A Blog about a Blog

“Today, we served spaghetti with meatballs. Lauren may have choked a little bit when eating a meatball but she’s fine now. As for the dinner, it was actually really good. I’ll have to remember to use homegrown tomatoes for the sauce.” If my mother had a blog, that’s definitely something I could picture my mother blogging about. Me? Sure, why not? My whole family could blog about me if they wanted. There’s a running joke in my family that we deserve our own reality show since we are always busy and usually get caught up in some ridiculous situations.

For example, there was one evening where we challenged each other to recite the Star Spangled Banner and my sister and I kept messing up at one line. So, as a family, we sang the entire national anthem until we fixed the mistake. There was no particular reason we needed to do this, but we did it anyway and I feel like that would be an awesome story to blog about (especially if you’re feeling really patriotic).

Or, another story better told from my parent’s perspective, the time when my sister and I visited an alligator farm in St. Augustine, My sister and I had seen plenty of alligators before then (since we lived next to Okefenokee Swamp) so the trip wasn’t anything too special. What we didn’t know, however, was that my father was helping Dr. Kent Vliet (world renowned crocodilian) run some tests on the alligators. As my mother guided us to the alligator viewing area, we spotted my father and a bunch of other people standing in the murky waters below. Just as we walked up, one of guys launched on top of an alligator and began wrapping its mouth duct tape. At the same time, another man jumped on its tail and held it down. After someone gave the alligator a shot, my father stepped up and did something I’d rather not type.

“What’s he doing, mommy?” I turned to my mother whose mouth was wide open in shock. I looked back at the battle below, confused. “Um, well...your father is helping a very important doctor with some tests.”

“What type of tests?”

Well, er, right now they’re checking the gender of each alligator in the swamp.”

My brain finally made the connection.

“oh...OH!” I quickly looked away from the scene below.

“What does that mean?” My innocent sister asked.

“Um, no. Maybe another day.”

My mother quickly escorted us away from the alligators and never quite explained what had just happened until a couple years later.

All I’m trying to say is that having my family write a blog about my life and all the stories we’ve collected as a family wouldn’t be a bad thing. In fact, I would love to hear my mother’s perspective during the alligator farm incident. Heck, I’m sure my father’s side of the story was equally exciting. The key thing about this hypothetical blog is that we wouldn’t forget. These memories would be remembered and easy to access. Even the incidents that weren’t quite so happy, we could look back and learn from our mistakes or simply reminisce about past times. So, if my family started a blog about me, I would embrace it. Plus, they’d have at least one reader for life.

The One That Burned

Feedback: I'm at 654 words so I will take any suggestions for cutting it down. Also, please tell me if this essay includes enough vulnerability and needs help with the conclusion.

What objects tell the story of your life?

There is one thing, and one thing only, that has been a part of my life like nothing else. I’m speaking, of course, about my robe. Its sky blue cloth dotted with white circles to make a simple but elegant design. Its fuzziness which keeps me warm in the midst of winter. This robe has been with me for a long time, and contains many stories within its fabric.

It all began one Christmas morning seven years ago. My sister and I were in the midst of a fierce battle. Wrapping paper was flying through the air, our cats were attacking whatever landed on the floor, and the gifts lay scattered across the floor when I made a discovery. Tucked underneath the tree, was a rather large box that had escaped my gift opening frenzy. I was curious as to what it could be since it was bigger than the rest of my presents but it weighed very little. As I unwrapped the gift, my heart sank. Lying inside was every kid’s least favorite present, clothes. In this case, a ginormous robe that dragged across the floor and barely clung to my body.

Naturally, the robe was thrown into the back of my closet and forgotten. It wasn’t until seventh grade when I rediscovered the robe and found that I could actually wear it without it dragging everywhere. Unaccustomed to the Illinois winters, since I had moved from Georgia only one year before, the robe quickly became an important part of my daily life. Everyday, I would wake up, put my robe on, and get ready for school. Only when it was absolutely necessary, I would take off the robe and lose its warmth.

