Field Trip

Field Trip

I was but at child at the time, I had just lost my first tooth and I was learning addition at the local primary school. I was the son of a doctor, a wise and charismatic man who always had the answer to every one's questions. Sometimes, when the moon failed to shine and the swaying branches of the bold baobab trees sent menacing shadows dancing across my room, I would curl up in the corner of my father’s study and watch him read; the way his thick eyebrows would arch ever so slightly when something surprised him amused me, and eventually the soft desk light would fade away and I would be safe in my father’s comforting arms as he carried me off to bed, singing me an old African hymn about a father lion who sees his cub for the first time. Those nights were magical.

I had just been released from school, I took a shortcut through the bush to try to beat my father home. He would always leave work at 3 o’clock sharp to greet me at the front door and exclaim, “Othenio tell me what you have learned!” and he would lift me up and sit me atop his broad shoulders and he would say, “Son someday all this will be yours.” and he would point out to the vast horizon and we would both laugh, his a deep fatherly laugh, the type that every little boy dreams of. As I emerged from the bush, only a couple of paces away from my house, I heard a blood curdling scream, the kind that instantly brings the most fearless men to a halt. I heard the sound of a truck rolling down a dirt road, American music blasting from the speakers and countless men singing along; I doubt they knew what the words meant, but they chanted along anyways. My father subsequently appeared from behind a wooden shack, first walking and then rapidly accelerating until he was in an all out sprint. A black pickup truck tailed closely behind him, its seven occupants armed with AK-47’s and belts of ammunition draped from either shoulder. My father spotted me as I began rushing towards him, and shot me a glance of desperation and horror, he waved his hands desperately, willing me back into the bush and I obeyed him. As I lay horrified across the dry soil, I peaked out between a cluster of tall grasses and watch my father as he stumbled on a thick root and collapse to the ground, tears flowing profusely out of his eyes. He begged me not to watch, not to watch as the men ran over his legs and torso, not to watch as they dragged him through the dirt and stripped him of his work clothes, mocking him all along, not to watch as they laid his naked body up against a wall and shot him three times in the arm, just to inflict pain, not to watch as a bullet pierced his skull and seized from me the only person I had ever loved in this cruel and unforgiving world. I had never hated anyone in my whole life as much as I hated these men, these cowards, these Hutu.

As I return to my village, a small coastal town on the banks of Lake Kivu, I find no trace of the day that has forever changed my life. The town was completely decimated during the war, and even though it has been less than 20 years since that day of great pain and sorrow, it seems as if it never happened. The people never talk about it, and upon further questioning the whole town denied being present the day my father died. It’s as if the most important day in my life had absolutely no importance in the lives of the rest of my village. For me it was the end of my world, but for them it was yet another day of massacre, just another day of hatred between brothers.

