ENG 001: Language & Writing

A Celebration

2007-12-10T03:43:00.000-06:00

Bright Eyes, “Lover I Don’t Have To Love”: I picked up my first NYLON magazine in the Reagan National Airport in February of 2005. Our group was finishing lunch, perusing the stands and shops that were dispersed between terminals, waiting to catch our different flights and head our separate ways when I saw a familiar face staring out through the glossy covers. Conor Oberst—Mr. Bright Eyes, Mr. Omaha—was on the cover of a magazine in D.C. I was dumbfounded. I paid the three-odd dollars for the rag and flipped the pages frantically. My friend from Maine was curious about my interest in the magazine and its interviewee, and I told her proudly that he was from my home state, I had friends that actually knew him. Looking, back it’s funny how much I really knew about Conor Oberst. I had only heard one of his bands’ songs, the one featured here, and had really only heard about him through my much cooler friends from Omaha. Truthfully, I probably only identified with Conor and the song because they were what I wanted to be: edgy, angst-ridden, slightly jaded, and effortlessly cool. But, I’m glad that I acted on that feigned connection because I quickly became obsessed with NYLON. It was an unsettling relief from the polished, bubbly pink pages of other magazines. The models were awkwardly posed, the pages matte, the words explicit, much like the stagnant, straight-forward music video for the song which inspired me to pick up the magazine in the first place.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Date With The Night”: I definitely had an enhanced perception of myself during my first half of high school. I thought of myself as a bad-ass, the too-cool-for-school type; wearing black nail polish and pretending to be aloof, writing painful poetry about isolation in my English class simply for the shock-value it held. In reality, I was blessed. I was a cute girl who came from a good home and truly liked pink cardigans more than black studded belts. Through NYLON, I quickly discovered that the real bad-asses, the truly obscene, were not sitting on their flowered comforter writing about teen anguish. They were out rolling around on a stage, throwing their middle fingers in the air, screaming at the top of their lungs. For me, seeing the Yeah Yeah Yeahs in action was not a corrupting agent so much as a realization that this obscenity was not me. While I could not relate to the morbid scene being flashed on the television screen in front of me, I could find inspiration in it. I began to find beauty in things off-kilter and traditionally “ugly”, things as grotesque as museum exhibits of human body parts, or as simplified as gapped teeth, at the same time realizing that they didn’t define me. Ugly became beautiful, and beautiful became undesirable. I would constantly cut apart my NYLON mags, and if an image didn’t cause me to double-take or make my stomach churn slightly, it was left intact between the binding. NYLON embraced all different kinds of ugliness and bad-assery, showing me that “cool” didn’t mean one thing; a person could have that edge whether they were wearing head-to-toe leather, floral, or frills.

The Streets, “Fit But You Know It”: This realization that I didn’t have to be tough to be cool came a bit of a shock and had my world all topsy-turvy, but it came at a crucial time. Because of this redefinition of beauty I had acquired, I started to discover the art of fashion and the fun of reinventing oneself. With this weapon of reinvention in my arsenal, my confidence grew. Not only had I begun to establish an identity, boys were beginning to play a role in my life which, admittedly, they hadn’t before. I was not used to getting invited to parties or turning boys’ heads in restaurants, like the girl in this song was. With my new look and new confidence came the receiving of new attention. I began to flirt, to date, to get a reputation. Finally, when I stopped trying to be such a hell-raiser, I got a little devil in me. I learned more from NYLON that could be applied to the dating scene than I did from any silly quiz over what kind of “back-to-school crush” I might have in CosmoGirl. NYLON taught me that a raised eyebrow and high heel would get me farther than some canned expectation of how the opposite sex thinks. And it did. I had more steamy, serious, and meaningful relationships than many of my contemporaries. I also—with my assertiveness and meticulously undone appearance—had more of a power over the opposite sex than they. I was better able to command a room, communicate verbally with the opposite sex, and wordlessly convey and interpret emotion with others. Truthfully, this all went to my head. I began expecting the invites and recognition that I had come to accustomed to. I finally realized I was fit, and god damn did I know it.

M.I.A., “Galang”: Quickly, my mind began to expand as well as my confidence and closet. NYLON, with its global focus, had me more conscious of what was happening in the world around me. Although the magazine’s focus is on art, music, and fashion, more than politics and editorials, it places huge emphasis on presenting different countries’ adaptations of those artistic expressions. It is clear that out of all the years I have been reading the magazine, one artist in particular jumped out of the pages at me, proclaiming all of NYLON’s aforementioned ideals. M.I.A. dressed in paint splattered, wildly patterned, neon clothing and brought forth unique music and lyrics that had not been attempted by many previous artists. All the while, she was very vocal about her opposition to the War on Terror and the plights of the rest of the world. As an artist, she did an amazing job of being strong musically, politically, and physically, but did not let any one of those individual strengths define her. So I strove to live out my life. I developed an eclectic musical taste and began building my collection with the tribal stylings of M.I.A., the lo-fi buzz of Death Cab, the bubbly melodies of Hilary Duff, the rhymes of Kanye, and the crackly snarl of Johnny Cash. I versed myself in political issues both local and foreign, becoming an advocate of public radio and service organizations. I also refined my fashion preferences and began to expand my knowledge of the industry, looking into off-the-radar designers, innovating silhouettes, and reinvented clothing trends. My life became a juxtaposition of variety of interests; mashing together mathematics and agriculture, debate and art, fashion and politics. Soon, my world expanded into one as colorful, eclectic, and jumbled as the world M.I.A.

The Decemberists, “Sixteen Military Wives”: One of my first vintage buys was a navy Ralph Lauren blazer, quite similar to the ones worn by the prep school students in this video. I found it on the racks of my local thrift shop, the Second Closet, for only eight dollars. It was tailored but slightly baggy on my adolescent frame and has a gold crest on the left breast pocket. It was kicky and slightly offbeat and probably looked more than a little out of place roaming the high school’s halls amongst sweatshirts and sports tees. But I loved the way it made me feel—the slight scratchiness of the fabric and stickiness of the lining felt mature and daring, the gold thread and brass buttons alluring and glitzy. I even wore it in one of my yearbook pictures. I had an odd shag haircut and nerdy glasses, but damn, did that jacket look good. The coolest part about it was that it went against convention. No one in my school had anything like it, and not everyone necessarily liked it, and that was okay by me. Unlike so many of my peers, I was drawing inspiration from a different, underground culture. NYLON was teaching me the importance of individualism, and the simple fact that not everyone’s style can be the same or even fit into separate categories. The girls who read Seventeen had options like “wild,” “classic,” and “girly” to express their individuality, but for the NYLON readers, their options defied categorization. No style guru stood over them suggesting the perfect fit or match of lip color, leaving mistakes inevitable and creativity unhampered. I often made those mistakes in the form of things like floral dresses and legwarmers, but they lead to discoveries like the Ralph Lauren blazer, and never once subjected me to the iron hand of social conformity.

