Looking Back...

Raeta Daniel

Raeta’s blog posts reminded me very much of a diary as they consisted of personality, spunk, humor, and to-the-point honesty. I found it to be very courageous as she never seemed to be afraid to voice her opinion and what she truly thought about an issue. As I am a woman of great detail, as is reflected in my writings, I found it surprisingly interesting when I couldn’t help but become all the more intrigued at the simplistic tone found within Raeta’s stories. I found it, for lack of a better term, very real and honest as I admired the fact that she never tried to make reality seem more glamorous or beautiful than it is; for sometimes, life just plain sucks!

Although her blogs can seem somewhat simple at times, Raeta knows when to be serious and how to touch her reader. She is able to come across poetic when she wants her reader to take her subject-at-hand seriously and she does so in such a beautiful manner (for an example of this, read her blog “High Above” and “My Parents’ Most Tragic Day…”). Raeta is a very talented writer and has much to offer the world.

My Favorites

One of my favorites would definitely have to be “So, it came in 3’s…” I absolutely love the personal and yet, concurrently distant writing style of the author. I love how Raeta gives us a sense of what’s important to her and what’s going on in her life while not giving us too much detail or focusing too much on one topic. I felt teased as I was reading the blog, as though she was stringing me along as I yearned to uncover more about her life. I think this is a great writing tactic as it keeps the audience interested and longing to read more.

Another one of my favorites, if not my most favorite, would have to be “High Above.” Personally, I loved writing this blog! I think it opens up a whole new sense of creativity in which many of us probably didn’t even know we had. I think Raeta did a fantastic job with this blog! I feel as though the productivity and technique in her writing was highly expounded upon. It’s funny how simply taking five or so minutes out of your day to just relax and look out a window can trigger so many emotions, thoughts, and topics to discuss in great detail, which is what I can tell happened to Raeta. Throughout the entirety of this blog, she discovered secrets of life and of herself: how to manage her stress, how to survive the roller-coaster ride of life, how we, as humans, are all connected, and how our problems pale in comparison to those of others. This blog was inspiring, poetic, well-written, thoughtful, and beautiful. I felt connected to it and to the author; a true sign of a great writer.

“My Parents’ Most Tragic Day…” was another great post. So rare is it that an author has the capability and the writing technique to create a masterpiece which touches his/her reader. Even before I read this blog, only the title, I knew that the subject-at-hand would be a very serious one, as she did a great job in reflecting an unknown tragedy to come. Throughout the blog, I couldn’t stop reading, though at times, I wanted to; for I didn’t want to reach the end, as I knew what laid ahead. My eyes swelled up in the middle of story and tears slithered down my cheeks as I came to the final few sentences. My heart goes out to you and your family, Raeta. I cannot even begin to understand what you and your parents went through. All I can do is commend you for your bravery and willingness to share such a personal topic with complete strangers and say that I am truly sorry for your loss.

Michelle Nulliner

Michelle’s blog posts remind me a lot of Raeta’s; not so much the subject matter, but rather the writing style. It is very honest, full of personality, uplifting when called for, serious when needed, and inspiring when it was meant to be. I can’t help but say that it reminds me very much of a female college student’s diary. Throughout many of her blog posts, I felt as though I was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder as she jotted down her personal experiences.

I love being able to read each blog and having the ability to understand what is important to her and how her experiences have helped shaped the person she is today. Michelle is clearly very driven, passionate, loyal, hard working, and creative – and her writings reflect exactly that.

My Favorites

Michelle’s “Braided Essay” blog post was definitely one of my favorites. As a reader, I felt connected with her; for I too can be a pessimist at times and set myself up for failure. As a classmate, I felt proud of her for being brave enough to admit a weakness and tell a story in which she prevailed over her fault. It was beautifully written and came full circle with a beginning, middle, and an end.

Another favorite of mine is one in which actually lacks a title, but was written on Wednesday, February 25 of this year. As softball is the subject matter for most of her blogs, it comes as no surprise that this one was as well. However, what I found intriguing about this essay was her gratification and pride in an award in which she had received while on the ASU softball team. I admire her for receiving the award of “Most Improved” player of the 2008 National Championship Softball Team. This alone allows the reader to obtain an understanding of the type of person Michelle is: hard working, driven, and persistent, among others. I found this blog post to be somewhat of a mechanism for positive reinforcement. Sometimes we are more likely to target and write about our flaws and I found it uplifting that Michelle did not choose to do so in this case.

My favorite story would probably have to be one of Michelle’s first posts, titled “Speechless.” For this blog post, we were required to briefly mention and discuss three topics in which would be extremely hard for us to write about. I can remember reading this blog when it was first posted and feeling honored to be probably one of few people who know such intimate secrets as well as feeling proud of her for being brave enough to share such personal subject matter to a class of strangers. My feelings have yet to change. I can’t even imagine having to deal with some of the experiences she has been thrown into and I commend her for being able to cope with them, let alone being able to write about them. I found myself inspired and overwhelmed with a sense of admiration for Michelle as she did not take the easy way out of this assignment, but rather went forward with it head-on and unafraid as to what her classmates might think about her and/or her family. She did an amazing job on this blog and I am so happy for her that she was able to discuss such difficult topics.

