Street

He was the man with
The strange name that
No one could ever pronounce
With the stitched-together jacket and the broken
Shoes.
He was always singing some sort of lullaby,
An incantation that
Scared the children.
But I knew he was harmless,
So I would say, “Hi,”
Meeting his eyes,
And he never knew
How
To
Reply.

Poem

Your words twist and shimmer so eloquently,
So ferociously, that I know you should be good,
But I don’t get you, you poem.
Others coo over your beauty and praise your form,
But I, quite frankly, cannot see your appeal.
You’re too bizarre and too complicated. You speak about
Destiny and truth as if they were tangible things, objects that babies
Teeth upon, parcels that people carry about under their armpits,
But they’re not. They’re greater than me, you, and anything you could
Ever
Compare them to.

Creeper Van

As soon as we landed in New Jersey, we stopped at 1-800-Rentawreck and picked up the nine-seat delivery van we had put on hold a week ago. The van was a complete monstrosity. The back fender was rusting off, only three seat belts were functional, and the only thing keeping the windshield in its place was duct tape lovingly appliquéd about the corners. My Girl Scout troop fell in love with it and dubbed it the “Creeper Van.” We tore through the streets of New Jersey in that baby for the week we were in New York for our senior Girl Scout trip.
That senior trip was so memorable and fun, and not just because of the parking tickets we received on Monsieur Creeper’s part. We stayed in an absolutely disgusting rental house in New Jersey, which is a story in and of itself, and wreaked havoc at all the major sites in New York. At the Statue of Liberty, a Chinese tour group approached me and asked me to take some pictures of them. That took maybe five minutes, which was no problem. The problem came when people saw that “Pushover” was written on my forehead. I spent the next thirty minutes taking pictures for other tour groups. For one particular Chinese tour group, I was instructed in heavily accented English to bend down in the gravel and tilt the camera upwards, so that the whole of the Statue of Liberty could be seen in the background. I should’ve said no but, being the helpful Girl Scout that I am, I complied. They thanked me profusely after they saw that the gravel had stained my pants. Ok, so maybe most of this doesn’t sound fun, but I like it when humorously bad things happen to me. They make good stories.
When people learn I’m a Girl Scout, they either blatantly snort, like, “Girl Scouts, what a joke,” or they thank me for my service to the community. Some say that Girl Scouts are boring. I do wish that the Girl Scouts would revise some of their policies, to put more emphasis on knowledge of the outdoors, but I’m still proud to be a Girl Scout. I don’t find it to be a waste of time or dull at all. I’ve learned a lot of skills from my seven years as a Scout. Being forced to hawk Thin Mints has taught me to be social, and I’ve learned to get along with members of my troop who, if it weren’t for Girl Scouts, I would have never befriended. Through Girl Scouts I have gone to New York and Chicago and have tried yoga, baton twirling, and salsa dancing. I’ve volunteered at senior living centers and elementary schools. I enjoy my brown vest, even though I used to be not so keen to don it. Plus, I have a whole trunk of stories to reach into, like the time Sarah burned the mac and cheese and made the whole camp smell like charred noodles for three days.

Sushi Horror Story, Part Two

My mom rolled her eyes and dragged the Pepsi over to her and gazed down into the brown liquid. Strange little black blobs floated on the surface. My mom made a gurgling sound. “I think they’re ants,” she finally said. Just then, I noticed an ant emerging from the liquid, crawling upwards desperately from the muck. It seemed to be gasping for air as it plummeted to the tabletop. It scurried about briefly, before it met my fist. Curious, yet, horrified, all of us leaned over to inspect the swamp. Dead ants swirled and tumbled throughout the drink, and live ants struggled to survive on the surface. My brother’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d been drinking for the last twelve minutes. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, crossing his eyes to examine the muscle. A single black dot resided in the middle of the pink flesh. Colton jumped up, shook him spastically, and ran to the bathroom. I pushed my Pink Panther Platter away from me.
The waitress was summoned, and my mom carefully explained that dead insects had made a watery tomb in Colton’s drink. The waitress shook her head. My mom tried again. “There are ants. In his drink. ANTS.” The woman mimed things marching across her palm. My mom nodded. The waitress giggled nervously and explained to us in fractured English that ants were living in the soda dispenser. But she didn’t think they’d get in the actual drink! There was a collective head tilt. She then offered Colton, and all of us, a free refill. “Um, we’ll just have the check, thanks,” my mom said. Since no discount was offered, we paid the full bill. As soon as Colton reappeared, green-faced, from the bathroom, we bolted from “Damn Me.”

Sushi Horror Story, Part One

I’ve always been a fan of sushi. My parents adore the Japanese staple, and so I was introduced to it at a young age. My aunt recalls going out to eat with me when I was six, and I all but demanded some Californian rolls. I have no recollection of that but I do remember going to a restaurant that my family now refers to as “Damn Me,” the sushi bar from hell.
A couple of summers ago, my mom, dad, brother, sister, and I had spent a few hours at the State Fair when we decided go out to dinner. My mom had dragged me around to all the craft booths, which was an arduous task, believe me, and so I felt that a treat was in order. I suggested we go out for sushi. My parents had been to “I Love Sushi,” and, seeing as the place was nearby, it was decided. Thirty minutes later, we were still looking for the restaurant. Driving down a road for what was probably the third time, Colton, my brother, glimpsed a restaurant with Japanese characters on the side. Hungry, we retired our search for the elusive “I Love Sushi” and decided to try the place. “Dami” was small and appeared to be locally owned. Its sign advertised “Fresh sushi and Barbeque.” This should have been interpreted as a bad omen but at the time it gave the place character.
We walked in and were immediately greeted by a small, squat Japanese woman. She appeared to be the only person in the restaurant. You could almost see the tumbleweed blowing across the floor. We were seated, and drinks were ordered. The menus were laminated sheets of paper with large pictures on them detailing each dish available. At the time, pink was my greatest vice, and so I had to have the Pink Panther Platter, which consisted of crab-stuffed sushi and, looking back, God-knows-what-else. Since there was no one else in the restaurant, the service was speedy, and we got our meals quickly. We sat munching and talking, content and unawares. Colton, who had been nursing his Pepsi, suddenly gagged. “Colton, mind your manners,” my mom sighed.
“I’m pretty sure I just swallowed a chunk of something.”
“That’s why you chew,” I said helpfully.
“No, like, a chunk in my drink. Oh, my God. Mom, I think there’s something in my drink.”

The Redhead Returns

This blog was started as a school project, but I've had so much fun with it, I've decided to continue my postings.

This I Believe

Colton, my younger brother, is 14. He is completely oblivious to those around him, and so he tends to smash into the elderly, step on children, and stroll over small dogs. Of course, he doesn’t realize the injuries he’s caused until he looks over his shoulder and surveys a trail of whimpering creatures. That’s when I have to tell him that he’s closed the door on Mrs. Brosmer and given her Pomeranian a mild heart attack. To avoid such incidents, my mother and I are teaching Colton to hold open doors for everyone, mind his place in line, and keep his eyes ahead when walking. We’re also instilling ideas of chivalry into his little noggin. He’s learning that, as a man, he must treat women a certain way. He must respect women and treat them as an equal, but that doesn’t mean he should expect them to pay for dinner. I’m certainly a feminist, but I think a man should have an air of courtliness about him. I don’t think it’s demeaning to have a man pull out my seat for me. I believe in manners, chivalry, and decency. Today, some women interpret gallantry as sexism, but they need to rethink their meaning of degradation. I think that, as a society, our interpretation of what is “ok” has become skewed. When did recounting one's latest sexual encounter on the Internet become cool or even accepted? Personal information should remain personal and should never be thought of as welcomed. On the other side of the spectrum, too many people equate being good with being boring. One can be interesting without being crass. I think our society needs to heavily reevaluate itself and reconsider what its values have become. Will such a thing happen? Probably not.

