Sunday, December 16, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Friday, November 2, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Taking A Stand: A Personal Narrative
Due:
9/11/12
WRTG
3020-093
M.STULTS
— ASST.#1B
Personal
Narrative
At times I feel a great sense of loss and
sadness...not always just loss and sadness; most often twinges of guilt and
shame inevitably accompany their melancholy counterparts. The feelings
seemingly stem from nowhere, and overwhelm and flood all senses and thought. I
am rendered temporarily speechless as the wind is knocked out of my body. I
push back the feelings and try to ignore the immediate knot that has begun to
form in my stomach. I draw in deep breaths and regain my composure, doing my
best to ignore this unwelcome guest that unexpectedly and frequently takes up
residence within my body, and continue on with my day. However unnerving the
experience and feelings are, I now know and recognize that I do not have to
succumb or submit to them. I give myself the space and patience to let go of
these momentary feelings and guilt, in order to move on with my day, my life. I
am stronger now than I ever imagined I could be as a child.
When I was a small girl, I never imagined that my life would take the
unexpected course that it has. As
a child, as most others often do, I would imagine what my life would be like in
the years to come. Visions of high school dances, graduating college in four
years, finding a great career that I am passionate about, traveling the world, cooking,
painting, and adventuring in the outdoors, getting married & having
children, all flashed through my mind. I never was the girl to plan out my
wedding. If I ever did get married I assumed I would share the day with my
parents, family, and friends. Not once did I imagine that one of my parents
would not be there to share these life ‘milestones’ with me. Not once.
One of the hardest things to deal with in life is the loss of a parent. Losing
a parent is like losing a limb. You feel as if a vital part of you is
lost. You might think the only way
to lose a parent is in death. Think again. There are times when the loss of a
parent occurs out of choice, or even out of force. This is not a welcomed
choice, but at times, an altogether necessary and life-saving one. One of the
second hardest things to deal with in life, is the loss of a parent…the loss of
a parent in result of the painful and horrifically uncomfortable expelling of
them from your life in order to take a stand for yourself. In order to be able
to fully breathe and walk down the street of life, happy and unburdened by the
unaddressed and unwelcome memories and experiences of the past. I knew in order
to be happy, I had to fully address and embrace my life experiences, however
painful and uncomfortable they may be.
In order for me to be happy in life, I would not only have to work through
& embrace my past, but also stand up for myself against perhaps the most
ultimate authority figure in a person’s life. A person’s parents are often seen
as two of the ultimate authority figures in a person’s life, even more
specifically one’s father. For me,
this was no different. Like all
other children I sought out love, approval, & stability from my mother and
father. Some parents have a harder time with the art of parenting, or rather,
with being a good one. While my mother could easily be regarded as a saint, my
father was more closely resembling a sinner. It’s not to be said that I don’t
love my father as I love my mother, but my feelings for him end there. Even if
I love my father, it doesn’t mean that I must like or respect him. This took me
a long time to learn and accept. A long time.
Standing up to my father would mean reclaiming my childhood and youth, ending
a cycle of abuse, and would be achieved only by the subsequent expulsion of him
from my life. This was one of the hardest things to do. EVER. There are many
reasons as to why this was and is so hard, aside from the obvious. My father
had many wonderful qualities. He is an extremely hard working and intelligent
person, incredibly enthusiastic, AT TIMES supportive, a very successful
surgeon, a skilled outdoorsman and climber, he can be charming and
dynamic…however there are times when the bad qualities in a person outweigh the
good, and unfortunately, he falls in to this category.
The first round of school in my college career
was greatly affected by my past. In
my youth, I had kept myself so busy with hobbies, sports, extracurricular
activities, school, and friends; that I never had time to think about anything
else really. I had always been my parents happy go lucky child, the one my
mother thought she would never have to worry about. I was social and made friends
easily. I was well rounded and involved in various sports and clubs, and for
the most part, did well in school. I was also probably the child out of my
brother, sister, & I, who was most like my father as far as interests and
hobbies go. As a teenager, I often went hiking, climbing, and canyoneering with
my father, always trying to ignore the parts of him I didn’t like. Children are
very forgiving of their parents. At times too forgiving.
On the surface, I was the closest with my father out of the three of us
children. However, having a relationship with my father came at a great
price. I had chosen to not deal
with or acknowledge what had occurred during my childhood and youth, and
assumed that if I kept myself busy enough, and ignored all that had happened
over the years, I would be ok. Keeping myself so busy in my youth was a way to
dissociate from various issues in my life. When I left for college in the
summer of 2001, I set off with every intention to graduate in four years, and
do well in school. I moved in to
the dorms, and started off the year strong. As my freshman year went by, I began to shutdown in certain
ways. I was no longer as involved with sports, clubs, and whatnot as I had been
in middle and high school, and the system I had unconsciously devised to
protect myself and dissociate from my past, began to slowly crumble and fall.
