I looked up. A flash of memories pass through me. I shivered, out of fear. I told you I was cold. I look at you. Blank stare. You don’t remember me. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I looked into your cold lifeless eyes, only to find them missing. Something has changed. “So, Jesse is it? Why would you like to work here.” I say not letting you see that I recognize you.
I am boiling with anger inside. Why did you do that to me? Was it fun, Jesse? Throw the gay kid in the trash. Dump his head in the toilet. Lets make his life hell because he likes guys. I remember one time I wanted to join the football team, I had been training so hard, all month long. I got out on the field ready to go. We got assigned to teams. Then we got into formation, my whole team turned against me. “A gay guy can’t play football.” those were the words you said to me as I was pushed off of the field.
But, I guess I should thank you. For all of my accomplishments. Without you to bring me down every day of high school, I’d never be so determined to get into Law School and start my own firm. I can’t bring myself to say those words to you. I busy myself reading your resume. Scribbling nonsense notes. “I’m gay.” I stop. (pause then looks up) I look at your face, incredulos. You are gay. I don’t trust my ears. I have to repeat the words to myself five times before I can start to believe them. You are gay!
All those years, bullying me because I (points to self) liked men. And all those years you did too. (laughs) I feel bad for you. You hid behind a shield, bullied me so no one would dare to think you too, were gay. Surrounding yourself with girls. No one would have ever thought. Jesse the prom king, the popular guy, the guy who everyone loved...gay? No, no one would have bought that! And why should they? You built a wall, never let anyone see the real you. You created a character so intricately that no one thought to question it.I look into your eyes again, this time I see something familiar. The broken glass, one thats been punched, over and over again. My eyes used to tell the same story. Because of you. In a matter of seconds the broken glass is gone, replaced by a bulletproof glass. “It’s me, Dylan.” I say. I see your eyes change, a different story is being portrayed, your face softens, as a wave of sorry’s flood out your mouth, but I’ve already forgiven you.
Oh god, oh, oh god he’s looking at me.
They’re all looking at me.
Why? All I wore was a t-shirt and jeans. Is it my boobs? Is there too much cleavage?
(looks down at boobs) There’s only a little. What’s the big deal!
Is it my jeans then? My butt?! (Looks at butt) They are somewhat tight…
But so are their clothes! One of them isn’t even wearing a shirt!
(Pause) Oh no they’re starting to shout! They’re starting to shout!
Okay, okay just ignore them and they’ll go away.
Just ignore them and they’ll go away.
Just ignore them and they’ll go…
ARRGGGH! It’s not working! I just want it to stop. This is so humiliating.
Maybe I should say something…
NO! no I can’t do that. What if I start some shit? It could get really out of hand.
I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t (long pause, silence)
(Blurts out) What did I do to deserve this?!
I was just walking on the street and this has to happen. Everyday.
I mean (laughing) Nicki Minaj shakes her fake ass only wearing a thong and she get treated like a goddess!
Is that what they really think of me? You don’t even know me…
I mean, I see hot guys walking down the street all the time (Short pause) well… not all the time, but I don’t shout at them.
In front of everyone!
I know they have hormones, different from women, but that doesn’t mean they have to make me feel…
Don’t get me wrong it’s not all of you. Maybe some of you are trying to be nice!
Beautiful is a compliment!
But there comes a point where I just
Where I just don’t know anymore.
And maybe I should just stopping dressing like a “Slut”
Or walking around at night
Or just alone In general.
Or maybe you need to just stop.
My male boss finally agreed to give me the pay raise I asked for 5 months ago.
I told him how grateful I was for his help in sorting it all out.
He said to me, “If I wasn’t married, I would ask you to show me how grateful you really are,” followed with a small chuckle.
I stared at him.
I couldn’t tell if he was serious.
I wanted to ask him how he could live with himself. How he sexualize his employee like that. Why he thinks that he can say anything to women, like we have to accept every ugly remark that spews out of his mouth. I want to ask about his wife, about his children. I want to tell him that, when men say things like that, it encourages their sons to do the same. And it encourages their daughters to accept it. Like it is something that cannot be changed. An endless cycle where women aren’t to blame. By letting our children to conform to these rules we are only perpetuating a prejudiced system. A system where feminism, is this radical theory that women are actually humans. We teach boys to grow outward. To grow as big as they can. While we teach young girls to grow inward, to make space for their man. Because apparently there isn’t enough space for both of us to shine. Contrary to popular belief, a woman doesn’t need a man to survive. A woman without a man is just as crazy of a notion as a fish without a bicycle. Equality shouldn’t be a concept we hope for our grandchildren to know. It needs to be a necessity. Something that we cannot live without.
I wanted to tell him that women already make 77 cents to the dollar that men make. And that we don’t need his harassment to make up for the lack of zeros on our pay check. And that my co-worker, John, has only been working here for three months - but he has already gotten twice the amount of promotions I have gotten in three years. I want him to feel the fear of going into my male boss’ office, uncertain if my lips will be asked to do things other than give a sales pitch. I want to tell him that I wore my deepest cut business suit to my job interview, because I knew it would it would appeal to him. I cannot wait to see the day where people do not base my intelligence off of my wardrobe.
