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.

What Is The Norm?

Searching to find and express ones self is a continual process for individuals of society. Aspects through which individuals, particularly youth, express and identify themselves vary tremendously if one were to compare British and American perspectives. Comparison by extreme locations is not necessary to understand that young British people express his/her beliefs, values, and views through dress, language, music, clothing, and habits just as Americans would. They do so in a multitude of ways, some of which have a history of being categorized within sub-cultures of society and considered a norm.

Wearing popular clothing and accessories, is physical evidence that an individual wants to fit in and conform to what seems to be the norm. Currently, the norm of young British females consists of worn-out-styled jeans, boots that they tuck their jeans in, shirts that pass the waste in length, multi-layers, headbands, bangle bracelets, chunky jewelry, and stripped and polka-dotted patterns. It would be normal to see a girl walking around wearing all those things together. Sounds tacky but is actually the trend. Track shoes, faded jeans, and t-shirts that look as if they’d fit a 10 year old are typical attire for British men.

The norm in which most individuals express themselves is always changing because new trends are always evolving. In contrast of fitting into this norm, some may dress a certain way to differentiate themselves from those around them to avoid the norm. The Bohimes, a British sub-culture, are those who wear whatever they choose and are considered non-conformists of the highest order. Such breaking of norms was considered socially deviant, a social crime of society, in the 1970s of England. According to Hebdige, this "crime" of refusal and revolt was committed through style (both material and musical in the case of punks) as a weapon of choice, hence elevating crime into art. What these individuals don’t realize is they are the ones who are setting the standards, trends, and fads for the future because they refuse to conform to such norms of style.

Style in subcultures is then considered pregnant with significance. Its transformations go ‘against nature’ and interrupt the process of ‘normalization’. They are movements towards a speech which offends the ‘silent majority’ and challenges the principle of unity and cohesion. Whether or not youthful individuals are dressing to conform to or stand apart from the norm of society, they are doing so in order to express who they are as an individual.

During the time of “Beatlmania” that started in Liverpool and eventually spread all over the world in an amazing phenomenon obsession, one can look at the British youth of that time and see how their passion for Beatles influenced their style and actions.

Youth are constantly sending out some sort of communication whether they are doing so in a subconscious state or not, to those surrounding them. This is a way to identify oneself through various aspects of society whether it’s through physical approaches of materialistic things or emotional approaches through the expression of views, beliefs, and language. All that has taken place in previous generations and all that is influenced in today’s generations will continue to impact society and the norms which we must choose to conform or avoid.

Find Your Escape

Americans living in busy cities are caught in a vicious lifestyle filled with sleep deprived nights, fast food, stressful work schedules, and a lack of exercise leading to dangerous health issues and a depreciation for the human life. The dollar doesn’t go as far as it used to and for many American’s, the typical 9-5 workday is a thing of the past.
Fire ants crawl into the night as they line both sides of the highway during rush hour. Men and women retire from their jobs shortly after the sun sets to complete a day’s work. The honking of horns by aggressive drivers drowns out the fuzzy radio station that speaks of war and terror. People who live in the cities that make up the Triangle in central North Carolina know just what it is like to live this type of lifestyle. The community is overcrowded with busybody struggling to get ahead in the fast-paced, money-driven culture. Fast cars, fancy restaurants and electronics glued to their ears, are a common scene in a late afternoon smog filled drive through the suburbs of Raleigh, in the surrounding towns of Cary and Morrisville. For many, this is a busy yet comfortable lifestyle that allows people to fulfill their personal needs of success, fortune, and progress.

This fast-paced, stressful lifestyle is killing the hard workers of America. A demanding work schedule and activity filled lifestyle leads to an unhealthy dose of stress, high blood pressure and strain on the heart. People are spending more time in the office or on the go and less time in the gym, outdoors and cooking healthy meals in their kitchens. Downtime is spent sprawled out on the sofa in front of the television because these individuals are too mentally exhausted to engage in physical activity. It is important to not lose sight of the important things in life. These "Busy Backsons" must find their escape from their demanding lifestyles so their bodies do not become overworked. There are many of places in the world that offer such a slower paced lifestyle filled with healthier, happier citizens.

