Poetry

6-2-06
Log Cabin

We were going to build a small cabin,
Collect the dead branches and stack them,
What had we gotten ourselves in?

We chose our grassy field,
We formed our manly teams,
And kept our plot concealed.

And slowly the sadly stack grew,
And our plan began to take form,
We combined all the things we knew.

But we had little knowledge of which to tell.
The branches tumbled, our kitchen knives broke,
The cabin fell,
And we all went home to enjoy a coke.

No meaning, no solid image, no point, terrible ending. That's an excuse for a poem. The rhyme is good, but Rhyme Zone was used.

6-2-06
Pencil

Don’t let me lay here,
Immobile on this page.
Pick me up dear mage,
And take me anywhere.

May I have this dance?
Will you such mage be?
Will you sing your words through me?
Will you give me this great chance?

Can we dance the night away?
Can we etch a legacy?
Can we guide the blind to see?
Please tell me that we may.

Pick me up dear mage.
Guide me through your mind,
Through your thoughts in kind.
Let us dance across this page.

The rhythm is bad, the iambs are off, the rhyme pattern is weird. I was trying too hard.

6-5-06
Bow Kitten

Bow Kitten
Stand down, dear Pride,
Even the greatest fall.

But you do not fall.
How can you stay so silent?
How can you not love humanity?
How can you stand to let it destroy itself?

Stand down, dear Pride,
Hear the voices of their plea.
If only I could show you...
...from whence their pleas came...

But you see something I do not,
And I something you.

There was a moment when our world was one,
Where has that moment gone?

What have you learned?
What have you seen?
From whence does your pride come,
When men are falling like spring petals at the dawn of summer?
Have you met them?
The only answer you give is in the words of another.
What do you think?

I cannot pretend to understand you Kitten,
And somewhere along the road,
I have lost the key to your anteroom.

But you are merely human,
You have told me so yourself.

Bow Kitten,
Stand down, dear Pride,
Even the greatest fall.

Too much of it happens in my head. Overuse of the word "whence". The portayal is good. Good image with the petals and dawn. It's okay.

6-6-06
Kimi

Myriam Dumas is my
Name,
Or Kimiko Nagumi in another
Place:
Quietly she creeps and
Roams.
Silently she learns and
Teaches
Under a cowl of white, a
Veil.
Wandering until the uncoming day, healing
Xerxes I of Persia and Elizabeth II of Great Britain
Years Uncounted pass and comes no
Zygote
Alone she walks the Earth, by her Lord
Banished
Coolly she steps, remembering the future she
Doomed.
Empty eyes taking all in, the grief in
Full:
Greatness that comes and passes her timeless
Home
In a world seeming so
Joyless,
Keeping hidden her hopeless search for
Love.

6-7-06
Life
unpredictable, wonderful
going, going, gone
Dare to be objective!
Death

Water
cool, blue
rushing, flowing, flooding
Sparkling sunset on waves.
Drought

5-8-06
Somewhere,
Past the ocean,
Past the world, past the stars,
I can’t help but wonder if there’s
Nothing...

5-7-06
Six Months Left to Live

Were I told,
That I had only six months left to live,
It would mean very little.

The words of a wiseman, Gandhi:
“Live as if you were to die tomorrow.
Learn as if you were to live forever.”
Are mine to follow,
And mine to repeat.

Memorial Day Parade

5-29-06
“Detail: Atten-hut!” "HUT!”... “Mark-time-harch!”...hit, hit, hit... “Forward march!”...hit, hit, hit... Street beat, cadence: snares... quads... bass drums... cymbals... Then, roll off... the Drum Majors conduct: one two, two two... America the Beautiful: trumpets... trombones... alto saxophones... tenor saxophones... baritone saxophones... bass clarinet... melophones... sousaphones... clarinets... flutes: An intro... the a-section, b-interlude, a again... the finale... the cut off... and back to the cadence.
The spectators clap... the veterans smile... the parents cheer... the graduates: “Go West!”... the children scream... the dogs bark... the cars and motorcycles roar in the heat... the birds chirp (drowned out)... and the cadence comes to an end once again.
The roll off begins a new song... Knights In Blue... the words run silently through the air... “Come on knights in blue we’re cheering for you!”... the sound echoes off the red-bricked buildings... “We’re here to do or die!”... the crowd claps in rhythm... “So strike with your might and keep up the fight!”... police and fire truck sirens blare in a distant echo... “Three cheers for West-Side-High!”... the deep dark blue of the uniforms beats against the heat... “For Manchester West, forever the best...”... white and yellow plumes flutter in the humid summer air... “Her glory and her fame...”... The word West beats against each in-step left thigh... “...will put you to the test, we’re gonna do our best to win a Well! Fought! Game!”... the band perceptively draws a breath for the last stretch... “Hey!”... and the snare drum taps off a new round of the street beat...
Elm Street strolls by... America... Cadence... America...Cadence...etc... Bridge Street...E&R Cleaners... apartments... Good Times... Ted Herbert’s... Music School... the mills... restaurants... parks...faceless streets... The West Band wraps up the show... cameras... judges... other bands... directors... veterans... Mayor Guinta and guest speakers...until everyone has settled in the park...
First: The Pledge of Allegiance... the band mumbles along: “I pledge allegiance to flag of the United States of America.”... water bottles are being passed around... “And to the Republic for which it stands.”... coughs, shifting, fanning... “One Nation, under God.” ... the crowd studies the crowd: who is here?... “Indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.”... An awkward moment of silence: is time to sit back down?... Introductions, speeches...two rounds of shots are fired, sharply: BAM! BAM!... Then taps... the quiet solemn notes begging all to hear Butterfield’s lullaby... and its echo... then The Star Spangled Banner... the words float throughout the park... “O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light...” the fountain’s water trickles forth... “What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?”... the veterans salute, solemnly... “Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,”... the rest, their hands resting on their chests... “O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!”... the band plays, focused on notes seen only by them... “And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,”... the Drum Mayor’s arms, giving them the quiet and steady beat... “Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:”... the star spangled banner beats against the pole restraining it above the crowd... “O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave”... the world holds its breath at the fermata... “O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”...

It's not a very good mosaic, and it's not a very good essay, but in the end it makes a good... something. I love how I can feel the heat during Knights and Blue. The Star Spangled Banner isn't broken up quite right. The image is good. The organization is good.

