Double Standards

          Despite the huge steps towards feminism taken in the last century, equality has not been achieved. It is commonplace now to see women in the workforce in positions traditionally held by men, and men are more encouraged to show their emotions. A stay-at-home dad and working mother is socially acceptable. You may even see a man in pink nurses’ scrubs.

However, the double standards held for men and women regarding relationships negate the progress that has been made. According to this article, the general consensus of our population is that men have much more freedom within the boundaries of a relationship. A man having sexual relationships with multiple women is seen as a positive thing, especially by other men, who view “pimp” as a compliment. But by a completely different standard, if women have multiple relationships with men, they are seen as whores, which results in a loss of respect for these women in society. Why is this double standard fair?  

Without debating whether multiple sexual partners should be frowned upon or condoned, we should at least agree that the different standards held for men and women are unfair. If feminism is going to improve or even continue, the same ideas must be held for both sexes.  

Charlie Burns

          The humid Georgia sun beat down on the back of Anna Jones’ neck. It was an afternoon in May of 1967, the kind of cloudless, windless day where you felt that if you reached high enough, you could reach right through the sky. Summer promised to be unmercifully hot, but Anna didn’t mind.

         “Marry me,” Charlie drawled in his thick Southern accent.
         She paused, glancing through the branches of the tree they sprawled under at the tranquil sky.
         “No.” She smiled.
         “What do you mean no?”
         “I’m only eighteen, you know. What will people think?”
         “Let them think.” He awkwardly held a modest gold ring out to her, and ran a hand through his unruly coffee-colored hair, a habit he’d had since childhood that showed only when he was horribly nervous. Suddenly she was reminded nostalgically of the little boy he had been when they met. She grinned again and slipped the ring on her finger.
         They strolled, hand-in-hand, from their spot under the oak tree to Charlie’s house, ready to tell his family the news. His mother met them at the door, a strained expression on her face.
         “Ma, we got somethin’ we-“
         “Charlie.” She cut him off, her voice cracking. She held up an unopened letter. Charlie eyed her suspiciously, and reached out to survey the official-looking envelope. It was addressed to a Charles Alexander Burns, with a return address from an army induction center a few towns away. It didn’t even need to be opened.
         “A draft letter?” his mother said in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. “You’re too young, you can’t just…” Her words trailed off, as she turned and sobbed her way back into the house, wringing her hands in anxiety.
         Charlie turned to face his new fiancée, who had stood, dismayed and silent, a step behind him. He felt his words leave him. There were a million things he wanted to say, but all he could find was,
         “I’ll write.” The words came out sounding more like a question.
         “Please,” she managed to reply.
         Charlie Burns gathered his things into a suitcase and kissed his mother and his fiancée goodbye. Anna stared, still reticent, as the man she was supposed to marry drove away.
         She tried, unsuccessfully, to carry on with the remains of her senior year, finishing school and bragging lovingly to her friends about the soldier she was so proud of. But agonizing thoughts plagued her mind. Summer came, and with it, the first letter. She hysterically tore open the envelope, barely noticing the paper cut.
June 7

How’s my Georgia peach?

         Anna breathed a sigh of relief. He was alright. He went on to describe boot camp, the soldiers in his outfit, and life in Vietnam. Folding the generally cheerful letter into a small square, Anna placed it under her pillow and smiled inwardly.
         As summer and the letters continued, she found herself suddenly absorbed in a war she had previously attempted to ignore. Hanging on every word of the nightly news, every article in the newspaper, every political debate; she realized she had somewhat of an obsession. Finally, another letter arrived.
July 20

Anna. Hope all of y’all are doin’ good.

         She frowned, noting that his letters had slowly been losing the nonchalant tone of the first.

The fighting has gotten pretty bad, he continued. But I don’t want you to worry. You know I’ll be alright. Love Charlie.

After a worried sigh, she placed the note with the rest.

Anna was returning home from a friend’s house on a particularly scorching day when she noticed a Western Union Telegram officer standing on her porch, knocking on the door of her empty house. Her heart leapt in anticipation.

“Sorry!” she exclaimed, hurdling herself up the steps and practically yanking the stack of mail from his hands.

“Ma’am,” he said curtly. He turned sharply on his heels to continue his route. Anna flipped through the various bills and letters until she found the now-familiar envelope. This letter had changed drastically from the last. Charlie talked, not of the fighting or the hardships, or even the war at all. He described to his fiancée the life they would have when he returned: a big white wedding, a house in the country.

Anna wiped a tear and glanced through the rest of the undoubtedly insignificant mail. Lastly, a small but deceptively heavy telegram.