In a place far away from all of the hustle and bustle lies a quiet tropical village where everyone knows each other by their first name. A warm breeze flows through the palm trees year round as many of the natives support their living by working outside. Relaxation is a virtue and progress takes a back seat to activities of leisure. The Aloha spirit runs deep in the souls of individuals living in the southern region of Maui. Lahaina is a small town that overlooks a clear shallow water harbor. In the hours just before dusk, the sun peers through the waves crashing on the breakwall just behind the village park. The surfers with their cinnamon colored skin compete with the inevitable sunset for that last perfect ride of the day. Spinner dolphins often cruise the bow of the fishing charters as they make their way to the open ocean. Tourists equipped with their pricey cameras and sunblock gaze in awe as they cruise the shops of the boardwalk. The natives can spot a “haole” or American from a mile away. They are like lost sheep wandering aimlessly around with their pale white skin and overgrown bellies. These people, who are the products of the "Busy Backson" American society, are very important economical assets to the small villages and towns throughout the island of Maui, but would certainly be lost in this slower paced lifestyle without their fast cars, busy schedules and expensive boutiques.

People have always managed to adapt to their surroundings and the lifestyles that govern their society. However, the city life is becoming a dangerous place for these multi-tasking workers. They key to finding success and happiness is to find an escape from the “Busy Backson” society; a place where everything moves at a slower pace and the mind, body and soul can unwind.

*"Busy Backson" - see "The Tao of Pooh" by Benjamin Hoff

Orton Hotel

I'm not a fan of history class at all, but I love historic places - places filled with many stories that may or may not be true. I wrote this last semester for a feature article assignment. I conducted a brief interview with the owner of this establishment, and he requested that when I was done I send him a copy. I have yet to do this and have chosen to use this assignment as a way to get one last bit of feedback before I send it his way.

Traveling down Front Street back in 1888, pedestrians would hear the clogging and clanging of horse-drawn buggies on the cobblestone streets. Upon arriving at 131 North Front Street, one would be looking at the extravagant and luxurious Orton Hotel.

The only thing one hears now on those same cobblestone streets is the roaring of cars, but unfortunately one will not stumble upon the Orton Hotel, maybe only a few guests who never checked out; the ghosts left hanging around.

The Orton was built in 1888 by Mr. K.M. Murchinson and contained 100 guest rooms. One of the great amenities of this hotel was the private toilets and baths, then a rarity. The hotel also served up other modern conveniences such as telephones, a newspaper stand, spacious parlors, a barbershop, as well as a billiard room and bar room, both of which still exist at that location today.

The hotel was lost in 1949 due to a fire. In addition to the structure, a few hotel guests and employees were lost as well. The only thing to survive the fire was the billiard and bar room, the barbershop, and part of the first floor.

What now stands in the Orton Hotel’s place is Fat Tony’s Italian Pub, and in the original basement, Orton’s Pool Hall and General Longstreet's Irish Pub, all owned and operated by Rich Anderson.

Orton’s Pool Hall houses three of the original pool tables that were installed in the 1940s, one of which is known for being an accessory to Willie Mosconi, who is famous for setting the world record in 1953 for the most pool balls consecutively sank by one person. Orton’s also has the name of “America’s oldest Pool Room.”

There are a few ghosts that are believed to still inhabit this facility. Some believe that there are three ghosts that haunt the remains of the Orton: a sailor, the sailor’s prostitute, and a piano man. According to local legend, each of the ghosts has their own areas where they like to hang out.

The sailor, whose name is William, was a frequent visitor to the hotel. Every time he was in the port he stayed at the Orton. This particular time he signed in under an alias name since a prostitute accompanied him. William is said to haunt the area towards the back of the poolroom near the dartboards. He has been said to strike up conversation with the females, but upon the return of the girl to point him out to friends, he would have disappeared.

Some have claimed to see the apparitions of a female near the front pool table and the jukebox. This female is thought to be the prostitute that was accompanying William to the hotel. According to Paul Blackmore, Orton’s and Longstreet’s bartender, when closing up one night the pages on the jukebox began flipping back and forth on their own. One might say that it could be the prostitute. Both William and the prostitute perished in the hotel fire.

The other ghost is said to be that of the piano man. The piano man played for guests of the hotel and also perished in the hotel. He, supposedly, would step out the back door to smoke cigarettes and some say they have seen him leaning in the doorway with his cigarette.

Longstreet's Irish Pub does not seem to have any one ghost that haunts it but is said to have an evil presence. The dimly lit bar with its dark wood furniture and shadows dancing on stonewalls help create the feeling of a ghostly charisma.

Longstreet's used to be the barbershop located in the Orton. Owner Rich Anderson says that he has two of the original shop chairs, but does not currently have them on display because of the much-needed work to restore them.

Upstairs at Fat Tony’s, one of the hanging lights above the bar sways back and forth frequently. Most of the bartenders and familiar patrons claim that it is William swinging on it. A heating and cooling vent blows directly on the lamp, but the story is a fun one to believe.