The Myth of Justice

5-23-06
Justice is man made. He determines what is just. And this justice must be maintained by man himself. The only problem comes when two men differ in their definition of justice.
Fairness is something else. “Where did we get the idea that life is ultimately unfair?” (Michael Dorris) Or the idea that “...if we haven’t found equity in this life, all the great belief systems assure us, just wait until the next. Or the next, or the next. Someday our prince will come.(Dorris)”? Nonsense. Nature is not “fair.” Nature will do what it will do regardless of what we think is fair. All there is to say is, “luck favors the prepared, so [cover] the basics.” (Edna Mode, The Incredibles). Who are we, such insignificant little creatures, to reproach Nature for being unfair? Nature is not a person and does not create the same illusions of “fairness” which we do. Nature does not owe it to us to be fair. Man simply has to make do with what he’s given. It’s not as if Nature is checking into our hotel and owes us the tip of “fairness”. In fact, it’s quite the other way around. The great thing about nature, however, is that it is predictable. We can prepare for most of the things nature brings, and we must. We cannot simply say, “Well I have been good this year, so no hurricanes will flood my home” and say that God has been unfair when our home does flood.
So long as man finds a common ground for justice, and that he does not believe Nature should be fair to him, all should be well. But this is a rather grim and bitter prospect. Enter religion with the promise of redemption in a future life and the promise that everything happens for a reason. But the backbone of justice is made of principles. And by my principles, turning to religion for hope in the form of a parent who will hug you, rock you, and promise you that everything will be all right when they really have no grounds upon which to stand this promise is giving up. And where is the justice in giving up?
It is a man’s duty to check his premises on reality at all times. It is his duty to consider justice in another man’s eye but to stand by his principles if he believes they are right... if he knows they are right. Justice will come to the man who will recognize it.

Ooh, coming dangerously close to something. The beginning throws me off. Fairness is briefly mentioned then... that part is poorly done. But by the time I get to the part about us checking into Nature's hotel, I've got something. The paper is overly sarcastic, and mysterious, it's not particularly organized. It's not welcoming a discussion, it's merely a statement, so it's not overly provocative. It's okay.

What am I going to say?

5-16-06
What am I going to say, showing up at her house at 10:30 in the morning? She’s probably sleeping. Probably? It’s 10:30 of course she’s sleeping. Even if I do wake her up with the doorbell, there’s no way she’ll get herself ready in time for us to go meet Molly at the intersection... What am I going to say? Well at the very least I can tell her that there’s something wrong with her cell phone service.
This service is not available at this time; please try again at a later time, goodbye.
What kind of cell phone service doesn’t let you leave messages? Yeah, but would I show up at her door just to tell her that her that there’s something wrong with her cell phone at 10:30 in the morning? I’ll have to tell her about Molly.
Yeah, since all the roads are blocked Molly and I are going to walk around Hooksett and take pictures of the flood.
That’ll work. When have you ever known her to volunteer herself and get dirty or wet...? She’ll probably make that face, curling one side of her lips and say those two words I loathe most coming from her: I guess. I guess, with no heart behind them, and clearly no desire to actually do what is proposed. She just does it to stay in the loop. She’ll say I guess because Molly is going to be there. If it was just me asking her to come outside in the rain (even during the most exiting thing that has happened to Hooksett since 1938) then she would say: I don’t know. Then she would hesitate as she thought of something else that we could do or something else that she should be doing. Or my favorite, she’ll stall. She’ll show me something online, or on her favorite video game, until it's time for me to go home.
Maybe she won’t be there. Or maybe I won’t be able to wake her up. Maybe I should only ring the doorbell once, if her cell phone didn’t wake her up, then the doorbell surely won’t. Well, if no one answers the door, I’ll just leave my bike by the boat and walk down the hill to wait for Molly. What if her parents wake up? What will I say to them? I’ll just ask them if Kelly’s awake. Then they’ll tell me that she’s not, so I’ll turn around, wait for them to close the door, and go put my bike by the boat.
What if she is awake and her parents are just the ones who open the door? What if they don’t let her out in this weather? It’s not safe. We might drown. We might get arrested. What if there’s an officer by the road block and he’s not letting anyone through? What if Molly’s not there? Should I try and walk through to her house? How long should I wait for her? How long will she wait for me? If I tell the officer my story, will he let me walk through? What if I promise not to take any pictures? It is rather disturbing that we’re trapped within one square mile of land. There really isn’t any way to get out of here. In fact, if there was school, I don’t even know how I would get there. I’d probably have to take the highway. That’s crazy. I hope school isn’t canceled for too long. I wonder what they’re going to do about the concert on Wednesday... I wonder if we’ll have to go to school on Saturdays... I bet this is all everyone will be talking about for the rest of the school year. I wonder what she’ll have to say about it. Her mom works for the newspaper, I’m sure she’ll know a thing or two about it... So she’ll take on that tone like she knows everything and everything she knows is right because her mother told her so. I’m sick of talking about floods and rain. I should think of a way to avoid bringing it up. How can you possibly avoid bringing it up? What am I going to say, showing up at her house at 10:30 in the morning?

Excellent ending, for once, a full closed circle. There are too many questions, it misconveys the mood of the moment. It sounds panicked while the moment was only mildly stressful. The issue is iffy, there's no organization.

Dear Ms. Thompson

No Date
Dear Ms. Thompson,
We were asked to write to an administrator of our choice reflecting on these past four years at Manchester High School West offering compliments and constructive criticism. Compliments are easy, but criticism is easier. I’m not sure if that’s human nature or the nature of the matter, but the truth is, there are more things that need to be fixed and improved at West High than there are smooth-running and successful things. But the blame can hardly be deemed yours, especially since the city elected a new mayor. The citizens are thrilled at a cut in taxes, but the schools are distraught at a $5 million budget reduction per school.
These current events have helped me to further realize with how few resources and how little time the district is working to solve such large problems. I find it hard to complain that opening just one lunch line periods A through C when there are four available and a healthy population of students that have a period B lunch is preposterous when I know that AP science teachers are now expected to teach a lab period every single day of the week with absolutely no new lab supplies. Nor can I complain when my councilor, who knows nothing about me except my name, and my principle, who doesn’t even know that, decide which classes I can drop and which I can’t when teachers next year will be expected to teach classes of 30-35 students and sophomore test scores are actually expected to rise.
All I can really say is:
Don’t give up!
I’m sure few people stop and take the time to appreciate the tremendous amount of work that goes into running a school district and its schools. Consider your efforts appreciated, thank-you for making these past four years what they’ve been, and Good-Bye.
Sincerely,

Myriam Dumas

Provacative and appropriately detatched. I didn't really offer any compliments or constructive criticism, so the assignment was not met. I really like the sentence construction.

Letters

5-7-06

At night when my brother and I were supposed to be doing our homework in our respective rooms, we used to pass a sheet of paper back and forth, talking about everything and nothing. Our mom works down the hall in the office, so we can’t actually talk. This particular topic was never actually brought up between the two of us, but it certainly was courant at the time. Had it actually come up, it probably would have sounded something like this:

Friday August 5, 2004:

8:26 pm

Hey Phil,

Can you keep a secret?

Myriam

--

8:31 pm

Sure.

--

8:43 pm

I’m starting to have doubts about me and Aaron.

--

8:52 pm

I’m sorry?

--

8:57 pm

I don’t know what I should do...

--

Sunday August 8, 2004:

8:09 pm

You look like you had a fun time at Aaron’s... Dare I ask what happened?

Phil

--

8:12 pm

*sigh*
A whole bunch of crap, that’s what happened.

--

8:17 pm

I love the detail.