Integer P is a multiple of 3 and between 100 and 150. When P is divided by 7, the remainder is 4. What is one possible value for P?

University High School needs to have a Brain Game team. I would totally join. I watch it whenever I can because I really am that cool. Oh, how I feel when I know the answer! Some of the questions are quite easy. I remember one from a game a while ago: What is the name of Roger Rabbit’s wife? Why, it’s Jessica Rabbit. I thought she was so sexy and salacious when I was younger, and I sort of admired her a lot. Most of the questions are difficult. Occasionally there’s a math question, and I just shake my head because, well, they’re impossible. I watched a game a couple of days ago, and I only knew the answer to one question because the contestants kept on requesting math and science questions. For those not in the know, a high school creates their own Brain Game team, and teams go on to compete against each other on the show. Teams consist of four members, and a lot of the teams are male dominated. Actually, all of them are. I’ve only witnessed one girl, Katie. However, I still adore the show. Not that I’d be any better, but the kids on Brain Game are so loveably awkward. When no one knows the answer, they all squirm in their seats and look around, elbowing each other with their eyes. When someone knows the answer, it’s glorious. When someone gets a question wrong, it’s sweetly funny. A few weeks back, a question was “Complete this famous army phrase: ‘If it moves…’” and a contestant smacked his button and declared, “Shoot it!” The answer was “Salute it.”

I'd be Time Trapper, only I wouldn't be evil

I wish I could freeze time. If I could have any super power, it would be that one. The ability to fly is impressive, and the ability to communicate with animals is nice, but none of these powers are necessarily practical. Time-altering powers are quite practical. If I could stop or slow time, I’d have all the time in the world to do my homework or sleep. I would be able to read without interruption and loll about without complications. When I had completed an assignment, I would simply restart the clock. From a superhero’s standpoint, I would be able to stop tragedies from happening by pausing time, altering the situation, and then rebooting time’s forward march. Time travel’s too complicated and too dangerous to want control over, but simple time freezing could prevent deaths in the here-and-now. I wouldn’t want the responsibilities of a superhero, though, so I’d keep my power relatively quiet and use it only for myself. I certainly wouldn’t use my power for insidious gains. I would never use it to cheat on a test. Well, maybe for SAT, I would. But if you saw my math score, you’d understand.

Drone Out the Prayers I Can't Hear

When Joe is finally able to break his silence with Morse code, he expresses a desire to be shown to others. He wants others to see the results and horrors of war. “He would be an educational exhibit. People wouldn’t learn much about anatomy from him but they would learn all there was to know about war… Take off my nightshirt and build a glass case for me and take me down to the places where people are having fun where they are on the lookout for freakish things… I am the dead-man-who-is-alive (287-289).” He wants to display the sacrifices he’s made for democracy. He wants governmental workers to view him in all his stunning atrocity and vote against war. He wants his terrible existence to mean something. When I read this part, my heart hurt. The pity and anger and sadness I felt was overwhelming. If I were in Joe’s situation, I would want to be killed. Life would simply not be worth living. A life of darkness, silence, and loneliness is no life. I understand his desire to form change from tragedy, but it’s not what I would want.

Not Working for the Weekend

This might be a horribly boring blog, so forgive me. But I am indeed terribly excited for this weekend. On Friday I’m going to Guerin High School to see a ComedySportz match. Two friends of mine are on the Guerin team. You’d think that a two-hour show of high school kids trying to be funny would be epically lame, but it is actually quite amusing. I’m going with a friend, and after the show ends, we’re going to see “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past.” Yes, I’m aware that this movie will most likely be less than wonderful, but it has Jennifer Garner of “Alias” fame in it. Therefore, I’m obligated to see it. A loyal fan is a loyal fan. On Saturday, I’m going to see “Wolverine” with my brother. Two movies within two days is a bit extravagant, but the madre’s paying for the second. And she’ll probably throw in a box of Cookie Dough Bites, so why not? I have high expectations for this movie, and I really hope they won’t be let down. I have a book to start when the movie’s over, and I’m eager to begin it. “Those Who Save Us” was lent to me by Breanna with the promise that “It’s really, really good.” I finished “Kindred” last week and am beginning to feel the void created by a lack of a book to read. The rest of Saturday will be devoted to Algebra (Curse you, finals!) and assorted assignments. Sunday will be similar to the latter part of Saturday, except that I have “House,” “Lost,” and “Medium” to watch when I’ve completed my History and Anatomy assignments.

The March of the Flag

Beveridge glorifies war in his 1898 speech “The March of the Flag.” He essentially recommends war with Cuba and calls for an invasion of Puerto Rico. As he writes, “There’s canals to be dug, railways to be laid, markets to be won, peoples to be saved, civilization to be proclaimed and the flag of liberty flung to the eager air of every sea (par. 34).” He justifies the subjugation of other nations and races because goods and riches in other places are going to waste. “Shall we be as the man who had one talent and hid it, or as he who had ten talents and used them until they grew to riches? And shall we reap the reward that waits on our discharge of our high duty… The resources of Porto Rico have only been trifled with. The riches of the Philippines have hardly been touched by the fingertips of modern methods… Their trade will be ours in time (par. 6 and 22).” He hails American soldiers as martyrs in America’s righteous crusade to “unfurl our banner (par. 35).” In “Johnny Got his Gun,” Joe decries the American government for not caring about its soldiers. He writes that America’s “martyrs” are only pawns in a greater, more vicious governmental game for power and glory. Beveridge’s insensitive speech seems to prove Joe’s point.

You Better Free Your Mind Instead

In “America the Beautiful,” D’Souza writes, “Americans cannot effectively fight a war without believing that it is just a war. That’s why America has only lost once, in Vietnam, and that was because most Americans did not know what they were fighting for… In order to win, Americans need to believe that they are on the side of the angels. The good news is that they usually are (769).” D’Souza obviously believes that a soldier will willingly fight and die for intangible merits like liberty and loyalty. Furthermore, he quite thinks that liberty and loyalty should be defended. “Johnny Got His Gun,” however, has a wholly opposite view. Nothing, Joe, the main character, exclaims, is worth dying for. “There’s nothing worth dying for I know because I’m dead… I would trade democracy for life. I would trade independence and honor and freedom and decency for life (153-154).” Liberty and loyalty shouldn’t be defended because no one knows quite what they are. “I’m not a fool and when I swap my life for liberty I’ve got to know in advance what liberty is and whose idea of liberty we’re talking about and just how much of that liberty we’re going to have (144).” Interestingly enough, Joe also describes a man who seems like D’Souza. “You can always hear the people who are willing to sacrifice somebody else’s life. They’re plenty loud and they talk all the time. You can find them in churches and schools and newspapers and legislatures and congresses. They sound wonderful. Death before dishonor… But what do the dead say (149)?”

