Senior Porfolio

Blues Out, Sunshine A portfolio by: Shelby Howard

To Mary Ann Grigsby: Thank you for letting me always be your sunshine.

I would like to thank the University of North Alabama for assisting me with my pursuit of happiness.

“Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge.”

- Plato Here’s to working toward being a person that “gets to name the world”.

Table of Contents Introduction Research and Analysis Creative Writing Fiction Non-Fiction Academic Papers Communications Papers Conclusion

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When I was a freshmen, I once read a book by John Green that talked about a “Great Perhaps”. The characters where all about finding their own “Great Perhaps” and identifying it for others. Now, the book was marked teen fiction and I never give those books a second thought, but this notion of a “Great Perhaps” was different. I decided at that moment that everyone did have a “Great Perhaps” and that John Green would be an author that I kept coming back to for puzzling ideas and smooth sentences that brought me back to a different time in life - no matter what the time was. I knew his words would push memories on me, good or bad. I would be able to connect his dots with the own lines of my life. However, I couldn’t figure out what my own “Great Perhaps” was.

I spend hours thinking that it would be my final days in life or maybe the few moments that women spend staring at their children after child birth. But I knew that neither of those moments would be coming soon and as a person that enjoys instant gratification I decided to look somewhere else.

One night during my junior year in college I sat in front of the Pickwick Place writing a paper that was due for a class the following day. I always find the strangest places to write, but the view wasn’t disappointing and I found that I had more inspiration in that spot than I did at home or in a library. I wrote the paper on childhood obsession over Christianity and it all clicked for me. All of a sudden I was scribbling new notes on a different sheet of paper. I had located my “Great Perhaps”. I was meant to exist and enjoy. Simple, I know. At the time it really hit me hard. A “Great Perhaps” is only something that might happen or it may come along in life. Or, in my opinion there may be several during the span of your life. I think the use of great is used for the irony only. If this perhaps does happen will it really be great?

My “Great Perhaps” is spending every day that I’m writing or submerged in what I love to do the most. Ultimately, there are many “Great Perhaps” moments in life. Yes, I’m sure that I will have more days like that in front of Pickwick Place and I’m sure that I will consider them to be my next “Great Perhaps”.

As John Green says in Looking for Alaska, ““Francois Rabelais. He was a poet. And his last words were “I go to seek a Great Perhaps.” That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.”

Research

& Analysis I didn’t appreciate Research and Analysis papers until college. All I had ever researched was the Holocaust. Although important, the Holocaust can only be researched in a few ways. I was never allowed to think outside of the research box and use my own analysis until I started college. During my time at UNA I have grown to love Research and Analysis papers. The papers allow me to seek the truth and form an opinion of my own based off of my findings. That opportunity has helped me find a lot of my beliefs and it has instilled in me the morals that I only thought I had.

Self

Self-worth didn’t find me until the sweet age of twenty-one. I didn’t immediately look at myself in the mirror and “see” just how incredible I was. I don’t believe that’s how it works at all. You, this small being on this large planet, don’t just stumble over your self-worth. It treats you the way it treated me, self-worth will find you in the strangest way.

On my twenty-first birthday I celebrated with cheap alcohol, good friends, and more food than a person should consume. Hot wings, pizza, and chips - “the gang was all there.” The good friends and the alcohol couldn’t exactly hide the guilt I felt from consuming all the food. Yes, they were a great distraction but not enough to make me forget.

“Eat up, birthday girl! You don’t want to be too drunk or hungover, do you?” My beautiful, thin friend Amanda stated from across her plate of greasy fries that I had been eyeing. It’s amazing that I can still feel the love and honesty from her words. It was almost as if she sincerely meant what she was saying.

Question: Are the requirements for Bariatric Surgery beneficial or should a different system be put in place to determine a patients eligibility?

It’s amazing that I remember it because she wasn’t showing love. Honesty, yes, she was showing that emotion. The thing about Amanda is that she knew she was the pretty friend.

She knew she would always have the upper hand, even if it wasn’t very high. To Amanda there was fat or skinny. She was the skinny and I was the fat. Trust me, I heard on a daily basis how lucky I was to have her as a friend and a style guru. Ultimately, I smiled and continued to eat my food.

However, the lump in my throat never went away.

Despite the food and trying to control my alcohol intake. I still woke up with a hangover. After fumbling with the lights and some mild vomiting, I stepped on the scale. I’m unsure why that was my first move, but I made it. My mind exploded and silent tears began to flow. 309. The scale read 309 in little red lines.

I stayed on the bathroom floor for most of the day. The digits bounced around in my head until all I could do was pretend the little red lines were a maze.

Research: Explaining the procedure: •Your Suregon will make 2-5 small cuts in your abdomen.

•The surgeon will pass the laparoscope and the instruments needed through the openings.

•The camera is connected to a video monitor in the roon. The surgeon will look at the monitor in the stomach.

Research: •The surgeon will insert thin surgical instruments through the other openings.

•The surgeon will remove most (85%) of the stomach.

•The stomach will be stapled and the patient is left with a vertical tube/banana-shaped stomach.

•The surgery may only take 60-90 minutes (Daller), It would be a lie for me to write that I jogged those little red lines and made them mine. I would be lying if I wrote that I started to walk the little red lines. My body mentally stayed on the floor, just like in reality.

I’m not sure how I managed to get off the floor or even make it a total of five more days, but I did. I was depressed, but never suicidal. The unknown frightens me, so I’ve never been able to consider “offing” myself. The five day period made me more than thankful for my life.

Those five days gave me a saving grace.

After day one and two of picking myself up off the floor and preparing myself for school and work, I vowed to try a diet and a gym membership. On the third day social media made a weird impact on my life. The power of social media is far greater than I can begin to describe.

My mother’s best friend sent me a friend request with a message saying “check this out”. The link that was provided took me to a homepage for a local doctor and his weight loss surgery practice.

I was intrigued and slightly offended. By slightly I mean overly offended.

“I’m not saying you need this, but I have friends that have done this and they are happier,” That was her response before I could even ask why she sent the message. Was it obvious that I was unhappy with my body? I did my best to hide it from everyone. I did all that I could to verify that people believed that I truly loved myself. She continued to send messages of, “I think you are beautiful the way you are” and “Don’t be mad at me. Your mother told me that you were dieting.”

Research: Current guidelines for patient selection for bariatric surgery are based on a National Institutes of Health (NIH) consensus statement from 1991(Madura). These criteria include individuals with a body mass index (BMI) greater than 40 or 35 with obesity-related issues (Madura).

These criteria include individuals who have failed other means of weight loss and are psychologically stable and able to make the diet, exercise and behavioral changes necessary to be maintain long-term success after surgery (Madura).

Research:Weight loss failure is often arbitrarily defined by insurance providers as unsuccessful weight loss after 6-12 months of attempted medically-supervised weight loss. The need for this is not clear (Madura).

How mentally crippling can the implied message be? The blow was completely devastating. The realization that I am weak came flooding in. The feeling of guilt and self-doubt were way to numbing to feel anything else. Was I so insignificant that people assumed they could spill out all suggestions regarding weight to me?

The typical cliche would be to describe taking an outer look at the situation. Honestly, I was selfish and didn’t care to think of anything but hurt I was. I cried a majority of the night and didn’t sign off of the link that was sent to me. The link was still left on my computer on day four. I didn’t even blink when I saw it there. I read through the information and laughed. I laughed out of spite. I laughed because how could I, someone who’s afraid of her own shadow, take a leap of faith with a doctor who would be slicing me in half?

The procedure, Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy, was terrifying and was exactly what I needed. Day five brought me to the realization that I had other options. If I’m being completely honest, after deciding on the diet and a gym membership I rewarded myself with the ever so delicious McDonalds.

Research ADULTS •Unlikely to lose weight or keep it off over the long term using other methods?

•Well informed about the surgery and treatment effects?

•Aware of the risks and benefits of surgery?

•Ready to lose weight and improve his or her health?

•Aware of how life may change after the surgery? (For example, patients need to adjust to side effects, such as the need to chew food well and the loss of ability to eat large meals.)

•Aware of the limits on food choices, and occasional failures?

•Committed to lifelong healthy eating and physical activity, medical follow-up, and the need to take extra vitamins and minerals?

(NIH) YOUTH •Have extreme obesity (BMI > 40 ) •Be their adult height (usually at age 13 or older for girls and 15 or older for boys) •Have serious health problems linked to weight, such as type 2 diabetes or sleep apnea, that may improve with bariatric surgery (NIH).

In addition, health care providers should assess potential patients and their parents to see how emotionally prepared they are for the surgery and the lifestyle changes they will need to make. Health care providers should also refer young patients to special youth bariatric surgery centers that focus on meeting the unique needs of youth (NIH).

My will power was at a level zero. My options were to continue on a diet of greasy sacks and large “Diet” Cokes, or make myself into a better version. I had the opportunity to make myself into “Shelby 2.0”.

After mental and moral guidance from my family, I booked my surgery for October 30th, 2013. I spent all of my time focusing on weight loss and what I wanted my “Shelby 2.0” body to look like. I planned meals and worked so hard to cleanse myself. I completely leaped into this idea and didn’t focus on the bigger picture. I, Shelby Howard, could die on the operating table. It’s funny how the bigger pictire hit me head on as I traveled to my four o’clock appointment the morning of the operation. How had I planned this entire process and forgotten the biggest worry that all people have? How did I forget death? That looming dark figure that everyone seems to want avoid. How did I miss the difference between rolling out of the room alive in a dressing gown and rolling out in a body bag to be delivered to the basement?

By five o’clock I had forgotten my now sudden fear of death.

It’s amazing the drugs that doctors give these days. By six o’clock I was stomach-less. Well, I was eighty-five percent stomach-less.

Also, I was alive. I had remained in my earthbound body for the procedure. The wave of relief when waking up is indescribable.

The nausea wasn’t the best feeling, but I was alive and that was enough.

Research

SAMPLE INSURANCE

•You’re at least 18 years old or you must provide documentation of completion of bone growth.

•You were unsuccessful with non-surgical medical treatments for obesity. Your medical records must show your failed attempts: Diet programs, such as Weight Watchers®* and Jenny Craig*, are acceptable methods of dietary management, as long as there are monthly clinical visits with your doctor and medical documentation of your participation and your progress throughout the course of the dietary program. *These programs are not covered by TRICARE (TRICARE).

•Physician-supervised programs made-up of only weight-loss medication management, do not meet this requirement.

•You have proof of one of the following: –A body-mass index greater than or equal to 40 kilograms per meter squared (kg/m2); or –A body-mass index of 35-39.9 kg/m2 with one clinically significant comorbidity, including but not limited to, cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes mellitus, obstructive sleep apnea, Pickwickian syndrome, hypertension, coronary artery disease, obesity-related cardiomyopathy, or pulmonary hypertension (TRICARE).

Looking back now, I laugh. I laugh because my self-conscious fears controlled me. I laugh because I’m much more than a social media message. My options were always known, but it took the feeling of insignificance to push me further. At almost a year out, I don’t have friends like Amanda. Not only did she hate what I was becoming, but I hated that I surrounded myself with that type of negativity. I now have friends that fill the void that was once hatred and a slight bit of envy. My Pinterest board for my “Shelby 2.0” body was deleted.

Not only have I gained a healthier body, but I’ve gained a healthier mindset. I’m much more than the little red lines that I now sprint around.

My self-worth came at a time when I was in need and desired nothing more. I’ve never been more thankful for the ways of the universe.

When self-worth does find you, let it eat your soul. Take in the positive with the negative.

It is a learning curve, as well as the thrill of your life. Let self-worth devour the old ways that you performed daily activities. Let your world become magnified and extremely magnificent.

Research SAMPLE HOSPITAL •Weight/BMI (Body Mass Index) Criteria: –BMI ≥ 40 but > 60; or BMI 35 to 39.9 with an obesity related co-morbidity (Diabetes Mellitus – type 2, Hypertension or High Blood Pressure, Sleep Apnea, Coronary artery disease, Hyperlipidemia or High Cholesterol, Osteoarthritis) •Completion of 12 MOVE! sessions with successful behavior changes and weight loss.

•Bariatric Psychological Consultation - The evaluation will identify whether there is evidence of any barriers that may interfere with your safety and with adjustment to the surgical procedure.

•Dietitian Evaluation and Education •Medical Tests/Consultations – based on medical history some of the following tests may be required: Sleep Study, Pulmonary Function Test, Cardiac Stress Test, and Laboratory blood tests (St. Louis).

WORKS CITED “Bariatric Surgery for Severe Obesity.” Bariatric Surgery for Severe Obesity. 1 June 2011. Web. 7 Oct. 2015.

“Bariatric Surgery.” Is It Covered? -. 1 Oct. 2014. Web. 7 Oct. 2015.

Daller, John. “Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy : MedlinePlus Medical Encyclopedia.” U.S National Library of Medicine. U.S. National Library of Medicine, 2013. Web. 7 Oct. 2015.

Madura, James, and John Dibaise. “Quick Fix or Longterm Cure? Pros and Cons of Bariatric Surgery.” F100 Medicien Reports F1000 Med Rep (2012). US National Library of Medicine National Institutes of Health. Web. 7 Oct. 2015. <http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/ PMC3470459/>.

“VA St. Louis Health Care System.” Bariatric Surgery -. Web. 7 Oct. 2015.

As a Vertical Sleeve Gastrectomy patient, I must say that I am thrilled to have the life that I live at this point. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve struggled with weight gain for many years. When I found this option I knew that I would never look back.

As of October 30th, 2015 I am two years post-operation. I have lost a total of 160 pounds and have maintained my weight loss. I have a healthier life that I would have never achieved without this tool - without my sleeve. I am now able to spend hours walking around, riding my bicycle, teaching color guard, and enjoying the life that I was meant to have. As I tell my family, friends, and anyone that is interested in my story, â&#x20AC;&#x153;a leap into the unknown is the best thing you can do for yourself - refresh your mind and reach your goals.

Conclusion The research question, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Are the requirements for Bariatric Surgery beneficial or should a different system be put in place to determine a patients eligibility?â&#x20AC;? can be addressed with all of the sources from the previous document. There is a psychological side of bariatric surgery that is addressed, as well as a nutrition and future mindset test that is required before surgery. During the prep for the surgery, support groups and weight loss groups are easily available. The physicians typical require attendance for those group meetings. Also, before surgery many patients are required to attempt a 6-12 month physician-sponsored diet. The weight-loss during that time period confirms or denies the request for surgery. Overall, I think that the requirements are fair and well thought out. I feel that different circumstances require different requirements, but that is between the physician and the patient.

Braiding Analysis I’ve never used the process of braiding analysis. However, I enjoyed the process and feel more connected to my piece of work. I think I have a sense of pride because of the braiding analysis. The work I used is called Self, which I wrote in my Creative Non-Fiction writing class about a year ago. The piece is special to me because it reveals a side of me that has been a struggle and a rewarding journey.

The braiding process allowed me to research new and interesting points about the topic of Bariatric Surgery. The research, even if it didn’t make it to this QEP, changed my outlook on the procedure and allowed me to learn new things about my new body that I didn’t know before.

The flow of the piece took up five pages total with the original copy. By underlining several words to push my research during the essay, I ended up with fifteen pages total. Of course, I decided to put some diagrams and some photos of myself in the background, but the work itself pushed that many pages - and I’m very excited about that.

The choice to use the sidebar boxes made more sense to me. I like the flow of the boxes and find them easier to use overall. I’m not sure how I would have attempted to use braiding with the original structure of the paper. I feel that it could have been done, but it would have involved several parenthesis and footnotes. By underlining words and linking the boxes to them, I feel like I presented a more attractive piece of work for the audience.

