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.

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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.

I Hear America Singing

I loved this poem. It was so beautiful. I loved the imagery and the feeling it gave me. Personally, I really really really enjoy singing. So to read a poem that depicts the American people singing, proud of what they do, makes me happy. Even though I know that the poem's not literal, and that he doesn't really mean people are actually singing, I like to picture lots of huge, muscley, dirt-covered blacksmiths and beautiful young mothers singing as they do their daily work. It's lovely.

This is what America should be. People, proud of their work and thier lives, doing good work. Families that love eachother and what they do, and support each other. America singing. When I think of someone singing, I think of someone singing out of joy, so happy the song just bursts out. They can't help it. Or I think of someone singing so, so sadly, out of a grief that's so great they can't stop themselves from wailing in a beautiful ballad. Either of these images makes my heart swell. Singing is such a beautiful way to express your emotions. People singing while they do their work, so filed with emotion that they can't contain themselves. Full of happiness at being alive, being safe and free in America, being loved by someone. People grieving for a loved one, for something in their life that they can't control.

Whether you're singing out of joy or sadness, it's a wonderful thing to sing. Maybe you're proud of your family, maybe you're proud of the life you've created; maybe you're grieving the family you left behind, or the mother you lost. No matter what, you should sing. Sing because you can. Sing because you have a voice.

King Still King?

     Martin Luther King. What an incredible man. One of America's most well-known civil rights leaders. He was, and in my opinion still is, a symbol for those of us who feel they have no place in the world. For those of us who feel segragated against for immoral reasons, for those of us who have been poorly treated because of race or class. Had Martin Luther King not said all he said, and done all he did, perhaps America would not be wehere it is today.
     Yeah, sure, there were others. Yes, eventually someone else would have shone, and yes, evetually racism and segregation probably would have been beaten (for the most part anyway; it's not like it's completely gone everywhere). But would it have happened like it did with King? Would someone else have made such and enormous impact on African American culture? He was so important to America's history.
     And what if he had not been shot? Would people think of him differently, if he had not died for the cause? A martyr for his people, for his American people. Of course, he still made an impact with his words and with his actions, but sometimes (and this might be terrible to even say) a tragedy like a death is just what the world needs to put things into action. Whenever people think of Martin Luther King, they think of a noble man who fought for his cause and went as far as he possibly could.
     Today we have Martin Luther King Day. In my experience, at least with myself and the people I know, this day is not a reflection on him and on the world and what we can do to make it better, just like he did. This is how it should be. Of course, I don't know about other households. Maybe some families have big parties celebrating their hero, their reason for freedom and justice. Maybe some parties mourn for King. I honestly don't know. But I don't think we need a day to remember him by. I think he is still alive in the hearts of every person who cares for others and everyone's independence.

This Sacred Soil

     "This Sacred Soil" is a speech that chief Seattle of the Duwamish and Suquamish fishing tribes made to the Governor of Washington Territory in 1854. Reading this kind of shook me, actually. It just makes me sad. It makes me sad that he was so kind, so cordial, in addressing the Governor. That he seems to be losing hope in his faith and in his people/ But what makes me the most sad of all is the fact that I will never know or fully understand Seattle and his people's ways of life, their view on everything around them. 

     It is so beautiful to read about how "Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished" (p230), how "The very dust upon which you know stand responds more lovingly to [his people's] footsteps than to [the settlers'], because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch" (p230). I love to think of the earth and everything in it as a living thing, with feelings and a conscious mind, connected to every other living thing. 

     Seattle's view of the dead also mystifies me, in a wondrous way. He says there is no death, only a change of worlds. That everyone has their time. Upon first reading this speech, it seems that Seattle is grieving the decay of his people, but he goes on to say he does not mourn the fate of his people. He sees things in a much different way than people today do. He has a different way of looking at life.

