Hey ladies! I’m here to talk to today about a very important issue. This issue, which is so close to my heart may very well shock you, but it is time for you to know the truth. I'm hear to talk to you about the danger that is swimming with dolphins. Sure, you may think that dolphins seem like your typical cute, cuddly, marine life friends, but in truth they are wild, ferocious, uncontrollable savages, who, more often then not, are out to steal your virtue!
I know girls, I know, so many of you had planned to swim with dolphins on this year’s spring break trip to Cabo. (Insert squeals of delight here.) But give me a few moments to convince you of why staying on the beach working on your hot spring break tan will be much more worth your time. This may be surprising to you sisters, but did you know that captive dolphins are actually much more dangerous then wild dolphins? I know—I totes thought I was being messed with when I first learned this. But it’s true! Captive dolphins in "swim with dolphin" programs often become aggressive, and have been known to do everything from ramming people to the bottom of the pool to chasing them. And the injuries that result from these incidents range from scratches and cuts to broken bones. I don’t know about you, but the only thing I want broken when I get back from Spring Break is my record for how many shots of tequila I can take! Who’s with me?
But that’s not all. As I’m sure you know, most animals mating season is in the spring. Guess what else is in spring? That’s right, our Cabo trip. There have been multiple incidents when a captive dolphin has been in the prime of mating season and mistook his swimming partner for, ahem, a different kind of partner. You would be surprised at the number of drowning incidents that have been caused by this. I’m sorry, but hotties like us have enough to worry about with all these frat boys hounding us all the time, we do not need to also worry about waking up to something of another species. I mean, ew. I know “what happens in Cabo stays in Cabo” and everything, but who can live down an infamous story like that? We have our reputations to think about girls.
I know what some of you girls are thinking right now. I considered it too. But trust me when I say this, dolphin petting zoos are just as bad. Those toothers are sharper then you think, and we don’t go through the labors of getting manicures every week just so some angry dolphins can have a prettier looking snack.
I’m telling you all of this not because I want to ruin your fun, but because sisters have to look our for each other. Dolphins are just like any other wild animal, and I mean really, would you like, want to go swimming with a grizzly bear? So keep in mind what I’ve told you and I hope everyone has a beyond awesome time this spring break!
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Writing Assignment 8, Draft 1
Hey ladies! I’m here to talk to today about a very important issue that is very close to my heart. That is the danger of swimming with dolphins. Sure, you may think that dolphins seem like your cute, cuddly, marine life friends, but in truth they are wild, ferocious, incontrollable savages, who in some cases are out to steal your virtue!
I know girls, I know, that so many of you had planned to swim with dolphins on this year’s spring break trip to Cabo. (Insert squeals of delight here.) But give me a few moments as to tell you why you should staying on the beach working on your hot spring break tan will be much more worth your time. This may be surprising to you sisters, but did you know that captive dolphins are actually much more dangerous then wild dolphins? I know—I totes thought I was being messed with when I learned this. But it’s true! Captive dolphins in swim with dolphin programs often become aggressive, and have been known to ramming people at the bottom of the pool to chasing them. And the injuries that result from these incidents range from scratches and cuts to broken bones. I don’t know about you, but the only thing I want broken when I get back from Spring Break is my record for how many shots of tequila I can take! Who’s with me?
But that’s not all. As I’m sure you know, most animals mating season is in the spring. Guess what else is in spring? That’s right, our Cabo trip. There have been multiple incidents when a captive dolphin has been in the prime of mating season and mistook his swimming partner for, ahem, a different kind of partner. You would be surprised at the number of drowning incidents that have been caused by this. I’m sorry, but hotties like us have enough to worry about with all these frat boys hounding us all the time, we do not need to also worry about waking up to something of another species. I mean, ew. I know “what happens in Cabo stays in Cabo” and everything, but who can live down an infamous story like that?
I know what some of you girls are thinking right now. I considered it too. But trust me when I say this, dolphin petting zoos are just as bad. Those toothers are sharper then you think, and we don’t go through the labors of getting manicures every week just so some angry dolphins can have a prettier looking snack.
I’m telling you all of this not because I want to ruin your fun, but because sisters have to look our for each other. Dolphins are just like any other wild animal, and I mean really, would you like, want to go swimming with a grizzly bear? So keep in mind what I’ve told you and I hope everyone has a beyond awesome time this spring break!
I know girls, I know, that so many of you had planned to swim with dolphins on this year’s spring break trip to Cabo. (Insert squeals of delight here.) But give me a few moments as to tell you why you should staying on the beach working on your hot spring break tan will be much more worth your time. This may be surprising to you sisters, but did you know that captive dolphins are actually much more dangerous then wild dolphins? I know—I totes thought I was being messed with when I learned this. But it’s true! Captive dolphins in swim with dolphin programs often become aggressive, and have been known to ramming people at the bottom of the pool to chasing them. And the injuries that result from these incidents range from scratches and cuts to broken bones. I don’t know about you, but the only thing I want broken when I get back from Spring Break is my record for how many shots of tequila I can take! Who’s with me?
But that’s not all. As I’m sure you know, most animals mating season is in the spring. Guess what else is in spring? That’s right, our Cabo trip. There have been multiple incidents when a captive dolphin has been in the prime of mating season and mistook his swimming partner for, ahem, a different kind of partner. You would be surprised at the number of drowning incidents that have been caused by this. I’m sorry, but hotties like us have enough to worry about with all these frat boys hounding us all the time, we do not need to also worry about waking up to something of another species. I mean, ew. I know “what happens in Cabo stays in Cabo” and everything, but who can live down an infamous story like that?
I know what some of you girls are thinking right now. I considered it too. But trust me when I say this, dolphin petting zoos are just as bad. Those toothers are sharper then you think, and we don’t go through the labors of getting manicures every week just so some angry dolphins can have a prettier looking snack.
I’m telling you all of this not because I want to ruin your fun, but because sisters have to look our for each other. Dolphins are just like any other wild animal, and I mean really, would you like, want to go swimming with a grizzly bear? So keep in mind what I’ve told you and I hope everyone has a beyond awesome time this spring break!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Writing Assignment 6 Final Draft
“Officer, welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.” I say as I open my door to Officer Beaumont. He walks in and looks uncomfortable. Against the lushness of my furnishings—the rich colored wallpaper and velvety carpets imported from Paris, he looks rough and out of place.
“Hello Miss Velonsky.” He says, half raising his hand as if to shake mine, but then seeming to think better of the motion dropping his hand to his side. I manage to hide a smile by turning my back to lead him into the parlor…I was used to this flustered appearance upon meeting me.
“As you know I have a few questions Miss Velonsky.” He says as he takes a seat on the silk armchair.
“Natasha, please.” I smile graciously, perching on the chaise lounge. He repositions himself, taking out a pad of paper and pen, tapping the pen against the paper. Hopefully we could get this interrogation over with quickly.
