When I first began to attend a gym in the Gold Coast, I found myself walking every night all the way back to the ROW dorms. Crazy, I know, and yes, somewhat unsafe. I would put on my Blue Tooth headset and walk along the street, amongst the gorgeous apartments and boutiques while catching up with my mom or grandmother. I did this two to three times a week, enjoying the ability to take my time, walk slowly, watch the people and peek into store-fronts or marvel at the old Victorian-styled housing. A few times I would sit on the steps of the big cathedral church on Wabash when I wasn't on the phone and think. I've never been a religious person, but something about sitting there was comforting.
Other times, I would make my way east on Oak instead of going south on Clark or Wabash and find myself alone at the beach, listening to the soft crash of each rolling wave that hit the concrete walls, condos behind me, Lincoln Park's trees to my north, and the busy, glowing Magnificent Mile to the south. It was peaceful, just as the church's steps were, a little sanctuary that provided peace of mind.
After becoming entranced with the Gold Coast, taking a different route home every time, I began to go back during the day to see what it was like when the shops were open and more people were around. Even with the added noise and bodies walking the streets, it still felt like therapy. There was a sweet sense of friendliness and welcoming aura that surrounded the tiny little parks, the black iron fences, the cozy little apartments, the couples walking their dogs, arm in arm... It was almost as if it were straight out of Breakfast at Tiffany's, an Audrey Hepburn classic, and one of my favorite movies of all time. There were the shiny windows of boutiques of brands I coveted in magazines that seemed to yearn for my credit cards, but most of the time I refrained and continued my quiet walks. Even though I didn't live in the Gold Coast, I found myself drawn to it whenever I felt frustrated, troubled, or feeling lonely. Sometimes, I would just take a book and find one of the little parks to sit and read on a bench with a cup of coffee and watch the dogs and kids play. All the sudden, the "mean reds," as Holly Golightly called bad emotions, would slip away. I felt like Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw walking around Manhattan, or Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly.
Sometimes, I would find myself walking the streets of the Gold Coast without even knowing how I got there after leaving my dorm room to find solace, the feelings of being lost gone. I know a lot of people say the Gold Coast is home to the rich stiffs and the trendy-wealthy, but to me it was therapy, with or without my credit cards needed.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Strict Father & A Nurturing Mother... Living On Both Sides of the Coin
(NOTE: Self-explanation is given before the discussion of "illegals"/"undocumented workers" . . . A long piece of work five days in the making, whilst mulling over family issues.)
We talked about Lakeoff's ideas of the "strict father" and the "nurturing parent" for a good amount of time. The entire time, all I could think of are my own family ties and how I have lived on both sides of a coin. Not just the idea of Liberal and Conservative coin, but the Father and the Mother coin.
It nearly brings me to tears to think back on my childhood and school years of how different my parents were in raising me. My mother forgave/forgives me for feeling ill or having difficulty with a task and helps in any way she can to prevent me from suffering in any way. My father was very different; it was "do this ____ now before your mother comes home and do it right." It didn't matter if I knew how to do the task, but if I didn't feel well, didn't do the task well, or did it wrong, I was subjected to a screaming fit aimed at my ignorance. To this day, I feel like the black sheep on both sides of my families because of this confusing and constant push and pull of parental love. My father often scolded my mother for "babying me," the only child, a lonely daughter, which sometimes I wonder if he blamed my mother for, due to a medical condition she has.
Let me make it more simple. Here were the rules I grew up with:
- Do well in school; meaning, "You better be an honor student, get A's, and work hard."
- Do your chores; "If you don't, you can't go to your friend's sleepover, stay off the phone/internet, go horseback riding to train for an upcoming show," or any other punishment that kept me sitting in my room with just a book and feeling guilty. ...I suppose that's why I use books and writing as a form of therapy and escape, as well as my personal strength: it was what I turned to.
- Do as I say and not as I do... This one is more difficult. I would see my father doing things I was always told was not allowed, from yelling for someone from one side of the house to the other, not taking out the garbage, drinking beer at social gatherings and not allowing my sober mother to drive us home, not coming home for dinner when asked by my mother, not picking me up from a practice or rehearsal last minute because something "more important" came up. I would later find out during my parents' divorce that many of those times that those "more important" somethings were his girlfriends demanding attention.
My mother attended every performance (be it dance, theatre, rodeo or horse show), every doctor's appointment, drove me to school kindergarten through high school until I got my own car, moved me from Chicago to Louisville (and vice versa) every time the college school year began and ended, calls or texts every day or every other day to check on me and my well-being and health, especially after I began to suffer from my back injury.
I hear from my father perhaps every other week, mostly on my behalf to remind him that I have a tuition payment coming up or to borrow small amounts of money for books, groceries, or to help with an extra cost such as physical therapy and prescription costs. Sometimes it feels like pulling teeth to get something from him, this man who raised me for only half my life, who told me to suck it up and pull myself up and lean only on myself. When those communications are not about something I need or a reminder, it is often a silly email of pictures of himself on duty with his buddies or new wife, or the two dogs that he took in the divorce that had been my nanny dogs since I was eight. Sometimes it can stem to texts to ask how I'm doing or what my grades are, but it always feels the same: I'm trying to please this strict man whom I want nothing to do with if I had the option. But as much as I loathe him, I need him... Just as Liberals need Conservatives.
Life needs balance.
I wouldn't appreciate my mother as much as I do had I not known the mistakes my father made in his half of raising me. When I hit teen years and during their separation and divorce, I put everything into writing, sending the diary entries to an objective friend as a way of relieving myself of the pain of the controversy: do I stick with the parent who lives for me and "babies" me, or do I follow the path of strict father like a foot soldier follows his captain into battle without question? I learned to block everything eventually, let only the pain of back injury be what I felt. And after awhile, even that became too much to bear and I found myself angry with myself for being weak. I hid my feelings, because if my father had discovered how I viewed myself and what I felt, I would be lectured like a soldier to toughen up. "Tough love," Lakoff talked about in his video, as one of the morals he had researched from Dobson.
