The Unity of Diversity

My ex-girlfriend and I entered the room silently as everyone took their seats. There were twenty-five people gathered in a circle. Some wore smiles, but most had stern expressions fixed on their faces: the faces of indignation and activism. Yet the room emitted an aura of acceptance and understanding, and no one seemed the slightest bit shocked by any of the unusual appearances present. I saw women with shaved heads and men in women’s clothing. I had entered the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill’s yearly Unity Conference.

The Unity Conference was founded in 2001 by UNC student Trevor Hoppe. Inspired by the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force’s Annual Creating Change event, Hoppe worked to bring something to Chapel Hill that was more accessible to students and community members. The Unity Conference is a project of the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender Straight Alliance, a student group at UNC. Workshops are given on a variety of topics ranging from lesbian sex toys to the history of the U.S. transgender movement. It is run entirely by students, but also stretches its message to the broader community.

The Lecture we attended was titled, “Making a Statement: How the Language We Use Reflects Our Politics” and was presented by UNC’s Feminist Students United. After everyone introduced him or herself and their sexual orientation, a lively discussion was held on sexist and homophobic language present in pop-culture and modern slang. Every group represented raised different concerns to discuss. They brought up issues of male dominance in society, the overwhelming amount of subconscious sexism in everyday speech and how ageism can reinforce sexism. Some spoke with passionate outrage about how they had been treated in their lives, while others shared personal stories quietly about their own struggles with identity.

After the workshop, we went to see the Keynote speaker for the conference, Loretta Ross. The event was held in one of UNC’s many auditoriums, and all two-hundred seats were filled with eager students and teachers. In fact, so many people showed up to see Ross’ address that the aisles were overflowing with people clamoring with anticipation.

Ms. Ross is the Founder and Executive Director of the National Center for Human Rights Education, the USA Partner of the Peoples’ Decade of Human Rights Education. She's a leading voice for women’s rights nationally and internationally, and she works closely with the poor and communities of color. She was one of the first African-American women to direct a rape crisis center, and she also directed the National Black Women’s Health Project.

Ross, a large woman with a commanding voice, stepped up to the podium and amazed the crowd into various states of comical hysteria and stunned silence. She spoke for an hour on activism, self-identity, human rights and equality for all sexes, genders and races. She said, as a black woman, that her struggle to overcome oppression aligned her with all people, regardless of race or orientation, who felt a similar sense of repressed freedom. “Even if, one day, African-Americans are treated as equals universally,” she declared, “if all people cannot be free all over, then I can never be free.” The crowd erupted into a standing ovation when she finished her speech, and some cried softly as they clapped their hands.

I saw the passion in these peoples’ lives, in the way they view their identities. They don’t consider themselves confused or as oddities to be mocked. They just regard themselves as people living the only way they know how and wanting to be treated with the same respect we are all promised.

Chess Yourself

After circling the parking lot, I finally found the unit in Market Place Plaza where the Wilmington Scrabble Club supposedly met every Thursday evening, sharing a space with the Wilmington Chess Club. Twenty-four eyes were focused on me as I walked in the door. The grid of square tables with perfectly placed chairs offered a not-so-discrete place to sit. I looked around and everyone was playing chess- not a Scrabble board in site.

“Are you here for chess?” asked a man who was standing towards the back of the room. I explained to him that I was there to watch and had no intention of playing.

“Well, it’ll be hard to watch from there,” he scoffed. I don’t think he realized I was watching the players, not the game.

The walls were lined with Polaroids of elderly couples and friends who were being honored by their bridge club. Across from the ‘wall of fame’ were two long tables with empty coffee makers and stacks of styrofoam cups. The room didn’t smell like much of anything and the buzzing of the florescent lights was the only sound for the first few minutes I was there.

It took me ten minutes to realize that I was the only woman in the room. There were twelve players ranging in age from about ten to seventy. Each focused intently on the game in front of them, carefully thinking about each move. Their chess ‘boards’ were actually pieces of paper and their pieces were plastic.

Soon, discussion of pre-emptive moves and strategy hummed between the men. They were giving advice to one another. It all seemed to be friendly competition.

A young boy sat at the back, moving his pieces quickly and, I thought, rather naively. A man I assumed to be the boy’s father or coach, took an impatient tone while criticizing his hastiness. The man seemed to believe he knew more than the boy.

“Check mate,” the boy said. I couldn’t help but smile.

On one table sat a wooden set, with beautiful detailing. At one side of the table was a man in his late twenties and across from him was an older man in a wheel chair. The man shook as he reached for and moved each piece. It looked as though he suffered from Parkinson’s disease or had a stroke. He eerily reminded me of my Uncle Billy, who was an avid chess player until he lost all mobility due to Parkinson’s. The younger man was short with him.

“You were just there,” he said loudly. The man in the wheel chair looked embarrassed. The younger man's tone made me uncomfortable and sympathetic for the older man. No one else seemed to notice. Why was he being so blatently rude?

“Did you mean to move here?” the younger man asked impatiently. The man in the wheel chair shook his head no and as deliberately as possible, moved his pawn.