My past began to creep back in and more and more began to affect my grades,
happiness, and overall well-being. Over the next 3 years, I became more and more unhappy. My
grades suffered, I stopped working out, and I fell in to such a state of depression
that my mom decided to come out to Boulder to see what on earth was going on
with me. After all, I was her happy-go-lucky child that she’d never had to
worry about. Once she was in
Boulder, I completely broke down and she and I had a long talk about my childhood
and youth. She had not been privy to all that had occurred, and while she had
been aware of the mental and emotional abuse from my father that was frequent
during my upbringing, she was not aware of the other forms of abuse I had
undergone as a young child at the hands of my father. There are times in the past, where I had tried to stand up
for myself to my father. I had been unsuccessful up until this point.
Taking in to account the type of man that my father was, manipulative,
dishonest, and narcissistic, my mom and I came to the conclusion that in order
to address my past and move on and be happy, I would have to do several things,
none of which would be easy. We
came to the decision that I would stop school for as long as needed in order to
focus more solely on myself, and my ‘issues’. Focusing on myself entailed not
only finding a therapist to work with, attending support groups, and working
part to full-time, but also meant that I would cut my father from my life in
every way. As much as I loved my
father, I was able to recognize that the good in him was far outweighed by the
bad. Even though I appreciated some parts of him and some aspects of his
personality, I finally realized that he was too toxic to include in my life.
This was one of the hardest realizations to come to in my life. Like I said,
losing a parent is like losing a limb.
At the end of summer in 2004, I cut my father out of my life. It was the
hardest decision I’ve ever made, and most likely always will be. It has been
over eight years now, and during this time I have spoken to him on the phone
once. Now you can see why the feelings of guilt and shame often accompany my
feelings of loss and sadness. It’s often impossible to not feel guilty about
the act of cutting half of who you are from your life. It would have been
easier to not stand up for myself to my father, but at times it’s necessary to
protect yourself over others.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
A Personal Narrative
Michael W. Pollard
Professor Frances Charteris
WRTG 3020 – 93
September 3, 2012
A Late Bloomer?
I’m not
sure why folks always said I was late bloomer. Maybe it was because I was
younger than all the other kids, and because my birthday falls around Labor
Day, I started school when I was four. Heck, I didn’t even get my driver’s
license until halfway through my senior year in high school. I grew three
inches and gained twenty pounds within six months of graduation – sure could
have used that extra size on the football field. I didn’t get married until
just shy of my 35th birthday but that may have been another story.
My buddy Stuart from high school
just sent me a picture of my mother and her best friend. I got a little misty
for a second as I lost her in 1997, and then I started thinking about what a
crush I had on her friend – what was her name, Sherry something. I think mom
would be proud of me now and I don't care what anyone says, it's exciting being
a college junior at my age. Some people might call it a midlife crisis but I
don't think so, I’m just plain tickled to death to have finally made it;
knowing what a journey it has been. I can't help being in a constant state of
reminiscence, another “auld lang syne” so to speak. Am I finally here or is
this just another one of my fantasies here to play tricks on my mind? Sometimes
I have to pinch myself to see if I am awake or not. For as long as I can
remember I've had a dream of attending a major university. I used to watch the
Buckeyes play football and tell my friends and family that I would be on that
team soon. Life happened instead and a
young man’s dreams were never realized.
Stuart and I decided that we wanted
to get out of that one horse town and since my family couldn't afford to send
me to college, I ended up serving my country instead, which was by far the most
enlightening experience I ever had. I often think of my comrades every time I
hear a certain patriotic song or see a recruiter handing out flyers. What would
wild Bill have to say about all this I wonder – wherever he is? He was my
roomie in Istanbul, Turkey and we got pretty close since we were fairly
confined on a remote outpost for a year. We stayed in touch for a little while
after we went to our next duty station but just lost track of each other after
a time. It was that way with just about all of my comrades. You meet so many
different people and say you will keep in touch but never do.
This time a year is special for me,
I can smell football season in the air and I can hear the faint sounds of the
crowds cheering in the distance. Oh, how I loved playing that game. I sometimes
wonder if my other classmates or my friends think I'm fickle for being here and
I keep second-guessing myself for taking such a leap of faith in myself. At
those moments though, I remind myself how long and lonely this road has been.
In some ways it feels like it's not at all what I expected, but in other ways
it's been everything and more.
For this student there are no
Friday night lights and TV interviews or fraternity memberships and dorm
parties. I get all choked up for not
having had the opportunity to experience these things back in the day but
there's a kind of peace in my having arrived at this place that I've held in my
dreams for so long. The beginning and the end are quite clear and major life
events stand out as well, but a lot of the in between seems kind of fuzzy and
overlapping. It could be like the little icon that I had pop up on my computer
screen a minute ago alerting me to the fact that a certain program was using a
little more memory than it was supposed to. I started thinking that our lives
may be that way. The older we get the more memories we have and need to store,
and maybe we can only file a certain amount of them before we start deleting or
editing out some of the less significant facts.