Those thoughts bring me to identifying with the fight over the "illegal immigrants" and the "undocumented worker." I feel as though I could easily side with either Conservative or Liberal view because of how I was raised. My father's views I understand: throw out the illegals. This is America; earn your right to be here. They're only taking away from Americans' personal commerce and jobs. My mother's views I also identify with: give them the opportunities to gain their documents, to learn the American way, to live the American dream as we all so passionately fight for.
I lean towards my mother's moderate-Liberal decision on this because of personal experience. My cousin, Miranda (my mother's niece), married a man from Canada. For two years, he fought and fought to get his legal documentations to move to the states and live here as an American citizen so he could marry my cousin. At first, no one in the family was happy with Miranda's decision to fall in love with a man she met on the internet by happenstance. But then he came to visit, and everyone was charmed by his humble and sweet nature, his ability to skip from French to English without conscious thought, and his own family ways. It wasn't long before the entire family was doing what they could to help get Francis over the borders legally so he and Miranda could marry.
To this day, they are happy and work honest jobs, living in a home, and still close to both their families. My aunt actually learned French and speaks it fluently for when she went to Canada to meet Francis's family who all speak very little English. It actually influenced me to take French in middle school and high school, having Miranda and Francis drill me on my verbs and manners. If you asked me now to have a conversation in French, I would have to rack my brain to come up with more than basic manners, such as introductions and asking about food, weather, or family. Everything else seems to have left my brain after high school graduation.
I call myself a moderate, a double-sided coin, because of how I was raised. I understand Liberal thinking and identify with it. In other ways, I also identify and understand Conservatives ways of framing things, such as Lakoff's "sink or swim," metaphor. I know what it is like to hold out a helping hand even though I don't have much to offer; I also know what it's like to be angry when I hear that someone gets something handed to them on a silver platter without earning it. I want to snap angrily how I fought for everything I have and worked my fingers til they bled, pushed my aching and fractured spine to the point of more medications--in which case, my Conservative, strict mind wanted to discipline, "More meds? You're such a weakling."--to stay physically strong and physically independent.
I've always said I am a walking contradiction, that I am incapable of half-doing anything, and that I push my nose to the grindstone for a reason, but to also understand when a needed break is necessary. Look at how I was raised; it is only evident those self-thoughts are supported.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
"Don't Tell Us How to Dress... Tell Them Not To Rape!" - An Eye-Opener to the World of Women's Fashion
After I read the article from The Raw Story entitled, "Indonesian Women Don Miniskirts In Rape Protest," I felt empowered. Growing up in a conservative family, I was always scolded if my neckline seemed ever-so-slightly too low, or the hem of jean cut-off shorts too short. Because of that, I grew up spending my summers mostly in capri pants or longer shorts and scoop-neck t-shirts instead of the average halter tops and "really short" shorts.
Even during backstage time before a theatre production, I kept myself covered with a robe or a zip-up sweatshirt to hide my bra or camisole that my mic pack was strapped to. Girls in the dressing room made jokes about how they were going to buy me Ace Wrap bandages to strap down my breasts to make me look like all of them. I was humiliated by my own figure, despite being a size 6 and a 30 DD, and therefore continued to keep my top half completely covered. However, I did take the opportunity to show off my legs, having spent the previous eight years dancing and horseback riding. I would put on my tights and then a pair of black "bootie shorts" over top of them, which would keep said pantyhose from sagging or being pulled out of alignment during costume changes--because it never failed I always had the role that had the most costume changes.
The story talked about a large group of women who wore miniskirts and revealing tank tops while holding posters and banners that read phrases like, "Don't Tell Us How to Dress! Tell Them Not to Rape!" as well as "My Miniskirt is My Right!" to protest the governor's comment that a rape-victim had only been victimized because she had been wearing a miniskirt on a public transport bus and was gang-raped.
After I read the article, I found myself pulling out my full-length mirror and staring at my body. I always try to be tasteful in my dress, balancing out the amount of skin I show so as not to be labeled as a "slut," "whore," or a number of smut-leveling names that some girls are given for wearing skimpy clothing. If anything, after five minutes of looking at myself, examining my flaws and the things I love about myself, I decided it was time that more women should take pride in their bodies. We are taught from a young age that we should look perfect. Magazines, celebrities, girls' Barbie dolls and other toys all teach us that we should be thin and have perfect skin, be sexy but innocent, and that our hair should always look in a way that a man would want to run his fingers through it. Our makeup should be flawless, our legs and arms lithe and shapely, our torsos perfect hourglasses, etc.
It's sickening!
From this point on, I'm breaking the mold. I will dress for me and my body type, as all women should. I'm not perfect, and I am not "beautiful" in many people's eyes. But I can celebrate myself and take pride in my imperfections that make me unique.
Men, I'm not an object of sexual desire. I am not just eye candy or a damsel to put on your arm. I am your equal. "I am woman, hear me purr." Treat a girl with respect and you will find there is whole hell of a lot more to a girl than just her face-value.
Even during backstage time before a theatre production, I kept myself covered with a robe or a zip-up sweatshirt to hide my bra or camisole that my mic pack was strapped to. Girls in the dressing room made jokes about how they were going to buy me Ace Wrap bandages to strap down my breasts to make me look like all of them. I was humiliated by my own figure, despite being a size 6 and a 30 DD, and therefore continued to keep my top half completely covered. However, I did take the opportunity to show off my legs, having spent the previous eight years dancing and horseback riding. I would put on my tights and then a pair of black "bootie shorts" over top of them, which would keep said pantyhose from sagging or being pulled out of alignment during costume changes--because it never failed I always had the role that had the most costume changes.
The story talked about a large group of women who wore miniskirts and revealing tank tops while holding posters and banners that read phrases like, "Don't Tell Us How to Dress! Tell Them Not to Rape!" as well as "My Miniskirt is My Right!" to protest the governor's comment that a rape-victim had only been victimized because she had been wearing a miniskirt on a public transport bus and was gang-raped.
