Hiroshima: Beyond the Numbers (Jennifer Butts)

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Throughout my education, I have always heard about the bombing of Hiroshima. Nagasaki was also mentioned; how could it not be? But, the overwhelming majority of classroom discussions involving atomic bombs revolved around Hiroshima. After 12 years in the public school system, maybe 6 of them discussing the bombings in depth, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what happened to these cities.

Scientifically, I knew what happened. When these bombs were dropped, they basically turned small amounts of mass into relatively huge amounts of energy. The amount of energy can be found by using perhaps the most famous equation in all of scientific and mathematical history: E=mc2, where E is the energy produced, m is the amount of mass converted to energy, and c is the speed of light. We all know that light travels pretty fast, so when you square that number and multiply it by another number, even if it is small, it will produce a very large number. It was always quite easy to perform the calculations, and I have done them several times, once even this year in my physics class. However, the calculation can not tell you how much damage was done. Sure, our history books can tell us that the cities were leveled. They can tell us how many people died instantly in the blast as well as how many suffered and died from injuries related to the blast. But these are simply numbers. Numbers have no emotional significance. Math is known as being a very cut and dry discipline; answers are right or wrong, there is no in-between.

Unfortunately, life is not so simple. The decision to drop the bomb and release that much energy could not have been made lightly. Unfortunately, the impact of this single decision has been diminished from years of talking about the bombing as a purely academic problem.

Until this class, I had never even heard of Hiroshima, by John Hersey, let alone read it. Reading the stories of those six survivors really presented a brand new side of an event that I have heard about in school for several years. This book told the stories of six people who survived the bombing of Hiroshima. These people were civilians; they were not directly associated with the war. In school, we were always told that the bombing was necessary to end the war. It is true that after the two bombs were dropped, the war ended very quickly. It seems like our textbooks wanted us to believe that our country took the appropriate action at the time, perhaps so that we do not grow up thinking that our country is a heartless killer. What we never really learned was the extent of the damage to individuals. We were told that the victims suffered from severe burns and radiation. It was also mentioned that it was difficult to treat such injuries because they came into existence with the atomic bomb. So, not only were these people devastated by the loss of their city, they suffered from injuries that even the best doctors did not know how to treat. The stories of the people in this book really brought depth to an event that I had always thought of as cut and dry: the United States dropped the bombs, and Japan surrendered, which brought an end to the war. I had never really ever given much thought to what the people directly affected by the decision of a single person, the president of the United States.

All of the people whose stories are told in Hiroshima suffered a great deal, but one story stood out beyond the others for me: the story of Miss Toshiko Sasaki. She had gone to work just as on any other day. However, it would be a day that changed her life forever. The actual blast caused a bookcase to fall on top of her and severely broke her leg. She was trapped underneath the wreckage for several hours, and when she finally was pulled out, she was left for two days without food or water. After being sent to several different hospitals, her leg finally healed. Unfortunately, it was three inches shorter than her right leg. This is just one example of the hardships suffered by survivors of the bombing. People like Miss Sasaki are generally considered the lucky ones because they survived. However, it could be argued that the survivors were, in fact, the unlucky ones. Life is precious, of course, but how special is it when you suffer for years because of the events of a single day, events that you had no control over. Would you consider yourself lucky if your country discriminated you because you survived? Hiroshima reveals that the people of Japan did not want to associate with the survivors, primarily because they were prone to bouts of weakness and it was uncertain what all of the long-term effects of the bomb were. Maybe the lucky ones were the ones who died instantly. They may have seen a bright light, but was just about it. If they felt any pain, it was minimal. Although they lost their lives, perhaps they were better off than the survivors who suffered for years and faced discrimination in the place they called home.

As I said before, this was my first time reading this book, and it really opened up a new facet of the bombing of Hiroshima. It really made me think about the horrific events of that day, and how so many people suffered because of the actions of a few people in power. Perhaps every person who possesses any kind of power should read this book just to be reminded of the effects their actions can have. Although atomic bombs are an extreme case, the stories certainly remind people that our actions can have consequences that severely affect others.
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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008.

Posted with author's permission.

Creative Response to "No Name Woman" (Nichol Fake)

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Alexis was sitting in the nursery of her church on Sunday morning. As she was watching the children play as she had every week for the last nine years she began to think back to her junior year in high school. She thought back to her friend Jessica. It was weird because over the years she rarely thought about those days. Jessica was such a distant memory it was almost as if she never knew her, but that day watching those kids and their reaction when their parents came to pick them up just hit her that day.

It was their junior year Jessica and Alexis were best friends. They had been joined at the hips since first grade. But as the year went on and Jessica began dating Brandon her time for Alexis seemed to be less and less. As the school year when on Alexis began to notice little changes in Jessica. Then a few months before school would be over she noticed that Jessica had been missing school a lot and when she was there she seemed to always be sick and going to the bathroom a lot. When she confronted Jessica she said it was just the flu. Then a few weeks later she noticed Jessica had not been to school in days, and the other kids in school were starting to talk. The rumor was that Jessica was pregnant and that she would not be back to school.

Alexis knew that in the small town they lived in, a girl being pregnant or even having sex before being married was looked down upon, especially when the girl was so young. In fact, this was the first time it had ever happened in their town. Alexis knew she had to found out the truth. She tried calling Jessica all weekend but her parents just kept saying she was not home and Alexis was too afraid to tell her parents why she needed to talk to Jessica so bad. So Monday Alexis decided she had to confront Brandon in school and find out what was going on. He told her that it was none of her business and that he had broke up with Jessica awhile ago.

Alexis knew the rumor had to be true. She was scared for her friend; she could only imagine what must be going through her head and what she was going through at home. She decided to stop by Jessica’s on her way home that day. When she arrived at Jessica’s she noticed that her car was not there and when her mother answered the door she said Jessica had gone to stay with her grandparents for awhile. Alexis asked her why and she just said “she needed to get away from this town and the people.” She continued to tell her that Jessica would be getting her GED while at her grandmother’s and they were not sure when and if she would be coming back.

All night Alexis kept replaying the day in her head. None of it made sense. If Jessica was going through all of this why didn’t she come to her? Why didn’t she let her try to help her through it all? She didn’t know what she could do, if anything. But she wanted to be there for her friend.