     This speech just makes me wish I could be a fly on the wall. Not just in this situation, more than a hundred years ago, but everywhere in the world. I wish I could understand every culture, read every book there was to read about different people, discover new ways of looking at this wonderful life. But at the same time, I find something mysterious and exciting about the fact that each culture is its own, and that's what's special about it. The fact that other cultures don't fully understand it, don't know everything about it, makes it that much more unique. This speech from Chief Seattle really puts life in perspective.

Music Review

  Soo, as I'm sitting here, wondering how in the whole wide WORLD I'm supposed to pick one CD to review out of all the wonderful music in the world, I am hit with a stroke of brilliance. Should I write about Ben Folds' Rockin' the Suburbs? Or Brad Paisley's Time Well Wasted? Oh no no no no NO. While these are both absolutely fantastic albums, I've decided on the one to top them all: Flight of the Conchords, Season One Soundtrack. What a masterpiece.

     It opens with the intriguing drum beat of the "french" song "Foux du Fafa", followed immediately by ludicrous french phrases that have nothing to with anything. This entire CD is a rollercoaster of one funny song after another. My personal favorite is "Sally", one of the last songs on the album. What a flash of genius.

 

"You're so beautiful, like a....tree."

"You're so beautiful, you could be a part time model....(but you'd prob'ly still have to keep your normal job."

 

     Brilliant. This is the funniest album of the year. The lyrics of all the songs have the wonderful quality of sounding improvised but never failing to be hilarious. Coupled with the episodes of the show, these songs can have you laughing till it hurts. Brett and Gemaine are two of the funniest humans alive. Their New Zealand accents add to the effect perfectly. This is such a great album, you should definitely check it out.

 

Jay and Nick

     Here's the thing about Jay Gatsby. He seems like a really cool guy. To the general public, he seems secure in himself, rich, confident, and the pretty much the greatest guy ever. Which he sort of is. Ish. The real truth is (and I believe this is true for many men) that he is actually very insecure. We get a real example of this when he sees Daisy again. He gets SO nervous, and when she finally comes he works so hard to show her all his great stuff, to show off his wonderful life. He doesn't think that just himself in the flesh will be enough. I think he is a sensitive guy hidden behind his money.
     Sooo, when he strikes up a friendship with Nick, at first it seems like, "Ohh this is so cool, Nick and Jay are gonna be friends now, what a nice guy". But Nick notices something underneath his understanding style and confidence. He sees him thinking hard about every word he's saying, which is something I'm sure you'd have to do if you were trying to give a false impression to the world. It's really hard to judge someone when you don't know what they're truly like.
     My first impression was that Jay was an awesome guy and that he really wanted to be friends with his next door neighbor. Then, when he asked Nick to invite Daisy over, I thought maybe he was just using Nick to get to her. But also here's the thing. I think maybe originally that was his plan, to just use Nick, but when people are around each other a lot, many times I think they don't really have a choice but to become friends. Either that or to hate each other's guts. In the case of Gatsby and Nick, I think they're going to develop a real friendship, or at least a respect for each other that they have for no one else. There's something special about scheming together, even if it's mostly just one person's plan. Even though Gatsby almost tricked Nick into starting the whole thing, they're in it together now. I think they'll stick together.

