On John:  From reading all of his work, the third essay really stood out in my mind over any other essay I read from anyone else’s this semester.  It captured me in with the first sentence and kept me engaged throughout the entire essay.  All of John’s work this semester was really great and he is definitely a successful writer.  Every piece was so different and full of details that I didn’t get bored reading any of his work this semester.  He will definitely be successful with wherever a future in English takes him!!

On Chantelle: After reviewing all of her writing, I think that her reading responses were better than anything else she wrote this semester.  They were different and written well.  All of them flowed effortlessly and captured the essence of each writer.  From reading her work, I think that she is going to make an excellent teacher! She shows a strong ability to get her point across, and that is exactly what a teacher should be.

On Helen: I think that Helen did an incredible job with all of her pieces this semester. I really enjoyed her first paper the most because it gave a different twist to what everyone else did with it.  I loved the little kid classroom scenario because it really put vivid imagery in my mind.  All of her work was excellent and well thought out.  Her details in even the smallest writing responses were spectacular. 

On Myself:  To be honest, I was really proud of myself this semester in this class.  I had no idea what to expect out of it, and I thought it was definitely challenging.  As a writer, I came into the class unsure of my work, and I am leaving much more confident.  You taught me to understand what I am writing, instead of just writing it without thought.  I definitely think I grew as a writer from my very first draft to my last draft.  I realized that voice is SO hard to capture and I probably will be flip-flopping with myself on it the rest of my life.  I learned a lot in this class and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute.  Thank you for that Dr. Allen!

Dr. Allen

12/5/08 – Final Draft

Blank White Walls

In Mitch Albom’s book For One More Day, the main character tells a story of his life with his mother and father.  Growing up, his father told him that he could either choose to be a mama’s boy or a daddy’s boy, but not both.  He ends up choosing to be a daddy’s boy, but then due to unfortunate circumstances, is forced to become a mama’s boy.  I am not sure I completely agree with that.  My mom and I definitely get along very well, especially the older I get.  We do all the fun girly stuff such as shopping, getting our nails done, and having lunches on my afternoons off.  I couldn’t imagine my life without her, through good times and bad.  However, for most of my life, and still today, some could call me a Daddy’s Girl.

              We have always been really close and it has been very hard for him to ever get mad at me.  Actually, I can only remember one time that he ever spanked me.  We have a relationship that is one of a kind in my opinion.  I never have a problem telling him about my life, whether it’s about my car being hit by a hit and run driver or about having a crush on a boy.  From hanging up pictures in my house to fixing my disposal to mowing my lawn, my dad is always eager to help me out.  And somehow, I always end up finding multiple dollar bills hidden somewhere noticeable that I will find after he leaves.  He’s always there for me 100 percent, and I think our relationship grows better every day.

*          *          *

            When I say that I don’t like hospitals, I really actually mean it.  I’m not another person whose ninety-year-old Grandma died of old age in the hospital.  I’m not the girl who’s had numerous injuries that landed me in the hospital for dumb reasons.  No.  When I say I don’t like hospitals, it is for a much deeper reason; a lot has to do with those damn white walls.

            It was one of those days you could never forget, not even if you tried your absolute hardest.  The smell of the hallway was a mixture of Clorox and ammonia.  The walls were completely white, silence ringing all the way down the stretch.  The floor was lonely, only getting used once in a while by people moving very rapidly.  All the doors were closed, with the name plates protruding words from the dictionary that my thirteen year-old vocabulary had yet to include.  I walked slowly down the hallway, back to the boring white room where my mom sat. 

            That day had already been a day of hell.  My older brother had just turned fifteen, and we all know what that means…. driving permit.  That morning he was itching to get his permit, so my mom drove Tom (my brother) and me to the Motor Vehicle Department.  I had a mixture of emotions.  Yes, it would be awesome eventually for my older brother to be cool and drive me around without my parents being in the same car, but that day, the thought of Tom driving scared the shenanigans out of me!  However, I had to get used to it very quickly.  Smile. Take picture. Print out white temporary permit.  In the blue van we go with Tom in the driver’s seat.  I’m not actually sure how I lived that day because I don’t remember breathing all the way from the Motor Vehicle Department to Longmont United Hospital.  Against whatever thoughts I had about not getting to the hospital safely, I was soon there, dreading the rest of the day ahead. 

            I walked through the door into the white room where my mom sat.  Magazines were scattered on the table next to me, but all I could think about was where my daddy was, and what was happening to him.  I watched the television blankly; I wondered why I was sitting in this room and what kind of news I was going to find out in that blank, white little room with the magazines. 

