let me hear it,” the officer snarled, eyes still on Jason.

“The – uh – Witts has an urgent request,” the man said, backing away from Richardson. He was an intern at the Detention Facility, and it was his second day. He wasn’t expecting a terrorist.

“His daughter woke up, and she wants to talk to him. We have her on the phone,” the intern said to Richardson.

Jason’s eyes widened. After so many months, had she finally woken up? Eliza? She was alive?

He looked at the officer. “Please,” he choked out. “Please.”

Richardson turned to Jason. His fist was clenched as Jason and Richardson locked eyes. But then something happened.

The officer’s eyes softened. He slackened his fist.

“Of course he may,” he said, pressing a button. Looking at Jason, he smiled at him. “You did just try to kill me, but maybe you aren’t the heartless man I thought you were.”

Jason smiled back. “Thank you.”

Behind him, a video chat initiated on the wall. Eliza’s face appeared, worried.

“Dad?” Eliza’s voice came through. “Dad, are you in a detention facility? What’d you do? Are you okay?”

Jason choked back tears. Eliza’s eyes widened.

“Baby,” Jason said, “I’ve never been better.”

A quiet and crisp night – only the moon shines through the forest. It is silent, like God has put a silken sheet over the world. Only the soft drips of raindrops as they fall to the floor of the forest can be heard.

Rain is curiously simple in some aspects – it is really just water – yet it embodies a much more complex idea behind it. Standing in the forest, one cannot help but listen to the rain dripping downwards, drenching the leaves like tears from a forgotten goddess. The pitter-patter forms music, and thunder becomes the rhythmic offset to the moment.

As the lightning flashes, however, much more becomes evident. A deer, running for safety from the rain. An ant, desperately making for its home but being caught in the pools of tears. Suddenly, as the clouds rumble overhead, a more saddening situation is felt.

You feel one with the animals, small, weak, and helpless. One with the forest, and one of many.

This is beauty.

But just like that, the silence grows a companion. For in the distance, the sounds of a guitar playing begin to form. The crisp notes are a stark opposite of the forest’s slow and dull sounds. A bongo joins in, and a girl begins to sing.

“Oh world, oh world,” she sings. “How I love the tears you cry from the sky, how I love the trees you mold from the ground.” And like this, she continues. Animals all around the forest shuffle gently in their homes, listening to the melodous music.

The next morning, the sun shines brightly. In a meadow beside the forest, young children dance. Their mother, a cautious one, comments on how terrible the forest is. Such a dangerous place, she remarks.

How right she is, and yet – how wrong she is.

- – -

Use the links below to navigate through the separate pages of writing.

I have eaten a sandwich for breakfast for the last two years. Crucial for what I deem to be a healthy breakfast, we have purchased bag after bag of ham, turkey, and other sliced meats fresh from the deli counter at our local grocery store.

Over the months, I felt as if the quality of the service was degrading. Workers appeared more sleepier. Most seemed very anxious to get home. On some occasions they would be completely off in their weight estimations, and at other times they would close the deli early without notice in their eagerness to get home.

You should never do something if you do not enjoy it.

Any work you do should never be done for the money. If you don’t enjoy what you’re doing, stop doing it now. Unless you are nearing poverty, find something you love to do, and you will be rewarded.

What is money? Is it happiness? It is not. While it is true you can purchase things from which you can procure happiness, such as amusement park tickets, there are other ways to be happy that do not involve money.

You can take a walk on the beach when it has just rained and no one is on the beach. You can hear the waves lap against the sand. You can feel the wind blow through your hair. You can outstretch your hand, putting it into the sand and making an imprint, watching it be washed away by the power of the ocean.

Is this not happiness?

This bag of pastrami was different.

The particular bag of pastrami was intricate. Normally a stack of meat piled up and wrapped in paper, whoever had been behind the deli counter had paid extreme attention to the meat.

Carefully layering the meat, he had created a “window” pattern, in which each piece overlaps the corner of the previous piece, forming a square. Every few pieces, he had placed a sheet of special paper that kept the meat from going bad as fast.

