Eyrie 2011

The Eyrie

A Literary/Trades Journal

2011 Eastern Maine Community College

The Eyrie A Literary/Trades Journal Issue 3

2011 Eastern Maine Community College

Welcome to The Eyrie‘s third issue. This year we‘re featuring a range of writing styles, including personal narratives, creative descriptions, contemplations and poetry, as well as works of persuasion, informative research, and film and literary analysis.

An attentive reader might detect the shift that occurs around the middle of the journal as we go from chiefly creative works to chiefly analytical.

One thread binding all is consistency of quality. This year saw an exciting increase in both volume and variety of submissions, and choosing our finalists proved a more challenging task than ever. If you notice a slight reduction in font size from previous issues, that‘s how desperate we were to make room and not choices. The result is this diverse selection you have before you, a bit of something for everyone.

Once again, nearly all the submissions for this issue have come from general education courses, while the technologies remain unrepresented. If you have a technology-related writing project you‘ve done well, we‘d love to have you share it here.

Or, if you‘re a technology instructor impressed with a student‘s work, we‘d appreciate your guiding him or her our way. Photo essays are most welcome.

We‘d like to thank all who contributed, with special thanks to John Ianelli‘s ART 110 class for participating in a cover design contest for this issue. Congratulations to Kayla Goodwin for her win.

We hope you enjoy!

Devin Wood & Lesley Gillis Co-editors

© All works in this journal remain the sole property of their owners and may not be reprinted without permission.

Table of Contents A Greener Love Heather L. McGlauflin ...................................1 A Man and His Ocean Sally A. Taylor ...................................2 Back to Nature Sally A. Taylor ...............................................4 My Life! Terri Adam ..............................................................5 Take a Look… Bullard ..........................................................6 I Loved My Father Rebecca Childs ........................................7 The Driveway Darlene Veillette ..............................................8 Picture This Cindy Papken ....................................................9 There Is More in You… Heather L. McGlauflin .................... 12 Generations Brenda Fogler ................................................. 14 Three Across Heather L. McGlaughlin ................................... 15 The Blue Hill Fair-A Family Affair Sally A. Taylor .............. 17 Photos Robin Brayson ......................................................... 19 Gifts from the Sea Heather L. McGlauflin ............................ 20 My Vacation 2010 Larry Cossar........................................... 21 The Kids Aren’t Alright Erin D. McGlauflin .......................... 23 A Room Full of Old People Sitting in a Sauna Erin D. McGlauflin.................................................................. 25 Is It Heaven or Not? Leisa Clement ................................... 26

When I go to work Shane Walsh..................................................................................... 27

Why am I paying for your trash!? Jay Chadbourne .............. 30 Willy Wonka and Wonkaism Aaron B. Morrison .................... 32 The Ruling on the Field Stands Daniel Larkin ....................... 35 A Response to "Naked Girl and Mirror" by Judith Wright Zeraph Moore ......................................................................... 39 The Dynamics of a Parent-Child Relationship: Reflection and Respite Alissa Downing………………………........ 41 Physical and Emotional Separation: A Frame Analysis of Citizen Kane Michael Arell…………… ..... 43 Frame Analysis: Psycho Dustin Nevells ................................ 46 Identity Renee Lecuivre ........................................................ 49 Hollywood was his invention (Cinema: Last Dissolve 1): Restoring D.W. Griffith’s Legacy Michael Arell .................... 52 Do you know who you are? Roberta LaHaye ....................... 55 Scene between Mrs. Wright from Susan Glaspell’s Trifles and the Misfit from Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find Dray Emerson .................................................. 59 Supply and Demand Applications: KJHartt Photography Kelsey Gosselin ................................................................................. 60

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A Greener Love Heather L. McGlauflin ENG 262-95 Advanced Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment – Week 2: Coherence; action/observation descriptive essay Thursday, September 2, 2010 The sun is just rising when I go outdoors to sit on the deck, a cup of hot coffee in my hand. I sit down ready to enjoy the dawning of a new day. I watch the sky as it turns from a midnight blue into the pink of morning. In a flash of light it changes into a bright orange orb raising itself higher in the sky. I feel a sense of calm come over me, as I am witness to the power of something greater than any of us at work.

I take a sip of coffee as I begin to hear the calling of the birds from the woods behind the house, their songs growing from the occasion song to a full on chorus line. They seem to be saying hello to me. I close my eyes as the quiet of the night disappears into the chaos of the day. I try to hold on to that last bit of peace, the last bit of myself.

My eyes fly open to the sound of my girls from inside the house. They are calling for me. The sun is bright, blinding as it shines down on the garden. Its bounty almost straining for that first bit of light, the coolness of the air not yet tainted by its heat. "I'm out here" I yell out, my eyes still closed.

"Do you want some salt?" He asks holding out the shaker with one hand and a half-eaten tomato with the other. I can see its juice running down his pinky finger and landing on the top of his old brown boot.

"Ok Grampy" I say as I reach out to him. I feel our hands touching gently. I look at his hands. They are spotted with age and calloused from years of hard work. I look down at my own hands; they look brand new compared to his.

I sprinkle salt on my cucumber as we continue to walk through the garden. We are supposed to be picking yellow beans for dinner. So far we haven't even picked one. Instead, we get drawn into the depths of the garden; called in by the scent of green, earth, and sun.

I reach down and pull up a carrot. I shake the dirt off its root and take a bite.

It is sweet and crunchy; I smack my lips and look up at this amazing man. This is his garden. He makes the magic happen here.

As I walk down the path between the corns, sheltered from the sun by its long stalks, the earth feels cool on my feet. I tuck the saltshaker into the front pocket of my shorts as I take the last bite of my cucumber and begin working

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once again on my carrot. I look around for Grampy. He is over by the peas, popping one after another into his mouth, not even bothering to shell them.

"Can I have some, too?" I ask, looking up into his warm, blue eyes. He smiles down at me and strokes the top of my head.

"Of course, help yourself" he grins.

"Hey, where are my wax beans?" Grammy yells out to us from the front porch.

We stop chewing for a second. A little devilish look flashes across out faces.

We look over at the empty basket lying forgotten on the garden's edge.

"Still pickin‘‘'!" Grampy yells back as a giggle begins in the pit of my stomach and erupts out of my mouth as a fit of laughter.

I feel little hands encircling my arms and the weight of two tiny bodies leaning into me. I open my eyes and see two beautiful little faces looking up at me. I pull them up into my lap, breathing in the scent of their innocence. As we sit there together, the sun is shines down on us, its warmth heating our skin almost as much as our hearts heat our souls. This moment, our moment seems almost frozen in time. There is the presence of the sun and love in the air.

Now, I watch my girls out in the garden. I see their love for the outdoors, the feel of the dirt between their toes. I watch their growing infatuation with ladybugs. They are carrying them on the tips of their fingers, grins spreading across their little faces with the soft tickle of its touch. They love picking the vegetables off the plants and taking a bite to taste the sun. I watch them while I sit back down on the deck. They are weaving in and out between the sunflowers on its border. They're laughing without me. I put down my coffee cup and go join them, grabbing the saltshaker off the counter on the way. 

A Man and His Ocean Sally A. Taylor

ENG262-95 Advanced Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment – Structure; Profile of a person He limps up the hill from the pier as he has done most every day for the last 60 plus years. He stops and looks back at his boat one last time and satisfied that everything is secured, he goes in for the night.

Years of outside physical labor have not aged him well. His face is ruddy all the time and the wrinkles are deep set like the channels in the nautical charts he studies. His back is bent from years of pulling traps onto his boat. His hands are leathery and scarred from the millions of bags he has baited in his

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life. His eyes are tired It‘s a hard life he lives and rest is irregular; the weather is an unyielding alarm clock.

The small town he was born in and where he still lives is a peninsula. No matter where he goes there, he is surrounded by the ocean. He built his first boat at 12 and spent all his free time on it. As a kid, he would be on his boat hauling traps, when his friends were playing pickup baseball. While those same boys became young men and fast cars were their focus, his was still on the water. His junior year of high school saw his first boat become a second bigger one. When he decided to go to college it wasn‘t to be a traditional businessman when he graduated, it was to understand accounting so he could expand his fishing industry. Even as a young man, he was certain of the path in life he would pursue.

In 1962, when his wife was pregnant with their first child and he realized that lobster fishing alone might not financially support his family, he built a boatyard. Days when the weather wouldn‘t permit him to be on the ocean, he could work on boats while having the smell and sound of the ocean right outside the door. The boatyard was a financial success, but eventually took him away from the ocean too often. He sold it at a significant profit and used the proceeds to buy his first commercially-built boat.

The ocean is his love but weather is his master. Wind is probably the only real enemy he has ever known, and it is a cruel one. Wind blowing for days on end keeps him off the boat worrying about how his offshore traps and boat will be affected. Hours are spent pacing and staring at the ocean hoping for a good outcome. When the wind stops he knows it means his next days will be spent from sunrise until after dark playing catch-up and recouping his losses.

Over his life he has taken the 14-foot boat he built at twelve to an industry.

His house overlooks the latest boat in his fleet, a 46-foot Novie, his pier and dock, the barge he built for mooring and dock installation, and the outbuildings that house his various supplies. The picture window in his bedroom allows him to overlook this legacy he has built for his only son as he wakes in the morning and before the erratic rest he may receive at night.

After the death of his wife, his children tried to convince him to sell his home and business and retire to the family camp. He knew they only wanted the best for him, and after months of trying to explain to them why he could never leave the ocean behind, they finally let him be. He‘s not sure if they finally understood that the ocean is his reason to get up every morning, or if they just got tired of nagging.

The ocean is where he goes to celebrate life‘s successes and to contemplate its failures. The ocean is where he was born, and he hopes it is where he dies.

The time in between those two events has been dictated by the ocean, and he tells anyone who will listen that he wouldn‘t have it any other way. 

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Back to Nature Sally A. Taylor ENG-262-95 Advanced Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment – Week 1: A descriptive essay about nature The rain is pouring, no, the rain is lashing out at the earth. It is gray, forceful, and mean. Its only objective is to saturate all it contacts. It shows no mercy for anyone or anything. The wind it brings with it is equally mean and relentless. Yet the persistent blue jay will not be defeated.

The numerous bird feeders we have gyrate in the storm like dancers in an adult show. They spin and sway in the wind; not gracefully like a ballet, but bawdy like triple-X performers in the act of stripping. Their performance goes on regardless of whether anyone is watching the show or not. The blue jay watches, though, from a front row seat.

He is an irritating bird. He is loud and obnoxious, the stud at every party that needs to be noticed. His attempts at making friends are pathetic; he is pushy and rude. The gentler, well-mannered birds fly away from him and congregate in groups that are an obvious exclusion of him. Until today, I have been in agreement with the majority; he is not a bird I wanted around.

As the storm drives on, he will not be defeated. He sits on the condo feeder, seeking shelter from the sheets of rain driven by the wind. His normal chest of puffed up blue is a matted mess. He huddles under the roof not like the alpha male he pretends to be, but like a man without a home. Does he have no one or a place to go to?

Is he not unlike the veterans of wars huddled in their cardboard boxes, men who deserve a home and respect they don‘t get? Has he forged the way somehow, for those seemingly kinder, gentler birds who now shun him? I now wonder if his pretentiousness is an act to cover the hurt of being rejected.

As I sit in my dry living room, I have a new respect for this bird. He is strong, willing to brave this miserable day, when the rest of his kind are hiding in safer places. I also have sympathy for him, alone and cold, when others have the warmth of a home and family. Today, Mr. Blue Jay, you have earned the right to be king of the roost. 

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My Life!

Terri Adam Course Assignment

January 2009

My Life!

Look! There’s my life!

Running, playing, laughing Merrily dancing, free of fear.

Look! There’s my life!

At the table crafting, creating, building Dreams are clear.

Look! There’s my life!

Weeping, sad, full of fear Aching inside. Growing.

Look! There! One last time.

My life in full; in two parts.

One here, one there, always me.

Look at my life! There!

See the love, see the joy.

All the worth – every mile! 

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Take a Look Robert Bullard

Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?

I see my old man. ―Dad‖ Phil. Master Chief Petty Officer US Navy. His light brown hair shaved short on the side with a bit of a wave on top, bright white uniform with brilliant navy blue and black edging. Stripes flowing down his left shoulder indicating 22 years of proud accomplishment, and a shiny brass emblem in the middle of his officer‘s cap symbolizing what many would call ―freedom.‖ Through my father‘s eyes I see a midshipman sailing over the high seas that divide each continent, navigating their way to breath-taking ports. Olympic statues of Athens; the bloodied bulls of Madrid, spears dangling from their back, charging for their lives; fisherman netting their catch aboard their native wooden boats off the coast of Hong Kong. The scream of the dual jet engines catapulting F-14 tomcat fighters off the flight deck 25 seconds apart. Helicopters effortlessly setting down like eagles landing in their nest.

I see the 20-story tall carrier slowly approaching the docks of Norfolk bearing more than 2,000 anxious sailors standing in formation along every inch of its deck. I see tears of joy, I see my father embracing his wife and 4 young children as if he had been gone for a lifetime. I see my Dad! 

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I Loved My Father Rebecca Childs ENG 162 Creative Nonfiction Assignment -- Week 12: Taking risks I loved my father once.

My father was an alcoholic, through and through. He‘d call himself a ―social drinker‖ and he‘d head off to an executive luncheon and never make it home.

Well, he did when the police brought him in their private blue and white cab.

They never did fine him, prosecute him or jail him. I guess the business suit distinguished him from the real alchies puking their guts out in the gutter. My father got to puke in the privacy of his home, in the porcelain throne, or maybe the closet when he forgot where he was.

My father was a womanizer, through and through. He called it harmless. I guess it was harmless, if you think no-one is looking. Ask my mother, she thought it hurt. Especially when he spent the month with his ―sexretary‖ (yep, he gave her a desk plaque that said that), while my mother was in Philadelphia with me having open heart surgery. You could even ask us kids when he‘d use us as toy props to lure in an overworked waitress.

My father was a cheat, through and through. He called it harmless, if he got away with it. Ask his business partner who left the company just before it floundered from my father‘s extravagant personal expenses. Ask the IRS who attached his debts to my mother‘s paycheck. Ask us kids who never got the child support he should have provided.

I loved my father once, children do that. 

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The Driveway Darlene Veillette ENG 162-95 Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment -- Week 11: Theme This is a piece our driveway at the house in Bucksport where I spent part of my childhood and teen years. My inspiration came from Josiejosplace writing, Stairways.

The driveway was very long and very secluded leading to dad‘s new house; he asks us kids what we think of our new home.

The moving truck brings all the belongings to the house down the long driveway; we pick out our bedrooms today.

Dad has trees cut down about halfway down the driveway, to park the vehicles in the winter months, because the bottom half is too steep to drive up.

The dog houses and their runs are set up at the end of the driveway in the turn-around part.

All of us kids help make a rock walkway from the end of the driveway down to the house.

Whippoorwills sing every night in the trees around the end of the driveway.

The old chicken coup to the left of the driveway brings dares to see who will jump off the roof first. My youngest brother jumps first and breaks his leg.

The chicken coup to the left of the driveway is torn down.

The barn at the end of the driveway on the right is spooky, old and full of giant spiders; I will not play hide-and-go-seek in there.

Walking up and down the driveway to catch the bus for school feels like eternity. Sometimes my two stepbrothers and I race each other to the top.

Sledding down the driveway at what feels like 100 MPH and jumping the snow bank where all the snow was plowed at the very end, every landing knocks the wind out of us.

Riding our mini bikes up, down and all around the driveway; no helmets, no protection, lots of cuts and bruises but no broken bones!

A new pool is put in at the end of the driveway over where the old chicken coop once stood. Let the parties begin!

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I get my first car and park it with all the other vehicles at the end of the driveway.

My 16th birthday and the driveway is full of cars and we celebrated.

Graduation day for me and my oldest stepbrother. In the driveway, dad hands us our graduation gifts; each of us receive a bank book.

The police break up the 4th of July celebration and cop cars flood the driveway.

The ambulance heads up the driveway with my younger stepbrother in it; he left a note.

Driveway is full again but this time with mourners.

A For Sale sign is posted at the top of the driveway.

The moving truck slowly heads up the very long and very secluded driveway with our belongings, I never looked back. 

Picture This Cindy Papken ENG 162-95 Creative Nonfiction Writing Eighteen and ready for action, I ran out of gas as my future drove by in his Alfa Romeo. Not knowing the trouble ahead of him, Robert circled back and offered to help.

He looked under the hood and asked me to turn the key. ―It seems like it wants to start,‖ he said. ―Did you check the gas gauge?‖ ―It‘s on ‗E‘ but it‘s been running fine for three days.‖ We married the next year.

Sweet Emotion.

I bought him Blondie, he gave me Aerosmith.

