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This is a small collection of a few select pieces that I have written specifically for this class (ENC 4311.691), this semester (F2010).
The overall tone of this portfolio is a combination of political, journalistic, expository, autobiographical and avant-garde narrative style, given that half of these articles are politically oriented and journalistic in nature, and the rest of them focus on my own personal experiences over the last year, in addition to a few creative, late-night whimsies that I have indulged, in an attempt to remember that IMAGINATION IS KEY (I think this why I fell in love with writing to begin with, many years ago...).
Part One is the "Right Wing" collection, a series of 13 original articles that I wrote for the Saint Petersburg Downtown Residents Civic Association, an organization that I volunteer with here in Saint Petersburg.
Part Two is the "Left Wing" collection, a series of personal, heartfelt pieces about my own recent experiences with injury, death, crime, healthcare, and the legal system.
Part Three is the "Chicken Wing", a silly collection of creative writing pieces that I just sat down and had a little fun with. For the first piece, I was initially inspired by M.O'Neill's original piece (linked below), and I decided to "Remix" it by taking the opening line and filling in words and ideas that were completely opposite of her original writing. From there, after two sentences, the story took on a life of its own and just came pouring out. It's silly, but fun.
One of my philanthropic endeavors includes my work with the Downtown Residents' Civic Association, a local organization that represents the interests of the residents in downtown Saint Petersburg.
As a student or faculty member at the University of South Florida, you are probably already pleasantly aware of the many benefits of living (or spending time) in downtown Saint Petersburg. Our wonderful arts district offers museums and galleries that rival those in larger cities, and our restaurants, bars and waterfront events are just a few of the things that make downtown living unique and exciting.
These great benefits, however, are accompanied by certain challenges. Economic development, available jobs, property crime, vagrancy, parking, zoning, utility rates, noise pollution and environmental issues are just a few of the things that concern city residents and visitors from surrounding areas.
The Downtown Residents' Civic Association(DRCA) was formed in 2006 by local, downtown homeowners and business-owners who wanted to represent the interests of all residents in Saint Pete's downtown district. The DRCA currently has more than 1,500 members from over 700 homes in the downtown core [parameters are (East-West) Tampa Bay to 10th Street and (North-South) 14th Ave N to 14th Ave S]. The DRCA is active with the Saint Petersburg City Council and police force, and it engages in consistent and meaningful dialogue with our mayor and local representatives.
I was first introduced to the DRCA by Dr. Joseph Dorsey, a fantastic and inspirational professor here at USFSP. I had already served on a Student Philanthropy Board in the Fall of 2009 under Dr. Morgan Gresham (along with Heidi MacLean, Kelsey Hastings, Lindsey Braun and Andrew Copeland, among others), financed through the Lead-Learn-Serve program, and we awarded $5,000 to a local non-profit group. Upon recommendation from Dr. Gresham, I worked as Dr. Dorsey's Teaching Assistant in his Environmental Politics and Policy Course in Spring 2010. I oversaw the creation of another Student Philanthropy Board, and also monitored two other service learning projects- a research group studying the class action lawsuit against the RaytheonCorporation and a group that volunteered at the Bartlett Park Community Garden, run by Andrea Hildebran of Green Florida (by the way, if you live near the Azalea neighborhood in Saint Petersburg, you definitely want to check out the links about Raytheon....).
It was through these projects that I met Hugh Tulloch, Vice President of the DRCA, also a retired attorney and an adjunct professor here at USFSP. I asked Hugh if I could intern for the organization and learn the the political ropes of Saint Petersburg, and he gladly accepted my help. I've been working on various projects for them over the last year, including the annual report, newsletter, website design, and other projects.
This semester, Heidi MacLean started interning for the DRCA as well, and she contributed part of the Karl Nurse article on page 7 & some of the condominium descriptions on page 5. Also, DRCA Director Ann Caviness set the tone of the "Homeless Proliferation" article on page 9 and the Stadium article on page 8. Ultimately, I had creative control and did most of the research, original writing, proofreading and editing, as well as the design and layout of the booklet, using Microsoft Publisher. We used this wiki as a forum for exchanging ideas, asking questions, stockpiling research, and posting working edits and drafts of the articles and the finished product, which is posted HERE in the 2009-2010 Annual Report (Because of the specific formatting of the final product, it's difficult to cut and paste the articles and excerpts into this wiki, so please click the above link to view the articles).
I wrote these pieces from a Republican "right wing" viewpoint, which was sometimes challenging, since I consider myself to be a little more "in the middle" with regard to politics. I have voted for both Republicans and Democrats. I like to make decisions about individual candidates and issues, rather than blindly affiliating myself with a party. While I support most of the DRCA's projects and opinions, there are a few that I'm not so sure about. However, I have been retained by them to present a specific viewpoint, so I tailored my writing style to fit their needs. In doing this, I demonstrated my ability to frame an argument properly, as outlined in our text A Rulebook for Arguments. Each article deals with a specific challenge or issue that the residents of downtown Saint Petersburg face, things like homelessness, crime, noise pollution, commercial zoning and police staffing. In presenting these issues, I identify the premises and conclusions and I develop the ideas in a natural order (please note when reading that it is a double-sided booklet, so the pages are in "printer-ready" order, showing page 2 with 11, and page 3 next to page 10, etc.).
The articles follow a natural order, in that they are meant to "tell a story" and take the reader on a specific path. The first few pages include an explanation of what the DRCA is and includes a letter from the President. Page 5 offers brief descriptions of each condominium association that belongs to the DRCA, along with a color photograph. Pages 6 and 7 are the "center" of the booklet and give bios about the mayor and the two City Council Representatives who represent the two districts in downtown Saint Petersburg. Once I have introduced the reader to the organization, its members, and our local politicians, the booklet moves into the real "meat and potatoes" of the report-- the "hard sell". Pages 8-12 discuss the issues and challenges that the DRCA has been concerned with, including homelessness, crime, zoning, noise ordinance violations and the waterfront ballpark. First, I offer the victories of the organization; then, I present the challenges that remain.