He had made it an experience – both for him, and for us, the customer.

Happy to be behind the deli counter, he was servicing customers like family. Those customers, in turn, were treating him very well. Engaging in small talk as he did his work, he seemed incredibly happy about his job.

This sort of love for the job is hard to find in a grocery store. Unlike working in a national park or serving at a ski resort, very few can say they love to package deli meat. But this man probably did.

An experience indeed.

Turn on the radio and tune into any top-50 hit music station in 2010, and you’ll discover a hip mix of rap, pop, and country. They’re the songs that make up the musical culture of today’s generation, with even kids listening to this music.

The mix of music is innocent – one shouldn’t comment on an individual’s musical preference. It’s when you listen to the lyrics and subliminal meanings these songs give that you realize what exactly music is putting into the heads of this generation. It’s my generation as well, so I am right to be worried:

A too-big portion of the top songs mention sex of some form as lyrics or subliminal meaning, whether it’s background music or just the lyrics, hidden in plain sight. Should we worry about these songs?

One of the reasons why music, or popular culture in general, has become like this relates to the way society moves forward. In today’s world, people become more and more open about issues previously not discussable – gay and lesbian rights, abortion rights, for example – and as this society moves forward, so does culture.

So what does this society movement mean for music and popular culture? It means that many music providers and artists think “why not?” But the problem with this natural thing is that as society moves forward, what is natural becomes less and less natural. So what was a natural body process becomes an area of entertainment, and entertainment means money.

Take a typical music video for a top-50 song by a popular pop female artist. Most likely you’ll discover the artist is wearing very little clothing (or very strange clothing). You might discover many other signs that are hinting towards sex.

So, if you’re a parent, is it right to be worried? I think so, but only to a certain degree. As a student, I can tell that music and popular culture makes a solid impact on students. But exactly how much impact it makes can’t be easily determined.

Another thing – it’s the real world. Parents can shield their students from the real world as much as they want, but eventually kids have to step out from behind the defenses. As long as kids realize that it’s important to have virtues and to uphold them regardless of society, I personally think it’s okay.

Now, whether culture and music should be like this in the first place is another story entirely. While the music of today’s world can be considered catchy by some (including me), sometimes music takes it too far. Music with a general theme of “love” isn’t bad – you have to sing about something sometimes – but when you take love too far and you offer it to younger generations who might not be mature or ready enough for this kind of exposure, it might not be a good thing.

It’s kind of funny to look back, now that I’m thirteen, and see how absolutely hilarious my obsession was. But it was true – from kindergarten, I went in love with Bill Gates, because from a little child who wants to get rich, Bill Gates was the kind of guy to idolize.

At a very small age, my parents had familiarized me with him. He dropped out of college, started his own company, and now – as a result – he was rich. It was all I needed to know. I didn’t even know his English name, simply literally sounding out the Chinese “pronunciation” of the name, “Bero Getts.”

I wrote articles about good ol’ Bero, with information that I knew (and made up), and made it a point to tell everyone I knew about him. I became known as the dorky “Gates” guy, for being so crazy about some random guy out in the world. I printed out a picture of him and stuck it on my wall. I was going to be like him some day, I told myself.

In second grade, I found out that Gates worked for Microsoft, and my craze shifted from Gates-centric to being fanatical about Microsoft. I printed out the Microsoft logo and hung it up all over my room. I printed mini Microsoft stickers using letter address stickers and stuck them onto my bed railing (forever irremovable, and still there to this day). With the leftover stickers I didn’t use, I frequently stuck them in the packaging of birthday presents for friends as a little surprise.

It was like this for a very long time. When I got my first computer, I resisted changing the wallpaper to any other. I branded my computer enthusiastically with Microsoft logos. When my dad went to the Microsoft company campus in Redmond on a company trip, he got me two things: a postcard from the visitor center, and a t-shirt that said “I’m a Microsoft kid.” I loved both.