It was about a year later when Alexis got an email from Jessica. She was so surprised and a little upset that it took her so long to get in touch. But once she read the email she just felt sad for her friend. The email read:

Hi Alexis. I am sorry it has taken me so long to get in touch with you. As I am sure you have heard I had to leave school last year because I was pregnant. I just could not face the town and what they were saying about me. I could not stand looking at my parents and seeing nothing but disappointment on their faces and knowing I was the cause of it. They told me that I had to get rid of the baby, that there was no way I could keep the baby. They made sure I knew that if I kept the baby they would have nothing to do with me or the baby. They made sure I knew there was no way that I could ever take care of my child or give him/her the life they deserved. After listening to this every night I started to believe them. I felt like the only thing I could do was to have an abortion. So I told them I would move to my grandmother's, get my GED while I was there and have the abortion. I have to be honest; when I first got here I was hoping that my grandmother would not agree with them. That maybe by some chance she would not feel that I was some kind of embarrassment, that maybe she would help me to make a decision that was based on my feelings and not the opinions and feelings of others. But she felt the same. That a girl my age having a child and not being married was one of the worst sins a person could commit. So I finally gave in and put my feelings aside and went to the clinic here. I was not showing yet so no one in the town knew of my “condition” and still don’t. I was able to get my GED and I am starting my new life here. I work full time and I am attending the local community college. I moved out of my grandmother’s recently because even though I did what everyone wanted I could tell they had not forgotten and would not forgive me. I found a small apartment and I am doing well. I wanted to come to you in the beginning but I knew that you would be supportive and that would make it even harder for me to ignore the voice in my heart telling me to keep the baby. So I just had to distance myself from everything. I hope that you can understand. I know that you are not a supporter of abortion but hope that you can find it in your heart to someday forgive me for going through with it. I am sorry I was not a good friend to you and I pushed our friendship aside when Brandon and I got together.

Alexis found herself in tears as she finished reading the email and she was unsure what to write back. So she simply replied, “Jess, I hope you know that I would have been there for you. And I could never hold what you have been through against you. I am glad to hear you are doing better now. Keep in touch.”

That was the last time she had any communication with Jessica until that Sunday after church. Alexis was driving home from church with her own son in the back seat. As she looked back at him and thought about the other kids in the nursery it made her think about how her life would be if she had been in Jessica’s shoes. She thought about all the amazing times she had with her son and the wonderful feeling that motherhood gave her and it broke her heart to know that Jessica missed out on all of that because of the way people reacted to her when she was pregnant. So she sent Jessica another email to try and see how she was doing, but she never heard back from her. It was as if Jessica had just disappeared again.

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Nicol Fake decided to respond to Maxine Hong Kingston's "No Name Woman," a non-fiction excerpt from The Woman Warrior (1976). Nicol decided to borrow an incident from this assigned work to write a piece (story) of her own.

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008

Posted with the author's permission.

Modern Girl: A Rewritten Work (Chelsea Rosenberger)

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Never wash the colors with the whites; don’t throw your jeans in the dryer if you don’t want them to shrink; bleach is for whites only; don’t let the dishwasher make you lazy; keep a clean house, but not so clean that company feels unwanted; don’t lay in your bed without showering; wash your sheets every two weeks; if you use conditioner everyday it will make your hair look particularly greasy; always wash your hands before you eat; this is how you get blood out of a shirt; this is how you set the table; this is how you set up a doctors appointment; this is how you make Nanny’s infamous pound cake; this is how you get rid of ringworm—soak a penny in vinegar until it turns green, then tape it to the ringworm; this is how you keep a straight face when all you want to do is laugh; this is how you say “I love you” to a friend; this is how you say “I love you” to a lover; but I’m too young to be in love; tables are for glasses, not for asses; never put your feet up on the table—no one wants their food tasting like a foot; when wearing a dress, cross your legs, unless you want everyone to see your panties; always wear panties with a skirt or dress because if you don’t, you’re asking for it; don’t pour salt on a slug or feed a bird Alka-Seltzer; this is how you speak to a man; this is how a man should speak to you; this is how to cover your cough; this is how you check eggs to make sure they aren’t cracked; but what if they’re all cracked?; you mean to tell me you’re going to be the kind of woman who can’t find a good egg?

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(Chelsea Rosenberger says, "I rewrote [Jamaica Kincaid's] 'Girl' because when I read the poem, I immediately pictured all of the little bits of advice my mother has shared with me over the years.")

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature--Spring 2008

Posted with permission.

John Hersey's Hiroshima: Graphic Adaptation of Mrs. Nakamura's Experience (Emily Morris)

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(Note: I have included a text transcript for each panel; however, if you wish, you may click onto to each page, and you will load a large and readable version of each page.)

Page One (Above)

Panel 1:

(Home of Mrs. Nakamura, widowed mother of three; 3/4 of a mile from center:)

MRS. NAKAMURA (Thinking.): Tearing his house down. What a shame--Soon he will have nowhere to live.

Panel 2:

AIR DRILL: Warning! Warning! Warning!

Panel 3:

MRS. NAKAMURA (Thinking about the night before, when she and her children had fled to Asano Park): Everyone is so tired. Maybe I can let them sleep this time.

Panel 4:

(Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura chose not to wake her three children that morning. They have been to the shelter many times in the past few days, and they were tired. It may have been this decision that saved their lives.)

Panel 5:

(Center Hiroshima during the explosion.)

Panel 6:

CRASH! Boom!

ONE OF MRS. NAKAMURA'S CHILDREN: Help, Mama! Help!

Panel 7:

TOSHIO: Mama, I'm scared.

MYEKO: WAAAA!

YAEKO: (Sobbing.)

MRS. NAKAMURA: Hush, darlings! I don't know what happened--I think we need to get to safety, then ask questions. Don't cry--it'll be okay soon.

Panel 8:

(Before leaving for Asano Park, MRS. NAKAMURA chose to keep her only source of income safe. Her husband's old sewing machine was how she provided for her family. When this was all over, she would need to make money to feed her children.)

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Thinking as she tosses her sewing machine into the Water Reserve Tank.) This should be safe in here.

Page Two (Above)

Panel 1:

(Many neighborhoods had safe areas they were to retreat to if there was a bombing. MRS. NAKAMURA followed a neighbor through the wreckage of her community to Asano Park, outside of town.)

Welcome Asano Park

Panel 2:

MYEKO: I am so thirsty.

MRS. NAKAMURA: Here, sweetie, drink this.

YAEKO: I don't feel so good, Mama.

Panel 3:

(After drinking from the river, MRS NAKAMURA and her children became very ill and spent the next few days with stomach sickness. As they lay ill, many in the park lay dead or dying. Some seemed healthy one day and perished the next. The scene was horrific and no help ever came. MRS. NAKAMURA had to make a decision to move her children away from the park to a nearby shelter.)

Panel 4:

(Six days later [the Nakamuras] left the shelter [Novitiate] to stay with her sister-in-law.)

Panel 5:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Crying.) I am so ashamed. I can not go anywhere looking like this. My hair is gone. I am a Bald Dreadful woman. UGLY! I am ugly. BALD!

Panel 6:

(MRS. NAKAMURA lost all her hair due to nuclear radiation exposure. Her youngest daughter had a cut on her arm that took months to heal. MRS. NAKAMURA could not afford a doctor's visit so they waited their sickness out and soon MRS. NAKAMURA was planning for their future. She had sent her brother to her old house to retrieve the sewing machine she had stored in the water tank. When he returned it was with bad news.)

Panel 7:

MRS. NAKAMURA: It's useless--This will never work again! It has completely rusted! What am I going to do now?

Panel 8:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Thinking.) Please, God. Give me strength. I need money desperately. Please?

Panel 9:

BANK CLERK: (Handing money to MRS. NAKAMURA.) MRS. NAKAMURA, this is how much the bank has for you. Have a nice day.

Panel 10:

(At the Machine Repair shop.)

