In life, there are constants. These constants brace and calm us wherever in the world we may be. Like the warm mushy hug of your comfort food, or the security of the sunrise, constants never fail us. For me in Honduras, this constant is lunchtime – 11:40 p.m., euphoria. My 4:20.
Sure, I may say a silent prayer every day that I soaked my apple in enough Chlorox to not end up with explosive bowel problems, but still I know that these 40 minutes every day are mine. I can read if I want to, I can speak with my teacher friends if I want to, hell I could even sit in complete silence if I wanted to. Most importantly though, my sweet 29 nine-year-olds are at least 30 feet away from me at all times. If I could liquefy “lunchtime,” I would put it in a porcelain bathtub with 100 rose petals and soak in it for 40 minutes. It is delicious.
But ah, alas, it is 12:20, and 12:20 is often quite rotten. Like myself, my kids are in Home Mode, where we just try to coexist peacefully until it is time to leave school. Of course, I am still teaching them to the best of my abilities, but their learning switch as been turned off, which is trying on my patience (READ: Somebody please buy me a stress ball before I use someone’s head). 12:20 marks the beginning of reading class, which I am always entirely too excited for, and which they loathe more than English.
I don’t blame them entirely. Reading is where we practice most of our writing. They are a little offended by this. Wouldn’t you be too, though? I can read the word LIAR being licked by hot flames in their eyes when I say, “OK time for reading class!” and do a little jig up to the board where I write “Plot and Resolution,” and then merrily add “What is the plot and conflict of ‘Awful Aardvark? How is the conflict resolved in the end?” When I turn around to face the wolves, I can see the fire flickering out, and then they quietly and hesitantly get to work. Oh wait, I forgot:
PLEASE WRITE IN COMPLETE SENTENCES.
I don’t know what will come of the world on December 23, 2012, but I imagine it may look a little like my classroom after I drop the Complete Sentence Atomic Bomb. The sky turns a dark green and purple, cliffs fall into the sea as easy as sand being pulled into the ocean, the sun reels us in so close that we are whipped by it’s flares, and Pat Robertson gets a bid for the presidency. After that madness, a few of my kids slam their heads on their desks and angrily erase the beginning of their incomplete work.
“You’ll thank me for this later,” I assure them. But I know that they are nine-year-old kids and “later” means 4:00 at home playing their Wii, or tomorrow when they can’t decide to use their orange or purple marker to number their spelling test. Eventually they will look back on this formative fourth-grade year and think, wow, that Ms. O’Donnell sure did us a solid for always making us write in complete sentences. For now, it is their job to dislike me as they commiserate about schoolwork. Hell hath no fury like a fourth-grader scorned.
The last and most strange and interesting class of the day is TEAH, which stands for Technical Education, Agriculture and Health, and which most conveniently, I know nothing about.
At Day-Star School, there is no curriculum, which is equally frustrating and liberating. Luckily we have textbooks for every subject. So while, I have absolutely no idea what to teach my students, the books do, so I follow them like a Rabbi with his Torah. The only class that does not have a textbook is TEAH, and so I am writing its curriculum on my own.
This is hard because of two reasons. 1. It is the last class of the day and my students could give two shits less about what I say 2 . It is extremely difficult to keep 30 nine-year-olds occupied without resources. I’m trying very hard though going over things like the different parts of the body and the food pyramid and the five senses, but getting them to understand me is like getting my friends to understand my love of the band Phish, impossible and heartbreaking.
(Author’s note: If you would like to understand my love of Phish, listen to their album Billy Breathes or any one of their live Hampton Virginia shows. Also, if that isn’t enough you can watch the documentary Bittersweet Motel.)
Sometimes in TEAH I, gasp, give up, and we do homework, or have guided discussions, which the kids seem to enjoy. In eighth grade in Portsmouth Catholic Elementary School we were given a class like this called, Creative Writing. Being the novice writer that I was, I was over enthused to begin this class, until I learned it was to be taught by our gym teacher, Ms. Patty. Ms. Patty, the woman who made us dance to Richard Simmons on perfectly sunny days. The woman who watched in delight as our history teacher made us run laps for every question we got wrong on our midterm.
The first class of creative writing that year began and ended with us stapling Ms. Patty’s personal papers and my heart breaking. I don’t remember the rest of our time in that class, and probably for a good reason. I know sometimes I may get lazy at the end of the day, but I’ve promised myself I would never leave them with the kind of memory that I have of wanting to learn and having that want denied. I promise to never make 4B staple papers against their will.
The bell rings at 2:20 and my kids walk quietly out of the door in a single-file line until they are sure they are out of my view. Then I hear their screams and their feet hitting the pavement as they run to their buses. I sit at my desk and for a moment it is very quiet and still. I look at their empty desks and collect my breath and my thoughts and their art projects. I don’t know how I’m going to leave these kids at the end of the year. I’ve come to know their senses of humor, the way they write their names, how their faces scrunch when they are confused, and what they dream of being when they “grow up.” I want to be there when they “grow up,” and I want to laugh about the time Nathalia put her feet behind her head, or when a giant white horse interrupted our meditation session in the grass with the loudest neigh any of us have heard. But this year will come to an end and so all I can do is teach them as best and as well as I can now and hopefully they will remember how to indent a paragraph and the importance of planting trees.
“Hola Mees,” says the limpiadora with her broom and mop. I gather my things and head out.
“Que tengas un buen día,” I smile back as I skip down the stairs to start planning our adventure for next week.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Second Third: Sanctions, Speech and Stats
My kids are antsy. I can see their little toes tapping and eyes twitching. You’d think they were all about to pee their pants, but no, it is not their bladders that are about to burst, it is their heads out of pure excitement. The bell pierces our ears at 9 a.m. – RECESS. They all start to sprint out of their seats, but I have trained them better than that. Excruciatingly slowly, I allow the girls to line up, then the boys (to try to crush the machismo seed before it will inevitably blossom into a catcalling/sexist monster), and then they are free to scream and act like animals for 40 minutes. UNLESS you have committed a “no no,” and have to spend your recess with me.
This of course is their worst nightmare. They are tormented by the idea of their peers bounding through the courtyard in slow motion, while they sit in their desks staring at my beautiful face and wishing they had stopped talking when I had asked, or resisted that last spit ball. Despite the fact that I don’t get to chat with my teacher friends for the recess period, hearing them repent for what they have done is oh so satisfying. Sadistic? No. Entertaining? Yes. Speaking of sadistic, if I’m feeling really underappreciated, I like to bring the kids who are b-a-d bad outside so that they may watch their friends frolic in delight. They sit by me, and are not to talk to anyone, “just watch what you’re missing.” I like to call this “Kamp Kaleigh.”
While I’m watching my sinners squirm, I like to think about if my teachers from the past enjoyed giving out detentions and other punishments if it was deserved. Since I’m pretty sure I’m not mentally unstable or akin to Jeffrey Dahmer, I like to think the answer is yes.
I was only held in for recess twice, and both times were painful. The more tolerable of the two was in third grade when I couldn’t pass my 7’s multiplication test. The heartbreaking punishment happened in kindergarten after a misunderstanding during naptime.
At Portsmouth Catholic Elementary School we were allowed to play with our Quiet Boxes during naptime. A Quiet Box was a magical shoebox capsule, which held any quiet toy we wanted to play with – as long as we did it silently and in our personal space. This was PCES’s first mistake (The second being hiring a middle-aged, sour ex-nun for its principal). Let’s be real. Expecting five and six-year-olds to remain silent for 40 minutes while playing with toys is like asking Kanye West to stay in his seat at an awards show. It.Will.Never.Happen.
Being the Tom-boy that I was, my box was filled with Luke Skywalker action figures and matchbox cars. On that fateful day, one of my cars lost its wheel and I could not find where it rolled off to. I finally spotted it, lying lonely next to Chelsea Flemming. Everyone knows you cannot roll cars unless you have all the wheels, so I NATURALLY wanted it back. After a successful Morse Code session, Chelsea quietly rolled the wheel in my direction. Just as I was reaching for my missing piece, a mammoth-sized white tenni smashed it into the ground. That was that. I spent the next two hours bawling my eyes out next to the teacher’s bowl-cut assistant. And so I ask you, what’s wrong with wanting all the wheels?
As my kids die from heat exhaustion, I begin V.H.S. (Vocabulary,Handwriting,Spelling). In my class though, it’s pretty much V.S. Cursive is archaic, haven’t you people heard of computers! Admit it, you always hated those kids who ACTUALLY tried to be the best in handwriting class…unless you are that kid. Getting my kids to pronounce our new words is time consuming and very hilarious. If someone walked by our room they would think it was 30 Hispanic whales trying to communicate…
ssssssccccrruuuuuuubbbbbbeeeeeeedddddddd
After a few hearty laughs about how ridiculous we sound, I hit them with horrific news: Time for English. Not much to say about this class, we’ve all been there and probably hated it. Turns out, if you’re a non-native English speaker, you hate it more. I don’t blame them, last week I spent 30 minutes practicing how to indent a paragraph and a large majority of them still indent the second line of the paragraph…I am truly confused.
What I find myself even more confused about every day is math. I understand math about as much as Sarah Palin understands the respective geographic locations of Alaska and Russia. I was overexcited to find out I would be teaching fourth grade until I remembered I cried during a fourth-grade fraction test, and part of the reason I opted to become a communication major was the alluring six-credit maximum for math. I am coming around to those crazy numbers because the kids love it. It’s their easiest subject because there are no English words, just beautiful universal numbers.
Plus, if I don’t know the answer to a question, I pull the old “Class, can anyone help Raul?”
Works like a charm.
The third third is coming soon.
This of course is their worst nightmare. They are tormented by the idea of their peers bounding through the courtyard in slow motion, while they sit in their desks staring at my beautiful face and wishing they had stopped talking when I had asked, or resisted that last spit ball. Despite the fact that I don’t get to chat with my teacher friends for the recess period, hearing them repent for what they have done is oh so satisfying. Sadistic? No. Entertaining? Yes. Speaking of sadistic, if I’m feeling really underappreciated, I like to bring the kids who are b-a-d bad outside so that they may watch their friends frolic in delight. They sit by me, and are not to talk to anyone, “just watch what you’re missing.” I like to call this “Kamp Kaleigh.”
While I’m watching my sinners squirm, I like to think about if my teachers from the past enjoyed giving out detentions and other punishments if it was deserved. Since I’m pretty sure I’m not mentally unstable or akin to Jeffrey Dahmer, I like to think the answer is yes.
I was only held in for recess twice, and both times were painful. The more tolerable of the two was in third grade when I couldn’t pass my 7’s multiplication test. The heartbreaking punishment happened in kindergarten after a misunderstanding during naptime.
At Portsmouth Catholic Elementary School we were allowed to play with our Quiet Boxes during naptime. A Quiet Box was a magical shoebox capsule, which held any quiet toy we wanted to play with – as long as we did it silently and in our personal space. This was PCES’s first mistake (The second being hiring a middle-aged, sour ex-nun for its principal). Let’s be real. Expecting five and six-year-olds to remain silent for 40 minutes while playing with toys is like asking Kanye West to stay in his seat at an awards show. It.Will.Never.Happen.
Being the Tom-boy that I was, my box was filled with Luke Skywalker action figures and matchbox cars. On that fateful day, one of my cars lost its wheel and I could not find where it rolled off to. I finally spotted it, lying lonely next to Chelsea Flemming. Everyone knows you cannot roll cars unless you have all the wheels, so I NATURALLY wanted it back. After a successful Morse Code session, Chelsea quietly rolled the wheel in my direction. Just as I was reaching for my missing piece, a mammoth-sized white tenni smashed it into the ground. That was that. I spent the next two hours bawling my eyes out next to the teacher’s bowl-cut assistant. And so I ask you, what’s wrong with wanting all the wheels?
As my kids die from heat exhaustion, I begin V.H.S. (Vocabulary,Handwriting,Spelling). In my class though, it’s pretty much V.S. Cursive is archaic, haven’t you people heard of computers! Admit it, you always hated those kids who ACTUALLY tried to be the best in handwriting class…unless you are that kid. Getting my kids to pronounce our new words is time consuming and very hilarious. If someone walked by our room they would think it was 30 Hispanic whales trying to communicate…
ssssssccccrruuuuuuubbbbbbeeeeeeedddddddd
After a few hearty laughs about how ridiculous we sound, I hit them with horrific news: Time for English. Not much to say about this class, we’ve all been there and probably hated it. Turns out, if you’re a non-native English speaker, you hate it more. I don’t blame them, last week I spent 30 minutes practicing how to indent a paragraph and a large majority of them still indent the second line of the paragraph…I am truly confused.
What I find myself even more confused about every day is math. I understand math about as much as Sarah Palin understands the respective geographic locations of Alaska and Russia. I was overexcited to find out I would be teaching fourth grade until I remembered I cried during a fourth-grade fraction test, and part of the reason I opted to become a communication major was the alluring six-credit maximum for math. I am coming around to those crazy numbers because the kids love it. It’s their easiest subject because there are no English words, just beautiful universal numbers.
Plus, if I don’t know the answer to a question, I pull the old “Class, can anyone help Raul?”
Works like a charm.
