This is a response to the article The Right and Wrong Way to Think About Heart Attacks.
This article is misguided and an excellent example of why people do not understand health care as a whole. It implies that there is no medical reason to insert these medicine coated stents in individuals who are not suffering acute coronary episodes, it implies that thrombolytics are ineffective in treating acute coronary episodes, and it also implies that these stents do more harm than good.
It provides support for none of the above. One article in the New England Journal of Medicine does not a medical truth make. Also, the statement that "angioplasty needs to be used more" in the emergent setting fails to take into account the *plethora* of factors that are involved in undertaking such a procedure. This is why we have doctors who have gone to school for 14 million years; to evaluate the risks of procedures, determine which will work better for their patient, and act accordingly. It's remarkably easy to be a Monday morning quarterback when it comes to emergent care; every medic I've ever met, including myself, has found things they'd like to redo or do differently with every patient they've ever had. And that is not overstatement. So why should I believe a journalist who has no (to my knowledge) medical background, and can't even explain the physiology without using the metaphor he started out by despising?
Thrombolytic treatment is highly effective and safe when used in the correct patients and done correctly. It is used to treat occlusive strokes, as well as myocardial infarction (MI). This particular piece seems to overlook that, and doesn't supply the multiple studies that have proven the efficacy of this treatment and the benefits of its continued use.
I also do not like the overemphasis of one cardiologist's statement regarding the "adrenaline rush" that comes from treating a patient. That demeans the medical profession and every individual who works in it. I am certain there was much more to that cardiologist's statement, if he is indeed a professional and comports himself as such. There are many motivations for becoming a cardiologist. I'm sure adrenaline and the ability to think quickly under physiological and psychological stress is certainly a draw, but an affinity for providing good medical care and an intense intrigue with the human body are also necessary portions. I'd like to see a quote that more accurately represents my profession, and am not happy with this journalist for yet again going for the "blood guts and glory" quip.
The crux of the problem I have with this article, however, is that the author failed to take into consideration the fact that there *is* a good reason to place stents in the population that is not suffering from an acute cardiac event. Stents are placed in these individuals not to prevent acute MI's. That is not the intention with this therapy. What this author fails to present is the fact that these stents are placed to diagnose and treat lesions that lead to other conditions, which include CHF (congestive heart failure) and angina, which is pain that occurs when the oxygen supply to the heart is inadequate. Both of these lead to cardiac damage and further health compromise. If this author had fully researched the topic, instead of assuming that these procedures were being done unnecessarily by focusing only on their emergency use and assuming that that was the only mode in which it is used, then he would have been able to present a balanced story.
Also, comparing lipitor to increased estrogen use is just simply comparing apples and oranges. One was a hormone used because short term observations indicated positive results. One is a cholesterol lowering agent. Two different drugs with different pharmacological actions. Not to say that the pharmaceutical companies don't under test drugs. Just saying that this is a poor analogy to use. A general statement or examples of a few drug types that have been recalled or utilized in different modes would have been much better.
The only redeeming facet of the article is the advocacy for moderated lifestyle, with better diet, exercise and cessation of smoking. That's scientific fact and something that people should be much more aware of.
I would like to see articles that are explained using plain English, that cover simple physiology (really, it's not that difficult... if I can explain it to a 13 year old boy scout, then authors with much better capacities than I can explain it to the general public...) and the different factors that go into health care, including pathologies and treatments. These articles should be referenced to multiple studies from multiple well-regarded scientific sources, for those of us who read such things so that we can further our education and better care for our patients. But that's a perfect world scenario.
In short, don't believe everything you read that says "explanation of heart disease" or any other condition, and make sure you check your facts with your doctor before you choose treatments. Also, should you find yourself confronted with medical decisions, ask your doctor for references and material to read so that you can be well informed. Trust, but verify. Ask if you don't understand.
If any of this language is too technical for anyone, let me know and I'll clarify it for you. I can and will translate out of "docspeak," it is just simpler for me to write it initially this way.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Big, Messy... Story Idea
I've been having trouble coming up with a big messy story idea. I kept kicking different things around in my head, and none of them seemed really feasible.
But then it hit me last night as I was in Ravenwood Coffee. I want to look at the competition between Beaner's and Ravenwood, and how Ravenwood has been affected by their competition. I want to look at who goes to which place, and why. What makes one location preferable? How do small buisnesses survive in the face of chain competition? I suppose I could even pull in Rocketstar Cafe, and look at that competition too, but I'm not sure I can handle a project of that size in the time that we're given.
I want to know more about the college coffeeshop business. I have been a coffee aficionado for a long time, and far too many of my paychecks have ended up being "drunk away" in coffeeshops. This is something that really interests me, and I feel as though I would be motivated to get the different interviews that I would need.
Is this a decent story idea? Is it messy enough? Do I have enough journalistic distance? I don't personally know many of the employees of either location, and I certainly don't know any management.
Let me know.
But then it hit me last night as I was in Ravenwood Coffee. I want to look at the competition between Beaner's and Ravenwood, and how Ravenwood has been affected by their competition. I want to look at who goes to which place, and why. What makes one location preferable? How do small buisnesses survive in the face of chain competition? I suppose I could even pull in Rocketstar Cafe, and look at that competition too, but I'm not sure I can handle a project of that size in the time that we're given.
I want to know more about the college coffeeshop business. I have been a coffee aficionado for a long time, and far too many of my paychecks have ended up being "drunk away" in coffeeshops. This is something that really interests me, and I feel as though I would be motivated to get the different interviews that I would need.
Is this a decent story idea? Is it messy enough? Do I have enough journalistic distance? I don't personally know many of the employees of either location, and I certainly don't know any management.
Let me know.
Profile progress
I've been able to get to the library and look at a few more resources. I think next week Monday is when I'll have to try to get in touch with the Kalamazoo Valley Museum curator. It's been really difficult to get around and do anything.
I hate Michigan spring. Every year that I've been here I've had bronchitis. Never had bronchitis before I came out here.
I really feel like workshop helped me to figure out what the focus of the piece should be. I really think focusing on the DGL history and its connection to the tornado that came racing through the cemetery first will be the best angle for approaching this story. It's interesting to try to figure out what the story should be. I still haven't found a way to let the story tell itself to me; I try to figure out what it is without hearing what it wants to say first.
If anyone knows of any other sources I could interview about the tornado, perhaps a professor who's been here that long, I would love to hear it.
I hate Michigan spring. Every year that I've been here I've had bronchitis. Never had bronchitis before I came out here.
I really feel like workshop helped me to figure out what the focus of the piece should be. I really think focusing on the DGL history and its connection to the tornado that came racing through the cemetery first will be the best angle for approaching this story. It's interesting to try to figure out what the story should be. I still haven't found a way to let the story tell itself to me; I try to figure out what it is without hearing what it wants to say first.
