ExpressioExpressionsns

Eighteenth Student AnthologyEnglish 1013, Composition I

Department of EnglishNorthWest Arkansas Community College

Cover Art

Special thanks to NWACC art student Christina Castro for allowing the use of her photo on this edition’s cover. Christina says, “I took this picture in Picher, Oklahoma, which is a town that is now abandoned due to lead poisoning in the water.”

Forward

You hold in your hands the eighteenth edition of Expressions, the student anthology of essays by NorthWest Arkansas Community College students in English 1013, Composition I. These ten essays were chosen out of over 130 submitted to the Expressions contest.

This anthology contains essays written to fulfill various assignments in English 1013 during the 2010-2011 school year, and this batch of essays and authors reflects the diversity of NWACC. The essays range from memoirs and observations to evaluations and researched arguments. The authors vary from students just out of high school to nontraditional students juggling fulltime jobs and families.

Every year the English Department publishes Expressions to provide English 1013 students with models of essays written by their peers. Writing is a difficult task, which becomes easier with practice and exposure to others’ written work. As you go through this anthology, analyze each essay for what works well and what you would do differently if you were the author. And, at the end of your time in English 1013, I hope you will submit one of your essays for consideration for next year’s Expressions.

Thanks to everyone who participated in putting together this anthology: the faculty members who read and rated the essays, the English 1013 instructors who encouraged their students to submit, and the numerous English 1013 students who submitted their work for consideration.

Megan LooneyNWACC English FacultyJuly 2011

Table of Contents

Pandora’s Pencil Box by Crystal Bardin………………………………………………………….1

Porker Problems by Miles Blaisus…………………………………………………………………3

Words Are Cool by Sandy Bobbitt………………………………………………………………..7

No Child Left Behind: Assessing the Assessment by Renee Cook…………….…………………9

The Terrible Mr. Jones by Michelle Duchene……………………………………………….…...12

Factually Flummoxed or Truthfully Challenged by Philippa McMillon………………………...15

Star Wars by Robert Rook…………………..……………………………………………………...18

A Normal Speck by Sara Scott…………..…………………………………………………….….20

Ice Water and Chicken Feet by Shelby Shackelford….…………………………………………..22

Not the Stereotypical Horror Film by Jason Swetnam…….……………………………….…….24

About the Authors………………………………………………………………………………..27

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Pandora’s Pencil BoxBy Crystal Bardin

The cobblestone street beneath my wandering feet faithfully led me to the library once again. I live in a small town where the only attraction was that dusty, small two-story building that holds an endless supply of imagination. I have always loved books. The dusty volumes held me captive as they revealed the amazing and unique worlds tucked between their pages. Those stories showed me the link that corresponds between the artist and the masterpiece and from the author to the reader. The thing that always struck me was the familiar musty smell of the huddled books on their shelves. The sheer number of tales and stories told in those timeless books always baffled me. My infatuation with books began at an early age and at a time when I was learning about the boundaries of right and wrong.

I remember being six years old sitting in my classroom. My attention was not on the lesson but rather focused out the large, plain window across the room. The leaves were just starting to turn into the brilliant hues and pigments of fall’s colors. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Fletcher, stood at the front of the room, ready to make a big announcement. She announced that the Book-Mobile was coming to our school and we would all be allowed to shop in the store. I don’t remember a lot about my time in elementary school, but I distinctly remember the Book-Mobile. The first day we all lined up in a single row and marched to the book room. We gawked at the neatly arranged, brightly colored books lining the shelves. I looked at the many books positioned on the walls as I silently snaked through the crowded room.

The books that surrounded me in that room seemed so full of life and adventure. They graced the blank shelves with such vibrancy, so much like the brilliantly colored leaves filling the trees outside. Suddenly, a book with a big sparkly rainbow fish on the cover caught my eye. I just had to have it. I couldn’t remember when I had ever wanted something so badly before. Time seemed to pass too quickly, and before I knew it, it was time to go. At the end of our tour, Mrs. Fletcher gathered us together and announced, “The Book-Mobile will be at our school for the rest of the week, so if you want to come back to buy books, there’s still time.” As we filed out, I felt a little sorry for the books left there, hostage to the wasted grasp of the cold shelves, no one to read them. I couldn’t wait to ask my mom about the books that night.

“Mom, there is this book I want to get at the Book-Mobile,” I said. Then I asked timidly, “Can I get it?”

“How much does it cost?” She asked, not paying much attention.“Ten dollars,” I piped.“We can’t do that this time around; we don’t have the extra money.” Times are tough. Money doesn’t grow on trees. I had heard these things many times

before. Needless to say, I was angry, sad, and disappointed with the loss of the book that was never really mine.

The next day began like any other day for a six year old. I marched in a single file line to assembly, and then I was corralled into my class for a fun-filled day, except I wasn’t all giggles and smiles. To my dismay, my class headed, like the day before, to the book room. Even though I knew I couldn’t buy the sparkly rainbow fish book that I wanted, it still looked just as bright and colorful as it had the day before—or maybe even more so.

We left soon, bee-lining our way to the classroom. As we lined ourselves up, a small, hyperactive boy named Evan stood in line right behind me. He apparently was having a hard time deciding which books he would buy. “I can buy any books I want,” he gloated to his friend.

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The rest of the way to class he boasted relentlessly about the thirty dollars his mom gave him. I went over to my desk feeling strangely anxious and sat quietly for the next class period. I couldn’t get my mind off the money conspicuously hiding in his desk. Recess was coming up, and the taunting by the hidden money just got louder.

I made up my mind. I was going to take the money. His family had money; they wouldn’t miss thirty dollars. My family was poor, so it wasn’t really stealing. I scurried to the restroom right as the class got up to go to recess. After the class left, I stealthily made my way over to Evan’s desk. His desk lid slid up, and the check for thirty dollars sat in his little cartoon cardboard pencil box. I picked up the check gingerly. I had never had that much money, and with it I could buy two or three books. I hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. I jumped as the bell rang, slamming the desk lid closed. I scuttled to my own desk and stuffed the check in my own little cardboard box.

My classmates fanned into the room, taking residence in their seats. Evan hurried to his seat completely unaware of his loss. When I saw him I couldn’t help but feel another nagging twang of guilt. For a short time it seemed I was in the clear. I thought no one would find out about my thievery. Oh, how I was very wrong. At the end of math class, I heard an unmistakable gasp. That gasp threw my rationalizations for stealing up in the air. I felt I was getting smaller every second Evan spent frantically pulling his desk to pieces in search for the check that lay in my pencil box.

“I lost it! I lost it!” He yelled. Mrs. Fletcher came over and tried to help him find the lost check. Tears streaked down Evan’s freckled cheeks as he buried his face in his hands. I will never forget that moment. I could not have been more ashamed of what I had done. Mrs. Fletcher asked the class if anyone had taken his check or misplaced it. I was petrified with the guilt and fear of getting caught. The knot in my stomach was getting a lot more tangled by that point. The bell rang as we all got ready to leave for the day. Evan cried hysterically on the outside and I on the inside.

The morning after I became a thief, I walked up to the teacher and confessed my crime, sobbing the whole time. I was grounded and spanked, but the real punishment I received was seeing Evan’s agony the day when I stole his mom’s check. I had opened my own Pandora’s Box that day. During the next week, the daily trips to the Book-Mobile created a vivid reminder of what I had done, and those books did not look so inviting after that.

Books are still an important aspect of my life. The pursuit and the capture of good stories have led me to an abundance of knowledge. Now as I look back on the situation, I realize the lessons that were ingrained in my mind will always stay with me. I never stole again. I had no inclination to take something that wasn’t mine. I now walk down my narrow street and think about the mistakes I have made that have inevitably changed the person I am today. I expect that the choices I make now will change the person I will become. My love of books has taught me about life and moral boundaries. They will always capture my interest as they sit patiently on their many shelves waiting to be read.

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Porker ProblemsBy Miles Blaisus

The hogs have gone wild, and, no, I am not talking about the Arkansas Razorbacks. I am talking about Sus Scrofa, wild boar, an animal that causes tremendous problems and an animal that must be controlled before it gets out of hand.

Wild boars, also called feral pigs or feral hogs, were first introduced to America in 1541 and 1542 by Hernando de Soto, a Spanish explorer, whose expedition traveled up the Mississippi with herds of pigs. These pigs, which were not contained in any manner, eventually escaped. Though the first person to release pigs into the wild, de Soto was not the last to do so, and it is impossible to know if any of the feral pigs in Arkansas today are descended from de Soto’s swine (Bowden, par. 12.).

Another source of feral pigs came from early Texan settlers who let their pigs run wild until it was time to slaughter them. Also, nationwide in times of war and economic depression when settlers were forced to abandon their homes, they would often leave their pigs to fend for themselves. These pigs would then run wild and quickly turn feral. In the 1930s another wave of feral pigs was introduced to North America from Europe, and this time they were purposely released in select places specifically for sport hunting (Morthland and McSpadden, par. 12). Even with all of these pigs released into the wild, feral hogs were not a problem for another fifty years. In fact, in 1970 it was estimated that only four percent of Arkansas supported a feral pig population, and that number was dropping (Sasee).

In 1980 pig populations exploded in the Southern U.S. and California, rapidly expanding from a few scattered locations to the huge range we see today (see Fig. 1 and 2).

(Fig. 1.) Feral swine populations in 1982

(Fig. 1.) Feral/Wild Swine Populations 1982

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(Fig. 2.) National Feral Swine Mapping System.Feral swine populations in 2011

This increase was mostly due to two things. First, better medicine brought down disease rates in domesticated pigs. This meant fewer diseased pigs escaped into the wild to spread their diseases (Morthland and McSpadden, par. 13). Second, pig hunting became very popular in the 1980s and 1990s, as did the practice of releasing pigs into the wild in enough numbers to create breeding populations that could survive being hunted. This practice allows the pigs to expand their territory much faster than normal, and it still goes on today (Sasee).

