Posts by Jaymeann Elizabeth

Hi, I'm Jaymeann ( Jay- me- anne). Please don't ever call me Jayme, though some of my friends call me J. I currently attend California State University Fullerton where I'm majoring in Communications with an emphasis in Entertainment and Tourism with a minor in American Studies. As cheesy as this is going to sound, I truly believe that my job at the Disneyland Resort really is one full of happiness and I couldn't think of anywhere else I would want to work. Right now I mostly make my magic on Buena Vista Street and Off the Page in Disney's California Adventure. Oh and I'm obsessed with Once Upon a Time and musicals- There's just a little fun fact I feel like everyone needs to prepare themselves for.

Play On Maestro

In a crowd of thousands, I sit in the middle of the audience. My dress is fitted, and my makeup is divine, there is not a hair out of place.

I could say that I dressed for the occasion, but who would believe me?

It’s sure to be a marvelous night, filled with music, and filled with love.

There are so many musicians onstage tonight, but I’m only here for you Maestro.

The curtain rises, and the audience cheers as you walk out to center stage, a baton in your hand. The musicians have waited for you, they all lift their instruments and begin to play.

Following your tempo, obeying every beat.

And I have been captivated from the first note played.

You are the conductor, and this is your symphony, your masterpiece.

Every note perfection, every sound your own.

You are in control.

In a crowd of thousands, I admire you from afar. I patiently wait for your song to end, for you to turn around and our eyes to meet,

wondering if they even will meet.

I’m pathetic.

I know that I am, for thinking that you might feel the same, to even think, in a crowd of thousands, you would possibly be looking for my eyes. When I already know there is another girl,one who you love, one who is sweet enough to inspire your melody.

She is more than your muse, she is your reason, and I see your passion for her with every stroke of your hands.

It’s what has made your music different from all the rest.

There’s a pause in your composition, your hands hold the orchestra still. They await your approval to play on.

Oh God, Why am I here?

I don’t even know anymore. To win your heart? To take you away to a place where I can call you mine? In a perfect world, you would change the melody unexpectedly, not caring for the audience’s approval. When it was all over you’d drop your baton, and you’d run out into the crowd of thousands, searching for me.

“It was all for you my love,” you would say, and then we’d run out of the theatre, never looking back.

Suddenly the music begins again, and reality has set back in.

You take the next stroke of your baton, directing the orchestra to continue with your song. They follow your intense movements, performing your melody exactly how you intended it be.

Is it a crime, to feel how I do?

It can’t be. We don’t do anything wrong. You don’t try to impress me, never flirting with those eyes I love so much. You don’t do anything except be yourself: A soul filled with ambition to succeed, a smile that warms even the coldest of rooms and eyes that showcase the truth of your genuine heart.

And who am I?

Just a simple nobody who has fallen for your kindness in a world that has shown me little to none.

A nobody who has fought endlessly to stop my heart from skipping a beat and my soul from flying over the moon at just the mere site of you.

A nobody who wants this feeling to end

But even when the desire is unrequited, the heart still wants things the mind does not understand.

So I fail, and I am helpless knowing there is no controlling my foolish heart.

You already have your muse, your orchestra, your melody, and if I ever tried to take that away then I wouldn’t just be a nobody, I would have become the person I hate the most: A woman who hurts another sister out of jealously, out of spite. I’d be a criminal, a thief of love, a murderess of hearts, creating loss and grief.

I cannot intervene your song just so mine can begin.

She doesn’t deserve that, and my love, neither do you.

Though I crave your beautiful symphony, it is not for me. So, I tell myself, if she’s the reason behind your melody that you’ve created, the song I want to sing along to, then I need to let you go

My heartbreak will be worth it,

To see that smile I adore, to still hear the song I sing along to.

The music stops,

You turn around to find the audience is already on their feet.

They are bursting with praise as you lift both arms into the air and take a bow. The crowd roars, begging you for more while you rise. This is the moment you’ve waited and worked for.

Yet, you seem unsettled, like something is missing.

I watch as your eyes frantically search for hers.

Or are you?

Because somehow in the crowd of thousands, you find mine first.

The audience is cheering, but your eyes are locked on mine, and your smile grows.

Your genuine eyes tell the truth: It’s me, I’m the reason for your happiness. The crowd wants more, but you won’t stop looking at me.

Are you afraid of your own destiny? Are you wondering if it’s with me?

I won’t let you do this. At least not right now.

“Play on Maestro,” I tell you with a wasted heart.

There’s a thunderous applause surrounding the two of us, despite it all, I know you can understand my words.

Your smile breaks, as does mine, I watch as you slowly turn around to begin your encore.

I know what I’ve done, I’ve made my choice, but you have a symphony to conduct, and a muse to keep your song going.

The music is filled with passion, you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And who am I to intervene?