Following the advice of Anthony Weston in A Rulebook for Arguments, I use consistent terms throughout the report, and even use text color to distinguish "DRCA" in EVERY reference throughout the booklet. The point of this is to make the letters stand out and help the readers to remember the abbreviation for the organization. The articles are concrete and concise, and I avoid using any "abstract, vague and general terms" (Weston 5). Instead, I present the viewpoints clearly and make no attempt to disguise the DRCA's political opinions. The organization is "transparent" and the reader of this publication knows exactly where it stands on the issues presented.
These next few articles are a series of "confessional-style" pieces, written about real experiences that I've had in my life recently. Sometimes it's hard to write when I have other things on my mind, so if I'm having Writer's Block, then I try to write about what's going on in my mind that's preventing me from writing.... then, at least I'm writing SOMETHING. So, whether people are interested in my life or not, I don't know. I always feel weird writing about myself and my personal experiences... I'm thinking, in the back of my mind "Does anybody really care about this stuff?" Maybe, maybe not. But either way, the overall "feel" of this section is kind of grim and depressing. I had a rough semester that included 12 weeks on crutches with torn ligaments and getting mugged in downtown Saint Pete. There is also a very short piece about losing my mother to cancer a few years ago, something that has been very difficult for me to deal with.
The tone here is personal, confessional, narrative and autobiographical. The intended audience is a best friend, a therapist, or even a diary, and this is obvious by the level of soul-bearing that unfolds. I have literally poured my heart out on these pages...
M.R.I. = Mothership Retention Instrument (?)
Seriously, though. I got an MRI on my (broken? sprained?) ankle this morning, and I had no idea what to expect. I have broken only one bone (my nose- not technically a bone- another fun story) but I've never needed anything beyond an x-ray.
Imagine my surprise when the technician offered me a pillow, a blanket and put earplugs in my ears. I thought this was like a glorified x-ray, what's with all the props? Magnetic Resonance Imaging, right? Magnets sound harmless enough... And they are, I suppose. But they're certainly not quiet.
When she walked out, the room got very quiet and there was a slight brush of air as the machine whooshed on. Then clicking, clanking, a strange light from far inside the cavernous machine. It pulled me closer, slowly, with a low humming that was slightly unnerving, and once my lower half was in the small tube, the real noise started. Looking up, I saw a small digital clock that would count down, each time the little pieces inside were settling. Then the machine would fire up like a loud steam engine and I got this funny tingling sensation in my legs-- I swear I could feel those magnets!
And the clock would countdown- first from 6 minues. Then more noise from inside the machine, more shifting and clicking, and a new clock would appear. Sometimes it was 3 minutes, sometimes 2, sometimes 6. And I found myself in the peculiar situation of feeling afraid. As more and more time passed, an unusual fear crept in.
I'm not claustrophobic and I don't get squeamish at the sight of blood. Horror movies don't give me nightmares and I consider myself to be something of a "badass" (and a sweetheart- that's what a psychic told me once, that I'm a badass and a sweetheart). But as time passed- as I laid there alone with the loud machine, I started to think about the people that were there getting MRIs for cancer (the MRI/PET scan center happenned to be attached to a cancer treatment center), and I started to imagine what they must feel like. The fear, the anxiety, the prayers. This is definitely a room where many people before me have prayed to the God of their choice and begged for healing. And this morning I was no different from them, as I laid there and prayed for good news. Please God, no broken bones. Please God, no surgery. Thank you God, for all the blessings in my life.
And then I started to REALLY freak out- just left alone there with my thoughts and the loud noises- and I started thinking, "What if this is something serious? What if that's why my foot won't get better? What if they find something weird that I can't afford to fix? What if I need surgery?" And as I started to totally freak out, I in turn tried to calm myself by counting sheep and doing some deep breathing. I tried to imagine something besides my foot, and all of a sudden it dawned on me...
this machine sounds like an alien spaceship. If I was abducted and examined by the greys or the blues, this is exactly what I would imagine it being like. Alone, in a cold dark room, being scanned by an uncomfortable machine, with nothing but the strange noises and my own thoughts. And my imagination started to run away from me, as I pictured skinny little ETs on the other side of the glass. I envisioned the lights of the machine being the lights of the ship, and
Then, a touch on my shoulder and I jerked awake from my daydream, half expecting to see an alien there! But instead, the technician- holding my shoe and smiling. I got up, checked out, gave them $400 (ouch) and told them all to have a fantastic day.
I enjoyed Kelsey Hastings' page, "A Political Commentary", about the American health care system.
I am a classic example of a "working class" American (a small business owner and independent contractor) who makes "too much money" to receive government assistance like Medicaid, but too little money to afford cash health care or purchase individual health insurance (those 'Humana for One' plans are OK but I've had one before and with all of the red tape, I ended up paying almost as much out of pocket as I would've if I just saved up the $200/month and paid cash, so I'm a little skeptical of the true value of these plans...).
Three months ago I had 3 jobs, $14,000 in the bank and $0 in debt with 10 classes left until completing my Bachelor's Degree. I've never even taken student loans; I've paid cash for my entire college education. Now because of an injury, I am making 30% of my income; it's difficult to get around town and do things for myself (not to mention the emotional toll that accompanies a total loss of social life and mobility). The bank account is slowly shrinking and if I need a surgery, it will break me financially. I also took my first student loan this semester in anticipation of what's to come. There is absolutely NO solution for Americans like me.