As hair exploded in the eighties I moved from small town Maine to East Boston, Massachusetts, where everybody knows a guy who knows a guy. Hot-blooded Italians ruled the Orient Heights neighborhood. Dark hair, dark eyes. ―What are you lookin‘ at?‖ I didn‘t leave my house for a month without an escort.

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Fate intervened and we ran out of milk. That one trip taught me that only slobs buy food before applying make-up. Cursing the dairy gods, I threw on my faded jeans and sneakers and jumped in the car. My face didn‘t even cross my mind. I white-knuckled my Subaru through the ancient streets to Cerratani‘s grocery. And found myself in the competitive world of food store modeling.

Jordache jeans (ironed with a front crease). Black boots, no sneakers. Red lipstick matched looong red nails. Lips curled in a sneer. Thick eyeliner – black again, with dark blue, purple, or brown eye shadow above it. Raccoon eyes travelling up from my Nikes to my Hanes crew neck before landing askance on my face with a look that said, ―What were you thinking?‖ ―Can I have a pound of white American, sliced extra thin, please?‖ Sheena Easton‘s ―Morning Train‖ played on the radio as Robert left for the blue line every morning. Soon enough I grew a reptilian skin and started working in Boston as well. Robert and I commuted together, walking a mile to the subway in all weather. My three-inch heels stayed in my bag as I plowed down the sidewalk in sneakers or hiking boots, keeping a vice grip on my hero‘s arm to slow him down. At nine inches taller and all legs, he was the hare to my turtle. I used to tell him I‘d die seeing the back of his head. Sometimes I added an Italian gesture for emphasis.

A year passed and I worked as a secretary to the computer geeks of Fidelity Investments. I watched these twenty-somethings party a little too much, say the wrong thing to a passing VP, and I realized my brain worked at least as well as theirs. I applied and got accepted to a six-month intensive computer programming school in 1983. I graduated at twenty-two as Margaret Thatcher won her bid for prime minister by a landslide. She and I earned great victories. She moved to 10 Downing Street and I joined the geek squad. I hope the Thatchers got by on Maggie‘s new salary as well as we did on mine.

I spent the summer of 1984 baking bread in our second-floor ocean-view apartment. Van Halen toured, promoting their album named for that year. We watched the waves roll to the shore and rocked out to ―Panama‖ and ―Jump‖, waiting for bread dough to rise like David Lee. Who in their right mind would choose the hottest time of the year to experiment with an oven? Eddie and the boys kept things cool though. We laughed at Roth‘s butt-less chaps and the world got a good look at what lycra could for a man during a flying split.

When I hear those songs today I still feel ocean breezes and smell hot bread.

And, yeah, I see the butt, too. While I baked and Van Halen defied gravity both on the charts and on stage, we grew our savings. No yeast required.

The following year hurricane Gloria struck, postponing the closing on our first house, our leap out of Boston‘s chaos. Banking moved about as quick as Tai Chi in the mid-eighties so the last thing we needed was G-L-O-R-I-A. We

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tossed, turned, jumped for the phone, assaulted the mail slot for two weeks waiting for our credit check. Today it takes thirty seconds. The storm blew off and we signed an agreement to pay fourteen and a half percent interest on a variable rate mortgage. We moved into our dream home, an antique brick colonial in Haverhill. A dignified lady sitting on a half-acre lawn fronting an enormous brick barn. I loved the space, more in line with the patch of earth I grew up on. Robert took about a month to shed his inner city battle armor.

We never missed living and working in Boston, packed tightly with so many other people. No more of jostling for a seat on the subway or a carriage at the grocery store.

In the spring of 1987 I turned twenty-six and Steve Winwood‘s pop hit ―Higher Love‖ got me thinking. I began to mention babies to Robert. ―When do you want to have kids?‖ Robert kept his eyes on the nineteen-inch Trinetron. Great TV for the time, but not for getting his undivided attention. ―I don‘t know.‖ ―What do you mean you don‘t know?‖ I eagle-eyed him. ―The roof still needs a few grand worth of work.‖ I didn‘t buy it. He feared the expense of children much more than diapers and midnight feedings. We fixed the roof.

By the time the work was finished 1988 had rolled around and I grew sick of home repair. Bono still hadn‘t found what he was looking for, either. Ever the romantic, I clenched my teeth and told Robert he needed to impregnate me.

In 1989 baby made three. The Police in no way influenced us to name her Roxanne. The Berlin Wall came down and Pink Floyd‘s The Wall album soared all over again. German families divided for decades on the east and west sides reunited as we discovered the magic of starting our own family. We watched East Germans tiptoe away from socialism while Roxanne delighted in the freedom of her walker. She giggled for the first time when our springer mix Sewickley leapt for a tennis ball.

I remember the eighties as a busy decade of love and growth. Aerosmith met Blondie. I don‘t think I‘ll die seeing the back of his head anymore. Robert keeps pace with me now. And I don‘t interrupt his house plans for fertilization.

We learned there‘s no such thing as the same old song and dance. 

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There Is More in You… Heather L. McGlauflin ENG-262-95 Advanced Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment -- Structure; Profile of a person Friday, October 15, 2010 "How long have you been having this productive cough?" she asks the young man sitting in front of her as she held her stethoscope up against his back.

"Take some deep breaths for me.‖ She listens intently, picking up some slight expiratory wheezing in the lower left lobe and a bubbling sound on inspiration.

"What do you think Doc?" asks the young man as the coughing begins to grip him once again. He brings up a mouthful of dark green phlegm that he quickly spits into a tissue.

"You really need to stop smoking. I want to send you over to radiology and get a chest CT, and then I would like you to go and have some labs drawn.

Let's just get you checked out." She smiles at him as he walks out of her office. When the door closes she sighs and pushes her glasses back up her nose.

Theresa Hainer started her nursing career as a CNA in 1973 at Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor, Maine. She then left to work in a nursing home, where she met Mr. Fred Forsyth. Fred was born in 1876 and Theresa found him fascinating. She spent countless hours in his company, caring for his needs and listening to his stories of a time long gone by. ―There is more than just this in you, Theresa,‖ he said to her one cool spring day. ―You need to keep going. Don‘t stop here. You need to be a nurse.‖ The 19 year old girl had felt this pull in her heart as well. Her own mother was an Army nurse during the Korean War; nursing was in her blood and to be a part of her legacy. ―I don‘t know how I will pay for it‖ she whispered. ―Don‘t you worry about that now‖ he said as he reached his warm, wrinkled hand over to pat hers. ―Don‘t you fret for a minute, we‘ll figure it out.‖ In 1974 Theresa walked through the doors of Eastern Maine Technical College.

She had been accepted into their nursing program. She was able to do this because of the kindness of Fred Forsyth, who saw something in her; he saw how good she would be. During her days at school she continued to care for Fred, going daily to check in and make sure he was ok. When she became pregnant in 1975, her schooling came to a screeching halt. She still took care of Fred, though before he would let her leave for the day he made her go and rest for a little bit. ―You‘re in the family way.‖ He smiled at her a wink in his

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eye. In the spring of 1976, Theresa gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She couldn‘t wait to take her to see Fred. And as he held her a smile spread across his face. There was a 100 year age difference between the two. Shortly thereafter Fred Forsyth died in his sleep.

The phone rang; Theresa had a baby on one hip and a broom in the other. ―Hello‖ she said. ―Yes, is this Theresa?‖ said the voice on the other end of the line. ―My name is Mr. Smith; I represent the estate of Fred Forsyth. He wanted you to finish nursing school. He has left some money here for your education. I can‘t keep it forever. Are you ready to go back?‖ As the tears silently slipped down her cheeks she had a vision of her old friend.

He was smiling at her saying, ―There is more than just this in you Theresa ―.

She knew what she had to do. She would leave the life of a CNA behind and continue on with her education, an education made possible by the generosity of a kind patient and friend.

On the day of her graduation from nursing school she had her waist length brown hair pinned up in a bun. Her nursing uniform and cap were not just white, but brilliantly white. She walked down the aisle with her chin held high.

Standing there watching were her husband, mother and her three-year old little girl.

She went to work on the cardiac care unit at Eastern Maine Medical Center.

There she spent ten years, witnessing the beginning of the open heart surgery.

Up until the 1980's all patients in need of heart surgery had to go to Maine Medical Center in Portland or to Boston. Her love of the human body and being able to be a part of helping people through difficult times drove her to continue her education. She began to plug away one class at a time, working toward her bachelor‘s and then master‘s in nursing.

After ten years on the cardiac floor, Theresa switched gears and headed over to level 2, where ophthalmology became her specialty and she became the charge nurse. Though her patients were not in critical condition, she still found her work fascinating. She was a part of something wonderful; she helped people to see again. She worked with the doctors on staff who were removing cataracts, treating glaucoma, and replacing retinas. She smiled at her patients when they opened their eyes for the first time after surgery, no longer surrounded by scary tubes and beeping machines. There was no death on this floor.

She worked hard over the years. She was awarded the ―Nurse of the Year 1998‖ for EMMC. Ten years later, she left ophthalmology and headed to the Diabetes and Endocrine Center to become a diabetes nurse educator. She was instrumental in research on insulin pumps, and taught patients how to manage

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their disease. Meanwhile, the night classes continued, and then, finally, she was a Family Nurse Practitioner. Fred would be proud.

At 4:30pm the phone rang in her office, she put down her pen and reached for the phone. ―Theresa Hainer‖ she said, resting the phone between her ear and shoulder. She began to reach for her keyboard to try and finish a patient‘s chart. The day was almost over and she still had all of her dictation to do. ―Hi Theresa, it‘s Jim over in radiology; I am afraid I don‘t have good news on the young man you sent over today.‖ She instantly stopped what she was doing. She needed to know what kind of cancer it was before making the call.

A big sigh built up in her chest, ready to come out as soon as she hung up the phone. He was only 25 years old. 

Generations Brenda Fogler

ENG 101-CC English Composition Assignment -- Comparison Essay: Grandmother‘s, Father‘s and my life With each generation there are many differences and similarities in life as we know it. The way we are raised, the conveniences, and the outcome of our childhood makes us the people we are today.

My grandmother was one of four children, and she was the youngest, and born in Canada in 1920. My grandmother‘s life was not an easy life. Her parents divorced, and she and her siblings were divided among family members during rough times. Eventually, my grandmother and her mother came to the United States to live. My grandmother was married by the time she was fifteen. By the time my grandmother was twenty, she had four young children. My grandmother worked hard beside my grandfather. They grew their own vegetables, raised their own meat, and made their own bread and butter. No fast food for them. My grandmother took care of my grandfather once it was discovered he had Multiple Sclerosis. He died at a young age, in his forties. My grandmother was a widow at the age of 35, with four children to raise. My grandmother‘s life was hard, with no electricity, no running water, and no telephone. Their form of transportation was horse and buggy, and if they went anywhere they went on the train. My grandmother went on to become the head cook at a local nursing home and retired when she was 60. She lived a full life, and to my sadness died three years ago at the ripe old age of 87. I loved my grandmother very much.

My father was one of four children. He was the third child but the oldest boy.

My father has also worked hard all his life. He and his siblings worked hard with their parents to provide the things necessary to survive. My father

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worked alongside his father in the woods and helped with the farm animals and the gardens. My father went to school and graduated high school. Graduating high school was a priority for my grandmother. She wanted my father to have an education, the education she never had until she was older. Although my father‘s life was a hard life, he had a happy childhood, until his father became sick. When my father‘s father became sick, my father went to work outside the home for money to support his family. My father worked at local farms, and once he had his license to drive he also worked road construction, anything he could to help provide. My father and mother were married young, and I‘m happy to say they are still together, working side by side and living healthy lives.

I, too, am one of four children, except that I am the oldest and the only girl.

My life growing up, as with each generation, had more advantages. My siblings and I worked on our farm, taking care of the animals, weeding gardens, and helping with chores around the house. Growing up, I helped my mother with all the inside chores, and my brothers helped my father with the outside chores. I did some outside chores, like gardening and haying, but mostly I did what was called women‘s work, while my brothers did men‘s work. My youngest brother and I had to do the dishes. No electric dishwasher for us. And my other two brothers helped my father in the barn after supper. I remember in the winter coming home from school having to get the stiff clothing off the clothesline. What a chore. But no electric dryer for us. Once we had an electric dryer it was only used very little and when it was really needed. I had a great childhood and my brothers and I are very close.

Today as I look back through time at my grandmother‘s, father‘s, and my life, I find that even though there were tough times, there were different problems and more advantages with each generation. My grandmother and her siblings, my father and his siblings, and my siblings all have one thing in common; we all love and are proud to say that we have great friendships with our siblings. 

Three Across Heather L. McGlaughlin ENG 262-95 Advanced Creative Nonfiction Assignment -- Week 3: Tone, Travel Friday, September 17, 2010 After three years of hard work, school, jobs and no break, I was going to take my girls on a trip to the ―Big Apple.‖ We were going to stay with old friends who lived in Brooklyn. They were on vacation, too, and were excited to be tour guides to three country girls. I had spent weeks preparing for the trip. In order to save money I had purchased bus tickets to get us there.

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It was going to be 10 ½ hours on a bus to get there, so I knew I had to pack as much stuff as possible to keep the girls occupied. Along with pillows and a blanket, I packed a carry-on travel case filled with books, games, coloring books, crayons, ink stamps and stickers. I also packed a small cooler filled with fresh fruit, drinks and snacks. I even packed my laptop so we could watch movies on the road. There was not one thing that I wasn‘t prepared for. Or, at least so I thought.

At 5:30 am we were picked up at our house by a taxi cab. You would have thought a limo had pulled up in front of the house, the grins of delight coming from the girls as the driver picked up our luggage and loaded it into the trunk.

I smiled to myself as I got them all buckled in. ―So far so good,‖ I thought to myself.

We were downtown in a flash and standing at the loading zone at the Greyhound bus station. There were a lot of people standing out there waiting. I was shocked, considering it is Bangor, Maine, after all. Everyone there looked exhausted, except for the two little girls standing at my side; they were all rearing and ready to go. I could see the looks of panic on the other passengers‘ faces as they began to realize these children were actually passengers on this bus and not just here to see me off. One man even rolled his eyes at me as the girls started giggling with excitement when the bus pulled into the terminal.

I picked up the carry-on and asked the girls to grab their pillows. As we started to climb the stairs Evy asked me, ―Mumma, can we all sit together?‖ ―I hope so, honey,‖ I replied, as we made it to the top of the stairs. I smiled as my eyes fell upon the seat in the back row. It was three across. All the others on the bus were just two. ―Oh, look girls, head towards the back. That seat is perfect for us.‖ I began to notice that the further from the front of the bus we got, the more space between people. Ella ran ahead to the back row and stopped about a foot shy of our dream seat. ―What‘s wrong, honey?‖ I asked. The look on her face made my stomach drop. ―Mumma,‖ she whined. ―It stinks back here!‖ ―Oh, come on. It can‘t be that bad‖ I replied as I continued walking forward. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, the taste of the air flew right back in. ―Oh God!‖ I cried as the stench from the bathroom seemed to seep into my skin, clinging to my pores. My eyes watered, my nose burned, and as we stood there the other seats of the bus filled up. We were stuck. We were now the potty girls!

We filed humbly into our seats while holding our noses. I reached into my purse, pulled out my perfume and commenced to spray a quarter of the bottle

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onto our seats and the back of the seats in front of us. I opened the door to the bathroom and sprayed some more in there. It seemed to help a little. Either that, or the longer we sat there the more immune to the smell we became. It was like living on a farm on a hot summer day. The sticky, sweet smell of manure usually blows over the people who are just driving by in their cars, but the people who live there really don‘t smell anything at all. Hey, we were country girls. We could handle a little farm on the way to the big city, right?

I got us all situated and started a movie. While the miles flew by, we snuggled down behind our perfume-spayed blanket, only coming up for air when we wanted to take a drink, eat a snack, or talk to fellow passengers who braved their way to the back of the bus to use the bathroom. ―Oh my,‖ one woman exclaimed as she came close to our seats. You could see a look of pity spread across her face as she got closer to us. ―Is anyone in there?‖ she asked. Ella popped up from behind the blanket. ―Nope, its open. Just ask us, we‘re the potty girls.‖ She grinned.

With each passing hour we got closer and closer to the Statue of Liberty and to our friends waiting at the other end. The girls were wonderful. I have never been as proud of them as I was on that bus ride from hell -- the hell being our surroundings and not the attitudes of my two little sweethearts. When the doors finally opened at our final destination, we burst into the fresh air and ran around to run off the stink and into the open arms of our dear friends.