--

8:23 pm

Yeah, well...
It was really boring. Because we always do the SAME thing.
I didn’t enjoy myself at all.
And his sister hates me. I hate that. She doesn’t even see me as a person... She just sees me as this... thing... I don’t understand it at all.

--

Thursday August 12, 2004

7:12 pm

What’s up little bro?

--

7:14 pm

Not much. Nothing good on TV, as usual.
Say, how come you’re not on the phone with Aaron anymore?

--

7:17 pm

There wasn’t any more to be said?

--

7: 20 pm

Yeah, but you guys are usually on the phone for hours, you must be able to find something to talk about?

--

7:27 pm

Not this time, I guess.

--

Saturday August 21, 2004

9:36 pm

Hey Phil,

What is it about poetry that men hate so much?

--

9:39 pm

It’s pointless? If you’re going to say something, why don’t you just say it? That’s how I look at it.

--

9:41 pm

Yeah, but, I express myself best through poetry. And the thing I have to express most is how I feel about Aaron. I give him my poems, but then just seem to piss him off...

--

9:46 pm

*shrug* Don’t know what to tell you. I don’t understand poetry anymore than Aaron does, I bet.

--

Saturday September 11, 2004

10:11 pm

How was your night? Was it Aaronful?

--

10:14 pm

You know what? I think it’s about time for me to let go...

--

10:17 pm

What happened this time?

--

10:19 pm

Stuff.

--

10: 21 pm

You don’t say?

--

10: 23 pm

I do.

--

Wednesday September 15, 2004

9:01 pm

You look like you’ve had a lovely night, what’s wrong?

Phil

--

9:04 pm

Aaron and I were on the phone, nothing new there. But I managed to say the wrong thing. I’m just good like that.
I’ve always hated the fact that he takes it personally if I even look twice at another guy but that he flirts with all these girls.
But I think coming right out and telling him that I thought another guy was cute was definitely not the right way to bring that topic up.
I basically spent the entire night apologizing and telling him that he was the only man I loved blah blah blah...
*sigh*

--

9:06 pm

Are you guys going to break up?

--

9:08 pm

Oh shut up. You wish.

--

9:10 pm

Maybe I do, then you’d stop complaining about him, and you’d be much happier person.

--

Monday September 20, 2004

7:12 pm

I want freedom! Why can’t I find my way out of this maze? Why am I so weak? AHHHHHHH!

--

7:13 pm

Whoa! Why don’t you just break up with him already? That is what you’re talking about, right?

--

7:16 pm

It is.
I can’t.

--

7:18 pm

Why?

--

7:19 pm

I just can’t bring myself to do it! Oh, but it needs to be done! I want my life back. I want my friends back. I’m sick of all this self-pity and drama... but I just can’t do it... I don’t know how... I don’t know if I can deal with the after effects..

--

Wednesday September 22, 2004

8:17 pm

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Myriam

ps- that’s all I have to say about that.
--

8: 19 pm

Why don’t you do something about it?

--

8:21 pm

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

--

Friday September 24, 2004

6:15 pm

So? How’s it feel to be single again?

--


I absolutely love the September 22 entry, it makes me smile every time I read it. Good portrayal of my past self, and of Phil. The event is well captured, well written, well organized, and conveyed well. It's realistic. Good.

Cell Phones

4-19-06
Robert J. Samuelson will not be the last person in America without a cell phone. I do not own a cell phone and do not plan to acquire one at any point in the future. Cell phones can be useful, and even essential, in the lives of some people such as doctors or salesmen. But for people like me, cell phones are all wrong.
Why would I need a cell phone? The only answer that comes to mind is: “in case of emergency.” But there have always been cases of emergency. What did people do before cell phones? It seems we have forgotten. As time has marched on we no longer depend on ourselves because we do not need to depend on ourselves: we have our cell phones. Maybe I’m just strange, but I prefer to be able to depend on myself. Minus cases of emergency, however, cell phones are nothing but a troubling (for people like me).
First, they are very expensive. It’s expensive to own, expensive to talk, it’s expensive to text, and each one of those other features (Internet access, pictures, movies, music) is expensive. I can only think of all the other things that money could go to. Charity, family, retirement, savings, travel...
Second, having a cell phone means that you are available at all times and in all places. Anyone can reach you, and you cannot deny that they tried because all cell phones have some form or other of caller identification. But you can turn off a cell phone or leave it at home. Then why have it? It will only irritate the hell out of anyone who tries to call you. So that “in case of emergency,” I can turn it on and call for help. Here it is my personal choice to depend on myself. How far away can the nearest ground-based phone possibly be? Especially here in Manchester. Maybe I’m just a reckless teenager, but I value my alone time and privacy.
Third, Samuelson points out, when you have a cell phone, “if it’s on and no one calls, you’re irrelevant, unloved or both. If everyone calls, you’re a basket case.” And you have no time to yourself whatsoever. Why would you want to add another social burden to your life? Another lose-lose situation?
As for the other features, they are all available in some other form, in better quality, and it’s probably less expensive. As Jamie so animatedly told us: why would you want to surf the Internet on a 1 X 1.5 inch screen? And for me, considerations like digital camera vs. camera phone or iPod vs. a cell onto which you can download music are hardly considerations at all.
I cannot say that there are not situations when a cell phone saves trouble, or saves a life; and I know that for many people, a job, or special circumstance makes it essential or just wise for them to have a cell phone. But, as I said, for people like me, cell phones are all wrong.

Did I just prove myself wrong in my own paper? I think I did. I started by evading argument, then taking a position and proceeding to prove it wrong. Weak. The paper is well oraganized, and well researched.

Welcome!

4-18-06
Welcome to the State of New Hampshire’s Youth Development Center! Let’s backtrack: in 1988, an effort was started throughout the state of New Hampshire to carve into our landscape something that is called “The Heritage Trail.” Small pieces of this trail can be found throughout New Hampshire in Nashua, Manchester, Franconia, etc. There are actually several disjointed segments in the Manchester/ Hooksett area. One of these segments begins in John Stark State Park. John Stark Park is located about ten seconds away from YDC. This particular segment of the trail goes north along the Merrimack River and the train tracks. As a result, it passes behind the Youth Development Center and continues onward. As you approach YDC on the trail from either direction, you will run into this particular sign.
Welcome! The sign decries, and I think, how odd, I’ve been walking on this trail for about five minutes now, why is there a sign here? So I stop to read what else is written. “You are now entering State of New Hampshire Youth Development Center Property.” Well that explains the numerous red bricked buildings in the distance and the angry sounds of a rough basketball game. Naturally, my first question is, am I allowed to be here? Being the proximity of a hundred or so juvenile delinquents doesn’t seem like your everyday nature walk. So I read on.
“..Since the establishment of the House of Reformation for juveniles and female offenders against the laws, on May 12, 1858, this site has been the location of the State’s institution for juvenile delinquents…” Thinking back to my sixth grade vocabulary lessons, I remember that a juvenile is merely “a young person.” So the state House of Reformation wants to reform— that is improve— young people and “female offenders of the laws.” Now, what exactly do they mean by that? Do adult females get to go to YDC? Or do girls not qualify as “young people?” Since 1858, this has been the location of the state’s institution for juvenile delinquents. While researching The Heritage Trail, I remember reading something along the lines of, “Your Community's Heritage Trail can also reflect the best of your town or city, the unique landmarks and natural areas which define your community's ‘sense of place.’…A resource that will provide recreation, education, open space, and a sense of pride for generations to come.” The carvings of this trail only began in 1988, that’s 130 years after YDC was established… I suppose one could consider YDC a “unique landmark.”
“Today, it is the second oldest institution of its type in the United States.” Well, no wonder it was put on this trail, now that’s a source of pride. We found a place to hide our juvenile criminals faster than almost everyone else in this country.
“The State of New Hampshire permits the use of this trail for recreational purposes without charging the user.” Well it’s good to know that I won’t be arrested by the state for walking on a trail carved by the state for my purposes. So I suppose I am allowed to be here, but is it safe?
“The State is not responsible for damages incurred in connection with the recreational use of this property.” From Mrs. Weiss’s vocabulary lessons, I vaguely remember that incurred means “to bring down upon oneself.” Oh! So you mean I can’t blame the government for putting myself in danger? Drat. So I guess I am allowed to be here to appreciate a reflection of my city’s best. And remember folks, no dog fouling.