As I moved on from the awkward pre-teen years, the robe stayed with me. Since it was already too big, I didn’t have to worry about outgrowing it, but I was constantly lugging it around and dropping it. As a result of dragging my robe around everywhere, the tail end of the robe became very dirty. Not in the sense that it was covered in stains and smelled, but rather its color began to diminish. Not only was the vibrant blue beginning to disappear and turned a more robin egg color (imagine light blue except mixed with gray), but the sleeves were gradually fraying and falling apart. Five years after the robe had entered my life, it was preparing to leave. But, I refused to bow to time. I repaired the sleeves as best I could and cleaned it as much as possible (although it didn’t make too much of a difference) and it actually seemed to be returning to its former glory. The robe was going to make it! Then, tragedy struck.

During my sophomore year, I was in the kitchen cooking dinner (something that does not occur often) when I noticed something peculiar. There was smoke rising from somewhere but I couldn’t find the source. I checked the stove, the oven, even the sink but couldn’t find it. Suddenly, it disappeared. I shrugged and continued cooking. Then, my sister came in and said, “Oh my god! What happened to your robe?” Apparently, without even knowing it, I had caught myself on fire. The robe had suffered from some serious smoke stains on its back and its rope that tied it together was almost burnt in half. Luckily, nothing serious happened but I knew the robe wasn’t going to recover from this.

As of now, I still have the robe. Sure, it might be a little ragged but it holds up. Every day, my mother complains that I should just “get rid of the robe and buy a new one.” But, this robe represents so much more to me. Its fabric contains so many stories and helps me relax in times of stress. This robe may be on its last leg but it will forever remain in my heart.

Bob and Braces

Have you ever felt embarrassed by the things that you used to like?

Yes, it would be impossible to say I haven’t had my fair share of embarrassments and regrets in my life. For example, back in the day, I had a penchant for ripping off my clothes and running around in my birthday suit. Sometimes, I’d dig out a big, fluffy tutu and wear that around my waist but refuse to put on anything else. No shirt, no pants, and no underwear. Of course, I was only four or five so my behavior makes a little more sense, but it’s only natural to feel a little embarrassed by my war against society’s restrictions. Yet, I feel a certain pride in my old wild spirit. She didn’t care and did what she wanted with no regrets. But, that could last for only so long. In a couple years time, I would make one of the worst decisions of my life.

It was 2010. My family had just moved from hot and humid Southeast Georgia to flat and dry central Illinois. On top of that, my once bright, fine hair was beginning to darken to a dirty blonde. Least to say, I was not happy. While I was able to handle the transition well enough, the fact that I was losing my natural hair color was astonishing. There was a now a distinct line across my head; it was a fight between the light and the dark. To understand my next move, you must understand that at the time, I hated hairstyles that blended multiple colors. There was something about dipping your hair in dye and being stuck with a new color that simultaneously terrified and angered me. Despite its usefulness in this situation, dye was just not an option. As a result, this ongoing battle between my bright blonde and dirty blonde hair was hard for me to deal with. I had to figure out a way to fix it without coloring my hair. Then, I came to a terrible decision. I was going to chop it off.

At the time, bobs were the fashion of sixth grade society. A bob, in case you don’t know, is a hairstyle that is really short in the back and gets longer as you near the face. And, I knew I wanted one. Once I got to the salon and told everyone my idea, they tried to talk me out of it, but I refused to listen to reason. No, even better, I decided to get a bob that would not only chop off my blonde but ride just along my jaw for extra style. However, what I was imagining was not what happened in reality. My hair, normally straight and fine, poofed out to the side and rose higher than my jawline so that it was more around mid-cheek. In addition, my head looked ginormous within the confines of this tiny haircut. Yet I had convinced myself that this was the right decision, and that I looked amazing.

For those in disbelief, I present "the haircut"
and my fabulous sister, Gabby.

I strutted out of that salon with a sense of superiority. My new haircut demonstrated my professional skill (since I had the “sharp jawline” look) and built up my confidence in making decisions. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after the haircut that I created the worst combo in the history of middle school -- bob and braces. With my teeth trapped in a metal cage and my hair falling slightly past my ears, seventh grade was especially brutal. While I never made the connection between that awful haircut and its effect on my social life, I realize now that that bob was a terrible mistake. Even today, I very rarely show anyone pictures from that time period. The embarrassment is just too much. If there’s one thing I could say to twelve year old Lauren, it would be to just consider dye and don’t trust yourself with scissors.