After pigs are released, they go feral quickly, developing a coat of bristly hair usually gray or dark brown. They also start to grow four tusks, one in each quadrant of the jaw; these will continue to grow throughout their life. The males use their tusks to fight with other males over females. Both males and females weigh one hundred to one hundred and thirty pounds though males are usually bigger (Dewey and Hruby).

These hundred pound sacks of ornery can cause huge amounts of damage in very little time. Blake Sasee, Arkansas Game and Fish Commission’s non-game mammal/furbearer program leader, says he has seen a newly planted cornfield dug up row-by-row by feral pig: “the hogs started at the end of each row, rooted right down the rows of corn and dug up all the seeds.” This kind of destructive behavior is normal for feral pigs. In Texas it is not uncommon to find a seventy-acre pasture dug up in just one night by feral pigs. The cost of this behavior can grow to outrageous amounts.

Most of the damage feral pigs cause stems from their behavior of “Rooting” for food. When rooting, pigs use their long, cartilage-strengthened snouts to dig up to three feet in the ground for food (Morthland and McSpadden, par. 8). Food for feral pigs is mostly anything that will fit in their mouths; Blake Sasee remarked, “They’ll eat just about anything, they’re hogs. They’ll forage for acorns or plants [and] if they come across small mammals, birds, eggs they’ll eat those.”And since feral pigs can smell scents up to seven miles away and twenty-five feet underground, they will probably find all the food in whatever area they are searching (Morthland and

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McSpadden, par. 16). When more than three fourths of a state has a feral pig population, as in Texas, rooting pigs cause a lot of problems.

In Texas feral pigs cause a staggering four hundred million dollars in damages annually, rooting up recreation areas, private property and parks. The pigs eat so much and are so prevalent that they are slowly pushing out a lot of the other wildlife. In an effort to contain the pigs Texas allows year round, no-limit hunting of feral pigs. They also shoot hundreds of pigs from helicopters. With these methods Texas killed an estimated 24,648 feral pigs in 2009, but even that was not enough to significantly reduce the total population (Morthland and McSpadden, par. 39).

Aside from visible damage, pigs also cause ecological damage that is much harder to spot. In the summer pigs spend lots of time in streams cooling off. This is the same reason pigs spend time in mud wallows. However, when pigs are in the streams they defecate in them and stir up mud from the bottom. This pollutes the stream, and as a study in Louisiana showed, the fresh water mussel and clam populations are adversely affected (Sasee). These types of damages keep growing with the rise in pig populations.

As well as the physical and ecological problems pigs cause, there is also an economic concern. Feral pigs are susceptible to parasites and infections, making them potential carriers of swine brucellosis and pseudorabies. If domestic pigs come into contact with a feral pig carrying one of these diseases, the illness could be easily transferred to the domestic pigs. If this happened it could be severely detrimental to any commercial pig operation. For these reasons many Game and Fish Commissioners feel that wild pig populations must be reduced.

One of the problems encountered when combating feral pigs is their prolific breeding habits. Females normally start breeding at eighteen months, and with a gestation period of one hundred and fifteen days, they usually have two litters a year, each litter containing one to twelve piglets. The females and the young travel in groups called sounders containing twenty or more pigs that forage for food constantly (Dewey and Hruby). Although mortality rates in piglets come to half of each litter, the reproductive rate of feral pigs is still staggering (Dewey and Hruby).

Even with female pigs spawning twelve piglets a year, feral pigs would not be the problem they are today were it not for human intervention. Young pigs looking for new territory travel the farthest, and they will not travel much more then seventeen miles a year (Sasee). Solitary male pigs roam close to fifteen miles a year, and female pigs in sounders have an annual range of three square miles (Sasee). These ranges are a tiny fraction of the distance humans transported pigs when they introduced them into New York and Michigan from their southern range.

Despite all of these complications, Blake Sasee believes it would be possible to reduce the feral pig population in Arkansas to a more reasonable level even if complete eradication is impossible. I agree, and I believe we should start the process as soon as possible as over time it will be much more difficult to remove feral pigs from the state.

I think the first step to reducing feral pigs is to raise people’s awareness of the major problems pigs cause and could cause, and get people to realize they are all stakeholders in this issue. Every county in the state has a pig population of some size, so anyone could have a hundred and fifty pound pig show up in their backyard.

Landowners need to be involved if we are going to control feral pig populations. If one landowner is trapping pigs and his neighbor is letting the pigs run unchecked, the overall pig population in that area will remain unfazed (Sasee). Also, knowing how much damage pigs cause

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and what the cost of introducing feral pigs is will make people more likely to help authorities identify who is releasing pigs and help to put a stop to this ill-advised practice.

Once people are aware of the problem and once human transportation of pigs has stopped, states can focus on containing feral pigs without having to worry about pigs showing up a hundred miles away in an area previously free of feral pigs.

This proposal is better than the current alternative which is to continue to release pigs for hunting and let the state deal with the consequences. The problem with this way of thinking is the states cannot reduce pig populations if they are being constantly reintroduced. Kansas instituted a statewide ban on recreational hunting of feral pigs attempting to remove incentive for hunters to release pigs (McGuire, par. 30). This policy seems to have worked as Kansas has been able to reduce their pig population.

Feral pigs are a problem I feel everyone should be concerned about, even the pig hunters. People hunting anything but pigs should realize that feral pigs hurt wildlife by removing food supplies that other species depend upon (McGuire, par. 7). Landowners should realize their land could be next on the pig’s hit list. And pig hunters themselves should realize that the fun of hunting pigs is not worth the outstanding price tag, like the $400 million one in Texas. That money comes from the taxpayers, some of whom are the hunters themselves.

This problem is one that must be addressed. The damage that pigs cause is undeniable, and evidence shows that pig populations would not be as large as they are if it were not for human intervention. It will be extremely difficult to contain the pigs if hunters continue to release pigs, and it will take a lot more time and effort to do so. If there were no human intervention, reducing the pig population would be vastly easier, and it is possible to at least diminish the pig population to a more reasonable level as it was in 1980. That is why we should act now; this problem is one we should correct, and one we can correct with policy changes in education and hunting laws.

Works Cited

Bowden, Bill. “Pigs run wild in town's big park Officials: Hogs roam statewide” Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, 13 Feb. 2011, natl. LexisNexis Academic. Web. 11 Apr. 2011.

Dewey, Tanya and Jennifer Hruby. “Sus scrofa” animaldiversity.ummz.umich. University of Michigan Museum of Zoology, 2008. Web. 11 Apr. 2011.

“Feral Hog Hunting Regulations” Agfc. Arkansas Game and Fish Commission. 2011. Web. 11 Apr. 2011.

“Feral/Wild Swine Populations 1982.” Scwds. U.S. Department of Agriculture, n.d. Web. 18 Apr. 2011

“National Feral Swine Mapping System.” Scwds. Europa Technologies, Geocentre Consulting, INEGI, 2011. Web. 18 Apr. 2011

McGuire, Kim. “Hog wild Feral pigs multiply in Missouri, ruining crops, spreading disease.” St. Louis Post-Dispatch. 26 Oct. 2008, natl. LexisNexis Academic. Web. 11 Apr. 2011.

Morthland, John, and Wyate McSpadden. "A Plague of Pigs." Smithsonian 42.1 (2011): 52-61. Academic Search Elite. EBSCO. Web. 5 Apr. 2011.

Sasee, Blake. Telephone interview. 18 Apr. 2011.

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Words Are CoolBy Sandy Bobbitt

Having a child is always an exciting and scary adventure. Having a child with a disability makes the adventure scarier but also very rewarding. Larry was born May 17, 1997, with Vater Association, an association of physical anomalies. He had seven surgeries before his first birthday to correct most of his physical issues. When he was two, we began noticing some issues with his behavior and mannerisms that led us to a diagnosis of high functioning autism. I remember being so worried that above all he wouldn't be able to learn or have a normal life. My son had other ideas though, and his natural curiosity and enthusiasm led to teaching himself to read at age three.

Larry was a small boy with dark brown hair and big bright hazel eyes that always twinkled with merriment and wonder. We made sure that he had all the help he needed to overcome his physical and mental challenges. When he was sixteen months old, he attended a preschool program at the Benton County Sunshine School and received a variety of therapies. During the summer when he was three, we signed him up for aquatic therapy. This type of therapy, involving pool games, helped with muscle development and coordination but also had the surprising effect of helping him learn to read. Larry loved water, so getting him to the pool for therapy was easy. Getting him into the swim vest and sitting down by the pool without his flailing headfirst into the water was another matter. The therapist, Beth, had to come up with a process for letting him get in the pool.

“Larry, if you want to jump in, you will have to do something for me first. How about spelling your name for me?” Beth said.

Larry looked at her quizzically but did his best to comply. We always had books available, and we read to him daily. We had the magnetic alphabet on our refrigerator, and we visited Mister Roger's Neighborhood so often that “King Friday and Henrietta the Pussycat” became dear friends, so Larry knew his ABC's. Beth had him begin by telling her what letter of the alphabet his name started with. He would repeat what she said, and when he got the answer right she would let him jump in and begin his exercises. They soon progressed to spelling his name entirely before he could jump in. He would get so excited that his little body would stiffen up and he would jump up and down like he had springs in his ankles. After he spelled his name correctly the first few times, Beth took Larry and tossed him in the pool. Wow! He loved that and wanted more.

