1. explain your L.A.N. Local Area Network - all the devices on your internet connection: I have at least 13 wireless devices and 3 wired in. This list includes 3 phones, 4 kindles, 5 laptops, one tablet, a TV, printer, and desktop computer. My tenants also have devices on the network like phones and laptops but I do not know how many.

2. reflect on what you learned about networks, did you have an OMG moment that you learned something new and interesting? if now write about what you learned: I was very surprised when you told me I had an outdated phone cord bringing internet into my house. Learning about how packets were transported all over the world in a couple of seconds for web pages was really new for me as well.

3. what would you tell other people that they need to know about having an ISP/Home network: Different cords bring internet into your home based on your ISP. Certain networks prevent you from going on high bandwidth sites or going on these sites will slow down your internet. Your ISP can see what you do on the network.

Jaiyeola Omowamide. Two words, seventeen letters and 9 syllables of utter confusion.

For the longest time, I hated my name. It was something that I detested. It was like carrying a huge boulder on my back; nothing but a burden.

I didn’t always despise it. Maybe because I was too young to recognize the difficulty associated with it, but my detestation didn’t begin until I started elementary school. As a child, I was called many names; Zion by my mother, Jaiye by my father, Jaiyeola, by my grandmother, and even Butterfly because my mom described me as ¨being shy and always floating around¨ I recognized all these titles and had love for all of them...until I began school.

Throughout preschool and kindergarten, I had zero insecurities about my name. My mind was filled with the innocence of juvenescence, but when first grade commenced, I soon began to mature and with maturity, comes dignity and establishment of self identity. I became aware of how difficult it was for my teachers, classmates and even family members to pronounce my name. This made me very uncomfortable and in return, I developed a deep insecurity towards my name. An island of unconfidence began to grow around me where I was surrounded by  Taylors,  Michaels  Ashleys and Brians, and then it was  just me, Jaiye; alone, feeling like I was the only one. It’s a curse I thought.  I felt like I didn’t belong and that inaugurated a shamefulness against my name , that would take years to overcome. It was then and there that I automatically ignored all of the love I had for “Jaiyeola”  and replaced it with hate.

First days of school were always the worst, at least for me. Not because I was nervous to see all my friends but...you guessed it,  because of my name.

It was the first day of fifth grade. New school, new teachers, different faces. I hesitantly walked into the classroom. About twenty faces stared as I walked in, face down, trembling because of  the intense anxiety that dawned on me as I realized that the teacher would soon have to call out my name on roll. As I waited, I went over in my head fifty times how I would correct her once she pronounced my name wrong. Should I just interrupt her before she even attempts to? Or should I just tell her now before she starts roll call? It was like self torture. I could feel the prickly heat of sweat begin to to form. The teacher began to go down the list. I was completely unaware of when my name would be called next. As she read each name, apprehensive thoughts filled my mind. What if the class laughs? I was so distracted with the thoughts in my brain, that I hadn’t noticed that she had approached my name. I knew because she made a strained face. Her face became tense as she thought of how she would pronounce it.  

“Jeyailoa?” she said. Every syllable that passed through her thin lips felt like nails on a chalkboard. That was nowhere close to how it was supposed to be pronounced. I could hear snickers in the background. I could feel the burning sensation behind eyes begin to form. Don’t cry I told myself. I forced myself to wear the most genuine smile.

“It’s Jaiye. Jaiye for short.”

“Oh...that’s different. Very different.” she softly smiled.

From that moment on, not only did I hate my name even more, but I hated first days of school.

Days that I had substitute teachers were even worse. With my normal teachers, they would learn my name after a week or two, so the stress eventually would be lifted off my back, but when a substitute showed up, it was like my life was rewinded back to the first day of school. And the hatred would suddenly came back. I remember cringing as the sub would try to pronounce my name. I wanted to shoot up from my seat and yell “ It’s Jaiye! Jai-yay! It’s not that freaking difficult!” But instead, a quivering hand would hesitantly, shoot up.

“It’s Jai-Jaiye,” I would stutter. “Jaiye is short for Jaiyeola.”

Even though there are people out there in the world,  with more difficult names to pronounce than me, I felt as if I was the only person out there who experienced this problem. I didn’t have much as a significant  problem with my last name because I didn’t identify with my last name as a first name, but I felt the worst towards  “Jaiye” and “Jaiyeola” because those are names that people call me by. Other people that I knew had difficult last names, but easy ¨American¨ first names and I felt left out.  Did my mom and dad not get the memo?

I was at the point in my life where I wanted my name change. I went through a list of names that I could get that was deemed “normal”. Christina? Or maybe Amy like my mother? My name was an anchor holding me back from fitting in. I just wanted to feel accepted. I wanted to feel like the standard white American. And that could all happen if I could discard this confusing, foreign name.

