FD #4: Emotions Gone Wild

Mackenzie Laird
FD #4: Emotions Gone Wild
May 06, 2013
Word count: 1,589

Emotions Gone Wild

One of my greatest passions is studying healthy relationships.  Like a white-coated lab scientist, I have taken notes, asked a multitude of questions, and observed relationships under the microscope. As a single girl, I have had more freedom to view the best and worst of them simply by watching the world around me. The majority of my friends have been painfully scarred by romances gone wrong. I have lent a compassionate shoulder to countless devastated friends. [Thesis]My conclusion is most of us are ruled by emotions gone wild and if I could give three gifts to the broken-hearted, it would be sexual purity, self-respect and communication.[Thesis]

We put a lot of priority on emotions and how we feel about someone. This is the basis of many relationships. As soon as emotions falter, the relationship takes a downward shift. “We’re not in love anymore. The feelings have dissipated.” No wonder 50-60% of marriages fail (McGraw). This is a terribly high statistic and it affects us currently and beyond to future generations. When relationships are founded on personal ambitions and emotional hype, it should come as no surprise when the feelings wane and the relationships crumble.

We tend to dive into romance wildly and without thought. We embrace our emotions and do whatever feels good. The repercussions of this are documented on posters in doctors’ offices. On a hospital wall I saw a sign that stated, “As many as one in two sexually active young people will contract an STI/STD by age 25 and most won’t even know it (CDC).” That means if a young person, who does not currently have an STI, has sex with one of two people that individual will most likely become infected. According to the Center of Disease Control, half of the estimated 19 million sexually transmitted infections that are reported each year are of the age group below 25 years. If the above poster is remotely true, then the statistics we may read about STDs are only reporting a percentage of the actual cases. Many people have STDs and don’t know it. There are three options here. Option 1: we close our eyes and enjoy a sexually experimental path, like the obvious majority. Option 2: we gain a greater awareness and learn to practice safe sex. Option 3: we practice the safest sex, abstinence. This is also the only emotionally safe sex.

Self-respect is another necessary item in the recipe for healthy relationships. The birth of the relationship is often on faulty ground when a girl reasons, “If I just show some skin, I’ll get his attention.” Yes, we’ll get plenty of interest, just like a piece of meat held above a pack of hungry wolves. If any of them gets close enough, that bite may be an injurious one. When we compromise our modesty in order to get some guy’s attention, desperation glistens on the skin we’re showing. If we do not respect our own bodies how can we expect it of others?

When we walk into Wal-Mart, chances are everything we come across is cheaply made and affordable. We buy everyday trinkets at Wal-Mart that are useful for a short period of time and easily replaceable. If we lose our Wal-Mart sweatpants or toothbrush holder it’s not devastating. On the contrary, when we walk into a Louis Vuitton store, we can smell the value. We’d take delicate footsteps and mull wistfully over every article of clothing. Half a life savings could be spent on one item. And how would such an item be cared for if the purchase was made? It would be treasured, handled carefully and lovingly because of the value.

The same principle applies to the value for which we’re perceived. If we act like Wal-Mart, we’ll be treated as such: easily replaced. However, if we walk in the knowledge of unique individuals, our value will shine with evidence of priceless and irreplaceable worth. No man can take it away from us and no circumstance can devalue our worth.

“If one doesn’t respect oneself one can have neither love nor respect for others.” – Ayn Rand

We think about ourselves all the time, whether the thoughts are positive or negative. And let’s face it; we care for our bodies though we may claim to hate them. We force ourselves to work out. Some withhold food from their bellies in order to lose weight fast. Others gorge and purge. And even some slice knives down both arms in punishment for bad choices. We do a lot of things to our bodies, some beneficial and some not so beneficial. We chase after guys who clearly have no interest. We flaunt and flirt just to catch their eyes. We do atrocious things when there is a lack of self-respect.

The pain of low self-respect shows in our attitudes towards others, too. We can look at our routine behavior toward our brothers, fathers, and guy friends. Do we ever make comments-even witty and humorous remarks-directly attacking their roles, their intelligence, jobs, or lifestyles? It’s a tragedy when women demean their husbands, boyfriends, brothers or fathers. That behavior fosters insecurity and anger in our male companions. When we belittle them or make them feel stupid, we are slicing into their very core. It hits their most vulnerable spot: their adequacy in leadership. Disrespect poisons relationships on both sides. We must change the way we think about each other, the way we speak, and interact. It is a long, tough road to change. As this whole process takes place, we retrain ourselves to use our words differently and be more cautious.

People deserve our respect from start to finish. If we treat every person with value, we benefit their lives, not hinder them. When a dating relationship proves unworthy of marriage, the goal is always to leave the other person better than when we first met them. Their values have been strengthened and personhood uplifted. Relationships are exciting, especially when we have proper focus in them. When we realize our purpose is to build up and make men stronger for the future, all of our relationships will have a selfless flare to them. We will respect guys for the men they are becoming. We will respect their future wives by not leaving a scar on their hearts.

Whether we’re steeped in confidence or drowning in insecurity, these decisions are life changing. And they are affecting the beautiful personalities that make us who we are. Each decision toward impurity slashes deeper into the sweet and wholesome innocence. But each step toward purity brings back the innocent glow and an undeniably healthy heart.

Communication is an important key in relationships as well. That is not to say we should cough up crush-confessions within two days of knowing someone. We do not need to share our hearts with the object of our affection the moment we begin to feel the emotional uprising. Sharing one’s heart abruptly strains a friendship. It destroys rather than builds upon a solid foundation. Discernment and self-control are much needed attributes. People are so quick to blurt out their infatuation for fear of losing the chance or missing out on some of the fun and excitement of romantic relationships. But something happens when this confession is not received well. Once we have spewed those emotions forth-at the wrong time-there’s no back-tracking to friendship zone. Like a maze, it is nearly impossible to find our way back.

There are too many broken relationships in this world. Something needs to change. I do not believe we will ever regret waiting for the “right time” in relationships. It is a serious topic: two lives are at stake for a dramatic transition. After interaction and closeness with one another, a bond is created and when the two are separated, that bond is severed and hearts are broken. Relationships are not meant to be pursued in “trial by error” form. It is not worth injuring another person’s identity, heart, and self-esteem level. We need to grasp this without needing to “practice” our way through life, leaving broken hearts, or pieces of our own heart strewn through life along the way.

In communication it is crucial for us to realize we are either speaking words of life or words of death over someone. It is up to each of us to decipher whether we are speaking out of selfless love or selfish ambition. Is the conversation beneficial for the other person? Relationships are important and it’s essential for us to interact with one another in the most loving and edifying way possible. Like anything else, we learn through training. It is hard to know what an enriching relationship looks like in our world today. We all have trial and error moments. Self-control has been cast aside with morals, abstinence, and life-long commitment. Here’s what we cannot do; we cannot blame society for our behavior. Yes, it influences the decisions we make. We make personal decisions every day that will affect the rest of our lives. We must live with consequences of bad choices and learn from them, but we also grow through the right choices.

I want to create a better place for future generations. I don’t want to be a part of the brokenness. With a few adjustments in the way we treat each other, as a whole, we can improve our sphere of loving people with more respect, love and proper communication. When we truly love people we do what is best for them, regardless of our own emotions gone wild.