A Winter Poem

Cold

So cold

Hungry

So hungry

Driving past, turn up the heat

Frost on my lashes

Warmth fogging up their windows

Solid breath in air

Cold

So cold

Shop windows filled with gifts

Bins filled with gifts too

Rooting to find something special

You can just buy it

I have to find it

The most wonderful time of the year

The coldest time of the year

Warm bed

Cold stone

Warm comforter

Cold wool

Warm bath

Cold snow

Cold

So cold

Don't stare

I know what I look like

Don't hold your breath

I wish I could too

Pine trees in your homes

Pine trees in my homes

This park is my home

Don't tell anyone

Cold

So cold

Thank you

Thank you for your dollar

Your pity dollar

Pity I don't need

Keep driving

Thankful for what you have

What I don't have

Driving past, turn up the heat

Frost on my lashes

Warmth fogging up your windows

Solid breath in the air

And cold

So cold

The Trick to Writing

     The trick to writing? Oy vey, if people knew that, there wouldn't be any bad writers, would there? The trick to writing....that is a very intense question. I would say that the trick to writing is to put meaning into the words. To put feeling and emotion into the words. No one wants to read some dry peace of literature that doesn't mean anything. The more invested the writer is in the work, the better it is for the reader. If the writer is interested in what they are writing, hopefully the reader will be as well.
     It really doesn't matter if you have good technique, or even good spelling or grammar. It helps of course, because then the reader won't be distracted from taking in what they're reading, but if the emotion's there, it should be pretty good.
     Even as I'm writing this I'm deciding to contradict myself. I do that all the time. But the thing is, sometimes you just can't stand the person writing. Someone could be writing something emotionally and be completely invested in it, and someone else could read it and think, Ugh, this person is so annoying. But then again, does that mean it's good writing, because it caused someone to have a reaction? Maybe. I don't know. How are you supposed to answer this question??
     I'm going back to my original plan. If you care about what you're writing about and you put real emotion into it, you will be able to write something decent. Then there are things you can do to make it even better, with grammar and punctuation and phrasing and stuff, but all that really matter are the basics. The important stuff.

I Am Thankful For....MONICA!!

     Monica. What a beautiful name. What a beautiful person. The name Monica comes from a Greek word (how fitting, seeing as I am Greek) meaning solitary. That is so beautiful. Solitary, single, independent. Not that she's single, really (RYAN), but she's her own independent person. She is smart and strong and vivacious, and she manages to wear a stunning smile every single day.
     I am so grateful for that smile. I know I can always count on Monica, no matter what, to make me feel better. Every single day. American Lit being the first class - which is always a bummer, since everyone's feeling like, "Aww man, the last thing I wanna do right now is leave my warm, comfortable bed and go sit in some class reading some boring book about a house *AHEM*" (just kidding Mr. M) - it's sometimes hard to be cheerful and concentrated. Monica always lifts me up. When I see her face I cannot help but smile. She puts me in a better mood just by being there.
     And did I mention she's brilliant? If I don't understand something, or I need help answering a difficult question, she is always more than generous. She always has a great idea in that beautiful head of hers. She sees things in a way that sometimes I just don't see. She is the perfect person to have in an English class. When I sit next to her, I know she will have something intelligent to add to the conversation. Ahhhhh I'm smiling just writing this! I love that girl. I love to listen to her talk, and hear about her life. I love that she can speak Spanish so beautifully and that she has an amazing Panamanian family. She gets to live two worlds, and she shares her stories. She is a wonderful, cultural, talented girl. She can sing and play the guitar. She plays better than I do, and I've been playing twice as long. She's amazing. I learn so much from her every day.
     And her blogs! They're so well written and funny, and creative and smart. Oy vey, I sound like I'm smitten. Which I am :) I'm so glad I know Monica and am in her class. I love talking to her and working with her and laughing with her. I feel like we really have a connection, which is something everyone needs. When we watched the Crucible in class, we were both trying not to cry. We decided we were going to have a Crucible party at her house and eat pizza and cry together at the end. This is the sort of person I love to be with. Someone who is not afraid to be herself and speak her mind, and who has the bloom of love and happiness in her. She adds so much to my life, and I am so, eternally grateful for her.
     I LOVE YOU MONICA, MI AMIGA HERMOSA!!

