The New Critic

T.S. Eliot said, “…criticism is as inevitable as breathing.” For me, this is very true.

Over the course of my four years at this university, I have become enthralled in literary theory. It sounds like an odd thing to be passionate about, but its history and future are fascinating. As Dr. Noland so lovingly commented, I am a “theory dork”.

In my reading and research, I come across so much information about the New Criticism. I understand its difficulties in interpretation and application, but I believe it to be a valuable part of how and why we read.

During the post war years, America underwent many cultural changes. Eliot, Pound and other modernist writers introduced new ways of writing to America’s literary community. As a result, new ways of interpreting literature followed.

The New Criticism demanded a new learning and teaching of literature in schools. John Crowe Ransom, an Agrarian from Tennessee, expressed his opposition to the industrialization and capitalism that was spreading across the country. His main objective was to preserve an agrarian way of life and remain loyal to tradition. Ransom’s theories of society were paralleled in his views of literature. In his proposing theories, Ransom has voiced his dissent regarding the education of literature. In a sense, he believed the social and cultural changes in America were reinforcing the idea of literature as a history, rather than an art.

Ransom’s critical essays brought on not only a new way of reading, but a new way of teaching literature. We may credit Ransom with today’s collegiate English curriculum. The American Modernists broadened the texts that became, and will become, included in the literary canon.

Pioneering ideas like these have allowed students (in all levels of education) to be exposed to texts from around the world and authors from many different backgrounds. The establishment of New Criticism, led to the many literary perspectives we study today—by default. The rejection of New Criticism and its entirely objective interpretation of a text allowed more inclusive and subjective perspectives to be formed.

Without New Criticism we would still be studying the stuffy prose of Romantics and Victorian literature. Without New Criticism we would be studying texts as historical markers instead of appreciating the art and style of writing. Without New Criticism I would have little to be passionate about.

Disturbing Supreme Court Ruling

The United State Supreme Court made a huge decision regarding women’s rights on April 18, 2007. Over shadowed by media coverage of the tragedy at Virginia Technical University, the court ruled to uphold a ban on late term abortions.

The type of abortion that has been banned rarely occurs. It is performed in the second trimester and used to ensure the well-being of the pregnant woman. The research behind these facts is up for debate—statistics vary depending on sources.

The most disturbing part of this ruling, there is no exception clause regarding the health of the woman. This means, in the event that the woman’s health is in danger as a result of pregnancy, it is illegal for her to decide to terminate the pregnancy.

The vote was 5-4, in favor of the ban. For the most recently appointed justices, Alito and Roberts, this was the first opportunity they had to exercise their conservative views in the court.

This decision is disturbing; along with the lack of publicity it has received.

The media will over-glorify a killer, but refrain from informing the public about legislation that affects us all. They will plaster the face of a deranged murderer all over televisions, newspapers and magazines, and, I assume, not report on abortion legislature because the subject matter is ‘too touchy’. The media should have more respect for its audience than to desensitize us to violence rather than leave us unknowledgeable about federal court rulings.

And now my dispute with the ruling itself.

This presidency has proved its motives questionable. The presidency has impressed its morals on the federal judicial system with the appointment of justices Alito and Roberts. This ruling is the first round of assaults on women’s rights for two reasons.

First, it is the first decision to exclude a clause for women’s health. If a woman is denied the right to save her own life, in this instance regarding her own pregnancy and its complications, what rights does she have? It is appalling that a woman’s right to choose, not only abortion but her future well-being, has been put on the back burner. This decision puts women further in a second-class rating.

Secondly, this decision may be the first step in reconsidering a woman’s right to a safe abortion, established by the case of Roe vs. Wade. Stating that a specific type of abortion is unconstitutional opens the door for further subjection and interpretation of the term ‘abortion’. Without a clause for women’s health, the priority of the law becomes morality rather than justice. It seems unconstitutional for morality to be forced upon citizens.

This decision is, to say the least, disturbing. The number of people that I encounter that are unaware is also disturbing. I can only hope that the supporters of women’s rights will be heard and more infringement on our rights will end.

Do It Before It's Too Late

I can never be accused of being a difficult man to deal with, even when I'm trying to be difficult. I'm pretty easy going, and I always try to consider others' feelings. I especially do this when I have to submit work for others to read and critique. But often in life you find that others don't do as you do. Why is that? Are others oblivious to common courtesy?

My case in point, my Creative Writing classes final papers. When I had to turn in my final paper, I tried to not only write an interesting story, but I also remembered to keep the paper short. This was the formula I employed through out the entire semester: short, to the point, no more than 10 pages. Following this blue print, my longest paper was only 10 pages, while my shortest paper was 7 pages.

This also seemed to be the understood practice for the entire class. No other classmates wrote papers that were uninteresting or too long. That is except for one person. When the class had to review this girls papers, both times she produced papers that far exceeded every other classmates paper, not in content, but rather in length.

While her first paper was only 8 pages, she used both the front and back of those 8 pages, which in reality adds up to sixteen pages. Since this was her first paper, no one in class made a big deal about it. Yet we'd hoped,by the time she had to turn in a second paper, that she would have been a little more considerate in the length of her work; she wasn't.

In her last paper, turned in on the final week of the semester, the length was 18 pages. Eighteen pages! Eighteen! Luckily this time it was only on the front pages, but still, eighteen pages on the last week of class!

Never in my life had I wanted to curse out someone, yet here I had to fight the urge for three classes. And to top it all off, she wrote an impressively depressing paper. Not only was it long, it made me terribly sad. Some may call that convincing writing, but as for me, I call it mean and cruel to do in the last days of a semester.