It didn’t change for a long time. I was always the “Microsoft kid”. The one that was crazy about computers. The Bill Gates boy, the Windows tot, the techie. Yeah. That one.

In between third and fourth grade in elementary school, I read an article called “Microsoft vs. Google: the Faceoff”. It was an opinion article on the company structures, the philanthropic divisions of both, and information on working at both. When I finished reading it, I had a different view on Microsoft.

Particularly, it wasn’t all really the article’s fault for my sudden change of heart. In the last year, I had watched Microsoft get beat in many areas: the music market by Apple, the search market by Google – even Macs had gained more market saturation. It was a sad year for Microsoft, and the one that I suddenly became in love with Google.

For one, Google was just so much more interesting. While Microsoft’s slogan was “Your potential. Our Passion”, a very business-like phrase that was supposed to stand for integrity, Google’s infamous “Don’t be evil” slogan hit home for me. It was so much more real than that of Microsoft’s promises. Google also donated to philanthropic causes, helping with crisis.

It also had an amazing work environment – free food at some of the best restaurants around right on their company campus, freestyle workplaces, complete with slides, decorated offices, and places for employees to express themselves, and on-site medical care, massaging services, haircuts, and beauty salons. Google’s campus at Mountain View was also one of the best in the world, offering running and biking trails, free Internet, and beautiful views.

And so began my change towards the Internet. Whereas before I was simply a computer fanatic, delving deep into the Windows operating system and understanding applications like no other, it was Google that led me into the online market, Google that brought me to web design and coding – Google that changed my life.

And in my pre-teen years, I decided I wasn’t going to be crazy about Microsoft and Google anymore. They were great companies and had influenced me in ways I didn’t think were possible. But in many ways, company life is boring. Google tries to change it up, and I appreciate that. I still hope to get a job at one of these corporate giants, but more than ever, I want to start my own company now. I want to experience what Sergey Brin and Bill Gates felt when they started Google and Microsoft.

I want to look at these two companies as inspiration and to learn from them. More than ever, Microsoft is making a comeback, with new operating systems and new technology. Google continues to move forward, just like I want to. I want to start my own company with these two as mentors. I want to change the world with my company, helping people. I respect both company’s ideals, as well as new ones I myself have created.

Seven years ago, I was a Microsoft kid. Four years ago, I was a Google boy. But today… today I am  independent, different, innovative, and special in my own way.

Being a teenager has exposed me to the many problems public school systems have. I’ve noticed that schools have great difficulty communicating with families. More than just a problematic phone or email system, I feel it represents a need for a drastic reform of “communication”. It is one of my dreams to create a solution to these problems.

The truth is that schools haven’t adapted to the Internet and technology. They tend to be very afraid when it comes to these areas – afraid of problems, of glitches, of the uncontrollable events that tend to result, and of the possible lawsuits from overly protective parents worrying about their child’s privacy.

These pitfalls and challenges make a good platform very hard to create. But just imagine – what if students had a core place to get school news and information directly tailored to them, a place where they themselves can chime in on events and post their own thoughts – a platform where it’s even possible to hold virtual “art shows” and galleries?

It won’t be easy. If Facebook proved anything, it’s that students aren’t stupid anymore. People discuss and share collaboratively on these social networks, making up for what the school lacks. They discuss homework, chat, and interact on these sites, even though federal law prohibits underage signups to these networks. It’s a new world. The kids adapted, and schools must do the same, but they’re not, and that’s a problem.

If “Gaggle”, an email service designed for students and one we use at our district, is the school’s answer to technology, then we’re all in trouble. Gaggle has everything teachers and administrators would want – automatic censoring, content detection, and thousands of filters, even filters that detect the amount of skin shown in a photo.

To administrators, this is heaven. But to students, it is nothing. The interface is unintuitive and clunky compared to alternatives like Gmail. It has too many limits, limits even teachers will admit, because when a Holocaust essay I’m trying to email home gets blocked for the word “Nazi”, I can only shake my head. This is exemplified in the way our district actually forces us to use Gaggle (blocking other email services, even taking grades on email usage) makes it even more hated. Gaggle doesn’t work for the student.