The Man I Killed

The Man I Killed

The Man I Killed is a depressing chapter that sets a very solemn mood for the story. This chapter tells the story of a time in which Tim O’Brien kills a young boy who he believes is being forced against his will. Tim seems to have perpetual knowledge about this boy and believes that the kid was a great student with a loving family and a bright future without any clear evidence to prove so. The Man I Killed is told by Tim O’Brien but it is a different Tim O’Brien then we have met in the previous chapters. Unlike the Tim O’Brien that we have seen in all the previous chapters who is full of thoughts and emotions and loves to dialogue with other characters, this one doesn’t ever mention a single word about his thoughts and feelings, let alone talk to another character. Kiowa attempts countless times to initiate a conversation with Tim, telling him that he did the right thing and that the kid himself was armed, but Tim just can’t get over the fact that he has killed another human being. In the next chapter, Ambush, Tim tells his account of the story and this time he shares what he was feeling at the moment and why he acted the way he did. One of the core reasons for his distress is that he truly believes that had he not just taken any action, the kid would have just gone his own way and lived a great life. In this chapter O’Brien keeps repeating his description of the boy just laying there on the trail over and over, focusing mainly on the beautiful aspects of the boy such as the star shaped hole in his eye, which was a result of the blast, and his clean black hair which implied that he was relatively new to the war.
In his description of the boy, O’Brien not only points out many of the physical aspects of the boy, but also much of the boy’s life, what he liked, what he disliked, what he dreamed of, who he loved, and so on and so on. As I read this I was baffled by how he could have known all these details about the kid’s life. Having just read Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer in which he has interviewed almost every single person who participated on the expedition to the top of Everest, the native guides included, I was used to the author having almost an unlimited pool of knowledge,but the degree of knowledge which O’Brien has on this kid was just too much for it to all be true. I had speculated for a while whether the whole entire story could be fake and he just completely made up this character from the ground up, I finally got my answer in a future chapter called Good Form in which he admits that he did not actually kill the boy but he was present and that his presence alone was enough to cause guilt. This finally answered my question of how exactly did Tim O’Brien know all this about the kid with one simple answer, he didn't. Tim doesn't actually know who the kid loved, what he studied at school, or how his family felt about the war, it is all made up, and by keeping that in mind, the story made much more sense than the first time I read it. But we all know that no great author like Tim O’Brien would just make up such a character, so after a lot of hard thought I finally concluded that the boy is actually a mirror image of how Tim O’Brien pictured himself before the war. One key example is when Tim says that the boy didn't agree with the causes of the war and didn't even want to be fighting but was forced to by the pressures of society, when compared to the views of Tim O’Brien in the chapter On the Rainy River, they are nearly identical. Another example is when he talks about how the kid was very intelligent and had a bright future, which sounds a lot like when Tim talks about how he graduated top of his class in High School and went on to College. I believe he tries to create this kid as a mirror image of himself so that he can relate to the kid and because he knows that at any moment it could be him who was lying on the ground with a star shaped hole where his eye used to be. This is one of the most powerful stories in the book and by far one of my favorites.

Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong

Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong

Up until the Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong, we witness many powerful chapters but none to such a caliber as this one. When I began reading this chapter I was both utterly amazed that a soldier could get his girlfriend into such a dangerous and unforgiving war zone such as Vietnam, and skeptical that any of this really ever happened. Based on my knowledge of the Armed Forces of the United States I know that just recently were women allowed to enlist in the military and that to this day women cannot fight in the front lines such as the way Mary Anne did in this chapter. So based on that knowledge I would concur that this is all a fictitious story and that none of this ever happened but as we see as a recurring theme throughout this book, crazy things happen in war and I have no evidence to prove that this story is fake so I must assume that it is true.
In this chapter, a soldier named Mark Fossie is working at a secure location in Vietnam where he is seldom under attack and the environment is relatively safe,writes a letter to his girlfriend and six months later she arrives at the base in Vietnam. We go on to learn that Mary Anne is a very well rounded woman who is  smart, adventurous, pretty, and adored by everyone; but this doesn’t last. After just a few weeks of living at the base Mary Anne begins to change, the changes are subtle at first but they continue to escalate and soon she is heading off on night raids with the Special Forces team and killing people with her bare hands. Mary Anne’s transition to a killer is a baffling one and one that left me thinking for a while. What I finally realized is that Tim O’Brien tells us this story not because he was there or it was important to him, but because it symbolizes how Vietnam changes everyone. We had seen Vietnam change people in previous chapters but never before had we seen someone so innocent become so savage in such a short period of time. I think the important thing that O’Brien wants the reader to take away from this chapter is that no matter who you are, young or old, male or female, Vietnam will change you and there is nothing you can do about it.
Unlike most of the stories in this book which are narrated by Tim O’Brien (A different Tim O’Brien than the author) this one is narrated by Rat Kiley for multiple reasons. First of all, Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong is one of the only chapters in which Tim is not present for or indirectly a part of, in the whole entire book, and for that reason I believe he has Rat Kiley narrate it so that it could have a more realistic feel to the story. Another reason I believe Tim O’Brien has Rat Kiley tell the story is because unlike most of the other stories in this novel which all seem realistic and have a hint of truth to them, Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong seems far fetched and leaves even Tim O’Brien himself skeptical of whether or not this story ever happened. I feel that Rat Kiley did a great job at telling the story and that for the most part his story fits the criteria of a true war story. In the chapter How to Tell a True War Story, O’Brien lays out the basic criteria such as the story might be unbelievable, which this story definitely is, the story might be impossible to tell, which seems to be the case here, and that in a true war story nothing is absolutely true, which we can tell is true about this story. The only reason I believe that this story might not be considered a war story is because in a true war story you shouldn’t be able to separate the moral from the plot, but in this story there is the obvious moral that war changes everyone. This is probably one of the most dramatic chapters of the whole novel and I loved it.