The third third is coming soon.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The First Third: Frauds, Facebook, Frogs
Depending on the day of the week my angels and I begin our day with some form of impromptu P.E., art or music class. As I am not qualified to teach any of these, these 40 minutes usually consist of a lot of nervous eye shifting and mumbling on my part. Luckily nine-year-olds still think it’s more satisfying to eat the glue than to create a masterpiece.
Watching these kids eat glue, I am reminded of a defining moment of my middle schooling, which became my first insight into the power of media and the repulsiveness of squealers. In fifth grade, one of my friends (we’ll call her Heather) dumped a few ounces of glue on a less-than-popular girl’s (we’ll call her Leigh) chair, who expectedly and hilariously sat in it, and then expectedly and hilariously cried. Now, I did not take any part in this prank, but I did snicker uncontrollably causing Heather to assume she was the funniest person in class (which she wasn’t. This title was held by one Tony Riley). The point is, Heather bragged about this for weeks, months, a whole year, but then in sixth grade she was invited with nine other students from my school to be part of a local-programming shitty-quality talk show cleverly titled, Kid Talk, where a host with gelled hair and a polo shirt asked select students about trials and tribulations of being a pre-teen so they could connect with other angsty pre-teens who were skipping school at 12 p.m. on a Wednesday just so they could catch the fun on air. That show really needed a better producer.
ANYWAYS, Heather was asked by our gelled host, “Tell us about a time you were peer-pressured to do something you were uncomfortable with and how you handled the situation.” And Heather, without skipping a mother f*cking beat says, “Well, once my friend Kaleigh told me to dump glue on our friend Leigh’s chair. I said I wouldn’t because that wouldn’t be nice, so she took the bottle and did it herself.” Well, as I watched this unfold with my classmates on a recorded VHS the day after it aired, my mouth literally hung open. I frantically glanced around making eye contact with everyone in my class who seemed to conveniently forget that Heather was bragging about this deed LITERALLY two days previous during recess. Even Heather herself was shameless enough to look me in the eyes and give me a “how could you be so childish” glare. Leigh never talked to me again after that and I vowed to never become a journalist even though I would eventually receive a degree in mass communication…. People will do and say anything when sat in front of a camera or a recorder, and do it with conviction.
But I digress. After first period I have 40 minutes of a “planning period,” which basically means Facebooking and teaching myself 4th grade science. The kids love science, even though they don’t understand a single paragraph in the book. It must be the pictures and the strange disillusion they all have that they will be dissecting frogs at the end of this year. I’m sorry, but the previous teacher who told them this lie should be banned from education. I can’t even find decent floss in Honduras, how do they think I’m going to produce 30 frogs floating in formaldehyde? Telling these little doe-eyed chiquitos that we are going to do no such thing is the second time I’ve broken their hearts – the first is when I told them no, you will not be receiving candy every time you finish an assignment. Seriously, who is teaching these kids?
Science is refreshingly fun though. The day I was explaining the incredible concept of the chromosome was the first time I had the complete attention of everyone, which is saying a lot. Anyone who has taught knows that never happens unless you’re holding a dead preserved frog.
The second third will come soon...
Watching these kids eat glue, I am reminded of a defining moment of my middle schooling, which became my first insight into the power of media and the repulsiveness of squealers. In fifth grade, one of my friends (we’ll call her Heather) dumped a few ounces of glue on a less-than-popular girl’s (we’ll call her Leigh) chair, who expectedly and hilariously sat in it, and then expectedly and hilariously cried. Now, I did not take any part in this prank, but I did snicker uncontrollably causing Heather to assume she was the funniest person in class (which she wasn’t. This title was held by one Tony Riley). The point is, Heather bragged about this for weeks, months, a whole year, but then in sixth grade she was invited with nine other students from my school to be part of a local-programming shitty-quality talk show cleverly titled, Kid Talk, where a host with gelled hair and a polo shirt asked select students about trials and tribulations of being a pre-teen so they could connect with other angsty pre-teens who were skipping school at 12 p.m. on a Wednesday just so they could catch the fun on air. That show really needed a better producer.
ANYWAYS, Heather was asked by our gelled host, “Tell us about a time you were peer-pressured to do something you were uncomfortable with and how you handled the situation.” And Heather, without skipping a mother f*cking beat says, “Well, once my friend Kaleigh told me to dump glue on our friend Leigh’s chair. I said I wouldn’t because that wouldn’t be nice, so she took the bottle and did it herself.” Well, as I watched this unfold with my classmates on a recorded VHS the day after it aired, my mouth literally hung open. I frantically glanced around making eye contact with everyone in my class who seemed to conveniently forget that Heather was bragging about this deed LITERALLY two days previous during recess. Even Heather herself was shameless enough to look me in the eyes and give me a “how could you be so childish” glare. Leigh never talked to me again after that and I vowed to never become a journalist even though I would eventually receive a degree in mass communication…. People will do and say anything when sat in front of a camera or a recorder, and do it with conviction.
But I digress. After first period I have 40 minutes of a “planning period,” which basically means Facebooking and teaching myself 4th grade science. The kids love science, even though they don’t understand a single paragraph in the book. It must be the pictures and the strange disillusion they all have that they will be dissecting frogs at the end of this year. I’m sorry, but the previous teacher who told them this lie should be banned from education. I can’t even find decent floss in Honduras, how do they think I’m going to produce 30 frogs floating in formaldehyde? Telling these little doe-eyed chiquitos that we are going to do no such thing is the second time I’ve broken their hearts – the first is when I told them no, you will not be receiving candy every time you finish an assignment. Seriously, who is teaching these kids?
Science is refreshingly fun though. The day I was explaining the incredible concept of the chromosome was the first time I had the complete attention of everyone, which is saying a lot. Anyone who has taught knows that never happens unless you’re holding a dead preserved frog.
The second third will come soon...
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A Day in the Life of Ms. O'Donnell
My day begins as I go to slam the snooze button on my alarm for the third time that morning at 5:30 am. About this time my responsibility kicks in and I peel myself out of bed and inch like a Honduran slug down my stairs to make some coffee - "Cafe Rey," to be exact, which I generously dump in a sock like contraption that dangles inside a can of boiling water. I will never complain about prepping a coffee machine again. After scrounging around for leftovers and soaking my apple in Chlorox water, I make a mad dash out the door. No need for a shower - I look and feel as if I just crushed the Boston Marathon record time about 30 minutes later.
In Honduras, everything has its place. The first corner I pass every morning, I am greeted with a "Que le vaya bien!" by an elderly couple enjoying the "fresco" atmosphere in only their underwear. Walking up the cobblestone fourth avenue I can glance through the iron and cement house fronts into their simple and tiled homes - kids swinging around in hammocks, abuelas beating tortillas, young mothers hushing their babies. I'm almost swiped by mopeds and taxis as I weave through all of the bipedal commuters on thin sidewalks. I tip toe past the leashed boxer/doeberman mix, who I'm very confident will break free one of these days. Leaping over permanent puddles, I hurdle past the old man in the white cowboy hat carefuly and efficiently peeling breakfast oranges. One more turn past the grimey and oily autoshop littered with smirking hombres, and I have arrived at last....DAY-STAR SCHOOL.
Despite my body odor bursting through my deodorant like Orcs tearing through the walls of Gondor, I tell myself it will be a fantastic day with a big plastic smile, and wait patiently for my hellians...oops, I mean children, to arrive.
To be continued....
In Honduras, everything has its place. The first corner I pass every morning, I am greeted with a "Que le vaya bien!" by an elderly couple enjoying the "fresco" atmosphere in only their underwear. Walking up the cobblestone fourth avenue I can glance through the iron and cement house fronts into their simple and tiled homes - kids swinging around in hammocks, abuelas beating tortillas, young mothers hushing their babies. I'm almost swiped by mopeds and taxis as I weave through all of the bipedal commuters on thin sidewalks. I tip toe past the leashed boxer/doeberman mix, who I'm very confident will break free one of these days. Leaping over permanent puddles, I hurdle past the old man in the white cowboy hat carefuly and efficiently peeling breakfast oranges. One more turn past the grimey and oily autoshop littered with smirking hombres, and I have arrived at last....DAY-STAR SCHOOL.
Despite my body odor bursting through my deodorant like Orcs tearing through the walls of Gondor, I tell myself it will be a fantastic day with a big plastic smile, and wait patiently for my hellians...oops, I mean children, to arrive.
To be continued....
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Portrait of a City
Oh, hello Readers. I figured since you were all insanely engrossed in my blog, I should tell you a little more about the city of Juticalpa, Honduras. So without further ado, a portrait...
Juticalpa lies in the high dusts of a valley surrounded by mountains, although I'm not sure which ones. Possibly the Sierras? It's a big city of about 50,000, but seems much smaller. The houses are like Legos - colorful and smashed together with a toddler's chubby hands. It is not dimensional, but flat with very few two or more storied buildings. There are only about 6-8 paved main roads, and even those are not paved all the way through from point A to point B. The other streets are dirt and stones. The streets have no order or pattern - the city planner must have been on drugs, PCP is my guess. There is a central park that is spread in front of a towering, white cathedral like an inviting blanket.
Pulperias are located on most corners and are differentiated by the woman's name who owns them, Puleria Sonia, Pulperia Flores, etc. These are like small, family owned 7-11's, and it's not unusual to see a kid running the register, or their family chatting on the stoops. All the stray dogs have their own corners too. I pass the same scruffy pups every day on the way up to school. While it is tempting to harbor all of them in my home, 87% of them have lice/rabies...but this is an assumption.
Taxi drivers hunt for passengers in Toyota models from the 80's. Sometimes the smell of poop stays with you so long that you actually check your shoe to see if you're the a**hole who has been walking for 20 minutes with poo on the bottom...but alas, that's just the way the city smells in some places. The Eskimo ice cream shop is a popular hang out for ages 2-97. It has A/C. Hondurans have warm and wide smiles and can't get over the fact that we are white.
Olancho, the department (state) I'm living in is considered the Wild West of this area, and that couldn't be a more accurate description. Everyone has a gun and all proudly display them in their belts. Armories are stationed on every other street. The second most frequent is a barber shop.
You don't see many homeless Hondurans. This might be a stretch but it seems like most of the people here do nearly the exact same blue collared job. I've seen very few large houses. Also, it isn't common for houses to hold entire families - like 15 members. But perhaps I just can't distinguish the homeless from the homed, which is a real possibility.
It's the rainy season and when it rains, it pours to use a cliché. Streets become flooded, and this is probably why there is such a huge problem with dengue fever here - puddles are rampant and unfortunate breeding grounds for mosquitos. Speaking of those foul bastards, they are very different here than in the States. Here they are so terribly small, you don't even notice them until they have been biting you for some time.
It's hard because I see all these problems and I know how to fix them, even with only 22 years of existence, but I really just can't. This is a subject for another blog though, excuse me.
Honduras is hard, but it's real. Whenever I feel frustrated with too much dirt in my eyes, and poop on my shoe, I can look up in any direction and look at the beautiful and awesome (as in its true definition) mountains, and remember that this is absolutley where I want to be.
Juticalpa lies in the high dusts of a valley surrounded by mountains, although I'm not sure which ones. Possibly the Sierras? It's a big city of about 50,000, but seems much smaller. The houses are like Legos - colorful and smashed together with a toddler's chubby hands. It is not dimensional, but flat with very few two or more storied buildings. There are only about 6-8 paved main roads, and even those are not paved all the way through from point A to point B. The other streets are dirt and stones. The streets have no order or pattern - the city planner must have been on drugs, PCP is my guess. There is a central park that is spread in front of a towering, white cathedral like an inviting blanket.
Pulperias are located on most corners and are differentiated by the woman's name who owns them, Puleria Sonia, Pulperia Flores, etc. These are like small, family owned 7-11's, and it's not unusual to see a kid running the register, or their family chatting on the stoops. All the stray dogs have their own corners too. I pass the same scruffy pups every day on the way up to school. While it is tempting to harbor all of them in my home, 87% of them have lice/rabies...but this is an assumption.
Taxi drivers hunt for passengers in Toyota models from the 80's. Sometimes the smell of poop stays with you so long that you actually check your shoe to see if you're the a**hole who has been walking for 20 minutes with poo on the bottom...but alas, that's just the way the city smells in some places. The Eskimo ice cream shop is a popular hang out for ages 2-97. It has A/C. Hondurans have warm and wide smiles and can't get over the fact that we are white.
Olancho, the department (state) I'm living in is considered the Wild West of this area, and that couldn't be a more accurate description. Everyone has a gun and all proudly display them in their belts. Armories are stationed on every other street. The second most frequent is a barber shop.
You don't see many homeless Hondurans. This might be a stretch but it seems like most of the people here do nearly the exact same blue collared job. I've seen very few large houses. Also, it isn't common for houses to hold entire families - like 15 members. But perhaps I just can't distinguish the homeless from the homed, which is a real possibility.
It's the rainy season and when it rains, it pours to use a cliché. Streets become flooded, and this is probably why there is such a huge problem with dengue fever here - puddles are rampant and unfortunate breeding grounds for mosquitos. Speaking of those foul bastards, they are very different here than in the States. Here they are so terribly small, you don't even notice them until they have been biting you for some time.
It's hard because I see all these problems and I know how to fix them, even with only 22 years of existence, but I really just can't. This is a subject for another blog though, excuse me.