“That is a very fancy dress.” Officer Beaumont points out rather simple-mindedly. I look down innocently at the silk ball gown that I had slipped on moments before he arrived and shrugged my shoulders. In truth my wardrobe choice had been rather specifically chosen. Elegant ladies weren’t murderers, everyone knew that.
“Tell me the events of last Friday evening.” He said into my silence.
“I had a show at the Carlton Theater as you know, Officer.”
“Perhaps you could be more specific.”
“I took a cab to the theater at around 5 O’clock, arrived in my dressing room and had my dinner served to me there. I ate dinner alone and then I got my hair and makeup done and warmed up my voice. The curtain went up at 7:00. I sang until the show ended at around 9:00, then, well you know what happened next.”
“Yes, I do. You left the stage and found…” He looked down at his paper to read a name—“ Fred Kinsley, stabbed to death in your dressing room.” My heart skipped a beat at Kinsley’s name, but I remained calm.
“Yes.”
“Did you have relations with the Kinsley before?”
“We had been acquainted at a few various and sundry society galas, but that was the extent of it.
“Really? I find that very interesting. It seems that Mr. Kinsley’s sister was under the impression that you had known him quite well.”
“Oh?” I say raising one eyebrow in an attempt to seem coy, but the question coming out more faintly then I had planned. Officer Beaumont now seemed to be in his element.
“Mr. Kinsley and I were…old friends.” I manage.
“Friends?”
“Yes.”
“Purely platonic?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Isn’t one’s first love platonic enough?” I soon as I said it I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I hurried to recover. “I knew Fred Kinsley when I was very young, before I began my life on the stage. We had grown up together. But when I left home to come to the city we lost touch. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him dead in my dressing room after all these years. I’m still recovering from the trauma of it.” I bring a tear to my eye and let it sit there. I knew that I looked the epitome of stifled misery.
“And your fiancé, Mr. Duke Harvington of Harvington Banking, he knew of this Fred Kinsley?” The question took me by surprise. I thought nothing surprised me.
“Of course not. Why would he? They’re from two separate worlds.”
“Yes, two separate worlds. The world of being in love with Mary Winstead and the world of being in love with Natasha Velonsky.” The Officer says calmly. I cock my head to one side.
“I’m sorry…Mary Winsted?”
“You’re not familiar with the name?” I don’t answer, calculating in my head. “Are you familiar with that name, Miss Velonsky?” The Officer repeated the question in earnest. I open my mouth to speak, but no answer came out. “I would have thought that you wouldn’t have forgotten your original name, ma’am.” The officer says quietly.
“Mary Winsted doesn’t make a very good stage name.” I finally say. I can feel my walls of calm breaking down around me and I know it is time for drastic measures. “Would you like a glass of wine, Officer Beaumont? All this chatting has gotten me simply parched.” I don’t wait for his reply and instead I get up and pour two glasses. He stands also, taking a glass from me and we both sip. I place my hand gently on his chest.
“I can’t help but admire you, Officer. I’ve never been so intimidated in my life.” I smile slightly.
“Call it a gift.” His soft voice mimics mine and I know I am winning. Men are so predictable. I lean closer to him so that I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. And suddenly we are kissing, kissing passionately as my head does a victory dance until suddenly I feel something cold and metal on my wrist. I look down and see a handcuff covering it and for a moment am confused at how it got there. But then I see that Officer Beaumont has pulled out a piece of wrinkled paper from his coat pocket.
“I have here a marriage license for Fred Kinsley and Mary Winsted.” I stare at it in amazement. “It’s quite curious to me, Miss Winsted that you would agree to marry Duke Harvington when you’re already married. Though I supposed if Mr. Kinsley were to suddenly die, you would be a widow and free to do as you please and go marry your millionaire, nice and tidy with no scandal of divorce.” Our faces are still inches apart.
“I...” I let my voice travel off, my lip trembling.
“So perhaps Mr. Kinsley showed up in your dressing room during intermission last Friday to remind you of your union, and things got a bit heated?”
“Mary Winsted and Natasha Velonsky are two different people.”
“Not in the eye of the law. You over pampered starlets are all the same. You commit a crime, and expect seduction is going to get you what you want, just like everywhere else in your over privileged lives? You make me…” But he is cut off suddenly as he gasps and falls to the ground, blood trickling down his back. He looks at me in shock as he lay there, dying on the ground.
“You should really make sure your knife is more neatly stowed away before embracing a woman, Beaumont. The outer pocket? Really? And now I’ll have to get the carpet cleaned.” As I spoke those last words I saw the life flicker from him and he was dead. I pick up the marriage document, now dripping with blood and threw it into the fire, before commencing theatrical screams, “Help! Murder! Murder in my Apartment! Help!”
“Hello Miss Velonsky.” He says, half raising his hand as if to shake mine, but then seeming to think better of the motion dropping his hand to his side. I manage to hide a smile by turning my back to lead him into the parlor…I was used to this flustered appearance upon meeting me.
“As you know I have a few questions Miss Velonsky.” He says as he takes a seat on the silk armchair.
“Natasha, please.” I smile graciously, perching on the chaise lounge. He repositions himself, taking out a pad of paper and pen, tapping the pen against the paper. Hopefully we could get this interrogation over with quickly.
“That is a very fancy dress.” Officer Beaumont points out rather simple-mindedly. I look down innocently at the silk ball gown that I had slipped on moments before he arrived and shrugged my shoulders. In truth my wardrobe choice had been rather specifically chosen. Elegant ladies weren’t murderers, everyone knew that.
“Tell me the events of last Friday evening.” He said into my silence.
“I had a show at the Carlton Theater as you know, Officer.”
“Perhaps you could be more specific.”
“I took a cab to the theater at around 5 O’clock, arrived in my dressing room and had my dinner served to me there. I ate dinner alone and then I got my hair and makeup done and warmed up my voice. The curtain went up at 7:00. I sang until the show ended at around 9:00, then, well you know what happened next.”
“Yes, I do. You left the stage and found…” He looked down at his paper to read a name—“ Fred Kinsley, stabbed to death in your dressing room.” My heart skipped a beat at Kinsley’s name, but I remained calm.
“Yes.”
“Did you have relations with the Kinsley before?”
“We had been acquainted at a few various and sundry society galas, but that was the extent of it.
“Really? I find that very interesting. It seems that Mr. Kinsley’s sister was under the impression that you had known him quite well.”
“Oh?” I say raising one eyebrow in an attempt to seem coy, but the question coming out more faintly then I had planned. Officer Beaumont now seemed to be in his element.
“Mr. Kinsley and I were…old friends.” I manage.
“Friends?”
“Yes.”
“Purely platonic?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Isn’t one’s first love platonic enough?” I soon as I said it I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I hurried to recover. “I knew Fred Kinsley when I was very young, before I began my life on the stage. We had grown up together. But when I left home to come to the city we lost touch. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him dead in my dressing room after all these years. I’m still recovering from the trauma of it.” I bring a tear to my eye and let it sit there. I knew that I looked the epitome of stifled misery.