If anyone knows of any other sources I could interview about the tornado, perhaps a professor who's been here that long, I would love to hear it.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Mountain Home Cemetery: A Different Look
Burdick, Dalton, Balch and Gilmore. These are a few of the names that we're all familiar with as residents of Kalamazoo, MI. They are the big names that mean money, power, history and prestige. We see them in various places, such as theaters, public buildings, and on college campuses. Their foundations make a lot things possible for many denizens of Kalamazoo.
But I'm not here to tell you about the works that their money have accomplished, nor their influence on Kalamazoo. That story has been told may times over. Instead, I'm going to tell you about the cemetery they're buried in. Though the names add character to the location they grace, they do not define this place.
When you enter Mountain Home Cemetery from the West Main side, the first thing that catches your eye is the flutter of twin American flags. A splotch of red and white against the green and grey of the rest of the cemetery, the flags disrupt the still atmosphere that envelops you. As you approach you see that they flank twin personalized headstones, their weathered poles shedding rust flaked white paint onto the newly thawing ground. The headstones are large and highly personalized; each has been laser cut with the signature of the occupant resting below. James Gilmore Jr.'s stone displays the storefront that began the legacy. His wife, Diana, has to her memory a race car and the epitaph "first woman invited into the Indianapolis pits". They feel like empty Polaroids, proclaiming something that is hard to understand because it is only a fragment of the story. Curiosity draws you in, deeper into the grounds.
The stones face West Main; even though the traffic speeds by, it sounds muted in comparison with the solemn silence of the place. You can feel the history behind this area of land. There's a curiosity greater than the graves of famous people. Something about the place feels older than even its purchase date, in 1850. The Gothic receiving vault seems at first like it belongs... but the answer is not here. Something more ancient is hiding.
As you move further back into the cemetery, the answer begins to form itself in front of you. The number of graves without a famed occupant begins to mount. Small black beetles crawl indiscriminately over each of the granite pillars and the smaller, faded plaques. The tall Balch monument is covered in dry, brown moss that is slowly becoming a vibrant green. Raindrops collect in the crevices, tracing gentle rivulets down the stone.
Behind the tallest obelisk in the cemetery, a huge white pillar that catches your eye while silhouetted against the trees, you can see the pointed roofs of houses. The cemetery backs up against the neighborhood surrounding it, bringing the death that is so often ignored into close proximity to the cemetery's living neighbor's.
Jesse Deguire, a junior here at Kalamazoo, reminisced about a peaceful night walk, with rolling fog and an eerie, calm silence. The thing that struck him the most was "the light that turned on in the children's playground behind the cemetery." Here, another part; the juxtaposition between life and death. During the day, as you reach the edge of the cemetery, you can hear the children laughing and playing. A white plastic grocery bag caught in a tree's branches in the cemetery dips and flutters in the wind, evoking the image of a black and white still photo of a child waving a flag. But still, there is something missing from this picture. The graves of the mundane surround the monuments to the famous, but part of the truth still escapes you.
As you wander, searching for this quiet something, you trip over a tiny gravestone hidden in the grass. Once you right yourself, rubbing your shin, you finally find your answer. The answer doesn't lie in the huge monuments, or the current collision of life and death. It lies in the worn epitaph carved into the cold red granite. It proclaims the endless truth and peace of death that strikes as you brush the dirt from it, touching the inscription: "Baby Girl 1926."
It isn't fame, or large monuments that connect you to the Mountain Home Cemetery. It is the universality of life and death evoked by that tiny red block, half hidden as the beetles dance across its surface. The value of that tiny life is also memorialized without end, despite the lack of a laser cut, patriotically heralded gravestone. Each life memorialized by a stone is a life of value.
You realize why the cemetery doesn't feel evil, or creepy. It is because this place is full of slumbering families. There are no malignant spirits here; only a plastic bag, caught in the wind, brown Christmas wreaths tossed into a blue trash barrel, that rattle in the wind, and tiny stones that give you pause to remember. This is how you connect with those you never knew. This is why you tread with respect through the grounds where you sleep. This is what drew you in.
But I'm not here to tell you about the works that their money have accomplished, nor their influence on Kalamazoo. That story has been told may times over. Instead, I'm going to tell you about the cemetery they're buried in. Though the names add character to the location they grace, they do not define this place.
When you enter Mountain Home Cemetery from the West Main side, the first thing that catches your eye is the flutter of twin American flags. A splotch of red and white against the green and grey of the rest of the cemetery, the flags disrupt the still atmosphere that envelops you. As you approach you see that they flank twin personalized headstones, their weathered poles shedding rust flaked white paint onto the newly thawing ground. The headstones are large and highly personalized; each has been laser cut with the signature of the occupant resting below. James Gilmore Jr.'s stone displays the storefront that began the legacy. His wife, Diana, has to her memory a race car and the epitaph "first woman invited into the Indianapolis pits". They feel like empty Polaroids, proclaiming something that is hard to understand because it is only a fragment of the story. Curiosity draws you in, deeper into the grounds.
The stones face West Main; even though the traffic speeds by, it sounds muted in comparison with the solemn silence of the place. You can feel the history behind this area of land. There's a curiosity greater than the graves of famous people. Something about the place feels older than even its purchase date, in 1850. The Gothic receiving vault seems at first like it belongs... but the answer is not here. Something more ancient is hiding.
As you move further back into the cemetery, the answer begins to form itself in front of you. The number of graves without a famed occupant begins to mount. Small black beetles crawl indiscriminately over each of the granite pillars and the smaller, faded plaques. The tall Balch monument is covered in dry, brown moss that is slowly becoming a vibrant green. Raindrops collect in the crevices, tracing gentle rivulets down the stone.
Behind the tallest obelisk in the cemetery, a huge white pillar that catches your eye while silhouetted against the trees, you can see the pointed roofs of houses. The cemetery backs up against the neighborhood surrounding it, bringing the death that is so often ignored into close proximity to the cemetery's living neighbor's.
Jesse Deguire, a junior here at Kalamazoo, reminisced about a peaceful night walk, with rolling fog and an eerie, calm silence. The thing that struck him the most was "the light that turned on in the children's playground behind the cemetery." Here, another part; the juxtaposition between life and death. During the day, as you reach the edge of the cemetery, you can hear the children laughing and playing. A white plastic grocery bag caught in a tree's branches in the cemetery dips and flutters in the wind, evoking the image of a black and white still photo of a child waving a flag. But still, there is something missing from this picture. The graves of the mundane surround the monuments to the famous, but part of the truth still escapes you.
As you wander, searching for this quiet something, you trip over a tiny gravestone hidden in the grass. Once you right yourself, rubbing your shin, you finally find your answer. The answer doesn't lie in the huge monuments, or the current collision of life and death. It lies in the worn epitaph carved into the cold red granite. It proclaims the endless truth and peace of death that strikes as you brush the dirt from it, touching the inscription: "Baby Girl 1926."