No matter, I'm here for the ride and I have a
deeper understanding for the world in which we live. I have been blessed with a
whole new list of firsts; I received my first scholarship after all my hard
work and I cried, I went to my first college football game and I cheered, I
received my first degree this year and I hung it on my wall. The saddest thing
in a life is to go to your grave with your dream still inside you. I'm living mine
here and now and although I'm still pretty athletic my bones are a little too
brittle to go out for the football team. I’ll just cheer from the sidelines
instead.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Personal Narrative
Allison Veneris
Professor Charteris
WRTG 3007
11 September, 2012
Failure is Not
an Option
Living in a sorority
house, I hear a wide range of discussions from how disastrous Miley Cyrus’s new
haircut is to the latest political scandal, but from time to time, there is
that unsettling question, “what is your biggest fear?” For most, this is just a
basic question that comes with answers such as snakes, heights or even pickles;
my answer is not so simple. From as far back as seventh grade, I dreamed of the
day I would finally be off to college, studying what I wanted to study and
living the way I wanted to live. While the rest of my friends dreaded
graduation day, I could not have been more excited to be that much closer to
getting out of the bubble I lived in, other wise known as Huntington Beach,
California. Coming into college, I was confident that these would be the best
four years of my life, but the same day I started dreaming of college was the
same day I started fearing what came after it.
Unlike most teenagers,
the thought of being off on my own at college did not scare me at all; in fact,
it excited me. Something about the thought of freedom got me wired and no one
could understand why. After all, who would want to leave a place like
Huntington Beach? I certainly did and I could not wait for the day that I could
stay out as late as I wanted to, eat in my own room and make my own rules. The
thought of college, however, always got me thinking about the future and what
comes after that: getting a job, supporting myself, growing up. With freedom
comes bills, working fifty hours a week and too much responsibility that
overwhelms me too much to even fathom. I guess that is the irony of it all;
beyond excited for freedom, but terrified for too much freedom. In all honesty,
I worry that I will not be able to handle it all; failure is my greatest fear.
Success is a clear-cut,
defining factor in my family, as my mother, father, aunts, uncles and even my
grandparents have all achieved success in their own fields all on their own;
therefore, independence and has always been stressed by my parents. From an
early age, my parents made me work hard for everything I ever wanted, even
though they were fully capable of giving it to me, teaching me that nothing
will just be handed to me in life. Throughout high school, I paid to go to the
movies with my friends, lunch at school and all the maintenance on my car,
including gas, oil changes, etc. Nonetheless, my parents had done all they
could to prepare me to be off on my own and there was no doubt that I could
handle myself after they dropped me off at my dorm. My whole life has revolved
around preparing for that day I will be supporting myself completely, yet I
still get a gut wrenching feeling every time I think about that day. My parents
still help me out a little bit but I feel like once they completely release me
to take care of myself, I might fall off the deep end. Thinking about the
future always makes me wonder why I fear it so much and quite frankly, it is
even strange to me why I fear it so much, considering I have been prepared so
well by my parents.
With her success in
business and her ability to provide an incredible childhood for my siblings and
me, my mom has always been someone I have looked up to. When I told my mom I
wanted to be a talent agent in the entertainment industry, her face quickly
went from a happy grin to a straight-lipped frown. The plan has always been
that my siblings and I would get a degree in business and keep the family
tradition going. In the entertainment industry, jobs can be very hard to come
by, unlike in business, where there are more frequent job opportunities. Being
the oldest, I have to lead by example for my siblings, meaning I need to have a
job out of college and give them a path to follow. Especially with the
recession, my mom immediately became concerned that I would not be able to find
work or be able to maintain a healthy lifestyle; her concerns have always been
my own. Sometimes I wonder if I should just give up my dream and go with the
safe bet, but every time I do, I remember why I wanted to be a talent agent in
the first place. True, unique talent is hard to come by and I think all those
talented people deserve to have their name heard; I want to be that person who
makes it happen for them. Giving up my dream just for the sake of stability is
not an option. The motto is “you only live once,” so why not live out your
dreams? I am apprehensive that my mom will be right, but that just pushes me
harder to prove her wrong.