All three of the bars are stops on the Haunted Pub Crawl. The tour guide tells its guests of the Orton’s history and those who have remained “guests.” In celebration of the fame received for its ghosts, the three bars offer a “Haunted Pub Brew.”

If you are up for some ghost hunting, post up in one of the three bars with a pint of this eerie brew and see for yourself. Oh, and don’t forget to say hi to William.

Yo Girl, What's Your Myspace URL?

Today, it is more common to exchange website addresses than phone numbers. Meeting people has been revolutionized by the advent of online networking websites. Internet sites like Myspace, Facebook, and Friendster have become commonplace for anyone to join and become an active member. It is almost more uncommon for younger people to not have an online profile. But has this surge in online networking done away with good, old fashioned face-to-face talks?

Myspace, an online networking service, allows all types of people to come together and meet, without actually ever meeting. Members of the website browse through millions of profiles, or search for someone specific they know. They are then allowed to add these people as "friends," which enables them to communicate and send messages to one another, a great way to keep in contact with old friends or meet new ones.

Bands have their own section of the website that allows them to not only add friends but to post bulletins about up coming shows and promotions for their music. These band profiles also allow them to post songs, so that their friends can log on and listen. The website has given opportunity to a multitude of bands that normally would have had a much harder time garnering attention for themselves by actually getting out on the road and touring.

So what's the big deal?

For starters, communication through the internet completely removes the excitement from our lives. Kids don't go out to meet people at school basketball games or movies anymore. Individuals are becoming sorely deficient in their people skills due to lack of practice with face-to-face contact, or an actual conversation with someone. Teenagers would rather give and receive impersonal messages on the internet than have a heart-to-heart on the phone.

The dating scene has become a joke. Try meeting someone outside of the internet; it's a lot harder than it used to be. Remember the old cliche of walks on the beach? Well, the beaches are empty because everyone is glued to their computers, accepting the hundreds of friend requests that they get each day.

Humans, by nature, are social creatures. To deny ourselves the basic right of communication is ridiculous. No one will ever get to see facial expressions, or hear reactions about what was said if the internet keeps up. No one can deny that online websites have changed the way we live our lives. But has it changed our lives for the better?

Myspace is a hundred-million-dollar business. Other online websites are worth practically as much as well. They are funded directly by the number of users they get to visit their sites. This heavy traffic on their web domains allows for companies to advertise their products, as a way to influence and promote. If the entire world got off these networking sites for one day, several hundred businesses would lose money. But the chances of meeting a real-live friend would rise dramatically.

How Did Fast-Food Restaurant Succeed in China?

As people travel in the Chinese metropolitans today, they can easily sense the modern pulse of this ancient country. Many of the automobiles on the streets are Buicks, VWs, or Mitsubishis; the billboards promote the products of Estee Lauder and DKNY; neon lights reveal the locations of Starbucks, TCBY, and Baskin-Robbins. Of course, the biggest billboard and the brightest neon light are the fast-food restaurants: KFC, McDonald’s, and Pizza Hut.

As the first western-style fast food to land in China, Kentucky Fried Chicken opened its first restaurant in Beijing on November 12, 1987. When McDonald’s opened in 1992, the record of “attracting 40,000 customers on its first day” made headlines around the world. As of 2005, Pizza Hut has nearly 200 restaurants in more than 50 cities—included almost all the provincial capitals and large cities in China.

So how did fast-food restaurants reach such success in a country that “exported” thousands of its Chinese restaurants? Why are Chinese people so much in love with these notorious “junk foods?”

The obvious reason was perfect timing. Kentucky Fried Chicken entered China in the late 80s, when the country opened its “curtain” and decided to pursue economic success. Life quickly changed from a black and white, slow-motion film into a new and exciting colored movie. People started to earn more money, all at once calling for a faster lifestyle. The new generations experienced most of these changes: they roamed in the modern department stores, tried on the latest fashion styles, and learned about the “novel” concept of nightlife; simultaneously, they looked for different tastes to replace the traditional dishes they had grown up with. However, before the Colonel brought his fried chicken, western-style food had been a luxury for the privileged, or the westerners who stayed in the fancy hotels. When it appeared in China in 1987 therefore, KFC quickly became the western-style restaurant that was affordable for the middle-class Chinese.

Living with the Colonel’s chicken for less than three years, the Chinese became familiar with this new style of food and service. In fact, they embraced the variety of fast “junk” foods—hamburgers, pizza, and tacos. Though they might not know the exact meaning of Pizza Hut, or that KFC stands for Kentucky Fried Chicken, children in China learned quickly that fast foods were the alternatives when their parents did not have time to cook dinners.