Spin

Spin

When I read the line in Tim O’Brien’s The Things they Carried “All that peace, man, it felt so good it hurt. I just want to hurt it back.” I had a hard time trying to decipher what the author was saying. I believe you really have to think hard about what the man has gone through and how the war has changed him, to understand the true meaning of what he’s saying. The man had just been recuperating at a secure facility, away from the chaos of the war, with a beautiful Red Cross nurse, and then all of a sudden all he wants to do is return to the war, suffer sleepless nights behind enemy lines, living under the constant threat of being blown up from a land mine or shot in the head. From the security and and comfort of our bed from which we are reading this book, the comment seems absolutely ludicrous, but that’s because we haven’t shared the same experiences as the soldiers that fought day in and day out in the unforgiving jungles of Vietnam and now longs to return to the danger. One of the main problems soldiers have always faced and still face today is the challenge of re-adjusting to the dull, peaceful civilian life after fighting in a war. After living under such intense conditions these men have almost all accepted the fact that at any moment they might be blown to pieces or shot in the head.These men have already accepted death and they are willing to sacrifice their lives for their country and their beliefs. But when their tour of duty is completed or they are sent to a military hospital they are unprepared for the peace and tranquility, they are so unaccustomed to the peace that it hurts. These trained killing machines would rather be suffering the out in the front lines than be resting in a hospital with a lovely nurse and anything they wanted.
What I believe this quote says about peace is that it is only a concept embraced by civilians and that actual soldiers would rather be putting their lives in danger than be stuck in a peaceful hospital. Though this view of peace is not one that is accepted by all soldiers, that is how Tim O’Brien portrays peace in the book. What this tells us about the Vietnam War is that after fighting for so long in a hostile environment such as Vietnam, these men have all gained a certain respect and love for the pain and discomfort and that it took many men who probably never imagined themselves as soldiers such as Tim O’Brien, and turned them into fighters and killers. In this book we can see how the draft would take boys that would never consider killing another man, and then turn them into these creatures that just couldn't get enough of the pain and wanted to keep fighting. Though this man might seem courageous for returning to the front lines even after he’s been injured, I believe all he really is is just a boy whose sense of reasoning has been greatly distorted by the war.

War Letters

War Letters

Dear Mom and Dad,

As I lay here under the eerie cover of night, I attempt repeatedly to make out the physique of your faces but to no avail. It seems like ages since I last saw you on that bleak, sodden, September morning, as I pulled out of the driveway and headed for Reagan International Airport. I still see the disappointment in yours eyes, questioning the nature of this war, pleading me to run, anywhere, anywhere but the God forsaken country of Vietnam, but I must serve my country for I have dreams and those dreams do not consist of getting deported of or spending the rest of my life in jail. You know how much I hate war, you have raised me well, you taught me at a young age that thou shalt not kill, but the time comes when we must stand up for our beliefs and save a nation from the steel hard grip of communism. For it is not a secret that if one more nation falls into the clutch of communism the rest of the countries will fall like dominoes and before you know it we will be led by a tyrant and we will no longer have any freedoms. I know that me heading off to war greatly disturbs you, that after the death of my sister you desperately do not want to lose another child, but you must see that I am doing this for my children, so that they can live in the same great United States that I live in.

