Post by Save Your Karma on Jul 27, 2007 14:50:49 GMT -5
Introduction
“I am not a pretty girl that is not what I do. I ain't no damsel in distress and I don't need to be rescued.” Singer, songwriter, and political activist Ani Difranco has inspired the theme to this book. Her song, “Not a Pretty Girl,” has become the theme song for my life the last couple of years. The views and ideals I have developed as I have grown up are very much reflected within this book.
“The Things I Carry” is a reflection on the societal view that we are defined by what we are seen carrying with us as we walk through life. Our societal values are based on first impressions, how pretty we are, what clothing labels we wear, what purse or bag we carry, these are all things that give people power within our society. It’s sad that the “A-list” celebrities and billionaires are powerful and given more respect than the most revered scholars.
“’Into the Woods’ As Seen Through the Eyes of a Stage Manager” encourages theatrical audiences to think about the effort and the work that goes into a show, rather than just what they see on stage. Though, “’Into the Woods’ As Seen through the Eyes of a Stage Manager” is specifically about theatre, the lesson behind it is something I believe we should all employ in our everyday lives. The work of so many people goes unrecognized everyday, once in a while we should take it upon ourselves to think about the work we don’t see and appreciate those people for their efforts.
“War Zone: Rural Pennsylvania” is a fictional representation of the experiences of a girl in a rural town in Pennsylvania who has become a target of ridicule, scorned by her peers and the community because of her refusal to back down from her beliefs.
In a society where people with true character are often regarded as trouble makers, one girl risks everything show has ever known for the sake of defending herself and others like her.
Reading journals on various chapters of Tim O’Brien’s novel The Things They Carried reflect ideas found in O’Brien’s writing that are useful when constructing a paper. While cultural journals reflect my personality by describing activities and events I choose to attend since I arrived at IUP and my attitude towards them.
Everything contained in this book, everything I’ve written over the course of the semester is tied to my life. My views and beliefs are within these pages. I share them with you, the reader, in hopes that you will take something from them, whether a piece changes your view of something or sparks a single thought in your head that you didn’t have before, I’ve fulfilled my expectations. I am not a writer who writes to entertain, nor am I a girl who wants to float through life, only worrying about my own life. I want to make an impact, “I want to be more than a pretty girl.”
The Things I Carry
The older you are the more you realize just how much other people define us by what they see when they look at us on the street. If we are seen exiting an opera we are considered cultured, tight shorts make us very *friendly* persons, and hemp skirts transform us into hippies. Sometimes our possessions seem to give just cause for others to label us. Carrying a Play Station Portable makes the boy carrying it a geek. A loser. The girl who prefers her pockets to a purse is deemed butch. A lesbian.
Sometimes we bring these labels upon ourselves. We wear t-shirts that proclaim our political persuasions. “Defend America, defeat Bush!” “I support equality!” or even “Jesus was a social activist liberal.” We wear jerseys to support our favorite sports teams or wristbands that convey our attitudes like “Hug a stranger”.
We all show ourselves through what we carry with us. My large purple Jansport backpack tells the world I’m a student. When I pull my check card from my wallet and hand it to a cashier it conveys my independence. My watch says I like to be on time and my clothes certainly convey that I don’t care about fashion. Those items are generic, at sometime or other everyone is a student, independent and hopefully responsible. But there are some not-so-generic items that I carry. Things you have to look carefully at to understand the significance of them. Look closely at my tan arms and you’ll notice several inch and a half long scars or the faded pink circular burn mark on the inside of my right wrist. Absolute reminders of
a painful childhood filled with the hospitalizations and deaths of my mother and grandmother. If you glance at my right hand you’ll see a silver ring in the shape of two hands holding a turquoise heart with a crown on top of it. This ring is meaningless to you unless you know something about Irish heritage.
There is an Irish fable that tells the story of a king who fell madly in love with a peasant woman. Because they can never be together the king is thrown into a deep depression, eventually taking his own life, but not before leaving some instructions. He ordered that his hands must be chopped off and wrapped around his heart as a symbol of his undying love for the peasant women. Throughout Ireland the ring is worn as a sign of martial status.
A symbol of love, friendship and loyalty. Three characteristics I am careful to incorporate into every aspect of my life. The ring is worn on my right hand with the crown pointing out, symbolizing that I am spoken for. The ring was given to me this past Christmas by my significant other, Ry. To me, the things you must examine carefully are the most significant. My scars remind me of the person I was, irrational, immature and a little selfish. But my ring represents my personal growth, my faith in myself and the responsibility I have to others.