Too often, I see people assume they are better than one another because of frivolous stereotypes based on age, sex, ability, religion, and race. We are all humans and we all have things to offer each other. I just wish we could realize this before humility becomes a disability.

Numbers

I walked through the automatic sliding door--it was cold and smelled like a hospital, not what my normal routine of going to the doctor is like. I had decided to be a patient at the local Health Clinic for a check-up I needed to get for my internship.

I walked up to the check-in station and saw the digital clock that changed to 8:16 a.m. I was as perky as I could be and gave the lady my name. She looked at me grumpily and told me to sit down as she gave me a number. That's right, a number--you get better treatment at restaurants. It's like getting a lottery ticket at the doctor's office while everyone is waiting to find out what his or her real weight is and have blood work done.

As I waited, I thought about what I expected from this visit. From my first impression, I figured they would make me feel unimportant. At a doctor you are supposed to feel comfortable and welcomed. This was definitely the farthest thing I felt since I had come here.

I sat down to fill out my paperwork after they called my number and tried for a second time to be friendly in hopes maybe this lady would be nicer--she wasn't. I wondered if there was something in the water the employees drank. She asked me if I had insurance and when I said yes she looked at me with surprise, since a majority of their patients don’t. By the time I got back to my seat more people had came in.

There were people of all different races and most of them looked middle-class, which is probably not true. I saw two children from different ethnic backgrounds playing together with some toys they had in the waiting area. One child spoke Spanish and the other English. However, this did not stop them from playing and laughing. I'm sure that the neighborhood we were in makes that normal.

The chair I was sitting in was not made for waiting; it became uncomfortable after 15 minutes. The waiting room was typical, with magazines (except they were not popular) and a television (with advertisements for medicine companies playing). The only huge difference was the atmosphere. Finally, number 17 was called.

I walked back, a little nervous of what to expect even though it was just a check-up. To my surprise the doctors and nurses were much friendlier; maybe they get paid more. Living in a small town and having a mother that worked the ER, I am used to doctors joking with me and asking me how my family is. Other than this the care they provided wasn't any different.

After I was done I walked out of the room and waited to ask someone where I needed to go. A nurse looked at me and said, "Hold on, the translator will be out in a minute." I looked at her and was a little confused; I realized she thought I spoke Spanish. I told her that I was just trying to find out where I needed to go and she showed me. Evidently they deal with a lot of Spanish-speaking people--although I would never expect someone to think I spoke Spanish.

As I walked out I looked at my watch, 10:45 a.m. That was the longest, and most interesting, doctor's visit I've ever had. It was eye opening to see the expectations I had disappear. It was interesting to see how people interacted and the diversity in the health clinic. It made me very thankful for the health care that was provided for me as I grew up. I walked out of the sliding doors—the sun shined brightly as I was back in my comfort zone.

Wave Transit Travels

Breaking from my normal Friday morning routine of sleeping past noon, I decided to do something different and observe an alternate lifestyle. Instead of binge sleeping, I opted to get up at 9 a.m. and ride the city bus. I wanted to experience a new mode of transportation. As I was walking to the bus stop, which is conveniently in front of my apartment complex, my mind filled with questions and hesitation. Would the people look at me funny? Who will I encounter? Will people who regularly ride the bus know each other and know that this is not my normal mode of transportation?

At 9:15 a.m. I got at the bus stop and waited ten minutes for it to arrive. As I stepped on I could see the bus driver give me an awkward, puzzled look as if he knew I was doing this for pleasure and not practicality. I tried to blend into the environment, but I guess a tan college student doesn’t fit into the Wilmington city bus system too well. I then paid my fare and sat down in one of the middle rows.

There were only a few people on the bus, mainly blue collar workers who looked as though they dreaded going to work. Pretending to be groggy and discontent, I quietly looked around. Surprisingly, the bus was fairly clean and not what I had expected. Up to now my only experience with public buses had been from TV and movies. I had imagined a vehicle that was littered with graffiti and people looking to take advantage of you. Buses seemed like an economical, popular mode of transportation that you had to be cautious on. However, the Wilmington buses have always seemed different and from the multitude of empty seats my instincts hadn’t failed me.

As people got on and off I noticed that many were carrying grocery bags and had to take the bus to buy food. At this pivotal moment I realized how fortunate I was. I have gone through bouts without a car, but always had friends to drive me when I needed to go somewhere. I have never had to go it alone and pay money to get around. The tribulations of the regular bus riders gave me a new respect for their efforts. And as I observed the others they observed me--sitting alone, riding my loop, I noticed their gazes and judgments. I was out of my element, in their territory, and mildly bewildered. I spent the majority of the ride looking out the window in awe of the situation while casually taking moments to study my new environment.

Ultimately, my bus ride was a good opportunity to view Wilmington from a different angle. It was a humbling experience that made me thankful to have a car and the ability to go where ever I want to whenever I want to. I can understand how buses are the norm in many cities and an excellent mean of transportation in situations when other modes would be less efficient. In many respects, Wilmington would benefit from increasing the popularity of their bus system and promoting its positive aspects. From my thirty-minute excursion I learned a lot about the everyday life of people from different backgrounds and socio-economic statuses. I could never imagine what their lives are actually like, but I felt that I got a glimpse. And if I ever took the bus again I would do so without hesitation or apprehension.