Honduras is hard, but it's real. Whenever I feel frustrated with too much dirt in my eyes, and poop on my shoe, I can look up in any direction and look at the beautiful and awesome (as in its true definition) mountains, and remember that this is absolutley where I want to be.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Dirty Feet
My roommate in college, Drew, and I used to fight for the shower. It seemed we both had trouble with time management. When I would rightfully lose my first showerer position, but unscrupulously take it anyways, the shower would always be frigid for me, no matter how long I waited. As soon as he stepped in, it would warm up. He claimed to be the "Once and Future Showerer." I've tried this approach the first few days I have been in Honduras, but no matter how long I wait...it stays cold. That's it.
There is no hot water.
This is ok. An icy shower is a blessing every morning. It is so damn hot. When I ran three miles in the midst of a sweltering Virginian summer, I never sweated, only glistened. I sweat 96% of the day in Juticalpa, Honduras - the other 4%, I'm in the shower.
I'm not complaining. I love it. It's one of the few things that I've come to adore here already after only a few days. My showers are cold, there are lizards in my toaster, and my feet are always dirty.
Honduras is very green, very poor and very pure. The houses are what you would expect - broken and fragile, but somehow their chaos is beautiful. It's simplicity in its truest form.
The simplicity does come at a price though. You can't drink the water here of course, the streets are littered with homeless and thin street-savvy dogs and everyone is literally surviving. Despite all this, la gente are so happy. Everyone has been very helpful, kind and willing to put up with my trying classroom Spanish, which is already improving a lot. Everyone here is a hard and honest worker and respectful of each other MINUS the incessant cat calls.
Despite all the "Hey baby cutie" comments, I love this simple place, and I love my dirty feet - it makes me feel a little less like a gringa.
There is no hot water.
This is ok. An icy shower is a blessing every morning. It is so damn hot. When I ran three miles in the midst of a sweltering Virginian summer, I never sweated, only glistened. I sweat 96% of the day in Juticalpa, Honduras - the other 4%, I'm in the shower.
I'm not complaining. I love it. It's one of the few things that I've come to adore here already after only a few days. My showers are cold, there are lizards in my toaster, and my feet are always dirty.
Honduras is very green, very poor and very pure. The houses are what you would expect - broken and fragile, but somehow their chaos is beautiful. It's simplicity in its truest form.
The simplicity does come at a price though. You can't drink the water here of course, the streets are littered with homeless and thin street-savvy dogs and everyone is literally surviving. Despite all this, la gente are so happy. Everyone has been very helpful, kind and willing to put up with my trying classroom Spanish, which is already improving a lot. Everyone here is a hard and honest worker and respectful of each other MINUS the incessant cat calls.
Despite all the "Hey baby cutie" comments, I love this simple place, and I love my dirty feet - it makes me feel a little less like a gringa.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Consciousness of the Unconscious
I have found myself in the middle of summer with no job. Every friend - hell, every acquaintance I have has found themselves in the middle of summer with a job. Consequently I have found myself (seemingly) doing Jack Shit. I have chosen to capitalize these two words because together, they have currently become a very defining element to my existence.
Two lines above I have put the word "seemingly" between parenthesis. Many of you probably smirked at this as you may have thought I was trying to be clever and witty. However, if you have ever had a conversation with me you may have had to remind yourself that I rarely am translucently clever and witty at the same time without having tones of sarcasm underneath. This may be the reason I can't make new friends. Or why people tend to think I'm an over-opinionated A**hole. Or why I was never chosen as a representitive for anything in my 17 years of schooling. BUT I DIGRESS. The point I was trying to make with the seemingly clever and witty insertion of "seemingly" was that not doing Jack Shit has actually allow me to do, well, Lotsa Shit - mainly thinking.
This morning I sat on my back porch sipping bitter coffee and trying to ignore the sweltering humidity. Eight a.m. is entirely to early for sweltering humidity, especially if you are drinking coffee. The heat was soon lost on me though as I became strangely intrigued by two egrets stalking around my dock. I watched these egrets stalk for 30-minutes and in those 30-minutes they did almost less than I was doing. I believe collectively they stabbed three bugs and each bug was a ten-minute process. One would slowly, as if in the Matrix series, high step in the direction of his meal and then precariously wait for the moment to strike. The whole time I was thinking, "Jesus Hollis, just go for the f*cking bug. If it bolts there are millions more." Yes, I named the bird Hollis and was completely aware of how bored I was, but I was so captivated at the same time. I believe I was so captivated because of how applicable this process was to what we know as human life.
I'm a big fan of the Theory of Relativity, and the concept of relativity in general. Hollis and his hombre were taking their time catching these bugs because that's all they had to do that day. Relatively, they were working really hard and they were good at their trade. We all silently stalk our perfect bugs, be it the right job, the perfect boyfriend, the best fitting dress to minimize love handles. Sometimes it takes (seemingly) forever, but when you know you know. That's what I love about the world. The laws of physics and the laws of life are constant and the same for everything. Sure, some people are better looking and smarter and don't have weird obsessions with monkeys, but we are all connected some how. Maybe this is me being too metaphorical and figurative, but regardless this is the point of the discussion today which has taken me quite a few paragraphs to get to - the Collective Unconscious.
This is undeniably more spiritual and sappy than I usually am. I recognize this and have vowed to listen to less Jewel. ANYWAYS the collective unconscious was coined by Carl Jung (remember freshmen Psychology!) and is, to quote Wikipedia, "a part of the unconscious mind, expressed in humanity and all life forms with nervous systems, and describes how the structure of the psyche autonomously organizes experience." Digest that for a second. Basically we are all (humans and animals) connected with each other through some crazy and totally pervasive force.
J*l**s F*l*p* texted me some weeks ago about a giant sycamore tree in Blacksburg which was about to be chopped down - it had some fungus he supposed. He then proceeded to tell me that the night before he learned this bit of information, in his drunken stupor he had stumbled to the tree on his way to Tots (a bar full of pretty, and pretty drunk college tools [minus a few regulars whom I love dearly]) in desperate need of a place to piss. Ready to pull out his peter and unload in the privacy the tree's shadow provided, which was probably nonexistent but good enough for a drunken fool, he was stopped suddenly by an overwhelming love for this sycamore tree, of which he had never given any thought before. This love was so overwhelming that he zipped his pants back up and hugged the tree. For a long time. Then went on his way to use a legitamate bathroom.
The next day he read in the front page of Virginia Tech's school newspaper the Collegiate Times that the tree was to be cut down. Its 300-year life was to be ended. J*l**s believes the tree was saying goodbye to him through our collective unconscious. Sure, maybe he loses some credibility for being hammered (actually a lot of credibility), but I think he may have been tapping in to his collective unconscious.
There is one more collective unconscious incident I will sum up. I was camping with my mom and brother around the same time J*l**s texted me. It was a particularly hilarious and aggravating camping trip which involved a lot of getting lost and not a whole lot of sleeping. At the camp site there were two recently abandoned beagle puppies who were justifiably frightened. The first night as I approached them one ran away and the other, who I will call Lucy slowly came to me and basically begged me to hold her in my arms. I walked with her like that for about a half mile with her brother, Sawyer, following us. Then when I got to my destination I put her down and kept walking, but not before she licked my ankles. That night we were awoken by an awful sound that resembled putting a small animal into a blender and pushing "On," followed by quiet whimpers. Terrifying, I know. For hours the next morning we saw Sawyer running around frantically...and alone. I can only assume it was Lucy who was killed that night as she was nowhere to be found.
All day I couldn't help but think about how she let me hold her for so long and then "kissed" me goodbye. Ok I know you think I'm batshit crazy, and maybe I am, but it seemed eerily coincidental on both of these occasions. Things will always find a way to speak to you if you listen. So thank you Mr. Jung for the (seemingly) baffling term of analytic psychology.
Two lines above I have put the word "seemingly" between parenthesis. Many of you probably smirked at this as you may have thought I was trying to be clever and witty. However, if you have ever had a conversation with me you may have had to remind yourself that I rarely am translucently clever and witty at the same time without having tones of sarcasm underneath. This may be the reason I can't make new friends. Or why people tend to think I'm an over-opinionated A**hole. Or why I was never chosen as a representitive for anything in my 17 years of schooling. BUT I DIGRESS. The point I was trying to make with the seemingly clever and witty insertion of "seemingly" was that not doing Jack Shit has actually allow me to do, well, Lotsa Shit - mainly thinking.
This morning I sat on my back porch sipping bitter coffee and trying to ignore the sweltering humidity. Eight a.m. is entirely to early for sweltering humidity, especially if you are drinking coffee. The heat was soon lost on me though as I became strangely intrigued by two egrets stalking around my dock. I watched these egrets stalk for 30-minutes and in those 30-minutes they did almost less than I was doing. I believe collectively they stabbed three bugs and each bug was a ten-minute process. One would slowly, as if in the Matrix series, high step in the direction of his meal and then precariously wait for the moment to strike. The whole time I was thinking, "Jesus Hollis, just go for the f*cking bug. If it bolts there are millions more." Yes, I named the bird Hollis and was completely aware of how bored I was, but I was so captivated at the same time. I believe I was so captivated because of how applicable this process was to what we know as human life.
I'm a big fan of the Theory of Relativity, and the concept of relativity in general. Hollis and his hombre were taking their time catching these bugs because that's all they had to do that day. Relatively, they were working really hard and they were good at their trade. We all silently stalk our perfect bugs, be it the right job, the perfect boyfriend, the best fitting dress to minimize love handles. Sometimes it takes (seemingly) forever, but when you know you know. That's what I love about the world. The laws of physics and the laws of life are constant and the same for everything. Sure, some people are better looking and smarter and don't have weird obsessions with monkeys, but we are all connected some how. Maybe this is me being too metaphorical and figurative, but regardless this is the point of the discussion today which has taken me quite a few paragraphs to get to - the Collective Unconscious.
This is undeniably more spiritual and sappy than I usually am. I recognize this and have vowed to listen to less Jewel. ANYWAYS the collective unconscious was coined by Carl Jung (remember freshmen Psychology!) and is, to quote Wikipedia, "a part of the unconscious mind, expressed in humanity and all life forms with nervous systems, and describes how the structure of the psyche autonomously organizes experience." Digest that for a second. Basically we are all (humans and animals) connected with each other through some crazy and totally pervasive force.
J*l**s F*l*p* texted me some weeks ago about a giant sycamore tree in Blacksburg which was about to be chopped down - it had some fungus he supposed. He then proceeded to tell me that the night before he learned this bit of information, in his drunken stupor he had stumbled to the tree on his way to Tots (a bar full of pretty, and pretty drunk college tools [minus a few regulars whom I love dearly]) in desperate need of a place to piss. Ready to pull out his peter and unload in the privacy the tree's shadow provided, which was probably nonexistent but good enough for a drunken fool, he was stopped suddenly by an overwhelming love for this sycamore tree, of which he had never given any thought before. This love was so overwhelming that he zipped his pants back up and hugged the tree. For a long time. Then went on his way to use a legitamate bathroom.
The next day he read in the front page of Virginia Tech's school newspaper the Collegiate Times that the tree was to be cut down. Its 300-year life was to be ended. J*l**s believes the tree was saying goodbye to him through our collective unconscious. Sure, maybe he loses some credibility for being hammered (actually a lot of credibility), but I think he may have been tapping in to his collective unconscious.
There is one more collective unconscious incident I will sum up. I was camping with my mom and brother around the same time J*l**s texted me. It was a particularly hilarious and aggravating camping trip which involved a lot of getting lost and not a whole lot of sleeping. At the camp site there were two recently abandoned beagle puppies who were justifiably frightened. The first night as I approached them one ran away and the other, who I will call Lucy slowly came to me and basically begged me to hold her in my arms. I walked with her like that for about a half mile with her brother, Sawyer, following us. Then when I got to my destination I put her down and kept walking, but not before she licked my ankles. That night we were awoken by an awful sound that resembled putting a small animal into a blender and pushing "On," followed by quiet whimpers. Terrifying, I know. For hours the next morning we saw Sawyer running around frantically...and alone. I can only assume it was Lucy who was killed that night as she was nowhere to be found.
All day I couldn't help but think about how she let me hold her for so long and then "kissed" me goodbye. Ok I know you think I'm batshit crazy, and maybe I am, but it seemed eerily coincidental on both of these occasions. Things will always find a way to speak to you if you listen. So thank you Mr. Jung for the (seemingly) baffling term of analytic psychology.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Photo
I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. I stand on an unearthed sidewalk outside a filthy white fence I have never seen before. Finding a rotted gap between the slats, I strain to see through the cobwebs at what lies beyond. 2115. I turn the picture over- 2115. This is it.
I begin to step towards the gate, inching through the knee high weeds, my faded blue Keds shoving ancient broken beer bottles further into the ground. The cracking of the glass reminds me of those school nights when I would retreat to my room to do my homework as my mom began her routine. One bottle. Two, three, four. Sobbing. Pause. A shatter. Silence. I used to tip toe down the stairs, careful not to let them groan as if any sound would destroy the long awaited calm. “Mommy?” I would ask. “Not now,” was all she would say.