I looked up as he got out of the pool, his little body stiff with excitement and dotted with goose flesh. He was skipping along behind Beth hollering, “Wanna` go again! Wanna` go again! L-A-R-R-Y! L-A-R-R-Y!”

Autistic children sometimes have problems learning to speak their own ideas and thoughts. They start off mimicking what others say to them like most children. But most often they keep repeating this behavior, which is called echolalia. By repeating words to himself, Larry used the echolalia to learn to spell words. Soon he mastered his name, so he and Beth moved on to spelling easy words like cat, dog, mom and swim. It wasn't long until he realized that letters and spelling must associate to everything around him. We would be driving down the road and Larry would have me spell everything we passed.

“Spell tree, Mommy!” He would shout as we drove past the trees in our neighborhood. “Spell truck. Spell stop!”

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Naturally, after a few weeks of this he began finding familiar words in books we were reading to him. One day my husband and I dropped Larry off to spend time with his grandparents. He loved seeing Poppa and Grandma; there was always something yummy cooking, and Poppa always had some adventure planned. Having several grandchildren prior to Larry, they always had children's books around. Larry impressed Poppa by reading several words and putting together almost a full sentence for him. When we picked him up that day, we were met at the door by Poppa.

He jerked open the door before we could knock and, with a look of amazement and pride on his face, said, “That baby can read!”

With his polyglot of language, Larry learned to sound out words easily. We were always amazed at his ability to sound out something complex. Sometimes he would get things a little backwards. We pulled into the IHOP one Sunday morning for breakfast, and Larry started hopping up and down in his car seat in excitement.

“I love the HOPI! Yummy!” He squealed.As his learning progressed and he became able to read better and with more confidence,

his preschool teachers let him read to the other children. This was always a big thrill for him, and it carried on into kindergarten and beyond. After hearing Larry read to his class one day, the principal invited him to read to a group of third graders during literacy week. He acted like he had won the lottery as he picked out a couple of “big” books to share with the third graders.

Mrs. Purdy, his teacher, asked Larry, “Why don't you show the same enthusiasm for math? It's just as much fun!”

“Aww, Mrs. Purdy, numbers aren't cool like words. I can't tell you a story with numbers,” he replied in a very matter of fact tone.

Now in 8th grade, Larry still loves to read, almost as much as he loves video games. He points out that some role playing video games have just as much reading in them as a book does. Fiction is not his usual choice, and he favors non-fiction stories, travel books, and dictionaries, although he did enjoy The Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney. On more occasions than I like to admit, he teaches us something about reading.

One evening after playing the game Oblivion that he shares with his dad, he came out of his room and asked his dad, “Have you ever seen a narwhal?”

Assuming that this was some nemesis in the game, Dad replied, “Nope, haven't run into that one yet. How did you defeat it?”

Goggling at his dad like he just fell of the turnip truck, Larry replied, “It's not in the game. It's in the Arctic Ocean.”

He proceeded to show us by getting on the Internet and using Google that there was in fact a porpoise-like creature called a narwhal that lives in the Arctic waters. This creature has a long pointy tooth that grows out of its mouth making it the “unicorn of the sea.” Interesting! We are never too old to learn something from our kids.

Watching Larry teach himself to read was a great experience for all of our family. He made me realize that what some people perceive as a disability can actually be used as a learning tool. His curiosity and enthusiasm made me want to expose him to more opportunities to learn. If he tackles other obstacles life like he tackled the reading process by using his "disability" to his advantage, there will be no more worrying about his ability to learn from me. I am sure that I can find other things to worry about.

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No Child Left Behind: Assessing the AssessmentBy Renee Cook

Will American schools achieve the arbitrary goal of one hundred percent proficiency in English and math by 2014, as set forth by The No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB)? Ascertaining an accurate and fair answer to this question happens by delving into the history, origin, concerns of educators, consequences for schools that do not achieve Annual Yearly Progress (AYP), the students, and the overall ability these high-stakes standardized tests have of truly gauging student achievement. This insight will allow thoughtful and reasonable discussion to change this current accountability measure from something punitive to something productive and beneficial for all.

Christy Guifoyle, in her article “NCLB: Is There Life Beyond Testing?” published in Educational Leadership, 2006, states that “NCLB is the newest iteration of a decades old law, the Elementary and Secondary Education Act (ESEA).” ESEA was enacted in 1965 to provide necessary funding to assist school districts with low-income students. Over the next three and a half decades, ESEA would see many changes. Some of the more notable changes include: in 1988, districts were required to use standardized testing to assess schools; the reauthorization of ESEA in 1994 as the Improving America’s Schools Act; the requirement of a report of schools not making AYP; and finally, the signing of NCLB in 2002 by President George W. Bush.

The origin of the standardized tests used in schools may be astounding and perhaps a little hard to swallow. As Dawn Camacho, M.A., and Vickie Cook, Ph.D., point out in their online submission “Standardized Testing: Does it Measure Student Preparation for College & Work?,” these tests are derived from the United States Army Alpha Test. The sole purpose of the Alpha Test, used during World War I, was the assessment of recruits, meant to identify those qualified for officer training, and was a means of testing aptitude rather than achievement. Tests in schools today “are intended to measure student achievement not aptitude” (Camacho and Cook). The results then are the relative ranking of students within the test group and not of their knowledge or real preparation by the students. Further evidence that these standardized tests are ineffective in measuring real learning can be seen in the 2008 Clearing House: A Journal of Educational Strategies article, “Who Is No Child Left Behind Leaving Behind,” by Theoni Soublis Smyth, where she states that governors in the United States assume that “schools need higher and tougher standards.” She lists some of those standards as being unmotivated students needing more immediate consequences for their learning, teachers either inadequate or unmotivated to inspire student learning, local communities and school leaders not knowing what students should learn or to what degree, and the accountability deriving from testing which will force improvements on the system.

The use of these tests nationally has been to determine student and teacher performance, student placement and promotion, teacher salaries, accreditation of schools, funding for schools, and graduation opportunities for students. Consequences for not meeting AYP can be harsh and painfully punitive, from loss of funding for Title I schools to “school restructuring and state takeover, potentially leading to job loss for teachers and principals” (Foote). Schools that are earmarked as high achieving as a result of test scores are recipients of rewards such as “public recognition and monetary bonuses to teachers in schools that make the greatest gains as measured by test scores” (Foote).

This system of punishment and reward pits schools against each other in an unhealthy competitive manner, opening the door to cheating by teachers and administrators alike. This cheating happens in different forms from teachers encouraging students who will lower the AYP with their scores to be absent the day or days of testing to the requirements of NCLB itself. NCLB

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states that schools can exempt two percent of student scores from the assessment for magnet and charter schools that specialize in the education of “students with varying exceptionalities. One hundred percent of the school population has special needs” (Smyth 135), thereby making the ninety-eight percent reportable population irrelevant and setting these schools up to fail and leaving behind special needs students. In Arizona’s Sedona Red Rock High School, twenty percent of students are English Language Learners (ELL). According to Lisa Hirsch, District Curriculum and Instruction Coordinator for the Sedona-Oak Creek School district that while the schools in the district are doing well “according to Arizona’s NCLB classification system,” low performing students are pulled from regular classes to take part in the Reading Recovery program and other materials having little connection to the classroom curriculum. The students pulled out of regular classes lose out on the benefit of the enriched curriculum their counterparts receive, all this to achieve higher scores on standardized tests. A reasonable conclusion here is that NCLB leaves ELL students behind.

High-stakes consequences, such as teachers encouraging students to be absent on test day, and the obvious leaving behind of key subgroups of students, e.g., special needs and ELL, begs the question, just what is being taught in American schools today? The answer is simple: teachers are teaching to the tests. These tests have become the classroom objective, “forcing instruction to change from exploratory, lifelong learning to teaching to the test through drill and kill” (Smyth 134). Teachers educate in this manner under the misconception they are doing the students and themselves a favor, since high scores save jobs and allow for promotion and graduation. The reality is that this method of drill and kill is a disservice to both educators and students as it shows little or nothing of teaching abilities and overall learning by the students. It is merely rote memorization and skews the validity of the very tests that hold all stakeholders accountable. Further, these tests have taken charge of the classroom and are severely limiting educators’ decision-making power and ability for innovation in meeting specific student needs. All this leads to frustration and a sense of worthlessness on the part of educators. NCLB is leaving the teaching profession behind.

Unfortunately, when educators are pressured into this type of teaching and are apprehensive about the tests, these feeling are passed on to the students, resulting in test anxiety for the students. Even elementary students feel this anxiety, as Smyth states, “elementary students experience high levels of anxiety, concern, and angst about high-stakes testing.” This anxiety can culminate in both physical and psychological effects on students and have an increase in absenteeism. Smyth does point out that teachers are not against accountability, just that the current method under NCLB has serious detrimental effects, such as excessive pressure on particular grades, unbalanced and inappropriate instruction, and teachers having second thoughts about the profession. These observations by those on the front line of this debate need to be given the credence they deserve and make headline news before NCLB can fail another student, teacher, or school.

To see where all this testing has gotten schools in the eight years since being signed into law, one need only look at the November 2, 2010, Arkansas Democrat Gazette and The Morning News, Rogers Edition for the results. As reported by Cynthia Howell of The Arkansas Democrat Gazette, “40% of schools fail test criteria.” In her article, Howell states that of the 1,075 schools statewide, 420 schools failed to meet the AYP based on the 2009 tests. Caleb Fort and Teresa Moss of The Morning News, Rogers Edition reported that for the first time all four Rogers middle schools, one elementary and one high school are on the list of schools not meeting AYP based on 2009 test scores. Of the schools on the list, 78 were classified in the most serious “state directed” category (Howell). In a recent parent-teacher conference at one of Rogers’ middle schools, a parent of a child with an Individual Education Plan (IEP) was told by the vice principal that average is not good enough anymore because of NCLB. Everyone in the room concurred that for this particular student, average

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may very well be his level best but because of the AYP requirements of NCLB, the student must be pushed to a proficient level. The administrators, teachers, mother, and the student have no wiggle room in the guidelines of the current system.