Handball, Bosnia, and Brandy, What Could Go Wrong?

I was cheering for the green team. I didn’t know their name. I didn’t know where they were from. I actually didn’t have a real good idea of where I was, but I was cheering for the green team.

Mostar, Bosnia is just over the border from Croatia. About a forty-five minute drive from the walls of Dubrovnik. I went to Bosnia to be one of the few Americans there without a gun. The old town of Mostar had obtained a reputation of violence and uneasiness, but that all vanished with the handball match.

As my tour-guide pulled me into a makeshift handball court, actually a community center, I found myself in a sea of color. Split down the middle of the bleachers was a side of green and a side of white. I was pushed into the green and looked around. I was the only one not wearing the correct color, or even a scarf of any kind.

The referee blew the whistle and the whole crowd broke into song. They were singing in Bosnian and I could only catch every seventh word which had long j’s and a y in practically every word. Along with singing there were hand motions that needed to be memorized. It was like a large game of paddy cake in which I didn’t know the rules.

Looks were being thrown my way from every direction. Like knives being hurled from tear ducts. So, I did what anyone would do in that situation, I stood up and just started cheering. This is not recommended.

Being that I was watching a sport that I had no idea how it worked, and cheering for a team that I didn’t know, it’s really easy to screw up. So the white team scored, I screamed and waved my fist. The greens around me glared, harshly. Apparently a green guy isn’t allowed to run in front of a white guy and get away with it. I didn’t know that. So when said thing happened and a foul was issued, I cheered and was hit in the back of the head with a paper bag.

After half-time or quarter-time, whenever there’s a break in handball, I finally figured out the rules. You can’t block a guy once he’s in the air, but you can while he’s running, but only at quarter speed. The outside line is worth two points, everything inside that is worth one. So I thought.

By this point the man next to me was hammered. Every time his team scored, the green team, he’d take a shot out of his bottle of a brandy. His language that I didn’t understand already became even more difficult to catch because it was now slurred. As he became more and more impaired he also became more of my friend, forcing drinks my throat whenever he didn’t feel like taking a drag of the bottle. Did I mention that handball can be an extremely high-scoring game?

Forty-two to thirty-eight. That was the final score to the handball match. Each team scored about twenty point points in the second half, which was the half in which the man decided to share. My tour guide was laughing at me as I shuffled out this community center. The sharing man caught me outside as I was leaning against the car and trying to determine if I was going to get sick. He came up to me and said, “(Bosnian words) American.”

I didn’t know what he said, but my tour guide who translated for me said it was along the lines of, “You drink pretty good for an American.” I laughed and returned to what I knew better, Croatia.

One on One with the Conservatives

I chose to visit the college republican’s weekly meeting on Wednesday, March 28, 2007. The meeting was held in the Warwick Center. The meeting was the perfect option for me because I am neither republican nor democrat. Also the majority of African Americans are democrat; I wanted to see if I would get a feeling of opposition since I would be the odd ball person out. Luckily, for me things turned out to be slightly different. Most of the people in attendance were Caucasian except for two, which was me and another black guy. The events mentioned in the next few paragraphs all occurred about 30 minutes before the official meeting started.

I arrived at the meeting place around 6:30pm. I wanted to be early so I could observe everyone’s actions before the scheduled 7:00pm meeting. When I walked through the door, some of the members welcomed me and offered me pizza which they hoped would attract more guests. The highlight of that meeting was the Student Government Association Presidential campaign, so they figured pizza would be nice to give those who attended. While I was being welcomed, a student posted the American flag on the pin up board which everyone seemed very excited about. After the flag was posted the student wrote the title of the meeting and the order of business for the night on the board.

As I looked around after writing the meeting’s agenda down; I noticed that many of the members had laptops with them. One of the laptops showed the owner’s republican pride on the outside with stickers that read “Proud to Be a Republican.” Finally, after writing the meeting’s agenda down, I decided that it would be a good idea to introduce myself, since no one had bothered to ask my name or introduce themselves to me. The conversation went as follows.

“Hello, my name is Victoria Mitchell.”

“Oh, my name is Beth Braxton and I am the President.”

“Who are the people beside you?”

“To my left is Catherine, she is a vice-president and to my right is Drew who is also a vice-president.”

“Ok, well it’s nice to me you’ all.”

After the introduction I decided to look over the meeting’s agenda. The agenda included the pledge of allegiance, executive reports, new business, SGA debate, announcements, and adjournment. Everyone in attendance seemed to be very anxious about the SGA debate. One member even brought her ranch dressing with her for the pizza which made some people laugh. The president proceeded by asking all the members for their personal information, so that everyone could receive their state level membership credentials.

By this time it was 7:00 pm and time for the meeting to start. The vice-president decided that they should wait a few minutes for the late comers. So, the meeting officially started at 7:06 pm. The president asked anyone if they had any funny stories to tell while we waited for the first candidate to arrive. No one had anything to say so; the president decided to tell one of her on, and she also decided to tell everyone that there would be no debate, only campaigning because of time conflictions with the candidates. The president told her story about a car accident that she was in. She said the other person hit her in the back and admitted to the police that she was in the wrong. Then after the fact, the lady’s insurance turned around and filed a claim against her.