A week later, after seeing the many sights of the city and every possible touristy type thing we could do, I found myself packing to go home. It was going to be 10 ½ hours on a bus to get there, so I knew I had to pack as much stuff as possible to keep the girls occupied. Along with pillows and a blanket, I packed a carry-on travel case filled with books, games, coloring books, crayons, ink stamps and stickers. I also packed a small cooler filled with fresh fruit, drinks and snacks. I repacked my laptop so we could watch movies on the road. In the front pocket of the travel case I placed a large can of Lysol. This time there was not one thing that I wasn‘t prepared for. Or, at least so I thought… 

The Blue Hill Fair-A Family Affair Sally A. Taylor ENG-262-95 Advanced Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment: Coherence; action/observation descriptive essay ―Seriously, is this the line?‖ The thought screams through my head as I round the corner and almost rear-end a truck. The Blue Hill Hair has come to Maine for another Labor Day weekend. Memories swamp me as I sit in the threemile line listening to my grandchildren in the back seat. As long as I can re-

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member I have spent part of this weekend at the Fair, and I can measure my life by its arrival.

At seven I was the impatient child in the back of the truck making that last stretch almost unbearable for my father, as witnessed now by the incessant ―Are we there yet?‖ from my grandchildren. I asked that question, as did my daughter, and now her children. As I look in the rearview mirror, the faces become blurred, as three generations of impatience become one.

As I turn into the entrance I see and hear all the familiar sights and sounds.

The excitement from the backseat is palpable. I briefly remember that feeling, and then suddenly I watch my daughter become my father as she tells the boys to calm down and give us a minute to get organized. I chuckle a little as I remember being told the same thing and years later saying the same thing to her.

We make it through the front gate and two sets of hands are immediately stretched out for money. We both dig into our wallets for cash, and I recollect Dad pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing over seven new twenty dollars bills, one for each child. As those twenties from 1970‘s become fifties in 2010, I wonder how he managed. Then, as now, the first round of cash is never enough to last. Times were tough for a self-employed fisherman, and the amount of money he spent at the fair came much harder than for the two career women standing there today.

We all head for the rides, and I am slightly nauseated as I watch the spinning, flashing lights and general chaos. The boys get in line of the ride they want, and I think back to a time when I eagerly awaited my turn to get tossed around inside one of those brightly painted boxes. My daughter climbs on the ride with her boys, and I wonder how long it will be before she stands here where my father and I have stood and watch her legacies make the same climb. ―Can we have cotton candy? I want French fries Mimi! I have never had a deep-fried Oreo, pleeaassse?‖ The atrocities to the stomach are everywhere and they want one of each. My responsible adult mind screeches no, while those memories of those delicious flavors won‘t let me say no. As more money comes out of my wallet, I can hear my father saying, ―Don‘t eat too much of that,‖ a message passed to my daughter and her children, a message none of us has heeded.

Night has fallen and two tired children and two exhausted adults exit the fair.

As everyone climbs in the car, Dad smiles from home without even knowing why. The tradition of the Blue Hill Fair has been successfully passed to another generation. 

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Photos Robin Brayson ENG 162-95 Creative Nonfiction Writing Photos of good times and sad times and times I‘d like to forget. I‘m nervous opening this memory card. We have somehow located the memory card from when I lived in NH and my children were 4, 1, and 2. They are now 4, 5, and 8. He‘s in some of these photos and I know it. I do not want to see his face.

I don‘t want to see him living with me. I can‘t stand to see him playing with my children. I hate him. I hate him because I loved him and he betrayed me in every way that someone can betray someone, but I want to see me and my children and see that there was some happiness there once. So I open the files.

There, I see my son, just barely walking. There‘s a video of him walking and I can hear the joy in my voice while I encourage him, I can hear the pride in my voice as he succeeds, I see how proud he is of himself in the smile on his face.

I loved that time. There‘s another video of my daughter, blabbering on about things and dancing. She‘s talking about things that only I understand. I‘d forgotten some of that in the time that has passed. Who else would know what a ―Juyia chicken‖ is but me. Her Dora kitchen set was her favorite thing in the world when she was 2 and to her is was her ―Juyia chicken.‖ I see photos of my oldest son. Just as dashing as ever. He‘s so happy to be hanging out with his baby sister. He looks just the same now, besides being taller and slimmer. Always with that cocky smile on his face. There are photos of my cat, who I loved so much but had to give away, and her litter of kittens that were so cute it was almost sickening. There are photos from my niece‘s 1st birthday party. You can‘t ever replace that moment. There are photos of my daughter‘s 3rd birthday party. It reminds me that I wasn‘t there for her real birthday, and the pain and anguish of that time in my life when I was away from my children, and the happiness I felt to be home. My best friend in the whole world, my life mate, the woman I would marry if I were gay, is in this photo album. Her daughter before she was 1. I miss her and that carefree time we had together before she moved away. So many memories, so many emotions.

Then there he is. The one who almost ruined me. The one who caused all of the trouble and pain and agony and abuse and betrayal. He took my funloving joyful life and turned it into something black and miserable. The one that I can‘t get rid of because I still today, after 18 months, am battling him in court so that he can‘t see our child. So that he can‘t ruin my baby. So my son won‘t have to visit a man that he doesn‘t know on the other side of the bulletproof glass at a prison. I am winning. Perhaps he will finally go away once I‘ve won for sure and it‘s finalized.

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I delete the pictures with him in them. There weren‘t many, but they are gone. It doesn‘t delete the pain though, or the reminders that are all around me every day, only the direct reminders of him that are here. I don‘t think that I will ever be able to live a completely normal life. He changed me in ways that are too deeply ingrained in me now to ever be able to go back to the blissfully joyful me. I‘m learning to live with the way I am now though, and I have a husband that loves me even though I‘m pretty messed up in the head. He‘s always going to haunt me. I‘m learning to accept that. The only photos left in the album now can just remind me of the joyful times and my family and friends. I did have a small sense of satisfaction deleting them. I felt a bit of triumph when I did. I‘m not scared to look in that album anymore. 

Gifts from the Sea Heather L. McGlauflin ENG-162 Creative Nonfiction Writing Assignment -- Week 15: In the drawer is a box which holds objects sacred, precious, and unforgettable to you...

I was surrounded by the familiar smell of red rose tea and yarn: Memere‘s house, a place filled with love and safety has become a place to go and find a moment‘s peace and quiet.

I stopped by on this particular day to find my summer clothes. The upstairs at Memere‘s has become a storage facility for all of the things that will not fit in my tiny apartment.

While having a cup of tea, I watched her knit. Her fingers worked the yarn quickly, only taking breaks to rub her aching knees. Many times I have sat and cried with her over difficult times in my life. She would listen intently while rocking back and forth.

Later, in the attic, I began digging through the boxes and came across old photos, certificates and letters of appreciation from my time in the Corps. Each item I found flooded my mind: Evelyn‘s baby blanket, cards, my old Cabbage Patch doll, I set each one aside, looking… then, I saw something that sent shards of glass into my heart. It‘s not really much. A box made out of teak wood with a water stain on the lid from someone‘s cup. I ran my fingers over the soft wood and opened the lid to look inside-- my shells.

I gently touched each one. They were my ―Gifts from the Sea.‖ Each shell had its own voice, and each shell represented a different stage of marriage. The box was filled with soft sands of each coast. They were blended representing the joining of California and Maine, husband and wife. Now, two gold rings lie on a bed of cool sand, abandoned. Something so beautiful is now up in an at-

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tic, but I had wanted to forget about the hurt, betrayal, and heartache. I had hidden my beautiful box away.

Then....there, next to my precious shells lay a small bottle of bubbles. One of my girls must have stuck it in there. For years it sat in a place of honor in the middle of our living room. This box filled with blended sands, shells and gold also held my heart, my children. If it had not been for this joining of sands I would not have my ―Gifts from the Sea‖… my precious daughters.

I closed the lid. Instead of hiding it away I turned and carried it with me. I would go home to my tiny apartment and find it a place of honor.

I never did find my clothes. 

My Vacation 2010 Larry Cossar College Safety & Security Manager My Vacation 2010 Let me begin by saying that this was one for the record books as far as vacations go. No, I didn‘t go very far away from home, but it sure will be a memorable vacation. July 3rd through July 17th was one of the most fun vacations I can remember. Not only did I catch more fish (the most relaxing thing I can find to do), but I had the family around me as well. We went boating, fishing, swimming, and bar-b-queuing.

On one fishing trip in Big Indian Lake I came across a middle-aged man fishing from a small Jon boat in one of my favorite spots. Watching him fish for a moment, I decided to go to another favorite spot to catch a lunker or two. I fished this spot for a spell then moved over, only to notice that Jon boat fishing where I just was. I ignored him for the most part. But the next day I took special notice that he was fishing in all my spots. Having seen him move around an island, I followed.

I saw him fishing on one of my ―hot‖ spots so I went over to him and introduced myself. We shook hands and he introduced himself as well. He and his family were there from Pennsylvania on vacation as well. We kept talking and he told me he had been watching where I was catching the bass, as he had no luck catching any earlier, and he was still having little luck.

Being the nice bass fisherman I am, I offered to show him what I was using for bait. I then told him to hold out his hand as I offered one of my bait packages to him. I said, ―Try this! If you don‘t catch bass on that you need to stop fishing!‖ He grinned and told me he would try it out. I pointed to an area where I

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knew he would have luck and said to try that over there. He no sooner landed his bait in the water then he pulled out a 3 pound largemouth bass. He was hollering, ―Larry, look at this! It worked!‖ I told him to have at it. I wished him the best at fishing and moved over to another area.

The next day I saw him out again and went over to him and suggested that we get in one boat together and go fishing a spell. So I docked my boat and went with him. We enjoyed the fishing time together and shared ―war‖ stories of fishing and family.

Needless to say, we became fast friends and exchanged contact information so as to keep in contact through the hibernation stage we call ―winter.‖ I love sharing my ―secrets‖ of catching bass so others can have the same enjoyment as I do, and I hope they in turn do the same.

As you can see, this summer vacation was one to remember. Lots of fish, family swim times, and new friends!



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The Kids Aren’t Alright Erin D. McGlauflin ENG 101-95 College Composition

Assignment: Contrast teaching elementary school and high school.

"Miss Erin! We already did this paper!" "Miss Erin! I have to go to the bathroom again!" "Miss Erin! Dakota keeps hitting me!" "Miss Erin! Can we have candy today?" The stress works its way up my neck, closing up my throat and making my eyes burn. My head feels like it's going to explode in a bloody mess all over my students, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Then you should have no trouble doing the paper a second time and get it done very quickly. No, you just went to the bathroom and you were gone ten minutes. Dakota, go sit in your desk and read quietly or you will lose recess time. No, you may not have candy, please stop asking for it. All of you need to sit quietly in your seats and do the assignment, and if you want my attention, you need to raise your hands." I slump down in my desk, exhausted, wishing I was teaching at the high school again. 4th grade is so much different than the older kids...and so much more tiring. My mind begins to drift and I remember how peaceful high school can be.

The older students of my 10th grade English class at first glance seemed to be the perfect students. They all sat calmly in their seats, only talking to each other with soft voices and keeping all 4 legs of their chairs on the floor. They didn't ask for candy; they didn't overuse the bathroom excuse and they certainly didn't hit each other.

I breathe in a sigh of relief as their attention is turned to me and I'm able to instruct them properly. In a 4th grade class, this would have been impossible. The kids, testing out their independence, would be rocking in their chairs on two legs; leaning back as far as possible and certainly far enough to give me a heart attack as their teacher. The images of them falling and taking 3 other children out with them would be enough to take class points off the board. How I enjoyed high school at that moment. I didn't have to worry about serious injuries.

Further instructing the high school class, I gave them a worksheet to do and free reading time after. I was pleased to see them pull out pens and pencils and get right to work. The whole class was silent with the exception of shuffled papers and the scratching of pencil lead on the wooden desks. A sigh of relief, and I went to my teacher's desk and pulled out my own book to read, satisfied that the whole class was working. Such free time on my part could never happen in elementary school. Those children knew how to push limits. Reading was hardly a silent activity; it seemed to be the time that fights would

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break out the most. All the kids seemed to know exactly what to say to everyone else to get tempers stirred up and feelings hurt. And no matter how many times I told them to be quiet; no matter the consequences I laid down, they just would not listen. Such moments as a teacher would cause me to throw my hands up in exasperation; but today, today I was in high school. Today was MY day.

Twenty minutes were left of my high school class when I allowed them to work quietly on their schoolwork and to utilize the free time to get their homework done. Across the room, computers came out and opened on the desks and I was happy to see most of the students typing or doing research. However, a group in the corner seemed to be focusing a little too intently on one girl's computer screen. As I went over to see what the commotion about, I was taken aback by the sounds of heaving and heavy breathing. I was astonished to see on the screen, a bloodied man beaten within an inch of his life, lying on the ground in agony while everyone stood around and watched. I was horrified. "What are you doing??" I asked the girl, who was at the computer controls. "It's a viral video," she responded, casually like nothing was wrong. "It was filmed over in Russia and its real! Cool, huh?" My heart sank and I hoped to God it was just another fake video made to look real. A lump caught in my throat as I struggled to tell the class to close their computers; trying to hold back tears. "Please put your computers away...no more computers today," I said as I slumped back into my desk fighting feelings of queasiness. Elementary school started to look pretty good. Most of the children there, if they knew how to use computers at all, certainly wouldn't be watching such morbid, tasteless videos for entertainment. They would be playing their simple kids games of counting, spelling, and keyboarding. I longed for my 4th grade class. I longed for the chairs tipped on 2 legs and for the non-silent reading time. I wished more than ever I could just reach up to the board and take off recess minutes to put an end to their bad behavior. Unfortunately, I was committed to the high school that day and there was no escape for me.

Soon, the bell rang and the students piled out into the hall. I still sat at my desk with my own computer open, desperately trying to distract myself from the horrible images running wild in my head.

Maybe I was weak; maybe this was really how teenagers were nowadays.

But one thing I knew for sure; that was not the sort of thing I involved myself in when I was their age. "Miss Erin! Miss Erin!" I looked around the room, not seeing the child that the voice belonged to. "Miss Erin come see! Dakota found a video on the computer, you have to see this!" My heart raced as in my mind's eye, I saw the bloodied face of the man gasping for breath on the ground while everyone just stood around and watched. And I realized something.

Those innocent children were the future. Someday, those children would

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be in high school and quite possibly in another one of my classes, sitting in the corner and watching disgusting viral videos. I shook my head to loosen the images and stepped out into the hall. The once 4th graders swarmed around me, rushing to get to class before the next bell rang. I found myself appreciating the younger kids despite their many shortcomings, and I anxiously awaited the day I would get to teach them again. ď ś

A Room Full of Old People Sitting in a Sauna Erin D. McGlauflin English 101-95 College Composition Assignment: Descriptive piece about the unfortunate physical effects of aging coupled with the contrasting beauty of steam and mist., The steamy air wraps its tendrils around the many folds and creases of its hosts. It starts at their heads; swirling around receding hairlines and toupees. It gently hugs deep trenches in their faces, big noses, and sunken in eyes. The vapor swirls in and out of hairy ears and nostrils; occasionally being sucked in through leathery and worn lips, passing through false or rotting teeth. It wafts downward, cradling slouched shoulders and osteoporosis. Steam lands on sagging breasts and nipples, only to be sent back to its eternal dance by the rising and falling of chests. Ever sinking lower, the fog conceals hairy and loose-fitting abdomens; it drapes around yawning folds of flesh and spirals onward in swirls of effervescent beauty. The dim light reflects off the mist and it shines with an iridescent rainbow of color as it whirls around, spurred into dancing by the subtle vibrations of the air. It drifts downward, caressing wilted hips and thighs and nestling around flaccid male organs. The steam gently turns to liquid and continues to carve a path downward, leaving trails of water along the legs of its hosts. It dodges patches of moistened hair and soft ridges of skin, picking up speed as gravity encourages its downward flow. Racing past bony ankles and feet, the stream slices between discolored toes and pools onto the tiled floor. Catching the slant of the floor, the water rushes towards the culvert in the middle of the room. Joining on all sides are other individual streams of water and sweat, all yearning towards the drain in a seeming race to plunge into its shadowy depths. With the last glimpse of light fading into a tunnel, the rushing water and bodily fluids fall forever into the darkness of the unknown. ď ś

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Is It Heaven or Not? Leisa Clement ENG 101-96 College Composition The things I see as I walk along the street--that's heaven to me.

Or is it? What would be the point of living on a street if it wasn‘t heaven? Right now my street is cold, white, and full of snow. It is beautiful but it is not heaven. I live on a one way street that is always seems to be going the wrong way. There is one neighbor next door. Although not a bad neighbor, I have no delusions of us having neighborly barbeques. He is a flatlander and has been here barely a year. There is a group home across the street from him. The residents there are good people but I have no illusions about what kind of neighbors they are and I won‘t be borrowing a cup of sugar from them either.