*          *          *

            Long before I was born, in the 1970’s, my dad decided to go to New York City and get a tattoo.  Being the A-personality he was (and still is!), lines were not his thing.  Instead of staying with his friends at the local tattoo parlor that they had decided on, he went to another parlor down the road.  A magnificent lion on his upper left arm was produced that day.  It wasn’t until about thirty years later in 1997 that doctors found out that hepatitis C was running through his blood veins.  His treatments for hepatitis C began in 2001 and ended in early 2002.  The combination therapy for hepatitis C has a side effect of compromising your immune system.  It did exactly that to my dads’. In November 2002, after being ill from taking a trip to his hometown of Newington, Connecticut, he developed pneumonia.  It took one afternoon doctor’s visit to land him in the hospital.  The pneumonia was un-treatable, other than by having a massive lung operation called a thorocodomy. 

*          *          *

            After what felt like an eternity, the doctors came and got our family.  Through the winding white halls we walked and walked and walked.  Peering into rooms as I walked through the halls, I saw generations of people lying in the beds.  I wondered what each of them was in there for.  Cancer?  Old age?  A concussion?  Epilepsy?  Scenario after scenario ran through my head all the way to the ICU.  What an incredible pun: ICU.  So literal.  Coming upon the door that the doctors had pointed out as the room where my dad was at, I decided to hold back a little bit and let my mom and brother go in first.  I could feel my heartbeat speed up and my breathing get more difficult.  I felt like soon I was going to be in a bed in the ICU.  After a minute or so, I walked in. 

            There, in the bed, was not my happy smiling daddy driving me to school every day or buying me coffee at Starbucks.  He wasn’t the daddy that left my home the morning of his doctor’s appointment.  He wasn’t the daddy I remembered or wanted to ever see.  He was a daddy in pain; tubes seemed to overtake his entire body like an octopus eating its prey.  His face was as pale as the blank white walls which surrounded him.  Why couldn’t they color the walls??  Tears fell as fast from my eyes as rain in a hurricane.  I couldn’t breathe anymore; which was apparently becoming a pattern for the day.  My mind went still for a moment.  Then, after a couple moments, I finally got a “Hi” out.  I went over and saw him, wishing we were getting coffee at Starbucks or eating breakfast before school.  He told me that everything was going to be okay.  The lung surgery had gone well.  They had peeled the built up tissue off like you would peel an orange, so now he could breathe much better.  At least one of us was breathing easy…..

            For the next fourteen days, my dad was in the hospital recovering.  On Thanksgiving Day 2002, my mom, brother and I brought over a Butter braid for breakfast in the morning.  We stayed all day watching movies and having good conversations.  For Thanksgiving dinner, we ate the hospital turkey dinner.  Believe it or not, it was actually extremely good! But no matter how good the food was or how beautiful the room that he was in was, all I wanted was for him to be home in Loveland, sitting in his comfy chair in the basement living room. 

            On one night during those fourteen days, I wanted to keep my daddy company, so I spent the night on the pull out couch.  I didn’t want him sleeping all alone in that blank white room.  Apparently, during the night, multiple doctors and technicians had come in and weighed him, given him drugs, and done multiple tests.  I slept through it all.  I guess you could say I was just there for the moral support!  After those long, draining fourteen days of recovery in the hospital, my dad was able to come home to his comfy chair in the basement living room.  The day he came home was the day I started breathing again.

*          *          *

            It is almost November 2008, approximately six years later.  Not a Thanksgiving goes by that I don’t give extreme thanks for that Thanksgiving Day in 2002.  I give thanks for the incredible family I have, and the strong amazing dad that God blessed me with.  I think God made my dad an example of excellence, to show me that even through trial and error, everything will be okay and remember to breathe.  He still battles Hepatitis C every moment of his life, and until God grants the world with a cure, he will still be battling.  As much as people think that I worry about him, and I do, I remember that Thanksgiving in November 2002 and how that moment in the ICU changed my life.  I know that whatever happens in my daddy’s life is what God wants, and He will do what’s right.  As for now, I’ll just worry about what coffee I’m going to get at Starbucks and what pictures need to be hung on my wall next.  Why worry about what may never happen?  Just breathe.   

         Miller sees truth as everything that is said, whether is it is lie or the actual truth.  Miller believes that there isn’t a need for factual evidence to back up truth; it is just the words that come out of a person’s mouth.  It is the person’s form of truth, however they perceive it.   

            Frankfurt defines truth as factual evidence.  A lie is a lie, and there is no way around that.  A truth is a truth, and there is no way around that.  Frankfurt says that lying is bad because it can eventually become your reality, and then your memories and life become one large lie.  Unlike Miller, Frankfurt sees truth as factual evidence; a person must have facts to back up their truth, not just how they perceive it. 

        By “talking back” Hooks means that a person is equal to an authority figure.  Hooks explains that talking back isn’t being disrespectful; it is just saying that a person has the ability to disagree with whomever they are speaking to.  In Hooks opinion, talking back is just being yourself, not being outspoken and saying what you mean.