Joe and Thoreau

In “Johnny Got his Gun,” Joe rails against war and government, condemning America for treating its soldiers and citizens carelessly. He is angry because he was told, as a soldier, that he was fighting for a cause, but as he rots slowly, he has lost sight of this cause, revealing its unimportance. In “Resistance to Civil Government,” Thoreau argues that the United States government views its men as “moveable forts and magazines, at the service of some unscrupulous man in power,” that “the mass of the men… have the same sort of worth only as horses and dogs, as machines, with their bodies (838).” Thoreau states that it is our duty to protest and question our government. He writes, “All machines have their friction; and possibly this does enough good to counterbalance the evil (839).” Ultimately, “Resistance” revolves around the motto, “That government is best which governs least (836).” Thoreau prescribes resistance, not necessarily revolution. Joe, however, wants a major overhaul of the government. He wants people to be furious about war. He alerts his readers that nothing is worth dying for- not country, not liberty. “And all the guys who say life before dishonor is pure bull the important thing is life before death they should be left alone too. Because the guys who say life isn’t worth living without some principle so important you’re willing to die for it they are all nuts… All the guys who died all the five million or seven million or ten million who went out and died to make the world safe for democracy to make the world safe for words without meaning how did they feel about it just before they died... They died with only one thought in their minds and that was I want to live I want to live I want to live (151-153).” Joe is certainly more radical than Thoreau, but both men choose to protest their government, either with hate clouding their vision or with resolve for a better union softening their quill.

J'adore

Things I love:
• The words “fresh” and “salacious”
• My Science National Honor Society pin- Be jealous.
• Margaret Atwood
• English history, especially the reign of King Henry VIII
• The book “Rebecca”
• Steak and Shake’s cheesy fries- I’d die without them, even if they’re going to be the cause of my death.
• The board game “Clue”- I’m usually Professor Plum or Miss Scarlet. Back off.
• Writing unusual stories
• The movie “Gone with the Wind”
• The sound of high heels on linoleum
• Lord of the Rings- I’ve wasted more than half my life watching these movies and reading these books.
• The play “No Exit”
• Using a fan in the winter
• ‘60s music- I adore the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac, and CCR, to name a few.
• The television show “Alias”
• Hacking up magazines and making collages
• Indian summers
• The American Civil War- I think it’s extremely interesting and know a lot random facts about it. Did you know that Gettysburg was essentially started by a shoe sale? ‘Tis true.

This might be a woefully inadequate blog, but I had fun writing it, so I hope you forgive its shortcomings.

Doctor Moreau on a Concrete Island waiting for Godot

I have an obsession with lists and notes. This obsession cannot be quenched nor can it be silenced. Lists and Post-its litter my room and linger in its corners. There is a Post-it on my light switch that says, “Schedule.” I have a Post-it on my calendar that says, “Spanish? E-mail.” Indeed, there’s a list in front of me now that lists all my homework for this evening. I don’t mind my listed living; I tend to forget things if not reminded constantly. Book lists, however, are taking over my life. When I was in fifth grade, I got into the habit of making lists of books that I wanted to read. As these books were rented from the library and read, I highlighted the list in pink, to show what had been accomplished. As my interest in books grew and expanded, so did my lists. I had a “Must Read” list, and I had a “Beach Reads” list. I had a “Recommended List” that went on and on and listed books that friends and relatives had recommended. Today, I don’t bother categorizing books into certain lists. When I come upon a book title that sounds interesting, I write it on a spare piece of paper. This piece then has quite the journey as it gets lost multiple times, is worried over, is found, is recorded onto a larger list, and is considered for my “Ultimate List.” The Ultimate List is on my bulletin board and travels with me every time a sojourn is taken to the library. It’s a list of books that I really, really want to read and am slightly embarrassed about not reading yet. “In Cold Blood,” “Running with Scissors,” and “The Golden Compass” all reside on this list. “Dune” is the newest addition. I have a plethora of book lists in my desk that sit in a folder and occasionally see the light of day, but these lists are so vast that they tend to overwhelm me. A lot of Stephen King novels are on this list.

Duck and Cover!

A couple weeks ago, I was talking with my aunt. Or more like I was talking to her, and she was listening. I was blathering about bomb shelters, for whatever reason, and my aunt goes, “I have one of those.” Yes, Aunt Kristen has a bomb shelter. But I’m getting ahead of myself. A few years ago, my Aunt Kristen and Uncle Kevin moved to the middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania. Kevin likes to remodel old houses as a hobby, and so the house they moved into is indeed interesting. For starters, it’s from the 1800s. And has an outhouse. And if you want to go outside, you have to wear an orange vest or else you’ll get shot by hunters. The house is near a barn that’s infested with raccoons. Uncle Kevin’s already had to shoot one raccoon with rabies, so nobody’s allowed around or in the barn. The house is on more than thirty acres of property, and the road leading up to the house seems to be that extensive, too. The first time my family visited the house, we joked the entire way up about Jack Torrance and axe murderers. Despite what I think is its inherent creepiness, the house appeals to my relatives for some reason. Now I know that its major selling point was its location. Aunt Kristen and Uncle Kevin are entirely convinced that a pandemic is going to sweep across America and kill a large number of Americans. Their farmhouse will be their haven. A bomb shelter is apparently nearby in the woods, stocked with water and food. Aunt Kristen even invited me to stay at the house when the pandemic begins its spread. Now that the swine flu has emerged as a lethal disease, perhaps I should start packing. Or not.

Chef Ramsay would make pasta

I can write about anything I like? The freedom is overwhelming! But, hail, an idea! “Elle” magazine has a recurring piece where celebrities and prominent public figures explain whom they would invite to a dinner party to end all dinner parties. Only five people can be invited. I posed this question to my brother, and after I convinced him to take it seriously - his first response being, “Flavor Flav!”- he babbled on about Richard the Lionheart and King Arthur. My mom heard us talking and chirped in, “Rambo!” I would invite Anne Boleyn, Alexander the Great, John Lennon, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Mary Magdalene. I considered inviting Jesus, but I think He would end up dominating the conversation. And there might be some tension between Him and Mary. So, it’s better to just avoid the whole thing. The party would be great, though. Anne Boleyn would be quite the gossiper and share all sorts of juicy tidbits about her time spent with King Henry VIII. Mary would give us the lowdown on what really went down in the days of the New Testament. I’d lend her my copy of “The Da Vinci Code.” Alexander the Great would be a great storyteller and tell epic stories of battles fought and won. Tolkien would explain his interest in battles to Alexander, and they’d discuss what went wrong at Helm’s Deep. I’d consult with Alexander on military tactics, and he’d probably wow me with his intellect. Should the conversation halt, Anne Boleyn or I would start it up again by asking questions. It might be difficult to get John Lennon to talk, but he would probably have something to say about politics or music. He and Alexander might debate a bit about the value of war. I’d definitely chat with Tolkien about his ideas and his artistic process. I’d tell him some of my short stories ideas, and he’d comment and add thoughts. Tolkien and Lennon would probably hit it off and whisper about utopias together, and Alexander would occasionally interject pessimistic points. Mary and Anne would sigh together over men, and I would be in heaven.