The Rocket Summer, “Brat Pack”: I’ve been living the small town life for the last eleven years. I know all about the empty streets and hometown cafés that the band inhabits in this video. For so long, I just wanted out! I found that escape in my magazines and their stories of posh parties in New York, Milan, London, and the like. I yearned to experience these luxuries, to live the life of my idols. Each step out of my hometown became a venture into a world so more creative and fantastical than the one I was used to. Even Omaha became a mini fashion capital for me, with residents who took some fashion liberties and were at least partially knowledgeable of current designers. At this point, it’s pretty apparent that I was aching for some sort of change of pace, some shock of culture in my humdrum life. What NYLON gave me was better. Yes, they supplied me with the basic happenings in the grander fashion world, but more importantly, they taught me to adapt to my situation, to play the hand I was dealt. The magazine catered to the suppressed small-town reader, gracing the local Barnes & Noble shelf every month. Inside its pages was a plethora of resources for my deprived senses—colors, shapes, textures. But not only was I able to witness these extreme fashion statements, I also learned how to deconstruct and reinterpret those ideas to fit my lifestyle. NYLON successfully brought high fashion to my small world, making me almost grateful for the fact that I did not reside in some fancy loft in SoHo—almost.

The Shins, “Pink Bullets”: Through this whole process of self-discovery and definition I was surrounded by people: classmates, friends, family, community. I always had love, support, and feedback readily available to me. This was something that I admittedly took for granted and it took a loss—like the one touched upon in the slow, wandering, song “Pink Bullets”—to lead me to reality. After my mother’s death, I lost a good chunk of my support system and the figurative glue that held my household together dissolved. I was left with a house, but no home, a stepfather and siblings, but no family. This loss strengthened some of my other relationships and demolished some. Eventually, I was spending a majority of my time alone. I wasn’t used to this lack of lending ear. Soon, the thoughts, ideas, and beliefs colorfully concocted in my mind that I would’ve usually shared with my mother began coming through in my clothing. I started spending extravagantly on pieces that reflected my ever-changing tastes and whims. Soon, I was spending more on clothing than I was on food in the efforts to lose my feelings amongst the rows of fabric in my walk-in closet. My life was morphing into the life of the girl that NYLON geared to: the life of the lone-standing, slightly askew fashion addict. But, despite the fact that I was definitely not happy, I had become self-reliant and self-sufficient. The means that occurred to get me to this independent state were not ideal, but the transformation was necessary for me to stand on my own feet. There was a melancholic sense of empowerment in the results of my mother’s death—my isolation lead to the assertion of my independence, the creative expression of my thoughts, and the embracing of my past defeats. I was once again employing the beauty-in-the-ugly theory that NYLON had instilled in me, finding solace and even advantages in the disadvantageous situation that life had provided me, keeping memory of my tribulations and my past experiences as “warm light on a winter’s day.”

Tilly and the Wall, “Sing Songs Along”: Soon, my dreary disposition did lift. My musical taste shifted from the somber, acoustic type to the danceable, twee-pop genre. My baggy, dark clothes gave way to more vibrant, bright, revealing hues and slowly my hemlines, like my spirits, rose. As I changed, so did my magazine, shifting their preferences from Interpol to Kiiii, from the dull greys and blacks of DKNY to the Technicolor trips of Jeremy Scott. Shortly after hearing about the Omaha-ian band Tilly and the Wall at camp, NYLON featured them in their neon-hued glory on its normally less chaotic pages. The band’s songs were light and playful, while their lyrics usually dealt with the gritty indie scene of their hometown. While their outward appearance often contradicted the messages embedded within their lyrics, neither strove to mask the other. It was when I saw the band live at Sokol that their message as well as NYLON’s finally clicked in my mind. Fashion is not idle, it is not material, it is not even accurately described as expression. Fashion is celebration. It is the celebration of beauty of destruction, of breathing and dying, of the human spirit, of the human form, of color, of art, of science and economics, of all things that set us apart and link us together, of everything in this world. So too should music, and art, and parties, and every aspect of human existence be viewed. Life is a never-ending celebration of all things yin and yang, and only we, the individual can decide how to carry out that celebration for our selves.

Yeah, Mama, This Must Be My Dream...

2007-11-18T23:09:00.000-06:00

I have a horrible memory. I don’t know why really, I’ve never bumped my head or anything. I’m just…forgetful. This being said, I was racking my brain trying to come up with the very first music video I can remember viewing. I’m sure it was probably some Disney-Channel, Cheetah-Girl nonsense but of course I don’t remember any of those music videos vividly enough to write about them. I also thought of some cop-outs: videos that I am sure were not some of the first I’d seen, but that had somehow managed to stay stored in my memory (“Fell in Love with a Girl,” “Baby One More Time”). I could not only remember the Lego Jack White and the Britney dancing around with fuzzy scrunchies in her hair, but I could remember who I was at the time those videos came out, a writing assignment in the bag for sure!

But then, an older memory weaseled its way out of the folds of grey matter in my skull and I could not shake it in favor of one of the simpler options. There I was, roly-poly about seven years old, sitting Indian-style on the carpeted floor of our basement, watching Marcy Playground’s “Sex and Candy” with my face about eight inches from the television screen.

I can remember being shocked at this world outside of my family’s sponge-painted, wall-papered walls; this world where sex and sensuality was everywhere, oozing from lead-singer John Wozniack’s story as well as his voice. I could vaguely remember some details of the actual video, mainly the rolling, checkered hills. However, there were many things that I could not remember about the video or that I had fabricated in my young mind. Firstly, I had the misconstrued idea that there was actually a woman in the video. For some reason, I pictured her with ruby lips and sitting in a chair…but she was no where to be found. I also had no recollection of the surreal, sort of Tim-Burton feel of the action in the video. I did not remember the spider or his shadow, the digging in drawers for panties, or chilling end of the song where Wozniack drowns (or drifts to sleep?) in a pool of teal liquid.

I suppose all of these weird, almost typical of 90s grunge/alt rock videos elements were birthed out of the song’s lyrics: “mama this surely is a dream.” But, I don’t associate this music video with surrealism, or even its genre or the time period in which it was released. The exact moment when I viewed this video on my basement’s living room floor was the start of my slow loss of innocence; it was the realization of things gritty and slick and un-fluffed and impure.

Oh, the Joys of Kate Bush And Interpretive Dance!

2007-11-14T23:43:00.000-06:00

Our culture has an obsession with train-wrecks. Whether it be Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction or the cult-classic Snakes On a Plane, we love things that are so horribly appalling and shocking that we can’t turn away. That same attitude was found in our AP English class during our study of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. The book itself isn’t crappy…it’s all the musical merchandise that has been perpetuated based on the classic tale of Heathcliff and Cathy’s love.