I plan to eventually teach English - “plan” being the key word in that sentence - and I will more than likely use the braiding analysis method with those students.

Creative Writing As a child I was left to entertain myself, my brother, and my two younger cousins during the summer months. During that time we would pretend to be witches and warlocks, old town members that had just discovered an area, and we often used sticks to carry our own guns. I was the leader - I was the oldest and I had the best imagination. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never openly admit that to my family members, but we all know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true. The point being, the imagination is a beautiful tool and allows for people to never be alone. As a child I was never alone or bored. I was the most powerful witch and the most graceful ice skater ever.

Fiction Baked Goods

Sixteen was such a sweet year for me. The term sweet reminds me of my first car, my first romance, and the amazing opportunity that was my first job. I understand that jobs aren’t usually sweet, but mine was the exception. I started my first job as a cashier at the ever so popular Captain D’s Seafood restaurant.

Yes, the smell of cooked fish and greasy side items followed me around, but I joked that “fish was my calling in life”. At sixteen I thought I had experienced crazy, but I was definitely wrong.

The first few weeks of my job were intense but amazing. The learning experience was like none other. I enjoyed working with the public, and the money was extremely perfect. The feeling of being able to pay for my own tank of gas and to be able to get food whenever I wanted was beyond awesome. I liked the freedom even if there was a ton of responsibility. I worked multiple hours a week for just minimum wage, but the perk of having interesting people to work with made the duties easier to handle.

I liked that my co-workers were the best people to enter my life at that time. I worked long hours with people who constantly made me laugh and smile like an idiot. Markus was my absolute favorite individual to work with. He was one of the younger managers who allowed me to do what I wanted within reason. His work load was heavier than any of the other managers due to his age. I suppose the higher individuals “expected” a better performance from him. I still disagree with the pressure that was put on him. He was a great manager but was definitely not appreciated the way that he should have been. There was a definite buzz in the air when closing with Markus. All of the “crew members” acted appropriately and did the best work possible. Closing was easy and the added games and jokes were a plus. There were some nights that we spent playing “guess that food” or “name the mixture”. Looking back now, it is possible that we could have all been fired immediately for the games.

The last day that I worked for Captain D’s Seafood was spent on a shift with Markus. I had already made arrangements with a family friend to start working at a locally family-owned daycare. The pay was above minimum wage and the hours were forty or more a week. Honestly, a girl has to make ends meet and the pay at Captain D’s was awful. I hated to think that I would be leaving my first job for one that may or may not be something that I would enjoy. However, I kept myself positive by thinking that I didn’t know if I would like Captain D’s at first. I was nervous to say the least, but I was ready for a new adventure in life.

The last day that I worked for Captain D’s was July Fourth. Surprisingly, this is one of the busier days for the fast food industry. Shocker. I was alone on the front floor with a huge work load. Markus was working in the kitchen with another “crew member” named Bryan. There were a lot of shifts that included Markus, Bryan, and me with another “crew member” or two. The night started off busy.

There were multiple orders in the drive thru and on the inside. Looking back now, it was absolutely ridiculous that I had to handle all of those orders alone. At the time, I was beyond excited from the adrenaline rush. I always felt the rush when I worked alone. I’m not sure what the buzz was, but it was welcomed.

One of the last orders that I took was listed as final at 7:25 PM. The order was a grilled salmon plate with double green beans. Easy. Markus made the order and placed it on the to-go rack. The proper procedure for taking orders is to obviously check the order when it’s ready to be bagged. I opened the box to look at the contents and there was absolutely nothing wrong with the order. There was a perfectly grilled piece of salmon on a bed of rice with the double green beans. The woman who placed the order would be happy with the order when she received it. I was sure that she would appreciate receiving her food in a timely manner, and the product look delicious.

I opened the window to give the woman the food. She took the plate and I smiled appropriately. There is a typical average drive thru time of exactly four minutes. If this goal isn’t met, the managers will definitely talk your head off about the proper procedures to follow on how to be “the best employee ever”. The woman sat in my drive thru line for fifteen. The first five minutes were based on waiting for her food. The food can take a few minutes to cook,

especially when ordering a grilled item on the menu. The next five minutes were spent checking her food and yelling at me because it wasn’t cooked properly and her side items were incorrect.

How could this woman sit and tell me that she didn’t order double green beans? How could she honestly tell me that I was wrong? I repeated the order to her while she was at the speaker and when I greeted her at the window. She confirmed at both exchanges that the food order was correct. Again, she confirmed that the food order was correct. As she was yelling at me I made my mind up that I would definitely make the correct item for her without hesitation. I was set on making this order for her myself. I advised Markus that I would make the order for him so that he could do some side work. He must have known that I was planning to do something awful. At that time, I didn’t care. I was over being yelled at by a woman who had clearly made the mistake herself and didn’t bother to correct it. I can’t really change something if it isn’t my fault that it happened. However, with this circumstance, I could definitely help the lady with her problem.

I took the order from the woman in the drive thru. Her dingy pink fingernail polish was visible as I took the plate from her hands. Her hands were dug into the Styrofoam box and she did everything but actually throw the order at me. She was continuously making me so excited to make her new order for her. I closed the window and entered the kitchen. My smile never left my face. The best part about working in the same restaurant is being trained for all lines. I was just as skilled at working in the kitchen as I was working a cash register. I threw away the salmon patty that had been prepared before. Slowly I reached for a new Styrofoam box and began fixing the proper sides and rice. She actually wanted French fries and green beans as her sides, and that was completely fine with me. I fixed the bed of rice perfectly and added to the side items. At this time, I was a big fan of the movie Waiting. The movie shows a creepy inside view of the actual life of a restaurant and what happens with the cooks and the servers. I will just state that the movie is beyond accurate. I would recommend a note to self. Don’t piss off your server or complain about your food.

After preparing the rice and the side items, I began making the salmon for the woman. The cooking process is simple for the grilled items. The meat has to be placed on a cooking tray and put into the microwave. There is a button to press for the appropriate meat that is being cooked. Honestly, the job is an obvious no brainer. Not to be cliché, but “a monkey could do the job”. As I waited for the salmon to finish cooking, I made sure to not wash my hands. As a cashier, handling money is a guarantee. If someone interrupts the process by needing to have a meal replaced, I will gladly do that for them. Also, Captain D’s didn’t use gloves at this time. I’m sure that the health code rules have changed, but gloves just weren’t a necessity at that time. If I am not required by a law to wear the gloves, I’m not going to. I mentally imagined saying “tough luck” to the woman if she saw me without gloves.

When the buzzer signaled that the food was ready I made my move. I’m relatively short. By short I mean I’m only 5’5”. So, I’m not that short, but I did make a point to reach for the salmon that I purposefully put in the tallest microwave. While reaching for the salmon I had to “sneeze”. The best “sneeze” that I’ve ever had. The worst part is that my sneeze caused me to cover my nose with my hands. The hands that were holding the salmon. The salmon fell to the floor and my “sneeze” was just a tease. The salmon stayed on that floor for a good three minutes. As I was picking up the salmon it “accidently” fell again on the other side. Not only was this the worst time for sneezing, but my clumsiness was definitely showing.

I picked up the salmon finally without any accidents and placed it in the to-go container. I put some seasoning on the salmon and closed the box for the customer.

The order was officially ready to be served to the woman. I walked up front to bag the order and deliver it to the woman, still sitting in her car in my drive thru line.

I placed the appropriate to-go silverware and sauces into the bag and made a show of giving her the food. I apologize for the inconvenience and confirmed the correct order that was in the bag. Of course the woman checked the bag while I stood at the window. She confirmed that the order did look good and that she appreciated the remake.

The joy that I felt as the woman drove away was better than anything else I’ve ever felt. Yes, what I did was disgusting, but if the order is messed up just allow the employee to correct it without a causing a scene. There is no reason to use filthy language or hand motions that are too graphic for anything other than an R rated movie.

The rest of the night was perfect. Well, as close to perfect as a night that includes cleaning, serving, and stalking can be. There were only a few orders until closing. The second most memorable order of the night belonged to three men that were insanely drunk. I could tell immediately when I began taking their orders.

The voices were slurred and the thought process was extremely slow. I laughed continuously until the men arrived at the window.

When the truck of three men arrived at the window, the smell was enough to gag me. In fact, it did. I was choking from the breaths that they were taking. I took the money and gave them the appropriate change. I was immediately told to keep the change. I looked down to see two fives and a few ones. I agreed that I would keep the change on one condition. The condition was to give me three of the beers that were obviously visible in the floorboard of the truck. The men laughed and gave me the three beers from the box. I ended up with the three beers and the thirteen dollars from their “tip”.

The food that they ordered was soon served and the truck disappeared from the store. I couldn’t help being excited. I ran to the back with the three beers and passed them out between the three employees who were working. Of course there were several questions of “where did this come from” and “why do you have it”. I filled Markus and Bryan in on the experience with the drunk men as we drank the beers in our hands. The delicious Bud Lite isn’t so delicious, but it was filler for the moment.

That entire night was spent with two of the coolest guys I’d ever met. The jokes were extremely funny and the conversation was meaningful. They laughed at the salmon incident and I laughed at the fact that neither of them had ever had Bud Lite. The rest of the night was spent closing the store and making each other continue to laugh. There were a few “goodbyes” and a lot of tears on my part, but I wouldn’t have asked for a better experience with any other people.

S ixteen was a fantastic year and the work experience was the best part about it.

I learned to love the freedom and the fast life of restaurant life. The craziness does come with the territory, but the thrill is more than worth it. I’ve always recommend Captain D’s as a great first job and I will continue to do so.

With Rhyme and Reason

Ultimately it was a mistake. I don’t regret the decision I made and I won’t say “I’m sorry”. People like me don’t apologize or have actual feelings. There have been times when I’ve questioned my ability to be human. I constantly feel like I never need to prove myself or justify my actions, but this – this was a simple mistake, I think. I didn’t mean to kill that old lady over her wallet. I really didn’t. When life is tough, choices must be made and this was my choice.

I’ve always hated the last three months of the year because there is such an emphasis on the holiday season. The commercials and fancy items premiering on television are enough to force anyone like me into a guilt trip. I’m never “okay” with the overpriced, flashy crap featured in advertisements. I hate knowing that the gifts I need to purchase cost more than my rent. I hate knowing that the people I’m buying the gifts for won’t appreciate them. Actually, I hate knowing that the people I’m buying the gifts for demand them for their own selfish, momentary happiness.

Those people happen to by my ungrateful wife and children – the center of my universe and the demise of my life.

Honestly, I’m a middle aged adult that struggles. I’m always struggling to pay the bills and to supply for my family. Needless to say, the holiday season isn’t for me, nor will it ever be. I’m always searching for the options and opportunities to make money. The extra money that will maybe last for three days if managed correctly. Part time jobs were mildly successful for a few months. I made decent money while dealing with the embarrassment of working at a fast food restaurant.

I mean, what forty-two year old man wants to work at a fast food restaurant parttime? Working with children is enough to make anyone consider suicide. Adding that to my children being embarrassed of me, well that’s enough to put me in a grave for sure.

The idea to try stealing was always a distant thought that I pushed back. The idea of being categorized as a thief made me feel dangerous, but I pushed it back in my mind as far as it would go. Why resort to that option when there were still plenty of other options on my imaginary plate? I pushed the idea back because I didn’t have the guts to go through with it. I couldn’t imagine wearing that awful ski mask and demanding that someone give me their belongings.

That was until Tyson, my oldest son, asked for that piece of trash PlayStation 4. The price for a brand new console was six hundred dollars and the price for a refurbished console was four hundred dollars. At that moment I realized two things: I hated my child for being the greedy little runt he was, and I hated myself for raising him to be that way. Yes, Tyson wasn’t the only child I hated at that moment. My daughter, Emily, had a list of nothing but name brand products that she wanted to have waiting for her under the tree. Brant, the middle child said he wanted a guitar so he could “chase his dreams” and “become famous”. I wanted to shout a huge “whatever” in his face, but I nodded and stated that I would try my best. I even talked to my wife about her ideas for the holiday gifts and she just shrugged. She actually shrugged. I understand that her lazy self hasn’t worked a day in her entire life, but a shrug? Seriously? She knew our children better than I did. She spent the most time with them during their childhood and even spent more time with them now. She didn’t care about the gifts and I was left to make ends meet.

The first thing I did was open my top dresser drawer. The same drawer that held my small .22. The gun of my lifetime. This gun became mine at age twelve and has been stuck with me ever since. Then, I made a list.

1. Mask (Toboggan)

2. Gloves (black)

3. Sweat suit (black)

I was actually going to do this. I was going to be a thief. I was going to commit a crime and pay for those stupid gifts. The list of items to gather from the convenient store made my heart beat faster. I knew that the list was a solid form of dedication and I was ready for anything that would happen.

After cutting the holes in my toboggan, I admired my new sleek, black frame in the bathroom mirror. I looked good and scary. I was enough to intimidate anyone. I held the gun out in front of me and made quick motions pretending to be in action. I was ready.

I decided to go after a wealthy older lady. I hid on the darkest street in the richest neighborhood in my town. I wasn’t aiming for petty change. I was after the big bills. Small bills wouldn’t even cover the money paid to purchase my gear. The wait felt like forever. At first I was nervous. I let some nice looking people continue walking past me. I didn’t bother them mainly because I was terrified. The idea of “what if these people are stronger than me and take me down,” raced through my mind. I could die. Those people could actually kill me. So, I hid in the shadows and waited until comfort found me.

There she was in all of her sweet, fragile glory. Her hands attracted me first.

They were shining with at least a dozen rings; each ring decorated with huge amounts of diamonds. A closer look told me that the suit she wore was made by some special designer, Prada maybe, but the shoes – oh the shoes! A pair of Louboutins were perfectly attached to her feet. I’ve always been a sucker for shoes on women. She was a little too old for my taste, but the shoes made up for it. No, I wasn’t attracted to her, but I knew her entire ensemble would get me a pretty nice pay out. I took a few deep breaths and didn’t let her out of my sight. The streets surrounding us were completely clear. I was aware of her, but she had no idea that I was present. The cold metal of the gun felt smooth against my hand and the grip made me feel more powerful.

I removed the gun from my pocket and charged at her. She knew I was there when I grabbed her purse from her hand and screamed for her to remove the rings and shoes from her hands and feet. She was a statue until she finally started to hysterically laugh.

“You must be kidding.” She continued to laugh at me. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing at my attire or the fact that I had just told her to give me her shoes. I didn’t make a comment to her, but I really wanted to justify why I had asked for the shoes to begin with.

“I said remove the rings and give me the shoes from your feet.” The gun was now in her face and the look she gave me showed that I had won. I had finally pulled off being a thief. Well, until she hit me. She used my own gun against me and hit me on the nose. She continued to beat on me until I dropped the gun and fell to the ground. Her screams became too much for me to handle and I couldn’t make her shut her mouth. I was anticipating a huge crowd, but there were only a few people that came running to her aid.

She wouldn’t stop kicking me. The beautiful Louboutins were stabbing into my sides and back as I attempted to hide my head and stomach. The pain was unreal. The embarrassment was unreal. The small crowd that had gather ended up being a huge crowd. The people standing around were laughing at me, I could feel it without looking. The screams from the older lady became screams of attention that called for someone to contact 9-1-1.