During the afternoon, in the school library, I was at the librarian desk waiting to check out some books. A white male librarian began to scan my books on the monitor. Since it was the school library, all of our names were in the database, so automatically “Jaiyeola Omowamide” popped up on the screen once he scanned the first book. I cringed when I saw the blue lettering on the computer screen. He raised his eyebrows at me in astonishment.

“ Wow, how do you pronounce your name?” he asked.

“Jai-yay-hola, O-moe-wah-me-day.” I replied.

“West African huh?’

           “ Yes, Nigeria to be exact.” I smiled

           “ It’s beautiful. Some of the most beautiful names are foreign to this land. Enjoy your day, young lady”

           “Thank you”

I walked out the library with a grin as big as the sun, that beams from ear to ear. It was the happiest I felt towards my name in a long time.

But how could something so incomprehensible and ugly be seen as beautiful? I felt as if he and others would just say that to be polite. There was this constant battle between what I heard, and what I wanted to believe. Do these strangers really think my name is as great as it sounds? I spent hours, days, months, and even  years, thinking about this, and then it hit me. If these random people can tell me that they love my name, why can’t I?

Jaiyeola Omowamide; meaning a life of happiness and wealth and that a child has come to us. I was a child that my parents saw as a blessing so in return, I should carry great dignity with my name. My name is Yoruba, a language spoken in Nigeria. It means happiness and success, not depression and failure. It holds great amounts of history and heritage, and was given to me to be carried on to my future children and for those to come. Most African Americans, can never have their original names because their identity was robbed from them when forced to become slaves. I realized how lucky I was. Why hate it? Because it’s not “normal”? Some of the greatest people that lived didn’t become known because of being ordinary. They were unique. Distinct. Individual.  And that’s just what my name is. One of a kind.

I now love my name more than ever. It’s something that I hold with considerable respect and I am forever thankful to my parents for giving it to me. And although, I still get people who mispronounce it, I laugh it off. We shouldn’t have to feel self conscious of ourselves, because we don’t fit the norm. Don’t be ashamed of who you are. And don’t let society deem what is and isn’t normal. This country isn’t just made of one culture, but many; a huge melting pot. Show pride in our heritage and what completes your identity.

I was happy because I was supporting what designs my favorite artist was making and I was watching his dreams play out as I see mine doing in the future. I think it is very important to have some sort of role model as a kid. Sometimes parents do not give you all the support you need so you look to other places to mold you. You are your role models, because you aim to be like them. You are inspired by their actions and often you try to be more like them. Kanye West was a big role model for me because he always stood up for what he believed in. His ideas are never compromised by those around him who always try to tell him what to do. And I believe that thoroughly; If you have something to say, you must put it out there in the world so that it can become more than just a thought. The world can always use more ideas.

Kanye once said: “Nothing in life is promised except death.” To me this is very inspirational. What this quote means to me is that if you have a purpose in life you need to give it 100% because failure is not the worst thing in the world. The worst thing in the world is dying without having anything in your life to show your success. That is why it is important for you to work at the things you love, and never give up. The only thing that you can know is that you will die. You do not know how anything will pan out. So in this time you are given you have to take advantage of it and really live it to the fullest. This is why I always feel like I need to hurry up and make my dreams come true. I constantly am anxious that I am running out of time.

