Tanya

I get to be Tanya's partner again! Woo hoo!
Tanya's greatest hits:
My Journey
An Adventure
My Super Hero

In each of Tanya's blogs, her voice is so prominent. The events are so easy to relate to, and yet they each have such deep meaning. In "My Journey" we are taken throughout a surreal adventure of whether or not she should change her past. As readers, we are taken back with her, as she thinks of all her mistakes, but her end decision to not change anything makes her appreciate those things more, but the reader is secretly glad with the decision she made. In "An Adventure" Tanya displays her nack for humor. In just an hour time-frame, the atrocious events are written without bitterness or much sarcasm, instead just simple reflection laced with humor. The readers can relate to having similiar days with experiences much the same due to circumstances beyond their control. Loved it! In "My Super Hero" we can clearly see how much Tanya cares for her mother. The voice she uses, the way it's not about the big things, but the little ones like her mother's smile makes Tanya more three-dimensional to the reader. Great blog, can't wait to be in her group again! :)

Christine

Christine's greatest hits.
Collage: Red, Yellow, Blue
Fingerprinted
Cellphone

Throughout all of Christine's blogs I felt completely intrigued from the very beginning. She has a knack for not revealing everything until the very end, but gives just enough curious information to get her readers hooked. I loved Collage mostly for it's ambiguity. How could so many things be blue when all of them didn't necessarily mean the same thing? Why could someone be blue, as in sad, but the sky was the same color and yet so inspirational? I liked the voice in that story, as though it were told from someone in younger years. It gave a fresh perspective on life. In Fingerprinted, the friendly voice laced with inner sarcasm was a classic example that was easy to relate too. At one point or another, everyone has been in an overly crowded room with crazy coughing people. I especially enjoyed the flashback and how well it was woven in. In cellphone, the voice was just as strong and the stories just as easily related to. I particularly enjoyed the second story and the cruel irony it entailed. There were very few errors anywhere that I saw. Some of the transitions were a little rough, but other than that it was very well done. Great blog!

Diary Entry

Dear Diary,

Wouldn't you like to know? ><

Braided Confrontation

Samantha was late. She haphazardly ran a brush through her hair, threw on some quick eyeliner, slipped into some flip flops and was out the door. She jumped in her car, relieved when she saw the clock on her dashboard telling her the real time, not the time set ten minutes early on the microwave in the kitchen. She laughed. She knew herself too well.

Derek was back at home. His spring break was a week earlier than everyone elses, so essentially, everyone he knew would be at school. That was fine by him, which was why he was now sitting on a bench in front of his old high school. He missed being at this school, missed being in this state. Missed Samantha, if he was being honest with himself. Speaking of which. . .

Samantha pulled into the school parking lot, ten minutes before the bell. She'd even had time to grab a cup of coffee for breakfast. Her cellphone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and smiled at the caller ID.
"Good morning, gorgeous," Nathan said, when she answer. Samantha smiled.
"Good morning. How are you?"
"Early, surprisingly," Nathan replied with a chuckle. "I have a present for you. Meet me in front of the Science Building."
Samantha heard him hang up. She put the phone back in her pocket, wondering what on earth was going on.

Derek was trying to remain nonchalant as his ex-girlfriend, Samantha, walked towards him. What on Earth? She didn't have first period in the Science building. . . Derek jumped as someone came up beside him. He was tall, with brown hair and blue eyes.
"Hey, sorry, man. Didn't mean to scare you."
"No problem," Derek replied, turning back towards Samantha. She was approaching fast now, a smile on her face.
Oh, shit. Derek thought. That's her new boyfriend. . . Nathan waved as Samantha approached. She waved back, still smiling, when her eyes suddenly landed on Derek. She stopped dead in her tracks. No more smile. . .