Now, after burying these shards in the dirt, I pause right in front of the latch and lift the photo to my face. I know what this man looks like. I could draw you a perfect copy with my eyes closed I have studied him so many times. Since I found it six years ago in my mother’s make-up drawer, covered by tubes of lipstick and eye shadow dust, I have looked at it every night before I went to bed. The man’s youthful smile connects his two dimples on his round cheeks. His thick mustache sits perfectly trimmed under his straight nose. Blocking the sun in the picture is his bushy brown hair that rests on his eyelashes.
There has always been a weird sense of familiarity that reaches the back of my throat and hovers, not budging for hours after I look at the picture. Sometimes, I think I can remember that man; singing to me at night, or pushing me on the porch swing. But then I realize I’m being ridiculous. I’ve never seen him off this glossy picture paper. Have I looked at him so many times that my mind has begun fabricating memories to satisfy my confusion?
I suddenly find myself inside the fence; farther than I ever planned on getting. The picture is creased from my anxiety and I can feel my grip tighten even more as I realize just how close the front door is. Another twenty steps? How far to the gate? Ten? I want to take the easy way out, turn right back around and get to the other side of the street as quickly as I can- recoil from discovery, and nestle into uncertainty, but my burning curiosity rages inside of me.
Five steps. Who are you!
Ten steps. Why did she have a picture of you!
Fifteen steps. Why can’t I erase you from my mind!
My heart feels inhuman thumping so hard it makes me sick. It’s intensity climbing with each step up the porch.
Twenty steps. Please don’t open the door.
It swings open inward so suddenly that the picture is swiped from my hand and my extraordinary grip, taking with it any breath, fear, or longing I have ever had. Staring right into those eyes that I have studied so many times before, with only a sheet of thin criss-crossed wires separating the reality, my cheeks dimple to match his. I know the answer.
Dad.
I begin to step towards the gate, inching through the knee high weeds, my faded blue Keds shoving ancient broken beer bottles further into the ground. The cracking of the glass reminds me of those school nights when I would retreat to my room to do my homework as my mom began her routine. One bottle. Two, three, four. Sobbing. Pause. A shatter. Silence. I used to tip toe down the stairs, careful not to let them groan as if any sound would destroy the long awaited calm. “Mommy?” I would ask. “Not now,” was all she would say.
Now, after burying these shards in the dirt, I pause right in front of the latch and lift the photo to my face. I know what this man looks like. I could draw you a perfect copy with my eyes closed I have studied him so many times. Since I found it six years ago in my mother’s make-up drawer, covered by tubes of lipstick and eye shadow dust, I have looked at it every night before I went to bed. The man’s youthful smile connects his two dimples on his round cheeks. His thick mustache sits perfectly trimmed under his straight nose. Blocking the sun in the picture is his bushy brown hair that rests on his eyelashes.
There has always been a weird sense of familiarity that reaches the back of my throat and hovers, not budging for hours after I look at the picture. Sometimes, I think I can remember that man; singing to me at night, or pushing me on the porch swing. But then I realize I’m being ridiculous. I’ve never seen him off this glossy picture paper. Have I looked at him so many times that my mind has begun fabricating memories to satisfy my confusion?
I suddenly find myself inside the fence; farther than I ever planned on getting. The picture is creased from my anxiety and I can feel my grip tighten even more as I realize just how close the front door is. Another twenty steps? How far to the gate? Ten? I want to take the easy way out, turn right back around and get to the other side of the street as quickly as I can- recoil from discovery, and nestle into uncertainty, but my burning curiosity rages inside of me.
Five steps. Who are you!
Ten steps. Why did she have a picture of you!
Fifteen steps. Why can’t I erase you from my mind!
My heart feels inhuman thumping so hard it makes me sick. It’s intensity climbing with each step up the porch.
Twenty steps. Please don’t open the door.
It swings open inward so suddenly that the picture is swiped from my hand and my extraordinary grip, taking with it any breath, fear, or longing I have ever had. Staring right into those eyes that I have studied so many times before, with only a sheet of thin criss-crossed wires separating the reality, my cheeks dimple to match his. I know the answer.
Dad.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Are you there Kanye? It's me, Kaleigh
I feel I need your guidance now since Jesus is off curing a fatal disease in a mother of four in Detroit. I haven’t talked to you in a while. I’ve been so busy with school and work, but I can really feel myself slipping in some areas of my life.
After all, I saw you proclaimed you were “God’s vessel,” on VH1’s “Storytellers,” while I was up late thinking about the temptations of the day,
Yesterday, Vicki told me she got an “a” on her anatomy paper. I told her good job but then reminded her that that won’t cut it in the real world, nor will it save her from damnation.
She insisted that we should try to spend more time with other people, claiming I was “arrogant, sarcastic and egotistical.” I think it’s because I’m white.
See, that’s what is so hard now a days. No one understands the pain and struggles I go through on a daily basis being me. I sympathize with and admire you.
Like dying on the cross, you have given up any normal life you may have had to bring joy into the hearts of all your fans. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; Women weep at your feet, men raise you up high, and children, wide-eyed and pure, follow you to the ends of the earth.
Mr. West, your humility astounds me. When you said, “I have sacrificed real life to be a celebrity and to give this art to people,” it nearly brought me to tears. What wouldn’t I give to be able to take some of this pain away from you?
These heretics that try to come between you and I to kill The Word don’t understand. Your misery is our pleasure, and as God and Man, there is no other like you.
(Well there is, but he doesn’t have his own Louis Vuitton shoe or $50 million, just a dirty robe and miracle healing powers).
I only hope that my friends, family and the rest of the world realize the fragility of their mortality and the awesome power of your immortality. We need someone like you for guidance. We need you to salvage our tainted souls when the time comes. We need you as the voice of our generation and the thousands more to come.
A true saint and savior, we should all model our lives after you, not those other self-righteous crusaders. Martin Luther King Jr. is to you as Jerry Falwell is to Gandhi.
Life for you must have been much simpler before model chicks were bendin’ over, or dealerships asked you Benz or Rover. As a martyr though, you show true piousness by willingly accepting your fate as a self-important millionaire.
Everyone thinks you were out of line for interrupting Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech at the VMA’s this year. I think they are crazy. Why, it is your duty as the holiest of holies to spread your Gospel.
Beyoncé deserved to win for Best Female Video, not Swift. You only speak the truth. If Beyoncé hadn’t have won for Video of the Year, I would have expected you to smite the two-bit country star.
Some blonde-haired twanging talent can’t stop your big plan for us. How dare she seek to change the course of destiny? You alone are fit for that.
Kanye, you are our only light in this world doomed to racist ex-presidents, a declining music industry and looming nuclear war.
Without you we wouldn’t have fashion. Without you rap music wouldn’t have soul. Without you my Louis Vuitton Don shoes would not exist and I would be shunned from my social circle. Without you we would have no direction and would fall to temptation.
Kanye you make us work harder, better, faster, stronger, and for that I will testify ‘til the day I die.
In your name we pray,
Amen.
After all, I saw you proclaimed you were “God’s vessel,” on VH1’s “Storytellers,” while I was up late thinking about the temptations of the day,
Yesterday, Vicki told me she got an “a” on her anatomy paper. I told her good job but then reminded her that that won’t cut it in the real world, nor will it save her from damnation.
She insisted that we should try to spend more time with other people, claiming I was “arrogant, sarcastic and egotistical.” I think it’s because I’m white.
See, that’s what is so hard now a days. No one understands the pain and struggles I go through on a daily basis being me. I sympathize with and admire you.
Like dying on the cross, you have given up any normal life you may have had to bring joy into the hearts of all your fans. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; Women weep at your feet, men raise you up high, and children, wide-eyed and pure, follow you to the ends of the earth.
Mr. West, your humility astounds me. When you said, “I have sacrificed real life to be a celebrity and to give this art to people,” it nearly brought me to tears. What wouldn’t I give to be able to take some of this pain away from you?
These heretics that try to come between you and I to kill The Word don’t understand. Your misery is our pleasure, and as God and Man, there is no other like you.
(Well there is, but he doesn’t have his own Louis Vuitton shoe or $50 million, just a dirty robe and miracle healing powers).
I only hope that my friends, family and the rest of the world realize the fragility of their mortality and the awesome power of your immortality. We need someone like you for guidance. We need you to salvage our tainted souls when the time comes. We need you as the voice of our generation and the thousands more to come.
A true saint and savior, we should all model our lives after you, not those other self-righteous crusaders. Martin Luther King Jr. is to you as Jerry Falwell is to Gandhi.
Life for you must have been much simpler before model chicks were bendin’ over, or dealerships asked you Benz or Rover. As a martyr though, you show true piousness by willingly accepting your fate as a self-important millionaire.
Everyone thinks you were out of line for interrupting Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech at the VMA’s this year. I think they are crazy. Why, it is your duty as the holiest of holies to spread your Gospel.
Beyoncé deserved to win for Best Female Video, not Swift. You only speak the truth. If Beyoncé hadn’t have won for Video of the Year, I would have expected you to smite the two-bit country star.
Some blonde-haired twanging talent can’t stop your big plan for us. How dare she seek to change the course of destiny? You alone are fit for that.
Kanye, you are our only light in this world doomed to racist ex-presidents, a declining music industry and looming nuclear war.
Without you we wouldn’t have fashion. Without you rap music wouldn’t have soul. Without you my Louis Vuitton Don shoes would not exist and I would be shunned from my social circle. Without you we would have no direction and would fall to temptation.
Kanye you make us work harder, better, faster, stronger, and for that I will testify ‘til the day I die.
In your name we pray,
Amen.
An inflatable Jesus in October
At 3:00 a.m. on a Tuesday night I staggered into a Wal-Mart, disheveled and zombie-esque. I had woken up terrified, remembering I had forgotten to buy construction paper for a group presentation.
The rush of wind from the automatic doors forced my eyes shut, and once inside, as I tried to open them, an awesome light that would make even the proudest genuflect, blinded me.
Finally as my eyes adjusted, I focused in on its source – Christmas trees. One hundred fake Christmas trees wrapped in tinsel and magnificent white lights, for the low price of $19.99.
First, my heart skipped a beat- everyone loves the holidays. Then, I became terrified. Had I slept through two months? What was today’s date? There are so many people to buy presents for.
Did Mom say houndstooth or cashmere?
Scrambling, I located the date, Oct. 5. My relief was soon overcome by disgust.
Oh the horror! Have Americans no shame? It seems Halloween and Thanksgiving have been eradicated by the crippling clutch of consumerism.
Winter holidays, especially Christmas, are becoming marketed earlier every year. Last year I cringed when “Deck the Halls’ rang through Sears at 8:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving. This year, corporate America lit their Yule log well before Halloween.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Christmas time; it makes me as warm and fuzzy as the next guy, but incessant flashing Christmas trees in the beginning of October boils my blood pressure more than the Westernized euphemistic portrayal of Thanksgiving. And that’s saying something.
Quite simply, we, as a consumer-driven culture, have allowed ourselves to be controlled by crap, and one of the biggest entities holding the reigns is Christmas.
As trinkets, giant inflatable Santas and fake trees emerge earlier, our understanding of what the holiday is becomes irreversibly tangled with the eight boxes of lights you have stored in the attic.
Americans have socially evolved to understand that if their house isn’t the brightest on the block the earliest, their neighbors will think of them as cantankerous bah-humbuggers. If you have no decorations at all? You can forget about your soulless heart being invited to the neighborhood potluck.
This race insists that companies sell their Christmas products sooner every year. It’s only a matter of time until we see a sign stating, “Buy your bikini, get one for Rudolf half-off!”
While it bothers me that by the time Christmas does roll around, I’m ready for it to be over (due to an overdose of Nat King Cole’s “Oh Come all Ye Faithful”), I am troubled by the willingness that consumers have that allows thousands of companies to guide their intentions.
Consumers have allowed advertisements to distort the holiday’s original meaning – family and goodwill. This can’t be found on a clearance isle among 40 other ravenous mothers and fathers.
I am admittedly not religious, but it is disgusting to see Jesus turned into one of the most successful marketing tools. Has this become completely acceptable for the majority of Americans?
Due to the overwhelming evidence in my neighbor’s front yard, I’d say so. An inflatable Jesus should be a red flag for all.
Snap out of it. You haven’t even bought Halloween candy. Christmas isn’t going anywhere. It will arrive as planned on Dec. 25, but before that, you have an entire month after Thanksgiving to chisel a perfected jolly holiday image with your bonus money.
Give the pumpkins and the pilgrims a chance, and keep Jesus in your hearts and off the shelves.
The rush of wind from the automatic doors forced my eyes shut, and once inside, as I tried to open them, an awesome light that would make even the proudest genuflect, blinded me.
Finally as my eyes adjusted, I focused in on its source – Christmas trees. One hundred fake Christmas trees wrapped in tinsel and magnificent white lights, for the low price of $19.99.
First, my heart skipped a beat- everyone loves the holidays. Then, I became terrified. Had I slept through two months? What was today’s date? There are so many people to buy presents for.
Did Mom say houndstooth or cashmere?
Scrambling, I located the date, Oct. 5. My relief was soon overcome by disgust.
Oh the horror! Have Americans no shame? It seems Halloween and Thanksgiving have been eradicated by the crippling clutch of consumerism.