I carry many things by which the world judges me. But the most important things I carry are those things you must look more carefully at, the things you notice enough to think about a little. The things that help me map out the progression of my life, and help me remember that there is more to me than the things I carry.
“Into the Woods” as Seen Through the Eyes of a Stage Manager
From the back of the auditorium, the tongue and groove stage and red act curtain provide a comforting atmosphere, even amid the surrounding chaos. Actors and technicians and parents hustle all around the theatre. In the pit, two painters put the finishing touches on the faux parchment platforms that read the familiar beginning of all fairy tales, “Once Upon a Time.” Girls wander around in running shorts and curlers, while half-dressed boys attempt to put on eyeliner, lipstick and character brown. Laying in the aisles some exhausted crew, attempt to sleep, while others shovel food into their mouths as fast as they can. Suddenly it seems that someone hit the fast forward button. Actors and technicians run everywhere, finding costumes and props, moping the stage and testing lights. Suddenly everything stops, the curtain is closed, and everything is silent. The auditorium’s doors creak open as if protesting, “It can’t be time yet!”, and the first few audience members enter. These are the most dedicated, grandparents, parents, brothers and sisters of the stars.
Backstage in the tense atmosphere, hands reach out for comfort, and embraces convey assurance. Black silhouettes bump into each other in the darkness. In the wings, technicians goof off silently, pushing and tickling one another, letting out all the counter-productive energy before it’s time to get down to business. Task lights are turned on, their electric blue lights creating orb-like shadows on the tar black walls. Back in the booth the operators are nervous. The house is only two rows
shy of holding a sold out show. These people know exactly what to expect when they enter this auditorium; it may be a high school, but it’s the best in the state. All are here to see a stellar performance, and the ensemble knows it.
As the house lights are dimmed to half intensity, patrons are reminded to turn off their cell phones and reframe from flash photography. The house lights fade out; complete darkness. A spot light flicks on to reveal a boy in a suit, the narrator; he speaks pointedly into his hand-held microphone and starts the show with the familiar “Once Upon a Time.” A piano rift seems to bring up the stage lights where three platforms are set in front of the act curtain, one stage left, one center, and the last stage right. Three scenes begin over the piano vamp, interjecting one another, introducing the audience to the three story lines of the musical, the familiar Cinderella, Jack and the beanstalk and a new story, the childless baker. The stories progress and awe resonates when the act curtain opens to reveal the forest. There are clear paths lined with trees, three rock slabs stage right, and a huge mountainous rock stage left. Foliage hangs down from the fly-space and a hidden fog machine gives the forest a foggy and mysterious atmosphere. Everyone backstage seems to relax, the endless questions over the headset finished. Everything goes smoothly, until Cinderella kneeling at her mother’s grave is supposed to be given a dress so she can finally go to the ball. Everyone watches tensely; the dress should have started descending from the fly-space by now. Angry pleas over the headsets ask the fly operator just what he is waiting for. Finally Cinderella can stall no more and exits. Realizing that the dress is the only costume Cinderella wears for the rest of act one, a frantic stage manager runs to the flys and lowers the dress. Luckily Cinderella is quick on her feet and enters from the right side of the stage, acting as though she has been walking throughout the forest all along. She grabs the dress, smiles happily and ad-libs, “Thank you, mother.”
No one breathes until Cinderella has excited the stage and Jack has wandered on with his beloved cow. The show proceeds normally, and no one gives the mistake. The act continues with out any solecism. That is until the baker finally collects all the things the witch has asked for in order to have his impotence spell broken. The witch transforms from a venerable, wart stricken hag, into a beautiful, flawless vixen on stage, and while the audience applauds, the act curtain closes just the tiniest bit. One call on the headset says that a flash pot; meant to help mask the on stage costume change, fell over when it went off and has caught a tiny piece of papier-mâché rock on fire. A quick thinking light operator dove underneath the structure squirting water on it before even the actors notice. Finally intermission relieves everyone of their tense demeanor. Backstage actors and technicians alike are happy they have finally reached the half-way point of the show, and many hugs are given before everyone returns to their places.