There's a picture that goes with this, of this particular sign. Perhaps someday I will put it on here. This is a humor piece. It's supposed to be funny. No? It's not funny. It sounds like I'm trying too hard, and that makes it even less funny. I am simply not one who writes humor pieces. Otherwise, the piece is well organized, well researched, and well written (save that one part about female offenders of the law).

Title

4-9-06
A stereotype is a standardized mental picture that is held in common by members of a group and that represents an oversimplified opinion, prejudiced attitude, or uncritical judgment (Webster.com). In literature, stereotypical characters are called, “stock characters” (Wikipedia.com) and just as we would ask what plays would be like without stock characters, I must ask what life would be like without stereotypes.
From the very beginnings of humanity, stereotypes were a mechanism of survival. It was important to judge your enemy and to decide what to expect of him. Of course, these guesses probably were not always right, but if you expect the worst, anything less is much better. That is probably why stereotypes are generally negative.
Stereotypes come in handy in the most random places. When you read a book, after only a few lines of description, or one line of dialogue, most readers already have at least an idea as to what the character is like. That is because we stereotype. We classify ourselves in accordance to stereotypes. We create them, then aim to achieve one (or several of them) of them. And those who place themselves outside a stereotype have just created a new one. We classify people under very basic descriptions: stereotypes. The rest of the details come when we actually meet the person, and get to learn about their actually personality.
What would life be like without stereotypes? How tedious would a new person be if you had to find out every single detail about them every single time and none of it could be approximated from a stereotype? How surprising would surprises become if every single thing about every single person were surprising? As in most issues, however, extremes are not the way to go. A complete trust and belief in the implications of a stereotype is wrong. There is always more to a person than a stereotype implies.
There is no future in fighting stereotyping. We decide what we think of a person within the first ten seconds of seeing them. And we do this by placing them in a crude categorization (a stereotype) using the stereotypical aspects of them. It is our nature. But a stereotype is only a foundation, or base to the actual personality of a person. And in some cases, it might even be completely incorrect. It is important to always look beyond the stereotype.
I have been stereotyped, along with the rest of humanity. Geek, band geek, weirdo, academic freak. But so what? If you really cared about how someone stereotyped you, then you make your appearance convey the correct image. And if you could not, then perhaps that stereotypes are not too far off from the truth. But, again, so what? Being who you are was never about what other people thought.

Stereotype! Could I have said the word stereotype more often than that? Probably, but let's not go there. Anyway, good stating of an opinion, good references, well argued, well supported (for once), but a weak close. Why is it that I always have to end it with a corny cliché?

An Old Man and his Old Friend

4-3-06
He was an old man, worn, overworked, and tired. He had never had a friend in his lifetime. Until today. He met the greatest friend. They met in silence, they walked around the world once, in mutual understanding. Then, the last day:
“What is your name?” The old man asked.
“I am Death.”

This is a 55-word story. It takes some serious skill to write a good story with a limitation of 55 words. I clearly do not pocess it. Too much of this story takes place inside my head. And it is too closely ripped off of "Meet Joe Black" with Brad Pitt. No good.

Faking it: The Virtual Lawyer

3-28-06
Who wouldn’t want to live in a place where you can look however you want to look, and be whoever you want to be? Let us backtrack: Michael Lewis exclaims, “We have no ‘self’ as such.” We are merely a compilation of the copious masks we create for the endless play of socials situations with which we are faced throughout our lives. Regardless of the masks, however, certain things about us cannot be immediately changed, or hidden. Those things can include, but are not limited to, our figure, or looks, our past, our stories, our reputations, etc. And while yes, we can work away at these things, it takes time, and it takes effort.
That’s what most people do. If their figure is not satisfactory, they change their diet and exercise. If their reputation precedes and impedes them wherever they go, they change their attitude, change their style, and change the public’s mind. Others do not care to cover the imperfections that their masks still reveal; they rely on the theory that people should like you for who you are. (But who are they really, is not that attitude a mask in itself?) And there is another group who has found another way to hide these imperfections. They have found a place where they can virtually recreate themselves from scratch. Or are they simply setting up a whole new set of masks?
The Internet provides an easy solution for people who are not happy with certain aspects of themselves. It hardly takes effort, they have only to dream exactly who it is they wish to be and to put it into written word. Two of my closer friends rely on the net for this particular escape. When real life doesn’t go their way, there will always be someone, somewhere who shares their opinion. It is only a matter of finding them. On the Internet, you make yourself whoever you want to be. Listeners have to take your word; there no way for them to verify what you say really.
Marcus Arnold may not necessarily have had qualities he wanted to negate and recreate on the Internet. He fell mostly under the category of indifference. Marcus Arnold only went to the Internet to find an easy way into something.
Why does the Internet make it so much easier? The Internet is a whole new set of social situations to which we needed to build a whole new set of masks, as Lewis tells his readers. But the Internet in itself is one big giant mask that “negates and recreates” your real life existence. As a result, secondary masks do not have to be so intricate since they are just details on the larger mask that is the Internet.
In agreement with Michael Lewis and his role theorists, I doubt we have actual “selves” behind our countless layers of masks. Different situations call for different masks and combinations of masks. Some people (like Marcus Arnold) just take advantage of the lack of necessity for detail as the layers pile on. And the path to their destination is made that much easier.

Yikes. Did I even say anything in that? Did that even make sense? No. Um... no. I've developped an opinion on the matter now, although I clearly hadn't developped one at the time. And the one I hold now, differs from the one I randomly chose in this paper. This paper is not only poorly written, it's obsolete. Sweet.

The Car: Toy or Mask?