Similar to most
professions, internships in the entertainment industry are the best way to
establish connections and gain an “in.” I knew when I entered college that I
would need an internship every summer before I graduated to increase my chances
of getting a job after college. In preparation for my future in the industry, I
was fortunate enough to intern at a talent agency, Clear Talent Group, this
past summer. On the other hand, ever since my older cousins shared their
incredible stories about their times scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef,
bull running in Barcelona or even drinking with the locals in Dublin, studying
abroad is something I have dreamed about doing. Exploring new territories,
cultures and gaining a new perspective on the world was exactly what I wanted
to experience, but then a problem arose. From all the research I had done, I
discovered that Summer 2013 would be the most opportune time to study abroad,
but then that would mean giving up connections I would gain from an internship.
The connections I would gain could be my break through into the industry and
passing that up in not something I’m willing to risk. I would rather stay in
America and have an internship to increase my chances of receiving a job offer,
than gain a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience a different part of
the world. My priorities lie with my future and ensuring that I have the
greatest chance at securing a job after college.
Majority of our life is
“grown up” life, where we are raising families, working to pay off bills, etc,
so, maybe I just do not want to grow up. After college, it all starts; everyone
for themselves. I have the biggest shoes to fill and that weighs heavily on my
shoulders. It is an issue that keeps me awake at night, distracts me during
exams and some times keeps me from eating, but this is not supposed to be a sob
story; this is what I want. I cannot satisfy myself until I’m successful and
although there are plenty of anxiety attacks to come, some how I know I will
get to where I need to be. Even though the road to the destination will have a
few bumps here and there, I have to learn that I can rely on what my parents
have taught me. Failure cannot be an option for me, even though I am terrified
it could be.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Daniele Whalen's Personal Narrative
Vivid Memories
Memory
is a very interesting topic to me.
As a psychology major, it is something that we study over and over and
that people are constantly trying to understand. At a more personal level, it is fascinating to reflect on
the act of remembering, rather than just simply remembering something. To think about why, how, and what I
remember is something I am not sure I have ever put much thought into. Memory, for me, works in both organized and chaotic
ways. Sometimes I remember certain
things for a purpose, like a test, yet other times memories are triggered by
sights, sounds, or smells. Even
stranger is the presence of a memory with an absence of any sort of trigger, a
memory that seemingly comes out of nowhere.
When I encounter a
memory, it is generally very clear as if I were watching a movie. I see memories visually in my mind and
they come in the form of color images. Being a visual person, it makes sense that
I recall memories in the form an image or video-like replay. It is remarkable the detail that I am
able to remember events in, from the clothing I was wearing to exact statements
that either others or myself made.
Granted, I realize that I remember these events from solely my own
perspective. As far as memory is
concerned with schoolwork, I would never claim to have a photographic memory
although I do have photographic memory tendencies. The reason I refer to them as “tendencies” is because of
their inconsistency. Occasionally I
approach a test and can visualize the piece of paper that my notes were taken
on, in other words, I can literally see the notes. At other times, this does not work and I rely on more
traditional study techniques.
Unfortunately, the consistency versus inconsistency of my so-called
photographic memory is quite unpredictable.
My family would
all agree that I have a very strong long-term memory. My short-term memory is fine; it is what I would consider
normal. My long-term memory
however, is very extensive. Just
the other day, on a hike with my parents, I recalled camping at the exact place
as a small child. This camping
trip I remember had only occurred once around the age of six. I was able to recall the exact position
along the lake that we had set up our tent and my parents were astonished that
I remembered this event. Nothing
spectacular or eventful occurred on the trip, but for some indescribable reason
I could recall being in this place over a decade ago.
What I find most
interesting of all about memory is the inability to remember. There is this very specific smell that I
only occasionally smell. As soon
as I smell it, it triggers my brain to try to remember where it comes from or
where I have encountered it before. This strange phenomenon has been occurring
over the past six to seven years and I can never place exactly what the memory
surrounding this smell is. All I
can tell from the smell is that the memory must be something unpleasant. This is one example of where I have
experienced memory lapses. I would
love to discover what this smell reminds me of and even further, understand why
I cannot remember it. Feeling this
strange sensation of a memory being just on the tip of my tongue is something I
find extremely frustrating, it consumes me and I spend hours trying to place
the sensation with its corresponding memory. Is this sense of a memory real? Is there really a memory
there to be found at all?
I’ve described my
memory as being very good, but the real question is how can I know this? Can I
really trust my memory? After all, another common psychology topic are the
infamous false memories of children.
I have confirmed with my mother to have a false memory or two as a
child. I have a very distinct
memory of the layout of the house my family lived in when I was three years old. The house contained a trap door hidden
in the carpet of the living room that led to the basement. My parents look at me with confusion
every time I describe the house to them, because most of my other memories
around the same time are correct.
This one however, they claim time and time again, is incorrect. So I think I have a pretty good memory,
but I also have confirmed false memories from my childhood, can I or can I not
trust my own memory?
Maybe it is the
optimist in myself, but I’d like to believe that, yes, I can trust my own
memory. The reasoning for this is
that famous saying “hindsight is 20/20.”