Though the second act of the play isn’t a particularly mood lifting experience, an electricity charges the air. The cast is on fire, and every technical cue is executed with laser precision. Just before the end of the act someone excitedly whispers over the headset “That was so cool!" When the final blackout drops heavily onto the auditorium and the cast gets in position for the curtain call, the audience is stunned silent. Each couple enters to applause and by the time the Baker and his wife and Cinderella take their place center stage the entire audience is on their feet, the applause deafening. The company bow is taken and the act curtain closes. As light slowly fades in no one has moved. When the audience has finally exited, every production member can gather backstage. People are everywhere, smiling, crying, and most of all hugging one another. It’s finally over, though the work is not. The cast changes out of costume and meets the fans in the hallway where they will receive flowers, candy, and endless praise for their performance. On stage, however, technicians and crew, sweep, put props away, cover up panels with blue and red, and turn out the lights.
War Zone: Rural Pennsylvania
“Hey, d**e, why don’t you want to play with me?” I look up just in time to see a tall boy walking towards me with a sneer. “You can’t knock it until you try it, d**e; c’mon, I got this real nice place we could go.” My heart rate quickens, and the humiliation I was feeling a minute ago has turned to rage. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Quickly I duck into the girl’s bathroom just as the bell rings, assuring me there will be too many people around for this jackass to continue his harassment. I splash my face with water in a futile attempt to cool the redness that now plagues the sides of my cheeks.
I stare into the mirror and remember with an ironic laugh how I used to stare at myself in the mirror when I was younger. I used the stare into that mirror for hours, not really knowing why, but having an overwhelming feeling that there was something wrong with me. Maybe I’m an alien or maybe I have some terrible disease that no one wants to tell me about, I would think. I was at most seven or eight and didn’t possess enough logic to figure out that I couldn’t possibly be an alien; all I knew was that something about me was different. Now I smile to myself in the mirror “Something’s different all right,” I mutter to myself, trying to muster up the courage to go back to class, but I can not stop thinking about what had happened.
Earlier that week had been the Day of Silence, a national silent protest prominent among teens as a way of acknowledging the taboo subject of sexuality. It raised awareness all right, but mostly that awareness all right, but mostly that awareness was limited to pointing out which among the Danville High School students could now officially be labeled a f*got or a d**e.
However, the students were the mildest offenders of the harassment I and my fellow supporters of the Day of Silence were feeling. It seems the members of the community had taken it upon themselves to personally let it be known that such deviance against their god’s laws would not be tolerated in their community. Letter after letter poured into the Press Enterprise condemning the protest, deeming its participants immoral and immature. Blub after blurb was published, making not only the attitude of the community clear but also the intelligence of its people, saying things such as: “We can’t have those d**n homos in our town; they’ll give us all Aides.” And “The homosexuals must be stopped; they’ll take over and molest all our children.” In response to their ignorant, outlandish, and close-minded claims, I felt extremely compelled to write a letter in response.
After my letter was published, it seemed clear that this was far from over. My phone began ringing off the hook, and my father sentenced me to school and housework in an undeniable attempt to make me into a suitable young woman so a man would marry me. Girls gave me death glares in gym class as they changed in record time, and boys enjoyed giving their own rendition of lesbian sex, by quickly flicking their tongues between their fingers as they pasted me in the hallway.
Despite all this, here I was standing in the girl’s bathroom, preparing myself to go out into that vindictive hallway. Finally I took a deep breath, picked up my book bag, and shoved the door open; ready to face whatever cruelty I was to face next.
“Brews –N- Bytes”
If you have ever been to central Pennsylvania you know that on a Friday night if you are not at a high school football game, things are pretty dead. Lucky for my friends and me, we have discovered our own cultural haven amidst the extreme conservative and may I add down right ignorant surroundings. While our Friday night gatherings at our favorite internet café occur on a pretty routine basis, a particular Friday night stands out in my mind. Since the beginning of September, the usual open mic nights at Brews –N- Bytes have ceased to exist on night when there is a home football game, so my friends and I were not surprised when we were the only people inhabiting the café for the night. Dinner went on as usual but after none of us really wanted to leave, we ordered coffee and various deserts lounging around just hanging out and suddenly Jason, the owner of the restaurant comes in and turns on this odd musical mixture of Spanish rock, and club music, and proceeds to get all of us up to dance. So there we are, in central Pennsylvania on a Friday dancing and playing bongos and bones. It’s not a common night. But it wasn’t the dancing that struck me the most. It was the comfort surrounding us in this place. The restaurant where the owner knows whether or not you were ever there before and if you have been you can bet he’ll know your name. This one cafe has become an intellectual and cultural haven for those who think outside the box. A place where everyone’s opinions are respected. Everyone has the one place where everyone knows them. But if you walk into Brews –N- Bytes even for the first time, you are instantly part of an amazing community where everyone is encouraged to pursue what makes them happy. Finding a place like that is a cultural experience in itself, it doesn’t need anything special. Sure, there is an open mic night, and folk singers, and poets, but it’s the people who go there that make the atmosphere. Brews –N- Bytes is its own culture, and that’s what makes it memorable.