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Crying.) How much is this [sewing machine] worth?

OWNER OF SHOP: It's junk--all rust!

MRS. NAKAMURA (Still crying.) Please--whatever you can give me.

Panel 11:

(After selling everything she owned, MRS. NAKAMURA moved her family into a small wooden shack, their new home in Hiroshima. MRS. NAKAMURA scavenged for supplies and did all she could to provide for her family.)

Page Three (Above)

Panel 1:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Thinking.) This has all been my bad luck. My fate, that I must accept. This suffering is my test of faith. I must survive. My children rely on me and only me.

Panel 2:

RADIO: ...Hiroshima Survivors, also known as Hibakusha... This just in. Our Government has just passed a new program providing health care options to all of our survivors...Please report to your closest agency to receive your card...

Panel 3:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Handing someone a loaf of bread.) Your fresh loaf, Ma'am.

Panel 4:

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Handing someone a newspaper.) Your daily news, Sir.

Panel 5:

(Factory work: Moth ball belt)

MRS. NAKAMURA: (Holding a bowl of moth balls.) All good...Sir.

Panel 6:

(Although the Japanese Government provided assistance for their survivors, MRS. NAKAMURA's pride prohibited her from accepting any assistance for many years. She held many low paying jobs just to pay for food and rent. The long term effects of radiation made her have to take frequent resting periods throughout the day. In 1951 her family moved to a better home and she continued working at the Moth Ball factory until she retired.)

Panel 7:

(MRS. NAKAMURA's luck began to change. Life continued to happen. Things were changing all around her. The town eventually got rebuilt. MRS. NAKAMURA watched her children grow up. Eventually she began to accept Governmental services like health care and pension plans. It is noted that MRS. NAKAMURA completed her life one day at a time.)

(Her son got married...)

TOSHIO: I do.

TOSHIO'S BRIDE: I do.

(MRS. NAKAMURA danced in a festival.)

Panel 8:

The End.

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Emily Morris: I chose to pick only one of the main characters from John Hersey’s [account] and complete a graphic version of that [survivor’s] experience during the bomb drop on Hiroshima. The graphic version will be from the point of view of that [survivor] (first person) and contain only pertinent information to tell her story. The graphics will be selected based on the main events that tell the story of that [survivor] and the feelings or emotions that [she] must have felt during the bombing of Hiroshima and the aftermath. While I am aware that the [survivor] is Japanese and does not speak or even think in the same English context, I will need to summarize what I believe [she] felt in my terms.

Reflecting on the process. After completing the graphic representation of Mrs. Nakamura’s experience of the bombing of Hiroshima I feel a little less confident in my execution. It was difficult depicting everything in a graphic square without going overboard with pictures. I believe I chose the main events that Mrs. Nakamura went through; however, there were a few circumstances where I had to write a brief paragraph to place the readers where I needed them to be. This was a strip that spanned over many years; a lot of middle ground was tossed aside to illustrate only what was important. I’m not 100% positive that the reader would be able to pick up this graphic strip and know what really happened. Reading the stories of the Hibakusha (survivors) through a non-fiction account seems to me to be the best way to tell their stories.

I still enjoyed the challenge of completing this journal in a graphic version. It may not be perfect, but it was a good experience. I know now that I will not follow a career as a comic book artist.

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2007

Posted with author's permission.

J. Alfred Prufrock and His Women, A Character Study (Emily Morris)

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Night time has ascended and a tall figure walks down a dark alley, the only visible light coming from small neon signs protruding from brick buildings like rainbows in the night sky. With the strong gusts of wind the sound of distant traffic and a few bums discussing politics on the corner blow through the alley. The smell of burnt garbage and urine stagnate in the air like a never lifting fog. This man walks with a quick pace and holds his chin tucked close to his chest, only lifting his eyes to read the signs as he passes through. There is a chill in his bones as with the darkness came the cold. He is a familiar sight in this alley coming here for the comfort he cannot achieve on the main streets of town. His mind races with fleeting thoughts of honesty and integrity, but his body continues to press him on through the night to find solace in the arms of his next lover.

As he approaches the familiar threshold he peers through the unstained portions of glass in the window pains. There is a warming sensation in his groin as he observes the ladies laughing with each other over a game of spades in the parlor. The brunette on the right laughs joyously as she apparently won the last hand. He watches her as her hair flows with the motion of her alabaster neck, laying softly on the bare shoulders and tickling her back. This one he knows as Sophia, she speaks with a soft accent of somewhere exotic a low sultry voice that pleases his ears. He has had her company many times and enjoys her immensely.

He enters the house that will shelter his aging bones for the evening. Cigarette smoke attempts to escape through the open door as the chilled October air threatens to follow him in. He hands his coat and hat over to the Madame of the house, her name is Chelsea and she is an everlasting beauty, with grace and money. Chelsea trains these girls in the house on how to be ladies to the men that come here, how to speak politely and listen with care when they choose to discuss their days. She teaches them the art of seduction that will warm the coldest heart. She shows them how to be tigresses in bed and how to make a polite exit when morning comes. Chelsea recognizes the man with a familiar smile and with one swift motion extends her hand for a greeting. He brushes his lips on the back of her hand and responds with a greeting regarding the change of seasons. Chelsea offers his most preferred drink and he accepts with a nod.

The man, once again locked onto Sophia approaches her as she deals the deck of cards to the ladies around the table. The arrangement for her company is made and Sophia excuses herself from the card table and locks her arm into the crook of his elbow they are approached by Chelsea bearing his drink, cheap gin and soda water with a wedge of lime hanging to the side of the glass. Chelsea approves the transaction and the two lovers ascend the stairs to the room where they will be spending the evening.

The man selects an overstuffed wing chair and props his feet on the stool set in front of it. Sophia moves across the room lighting candles for ambiance. He stares at his glass, swirls the ice around and takes another sip. Sophia moves toward him, locking his eyes with her sultry gaze as she moves closer, he can smell her perfume. She smells of exotic flowers and clean linen. Sophia bends down, exposing the crest of her breasts tucked tightly into her bodice. She loosens his laces and removes each shoe placing them side-by-side on the floor. Sophia moves to straddle the stool placing his feet in her lap. With her thumb she rubs circles into the soles of his feet. She politely asks him "What miraculous things did you accomplish today?" He returns his gaze to his glass and returns her question with a soft voice he says, "there will be time to discuss these things, now is not the time." Choosing silence instead of conversation Sophia continues rubbing his feet and humming a soft tune.

Sophia’s hands move up from his feet and begin a soft caress to the inside of his legs. Still maintaining silence he locks her gaze with his and enjoys the feeling of her womanly touch. Conflicting thoughts race through his mind. He accepts her touch, he craves what comes next, but how on earth can he continue to act this way. He recognizes his true age; he knows the inevitable truth of age. He has begun the downward step to death. His hair is thinning; his forehead shows the wrinkles where years of stern concentration and heated arguments have crossed his face. His eyes have lost luster and his teeth are yellow now from years of combating stress with tobacco.