A Struggle to Continue

She lays at the bottom, motionless, unable to move ahead.

Broken.

Damaged.

Battered to pieces.

The hounding pressures of the waves smother her from every-which-way. Decades of rust and turmoil devour her every inch, slowly ingesting her from the inside out. Sea creatures of all kinds, shapes, and sizes come to feast, eating away at her remains.

Dark and cold, she yearns for the life she once had; for the sunshine that warmed her so, and the gentle breezes that gave her life and reminded her that she was still alive. Yet the only sign of life left in her is signaled by her ability to feel the pain from her battle scars.

Oil weeps from her core as she recalls the losses she has suffered. “Where did things go wrong? How did I get here?” She thinks to herself. But thinking only causes her more misery.

Each day is a struggle to fight and the nights are not any better.

Although beat down, she is not beaten. She endures the severity of her surroundings.

She is strong.

Made of steel.

Built in a suit of armor.

They cannot destroy her, only render her momentarily paralyzed.

So there she waits, at the deepest part, in the blackest ocean. At the bottom she resides, afraid and alone. But she knows she must persevere. One day, someone will find her, will track her down. They will raise her from her watery prison and she will once again be able to see the light.

Undecided is a Way of Life

In the beginning I was independent and decisive. However, what once seemed so easy was now so hard.

It was a day like any other. I went through the normal motions of my routine: woke up, went to school, arrived home, took a shower, drove to Zack’s, completed some homework, went to rent a movie, and ate dinner. This has become customary to my every day. But each day, the simplicities of life grow increasingly more difficult.

There we stood, just him and me, in front of an entire plethora of choices. Drama, action/adventure, horror, comedy, romance; I wasn’t sure which one to choose.
Overwhelmed with uncertainty, I cowardly turned in to him and muttered, “Which one do you feel like?” Unhappy with the usual, “I don’t care; whatever” response, I let out a sorrowed sigh in frustration. “Just pick one!” he snapped, as he too was becoming more and more hostile from my inability to make a decision. “Fine! Let’s just get this one,” I groaned as I hurriedly clawed at a comedy in dire hopes to lighten the mood.

As we left the store I felt relieved in, what should have been a simple conquest at Blockbuster; yet my feelings of satisfaction and eminence were struck down when he then asked, “Okay, now what do you want for dinner?” Once again, the uneasiness of not knowing what I wanted crept its way back into my stomach. The knot that formed in my throat left me incapable to answer him. “Ummm…” I managed to stutter. “I don’t know. What do you feel like?” “Here we go again,” I thought to myself as I knew this would only ignite an annoying round of back-and-forth irresolution. “Why don’t you pick, Zack, since I chose the movie?” I figured that this would be an even trade, but I soon found out that I was wrong. As soon as I said that, I was immediately answered back with, “Kaylyn, I’m not going to pick for you. You’re the one who’s hungry. I really don’t care what we eat. Just choose, please!” Out of compulsion and hastiness, I quickly countered with, “Someburros.”

Later that night, when my stomach felt as though it was being turned inside out and the movie was so dull that we were forced to turn it off, I knew that I should have chosen pizza and a good, old-fashioned horror flick. Serves me right to be indecisive, I guess.

Comfort in Him

The Test

It is the eve before the big exam and I cannot sleep. My mind is restless as hoards of thoughts scamper throughout their imprisoned walls in my head. I can’t help but to think about my failed attempt at the last exam, nearly a month ago. I devoted several days, two hours each day, to the excruciating studying for that exam; but it did me no good. All the more, luck was not on my side the next day during my time of need. As beads of nervousness dripped down my jaw line, I nibbled at the octagonal sides of my pencil with only one thought in mind: “I wish he were with me. He would calm my nerves and take away my fears and tell me that everything’s going to be alright.”

The Stress

Two weeks pass and heavy wave of stress topples over me and devours any hint of calmness left in my body. My stomach is in a tangle of knots and my breathing is delicate and fast. All I can think about is how the hell I’m going to make it through the week without having a nervous breakdown. My eyes can focus on nothing but my agenda that lies before me. I want to look away, to focus on anything else but that damn agenda, but I can’t. I look up, but my eyes immediately shoot back to the endless pages of the book, covered in bold, red and black writing, with scribbles and notes and exclamation marks and arrows every which way, as if in a manner so tactical as to drive me to the depths of insanity! It is working. I can think of nothing, see nothing, and feel nothing but those damn pages of my agenda lying heavily under my frail fingertips. It’s almost as if I can feel the weight of my workload in my hands. I force myself to close my eyes and think of something, anything else. I immediately think of him. “Where is he?” I repeat to myself. I need him now; for he is the only one that can make things better.

The Disappointment

Dawn soon approaches as does the appointment. My mom and I are in the car and an awkward silence overcomes us. In an attempt to break it, I tell my mom the good news. “I got a 96 on my composition for Spanish….” But she fails to join in on the celebration of my good fortune. “That’s great,” she replies in a monotone voice, showing absolutely no emotion. “What’s wrong?” I forcibly ask her. “Nothing,” she responds, once again with a sense of lifelessness about her. However, I know exactly what’s on her mind. “It’s my weight, isn’t it?” I think to myself and then question aloud. This only makes her angry as it does me. Any time this topic is brought up, it only brings disaster and heartache as I must listen to the disappointment in my mom’s voice as she talks about my appearances and my weight. My eyes soon glaze over as a cluster of tears form and then pursue their downward advance on the sides of my face. I tune out the negative comments coming from my mom and focus on him. I need him now more than ever. He is the one and only person that can comfort me and put a smile on my face in a time like this. He will tell me my mom is wrong and that I am beautiful just the way I am. I yearn to see his face and to be in the comfort of his embrace. “Soon,” I think to myself. “Soon enough.”

