Oh, the Joys of Kate Bush And Interpretive Dance!

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

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

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

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

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.