With All Honesty, Everything You Already Knew from Someone That Wasn’t Afraid to Say It (Unless you’re Okay with Saying ‘It’. Especially if ‘it’ is that I’m Completely Wrong in General, in Which Case I Need to Find Another Ridiculously Long Title For this Essay or Rewrite One That Makes Logical Sense). Guys Are Dumb -By Someone Anonymous

This is my term paper:

Recently, I have found myself in a state of devastation to the sudden awareness of an enormous amount of knowledge that was always right in front of my face. I’d call it ‘teenage angst’ in light my age, but aside from the amount of years I’ve been present on this earth I’d have to say that it falls into a separate subject, taking into account that its only an issue for guys. Simply put, I’d have to say that it’s the process of me, ‘braking out of my shell’ and becoming a semiliterate person instead an illiterate person. I have firmly come to the brilliantly blatant realization that I’m not the only soul on this earth since, and I can’t help but look around me nowadays to think what life must be like for other people. Mind you I probably don’t imagine how everyone else sees the world on a completely accurate level, but on most occasions I can guess; and when I briefly observe the mind of the ever day guy I tend to come to one conclusion… There’s not a lot going on up there! Aside from this, there are a few exception to which don’t apply.

The male mind in general can be elucidated with the use of one word; and that word being, ‘oblivious’. But, because it may not be obvious what it’s oblivious too I’ll explain a little further (Also, there’s a joke in this sentence). When it comes down to the fine details, all that the male mind seems to think about (especially that of the adolescent one) is the opposite sex. Testosterone, the dominant hormone in the male body flows through our veins like a lubed, obese man at a water park; except with a little less flow. At times we guys may seem a little on edge or aggressive. And if you ask me, it’s all testosterone’s fault. Sometimes (or most of the time) when teenage boys go through their teens they may experience larger doses of testosterone than others, and as a result they will be in a state of euphoric satisfaction with the way they see the world around them until they are just about to hit their twenties after their hormone levels balance out. That’s my theory, and it’s coming from a first-hand experience bearing in mind that I’m a guy.

But I’m not trying to inform you of why we guys are so unaware of the world around us. I’m just telling you that to answer one simple question for your sake. I’ve asked this question for two reasons: the first reason being because I need to write this term paper so that I don’t fail ‘English 30’, and the second reason being because I’ve asked myself it once before and figured I’d relate to it the most. So here’s the truth. In the past, I have told many of the people around me that I cannot stand reading or writing… this has changed since. I’ve also been told by parents and teachers that many male teenagers are a rollercoaster of hormones flying past their heads in every direction… this hasn’t. So why do male adolescents tend to find literature such a pointless or uninteresting subject? Frankly, I’d have to say that it’s because we’re way too busy thinking about all the pretty girls around us to even care about reading or writing. In fact, in some cases I’ve even come across guys’ girlfriends’ dong their homework for them because they’ve been way too busy concentrating on their sexual desires for the past however so many years that they didn’t ever really take a minute to learn anything in class (and my hint to you is that he may or may not be graduating this year).

In the last year I have found myself ecstatic that I have all the knowledge I could ever want before my finger tips with the absolutely magical help of the ever so enlightening, twenty first century internet! When I want to know the meaning of a word I basically just look it up and several forms of onomatopoeia begin popping up beside my head such as “ding” and “dong” accompanied by floating light bulbs! Same thing goes with pretty much any other information I want to know. It comes in handy for me considering I’m slowly obliterating the element of stupidity from my cranium (although it’s still present to some extent). When looking for word meanings, all I need to do is go to Google and type, “define:” followed by the word I want the meaning of. In the past year I have brought my vocabulary to a highly acclaimed level; and by, ‘highly acclaimed’ I don’t so much mean that people take pride in it as much as I mean that I do. But don’t challenge me on that, as I may seem ‘challenged’ when put on the spot and there are probably a huge number of spelling errors within this essay to prove me wrong anyway. Overall, I’m just saying that I’ve found ways to break out of what I call ‘Cloudy Minded Testosterone Disorder’. Which isn’t a real disorder but I feel like being creative right now. And how did I manage to break away from the mentally isolating effects of this disorder you may ask? Well, I won’t tell you as I intend this essay to be appropriate for all ages. Also… don’t let your mind wander too far into the black abyss. But, as a result I’ve come to realize that I ‘love’ literature; and if I had never realized that I did, there would be a number of female friends that I have in my life today that wouldn’t be there. So just to let you know I’m still slightly victim to ‘Cloudy Minded Testosterone Disorder’. And as for my theory to why the stereotypical adolescent male doesn’t usually like reading or writing goes about as far as this: We’re in the process of developing and we can’t think about anything else but sexually related topics. Therefore our lives become dominated by hormones and we cease to get down to an emotional level the way girls do.

How do we fix this problem? We can’t. I know that ‘The Friesen’ probably recommended this topic as a possible term paper for us all so that someone would hopefully answer that question and he could then teach adolescent males more successfully. But, unfortunately the only way it can be fixed is for the male individual to suddenly take interest in literature the way Mr. Friesen has or wait until he has become a fully developed man at which point he’s at a hormonal consensus… and we can only hope that he’s not still in high school by that point. Therefore Mr. ‘F’ should just keep doing what he’s doing! Oh, and brain surgery may also be an option… or you could just give him heaps of books relating to sex.

In order to prove my point a little better I’m going to compare the male adolescent mind with that of the female adolescent mind. But let me just start by saying that they call chick-flicks, ‘chick flicks’ for a reason. A couple of days ago I was hanging out with a few of my friends when we all simultaneously found ourselves in a state of boredom. Finally, after a while we came to the conclusion that we wanted to watch a movie. However, the predicament before us was that many of the films at my friend’s house were over-watched. So in lieu of the films we had present before us I volunteered to bring my laptop over and let them all pick from my ripped collection. After I had ran home and grabbed my laptop I began going through the list, and considering that ‘A’ is the first letter in the English alphabet, to my luck the film, “A Walk to Remember” came shooting up before their eyes. I then found myself mocked by my peers for having it on my laptop. If this were a group of girls it may have even been the film of choice for the night. Not saying that I want to watch ‘A Walk to Remember’ with any of my friends but in our case the movie of choice was the ever so violent 2008 film with Angelina Jolie and James McAvoy, “Wanted”. And after about fifteen minutes of watching it they had completely forgotten about the incident that had occurred.

Of course you’re probably saying something along the lines of, “You’re using films as an example to prove why guys don’t like literature you idiot!” And yes I am. But, in my defense I will say that ‘A Walk to Remember’ was a film based off the 1999 romantic novel by Nicholas Sparks of the same name, and that that gives teenage guys all the more reason to turn it down and watch a film such as ‘Wanted’ that has no connection to any kind of book at all. Besides, I can only imagine how they would react if they were forced to read the book form of ‘A Walk to Remember’. So when it comes down to it, guys are simple creatures; especially the adolescent ones. We like lots of violence and sex (or sexual references) in our literature, and when it comes to emotions we usually don’t care much. That’s my theory and I may or may not be sticking to it. Prove me wrong! But, obviously what I’m saying is true and girls are by far more literate than guys. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a straight forward manifest question on the ‘Potential Term Paper Questions’ paper that Mr. F gave us in our ‘English 30’ booklet asking, “Why do male adolescents not like to read? How can this be fixed?” so don’t even try to tell me I’m wrong.