After I read the article, I found myself pulling out my full-length mirror and staring at my body. I always try to be tasteful in my dress, balancing out the amount of skin I show so as not to be labeled as a "slut," "whore," or a number of smut-leveling names that some girls are given for wearing skimpy clothing. If anything, after five minutes of looking at myself, examining my flaws and the things I love about myself, I decided it was time that more women should take pride in their bodies. We are taught from a young age that we should look perfect. Magazines, celebrities, girls' Barbie dolls and other toys all teach us that we should be thin and have perfect skin, be sexy but innocent, and that our hair should always look in a way that a man would want to run his fingers through it. Our makeup should be flawless, our legs and arms lithe and shapely, our torsos perfect hourglasses, etc.
It's sickening!
From this point on, I'm breaking the mold. I will dress for me and my body type, as all women should. I'm not perfect, and I am not "beautiful" in many people's eyes. But I can celebrate myself and take pride in my imperfections that make me unique.
Men, I'm not an object of sexual desire. I am not just eye candy or a damsel to put on your arm. I am your equal. "I am woman, hear me purr." Treat a girl with respect and you will find there is whole hell of a lot more to a girl than just her face-value.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Framing the Iraqi War
1)
All of our articles we were given had to do with the war in Iraq; more specifically, most had to do with the alleged brutality of U.S. Military troops on Iraqi civilians, in which case, almost all of them contradicted one another in the number of deaths, why the firing in the first place, and who called for the orders.
2)
Several of the articles I read had to do with the media and the Wiki Leaks incident that all pointed fingers of blame at different people for the Ishaqi and Haditha raids. But there were several different accounts, skewering what really happened, the “truth” of the events.
Some articles said that the troops were out of control due to drugs, alcohol, and possible post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); others proclaimed that the Iraqi civilians fired first on the U.S. soldiers; and the number of deaths was contradicted in more than three-fourths of the articles.
Each article claimed the truth of the matter from the above reasons. It’s still unclear what really happened during the raids. The frames I found were:
- - Terrorism
- - War/Rules of War
- - Haditha Raid
- - Ishaqi Raid
- - U.S. Military
- - The U.S. Media
- - The U.K. Media
- - Drug/Alcohol Abuse
- - Death
- - Force
- - Investigation
- - PTSD
- - Anti-War
- - Pro-War
3)
These frames have negative and positive reflections, each painting different pictures in the minds of the people who read the stories or simply read the list of above frames. Within each article, using the above frames, the writers/journalists make very different narratives out of the raids.
In two articles, “Marine’s Wife Paints Portraits of US Troops Out of Control in Haditha,” (The Guardian, UK) and “Troops Cleared in Iraqi Deaths in Ishaqi,” the writers tell the story as though it wasn’t the marines’ fault when they executed their orders to raid a home in Haditha. It goes on to state that the marines were under the heavy influence of drugs and alcohol, and some may have been suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from extended periods of time on duty in the warzone. It paints the picture that the marines weren’t at fault, didn’t know what they were doing, couldn’t think clearly, and should be excused. They also list a fewer death toll among the Iraqi civilians involved. These two articles stated a roundabout of six to eight civilians were killed. But these accounts were contradicted by many other articles, which stated higher numbers executed by the U.S. military. These articles blame the U.S. Government for the orders of the raids of Haditha and Ishaqi.
Another article, “Wiki Leaks Iraq: U.S. Troops May Have Executed Civilians,” says that over thirteen civilians were killed in the raids. There was no listing that the marines were under the influence of any drugs, alcohol, or suffering from a psychological disorder. The writer says that it was the Iraqi citizens who fired first at the U.S. troops, who responded with open fire in their own defense. To protect themselves, they had no choice but to return fire. They blame those who were killed in the attack and others who fired at the battalion as the cause to this horrific event.
These opposing views of the raids of Haditha and Ishaqi—when read separately—show two very different frames, Anti-war and Pro-war. These two frames can make sense to different readers, depending upon race, social status, political affiliation, et cetera. The first view, weighing on the side of the U.S. government and the U.S. military, fit the narrative of patriotism, war heroes, and protection of the homeland. The second view, a more anti-war view, blames the government and the marines involved, playing on the narrative of victimization of people in an impoverished, torn country. Two very different narratives, two very different views… And sadly, it cuts many of our fellow Americans in half.
4)
The U.S. government and military show power in the first narrative, and that the troops and commanders and Congress can do no wrong; it’s positive power. But the second narrative, power is shown in a negative way: the government has too much power, the troops are too trigger-happy, and that no innocent civilians should die because of those trigger-happy fingers. One article that blamed the troops and government even had a quote from a commander saying, “If you see anyone with a cell phone in their hand, blow their fucking heads off.”
Sad that someone said this in reality, and not in a Tom Cruise or Van Damme action movie.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
News Anchor Uses Negative Stereotype as a Sterling Journalistic Frame
After watching the edited clip of the four year-old boy from South Albany after a drive-by attack, I was appalled that a journalist would be so... greedy for a good angle for a crime story. As a journalism major, I find it disgusting when a journalist or writer has to edit a medium--soundbite, quote, etc.--such as the video clip, to twist it for a new angle on the story. After watching the original footage where the little boy says he wants a gun to be a police officer, the journalist in my head immediately wanted to scream,
"There's the story right there!! Even a four-year-old knows the difference between right and wrong and wants to stand up and protect his community as a police officer!! That's a WAY better lead!"
Framing is everything, especially in journalism. After reading Lakoff's views of cognitive framing and the examples given, it is easy to see how one word can be associated with hundreds of other words, images, and theories. But in the case of the edited interview with the young boy, the news anchors and writers used the edited clip to frame the situation like this: "Four-year-olds want to be hardened criminals. What has our society come to?"