Next to the group home, there is a small street that has a name but nothing on it. Not one house or business. I can‘t figure out why they named the street. If you cross the street there is the back side of a string of churches, one of which is mine. The other church is the one where all the mothers-to-be get their WIC vouchers. The police station used to be there as well located between the two churches. The town has grown despite Augusta‘s best efforts to stop it and we had to move the police station down the street to a larger building. A counseling center is there now. It‘s pretty busy usually. I am not sure that is a good thing. Across from the dirt parking lot which services all three buildings, there are a few old, white, multi-family homes. The families come and go as their financial situations dictate. They get crabby when the overflow from the two churches park in their driveways. Ask me how I know that.

As I continue on down the street I come up on a B & B that is called the Freedom House. I never see anyone there though. They must really be free. The owners got motivated and decided to paint the house yellow. Some of the neighbors are probably still in shock. As I walk along I wave and I chit chat with them all, even though I do not know their names, I try to be neighborly.

Across from the Freedom House is a little secondhand gift shop that sells odds and ends. I believe the lady of the house may be an alternative religion as there are an awful lot of references to the Goddess on her minivan. I don‘t ask though because it really isn‘t my business.

I come next to a very large misshapen parking lot which services the strip mall which fronts the Main Street and has the river on the other side of it. The parking lot winds around and comes out between the Center Theater and the chiropractor‘s office. The Center Theater has been there for a long time and was even closed down for a period of time until some enterprising people came along and raised the money to renovate it. Every weekend there is some kind of concert, movie, or play going on there. Friday night the cars line up along the side of the road with patrons who don‘t want to walk the distance from the parking lot.

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Next to the theater is Mr. Paperback Bookstore. The sidewalk in front of it is all cracked and uneven. They never have the books I want.

Then comes the radio station office which always makes me wonder because every couple of years it changes its format. Right now it is a liberal talk show format. My county is the only Republican county in the state and I can‘t imagine they are making too much money from sponsors. Maybe the owners like a challenge.

As I walk on, I pass by the Observer, where I work and I see all my coworkers busy at work. I wave and mouth the words, ―Hi Guys.‖ I continue on down the street and pass over the bridge out of habit looking over the edge. I see where the people from some long ago forgotten construction job tossed their debris over the side into the water. I guess it was cheaper than taking it to the dump.

I am now in the center of town and can go northwest on to ―Greenville," which is even smaller than Dover. I can go north to Canada although why I would want to do that escapes me. I can go south to Bangor and a place where there is lights, stores, and people; enough people to lose yourself in the crowd, or make your own crowd, if you choose. Not like here, where if I sneeze then my neighbor friend comes down the road, bringing me tissues. For now I am here, but tomorrow…I can go anywhere I please. 

When I Go to Work Shane Walsh ENG 101 Process Essay I park outside in the parking lot and gaze at the vehicle next to me. The name on the plate stares back at me. The name CTALXME always seems to call out to me. Ironic, it is a vanity plate and yet I am too vain to ask what it means. I like to figure out meaning for myself. ―What do you mean?‖ I must ask every day. It‘s a ritual, that I won‘t give up. I will figure it out someday. For now, I open my car door and get my sneakers out of my passenger seat. An empty pair of sneakers and I always put them on the floor. It never occurs to me that keeping the shoes on the floor has nothing to with my desire to keep the seat clean. As I step out of my vehicle into the chilly air, I feel a little bit cold and I shiver. The warmness of the building calls to me, in this bitter wind, on the outside. I‘m pulled inexorably toward the gate, my body a mere extension of myself. I know that no one will be picking up their child without going through this gate. I pick up the long wooden board that serves as a latch and place it gently down into the cradle. Cradle is a funny word. The word causes many people to think of hanging up a phone. I do not think of telephones.

I enter the outdoor paddock that separates the daycare from the outside world: as far as the children are concerned, what separates them from everything. I am quiet before I go in, almost solemn. It‘s almost like when people go

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to church. If I were waiting in the anteroom of a venerable priest, I could not have had more respect for the little time we have to live as we are. The happiness that I feel when I am here is just as ephemeral as the aging clergyman, as all life, and I take a little time to appreciate it. The priest, a doorman of sorts, like St. Peter himself, finch my name quickly, and nods as if to say, ―You are welcome here‖. I nod back, and I am tipping my hat to the doorman, so to speak, though my head is bare. I pause before I open the door. I would tip more than my hat if I had anything else to give but my time. He recognizes me, and knows that even if I were to offer him something, he would politely refuse. He would say,‖ Oh, you are so generous, but really I couldn‘t possibly accept such a gift.‖ I try to keep that in mind as I enter. We are merely the guardians of these doors. To think one particular way, at the exclusion of all else, seldom opens doors. It merely closes the ones you don‘t want to go through. Children rarely see these metaphorical doors, merely what is on the other side. A child does not know what it is like to be close-minded, so I try to only shut the doors with danger on the other side, because that is another thing that they are unlikely to recognize. C‘est la vie. On the other side of ―my door‖ the kitchen greets me. The kitchen is like the heart of the daycare. All the rooms and thus all the children; toddlers, waddlers and babies are hinged to this area. The waddlers are not quite toddlers, they are developmentally a half-step behind. This is the same reason that there are two baby rooms. Children grow up so fast. My grandmother worked in the baby room, and I can‘t recall a time she was not holding a small child. I am sure there were plenty of times, but that is just how I remember her, always holding babies. I was caring for many kids that had spent many days in her arms.. We do not allow lit torches inside daycare, but this will suffice. It‘s nice sometimes, to consider it passed.

I look for my time card, every week, fresh and unwritten on. I write my name in the line. It‘s like I am signing a contract. It also is a reminder, that each day is brand new and all past transgressions are forgotten. The time-card machine is tricky. You must slide the card horizontally and align it with the arrow on the machine. There are lines drawn separately for each ‗day, both IN and OUT lines. For everyone inside, there is nothing more important than our time spent IN. Breaks give us time, to get away from the craziness, to go elsewhere and leave the world behind, for a little while. To the children, though I may leave, they know I will be back. OUT is such a relative term. For a little while, I bet the kids wonder what I do on my ―break.‖ One child even thought it so unusual that I must eventually go home and that I could not spend the night there.

Perhaps he thought that, like them, I got my blankie and pillow and lay down on the floor for a nap, till morning. I must leave eventually, just like them.

I carry my shoes. At one time, I stripped the floor of the daycare with my mom. We got down on our hands and knees, laboring for most of the evening and part of the next day. The kids were coming back on Monday. I step out of my boots and put my shoes on, careful to keep my boots on the patchwork rug. I appreciate the shine on the floors that I do not think anyone but a child or someone who labored for hours on their knees could fathom. Children and

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adults alike enter through these doors. The multiple sets of feet muddy the once pristine floors. I leave my boots in the kitchen, by the heater. The empty pair of boots sits beneath the empty coat racks. The backpacks and the jackets of the school kids will soon replace the empty hooks.

The children watch me enter. They greet me enthusiastically and it is not uncommon for them to run full speed and latch themselves on to my legs. They missed me. I cannot imagine being loved more completely than by a child, or have someone caring about you feel that good. I walk over to the coat rack at one end of the room. They follow, crashing as a wave upon a beach and splash into one side of the room. I always hang up my coat and change into my shoes before I punch in. After all, their time is my time. As I go back to punch in, they crash backward to the other side of the room, smiling all the way. They are like the tide receding into the sunset. With my jacket and boots off, I am ready to work, No uniform or dress code here, kids accept you just the way you are. I like to wear clothes with letters on them though. Children love to point at letters and adore the ABC‘s. Words must seem incredibly magical to a child. Every story they have ever heard is composed of these parts that they recognize, but at the same time, cannot decipher. The license plate CTALXME echoes the sentiment. Children love to tell me what‘s on their shirts. They are proud. I stand back and marvel, as if to say, ―Wow, what a fantastic shirt you have there.‖ As a rule, princesses on a shirt must be commented upon. I believe the same applies to dinosaurs but you must never ask for their names, unless of course, it is the ubiquitous Barney, then ask away. The feeling is frustrating enough as an adult when you have a word on the tip of your tongue, yet you cannot remember it. The frustration for a child must be immense, so many new things everyday and not having the names for half of them. I don‘t even know the names for half the dinosaurs, how can I expect them to? I am not planning on becoming a paleontologist anytime soon. Can you imagine?

Naming everything that has ever been but will never be again, that might be a little sad, in the end. The naming of familiar objects can get a little confusing too. I am still trying to convince one child that I am, not exactly, ―Miss Shane.‖ I leave the kitchen and enter the first room of kids. The introductions are familiar. They remember a favorite song and immediately wish to dance. They have connected the song with me. The song helps them to remember, falling down is alright, we just get back up again. We all fall down sometime. The song helps them to conceptualize that falling down need not be scary. They call it ―Ashes.‖ One child, always urges me to sing it, it is the first thing out of his mouth, ―Ashes, Ashes,‖ without fail. We call it ―Ring around the Rosie,‖ but I am certain the children do not even know what a ―Rosie‖ is. I would not even think of explaining the meaning to them. ―Ashes‖ seems a fine name. I do not presume to correct them. The rest of the day is like a whirlwind. I punch out at the end of the day and I don‘t remember one thing in particular.

As I am getting into my car, and the day is done, I replace the shoes upon my floor. They are empty again, the same way that I took them out. For some

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reason, they feel a little more full though. I know what it is like to walk in someone else‘s shoes. It‘s not unusual that spending so much time with kids gets you thinking like one. I think eventually that you realize they are all growing up so fast. Eventually they will be filling our shoes, and they will go on to have kids themselves. Perhaps, when I am old and nearly retired, I will take care of their children, in the same way that I took care of them, and I will truly know that the ones that I looked after turned out alright. I prefer to believe that there is something of ourselves that we can give that can never be taken away. Like a nursery rhyme, we sing it happily when we can, and when we go home, it doesn‘t matter anymore. I think the kids will always be a part of me, and I would like to think I will always be a part of them. It‘s a nice dream. It‘s a dream for another day, though. In all my reverie I am late for class. 

Why am I paying for your trash!?

Jay Chadbourne ECO 221-01 Introduction to Microeconomics Assignment -- Critical Thinking #3: Environmental Issues as Externalities 11 April 2010 Every household produces waste, but not the same amount. Some may produce one bag of trash a week, and another may produce ten bags. In either case, they do not currently have to pay for each bag at the time of disposal. If you take the time to think about it, how much trash is not able to be recycled?

Would that save you money in the long run, by not having to pay for as many trash bags? Would it allow for the property taxes that you pay to go to a different cause for the town? You may be weighing the value of your time, and the cost of just throwing things away. It may take you fifteen minutes to sort through your recyclables once a week, and that is not worth it to you. Your time is more valuable than that. This is the thought process of every individual in the town.

Do you want to make a difference in the long run, or are you looking at the best way to make money? It is a choice that we all have to make. If we all took fifteen minutes a week to sort out our trash would we have to have as many waste management facilities? Would we have to test the soil, and the water for contaminants as often as we do? Would we have to devote the same amount of acreage to dispose of trash, if more people recycled? The answer to all these questions is no. You have the ability to make the difference if you want to. It just needs to be worth it to you.

As I have mentioned, the cost of testing the soil and water for pollutants is an externality caused by the trash that you make. Externality is the benefit or cost that is unintentionally enjoyed by, or imposed upon, others who are not direct-

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ly involved. Would you purchase a home that has a beautiful landscape across from it? Would that increase your property value? Yes, it would, and it would make it so you could sit out on the porch and enjoy the view. Now what if that same house was directly across from the town dump? Would you still want to wake up every morning to the smell of trash, and the sight of waste across your yard? Would that help your property value? No, it would not. It would drive the price down, because of all the externalities produced by it; the smell, the sight and the contaminated ground are just few.

Cost is another thing that many people take into consideration when making decisions. What does it cost you to produce trash? Just the trash bag to put it in and the effort to put it by the curb on trash day. What is the cost to society when you produce waste? Society needs to find a way to dispose of it, a way to store it, and a way for it to have the least impact on society. Society finds a field that can store it, and they decide that a landfill is the best option for this.

The landfill is there for ten years, and then one of the tests reveals that the water has been contaminated. The water has been deemed undrinkable. Society now has to face an externality that you contributed to. The cost that you disregarded before has now increased. It has raised everyone else‘s tax dollars, their trash expense, and their cost of water.

Where does your property right to the waste you produce end? It ends when you put it at the curb side and allow someone else to pick up after you. Now whoever has picked it up is accountable for your waste. Does that seem fair?

Would you like it if I went by your home and dropped my trash off for you to take care of? Then why is it okay for you to pass your waste off to others? It should not be, and that is what we need to find a solution to.

One of the ways to solve this problem is to make everyone accountable for the amount of waste they produce. Gorham, Maine has started to move in a direction to solve this issue. The trash companies in Gorham will only accept certain trash bags. They cost ten dollars for ten small bags, or ten dollars for five large trash bags. The town has also provided recycle bins for people to use. This way you can make as much or as little trash as you would like and you will only be accountable for the amount you produce. Some people will still value their time more, but others will start recycling.

This is a step in the right direction because now each household is accountable for the amount of waste that they produce. They have taken the cost onto themselves by having to purchase a certain amount of bags. The price of the bags is set by determining how much it will cost the town to pick up that bag and make the final disposal of it. The property rights that were undefined before have been made clearer by the price of the bag. Now there is a fee per bag of trash. That price should include the out of pocket cost and the costs to deal with the externalities that are caused by it. ď ś

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Willy Wonka and Wonkaism Aaron B. Morrison ENG 101-03 College Composition We all watched it as kids, I'm talking about Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Just the sight of Gene Wilder in all of his 1971 glory dancing around with his ―skilled laborers,‖ or Oompa Loompas, brings a nostalgic feeling around. As I've grown older and looked back on this movie from a different perspective, I've come to realize that the chocolate factory I saw as a kid and the one I see in a clearer light now couldn't possibly be any more different.

Then one day it hit me, was Willy Wonka a capitalist? It seems he could be forcing his tourists to sign dreadfully detailed contracts and liability claims, forcing out competition with innovative research and design, and profiting off of Wonka Bar crazes across the globe. I refuse to accept that he could be so dedicated only towards liability, production, and money. Wait a minute, could he have been a communist then? After all he brainwashed the Oompa Loompas into thinking slave labor is a treat. He created idealistic paradises where all the people are living in harmony. I mean it has to be one or the other. Or does it? Until I can figure out what Wonka stands for I'll label his form of business government Wonkaism. The three main conflicting issues I've noticed about Wonkaism to have the most convoluted meanings are the Oompa Loompas, the meaning behind the tour, and Willy Wonka as an entrepreneur. Anything that happened outside of the factory has already been scrutinized by people like Karl Marx; sadly, he never found a golden ticket.

One of the most iconic and reoccurring things in the movie would have to be the Oompa Loompas, their function, and their moral hymns about the deficiencies of others. They are quick to appear on the scene when Wonka calls them, they take all orders without question, and they understand their individual roles within the factory. Even if they all look exactly alike and work as a team, Mr. Wonka assures us that they are ―real people.‖ This casts an overwhelmingly communist depiction of Wonka's business. As Marx would have said ―the proletarian [Oompa Loompas] have nothing to lose but their chains‖ (Marx 1848). In a capitalist world people are motivated by competition to move up the ladder of success by associating themselves with titles, manager, assistant, vice, head, administrator, and so on to gain higher wages. In Wonka's world however, everyone bears a permanent title, no ―head Oompa Loompas‖ to be found, no bosses barking out orders except for one lone man. Mr. Wonka describes that he came about his workforce through liberating the country of Loompaland, a rather heroic act I must say. Under the cover of secrecy he moved an entire oppressed nation of people out of their dangerous environment and transplanted them inside his factory. This worked out quite nicely, Wonka saved money by replacing his jobs with slave labor, and an entire generation of Oompa Loompas was salvaged. In my opinion, the reasons and ways he acquired his new workforce seem very capitalistic. It doesn't take a teacher of

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geography to figure out that he is moving jobs much like the capitalists of today move jobs overseas. Wonka saw his local population of human workers as untrustworthy when his competitors were being sold his secrets so he replaced every job. The best way to sum up Wonka's actions would be to say that he created a communist utopia, through capitalist means, for capitalist profit. In The Pig That Wants to Be Eaten a similar question is posed. Is slave labor justified when compared to the harsh alternatives of death and below average living conditions? (Baggini 2006) In the end we are all to blame for Wonka's choice of labor because we've come to love his products and he has come to love our money. Should either of the two cease then we might see Oompa Loompas being treated better than they currently are, regardless of whether or not they are ignorant of their mediocre conditions. As Marx would have said ―the proletarian [Oompa Loompas] have nothing to lose but their chains‖ (Marx 1848).