We were quickly introduced to the legacy of the “Wuthering Heights” song. Whether it was the hard-rock or acoustic versions, we were hooked. The class asked our teacher to burn us a CD with “Wuthering Heights” after “Wuthering Heights.” We would even listen to it while working on assignments pertaining to the book.

Needless to say, after this much repetition, the song began to engrave itself into our minds. But one version really tipped the scale into making the “Wuthering Heights” song into huge laugh for our group. We discovered our favorite take on the song when we were blessed with watching it’s beautiful catastrophe of a video released by Kate Bush.

And I return to this sort of train-wreck theory. The video is weird, uncomfortable, and obviously low budget. But not only did our class find it hilarious, we learned that the song and video had been serious hit in Europe as well (which aided in our amusement). The AP kids would roam the halls, randomly bursting into loud, shrill “Heathcliff! It’s me, I’m Cathy, I’ve come home! I’m so co-o-o-old!” MySpace profile songs were changed to the 80s-Euro hit. Spoof videos were filmed with our resident actor Nick prancing about in a long white dress and black wig.

Our obsession was not one that was widely understood, but that’s all right. It became an inside joke between a group of some of my favorite classmates that will always be able to replay in my memories…and DVD player thanks to copies of Nick’s video.

We're Glad For What We've Got, Done With What We've Lost, Our Whole Lives Laid Out Right In Front Of Us

2007-11-11T21:30:00.001-06:00

My first concert ever was Something Corporate and Straylight Run at Sokol Underground in Omaha. It was an amazing show; Straylight has been one of my favorite bands ever since I first saw their video for "Existentialism on Prom Night" and I hope to see them again in seven short days.

Concerts are interesting. There is such a sense of community in the crowd at a show, especially at Sokol. People crowd-surf and dance together, and belt out the words along with their favorite musicians, and help you up if you happen to fall in the mosh. But that connection is ephemeral. As soon as you walk out the door, you see your fellow-concert goers in a different context; soon the community you had shifts, distorts, or dies. Everyone I was with at that concert has gone their separate ways. The nameless yellow-shirt boy who ended up dancing with me in the crowd drove back to his hometown. I recently got into a spat with the best friend who had invited me. The two other friends who came along are still back in our hometown, we’ve taken different paths. Who knows where the hundreds of other nameless faces that were at the show that night are now.

There is so much going on and so many different characters in this video. Some have close ups, some are main focuses, some just cameos. There is the couple arguing in sign language while a young ballerina dances in the aisle, punks painting their nails and braiding their hair, men text messaging, and girls gazing out windows. They are all so caught up in their own situations, their own stories. While being immersed in their personal problems, they may be missing the fleeting sense of community that their shared journey has created. We never see where the crowd has come from or where they are going just that they were in the same journey together, doing the same dance of life.

Argumentation & the Public Sphere

2007-11-11T21:30:00.000-06:00

On the first day of our English 001 class, we were informed that all of our writing assignments would be posted in a digital format. We would become bloggers. Over the next few weeks we learned about incorporating pictures, hyperlinks, and videos into our posts, but why? Why do we choose to incorporate those said devices, other than the fact that the Internet allows us to and we simply can? These multimedia devices enhance our writing, providing readers with a deeper experience of the subject matter. The task of taking our writing digital was an intimidating but not totally foreign concept. The responsibility of appropriately using these multimedia elements as enhancements to our ideas, however, is a bit more difficult to manage.

(Please click to listen to clip before continuing.)

In her audio essay, Stephanie Thibault explains what the “vanishing sound of chalk clicking on a chalkboard” means to her. While discussing a particular, almost antiquated noise that is rarely heard in our own classroom, Thibault does acknowledge an idea that is critical to our class: the successful use of different media in the presentation of ideas. Thibault uses the rhetorical strategies of narration and example to generate strong pathos within her audience, solidifying her argument: the sound of chalk on a chalkboard enhances education. This same argument can be applied to our class and our newfound writing techniques: information is more potent when it is presented across media or in multifaceted ways.

Thibault’s brief essay is part of an NPR series, SoundClips: Audio Experiences, in which listeners submit sounds that “fascinate” them. The essays are narrative in structure: the listener explains what the sound is, perhaps how they first encountered the sound and the impact it has had on their life. But, not only is the listener submitting a sound and explanation of that sound, they are reading that explanation themselves. Thibault introduces herself, introduces the sound of chalk on a chalkboard, and then provides anecdotes that show the role of chalkboards (or lack thereof) in her life. Would Thibault’s stories and thoughts have the same sense of credibility if read from a sheet by a normal NPR coorespondent? The process of Thibault telling her own story creates ethos for her audience, making them more perceptive to her argument and the pathos she later tries to establish.

Thibault also readily employs the rhetorical strategy of example to build her argument of education’s need for chalkboards. Within her narrative, Thibault provides anecdotal examples of hearing the squeaks on a dry-erase board, and wincing at the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. These examples acknowledge the opposition to Thibault’s argument; dry-erase boards are modern, cutting-edge, as are the keyboards and mice that have followed. Who wants to hear the horrible screech of chalk held at the wrong angle or fingernails dragged across slate when the somber taps and clicks are an alternative? However, Thibault also mentions the removal of chalkboards from her school and the experience of visiting newer schools without chalkboards. The recognition of the absence of chalkboards becomes a more convincing argument for them than does an approach such as a laundry-listing of the chalkboard’s attributes.

But, it’s the inclusion of the actual audio example of chalk on a chalkboard that makes Thibault’s verbal essay stand out, becoming much more convincing and literally appealing to the listener. As stated earlier, Thibault introduces herself and her topic—but then the sound of the chalk interjects. Every few seconds, Thibault resumes with her anecdotes and opinions, and then the chalk continues, almost as Thibault is lecturing to the listener and writing down a summary of her ideas on the chalkboard between points.

Thibault argues that the sound of chalk on the chalkboard creates a closer relationship between student and instructor because of the “audio part of the learning” process. The inclusion of both the spoken-word and chalk audio in her essay creates the same closeness between Thibault and her listeners. While creating a prime example of Thibault’s argument, the chalk also allows the listener to make their own connections between the sound and their memories. Because the audience has established this emotional connection with Thibault’s examples, they are now more prepared to receive the message she is vocalizing, thus strengthening the already vivid example-driven argument Thibault has built with her words.