3-26-06
In the article “Faking it: The Virtual Lawyer,” Michael Lewis tells his readers, “we have no 'self' as such. Our selves are merely the masks we wear in response to the social situations in which we find ourselves.” Then the article goes on to relate this to the social situations presented by the Internet and how we have created a whole new set of masks in response to the Internet. Cars are the same. They, too, have created a whole new set of social situations to which we have created a whole new set of masks. The cars can even be the masks themselves.
When we talk about cars, we laugh at how stereotypes feel the need to trick out their cars; about how shallow people believe that the cooler their car is, the cooler they are. We all say this, and laugh about it. Still, though, we all feel self-conscious about our cars. We all know that our cars can be a heavy reflection on our personalities. Whether you are poor and you have nice car, or you are rich and you maintain a “mediocre” car, you car makes a statement about you, like clothing or jewelry etc. And since that statement may or may not be correct concerning you, the car can easily be used as a mask.
To make yourself seem better off, you drive a sophisticated and expensive car. To make yourself seem ‘cooler’ you drive a small ‘falling apart’ car, if you’re a soccer mom, you drive child-safe mini van etc. And whether the projected image is accurate or no, most passersby will interpret it as such
The appearance and condition of your car can touch on your finer personality points as well. For example, Mary J., of Hooksett is organized and controlling. So her truck is as clean as the day she got it, and she drives a stick. Kelly K., of Hooksett, is not in the greatest financial position, is overly safe, and has a an abundance of friends. So she drives an old minivan.
But the reflections and stereotypes don’t apply to all. Some people actually have a certain car for its performance and for the joy of driving it. Like Pat D., of Hooksett. He drives an Audi A4. But he makes no pretense about it, he just like the way it handles in the snow.
Mask or toy, your car and its condition will always tell countless tales about you. Most of which you will be telling yourself. But in the end, the car is just a machine invented to facilitate commute and communication, isn’t it?

More irrelevant topics. You can feel, throughout the entire paper: is this assignment done yet? My opinion has changed since then, so there's that. This paper poorly organized and almost makes a point then seems to change its mind in the last paragraph, rendering it even more useless.

What’s so bad About Hate?

3-23-06

Andrew Sullivan, an openly gay man, wrote this article against the prejudiced and bigoted straight man. In response, I cannot say that I agree or disagree with Sullivan’s conclusions or theories, because I do not agree with his original assumption. Sullivan poses an interesting question: “… is ‘hate’ to stand for a very specific idea or belief…with a very specific object?” I do not think so. He, along with the government or the United States, believes that the reason white men assault black men, straight men abuse gay men, and men attack women is hate. In fact, they call these crimes ‘hate crimes’ and give them an entirely different set of punishment.
These crimes, however, have nothing to do with hate. Also, setting them apart from other crimes and making them even more expressly forbidden seems to make them more attractive, as their numbers have climbed progressively since they were so named. No, I believe that what drives the majority to beat down the minority is rooted in stupidity. It comprises entirely of fear of the unknown, denial, and a need to remain in control or show strength. It is all a basic human need to stay on top, to be in control.
This article is biased. Sullivan is part of a minority group, homosexuals. As such, this article was written offensively against the straight man, amongst other majority groups. It should not go unmentioned that we (the observers with an “outsider’s” perspective) can easily be blinded by our pity for the minority group, the discriminated against. Both groups fight for power, but the majority, from our point of view, appears to be beating down the minority. The majority is merely fighting to keep his footing, right or no.
On the general issue at hand, very little can be said without taking a side; equality and tolerance sound like a good plan, unfortunately it is ‘a dream’ too far fetched to even hope for. Survival of the fittest is one the man’s strongest calling instincts, “any attempt to construct legal and political fire walls is a doomed and illiberal venture.” (Andrew Sullivan) Since forbidding prejudice actions makes them seem more appealing, and allowing them makes them… allowable… it seems that there is no solution to this issue. Perhaps we should just let it go on and call as little attention to is a possible.

Well that was one of the most pointless papers I've ever written. I hate arguing about topics if what there is to be said is absolutely purposeless. I hate arguing for arguing's sake. That's what this paper is. I didn't even take a stand. I don't want to be involved. I don't even acknowledge the issue... *shrug* still got an A on it...

Karyn Went to War

3-19-06
Karyn went to war,
Left behind her father’s farm,
Left behind her brother’s tyranny.

Karyn went out into the unknown world,
Clean as a morning flower,
Innocent as a mourning dove.

But Humanity and his flaws.
Came and plucked Karyn from the soil in which she was planted,
Used her shamelessly.
And left her with a tiny fertilized seed inside.

Unbeknown, she bore Sin’s child.
So, debased,
Karyn went to war.

But our Mighty Ruler had a mighty plan for Sin’s child.
And He assigned two Angels to Karyn’s protection,
And the child’s successful nurturing.

But the angels failed Karyn and their all-seeing Master.

Karyn went to war.
Karyn went to war,
And it was the last place she ever went.

The child, Elana, was not born,
But her spirit lives on,
And wanders the Earth, condemned.
Elana’s spirit did not die,
But walks with white worn.

This poem is actually a very brief summary of the very beginning of an epic tale with many different characters. These are stories that my friends and I make together. We each have our own character and we make them interact with paper and pencil. Naturally as our characters develop, they acquire backgrounds. My character is one of the particular Guardian Angels mentioned in the poem. She failed Karyn and her child, and so was doomed to immortality on Earth by God.
So, therein lies my relationship with this fictional character. I was her Guardian Angel and I failed her; I let her die in the middle of a battle. In my carelessness, I stopped Elana from being born and fulfilling her destiny.
More realistically, however, chances are I would not have a relationship with Karyn at all; she lived her entire life on her father’s farm. When he passed on, she lived under her eldest brother’s tyranny with her two other brothers. The three of them endured John for many years. But one day the two younger brothers decided they had had enough and decided to enlist for the wars. Then alone under her brother’s tyranny, Karyn got three times more work. She soon followed in the younger brothers’ footsteps, disguised as a man. But her secret was discovered and she was raped. Unaware that she was now with child, Karyn still went to the battle the next day. And only a few minutes into the battle she was killed. Karyn never really knew anyone except her father, her brothers, and (technically) the man who raped her. She never even knew her mother.
Had Karyn actually survived the war and gone on to live a normal life in freedom with her child; I like to think that I would have been Karyn’s maid or midwife. Karyn is so brave and strong that I could never see myself as her equal. But as her maid, I would be able to talk to her, befriend her in a certain manner, and I would be able to help her raise Elana. This would be if I went back to her time. On the other hand, if Karyn were transported to this time period, I would like to think that she would be one of my college professors, or maybe one of the important individuals for whom I would play the role of interpreter in various languages as she travels around the world on various charity endorsing tours.
I like Karyn’s character so much because she got to go out and have an adventure. She got to break away from the tyranny of her everyday life and to start something for herself. She did it without scruple, and with an open mind. I live such a simple and sheltered life, (and though I am grateful), what is life without at least one adventure? I also admire Karyn’s patience and mind power. For her to deal with her older brother John for so many years is something I could never do. It’s something I’ve never had to do… Also, Karyn never let the fact that she was a woman hinder her. She never played on a woman’s supposed weakness. She simply wanted to be a person. She wanted to be a person and for people not to hold reserve for her simply because she was a woman. On the other hand, however, she never hated anyone for giving in to the stereotype; she never got angry at men that laughed at her weakness. She was never even angry at the man who raped her. She handled the situation so marvelously; in a manner that I could never have.
Karyn, in a way, represents what God asks us to be. She is what He envisioned us to be. She is the perfect angel, as my character was not. And sadly, there are very few people, especially today, who have as great of a character as Karyn. Humans are so strange; our nature compels us to do such strange things. I suppose I love Karyn so much because she is everything we will never be despite everything that The Lord has given us.