I've been marching through the dense jungles of Vietnam for a little over a month now and the experience has been life changing, I have finally gotten a chance to see the world, to experience a whole different culture. Sure it’s been hard transitioning to a whole new lifestyle, strict procedures, endless marches, have to patrol the perimeters of our camp at the darkest hours of the night, I have befriended many soldiers along the way and am now good friends with a man named Derek Mosher from Arizona. Earlier this week I discovered that he too will be attending Georgetown University upon his return to the United States he tells me that his father went there and says that it is a magnificent university. I will be going to Japan in three weeks for some R&R and I hope to be able to call you from there. I am writing to you because you are the only people whose impressions I find important and I know that I hurt you both greatly by denying you advice and marching off to war but I hope you can forgive me and I hope that upon my arrival we can reconcile and patch up the gaping whole in our relationship. I just want to share these thoughts with you because I want you to know that I feel safe and secure and I don’t want you to worry about me, tell the family and neighbors that I say hello and I hope to see them soon. I have spared you the details of the war because I know that they will only further hinder our relationship and worry you even more but just know that I am safe and no matter what happens you have my word that I will see you soon as the same boy that left home just a few months ago. I love you all very much and I hope to talk to you soon.

Love, Patrick

The Things they Carried

The Things they Carried

My parents beg me to remove unnecessary textbooks and dead weight from my backpack on nearly a daily basis, claiming that it weighs so much that it’s going to break my back. The conversation is so common now that it has practically become part of my morning routine for getting to school. My backpack is saturated with bold three subject notebooks, which for the most part are unnecessary for the bulk of my classes; dense textbooks, which contribute to the greater part of the weight; a recently purchased Toshiba laptop, though its condition tells a different story; a binder, which is the key to my organization and the home to all my worksheets and supplies; and last, but certainly not least, my electronics such as my cellphone and my iPod which are the center of all my communications and entertainment.
The most important item I chose to hump with me every day I believe is my smart phone. With my phone not only can a have a conversation in real time with someone on the other side of the globe in real time, but I can explore the vast ends of the Internet, see a picture of Uncle Jeff’s new dog just seconds after he posts it, and even find my way back home from practically any location on the face of the earth. Communications have developed exponentially in the past century to the degree that I find it nearly impossible to relate to my parent’s old stories of calling collect since they ran out of money or calling the operator before being able to speak to anyone. Such advanced communications have become such a major component of nearly everyone’s lives nowadays that we perform incredible feats without even thinking twice about them. Calling, texting, and using social media have become such fundamental aspects of our everyday lives that we can barely fathom a world without them. Though cell phones seem like such integral parts of our lives today, I have no doubt that in 10 years people will be astounded by how we were able to survive with such primitive technology.
Another item that I chose to hump everyday are my multiple three subject notebooks. This summer as I prepared for my journey into the unknown abyss of High School I had received so much information about what life as a High Schooler would be like, that my distorted view of how challenging High School was, caused me to panic and buy all three subject notebooks. I believe my colossal notebooks with only a few pages written in, symbolizes my expectations of how difficult High School would be and how difficult it really is. With the exception of my AP European History notebook, which is nearly full after less than a semester, my notebooks are generally empty and I believe that this not symbolizes my expectations and my reality, but it also represents how our society has changed. Gone are the days where I would sit peacefully at my desk with my notebook and a sharp number two pencil and write a story, nowadays we all collaborate on Google Docs, or write our essays using Microsoft Word. I kind of miss the feeling of crisp paper and spiral bound notebooks, but we live in a modern age and we must embrace it.
I believe that what I choose to hump everyday not only represents me and who I am, but it shows who we as a society have become an I think that is the important thing to take away from this.