Sources:

McGraw, Phil. “Marriage & Divorce: The Statistics.” Dr Phil. Peteski Productions, 2012. Web. 25 Apr. 2013. < http://www.drphil.com/articles/article/351&gt;

“CDC Fact Sheet.” Cdc.gov. Feb 2013. Web. 25, Apr 2013. http://www.cdc.gov/std/stats/STI-Estimates-Fact-Sheet-Feb-2013.pdf

Log of Completed Activities
_X_ Apr. 5- Intro to Paper #4: Read Guidelines for Paper #4: Literary Journalism
_X_ Apr. 10- Complete readings for paper #4: chap. 15. Optional: Ron Unz, “The Myth of American Meritocracy: How Corrupt Are Ivy League Admissions?” (American Conservative, 28 Nov. 2012).
_X_ Apr. 15- Laulima Discussion #1 (Orlean).
_X_ Apr. 22- Laulima Discussion #2 (Fadiman and Kidder).
_X_ Apr. 26- Submit RD4. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
_X_ Apr. 29- Submit three RD4 evaluations. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
_X_ May 1-6 – Submit FD4. Review the Guidelines for Submitting FD4. [150 pts]

FD #5: Nomadically Inclined

Mackenzie Laird
FD #5: Memoir
May 3rd, 2013
Word Count: 929

Nomadically Inclined

I was born on a remote Texas ranch in a log cabin during a fierce ice storm. The midwife barely arrived in time. Within three months, we were living in the Alaskan Bush. It was a fair start to the wildly adventurous life that ensued. From bear-populated Southeast Alaska to mountain lion-infested Idaho, normal for me has always been a blood-pumping adventure. [Thesis]My childhood has been filled with multitudes of friends with one drawback: quick friends for short seasons of time left little room for deep connections.[Thesis]

Kerosene lanterns illuminated our tasks in the evenings. A generator supplied our electricity for laundry, TV watching, and vacuuming. Often, my mother would strap me to her back and hike deep into the woods with other friends to pick highbush cranberries alongside bears also enjoying the fruity-fix. I loved highbush cranberries. They burst in my mouth with a compilation of intense sour and flavorful sweet.

One day, we went fishing. Salmon were crowding the river like people on the metro in Beijing. My dad didn’t even need a fishing pole. He would reach into the river, grab a fish and flop it onto the bank. He squeezed the middle and red eggs plopped out in the dozens. I was two years old and just coming into my independent toddler-walk. The fresh 18-inch brown bear prints lining the riverbed were a common site. I waddled about, looking for something interesting to engross my attention. My eyes absorbed those beautifully bright red balls on the ground. They looked familiar. Just the day previous, I gorged on highbush cranberries. So I squatted. I grasped one ball with uncoordinated fingers. Plop, into my mouth it went. I still cannot explain how my taste buds deceived me into eating another, and yet another. The whole scene was captured on my mom’s video camera. She watched with amusement as her sophisticated little toddler ingested fresh caviar.

Back at our cabin on the Chilkat River, we loved our bright orange buoy swing made from my dad’s commercial fishing buoy that hung high in a tree behind the house. When the snow fell, the house was barricaded with six-foot drifts. My friend Joanna and I dug tunnels that were perfectly rounded like worms beneath the surface. She was a Tlingit (pronounced “klinket”) Alaskan Native. We explored the mountains as six-year-olds but never terribly far from the house due to the dangers of Mackenzie Delta wolves and brown bears. Alaska was a beautiful place to live. As much as I enjoyed my little friend, I was packed and ready for the next adventure with my family.

My daring nature began to get the best of me in my late teens in Idaho. My friends were all adventurous males who loved hunting, fishing and snowboarding as much as I did. The day I was accepted into the clan was also the day I fractured my back snowboarding. We competed in jumping and tricks with as much air as possible. The nickname, ”Laird Air” was coined after one of my high jumps. Oh, I didn’t land it. No, indeed, I landed directly on my back. The pain was nearly unbearable, but I was proven and worthy at that point. I regretted saying bye to my pals but it was time for a new adventure.

I moved to Costa Rica for a spell of time. The people there impacted my heart drastically. For being in a third-world country and having very little of their own, they were always generous with what they had. I was accepted almost immediately and learned to live as they lived and act as they acted. Because of my upbringing, it was always easy to adapt to new locations and new lifestyles. “Today I have a car and a cell phone; great. Tomorrow, I have one meal a day and cold showers; also great!” I learned from all kinds of people, young and old, poor and rich. They all had vital life lessons to share.

My best friend, Alvaro, was three years my junior, though his maturity was even higher than mine. It could’ve had something to do with him getting a job at twelve to support his family. He taught me Spanish and unique sayings in Costa Rica. He would pinch my cheeks together as hard as he could and say, “Pura Vida, Mack!” It means, “Pure life” in Costa Rica. Although I detested the feel of my chubby cheeks getting compressed or the duck lips the pressure caused, I appreciated the saying very much. It was a pure life there. We lived under complete simplicity with joy bursting from our smiles. Goodbye Alvaro, hello next adventure.

There is a price to pay for living an adventurous life here and yonder. Unfortunately, relationships are tricky for me. I love people, but I’ve moved so often that I do not get attached. I don’t see a problem with this because it’s normal to me. It is the way I grew up. But friends often get offended when I say goodbye and move on to the next location without shedding a tear.

I have moved around the U.S. several times and across the continents from Asia, Australia, Europe, Latin America, and North America. I love people. I love getting to know new ones and encouraging and uplifting people I’ve known longer. I don’t have any prejudices because my friends are from around the world. I accept differences like hundred-dollar bills found on the ground. I live life to the fullest and want to meet as many people as my heart can contain.

RD #4: Emotions Gone Wild

Mackenzie Laird
RD #4: Emotions Gone Wild
April 26, 2013
Word count: 1,618

Emotions Gone Wild

One of my greatest passions is studying healthy relationships.  Like a white-coated lab scientist, I have taken notes, asked a multitude of questions, and observed relationships under the microscope. As a single girl, I have had more freedom to view the best and worst of them simply by watching the world around me. The majority of my friends have been painfully scarred by romances gone wrong. I have lent a compassionate shoulder to countless devastated friends. [Thesis]My conclusion is most of us are ruled by emotions gone wild and if I could give three gifts to the broken-hearted, it would be sexual purity, self-respect and communication.[Thesis]

We put a lot of priority on emotions and how we feel about someone. This is the basis of many relationships. As soon as emotions falter, the relationship takes a downward shift. “We’re not in love anymore. The feelings have dissipated.” No wonder 50% of marriages fail. This is a terribly high statistic and it affects us currently and beyond to future generations. When relationships are founded on personal ambitions and emotional hype, it should come as no surprise when the feelings wane and the relationships crumble.

We tend to dive into romance wildly and without thought. We embrace our emotions and do whatever feels good. The repercussions of this are documented on posters in doctors’ offices. On a hospital wall I saw a sign that stated, “As many as one in two sexually active young people will contract an STI/STD by age 25 and most won’t even know it.” That means if a young person, who does not currently have an STI, has sex with one of two people that individual will most likely become infected. According to the Center of Disease Control, half of the estimated 19 million sexually transmitted infections that are reported each year are of the age group below 25 years. If the above poster is remotely true, then the statistics we may read about STDs are only reporting a percentage of the actual cases. Many people have STDs and don’t know it. There are three options here. Option 1: we close our eyes and enjoy a sexually experimental path, like the obvious majority. Option 2: we gain a greater awareness and learn to practice safe sex. Option 3: we practice the safest sex, abstinence. This is also the only emotionally safe sex. Option 2 does not eliminate the emotional damage and heart break that always come from sex outside of partnership.

