tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51209682705655068052024-03-05T22:45:54.047-08:00My Passage to IndiaRachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-50531856107529329802012-02-16T12:36:00.004-08:002012-02-16T14:20:05.865-08:00Another Project Update: The End is in Sight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FGhze8VYcf1qHo3Zh1DsXGRCL159QofpEgasQIfDm_GEJQrZCHIwxn6cG5jmxQrZUN9LLp2xBQpHU4SP8rYuSMiAqyeeYJP0RSy23Kh5ArtMPecuYF0G1RiK-k_aC_e8VutG8vWR2qg/s1600/LIGHT+AT+THE+END+OF+THE+TUNNEL+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FGhze8VYcf1qHo3Zh1DsXGRCL159QofpEgasQIfDm_GEJQrZCHIwxn6cG5jmxQrZUN9LLp2xBQpHU4SP8rYuSMiAqyeeYJP0RSy23Kh5ArtMPecuYF0G1RiK-k_aC_e8VutG8vWR2qg/s320/LIGHT+AT+THE+END+OF+THE+TUNNEL+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I am very behind updating, but here are some highlights of what is going on with <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Thesis">my honors thesis</a> and <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">eBook. </a></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span> I submitted my thesis to the Honors Department. It is not perfect, but it felt great to turn it in with my bulky portfolio of undergraduate highlights. </li>
</ul></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>I am defending my thesis on February 27<sup> </sup>at 12! My overseer is Professor David Laraway. My referee is Professor Gideon Burton, and Professor John Bennion is my honors faculty mentor.</li>
<li>I submitted “<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Om%20Mani%20Padme%20Hum">Om Mani Padme Hum</a>” to the<a href="http://mayhew.byu.edu/contest/1/"> Mayhew Essay Contest</a> here on campus. I’m not sure when I will hear back, but I feel good about the submission. I changed my ending and feel a little more comfortable with it, though I still think it is the hardest piece I have ever had to write.</li>
<li>I'm presenting this research on how digital technology can enhance cross-cultural experiences at the <a href="https://kennedy.byu.edu/events/inquiry/">2012 Inquiry Conference</a> next week. </li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol;"></span>Looking at options for publishing. Apple came out with a new self-publishing platform that is supposed to be easy to use. I need to look into this and other options. My friend Brett also started his own publishing company, so I want to compare and contrast the benefits of doing it myself or having him publish. I wasn’t planning on charging, but he would; I guess that changes things. I still have a lot to explore. I want to have this figured out by March so I can complete my project before I graduate in April.</li>
<li>I also met with Professor Scanlon, the director of the Honors Program for an exit interview. I really enjoyed having an opportunity to talk to him about what I gained from my experience with Field Studies and the Honors Program. I believe <a href="http://aims.byu.edu/">the fourth aim of a BYU Education</a>, promoting “life-long learning and service,” best describes what these two programs combined did for my undergraduate experience. If you would have told me five years ago when I was a freshman that I would have been to five continents, completed two Field Studies, presented at four conferences, published my work, helped on three undergraduate, peer-reviewed journals, volunteered to put on a conference, started writing a novel (I'm meeting with an agent in March!), established great connections with professors, interviewed for Teach for America, and had the opportunity to teach a class for a job, I would have laughed in disbelief. I want to laugh in disbelief now! I love that the Honors Program—the classroom education, as well as my thesis—helped me learn to think for myself so that I can go forth with a love for learning and a passion to serve. </li>
</ul><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">I guess the end is in sight. A light at the end of the tunnel (and I hope it is not a train). I have had a fantastic undergraduate career. I feel ready to leave, but it is so bitter sweet.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">Stay tuned to hear what I do about my defense and pending eBook!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsv_bRiPFfdccIq_ZqFSOLQ4l_l068M_lD_TxrF3FrOrCM-7cYHZZSj8mHZ8gO-9M7_6VLjLhl0AcEjF5-HSyGi2qOim4z-Bo9PZtCbA3zbk3TE6A7o-gM5mFsJGMLHOCuR7RPcILigAc/s1600/LIGHT+AT+THE+END+OF+THE+TUNNEL+1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://rosemaryl.blogspot.com/2011/09/light-at-end-of-tunnel.html&h=390&w=490&sz=12&tbnid=U3xQKykfbZNG2M:&tbnh=90&tbnw=113&zoom=1&docid=plIRvpwYvoaUcM&hl=en&sa=X&ei=rmo9T-_-CqOliQKYys2-AQ&ved=0CEUQ9QEwBA&dur=297">(Photo credit to Seeking Equilibrium) </a></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-63864562230489680462012-01-02T19:22:00.000-08:002012-01-02T19:22:05.636-08:00Update from Professor Bennion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hello!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3soQ14TLJF-s4rf_6HqqoOOdtIs27Z-Rxrm1dWOubVtyl_EGtmJ_YCHxWkARgYQz8IZ5JHLJgOxW2fQ-pbkr5EQTpnM86YU-nh9TqM5wFMHHSj21HQWZlA-31gUVZk9yTqWGIuXwrE9Q/s1600/emailIcon.gif.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3soQ14TLJF-s4rf_6HqqoOOdtIs27Z-Rxrm1dWOubVtyl_EGtmJ_YCHxWkARgYQz8IZ5JHLJgOxW2fQ-pbkr5EQTpnM86YU-nh9TqM5wFMHHSj21HQWZlA-31gUVZk9yTqWGIuXwrE9Q/s200/emailIcon.gif.png" width="190" /></a></div><br />
Well, Christmas break is over now. Time to buckle down and sprint to the end. My honors thesis is due January 16th, and I will defend it in March. Dr. Burton and I have agreed that I should have my eBook finished by the time of my defense.<br />
<br />
For now, here is an email I received from Professor Bennion, my honors faculty mentor:<br />
<br />
<i>Sorry to take so long. I had a lot to read as I left England. This is about finished. Most of my comments just deal with sentences and word clarity. I think you should spend a few hours thinking about the ending. It's good, but it can be better as you think about the trouble you've had since coming home. I don't think you need to narrate it day by day, but how seriously you've been unseated is told instead of being evoked or enacted. That's an exaggeration. but I think you could be even more precise and clear about how difficult it's been. And if you have come to a tentative peace about it, you might make more clear how difficult that was. The last essay is slightly too quick. As I said earlier, I think it's good but that it can be better. This certainly can be defended in January. </i><br />
<div><i><br />
</i> </div><i>I do also hope that you're feeling better. </i></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-61169788387721996652011-12-26T22:22:00.000-08:002011-12-26T22:30:00.243-08:00Mock Thesis Defense: Justifying Blogging When I Could Be Revising Essays<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM0sU7PdkLUqtJ-n-RlIp2PcrdORNM-kGQ1G2RMEF-0B5xy4KcANxzPQvJYko1XDtQ0i2WZjOEWwxyA3fJtyln8o5_qlcoff5Ca0K9fgOPRtUa50Noyjzkt74Ge8wBfRVy-wk4Nu3SO78/s1600/calvinhobbes.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM0sU7PdkLUqtJ-n-RlIp2PcrdORNM-kGQ1G2RMEF-0B5xy4KcANxzPQvJYko1XDtQ0i2WZjOEWwxyA3fJtyln8o5_qlcoff5Ca0K9fgOPRtUa50Noyjzkt74Ge8wBfRVy-wk4Nu3SO78/s320/calvinhobbes.gif" width="320" /></a></div>I have a serious need to repent. I intended to write this post over a week ago, but here we are. Let's be honest-I just collapsed after finals and fell off the radar. But now it is time to get back in the game, and without further delay because <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Thesis">my honors thesis</a> is due January 16th.<br />
<br />
I want to take a minute and comment on what I have learned from my mock thesis defense and from my latest post that goes over a draft of my final essay in my collection, "<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/snot-and-untold-stories.html">Snot and Untold Stories</a>." The mock thesis defense was done as a final presentation in my Thesis Writing class. Another student who acted as my representative contacted Professor Burton and received some good questions to ask me, one of which was this: <b>how do I justify spending valuable time blogging and focusing on the digital component of my thesis when I could spend that time doing much-needed revising?</b><br />
<br />
It is a good question, and after <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/me-talking-through-my-final-essay-snot.html">my latest post highlighting concerns with my essay</a> I am more equipped to answer it.<br />
<br />
Since posting <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/me-talking-through-my-final-essay-snot.html">my latest draft</a>, I have received a few great comments with invaluable feedback. While I admit I have not had as many people comment as I would have liked, the comments I did receive were incredible. <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/07/connect-featured-on-skj-travelers.html">Shara</a>, who I connected with while in India, took a good chunk of time to give me some much-needed suggestions. Had I not blogged about this draft, I would not have received that feedback. In this case, blogging has actually aided me in the traditional revision process.<br />
<br />
A second, less obvious benefit to blogging that I have discovered within the last few weeks, has been that I am held accountable to a "real" audience. Within a day after posting my essay, the German friend I met on the bus mentioned in my essay, who I renamed Charley, contacted me and mentioned he read it. My initial reaction was concern. Had I really represented him accurately? For all of my talk of authenticity, was I holding to it? The truth is I fused a little bit of a later conversation I had with a history major friend to include a few of the Vietnam details. By having <i>this </i>post I am acknowledging the fragile nature of storytelling while also being held accountable to an immediate audience. This is not available in mainstream publishing.<br />
<br />
In conclusion, while blogging and adding this digital component of my thesis can be time consuming and daunting, I am glad to have done it. At the end of the day I would rather have my ideas shared and available to read than have them be perfect. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cs.cmu.edu/%7Eterry/personal.html">(Photo credit goes to cs.cmu.edu)</a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-4106986781733318862011-12-11T14:59:00.000-08:002011-12-11T15:54:24.497-08:00Me talking through my final essay "Snot and Untold Stories."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Hi Everyone!<br />
<br />
As I'm going through the drafting process, I am in need of some solid feedback. Here is a jing video link (screen shot software) with me talking through my latest draft of "Snot and Untold Stories." The entire draft is posted below. Anyway, if you have any suggestions on the points that I raise, or additional feedback, I would appreciate it!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wlhg7pIIHnA_elTiyQSDmuWsYMppH3ofaZRNwaVQMiIYdaWvGKLBHNt9y1pYXvSi65v47nekjOhsn1y9dNVdceTZp7EZWS2FABNRSqyfziiakIGlwt8zJdgBxtEmnBipt1Vt4tXgI-I/s1600/2011-12-11_1640.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wlhg7pIIHnA_elTiyQSDmuWsYMppH3ofaZRNwaVQMiIYdaWvGKLBHNt9y1pYXvSi65v47nekjOhsn1y9dNVdceTZp7EZWS2FABNRSqyfziiakIGlwt8zJdgBxtEmnBipt1Vt4tXgI-I/s320/2011-12-11_1640.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="color: red;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://screencast.com/t/jjlzm5IvePrR">Click Here</a></b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Snot and Untold Stories</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My host grandma was a snot-flinger.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> We would sit together each evening, my Tibetan host grandma and I, on the veranda of our second story housing complex, overlooking the lush Himalayan valley in Dharamsala, India. As the sun would nestle into the horizon for the night and the stars would gradually pop out like watchful eyes in the indigo sky, savory smells of Sunam’s dinner simmering on the stove would sweep through the air. While sitting out in the open air, the culmination of the day, I would read, sometimes scribbling down some fragmented thoughts in the dimming light, trying to be a real writer, while my host grandma would fumble with a string of ivory-colored prayer beads, occasionally flinging visible amounts of mucus off the second story of the balcony in a swift motion with the back of her hand. The leftovers she smeared on the chair without shame. She was an eighty, maybe ninety-year-old woman (no one from Tibet seemed to record their birthday) with unusually large pupils, wire-like hair parted in a thick, balding line right down the middle her head, and facial features oriented not unlike a Picasso portrait.<a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> This was our routine. We would just sit in silence, of course. I spoke no Tibetan, despite taking and getting an A in the preparation class for Tibetan back in the States the semester before coming, and she spoke no English. Instead, we spoke through smiles and wild gestures like a game of charades. It was a communication barrier so blatant it felt physical sometimes, reminding me that India, like all of us really, seemed to be unfairly divided by religion and language. And yet, as disgusted as I was at first by her snot-flinging habits, a part of me just wanted to be close to her—to try, if I could, to absorb her story.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> As my three months in Dharamsala were drawing to a close, this desire became acute—not just with my host grandma, but with all of it. My entire experience itself. <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">I had seen too much this time, and I knew it.</span> But what was worse was that I didn’t understand it. I sat on the verandah, tapping my pen against my cheek, staring at my notebook, glancing up at my host grandma, and then I would clench my teeth, knowing that I was supposed to write a story. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But that story was ambiguous, becoming bigger than me, running away each time I crept up on it, almost like it was scared of being found out. But why?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Take Tibet. I had never heard of Tibet before signing up for this field study program through my university. I should feel ashamed to admit that, but I think most people my age, or maybe even most Westerners in general, haven’t. Preparing for this adventure, I got a watered down, one-sided version of the story. Communist China ruthlessly took over. No one did anything to oppose it. Some of the people, including the 14<sup>th</sup> Dalai Lama, the spiritual and political leader of Tibet, left for India in 1959 as refugees, setting up headquarters in exile. McLeod Ganj, the upper part of Dharamsala, where I had spent the summer, was just one of the many Tibetan settlements in India, but it is the home of the government and His Holiness. From here, efforts were being made to raise awareness for the Tibetan situation, gaining support for a “Free Tibet,” slogan printed on t-shirts and backpacks and bumper stickers all over McLeod Ganj. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I would often talk about this with Tenzin, my host sister, when she would come back from a long day of work at a local guesthouse, exhausted, but never complaining, though we all knew that cleaning sheets and sweeping hotel rooms was not the job she wanted. Tenzin was a certified nurse, but finding a job as a Tibetan, an “Other” on applications as far as citizenship goes (though she was born in India and had never seen Tibet), was difficult. Sometimes she would come into my six by seven foot chalk-blue room and sit on the stiff, mattress-less bed (which took up half the room), as I would show her how to apply for jobs online. She would get excited, clapping her hands, eyes growing wide at the possible job market now open to her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> One night she came into my bedroom while I was reading the autobiography of the Dalai Lama, <i>Freedom in Exile. </i>She was intrigued, so instead of job hunting, we talked about His Holiness and Tibet. Somehow I gained the courage to ask the question I had wanted to ask all along. “Do you think you will ever go back? To Tibet?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> A smile spread across her round face and she said, “Of course! His Holiness expects it in his lifetime. We will all go back to Tibet. It is our home.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “But you have always lived here, in India. Do you not consider this your home?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yes, but we do not belong here. My home is Tibet. I hope,” she paused, “that I will get to go home someday.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I did too. I hoped so badly that there was some sense of justice in the universe that would free Tibet along with Tenzin and the rest of the Tibetan people. I continued reading <i>Freedom in Exile</i>, saturated with the optimistic belief that all of these hopes would be fulfilled. Yes, Tibet would be free.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “But what about you Rachel?” Tenzin asked. “Will you go back to America?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yes,” I said. “I will.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “You are very lucky to be from such a great country. We Buddhists do not believe in Heaven, but when I think of my mother, I hope she has had a fortunate reincarnation and lives in America.” She then grabbed my hand and held it in hers, a sign of intimate friendship in India.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I continued to learn about what happened to Tibet. The LHA, an institute for social work and education in the community of Dharamsala, sponsored weekly events where floods of Western tourists could get a sample of the atrocities that some of the locals faced. They would invite ex-political prisoners to come as guest speakers, and one night I made arrangements with my host family to stay out after dark so that I could attend. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> The single room was packed and smelled like sweat and bare feet. Westerners poured in and sat cross legged along the edges of the multi-colored, blanket-draped floor as the late-comers would fill in the center. The event started half an hour late, which shouldn’t have bothered me in India, but I kept glancing at the clock, knowing that my host family was expecting me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Finally, a Tibetan kid about my age—topped with a Western <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">fohawk</span> hairstyle, wearing a polo shirt with a popped collar—stood at the front of the gathering with another Tibetan man beside him, who kept his gaze down and his hands in his pockets. The younger of the two introduced the other, the ex-prisoner, Tashi, and said that he (the younger kid) would be the one translating the story for us. They each were given a corded microphone before sitting in plastic chairs at the head of the room.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> After a long pause, Tashi began his tale. His voice was level, quiet, and stoic, yet firm and eager to share his experience. The younger kid translated.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was frustrating how difficult it was to pay attention to the speaker. The fohawked kid was a terrible storyteller. There was lots of hesitating and “um’s” to that obnoxious point where you start counting them up. It was not easily packaged for the group of Westerners, who stared blank eyed around the room, picking at their toenails, or whispering to the person next to them. I too was undeniably bored by the horrific story, feeling my legs cramp up and then fall asleep. Yet, here was a man imprisoned for participating in a demonstration against the Chinese government for holding up a paper Tibetan flag (the one created by the Tibetans living in exile) that his friend had drawn. When the Chinese captured him, he declared he was the artist to protect his friend. They made him redraw it, asking “who told you, who told you?” and he couldn’t, so they crushed his hand with a chair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> His friends and others were beat to the point of their life, or past, according to Tashi. They were stripped naked and forced to stand in the bitter cold weather while Chinese soldiers dumped buckets of water on them till it froze. The prisoners were denied any medication besides pain reliever, which killed one of Tashi’s close monk friends, and just as Tashi was beginning to talk about electrocution and the prisoners being forced to eating their own feces out of starvation I had to stand up in the middle of the story and leave. I had to get home because my family would be worried.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I felt awful leaving mid-sentence, mid-story. I had heard similar tales before, but the reality of the hardship was hard to taste. And this night, the way the story was delivered made it impossible to grasp. <i>It could not be translated.</i> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The day after my experience at the LHA I went to a conversation lab with some <i>geshe </i>monks, with whom I regularly helped with English, held in a one-roomed classroom just up the hill from the Dalai Lama’s temple. I was paired up with my friend Nymgaul, a twenty-six year old monk with a missing front tooth, quick wit, and a habit for laughing at moments his elders considered inappropriate. When Amanda, the British volunteer teacher, had us break up into pairs, I took the opportunity to talk to Nymgaul about his thoughts on Tibet. Of all the <i>geshes, </i>he had the best English and was the most recent to flee Tibet, which was refreshing because I was not looking for the typical political rundown. I wanted answers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Ah. Tibet.” He clicked his tongue. “I left when I was 19. I fled first to Nepal, because that is where we go before we go to India, to get refugee status.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> He started to snicker, crescendoing into his usual steady laugh, smiling all the while. “I did not tell my family! And they were so surprised when I called from Nepal!” he said. “It is very, very dangerous. If I would have been caught sneaking I would have been killed.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “You didn’t tell your family?” I asked, still shocked and needing it reaffirmed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No!” he giggled, slapping his knees covered by maroon colored robes. “But they are happy I did not tell them. They would worry too much, and I am safe and happier here. You cannot be a good monk in Tibet.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Why is that?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> He looked at me as if I asked if the sky was red or blue. “Don’t you know?” he asked. “You are American. You can’t understand because you have a democracy. Do you know communism?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yes.” I wasn’t <i>that </i>ignorant, I thought.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “In China you cannot worship with freedom. You cannot do anything in China. BBC and CNN, as well as all Tibetan radio stations are blocked. There are cameras set up in every Internet café to monitor what people are doing. Google is paid to sensor their searches. Life in Tibet is very difficult.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “But are you free to practice religion? You joined the monastic life as a child, no?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Yes, but you see, monasteries are all under watch. It is <i>very</i> difficult. Everything is done in secret. We do not have the, oh, what is the word.” He paused, shouting across the room to his friend with a Tibetan-English dictionary.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Opportunities, that is the word. We do not have opportunities to learn as we do here in India. The monasteries are all under careful watch by the government. We have to hide His Holiness’ pictures because the police will show up sometimes. Sometimes they make us sign papers that say we do not support His Holiness or the Government in Exile.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “What happens if you don’t sign the papers?” I asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Nymgaul looked down. “People are beaten. I’ve seen many people beaten who refuse to sign. They are beaten in front of everyone.” He looked up again, making eye contact. “I always signed. I was young and afraid of death. I admire those who are brave enough to lay down their lives to protest, but I never could.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I didn’t say anything and let him continue. “Some Tibetans are paid to say nice things about China on TV. The ones in prison are threatened with death to say good things when the jails are investigated by foreigners, but every Tibetan knows they are not saying the truth. When you oppose the Chinese government you first get a warning. Second you go to jail. Next, you get a longer life sentence, and last, they kill you. That is how China works. Not just with Tibetans. With everyone.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “That’s awful,” I said. Truthfully I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not have those basic human rights—freedom of speech and religion and such.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Nymgaul watched me for a moment, then smoothed his robes with the palms of his hands and continued. “It is very difficult,” he repeated. “China will be the next superpower. In fact, I think China already is. It is not good. They even took a six year old child,” he said, referring to the missing Panchen Lama, the second in command next to the Dalai Lama whom the Chinese kidnapped. “But of course, no one stopped China.” He looked up. “Not even America.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Not even America. Home of the free and a refuge for “your tired, your poor<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span></span></a>” and all of that mumbo jumbo. How is it, I thought, that I had managed to never even hear about Tibet? That my education had somehow skipped right over Mao and all of that? The conversation I had with Nymgaul weighed heavily on my mind as I started reading the book <i>Tibet, Tibet </i>by Patrick French. Despite the boring sounding name, it was the most informative source I found on the “Tibetan situation.” French did his homework, and his conclusion was convincing. <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">And by that I mean it finally told me the most likely truth—the informed, depressing truth.