Victor/Victoria

I don’t like playing sports. In gym class, I tend to run away from the basketball, not towards it. I played with Barbies when I was little and sometimes lament that those days are over. I like pink, Meg Cabot books, and gold jewelry. I’ve thought about my wedding dress, I doodle flowers in my French notebook, and I start journal entries with the title, “Dear diary…” I’m also beast at the “Super Smash Bros. Melee” and “Lord of the Rings: Return of the King” video games. I simply own as Legolas. When my brother’s friends come over, they sometimes ask me to hang out with them, especially when they’ve brought over “James Bond: Nightfire.” I can wreak destruction with the sniper rifle. I also love the “Terminator” movie series, and I’m the hugest geek when it comes to “Lord of the Rings.” I’ve read my share of comic books and know a lot of obscure facts about certain superheroes. Wolverine, Spiderman, and Wonder Woman are my favorites, and I’ll argue all day about how stupid I think the Atom, Plastic Man, and Cloak and Dagger are. I’m crossing my fingers for a “Doctor Strange” movie. My sense of humor is morbid and often sick, I can’t stand school drama, and my new favorite show is “Deadliest Warrior” on Spike, now that “Terminator” might be cancelled. These traits certainly aren’t overwhelmingly masculine, but, if you don’t know me, you might be surprised. I’m willing to embrace hobbies that are and aren’t feminine. I don’t think society influenced me to be this way; I simply follow what I like. My parents exposed me to a lot of different media, like books, music, and television shows, and then allowed me to realize my own interests. And when I play “Melee,” I’m usually Princess Peach. Or Samus. It depends on my mood.

Audrey Hepburn and Wonder Woman

When Cofer lived in Puerto Rico, she was considered attractive. When she moved to the United States, she was introduced to a new culture and a new idea of beauty. In the States, she was considered dirty and unattractive. She was ridiculed for her skinniness and her short height, although in her native Puerto Rico, she was thought to be unusually tall. After Cofer is scarred by a bout of chicken pox, she begins to latch onto images of beautiful, strong women. She admires Wonder Woman and daydreams about leaping over buildings, and she practically lusts over a pretty blond doll. She begs her mother to buy her Wate-on so she’ll gain weight and finally look like the heroes she sees in her comic books. Throughout “Story of My Body,” Cofer struggles with her poor self-esteem and the impossible beauty standard that exists in the United States. When she goes off to college, her Puerto Rican heritage is deemed exotic and desirable, and she reaches a weak sort of happiness. Cofer will never be confident, however, if she continues to rely on the opinions of others and the media to validate her beauty and her worth.

Gay Marriage

I don’t understand much about the world. I don’t understand the human immune system, and I’ll never comprehend why some animals eat their young. Physics remains a mystery to me, and the cruel duo of greed and ignorance will continue to baffle me. I do, however, understand love. Love binds us to our neighbors and our families, creating bonds of affection and fraternity that can further the human race and infuse life with purpose. Love can cause war and demand peace, and it can corrupt and it can make whole, but its existence is undeniable and ultimately rich in purpose. For love to be denied is to deny a basic right. Marriage, a basic expression of love, should be allowed to all who seriously seek it. Marriage was once denied to African-Americans and prisoners, and these groups are now able to wed whom they please, a right that is still denied to gay couples. It is an outrage and a shame that a committed gay couple cannot express their love through marriage. True, this does not personally affect me, but I still find it horrible that all cannot openly and legally marry. I believe that if you love someone wholly and want to commit your life to that person, you should be able to marry him or her. I’m not religious, so I don’t particularly believe in sin, and I certainly don’t believe it’s wrong to love someone if that’s who you think you’re called to love. Besides, wasn’t it Jesus who preached acceptance and love for thy neighbor? I don’t want to offend or insult, but I don’t think He would approve of the way we treat our gay friends and neighbors.

A Bicycle Built for Two

As explained by Wolfson in the beginning of “What is Marriage,” marriage has several implications, depending on culture and context. Wolfson explains that marriage is indeed a declaration of “love and dedication to another person (99),” but it is also “a relationship between a couple and the government (100).” The author seeks to show that marriage is complicated and important, for only an important thing has so many definitions. When Wolfson later introduces the topic of same-sex marriage, he wants the reader to remember the definitions, to show what gay couples are forced to forgo. I don’t know much about marriage, but I do know some about happiness, and Wolfson’s explanation of marriage seems thoughtful and rings true. He writes, “For better or for worse, marriage is about choice, whether it be the choice to ‘make it official’ with your beloved and to accept the protections and the responsibilities that accompany that decision; the choice to work at your marriage and make it rewarding and good; the choice to betray or divorce a spouse; or the choice to avoid the institution of marriage altogether (101).” I hadn’t thought about the choice that comes with marriage because choice is so linked with marriage, it blends with it. Marriage comes when a couple decides to wed, and a marriage lasts when a couple decides to remain true.

All the Single Parents

According to Dr. Wade Horn, a single-parent household is like an airplane that sometimes fails to reach its destination. A two-parent household, on the other hand, always reaches the airport. The author of the essay, Santorum, uses Dr. Horn to explain why single-parent homes are a threat to children, although single parent homes certainly aren’t the abomination Santorum makes them out to be. Single-parent households, like two-parent households, can be loving, stable environments. When Santorum points to facts that show that children in single-parent households are depressed, he fails to analyze the data, leading to the downfall of his argument. He fails to acknowledge why these kids have a single parent. Perhaps their parents have gone through a divorce, or their mother has died, or their father is fighting for a year in Afghanistan. All these circumstances can cause depression. Perhaps it’s not the single parent situation that causes the depression or bad grades or drug use; perhaps the situation that led to the single parent is the cause. Even then, single parents are often quite adept. They’ve learned to make a turkey sandwich for their kindergartner while on a business call. Or their children have quickly learned independence, and they spread mayonnaise on their own sandwich in the morning. The frazzled single mom who bails on her son’s soccer match does exist, but she’s not as prolific as Santorum seems to suggest.

Appearances

In Vázquez’s “Appearances,” she waits to reveal that Brian and Mickey are straight men. She knows that the reader will assume they are gay, so that when she announces their actual sexual orientation, it will shock the reader. Interestingly enough, she talks about Mickey’s girlfriend before she reveals his heterosexuality, slightly lessening the “reveal” when it comes. She does eventually bluntly state his and Brian’s sexuality in an attempt to show that “gay men look like all men and all men look like gay men (476).” It makes the reader aware to the fact that antigay feelings can negatively affect heterosexuals and homosexuals. Vázquez tells the story of Tom and Jan Matarrase to further her point. When out for a walk one evening, the married couple was attacked by a group of men who thought they were a gay couple. Vázquez desperately wants her readers to know that anyone can be a victim of antigay violence. If straight men like Mickey and Tom can be attacked for simply looking gay, how can we protect those who actually are gay? The menace of antigay feelings seems much more potent when some of its victims aren’t even part of the targeted group.

Transcendentalism

During camp at Turtle Island, Eustace Conway teaches his young students to cut off a lock of their hair whenever they cut a branch off a tree. In this way, Conway is spiritual. He believes living things should be respected, but he does not worship trees or revere deer. He is thankful for their existence, and in heightened moments he praises their existence, but he never prays to them. He prays to a god, but he is not particularly religious or devout. Conway is a practical man and seeks sense. Nature is both useful and beautiful to him, but he does not wallow in its poetry. Because he does not see nature as a divine being, Conway is not a transcendentalist. He is too rational to believe in transcendentalism’s romantic version of the woods. He does accept transcendentalism’s view that we should live in nature, but his drive to spread this message forces him to become an outgoing businessman, a role most transcendentalists would loathe.