A Day in the Life of

I woke up raveled up in my down comforter, the sun blazing through the window panes of my bedroom in my parents' house at Sneads Ferry. I heard my parents, already awake and ready to start the day, bustling in the living room. As I lay in my bed, staring out the window and letting my eyes adjust to the bright light, I thought to myself that today was like a blank canvas. And I had the most beautiful colors set before me.

Yesterday I moved out of my apartment in Wilmington back into my parents' house. This morning, my car was still full to the roof with all of my clothes, books, and appliances. Before I started to unpack, however, I ate a hard-boiled egg and made myself a cup of coffee with milk and honey. I sat down at the computer, a ritual that has replaced sitting down with the newspaper for me. I waited for my mom to put on her bathing suit, as I already had mine on, and when I finished with my ritual, and she was ready, we sprayed sunblock on each other's backs.

My mom drove us over the bridge that separates our house from the ocean. The parking lot at the beach was crowded, and by Sneads Ferry's terms, that means there were about fifteen cars. We treaded the rocky sand lightly until we reached the stunted beach, which seems like it's disappearing by the day from erosion. By high tide, there is hardly any beach left. But we set for the pier anyway. That's where my dad already was, fishing.

We walked and we talked, about various things from surfing, to the purpose of life, to me complaining about the lack of nudist beaches. I told my mom, "Why can't we have nudist beaches in Wilmington? "Like they do in Miami?" she said. "Yeah! I hate getting tan-lines. You know, in Germany, people get naked all the time. They're so relaxed over there." I told her about the time when my German ex-boyfriend took me to a little spot by the lake at his university, where it was common for people to undress. We did it, too; I always said I would, but when I did, it was totally uncomfortable. I think my mom already knows that I'm a big talker, and not a big walker, so she let the issue drop.

But when I came home and saw big red spots and starking white spots all over my body, I complained again.

The sun always makes me sleepy, but before I could add another hour to my sleeping tally for the day, I helped my mom make spaghetti and a salad. I broke and boiled the noodles, peeled and sliced the cucumbers, added black and green olives and mushrooms. I poured hot tea into three cups, and added sugar and slices of lemon. My dad came home, and all three of us sat down together to eat. It was delicious.

And then I layed down on the couch and took a nap. Or tried to. My dad sat down next to me, and as my mom cleaned up after the meal, we discussed relatives from Poland who want to visit us this summer, and whether it's better to live here or live there. We decided it was better to be here.

I had a lot of homework to do. Plus, I still had to unpack my car, which is what I did when my dad went back fishing, and my mom went for another walk on the beach, this time alone. While I was unpacking I couldn't help thinking to myself, "I have too much crap."

After I moved all of my crap from my car into my room, I thought it was time for a bath. At my parents house we have jacuzzi baths and I like to fill up the tub with some sort of smelly shower stuff and turn the jets on--it makes for great bubbles that spill over the tub. I left the t.v. on in my room so I could soak in my bubble mountain and listen to Sigourney Weaver talk about underwater caves off the coasts of Australia and New Zealand.

After my bath, I primped. You know, girl stuff. And then I took another nap.

When I woke up my mom was already back, making a plate of salad with feta cheese on it. I ate a snack-sized bag of dorritos. While munching on the chips, I thought to myself, "I still have a lot of work to do." So I got in bed and snuggled up with Fyodor Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground, which I'm reading for another one of my classes. I started reading at about 5 p.m., but I didn't finish until sunset because I kept taking short little naps in between chapters. Dostoevsky was not made for sunny days resting by the seashore.

I still had more work to do. I had to finish my final essay for my blog writing class. I had no idea what to write about. I asked my mom, "Mom, what should I write about?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Write about the democratic debate." I thought it was a good idea, but when I started planning it out, I realized it would be way too short. "Obama was mad, Clinton was Clinton, some guy was really funny, some guy has a playboy bunny for a wife, another guy was pretty funny, and I forget the rest."

So I decided to write about what I did today. Now the canvas is not blank anymore, and I'm ready to go back to bed.

A Tale of Servitude

They sit around indifferently in overpriced leather chairs, in a room wearing the guise of opulence. There are tables laced with white linens, arranged in neat rows and topped with crystal wine glasses and fine silverware. They laugh and drink and revel in the exhibition of wealth. They are the richest men and women in Wilmington and beyond—and I bring them their bread. I’ve been in Hell’s kitchen: I work in a Country Club Restaurant.

When I first took the job at the Country Club of Landfall, I somehow felt like I was getting away with something. Cut bread, refill water, carry a few trays, and all for nine dollars an hour: it sounded like a job gifted to me from the gods, and I couldn’t foresee any downsides other than the typical stress that comes along with any employment. But then again, I’m no psychic. I quickly realized that the clientele I’d be serving comprised the wealthiest people I’ve ever known, not to mention some of the most bizarre.

For anyone who doesn't know, historically, Country Clubs were getaways for white men to enjoy a round of golf, indulge in a few beverages and escape the nagging of their wives. Nowadays, their doors aren't quite so restricted, but they still retain the same fundamental values they always have, that mainly being exclusivity. Let’s just say that one needs to have obtained a certain social status before they attempt to join, as well as accumulated a mass fortune.

But just because these people are wealthy beyond my wildest dreams doesn't mean that they have any better grasp on reality than anyone else. If anything, I think all that money has left them mentally scarred with something akin to radiation exposure. Some are jovial old men and women, who just want to live out their golden years with a smile on their face and a drink in hand. But most are dusty old cretins, locked in a mental age when all people weren't treated equally and clearly miss those days fondly. I've spent the last four months overhearing so much racist, chauvinistic dinner conversation that I've had to form a whole new definition of bigotry.