Self-respect is another necessary item in the recipe for healthy relationships. The birth of the relationship is often on faulty ground when a girl reasons, “If I just show some skin, I’ll get his attention.” Yes, we’ll get plenty of interest, just like a piece of meat held above a pack of hungry wolves. If any of them gets close enough, that bite may be an injurious one. When we compromise our modesty in order to get some guy’s attention, desperation glistens on the skin we’re showing. If we do not respect our own bodies how can we expect others to?

When we walk into Wal-Mart, chances are everything we come across is cheaply made and affordable. We buy everyday trinkets at Wal-Mart that are useful for a short period of time and easily replaceable. If we lose our Wal-Mart sweatpants or toothbrush holder it’s not devastating. On the contrary, when we walk into a Louis Vuitton store, we can smell the value. We’d take delicate footsteps and mull wistfully over every article of clothing. Half a life savings could be spent on one item. And how would such an item be cared for if the purchase was made? It would be treasured, handled carefully and lovingly because of the value.

The same principle applies to the value for which we’re perceived. If we act like Wal-Mart, we’ll be treated as such: easily replaced. However, if we walk in the knowledge of unique individuals, our value will shine with evidence of priceless and irreplaceable worth. No man can take it away from us and no circumstance can devalue our worth.

“If one doesn’t respect oneself one can have neither love nor respect for others.” – Ayn Rand

We think about ourselves all the time, whether the thoughts are positive or negative. And let’s face it; we care for our bodies though we may claim to hate them. We force ourselves to work out. Some withhold food from their bellies in order to lose weight fast. Others gorge and purge. And even some slice knives down both arms in punishment for bad choices. We do a lot of things to our bodies, some beneficial and some not so beneficial. We chase after guys who clearly have no interest. We flaunt and flirt just to catch their eyes. We do atrocious things when there is a lack of self-respect.

The pain of low self-respect shows in our attitudes towards others, too. We can look at our routine behavior toward our brothers, fathers, and guy friends. Do we ever make comments-even witty and humorous remarks-directly attacking their roles, their intelligence, jobs, or lifestyles? It’s a tragedy when women demean their husbands, boyfriends, brothers or fathers. That behavior fosters insecurity and anger in our male companions. When we belittle them or make them feel stupid, we are slicing into their very core. It hits their most vulnerable spot: their adequacy in leadership. Disrespect poisons relationships on both sides. We must change the way we think about each other, the way we speak, and interact. It is a long, tough road to change. As this whole process takes place, we retrain ourselves to use our words differently and be more cautious.

People deserve our respect from start to finish. If we treat every person with value, we benefit their lives, not hinder them. When a dating relationship proves unworthy of marriage, the goal is always to leave the other person better than when we first met them. Their values have been strengthened and personhood uplifted. Relationships are exciting, especially when we have proper focus in them. When we realize our purpose is to build up and make men stronger for the future, all of our relationships will have a selfless flare to them. We will respect guys for the men they are becoming. We will respect their future wives by not leaving a scar on their hearts.

Whether we’re steeped in confidence or drowning in insecurity, these decisions are life changing. And they are affecting the beautiful personalities that make us who we are. Each decision toward impurity slashes deeper into the sweet and wholesome innocence. But each step toward purity brings back the innocent glow and an undeniably healthy heart.

Communication is an important key in relationships as well. That is not to say we should cough up crush-confessions within two days of knowing someone. We do not need to share our hearts with the object of our affection the moment we begin to feel the emotional uprising. Sharing one’s heart abruptly strains a friendship. It destroys rather than builds upon a solid foundation. Discernment and self-control are much needed attributes. People are so quick to blurt out their infatuation for fear of losing the chance or missing out on some of the fun and excitement of romantic relationships. But something happens when this confession is not received well. Once we have spewed those emotions forth-at the wrong time-there’s no back-tracking to friendship zone. Like a maze, it is nearly impossible to find our way back.

There are too many broken relationships in this world. Something needs to change. I do not believe we will ever regret waiting for the “right time” in relationships. It is a serious topic: two lives are at stake for a dramatic transition. After interaction and closeness with one another, a bond is created and when the two are separated, that bond is severed and hearts are broken. Relationships are not meant to be pursued in “trial by error” form. It is not worth injuring another person’s identity, heart, and self-esteem level. We need to grasp this without needing to “practice” our way through life, leaving broken hearts, or pieces of our own heart strewn through life along the way.

In communication it is crucial for us to realize we are either speaking words of life or words of death over someone. It is up to each of us to decipher whether we are speaking out of selfless love or selfish ambition. Is the conversation beneficial for the other person? Relationships are important and it’s essential for us to interact with one another in the most loving and edifying way possible. Like anything else, we learn through training. It is hard to know what an enriching relationship looks like in our world today. We all have trial and error moments. Self-control has been cast aside with morals, abstinence, and life-long commitment. Here’s what we cannot do; we cannot blame society for our behavior. Yes, it influences the decisions we make. We make personal decisions every day that will affect the rest of our lives. We must live with consequences of bad choices and learn from them, but we also grow through the right choices.

I want to create a better place for future generations. I don’t want to be a part of the brokenness. With a few adjustments in the way we treat each other, as a whole, we can improve our sphere of loving people with more respect, love and proper communication. When we truly love people we do what is best for them, regardless of our own emotions gone wild.

FD 3: Relational Disaster-Masterpiece

Mackenzie Laird
Final Draft #3
Word Count: 1,394
April 7th, 2013

Relational Disaster-Masterpiece

Deciphering relationships with the opposite sex is a challenge for me. Dating has never been a priority. My focus is education, family and fitness. I live a life of high morals with slow-paced romantic pursuits. Now in my twenties, I’m beginning to see a weird pattern in my interactions with men. [Thesis] I am comfortably friendly with most guys, but stone-cold shy to the ones I find attractive. [Thesis]

Dale and I met at church. We started off with coffee conversations and adventurous hikes. But quickly our friendship mutated. He asked me out for dinner. I decided to give him a chance. He was friendly. I was tired of being so cautious. Dinner was awkward, but I had a bucketful of questions to keep tension at bay. He calmed and blathered one-hundred miles an hour. After dinner he asked if we could stop at the beach for a quick stroll. “Mackenzie, I don’t usually go for blondes, but there’s something about you.” That was an odd thing to say. Obviously he didn’t have a filter for his thoughts. “You would fit right into my family.” Out popped another one. Was his filter broken or was he purposefully making me uneasy? “How many kids do you want? At what age do you want to get married?” Okay, by this point I was no longer walking beside him. I was three paces ahead, five paces to the left and practically speed walking. Every line that dribbled out of his mouth came with labored breathing. He tried to slow my pace but I was as spooked as a cow in a stampede. Nothing could slow me down. “Mackenzie,” he panted. “I am patient. I will wait for you as long as it takes.” I spun around. He was sweet, caring, and infatuated. I had to shoot straight with him, especially after all the not-so-subtle hints he threw my way. “I just want to be your friend. You deserve someone who returns your interest and that’s not me.” It was difficult to follow through and be completely honest because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But a small relational cut would be better than a year-long surgery that could leave a lasting scar on him.

I was sitting in an airport coffee shop with another guy friend I met through a disaster-relief organization. We were departing on separate planes and would lose each other’s delightful company indefinitely. Our laughter dissipated. Suddenly, I felt the temperature of our conversation change. He cleared his throat. I got nervous. I had seen this scenario play out in previous friendships. I started to chew my wooden coffee stirrer into miniscule pieces. Subconsciously, I must have been chewing the stick into a weapon, ready to stab him for hijacking our quality friendship. As he carried on, my mind raced. Where was he going with his tirade of madness? I felt like I was in Spanish class, only catching every fifth word spoken. He mentioned an appreciation for my friendship, personality, and good looks. My defense was coming to my mind in clumps, but I remained silent and mortified. Nervously, he summed up his rabbit-hole exploit. He shrugged and said we would talk when he could think clearly. I sighed with relief. I enjoyed our relationship immensely, but I knew something was shifting for us. A few weeks after, I received the ill-fated email of affection and interest. I sent a loving, but straight-forward response. We were just meant to be friends. Our lives began to drift apart.