Whether I may have been right or wrong, looking back on a situation it
always is easier to take a third person perspective and be able to understand
why things happened the way they did.
It is also easier to see what could have been done differently. For these reasons, it seems that my
memory is something that I can trust.
I haven’t had a confirmed false memory since my early childhood, which
makes me wonder if false memories are something solely constricted to
childhood. The idea that false memory is something that only children
experience also helps me to trust in myself that my memories are accurate.
After taking a
deep and insightful look into my own experiences with memories, I have arrived
at more questions than answers. I
would love to better understand my own memory, this could be so helpful and
enable me to manage and have control over my own memory and performance on
memory related tasks.
Alix Jones' Personal Narrative
Entirely
Speechless
The attacks on the
World Trade Center buildings and the Pentagon on September 11th were
two moments in American history that have greatly defined the narrative of my
generation. I was only nine years old at the time, still naïve to the cruelties
that humans are capable of committing. It was unfathomable to me that a person
could crash a plane into a building full of other peoples’ mothers, brothers,
husbands, and children. Surely there was no justifiable motive to inflict that
kind of pain on another person. My young mind tried to process these events,
always coming up short of a definitive answer, a solid explanation, for these
acts of hatred against the only country I had ever known. With my family and
friends safe in their homes, I felt as though I had witnessed a horrible car
crash; driving by the scene of the accident you feel a wrench in your gut and
pangs of sympathy toward those involved, all the while knowing that you will
never truly understand their grief at the loss they have experienced.
After a tragedy,
people need someone to blame. While the terrorists that lead the attacks
against our country were all extremists, holding values that most of us will
never understand, many Americans struggled to separate them from people with
religious beliefs that differed from their own. All Muslims were now
categorized as terrorists, allowing innocent people to be persecuted for crimes
they did not commit. These unfair accusations shaped the way that Muslims were
viewed in our society, and the grief and turmoil from 9/11 made some wary of
the intentions of everyday citizens. Living in Colorado, I felt isolated from
the aftermath of the attacks, not really comprehending the devastation to the
city and citizens of New York. This event shaped many New Yorkers’ stories,
intricately weaving into the rhythms of their daily lives and their connections
to neighbors and friends. It wasn’t until I moved there at eighteen to attend
NYU that I began to realize the profound effect 9/11 continues to hold over the
city a decade after the tragedy.
One night during
the beginning of May of my freshman year, my friends and I sat in the hallway
of our dorm, avoiding thoughts of our upcoming finals through trivial
conversations. One of my hall-mates opened up his laptop, letting out a gasp
when he read a headline that Osama Bin Laden had been killed at the hands of
American Navy Seals. Every one of us paused for breath, scared to exhale
because of the uncertainty of the moment. This man, the mastermind behind the
attacks that killed thousands of innocent Americans, seemed more like a figment
of political rhetoric than a human capable of succumbing to the same fate as
every other person I had ever known. The heinous crimes he had committed divorced
him from my concept of reality, making his death seem impossible; how had it
taken over a decade to find this infamous man who, in the end, died a classified
death?
Although we all
had plenty of work to do, none of us could wrap our heads around this shocking
news. Not only had Bin Laden been killed, but we were living in the very city
that he had attacked, taking so many innocent lives. We learned that a rally
was being held at the World Trade Center grounds and felt that we should
participate in a memorial to those lost with the rest of New York. As we rode
the subway downtown, I couldn’t ignore the curiosity coursing through my body.
I didn’t know what to expect, growing up so far from the city that was so
strongly impacted by the events of 9/11. A strong sense of pride grew from the
courageous acts of the fire and police departments of New York, and the lives
of all New Yorkers were forever bound to both the horrific events but also the
heroism of that day.
As we emerged from
the subway station, I was struck by the sounds of celebration over the death of
Bin Laden. The excitement buzzed in the air, producing an almost electrical
current that fed the crowd that had formed around the World Trade Center site. The
scene that I encountered as we approached the crowd left me at a loss for words.
Everyone around me seemed almost manic, flushed with exhilaration about the
death of this man. It was instantly clear that many people were belligerently
drunk, as they shouted profanities and cursed him to the depths of hell. I had
expected that this gathering would be a kind of memorial for people to find
some relief that there was finally a bit of justice for the loved ones they had
lost. However, it felt more like a celebration of death than a remembrance of
those who had died a decade before. The rage that many New Yorkers had carried
with them, that had weighed them down, for years, bubbled to the surface,
spilling over with a violent fury. Instead of justice, people sought revenge. I
was uneasy in this crowd, instantly on edge. I wanted to understand the anger
they felt, so that I could comprehend the energy that crackled all around me.