Winter holidays, especially Christmas, are becoming marketed earlier every year. Last year I cringed when “Deck the Halls’ rang through Sears at 8:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving. This year, corporate America lit their Yule log well before Halloween.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Christmas time; it makes me as warm and fuzzy as the next guy, but incessant flashing Christmas trees in the beginning of October boils my blood pressure more than the Westernized euphemistic portrayal of Thanksgiving. And that’s saying something.
Quite simply, we, as a consumer-driven culture, have allowed ourselves to be controlled by crap, and one of the biggest entities holding the reigns is Christmas.
As trinkets, giant inflatable Santas and fake trees emerge earlier, our understanding of what the holiday is becomes irreversibly tangled with the eight boxes of lights you have stored in the attic.
Americans have socially evolved to understand that if their house isn’t the brightest on the block the earliest, their neighbors will think of them as cantankerous bah-humbuggers. If you have no decorations at all? You can forget about your soulless heart being invited to the neighborhood potluck.
This race insists that companies sell their Christmas products sooner every year. It’s only a matter of time until we see a sign stating, “Buy your bikini, get one for Rudolf half-off!”
While it bothers me that by the time Christmas does roll around, I’m ready for it to be over (due to an overdose of Nat King Cole’s “Oh Come all Ye Faithful”), I am troubled by the willingness that consumers have that allows thousands of companies to guide their intentions.
Consumers have allowed advertisements to distort the holiday’s original meaning – family and goodwill. This can’t be found on a clearance isle among 40 other ravenous mothers and fathers.
I am admittedly not religious, but it is disgusting to see Jesus turned into one of the most successful marketing tools. Has this become completely acceptable for the majority of Americans?
Due to the overwhelming evidence in my neighbor’s front yard, I’d say so. An inflatable Jesus should be a red flag for all.
Snap out of it. You haven’t even bought Halloween candy. Christmas isn’t going anywhere. It will arrive as planned on Dec. 25, but before that, you have an entire month after Thanksgiving to chisel a perfected jolly holiday image with your bonus money.
Give the pumpkins and the pilgrims a chance, and keep Jesus in your hearts and off the shelves.
We're tired of the apocolypse, you know?
The world is going to end again, and unfortunately its existence rests in the fumbling hands of Nicolas Cage.
This 2009 sci-fi thriller begins in Massachusetts in 1959 when a creepy little girl with wide, dark eyes (Lara Robinson), buries a paper filled with a cryptic numerical sequence in her class’s time capsule. Fifty years later it is unearthed and the paper falls into the hands of the intelligent and logical son (Chandler Canterbury) of widowed and alcoholic MIT astrophysics professor John Koestler (Nicolas Cage). John miraculously discovers the numbers predict devastating tragedies in the past and in the future and now must single-handedly save himself and his family.
Cage couldn’t handle the Apocalypse if it was canned like EZ Cheez and equipped with instructions. His nervous and spastic acting method would have certainly caused it to combust. His performance here isn’t another “Ghost Rider,” (thank God), but it’s as if he is required to be weird and over-the-top in all of his films.
One has to ask if Cage skimmed this script while eating cereal in the morning and signed immediately, knowing it would only be mediocre at best. Cage should receive credit for trying, though – his intense presence does reflect the mood well, and enhances a shaky plot.
Despite poor casting for its leading man, the film is ambitious and director Alex Proyas does the best he can with the jumbled and over-used, but exciting plot. Proyas has some good shots, but nothing inspiring, and the age-old science versus religion theme over powers too quickly in the movie during a sappy bedtime conversation between father and son.
Redemption for its flaws is scattered throughout the 121 minutes in well-edited suspenseful scenes and a solid performance by the big-eyed girl’s grown daughter, Diana (Rose Byrne) and Canterbury, who has potential for being the next child star.
For an apocalyptic movie, the scenes of destruction are full of terrifying special effects that would make even Bruce Willis dodge the asteroid. One in particular is a graphic plane crash, which almost tips the PG-13 rating to an R. The absurdity of a couple flaming moose however, knock the scale right back into place.
The plot of “Knowing” is overused, unoriginal and scattered with loose ends such as strange shiny black rocks and silent, stalking, beautiful white males dressed in black trench coats that morph into aliens? It’s too shallow to be a cult hit, yet too entertaining to be a box-office bomb so it simply hovers in the middle leaving it’s fate to be determined by the futile interests of teens and young adults.
If you’re having trouble deciding if you would spend your money on “Knowing,” know this: If you have read the book of Ezekiel from the Bible, seen “Armageddon,” any of the “National Treasure” movies, or “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” save your money for some ice cream. You already know what you need to know.
This 2009 sci-fi thriller begins in Massachusetts in 1959 when a creepy little girl with wide, dark eyes (Lara Robinson), buries a paper filled with a cryptic numerical sequence in her class’s time capsule. Fifty years later it is unearthed and the paper falls into the hands of the intelligent and logical son (Chandler Canterbury) of widowed and alcoholic MIT astrophysics professor John Koestler (Nicolas Cage). John miraculously discovers the numbers predict devastating tragedies in the past and in the future and now must single-handedly save himself and his family.
Cage couldn’t handle the Apocalypse if it was canned like EZ Cheez and equipped with instructions. His nervous and spastic acting method would have certainly caused it to combust. His performance here isn’t another “Ghost Rider,” (thank God), but it’s as if he is required to be weird and over-the-top in all of his films.
One has to ask if Cage skimmed this script while eating cereal in the morning and signed immediately, knowing it would only be mediocre at best. Cage should receive credit for trying, though – his intense presence does reflect the mood well, and enhances a shaky plot.
Despite poor casting for its leading man, the film is ambitious and director Alex Proyas does the best he can with the jumbled and over-used, but exciting plot. Proyas has some good shots, but nothing inspiring, and the age-old science versus religion theme over powers too quickly in the movie during a sappy bedtime conversation between father and son.
Redemption for its flaws is scattered throughout the 121 minutes in well-edited suspenseful scenes and a solid performance by the big-eyed girl’s grown daughter, Diana (Rose Byrne) and Canterbury, who has potential for being the next child star.
For an apocalyptic movie, the scenes of destruction are full of terrifying special effects that would make even Bruce Willis dodge the asteroid. One in particular is a graphic plane crash, which almost tips the PG-13 rating to an R. The absurdity of a couple flaming moose however, knock the scale right back into place.
The plot of “Knowing” is overused, unoriginal and scattered with loose ends such as strange shiny black rocks and silent, stalking, beautiful white males dressed in black trench coats that morph into aliens? It’s too shallow to be a cult hit, yet too entertaining to be a box-office bomb so it simply hovers in the middle leaving it’s fate to be determined by the futile interests of teens and young adults.
If you’re having trouble deciding if you would spend your money on “Knowing,” know this: If you have read the book of Ezekiel from the Bible, seen “Armageddon,” any of the “National Treasure” movies, or “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” save your money for some ice cream. You already know what you need to know.
Cinema finally unearths a precious gem
When the final scene faded to black, and the credits silently rolled, I did not leave my seat or take a breath. Neither did the other moviegoers who chose to see “Precious” that Sunday night.
In an age of linear and mechanical movies, deemed “spectacular” due only to their hypnotizing special effects and loud explosions, “Precious” is unparalleled in its sincerity, social commentary and uninhibited production.
Based on the novel PUSH by Sapphire, this nearly two-hour long movie is the painful, honest and hopeful story of obese and nearly illiterate Claireece “Precious” Jones (newcomer Gabourey "Gabby" Sidibe), a 16-year-old African American girl living (if you can call it that) in the ghetto of Harlem in the late 80s.
Precious lives under the physical and emotional abuse of her welfare-fed mother, Mary (Mo’Nique), and is currently pregnant with her second child by her dead-beat and addict father, whom we never see except in shaky flashbacks. When her middle school principal kicks her out, she joins an alternative school where she meets friends and an insightful teacher and mentor, Blu Rain (Paula Patton). With the help of Rain and understanding social worker, Mrs. Weiss (Mariah Carey), Precious learns to deal with the abuse she has suffered and currently is suffering.
Though this may sound like another sob story, director Lee Daniels knows how to cut through the realities of impoverished and unfortunate Harlem just enough to leave the viewer tear-stricken, but not guilty for their presumably more fortunate life. It’s as if he has an instinct to come back to the precious moments in life at just the right time.
Daniels’s style is gritty and honest, using unsteady camera movement and seemingly unrelated edits, i.e. Precious being raped, to chicken frying in disgusting grease (her father treats her like meat. Clever, eh?).
Sidebe handles the challenging role with talent far beyond her acting experience and siphons any empathy from viewers in her unique, courageous, and silently hilarious screen presence – implying wisdom beyond her years, on and off the screen.
Sidebe isn’t the only one who captures the raw reality of the Harlem streets. Mo’Nique, a comedy actress known for her sassy-plus-sized-woman attitude in all of her films, is terrifying and brilliant as Precious’s mother. It’s apparent she prepared and invested much of herself in this film, from the backwards affection she shows to her cat, to the most heart-stopping and vicious parent/child fight scene in cinema.
Patton also delivers a sincere performance as Precious’s teacher, which leaves the viewer unabashedly dependent on her presence and guidance to Precious. Carey is surprisingly believable, free from all her glamour she usually dons, and redeems herself from her performance in what was quite possibly the worst film ever made, “Glitter (2001).” Fans might not even spot her at first, but will soon recognize her salient self-esteem.
“Precious” is elegantly done and consequently, steers clear from the sappy clichés about learning to love oneself despite a mountain of hardships. The film delivers hope and inspiration but doesn’t give in to the temptation many screenwriters fall prey to of allowing the main character to conquer all in two hours. “Precious” remains grounded, causing sorrow, consolation and enjoyment in viewers.
Don’t be surprised if any of the main characters snag an Oscar nomination – the film’s importance and performances will not be over-looked.
“Precious” is beyond worthy of a nine-dollar movie ticket. The insight and powerful credibility will stay with you long after you exit the theater – if you can leave your seat, that is.
In an age of linear and mechanical movies, deemed “spectacular” due only to their hypnotizing special effects and loud explosions, “Precious” is unparalleled in its sincerity, social commentary and uninhibited production.
Based on the novel PUSH by Sapphire, this nearly two-hour long movie is the painful, honest and hopeful story of obese and nearly illiterate Claireece “Precious” Jones (newcomer Gabourey "Gabby" Sidibe), a 16-year-old African American girl living (if you can call it that) in the ghetto of Harlem in the late 80s.
Precious lives under the physical and emotional abuse of her welfare-fed mother, Mary (Mo’Nique), and is currently pregnant with her second child by her dead-beat and addict father, whom we never see except in shaky flashbacks. When her middle school principal kicks her out, she joins an alternative school where she meets friends and an insightful teacher and mentor, Blu Rain (Paula Patton). With the help of Rain and understanding social worker, Mrs. Weiss (Mariah Carey), Precious learns to deal with the abuse she has suffered and currently is suffering.
Though this may sound like another sob story, director Lee Daniels knows how to cut through the realities of impoverished and unfortunate Harlem just enough to leave the viewer tear-stricken, but not guilty for their presumably more fortunate life. It’s as if he has an instinct to come back to the precious moments in life at just the right time.
Daniels’s style is gritty and honest, using unsteady camera movement and seemingly unrelated edits, i.e. Precious being raped, to chicken frying in disgusting grease (her father treats her like meat. Clever, eh?).
Sidebe handles the challenging role with talent far beyond her acting experience and siphons any empathy from viewers in her unique, courageous, and silently hilarious screen presence – implying wisdom beyond her years, on and off the screen.
Sidebe isn’t the only one who captures the raw reality of the Harlem streets. Mo’Nique, a comedy actress known for her sassy-plus-sized-woman attitude in all of her films, is terrifying and brilliant as Precious’s mother. It’s apparent she prepared and invested much of herself in this film, from the backwards affection she shows to her cat, to the most heart-stopping and vicious parent/child fight scene in cinema.
Patton also delivers a sincere performance as Precious’s teacher, which leaves the viewer unabashedly dependent on her presence and guidance to Precious. Carey is surprisingly believable, free from all her glamour she usually dons, and redeems herself from her performance in what was quite possibly the worst film ever made, “Glitter (2001).” Fans might not even spot her at first, but will soon recognize her salient self-esteem.
“Precious” is elegantly done and consequently, steers clear from the sappy clichés about learning to love oneself despite a mountain of hardships. The film delivers hope and inspiration but doesn’t give in to the temptation many screenwriters fall prey to of allowing the main character to conquer all in two hours. “Precious” remains grounded, causing sorrow, consolation and enjoyment in viewers.
Don’t be surprised if any of the main characters snag an Oscar nomination – the film’s importance and performances will not be over-looked.
“Precious” is beyond worthy of a nine-dollar movie ticket. The insight and powerful credibility will stay with you long after you exit the theater – if you can leave your seat, that is.
If you didn't already own a motorcyle, you'll want one now
If there was ever a movie that would make anyone drop their briefcase, cancel their newspaper subscription and drive out on the open road with no place to go, “The Motorcycle Diaries” would be it.