I am a plow

     The farmer pushes his plow. Push, push. He pushes all day. It's hot outside. He's hot. The sun beats down on his shining head, the sweat trickles down his temple. The day is hot and dry.
     His ears pick up the distinct sound of the woodpecker, pecking away at the skin of the tree across the field. He stops. He listens. He closes his eyes and his mind floats, his entire soul floats. He is that mockingbird. But reality snaps him back. He plows.
     The farmer pushes his plow. He pushes, rows upon rows, he must finish before dusk falls. He has no choice. This is his life. He pushes until he has blisters on his hands. He feels the tender skin, longs for a time when he must plow no more. He closes his eyes and his mind floats, his entire soal floats. He is holding his hands under the cool, clear water. He hears the woodpecker pecking. He opens his eyes. He plows.
     Mid-afternoon, she comes to him. She brings him water to drink and food to eat. He sits with her in the shade of the woodpecker's tree. He leans against her, his rock, his light, his life. He loves her. He wishes he could sit there forever. He does not want to plow. But he plows.
     The farmer pushes his plow. He pushes until his day's work is done. The day's labor is finished, he can go home. But he must push the plow to it's resting place. He cannot leave it out. It is a burden he would rather not care for. But he pushes. He places it in it's bed, it's home, it's barn. It sits in the dark. It waits for morning.
     The farmer pushes his plow. Push, push. He pushes all day. He hates his plow. He depends upon his plow. He loathes his plow. He loathes his plow. He loathes his plow.
     I am a plow. The last wanted. The least preferred. I am the plow, that inconveniences the life around me, yet for some incomprehensible reason, I hold on still. They hold onto me, and I cling to them like a life-line. I do not want to be forgotten in the dark. I want to be reawoken each morning. But no one wants to awake me. Yet they come for me, each morning. They cannot live without me. I am a plow. Don't forget me.

Changes in the Classroom?

     I totally love this class. I love our discussions and our opportunity to chose our own book for independent reading. I love how we get homework that is beneficial to us without causing us to fall over dead with exhaustion and boredom. It's a really awesome credit. Soooo, you should probably give me some extra credit now, Mr. McCarthy..... :) Just kidding.
     But seriously. This class is da bomb. With a "d". One thing I think would be a nice change is if we, um, AHEM AHEM, changed the book we are currently reading, The House of the Seven Gables. It's a...uhh...very....riveting book...with great description and....detail. It's a great book. If you're blind. Just kidding. Sorry, that's not funny. Especially if you're blind....yeeahhh...
     Since I can't think of anything to change in this class, I shall speak of other classes. Or just school in general.  I think we should have current events. Tons of people (including myself) don't know what the heck is going on in the world, and that problem could be remedied if we talked about it in class. I don't think we should get really deep into it, but talking about a piece of news every day or something would be nice.
     I also think we should get less homework (duh, of course). But honestly, I believe half of the homework teachers give us is just busy work that actually decreases our learning capacity. Doing homework takes away time we could be sleeping, and sleeping is ESSENTIAL to learning, and health. Homework is devastating to our health. The end. Of my blog.
     Also I enjoy canoles.

Modern Day Slavery

     This is going to sound so terrible. So don't judge me till I'm done explaining. For my entire life, I've known that slavery is awful. I've known that people were mistreated for years, and what a miracle it was for slaves to be freed. But I've known it like I know the sky is blue. I never actually thought about it. Oh okay, slavery, yeah that sucked, thank God we had Abraham Lincoln, right? I never really, really thought about what it meant. Then, a few weeks ago (I don't remember what brought it up), it hit me. Slavery. People owning people. The idea that ANY human is better than another, enough to feel that they can literally own, like a piece of clothing, someone. To make them do all their work. To scold them. To beat them. It's sick. I know it's absolutely horrible that I've just come to that realization, but that's just how it happened. Maybe because slavery has been taught about at school, sort of as a time period almost, rather than getting into the personal aspect of it.
     I know that slavery is illegal now. I know there aren't slaves in the United States like there were hundreds of year ago, humans that are owned by other humans to do their strenuous work. There's no such thing. But that does not mean there aren't other types of slaves. By definition, a slave is a person who is the property of and wholly subject to another. A bond servant. So no, there aren't slaves like there were years and years ago. But there are still slaves. Slaves to addiction. Slaves to work. Slaves to each other, even still. There are things people do to each other that are too horrible to even imagine. Kidnapping and rape and sex slaves. This all exists, and it is in its own way a form of slavery. Yes, we outlawed slavery. Yes, things are way better than they were. But we still need to watch. We need to watch to make sure these things don't continue to go on in the world. Because it's slavery.