Anyways, I’m simple going to go through a brief scrutiny of the female mind so that we can recognize the two extremes. My sister, to which isn’t living with me anymore is quite the reader. To tell the truth, when she was living with me her room was metaphorically speaking: a library. She had every novel I’d never heard of in there! My sister constantly reads. A few weeks ago when a family issue came up, me and my siblings had to make a surprise trip to Ashcroft with her. Which I’m guessing from our location was about a twelve hour drive. During those twelve hours she not only read one book… but three books that I would have to estimate at about three hundred to four hundred pages long. That’s the amount of time it takes me to read a quarter of a two hundred page book! I can even say that there was no way she was faking because afterwards, she had time to give us all (me and the rest of my family) an hour long summary of each one against our will before arriving at our destination. On a side note I will confess that I spent the twelve hours listening to my iPod on and off and complaining because my brother (who was sitting beside me) was smelly. As for my smelly brother… he spent it sleeping on and off and looking out the window.

I think it’s about time to prove myself when I say that the internet can find virtually anything (pun intended). It’s time for me to show you some literature… so if you’re a guy you should probably stop reading now. But, if you’ve read this far and you’re a guy than what do you have to lose, right? I’m about to give you a link to a little essay called, “You Should Date an Illiterate Girl” by Charles Warnke. Here’s the link and I apologize as this reference isn’t exactly appropriate for all ages, “http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/”. Essentially, this form of literature is a sarcastic piece telling guys out there why they should date an illiterate girl. Personally, my favorite quote from it is, “Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read, never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion”. To be straight forward, it’s the road that most adolescent males will follow… dating an illiterate girls because they’re illiterate, then dying and not having anything left to show for their life and not having anyone to assist them in making something to show for their life. It’s a road that can be rectified if one so chooses, but if that ‘one’ doesn’t then you have no choice but to recognize them as an incompetent individual and let them chart their course in life.

For those of you that may enjoy a little more reading, here’s another link to a website that will shed some more light on this subject, “http://www.ehhs.cmich.edu/~tcsrj/Parkhurst.pdf”. Some quotes in this that stuck out to me were, “On average, females were more engaged in reading than males”, “The purpose of this paper is to note that research indicates boys like to read humorous narrative” and a quote from a guy named William Brozo that says, “…today’s adolescent males are at risk of failing to develop the necessary skills for future academic and workplace success” from a book he wrote by the name of ‘To Be a Boy, to Be a Reader’. After that point I discontinued reading due to monotony and scrolled down to the bottom of the page to acknowledge the lovely bibliography that ‘Howard Pankhurst’ wrote. To be straightforward, this tells us that adolescent males are small minded and like humorous literature if any at all.

So there you have it ladies and gentlemen. The state of devastation to the sudden awareness of an enormous amount of knowledge that was always right in front of my face, put into a nutshell before you! Striking isn’t it? No? Well of course ‘no’. With all honesty, it’s everything you already knew from someone that wasn’t afraid to say it (Unless you’re okay with saying ‘it’. Especially if ‘it’ is that I’m completely wrong in general in which case I need to find another ridiculously long title for this essay or rewrite one that makes logical sense). Guys are dumb.
-Matt

Without question, Icarus’ arrogance is at its height in the original myth, as written by Ovid. In this text, Icarus possesses all the annoying cons of a spoiled, young boy as he carries out- with eyes blinded into blissful ignorance by his own hubris-the two main actions that will lead to this young man’s eventual downfall from the peak of arrogance: he disobeys his father, and he flies too close to the sun. His disobedience and superior attitude towards his father began well before the wing’s construction had neared finality: “Unthinking of [Icarus’] fate, with smiles pursu’d… with the wax impertinently played/ and with [Icarus’] childish tricks the great design delay’d.” (page 7) These lines perfectly capture Icarus’ attitude towards both his father and his work- he has a complete and total disregard for his father’s wishes to escape from the palace of Knossos, his understanding of the seriousness of the situation lowered by his youth.

This quote serves not only to showcase his disregard for the situation, but his haughty confidence in his father’s ability. This may not be a negative thing, but it only serves to remind the reader that Icarus is supercilious in relation to every area of his life. Daedalus tries in vain to warn his son of the wings’ sensitivity to both heat and sea spray- “My boy, take care/ to wing your course along the middle air… but follow me: let me before you lay.” (page 7) He urges Icarus to follow his path, to which the boy obviously pays no heed: “…the boy, whose childish thoughts aspire/ to loftier aims, and make him ramble high’r/ grown wild, and wanton, more embolden’d flies/ far from his guide/ and soars among the skies.”(page 8 ) Icarus’ ambitions to fly higher lead to his downfall. Daedalus is understandably upset as he watches his only son plummet towards his death, which only drives the point home that arrogance and showing off are things that you should strive to avoid. Modesty is the attribute- inconspicuousness is key, perhaps the reason that the Icarus in the next text is a study in unassuming humbleness.

Icarus takes on a much humbler outlook in the version of the myth by the name of “Icarus” by Edward Fields. In this reimagining of the myth, Icarus assumes the persona of a man named “Mr. Hicks,” (10) after swimming away after the spot at which he had supposedly met his watery doom. He sees his mistake- his fatal flaw of arrogance has been recognized by the young man, and he now lives a mediocre life in an unassuming suburb. However, Icarus has not forgotten his dreams and illusions; “And daily in his workshop…constructs small wings and tries to fly.” (22-23)Even though he’s identified the source of his problems as his arrogance- which was forcibly removed from his person by a great fall- he still longs to touch the sun, though he loathes himself every time he tries: “Fails every time and hates himself for trying.” (25)

Fields’ Icarus is fading fast into an inconsequential existence- but the fact that frightens him even more than this, is the creeping realization that, perhaps, his existence has always been this way. Icarus constantly refers to himself as a hero in this poem: he raises himself above the rest of the people living in the suburb, in a lingering sign of arrogance. “What was he doing aging in a suburb?” This line illustrates his confusion at the situation unfolding before him; at the fact that he was no longer the prodigal hero he had thought himself to be. Near the end of the poem, when Icarus “had thought himself a hero… but now rides on commuter trains/ serves on various committees/ and wishes he had drowned”, he realizes – consciously or not – that he is simply a drop in the barrel; his is a meaningless existence. If he had died in that fall from the heavens, no difference would have been made to the people around him; the world wouldn’t have halted in its revolutions. Life would have gone on. Though Icarus’ existence is viewed as unimportant in this text, at least his presence is noted.