Another reason for the successes of fast food restaurants was its dining environment. Unlike most traditional restaurants in China that only open during the lunch- and dinner-time, most fast-food restaurants had an open-door policy during the day. These restaurants were decorated in bright colors with clean settings, and often located close to the shopping districts, thus providing a relaxing environment for their customers who needed a place to rest and snack after a day of shopping, or for young people who needed a place to get together.

Of course, the uniformity of the menus was yet another important reason for fast food restaurants to be successful in China. As the economy grew, travel around the country became increasingly necessary, whether for business or for leisure needs. However, in most traditional restaurants, the types of dish would be provided were a guessing game for anyone who was unfamiliar with the areas. Walking down the streets in any cities, visitors were often hesitant about the various restaurants. A fast food restaurant, on the other hand, gave the promise of exactly the same food at any locations—this familiarity provided an apparent reason for most travelers to catch a quick meal in these restaurants.

The western marketing ideas and management styles certainly played additional roles in the success of these fast food restaurants. First, consistent quality and a friendly service were the noticeable result of the business management. In addition, the easy-repeating commercial songs, often-changing side dishes, the new concept of in-store birthday party, and well-equipped playground for children were successful marketing strategies that also paved the way for the successes of the fast food restaurants.

All of these elements provided reasons for customers of all ages to embrace this new food trend in China. As the country provides a market with billions of consumers, American fast food industry took their opportunities, expanded their Chinese divisions, and brought in billions dollar in revenues. However, the social impact of this new style of food, and more importantly the impact on its national health, should be discussed very soon, so China can still prevent this new and unhealthy eating trend to slow down the ancient country’s strong pulse.

Making Every Brush Stroke Count

For my internship at Wilma Magazine, I was asked to interview an artist and write an article summarizing her and what she does. I thought the article would fit perfectly with this assignment since it is one of the first interview articles I have written, and it is actually my first publication. You can see this article in the March issue of Wilma.

Before meeting Dixon Stetler, I looked up some background information on her so I that it seemed more like I had prepared for the interview. I became even more excited to meet her when I learned that her artwork is like nothing I had seen done before.

Dixon Stetler describes herself as a sculptor, but her work defies traditional classification. The artist frequently employs basketry techniques in her constructions, and her medium of choice consists of found objects. Together these two elements form the nucleus of Stetler's individual style.

"I'm inspired by material," Stetler says, adding that she finds much of her material in dumpsters. Discarded items such as cables, wires, garden hoses and electrical cords have weaved their way into many of her recent works, which are distinctively colorful as a result. Many of her pieces are turned into lamps or made into over head lighting decorations. Although some of her works are displayed as sculptures.

A graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Stetler majored in art history and began her artistic career weaving traditional baskets. She started experimenting with found materials because - by her own admission - she was too cheap to keep buying the supplies.

"The colors were better and the material was more fun to work with, so I stuck with it," Stetler says. She told me that weaving things from cable wires has its difficulties, but admits that not matter how much extra time it takes her, she is always more satisfied with what comes out.

Until four years ago, Stetler has considered her art only to be a hobby. At that time, she became founder and co-owner of the Independent Art Company, where she set up her first studio. Stetler's long-term boyfriend, Dan Brawley, is the other co-owner of Independent Art Company and sometimes contributes to her works.

Her studio is one of about seven in the building. It is the only studio set up outside. She uses a shed in the fenced in area next to the building as a workshop. Her work has been shown in a variety of venues including the Louise Wells Cameron Museum or Art and Bottega Art and Wine.

She currently is working on two projects that are influenced by her feminist perspective. A series of dolls will portray various ideals of beauty throughout the world. She is also creating a sculpture of ovaries using found materials which looked very abstract and pleasing to the eye.

A native of Hilton Head, South Carolina, Stetler moved to Wilmington in 2002 and now plays an active role in the community. She works as a counselor for Planned Parenthood and is a member of the board of directors of the Wilmington Children's Museum. Stetler also serves as national bureau chief for Cucalorus film festival.

The artist recently discovered a new calling after witnessing the birth of a friend's son. "I was immediately hooked on birthin' them babies," Stetler says. "And decided to become a doula."

How'd we get here?

The story of Noah and the Ark is one many children can recite forwards and backwards, upside down or sideways. It’s likely they’ll never doubt the story, nor any of the other stories found in the Bible, including the tale in Genesis about our creation. No one has concrete proof that the stories throughout actually happened the way they did. Perhaps Noah and the Ark was a parable, a fairy tale of sorts, to teach people then and now some lesson. Maybe the creation story is mythical to a degree; God’s day certainly wasn’t the 24 hour period that we have come to know. No matter if it really happened word for word or if the stories are made up with a lesson behind them, it is faith that leads people to believe that what’s written in the Bible is there for a reason. However, faith shouldn’t be a factor in disregarding the theory of evolution. Some religious figures discourage the Big Bang Theory when discussing the creation, but should evolution be completely ruled out as a key part of our existence?