“Diaries” is a biopic about the journey and written memoirs during 1952, of Ernesto “Fuser” Guevera, played by Gael Garcíal Bernal (“Y Tu Mama Tambien”), then, a young medical student. With the companionship of his older friend and biochemist Alberto Granado (Rodrigo de la Serna), he sets off to finally “see” South America at its crudest and most candid form across 5,000 miles with an ancient motorcycle.
The two-hour film, directed by Walter Salles, not only projects beautiful and breath-taking scenery of the oceans, thick forests, raw mountains and weathered plains of South America, but it also captures the worn and sincere faces of its people.
Guevera and Granado meet the good friends they were hoping for: doctors, a leper colony, mistreated peasant laborers, menacing foremen, and loose, lovely ladies. However, lingering heavily in each of these engaging scenes is the air of disparity between the rich and the poor throughout all of South America.
Salles uses symbolism to highlight these social issues wherever he can, most notably, the wide river dividing the healthy doctors and staff of the leper colony from the dying patients on the other side. It’s as if Guevera gains 10 years of wisdom in each artful scene.
Salles brilliantly inserts black and white shots of the weathered poor. These aren’t stills, but the people are standing as still as they can to represent how critically their poverty and mistreatment by the government tainted Guevera’s naïve political perspective. Memories of these shots resonate throughout the film’s entirety.
The mystery of this movie, for anyone aware of Guevera’s path of eventually becoming the repressive leader, “Che” Guevera of Cuba’s Communist movement, is that Bernal’s performance is so sweet and endearing. The thought of his authoritarian future seems almost inconceivable…until you factor in the constant injustice he witnesses after leaving his sheltered upper-middle-class life as a student.
You can’t help but root for the happiness and success of Bernal and de la Serna until the end credits when you read that Guevera stood alongside Castro and smothered the civil liberties and freedom of speech of the people. This conflict makes the naïve aura of the lead characters all the more captivating.
While Bernal and de la Serna are strong and convincing in their parts, their dynamic never develops much past what you know – they are good friends. A traveling duo in all the great movies develops many complexities (think Thelma and Louise), and these two just don’t have it. Regardless, the strong performances by the minor characters hold their chemistry solidly enough.
For anyone passionate about art, history and coming of age stories, “The Motorcycle Diaries” is a wonderful cultured conglomerate of all three. The viewer will undoubtedly inherit tiny wisdoms from the characters’ conversions and leave him or her thinking long after the final credits.
“Diaries” is a biopic about the journey and written memoirs during 1952, of Ernesto “Fuser” Guevera, played by Gael Garcíal Bernal (“Y Tu Mama Tambien”), then, a young medical student. With the companionship of his older friend and biochemist Alberto Granado (Rodrigo de la Serna), he sets off to finally “see” South America at its crudest and most candid form across 5,000 miles with an ancient motorcycle.
The two-hour film, directed by Walter Salles, not only projects beautiful and breath-taking scenery of the oceans, thick forests, raw mountains and weathered plains of South America, but it also captures the worn and sincere faces of its people.
Guevera and Granado meet the good friends they were hoping for: doctors, a leper colony, mistreated peasant laborers, menacing foremen, and loose, lovely ladies. However, lingering heavily in each of these engaging scenes is the air of disparity between the rich and the poor throughout all of South America.
Salles uses symbolism to highlight these social issues wherever he can, most notably, the wide river dividing the healthy doctors and staff of the leper colony from the dying patients on the other side. It’s as if Guevera gains 10 years of wisdom in each artful scene.
Salles brilliantly inserts black and white shots of the weathered poor. These aren’t stills, but the people are standing as still as they can to represent how critically their poverty and mistreatment by the government tainted Guevera’s naïve political perspective. Memories of these shots resonate throughout the film’s entirety.
The mystery of this movie, for anyone aware of Guevera’s path of eventually becoming the repressive leader, “Che” Guevera of Cuba’s Communist movement, is that Bernal’s performance is so sweet and endearing. The thought of his authoritarian future seems almost inconceivable…until you factor in the constant injustice he witnesses after leaving his sheltered upper-middle-class life as a student.
You can’t help but root for the happiness and success of Bernal and de la Serna until the end credits when you read that Guevera stood alongside Castro and smothered the civil liberties and freedom of speech of the people. This conflict makes the naïve aura of the lead characters all the more captivating.
While Bernal and de la Serna are strong and convincing in their parts, their dynamic never develops much past what you know – they are good friends. A traveling duo in all the great movies develops many complexities (think Thelma and Louise), and these two just don’t have it. Regardless, the strong performances by the minor characters hold their chemistry solidly enough.
For anyone passionate about art, history and coming of age stories, “The Motorcycle Diaries” is a wonderful cultured conglomerate of all three. The viewer will undoubtedly inherit tiny wisdoms from the characters’ conversions and leave him or her thinking long after the final credits.
The Reality of Sex
There seems to be a new fad in the teen pop-culture world – chastity rings. These rings, worn on the left-hand ring fingers of stars such as the Jonas Brothers and Jordin Sparks, symbolize a commitment of abstinence until marriage.
Despite of this rising abstinence trend, teen pregnancies and abortions are still prevalent in the United States. In fact, according to the Guttmacher Institute, the United State’s teen pregnancy rate is almost twice as high as those of England, Wales and Canada, and eight times as high as those of the Netherlands and Japan.
If abstinence is becoming a trend, and is the only 100 percent effective way to avoid pregnancy, why then are our numbers so high compared to other countries?
There is a devastating absence of “safe sex” curriculum throughout grades six through 12, and a devastating abundance of “abstinence only” curriculum.
In 2002 one third of teens had not received any formal education about contraception. This is because, as the Guttmacher Institute states, “86 percent of the public school districts that have a policy to teach sex education require that abstinence be promoted. Some 35 percent require abstinence to be taught as the only option for unmarried people.”
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, sex-ed curriculum in Europe is highly supported and extremely candid, according the Advocates for Youth website.
Europeans see sexual relations as normal and natural, with government supported long-term public education campaigns and sex education integrated across all school subjects and grade levels. Teens also have access to free to low-cost access to contraception through national health insurance.
In the United States, the pregnancy rate per 1,000 women ages 15-19 is 78.9 compared to France’s 20.2. If America’s teen pregnancy statistics equaled those of France’s, there would be about 550,000 fewer pregnancies per year. Clearly there needs to be a major governmental adjustment to the type of sex education in the United States.
It is a fact of life that teenagers will have sex. Teens are human beings with a desire to fulfill the five essential life processes as a living thing, reproduction being among those. With sexual intercourse imminent, all schools should require their sex-ed curriculum to be a comprehensive program teaching both contraceptive and abstinence options to reckon with the reality of teenagers’ sexual appetites.
Despite of this rising abstinence trend, teen pregnancies and abortions are still prevalent in the United States. In fact, according to the Guttmacher Institute, the United State’s teen pregnancy rate is almost twice as high as those of England, Wales and Canada, and eight times as high as those of the Netherlands and Japan.
If abstinence is becoming a trend, and is the only 100 percent effective way to avoid pregnancy, why then are our numbers so high compared to other countries?
There is a devastating absence of “safe sex” curriculum throughout grades six through 12, and a devastating abundance of “abstinence only” curriculum.
In 2002 one third of teens had not received any formal education about contraception. This is because, as the Guttmacher Institute states, “86 percent of the public school districts that have a policy to teach sex education require that abstinence be promoted. Some 35 percent require abstinence to be taught as the only option for unmarried people.”
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, sex-ed curriculum in Europe is highly supported and extremely candid, according the Advocates for Youth website.
Europeans see sexual relations as normal and natural, with government supported long-term public education campaigns and sex education integrated across all school subjects and grade levels. Teens also have access to free to low-cost access to contraception through national health insurance.
In the United States, the pregnancy rate per 1,000 women ages 15-19 is 78.9 compared to France’s 20.2. If America’s teen pregnancy statistics equaled those of France’s, there would be about 550,000 fewer pregnancies per year. Clearly there needs to be a major governmental adjustment to the type of sex education in the United States.
It is a fact of life that teenagers will have sex. Teens are human beings with a desire to fulfill the five essential life processes as a living thing, reproduction being among those. With sexual intercourse imminent, all schools should require their sex-ed curriculum to be a comprehensive program teaching both contraceptive and abstinence options to reckon with the reality of teenagers’ sexual appetites.
Nature Is Calling
I’d be willing to bet my college tuition that as you are reading this your cell phone is no more than ten feet away. I take cash, check or money orders.
I love the convenience of my cell phone just as much as the next person. I always know the time when rushing to class. If I need to borrow money, my parents are just a speed dial away. If I get lost while driving, I can call an information line. And if I want to check my Facebook page (because, why not?), I’m there in two seconds. My cell has become my watch, my camera, my address book and my lifeline. But unlike some people, it has not become me.
On a cloudless, bright and chilly winter Saturday, the kind you only read about, a few good friends and I decided to hike the Cascades waterfall trail in Virginia. We had made a pact to leave our phones in the car so that we wouldn’t get distracted, and we could have girlie-friendship-bonding-time while relaxing after a hard week of schoolwork.
That shouldn’t have been a problem - the hike was only four hours - but being adults in the 21st century, the termites of technology have ravished the “able to relax” section in our brains.
A few feet into the hike the fires of panic rose in me as I remembered I was mid-texting conversation with my boyfriend, and if I didn’t have a timely response, he would no doubt need an explanation from me later that night.
Must turn back and get phone.
Just when I was about to risk falling in a semi-frozen stream, contracting hypothermia, and possibly breaking a bone in a mad dash for the car, I suddenly had the urge to just pause and listen to where I was.
What I heard was nothing spectacular. There was no chorus of angels shedding light upon the trail ahead. What I heard was just nature. Natural, comforting and lacking the beeping alerts I knew too well.
Satisfied with this freedom, we moved on, all of us without our phones (or so I thought).
A few more twists and turns in, we scaled a rock overlooking the stream and sat down to reflect.
Ahhhh. The constant, steady sound of a stream, the singing of birds mid flight, the wet solid rock that slowed my heart beat, the freezing air as it iced my throat, the comforting beep of a text message alert…
The comforting beep of a text message alert!!! Angry and hawk-eyed, I snapped my head around and scanned each of my friends. Who could possibly have brought their phone? Who dared to destroy the unflinching course of nature? My judging eyes landed on Bridgette, who sheepishly looked up and said, “Oops, must have forgot.”
As we continued our hike, every few feet and every natural sound was tainted by incessant beeping. Self-righteously I secretly imagined tackling her down to the ground, ripping the phone from her death grip and hurling it into the raging stream. With every new text message came a new scenario of saving my friends and me from this Judas who betrayed our no-phone-pact while destroying nature, the only thing sacred. Just as I was swinging from a vine and snatching the phone away, we heard a panic-stricken “NOOOOOOOO.”
Terrified to find Bridgette falling into the river, or face-to-face with a rattlesnake we all ran to see what was wrong. But she was just standing there, phone in hand and a look of nausea on her face. “No service,” she said in disbelief.
Secretly thanking a higher power, we went on without electronics. The silence was beautiful.
After the hike, Bridgette told me how wonderful the day was, and then shut her phone off.
What Bridgette, like so many others has forgotten, is our innate need for the kind of simplicity found in nature. So much of our day is spent connecting with our 3G phones, email accounts, trafficked roads, and theater sized TVs, that we forget what we are connected to fundamentally: Mother Nature. For human beings, she has supplied exceptionally for millions of years. We can’t bury that in an electronic earthquake.
What feels better than lying on the grass, blanketed by the sun? What renders you speechless more than an awe-inspiring lightning storm? It certainly isn’t a cell phone.
Immersing yourself in your natural surroundings will reboot your stress-ridden system, make you more aware of the beauty in even the smallest things, and allow you to appreciate everything you are.
These days, it’s hard to escape the evil reach of a cell phone tower’s signal, but it’s not impossible. There should be time set aside in your week to connect with nature, even if it’s just a walk around the block. Take a hike, visit the beach, sleep in the shade of a tree, but whatever you do, leave your phones at home.
If going cold turkey is too hard for you, I guess it’s okay to change your voicemail so people aren’t worried about your lack of response.
Hello, you’ve reached Kaleigh’s phone. Currently, she’s outside enjoying her freedom from you and me. Leave a message, but she probably won’t be getting back to you. Beep.
I love the convenience of my cell phone just as much as the next person. I always know the time when rushing to class. If I need to borrow money, my parents are just a speed dial away. If I get lost while driving, I can call an information line. And if I want to check my Facebook page (because, why not?), I’m there in two seconds. My cell has become my watch, my camera, my address book and my lifeline. But unlike some people, it has not become me.
On a cloudless, bright and chilly winter Saturday, the kind you only read about, a few good friends and I decided to hike the Cascades waterfall trail in Virginia. We had made a pact to leave our phones in the car so that we wouldn’t get distracted, and we could have girlie-friendship-bonding-time while relaxing after a hard week of schoolwork.
That shouldn’t have been a problem - the hike was only four hours - but being adults in the 21st century, the termites of technology have ravished the “able to relax” section in our brains.
A few feet into the hike the fires of panic rose in me as I remembered I was mid-texting conversation with my boyfriend, and if I didn’t have a timely response, he would no doubt need an explanation from me later that night.
Must turn back and get phone.
