My Favorite Article of Clothing

If you were to ask any superhero what their favorite article of clothing is, they would all answer their underwear. I am no exception. During the day, I am Clay York—a lowly TCU college student. But on weekends and on scattered nights throughout the year, I am TCU Superman. I cheer louder than a speeding jet plane and leap through the crowd with a single bound. If the stands of any home game is empty or devoid of noise I burst into the scene to save the game one Riff Ram at a time. None of this, however, is possible without my cape and my dear beloved underwear.

My super hero underwear is Fruit of the Loom size medium. The “tightyy whities” are large enough to stretch perfectly over any pair of jeans and small enough to avoid awkward drooping around my pelvic region. Black body paint stains dazzle the already purple-painted underwear.

The paint job took hours to be complete and authentic. 11 strips of blue painters tape was used along with a quarter of a bottle of acrylic paint. The 11 strips perfectly spelled out CLAY in block letters to match the corresponding YORK on my cape. After spelling my name with the tape on the front of my briefs, I poured the paint over it. I used my kindergarten finger painting skills to spread the purple coloring across my undies.

After waiting hours for it to dry, I peeled off the tape, and the letters C, L, A, and Y formed in a perfect line to spell my name. When the last piece of tape was peeled off, the “tighty whities” transformed into an awesome badge of pride and spirit. I adorned myself with them seconds later, and I was born again as a superhero to Horned Frog nation and a TCU legend.

Take Home Part II: Iceberg

The Heirat River

Louis parks his car. He takes his hand off of the gear shift and sits immobile. His chest rises up and down very slowly from several deep breaths. He then grabs his key and turns it counterclockwise—halting the engine and abruptly stopping his radio’s broadcast of Elton John’s “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” in mid-word.  He then takes his left hand and tries to open the driver’s side door. He fumbles with the handle, for his hands and the rest of his body was a miniature earthquake. Finally, his grip solidifies on the door handle. He pulls the latch to release himself in front of the grass-filled bank of the Heirat River.

Louis walks to the back of his red sports car and opens the trunk. He retrieves a large straw, coiled basket, closes his trunk door, and walks towards the river. He sits the basket as close to the brook as possible and pulls a large blanket out of it. Then he unfolds the blanket, lays it down on the edge of the brook. He then grabs four red bricks and puts them on the four corners on the blanket.

He lies down with his face overlooking the river. I’m very early, Louis thought to himself. He would be here alone for at least another hour. He decides to lie for a few minutes and stare at the river to pass the time away.

After staring at the river, Louis realizes that things are much different from when he first bought his picnic basket to come here in March five years ago. At that time, the water of the river was partially frozen. The water flowed, but slower than Louis and Kathleen could stroll by its side. They held hands and strolled leisurely to capture in the brook of the river, the river, and the purveying nature around them.

There were no fish, no ducks, no geese, frogs, or any animal visibly living in the frosted over waterfront. A small pocket of tadpoles were clumped together on the cusp of the river’s bank. The other sole decoration was the scattered rose bushes lining the border of the river. The flowers were not in full bloom. Instead, the roses were leaf-covered bulbs or closed-off rosebuds.

The more time Louis spent at the river, the more he began to realize the world around him. The scent of pine and wet quartz sprinted up his nostrils. His whole time there, he could hear the still water tapping the banks of the river and a large beaver gnashing and chopping at a fallen tree in the distance.

Louis opens his eyes and realizes that he was falling asleep while reminiscing about his last trip. He rubs his face and looks intently at the river to avoid another slip of daydreaming.

The river now looks completely different to Louis. The water chugs rapidly between the two edges of the river. The river is not thrashing, yet the current flows strongly enough to skip over small, dense pockets of limestone that poke out of the river. The water ripples apart and then rejoins into one continuous stream when the rocks are too large to graze over.

A paddling of ducks swims together nearly fifty yards away from where Louis sits. Two ducks are separated from the pack and swim adjacent to each other. Red and pink line the banks of the river. The rose bushes are in full bloom.

Across the river, a gray-haired couple sits on a bench with two rods. The man wears a khaki tan cap, a white turtle neck and red pants. He stands and picks up one of the rods. He whips his arm to the right and casts the fishing line forward. He waits for less than a minute, pumps and lifts the rod vertically, and begins to quickly churn the reel of the rod. He continues to reel and a plops out of the water and into the air. The woman jumps to her feet makes gestures resembling a clapping motion and hugs the man. She kisses him on the cheek.