So classic methods aren’t working. To be put frankly – students aren’t stupid, and schools are. A newer way that appeals to both is working. It has to be a compromise that adapts to students and appeals to administrators. We should be creating a platform.

It’s very hard to compete with services like Facebook, but why should we? We should offer something different. You can find school news on Facebook, but it’s not nearly as centralized as a school platform would be. It really can be a great thing for our generation, and the one that follows it.

Ultimately I hope of expanding a platform to the entire nation, or even worldwide. Perhaps other schools will not use my solution but their own. In either way, students will benefit, and when they do, so do schools. I know schools are trying to fit in with this generation. Our district has Twitter accounts (but ironically, they are blocked), and they really do try hard to connect. It should be easier for them.

Schools were made for students to learn and to enjoy. Both would be made a lot easier if schools would take the time to think about what they were doing, instead of blindly marching forward.

Having experienced first-hand that day exactly what my mother was talking about, I could agree. Although I was raising money for a charity, it was nonetheless soliciting for money. Almost no one likes to give away money.

Perhaps it is my luck I have been gifted with the opportunity to attempt to find sponsors for a school-related project a team and I have been working on so feverishly. It is crucial that sponsors be found.

It is a terrific thing, I believe, to be able to experience failure. My father oft tells me that a man is not complete without failure. It takes a true man to be able to understand the faults of themselves, acknowledge them, and move on. Not recognizing them is fatal, and it is best to make mistakes young.

I have searched for and received no replies yet for around eight companies and businesses in the local area. It takes more than spunk and a good project to achieve sponsors, sales, or any type of financial gain.

Through my experiences of searching for sponsors in the local area for a school-event, I can state the following as information I will keep with me forever, whenever I need to market or sell something:

For local events and projects, don’t search for funding
through chains or large businesses.

As a school-related project, I believed that teenage clothing sellers would be interested in sponsoring the project, since their target customers are teenagers. How wrong I was to think such an idea.

National and international clothing chains like Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, and American Eagle are very hard to solicit funds from. They operate as a corporate bureaucracy. One individual store cannot sponsor anything. Everything must be done through their “corporate headquarters”.

To me, the entire corporate headquarter idea should be a joke, perhaps a prank some people pull on the occasional annoying marketer. The complicated automated phone systems are so complex and confusing it is like navigating a maze. It is very hard to find someone willing to speak to you.

In one case, a janitor picked up. Hardly able to speak English, she answered “no” to any question I asked her. She was relieved when I finally told her good-bye.

In another case, I learned that apparently the marketing and advertising phone lines for the company closed earlier. The customer support line was fine. When I asked the customer support representative if I could speak to someone authorized for marketing, I was transferred, waited for thirty-five minutes, before their phone line hung up. Accidental or deliberate, I will never know.

Charity and non-profit projects should be marketed as such.

Again, marketing for the school-related project, I frequently got hasty and failed to mention it was a charity or non-profit project, assuming they would automatically understand. They didn’t, nor do I expect anyone to, for that matter.

The truth is that faced with a financial decision of any sport a person becomes incredibly close-minded. It is a natural human instinct, and, as if they are being attacked (for their money), they will immediately go onto the defense.

With others, I tried to be more obvious by mentioning the moral benefits of sponsoring a school project I considered to be obvious. I, however, was working on the project and knew much about it. They were not.

Saying things like “supporting the next generation of America’s workers” would seem largely pointless to anyone working on our team. They would probably laugh. Yet with the (potential) sponsors, telling them they were helping to move forward the next generation made them cock their heads. It really did help.

The sponsor should always be rewarded, morally or with physical items.

It was very important, when my dad and I discussed possible ways of soliciting money, to reward any sponsors. A person’s good feeling of helping someone is priceless. My dad recommended that I gift any sponsors with certificates or even things like school performance tickets or just the entire team coming to their offices to say thank you.