Shortly, after she told her story the first candidate arrived. The president and everyone in attendance seemed to really like this candidate because she was conservative and they shared similar views. Her name was Morgan Wyand and her slogan was “Why, Wyand, and Why not?” During her platform Megan thought it was important to mention that she had worked closely with the current president Katie Gurgainus and the state board of governors. Some of the issues she talked about working on were making the student safe ride more available and increasing school spirit. The student safe ride program is designed for students to get discounted fares on cab rides. She was most passionate about school spirit. She pointed out how the chancellor has a ton of grant money and that she uses it on the ambassadors instead of decorating the campus in more teal. She also mentioned how when she visited a school in Texas everything at the school was in the school colors including the dry-erase instruction boards in classrooms. She felt that UNCW students, faculty, and staff would have more spirit if they saw more teal throughout the whole campus. After her platform the meeting officers held a question and answer session. There weren’t many questions asked because Ms. Wyand was very detailed in her platform.

Soon after Ms.Wyand left the next candidate arrived. Her name was Meghan Jelly. Ms. Jelly presented her platform but it was very vague. She mentioned that she had served on SGA for the last three years. She was interested in working on the current parking situation and building more environment friendly academic and housing buildings. Her platform was very short. During her question and answer session I asked if she could be more specific about the issues that concerned her. She still didn’t have much to say. After Ms. Jelly left one member mentioned how she wanted to ask Ms. Jelly about the recent change in her facebook profile. She said that on facebook for a long time Ms. Jelly listed her political view as liberal and then around election time she changed it to moderate. I think if she had addressed that situation, a mini battle would have in sued and there would be more to this story.

After both candidates had spoken and left, the members voiced their opinion on each. It was clear that because of their beliefs many had chosen to agree with Morgan Wyand. In opposition to Meghan the members complained that she was very vague and non specific. After the members voiced their opinions, the meeting was adjourned at 8:03 pm. I can honestly say that my experience went much more different than what I had expected. I didn’t expect everyone to be as open about things as they were and I really didn’t expect them to welcome me in the manner that they did. I thought that maybe some of them would be real snobbish and stuck up, but were absolutely the opposite. At the end of the night, I can say that I really enjoyed my experience. I encourage others to take a chance at unusual situations sometimes because you maybe in shock with the outcome you receive.

Business Week Woes

Ok, the assignment was to attending a meeting that is out of our normal experience. I'm not sure why I chose to go to a Business Week seminar hosted by the Cameron School of Business, but that's where I found myself early Wednesday morning.

The morning started out promising. I was up and dressed on time, this had been a major concern considering I had to get up at 7 a.m., which is a gamble on my part. I showed up to met my friend, since I am not a business major and have had no reason to locate the school of business much less navigate the hallways, she agreed to play tour-guide. She had to attend the meeting regardless and I'm sure was convinced I would make the meeting memorable. I had inquired about what to wear prior to showing up for the meeting and was assured that dressing up was not necessary – yeah, I won't make that mistake again.

As we sat in the hallway waiting for the doors of room 212 to be unlocked I realized my knowledge that dress clothes were not required was misguided at best and dead wrong at worst. My friend had worn dark jeans, paired with a black jacket that blended well with the individuals who wore dress-casual clothing. Her clothes could even hold their own against the bombardment of suits and vicious high heels that passed in the hall. I, on the other hand, had no such luck. I was wearing jeans (which have seen better days), a pink hoodie (with "Life is Good" written across the front), and my trusty flip-flops (which have also seen better days). While a few individuals did make an appearance in jeans and t-shirts, none could compare to my frayed pink hoodie and orange toenails.

Finally the doors were opened and we were allowed to sit inside. By this time I was tired of making the "men and women in black" speak to me. If you're going to stare at me, as if I have two heads, the least you can do is speak.

We made our way to seats in the back of the room (note - trying to be inconspicuous works better when you're not wearing pink) and we proceeded to listen to a lecture for 50 minutes. I can't tell you what the lecture was about because I didn't understand any of the concepts presented. I suppose you needed to have attended the previous meetings to get the full idea. All I understood was something about risk taking strategies, there are four groups, and (apparently) advising services are not synonymous with consulting services.

To say "I was out of my element," is an understatement. I took several pages worth of notes at this meeting, but still can't make any sense of them. This adventure just confirms my opinion that if I had chosen to major in business I would have flunked out of college. At least I got a free breakfast out of the deal and gleaned some satisfaction from the knowledge my appearance perplexed several individuals - at least for a moment. After all, what type of business major would attend a presentation in flip-flops and a pink hoodie?

The Lily of the Valley

I have found a friend in Jesus,
He’s everything to me,
He’s the fairest
of ten thousand to my soul,
the lily of the valley, in him alone I see
all I need to cleanse and make me fully whole…

Everyone in the church joined in the singing of the hymn “The Lily of the Valley.” While I wondered if God would know that I was not singing when everyone was supposed to, I assured him that he would not want to hear my off-key performance. I was in the congregation of Jennies Branch Baptist Church—the church my sister-in-law and her family belong to. Though I had taken the New Testament as my religion course a year ago, I still have not felt at ease with the idea of going to church—maybe because I was afraid that God would know I am a skeptic.