             In Gate’s memoir, he talks about being a black man in Piedmont, West Virginia, and the differences between the blacks and everyone else.  They are “talking back” into their past, and how it will affect their future.   Gate’s also explains how he is disappointed with the black folk in his communities that are disappointed with being black. 

            “Talking back” is making people understand how one feels in both Hook’s and Gate’s essays.   

Voice as Style

            Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you avert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin.  You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment. - Anne             Dillard

            In a paper of either academic discourse or creative writing, voice is a stylistic technique.  In the quote above Anne Dillard states, “you were made and set here to give voice to this.”  I believe that in all writing, the writer gives a voice to their piece of writing, whether they want to or not.  Writers put in voice unconsciously; they use voice as opinion or thought to put their own special touches of personal belief on their writing.  So I guess in this instance, voice can be interpreted of as ones thoughts on a page.  Some say that papers of academic discourse are “thoughtless” and just written through quickly, but in all the classes I have been in whether it was biological science or creative writing, my personal opinion still gets put in somehow. 

            Now I’m not saying that all the other elements of a paper get dismissed.  The assignment guideline criteria also play a major role.  The writer takes the terms of the assignment and puts his/her own beliefs into it.  If a writer is writing about that mathematical equation history of Einstein, the writer is going to use mainly facts they find elsewhere.  However, I think that even in a paper that is so factual, there is voice where the writer gets to pick which facts they choose to put in the paper. The tone of the paper doesn’t have to be parallel with the voice. The tone fits in if you want to persuade an audience or truly and deeply get a point across.  The theme and the tone don’t necessarily always have to run together in a paper for voice to be present, but since they both promote different elements of voice, I don’t see why you wouldn’t use both!  In the following section, I will be imitating a section from Frankfurt’s On Truth and show how beliefs play a role in the use of voice in writing.

II.            In Frankfurt’s On Truth, he discusses the argument of whether our thoughts are guided by our individual point of view or socially authoritative point of view.  I see the individual point of view as being the voice as style.  If we go with my opinion that voice, as style can be unconscious, then the person is only seeing the “inside of the box”.  They see what they are writing and their beliefs on their writing only.  They don’t see another person’s point of view or even another view for that matter.  Here I will rewrite a passage that shows an individual point of view using voice. 

             On the doctrine of individual point of view, a person cannot consciously see that their personal perspectives are clogging what society wants them to see, or what they in essence should see.  These “clogged” viewpoints can be made because of the conditions of economical and political requirements on society. Postmodernists rely on the fact that social pressures and even individual pressures restrain a person.  Whether that restraint is merely because the person won’t “open their eyes” or if they can’t open their eyes, is what postmodernists are trying to figure out. Some see what postmodernists are saying and think they are reaching too far.  Whatever viewpoint you stand on, it doesn’t really matter, because it should always be correct.  An engineer and architect can strive to succeed by avoiding obstacles that are inherent, however, they cannot believe that their “individual” perspective or even social discipline will make them correct. A person most be correct, whatever the circumstances.  

III.            After doing this imitation exercise, I realized that voice is much more complicated than I originally thought it was.  At first I argued that no matter what a writer is writing about, there is a voice behind it.  I still believe that to be true, but now the term “voice” seems more complicated.  After putting my own voice into the passage above, I think that my voice somewhat altered what Frankfurt was trying to get across. My interpretation of Frankfurt’s ideas isn’t necessarily other’s interpretations of his work.  When I read and someone else reads the same piece, we get different interpretations.  So will my interpretation change the meaning for other people?

            Voice isn’t supposed to make a piece of writing confusing it is supposed to provide enough personal viewpoint matched with fact to make a piece have more clarity.  After I did the imitation however, I only felt that I confused Frankfurt’s words rather than made them clearer.  In my mind I felt that I didn’t fully understand everything that Frankfurt was saying, so I tried to move past certain concepts and ideas that obviously were vital to what he was saying, but I didn’t bother covering them.  More than that, I think that it was his vocabulary versus my vocabulary that completely threw me off and might have changed the text.  That right there can alter and mess up what an author is trying to say. 

            Obviously a writer’s opinion and thought is going to only be theirs.  Not all authors have to believe that, according to Frankfurt, an individualistic view taken on their writing is bad.  Maybe they want their work to be “inside the box.”  A person can choose to take what the writer is saying, and by putting their voice into it, make it their own.  This is another instance where the term voice gets confusing.  If a person is imitating another’s writing, then the original author’s point of view and voice are already attached to the piece.  Now if someone like me comes along and interprets their writing to make it my own with a twist of my own voice, is it possible to have multiple uses of voice in one piece of writing?  Can a person put their own stylistic twists of voice on TOP of another author’s writing, where that author has already established their voice?