Imagine

If someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would draw a picture of a crystal ball. Inside of the pristine, traslucent glass would be a house located on the top of an endless oasis of green pastures extending far beyond what the eye can see. The quant home upon the California hills would possess four bedrooms, a three car garage, and a white, picket fence. In portrait fashion, there would stand a mother, a father, and two children: one boy and one girl; the girl being the younger of the two. A chocolate lab would kneel at his master’s feet; no barking, no growling, simply enjoying the simplicity of life. The sky would be a light blue in color as the sun would hang at its highest point in the atmosphere, signifying that noon was fast approaching. A cool breeze would blow through the thin air and the aroma of oranges would float effortlessly off the leaves of the trees adjacent to the house, consuming every ounce of breath inhaled and exhaled.

If someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would imagine up a fairytale. Inside the pages of my “happily ever after,” I would sing melodious harmonies all day with a smile upon my face. My house upon a hill would only be located 15 minutes from downtown L.A. where my P.R. business would thrive. Concepts such as stress, unhappiness, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would not exist, as I would not possess a care in the world.

If someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would think back to my life a year ago.

A year ago, Torie and I were still best friends.

A year ago, I was attending school in Tucson.

A year ago, Jim and Linda were still alive.

A year ago, my dog was still alive.

A year ago I was unaware of what was soon to come.

So if someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would respond by stating, “I do not wish to imagine my future,” and walk away.

Appreciating the Craft

To be a great writer, one must study the work of other great writers. I believe that by reading and studying the works of writers, one can gain a greater respect for the craft and obtain skills in which can be applied to future, personal writings. With that being said, thus far in the course, I have read two stories in which continue to make themselves prominent in my mind – the two being “Buckeye” by Scott Russell Sanders and “The Death of the Moth” by Virginia Woolf. Both stories begin with the smallest of objects which then lead to a greater idea then maybe what they intended for.

Virginia Woolf’s story begins with a moth. Throughout her story she observes this creature in a room, noting its behavior, movements, appearance, and so forth until finally, she becomes witness to its death. It seemed amazing to me how such a small and seemingly pointless creature could be the subject of such a unique and riveting essay. The manner in which she describes the sequences in her story captivated me and drew me in as a reader. Her technique and writing skills resemble that of poetry, as her imagery is phenomenal – a skill in which I admire and would love to expand upon and use in future writings myself.

In addition, Scott Russell Sanders’ short story begins with a buckeye seed in which his father used to carry around in his pocket, yet expands into something greater. The seed in which he now treasures and keeps safe in an oak box in which his father constructed for him allows for him to reminisce about the memory of his father; for he is now deceased. I was fascinated how such a small and seemingly insignificant object brought so much joy and life to him. This seed was his doorway to the past. It allowed for him to recall memories of him and his father spending time together: how his father – once a carpenter – used to work consistently on his projects and just how much his occupation meant to him. I think that this story provided me with the realization that every story I write does not have to begin and end with a big idea, but rather just needs to be written from the heart.

After reading both Sanders’ and Woolf’s stories, I finally gained a sense of appreciation for the little things in life. Sometimes the most insignificant things can spark some of the greatest writings – if only we take the time to stop and look.

Death in Nature

As I stare out the open window, a sense of calmness possesses me. I close my eyes and my senses heighten. I can feel a gentle breeze graze my rosy cheeks and can hear the whistling of the wind. The roaring engines of a 747 shake my eardrums from overhead. The melodious wind chimes from the house next door echo as they are carried throughout the air. In the near distance, a faint buzzing can be heard. It ventures closer and circles around in front of me but I cannot locate its source.

Within a few minutes a silhouette comes into view. It is small, about the size of my fingernail. As it mimics a zigzag pattern, it then lands on the windowsill. It is but a fly; a puny little creature that knows not where he is. He simply goes wherever the flight of the wind carries him. What a pointless life, if one can even call it that. I almost feel pity for the thing; for that’s all he is – a thing. He lives but a mere month with no tasks to carry out, no one to live for but itself. The fly is alone in the world with its only goals being to eat and mate – nothing more.
If only he had been born a bee. At least this insect gives back to Mother Nature; for it aids in the process of pollination. Not to mention the fact that it at least possesses some sort of beauty in its appearance as it body contains a bright yellow color. The fly is but a black blob. Ugly, frail, disgusting, pitiful. It is an insect defined by its name; for all it does is fly. The one in front of me must hear my thoughts; for he begins to prepare for takeoff. As he soars upward, he does not leave the enclosure of my room, but rather flits from corner to corner, wall to wall – that’s all he can do. After minutes of watching his useless entertainment, he returns back to the comfort of the windowsill. His body language illustrates the definition of pain. He tries to fly again, but his wings are no longer strong enough.