The funny thing is: I'm actually one of the LUCKY uninsured people, because I have a modest savings to draw off of, no debt, and a live-in boyfriend who can help with my expenses right now. But I can't get unemployment or worker's comp because my injury occurred at home. I can't get welfare because I don't "meet the qualifications" (one of the eligibility factors is having a child in the home for whom support is not received, AKA a child with a deadbeat dad, or a child whose paternity is unknown). I don't even qualify for food stamps because I am a college student. However, if I dropped out of college, stopped working and got pregnant, all of my medical expenses would be paid for by the government. I am not saying this to be dramatic; these are the actual words that came from the mouth of one of the representatives for the Department of Children and Family Services here in Saint Petersburg.
Does anyone else see a problem with this system? Am I being overly sensitive by feeling cheated, wronged, and punished for working hard and paying my own way? The whole healthcare situation in America makes me ill. Literally, sick to stomach and angry to the point of tearful rage. I feel cheated by my government, my country and its leaders. And I've even considered moving back to Canada (I was born and lived there until I was 3) just for the health care.
But when it's all said and done, I'm a fighter and I have resources. I'll be fine in the end, whereas so many Americans get too sick to push through or go too far in debt to recover. They have to "choose which finger to reattach" (metaphorically and literally, as did the man in Michael Moore's film "Sicko").
But to end on a high note, here is a little health care Utopia to think of:
A few years ago my mom died of skin cancer. It started out as a mark on her leg, which developed into multiple melanomas, which, in turn, led to chemotherapy and a leg amputation, and ultimately, her demise.
But this isn’t even the worst part.
My mom and I have had a rocky history together. She and my dad were a real Bonnie & Clyde in the 1970s, robbing banks, kiting checks, stealing cars and boats, and even joining the Church of Scientology and hanging out with John Travolta. As a result of all this craziness, they gave me to my dad’s sister to raise me, and I had sporadic involvement from my mom as the years passed. At one point, from the time I was 12-17, my mother disappeared entirely. I found out after her death that she actually had two other children during this time. When I was 17, my mother came into my life again and we were extremely close for several years. I lived with her when I was 18; she had a tiny 2-bedroom apartment that was conveniently located right above a shitty bar in Middletown, Ohio.
Most mornings, she would stumble into my room at 9am and hold a can of cold beer against my cheek to wake me up (she didn’t like to drink alone). After a year of living like this, I cut her out of my life completely. After so many drunken arguments, so many sleepless nights, and so much pain in general, I just walked away and cut her out of my life. We tried to talk once or twice over a few years but in the end, I wrote a nasty letter that ended with: “When you get your life together, give me a call.”
That was in 2002. Five years passed. I always assumed that we would repair our relationship someday, and I knew that we still loved each other and always would. Some wounds just take time to heal. I knew that we had the rest of our lives to repair our relationship. I knew it would all be fine in the end.
Then in 2007 I got a phone call from my dad, who loved my mom dearly, but hadn’t spoken with her in fifteen years.
He said to me quietly, “I think you need to sit down.” Well, we ALL know what that means. When the phone rings at 3am, it’s usually bad. And when someone asks if you’re sitting down, then you KNOW it’s bad.
My dad continued. “Honey, your mom died. It was cancer. Melanoma. She’s gone.”
I was silent for a moment, and then responded, “When is the funeral?”
“Well that’s the thing,” he answered, “she died six months ago and she’s been buried in Goshen Cemetery.”
This is when I started to freak out. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I screamed.
“Well, she said that she wanted you to forgive her on your own time, and she didn’t want your pity. I guess she asked your brothers and sisters not to tell you. You know I haven’t talked to her in years, I just found out today. She wanted you to forgive her but she didn’t want to guilt you into it or play the cancer card.”
WHAT THE HELL? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
This is the moment in my life when I shut down. I was angry at her (I still am), and so terribly hurt that she would be so selfish as to let me live with this for the rest of my life. Now instead of being sad, I’m also angry and guilt-ridden. I’m the one who wasn’t there when she got her leg cut off. I’m the one who wasn’t at MY OWN MOTHER’S FUNERAL.
Now I hate her more than I ever did before because now I can barely live with myself. That's not to say that I don't love her. Of course I do. But I’ll never be able to forgive myself for missing her struggle with cancer, her death and her funeral, and being totally clueless the whole time. I will never be the same again.
I hung up the phone.
1987: This is the only photograph of my mother that I own. This was a very good year and I'm glad that this is how I remember her.
So.... I looked so awful that Photobucket actually removed my photo.... that's messed up. That may be a whole other thing to write about....
OK, sorry it took me so long to write this. I've started a few times but it's been really hard to sit and write it out. I've been making light of the whole thing for the last week but the truth is, it was terrifying, and between the dizzy spells from the mild concussion, the fractured pinky finger and the raw elbows, it's been kind of hard to sit and type this week (BTW, has anyone ever tried to go an entire week without leaning on their elbows or using their pinky finger? It is not an easy task...)
So, let me take you back to last weekend... Social Distortion was playing at Jannus Landing (recently renamed "Jannus Live")and I spent $214 on two tickets from StubHub because it's my boyfriend's favorite band and the concert sold out months ago. This was my birthday present to him (normally I would not even CONSIDER spending $107 per ticket on a concert at Jannus Landing, but I was really trying to do something special for him).
To get the night started, I went to Cafe Alma with my friend Janelle and we shared a bottle of wine, along with some delicious Salmon Carpaccio and the Hummus Plate, while I waited for my boyfriend Chris to drive over from his office in Tampa. The plan was to meet outside the gates at 8pm and go in to the show together, since he had the tickets with him and neither one of us really cared about seeing the opening band. Just after 7, Janelle and I left Cafe Alma and went our separate ways (she was meeting friends at Midtown Sundries; I started to walk over to Jannus by myself).