FAMILY OF CHARLES BURNS, it read across the front. Cautiously she broke the seal, as if the ominous little paper would bite. Clinking of metal sounded, and into Anna’s hand fell Charlie’s dog tags. The weight was suddenly crushing as she realized the purpose of the telegram.

The paper slipped through her fingers, and she watched as it fluttered to the ground as if in slow motion.

Anna recollected herself with a slow, deep breath. She walked slowly to her parents’ bedroom, retrieved her father’s gun from its usual spot in the closet, and smiled a crooked, melancholy grin as the bullet blasted through her brain. She crumpled to the ground face-first as blood pooled like a bright crimson flower around her, Charlie’s dog tags still clutched tightly in her lifeless fist.

Myths of Different Cultures

    While studying folklore, I found that there are likenesses and also differences between stories from different locations around the world. Each country or ethnic group added their own identity and their own flavor to the stories that were part of their culture. The three myths that I chose originated in Hawaii, Mexico and the US.
    My first story was called “Pele’s Revenge” and was set in Hawaii. A sweet young couple is madly in love, and a self-absorbed goddess named Pele’s jealousy causes her to separate the couple by turning the husband into a tree. The gods see his wife Lehua’s pain and turn her into a beautiful flower so that she can always be with her lover. The theme in this tale is that the love of the couple was so strong that they could not be separated, even in death.
    In “The Wailing Woman,” a story from Mexico, the main character is the wife of a man who leaves her because his parents do not approve of her. She is so outraged and hurt that she retaliates by drowning their two young children and brutally taking her own life. However, her act is so evil that she is not allowed into heaven, but stays on Earth, forever searching for her children. The theme I found was that if you commit a crime so awful, you will be condemned to never enter heaven.

During the story “Bloody Mary,” which took place in Pennsylvania, here in the USA, Bloody Mary is killed by the people of her town after being discovered stealing young girls and murdering them to make herself young. As she is dying, she leaves an evil curse. The theme of the myth: Anyone who crosses Bloody Mary will be killed, mutilated, and trapped forever in a mirror.

    Obviously, these stories had a lot of differences. The first myth had a sort of bittersweet, but happier ending than the other two, which had gruesome or depressing endings. Another difference is that two of the stories deal with magic or the gods, which are things that most people don’t believe in. However, the story from Mexico is more of a religious tale, and a Christian would believe that it could definitely happen. The main similarity that I found between all three myths was the fact that they all had some element of revenge or payback.

Descriptive Paragraph First Snow

         After waking up to the vague, drifting scents of maple syrup and hot chocolate, I drag myself out of bed and shuffle my feet sleepily out of the room. Where is everyone? I hear distant jubilant shouting outside, and decide to investigate. However, opening a door is no easy feat for a three-year-old. I stretch up on my toes until my fingers reach the cold brass doorknob and I pull with the strength of a bodybuilder. The door cracks open. Immediately, my breath catches in my throat. A whip of icy air strikes my face and wraps its way around me, clutching me in its icicle fingers. The world has turned white. As far as I can see, a thick blanket of cotton has enveloped the ground. One step out the door, and I'm knee-deep, my bare toes burning. Bewildered, I reach down to scoop some into my mouth and taste the gritty frozen water. Shivering and and gasping for breath, I retreat thankfully into the house, where bacon sizzles welcomingly.

Politicians Can Shove It

            It’s almost November, and to a lot of people, that means election season. Campaign signs litter front lawns, air-brushed faces of candidates smile smugly down from billboards, and political commercials air every few seconds. What shocks me is how dirty politicians will fight. Take this article about Frank Caprio, a Rhode Island democrat who showed blatant disrespect by telling President Obama to “shove it,” all because Mr. President did not endorse his candidacy.

When most people hear the word “politics,” they probably think of men in pressed business suits and bad toupees, attempting to look dignified while politely arguing with each other from behind a microphone. But times have definitely changed.

Today, we have interesting selection. There’s Christine O’Donnell, who probably spends an equal amount of time bleaching her teeth and trying to convince me that she is, in fact, me. There’s South Carolina governor Mark Sanford, with his Argentinian affair. And of course, there’s the “shove it” guy. Do these politicians have any dignity anymore?

Instead of working to improve their country, or even their community, these leaders spend their time name-calling, lying, arguing, blaming, or buying designer tuxes. They need to get back to the issues, and stop focusing on tearing apart their opponents (or even the president.) That’s just not true leadership.

Tolerance is Love.