            Without knowing what Frankfurt, or any author for that matter, had in mind while writing, a future imitator of their writing will never know if the meanings will get tangled and a new meaning will arise.  But in reality, I guess that is what is supposed to happen: take little bits of others writing, in their voice, and write your own work, in your own voice.  The mixture of stylistic uses of voice will formulate new ideas, new opinions.  Isn’t that what it’s all about anyways? After doing all of this imitation and uncovering what voice actually does to a piece of writing, a writer must take others ideas and imitate them to find your own voice.  You find your voice through others. 

Contact Zones vs. Academy

            In Mary Louise Pratt’s Arts of the Contact Zone, she explores the concept of literacy through different ideas of understanding.  Pratt first brings up the idea of the Contact Zone.  This term “refers to social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power, such as colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths as they lived out in many parts of the world today.”  Guaman Poma wrote an 800-page letter to King Phillip III in the year 1613.  Academics are puzzled by this because they don’t know how long ago people where able to read and write.  Most of what is found from ancient rhetoric isn’t words on a page they are art on walls.  

            Autoethnographic text (the “text in which people undertake to describe themselves in ways that engage with representations others have made of them), define the language barriers between different societies.  These barriers can be overcome by providing different kinds of literature for different “communities.”  This text can either be in word form for the literate, or in art form for the non-literate.  Both forms of text can have the same meaning, just different interpretations.  The issue that I can see with these different forms of text is what if the person looking at the art doesn’t understand the meanings of the “sword” or the “height measures?”  Then does everyone have to resort to being literate and reading to understand the Inca or really any culture?  Guaman Poma’s work is said to be the work definitely of a contact zone.  He includes the written text in his letter to King Phillip III, but also images representing what are happening throughout their culture.   

            Pratt looks further into different “communities.”  These communities are closely related to Bizzell’s discourse communities.  “The idea of the contact zone is intended in part to contrast with ideas of community that underlie much of the thinking about language, communication, and culture that gets done in the academy.”  To me, it seems that rather than bring this “contact zone” farther away from the academy, Pratt is identifying closely with how the academy understands different forms of written text.  Speech communities were the oral part of communication.  Imagined communities were communities in which a society knew others existed, but never came into contact with them.  Would this really be a community then?  I believe that the teacher in the classroom of either the academy or on the streets of common knowledge get to decide that.  They can form their own image of what makes academics work the best through literacy or art, but the person teaching others gets to decide that.  Hopefully the teacher is correct in what they are saying and puts cultural and linguistic ideas out there for their student to grasp onto.  As a society, we can only hope!!     

Creatively Academic

Manuel Puig once said, “What's better, a poetic intuition or an intellectual work? I think they complement each other.”

Learn the rules; follow the rules; break the rules.  This seems to be the format in which all individuals are taught to write.  As the student’s writing matures, some writers continue the David Bartholomae route of their writing life on the structured paper; a thesis, 1^st paragraph, explanation, 2^nd paragraph, explanation, and so on and so on.  This is exactly how my academic writing started.  When I was in about 3^rd grade, my teacher gave me a sheet that had a compete outline of how to write a “good” paper.  At the top of the paper was a text box for the thesis statement.  Next text box down was for the introduction paragraph.  From the introduction it moved into the 1^st meaningful paragraph, followed by an explanatory text box.  Time those boxes by 3.  The very last text box was for my conclusion.  Up until my junior year in high school, the “structured, good paper” was how I wrote. 

            In my junior year of high school, I took a creative writing class.  I loved the idea of poems and this so called “freewriting”, but not once in my earlier Language Arts classes did I do such a thing.  On my first day of class my teacher, Mrs. Goldberg, told us that we were going to write the Elbow way. She put on music and said, “Write.” I had NO idea what she meant by that!  Who was Elbow?  What was his style?  Was I supposed to write the 8-paragraph structure that I had become accustomed to, or was I supposed to write anything that popped into my brain?  That was the first time I became acquainted with Peter Elbow and his technique of freewriting. 

            Just like the inner conflict that I had between my academic writing and my freewriting, there is an outward conflict that stands.  This is the conflict between the writer and the academic.  Can you be a writer and an academic at the same time?  What does it take to get there?  Is the reader going to understand the work of the writer?  Peter Elbow explains in Being a Writer vs. being an Academic that the conflict happens in the classroom.  “Sometimes I’ve felt a conflict about what we should read in the first year writing course.  It would seem as though in order to help the students seeing themselves as academics I should get them to read “key texts”: good published writing, important works of cultural or literary significance; strong and important works.  However if I want them to see themselves as writers, we should primarily publish and read their own writing” (Writer/Academic, 73).  Most writers believe that there is a thick line between the work of a “great” and the work of a college age student, but I believe there is a thin line; different kinds of writing work together.  I think that by reading the work of the so-called “greats”, you get a voice of your own.  This voice shows in any type of writing you do, whether it be academic or creative.  No matter if you write a biography on Jane Austen or what happened in your life yesterday, the piece is still your thoughts, your words.  Bartholomae states, “As I think about how to write, I know that my work will always begin with other people.  I work with other people’s words, even as I do my own work; other writers make my work possible…” (Against Grain, 19).   There would be no such thing as academic writing or creative writing if the two weren’t mixed together.