I want to tell him no. I want to tell him stop. I want to ask him why.But instead of saying any of that, I just smile, and walk away. I try to stop my hips from swaying, because I know he is looking.
I can hear the preschool teachers call their class up to the stage. I’m next. All of the little babies run onto the stage and take their positions. Parents clap and wave to their kids. They waved back, smiling. The teachers quietly got their attention. Then, the music started.
I’ve heard this beautiful song in rehearsal a couple times but that night I couldn’t stand it. Every little note drove me insane. “Calm,” I whispered to myself. My heart was beating so loud I could hear it. I began to go over my dance in my head. My solo. My first ever solo to be exact. that night, I was dancing all alone. It startled me when my dance teacher insisted on it. All throughout rehearsal I was nervous but never as nervous as I was then. This was like torture.
“One, two three, one two three,” I kept repeating in my head, “One, two, three, turn.” “One . . .,two . . ., turn?” Oh no! I forgot! I forgot my dance! I can’t go out there! My heart was beating faster than ever. I couldn't stop sweating and my breathing became faster. “Calm! Be calm! You can’t go out there like this!” I felt like I was having a panic attack. My body wasn't listening to my brain. I snapped out of my head and tune in to what’s happening around me.
The music stopped. “It’s over? I thought it just started! It can’t be done!” My heart was going to explode. I wasnt ready. I started preparing to go onstage when I heard the preschool teacher say, ¨Technical difficulties!” Technical difficulties”, I said to myself. A tiny weight was lifted off my shoulders and I breathed easily for the first time in minutes. But then I remembered the next time the song stopped it would be the end. And then it would be my turn.The nervousness came back. I started questioning myself. “Why did I do this? Why am I up here?” Then I realized how stupid I sounded. I need to do this. I’m tired of being shy and reserved. I’m tired of staying in my little shell and not trying new things. I’m tired of being excluded from activities because they know I won’t participate so they don’t even bother to ask. I have to do this dance. My nervousness was still there but I ignored it. The music ends and I hear clapping and shouting. It’s my turn.
The first class should be coming in right now 8:15 right on time as always never late never off right on time, except for those one are two who sit in the back who seem show up same time every day 9:15 on the dot, Every day come in sit down act like they pay attention then sit and slack off for 10 minutes look up watch me hanging waiting for the arrows to line up in possession so they can run out the door. The same every day with those two fools, from up here I can see it all though I can time every thing I know the exact time that the next group kids will come in when that stupid kid in the back will make some sound that makes the entire class laugh he does it every day 10:15 on the dot. Then teacher ponders 15 minutes go by and another 10 go as she refuses to say another word unless the culprit speaks up, He never does though even though its quite clear who it is not to her thought to me its as clear as the air that you breath, I can see it from up here I can track it all every minute, I can tell you when that the kids is sitting in front of you that makes those noises and that he did same thing 10:30 yesterday but what can a holder a watcher of time do but that watch wait. I have seen I know all the dirty secrets of this place even the one you don't know how the students meet in this room and beat that boy with the glasses and the braces until he his black and blue every day at 3: 30.
Why do they do this I have been asking myself that very question 10 years now since the day the put me up in this god forsaken place, the first time I ever saw those boys gang up on that kid and why because mommy and daddy didn't hug them enough now because they were a bunch of egotistical little thugs who needed be taught a lesson or better yet need be slapped with the belt its not like they are using it to keep up their pants, because if they where then I would not be staring at there starry boxers stupid idiots. That little boy is no better he should stand up for himself standing there taking a betting won't help him much in life. Well it might if he is planning on being the worlds first pain feeling punching bag I can see it now boy dies after one punch well what do I care I have my own problems to deal with for one having watch these stupid teachers that just hook up come in here make out like young kids they always come here 4:00 oh god help me you're not young get over yourselves and get a different room or please cover me up at least. Why do I bother not like they will ever listen just half to pray that my hands move to 4: 30 faster before I lose a bolt, why couldn't I have been a presidential clock learn the dirty secrets of the oval office and the secrets of the man running this country that would have been the dream hang me up next to George Washington painting I bet he has some stories to tell. Unfortunately that is not my fate its to watch kids beat the pulp out of that shrimp at 3:30 watch an idiot teacher stop a classes because of a imbecile who thinks making fart noises is fun. If that did not put the cherry on top of the Sunday I have to watch the generator come in the room at 4: 45 coming in the classroom and set up his weird ritual while he get naked and starts painting himself in white. I have tried saying Idiot that's not how you talk to ghosts that's who you catch a cold but does he listen no like the others, how I wish I could leave the only way I can leave is by praying the backwards school gets shut down oh how I hope until then I will forever be the watcher time keeper and recorder of this monstrous room oh look at that 7:00 already almost time start school better get ready done.