Louis’ attention quickly shifts back to the water. He thought he saw the color of the river instantly change but then realizes the river is just carrying a group of fallen leaves from the large trees casting shadows on the far right edge of the river. Large waves of yellow, orange, and brown flowers pass through as the river current flows. The water moves more gently than before. Two red flowers tag along to the end of the colored procession.

Louis looks at his watch and realizes that he only has a few minutes before his friend arrives. He sits up from the blanket. He grabs the picnic basket and brings it closer to him. He reaches inside and pulls out four candles. He then takes out a pack of matches and lights each of the candles. He puts his hand back into the basket and takes out two plates, two napkins, two forks, two spoons, two knives, two flutes, and two bowls. He then takes out a thermos and pours his homemade cheddar and broccoli soup into the bowl. He reaches inside again and takes out a bottle of sparkling apple cider. He pours some in each of the two flutes.

He stands to look at the picnic that he prepared. He took a step to get a better look, and his knees slightly buckled. A pulse surges through his body, and the moisture on his hands begin to increase. He wipes the sweat from his palms, and kneels with his body directly facing the river.

On his first attempt to grab some river water, his right hand accidentally touches a bobbing bottle of Henriot that is stuck between two small rocks. On his second try of scooping, river water floods into his bare hands. The water does not have the thickness he expected it to have. There is little oil residue and few speckles of dirt. Instead, the Heirat is clear, thin and pure. He splashes the water onto his face. He pats his face and then begins to recite a quick prayer under his breath.

“Amen,” Louis concludes.

He stands, dries his hands on his black dress pants and sucks in all of the air that he can stuff into his lungs. His diaphragm and chest collapse as a long exhale leaves his body. He steps back over to his blanket. His knees don’t buckle.

He reaches his right hand into his pocket and feels his fingers touch a small, velvet-covered box. He grips the box tightly but lets it go when a pair of headlights enters his peripheral vision.

A car pulls up and slowly glides to a stop just before reaching the grassy, picnic area Louis set aside. The lights shut off, and the sound of the engine ceases to exist. The driver’s side door opens and the friend Louis has been waiting for steps out. She rests her hand on the hood of her car. It’s hot, yet she doesn’t take away her hand. She instead looks up at the peach sky to see the sun setting behind the riverfront.

Louis stands to greet Kathleen and also looks at the sky. His eyes meet hers and they both smile. He walks over to her, hugs her, and releases his arms from around her waist. They begin to walk and his hand clasps her hand. He grips tightly, and she squeezes. They walk toward the picnic blanket, and he looks at the now-calm river. The sun continues to set, yet the moons image becomes vivid in the sky.

A Time When I Was Injured

My flesh starts to rapidly disintegrate as the heat of the flattening iron scalded my skin. The pain in my nerves is running through my body faster than DC Comics’ the flash, yet my corporal self just allows the heat to kidnap and murder my skin. Time quickly progresses. Within 2 seconds, a large, elliptical circle creates a round crater in my right arm and near my wrist. The crater, although originally “empty” and deep, quickly fills with a sappy maroon liquid. The liquid begins to overflow like hot lava and my arm transforms into a volcano.

As this happens, I finally react cognitively. My arm becomes the road runner and flees from the hot steel like its Wile E. Coyote or one of his many traps. I whelp in pain as if screaming at the top of my lungs would miraculously seal my wound and stop my bleeding. Water begins to overwhelm my eyes. My levy-like eyelids collapse beneath the emerging tears which begin to flood my face as if it were New Orleans.

My mom finally hears the civil defense siren coming from my larynx and rushes up to see my face drenched and sorrowed like post-Katrina Louisiana.

She lifts me into the air, from my crib, and my three-year-old body flies like a superhero. Blood still spews from my arm’s geyser, yet I feel safe. My life is in my mom’s trusted hands.

She gives me a quick hug, and as she holds me near her my pain begins to evaporate. I try not to cry to let her know that I understand that I’m going to be fine, but I am only three. Crying is the only thing I know to do. 