Research has shown there are models for accurate assessment of student achievement and teacher ability. One such model is the school site visit, as outlined by Smyth, who contends that while these site visits are expensive and time consuming, they are “part of every institution of higher learning’s means of assessment.” As the goal is to prepare students for college and the workplace, why not implement what works for higher learning institutions at the elementary and high school level? Smyth describes a four-tier process beginning with a school self-evaluation, the criteria of which is set forth by the state and should have three levels: elementary schools, middle schools, and high schools. Next in the process would be the site visit, conducted by a highly qualified team that would observe classrooms, interview teachers and students and would last several days. The team would compile the data and make a report to the school. After the report has been received, the school would have opportunity to respond and address areas of concern. Following the report and response, a school improvement plan would be developed outlining specific steps the school would implement to achieve improvement. These site visits should be conducted once every three years, and the school improvement plan would be the basis for the next visit. According to Smyth, this model would allow for a collective effort from all stakeholders and facilitate greater outcome.

Therefore, to answer the original question, will American schools achieve the arbitrary goal of one hundred percent proficiency in English and math by 2014, as set forth by The No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB)—no, they will not. NCLB is flawed in methodology and ability to assess what really matters. There is hope for American schools, and there are options to the kill and drill mentality that prevails in schools today. That hope lies with all stakeholders, the parents, the administrators, the teachers, and most importantly, the students. No longer should the old adage of “those that can do and those that can’t teach” be tolerated; after all, who taught those that can? It is time to let educators do what they do best, educate. Unbind their hands and open the minds of the students to more than just what is on the test.

Works CitedCamacho, Dawn and Vickie Cook. “Standardized Testing: Does it Measure Student Preparation

for College and Work?” Online Submission 2007: 13. ERIC. EBSCO. Web. 26 Oct. 2010. Foote, Martha. “Keeping Accountability Systems Accountable.” Phi Delta Kappan 88.5 (2007):

359-63. MasterFile Premier. EBSCO. Web. 26 Oct. 2010.Fort, Caleb and Teresa Moss. “Some Schools Fall Short.” Morning News, Rogers Edition.

2 Nov. 2010: E1+. Print.Guifoyle, Christy. “NCLB: Is There Life Beyond Testing?” Educational Leadership 64.3

(2006): 8-13. MasterFile Premier. EBSCO. Web. 26 Oct. 2010.Hirsch, Lisa. “Closing the Gaps of No Child Left Behind: The Assessment Debate for Essential

Schools.” Horace 23.1 (2007): 5. ERIC. EBSCO. Web. 26 Oct. 2010.Howell, Cynthia. “40% of schools fail test criteria.” Arkansas Democrat Gazette

2 Nov. 2010: E1+. Print.Smyth, Theoni Soublis.“Who Is No Child Left Behind Leaving Behind.” Clearing House: A

Journal of Educational Strategies, Issues and Ideas 81.3 (2008): 5. ERIC. Web. 26 Oct. 2010.

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The Terrible Mr. JonesBy Michelle Duchene

Where I grew up wasn’t the most picturesque childhood dream home. My great-grandmother died when I was born and left her empty house to my parents, so we moved from London, Ontario to Jacksonville, Arkansas when I was only a month old. The neighborhood had poor drainage and was full of trash in nearly every perceivable crevice. Something was always wet, whether it be the tree bark, the leaves, the grass, the street, the ditches, or the snotty neighbor kid’s nose. Puddles formed even when it didn’t rain, so mosquitoes bred like rabbits. Once I even remember putting my pet fish in a puddle just so it would eat the mosquito larvae. Most people would read this neighborhood description and think that perhaps I had a limited childhood, when in truth my growing up years were an unsurpassable experience.

When we were little, my brother and I didn’t have much to play with because my parents believed “toys spoiled and imaginations brightened,” and we weren’t exactly well off. This brutally forced us to have personalities and to use them. Our world evolved into one full of monsters and forts and secrets, and we became brave and adventurous. Because of this we got into all sorts of trouble while trekking through our kingdom. A couple living up the street from us built a sand volleyball court in their backyard, and we loved to make sand castles. I remember many afternoons spent in that forbidden yard while the couple was away at work, the two of us diligently building and listening for the sound of their car pulling into the driveway. You see, they seemed like the charming, understanding type of people who would wring your ear and drag you home to your parents, telling of the doom and destruction you wreaked to their yard, but not before demolishing your small sand cities. To reach their beach-like paradise though, we had to pass crazy Mr. Harris. He had a funny way of talking where after he finished speaking his mouth continued to move. His house lay across the street and to the left of our house. We never thought much of him until he tried to sell my young brother a phonebook, and we then became very cautious because even at our age we knew that was strange. We sprinted past his house whenever he sat on his porch, which was every day.

My brother and I invented more games than I could ever remember. Our favorites were the exploring ones, because those usually led to the most fascinating of discoveries, among which new friends were the best. My brother and I were a superhero duo. Every hiding place, tunnel, entrance, and exit in our neighborhood was mapped out in our heads. We knew the places where danger lurked like a catfish in a dark pond, places where villains watched through damp and smoky windows, places normal kids should never have to know about—but we did.

It was our job as Superkids to stealthily explore the block, searching for more of our kind. And we found one, a little Hispanic boy named Ean living in the neighborhood behind ours. He appeared one day when my brother and I crawled through the trees and bushes beside our house and ended up in his backyard. We played Super Mario for the first time at Ean’s house, and his mom made us Kool-Aid. We also had some friends who lived up the road a little ways, and wealthy they must have been because they had a two-story house. That family had three brothers, and we spent time with the older two, Jimmy and Joey, who were scrawny and seemed as tall as their house. They had a habit of one of them saying the first part of a thought, and the other one trying to complete it, interrupting, usually. If one of them answered incorrectly, an argument broke loose. But we liked them, and they liked us, and we all liked Ean, and everybody liked Jared. He was a small, red-haired, freckle-faced boy about as tall as the handle on the refrigerator

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and could melt any parent’s heart like the chocolate chips in a warm cookie. These were our friends, and I was the only girl (and I never noticed), and we were all Superkids.

In broad daylight, nearly every place was safe for exploring. Adults left for work, Megateens stayed at school, and we reigned supreme. It was a known fact that once you turned thirteen the title of Superkid was no longer rightfully yours, but instead you transitioned into a Megateen and became evil. Therefore, all teens and some adults were bad (excluding our parents of course, who had somehow overcome the wickedness of being a Megateen).

My brother and I knew that our parents cared for us. They always taught us to listen more and talk less, in the hopes that we would learn to observe more quickly and judge more slowly. Surely this advice must apply to every individual we encountered, including our enemies. Our friends were observant as well, we learned, and it turned out that we all shared one nemesis, Mr. Jones. Our grandpa lived to the right of our house, and Mr. Jones lived to the right of his house. A small cement bridge parted the thick mesh of trees that separated their yards. So now, with all of our knowledge pooled, maybe we could draw a firmer conclusion about this fiend. Why was he evil? To be feared? For a few very convincing reasons I dare say! One: he rarely, if ever, left his house. What was he doing in there? Perhaps hiding from the police for committing some sinister crime, long ago. Two: his wife sat in a wheelchair and scowled incessantly. Everyone knew Mr. Jones had a terrible temper; surely he must have had enough one day and snapped her legs— that must have been it. And three: he shot kids. Any child who set a foot on his property would do so nervously. They said he used to be a sharpshooter in the war when he was younger, but that’s to suggest he served his country, which is much too altruistic for a villain. No, he must have been discharged from the military for some act of treason.

Everyone knew his past, how he shot a boy once. We Superkids were huddled in the dark, whispering. Small sounds surrounded us, but not the kind we were listening for, the sound of footsteps.

“Just a little boy, like you, Jared,” Jimmy began, Joey nodding solemnly. “He had only wanted a peek in Mr. Jones’ house…”

“…and while he was peering through those damp, mildew-lined windows into the dark, Mr. Jones snuck up behind him and put a bullet right through his head,” Joey finished, Jimmy nodding quietly.

We thought out loud what he would do to us if he found us right then. I remember looking into Jared’s face as tiny rays of light danced across his freckles, making his eyes glow.

“Shoot us.” We all shivered at the thought that he might have been listening to us. At that moment we

imagined the branches of the hollow bush ripped apart, our secret fort revealed. Mr. Jones had finally gotten us in our hiding place on his property. Our parents found us there, dead, days later.

We snapped out of our chilling fantasy and sat closer together as the humid afternoon wore on…

I’m sure my family and I returned to Jacksonville to visit soon after we moved to Rogers, but I only remember one trip distinctly as though it was my first time back in years. My grandpa had recently died, and we were walking through the small, damp yard behind his house, pine needles crunching underfoot. I saw a gap in the trees at the edge of his yard leading to the small cement bridge.

A flashback. Small children bending twigs, twisting branches, trying to peek into a forbidden place…

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I didn’t hesitate as I walked towards it. His yard was silent, but I was not afraid. I was a Megateen, and I was not afraid. I stepped over the bridge and into Mr. Jones’ yard. The old fort bush had been torn out for whatever reason (it was kind of ugly), but I barely noticed. I turned towards the house, and Mr. Jones and I saw each other. An old man sitting by a large, dirty window, the curtain pulled so far he was almost hidden; he looked so very old and weak. His face gazed at mine blankly, almost as though he didn’t really notice I was there. My mother walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder, saying, “Let’s go.”