The Oompa Loompas are much better than the members of the tour when it comes to awareness in the workplace. I've realized that eighty percent of the golden ticket winners who entered the factory on the date of the tour left in a way they didn't intend. Children were rolled off as blueberries, and people ended up in the garbage chute. Bottom line, the tour was a huge lawsuit waiting to happen. Which brings me to my next point; Willy Wonka's motives for giving the tour in the first place. I found he wanted to select a new leader for the factory, but did he need all the danger? After some careful thought I've come to realize Wonka's philosophy. His entire factory was a metaphor for Pandora's box. A giant obstacle course in which he tested our moral and ethical self-control. The gluttons fell into the river, the greedy met their fate, and the ignorant were broken into millions of pieces and shrunken. Wonka was aware that things were going to go wrong because he forced everyone to sign a liability agreement before the tour even started! Whether he was wrong to publicly expose the weaknesses of others is completely a matter of opinion. All he wanted was an honest child to run the factory for him. The importance of honesty was also tested with the fake Slugworth who offered loads of money for the everlasting gobstopper. It wasn't until Charlie decided to be honest with Wonka at the end of the film that he completed the obstacle course. The value of honesty in the business realm is repeatedly broken all the time both in the real world and Wonka's world. As the old saying goes ―you can always spot an honest businessman, it's the one with no money.‖ Wonka had already recognized that adults run corrupt in the real world when money is involved. Was this his dose of wisdom on business ethics? If so then it shows that Wonkaism isn't favorable of capitalism, it is in favor of production for the sake of enjoyment and creativity, not money.

As for Wonka, what does he truly want? The man started a business long ago based on his own interest; candy making. His creativity can be seen as nonsense by some but in my opinion the man is a genius surrounded by idiots. He knows this, so he surrounds himself with foreign work and attempts to bring truly innocent people, children, into factory life. Constantly he is paying for the mistakes of those around him, whether that's the pollution of an entire choco-

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late river or re-sterilizing the ceiling of the fizzy lifting drink room. I feel bad for the man by the time the tour ends. All he is looking for is ―a good deed in a weary world‖ (Dahl 1971) and it seems he can't even find that. He wants to pass on all of his candy making secrets to someone who will honor them as he did himself. To call him an entrepreneur would be a misrepresentation of what he actually stands for, even if he cloaks himself in business logic, the many ―small print‖ times throughout the movie. Wonka makes over two-dozen of these ―small-print‖ professional literary references throughout the movie which could be interpreted as morals towards his audience, the tour members. His contract in the beginning, the office he works in, and the many responses to the questions others ask him are perfect examples. With this logic he seems on the surface like a normal capitalist, it isn't until the end of the movie though that we realize his true intentions. He is just doing what he loves, which explains many of the things we find in the factory. Think about the purpose of the edible room, it's more of an environment created with his art. The psychedelic boat ride scene as well is just him putting a Wonka spin on a basic form of travel in the factory. These two quirks about the factory serve no real use except for the criticism of outside visitors and Wonka's own enjoyment of the world he has created for himself. He is in fact the very ―man who got everything he ever wanted‖ he quotes at the end of the movie.

Wonkaism, therefore, needs to be looked at as something to be aspired towards. It doesn't adhere to a capitalist blueprint nor does it read the Communist Manifesto. It instead is a positive way of life that bounces between the two.

It asks us to do what we enjoy doing, surround ourselves with it and spread our passion outside of our own existence. This could be candy making for some but the philosophy behind it can be tied-in to virtually any enjoyment in life.

Willy Wonka's Wonkaism can teach people to relax more often, take things less seriously, enjoy the finer things around us, and cherish the nonsense we encounter. That is why I believe the movie is such an icon even in today's world some forty years down the road. In the end we should all take a page out of Wonka's book, even if it does taste like snozberries, it has some useful values that hit close to home for many of us.

Works Cited

Baggini, Julian. ―The Nest cafe.‖ The Pig That Wants to Be Eaten. Ed. George Miller. New York City: Penguin Group, 2006. 298-300. Print.

Dahl, Ronald. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Mel Stuart. Warner Bros., 1971. Film.

Marx, Karl. Communist Manifesto. Germany, 1848. N. pag. Print. 

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The Ruling on the Field Stands Daniel Larkin English 101-01 College Composition 29 April 2010 Albert Einstein once said ―It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity‖ (Author). Knowing what a huge Oakland Raider fan Mr. Einstein was, it is obvious that he was referring to the 2002 National Football League‘s AFC division game versus the New England Patriots.

In this game, the Patriots were awarded possession of the football after a fumble by their star quarterback Tom Brady was overturned by something call the ―tuck rule‖; which at the time no one had heard of. The call ultimately led to an Oakland loss that ended their season. The decision to overturn the fumble was reached after referees reviewed the play using instant replay footage from three different camera angles. The footage of this play was used to scrutinize the decision for weeks upon weeks by analysts and fans alike.

The National Football League‘s official stance was that the correct call was made, but the availability of such revealing images because of the technology used makes this play a relevant topic to this day. The National Football League, or NFL, has openly embraced the use of technology and it has radically improved the quality of their product. Technology has enhanced a fans‘ access to the game and its athletes, the ability to study and profile NFL stars and college prospects, and the capability to almost eradicate human error or malicious intent from the league‘s officiating.

The NFL was formed in 1920 as the American Professional Football Association and is the highest level of professional American football (About). The league currently has thirty-two teams and is by far the best attended domestic sports league by average attendance per game (About). During 2009-2010 each regular season game, of which each team has sixteen, boasted an average of 67,500 NFL fanatics. With such fan support from cities across the United States, the NFL has taken giant leaps in its use of technology to assure consumers can enjoy and have unrivaled access to the sport twenty-four hours a day all year long.

For the fortunate fan who attends a game, the NFL has improved the quality of entertainment for those who are seated in the nosebleed sections. All NFL stadiums have jumbo television monitors that feature live action, replays, and even player profiles. This was taken to entirely new level by the Dallas Cowboys franchise that in 2009 created a 2100 inch 1080p LED screen flanked by a pair of 700 inch televisions that face the end zones (Repanich 33-35). This allows fans inexpensive club seats as well as those at a much higher elevation,

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who normally come equipped with binoculars, the opportunity to enjoy the event close-up.

For a fan that cannot make it to a game, aka the armchair quarterbacks, today‘s home viewing experience can be just as satisfying as actually being at the stadium, especially during the winter months when Packers and Jets fans have to shovel snow out of their seats before settling in for a three hour game.

The NFL currently has a combined total of $20.4 billion in broadcast deals for games through the 2011 season with CBS, Fox, and NBC and through 2013 with ESPN (NFL Media). All of these networks televise in high definition and offer multiple reviews in slow motion and close-ups that allow a fan to see the plays better than if they were at the live event. Viewers even benefit from seeing digitally generated markings on the field that indicate crucial points on the playing field, such as the line of scrimmage or a first down line.

Technology that has developed in social media outlets also allows fans to be involved with their favorite players away from the stadium. Sites like Twitter and Facebook facilitate fans in interacting with NFL players. Take for example Chad Ochocinco, Cincinnati Bengal‘s wide receiver. On Twitter, a mobile alert forum, Ochocinco V comments daily on follower‘s accounts in response to questions they pose to him. And if that is still not enough NFL access, the league even has its own channel with never-ending coverage. It is no wonder the NFL‘s intended acronym, which stands for National Football League, has also V been dawned the National Fan League.

Fans always seem to keep tabs on their favorite athletes, but they are not the only ones. With the addition of more video cameras during games, every player is suspect to review by coaches and the NFL commissioner Roger Goodell.

These countless hours of tape have generated film libraries that house films of all players from multiple angles that teams use to study their opponents before games. Creating specific schemes based on film helps teams take advantage of an opponent‘s weaknesses and greatly improves their chance of competing.

Being able to watch how players react in previous situations also allow defenders to trend their rival‘s reactions and hopefully give them an upper hand on the field. This is especially helpful come draft time.

Every April the NFL holds a draft in which teams select college athletes to join V their team roster and vie for a spot in the startling position. Professional teams use scouts, combine performances, and three to four years of game tape recorded during their collegiate career. The tape allows dissection of a player‘s skill set and hopefully leads to success for both the individual and the franchise.

The recorded games are also used to tabulate college and professional statistics and efficiency ratings such as yards per carry and quarterback completion percentages. With these figures athletes can be compared can even contribute to contract negotiations.

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ESPN and the FX Network have even created a show called Sports Science which is an Emmy Award-winning series that uncovers sports‘ biggest myths and mysteries by using cutting-edge technology to measure momentum, friction, and the laws of gravity (Sports Science). The show uses high speed cameras and impact sensors to demonstrate the amount of strength and speed football players exert during play. The show even puts an ―average Joe‖ through the same tests as the NFL players to make obvious the professional‘s athleticism.

One such test featured the 2010 number one college prospect defensive tackle from Nebraska, Ndamukon Suh. The 307 pound six foot four inch Suh was instructed to attack a suspended 300 pound punching bag, as if it was an opposing offensive lineman, swinging it into the air. As if that was not proof of his brute strength, he had to return to his starting position and stop the bag from swinging. He made the task look effortless. The show then displayed the same test with an ―average Joe‖ in line to stop the swinging bag. The 160 pound five foot eleven inch tester was lifted airborne by the bag and thrown seven feet across the field. Using high speed cameras the show not only demonstrated a massive, beating to the average participant but was able to capture Suh‘s detailed foot work and hand positions that allowed him to easily complete the assignment.

Having the ability to review past games and player performance is an advantage, but it is more significant to use video cameras in making correct officiating calls during a game. This is where instant replay is most useful in. In 1999 the NFL became one of the first professional sports leagues to openly embrace the use of camera technology to review calls made on the field by the referees (History).

There is no reason that I, on my forty inch Samsung plasma television 3,000 miles away from San Diego, should be able to see that Philip Rivers crossed the goal line plane with possession of the football, and the referees on the field get the call wrong.

Referees are permitted to review plays at a coach‘s request. Coaches are permitted two losing challenges per game. These challenges do come with restrictions to combat coaches ,calling challenges every play to gain a few inches on the spotting the ball. Losing a challenge costs a team a timeout, of which they are only allotted three per half. As for the last two minutes of each half, the NFL requires each play be reviewed immediately after by officials in a stadium booth to ensure accurate calls. There is no extra time in between plays unless the matter at hand is disputable at which time an official clock stop is initiated and the tape is reviewed until a clear decision can be made (Digest).

Other sports such as Major League Baseball have not welcomed such advances in play for fear of changing the sports history and slowing down an already sluggish paced game. Though they are currently using limited replay on ques-

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tionable home run and fair or foul calls, it was implemented years after the NFL initiated its replay policy.

Having the ability to correct human error gives integrity to the game. It is difficult for a controversy to arise on a questionable call or accusations of referees favoring certain players or teams when every single call can be examined my viewers and sports analysts. Some may believe that this is a form of micromanagement by the NFL over its employees, though most referees have shown support for the ruling because they too are fans of the games and do not want to be hounded or banished from cities by outraged fans over a call they may have missed that was clearly evident on tape. In fact, Jerry Merkbreit, a well respected NFL referee for twenty-three years had this to say regarding the use of instant replay in the NFL, ―I had several big-time mistakes. I felt at the time that it happened, ‗Why am I here?‘ You‘re heartsick about a call that you made.

You want everything to be perfect. But it‘s not a perfect science. There‘s nothing perfect‖ (Quotes).

While Merkbreit‘s success as an official is measured by his four Super Bowl appearances, he is also remembered for botching a coin toss during Super Bowl XVII. He confused the two similar sides of the specially decorated coin, and awarded the ball to the wrong team. Thankfully the mistake was corrected before the game, and neither team was negatively affected. Luckily for Merkbreit the flip was caught on tape for official review.

While physics phenomenon Einstein‘s NFL preference may be debatable, the fact that technology has changed the NFL for the better is indisputable. The NFL has recognized that they can adapt the league and take advantage of new technologies while still staying true to the sport. The capabilities available today, particularly with video and the internet, have allowed the NFL to sell their product successfully season after season, improve on human officiating errors, and have benefited internally by being able to study and document the history of the game in a way that was not possible when the league was formed in 1920.

Works Cited

―About.‖ National Football League. NFL Enterprises LLC, 2010. Web. 23 Apr. 2010. <http://www.nfl.com/>. ―Author Info-Albert Einstein Quotes and Quotations.‖ Famous Quotes and Authors. Famous Quotes and Authors.com, 2010. Web. 29 Apr. 2010. <http://www.famousquotesandauthors.com/authors/alberteinstenquotes.html>. ―Digest of Rules.‖ National Football League. NFL Enterprises LLC, 2010. Web. 26 Apr. 2010. <http://www.nfl.com/ruIebook/digestofrules>. ―History.‖ National Football League. NFL Enterprises LLC, 2010. Web. 25 Apr. 2010. <http://www.nfl.com/history/chronoIogy/199 1-2000>.

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―NFL Media Rights Deals.‖ Sports Business Daily. Street & Smith‘s Sports Group, 2010.

Web. 24 Apr. 2010. http://www.sportsbusinessdaily.com/article/114714 ―Quotes.‖ Jerry Markbreit. IMDb.com, Inc., 2010. Web. 25 Apr. 2010. http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1185627/>.

Repanich, Jeremy. ―Top 5 Technologies in NFL Stadiums.‖ Popular Mechanics 10 Aug. 2009: 33-35. Print.

Sports Science. ESPN Internet Ventures, 2010. Web. 29 Apr. 2010. <http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/sportscience/index>. 

A Response to "Naked Girl and Mirror" by Judith Wright Zeraph Moore ENG 225 Literature by Women 5 December 2010 "Naked Girl and Mirror," a poem by Judith Wright, describes in lush, painful tones the estrangement from the body experienced by a young woman after puberty's transformations. Wright seems to insist upon a total divide between the "conquered" womanly body and the unconstrained androgynous body of the pre-pubescent, but later acknowledges the possibility of reconciliation.

"Naked Girl and Mirror" explores this division through a dialogue of gesture, emotion and words exchanged between the girl and her mirrored image. The poem speaks to a problem of a cultural idea of womanhood that is so heavily weighted with gendered identification that it seems to have no room for personhood.

"Naked Girl and Mirror" uses beautiful, rich language that is steeped in pain to communicate an estrangement of body and soul that has occurred after physical maturity. Wright describes the young self as having no body, yet being full of perception (728: lines 1-4). The speaker of the poem has "only what served my need to laugh and run/and stare at stars and tentatively dance" (2-3). Bodiless here means without self-consciousness; the mirror becomes synonymous with the body and with self-consciousness. The speaker's joining of the ideas of body, mirror and self-consciousness represent an inability to separate the experience of the physical body from the body as it is socially construed. While looking into the mirror, the girl denies the reflected image as herself, remembering a time when she had no reflection, no sense of what she was outside of joy and perception. After the mirrored image has appeared, the speaker "[stares] at [it] in fear, dark brimming eyes," feeling "betrayed, by that little darkness here, and here/this swelling softness" (8, 18-19). After puberty, the girl no longer experiences the joy; instead she feels fear and hatred toward her reflected image. Though the speaker seems to posit the divide as irreconcilable

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with blunt phrases like "This is not I" and "You are not my own," she later softens, saying "Yet I pity your eyes in the mirror [. . .] Some day we may love (1, 27, 29, 31) The first four stanzas of "Naked Girl and Mirror" describe an antagonistic relationship between the speaker and her body, explored through dialogue and emotion. The antagonism stems from an understanding of the female body as an insufficient vessel for personhood and a mere "half of some other"-- that is, an incomplete sexual equation (26). In the first stanza, the speaker remembers her youth, when she was free to slip away from hands that reach for her "on [her] own currents" and moans, "Can I be trapped at last in that soft face?" (6) The speaker seems to have a sense that those reaching hands will not be dissuaded now that she is grown up; her identity, represented by the body, has become fixed within society, and her freedom consequently has been abridged.

That freedom is what is imperative for full personhood.

The sexuality of the body as it is perceived by society forms another basis for rejection. The body itself may have desires, but the poem's speaker focuses her anger on the mirrored image of the body, resenting the body not only as simple flesh, but as it exists within society. The speaker feels herself betrayed by her body even as she acknowledges its loveliness (22). The loveliness itself becomes part of a trap-- the body is "half of some other who may never come" (26). The body's real or perceived longing for sexual union is scoffed at bitterly by the speaker, who views the situation competitively (27). The jealousy between the spirit and the future male lover can serve as metaphor for the loss of self-confidence many girls reportedly experience after puberty, a time in which autonomous self-love may give way to anxiety about the way one is perceived.