And then there are the outlandish requests, all of which I must comply with utmost sincerity. Since the club is entirely supported by the member fees, basically every person who enters those doors can get me fired. My job description includes doing whatever they want. I've danced with old ladies at banquets, watched a woman eye up a lobster and decide that it weighed two ounces less than the menu claimed and even lit cigars for members too intoxicated to do it themselves. And don’t get me started on how many times I’ve been accused (falsely) of spitting in a member’s water.

So you have $65,000 lying around? Don’t do anything stupid with it. Join a club that’ll ensure a lifetime of good company. Those willing to retain their souls need not apply.

Rotator Cuffs and Valuable Lessons

When my roommate burst into my room with a freshly purchased supplement that claimed to produce an immediate 10 percent increase in strength, I was skeptical but curious. I had lifted weights on a regular basis before, but I had stopped working out entirely about a year ago. And yet I wanted to see how well this supplement really worked. So my roommate and I downed our servings and headed out to the gym, throwing caution to the wind.

In my prime of lifting weights I could bench press about 220 pounds. After I got a girlfriend and stopped working out, my bench press max fell to about 185. In my head I did some quick math and figured that a 10 percent increase in strength would be about 205 pounds on the bar. I warmed up a little with some lighter weights and finally loaded it up to 205. I remember my roommate uttering some words of concern. But why would I have listened to him? The guarantee was on the bottle.

I picked up the weight rather easily. I went down with it and started to go back up. It hurt. I didn't know where it was hurting but I had to draw strength from all over my body to get the weight up. When I racked the weight and sat up, I felt light headed and my body felt drained.

The next day rolled around and my shoulder started to hurt. The pain was ever-so-slight at first. It was almost more of an annoyance than a true concern. I figured it was just unused muscles being sore about having to be used again. But the next day the pain was different and unmistakable. I had injured my shoulder in the past from overuse and was afraid I had torn the rotator cuff in my shoulder, which is a very serious injury that requires surgery. However, the pain had always gone away after a couple of days. But this time the pain was worse, far worse. I couldn't lift my arm forward or to the side and I certainly couldn't lift it past my shoulder. There was a dull pain shooting through every fiber in my shoulder when I tried to use it at all. The whole day I left it dead by my side.

As the days passed the pain only got worse. I could barely move my right arm at all. Working in a restaurant, carrying drinks and orders didn't help it much either. On Sunday I decided to make the call to get something done about it. I called my mom. She made me an appointment at Atlantic Orthopedic for Friday. I was nervous about what an X-ray might show. I did not want to have to go through the pain of a shoulder surgery and I certainly didn't want to have to go through the recovery time. I was dissappointed in myself and angry at the supplement that had given me false hope.

Things started to look up for me, however. By Friday the pain had almost completely gone out of my shoulder. I had a huge gain in the mobility of arm motions. When I spoke to the doctor about the X-ray, he said I had something called rotator cuff tendonitis, a condition that is not as bad as a tear but still quite painful. It involves the tendons becoming sore from stretching during use. The tendons wear over the bone in my shoulder and cause immense pain. The good news was that all it needed was rest and that I was already well on the to healing.

Leaving the doctor's office I felt alive. In less than a week I had gotten over a shoulder injury and was finally feeling like myself again. And then I started to notice the people around me. Young and old, they were all wearing casts or braces. Some of them looked like they had injuries that would take months to heal and some that looked as though they never would. None of them deserved to be there. I wished they could all be walking out of there as happy and healthy as I was. I felt an overwhelming sense of sympathy rush through me. We only have one body in our lifetime, and that day I decided to not take mine for granted anymore.

I Am Still the GIrl I Thought I Would Become

I was told that I would be the “caregiver” for my parents when they got older--I am not quite sure if the reason was because I had attended nursing school, or did I go to nursing school because my parents had prepared me for this role all along? I was the one, however, with the least ambition among my siblings. I did not even plan to leave Suzhou—I loved the city I grew up in and knew it really well, all of my friends were there and, most importantly, I would be the caregiver for my parents. So at the age of 26, it seemed that I just needed to find an appropriate husband, have a child, take care of my parents and my family, and live happily ever after.

Then I met my husband, Jim. He was apparently not the best candidate for that picture—he was older, divorced, and already had children from a previous marriage, but most of all, he was an American. Though I believed he was the perfect one for me, I was not sure that my parents would feel the same.

Although I could have taken the approach of “Hello, Mum and Dad, this is the man I would like to marry. I hope you like him … but sorry if you do not,” I decided not to because I should deal with important issue more diplomatically as I got older, I thought. So I invited some of my best friends out for dinner to consult with them about how to successfully introduce my “future husband” to my parents. After a three-hour dinner and another hour in our favorite coffee shop, we decided on a strategy--talk with my mother first. We believed she was the more open-minded one, especially on issues such as this, since she married my father who was not considered as the perfect candidate by her parents at the time of their marriage.

After casually mentioning to her on several occasions about this great guy I met, I finally told my mother about Jim one night while helping her with the dishes.

“Are you sure he is the one?” her hands stopped moving in the sink.

“Hmm, what do you mean ‘the one’?” I tried to dodge the question.

“Xiaolian, you have been talking about this man for a while, and you do not really do that very often. Either you are stalking him or he is very important to you. Now I am hoping it is the latter,” my mother said as she smiled.

“Yes, Mum.” I admitted, “I think he is the one I want to marry.” I thought to myself at the same time, “We should never think that we are smarter than our parents.”

“Should I go to talk to dad?” I cautiously ask.