People love to have something hanging on their walls that say “look what I did” to anyone walking by. This is evidenced by the walls of certificates doctors and lawyers hang in their offices and by my own wall of certificates, covering an entire wall of my room.

These certificates (and the trophies and medals I place on a table below them) are my honors: they are what others have given me to congratulate me. I feel invigorated whenever I see my awards. They are a sign of what I’ve done.

Similarly, sponsors feel the same way whenever they hold a certificate or other tangible item. First rewarding them morally by telling them what good they’ve done and then giving them a certificate that says “Thanks for sponsoring our school. We appreciate it!” Now that’s amazing.

Always leave yourself a back door.

In the case a sponsor denies you, points to the “No soliciting” sign on the front, tells you to get out, or any other form of denial, it is important to remain civilized and always leave yourself a back door.

If a sponsor says no to a potential sponsorship, consider lowering the advertisement or sponsorship price. Consider asking him or her if it’s okay to come back the next week with the entire team (compelling them to agree when they see 15 “puppy-dog” eyes).

These are things that all ensure a back door. And in the case they deny you completely? Remain calm, remain happy, and smile. These people are not your enemy, they simply do not wish to give up their money. That’s okay. Move on.

In conclusion: enjoy it.

So finally, it’s important to enjoy what you’re doing. Finding sponsorships or advertisements shouldn’t be treated like a death penalty. Treat it like fun. It’s great to me because I tell myself I’m practicing. So what if someone denies me? They aren’t the only dentist or doctor or store in town. I’ve got plenty others.

Finding sponsorships has taught me more than I could ever learn from a single book. Although I’ve lately been reading Bob Gilbreath’s (of Bridge Worldwide) book The Next Evolution of Marketing, where he mentions that the marketing world is changing, I believe it is only a mixture of study and real-world experience that can truly prepare.

Note: This is a submission I made to a writing contest. I publish it here.

A hundred ways to say no: I’m busy, I have someone to meet, I forgot my wallet – humankind seems to be able to create excuses on the fly. It’s easier to lie to someone when you know you’ll probably never see them again.

The Salvation Army worker stands in the cold. He holds a bell, ringing it slowly. His gloves do not alleviate the cold. Behind him, his sign hangs on a wooden post.

The collection can shakes in the wind, empty.

No one has glanced at him or his sign yet. A woman wearing a leather fur coat walks by briskly. He rings his bell, hoping feebly for the woman to turn, to deposit something into the can.

She does not turn her head. Her high heels click away on the pavement. They do not turn towards him. The sound grows softer as she walks away. She turns around the corner and leaves.

The wind gusts around the street. The sun dips below the horizon, settling in its home. Across the street, a bar clamors with sound. People laugh and smile inside. But outside, the street light flickers.

The worker stands alone.

At the same time, across the ocean in Africa, a poor boy sits down in the sand. Ten miles away, his mother desperately presses down the lever for the water to gush out of the well. But the spigot only drips.

She sighs. The family will have no water to drink. She looks upwards towards the heavens, praying to God. Oh God, oh God, give us some water please. Give us some food please.

Je, si kupoteza matumaini. Do not lose hope, she thinks to herself. Do not lose hope.

Back on the street corner, the Salvation Army worker puts his sign back in the truck. He unhooks the collection can from the bottom of the sign, shaking it. Not a coin rattles. Not a dollar falls out.

He sighs. Not a single penny earned for a day’s work. He drops the can onto the seat, looking up to the skies in prayer. Earthquakes around the world, people without food or water: all those people shouldn’t have to live like that.

He fires up his truck and begins to drive away. On the passenger seat, the can begins to shake. It rolls off the chair and falls on the floor. Something falls out.

The worker freezes. He stops the car and takes a look. It is a one hundred dollar bill, folded neatly into a little square. A note is attached – “Save a life with this.”

He drops to his knees in happiness. Someone will not die. Someone will be saved.

And thousands of miles away, the child lifts his head. A strike of thunder is heard. The village begins to cheer. And ten miles away, his mother hears the same thunder strike and dips her head.

Asante Mungu. Thank you, God. Thank you.