The problem that comes between the speaker and her reflected image is not one inherent in growing up; it is a cultural issue. The weight of meaning loaded upon the female body has made it seem preferable to disassociate from it. The childhood body is free of many of the meanings loaded upon the adolescent and mature female body. If meanings make the body, the contrast is severe enough to justify the speaker's assertion that she "had no body once" (1). The speaker describes the body as it reaches for her friendship and union, imploring her to "know me-- be me" (11). Yet she refuses, because her image of the body has been commandeered by her social environment, which inscribes meaning so heavily upon it. Meanings pertaining to role, to sexuality, to weakness, to heterosexuality, and countless other meanings-- enough weight of meaning to cripple, if the circumstances are right. While the male body remains mostly a "human body," the female body is a female one, loaded with unwanted implications. In striving for full personhood, the speaker seems to feel that she must divorce herself from her body, crying "Let me go-- let me be gone" (25). What's more, she feels that such a separation is possible. The source of the tragedy is cultural and patriarchal, for the body reaches out for her friendship; the poem is a tragedy of lost love.

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The final stanza hints at the possibility of reconciliation through aging. The speaker acknowledges sharing love with the body "some day" (31). Like youth, the aged state is often considered an androgynous, desexualized time. The poem remains a sad, angry one, with the final line a threatening reminder of what will happen if a future lover associates her with her body as if they were one (33-34). Wright's speaker seems unable to transcend the dilemma before her, and the poem serves as a testament to soul-body love that is denied or only grudgingly permitted. 

The Dynamics of a Parent-Child Relationship: Reflection and Respite Alissa Downing ENG 112-95 Introduction to Literature 07 July 2010 One‘s relationship with a parent is a unique thing. Some relationships are close; full of love, devotion and support. Others are filled with resentment, anger and hostility. In Robert Hayden‘s ―Those Winter Sundays‖ and Molly Peacock‘s ―Say You Love Me‖, we are able to compare and contrast aspects of the parent-child relationship; the tone of the relationship, the importance inanimate objects can play, and the clear sense of defeat and helplessness both offspring convey in their writing.

The tone of a parent-child relationship can vary. While both narrators of these pieces reflect upon interactions with their fathers, there are distinct differences between the two. The son in ―Those Winter Sundays‖ reflects upon a loving father, diligent in his quest to provide for his family. While he was a child, his father would wake during the morning hours to ―…drive[n] out the cold‖ (Hayden 11), something so very simple, yet momentous in its significance. Contemplating the intent and purpose of these actions, the son realizes his father‘s objective – to make the life of his family easier and more pleasurable. We are lead to believe the son, now a grown adult, is remorseful that he never expressed his gratitude and appreciation to his father earlier in life. ―… my father got up early / and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, / then with cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather made / banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him‖ (Hayden 1-5). In contrast, the daughter in ―Say You Love Me‖ reflects upon her interactions with her father very differently. His hostility, quite possibly driven by his alcohol consumption, alarms, frightens and confuses her, as well as her sister. ―What had happened? Had my mother – had she / said or done something?..‖ (Peacock 9, 10). Her refusal to comply with his demands, ―Say you love me!‖ (Peacock 7) shows the lack of respect her father has earned from her. She describes her rejection as, ―… I

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brought my knee / up to kick him, but was too scared. Nothing / could have got the words out of me then…‖ (Peacock 12-14). This illustrates the damage which has occurred in their relationship, as well as the fear and longing for refuge she seeks. Instead, she dreams of a father with characteristics much like the one described in ―Those Winter Sundays‖ : ―…a kind, rich father,…‖ (Hayden 27).

In both pieces inanimate objects play a role in each parent-child relationship.

Hayden uses the woodstove and good shoes to highlight the son‘s recollection of his father‘s diligence to his family: ―who had driven out the cold / and polished my good shoes as well‖ (Hayden 10, 11). Every morning his father would rise and dress in the cold, allowing his family to remain in bed until the house was warm, ―Sundays too my father got up early‖ (Hayden 1) and on Sundays would polish his son‘s good shoes for church. These physical items signify the time and effort he made to show affection towards his son. Comparatively, Peacock uses another object, the telephone, in a significant role. In this case, the telephone identifies a method of escape from the threat posed by the father. While the phone actually never rings, the distraction it enables our character to take advantage of, is important. ―Dad, the phone! Go answer it! / The phone wasn‘t ringing, yet he seemed / to move towards it, and I ran‖ (Peacock 38-40). Without these objects, the emotional connection would be lost, preventing the son from realizing the true meaning of his father‘s actions, and possibly eliminating the daughter‘s getaway, leaving her at the mercy of her drunken father.

Defeat and helplessness are apparent in both pieces. Hayden‘s son expresses his frustration and shame from not realizing the purpose and intention of his father‘s actions sooner; possibly indicating that he is now a father himself and is now able to see clearly the objectives which once eluded him. ―What did I know, what did I know / of love‘s austere and lonely offices?‖ (Hayden 13-14).

Often time allows us new insight into things and this is apparent in this quote.

The ―offices‖ which are spoken of are not physical rooms, but rather a role that one plays. But the role that is played by Peacock‘s father instills a very different sense of helplessness. After constant badgering and through the change in her father‘s demeanor, she is left fearful and dispirited. ―I love you, Dad.‖ I whispered, leveled / by defeat into a cardboard image, untrue, / unbending…‖ (Peacock 33-35). His continued demands for her to express her love, not through action but simply words, leads her to comply but he doesn‘t seem to comprehend it is stated simply out of fear and not true. Would it have been better for her to resist further? One can only assume that by doing so, his actions, ―I was pinned to the chair because / he‘d hunkered over me with arms like jaws‖ (Peacock 4-5) would have escalated into violence. Both of these examples are true testimonies to the power parents have within the parentchild relationship.

Both ―Those Winter Sundays‖ and ―Say You Love Me‖ inspire emotions within their readers. Every reader has a parent and their own unique relationship.

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Each piece will arouse a diverse sense of meaning, and touch each person in a different way. What are considerable and important in both are the authors‘ abilities to show how unique and personal each relationship can be.

Works Cited

Abcarian, Richard, Samuel Cohen, and Marvin Klotz, eds. Literature: The Human Experience. Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin‘s, 2010. Print Hayden, Robert. ―Those Winter Sundays‖. Abcarian, Cohen and Klotz. 944.

Print Peacock, Molly. ―Say You Love Me‖ Abcarian, Cohen and Klotz.945-46. Print 

Physical and Emotional Separation: A Frame Analysis of Citizen Kane Michael Arell ENG 212-95 Introduction to Film 28 June 2010 This essay is an analysis of the frame occurring around time marker 53:58 in Citizen Kane (Orson Welles 1941). The frame appears at the end of a short sequence that shows the deterioration of Charles and Emily Kane‘s marriage, all in the setting of the breakfast table. By the time of this shot, they are no longer speaking, and both are lost within their own thoughts. The shot demonstrates the technique of deep-focus cinematography, which the director of photography for Citizen Kane, Gregg Toland, used heavily. This long shot is the second two-shot in this sequence. In the first one, Emily and Charles sit close together. In this last one, they seem to sit as far away from each other as possible. The table itself appears to have widened from one two-shot to the next two-shot. The placement and appearance of human figures, the lighting, and the balanced composition of this shot contribute to the sense of separation between the two characters. The frame is a visual symbol of how Charles Kane distances himself from friends and family because of his personal goals and desires.

One cannot overstate the significance of the actors‘ distance from one another, ―Figure placement and movement… can produce artful compositions, provide information about characters and their relationships, develop motifs, and reinforce themes‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 100). Both actors are not only at opposite ends of a long table, but also the angle of their chairs makes it so that they are not even facing each other. Charles‘ chair (on the left) angles towards the viewer, while Emily‘s chair (on the right) angles away from the viewer. Instead of making eye contact, they read their respective newspapers— Kane reads his own Inquirer, while Emily reads the leading competitor, The Chronicle. As Maria Pramaggiore and Tom Wallis state in their text, Film: A

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Critical Introduction, ―figure placement in Orson Welles‘s Citizen Kane conveys the ongoing predicament of the film‘s central character‖ (100), as one can see in this shot—his relationships with others are suffering.

With the characters‘ physical positions, the costumes that they wear also make an impression on the viewer as to what the characters are feeling. The fine clothes that the actors wear symbolize their upper class lifestyle, ―Costumes provide information about time and place, but, more importantly, they express social milieu and personal style‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 102). For some reason, Charles and Emily dress formally for breakfast in their own home. This choice of clothing seems to indicate that they are not only wealthy and can afford formal clothing, but they do not feel comfortable enough with each other to wear normal clothing. Perhaps, they feel a need to assert their social status even when they are alone at home.

Dishes on a table are a common sight at breakfast time, ―Like costumes, props establish character and hint at change and development‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 103). However, the viewer will notice the number of fancy crystal glasses on the table. These are not the type of dishes that one would see on any common breakfast table. The place settings in this scene demonstrate wealth, but also a profound emptiness. The daily practice of breakfast has become a structure, like the place settings, but breakfast has lost anything that might have been enjoyable. The human figures in this frame as well as the objects on them and around them contribute to the distanced feeling of this shot, and of the film as a whole.

In order for the aforementioned traits of the frame to become noticeable, the filmmaker must choose the correct lighting in order to illuminate the scene and to cause an emotional impact on the viewer, ―Lighting furthers the audience‘s understanding of characters, underscores particular actions, develops themes, and establishes mood‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 107). The quality of the light in this shot is hard. The patterns of the light from the windows and of the shadows on the floor beneath the table form clear shapes and sharply defined edges. The majority of the light for the scene comes from a back light beyond these windows, ―the back light (aimed at the subject from behind and above) visually separates subject from background‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 110).

On a level of realism, it is unclear from where the light on their faces comes.

The light coming from the windows behind them would not be able to light the side of their face that is away from those windows. Likewise, light from windows on the sides would light the whole room, not just the actors‘ faces. The only explanation left for the light on their faces is that it comes from a light source that exists outside the diegesis of the film. One can see many instances like this frame in Citizen Kane where the lighting design serves more for emotional impact than for practical purpose. This shot demonstrates a very high contrast caused by low-key lighting, ―producing an image with a number of shadows‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 111). The theme of separation appears in

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the painted, arched windows near the top of the frame as the illustration shows two birds—seen in silhouette—that the dark window frame separates.

The lighting enhances the sense of disconnection that the two characters feel from this point in the film forward.

Beyond the placement of human figures and the lighting of this frame, the composition of this frame gives additional qualities to the frame and enhances the viewer‘s reaction to the situation that the frame contains. The camera presents the shot at eye-level, ―The camera‘s height most frequently approximates an eye-level view of the action‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 140). The camera could easily be someone standing nearby, observing the scene. The amount of light and dark areas of this frame balances evenly, ―A balanced composition has an equitable distribution of bright and dark areas‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 112). The center of the frame is mostly light, while the edges of the frame transition to black. The shadows seem to swirl around the human figures, ―Using contrasting areas of lightness and darkness to create compositional effects is referred to as chiaroscuro, after a classical painting technique‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 116). Once again, the viewer will see how a shot like this in Citizen Kane fuels the mood of the scene, without providing an explanation of why the room would be so dark at breakfast time.

There are a great number of lines present in the frame, ―The human eye tends to respond to diagonal lines, vertical lines, and horizontal lines in decreasing degrees of emphasis‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 113). A large, diagonal beam on the ceiling splits the room in half, exactly between the two actors. There are at least nine vertical lines that result from the window frame and the narrow columns near the windows. These lines enhance the feeling of separation.

Finally, the table itself forms a distinct horizontal line in the foreground that looks as if it is physically pushing the two actors apart.

It is difficult to see the objects that surround them. It looks like a Christmas tree behind Charles and a collection of houseplants behind Emily. The fact that the objects that surround them are difficult to see shows the viewer how the things that had been part of their daily life—things that they have shared—are now meaningless. The two actors are nearly at the edges of the frame. However, as the text notes, ―tight framing does not always imply entrapment‖ (Pramaggiore and Wallis 115), and the fact that the actors are on opposite edges of the frame exaggerates their separation and does not provide a commentary on the size of the room. The compositional elements of this frame help to show the loss of intimacy that is now a part of Charles and Emily‘s marriage.

As one can see, one frame out of tens of thousands in a film can have an impact on the entire film. The various elements of the mise en scène in this particular frame give immense meaning to the emotional undercurrents of this sequence and of the entire narrative. The physical distance and separation of Charles and Emily in this scene, works as a visual metaphor for Charles‘ emo-

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tional detachment towards Emily and—as the viewer later learns—towards nearly every other one of Charles‘ relations. 

Frame Analysis: Psycho Dustin Nevells

ENG 212-95 Introduction to Film 10/24/10 Alfred Hitchcock, possibly one of the greatest film directors of all time has created countless masterpieces that have left a huge impact on the film industry. His films such as, Rear Window, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Vertigo, and North By Northwest have left a significant precedent on the way in which films are shot today. Through his use of figure placement, angles, and setting, scenes begin to have the feeling of taking place right in front of the audience.

His 1960 classic, Psycho, proves all of these elements to be true within seconds of watching most any scene. One particular frame that proves all of these elements occurs during the scene in which Marion is telling Sam that they can no longer be together. In the particular frame (4:40), the audience is shown Marion standing in front of a mirror talking while Sam is still laying on the bed.

This frame is vitally important to the film as a whole because it begins a series of events that ultimately changes Marion‘s life forever. It‘s the turning point where Marion must choose which path she‘ll take: continue with her life, or make a drastic change. All three elements listed above are present in this frozen in time frame.

The most prominent Mise en Scene (Pramaggiore and Wallis 87) element in this frame is that of figure placement (Pramaggiore and Wallis 100). Through the use of figure placement, Hitchcock manages to show the audience who is in control in this scene and alter the audience‘s perception of Marion‘s character. This scene is predominantly about Marion‘s struggle to regain control of her life. In this frame, the audience sees Marion standing closest to the camera, with Sam in the background. Through Sam and her conversation, the audience learns that they are having a secret affair, and cannot be together officially. Right before the scene freezes, the audience hears Marion say ―Respectfully‖ as she buttons her last button. This final word before the frame freezes seals the audiences‘ perception that Marion is a woman trying to regain control. The idea of them not being able to be together seems to irk Marion so much that she‘s ready to call it quits. This is evident by Marion‘s facial expression and body positioning. She has positioned herself as far across the room from Sam as the room allows. She stands in the mirror and looks at herself, as if her reflection was there as moral support. Her facial expression appears to be worried, and unsure. Her body positioning allows the audience to infer this hypothesis to be correct. By playing with the depth perception of the frame,

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Hitchcock is also playing with the audience‘s perception of the characters. The audience is now given the impression that Marion is in control of the scene, as opposed to before when Sam dominated the frame (4:18). This is accomplished by her body being closer to the camera, appearing larger, in reference, to that of Sam. Sam now appears to be small and to have less control of the camera frame than that of Marion. With control of the scene, she demands that Sam be with her… to which he complies. This use of figure placement is critical to the overall meaning of the film because it‘s the start of Marion‘s character development. It‘s at this moment that the ‗snowball‘ begins to roll, and [we] the audience sees her become a stronger person overall. Prior to this scene, the audience was given the impression that [she is a small and meek character] Marion is a weak character, but because of her camera position in this frame, this impression is altered. Marion, however, is not the only character in this frame. Sam too, has been altered by the use of figure placement.

In comparison to Marion, Sam is now seen as a small figure, lying on the bed with his head buried in the blanket. Simply by looking at Marion‘s dominate position above him, he appearing small next to her figure with his head buried in the pillow, it vaguely appears like he‘s a small child being reprimanded for his actions. This further strengthens the concept that Marion is in control of the frame. He now gives off the impression of being a small child, rather than an adult because of the depth perception of the characters. The use of figure placement in this scene is tremendously important because it prepares the audience for the continuing character development throughout the rest of the film. Without this particular frame, Marion‘s character would appear flat and we‘d still think of her as the small and meek secretary. Figure placement alone, however, does not solely give the impression of dominance. The use of angles helps strengthen the concept Hitchcock attempts to instill.

The use of angles is another Mise en Scene (Pramaggiore and Wallis 87) component that Hitchcock uses to its full potential. During the particular scene in discussion (4:40), there is a lack of straight horizontal lines in the whole frame.