The Vietnam War

Vietnam War

Before our intriguing lesson on the Vietnam War, the vast majority of my knowledge derived from Hollywood and occasional trips to the Vietnam War Memorial on especially sunny summer days in Washington DC. Sure I knew the basics of the war, United States vs. the Viet Cong, the time period in which the war was fought, the reason the United States entered the war, sure I knew that there were many people who were strongly opposed to the war and the draft that made it so controversial, but what I failed to realize was the caliber of such actions, the consequences of the war, the degree of the protests against the war, the intense hate for the war. One of the things that shocked me was when I found out that 60% of the men on tours of duty in Vietnam were 21 and under,they were just boys who had been persuaded by the fear of disappointing society and their families to accept the draft and head into the dense, unforgiving jungle of Vietnam.
One of my biggest misconceptions of the Vietnam War was my failure to realize the importance of the television on the war. Before this war, few Americans had the ability to watch what was happening in foreign wars and what they could see was mainly propaganda, but throughout the course of the war the TV became most Americans primary source for getting the news and now these families could watch the horrors of the war from their living rooms. Unlike previous wars where the footage released was edited and mainly propaganda, this footage was uncut and showed the everyday american family something they found themselves unable to handle anymore and these protests are ultimately what helps bring this war to an end.
As we continue to read The Things they Carried and discuss the Vietnam War, I find my knowledge of the war, which I previously thought was impressive, lacking and I find myself learning new facts about the war every few pages. This is a very dark chapter in American history and one that I hope we can learn a valuable lesson from.

Still I Rise

Still I Rise
By: Maya Angelou


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. 

Snow Cone Green

Snow Cone Green-Benjamin Moore-2026-30

Patrick McCabe

The dull clang of a steel bat

Shatters the placid silence

Of a magnificent summer morning,

A leather ball soars through the sweltering Virginian air,

The majestic orb seems to sail endlessly

Floating towards the divine horizon,

But some invisible force swiftly plucks the ball out of the sky,

It leisurely rolls until it comes to a tranquil standstill

In the beautifully cured Bermuda grass,

I observe the game from an old wooden bench

On a grassy hill beyond the serene outfield,

Separated by a Green Giant,

Four feet short,

I can just barely make out the words “Take me out to the crowd”

Emanating from the sound system below,

On the other side stand

Nine boys,

All with dreams of the Big Leagues

All with Dreams of Big Flies,

And all with dreams of making it Big,

Dreams of cloudless mornings in the cages,

And moonless nights at the bullpen,

Of the age old dirt of Fenway

And the checkered grass of Yankee Stadium,

Longing to stand on the very same home plate

Where Babe Ruth, and Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig, and Yogi Berra, David Ortiz

And all the other boys of summer once stood,

A pair shiny quarters jingle in my pocket

As I approach the enticing Snack Shack,

My mouth waters with the thoughts of

Chilidogs and cotton candy, Dippin’ dots and Cracker Jacks,

I visualize the snow cone,

A mound of frozen grated ice,

The green apple syrup slowly drips down

Through the crevices,

Producing a pool of sweet, luscious syrup

That I slurp and guzzle down,

Filling my body with a pleasurable sensation,

But soon these days will fade away,

Leaving me with nothing but delightful memories,

Gone will be the days of baseball at the crack of dawn

And mouth-watering snow cones,

Gone will be the precious blossoms

And the aroma of freshly cut grass,

Soon the leaves will lose their color,

And the earth will ice over with the first frost,

Followed by flurries and snow storms,

Now baseball is but a dream,

A longing for a day at the park over takes me,

I yearn for the soft cotton of my Cubs jersey

And the curved brim of my cap,

For the smooth grip of my Di Marini

And the gentle depressions in my Vendetta,

From where scores of fastballs, curve balls, and sinkers

Were transfigured into line drives, base hits, and sacrifice bunts,

I slip the Vinci leather mitt onto my miniscule hands,

As I toss a ball into the pocket

Worn smooth by hundreds of catches,

All the memories come rushing back


For more poems return to Middlemindz

I Am From Poem

I am from high-tops,

From Nike and Adidas,

I am from the colossal Oak trees looming over the back porch

(Ancient, and elegant, it’s a canopy rises perpetually into the heavens)

I am from the Chesapeake Bay,

The immense bushes that stood boldly in front of my house

Over your complex network of tunes I reigned,

I am from family chants

And perplexing divorces,

From Elizabeth and Suarez
From the McCabe Family Tree,

I am from the hard workers

And the exceedingly competitive,

From Way to go! And Let it go!