I needed answers. I asked her about Mr. Jones, because I never had before. I told her all the terrible rumors and stories, about how he was mean and cruel and hurt his wife, and my mother just looked at me in wonder. How could I believe those things? My face burned.

“Mrs. Jones finally died of cancer last month.”My mind had changed from when I was a child back in Jacksonville. There was some

“fluff behind the pillow” to everything I saw from that day on. During the car ride home, my mother explained many things about the neighborhood. She told me how Mrs. Jones struggled with cancer for years, and that in a way it was killing Mr. Jones too because he loved her. She also told me about Mr. Harris and how he had fought in the war years ago, but was such a sensitive individual that it messed him up in ways it wouldn’t have affected another person. He would have never hurt a fly. Jared’s mother, who we had thought was a scary woman, was one of the nicest women my mother had ever met, and my grandpa died of alcohol poisoning.

I tried to take it all in. How different things would have been if I had seen the world with older eyes when I was a child, could have put a little background to the picture. My mind opened from then on. I decided not to judge, and I grew. Perhaps that is what childhood is for— a time for Superkids and adventures and learning, and a time to see the world through small eyes.

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Factually Flummoxed or Truthfully Challenged?By Philippa McMillon

Imagine a world without lies. It is almost impossible, isn’t it? Little and white, big and bold-faced, and not forgetting all those in-between: consider the many and varied ways that lies may or may not be delivered. There are plentiful opportunities for truthfulness in everyday interactions, but there is an exhaustive list of reasons for its absence. Lying has become integrated in today’s society, insofar as we not only expect it, but accept it. We find ourselves in an unusual predicament where an honest and good life is often brought about by denying our own truth. An end to this hypocritical mindset of society is unrealistic. However, a moral evaluation seems in order.

What constitutes a lie? Further clarification of lying is needed to categorize the different forms of lies and their untruthful cousins. The American Heritage College Dictionary gives two definitions for the word “lie.” The first, as the way one “rests in a horizontal position,” cannot be satisfactorily applied here. The second definition depicts a lie as “a false statement deliberately presented as being true.” In the relatively new field of psychological research regarding lying, this official definition is standard (Kornet, par. 5).

When we think about facts, we anticipate the relation of definitive data. However, a retelling of any factual event or story is subject to approximation by the speaker, especially in terms of measurement (Pocheptsov 399-401). Substituting “twenty nine percent” for “nearly a third” might not seem like information violation, yet it is not absolute. Neither is the “it was this big” hand gesture describing the “one that got away.” The extent to which a person tells lies is self-regulated and can be dependent on the audience.

Where does lying actually come from? Is it a learned behavior or an instinctual one? Child, adolescent, and family therapist, Katherine Arkell states it is “a bit of both” and points out that children learn the culture of their environment. Therefore, if lying is an accepted normal behavior, children will integrate it in their personalities. We all know that lying is not an accepted normal behavior, and there are a number of fairytales and fables that illustrate the moral lessons surrounding this belief. A closer look at children’s fiction and annual traditions reveal that many of these are based on inventions of incredible, extraordinary and completely unrealistic fantasy. Stories, such as Pinocchio, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, or The Nutcracker, impress our imaginations with vivid and colorful characteristics that can be recited or reinvented as we see fit. There is no doubt that the encouragement of creativity and imagination promotes cognitive strength. However, lurking on the outer reaches of these happy realms are the immoral but “often alluring” lies that test the teller’s integrity (Ringrose 235).

And then we have Father Christmas (St. Nick or Santa Claus), the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. By whatever moniker, the premise of these existences today is built upon the perpetuation of stories retold by adults who know better to children that do not. Responsibility should not be held by parents or adults alone though, because consumerism drives reinforcement in these instances (Arkell, par. 5).

Parents have a responsibility to instill morals in their children. Attempting to display and honor good behavior, teach honesty, lead by example, and being aware of the environments children are exposed to certainly help with this. Unfortunately, during the course of parenthood, there are many occasions when parents’ behavior contradicts the advice they give children. It is not uncommon for a parent to disguise family problems and harsh realities or protect privacy using white lies (Cohen 93-96). One study conducted in the UK attempted to show whether a

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sample of children, aged four through ten, fully understood the motive behind social lying. In a series of three experiments, the children were asked to “respond as if they had just received a disappointing gift” (Broomfield 49), and their reactions to each experiment were measured: verbally, verbally, and facially, and evaluated for the relationship between the given verbal response and the child’s reasoning for it. The results of the study showed that the children somewhat understood the use of white lies (Broomfield 64), which highlights the “right thing to do” mentality in the world we live.

Another aspect of lying to consider is motivation. Think about this for a moment; when in conversation with a person suspected of being false, the likelihood of continuing to pursue that person’s attention is low, unless one’s motivation is equally false or more so. We know the definition of lying is to intentionally deceive another, but why do we do that? What is so bad about telling the truth that we should lie about it?

“Children tell lies to avoid punishment or embarrassment, etc. or to gain something,” writes Arkell (par. 4). The same is true of adults, though not all lies have a negative intention. “Fake-positive” lies describe the pretense of a person favoring someone or something more than in reality. This type of lie acts as a kind of “social lubricant” and is more common than its opposite (Kornet, par. 9). Without going into politics, even the President is subject to these “fake-positive” lies. According to Nancy Gibbs, author of “The Loneliest Job,” House speaker Sam Rayburn warned President Truman about “sycophants” who would endure awful conditions to obtain audience with him, only to tell him what they thought he would like to hear. Apparently, President Kennedy also spoke similarly regarding “the way proximity to power could warp the judgment of even the wisest allies” (Gibbs, pars. 4, 5).

For some, it is their job to lie, and others just lie to get their job done. Climbing the corporate ladder involves meetings, deadlines, presentations, and, of course, impressing the boss. Ethical conduct in business is a product of “creative information management” that begins in the mailroom and goes up the chain of command, all the way to the boardroom (Howard, pars. 5-7). It is interesting that people will lie to their superiors and expect honesty in return.

A moral evaluation is proposed as being necessary to change some of the hypocritical aspects of our modern age. However, through the process of researching this widespread and deeply entrenched social behavior, it is apparent that there really are no feasible “fix-all” solutions. Fantastic ideas resulting from a Google search for “solutions to lying,” like installing microchip lie detectors with color-coded lights on a person’s face, or demanding a truth-revolution on a global scale, have their hearts in the right place but altogether too many faults to implement.

We could all learn from the few people in society who vow to tell the truth no matter what, but there are costs involved with absolute truth-telling, potentially including friendships, employment opportunities and meaningful relationships. When you give the truth, it is not unreasonable to expect the truth in return, and it is far easier to be honest than attempting to keep false stories straight (Svoboda, par. 9). Sometimes, though, giving the truth without patronizing can be about as difficult as receiving the truth.

Humans are intelligent, and we apply our previous experience of situations to present similar situations to gauge an approximation of outcome. If a person is considerate of the feelings of others, sometimes a lie is appropriate (DePaulo qtd. in Svoboda, par. 6). However, if one’s motives are deceptive for personal gain and decreased responsibility at another’s expense, then it is likely a morally sound person would question the motivation. Deception endangers the levels of trust and good-standing which commonly form the foundations of any relationship.

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The best suggestion of a solution to lying is that people consider living their life with integrity and bravery. It takes courage to voice the truth, as one must overcome many internalized ideas about social ramifications. Living as a brave and integrity-focused individual is achievable, though somewhat age and experience-specific. Just one person or even a group within a community choosing to live this way could be viewed as revolutionary, or a martyr; it comes down to context. Bear in mind, however, that just over two-thousand years ago, one man attempted to inspire the masses to honesty and it became part of his death sentence.

A world without lies might only be possible without creative ability. And society, as we currently know it, would surely fall flat on its proud face with the exposure of a few home-truths (Kornet, par. 20). Acceptance of those lies-less-harmful is a small price to pay for our exciting and colorful existence. It is the daily choices made by each individual that shapes our society. Those who strive for balance and goodness in their lives are subject to choking on the occasional fabrication in order to “rest in a horizontal position” peacefully in their beds at night. Ultimately, the decision to change deceitful ways and become re-acquainted with one’s conscience is deeply personal, and no amount of external persuasion or evidence is as powerful a motivation as one’s innate drive for self-gratification.

Works Cited

“American Heritage College Dictionary, The.” 4th ed. Houghton Mifflin Company. 2002. Print.Arkell, Katherine. E-mail interview. 4 Nov. 2010.Broomfield, K. A., E. J. Robinson, and W. P. Robinson. “Children's Understanding about White

Lies.” British Journal of Developmental Psychology 20.1 (2002): 47. Academic Search Elite. Web. 24 Oct. 2010.

Cohen, Marisa. “Lying to Your Kids.” Good Housekeeping 249.1 (2009): 93-96. Academic Search Elite. Web. 12 Oct. 2010.

Gibbs, Nancy. “The Loneliest Job.” Time Inc., (2010): 64. Academic Search Elite. Web. 24 Oct. 2010.

Howard, Chris. “The Fib Factor.” Canadian Business 71.11 (1998): 246. Academic Search Elite. Web. 12 Oct. 2010.

Kornet, Allison. “The truth about lying.” Psychology Today 30.3 (1997): 52. Academic Search Elite. Web. 12 Oct. 2010.

Pocheptsov, Oleg G. “Mind Your Mind: Or Some Ways of Distorting Facts While Telling the Truth.” ETC: A Review of General Semantics 49.4 (1992): 398-404. Academic Search Elite. Web. 12 Oct. 2010.