I was getting away with this crime. I guess my determination had a little adrenaline behind it because I quickly grabbed the gun from the pavementt. I picked myself up off the ground and fired the gun at the old lady. The first drop of blood that hit the ground was strangely calming. Calming because I wasn’t enduring the beating any longer. Calming because I had a new option that seemed better than ever. Jail. Jail seemed better than buying gifts and continuing to hate my life.

I guess my choice could have been called horrible timing. I often ask myself if killing my family would have solved my problems. I wouldn’t need to buy holiday gifts and I wouldn’t remember the embarrassment of being thrown on the pavement by the police officer while he read me those stupid rights. Regardless, I still enjoy looking at my family through a glass window. I like being able to skip my appointments with them and hang out doing service in the “yard”. If I’m being completely honest, I enjoy having a facility cater to my every limited need. I look forward to the holiday season because it doesn’t actually exist in prison. There is a cold three hundred and sixty-five days that are exactly the same, nothing more and nothing less.

Womb – Checked for “NOT” Full Term

I suppose I should start at the joining of my X and X. My X and X chromosomes that is – the more detail the better, I guess. I like to call this my “initial impact”, or the beginning of my life. My mother, Elizabeth, turned sixteen on November 20th, 2001, and my father, Jeremy, turned seventeen on November 22th, 2001. I was conceived on November 25th, 2001.

Elizabeth loved life. She was outgoing and intensely popular. I’m sure her parents hung pictures that marked her years in school – I guess they’re just called “school pictures”. Before my initial impact, I knew everything about Elizabeth, I was always a part of her – spiritually and biologically. I knew that Elizabeth lost her first tooth at age eight and her last tooth at age twelve. I knew that she hated gymnastics and only went because she liked the uniforms. She wasn’t very coordinated so she often felt embarrassed. Elizabeth was good with crowds and singing, though. She always sang when she was alone. Actually, she even sang when she wasn’t alone. She basically had a concert during every shower and car ride. Elizabeth was beautiful. I’m guessing her outer appearance matched her inner appearance. Beauty is beauty, no matter the outer, in my opinion. I always tried to imagine what she would look like in person. I pictured her to have long blonde hair with streaks of brown and red. I wanted her to have large, knowing blue eyes and freckles. I wouldn’t care if she didn’t resemble the visual that I had of her. Regardless, she would be my mother and she would be more than beautiful. Elizabeth’s qualities and my own imagination made me want to be just like her. What small child doesn’t want to be just like their parents? I knew Elizabeth – I knew the good and the bad sides of her, and I still wanted to be just like her.

Jeremy was different. My father was different. Jeremy’s hatred towards life made me uncomfortable. He met Elizabeth when he was sixteen and she was fifteen. Immediately his hatred started to ease. Jeremy wanted nothing more than to please Elizabeth with his words and actions. He really liked everything about her and it was obvious.

Now, no, I hadn’t known Jeremy for a long period of time. We “swimmers” are discarded so quickly when our parents are teenagers, but news travels fast and

the spiritually factor is still present. We all know everything about our parents.

That’s how I know that Jeremy really liked Elizabeth, plus my little experience with the both of them taught me a lot about the people that they were separately and together.

Jeremy tried to kill himself once with a bottle of little pink pills. My brothers and sisters said that everything became really cold and some rotting started to take place. They weren’t able to tell time, but roughly 14,000 of my siblings died that day. Elizabeth was pretty upset – I remember that. I remember the after feelings and the thoughts that she often had of him trying to take his own life.

She would worry and constantly cry over the ideas. Jeremy told Elizabeth that he would never try taking his own life again, and he didn’t. I couldn’t help but think about how selfish Jeremy was for doing that. I couldn’t help but think about Elizabeth and the long nights she spent crying. I didn’t want Jeremy to be my father for the longest time. I didn’t want his tendencies.

Jeremy tried to keep his head above the sinking emotions that he felt, but he wasn’t that good at it. Actually, he was terrible with his emotions. He started drinking heavily and wearing really tight pants. I don’t know if he didn’t understand or if he didn’t care that his children were dying each time he did both of these things. My assumption is the second option. I hated to think about what was happening to his body and his future. I was old enough now that my time left was considered “useful” or “wasteful”. I feared that he would continue to kill his children and I would be one of the unlucky ones. Jeremy’s heart was in the right place and his love for Elizabeth continued to grow – I just wanted something solid for the two of them. I wanted for them to have something that would change their lives for the better. They deserved something that would make all situations easier.

They deserved the love that would come.

After my conception, no one was happy for a long time. I don’t think anyone actually knew that Elizabeth was pregnant. I knew I was going to be a small baby girl, but no one else knew about it. I could immediately feel Elizabeth’s body changing. She became firm and her emotions changed drastically. I’m not sure if this was from the conception, or if it was because she was becoming older and maturing in other ways. Regardless, she was changing and I was growing. Once I heard her mother tell her that she was “glowing”. I considered if my mother’s

skin was actually glowing and if she was actually surrounded by light. I shook the thought away with the surprise that I would actually be able to see this for myself eventually. Elizabeth shook away the feeling too. She told her mother that she was really happy with life. She mentioned that all situations involving Jeremy were stable and that she was at a good point in her life. This made my thoughts about my father change and I reconsidered having him in my life.

The warmth that surrounded me was unbelievable. I’ve heard enough to know that I was in a type of water. I don’t know what water really is, but I liked it from the very beginning. I don’t remember the day that I was able to hear all of the sounds surrounding Elizabeth and I, but I do remember that it was glorious. I liked the way that the vibrations made me move, so I moved with them. I felt this sensation that I thought to be happiness, but I suppose that I was actually growing. I was getting bigger with each passing day, and yet I still don’t think that my mother realized that I was actually with her. That’s when my heart really started to beat and I wanted to make the water around me slosh. I experienced my first bit of anger.

I remember waking up to Elizabeth’s hormones being all over the place. She was shouting and crying. My immediate action was to stop moving and to be quiet. I wanted to hear all that she said, but sometimes the water made it difficult for me to understand everything. Jeremy was present, I knew that much. They were both shouting phrases like “I can’t do this,” and “What the hell are we going to do?” I didn’t know what they were going to do, so I guess we were all together on this one.

I remember this as the day that Jeremy hit Elizabeth. He called her stupid and asked for her to stop acting like a child. He decided that it was best that they didn’t see each other. I don’t know if that means that he didn’t want to see her face, but he immediately left after that. I couldn’t hear his voice or feel his presence. I was spiritually disconnected from his and biologically I didn’t belong to his body.

I was fully Elizabeth’s child.

Elizabeth cried for a long time every day. I remember her mother yelling at her for a few days, too. I’m not sure what the yelling was for, but the vibrations hurt my ears and I didn’t want to hear her voice. Elizabeth stopped singing her

beautiful songs. My beautiful mother wouldn’t sing like she normally did. The days were quiet other than the crying that took place – which was often. I hated for Elizabeth to feel the way she did. I would try to move as much as possible so that she would understand that I was there. I was there to comfort her in all of her pain. I wanted to be something that she gained joy from.

Elizabeth didn’t seem to want my comfort and she returned my advances with actions that made me hurt. Elizabeth stopped thinking and she started acting.

Elizabeth constantly applied pressure to her lower stomach. She applied pressure to me. There were sharp pains that would usually crush me for a few minutes. I found out what minutes were when she tried to see how long she could go without breathing. She lasted a long time, but she still lived. She was in a cold room for a long time. I remember the cold room that she stayed in. It was absolutely unbearable and I was always cold. I made a mental note to ask her about that room when I was able to talk. I don’t know if that’s how it works, but it was worth a try.

The few weeks that I had before were all silent and extremely uncomfortable.

I remember Elizabeth talking to a lot of different people. I’m not sure if she met all of them, but I was certain that she had met a few of them. I remember that there was more yelling and more tears, not only from Elizabeth but other girls. Jeremy wasn’t present during those few weeks. I never heard his voice or felt him. I wasn’t sure why he didn’t come back, and Elizabeth didn’t try to explain this to me either.

Elizabeth didn’t actually acknowledge that I was there. She didn’t try to connect with me and I immediately tried to keep moving and proving to her that I was around.

My last day with Elizabeth was March 10th, 2002. She had been planning this day for a long time – at least that’s how it felt. I didn’t understand the significance of this day, but I knew that it was something that Elizabeth was waiting for. I tried to be excited and make as much movement as possible. I wanted Elizabeth to know that I was excited just like she was.

Elizabeth finally sang for the first time in a long while. She sang a very sad song, but it was nice to hear her beautiful voice. I assumed that we were traveling.

Her mother was in the car with us and continued to talk in a really low tone. She wasn’t as excited as Elizabeth. She certainly wasn’t as excited as I was. When we finally arrived to the “place of excitement” there was a chilliness that settled around me. I couldn’t understand the immediate change in temperature, but I assumed that it would be okay. The place was really quiet until I heard Elizabeth talking in low whispers to someone that was unfamiliar. Elizabeth was just agreeing to a lot of what the person was saying and I knew that her excitement was gone.

I remember the first drop of the strange liquid. It was hot and made my body burn. There was only a small drop, but it spread to surround me. My ears starting ringing first and my eyes began to burn. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I knew that this wasn’t good. I started to squirm to alert Elizabeth that I was in trouble. My movements didn’t seem to notify her of any real danger. Suddenly I heard these loud beeps that were echoing throughout the room. I realized that the beeps matched what my heart was feeling. I understood that my beating heart was being heard by my mother. This would mean that she would surely save me.

The second drop was worse that the first. There was a small gap between when I felt the two drops. The second drop smelt like pain. There was an urge to sleep that came with the second drop. The pain was unbearable and I could still hear my heartbeat from the beeps. Elizabeth could hear them, too. I’ll never understand what she was doing with the time that she had to save me. What was she doing that was too important to stop the beats and the pain that was being directed towards me? Was Elizabeth sitting around, or was she being attacked just like me? I tried to move to prove that I was still with her. I was fitting for her and for myself. I wasn’t giving up and I wanted her to know that. She was worth the fight.

That’s when the beating stopped. That’s when my heart stopped. The crazy part is that I didn’t see anything other than Elizabeth’s beautiful face. I’m not sure how I was able to see her face, but I did. She had the big, knowing blue eyes that I wanted her to have. She had a light dusting of freckles that extended from one side of her face to the other. Her hair was a beautiful blonde color with the exact layout that I had imagined. She was exactly the way that I had

pictured her. She was absolutely flawless and I wouldn’t be able to touch her. The realization that I wouldn’t be able to be around her hit me when I was surrounded by darkness. The quiet was almost too much to handle, but I did it. I’m not sure where I’ll go or what I’ll do, but I’ll continue to remain the same. I’m sure that Elizabeth tried all that she could to stop the pain. I’m sure she was in just as much pain as I was. I know she didn’t want this to happen, but for some reason it did. I just wish I would have been given the chance, but I’ve decided that it’s best to stop thinking and just barely exist.

Non-Fiction Female at Best “You’re only good for two things: having children and cleaning. Wait! Make that three things, I forgot to add cooking.”

Within that sentence there are two truthful and two false accusations. I’m not very good at cooking. In fact, I burn water when trying to boil it for tea. Also, I’m not interested in childbearing. In my opinion, I don’t think I would be good at it ad it’s scary. The man who made this joke wouldn’t know those things about me. However, my abilities to clean and organize amaze even me. The truthful part that really stood out, that he obviously missed, was that I am a woman. Yes, it’s apparent that he did grasp the minor concept of my feminine curves and my higher pitched voice, but he missed the real concept of my femininity. He missed that I am a “female whose identity is imposed and constructed through representation.”1 Yes, I am a woman, and I represent myself with proper actions that aren’t always deemed as “feminine”. I represent myself the way I want other people to view me.

Not only am I a woman, but I’m a human being with ideas, opinions, and morals that have been imperfectly perfected for multiple years.

The elementary school I attended taught a lesson, a very small lesson, on Susan B. Anthony. I was completely in awe of the woman whose history danced across the pages of my social studies book. At the time, I didn’t understand that she was an activist for feminism, but I knew that she was an inspiration. How incredible that a wooman would dare to vote when the option was clearly illegal? I remember being overly excited to share my newfound knowledge of Susan B. Anthony with my mother, who was and still is an active supporter of women’s rights.

She was pleased that I was interested to learn about someone who wasn’t deemed inappropriate or fake. Ultimately, I was obsessed with the actions of this woman and I was inspired to be just like her in some way.

1Humm, Maggie. The Dictionary of Feminist Theory. Great Britian: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990.

Throughout my experience with education, many influenctial women have entered my lie. Rosa Parks represented not only a Civil Rights activist, but she was a feminist activist in my opinion. Maya Angelou touched my soul and my mind with her words and ideas. I was obsessed with Hillary Clinton and her political power. Also, I was genuinely amazed to learn that the musically talented Joan Jett could catch my attention with her views on feminism. All of the ideas from these women can be labeled as different. These women agreed, roughly, on the need for better treatment of women, and they all shared a common interest in equal treatment for all genders.

Equality is defined as “the idea that no individual should be less equal in opportunity or in human rights than any other.”2 Just like these powerful women, I fully support the equalization of genders. I have always considered every individual to be an equal to myself. I don’t think of someone as being a lower class that I am.

I would never consider talking down to another individual if I didn’t understand facts or the real issues that were being dealt with. I’ve always thought this way, so it’s unconfortable and destructive when someone of another gender looked down on me for having a different set of genitals.

I didn’t fully understand my depth into feminism until my gender was called “incompetent” by a man who doesn’t vote or understand politics. Actually, he doesn’t understand how the entire “being a proper human being” situation works.

The realization that it is “socially acceptable” for one gender to mock another gender without a slight idea of what the long lasting consequences may br finally hit me.

The debate of our next president was brought up at a party one night. I was immediately excited about this topic and my mind drifted to the 2008 election and the upcoming election. Honestly, I’m ready for “Hillary 2016”. The “friend” who brought up the topic was and still is not ready for her campaign. His opinion is that “women are incompetent and just don’t get ‘it’.” I’m not sure what “it” is, but I understand a lot of things. I especially understand what Hillary stood for in the last election and what she represents for the upcoming election. I asked election and what she represents for the upcoming election. I asked six simple questions that told me all I needed to know about the assumptions and the hurried viewpoints that the friend claimed as his own.

2 Humm, Maggie. The Dictionary of Feminist Theory. Great Britain: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990.

First, I asked if he knew her stance on gun control. His answer was “no, but it won’t change the fact that I’ll have a gun.” I understand that the hot topic is something that most people talk about, but not knowing that she wants “limited control” seems a little strange. Clinton was often around firearms when growing up. Also, she was taught to use them. Second, I asked if he knew her opinion on and her plans to stop poverty. He didn’t understand the question and mumbled an answer that I never understood. My assumption is that he didn’t know that Clinton has and will continue to vote for an increase in the federal minimum wage. The third question that I asked centered on the female birth control and abortion topic. He didn’t want to comment on this subject because it isn’t “morally correct”. If he knew Clinton’s viewpoint on this subject, he would know that her statement of, “Research shows that the primary reason that teenage girls abstain is because of their religious and moral values. We should embrace this – and support abstinence at a young age is not just the smart thing to do, it is the right thing to do. But we should also recognize what works and what doesn’t work, and to be fair, the jury is still out on the effectiveness of abstinence – only programs. I don’t think this debate should be about ideology, it should be about facts and evidence,”3 represents her faith and the honest ideas that are not sugar-coated or one-sided. Clinton has mentioned that birth control and education will help stop the number of abortions and unwanted pregnancies.