“What happened?” I think to myself. Yet asking this question is as if praying for rain in a never-ending drought – worthless. All I can do is watch and wait. As the pitiful fly rolls over onto its back, legs contorted in the air, I now understand what is about to happen. Death is upon him. He makes one last attempt to live, but that only sucks all the energy out of him and sends his body spinning in a clockwise motion. One of his legs fidgets. It is now over. He is no longer suffering from the symptoms of death; for he is no longer alive.

The Beauty of Technology

Friend or Foe?

Too many times has the technology deceived me; masquerading as my friend, my communicator, my lifeline and then turned its back on me. Too many times has the scenario played out where I have text a friend an important message and eagerly waited for what seemed like an eternity for a reply back. Thus, my eagerness grows into impatience and then anger as I think to myself, “Is she mad at me? What did I do wrong? Are we in a fight now?” The convenience of not responding back immediately kills me in such a time of need and doubt – stupid face-to-face communication.


First Time User

I can remember when I received my first cell phone. I was in the sixth grade and one of very few friends who had one all those years ago. Nowadays, such an idea of carrying a cell phone around at that age is not so unusual. But I did not use my cell phone as I do now. Texting, sending and receiving emails, picture messaging, internet access, Instant Messaging, and Bluetooth did not exist eight years ago (as far as cell phones were concerned). Back then, the only reasons I had a cell phone were in case of emergencies and to call my mom everyday when I arrived at school – she wanted to make sure I got there safely as I walked to and from school on a daily basis. I can remember the exact spot I made that phone call from: right next to the brick wall located behind my technology classroom with Mr. Lemieux. I drive by my middle school from time-to-time and whenever I do, I always pass the spot where I made those routine phone calls and can’t help but chuckle to myself as I reminisce about when I was a kid.


When the Student Becomes the Teacher

When my Dad updated his cell phone from a 10-pound brick with an external antenna and a black/white screen to a high-tech Blackberry, he asked me if I would teach him a few things about the applications on the phone. “Did Hell freeze over? ” I asked myself; for my Dad is always the teacher, never the student, as he never asks for help. “This is my time,” I thought. “I’m finally going to be the authority over my Dad!” I excitedly believed. Yet, I guess that whole “wait until you walk a mile in another man’s shoes” saying is right, because all I got out of this situation was a headache and an angry father. It took about 45 minutes of step-by-step repetitive instructions before my Dad understood the basics of texting. Furthermore, he couldn’t figure out how to adjust the different light settings, color schemes, and layouts on the camera-phone application no matter how many times I explained the processes and provided him with a demonstration. By the end of my tutorial, two hours time elapsed and I was ready to pull out my hair. I now know that when a parent or elder adult asks you to help them with an advanced technology in which they know nothing about, the smart thing to do is to just say, “NO!” and walk away.

Focus for Five

It’s 11:30 and I have five minutes to observe.

As I focus on the surroundings that lay just past the screen-covered window, I notice that same old green beat up Honda, parked adjacent to the sun-colored fire hydrant. It belongs to my neighbors; the ones to the left. I remember when they first bought that car. Once-upon-a-time it resembled the same characteristics of an emerald jewel: pristine, in mint condition, and captured the rays from the light in such a way that you couldn’t help but stop and stare in admiration. Now, however, it just sits on the side of the street, motionless as it gathers up grime and filth from the other vehicles that pass by. The chunk of metal shamelessly reveals a large, rigid dent on the front bumper of the driver’s hand side; a perfect indication of just how my neighbors take care of their belongings.

As my mind begins to drift to thoughts of my unusual and lackadaisical neighbors, a red van advances by, unbeknownst to the driver that I am watching them from my window. The brightness of the sun is reflected onto the speeding red engine, causing my eyes to tear up and burn. I can no longer focus on the van. I look up. The sky is pale blue and the sun is steadily climbing, as if it were ascending a staircase in the atmosphere. As it attempts to reach its highest point in the heavens, I become aware of the time of day – nearly noon. An unexpected shadow suddenly and swiftly flies into my focus. As I follow the object to eye-level, I soon realize that it is but a bird – a finch to be exact. It lands on a cluster of Sedum Sieboldii bushes that guard the front of my house. Searching for food, it can find none; for the leaves are beginning to turn a tint of brown, indicating the coming of summer. Upon the realization that he cannot find nourishment in my front yard, he prepares for take-off and soars away.

With the absence of what little entertainment the young bird provided me, my mind begins to wander. I think about the serenity that exists just beyond the glass in front of me. The outside world is ever-so-calm compared to my state of mind. What feels like thousands of thoughts scamper throughout the pathways in my brain; constantly in a desperate attempt to escape the walls that imprison them, but I won’t let them go. I can’t. Things don’t feel right, I don’t feel right if I’m not worried or stressed about something, anything. I force myself not to think about all the homework I must get done today, the exams that are right around the corner, the obligations I have made to family and friends.

“Snap out of it!” I think to myself. I glance at the clock on my cell phone that rests gently upon my chattering knee. The numbers reveal a bold “11:35” in white italics. My five minutes are up.