As the crowd
cheered, I began to cry unexpectedly. Before this moment, I had never
celebrated the death of another human being. I couldn’t comprehend that people
were toasting the loss of life, even a life filled with such hatred and
destruction. As I surveyed the scene around me, I didn’t feel comfort. I didn’t
feel as though we were participating in a memorial, but rather an incensed mob
celebrating a bloody victory. While I realized fully that every person there
had a right to be angry, I didn’t agree that an eye for an eye could truly
bring closure. I turned to my best friend and asked quietly if we could leave.
Equally shaken, he quickly agreed. As we stood waiting for the train, I stared
at the tracks at a loss for any words to describe how I felt. The intensity and
confusion I experienced that night made speech powerless. When I arrived at my
dorm, my first instinct was to call my mom back home in Colorado. Just as I had
when I was young, I needed to hear her voice, hoping that that small comfort
would bring some coherency to my muddled thoughts. With my mom on the other
line, however, I was unable to verbalize any of the emotions that I was
experiencing. Words seemed underwhelming, and no amount of discussion could
make sense of the divide between my expectations and what had occurred. Even now,
over a year after Osama Bin Laden was killed, I struggle to flesh out the
conflict I experienced in a moment in my life so rare and unprecedented that I
was left entirely speechless.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Personal Narrative
Elissa Buchalter
WRTG 3020093-094 ASSIGNMENT #1
Francis Charteris
8/30/12
Blackness. The
view I see when I gaze out of my window as the obnoxious jingle rings
throughout my dark room. Why am I
awake? I ask this every single morning. Reluctantly I crawl out from underneath
my warm blankets and stumble to the kitchen. Coffee and peanut butter. Ah,
that’s why I am awake. Not because
I want to consume these items, but because I have to. Every. Single. Morning.
Exactly two hours before the real reason why I am awake.
Crisp cool air
flows over skin as my body speeds forward. Pebbles fly up in the air ever so
slightly as the sound of gravel cuts the silence. Labored breathing shatters
the stillness, breaks the loneliness.
Everything aches. The tension in my neck radiates down my spine, through
my sacrum and ends in my big toe.
Hamstrings so tight I find myself asking if it’s possible for them to
snap, like an overused rubber band. Thirsty. So incredibly thirsty. My hair
matted to the back of my neck caused by the sweat cascading down my frame. Why? I often find myself asking this
question. Because I have to.
I lean slightly
forward, lift my legs high, pump my arms. My limbs burn as if there is an
electrical fire radiating throughout all my nerves. Descending. Sweet relief until the force of going downhill
sends waves of shock up through my arches all the way to the tips of my scapulae. The small computer masquerading as a
watch beeps at me from my wrist. Halfway there.
Bored. So
incredibly bored. Hours on end spent alone. No amount of new music can quell
the boredom. Thoughts start to wander. Constantly chasing “the zone” but often
eluded. Always chasing. Why? Because I have to.
Skin now caked in
a layer of dry salt and sunglasses smeared. My clothes now cling to my body
like a second skin and rub against my ribcage and thighs. Blisters from my past
resurface on my toes as I bound down the path. The weight from the water belt significantly lighter than
when I began. Still chasing… and now… Lost. Not in the physical, but the mental. Lost in my
thoughts, within myself. Time and space no longer exist, the pain is no longer
real. A moving meditation. Thoughts and mind chatter go mute. Gliding. No,
that’s not it. Flying? Yes. That’s what it is. I’m flying. The shrill beep shatters
my reverie as if screaming at me to go faster. One foot in front of the other.
Why? Because i have to.
How long ago was I
in bed? Feeling as if an eternity has passed, I glance down at the computer
enveloping my small wrist. Elated to the screen projecting back at me that I am almost home. Hill. Up again. Down. Left. Right.
Swerve to miss the car. Left again. Round the bend and….Home.
The blackness
begins to soften as pale yellow and pink hues lightly embrace the surroundings.
The silence no longer like a heavy blanket as the cars begin to whiz by. Dogs
and their owners emerge from their dwellings and children bounce playfully down
the path towards the bus stop. My once swiftly moving feet slow. The forward
force of my propelling body comes to a halt. The aching of my skeleton is
overshadowed by the joy. The
relief. The sense of accomplishment.
I peel off the
clothes that in a past life smelled of lilacs and linen. Even after I remove my socks, it
appears as if I am still wearing them due to the dirt caking my ankles and
legs. Bliss. That is the only word
to describe my state of mind.
How was your run? I’m greeted as i
come downstairs
Running day after
day, mile after mile. Is it an addiction? No. It’s an obsession. An obsession
to move. To feel my body ache in ways many people will never experience. To see
the incredible beauty we often take for granted. An obsession to push my body
and mind to the edge. People
always ask me, why? And I always give them the same answer. Because I have to.
Charlie Dando's Personal Essay
“What If?”