Humility

She is standing in front of the class, pushing her perfect hair away from her face and chomping her gum loudly. It is lime green. The sight of it makes me want to vomit. She has no papers in her hands like all the other people did. She's not prepared. She smiles brightly, flashing her pearly whites at the teacher, who gives her a tight smile in return. She rambles on about how she wasn't really sure what the prompt was, but like she tried and like yeah and like I think this chapter was about the human genome, which was like awesome and all that jazz. I can tell by the way she speaks, the way she's so cocky in front of the class that she doesn't care about this subject and she thinks it's an easy A. The teacher asks her a question. She pales noticeably, not knowing the answer. "Maybe you should actually do the reading before you get up in front of the class and waste everyone time." She's taken aback, but tries to hide it. She tosses her hair and marches back to her seat, tripping along the way. The way she sits in her seat now, the way she begins to take notes. . . I can tell she's learned her lesson. I hide a smug grin. She got a C. . . seems fair enough.

Kinship

I am getting dressed upstairs in my room. My work uniform has been through hell and back this week. I really, really should buy more than two pairs of work pants. . . I slip into my uniform, and walk back out into my room. My roommate is sprawled across her bed, laughing at something funny on Youtube while texting her friends. Life just seems overly bubbly for her. . . she wishes me a fun day at work, but I just grimace. Ever since she stopped working, that line has meant less and less to me. It's genuine, sure, but something about it doesn't seem fair when financial troubles don't exist in her life the way they do in mine. Speaking of financial troubles, it looks like I'll be eating on campus to save myself the couple bucks. I take the elevator to the ground floor, and walk over to Manzy Square. The girl at the register is somewhat familiar to me. She lives at Manzanita as well, and is one of the only people I know (besides myself) who seems to be at work 24/7. She smiles at me as I approach. There's something in that smile. Something that says, "I know how you feel," instead of the nasty looks everyone else gives a girl in a work uniform. She swipes my card and hands me my reciept. "We girls gotta stick together," she says with a smile. I grin. She's absolutely right.

Love

I can't quite decide if it's difficult or easy. Falling in love seems easy enough, though if genuinely terrified like some people are, I can see how it could be difficult. What I do know is that love is complicated. Complicated in ways of which movie should we see, complicated in ways of timing, and complicated in ways of which level are we on. A lot of people think love equals heartbreak. That to feel such immense pain at the loss of someone constitutes love. . . and I suppose that's true, though cruel, to be honest. What love is to me is simple gestures. Like a boyfriend that spends all evening with me. Who puts up with my obnoxious roommate and takes me out to dinner and tucks me into bed before he leaves. A boyfriend who knows me well enough to know that I'm not actually asleep. My phone goes off, and it's him. Immediately, I answer. He tells me to go to the window. I throw off the blankets and run to the window. He's standing beneath a light, waving. I wave back and he blows me a kiss. He wanted to see me one last time before he went home. I laugh to myself; love is simple like that. . .

Through the Ages

I am one. Splattering my birthday cake all over the table. There are no friends at my party, only family. They smile. "Oh did she really? That's amazing. She's ahead in her class already? Well, we always knew she was bright."

I am three. I have friends now. My dog, BJ, and my kitties. I play with them. I talk to them. They listen to me. We have tea parties and play with mud. Inside friends, like kitties are calm and sleep with me in my bed. Outside friends like BJ steal steaks off the grill and play with me in the tall grass of the backyard. I love my friends.

I am five. I am going to school now. A private Christian academy. My uniform is strange, with poofy shoulders on my white button-down shirt. My jumper is red plaid, and my little black shoes make strange clomping noises on the floor. But Mommy and Daddy paid for them with a little money they'd saved. So I pull up my hair and clip it with the little red barette my mother bought me. It matches the plaid. It was the one thing she let me get that wasn't on my mandatory list. It was special. And so I would wear it to my first day of school.

I am eight. School is different now. My friends are non-existent. My classes take up alot of time. I am bussed over to a different school for special classes. Mommy and Daddy worked hard to get me into these special classes. I try as hard as I can to pay attention and do everything right. I find my sister each day after school and we board the bus together. Our parents won't be home when we get there. I will watch after my sister and make her a bowl of soup or cereal.

I am eleven. I have a best friend, Heather. We like to talk during school, but my grades are terribly important, my parents say. I focus even on the boring subjects and get the best scores I can. I work hard in gymnastics, trying hard to impress my mother. I am getting better but I'm not there yet.