            The problem that I find with all of this is the way Elbow and Bartholomae agree to disagree.  They agree on the fact that when someone writes, their words are a mixture of everyone’s writing made into their own and that there is a difference between a pure academic writer and a semi-narcissistic creative writer.  They disagree on which form is better for the classroom.  Elbow believes that the “teacherless” freewriting creative classroom is the way an English class should run, and Bartholomae believes that the academic must have structure in writing in order for the reader to comprehend the work.  I agree with bits and pieces of both of them.  I agree with Elbow that the “teacherless” classroom will enhance the writing of the student, whether it is creative writing or academia.  When a teacher puts their writing out on the line for their students to critique and maybe criticize, it helps the student know that teachers are also struggling to find their own “nitch”.  I also agree with Bartholomae in his reasoning about when an audience is presented with written work, the structure of the paper helps the reader get through it easier.  My question to both of them is why can’t you have structured creative writing?  Yes, freewriting is a good way to get the mind flowing, but freewriting doesn’t follow a certain format, and thus is when you’ve lost the audience.  With structured writing slipped into creative writing, there is voice with a direction and purpose. 

            Learn the rules; follow the rules; break the rules.  A student must start with Bartholomae’s structured academia before they can write creatively, just like a bird has to grow in the nest a bit before it can learn to fly.   It is when the writing matures that flight occurs, and then the Elbows of the world throw in their form of academic discourse.  When the bird is finally on its own, it can then take both the Bartholomae structure and the Elbow freedom to write in way that I call good writing.  

            I feel a bit of nostalgia when I think about that creative writing class and what it did for my writing career.  It made me take my structured Bartholomae style of writing and USE it to think creatively while freewriting.  I believe that being an academic and a creative writer go hand in hand.  Find your voice and follow a direction, and you’ll never go wrong.

Blank White Walls

            In Mitch Albom’s book For One More Day, the main character tells a story of his life with his mother and father.  Growing up, his father told him that he could either choose to be a mama’s boy or a daddy’s boy, but not both.  He ends up choosing to be a daddy’s boy, but then due to unfortunate circumstances, is forced to become a mama’s boy.  I am not sure I completely agree with that.  My mom and I definitely get along very well, especially the older I get.  We do all the fun girly stuff such as shopping, getting our nails done, and having lunches on my afternoons off.  I couldn’t imagine my life without her, through good times and bad.  However,  for most of my life, and still today, some could call me a Daddy’s Girl.

              We have always been really close and it has been very hard for him to ever get mad at me.  Actually, I can only remember one time that he ever spanked me.  We have a relationship that is one of a kind in my opinion.  I never have a problem telling him about my life, whether it’s about my car being hit by a hit and run driver or about having a crush on a boy.  From hanging up pictures in my house to fixing my disposal to mowing my lawn, my dad is always eager to help me out.  And somehow, I always end up finding multiple dollar bills hidden somewhere noticeable that I will find after he leaves.  He’s always there for me 100 percent, and I think our relationship grows better every day.

* * *

            When I say that I don’t like hospitals, I really actually mean it.  I’m not another person whose ninety-year-old Grandma died of old age in the hospital.  I’m not the girl who’s had numerous injuries that landed me in the hospital for dumb reasons.  No.  When I say I don’t like hospitals, it is for a much deeper reason; a lot has to do with those damn white walls.

            It was one of those days you could never forget, not even if you tried your absolute hardest.  The smell of the hallway was a mixture of Clorox and ammonia.  The walls were completely white, silence ringing all the way down the stretch.  The floor was lonely, only getting used once in a while by people moving very rapidly.  All the doors were closed, with the name plates protruding words from the dictionary that my thirteen year-old vocabulary had yet to include.  I walked slowly down the hallway, back to the boring white room where my mom sat. 

            That day had already been a day of hell.  My older brother had just turned fifteen, and we all know what that means…. driving permit.  That morning he was itching to get his permit, so my mom drove Tom (my brother) and me to the Motor Vehicle Department.  I had a mixture of emotions.  Yes, it would be awesome eventually for my older brother to be cool and drive me around without my parents being in the same car, but that day, the thought of Tom driving scared the shenanigans out of me!  However, I had to get used to it very quickly.  Smile. Take picture. Print out white temporary permit.  In the blue van we go with Tom in the driver’s seat.  I’m not actually sure how I lived that day because I don’t remember breathing all the way from the Motor Vehicle Department to Longmont United Hospital.  Against whatever thoughts I had about not getting to the hospital safely, I was soon there, dreading the rest of the day ahead. 