I’m leaning against the blackboard, with my head raised high to symbolize “my cool attitude”. Earlier this morning, rolled up my jeans before school to show off my new Jordans. I even had a new green polo shirt on and I sported my old New York Knicks flat hat backwards. I mean, to be honest, I was looking pretty fly. You know, had to show off the new American fashions for the ladies. I heard they like that fashion stuff down here.
But when she had called me to the front of the class, to introduce me, everything changed. I had walked up slowly, taking my time, with that NYC strut that the cool kids at my old school [strut to front of class]. I had to show them that I wasn’t to be messed with. She talked to me slowly in Italian, but all I heard was “Blah. Blah. Blah. And… blah.” When she finally stopped talking, she looked at me. I looked back. [5 seconds of awkward]. She must be asking a question. The kids had already been giggling quietly, pointing at my outfit. They were just jealous, I told myself. I took an educated guess at her question in my broken and terrible Italian.
“Uh. Oh uh sorry. I mean oh wait. Il mio nome Russell e mi è piaciute il basket.” I told her choppily in Italian. I told her my name was Russell and I like basketball, one of the only phrases I knew in Italian. In America, I had taken Spanish, not Italian. I had done a little studying on a few phrases a couple days ago, but obviously not enough. Why can’t everybody just speak English? The class was now laughing as they heard me speak. One kid even fell out of his chair. Keep your head up high Russ, keep it up. I kept holding my head high, and gave a shrug to the teacher as to say ”whatever”. Yeah, way to play it cool. People laughed even more. But now it felt more like teasing.
[I looked down at my Jordans] I had specifically cleaned these off for the first day of school today. The dirt marks, grass stains; I had taken forty five minutes last night to polish them off. This was supposed to be a new place. A new start. But as I stood in front of this class full of kids laughing at me, I noticed it wasn’t. It was like I was back in America.
My dad came home three weeks before April 1st and said we were moving to Italy. We lived in Manhattan and he worked for the New York Times. He had always wanted to be a field reporter in a different country, and now he was finally getting that opportunity. There was no hesitation. We were packing our bags. Two weeks later, I was in Italy.
I was happy. I had never fit in at my old high school. I was dorky. Nerdy. Weird. Fat. Ugly. Never good enough at sports, or smart enough to compete with top of the class. I was stuck in the middle. Italy represented a chance to rebuild my image, but as I stood in the front of the classroom, I felt like I was back in America.
Before the day, the office had handed me a schedule of my classes, but told me I would have to wait till tomorrow for the translator to come. They apologized, but I told them “it was chill”. But now “it wasn’t so chill”.
The teacher now told the kids to quiet down and she asked me slowly in her troubled English, “Where I was from?”. I began blushing and told her in English that I was from New York. She nodded and pointed me back to my seat. I leisurely strolled back to my seat. The guys looked at me and kept laughing. The girls giggled. [Give head nod]. I was trying to keep in my sadness and maintain my cool, but it only caused more laughter. Amidst the laughter, another guy pointed my way and the girl I had nodded to, while he said something in Italian, resulting in more laughter. [sit in chair, roll down jeans, and take hat off.] I keep my head down. My “cool” was all gone. Why was it, that everyone always found a way to laugh at me, in America or Italy?
I sulked down in my chair while looking down at my clean, red J’s. The black Jordan sign glistened in the light as I got up to leave. As I left the classroom I saw America. The America I had happily left behind. Maybe I just couldn’t fit in anywhere. Maybe I was just a clutz. A loser. An idiot. Maybe I just wasn’t built for this world. Maybe it was time to give up.
She just said it’s time to go now. Dismissing me from the family I had lived with for 4 months, 4 month. I was done with them, this is it the breaking point. I had always been dedicated to them, I know I am in their debt. But why do I feel unloved? LIke I was just something they had do to feel good about themselves.You know like, it does not matter what they did but why. I felt used. Like a tool to give them happiness.
I’’m past Mrs.Slade now her face does this funny thing when she sees my face. She touches my arm asking “If I'm okay? ’How --- how could I be okay, everything was going and had gone wrong. I just shake my hands and head so, I---- don’t scream. My father had abandoned me and hid from me. I thought I was lucky when they decided to take me in. But now I have to go back to fim. To the person that left me. I pass the family the oldest holds out his hand and I brush past him.I don’t want to touch his hand. A hand offered in such selfish and hurtful help.
Walking out the door I remember how they never even asked if I wanted to leave,but my time used up along with their generosity. They had worked so hard to find my Dad but never even thought I maybe wanted something else. Something better I just know now I never mattered to them it was my situation, I was something needing help not a person needing love. So they never appreciated me as a person. As I get into my dads car I nod once and just say “go please go”. I look back at that family walking to the gate confused at my quick exit. I see him I thought one of my best friends yelling “what the hell dude”.
As I stared at the little compact two story houses, I decided I would always feel loved. People always treated you right when you're famous. I was going to be an actor. I had always been able to make people laugh with the way I acted. With my hand motions and smile kinda like Bill Cosby. Something they never appreciated. I won’t need their love any more I will be free at last. I can depend on me to get what I need, because I will work harder than ever before.Then i wil be appreciated. By everybody.