Nature

In “Nature,” Emerson writes, “The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.” Further in the essay, he writes, “In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth.” In Emerson’s ludicrous essay, these are the only sentences that make sense. After imparting some wisdom, he goes on to spew drivel about nodding to vegetables and becoming an eyeball. The first parts of his essay, however, are insightful. As children, we make forts and hike in the woods and create memories. When, as an adult, we return to these places of sanctuary and innocence, we relive and remember these memories. The woods remind us of youth, rekindling the feelings of immortality, happiness, and carelessness we once so easily felt as children. Emerson is right in stating that “In the woods… a man… is always a child.” He quickly deteriorates into blather, however, when he writes, “[In nature,] I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part of particle of God.” This is something Chris McCandless would highlight in his yellow highlighter and savor. He would make notes near the phrase and bask in its inspiration. To me, the statement, and the whole rest of “Nature,” romanticize and complicate trees and dirt. Forests do allow us experience a pure world close to God’s ideal, but I feel no connection to a god when I swat mosquitoes swarming about my head and whack overhanging branches blocking my path. When Emerson writes, “The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them,” “Nature” reveals itself as a mawkish orgy of pseudo-religious superfluousness. Trees drenched in sunlight are beautiful, but Emerson finds purpose and religion too readily in their beauty. His outpouring of love for mud, sticks, and moss are not just overly sentimental, they’re almost insulting. Could Emerson detect God’s work in the wake of a tornado? Would he be able to find poetry in the smoke of a forest fire? Not all things born of nature are precious or reasonable. When one tries to find purpose in something disastrous, explanations are sought for things that cannot be explained. Emerson found purpose in the flutter of leaves; would he be able to find purpose in tragic deaths like Chris McCandless’s ? Not all things have a purpose.

Why, Gilbert, why?

Elizabeth Gilbert greatly admires Eustace Conway. She respects his way of life and how he has attempted to complete his dreams. Eustace’s Turtle Island impresses and amazes her. She is in awe of him, which is clear from her first meeting with Eustace, when she meets him in New York. She writes, “It seemed curious to me that somebody who eats possum and wipes his butt with leaves could have managed to acquire a thousand acres of pristine wilderness. But Eustace Conway was, as I would discover, a most cunning man (11).” Later in the book, she writes, “My initial reaction on witnessing Eustace Conway’s life was relief. When I first heard of his life and his adventures, all I could think was Thank God. Thank God somebody in America was still living this way. Thank God there was at least one genuine mountain man, frontiersman, pioneer, maverick out there (125).” Her use of “maverick” and “cunning” show the scope of her admiration. Gilbert is taken with Conway and so wants to spread his story. She thinks readers will find Conway compelling, and so her story benefits both Conway and readers, by informing readers about this Man of Destiny and by giving Conway free publicity, to use a crude term. Gilbert also seems to want to challenge herself as a writer. Conway is a complicated man, one who is both pitiable and admirable. Readers may dislike Conway, with his narcissism and his perfectionism, but they can also be swept up in Gilbert’s terms of affection and see Conway as respectable, strong, and tender. Gilbert, by writing "The Last American Man," challenged herself to present a full picture of Eustace Conway’s personality, with all his faults and merits, and she tried to explain both his cruel streak and his gentle side. One could argue she tries to get the reader to see Conway as she sees him, but I think she mostly wanted to write a character study about a man whom she finds great.

Morality

In Feldman’s essay "Schools and Morals," he discusses how many Americans, especially pious ones, think that, without religion, one cannot have morals. As shown by Wright in "Black Boy," religion is not necessary to have a sense of morality. Wright is not religious, and yet he knows that stealing is wrong, that his actions can hurt others, that fighting another man is wrong. He learns what is right through experiences. There was a scene in Part One where young Wright takes soap in hand and writes curse words on his neighbor’s windows. His mother is flabbergasted and embarrassed by Wright’s recklessness and makes him wash off every word. Through this lesson, Wright begins to understand the power of words, and he learns to treat curse words with discretion.
"Schools and Morals" pondered the necessity of religion in school, and, I think, deemed it unnecessary. Feldman discusses how, in early American public schools, the King James Bible was standard reading, and children were encouraged to interpret the reading. This angered Catholics, who thought that the Bible should be taught as nonfiction and who thought that the King James Bible was a work of blasphemy. This led to the creation of private Catholic schools, although the process to such foundations was long and complicated. Over time, public schools were weaned off religion, leaving us the institutions we have now.
For a brief time, Wright goes to a religious school, and he finds the teaching dull and the teacher, his aunt, cruel. Wright also had a brief experience with organized religion when he attended a few church meetings. At one point, Wright is even baptized, although he feels nothing during or after the ceremony and ultimately abandons the whole notion of religion. And yet, Wright is not a morally corrupt character. He does steal, but this stealing helped save him from the South. He does not commit any atrocious crimes and is a relatively honest man. He lies to protect himself, but he honors the Golden Rule and treats others with respect, even Shorty, who hardly deserves it. Wright is an example of a man who is without religion and is still good. Wright, although not perfect, is a man whom Feldman would admire for showing fervent churchgoers that morality is possible without a hand on the Bible.

And in the end

“Black Boy” ends with Wright realizing that the world is swollen with unhappiness, its inhabitants weighted down by hatred, stifled feelings, and despair. He decides that both blacks and whites are unhappy, neither the minority nor the majority feeling any sense of contentment. After being thrown out from the May Day march, Wright feels completely alone and senses that only words can connect him with what exists of humanity. He decides he must “hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, send other words to…create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all… (384)” He also contemplates the worth of life in America. He writes, “What had I got out of living in the South? What had I got out of living in America?...All my life I had been full of a hunger for a new way to live… (383)” Although not detailed in the book, Wright eventually moves to France, fleeing hunger and hardships. His thoughts in these last pages of the book give some explanation as to why he does this.
Wright asserts that if America doesn’t “find its way to a human path (383),” then “all of us…are going down the same drain… (383)” I think America is, and was, stronger than Wright thought. There are always good people, and there is always some hope, although sometimes this hope must be dusted off to look appealing. Since Wright’s time, I think America has found its “human path.” Racism still exists in America, but Americans mostly enjoy equal rights. America’s commander-in-chief is a black man. Happiness certainly doesn’t glow from mountaintop to mountaintop, and it never will, but there is good to be seen and experienced.

Polar Opposites?

Wright thinks that “The artist and the politician stand at opposite poles (345),” but I disagree with him. Both artists and politicians try to connect with an audience, and both create. An artist attempts to convey emotions using paint, pen, and motions, and a politician attempts to explain government through speech and conversation. An artist shares his work because he wants others to understand, and a politician speaks with the people because he wants change. Both the politician and the artist need something from others, be that recognition or a vote. An artist creates personified emotions through the medium of art or words, and this work can change lives or inspire actions, and a politician enacts change through laws and choices. Artists and politicians are frequently opposed, as shown by Wright’s struggle with the Communist party, but both fields are linked through their desire to create and their need to communicate with the masses.