I am fourteen. High school is the strangest of places. The campus is a big, wide, unfamiliar world. My classes are full of people who do not try and it irritates me. Do they not care about their future? There is a boy in my class whom I like very much. He gives me roses on Valentine's Day and we are the talk of the school. I am more social now, going bowling or to the movies. But always I return to look after my sister and make sure her homework and mine are completed before bed.

I am sixteen. I have suffered a move mid-semester and the worst heartbreak ever. That boy of mine freed me for my own good, he swears. My school is more important now than ever. My grades are impeccable, my circle of friends quickly grows, as does my love life. There is a new boy, a better boy. He looks at me like I am the greatest thing in the world.

I am seventeen. I am accepted to college, and working part-time to raise some money. My parents finally confessed that they would be unable to lend me a financial hand during college, but I had already guessed as much. I was awarded a full-ride to ASU. Only problem was. . . I didn't want what came with it. Four years of college paid for meant four years of military service afterwards. I swallowed hard and signed my name. My parents didn't have enough money, so I would sacrifice four years.

I am eighteen. College is rigorous but seems futile, in all honesty. That boy of mine is still just that. . . a boy. He is joining the army soon, and though it makes me sad, I hope it will make him grow up. I am working forty hours in a desperate attempt to have enough for tuition, in a desperate attempt to live on my own. And only now do I realize that the world never really changed. . . just my point of view.

essays

One of the essays that definitely struck a cord with me was Virginia Wolfe's, "Death of a Moth". I especially enjoyed the juxatoposition of life and death throughout the piece. The birds, the moth, the sun, the men in the fields are all described in ways that are vivid and bring them to life as characters although they are never truly described. The way the narrator's life is put temporarily on hold while she watches the moth contrasts beautifully with the way the moth lives so fervently for what little time it has. Such a tiny creature, and yet such enormous life inside of it. And even in death, it never truly admitted defeat. It could not overcome death, but it surely did not have to leave the world with anything but the utmost of poise.

The other essay I enjoyed was Rider's "Three Voices". The format, the different points of view, it almost seemed like a stream of counciousness piece. In the three or four paragraphs she wrote, Rider was able to harness the tension and confusion of love, adultery, pain. Such things often occur in real life as well, and the mind does not process them with good grammar or well-thought-out sentences with appropriate diction, but rather facts, like bullet points, as Rider demonstrated with the quick changes in view and the words and definitions at the very end.

Translations

"So, seen any good movies lately?" he asks me. I sort of smile.
"A couple. Haven't been in a really long time," I reply.
Translation: Why, you gonna take me on a date?
He smiles as well.
"What's your favorite movie of all time?" he asks. He's desperate to learn as much as he can about me.
"Fifth Element," I reply.
Translation: I'm into movies with strong female characters, plus action, plus humor. All necessary.
"Never seen it," he admits. If my dropped jaw and stare weren't enough, I also included this:
"Are you for real?"
Translation: You've got to be kidding me. If we're serious about this whole dating thing, you gotta watch it. Soon.
"Favorite book?"
I snort.
Translation: Too many to freaking count, buster.
"Favorite subject in school?"
"Recess," I replied, then sighed. "Science, or English."
Translation: So I'm a nostalgic geek, but that doesn't necessarily mean I have to tell you right?
"Hmmm," he ponders and I feel as though the conversation is going to take a turn down Serious Lane.
"Ever been in any relationships before?"
"Just one."
Translation: He broke my heart, I don't want to talk about it.
He hesitates. "Ever been kissed?"
I smile. "Do parents count?"
Translation: My coy response should tell you yes. You've been kissed too, otherwise you wouldn't care. You're protective, I think I like it. . .
He understands my supposedly innocent response.
"Ever been in love?" His voice is quiet and I know exactly what he's thinking. There's something in his blue eyes and I know he loves me already.
"Yep."
Translation: Head over heels. . . and you happen to be the lucky guy.

cell phone

Relationships can be scary, especially when you're young and you don't know much about the person you like. Lucky for me and my generation, cell phones were the next big thing. I didn't know much about him at all, except his name, a few things he liked to do, and kind of where he lived. When we got off the bus after our first "date", our cell phones were always glued to our hands. Through my phone I found out more and more about him. We texted mostly, scared to actually call the other person and ask what you'd consider semi-personal questions. The more I learned, the more intrigued I was. The only reason I'd go home from school was because I knew when I got home, he'd text me while I did my homework, while I cooked dinner, before bed to say good night. Over two years later, we're still together, though after that first month's $600 phone bill, it's a miracle we're even alive.