I stare at my blank computer screen in front of me. My entire dorm was completely dark except for the glow from the computer. I sit on the carpeted floor, maybe I can think better this way. I sit back on my green and white comforter. “Changing positions isn’t going to help you write the perfect speech.” I hear a little voice say to me. I write down a sentence. My hand is soon tapping backspace, erasing it away.
I am again staring at a blank screen. I can hear people outside in the hallway walking by. The voices carry under the locked door. I can hear the laughs and the joy laced in their voices. I want to be out there with them, but I don’t move a muscle. I won’t move a muscle ‘till I get this perfect. “You can’t even write a single sentence.” The voice persists to me. I try to prove it wrong, I start to write again. This time it will be perfect. This time it will be perfect, everyone will love it. Repeats over and over in my head, trying to drown out that voice. Finally having some words on the screen, I hear the clicking of the backspace key.
I am again staring at a blank screen. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. The word swirls around in my head as I try to find the perfect words for the perfect speech. It seems my world is defined by this one word, perfect. All I strive for is perfection, if it isn’t perfect I throw it away.
I try laying on my back, continuing my theory that changing positions will help me think. Staring up, I see the blank cream colored ceiling with the dark light in the middle.The ticking of the the clock engulfs the room, I see the seconds roll by, the minutes roll by, the hours roll by. As I sit there, there is still a blank screen. My dull, blank brain starts to light with the fire of an idea. The fire is brought to my hands as they start typing away quickly. There is a page of words in front of me and I’m burned out from the sudden surge of an idea. I read through what I have written, by the end of the page my hand is yet again wavering over the backspace key.
“It isn’t perfect, it will never be. Everyone at graduation will hate it." The voice tells me. No! My hand quickly falls away from backspace. I don’t care if it isn’t ‘perfect’, I shouldn’t throw it all out. “It’s garbage, it should be thrown away.” The voice said to me. It isn’t garbage, it is exactly the way I want it. It is the way it’s going to stay. I shouldn’t have to care what other people think, it’s perfect to me. I turned back to my computer and clicked the button, the save button.
Oh no they didn’t!! They just destroyed one of my cars, and it was a Bentley!! I, Grozen Hurmondez, paid $300,000 for that thang!! I have won over 8 lotteries, and now I am a multimillionare. That was one of the first cars I bought with that money!! I go to get my materials, and stuff them in a bag. 6 gold Uzis, M-16, AK-47, knife, and the glock. I also bring a ton of clips. I love guns. I treat them as if they were my children. I hop into my custom Aston Martin, play some Chief Keef, and run after the bikers that beat my car up. They are called Satan’s Pitchforks. They are known for killing a lot of innocent people, but I ain’t scared. All 10 of them park. I stop the car, and put my the Uzi out the window. ¨Please don’t…. we don’t need to do it like this..¨, one goes. I just start firing at those jerks. That’s 10 bloody bodies. Now, there are more to go. If one guy does this, the entire Satan’s Pitchforks orginazation must suffer. I find the headquarters. They live and work here. There’s this dude on the phone in the hallway. The silencer on the glock will solve that problem. I put 35 holes in his head, and kept walking down the hallway. Now my trigger finger is tired. I see 2 bottes of Grey Goose, and take them both to the brain. I then start walking, looking for the culprits. I hear ¨Freeze!!!!!¨ There are about 27 AKs and glocks aimed at me. Aimed at me. I don’t care if I die. This whole orginazation will learn today. If I die, so be it. I get hit with a baseball bat. I know I have been knocked out.
I start having a dream. This orange ghost talked to me. He told me not to give up, and that I could do this. He told me that it will all turn out good in the end. That inspired me so much. But then, I later woke up. After that, I pull out the M-16 strapped to back. I start shooting like crazy, while everyone shoots at me. I see blood covering the room. I see people choking on bullets. I see brains eveywhere, walls covered in pink and red. Part of this is due to the bikers accidentally shooting each other. Wow, I am happy to still be alive. To kill, dodge, and duck at the same time is an honorable skill. Obama should reward me for this. I put the M-16 on my back, and grab a shotgun I see on the floor. I start walking carefuly. I see a dude with a bat. He starts running at me. I aim the shotgun. Now, his brains are spilling all over his beard. I look around me, and see 6 guys with machettes. I start shooting at everyone!! I’m shooting crotches, blowing off arms and legs, and shooting off heads. It looks like a pool of ketchup now that I’m done. I see 11 more of Satan’s Pitchforks running. They shoot at me. I feel the bullets flying right next to me. Wow, I really almost died. I chase those punks. My pants sagging so low I can barely run. That’s why I need guns, that way I won’t need to run. The Satan’s Pitchforks get on their motorcycles.