</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Tibet is toast. That the Dalai Lama had missed the narrow window of opportunity to reconcile with China in 1989.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span></span></a> That no one, not even India, recognizes the Tibetan Government in Exile as a real government. That India only offered 99 years of support for the Tibetan refugee population, which was halfway spent by now. That the Dalai Lama was trying to retire from his political leadership duties. That the United Nations had long since stopped paying attention, even though human rights, those words we love to sing, were still at present being violated. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">Nope. Instead, the U.S. buys all China’s stuff, and in turn, lets them buy all our debt.</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But yet, efforts to maintain awareness for the Tibetan situation existed. One of those is the controversial, but local favorite, “Miss Tibet” beauty pageant held in Dharamsala each year. A few of the students in my group and I decided to check it out. We packed ourselves along the edges of the outdoor amphitheater and waited for an hour as a voice over the loudspeakers begged us to have patience through the “technical difficulties.” It was dark by the time the event began, and the mosquitoes were out looking for dinner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> The music blared as eight contestants walked onto the stage, decked out in Western, formal ball gowns. One girl from Australia. One from the U.S. One from Switzerland. Some from India. None, technically, from Tibet—though they were all Tibetan. The question and answer section came. “Why do you do this?” one of the judges asked the 17-year-old contestant. “Why are you participating in Miss Tibet?” Because it was a “great honor” and “a chance to show the world that Tibet still exists!” she answered with a song of triumph in her voice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But the production shut down in the middle of the grand finale. The power went out and the music died abruptly. Darkness fell on the stage and the murmuring crowd grew loud, and when the situation proved that it was going to take awhile to fix, most of the audience shuffled out and went home for the night, not wanting to wait around to hear who won the contest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “So this is Tibet,” I thought to myself, looking around at the people around me to decide if I too should leave. I couldn’t imagine what those foreign Tibetan girls were thinking up there on the stage lost in the darkness. “This is what it has come to.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In mid-July my group took a side trip to Amritsar to see the Sikh’s Golden Temple and the Pakistan border. I had just learned about the Partition of India in 1947 to create Pakistan, a Muslim state first imagined by the Urdu poet Iqbal, and the million Hindus and Muslims and Sikh’s left dead in the aftermath of the split (another current event that was never mentioned at school) whose massacred bodies passed through the very same stations and trains in use today. In order to get to Amritsar, we took a bus to Pathankot where a train would take us the duration of the journey.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But with my luck, the bus trip was more than just a quiet bus trip. Feeling slightly nauseous, I picked out a window seat, only to find out that this window seat was reserved for the spare tire, so I had to move to a new seat last minute. The last seat available.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hello,” said the man with sandy blonde hair already seated beside me as I dumped my backpack on the floor in front of me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hello—I hope I don’t barf on you.” I wasn’t feeling up to having a conversation with this stranger.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> He didn’t smile but kept talking to me. “Where are you from?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “The United States.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Ah, America.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No. The United States.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Despite the rough start, I had a great three-hour conversation with Charley, a 29 year-old, only child German guy completing an internship in Delhi, but taking some time off to travel around Northern India before leaving. We started off talking about travel, religion, relationships, and then Germany.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Since World War the Second, we have been ashamed to be German,” Charley said. “The older generation refused to talk about what happened with the Nazi’s, or didn’t believe it. It is only recently that the German youth can feel proud of their country. Football has helped. It is the only time of year that we can wave our flags with pride.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Charley never smiled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “But what about your country?” he began. “We had so much hope for Obama, but it appears that fell through.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I nodded my head and pretended that I knew just as much about my own nations politics as he did. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “And I’ve been to Vietnam,” he said, hesitating before beginning again. “People like to point fingers at Nazi Germany and say that nothing like that would happen again, but it happens every day. History repeats itself.” At this, Charley looked out the window, and then bent down to get into his backpack under the ripped seat. “Want a banana?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No thanks.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> He peeled the banana and started again. “Your country did some terrible crimes in Vietnam. Have you ever heard of the My Lai Massacre?”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span></span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Remind me,” I said, again pretending that I knew what he was talking about. It was unfortunate that we always had two weeks or less to talk about anything past WWII in school, and that Vietnam was so taboo that we didn’t even know why it was taboo to start with.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “The Americans got wrong information. Went around shooting innocent villagers. They took the living and made them dig a ditch, then lined them up and shot them in it. Made them dig their own graves.” Charley spat indignantly out the window. “Sounds an awful lot like Hitler to me. Yet it is my country that is remorseful—too remorseful. We cannot stop hanging our heads in shame.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I had no idea what Charley was talking about, but I vowed that I would learn. I could not have been more disenchanted with my country than at that moment, and not just because of Vietnam—no country is perfect, and I was half sick of people assuming America was Eldorado— but that none of my formal education had prepared me to understand this moment, or India, or Tibet. The America I knew was also a half told story. Instead, my education focused on the “fundamentals.” The Revolutionary War. Democracy. The American dream and the cowboys of the Wild West. Human Rights. George Washington’s wooden teeth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But his teeth were actually ivory. <i>Ivory</i>! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">While I was in India, there were terrorist attacks on Bombay. Probably from some Pakistanis, according to my India friend, Rita. I watched the news reports being broadcasted on the TV over dinner in an incomprehensible language, but the images of the fire and sirens needed no translation. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Americans assume that Pakistan first and foremost hates the U.S., but probably because we are “self absorbed,” as the stereotype goes. But Pakistan has always been after India. There is their real enemy. But no one at home heard about the terrorist bombings in the South. No one bat an eye. At times I feel Americans believe terrorism started and ended with the Twin Towers.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> To this day monks and nuns are shown on the TV, appearing in the New York Times, setting themselves on fire with gasoline and running out into the streets in Lhasa, though the Dalai Lama has pleaded for them to stop. We don’t know why they keep doing it or what they are trying to say. We only know that they are begging for the world’s attention in one, final, desperate move.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Human rights. Is that also a lie? Right up there with Washington’s teeth and what they used to tell me about no one taking attendance at college, and how we would only be allowed to write in cursive? The images of fading “Free Tibet” bumper stickers are scarred in my mind. <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">Tibet is a land of silence, a land of secrets, and a subject altogether “too political” to even talk about at my conservative university.</span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But what of Tibet? What of America? Of modern day holocausts and a liminal education system? What about all of these stories and also my host<span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;"> grandma’s</span>? I can still see her, waving her cane at oncoming traffic trying to make her way to the temple, unable to communicate with the threatening, bustling modern world. <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">She will die soon, surely</span>, and with that her unvoiced narrative. She is a coffin of untold stories. Stories that I never heard. Tales of her struggles and heartbreak as she left her home and country with her religious leader, only to never return. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> When I close my eyes I can imagine myself back on the verandah. Grandma is sitting next to me, flinging snot off the balcony. The cool mountain wind is picking up, and the pages of my notebook are rising up against my hand. I anchor them down with my wrist. Something inside me has woken up after a lifetime of sleep. My pen is held in my limp hand, the paper blank in front of me. I drop the pen.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But yet, there was a story. I felt the story, though I could not write it. Like Tashi’s tale at the LHA, communism according to Nymgaul, or my host grandma’s Tibetan, it would not translate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> But I was the witness to the untold story—the one I will never hear, let alone tell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> <span style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% yellow;">Yet, there was a story here</span>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> .</span></div><div><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span></span></a> From the statement on the Statue of Liberty</div></div><div id="ftn2"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span></span></a> <i>Tibet, Tibet </i>by Patrick French regarding the opportunity to return to Tibet after the death of the 10<sup>th</sup> Panchen Lama pg 114-115 and 299</div></div><div id="ftn3"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span></span></a> A 1968 mass murder from the Vietnam War. It was lead by William Calley, a platoon leader in the Charlie Company, responsible for killing 347-504 unarmed civilians, mostly women, children, and elderly, were killed. Many were raped, beaten, and tortured.</div></div></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-31688970677197180232011-12-11T12:48:00.000-08:002012-01-16T08:57:15.416-08:00Snot and Untold Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMuKUBrvFAZQ2BJCgWRlL70bS3Bbw-PDwvUxvLyq3OqOj2jW1HxJGqotbYI32v7bUNRQpQ-P2jOdDHdlOr5pU5rKkb7tqYrlr6VFG6TaVCL4TnMvQBjnm8iUo394vLgTyVpb6f1lga_M/s1600/stock-photo-1308746-autumn-book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMuKUBrvFAZQ2BJCgWRlL70bS3Bbw-PDwvUxvLyq3OqOj2jW1HxJGqotbYI32v7bUNRQpQ-P2jOdDHdlOr5pU5rKkb7tqYrlr6VFG6TaVCL4TnMvQBjnm8iUo394vLgTyVpb6f1lga_M/s200/stock-photo-1308746-autumn-book.jpg" width="200" /></a>"Snot and Untold Stories" is the last essay in my collection which looks at what I learned about the Tibetan situation (and American situation) while I was in India. It seeks to address the indescribable and untouchable parts of my experience that I could not quite translate- yet, the stories were still there.<br />
<br />
I have not received a lot of feedback on this essay yet, but am looking forward to some here in the near future.<br />
<br />
Here are some posts that have helped pave the way for this essay:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/snot-and-stories.html">A blog post about my host grandma</a></li>
<li>A first draft of my essay (forthcoming)</li>
<li>The <a href="http://www.lhasocialwork.org/">LHA Website </a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/07/consume-tibet-tibet-by-patrick-french.html">My book review of Tibet, Tibet</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/07/consume-freedom-in-exile-by-dalai-lama.html">My book review of the Autobiography of the Dalai Lama</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/07/my-experience-at-indian-pakistan-border.html">My thoughts at the Pakistan/Indian border </a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/me-talking-through-my-final-essay-snot.html">Me, talking through a recent draft </a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/mock-thesis-defense-justifying-blogging.html">Realizations about social media benefits</a> in light of this essay while challenging authenticity </li>
</ul><br />
<a href="http://www.istockphoto.com/stock-photo-1308746-autumn-book.php?st=d5ecba5">(Photo credit istock)</a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-55404767248783143142011-12-11T12:32:00.000-08:002011-12-11T12:37:56.561-08:00Om Mani Padme Hum: Compassion, Charity, and a Headache<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDedD7dWlcbSswLL91FiZGzcneqkpsvjIQQc4PjzdTqDhK1rzZEEi7KNxEXmKOsFR6LeKVJzwlPkcWUXwbbQGEEppaBuFIq8zfWDqxD91OwXy-aCL_eeoUpwS9ZEVxn9T-KxvH4prwLdY/s1600/DSC_1241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDedD7dWlcbSswLL91FiZGzcneqkpsvjIQQc4PjzdTqDhK1rzZEEi7KNxEXmKOsFR6LeKVJzwlPkcWUXwbbQGEEppaBuFIq8zfWDqxD91OwXy-aCL_eeoUpwS9ZEVxn9T-KxvH4prwLdY/s200/DSC_1241.JPG" width="200" /></a>This was potentially the hardest piece of writing I have ever tried to write. This essay explores my difficulties coming to terms with charity and compassion within myself and my group members.<br />
<br />
The biggest change I have made to this essay has been trying to make it more objective at the advice of Professor Bennion. I've tried to do so, meaning I've been forced to try and make sense of it and see it from all angles. It is still a work in progress, but I think I am getting closer.<br />
<br />
I'm also trying to add more descriptions and make the writing more clear in general. I'm having some of the same issues I had with "<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/A%20Bus%20to%20Dharamsala">A Bus to Dharamasla"</a> in keeping the present and past separated. <br />
<br />
Here are some posts that helped inspire this essay:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iG_lNuNUVd4">Listen to the Om Mani Padme Hum mantra for compassion</a></li>
<li>A few segments from a first draft (forthcoming) </li>
<li>Maybe a few journal entries (forthcoming)</li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/11/feedback-from-professor-bennion.html">Feedback from Professor Bennion</a> (especially the victim and objectivity parts)</li>
<li>I need more ideas...</li>
</ul></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-22696273539115770992011-12-11T12:16:00.000-08:002011-12-26T21:52:40.010-08:00A Slightly Unconvincing, but Trying to be More so, Defense of Marriage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJGqU72rO7zTo_TicJk_CH1D75tQrFeKmCPBu3YhfuJElkWak7T9MF70UmFOHPKdFmFG6S-N70b_OAV0UhS-ZNVCvn9o7hxjJ846UIek82iwK4CQ1NuaQjDD9_CNOPX0FTRQWCLQbgNs/s1600/800px-Wedding_rings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJGqU72rO7zTo_TicJk_CH1D75tQrFeKmCPBu3YhfuJElkWak7T9MF70UmFOHPKdFmFG6S-N70b_OAV0UhS-ZNVCvn9o7hxjJ846UIek82iwK4CQ1NuaQjDD9_CNOPX0FTRQWCLQbgNs/s200/800px-Wedding_rings.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This is the third essay in my collection about me grappling with the idea of marriage while I was in India. I had a good time writing this, though I have not done enough drafting yet. Here are some changes I have made/want to make so far.<br />
<br />
More setting details, a better conclusion, reorganizing material so that I am not "spilling the beans too early" as Dr. Burton says.<br />
<br />
Here are some posts that have been foundational to this essay:<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A first draft (forthcoming)</li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/first-comes-love-then-comes-india.html">A blog post</a> about my relationship with Patrick</li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/tibetan-wedding-in-india.html">Attending a Tibetan wedding </a></li>
<li>Journal entry/realization that I need to decide where I stand with marriage (forthcoming)</li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/normal-0-false-false-false-en-us-x-none.html">Getting my palm read </a></li>
</ul><br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/3d/Wedding_rings.jpg/800px-Wedding_rings.jpg">(Photo credit to Wikipedia) </a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-83722337021104179812011-12-11T12:02:00.000-08:002011-12-11T12:18:15.649-08:00Monks and Mormons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbI1pLOIhuFXLqXw8AI6TmqmSzWB_P668VV82pdBQKV0L1HcZrODdOfXHxLC-Q8m9EX0l_nO_rxmq4KdtdQYxwCZkQkzV24w-1Y7-fCEkpoGwbF_UJ4c9iEqEd4egG1aLFvo1KMEJ9GgM/s1600/b%253B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbI1pLOIhuFXLqXw8AI6TmqmSzWB_P668VV82pdBQKV0L1HcZrODdOfXHxLC-Q8m9EX0l_nO_rxmq4KdtdQYxwCZkQkzV24w-1Y7-fCEkpoGwbF_UJ4c9iEqEd4egG1aLFvo1KMEJ9GgM/s200/b%253B.jpg" width="200" /></a>My essay "Monks and Mormons" is the second one in my collection. It is not yet in a form I am satisfied with, but it has come a long way. It addresses my disillusionment with Buddhism as I came to learn more about it and better understanding and appreciating my own religious beliefs. I used to think that if I were not a Mormon I would be a Buddhist, but after this summer I've learned that this is not so. Though I still have loads of appreciation for Eastern religious philosophy and love the Buddhists I met, I am happy being Mormon.<br />
<br />
General changes? Trying to make it a more interesting read, making episodes clearer, being more articulate and respectful about the differences between these two religions, and changing the title and beginning of the essay.<br />
<br />
Here are some posts/drafts/field note entries that document the journey of this essay:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/10/first-draft-monks-and-mormons.html">My first terrible draft</a></li>
<li>A journal entry (forthcoming)</li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/05/faq-my-first-week-in-mcleod-ganj.html">FAQ on 1st week in McLeod Ganj </a>(have I met the Dalai Lama yet)</li>
<li>Third Time Seeing the Dalai Lama <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/third-time-seeing-his-holiness-14th.html">video</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/yoga-and-meditation-teaching-class-in.html">Yoga teacher training</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/varanasi-email-home-aug-8.html">Varanasi email to my parents</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/10/varanasi-scene.html">Varanasi scene I never got around to using</a>, but I might do something with in the future </li>
</ul><br />
<a href="http://www.charlestontibetansociety.com/gelug.htm">(Photo Credit Charleston Tibetan Society) </a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-92138464473759498132011-12-11T11:20:00.000-08:002011-12-11T11:33:04.172-08:00A Bus to Dharamsala<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-bGOL3SeQGYxh1wHgxqWyd36LZhgt2ztepndzE89jjYxIv3wXWkr1nj3M05Lvvt7taU2avqKAo9LGRGp1e8zq5HWOlej0mmsFZ3AaInPkhSY_CAB5OP_N9fNbK0bweB5kS-A0-wlRxM/s1600/bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-bGOL3SeQGYxh1wHgxqWyd36LZhgt2ztepndzE89jjYxIv3wXWkr1nj3M05Lvvt7taU2avqKAo9LGRGp1e8zq5HWOlej0mmsFZ3AaInPkhSY_CAB5OP_N9fNbK0bweB5kS-A0-wlRxM/s320/bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"A Bus to Dharamsala" was the first essay and only personal essay I began drafting while I was in India. Because it has been around the longest, I've had lots of much needed drafting and work shopping done with it. Major changes include changing characters, being more explicit about what I learned about myself on this journey, transitioning from past to present more clearly, adding more sensory detail, and fixing minor (but important) errors like calling Copernicus Copernicus and not CoPORNicus. <br />
<br />
Here are some important steps I made getting this essay to a polished state:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/05/bus-to-dharmasala.html">My blog post </a>talking about my first bus ride to Dharamsala which is what this is based on </li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/12/first-draft-of-bus-to-dharamsala.html">A first draft</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/10/third-draft-of-bus-to-dharamsala.html">A third draft </a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/11/feedback-from-professor-bennion.html">Feedback from Professor Bennion</a></li>
<li><a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/first-comes-love-then-comes-india.html">A blog post</a> about my relationship with Patrick</li>
<li> <a href="http://obrunithroughghana.blogspot.com/">My Ghana blog</a></li>
</ul><br />
<a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&biw=1440&bih=707&tbm=isch&tbnid=qnZh5gB2IArq7M:&imgrefurl=http://www.audleyblog.com/2010/06/22/trains-planes-and-busy-buses-in-india/&docid=h3B44c3y-67IzM&imgurl=http://www.audleyblog.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/busy_bus_india.jpg&w=600&h=402&ei=3gTlTpCRNaijiQKM--2XBg&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=709&sig=109024043897343180881&page=1&tbnh=149&tbnw=181&start=0&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:11,s:0&tx=106&ty=63">(Photo credit Audleyblog.com)</a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-44556677802849705072011-12-10T10:56:00.000-08:002011-12-11T10:57:18.315-08:00Integrating Blogging into my Personal Essays<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNNcmd3bYc0nmxb54mUGSGQT-8hLdlBHPuMdXRDIsUHR0QfQ4S8qPmfoRYG7gHr2001FQ_vlq7TGW5D5LfcwAfleVlTZs3T7fjpP2PJfPlnh9m5mb0PH7XA13PzTNeamjpHdGan5DMFw/s1600/a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNNcmd3bYc0nmxb54mUGSGQT-8hLdlBHPuMdXRDIsUHR0QfQ4S8qPmfoRYG7gHr2001FQ_vlq7TGW5D5LfcwAfleVlTZs3T7fjpP2PJfPlnh9m5mb0PH7XA13PzTNeamjpHdGan5DMFw/s200/a.jpg" width="200" /></a>After meeting last week with one of my faculty mentors, Dr. Burton, I have a lot on my mind in terms of this <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Thesis">honors thesis</a> and <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">ebook </a>I am trying to create.<br />
<br />
I sent all 87 pages of my manuscript to Dr. Burton. He printed them out. All of them. They were stacked there in the middle of his desk. It was nice to see how much work I have done, but unsettling how much of that pile still in desperate need of editing. While I am not anticipating publishing my ebook until March, my honors thesis needs to be turned in by January 15th. I would panic, but I don't think I have time to.<br />
<br />
So now that I am in crunch time, where am I at? What do I need to do? Well, for starters I'm going to create 5 hub posts about each of my 5 <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">essays</a>. In the printed format of my thesis, there will be typed URL's if a reader wants to find out more about the blog posts that made up this essay, earlier drafts, critiques, etc. to document the journey. The eBook format will include hyperlinks.<br />
<br />
I'm also changing up my introduction and post script to be more argumentative about blogging by acknowledged the Pandora's Box that comes with it. I need to include more sources on blogging, though with it being such a new medium it is difficult to find them. That should be noted in my intro.<br />
<br />
So in addition to traditional revisions, keep a look out for some funky experiments on this blog. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/shenegotiates/2011/07/24/true-crime-writer-ponders-career-change-in-ebook-world/">(Photo credit forbes.com)</a><br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-51000243494355624492011-11-28T10:59:00.000-08:002011-11-28T10:59:58.094-08:00General Update<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8gOEUrVTM5KpHxtBfii_iSb6_2PpSDYAwiONnmYzeAJrJ8vDN3kO42lRZB37iTJQiVmjaWYLYwV0KK8CuXyxX-_JLIH2aKNT3MuIhyphenhyphen4a-_2UlT6Pdkbzetx1aS7rq4rZUgMv8LFyrHxM/s1600/up-arrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8gOEUrVTM5KpHxtBfii_iSb6_2PpSDYAwiONnmYzeAJrJ8vDN3kO42lRZB37iTJQiVmjaWYLYwV0KK8CuXyxX-_JLIH2aKNT3MuIhyphenhyphen4a-_2UlT6Pdkbzetx1aS7rq4rZUgMv8LFyrHxM/s200/up-arrow.jpg" width="200" /></a>I thought this Thanksgiving break was going to be magical. In five days, I was sure I could get all of my homework done (including reading four books), catch up on <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">Nanowrimo</a>, draft another essay for my thesis, revise my five essays, write a chapter for my novel by Tuesday, and draft two final papers for class.<br />
<br />
What can I say? I tried.<br />
<br />
Here is what I <i>did </i>get done in terms of this project. I got <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/11/discovering-twitter.html">more active on Twitter</a>, made lists, and downloaded Tweetdeck to my computer to try and sort through all of my tweets. <br />
<br />
I got somewhat caught up on Nanowrimo and searched through different writing groups. I've learned since starting my own group that joining one that is already functioning is a lot easier that trying to get people to be as excited about it as I am...<br />