“Well, it is probably best to let me talk with your father.” She went back to her dishes.

I was glad my mother agreed to speak to my dad because I did not really want to talk to him about this issue myself. I remembered that he had such a hard time when my sister announced that she was going to marry a student she had met at her graduate school in United States. By my father’s standards, my brother-in-law was a better candidate than my “future husband”--He was the same age as my sister and a Chinese (nothing against Americans, my dad said. If my sister was marrying a Chinese guy, my dad believed, that there was still the chance she would come back home to be with her family). My mother said that my dad could not get over the idea that his oldest daughter would be married and living far away in the United States. After my sister’s marriage, I did not know how my dad would react to the possibility that his second daughter may also marry someone from far away.

A few days later, I received a call from my mother. “Xiaolian, you father and I would like to meet Mr. Long at his convenience. Could you arrange it? We would like to meet him at our home if it is all possible.”

Jim was eager to meet my parents because he believed he understood how my parents felt since he was a parent himself; and he believed he could convince them that he would be the best husband for me because we loved each other deeply. At the same time, he was somewhat nervous—was our love for each other enough to convince my parents, or would there be “secret police” waiting when he stepped into my parents’ house? I did not know the answer for the first question, but I assured him that my parents did not know any secret police--not to mention that China did not have secret police, only had Red Guards during the Culture Revolution.

We set the meeting for a weekend so everyone could be more relaxed. My parents decided for us to have dinner with them, which was a good sign. I told Jim that in a Chinese home, dinner was an “olive branch” instead of an occasion for an extensive “interrogation.” However, when we arrived at my parents’ home, I found that my brother was not there--not a good sign. Usually, my parents sent us children out when they had a “serious” meeting at home.

My mother prepared a delicious dinner—I knew that she had to start the preparation the day before. During and after the dinner, we talked about the weather, everything in Suzhou, and then to where Jim lived and worked around the world. The subject eventually changed to his family and personal life. My parents were polite but determined to learn as much as they could about this strange man from far away who asked if he could take their daughter away. Fortunately, my “future husband” was patient and understanding. He even agreed when asked by my parents to furnish a detailed resume and a map of his home in Brunswick County. I was amazed by his patience as he told me that he often wondered what he would do if someone who came from a thousand miles away asked him for his daughter in marriage. I believed even more that I made the right choice in him.

Only later did I find out that Jim’s resume was sent to my sister in the United States for translation, so my parents could read and study it. In addition, the map was sent to a relative who lives in Washington, DC to verify the safety of the area. I did not really know how effective my parents’ strategy for protecting the daughter they had always considered their “future caregiver.” However, I was glad that Jim’s job lasted for two years in Suzhou, so my parents had the opportunity to meet him often while he was able to get to know them. Ultimately, Jim and I received the blessing from my parents. Nevertheless, before my first trip to United States, my dad gave me some money and told me to keep my passport to myself just in case I decided to go back home without Jim’s agreement (don’t tell my dad my secret: I spent that money and bought a handsome wedding ring for my groom).

I am still the “caregiver” to my parents, though in a more nontraditional way—I call them once a week to discuss family issues and do researches in regarding to their health matters, as they need. I still love Suzhou and communicate with my friends often, through emails. I think I am still the girl I thought I would become, only settled in a different location and with a husband, I love dearly.

"The Woman"

"Let's go see Amber, she's in the hospital."

This simple phrase spoken by a friend during a telephone conversation last Friday night caused me to pause before answering. "Go see Amber," I thought? Amber and I haven't spoken in over two months and haven't seen each other since long before that. We had once been the closest of friends, but life has a way of causing friends to drift apart. I had no way of knowing that by the end of the day our friendship would be restored and Amber would be considered "The Woman," for years to come.

Many months ago Amber and I had a disagreement which shook the bedrock of our friendship and caused us to great each other with cautious phrases and pseudo-respect for a long time. Upon seeing her two months ago we tentatively embraced and carefully began to reconstruct our friendship. It was small, and much weaker than the bond we had shared before, but it was a start.

So on Friday night, Robyn tells me that Amber is in the hospital on closely-monitored bed rest and about to go stir-crazy. Amber's due date was six weeks away, so the doctors were concerned about the child's development and the risks of being born so early.

A little hesitantly I agreed to accompany Robyn to the hospital. Doubts flew through my head. What if Amber doesn't want to see me? What if she gets upset because I'm there? I voiced these thoughts and fears to Robyn, who, following the true nature of friendship, bluntly told me that seeing me would not send Amber into fits and that I should stop making excuses not to go.

The time spent at the hospital with Amber was one of the best we have ever spent together. The three of us laughed and talked like we were sitting in the high school cafeteria waiting for the bell, instead of a hospital room waiting on a baby to arrive. Amber was excited to see us both and thanked us several times for breaking the monotony of sitting in room for hours on end.

After three hours of sitting, in a room that could have been a cold storage locker in disguise, Robyn and I both were thankful not to be confined to that dismal room for an indeterminable amount of time. The next several hours were spent looking at baby clothes and trying to determine what book to buy Amber that might help her pass the time. At 9 p.m., Robyn and I returned to the hospital with a basketful of goodies for the "mom-to-be."

As the time passed, Robyn and I realized we should probably let Amber get some rest, so at 11 p.m. we rose to leave. Then Amber said, "hang on guys—my stomach hurts." What followed was the most hectic time the three of us have spent together. Amber went into labor and since both her mother and the baby's father had been sent home earlier by the grumpy mother, Robyn and I spent the next ten minutes making phone calls.