Just when I was about to risk falling in a semi-frozen stream, contracting hypothermia, and possibly breaking a bone in a mad dash for the car, I suddenly had the urge to just pause and listen to where I was.
What I heard was nothing spectacular. There was no chorus of angels shedding light upon the trail ahead. What I heard was just nature. Natural, comforting and lacking the beeping alerts I knew too well.
Satisfied with this freedom, we moved on, all of us without our phones (or so I thought).
A few more twists and turns in, we scaled a rock overlooking the stream and sat down to reflect.
Ahhhh. The constant, steady sound of a stream, the singing of birds mid flight, the wet solid rock that slowed my heart beat, the freezing air as it iced my throat, the comforting beep of a text message alert…
The comforting beep of a text message alert!!! Angry and hawk-eyed, I snapped my head around and scanned each of my friends. Who could possibly have brought their phone? Who dared to destroy the unflinching course of nature? My judging eyes landed on Bridgette, who sheepishly looked up and said, “Oops, must have forgot.”
As we continued our hike, every few feet and every natural sound was tainted by incessant beeping. Self-righteously I secretly imagined tackling her down to the ground, ripping the phone from her death grip and hurling it into the raging stream. With every new text message came a new scenario of saving my friends and me from this Judas who betrayed our no-phone-pact while destroying nature, the only thing sacred. Just as I was swinging from a vine and snatching the phone away, we heard a panic-stricken “NOOOOOOOO.”
Terrified to find Bridgette falling into the river, or face-to-face with a rattlesnake we all ran to see what was wrong. But she was just standing there, phone in hand and a look of nausea on her face. “No service,” she said in disbelief.
Secretly thanking a higher power, we went on without electronics. The silence was beautiful.
After the hike, Bridgette told me how wonderful the day was, and then shut her phone off.
What Bridgette, like so many others has forgotten, is our innate need for the kind of simplicity found in nature. So much of our day is spent connecting with our 3G phones, email accounts, trafficked roads, and theater sized TVs, that we forget what we are connected to fundamentally: Mother Nature. For human beings, she has supplied exceptionally for millions of years. We can’t bury that in an electronic earthquake.
What feels better than lying on the grass, blanketed by the sun? What renders you speechless more than an awe-inspiring lightning storm? It certainly isn’t a cell phone.
Immersing yourself in your natural surroundings will reboot your stress-ridden system, make you more aware of the beauty in even the smallest things, and allow you to appreciate everything you are.
These days, it’s hard to escape the evil reach of a cell phone tower’s signal, but it’s not impossible. There should be time set aside in your week to connect with nature, even if it’s just a walk around the block. Take a hike, visit the beach, sleep in the shade of a tree, but whatever you do, leave your phones at home.
If going cold turkey is too hard for you, I guess it’s okay to change your voicemail so people aren’t worried about your lack of response.
Hello, you’ve reached Kaleigh’s phone. Currently, she’s outside enjoying her freedom from you and me. Leave a message, but she probably won’t be getting back to you. Beep.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy 12th Birthday…or 8th…or 15th?
Each year I spring out of bed the morning of September 18 with a twinkle in my eye and a skip in my step. It is my birthday, a day of celebration. There will be cake, yes; I am a year older, yes; my friends and family shower me with love and goodies, yes. These are all very exciting, but the reason I jump out of bed and run to the mailbox, the reason why I painstakingly count down 364 days, is because I will have a present from my great-grandparents in Michigan. And my great-grandparents, well, they are very, very old.
These presents are unorthodox to say the least. When I was younger and ungrateful, I would pout and toss them aside. Where is Malibu Barbie! But I have grown accustomed to the gifts and now my entire family sits impatiently waiting for each September 18 to see what goodies may cause us to burst into uncontrollable fits of side-busting laughter.
September 18, 1995
My seventh birthday. I have dutifully been building my Barbie collection. A package from my aunt and uncle in Vermont reveals a hot pink convertible with an automatic retracting roof. Bliss. The only thing that could make today better would be the addition of Theresa, Barbie’s brunette friend. Having brown hair myself, I have been longing for her. Tearing into a medium-size package from Granny and Grandpa, my heart begins to beat faster with hope. Finally! Through the tissue paper! It’s a, it’s a… It’s seven packaged McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Thoughtful, one for each year.
September 18, 2001
My 13th birthday. At last, a teenager. No surprise, I’m into teenager things. Make-up, clothes, boys, terrible pop music. After opening all of my presents, the smell of fruity lotions and glitter-filled lip-gloss tubes is nearly unbearable. My mother hands me a present. It’s pink - this is a good sign. Further observation reveals postage from Michigan. My heart sinks a little as I remember earlier unfruitful deliveries, nonetheless, the package is still pink, and I think they must be catching on. As I open the small, lightweight box, visions of sparkling jewelry fill my mind. I pull out shampoo and conditioner in ketchup packet shaped containers. The Ramada Inn logo is stamped on the front of each. I’m beginning to think this is a joke.
September 18, 2004
Sweet 16 - The birthday to end all birthdays thus far. It’s no surprise that the quest for becoming the most popular girl in school has consumed my life. To reach this goal however, I will need some help from some birthday presents (mainly the acquisition of a brand new car). After opening my presents I find myself draped in the newest styles in clothes, an iPod, and a new hair straightener. Alas, no car. However, there is hope. An enveloped postmarked from Michigan sits in my lap. I know that at the end of a very sick joke my great-grandparents have been playing on me for the past 16 years, they will have enclosed a check for $8,000 - just enough to buy a car. Surprise! And you thought we were just incredibly senile all these years. Opening the card reveals a deflated purple balloon that reads “Congrats Grad.” Maybe next year.
September 18, 2006
Eighteen years old and a freshman in college. Surely this will factor into the present to end all presents from my jokester grandparents. Packages arrive at my dorm room containing checks and collegiate living essentials. Something is missing. Nothing was sent from Michigan. Is 18 the cut-off year? Incredibly confused, I search my brain for some reason they may have stopped their gifts. I had sent them a thank you card every year at the insistence of my mother. “Kaleigh, I know they sent you a pack of crayons when you turned 15, but it’s the thought that counts.” Thinking harder about my thank you notes, I realized that I had ever so slowly evolved my thanks into notes of sarcasm that tickled me as I wrote them.
Dear Granny and Grandpa,
Thank you so much for the thoughtful white sticky-note pad. The coffee stain gives it character. I’ll be sure to use it for the invitations to my 15th birthday party. The family is well.
Love,
Kaleigh
Maybe they weren’t as senile as I thought. Maybe they had had it with my facetiousness. But wait. What was this manila envelope that I had missed in my mailbox. Excited when I saw MI, and knowing that this present must be the one that would count (Money, after all, I am a poor college student), I tore it open. There in the bottom of the envelope was a plastic wrapped package containing a giant piece of chocolate shaped like the state of Idaho. Idaho. They aren’t even from Idaho, I’m not even from Idaho. Why the hell would they send me chocolate in the shape of Idaho? Disappointed, but ever so amused, I decided to eat it. Might as well. After, I found a note at the bottom of the package:
Dearest Kaleigh,
Happy Birthday! We are giving away some of our possessions as we reach the end of our long, fruitful lives. We have decided to send you this chocolate Idaho we bought together on a trip in ’61. Please keep it safe.
Love,
Granny and Grandpa
PS. Thank you for all your thoughtful thank you notes.
Maybe they aren’t so senile after all.
These presents are unorthodox to say the least. When I was younger and ungrateful, I would pout and toss them aside. Where is Malibu Barbie! But I have grown accustomed to the gifts and now my entire family sits impatiently waiting for each September 18 to see what goodies may cause us to burst into uncontrollable fits of side-busting laughter.
September 18, 1995
My seventh birthday. I have dutifully been building my Barbie collection. A package from my aunt and uncle in Vermont reveals a hot pink convertible with an automatic retracting roof. Bliss. The only thing that could make today better would be the addition of Theresa, Barbie’s brunette friend. Having brown hair myself, I have been longing for her. Tearing into a medium-size package from Granny and Grandpa, my heart begins to beat faster with hope. Finally! Through the tissue paper! It’s a, it’s a… It’s seven packaged McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Thoughtful, one for each year.
September 18, 2001
My 13th birthday. At last, a teenager. No surprise, I’m into teenager things. Make-up, clothes, boys, terrible pop music. After opening all of my presents, the smell of fruity lotions and glitter-filled lip-gloss tubes is nearly unbearable. My mother hands me a present. It’s pink - this is a good sign. Further observation reveals postage from Michigan. My heart sinks a little as I remember earlier unfruitful deliveries, nonetheless, the package is still pink, and I think they must be catching on. As I open the small, lightweight box, visions of sparkling jewelry fill my mind. I pull out shampoo and conditioner in ketchup packet shaped containers. The Ramada Inn logo is stamped on the front of each. I’m beginning to think this is a joke.
September 18, 2004
Sweet 16 - The birthday to end all birthdays thus far. It’s no surprise that the quest for becoming the most popular girl in school has consumed my life. To reach this goal however, I will need some help from some birthday presents (mainly the acquisition of a brand new car). After opening my presents I find myself draped in the newest styles in clothes, an iPod, and a new hair straightener. Alas, no car. However, there is hope. An enveloped postmarked from Michigan sits in my lap. I know that at the end of a very sick joke my great-grandparents have been playing on me for the past 16 years, they will have enclosed a check for $8,000 - just enough to buy a car. Surprise! And you thought we were just incredibly senile all these years. Opening the card reveals a deflated purple balloon that reads “Congrats Grad.” Maybe next year.
September 18, 2006
Eighteen years old and a freshman in college. Surely this will factor into the present to end all presents from my jokester grandparents. Packages arrive at my dorm room containing checks and collegiate living essentials. Something is missing. Nothing was sent from Michigan. Is 18 the cut-off year? Incredibly confused, I search my brain for some reason they may have stopped their gifts. I had sent them a thank you card every year at the insistence of my mother. “Kaleigh, I know they sent you a pack of crayons when you turned 15, but it’s the thought that counts.” Thinking harder about my thank you notes, I realized that I had ever so slowly evolved my thanks into notes of sarcasm that tickled me as I wrote them.
Dear Granny and Grandpa,
Thank you so much for the thoughtful white sticky-note pad. The coffee stain gives it character. I’ll be sure to use it for the invitations to my 15th birthday party. The family is well.
Love,
Kaleigh
Maybe they weren’t as senile as I thought. Maybe they had had it with my facetiousness. But wait. What was this manila envelope that I had missed in my mailbox. Excited when I saw MI, and knowing that this present must be the one that would count (Money, after all, I am a poor college student), I tore it open. There in the bottom of the envelope was a plastic wrapped package containing a giant piece of chocolate shaped like the state of Idaho. Idaho. They aren’t even from Idaho, I’m not even from Idaho. Why the hell would they send me chocolate in the shape of Idaho? Disappointed, but ever so amused, I decided to eat it. Might as well. After, I found a note at the bottom of the package:
Dearest Kaleigh,
Happy Birthday! We are giving away some of our possessions as we reach the end of our long, fruitful lives. We have decided to send you this chocolate Idaho we bought together on a trip in ’61. Please keep it safe.
Love,
Granny and Grandpa
PS. Thank you for all your thoughtful thank you notes.
Maybe they aren’t so senile after all.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Seabrook, Framed
Spring break with a few of my closest friends, which left us with exotic skin, salt-dried hair and a rebirth of youth, has come and gone, but is not lost. Three rolls of film freeze the weeklong stay on Seabrook Island off the South Carolina coast. Seventy-two frames reveal that sometimes having nothing to do means discovering everything.
Frame # 4 – A wood-slat path disappearing into a tunnel of trees. The walk seemed endless as the words to our favorite Ben Harper song flew on the breeze to the beach. The five of us faced the Atlantic with no one in sight for a mile each way and a red sun behind us. We bet on things to come and then laugh about the predictions on the way back to our first night in the house.
Frame # 11 – Three friends are silhouetted against the sun’s glaring reflection off the ocean. Windy, but sun-toasting warm, we lie on the beach all afternoon. Sipping cold drinks with eyes closed, everyone is silent so they can hear tiny rolling waves. “I don’t think I could ever leave,” Maggie says. The most anyone can manage is an affirmative grunt. The great thing was, we didn’t have to leave. Everyone had the time to go nowhere, and nowhere is where we went. Shannon giggled and a viral laugh spread across our towels as we thought of the night before. None of us have a career in professional karaoke.
Frame #15 – Window-filtered sunlight illuminates a wooden chess set inside a coffee shop. Java Java was our morning staple. Four black coffee-of-the-days and we were ready for our walk around the quaint “Circle” village center. Four girls, giddy with friendship, we spill our secrets, which had filled our lungs overnight. Stopping to pet an unleashed black poodle, Bridgette bumps into a table of elderly women who try to suppress smiles. “Have fun while it lasts,” the one with a white wide-brimmed hat says, but we already know.
Frame #27 – Steel stools with ice blue seats ring a soda fountain bar in the Circle. Mimicking a diner in the ‘50s, the soda shop’s checkered-tile floor is cold on my bare feet. “Shirts and Shoes Required,” the sign says. We sprint to the bar to hide our feet before anyone sees. Eating root beer floats Jordan and I imagine what we’d do with a million dollars. “Buy a house on this island,” I say. “Buy it from you,” he says. An ice cream headache forces my eyes shut, but soon I’m relaxed again – Jordan’s fingers are on either side of my temples.