    Love, tolerance, acceptance. They’re not hard terms to understand, but for some reason, they seem impossible for our culture to put into action. Hate has become the standard.
    When I saw this online article about Rutgers student Tyler Clementi, I could just feel my heart breaking. This college freshman was full of potential. He was a gifted violinist who had his college career and the rest of his young life ahead of him. But what defined him? Not his musical ability, not his grades, his friends, his personality. No, Tyler was defined by his sexuality. On September 22nd, Tyler ended his life because he felt the violent torment of intolerance.
    Why does our society target people who are different? Why do we name-call, bully, alienate, and estrange? We have forced so many young people who are gay or questioning into the shadows, and make it as difficult as possible for them to have happy, normal lives. They become limited by both social rejection and legal discrimination. But what do we gain from our hate?
    In my opinion, tolerance is a huge step on the road to a convalescent society. Studies have shown that gay or questioning teens are three to four times more likely to commit suicide than others. If we could learn to accept, I believe that those troubled youth may not have to see this world as the cold and uncaring abysm that drives them to suicide. It is imperative that we learn to tolerate. Tolerance is love.

A Death of Innocence

        I’ve never been the type of person to be easily offended. I can joke about pretty much any topic. But while reading Gone by Michael Grant, something he wrote struck me as just plain offensive. I was only a few chapters into the book, which was describing a world where there are no adults or anyone over the age of fourteen. Being a responsible caretaker to my four-year-old sister,  I noted in my journal that if I had been in that situation, my first priority would have been to care for the younger children. However, they had barely been mentioned in the book.

        I kept reading until I reached a section of the novel that absolutely horrified me. The main character, Sam, walks into an abandoned house and finds a deceased toddler who had simply been forgotten. I expected this to have a significant impact on the mood of the book. But to my disgust, Sam throws the child into a garbage sack and compares it to “taking out the trash.” The book then continues with no further discussion of the death.

        Taking out the trash? How could anyone with a heart say that about such a precious life being lost? I decided that it must come from the life the author lives. As a sister and frequent babysitter, I am in contact with babies and children every day, and can’t think of anything more perfect than the sweet and loving innocence of a child. Maybe this author has never had that experience. Maybe Michael Grant should spend a day doing my job, and then try to write about the death of a baby.

I, Too, Sing America Thesis Statement (3B)

In Langston Hughes' poem, I, Too, Sing America, the resentfully hopeful tone reflects the main character's frustration with the time that he lives in. The "darker brother" in the story resents the fact that he is oppressed by another race and being told to "eat in the kitchen." However, he predicts that in the future, the white race will see their wrong-doing, and there will be a time for equality in America.

Mr. Goodwin krumps?

My first blog! *cue the confetti*
Hi everyone. If you're reading this you're either a) bored. b) a loser who has nothing better to do. or c) a stalker.
So if you find yourself in that last category, well...I have a taser.

I started school last week, which is partly why I'm starting the blog. Now I can have something fun to do when I'm slacking off in class with my handy-dandy laptop. What I wouldn't give for minis in Mr. Goodwin's class. Today I had to resort to composing music in that class to stay awake. When you find composing classical violin music fun, where else would you be besides 10th grade World History?

So! High school.
Things I can live with.
~Mrs. Harmon is giving us coffee. Which is pretty awesome. And since she'll probably read this, 'sup Mrs. Harmon?
~Chemistry is fun. We're doing a mastery system, which basically means I can procrastinate or over-achieve at my own discretion.
~I can't think of anything else. I'm such a pessimistic teen stereotype, I could be on Degrassi.

Things that are stupid.
~Advisory. I mean, Coach Armstrong is cooler than waffles, don't get me wrong. But what's the point? I have to give up 20 minutes of lunch just to make random conversation about Dave the Barbarian and hippies? And I couldn't even bust into the Pastry Booger Song from Dave the Barbarian because no one loves it like I do. Frustrating.
~What happened to the slushy machine in the cafeteria?
~I'm not allowed to ride the band bus to games. Waaaaaaah.
~I have this increasing paranoia that something super cool goes on in World History while I'm asleep. Every B day I say to myself, "Okay. I'm going to stay awake today. I can do it, I got like..5 hours of sleep last night!" But I get in there, and he turns the lights off and starts talking and I am OUT. But then I got to thinking. What if while I'm asleep, he decides to turn on a Disney movie and give everyone popsicles? Or a DJ drops down from the ceiling and Mr. Goodwin starts krumping? Because it is just NOT possible for a class to be so uneventful.

Okay I'm in English, so I'm gonna go do some classwork. Bye!

PS. Just so you know a little more about my blog..
The title/url is a Jared Leto reference. He is my future husband.