I was standing behind the counter at work, ringing up people at top speed, taking care of two customers at once, grabbing bags for the people with seven and eight items, all while the chatter of people on their stupid cell phones went on in the background. They would approach me, not saying hello, not catching my eye, not even taking the two seconds to pretend I existed, because obviously the person on the phone was just that much more important. They don't want the people they're on the phone with to know where they are, so they mouth the name of what cigarettes they want as if I'm just supposed to catch it. And often times, I do, mostly out of practice. Of the 2000 customers I handle each day, about 85%. . . are on their cell phones. They're inconsiderate, they're rude, they're loud and obnoxious. As if I really needed to know about your construction plans, or your marital problems. . . nope, not one bit. So, please, hang up. . . it's common curtesy.

They used to be the size of bricks. Literally. Cell phones so huge, they covered an entire side of your face when you held them up to your ear. They were only good for one thing, of course. . . calling other people. But, no. Not anymore. Now, they have become one of the most versatile pieces of equipment ever. Small enough to fit in your pocket, but with capabilities unlike anything else. You can call, text, send pictures, take pictures, get online to check your e-mail, hook up your blue tooth, do a million and one things all with one tiny piece of equipment. . . the BlackBerry. Next generation? I guess you could say that, if what you mean is a generation of people literally addicted to their phones. Can't live without them for two minutes, must always have their e-mail at their fingertips. . . Not exactly what I have in mind for the next generation, but then again. . . why else would they call the "latest technology" a CrackBerry? :P

The View

It's the same old view it's always been, but tonight it just seems different. As I lean against my dresser, I stare out the window, fifteen stories up, out at the lights of Tempe. My kitten sits on the dresser and I stroke his soft fur as we gaze out the window together. Everyone down there is so small. The little dots of light riddle the landscape like the scintillation of stars as their light enters our atmosphere. The frat houses across the street are as alive and overflowing as they usually are. The tiny people that run across the street, continuing their ever-important, busy lives seem surreal as I stare down at them. The arrows painted in white on the black roads tell people which directions to go, how to get there. The lines they must stay inside, the rules they must obey, all symbolic of life. But why? Who made these rules and what gave him the right? Who says I can't go skipping up the street singing as loud as my lungs will allow without "disturbing the peace" or that I have to pay to see natural sites like the Grand Canyon, when no one actually owns it? Those busy people and their busy lives. Do they find the time to enjoy life or simply push themselves through it, living day by day until they finally realize how close their life is to ending. . .
My roommate interrupts me, concern in her voice as she asks if I'm okay. I smile at her. Yes, I'm okay. . . a hypocrit, but okay. I felt sympathy for those people and their busy lives, and yet it's time to get back to mine. My homework that waits, the studying that must get done, the taxes I still have to file. My life is no different from theres, to be truthful. It's all a matter of perspective.