Jennies Branch is a small community church with a long history. Through my brother-in-law's explaining and after reading through the church’s website, I learned that the church was organized in 1895 and acquired its name from a nearby creek. With the congregation’s support and contributions throughout its 112-year history, Jennies Branch modestly expanded its size while preserving a family-oriented environment.

Passing through a small open foyer, I was immediately attracted to the eight Tiffany-style stained glass windows in the main sanctuary. Each of them told a different story from the Bible with the unique colors and figures—some were harps and doves, and others were angels and books. At the far end of the sanctuary, over the altar, another four stained glass windows formed a large cross. These windows seemed to deflect everything from the outside world so allowed the sanctuary to be immersed in a soft and warm atmosphere from the lightings above.

Church members greeted each other like family—I suppose they are the ultimate family for each other because they are all Christians. The one-hour service started with birthday and anniversary announcements and special prayer requests for many members’ loved ones. A couple brought flowers in memory of their beloved parents, and almost everyone made a donation to support a church member, who was battling cancer. An interesting part of the service was that, after the hymn “The Bond of Love,” everyone walked around the church shaking hands and hugging one another. I did not even leave my seat—many people came to me and my husband to introduce themselves and greet us. I was a bit overwhelmed by the welcome.

After two hymns, one anthem, and one doxology, Rev. Stephens started his sermon--Resurrection Proofs. Pastor Stephens was very knowledgeable about the story of Jesus Christ’s resurrection and its historical evidences—in addition to many other sources, he cited the records of Josephus, a first-century Jewish historian, and the book Who Moved the Stone?, which was written by Frank Morrison, a British journalist and lawyer.

However, I wondered why it was important to prove or emphasize the factuality of the resurrection. Religion is a belief, not a science, so a scientific approach was unnecessary. Why cannot we read the Bible as one of the greatest literatures in history and recognize that Jesus’ teaching contained essential messages to his readers and followers? Whether Jesus was truly resurrected from the dead, in my opinion, should not make much difference in his contribution to the Christian faith and to the development of world religion. Just as I do not believe everything Confucius (a Chinese philosopher) and Mao Zhe Dong (the communist leader and strategist) said or written, I do believe each of them had their own contributions to the Chinese culture and society—some of their teachings or sayings have the insights that were important for us to reflect on.

Though often quoting a statement from a TV commercial (oh yes, I do quote from commercials)—“I don’t even know enough to know that I don’t know,” I do know enough to know that, in this case, I do not really know enough about Christianity. I recognized that four months of study in the New Testament did not make me an expert in Christian religion (probably did not even touch the surface); however, I did realize the reason that many people found a friend in Jesus and his sanctuary—to many:

...He is the lily of the valley,
the bright and Morning Star;
he is the fairest of ten thousand to my soul.

Let's Not be Friends

Millions of people across America are friends of Bill.

“Friends of Bill” are members of Alcoholics Anonymous, Bill being Bill Wilson (co-founder of A.A.). When in a public place if a member sees someone they recognize from an A.A. meeting, they can simply inquire, “Are you a friend of Bill?” and the vow of anonymity is kept in place.

Sunday, March 25, in a large church in Ogden, I didn’t necessarily become a friend of Bill, more like an acquaintance. I attended my first (and last) A.A. meeting, wanting to understand more about those seeking help to fight their addiction.

As I took a seat in silence, I made sure to take a place near people but not too near. Not wanting to be caught as the “outsider” I tried to fit in. Unexpectedly, I did fit in, appearance wise. Much to my surprise men in business suits, women in colorful sundresses, and a few seemingly harmless elders surrounded me. If not for the A.A. poster with the “Serenity Prayer” on it in the front of the room, I could have been at a PTA meeting.

A woman stood up in front of the minuscule audience and gave a welcome. She invited anyone to come up and share whatever was in his or her heart. I began feeling comfortable in my surroundings. I thought to myself: This isn’t so bad; these people are just like me, with a slight problem. I’ll be fine.

Roughly two minutes later, my thoughts were altered.

A woman in a cute Lily Pulitzer sundress somberly walked to the front of the room. She looked about thirty-six, and as she passed I let my mind wander . . . was she married? Did she have children? Has she had an addiction long? Does anyone know she is suffering? When does she . . .

Her lip-glossed mouth began to move and interrupted my thoughts; “I lied to my five-year-old daughter yesterday, again.” I was pulled in.

The beautiful woman explained that how instead of going to her daughter’s recreation soccer game, she stayed home, complaining of a headache. She then downed twelve airplane bottles of Smirnoff vodka and called it a day. She stood vulnerable, full of guilt, and hysterically crying. Pleading with God, the audience, anyone who would listen, for help. She began to walk back to her chair, and then turned, adding, “My Ella scored the winning goal for the Bandits at her game. She apologized to ME for not scoring when I was there to see it. She was sad that she had fun while I sick at home.” And with another burst of hysteria, she slumped into her chair.