“And your fiancé, Mr. Duke Harvington of Harvington Banking, he knew of this Fred Kinsley?” The question took me by surprise. I thought nothing surprised me.
“Of course not. Why would he? They’re from two separate worlds.”
“Yes, two separate worlds. The world of being in love with Mary Winstead and the world of being in love with Natasha Velonsky.” The Officer says calmly. I cock my head to one side.
“I’m sorry…Mary Winsted?”
“You’re not familiar with the name?” I don’t answer, calculating in my head. “Are you familiar with that name, Miss Velonsky?” The Officer repeated the question in earnest. I open my mouth to speak, but no answer came out. “I would have thought that you wouldn’t have forgotten your original name, ma’am.” The officer says quietly.
“Mary Winsted doesn’t make a very good stage name.” I finally say. I can feel my walls of calm breaking down around me and I know it is time for drastic measures. “Would you like a glass of wine, Officer Beaumont? All this chatting has gotten me simply parched.” I don’t wait for his reply and instead I get up and pour two glasses. He stands also, taking a glass from me and we both sip. I place my hand gently on his chest.
“I can’t help but admire you, Officer. I’ve never been so intimidated in my life.” I smile slightly.
“Call it a gift.” His soft voice mimics mine and I know I am winning. Men are so predictable. I lean closer to him so that I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. And suddenly we are kissing, kissing passionately as my head does a victory dance until suddenly I feel something cold and metal on my wrist. I look down and see a handcuff covering it and for a moment am confused at how it got there. But then I see that Officer Beaumont has pulled out a piece of wrinkled paper from his coat pocket.
“I have here a marriage license for Fred Kinsley and Mary Winsted.” I stare at it in amazement. “It’s quite curious to me, Miss Winsted that you would agree to marry Duke Harvington when you’re already married. Though I supposed if Mr. Kinsley were to suddenly die, you would be a widow and free to do as you please and go marry your millionaire, nice and tidy with no scandal of divorce.” Our faces are still inches apart.
“I...” I let my voice travel off, my lip trembling.
“So perhaps Mr. Kinsley showed up in your dressing room during intermission last Friday to remind you of your union, and things got a bit heated?”
“Mary Winsted and Natasha Velonsky are two different people.”
“Not in the eye of the law. You over pampered starlets are all the same. You commit a crime, and expect seduction is going to get you what you want, just like everywhere else in your over privileged lives? You make me…” But he is cut off suddenly as he gasps and falls to the ground, blood trickling down his back. He looks at me in shock as he lay there, dying on the ground.
“You should really make sure your knife is more neatly stowed away before embracing a woman, Beaumont. The outer pocket? Really? And now I’ll have to get the carpet cleaned.” As I spoke those last words I saw the life flicker from him and he was dead. I pick up the marriage document, now dripping with blood and threw it into the fire, before commencing theatrical screams, “Help! Murder! Murder in my Apartment! Help!”
Monday, March 23, 2009
Writing Assignment 6 Draft 1
“Officer, welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.” I say as I open my door to Officer Beaumont. He walks in and looks uncomfortable. Against the lushness of my furnishings—the rich colored wallpaper and velvety carpets imported from Paris, he looks rough and out of place.
“Hello Miss Velonsky.” He says, half raising his hand as if to shake mine, but then seeming to think better of the motion dropping his hand to his side. I manage to hide a smile by turning my back to lead him into the parlor…I was used to this flustered appearance upon meeting me.
“As you know I have a few questions Miss Velonsky.” He says as he takes a seat on the silk armchair.
“Natasha, please.” I smile graciously, perching on the chaise lounge. He repositions himself, taking out a pad of paper and pen, tapping the pen against the paper. Hopefully we could get this interrogation over with quickly.
“That is a very fancy dress.” Officer Beaumont points out rather simple-mindedly. I look down innocently at the silk ball gown that I had slipped on moments before he arrived and shrugged my shoulders. In truth my wardrobe choice had been rather specifically chosen. Elegant ladies weren’t murderers, everyone knew that.
“Tell me the events of last Friday evening.” He said into my silence.
“I had a show at the Carlton Theater as you know, Officer.”
“Perhaps you could be more specific.”
“I took a cab to the theater at around 5 O’clock, arrived in my dressing room and had my dinner served to me there. I ate alone that night because I was going out to a party with the friends anyways after my performance. I did my usual pre-show rituals—costuming, putting on makeup, hair, warming up my voice,. Then the curtain went up at 7:00. I sang until the show ended at around 9:00, then, well you know what happened next.”
“Yes, I do. You left the stage and found…” He looked down at his paper to read a name—“ Fred Kinsley, stabbed to death in your dressing room.” My heart skipped a beat at Kinsley’s name, but I remained calm.
“Yes.”
“Did you have relations with the Kinsley before?”
“We had been acquainted at a few various and sundry society galas, but that was the extent of it.
“Really? I find that very interesting. It seems that Mr. Kinsley’s sister was under the impression that you had known him quite well.”
“Oh?” I say raising one eyebrow in an attempt to seem coy, but the question coming out more faintly then I had planned. Officer Beaumont now seemed to be in his element.
“Mr. Kinsley and I were…old friends.” I manage.
“Friends?”
“Yes.”
“Purely platonic?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Isn’t one’s first love platonic enough?” I soon as I said it I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I hurried to recover. “I knew Fred Kinsley when I was very young, before I began my life on the stage. We had grown up together. But when I left home to come to the city we lost touch. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him dead in my dressing room after all these years. I’m still recovering from the trauma of it.” I bring a tear to my eye and let it sit there. I knew that I looked the epitome of stifled misery.
“And your fiancé, Mr. Duke Harvington of Harvington Banking, he knew of this Fred Kinsley?” The question took me by surprise. I thought nothing surprised me.
“Of course not. Why would he? They’re from two separate worlds.”
“Yes, two separate worlds. The world of being in love with Mary Winsted and the world of being in love with Natasha Velonsky.” The Officer says calmly. I cock my head to one side.
“I’m sorry…Mary Winstead?”
“You’re not familiar with the name?” I don’t answer, calculating in my head. “Are you familiar with that name, Miss Velonsky?” The Officer repeated the question in earnest. I open my mouth to speak, but no answer came out. “I would have thought that you wouldn’t have forgotten your original name, ma’am.” The officer says quietly.
“Mary Winsted doesn’t make a very good stage name.” I finally say. I can feel my walls of calm breaking down around me and I know it is time for drastic measures. “Would you like a glass of wine, Officer Beaumont? All this chatting has gotten me simply parched.” I don’t wait for his reply and instead I get up and pour two glasses. He stands also, taking a glass from me and we both sip. I place my hand gently on his chest.
“I can’t help but admire you, Officer. I’ve never been so intimidated in my life.” I smile slightly.