The night progresses as usual, the physical desire quenched in a bed of tossed sheets and the smell of sweat. The sun has begun to rise; through the cracks in the window shade he can see the gray shades of morning. In all the years of coming here he does not speak to these women. How can he explain what he does during the day, when the light of the sun graces the sky, he is not the same man laying in this whore’s bed now. If they ever ask why he never took a bride, how can he explain the tragedy of loosing the only person he ever truly loved. How can he speak to these women, and why should he.

Through all the years of coming here he has known these women he has loved them all. He has felt their embrace and the warmth of their bodies. He recognizes the sound of their laughter he knows them well. He rises to his feet and begins dressing in last night’s clothes. His eyes travel over the view of Sophia’s body as he exits the room without any goodbyes or condolences. The other men are leaving now, and he spots one exiting the room up the hall. He asks himself, "am I any different then that man there, or the one still sleeping in the room over there? Am I any different, any better then them?" He toils with the idea of paying off his house account and never returning again. He may just be getting too old for this. Better yet he knows he is getting too old for this.

As he begins his walk home to his apartment on 5th street, he is angry with himself for allowing his physical urges to override his moral approach to life. He recognizes it is time for him to end this behavior, to accept his age, and to accept that every day draws him closer to death.

Will he return to the house? It’s left unsaid. Will he ever be truly happy with himself? That’s left un-read.

(Emily Morris' note: After reading this poem I analyzed the character or rather what I thought of the character. I broke down every section into an action of a rather undesirable man. I pictured a pitiful man, a man that takes his nights at a whorehouse. A man that during the day he portrays an honorable man a role model to society’s rights.)

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2007

Published with Permission

A Letter to John Hersey Regarding Hiroshima (Sarah Moser)

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a letter to an author, dead or alive, to ask questions and comment on their works. Sarah Moser chose to write her letter to John Hersey, author of Hiroshima, a non-fiction/journalistic account of six people who survived the a-bomb in Hiroshima.)

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Dear Mr. Hersey,

What made you decide to turn [The New Yorker] article into a book? How did you even come about writing the article in the first place? Was it your idea? How did putting a face on the [Hiroshima] victims make you feel? Were you proud to be able to do this or did you just feel sad and ashamed? (You had to talk to the very people that we knowingly dropped a bomb on and tried to kill.) How did it feel to have everyone in the country talking about the book and the accounts within it? Why was distribution discouraged in Japan? Were they against the book being made, or was it just to be sensitive to their feelings about the past? Was the American occupation government trying to protect their feelings and not make them relive the event? Did you form a bond with the six people in the book or was it merely a professional interviewing relationship? I don’t know that I could hear these stories and not become attached. How did you feel about the bomb being dropped? Did this change at all while you were writing the article? After meeting these six people and getting to know them, did you keep in touch? How did they feel about you personally? I just can’t imagine being friendly to someone from the country that tried to kill me.

I know I’m asking a lot of questions, but history intrigues me, and I want to understand what the feelings at the time were like for both parties.

How do you think the Cold War affected the release of your book? Do you think that it was positive or negative? Did you hope that your book might cause people to learn from their mistakes and be more wary of similar situations in the future? With the climate of the world during the Gulf War/Desert Storm, did your opinions on nuclear weapons change at all? Do you think that the world view, or at least the American view, on nuclear weapons has changed at all because of Hiroshima? Will there ever be a day that this devastation is unleashed again?

I think you did a wonderful job on this book. Following these individuals from beginning to end humanized what happened. It now serves to make younger generations understand the situation. I feel that this book was written just at the right time—long enough from the event that people could read it in a different perspective.

Thank you for doing such a good job!

Sincerely,

Sarah Moser

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
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Technology: Love or Hate Relationship? (Arielle Pringle)

(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature final exam, students were offered the option of writing an essay that explored both the positive and negative aspects of technological advances. Writers were asked to use Ray Bradbury's "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" as a springboard. Arielle Pringle's piece is a first draft, written in about an hour.)

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In the year of 2007, there are many technological advances that some people love and hate. Some advances in technology that we love is the cell phone and the computer. Others are TV and the DVD players. The negative impact that cell phones have today: they are a distraction to everyone. If the phone rings, then we jump to pick it up, or if we get a text message or voicemail, we hurry to either reply back to it or listen to it. We stop just to work with our cell phones anytime during the day. Just like in the story “August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains,” the house was a distraction for people. It made a lot of noise and it talked back to them (if anybody was in there). But a positive impact that the cell phone has made: it is a better way to get in touch with people. Also, the cell phone itself can do a lot of other things than just call out and receive calls. It can hold phone numbers so that you won’t have to carry around the usual address and phone book. It is also good to have when there is an emergency, but at the same time it may cause the emergency. Cell phones are both technology that people love and hate.

Another advance in technology that we have come to love and hate is the television and the advances in the screen look as well as the advances in the cable options. Back in the olden days, televisions were only in black and white and you could only get a few channels. But today television has advanced to have a bigger screen with better quality and look. There are now LCD screens and flat screens. Also, some people have the home theater system which makes your living room like a movie theater. The best movies are viewed in a home theater room. In 2007, we also can get over 500 channels, whereas back then there were only two. Satellite dishes are taking over. No more of the regular cable or the cable boxes; there has to be a dish sitting on top of your house in order for a person to be considered one of the best. That is also a negative look on today’s society with the advances in technology. People don’t look at your character or your integrity anymore; they judge you solely on what you have. If your house does not have at least one big screen in it, you are not qualified to be the best. My house has over 6 televisions in it, two of them being LCD 50” televisions. Does that make me a person of honor and integrity? Some people in this world would think so.

Other advances in technology that people would love and hate are the advances in home appliances. Now there are refrigerators that have the news and weather on them, washers and dryers that can sense how much water to use only by the size of the load of clothing, and microwaves that now grill and are convection ovens. These advances are great for some people but are a nightmare to others. Yes, to have these appliances in your house would be a big deal. To have a stainless steel, LG refrigerator with a big computer screen on the front would make your house nice. Also, to have the water and the ice on the door is an extra benefit. The high efficiency HEST washer and dryer are a big deal today, too. Being able to get rid of stains without even treating them before they go in is an extra benefit for some. Using less water in the load can save money as well. But what happens when the computer screen on the refrigerator breaks or the sensor on the washer goes bad? People are now wishing they would have the protection agreement at Sears. All the nice benefits of having these appliances are making the people love them, but as soon as it breaks down the people start to hate the fact they even considered changing their kitchen around. Having to go through the hassle of getting the parts to fix the appliance, then having a technician to come out to repair it is a whole other reason why people hate and love the advances in technology.

Yes, these advances are great for America and the world but it also creates problems that are unnecessary. Cell phones are a distraction to anyone, TV’s are over priced and home appliances are so advanced that it is taking place of another electronic in your house. People love to say and flaunt these advances in technology but they hate when something goes wrong. Then they have to worry about the consequences and the problems that come up. All the advances in technology have made a positive and negative impact on today’s society, as well as the society of tomorrow and other generations after the ones of 2007.