Bananagrams (My Favorite Game)

Fruit stands are often filled with pears, apples, oranges, watermelon, cantaloupe, and a plethora of other sweet, colorful and seeded meals. One fruit stand, however, is not home to rows of colored berries assorted to make a perfect color wheel of edibleness.  It is rather the home of an apple-shaped bag, a pear-shaped sack, a brown rectangular purse, and a banana-shaped pouch. The made-to-scale banana pouch houses 144 letter-inscribed tiles so crowds ranging from 2 to 7 can indulge in a seemingly perfect way to find enjoyment in one’s day.

Bananagrams, the game aforementioned, became an instant classic when I first played. The smooth, polished tiles slid gracefully off of my fingers and landed securely on the table below me like an Olympic figure skating leaping from and landing on ice. Words that I could barely remember or define began to form in front of me, creating an entire single-person-generated scrabble board.

“Peel,” I yelled once all 21 tiles that I originally grabbed were used and intermixed. A grabbed another tile. I added that tile to my crossword.

“Peel,” I yelled again…and again…and again. My opponents were drowning in a sea of tiles. Then I drew a “z.”

What words begin with z, I asked myself. I could only think of "zygote," but I had neither a g nor a y, so I decided to trade in for better.

“Dump,” I exclaimed. I then tossed the z back into the pile face down and picked up 3 new tiles in its stead.

I flipped the tiles over to see the letters Z, X, and Q. I thought to dump again, but I would be far too behind. I stalled in contemplation, and then I realized that my hesitation was a life raft for my opponents. They began to regain their composure and came afloat to complete the game.

I, in contrast, started suffocating in confusion. I took apart my entire board and started over to find the words coaxial, zealous, and qi hidden in the delicious alphabet soup in front of my body. I played these tiles, caught back up, and eventually won on the last tile.

Bananagrams has had my heart ever since. 

A Transitional Event/Period

I tried to reach out for help, but I don’t see a guiding hand

Everyone is caught up in the superficial drama of life’s constant demands
There is no one here to rescue me; they’re too sustained by their own lives
Small talk fills the air like smoke stacks, but no conversation cuts through the surface like knives
So people only see the success, the hard work, and the smile
Not knowing that every night I sleep and the tears from my eyes transform my pillow into the Nile
No one knows my life has changed drastically in the past year
So I suck up the pain and my eyes quiver as they fight back the tears.
The past passes and I’m hoping that the memories don’t become faded
And although I replay these memories, I never will become jaded
From these images in my mind. They will always have persistence
Because my memories forge the reality that my being wishes to exist in.
I’m told the present is a present and to be consumed by it’s presence
But the past gives me an abundance of satisfaction like birthday presents
So I’d rather have a time machine like H.G. Wells
To travel to where my mom is alive, my dad isn’t sad, and everything is well
But there’s no way I can go to the past and be there forever
Because life doesn’t work this way, so I’m forced to believe that never
Is the only answer to my questions of when.
Time doesn’t exist for my thoughts or feelings in this world of sin.
So a state of dejection is what constantly embraces me.
And I try to race away from the grief that chases me
Like mice and criminals flee from cats and cops
But I can’t keep up the pace, so I’m consumed when I stop
And the peace and stillness that my mind irks for
Vanishes, but yet the desire I can’t ignore
So I reach out one more time for someone to help me through
But the help doesn’t come, and I still cry over you.

Skye Nakaiye

As a child I had thousands of toys, but no single toy induced more smiles or better led my journeys to destroy the evil 7inch inanimate villains than Skye Nakaiye. Nakaiye was a TV star, whose puppet likeness paraded across any television tuned into PBS’s Puzzle Place.

In my room, my head, and my heart; however, Skye was a warrior. He stood proudly at 10 inches tall, and towered over every foe that dared to attack him. His limber, rubbery body, made him elusive enough to dodge any attack. His blue bandana kept his long, mangled hair away from his face so he could maintain his vision and properly see any attacks coming. If any foe tried to combat Skye, he knew exactly what to do to defend himself.

Skye’s brown, leather shoes had scuff marks from constantly roundhouse kicking Goldar, Blue Eyes White Dragon, and other ferocious villains in the face. Even with the scuffs, his shoes shined like bicycle reflectors caught in headlights. His pale blue jeans, as with the rest of clothing, fit snuggle to his body like jeggings. His black t-shirt meekly peaked through the opening of his yellow rain jacket as if it felt inadequate compared to his brilliance. His necklace was a white, feathered dagger piercing the blackness of his t-shirt. His rain coat was perfectly cuffed. It had no purpose other than to protect him from occasional, uncontrollable drool that would climb out of my mouth in sheer awe of the epic battles that he would partake in.