            I walked through the door into the white room where my mom sat.  Magazines were scattered on the table next to me, but all I could think about was where my daddy was, and what was happening to him.  I watched the television blankly; I wondered why I was sitting in this room and what kind of news I was going to find out in that blank, white little room with the magazines. 

* * *

            Long before I was born in the 1970’s, my dad decided to go to New York City and get a tattoo.  Being the A-personality he was (and still is!), lines were not his thing.  Instead of staying with his friends at the local tattoo parlor that they had decided on, he went to another parlor down the road.  A magnificent lion on his upper left arm was produced that day.  It wasn’t until about thirty years later in 1997 that doctors found out that hepatitis C was running through his blood veins.  His treatments for hepatitis C began in 2001 and ended in early 2002.  The combination therapy for hepatitis C has a side effect of compromising your immune system.  It did exactly that to my dads’. In November 2002, after being ill from taking a trip to his hometown of Newington, Connecticut, he developed pnenmonia.  It took one afternoon doctor’s visit to land him in the hospital.  The pneumonia was un-treatable, other than by having a massive lung operation called a thorocodomy. 

* * *

            After what felt like an eternity, the doctors came and got our family.  Through the winding white halls we walked and walked and walked.  Peering into rooms as I walked through the halls, I saw generations of people lying in the beds.  I wondered what each of them was in there for.  Cancer?  Old age?  A concussion?  Epilepsy?  Scenario after scenario ran through my head all the way to the ICU.  What an incredible pun: ICU.  So literal.  Coming upon the door that the doctors had pointed out as the room where my dad was at, I decided to hold back a little bit and let my mom and brother go in first.  I could feel my heartbeat speed up and my breathing get more difficult.  I felt like soon I was going to be in a bed in the ICU.  After a minute or so, I walked in. 

            There, in the bed, was not my happy smiling daddy driving me to school every day or buying me coffee at Starbucks.  He wasn’t the daddy that left my home the morning of his doctor’s appointment.  He wasn’t the daddy I remembered or wanted to ever see.  He was a daddy in pain; tubes seemed to overtake his entire body like an octopus eating its prey.  His face was as pale as the blank white walls which surrounded him.  Why couldn’t they color the walls??  Tears fell as fast from my eyes as rain in a hurricane.  I couldn’t breathe anymore; which was apparently becoming a pattern for the day.  My mind went still for a moment.  Then, after a couple moments, I finally got a “Hi” out.  I went over and saw him, wishing we were getting coffee at Starbucks or eating breakfast before school.  He told me that everything was going to be okay.  The lung surgery had gone well.  They had peeled the built up tissue off like you would peel an orange, so now he could breathe much better.  At least one of us was breathing easy…..

            For the next fourteen days, my dad was in the hospital recovering.  On Thanksgiving Day 2002, my mom, brother and I brought over a Butter braid for breakfast in the morning.  We stayed all day watching movies and having good conversations.  For Thanksgiving dinner, we ate the hospital turkey dinner.  Believe it or not, it was actually extremely good! But no matter how good the food was or how beautiful the room that he was in was, all I wanted was for him to be home in Loveland, sitting in his comfy chair in the basement living room. 

            On one night during those fourteen days, I wanted to keep my daddy company, so I spent the night on the pull out couch.  I didn’t want him sleeping all alone in that blank white room.  Apparently, during the night, multiple doctors and technicians had come in and weighed him, given him drugs, and done multiple tests.  I slept through it all.  I guess you could say I was just there for the moral support!  After those long, draining fourteen days of recovery in the hospital, my dad was able to come home to his comfy chair in the basement living room.  The day he came home was the day I started breathing again.

* * *

            It is almost November 2008, approximately six years later.  Not a Thanksgiving goes by that I don’t give extreme thanks for that Thanksgiving Day in 2002.  I give thanks for the incredible family I have, and the strong amazing dad that God blessed me with.  I think God made my dad an example of excellence, to show me that even  through trial and error, everything will be okay and remember to breathe.  He still battles Hepatitis C every moment of his life, and until God grants the world with a cure, he will still be battling.  As much as people think that I worry about him, and I do, I remember that Thanksgiving in November 2002 and how that moment in the ICU changed my life.  I know that whatever happens in my daddy’s life is what God wants, and He will do what’s right.  As for now, I’ll just worry about what coffee I’m going to get at Starbucks and what pictures need to be hung on my wall next.  Why worry about what may never happen?  Just breathe.   