Like AmBushed, I was shocked, ticked off, and scowling at the screen as I watched the clip a few times over. This just leaves the public with a bad taste of journalism in their mouth. Even though we live in a society where the media reigns all--newspapers, television, magazines, the Internet, etc.--it's sad that a reporter had to edit an interview to play upon stereotype and then submit into the world. Where was the Executive Producer? Where was the main editor of the teleprompter and the camera clips?
If I were to re-write and film the story I would use the entire news clip with the four-year-old stating he wants to be a police officer. That's the story. Children know what is wrong and they want to make things right even at a young age. Not all children who grow up in rougher neighborhoods aspire to be hardened criminals. We say we want to "Spread the Word to End the Word" when it comes to all negative stereotypes, and that piece of journalism isn't helping the cause.
My mind is still blown, and I assure you, the next Hollywood Heat Wave will be playing the entire soundbite for Chicagoans listening. Because there is such a thing as bad press. And it should be stopped.
- Meredith Haas
"There's the story right there!! Even a four-year-old knows the difference between right and wrong and wants to stand up and protect his community as a police officer!! That's a WAY better lead!"
Framing is everything, especially in journalism. After reading Lakoff's views of cognitive framing and the examples given, it is easy to see how one word can be associated with hundreds of other words, images, and theories. But in the case of the edited interview with the young boy, the news anchors and writers used the edited clip to frame the situation like this: "Four-year-olds want to be hardened criminals. What has our society come to?"
Like AmBushed, I was shocked, ticked off, and scowling at the screen as I watched the clip a few times over. This just leaves the public with a bad taste of journalism in their mouth. Even though we live in a society where the media reigns all--newspapers, television, magazines, the Internet, etc.--it's sad that a reporter had to edit an interview to play upon stereotype and then submit into the world. Where was the Executive Producer? Where was the main editor of the teleprompter and the camera clips?
If I were to re-write and film the story I would use the entire news clip with the four-year-old stating he wants to be a police officer. That's the story. Children know what is wrong and they want to make things right even at a young age. Not all children who grow up in rougher neighborhoods aspire to be hardened criminals. We say we want to "Spread the Word to End the Word" when it comes to all negative stereotypes, and that piece of journalism isn't helping the cause.
My mind is still blown, and I assure you, the next Hollywood Heat Wave will be playing the entire soundbite for Chicagoans listening. Because there is such a thing as bad press. And it should be stopped.
- Meredith Haas
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
So Much (Home)Work... Three Semesters Shy of the Real World
(NOTE: Edited again during class when class discussion brought to mind another perspective.)
Picture this: a girl, about the age of nine or ten, who is hauling a bucket about as big as her own torso and obviously heavy with both hands and all her upper body strength. It's hot and humid outside, mid afternoon during summer vacation. Water sloshes out of the bucket, splashing wet spots on her cut-off denim shorts and the bottom of a well-worn, cherry red tank top featuring "AMERICAN RAG" across it. She mutters to herself about spilling the cool water, then continues walking, barefoot, through the grass towards a huge weeping willow tree where two Labrador-Collie-mixed dogs are barking happily.
After sitting down the bucket by one happy mutt, it licks the girl's bare legs, hands, and arms in thanks before it drops its snout down into the water and begins to gulp down the water. The girl walks over to the other dog, pats it on the head, and retrieves a second bucket that has been toppled by the cable leash. She makes the trip back up to the house where the only hose is located. She repeats this process three times a day, all year round, for the two farm dogs, named Pepper and Candy. The eldest dog, an Akita by the name of Khaki, is the girl's personal nanny since she was five. He follows in her shadow obediently every single trip from the house to the dog-run, and the trips to feed and water the fifteen barn cats who keep mice out of the hay stocks at the other end of the family's countryside property.
That little girl? That's me. Every single day of my life from the age of five until seventeen I repeated the constant attention and care of the family pets. In the extreme heat and extreme cold, yes, I grouched and grumbled about having the responsibility, but my love for our pets -- animals in general, really -- kept me at their "bark and call."
At the age of ten, this was my idea of work. It was part of my chores, on top of sweeping off the patios, cleaning my room, and helping my mother with dishes and folding laundry. I didn't mind; I was often happy to help anyone who asked. I tended the neighbors' flower garden and horses -- which included the exciting adventure of riding around the countryside on horseback, like a scene from The Lord of the Rings; and yes, I had permission to do so -- when they went on vacation, my grandparents' dogs when they went out of town, or helped file medical documents into file-folders with my mother at her job at the local doctor's office.
Now picture this: a confident, fashion-savvy young woman, perhaps between the age of twenty-five and twenty-eight, walking with the crowd during morning rush-hour commuters downtown, coffee in one hand, other clutching a tote bag. She wears a white blazer, a colored blouse beneath with a scarf draped artfully around her neck, and office-appropriate dark-wash jeans. She hides her always-roving eyes behind a pair of Steve Madden aviators, and is secretly dreading the idea she has to change from her comfortable flats into platform heels once she reaches her office building. She's a journalist, living in the city, constantly traveling, interviewing, and writing for hours on a laptop from some cozy little apartment that is probably too expensive when it comes to rent, but she pays it anyway and continues to complain about it every once in awhile. She's independent, free, living in the world of magazine journalism, writing for ELLE, and enjoying every minute of the constant flow of news and work. She's a restless soul, and has been since she was a child, always needing something to do or something to write about. She calls her mother every other night and talks for an hour or so, calls her grandmother a once or twice a week to keep her updated, and continues her social life through both her job and a separate circle of old friends.
Sounds like a fantasy life, the fantasy life of a job I want to have. Perhaps it's a little too high for grasping right now, but eventually, that girl will get there. And that girl will -- hopefully -- be me. Who says you can't have a job you absolutely love?