My Best Friend

Her flamed hair generously flows to the upper parts of her back. As she walks, it undulates and reminds any observers of the Beatle’s classic “Strawberry Fields Forever.” A few strands break away from the other cluster of follicles and sticks to the cheeks of her sallow face. The hair inches toward the center of her face as if magnetically drawn to the freckle in the middle of her bottom lip. If she were to brush the strand of hair away from her cheek, her face would be a sea of white with 2 pools of cool, blue Caribbean seawater opulently placed symmetrically across her face like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

When flustered or frustrated, colors transform her face into a tie dye creation.  Her eyelids become TCU purple. Her eyes darken into a Carolina blue. The rest of her face becomes roses. The only thing that can part the red sea of her cheeks is a firm, loving hug and a calming reassurance that everything will be alright.

When excited…she speaks and…stops…in no rhythm at …all as… if… hyperventilating. When indifferent, a goofy, lackadaisical smile slithers across her face showing a well of apathy – only towards anyone who truly knows her.

My best friend truly is a remarkable individual, and everyone says that about their best friends; however, no one truly knows what that means because no one else is best friends with NKS.

It truly is Thanksgiving

My eyes slowly crawl through my eyelids, taking in the light from my west-facing window. My body rolls to the right, and my arm fiddles off of my futon, hits the floor, and begins spelunking for my phone.  right hand fiddles on the floor. I find a sleek, rectangular object. I lift it to see 7 unread text messages. I clear the screen, and check the time. It’s only 8:06 am. I open the messages, hoping that they weren’t anything important. The first one is from David Stout—the hall director for Milton Daniel. Knowing that I am one of two RAs in the entire building, I begin to panic. I grind my eyes into a pulp to eliminate the crust, and flip my phone open. I push the view now button expecting the worse, but instead I’m greeted by “HAPPY THANKSGIVING CLAY!!!!!!”

“Thanksgiving? It’s only Wednesday,” I say to myself.

I recheck my calendar on my phone. As soon as my hand makes contact with the device, the screen glows and screams at me, “Thur Nov 24, 8:08 am.”

Still in disbelief, I roll off of my futon (where I now currently sleep), lunge toward my remote, grab it, push the proportionally large, green “Power” button and press the number one twice. The number eleven stalls in the top right corner of my screen in a gray box as my television shows previews of the Lions-Packers game on Sportscenter. The screen changes, the number eleven fades, and a giant Buzz Lightyear flies through the city of New York. After Buzz fades into infinity and beyond,  a sea of tightly-stepping, maroon-dressed band kids begin to play Enrique Iglesias’ Baby I like it. I, unintentionally, begin to tap my feet, nod my head, and sing along. The horns of the band fade, and the rippling snare of the drum line takes over my speakers.  The band marches off to reveal a large, green sign in the middle of what I assumed was Broadway Street. The sign reads, “The 85th annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

Once these letters embed into my brain, I become convinced that it truly is Thanksgiving.

Night Before Landing

Hemingway’s “Night Before Landing” brilliantly captures the end of a journey guided by innocence and brings forth two significant periods in the life of protagonist Nicholas Adams: An era of military service and a period of matrimony and marriage. Although the latter is difficult to conclude because of Hemingway’s minimalist approach to writing, it is clear that “Night Before Landing” serves as a harbinger for the struggles and challenges Adams will face both abroad during the war and at home in domesticity.

Nick most clearly shows his hesitation for these upcoming parts of his life when speaking with Leon on the life boat. Here, Nick shows his unhappiness and fear with his upcoming future. Nick on multiple occasions mentions fear. He “wonders” if he will be afraid going overseas to Italy. He “never worries about” anything until he realizes that after the landing occurs his innocence will be stolen away from him by war. The concept of fear virtually takes over his conversation. Even when he is talking about the Carper, he assesses that the Carper is scared and that is why the Carper is drinking

Also, Adams mentions his unhappiness and fear with much subtlety. When speaking with Leon, the following conversation ensues:

“He drinks too much.”

“He isn’t happy.”