It isn't fame, or large monuments that connect you to the Mountain Home Cemetery. It is the universality of life and death evoked by that tiny red block, half hidden as the beetles dance across its surface. The value of that tiny life is also memorialized without end, despite the lack of a laser cut, patriotically heralded gravestone. Each life memorialized by a stone is a life of value.
You realize why the cemetery doesn't feel evil, or creepy. It is because this place is full of slumbering families. There are no malignant spirits here; only a plastic bag, caught in the wind, brown Christmas wreaths tossed into a blue trash barrel, that rattle in the wind, and tiny stones that give you pause to remember. This is how you connect with those you never knew. This is why you tread with respect through the grounds where you sleep. This is what drew you in.
The Profile Writing Process
It's been interesting to try to pull multiple sources for something that is by nature very static. Although there is a lot of sensory detail and imagery that I can pull from the graveyard itself and I have some basic historical perspective on the site and the individuals buried in it, I'm not quite sure what the story I want to pull out of the greater context is. What is my complication? Is my complication that the grave sites of Kalamazoo's rich and famous are now being taken care of by the city? Is my complication that people focus on the well known graves and overlook the humility of simpler, more unknown sites? Is my complication that various student types go to the cemetery to smoke pot and set off firecrackers?
I think I'm leaning more towards illuminating not only the well known graves in this cemetery, but the smaller, more obscure ones as well. A few people that I've talked to about the cemetery have given me some really interesting responses as to their reactions to the cemetery and the overall atmosphere that seems to be perceived upon entering the grounds.
Bear with me. This draft is going to be *very* rough, but I definitely will need help from my workshop group to pull it together for the final. I know there's something here that I'm missing, but I know I won't be able to figure it out until I pull out bits of it in the rough draft. Maybe someone else can see it once I get it all down.
I think I'm leaning more towards illuminating not only the well known graves in this cemetery, but the smaller, more obscure ones as well. A few people that I've talked to about the cemetery have given me some really interesting responses as to their reactions to the cemetery and the overall atmosphere that seems to be perceived upon entering the grounds.
Bear with me. This draft is going to be *very* rough, but I definitely will need help from my workshop group to pull it together for the final. I know there's something here that I'm missing, but I know I won't be able to figure it out until I pull out bits of it in the rough draft. Maybe someone else can see it once I get it all down.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Mass Murderers and Women Response
In response to the link posted in Marin's blog, here's what I have to offer in terms of the content of the article as well as how it was crafted.
First, as to the content of the article... it is no secret that individuals who are abusive towards animals, children or women tend to have proclivities towards greater psychopathy and committing larger scale atrocities. That's a link that seems to have been concretely proven.
However, where in other press has it been said that the Virginia Tech authorities decided that this was a localized hate killing against a former girlfriend, leading them to not lock down the rest of their facilities? There's such a plethora of knee-jerk regulations on campuses regarding lock downs in the presence of violence or threatened violence that I find that stunningly difficult to believe. Seems much more likely and plausible to me that they had a distinct lack of information and miscommunication. I haven't seen this link in any of the other press that I've been reading on the incident; however, I may just not be tracking the situation well enough. This is a lot more complex than people seem to realize. Lots of variables and factors to consider here.
Also, by assuming that the lack of attention paid to violence against women is one of the only causative factors in tragedies like this, you commit a grave fallacy: you don't leave room for the possibility that this travesty may have occurred even in a climate where domestic violence was a pre-eminent issue that was given a great deal of attention and focus. Not every man who leers at women and takes pictures of them and harasses them walks into a place of business or a college campus, subsequently blowing away dozens of innocent people. It doesn't excuse that behavior or attempt to normalize it in any way. But it doesn't mean there's a direct causative factor there. A link is far different from a causative factor. Heart attacks are linked to HIV infections. Doesn't mean the HIV virus itself is a causative factor of said heart attack.
This article leapfrogs in a way that confuses me. It goes from implications of violence against women as being a causative factor in the VT massacre to general statements regarding violence against women in the United States to an abrupt shift towards gun control discussion which is very poorly presented and in places even contradictory. It clearly states that kids cannot have assault weapons in one bullet point and then directly states that they CAN purchase assault weapons in the next bullet point. Let's see some references and clearer bullet points that actually quote the law instead of saying "can't give kids this, kids can buy this..."
It really seems to me like this author is using the argument "you can't prove that this didn't cause this so it must have caused it". You can't prove that violence against women did NOT cause the massacre, so it must have been the causative factor. You can't prove that the gun laws didn't open up the way for the massacre to occur, so they must have been at fault. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this called a logical fallacy?
I don't like the way the article is structured. There's no transitions. There's way too much casual language and assumptions tossed around to produce the clip it all together here's what's wrong with this statement at the end. This is a much more complex issue than anyone realizes. It's about a failure at the level of mental health monitoring; why weren't his records flagged and why wasn't he under watch by campus mental health services? Why didn't the background check that I'm fairly sure is universal in most gun purchases turn up a red flag? Why wasn't his behavior addressed before?
This article only briefly mentions the fact that Cho Seung-Hui was determined to be a threat to himself and others and then says "this presented no obstacle to purchasing weapons"... but WHY didn't it present an obstacle? Is it a direct fault of gun legislation that does not prevent those with mental illness acquiring weaponry? Is it a failure to apply said legislation? What kind of implications did his mental illness have in committing this atrocity?
If Emily Hilscher wasn't even Cho's girlfriend and it WASN'T a crime motivated by violence against a former domestic partner, how does this become a violence against women issue? How did we leapfrog from "she wasn't his girlfriend" to assuming it's a women's violence issue? Where's the source for the authorities "dismissing" someone blowing people away in a dormitory as not a particular cause for worry because of an assumed limited scope? No school official in their right mind would take that stance. How did this author get this?
This leaves me with a lot of questions and fairly pissed off to boot. It seems like yet another person jumping on the bandwagon of "oh my god look this is MY issue here, pay attention to ME" with gun control and women's violence. It needs to be better structured with better supports and references for me to be able to take it seriously. I'm sure there are valid points raised here... but the bias drowns the validity and muddies it to the point where I found the article to be almost unintelligible at points.
First, as to the content of the article... it is no secret that individuals who are abusive towards animals, children or women tend to have proclivities towards greater psychopathy and committing larger scale atrocities. That's a link that seems to have been concretely proven.
However, where in other press has it been said that the Virginia Tech authorities decided that this was a localized hate killing against a former girlfriend, leading them to not lock down the rest of their facilities? There's such a plethora of knee-jerk regulations on campuses regarding lock downs in the presence of violence or threatened violence that I find that stunningly difficult to believe. Seems much more likely and plausible to me that they had a distinct lack of information and miscommunication. I haven't seen this link in any of the other press that I've been reading on the incident; however, I may just not be tracking the situation well enough. This is a lot more complex than people seem to realize. Lots of variables and factors to consider here.