I wanted to grab a quick cappuccino at Starbuck's on 2nd St. & 1st Ave N so I walked in that direction until my phone rang. I was getting two calls at once so I decided to walk around the block, rather than go into Starbuck's and try to have a conversation while standing in line (I really hate it when people stand in line and scream on their cell phones while everyone is waiting for them to order their "Grande-Half-Caf-Skinny-No-Foam-Sugar-Free-Vanilla-Lattes" or their "Triple-Vente-Extra-Chocolate-Extra-Whipped-Cream-2%-Mochas". So I try to be considerate and wait until I'm finished with my conversation before entering a store or restaurant... If only the rest of the world was so courteous...).
I was having trouble hearing my friend on the phone, since he was calling from inside Mastry's. He and his girlfriend were going to meet us inside the show once we all got in, so we were trying to pick a place to meet up, but the noise from Jannus was making it impossible for me to hear him, so I ducked behind a building and put one hand over my left ear to talk on the phone.
* * NEWSFLASH: I am a dumbass. I stepped behind a dark building into a dark alley on a dark night when I was completely alone and unaware of my surroundings, distracted with my phone call. I lived in Chicago for five years and would never even THINK of doing this, but here in Saint Pete, I've always felt safe and never felt threatened. Either way, I am a dumbass because I put myself in this situation by walking alone into a secluded area in the dark. * *
As soon as my phone call was finished, I reached back with my right hand to put my phone in to the back pocket of my jeans. The very second that my phone was in my pocket, I felt a big, warm hand grab my wrist while another hand was placed over my face and mouth. I could smell cigarettes, dirt and urine on the strong hand, and I immediately started to struggle to free myself from his grip.
I could tell that it was a man, because I could feel part of a beard on the back of my neck. I could also tell that he was taller than me, but not by much, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to feel the beard. I think he was white, but all I saw was his dirty, smelly thumb in my eye and his left hand across my face. The other hand was still holding my right wrist behind my back. Both strong hands were grimey and smelly, and he obviously hadn't cut his fingernails in a while, because, as I started to REALLY thrash my head back and forth, I could feel his nails digging into my face. I tried to scream, but his hand was pressing SO HARD against my face that my nose started to bleed. Whenever I tried to scream, I could taste the dirt and cigarettes on the hand that was muffling my attempts to yell.
I don't know if he was trying to rob me or rape me, because he never said a word, although I heard a few grizzly grunts from behind me as I struggled to break his hold. I started to head-butt his face with the back of my head-- once, twice, then again, and again... I must have made contact 10 or 20 times before I started to feel a warm trickle of blood on the back of my neck. I'm pretty sure that I broke his nose, and also split open the back of my head. At the same time, I was reaching behind with my left hand and punching him in the head (this is why my pinky is all crooked now). It was at this exact moment, the second I felt the warm liquid on my neck, that I was able to break free from his grasp.
I fell forward, landing on my hands and elbows, and he grabbed both of my legs. I kicked and squirmed and did the "army crawl" on my elbows, feeling the cement below me ripping the flesh off of my arms. I felt the torn ligaments in my right foot start to stretch and strain, bringing back the familiar pain of the summer that I just spent on crutches. And Finally, when I thought I was going to hit bone on my elbows, I felt his grasp release my feet and I just TOOK OFF RUNNING.
From a fast crawl (I felt like an animal, running on all fours while trying to stand) to a sprint, I started to run across the street. I could see the lights of Jannus Landing and all the people standing outside. I felt like the entire world was in slow motion, like I just couldn't run fast enough. I even saw my boyfriend standing by the gate, talking to some friends of ours.
I was home free!
I was so happy!
I was going to make it!
I ran faster towards the gate, and I guess one of the security guards thought I was trying to bum rush through without a ticket, so he put up his arms and clotheslined me. I felt the full force of my running speed in my neck and my chest, and I hit the ground with a THUD, first landing square on my tailbone, then falling back and hitting my head on the pavement. This left me dazed and knocked the wind out of me, so I was trying to yell and tell them that I had a ticket and that I had been attacked, but no words would come out of my mouth. It was like a nightmare, where you're trying to yell for help and you can't speak. They dragged me over to the "drunk truck" (the police truck that sits outside of concerts and special events, where they add people throughout the night, then make one trip to the jail in Clearwater at the end of the night). They started to throw me in the truck and I struggled. I tried to yell, I tried to put out my arms to stop from being put in the police truck, but I couldn't make it happen. I had beaten the mugger but I lost to the police. I felt defeated and deeply wronged.
They left me in there for the entire concert. I could actually hear the music playing for hours, and once in a while, they would throw some other poor bastard in the truck and then leave again. I had the pleasure of sitting next to a crackhead who was "dopesick" from withdrawal, and a very nice gentleman named Michael who helped to calm me down when I started to seriously freak out.
Eventually, the music ended and the truck started to move. I couldn't see where we were going, but after a while I could tell that we were on the highway because there was finally a breeze and we seemed to be hauling ass.
When we arrived at the jail in Clearwater, I was fully processed as a prisoner before the officers realized that I was not under arrest for anything. The plan had been to hold me for four hours under some law that allows "drunk and disorderly people" to be detained until they sober up-- I thought it was called the Marshall Act, but I can't find any information on it. According to the security guard at Jannus Landing, I was "disorderly" and tried to "sneak in" to the concert, but no charges were to be pressed, I was just to be held until the end of the show.
Well, I guess SOMEONE DIDN'T GET THE MEMO because they drove my ass to jail and left me bleeding in a room for an hour with the dopesick crackhead before opening the door, pointing to the payphone and saying "You're free to go."
I started to yell at the officer (yes I am aware that this was a very bad judgment call on my part); I was crying, babbling and bleeding, and I don't know my boyfriend's phone number by heart so I had no way to call for a ride! I told them that they had a responsibility to drive me home since I wasn't under arrest and I was in need of medical care. They laughed. I fumed. And when I started to use profanity, they turned around and ACTUALLY arrested me for disorderly conduct. I spent the next 3 hours sitting in jail, getting my mugshot taken, and trying to remember my boyfriend's phone number until (EUREKA!) it finally came to me! I called, told him what had happened (he had been worried all night and had no idea what had transpired) and he drove to Clearwater to pay my $100 bail. Now I have to go to court for "Disorderly Conduct" and the asshole who mugged me is still walking around Saint Pete.