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LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission.
______________________________________

I am the Slave Mother (Christy Torres)

(NOTE: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a personal essay, using an assigned literary piece as a springboard. Christy Torres chose "The Slave Mother," by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper as her springboard.)

His shrieks pierce the silence of the night. The rhythmic dance of inhales and exhales is disrupted. I can feel my mind slowly return to reality. My husband’s chest moves my hand slowly up and down. His breath continues its dance and he is oblivious to the cries shattering the night’s sleep. I force my eyes open and scan the dark room. My eyes stop on the clock, 3:42 a.m., its harsh fluorescent light mocks my loss of sleep.

I push away the covers and pull my hair up in a quick ponytail. I force myself to leave the warm haven of my bed and creep slowly to the adjourning room. He is crying hard, his breath catching in his throat before being forced out into the darkness. I open the door softly, and walk over to where he is sitting helplessly on the floor. I pick him up and look at his brother, still sleeping in his bed, undisturbed by his brother’s cries.

He lays his head on my shoulder and hiccups. I walk down the steps to the living room where I can rock him. As I rock him, I think about my life. The constant routine, the furious pace that leaves me exhausted, the never-ending cries that bombard my mind. I feel bitter. I am bitter because it was my sleep that was forfeited. I am rocking a toddler that is now asleep; however, one slight move, one break in the rhythmic rock and he will be awake and wailing.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. I have school. I dare look at the clock, the only light in the dark living room. 4:12 a.m....time is still mocking me. In less than three hours I need to be up and showered. I need to wake my daughter and get her ready for school. I need to wake up the boys, change them, get them dressed, and brush their hair and teeth. I need to feed them, make sure her backpack is in order, put socks and shoes on feet, push arms into coats and be out the door by eight. Drive to the bus stop, give a kiss good-bye, and drive to the babysitters, listening to “Crazy Car” three times on the way there. Pull in the driveway, unbuckle seat belts, put shoes back on wiggling toes, carry each boy on either side of my hips up the walkway, spill into the house, take off coats, smile as they run in screaming “Nana,” thanking God for the wonderful babysitter that I found. Kiss each one goodbye three times, and try to walk out the door while my youngest clings to my leg, not because he is upset but because he thinks the ride is fun.

Once I am finally out of the house I must drive back across town to school. I need to be at school by 9:30, and it is 9:12. I drive across town and for some reason “Crazy Car” is still playing…and being sung…I am in school all day until 3:15, and then I walk home. In the house by 3:25. My husband and boys are asleep, they will wake shortly. It is time to thaw dinner for my family. I must clean up the house, load the dish washer, and take out the trash, which should be deemed radioactive from the fumes being emitted from the diapers inside.

It is 3:40, time to get my daughter from the bus stop. She bounces off the bus, smiling. My heart swells at the sight of her smile. We walk home and she tells me that she needs my help with her math homework. We walk in the door and I can hear my sons awake and playing in their room. I close the front door and I hear, “Mommy, et me out my ooom, peezze.” I grab two diapers, wipes, and climb the stairs, open the door to two smiling beautiful faces. Pick them up, tickle them and change them one by one.

My husband wakes up and we all go downstairs. I make dinner; they play with toys that I must later pick up. We eat dinner, food is thrown on the floor despite my instructions to “Use your fork, eat pretty.” They once again play with my husband while I clean up the plates, cups, forks, and food scattered around the dining room.

The clock glares at me, I am racing against time, and it is 6:45. Time is competing with my children’s demands, and I am the one losing the battle. I gather PJ’s and draw the bath water, the boys get in the tub, my husband bathes them and I help my daughter with her homework. Their bath is over. I dress the boys for bed, get their sippy cups, read them a story and tuck them it. Three more kisses are given to each little boy, and to my delight I get six of my own.

I turn the bathwater back on and fill the tub for my daughter. She bathes, and gets dressed, and I tuck her in. She reads me a story and I kiss her, once, goodnight.

My husband is in bed. The clock on the nightstand mocks me still. It is 8:30. I kiss him goodnight, and he begins his dance with the night. I, on the other hand, go downstairs to clean up and tackle my homework.

I am frustrated, I am tired, and I am running on a constant cycle. I am a slave. A slave to time, a slave to professors, a slave to my husband, a slave to my work, a slave to the constant mess of toys and a slave to the gooey, sticky substance that is smudged between the pages of the book I am trying to read. But mostly, I am a slave to my children. I am a slave mother. As my mind leaves the day ahead and turns back to the rhythmic rocking and the sleeping two year old nestled in my arms, I wouldn’t want it any other way, even if it is 4:58 in the morning.

Author's Note

I chose to write a personal essay on “The Slave Mother.” This piece was extremely powerful to me and I believe that I reacted to in such a strong way because I couldn’t imagine losing a child despite the frustrations involved with motherhood. After thinking about the piece and reading it to myself at least a dozen times, and reading it to my husband twice, I knew that I wanted to write something related to this piece. I approached it a little differently because I can not relate to the exact emotions of having a child ripped away. I was unsure of what I wanted to write until my son woke up screaming the other night and I had to tend to him. I was frustrated because I wanted to sleep and as I rocked him I got more frustrated thinking about my life. Then I thought about the poem and knew that although I was in constant motion and was a “slave” to their needs, I couldn’t imagine losing one. I realize the time spent with them is a blessing no matter how tedious the task throughout the day is. I think the maternal instinct and emotional attachment in the poem is what connected me in such a strong way and enabled me to portray my own emotional attachment to my children in this piece.

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LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

I Am Woman (Jamie Sterlacci)

I, too, am a woman

I am heavier then most
My hair is not perfect
My skin is blemished.
The boys call me
To complain about the others
I listen
I answer
I laugh at their silly ways.
They look through me.

One day they’ll call me
Just to talk to me.
And I will know it’s because
Of who I am inside.
I’ll listen
I’ll answer
We’ll laugh at their silly ways.
He sees into me.

One day, they’ll see
That under my skin I am gorgeous.
They will be sorry they undervalued
What I can do.
But I won’t need them; I never did need them.

I, too, am Woman.

___________________

I used Langston Hughes’ poem "I, Too" as a starting point for my poem. His poem is about how black people are oppressed and shunned. They are ignored and considered a lesser being, but others do not realize what they, specifically Hughes, are capable of. Hughes does plan to show them what he can be – that he has the potential to be something great and that he will rise up against the oppression. Hughes is proud of who he is and considers himself an important part of America. One day, people will be ashamed of how they treated him and they will appreciate him for all his worth.

In the year 2007, although most people do not make judgements based on skin color, they still judge people on the way they look – if someone is not as aesthetically pleasing as others, they are often judged and become outcasts. I know that most people have felt less then beautiful at some time in their lives, including myself. People who are outcasts because of their looks are oppressed in sort of the same way as African-Americans were during slavery or in the South under the Jim Crow laws, when Hughes wrote this. The less beautiful are kept apart from those that are considered to be better looking, just like black people were separated from others. These separations have nothing to do with who is better, smarter, or earned the right to be considered accepted. Instead the separations are based on shallow notions that what a person looks like on the outside defines who they are on the inside.