“Landscape with the Fall of Icarus” by William Carlos Williams provides yet another portrayal of Icarus, this time in the form of a man ignored completely as he falls to his death. Williams had written this ecphrastic poem in response to Bruegel’s oil painting of the same name, which had illustrated Icarus in a traditional manner in regard to the original myth, save for one key point: he is completely disregarded by the people below him. This poem develops this idea further- going so far as to bring forth the idea that the citizens’ ignorance of him wasn’t even intentional- they simply weren’t aware of his presence. “A farmer was ploughing/ his field,” (4-5) simply continuing to work diligently as Icarus plunges into the sea behind him. It isn’t that the farmer chooses to ignore the drowning of the winged man- the fact is he simply doesn’t notice him. The ship doesn’t cast off any lines for the dying man; no gallant men of the town rush into the water to save the youth, and people continue to go on about their daily business as if there isn’t a life slowly being drained in the very waters they work by. The people disregarding Icarus aren’t the only thing in this poem highlighting his unimportance; Williams’ choice of words shows Icarus’ triviality: “unsignificantly/ off the coast.” (16-17) Williams was showing irony in his writing by describing Icarus- who was constantly wrapped up in his own arrogance- as unimportant enough to drown without a single soul noticing.

The one constant in each of these variations on the myth is Icarus’ arrogance. But- as the above demonstrates- the way that other people react to his hubris changes as the versions do. Icarus’ death was originally a large event, mourned not only by his father, but by everyone who knew of the boy’s demise. As the myth branched into many variations, Icarus’ death eventually morphed into an unimportant, meaningless event. Icarus doesn’t matter anymore; but the message stays the same- this winged boy will forever be a reminder to people all over the world of how dangerous blinding arrogance can become.
-Sadee

“Ay me!” (2.2, line 26) Juliet’s first line of the famous balcony scene, many versions have portrayed this line as being sad very soft and calm, when in reality, she’s basically saying that he life sucks. Cursing herself. She has found out that her first and only love is a Montague, the only son of her great enemy. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”(2.2, line 33), many people don’t interpret this correctly. The very beginning of this line, instead of cursing herself again, she’s cursing him.“Wherefore art thou” doesn’t mean where are you. She’s asking why Romeo has to be Romeo. Juliet wants to know why he has to be a Montague and why he has to be her family’s enemy. “Deny thy father and refuse thy name” (2.2, line 34), this is an idea. Juliet is giving out an idea to Romeo, even though he’s not there. She’s saying that he should disown his family and no longer be a Montague. The ideas is that since they both love each other, then perhaps he could get rid of his name and leave his family so that he could be with her. “Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.” (2.2, lines 35-36), Juliet’s bargaining with him here, she’s trying to say that if he won’t leave his family and get rid of his name, then she’ll disown her family and get rid of her name so that she will be able to be with him.

“What’s Montague? It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man.” (2.2, lines 40-42), Juliet is attempting to figure out the definition of what a Montague is. A Montague is no more than a word, a name. It’s not a person or anything of great value, it’s just a word. “O! Be some other name! What’s in a name?” (2.2, lines 42-43), Once again, speaking to Romeo even though he’s not there. We can assume that she’s praying to the heavens that Romeo could be some other name and then she’s asking what’s in a name. It’s a bit of a nothing statement really, even when spoken. It’s like when someone says the word nothing, that’s kind of the meaning of this sentence. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” (2.2, lines 43-44). This statement holds a bit more importance than the previous one. She’s comparing a rose, not to Romeo, but to another rose. This is very literal, she’s saying that you could call a rose a weed and it would still smell a pretty as a rose would be. “So Romeo would, we he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title.” (2.2, lines 45-47), once again she’s comparing Romeo to Romeo. Without the name Romeo, he would still be Romeo, just he wouldn’t have the name he had been given. She’s trying to say that no matter what, he would still be the same person and just as perfect in her eyes. “Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.” (2.2, lines 47-49). Let’s break this down first, doff is to remove something, so Juliet is saying that she wants Romeo to remove his name which really isn’t any part of him at all and take her to be his wife.

Tearing apart the famous balcony scene is a very interesting task. As the storyline moves along, Juliet’s motive stays unchanged, but her tone changes every now and then. “My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongues uttering, yet I know the sound: art thou not Romeo and a Montague?” (2.2, lines 58-60), Juliet’s confirming that this man in her private garden truly is Romeo and not some pervert watching a thirteen year old girl and listening to everything she says. She’s very forward about it, which is a good thing. Let’s be honest here, none of us would want some creep listening in on everything we said and watching us as we pour our hearts out to the heavens and stars above. So far, we’ve seen that this young girl is mostly confused as to how she feels about Romeo, but she will fight for herself because she knows exactly what she wants. She likes to be in control of the situation she’s been put into.

She faces a conflict in the third act of the play. Juliet is a very Catholic and religious person, so to have married a man then be forced to marry a different man strongly goes against what she believes in. Juliet is that girl that never steps out of line, she does what her mother tells her to do and does what she is asked by people that are superior to her. When she does step out of line, it’s a very large step out of line. She went behind her parents back and married the son of her family’s greatest enemy. “I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear, It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, rather than Paris. These are news indeed!” (3.5, lines 122-125), she’s trying to tell her mother that she will marry Romeo, even though she’s supposed to hate him. Juliet is really trying to dig herself out of this hole she’s in by telling her mother she will not marry Paris. This is a situation she may have a little more trouble getting out of, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try. Her father is furious with her and her mother won’t help out her own daughter, which leads Juliet to take matters into her own hands and find a way out of the wedding she has been stuck in. She had decided that first pretending to take her own life was the best option, followed by her actually taking her own life when she discovers that Romeo had died.

It’s hard to see what tones and emotions she uses when you’re only reading the play and not digging into the character’s mind. Yes, Juliet is a teenager girl that’s madly in love and does say a few words with that breathy voice, but there are many other times where the tone of voice she uses is one that can be rather loud and angry. I’m hoping that while you read this, you have a better grasp of the play and will be able to enjoy more and understand it much better now that you know what the female lead is saying. Juliet truly is a strong, independent woman who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it, just the path she took in the end lead to deaths that didn’t need to occur. It led to tragedy and there is a huge possibility that it could have been stopped, if she had found another way to get what she wanted and found a better way to fight for herself.
-Jessie

I leaned my body weight on my right shoulder. Sleep was no longer an option anymore; I found myself perfectly in tune with my environment. As I slipped my feet off of the bedside, the heel of my foot planted straight into the center of something wet. At the moment, the knowledge as to what it might be that I just stepped in was not yet obtained and not within my personal interests to be so. Soon after the ‘heel to unidentified wet object incident’ a repulsive stench of vomit and stale beer filled my nostrils. From here a deep breath of disgust overcame my worries and I grabbed my towel from the door handle of my bedroom and headed towards the shower. I reached toward the door handle of the bathroom but my hands’ kinetics soon changed course from the deep, angry voice of my father.