“Call it a gift.” His soft voice mimics mine and I know I am winning. Men are so predictable. I lean closer to him so that I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. And suddenly we are kissing, kissing passionately as my head does a victory dance until suddenly I feel something cold and metal on my wrist. I look down and see a handcuff covering it and for a moment am confused at how it got there. But then I see that Officer Beaumont has pulled out a piece of wrinkled paper from his coat pocket.
“I have here a marriage license for Fred Kinsley and Mary Winsted.” I stare at it in amazement. “It’s quite curious to me, Miss Winsted that you would agree to marry Duke Harvington when you’re already married. Though I supposed if Mr. Kinsley were to suddenly die, you would be a widow and free to do as you please and go marry your millionaire, nice and tidy with no scandal of divorce.” Our faces are still inches apart.
“I’ve never been afraid of scandal. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“So perhaps Mr. Kinsley showed up in your dressing room during intermission last Friday to remind you of your union, and things got a bit heated?”
“Mary Winsted and Natasha Velonsky are two different people.”
“Not in the eye of the law. You over pampered starlets are all the same. You commit a crime, and expect seduction is going to get you what you want, just like everywhere else in your over privileged lives? You make me…” But he is cut off suddenly as he gasps and falls to the ground, blood trickling down his back. He looks at me in shock as he lay there, dying on the ground.
“You should really make sure your knife is more neatly stowed away before embracing a woman, Beaumont. The outer pocket? Really? And now I’ll have to get the carpet cleaned.” As I spoke those last words I saw the life flicker from him and he was dead. I pick up the marriage document, now dripping with blood and threw it into the fire, before commencing theatrical screams, “Help! Murder! Murder in my Apartment! Help!”
“Hello Miss Velonsky.” He says, half raising his hand as if to shake mine, but then seeming to think better of the motion dropping his hand to his side. I manage to hide a smile by turning my back to lead him into the parlor…I was used to this flustered appearance upon meeting me.
“As you know I have a few questions Miss Velonsky.” He says as he takes a seat on the silk armchair.
“Natasha, please.” I smile graciously, perching on the chaise lounge. He repositions himself, taking out a pad of paper and pen, tapping the pen against the paper. Hopefully we could get this interrogation over with quickly.
“That is a very fancy dress.” Officer Beaumont points out rather simple-mindedly. I look down innocently at the silk ball gown that I had slipped on moments before he arrived and shrugged my shoulders. In truth my wardrobe choice had been rather specifically chosen. Elegant ladies weren’t murderers, everyone knew that.
“Tell me the events of last Friday evening.” He said into my silence.
“I had a show at the Carlton Theater as you know, Officer.”
“Perhaps you could be more specific.”
“I took a cab to the theater at around 5 O’clock, arrived in my dressing room and had my dinner served to me there. I ate alone that night because I was going out to a party with the friends anyways after my performance. I did my usual pre-show rituals—costuming, putting on makeup, hair, warming up my voice,. Then the curtain went up at 7:00. I sang until the show ended at around 9:00, then, well you know what happened next.”
“Yes, I do. You left the stage and found…” He looked down at his paper to read a name—“ Fred Kinsley, stabbed to death in your dressing room.” My heart skipped a beat at Kinsley’s name, but I remained calm.
“Yes.”
“Did you have relations with the Kinsley before?”
“We had been acquainted at a few various and sundry society galas, but that was the extent of it.
“Really? I find that very interesting. It seems that Mr. Kinsley’s sister was under the impression that you had known him quite well.”
“Oh?” I say raising one eyebrow in an attempt to seem coy, but the question coming out more faintly then I had planned. Officer Beaumont now seemed to be in his element.
“Mr. Kinsley and I were…old friends.” I manage.
“Friends?”
“Yes.”
“Purely platonic?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Isn’t one’s first love platonic enough?” I soon as I said it I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I hurried to recover. “I knew Fred Kinsley when I was very young, before I began my life on the stage. We had grown up together. But when I left home to come to the city we lost touch. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him dead in my dressing room after all these years. I’m still recovering from the trauma of it.” I bring a tear to my eye and let it sit there. I knew that I looked the epitome of stifled misery.
“And your fiancé, Mr. Duke Harvington of Harvington Banking, he knew of this Fred Kinsley?” The question took me by surprise. I thought nothing surprised me.
“Of course not. Why would he? They’re from two separate worlds.”
“Yes, two separate worlds. The world of being in love with Mary Winsted and the world of being in love with Natasha Velonsky.” The Officer says calmly. I cock my head to one side.
“I’m sorry…Mary Winstead?”
“You’re not familiar with the name?” I don’t answer, calculating in my head. “Are you familiar with that name, Miss Velonsky?” The Officer repeated the question in earnest. I open my mouth to speak, but no answer came out. “I would have thought that you wouldn’t have forgotten your original name, ma’am.” The officer says quietly.
“Mary Winsted doesn’t make a very good stage name.” I finally say. I can feel my walls of calm breaking down around me and I know it is time for drastic measures. “Would you like a glass of wine, Officer Beaumont? All this chatting has gotten me simply parched.” I don’t wait for his reply and instead I get up and pour two glasses. He stands also, taking a glass from me and we both sip. I place my hand gently on his chest.
“I can’t help but admire you, Officer. I’ve never been so intimidated in my life.” I smile slightly.
“Call it a gift.” His soft voice mimics mine and I know I am winning. Men are so predictable. I lean closer to him so that I can feel the heat of his breath on my face. And suddenly we are kissing, kissing passionately as my head does a victory dance until suddenly I feel something cold and metal on my wrist. I look down and see a handcuff covering it and for a moment am confused at how it got there. But then I see that Officer Beaumont has pulled out a piece of wrinkled paper from his coat pocket.
“I have here a marriage license for Fred Kinsley and Mary Winsted.” I stare at it in amazement. “It’s quite curious to me, Miss Winsted that you would agree to marry Duke Harvington when you’re already married. Though I supposed if Mr. Kinsley were to suddenly die, you would be a widow and free to do as you please and go marry your millionaire, nice and tidy with no scandal of divorce.” Our faces are still inches apart.
“I’ve never been afraid of scandal. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“So perhaps Mr. Kinsley showed up in your dressing room during intermission last Friday to remind you of your union, and things got a bit heated?”
“Mary Winsted and Natasha Velonsky are two different people.”
“Not in the eye of the law. You over pampered starlets are all the same. You commit a crime, and expect seduction is going to get you what you want, just like everywhere else in your over privileged lives? You make me…” But he is cut off suddenly as he gasps and falls to the ground, blood trickling down his back. He looks at me in shock as he lay there, dying on the ground.
“You should really make sure your knife is more neatly stowed away before embracing a woman, Beaumont. The outer pocket? Really? And now I’ll have to get the carpet cleaned.” As I spoke those last words I saw the life flicker from him and he was dead. I pick up the marriage document, now dripping with blood and threw it into the fire, before commencing theatrical screams, “Help! Murder! Murder in my Apartment! Help!”