Also, by assuming that the lack of attention paid to violence against women is one of the only causative factors in tragedies like this, you commit a grave fallacy: you don't leave room for the possibility that this travesty may have occurred even in a climate where domestic violence was a pre-eminent issue that was given a great deal of attention and focus. Not every man who leers at women and takes pictures of them and harasses them walks into a place of business or a college campus, subsequently blowing away dozens of innocent people. It doesn't excuse that behavior or attempt to normalize it in any way. But it doesn't mean there's a direct causative factor there. A link is far different from a causative factor. Heart attacks are linked to HIV infections. Doesn't mean the HIV virus itself is a causative factor of said heart attack.
This article leapfrogs in a way that confuses me. It goes from implications of violence against women as being a causative factor in the VT massacre to general statements regarding violence against women in the United States to an abrupt shift towards gun control discussion which is very poorly presented and in places even contradictory. It clearly states that kids cannot have assault weapons in one bullet point and then directly states that they CAN purchase assault weapons in the next bullet point. Let's see some references and clearer bullet points that actually quote the law instead of saying "can't give kids this, kids can buy this..."
It really seems to me like this author is using the argument "you can't prove that this didn't cause this so it must have caused it". You can't prove that violence against women did NOT cause the massacre, so it must have been the causative factor. You can't prove that the gun laws didn't open up the way for the massacre to occur, so they must have been at fault. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this called a logical fallacy?
I don't like the way the article is structured. There's no transitions. There's way too much casual language and assumptions tossed around to produce the clip it all together here's what's wrong with this statement at the end. This is a much more complex issue than anyone realizes. It's about a failure at the level of mental health monitoring; why weren't his records flagged and why wasn't he under watch by campus mental health services? Why didn't the background check that I'm fairly sure is universal in most gun purchases turn up a red flag? Why wasn't his behavior addressed before?
This article only briefly mentions the fact that Cho Seung-Hui was determined to be a threat to himself and others and then says "this presented no obstacle to purchasing weapons"... but WHY didn't it present an obstacle? Is it a direct fault of gun legislation that does not prevent those with mental illness acquiring weaponry? Is it a failure to apply said legislation? What kind of implications did his mental illness have in committing this atrocity?
If Emily Hilscher wasn't even Cho's girlfriend and it WASN'T a crime motivated by violence against a former domestic partner, how does this become a violence against women issue? How did we leapfrog from "she wasn't his girlfriend" to assuming it's a women's violence issue? Where's the source for the authorities "dismissing" someone blowing people away in a dormitory as not a particular cause for worry because of an assumed limited scope? No school official in their right mind would take that stance. How did this author get this?
This leaves me with a lot of questions and fairly pissed off to boot. It seems like yet another person jumping on the bandwagon of "oh my god look this is MY issue here, pay attention to ME" with gun control and women's violence. It needs to be better structured with better supports and references for me to be able to take it seriously. I'm sure there are valid points raised here... but the bias drowns the validity and muddies it to the point where I found the article to be almost unintelligible at points.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Profile ideas
I kicked around a few ideas trying to settle on one that captivated me enough to dedicate the time necessary to do justice to the journalistic process. I don't want to produce just another "assignment" that I really feel ashamed of in some way. I want this to grab me, bite me in the proverbial butt and not let go until I'm satisfied with my ability to convey that feeling to the audience.
I realized that I don't want to profile a person; I'm more interested in finding a place that many of us would overlook or not necessarily take interest in. My three top choices for a place to profile include: Bronson Methodist Hospital, the cemetery off of West main, and the Kalamazoo Psychiatric Hospital. The actual physical appearance of the cemetery and the old Psychiatric hospital are what draw me to them; there's a lot of physical details that incorporate into the history of those places. Bronson Methodist Hospital is a place full of sensory stimuli; images, sounds, smells, and the emotions of the people interacting and working within. It's also somewhere that I've had personal experience with, which is why I think it draws me to it. I want to know where it came from, who's working in it, and why it's a Level I Trauma Center in Western Michigan.
Help me to draw these out. They're all equally valid subjects; I just don't quite know which one's got teeth sharp enough to bite me and the reader.
I realized that I don't want to profile a person; I'm more interested in finding a place that many of us would overlook or not necessarily take interest in. My three top choices for a place to profile include: Bronson Methodist Hospital, the cemetery off of West main, and the Kalamazoo Psychiatric Hospital. The actual physical appearance of the cemetery and the old Psychiatric hospital are what draw me to them; there's a lot of physical details that incorporate into the history of those places. Bronson Methodist Hospital is a place full of sensory stimuli; images, sounds, smells, and the emotions of the people interacting and working within. It's also somewhere that I've had personal experience with, which is why I think it draws me to it. I want to know where it came from, who's working in it, and why it's a Level I Trauma Center in Western Michigan.
Help me to draw these out. They're all equally valid subjects; I just don't quite know which one's got teeth sharp enough to bite me and the reader.
Finding Strength in the Darkness: How Peaceful Valley Changed Me
I have always seen myself as physically inferior. My ankles turn over in odd directions at the slightest whim. My coke-bottle glasses and bad eyesight once labeled me unmistakeably as a nerd. My wheezing and inability to cope with soccer sprints earned me a white inhaler, my constant friend on rainy days and soccer trips. I continuously apologized to friends and coaches for my inadequacies. I learned to treat common ailments, in order to take care of myself.
This familiarity with medicine led me to join a venturing emergency rescue crew my junior year of high school. In the summer of 2004 my crew decided to participate in an event called the "X-Games,” at Peaceful Valley Scout Ranch— a patch of mild hills, prairie grass and acres of pine trees located in Elbert, CO. That year’s Venturing X-Games was to be a nine-mile competitive night hike, peppered with challenges.
I didn’t know that a dire physical confrontation was about to slink out of the woods, ready to pounce on me. My crew leader and my teammates, all X-Games veterans, managed to keep me in the dark until there was no turning back. Later, I would be grateful that they had.
I checked in with my team at 8:30 pm, one hour before start time. The team included Wayne, my best friend, my crew president, Adria, and her boyfriend, Mike. I was in awe of Mike and Adria. Older than me, they seemed fit and confident, unfazed by the prospect of a long night of traversing rocky terrain.
We trudged through the dark, flashlights extinguished. My cheap backpack had cloth straps that I would later grow to hate, as they bit into my collarbone; my shorts earned me a wry glare from Adria. Our first challenge was rappelling over a 20-foot cliff. I shook for 45 minutes after the descent; I had never been in a climbing harness before. It left blisters in the crook of my thighs.
At one point we were nearly assassinated after mistaking the musket range safety lines for directional tags. This earned us a biting reproof before we were allowed in to take our turn at loading the black powder devils, to aim their fury at eerily glowing targets.
I fell four times; by the third time, Wayne didn’t ask if I was ok. He asked if I was up yet. I managed to keep moving through sheer willpower and overdosing on my inhaler, trembling from exhaustion and albuterol. Night became day. Light crept shyly into the misty valley, making the land eerily, gently beautiful. The dim light complemented our fatigue.