During the debate, my friend shared Clinton’s opinion on LGBT rights. His statement was very crude but can be summed up as Clinton doesn’t believe that they should marry. My fourth question was simple, “Do you know how she feels about the entire subject?” Of course he didn’t understand the full concept, so I explained a little further. Clinton does not support homosexuality, but stated, “I think that the vast majority of Americans find [same-sex marriage] to be something they can’t agree with. But I think most Americans are fair. And if they believe that people in committed relationships want to share their lives and, not only that, have the same rights that I do in my marriage, to decide who I want to inherit my property or visit me in a hospital, I think that most Americans would think that that’s fair and that should be done.”4 I’m sure that this news didn’t bother him. He understood the section that “she doesn’t agree with same-sex marriage” and that was enough for him.

3 November 2, 2014. Accessed November 10, 2014. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_positions_of_Hillary_Rodham_Clinton.

Finally, I asked if he understood what a feminist was. He laughed and said, “You,” as if this was meant to hurt me in some way. I agreed and gave him a simple definition. I gave him my own definition that being a feminist isn’t about wanting men to suffer just like women have suffered. Feminism is about moving forward with what is in the present and will hopefully be in the future. I support equality for all genders and want to make sure that I am treated fairly amongst men who are doing the same things that I am. My last question after my definition was simple, “Do you know what she thinks about feminism and women’s rights?” At this time I didn’t allow him time to say anything out loud. I informed him that she mocked the individuals who claim feminism is outdated by saying, “I don’t think you’ve lived long enough.”5 I completely agree with the statement and the simplicity of it gives me chills.

The conversation ended immediately with random shouts of “I was only kidding”. However, I don’t get the “kidding” mood when a sexist joke is made after apologizing. Not only had my gender been mocked, but the sexual objectification, the fetishisation of women’s sexuality and body6, started, too. The only option that I had, in my opinion, was to inform him on my feelings about what had just been done. I advised that sexually objectifying women is not right. I don’t understand the need to mock someone’s gender and his or her body or lifestyle.

Personally, I view that morality and the way a person grows up has a lot to do with the way he or she treats other people. I’ve never looked at another individual and debated if they were “smackable” (another horrid term used by the “friend” above). Equality is something that must be worked on by all people, not just most people. The way to change a situation is to start with small term goals.

Eventually I would love to see the day when women are no longer the symbols for sexual pleasures and fantasies. Also, I would love to see the day when men and women are able to comfortably approach each other without fearing the body and the rights that represent it. However, those rights must be followed and continually respected.

4 November 2, 2014. Accessed November 10, 2014. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_positions_of_Hillary_Rodham_Clinton.

5 November 2, 2014. Accessed November 10, 2014. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_positions_of_Hillary_ Rodham_Clinton.

6 Humm, Maggie. The Dictionary of Feminist Theory. Great Britian: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990.

I want to be known as the feminist who didn’t push her beliefs on another person. I want to be known as the feminist who understands both sides of the argument but goes with the side that makes the most sense for the greater good of humanity. I want to be the feminist who is “a woman who recognizes herself, and is recognized by others, as a feminist. That awareness depends on a woman having experienced consciousness raising; a knowledge of women’s oppression, and a recognition of women’s difference and communalities.”7 I want to be known as the feminist who changed minds and inspired others to push harder for what is correct.

7

Humm, Maggie. The Dictionary of Feminist Theory. Great Britian: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Gamble, Sarah, ed. The Routledge Critical Dictionary of Feminism and Postfeminism.

Great Britian: Icon Books, 1999. 55-65, 104-116, 140-147.

Harlan, Judith. Feminism a Reference Handbook. Santa Barbara, Calif.: ABC-CLIO, 1998. 73, 76, 85.

Humm, Maggie. The Dictionary of Feminist Theory. Great Britian: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990.

Struggle “The lack of faith is no doubt, it is certainty.”

-Abigail Van Buren

“Liars and thieves shall not enter the kingdom of Heaven,” was my mother’s favorite (almost correct) biblical quote to use against me as a child. I’m sure there should have been a “thy” squeezed in somewhere. The phrase was used in times of stolen cookies and fist fights between my siblings and me.

Yes, my mother’s intentions were religiously pure.

Yes, she believed the phrase wholeheartedly.

No, she didn’t understand the mental scar that formed in my mind and would continue to scab and bloodily peel for the remainder of my life.

I’ve always been aware of the floating man I couldn’t see. He could see every move I made and could hear every silent thought I claimed as mine. Normally, children think of God in a mystical and loving way, but I was the opposite. I was terrified of Him. My mother’s phrase resonated in my mind every day. I was mainly a troublesome child and caused sibling arguments and allowed little lies to slip. I heard my mother’s phrase enough to recite it when I knew I was about to commit a sin.

I learned what sin was early in life. I wasn’t raised in a religious home that called for church every Sunday and Wednesday. Worship is worship even at home, at least that’s what my family thought. Sin, simply described to my childish mind, was anything wrong that Satan made me do. My mind was reeling. Not only did I have one invisible man continuously watching me, but now there was another man that made me do bad things. In case my anxiety level wasn’t high enough, adding this figure made it sky rocket.

My life from age eight to age fourteen was spent in an “almost” state of enlightenment. I began understanding more and more about the ideas of Creation, the Bible, and the “end times”/ I felt that everything was fascinating, but I couldn’t focus all of my attention on anything but the “end times”. I started watching documentaries and reading books about “Doomsday”. The books and movies were suggestive toward what was to come and it scared me. I wasn’t prepared to die. I wasn’t prepared to live for eternity with a man that deemed happiness as a constant state of being. I mean, who wanted to be happy all the time? Personally, the idea didn’t seem appealing to me. If the end of the world was approaching there was a chance that I could spend eternity with a man that made me do awful things and commit sin. Honestly, each option felt like a disappointment and made me worry.

I was so obsessed with the end of the world that I would dream of different scenarios. I would often wake up screaming and crying from the dreams. I didn’t realize at the moment that I was beyond terrified. I was religiously obsessed and frightened of my own eternity. I remember waking up in the middle of a dead sleep in tears. I grabbed the Bible from my bookshelf and prayed. The relaxation and the comfort never came. The feeling of immediate relief didn’t happen. My tears were only stopped by falling asleep again.

At fifteen I decided that I would give God a chance. According to the Bible, He gave me a chance, so I only felt like it was the responsible thing to do. I decided on baptism. I felt that this form of commitment might make me righteous in my pursuit of my happiness for eternity. On the day of baptism, the preacher asked me what I did to prepare. My answer was simple, “I read passages in the Bible.” He didn’t ask which ones and I wasn’t willing to offer up the fact that I only read the book of Revelation. It felt wrong standing in from of the congregation and repeating a lovely prayer of forgiveness. Yes, I understood what being saved meant. However, O never felt like I truly opened my heart to Christ. How could I, a terrified individual, open my heart to something that I had been scared of since an early age?

My baptism didn’t open my mind or make me righteous. I stopped attending church regularly and I stopped focusing on the two invisible men that could dictate my life in a positive way or a negative way. My focus remained on the “end times” and how it would happen. May 29, 2011, came and went. December 21, 2012, rolled around and I survived. I wasn’t worried with living a certain way, and I mostly identified as Agnostic. It was easier to explain to people that I was Agnostic.

Trying to tell someone that my mind was consumed with thoughts of death and destruction wasn’t the easiest task.

I have witnessed many events that have made me question not only my humanity, but also faith. However, the passing of my grandmother solidified my actual feelings in religion and in a higher being completely. My heart was overwhelmed with the circumstances of her death, but my mind continued to look for logic in tragedy.

How could someone so incredible be snatched from this Earth?

How selfish of a “just” God to take the one woman that spent every summer with me?

How are a “righteous” God make my mother feel this type of pain over the loss of her own mother?

At that point in my life, and for every day until now, I’ve felt resentment. I’ve doubted not only God, but Christianity as a whole. My grandmother’s death was just the climax of my mental religious battle. I’ve witnessed people lost all of their possessions, schools being demolished due to natural disasters, and people being murdered and no one trying to fix the problems that caused the initial shootings.

Righteousness, justness, and fairness are not traits that I feel a God, who may or may not exist, would have in this lifetime.

My heart still aches from the confusion of not knowing why I am actually here on Earth and where I will go when I’ve lived my last day. I’m no longer holding out for the one answer that changes my mind and makes me drop to my knees in a cry for forgiveness. I’ve stopped searching, and I’ve stopped caring about what will happen. The heart can only take so much negative until the mind and body

responds. I feel as if I’m too far along in my resentment to be persuaded otherwise.

“Religion has convinced people that there’s an invisible man… hanging in the sky who watches everything you do every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a set of ten specific things he doesn’t want you to do. And if you do any of these things, he will send you to a special place, of burning and fire and smoke and torture and anguish for you to live forever, and suffer and suffer and burn, and scream until the end of time. But he loves you. He loves you!”

-George Carlin

How Do I Get There?

As a child I wanted to dream of my future life. I wanted to dream of the man who would “sweep me off my feet”, the wedding that I would obsess over, the children who would whisper “mama” in the sweetest of times, and the hopefully long life that would follow after all of my hard work had been put in. I wanted to feel all of the “butterflies” that would find their way into the pit of my stomach. I wanted all of these precious moments, but they never came. I figured I was broken, at least I thought my mind was broken.

I wasn’t the typical girly girl when I was younger. There was a lack of female “gender specific” toys, but I did have my Disney movies. The movies filled with happy endings and intensely romantic ideas. I never once as a child had a desire to pretend to be a Disney Princess. I know, what girl has never pretended to be a Disney Princess? I’m guilty, obviously. That is the first memory I have of ignoring the typical girl activity. As a child I never talked about what I expected for my future. The best thing about my childhood was that my mother recorded a majority of my life. The videos showed that I didn’t want to find my prince and get married. I wanted to be a large purple dinosaur that taught children to read and count.

In the fifth grade there were two popular games: M*A*S*H and Fortune Teller; the two most popular games to bless the late 90’s and early 2000’s. The points of M*A*S*H was to find out the name of the man you’d marry, how many kids you’d have, what type of car you’d drive, your life long favorite color, and respectively what type of house you’d live in. Get it, M*A*S*H - mansion, apartment, shack, house. Many people assumed the popular television show was, but this game was far from it. My automatic responses were always, “I obviously have to give the names of the boys I like,” and “I’m going to get shack, it always happens.” As terrible as the game was, I always tried to pretend it was true. I always imagined that the results were completely accurate and that I would have the typical future. However, there were no butterflies and the images felt fake.

Hearing my friends giggle and chat about their “serious” fifth grade boyfriends made me jealous. I figured pretending was close enough to fitting in with the conversations, so I continued to play and talk about the results and my

expectations. I poured my heart into the game and eventually figured out a way to manipulate the results. Sad, right? The Fortune Teller game was a little more difficult to manipulate, but I figured it out. I suppose those games really set my level of fascination with quickly defining my future. The last thing that I should have been considering was the life I wanted when I would be in my twenties.

The importance of seeing my images of happiness followed me throughout my high school career. I remember internally whining to myself when I was asked to attend any type of friend function. I loved my friends, but I was often the third, fifth, or in some cases, the seventh wheel. Honestly, that’s the worst feeling I’ve ever experienced. I remember spending hours before and after each event coming down from my extreme anxiety high. I shouldn’t have been so upset over the invitations, but it’s different and more difficult when I was alone and the steady ideas of what I wanted in a relationship were nonexistent.

I became so fascinated with chasing the images that I didn’t completely learn everything about the first guy I seriously dated. I didn’t know his favorite food. I didn’t know his desire to be “one with nature”. I didn’t know that he was a homosexual. After the relationship ended and I looked back at the events, I was confused.

Had I really felt honest emotions, or did I make myself believe the emotions were real? The relationship was really sweet and I enjoyed the time I spent with him. I just couldn’t escape the thought of “if I missed that he was gay, did I miss how I felt about him?” Each relationship I had after that ended the same way. I was confused and couldn’t explain my true thoughts. I allowed myself to become a fool over the ideas that I wanted to see and feel. I became bored easily and eventually left each relationship on negative terms. I stopped talking and giving chances to guys who seemed really interested in me. As awful as it was, I turned my boredom and my inner romantic struggle around to make it seem lie the guys that I talked to were at fault. I entered a new level of conceited at that point.

A few years ago I decided to come up with a list of ideas that I wanted for my future. I read an article online of people often having the same issue that I had experienced my entire life. There were some simple strategies to better understand what I wanted and it seemed, at the time, like a great idea. The list actually made me incredibly sad. I couldn’t imagine what I’d look like at the vintage wedding that I had described on the sheet of paper. Yes, the vivid description of my dress and

the crowd were perfect, but my face just wouldn’t show up in my mind. The mental block was still there and the list of ideas from the article didn’t work for me.

I often wondered what I did wrong or where I strayed from the typical path.

I understand that it isn’t just a “girly” thing to imagine the future. It is a natural human instinct that each person must fulfill on their own terms. I used to wonder if not being able to imagine my future meant that I wouldn’t have one. I always wondered if I would die early in life. Morbidly, that was the only explanation that I could come up with.

I’ve changed over the last few years and the mental block has slowly started to chip away. I’ve stopped chasing my desired imagines and feelings. There was a void, but it has been quickly filled with my passion for my immediate goals and my immediate interactions with people. I’ve learned to live in the present with the ideas that I have for each day. There isn’t a level of anxiety that I feel the need to knock down. I’m comfortable with where I am in life. I’ve met friends I don’t automatically feel like a wheel around. I’ve entered a clean and healthy relationship built on openness. There is a healthy side to life without worrying about the future. Yes, the dull nagging still exists, but I continue to think in a positive way. I don’t think the previous desires will ever completely fade, but it’s worth putting those thoughts on hold to live without hesitation.

Would You Go Back?

At eight years old, my parents built our first house. My parents picked a small patch of land on a mountain in north Alabama. I’m not sure the relevance that this section held for my parents, but it was our “new” home and they were excited. My younger brother and I stood hand-in hand while focusing on the fact that soon we would get to leave the heat and eat a kid’s meal. Honestly, we were rowdy children who could only be calmed with the promise of nuggets and a toy.

Our previous home was an actual home. I had only known my “home” for my entire life. We would just be moving all of the contents of the home to the new house. I viewed the new house as just that, a transfer. I suppose it was even more difficult for my eight year old brain to envision the new home when all that was present was this black mush and a ton of grass. I would like to think that even at eight I was able to see or feel that this entire adventure would be a mistake. The mistake would prove to play out with edges that would destroy.

The time lapsed and more of my time was spent around the new house. The construction was interesting to watch. I spent multiple hours each day watching the workers focusing on the walls and the floors that were being installed. The process of putting up the walls was my favorite moment during the construction.

The piecing together of the most sheltered and depended on section fascinated me. The walls were much like my family that stood together. My mind constantly focused on the material that was used to hold the wood together.

Piercing.

Piercing.

Piercing.

I didn’t watch only the construction that was taking place, but I was able to take in the surrounding land. The landing that belonged to my family was large, but the world that stretched out further was magnificent. There was a setting directly in front of the new house that held an open field surrounded by trees. To the left of the landing, there was a field that stretched for what seemed miles.

The “wheat fields” my father mentioned when he caught me staring absentmindedly at the field. I liked the term and I let it roll off my tongue a few times. The land met the sky at what seemed like an appropriate spot. There wasn’t a way to see what stretched beyond that point, but I felt that there was something special. I felt comforted by the surrounding area.