“Let’s get a bottle of wine and sleep out in a lifeboat.”

By suggesting getting a bottle of wine and then buying it, Nick Adams hints that he too isn’t happy and he too is afraid. Adams openly associates unhappiness as a cause of drinking with the above caption, and he continues to say that fear is a cause of drinking when he says, “The Carper’s scared…That’s why he’s drunk all the time.”

Finally, Adams reveals to both Leon and the audience that the conversation is more so about his fears for his future with his fiancée than his future in the war when he asks, “Have you got a girl, Leon?” Although this question seemed random, it allowed Adams a segway into speaking about his fiancée. This transition was need, because Adam’s future standing with his current significant other was the only thing he truly wanted to talk about. The military and his fear of it was all a mask to hide his innermost feelings and insecurities of his success of his relationship and the future bearings that relationship will hold ( on manhood, fatherhood, etc.).

Second Library Research

THE WAR

January 1^st, 1968 brought forth a new year that was filled with hope for economic prosperity and faith in America’s mission to soon emerge victorious in the overdrawn Vietnam War. This hope and faith was only heightened by the blatant nationalism and push toward military support through the majority of the January 1^st edition of Newsweek Magazine. Even the cover depicted military men abroad walking through a Vietnam forest with the caption “How goes the war?” The publication’s clear bias agenda was both refreshing and disheartening.

As an American, I appreciated the nationalism and support for the troops. As a citizen of 2011 America, I am frustrated by the ignorance of “expert” and media personnel, like Pentagon correspondent Lloyd H. Norman, who declared, “The crushing glacial weight of U.S. military power, I am confident, will bring the Viet Cong to defeat,” (1).  Further, as an African American, I am disappointed that there were no remarks about the Civil Rights Movement (which was still raging at the time). It seemed as if, this trying time in America did not exist to the media or if the media was working harder to hide/ cover up the disease of hatred that plagued our nation instead of honestly reporting the grotesque events that happened in segregated America.

What continued to strike me about the Media’s pursuance of the Vietnam War was the reasoning behind constantly addressing the war throughout the article. Halfway through the magazine, a subheading stated, “Because Americans find it hard to be dispassionate about Vietnam, Newsweek recently sought an analysis of the current state of the war from four eminent foreightners,” (29). This statement shows that the constant reporting of the Vietnam War was not about seeking and reporting the truth and the other tenants of journalism. Instead Newsweek’s focus on the war was rather a means to appease audiences, gain popularity, and maintain that readership. This sort of “journalism” wouldn’t survive in today’s media, for the standards are much more reliant on code of ethics and reporting the whole truth.

ADVERTISING

The advertising in January 1^st’s issue of Newsweek was also shocking because of both content and form. Never have I seen such eclectic advertising and well thought out advertising, than in this issue of Newsweek. The first ad that struck me was the advertising council’s advertisement calling people to action in order to help individuals who are mentally retarded. The argument for supporting The President’s Committee on Mental Retardation was that providing lifetime care for a person with a mental disability cost taxpayers more money -- $150,000 more – to help educate that person, because 85 percent of mentally retarded men and women have the ability to become functional beings in society. The advertisement seemed very New Deal in its method. The impetus for the advertisement was the economic downturn brought by the Vietnam war, like FAP advertisements used the Great Depression as a facilitator for advertising during the New Deal Era. The tagline “advertising contributed for the public good” even seemed reminiscent of Roosevelt’s vision to help people have a more abundant life.

The advertisements further shocked me, because they were disguised as news articles. I often found myself reading “news stories” and realized half way through that the “news story” in question was in fact an advertisement in disguise. Even advertisements that were clearly not a part of Newsweek’s journalistic content took on the format of a front page news article. This is ridiculous to me, for we are taught in the Schieffer School that any advertisement that resemble news content, or could easily be confused as such, is unethical because it misleads the targeted audience. This stark contrast really fascinated me and made me wonder when the standard of clearly distinguishing advertisements from news content came to be in the media.

HOLIDAY REFERENCES

Although this issue of Newsweek came out on New Year’s Day and less than a week after Christmas, there were very few references to these holidays present throughout the magazine. This was really surprising, because now everything is coupled with a holiday or seasonal special. Because of their rarity, the few religious references really caught my eye. The first reference was in relation to the Vietnam War and described how America’s Christmas a part of the war was celebrated by a 24-hour armistice used to honor Jesus. I don’t know how common this is; however, this flabbergasted me. It’s amazing how powerful religion is. It can stop the most violent of wars as well as start them.