As morning ended, we lashed a raft together, managing to tow it across the lake, then emerging in a weary sort of triumph. My legs were covered with weeping cuts and bruises. My ankles were swollen, my hair dirty and matted; dripping and exhausted, I was no longer able to track conversation.
I took the scars with me to college. They reminded me of the confidence I had gained. It would be three years before I could return to PV. At the end of my sophomore year I applied to be a PV staff member, looking for a fun summer break.
I came back to PV broken from a series of emotional batterings. It had been the worst semester of my life. I had lost a teacher from my EMT school to an ambulance accident, nearly lost a friend to suicide, and struggled with an unsupportive relationship. I arrived with no post-camp plan. Life could be tackled only one day at a time.
The opening ceremony plunged us into the darkness. We climbed an unfamiliar path, silently taking turns carrying a steel triangle. Sitting in a circle on the ground, freezing, we waited to tell the faceless company why we were there. I shared only a fraction of my pain. One by one, we left, ringing the triangle as we went; someone gave me his jacket.
I met a man named Logan on the first day. We didn’t know each other, but shared the same group of friends. One night, after a disastrous day for both of us, we collapsed next to each other on the loading dock. The darkness couldn’t hide my tears, but it let me open myself to him. I laid it all in front of him— the horrible semester, my weaknesses, my hurt. As he responded in kind, we discovered a friend in each other.
Later, I went for my first hike of the summer. Logan went with me; I couldn’t navigate in the dark. I looked over at Logan, and laughed at myself as I realized that I had grown to care for him. He grabbed me by the shoulders, not letting me hide behind the laughter. That night, we realized we shared the same emotion.
We left PV at the end of the summer in a relationship that neither of us expected. Both of us found healing at PV, while lost under the quiet of the dark trees and pinpoint stars. The starlight blends with our scars. Through them, we carry PV with us.
Monday, April 9, 2007
A blog that I read
This blog is not related to journalism. However, the young man writing it seems to display a lot of clarity in his writing. His images are captivating; his ability to convey the emotion of situations is stunning. I don't even know his real name, but I do know that he is a writer that I can certainly identify with.
He is a paramedic student who is chronicling his experiences through this blog. I hope this isn't too esoteric for anyone; I often fear that my area of interest is one that most people cannot or do not wish to identify with. It is a part of who I am, but it is not something a lot of people seem to understand. Regardless, I think his writing is well done and valuable on that basis, so I hope you at least enjoy that aspect of his blog.
Baby Medic
He is a paramedic student who is chronicling his experiences through this blog. I hope this isn't too esoteric for anyone; I often fear that my area of interest is one that most people cannot or do not wish to identify with. It is a part of who I am, but it is not something a lot of people seem to understand. Regardless, I think his writing is well done and valuable on that basis, so I hope you at least enjoy that aspect of his blog.
Baby Medic
Peaceful Valley Scout Ranch: How I Found Myself
"Hi, my name is Wendy and I'm a Boy Scout."
"Welcome, Wendy..."
I guess it's not *quite* like that, although some days it feels like it. Most people laugh when I tell them that I'm a member of the Boy Scouts of America so I guess I'd better explain how it all got started. My involvement with the BSA began when I was 16 years old; I joined a local Venturing Crew, which is the co-ed version of Scouting.
In the summer of 2004 my crew decided to participate in an event called the "X-Games." This event was to be held at Peaceful Vally Scout Ranch, consisting of a competitive 9 mile night hike peppered with challenge events. If anyone had told me what kind of physical taxation I would have endured, I would not have signed up. Fortunately, my crew leader and my teammates managed to keep me in the dark until there was no return.
I checked in, clueless as to what the next several hours would offer me. The hike was slated to begin at 9:30pm. Hiking 9 miles in the rainy dark with my best friend, I faced challenges such as rappelling over a 20 foot cliff, for the first time in my life. As the night moved on, we were nearly assassinated after mistaking the musket range safety lines for directional tags. This earned us a swift reproof, before we were allowed in to take our turn at loading the black powder devils in order to aim their fury at eerily glowing targets.
A myriad of other events came and went throughout the night and the next morning. Only a few stand out. I came in second in the 2 mile team bike event at 9am... not fourth, as I had expected. I was surprisingly able to hike fast enough to stay with the team as we crossed unstable terrain. We successfully lashed a raft together, managing to tow it across the lake, emerging in a weary sort of triumph with the fastest team time. My legs were covered with scars, my ankles swollen and my hair dirty and matted; dripping and exhausted, I was no longer able to track conversation. I still carry the scars.
I had always seen myself as physically inferior. For years my ankles had turned over in odd directions at the slightest whim. My coke-bottle glasses and bad eyesight labeled me unmistakeably as a nerd. The wheezing and inability to cope with soccer sprints had earned me a white inhaler, to accompany me at athletic events and on rainy days. I found myself apologizing to coaches, and friends, and myself for the countless injuries and illnesses that seemed to plague me.
But Peaceful Valley changed that. It didn't matter that I had limped during the entire night, or that I had used my inhaler four more times more than I should have. It didn't matter that I fell easily, or that I couldn't run quickly. For the first time in my memory, I was an asset rather than a liability. My team took second place, on a technicality. It was a victory. I left the camp changed, with a sense of confidence that I had never had before. Peaceful Valley gave me that strength.
I returned to PV three summers later. This time I returned not as a novice scout, blithely sauntering into the unknown; I came this time to be a staff member. I came broken and nearly destroyed from a series of emotional batterings. It had been the worst spring semester of my life. I had lost my obstetrics teacher from EMT school to a devastating ambulance accident, nearly lost a friend to suicide, and struggled with an unsupportive relationship. I wanted to quit school so I wouldn't have to deal with any of it anymore.
PV gave me back my strength. It didn't require anything of me except my best effort. It didn't matter that my co-workers had to treat me for asthma attacks. It still welcomed me as it challenged me on levels that allowed me to grow. PV let me explore my definition of self, giving me the chance to determine what I wanted to change in my life. It allowed me to let go of things I needed to release, and set me free from my darkness. It gave me a future.
Peaceful Valley also gave me something would never have expected. It gave me the man I am deeply in love with. By accident, we met each other on the first day; by the last day, we knew that we wanted to be together for as long as possible. We both share something special, and we both know that there is nowhere else on earth like PV.
I never expected to find a place that I would carry in my heart. I never thought I would twice end up finding myself by getting lost in the darkness of the wilderness. The stars that I've seen and the friends that I've made would never have seemed so clear without the island of hope that we have all shared together.
I think Peaceful Valley found me. There's no way I could have found it.
"Welcome, Wendy..."
I guess it's not *quite* like that, although some days it feels like it. Most people laugh when I tell them that I'm a member of the Boy Scouts of America so I guess I'd better explain how it all got started. My involvement with the BSA began when I was 16 years old; I joined a local Venturing Crew, which is the co-ed version of Scouting.