Alaina's Craziness

This blog is called Alaina's Craziness because Mr. McCarthy told me to call it that, just saying.

     The Puritans were a confusing group of people. On the one hand, they were super super strict. They had to do everything right so they wouldn't go to hell; they disapproved of drinking in large quantities (understandable) and even banned the practice of toasting one another; they were the cause of the Salem Witch Trials, which, because of the manner in which people were sometimes accused, seems to me like a good reason for the accuser to go to hell. Celebration in general was banned from 1659 to 1681 in Boston, and they disapproved of Christmas celebrations for a long while, even after celebrations were once again legal. Many people today are under the impression that Puritans were against sexual activity of any kind. On the contrary, it was perhaps one of the most important parts of their society. When a man and woman wanted to get married, they needed to go through a series of steps, including contracts and announcements and celebrations, at the end of which was sexual intercourse. If the husband and wife could not, for one reason or another, perform this act, the marriage could be damaged. Often the contract between him and his bride would dissolve.

     The Puritans had so many strict rules that it is only natural that eventually that religion would die out. But,  regardless of the fact that the Puritan way is largely dissolved today, they have had an enormous influence on society. They essentially started the first public schools, and founded what we know today as one of the very top schools in the country: Harvard. Located in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard has turned out some of the finest professionals in the country. Cambridge is a town located not far from a very famous village, Salem.

     Several Puritans lived in Salem, Massachusetts. Salem is a very old town, the port of several stories, many of which are not easy to hear. The most famous of these is, of course, The Salem Witch Trials. These trials began in the winter of 1692 when a group of girls became sick and blamed certain members of the community for their illness. Hundreds of people were accused, wrongly of course, of witchcraft, and 19 men and women were hanged. One man was also pressed to death. Another famous feature of salem is the House of the Seven Gables.

     The House of the Seven Gables was built by a Salem sea captain and merchant named John Turner in 1668. Whoa. That was a long time ago. After being in the family for three generations, the house was handed over to Captain Samuel Ingersoll, who died at sea and left the property to his daughter, Susanna. Susanna was a cousin of the man who later became a very influential American writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne visited the house so many times that it inspired the setting and title of his novel in 1851.

     Obviously, the Puritans did not have  lifestyle they were able to maintain. But, because of their amazing advances in schooling, we now have the ability to attend schools. Because of the House of the Seven Gables, Nathaniel Hawthorne was able to write a beautiful piece of literature that has been read by thousands of children in the schools the Puritans were able to create. Ahh, what a wonderful world.

The Moment I Knew I Was An American

     This is a difficult question to answer. I think I've always known I'm an American. Okay, let me rephrase that though. Of course I've always known I'm an American. I was born in Chicago, I've been raised in the same house all my life. It's more than being born in America though. I went to school at the age of five to learn to read and write and do math. I learned Spanish so well I could almost speak fluently. The very fact that I had the chance to learn it that well should have been a sign to me that I'm American, tough I didn't acknowledge it at the time. I learned from an early age history of my country and the presidents. I don't think there was a real moment when I realized that I am an American. I've just always known.
     Of course, there have been times when that fact is more prominent than others. I've traveled from a young age, France and England at the age of nine, then off to Thailand at age twelve, only to visit Scotland and Greece in eighth grade, and Costa Rica a couple years later. I am so lucky to be able to visit these places, and it makes me realize the privileged world in which I grew up. I've had the chance to travel to several places of the globe, but each time it is clear to me that the culture I know is different from any of these countries. Some speak different languages, eat different foods, have different religions and family values. Everyone is different. That's why I think there was never a real moment of realization to me, that I am an American. Because all cultures are different. Especially with the fact that American culture is so diverse, it's hard to identify myself with a single "American culture".