Daddy's Little Girl

He was always there for me; all 190 lbs of him. Six-foot on the dot, with proportionately broad shoulders that delicately cradled my head and, on various accounts, sponged up my salty, snake-like tears. His brawny arms, relative in length to his stature, were never unprepared to embrace me if ever I fell. The whites in his eyes, due to the unyielding years, have now begun to dim into an ivory-amber hue; however the hazel, blue-green of his irises never cease to calm and comfort me whenever needed. The subtle vibrations in his speech are humble, as they have always been, and suppress any oncoming anxieties, forcing me to reminisce about several experiences we’ve shared in the past.

Ever since I was a little girl, possessing evidence of my baby fat, and sporting Disney-character outfits and bleach-blonde pigtails, I have been one to worry – about anything, everything, and even nothing. I constantly found myself tripping over the same thoughts as if I were a broken record, going round and round in dizzy circles, getting caught on the same meaningless words. In fear that I could not handle my problems alone; I reached out to my dad for guidance – he never failed to reach back. He gave me light when all I could see was darkness; instilled in me a sense of perseverance and told me to just keep going even when I passionately felt like I couldn’t; but above all, he gave me something and someone to believe in at the times in my life when I didn’t believe in myself.

As I am several years older (and as I like to think – wiser), I have, for the most part grown out of my repression of resorting to my dad to reassure my thoughts and solve my problems. Now that I am 19 and according to society’s standards – an adult – I make a conscious effort to work things out on my own; ever so seldom do I find myself confronting an issue in which I feel that I cannot handle. Yet I understand that I am human and realize that I will make mistakes and, on occasion, need to ask for help. Thus, when these times present themselves to me, I know that I will always be able to lean on my dad and know that he will be there, with his all-too familiar shoulders and his ever-embracing arms, willing to talk me through things every step of the way.

A Little Goes a Long Way

About two by three inches, she stands in pristine beauty, gazing at the world. Eyes of ocean blue, skin as pale as milk, and cheeks as pink as bubblegum; her beauty is unmatchable. She reveals a humbling smile and possesses a sense of warmth about her that comforts me whenever needed. Her fuchsia gown glows elegantly in the light that encompasses her and bears no marks of the years in which she has endured. Golden-brown locks of curly, full hair fall down from the uppermost part of her head and onto her delicate shoulders. Arms wide open and half bent, she embraces those who cradle her. Although hallow inside, she is filled with fascinating stories and endless memories.

She does not possess the gift of language, nor can she hear, but that doesn’t keep me from talking to her and reminiscing about all the times we’ve shared together and all she means to me.

Her name is Ellie and she used to live on a shelf in my room. She was a doll given to me by my Aunt as a memento to remember my late Grandmother, Eleanor. But Ellie is so much more than a perfectly crafted piece of porcelain; she is all I have left of a woman who meant the world to me.

I was just 14 when my Grandmother passed away. As it was only 5 years ago, I can remember being overwhelmed with a mix of emotions. I was sad that she would no longer come around on the weekends to talk about the family and her weekends at the strip-mall and casino. I was angry that she was torn right out of my life, giving me no chance to say good-bye. Most of all, however, I was confused as to why it happened and why I had no closure. The only thing that I was certain about was the fact that I no longer had a grandmother and obtained nothing in which I could remember her by.

And then along came Ellie…

It was about a month or so after the death of my Grandma when, on a warm day in late February, the doorbell rang. It was my Aunt Roxanne and she was holding a cardboard box filled with little trinkets and bundles of papers, among other objects. When she placed the box down onto the kitchen table, she pulled out the smallest, most gorgeous doll I had ever laid eyes upon. Fixing her dress and hair, my Aunt turned toward me and placed the priceless beauty in my cupped hands. Upon telling me that she belonged to my Grandma, I almost broke down with emotion. Holding myself together, I hugged my Aunt and managed to mutter out the words, “Thank you.” She then asked me what I was going to call her – I knew the perfect name; “Ellie,” I said, and rushed to my room to place her high upon my shelf so she could watch over me.

Learning and Applying

Perhaps the best way to learn the craft of writing is to observe the work of other authors. Throughout the entirety of the course thus far, two of the essays in which our class has been asked to read; “The American Male at Age 10,” written by Susan Orlean, and “A Postcard Memoir,” by Lawrence Sutin, have intrigued me above all others.

Susan Orlean’s story, about a young boy named Colin encompassed several interesting aspects. I found the topics in which his friends discussed to be highly appealing; ranging from concepts such as AIDS/HIV, abortion, recycling, personal views about girls/women, sexism, sports, college, and above all, money. After reading this essay, I couldn’t believe the things 10-year-olds talk about nowadays. I never used to discuss such concepts with my friends; maybe due to the fact that I feared discussions about sex and/or didn’t understand or know enough about such concepts as abortion and AIDS. To put it plainly, it shocked me that Colin, as well as his friends, were concentrating on issues in which were far beyond their years. They didn’t seem to be indulging in the idea of being a kid. It appeared as though they were near-adults, masquerading in the bodies of children.

Throughout her essay, Susan Orlean did a phenomenal job when describing the characters and setting. At times, I grew somewhat confused and questioned why she added the extraneous information, as it oftentimes seemed to throw off her essay; however I realized at the end, that her motive was probably targeted at possibly trying to enable the reader to comprehend why Colin is the way he is and thinks as he does and believes the things he does. Thus, I found it to be a powerful tool she enabled throughout her writing and fnow, feel as though I can incorporate such information into my own stories.