I am from Lord you are my Shepard

And the other countless prayers I have repeated at hundreds of early morning services,

I am from Dolores Sugar Mill on the ever-sunny island of Cuba,

Lechon and black beans,

From the leg my Great Great Great Grandfather David Auch lost defending his nation

On the front lines of Antietam,

The time my grandmother spent in jail at the young age of 17

Consequences of her father's democratic beliefs,

The 500 Page long family genealogy book,

Created by my Grandfather

So the brave deeds of my bold ancestors,

Will be remembered eternally for ages to the come, 

        

For more poems go to Middlemindz

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem-Seize the Day

Selected by Patrick McCabe

Description

"Carpe Diem" is a Latin phrase meaning "Seize the day" or better translated to "Pluck the day". This phrase means that one is in charge of his own life, so he must take advantage of all the opportunities presented to him and make the best with what he has. This melodious phrase has inspired many poets to write poems such as the ones below.

Synopsis

These are poems about freeing yourself from what ever restraints are put upon you, and seizing the day.

Poems

Carpe Diem by Robert Frost

To the Virgins, Make much of Time by Robert Hendricks

O Me! O Life! by Walt Whitman
First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Road not Taken by Robert Frost
Youth's the Season Made for Joys by John Gay
A Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Live Blindly Upon the Hour by Trumbull Stickney
I Have News for You by Tony Hoagland

Let his Death not go in Vain

On February 26 2012, Trayvon Martin went to the convenient store to purchase a pack of skittles and an ice tea--he never returned. This eerie murder struck up a lot of discussion, almost everyone immediately jumped to the conclusion of a tragic case of racial profiling, but as the investigation advances some are beginning to question his killer’s motives. This wasn’t the first time that someone has been murdered due to racial profiling, and unfortunately it certainly won’t be the last. Thousands of mourners met in New York City to march for justice, remembering the innocent boy who fell victim to racial profiling and fear. George Zimmerman, his killer, wasn’t arrested based on claims that he was acting on self-defense. At the moment it is nearly impossible to put him behind bars, due to the lack of evidence and a conflicting self-defense law allowing Zimmerman to remain a free man.

Zimmerman was the self-appointed neighborhood watch leader, known to patrol the area is his car—looking for people who acted suspiciously. It is said that in the 56 days before Trayvon Martin’s murder, Zimmerman called 911 more than 40 times. This raises the question, is this what happens when people fear what they don’t understand. It seems to make perfect sense; one fears much of what he doesn’t understand because they are scared of what it may be. Before 1492 people feared the ocean because they didn’t know what lay beyond the horizon. If you don’t understand the nature of something, you are more likely to invent what you believe will happen then find out. One didn’t fall off the face of the earth if you went past the horizon, but it took someone like Christopher Columbus to discover that. In this case Zimmerman feared Trayvon because he didn’t understand that not all African Americans are criminals. I believe Zimmerman acted without really understanding the circumstances and the magnitude of what he was doing. Trayvon may have made what Zimmerman believed was an aggressive move towards Zimmerman, which he may have thought would put him in danger so he shot him.

           One of the questions that comes to mind in this case is how can prejudice lead to injustice. In Zimmerman’s mind when he saw a black teenager walking down the street in a hoodie, prior prejudice must have made him instantly believe that Trayvon was a threat. That prejudice would later lead to the murder of an innocent seventeen-year-old. Most of the media surrounding this case focuses on the racial injustice aspect of it, knowing that it is the most intriguing part. Take the Japanese internment camps during World War two. The Americans used the prejudice that the Japanese are all enemies to unjustly throw them into internment camps. Had Trayvon been a white kid in a short sleeve shirt maybe the result may have been different, but there is no way to be positive.