Darwin had a great idea about the existence of life. The changes make sense – on a small scale. Bird beaks that change over the years or fish whose ‘arms’ become fins makes a lot of sense. It happens when the area around an animal changes: either they adapt or die. A bird that isn’t able to eat because his beak is too short finds other ways. This ability to adjust and adapt may not be so mysterious after all, but instead the work of a creator.

It is written in the Bible that God made all living things. That’s a lot of things to create considering the number of species of just one kind of animal. Did God’s hand create the 300 or more known species of spiders? Probably not. Did he create the spider? That makes more sense. It was his crafting of the spider that allowed it to evolve. If God was able to create the world or to know how many hairs are on a person’s head, it’s reasonable to believe God knew there would be a need for adapting.

However, it’s really hard to understand how humans might have evolve from an ape. It could be that when humans were first created they did not have the mentality they do now. As the human brain continues to develop, humans continue to evolve. Twenty years ago who would have thought of having a DVD player in a car? Two hundred years ago who would have thought of even driving a car? At one time, we weren’t able to create such luxurious, but through the expansion of our minds it’s gone from being a fantasy to reality.

Everything that we as humans are capable of, as well as animals, plants, and bacteria, are part of a plan. How could bacteria grow, multiply or mutate without something greater in its structure? For humans and animals to have such complex body parts that depend on each other, wasn’t an accident. Our organs were carefully thought through and strategically placed, which seems unlikely to have occurred from a big bang. The world had to come from somewhere. The Big Bang theory suggests the Earth was spun into orbit after a collision in space. Maybe that is how our planet was created, but it doesn’t answer any of the questions about how living beings were put here.

Life is beautiful, the earth is beautiful. Everything we see on a daily bases is part of a cycle that has been here for millions of years but what happened before we were part of the plan is still unknown. The earth as we know it today won’t be the same for the next several generations. Regardless of the origins of life, it is ever evolving and should be embraced by everyone, including those with strong faith in the Bible.

A Look at Sweet Tea, Fried Chicken & Lazy Dogs

In today's fast paced, technology oriented society it is rare to find people who enjoy living in small towns. Bill Thompson is one of these rare individuals who lives in a small town named Hallsboro, in Columbus County.

Thompson has recently published a book entitled "Sweet Tea, Fried Chicken and Lazy Dogs." Throughout this book Thompson shares his experiences and takes his readers on a journey through a small country town.

Thompson begins his book by thanking the individuals who influenced his writing. Thompson uses this section to introduce the reader to some key individuals in the county. The reader, of course, does not know these individuals and is not expected to, but it helps cue the reader into the idea of small town relationships.

Moving on, Thompson gives the reader an explanation of his desire to write a book. He clearly states this book is not meant to be autobiographical, but it does contain personal stories. Thompson clearly identifies himself as "a good ol' boy." His definition of this term clearly outlines preexisting stereotypes and dispels them with the positive image of "a good friend who doesn't care much for some of the constrictions of polite society." Thompson also states the stories contained within his book are not meant to be life changing, but should be enjoyable and relatable for those who have lived in similar towns. Thompson's goal is to introduce the reader to the inside life of a small town creating a metaphorical bond between the big city and the little town.

The topics located within these pages cover a variety of interest and experiences. Many of the stories are amusing, such as In Defense of Chickens, The Carolina Yard Dog, or Mr. Fix It. Some of the stories cause serious thought and even a little sadness, as in The Pink Rocking Chair, or The Family Farm. Most of the stories are just honest examples of the simple beauty that can be found in small towns and its citizens.

The credibility of Thompson's stories is enhanced by the fact that he has lived and traveled outside of North Carolina and still finds the small communities comforting and worth writing about. Thompson has spent over 20 years of his life writing for North Carolina newspapers (including The News Reporter, located in Whiteville, a few miles outside of Hallsboro). Thompson has also written the "Front Porch" column for Our State magazine for many years.

Thompson uses his collection of essays to escort readers through his small town and some of the characters that reside there. While there are no essays entitled Sweet Tea, Fried Chicken & Lazy Dogs, Thompson does address each aspect of the title (in a subtle way) to ensure you actually read the book to understand the title. Thompson uses this great collection to convey his love for North Carolina and the benefits of small town living advocating the idea that "when we are so close to people and things, we can't appreciate what is there."