In addition to Orlean’s story, Lawrence Sutin’s essay, in my opinion, encompassed a few interesting aspects. Upon reading his story, “A Postcard Memoir,” I became a firm believer in the saying “honesty is the best policy.” After reading his essay, I realized that sometimes the best work stems from reality; sometimes it is more beneficial to write about what you know, to write about the truth and not resort to creating false scenarios. Now, I understand that reality can be more interesting than falsity; in reality, you find humanity – you find the human side of things and people can relate to that.

Living in Memory

He was a man of no older than 67, but looked of only early 50s. Known by family and acquaintances alike, he was the kindest soul. People used to say that he was unlike any other; a true gentleman of his generation. Always with a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye, and the eagerness to lend a helping hand, no one could dispute such a statement. But that day, he was different. No smile, no twinkle, no words. On that day, his youthful looks deceived him; for the lines on his face were eminent from the years of life consumed by the cigarettes he loved so much. Sad it was for him to realize that they now were -- as they had always been – his executioner, as they had come to claim their victim after decades of ceaseless demise.

His clothes controverted those who surrounded him. The warm colors of their sweaters, ruffled tops, and leg warmers, along with their poufy hair, only held back by the thick, elastic band that encircled their heads, contradicted the drab, off-white color of the hospital gown and his ice-cold head, bare from the inability to produce any locks of hair for the past several months.

On this day, the cancer would take him.

His youngest daughter, my mother and nearly pregnant with my older sister, slowly sauntered over to the crib-like bed. Sitting next to what appeared to be a lifeless body, she placed her warm hand on his weakening heart, searching for a beat, a pulse, any indication that he was wasn’t yet gone. Immediately, he fixed his head to face his daughter and, with all his strength, clutched her hand in his. Eyes closed, mouth opened, he took his last breath – and that was it; that was the end of him.

Paul McIntyre, my grandfather, died that day, along with any hopes of him welcoming the births of his two youngest granddaughters. He would not attend our birthday parties, or be there for a shoulder to cry on, nor to continuously inform my sister and me about how life was in the good-old-days. Due to this very moment, now more than two decades ago, I have no choice but to live in my imagination and make-believe stories that never occurred in order to feel his presence and to understand what, now, only photographs depict.

The Power in Art

About a year ago, I sat down with a good friend of mine in the darkness of my dorm room and reluctantly watched, “Across the Universe;” a movie based on numerous songs of the acclaimed 1960s British rock band, the Beatles. Throughout the entirety of the film, to my amazement, my lower jaw was unhinged from my upper jaw, forming an “O” with the whole of my mouth as I was in complete awe and utterly fascinated with the artistry of the underground movie. Never had I seen such illustration of art, information, and emotion in my life; and I say that sincerely.

I remember one scene in particular. The melancholy keynotes of the piano echoed as the somber melody of the song “Let It Be” could be heard. At this point in the movie, the female lead was pictured pedaling her bike on her way to the home of her boyfriend, in an attempt to surprise him on his arrival home from fighting overseas in the Vietnam War. As she anxiously rode around the corner, two officers dressed in appropriate attire could be seen regrettably handing a letter to her beau’s mother. At once, the mother, losing all strength in her body, leaned against the doorframe fell to the ground in hysteria. The girlfriend, comprehending the situation, broke into tears soon after.

Immediately, the cameras flashed to a young black boy, about the age of 12, who began to harmonize to the music. He was sitting on the ground, hiding behind the charcoaled frame of a car ablaze in the background. Trying to understand what was going on, the cameras soon focused in on a swarm of innocent civilians, mostly of the African American ethnicity, who were being shot by white members of the U.S. Army in the midst of a chaotic riot. About a minute into the song, the powerful, yet humbling vibrations of a woman’s voice took over the lyrics of the song as the camera flashed to the young boy lying in a casket; for he was shot in the same riot he was singing about just prior. Giving the audience enough time to take in the death of the young boy, the cameras flashed back to the lead female as she was attending the funeral of her boyfriend. Members of the U.S. Army were pictured folding up the American flag and slowly handing it over into the trembling hands of his mother who broke down once again.

I found this scene, as well as the remaking of the song, to be elequently human and nothing short of phenomenal. It was portrayed with such compassion and emotion which undoubtedly captured the exact story at this point in history. This four minute scene encapsulated both sides of the story; it allowed the audience to understand the fateful account of different ethnicities, opposite social classes, and yet how both were affected by the war in such a similar and catastrophic way. Every time I watch this scene, I can’t help but break down because every aspect that was put into it came together in such a beautiful portrayal of a horrific tragedy.

Sometimes I Just Need to Shut My Mouth

The concept of underestimating is a specialty of mine. I’m very good at “talking the talk,” so it’s called, but I tend to fall short on “walking the walk.” Today, being a prime example of just how overly-confident I can be at times before reality smacks me in the face, or in today’s case, on the butt.