I felt my face getting hot, salty tears walked down my sun burnt cheeks. I wanted to embrace the Lily dress woman, help her through her pain. I expected someone beside her to rub her shoulders and tell her it was okay, but as I looked around at the other A.A. members I saw only nodding. Emotionless nodding.

They had all seen this before. This was nothing new to them. It was life.

I immediately felt as if I had a sign taped to my back reading: FAKER. I didn’t have any right being there, casually listening to that woman's painful story. I couldn’t possibly begin comprehend their sadness, nor did I want to. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t sit there and pretend to be hurting, while these people’s hearts were actually being ripped to shreds. I had to leave.

So as I sat in my car trying to calm down I made a decision: Mr. Bill Wilson, I realize your program may help people, but as for me, I cannot, will not, and do not want to be a friend of yours.

Any ink for you, Ma'am?

Anytime I go somewhere new, my stomach turns into a churning ball of anxiety. This includes, but is not limited to: a friend’s place, a restaurant I’ve never been to, a bar, the doctor’s office, a fancy department store, or a tattoo parlor. The nervousness going inside is always worse before I go in than when I walk inside.

The media have done a good job at portraying what I thought was a typical tattoo artist: a tall, heavy-weight man with tattoos from head to toe that only answered by a nickname, like Bubba or Sparky, but never his real name. I was convinced this was what I was going to see when I walked in, and it was almost right, but not really. I introduced myself to Robbie; he seemed like a normal guy beneath the ink that started in his earlobe and continued all the way down to his knuckles. Strangely enough, I couldn’t help but wonder how much more ink was out of sight. For the sake of not feeling like a total geek, I told him I was just “checking things out,” and from there he showed me the art on the walls and made it clear if I had questions, he’d help me.

Easy enough so far; I expected to be pressured into dropping a wad of cash or stared at. I did a decent job of dressing to fit in, although before going in, I really had no real idea of what that’d be. It was warm out, so I opted for a brown skirt and dark shirt, nothing too preppy or girlie, just casual. Confident that I looked like just another kid in the tattoo place, I took to the wall of artwork, but only after I finally got a good look at the inside of the room. Immediately I felt like I’d been dropped into the living room of a hippy with yellow and green walls with purple trim. A strain on the eyes, but the color came as a stark contrast of the image I’d painted for this place – dark, cold, and scary.

The light from the setting sun made it hard for me to focus on the art displays, squinting my eyes I tried desperately to stand in the small shadow that was cast on the floor. In the background was a faint buzzing noise as Robbie continued working on the customer he was with when I walked in. He must have known this guy; there was a lot of chit-chat back and forth as well as some loud, cheerful laughter. I wasn’t ready to turn around and look at what was going on; the thought of the needle turned my stomach. So I kept my nose in the artwork a little longer.

Originally I was only going to stay long enough to get the feel of the place, but as I started flipping through the hanging portfolios of tattoos, I quickly lost track of time and ended up looking at every piece before I realized how long I’d been lingering. There were designs of butterflies, portraits, flowers, spiders, women, men, crosses, skulls, Chinese characters, names, hearts, motorcycles – it was endless and filled with the most vibrant colors I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the samples, I was scared I was going to miss something brilliant and beautiful, and every flip to a new page had something even more fascinating on it than the last.

The buzzing of the needle had become so faint that I hardly noticed it, but I knew if I stayed any longer I might leave with ink I didn’t have before. For several minutes I contemplated telling him I was leaving versus just walking out, and there was one thing that made the latter sound like the best option – the needle. But I had to see it.

Walking up to him, I didn’t want to disturb his concentration. In one hand was what looked like a huge metal syringe hooked up to several pipes, and in the other was a patch of gauze dabbed with fresh blood. In the chair, the guy was reclined with his feet crossed at the ankles, and now that I was closer I could see his other tattoos, so I’m sure he felt right at home in the seat. When Robbie finally looked up from his work, I thanked him for letting me spend some time in the place, and he assured me that anytime I wanted to come back, I would be welcome.

As I walked to my car, I couldn’t help but smile – if I ever do go back, I’d be anxious for a completely different reason.

Defensive Driving for Me

Walking in to what was going to be my fourth class of the day was leading me off to an early sleep. I stopped on the way at Starbucks so that my caramel macchiato might make me forget where I was and what I was doing there. It was 5:45 on a Wednesday afternoon and I was joining the rest of a group that didn’t want to be there. I expected this to be the case and this is why I chose to go there. Among all people who got traffic tickets that wanted them to get dismissed, I was the only person in that room who volunteered themselves to be lectured on driving for four hours.

The official title of the course was: Defensive Driving Course 4. I found out about the class because my roommate Henry had to attend one for a speeding ticket. I just tagged along with him hoping I would come across some interesting information because I have never gotten a traffic ticket and, as a result, had never had to attend a driving course.

Two coordinators of the class sat at a table where we walked in. They asked for our name and payment ($185 by money order) and gave each student a sheet of paper which they filled out with things such as their name, social security and license numbers, and handed everyone a course guide. I explained to them that I was there not because I had a driving offense, but because I was interested in knowing what the course offered. The woman coordinator shot me a confused look and explained to me that since the course costs money, unless I only stayed an hour or so, I would have to pay the $185 like everyone else. I told her that I would only stay for the first hour and would leave during the first break. She nodded her head and watched me as I took my seat in the back of the classroom.