I hop in the Aston Martin, and load my uzi. I chase them. I start shooting until they park. They run into Walmart. I don’t care, I’ll just drive into the store. Stupid cowards think they gon’ get away. NO!! I just keep driving, start shooting at them. I see innocent people running, and property being damaged. Some people get hit and shot by accident, but I don’t care. I will kill any stranger, innocent or not, for revenge without guilt or sympathy. If they die, they die. Who cares? The security gaurds do, cause’ now they try to get me. I see them running towards my car with tazers in their hands. I am not scared, so I just back up, and pull a drive by on em’. That’s 8 security gaurds bodied!! Sleeping in their own blood. Thought they was gon’ kick me out, and live. Haha. The bikers are still running. So I just run 5 of them over. I also ran a lot of shoppers over as well. Not my fault. They should have moved out the way. Be aware of your surroundings, jeeezz!! If they die, that’s on them. Not me. Back to the bikers. I then back up on those bikers, pull that strap out, and turn them to’ maccoroni. Now I know they dead fo’ rizzeal. Ha!!
I see one of the employees jump in front of my car. He looks like a loyal employee, and his name-tag say Billy. He says ¨Stop Right Now!! I’ll call the cops if you don’t!!¨ Where’s my knife at? Oh, there it is. I walk out, and jump on the dude. I think about castration, slicing, and slow torture as I stare at his scared little face.. Stabbing time!! I start poking the face, the shoulders, back, arms, chest, everything. The floor is turning red, and so are his clothes. Billy’s screams hurt my ears. And he was wrong for what he did. Here I am getting revenge, and he dares to stop me. AND threaten me! Ugh!! I really don’t want to kill him. I just want to make him suffer. I now decide to cut off his nose for being annoying. That time, his screams were funny. He was like ¨I can’t smell!! I have no nose. I look like Pactrick Star!!¨ Then he gave a high pitched scream, like some sissy. Haha!
3 employees try to save their co-worker by jumping on me. They started punching me, chocking me, and kicking me. Then, I get hit in the face with a wine bottle. The wine is all on my Versace shirt. Never mess with my versace. I get up, and punch one of them in the throat. I karate kick the other 2. Now that they are down, I go to find a sledgehammer. Yay, I found one! I go back to the fight. I still hear Billy screaming in pain. That’s really getting annoying. Just because you got cut and stabbed doesn’t give you the right to annoy me. To give me a headache! But, my focus is on those jerks who jumped me. I swing the sledgehammer on all them. I swing on their heads, arms, throats, and legs. Now they are down. But the suffering must continue. I hit them with it so hard, and so repeaetedly. The anger is real. It motivates. Now, the sledgehammer is broken. I finally see the store owner running towards me. I just hit him with the RKO. Then, I pick him up for the Additude Adjustment. I’m glad the WWE taught me these moves every Monday and Friday.
I am now tired. My arms are stressed. My Air Yeezies, and my Gucci pants, are dirty. I take a rest. Then, I steal find some 5-hour-enenrgies. I drink 28 of them. I now don’t feel tired. I feel great, pumped up. I start walking, and I see the Pithforks. They all start shooting at me. I duck, and go back to my car. I grab out my diamond-crusted AK-47. YEEEAAAHHH BOOYYYEEE!!!! I run towars those Pitchforks. I start shooting. I kill 5 of them, but I also let one live. He is Ruorge Gobbles, the owner of this Satan’s Pitchforks chapter. I wanted go one-on-one with him. In a brawl. So he punched me. I then stab his crotch with my knife. He really starts screaming. I then slash his leg, and he falls down. He thows a rock at my face, and it hits me!! Ouch!! I could feel the little bruise starting to be made. He gets up, and chases me. I really should have pulled my pants up. Can’t sag during fights no more. He jumps on me, and starts punching me. Starts headbutting me. Even with all that blood leaking out of his crotch, Ruorge still attempts to kill me. He now punches me 6 times, and then he bit my arm. Just jammed his teeth into my flesh. I then stab him in the cheek. I get up, and start stomping his face. I then look around for an axe, and find one, I take it out of it’s package, and start beating Ruorge with it. In the head and back repeatedly. Now, he is dead! Mission Accomplished. In the name of my Bentley. I now take out my pistol, and kill every walmart employee I fought. Except for Billy. I’ll let him suffer.
All of a sudden, 17 cop cars come rushing through the walmart. Now, I am arrested. I ended up having to pay an $8 fine for disorderly conduct. I am so glad that is all I got. The cops understood why I did what I did. That is why I wasn’t charged with murder. Grozen’s message to kids is that revenge is the best thing ever. Never let anything, or anyone, get in the way of your revenge. You can do it. No matter what. Violence and killing are cool. I really hope my story inspires a young child.
I sleep 20 hours a day on weekdays. On weekends, I sleep anywhere from 10 to 18 hours a day. But I always can tell what you're doing. Do you always feel like somebody's watching you? Because I am, I’m watching you Ethan, (Heavy breathing, sounds like XHXHHHX) and listening, listening to what you’re doing But are you listening to me? Ha! course not- (rythmic) you just let my beat go on and on without any thought, ya don’t even know, how high the volume is on your stereo. You let it all go (pause)... to hell... yo... I know I’m not the only one. Just a few days ago I heard you complaining about the cell phone. You and that cell phone have done everything together and after 2 years you’re just gonna replace it for the next upgrade! I heard you saying… I heard you saying that (breaths deeply XXHHHXH) your planned on breaking the phone so that your mom would get you the gen 8. I (starts crying) I-I don’t even k-know (breaths deeply XHXHXHXHHH) what’s so great li-iike. It’s like (XHXHXHHX) what’s so great about having a thinner screen… You used to say live and let live. Ya know ya did, ya know ya did, ya know ya did. (Sniffle).