Craig and I met in New Zealand a few years ago. I was still trying to get the sour taste of friendships-gone-wrong out of my mouth. I decided to change my tactic with this one. I would tell him straight away that I was not in a good place for romance. I would be his friend, but nothing more. He was completely understanding and a very good friend. . . for a week. We had a movie marathon with a few other friends. As the last Lord of the Rings credits scrolled, Jess yawned and bid her leave. Madelyn was right behind Jess shuffling her lazy feet like a zombie “chasing” a meal. Craig sat down in front of me. He sighed heavily. I had an excuse to leave on the tip of my tongue when he blurted, “I need to talk to you.” A pang jabbed my heart. I reasoned with myself that he knew better than to have this conversation. There must’ve been something else on his mind. “I’ve tried to see you as just a friend, but I no longer can. I can’t help it. I’m falling for you.” Nope! He really was taking the plunge. I was blindsided with his emotional vomit spilling down my front. After I sweetly rejected him, our friendship spiraled into a psychotic drama. His wounded pride morphed his “love” into an obsessive bitterness within our work environment.

On the flipside, I am relationally retarded with guys I find attractive.

He was tall, muscular and blond. He had a five-o-clock shadow on his sharp, manly jaw. I passed the store he was perusing and side-stepped into the store adjacent to gather my nerves. Before I could sort my thoughts he walked through the door with curious eyes and a sweet smile. My knees began a boxing match with each other. I looked down at the dresses… and then realized they were men’s shirts. Panic punched my heart and I flew awkwardly in a circle until I saw the swimsuits. I preoccupied myself with mindless shopping. All the while he slowly walked through the guys section, looking up at me every few steps. I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact. Five torturous minutes passed and then, he was gone. And with him, chance number 237 to finally welcome an attractive introduction.

I adamantly made a resolve to be friendlier with attractive guys. Within a week, my next opportunity walked around the corner at Whole Foods. He had a dark, purposefully messy mane and a plaid shirt resting upon broad shoulders. He smiled as we passed. Oh, look shoes! My eyes immediately found my feet and a shy smile crept across my face too subtle for the average individual to notice. I felt deflated. I couldn’t force myself to be friendly. It wasn’t until I was setting my items on the counter at the check-out that I noticed him standing parallel, smiling as he placed his items on the conveyer belt. My hands shook. I turned away. It’s too real! Here’s my chance, or maybe my dilemma. Or even my nightmare coming to fruition. I backpedalled. I paid the cashier and threw items into my bag before sprinting for the exit. The sinking feeling returned. He was so handsome. He seemed so friendly. Why was I terrified by him, or moreover my attraction to him? And just like that, chance number 238 sprouted wings and flew right out of my life.

I truly felt this idiosyncrasy hindered me from making the proper connections with people. I was driving home from class. It was a warm evening. The sun was just slipping beneath the gorgeous West Maui Mountains. My windows were down. Sunglasses were no longer needed for the remainder of my drive. I was pulling them off when I saw him. He was shirtless standing beside his truck. He looked up. He smiled. It wasn’t until I drove past that I realized I was probably staring with my sunglasses suspended at my nose. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses for our brief, four-second encounter. After the embarrassment of being caught gawking subsided, I decided I would meet this one. For weeks on my route home I looked for him. I knew his cherry red Ford Ranger. Finally, one day I saw him. I saw his face clearly, wrinkles and all. He wore a crisp Aloha shirt and no cap on his balding head. He was at least twice my age. I was amazed how my eyes could deceive me in that initial four-second encounter.

I’m back at square one. I still befriend the guys I’m not attracted to, but I’ve learned to be less friendly. I am still paralyzed around attractive guys, but I’m taking baby steps. I can admit there’s a problem. “Hi, I’m Mackenzie, and I’m not an alcoholic, but a socially awkward, relationally incompetent wallflower.”

Log of Completed Activities
_X__ Mar. 4- Guidelines for Paper #3: Personal Essay.
_X__ Mar. 11- Complete readings: all of chapter 12.
_X__ Mar. 11-Laulima Discussion 1: “Chimera“
_X__ Mar. 13-Laulima Discussion 2: “Notes of a Native Speaker“
_X__ Mar. 15-Laulima Discussion 3: “Under the Influence“
_X__ Mar. 18- Laulima Discussion 4: “Being Brians“
_X__ Mar. 20- Laulima Discussion 5: “Warring Memories“ and “Snakebit“
_X__ Mar. 22- Submit RD3. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
_X__ Mar. 25-29 – Spring Recess
_X__ Apr. 1- Submit three RD3 evaluations. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
_X_ Apr. 4-8 – Submit FD3. Guidelines for Submitting FD3. [125 pts]

RD 3: Relational Disaster-Masterpiece

Mackenzie Laird
Rough Draft #3
Word Count: 1,481
March 22^nd, 2013

Relational Disaster-Masterpiece

Deciphering relationships with the opposite sex is a challenge for me. Dating has never been a priority. My focus is education, family and fitness. I live a life of high morals with slow-paced romantic pursuits. Now in my twenties, I’m beginning to see a weird pattern in my interactions with men. [Thesis] I am extremely friendly to guys I’m not attracted to and stone-cold indifferent to the ones I am. [Thesis]

We started off with coffee conversations and adventurous hikes. But quickly our friendship mutated. He asked me out for dinner. I decided to give him a chance. He was friendly. I was tired of being so cautious. Dinner was awkward, but I had a bucketful of questions to keep tension at bay. He calmed and blathered one-hundred miles an hour. After dinner he asked if we could stop at the beach for a quick stroll. “Mackenzie, I don’t usually go for blondes, but there’s something about you.” That was an odd thing to say. Obviously he didn’t have a filter for his thoughts. “You would fit right into my family.” Out popped another one. Was his filter broken or was he purposefully making me uneasy? “How many kids do you want? At what age do you want to get married?” Okay, by this point I was no longer walking beside him. I was three paces ahead, five paces to the left and practically speed walking. Every line that dribbled out of his mouth came with labored breathing. He tried to slow my pace but I simply stated how uncomfortable the situation was and how ill-prepared I was for this type of conversation. “Okay. I am patient. I will wait for you as long as it takes. I am ready to get engaged, by the way.” If that was his peculiar attempt to ease my nerves it wasn’t working. Finally, I stated, “I just want to be your friend. You deserve someone who returns your interest and that’s not me.” He was sweet, caring, and infatuated. I had to shoot straight with him, especially after all the not-so-subtle hints he threw my way. It was difficult to follow through and be completely honest because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But a small relational cut would be better than a year-long surgery that could leave a lasting scar on him.