First thing I did while everyone else was busy filling out their paper work was to make observations. We were in a small classroom. If I stood in the middle between the two rows of desks I would see five rows of four desks pushed together into one big, long table on my left, and four rows of two desks pushed together on my right. In front of me was a whiteboard with two diagrams of roads with little yellow and black blocks attached to the Velcro representing cars. To the right of the white board was a fuzzy TV with a VCR on the bottom and to the left of the white board was a large flipchart version of the course guide handed to us as we walked in. It was a standard classroom.

Seven people were in the room when I walked in. Each person sat in their own row of desks and no one looked at anyone else. It was like everyone but I was ashamed to be there. Four of the people looked like they were in their thirties and forties and all had families. There was one other college-aged student besides my roommate who had ignored the “no food or drinks” sign and was nursing her cup of coffee in the back of the room next to me. Another guy looked like he was in his early twenties and drove a big blue pick up truck (I saw it in the parking lot).

Class began right on time by our instructor who closed the door of the classroom, keeping us inside. Our instructor's name was Bobby Schupp, written on the white board ahead of us. He was a short man who wore glasses, probably in his late fifties but was aggressive and assertive when he talked.

“Ok,” he began. “Now I hope that none of you were hoping for a four-hour lecture because that’s not what you are going to get. I like to be interactive with you all. I will call on some of you to give me your personal experiences and others to give me what you think is the right answer. If everyone cooperates and answers my questions in a timely order we will not have to stay the full four hours, sound good, can we all do that?” We answered with an already bored “yes” and he asked us again “Can we all do that?”
“YES,” we answered.

First thing that stuck with me and still does is the one piece of information he told us not to forget.

“If you don’t do anything else I tell you to do in the course, do this. It will save your life one day,” he said. “Whenever you go through an intersection of any kind, traffic light or not, simply take your foot off the gas and let it hover over the brake.” This, as I learned by his personal experience will make one more aware of their surroundings while crossing an intersection so that you can look out for people who are not paying attention. This information didn’t necessarily raise my eyebrows, but it is something very small that I didn’t realize could save my life and that intrigue me.

Another thing I learned is that talking on your cell phone while you are driving is impaired driving. Though it is not illegal in North Carolina, talking on your phone is the same as having a .08 BAC level. Also, I didn’t know this but, New Hanover County is the smallest county in North Carolina and has the highest accident rate of any other county. That didn’t really surprise me too much; I’ve been driving in New Hanover County for three years.

I left at 7 p.m. at the first of the ten-minute breaks, as I was asked to. I was glad that I was able to leave, but I think half the fun was knowing everyone else I was looking at was only a third of the way done. I would have absolutely, without a question, never have gone to this class on my own, but in a way I’m glad that I did. It was an experience for me and it taught me some stuff I didn’t know, which is always good. I was also glad that my macchiato was still warm and waiting for me in the car. Hopefully, all that caffeine won’t make me want to speed on the way home.

An Unwanted Glimpse of Tomorrow

I'm in a crowded room. The air isn't stifling, but it does have an odor I'm not familiar with. I see wheelchairs, some electric, some not. I see walkers and canes. I even see strollers. All of these items are typical sights of an MS meeting. I'd never been to one before, but I knew the day was coming when I could no longer avoid them. I was always afraid of these meetings. Once a family has seen what a loved one may have in store as their MS progresses, it is a sight you can never forget. The varying ways in human transportation was just some of the equipment individuals needed to get around. The strollers belonged to the support systems of some of the people suffering from MS.

It was awe-inspiring to see husbands, daughters, sons, and grandchildren there to support their particularly disease-afflicted loved one. I had never been to one of these big meetings before, mostly because I don't like big crowds of sick people. But more to the point, I don't acknowledge that my mother is sick. We've been aware of her condition for ten years now. She’s been on Avonex, which is just one of the drugs used to treat MS, for all ten years.

Ever since she's learned of the disease and of these meetings, she has made numerous attempts at attending one—and for many times before now, I was successful in talking her out of going.

I never wanted her to attend one single meeting, simply because I never wanted her to see what may be a potential existence for her. I mean, what would you do if you saw people who were ranging from 25 to 54 using wheel-chairs, canes, walkers, or in one man's case, a computer to speak for them? This is a depressing sight to finally behold. It’s similar to a full-of-life older family member being put into a rest home, and after six months they can barely bring themselves to get out of bed when you come for a visit.

The specialists and doctors that spoke were very encouraging, and were very crowd pleasing. And when I say crowd pleasing, I mean that they didn’t add to anyone’s burdens by announcing drug recalls, bad side affects of current drugs, or anything negative you would expect before attending the meeting. Yet, the greatest inspiration I took from this meeting was that my mother stayed unchanged by what she had seen. I had the greatest fear that an event like this would take the life right out of her. I ‘m glad I was wrong about these meetings. Even though I’m not making any plans to attend another.