<br />
I'm now almost finished drafting the introduction to my <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">personal essays</a> for <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Thesis">my honors thesis</a> and<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook"> eBook</a>. <br />
<br />
I also started revising my essays on compassion, marriage, and untold stories. My goal is to have new drafts of all five of my current essays to my professors by the end of the week. <br />
<br />
As much as I wanted to include seven essays in this project, time is running out. I'd like to include one more, if possible, but so far I am at 70 pages in my thesis, all of which need serious revision. My original goal was to have all of my essays in decent drafts by December 1st. That is this Thursday. Crazy as it sounds, I still think I'm going to shoot for that by having an intro, acknowledgments page, and six working essays.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-66886681422168850742011-11-28T10:43:00.000-08:002011-11-28T10:43:51.530-08:00Discovering Twitter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:DoNotShowInsertionsAndDeletions/> <w:DoNotShowPropertyChanges/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaUb2D6-IzZ9L-y1pGHRQfW3VoszsMbJLKf6h3ldG0xOelPJSTujSypyJhSZKLBKkJapSE2tjfckkv__UmsclIKuG3nwXC1aL3TsXRXPCfypHghbKK4zzNtBQ0r2kWUpOs9BXimyYVkg/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaUb2D6-IzZ9L-y1pGHRQfW3VoszsMbJLKf6h3ldG0xOelPJSTujSypyJhSZKLBKkJapSE2tjfckkv__UmsclIKuG3nwXC1aL3TsXRXPCfypHghbKK4zzNtBQ0r2kWUpOs9BXimyYVkg/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Talking with Dr. Burton last week helped me understand how Twitter is a great social media resource to help me get connected with a potential audience for <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">my eBook</a>.<span> </span>It is also a great way to find out what kinds of discussions are out there so that I can stay in the loop.<span> Here is <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/Rachel_Rueckert">a link to my profile.</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until last week I have always been a little resistant to get a Twitter account.<span> Isn't it just a great big Facebook status update rave? </span>I’m no Pynchon, but I do appreciate a little anonymity.<span> </span>No one needs to hear what I ate for breakfast this morning…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But that was the same argument that I originally had against blogging, only to find that academic blogging offers a whole range of possibilities that I had not considered.<span> </span>So it is with Twitter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While being real on Twitter and having a personality is important when Tweeting, Dr. Burton helped me realize that there are ways to ensure that I am posting valuable material that others would be interested in.<span> </span>I just have to think of it from their perspective and try to Tweet valuable information.<span> </span>There needs to be a healthy blend between personality and focus.<span> </span>Reposting blog entries, links, videos, and retweets are a great way to start.<span> </span>It is also nice to attend events and comment on them while you are there.<span> </span>Photos, which are something which is pretty applicable to my interests, are also easily shared on Twitter.<span> </span>This means I’m probably going to visit the gravesite of my old Flickr account and update, update, update.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">My latest project, in an attempt to wade the Twitter white water river, was <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/Rachel_Rueckert/lists">making lists</a>.<span> </span>Lists are a feature on Twitter that allows me to organize the people I am following according to their comment interests.<span> </span>So far I have taken my first stab with five categories:<span> </span>wanderers, travel resources, writers, digital gurus, and photographers.<span> </span>I’m considering creating a few others lists for editors, writer’s resources, and probably education, but this is what I am starting with. <span> </span>I’m trying not to over think it and find what works for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, another helpful resource I found to help me organize my Tweets and lists was by downloading <a href="http://www.tweetdeck.com/desktop/">TweetDeck</a> for my laptop. Now I can track my lists, people who mention me, and other keywords of interest. It has been very useful as I've tried to figure out this Twitter game.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have run into a few limitations so far.<span> </span>I do not have a smart phone, and Twitter seems to just work better with one.<span> </span>Because I don’t have access to the internet wherever I go I cannot narrate events as they are happening.<span> </span>For example, over Thanksgiving I went to the mosque for the first time, was interviewed on the Chanel 4 News for being one of the crazies at Best Buy, and had an awesome Relief Society lesson on personal revelation.<span> </span>By the time I get home it was so far past it felt strange to post about these events.<span> </span>By not having a smart phone I am losing a lot of the immediacy that Twitter offers.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Something to think about as I consider making the change from my ghetto phone…</div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-6251938800176470892011-11-14T10:11:00.000-08:002011-11-14T10:14:38.644-08:00Self Publishing Thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mTG-b8mDUS_E5InSl5EKtO5T5cQspWPgbFKelW3NKy0DNejmYS6W6m_ftBpB46AzFVwqNcuQMjykYVfcWg1f-65wEVYdaj9Y7JfPif9cblaA7c4UEpZcJYBe9VN5GsGJLoZ80AEZmHo/s1600/connect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mTG-b8mDUS_E5InSl5EKtO5T5cQspWPgbFKelW3NKy0DNejmYS6W6m_ftBpB46AzFVwqNcuQMjykYVfcWg1f-65wEVYdaj9Y7JfPif9cblaA7c4UEpZcJYBe9VN5GsGJLoZ80AEZmHo/s1600/connect.jpg" /></a></div>As Professor Burton has pointed out to me, I need to be working on the digital component of <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">my personal essay</a> project while I am drafting. This way, I can promote my <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">eBook</a> and connect with a perspective audience before they are even finished.<br />
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I'm trying to get more connected with the writing networks available online. I <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/10/online-discussion-on-querying-process.html">attended an online chat session</a> a few weeks ago and found some of their blogs which have been a fantastic starting point. I came across the blog <a href="http://literarylab.blogspot.com/">Literary Lab</a>, kept by writers Domey Malasarn, Scott G.F. Bailey, and Michelle Davidson Argyle. In this blog, I found a<a href="http://literarylab.blogspot.com/2010/09/what-going-indie-will-cost-you-part-3.html"> great post on self publishing </a>that is frank and honest about some of the ins and outs of self-publishing. Here are some points I learned that I need to focus on as I think about my eBook.<br />
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<b>Price</b>- The author of this post argues that you need to put just as much time and funding into the professional look and editing of your book. She really emphasized making the cover captivating. I've got some photographs, but I wonder if I should start looking at this more seriously, and sooner than i thought.<br />
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And off of that point, I was not planning on charging anything for this eBook. To me it was more important to just get the information out there and promoting my first publication than to make any money. This blog post also talked more specifically about how much it cost to make her first book and how much she made in the end.<br />
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If self publishing book is what I want to do in the future for a career, then this would be really important to learn sooner than later. <br />
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<b>Print- </b>This post also pointed out something interesting I have not considered. While this author was only planning on making an eBook, she discovered that the vast majority of readers still prefer print. This way, the book was made available for print and/or eBook format. <br />
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<b>Createspace- </b>While you can publish for free, this author argued for Createspace. It was 39 dollars to publish her book on this website. Something to look into.<br />
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<b>Advertising- </b>This blog post said to not ever underestimate the power of social networking. I guess I can pay people to review my book, advertise on Facebook for cheap, etc. I'm also starting to explore the possibilities with Twitter. The main argument is that self-publishing means that you have to do a lot of work on your own trying to put book out there, and that I might have to throw some money at advertising if I am going to make any money.<br />
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For this project, I'm not sure this is applicable, especially if I just decide to not charge anything and cheap out. This author argues that publication, even self-publication, however, is very important, and should be treated professionally and seriously.<br />
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There are lots of other points of advice, and plenty of links to follow up on to hear the ins and outs of self-publishing. I hope that this is also going to be a great connecting opportunity.<br />
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</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-90586996049107283582011-11-13T22:09:00.000-08:002011-11-13T22:09:17.589-08:00Revising and an Update<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg93tFuSrdrcCCdyZR8o9mHUpjO8SyubEasJAqz-MS84oyS42qohEitusZh3C9kjHRKj7fOJJhIBia7sDIV0dFupfGkphc8qPUFm6Tbmx5Lmkt02fIbF7Y4Cw6bY96jmEpVho0t7RwpB1I/s1600/to+do+list.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg93tFuSrdrcCCdyZR8o9mHUpjO8SyubEasJAqz-MS84oyS42qohEitusZh3C9kjHRKj7fOJJhIBia7sDIV0dFupfGkphc8qPUFm6Tbmx5Lmkt02fIbF7Y4Cw6bY96jmEpVho0t7RwpB1I/s200/to+do+list.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I am up to my head in <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">personal essays</a> needing serious, surgical, life-threatening revision. I was hoping to get around to more of that this weekend, but after pumping out a new draft, "Snot and Stories" that looks at the Tibetan situation, my thoughts on America, etc, I was short on time. I'm glad to have a new essay out, but I'm noticing a few themes I need to work on.<br />
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First, <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/11/feedback-from-professor-bennion.html">as Professor Bennion said</a>, I need to work on being more objective in my essays.<br />
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Second, at Professor Burton's advice, I need to include a lot more setting detail. India is sensory overload, and I need to portray that. I want to. I can see it quite clearly still. I just have to go back and fill it all in. Hopefully that brings it to life a bit better.<br />
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And third, at my own personal critique, I want to have a nicer form for my next essay. I've been poking around in <i>The Art of the Personal Essay</i>, an anthology<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/10/art-of-personal-essay-anthology-from.html"> I reviewed here</a>, trying to find a potential form I could imitate. Reviewing the intro was also helpful. It confirmed what I have already discovered. Personal essay writing is downright vulnerable! I keep coming back to Virginia Woolf. Even though I know I'm never going to be as cool as her, and that her style just doesn't fit my voice as well as I'd always hoped it would, I want to try it for at least one. Just to see...<br />
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Another large, overriding issue I need to work out is the honors requirements for a creative thesis. I thought I was on top of it, but after checking out two previous students theses from the library (Emily Davis "To England and Back" and Elizabeth K.M. Busby "Life Expectant") I think I'm supposed to be working more on a fancy intro and abstract than on a more research looking paper. Hmm...<br />
<br />
Reading these theses was a great experience though. Both were former students of my honors advisor, Professor Bennion. I identified more with Emily's work and themes, but in each it was nice to see just what kind of subjects I can take up and play with in a personal essay. It's also fun to turn the pages between the blue covers, knowing that if I finish this and do it well, maybe some kid in the future will do the same with <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Thesis">my thesis</a> someday. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-62082630282569529772011-11-07T09:34:00.000-08:002011-11-07T09:38:21.789-08:00Back to Connecting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdeUT7II2zrd3RAYI83RL1f8SbmDHdx6ZoA4gbqcO77sTfkpdQpT4X7O9N6tq7c0l4a-_nopFJr_aEceqrFHFh3vpccv8gHis69byoZtnuLta6VlSwKefeYA-TNiAqajvdRRJpFs2sXNY/s1600/india_destination.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdeUT7II2zrd3RAYI83RL1f8SbmDHdx6ZoA4gbqcO77sTfkpdQpT4X7O9N6tq7c0l4a-_nopFJr_aEceqrFHFh3vpccv8gHis69byoZtnuLta6VlSwKefeYA-TNiAqajvdRRJpFs2sXNY/s320/india_destination.jpg" width="320" /></a>I've spent the last few weeks in the drafting process of<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay"> my personal essays</a> for my<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Thesis"> honors thesis</a> and <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">eBook</a>. However, as Dr. Burton as advised me, I need to continue working on<a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Connect"> connecting</a>. The cool thing about my eBook is that I can promote it before it is even finished.<br />
<br />
So I've done a lot of general connecting, exploring the ins and outs in India, but it is time to start targeting people who might be interested in my essays.<br />
<br />
<b>What I have done so far:</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Commented on others blogs</li>
<li>Made friends </li>
<li>Joined Twitter (here is <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/Rachel_Rueckert">my profile link)</a></li>
<li> Started sharing my writing with my family</li>
<li>Created <a href="http://anawesomewritinggroup.blogspot.com/?zx=d13e219442176a9chttp://twitter.com/#%21/Rachel_Rueckert">a writing group </a>with 8 awesome writing friends to workshop and hold discussions</li>
<li>Joined <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/racheladventure">nanowrimo</a>. This is a site that gets you to challenge your writing goals to celebrate national writing month in November. There is no way I will hit 50,000 words, but I am hoping to connect with other writers and get to know the students in my novel writing class better.</li>
<li>Participated in <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/10/online-discussion-on-querying-process.html">an online chat </a>with some legit writers. I'm going to join in again this coming Thursday.</li>
</ul><br />
<b>What I Want to Do Next: </b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Comment <i>more </i>on other peoples blogs and find new blogs</li>
<li>Start looking into the author section of <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/">goodreads.com</a> and try to connect with people who have similar interests.</li>
<li>Look at other writers blogs and follow forums on self publishing</li>
<li>Keep it coming! Both drafts and blog updates.</li>
<li>Review the eBook <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11724559-writing-about-literature-in-the-digital-age">Writing about Literature in the Digital Age </a>and start to think about how to format my own eBook</li>
</ul><br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-15003121429413063462011-11-07T09:13:00.000-08:002011-11-07T09:13:33.253-08:00ORCA Grant Proposal Submitted!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XvbOQAgI_LiNAh9P5jmw51ekHZX2peRZtks_3IZ1jHxfQ-46rSZVspLg26VQH5eMUV1j1TQh-0cIuEeIsVyq0PuqJGEGMW7TBP7n-dyQo-yGZwq6bsSrhvwWJYO7Z3gA7pxrKdA6hFY/s1600/orca.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XvbOQAgI_LiNAh9P5jmw51ekHZX2peRZtks_3IZ1jHxfQ-46rSZVspLg26VQH5eMUV1j1TQh-0cIuEeIsVyq0PuqJGEGMW7TBP7n-dyQo-yGZwq6bsSrhvwWJYO7Z3gA7pxrKdA6hFY/s200/orca.png" width="200" /></a>As part of my <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">eBook</a> project I'm going to publish of <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">personal essays</a> from Dharmasala, I decided to apply for an <a href="http://orca.byu.edu/orca/FAQs.php">ORCA grant</a> through my university. It is a grant for research and/or creative projects for undergraduates who are working with a faculty mentor. There is 1/3-1/2 chance that I get it, which means $1,500 for me, and $300 for my faculty mentor on this project, Professor Gideon Burton.<br />
<br />
I'm created a <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/p/orca-grant-proposal.html">new page with my ORCA proposal</a> if you are interested in viewing it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.drawinghowtodraw.com/stepbystepdrawinglessons/2010/12/how-to-draw-cartoon-orca-whales-with-easy-step-by-step-drawing-lesson/">(Photo credit goes to drawinghowtodraw.com)</a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-27159916139225997612011-11-07T08:06:00.000-08:002011-12-11T10:28:31.381-08:00Feedback from Professor Bennion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZC2mNxSYQGmPC-71lzuzSkz3cf-aaBXm8K7pL9WlJur8fok1yyvIly16aSL67xbMt1afHb2WpkXREd6eKpdTqiXQ4S2bYrj3tg2QzwhyphenhyphenYRZVsevXg1XJTnvIKnH6TRZBeeRAZeg6cbA/s1600/pen_on_edited_paper-300x199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZC2mNxSYQGmPC-71lzuzSkz3cf-aaBXm8K7pL9WlJur8fok1yyvIly16aSL67xbMt1afHb2WpkXREd6eKpdTqiXQ4S2bYrj3tg2QzwhyphenhyphenYRZVsevXg1XJTnvIKnH6TRZBeeRAZeg6cbA/s1600/pen_on_edited_paper-300x199.jpg" /></a></div>Well, I now have four rough drafts of some personal essays to include in my upcoming <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/eBook">eBook</a> and <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Prospectus">honors thesis. </a> The first essay, a bus ride to McLeod, but also through my thoughts and motivations to travel; another essay on my disillusionment with Buddhism; one on the complex nature of charity; and another on making sense of marriage. I've been working closely with Professor Burton and Professor Bennion on revisions, and so that is the goal of this week.<br />
<br />
But I've learned something in the process. Personal essays are <i>hard</i>. Vulnerable, embarrassing at times, soul mining, and more. All of the ethical questions<a href="http://obrunithroughghana.blogspot.com/2010/10/conclusions.html"> I explored in Ghana</a> regarding creative nonfiction are staring at me right in the face. Yet, I have to be honest. I have to be accurate if they are ever going to get off the ground. This is a unique opportunity for me to revisit India in a way I never was able to with Ghana, to make sense of it and create something that others can read and understand something of what I have experienced in a way that is meaningful. <br />
<br />
Here are some sections of general advice that Dr. Bennion gave me this week that I found extremely helpful, particularly on how to be more objective in my writing of a personal essay:<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"You have produced marvelous writing. It does need another draft. I’ve read the essays twice and made extensive comments. Most of my comments have to do with being slightly more clear and precise. It takes me ten drafts to be precise. And sometimes I’m not precise then, so this is nothing unusual. I do encourage you to face this work sentence by sentence. I’ve made here some general comments, my specific comments are made inside the essays. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I believe in the objective power of the essay, to follow us or even aid us as we try to get distance from or perspective on our difficult experiences. The specific mechanism is a special kind of variable tone. By tone I mean your own attitude toward your experiences. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes you paint yourself as a martyr, sometimes as a victim, sometimes as the strong one; these visions of yourself are important because they are truly what you felt at the time. What I’m asking is that you continue to reach toward another way of looking at all this, a little detached, a little distant, ironic possibly, but not guilt-driven or self-praising. Just looking at yourself as another human in the tangle of experience. It may seem that I’m asking you to make your final response coldly analytical, or narrow, but that’s not it. An essay is the one medium I know of that can make the writer be subjective and objective at once about her own experience. Of course poetry and fiction can do this in other ways, but the essayist must step back from her own experience and use emotional and logical devices to see herself with wide, guileless, sophisticated, ironic, charitable eyes. It may be that your experiences so shook you, made you so depressed that this will take some reaching. I believe you can do this. This material is wonderful, thick, complex, interesting, and you’ve rendered it extremely well. I’m just trying to indicate what you might stretch toward next. It requires more a change of thinking than of specific writerly changes. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve read the essays twice and marked them carefully. They are well enough done that they could be put straight into your thesis with some minor revisions. Despite their quality, I’m asking you to undertake another significant revision, where you go through the pain again and try to see it in a new way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another piece of advice: As I said already, you have great material (astonishing material) and you write well (meaning that you are generally clear, that you have a pleasing informal style, that you are a wanderer and a thinker, and that you have questions at the base of what you write). One thing you can do better is to mark time more clearly and to make stronger transitions between scenes and meditations on scenes. What you’re doing in the one entitled Essay 1 is weaving together different times, so the core story is the ride on the two busses from Delhi to Dharamsala, but you weave into that an experience talking to your supervisors, your father, and your experience in Ghana. So you’re moving back and forth in time, like the mind works. It’s natural and will work well, but in this draft I’m confused sometimes about what happened when and what you thought when. You just need to make your time transitions clear. That brings me to a related point. An essay is a genre which compares thoughts during one time to thoughts during another time. So you have to be especially careful when you give a thought, that you make it clear when you had that thought. You can also make it clear when you change your mind about something. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My other general comment is that your sentences often can have shades of two or more meanings. The meaning is clear to you, but may be cloudy to a reader. For example, when you’re talking about saying goodbye to your father you say “We knew the routine.” And that could mean you knew how to get ready for a trip and say goodbye or that you knew how to check into an airport. Those two are almost the same, so the sentence for a careful reader seems like 3-d when you take the glasses off, just a slightly fuzzy, double image. I’ve given comments concerning where you could be more precise."</span></div><br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-76141568514156293042011-10-30T11:23:00.000-07:002011-12-11T11:24:49.516-08:00Third Draft of A Bus to Dharamsala<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:DoNotShowInsertionsAndDeletions/> <w:DoNotShowPropertyChanges/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A third draft of my personal essay, "A Bus to Dharamsala" </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A Bus to Dharamsala:</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Me</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Life happens on the way to somewhere else.<span> </span>For me this tends to be quite literal—public transportation.<span> </span>This is one of those times:<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was my first time in India. The pretext?<span> </span>A leadership opportunity for a small international study program offered through my university.<span> </span>It was a chance to do four months of undergraduate research in Dharamsala, the headquarters of the Tibetan Government in Exile and home of the Dalai Lama.<span> </span>On this particular occasion the “deluxe” night bus that was supposed to take me the horrendous twelve hour journey from Delhi to Dharamsala broke down. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>It was two in the morning.<a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Things were already not going so well—including (but not limited to) having a drunk man conk out on my shoulder the entire nine hour flight from Amsterdam to India despite attendants desperate efforts to relocate him, getting a hotel door slammed in my face (reservations are apparently irrelevant) at another dead hour of night, having group members inform me last minute of their flight cancelations, and having said group members show up at the airport anyways when their flights were not in fact cancelled with zero means of contacting me.<span> </span>Now this? <b>[I plan to expand and break up these sentences]</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Two in the morning.<span> </span>A twenty something year old girl with minimal leadership experience, no phone, no skill with any of the hundreds of local languages, and no university permission to be taking a night bus to start with.<span> </span>Perfect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I tightened my grip around my backpack sitting protectively in my lap and eyed the shifting silhouettes of the other passengers.<span> </span>The mosquitoes were feasting on the vulnerable skin not covered by my sandals.