Blank White Walls

In Mitch Albom’s book For One More Day, the main character tells a story of his life with his mother and father.  Growing up, his father told him that he could either choose to be a mama’s boy or a daddy’s boy, but not both.  He ends up choosing to be a daddy’s boy, but then due to unfortunate circumstances, is forced to become a mama’s boy.  I am not sure I completely agree with that.  My mom and I definitely get along very well; especially the older I get.  We do all the fun girly stuff like shopping, getting our nails done, and having lunches on my afternoons off.  I couldn’t imagine my life without her, through good times and bad.  However, most of my life, and still today, some could call me a Daddy’s Girl.  We have always been really close and it has been very hard for him to ever get mad at me.  Actually, I can only remember one time that I ever got spanked by him.  We have a relationship that is one-of-a-kind in my opinion.  I never have a problem telling him about my life, whether it’s getting my car hit by a hit and run driver or having a crush on a boy.  From hanging up pictures in my house to fixing my disposal to mowing my lawn, my dad is always eager to help me out.  And somehow, I always end up finding multiple dollar bills hidden somewhere noticeable that I will find after he leaves.  He’s always there for me 100%, and I think our relationship grows better everyday.

* * *

            When I say that I don’t like hospitals, I really actually mean it.  I’m not another person whose ninety year old Grandma died of old age in the hospital.  I’m not the girl who’s had numerous injuries that landed me in the hospital for dumb reasons.  No.  When I say I don’t like hospitals, it is for a much deeper reason; a lot has to do with those damn white walls.

            It was one of those days you could never forget, not even if you tried your absolute hardest.  The smell of the hallway was a mixture between Clorox and ammonia.  The walls were completely white; silence ringing all the way down the stretch.  The floor was lonely, only getting used once in a while by people moving very rapidly.  All the doors were closed, with the name plates protruding words from the dictionary that my thirteen year-old vocabulary had yet to become acquainted with.  I walked slowly down the hallway, back to the boring white room where my mom sat. 

            That day had already been a day of Hell.  My older brother had just turned fifteen, and we all know what that means…. driving permit.  That morning he was itching to get his permit, so my mom drove Tom (my brother) and me to the Motor Vehicle Department.  I had a mixture of emotion.  Yes, it would be awesome EVENTUALLY for my older brother to be cool and drive me around without my parents being in the same car, but that day, the thought of Tom driving scared the shenanigans out of me!  However, I had to get used to it very quickly.  Smile. Take picture. Print out white temporary permit.  In the blue van we go with Tom in the driver’s seat.  I’m not actually sure how I lived that day because I don’t remember breathing all the way from the Motor Vehicle Department to Longmont United Hospital.  Against whatever thoughts I had about not getting to the hospital safely, I was soon there, dreading the rest of the day ahead. 

            I walked through the door into the white room where my mom sat.  Magazines were scattered on the table next to me, but all I could think about was where my daddy was, and what was happening to him.  I watched the television blankly; thoughts about why I was sitting in this room and what kind of news I was going to find out in that blank, white little room with the magazines. 

* * *

            Maybe a little bit of background would help this story out.  Far before I was born in the 1970’s, my dad decided to go to New York City and get a tattoo.  Being the A-personality he was (and still is!), lines were not his thing.  Instead of staying with his friends at the local tattoo parlor that they had decided on, he went to another parlor down the road.  A magnificent lion on his upper left arm was produced that day.  It wasn’t until about thirty years later in 1997 that doctors found out that Hepatitis C was running through his blood veins.  His treatments for Hepatitis C began in 2001 and ended in early 2002.  The combination therapy for Hepatitis C has a side effect of compromising your immune system.  It did exactly that to my dads. In November 2002, after being ill from taking a trip to his hometown of Newington, Connecticut, he developed phenomena.  It took one afternoon doctor’s visit to land him in the hospital.  The pneumonia was un-treatable, other than by having a massive lung operation called a thorocodomy. 

* * *

            After what felt like an eternity, the doctors came and got our family.  Through the winding white halls we walked and walked and walked.  Peering into rooms as I walked through the halls, I saw generations of people lying in the beds.  I wondered what each of them was in there for.  Cancer?  Old age?  A concussion?  Epilepsy?  Scenario after scenario ran through my head all the way to the ICU.  What an incredible pun: ICU; so literal.  Coming upon the door that the doctors had pointed out as the room where my dad was at, I decided to hold back a little bit and let my mom and brother go in first.  I could feel my heartbeat speed up and my breathing get more difficult.  I felt like soon I was going to be in a bed in the ICU.  After a minute or so, I walked in.  There, in the bed, was not my happy smiling daddy driving me to school everyday or buying me coffee at Starbucks.  He wasn’t my daddy that left my home the morning of his doctor’s appointment.  He wasn’t the daddy I remembered or wanted to ever see.  He was a daddy in pain; tubes seemed to overtake his entire body like an octopus eating its prey.  His face was as pale as the blank white walls which surrounded him.  Why couldn’t they color the damn walls??  Tears fell as fast from my eyes as rain in a hurricane.  I couldn’t breathe anymore; which was apparently becoming a pattern for the day.  My mind went still for a moment.  Then, after a couple moments, I finally got a “Hi” out.  I went over and saw him, wishing we were getting coffee at Starbucks or eating breakfast before school.  He told me that everything was going to be okay.  The lung surgery had gone well.  They had peeled the built up tissue off like an orange, so now he could breathe much better.  At least that made one of us breathing easy…..