Life's a bitch sometimes.
On an endnote, I would like to add that YES I have thought about suing, fighting the charges, etc. and I will probably not do it, as I have always had the utmost respect for law enforcement, and I must accept responsibility for my part in the evening's events. There are several forces at work here:
#1: TECHNICALLY, the security guard did nothing wrong. He extended his arms to prevent me from entering the venue at a hard rock concert. I'm sure I looked like a crazed madwoman; I did not have a ticket in my possession since Chris was holding them, and it was the speed of my running that hurt me-- I was hauling ass.
#2: The Saint Petersburg Police TECHNICALLY did nothing wrong. I was "handed off" from the security guard to the officer, and then to the next officer, and the next. I was being "held for disorderly conduct pending decision on arrest" which is legal. (However, I wastaken to jail WITHOUT BEING MIRANDIZED or TOLD WHY I WAS BEING DETAINED, despite several (loud) (ignored) requests made by me- for a lawyer and for medical attention). Apparently, in the United States, screaming for a doctor and a lawyer is considered "disorderly behavior."
#3: The Saint Petersburg Police (especially downtown) are notorious for being some of the worst. My friend Janelle (who I mentioned earlier) was actually tased by an officer in 2007 when she refused to walk into a dark alley with him (NO KIDDING). She weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet, and told the officer, "I'm not comfortable going back there with you; I want to stay here where it's well lit please," and he tased her and arrested her for "resisting arrest" (although she was never under arrest to begin with; she has simply witnessed a crime committed by someone else!!). I live and work downtown, and I am a law-abiding citizen. I DO NOT want the police on my bad side. People may think that life is fair and everything is hunky-dory, but if you're stupid enough to F$#! with the local police, then they certainly have the ability to make your life miserable. I don't want to live like that, and I'd rather just go to court and tell the judge exactly what happened (offering the details of the evening as "mitigating circumstances"). The truth is, I did use profanity and aggressive language with the officers, so the minor misdemeanor that I am charged with is something that I will plead "No Contest" to.
As for the rest, I honestly just want it to go away-- to chalk it up to experience and bad judgment, and move forward. I really do believe in making lemonade from life's lemons, and I enjoy writing about all the crazy things that life throws at me. My parents' lives were never boring or uninteresting-- why would I expect mine to be??
Whew! Well, after all of that REALLY HEAVY stuff, these last few excerpts are just a little bit of silliness to unwind with at the end of a long day. The first piece is my favorite: a little bit of quirky fiction that I came up with, using only three lines from a classmate's piece to inspire a whole story. I had a little fun with these articles, and the tone is light and humorous, with little nuggets of real wisdom and insight along the way. "The Pink House and the Crooked Road", is an allegory for the wiki writing process, illustrating the crooked road to emergence, and also the trials and tribulations faced by the everyday writer. In a wiki workshop, we often create a "zig zag path" from point to point, and page to page, until suddenly, something fantastic, useful, unique and artistic emerges. From despair comes fulfillment; from necessity comes ingenuity. Keeping that in mind, enjoy this fun little story---
A FUN, IRREVERANT & IRRELEVANT REMIX OF M.O'NEILL'S
Cuddled up by the fire in a woolen blanket, in a huge pink house on a tall, steep hill in a fantastically remarkable neighborhood, Neil came up with the grand idea of trying to figure out how he would design a long, crooked road so that he might one day find a wife. You might be asking: what on earth does building a crooked road have to do with finding a wife? Well, if you saw the hill, and you knew about the pink house, you might begin to understand.
Neil had always been self-conscious about the pink house. His mother, in her later years of dimentia and widow's grief, had spent her days walking down the tall hill to the town's only store to purchase a single gallon of pink paint. She would then walk back up the hill with her gallon of paint, singing old war tunes and whistling dixie, until she returned home to her two young sons. Then she would paint the house pink, upstairs and down, inside and out, one brush stroke at a time, until she ran out of paint. The next day, she would begin her routine once again-- walking, singing, painting, and drinking champagne all the while.
So- that is how the house came to be pink.
Neil's mother passed away when he turned 18, just old enough to inherit his father's grand estate. For Neil had always known that he lived in the biggest house on Sluts Hole Lane, but it wasn't until MRS. HORNEE passed away that he gained access to the 947 tons of gold bars and coins that were hidden away in the pink trunk, in the pink basement of the grand pink house.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you that most women might be offended at a dinner invitation that requests their presence at "Mr. Hornee's giant pink house on Sluts Hole Lane, by way of the mud path". (By the way, the last name is French, and is pronounced /hoor-nay/, but most Americans butcher the pronunciation and say /whore-knee/. This had always been a problem for Neil, who had the utmost respect for women, and especially his mother, Mrs. Hornee.
But, on the rare occasion that a lady might finally look beyond the surface of the pink house, and the horney host on Sluts Hole Lane, and actually accept Neil's invitation, there was no road on the tall hill to walk on or bring a carriage. It was a tall, muddy, grassy hill, and the only way up or down was to walk the trodden dirt path that Mrs. Hornee had stomped out in a zig-zag fashion (for any hill-climber or mountain-dweller knows that the only way up a steep hill is to wind your way back and forth). Mrs. Hornee had spent years walking this zig-zag path, so the foundation was well laid. However, the mud could be slippery and dangerous, and the few women who DID accept Neil Hornee's dinner invitaiton never made it up the hill. Sadly, one of them was even buried alive in a mudslide after a particularly heavy rainfall... The girl's parents never forgave Neil and he paid them 10 gold bars for their loss.