A Voice from a Crowd

Comrade Young manages to confuse Wright’s entire Communist literary club about the intentions of Comrade Swann. It’s later discovered that Young had escaped from an insane asylum. If one madman can almost convince a Communist club to release one of its prominent members, one voice can certainly move a crowd to action. This voice must be loud and relentless, but it can be done. I recently saw the movie “Milk,” a film that depicts the life of Harvey Milk. Milk was a San Francisco-based gay rights leader who, in the 1970s, fought laws that sought to diminish the rights of gays. The movie focuses some attention on Anita Bryant, a Christian woman who, in 1977, wanted to repeal a Dade County, Florida ordinance that illegalized discrimination against gays. She thought that the ordinance encouraged “the gay agenda.” People throughout the United States followed the repeal process closely, some praying it would be repelled, some fervently hoping it wouldn’t. The ordinance was repelled in 1977, leading to mass outrage. In San Francisco, gay men and women took to the streets. A riot seemed imminent, and so Harvey Milk was called to calm them. Milk stood in front of hundreds of angry men and women and asked them to march with him through the streets to protest the repeal. His one voice quenched their thoughts of violence. The group marched for miles, and no rioting occurred in San Francisco. A megaphone amplified Milk’s voice, and faulty facts backed Young’s crusade against Swann, but both men, fortified by either good intentions or bad ones, managed to voice their opinion to a crowd and created change.

Thoughts on Self-hatred

I read “Bastard Out of Carolina” last year for English, and the theme of self-hatred burned throughout the book. Bone, the main character, passionately hates herself because her neighbors and schoolmates look down upon her and her “white trash” family. Bone fights her low self-esteem throughout the book, but the book ends with Bone capitulating to a lifetime without compassion, a subsistence of violence and hatred towards all, especially herself. In chapter 15, Wright discusses the disease of self-hatred in black men. Reading Wright’s thoughts, I remembered Bone and how her intense self-hatred stemmed from other’s hate. Wright writes, “Hated by whites and being an organic part of the culture that hated him, the black man grew in turn to hate in himself that which others hated in him. But pride would make him hide his self-hate, for he would not want whites to know that he was so thoroughly conquered by them that his total life was conditioned by their attitude; but in the act of hiding his self-hate, he could not help but hate those who evoked his self-hate in him (266).” Wright goes on to explain that a black man filled with these ideas would become “inefficient, less able to see and judge the objective world (266).” If white men were to observe a black man in this state of mind, they would think him unbalanced, and this one black man’s bizarre behavior would further lower the white men’s opinion of all black men. I thought it interesting how the thoughts of a poor white girl in a fictional story mirror the meditations done by a black man in his autobiography. Both recognize, and experience, that odium is a horribly vicious thing. It’s a cycle that refuses to stop for hatred is born from self-hatred, and self-hatred arises from hatred.

North

It’s a positive change for Wright to leave the South. While living in Tennessee and Mississippi, Wright felt afraid and caged. In the South, he had been threatened and mistreated by white men. The South held his mother’s stroke, his uncle’s murder, and years of abuse and malnourishment. When Wright escapes the South, he leaves behind distressing memories, a diet of lard and beans, and a place where unhappiness seems content. The North is not Zion, but it’s a great improvement from the violent South. In the North, prejudice against blacks is not rampant, and there are no stifling “Colored Only” signs. Harriet Jacobs from “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl” was unable to find well-being in the North because of her high expectations of northern people, but I think Wright has more realistic expectations of what he will find and who he will meet in the North.

Subservience

Unfortuantely, subservience is a fact of life. In the work force, we are required to answer to our bosses, and at school, we answer to our teachers. Subservience ensures that we keep our jobs and maintain our grades. Rebellion always looms as an option but often reveals itself as impractical or dangerous. In "Black Boy," Wright accepts subservience so he can receive a steady salary. In Memphis, Wright takes on a job at an optical company and realizes quickly that he will receive tips from whites at the company if he runs errands for them. He “buys their lunches, pays their bills, and delivers notes for them to their stenographer girl friends in near-by office buildings. The first day [he] made a dollar and a half in tips (224).” These errands are lowly and completely unrelated to the tasks of an optometrist, but Wright does them to earn extra money. During his lunch breaks at the company, Wright eats with other black workers, and they lament over white prejudice. Wright writes, “But under all our talk floated a latent sense of violence; the whites had drawn a line over which we dared not step and we accepted that line because our bread was at stake (229).” Wrights and his friends are subservient to whites so that they can keep their jobs, maintain some sort of peace, and have a morsel of bread to eat for dinner.

White World

Wright is unused to acting subservient to whites. As a young child, he recognized that whites were somehow better and greater than him, but he never acted upon these beliefs. He did not grow up catering to or obeying whites. He heard of violence between the white and black race, but that was the extent of his white interaction. Now, as a young adult in the work force, he is forced to act submissive towards whites in order to get and keep jobs. He is unused to hiding his intelligence or his depression but does so to hold onto jobs. Wright loses many a job because he accidentally acts equal to his white customers or shows contempt towards his white superiors and bosses. Had Wright been raised to address every white man as “Sir,” and had Wright been conditioned to step completely out of a white woman’s way, perhaps he would find it easier to serve whites without looking them in the eye. Wright writes about a job he held briefly at a hotel, where he worked as a hallboy. Before he leaves work with a female friend one night, Wright witnesses a white night watchman touch his friend in an inappropriate way. Wright is completely shocked, especially when his friend continues to walk by the man as if nothing had happened. Wright stares at the guard, gaping, unsure of whether to protect his friend. The guard taunts Wright and advises him to leave the building. Wright walks away, feeling the guard’s gun pointed at his back. Wright’s friend was used to attention and harassment from whites because she had been “coping with the white world (196)” for some time. Wright, unused to blatant sexual harassment and submissive behavior, feels uncomfortable and stifled at all jobs he works at in chapters 10-11.

Just Say No

Wright is justified in refusing his principal’s speech. At the time of Wright’s graduation, Wright had discovered his passion for writing and was more than capable of writing a coherent speech. When he wrote his speech, it contained Wright’s own thoughts and emotions. Presenting his own speech freed Wright on some level, for it allowed him to voice his concerns and hopes to a large audience, recreating how he felt when he read his short story to his neighbor. The principal wrote Wright’s speech so that nothing vaguely disputable would be presented during graduation, but this seems both rude and cowardly on the principal’s part.
Refusing Wright’s speech is insulting because Wright had toiled in his studies to be able to present a speech at graduation. The principal should have recognized these achievements and trusted Wright to write a competent speech. The principal also forced his speech upon Wright because he feared Wright’s speech would be too radical. The principal wanted to please the whites in the graduation audience and convince them of the school’s neutrality towards the black race. His speech was canned, unemotional, and uncontroversial, and Wright’s speech was true. Wright wanted to speak the truth and share his intelligence and so justly refused the “bought (176)” principal’s speech.

Uncle Tom's Anger

Uncle Tom wants to beat Wright for being “a sassy black imp (157).” Wright had told his Uncle Tom that the time of day was about 5:18, and "If it's a little slow or fast, it’s not far wrong (157).” Tom feels greatly disrespected by such a reply and decides that Wright needs be whipped. Wright is angry with Tom because he feels he’s being beaten for a misdemeanor, something trivial and small. As Wright writes in the text, “… I was going to be beaten by someone who did not like the tone of voice in which I spoke… How long was I going to be beaten for trifles and less than trifles (158)?” Wright is made angrier by the fact that Tom is a new member of the Wright household and has never been involved in Wright’s life before this residency. It seems unfair that a man Wright was not raised by can beat him. When Wright sees his uncle stripping a tree branch to beat him with, he explains, “Now, listen, Uncle Tom, you’re not going to whip me. You’re a stranger to me. You don’t support me. I don’t live with you (159).” The scene ends with Wright using razors to protect himself against his uncle’s whip. When Tom relents to Wright’s razors, Wright tells his uncle, “You are not an example to me; you could never be… Your life isn’t so hot that you can tell me what to do (160).” Perhaps Wright is also angry with Tom because Wright doesn’t want to be disciplined by a man he cannot respect, a man who “weaves the bottoms of chairs for people to sit in (160).”