At 11:38 Amber delivered her baby. This is the point at which she received the title of "The Woman." Having a baby is a normal occurrence. Women have babies everyday, and even "preemies" are not an uncommon occurrence. However, not many people deliver a baby in under thirty minutes. Fortunately the baby was fine and is experiencing no complications from being delivered early. She is tiny, but has a great set of lungs. I am very thankful that the baby and the mother are doing well and that our friendship has been completely patched by sharing this experience together.

Spring 2007: A Reflection

I would like to reflect on some of the events that have occurred nationwide and worldwide, during my spring 2007 semester at college. The most recent event would be the VA Tech shooting which caught worldwide attention. In January, scientists published new findings that conveyed the idea "Social status helps you live longer." Then suddenly on February 8th the nation was sent into celebrity shock overload. Anna Nicole Smith, former playboy bunny, was found dead in her hotel room in Hollywood, Florida. Events like these made me think whether things happening in the world would become any more dangerous.

OK, so doctors have invented medicines and treatments that are designed to help extend one’s life; but social status, that is just ridiculous. At first I thought maybe scientist were talking about the rich living longer because of their access to money and high dollar healthcare. When I reached the nut of the article, I was surprised to see that scientist were comparing people who had received Nobel peace prizes to people who were only nominated for a prize. According to them people who receive a Nobel peace prize live 1.4 years longer than those who didn't. On average that is 77.2 years for the average man, since this study was based on the male population alone. Scientists are always coming up with new inventions or revelations which should not surprise me, yet each time they do.

The next bombshell to hit our nation was the death of sex symbol Anna Nicole Smith. Smith was a woman who tried to mirror her life to 50s superstar Marilyn Monroe. It was apparent that Smith was obsessed with Monroe's lifestyle. She worked for playboy like Monroe and often overdosed on drugs just the same. On February 8th, 2007 when police began investigating her death, many thought it was a murder plot in relation to her son's death six months earlier. Her son Daniel died of a drug overdose in 2006. The idea of a murder plot would not have been far fetched since Anna Nicole's baby daughter Dannilynn is worth well over a million dollars. The Anna Nicole story stayed in news headlines for well over a month, almost until the incident of a tragic situation.

The tragedy that occurred was the mass killing spree that Cho Seung Hui decided to go on, on April 16, 2007 at Virginia Tech University. Cho killed 32 people during his rampage, and then turned the gun on himself bringing the death toll to 33. People began calling this the worst shooting in American history, but what people have failed to realize is that the worst is yet to come. We don't like to think about things this way, but it is reality when we do. Ironically, Cho committed his crime only four days prior to the columbine shooting nearly ten years ago. A week after Cho killed so many people NBC media network showed a two minute portion of a video that Cho sent to them detailing his every move and his motive. The college community of UNCW sent their condolences to VA Tech as we have experienced a similar situation in our past. In 2003 Jessica Faulkner was killed by a mentally unstable companion on UNCW's campus. A memorial of two boards cut out in the shape of the VA Tech logo and the UNCW logo were both delivered to VA Tech this past weekend on our behalf. It is very sad when things like this occur on college campuses, it causes college students around the nation to become tense.

As I reflected on the events that have occurred during my spring semester, I hope that they will always remain just reflections.

family choice

My fiance's sociology professor posed this question as an essay topic for their class. I thought it was an interesting topic that would be perfect for my final blog.

Do you choose your own family? If that is a choice you make at some point before your physical life begins then that must also mean that you control your own destiny. Or do you? I guess the idea of choosing your family is appealing to many because that gives you a sense of control over things that many believe to be uncontrollable. By taking a step back and contemplating this idea, one is able to ascertain the many things that an individual’s family is capable of teaching.

When talking to people it is easy to see that everyone believes that their family is crazy, and believe me, mine definitely qualifies for crazy. If everyone has a crazy family than I guess in all actuality everyone could say that their family is normal. I guess I grew up in a “normal” family. I know that I have learned many things from them and everything I have experienced I am grateful for, So it is possible to think that at some point I chose to be in this family.

My parents have always given me basically anything I wanted or needed. I, unlike many spoiled, only children, appreciate the things that I have been given. When I was younger, I was probably more likely to be that way, but now I see the things that my parents do and did to make sure I have the things I have. I didn't grow up in a super rich family, so I know that my parents have made their own sacrifices to ensure that I have those things. I realize that you have to be thankful for the things you have and the things that are given to you, because you never know what someone may have given up or had to go through to get those things for you.

Another lesson I have learned, mainly from my mother, is that family is everything. When my aunt, my mother's oldest sister, was diagnosed with terminal cancer and my mom losing her job, she chose to stay out of work to ensure that my aunt was well taken care of. Obviously that meant a huge loss of income. But money doesn't matter when it comes to family. I have gained so much respect and admiration for my mother because of this. She has taught me, that even if things get tough, you still have to take care of your family, because your family is who you are. And things will eventually get better.

There are many things that my family has taught me and these just begin to scratch the surface on some of the more important lessons. I am grateful for what I have learned and what I will learn in the future from the most “normal” people I know. The hardest thing when thinking about whether or not you really do choose your family, is did they all choose you?

Tiger Woods vs. Roger Federer

In modern sports, there are many exceptional athletes who dominate their opponents and always win. In sports like baseball and football, that have a variety of positions, it’s improbable for only one player to stand out. However, in tennis and golf, every few years a legendary player emerges. Presently, sports fans are fortunate to be witnessing a time when both, tennis and golf, are being controlled by two of the best to ever play the game. Roger Federer (tennis) and Tiger Woods (golf) are having record breaking and having extraordinary careers. Both have won numerous titles and championships, but who is the more dominate athlete?