The only other reference to the holiday season was the National Safety Council’s annual prediction of automobile accidents. According to the council, New Year’s weekend as well as Christmas’ weekend will be accompanied by 1,000 deaths and 55,000 serious injuries to Americans by automobile accidents (40). The fact that this was the only mention of Christmas seemed almost disheartening to the holiday spirit. Newsweek virtually said, “Merry Christmas. 1,000 more people died!” I was highly expecting information about different celebrations and festivities, so the lack of holiday cheer was disappointing.

Conversation #1

When I walked into the Brown Lupton University Union, I did not know what to expect. The only contact that I had previously had with Adel Abdullah Aldosari, my conversation partner, was e-mail and listening to his voicemail messages. Mistakes with grammar, syntax and word choice were splattered throughout his emails like bugs on a windshield, and phonetic errors marched to the frailness of his voice in the detailed message he gave me. His voice was not only frail but soft. These factors coupled with the fact that he was an ESL student made me weary of my conversation experience. I expected to enjoy the conversation, but I thought the speech barrier could make it difficult. I was afraid that the service-learning would be very one sided and that I would not really gain as much from the conversation as I hoped.
My fear was absolved within the first couple of seconds of meeting Adel. As soon as I met him, he stood quickly and extended his hand. Mine met his, and a firm handshake was born. He greeted me with a simple introduction, yet he spoke with much more confidence in person than on the phone. The conversation began smoothly.
After discovering that I was a journalism major, Adel had a slew of questions about the media and my opinions on free speech. We discussed lots of different facets of media and how, in America, the media serves as a tool to help us continually define, clarify, and strengthen our rights. I think what fascinated him about the media in America was that it governed itself and functioned independently from government control. He was so used to the media his hometown of Medina, Saudi Arabia, where the government dictates every message released by news organizations and heard by. Saudi Arabia’s bar on free speech and free press really puts members of that nation and nations with similar philosophies on speech at a major disadvantage, he said. they are disadvantaged is that they don’t know the truth. They only know Abdullah bin Abdul-Aziz Al Saud’s truth or the next kings truth. Further, their perceptions of reality is warped because people aren’t able to make opinions from analyzing a wealth of unbiased information like in America. Saudi Arabian citizens instead are only fed one source that only produces nationalist propaganda for content.
The conversation bounced like a pinball from topic to topic. It started out being about the media, then it drifted towards the study of language, then to pros and cons of life in America, and the topics kept surging. It finally concluded with more information about Adel. Adel is 31 and lives with his wife, daughter Yara (5), and son Abdullah (2). He is currently working towards his masters in Linguistics at TCU. He came to the United States with a bachelors in Arabic Language. He then pursued a masters degree in business marketing when he first arrived in New York. This degree, however, is obsolete because he wishes to become a teacher in Saudi Arabia. There, he would need a PHD, a masters degree, and a BA all on the same track to teach at a university. This is why he “backtracked” through his education.
I really appreciated my hour with Adel. His questions about the media forced me to analyze my own feelings and perceptions about the media. Also, his view on language and family truly touched me. I hope to delve deeper into these two topics for our next discussion.

Time Magazine April 6, 1931

Time Magazine is one of the most widely known and respected papers that has ever been published in society. The reason why it has so much clout in the journalism community is its ability to stay unbiased as it gathers and presents information. Further, the writing commonly produced by Time Magazine writers is very text book journalism. It is simple in language. It has few, if any, complexities among the writing. Lastly it has, like the crux of all journalism, a straight forward message directed by a strong, hard-hitting lead. The articles presented in Time Magazine’s April 6, 1931 issue did not have these basic elements and  characteristics. Despite the discrepancies and my ability to fully connect with the cultural context/significance of some articles, this 1931 spring issue of Time Magazine really appealed to me as a reader.
As a journalism major I am always reading feats of journalistic greatness to see what items I can adapt to improve my writing. This issue was a great example of everything I was trained not to do. 10 dollar words like harangue and incubus paraded across the pages of the issue. These words are a stark contrast to the rule that newspapers and magazines have to be written at an eighth grade level so that it reaches large amounts of audiences. Another story led with the following poem:
Then, at the brief command of Lee,
Moved out that matchless infantry,
With Pickett leading grandly down,
To rush against the roaring crown
Of those dread heights of destiny. . . .