Now that his mother was gone and his brother was off fighting the war, it was time for Neil to find a wife. This would inevitably be a long process, but one that could easily be broken up into three steps: (1) Build a road, (2) Paint the house, and (3) Change the name of the street. Neil was certain that he could find a suitable mate if only these three obstacles were overcome. And so, he began.
In the lofty name of research, he ransacked dusty bookshelves (and braved the subsequent paper cut threat) for engineering journals and scholarly articles. He studied the road-building techniques used in the Swiss Alps and other mountain villages around the world. The library produced enough articles to keep Neil busy well into the fall. Since he cared about the production of history and literature as much as he cared about architecture and engineering, Neil made sure to consider articles from different time periods, so that he could view how engineering has adapted to surrounding circumstances. Neil figured out quickly that the limits of good taste and fiscal responsibility did not apply to him, since he was the richest man, with the biggest house, on the tallest hill in a small town, and so he began to fervently plan his extravagant new road.
He hired all of the out-of-work townsmen as masons and laborers, which made their wives and the tax collectors very happy. He even built a new public house halfway up the hill, so that weary travelers would have a place to rest halfway up the hill (after all, even with the new, state-of-the-art road, it would still take the average person two hours to walk, or one hour by carriage, since the steep angles required a slow pace). The new pub was known as the "Halfway House" and it became the most popular place in town, spawning an entire "hillside community" off to one side.
When the road was finished, Neil could finally hire painters to get rid of the awful pink decor of his house. Before, no one would take the job, since it meant walking up a mud hill with gallons of paint and supplies. But now, Neil was able to hire five upstanding gentlemen, who had the house painted grey in less than a week. They went, room by room, painting over the pink walls and pink ceilings and pink trimwork. They restored the grand mansion to its original state, just in time for Neil's grand housewarming gala.
He invited all of the townspeople and sent carriages for each "eligible bachelorette" and her family. People loved the road; they loved the pub and they loved the new paint color on Neil's house. And once he had everyone gathered in his fanciful home, he made a short speech:
"I have worked for many years to build this new road and pub, and I have gainfully employed many of my dear friends to help me. I am so happy and pleased, yet there is one thing that would truly make me happy. With the approval of all of the residents of Sluts Hole, I propose that we change the name of this fine city to something much more appropriate.... perhaps 'Queens Hollow'."
Before Neil even finished his sentence, the townsfolk roared with approval and applause!
Now that Neil's master plan had been fully realized, he was finally ready to relax and smile. How fantastic it feels to set out to do some thing and then DO IT!! How wonderful, the feeling of production and accomplishment, the pride in one's own work and good deeds. And how awesome to finally sit in a NOT PINK room in a NOT PINK house with NOT MUDDY feet!!!! And, as he sat and marvelled at all of the beauty around him, he noticed a beauty that he had never seen before.... a beautiful young maiden, dressed in a pink gown, wearing pink satin shoes and pink ribbons in her hair.
Neil had spent his entire life loathing the color pink, and now, here stood a vision to behold-- the woman of his dreams-- doused in pink from head to toe. He approached her and their eyes met. If there was ever such a thing as "love at first sight", this was IT. He bowed gracefully and introduced himself. She curtsied and blushed as he asked for her name.
"Why," she replied, "don't you recognize me?" I've worked in your house as a chambermaid for five years; I used to help your mother up and down the hill to fetch her paint... I cared for her up until the day she died, and she often talked about how much she loved you. My name is Rose Rouge."
That is all that Neil needed to hear before falling madly in love with her on the spot. They were married less than a month later.
* THE ALTERNATE ENDING:*
Sadly, the building of this grand road, combined with the weight of carts and carriages and wedding guests, triggered a weakness in the natural geographical faultline, and on the afternoon of the wedding of Neil Hornee and Rose Rouge, the earth rumbled and shook, and the giant hill (which we now know was an active volcano.... this is why the natives of centuries prior had never built a village there!) opened up and SWALLOWED the pink house and the zig-zag road, and Neil and Rose and all of their wedding party....
And all that was left was the Halfway House, which remains today.
"People's reactions to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic; they either love it or they hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul."
-Richard Gere, playing Edward Lewis in Pretty Woman
Why is prostitution illegal? What exactly IS prostitution? Merriam-Webster defines it as "the act of engaging in promiscuous sexual behavior especially for money." Then the dictionary goes on to define "money" as "something generally accepted as a medium of exchange, a measure of value, or a means of payment". Well that's pretty vague. If a man buys a woman dinner, and takes her shopping, and gives her "spending money", and she sleeps with him, is she a prostitute? If Richard Gere & Julia Roberts get married at the end of the movie, and she becomes his wife, but he still pays her bills and gives her money, is she still a prostitute? And even if the answer to these questions is "yes", is it even relevant to the legality of prostitution?
Are prostitutes feminists, or are they the complete opposite? What exactly is feminism, and how has it changed over the years?
Moving on from the prostitution angle and get on to feminism, gender roles and rights. Merriam-Webster defines feminismas "the theory of political, economic and social equality of the sexes; organized activity on behalf of women's rights and interests." One of my personal interests happens to be shoes, and I am especially fond of high heels, but I have been told by more than one self-proclaimed feminist that I am "betraying my sisterhood" or something like that. I believe quite the oposite: that I am asserting my right as a woman to wear fantastic shoes.
As Arielle Abeyta states in her essay For the Love of Shoes, "Shoes are no longer something one simply wears on their feet, but a passion, a hobby, one's personal statement, a source of authority, sexual independence and joy. They're a constant obsession in pop culture, endlessly talked about and fetishized in television, movies, song lyrics, and seem to be worn without fail by glamorous celebrities no matter the occasion. The most notorious of the shoe loving pop culture media is of the smash HBO series Sex in the City, in which shoes are one it's main themes."