“Danny!!!” I heard him yell. I heard a door slam and the sound of dad’s thick leather workbooks clunked across the upstairs floor. A slight pause followed. Then again my dad yelled, “Danny! What the hell’s going on around here?” Clearly dad saw the hole in the drywall by the front door. I know it was the first thing I noticed when I came home… but there was much more throughout the house for him to be angry about. Dad had just been gone for the weekend. He was a logger and sometimes spent days out in the bushes cutting down trees and sleeping in his camper. He barely got to see his family… or at least what’s left of his family. My mom passed away in a car crash about three years ago and since then my brother Danny went wild with drugs and alcohol. In fact, he just had a party this past weekend and the house was trashed. He usually manages to clean up the lot of it before dad gets home but this time my dad came home the following morning.

“Seth!” He yelled.

“Yeah?” I answered as I scratched my greasy, dandruff filled bed hair.

“You got anything to do with this pigsty up here?”

“Nope”

Dad paused again, letting out a deep sigh, “You’ve got school today?”

“Yeah” I said in a calm but steadfast voice.

He looked me straight in the eyes as if to say that he didn’t blame me for the mess. However his eyes spoke more than that. They were the eyes of a fearing man. Fearing of what the future might hold for us as a unit and fearing for what might become of Danny and me. Within his eyes I could see the true man he was… the man that my mom fell in love with… the man that raised me and Danny to be hardworking and ambitious and the man that was there for us since day one. To be completely honest, I could never have asked for a better father. But aside from my dad’s rational side was a man who put in his own fair share of yelling in this household. It was usually directed towards Danny and had something to do with him being either drunk or hung-over.

“Get ready. I’ll give you a ride in.” He replied after a good ten second moment of thought.

Before I knew it I was sitting in the passenger side of my dad’s rusty old beater of a Dodge pick-up. It was nothing like when my mom used to drive me into school. The suspension was ten times stiffer than my mom’s old Buick and in this truck I found myself yelling over the obnoxious sound of the Cummins turbo diesel rather than the quite hum of whatever was under the hood of my mom’s car. I wasn’t exactly what you called a truck guy. My hobbies included playing guitar and skiing in the winter. Summer was a boring season for me. Friends, in my case, weren’t exactly in abundance. I usually spent the summer helping my dad cut trees down. It was the halfway point between fall and winter right now and for whatever reason my dad didn’t really want my help too much.

Recently I had found myself at my cousin Bobby’s playing Play-Station and eating popcorn on a regular basis. Bobby’s house was a sanctuary to me. I spent most nights over there. His parents were church folk… deeply religious (whatever that means) and aside from the roof I live under at home, Bobby’s house was a spectacular alternative that always left me with a feeling of safety and security.

I stared out the window of the pick-up while my mind dosed off into daydreams of a better life. There wasn’t exactly a whole lot I felt fond about in this one anyways. I imagined my mom was alive again. I stood by the fireplace at the back door in a mid-winter frenzy. The smell of hot chocolate filled my nose as I slipped my cold, wet boots off. My mom smiled at me and told me to give a shout out to Danny to tell him there was a hot chocolate waiting for him on the counter. I couldn’t resist but have a sip first though. There was always something special about anything my mom made for me. It had that mother’s touch to it. I went for another sip but just as my lips touched the ridge of the mug a sudden shout awoke me from my fictional bliss.

“Seth!” My dad patted me on the back, “We’re here. Have a good day.”

I hopped out of the truck and waved goodbye. He waved back and shifted gears. A huge cloud of stinky black smoke came from the exhaust of the truck. I turned and ran inside as if the black cloud was chasing me. I put my jacket in my locker and walked into my first class. I was early by about a half hour. As I walked in my teacher gave me a questioning glance as to why I was so early. I sat in my desk and stared out the window. Soon class started and me being not too sure as to what my teacher was talking about found it soon didn’t matter. Despite my strenuous efforts to remain awake my enervated mind went into a heavy gaze of daydreams once again. That’s how most of the day went. Around one in the afternoon it began to snow outside. I focused on one snowflake in particular while I sat in my desk. It was larger than many of the other snowflakes to come after it. I noticed it sway back and forth in the breeze, seemingly to be free, but in all reality to be trapped in the gloomy mood of the day and destined to hit ground, reaching its end.

Time marched on. Lunch came, though I didn’t have the largest appetite. After lunch a couple more classes approached and then came to pass. Before too long the clock struck three-thirty. I grabbed my books and walked out the door into the student packed halls. My rumination continued. Thoughts of my mother’s death filled my mind alongside the wonderment towards what condition my brother might be in. My dad would be gone for another few days again if all was normal.

I walked out the front doors of the school and started heading west towards my house. My home towns name was Tumbler Ridge. It was located in northern British Columbia and consisted of three basic parts; Upper, Middle and Lower. My school was in Middle and my house was about a five minute walk to get to Upper. I walked down Willow Drive towards the main highway ‘Mackenzie Way’ passing the trailer park and then the church of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. There was a dirt walkway beside Mackenzie Way I took. After that it took me up a hill and too the Catholic Church and the old closed school. I walked through what the town people called bear trails into my street called ‘Bull Moose Place’ and slowly walked my way into the front door. There was a note on the Kitchen table. Danny was in the hospital after a quad accident. The note was written by my dad. I could tell by his atrociously messy printing and because he never closed the back of his lower case G’s.

I opened the fridge only to feast my eyes on a lack of food. I ended up putting the kettle on for a hot drink and once the kettle went off I grabbed myself a hot mug of Chamomile tea. I sat down at the kitchen table and stared into an old photo from the day of my mom and dad’s wedding. They were so happy back then. I always wondered why life began to fall apart. My brother was heavy into drugs, my mom dead and my dad always away from home trying to make ends-meet for a dysfunctional family.

My dad took the car into the hospital and the keys to the truck sat taunting me as they sat across the kitchen table beside my dad’s dead cellphone. I didn’t think it was right to take them. I was a sixteen year old boy who only managed to get his learners licence a couple months ago but the idea of a moment of freedom behind the wheel was too inviting to resist. I whipped my hand across the table clenching the keys in the palm of my hand and ran out the door towards the truck after I had settled the idea in my mind. Once the truck was in my sights I ran to it without a moment of hesitation. I launched myself into the driver’s seat while simultaneously putting the key into the ignition. My jaw left open in awe for a moment or so at the feeling of sitting behind the wheel alone consumed me and within a brief moment I was off.

Driving this pick-up was my escape. There never seemed to be many cops around and I was a free man! I wasn’t sure where I was going. I just turned when I felt like turning and pushed on the gas pedal when I felt like moving. About a half hour later it began to rain and I was still on the road. Looking down at the speedometer I found myself going over one twenty. I began to skid. With my hands tightened to the steering wheel I tried to correct it but my faults seemed determined to take me farther. I went sideways into the ditch for a good thirty or forty foot stretch and then stopped. My heart was beating faster than I felt I could endure. An overpass which bridged over a large highway heading towards Grande Prairie was ahead of me by approximately half of a kilometer. I scanned my surroundings; the truck and I were unharmed. All it was, was an adrenaline filled thriller moment I would soon come to forget.