It is important that people do look past the exterior and get to know someone because they could be truly great on the inside. My poem is based on the idea that all women are beautiful, not just the ones who are obviously so. It also stems from the idea that the only way some one can be completely happy is to see past looks and get to know someone and appreciate him or her for it. Relationships that are based on looks become as shallow as the reason for starting it. On the other hand, relationships based on love and appreciation of the other person tend to give the most pleasure to both parties involved. This is similar to the relationship between white and black people in the South. Because they were not working together, the people of the South did not reach their full potential. Instead, there was always fighting and people dying senselessly.

The woman in the poem finds someone who gets to know her and love her for who she is despite her weight, skin, and hair, or maybe even because of them. She thinks maybe one day other women will see how great she is, but she will not need them as friends. She realizes she has never needed anyone who is shallow. She knows that their shallowness prevents them from reaching full happiness and she laughs at them for it.

Like Langston Hughes considered himself an important and overlooked part of America, the woman in the poem is not appreciated because of her looks. Both poems recognize the potential of the oppressed and how great things could be if people saw them for who they are.

___________________________

LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007

Published with permission

According to “The Experts” (Ruth Ann Hake)

(Creative non-fiction)

They spotted the little log cabins on a Sunday drive. The sign in front read:

*

INDIVIDUAL CABINS
COLOR TV AND AIR CONDITIONING
OTHER AMENITIES

*

She hoped they were as nice as they sounded.

They had two days together, and no one knew where to find them.

“I’ll wait in the car. I’m nervous,” she said. “What if they ask for identification?”

“We’re not doing anything illegal. And I have my driver’s license,” he answered, looking more like a teenager than a man as he made his way to the office to register.

This was the first time they had stayed in a motel.

“What was taking so long?” she thought. “I bet we won’t be able to get a room.”

They brought very little with them, an old brown suitcase for her and an army duffle bag for him. It was late, and a summer storm was brewing. The weatherman said: Severe thunderstorms.

“We have Cabin #5,” he said as he returned to the car just as the rain started.

She sighed with relief and he with anticipation.

It was easy to find; there were only eight cabins. As he opened the door to #5, a blast of hot air greeted them. When he found the light switch, a bare bulb shone from the yellowed ceiling.

“It won’t take long to cool,” he said.

The room was sparsely furnished; in fact, the bed was small and uninviting.

“Where’s the air conditioner?” she asked as she sat her suitcase by the door and glanced around the room.

They looked everywhere, but Cabin #5 didn’t have one.

“That’s okay,” she said. “Let’s just sit for awhile and watch TV. That might help us to relax.” Her hair was a little wet from the rain, and she wondered what she looked like.

There was nothing to sit on but the bed.

And where was the color television?

There wasn’t even a black and white TV in Cabin #5! But, there was a radio, a big old cabinet radio.

“We’ll listen to music. Maybe we can find something romantic to put us in the mood.”

She was easy to please even when she got upset. He said he liked that about her.

“This is unbelievable!” he said as he tried to turn on the radio. “This contraption needs quarters. I don’t have any. Do you?”

He was sweating. The heat was stifling. The rain pounded on the little cabin’s roof.

“No, but that’s okay,” she said as she headed to the bathroom, averting her eyes from the bed. “It’s late. I’ll take a nice cool bath, and we’ll go to bed.”

She took her suitcase with her. She brought a special nightgown.

The tension was mounting between them. Their getaway weekend was falling apart. She didn’t ask him to find the manager to complain. She was too embarrassed, this being their first time. And she suspected the manager was in bed in HIS air-conditioned cabin watching HIS color television.

“Honey,” she called. “There’s no bathtub, just a shower behind a plastic, mildewed curtain. I’m afraid I’ll catch something if I get in this shower.”

Maybe these cute, little log cabins trimmed in pink, advertising air conditioning and TV weren’t a good idea.

“I’ll just wash my face and be right there,” she said as she heard the bedsprings squeak.

She would lock herself in the bathroom for a little while to calm her nerves. She felt like she might throw up. Maybe he would fall asleep before she came out.

She didn’t notice when they first walked in, but now she did. There was only a ratty, plastic curtain for the bathroom door. And it didn’t even reach the floor! This was NOT okay! He could hear every sound she made. He would see her feet and know what she was doing. She would hold her bladder, all night if necessary.

“I’m coming out now.” Her voice quivered as she removed some clothing. Forget the nightie!

So in her slip, underwear, and a pair of socks that she brought along, she dashed from behind curtain number two to the bed. She could get through this ordeal if she covered up. She didn’t care how hot she was.

Where were the blankets? The bed was bare. Why didn’t she notice this before?

“What did you do with the blankets?” she asked as she turned her back to him and closed her eyes tightly.

“There aren’t any,” he replied.

She was on the verge of tears when he spotted the blankets hanging from hooks on the far wall. He retrieved one and covered her up to her chin.

“I want to go home.”

He turned off the bug-stained light and lay down beside her without even a kiss.

“It’s okay,” he said, keeping a distance between them. “We can just go to sleep. We have tomorrow, and the day after that. In fact, we have a lifetime.”

He was easy to please also.

A few hours earlier, they were pronounced man and wife, and this was their honeymoon in Cabin #5.

* * * * *

For the next thirty-nine years on her anniversary, she remembered Cabin #5. What a beginning! Maybe they should have waited until they had more money and honeymooned in Aruba, or even the Pocono’s. Cabin #5 was an omen!

Today while she waited for her husband to come home from work, she listened to Dr. Phil and his guest, a marriage expert. Did they marry too young? Would they have been happier if they had more money to start with? But they loved each other in spite of age and money.

As she watched and listened, she made his favorite supper, shrimp lasagna and apple crisp.

They greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.

He looked tired when he finally sat down to the table.

It was her turn to say grace, and she added a postscript, “Help our table-talk to be productive. Amen.”

“Do I smell apple crisp?” he asked.

She shouldn’t have said anything until supper was over, but she didn’t wait.

“Our marriage needs help,” she said. She patted his arm.

As he bit into a shrimp, he sighed, “What have you been watching now?”

“Dr. Phil. And he had a lot to say about us. We never had a real honeymoon, and our fortieth anniversary is coming up in a couple of months. Remember?” she asked as she took the salad dish from him abruptly.

“Have I ever forgotten an anniversary?” he asked as he put his fork down with a clang.

“You came pretty close sometimes,” she said. “Dr Phil says that to keep a ‘long time’ marriage fresh and teeming with passion we need to be spending quality time together. New hobbies or a shared sport were two of the expert’s suggestions. A second honeymoon also might do us good. You do remember the first one, don’t you, dear?”

“Of course, I remember! Cabin #5, dear!”

“And we’d have to start sleeping together again,” she said. They hadn’t slept in the same bed for two years. That was a big problem, according to the experts.

However, something needed to be fixed before she considered going away with him and sharing a bed. She didn’t know how he would take her next request.

“If we decide to go on a second honeymoon, will you get the operation?”

His face registered fear and shock. The only sound was the ticking of the timer.

“I’ll never let a doctor touch me again with surgical instruments. How many scars do I have from the ‘simple’ gall bladder operation?” he asked. “I can’t believe you asked me that!”