The new house was finished by the time I turned ten and my parents divorced when I turned thirteen. The new home was short lived and I consider it the breaking point of my life. The walls that once held so much promise became just structures that held rooms of items and occasionally people. There was definitely more dust there than at any other home I’ve been to. The house wasn’t the breaking points for my parent’s relationship. I now know the ins and outs, but for the longest I resented the house that was built to prove their love and our family’s strength.

I didn’t visit the home for many years after moving out with my mother. The house stayed empty until I turned fifteen and it sold to an elderly gentleman who also admired the scenery. I was with my mother when the deal was closed on the house. He mentioned the “wheat fields” and my heart jumped from excitement.

The rush of being eight hit me and I immediately craved to see the wheat fields and feel the comfort that surrounded me when I took the view in.

At the age of eighteen I finally visited the property alone. When asked where I was going I said “out”. The typical teenage response to any question I suppose. I didn’t want to share the moment with anyone. I wanted to be the only person who knew about the visit to the fields. I didn’t want to share that I loved the place just as much as I loved the family that ruined the purpose of moving. The drive to the landing was long and caused my anxiety level to rise. I didn’t want to be disappointed in the view at my age now. Thoughts of people cutting the fields and building more houses in the area frightened me. What if the land had changed? What if there was no connection to the same spot that made me feel open at age eight?

I parked and walked to the same exact spot where I had stood at when I first saw the fields. The house was still there, but it was fenced in. The owner wasn’t home; at least it didn’t look like it. I didn’t have to fear meeting the man again or confessing the reason for my being on the land. As I turned to look at the wheat fields I found myself smiling. The comfort was still there and I felt at ease

immediately. The breeze was light, but enough to make me pull my sweater tighter.

Surprisingly, my hands found their way to the sky. My body began to sway in rhythm to the strands of wheat that stretched before me for miles. The sea of gold met the crystal blue sky at the point of agreement. There was only peace within my soul and on this small space of land. Here, there will always be a start and a reminder.

Academic Papers During my time at UNA I’ve completed several classes that changed my outlook on life - they changed my worldview. By they I mean the classes and the material covered, but I also mean the professors that provided the information and challenged me to pick up on the smaller things. The small things in life matter the most. These papers are from my junior year. I attempted two classes with Dr. Nicholas Mauriello and added a class with Dr. Cynthia Burkhead. The result are four papers that I’m proud to call my own. These papers were only a stepping stone in my academic career, yet they hold so much more than just a passing grade. I determined what literacy meant to me. I decided that there is a difference between having intelligence and using it justly or otherwise. I’ve questioned rhetoric and received a slap in the face with my own answer. I lived a little more during my post-colonial literature course and discovered that I am amongst the privileged that have the opportunity to shed light on a subject that is often rejected or ignored. All of these lessons have been learned - plus many more. I want to say thank you for skewing my worldview and keeping me on my toes with my knowledge. I’m taking a step at a time toward being able to name the world.

Palace of the Peacock – Post-Colonialism

“A trauma is something one repeats and repeats, after all, and this is the tragedy of the Iqbals--that they can’t help but reenact the dash they once made from one land to another, from one faith to another, from one brown mother country into the pale, freckled arms of an imperial sovereign.” This quote from Zadie Smith, the author of White Teeth, speaks openly of post - colonialism and the effects that colonization has had on a group of people. Much like Zadie Smith, Wilson Harris, a post-colonialism writer, has shifted the way many people consider the topic of post-colonialism. Harris’ novel, Palace of the Peacock, entails a struggle of conscious to reach a destination that is nonexistent. The subject of post-colonialism is constructed in an abstract way to make the readers consider the true damage that has been done to the colonized people. Palace of the Peacock introduces a blend of hybridity, decolonizing the map and feminism. Harris allows the readers to enjoy a beautifully written novel and to think about the “ins” and “outs” of post-colonial literature.

It is only recently that hybridity has gained visibility in international media and communication studies. Several studies have employed hybridity to describe mixed genres and identities (Kolar-Panov, 1996; Tufte, 1995), however, sustained treatments that theorize cultural hybridity as a communicative space or practice (Kraidy, 1999; Naficy, 1994) and thus place hybridity at the heart of communication theory as a field, remain rare. To some extent, this rarity mirrors the paucity of communication scholarship directly engaging postcolonial theory (Hegde, 1998; Kavoori, 1998; Shome, 1996, 1998), although one can find a few articles based on postcolonial thought (Parameswaran, 1997, 1999). Nevertheless, regular discussions of hybridity at recent conventions of the International Association of Media and Communication Research (IAMCR), the International Communication Association (ICA), and the National Communication Association (NCA), point to an emerging saliency of hybridity in communication scholarship” (Kraidy). With this being said, Kraidy is describing a term that is used for communication and as a functioning device for colonized individuals to share ideas and information. Kraidy is stating that there is an “in-between” space that allows cultures to mix and become interchangeable. Harris shows the idea of hybridity through the types of characters that he includes in the novel. The crew that is traveling on the journey consist of men that are of different races and cultures

– African, Asian, etc. These crew members make up some of the larger cultures that were colonized. This is to give a direct representation of the idea of post colonialism. To make the point of post – colonialism known, there is a white, English leader that controls the group and is forcing them to take part of the journey. After all, the point of the journey is selfishly indulge the desires of the white, English leader. Harris introduces the crew with this statement, “The crew swarmed like upright spiders, half-naked, scrambling under a burden of cargo they were carrying ashore. First I picked and counted the da-Salvia twins of Sorrow Hill, thin, longlegged, fair-skinned, of Portuguese extraction. Then I spotted old Schomburgh, also of Sorrow Hill, agile and swift as a monkey for all his seasoned years. Donne prized Schomburgh as a bowman, the best in all the world his epitaph boasted and read. There was Vigilance, black-haired, Indian, sparkling and shrewd of eye, reading the river’s mysterious book. Vigilance had recommended Carroll, his cousin, a thick-set young Negro boy gifted with his paddle as if it were a violin and a sword together in paradise. My eye fell on Cameron, brick0red face, slow feet, faster than a snake in the forest with his hands; and Jennings, he mechanic, young, solemn-featured, carved out of still wood it seemed, sweating still the dew of his tears, cursing and reproving his whirling engine and toy in the unearthly terrifying grip in the water. Lastly I counted Wishrop, assistant bowman and captain’s understudy.

Wishrop resembled Donne, especially when they stood side by side at the captain’s paddle. I felt my heart come into my mouth with a sense of recognition and fear, Apart from this fleeting wishful resemblance it suddenly seemed to me I had never known Donne in the past – his face was a dead blank. I saw him now for the first faceless time as the captain and unnatural soul of heaven’s dream; he was myself standing outside of me while I stood inside of him” (Harris 22). Later in the novel.

Harris talks about the interactions of each person – all different. Also, each chapter tells a different point of few from each person. This allows the novel to offer a form of hybridity other than the author telling the story. The different narrators increase the idea of hybridity and post-colonialism. Hybridity, or as Bhabha calls it, the “in between celebration”, is exactly that. It is an in-between state of communication.

However, it can be noticed that hybridity is more of a mixture or mingling of cultures. Harris allows the audience to take in a sense of hybridity due to the amount of different cultures found in the book. There is something relatable to all characters and that is being from different regions and being thrown together to act as one. The idea of post colonialism is to take the old culture and destroy it. When introducing hybridity, the cultures aren’t being destroyed but they are being masked.

This different idea allows the cultures to still be considered individuals, but there is an overseeing power, the mother country, or in this case Donne.

“We’re not going to get away from structures. But we could do with some lithe, open, agile, portable structures, some articulating structures . . . we can’t all go the same place . . . we have to go together in different directions” (Huggan 115).

Huggan uses this quote from Robert Bringhurst to introduce the idea of decolonizing the map. This quotes brings together the idea that Harris is writing about.

There isn’t a set group of people being colonized. The novel brings many different cultures together and they are all being colonized by one person, the white, Englishman Donne. Typically decolonizing the maps means that there is a “clash between the Western desire for a uniform self and the need to define that self against reformed “others” which, although produced in the self ’s likeness, are never quite the same; the result is a double articulation in which “the representation of a difference . . . is itself a process of disavowal”” (Huggan 117), however, decolonizing the map can mean breaking boarders for the different cultures. Much like hybridity, the mixture of different cultures and decolonizing the map, is something that Harris relies on heavily.

Harris uses language to provide information on decolonizing the map.

Throughout the novel, there are times when the use of slang, or the native tongue of the person speaking is evident. However, there are other times when the main language being used is English. Now, with Donne being present this is something that is expected. English is his main language and is the language that should be used when considering his opinion. Harris uses language in a cultural term as this, “”O buzz off ” – Jennings laughed. “You is just anybody’s plaything and wood, Cameron, a piece of what I call flotsam and jetsam” – he spoke jeeringly and a little sententiously, advertising his phrases and words. “Me?” he cried. “I is me own f--revolution, equal to all understand? I can stand pon the rotten ground face to face with the devil. And I don’t gamble pon any witch in heaven or hell. I lef ’ that behind me long long ago.” His voice grew wicked and chiding – “You is one of them old time laboring parasite, Cammy boy, you is such a big grown man but you still hankering for a witch and a devil like a child in a fairy-tale Cammy, boy. You must be learning more sense than that by now! You mean to say you ain’t seeing daylight yet Cammy, me boy?” (Harris 97). This mixture of language that Harris uses is interesting. There is a sense of individual identity. However, the character speaking understands English ideas and phrases. There is an evident mixture that is show throughout the novel by Harris that promotes the decolonization of the map.

In later chapters of the book it seems that the language starts to deteriorate from being strong English to the individual languages. Huggan states, “The usefulness of deconstruction in exposing and undermining systems of this kind suggests that, rather than being perceived as a decontextualized theory which leads to a form of political quietism through its deferral of the decisions which might engender social change, a form of philosophical anarchism through its insistent refutation of “standard” wisdoms (Hulme; Felperin), or a paradoxical reinforcement of Western authoritarianism through its disguised relocation of, rather than its alleged dislocation of, Western ontological and epistemological biases, deconstruction can, by contrast, be considered as a contextualized praxis which enables the exercise of cultural critique and, in particular, the exposure of and resistance to forms of cultural domination” (Huggan 122). This idea of deconstruction helps to break down the barriers that each person in the novel faces. The lack of structured language with English in mind, provides the idea of regaining identity. Which post –colonial literature is about voicing opinions and unshadowing oppression.

Post - colonialism offers a subgroup of post – colonialism feminism. The idea of feminism with post – colonial tagged to the end is the idea of non – Westernized feminism. Mishra states, “Postcolonial feminism has never operated as a separate entity from post - colonialism; rather it has directly inspired the forms and the force of postcolonial politics. Where its feminist focus is foregrounded, it comprises non-western feminisms which negotiate the political demands of nationalism, socialist feminism, liberalism, and ecofeminism, alongside the social challenge of everyday patriarchy, typically supported by its institutional and legal discrimination: of domestic violence, sexual abuse, rape, honour killings, dowry deaths, female foeticide, child abuse. Feminism in a postcolonial frame begins with the situation of the ordinary woman in a particular place, while also thinking her situation through in relation to broader issues to give her the more powerful basis of collectivity. It will highlight the degree to which women are still working against a colonial legacy that was itself powerfully patriarchal - institutional, economic, political, and ideological (Young, 2003)” (Mishra 130). Harris gives feminism in the form of Westernized literature. As a postcolonial author this is difficult to understand. His character, Mariella, takes the form of a location and a woman. Harris uses the form of feminism to represent power and a sense of direction. At the beginning of the novel, Harris introduces Mariella on page 15 as, “I half-woke for the second or third time to the sound of insistent thumping and sobbing in the hall outside my door. I awoke and dressed quickly.

thumping and sobbing in the hall outside my door. I awoke and dressed quickly.

Mariella stood in the hall, disheveled as ever, beating her hand on my door.

“Quiet, quiet,” I said roughly, shrinking from her appearance. She shuddered and sobbed. “He beat me,” she burst out at last. She lifted her dress to show me her legs.

I stroked the firm beauty of her flesh and touched the ugly marks where she had been whipped. “Look,” she said, and lifted her dress still higher. Her convulsive sobbing stopped when I touched her again.

A brilliant day. The sun smote me as I descended the steps. We walked to the curious high swinging gate like a waving symbol and warning taller than a hanging man whose toes almost touched the ground; the gate was a curious and arresting as the prison house we had left above and behind, standing on the tallest stilts in the world.

“Donne cruel and mad,” Mariella cried. She was staring hard at me. I turned away from her black hypnotic eyes as if I had been blinded by the sun, and saw inwardly in the haze of my blind eye a watching muse and phantom whose breath was on my lips.

She remained close to me and the fury of her voice was in the wind. I turned away and leaned heavily against the frail brilliant gallows-gate of the sky, looking down upon the very road where I had seen the wild horse, and the equally wild demon and horseman fall. Mariella had killed him.”

Harris uses the outer body experience with his chapters, which will be addressed in the next section on translation. However, his use of outer body experience, in this case, allows the readers to understand the brutality of the relationship of Donne and Mariella. In a way, Harris is using this situation to introduce feminism. Also, Harris is promoting a sense of non-secrecy. He is explaining the abuse that is pushed on women.

In later chapters, Mariella is introduced as a location. As an older woman she is being used as a guide for the crew and Donne. The second small book of the novel is titled “The Mission of Mariella”. Within the first chapter of this book, the location of Mariella is tied to the woman that is mentioned previously, “Donne had had a bad name in the savannahs, and Mariella, to their dreaming knowledge, had been abused and ill-treated by him, and had ultimately killed him” (Harris 38). By using this reference, Harris is giving the audience an idea of how powerful a woman can be. Yes, Mariella did kill Donne, but with good reason. Harris is giving the woman power. She is the object of desire. She is the object that Donne claims to be

the destination of his journey. Later in the first chapter of the book, Harris uses a quote to introduce the location of Mariella, “There was always the inevitable Woman (he had learnt to capitalize his affairs) – the anchor that tied him down for a while against his will and exercised him into regaining his habitual toughness to break away again for good. Still he could never scrape together enough money – after every grotesque adventure – to buy the place he wanted. That was the taste of hell: to make do always with another unintelligent and seedy alternative, while the intelligent and fruitful thing remained just beyond his grasp” (Harris 42). This use of “Woman” always shows power. The use of capitalization gives strength the term and the meaning. There is power with words and Harris understands that.

The rest of the short book is filled with incidents that happen to the crew while they are in Mariella. The journey is tough and the situations that the crew find themselves in are terrible. Mariella isn’t kind to them. Harris is using feminism in his novel to give women a voice. The voice of power and will. As Mishra states, “’Feminism is consisted in variegated; colorful approaches hence better to call such approach ‘feminisms’” (Mishra 130). There are different approaches to feminism, just like here are different approaches to all subject matter. Harris is just promoting the side that allows women to be the main opponent. Harris is allowing women to have a chance at having the upper hand when men and cultures are considered.

There are two quotes that have a definite place in the conclusion of the reading of Palace of the Peacock. The first quote come from Thomas Shapcott, “The problem with maps is they take imagination. Our need for contour invents the curve, our demand for straight lines will have measurement laid out in bones. Direction rips the creel out of our hand. To let go now is to become air-borne, a kite, map, journey. . . .” (Huggan 115). This quote fits perfectly with the message and meaning of the novel. There is a journey involving more than one culture. There is a curve, or a break, in the structure of the map that all of the crew members are using to dictate their lives. The second quote comes from Catherine Keller, “The abiding western dominology can with religion sanction identify anything dark, profound, or fluid with a revolting chaos, an evil to be mastered, a nothing to be ignored.