“What
if I had kissed her?” “What if I had stayed in L.A.” “Should I have
spent more time with my grandpa?” “What if I tried in school?” “What if
she didn’t leave” “what if…?” Another night stuck in a restless mind.
Eyes closed wanting so badly to shut off the tyrannical retrospection.
Replaying memories, It’s almost as if thinking about them hard enough
might be able to travel back in time and fix the memory itself. It
always takes a while to realize that I am doing it again and then I
become some yogi
master thinking some sleeping position is going to conquer the mind and
subdue it into sleep. “OK Charlie don’t think….am I doing it…no I just
said that in my head…OK think something sleepy…go to your happy
place…when you were younger... Power rangers were so much cooler that
Pokemon!” and the cycle continues.
Legacy,
what will I leave behind. Legacy absolutely consumes my thoughts. My
mind runs freely through memory and hypothetical situation screaming
what if and what will people think. I often wonder if there is a type of
mental discipline that would help me with this only to be ironically
stuck back in a world of theory, where I imagine all the things that I
could accomplish if I were to have that mental discipline and were able
to control my thoughts.
One
way this gets amplified in my head is the dance world. As a dancer I am
forced to face with my rapidly approaching expiration date. “How long
will I be able to do what I love?” my mind runs through every little
injury and peccadillo. I clutch my shoulder. My whole shirt has a
streak of grass stain. I ignore the pain and gloat with a flag in my
hand. I totally sacked the schools star QB …in flag football. I am
fourteen in gym class with my first injury. Still don’t have full range
of motion. what if this injury come back and stops me from being able to
dance? My mind moves on.
Sweat
is dripping down my nose. “People used to gather for these moonlight
dances”. Two memories play at the same time, one being the words of
Elizabeth Gilberts Ted talk. I am bent over, lungs with a healthy sting
of having been used to their full ability. “It was like time would stop,
and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal” My dress
shirt transparent in places from perspiration, and a smile so big that
it gives me premature wrinkles in my eyes is stuck on my face. Elizabeth
Gilbert’s words articulate my memory of a good night of dance “he
wasn't doing anything different than he had ever done, 1,000 nights
before, but everything would align.” I am in a crowded room that is
electric with energy. Personal space has been thrown to the wind, a
small circle clearing in front of me, empty, from the fall out from a
dance battle. the kind of dance that every step up movie tries so hard
to emulate. My ego is indulging in the feeling of all the eyes looking
at me with amazement. This is the best day in my life. I am amazed that
these people are affected by my dancing. “He would be lit from within,
and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.” Elizabeth is
still talking; she has a black turtle neck sweater. I am wearing a
purple argyle sweater vest remembering the novel idea of entering
battles dressed as a nerd. “They would put their hands together and
they would start to chant,” The people in the room dressed up for a
night on the town, are smiling too. I remember their smiles, "Ole, ole,
ole," the powerful conclusion to her talk is a story that has happened
to me. Their smiles are still in my mind. Maybe it will happen again
some day. Before I am “just an aging mortal with really bad knees, and
maybe he's never going to ascend to that height again” as Elizabeth
says. Maybe I am never going to ascend to that again. “The most painful
reconciliation you can make” Elizabeth Gilbert's words haunt me. How do
I affect people the way I did that night? Can I do that on stage
somehow?
My mind goes on.
“good, just remember hands shoulder with apart and finger tips forward” I say in my best Dora the Explorer
voice as a group of six to fourteen year old kids are standing in two
straight lines taking turns going across the hard tile floor of the
local Community Center. Poorly drawn geometric shapes and scribbles
hang on the wall. They are only recognizable after the three foot tall
owner of pigtails removes her fingers from her mouth long enough to say
“it’s me and my mom on mount Everest.” It’s summer I am teaching a
Breakdance class to a group of Nigerian refugees and traveler kids in
Ireland. The failure of my ability to capture their attention collapses
in on me when “can we play a game now?” come from the throng of heads at
arm pit level. My mind is replaying this memory, taunting me. Sometimes
my mind is relentless in reminding me of my faults. Sometimes, it is
more gracious as it allows me to see the intent and let go of the
outcome, which is often beyond my control...but what if? “Did you do a
good job?” my mind starts up again “Do they have a little bit more self
confidence because of your class? Will they even remember you? Did they
even learn anything? ” If my body won’t last forever that maybe I can
inspire a group of kids, show them the joy of life to be found in dance.
“What if I am a bad teacher? I am a bad teacher. No those kids loved
me. But they didn’t get any better.” I remember their smiles and my
mind goes on.
Carolyn C's Personal Essay
I thought I was
done writing personal essays in High School with my college applications. Those questions were impossibly obtuse, for
example: If you were to write a 400 page autobiography what would be written on
page 257 or name what flower best describes your personality. Please just give
me facts, give me theories to refute, in other words give me a research
paper.