<span> </span>Sweat cascaded down my forehead in the 115 degree heat, and my <i>salwar kameez</i> was sticking to my back.<i> </i>And if that wasn’t enough, the screaming car horns from the relentless Delhi traffic made it impossible to sleep.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Once we had heard the snap and pulled off to the side of the road, others had shuffled out of the bus to take a gander at the spectacle.<span> </span>A broken axle.<span> </span>We were going to be there for awhile.<span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What have I done?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">G.K. Chesterton, a prominent English writer, said that “every inconvenience is just an adventure in disguise.”<span> </span>I wrote it on my mirror and everything before leaving—hoisting it like Moses’ snake on a pole in my mind.<span> </span>If I would just look at it, all doubts and frustrations would dissipate.<span> </span>This was nowhere in the realm of comforting anymore.<span> </span>I couldn’t remember why I did this—why I did not just joined my fellow English majors on some fantastic England study abroad living the life of luxury, shopping for vintage scarves and gorging myself on fish and chips while walking the same streets of some of my favorite writers.<span> </span>Instead I chose yet another developing country.<span> </span>One that believes your hand is more effective than toilet paper, that the same cows that lick their nostrils and eat cardboard boxes are sacred, and that night buses are the best way to get to Northern India from Delhi.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>Maybe I would see the adventure of this in retrospect, and maybe even admit it a bit funny, but at that moment I just wanted to crawl in a hole and dig my way back to the States.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But I didn’t want that, not <i>really.<span> </span></i>I have never been one to content myself sitting at home—and to be quite honest, I have never really been content with anything.<span> </span>I am something of a wandering spirit. I am one of those foot shakers, and you would not believe how extreme my hitchhiker’s thumbs can bend.<span> </span>I don’t know when it began, and so I guess I was just born with it.<span> </span>Restless Rachel.<span> </span>Alliteration and everything. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Most of my life I’ve tried to deny that I am “a runner.”<span> </span>It wasn’t until sophomore year in my astronomy class that it really occurred to me.<span> </span>We were learning about the history of astronomy and the early Greek ideas when we came across the topic of planets—or <i>planete</i> in Classical Greek.<span> </span>These were “wandering stars”—the greatest anomaly to the perfect charts and theories about the structure of the heavens.<span> </span>Just when they had a perfect model figured out, one of the stars would slip out of line for no apparent reason.<span> </span>It took hundreds of years for brilliant astronomers like Ptolemy, Copornicus, Brahe, and Kepler to iron out this mysterious retrograde and realize that these were not stars at all.<span> </span>They were planets. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I felt like that Greek enigma, the <i>planete</i>.<span> </span>Just when things seemed to be going perfect, when I had the ideal boyfriend, a great paying job, scholarships, and straight A’s in every class—just when my place in the world seemed to be established, I would retrograde.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>I first tried to abate my wanderlust by moving to Hawaii for a semester (as if the crystal surf and sacred land would cure me—what a joke), but to the disappointment to more than a few boyfriends and family members, it only fueled the timid flames and grew into a full blown obsession with a life away from home.<span> </span>It gave me a taste of that happiness sought for my entire life, and, now knowing that it existed; I have never been the same since.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hey, the new bus is here,” said the guy who sat in front of me through a thick Indian accent.<span> </span>It took me awhile for it to register as English.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We piled off the “deluxe” bus, drug our suitcases through the probably-<i>not</i>-dirt, and climbed into the functioning, long distant relative of the deluxe bus for the duration of the journey.<span> </span>The darkness was heaven-sent—we could not see how filthy that city bus was.<span> </span>We flung our bags on to the ripped seats and leaned our heads against anything that could tempt sleep—metal poles, broken window frames, whatever you could find, because if you were half sleeping at least you were only half enduring the bumpy drive.<span> </span>The bus gasped to life and plowed back into the crowded road, which was in desperate need of two, three, or maybe four more lanes, even at that late hour.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I knew there was a reason why everyone said to take the train.<span> </span>How long ago was that?<span> </span>I remember sitting in an office with the program coordinators as they reminisced over their best and worst guest house experiences in Delhi while dueling over the prize for the best haggler in the room.<span> </span>Though the meeting was for my benefit, I couldn’t keep up with the piles of advice and stopped scribbling down notes.<span> </span>“This isn’t like anything else you have ever done, Rachel.<span> </span>You just cannot prepare for India,” they said.<span> </span>And so I didn’t. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>That was my first mistake.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I was nowhere near sleep; my jetlag was as fresh as the sewage smell in the air.<span> </span>I peered out the window and mused over whatever mixed motivations got me into this mess.<span> </span>Just a day ago my dad had dropped me off at the Salt Lake City International Airport.<span> </span>He pulled up to the curb, helped me with my single pack, and, with car keys still in the ignition of the idling car, offered to stay with me until I passed baggage check.<span> </span>I told him it was no longer necessary.<span> </span>What was another four months anyway?<span> </span>We knew the routine. <span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>As I stood there and watched him leave I remembered the first time I went to that airport alone.<span> </span><span> </span>“International”—that word, like my very own Lotus-eater or Siren, thinking the place was an enormous hub for Boeings and romantic adventures.<span> </span>This time was different.<span> </span>I knew big airports because I had been lost in them before.<span> </span>I knew romantic adventures because I had lived them and recognized that 48 hour flights were about as exciting as a can of beans.<span> </span>Yet, something about the transit—the physical movement, thrilled me.<span> </span>I noted my Chacos strapped to my feet, stained in some of my favorite memories, checked my single bag, and headed towards the airport security with an irrepressible smile plastered on my face.<span> </span>I was going home—my in-between, my no place, my road to somewhere else.<span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As the humid Indian air teased my disheveled hair I could not help but think how long ago that moment seemed.<span> </span>That smile, my dad standing there, arms outstretched to his little girl who had already seen more of the world than he would ever see in his lifetime.<span> </span>My gosh, the airport was <i>air-conditioned</i>.<span> </span>All of it, gone.<span> </span>A separate life.<span> </span>Life rooted in something “real”—the one I had known all of my existence, and even more surprising, a life I was growing to like.<span> </span>I think they call that maturity—but this was not exactly a phase I foresaw growing out of either.<span> </span>Whatever it was, now the only thing real was the dirty bus.<span> </span>The shadows.<span> </span>The ravenous mosquitoes.<span> </span>My nagging, silent regrets.<span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The breeze was broiling and the smell of the unregulated diesel fuel became unbearable, so I closed the plastic window.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was the boy, wasn’t it?<span> </span>Gall, I swore I would never let this happen.<span> </span>I usually break up with boyfriends before leaving out of principle.<span> </span>They are always dead ends.<span> </span>It is not like I was ever planning on getting married.<span> </span>Some girls are petrified that they will end up lonely old spinsters, but I was looking forward to it—especially if it included grapes and a beach in Greece.<span> </span>It pretty much takes an act of God for me to even like anyone, let alone want to keep them around for awhile.<span> </span>I wanted nothing more than to be free of that baggage.<span> </span>Free of everything.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But Patrick was different.<span> </span>Roll your eyes, go ahead.<span> </span>It wasn’t because he was attractive and funny or that he had a full ride scholarship to get a PhD at that fancy university that starts with “h” and ends with “arvard” either.<span> </span>None of that mattered to me.<span> </span>He might have been the antidote to my restless fever.<span> </span>Our relationship was something euphoric and surreal, bending time and the day-to-day realities like they were inconsequential inconveniences.<span> </span>We were playing out a Hollywood movie or a classic romance novel.<span> </span>It was a brave new world.<span> </span>Against all expectations and precedence, I was determined to see if I could make this one last.<span> </span>The result?<span> </span>A long distance relationship.<span> </span>Urban dictionary defines that as nothing short of a suicide mission and “just as pointless as having a relationship via internet with somebody you’ve never even met.”<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hopeless. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>I saw it written all over the expressions of my friends and family before leaving.<span> </span>“How long?” and then that look in their eyes of trying to hide foreseen, obvious misery—the “well that is too bad” look.<span> </span>But hey!<span> </span>They make matching “LDR” bracelets for $4.95 online.<span> </span>That has to count for something.<span> </span>Right?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I wasn’t on that bus.<span> </span>I wasn’t even in India.<span> </span>I didn’t want to be.<span> </span>I was with Patrick—I was revisiting our last nights together.<span> </span>Sitting beside him on the piano bench as we improved a little duet, or talking in his car all night until the windows fogged up to suggest something else—as if we had time for that; we were too hungry for conversation, for words and for meaning.<span> </span>Just hours ago it seems I was frantically stuffing my suitcase, too busy to even notice how quiet he was, how distant and reserved he was.<span> </span>Why did he look at me like <i>that, </i>just before walking down the porch steps and driving off?<span> </span>Already the doubts are going to strangle me?<span> </span>What chance do we have?<span> </span>Maybe the eyes of the experienced and practical were right.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">No, it <i>was</i> real.<span> </span>That was the most real thing I think I have ever had.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But I wasn’t there with him.<span> </span>I was not even here.<span> </span>I was in transit.<span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And still quite literally.<span> </span>Three hours later a tire blew.<span> </span>I was so numb to reality that I forgot to react, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular while other passengers of all ages and sizes hopped out the back door of the bus to stare, squabble, or for the minority, try to fix the problem.<span> </span>I listened them quarrelling in their incomprehensible languages in the blackness.<span> </span>Nothing was open.<span> </span>Someone got an axe and jerry rigged a jack to slap on the pitiful spare.<span> </span>A group of men poked around and nodded, approved, and before everyone was back on the bus the driver drove off.<span> </span>We left one man behind, arms flailing in desperation.<span> </span>No one made much fuss to stop the bus, and the driver drove on.<span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">People were always left behind, weren’t they?<span> </span>Patricks and others—others before Patrick.<span> </span>But what if I am staring out the back window?<span> </span>What if I should stop?<span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The hours started to mush together, and before I knew it the sky was a gradient of blue and yellow, outlining the approaching purple figure of the Himalayas.<span> </span>It was so gradual you could have missed it.<span> </span>But there they were.<span> </span>Looming there.<span> </span>Looking more or less like a two dimensional cut out of the Rockies back home.<span> </span>At a first glance they were, I admit, not impressive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>Just like India.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">More hours passed and we drew closer and deeper—the flat forms morphing into exponentially large ranges that quadrupled my imagination’s expectations.<span> </span>I realized that I had long let go of my backpack.<span> </span>The emerging highlights and shadows all added a rich layer of dimension. The highest peaks mingling with the wispy clouds, the snow caps and sky inseparable.<span> </span>I remember thinking, half serious, that maybe I could write about that.<span> </span>Maybe I was chasing stories.<span> </span>Not me, not contentment, not the pieces of my absent mother.<span> </span>No—there was something more to this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The bus heaved forward, lunged up the mountain switchbacks, and flirted with the sheer cliffs as the back row passengers vacillated between demanding a refund and vomiting out the window.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Yes.<span> </span>Something more.<span> </span>Something beyond this.<span> </span>But what?<span> </span>And how to express it?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It had been twelve hours since we began our journey, and we were still climbing up the mountain—so many layers, like rows of shark teeth.<span> </span>The switchbacks felt like a two hour rollercoaster, and (like all adventures) somewhere in the middle, or the beginning, or maybe the whole thing, it looked like a mistake; the fun element, gone.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And yet, somehow I was okay with that.<span> </span>I liked hard things, and I still do.<span> </span>Being in uncomfortable situations is oddly comfortable to me.<span> </span>Three months in Ghana taught me that.<span> </span>When people would ask, “How was Africa?” And I would respond, “It was great.”<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And it was.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But that is only half of the story.<span> </span>It wasn’t about fun or having a warm-fuzzy volunteer experience.<span> </span>There was nothing enjoyable about blood-sucking bugs and paradigm makeovers and looking like a blubbering idiot for not knowing the language.<span> </span>In Ghana I was forced to see things differently—forced to deal with the uncomfortable realities of life outside of myself and my sheltered Utah upbringing.<span> </span>It would have been, no doubt, easier to stay home and remain within the safe confines of my ignorance.<span> </span>And sometimes I wonder if that would have been best.<span> </span>The nightmares never went away.<span> </span>The images of yellowed eyes, mutilated limbs, and five-year-old child road kill are scarred into my mind.<span> </span>It took months for my stomach to stop hating me, and I have few people in my life who can really relate to my experiences.<span> </span>So “it was good” was about all that could be said—there was no point of reference—no way to bridge my two realities.<span> </span>No way to explain why I cried when my little sister threw away all her less stylish clothes or how strange it is to have three meals a day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But at the same time, there was so much good they could never understand—the sound of real silence—a life without a phone, an internet connection, a TV, and other distractions from the important things in life.<span> </span>They will never get to see the true color of the night, the magic of white and red fireflies dotting the untamed grass at dusk, or marvel at the unwavering faith of the hospitable Ghanaian people.<span> </span>They will never know the strange joy that comes from spending half a day washing clothes by hand or master the skill of eating soup with their hands.<span> </span>They may never know what it is like to feel beautiful without a mirror, cute clothes, or a collection of makeup.<span> </span>They might never get the chance to experience that peace—to hear God without white noise, and smile before bed each night because they can feel that harmony.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>Somewhere, even in the hard experiences, I found a piece of meaning, and instead of throwing it away or scrapbooking it upon my reentry home I kept pulling it out and looking it over until it grew so big I could no longer stuff it into the closet or hide it under the rug of<span> </span>“normal” life.<span> </span>It became so prominent that I decided to do the whole thing all over again.<span> </span>In India.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Fifteen hours later the bus came to a screeching halt.<span> </span>I hobbled out like a hung-over sailor shaking out my sea legs.<span> </span>And there I was, in Dharamsala, India—a cluster of bright colored restaurants and guest houses all stacked up on top of each other like a patchwork quilt—something between a city and a village nestled on the green mountain ridges, a place in transit, a sanctuary for the homeless, the country-less (and not just Tibetan’s in exile either).<span> </span>The street was packed with maroon-clad monks and dreadlocked, tattooed hippies, Tibetan seniors waving their canes at oncoming traffic trying to get to the Dalai Lama’s temple, and then the occasional, dazed traveler.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It felt like home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We arrived, but in a way I was just beginning to understand the passage and what this experience would mean to me—a personal transit through my meandering fragments of thought, a place to sift through mixed and maturing motivations, and maybe a place to determine a tentative destination point.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Or maybe I just wanted to understand (though I hate to admit it, naive as it may be),</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My sleep deprived musings were shattered by a Tibetan woman standing next to me.<span> </span>She had a long, black braid reaching down the back of her traditional <i>chupa</i> and eyed me with a bright, elastic smile.<span> </span>She was a person, no longer a suspicious shadow of someone about to steal my backpack.<span> </span>Just a fellow passenger, and I think, <i>I think,</i> there was something foreign and familiar about her that I liked.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Wow, that was crazy,” she said.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yeah,” I agreed, “it really is something.”<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-57508732654340296502011-10-29T11:57:00.000-07:002011-12-11T11:58:51.483-08:00Varanasi Scene<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:DoNotShowInsertionsAndDeletions/> <w:DoNotShowPropertyChanges/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i>you are nothing</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>you do not exist</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>you are not </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>real</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">i stood on the edge of the flooded Ganges river and tried to marvel at something.<span> </span>Anything.<span> </span>The sky was iron gray and the streets were black with human feces and stagnant puddles from the relentless monsoon rain, trying in vain to purge the filth from this hallowed city, Varansi.<span> </span>The murky river water had risen up and overtaken most of the ancient temples, leaving nothing but some scattered, once- sacred steeples jutting out of the indifferent water.<span> </span>There was no longer a clear divider between the holy river of Shiva and the rest of us—the living.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Whatever that means.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">i woke up <span> </span>that morning in a dark, windowless hostel room without a clue for the time, night or day.<span> </span>Megan and Hailey had disappeared for whatever reason. Into thin air.<span> </span>i gasped for air and jumped up to hit the lights.<span> </span>The artificial, orange ambiance was a strange anesthesia.<span> </span>I war no longer dreaming.<span> </span>Better to see what it is you are so afraid of, i think, but of course that is not always possible.<span> </span>i thought to pray and then thought better of it before going out to find the other two students i drug with me on what i thought would be a “great, cultural experience.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-88887392564258151262011-10-29T11:42:00.000-07:002011-12-11T11:43:31.623-08:00First Draft Monks and Mormons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:DoNotShowInsertionsAndDeletions/> <w:DoNotShowPropertyChanges/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This is a first draft of the final essay I have in my personal essay collection titled "Monks and Mormons." </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What Buddhism is and what it is not:</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The Dalai Lama</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>Who wouldn’t want to meet the Dalai Lama?<span> </span>I know I did, long before I had heard of Tibet or knew that he was associated with one of the many sects of Buddhism. <span> </span>Buddhism was so vogue and sexy to me.<span> </span>I dreamed of coming to India to learn how to meditate and find peace within myself since no amount of self-help books and cute motivational posters were helping much with the whole life contentment thing I was supposed to be working on.<span> </span>I guess I wasn’t the only one who sought out Buddhism either, because Western backpackers flooded in from all the corners of the world to find God something else in Mcleod Ganj, home of His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>My first week in India I had the opportunity to see His Holiness.<span> </span>My group of fellow students and I lined up under the bright, festive prayer flags in the blistering heat among the mix of natives and tourists for hours just to watch him drive past—an important event which I mistakenly called “that Dalai Lama thing” for which I was reprimanded by a local shopkeeper.<span> </span>I stood in the crowd with eager anticipation, but as initial life in India goes, I had a wave of “Delhi belly” come over me and had to sprint up temple road to find the nearest public squatter (my first public squatter if I might add, and I would tell you all about it but I think I would rather spare you the details).<span> </span>By the time I made it back the Dalai Lama had long come and gone.<span> </span>The crowed was dispersing back to the regular routine of life, and I pushed against the current to hear what I missed.<span> </span>Some of my group members related the experience to me:<span> </span>Bonnie caught a glimpse of his elbow, Kristen didn’t realize what car he was in until after he past, and lame as the drive by was, I felt disappointed the way you do when you first learn that Santa isn’t real.<a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>Sure, I would have plenty more opportunities to see the Dalai Lama, and maybe even meet him.<span> </span>When I got home that evening I related the story of my misfortune to my Tibetan host family and they assured me I would have another chance.<span> </span>They pointed at the blue walls of their cozy home at the pictures framed in white <i>khata</i> scarves, documenting all of the times they have met their spiritual leader throughout the years.<span> </span>I noticed that they passed over the one with a woman in a wheelchair I did not recognize, so I asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>“Who is that?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>My host sisters shot each other a look, then Tenzin, the oldest with the best English, stepped up to the plate and told me it was their mother—dead for just over a month now.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>And what was I supposed to say to that?<span> </span>I felt awful.<span> </span>No one had mentioned anything about a recent family death.<span> </span>I’m sure my enthusiasm as the new student in the home was not appropriate, and I think this defined the rest of my experience.<span> </span>On later occasions my host sisters mentioned their mother from time to time, but the subject never came up around <i>Paula</i>, my host father.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>My family was still very eager to teach me about their religion.<span> </span>The devout Tenzin would take me to circumambulate the temple each evening as the sun and heat of the day was settling to discuss different symbols and rituals that of her religion.<span> </span>She answered many of my pressing questions—why there were cookie donations at the foot of the Buddha statue, why the ninety year old woman with no teeth could do more prostrations than me, and why different Buddhist principles like interdependency and kindness were so important.<span> </span>I admired her dedication, though often felt more uncomfortable participating in Buddhist devotion than I would have anticipated—and even more so than I would like to admit.<span> </span>Tenzin shared her religious books with me and related well-known stories about His Holiness, how he ate <i>tsampa </i>for breakfast and woke up at 3 AM every morning, how he escaped to India over the Himalayas, his notable quotes on religious tolerance and the meaning of life, his recent trip to New York, etc..