‘God had made us master organizers of the world to establish system where chaos reigns. He has made us adept in government that we may administer government among savages and senile peoples.’ From the vantage point of the colonizing episteme, the evil is always disorder rather than unjust order; anarchy rather than control, darkness rather than pallor. To plead otherwise is to write ‘carte blanche for chaos.’ Yet those who wear the mark of chaos, the skins of darkness, the genders of

of unspeakable openings -- those Others of Order keep finding voice. But they continue to be muted by the bellowing of the dominant discourseâ&#x20AC;? (Goodreads).

This quote represents the idea of post â&#x20AC;&#x201C; colonialism as a whole. The people that have chaos, dark skin and are different from white men are Others. The marginal effect is ever present in society, then and now.

WORKS CITED Keller, Catherine. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Quotes About Postcolonialism.â&#x20AC;? (15 Quotes).

Web. 3 May 2015. <http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/postcolonialism>.

Huggan, Graham. Decolonizing the Map: Post-colonialism, Post-structuralism and the Cartographic Connection. 2004. 115-117.

Print.

Mishra, Kumar. Postcolonial Feminism: Looking into Within-beyond-to Difference. 130. Print.

Kraidy, Marwan. Hybridity the Cultural Logic Of Globalization.

Philadelphia PA: Temple UP, 2008. Print.

What is Rhetoic?

“It is by writing, from and toward women, and by taking up the challenge of speech which has been governed by the phallus, that women will confirm women in a place other than that which is reserved in and by the symbolic, that is, in a place other than silence. Women should break out of the snare of silence. They shouldn’t be conned into accepting a domain which is the margin or harem” (Cixous 1528). Helene Cixous writes about women to say that they are silenced and will remained silenced until they are able to write and speak for themselves. Now, I enjoy The Laugh of the Medusa not only for its feminist qualities, but for the fact that interpretation can be applied to all walks of life – including just being a human. Cixous writes of the margin in this section, which leads to the people that inhabit the margin – the women and the minorities. When considering the question “What is Rhetoric”, I immediately thought of the authors from the chapters that I enjoyed while reading for the semester. Cixous, in this paragraph alone, sums up what rhetoric symbolizes to me. Rhetoric is the act of speaking and writing about situations and emotions that are present. After writing about those situations and emotions, rhetoric is making those ideas public. Rhetoric is letting an audience know intentions and thoughts that may appeal to their lives and thought processes. There isn’t a right or wrong rhetoric because what one person considers right, is right. That “right” rhetoric is projected to an audience that then makes the decision of what to do with that right rhetoric.

When deciding on which readings to use for this paper, I decided to start at the beginning with Burke. Burke provided a list of factors to describe what rhetoric in terms of terrorism is. He included fanatic, assassin, murders, theft, fraud and oppressors on this list. Now, I can’t say that I want to apply all of these terms to rhetoric in general, but for the category of rhetoric involving terrorism, I can say that this list applies. Rhetoric in general should have a list involving terms such as: motivating, inspiring, striking and revolutionary. I understand that not all forms of rhetoric are absolutely awe-inspiring, but each piece has its time, place and function. That is the point of rhetoric, there is no set group. Yes, there are set features (logos, pathos and ethos), but that doesn’t mean that there in one complete standard for rhetoric. The list that Burke provides in just related to one side of terrorism. I’m sure that the terrorists would describe their acts and speeches as being motivating and inspiring. With this course, the hardest part was deciding which side of rhetoric I wanted to see and believe. I quickly came to an understanding

that both sides of rhetoric can be seen, it just takes time and practice when deciding what to believe when rhetoric is involved. Yes, someone can appeal to my emotions with beautiful imagery of their personal encounters of a situation, but that doesn’t mean that their pathos is logical or credible. That’s the problem with rhetoric, every speech or essay has something to say – picking out the detail and which appeal to consider being the main “sway” is where the confusion sets in. I don’t mind being drawn into something rhetorical, but I want all three features to be presented to me. I know this is something that doesn’t happen often or at all, but as a human I need those appeals. I feel that’s why rhetoric is so strongly noticed and studied. What intrigues the human mind makes for an interesting explanation.

“These word choices by such organizations are rhetorical efforts aimed at conferring legitimacy and official studies on their activities” (Burke 19). This statement from chapter two made me consider what logic and effort is put into speeches and pieces that are heard and read by a target audience. Obviously the thought process starts with what audience will be addressed. The word choices from these officials and upper-class people make the appeal necessary for the audience. If there is a speaker or writer addressing a group of women, saying “a woman’s place is in the kitchen” isn’t going to appeal with logos, pathos and ethos considered. However, if the piece is centered on women in the workplace and the speaker talks about equal pay and equal work conditions – the audience is going to appeal to pathos. So, the word choice does count. However, the statement from the chapter isn’t completely correct. The audience doesn’t only want to hear/read a correctly worded piece, but they want other appeals to be involved. With this same scenario in mind, a woman representative would be ideal and that same representative should have had experience with the workplace oppression. So, the statement should have gone as far as to address all of the aspects needed to complete a full rhetorical appeal. As stated above, all of those appeals cannot be present in one presentation, so the creators must consider which appeal to use and completely base and sell the spoken/written piece to the audience. The audience is the peak of rhetoric. A comparison that helps me understand the power of rhetoric is applying rhetoric to the literature triangle.

The exposition is the creator or the people that decide who to address and what to say. The rising action is the delivery of the speech. The climax is the audience and the way that the audience takes the delivery of the speech. The falling action is the way that the audience reacts to the information – the pathos, logos and ethos. The resolution is the final conclusions and the revelations that come from the delivery of the piece. This comparison helps me to understand the structure and the

importance of rhetoric. Rhetoric is a rising and falling action that may or may not have a definite beginning and ending. The results obviously differ from rhetorical piece to rhetorical piece.

“What sentiments were fit to be rais’d in you today ought to remain tomorrow, and the best commendation you can bestow on a Book is immediately to put it in practice, otherwise you become self-condemn’d your judgement reproaches your actions, and you live a contradiction to yourselves” (Astell 841). I wanted to yell “preach” at the end of this statement. At first I read the statement in a feminist mindset. So, I was absolutely amazed at the way she described being part of your own life as a woman. However, when digging a little deeper and trying to apply this to other areas- gray areas, I felt an overwhelming ache when I realized that as a human this is strongly worded. The appeal that obviously hit hard for me was the pathos. I just couldn’t control my revelation or myself. After applying this to being a human, I considered how this applies to my rhetoric. I can honestly say that before this class, I was influenced heavily by my mother and Flannery O’Connor. I wasn’t influenced by a piece of rhetoric, hell, I didn’t even know what true rhetoric was. I’m still struggling, as I write this paper, to determine if what I’m giving you is something that is true and honest – or if I’m still thinking through the information that has been supplied to me. I would have never considered the “sentiments” of my raising and learning to be part of a rhetorical appeal. Yes, I understand that all things learned should be put into practice, but I didn’t really understand what I was trying to do with these parts of my life. I was living what Astell would call a “self-condemn’d” life. Now, I’m able to say that I can rhetorically use my abilities to determine how I feel about that statement above, not only in a feminine appeal, but as a human being with emotions that are similar to everyone’s emotions. It’s a powerful feeling when discovering what living a contradiction free life is actually like. It’s empowering and liberating. Liberating is a word that was thrown around a lot this semester, at least for me. Liberation in the form of literacy. Liberation in the form of rhetoric. Liberation in the form of post-colonialism. Liberation was everywhere in this timeframe. What I’m hinting at is rhetoric is often liberation.

The liberation of rhetoric comes from the power of revelation – the falling action of rhetoric in this case. I love knowing that there are appeals thrown out into the world that will liberate and change the way that an individual or a group of people live their lives. This, to me, is something that is mind-blowing and exciting. To sum up Astell, “actions speak louder than words”, except when rhetoric is involved.

Actually, especially when rhetoric is involved. The words aren’t enough. The words

spark the reactions – the actions. Rhetoric speaks volumes and words are equally as loud.

“That then which makes doubtfulness and uncertainty in the signification of some more than other words, is the difference of ideas they stand for” (Locke 814).

This is the best way to make my last stab at rhetoric. Locke didn’t claim to be a man of rhetoric, but he surely made the greatest comment in this chapter. When thinking of rhetoric and the confusing sides that it offers, it is easy to get lost and become doubtful and uncertain of what is being said and what is being covered up. There have been many speeches and written pieces that I’ve read that make me want to understand or research more. There have also been pieces that have made me question the validity of the subject matter. Rhetoric is a swamp and the people are stuck wading through the nastiness to reach a place that isn’t so bad and can be tolerated.

This way of thinking and considering rhetoric makes me feel like most people may consider it to be the same. There are so many ways that one piece can be interpreted. There are so many people that have such a difficult time with trying to understand logos, pathos and ethos – without trying to interpret what appeals are being used in a single speech or written piece. That’s the struggle of rhetoric. The underlying truth of rhetoric is that the many understand what it is, but the few understand how to use it.

Rhetoric is just that, a way of speaking and writing to persuade an audience in terms of allowing them to think, act and conform to what the overall message may be. With that being said, rhetoric, in my opinion, is a form of speaking and writing that literate an illiterate people can use to make a valid or invalid statement. As a female, rhetoric is used for me and against me. As a human, rhetoric is used for me and against me. There isn’t a proper way to determine what rhetoric will fit everyone. However, when thinking of ways to address the many, there is a focus on how to attract the few. The few that will take the logos, pathos or ethos to heart and try to utilize every bit of the message that was presented.

With Cixous in mind, I don’t want to be trapped in the margin. I ultimately want my rhetoric to “sway” the ideas of others. I want the rhetoric that has a “sway” on my life to be powerful and full. When determining what rhetoric I think has an appeal or a stand in my life, I look for the pieces that string together ideas that want to change the way the world is viewed. I want to take on a new worldview that may enhance my human experience. After all, rhetoric is the way of life. It is the way that “they” get to name the world. By “they” I mean myself and all of the others that take this subject seriously.

Justice in Literacy

When I first started thinking about the idea and focus for this paper, I thought a lot about justice for women in terms of literacy and I considered “the system”. The recent discussions and readings in class have made me realize that as a woman I have the right to be thought of as literate. Also, the most recent discussion in class made me fear the system and the power of the people that control the statistics when considering literacy.

Lalita Ramdas introduces the idea of justice for women in literacy. The reason I picked this chapter to use for my paper is because of the amount of anger she has toward the justice system when considering women and literacy. Now, I understand the use of a traditional role – gender role. However, I hate the idea of a traditional role for women. I’ve known plenty of women that have been stay-at-home mothers, but that doesn’t mean they liked it or hated it. I can openly and honestly say that those women were unable to have a conversation about politics and education. Yes, the women did make it through high school but they never attempted to continue to college. Again, I understand the use of a traditional role and I understand that someone’s choice is their own. I just can’t understand or even begin to wrap my mind around the idea of not wanting to further yourself or to achieve the nontraditional roles that are deemed “inappropriate for women”. Ramdas states in her essay “Analyzed from the perspective of justice for women, it is clear that this issue is purely a peripheral one, and the primary concerns are of the other side effects of literacy, so to speak, and their impact on the “desirable” national goals.

I would therefore posit that the ideological underpinnings of such missions and campaigns are questionable, and by no means consonant with a perspective that seeks empowerment and emancipation for women” (Ramdas 640). This entire section is why I will never buy into the false aim for literacy campaigns. Not only do literacy campaigns have the wrong aim, but they promote traditional gender roles and domestication. Women are meant to have a voice in social affairs, political parties and debates, and even the educational field. Most campaigns, as Ramdas points out, are making the approach to literacy for women difficult. The idea isn’t to encourage women to take a stand with the right to be fully literate in all aspects, but to make domestic household and traditional ideas the center focus for becoming more literate. In my opinion, this is entirely the opposite of what women have worked toward. Again, I don’t understand how a woman could consciously allow

herself to be tricked into a false idea of being literate.

I enjoyed the rich information that Ramdas involved in her essay and study.

The interesting sections, to me, revolved around the women in other countries and the statistics that followed them. The main section that really stood out to me was the poem from West Bengal.

“Can literacy help us live a little better? Starve a little less?

Would it guarantee that the mother and the daughter won’t have to share the same sari between them?

Would it fetch us a newly thayched roof over our heads?

They say that there are laws to protect and benefit us. We don’t know these laws.

We are kept in the dark.

Would literacy help us know these laws?

Would we know the laws that have changed the status of women? And the laws that protect the tribals among us?

We want a straight answer” (Ramdas 635-636).

This section really instilled in me the idea of what could change because of the power of being literate. Obviously being literate can help a person and society live a better life. I mistakenly say “obviously” because I understand that being literate can lead to a better life. However, those illiterate people don’t understand this concept, so it is a legitimate question that they must consider and ask. One thing about this section that really made me think is knowing the status of women in a culture.

At this point, I would like to think of post colonialism. When considering a lesser group, the illiterates, and considering the mother country, the literates, it is easier to understand this poem and the meaning that it has to those people. The laws for the illiterate people were changed just like the laws for the colonized people changed, this includes the languages and the way of writing. It is easy to compare the language change to the level of literacy in a society. There is a general confusion and state of being unaware of possible changes that have been made for people and a community.

As I think of how justice for women in literacy can change, I draw a blank. I know how I like to be motivated, but people are so different from each other. My motivation comes from knowing that a lot of women I have the privilege of knowing have been able to succeed within the world using their talents and minds. This is just my outlook and source of motivation. The previous generations, although some settled into traditional roles, have motivated me to become fully in tune with how I choose to use my literacy. When I use that literacy to speak about politics and educational information, I know that I am serving myself justice with literacy.

This leads me to question the future of my generation with literacy. Today I spoke with a friend that didn’t understand how to fill out a W4 form for her job. How is not knowing how to do something so simple helping her with her literacy level?

Yes, there is obviously the option to learn (one definition of literacy). I just get so worried about my generation and the possible places that literacy will be ignored or used to its full potential.

As stated above, I do have the right to be thought of as being literate. I have worked for this achievement my entire life. With that being said, I was very interested to read “70 percent of the 1,000 million illiterates in the world today are women and girls, some 700 million people” (Ramdas 630). I suppose that I was more shocked than upset when reading the statistics that Ramdas adds to the essay. When I stopped to consider how many women that is and how much potential is wasted I started to feel a little insecure with my gender. Insecure in a way that makes me question why I was lucky enough to continue this far with my education. As a woman, I don’t see those statistics because they don’t have a great effect on me. I can simply state this because of my role in the literacy system. Now, my part in the literacy system is obviously small compared to other roles. However, I have survived many years within the education system and the literacy system.

Considering the statistics that were listed in the essay, I am more than proud to be where I’m at in terms of literacy.