Final Reflection
At the beginning of College writing I was a bit apprehensive about what this course would hold for me. I worried I would have nothing to write about, that assignments would be so structured that I would be unsuccessful in finding ways to be passionate about them. I quickly realized this was not the case at all and decided that this course would not be about a grade, it would not be about impressing my professor and nor would it be about trying to get my classmates to like me. I decided early on this class would be about me and how I wanted to fit myself into life at IUP. I wanted to rediscover myself, reinvent myself, and become someone on this campus. While College Writing has not necessarily been my place to really shine, it has been a big part of building confidence in me and my abilities. The passion I found as I’ve written every piece in this book has given me the social strength I usually lack to go out into the IUP community and become someone important, at least within the theatre department.
The encouragement I received from the peer editors of my writing fueled my tireless exploration of myself. When I stepped onto this campus I was invisible, but in finding myself I have given other people the opportunity to find me. It was in this course that I had the strength to put things on paper I would have never dreamed of even verbally conveying to friends, to convey those ideas to complete strangers. I became bolder and tougher when it came to taking criticism.
Though this is a class, and I would love to get at least a high B, if that doesn’t turn out to be the case, I won’t be devastated. For me the grade has become almost irrelevant, a mere obligatory procedure. The lessons I learned from myself are the most important things I’ll take with me from this course. I taught myself that I am stronger than I think I am that I can withstand whatever the college experience throws at me. I taught myself to have faith in my judgment again. I now am certain that I am up for the challenges life is going to hit me with. Though in this course I have learned to write, possibly write well, the most important thing I will take away from this course isn’t how to put words together to make and effective sentence, it’s how to put my beliefs and my voice together to make my life effective.
“I am not a pretty girl that is not what I do. I ain't no damsel in distress and I don't need to be rescued.” Singer, songwriter, and political activist Ani Difranco has inspired the theme to this book. Her song, “Not a Pretty Girl,” has become the theme song for my life the last couple of years. The views and ideals I have developed as I have grown up are very much reflected within this book.
“The Things I Carry” is a reflection on the societal view that we are defined by what we are seen carrying with us as we walk through life. Our societal values are based on first impressions, how pretty we are, what clothing labels we wear, what purse or bag we carry, these are all things that give people power within our society. It’s sad that the “A-list” celebrities and billionaires are powerful and given more respect than the most revered scholars.
“’Into the Woods’ As Seen Through the Eyes of a Stage Manager” encourages theatrical audiences to think about the effort and the work that goes into a show, rather than just what they see on stage. Though, “’Into the Woods’ As Seen through the Eyes of a Stage Manager” is specifically about theatre, the lesson behind it is something I believe we should all employ in our everyday lives. The work of so many people goes unrecognized everyday, once in a while we should take it upon ourselves to think about the work we don’t see and appreciate those people for their efforts.
“War Zone: Rural Pennsylvania” is a fictional representation of the experiences of a girl in a rural town in Pennsylvania who has become a target of ridicule, scorned by her peers and the community because of her refusal to back down from her beliefs.
In a society where people with true character are often regarded as trouble makers, one girl risks everything show has ever known for the sake of defending herself and others like her.
Reading journals on various chapters of Tim O’Brien’s novel The Things They Carried reflect ideas found in O’Brien’s writing that are useful when constructing a paper. While cultural journals reflect my personality by describing activities and events I choose to attend since I arrived at IUP and my attitude towards them.
Everything contained in this book, everything I’ve written over the course of the semester is tied to my life. My views and beliefs are within these pages. I share them with you, the reader, in hopes that you will take something from them, whether a piece changes your view of something or sparks a single thought in your head that you didn’t have before, I’ve fulfilled my expectations. I am not a writer who writes to entertain, nor am I a girl who wants to float through life, only worrying about my own life. I want to make an impact, “I want to be more than a pretty girl.”