Ok, um now back to the subject at hand. My speaker: why it’s broken, what you can do to fix it and what you can do to make sure this does not happen again. The reason why speaker my speaker is bust, is because of that dubstep. Please stop listening to the dubstep, it makes me vibrate so much I think I’ll explode. Please turn down the volume and listen to quieter music so I don’t explode, or worse. Now, in order to fix me you need to take out the broken driver and then place a new one in. It’ll only cost $20… maybe. You could always buy one of the internet from the computer. Hey, there’s another example of something good gone to waste. Remember your old computer? You used to spend hours on that thing, but then one day you put it in box, tossed it out and got that fancy computer. Anyway, buying an entire new stereo would be around… uh, eight thousand dollars! So just buy a driver for me that’s all you need oh and stop mistreating me and your other- Hey uh Ethan, what are you doing with that remote? Ethan (stern) listen to me don’t turn me on. Ethan, (worried) Ethan wait! Ethan- (screaming) CALL 911 NOW BWAWAH REEEEEEEEEAHHHHHH dududu REEEEEEAAHHH dududu WOOOOOooooowXXXHXHHHHXHHXHXHHXHXH. (pause) XHXHHXHTHIS GIRL IS ON FFFIYYYYAAAAAAHHHXXHXXHXHHXHXHX.
Hey! Hey, you! I remember you! Do you remember me!... Wait...Wait, why are you walking away?
Don’t say you have turned into one of those types of people. Those people that walk past us, not recognizing us, like you didn’t read us some time before. There’s more and more people like you everyday. You just walk past us, don’t even stop, sit down and look at that screen all day. I would know, I watch it happen day in and day out. Nothing new, but you, you were my latest companion, when my faith was lost, I thought, change is happening today. I guess I was wrong.
I know, you forgot about us. You used to take us everywhere, to the park, on the train, pull us out before bed, when you were bored. You played with us, and now, you're leaving us behind for those big boxes with screens. Just ignoring us! Shame. You walk into our home and don’t even acknowledge us, this is trespassing. We created this foundation of stories, not them, they just barged in here, and you are letting them without even knowing the damage you are doing.
I remember my first, she picked me up off the shelf. She waited for a long time for this very moment. I remember, how she smelled me, because I had a special “aroma”, whatever, she liked it. She started reading me the car ride home, she couldn’t wait that little amount of time to arrive home, I mean, I was fine with it, I was even a little scared.
I used to get tossed around from person to person. They each folded my sides to remember where they stopped, come back to that spot the next time they could. They wrote on me, to make them remember certain special parts of me. Now I don’t even get picked up,noticed, or held, I am just collecting dust and there’s nothing I can do about it. I made my mark on this here shelf, and I guess I have no choice but to stay here.
This new technology is all that you care about. You think, because things are new, you can just forget about us. You picked me up, used me, had me in your ownership for almost a month, this hasn’t been done in a long time. So I thought; wait, there could be a change. I mean if you could pick me up, and everybody would see that I am still useful, then they would start doing the same. But noooo, you made me feel something, and then you left me. I am going to have to sit here for months, knowing that people could be talking about me behind my back. They could say stuff like, “Why am I still on a shelf, I deserve to be in the trash, theres no use in me after these computers. “
Don’t you remember when you would pull me out of that same bookbag, open me up, laugh, cry and read between my lines? You expect me to just...just forget about all that we had.
People forget these days about the value of books. We let you cry on us as we embrace your pain, soaking up whatever emotions we are making you go through. Computers don’t do that, you have to wipe away your own tears. Technology has a force field that can’t be reckoned with while you still open yourselves to it. We let you mark on us, ruin us, break us to what can make you happy, when we aren’t good enough for you. When you see the parts of us that makes you want to cry, you understand the truth in us. A truth so strong you feel it. You can’t do that with laptops, televisions and smartphones. Smartphones aren’t the only things that are smart. Plus don't these electronics need that thing called “wifi. ”
You know what, go on, I don’t care, I have been sitting on this shelf for a while now, I am getting used to it, I don’t need your love, or whatever you needed me for. Go on your ibooks and apple macs. I will stay here with my full battery when you need me after your electronics die.
This painting was very important because this was the time America was battling for their freedom. Peale had to keep a close eye on Washington in variety of situations. An example of that is when Washington conferred with the Congress in Philadelphia to discuss a war strategy for the future. Peale was painting the canvas of Washington while he was serving with the Continental Army. Basically he had a certain amount of hours to get it finished.