I was sitting in an airport coffee shop with another guy friend. We were leaving on separate planes and would lose each other’s delightful company. Our laughter started to dissipate. Suddenly, I felt the temperature of our conversation change. He cleared his throat. I started to get nervous, having seen this scenario play out in previous friendships. I started to chew my wooden coffee stirrer into miniscule pieces. Subconsciously, I must have been chewing this stick into a weapon, ready to stab him for taking our quality friendship there. As he carried on, my mind raced. Where was he going with his tirade of madness? I felt like I was in Spanish class, only catching every fifth word spoken. He mentioned an appreciation for my friendship, personality, and good looks. I knew I needed to be patient and give him time to finish his thoughts. I also needed to gather my own before blurting out my defense which was coming to my mind in clumps at this point. I forcefully calmed my thumping heart and swarming nerves. He summed up his rabbit-hole, around-the-bush escapade. He didn’t quite hit the mark he was going for by the time he finished. He was a great friend. But I wasn’t attracted to him in the least. He shrugged and said we would talk when he could think clearly. Deep down I sighed with relief that he didn’t know how to address the relationship. I wasn’t ready to face the music. As we parted ways, the greatest of friends, I felt very bonded to this man. I enjoyed his friendship immensely, but I knew something was changing for us. A few weeks after, I received the ill-fated email of affection and interest. I sent a loving, but straight-forward response. We were just meant to be friends. Our lives began to drift apart.

Craig and I met in New Zealand a few years ago. I was still trying to get the sour taste of friendships-gone-wrong out of my mouth. I decided to change my tactic with this one. I would tell him straight away that I was not in a good place for romance. I would be his friend, but nothing more. He was completely understanding and a very good friend. . . for a week. We had a movie marathon with a few other friends. As the last Lord of the Rings credits scrolled, Jess yawned and bid her leave. Madelyn was right behind Jess shuffling her lazy feet like a zombie “chasing” a meal. Craig sat across the room. He sighed heavily. I was seconds from the exit when he blurted, “I need to talk to you.” A pang jabbed my heart. I reasoned with myself that he knew better than to have this conversation. There must’ve been something else on his mind. “I’ve tried to see you as just a friend, but I can’t any longer.” Nope! He really was taking the plunge. Immediately after I sweetly rejected him, our friendship spiraled into a psychotic drama. He tried to fight every new guy that talked to me. He continually questioned my stance on the relationship. It didn’t help that we worked together.

On the flipside, I am emotionally retarded with guys I find attractive. He was tall, muscular and blond. He had a five-o-clock shadow on his sharp, manly jaw. I passed the store he was perusing and stepped into the store just next to it to gather my nerves. Before I could sort my thoughts, he walked through the door with curious eyes and a sweet smile. My knees began a boxing match with each other. I looked down at the dresses… and then realized they were men’s shirts. Panic punched my heart and I flew awkwardly in a circle until I saw the swimsuits. I preoccupied myself with mindless shopping. All the while he slowly walked through the guy section, looking up at me every few steps. I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact. I looked everywhere other than at him. Five torturous minutes passed and then, he was gone. And with him, chance number 237 to finally welcome an attractive introduction. I ferociously made a resolve to be friendlier to attractive guys. Within a week, my next opportunity walked around the corner and into my lane at Whole Foods. He had a dark, purposefully messy mane and a plaid shirt resting upon broad shoulders. He smiled as we passed. Oh, look shoes! My eyes immediately found my feet and a shy smile crept across my face too subtle for the average individual to notice. I felt deflated. I couldn’t force myself to be friendly. It wasn’t until I was setting my items on the counter at the check-out that I noticed him standing parallel, smiling as he placed his items on the next check-out. My hands started shaking. I turned away. It’s too real! Here’s my chance, or maybe my dilemma. Or even my nightmare coming to fruition. I backpedalled. I paid the cashier and threw items into bags before sprinting for the exit. Then the sinking feeling returned. He was so handsome. He seemed so friendly. Why was I terrified by him, or moreover my attraction to him? Chance number 238 sprouted wings and flew right out of my life.

I truly felt like this idiosyncrasy was hindering me from making the proper connections with people. I was driving home from class. It was warm out and the sun was just slipping beneath the gorgeous West Maui Mountains. My windows were down and sunglasses were no longer needed for the remainder of my drive. I was pulling them off when I saw him. He was shirtless standing beside his truck. He looked up. He smiled. It wasn’t until I drove past that I realized I was probably staring with my sunglasses suspended at my nose. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses for our brief, four-second encounter. For weeks on my route home I looked for him. I knew his cherry red Ford Ranger. I decided I was going to meet him. Finally, one day I saw him. I saw his face clearly. He was at least twice my age and bald. I’m back at square one. I still befriend the guys I’m not attracted to, but I’ve learned to be less friendly. I am still paralyzed around attractive guys, but I’m taking baby steps. I can admit there’s a problem. “Hi, I’m Mackenzie, and I’m not an alcoholic, but a socially awkward, relationally incompetent wallflower.”

FD 2: Tenacious Nobility

Mackenzie Laird
FD 2: Tenacious Nobility
Word Count: 1,310
Date: March 2^nd, 2012.

Tenacious Nobility

Ron was an intimidating, accomplished and adventurous man. He possessed heart-throbbing good looks, wavy hair to his shoulders, a strong jaw sprinkled with stubble, and solid Superman shoulders. His presence commanded attention and respect. He was capable. His personality was magnetic. His stories were endless and his laugh contagious. [Thesis] A major medical crisis interrupted this powerful life in the span of thirty seconds and like all noble men his integrity persisted. [Thesis]

To color a picture of the prankster I must flip back to the pages of his childhood. When he was young he instructed his little brother, Brant, to walk over to the neighbor’s house in nothing but underwear and a face-full of shaving cream. Brant, mortified and tearful, declared “Ho, ho, ho! I’m Santa Claus. Give me all your presents,” while Ron hid in the bushes with BB gun aimed at his backside. The neighbors knew Ron well. When a field caught fire behind his house, there was no mistaking the culprit. The day he lost his index finger to a raccoon came as little surprise to those who knew the mischief-maker. He was too adventurous for his own good and knew little of the limits in life.

He spent his adult years in the saddle. As a cowboy, he worked on the second largest ranch in Texas (350, 000 acres). He was a foreman. Every Round-Up required meticulous planning. Every 16-hour-work day began at four a.m. One memorable Round-Up was exceptionally dangerous. Several hundred Mexican fighting bulls suffered from three generations of inbreeding. Their eyes possessed a crazy glow. No one could handle them, except Ron. He was determined to do his job well. He and his men spent grueling hours herding the wild creatures through mesquite, gulches, and wide open range. Finally, all were safely hauled into 18-wheelers for the shipping yards. It was at the yards they trampled and killed a hapless stockyard worker.

If it wasn’t pointy horns on killer bulls in his path it was the grimacing teeth of Alaskan brown bears. The adrenaline-pumping stories continued during his time in the Wild North. One day he took two of his friends on a hunting excursion. Larry and Steve were both Vietnam veterans. Nothing could have prepared them for the experience in the Alaskan wilderness. Larry’s eyes filled with horror. His hands shook. The ferocious brown bear stood at a colossal 12 feet. It sniffed the air and snarled intensely. The men’s presence threatened the bear. Teeth gnashed rapidly as the beast dropped back on all fours with a loud thump. Then it charged. The ground quaked from the swift approach of nearly 2,000 pounds of doom. In chaotic distress Larry worked frantically at the gun. “Shoot him! Shoot him, Larry!” Terror prickled Larry’s neck and fear electrocuted his spine. Larry was ejecting each of the bullets from his .375 Magnum rifle instead of firing. The bear rushed towards them. Ron immediately took action. He whipped out his .44 Magnum pistol and fired several times. The third member of this escapade, Steve, carried a .458 Magnum Winchester rifle. After a two-second assessment, he raised the gun to his hip and fired. The bear slumped and plowed the dirt all the way to Steve’s feet. Larry’s pants were soiled and tears wobbled down his face. Ron breathed a sigh of relief. Steve was frozen with the gun still on his hip, mouth agape at the massive bear at his feet. This Alaskan adventure was more of a death wish than refreshing vacation for Larry and Steve.