In life there are some basic rules that all human beings should follow; one being the responsibility to protect the innocent. When Zimmerman lethally shot Trayvon he believed that he was protecting the innocent citizens of Sanford, Florida; consequentially he ended up doing the exact opposite. Being the self-appointed neighborhood watch man in the community, Zimmerman believed that stopping the young man was the right thing to do, until it went all wrong. Things quickly changed from Zimmerman protecting the innocent members of the community, to thousands of people trying to protect the innocent boy who was murdered. The thousands of people supporting Trayvon are eager to see Zimmerman placed behind bars, but the deciding question in this case is who was the innocent person in the incident and who’s responsibility was it to be protecting them.

In 2002 the movie Training Day starring Denzel Washington won an Oscar, but not without stirring up a lot of controversy. In the movie a black police officer, along with other black drug dealers, are part of a scheme to corrupt police officers and control drug trade in Los Angeles. In the movie a white rookie takes him down and brings the corruption to a halt. This may seem like a lone act of racial stereotyping done by Hollywood, but the reality is that it is a stereotype made again and again until it becomes instinct for people like Zimmerman to think of all blacks as criminals. I find it hard to imagine that this crime wasn’t influenced by racism, bringing us to the question, how can racial and gender stereotypes affect people’s behavior? It is almost instinct to stereotype people, using what you know about people like them to figure out what they are like. Stereotyping is seldom harmful, but when the stereotyping becomes discrimination and scapegoating—it has gone too far. The stereotype that all black people are criminals made Zimmerman more vigilant, and finally caused him to kill the kid.

What occurred in Sanford, Florida on February 26 2012 was truly a tragedy, but one we must learn from and never forget. This act of racial injustice is a powerful reminder that racism is still an ever present reality in our world and we must strive to end it. Trayvon Martin was nothing but an innocent boy with his whole life ahead of him, whose death reminds us of what many people before him and many yet to come will face. Hopefully the extensive media coverage and controversy surrounding this tragic incident will help make people more aware of the need to end racial profiling once and for all.

Some Things Happen for a Reason

            That bizarre first week of winter was one I doubt any of us will ever forget. It was like seven straight of mayhem in Maycomb County. On Monday, the news of Mrs. Radley’s death pervaded throughout the town. The sheriff told us that the death was caused by a heart attack and that no one would face charges. This was a big disappointment for Jem and I, we had been hoping that Boo Radley had conspired to kill his mother for keeping him locked up all those years. Jem had meticulously thought up a plan to sneak into the courthouse had Boo been arraigned. When Atticus returned from the Radleys place we were bursting with questions, but we tried to remain calm. Jem said that Atticus wouldn’t answer him if he asked about Boo, so was the one forced to interrogate him myself; our efforts went without prevail.  

            The days were colder than usual for that time of year. We burnt through many mounds of firewood that winter—each leaving a fire smoldering in our rooms all night long. When I awoke at the break of dawn I was bewildered by the sight before my eyes. I lay in bed for a few confusing moments, trying to apprehend the white mystery substance blanketing our yard. More than a century had elapsed since the last time Maycomb saw a white winter. Even Atticus said he had never seen snow in his lifetime. Jem and I headed outside to explore the foreign substance that painted everything white. Jem said he knew how to build a snowman, but I didn’t believe him. We had to retrace our tracks so that we wouldn’t ruin whatever bit of snow that had stuck said Jem. Combining the snow from Ms. Moudie's and our yards we created our very own snowman of Mr. Avery. Atticus was impressed with our work until he noticed Mr. Avery’s public parts, which he made us cover up. Ms. Moudie wasn’t nearly as impressed with our work as Atticus was. The snow was loads of fun, but by the end of the day I was yearning for the sweltering summer heat.