It is interesting to note that in her essay, Thibault seems to call against the modern advances of dry-erase boards and—it can be implied—computers in the classroom, but that the essay is now posted in a digital format. Although some could say that this conflicts with Thibault’s main points, it only does so at a surface level. While it is true Thibault is arguing for chalkboards, she truly is calling for information to be presented across media or in multifaceted ways. The nostalgic spin on her argument—that she prefers the chalkboards over more modern advances—is not in itself an argument for antiquated teaching methods. This nostalgia can be reiterated in the fact that the NPR piece is now a part of mass archives. Technology is not the opposition; it can be a tool in the examination of the past. Listeners are now able to call up this article from months prior to listen to it any time they wish.

Thibault’s argument for the multimedia presentation of information can be directly related to the purpose of our class. The additions of multimedia elements add soul to an argument. A carefully chosen image, video, or sound can evoke emotions and thoughts out of an audience that the most eloquent words could never accomplish. The methods of posting online and adding hyperlinks make things like time and place irrelevant to the writing at hand. Blogs can be accessed anytime, anywhere; hyperlinks to external sites can make the most foreign, complicated, or ancient ideas sparkle. Posting online allows us as writers to incorporate arguments into our work that pen and paper do not; videos, images, sounds provide moving points that create an entirely different kind of argument and impression than do words. These different forces at work create within in a piece make for a stronger message overall, just as a lesson incorporating work on the chalkboard may leave more of an impression than a simple lecture—where the chalkboard started with its click-clack-click, we bloggers continue.

Memorial

2007-10-21T23:42:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, I was startled out of my afternoon nap by a phone call from my high school friend, Jessica. We chit-chatted a while, and then she told me what had obviously served as a catalyst for her call.

"I'm reading the paper and they have an article about your mom."

"Oh..."

"Your church is starting that prayer garden, you know? And they built a huge memorial 'in dedication to former member Debra Hartmann.'"

At this point, tears began welling in my eyes. I was touched by the actions of my former congregation, but also hurt that I had to learn about the dedication from a friend who happened to be reading the paper. I still don't even know if the memorial has been built or if the dedication has already taken place. Why hadn't the church contacted me or my grandparents? Had they just told my step-father, and if so, how come he didn't inform me?

Families are complicated on their own; before, I had birth-father and step-family issues to worry about. Now, I have legal guardians, separation of estate, and Social Security checks thrown into the mix. In short, it's been a tumultuous year-and-a-half. Unfortunately, my mother's death has torn our family apart rather than made us stronger.

I'm glad that people on the outside haven't been affected by the legality that comes along with death. My friends, my congregation still remember my mother with no cynicism, no angst, no hurt in their hearts; just love. I sincerely hope that people will stand before this memorial and wonder about and remember the life that my mother led.

Yesterday, I sat at the kitchen table at my now home in Bellevue--my grandparents' house, where my mother grew up--browsing through old photos while my grandma fiddled over the stove. There were pictures I had never seen before: pictures that my mom took of me playing with geese when I was five, pictures of us dressed up for my second Halloween, pictures of her graduating college, pictures of her bald after radiation, pictures of her pregnant with me. I shut the box before tears ruined my makeup.

Someday, I hope I have the courage to go back to Seward and visit her memorial and remember her, remember how much she loved me, and cry.

The Garden: 9 Sept 2006

"its a garden"
i keep telling myself over and over
as i travel up the walk
click clack, click clack
and step around torn up bricks
from my fathers reconstruction.

thats not right.

her garden wouldnt permit high heels,
it wouldnt involve machinery and pattern.
itd be a place of barefeet
and dresses and dirt and smiles
and tea parties neath the trees.
the vegetables, the white picket fences
the roses, the cracks in the sidewalk,
those things made it so personal.
so iconically her.

hes taking her away piece by piece
and soon it will be something entirely different all together.
hes digging her up
and throwing her away.
the soil, the grass, the ornaments,
the flowers.

god, the flowers.

they came and went and came and went for weeks,
all staged in their little baskets
mimicking her work.
the most expensive floral arrangement couldnt compare
to her design.
nothing could look that alive.

but now its dead.

shes not there reinventing or
away spending a fortune on new finds,
shes gone.
the butterflies dont dance like they used to
and the pathways many twists and turns
dont hold the same sense of mystery.
its so much smaller with out her.

the day of the funeral,
there wasnt room in the church
for all the arrangments that had been sent,
substitute sympathies,
but there was room for that garden.
it went underground that day.
swallowed up by that which it was born from.

the only time ive ever seen something
that comes close to paralleling her legacy
was when i went to the cemetery.
i was literally forced out of the car
by my rough-and-tumble southern aunt.
i could tell which plot was hers from the enterance gate.

freshly packed.
still unmarked.

as i got closer, i saw that, in this rectangle
danced fairies and flowers in beautiful colors.
a tiny cariacature of her garden.
it made me dizzy.
things kept bombarding me.
talks and colors and stones and bridges
and plans.
all of the sudden everything just seemed to big.
i cried, i left.

i havent gone back.

everything here is greyer and older.
no matter how many bricks my dad lays,
or how many moss rosses my grandma plants to fill the gaps,
or how many times someone akwardly says
"your mother's garden is always so beautiful,"
its changed.

flowers do not have soul, people do.
flowers can come back every year, people can not.
shes not here or away,
shes gone.

its no longer her garden,
its my fathers yard.

This Is Not An Assignment

2007-10-19T04:00:00.001-05:00

I don’t know why I do it; ever since I was five I’ve been preaching to other people about not doing it. I think it’s the smell. I love the smell on clothes, on fingers. I like the taste once it’s lingered in my mouth a bit. The taste is what takes me back: to steamed windshields, to Sunday mornings with the blinds open, the feeling of your tongue and your fingers wrapped around my own.

I don’t know who I am anymore, really. I don’t know what I am doing here, what I want to be. I can’t help feeling like I have settled, or help feeling that I’ve settled because of you. It kills me that we had a plan and now we are in the same city but we are more distant than ever. Tuesday would have been our one-year; instead I’m alone and lost. I made the mistake of letting us define me.

They—that anonymous, collective “they”—say that “you find yourself in college.” I liked who I was. I don’t want to find something new, something worse than what I began with. But despite not wanting it, I’m here—unsure if every move I make is done to please me, or the people around me.

A cigarette bummed from a friend warms me while I sit out in the cold. Soon, I will be tucked in, eyes closed, mind calmed, while others run about wildly, stumbling into each other in the dark. I, on the other hand, will be asleep, with my just my smoke-scented fingers resting gently next to my face on the pillow.

2007-10-17T19:06:00.000-05:00

As we get older the urge we have to be accepted seems to calm itself. But think back a few years; growing up, it means a lot to be cool. When you were in middle school you had to be cool, whether that meant dressing like your favorite TV star, playing with the popular kids at recess, disrespecting your teacher, or ridiculing those who were less cool than you.