I found this great articleonline about high heels and feminism. Here's just one part of it that really stuck with me given that I am also facing a brave new world of flat shoes:
ROSIE BOYCOTT: EMPOWER
Shoes become power
"I gave up wearing high heels five-and-a-half years ago — not out of choice but because a car accident wrecked my ankle to such an extent that heels became impossible.
I well remember trying to struggle into a pair of blue, lacy, Emma Hope high heels and almost weeping when I found my newly configured right foot wasn’t going to accommodate itself inside this elegant and much-loved pair of shoes.
I cast my eyes round my wardrobe — high heels in all colours and styles were neatly arranged in rows along the bottom, as well as from specially made containers which hung inside the doors.
I started the slow process of giving them all away, but for reasons of pure sentiment I still have the Emma Hope shoes — residing like forlorn children next to my ‘new’ shoes, all of them sensible and flat.
I miss being able to wear high heels, in much the same way as I would miss being able to have my hair streaked blonder and my nails manicured.
Heels are undeniably feminine, and the extra height — I’m 5ft 6in, so a three or four-inch heel took me to eye level with most of my male colleagues — brings a certain authority with it.
They are also undeniably sexy, giving shape and tension to calf muscles, allowing a woman to cross her legs and casually, but provocatively, to swing her shoe gently from her dangling foot.
I’ve watched men’s eyes transfixed on such a sight, at times to such an extent that they lose track of the conversation going on around them.
It’s as though they’re looking at a woman in her underwear, rather than at a high-powered executive, who is just — well — crossing her legs and swinging her shoes.
Shoes become power in those moments — power to distract, disarm and seduce. A man lost in momentary lust is liable to agree to anything from a raise to a promotion.
In the Seventies, feminists were always derided for wearing boiler suits and boots — which I think meant wearing any sort of footwear that involved a sturdy sole and laces.
I was never that sort of feminist — the highest pair of heels I ever bought, a pair of bright green Yves Saint Laurent sandals (with 5in heels), was in 1972. I remember buying them with a sense of defiance.
I wore them with pride, not to hide my feminist politics, but to say: ‘I’m also a female who likes men and who knows that shoes like this are sexy.’ I also wore mini skirts, tight jeans and cropped T-shirts, but nothing worked as well for my sense of sexuality and femininity as heels.
Later, when I was in my 40s, I’d buy high-heeled shoes more for the height (and thus the power) that they gave me, but I still liked the fact they made my legs look longer and thinner.
Do I feel diminished in my post-heel days? A little, but I don’t miss the pinched toes, the bunion that was developing on my left foot (which has now receded) nor do I miss the fact I often found myself unable to walk quickly if my heels were just a tad too high.
But I think that has more to do with feeling comfortable with myself and with where my life is right now.
If I was still single and working daily in an office where power-dressing counts, then my inability to add those extra inches, and all that goes with them, would hurt (and to hell with the bunions)."
I am experiencing writer's block and all I can do is just sit here and stare at the screen. I'm stressed out about my other classes; I have to read an entire novel this week and write a 10-page paper, and I'm totally unprepared for a huge exam that I'm taking tomorrow morning. I'm having panic attacks and I can't think of anything to write about. The instructions for this class are basically to "freeflow" and "write whatever comes to mind" and this is all I have on my mind right now. I haven't contributed much to the wiki over the last week because I just can't think of anything to say. I guess I'll write about Evangeloungism, as per our discussion in class, but I need to focus on the big paper & exam this week and put this class on the back burner for a few days.,
Sorry. I'll dive back into the wiki once this hurtle has passed.
WHAT IS WRITER'S BLOCKand HOW CAN I OVERCOME IT? .....seems like an appropriate topic to write about....
Writer's block is a condition in which an author loses the ability to produce new work. It varies in intensity and is often a temporary, minor difficulty in dealing with the task at hand. Other "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some even abandon their careers out of frustration. Often, writer's block stems from the affected writer viewing his or her work as inferior or unsuitable, when in fact it is probably quite the opposite.
There are many things that can cause writer's block. Sometimes, a writer simply runs out of inspiration or ideas. Other times, the cause of the block is distraction, or the feeling that something else must be done first. The more serious block can stem from personal situations or adverse circumstances in the author's life. Illness, depression, grief, relationship troubles and financial burdens are just a few things that can block a writer's inspiration. And sometimes a block is caused simply by the pressure to write. (In my case, I believe that I am dealing with distraction, depression, financial burdens, the pressure to write, and lack of ideas).
There are many books, articles and films dedicated to the subject of writer's block, including the 2006 movie "Stranger Than Fiction", in which an author named Karen Eiffel is struggling with writer's block, trying to figure out how to "kill off" the main character, Harold Crick.
Movie Clip #2: searching for ideas in the hospital...
The 1891 novel New Grub Street by George Gissing also talked about writer's block and one of the main characters, a journalist named Milvain, is cynical, yet relatable, when he says that he will "always despise the people [he] write[s] for."
I have a love/hate relationship with writing. Sometimes it's fun and easy; other times I just want to throw my laptop out the window. Quite honestly, I'd rather be taking a walk right now. The weather is fantastic and I relish my ability to take walks, after three months of crutches and couches! But instead I'm sitting here, trying desperately to find something to write..... ANYTHING to write... My passion for writing is gone lately. I just want to finish my last 6 classes and get the hell out of college already. And I'm really not a goof "freeflow" writer. I'm much better when I have some sort of purpose or direction. And what my mind keeps jumping back to is The Lounge Cats, a swingin' band that plays every Tuesday night at Ceviche from 9pm-1am. Eddie is the lead singer; he's a friend of mine; he has a great voice and fun stage presence, and he sings a lot of jazz, swing music, big band and the standards.