Roger Federer, the world’s number one tennis player, is twenty-six years old and has won ten grand slam championships. He has been a professional tennis player for nine years and number one since 2004. Roger Federer has won 47 tournaments and has a record of 501 wins and only 128 losses. Grand slam tournaments are the four biggest in the tennis season, and are made of the Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon, and US Open. Federer has won three Australian Open’s, four Wimbledon’s, and three US Open’s. Furthermore, he has won Wimbledon since 2003, the US Open since 2004, and the Australian Open since 2006 (the only slam that has been played this season). The only major tournament Federer has yet to win is the French Open. If he were to win the French in 2007 (the next major event of the season), Federer will hold a true gland slam, simultaneously being the champion of all four tournaments. Roger Federer is already being referred to as the best tennis player to ever live and at twenty six his accomplishments are only increasing.

Tiger Woods has established himself as a staple of golfing excellence. Since his first Masters victory, a finish imprinted in the minds of any golf enthusiast, his career has continually risen. Woods, 31, turned pro in 1996 and has become a trademark of professional golf. In golf, the four major tournaments are the Masters, PGA Championship, US Open, and British Open. Combined, Tiger has won twelve of these. Additionally, he is the only person to hold each major concurrently. Tiger Woods is consistently in the top of the field and has won 76 professional tournaments. Of all the majors he’s competed in, Tiger has never missed the cut to play on the final day. Tiger Woods is already a name synonymous with greatness.

Both Woods and Federer are exceptional athletes who hold numerous records and achieved tremendous success. However, both have yet to top the record of major tournament wins in a career. In tennis, the record is fourteen held by Pete Sampras, and Jack Nicklaus holds with golf total with eighteen. Thus, Woods and Federer must continue to win to become the greatest by the numbers. But still early in the 2007 season, both have three chances remaining to add another victory to their resumes. However, which stellar athlete is the most dominant today?

Roger Federer, who consistently pummels his competition, ousts Woods by the numbers and prospects. Federer has won his last three grand slams and is projected to hold the overall record by 2008. Furthermore, analysts predict that he will not only surpass Sampras’s major win total but Nicklaus’s as well. At twenty-six and still peaking in his abilities, Federer is unbeatable. As 2007 has progressed Roger has been playing well and extremely focused on winning. Tiger, on the other hand, only competes in a select number of tournaments and seemingly peaked in 2001. Even though both players are extraordinary and their records will only grow, Roger Federer, at twenty-six, is already considered the greatest tennis player ever and is expected to continue winning for many years.

A Blog About Blogs

When I signed up to take the class, ENG 306: Writing Blogs, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Because I had never even written a blog and it being such a new coming phenomenon, as a writer, I had to familiarize myself with the concept. I knew that we would be writing blogs, but I had no idea of the community surrounding this new trend. As I have experienced in this class, writing blogs has its good things and it’s bad. Some people can express themselves using this creative outlet and others can get into trouble because of it.

Wikipedia.com describes a blog as “a user-generated website where entries are made in journal style.” Honestly, this just screams trouble to me. Journals have always been a good way to express the way someone is feeling at a specific time, but journal entries to me are private and something not to be shared with the world. I use writing in my journal more as a release than anything else, half of the things I write are not even comprehensible. This is was the biggest difference between what I thought a blog was and what I learned it to be. Since we spent nearly half of each class in ENG 306 editing blogs, I quickly came to the realization that unlike writing in my journal, I needed to be clear and couldn’t have any grammatical errors. In this way, blogs become a more like essays to me than journal entries.

There are several good things about blog writing. If used properly it is a good way to get out your opinion. Since the blog community is fairly big and seems to be increasing, many people are obviously interested in the thoughts of others. I think that this is an awesome way to broaden people’s scopes on the world and their own thoughts. It is a great way to share ideas and make connections. Some blogs that I have read by class members have got me thinking about things I never would have before and in dissimilar way then I am used to thinking. As a writer, this makes for great topics and material for my own work. Blog writing is also a great way to get your name out. Since all blogs are published on the Internet, it gives a reference point for writers to keep there essays together on a website that can be seen by anyone.

As true about most things on the Internet, there are legal consequences that are involved in writing blogs if you are not careful. A case in Delaware, John Doe v. Patrick Cahill, made blogs unable to be anonymous. This was because people were writing about specific people and companies that were considered to be defamation, communication of a statement that makes a false claim. This is another indication that writing a blog in the style of a journal essay format can be incriminating.

I will not continue writing blogs. I'm glad that I participated in class and got to write many of my own, including this one, but I think my blog writing days are over. Although it is an interesting way to share ideas, the Internet is a bad device for me. I don’t have many strong opinions about things that are universally interesting. I write about things that I know, not things that I don’t know or that I am two sided on. Unless we were given a topic to write about in class, it was always hard for me to think of something to write about that other people would want to hear my opinion on. I think that trying to write in this way was interesting and fun at times, but I think I'll stick to my physical journal that no body but me reads.

I Need a Bandaid, or Two

Typically a good day for me always starts with an early morning run. There’s something very meditative about driving down to the Wrightsville Beach loop before sunrise, putting on my headphones (my iPod playing a list that has beats to match my pace), and running the two and a half mile course at least once. There are a couple of streets that I run down that take me off course but they horseshoe back to the loop. When I’m done running, I’ve gone an average of 3.25 miles.