Every line seen in the frame is skewed in one way or another. Hitchcock positions window blinds and dresser drawers to be skewed toward each character. It appears that this is done on purpose, and this small feature is seen throughout the rest of the film. Hitchcock rarely uses perfect horizontal lines in his films for many reasons. It appears he uses the angles in this film, however, to give the audience the feeling of unevenness. Marion appears in this frame to be uneven herself… mentally of course. On one hand, she can keep the affair going, and stay with Sam. On the other hand, she can do what‘s right and end the affair until they can be together 100%. The use of uneven angles in this scene gives a visual to the mental state of Marion. In terms of cinematography, Hitchcock positions the camera above Marion‘s head, and according to the text, is called a high-angle shot (Pramaggiore and Wallis 140). In this particular frame using this shot, it provides further strength to the concept of figure placement. It allows Marion to have the height she needs to get her point across. The use of high-angle also allows for shadows to form in the setting, which is another component that contributes to this frame. This is done by

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positioning the lighting to come in from the window. It shines in, and hits the characters in such a way to strengthen the angles. It is also reflected from the mirror Marion has positioned herself in front of. The use of angles in this frame is vital because it gives the audience the feeling of unevenness. With this feeling of unevenness, the audience gets the impression that things are not always as they appear (such as the case when we‘re introduced to Norman. We‘re introduced to a nice young man, and later find out he‘s a chef knife wielding, wig wearing, psychopath). The use of angles help tie all components together. Angles, however, would be unless the settings didn‘t allow for them.

The use of settings (Pramaggiore and Wallis 89) help pull both figure placement and angles together in this film. In this particular frame (4:40), we‘re shown Marion and Sam in a cheap hotel. The concept of angles re-appears in regards to setting. The setting of the props (Pramaggiore and Wallis 103), in particular, is significant to the angles because of the way in which the light from the window interact with the props in the room. The audience is shown two distinct sets of angles; the angles of the blinds and of the dresser. The angles of the dresser appear to lean towards Sam‘s character, where the angles of the blinds appear to lean towards Marion‘s character. The setting allows these angles to occur and give the illusion of choice to the audience; the dresser meaning stay with Sam, the window meaning an escape. On one hand, the angles of the dresser point to Sam, which represents a home, a life, a ‗place to put your clothes‘ so to speak. Essentially, if she chooses Sam, she‘ll have a home and family. The other set of angles, however, point to the window. The window represents an escape from Sam, and of pain he causes her.

Had the setting not allowed these angles to occur, the illusion of choice would be nonexistent. These two angles give the illusion that she has a choice in her life. The concept of setting is vital because it brings the whole scene together.

It strengthens both concepts of Marion being the powerful force in the room, and of her having a choice. The setting of the frame if vital, had the scene taken place anywhere else, the effect would have been lost. Being shot in a bedroom allows the audience to get the feeling of intimacy, and love. Had this been filmed in most any other location, however, the mood would not be the same Hitchcock pinpoints the most effective setting possible for the two lovers to able to be intimate and alone. He also manages to combine the setting with figure placement and angles to finish off the frame.

Had it not been for excellent direction, Psycho would not have become the masterpiece we know it to be today. Alfred Hitchcock used many Mise en Scene components with the creation of his 1960 classic, Psycho. Through the use of figure placement, various angles, and setting, Hitchcock created a thriller work of genius. The concepts of power, confusion, and choice were all represented in a single frame frozen in time. Psycho is quintessentially one of the greatest films of all time, and has lasted the test of time. With its outstanding direction, and marvelous acting, very few films can come close to accomplishing what Psycho accomplished in a single frame. 

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Identity Renee Lecuivre ENG 112 Introduction to Literature May 12, 2010 Growing up, many children feel that their parents are unable to relate to them.

Inversely, many parents feel that their children are too naive and often incapable of distinguishing the best path to take in life. Despite parental influence, it is ultimately up to the child to choose their future and who they will become.

This struggle to develop and maintain an identity is present in many works of literature. Two such works, ―Everyday Use‖ by Alice Walker and ―Two Kinds‖ by Amy Tan, illustrate how two children from very different backgrounds embrace their individuality and establish their identities. From their early years through adulthood, Dee and Jing-Mei combine elements of their parent‘s perspectives, their personal ideas, and cultural expectations to create their personal identities.

Though Dee and Jing-Mei may have considered their parents to be a burden, many of the decisions made for them were done with their best interests at heart. All Jing-Mei‘s mother wanted was for her to seize the American dream and take advantage of opportunities never thought possible in China. She tells Jing-Mei ―You could be best anything.‖ (Tan 457). Unfortunately, her mother is constantly bombarded with images of child success stories on television and even among her own family members. This is what leads to her final assessment of Jing-Mei‘s future. Although it sounds similar to a suggestion, her mother‘s proposal of ―You can be prodigy, too‖ (Tan 457) becomes Jing-Mei‘s destiny. From bad haircuts to drills on country capitals, they search for something for Jing-Mei to excel at. Just when Jing-Mei believes her mother has given up on her career as a prodigy, she is introduced to the piano and her mother makes sure to let her know that she has ―traded housecleaning services for weekly lessons and a piano‖ for Jing-Mei to practice on ―two hours a day, from four until six‖ (Tan 460). This does not create a happy situation for Jing-Mei, and the piano clearly is not something that she wished to have in her life.

Dee‘s mother also tries to encourage her to succeed, but only because she believes it is what will make her daughter happy. The first thing she admits to doing is ―raised the money, the church and me, to send her to Augusta to school‖ (Walker 313). This allows Dee to have more of an education than most of the people she knows in her town. As time goes on, Dee is given even more things to make her happy including ―A yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school; black pumps to match a green suit that she made‖ (Walker 314). Before long, it is obvious that although Dee may be successful in the things she enjoys, she is pushing herself away from her upbringing. Dee‘s mother is upset when she finds that Dee wishes to be addressed by

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a name other than the one given to her at birth, a name also carried by her grandmother. When Dee tries to take quilts passed down through the family to her sister, her mother finally decides that what is best for her is not always what makes her happy and tells her to ―take one or two of the others‖ (Walker 318), because she clearly has not become what her mother would have liked.

As there are two sides to every story, both Dee and Jing-Mei see the events that took place during their childhood differently than their parents. At first, Jing-Mei reveals that she was ―just as excited as my mother, perhaps maybe even more so.‖ (Tan 458). She understood that ―America was where all my mother‘s hopes lay.‖ (Tan 457). After failing the many tasks her mother assigned her, Jing-Mei began to realize that her mother was trying to make her into something she was not destined to be and promised herself ―I won‘t let her change me, I won‘t be what I‘m not.‖ (Tan 459). Soon after, she learned of her mother‘s plan to train her in classical piano music. It was then that JingMei decided to be honest with her mother. ―I‘m not a genius!‖ she exclaimed ―I can‘t play the piano.‖ (Tan 460). From then on it was Jing-Mei‘s personal mission to show her mother that she would not be able to break her. Her desire to be a regular child causes her to be unprepared for talent show and embarrass both herself and her family. This leads to her official refusal to practice piano any longer. She acknowledges to her mother ―I‘ll never be the kind of daughter you want me to be!‖ (Tan 463). Years later, after her mother has died, JingMei inherits the piano and other family possessions. She decides to play the piano for the first time in years and stumbles upon the second half of the piece she was previously made to play. It is called ―Perfectly Contented‖ and is an accurate description of Jing-Mei. She is content with herself now that she is able to control her future, and no longer opposed to playing as long it is at her own pace.

Dee did not have such an easy time growing up. Her family lacked money and lived in a small home. When their home burned down, Dee was pleased, though their new home was very similar to the old one. She had always wanted to achieve more than what her blue collar family had, and attending school allowed her to do so. ―At sixteen she had a style of her own, and knew what style was.‖ (Walker 314). When Dee returns home to visit as an adult, she reveals herself to be ―Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo‖, and declares Dee to be ―dead‖ (Walker 315). It is clear that she has chosen to be someone drastically different from her family. Wangero trivializes the things that her family value, and requests some of them for decorations in home. ―I can use the churn top as a centerpiece for the alcove table‖ (Walker 316) she declares. The visit does not end well, and Wangero shows how her ideas about the world are very different from those of her mother and sister when she says to her sister ―You ought to try to make something of yourself, too, Maggie. It‘s really a new day for us. But from the way you and Mama still live you‘d never know it.‖ (Walker 318).

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Although there are many times when parents argue with their children about their choices in life, there is an unspoken force that can have more influence on the situation than the parent or the child. Culture strongly influences the ideas of many, and Jing-Mei and Dee are no exception. Jing-Mei‘s mother came to the United States from China, and has grown accustomed to losing things that are important to her. This is why she believes that Jing-Mei should take every chance she can to make something of her life. To her, the United States is a land of opportunity. Also, because family is important in the Chinese culture, the fact that Jing-Mei‘s cousin excels in chess motivates her mother even more. She says ―What does Auntie Lindo know? Her daughter, she is only best tricky.‖ (Tan 457). Because her family is in attendance at the talent show where she fails, this creates embarrassment for her mother. Traditionally, Chinese children are taught to be obedient, and Jing-Mei‘s mother reveals her feelings about this when she yells to Jing-Mei ―Only two kinds of daughters, those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this house.

Obedient daughter!‖ (Tan 464). Jing-Mei‘s mother may seem overbearing, but she

is only living by what her culture dictates.

The family that Dee grew up in was rich in culture, but until she was an adult she had no appreciation for it. She was always one to follow style and trends, even if her family could not give her all of the things she wanted. Because times have changed since she was young, it becomes in style to be empowered as an African American, and claim the history that oppressors attempted to take away. Dee changes her name and the way she speaks to become part of this movement. Her husband also holds some of the same beliefs. The things that her family had needed to live when she was growing up have now become a historical novelty to her and this creates a rift between her and her mother.

After an awkward family dinner, Dee ―started rifling through‖ (Walker 317) the trunk at the end of her mother‘s bed. She finds the old hand stitched quilts and requests them. When her mother denies her request, Dee tells her ― You just don‘t understand … your heritage.‖ (Walker 318). Dee believes that she understands and values the culture that her mother has been a part of before she was born more than anyone else. She has become a new person because she believes that it is ―a new day‖ (Walker 318) for her people.

The person an individual becomes when they reach adulthood is a mixture of their parent‘s ideals, their own ideas about the world, and the traditions and values identified by their culture. The characters of Jing-Mei and Dee are both good examples of this. Though the two girls were raised differently, they both combined their experience and knowledge of the world to create an individual identity for themselves.

Works Cited

Tan, Amy. "Two Kinds" Portable Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing. Comp.

Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. 7th ed. Boston: Wadsworth, 2010. 45765. Print.

Walker, Alice. "Everyday Use" Portable Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing.

Comp. Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. 7th ed. Boston: Wadsworth, 2010. 312-18. Print. 

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Hollywood was his invention (Cinema: Last Dissolve 1): Restoring D.W. Griffith’s Legacy Michael Arell English 212 Introduction to Film 7 July 2010 David Wark Griffith, ―the patriarch of films‖ (Eisenstein 97), more commonly known by his initials, appears in almost every text written about film. However, I argue that this recognition is minor when one considers how Griffith was able to take existing art forms and use them to synthesize a new form of art, ―forever linked with the name of David Wark Griffith‖ (195). Writing on his technical and stylistic innovations alone could fill volumes. Griffith had no need to break the rules; he made the rules. Griffith gave to modern filmmakers what the Ancient Greeks gave to modern musicians. Subsequent filmmakers, myself included, owe to Griffith much of what we now take for granted. From his early epic films like Birth of A Nation (1915) and Intolerance (1916), to his sensitive melodramas like Broken Blossoms (1919) and Way Down East (1920), Griffith masterfully crafts original narratives while establishing the conventions of filmmaking, ―Mr. Griffith is one of America‘s few photoplay-makers who appear to realize that the craft has possibilities as a definite and distinctive art‖ (―The Griffith Way‖). As a filmmaking pioneer, Griffith set the bar for subsequent filmmakers and established film as an entertainment and a technical medium, ultimately making film a legitimate art form.

Many film scholars today would consider the connections between film and other art forms as obvious. However, Griffith was the first to realize these similarities and to exploit them, ―Griffith and our cinema prove our origins to be not solely as of Edison and his fellow inventors, but based on an enormous cultured past‖ (Eisenstein 232-233). The novel, particularly in the Dickensian style, was always in the forefront of Griffith‘s mind, ―his structure seems to follow the wise advice, handed down to the great filmmaker of the twentieth century by the great novelist of the nineteenth‖ (Eisenstein 224). Griffith discovered that film could use the same structure as a novel in order to show concurrent events, ―the method of parallel action‖ (Eisenstein 205). He not only saw how the filmmaker could use the conventions of stage productions and novels, but he also found that film had the potential to go beyond the scope and depth of a stage production, ―Griffith‘s genius lay in his recognition that cinema was not theater‖ (Huss and Silverstein 74). Griffith experimented with the abilities of the camera to change the viewer‘s distance from the subject, ―he was able to devise two of the most vital elements in the grammar of film—close-ups and cross-cuts—only after a careful study of Dickens‖ (Huss and Silverstein 24). Griffith acknowledged the influence of other art forms on film, yet he determined how film could surpass the limits of these other art forms.

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A number of film historians and critics declare that Griffith‘s Birth of a Nation was the first feature film with a true narrative structure (Pramaggiore and Wallis 312). Many of the techniques that Griffith implemented with his masterpiece had existed already—some of them used for the first time in previous Griffith pictures, ―Griffith standardized a number of photographic effects for storytelling. He used shot transitions, such as fade-in and fade out…. [and] the iris-in and iris-out‖ (Rickitt 16). However, no one before Griffith attempted to use these techniques as part of a grand narrative structure. Griffith did not tell the story and include close-ups and the like for character; Griffith made the techniques a necessary aspect of the film, ―Film acting prior to Griffith… had been so bad precisely because the camera had not yet learned to help the actors‖ (Mast 50-51). Because of Griffith and his work on Birth of a Nation, the art of film became more than a recorded story for entertainment or a marvel of technology but an aesthetic experience, ―it was in his works that the cinema made itself felt as more than an entertainment or pastime….that the cinema could be incomparably greater‖ (204). Griffith found a way to write ―history with lightning‖ (Woodrow Wilson). Griffith opened up the storytelling and artistic potential of the motion picture.

Griffith‘s innovations and the way he handled narratives lived on long after his retirement, ―In film history… not only are the individual films milestones on an historical path, but also significant artistic discoveries that immediately influenced other directors. Although Shakespeare drew from Seneca, and Brecht from Shakespeare, even more immediate was the influence of Griffith on Ford or Ford on Bergman‖ (Mast 3). Not only did he influence young directors who apprenticed under him (like Thomas Ince) and subsequent American directors, but also filmmakers in other countries who knew him only through his pictures.

Since the first Griffith film entered Russia in 1919 (Mast 182), the Russian film has never been quite the same, ―I wish to recall what David Wark Griffith himself represented to us, the young Soviet filmmakers of the ‗twenties‖ (201).

Griffith inspired innovations even after his death as Russian filmmakers combined his narrative style with Soviet montage, creating an entirely new and instantly recognizable style. ―Many of the SIMPP [The Society of Independent Motion Picture Producers] producers traced their independent filmmaking roots to director D. W. Griffith‖ (Aberdeen). Today Griffith lives on with every closeup and with every successful film narrative.

Griffith biographer James Agee states that, ―To watch his work is like being witness to the beginning… the birth of an art: and to realize that this is all the work of one man‖ (―About D.W. Griffith‖). Unfortunately, many film scholars seem to pass over Griffith‘s numerous contributions to filmmaking and instead choose to focus on the negative aspects of his style and themes, ―While the innovations he brought to film were adopted by contemporary directors, Griffith himself went into virtual seclusion and spent his last years almost forgotten by the film industry that he helped create‖ (―Mary Pickford‖ 3). Griffith was personally hurt when critics called Birth of a Nation (1915) racist (Spartacus Educational ―D.W. Griffith‖). In fact, Griffith used all of the profits from Birth of

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a Nation (1915) to fund Intolerance (1916), a film that presented the horrors of racism and other forms of prejudice. In a modern politically correct world, film historians look down upon Griffith‘s dictatorial style of directing. But as film scholar Gerald Mast has found, ―no great film has ever been made without the vision and unifying intelligence of a single mind to create and control the whole film‖ (3). I cannot stress enough how the film today is indebted to Griffith—his narrative style, his technical conventions, and his creative sense. Griffith truly was one of the greatest filmmakers of all time and he deserves the recognition for it.

Works Cited

Aberdeen, J.A. ―D.W. Griffith—Independent Profile‖. Hollywood Renegades Archive. The Society of Independent Motion Picture Producers. 2005. Web. 6 July 2010. <http://www.cobbles.com/simpp_archive/dwgriffith.htm>. ―About D.W. Griffith‖. American Masters. PBS Online. 29 December 1998. Web. 6 July 2010. <http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/episodes/d-w-griffith/about-dw-griffith/621/>. ―Cinema: Last Dissolve‖. Time.com. Time, Inc. 2 August 1948. Web. 6 July 2010. <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,888442-1,00.html>. ―D.W. Griffith‖. Spartacus Educational. 18 October 2002. Web. 6 July 2010. <http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAgriffith.htm>.