This is the first, and will also probably be the last, time that I have ever seen a journalism story introduced with an aabba rhyme scheme. 21st  century journalists would NEVER dream to utilize prose and poetry in their story unless it was a story about a new poem used to threaten the president with bombs and destruction. Being a writer who loves creative writing, especially poetry, I would love to be able to lead a story with this tactic. It would be entertaining, original, and really draw readers in.
The best example of how this issue of Time failed journalism 101 is the article of the school bus catastrophe in Little Towner, Colorado. A normal journalism lead about the particular story would read, “5 elementary school children die and from poor weather conditions and exhaustion when a school bus crashed due to inclement weather.” In contrast, the lead of the article was not hard hitting at all. The child deaths weren’t even mentioned into deep into the article. It instead slowly arranged the pieces together, so that the unexpected twist of terror could logically make sense.
The stories, regardless of their journalistic merit,  were exactly what they claimed themselves to be: stories. Currently, news is just a regurgitation of facts. Then, however, news stories were a well-crafted presentation of information that seemed more fiction than not. They were entertaining. They drew in readers. They had me not wanting to turn the page or skip ahead in the article.
I wish we as journalists still wrote in a manner where a newspaper or magazine read more like a book of short stories. I sincerely feel this would cause a positive spike in both readership and the public’s perception journalism. Reading a news article about the president’s adventures abroad would be much more appealing now if the writers incorporated emotion and detail to help readers relate to the president. Lines like, “His cheeks were a pinkish tan. Lines around his eyes had been smoothed out. He had not been so cheery for months,” which humanized Hoover and helped his constituency relate to him on a personal level, would never be incorporated now. It is too bias. But maybe this subtle bias is less of an influence and more of a push towards how journalism could have manifested itself in society--as a series of entertaining nonfiction stories written in a stylistically fiction fashion. Would this have been better or would this have crippled journalism? No one will ever know.

How the Iceberg theory Enhances Hemingway's work

What amazes me in Hemingway’s Short Story “Hills Like White Elephants” is not his courage for writing feministic piece about abortion but rather the manner in which he does it. His simple dialogue, clarity of detail, and lack of ornamental language may at times confuse the audience; however, it is this matter-of-factness and lack of frivolous detail that adds power and emphasis to the topic of abortion
In order to effectively communicate his stories, Hemingway utilizes the Iceberg Theory. The Iceberg theory, originally created by Sigmund Freud to detail how the subconscious mind work, states that the heart of the message that the author conveys is placed in the underpinnings of the work. The surface may seem trivial and simple; however, it is written that way so the message will be neither clouded nor easily given to the reader. According too Hemingway, “If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.” Hemingway not only trusts his own ability to write effectively, he trusts his audience to be able to interpret his message.
I appreciated not having the story spoon fed to me or over embellished with fancy details. The simplicity was a nice contrast and break from our other readings. Also, I was able to fully grasp the significance and meaning of the story, regardless of the ambiguity. The reason why I was so apt to understand the story is Hemingway’s use of symbolism to delve into the topic he discussed. With the symbol elephant, I was able to grasp the concept of birth with my knowledge of Sidhartha Gautama’s (the Buddha ) birth and his mom’s vision. Also, I was able to appreciate the notion that the child was the elephant in the room. It wasn’t blatantly discussed but it was strongly hinted at. Also the white elephant represents rarity, responsibility, and fertility. With this knowledge, combined with clues like “operation” and “let the air in,” I was able to easily understand the plot of the story.
The white elephant in “Hills Like White Elephants”  is just one of the many underlying details that hints at the sensitive subject of abortion. Hemingway also organizes certain details to speak of other underlying themes like Gender Roles and feminism. Hemingway’s Iceberg theory of writing is truly fascinating because of its ability to move audiences without moving text. As an essayist and journalist, I hope to experiment with a similar approach in my writing. I think it will allow me to be able to clearly, concisely, and effectively communicate the messages I wish to convey.