My car Skip

I clambered awkwardly out of the car, my bulky purse getting caught on the steering wheel. With a sigh, I disentangled myself, twisting and turning until I was finally free. I pushed down the old school lock with my fingers, and shut the door. I smiled slightly, remembering the day I'd gotten my car. He was my April Fool's baby. My 1968 Volkswagen beetle, completely restored, turbo-charged and painted a spectacular sunburst yellow. I'd gotten him on April 1st, 2006. Back then he was badly abused. His interior was ripped and torn, the pale yellow stuffing of the seats hanging out. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, joints and the occassional beer can. The front end was smashed, making my baby's smile look disjointed and his eyes all squinty. He came completely factory, with only one tiny mirror, a thin steering wheel and a sticky clutch. He was in terrible shape. . . he was perfect. It took months upon months of blood, sweat and tears from both me and my family to make him what he was now. . . a Bug-o-rama worthy baby. . . my Skip. Even now as I shut the door and walk away, I realize just how cute Skip is, how his personality and mine match so well, how I can never get rid of him, and how my first car ever at age 16 is my dream car. I smile at the thought and begin to haul my things across the parking lot to my dorm room. It takes me a good five minutes, but soon I'm approaching Manzanita, the smoker's circle inhabitated by a bunch of guys. One in particular that I noticed was typical looking. He wore a white brand-name shirt with "Aeropostale" written in strange black letters across his chest. His jeans were baggy, hanging off of him, sagging disgustingly just like everyone elses. His blue, childish boxers did not help the situation and I wondered if he realized he was a walking billboard. The cigarette dangling between his fingers didn't help his appeal, either. His eyes connected with mine and I quickly dropped mine to the ground, walking swiftly up the ramp towards the door.
"Look at her, trying to be all badass in her QuikTrip uniform."
His statement was met with the laughter of four of his smoking buddies. I stopped for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn around. Yes, I was in uniform. My khaki shorts, my red QT shirt with my circular little nametag centered on the left side of my chest. A studded, black belt held up my pants, my shirt was tucked in and my shoes were beaten with years of wear and tear. My clothes were dirty, my hair was a mess, and I was dog tired. His laughter was still echoing in my ears and for a moment I contemplated turning around and beating his ass. But the moment passed and I walked towards the door.
That's just giving him what he wants, Jess. I reminded myself. A smile formed on my lips. Besides, my turbo-charged Skip would give him a run for his money any day. . .

my essays

Both of the essays I have enjoyed the most so far were assigned at the beginning of the semester. The first of my favorites was Will Baker's "My Children Teach me the Big Issues". I found it most intriguing how he took everyday occurences and related them to such big worldy concepts, like existentialism. The one I remember most, however, was his daughter Montana's story. With her little daiper and her cowboy boots as she hiked up a hill with her daddy. I thought it was amazing how the simple act of a girl falling down, then refusing help and getting up on her own could be so easily related to Feminism. The story fit perfectly with the situation and was so easy to relate to. It didn't matter what age the reader was, they would in some way understand.

The other essay I enjoyed, but mostly questioned was Susan Orlean's "The American Male at Age Ten". The part that stuck with me the most was one of young Colin's answers. "What is the most important thing in the world." His first response was the ever-popular Game-boy. Then, he paused and suddenly gave a ridiculously profane answer of, "The world is the most important thing in the world." Although this makes perfect sense it really did catch me off guard that someone so young who was in love with material things would actually correct his answer enough to say that the world was the most important thing in the world. Also, the transitions and the dialogue in this essay were memorable as well.

Tattered and Torn

It was an old rocking chair now. Soft, baby blue, with three rows of little blue buttons down the middle of the back. The arms were now covered in stains from the food and drink of almost twelve years, making them appear almost black. The old wooden handle was still perfectly intact, as were the rungs on the bottom, making this the oldest and most sentimental thing we were giving away. I watched from the backseat of the truck as the men at Goodwill pulled the old rocking chair carefully out of the bed and set it with all the other valuables people had given away. . .

"Oh, Jim! It's wonderful," Stacey cried, her stomach swollen with a child of almost nine moonths. Me. My dad stood by her, looking as young as as thin as he ever was. Both of them were watching from the threshold of their apartment as Jim, Stacey's step-father unloaded a beautiful blue rocking chair from his truck. It was his gift to the young couple, who were not only short on furniture but had a baby on the way. A space was made right by the door for the huge, blue rocking chair. It contrasted violently with all the colors in the room, but seemed so benign, so peaceful, as though it's purpose in the room was not to contrast, but to calm instead. My mother sat down with effort, the soft padding encasing her (and me) protectively. My father, Carl, and Jim stood a little ways off, talking. The simple gift of a rocking chair had made their day. It was only two weeks later that I was born. I was taken to the little apartment where my parents lived and so many nights they rocked me to sleep in that huge, blue rocking chair. The number of family members that sat in that chair, the number of times I sat on my dad's lap in that chair while we watched t.v. . . it wasn't important to me then, where we sat or what we did. But as I watched the chair being unloaded and taken away forever I realized that it did matter. That chair had withstood so many years. . . it was dirty, it was tattered, but above all. . . it was fixable. It held so many memories that I wished I could tell the men at Goodwill that we had changed our minds and we were keeping it. But, just like in life, there isn't always room for everything. So, the chair stayed behind as I kept moving forward. All I could hope was that it would mean as much to someone else as it had to me. . .