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Writing Assignment 5 Final Draft
A bright, sunny summer’s day. The kind of day where the sun is beating down just enough so that one is relieved to get indoors. In city hall that day, the escape indoors did little for the four people in a stuffy room at the end of the hall on the third floor. The ancient air conditioning unit chugged on hopefully, but to no avail. A bead of perspiration formed on the judge’s upper lip as she rapped her podium with her pen impatiently.
“…Speak now or forever hold you peace.” She raised her eyebrows at a bored looking secretary standing idly diagonally behind the engaged couple. The secretary furrows her brow as if to say, “How would I know?” but then gives a shake of her head indicating that she had no objections to the union. She then glanced at her watch anxiously. For the secretary, this was the worst part of her job. It wasn’t even supposed to be her job. But when naïve young couples like the present Sarah Howard and Steven Johnson come into city hall to get married, not knowing that they needed a witness, the secretary often stepped in, much to her discomfort.
The secretary studies the young couple with interest. She normally saw two kinds of wedding at city hall. There’s the shotgun, someone’s a little too pregnant for the big white dress church ceremony wedding, and then there’s the couple with a head over heels (normally trying too hard) bride and a groom who is obviously gritting his teeth at the very idea of marriage…but doesn’t want to lose her or whatever his reason may be. For some reason, this couple didn’t seem to fit into this mold. They seem so normal. She continued to wonder why Sarah Howard and Steven Johnson would go for a wedding ceremony with the same amount of charm as a trip to the DMV.
In truth, city hall had never been Sarah or Steven’s idea of a dream wedding. Far from it, in fact. The real reason for the impromptu ceremony actually goes back about four generations into Sarah Howard’s family. The story goes that her Great, great, great grandfather Howard was engaged to marry this girl when, ten minutes before the ceremony, his best friend informed him that he had, ahem, already deflowered the beloved bride. Many a time. Sarah’s great, great, great grandfather (who always had quite the temper) waited until right before he was supposed to say “I do” and instead of vowing to bind himself to his bride forever, he pulled out a knife and stabbed her in the heart multiple times. It was really quite the scandal.
One might ask what this has to do with Sarah and Steven. It seems that, ever since this fateful tragedy, a curse has been set on Sarah’s family, so that at every wedding the Howard family hosts, a family member suffers an untimely death. One might say this is only silly superstition, but the previous year Sarah’s brother regarded the story as such and right during the vows their Uncle Ernie was stung by a bee and died of an unknown bee allergy. So, Sarah and Steven weren’t willing to take any risks.
They are more then content as they say their “I do’s” in front of complete strangers, knowing that no family members were at risk because of their union. After the ceremony, the secretary’s curiosity gets the better of her, and she blurts out to the couple:
“Why are you getting married in city hall?” The couple exchanges a look, slightly taken aback. Steven proceeds to shrug his shoulders, knowing that Sarah did not want to get into her family history.
“Stage fright.”
“…Speak now or forever hold you peace.” She raised her eyebrows at a bored looking secretary standing idly diagonally behind the engaged couple. The secretary furrows her brow as if to say, “How would I know?” but then gives a shake of her head indicating that she had no objections to the union. She then glanced at her watch anxiously. For the secretary, this was the worst part of her job. It wasn’t even supposed to be her job. But when naïve young couples like the present Sarah Howard and Steven Johnson come into city hall to get married, not knowing that they needed a witness, the secretary often stepped in, much to her discomfort.
The secretary studies the young couple with interest. She normally saw two kinds of wedding at city hall. There’s the shotgun, someone’s a little too pregnant for the big white dress church ceremony wedding, and then there’s the couple with a head over heels (normally trying too hard) bride and a groom who is obviously gritting his teeth at the very idea of marriage…but doesn’t want to lose her or whatever his reason may be. For some reason, this couple didn’t seem to fit into this mold. They seem so normal. She continued to wonder why Sarah Howard and Steven Johnson would go for a wedding ceremony with the same amount of charm as a trip to the DMV.
In truth, city hall had never been Sarah or Steven’s idea of a dream wedding. Far from it, in fact. The real reason for the impromptu ceremony actually goes back about four generations into Sarah Howard’s family. The story goes that her Great, great, great grandfather Howard was engaged to marry this girl when, ten minutes before the ceremony, his best friend informed him that he had, ahem, already deflowered the beloved bride. Many a time. Sarah’s great, great, great grandfather (who always had quite the temper) waited until right before he was supposed to say “I do” and instead of vowing to bind himself to his bride forever, he pulled out a knife and stabbed her in the heart multiple times. It was really quite the scandal.
One might ask what this has to do with Sarah and Steven. It seems that, ever since this fateful tragedy, a curse has been set on Sarah’s family, so that at every wedding the Howard family hosts, a family member suffers an untimely death. One might say this is only silly superstition, but the previous year Sarah’s brother regarded the story as such and right during the vows their Uncle Ernie was stung by a bee and died of an unknown bee allergy. So, Sarah and Steven weren’t willing to take any risks.
They are more then content as they say their “I do’s” in front of complete strangers, knowing that no family members were at risk because of their union. After the ceremony, the secretary’s curiosity gets the better of her, and she blurts out to the couple:
“Why are you getting married in city hall?” The couple exchanges a look, slightly taken aback. Steven proceeds to shrug his shoulders, knowing that Sarah did not want to get into her family history.
“Stage fright.”
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Writing Assignment 5 Draft 2
“Here, you just need to fill out this paperwork here, and do you have a witness?” The secretary sitting behind the desk asks us as if she already knows the answer to her own question. I look over at Steven who looks more surprised then I am. I had an inkling that we would run into this problem.
“Could you possibly step in? We really don’t have time to go find someone.” I ask eagerly. The secretary sighs and nods, filling out the witness line on the clipboard. A stab of guilt pierces my stomach, but hey, maybe the curse didn’t work on strangers. Hopefully.
City hall had never exactly been my dream wedding. Far from it, in fact. But Steven was my dream husband, and I wanted out marriage to be perfect…so I knew he’d understand. His family, on the other hand…
It’s just this…curse. Well, that’s what we call it—the Howard family wedding curse. It all started with my great, great, great grandfather Howard. The story goes that he was engaged to marry this girl when, ten minutes before the ceremony, his best friend informed him that he had, ahem, already deflowered his beloved bride. Many a time. This was back in the day before that kind of thing was less unheard of. Well, my great, great, great grandfather (who always had quite the temper apparently) waited until right before he was supposed to say “I do” and instead of vowing to bind himself to her forever, he pulled out a knife and stabbed her in the heart multiple times. It was really quite the scandal.
What does this have to do with me you may ask? Well, ever since this horrible tragedy happened at almost every single wedding the Howard family hosts a family member dies. I’m not kidding, my great grandfather’s unfaithful fiancée must have risen from the dead to curse the weddings of the Howard’s forever. Last year, my brother disregarded the curse as a bunch of bologna and just as he’s saying his vows a bee stung my Uncle Ernie and, it turning out that he’s deathly allergic of bees, he died on the spot.