The Lottery: Jackson's Metaphor for mid twentieth century America

In 1948, Shirley Jackson graced the pages of the New Yorker with “The Lottery.” The short story, although seemingly trivial and anticlimactic, served as a gateway for readers to venture into Jackson’s notion of America’s true character. To Jackson, America in 1948 was a nation that blindly harmed its own people because of the convention and institutionalization of racism and prejudice. By using the “The Lottery” as a metaphor for America, Jackson commented on the racism that scarred America and the common American’s unwillingness to rise against the norm to change the tradition.
Jackson first begins her social commentary through her creation of the village. The village in the story served as a microcosm for mid-twentieth century America: a nation where tradition, although backwards and barbaric, over shadowed righteous and fair treatment of all people. Racism and discrimination spawned from the tradition of slavery. Slavery is not only a tradition. It is America’s oldest and best known tradition. America’s economy was built by the hands of slavery. America‘s music was transformed through slavery. American classics in literature were inspired by slavery. America as we know it would not exist if not for slavery. This tradition, although gory and oppressive, continued on after the practice died. Blacks were still segregated, and blacks were still seen as inferior. In essence, racism and discrimination filled the void in tradition that the abolishment of slavery created.
The lottery, like racism, was based upon tradition. The lottery as a practice existed before “Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born,” (682). It also evolved as time went on, like the practice of slavery. The lottery was originally conducted with wooden chips, but once that was seen as too “behind the times” the villagers transitioned to strips of paper. Jackson also showed the evolution of the following when she wrote, “Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered the stones,” (686). Like how Americans’ transitioned from slavery to other forms of racial discrimination, the villagers kept the spirit of the activity but made adjustments so they would still be deemed civilized in the midst of uncivilized discourse.
The people’s reaction to the horror of the lottery provided commentary on society’s paradigm in the mid 1900s by exposing the impact of racial discrimination on the common people. Victims of the lottery, like victims of racism, felt slighted and mistreated. This is best shown when the Tessie Hutchinson screamed, “It isn‘t fair, it isn‘t right,” while she was being stoned (686). The people who attacked Hutchinson for fate’s arbitrary decision to pick her were desensitized by the stoning action. Actually, if they felt any emotion, they were jovial about the stoning. Kids collected rocks as they left school and old women grabbed stones larger than they could lift with one hand.
Lastly, by naming her story “The Lottery,” Jackson also comments on how arbitrary racism and the mistreatment of others truly is. Her title illustrates that there is no rhyme or reason to the discrimination and racism directed toward Orientals, African Americans, and other ethnic minorities. These people were just randomly chosen to be attacked by mere chance. Caucasian Americans could have easily been marginalized if their race would have been picked by the world’s lottery.
Through “The Lottery,” Jackson was able to tackle the sensitive subject of racism and cultural superiority in America. Her work had the potential to play an instrumental role in society, when it was first published, for it served as a window into the heart of America. Now, it gives readers the opportunity to glimpse into America’s dark past and allows readers to see how barbaric and backwards our forward-moving, fast-paced nation truly was.

Eleven Reflection

Once I read the first 3 words of “Eleven” by Sandra Cisneros, my mind immediately jumped tothe creative writing class I took at Case Western Reserve University during the summer of 2006. I became 14 again as my eyes returned to the short story that I had once fell in love with.
As a dancer, I have been indoctrinated with the notion that repetition is the only way to truly understand something and deepen the knowledge potentially gained by doing something. This notion rings true for not only dance but for reading as well. I am happy that I had the opportunity to revisit Cisneros’ work “Eleven,” for it gave me the opportunity to gain more insight into my own perception of age and its effect on the manifestation of my emotions.
In “Eleven,” the author uses an 11-year-old child’s perspective as a mean to codify life by the emotions, habits, and actions normally associated with a certain age. This ingenious way of analyzing life and age seems to match the creativity that is only found in a child. However, this concept of age is far too wise for an eleven year old to be able to fully develop and comprehend.
Still, I wasn’t distracted by the utter maturity and sophistication of young Rachel (the 11-year-old protagonist in Cisnero’s two-page short story). In contrast, this juxtaposition of her age and sensibility allowed me to grasp Cisneros’ mergence of her current personal experiences and her choice of delivery. Since her delivery was from the vantage point of a child and she is currently a 57-year-old woman, this combination beautifully displayed the range of knowledge and experiences that allows literature to serve as a valuable asset to society.