In the summer of 2004 my crew decided to participate in an event called the "X-Games." This event was to be held at Peaceful Vally Scout Ranch, consisting of a competitive 9 mile night hike peppered with challenge events. If anyone had told me what kind of physical taxation I would have endured, I would not have signed up. Fortunately, my crew leader and my teammates managed to keep me in the dark until there was no return.
I checked in, clueless as to what the next several hours would offer me. The hike was slated to begin at 9:30pm. Hiking 9 miles in the rainy dark with my best friend, I faced challenges such as rappelling over a 20 foot cliff, for the first time in my life. As the night moved on, we were nearly assassinated after mistaking the musket range safety lines for directional tags. This earned us a swift reproof, before we were allowed in to take our turn at loading the black powder devils in order to aim their fury at eerily glowing targets.
A myriad of other events came and went throughout the night and the next morning. Only a few stand out. I came in second in the 2 mile team bike event at 9am... not fourth, as I had expected. I was surprisingly able to hike fast enough to stay with the team as we crossed unstable terrain. We successfully lashed a raft together, managing to tow it across the lake, emerging in a weary sort of triumph with the fastest team time. My legs were covered with scars, my ankles swollen and my hair dirty and matted; dripping and exhausted, I was no longer able to track conversation. I still carry the scars.
I had always seen myself as physically inferior. For years my ankles had turned over in odd directions at the slightest whim. My coke-bottle glasses and bad eyesight labeled me unmistakeably as a nerd. The wheezing and inability to cope with soccer sprints had earned me a white inhaler, to accompany me at athletic events and on rainy days. I found myself apologizing to coaches, and friends, and myself for the countless injuries and illnesses that seemed to plague me.
But Peaceful Valley changed that. It didn't matter that I had limped during the entire night, or that I had used my inhaler four more times more than I should have. It didn't matter that I fell easily, or that I couldn't run quickly. For the first time in my memory, I was an asset rather than a liability. My team took second place, on a technicality. It was a victory. I left the camp changed, with a sense of confidence that I had never had before. Peaceful Valley gave me that strength.
I returned to PV three summers later. This time I returned not as a novice scout, blithely sauntering into the unknown; I came this time to be a staff member. I came broken and nearly destroyed from a series of emotional batterings. It had been the worst spring semester of my life. I had lost my obstetrics teacher from EMT school to a devastating ambulance accident, nearly lost a friend to suicide, and struggled with an unsupportive relationship. I wanted to quit school so I wouldn't have to deal with any of it anymore.
PV gave me back my strength. It didn't require anything of me except my best effort. It didn't matter that my co-workers had to treat me for asthma attacks. It still welcomed me as it challenged me on levels that allowed me to grow. PV let me explore my definition of self, giving me the chance to determine what I wanted to change in my life. It allowed me to let go of things I needed to release, and set me free from my darkness. It gave me a future.
Peaceful Valley also gave me something would never have expected. It gave me the man I am deeply in love with. By accident, we met each other on the first day; by the last day, we knew that we wanted to be together for as long as possible. We both share something special, and we both know that there is nowhere else on earth like PV.
I never expected to find a place that I would carry in my heart. I never thought I would twice end up finding myself by getting lost in the darkness of the wilderness. The stars that I've seen and the friends that I've made would never have seemed so clear without the island of hope that we have all shared together.
I think Peaceful Valley found me. There's no way I could have found it.
The Writing Process...
The writing process is very interesting. Many people state that they need outlines and have to know exactly what they want to say before they can get it on the page... but somehow, that has never worked for me. Every paper or writing assignment that I've ever tried to rigidly outline has failed miserably.
Many people rave that constraint ties their creative force back, but I disagree. I just seem to require different boundaries. General plots, rather than detailed plans, so to speak. I definitely have to narrow down the ideas or images that I want to get out in my writing, but if I try to put them in order, they rebel. I have to let part of that control go in order to bring the soul forward. It's kind of like the old adage about bringing a horse to water. You can bring everything necessary to the location, but at some point you have to use a little bit of finesse. Half of it comes from reading the situation and responding accordingly instead of trying to force something.
Forced writing is painful writing. It's not a bad thing to have deadlines; many of us, trained as we have been by the Kalamazoo system, require some sort of impetus or driving force to kick us into production mode. But somehow in there the writing has to become something you want to do; otherwise, it remains sub-par, low quality work. Apathy shows through your writing and unless it is apathy that you are trying to convey, you have to find the "it" that makes the writing worth it for you.
Writing gives voice to a part of me that usually remains private. It allows me to grapple with concepts and images that I often internally struggle with, and it allows me to become some sort of entity in this vast world. When I write I can be something more than a fledgling medical professional. I can be more than just a theology student. I can be who I am, with all of my analysis flowing from my life experience and my knowledge. My writing allows me to escape the box that I have had my share in creating; it frees me to say what I think, rather than what I think people want to hear.
It's not a process as much as it is a journey. And like any good travel, it isn't any fun if you don't trip along the way and come back with scars to remind you of what happened. That's what I think writing is. It is the canvas of scars gained throughout life; each person has a different set, lending a different picture. But even though it can be ugly sometimes, it is still fascinating.
Many people rave that constraint ties their creative force back, but I disagree. I just seem to require different boundaries. General plots, rather than detailed plans, so to speak. I definitely have to narrow down the ideas or images that I want to get out in my writing, but if I try to put them in order, they rebel. I have to let part of that control go in order to bring the soul forward. It's kind of like the old adage about bringing a horse to water. You can bring everything necessary to the location, but at some point you have to use a little bit of finesse. Half of it comes from reading the situation and responding accordingly instead of trying to force something.
Forced writing is painful writing. It's not a bad thing to have deadlines; many of us, trained as we have been by the Kalamazoo system, require some sort of impetus or driving force to kick us into production mode. But somehow in there the writing has to become something you want to do; otherwise, it remains sub-par, low quality work. Apathy shows through your writing and unless it is apathy that you are trying to convey, you have to find the "it" that makes the writing worth it for you.
Writing gives voice to a part of me that usually remains private. It allows me to grapple with concepts and images that I often internally struggle with, and it allows me to become some sort of entity in this vast world. When I write I can be something more than a fledgling medical professional. I can be more than just a theology student. I can be who I am, with all of my analysis flowing from my life experience and my knowledge. My writing allows me to escape the box that I have had my share in creating; it frees me to say what I think, rather than what I think people want to hear.