Writing

Wright, suppressed by his mother’s lashes and his grandmother’s religion, is finally able to express himself through writing. He creates a story that whispers of “longing and death (120),” thoughts and feelings Wright had been burdened by because of his mother's paralysis. Hiding these thoughts was draining and unhealthy for Wright. It excites him to pen the story for it is something of his own, infused with his own emotions and worries. “There was no plot, no action, nothing save atmosphere and longing and death. But I had never in my life done anything like it; I had made something, no matter how bad it was; and it was mine… (120).” It pleases him to share the tale because it allows him to communicate with another human being a topic higher than food and punishment. By reading his story to his neighbor, Wright tells her his feelings, but not in an overly open, uncomfortable way. He is “sharing with her the burden of his existence,” as Patricia Hampl wrote, and he finds it greatly gratifying.

Paralysis

When Wright first discovers his mother’s paralysis, he is shocked and unable to understand her condition. During Wright’s turbulent young life, his mother had remained a constant presence, a woman who, even after his father’s abandonment, stayed strong. Her strength makes her illness “seem unthinkable.” (85) Now, Wright’s rock has crumbled, leaving Wright stunned and silenced. He becomes emotionally withdrawn from his family members, especially his mother, whom he cannot bear to talk to, look at, or tend. He refuses to eat food and is embarrassed when he is forced to eat or when comments are made about his unhealthy weight. He wishes he were older, so he would not have to rely so on others. Wright is simply unable to cope with his mother’s paralysis, a drastic change in his life. His mother had been his voice-of-reason when Wright was in trouble, and she had tried to be his provider of food and affection. Her illness pierces Wright and leaves him unsure of himself and his future. He is fearful of her death, and this fear and uncertainty pins him to silence and numbness.

Heritage

Wright admits that, as a child, he and his friends were “poor, half-starved, ignorant, victims of racial prejudice.” (61) Wright, his friends, and their race were regarded with disgust from white people. Both white people and black people looked upon Jews with disgust. Wright taunted Jews because it was an acceptable way for him to vent his racial frustrations. Although unsure of why he held such strife, Wright disliked white people. He disliked their constant access to food and their violence against black people. Wright disliked Jews because they had “killed Christ.” Harassing Jews at the local grocery was a way to unleash this hatred upon a race, which, generally, was disliked by both warring parties. Wright had no true reason for his cruelty. Vaguely, without real thought or reason, Wright does it to pass time in a way that won’t inspire his mother to beat him, but, truly, Wright torments Jews to unreel racial anger that usually boils quietly, unexplained and shapeless, inside.

Hunger

As a young child, Wright’s life is bereft of true joy. He achieves superficial, brief happiness by drinking and engaging in nefarious activities. However, when the soap letters are wiped from the windows, when his drunkenness wears away into sobriety, he is left hungry and empty. Wright is hungry because his life is empty, both literally and figuratively. Sustained on bread and tea, Wright is constantly seeking a morsel of something, but nothing is to be found, and so he sleeps and lives with an empty stomach. Figuratively, Wright has no father and no real home. He is given no love from his father and is shown only snippets of kindness from his mother, who is tired from failure. His first home dies in a fire, and the flat in Memphis is scarred with unhappiness. The orphan home serves as a shelter, not as a place of security. Wright’s life has no path and no potential purpose. His hungriness represents emptiness of the body and of the soul.

School's Out Forever?

Gatto’s essay was quite fascinating. I know little about the history of America’s schooling system and was interested to find out that it is based off of Prussia’s schools. That being said, I think Gatto is mildly insane. The concept that America’s schools are “laboratories of experimentation on young minds, drill centers for the habits and attitudes that corporate society demands” (159) is absolutely ludicrous. I think America’s schooling system needs to be rethought and reformed, yes, but Gatto’s statement borders on conspiracy and paranoia.
I absolutely believe that schooling is necessary. Twelve years of it is extreme, but elementary and secondary schools are certainly essential. As Gatto mentions, schools teach their pupils to respect authority and follow directions, skills necessary to maintain jobs. He fails, though, to recognize that schools provide an environment in which to learn social skills and acquire friendships. Furthermore, schools expose their students to subjects that otherwise might have remained veiled. To become a chemist, you first must know that atoms exist. In school, I’ve learned to share, play nice, and create friendships. These are life skills. In second grade, I made my friend Kelly cry because I told her I was prettier than her. Not only was this statement selfish, it was rude and untrue. I felt awful for quite some time. So, at seven, I came to know that praising yourself is horribly self-absorbed and, often times, hurtful. Without school, this lesson, and other lessons like it, would have come later in life. Through school, we learn to interact with people everyday. We learn to suppress our feelings around those we do not like, and we learn to value the friendships we are able to make. In kindergarten, there was a kid named Jeff in my class. Jeff was reclusive and quiet. He never wanted to play blocks with me. The next year, when I was in first grade, Jeff was still in kindergarten. He had been held back because, as my mother later found out, he wasn’t considered “socially ready” for first grade. School is tedious, and this needs to be, and can be, changed. School, however, should not be abolished all together for a multitude of reasons, including, but not limited to, how it teaches social skills.

Nonacademic Education

In grade school and middle school, my favorite school-related memories are "nonacademic" ones. When I was in fifth grade, my elementary school sent all of its fifth grade students to Chicago. It was pretty much awesome. On the bus ride there, all of us ate Twinkies and played Go Fish. I think three people threw up. We were only in Chicago for a couple of hours, but we were able to see the Museum of Science and Industry, and we ate a pizza dinner at the Rain Forest Café. I spent way too much money on things I'd never use or see again, including a shot glass. I think a couple more people threw up on the bus ride home. Basically, it was a great day. And I'm not being sarcastic. The museum had a miniature fairy castle exhibit. I was with my friends all day. I was ten. Enough said. Now, learning in a school that stresses a nonacademic education, I am content. In University's environment, I've traveled to New York, gone spelunking, and visited Purdue to attend a theatre workshop. I value University's effort to offer nonacademic activities. Such activities enrich the high school experience.

Rhetoric on the Town Presentations

The presentations on Thursday were interesting. A lot of people took pictures of places in Carmel and then explained how Carmel is attempting to present itself as a quaint, colonial-like town. JP’s photo of the art gallery showed this rhetoric well. I especially liked Erin’s photo of the JCC. I thought it interesting how a police car always sits outside, presenting an image of safety, but, in all actuality, were something to happen to the JCC, that lone police officer would be of little use. I think so many people chose to photograph Carmel because Carmel, through its buildings, sidewalks, and creeper statues, so clearly conveys a message.

Isn't it "The media doesn't," not "The media don't?"