Taken

As a breakdown for those of you who have not seen the movie, Taken, is the story of a man who was divorced by his wife and whose job did not allow him to see much of his daughter. Now, he has quit his job and has moved closer to his family in a hopes that he and his daughter, Kim, might spend more time together. The director clearly shows the rockiness in their relationship when the father shows up at his daughter's birthday party (conveniently held in a mansion-size house that his ex-wife and her new husband live in). Everything is huge and well-organized, while his gift is thoughtful, but not as expensive. He quickly meets up with his daughter who opens the present in front of both him and his ex-wife Lenore. She loves it and gives him a hug, but quickly forgets and puts the present on the ground when her stepfathers brings out her latest present: a white horse. Even the juxtaposition in clothing showed just how out of place the father was in the new family's setting. As for when Kim asks to go to Europe, he refuses outright, thinking of her saftey first. Then, on a few conditions, he changes his mind and Kim is ecstatic. However, it turns out her plans were not to go visit museums and toursits sights, but rather follow U2 on their concert tour. He doesn't say anything to Kim, hoping that she will see the world and not end up like Lenore, pampered and taken care of. His attention to detail was clearly shown at the beginning of the movie when he wraps Kim's present, his fighting skills were seen a little bit later when he takes a job with his friends and saves a young singer from a knife attack. So, when Kim is kidnapped in France, his only motivation was to get his baby girl back. There was no thinking process, no creation of a plan, it was get to France and kill who took his daughter. His connections in France were numerous, but never went into real detail about how he knew them or why, all that mattered was that he did and he would use those connections to get to his daughter. The bad guys (to me) seemed a little one-dimenisional, but that was the point. This movie wasn't about the bad guys or what their history was, it was about a father and a daughter and the lengths he would go to get her back. From jumping off bridges, stealing cars, breaking laws and more, Taken, was a Daddy movie to the extreme.

Scarified

My roommate and I are a little bit eccentric and well, kind of dorky. So, it's only natural, being the dorks that we are, that we have a tendency to make up words. The latest "word" added to our dictionary was "cutenize", clearly defined as the act of making something cuter. Whether it's cutenizing the room (a.k.a. cleaning) or cutenizing the appearance of something, we sure do cutenize a lot. This morning I woke up a smidgen early for once and cutenized myself. I picked out a matching, casual little outfit (something I rarely worry about) and even topped it off with an adorable hat. My roomy (Margo) still in bed, peeks up at me as I'm leaving.
"Aw, you're all cutenized," she tells me with a grin. I smile and thank her before I head down to my Chemistry lecture. Being my dorky self, I sit in the first row, just like I always do and pay close attention.
"Okay, class, now we're going to talk a bit about nomenclature," Dr. Briggs said.
Ugh, I thought. Why does naming things have to be a subject of study if they're already named?!
"I found some of these more commonly named compounds on the internet, and I thought they were rather interesting."
I groaned. His definition of interesting is generally not even close to mine. . .
He displayed the names with pictures one at a time on the screen. One was Rabitol and showed a picture of Bugs Bunny. I chuckled lightly. The next few were unremarkable, until we came upon a compound named Arsole.
"I'm glad you all can read, since I'm not allowed to say that one out loud," Dr. Briggs says with a grin. The class chuckled a bit.
"And lastly. . . what you're all probably thinking about this course right now. . ."
I was intrigued now. He displayed the last one that was met with a defeaning roar of laughter from the class: Focital.
"Thank you, thank you. But starting soon, due to the mandatory furlough, my jokes will all be ten percent less funny," he continues.
This also is met with a laugh from the class. He seems pleased that we've at least paid attention so far.
"And lastly, before I send you off I'm going to show you a video clip. Please pay attention to the white automobile."
The lights go off and the video is displayed. There's a white car, cruising down a curvy, windy road. The scenery is beautiful and green with lush trees. I watched as the car drove along, thinking how this dealt with Chemistry. Emissions, perhaps? The car disappeared behind a group of trees. I waited for it to re-emerge. I leaned forward; why wasn't it out yet? Then suddenly this hideous, grotesque, bloody zombie face fills the screen and yells. I shrieked, covering my eyes with my hat as a reflex reaction. Dr. Briggs laughs and explains the supposed "chemical reactions" involved. How the light and photons created an image which was captured by our eyes, which was converted into a picture, while the sound reached our ears, causing our sympathetic nervous systems to activate and make us shriek like little girls. But none of that mattered, because suddenly, I'd thought of a new word. Scarified.

