A Tell-Tale Heart

           Thousands of people have probably sat down and read A Tell-Tale Heart and tried to figure out the meaning behind the story. There are some theories that say the man is completely out of his mind, and he hallucinates the whole entire thing. There are others that say he is out of his mind, and he had no good reason to kill the old man, but he believes that his reason is as good as any, and he is just trying to convince people who think he is crazy. Still others say that he is not completely out of his mind. Perhaps he was mistreated or molested by this old man when he was a young boy, and he has blocked out the memories, but still has that hatred inside him. In each scenario it seems, no matter what the theory, this man truly does not think he is crazy. He honestly believes this was an okay thing to do.

            In my opinion, I think the man has a severe mental disability. I do not know what kind (my guess would be schizophrenia), but it is very, very serious. He finds it completely normal to murder a helpless old man, just because he has a freaky eye. He could be a religious man, convinced that the eye is the devil’s eye. But that would not make the man any less crazy. No one in top mental condition would believe it was okay. I think the man believes what he did was okay, and he does not know his own sickness. They say the mark of a crazy person is to not know that they are crazy. When the policemen come over to check out the scene, at first the man is totally suave. He gives away nothing. But as the night goes on he begins to feel ill, and eventually he ends up raving and swearing and banging chairs around, while the cops just sit there smiling. I am of the opinion that the man is doing nothing of the sort. I think it was probably all in his head, and the beating of the heart he was hearing was actually his own consciousness. When I read this story, I believe he really did kill the old man because of some mental disability, and when he confesses, it is not out of guilt or remorse, but just because there was something so big that he was keeping inside of him that he had to get out.

Fugitive

     "...twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine....THIRTY!" The tallest of the three girls yells the loudest as they prepare to search for the fugitives trying to escape to Canada.

     "I'll check the alleys," whispers a beautiful young Chinese girl as she creeps through the gangway of the red brick house serving the purpose of Canada. The tall, overflowing bushes brush Elise's skin as she quietly heads for the back.

     "I'll patrol the streets," says a second girl, Charlie, matter-of-factly. Charlie is tall and slender, with light brown hair that does not camouflauge with the still night quite as well as Elise's dark black hair does. "You got Canada covered?"

     "I'm good, but don't leave me alone too long!" says Ana, her brown eyes shining anxiously. No one ever wants to be the one to guard Canada. It is a boring task until the very end. Ana watches as Charlie's pony tail bounces out of sight. Once she disappears behind a car, Ana takes to patrolling the area. She begins the routine check, pacing back and forth between gangways, waiting four or five seconds between each house. On occasion she hears a crack or a scuffle behind her and whips around, only to find a grey squirrel scrambling over the bench in front of her house, which is serving as the Canadian border. Five minutes into the game there is no action, and her front door opens. Her mother, a slight, greying women of fifty-three, dashes out carrying a large green salad bowl.
     "Hey sweetie, I'm bringing the salad over to Pete and Debbie's, are you guys coming to eat?" she asks as she rushes past.
     "No, we're playing Fugitives! We already ate," replies Ana, keeping her eyes on the gangway between her house and the Johnsons'.
     "Okay, have fun,"laughs Mrs. Todd, and she walks the two houses down to their neighbors' house.
     It is the night of the Progressive Dinner. The Bells, the Robinsons, the Todds, the Luecs, and the Thomsons are each hosting a course of a meal for the block to share, and all the neighbors are rotating between houses. It is a long, annual tradition that continues throughout the years, despite the occasional neighborly spat. It is currently ten thirty at night, and the Bells are hosting the entree, as usual. Mrs. Todd had insisted that she was too busy to clean the house, so this year it is a combined salad-entree course at the Bells'. Everything else has gone as planned.
     There is a snap between the Hutchinsons' house and the Todds', and Ana sprints over to the far side of her house, her heart pumping, only to see Rachel dashing back toward the alley, clearly frustrated with herself for getting caught. Ana's one moment of excitement subsides as she takes to pacing once again.
     Finally Charlie comes back.
     "I got Nicky and Sam, they were hiding behind Mary's van at the end of the block," she says with relish. "They're in jail, Elise is guarding."
     "Nicccee," breathes Ana with appreciation. Nicky may only be ten years old but she is fast. "Take over for me?" She asks.
     "Sure," says Charlie dispiritedly, but understanding. It's part of the job. And she, Ana, and Elise do a damn good job. They are the best team of cops the game has ever had.
     "It's been pretty dead around here," says Ana empathetically as she runs backward into the alley with a small salute. She reaches the back gate silently and creeps out into the alley. She stays near to the garages, her best strategy, seeing as she is one of the slowest runners of the group. She has a good surprise tactic.
     She slows as she sees a shape up ahead. It is tall and blonde. Eric. Eric is strong, fast, and a karate master. No one wants to see him in a dark alley at night. Nevertheless she slinks slowly and quietly forward until she is just feet away. She jumps out just as he turns in her direction.
     "Holy!" he yelps, and another shadow begins sprinting in the opposite direction. It's Devin. Already Ana knows she has no chance of catching him.
     "Do you surrender?!" she shouts at Eric as he turns and attempts to escape. He doesn't answer. She chases. He escapes. No surprises there.
     She slows to a slight jog and takes a right into a neighbor's backyard. She slips through the gangway and continues on toward jail to check the progress. There are two new additions.
     "Eli and Jonathan tried to get these two out, but I got 'em," says Elise smugly as Ana comes out from behind a tree. "Seen anyone else?"
     "Yeah, I saw Eric and Devin, but they got away," says Ana. She kicks at the dirt with frustration.