When I was young, my mother always told me that anything was achievable if one worked hard enough towards it. So I took on the extra work if it meant it would lead to the roads I needed to get where I wanted in life. No one gives you a map at birth and says, "Okay, here you go, have fun finding your way." There is no guidance given to us; my mother says most of us -- including herself -- pretty much made it up as she went along, choosing what was best for herself when a decision was placed before her. Like my mother, I also like to take things as they come, but I'm... even more so competitive, ambitious and willing to get that fantasy life. I know it can be a reality. I've seen it just by speaking to a few women in the magazine industry. Their lives are exactly what I want, with my own twist, of course.
Even though I get frustrated with homework loads -- that's what you get for being an honor student in middle school and high school and taking eighteen credit hours each semester in college -- I still know it will pay off. My happy ending may not be what reality thinks it is; but if it can happen, then I guess I will be one of the few who can stand up and say I have my fantasy dream job before I'm through.
I've worked as a personal assistant for a business-owner, a check-in desk clerk at a deer-hunting check station -- tagging dead Bambi over and over again was very depressing -- and I've worked as a payroll assistant, logging employers' work time. Not exactly dream jobs, but it was money to get me through for a certain period of time. I always tried to stay on the positive side -- "It's PAY DAY!" -- to get me through those grueling hours, flipping through the pages of magazines every free moment I had.
My mother influenced me so much to be a positive person, giving me the tools to be a survivor and a fighter. And I could never thank her enough for that, from the days where she was my sword and shield to today where I hold my own and have her behind me to cheer me on. It makes me sad to think some of my peers and colleagues don't have that; especially the ones who develop a negative outlook on the world: "Work is annoying and a dead end, everything falls apart in the end, so why even try succeeding?"
It is my mother's work and nurturing that has made me into who I am, along with my own life experiences. My father taught me how to survive a gunfight and slip out of handcuffs -- he's a cop, and teaching me such skills were his idea of "father-daughter bonding" time -- and my mother gave me the opportunity to develop the psychological reasoning I have that allows me to be logical, optimistic, and objective.
So when I think of "work," I immediately picture happiness because of the skills my family gave me. I picture that woman who travels, writes, and is independent. She is the older reflection of myself I want to see in the mirror every morning in the next five to eight years. I understand that no one gets their dream job right out of college, but I am prepared to work my way up. If that means racing around downtown of a big city to get coffee, flip-flops, surfboards, Hermes scarves and Calvin Klein skirts like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, or arguing with news anchors and producers like Rachel McAdams in Morning Glory, then so be it. I'll do whatever it takes. I guess -- actually, I know -- I am an optimist, even on my bad days. My glass will almost always be half-full. If it's empty, then I guess that means I've gone on to a new game plan for my life. But I won't be abandoning my love for writing and magazine journalism until I have exhausted all roads to reach that place I picture.
All roads lead to Rome? All roads (hopefully) lead to ELLE, and more importantly, to happiness, wherever it may be.
Sure, people from different areas of the world and from different cultures see work differently than I do, but I can't speak for them, only for myself. Go ahead and call me crazy, insane, and out of my mind with my optimism, but I doubt that will ever change. I will always have a thirst for travel and knowledge, and I will never give up my writing. It became my skill because it started as a hobby and as personal therapy. Now it is my life... Along with other important things, of course.
So here's to the optimists, the journalists, and the parents who gave us the skills to succeed.
- Meredith Haas
Picture this: a girl, about the age of nine or ten, who is hauling a bucket about as big as her own torso and obviously heavy with both hands and all her upper body strength. It's hot and humid outside, mid afternoon during summer vacation. Water sloshes out of the bucket, splashing wet spots on her cut-off denim shorts and the bottom of a well-worn, cherry red tank top featuring "AMERICAN RAG" across it. She mutters to herself about spilling the cool water, then continues walking, barefoot, through the grass towards a huge weeping willow tree where two Labrador-Collie-mixed dogs are barking happily.
After sitting down the bucket by one happy mutt, it licks the girl's bare legs, hands, and arms in thanks before it drops its snout down into the water and begins to gulp down the water. The girl walks over to the other dog, pats it on the head, and retrieves a second bucket that has been toppled by the cable leash. She makes the trip back up to the house where the only hose is located. She repeats this process three times a day, all year round, for the two farm dogs, named Pepper and Candy. The eldest dog, an Akita by the name of Khaki, is the girl's personal nanny since she was five. He follows in her shadow obediently every single trip from the house to the dog-run, and the trips to feed and water the fifteen barn cats who keep mice out of the hay stocks at the other end of the family's countryside property.
That little girl? That's me. Every single day of my life from the age of five until seventeen I repeated the constant attention and care of the family pets. In the extreme heat and extreme cold, yes, I grouched and grumbled about having the responsibility, but my love for our pets -- animals in general, really -- kept me at their "bark and call."
At the age of ten, this was my idea of work. It was part of my chores, on top of sweeping off the patios, cleaning my room, and helping my mother with dishes and folding laundry. I didn't mind; I was often happy to help anyone who asked. I tended the neighbors' flower garden and horses -- which included the exciting adventure of riding around the countryside on horseback, like a scene from The Lord of the Rings; and yes, I had permission to do so -- when they went on vacation, my grandparents' dogs when they went out of town, or helped file medical documents into file-folders with my mother at her job at the local doctor's office.
Now picture this: a confident, fashion-savvy young woman, perhaps between the age of twenty-five and twenty-eight, walking with the crowd during morning rush-hour commuters downtown, coffee in one hand, other clutching a tote bag. She wears a white blazer, a colored blouse beneath with a scarf draped artfully around her neck, and office-appropriate dark-wash jeans. She hides her always-roving eyes behind a pair of Steve Madden aviators, and is secretly dreading the idea she has to change from her comfortable flats into platform heels once she reaches her office building. She's a journalist, living in the city, constantly traveling, interviewing, and writing for hours on a laptop from some cozy little apartment that is probably too expensive when it comes to rent, but she pays it anyway and continues to complain about it every once in awhile. She's independent, free, living in the world of magazine journalism, writing for ELLE, and enjoying every minute of the constant flow of news and work. She's a restless soul, and has been since she was a child, always needing something to do or something to write about. She calls her mother every other night and talks for an hour or so, calls her grandmother a once or twice a week to keep her updated, and continues her social life through both her job and a separate circle of old friends.