It's not a process as much as it is a journey. And like any good travel, it isn't any fun if you don't trip along the way and come back with scars to remind you of what happened. That's what I think writing is. It is the canvas of scars gained throughout life; each person has a different set, lending a different picture. But even though it can be ugly sometimes, it is still fascinating.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
And So It Emerges
I knew that camp would have to play into my personal narrative somewhere. It's been the one thing I've been discussing with the majority of my friends for the past several months, preparing for the next summer. And it really is a place that has shaped my life. I hope to be able to share that with everyone through the assignment, as it gathers together in bits and pieces. The overarching story will be about camp and how I met my significant other; the experiences I had prior to working as a staff member will be able to show, I hope, some of the larger picture.
I really am enjoying this class as a way to bring forth the creative side of me... and I pray that it is the vehicle that shapes me into the messenger I want to be. At this point, so close to being finished with my undergraduate experience, I want the SIP I feel driven to write to be the culminating factor, the glue that binds it all together into something that was more than marking time in a classroom. I am not yet ready, but hopefully this will be the forge that makes it possible.
And I can't do it alone. Please, feel free to criticize my writing. It is only through challenge and pain that real growth tends to emerge, at least for me on a personal level and as a writer. I invite it. I welcome it.
I really am enjoying this class as a way to bring forth the creative side of me... and I pray that it is the vehicle that shapes me into the messenger I want to be. At this point, so close to being finished with my undergraduate experience, I want the SIP I feel driven to write to be the culminating factor, the glue that binds it all together into something that was more than marking time in a classroom. I am not yet ready, but hopefully this will be the forge that makes it possible.
And I can't do it alone. Please, feel free to criticize my writing. It is only through challenge and pain that real growth tends to emerge, at least for me on a personal level and as a writer. I invite it. I welcome it.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Personal Essay: But What Do I Write?
I know the first assignment is supposed to be easy. Each of us knows ourselves best, and we all have stories we could tell, right? My dilemma is this... I have many stories, each equally valid especially in terms of my personal or interpersonal development, but I don't know which one to pick or which one could be best understood by someone not in my shoes. That whole developing the "I" character bit. What part of my life can I best relate to bring in the readers (our class) and illustrate something important?
Here's a few possible ideas that I'm kicking around, please, feedback and let me know which ones you guys might be interested in.
1: I was home-schooled until high school. That was a rough transition... plenty of material to work with here.
2: My mother had a miscarriage when I was 7 years old and suffered a severe bout of postpartum depression subsequently. This greatly affected my development and the dynamic in our entire family.
3: I have often struggled with my body- but not in the way most girls have. I have asthma and loose ligaments, leading to wheezing and chronically sprained joints. However, one experience that I had 3 summers ago showed me that I could be an effective team member in a physical competition. Just as a quick summary: Night hike with 3 other team members, a GPS map to challenge points including medical scenario, rappelling, obstacle swimming course, muzzle loading... transition to daytime with breakfast cooking, archery, a 3 mile bike race and as the piece de resistance, building a raft and towing it across a lake...
So tell me... what story do you want to hear? :) I'm all ears!
Here's a few possible ideas that I'm kicking around, please, feedback and let me know which ones you guys might be interested in.
1: I was home-schooled until high school. That was a rough transition... plenty of material to work with here.
2: My mother had a miscarriage when I was 7 years old and suffered a severe bout of postpartum depression subsequently. This greatly affected my development and the dynamic in our entire family.
3: I have often struggled with my body- but not in the way most girls have. I have asthma and loose ligaments, leading to wheezing and chronically sprained joints. However, one experience that I had 3 summers ago showed me that I could be an effective team member in a physical competition. Just as a quick summary: Night hike with 3 other team members, a GPS map to challenge points including medical scenario, rappelling, obstacle swimming course, muzzle loading... transition to daytime with breakfast cooking, archery, a 3 mile bike race and as the piece de resistance, building a raft and towing it across a lake...
So tell me... what story do you want to hear? :) I'm all ears!
Cynthia Carr Lecture
The clearest message that Cynthia Carr conveyed in her lecture about her book, written on her familial and historical connection to a famous Indiana lynching, was that it is necessary to own one's story in order to be able to bring it forward. Although these stories may be emotionally difficult, as evidenced by the emotional response stirred in both the audience and the author, they are nevertheless important.
Cynthia's speech took the audience on a journey from her then little-understood childhood memories through her discovery of her grandfather's involvement in the KKK and the journalistic path she walked for 10 years trying to break through the barriers of silence surrounding the entire incident. She discovered that almost everyone involved, White or Black, questioned why she would want to reopen something of this nature. Cynthia described this as part of the culture of silence, in which racial discrimination and violence are actively ignored with suppressed discussion. One of the reasons she offered for this was that it is such a painful subject that most people do not want to revisit it.
She discovered a few things on this 10 year quest; firstly, that no one would give a full story as to what happened, secondly that there was a third young man involved in the incident that led to the initial lynching who was mercifully (and strangely) spared, and thirdly, that no one really understood the role of the woman involved in the incident that led to they lynchings. Allegedly, the three Black youths had been involved in a robbery of a young couple on Lover's Lane, which resulted in the death of the man and the alleged rape of the woman.
Some stated that the woman had been involved with the Black youths, and was part of a scheme in which young men were "set up" to be robbed by going out with her; others, including the woman's stepchildren, stated that she was vehemently racist and would not have had anything to do with any sort of relationship. As far as the author is concerned, this woman remains an enigma.
Her journey led her to speak with a variety of people, including the single survivor of the lynching, the mayor of the town at the time, policemen and their descendants, and the leader of the KKK, the Imperial Wizard. All of these combined allowed her to unearth aspects of her own family history and the history of the KKK in Indiana that were previously unknown.
Unfortunately, despite her best efforts some of the photographs and stories that she sought to find were unable to be procured. Nevertheless, her book provides a way to break the silence of America on racial issues, inspired in parts by the reconciliation movements in South America and South Africa led by people such as Nelson Mandela. These movements offered amnesty in return for the truth on the grotesque crimes that people had committed, providing an example that all of us would do well to follow.
Cynthia's speech took the audience on a journey from her then little-understood childhood memories through her discovery of her grandfather's involvement in the KKK and the journalistic path she walked for 10 years trying to break through the barriers of silence surrounding the entire incident. She discovered that almost everyone involved, White or Black, questioned why she would want to reopen something of this nature. Cynthia described this as part of the culture of silence, in which racial discrimination and violence are actively ignored with suppressed discussion. One of the reasons she offered for this was that it is such a painful subject that most people do not want to revisit it.
She discovered a few things on this 10 year quest; firstly, that no one would give a full story as to what happened, secondly that there was a third young man involved in the incident that led to the initial lynching who was mercifully (and strangely) spared, and thirdly, that no one really understood the role of the woman involved in the incident that led to they lynchings. Allegedly, the three Black youths had been involved in a robbery of a young couple on Lover's Lane, which resulted in the death of the man and the alleged rape of the woman.
Some stated that the woman had been involved with the Black youths, and was part of a scheme in which young men were "set up" to be robbed by going out with her; others, including the woman's stepchildren, stated that she was vehemently racist and would not have had anything to do with any sort of relationship. As far as the author is concerned, this woman remains an enigma.