The Things I Carry
The older you are the more you realize just how much other people define us by what they see when they look at us on the street. If we are seen exiting an opera we are considered cultured, tight shorts make us very *friendly* persons, and hemp skirts transform us into hippies. Sometimes our possessions seem to give just cause for others to label us. Carrying a Play Station Portable makes the boy carrying it a geek. A loser. The girl who prefers her pockets to a purse is deemed butch. A lesbian.
Sometimes we bring these labels upon ourselves. We wear t-shirts that proclaim our political persuasions. “Defend America, defeat Bush!” “I support equality!” or even “Jesus was a social activist liberal.” We wear jerseys to support our favorite sports teams or wristbands that convey our attitudes like “Hug a stranger”.
We all show ourselves through what we carry with us. My large purple Jansport backpack tells the world I’m a student. When I pull my check card from my wallet and hand it to a cashier it conveys my independence. My watch says I like to be on time and my clothes certainly convey that I don’t care about fashion. Those items are generic, at sometime or other everyone is a student, independent and hopefully responsible. But there are some not-so-generic items that I carry. Things you have to look carefully at to understand the significance of them. Look closely at my tan arms and you’ll notice several inch and a half long scars or the faded pink circular burn mark on the inside of my right wrist. Absolute reminders of
a painful childhood filled with the hospitalizations and deaths of my mother and grandmother. If you glance at my right hand you’ll see a silver ring in the shape of two hands holding a turquoise heart with a crown on top of it. This ring is meaningless to you unless you know something about Irish heritage.
There is an Irish fable that tells the story of a king who fell madly in love with a peasant woman. Because they can never be together the king is thrown into a deep depression, eventually taking his own life, but not before leaving some instructions. He ordered that his hands must be chopped off and wrapped around his heart as a symbol of his undying love for the peasant women. Throughout Ireland the ring is worn as a sign of martial status.
A symbol of love, friendship and loyalty. Three characteristics I am careful to incorporate into every aspect of my life. The ring is worn on my right hand with the crown pointing out, symbolizing that I am spoken for. The ring was given to me this past Christmas by my significant other, Ry. To me, the things you must examine carefully are the most significant. My scars remind me of the person I was, irrational, immature and a little selfish. But my ring represents my personal growth, my faith in myself and the responsibility I have to others.
I carry many things by which the world judges me. But the most important things I carry are those things you must look more carefully at, the things you notice enough to think about a little. The things that help me map out the progression of my life, and help me remember that there is more to me than the things I carry.
“Into the Woods” as Seen Through the Eyes of a Stage Manager
From the back of the auditorium, the tongue and groove stage and red act curtain provide a comforting atmosphere, even amid the surrounding chaos. Actors and technicians and parents hustle all around the theatre. In the pit, two painters put the finishing touches on the faux parchment platforms that read the familiar beginning of all fairy tales, “Once Upon a Time.” Girls wander around in running shorts and curlers, while half-dressed boys attempt to put on eyeliner, lipstick and character brown. Laying in the aisles some exhausted crew, attempt to sleep, while others shovel food into their mouths as fast as they can. Suddenly it seems that someone hit the fast forward button. Actors and technicians run everywhere, finding costumes and props, moping the stage and testing lights. Suddenly everything stops, the curtain is closed, and everything is silent. The auditorium’s doors creak open as if protesting, “It can’t be time yet!”, and the first few audience members enter. These are the most dedicated, grandparents, parents, brothers and sisters of the stars.
Backstage in the tense atmosphere, hands reach out for comfort, and embraces convey assurance. Black silhouettes bump into each other in the darkness. In the wings, technicians goof off silently, pushing and tickling one another, letting out all the counter-productive energy before it’s time to get down to business. Task lights are turned on, their electric blue lights creating orb-like shadows on the tar black walls. Back in the booth the operators are nervous. The house is only two rows
shy of holding a sold out show. These people know exactly what to expect when they enter this auditorium; it may be a high school, but it’s the best in the state. All are here to see a stellar performance, and the ensemble knows it.