On the softer side, Ron was the most generous man I knew. He was munificent with his time, money and effort. Aside from being a world traveler, he was an incredible constructor. He built homes, schools and churches all over the world. In New Zealand, he volunteered to construct an entire school. The completed project was breath-taking. It was two stories high, with classrooms, several offices, a dining hall, kitchen, several bathrooms, and pillars around the deck. Hundreds of students walked through those doors to ingest copious amounts of knowledge due to his talent. His gift to them was priceless. His efforts were given without a dime of pay. This was one of many building projects.

People couldn’t faze him, nor could circumstances. He was a friend to many: the homeless, popular, guilty, and the proud. He showed no prejudice or concern with societal standing. Everywhere he went he was followed like the Pied Piper. He lived a nomadic lifestyle. His claim, “Life is an adventure. Why waste it in one location?” From the age of seventeen until October 2012, Ron lived in the security of his abilities.

It was an eerie October day in 2012 when Ron Laird suffered a life-altering stroke. I walked into the hospital, heart pounding ferociously in my chest. I scanned the waiting room. When I found my five siblings I saw red-blotched faces, teary eyes and running noses. They had expressions of complete agony. Ron was a pillar of strength, a fortified city for which his little ducklings could find shelter. It was hard to imagine him any other way.

Until the moment I walked into the emergency room. There he lay with glossy eyes, a crooked smile, and dazed expression. He was paralyzed completely on his right side. He couldn’t form grammatical sentences, only muffled “yeah” and “okay.” I grabbed his hand and swallowed my own sobs. Stay strong, stay strong, I reminded myself. I can’t show my emotions. I need to be like I’ve always known him to be; strong, comforting. Where once stood a powerful, fierce, unwavering man now lay a feeble, soft-spoken and humble one. He was no less magnificent in my eyes. Perhaps, I even adored him more for the way he handled and endured this life-change. He was just as persistent as ever. He refused to give up.

Months later, I took him to physical therapy. My heart turned and clawed at my throat. For a second, I was overwhelmed with an urge to weep. I could have lost him. I felt a sense of awe that he was in recovery and not six feet underground. “Hold your leg up,” the Physical Therapist said. He jokingly asked if he should do it with his eyes closed. He grimaced and said they should have done the harder exercises in the beginning of the session when he was not weary. On the way home he held the dashboard. Since the stroke, nerves on his right side still slumbered. “If I don’t concentrate on my hand, it will go limp and fall. I am constantly focusing on each step, each grasp with a body I cannot feel any longer.”

Now, he fatigues quickly. He needs additional rest, a walking cane and a handful of pills. My father, the strongest and most capable man I know, needs help. It is hard to grasp. From a daughter’s eyes, the reality of it all escapes me from time to time. I remember him as a fearless explorer. He is the adventuresome dare-devil who introduced me to my love of travel. He has taught me innumerable lessons. A wellspring of valuable knowledge resides within me because of him. I am this man’s daughter. He makes me proud.

Though his circumstances have changed slightly, he is still the proficient man I have known my entire life. I see beyond a broken body into a warrior’s soul. He is legendary in my eyes. He will live beyond this life for all eternity. Whether he fully improves or walks with a limp, he reminds me of a retired fighter: a few noticeable scars and a demeanor that claims the highest respect. His value has not changed an ounce. He is still an incredible man. He is just facing a new challenge. A new adventure called recovery.

Log of Completed Activities
_X_ Feb. 4- Guidelines for Paper #2: Portraits
_X_ Feb. 8- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Lee and Simic.
_X_ Feb. 11- Complete readings – all of chap. 13. Optional: Madeline Sonik, “Cucarachas” (Bellingham Review, 2009); Richard Ben Cramer, “What Do You Think of Ted Williams Now?” (Esquire, June 1986). Warning: some strong language in both and bits of sexist language in Cramer’s.
_X_ Feb. 14- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Steinbach and Toth.
_X_ Feb. 19- Laulima Posting: Sample from Your Portrait.
_X_ Feb. 22- Submit RD2. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
_X_ Feb. 25- Submit three RD2 evaluations. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
_X_ Feb. 28-Mar. 4 – Submit FD2. Guidelines for Submitting FD2. [125 pts]

RD 2: Tenacious Nobility

Mackenzie Laird
RD 2: Tenacious Nobility
Word Count: 1,308
Date: February 22nd, 2012.

Tenacious Nobility

Ron is an intimidating, accomplished and adventurous man. He possesses heart-throbbing good looks, wavy hair to his shoulders, a strong jaw sprinkled with stubble, and shoulders that could make Superman quiver. His presence commands attention and respect. He is strong and capable. His personality is magnetic. His stories are endless and his laugh contagious. [Thesis] A major medical crisis interrupted this powerful life in a span of thirty seconds but the integrity of noble men persists in difficult times. [Thesis]

To color a picture of the prankster I must flip back to the pages of his childhood. When he was young he instructed his little brother, Brant, to walk over to the neighbor’s house in nothing but underwear and a face-full of shaving cream. Brant, mortified and tearful, had to say “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas,” while Ron hid in the bushes with BB gun aimed if the instructions were not followed. The neighbors knew Ron well. When a field caught fire behind his house, there was no mistaking the culprit. The day he lost his index finger to a raccoon could come as little surprise to many who knew him. He was too adventurous for his own good and knew little of the limits in life.

He spent years in the saddle. As a real cowboy, he worked on the second largest ranch in Texas (350, 000 acres). He was a foreman, one of the highest positions on a ranch. A lot of responsibility goes into a Round-Up. There is a time frame, a graveyard shift, 16-hours work days beginning at four a.m. and sometimes, a very wild herd. At one point he had to round up several hundred Mexican fighting bulls. They had three generations of inbreeding and a crazy glow in their eyes. No one could handle them, except Ron. He was determined to do his job well. He spent grueling hours herding the wild creatures through mesquite, gulches, and wide open range until all were safely hauled into trailers for the shipping yards where they commenced to trample and kill a hapless stockyard worker.

If it wasn’t killer bulls in his path it was the snarling teeth of an Alaskan brown bear. The adrenaline-pumping stories continued during his time in the Wild North. Larry’s eyes filled with horror. His hands shook. The ferocious brown bear stood at a colossal 12 feet. It sniffed the air and snarled intensely. The bear was threatened by the men’s presence. Teeth gnashed rapidly as the beast dropped back on all fours with a loud thump. Then, it charged. The ground quaked from the swift approach of nearly 2,000 pounds of doom. In chaotic distress Larry worked frantically at the gun. “Shoot him! Shoot him, Larry!” Terror prickled Larry’s neck and fear electrocuted his spine. Larry was ejecting each of the bullets from his .375 Magnum rifle instead of firing. The bear rushed toward them. Ron immediately took action. He whipped out his .44 Magnum pistol and fired several times. The third member of this escapade, Steve, had a .458 Magnum Winchester rifle. After a brief and instinctive assessment he raised the gun to his hip and fired. The bear slumped and plowed the dirt all the way to Steve’s feet. Larry’s pants were soiled and tears wobbled down his face. Ron breathed a sigh of relief. Steve was frozen with the gun still at his hip, mouth gaping from the massive body at his feet. This Alaskan adventure was turning out to be more of a death wish than refreshing vacation.