The media certainly shapes society. Advertisements and shows are created to cater to a certain public demand, but they also feed and present Americans with things they never knew they wanted. Last night, for instance, on “Desperate Housewives,” one of the housewives bought a new Lexus. Bree then proceeded to point out to her friends her Lexus’s refrigerator, sunroof, and heated seats. After the scene was over, the camera zoomed in on the word “Lexus” on the car’s bumper. The first commercial during the commercial break was for a Lexus car. It was if I was living in “The Truman Show.” It was blatant product-placement. ABC and Lexus had exchanged money to present their “Desperate Housewives” audience with something new to lust after. Also, as seen in “Two Ways a Woman Can Get Hurt,” some advertisements and shows encourage violence and cruelty, especially towards women. The United States has a high battery and abuse rate of women, quite possibly from how the media shapes society to treat its women unkindly and to constantly want things.
I also agree with Kendall that the media warps our ideas of the wealthy and the poor. The media often plays to stereotypes, presenting homeless as sots, and it often glorifies certain classes, showing the wealthy as glamorous, careless idols. I disagree to an extent with Kendall on her idea of how the media presents the middle-class. Yes, at times the media does present blue-collars as somehow morally lesser than the rich, but the media does “carry information about the working class and its problems (339).” When Madoff’s Ponzi scheme was revealed, the media had a field day interviewing middle-class Americans. As for credit card debt, I certainly think that the media encourages consumerism, but I don’t think it encourages Americans to run out of money. After all, the media wants us to have lots of money and no debt, so we can continue to buy things.

Rhetoric on the Town

Today I visited Café Patachou and my local Marsh. Patachou is a small café near my house, and Marsh is just down the street as well. Patachou sells itself as quaint and homey, but it has four other locations, making its small-town feel seem unauthentic. Marsh, off of 146th Street, has recently undergone remodeling, and now defiantly looks like it belongs in Carmel. The inside has a mural of cows grazing, which I snuck a picture of. It came out a little blurry because, as I was taking it, an employee started walking towards me. I got out of there as soon as possible. For my pictures, I wanted to capture Patachou’s false homeliness and Marsh’s pretentiousness. Patachou was difficult because it’s hard to present the essence of something in a simple picture. Marsh, on the other hand, was a quick run inside and outside, and one can still easily see that Marsh is selling itself as an oasis of pork loin, Wheaties, and $11 wine to Carmel moms with red nails.

Mickey Mouse and Such

According to Gitlin, America presents the image that it is “fun.” However, the issue is deeper than that. Gitlin explains that some countries rely on America for entertainment, as well as inspiration and guidance. America’s entertainment industries, as well as its government and economy sectors, influence other countries.
America has a great influence over the world because America’s image and products are part of “a common imagination (826)” and are an escape. American films, for example, end happily. Most foreign films end with death, destruction, or a sense of lost hope, like the French film “Persepolis.” People of all nations want to believe that all will end well. However, unlike America, most countries know such a thing rarely happens, and their films reflect that. However, it’s nice to get lost in an American film where the characters ride into the sunset.
Furthermore, the youths of other countries are willing to listen to and, to some degree, adapt American culture. “Young people do not live in monocultures. They are not monocular (826).” Youths in South Africa and China “are both local and cosmopolitan (826).” They can embrace aspects of American culture without losing themselves. English further ties these young people to America. For many, English is a second language. And, fortunately enough, America’s goods tend to be in English. The ability to understand and relate to the Americans who also use these products and who also watch those films furthers the interest in American culture.
America might not shout “Fun!” to Americans, but that’s because we lose sight of how our culture, in general, is composed and safe. Yes, we have no health care. Yes, there are homeless and those without jobs. But there is no genocide occurring in our country. There is no famine. Our government is not in turmoil. Our society, our secure, rich society, “imposes few burdens. Attachments and affiliations coexist, overlap, melt together, form, and re-form (828).” To those in countries where potential violence looms constantly, and where unhappiness and stress reign, America looks pretty fun.

Two Ways a Woman Can Get Hurt

“Turning a human being into a thing, an object, is almost always the first step toward justifying violence against that person (428).” When a person is depicted as a sex object, it becomes easier for a viewer to see this person as less than a person. If a man or woman becomes just another thing to own, they will not be treated kindly. Most people do not treat things with care, for things have no feelings. The objectification of women is extremely troubling because “there is a world of difference between the objectification of men and that of women. The most important difference is that there is no danger for most men, whereas objectified women are always at risk (430).” Although sexist to a degree, women are physically weaker than men and are more susceptible to violence. Women are beaten and abused every day, and so when a magazine ad shows a woman about to be shot, the ad seems to downplay the atrocity of violence against women. The treatment of men as sex objects is not fair either, but “men are not likely to be raped, harassed, or beaten (430).” The objectification of women is troubling and disturbing, made more so by the statistics about date rape and domestic violence Kilbourne lists. I found the ad on page 425 to be especially shocking, the one with the woman being attacked by three men. I know no one who would be inspired to purchase a pair of jeans after seeing an ad glorifying a potential rape scene. I think it’s horrible that companies, like Calvin Klein, are pleased when they receive negative publicity for a disgusting ad.

Stabbing My Eyes Out

Obviously, a lot of men watch the Super Bowl. And, according to the ads of the Super Bowl, these men like beer. And women. No surprise there. So far, I’ve seen about 25 Budweiser commercials. All involved “drinkability.” Most involved “humor,” or some lame form of it. I know I’m not the target audience, but some of these ads are mildly pathetic. One Budweiser ad featured two men at a ski resort, discussing the definition of drinkability. Chump #1 explains to Chump #2 that drinkability is like skiing smoothly. He points out an expert skier who lands nicely on the ground. Then Chump #1 points out to Chump #2 an inane skier who hits imaginary trees. “That,” he gloats, “is the opposite of drinkability.” I suppose here is where one is supposed to laugh, but instead of a guffaw, this incredible feeling of emptiness overwhelms me. It seeps through my pores like a sinister cloud of toxic twilight, stabbing my heart with sharp shrapnel of sadness. In other words, that commercial was epic lame. And other commercials have not improved this opinion. So, in conclusion, men who like beer, women, and stupid jokes watch and enjoy the Super Bowl. Pretty fascinating stuff. Really, I’m enthralled.

Biased Television Shows

“The Bias of Language” discusses how language can distort or supplement the truth. Language is naturally infused with emotion, and this emotion is what can harm the veracity of news programs and other such media outlets. Through language, we are able to express “larger abstractions, [such] as truth, honor, love, and falsehood (253).” Using words, we express our lives, struggles, and emotions, as our class has discussed previously. “The Bias of Language” introduces a new aspect of language, in that, through language, we can lie, spin a story, and change opinions. Language can muddle the truth, whether such shaping is unintentional or intentional.
“The Bias of Language” discusses at length how news programs, even “honorable” news shows, present pieces that are biased because of the language used in them. Expressive words, like “shocking,” “captivating,” or “joyous” are typically used to gain attention, but can also reveal opinions. The scene of a crime can be described as “disgusting,” but a better, less opinionated word would be “grim.” When writing pieces, writers are sometimes so attuned to their own thoughts that they mistakenly use words that can interpreted as prejudiced.
As a person interested in journalism, I found “The Bias of Language” interesting. I’ve written news stories and found it difficult to report honestly. Since I have strong opinions, these thoughts tend to leak into pieces I write, even ones that are supposed to be unbiased. When writing the inquiry contract paper that was to present both sides of an issue, my opinion on the topic was clear. For a high school student’s English paper, this is fine, but for national newspapers or broadcasts, something close to the truth should be attempted. How or by what means I do not know, so I guess for now I should be more wary of Katie Couric.