Ringrose, Christopher. “Lying in Children’s Fiction: Morality and the Imagination.” Children’s Literature in Education 37.3 (2006): 229-236. Academic Search Elite. Web. 11 Oct. 2010.

Svoboda, Elizabeth. “I Cannot Tell a Lie.” Psychology Today 43.2 (2010): 39-40. Academic Search Elite. Web. 24 Oct. 2010

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Star WarsBy Robert Rook

It was Saturday morning, and I had just finished eating a good healthy breakfast of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch cereal, when across the television screen I saw a huge spaceship firing laser cannons at the rebel alliance. The noise and lights were like nothing I’d ever seen before. The explosions came across the television screen in a symphony of light and sound. I had been waiting for this moment for days, even weeks, and it was finally here. It was opening day for Star Wars.

In 1977 Star Wars was not just any movie. There was nothing like it ever before on the big screen. My friends and I were going to see this movie even if we had to stand in line all day.

At ten-thirty my friends were all calling because my mom promised to take us to the movies, but at eleven o’clock she was still in bed. At eleven-thirty she was still in bed, and at noon she was still in bed. I could not handle it any longer. I had to go wake her up. I crept up the stairs, and ever so softly I opened the door and stuck my head in, only to realize she was not in bed at all. I frantically raced down the stairs and grabbed the phone. But who was I going to call? It was Saturday morning: she was not at work, and she was not at home. So where could she be? More importantly, did she remember that she was going to take us to see Star Wars?

At one o’clock I still had not heard from anyone except my friends Darrin, Brad, and Alex, who continued to call me every ten minutes. By one-thirty my friends were standing at my front door, and Alex was even dressed in a Darth Vader mask and costume. When I first saw him, I broke out in laughter. I remember saying, “You look like a big black dork.” But my friends were not excited to see that my mom was still not there. Finally, my mom called and said she would be there in twenty minutes and for us to be ready. I thought about saying to her we have been ready for three damn hours, but after further thought, I figured that would not be in my best interest.

My mother finally showed up, and we were all mad at her until she stepped out of the car with surprises for all of us. She had gone to the theater early in the morning and stood in line to guarantee that we would get tickets for the movie. It was really hard to be mad at her after that. Even Darrin said, “I wished I had a mom that would do something so awesome for me.”

We arrived at the movie theater at around two o’clock. There were at least two hundred people in line waiting to purchase tickets; some were dressed in costumes dumber then Alex’s. We were so lucky that my mom bought us the tickets earlier that morning, because we would have never gotten in. With pre-purchased tickets in hand, we went straight ahead of the line, passing all the Darth Vaders, Luke Skywalkers, Princess Leias, Han Solos, and Storm Troopers. I felt like we were the Rebel Alliance and nothing was going to stop us.

We purchased popcorn and Cokes, and found seats right in the middle of the theater (the optimal seats for the best viewing of the action that was about to begin). The lights dimmed, the curtain opened, and with excitement and anticipation, the movie began. Huge words scrolled across the screen telling the story of how the Rebel Alliance was in battle with the evil empire. Then from the deep boundaries of outer space, a laser light show filled the screen. We sat there for an hour and a half mesmerized by the story that unfolded in front of us. When Star Wars ended, the audience was screaming and yelling. It was the best hour and a half I have ever spent with my friends at my side. My mom came and picked us up right on time, and my friends and I drove the thirty minutes back to my house reenacting scenes from the movie. Over the next few weeks I went and saw Star Wars twenty-two more times, sometimes with Brad, sometimes with

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Darrin, sometimes with Brad and Darrin. Unfortunately the four of us never got to see Star Wars as a group again.

Sunday morning on his way to church, Alex and his family were in a terrible car accident, and Alex and his mother did not survive. A few days after the wreck, Alex’s dad knocked on my door. With tears in his eyes he gave me the Darth Vader costume that Alex was wearing the last day that we spent together. His father did not say a word. He just handed me the costume, turned, and walked away.

Darrin, Brad, and I are much older now and have spread out all over the country. Brad has a wonderful wife and kids and now lives in Arizona; Darrin is a pilot for American Airlines and travels the world. I’m now living in Arkansas, working and attending Northwest Arkansas Community College. On the days that followed Alex’s death the three of us made a commitment to each other that every time there was a new Star Wars movie we would meet back at my mother’s house in that little town in California. We have done this for twenty-three years and six Star Wars movies. My mom still gets up early in the morning and buys us tickets. She still drives all three of us to that old run down movie theater where we saw the greatest movie ever made, and for every new Star Wars movie that has come out I have worn that stupid Darth Vader costume with pride. We all miss you, Alex.

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A Normal SpeckBy Sara Scott

Who decides what is normal? I am sure some old, scholarly gentlemen sat together and came up with the definition that we now read in the Webster’s Dictionary: “of, related to, or characterized by average intelligence or development.” Who then decides what average is? We all have different views as to what is normal, and I have found that our concept of this small word can be changed.

“Normal” took on a new meaning for me the day my niece Laney was born. It was January 30, 2004, and my twin sister delivered Laney after a long day of labor. It should have been a happy occasion, but life had other plans. The doctors immediately whisked her away. Two hours later, they arrived to tell us the news. She had an open lesion on her spine; she had Spina Bifida. It was missed on the sonogram, so this was a surprise to us all. The doctors told us all sorts of horrible scenarios that they felt Laney was doomed to experience. They said that she would never be able to function as a normal person. She would never speak. She would never walk.

Now, years later, as I sit in the waiting room and watch the kids at a local children’s therapy clinic, I see the normalcy of the room. There is a reception desk with a smiling woman waiting to help each person who enters. The room is big with fluffy chairs and an old couch carefully arranged around a small television that hangs on the wall with Sponge Bob Square Pants playing. Toys are scattered about the room. There are crayons and coloring books, activity tables with knobs and other gadgets to twist and turn, and wire and bead toys that are designed to keep kids busy.

To add a personal feel to the room, there are pictures of the children who come here hanging on the walls. The smiling faces warm my heart. No two children are alike. They are Caucasian, Hispanic, African-American, and Asian. They have blonde, brunette, and red hair. After all, birth defects do not discriminate against race or color.

As I listen to the children chattering with each other, I can hear a baby crying in the background. I can hear the mothers talking with each other, sharing information they have learned to help their children in school and at home. The clicking of a woman’s heels on the wood floor breaks up the sounds that filter throughout the room. The smell of perfume and baby formula mixes with the clean scent of the room. The clinic’s fun-loving golden retriever lies on the floor receiving plenty of hugs from the children.

I can’t miss that some of the children have braces on their legs. They use canes and walkers for balance and support. Some ride in wheelchairs with wheels that light up as they roll by. The couch and chairs are arranged to allow plenty of room to maneuver medical equipment around them. The front door has an automatic opening function to allow hands-free entry, which works to occupy the children as good as any toy in the room.

After a short wait, I am escorted to the back where therapy is in full force. I am once again struck by the normalcy of this place. There is a set of parallel bars like I would see in a gymnastics class. Children are playing the Nintendo Wii. They are standing on the Wii balance board skiing and snowboarding. I can hear their laughter as they crash into a snow bank. Others are sitting at tables coloring between the lines and creating colorful lions and rabbits. Some are reading Curious George aloud for all to hear.

It is only upon further inspection that I realize I am not in a typical afterschool playroom. Children with physical disabilities come here to learn to function in society. The children sitting

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at the tables are in wheelchairs. They are coloring to improve their hand-eye coordination. They are reading aloud to improve their verbal skills. The Wii balance board is not for play. The children are actually learning to balance themselves without the use of their canes or walkers and to build core body strength.

This is the one place where the kids can be themselves. No one judges them here. In department stores and restaurants, people stare and shake their heads. Instead of being out on the soccer field, these children are learning to feed themselves, walk with canes, or maneuver the wheelchair they will use to get around in for the remainder of their lives. They are playing the ultimate survival game. Some lives will be cut short by the birth defects that have challenged them from birth.

I see Laney as a “normal” 7-year-old child. No, she can’t walk without assistance, but she can walk short distances with canes. She spends most of her time in her wheelchair, like many of the other children here. She can talk very well and does non-stop! She is always smiling and laughing, and she warms the heart of everyone she meets. Laney realizes that she is different than the other students that she attends school with, but she has never known a different life. Here at the therapy clinic, the other kids are different too. In this small speck of the world, they are the normal ones.

Works Cited"normal." Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 2011. Merriam-Webster Online. Web. 5 Mar. 2011.

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Ice Water and Chicken FeetBy Shelby Shackelford

I looked up and stepped back a few paces to count the levels of the skyscraper to make sure I rang the right number. I stepped up to the door and dialed 14-0-6. After a few moments of discordant ringing, a woman answered the “doorbell” and said, “Whei?”

I replied to the greeting and said, “Hello, it’s Shelby.” She quickly told me to wait a moment and yelled for Ni Ma Cuo Ji; Jenny was her English name. I did not wait long before I heard my Tibetan friend Jenny on the door phone, urging me to come up and “play.” The word “play” was the closest her Chinese-English dictionary could translate our common version of “hang-out.”

I lived in the city of Xining, Qinghai, a province deep in Western China on the foothills of the Tibetan plateau. With my blonde hair and freckled face, I definitely stood out among the crowds of Chinese and Tibetans. Jenny had come up to me while I was reading on a park bench. She very boldly asked if I could teach her English. This was a request I received often, and would usually teach a few words like “tree” or “car.”

I looked up from my book, asking, “Ah?” Jenny shyly smiled, and in poor English said, “Can yoo teach, uh, mei Yinglesh?” I beamed while invitingly patting the park bench and asked in poor Chinese something like,

“You please help me, uh, teach share language? I tell you English, you teach help me speak Tibetan or Chinese?”