I am the girl in the crowd of thousands, a girl who loves music.

Even if the song isn’t for me.


In a typical movie scene, a girl would be sitting alone on a park bench, reading, texting on her phone, finishing her bagel. Suddenly her silence is interrupted, a man approaches her, telling her that he just couldn’t walk by without calling her beautiful. The story would continue to play out: the two would fall in love, they would fight, make up, or move a thousand miles away from each other, yet they overcome every single obstacle, ending with them both confessing how they never want to be without each other again. It’s raved by the hopeless romantics as they long for the day they have a love worth fighting for, a story worth telling to young and new lovers.

The cookie cutter boy meets girl story trope was one that I use to dream about. I would watch the romance movies, crying over the two lovers who fight against all odds to be together, craving and wanting that for myself. So, I gave my heart out to anyone who gave me any sort of attention, open to any possibility, any chance to begin my story.

It almost seems so long ago, because now I no longer even let the story begin. I’ll sit by myself, eating that same bagel, perhaps reading a different book. Then mid- sentence, my attention is attempted to be shifted towards the man trying to speak to me.

“My I just have to say, you’re so beautiful, would you love like to go out sometime,” or other variations of the phrase is what they’ll say to me. I remove the headphone from one of my ears and I thank them for their compliment and decline as politely as can. At times they are understanding, embarrassed, but kindly smile as they thank me for my time. But more times than I can count, they persist, and I realize my politeness has come back to bite me, I should really know better by now. Aggressively, I repeat my answer, sending them off on their way. And under their breath before they turn around completely, I hear them say ever softly, “What a bitch.”

I pat myself on the back, telling myself that I’ve done well. I’ve collected all the different names I’ve been called by men: crazy, whore, etc. But “bitch” is by far my favorite to be called. Men use “bitch” as a name to call women who have decided to take charge of their own story, to not have it dictated by the opportunity to find love through a male.

Right now, I wonder if I perhaps sound pretentious, or insulting. As if I’m trying to say I’m “not like other girls,” the most internalized misogynistic statement I could make. But my words are not meant to hurt my fellow sisters, if anything, I envy the hopeless romantics, and their ability to search for love, eagerly awaiting a new chapter in their lives. They aren’t naïve for their hope, and neither was I.

Three years ago, my heart was open to every single possibility, smiling with every encounter, completely helpless the moment a pair of charming eyes laid their eyes on me, constantly wondering if this would be the one. I was helpless.

And I was in love.

My first love was a tall scruffy boy with slightly curly ginger hair, my best friend, my rock and my reason that I had to smile. And on the night he told me he loved me too, I gave my whole self to him, a night that I wanted to last forever. But it didn’t, and neither could we. In the morning he was gone, and he had taken a part of my soul with him. I began to dissolve into an empty void, hoping the men could fill it.

Every kiss that touched my lips left me with a fixation, trusting men to fulfil the craving. Every word lured me in, as I fell in love with their promises to love me forever, to treat me better than the one before, to please me the way I should be. What I didn’t know at the time was men would continue to use me, sliding their hand up my skirt before they even really knew my name. They would take what the want from me, my body, my kindness, my love, take it all for themselves, and leave once they’ve acquired what they need, just in time so they don’t have to give anything back.

Years go by and my body is filled with bruised marks from those I’ve trusted, scars from the amount of times I’ve cut open my heart to give it away. I think and tell myself, maybe I should have stop them, maybe I should have told them they need to do more before I would allow them inside.  But I know my voice is worthless in their eyes, why else would they kiss me more than they allowed me to talk other than to show me what they believe the main purpose of my mouth is is.

Perhaps I have no one else to blame but myself, for my expectations, for wanting to be treated as a human being, and for expecting men to treat me as such, for expecting to care more about my soul and the person I am than the kisses I give them

Instead, men have exhausted my soul, they have exhausted my will to open up. They have done nothing but hurt me.

So as the word bitch crosses their lips, I want to tell them how their brothers have hurt me, how they have drained the life out of so many others like me. I want to tell them how I can’t even risk the possibility of getting my heart broke again, and how I’ve been left with nothing but empty promise.

However nothing comes from my lips expect a smile, as I see that their ego has been bruised, for they have been lump into a generalization of men. They are offended by my rejection, and I want to explain that my “no” is not because of them. Then a realization comes to my mind,  because despite how the years have worn me out, nothing has exhausted me more than my constant feeling that I need to explain myself, when the word “no” is in fact a complete sentence. Because even though they have yet to brace my body and they’ve done nothing to me yet,  I’m exhausted of men believing that I owe any part of myself.

Some days I’ll stare at a girl, maybe younger, maybe older, and wonder if her soul has been exhausted yet. I hope she isn’t, I hope she holds onto the possibility of a story that plays out exactly how it’s meant to be.

As for me,

I’m exhausted, let me be.