I was never the ridiculer, always the ridiculed. I suppose with my fleece vests, round face, round glasses, and bowl-cut I was a pretty easy target. Nevertheless, I tried my hardest, always inviting the few most popular girls to my sleepovers, hanging on desperately when my best friend began to join their clique.

I suppose it was with those memories and that sentiment that I trudged down the slick cement stairs outside Mickle Middle School, umbrella in hand and jacket buttoned against the wind, to Portable 8 this morning. Fuck middle school. Fuck middle school-ers. Did I really want to revisit the days of being a hormonal, chubby, book-worm, outcast from my fellow classmates?

I stepped into the classroom greeted by the sounds of an elderly teacher (my mentor!) barking “John how many do you have? Four take away three is not two, seriously!” The students were packing up their Trapper Keepers, this was not my group. A few minutes passed and new students trickled in, their clothes speckled with raindrops.

Once we had all been introduced, I began seeing myself in some of the students, my old classmates in others. Alexa Who-Loves-Books may as well be the seventh-grade version of me. Liz Who-Likes-The-Color-Purple reminded me of the few middle school bad asses we had, head-to-toe black garb and all. Andy Who-Skates had the same apathy of the boy I played footsie with in eighth-grade Health. Thomas Who-Doesn’t-Go-A-Day-Without-Playing-Video-Games was a spitting image of the kid who pooped his pants in the sixth-grade.

From an outsider’s perspective, these are the kids that make a real impression. I can’t tell the rest of the Jaydens from the Jaylas from the Kaylees and Kyles.

I want to scream to them: “It doesn’t matter if you have your nose in a book or a funny hair cut, if you laugh when the class is silent or have a crush on another boy in your Cub Scout group, someday kids, standing out instead of fitting in will pay off! Don’t wait to establish yourselves later; the sooner you figure out what you stand for, the easier life will be for you. Please don’t waste your time being cool!”

2007-10-14T23:50:00.000-05:00

Why are so many people following the same routine day in and day out; leading shallow, selfish lives that are satisfactory at best? What makes a life better; more fulfilling?

Ultimately, things that the Foundation For a Better Life names (things like courage, ambition, hope, achievement) all lead to self-betterment. But the one virtue that really leads a person to living a better life is sacrifice. Whether it be sacrifice of time, of talent, of treasure--giving up a part of your self for the benefit of another or others is what leads people to truly successful lives.

What I wish that more people realized is that these sacrifices don’t have to be large, as long as they are meaningful. Many people, if they choose to perform service at all, choose large, well-hyped projects so as to appear ambitious and, in a sense, super-human. Others just find the idea of service to be too large, looming, and time-consuming.

Service is not about networking, or image, or any of the selfish spins that some people put on it. Service is about stepping outside of yourself and your problems—whether it be to address another person’s problem, a community’s problem, a nation’s problem, or an overriding problem of society as a whole.

“A lot of little actions add up to huge changes in the world,” says Kristi Shoemaker, member of the Leadership Lincoln Board of Directors. “I think people can forget that it’s the small things that often make a difference.” This year Leadership Lincoln is recognizing 305 everyday heroes for the service and sacrifices they incorporated into their daily lives.

Flashing a smile at someone you pass on the street could turn a day from gloomy to bright. Being positive and vocal in the work or classroom environment could inspire your peers to approach their work in an entirely new way. You have the potential to change the world through your actions. You can initiate this change through one person, one deed, one phrase, one gesture, one smile.

Do you live everyday on purpose? Do you live it as an example? Maybe it’s time to start.
Think about it and, as the FBL says, “pass it on.”

A Tissue For Your Issue

2007-10-10T23:01:00.000-05:00

It starts with a tickle, an itch. Your eyes start watering, your cheeks redden and your face tightens. Ah-AH-AHCHOO!

I myself never say those well-known customary words when another utters an explosive, high-pitched snort. I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe it’s because I am not comfortable with the religious connotations the words “bless you” hold. But, if this were true, I could easily substitute the phrase for the German word “Gesundheit,” which wishes the sneezer “good health.” More likely, it’s because I am a firm believer in saying what I mean at all times. I don’t mean “bless you,” I don’t wish a figment’s blessing upon you just because you were able to spout mucus out of your nostrils. I don’t mean “excuse you,” you just interrupted my paper-writing because you couldn’t control a damn sneeze. I really don’t wish you “good health,” I could care less if you catch cold just as long as you don’t spread it to me.

But, I always have had the words said to me. A good portion of the time, if I sneezed in public, there was someone there to pardon me from my infraction—whether it be a pastor, a classmate, or my grandma using the German version in her heavy accent.

Today was the first time that I have sneezed in public on campus and no one has said, “Bless you!” I had just sat down in the computer lab, opened my browser, and without delay a sharp, quick, particularly tickle-y and particularly loud sneeze issued from my nasal passages. There were several other students in the lab, but none said a word, let alone looked up from their mountainous math equations. It was a lonely feeling, not having anyone to at least pretend to wish you well.

That is why, from here on out, I propose that I adopt new action to extend to other sniffle-ridden students. During cold and flu season, I will carry personal-sized tissues and hand sanitizer with me at all times. In the event that someone around me sneezes, I can simply hand them the goods and say, “Here, clean yourself off and then go buy some chicken noodle soup and OJ so your germs are out of my proximity.”

Panache: Finding a Home at "The Coffee House"

2007-10-07T23:35:00.000-05:00

I don’t know exactly what it is about initial visits to coffee houses that turn me into such an apprehensive, stumbling, wreck. As I walk into Panache, I shove my hands into my sundress’ deep cotton pockets, trying to look a little less eager and a bit more nonchalant. I step up to the counter to order, nervously and unnecessarily explaining that I’m not quite sure what I want yet. The clerk—a slim, energetic boy with cropped hair and black studs in his earlobes—humors me and points me in the direction of a small sandwich selection. I opt for a roast beef, veggie, and provolone, and slide the cool glass door to retrieve it and a granny smith apple. I place it on the counter and brazenly order a 20 oz. non-fat iced chai latte (the only order I’ve perfected like a true café connoisseur).

I fumble around in my backpack for my wallet, and look up to see that the clerk had walked to the other end of the counter to ring up my total. No wonder, there is no cash register in front of the spot I’m standing. I smile awkwardly, slide down a few feet, and pay for my items. All the while the clerk is having a playful argument with another employee. He attempts a resolution from me.

“Would you rather have twenty-five thousand dollars or one million dollars?”

“Well that depends on the means of getting the money,” I reply, warming. “No one wants a shitty job, even if it pays well.”

“If you won it from the lottery.”

“Well then, one million dollars.”

“But what would you do with all of it?”

“Invest, put it in savings for future generations,” he gives me a raised eyebrow, “and do a bit of shopping, I suppose.”