This canvas is related to any other pantings in art history. The reason is because canvases are painted in a variety of mediums. They all have different shades of colors. For example in the Peale's painting of Washington is in a brighter tone on the canvas while the background has a darker tone. That is common aspect in a canvas, which is the person having a lighter tone and the middle ground and background having darker tones to make the person stand out more. You need to have darker tones on the background because the first thing your eyes need to hit it the most important thing, which is the person who is being assembled.
There is a reason why I choose this exact piece of art. Its because I like American history. A common thing that comes up in my mind about American History is George Washington. I wanted to do research and find a specific piece of artwork of George Washington. This one Charles Wilson Peale painted is one of the common ones because remember this was the time Washington was leading the Continental Army.
Basically what I learned from this was that when a person is being painted on canvas they have to be in brighter colors to actually make your eyes catch them first before they start moving everywhere around the canvas. I also learned little history about Peale and how served and painted this exact canvas at the same time. Usually when anyone looks at art you need to know the certain aspects of it was created. Also the history of because every type of art has history to it!
LINKS TO MY RESEARCH
Most people today, for better or for worse, know what therapy is—either because they need it or because someone they know does. Few people think of therapy as being anything except talking to a therapist about one’s feelings and problems, which is called psychotherapy or “talking” therapy. Less common forms of therapy, such as art and play therapies, offer more engaged and less abstract ways to connect with the same problems. They use physical and visual tools, such as creating paintings in the case of art therapy (“What Is…?”), and using puppets to represent real life situation in the case of play therapy (“How Does…?”). Even lesser known than these therapies is music therapy, which uses music in several ways to achieve similar goals as art therapy, play therapy, or psychotherapy. It is not often heard about in the everyday world, making it at first seem much less professional or official than other forms of therapy. However, music therapy actually is a well-researched and effective form of therapy. Although music therapy is not yet widely known, it can be a more effective tool for those who need a more concrete way to connect with their emotions than standard "talking" therapy.
Every music therapist must have completed an accredited program for a Master’s degree in Music Therapy. Strategies used in music therapy include expressing emotions through playing a variety of instruments, uninterrupted listening sessions of music chosen by the patient, and combined listening and discussion sessions with music chosen by the therapist (“Music Therapy and…”). One might assume that music therapy is purely used for psychological and emotional problems, as many popular forms of therapy are. Surprisingly, though, music therapy can be used for physical and social problems as well. This therapy can be and is used with people of all ages, and on a huge variety of patients. Some examples of when music therapy is used and who it is used on are people with Alzheimer’s disease (elderly people), young children (as young as two or three years), and people diagnosed on the autism spectrum. In one type of music therapy session, the patient will use easy
The first acknowledgements of the value of “talking” psychotherapy were in the 1800s (Haggerty), and the first documented instance of music therapy was in 1789 (“History of…”). However, music had been thought of as potentially healing as early as the writings of Aristotle and Plato (“History of…”). Talking therapies are pretty much exclusively just what they sound like—talking to a trained professional about one’s problems (“Talking Therapies”). In contrast, music therapy incorporates both playing music and listening to music, as well as some discussion components. Talking therapies generally only work with cognitively developed/present people, eliminating both young children and elderly people with severe Alzheimer's disease or similar conditions. Music therapy, however, can be used in such a way so that it does not require completely developed or healthy minds, opening the range of possible patients greatly.
A more specific and concrete example of a group of people who can be helped with music therapy is people diagnosed on the autism spectrum. In 1995, three scientists tested the effectiveness of music therapy on an autistic three-year-old girl, and her interactions with her mother (Khetrapal 12.). At the end of the experiment, the little girl showed significant signs of improvement in several social areas, including eye contact with her mother. When they checked back with her after two years, the improvements had stayed with her. This sort of case is a combination of both a very young patient and a mentally and socially disabled patient, neither of which could have been helped much by talking therapy.
People who need a more concrete way to connect with their feelings and emotions need and deserve the same level of therapeutic attention as everyone else. Music therapy is one way to achieve social and mental goals with these sorts of patients that are important to their qualities of life. Most people, don’t go into a therapist’s office knowing how to perfectly express their thoughts and feelings. But everyone has a natural emotional response to music that can be a powerful way of connecting with unconscious thoughts and worries.
Haggerty, Jim, M.D. "History of Psychotherapy." Psych Central.com. Psych Central, 30 Jan.
2013. Web. 05 Oct. 2014.
"History of Music Therapy." American Music Therapy Association. American Music Therapy
Association, n.d. Web. 05 Oct. 2014. http://www.musictherapy.org/about/history/.
"How Does Therapeutic Play Work?" PlayTherapy.org. Play Therapy International, n.d. Web.
06 Oct. 2014. http://www.playtherapy.org/playhowdoestpwork.html.
Khetrapal, Neha. "Why Does Music Therapy Help in Autism?" Empirical Musicology Review 4
(2009): 11-12. Knowledge Bank. Web. 5 Oct. 2014.
"Music Therapy and Mental Health." American Music Therapy Association, Inc. (n.d.): n. pag.
American Music Therapy Association. American Music Therapy Association. Web. 5
Silverman, Michael J. "Psychiatric Patients' Perception of Music Therapy and Other
Psychoeducational Programming." Journal of Music Therapy 43.2 (2006): 111-19.