     There's a shout, followed by another yelp, then confusion. Ana, Charlie, and Elise are convened near Canada, just about to switch posts. Eric comes out of nowhere, half walking, half running toward them. All three of them start to call out, "Do you surrender?" but he silences them as he approaches.
     "Did any of you scream, 'Let me go?'?"
     The girls look at each other blankly, then to Eric. He doesn't need them to answer.
     He takes off like a bullet. It is almost comical, the way he shoots down the street, like a cartoon, crouching and revving its feet and disappearing in a cloud of dust. Except it is not funny, and he no one is laughing.

The Luckiest

The Luckiest
by Ben Folds


I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?

And in a white sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you

Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away

I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest


     This song isn't exactly the most "poetic" in the sense that it has some weird hidden meaning, and people analyze it for hours trying to figure it out. It is clearly a love song written by someone who feels SO lucky to be with the one they love. But even though it is not exactly a poem in the analytical sense, to me the lyrics are the deepest kind of poetry you can have. The words are so beautiful and simple and just by reading them (but especially when you listen to the song) you can feel how much love the writer possesses for this person.
     I suppose the most "poetic" part to me is when he talks about the old man and his wife. He doesn't plainly say, "Hey, I'd die if anything happened to you". Instead he says it in a tragic, beautiful story, and says, "I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong". It is loving and sad and there is so much feeling. It is so poetic.

Life on the Reservation

     As a little girl, I grew up listening to the stories of John White, a Native American storyteller of Cherokee descent who wove tales of turtles on the warpath and young warriors slaying bears, or old blind men saving the town all on their own. I would listen in rapture, over and over to the stories I knew all the endings to, each time more and more excited. My favorite story was of the crawfish who were terrorized by the raccoon who lived nearby, and the way that raccoon tricked those crawfish, and the brave warrior crawfish who saved them all.
     These stories pretty much sum up my general feeling about Native American life, or at least how I picture it. I've always seen it as this wonderful thing, so cultured and beautiful, every tool and food made by hand - I suppose the stereotypical idea of what Native American life was like. I have no idea. I can only imagine that before the White people came and screwed it all up, things probably weren't all bad. But thinking about what the Europeans did when they came, and every nasty thing they brought with them, it kinds of shatters that perfect picture with a blindingly harsh reality. Once the states became the United States, things began to change. Alcoholism was a big problem. The Native Americans were introduced to things they had never seen before in their lives. Eventually, that cultural beauty they had possessed began to disintegrate. As time went by, reservations became less and less common, and life on the reservations probably became more and more difficult. I can't pretend to really know anything about the subject, but I don't imagine there are many people who fully and completely embrace their Native American roots today. It makes me sad to think that a once so beautiful culture is being shoved aside by what is in my opinion a not nearly as beautiful culture.

Propaganda

Propaganda: information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view

My immediate reaction to the word "propaganda" is not a good one. Anyone who has ever read 1984 cringes at the sound of the word. The definition itself is not exactly a wonderful thing - "especially of a biased or misleading nature". The Oxford American Dictionary even starts the definition with the words "chiefly derogatory". I suppose some propaganda must be good, although it's also a matter of opinion. Obviously the people putting out the propaganda think it's a good idea.