So I’m not willing to take any risks, and Steven, being the saint that he is, agrees to go along with it. And of course my family isn’t complaining since no one wants to be next.
So city hall works for me. Sure, the ceremony is charmless, but at least there are no tragic deaths. As we are leaving the room as man and wife I notice for the first time that the secretary is looking at us rather awkwardly. I raise my eyebrows questioningly.
“Why are you getting married in city hall?” She blurts out. An odd question, I thought. I find myself not knowing what to say, not wanting to get into the Howard family history. As usual, Steven sweeps in and saves the day.
“Stage fright.” He says, shrugging his shoulders. He really is the perfect man.
“Could you possibly step in? We really don’t have time to go find someone.” I ask eagerly. The secretary sighs and nods, filling out the witness line on the clipboard. A stab of guilt pierces my stomach, but hey, maybe the curse didn’t work on strangers. Hopefully.
City hall had never exactly been my dream wedding. Far from it, in fact. But Steven was my dream husband, and I wanted out marriage to be perfect…so I knew he’d understand. His family, on the other hand…
It’s just this…curse. Well, that’s what we call it—the Howard family wedding curse. It all started with my great, great, great grandfather Howard. The story goes that he was engaged to marry this girl when, ten minutes before the ceremony, his best friend informed him that he had, ahem, already deflowered his beloved bride. Many a time. This was back in the day before that kind of thing was less unheard of. Well, my great, great, great grandfather (who always had quite the temper apparently) waited until right before he was supposed to say “I do” and instead of vowing to bind himself to her forever, he pulled out a knife and stabbed her in the heart multiple times. It was really quite the scandal.
What does this have to do with me you may ask? Well, ever since this horrible tragedy happened at almost every single wedding the Howard family hosts a family member dies. I’m not kidding, my great grandfather’s unfaithful fiancée must have risen from the dead to curse the weddings of the Howard’s forever. Last year, my brother disregarded the curse as a bunch of bologna and just as he’s saying his vows a bee stung my Uncle Ernie and, it turning out that he’s deathly allergic of bees, he died on the spot.
So I’m not willing to take any risks, and Steven, being the saint that he is, agrees to go along with it. And of course my family isn’t complaining since no one wants to be next.
So city hall works for me. Sure, the ceremony is charmless, but at least there are no tragic deaths. As we are leaving the room as man and wife I notice for the first time that the secretary is looking at us rather awkwardly. I raise my eyebrows questioningly.
“Why are you getting married in city hall?” She blurts out. An odd question, I thought. I find myself not knowing what to say, not wanting to get into the Howard family history. As usual, Steven sweeps in and saves the day.
“Stage fright.” He says, shrugging his shoulders. He really is the perfect man.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Writing Assignment 5 Draft 1
It’s gotten really stuffy in the room. I pull at my starched collar a bit, glancing towards to the window air conditioning unit to see if it’s on. Despite the rattling coming from the west window, there doesn’t seem to be any proof that the decrepit thing is actually cooling the ancient room. I glance at my watch quickly. 12:04. Technically, I was supposed to be on my lunch break four minutes ago.
“…Speak now or forever hold your peace.” A pen taps hard against the podium and I snap my head up. Judge Mills is looking at me, eyebrows raised expectedly. I feel myself furrow my brow as if to say “How would I know?” But then shake my head. Honestly, this is the worst part of my job. It’s not even supposed to be my job, but I’ve always been a pushover. So when young naïve couples show up to city hall to get married, not knowing they needed to bring a witness, I always get asked as they fill out the paperwork I hand them. And I, of course, say yes. I mean, who am I to stand in the way of young love, even for the hour it would take to run outside and find another witness?
I’ve been a last minute witness for 77 weddings in my three years of working as a secretary here, and I always feel a little grimy afterwards. I can’t exactly place my finger on it, but whenever I sign my name on the witness line I feel like I lying. How do I know that it’s ethically okay I’m supporting these marriages? I never know if the couple is right for each other, in general I know them for approximately ten minutes prior to the ceremony.
I consider the couple in front of me. Sarah Howard and Steven Johnson. Nice, generic names. Steven Johnson is plain look enough, nondescript sandy brown hair, and similar eyes, medium height…I would guess around 5’ 9”. His bride is pretty much the same, a little shorter, slightly mousy brown hair, pale skin. I’m focusing on the plainness of this couple when I suddenly realize that there’s something very different about them…they’re so…normal.
I generally see two kinds of weddings here at city hall. There’s the shotgun, someone’s a little-too-pregnant for the big white dress church ceremony wedding, and then there’s the couple with a head over heels (normally trying too hard) bride and a groom who is obviously gritting his teeth at the very idea of marriage…but doesn’t want to lose her or whatever his reason may be.
This couple doesn’t seem to fit into either of these stereotypes. I watch them look at each other excitedly, speaking the vows that have echoed in this room thousands of times before, and they actually look happy. Suddenly I am reeling with curiosity. Why would this normal, relatively happy couple opt for this ceremony that has as much charm as a visit to the DMV? I know it’s probably rude, but after the vows and they are walking out the door, I blurt it out.
“Why are you getting married in city hall?” The couple stops and looks at me, calculatingly. The guy shrugs his shoulders.
“Stage fright.” I nod and let them leave the room. I think it really is time to get a new job. All this speculating is exhausting me.
“…Speak now or forever hold your peace.” A pen taps hard against the podium and I snap my head up. Judge Mills is looking at me, eyebrows raised expectedly. I feel myself furrow my brow as if to say “How would I know?” But then shake my head. Honestly, this is the worst part of my job. It’s not even supposed to be my job, but I’ve always been a pushover. So when young naïve couples show up to city hall to get married, not knowing they needed to bring a witness, I always get asked as they fill out the paperwork I hand them. And I, of course, say yes. I mean, who am I to stand in the way of young love, even for the hour it would take to run outside and find another witness?
I’ve been a last minute witness for 77 weddings in my three years of working as a secretary here, and I always feel a little grimy afterwards. I can’t exactly place my finger on it, but whenever I sign my name on the witness line I feel like I lying. How do I know that it’s ethically okay I’m supporting these marriages? I never know if the couple is right for each other, in general I know them for approximately ten minutes prior to the ceremony.
I consider the couple in front of me. Sarah Howard and Steven Johnson. Nice, generic names. Steven Johnson is plain look enough, nondescript sandy brown hair, and similar eyes, medium height…I would guess around 5’ 9”. His bride is pretty much the same, a little shorter, slightly mousy brown hair, pale skin. I’m focusing on the plainness of this couple when I suddenly realize that there’s something very different about them…they’re so…normal.