Thurdays

It was Thursday, and we all knew what that meant. It was off to the gym for my mother. My sister and I packed into her little, light blue Honda Accord. The seats were gray, with faint little dots of white or black here and there. We drove along the roads, and I looked out the window at the passing city. The juxtaposition of the trees and flowers next to big corporate buildings and power plants was not funny to me then, as it is now, it was just simply awkward. The sun was shining down relentlessly, baking us inside the tiny car with no Air Conditioning. We parked at the gym, my mother bouncing off towards one door, her black, used, gym bag banging against her hip, the black strap contrasting with her white skin.
"I'll pick you up in an hour," she calles to us with a wave and smile. I smile back and my sister waves. My mother knows we will be fine. I took my sister inside the building just next door, the cool air conditioning welcome against my sweaty skin. The woman at the desk smiled at us, just like she did every Thursday. Her perfect white teeth and manicured nails seemed so strange in the realm of a gymnasium. We walked into the same room as always, eating the McDonald's our mother had purchased for us, while we waited for her class to be over. My sister still loved all the old, worn toys that littered the carpet. She would make up fantastical games to play while we waited, and I would watch, politely, but rarely join. I was always too busy looking towards the door. At long last (an hour and a half later), the door to the day care center opened. I turned towards it, the ring of the bell still sounding in my head as the opening of the door set it off. There she was, the light of the sun shimmering on her, bringing out the red tint to her hair, the sheen of sweat on her skin, the smile on her lips. The water bottle in her hand was nearly empty, but the water still left inside sparkled with the sun's light. She was kind, and beautiful and yet tired and worn all at once. I was close enough now to see the dark circles under her eyes, the habitual way her lips formed a smile, but I knew she genuinely loved us. I took my sister by the hand once more and followed my mother to the car. Just another Thursday.

Feminism

Oh, boy. If I thought male-domination was something I had to conquer before, then this class was certainly giving me a run for my hard-earned money. I was standing in the middle of the high-school gym, running my fingers over my skirt and hoping there were no wrinkles. It was my first JROTC uniform inspection. Throughout the swarm of green uniforms all standing in perfect formation, I was the only one wearing a skirt and the only one with tiny feet. Out of thirty cadets, I was the only girl. I won't lie, it was a terrifying process being drilled on our knowledge and having our uniforms examined by our instructor who was over-zealously searching for any and all errors. I had studied my heart out and had let none of my fellow male cadets help me, even if every single one had (eagerly) offered. I would sink or swim, but either way, I was doing it on my own. My uniform was nearly immaculate, just one small error, but my knowledge was perfect. I flawlessly answered each of the inspectors questions while the boys around me gave the generic "I don't know" response. I felt entirely proud of myself. Miss Independent. So, even if they razzed me about being the only skirt and called me "Little Foot" for a month because of my tiny shoe size, I had done it by myself. But, I think the greatest thing of all was that they were still there to catch me if I fell.

So, the above being my scene involving aspects of feminism, the following will be the reflection on Will Baker's Feminism. I found the piece to be very well-written, short and clever. Aspects of feminism don't need to involve educated woman at political rallies or hard-core, engrained beliefs, but can be as simple as girls doing things on their own, like Montana. She has no idea what feminism is, nor will she understand it for several years to come, but the attitude that she doens't always need assistance bolsters her feministic qualities and creates a witty story to boot.