After she readily agreed, our friendship grew. We started out by meeting on that same park bench with notebooks and pencils, ready to teach each other words such as “building,” “clouds,” or “bracelet.” We quickly learned that it was much more fun and educational to just hang out and talk with each other. Needless to say, we both became very good at charades! We soon began to visit each other’s homes.

I entered Jenny’s building and started the long climb up six flights of concrete stairs. There was an odd smell of fish and strange spices at the bottom floor. I noticed that there had been some added graffiti on the walls since my last visit, and I was thankful that I couldn’t read Chinese characters well enough to understand what was implied. Over and beside each door were different types of Chinese New Year’s banners, with characters painted in gold or black on the bright red paper, invoking good fortune, luck, and joy for those of the household. It was also the year of the pig, so there was usually a fat cartoon pig on a bed of gold, which was intended to bring even more prosperity. I would try to catch at least one or two symbols that I understood, but the characters were terribly foreign to my Latin-based eyes.

The stairwell had a decidedly onion-y smell to it, and I discovered that Jenny’s neighbors had hung up a strand of onions inside the stairwell on the fifth floor. I barely tapped on the door when Jenny opened it wide, and I was greeted by her parents and sister very warmly. I was pulled into their embraces and given some slippers to put on. I took my shoes off and set them aside in the shoe cabinet to the left of the door.

Lao Yi, Jenny’s mother, along with Jenny herself, quickly had me sit on their living room bench. Lao Yi pulled out a bowl of candies and had me sample several, not leaving until she was satisfied that I had enjoyed the treats. Jenny, meanwhile, had busied herself with pouring me a cup of Tibetan Tea. I accepted the glass, gingerly gripping the hot vessel until I could set it down.

This action worried Jenny, who asked, “You no like tea?” I quickly explained to her how it was much too hot for me and I’d need to let it cool. She did not quite comprehend this and thought I did not understand that drinks are supposed to be hot.

This led into a conversation of how in America we put ice in our water to make it cold and we drank hot things only when it was cold outside or early in the morning. The idea that Americans would

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do something so unfathomable caused much hilarity among her entire family. This incident made me ponder how unalike our habits and lifestyles truly were. In the future, they always had me try to convince their friends that it was true; we do put ice in our water.

That day I had brought with me a game of pick-up-sticks. Jenny and I had been sharing our countries’ traditional games with each other, and today it was my turn to bring something. She had previously taught me of a game that was a combination of monkey-in-the-middle and dodge ball. I carried the box into her room. We sat down on her bright green shag rug, which was shaped like a footprint, the latest decorating fad in Xining. I dumped out the sticks, and they fell in a haphazard pattern on the floor.

Jenny asked, “What is this?” When the object of the game was explained, she was eager to play. Her sister, Za Xi, quickly joined us. We soon became painstakingly meticulous judges of each other: no movement was too small for our eyes. I had brought the pick-up-sticks because it was one of those games that could be understood in every language, like tag or basketball.

“Time to eat, quick, come!” Jenny’s mother whisked us out and over to the table, where the other family members were seated.

I paused in the doorway once I saw what was on the table. “I think my parents want me home for supper,” I stammered out.

Lao Yi said, “Oh, no, no, no, you eat with us! No problem! We made rice already.” I knew how terribly rude it would be for me to leave, so I managed to say, “I can eat a little bit,

but I’m not very hungry.” I sat down next to Jenny and picked up my chopsticks. In China, everyone may have their own plate or bowl, while the rest of the food is in platters

on the table. This may seem normal, but the thing is, you don’t pass plates around. You just reach with your chopsticks, grab what you want, set it on your rice, and eat. I know of several health-conscious Americans who would pass out seeing a normal, everyday meal in China.

Since I was the guest, Jenny and her mother were quick to pass me all of the special tidbits of food with their own chopsticks, and soon my bowl was so piled up I couldn’t get to the rice. The dishes consisted of beef and potatoes, pork with peppers, and one dish that made me pause—chicken feet. More specifically, it was a bowl full of chicken legs, feet, claws and skin. The legs weren’t yellow, but a pale white, which made me wonder how they were cooked, or if they were even pickled.

I did my best to move the legs around and eat the rice, but I noticed that Za Xi was keenly watching all that I ate. She had a very intense gaze for a ten year old. I watched to see how the others went about eating the chicken.

Za Xi whispered something to her mother, who whispered to Jenny, who turned around and asked, “Do you not like chicken?”

I gulped and said, “Well, I love chicken. I’ve never eaten the feet, though.” After a quick translation to her family, a babbled response came out from all of them, “Why

have you not eaten them before? It’s my favorite part!” Jenny quickly offered to eat them for me, which made me grin and say, “No, I should try it,”

and I took a bite. There was a burst of flavor in my mouth, not much chicken and predominately spices. The skin

of the chicken seemed to pop and crackle in my mouth, and I could see why they are a favorite snack. It was like Pop Rocks with protein! The rice was ballast for new tidal waves of flavors. The chicken legs were not bad at all. I even grew to like them.

That one bite was like one step deeper into Jenny’s culture. I learned to try other new things, such as Tibetan dancing or a soup pot of U.F.O.’s (Unidentifiable Floating Objects) for lunch. The incident with the ice water showed how vastly different my Western American culture was from the majority of the world. There are still many new things that I’m discovering. I’m learning how to relate

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to other cultures and understand why they do certain things, without judging immediately. However, I will always remember the time I took the first bite.

Not the Stereotypical Horror FilmBy Jason Swetnam

Roman Polanski's 1968 horror film Rosemary's Baby, is a testament to the fact that an audience can be scared without the use of high-tech special effects, a script that involves a knife-wielding psycho-maniac slashing up young virgins, or spoon-fed horror film clichés and ideas. Employing subtlety and hint dropping, creating deceptive characters, tapping into childbirth fears, and referencing Faustian themes are tools used to evoke a unique experience in the mind of the audience. Polanski, who directed and faithfully adapted Ira Levin's novel into a screenplay, creates a film that can easily be regarded as a classic horror story while retaining civility and intelligence. This ability to tell a ghastly tale, while not utilizing the standard scary movie form involving gore, violence, and frenzied killing, makes Rosemary's Baby a unique horror film.

The film begins when Guy and Rosemary Woodhouse are thrilled to find an apparently perfect apartment in New York City to bear and raise a family. Little does Rosemary (played by Mia Farrow) know that her success-hungry husband (John Cassavetes) makes a pact with a coven of witches that reside and practice their black arts in the apartment next door. The deal: Rosemary will carry and bear the son of Satan for the group of aged, well-heeled professionals, giving Guy, a struggling young actor, a promising and successful future in the entertainment industry. The viewer watches as Rosemary, in a dreamlike state, is unknowingly seduced and raped by the devil incarnate. Finding herself pregnant, she is at first overjoyed, but through a series of events she eventually realizes that the group of witches, led by Roman and Minny Castavet (Sidney Blackmer and Ruth Gordon), is after her unborn child. In her mind the baby, whom she thinks is human, is in danger from a group of infant-sacrificing heathens. After a near miscarriage, partial nervous breakdown, and delivery of her child, Rosemary gains full understanding that she is the antithesis Mary in this unholy plot to bring Satan to life to rule the Earth. The film ends with Rosemary rocking her child's cradle, while accepting the fact that her baby is the offspring of Satan and she is the mother.

Using subtlety to create an unnerving, eerie, and penetratingly-frightening movie experience is a task that Roman Polanski masters. This film is filled with subtlety and the gentle art of hint dropping. One review of Rosemary's Baby states, “Polanski's greatest strength in this film is his subtlety; his pacing and sense of mood are masterful without calling attention to themselves, letting the horror of the premise sink its claws in so slowly and quietly that you don't notice how far deep they've gone until it’s too late” (Deming). Knowing that the viewer's mind is the most delicate and powerful center when dealing with fear, Polanski opts to let the viewer question and think about the situation at hand without revealing the facts until the end. Many events are filed away as tiny puzzles to be solved later by the viewer. One example of this puzzle creation involving subtlety is the lack of facts and detail concerning the main characters. Guy and Rosemary's elderly neighbors, the Castavets, are "an eccentric older couple whose interest in Rosemary and her expectant child seems strange without being obviously evil" (Deming). Polanski intricately weaves humor and deceit in the development of these strange and unique characters, giving them life. The audience only views and experiences what Rosemary witnesses, becoming trapped in this maniacal plot of evil. Throughout the film, there is always the question involving Rosemary's suspicions. Are her fears concerning the Castavets real, or is she just paranoid? Using dialogue, intense acting skills, and a well-developed storyline; viewers are frightened by what they

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suspect, not by what they see. Polanski doesn't over-saturate the film with gore, foul-language, or anything too revealing. An example of this is during the final scene when the viewer never witnesses the baby, only viewing Rosemary's horrified first reaction to the infant. This reaction by Rosemary validates and confirms what the viewer suspects to be a reality. Polanski uses subtlety in order to conjure curiosity in the mind of the viewer. This curiosity compels the viewer to continue watching, criticize, and evaluate what is on the screen.