I opened the door to the truck and jumped out. The rain began pouring over my head by this point but despite the rain I made my way to the bridge. Once I got there I saw the cars. They were all raging through my vision at what appeared to be a ridiculously fast pace. I wrapped my chilled fingers around the railing of the bridge. I didn’t want to continue but the pavement below seemed beyond inviting. I placed my foot on the lower railing. My body shivering from the cold wind around me and the pouring rain raised itself above the railing. Suddenly, the snowflake I’d concentrated so deeply upon outside the school window came into my thoughts. Then thoughts of Danny followed and I wondered if he was okay. I thought of my mom and then I thought of my dad. Memories began pouring in like feral waves to my mind. My heart began racing again but this time it was due to an overwhelming amount of emotions.

I froze, finding myself unable to jump. I slowly stepped down from the railing. As I placed my foot to the solid concrete of the bridge’s sidewalk my ears tuned into the sound of the passing cars below. Today over all others was the day I found contentment with my reality. It was something I would not soon forget. Life was hard alright… I had no doubts towards that. But, although it became devastatingly hard at times, there were still reasons to live it. There were still things to live for despite the things I’d lost. And I knew without a doubt that I wasn’t ready to end it.
-Matt

Journal Entry I
December 1502, west of what is now known as Cuba- The storm has blown us severely off course. Alone I stand, I, Christopher Columbus, adventurer and conqueror of the new world! But I need no introduction, for every scholarly man knows my name.

For five days now, blistering ice shards and rain have fallen out of the sky and bombarded our ship. Never have I seen such terrible, terrible winds. It blows us off course and sprays salty brine water into our eyes and across the deck, making it slippery and slick. The sea churns, bubbles and froths with such intensity that it makes one feel as if he is inside a giant boiling cauldron. Waves the size of large cathedrals slam into the boat, shooting in skywards and then down below, the next forthcoming monster. All the while, the sky looms murderously above us, outstretching our pathetic attempts of trying to outrun it. The sky blazes with arcing blue lightning and booming thunder, making it impossible for one to hear their own thoughts.

Three days ago, two of our ships, The Gallega and The Vizcaína, disappeared into the storm and away from sight. Hopefully they will make the rendezvous point on Hispaniola. But alas, not even I know where this storm will take us. No land has made an appearance to those brave enough to brace the open deck, and the poor man in the eagle’s nest, unless the abnormal forces of the wind have carried him elsewhere, would not be heard over the pounding of the rain. And now I must go, the bitter cold and pounding wind have taken their toll on me, and I must return to the lower decks.

Journal Entry II

It has been a few hours since the ship has landed ashore. Dawn is breaking and the most peculiar sight meets my eyes. The entire island seems to be capped into a glass jar of sorts. Not literally of course, but a league from the shore line, the storm has stopped. It is as if the storm is timid of the island, afraid, and has not yet made up its mind whether to approach the mysterious island or not.

“It rolls around the sides, Christopher,” my brother Bartolommeo spoke in an astonished voice.

“Curious, it seems as if it is frightened to approach the island.”

“Should we stay on such an island where no storm is brave enough to approach? What kind of wretchedness must be present here for a storm of that calibre to spook away from it?”

I do not know, I thought to myself; but better here, than to face that dreadful storm once again. Many of the men share the same view, so we must set up camp before setting out to explore the island.
The island doesn’t seem to be big; by no means as large as Hispaniola. It has the same environment as most of the new world does; covered in mosses, trees, bushes and dense jungle. A truly spectacular sight though, is the immense mountain that looms in what seems to be the center of the island. It blots out the sun and shoots up into the clouds. By god! It seems impossible, but this tiny island may contain a mountain that puts the great mighty Alps to shame! What a most splendid sight! A very strange thing however, is accompanied with the confusing weather pattern; the temperature seems…curiously, bland? Blank? It seems there is no word to describe the peculiar temperature on the island, other than nothing. The atmosphere seems peaceful enough, but curiously, something is lacking. I cannot quite put my finger on it just yet, but something is missing that should be here. Ah well, the island seems safe enough to traverse and explore, which is what I am after all, an explorer; for who ever heard of an explorer to afraid to explore, not I.

Journal entry III

Traversing the jungle was difficult. It took large tolls on many of my men, me included. The jungle growth is incredible, never before have I seen such thick undergrowth. The vines would snag at our feet, their sharp thorns, tearing, scratching and digging at our travel worn clothes and skin. The trees sprouted up high over our heads, providing a huge canopy where the echoes of birds should have been heard. Aha! That’s what is missing; the comforting sound of the surrounding wildlife. What a strange place; an island without weather or wildlife, but a blooming jungle? It doesn’t make sense in the slightest. As if to add to the extreme bizarreness of the island, the great mountain emits low grumbles and high pitched groans that make it seem as if it were hollow. Could this be the empty shell of a once great volcano? If so, the walls of the mountain stretch too high for the eye to see, so it is impossible to tell. For now we sit around the camp, trying to start a fire. This is a problem, however, because the wood and kindling do not burn! They do not even feel like normal wood, too smooth, too light and too damn glossy. It is as if each piece of bark has been rubbed into a hard, smooth shell; turned to stone by the elements. Alas, it is a cold supper for the men and me tonight. Maybe the island will reveal more of her wonders tomorrow.

Journal Entry IV

They came in the night… dozens of them, pouring out of the black jungle onto the cold sand of the moonlit beach. As they approached the center of our camp, we, my men and I were huddled, the light reflected their appearance. Uncanny creatures they were. Human, yes; but of what kind I know not. Light phosphorescent blue markings stretched all over their body; appearing in long stripes or unknown writings. They were of dark skin mostly, while some were almost pure white. The pure white ones all looked the same; long white beards and pupil less white eyes. They yelled in a language of unknown origin, the language incomprehensible. Their movements became suddenly blurry. A blue light flashed, everything was gone.
I awoke here in a cell, separated from my men and spaced out around a humongous room. The ceiling seemed to stretch on into the blackness above, while the far side was blocked from view by a large white stone building. The area I seem to be in is a sort of a mock prison. Around the open space, four- walled, barred cells sat carelessly distributed. Thankfully, they did not search me, and I have my journal. For this little book may be my last testament, and last recantation of what has befallen us on this treacherous journey. They come now, so I must go.

Journal Entry V

What I am writing now… no, no, I cannot say; the knowledge too great; too powerful. It would drive a man insane to learn the depths of such vast knowledge I have obtained, but I must continue. Man must know! Hopefully someone better suited than me will be able to handle the knowledge that will eventually drive me to insanity.