“The surgeon apologized to you for his resident’s mistake of missing the gall bladder with his first incision. And it was the young doctor’s first operation.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he said. “ I won’t go under the knife again, not even for a second honeymoon.”

“I’ve hardly ever said a word about our first honeymoon, but each anniversary brings back the memories of that fiasco. We could take pictures this time, get a tan, read, and reconnect,” she said.

“Is that one of the expert’s words, reconnect?”

“As a matter of fact, yes! I can’t reconnect with you until you fix the problem that only surgery can cure.” She stared straight into his eyes.

It was his turn to stare back. The timer ticked louder.

“According to the experts, is there anything else wrong with our marriage that we can fix with an expensive honeymoon? We might as well get this all out in the open while my favorite supper gets cold!” he said. He sat back in his chair.

“I wanted to talk to you while the show is fresh in my mind.” She sipped her ice tea before her next announcement.

“We failed the quiz!”

“What quiz?” he asked.

“The Will This Marriage Last quiz.”

“How could I fail The Quiz when I didn’t take it?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I knew what your answers would be, so I answered for you. Except for question number eight, I wasn’t quite sure.”

“And what was question eight?” he asked.

“I can’t remember exactly. It was something about nudity and lighting.”

“What was my answer?” he asked. “I’d like to know!”

She sensed his interest now. Interest was good! Maybe their marriage could be fixed.

“That question is the least of our worries. According to the experts, we didn’t get off to a good start. We had several strikes against us,” she said.

“I can name a few,” he said as he counted on his fingers. “We were too young, I was still in college, and my father hated you. And your dad thought I couldn’t take care of his first-born.

“Am I right?” he asked as he held up four fingers.

She nodded and added, “Our first baby was born too soon, you quit school, and we had to rent a house from my dad.”

Now they were up to seven reasons.

He continued, “I made barely enough money to support us, I worked an extra job in the evenings, and two more babies came within three years.”

“Why didn’t we know we were in trouble?” she asked.

It was his turn.

“And then for the next thirty-five years, we took care of a handicapped daughter who zapped our energy, our hopes, and our resources. It should have been obvious at that point, that our marriage was doomed, don’t you think, dear?” He ran out of fingers to hold up.

“So I wonder why we are still together, against all odds, dear?” she asked.

“Probably because we didn’t have as many experts back then as the world has now. Stop listening to the experts and listen to your heart.”

That’s all she needed to hear.

“So about our second honeymoon. Let’s see if the cabins are still there,” she said, happy once again.

“If they’re still there, we’ll drive right by!”

They picked up the silverware since the crisis was over. Neither noticed if the food was cold.

“Forget that I mentioned your operation, I’ll keep sleeping in the extra bedroom, just don’t tell anyone. If we go on a second honeymoon, I’ll use earplugs and you can try breathing strips to stop your snoring.”

“And no more quizzes!”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The timer rang. Dessert was ready.

___________________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with author’s permission

The Rock Wall (Christine Deluca)

(Final Exam Essay)

Always keep going, keep looking forward for your next step. Don’t look down, don’t look back, and remember--there’s always something to grab hold of. I remember the first time I tried rock climbing, it was amazing. It felt like I was facing my fears--no--more like facing myself. Keep going--keep climbing--remember that there’s always something to grab a hold of. If you repeat those words to yourself to yourself you can make it to the top. Your team is always there with you, no matter what, and they will never fail you.

Times were tough in my house during my last two years of high school. I had finally come out to my mother and father and they were none too happy, my sister had changed and I couldn’t really talk to her anymore, and my mother was looking into--of all things--conversion therapy. Coming out was one of the hardest things for me to do, and the fact that my mother was not handling it well didn’t make things easier. I tried telling them the "best" way possible, I tried to sit them down and explain that I was still their daughter and nothing would change that, but they wouldn’t have it. After many years of feeling like a freak I had finally come to terms with myself only to have that torn down by my parents. I felt like I had nowhere to go, but I tried to look on the bright side.

Then it came time to face the rest of my world, a.k.a. my friends. I hadn’t told a single one of them yet. We were all at the diner one night--as we always are--and the moment just felt right. I took a deep breath and dove in. "Guys, I have something to tell you." I was met with laughter of all things. I couldn’t understand why they were laughing! "Is this the part where you FINALLY tell us you’re gay?" my one friend asked. I was in shock. After agonizing over when to tell them, after nights of worrying if they would accept me or leave me, they knew! They explained to me that they had known since the day they met me and they were just waiting for the day I was comfortable enough with myself to tell them. I don’t think there has been any other moment in my life so far when I felt more loved and more safe than that night with my boys--my team.

I explained to them about the situation with my parents and how I was torn over what to do about it. I didn’t know whether to go along with my mother’s conversion therapy to make me happy, or stand my ground and be proud of who I was. My best friend, Radeeb, told me to meet him at his house the next morning fully packed for the weekend. He didn’t tell me where we were going.

I asked my mother if I could go and she reluctantly agreed. The next morning I met Radeeb and we got into his car. I was kind of worried to say the least. Radeeb and I have always been the more adventurous of the group, so I didn’t know what he had planned. After a few hours of driving we wound up in Fawn Lake Forest, Pennsylvania. We checked into the cabin we had for the weekend and he told me to get dressed in some warmer clothes and go outside for my beginner’s training. That’s when I saw the rock wall. It was HUGE with sharp edges and steep drops. It didn’t look fun. It didn’t look like beginner’s training. I decided I was not for dying any time soon so I went back to the cabin and sat on the comfy HORIZONTAL bed. Radeeb was furious. He came in the cabin and yelled at me. He told me to go on with "conversion," that I wouldn’t be able to stand my ground anyway so I might as well back down. I cried, he yelled more, and he finally got me up.

Beginner’s training was on the ground thankfully. They explained to us the dynamics of the harness and how to grab on to rocks properly (not that I ever thought there was a right or wrong way to grab a rock). Before we began the climb our professional Mr. Mallia hit us with the infamous pep talk. He began with a quote--"Courage consists of being able to hold on one second longer." He told us we had nothing to fear but ourselves and that as long as we put our faith in our team and our team’s ability to help us through the rough spots we would be okay--there would be no reason to turn back. That speech hit me harder than if I had fallen off the rock wall. I couldn’t not climb after that. It meant so much, and I knew I had to try this. It was hard. There were times we had to stop because the rocks were difficult, but we worked as a team and got through to the top. When we got up there I realized it wasn’t so high--well, it was high, but not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It was just high enough for an amazing view. It felt wonderful. To know that we had earned that view was one of the coolest feelings ever.

While I was climbing I made up a mantra to keep myself going. "Keep going. Don’t look down, don’t look back, and remember there’s always something to grab on to. You can always rely on your team." Today those words are still with me. I decided to stand my ground with my mother--to keep going. I realized that even if it was rough with her there was always something to grab on to, my team--my friends. I don’t look back on the bad times anymore and I know no matter how rough it gets I’ll always have my team.