Last night, after the gym, my friend asked my boyfriend and me if we’d like to join him on his hike up South Mountain – a task he ensured would be “challenging but do-able, no doubt.” Since I’ve been hiking many times before, I quickly accepted his offer and was anxious for feat that awaited us the following morning.

Upon waking up at 9:00 a.m. today, I was excited to rough if out on the ridged, desert terrain of the mountainside. Being a fairly athletic person, I figured I could hike the several peaks, no sweat. I knew that I might have a little difficulty at first, but then my body would warm up and I’d be a pro in no time. Confident in my ability to overcome the mountain and give my boyfriend a run for his money, I began to smack-talk. How stupid.

Right when we set foot on the trail, my friend shouts back to me, “Not gonna lie, this first part’s a bitch,” (emphasis on the last word). Nothing like hearing that to get you pumped for an hour and a half hike ahead of ya, right? I knew then and there that I was essentially done for – and boy was I right. Immediately after that, the trail took a frightening turn for the worst – a nearly 45 degree shot, straight up to the top of the first peak amidst countless jagged rocks and cacti which lay in our path. I ran out of breath only halfway up that peak and felt as though I was going to die.

The boys, several feet ahead of me and nearly out of my sight, hollered back, “How ya holding up Kaylyn?” I wanted to strangle them as soon as I could catch up to them because I knew they were mocking me under their breath. Unfortunately that small beacon of hope never came. I was behind them the entire hike and had to stop at least three different times – one of them being not of choice, but due to a clumsy slip on my part. At the time, my boyfriend was walking past a cactus and made the remark, “Oh look, some male genitalia on the side of the trail,” as he pointed to a prickly cactus that was, I have to admit, a spitting image of a man’s southern region. Caught off guard by such a remark amidst my frustration, I lost my footing trying to spot out this amazing piece of natural art that I just had to see, and landed smack on my butt. Seeing and hearing my entire plunge to the rocky ground, Zack, my boyfriend, replied, “Aw, nuts!” He can be so sarcastic sometimes.

It's Hard to Say...

1. Ever since the seventh grade, I noticed that there was something peculiar about me that was different from any of the other school children. I had an insatiable hunger for perfection and an undying need for flawlessness. If ever to make a mistake, I would cause myself great anxiety and stress over the slightest fallibilities. Each night, before going to sleep, I would rummage through my book bag to make sure that all six folders, assorted by color and class, and each almost exactly an inch apart, were visible to my hazel eyes as I lay in bed. I would repeatedly check each one for verification that all homework and needed assignments were correctly placed in their according portfolios for the following day. Unable to simply trust my instincts that all papers were in my backpack, like any “normal” child my age, I obsessed over it, oftentimes crying myself to sleep because I couldn’t resist the lingering temptation. As I later learned, I was diagnosed with OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and ever since, it has, in one form or another, ruled an aspect of my life.

2. Most girls fantasize about their first time having sex. I guess I did too. I always thought that I would be in love, it would be romantic, and it would be the most wonderful night of my life – the night I’d never forget. Well, two out of three isn’t bad, right?

I will never forget the night it happened, but that’s not because it played out like the fantasy I had always hoped for. In fact, it was just the opposite. Everything was wrong: the guy, the place, the setting, the timing – you name it. The morning after, I was so ashamed of myself that I told my parents. Bad idea. I got in a heap of trouble and worst of all, my dad called his dad to talk to him about the whole thing and to get some background information on the kid that took his youngest daughter’s innocence. I don’t know if I was more embarrassed about the fact that our parent’s were talking about the entire mess-of-a-situation or if it was because my parents now knew that I had a sex life.

Now I am a few years older and can look back at that night, and although it is still hard to think about, let alone talk about (and even worse – to put it into words that are visible for the world to see), I don’t think I would change a thing. I used to regret what I did that night and I used to think I was a bad person for doing what I did, but I soon realized that it was because of that moment in my life that helped shape the woman I am today. I am stronger, more sure of myself and my actions, and more aware of the fact that I can make my own decisions.

3. It was during intermission at a high school play my sophomore year. My best friend, at the time – Ashley, and I were eagerly sitting in the auditorium chairs, waiting for the red, velvet curtain to once again rise; but it didn’t – at least not for us. We will never know what happened during the second half of “Zombie Prom”; for we dashed out of the room upon the news that a boy from our school had just killed himself. Ashley knew him, but I didn’t. That didn’t matter. News of his tragic death hit me as hard as it hit her and everyone else who heard about it. At school the following day, people of all grades, and all connections to him – be it acquaintances to best friends or even friends of friends who knew him, were consumed in the sadness of his death.

As I write this, it’s hard for me to even think of the right words to describe the atmosphere on that day in early November, 2004, so I’m not even going to try.

I remember people who wanted to pay their last respects to him wore shirts that displayed his picture – they were told to take them off. Members of the faculty deemed it as publicizing and supporting his suicide – how ridiculous. Yet some kept them on – they became heroes.

At his funeral the following weekend, hundreds of people showed up; people I never thought would be there. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was a boy, not yet a man being just shy of his 18th birthday took his own life and by doing so, took the lives of his mother, father, and two older brothers as well.
I’ve never cried so hard, so long, so much in my entire life.
To this day, every time I hear the song “Remember Me” by Sarah McLaughlin, I will always think of Josh and how his death impacted my life and the lives of my high school peers.