I run not only to maintain a healthy lifestyle but because I enjoy the time I have to myself. School, work, and other responsibilities cause a lot of stress and anxiety at times. I’ve found that running alleviates that. My roommates wonder why I drive to run at the loop when I could easily peddle my bike to the school gym, saving time, gas, and wear and tear on my vehicle. My argument is that I’m addicted to beginning my run under a star lit sky, to the calming beach breeze, the smell of ocean air, and finishing the run watching the sunrise every morning. Running outside is much more liberating than going to a gym to run on a treadmill. The beauties of nature continually remind me how small I am in this world and that I should appreciate my surroundings.

Running has become part of my lifestyle and is a way for me to cleanse my mind from my daily “to dos.” There are times when weather doesn’t work in my favor. It is then that I have no option but to resort to the gym or the treadmill at my parent’s home. As with any exercise program or sport, I’m bound to get hurt at some point. My running regimen hasn’t been pain free. Lucky for me, I’ve been doing this for four years and have been injured only this year. Twice.

One weekend visit home I decided to stay inside to run while watching MTV music videos. I had on my new Nike ID shox, personalized sneakers that are designed online, and was still trying to work them in. The treadmill was spinning at a speed of 6.5 which is a very fast jog. My right shoe needed readjustments so I thought I’d straddle the treadmill belt and stand on the plastic edges. The couch was close enough that I could rest my right foot and leave my left foot in place. My shoe was fixed but before I could continue running, the edge of the treadmill bent. I lost balance. My left knee slammed down onto the belt, still spinning at 6.5, threw my foot into the wall, and then shut itself off because I’d pulled the emergency cord.

I’d say I would have won the top prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos but luckily, no one was there to witness my accident. It took more than a month for my treadburn to heal. I must admit my bo-bo reminded me of being a kid again. It seemed I was always skinning up my knees when I was young.

Those memories weren’t supposed to make it happen again, but unfortunately, I had a second fall this week. One warm evening I was running the loop until I embarrassingly tripped over my own feet. First my hands slide on the side walk, my knees hit, then my right elbow, and finally, my right hip. “Shit” was the only thing that I was able to say as I fell in slow motion. Until that evening, I didn’t know my body could bounce on pavement like it did. I immediately jumped up and continued running but couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Then I realized that my fall was witnessed by an oncoming car because they too, were laughing. Sure, I was fine. Two bloody palms, a bruised skint up knee, and bruised hip later, I’m fine. Thanks for NOT stopping assholes.

With the good, we have to sometimes take the bad. I now realize I’ll fall from time to time, struggle to get up; however, continuing through the pain only leads in one direction, to becoming a stronger person. Without the scares and bruises, there would be no stories to tell. I welcome the falls simply because I love the accomplishment and solitude I gain from my active lifestyle. Where are my shoes? I’m off for a run.

Fear

Fear. The word itself is enough to make some people tremble. But without fear, where would our motivation to overcome stem from? Just like a fingerprint, no two fears are exactly alike. Although I’m certain I’m not alone in the things I fear, facing the challenges of my fears is unique to me.

I fear failure. Not in all cases, because if we always succeed on the first try what would we learn? I fear failure on a grander scale – bankruptcy, college drop out, no-good mom. I fear that my failure is going to let someone else down; it’s going to disappoint those that I love. After almost a decade of college, and I’m not kidding, I’m more determined now to follow through with what I so haphazardly started doing years ago when I didn’t have a clue. I don’t want to fail at something so many people succeed at everyday. I will not be a failure, or a disappointment to my parents, my family, or my friends.

I fear emotional pain. My heart is big enough to love anyone that crosses my path; unfortunately I still don’t know how to keep my heart from being taken advantage of. I’ve realized with every bit of love, there is pain. It’s been a learning experience. Every situation hurts worse than the last, but I surface as a stronger woman.

I fear loneliness. From birth we’re taught the importance of companionship and marriage. As teens we enter the dating scene eager to find our soul mates yet we’re often blinded by material possessions that put us in positions that will put our health at risk. I do not want to live my life without someone to share the laughter, the tears, and the memories with, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in an empty, uncaring relationship for the sake of partnership.

I fear death. I’ve seen more than my fair share of death and what it can do to those left behind. I don’t want to burden my family with the heartache of my departure. Every day I leave my life with thoughts of friends and family members who would love to see me now, who would be proud of the woman I’ve become – but I’ll never have the satisfaction of sharing my accomplishments with them.

Working at the library and the inevitability of laptop problems

Throughout the semester laptops are a hot commodity at the library – students can check them out for four hours and write papers etc while they’re in the library and the laptops are a part of the I-Print system. During exam time, however, people are under more stress and the laptops are in higher demand.

There are several problems with the laptops. The first problem with laptops is that we only have so many of them -- twenty-nine, that is if all of them are working. Secondly, if you need a laptop and we have none available at that moment: there is no list to go on and no written protocol for whom should get a laptop.

The first problem is one that is just a fact of life. We can only really circulate so many, and often we have more than we need. Not to mention that laptops are not the only computers in the library available for student use.

The second set of issues does not sound all that complicated. People can wait for a laptop to come back if it’s that important, and you give the laptop to the first person in line. Right? Usually this works just fine. Sometimes though things get more complicated. Sometimes Person A will be waiting near the circulation for the next laptop to come back, and Person B else will follow Person C, who is turning in a laptop, up to the desk having “claimed” that laptop. Who do you give the laptop to then? The person “gypped” of the laptop is not happy.

Just recently I had just come in for a long shift in the middle of the night. A girl was on her cell phone jabbering away, but standing as if waiting for someone to help her at the desk.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Sorry” she says, except I have no idea to whom she’s speaking.