<span> </span>Tenzin became particularly interested once she found out about my frequent nightmares.<span> </span>“Meditation,” she said, “was the answer.”<span> </span>One night she took me up to the roof of the home to a breathtaking view of the Himalayan valley.<span> </span>We sat lotus style on the grainy concrete that stuck to my skin and she gave me my first lesson in meditation. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>“Close your eyes and focus even on your breathing,” she said.<span> </span>“If you do this every night, you will be having better sleep and keep bad thoughts out.”<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I did, and I tried, but then I would remember my reading assignment I was behind on, how I needed to email the office, apply for a skymiles account—and my gosh traffic was loud.<span> </span>And I wondered if they sold hand sanitizer at the market, and how long I had been successfully meditating…</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And so on and so forth.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But I still kept trying.<span> </span>Each night I would climb up to the terrace above the verandah and peer out at the little shops and hotels with different colored lights like Christmas, then squeeze my eyes shut and breathe.<span> </span>And breathe.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Every so often though I would go up and have to turn right back because I was interrupting <i>Paula</i>, standing with arms folded, staring out into the blackness—beyond the pretty lights and civilization—as he rolled the beads of his worn rosary between his thumb and pointer finger.<span> </span>I would have apologized for the intrusion, but he never took notice of me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ever.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Most of my time in Dharamsala was spent volunteering at English conversation labs with <i>geshes</i>, or monks with the equivalent of a PhD.<span> </span>A handful of times a week I would talk with these eight bald, maroon-clad monks and talk about anything from superstitions about carrying water buckets to the benefits of polyandry.<span> </span>Though language barriers became, well, apparent, their favorite and best subject for conversing was religion.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>This is when I first started to dismantle my infatuation with Buddhism.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>We couldn’t get far before first establishing that I was a Christian.<span> </span>They had, what, eighteen years in philosophy training? So there were plenty of points to debate with me already.<span> </span>“What is the self?” they would always ask.<span> </span>“Is it the head?<span> </span>The arm?<span> </span>The stomach?”<span> </span>Since the self is not defined by any of those things, it is therefore an illusion.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span><i>The self does not exist.<span> </span>Souls do not exist.<span> </span>Identity does not exist.<span> </span>I do not exist.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This is the first realization to embrace before you can move on to avoiding suffering—an inevitability of life, as the Buddha taught.<span> </span>In retrospect, perhaps that is why I was so bothered that my yoga teacher could never remember my name.<span> </span>I would take my regular place at the back right corner of the studio, just like I did during ten years of my much dreaded dance lessons as a child, and the great yoga master would simply call me “back side.”<span> </span>Maybe this is why I was left so disturbed in Varansi, watching the countless bodies being cremated over crackling firewood on the edge of the sacred, mud-colored Ganges River, and why I almost threw up when a cloth fell off the face of one half-charred man.<span> </span>Perhaps this was why I was so disturbed with getting human ash in my hair, a smell that I swear lingered for weeks, and why I felt so damn depressed most days in India.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">If you have ever been bothered by the weight of your own nothingness and insignificance in the universe, or if you are looking for a warm-fuzzy validation of your unique existence, then Buddhism is not the religion for you.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The next steps to alleviating sorrow in Buddhism are similar—that any attachment to the world, whether that be possessions or people, bring sorrow and must be avoided.<span> </span>All strong emotion should be eliminated, including happiness.<span> </span>General love and kindness are necessary, but you have to be careful not to form those attachments. I thought of my close friends and family, then <i>Paula</i>, and wondered how you can love something or someone and not feel some kind of attachment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Some months later I was walking up and down the steep road and noticed a new flier posted to the wall of a restaurant near my home.<span> </span>By then it was rainy season, and the paper was water damaged, but the words were still clear despite the rainbow smear of what used to be the photograph taking up most of the flier.<span> </span>It was a workshop for traditional Tibetan <i>mandala </i>painting, thrown together by some Western guy looking for some extra cash to get him to the next exotic destination, advertised as a way to “reach into our souls” to get in contact with “our inner selves.”<span> </span>I looked at the phone number and seriously thought about calling to let him know that Buddhists do not believe in “souls” or “selves,” and that he was not doing anyone a favor by feeding the misrepresentation—one that Dalai Lama himself warns about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>But I didn’t.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I did end up seeing His Holiness three, four, maybe five times.<span> </span>The first was the most memorable though.<span> </span>I stood with my host family at the base of the Dalai Lama’s yellow temple and we watched him and the new prime minister walk up the stairs.<span> </span>What struck me is how he looked just like his picture, but somehow not.<span> </span>He wore maroon robes and long matching socks with black loafer shoes, had deep creases in the back of his bald head, and modeled thick brimmed glasses.<span> </span>He was hunched over, and though he did not struggle up the stairs, he looked much older than I had imagined.<span> </span>I guess I didn’t realize that he was 76, or that he was human, or that he is going to die like the rest of us.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">That moment felt like it passed in slow motion.<span> </span>He had a presence about him that demanded respect, but who was this man?<span> </span>Was he a living Gandhi, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize?<span> </span>A rebel and an enemy to China?<span> </span>As Anne Lamott puts it, “the most sane person” in the world?<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span></span></span></a><span> </span>Was he the man whose “greatest error in his political life” (not going to Beijing in 1989 for a chance to patch China relations) resulted in the last chance lost for Tibet?<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span></span></span></a> The great spiritual leader and model for thousands of homeless Tibetans?<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Or, in his own words from his autobiography, maybe he was “just a human being?”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span></span></span></a><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My last month in India I had the opportunity to attend a public teaching by His Holiness—an affair almost unheard of anymore for the tourist population to attend since the Dalai Lama is trying to retire and speaks mostly to the Tibetan population these days.<span> </span>My group and I registered a week in advance and stood in line for hours to squish ourselves into some corner of the overloaded temple to press our ears to our scratchy FM radios to hear the broadcast of the monotone, translated message of the Dalai Lama.<span> </span>Our nearby neighbors were soon annoyed when, like most Westerns, we got squirmy when our feet fell asleep from sitting cross legged for too long, our backs started to ache without any kind of support, and our interest waned with each passing hour of philosophical teachings—something about the importance of correct understanding Buddhist philosophy.<span> </span>I stayed because I knew I should, and that it was a unique opportunity, etc., but I was bored to tears.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>After the teaching we pushed our way through the crowd to a nearby restaurant for a refreshing soda and some lunch to hold us over for the next session, which we were only half considering attending at that point, though no one had to say it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>I remember sitting there with my glass Sprite bottle in hand, a pink stripped straw and everything, when I overheard a group of (no doubt), American tourists emerging from the temple.<span> </span>One guy, the leader it seemed, turned to his twenty-something year old friends and said, “Well, that was cool, but now that we have seen him I don’t think we need to stay and listen anymore.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>“Yeah,” said the girl to his right.<span> </span>“Seeing him was the most important thing.<span> </span>Now we can say we have seen the Dalai Lama.”<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>The group unanimously agreed and disappeared into the masses in the street, probably looking for their own restaurant retreat, while I sipped at my Sprite and tried really hard to deny that I was anything like <i>those</i> kinds of Americans.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As it is, I never got rid of my nightmares, never learned to meditate, never requested an audience to meet the Dalai Lama, and never learned what happened to my dead host mom and why despite His Holiness’ statement, “Buddhism does not require mourning<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span></span></span></span></a>,” my Buddhist <i>Paula </i>was left devastated by his wife’s death.<span> </span>My last week in McLeod I went to a final English conversation lab with the <i>geshes</i> and saw that a new volunteer had shown up.<span> </span>She was paired up with one of the better speakers in the class and, of course, they got talking about religion.<span> </span>I couldn’t help but smile as I heard her personal religious philosophy:<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>“Well, I’m a Christian <i>and </i>a Buddhist.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>If there is anything I can say I learned in the three months I lived in Dharamsala, it was that you cannot (romantic as it sounds), be a Buddhist Christian, or a Christian Buddhist.<span> </span>His Holiness thinks every major religion that teaches “love and compassion can produce good human beings,”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span></span></span></span></a> and though he is interested by the “phenomenon” of “the rapid growth of interest in Buddhism amongst western nations,”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span></span></span></span></a> he warns people about misunderstanding of Buddhism and the danger of proselytizing since it draws “people away from their traditional culture and values.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[7]</span></span></span></span></a><span> </span>The Dalai Lama also says that he believes we can learn from each other and better understand our own spiritual practices<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[8]</span></span></span></span></a>, which is what Buddhism gave me—a rich and unique chance to confirm my own beliefs and unravel my infatuation with Buddhism without diminishing my great respect for the religion and the amazing people who devote their lives to it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But at the end of the day, I am not Buddhist.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">NOTES:</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I want to add more from <i>Tibet, Tibet </i>when my notes back from another professor and <i>What Makes You Not a Buddhist</i>, once the library gets a copy in.<span> </span></span></div><div><br clear="all" /> <hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /> <div id="ftn1"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span></span></span></a> Bird by Bird</div></div><div id="ftn2"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span></span></span></a> Tibet, Tibet pg 110</div></div><div id="ftn3"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[3]</span></span></span></span></a> Dalai Lama’s Autobiography, Foreward</div></div><div id="ftn4"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[4]</span></span></span></span></a> Still hunting down quote in Autobiography of Dalai Lama</div></div><div id="ftn5"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[5]</span></span></span></span></a> Autobiography 208</div></div><div id="ftn6"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[6]</span></span></span></span></a> Autobiography 223</div></div><div id="ftn7"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[7]</span></span></span></span></a> Autobiography 307</div></div><div id="ftn8"> <div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5120968270565506805#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">[8]</span></span></span></span></a> Autobiography 307</div></div></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-21823891972825448272011-10-23T22:34:00.000-07:002011-10-23T22:49:50.875-07:00An Online Discussion on the Querying Process: And some new friends!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEenNWxE4ST4XG883qc6bxMt_HPUtIzv1vjcBUx_a3r2JXo-Vuy1hKv_FjFALbIoNkrDnhrmsPZJI0gGpkU5NUc8KIgD4CYO7-LxTXaKLcUew5TPOgsbKFN17_PifBb5ToOunEeqya7Vw/s1600/typing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEenNWxE4ST4XG883qc6bxMt_HPUtIzv1vjcBUx_a3r2JXo-Vuy1hKv_FjFALbIoNkrDnhrmsPZJI0gGpkU5NUc8KIgD4CYO7-LxTXaKLcUew5TPOgsbKFN17_PifBb5ToOunEeqya7Vw/s200/typing.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>In addition to writing <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Personal%20Essay">personal essays</a> for my <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/search/label/Honors%20Prospectus">honors thesis</a>, I am also enrolled in a Beginning Novel class where I am working on my first ever novel! Last week, one of the girls in my class sent out an invite to join a live, online chat session on October 11th with a few published authors discussing the querying process at <a href="http://annielauriecechini.com%20/">Annie Laurie Cechini's website</a>. It started with <a href="http://www.michelledavidsonargyle.com%29/">Michelle Davidson Argyle</a>, talking about where to start the querying process, then <a href="http://lydiasharp.blogspot.com/">Lydia Sharp</a>, who discussed the fundamentals of a query letter, and then was wrapped up with <a href="http://sgardn.blogspot.com/">Sierra Gardner</a>, who discussed ways to stay organized and keep tabs on queries. Ashley, the girl in my class, ensured us that they were friendly people and would be thrilled to share their information to those who are new to this scene, so I decided to check it out.<br />
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The archived version of the chat session I participated in is not yet posted, but I will link to it once it is. Here are a few main things I learned:<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
First, querying seems to be much easier with twitter, blogging, and other online venues that help writers know what publishers are interested in. Michelle said that there is a blog called Query Slushpile that is a great place to workshop query letters in a public sphere. There is also <a href="http://openquery.blogspot.com/">http://openquery.blogspot.com</a> and <a href="http://querytracker.net/">http://querytracker.net</a>. Sierra suggested that most information could be found out through following up on blogs. <br />
<br />
<b>Query Letter Basics:</b><br />
<br />
A query letter IS a brief pitch meant to hook an agent and a professional business letter. It is not a full synopsis of your book, a way to "test the waters" with agents, and should never be sent before your novel is finished and ready.<br />
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<b>Basic Format for a Query Letter:</b><br />
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Lydia outlined this, but recommended that writers always check the agent and their guidelines before sending it in. <b> </b><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dear Mr./Ms. Agent:<br />
<br />
[pitch -- about 200-250 words, usually 2-3 short paragraphs. Keep it to character, conflict, choice, and start with a defined character] <br />
<br />
[title, genre, word count]<br />
<br />
[briefly state why you are querying this agent specifically]<br />
<br />
[brief bio, *relevant* publishing credits, *relevant* unpaid writing -- blogger, book reviewer, degree in English/creative writing, etc]<br />
<br />
[brief thank you]<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
[your real name here]<br />
<br />
[contact info, website] </span></div><br />
Several of the panelists commented on the importance of online presence. Publishers <i>will </i>look you up. Annie said that one she got her first request for a full draft and found out later that while her query wasn't the best, her online presence was what made the difference. Genuine networking, according to the panelists, by being supportive and kind, gets you far. <br />
<br />
And the coolest part? I got to participate! I won a free query workshop (which means I should really get going on my novel). I'm very excited to browse through these writers blogs and see some of their previous posts on issues I am comforted with as I am just starting out as a writer. Many of the hot topics like self-publishing, etc. seem to be covered, so stay tuned! <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=writing&um=1&hl=en&biw=870&bih=691&tbm=isch&tbnid=rwmM60gxEaR7dM:&imgrefurl=http://www.jobgoround.com/&docid=V8a-njfwIn391M&imgurl=http://www.jobgoround.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/typing.jpg&w=586&h=386&ei=g_mkTu_aJbLXiALQj5CnCw&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=248&sig=109024043897343180881&page=4&tbnh=138&tbnw=201&start=33&ndsp=9&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:33&tx=114&ty=32">(Photo credit to jobgoround.com) </a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-5972686053796145502011-10-23T21:51:00.000-07:002011-10-23T21:52:08.276-07:00The Best American Travel Writing 2010 by Bill Buford<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8015306-the-best-american-travel-writing-2010" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Best American Travel Writing 2010" border="0" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1286313927m/8015306.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8015306-the-best-american-travel-writing-2010">The Best American Travel Writing 2010</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2606.Bill_Buford">Bill Buford</a><br />
<br />
My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/185175204">4 of 5 stars</a><br />
<br />
As part of thepersonal essays I am writing about my experience in Dharamsala, India this summer, I read selected essays for different models onwriting in this genre. It was hit and miss, but I have comments on a few that stood out to me in terms of content and form.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">1.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Appointment in Istanbul</i> by Henry Alford</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This is the first essay in the collection. The fact that this story took place in Istanbul is beside the point. The moral of the story could be gained from the first few lines. “Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of ten years back in New York, and had flown to Istanbul to sightsee my heartbreak away” (1). Of course, the narrator does not forget about the personal baggage, which is made quite clear in the last, ironic paragraph, “thanks for helping me forget about my break up” (3). <a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I guess the important thing I gained from the content of the essay was how powerful our past experiences and emotions are in trying to interpret our experiences abroad. Whether or not the man the narrator met was interested in him or his money is unclear, but it does not matter. Try as we might to escape or sightsee our hearts away, they always have a way of coming up and defining our experiences.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This is important to recognize, especially right now when I am trying to figure out the balance I want between objective and subjective within my own honors thesis project. I tend to think objective is more or less subjective than we let on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay is very short, only three pages long. I think that says something about the length of our protagonist’s trip and maybe something about how futile his attempt is to forget about his lost relationship. It did not need to be any longer. We did not need to know the particulars, which established more of the author’s intent to really just escape it for a bit. I think he also does that so that anyone coming from any experience visiting any place in an attempt to escape their problems can relate. I think eliminating the details about the situation made that more possible. “Boyfriend of ten years” was enough to show a reader that this was a long, serious relationship that he is clearly going to struggle getting over.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Prose and dialogue are mixed very well, giving the narrator the stage and control of the story. We are given just very few words from the other man, enough to let us think about how the situation might have looked from an outsider’s opinion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Other than that, the prose was very straight forward. Sentences were not short or long, and the details were very concrete, which would be expected. There are, however, a lot of intentional fragments, giving it a more personal, informal feel. This is something I tend to do in my own writing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>The Undead Travel</i> by Avi Davis</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This is an essay about a guy living in Paris who visits Sighisoara, Romania for a trip. Here he is confronted with the vampire myths that seem to stem out of this location. In general, I learned a lot about the vampire craze and how it has morphed into its own industry. It does not feel like a personal essay though. It compiles history, ethnography, makes and point, and the personal elements stay out for the most part—mostly just to get us there to begin with. In that sense, I’m not sure that the beginning paragraphs about his journey are necessary to the essay.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">There was a lot to go off of her—I mentioned already that it was not that personal, but he does vacillate between history, his account, and characters that he encounters in Sighisoara who help give us more context for the essay. I was surprised by how background history was included. The Romanian princes, the lack of credibility of the “Dracula myth”—books published about vampires up to the present date, etc. It is very clear that this author did his homework. A lot of it came from some independent research, but he spends a lot of the time doing indirect dialogue with this woman, Jeanne, who has some insider knowledge, giving more credibility to the argument.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> There were a lot of images that played into this vampire theme. The way he described Petre, the drunkard, was where I noticed it the most. The narrator says that place “felt ominous.” Petre “paints his face white” and has “a great red grin” while making “violent declarations” (40). This really sets us in the kind of ominous mood that the narrator is feeling. These images continue when it talks about the fabricated vampire industry as “leeches” (42) that live “off the tourists” (45). </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Other things about form to note are that the author uses almost exclusively long sentences. It helps establish a serious tone to the essay—or maybe a creepy tone to the essay, which would match the content. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The beginning does not give us much about the emotions of the narrator, which leaves the feelings kind of ambiguous. I’m sure he did that intentionally, since he concludes that his feelings on the vampire myths do not necessarily depend on his logical knowledge that they have very little founding.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> It is not till the last few paragraphs that Davis starts getting to the point. The conclusion is not personal to match the introduction. I would have preferred to have a glimpse of his own thoughts and motivations in some kind of summary statement, or even fragment, but oh well. I think my essays will be more personal, though I like the way he is able to include so much background history.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">3.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>The Hadza </i>by Michael Finkel</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This was one of the first essays I turned too since I noticed it was from <i>National Geographic</i>. Since I have been wondering about the best way to include cultural information and personal insights into my own travel essays, this was a great read. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The Hadza are a group of nomads in northern Tanzania that Finkel goes to stay with for a few weeks. We see their life through Finkel’s eyes as he focuses mostly on a hunting ritual he participates in. By the end he says that “it’s only a matter of time before there are no more traditional Hadza scrambling in the hills with their bows and arrows, stalking baboons” (62), which is sad, but the fact of globalization. It makes me wonder what the world will look like in 100 years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Favorite part? That the Hadza men get mad at their women when they bath since “the longer they go without baths…the more attractive they are” (66). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> My two questions for Finkel are 1) If he honestly did not get a little grossed out by eating baboon brain or if he was just as touch and manly as he claims to have been during the feast, and 2) why nothing is really included about a translator? This is a huge barrier between the Hadza and the narrator. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay was entertaining and felt more authentic, reminding us that this is a personal account that tries to give a good representation of these people, but it is limited.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was definitely a longer essay, but I really liked the movement. It did a great job at weaving personal details and thoughts while still trying to represent a certain population.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The main structure that Finkel seems to use is by going back and forth between the baboon hunt and the history, observations, etc. about the Hadza in general. Whenever he would get back to “the present,” he would not indent the first paragraph to keep us oriented. The hunt frames most of the essay, which I like, since that is how I am planning on structuring my first essay in my own collection of travel essays. Unlike mine though, this whole essay was written in the present tense. I have heard that this is the best, direct way to tell a story. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The essay jumps right into the story without any kind of elaborate introduction. It orients us immediately to the narrator and what he is experiencing (something else I am trying to do in my own first essay). The essay pretty much runs chronologically after that and weaves in anthropological material and legitimate research, showing that Finkel has done his homework. Yet, at the same time, the narrator is not afraid to insert personal details. I find it refreshing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I liked how “the fate” of the Hadza was put in the middle and not at the end of the essay so that we don’t mistake this for “the point.” This means that there is a not a lot of need for closure since it was described and conveyed well along the way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Humor was also something that we cannot ignore from this essay. It made it entertaining to learn about these people through the eyes of an outsider, with skin that “does not blend well with the night” (54), like ourselves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">4.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>A House is a Machine to Live In </i>by J.C. Hallman</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I’m not going to lie; I thought this was one of the more boring essays in the collection that I read. I don’t know that it is the authors fault, I just think I am not that interested about people who live their entire lives on cruise ships, though the concept of traveling “the world without leaving home” (156) is interesting. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> One positive device that this essay uses is two epithets. Though they are kind of long, so most people probably don’t read them, they are both very vocal that this essay is going to be exploring the concept of Utopia. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This essay used a <i>lot</i> of history and personal observation to tell the story of people who live on these ships, especially Kloster, the main character that Hallman follows around to understand more about this topic. I think history was the strongest asset to this essay’s creation. Hallman uses lots of historical sources to give background to Kloster and others who live this kind of life. In a way it reminded me of the essay <i>The Undead Travel</i> the way the narrator uses history and personal details that were not-so-personal by describing the individuals he encounters instead of his own thoughts and insights. This essay also used a big of dialogue to convey that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I am noticing that through most of these essays, paragraphs are not indented when you are changing ideas or jumping from history, reminiscing, etc. to the “present” story. This essay does a lot of that, helping the reader not get lost and subtly say, “hey, we are changing gears.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay was told in the past tense. It was long because it was thought out and researched, but yeah, I was struggling. I think one of the reasons was that the introduction, in my opinion, was slow and not engaging. I think this is supposed to be more of an informational essay than one for entertainment. It is interesting to have both kinds included in this anthology. As far as my collection of travel essays are concerned, I’d like to do more of the Finkel tried to do and incorporate personal details and a bit of humor with anthropological detail to make them enjoyable to read for people who may not otherwise be interested in the population I am studying. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">5.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Walking: An Essay on Writing </i>by Peter LaSalle</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I really liked this essay! It was about the narrator discovering, while on walks, the hit-in-the-face kind of inspiration that a writer sometimes encounters. “It” happened while in Paris and Rio. The content of this essay made me want to write.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay felt very “Street Haunting” on me. While it wasn’t straight up stream of conscious (oh no, I am bleeding into form!) it was the most personal of the essays I have read so far. I do wonder if writing/walking has become a form of cliché in that sense. I also wonder why he is able to carrying on about this mysterious “it” for a few pages, when I distinctly remember my first college creative writing teacher telling me to eliminate all “it’s” in my crappy poem because we should not be ambiguous. Here, I think it works. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This entire essay is written in the past tense, and the most obvious device is that the essay is divided into two parts for the two separate places, Paris and Rio. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The first part is about Paris. He jumps right into giving us setting details and his purpose and motivation for being in Paris, which I find refreshing. As he is walking he starts to think, and as he is walking along he has these realizations triggered by the things he is observing. This is why it reminds me of Virginia Woolf’s “Street Haunting.” Though the setting is what is acting on our narrator, this essay has almost nothing to do with the actual things he is seeing, rather what is going on inside of his mind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I noticed that LaSalle uses parenthesis once in awhile to show more personal thoughts that are tentative, and italics as well. In the first portion of the essay, the one about Paris, he keeps the italics at a minimum and seems to do it merely for emphasis. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> However, in the second portion of the essay, we are in Rio. Again, he orients us, tells us where he is and why he is there, and throughout the thing he relates back to some of the subjects he was musing about in the first essay, such as his girlfriend (now ex girlfriend), that bridges the two essays together. He also shows in this second essay that maybe he is doing this traveling out of a pretext. That is a pretty vulnerable thing to say, again reaffirming that this is a very personal essay.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This author also has a lot of one-sentence paragraphs, drawing emphasis and attention to those short points. I do this a lot when I write.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> In this second essay I am trying to make sense of the italics. Instead of an occasional word, there are entire paragraphs italicized. I guess it worked for emphasis, but it seemed to be the more subconscious type of stuff going on in his mind, much like Woolf. Since the whole thing is more or less in his head anyways, I think the italics in the second part show us glimpses at his mind’s processes even more so than we have experienced in the first parts of the essay. This device at the end, juxtaposed with the single line, “I was still sitting on the bench” (200), is a really nice juxtaposition that shows the complexity of the human mind. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> LaSalle is able to write an entire essay about his mind’s workings and does a good job at keeping us entertained because he uses a lot of personality in his writing style. There is a nice blend of short and long sentences, dashes, fragments, italics, etc. that keep it going. I think it tends to give some buildup the same way the writer felt it, and keeps the serious mood of the essay. There are also some great images that make it grounded in setting while we are still exploring the narrators mind. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">6.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>In Defense of Tourism </i>by Peter Jon Lindberg</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This is definitely my favorite essay in this anthology. I think I underlined a good third of it…I think a lot of that is simply because I relate so well to the topic. I hate being “touristy,” and the narrator is able to point out reasons where that is problematic, mostly because he seems to sympathize with the tendency since it is once that he has felt before as well. This essay is hilarious and witty, and is meant to be persuasive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay begins like some of the other essays I have looked at—jumping right into a specific situation (in this case, an argument with a friend) that introduces us to the issue with some concrete detail. Unlike others, this one did not need to be grounded in one particular setting, though it did give lots of details and specific examples to get the argument across. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Dialogue is also used off and on in here. Colloquial phrases and words are also dropped all over the place, creating an informal feel to it. This is for the everyday person to read. Fragments and italics are also used here and help make that apparent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> One device that also works well in this essay is when the narrator directly addresses the reader. “Maybe you are too” (201) was the first one I spotted on the first page, and latter he tells us to “Google that” (203). This is very down to earth…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The narrator does a great job at establishing ethos with the reader by simply playing off of the paradigm of the people that are against being “too touristy.” It is clear that he knows because he has been in that thinking before, which means he is more believable when he starts bringing up arguments against that mindset. If he did not establish himself as an insider first, or if he failed to use his humor, we might not easily swallow what he is prescribing. He addresses this personal insight in the middle, and admits his flaw of thinking, persuading us to do the same.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Yeah, audience is everything here. Lindberg knows that he is not addressing people who like cruises and tourist packages, he is directing this at the rest of us who are looking for something more authentic and sometimes prevent ourselves from having a better experience because we are so high-brow about it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Another device the narrator seems to use to get his point across is a few facts and stats, though no sources are cited. That could or could not add or subtract from his point. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay ended on kind of a “moral of the story” note. He comes right out and says that we should be “letting go of the suspicion, letting down the defenses, and allowing for a genuine response,” even if that means being a tourist, because that might be a much better experience (205).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay is short, but very convincing. The beginning and end are framed by the same argument experience with his friend, Alex, which makes it feel complete and summed up. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">7.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Guy Walks into a Bar Car</i> by David Sedaris</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The story is about a guy who is going on the Amtrak from New York to Chicago and makes a fool of himself by hitting on a drunk, straight guy, and is also framed by a larger story of travel in general and how he seems to be searching for the perfect romance (and feels that he once missed it). I think this is common theme in travel writing—are we looking for a place, or are we really looking for a person? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">For starters, I think the title is very clever—a well known joke, which matches the content well. I think that Sedaris wants us to feel the way he felt, that the whole experience was a great big joke.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The essay is divided into two parts, though they are not officially divided the way <i>Walking: an Essay on Writing</i> was. Like some other writers, Sedaris includes an extra space and does not indent a paragraph that is about a new topic. Yet, these two distinct parts have an interesting connection not readily apparent. The second part gives context to the first, and the conclusion ties both parts of the essay together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay was pretty heavy in dialogue as well. I think it works well with how he integrates it into his own insights. The entire thing was writing in the past tense. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The tone is steady and somber with bursts of humor. He knows he is pathetic, or at least that is what he is trying to get across—probably in a way that we relate. The conclusion really sets us up for that. Out of loneliness or depression or something he decides to call a guy he knew he shouldn’t have called to ask if “he’d like to hear a joke” (291). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">8.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Take Nothing, Leave Nothing </i>by Simon Winchester</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This essay is about the narrator’s incident of being banned forever from the tiny little island, Tristan da Cunha, by the inhabitants for sharing information he was not supposed to in writing. While at first it is set up as being extremely ridiculous, we later see that Winchester has since changed his mind and decided that he had no right to write about these people despite their “fierce devotion to self-protection and privacy” (307), especially as he mourns the fact that the little island is now being turned into a tourist trap.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I like it, though I felt the ended was a little didactic, especially since the author never gives us any reason why he randomly changed to a completely different viewpoint. However, I think it brings up an interesting question in travel writing, one that I have always struggled with. What right do we have to take these stories? What consequences does our writing leave for the people we try to represent? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I think it is slightly funny that he is writing about his regret for writing about this island while simultaneously still writing about the island against their wish. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Most of this essay is told in chronological order and happens over a span of 20ish years. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The beginning first establishes the location we are looking at, and then brings us to the narrator and why he cannot join the fellow passengers on the island that they have just landed at. He then goes into the story of why he is denied access, history of the island, and his journey to discovering that he might have been in the wrong after all. He establishes time along the way to show us that this was a realization that took years to come to. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> He does this through writing in the past tense the entire essay and including a lot of history and research. Like many other essays I’ve read, he keeps flash back and present situation organized by doing a double space and not indenting the first paragraph of the new topic. Maybe this is all obvious to people, but until I started looking at these essays I did not know how to use this device. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The tone throughout the essay is incredibly sarcastic, but once he changes his mind he seems to be more serious. I can’t tell if the sarcasm was to make us side with him originally or if he is so embarrassed by his initial behavior that he uses sarcasm, but I think it works.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Winchester also tends to use a lot of dashes. This is a new convention I’ve used in my writing over the last year, but I really enjoy it. I think it creates more of a natural way of talking instead of written formality, which is what the narrator seemed to want to portray. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The essay ends on a fairly conclusive statement that might be the narrator trying to redeem himself, summing up the story. I don’t think it is a coincidence that this was the last essay of the anthology either. This is a pretty strong way to end, telling us exactly where he was wrong, and probably encouraging us to think twice before we commercialize the people we encounter on our travels. </span></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-91172008511423242142011-10-23T21:34:00.000-07:002011-10-23T21:52:36.861-07:00The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present by Phillip Lopate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27432.The_Art_of_the_Personal_Essay" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present" border="0" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1223649252m/27432.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27432.The_Art_of_the_Personal_Essay">The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15387.Phillip_Lopate">Phillip Lopate</a><br />
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My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/156163647">5 of 5 stars</a><br />
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As I have been working on some of my own personal essays from my travels in India, this has been like my Bible. I'm just going to attach some of my responses on the form and content of selected essays. It can be daunting to try and sift through the entire anthology (it is huge, I know, I backpacked it all over Europe and India) so I hope this can help someone:<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">1.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Consolation to His Wife </span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">by Plutarch</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">It is kind of refreshing to find a guy who “atypically for his age, saw marriage as the closet of human bonds” (16). It is clear as we read this that he admires his “dear wife.” This is a letter written to her to give advice and encouragement to her as she mourns for their recently deceased little girl, who died while he was away (and somehow missed the message). It is interesting to see this kind of marriage dynamic and to get a glimpse at some of the cultural values of his society. This was written before 120 AD, and there are some practices that are definitely different from what we would be accustomed to. For one, mourning is not really appropriate, and actually against the law (22). The advice given to his wife was clear on that, and he commended her for handling it so well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Yet, some things are similar, and some of the advice might be as applicable today as it was over a thousand years ago. I thought it was interesting that he realized that his daughter only knew of “little things, and in little things she took her please” (21). Since she had no way of knowing what she was deprived of, they should therefore not mourn the loss of potential. I don’t think I would necessarily love that advice if I had a kid pass away, but he has a point, and it seems applicable to now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> One of the other things notable about this letter was that, beautiful as it was, Plutarch seemed to betray no emotion. That would probably be a societal value as well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The most notable thing about this form is that it is written as a letter to his wife. She is the audience, and he writes directly to her. Yet, the messages and the formal way he writes make it universal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The form of the letter really does kind of wrap up the comments on form. It has an intended audience and flows organically wherever the topic comes to. He does not change voice, use flashback, or anything like that. There are a lot of rhetorical questions though, which is probably a notable device, and the letter is somewhat of an argument meant to persuade not just his wife, but others, the appropriate way to behave after a death. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Of Greatness </i>by Abraham Cowley</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was an interesting little essay. It was interesting to see that while considered very person for this time period, it is nowhere near as vulnerable to the narrator as some of the other essays in this anthology. As the narrator goes through and tries to pin point the consequences of wanting greatness and honor, I enjoyed a few little excerpts. One was about contentment, and how “no greatness can be satisfied or contented with itself” (120). I also appreciated his final point, which was that “everything is little, and everything is great, according as it is diversely compared” (121). It is so true.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Cowley opens with a quote by Sieur de Montaigne and argues from there. It is a nice way to introduce the topic. This device, using quotes from other writers, Homer, etc. was used throughout the entire essay as a way to look more credible and backed up by “the great ones.” Even St. Paul was quoted, giving it even a religious spin. Little bits of poems were also included, as well as a bunch of Latin and Greek phrases, trying to establish his ethos. He adds to that on the first page when he puts in his own love of “littleness” (116) and argues why that is the better way to be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The language in this essay is very formal with liberal use of adverbs. It is meant to be persuasive and to make the author look like he knows a thing or two about this subject, which I think is the main reason why (if it was every appropriate in the day), he did not use informal speech patterns. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The organization is pretty straight forward. He has an argument to make, and he goes through point by point to explain the intricacies of his thought. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">3.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Love-Letters </span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">by Addison &Steele</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was hilarious! It is essentially a commentary on two different love letters to Romana to prove a point about the complexity of what women want in a guy. Tale as old as time! We tend to want the guy who is fun, dangerous, and frankly not the best choice, though, as this lady says, “she knew she out to have taken Constant; but believed, she should have chosen Carless” (135). </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This is a really interesting form—we get a very “show but not tell” thing going on, which does not seem to be very common for the time period it was written. It begins and ends with an overarching commentary but includes two letters from outside voices. The two letters are almost exactly the same as far as style and length, but the first (Careless) is vain and silly, while the second (Constant) is formal and boring. Yet, the last paragraph that sums up the point does not come out with a didactic moral of the story kind of line. Instead, the last line is left to Romana, who sums it up for us. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was also very impersonal. We got minimal details about the actual narrator. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">4.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>On Marriage </i>by Robert Louis Stevenson</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> It was not necessarily easy to figure out right away what Stevenson was talking about. He first comes out saying that while “there is something in marriage so natural and inviting” that “there is probably no other act in a man’s life so hot-headed and foolhardy” (230). He explains that people who want to get married to fix their problems should not be married, because you’ll only bring the other person problems. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> At this point he goes on to unveil the ideal of marriage and reminds us all that when we marry, we are taking on “a creature of equal, if of unlike, frailties; whose weak human heart beats no more tunefully” than our own (233). Understanding this, Stevenson then argues that if we get over this and truly understand the institution of marriage, then we should proceed with hope, faith, and find “glimpses of kind virtues” amidst the hardship (235). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I like this argument. Marriage is a lot of work and I think a lot of kids in my ward could benefit from this. My parents taught me well how much work marriage is, but I think many of my friends see it as the answer to their problems. I think marriage is something wonderful and something I now look forward to (though that was not always the case), but it needs to stop being idealized as a fix-all solution. I’ve always felt that no relationship will work well if one or both of the parties are not whole on their own first. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was meant to be a persuasive essay. Stevenson obviously has a lot of feeling on the subject because of personal experience (as the biography states), but he leaves it pretty impersonal. In fact, before I read the biography and casually skimmed this essay I misunderstood it completely, thinking that Stevenson was arguing that marriage anything but a positive experience. It is not very concrete and does not give many concrete examples, which might be one reason why it is kind of difficult to wade through. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Along with that the organization is like most of the essays from this time, go with the flow till you reach the conclusion. We don’t really see how the beginning fits with the topic until we get to the end. What I can gather is that the essays starts on one large sentence on hope, goes through a few abstractions, and then argues them. It takes a few paragraphs to get to the point, which is very unlike a more modern essay form.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Stevenson starts a lot of his sentences with “And.” I remember learning that that was a horrible idea in high school, but now it seems to be encouraged. I’ve been trying to figure out how to use it more myself. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">5.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Going Out for a Walk</i> by Max Beerbohm</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Yet another essay on walking! Beerbohm starts on a claim that says he has never gone out for a walk for his own sake and ends by saying that unlike others, he does not enjoy the activity. It is light humored, but entertaining. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Beerbohm starts with an absurd, bold claim about never having “gone out for a walk,” kind of like a Chesterton introduction, and then spends the rest of the essay explaining it. Because it seems so unbelievable, it works as a great hook because we are determined to figure out how this is possible. The essay is then organized into three definite points that he comes out and establishes and the essay goes through each point until the conclusion (which shows us that Beerbohm actually has taken a few walks in his days, just not for the same reasons the rest of them do). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> As I mentioned, it has a very light humored tone to it and in some ways seems impersonal because it is justifying a strange habit that makes him different.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Lots of quotation marks are also used to show outside voices justifying or reacting to his strange behavior, which keeps it all out of his head. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Another device used in this rather short essay is that he addresses the reader directly, using “you” frequently, which makes it casual and conversation-like. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">6.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">A Piece of Chalk</span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> by G.K. Chesterton</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I love pretty much everything written by Chesterton. What I liked most about the content of this piece was the whole “what is white” as a color debate. Even though he meant it more as a moral thing, virtue needing to be tested, the color debate it is one I have had with myself many times. As a painter, white is not a color. Black is. Don’t believe me? Smear the paint on your easel together and see what color you end up with. But, to the scientist, white is the “all color.” According to Chesterton too I guess. I do like this argument much better than all the other “waves” and garbage they use to explain it though. I like this as an artist. I like that he doesn’t draw on very conventional things, and his argument about not needing to be a Wordsworth to appreciate nature simply because you don’t describe it is fantastic. Maybe it is how we can balance feeling romantic while being post modern. I can tell, based on what limited info I have, that this is the nonconforming artist. He is also funny, with parts that made me laugh out loud. Chesterton seems a little bizarre, and I like that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The essay begins with “I remember.” This is a pure reminiscing moment, and the entire essay is written in past tense. It is told chronologically, but like Woolf, meandering from concrete image into an interesting significance and overarching theme. He plays with humor. His sentences breaking up his insights are blunt, pulling you back to the moment. He outright trumps the romantic’s argument by doing the whole, “don’t for heaven’s sake, imagine I was going to sketch nature.” He is addressing us as listeners, and he is telling the story, guiding us along with cues.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> We see this again with the single paragraph, “Meanwhile I could not find my chalk.” It is a subtle humor. I feel like he is definitely a realist. This style and the images he invokes give a great sense of his character, even within such a short amount of space. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The essay is divided by ellipses between his experience buying chalk and then when he goes out to use the chalk. Because the experience buying the chalk does not tell us why he is doing it, it keeps us reading trying to figure out what he is up to. For breaks between what he is doing in that moment and a thought he is having, the essay does a double space and does not indent the paragraph, like other essays I have come across in this anthology and <i>Best American Travel Writing</i>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The ending is not spelled out, but there is a clear conclusion. I love that. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">7.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>On Running After One’s Hat </i>b G.K. Chesterton</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This was quite a bit different from <i>A Piece of Chalk</i>. It still had the humor and the “this is how it is people” tone, but the message in this essay was one I needed to hear in the field. So much of our experience is based on our outlook, and Chesterton makes it seem like a real choice we have. “An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered.” That is a great line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The first thing I noticed was that Chesterton says “I feel” and not “I felt.” Where <i>A Piece of Chalk </i>was told in the past tense, here he is telling the story of London’s flooding as a present affair. It holds all the romance of the home country, and yet it is so strange and shocking that the reader wants to keep reading to figure out if this guy is insane or has a point to make. It is bold! Either way, it is a great way to grab the reader’s attention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The flood was the frame for the essay. It starts and ends making sense of that image, but the whole middle encourages us to revaluate the way we look at misfortune. He does it with humor too, which makes it not feel preachy and gets us to laugh at ourselves instead. He also uses a lot of specific, concrete examples to make his point. This essay is meant to be a persuasive argument. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Another device I noticed that Chesterton uses in this essay is a lot of “as I said” phrases to keep the reader on track. It sounds more casual and conversation-esk without feeling repetitive. This matter-of-fact tone and the repetition also helps establish the ethos of the narrator as someone who is confident in what he is talking about, and someone not afraid to make a point and argue it, even if it is in left field. He seems to thoroughly enjoy it too! By the end of the essay he lets on that we might recognize his claims as a little absurd, but he lightly encourages us to see the extreme as a way to demonstrate a general point. In this sense, I don’t feel like Chesterton is very vulnerable in his essays. It seems that he is more interested in getting us to re-think the way we think and see the world. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">8.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Street Haunting: A London Adventure </i>by Virginia Woolf</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This is potentially my favorite personal essay of all of the ones I’ve ever read. I have probably read through it fifteen times, but each experience teaches me something new—some image I did not immediately discover. It is genius. It is real. What happens when we travel? I love the image transforming from “the self our friends know us by” and becoming “part of that vast republican army of anonymous trampers.” How we can do anything with a pretext, even something like going out for a pencil. It makes me wonder why I travel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I love how Woolf is able to show how we can be in our minds and outside—how we can be sitting at dinner and somehow be off thinking about something entirely different. It is so in line with how we really live. I don’t know how to adequately express how this piece resonates with me. I want to read all of her works. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Woolf’s stream of conscious style is the most notable of the features she uses in her essays. We have a lot of concrete images and metaphors to keep the piece moving and interesting. She has no problem using “too many” commas and adverbs, and it flows like the content, a journey in the mind. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This style leads us along with her. It is not a past reflection, but yet her observations are written in the past tense, while her thoughts are in the present, drawing attention to that. It is not a traditional essay. You read it as if it is happening right now, like you are right there, and she is right beside you, except that it seems more like it is coming from your own head. Either way, it is your eyes that see it. The transitions seem to be a lot of “ands” and “perhaps” and “buts.” There is no arguable pattern of flow of an event or subject. It just flows to one topic to the next, and it works.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The narrator does not outright state her own feelings, or insights, or reactions. It is a description of “out there,” and so we understand her personality from a distance. This is an interesting way of being personal and vulnerable in an essay. This style tells us something about her. She is withdrawn, an observer, and reflecting the way it would naturally come to the mind. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">9.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>The Death of the Moth </i>by Virginia Woolf</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Okay, this is slightly disturbing. It is well done, but it is clear that the dying moth, the one that had our sympathies “on the side of life,” (267), is probably a metaphor for Woolf herself. Death and life were both left as strange and there was no kind of wrap up conclusion to make sense of it all. It is left ambiguous, which I found powerful. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Woolf paints some awesome images! If they were not as concrete and beautiful, it would probably be really hard to pull of the stream of conscious writing style. The first line is a great example: “dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom” or “yellow-underwing.” It is just enjoyable to read, even if we don’t understand it all on a first, second, or even third read through. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The moth is a metaphor. That is a device worth noting. Not only is it an interesting metaphor to Woolf knowing that she killed herself later, but to all of us, trying to make sense of the whole “to be or not to be” feelings we have as humans sometimes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This essay is not very personal. The entire thing is written in the past tense, and it feels withdrawn if anything. It seems to be more of a string of vivid observations than a kind of argument set out to prove something. It is a chronological and unbroken narrative, short and to the point. The objective nature of the essay seems to match the content of the coldness of death. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">10.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Unpacking My Library </i>by Walter Benjamin</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I enjoyed reading this essay. I think it speaks to the book collector in all of us, but he was clearly an extreme of it. He goes on throughout the essay to explain what it really means to be a book collector, and concludes that they are so much more than books. They are “not thoughts but images, memories” (369).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I have always loved Walter Benjamin. I did not know that he wrote personal essays as well, and was kind of shocked to find him in this anthology—wondering if it was even the same guy. I appreciated having this side of him as well as the typical texts we associate with him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I am left wondering how much an in influence the translation had on this essay. It reads really well, but with something like this, it had to have changed it a lot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This essay is told from the first person, present tense. The rest of the essay then follows a chronological reminiscing pattern. As Benjamin goes through each point he gives them equal but separate importance. It does not necessarily grow to the end, it is more natural flowing than that. This matches the content really well because the whole thing is about the experience of him unpacking his library and thinking through his life and the events that brought him to each of the books he now owns. In a sense it feels kind of stream of conscious the way Woolf is, but a lot easier to follow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> He starts the essay by bringing us right to the scene of unpacking, which is exactly where he wants us. There is no flowery syntax or images, he puts the point at the front and does not distract us from it. He uses now once in awhile throughout the middle as well to keep us on the same page. By the end he also says that he is now on the “last half-emptied case and it is way past midnight,” using that same device to reorient us and distinguish the difference between his thoughts and what he wants us to feel is the present. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Other notes to make about the form: Benjamin uses a few quotes in other languages from classical texts, establishing himself as not just a collector but a “well read” kind of guy and his language is very formal. His sentences tend to be long, and there is little to no humor included. It seems impersonal but direct and serous. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">11.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Hashish in Marseilles </i>by Walter Benjamin</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Okay, so here we have Benjamin on a hashish drug high. That was interesting… I could not relate to it very well, but it was interesting to watch how his mind patterns changed as the drug got more into his system. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The preliminary remark is important for this essay. Benjamin takes a good chunk of time to explain the effects of hashish to give us context for the essay and his own trip. He probably realizes that most of his readers are not going to know specifically what he would be talking about otherwise, so he has to spell it out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The actual essay begins with a place, date, and time. We are given orientation, but it is almost medical-journal esk. At first he starts out with pretty coherent sentences, but by the end he slips into more and more subconscious writing. Past and present tenses get mixed around, and that also helps us get the feeling he wants us to get of being disoriented. There is no dialogue in this essay, except for when the narrator is talking to himself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The end of the essay comes when Benjamin comes out of the “trance” (375). Yet, the tone seems to be more or less the same as the rest of the essay—kind of quiet, distant, calm and formal. He definitely has a distinct voice very similar to what we saw in <i>Unpacking my Library</i>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I like that the form follows the actual trip he is having on this drug. Just another example of how important it is to have form and content line up (and maybe why I would have such a hard time talking about form without content). </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">12.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>He and I </i>by Natalia Ginzburg</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was really sad, but really well done commenting on the difficulties of a husband wife relationship in the eyes of the wife. It highlights many of my own concerns with marriage—how you can be in such an intimate relationship as marriage and yet be so completely different and distant from each other. This sums up everything I do not want to think and feel in my future marriage. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The form was very distinct and powerful—the sentences were short and plain. Most of the paragraphs are just a line or two, and it goes through different aspects of their marriage by identifying their opposites. “He is this and I am that,” etc., and always in a way to put the narrator down. The narrator never includes names. She is “I” and her husband is always “he.” I think that helps make this essay universal, even if she goes through many specifics. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> There is no specific organization to this essay. It just goes through a list of opposites and then once in awhile gives us a snap shot of a moment where this was the case. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> To help with the intimacy of this essay, it is told in the present tense. The power of this essay is that it is honest and real, giving a lot of concrete examples. It is so simple, but it works so well! This is a style that I want to try to play with at some point, though I’m not sure if fits so well with my India essays. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">13.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>Why Do I Fast? </i>By Wole Soyinka</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I have read a few of Soyinka’s plays in the past while I was in Ghana, so it was kind of fun to see that he is also a personal essayist. I was not the biggest fan of the theme, but I am glad I had some experience in West Africa to better understand why fasting would be important to him. Then again, maybe India taught me more about that than Ghana did…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This was written in a really unique form. The first line is written as a question. “Why do I fast?” The rest of the essay goes into those points and tries to answer that question.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> He answers with the obvious answer, “yes, self-indulgence” (154) to knock out all of the superficial answers by getting it out of the way. A few paragraphs later he then talks about “stomach devils,” which comes across kind of strange, and mentions demons later as well. This is in the “Other Nations” section, but without understanding a bit about Soyinka and his history I think it would be pretty odd to just pick up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Questions are raised in the middle as well to walk us through. “What do I do all day?” is a good example of that. The questions to himself are the same questions we are kind of asking him, and they are what guide us through the essay.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Yet, it is also chronological as well. Towards the end he starts saying “tenth day of fast” and “eleventh day.” By the tenth day he does not have much to say, his energy clearly gone and written in the form of ellipses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Let’s see. This is a jumble of devices… A poem is used. One that he supposedly wrote while he was on a fast. By that time the tense shifts to past and we are looking at it from outside of his head. Italics are used for emphasis, but also to show us when he is back in his head, and to be honest, I think it is a little overkill. Maybe it is supposed to feel like the Benjamin essay on a drug trip, but I think it got a little choppy. It is not a form that I would try to attempt, that is for sure. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> In the end, we are still not really at a conclusion on why Soyinka fasts. He doesn’t seem to know either…thus ending on not one, but two questions now. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">14.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>On Being an American </i>by H.L. Mencken</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This was a selection of three essays that were published first in a newspaper. Because of this, they seem to be written for the average, everyday kind of reader. It is not very personal and uses humor and statistics to make a point about the modern day American. It was enjoyable, but not exactly life changing material. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I did like the comments in the first essay on other countries feelings on America. It is relatable to my experience here in India. We are like the little brother, as my British friend Amanda once told me. People see Americans as “easy to excite…easy to fool…but it is very hard to dislike them” (506). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">More so than any other essay I have read so far, Mencken uses a lot of statistics and percentages to talk about the American population. Like any of them, it is meant to establish authority as someone who has done their homework. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> All of the essays are written in the present tense and are not very personal. Yet, the humor and the tone are meant for a general audience, and the language deliberately caters to that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The second essay in particular reminds me of some of the others I have read because it starts with a question and then spends the rest of the essay answering that question. It is the more serious of the three essays, and is sandwiched by the first and third that take it back to a funny, impersonal point. The fourth essay draws the most from personal examples, but it is still never vulnerable the way that we saw in other essays. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I’m trying to understand why these five essays were all included together. They seem pretty independent from each other. It adds dimension but at the same time I don’t even think I would consider it all one essay. I guess they don’t have to fit neatly together to be a collection, kind of like what I want with my own essays, but you would think that they would match a bit better. The last essay, or sentence I should say, was funny, and again, another bizarre 100% claim. It also ends on a rhetorical question, “if this is not joy, then what is?” (509), which I think pretty much sums up the content. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">15.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> Once More to the Lake </span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">by E.B. White</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I tend to like E.B. White more than not. I liked the images of this story. It is kind of like a picture book. He uses such vivid details that it takes us right to the Lake, even if we may not have any kind of experience like that. The details really make this what it is. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> I can’t lie though; most of this went over my head. As pretty as the language was, I got lost in it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form: </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">That first paragraph is intense! In one giant sentence White is able to say so much! White has a very distinct tone and tends to have very long sentences. The whole essay here was told in the past tense. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The essay takes turns describing an event and then exploring the meaning of that event. It did have a really strange ending though. I guess this is a generational piece. White seems to want us to feel what his son feels, and how they are both connected by the lake. He does this by writing that he is watching his son experience the same things that he is, without really summing up the end in a clean conclusion. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">16.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>The Ring of Time </i>by E.B. White</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Here we combine two rather different contexts, a circus performer and racism, and put them into one essay through the interpretation of one narrators mind. I think it is a cool idea, but I got lost several times. It was not my favorite essay in this anthology… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The first line drops us right into the scene of the circus without saying he is at the circus. There are a lot of vivid images that helps orient us. He uses onomatopoeia as well! That was kind of fun. I felt like I could hear and smell his experience at the circus.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The organization seems to be pretty straight forward. An event that once occurred (the whole thing is in past tense) will be described in great detail and then he will draw out the insights. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The essay seems to be divided into two sections. Both are very different—one is about a circus performer and getting insider her head, and the second as about his own experiences. The style seems to be kind of stream of conscious, because his insights and jumps are not entirely clear to me. Unlike some other essays I’ve read here, this one does not give me many clues that we are shifting gears. His lengthy syntax also adds to the stream of consciousness, though there are not many fragments or breaks in thought the way other writers have done it. Instead it is more fluid and steady. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">17.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>The Courage of Turtles </i>by Edward Hoagland</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This was a very vulnerable and sad essay. I think the title is kind of ironic, because it seems to be more about the courage of the narrator. I like this narrator—I like that he collects and tries to save turtles in New York City. That is such a strange, random thing to do. I think it said a lot about him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> You certainly do not leave this feeling warm and happy. It was sad almost the entire way through it, and the fact that the guy just walked away at the end was really tragic somehow. We came to feel about the turtle the same way that he did. He tried to do the right thing, but in the end he was the turtle killer. Sad sad sad. But good.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This essay was divided into two parts. The first part starts with a really bizarre sentence, which hooks us, and then gives us a little bit of background about him and where his fascination with turtles began as a kid. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The second part of the essay, divided by asterisks, takes us into his adulthood and where his turtle obsession seems to have taken him—why turtles? Most of the second essay is observation. It also includes a lot of background history and information about turtles, giving the narrator credibility as a turtle expert and not some guy who just likes pets. This shows depth to the characters fascination with turtles and that through the years he has put a lot of thought and energy into them. As he talks about it though, the reader is not left bored since he includes a lot of vivid images and great descriptions. The final description of putting the turtle in the Hudson was especially vivid. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This whole essay was told in the past tense. I’m not sure that the author intended any real message, but rather wanted to tell a story and express a part of himself. It seems to be a bit confessional as well. There is not a lot of humor in this. The narrator puts himself down and paints himself just as vulnerable as the writing. He feels bad about his lack of real aid to the turtles, and in turn we feel bad for him for feeling that way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This would certainly be a form I could imitate for some of my India essays. It is one I will come back to when I am drafting. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">18.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> <i>In Bed</i> by Joan Didion</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Content:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This was an interesting, though not very relatable essay on migraines. It was more of a defense than anything where the narrator voices her agitation with people who do not understand and make light of them as mere headaches. The content was strange to me, but I think it was well done and I enjoyed reading it, even though I don’t have problems with migraanes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Form:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The essay begins in present tense, reverts to past to describe her childhood problems with migraines, and then gets back to the present again half way through. I like the convention she uses twice at the beginning of this argument that says, “three, four, sometimes five times a month,” etc. It is more conversational instead of saying, three to five times a month I get a bad headache. It shows that this is such a common occurrence that she has stopped keeping track of them, kind of like what we eat for breakfast. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> This is meant to be persuasive. It gives personal examples and then talks about it from a medical perspective to give the narrator credibility, and we believe her since she is already saying we don’t know what she is talking about. There is not a lot of humor in this, and while more casual it does have an element of formality to by steering free of colloquial language, probably to help establish her as a credible source of information on migraines. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> The end is especially strange. After Didion has educated us all about how those who don’t have migraines don’t understand, she then goes on to say something like she <i>likes </i>them. She could only do that at the end once she has established that we are outsiders and don’t understand her situation, or her pleasure, when the headache is gone. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> By the end I am left with the question, why this title??? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-83430669997123827102011-10-20T11:16:00.000-07:002011-12-11T11:26:50.894-08:00First Draft of A Bus to Dharamsala<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Here is one of the first drafts of my essay, "A Bus to Dharamsala." </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A Bus to Dharamsala:</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Me</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Life happens on the way to somewhere else. For me this tends to be quite literal—public transportation. This is one of those times: </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was my first time in India. The pretext? A leadership opportunity for a small international study program offered through my university—a chance to do four months of undergraduate research in Dharamsala, the headquarters of the Tibetan government in exile and home of the Dalai Lama. On this particular occasion the “deluxe” night bus that was supposed to take me the horrendous twelve hour journey from Delhi to Dharamsala broke down. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was two in the morning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Things were already not going so well—including (but not limited to) having a drunk man conk out on my shoulder the entire nine hour flight from Amsterdam to India despite attendants desperate efforts to relocate him, getting a hotel door slammed in my face (reservations are apparently irrelevant) at another dead hour of night, having group members inform me last minute of their flight cancelations, and having said group members show up at the airport anyways when their flights were not in fact cancelled with zero means of contacting me. Now this?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Two in the morning. A twenty something year old girl with minimal leadership experience, no phone, no skill with any of the hundreds of local languages, and no university permission to be taking a night bus to start with. Perfect.<a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I tightened my grip around my backpack sitting protectively in my lap and eyed the shifting silhouettes of the other passengers. The mosquitoes were feasting on the vulnerable skin not covered by my sandals, and sweat cascaded down my forehead in the 115 degree heat. And if that wasn’t enough, the screaming car horns from the relentless Delhi traffic made it impossible to sleep. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Once we had heard the snap and pulled off to the side of the road, others had shuffled out of the bus to take a gander at the spectacle. A broken axle. We were going to be there for awhile. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What have I done?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">G.K. Chesterton, a prominent English writer, said that “every inconvenience is just an adventure in disguise.” I wrote it on my mirror and everything before leaving—hoisting it like Moses’ snake on a pole in my mind. If I would just look at it, all doubts and frustrations would dissipate. This was nowhere in the realm of comforting anymore. I couldn’t remember why I did this—why I did not just joined my fellow English majors on some fantastic England study abroad living the life of luxury, shopping for vintage scarves and gorging myself on fish and chips while walking the same streets of some of my favorite writers. Instead I chose yet another developing country. One that believes your hand is more effective than toilet paper, that the same cows that lick their nostrils and eat cardboard boxes are sacred, and that night buses are the best way to get to Northern India from Delhi.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Maybe I would see the adventure of this in retrospect, and maybe even admit it a bit funny, but at that moment I just wanted to crawl in a hole and dig my way back to the States.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But I didn’t want that, not <i>really. </i>I have never been one to content myself sitting at home—and to be quite honest, I have never really been one to be content with anything. I am something of a wandering spirit. I am one of those foot shakers, and you would not believe how extreme my hitchhiker’s thumbs can bend. I don’t know when it began, and so I guess I was just born with it. Restless Rachel. Alliteration and everything. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I think most of my life I’ve tried to deny that I am “a runner.” It wasn’t until sophomore year in my astronomy class that it really occurred to me. We were learning about the history of astronomy and the early Greek ideas when we came across the topic of plants—or <i>planete</i> in Classical Greek. These were “wandering stars”—the greatest anomaly to the perfect charts and theories about the structure of the heavens. Just when they had a perfect model figured out, one of the stars would slip out of line for no apparent reason. It took hundreds of years for brilliant astronomers like Ptolemy, Copornicus, Brahe, and Kepler to iron out this mysterious retrograde and realize that these were not stars at all. They were planets. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I felt like that Greek enigma, the <i>planete</i>. Just when things seemed to be going perfect, when I had the ideal boyfriend, a great paying job, scholarships, and straight A’s in every class—just when my place in the world seemed to be established, I would retrograde.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I first tried to abate my wanderlust by moving to Hawaii for a semester (as if the crystal surf and sacred land would cure me—what a joke), but to the disappointment to more than a few boyfriends and family members, it only fueled the timid flames and grew into a full blown obsession with a life away from home. It gave me a taste of that happiness I had sought my entire life, and, now knowing that it existed; I have never been the same since. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hey, the new bus is here,” said the guy who sat front of me in a thick Indian accent. It took me awhile for it to register as English. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We piled off the “deluxe” bus, drug our suitcases through the not-likely-dirt, and climbed into the functioning, long distant relative of the deluxe bus for the duration of the journey. The darkness was heaven-sent—we could not see how filthy that city bus was. We flung our bags on to the ripped seats and leaned our heads against anything that could tempt sleep—metal poles, broken window frames, whatever you could find, because if you were half sleeping at least you were only half enduring the bumpy drive. The bus gasped to life and plowed back into the crowded road, which was in desperate need of two, three, or maybe four more lanes, even at that late hour.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I knew there was a reason why everyone said to take the train. How long ago was that? I remember sitting an office with the program coordinators as they reminisced about their best and worst guest house experiences in Delhi while dueling over and the prize for the best haggler in the room. Though the meeting was for my benefit, I’m not sure if it mattered that I was there. Overwhelmed, I stopped scribbling down notes. No one made much of a fuss though. “This isn’t like anything else you have ever done, Rachel. You just cannot prepare for India,” they said, and so I didn’t. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> That was my first mistake. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I was nowhere near sleep; my jetlag was as fresh as the sewage smell in the air. I peered out the window and mused over whatever mixed motivations got me into this mess. Just a day ago my dad had dropped me off at the Salt Lake City Airport. He pulled up to the curb, helped me with my single pack, and with car keys still in the ignition of the idling car, he offered to stay with me until I passed baggage check. I told him it was no longer necessary. What was another four months anyway? We knew the routine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> As I stood there and watched him leave I remembered the first time I went to that airport alone. “International” and everything—that word, like my very own Lotus-eater or Siren, thinking the place was an enormous hub for Boeings and romantic adventures. This time was different. I knew big airports because I had been lost in them before. I knew romantic adventures because I had lived them and recognized that 48 hour flights were about as exciting as a can of beans. Yet, something about the transit—the physical movement, thrilled me. I noted my Chacos strapped to my feet, stained in some of my favorite memories, checked my single bag, and headed towards the airport security with an irrepressible smile plastered on my face. I was going home—my in-between, my no place, my road to somewhere else. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As the humid Indian air teased my disheveled hair I could not help but think how long ago that moment seemed. That smile, my dad standing there, arms outstretched to his little girl who had already seen more of the world than he would ever see in his lifetime. My gosh, the airport was <i>air-conditioned</i>. All of it, gone. A separate life. Life rooted in something “real”—the one I had known all of my existence, and even more surprising, a life I was growing to like. I think they call that maturity—but this was not exactly a phase I foresaw growing out of either. Whatever it was, now the only thing real was the dirty bus. The shadows. The ravenous mosquitoes. My nagging, silent regrets. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The breeze was broiling and the smell of the unregulated diesel fuel became unbearable, so I closed the plastic window. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was the boy, wasn’t it? Gaul, I swore I would never let this happen. I usually break up with boyfriends before leaving out of principle. They are always dead ends. It is not like I was ever planning on getting married. Some girls are petrified that they will end up lonely old spinsters, but I was looking forward to it—especially if it included grapes and a beach in Greece. It pretty much takes an act of God for me to even like anyone, let alone want to keep them around for awhile. I wanted nothing more than to be free of that baggage. Free of everything. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But Patrick was different. Roll your eyes, go ahead. It wasn’t because he was attractive and funny or that he had a full ride scholarship to get a PhD at that fancy university that starts with “h” and ends with “arvard” either. None of that mattered to me. He might have been the antidote to my restless fever. Our relationship was something euphoric and surreal, bending time and the day-to-day realities like they were inconsequential inconveniences. We were playing out a Hollywood movie or a classic romance novel. It was a brave new world. Against all expectations and precedence, I was determined to see if I could make this one last. The result? A long distance relationship. Urban dictionary defines that as nothing short of a suicide mission and “just as pointless as having a relationship via internet with somebody you’ve never even met.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hopeless. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I saw it written all over the expressions of my friends and family before leaving. “How long?” and then that look in their eyes of trying to hide foreseen, obvious misery—the “well that is too bad” look. But hey! They make matching “LDR” bracelets for $4.95 online. That has to count for something. Right?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I wasn’t on that bus. I wasn’t even in India. I didn’t want to be. I was with Patrick—I was revisiting our last nights together. Sitting beside him on the piano bench as we improved a little duet, or talking in his car all night until the windows fogged up to suggest something else—as if we had time for that; we were too hungry for conversation, for words and for meaning. Just hours ago it seems I was frantically stuffing my suitcase, too busy to even notice how quiet he was, how distant and reserved he was. Why did he look at me like <i>that, </i>just before walking down the porch steps and driving off? Already the doubts are going to strangle me? What chance do we have? Maybe the eyes of the experienced and practical were right. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">No, it <i>was</i> real. That was the most real thing I think I have ever had. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But I wasn’t there with him. I was not even here. I was in transit. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And still quite literally. Three hours later a tire blew. I was so numb to reality that I forgot to react, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular while other passengers of all ages and sizes hopped out the back door of the bus to stare, squabble, or for the minority, try to fix the problem. I listened them quarrelling in their incomprehensible languages in the blackness. Nothing was open. Someone got an axe and jerry rigged a jack to slap on the pitiful spare. A group of men poked around and nodded, approved, and before everyone was back on the bus the driver drove off leaving one man behind, arms flailing in desperation. No one made much fuss to stop the bus, and the driver drove on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">People were always left behind, weren’t they? Patricks and others—others before Patrick. But what if I am staring out the back window? What if I should stop? </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The hours started to mush together, and before I knew it the sky was a gradient of blue and yellow, outlining the approaching purple figure of the Himalayas. It was so gradual you could have missed it. But there they were. Looming there. Looking more or less like a two dimensional cut out of the Rockies back home. At a first glance they were, I admit, not impressive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Just like India.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">More hours passed and we drew closer and deeper—the flat forms morphing into exponentially large ranges that quadrupled my imagination’s expectations. I realized that I had long let go of my backpack. The emerging highlights and shadows all added a rich layer of dimension. The highest peaks mingling with the wispy clouds, the snow caps and sky inseparable. I remember thinking, half serious, that maybe I could write about that. Maybe I was chasing stories. Not me, not contentment, not the pieces of my absent mother. No—there was something more to this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The bus heaved forward, lunged up the mountain switchbacks, and flirted with the sheer cliffs as the back row passengers vacillated between demanding a refund and vomiting out the window. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Yes. Something more. Something beyond this. But what? And how to express it?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was now twelve hours since we began our journey, and we were still climbing up the mountain—so many layers, like rows of shark teeth. The switchbacks felt like a two hour rollercoaster, and (like all adventures) somewhere in the middle, or the beginning, or maybe the whole thing, it looked like a mistake; the fun element, gone. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And yet, somehow I was okay with that. I liked hard things, and I still do. Being in uncomfortable situations is oddly comfortable to me. Three months in Ghana taught me that. When people would ask, “How was Africa,” as if it was a country and not a continent, I would respond, “It was great.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And it was. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But that is only half of the story. It wasn’t about fun or having a warm-fuzzy volunteer experience. There was nothing enjoyable about blood-sucking bugs and paradigm makeovers and looking like a blubbering idiot for not knowing the language. In Ghana I was forced to see things differently—forced to deal with the uncomfortable realities of life outside of myself and my sheltered Utah upbringing. It would have been, no doubt, easier to stay home and remain within the safe confines of my ignorance. And sometimes I wonder if that would have been best. The nightmares never went away. The images of yellowed eyes, mutilated limbs, and five-year-old child road kill are scarred into my mind. It took months for my stomach to stop hating me, and I have few people in my life who can really relate to my experiences. So “it was good” was about all that could be said—there was no point of reference—no way to bridge my two realities. No way to explain why I cried when my little sister to threw away all her less stylish clothes or how strange it is to have three meals a day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But at the same time, there was so much good they could never understand—the sound of real silence—a life without a phone, an internet connection, a TV, and other distractions from the important things in life. They will never get to see the true color of the night, the magic of white and red fireflies dotting the untamed grass at dusk, or marvel at the unwavering faith of the hospitable Ghanaian people. They will never know the strange joy that comes from spending half a day washing clothes by hand or master the skill of eating soup with their hands. They may never know what it is like to feel beautiful without a mirror, cute clothes, or a collection of makeup. They might never get the chance to experience that peace—to hear God without white noise, and smile before bed each night because they can feel that harmony. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Somewhere, even in the hard experiences, I found a piece of meaning, and instead of throwing it away or scrapbooking it upon my reentry home I kept pulling it out and looking it over until it grew so big I could no longer stuff it into the closet or hide it under the rug of “normal” life. It became so prominent that I decided to do the whole thing all over again. In India.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Fifteen hours later the bus came to a screeching halt. I hobbled out of the bus like a hung-over sailor shaking out my sea legs. And there I was, in Dharamsala, India—a cluster of bright colored restaurants and guest houses all stacked up on top of each other like a patchwork quilt—something between a city and a village nestled on the green mountain ridges, a place in transit, a sanctuary for the homeless, the country-less (and not just Tibetan’s in exile either). The street was packed with maroon-clad monks and dreadlocked, tattooed hippies, Tibetan seniors waving their canes at oncoming traffic trying to get to the Dalai Lama’s temple, and then the occasional, dazed traveler. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It felt like home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We arrived, but in a way I was just beginning to understand the passage and what this experience would mean to me—a personal transit through my meandering fragments of thought, a place to sift through mixed and maturing motivations, and maybe a place to determine a tentative destination point. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Or maybe I just wanted to understand (though I had to admit it, naive as it may be),</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My sleep deprived musings were shattered by a Tibetan woman standing next to me. She had a long, black braid reaching down the back of her traditional <i>chupa</i> and eyed me with a bright, elastic smile. She was a person, no longer a suspicious shadow of someone about to steal my backpack. Just a fellow passenger, and I think, <i>I think,</i> there was something foreign and familiar about her that I liked. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Wow, that was crazy,” she said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yeah,” I agreed, “it really is something.” </span></div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5120968270565506805.post-17734905242934490502011-10-13T20:47:00.000-07:002011-10-13T20:52:53.893-07:001st Place in Stowaway Magazine Photo Contest!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I just posted on my <a href="http://rachelrueckertphotography.blogspot.com/2011/10/1st-place-in-stowaway-magazine-photo.html">photography blog</a>, but today I found out that <a href="http://www.stowawaymag.com/2011/10/fall-2011-photo-contest-winners/">I won first place in the photo contest</a> through <a href="http://www.stowawaymag.com/">Stowaway Magazine</a> I applied for last Fall. Surprise! <a href="http://issuu.com/byu.zines/docs/stowaway_fall2011/59">Here it is! </a> No one told me! I just discovered it as I went searching through looking at submission guidelines this year for short stories (I'm doing something based off of <a href="http://rachelspassagetoindia.blogspot.com/2011/06/snot-and-stories.html">my host grandma</a>), Ha!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZ0BZurFC2_TaK_y3WW1IoNWI7hyphenhyphenb2nsms_3yRAWBW5udM1p3CShyphenhyphenBwj8awksD6VYvKRJQ_E1-JmMRFZlmsMLEycE1gYTbnwNSS-fXfGSd6qec3FyZ91cJACltXpJKV0Nmgr-YsBtAU4/s1600/Diversity.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZ0BZurFC2_TaK_y3WW1IoNWI7hyphenhyphenb2nsms_3yRAWBW5udM1p3CShyphenhyphenBwj8awksD6VYvKRJQ_E1-JmMRFZlmsMLEycE1gYTbnwNSS-fXfGSd6qec3FyZ91cJACltXpJKV0Nmgr-YsBtAU4/s400/Diversity.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I took this one when I lived in Hawaii working at the Polynesian Cultural Center. I thought that was exciting. </div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079582283199381706noreply@blogger.com1