I generally see two kinds of weddings here at city hall. There’s the shotgun, someone’s a little-too-pregnant for the big white dress church ceremony wedding, and then there’s the couple with a head over heels (normally trying too hard) bride and a groom who is obviously gritting his teeth at the very idea of marriage…but doesn’t want to lose her or whatever his reason may be.
This couple doesn’t seem to fit into either of these stereotypes. I watch them look at each other excitedly, speaking the vows that have echoed in this room thousands of times before, and they actually look happy. Suddenly I am reeling with curiosity. Why would this normal, relatively happy couple opt for this ceremony that has as much charm as a visit to the DMV? I know it’s probably rude, but after the vows and they are walking out the door, I blurt it out.
“Why are you getting married in city hall?” The couple stops and looks at me, calculatingly. The guy shrugs his shoulders.
“Stage fright.” I nod and let them leave the room. I think it really is time to get a new job. All this speculating is exhausting me.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Writing Assignment 4 Draft 2
Dear Mr. President Obama,
Congratulations on your win! I am so thrilled you are our new president, I have so much faith in what you can do for our country. I truly admire your bravery in taking on the job of putting pieces of our country back together after the catastrophe of the Bush administration.
Among the many issues that you are now faced with, I think that the issue of proper sex-education in schools and pro-choice laws in the United States is particularly pressing. The conservative rules and policies passed during the Bush administration, while most likely well meant, are impractical, unfair, and in most cases are the effects of personal opinions that grossly defy laws regarding church and state.
I think it is extremely important for proper sex education to be an nationwide program. Abstinence based sex-ed programs are not only impractical in our current society, but also harmful to teenagers. Teaching teenagers about prevention is not a way to encourage them to have sex, but a way to keep them safe so that the issue of abortion is barely an issue at all. Did you know that states that have abstinence based sex-ed programs on average have a higher rate of teen pregnancies then states that do not? Those statistics speak for themselves. By making proper sex education programs a federal policy, these statistics can change.
On the matter of abortion, I understand why people have problems with it morally. I myself am not 100% sure I am comfortable with the ethics of it. But that doesn't change the fact that it is still a woman's personal choice whether or not to have an abortion, not the choice of the government. By making abortion illegal, there will be a messy domino effect of the abandonment of unwanted children, leading to an overflow in the foster care program, and eventually resulting in a generation of very messed up kids. People not ready or willing to be parents will still not be ready or willing whether or not they have the baby or not.
Your quote "I've got two daughters. 9 years old and 6 years old. I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don't want them punished with a baby." caused an uproar of complaints among the anti-choice crowds, who argued that a baby is not a punishment. Well Mr President, I couldn't agree with you more. To most inexperienced teenage girls, a child is in every way a punishment, physically, financially, and mentally. Unfortunately accidents are a part of life and will always continue to be so. So while abortion is not necessarily the answer in most cases, it is an option that should remain open to women, and hopefully, in time it will not have to be an option because people will be aware of and able to access proper prevention for unwanted pregnancies.
While I know your policies agree with most of what I am saying, I hope that you are able to convince people who oppose pro-choice and proper sex education legislation. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I know that you above anyone have the ability to help our nation.
Your faithful citizen,
Rebecca Edwards
Congratulations on your win! I am so thrilled you are our new president, I have so much faith in what you can do for our country. I truly admire your bravery in taking on the job of putting pieces of our country back together after the catastrophe of the Bush administration.
Among the many issues that you are now faced with, I think that the issue of proper sex-education in schools and pro-choice laws in the United States is particularly pressing. The conservative rules and policies passed during the Bush administration, while most likely well meant, are impractical, unfair, and in most cases are the effects of personal opinions that grossly defy laws regarding church and state.
I think it is extremely important for proper sex education to be an nationwide program. Abstinence based sex-ed programs are not only impractical in our current society, but also harmful to teenagers. Teaching teenagers about prevention is not a way to encourage them to have sex, but a way to keep them safe so that the issue of abortion is barely an issue at all. Did you know that states that have abstinence based sex-ed programs on average have a higher rate of teen pregnancies then states that do not? Those statistics speak for themselves. By making proper sex education programs a federal policy, these statistics can change.
On the matter of abortion, I understand why people have problems with it morally. I myself am not 100% sure I am comfortable with the ethics of it. But that doesn't change the fact that it is still a woman's personal choice whether or not to have an abortion, not the choice of the government. By making abortion illegal, there will be a messy domino effect of the abandonment of unwanted children, leading to an overflow in the foster care program, and eventually resulting in a generation of very messed up kids. People not ready or willing to be parents will still not be ready or willing whether or not they have the baby or not.
Your quote "I've got two daughters. 9 years old and 6 years old. I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don't want them punished with a baby." caused an uproar of complaints among the anti-choice crowds, who argued that a baby is not a punishment. Well Mr President, I couldn't agree with you more. To most inexperienced teenage girls, a child is in every way a punishment, physically, financially, and mentally. Unfortunately accidents are a part of life and will always continue to be so. So while abortion is not necessarily the answer in most cases, it is an option that should remain open to women, and hopefully, in time it will not have to be an option because people will be aware of and able to access proper prevention for unwanted pregnancies.
While I know your policies agree with most of what I am saying, I hope that you are able to convince people who oppose pro-choice and proper sex education legislation. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I know that you above anyone have the ability to help our nation.
Your faithful citizen,
Rebecca Edwards
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Writing Assignment 4 Draft 1
Dear Mr. President Barack Obama,
Congratulations on your win! I am so thrilled you are our new president, I have so much faith in what you can do for our country. I truly admire your bravery in taking on putting the pieces of our country back together after the catastrophe of the Bush administration.
Among the many issues that you are now faced with, I think that the issue of proper sex-education in schools and pro-choice laws in the United States is particularly pressing. The conservative rules and policies passed during the Bush administration, while most likely well meant, are impractical, unfair, and in most cases are the effects of personal opinions that grossly defy laws regarding church and state.
I think it is extremely important for proper sex education to be an nationwide program. Abstinence based sex-ed programs are not only impractical in our current society, but also harmful to teenagers. Teaching teenagers about prevention is not a way to encourage them to have sex, but a way to keep them safe so that the issue of abortion is barely an issue at all. Did you know that states that have abstinence based sex-ed programs on average have a higher rate of teen pregnancies then states that do not? Those statistics speak for themselves. By making proper sex education programs a federal policy, these statistics can change.
On the matter of abortion, I understand why people have problems with it morally. I myself am not 100% sure I am comfortable with the ethics of it. But that doesn't change the fact that it is still a woman's personal choice whether or not to have an abortion, not the choice of the government. By making abortion illegal, it will be a messy domino effect of abandonment of children, an overflow in the foster care program, and eventually a generation of very messed up kids. People not ready or willing to be parents will still not be ready or willing whether or not they have the baby or not.