“But see, there is no way you could spend it all,” the clerk directs toward his friend. The corner of my mouth turns upward; I take my things and turn to the maze of tables that make up the hub of the coffee house.

I grab a non-descript table against the far wall. As I squeeze haphazardly between chairs, a fairly attractive boy looks up at me from his mountain of notebooks and folders. Another eyes me as he takes a swig from his coffee mug. I blush, but walk a little taller, feeling my self-confidence reaffirmed. I spread my bag and papers across the checkerboard-printed tabletop, place my plate and cup in front of my seat, crack the spine of my composition book, and plop down onto the hard wooden frame of my chair.

Sun beats in through the large storefront window, bouncing off of a huge gilded mirror, and shimmering on the tops of peoples’ heads. I bite timidly into my sandwich and subtly glance around at my fellow coffee-shop goers. For a Wednesday afternoon, there is an excess amount of energy percolating amongst the tables. A chatty girl with bleach blonde bangs is speaking loudly to an older woman who is wearing those thick, I-am-a-big-deal frames that are so popular right now. She speaks with an urgency that falls somewhere between passionately explaining a dilemma to your boss and sharing friendship frustrations with your mother; her white teeth flashing with each new word.

A young man sits at the table next to her—the stereotypical scruffy, college-student type—buried in a book about Islam. He has an expression of studied concentration; he seems to be either very absorbed in his subject or very annoyed with the chatter coming from his right. There is elegance about his coarseness; he prides himself in appearing pained.

One of the aforementioned “fairly attractive college boys” and his friend are seated right across from me, studying some sort of mathematics course that comes complete with huge textbooks and wrinkled brows. The other is now involved in a phone conversation with a significant other but occasionally flicks imaginary specs from his table and smiles at me.

On one of the sofas, which face a large storefront window laden with newspapers, crates, and an old-fashioned bicycle, a cheery couple laughs over a YouTube video. She has tawny skin and raven hair. His complexion is flaxen and light. Their grins are identical. They are young.

I curl my legs under me and sit hunched over my writing. Every few minutes I lean back, sip my chai and take the whole place in. Brick, mortar, and stained-glass stare back at me; the soft blow of the ceiling fans tickles the back of my neck. Bulletin boards boast announcements of indie concerts, anti-war vigils, and secular bible studies; a two-dimensional woman in a turban sips her cup elegantly above me. The lazy, low-fi sounds of strumming guitars bloom in my ears. I bite into my sandwich and start again, the lamp at my table casting my pencil’s shadow across my paper.

Several other customers filter in and out, creating a constant pulse and breathing life into the shop. Three Technicolor hippie girls in flowing skirts chat wildly while waiting in line; the owner of Rialto floats calmly through the crowd in a vintage military-style coat; an androgynous athlete snatches some joe on the go; two hipster girls in cuffed jeans peruse Panache’s array of sodas; a balding man strolls his bald baby around chairs; a woman stops at the condiments bar and flails along with the café’s music.

I sit in my wooden chair at my checkerboard table for a good hour, any insecurity lost in the café’s rhythm. The ebb and flow of customers refuses to cease. Here differences are embraced, being un-normal is the norm. Each new person brings their own spice to the air about the café; each one as colorful as the ingredients in their meals; each one equally important and eccentric, each one embodying the true meaning of Panache. Each person brings only themselves, but eventually, a give-and-take society, an ever-changing concoction, has formed.

When you step into Panache, you bring with you your similarities, your shared interests, and find yourself leaving with new thoughts, new impressions, new identity. Everything has its impact; the soft music, the vibrant artwork, the varied chatter, the fresh-roast aroma wafting above your head. But it’s the people that inspire and create change within you; the news junkies, the scholars, the free spirits, the business people, the chain smokers, the hat wearers, the happy couples dispersed amongst groups and individuals. Not a word needs to be spoken; simply coming in contact with this community leaves you changed, feeling more complete, more enriched than when you entered.

Only oat-speckled crusts and a fleshy white apple core are left on my plate. A glance at the time breaks Panache’s spell. I gather my things and attempt to discretely scan the room for a trashcan. I see one and, blushing, throw out my garbage; silently thanking God I did not have to actually ask where it was located.

In a final fit of bravery, I purchase an Izze Sparkling Blackberry Juice for the road. I step out onto the pavement and the sun hits my back, feeling a fraction warmer than it did at the beginning of my afternoon. My eyes adjust to the light; everything glows brighter. A strange and beautiful September breeze picks up, rippling the waves in my hair and making my dress dance around my knees. For a moment, I struggle with the bottle cap and then, with a delicate hand, I lift the glass lip to my own and swig. The blackberry juice sweetly stings my tongue, and as I lower the bottle, a new-found vitality stirs inside me.

I exit the parking garage, weaving my way through downtown, windows down, hair blowing. At a red light, I carefully select a CD that will embed intrigue into passersby; I try to recreate the indescribable feeling of Panache with warm, sweet-smelling wind and mellow melodies. As the tingle of carbonation lingers on my teeth, I try to keep that feeling of community (of confidence, of creativity, of love!), that is living ephemerally in my heart, afloat.

2007-09-23T22:52:00.000-05:00

“Lincoln? C’mon, Mom, I would never go to school in Nebraska, let alone Lincoln!”

I was a haughty young thing at the beginning of my junior year: I had my idea of how my life would go, damnit. Somehow I found Nebraska—the state I was where I was born, the state where I grew up—to be beneath me. I wanted bigger and better things, I wanted out. Even if I did escape the confines of Seward, but continued to remain in Nebraska, I would still be surrounded by the small-town mentality that seems to permeate throughout the state.

Luckily, I’ve finally grasped that any problems I have with Nebraska are not problems that are Nebraska-exclusive—they’re not even high-school-exclusive as so many people like to say—they are problems that will surely follow me anywhere I go.

The problem is people. No matter if I am in New York City or Sacramento, Chicago or Little Rock, there are going to be people that I can’t stand. There are going to be people that get plastered every night and still perform better than I do in school or work. There are going to be people who betray me, people whose opinions conflict with mine, people who are obnoxious, people who will hate me at first glance. These people will be the same no matter if they are at Yale or at Wesleyan, in my high-school class or in the office.

In the very same way, people are a blessing. There will always be people that I can click with. There is going to be the friend who is like an older sibling, the friend who can finish my sentences, the friend who is a slightly cooler version of myself, the friend who is a dork with a heart of gold, the friend who would do anything for me, the friend who is smarter than me, the friend who is dumber than me, the friend who always shows me a good time, the friend who I’m attracted to, and the friend who will always be there, the friend who is the Will to my Grace.