“Can I help you?” I ask again. This time I’m sure she’s speaking to me when she “mouths” the words,

“I just have a question.” She doesn’t however immediately ask the question, she continues on the phone a little longer. Never actually hanging up, she tells the person on the other line that she’s in the library and needs a laptop. She asks me when the next laptop will be in and tell her there’s really no way of knowing as some people bring them back early and others bring them late. As I’m speaking, someone comes to turn in their laptop.

I plan to give her the laptop, but then a guy who has been sitting near the circ desk at least since I had been there came over, also intending to check out the laptop. I don’t want to tell either of them that they aren’t getting a laptop, but there is no way I felt I could not give it to the guy who'd been sitting there longer.

I give the laptop to the guy, the girl huffs, obviously angry with me but then she never does get off the phone. No more than fifteen minutes later she got a laptop.

Here’s the deal: we’re doing our best. No one is trying to cheat you out of a laptop, and if you’re that desperate for a computer there are generally alternatives to the laptops: use them. Give the library staff a break – we're working all night and all day and we still can’t keep up with all the stuff that needs to be done.

Insurance Companies Need a Reformation

It was Tuesday at 6 p.m. and I'm sitting behind a car waiting on the stoplight to change. BAM! What in the wo- BAM! Oh my gosh someone just hit me. It was a four-car pileup and my Volkswagen beetle was between two large cars that felt like tractor-trailers. I had been hit and pushed into the car in front of me. After this point I realized what a pain it is to deal with car insurance companies and how no matter what you get screwed in the end.

At first, they prepared me for the news my car could be totaled. They told me that I should go ahead and start making arrangements to begin looking at new cars. I was not surprised after looking at the damage compared to my cars value. After the estimate was totaled they informed me it would not me a total loss and could be repaired for $4100. My Mom and I being hesitant to trust the body shop we took it to a body shop the Volkswagen dealership recommended. Soon after they notified me the damages had gone up to $5990.

We had figured this didn’t make a lot of sense considering this is 75% of the trade in value of my car. Personally, I don’t trust anything that comes out of the mouths of the people that work there. They are putting refurbished parts on my car in the first place, and legally they have the right to do that. I think this is absolutely ridiculous that my car did not starts off with new parts and ends up with refurbished parts because someone ran into me.

After going over everything with the insurance company we found out they go by the retail value, which is more than what I bought my car for in the first place. Now we are stuck with the car being $500 away from being totaled or having the value of my car go down almost 50% because it has been wrecked over 70%. Nothing about this situation seems fair. What is the point of insurance if in the end it’s still them getting the better end of the deal?

As Americans we pay a lot of money to protect others and ourselves when accidents occur. No matter whose fault it is the Insurance Company gets the final say and everything happens the way they want it. I’ve seen someone be $200 away from having their car totaled and they still repaired it. Nothing about the situation makes sense to me when I have to suffer because someone else ran into me for not paying attention to the road.

Insurance companies need to get off their high horse and stop scamming people out of money. They need to start doing what they say they are going to do and protect the people they are insuring. All insurance companies need to have a huge reformation of what they do.

Elbows and Assumptions

People are stereotyped every day. To be more specific, people are stereotyped every day by me. I know I do it, and I admit it—but I always keep it to myself and remain as poised as I possibly can. And in all fairness, I’m stereotyped in return. I’m stereotyped for being a girl, for being blonde, for being from the south…the list is endless. However, I wasn’t aware that by being a blonde girl from the south, people could deduct that I don’t smoke pot. The means to this end has eluded me somehow. I don’t understand what one has to do with the other, and at the time that that assumption was made, I didn’t have enough courage to ask.

I was sitting in my fiction class, with a story that was so grammatically in-correct that the only two things I could deduct from it where the author’s name and the title of the piece. Everything else was a heap of run-on sentences and misspelled words. During our discussion of the piece, someone mentioned the bad grammar, and since I hadn’t been able to muddle through it for a real plot, I didn’t have much else to add to the conversation. But of course, I was called on for my opinion. So I glanced down at my notes and realized that I had unknowingly made a list of every word in the story that I thought was a name for marijuana. There were thirteen altogether, ranging from the ordinary “joint” to the more knowledgeable “swag” to the expert “elbow.” Looking back, I should have just agreed with the girl who’d mentioned the grammar mistakes. It probably would have saved me a little embarrassment, but hindsight is—well, you know.

The second I mentioned all the vocabulary used to identify marijuana, the entire class was staring at me. I could see it in their eyes. Did she really just say that out loud? I looked at the few people I actually talked to outside of class for some back-up, but they were busy tearing the corners off their papers and biting their thumb nails. I was on my own.

“Well,” a boy from across the table finally said, “If you could figure out that they were the same as marijuana, anyone could, right?”

It took a second for the insult behind that comment to hit me. How was I supposed to reply to that? Whether I had or hadn’t smoked pot was really none of their business. And why exactly, was it a bad thing if I hadn't smoked pot? For the sake of the story we were working on, I was merely suggesting that the author cut the “pot lingo”—as it was so lovingly referred to for the rest of the semester—down to a minimum, say three different terms. That way he didn’t isolate his audience too much.

With as much dignity as I could muster I replied, “Well, I’m just saying, even people that have smoked pot might not know what some of those words mean. Elbow for instance. Who thinks of pot when someone says elbow?”

When the only nod of understanding came from the teacher I gave up. Let him have the narrowest audience he can get, all because he can’t say pot instead of elbow. It’s going to take someone that’s been smoking a lot of elbow to get through that grammar anyway.

And as for them jumping to conclusions about my experience with it, let’s just say that what they don’t know, they don’t know. Stereotyping is never a good thing, but stereotyping people on things you can’t possibly know about them is even worse.