A Long Time Coming

Being the youngest of two daughters, I remember – with great vivacity, how for the longest time, I so wanted to be accepted by my sister. When I was in elementary school, she was my hero, the person I admired most. She was cool, had a lot of friends, dressed nice, and was adored by parents, teachers, and peers alike. Being just two years older than me, I always thought that we would be the kind of sisters that were not simply defined by our title, but best friends as well. I used to wish that one day our relationship would resemble that of which I used to revere on the television series “The Babysitters Club.” In the televised program, the older sibling always watched out for the younger one and cared for him or her as though they were their own. They did everything together and stuck side-by-side no matter what. However, as I progressed through grade school, I couldn’t help but notice that my sister and I did not obtain that sense of closeness that I so yearned for – and I didn’t understand why. Other than my parents, she was all I had.

Yet my sister has always been the type to set herself apart from the family and put her social life before anything else – meaning that friends came first, always. When I was younger, I persistently tried to join in on the fun. Whenever she had a friend over, I would constantly ask her if I could play dress-up, make-believe, or better yet, makeovers with them; yet she would always give me the same answers: “No, Kaylyn,” “Go away!” or, my least favorite, “You have cooties, you can’t play with us!” Eventually, I stopped asking; for I knew my wish would never be granted. At that moment of disheartening epiphany, an overwhelming sadness devoured my body. Being that young and rejected by someone that meant the world to me broke my heart. She made me feel like an outcast within my own family and for the longest time, I hated her for that. I resented everything about her – her individuality, independence, popularity; you name it.

Thus, I withdrew from her from that moment on and we became more like acquaintances rather than sisters. I began to cling to the relationships I formed with friends and treated them better than I did her. If ever I needed to talk, to cry, a favor—anything, I would retreat to them; they were my safe-haven.

Yet, one night I found myself in an uncomfortable situation. I was overwhelmed with different emotions that stemmed from a sort of jealousy of my friends. At the time, they all had significant others and I was the only one out of the group who remained unattached. It had been that way for awhile and in all honesty, towards the beginning, never used to bother me. Unfortunately, being surrounded by it, in what seemed like every minute of every day, I couldn’t help but fester up a strong desire for my own special somebody as well. One night, while I was out with my friends, I couldn’t handle looking at all of them holding hands, holding each other, kissing one another, gazing into one another’s eyes – I just needed to leave. Upon arriving home, I wanted to talk to somebody; but who? I couldn’t resort to my friends, for they were the source of the issue-at-hand and due to embarrassment, was far too afraid to discuss such an issue with my parents. I felt lost in a sea of confusion. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn.

Suddenly, out of some sort of weird sixth-sense/sister-telepathy, my sister (whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in weeks because she moved out of the house and into her own apartment) text me to see how I was doing. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but for some reason I felt the urge to tell her my troubles. I poured my heart and soul into every word that I transferred from my fingers into the phone. Expecting for her to either blow me off or to make fun of me, I was shocked when she replied with sincerity and for the first time in my life, she made everything okay. For the very first time, she became the hero that I had so hungrily pined for when I was a kid. That night, sitting alone in my den, I felt comforted by the fact, that even for a moment, she finally became my sister.

East and West

For as long as I can remember my sister, two years my senior, and I have constantly been told that we look identical and in-so-doing, have been, on several occassions, mistaken for twins. It was not until a few years ago, when those types of comments ceased to roll off the tongues of acquaintances. In reminiscing of why this could be so, I pondered the possible reasons. That is when I stumbled across the memory of the time I stepped-foot in my sister's then, new apartment off the bustling street of Mill Avenue three years ago.

It was as if I was walking into an alternate universe, as if I was tripping on acid, like a supernatural scene from the movie "Across the Universe." As I crossed the threshhold into her new home, the smell of incense burned through the hazy room. I picked up my head and my eyes immediately zoned in on a multi-colored painting of The Beatles hanging above her purple, velvet couch, covered with clothes spew about. Tentatively making my way to the back of the apartment into her room, I couldn't help but realize how my outfit, couture, chic, and trendy, immediately clashed with the sight of dingy earth-tone colors that splashed the walls and devoured her bedspread. Along the corners of the 14 by 10 foot cubbyhole, she had pinned up old posters of classic rock "oldies-but-goodies" as she would say; among them: Bob Dylan, Led Zepplin, the Steve Miller Band, and several pictures of probably the most unforgettable rastafarian known to mankind, Bob Marley, who, in the black and white photograph was embracing the aroma of weed exuding from the joint loosely held in-between his rugged fingers.

Through the reflection of the mirror placed above her oak dresser, I began to study the girl who was once thought to be my replicate. Very thin, ashy colored hair that fell wildly down past her shoulders, hardly any make-up, piercing blue eyes that could match the coldest ocean waters, redish-freckles imprinted on her pale skin from the burning desert sun, clothes, complementing the natural theme of her room draped across her body, and an attitude that could calm even the angriest soul. She was much different than I. Assuming that my thoughts read across my face, she then asked me what was the matter. However, I had no words; I didn't know what to say. I just knew that I felt uncomfortable in the reality that she and I, who were once so alike, were now so dissimilar. That's when I responded, "We are just different, that's all."