I have realized in the past few days that the quality of a place, a state, a town should not be determined by its negative attributes—its endless cornfields, its bigots, its drunkards, its empty streets. It should be about the little, day-to-day things that make life, life—the ice-cream shops, the coffee houses, the cobblestones, the park benches, the drives with the windows down, the walks together hand in hand, the beats your heart skips at the sight of true beauty. This quality is not only found in the scope of a town or the grid work of its streets, but in the people, and in the friends that are along for the ride.

2007-09-19T23:50:00.000-05:00

As I hang up my phone upon my entrance into Panache (“Abigail I’m going to have to let you go. I have to do this damn English assignment in peace.”), I hold the door for a young couple exiting the building. I step off of the sunny street side and into the dimly lit café, gently shoving my hands in my sundress’ deep cotton pockets to look a bit more nonchalant. There’s something about coffee houses that make me feel so insecure; I step up to the register to order, explaining that “I’m not quite sure what I want yet,” and asking “do you have any sandwiches?” The clerk laughs, nods, and points me in the direction of the small sandwich selection. I opt for a roast beef, veggie, and provolone, and slide the cool glass door to retrieve it and a granny smith apple. I place it on the counter and order a 20 oz. non-fat iced chai latte (the only order I’ve gotten down pat like a true café connoisseur).

As I reach into my bag to grab my wallet, the clerk walks to the other end of the counter to ring up my total. No wonder, there is no cash register in front of the spot I’m standing. Great, Alex—coolness-strike number one. I smile awkwardly, pay for my items, take my plate, and settle down at a table against the far wall. As I squeeze between chairs, a fairly attractive college boy looks up at me. Perhaps he was just admiring the plaid pattern of my dress, but a small part of me felt my coolness may have been momentarily redeemed.

Feeling a bit more confident, I sit, butt on the hard wooden frame of my chair, with my pencil and composition book in hand and begin to spy. Now, I don’t know if this would be an up in cool-factor or not. On one hand, I was doing something slightly stealthy and secretive. On the other, it was kind of creepy. But really, how does a person write an observational response to a coffee house visit without taking note of the fellow coffee-house-goers around her?

Of these people, the most attention-grabbing is a chatty girl with pretty hair sitting a few tables over from me. She wears a Hollister polo and is speaking to an older woman with kicky blonde hair and those kind of thick, I-am-a-big-deal glasses that are in style right now. She talks (loudly) about something with an urgency that falls somewhere between passionately explaining a problem at work to your boss and sharing friendship frustrations with your mother. Next to her is a young man—the stereotypical scruffy, studious college student type—reading a book about Islam. He is either very absorbed or very annoyed. Sitting at the table next to him is another scruffy-type, glancing over the top of his MacBook Pro at me every few minutes. Of course, the aforementioned “fairly attractive college boy” and his friend are seated right across from me, studying some sort of mathematics course that comes complete with huge textbooks and wrinkled brows. Several customers filter in an out as well, including an androgynous bicyclist, the owner of Rialto (who is bundled up in a fabulous military-style coat), three Technicolor hippie girls, a balding man strolling a bald baby, and a woman who bobbed along with the café’s music so much I wondered if she was dancing or had a twitch.

I sit like that in my wooden chair at my checkerboard-printed table—taking a bite of sandwich, glancing around, taking notes, taking a bite of apple, sipping my chai—for an hour. For that whole hour I am not distracted once, save the occasional glance at “fairly attractive college boy.” That’s the magic of independent coffee houses. You manage to feel like you are a part of this shared, hip experience—drinking coffee at this specific locale—but yet you are completely in your own world. You are vaguely aware of the worldly, genre-less playlist, the varied chatter, and even the fresh-roast aroma that gently flood the bistro, but yet are free to chat candidly with a friend, immerse yourself in world-religion, or dive face-first into complicated integrals.

Once only oat-speckled crusts and a fleshy white apple core are left on my plate, I gather my things and attempt to discretely scan the room for a trash can. I see one, silently thank God I didn’t have to ask anybody and risk the loss of my veneer, and throw out my garbage. In one last small fit of bravery, I purchase an Izze Sparkling Blackberry Juice for the road.

I step out onto the pavement and the sun hits my back, feeling a fraction warmer than it did when I entered. That strange kind of September breeze ripples the waves in my hair and makes my dress dance around my knees. With a delicate hand, I lift the glass lip to my own and swig. The blackberry juice sweetly stings my tongue, and as I lower the bottle, I feel cooler than ever.

2007-09-16T22:41:00.000-05:00

“It’s probably not even running by now,” I said as we walked, sandals slapping brick, and turned the corner. “Oh, looks like I was wrong.” Water was gushing from the spout of the Haymarket Tower, filling the basin below, spilling over its cement sides. We sat, Brooke and I, across from the Tower on a dirty metal bench, sipping our coffee and munching our bagels, just looking at it.

Lincoln is a part of me. I was raised here. I was young here. I suppose I still am. Even when things changed, families got uprooted, and I moved to another town, Lincoln was still my city. My “small town” friends didn’t know about Lincoln’s farmer’s market, or the Green Gateau, or about Bright Lights camp, or about anything really. We sat next to each other, doing the same thing, seeing the same thing. But we were so different. As one of my best small town friends and I watched the water splish and splash from the same bench, our minds were miles apart.

How does it happen? How do we become older, mature, ourselves? How do we grow?

Autumn is my favorite season and today was a perfect autumn day; the hot sun shining and brisk wind blowing, couples strolling hand-in-hand and eating their lunches in the restaurant’s outdoor seating. As I kneel to take pictures of the stream spraying and spouting from the tower, the sun and the mist and the wind flood my face at once and I am struck. I become the 6-year-old girl with a bowl-cut and half an egg roll in her mouth, begging her mommy to let her play in the fountain. It happens only in an instant—or perhaps not at all—and then I am me once again. No bowl-cut, no egg roll; just acid-wash skinnies, streaked waves, a chai latte, and a camera.

How does it happen? How does it work?

We stand and throw our trash away. A girl, a pretty girl, is sitting amongst a patch of yellow flowers, getting her senior pictures taken. We walk to the car, sandals slapping brick, wondering just when the hell it was that we grew up.

Post 3: Local Article

2007-09-13T02:31:00.000-05:00

Site is virtual graveyard for MySpace's deceased
by Meghan Barr
Tuesday, Sep 11, 2007

Real death is hard enough as it is. Furthermore, the death becomes a whole different experience when the people who pass away are your peers. During high school, I lost one friend, one friend-of-a-friend, and one classmate. Realizing that someone else—who is at the same stage in his or her life as you are—is just as mortal as the next person is downright spooky. Feeling the goose bumps as you pass by their empty desks or glancing their grieving families in the grocery aisle can really mess with your head. But the thing I hate the most about getting over the deaths of peers are the MySpace and Facebook groups or accounts managed in their honors. Its an awkward thing to be invited into an “RIP…” group. I think its pointless, but declining the invitation would be rude. Seeing a profile page left exactly as it was made by the now-deceased user is quite cold and haunting, but seeing a page littered with “RIP”s and “i LuV yOu”s seems disrespectful and almost detrimental to the attempt of preserving the deceased's personality and memory.