Rosemary's Baby also plays on a theme concerning deception. This film is intended to show the viewer that things are not always what they seem. Polanski is making a statement that the people closest to you can turn out to not be who you think they are. Ruth Gordon, who plays a comical yet sinister presence arriving unannounced with mysterious green drinks and blunt advice, seems scary because of her familiarity. Everyone has known a woman like this who is rough around the edges, talks a little too openly, but usually has the best intentions. That such a person, a batty old broad with a seemingly sweet nature beneath her caustic surface, could possibly be a vessel of evil is a thoroughly unnerving concept. Sidney Blackmer's performance as "a sinister old smoothy" helps with the belief that since the Castavets live next door, "we find it possible to believe the fantastic demands that the Castavets are eventually able to make on Rosemary" (Ebert). Guy Woodhouse is a wolf in sheep's clothing, who seems like a respectful and loving, if shallow, husband. All of Polanski's characters are not who they seem to be. Even the fragile beauty of Rosemary hides a sinister persona, seen in her during the final scene as she rocks the cradle. The music of Mia Farrow singing a sweet and innocent child-like lullaby during the opening and closing titles adds to the feeling that Rosemary is innocent, but the viewer finds in the end that she reveals a darker side. Using deception in the seemingly most innocent and average characters initiates a fear response in the viewer.

Rosemary's Baby taps into universal fears and anxieties concerning pregnancy, childbirth, marriage, and religion in order to provoke a response from the viewer. Some believe that the film "turns horror to feminist ends" and "elicits horror from its audience through Rosemary's violation and the spectacle of her pregnant body, which harbors a monster" (Valerius 119). What do all expectant mothers fear? Loss of a child, deformity, and maternal protection all play a part in Rosemary's character. She is constantly looking to the future when this time of waiting is over and her "picture perfect" marriage and motherhood can begin. Her main fear by the end of the film is the threat that she believes is imposed on her "innocent" baby by the psychotic neighbors or witches’ coven. After believing that the coven has stolen her child, Rosemary then goes through a phase of detestation for her husband and his associates for her deception. She then accepts, with an almost angelic disposition, her spawn of Satan baby. This is an example of unconditional love for a child by a parent. Rosemary seems sexy and innocent with an almost "Mary-esque" quality to her. Polanski even dresses Rosemary in the standard Virgin Mary garb of blue and white for the final scene to evoke feelings of familiarity concerning the birth of Jesus with the viewer. Another way that Polanski elicits fear from the viewer is that "Rosemary's Baby addresses itself to an audience invested in the sentimental ideal of motherhood [then] exploits that investment to produce a horrified response" (Valerius 125). These primal fears and anxieties surrounding birth, motherhood, and religion in Rosemary's Baby disturb the viewer which helps to strengthen the concept that this is a horror film.

A major theme throughout Rosemary's Baby is the Faustian bargain between the Castavets and Guy Woodhouse. The term "Faustian" is taken from the German legend of the alchemist Johann Faust who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for power and knowledge ("Faust"). "Faustian" has come to be defined as anyone who sacrifices spiritual values for material gains

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("Faustian"). Guy seems to be thinking of his own blind greed, giving his wife to a group of evil and powerful people to do with as they please. It takes a certain kind of person to actually commit these dastardly deeds, and Guy acts the part perfectly. Is Polanski poking fun at his colleagues, or making a serious accusation concerning the moral situation of the film industry which he is a part of? Is this film intended to analyze bourgeois values within capitalism, or aim criticism at organized religion? What does this film say about people and their personal values concerning family, love, and marriage (the most intimate and sacred issues in a human being’s life) who are involved in the entertainment industry? On some level, Polanski is stating that greed, corruption, and selfishness are all a part of humanity and the movie business, but he is not blunt or forthright about his judgment. To do so would be too bold for his taste. All of these questions are all relative and unanswerable, since it is in Polanski's style to make viewers think and question the issue at hand for themselves. The concept of "Rosemary's exploitation by her husband and the coven, who coldly pursue their own interests in her future child without regard for her desires or well being," makes Rosemary's Baby a film that scares the audience on a deeply psychological and uncomfortable level (Valerius 119-120).

In the modern age of high-tech special effects and desensitized audiences, Rosemary's Baby still shines as a rare type of film that is scary but not gory, and it takes a special talent by a director to accomplish that. Roman Polanski has experienced a series of horrific and sad life events which seem to fuel a personal fire for some interesting, as well as, unnerving ideas and themes. Using some of the techniques found in Rosemary's Baby, Polanski has made a string of horrific, funny, interesting and thought-provoking films which include Repulsion, The Tenant, The Fearless Vampire Killers, Chinatown, and The Ninth Gate. In all of Polanski's films, the viewer is drawn into a web of intrigue and fear. Polanski's films have also endured negative comments. Billy Wilder, (the highly regarded director of such classics as the film-noir Double Indemnity, and the comedies Some Like It Hot and Stalag 17) is noted to have said, "Make a film like Rosemary's Baby? I wouldn't touch it with a five-foot pole" (qtd. in Tookey). To take the premise of Rosemary's Baby and imagine it being pitched to a major studio is almost laughable. The story on the surface seems comical, uninteresting, and impracticable for a studio to produce for the masses who attend movies on a regular basis. That is the beauty surrounding the creation of the film. Polanski managed to take this strange, untouchable story and sculpt a unique and thought-provoking film. Using subtlety and hint dropping, creating deceptive characters, tapping into childbirth fears, and referencing Faustian themes make this a unique horror film. The main thing to admire about Polanksi's style is his ability to enthrall an intelligent audience, an audience that wants to question and above all, think for themselves. This ability to summon emotion, critical thought, and curiosity makes Rosemary's Baby a magnum opus of a horror flick that is uniquely outside of the cliched and standard horror film mold.

Works CitedDeming, Mark. "Rosemary's Baby." allmovie. Rovi Corporation, 2010. Web. 17 Oct. 2010.Ebert, Roger. "Rosemary's Baby." rogerebert.com. Chicago Sun-Times. Web. 17 Oct. 2010."Faust" Webser's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary. 1991. Print."Faustian." Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary. 1991. Print.Rosemary's Baby. Dir. Roman Polanski. Perf. Mia Farrow, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, Sidney

Blackmer, Maurice Evans, and Ralph Bellamy. Paramount, 1968. Film.Tookey, Chris. "Rosemary's Baby-ANTI Reviews." movie-film-review. Echinops Limited, 2009.

Web. 23 Oct. 2010

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Valerius, Karyn. "Rosemary's Baby," Gothic Pregnancy, and Fetal Subjects." 116-135. College Literature, 2005. Academic Search Elite. EBSCO. Web. 14 Oct. 2010.

About the Authors

Miles BlaisusI’ve been a big reader all my life, so when I write I envision the best works I’ve read and consider how their authors would express what I am trying to say. Reading good writing translates into writing good writing.

Sandy Bobbitt I am a non-traditional student who has always been an avid reader.  My Composition I instructor Mrs. Bach said that people who read a lot make better writers. I would never have been able to do it without her expert teaching.  She uses examples and explains everything so well. She just has a way of drawing the writing out of you. If you leave her class not being able to write...you weren't listening!

Renee CookI am a 49 year old single mother of three and grandmother of two. In February of 2010 I was one of several associates laid off from Wal-Mart. Rather than wallow in self pity, I called the Single Parent Scholarship Fund of Benton County and begin pursuing my call to become a Christian Counselor. I have not regretted one moment of making this choice and am on fire for education. I am again employed at Wal-Mart after a year and fully intend to complete my education all the way through to my Masters.  My writing process is really quite simple. I write what I am passionate about. I research fully, make notes, talk it out in my head, dictate on my phone, and write it all down. Then I re-read what I’ve written. If there is one thing in my process that works best for me it is having someone else read and critique my writing. What I write is neither as good nor as bad as I might perceive it to be.

Michelle DucheneI'm the kind of person who carries a notepad around so that if an idea or a story pops into my head, I write it down for later. I try to learn as much as I can about every situation I'm placed in, and when it comes to writing, I incorporate a taste of that into the piece. Writing is simply thought on paper, and it can be commonplace or inspired. Keep your mind open.

Philippa McMillonBeing published is so exciting! I am currently in my second year at NWACC and working toward a degree in Psychology. Writing has always been my expressive outlet, and I love the creativity it affords me. I find it easiest to type everything that comes to mind about a subject, even if it won’t be included in the final product. Once I have it on paper, it is out of my mind and not “blocking the flow.” It seems like I proofread everything a hundred times and often move parts of sentences around to get the best structure. This particular essay was difficult at first because of the topic that I chose. However, I am really happy with the end result, and I hope you enjoy it.

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Robert Rook I made a promise to my daughter when she was a freshman in high school: if she went to college, I would get my GED and do the same. She held me to that promise. Thank you, Faye. Sara ScottI am thirty-four years old and have been married for twelve years.  I love every aspect of writing, from the investigation and preparation of the rough draft to the completion of the final product. Thank you to Professor Jennifer Cook for encouraging me to submit my essay.

Shelby ShackelfordI lived in China on the Tibetan plateau for four years with my family. Since then, I have loved traveling to new places and learning languages. I like to write about my experiences and feelings in a way that helps others understand the cultures that I have seen.

Jason SwetnamI love deconstructing a piece of art and rearranging it in my head, seeing it for what it means to me. I think this is an important skill to develop if one wishes to truly survive, mature, and grow in this world of ours. This is the basis of thinking critically, which can translate into all areas of our lives. I value clear and concise communication among people. It seems in today’s high-tech world, the art and concept of yesterday's communication is lost. Sure, people stay connected and text each other non-stop, but it seems scary and horrific on some scale to me. As a fan of George Orwell's 1984, I see many similarities between his vision of a totalitarian police state, shaping the language of the citizens, and how people communicate with each other today. The double-speak jargon of the computer is alienating and cold to me. The arts of reading, writing, and composition remind me that I don't have to join the mindless masses with their electronic gadgets. I'm reminded of my heroes who have walked difficult and lonely paths, only to reach artistic, spiritual, or intellectual heights only dreamed of. As Robert F. Kennedy said, "Fear not the path of truth for the lack of people walking on it."