Where to start? Chained by the neck together, my crew and I were led in a straight line through what seemed to be a town made of pure rock. The buildings, smooth and polished, reflected a blue wavy light off their surfaces, giving the whole street of buildings the appearance of sunbeams gleaming into the water. The smooth and shiny floor was levelled completely perfect, and straight as an arrow it stretched for about a half league or so. Running along the edges of the road on either side were two long, small canals, filled with the same blue phosphorescent colour the tribesmen wore on their faces. The substance flowed like water, but made no sound in doing so. For what seemed like a very long while, we walked with just the hushed murmurs of the incomprehensive strange language. Time seems to creep by when inevitable death is near.

“Maybe we had wandered onto forbidden land?” I thought silently. But nay, that was not the reason I soon found out. After a while the buildings stopped. Turning my head to the newly opened space, I found many other perfectly straight roads, all accompanied by the same blue streaks, leading to the very spot we were headed. They formed a sort of semi-circle, and as I glanced to my other side, I was greeted by the same sight. All the roads led to this one spot, why? I remember looking up, and seeing a beam of light high above.

“Could it be we were in the mountain?” The strange thought struck my mind, but too concerned was I with the ever present feelings of the end to debate this further. The soft murmuring now became slowly louder, and even though the words were beyond my grasp, I could still make out the rhythm of a chant. Chanting. For goodness sake! Whatever ends well with chanting? We suddenly were stopped, and the large group of tribesmen that had been guiding us stepped aside, splitting into lines on either side of us, along with the tribesmen bringing up the rear. A gasp escaped my mouth before I could get myself under control. I could hear similar sounds being made behind me; even hear my brother Bartolommeo’s voice crack as he uttered a faint cry. Before us, lay a perfect circular body of water; but it wasn’t water, was it? It lay perfectly still, and shone with a bright blue colour. I then realized that it was what lit up the buildings with such splendid wavy rays. However, that was not what made my men and I shudder. A yard or two below the surface, a giant shadow loomed dangerously. The creature emitted low groaning sounds that shook the floor and higher pitched grinding sounds that raked the ear. The shape seemed to be that of a giant lobster with four enormous claws. Its bright white eyes gleamed sharply from underneath the water, while similar blue markings as those of the tribesmen glowed equally bright along the beast’s body and claws. Emitting one last dreadful screech, the beast then sank down towards the bottom and out of sight.

Once again the tribesmen stepped in front of our group, blocking our view of the pool. This time, one stepped forward, an elderly man of pure white skin, hair and eyes. When he spoke, my ears did not hear the sound, yet my brain began to understand what he was saying. It was as if the man spoke directly into my head, and somehow my brain began to understand. I began to understand many things, many terrible things. They were the people of Atlantis; a society long ago, diminished and forgotten. For some time they ruled much of the earth, living in prosperity and peace. A main city was established, here, on this very spot. Tragedy had befallen them, however. I began to witness the flowing thoughts of a strange mind. Through another pair of eyes, I began to witness a grand earthquake shake the world ferociously. Tidal waves of catastrophic size crashed down upon the city as if it were a god’s hand sweeping the city aside. From within the depths of the sea, there came an ear rattling sound of rock grinding on rock, and a stream of red hot molten fire burst forth. It arced up into the sky, and then rained down on the witnesses below. The city began to sink, slowly at first and to one side. A vortex began to form there, the bubbles and foam spinning around in a never ending circle. Everything began to twist and turn in the relentless current, while simultaneously moving towards the eye of the spinning devil. The whole city began to sink into the sea. It was the end of the once great city of Atlantis.

“There you have it,” spoke the strange man in front. Even though my ears did not understand the words, my mind did.

“It was the end of my people. All was lost. You see there was an ancient artifact that kept us alive. It watched over us, provided us with luck, and the ability to understand great things. It was kept in the heart of the city under the protection of its great spawn, Korthan, the beast you see below the water. When our city fell, it too fell below the depths of the great sea and beyond. Lost, forever lost to us. Only those who were close to Korthan during the crisis survived. The loss of the Great Stone (the artifact) killed many of our people. Only a handful of us survived due to the life force Korthan was able to give off. Being directly related to the stone, Korthan shared similar properties. It is through him that those of us lucky enough to survive the fall of our city manage to still carry on today. In the fall, Korthan became trapped within these stone walls. They sprouted up from the sea, concealing him within. It took us many years to finally reach the depths of this inner sanctum, and many more to turn it into the miniature replica of Atlantis you see today.”

The information was both incomprehensible and amazing. Never in my life could I have imagined such things. My mind could barely comprehend what it was being told, and I began to wonder whether my men were hearing the same. As if on cue, I felt my brother behind me collapse onto my back, bring us both to our knees.

“There is more. When the artifact fell, something snapped within Korthan’s mind. He has gone insane with violence. These walls cannot hold Korthan forever. Even now I feel him weakening the walls that hold him. When he escapes, there will be no stopping him. The waters around this land will become very unsafe. Ships, not unlike yours, will go missing; mysterious fogs will roll in with his appearance. We cannot kill him, for he was born out of an indestructible material that existed long ago. It interferes with the atmosphere’s natural electrical balance, making the weather patterns weird and unpredictable. The worst is yet to come after this I’m afraid. When Korthan finally matures, it is foretold that he will trade in his sea legs for land ones. He will shed his shell and take the form of a new, unexpected twisted beast. His transformation was foretold to be that of one of gods, but his insanity has now made this unclear. Whatever his form, there is no doubt that only pain and suffering will follow him as he tries to claim back the world for his own.”

“Many old prophets of our time have debated upon the exact date of his transformation. Only now has it made itself clear to us. This is your 510th day of journey? I see it is. So be it; the signs have been true thus far. 510 years from now to this exact date Korthan will walk among the land. The prophets have foretold of our meeting, O Christopher Columbus, fate has brought us together. On December 21/2012 the world will begin to end. Korthan will eliminate anything in his path. He will be unstoppable.”

It was simply too much. Broken as my brother who lay beside me, my mind snapped. I do not remember how we got off the island. When my mind became somewhat clear enough to function, we were out to sea. My brother wandered around the ship, spouting words of complete nonsense that none could comprehend. Many of the crew stare blurry eyed into space, as if fixated on some faraway place. Our former ships have still not rejoined us. I do not know where we are. This knowledge must never be found, for no sane man can handle the fate of when and how the world will end; even if there were such a man, who would believe him?
-Brady

Six year-old Rupa Boshak is one of these people. She is woken by a sound that she thinks is the feral rooster that is normally wandering around outside, and rubs her eyes sleepily, sitting up. Only to notice that what she had mistaken for the shrill of the rooster’s call in her sleepy stupor had really been the sound of the Neem tree outside her tent being removed of its leaves by a forceful wind.

She tilts her head at it, frowning. It is quite unusual for winds at her home in the Slums of Dhaka city, let alone ones with enough force to strip a tree of it’s leaves. The wind hits her cloth tent, then, rocking it with the force of a million strong men. The flimsy sticks holding up the mismatched material have nowhere near the strength or resolve to continue standing against raw, all-encompassing power such as this, and their shelter collapses with a great shake and shudder.