Experiencing death on a real level and on a basic technological level is indeed damn hard. Why add to this pain? MyDeathSpace.com is the mind child of an unidentified, morbid, and bored young man. He began searching MySpace for the names of teens he found in the news—those who were being killed, killing themselves, or killing others—and eventually gathered all of the profiles into his aptly named directory. Many problems lie behind the creation of such a site.

Firstly, murderers’ profiles are also listed and linked to from the page; arranged victim and murderer, side by side. While the site is careful to specify accused and convicted criminals, there have been some slip-ups where innocent MySpace users who simply share names with killers become linked up to the site. They begin receiving harassing messages and even death threats from other MySpace users even though may be completely unaware that the murder even occurred or that MyDeathSpace even existed.

Secondly, this archive site creates yet another forum in which members can discuss and perhaps premeditate unhealthy or morbid actions. “Wickedly—curious” writes: “Anyone with any insight tell me if it would be possible for 2 people to shoot each other in the heads at the same time?”

Lastly, these sites, as well as the grieving groups generated on a more local basis are serving to whittle away at the interpersonal experience one has when dealing with a death. Death should be a solemn, humbling time to reflect. You don’t need to leave comments to a person who can’t possibly read them to show that you truly care. You don’t need a join a Facebook group to miss someone who is gone. You certainly don’t have to look at a profile page to remember the lives and stories of those who have passed away.

2007-09-09T23:16:00.001-05:00

The neighborhood surrounding Rialto Extra has the ability to make one much more precautious than usual; when I park along the street a few blocks away, I double check that my car is locked. Skinny, grey-green weeds challenge the height and prominence of violated parking meters. Used Clue cards lay spilled across the cracked pavement, providing no help in settling one’s nerves.

But the walk into Rialto is essential. Maybe not if you’re just visiting to score a rockin’ party costume; in that case, receiving accusing stares from the homeless may be detrimental to your overall goal. But when going to observe, admire, and reflect, noticing these surroundings is just as important to the experience as entering the boutique itself.

Opening the heavy, paint-chipped door and stepping from hot cement to slick, mahogany floors is a relief. “It’s like walking into your grandma’s closet” says Ana, the salesperson on duty for the day. She thinks I’m a first timer. I’m not. By now I’m familiar with the musty smell, the beautiful molding on the ceiling, and the wide variety of furs that Rialto displays.

My mom was actually the first person to tell me about the store. How she found out about it I have no idea, but about two years ago me and my foreign-exchange-student friend Maja somehow ended up in that store with her at an open house celebration. When Ana invites me to sit down, take my time, and write, I glance around the room, picturing the way we were back then, wondering how small, how awkward I must have looked, thinking about how beautiful my mother must have been.

Rialto is full of stories, full of ghosts, inside and out. There are women bundled up in ninety-degree weather, staring off into space; men in stocking caps projecting cat calls; kids with Nike tennis shoes and no shirts. There are glamorous young women with dark curls and garnet-stained lips wearing sequined shifts and doing the Charleston; little blue-hairs bundled up in structured coats, prepared to fight the September chill as they take an afternoon stroll; girls with high-tops and 80s-hair leaning against the wall, smoking cigs; and weaving through it all, a dumpy, short, red-head, about age 46.

Vintage is an art, a way of life that extends so much further than the clothes we put on our backs or the hipster-esque label we may apply to ourselves. It’s about memories, about the people that came before us, and about the beauty that came from their lives.

Post I: Discourse Surrounding the Essay.

2007-09-04T00:06:00.000-05:00

“In reading an essay, I want to feel that I’m communing with a real person, and a person who cares about what he or she’s writing about. …For me, the ideal essay is not an assignment, to be dispatched efficiently and intelligently, but an exploration, a questioning, an introspection. I want to see a piece of the essayist. I want to see a mind at work, imagining, spinning, struggling to understand. If the essayist has all the answers, then he isn’t struggling to grasp, and I won’t either.”

-Alan Lightman in “The Ideal Essay”

“If kids still write essays in school the way people my age used to, they meet the essay first as pure object. In school, it is (or was) a written paper of a certain length, on an assigned subject, with specified margins and neatness, due on the teacher’s desk at a certain date. From about fourth grade on, I wrote many essays. ‘An essay a week’ was the philosophy lots of grammar school teachers subscribed to back then. Recently I came across an essay of mine I’d saved from the fifth grade. It’s called ‘If I Had Three Wishes.’ My first wish, as I described it, was for lots of fishing equipment, my second was for a canoe in which to go fishing, and my third was for a cabin in the woods somewhere near good fishing. I have more or less gotten those wishes, writing occasional essays about fishing all the while. Even in its present state as childhood artifact, ‘If I Had Three Wishes’ retains its purposeful objectiveness: the three-ring binder paper with regular lines and space at the top for student’s name, teacher’s name, and date; the slow, newly learned script, in blue ballpoint, almost without mistakes; and the circled good grade in the teacher’s hand.”

-Ian Frazier in “The Essay as Object”

Frazier speaks of an essay that most high-school students know all to well, the “standard” essay mentioned earlier in the text. This essay is not the recorded process of finding the answer to a question, as many have been taught to believe, but is simply the answer. It is an “object,” manicured to follow perfectly the classroom’s structured guidelines for an essay. Being so structured, it is often left being flat and unimaginative.

Lightman’s previous quote shows how ridiculous this notion for an essay truly is. The essay should be about the writer’s journey of answering a question; whether the question ever ends up answered or not. Through that journey, things more meaningful than answers can emerge; things such as introspect and self-discovery.

I liked that these two quotations were next to each other in the reading. They seem to be in stark contrast to one another. But, having read and agreed with Lightman’s quotation before reading Frazier’s, their contrast shows a deeper purpose. I believe that Frazier agrees with Lightman on what an essay should be. Of course, his fifth-grade self may not have been capable of writing the type of essay that Lightman describes. But, I think that looking back, Frazier realizes that the good grade that his paper receives is ironic.

How could the grading guidelines Frazier so meticulously followed before be applied to Lightman’s preferred type of essay? They can’t and they shouldn’t be. How could the situation ‘If I Had Three Wishes’ honestly be answered in three paragraphs? It can’t be and it shouldn’t be. Penmanship and margins do not convey passion and articulate thought. The essay that Lightman speaks of is one entirely different than we are used to. It is time to adapt. It is time to weave in and out of arguments, to struggle, to doubt, to accept that sometimes questions will not be answered.

Test Post

2007-08-31T14:30:00.000-05:00

First post for ENG 001, Section 07.