On a softer side, he is the most generous man I know. He is munificent with his time, money, and effort. Aside from being a world traveler, he is an incredible constructor. Ron has built homes, schools, and churches all over the world. In New Zealand, he volunteered to construct an entire school. The completed project was breath-taking. It was two stories high, with classrooms, several offices, a dining hall, kitchen, several bathrooms, and pillars around the deck. Hundreds of students will walk through those doors and ingest copious amounts of knowledge in that school, all thanks to my dad. His gift to them is priceless and his efforts given without a dime of pay. This is just one of many building projects for which he has been a part.

People don’t faze him nor do circumstances. He is a friend to many: the homeless, popular, guilty, and the proud. He shows no prejudice or concerns with societal standing. Everywhere he goes he is followed like the Pied Piper. He lives a nomadic lifestyle. His claim, “Life is an adventure. Why waste it in one location?” From the age of seventeen until October 2012, Ron lived in the security of his abilities.

It was an eerie October day in 2012 when Ron Laird suffered a life-altering stroke. I walked into the hospital, heart pounding ferociously in my chest. I scanned the waiting room, found my five siblings: red-blotched faces, teary eyes and running noses, expressions of complete agony. Ron is a pillar of strength, a fortified city for which his little ducklings can find shelter. It’s hard to imagine him any other way.

Until I walked into the emergency room. There he lay with glossy eyes, crooked smile, and dazed expression. He was paralyzed completely on his right side. He couldn’t form grammatical sentences, only muffled, “yeah” and “okay.” I grabbed his hand and swallowed my own sobs. Stay strong, stay strong, I remind myself. I can’t show my emotions. I need to be like I’ve always known him to be; strong, comforting. Where once stood a powerful, fierce, unwavering man now sat a feeble, soft-spoken and humble one. He was no less magnificent in my eyes. Perhaps, I even adored him more for the way he handled and endured this life-change. He was just as persistent as ever. He never gave up.

Months later, I sat in the other room during his appointment. My heart turned and clawed at my throat. For a second, I was overwhelmed with an urge to weep. I could have lost him. I felt a sense of awe that he was in recovery and not six feet under the ground. “Hold your leg up,” the Physical Therapist said. He jokingly asked if he should do it with his eyes closed. He grimaced and said they should do these harder exercises in the beginning of the session when he’s not weary. On the way home he held the dashboard. Since the stroke, nerves on his right side still slumber. “If I don’t concentrate on my hand, it will go limp and fall. I am constantly focusing on each step, each grasp with a body I cannot feel any longer.”

He fatigues quickly. He needs additional rest, a walking cane, and a handful of pills. My father, the strongest and most capable man I know, needs help. It is hard to grasp. From a daughter’s eyes, the reality of it all escapes me from time to time. I remember him as a fearless explorer, the adventuresome dare-devil who introduced me to my love of travel. He taught me innumerable lessons. He opened my mind and poured a wellspring of valuable knowledge into it. I am this man’s daughter and he makes me proud.

Though his circumstances have changed slightly, he is still the proficient man I have known my entire life. I see beyond a broken body into a warrior’s soul. He is legendary in my eyes. He will live beyond this life for all eternity. Whether he fully improves or walks with a limp, he reminds me of a retired fighter: a few noticeable scar, and a demeanor that claims highest respect. His value has not changed an ounce. He is still that incredible man. He is just facing a new challenge. A new adventure called recovery.

FD1: Humanity Valued

Mackenzie Laird
Feb. 2^nd, 2013
FD 1: Place of Change
Word Count: 1,069

 

Humanity Valued

Jamaica is an exotic country in Central America. I volunteered for the summer of 2003 to serve an orphanage in Montego Bay. I drooled over the glamorous pictures I’d seen of Jamaica, Montego Bay especially. My perspective on life changed at that orphanage. [Thesis] My view of worthiness crossed a barrier from skin-deep beauty to the rich core of the human soul. [Thesis]

White sand beaches stretch for miles and crisp, refreshing, cobalt blue waters entice tourists with each lapping wave. These are the views from the brochures, the limited landmass where vacations are spent. Just across the road, down a small alley, to the right up a one-way street is a completely different view. None of the tour books, adventure guides or cruise leaflets could prepare me for the adventures that awaited me in the Jamaican slums. My life in the United States was opulent. I had a new vehicle, all the electronics I desired, air conditioning in the steamy summers and a wood stove in the brisk winter months. I had more clothes than I needed and a fresh meal at my fingertips.

Hot wind slapped my face as I exited the airport. I gasped, sucking in a mouthful of dust particles. This was not the view I anticipated. A rusty 1986 Toyota that looked well past its retirement and smelled of burnt oil halted in front of me. A driver with a toothless smile and a friendly face welcomed me. He was my ride to the orphanage. We passed several houses that could compare to a dilapidated barn in our country. Four thin walls, and a tin roof; that was it. Sewage and rotten fruit assaulted my nostrils and burned my eyes. Sweat trickled down my temples. There was no AC in the truck and even with the windows down, it felt like a heater on full blast. Reggae sounds shimmied through the air. The music came from battery operated radios in front yards, garages, and under trees where people desperately tried to shelter themselves from the relentless heat. Adolescents slumped around the neighborhood kiosk with orange sodas and white saltine crackers. Kids played in a cesspool of murky laundry run-off in a ditch by the road. Many of them wore second-hand clothing two sizes too large, fastened with baling string. The predominant colors that caught my eye were the red, yellow, green and black Rasta hues in windows, bumper stickers, and hats covering thick authentic dreads.

We rolled to a stop in front of a small, feeble building. A dozen children of various ages stood in the yard with eager anticipation. Faces beamed and hands waved frantically. I stepped out of the vehicle and was rushed like a movie star. Little hands groped me as their eyes filled with tears of amazement at the blonde, blue-eyed, porcelain white girl. They pulled at me, inspected my hands, searched my face, and smelled my clothes. A ragged, old woman met me at the door with a warm embrace. She proceeded to give me a ten-second tour of the establishment. The walls in the foyer were off-white, with aged stains and cracks that diverged from floor to ceiling. I thought for certain the roof would collapse at any minute. The putrid-smelling dining hall was dark and gloomy. The three 10×10 rooms which housed approximately twenty children were meticulously organized, but held a stout odor of mold and urine. Two small bathrooms stood parallel to one another, reeking of chlorine and feces. The neonatal unit housed two dozen screaming babies. The two nurses on duty looked frantic and stressed. They gave curt smiles and quick nods as I walked by but continued to rock babies on each hip. Some of the older kids grabbed my hands and showed me the trampoline outside, their greatest source of entertainment.

While playtime commenced, I retraced my steps from the tour, getting a better look at the institution. The living situation was incredulous. How could anyone live like this? I stepped back into the foyer. I glanced around the room at some of the children. My eyes locked with those of a toddler. I took in the dirty, tear-streaked face, and smiled warmly. When the little body shifted to crawl towards me, it was then that I truly saw the entire child. The little one scooting toward me had only one properly working hand, the other was a nub from the elbow-up. One leg passively slid across the floor as the hand and elbow pushed on. The other leg had been amputated from mid-thigh down. Innocence radiated from those eager eyes. There was a sweet joy emanating from the little person. I was frozen, shocked, and mesmerized by this little contradiction. From my stereotypical American standards, there were flaws too numerous to count. Yet, from a deeper reality sinking into my heart, this little one was beautiful beyond compare. A petite hand finally reached me and gripped my pant leg with unsteady balance. My heart burst. I instinctively reached down and picked up the little one. A soiled diaper dampened my side and the smell of sour milk and diarrhea reached my senses. They had no effect on me. I was transfixed by the five clutching fingers on my shoulder, the sleek bald head resting on my collar bone and the giggles coming from the tiny throat of a content little baby. This child had reached into my soul and shaken me to the core.