Pubmed. Web. 5 Oct. 2014.
"Talking Therapies." Mental Health.org. Mental Health Foundation, n.d. Web. 04 Oct. 2014.
"What Is Art Therapy?" ArtTherapy.org. American Art Therapy Association, 2013. Web. 6 Oct.2014. http://www.arttherapy.org/upload/whatisarttherapy.pdf.
“Wold, ah no , Wa-woldld,”
“Break it up.”
“Okay, we will work on the rl blends later. But remember to practice talking with your mom for 15 minutes every day, Okay?”
We say our farewells and one thought lingers, “Shit, I have to practice talking with a speech therapist and my mom because I can’t even have a normal conversation. I am about to turn 13, and I have to practice saying my “r’s” while I talk to my mom. Could you be any lamer? After months of work in the past and present , I still cannot talk correctly. Ever since I could talk, I had done it wrong.”
The thing that really made me question was why does it matter. There were about thirty words that I would pronounce so poorly they would end up incomprehensible. A few of them were board, world and bird. Sometimes whole sentences would become slurred, but this was a rarity. In order to figure out why this matters we must first ask what is the point of speaking, why is communication a necessity today. James Baldwin once wrote in an essay on Black English “People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances, or in order not to be submerged by a reality that they cannot articulate. (And, if they cannot articulate it, they are submerged).” Mr. Baldwin was referring to the way language lets you comprehend the reality around you, so you can manipulate it and the people inside of it. The pure truth in his statement is incredible. As we grow from birth we only truly create when we have the ability to comprehend our creations. you can only draw an airplane with your water painted toddler fingers when you know what an airplane is. Then why did this thing mark me as an outcast, when it only affected the a little in the way I describe the world? Why does the ability to describe life like everyone else matter and the when everyone lives so differently?
Simply because language is one of the many things that makes people see us as intelligent. Since everyone that lacks intelligence cannot speak correctly, for example the people in our society that are young children and the retarded. Therefore if you cannot talk correctly (excluding accents) then you are either a young child or you are retarded when honestly you are not either.
“Dad help me think of what to be for halloween.”
“Let me think. ”
The conversion went back and forth as he stated lame suggestion after semi-lame suggestions.
“Oh elmer fudd, thats a good one.”
I soon learned that Elmer Fudd is a the rather dull hunter in Bugs Bunny cartoons. He is foiled again by his own stupidity and bug’s simple tricks. One of his most famous lines is,
“ SSHHH I’m huntin’ wabits”
A perfect example of how stupidity is linked to impediments, because Elmer was stupid he therefore could not talk correctly. So it would seem natural to link the inverse which would be if you cannot talk correctly you are stupid. Even though this did not bother me ( I dressed as Elmer Fudd that halloween). This was simply because I did well in school, and that was proof of intelligence to me. That correlation of improper speech with lack of intelligence is in the large sub-conscious of society, and society almost completely lacks awareness of it.
There is a possibility that this is a good thing. Communication is so important, and we need to make it comprehensible. Impediments can be worked over because they can be controlled and improved upon. However, some things are so much harder to change such as accents.
“Say wattttter again,” as she interrogated him.
“No it’s spelled with a tt, waatttter.”
“I say it like everyone in south philly says it, why is that a problem?”
I then ended the conversation with a no one cares. You see here that you could tell he was lived in South Philly just by his accent. This is just a simple example of a telling accent that has little effect on his life. Though his accent makes him unique, it does not change your opinion about him. It is different with many other accents around the world. For example, II have heard a joke that goes like this:
“What time is it in india?”
“7-11 on the dot.”
This joke stereotypes Indians as workers at fast food places such as 7/11 and saying indians are Hindu. Also, googling “7/11 on the dot joke” produced 14 million results while “Why did the chicken cross the road joke” produced 3 hundred thousand. This shows the extent of the stereotyping just by accent (accent is the easiest way to identify someone who is from india because the accent is so distinct. Now you can see someone being stereotyped as a lower class worker, foreigner, and a hindu because of their accent.
The public is more conscience of this stereotype than the stereotype of speech impediments and stupidity. The problem with these stereotypes is that they have no intent to harm the people they categorize even if it is a negative stereotype. Most of the time, this stereotyping is just us viewing the world and making generalizations about what we see. Then these generalizations are used to gather information about our lives, otherwise they would be pointless.That is why people care about the way you talk, especially if you have an accent. Think about if someone heard you talking with an indian accent and stereotyped you with the 7/11 joke. They could tell where you are from, your religion, your job, and your social class. This helps you learn about this person even if not all of these things are true.
This is the importance of language, it can tell someone who you are and where you come from. This is why the way you talk matters because everyone is different and their language gives you insights on how they’re different. This, like everything, brings the bad with the benefits. This includes possibly hurtful or incorrect generalizations about peoples intelligence, education and origin. Language will never be same around the world, because people will never have the same realities. We just need to remember there are exceptions to every stereotype and that a person realty and speech does not determine who they are.