"Courage consists of being able to hold on one second longer," and I held on, I hold on. I learned that day that the only way is up and if you put your faith in your team and yourself it’s not always as high as it looks but it’s high enough for an amazing view.

____________________

LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Fall 2005

[Posted with permission of writer]
____________________

The following instructions were part of the final exam; students had 75 minutes to complete the writing task:

Alan Sillitoe’s novella "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner" incorporates the sport of long-distance running as an extended metaphor.

Write a short story, or personal narrative essay (500-750 words) in which you incorporate an extended metaphor involving a sport (not long-distance running--Sillitoe has already done this, and you would be just echoing his story), such as baseball, basketball, swimming, football, etc., or other hard physical activity.

The Mane of My Existence (Siobahn Hyser)

(Creative Non-fiction)

I hate my hair. Well, I used to hate my hair when it was long. Until I chopped it off, my hair was well below my shoulders, a mass of curls that parasitically existed upon my scalp. My hair had a life of its own. People were happy to meet my hair. They remembered my hair. I’m sure they would have taken it to dinner if they could. My hair reveled in the compliments and praise it received, rustling about like sea anemone in the ocean.

*

I have always had long hair, until a gay boy with an electric razor made a drastic mistake. When my hair and I were very young, the long curly locks were a beacon that attracted strangers. "What beautiful hair she has!" they would exclaim to my mother in the grocery store. "It’s so long!" I would smile and bask in their adoration. Mom always told me my hair was pretty, but she never told me I was pretty. When I got older, in high school, she would constantly point out, "Your hair is so thin on top!" I don’t think it actually was. But her insistence caused it to believe that I was going bald, becoming an ugly freak.

*

My hair had become my identity. If it didn’t look good, I was ugly. I wasn’t a girl: I couldn’t even do my hair right. Some days it would be this beautiful masterpiece of loose curls, and other days it was a frizzy mess. And then there was the whole going bald on top thing. Some days my hair would look great from what I could see and then I would use a handheld mirror to look at the back of my head. Sure enough, there was a scalp showing through. Years later, I discovered the simple reason for the seeming "bald spot", a cowlick that made a bunch of my hair into one big curl. My mother wasn’t much help. She just let me linger in the horrific prospect of baldness and ugliness for my senior prom. Mom wasn’t really a hands-on sort of mother, although she would help wash my hair in the sink before school if I ended up with too much goop in it.

*
After graduation, I couldn’t give it up; I was still worried about losing my hair. I was still afraid of being ugly. Soon, I thought, I will be one of those old women with cotton ball wisps floating about their heads. I couldn’t think of anything more horrific.

*

I kept my anxiety to myself, not seeking help from friends or my female relatives. It was shameful to be losing my hair; I must have done something wrong. I had failed at being a girl. If I couldn’t do my hair, much less hold onto the hair I still had, was I really a girl? It sounds dramatic, but my late teenage years were spent in the rave scene where sexual confusion hung in the air thicker than the smoke from the dry ice machine. The baggy pants and oversized shirts, the baseball caps and short hair: who knew who was a girl? A boy?

*

One evening about four years ago, I was at Jeremey’s house. His roommate had a friend over and they were all going to trim their up hair with clippers. "Jeremey," I said, "Do me, too." I had had enough. The past few years with their deaths and sorrows had left me feeling naked. First Daddy died, and then Anna was killed six months later. Around the same time, Nana, Daddy’s mom, died of old age. Why should I have any hair to hide behind? I didn’t feel beautiful, and my hair wasn’t sad for my losses. Isn’t that what women used to do anyway, cut their hair off when they were in mourning?

*

Besides, if I was going to do something drastic with my hair, Jeremey was the one do it. He’d gone to acting school in New York and had cut hair for his theatre friends to make money. He was gay and had an inherent sense of style. Unfortunately, he’s also an inveterate drunk.

We went upstairs to the bathroom and I sat on the side of the tub. We chopped off most of length and then he said he was going to trim it up with the clippers. He kept going back and forth from one side to the other. I ended up with sort of a faux hawk in the middle. "That looks so punk rock!" he said, "You totally need to keep it." So I did.

*

A few hours later, and a few – well, a lot more – beers later, Jeremey decided he needed to touch it up a little. Again, we went upstairs. Again, I sat on the tub. Jeremey picked up the clippers. He put the razor to my head, above my right ear and shaved around my ear. "Okay," he said brightly, standing back and crossing his arms, clippers still in hand, "We have two choices. We can either shave it to the skin around your ear on the other side or shave it all to the skin except for the mohawk." I looked to the mirror as my jaw dropped. All I saw was a blur because my glasses were out of reach on the counter by the sink.

*

Jeremey continued, never failing in his chipper tone. "I forgot to put the attachment on the blade so it shaved your head right there."

*

Did I mention we were drunk?

*

Ten minutes later I have a checkerboard pattern on my head, squares of skin and fuzz, with a mohawk in the middle. Over the course of the next week, repeated visits to Jeremey slowly remove the rest of the hair from my pale, white scalp. I am as bald as Vger from the Star Trek movie. And I like it.

*

Suddenly, showering takes 5 minutes. No wonder guys get ready so fast. I can leave the house without looking in a mirror. My hair doesn’t get in my mouth or my eyes when I’m driving with the windows down. My budget for hair products just went down to zero.

*

It never gets past my chin again. With full time school and full time work, I don’t have the patience for hair anymore. I tried growing it out a bit a couple of times. But as soon as it gets a few inches long, the curls erupt and I have two choices: back to the hair product aisle or back to razor. I keep choosing the razor.

*

Shaving my head was the most liberating thing I have ever done. I’ve heard other girls say the same thing. I got rid of something that had been weighing me down most of life. My sense of self became detached from the parasite that devoured hair goop and shampoo. My sense of self was now… my self.

*

When I first got rid of my hair, there were some ingrates at the bars who taunted with me "dyke" and "Where’s your girlfriend?" I flashed a guy on the street one day because he thought me and the guy with whom I was holding hands were gay men. I had never done that before nor have I done it since.

*

I realize now that my femininity does not emanate from my hair. It does not determine my sexuality or my beauty or my life. I thought no one else could see past my hair because I couldn’t. Not letting it grow has allowed me to grow. I get it cut every 4-6 weeks, telling the girl to cut it like Alyssa Milano’s character on Charmed. I’ve discovered I don’t have a pointy or dented head.

*

I still hate my hair, especially when I remember all the time and effort I put into it. Especially when I think of the stress it caused me and the hundreds, if not thousands of dollars spent on yet another fix-it-all hair product over the years. When I think of all the time I spent worrying over my mother’s idiotic and uncaring fixation on my thinning hair, I can’t believe I didn’t chop it off sooner.

*

It’s funny how I still get compliments on my hair; chicks tell me how brave I am, how they never could do it. They tell me I have the right face for it. I never believed anyone who told me I was pretty until I had no hair. I knew now they meant me, not my hair. It makes all those years of standing in front of them mirror seem all the more pointless.

*

Rapunzel was an idiot. She should have used that rope of hair and saved herself.

____________

WRT310 Creative Writing, Fall 2005