Frame #32 – Huge live oaks dripping with Spanish moss and highlighted by the sun line a straight road to where, I have forgotten. I convinced Ali to join me in a beach-cruiser bike ride. Out of everyone here, I know her the least, but that will soon change. Our dresses fly behind us as we swerve down the silent road. We’ve never been down this one before, but Ali is confident. She begins to sing a song and we arrive on a bridge that overlooks what could be the African Savanna. A blanket of brown and green marshland stretches out in front of us to the Spanish-moss horizon. “Nature’s first green is gold,” Ali says. “The hardest hue for her to hold,” I complete the first line of Frost. Laughing, we head back to the house.
Frame #50 – A small, pink crab claw sits alone on a thick tree branch five feet off the ground. John and I walk straight into a clustered grove of entangled trunks, snaking horizontally across the ground. We begin to climb higher and higher – this is any child’s wildest dream. Never-ending branches provide footing as we finally come to rest at the highest point our bravery will allow us to go. Cradled in seats of bark we people-watch mothers and fathers stroll their babies, chase toddlers away from enticing inedibles, and couples hold hands. Talking about the future, we realize we are both scared. “No rush,” I say. As I climb down from the tree, John is still sitting.
Frame #72 – A reflection of the road dissolving behind us through my side-door mirror. The white fence posts get smaller in the distance as we begin our exit from Seabrook Island. A week as never gone by so fast.
We found that living mindfully every moment reminds you to appreciate the simple things. At 20 years old we discovered the organics of ourselves in the roots of friendship, preserved in 72 frames.
Frame # 4 – A wood-slat path disappearing into a tunnel of trees. The walk seemed endless as the words to our favorite Ben Harper song flew on the breeze to the beach. The five of us faced the Atlantic with no one in sight for a mile each way and a red sun behind us. We bet on things to come and then laugh about the predictions on the way back to our first night in the house.
Frame # 11 – Three friends are silhouetted against the sun’s glaring reflection off the ocean. Windy, but sun-toasting warm, we lie on the beach all afternoon. Sipping cold drinks with eyes closed, everyone is silent so they can hear tiny rolling waves. “I don’t think I could ever leave,” Maggie says. The most anyone can manage is an affirmative grunt. The great thing was, we didn’t have to leave. Everyone had the time to go nowhere, and nowhere is where we went. Shannon giggled and a viral laugh spread across our towels as we thought of the night before. None of us have a career in professional karaoke.
Frame #15 – Window-filtered sunlight illuminates a wooden chess set inside a coffee shop. Java Java was our morning staple. Four black coffee-of-the-days and we were ready for our walk around the quaint “Circle” village center. Four girls, giddy with friendship, we spill our secrets, which had filled our lungs overnight. Stopping to pet an unleashed black poodle, Bridgette bumps into a table of elderly women who try to suppress smiles. “Have fun while it lasts,” the one with a white wide-brimmed hat says, but we already know.
Frame #27 – Steel stools with ice blue seats ring a soda fountain bar in the Circle. Mimicking a diner in the ‘50s, the soda shop’s checkered-tile floor is cold on my bare feet. “Shirts and Shoes Required,” the sign says. We sprint to the bar to hide our feet before anyone sees. Eating root beer floats Jordan and I imagine what we’d do with a million dollars. “Buy a house on this island,” I say. “Buy it from you,” he says. An ice cream headache forces my eyes shut, but soon I’m relaxed again – Jordan’s fingers are on either side of my temples.
Frame #32 – Huge live oaks dripping with Spanish moss and highlighted by the sun line a straight road to where, I have forgotten. I convinced Ali to join me in a beach-cruiser bike ride. Out of everyone here, I know her the least, but that will soon change. Our dresses fly behind us as we swerve down the silent road. We’ve never been down this one before, but Ali is confident. She begins to sing a song and we arrive on a bridge that overlooks what could be the African Savanna. A blanket of brown and green marshland stretches out in front of us to the Spanish-moss horizon. “Nature’s first green is gold,” Ali says. “The hardest hue for her to hold,” I complete the first line of Frost. Laughing, we head back to the house.
Frame #50 – A small, pink crab claw sits alone on a thick tree branch five feet off the ground. John and I walk straight into a clustered grove of entangled trunks, snaking horizontally across the ground. We begin to climb higher and higher – this is any child’s wildest dream. Never-ending branches provide footing as we finally come to rest at the highest point our bravery will allow us to go. Cradled in seats of bark we people-watch mothers and fathers stroll their babies, chase toddlers away from enticing inedibles, and couples hold hands. Talking about the future, we realize we are both scared. “No rush,” I say. As I climb down from the tree, John is still sitting.
Frame #72 – A reflection of the road dissolving behind us through my side-door mirror. The white fence posts get smaller in the distance as we begin our exit from Seabrook Island. A week as never gone by so fast.
We found that living mindfully every moment reminds you to appreciate the simple things. At 20 years old we discovered the organics of ourselves in the roots of friendship, preserved in 72 frames.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Forget the Economy, Music is in Dire Need of a Stimulus Package
If you stare at a treble clef long enough, it begins to look like a dollar sign.
On February 8, 2009, the 51st annual Grammy Awards ceremony was hosted at the Staples Centre in Los Angeles, California, in an extravagant day long parade of money, money, music and money.
Women strutted down their red runway in their thousand-dollar I-can’t-be-seen-in-the-same-thing-twice dresses, men made minimal movement as not to wrinkle their crisp and fit suits, and limousine chauffeurs proudly guarded their precious cargo. And these were only the hours leading up to the show.
During the ceremony, artists’ performances dazzled the audience with laser display lighting and sparkling confetti, and three-ring circus spectacularia drew ooh’s and aah’s.
But where were the elephants?
Too expensive, and completely unnecessary I guess. After all, the stars were gathered to celebrate their appreciation for the passion and talent that goes into making good music. And everyone knows that music appreciation is synonymous with outrageous spending (luckily, we aren’t in an economic crisis or anything).
When did the arts, and all things that we hold on a pedestal for the sake of our entertainment, become a grandiose parade? When did we sacrifice talent for fast cash and fancy clothes?
The fine arts have evolved into an A-list monster. Led by power and money hungry executives, it sucks the good judgment juice out of everyone in its path – mainly you, the consumer.
This money monster won’t stop reproducing either. It births children that only a mother could, and in this case should, love. For example, one of its kids, named Katy Perry, was nominated at the Grammys for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance for her song “I Kissed a Girl.” Read, the song’s signature line: “I kissed a girl and I liked it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.” Now, that’s musical genius.
Her sister M.I.A’s song “Paper Planes” was nominated for Record of the Year. With fantastic lines like, “I fly like paper, get high like planes. If you catch me at the border I got visas in my name,” I’m surprised it didn’t snag the win.
Never mind the fact that my 12-year-old brother can write better lyrics than both of these songs, the girls are hot, skinny and can carry a decent tune.
Neither Perry or M.I.A won a coveted Grammy, and to their disappointment, they may just become another one or two hit wonder and get sucked into the has-been black hole. But it’s ok- their record companies made a lot of money while they were hot, and they’ve been busy scouting for new talent. Maybe they found a new teenybopper who can seductively squeak out a song about cupcakes.
These executives are just playing and winning the game. They have turned something wonderful like the beauty and movement of music into a rat race between themselves and their clients. They don’t care about quality and talent, they care about what sells, even if that means dumbing down the music industry.
In an age defined by synthetic vocals, and elementary rhyming phrases, our generation of music is something short of a sing-a-long track. Why can’t we be blessed again with the sounds that inspired past generations?
The ‘50s saw Elvis Presley thrusting through Rock ‘n Roll. The ‘60s were sassed by the Temptations and Motown. The ‘70s were lit up by The Beatles and other long-haired gurus. The ‘80s…well I don’t have much to say about the ‘80s, but at least they were inventive. Even the ‘90s saw the rise of talented solo artists who wrote their own music and played their own instruments. But now, we have little to offer, and much to want.
So why can’t we bring back the talent that used to be? To put it simply, quality is too time consuming. It takes a good amount of time to write a meaningful song and record heart-stopping instrument tracks. It takes even longer to sit down, be creative and invent something new. In this day and age, record companies just don’t have the time for ingenuity. Fast, dirty and mass-produced is more up their alley.
And can you blame them? They are only doing their job, they have promised the artist fame and wealth, and the public catchy tunes they can sing to in the car. Waiting two more months for a brilliant debut album to come out is time that they, or we, don’t have.
Or do we?
Music is one of the most fundamental and precious things that we hold dear, even if we don’t realize it. From the moment you were born you heard lullabies, you sang your heart out to tunes in the car with your friends, and if you haven’t already, you will share a first dance with your husband or wife on your wedding day.
Genuine, solid music has never let me down. There has been a track for every one of my moods. It has told me to cry, pried open a smile, ran with me, slept with me, and most importantly has never abandoned me. I, and I’m willing to bet, you, don’t need music to come in a lavish package, or rolled up on a red carpet. What we do need is for music to move us. And if it takes a few months longer to produce outstanding artists and albums, we have all the time in the world.
On February 8, 2009, the 51st annual Grammy Awards ceremony was hosted at the Staples Centre in Los Angeles, California, in an extravagant day long parade of money, money, music and money.
Women strutted down their red runway in their thousand-dollar I-can’t-be-seen-in-the-same-thing-twice dresses, men made minimal movement as not to wrinkle their crisp and fit suits, and limousine chauffeurs proudly guarded their precious cargo. And these were only the hours leading up to the show.
During the ceremony, artists’ performances dazzled the audience with laser display lighting and sparkling confetti, and three-ring circus spectacularia drew ooh’s and aah’s.
But where were the elephants?
Too expensive, and completely unnecessary I guess. After all, the stars were gathered to celebrate their appreciation for the passion and talent that goes into making good music. And everyone knows that music appreciation is synonymous with outrageous spending (luckily, we aren’t in an economic crisis or anything).
When did the arts, and all things that we hold on a pedestal for the sake of our entertainment, become a grandiose parade? When did we sacrifice talent for fast cash and fancy clothes?
The fine arts have evolved into an A-list monster. Led by power and money hungry executives, it sucks the good judgment juice out of everyone in its path – mainly you, the consumer.
This money monster won’t stop reproducing either. It births children that only a mother could, and in this case should, love. For example, one of its kids, named Katy Perry, was nominated at the Grammys for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance for her song “I Kissed a Girl.” Read, the song’s signature line: “I kissed a girl and I liked it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.” Now, that’s musical genius.
Her sister M.I.A’s song “Paper Planes” was nominated for Record of the Year. With fantastic lines like, “I fly like paper, get high like planes. If you catch me at the border I got visas in my name,” I’m surprised it didn’t snag the win.
Never mind the fact that my 12-year-old brother can write better lyrics than both of these songs, the girls are hot, skinny and can carry a decent tune.
Neither Perry or M.I.A won a coveted Grammy, and to their disappointment, they may just become another one or two hit wonder and get sucked into the has-been black hole. But it’s ok- their record companies made a lot of money while they were hot, and they’ve been busy scouting for new talent. Maybe they found a new teenybopper who can seductively squeak out a song about cupcakes.
These executives are just playing and winning the game. They have turned something wonderful like the beauty and movement of music into a rat race between themselves and their clients. They don’t care about quality and talent, they care about what sells, even if that means dumbing down the music industry.
In an age defined by synthetic vocals, and elementary rhyming phrases, our generation of music is something short of a sing-a-long track. Why can’t we be blessed again with the sounds that inspired past generations?
The ‘50s saw Elvis Presley thrusting through Rock ‘n Roll. The ‘60s were sassed by the Temptations and Motown. The ‘70s were lit up by The Beatles and other long-haired gurus. The ‘80s…well I don’t have much to say about the ‘80s, but at least they were inventive. Even the ‘90s saw the rise of talented solo artists who wrote their own music and played their own instruments. But now, we have little to offer, and much to want.
So why can’t we bring back the talent that used to be? To put it simply, quality is too time consuming. It takes a good amount of time to write a meaningful song and record heart-stopping instrument tracks. It takes even longer to sit down, be creative and invent something new. In this day and age, record companies just don’t have the time for ingenuity. Fast, dirty and mass-produced is more up their alley.
And can you blame them? They are only doing their job, they have promised the artist fame and wealth, and the public catchy tunes they can sing to in the car. Waiting two more months for a brilliant debut album to come out is time that they, or we, don’t have.
Or do we?
Music is one of the most fundamental and precious things that we hold dear, even if we don’t realize it. From the moment you were born you heard lullabies, you sang your heart out to tunes in the car with your friends, and if you haven’t already, you will share a first dance with your husband or wife on your wedding day.
Genuine, solid music has never let me down. There has been a track for every one of my moods. It has told me to cry, pried open a smile, ran with me, slept with me, and most importantly has never abandoned me. I, and I’m willing to bet, you, don’t need music to come in a lavish package, or rolled up on a red carpet. What we do need is for music to move us. And if it takes a few months longer to produce outstanding artists and albums, we have all the time in the world.
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