The Mezzanine Trailer

Here's our creative project for the semester!

Directors/Editors: Maddie Nelson and Lauren Monahan

Actor: Andrew Stelzer*

The video couldn't fit so I'm posting the youtube link.

https://youtu.be/L8gOrD0uzCM

Enjoy!

*In the video, we accidentally spelled it Steltzer. Sorry for the confusion.

And IIIII Will Always Love Youuu

*NOTICE: I started this blog with a clear idea in mind but it kind of switches by the end. This may or may not have been influenced by my intent to include song lyrics.*

What is love (baby don’t hurt me)? According to Hagar, it is her relationship with Milkman. Her love for Milkman is so all consuming that she can’t imagine living without him, and when he decides to leave her, she refuses to accept it. Hagar’s attempts to kill him is to prevent him from leaving her and ruining her chance at love. This bad romance (Rah rah ah-ah-ah!) is certainly inspired by Milkman’s poor decisions, but I think there’s more to Hagar’s love that makes this whole relationship more complex.

At first, Hagar is the one with control over Milkman. When that control is gone, she becomes dependent on Milkman. Especially considering the times and the common standard that women should marry young, it is easy to understand why Hagar places so much importance on Milkman. Yet, we already know Milkman is incapable of recognizing this due to his selfish nature and inability to empathize with other people. It seems Hagar might remain a single lady (so you better put a ring on it) forever. While her violent reaction to this is definitely not okay, her inability to actually kill Milkman suggests that Hagar is almost incapable of killing him due to her love for him.

Personally, I don’t find Hagar a sympathetic character. Trying to kill someone for breaking up with you is just outrageous but I can see why some might find her in that light. Yes, Milkman is dumb. There’s no getting around that, but Hagar has the potential to be strong. Yet, somehow she has transformed her love into this all consuming thing that is entirely selfish and doesn’t actually help her. There’s no way this relationship is going to work out well in the end and it will only lead to someone’s death. Instead, she should focus on getting her own sexy back (take him to the bridge) and move on.

Anyway, going back to the complexity of this relationship, the love Hagar has for Milkman is definite. It’s something that is directly tied between Hagar and Milkman. Meanwhile, if we examine Ruth and Milkman, there is a distinct difference in their relationship. While there is definitely selfish intent in Ruth’s love for Milkman, she loves him more for what he represents. To her, Milkman is a symbol for power over her husband and the last time she experienced passion. This contrasts sharply with Hagar’s love in the sense that Ruth only cares for the idea of Milkman. You could argue whether she actually loves Milkman the person but I won’t go into that. What’s more important is the common theme between Ruth and Hagar is that both love Milkman so much that it distracts them from focusing on themselves. At this point, there are only two options: Milkman mans up and works it out with both women OR Hagar and Ruth can be like N’Snyc and say “Bye, bye, bye”.

Extra Credit: The Man Who Wasn't There

Recently, I watched the Coen Brother's The Man Who Wasn't There and I must say that Ed Crane shares a remarkable amount of similarities with Meursault in The Stranger. In the first five minutes of the film, there is already a substantial amount of evidence that allows me to make such a claim.

1. Ed’s job as a barber was never a conscious decision that Ed made. It was more he married into it and just never bothered to seek out something he enjoys. Like Meursault, there isn’t any attachment to what he does with his life.
2. Furthermore, when he describes his job, he compares himself to his talkative brother-in-law and states that he prefers to just cut the hair without much chit chat. In The Stranger, Meursault never goes out of his way to say more than what needs to be said. The way the dialogue is written almost parallels the same way Ed speaks.
3. The way Ed describes his home is very similar to Meursault’s description of his apartment. Both talk about the small things they like about their living spaces but never explicitly state their love for the place or whether they’d prefer to live elsewhere. They both seem content to just have a place that provides a bed and a roof over their head.

Later in the film, excluding all the weird parts like the UFO and Ed's relationship with Birdy, there are several parallels between the end of the film compared to The Stranger.