            Night approached sending the temperature plummeting to far below freezing. With multiple fires burning in each household, a disaster was imminent. Calamity struck in the early hours of the morning. Atticus awoke me dressing me in a jacket and sending me hurrying to the walkway in front of the Radley’s place. Outside there was complete anarchy as men women and children dashed to and fro. When Jem and I arrived at the fence in front of the Radley’s place, we quickly assimilated into the crowd of onlookers watching helplessly as Ms. Maudie’s place burnt to ashes. Part of me wanted to rush in there and help the men remove the furniture from the house, but I knew that Atticus’s rare over-protective demeanor kept me shackled to the far side of the road. The house eventually burnt to the ground, luckily without a single casualty. Everyone was a bit shaken up by the whole thing; and we all pitied the poor soul who would have to break the news to Ms. Maudie in the morning.

When Atticus returned to where we had been staying he asked Jem how I had acquired the blanket that had been draped over my shoulders. Jem and I had a short dissension over how it had gotten there until we finally came to the impossible conclusion. Boo Radley. The name nearly made me puke, he had been standing right behind me but I had failed to see him. Ms. Maudie returned the next day to find her house in shambles. I expected her to be horrified or at least sad, instead she was unusually content. She lionized the men who had risked their lives rescuing what ever furniture they could from her house, but said that she had wanted to burn that house down for years. Ms. Maudie said now she can plant a bigger garden in her yard—I guess some things happen for a reason. 

WW6 Secret Life of Bees

Dearest Zach,

            The days don’t seem as meaningful as when I am in Tiburon. New York is almost a whole different world, the bright lights and never ending honking of horns. The days are shorter and the weather is colder, but luckily I am assimilating into the life style pretty well. The city always seems to be in a state of anarchy, which I can never figure out and I will admit that I find it bizarre how the people can go their whole lives without ever leaving the bustling streets of the city. I would do anything for a peaceful week with you in Tiburon, telling stories on the front porch and eating your delicious honey.

            You cannot even begin to apprehend how hard I have looked to try to find a honey that could even compare to your lip-smacking, mouth-watering honey that can turn anything into a delicious treat.  The next time I visit Tiburon I will make sure to stock up on enough honey to last me for a full year.

            I have fabulous news for you! So after writing my first two novels a publisher from L.A. wants me to write a memoir! She says that with such a calamitous childhood the book is sure to be a success. Oh Zach I can never repay you for what you did for me. If not for you telling me to imagine that I had a future in writing, I would have never been free from the shackles of confidence that kept me from succeeding. I owe everything to you and truthfully I lionize you for all that you did for me.

            Four years have elapsed since I began writing my memoir and with the optimistic feedback from my publisher the release date seems imminent. When I was asked who I wanted to dedicate this book to the answer was obvious- you. I’ll make sure to send you an autographed copy before it is even released so you can be the first to read it.

            I wasn’t able to handle the sweltering heat of L.A. for too long before I had to return to New York. My publisher says that the “tropical climate” is like paradise- but on the inside I know she can’t take it either. I was on a talk show while was there, fun-right? Well not exactly, the lady interrogated me for a full hour, bombarding me with questions. We got into a bit of a dissension when the lady- who I later found out came from a racist family in Alabama- asked me how I possibly could have dealt with having to live with a family of African Americans, growing up.

            They seemed to love my story of the time when the group of KKK members saw us go into the movie theaters and on a whim conspired a plan to kidnap you. You will never believe how nervous I was for those 7 stressful hours when the police were searching for you. They probably would have never found you had they not checked Alex Moore’s house so meticulously and found the secret passageway heading to the cellar. I sometimes try to imagine what my life would have been like without you, but I just shield myself from the horrible thoughts. I could not stop laughing when I heard that when Alex Moore was arraigned he tried to plead not guilty, saying that he thought you were homeless and he was offering you a place to stay the night.

            Hopefully I can pass through Tiburon while I’m on my book tour in Charleston. Until then I give you my best wishes.

                                                With all my love,

                                                                        Lily

P.S. I hope Rosaleen is doing well, give her a hug for me.