Rupa shouts out, fingers searching through cloth for the warm reassurance of her father in the dirty material. She does not have to look for long; soon, the cloth is thrown aside and her small form is scooped up into the arms of her father, who is already running in the opposite direction of the wind. Rupa screeches, fear shining in her brown eyes as she tries to wrestle her head out of the crook of his elbow- he had been more preoccupied with promptness rather than comfort when he had grabbed her, and she struggles to pull her head out of the awkward angle it had been placed at. And that’s when she sees It.

The Daulatpur-Saturia Tornado, also known as the single deadliest, costly tornado recorded in the world’s history. The storm was estimated to be approximately one mile wide, and 50 miles long, and would forever be remembered as the force that reduced most of Dhaka to dust and rubble.

Rupa chokes on a mouthful of dirt that had been kicked up by one of the many hordes of people in front of them, and she wonders how far they will have to run to reach the well- not that it would make any difference to the dry, papery feel of her tongue against her lips; Dhaka has been experiencing a severe drought spanning the six months prior to this destruction.

But the thought of liquid is soon displaced from her mind by a more pressing matter: the swirling tempest of dirt and sky that has been steadily increasing it’s approach towards them by degrees since they had begun their descent down the steep slope of the slums. Like some sort of bedtime story monster, it lumbers forward in a demented spiral. It causes her breath to catch in her throat in a nonsensical screech that morphs into both a name and a plead: “Abbu!”

Her father barely looks away from the path ahead of them, even as he is called by the Bengali word for “father” in a frightened shriek that nears hysterical. He spares no pat for her head, no reassuring embrace, not even a glance as she begins to cry- he must now focus on the road ahead, and shift his attention to nimbly avoiding rocks and ruts in the terrain.

Rupa’s mother and her two brothers have been working at the budget hotel some miles away from here- a popular job for men and women of the slums alike because it requires minimum training and therefore the employers are able to give back minimum wage in return. Both of them can now only hope for their safety as they race down the dirt path, yelling for others to do so as well as they struggle to keep ahead of the destructive path the swirling mass is carving in their wake.

The horde of people has now surely overcome the thousand mark, at least. Of the 17.6 million people living in Dhaka City, 60% of them live in this slum. This makes sense, considering that Dhaka City is the ninth largest city in the world.

A man ahead of Rupa and her father steps onto a rock in his harried panic and collapses over it, howling with pain when the frantic herds of people stumble over him, united by animalistic fear into one pulsating mob. Rupa looks back over her father’s shoulder as the man disappears under a parade of frenzied feet. With the screech of a child’s confusion, she buries her head further into her father’s arm and begs for them to stop running and go back home- she’s too young to realize that the shack they once called home has now been eaten up by the storm behind them.

Rupa is too young to remember, but this isn’t the first time Bangladesh has experienced a storm such as this. The weather of Bangladesh is cruel in it’s choice of natural disasters- cyclones and tornadoes are annual. In fact, these funnels of dirt and air are responsible for the death of 52 Bangladeshi people every year.

The tornado is on their heels now, moving with such a strength and force that Rupa’s father can barely keep from being pulled into the swirling tempest of destruction. Ahead of him, he sees their only chance: a small, concrete hospital, just out of the borders of the slum.

Deciding on this immediately as the only possible action that would end in the survival of both his daughter and himself, he darts off the beaten path and leaps nimbly over the concrete divider between the slums and the rest of the metropolitan area of Dhaka.

They burst through the doors and the storm follows them inside, throwing papers and chunks of wood and dirt in after them. He huddles behind a wall, cradling the crying child in his arms, and prays.

Rupa and her father are not the only ones that will lose their life in this disaster. 1, 300 people will never emerge from the rubble, making the Daulatpur-Saturia Tornado the most deadly one in history. 80, 000 were left homeless, to return only to the shapeless chunks that were once a home. Overall, 20 villages were leveled into nothingness, serving as a humble reminder of our fragile human state, the fact that we are nothing before the path carved by the finger of god.
-Sadee

Underage drinking is becoming a serious problem in our society. Youth are essentially being encouraged to drink, even though it is illegal. Have you ever watched television? Commercials promoting alcohol consumption are viewed all the time. Ever turn on the radio? Our music is filled with underlying messages encouraging us to drink. Do you enjoy reading magazines? Yup, that’s right; there are even advertisements in magazines that endorse drinking. Whether we like it or not, the pressure to consume alcohol is everywhere. What’s even worse is that in general, our society finds this acceptable. Drinking, when done responsibly, is not an issue. The problem with teens consuming alcohol is that they don’t necessarily have the maturity to do so responsibly. The combination of teens and alcohol can be extremely dangerous, and unfortunately in some cases, even deadly.

I glanced down at my watch. Four O’clock. My last day of work was over at last. When I check my cell phone, there is already a text message from Kelly (1). “Party at Luke’s. We’re going. Hurry up and get off work!” I hopped in my car and hurried towards home. Tunes blared from my car as I coasted down main street Blairmore. As I bellowed out the song “California Girls” at the top of my lungs, I came to an abrupt realization. This was going to be the last weekend before school started. Also, it just so happened to be rodeo weekend in Pincher Creek. This meant that people would be prepared to party and have a good time. There should be a good turnout of people.

As I cruised downtown I passed a few of my friends. They flashed a quick wave and signalled for me to stop for a chat. In the pass, a quick chat to make plans for the night is almost always done in one predictable location; The Greenhill parking lot. Feeling a tad bit rebellious, I flipped a record-fast U-turn in order to follow in suit behind the rest of my friends’ vehicles, without a doubt heading towards the identical final destination.

My wheels slowly eased to a stop as I pressed the button to roll down my automatic windows. Tyler, Tanner, and Derek talked amongst themselves about the impending night to come.

“You better be coming out tonight, loser!” Tyler exclaimed

“One step ahead of you! I’ve already made plans to go to Luke’s with Kelly.” I explained.

“Wow. I’m impressed.” Tanner said in a sarcastic tone. “Usually you dorks just wait for us to make the plans and you just tag along.”

All three smirked with smart-ass grins as they teased me. At the time, it seemed that Kelly and I were always the targets of their comical remarks. We may have been the girls in our small group of friends, but we were more than capable at firing back witty comments ourselves. Kelly and I were just as accepted as the other boys, which is pretty rare in this particular group of people. They aren’t necessarily the most welcoming crowd when it comes to new people, especially to girls. Nevertheless, Kelly and I had grown to be good friends with these boys. We practically spent the entire summer with them.

I summed up the conversation because I needed to get home. It was nearly five O’clock now, and having worked all day, I was in desperate need for a warm shower. I knew I would have to hurry if we wanted to make it to the Pincher Creek rodeo before we went out to the party.

As youth, we are exposed to advertisements all the time. Television is a huge component in our lifestyle. Since there are alarming amounts of alcohol advertising on television, it only makes sense that this would affect our perspective on drinking. Advertising Standards Canada (ATS) estimates that youth and teens are exposed to approximately 300,000 alcohol related ads annually, many of which are on TV.