This is what it's like in my attention-deficit-disordered brain. I started off talking about writer's block and now I've gone on a two-hour tangent listening to jazz music, reading all of the websites that I linked above (there's some really great stuff on them) and looking at video clips of The Lounge Cats. I LOVE LOUNGE music-- that perfect combination of blues and jazz, heard in a dark room with a martini or a glass of champagne. Everyone looks just s little bit sexier in the warm red glow of stage lights, as they soak in to the cozy brick walls and dark wooden bar. There's just something magical about that "lounge vibe."
Well, that was a nice little tangent. Back to the subject of writer's block... for this page anyway. I would like to really try to crank out a few pages of original writing on ONE subject, instead of dancing around from one thing to the next, so I am going to really write about writer's block today, because I've been struggling with it lately. I've found many websites and videos that deal with the subject of writer's block, and the truly funny thing is: most of the tips for "curing" or "fixing" writer's block begin with (1) Walking away from the computer, (2) Taking a walk (bring a pocket notebook along), and (3) Looking around outside for inspiration.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! Fantastico!! Well, that's what I wanted to do anyway!! LOL. Life is funny like that sometimes. I actually have to get ready for class soon, so I'll come back to this in a bit. See you all in class tonight... I might be a few minutes late because I sat here on the computer for so long, and I still have to drive back downtown from Clearwater... dammit Zammit!!
"The easiest thing to do on earth is not write." (William Goldman)
"Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials. It's a matter of doing everything you can to avoid writing, until it is about four in the morning and you reach the point where you have to write." (Paul Rudnick)
"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair." (Mary Heaton Vorse)
"One of the most difficult things is the first paragraph. I have spent many months on a first paragraph, and once I get it, the rest just comes out very easily." (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
"The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one." (Mark Twain)
Writing is a process that takes time, practice and feedback. Part of becoming a great writer is learning how to write on demand, produce on a deadline, and tailor our writing to specific readers and audiences. In this writing-intensive Advanced Composition class, we focused on “the tools, practices and assumptions of community-based interactivity and cultures of participation steeped in new media, as we [sought] to find, create and develop space for creative and collective ideation and play with words, images, sounds, and even moods” (Conner, Syllabus 2).
In addition to the three text books for this class, our own original writing on the wiki quickly became the “primary text” for this course. With dozens of new pages being created each week, and more information being added to the existing pages, it was imperative throughout the semester that all students read and comment on the wiki on a regular basis. We far surpassed the 6,000 word “Gordon Rule”, as evident by the massive amounts of writing and research available for viewing.
As per the syllabus, part of this course was intended to teach students how to write for inquiry and persuasion, to “analyze and define ideas, texts, and issues, share useful information and novel ideas with specific audiences, and attempt to move someone to do something, such as change their mind” (Syllabus 2). The first part of my portfolio- the 13 articles that I wrote for the Downtown Residents Civic Association- is a detailed report of current events in downtown Saint Petersburg, political affiliations with the City and its representatives, and a “call to action” with regard to joining the organization and becoming more active in local politics. These pieces were written with a specific demographic audience in mind-- namely, homeowners in downtown Saint Pete, many of them Republican, mostly living in the high-rise condominium complexes, half of them retired, the other half age 35-54. Because of this target demographic, the style and the tone of the articles are specific and relatively conservative. However, the issues discussed are universal and well-publicized, things like homelessness, the waterfront ballpark debate, and the role of our local politicians.
I accomplished the Student Learning Outcomes for this class in several ways. First, I have demonstrated advanced rhetorical knowledge by “focusing on audience, purpose, context, medium and message, with special attention to the ways these elements of communication and rhetoric have shifted in contexts of media convergence and networked writing environments” (Syllabus 1). Working in a “networked writing environment” was difficult for me at first, because I don’t like to share working drafts of my writing. Instead, I prefer to work on something and make several revisions before allowing it to be viewed by my peers or other people in the public. But this class helped me to “let go” of this need for control and secrecy with regard to my writing, and instead share the process with my peers and use their comments and opinions to improve my finished product. This was relevant to the Student Learning Outcome that requires demonstration of “advanced composing processes by rigorously testing the edge of open source culture that says ‘share early and often’ [by] openly prewrit[ing], draft[ing], revis[ing] and edit[ing] content individually and with peers across a wide range of composing media” (Syllabus 1).
In addition to showcasing my advanced rhetorical knowledge, I also demonstrated advanced critical thinking, reading and writing, by “developing writing over time through high-frequency interactions with peers that coordinate[d] symbolic analytical skills, including finding, evaluating, analyzing, and synthesizing ideas, moods and information sampled from different sources” (Syllabus 2). One of the main components of this class was the critique and “remixing” of original writing by our peers. By “synthesizing” these different components from a variety of sources, we were able to participate in peer reviewing, while at the same time, using bits and pieces of other students’ original writing to inspire our own original pieces.
Finally, I have demonstrated advanced “knowledge of conventions” by controlling and changing the tone, style and mechanics of each piece in order to work within a variety of genres and formats. I wrote journalistic pieces with a political undertone; I wrote personal narratives that were confessional in nature, and I wrote creative fiction that was whimsical, yet full of insight and reflection.
Three different genres, three different audiences, and three different “me’s”, all working together to demonstrate my advanced composition skills.
Comments (5)
shawn dudley said
at 9:04 pm on Nov 30, 2010
I love it.
shawn dudley said
at 9:05 pm on Nov 30, 2010
... especially the Paul Rudnick!
ShareRiff said
at 3:02 pm on Dec 2, 2010
This is an AWESOME portfolio!
Elizabeth Sellers said
at 4:24 pm on Dec 2, 2010
thank you!! :-)
William Kuncz said
at 1:53 am on Dec 3, 2010
Jesus, thanks a lot for setting the curve elizabeth...
kidding- really great portfolio.
i liked "stranger than fiction" and i don't care who knows it.
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