*raises an eyebrow* charity endorsing tours? what the Lord has given us? Christ, how long ago did I write this? Oh well. The piece is well written, although its point is not quite clear unless the assignment was known ahead of time. The poem is terrible, but we won't get into that.

Rangoon, Burma

3-19-06
Our town’s finest British cars were only used for the most important men. My brother and I heard about the procession from Sam, the next door neighbor. Whenever “they” came through, my brother and I would go out onto the street with the other kids and watch them drive by. The VIPs sat behind tinted windows and I doubt they even cared about the devastated landscape rolling by just outside their window. The only thing we would ever see of the passengers would be a puff of smoke coming from a slightly opened window.
As the cars approached, the crunching of the gravel grew louder; and softer as the first three drove right on by. In their dust cloud, however, we could distinctly see the fourth car slowing down. It went slower and slower until it actually stopped right in front of us. We all stared silently in shock. This had never happened before.
Then to our even greater surprise, the back door actually opened! And a tall, balding, white man walked out towards us. He smiled a friendly smile, and held his hands open in a gesture of peace. He walked right up to my brother and I (we were standing at the very front of the group) and held out his hand for us to shake. We both shook his hand, trembling. He had a firm shake, but not intimidating. Then satisfied, he pointed to himself and said, “Steve.” We nodded silently to show that we understood. Then, he picked up the camera that was hanging around his neck, “May I?” he asked us in our tongue. And again we nodded silently. Nodding back, he snapped a few shots of us and the rest of our group. Then he turned around and walked back to his car, looking at us once and winking. My brother and I followed him to his car and looked inside briefly before the man drove away.

You need the picture. This assignment was to write a story based on a picture. It fits, trust me. Maybe I'll get around to putting the picture on here later. It's a Steve McCurry Portrait. And I actually went online to research his (McCurry's) appearance to include him in this story. Unfortunately, this assignment had a limit of one page, so I couldn't do exaclty what it was I wanted to do, and Mr. Grady didn't like my opening sentence, so I had to change that.

Waiting for the Bus

3-19-06
I’m sitting on a cold, hard, wooden bench being sprinkled with hesitant droplets of rain. The wind brushes my hair across my face, and the page dances with the wind below my pen. A bus pulls up our lane, stops, and pulls away, still empty. Fifty meters behind me, a train pulls into the station, and pulls away a few seconds later, full. It’s all one endless routine.
Above me, an ominous black cloud swirls over the swaying trees. Some of the dead leaves still clinging to the sleeping branches finally let go and flutter to the ground. Sudden gusts seem to make the trees bow to all the bus riders patiently waiting for their buses.
Before me, sits proudly a community performance hall; backed by that dangerous black cloud. As the wind picks up and dies down over and over again, the German colors—displayed proudly at the hall’s entrance— dance and sleep, dance and sleep. Just as the building does each day. It wakes at night, briefly, and then sleeps during the day.
To my right is an affronting gray building; a hotel boasting the French and British flags. In this little town, its contrast against everything else here is shocking. But at the same time, it seems to fade into the background and is forgotten.
Behind me, richly clad teenage girls half-mindedly smoke their cigarettes as they wait for another bus. Just next to them, an elderly lady stands cautiously under a poncho and plastic hat. And next to that lady stands a middle aged man silently bobbing his head to the music emitting from his iPod headphones in his ears. They are all connected briefly as they wait for this one bus, yet they live such separate lives that they don’t even notice each other.
No one seems to want to stay in this place, the Bahnhof, the train station. There seems to be an air that speaks of hurry and departure. Luckily, our bus pulls up our lane and stops right in front of my cold, hard, wet bench. I clamber to gather my papers, and climb aboard.

That makes me want to go back to Germany quite badly. It's good description, and that's what the assignment was.

The Singer Solution to World Poverty

3-16-06
Communism has led to the production of what could potentially be the worst man-made disaster ever. We are taught from our very first Social Studies class that communism is a form of evil, that we should shun it, and that we should fight it. Trying to achieve it under another name does not make it any more right. I believe that this is what Mr. Singer is suggesting. And while his intentions are right (as Karl Marx’s were) they only look good on paper. They are doomed to failure and/or a country-wide lowered standard of living.
Mr. Singer is suggesting that we turn our lifestyles to an extreme form of Socialism in which we keep just enough of our earned money to live a basic life and we give all of the excess money to starving children in other countries that cannot earn their own money. While donating money to these children is a wonderful idea, donating as much as you can is not such a great idea.
Singer’s original idea of giving $200 to save the life of one child is a reasonable idea. It would be a great start and a great step. To give all excess money would defeat the purpose of the capitalist society our founding fathers have worked to hard to build.
There is always an answerless question in the scenario of Bob and his car versus the child at the other end of the tracks. Your personal value and comfort, or the life of someone you never knew? In a way, it is like all of us who know how badly animals are mistreated but continue to eat meat because we like it so much. That question and that guilt will always be there. And there will always be someone somewhere who thinks you are a horribly selfish person for not giving humanity your all.
But, either way, whether you give these children all the money you can or not, humanity will destroy itself. Whether it is from overpopulation of little children from Third World countries or from overpopulation of obese Americans is really up to the money holders. And since we had to be selfish to get to the point where we had all this money to begin with, it is futile to even dream about Americans giving up all of their hard earned excess money.
As sad and upsetting as this truth may be, there is little more to be said. Our very first animal instinct is survival, and more specifically, survival of the fittest. Trying to outdo such a simple calling, is like trying to walk up Niagara Falls. It is futile to even hope.

I smell half developped ideals and definitions of value and selfishness. Were I asked to write this assignment now, it would be different. But I'll leave it as it is. My opinion is well stated, but as usual there is little evidence to back except a reliance on generalities.