1. One of the final scenes, there is a moment that strikes as very familiar and that is the last intervention with the priest and Ed. It’s a very short clip but I couldn’t help but remember Meursault’s last conversation with the priest.
2. The accident with Scarlett Johansson (I know it’s Birdy but I only see her as Scarlett) is another important scene which can be easily translated into The Stranger. Specifically, the scene with Meursault and when he murders the Arab. In the film, Ed says time slows down which allows him to process his thoughts. Of course, immediately after the murder in the book, we don’t see Meursault's thought process but there is a pause in time when Meursault is staring down the Arab right before the murder. The gap of time between when Meursault meets the Arab and when he shoots the gun is very similar to the time after the accident in the film.

There’s plenty of other similarities between the two and I would have loved to hear what the group talked about after the movie night (especially the role of the UFO). Overall, the Coen Brothers do a remarkable job of creating a film noir and, even though they both have very distinct features, are able to capture what it means to be a "stranger" to society.

Daddy Issues

While we may be reading Song of Solomon, I think it’s time we have a little bit of a refresher on what it means to suddenly turn into a bug and eventually die alienated from your family. I’m speaking, of course, about The Metamorphosis. My research paper focused on the relationship between Gregor and the father and how it parallels Kafka’s real life relationship with his father, Hermann Kafka. Now, for a limited time only, I’ll provide a quick look into the similarities between the father in The Metamorphosis and the man that raised the author himself.

To begin with, the physical resemblance itself was a strong indicator of similarities between the father and Hermann Kafka.In the case of Hermann Kafka, he was known to be a large and overbearing businessman who even intimidated his son physically. In Kafka’s own words,

“There was I, skinny, weakly, slight; you strong, tall, broad. Even inside the hut I felt a miserable specimen, and what's more, not only in your eyes but in the eyes of the whole world, for you were for me the measure of all things.” (Letter to My Father 4)

The awe that Kafka has for his father is clearly present and you can easily find reflections of this in Kafka’s work. In addition, his work as an independent retailer and as a successful businessman allowed him to have a large amount of control over the family which further contributed to the amount of power he had over the family. His superiority over his son definitely contributed to Kafka’s later insecurities and Gregor’s role in The Metamorphosis.

Meanwhile, the father in The Metamorphosis started out as a weak individual, but once the father donned a uniform, he transformed into this big, powerful man. For instance,

“Now he was standing there in fine shape; dressed in a smart blue uniform with gold buttons, such as bank messengers wear; his strong double chin bulged over the stiff high collar of his jacket; from under his bushy eyebrows his black eyes darted fresh and penetrating glances; his onetime tangled white hair had been combed flat on either side of a shining and carefully exact parting.” (Kafka, The Metamorphosis 121)

It is clear to the readers and Gregor that this man is physically imposing and dominates the scene. Similarly, the connection between the uniform and the power of the father tells us how having a job equals power in this family dynamic. While it might be a plain job (in the book, he was bank messenger), it’s more important to realize that this job serves as a sign of status in Gregor’s eyes. The father becomes the head of the house, replacing Gregor, as a result of his role as financial provider.

From the father towering over Gregor when he enters in his uniform to the power that the father demonstrates when he is beating Gregor, the physical superiority of the father to the son is apparent in reality and in fiction.

There are many other parallels between the father and the son (both real and non real) that I would love to go into further, but I’ll have to save that for another day. If you want to know more about the father-son relationship and how it relates to Kafka, I would be glad to share it with you! For now, all we can do is reconsider Gregor’s position in the family and how much of the father was inspired by real life.

Works Cited:

1. Kafka, Franz. The Complete Stories. Ed. Nahum Norbert Glatzer. New York: Schocken, 1971. Print.
2. Kafka, Franz. Letter to My Father. Trans. Ernst Keiser and Eithne Wilkins. Ed.

DDDDDArthur S. Wensinger. N.p.: Schoken, 1931. Google Docs. Schoken

DDDDDBooks Inc. Web. 15 Nov. 2015.

<https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CK480j6khmHzAZYdR26Zu1Iu064uCo32JnESIulbFYw/preview>.