In class we discussed “the system” and falling through the cracks. Honestly, this terrified and intrigued me. I did take some notes when considering the people that I’ve witnessed follow the path of falling through the cracks. These people did have a lower education level than most other people. Also, these people did have a learning disability. In my opinion, I suppose that there should be levels within the system. I like to think that there are the two types of illiterates in the world – unable and unwilling. However, I have started to consider that there is a subgroup, a third group, that is determine by the people controlling the system. I’m not sure of

a name for this group, but I would possibly name it “the controlled” just to have a bookmark for it. Within this group of illiterates, the entire future is set up for a lifetime of working and low benefits. The system failed them and the consequence is having to deal with the outcome of a lower class job that requires too much effort with the little tools that are possessed. Irwin Kirsch gives many statistics on the adult literacy chapter in the textbook. He does have several statistics that would back the idea of a controlled group through the system. However, his quote “Yet some argue that lower literacy skills mean a lower quality of life and more limited employment opportunities. As noted in a recent report from the American Society for Training and Development, “The association between skills and opportunity for individual Americans is powerful and growing… Individuals with poor skills do not have much to bargain with; they are condemned to low earnings and limited choices.”” (Kirsch 648). I understand how someone that is unable to achieve progress through literacy may have a difficult life. However, in most cases those individuals do find work within a company that has a hands on approach to a job. Typically, I’ve seen people that are able to learn visually instead of audibly. In my opinion, that is a level of learning that should be included in a standard for what is considered illiterate and falling through the cracks. A person’s style of learning should be thought of when deciding if that person has failed. Maybe the system should start including education training with hands on situations instead of basing everything on written tests. The people controlling the system could at least add multiple styles of learning processes. I feel like this would be beneficial and would add to the amount of encouragement shown to people when entering the work field. I don’t think there would be as much competition and work place training wouldn’t be something extensive. There would be a medium for all people involved.

With that rant out of the way, I want to go back to my role as a female in this literary world. I watched a documentary based on women’s rights and the value of what women do with their minds called Miss Representation. This documentary forever changed the way that I view my future. There are some statistics that were mentioned about women in political and financial positions that are definitely lower than those statistics held by men. The one statistic that stood out to me the most was “Women comprise 7% of directors and 13% of film writers in the top 250 grossing films” (Lauzen, 2003). This is my future. This is what I’ve been building toward my entire life. Not only are the odds stacked against me because I am a woman, but I am a woman that wants to make films. I want to write the films and have them produced. That statistic alone is enough to make someone want to change

their mind and aim for a field that is centered on medicine or law. However, I can’t do that. I change my mind and go for something that is going to provide a job within a year of being finished with college. I’m chasing my degree because I owe it to myself and other women to fight for the nontraditional roles. I owe this to myself because I didn’t give up and I wasn’t unwilling to learn new things for this field that I’ve entered.

Another statistic that the documentary provided was the 97% of everything supplied by the media is based off of a male’s perspective. So, I can tie this statistic to justice and the system. When considering that percentage and justice, there is obviously a level of unfair treatment that is present. Were the women making up the 7% and 13% mentally different from other women? In my opinion, yes. There is a literacy level that those women possessed that landed them in that percentage.

However, what about the 3% of women from the second statistic? Also, is that 3% even women? I cannot honestly believe that the 97% of men in the statistic had amazing talents that landed them an important role in society. I consider the fact that they are men and have they an easier time with the justice system to be the reasons for the major percentage.

Ultimately, this idea and focus is widely stretched. I feel like the readings mentioned above and the amount of time I’ve spent on the subject has allowed me to form my own opinion on justice. I can easily state what justice is for me, but I cannot easily define what will count as justice for other women. I have some ideas that were mentioned above, but people are so different from one another. Those ideas can easily be manipulated and my thoughts may change with other pieces of literature I read and speeches that I hear. I understand the amount of literacy that I have and need to use daily to confirm my spot in the system. However, the phrase “different strokes for different folks” has never been so true to me as it is with these issues.

What is Literacy?

“Literacy is imperious. It tends to arrogate to itself supreme power by taking itself as normative for human expression and thought” (Ong 19). I thought about this statement all semester and the one thing I want to say is “NO”. Just no, literacy isn’t taking authority without justification. Literacy isn’t arrogance. At least, literacy shouldn’t be arrogant and the people assuming those positions of power should be drop kicked in the stomach. This semester has taught me so much about my power when literacy is considered. More importantly, this semester has taught me how to be gracious and understanding with my literacy ability.

In my first paper I wrote about all of my discourses and the sponsors that have helped me throughout the years. I had many questions that took weeks to sift through. I’m not entirely sure that my newfound answers are entirely correct, but I have a feeling that I’m leaning in the right direction. I used some statements from Ong and Gee that made writing the paper a little easier – considering that I was talking about myself and trying to relate it to all of the ideas and thoughts that just came naturally. I used this statement from Gee, “this initial discourse, which I call our primary discourse, is the one we first use to make sense of the world and interact with others. Our primary discourse constitutes our original and home-based sense of identity, and, I believe, it can be seen whenever we are interacting with “intimates” in totally casual social interaction. We acquire primary discourse, not by overt instruction, but by being a member of a primary socializing group” (Gee 527). My initial primary group is my family. I still believe that the difference in my learning abilities from my primary discourses to all of my secondary discourses is from the amount of knowledge from each sponsor that I encountered. With that being said, I want to take a minute to consider sponsors and “the system”. The second paper that I wrote about justice in literacy had some sway on my opinions of sponsors, primary discourses and secondary discourses.

My brother, Tyler, slipped through the cracks of the system in the second grade. The schools didn’t want to deal with a child that had ADHD. The sad part is, Tyler doesn’t have ADHD. Tyler has a learning disability that stops him from retaining information like other children. Tyler didn’t receive the attention that he needed until he entered high school and was offered classes that helped him learn in an environment that wasn’t packed with 20-30 children in one classroom. As painful as this journey has been, Tyler graduates high school in less than fourteen

days and he just received an award for the highest average in his geometry class.

With this in mind, Tyler’s primary discourse was the same as my own. We had the same sponsors growing up. Our mother was the number one sponsor in our lives.

We had the same first secondary discourse – our preschool discourse was exactly the same. However, something was lost with a transition to a new discourse and with new sponsors being added. I wrote in my second paper that justice means not failing or having someone fail you. Tyler’s secondary discourse in elementary school failed him without a second thought. This still blows my mind and makes me question the validity of the schools and curriculum. I wrote about the three groups that I consider to be illiterate – the unable, unwilling and the controlled group. Tyler falls into two of those groups. He was unable to learn like other students and he was obviously in the controlled group and was allowed to fail the system. When Ong says “imperious” I think of evil and manipulative people that have control over literacy. I think of the people that were allowed to say that this one student is allowed to fail because they thought it was necessary. Those are the types of people that abuse literacy and then wonder why the rates of literacy are so low in this country.

I used a quote from Brandt to introduce sponsors in my first paper. This quote is still the most interesting and correct definition when I think of sponsors, “Intuitively, sponsors seemed a fitting term for the figures who turned up most typically in people’s memories of literacy learning: older relatives, teachers, priests, supervisors, military officers, editors, influential authors. Sponsors, as we ordinarily think of them, are powerful figures who bankroll events or smooth the way for initiates” (Brandt 557). When writing the justice paper I thought about the sponsors of my life. I have so many wonderful and fascinating people that I consider sponsors, but how many of them are really bankrolling their way to a sponsor title? I know that I went through and labeled each person in my paper as a bankroller or a “smooth the way” individual, but what does that really mean to me and what justice does that serve me? The most honest answer I can give is, those sponsors didn’t serve me any justice. The sponsors were there to make as much money and do something that they loved. I wasn’t taught to think for myself. I wasn’t taught to be something more than just a student stuck in a classroom. In a way, I feel that I’ve been failed by a system that I’ve trusted my entire life. It took a lot for me to consider that fact and after I did, I felt robbed. As a literate human being I was robbed from a set of tools that could prepare me for a literate world outside of a school that taught me to write and rewrite until something was perfect. Just a

not-so-funny side note, I had the honor of speaking with the teacher that made me love The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I told her that I wrote my first literacy paper about sponsors and how I considered her to be a sponsor. The only thing she did was ask if I made her look good. Did I make her look good? Are you kidding me? If I was a sponsor of literacy I would be asking about what type of grade a student received on that paper. I would be asking what I did with the novel to make it so memorable. I can’t even think about the novel without being a little frustrated. All of the love and admiration I had for the novel was destroyed with a single sentence from an arrogant sponsor.

My original question about sponsors and secondary discourses, ‘Does an attachment to a secondary discourse end when a sponsor is removed?” has never weighed on my mind heavier than it does right now. I’ve removed that individual as a sponsor to my literacy journey and I’m slightly finished with anything that was instilled in me with that discourse. So, yes, an attachment to a secondary discourse does end if a sponsor is removed. I can say that with a definite response. No, I can’t remove all other aspects of my high school secondary discourse and I won’t forget the information learned from that part of the secondary discourse. However, my attachment to the discourse is nonexistent. This was one of the questions that I wanted to wrap up and finish for myself. This is something that I’ve thought about all semester and it’s bittersweet that the result came with such a deep stab at my literacy journey.

Now that I’ve revisited my first paper, I want to dig deeper into a side of literacy that appeared the last few weeks of class. I want to talk about women and literacy. I enjoyed reading Ramdas. The statistics and the information that was provided in her chapter really made me consider how bad conditions are for women. With that being said, I never once considered my place in this literate world as a woman.

Also, I never considered the real struggles that women have had to face just to call themselves literate. I’ve never been personally victimized when it comes to literacy. I’ve never felt the oppression from a different sex or another individual of the same sex. I’ve never had to consider how it feels to be put down and thought of as an idiot with one place that doesn’t involve being part of a literacy movement. As a woman, I’m ashamed to say that I’ve always thought that way and felt that way. I suppose I’ve always strived to do my best work and to be as literate as possible. My family is full of people that don’t understand the different between “to” and “two”.

My family is full of people that never made it to college. I am a first generation college student that will have a degree within the next year. So, I’ve always felt the

need to strive and to be the best in what I do when it comes to being literate. As I was reading Ramdas her statements, “These qualifications notwithstanding, it would be largely true to say that the number of illiterate people aged fifteen years and upwards continues to increase inexorable in absolute terms” (Ramdas 631) and “In other words, 70 percent of the 1,000 million illiterate in the world today are women and girls, some 700 million people” (Ramdas 630), made me want to cry. How did I miss out on this? I understand that I’m not part of the illiterate category, but as someone that is literate, I should be on top of this information. I should understand how much the world and people of my own gender are struggling. I should be aware of the power that has left so many people or failed so many people. How in the hell does this happen? I know that I used some information in my justice paper from the movie Miss Representation that really opened my eyes, but how could I miss out on so much more? The best way that I can confirm this issue is the sidetracked feeling of not being victimized as a woman.

I can’t say that it’s about my location in the United States. I mean, in Alabama the woman should be in the kitchen or on her back – at least that’s the thought from my family and other older people I know. However, I want to say that it is from my place in my generation. I think that my generation understands the effects of discrimination. I’m not trying to say that there isn’t any discrimination, especially in the professional world, but I think that the people I’ve surrounded myself with understand the drive for literacy that I have. I think those people in my generation understand the investments that have been made and in return there is a sense of gratitude and motivation. I’ve never had someone in my immediate circle of friends say that I’m not going to succeed and in turn I’ve never told someone else that. With Ramdas’ information, I just want to understand how there hasn’t been other subgroups that have made this same connection. How have other groups within a generation not accepted that there is a low literacy rate and that women suffer more than others? I can’t answer that question, but I can speak for myself and my friends when it comes to believing and reaching for goals – the only thing that matters is succeeding.

With almost 20 weeks of literacy information being provided to me, I feel proud and a little disappointed so say that I finally have a definition of literacy.

I feel proud because it a definition that I’ve made on my own terms and understanding. I feel disappointed because I think that my definition will never be something that is approved or regulated. So, my definition for literacy is: Literacy is a form of power that can be used with hatred or can be used with gratitude.

Literacy is power that has been handed down to an individual from someone else.

The least that the individual can do is graciously give pass on the literacy to someone else. There isn’t a need for controlling and failing others. Also, there isn’t a need for treating individuals differently based on their sex or race. There should be a fair line of literacy that runs throughout the country and other countries.

However, these are just my ideas and until I’ve made myself into something bigger than just a college student, those ideas will never be acted upon. I’ve enjoyed this literacy class and I feel as if I see the world differently with the knowledge that I’ve gained. When literacy is involved, I’m working on being considered a person that gets to “name the world”.

Communications Papers Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m aiming to be a mixture of intelligent, witty, and interesting. I want to combine that with writing in a way that makes people feel my words. I want them to remember me for all that I have to offer.

Place and Travel Article

As I made my way down the gravel path that was delicately lined with flowers – dandelions and a type resembling what I assumed to be jewelweed. I heard the smoothness of the creek. Along with the smoothness, the crunch of the gravel greeted my ears. The cracking of jagged stone that isn’t man-poured echoed around me. At first I noticed the stepping stones, one of the only two paths to take across the creek. They were scattered through the creek – connecting one side to the other. The size of each was proportional to the other. The indicator to cross the creek was obvious. The experience was centered on the creek, the other path that connected the two sides. My toes gently grazed the edge of the water, testing the temperature. The coolness of the creek welcomed my eager feet without hesitation.

The clear water made the task of crossing the creek easier. As I stepped over small stones, equally as small fish rushed past my feet. As squeamish as I am, I didn’t squeal. I allowed the fish to pass me before continuing my chosen path through the creek.

As I crossed the creek I couldn’t help but look up. The trees above made a shade over the trail floor that cooled the dirt and the water. I wandered the gravel path until I caught a shimmery glimpse of the spring. The almost swampy spring that made the center of the trail unique was filled with dams and moss. According to the Natchez Trace website, “Since 1977 numerous beaver dams have been built then abandoned by the beaver or destroyed by high water.” On my trip to Rock Spring the water levels were what I assumed to be in the negative digits. The creek was running with beautiful water, but the spring was dropping below the banks. A sign that is present near the spring explains that there are issues with flooding in the area. Also, the sign states that there are several instances where the spring has almost been completely dried. The sign isn’t a standing plaque or an information board. The sign looks hand-drawn and posted.

“I’ve experienced nature in all forms, but this is different,” I said out loud. “It’s special.” I knew that I would use these sentences to describe something in my life, but I didn’t realize it would be a spring in Alabama. I’ve never been so proud of my state and the landforms that it offers.

The experience was truly special. The trail, the creek and the spring made me

want to snap as many photos as possible, which is what I did. I documented the trip for future trips. I have a fascination with comparison photos – I like to see and enjoy the evolution of a place.

The trip to the spring gave me the chance to meet people from around the area that visit Rock Spring often. As I approached a bench that was between the trail and the spring I was met by an elderly couple. The couple was full of smiles and laughter. The expressions on their faces were peaceful and reassuring. The exchange of “hello’s” felt comforting. With some small talk I quickly learned about the Hummingbird migration. “They’re a sight to see. It’s absolutely beautiful,” the man said. The Hummingbirds are deemed as the “Tiny Jewels of the Air” on the Natchez Trace website that features Rock Spring. The attraction of the Hummingbirds is from the beautiful jewelweed that is scattered around the creek, the spring and the hiking trail.

While adventuring on the trail I wasn’t fortunate enough to meet other people. However, the area was alive with people and wildlife. There were two different routes that took visitors on the same 20-minutes trail. I could hear the sound of laughter and people enjoying themselves while exploring the woodlands of Rock Spring. I wasn’t talented enough to leave a marked trail – which is something that I worried about from the beginning of the trip. To my surprise, the trail was marked for the visitors. There was a straight loop for hikers to take and a trail of winding steps to take, which both were marked with bright orange ribbon.