Sounds like a fantasy life, the fantasy life of a job I want to have. Perhaps it's a little too high for grasping right now, but eventually, that girl will get there. And that girl will -- hopefully -- be me. Who says you can't have a job you absolutely love?
When I was young, my mother always told me that anything was achievable if one worked hard enough towards it. So I took on the extra work if it meant it would lead to the roads I needed to get where I wanted in life. No one gives you a map at birth and says, "Okay, here you go, have fun finding your way." There is no guidance given to us; my mother says most of us -- including herself -- pretty much made it up as she went along, choosing what was best for herself when a decision was placed before her. Like my mother, I also like to take things as they come, but I'm... even more so competitive, ambitious and willing to get that fantasy life. I know it can be a reality. I've seen it just by speaking to a few women in the magazine industry. Their lives are exactly what I want, with my own twist, of course.
Even though I get frustrated with homework loads -- that's what you get for being an honor student in middle school and high school and taking eighteen credit hours each semester in college -- I still know it will pay off. My happy ending may not be what reality thinks it is; but if it can happen, then I guess I will be one of the few who can stand up and say I have my fantasy dream job before I'm through.
I've worked as a personal assistant for a business-owner, a check-in desk clerk at a deer-hunting check station -- tagging dead Bambi over and over again was very depressing -- and I've worked as a payroll assistant, logging employers' work time. Not exactly dream jobs, but it was money to get me through for a certain period of time. I always tried to stay on the positive side -- "It's PAY DAY!" -- to get me through those grueling hours, flipping through the pages of magazines every free moment I had.
My mother influenced me so much to be a positive person, giving me the tools to be a survivor and a fighter. And I could never thank her enough for that, from the days where she was my sword and shield to today where I hold my own and have her behind me to cheer me on. It makes me sad to think some of my peers and colleagues don't have that; especially the ones who develop a negative outlook on the world: "Work is annoying and a dead end, everything falls apart in the end, so why even try succeeding?"
It is my mother's work and nurturing that has made me into who I am, along with my own life experiences. My father taught me how to survive a gunfight and slip out of handcuffs -- he's a cop, and teaching me such skills were his idea of "father-daughter bonding" time -- and my mother gave me the opportunity to develop the psychological reasoning I have that allows me to be logical, optimistic, and objective.
So when I think of "work," I immediately picture happiness because of the skills my family gave me. I picture that woman who travels, writes, and is independent. She is the older reflection of myself I want to see in the mirror every morning in the next five to eight years. I understand that no one gets their dream job right out of college, but I am prepared to work my way up. If that means racing around downtown of a big city to get coffee, flip-flops, surfboards, Hermes scarves and Calvin Klein skirts like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, or arguing with news anchors and producers like Rachel McAdams in Morning Glory, then so be it. I'll do whatever it takes. I guess -- actually, I know -- I am an optimist, even on my bad days. My glass will almost always be half-full. If it's empty, then I guess that means I've gone on to a new game plan for my life. But I won't be abandoning my love for writing and magazine journalism until I have exhausted all roads to reach that place I picture.
All roads lead to Rome? All roads (hopefully) lead to ELLE, and more importantly, to happiness, wherever it may be.
Sure, people from different areas of the world and from different cultures see work differently than I do, but I can't speak for them, only for myself. Go ahead and call me crazy, insane, and out of my mind with my optimism, but I doubt that will ever change. I will always have a thirst for travel and knowledge, and I will never give up my writing. It became my skill because it started as a hobby and as personal therapy. Now it is my life... Along with other important things, of course.
So here's to the optimists, the journalists, and the parents who gave us the skills to succeed.
- Meredith Haas
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Dead End Educational Justice... Or Just a Dead End?
(NOTE: Caution to any reader... Posts tend to be long, opinionated, and detail-driven. Sorry.)
When I first began to read Jean Anyon's study, "The Hidden Curriculum of Work," I was at first very much frustrated with his way of describing the different communities. Then I had to reconsider that this study is dated, being nearly 40 or so years in age. Part of that frustration was also fueled towards the areas where there were typos, as well as unwanted and/or wrongfully placed characters and symbols.
As I continued to read, I also made the mental note in my head that -- in today's society -- technology is wider spread throughout school systems, but not to all, unfortunately; which leaves some schools stuck in Anyon's descriptions of the late '70s. With more computers available, internet, and social media, technology has become a tool in the education system. Even in one of the smallest, poorest suburbs near my hometown, the students each receive a laptop in which to complete their homework on.
In his working-class descriptions in section, "The Sample of Schools," of the four schools studied, I -- once again -- found myself biting my bottom lip at the dated, masculinity-driven details. His first initial look at these two communities were lead with the detailed description of the men of the community, listing the working and non-working women last, as if their income and occupation were less important. Perhaps it is still a "man's world," but where I grew up, women were just as hard-working to bring home the bacon, so to speak. The women I know across the state-line-split suburbs of Louisville, KY, all work at least part-time, if not full-time, or even more than one job. Housewives are few and far between in 'Kentuckiana.' Having been raised almost solely by my mother, I have always had the belief a woman can work and achieve just as much as any man can and should be given the chance to do so. (I swear, I'm not a hardcore feminist.)
As I continued to read of the deprivation of resources and the descriptions of the working class schools, I still found similarities to my own experiences as a student. But these descriptions also made me think of the documentary, "Waiting On Superman," where the United States educational system is looked at from the poorest of schools -- where children participate in a lottery to see who makes it into the only school for miles -- to a few of the most pristine school systems. Having seen several chunks of this documentary, it became clear to me why the statistics say that American children don't even come close to topping the academic charts internationally. The only thing American school children blow away the international competition across the charts is in levels of confidence.