Her journey led her to speak with a variety of people, including the single survivor of the lynching, the mayor of the town at the time, policemen and their descendants, and the leader of the KKK, the Imperial Wizard. All of these combined allowed her to unearth aspects of her own family history and the history of the KKK in Indiana that were previously unknown.
Unfortunately, despite her best efforts some of the photographs and stories that she sought to find were unable to be procured. Nevertheless, her book provides a way to break the silence of America on racial issues, inspired in parts by the reconciliation movements in South America and South Africa led by people such as Nelson Mandela. These movements offered amnesty in return for the truth on the grotesque crimes that people had committed, providing an example that all of us would do well to follow.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Personal narrative: "It's Natural to Nurture"
It was harder for me to find a personal narrative than I expected. Perhaps it's because I'm not familiar enough with news sites to do more than wander semi-aimlessly, or maybe there's just a bit of a dry spell this week in the sources that first occurred to me. The interesting one I found was, of all places, in my home newspaper. (There's that word again.. home...)
I found this narrative in the Rocky Mountain News. The author is the garden columnist; a lot of meaning can be found in the simple, mundane things that she describes. Flowers. Teenage son. Nests, seeds, and the revival of Colorado after the desolate mountains of snow that buried them this winter. Maybe it will remind you of the nurturer in yourself or someone close to you.
It's Natural to Nurture: Maria Cote
I found this narrative in the Rocky Mountain News. The author is the garden columnist; a lot of meaning can be found in the simple, mundane things that she describes. Flowers. Teenage son. Nests, seeds, and the revival of Colorado after the desolate mountains of snow that buried them this winter. Maybe it will remind you of the nurturer in yourself or someone close to you.
It's Natural to Nurture: Maria Cote
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Pattern of Migration Response
It's interesting to try to think about where or what you would call your home; how does one classify the concept of "home"? I know this is something that a lot of us at our particular age (college student, near graduation or not) think about and try to define for ourselves.
How does one define home? Is it just somewhere to keep your belongings and sleep at night? Is it the place where your family lives? The town you grew up in or went to college in? Home is something that is so deeply personal to all of us. It can't just be the roof that you sleep under; many of us have slept in places so very "not-home" that it would shock us to refer to them as such. Many people very emphatically insist that their childhood or family home, the town in which they grew up, or the state they're from is not their home. I think the old cliche phrase seems to capture a part of that mysterious element to "home-ness"... to put it simply, home is where the heart is... or is it the mind? Perhaps the most important thing to some is not the emotion associated with a place, but the purpose found there. That remains up to the individual to define.
Many of us have to make journeys and have different experiences before we can find the place, or places, that become home. The average college student begins to dissociate from the childhood home, no longer really viewing that as "the place to belong" as he or she branches out and creates a new or more complex identity. For some people, accepting a new home involves a complete break with the old one; the thing that comes to mind is the student whose grandmother refuses to divulge the entire family name. It seems like the old, European home has been completely shut out by this woman... even to the point of changing her name and declaring death to her old one.
As if to further emphasize the point that home is a personal definition, people live in environments that seem frightening, alien or distasteful to others. Places like Phoenix, AZ, where temperatures reach excess of 110 degrees Fahrenheit, or Iraq, where dust storms and brutal street violence seem to be the norm, or even the far reaches of Northern Canada and Alaska, where sometimes the night never ends. Who would want to live there? Someone, obviously... but certainly not me.
The funny thing is... every place you go that becomes your home, gives a piece of itself to you and never allows you to let go of it. Only a couple years ago, I returned to campus after a break and looked at Trowbridge, the residence hall, as my home. That all ended last year, when situations happened that made me want to be anywhere but Kalamazoo, MI. I moved on, in my mind and in my heart, and realized that Colorado really was my home even though I had done everything I could to escape from it and my parents' identity and plant roots elsewhere. But a small part of me still looks around, here, and feels like this is a piece of my home.
Maybe it was that mental returning... that ability to realize that somewhere you've left is really still your home, that brought the O'Kane elder to desire to be buried in Ireland. And maybe it's just fine to have many homes, or none at all. I think I am lucky... I know where both my home, and my heart are. And part of me wonders... is that something ridiculous to know as a twenty year old woman who is still partly forming an identity? Do I really know? Or do I just think I do?
How does one define home? Is it just somewhere to keep your belongings and sleep at night? Is it the place where your family lives? The town you grew up in or went to college in? Home is something that is so deeply personal to all of us. It can't just be the roof that you sleep under; many of us have slept in places so very "not-home" that it would shock us to refer to them as such. Many people very emphatically insist that their childhood or family home, the town in which they grew up, or the state they're from is not their home. I think the old cliche phrase seems to capture a part of that mysterious element to "home-ness"... to put it simply, home is where the heart is... or is it the mind? Perhaps the most important thing to some is not the emotion associated with a place, but the purpose found there. That remains up to the individual to define.
Many of us have to make journeys and have different experiences before we can find the place, or places, that become home. The average college student begins to dissociate from the childhood home, no longer really viewing that as "the place to belong" as he or she branches out and creates a new or more complex identity. For some people, accepting a new home involves a complete break with the old one; the thing that comes to mind is the student whose grandmother refuses to divulge the entire family name. It seems like the old, European home has been completely shut out by this woman... even to the point of changing her name and declaring death to her old one.
As if to further emphasize the point that home is a personal definition, people live in environments that seem frightening, alien or distasteful to others. Places like Phoenix, AZ, where temperatures reach excess of 110 degrees Fahrenheit, or Iraq, where dust storms and brutal street violence seem to be the norm, or even the far reaches of Northern Canada and Alaska, where sometimes the night never ends. Who would want to live there? Someone, obviously... but certainly not me.
The funny thing is... every place you go that becomes your home, gives a piece of itself to you and never allows you to let go of it. Only a couple years ago, I returned to campus after a break and looked at Trowbridge, the residence hall, as my home. That all ended last year, when situations happened that made me want to be anywhere but Kalamazoo, MI. I moved on, in my mind and in my heart, and realized that Colorado really was my home even though I had done everything I could to escape from it and my parents' identity and plant roots elsewhere. But a small part of me still looks around, here, and feels like this is a piece of my home.
Maybe it was that mental returning... that ability to realize that somewhere you've left is really still your home, that brought the O'Kane elder to desire to be buried in Ireland. And maybe it's just fine to have many homes, or none at all. I think I am lucky... I know where both my home, and my heart are. And part of me wonders... is that something ridiculous to know as a twenty year old woman who is still partly forming an identity? Do I really know? Or do I just think I do?
The first Narrative Blog
I apologize in advance for the random thought patterns that may emerge when I show up, insomniac at 3am. I apologize for any off tangent comments I make that may or may not be humorous to you, and I hope this class proves to be both fruitful and entertaining for all of us!
Best,
Wendy
Best,
Wendy
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