M&Ms

2-15-06
My brother came running into my room, “Mommy and Daddy have M&Ms for us downstairs!” he told me, in French. Excited, I jumped up and followed him downstairs.
My dad had a small bowl full of M&Ms, “You can have these,” he said holding them out towards me, “if you ask for them in English.” He said all of this in French.
“Okay, how do you ask for stuff in English?” I asked in French, excited at the prospect of getting M&Ms.
“You know how,” he answered simply (in French), holding the M&Ms out towards me. On the contrary, I only knew three words in English, “Yes,” “No,” and “Please.” Asking for M&Ms was not yet part of my vocabulary.
“I don’t know how,” I told my dad again.
“Stop messing around, Myriam,” he said sternly now, “You’re not getting the M&Ms until you ask for them in English” and with that he took the M&Ms back to the kitchen counter. Meanwhile, Phil was on top of things, he had finished his M&Ms and he was floating around the kitchen,
“Can I have the …jus de pomme (apple juice)?” He asked my mom half in English and half in French.
“Of course, bien sûr, Philippe,” she answered him smiling. Phil got the apple juice out of the fridge.
“Can I have the… verre (cup)?” Phil asked my mom.
“Of course,” and she handed him a cup.
“See, your brother has the hang of it,” my dad said to me in French, and he smiled as Phil asked for yet another thing:
“Can I have the… jus de pomme, encore (apple juice, again)? he asked, oblivious to my inability to ask for things in English. I did not understand what my brother was saying, it sounded like Chinese. I could not have repeated it, even for a bowl of M&Ms. So I stood against the wall in the kitchen while my dad raised his eyebrows at me.
“Do you want the M&Ms or not?” he asked, in French.
“I don’t know how—”
“Yes you do, stop messing around.” My dad gave me a questioning look. Losing all taste for M&Ms, I started to inch away from the kitchen, fighting back tears. “Where are you going?” admonishingly now, “just ask for the M&Ms. It’s not that hard.” He was certain that after hearing my brother say it three times, I would know how to ask too. But I didn’t…
“I don’t want them,” I told my dad in broken French. I did not want him to think I was stupid because I could not say, “Can I have the…”“Just ask for them!”
“I don’t know how!” And with that I ran out of the kitchen.
As I ran up the stairs to my room, I ran into my brother,
“You didn’t want your M&Ms?” he asked me, in French, and innocently. He meant no harm, but oh how I hated him just then.We both went into my room and colored with my crayons. Phil sat right by me.
“Can I have the… morceau de papier (piece of paper)?” Phil asked, smiling. I glared silently, but handed him a piece of paper. “Can I have the… craie rouge (red crayon)?” and I handed him the red crayon. A few minutes passed and, “Can I have the… craie verte (green crayon)?” and I handed him the green crayon. After Phil had asked for about five crayons, I finally unglued my tongue and asked him,
“Can I have the… craie rouge (red crayon)? I took the red crayon and colored in my last M&M. Then I got up and casually strolled up to my father,
“Can I have the… M&Ms?”
“Tu vois, you see?” and he handed me the M&Ms, “You knew all along.”

The end of that is entirely made up, I don't remember how that particular incident ended. All the way up to the part where I run away, however, the events are real. The interchanging of French and English is slightly confusing, so is my shaky use of dialogue. Otherwise, it has the prerequisite of tenseness and is well written.

Legalized “Cheating”

2-10-06
“Traditionally an approach like this would be against the rules, ‘You’d have to rip up their tests and call their parents.’” At High Tech High, students in humanities are permitted to use the Internet during essay tests. In schools all across the U.S., the definition of cheating is changing; “they’re permitting all kinds of behaviors that have been considered off limits just a few years ago.”
“In Ohio, students at Cincinnati Country Day can take their laptops into some tests and search online Cliff Notes. At Ensign Intermediate School in Newport Beach, Calif., seventh-graders are looking at each other’s hand-held computers to get answers on their science drills. And in San Diego, high schoolers can roam free on the Internet during English exams.”
Ellen Gamerman, author of “Legalized ‘Cheating,’” does not officially take a stand on the issue of cheating, but she spends most of the article giving examples, quotes, and parallels supporting the change in the definition of cheating.
Gamerman explains that technology is growing, and that many teachers are beginning to agree that fighting it would be futile. They say it is simpler to embrace the technology. Also, teachers say it is important for students to learn how to access information through technology. “The real world strengths of intelligent surfing and analysis… are now just as important as rote memorization.” Gamerman also says that team work and cooperation are promoted when students are allowed to beam answers to each other over hand-held computers.
What is cheating? Cheating is any form of plagiarism or any dishonest use of another’s work. Cheating is to accomplish a task through deceit, trick, or artifice. Changing the definition of cheating does not make what was previously considered to be cheating more right. Whether it is called cheating or not, students are still missing out on several essential social and studying skills. They are using another’s work, and passing their work off as their own.
Technology can be embraced without being used to cheat. Teachers have simply to ask their students to put laptops, hand-held computer, and cell phones away. Then a more vigilant watch must be kept. It seems teachers are opting out of this extra work and simply letting the students have things their way.
Also, students can be taught to access information on the internet without letting the technology overrun all subjects in school. We take computer literature courses, and use the Internet for help on homework, but we still do fine on English essays and science drills without having the Internet at our fingertips at all times. Allowing a student to use a laptop and/or the Internet during a test is cheating. Students are just copying the work of another, and they are not learning to think for themselves.
As for team work, this can also be taught without the use of technology. Besides, beaming answers on hand-held computers hardly constitutes human interaction. In any case, the world places more importance on the individual and his ability to perform. An individual that always has someone else’s thoughts at his disposal will perform poorly.
It is true that technology has become more readily available and easier to use. It seems a shame, however, to cheat students of social and study skills that are necessary for their future. Teachers will have to work harder to stop kids from cheating but without the machines, students take away so much more. Changing the definition of cheating is not the way to provide a balance between technology and old-school memorization.

It seems like I'm just saying the same thing over and over again, huh? Well I state my opinion, and that was the point of the assignment. It's not very strongly supported, however, and the paper has no purpose otherwise.

The Rollerblading Club

2-8-06
Lunch was always a silent ordeal. Phil (my brother) and I would always eat as quickly as possible, careful not to make too much noise with our silverware, and careful not to leave anything on our plates. My portions were smaller, so I would always finish first, but the second we were both finished we would rush downstairs into the garage. There, we would put our rollerblades on and skate out the back the door.
As soon as the door slammed shut, we would start talking. We were not allowed to speak English to each other, or anywhere inside the house, so we would wait until we were out of earshot to start speaking English. It was not a rebellious thing; we have always felt more comfortable speaking English to each other.
As we skated down the street, we would play games together. We would pretend we were giants or lions… We would easily slide into the roles, playing whole-heartedly as we closed the distance between our house and the houses of our friends, Kelly and Brian. They lived about seven minutes away.
Sometimes, they were both already in the street, practicing their skating. The four of us made up what we called “The Rollerblading Club”. We would get together as often as we could and would rollerblade around the upper part of our neighborhood.
Kelly and I are older, so we were the leaders. Phil was the cunning one, and Brian was… the fool (we called him Monkey Man).
As we would come upon Kelly and Brian, Phil and I would be in the middle of our game. Of course, as we would get nearer, the other two would overhear us. Kelly would rollerblade up to us, squealing to a halt,
“Hi guys!” she would say, “What ‘cha playing’?” and we would skid to a halt, too. Phil and I would give each other meaningful looks and say something like:
“We’re playing this really cool game about giants…” We would explain the game to the other two, but Phil and I had been playing “make-believe” together since before we could talk. It would be hard for others to join our game.
So we would find other games to play. Kelly loved to make up stories about life on other planets. We would pretend we were Muscle Dogs or Showmians from Eressness. Or we would admire each other’s pokémon cards, “cool” or not.
We would skate around on that one flat street, Nancy Lane, until we ran out of ideas. The sky would be a bright clear blue, everything would be tinted yellow by the sun and we would hear someone call to us from afar,
“Hey guys!” And we would all turn and look. It was our friend Jenna and her brother, Keenan. Neither of them liked to skate, but they would invite us to over to their house for the rest of the afternoon.
They lived half-way down a big hill. Getting down it on our skates was always an adventure. Phil would walk on the edge of the grass with Jenna and Keenan, Kelly and I would make slow zigzags one in front of the other, and Brian would just let himself go down the hill and he would stop himself by running into Jenna’s garage door.
At Jenna’s house we would jump on the trampoline together, trying all sorts of jumps and flips. Or we would swim in the pool, doing handstands and diving for sinking objects. And when we were tired, we would sit on the lawn chairs by the pool eating fudgecicles and drinking ice water.
Then around 5:15pm, just as the sun would start to set at the bottom of the hill, Phil and I would skate back up to hill talking about the games of today, and looking forward to the games of tomorrow.