Click on "Waiting On Superman" to see the official trailer for this eye-opening documentary.
While I read further on, I made tick-marks where I found similarities to my school system. I went through the same schools as the preceding two generations of my family had attended. The campus included three buildings: Stout Elementary (now called Silver Creek Elementary), Silver Creek Junior High, and Silver Creek High School. In elementary school, the curriculums of Anyon's described second and third schools were closest to my own. It was a constant intake of rules and steps to follow over and over again when learning mathematics and language and grammar. Several teachers would lead each new topic with this drilling process until it was obvious the class had come close to full comprehending the lesson. After the drilling, the games began. We would have relay races to finish math problems in teams on the chalkboard, punctuate sentences correctly, or fill in missing letters of the words on the week's spelling list. The winning team usually received an extra gold star on the "achievement chart," or a small piece of candy. At the end of each week, teachers would give short tests in each of the subjects to see if we managed to continue comprehending the full week's worth of learning. I believe that the help of games reinforced our desire -- or, in some cases, gave a desire -- to learn.
As my classmates and I reached higher levels, such as fourth through sixth grade, we were given more chances to try out new ways of writing and to explore our creative sides with writing assignments or projects, i.e. we were to pick a card from a basket that had a specific animal, which we would then write a report on, draw pictures of the animal, and then had to construct a home-made model of the animal. I still have the floppy, stuffed horse made of felt and yarn my mother and I sewed together to go with my report in the fifth grade. In sixth grade, as we began to study the Greek civilization and its mythology, a similar project was assigned. Each student was given a god or goddess and had to write a report, then deliver an oral presentation while dressed up in home-made Grecian costumes to represent the god or goddess. Unfortunately, many students still hadn't quite developed a creative, unique way of writing or presenting themselves.
When middle school reached us, we had been drilled so many times and tested on the English language and grammar, many of my classmates were stuck in what I like to call "cookie-cutter" ways of writing, leaving only a few of us to find our unique "writer's voice" before the end of eighth grade. Having always been a writer -- from the age of six I had detailed journals, no joke -- I had developed a love for reading anything I could get my hands on, loved to practice my cursive, spelling, and writing my own stories that I would later make my younger cousins act out with me for our parents and grandparents. To this day, I write nearly every day on at least one of many unfinished writing projects (short stories, poems, a few novels, a journal/memoir). In middle school, I had already been deemed the go-to girl among my friends and others for peer-editing in English class. It was my passion, and I worked hard to be sure my paper was very different from everyone else's, while still sticking to the laid-down gauntlet of "Shirley Language" jingles and workbooks drilled into our heads from the ages of five and six.
One such jingle I still recall about prepositions:
"Preposition, preposition, starting with an A:
Aboard, about, above,
across, after, against,
among, around, at...
Preposition, preposition, starting with a B:
Before, behind, below,
Beneath, beside, between,
Beyond, but, by."
So on, and so forth. To this day, I still remember this jingle in its entirety and several others, along with songs naming the fifty states, and jingles about important American history events like the Revolutionary War. Ever heard "The Shot Heard 'Round The World" from School House Rock? Or "I'm Just a Bill," and "Conjunction-junction, What's Your Function?"
On page eight, Anyon writes, "There is little excitement in schoolwork for the children, and the assignments are perceived as having little to do with their interests and feelings." I immediately had a question pop into my head: Did they interview only one child? (That child saying school was to get a good job or go to college by storing facts in his/her head.) This bothered me, just as several other reported findings had. In my experience, some children enjoy school... At least, I did. Despite when other students may have groaned or complained about an assignment/paper/project, I was happy to take on the challenge, and was quite competitive to come up with things outside the box that would give me even more knowledge than what was supplied in a textbook. Yes, I knew doing well in school led to college and jobs, but I was raised with the value that school isn't just for those reasons, but for self-improvement and cognitive growth -- though my parents didn't exactly word it like that to me at the age four when I begged when I could start kindergarten.
As the article reports on the different teachers and their styles of treating students, I wanted to be sure I addressed this. There is no such thing as a perfect teacher, administrator, or educational system. That much is obvious. Teachers varied among each school I attended. Not all schools have drill-sergeants for instructors, and not all schools have caring, open teachers. Most are mixtures, and therefore children are exposed to different adults' personalities, curriculums, and activities for homework or project.
In conclusion, I found myself in each of the four schools as I read Anyon's article. Perhaps it is a good thing younger children are drilled with steps and rules, because their underdeveloped brains can only handle so much information at certain stages of age and maturity. As each student grows, creativity should be allowed for exploration. I believe this self-academic-exploration at a young age has been a huge role in what makes me into the student I am now, a junior in college. I still remember my first day of kindergarten and my wide range of projects and papers from then until now. That little justice I was given by my parents and some very amazing teachers over the past fifteen years has given me the option to continue down the road of my life, instead of hitting a dead end like so many unfortunate students will find when not given these opportunities.
- Meredith Haas
LIBS 201: Writing For Social Justice
Roosevelt University, Fall 2011
When I first began to read Jean Anyon's study, "The Hidden Curriculum of Work," I was at first very much frustrated with his way of describing the different communities. Then I had to reconsider that this study is dated, being nearly 40 or so years in age. Part of that frustration was also fueled towards the areas where there were typos, as well as unwanted and/or wrongfully placed characters and symbols.
As I continued to read, I also made the mental note in my head that -- in today's society -- technology is wider spread throughout school systems, but not to all, unfortunately; which leaves some schools stuck in Anyon's descriptions of the late '70s. With more computers available, internet, and social media, technology has become a tool in the education system. Even in one of the smallest, poorest suburbs near my hometown, the students each receive a laptop in which to complete their homework on.