I don’t think my
lack of enthusiasm with writing about myself comes from a lack of insight. On the contrary, I feel like I can articulate
the inner workings of my mind very well in speech; I am awesome at
interviews. The problem arises when I
try to translate my thoughts to the page.
I am suddenly struck dumb at the sight of a blank computer screen. In High School I even attempted to dictate my
essays to a voice recorder and then typing up what I had said; needless to say
this resulted in very scattered essays with no concise point.
I am dreading
writing about myself, dreading the creativity necessary for such an
endeavour. I have a distinct lack of
creativity in most areas of my life—style, decorating, personality—I want to go
into a creative industry in the future but I want to manage the “creatives” not
actually be one.
Open prompts are
particularly intimidating for a non-creative such as me. Even when writing research papers if the
professor doesn’t give a clear question I will inevitably spend a few days
bouncing between ideas for my thesis before settling on one based on the
critical writings of others. There is a
certain amount of handholding necessary for non-creatives that creative people
do not need. “You want me to write a
poem in the style of Emily Dickenson? Blurgh!” These types of projects in high
school always filled me with dread whereas the creative types were always saying
things like “Can we write our paper on Othello in iambic pentameter?” I have an appreciation for the creative arts
and really admire those who have imagination I just cannot seem to master the
application of my own creativity.
I have always
loved other people’s writing. When I was
a child I used to get in trouble for staying up past my bedtime reading by my
nightlight. I had and still have piles
of books on my bed side table and keep a running list of books I would like to
read at some point in my life. In theory
my extreme love of books should yield a love of writing but I’ve only had
disappointment in the latter field. I
have visions of myself as a writer akin to Hemingway with a scotch and
cigarette in hand at some cafe in Paris writing novels that change the face of
literature. I dream of one day being a
war correspondent writing about conflicts in far off lands like Martha
Gellhorn. These, however, seem to be simple pipe dreams brought on by an
unhealthy attachment to made for television HBO films.
When rereading
my own writing I find that it is lacking; it lacks the bravado and originality of
James Joyce, the political prowess of George Orwell, the plot complexities of Charles
Dickens. I have no great philosophical
backing like Ayn Rand. My writing lacks
the tragedy of Thomas Hardy’s work and Leo Tolstoy’s morality. The humour of Oscar Wilde and the satire of Mark
Twain have no bearing with my own writing.
I cannot produce a social commentary like Upton Sinclair or Jane Austen.
It is not that I
have no attempted to write, I have many times. This can be observed in the
piles of 2 page filled notebooks and journals that fill boxes along with my old
high school essays and elementary school drawings of my mother and dog.
Sitting down to
write this piece I force myself to work even though the internet begs me to
search something random on Google. Thoughts pop into my head but they are
hardly relevant: “Why are bullfrogs named “bull” frogs?” “What was the name of
the first monkey in space?” These are
the things that come out of my creativity not any prose to rival
Fitzgerald. Eventually I force myself to
turn off the wi-fi application on my computer; this only proves to be a brief
deterrent to procrastination.
After staring at
a blank page for a few more minutes my anxiety grows to a point where my
“fight-or-flight” instinct kicks in and I choose flight. I procrastinate some more. My Itunes library
needs to be rearranged and while I am at it how about I create new playlists
for different events. How about one for skiing? Done. Excercising? Got it. Going to the Dentist? Okay, boss. Shopping
for plastic boxes at Crate and Barrell? Finished. Finally I run out of ideas and the playlists
must be abandoned.
I return to the
blank page and decide that my document first needs a name. So my document is
now saved as “Writing Assignment #1” and I have added my name to the top
left. It is a start at least. After another fifteen to twenty minutes
staring at the screen my eyes begin to wander.
They land on my book shelf where dust is accumulating in a layer thick
enough to cover up my family’s framed Christmas card photo. Well, this won’t do at all will it? I simply
cannot work in such a dusty environment. I climb out of my chair—after saving
my document of course, don’t want to lose all my hard work. I go to the hall closet and pull out a rag
and a spray bottle.
I begin to
clean. I hate cleaning. It says a lot
about the essay due if I am willing to clean rather than work on it. The situation must be desperate if I would
choose this form of procrastination.
I wipe at the
dust on the shelves and scrub as though trying to get Mr. Clean to erase the
work that I still need to complete.
Another hour
passes and it is finally midnight and I am forced to address the paper before
bed. I set myself a deadline and I will
adhere to it. I start simple by writing
down simple thoughts that have popped into my head while cleaning the sink and washing
the dishes. These bullet points will
serve as a guide. Little by little I
will complete this assignment because that is my only choice. I must face my fears. Even though my fears revolve around creative
writing and not fighting a mythical dragon but at this point... I would rather
fight the dragon.
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