According to Alabama Birding Trails, “hundreds of Ruby – throated Hummingbirds” arrive in the fall. Rock Spring is known as a migration area for birds, as well as other species of animals. The other species of Hummingbirds includes: Black-chinned and Rufous Hummingbirds. Alabama Birding Trails offers information on a few other species of animals and reptiles that visit Rock Spring, which are White-eyed, Yellow-throated, and Red-eyed Vireos. There are several “breeding wood warblers” called Hooded and Kentucky Warblers and Louisiana Waterthrush. The most interesting species that I noticed in the article of Rock Spring is the Hellbender. This is an unusually large species of Salamander that is hosted in North Alabama and in Rock Spring. I didn’t spot one of these on my trip, but I will be looking for the species on my next trip.

When deciding to write this piece I pulled out the photos from this trip to Rock Spring. I haven’t been to this spot in almost a year, but it feels like I was there for the first time yesterday. I crave a lasting impression from places that I visit – good or bad. The lasting impression that has been with me after this trip is the

smell. The assumption can be made that all places have a distinct smell. But Rock Springs had the overwhelming smell of magic. No, not magic in a corny way but in a way that makes me want to visit the place over and over again. A magic smell that makes me want to be a part of the scenery. The scent of sweat, flowers, water and fun are still fresh in my nose. The last crunch from the gravel as I left Rock Spring made me want more. More adventure, more peacefulness.

I have my pictures in hand and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m ready to see the ever-changing Rock Spring.

It Ain’t Over Until the Chicken is Fried Profile Article

Barstools, neon lights and plaid picnic table cloths were a sight of excitement when entering the dining room. B.B. King’s soulful voice echoed around the room.

Outside, Wade Baker was working on setting up the patio for Handy Fest – a high energy, seven day music event that celebrates the life of W.C. Handy. Dripping sweat and smiling ear-to-ear he gave me a simple “what’s up?” After explaining and thanking him for meeting during a crazy week, he happily replied “let’s do this, girl!” He was ready to talk about Champy’s of the Shoals and it was time to capture the moment. Grabbing two barstools and sitting down to talk about work, life, and chicken, Wade was inviting and relaxed.

Personable and friendly are the two words that come to mind when Wade’s name is mentioned. In any setting and at any time, Wade is always calm, cool and collected and more than caring. Hailing from the funky town of Memphis, Wade Baker is full of soul and lets it show through his efforts at his restaurant, Champy’s. “We wanted to be out of the hustle and bustle of the big city,” said Wade when asked why he and his wife moved from Memphis. “We wanted to start a family and Laura’s (his wife’s) family is from this area,” he said. “It just felt natural.”

As many people would agree, the Shoals area does feel natural and it is inviting for people of all ages.

Business is business and Wade Baker knows how to handle his. He’s been in the restaurant industry for several years – mainly management. He understands what makes a business work from the inside out. With that being said, the Shoals area is perfect for a chicken shack, as the employees call it. “We wanted to make sure that the price points matched the medium income for this area,” said Wade when asked if there were any main cautions for opening a business in the area. He seemed comfortable and sure about his choice of opening a restaurant in the middle of Muscle Shoals. “Keep it simple. Do what you do and stick with it,” were his words of wisdom for opening Champy’s of the Shoals. Those words are golden in the restaurant industry and should be the guiding light for starting something new and keeping it going. Wade understands how to fry chicken and give the best dining experience from the time a guest walks in the door until the time that they order the homemade dessert and get ready to leave. “It’s all about the experience,” is

something that Wade says daily. This honorable and caring statement is the truth.

The experience, everything from the greeting to the server to the food, is important. Making a guest want to stay and want to come back is a special feature that not many restaurants have, but Champy’s of the Shoals is a different environment of it’s own.

Many customers have asked “Why Champy’s?” The ultimate question that every server has learned the answer to from Wade. Seth Champion, a friend of Wade from Chattanooga, opened the original Champy’s restaurant and the business was more than booming. It was obviously a no brainer when the option to open Champy’s of the Shoals was mentioned. “The Chattanooga Champy’s has been extremely successful and we are just following in the footsteps,” said Wade when asked “Why Champy’s?” Normally with non-chain restaurants there may be a name change or a menu change at some point. Wade approached the subject with, “Why fix it if it ain’t broke?” There isn’t a better statement for that topic. The name remains the same, there’s just a change in location and staff. As for the menu, the area income and want value was considered when constructing the menu. It’s Alabama, where football is life and wings are popular. Try the wings on your visit – smoked and fried to perfection.

As a server at the restaurant it’s easy to admire the way that Wade works and runs the restaurant smoothly. This has been a process of smooth sailing for three years. Champy’s of the Shoals just celebrated it’s three year anniversary. There have been many new faces and some faces that have stayed the same throughout the three years. However, Wade’s face has been the one that people have come to know and respect. “I’m glad you think that,” said Wade when asked how he keeps the restaurant running smoothly. As a humble man, that not only respects his employees, but values their input and opinions, this is a statement that speaks volumes about his character. “I go at things like a duck,” he said. “Things appear smooth on the surface but I’m paddling like hell underneath.” This brought laughter and a conversation about his attempts to make Champy’s run efficiently. The only appearance is of smooth sailing – the paddling is private and is between him and the employees.

As a server for Champy’s of the Shoals, it is easy to see how the restaurant has shaped the other employees and the customers, but it’s interesting to know how the restaurant has shaped Wade and his family over the three years that it has been open. “I feel like the concept for Champy’s of the Shoals is basically us,” said Wade.

“It’s casual and laid back.” The restaurant has been shaped by their lives and their background. “It’s our roots. It’s that ole juke joint where we grew up,” said Wade.

In a way, it feels that the restaurant is a form of nostalgia for Wade and his wife, Laura. The impression of loving that life and wanting to live it daily is obvious. The best part is that Wade can do that. Champy’s of the Shoals gives him the opportunity to live that “ole juke joint” life daily.

To wrap the discussion of life, work and chicken up, Wade was asked to provide his life motto. “I’ve never been asked this before,” he said while grinning.

Wade sat in silence for a few minutes thinking over the question. He smile and said, “Let me go ask my life partner.” The bartender standing to the side laughed and starting mentioning some statements that Wade normally says. Wade returned a few minutes later and said, “Laura says that I normally say “Just another day in paradise.” He shook his head and said he didn’t really want to end on that note. After a few minutes he said, “It’s all chicken but the gravy.” Again, this wasn’t good enough. Yes, Wade says this often, but he wanted a saying that would leave an open and inviting appeal. At least, that’s the way that it felt while he was deciding on the motto. He waited for a few minutes and gave a wide grin. He had the motto. “Always try to be kind to people because at that moment you never know what’s going on in their lives,” was his final motto. As someone that has been part of his life for the last few years, it is easy to say that this is something that is almost expected from Wade. This statement reveals his serving heart and caring self.

New Year’s Celebrations Family, Food, Love & Personal Experience Holiday Article

I remember watching the ball drop on television on December 31st, 1999/ January 1st, 2000. I was seven and the time seemed to drag until the countdown began. As soon as the large number “1” appeared on the television screen (and the world didn’t end) I decided that I would always care about celebrating the New Year. I don’t remember much about my childhood, but what I do remember rests on New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day and just embracing life on those specific days.

The New Year and celebrating its arrival was always and is always something that I will fully cherish and enjoy.

On New Year’s Eve the celebration always begins. At seven, and until nineteen, I would typically spend the day with my mother and grandmother cooking.

“You won’t have luck if you aren’t well feed,” was something that my mother repeated throughout the day. I hated cooking and all of the hard work that was involved. The menu for the night and the following day consisted of: green beans, collard greens, black-eyed peas, black beans, cornbread made in full and cornbread flitters, a stewed neck bone and sliced ham (for the individuals that weren’t excited about eating a “neck”). The cooking process took hours, hours that I can only now cherish and fully be thankful for. My mother, grandmother and I hung out in the kitchen from the time the coffee was fully brewed, or in my case, the oatmeal and orange juice was served until the pots and pans had been scrubbed and returned to their correct places. My grandmother’s hands would be covered with flour – the entire kitchen was eventually covered with flour, but it all ended up in the cornbread pan by some miracle. The beans that cooked filled the room with a smell that can only be described as “home-cooking”. At this point in my life I understand that I was only the taste-tester and the observer, a job that I enjoyed so much.

New Year’s Eve night was spent sitting in front of the television watching all of the commercials and the NYE New York performances in Times Square. The plate in my lap was full of some ham and green beans. We weren’t allowed to have all of the goodies until the next day. “The little bit you get now is to make sure the money and the health go with you into the New Year,” was the excuse my

mother gave when I asked about not being able to eat the cornbread. As a child, I was selfish about food on New Year’s. I wanted all of the items that I had spent all day helping cook. I didn’t realize until later in life that the saying she gave about the amount of food was something that her mother, my grandmother, had told her when she was my age. She would repeat this yearly just as her mother had repeated to her.

Other than the food and each other, the television was our company. Each performance was better than the last. At seven-years-old the only performance I remember was “Liquid Dreams” by O-Town. The performance was actually just their music video playing, but it was still so amazing to me. I guess that was the first time that I had actually stopped and watched something entertaining other than cartoons. At that moment, I remembered wanting to see all of the videos and dancing that I could. Each year the performances were better and better. I was aware of all of the different artists and performer’s music, so seeing them on television was exciting. I could actually sing along with the music and enjoy the fun.

As soon as we all screamed “Happy New Year” the party ended until the following morning. Driving home on New Year’s morning was my favorite part of the holiday. The fireworks lit the night sky as we drove to our own home from my grandmother’s house. My mother would let me roll down the window in the car just to hear the explosions as we passed each bright light.

New Year’s Day lunch always started at noon – this was the same for me at age seven until I turned nineteen. The small gathering on New Year’s Eve didn’t compare to the gathering on New Year’s Day. Normally, my immediate family gathered with my grandmother on New Year’s Eve, but my entire family – immediate and extended join together for New Year’s Day. All of my relatives would shovel luck, health and fortune onto their plates in the form of green beans, black-eyed peas and ham. The idea of having luck, health and fortune was exciting – especially when the thought that food could give you those items. Again, the television was just as much company as all of my family members. There would always be some type of performance of show coming on that everyone would enjoy. This was true for every year that we celebrated.

My last New Year’s party with my family came before my twentieth birthday.

Instead of my mother and grandmother cooking the meal, my mother and I took control of the kitchen as my grandmother stayed in her chair watching television.

My immediate family gathered for the traditional New Year’s Eve countdown and my extended family got together for the New Year’s Day festivities.

My last New Year’s party with my family came before my twentieth birthday.

Instead of my mother and grandmother cooking the meal, my mother and I took control of the kitchen as my grandmother stayed in her chair watching television.

My immediate family gathered for the traditional New Year’s Eve countdown and my extended family got together for the New Year’s Day festivities. . Looking back now, I realized that this would be the last New Year’s party that my family was able to spend with my grandmother. I knew that at the time, but it didn’t seem real. It’s hard to celebrate a holiday when a person is missing. It never gets easier people just learn to deal with the absence.

“What you’re doing on New Year’s Eve reflects what you will be doing for the rest of the year,” was a saying that my grandmother used at every New Year’s get together. I still believe that this is true. I’m thankful for this saying and being so proud of the family that I’m part of. Being with my family on New Year’s Eve made a stronger connection to the phrase and thinking about the saying now I’m blessed that I was able to spend the entire year with my family and half of the year with my grandmother.

New Year’s is a special event for me, painful but special. There are so many memories tied to the holiday that I would never trade. I enjoy the family values that were instilled in me during those celebrations. I’m thankful that they have carried on into my present view on New Year’s. A party is only a party with family and a good time, in my opinion.

Cinco de Drunko Is it an “H” or an “A”?

Humor Article

The restaurant was filled with 200 people. The maximum amount of people allowed in the building had been reached plus some, so getting a table was a nightmare. I normally don’t drink, but the work week had driven me and my friends to our favorite Fiesta Mexicana restaurant – on Cinco de Mayo of all days.

“I don’t want to sit in the back,” said one of my friends, Candi, that was never happy with seating charts. I forgot to mention that we are all servers and other restaurants are our forte when being picky is considered.

“I don’t think we will get what we want,” I said as we were walking to the back of the restaurant. The lady seating us smiled and with loose English informed us that our servers name was Heather and that she hoped we enjoyed our meal. What person goes to a Mexican restaurant on Cinco de Mayo and eats? Ridiculous, I know.

Our server, Heather, greeted us and asked about our drinks. Obviously everyone was up for a margarita. The special on Facebook advertised $2.50 margaritas.

Heather seemed a little confused when my friend, Trista, asked about the special.

She said that a lot of people were asking and that the bartender had agreed to make that happen. Apparently the special had been advertised by an individual that didn’t even work for the restaurant.

After the drinks had arrived twenty minutes later everyone was perfectly fine.

Well, everything other than the girls at my table wanting to order food.

“That’s another twenty minutes we will be waiting,” I said after sucking down the margarita in front of me.

“Well, I want some tamales,” Trista said as she finished drinking her margarita.

“Well, make it forty minutes because we all just finished our drinks,” said Candi as she pushed her empty glass to the edge of the table. I didn’t like the amount of people in the bar. As I looked around I noticed that there wasn’t a single Spanish person in the restaurant other than the lady that sat our table and the bartender.

For a moment I wondered if all of the workers had requested off for this day and if the other servers had been rude to them about it. I shrugged it off and waited for Heather to return to our table.

Twenty minutes later she finally stopped by the table and took the drink order and our food order. Surprise, we ordered food on Cinco de Mayo at a Mexican restaurant – tamales for everyone.

After our drinks had arrived the food came out. Cold. I didn’t mind because I love cold food. I wondered how long the trays had just been sitting in the kitchen window but didn’t really care.

“These are cold and smell like they have barbeque sauce on them,” said Trista as she lifted a piece to her mouth. Trista normally eats cold food but didn’t really approve the plate tonight.

“I’m not eating those,” said Candi as she pushed the plate away.

“That’s fine. There’s more for me. I’ll take the ticket at the end of the night,” I said between bits.

Another round of drinks came to the table and everyone started to loosen up.

The night was getting better and I was excited about that. I don’t like to go out and be sad or upset – even if the service isn’t great and the food is mediocre. I just don’t like to dine and whine.

At some point, and I’m not sure when, Trista started talking about getting in the “mood”. You know which mood I’m talking about. She started naming off all sorts of foods that can get someone excited.

“You know, like oysters. I’ve heard those are really a good food to eat,” Trista said as she started her fourth drink. We all laughed and started thinking of other foods that could do the same thing.

“Now that I’m thinking about it. These tamales taste like bologna,” Candi said as she took her fourth bit of tamale. She was wrong if she thought I was still paying for the food.

“That’s a hermaphrodite,” Trista said a little too eagerly. I sat for a moment letting what she said register in my mind. I wanted to fully understand what she had just said.

“You mean an aphrodisiac?” I said staring at her with a shocked look on my face.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Trista shouted.

“Have you thought that all of the foods we’ve been listed are called hermaphrodites?” I said still shocked.

“I’m an idiot,” Trista laughed. I couldn’t control myself at this point. I was laughing so hard that my ribs hurt. Candi was in tears from laughing so hard. All I could say between fits of laughter was “You’ve got to be kidding me”.

Cinco de Mayo wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a complete bust. We had several margaritas and a science lesson while sitting at our table. Learning the difference between a hermaphrodite and an aphrodisiac has never been more entertaining to watch.

“The final proof of greatness lies in being able to endure criticism without resentment.”

-Elbert Hubbard I must say that the pleasure has been all mine, UNA. I’ve grown in leaps and bounds through tears and achievements. As the last chapter to my undergraduate life ends, I want to express how grateful I am for the opportunity to succeed.

Until later, ROAR LIONS!