As the house lights are dimmed to half intensity, patrons are reminded to turn off their cell phones and reframe from flash photography. The house lights fade out; complete darkness. A spot light flicks on to reveal a boy in a suit, the narrator; he speaks pointedly into his hand-held microphone and starts the show with the familiar “Once Upon a Time.” A piano rift seems to bring up the stage lights where three platforms are set in front of the act curtain, one stage left, one center, and the last stage right. Three scenes begin over the piano vamp, interjecting one another, introducing the audience to the three story lines of the musical, the familiar Cinderella, Jack and the beanstalk and a new story, the childless baker. The stories progress and awe resonates when the act curtain opens to reveal the forest. There are clear paths lined with trees, three rock slabs stage right, and a huge mountainous rock stage left. Foliage hangs down from the fly-space and a hidden fog machine gives the forest a foggy and mysterious atmosphere. Everyone backstage seems to relax, the endless questions over the headset finished. Everything goes smoothly, until Cinderella kneeling at her mother’s grave is supposed to be given a dress so she can finally go to the ball. Everyone watches tensely; the dress should have started descending from the fly-space by now. Angry pleas over the headsets ask the fly operator just what he is waiting for. Finally Cinderella can stall no more and exits. Realizing that the dress is the only costume Cinderella wears for the rest of act one, a frantic stage manager runs to the flys and lowers the dress. Luckily Cinderella is quick on her feet and enters from the right side of the stage, acting as though she has been walking throughout the forest all along. She grabs the dress, smiles happily and ad-libs, “Thank you, mother.”
No one breathes until Cinderella has excited the stage and Jack has wandered on with his beloved cow. The show proceeds normally, and no one gives the mistake. The act continues with out any solecism. That is until the baker finally collects all the things the witch has asked for in order to have his impotence spell broken. The witch transforms from a venerable, wart stricken hag, into a beautiful, flawless vixen on stage, and while the audience applauds, the act curtain closes just the tiniest bit. One call on the headset says that a flash pot; meant to help mask the on stage costume change, fell over when it went off and has caught a tiny piece of papier-mâché rock on fire. A quick thinking light operator dove underneath the structure squirting water on it before even the actors notice. Finally intermission relieves everyone of their tense demeanor. Backstage actors and technicians alike are happy they have finally reached the half-way point of the show, and many hugs are given before everyone returns to their places.
Though the second act of the play isn’t a particularly mood lifting experience, an electricity charges the air. The cast is on fire, and every technical cue is executed with laser precision. Just before the end of the act someone excitedly whispers over the headset “That was so cool!" When the final blackout drops heavily onto the auditorium and the cast gets in position for the curtain call, the audience is stunned silent. Each couple enters to applause and by the time the Baker and his wife and Cinderella take their place center stage the entire audience is on their feet, the applause deafening. The company bow is taken and the act curtain closes. As light slowly fades in no one has moved. When the audience has finally exited, every production member can gather backstage. People are everywhere, smiling, crying, and most of all hugging one another. It’s finally over, though the work is not. The cast changes out of costume and meets the fans in the hallway where they will receive flowers, candy, and endless praise for their performance. On stage, however, technicians and crew, sweep, put props away, cover up panels with blue and red, and turn out the lights.
War Zone: Rural Pennsylvania
“Hey, d**e, why don’t you want to play with me?” I look up just in time to see a tall boy walking towards me with a sneer. “You can’t knock it until you try it, d**e; c’mon, I got this real nice place we could go.” My heart rate quickens, and the humiliation I was feeling a minute ago has turned to rage. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Quickly I duck into the girl’s bathroom just as the bell rings, assuring me there will be too many people around for this jackass to continue his harassment. I splash my face with water in a futile attempt to cool the redness that now plagues the sides of my cheeks.
I stare into the mirror and remember with an ironic laugh how I used to stare at myself in the mirror when I was younger. I used the stare into that mirror for hours, not really knowing why, but having an overwhelming feeling that there was something wrong with me. Maybe I’m an alien or maybe I have some terrible disease that no one wants to tell me about, I would think. I was at most seven or eight and didn’t possess enough logic to figure out that I couldn’t possibly be an alien; all I knew was that something about me was different. Now I smile to myself in the mirror “Something’s different all right,” I mutter to myself, trying to muster up the courage to go back to class, but I can not stop thinking about what had happened.
Earlier that week had been the Day of Silence, a national silent protest prominent among teens as a way of acknowledging the taboo subject of sexuality. It raised awareness all right, but mostly that awareness all right, but mostly that awareness was limited to pointing out which among the Danville High School students could now officially be labeled a f*got or a d**e.