That's a pretty piece. But it's not very realistic. I think that might have happened once, it's not something that happened everyday. And even then, some details are made up and/or exaggerated. It's still cute.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Summer Assignment
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou is a moving account of the hardships of a young, black, intellectual woman in the early 1900s. Maya Angelou, or Marguerite Johnson, is a southwestern African-American who grew up in Stamps, Arizona and San Francisco, California in the thirties and forties. Her passage from childhood to adulthood can be regarded as little less than the life of a remarkable normal girl. In this biographical novel, Maya Angelou shares her feelings and beliefs, shows how she has changed over time, gives us vivid images of her world, and presents us with important issues.
One of the strongest influences in Marguerite Johnson’s life was the church. Marguerite attended the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church every Sunday with her Grandmother, Sister Annie Henderson, during her entire stay in Stamps, Arizona. Often the root of all her childhood worries was the guilt of having committed a sin and not being admitted into Heaven. Society, however, was the factor that determined her morality. Though she knew, for example, that it was wrong to lie, she believed it was right for Blacks to take from Whites since they denied Blacks so many things. She always felt that “the needs of a society determine its ethics. (pg. 224)”
The White half of Stamps also had a strong influence on Marguerites beliefs:
"In Stamps, the segregation was so complete that most of the black children didn’t really know what whites looked like. Other than that they were different, to be dreaded, and in that dread was included the hostility of the powerless against the powerful, the poor against the rich, the worker against the worked for, and the ragged against the well dressed. (pg. 25)"
Marguerite’s grandmother owned the only store in the black part of Stamps and Marguerite hated the “powhitetrash” who came in and treated her grandmother as a nobody. Marguerite’s will to defy the unearned superiority of white people was born here and facilitated her advance in her life and career.
This complete confidence to confront white people was not innate, however, and came to her after a series of revelations. Her first revelation was that she was not white and beautiful. She believed she was so until the age of five when the realization struck that she was actually black and plain. Her second revelation came when she had to drive her father’s car (without knowing how), when he was drunk. She had to drive fifty miles back across the Mexican border and back into California. Success in this feat made Marguerite realize that she had the power to accomplish what she set out to do. Her third revelation came when she left her father and went to live with a gang of orphans in a car junkyard. This month spent supporting herself (at fifteen) showed her that she was able to look after herself and that she was responsible. This series of revelations changed her into a capable individual who could really push to get to her goal. This stubbornness helped her push the Market Railway Company into letting her work for them, making her the first black person to work for a tram company.
As she grew into adolescence, Marguerite changed in many other ways. For example, she changed from semi-friendly and talkative to entirely silent and subdued. This dramatic change was a result of being raped by Mr. Freeman at the age of eight. This change wore off after a few years, however, and Marguerite eventually returned to normal.
The biggest change that Marguerite went through happened when she was sixteen. Just before she had her baby, Marguerite could see herself as the caged bird, but had no reason to sing. She believed life for blacks was useless and hopeless. When her son was born, though, she finally saw hope and she remembered that there was a future. This was reason enough to sing. This was her biggest change, going from hopeless to hopeful.
Angelou describes her childhood world vividly, leaving poignant images. Of these images is the description of her grandmother’s personality. Annie was a good, strict mother to Marguerite:
"'Thou shall not be dirty' and 'Thou shall not be impudent' were the two commandments of my Grandmother Henderson upon which hung our total salvation.
Each night in the bitterest winter we were forced to wash faces, arms, necks, legs and feet before going to bed. She used to add… 'wash as far as possible, then wash possible.' (pg. 27)"
Annie had control over her world and the people in it, white or not. This left an impression on Marguerite and set an example.
Another of these images can be seen in the description of Annie’s store:
"Alone and empty in the mornings, it looked like an unopened present from a stranger. Opening the front doors was pulling the ribbon off the unexpected gift…. Whenever I walked into the store in the afternoon, I sensed that it was tired. I alone could hear the slow pulse of its job half done. But just before bedtime, after numerous people had walked in and out, had argued over their bills… or just dropped in “to give Sister Henderson a ‘Hi y’all’” the promise of magic mornings returned to the store and spread itself over the family in washed life waves. (pg. 16)"
One day at The Store seems to mirror the first sixteen years of Marguerite’s life. Her life starts out peaceful and unaffected. Then she goes through many experiences, some good, most not. Finally, just before bedtime, she settles with the knowledge that tomorrow may be a better day.
Another of these strong descriptions is seen in the day that Marguerite goes to her mother because she believes that because she has vulva, she is becoming a lesbian. This particular conversation with her mother, however, reminds the reader that behind her shield of greatness, Marguerite is a normal girl with normal worries. Most of the other events in this novel put Marguerite above the rest and show that she is abler than the average person. This pushes her away and makes her less real. The reader even disconnects, not being able to relate to her challenge.
There are many social issues presented in this novel, most of which are still big issues today. Since Maya Angelou represents many minority groups, this memoir gives us “the other side” of these issues. The biggest issue presented here is discrimination. Marguerite sees discrimination against blacks from whites, against children from adults, against the handicapped from the healthy, and against women from men. Discrimination is wrong. Just because a certain group has strength in numbers, it doesn’t mean that they should keep down those who are different or those who show power to oppose.
The life of a young, black, intellectual woman may not be the easiest, as Marguerite finds out, but there is something that convinces her that, though caged, she should still sing of Freedom. That something is Hope. With her strength and determination, Marguerite was able to survive, succeed, and thrive. Despite the imperfection of her childhood, she pulled through with flying colors. Maya Angelou is a beacon of hope for all future generations.

*cracks up* Aw... How touching. *tear* On, the real though, that was really corny, but a lot of work went into it. It seems to jump disconnectidely from one topic to the other, but it's actually stictly following the blueprint statement (last statement of first paragraph).