            For the next fourteen days, my dad was in the hospital recovering.  On Thanksgiving Day 2002, my mom, brother and I brought over a Butter braid for breakfast in the morning.  We stayed all day watching movies and having good conversations.  For Thanksgiving dinner, we ate the hospital turkey dinner.  Believe it or not, it was actually extremely good! But no matter how good the food was or how beautiful the room that he was in was, all I wanted was for him to be home in Loveland, sitting in his comfy chair in the basement living room.  On one night during those fourteen days, I wanted to keep my daddy company, so I spent the night on the pull out couch.  I didn’t want him sleeping all alone in that blank white room.  Apparently, during the night, multiple doctors and technicians had come in and weighed him, given him drugs, and done multiple tests.  I slept through it all.  I guess you could say I was just there for the moral support!  After those long draining fourteen days of recovery in the hospital, my dad was able to come home to his comfy chair in the basement living room.  The day he came home was the day I started breathing again. 

            It is almost November 2008, approximately six years later.  Not a Thanksgiving goes by that I don’t give extreme thanks for that Thanksgiving Day in 2002.  I give thanks for the incredible family I have, and the strong amazing dad that God blessed me with.  I think God made my dad an example of excellence; to show me that through trial and error, everything will be okay and remember to breathe.  He still battles Hepatitis C every moment of his life, and until God grants the world with a cure, he will still be battling.  As much as people think that I worry about him, and I do, I remember that Thanksgiving in November 2002 and how that moment in the ICU changed my life.  I know that whatever happens in my daddy’s life is what God wants, and He will do what’s right.  As for now, I’ll just worry about what coffee I’m going to get at Starbucks and what pictures need to be hung on my wall next.  Why worry about what may never happen?  Just breathe.   

To Imitate or Not to Imitate

            In A Journal of the History of Rhetoric, Rhetorica, John Muckelbauer explores through evidence and other people analysis on “should we or should we not imitate?” and whom should we imitate?”  Muckelbauer believes that “it is not at all intuitive to link imitation and invention” together.  Others like Frank M. Farmer and Philip K. Arrignton believe that “imitation itself is caught up in the very logic of appearances that structures this opposition.”  Those appearances are shown in Nietzsche’s belief that God’s death doesn’t mean that God is over and done with.  However, if is God is over and done with, is a shadow is still shown? Muckelbauer says “shadows that are imitations of imitation.”  If people believe that imitation is dead, and we shouldn’t imitate other writers, or that imitating other authors isn’t even possible, is that shadow still there?

            Writers argue whether or not the shadow of imitation is only accounted for in the world of classical writing or in all writing done.  Edward P.J. Corbett summarizes three meanings of the word mimesis: “1) the Platonic notion of an image-making faculty which produces extensions of ideal truth in the phenomenal world, 2) the Aristotelian notion of the representation of human actions, and 3) the rhetorical notion of copying, aping, simulating, emulating models.”  Authors and rhetoricians believe that by dividing up these three summaries of mimesis, one can devise between imitation of the actual world and imitation of the ancient rhetoric. 

            All authors seem to agree to disagree whether or not imitation has been long gone and isn’t even in the world of rhetoric any longer.  While some believe that imitation is dead and can no longer be attained, others believe that there is definitely imitation, evidenced by “three basic components: a model (the subject of imitation), a copy (the product of imitation) and “some relation of likeness that obtains between them.”” Some argue that these three components can be bundled into a single component called repetition.  Repetition is where one author says one idea, and is repeated either word for word, or differently worded by other authors.  No matter what order the words come in, they are still the same words.  Some call this variation, so are repetition, variation, and imitation all the same thing? Some authors say yes, and some authors say no.

            Muckelbauer says everything that needs to be said about imitation in his last sentence: “Nevertheless, we can be certain that as long as imitative practices continue to be approached by emphasizing the type of model rather than by attending to the movement through which that model is encountered, the classical links between imitation and invention, and between repetition and variation, will remain as mystifying as they appear today.”  So, through all authors analysis of imitation, the question of “Should we or should we not imitate?” still thumps along……