It’s hot. I’m sweating, sneezing, and coughing, a side effect of allergies. I get up, walking to the bathroom. Strangely, I begin to think of my father. My father does gigs around the country with several bands, and he usually gets home around 12:00-3:00 am on Sundays. He has the most beautiful voice when he sings, containing enough power to make crowds start to sing along, or bring them to tears. Music is power, at least that’s what I feel when I listen to a good musician. Still in the bathroom, I wish he was here so we could sing together. Around the time I leave the bathroom, my mother wakes up. She’s dressed in one of my father’s shirts. She waddles around, with her usual bewildered face she has on right after she wakes up. “What time is it?” She asks me. “12:42”, I sady. “Where’s Al?” She says to herself. She continues to pace downstairs, waiting for that jingle of keys and sing songy voice we know all too well to come bustling through the door.Time passes, an hour, 2 hours, 3 hours. No keys. No humming. Silence. I wonder if silence can be a form of music, and if it is, what it’s supposed to make you feel. In those passing hours, the silence was deafening. It was silent in the normally raucous home save the sounds of my mother calling my father and only hearing a quiet, but persistent beep of his dial tone. The silence seeped into all of my pores and cracks like a wintry chill I couldn’t keep out. Finally, a break in the monotony. The knock on the door is like a sharp shock to my nerves, snapping me awake, blowing away the silence like the leaves off a dying tree. I wonder if my dad lost his keys, why he was coming home so late. It wasn’t him, it was a police officer. I heard my mother and him discussing whatever they were talking about in low voices, almost as if they were trying to shield me from the information they were discussing. My mother called me downstairs a few minutes later. She sat me down again. That silence was coming back, stronger than ever.”Al was in a car accident” “Is he ok? He’s still here right?” She shakes her head. The silence is so loud I can hear it, pounding down onto every square inch of my body as if in a thunderstorm. To me, silence is scary. Silence is the calm before the storm.  I will never hear his song again. Sure, music never dies, but the vessels they use to produce it do. Silence always has the final word in any song, poem, sound. In this instance, it felt like time slowed down. When I finally reacted, I sang my song of despair, a wailing, joyless cry. Thinking back on that time from this aspect, I saw something completely different from what I had in that moment. At the funeral, people commented on the traits that my father allowed them to see, never anything more. However, everyone had a story of him singing. To me, I always thought of him as a father before everything else, and music was just one of the many memories that fit together in my head to make the jigsaw puzzle that was my father. Music is powerful. My father was powerful because his body was imbued with the power to produce it. I feel like now, his purpose here was not only to provide for the people he loved, but to share all aspects of his musically sound soul with all who would listen. When he achieved his purpose, he was taken away. He died coming back from a gig. That can’t be coincidence, there must’ve been a reason. I believe everyone came into this world with a set purpose or end goal, no matter how long they were alive. Be it twenty seconds or 100 years, everyone has a purpose. I believe when you die, you’ve achieved it. My fathers was to spread the power of music to as many people as possible. Just like his life, music begins and ends in silence. Silence is music. Silence is the music of the dead.

Days By the Water

Kobe Nabried

Water Stream

[The goal of this paper was to polish and publish a collection of my summer journal entries. In this essay I’m confident that I successfully expressed the way that I felt in a vivid and relatable manner. An aspect of this essay that could be improved is the vocabulary that was used. The essay becomes somewhat monotonous at certain points. ]

The water was clear and calm, as it always was. The few usual patrons mingled with each other underneath of the awning that sat across the pool from the lifeguard station. The shaded area where they sat would soon be compromised by the setting sun. The midday guard had just departed as 6 O’cock rolled around, signaling the end of her shift. The opening guard took it upon himself to become relieved of his responsibilities and left an hour before he was scheduled to. That was the regular routine between the two of them. The midday often did her job as it was to be done. He had apparently become jaded half way through the summer and decided that once another guard had arrived he was not obligated to complete his job.

That was business as usual at this place though. I rarely minded if either of them had left early. It was a slow pool anyway; everyday was basically the same. The midday guards departure marked the beginning of the two hours that I would spend guarding alone until closing time,y favorite two hours of every day. I could finally relax and retreat into my mind to sort my thoughts.

As the last two regular patrons start back to their apartments, I put my earbuds in and let the music bring life and color to the dull world that I live in while on guard. “Don’t want to be an American Idiot!” are the first lyrics that I hear as Green Day’s explosive energy and high speed tempo make their way into my thoughts. The music was rarely on the forefront of my mind though. It had always served as a background for the things that went on in my mind, a soundtrack of sorts.

I sat, thinking and humming along to the next track on the album. “I’m the son of rage and love.” I said to myself. It was as if I needed to be reminded of who I was, and this album always did the job. With all the time I spent alone here at that place, you would think that I’d know that by now, but there are just too many days when the thoughts fail to form inside of my mind, days when everything seems just out of my mental reach. It’s been like this for so long that I have given up on trying to snap myself out of it.

I stood to gather the water testing materials. Guards are often required to test the chlorine and Ph levels of the pools that we are stationed at. It had become a mindless task, like taking a shower, or brushing my teeth. As I dipped my left hand into the cool water I began to question whether or not this job was actually worth it. Yes, it may have been the easiest job that I’ve ever done, but it felt like a waste of time. Eight dollars and twenty five cents an hour never felt so pointless. I reminded myself that I’m just there to make money. That’s what I tell myself every time I question my . But now it just seems like the money isn’t worth it. Forty hours a week, plus overtime. No, it wasn’t worth it. I should be off somewhere with my friends, enjoying the beautiful season of summer, but no, I had become a slave to money. As time slowly crept past 7pm, the thoughts of everything I would rather be doing found their way into my mind: sleeping, enjoying friends, running, my guitar. I could have spent the summer playing guitar, feeling elated the way I did when I played my way through my first chord progression. I vowed to myself that I would not let next summer be as much of a waste as this one had been. After next summer, I want to have fun memories and good times to nostalgically look back on. I think back to the times of excitement and joy. Two feelings that I wish that I had right now.