Eisenstein, Sergei. Film Form. Trans. Jay Leyda. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1949. Print. ―The Griffith Way‖. Photoplay Magazine. Vol. VII No. 5 April 1915. Pages 74-76. Web. Huss, Roy and Norman Silverstein. The Film Experience: Elements of Motion Picture Art. New York: Harper & Row Publishers, Inc., 1968. Print. ―Mary Pickford‖. American Experience. PBS Online. 23 July 2004. Web. 6 July 2010. <http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/pickford/peopleevents/p_griffith.html>.

Mast, Gerald. A Shot History of the Movies. 2nd ed. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Com pany, Inc., 1976. Print.

Rickitt, Richard. Special Effects: The History and Technique. New York: Billboard Books, 2000. Print. 

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Do you know who you are?

Roberta LaHaye ENG 112-95 Introduction to Literature July 2, 2010 Identity is more than a person being able to identify themselves. It is the knowing deep down inside who they really are, and what really is important to them, regardless of what other people might think. Life is a struggle and everyday people learn and grow from that struggle, and then either win or lose.

Sometimes life is a long road with many struggles to find a sense of self. That road can be rocky and uneven due to culture, or the reaction of others who become part of that struggle, until the accomplishment or enlightenment of ―finding‖ that identity. The narrator in Charlotte Perkins Gilman‘s ―The Yellow Wallpaper‖ and Mama in Alice Walker‘s ―Everyday Use‖ both experience a struggle to find their sense of self, are finally able to accept and own their identity, but when confronted by others must stand firm despite their reactions.

When someone struggles against adversity, they learn. Both of these pieces have characters going through an internal struggle to find and recognize their personal identity and sense of self. In Gilman‘s piece, ―The Yellow Wallpaper‖ the narrator, John‗s wife, is the main character. Gradually, more is learned about her as the story unfolds. She is a new mother (―there is one comfort the baby is well and happy‖ [552]), married to John ―a physician of high standing‖ (547), who is taken to a summer house outside of a small village to recover from a ―temporary nervous depression - a slight hysterical tendency‖ (547).

Throughout the beginning of the story we read that she is struggling against the restraints placed upon her by her husband (―He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction‖ [548] ―and am absolutely forbidden to ‗work‘ until I am well again‖ [547]). The narrator struggles to cope with and grasp the source of her illness. This particular environment did not appear to end up being terribly helpful, in fact that it could be that it even furthers her illness, allowing her to become more seriously mentally ill. When she is taken to the summer house, the couple reside in the uppermost room with ugly and unusual yellow wallpaper. Being limited to little or no activity, she spends much time looking at and studying the wallpaper (―It dwells in my mind so! [551]). While examining the wallpaper the narrator begins to notice a pattern beneath the one of ―sprawling, flamboyant patterns‖ (548). Over time she believes that she ―can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure that seems to skulk about behind that still and conspicuous front design‖ (551).

The realization dawns that the narrator is beginning to display qualities that she is seeing in this ―woman,‖ several times she mentions the woman and then ascribes the same qualities to herself.

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―I didn‘t realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind that dim sub- pattern, but now I am quite sure it is a woman. By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour‖ (554).

She begins to be more excited the more that she studies the woman and paper. Her struggle to find herself is actually the process through which she comes to recognize herself in that mysterious woman. In ―Everyday Use‖ the mother struggles with her identity, especially when confronted with the arrival of her daughter Dee, or Wangero, and her drastic adoption of her ―cultural heritage.‖ While Mama‘s struggle might be perhaps less pronounced, she does struggle with her identity and what she thinks of herself. She tries to balance her thinking and reality with what her daughter thinks of her. ―Mama‖ is in conflict with her newly arrived daughter Dee, between what she thinks is right and what her daughter wants her to be, and is torn between Dee and Maggie, who is more like herself. Maggie is a symbol of Mama‘s everyday self: humble, simple, and hardworking. Dee arrives and brings with her the new and different, with her own modern ―appreciation‖ of their culture and history. Mama references a dream that she had about Dee, ―I am the way my daughter would want me to be: a hundred pounds lighter, my skin like an uncooked barley pancake. My hair glistens in the hot bright lights. Johnny Carson has much to do to keep up with my quick and witty tongue‖ (590-591). But Mama recognizes that is not the reality, ―It seems to me I have talked to them (strange white men) always with one foot raised in flight, with my head turned in whichever way is farthest from them‖ (591). The struggle for both Mama and John‘s wife to somehow find out who they really are could possibly be the most difficult of their lives.

After struggling through adversity, our characters are able to finally establish within themselves the identity they have been trying reach. Gilman‘s story tells of the narrator‘s struggle to find her identity, although it turns out when she does, it is not necessarily who she intended to be (―There are things in that wallpaper that nobody knows but me, or ever will― [552]). Sadly, Gilman‘s narrator loses her struggle back to herself and instead associates with the woman she sees behind the pattern of the wallpaper, ―that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her. I pulled and she shook. I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper‖ (557). After her successful night of peeling the paper off, she begins confuse her identity with that of the woman (―I‘ve got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I can tie her!‖ - ―But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope‖ [558]). She tears down the wallpaper so that she cannot be trapped behind the design any more, and now she is able to ―be out in this great room and creep around as I please‖ (558). Finally, at the end of the story, she has completely accepted and rationalized her identity as the woman who had been trapped behind the pattern of the paper. She proudly announces to her husband, who has finally made it into the room where she had locked herself in,

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―I‘ve got out at last, in spite of you and Jane. And I‘ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can‘t put me back!‖ (559). She feels accomplished by escaping the horrid pattern locking her in the wallpaper, and is relieved and pleased that now she ―can creep smoothly on the floor, and [her] shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so [she] cannot lose [her] way― (558). Walker‘s ―Mama‖ has a realistic view of her life and herself in the beginning of the story.

Then her daughter comes home, with new views and modern thinking, and she struggles to maintain who she thinks she is against her daughter‗s ideas. She has to reconcile that with what she thinks and feels. Finally when her daughter confronts her about the quilts, she realizes who she is and what she wants: ―When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. Just like when I‘m in church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and shout. I did something I never had done before: hugged Maggie to me, then dragged her on into the room, snatched the quilts out of Miss Wangero‘s hands and dumped them into Maggie‘s lap.

Maggie just sat there on my bed with her mouth open. ―Take one or two of the others,‖ I said to Dee.‖ (596) She recognizes what is really important, and how something is special not because it is framed and hung on the wall, but because the people who use it every day see and truly appreciate it. Once Mama finds her identity and her voice, Wangero is outraged yet, Mama stands firm, knowing who she is Having firmly an established identity, both characters are able to then proceed with their lives in whichever direction they have chosen for themselves.

The struggle for identity is influenced and affected not only by personal opinions and thoughts, but also by friends, family, and loved ones. It would be uncommon for these people not to notice what is going on, or to offer their opinion, solicited or not. In ―The Yellow Wallpaper,‖ John seems to notice the difficulties that his wife is having. He is also increasingly concerned about her behavior and state of mind (―He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well― [552]).

I think that he does suspect that somehow the wallpaper is affecting his wife, but is unsure about what to do about it . The narrator comments ―that John is beginning to notice. I don‘t like the look in his eyes. And I hear him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me‖ (557). He faints at the sight of his wife creeping slowly around the room (―Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time― [559]). John is overwhelmed with the drastic change from his peaceful wife, to the strange provoking figure that his wife saw, and became, skulking in the shadows. Walker shows the reactions to Mama‘s struggle with mixed emotions. Maggie as the observer, and least active participant in the situation, is shocked and quietly surprised. While shocked, she is pleased to see that Mama stands up for herself and she ―smiled; maybe at the sunglasses. But a real smile, not scared― (596). Dee,

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who is the catalyst to Mama‘s struggle, is the clash of personality and cultural identity: ―No, Mama,‖ she says. ―Not ‘Dee,‘ Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo!‖ ―What happened to ‘Dee‘?‖ I wanted to know. ―She‘s dead,‖ Wangero said. ―I couldn‘t bear it any longer being named after the people who oppress me‖ (593).

When Dee is confronted with her mother‘s firm stand, she is shocked and outraged (―Dee (Wangero) looked at me with hatred. ―You will just not understand. The point is these quilts, these quilts!―‘ [595]). She is outraged because she has, in her mind, been denied and ultimately is disappointed at what she feels is a lack of intelligence to understand what is right to her mind (―Maggie can‗t appreciate these quilts!‖ she said. ―She‗d probably be backward enough to put them to everyday use‖ [595]). Maggie and Dee, John and Jennie all face someone coming to terms with who they really are, and whether they confront or confirm that identity, they must accept who their loved ones have become.

Both ―The Yellow Wallpaper‖ and ―Everyday Use‖ show us women who are struggling to find themselves, regardless of the opposition and reaction of everyone else. While they both have different outcomes with their identity, they worked through adversity to get there. Both pieces highlight the difficulty that people face occasionally to find themselves. Regardless of the interference or reaction of those around them, these women moved forward, to reach their own sense of self regardless of who they might end up becoming.

Works Cited

Abcarian, Richard, Klotz, Marvin, & Cohen, Samuel. ―Literature: The Human Experience‖ (2010) Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. ―The Yellow Wallpaper‖ (pp 547-559) Walker, Alice. ―Everyday Use‖ (pp 590-596) 

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Scene between Mrs. Wright from Susan Glaspell’s Trifles and the Misfit from Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is

Hard to Find Dray Emerson

English 112 Introduction to Literature November 22, 2010 The chill winter air that filtered through the small barred window pooled about Mrs. Wright‘s feet, sending a small shiver along her spine. To call the small cell she now occupied Spartan would be kind. The small eight-by-eight room had few adornments, a small cot on which she now sat, and a single stool. The walls themselves were made of wrought iron bars, save the one on which the cot rested. That wall was roughly hewn sandstone that cut uncomfortably into Mrs. Wright‘s back should she lean against it too long. How long had it been since Mrs. Peters had visited, giving her the apron she now pleated between nervous fingers? An hour? Maybe two? Time seemed to pass at a torturous crawl within these frost covered walls, and the only company she had was the man in the next stall who just... stared, through the bars at her with an odd sort of half smile. He had been here when she arrived, not a word spoken of him by the bailiff or jailer as to who he was or why he was here, only a fearful glance and a muttered prayer as they sent her through the cell door. He was a strange one, his manner of dress distinct, almost alien compared to what most decent folk wore. His grizzled appearance, combined with the awkward, offbalanced smile, suggested he was not the upstanding type. ―Ma‘am, I hate t‘bother ya in your fine work...‖ With a start Mrs. Wright‘s eyes snapped up from her apron to cautiously peer over at the man through the bars as he continued. ―But can I bother ya f‘ th‘ day?‖ His words were accompanied by the flash of teeth from beneath the shadows of his peculiar hat, an expression that was-but wasn‘t really a smile. These were the first words he had spoken since Mrs. Wright‘s incarceration; the first she had heard in what must have been several hours. ―I think it‘s Tuesday‖ The words came out soft and quiet, and the man on the other side of the iron cage slowly nodded and stood. He crossed the distance that separated them, his odd shoes scuffling against the hard-packed earthen floor, and leaned against the cold bars. Once again he flashed that cold ―almost‖ smile. ―Much obliged Ma‘am. Tuesday‘s ah fine day, too fine ah day to be stuck in the likes ah this.‖ He paused and pointedly glanced around the cold metal encircling them. ―Kin I ask how ah lady like yourself managed t‘find her way here?‖ ―My husband was murdered.‖ The simple statement seemed to come unbidden, the realization that of this was quickly followed by a small, almost hysteri-

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cal laugh. With a quick shake if her head Mrs. Wright turned her eyes back to her apron, where her small hands resumed their pleating, as if on their own accord. Despite her averted gaze she could feel the stranger‘s eyes still on her. ―Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace.‖ The man spoke quietly, yet the words echoed through the cell as a shout. Mrs. Wright slowly glanced up to the tanned, smiling face of the stranger, who had settled down into a crouch, one rough hand resting slightly on the bars for support. ―You know your Scriptures..‖ In response the man simply nodded, and for awhile both he and Mrs. Wright sat in silence. ―I recon I do- I also recon I know why you‘re here.‖ With slow, methodical movements the man scratched out a rough cross in the dirt beside him. ―T'ain‘t nothin‘ I ain‘t seen. The ugly side ah men.‖ With a quick flick of his wrist he erased the drawing and looked back at her. ―I s‘pose th‘as why they call me th‘ Misfit,‖ Mrs. Wright stared at the man, the Misfit, for a long moment, the breath caught in her throat. Again he smiled at her, an almost genuine smile, then stood and moved back into the deep shadows of his cell. There he remained, silent, simply watching. 

Supply and Demand Applications: KJHartt Photography Kelsey Gosselin ECO 221 Introduction to Microeconomics October 14, 2010 KJHartt Photography is a business that I own and operate. We specialize in senior photos, family portraits, newborn photos and weddings. We generally work outdoors or with natural lighting; however, we are soon opening a studio location. Mainly we offer images on a disc but we also offer professional prints.

Many professional photographers only offer a few images on a disc, or may not offer the disc at all; this is how KJHartt Photography attempts to stand out from other professional photographers. Also, our prices are reasonable yet a good indicator of our quality.

Demand for professional photography is relatively high. Although there are many people out there who own decent cameras, they still cannot take quality images. It takes a certain amount of aesthetic talent to produce a wellcomposed, artistic image. Most high school seniors go to a professional photographer rather than using the staged photo that the school takes. Wedding photographers are in incredibly high demand, as no one wants to forget that

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special day. Family and newborn photographers are in significantly less demand as families can go to a variety of other places to do these types of photos.

Supply for all types of professional photography is also quite high. Because there is such high demand, many people seek to enter the photography field.

It is also a quite lucrative field, as it‘s a combination of a service and product that is in high demand. It is not a job that requires any degree or schooling, which is why there are so many photographers to be found. After the start-up costs, there are hardly any input costs to becoming a photographer, other than time. Time and talent are the service part of photography, both of which are paid for first. To purchase product, you must pay before placing the order, which alleviates any sunk costs; there are no pre-ordered products that can go to waste, so there is really unlimited supply.

Professional photography is an incredibly competitive field of business. As mentioned before, it‘s quite an easy field to enter into. However, maintaining good relations with customers is incredibly important. If their images are lackluster, customers won‘t tell their friends about you. If you provide great images and good customer service, you will almost immediately see the benefits that wordof-mouth can bring.

Professional photographers have two main competitors: department store studios and other professional photographers. Department store studios offer very inexpensive options (compared to professional photographers), although you get what you pay for… very short sessions and limited creativity. These studios generally have a standard set of images they take: headshot, full-body shot, extreme close-up, half body shot, et cetera. Photographs from department store studios can feel cookie-cutter; your images are nearly identical to those of other families. Also, department store studios are generally highly salesdriven; most employees make commission from the products they sell. Professional photographers are more expensive, but again, you get what you pay for.

There are generally much longer sessions (up to a few hours of time), and much more creativity and artistry. Also, images from independent photographers vary widely in style, colors, scenery, props, and compositions. Hardly any two sessions are very similar. As far as competition between department store studios and professional photographers go, it‘s less a matter of competition and more a matter of what each family can afford.

Between professional photographers, there is an exceedingly high amount of competition. There are only so many weddings each summer, so many graduating seniors each fall, et cetera. Each photographer is looking for the sweet spot where they still make money but have many clients; they don‘t realize it, but they are searching for the equilibrium price of their services and products.

Each photographer seeks to set their prices low enough to entice many clients to choose them. Many offer discounts for referrals, or if you schedule two sessions with that photographer.

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The laws of supply and demand do affect the photography business, but not in a perfect textbook manner. For the law of demand, as the prices of photographers go up, more clients see them as qualified and competent and decide to choose them; however, as prices get to a point where they are just too expensive, fewer people will choose them. If the prices of a photographer are too low, many customers see this as a sign that they are new or under qualified and therefore would not choose them. When dealing with the law of supply, photography is fairly similar to a textbook scenario. As the price of senior photos or weddings goes down, fewer photographers will spend the time searching for these clients, and there may be a drop in the amount of photographers available. When the prices rise, more searching is done and there is an influx of photographers.

Demand for photographers is fairly inelastic. If a photographer increases prices by 5% very few customers would decide not to choose them. Supply for photographers is also basically inelastic. When prices decrease 5%, very few photographers would ‗drop out of the game‘, so to speak. Because the demand for photographers will always be present, there will always be a steady supply of photographers entering the field. People do not want to miss out on remembering and documenting the important moments in life, and so there is generally a steady demand for quality photographers. And because photography is such an easy field into which to enter, there will always be a good supply of photographers to choose from. Because of these facts, professional photographers can increase prices over the years and still keep about the same amount of business. If they drop their prices, there would be an increase in the amount of customers, but why do that when other business increase their prices… each business would still make roughly the same amount of money. So there is very little incentive to alter prices, since it doesn‘t affect total profit too much.

The Eyrie

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