The picture I chose as an example of propaganda might not really seem like the best representation of the thing. It is just the picture of some sort of army guy's jacket. It shows his pins and flags and stuff, and is seemingly harmless. But I feel like, if I was a young man, sixteen or seventeen years old, getting ready to go to college, and I saw this picture, along with subtle hinting about "Do what's right for your country" and "Support your troops" and all that stuff, I might feel obligated or moved to join the army. It's so subtle, sometimes not even recognizable. But even though you might think of propaganda as the old, comumunist, crazy thing that used to happen, it's still around today. It's very subtle.

file:///Users/alainastacey/Desktop/DownloadedFile.jpeg

Black Boy

     This is one of the saddest books I've ever read. It's not even really what happens or what you physically read that make me sad, it's what everything means. I still can't get over how terrible it is that Richard's mom beats him all the time, especially when he asks questions. That has to be so damaging to that poor little boy. Any little boy or girl I've ever met has that beautiful, wondering curiosity, and no matter how annoying it is for them to ask question after question, I always want to answer them. I have this need, almost an urgency, to satisfy their curiosity. It's so wonderful to see a little kid asking questions, it's the mark of a smart human. So for Richard's mom to deny him that curiosity, to deny him the answers to the many questions he asks, is just so sad. I don't know, because I haven't finished the book yet, but I feel like that's going to hurt him as  a man later on in life. Already, from the burning curtains and the alcoholism and the swearing, you can tell he has this need for attention, and everything he does gets him into trouble. He can't get the answers he needs at home, so he has to seek elsewhere.
     Another thing that really makes my heart ache is growing awareness he has of racism, and the way he feeds into it. I totally, one hundred percent understand why he does. He hears terrible stories of things that white people are doing to black people, and it's no wonder he grows to hate them. But it makes me so sad that it had to be that way. Earlier in the book, he writes how he was for the most part unaware of the difference between white and black people, besides the color of their skins. As he grows older, he starts to notice other things, and with the help of his community and every person around him, he builds a barrier between him and other races. He writes of his treatment of the Jewish man who owns the store, and of the treatment of blacks by whites that he hears every day. It is such an unfortunate thing to read about, hearing him as a young, innocent little boy who becomes more socially aware and has almost no choice but to contribute to the racism of the country. It is a terrible, unfortunate, unavoidable thing.
     Even though this book is heartbreaking, I like it so far. It's a little weird at times, like when he kills the cat, or when he lives with his uncle. While it's hard to read, it's very interesting. I'm excited to continue.

Hungry For Attention

     Is Richard alone in his craving? Absolutely not. Half of the reason people do things in this life is because they are hungry for attention. I'm pretty sure every naughty thing kids do when they're little is because of a need for attention. And not even only naughty things. I remember when I was little, my friend and I used to clean our bathrooms together. One of the reasons we did it was because we liked to pretend to be Cinderella, but the most exciting part was to finish cleaning and run, pulling our exasperated parents' hands behind us, to the newly clean (and probably not even very dirty in the first place) bathroom, only to hear them say, "Wow Alaina and Rory, this looks so great! You guys are naturals!"
     But even besides children, everyone is hungry for attention. If someone says, "Oh I don't care at all what people think of me, I don't need attention, I don't care what I look like" etc. etc. etc...... Maybe in some ways it's true, but the truth of the matter is, everyone needs a little attention. Everyone wants to know that they are loved or wanted or even noticed by someone. Especially someone special :)
     When Richard sets the house on fire, maybe this is going a little too far. But if you put yourself in his shoes, it doesn't actually sound like that extravagent of a plan. His parents weren't paying any attention to him (and let's face it, when you're little, all you really want is for your parents to love you and pay attention to you) and he wanted to pull the attention toward himself. He didn't know that setting the curtains on fire was going to burn the house down. He was four years old. He was just a little boy who thought it would look magnificent for those leaping orange flames to mix with the forbidden white curtains. He was curious, and smart enough to know that he probably shouldn't be doing what he was doing, and that it might give him some attention. It's hard to be a little kid when your parents aren't paying attention to you. All kids do stupid things to get attention. It's unavoidable.