The Ultimate Drive

Ever driven a BMW? I hadn't until this weekend. It was The BMW Ultimate Drive in our own Wilmington, North Carolina. The Ultimate Drive is a program to raise money to give to the Susan G. Komen Foundation. I'd never been to anything like it before, nor has my family been affected by breast cancer.

One of the first things I noticed was that I felt a little out of place with my t-shirt and my jeans in the sea of khaki and polo shirts. Especially when I saw the set up inside Shaffer – white linen table cloths, etc. I was nervous – they’re going to let me drive one of their cars? These start at $40,000.

The majority of the people there didn't seem to be nervous though, many of them looked completely nonchalant about the whole thing. One man seemed less like he was there to raise money for Breast Cancer and more like he was looking for a way to test drive a BMW without the pressure of a salesman -- not that I blame him.

People were there to make lists to facilitate the process of getting people in cars in some kind of order and showing them a route to take. At first seemed like it would be like waiting for a table at a busy restaurant, but it turned out to be very different. People mixed and mingled and showed no impatience, which was helped by the fact that there was plenty of food, drink and beautiful weather.

The fund raiser works by driving the cars, therefore people come to drive the cars. BMW has a special set of cars for this program. They are all silver with a few solid pink squares on them and "The Ultimate Drive" written on the side of them. Because of this, they are easy to pick out going down I-40. It seemed that the police knew what was going on and had decidely made them selves scarce, as pulling over one of these cars would probably look bad. And people took full advantage of this. These cars were flying, several managing to hit triple digits.

When you come back from driving a car, you get to sign a car they had set up on the inside of the building. The car will eventually end up in a museum somewhere, probably with ten or eleven others -- one for each year that BMW has done this. You can see the happiness on people's faces. They feel good. And why shouldn't they? It's a fun experience and they feel they are helping to support a good cause.

There is really only one quote that stuck out to me and unfortunately it is not what I consider a positive. BMW had one of their wagons avaible to drive amongst the Z4's and the 328i convertibles. I heard one girl remark to a group standing around that, "They [the facilitators] asked if I wanted to drive the wagon and I laughed at them." I was surprised that someone would scorn driving the car while she wanted on another simply because it was a wagon especially since BMW donates money by the mile. I don't think however that this was the general feeling of those who came because I'm sure I heard some one else say, "I wouldn't laugh at them. It's for breast cancer."

Who Is This Monster?

This semester I am in a World Literature class. We have read novels, poems, and short stories written all over the world in different languages that have been translated into English. My favorite reading so far is Jean Racine's famous play Phaedra. Hippolytus, a main character, is killed by a sea-monster at the end of the play. An idea brought up in my class discussion was that maybe the "sea monster" is actually personifying another character. This essay explores the possibilities of who, or what, that monster could be.

A story of passionate and forbidden love, Jean Racine’s Phaedra follows the dramatic demise of a queen, Phaedra. The prohibited love of the queen, Hippolytus (Phaedra's step-son), suffers an enormous fate: drowning and being eaten by a sea monster at his father, Thesus', will.

After the death of Hippolytus, Racine's lines of poetry read:
"before our eyes a raging monster on the shore." I have decided to dive deeper into the idea of “a monster.” This sea-monster could in fact just be a serpent, but I feel it is symbolic of something larger, a different kind of monster.

In one sense Theseus, Hippolutus' father, can be the monster. He is the ultimate picture of a womanizer, using and abusing women along every shore. He is quick to judge and finds it hard to forgive. He has taken Aricia, the love of his dead son, as a prisoner and treats her like a lowly slave girl, when she is the true royalty throughout the play. Not only does Theseus use women and see them as disposable objects, he also has a quick temper. He immediately banishes his son from his kingdom by believing he is in love with his wife. He takes the servant Oenone’s word over his own son’s when Hippolytus tries to explain that he has absolutely no love in his heart for Phaedra. The final way that we can view Theseus as a monster is that he is ferocious in battle. Having slain thousands of fellow warriors and vicious beasts, Theseus can be seen as a villainous monster. It is quite easy to picture Theseus as a monster, because from what we see of him in the play, he becomes not human, more of something to be feared.

Phaedra, the fair queen, can also be seen as the monster, not necessarily to the other characters, but to herself. It appears Phaedra is her own worst enemy. Constantly torturing herself by reliving the thoughts and feelings of falling in love with her stepson make her suicidal. She becomes a monster, destroying herself over emotions that cannot be helped.

The final trait that can be considered “the monster” is not a character at all, but a reoccurring theme throughout the play. Guilt seems to be the most logical characteristic to be named “the monster.” Each character in the story carries sufficient weight on his or her shoulders, constantly worrying about the secrets they know and the harm they have caused others. Phaedra’s guilty conscience will not allow her any rest. Theseus’ guilt over causing his son’s death leads him to take Aricia, his once hated enemy, as his heir. The servant Oenone’s guilt of lying to the king and feeling as if she had a hand in the death of her dear friend Phaedra, leads to her own demise. Aricia feels guilty about running away with Hippolytus before they are married, so she chooses to stay captive.


This classic play is one of many that leaves the reader to make their own conclusions. Some may think Jean Racine wrote his play without a concrete definition of "the monster" to instill imagination in his readers; and many readers have found it is working.