In his working-class descriptions in section, "The Sample of Schools," of the four schools studied, I -- once again -- found myself biting my bottom lip at the dated, masculinity-driven details. His first initial look at these two communities were lead with the detailed description of the men of the community, listing the working and non-working women last, as if their income and occupation were less important. Perhaps it is still a "man's world," but where I grew up, women were just as hard-working to bring home the bacon, so to speak. The women I know across the state-line-split suburbs of Louisville, KY, all work at least part-time, if not full-time, or even more than one job. Housewives are few and far between in 'Kentuckiana.' Having been raised almost solely by my mother, I have always had the belief a woman can work and achieve just as much as any man can and should be given the chance to do so. (I swear, I'm not a hardcore feminist.)
As I continued to read of the deprivation of resources and the descriptions of the working class schools, I still found similarities to my own experiences as a student. But these descriptions also made me think of the documentary, "Waiting On Superman," where the United States educational system is looked at from the poorest of schools -- where children participate in a lottery to see who makes it into the only school for miles -- to a few of the most pristine school systems. Having seen several chunks of this documentary, it became clear to me why the statistics say that American children don't even come close to topping the academic charts internationally. The only thing American school children blow away the international competition across the charts is in levels of confidence.
Click on "Waiting On Superman" to see the official trailer for this eye-opening documentary.
While I read further on, I made tick-marks where I found similarities to my school system. I went through the same schools as the preceding two generations of my family had attended. The campus included three buildings: Stout Elementary (now called Silver Creek Elementary), Silver Creek Junior High, and Silver Creek High School. In elementary school, the curriculums of Anyon's described second and third schools were closest to my own. It was a constant intake of rules and steps to follow over and over again when learning mathematics and language and grammar. Several teachers would lead each new topic with this drilling process until it was obvious the class had come close to full comprehending the lesson. After the drilling, the games began. We would have relay races to finish math problems in teams on the chalkboard, punctuate sentences correctly, or fill in missing letters of the words on the week's spelling list. The winning team usually received an extra gold star on the "achievement chart," or a small piece of candy. At the end of each week, teachers would give short tests in each of the subjects to see if we managed to continue comprehending the full week's worth of learning. I believe that the help of games reinforced our desire -- or, in some cases, gave a desire -- to learn.
As my classmates and I reached higher levels, such as fourth through sixth grade, we were given more chances to try out new ways of writing and to explore our creative sides with writing assignments or projects, i.e. we were to pick a card from a basket that had a specific animal, which we would then write a report on, draw pictures of the animal, and then had to construct a home-made model of the animal. I still have the floppy, stuffed horse made of felt and yarn my mother and I sewed together to go with my report in the fifth grade. In sixth grade, as we began to study the Greek civilization and its mythology, a similar project was assigned. Each student was given a god or goddess and had to write a report, then deliver an oral presentation while dressed up in home-made Grecian costumes to represent the god or goddess. Unfortunately, many students still hadn't quite developed a creative, unique way of writing or presenting themselves.
When middle school reached us, we had been drilled so many times and tested on the English language and grammar, many of my classmates were stuck in what I like to call "cookie-cutter" ways of writing, leaving only a few of us to find our unique "writer's voice" before the end of eighth grade. Having always been a writer -- from the age of six I had detailed journals, no joke -- I had developed a love for reading anything I could get my hands on, loved to practice my cursive, spelling, and writing my own stories that I would later make my younger cousins act out with me for our parents and grandparents. To this day, I write nearly every day on at least one of many unfinished writing projects (short stories, poems, a few novels, a journal/memoir). In middle school, I had already been deemed the go-to girl among my friends and others for peer-editing in English class. It was my passion, and I worked hard to be sure my paper was very different from everyone else's, while still sticking to the laid-down gauntlet of "Shirley Language" jingles and workbooks drilled into our heads from the ages of five and six.
One such jingle I still recall about prepositions:
"Preposition, preposition, starting with an A:
Aboard, about, above,
across, after, against,
among, around, at...
Preposition, preposition, starting with a B:
Before, behind, below,
Beneath, beside, between,
Beyond, but, by."
So on, and so forth. To this day, I still remember this jingle in its entirety and several others, along with songs naming the fifty states, and jingles about important American history events like the Revolutionary War. Ever heard "The Shot Heard 'Round The World" from School House Rock? Or "I'm Just a Bill," and "Conjunction-junction, What's Your Function?"
On page eight, Anyon writes, "There is little excitement in schoolwork for the children, and the assignments are perceived as having little to do with their interests and feelings." I immediately had a question pop into my head: Did they interview only one child? (That child saying school was to get a good job or go to college by storing facts in his/her head.) This bothered me, just as several other reported findings had. In my experience, some children enjoy school... At least, I did. Despite when other students may have groaned or complained about an assignment/paper/project, I was happy to take on the challenge, and was quite competitive to come up with things outside the box that would give me even more knowledge than what was supplied in a textbook. Yes, I knew doing well in school led to college and jobs, but I was raised with the value that school isn't just for those reasons, but for self-improvement and cognitive growth -- though my parents didn't exactly word it like that to me at the age four when I begged when I could start kindergarten.
As the article reports on the different teachers and their styles of treating students, I wanted to be sure I addressed this. There is no such thing as a perfect teacher, administrator, or educational system. That much is obvious. Teachers varied among each school I attended. Not all schools have drill-sergeants for instructors, and not all schools have caring, open teachers. Most are mixtures, and therefore children are exposed to different adults' personalities, curriculums, and activities for homework or project.
In conclusion, I found myself in each of the four schools as I read Anyon's article. Perhaps it is a good thing younger children are drilled with steps and rules, because their underdeveloped brains can only handle so much information at certain stages of age and maturity. As each student grows, creativity should be allowed for exploration. I believe this self-academic-exploration at a young age has been a huge role in what makes me into the student I am now, a junior in college. I still remember my first day of kindergarten and my wide range of projects and papers from then until now. That little justice I was given by my parents and some very amazing teachers over the past fifteen years has given me the option to continue down the road of my life, instead of hitting a dead end like so many unfortunate students will find when not given these opportunities.
- Meredith Haas
LIBS 201: Writing For Social Justice
Roosevelt University, Fall 2011
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