Your quote "I've got two daughters. 9 years old and 6 years old. I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don't want them punished with a baby." caused an uproar of complaints among the anti-choice crowds, who argued that a baby is not a punishment. Well Mr President, I couldn't agree with you more. To most inexperienced teenage girls, a child is in every way a punishment, physically, financially, and mentally. Unfortunately accidents are a part of life and will always continue to be so. So while abortion is not necessarily the answer in most cases, it is an option that should remain open to women, and hopefully, in time it will not have to be an option because people will be aware of and able to access proper prevention for unwanted pregnancies.
While I know your policies agree with most of what I am saying, I hope that you are able to convince people who oppose pro-choice and proper sex education legislation. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I know that you above anyone have the ability to help our nation.
Your faithful citizen,
Rebecca Edwards
Congratulations on your win! I am so thrilled you are our new president, I have so much faith in what you can do for our country. I truly admire your bravery in taking on putting the pieces of our country back together after the catastrophe of the Bush administration.
Among the many issues that you are now faced with, I think that the issue of proper sex-education in schools and pro-choice laws in the United States is particularly pressing. The conservative rules and policies passed during the Bush administration, while most likely well meant, are impractical, unfair, and in most cases are the effects of personal opinions that grossly defy laws regarding church and state.
I think it is extremely important for proper sex education to be an nationwide program. Abstinence based sex-ed programs are not only impractical in our current society, but also harmful to teenagers. Teaching teenagers about prevention is not a way to encourage them to have sex, but a way to keep them safe so that the issue of abortion is barely an issue at all. Did you know that states that have abstinence based sex-ed programs on average have a higher rate of teen pregnancies then states that do not? Those statistics speak for themselves. By making proper sex education programs a federal policy, these statistics can change.
On the matter of abortion, I understand why people have problems with it morally. I myself am not 100% sure I am comfortable with the ethics of it. But that doesn't change the fact that it is still a woman's personal choice whether or not to have an abortion, not the choice of the government. By making abortion illegal, it will be a messy domino effect of abandonment of children, an overflow in the foster care program, and eventually a generation of very messed up kids. People not ready or willing to be parents will still not be ready or willing whether or not they have the baby or not.
Your quote "I've got two daughters. 9 years old and 6 years old. I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don't want them punished with a baby." caused an uproar of complaints among the anti-choice crowds, who argued that a baby is not a punishment. Well Mr President, I couldn't agree with you more. To most inexperienced teenage girls, a child is in every way a punishment, physically, financially, and mentally. Unfortunately accidents are a part of life and will always continue to be so. So while abortion is not necessarily the answer in most cases, it is an option that should remain open to women, and hopefully, in time it will not have to be an option because people will be aware of and able to access proper prevention for unwanted pregnancies.
While I know your policies agree with most of what I am saying, I hope that you are able to convince people who oppose pro-choice and proper sex education legislation. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I know that you above anyone have the ability to help our nation.
Your faithful citizen,
Rebecca Edwards
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Writing Assignment 3 Draft 2
Come and take a step back with me—
And view this cycle objectively.
Do you see this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel that ring of familiarity?
Or perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of humiliation.
Could it be that these menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
And view this cycle objectively.
Do you see this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel that ring of familiarity?
Or perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of humiliation.
Could it be that these menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Writing Assignment 3 Draft 1
Take a step back with me—
And view this cycle objectively.
See this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel a ring of familiarity?
No?
Perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of desperation and humiliation.
Could it be that the menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
Think with me, just for a moment now.
What a novel idea!
That the sparing of one’s feelings now—
Could lead to the sparing of lives later?
And view this cycle objectively.
See this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel a ring of familiarity?
No?
Perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of desperation and humiliation.
Could it be that the menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
Think with me, just for a moment now.
What a novel idea!
That the sparing of one’s feelings now—
Could lead to the sparing of lives later?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Final Draft
The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The memory of that day slowly drifted into his head. They had been sitting in seats facing each other, and she had been reading a paper, without moving her eyes, aware that he was watching her. When she had finally looked up the delicious self consciousness of that first contact had captured both of them at once, confining them into an eye contact that made words unnecessary. He ran his hand along the metal handrail. It seemed so long ago.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding meeting his eyes. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus shook them along, and she thought about endings. Popular culture tended to tell stories that ended and closed with beginnings; beginnings of journeys, beginnings of lives, beginning of relationships. What are we told about solid, firm endings? She had expected tears, screaming, compromise, but now, in the midst of her very own ending, it was...empty. Just two people consisting of trailed off memories.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding meeting his eyes. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus shook them along, and she thought about endings. Popular culture tended to tell stories that ended and closed with beginnings; beginnings of journeys, beginnings of lives, beginning of relationships. What are we told about solid, firm endings? She had expected tears, screaming, compromise, but now, in the midst of her very own ending, it was...empty. Just two people consisting of trailed off memories.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Draft 2
The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The memory of that day slowly drifted into his head. They had been sitting in seats facing each other, and she had been reading a paper, without moving her eyes, aware that he was watching her. When she had finally looked up the delicious self consciousness of that first contact had captured both of them at once, confining them into an eye contact that made words unnecessary. It seemed so long ago.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Draft 1
The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone on the bus, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an overlong ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had always gotten from his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact?
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had always gotten from his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact?
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
First Writing Assignment Final Draft
Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence. Tears. Wringing of hands. I hate crying. Place mat. Table. Dad. Mom. Brother. Lord, did I mention I hate crying? Or that I hate it when other people cry?
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I usually do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another disappointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. For making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go where ever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting just that.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, and my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I realize now that the hatred I had felt towards my brother wasn't necessarily hatred for him as a person, but rather hatred of what he had become. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice, because whether or not one of us is "better" then the other, we are still defining parts of each other's personalities and lives.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I usually do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another disappointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. For making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go where ever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting just that.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, and my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I realize now that the hatred I had felt towards my brother wasn't necessarily hatred for him as a person, but rather hatred of what he had become. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice, because whether or not one of us is "better" then the other, we are still defining parts of each other's personalities and lives.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
First Writing Assignment Draft 2
Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence. Tears. Wringing of hands. I hate crying. Place mat. Table. Dad. Mom. Brother. Lord, did I mention I hate crying? Or that I hate it when other people cry?I don't really even know why. I never have been comfortable with it. I don't know if it's related to something in my childhood or if it's just because it doesn't happen in my household very often.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I normally do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another dissapointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. We could spend hours making up ridiculous stories and absolutely dreadful jokes and laughing for ages. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go whereever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting that. Later I guess I would find out how destructive it ended up being for us.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I normally do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another dissapointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. We could spend hours making up ridiculous stories and absolutely dreadful jokes and laughing for ages. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go whereever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting that. Later I guess I would find out how destructive it ended up being for us.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
First Writing Assignment
Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence. Tears. Wringing of hands. I hate crying. Place mat. Table. Dad. Mom. Brother. Lord, did I mention I hate crying. Or that I hate it when other people cry?
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, uses) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. He had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore, I let myself think of as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
It was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, uses) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. He had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore, I let myself think of as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
It was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
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