However, the students were the mildest offenders of the harassment I and my fellow supporters of the Day of Silence were feeling. It seems the members of the community had taken it upon themselves to personally let it be known that such deviance against their god’s laws would not be tolerated in their community. Letter after letter poured into the Press Enterprise condemning the protest, deeming its participants immoral and immature. Blub after blurb was published, making not only the attitude of the community clear but also the intelligence of its people, saying things such as: “We can’t have those d**n homos in our town; they’ll give us all Aides.” And “The homosexuals must be stopped; they’ll take over and molest all our children.” In response to their ignorant, outlandish, and close-minded claims, I felt extremely compelled to write a letter in response.
After my letter was published, it seemed clear that this was far from over. My phone began ringing off the hook, and my father sentenced me to school and housework in an undeniable attempt to make me into a suitable young woman so a man would marry me. Girls gave me death glares in gym class as they changed in record time, and boys enjoyed giving their own rendition of lesbian sex, by quickly flicking their tongues between their fingers as they pasted me in the hallway.
Despite all this, here I was standing in the girl’s bathroom, preparing myself to go out into that vindictive hallway. Finally I took a deep breath, picked up my book bag, and shoved the door open; ready to face whatever cruelty I was to face next.
“Brews –N- Bytes”
If you have ever been to central Pennsylvania you know that on a Friday night if you are not at a high school football game, things are pretty dead. Lucky for my friends and me, we have discovered our own cultural haven amidst the extreme conservative and may I add down right ignorant surroundings. While our Friday night gatherings at our favorite internet café occur on a pretty routine basis, a particular Friday night stands out in my mind. Since the beginning of September, the usual open mic nights at Brews –N- Bytes have ceased to exist on night when there is a home football game, so my friends and I were not surprised when we were the only people inhabiting the café for the night. Dinner went on as usual but after none of us really wanted to leave, we ordered coffee and various deserts lounging around just hanging out and suddenly Jason, the owner of the restaurant comes in and turns on this odd musical mixture of Spanish rock, and club music, and proceeds to get all of us up to dance. So there we are, in central Pennsylvania on a Friday dancing and playing bongos and bones. It’s not a common night. But it wasn’t the dancing that struck me the most. It was the comfort surrounding us in this place. The restaurant where the owner knows whether or not you were ever there before and if you have been you can bet he’ll know your name. This one cafe has become an intellectual and cultural haven for those who think outside the box. A place where everyone’s opinions are respected. Everyone has the one place where everyone knows them. But if you walk into Brews –N- Bytes even for the first time, you are instantly part of an amazing community where everyone is encouraged to pursue what makes them happy. Finding a place like that is a cultural experience in itself, it doesn’t need anything special. Sure, there is an open mic night, and folk singers, and poets, but it’s the people who go there that make the atmosphere. Brews –N- Bytes is its own culture, and that’s what makes it memorable.
Final Reflection
At the beginning of College writing I was a bit apprehensive about what this course would hold for me. I worried I would have nothing to write about, that assignments would be so structured that I would be unsuccessful in finding ways to be passionate about them. I quickly realized this was not the case at all and decided that this course would not be about a grade, it would not be about impressing my professor and nor would it be about trying to get my classmates to like me. I decided early on this class would be about me and how I wanted to fit myself into life at IUP. I wanted to rediscover myself, reinvent myself, and become someone on this campus. While College Writing has not necessarily been my place to really shine, it has been a big part of building confidence in me and my abilities. The passion I found as I’ve written every piece in this book has given me the social strength I usually lack to go out into the IUP community and become someone important, at least within the theatre department.
The encouragement I received from the peer editors of my writing fueled my tireless exploration of myself. When I stepped onto this campus I was invisible, but in finding myself I have given other people the opportunity to find me. It was in this course that I had the strength to put things on paper I would have never dreamed of even verbally conveying to friends, to convey those ideas to complete strangers. I became bolder and tougher when it came to taking criticism.
Though this is a class, and I would love to get at least a high B, if that doesn’t turn out to be the case, I won’t be devastated. For me the grade has become almost irrelevant, a mere obligatory procedure. The lessons I learned from myself are the most important things I’ll take with me from this course. I taught myself that I am stronger than I think I am that I can withstand whatever the college experience throws at me. I taught myself to have faith in my judgment again. I now am certain that I am up for the challenges life is going to hit me with. Though in this course I have learned to write, possibly write well, the most important thing I will take away from this course isn’t how to put words together to make and effective sentence, it’s how to put my beliefs and my voice together to make my life effective.