My perspective on worth shifted completely. Beauty wasn’t a skin-deep mask plastered across the magazine stands. It was so much deeper. There was uniqueness in every individual, regardless of their ethnicity, status, age, or ability. I walked out of that shabby orphanage a new person after the summer of 2003. That small, fragile child taught me one of the greatest lessons about value, beauty and worthiness. How could I be concerned with small blemishes on my face or the brand of my jeans when a beautiful little baby lived without a mother, a father, an arm or a leg? Still, that little one was so content and so alive. I now appreciate the beauty in each person: every shape, ethnicity, culture, ability. Everyone is different, but contains equal human value. Every life matters. There is unique beauty within each person on this planet.

 

Log of Completed Activities
__X_ Jan. 7- First Day of Instruction. Read the welcome message, which includes instructions on how to navigate our class blog. Next, log in to our Laulima discussion forum and your hawaii.edu mailbox. Become familiar with these instructional media. Carefully review the information in our class blog, especially the schedule and the syllabus (click on the tab at the top of the page). In the syllabus, pay special attention to the grading policy and the document “Am I Ready for an Online Class?” These will give you an understanding of online classes in general and this class in particular.
__X_ Jan. 8- Intro to Paper #1. Read the “Guidelines for Paper #1″ by midnight.
__X_Jan. 8- Laulima Discussion: Who Am I? Post your response by midnight. Possible topics: your academic and career goals; your favorite pastime; favorite book, movie, song; favorite physical activity or sport; favorite quote; personal philosophy on the purpose of life; your personal thoughts on why it’s important to become an excellent writer; favorite food or restaurant; favorite vacation destination; etc.
__X_ Jan. 14-22- Set up your personal blog for all class papers. Click here for instructions. Alternately, see the “Blogger” links in the right sidebar in our class blog. To begin, complete the initial setup. You’ll be able to add finishing touches as the RD1 due date approaches. If you need help, post a request in the “Q&A About My Blog” forum in Laulima.
__L_ Jan. 14- Complete readings for Paper #1
__L_ Jan. 17- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Ehrlich and Legler.
__L_ Jan. 24- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Gilb and Whitehead.
__X_ Jan. 28- Submit Review Draft #1 (RD1). Read the guidelines. [50 pts]
__X_ Jan. 30- Submit three RD1 evaluations in Laulima. Review the guidelines. [50 pts]
__X_ Feb. 1-4- Submit Final Draft #1 (FD1). Read the guidelines. [100 pts]

RD1

Mackenzie Laird
January 28th, 2013
RD 1: Place of Change
Word Count: 1,081

Humanity Valued

Jamaica is an exotic country in Central America. White sand beaches stretch for miles and crisp, refreshing, cobalt blue waters entice tourists with each lapping wave. These are the views from the brochures; the limited landmass where vacations are spent. Just across the road, down a small alley, to the right up a one-way street is a completely different view. None of the tour books, adventure guides or cruise leaflets could prepare me for the adventures that awaited me in the Jamaican slums. My life in the United States was opulent. I had a new vehicle, all the electronics I desired, air conditioning in the steamy summers and a wood stove in the brisk winter months. I had more clothes than I needed and a fresh meal at my fingertips. My perspective on life changed at an orphanage in Montego Bay, Jamaica. [Thesis] My view of worthiness crossed a barrier from skin-deep beauty to the rich core of the human soul. [Thesis]

I volunteered for the summer of 2003 to serve an orphanage in Jamaica. I drooled over the glamorous pictures I’d seen of Jamaica, Montego Bay especially. But this wasn’t the view I anticipated. The automatic doors at the airport creaked open, prompting me forward. Hot wind slapped my face as I exited. I gasped, sucking in a mouthful of dust particles. A rusty 1986 Toyota that looked well past its retirement and smelled of burnt oil halted in front of me. The driver with a toothless smile and a friendly face welcomed me. He was my ride to the orphanage. We passed several houses that could compare to a dilapidated barn in our country. Four thin walls, and a tin roof; that was it. Sewage and rotten fruit assaulted my nostrils and burned my eyes. Sweat trickled down my temples. There was no AC in the truck and even with the windows down, it felt like a heater on full blast. Reggae sounds shimmied through the air. The music came from battery operated radios in front yards, garages, and under trees where people desperately tried to shelter themselves from the relentless heat. Adolescents slumped around the neighborhood kiosk with orange sodas and white saltine crackers. Kids played in a cesspool of murky laundry run-off in a ditch by the road. Many of them wore second-hand clothing two sizes too large, fastened with baling string. The predominant colors that caught my eye were the red, yellow, green and black Rasta hues in windows, bumper stickers, and hats covering thick authentic dreads.

We rolled to a stop in front of a small, feeble building. A dozen children of various ages stood in the yard with eager anticipation. Faces beamed and hands waved frantically. I stepped out of the vehicle and was rushed like a movie star. Little hands groped me as their eyes filled with tears of amazement at the blonde, blue-eyed, porcelain white girl. They pulled at me, inspected my hands, searched my face, and smelled my clothes. A ragged, old woman met me at the door with a warm embrace. She proceeded to give me a ten-second tour of the establishment. The walls in the foyer were off-white, with aged stains and cracks that diverged from floor to ceiling. I thought for certain the roof would collapse at any minute. The putrid-smelling dining hall was dark and gloomy. The three 10×10 rooms which housed approximately twenty children were meticulously organized, but held a stout odor of mold and urine. Two small bathrooms stood parallel to one another, reeking of chlorine and feces. The neonatal unit housed two dozen screaming babies. The two nurses on duty looked frantic and stressed. They gave curt smiles and quick nods as I walked by but continued to rock babies on each hip. Some of the older kids grabbed my hands and showed me the trampoline outside, their greatest source of entertainment. While playtime commenced, I retraced my steps from the tour, getting a better look at the institution. The living situation was incredulous. How could anyone live like this? I stepped back into the foyer. I glanced around the room at some of the children. My eyes locked with those of a toddler. I took in the dirty, tear-streaked face, and smiled warmly. When the little body shifted to crawl towards me, it was then that I truly saw the entire child. The little one scooting toward me had only one properly working hand, the other was a nub from the elbow-up. One leg passively slid across the floor as the hand and elbow pushed on. The other leg had been amputated from mid-thigh down. Innocence radiated from those eager eyes. There was a sweet joy emanating from the little person. I was frozen, shocked, and mesmerized by this little contradiction. From my stereotypical American standards, there were flaws too numerous to count. Yet, from a deeper reality sinking into my heart, this little one was beautiful beyond compare. A petite hand finally reached me and gripped my pant leg with unsteady balance. My heart burst. I instinctively reached down and picked up the little one. A soiled diaper dampened my side and the smell of sour milk and diarrhea reached my senses. They had no effect on me. I was transfixed by the five clutching fingers on my shoulder, the sleek bald head resting on my collar bone and the giggles coming from the tiny throat of a content little baby. This child had reached into my soul and shaken me to the core. My perspective on worth shifted completely. Beauty wasn’t a skin-deep mask plastered across the magazine stands. It was so much deeper. There was uniqueness in every individual, regardless of their ethnicity, status, age, or ability.

I walked out of that shabby orphanage a new person after the summer of 2003. That small, fragile child taught me one of the greatest lessons about value, beauty and worthiness. How could I be concerned with small blemishes on my face or the brand of my jeans when a beautiful little baby lived without a mother, a father, an arm or a leg? Still, that little one was so content and so alive. I now appreciate the beauty in each person: every shape, ethnicity, culture, ability. Everyone is different, but contains equal human value. Every life matters. There is unique beauty within each person on this planet.