Such ads use advertising techniques that appeal to youth. For instance, one particular advertising technique is referred to as “band wagon”. In a band wagon ad, it shows a group of people using the product that is trying to be promoted. In simple terms, they use the age old argument of “everyone’s doing it”. This effective is youth because we are far more susceptible to public pressure. For the most part, teens are just trying to fit in. People are paid top dollar for recognizing this connection, and using it to promote and sell alcohol.

Also, it isn’t uncommon for these commercials to use attractive people. Beauty and perfection appeal to youth, especially to girls. We live in a society that demands perfection when it comes to our looks. Using “good-looking” people in alcohol related ads sends the indirect and incorrect message that drinking alcohol will somehow make you more attractive. This may sound preposterous, but techniques like this actually do work. The majority of the time we aren’t even aware of the fact that these commercials are changing our opinions. This is exactly why they are so effective.

Don’t believe me? The next time you are flipping through the channels and stumble upon a commercial promoting some form of alcohol, such as Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum, pay attention. Chances are that all of the actors are all attractive, young people. They will also probably be engaged in some sort of fun social activity. Drinking will appear to be a fun and alluring activity. If you find yourself wanting to mix a drink after it’s over, some advertising executives have been successful in doing their jobs.

I hurriedly rinsed the ample amount of bubbling shampoo out of my hair and hopped out of the shower. A pull-over hoodie and a pair of jeans would be an adequate outfit for the evening. There is never any guarantee that a house party will actually stay inside, so it’s always best to be prepared for a good old bush party. I pinned a few locks of my hair up, generously applied some mascara and make-up, and with a spritz of perfume was ready to go.

I swiftly assembled a fried egg sandwich on my way out the door. I heard the distinctive honk of Kelly’s dually truck as the egg crackled in the frying pan. It was by no means an ideal dinner, but it would get me through the night, especially if I was going to have a few casual cocktails. I threw the egg onto some toast and devoured it as I raced towards the dually. Kelly was waiting, trying to find one of the best songs of the summer to belt out as we drove to town. We ended up listening to “Shots”. Our moods immediately shifted. We went from being exhausted from working a long week of work, to enthused and rowdy teenagers. In simplest terms, we were pumped up and ready to have a great time. Neither one of us ever drank on any kind of regular basis, but tonight we were both willing to make an exception. After all, we were sixteen years old. This was supposed to be the time of our lives. We had intentions to take full advantage of this situation, as we knew it would not last forever. All it was going to be was a few good friends sitting around having a bullshit, or so we thought. We were ignorant to the fact that underage drinking could actually be dangerous.

Dangerous in fact it is. It is a known and proven fact that alcohol plays a significant role as a leading cause of death in teens. There are a number of ways this can occur. It could be from a car accident. A drowning. A suicide. A homicide. A fall. A brawl. A case of alcohol poisoning. Either way, alcohol can lead to any one of these situations and prove to be fatal. “According to a 1999 study conducted by the Pacific Institute on Research and Evaluation (PIRE), about 3,500 deaths per year are caused by drinkers under the age of 18. Homicides account for the greatest number of these deaths (1,600 per year), followed by drunk driving (1,400), and teen suicides (250). The remaining deaths are caused by other accidents, drownings, burns, and alcohol overdoses.” (http://alcoholnews.org/underage_drink.html) It is estimated that these figures are currently higher, as this study was conducted over a decade earlier. However, it is still obvious that alcohol can be, and is dangerous.

“Hey losers! Over here!” Tyler waved hysterically in order catch our attention, even though we already spotted him and began to approach him and the other boys.

“You guys excited for tonight?!” I exclaimed as I breathed in the dominant smell of cow manure. The air reeked of dung, as we were now at the Pincher Creek rodeo.

“Hell yeah! I’m so ready to get wasted!” Derek replied. “It’s my birthday and I’m gettin’ floor lickin’ drunk!”
“Wow. That’s the classiest thing I’ve heard all day, Derek.” Kelly teased in an overly sarcastic tone.

“Well let’s get the hell outta here and do some pre-drinking before the party starts.” Tanner retorted. “We’ll pick you girls up from Kelly’s house so you can come with us. This is going to be the best night all summer.”

Twenty minutes later, we were racing down Kelly’s driveway, with a 26 of vodka in hand. Music blared in the background as we tore down the gravel roads, taking shots every so often. The alcohol burned as it moved down my throat, warming me as it settled in my stomach. The bitter taste made me cringe and wince as I sucked down the alcohol. Vodka, shooting it straight especially, does not have the most pleasant taste. That was a minor detail though. We were all willing to look past the brutal taste in order to achieve the desired effects.

According to the Ontario Student Drug Use Survey, a high percentage of junior/senior high students have experimented with alcohol. In the year of 2005, 31% of grade seven students admitted to trying alcohol. An alarming 82% of grade twelve students fessed up to using this still illegal drug. It is important to note that in standard conditions, all grade twelve students enter their senior year at the age of seventeen. This means that these students are technically breaking the law. If you haven’t tried alcohol by this point of your life then you are a definite minority. High school students are clearly choosing to drink, regardless of any consequences.

Tyler’s Chevy truck slowly eased to a stop as we approached Luke’s house. Nervous butterflies fluttered in the bottom of my belly as we evacuated the vehicle. Looking back, this anxious feeling probably should have been a warning sign for the events that were about to unfold. Another shot of straight vodka stopped the anxious butterflies right in their tracks. I suppose you could speculate that these shots were my form of “liquid courage”. At times I tend to be somewhat reserved, almost timid. Not tonight though. This alcohol made me feel invincible and confident. No longer feeling shy, I was more than ready for this night to commence.

As we advanced towards the house, we could already see a crowd of eager party-going teens gathered outside. The air smelled of cigarette smoke, mixed with the very dominant odour of cannabis. Having absolutely no interest in that, we veered past that group and entered the house, where the party was already underway.

Taking another swig of liquor as I entered the living room, where the majority of the people were gathered, I spotted my good friend Nicole. There were a few girls surrounding her, attempting to hold her steady as she drunkingly swayed back and forth. Her head fell between her legs as the girls plopped her down on the couch. At this point, I knew that she had to have had a fair amount of alcohol in her system, as she was completely unsuccessful in holding her own head up, a tell-tale sign that she had exceeded her limit of alcohol consumption. Nicole was very intoxicated, to the point where a lingering odour of hard alcohol loomed over her like a fog. Seeing her embarrassing display of evident intoxication, I decided it was appropriate to intervene.

Nicole’s chest was nearly exposed as her tank top straps slid off her shoulder. This immediately drew attention, so I took off my sweater and covered her up. She would regret this is the morning. My immediate plan of action was to get her out of this house. If she were to vomit, there was no way that I’d be willing to clean it up. At least there would be no clean up involved if she puked outside. Also, I felt a strong obligation to stop Nicole from further humiliating herself. When a person is that drunk, it doesn’t necessarily go unnoticed. Something had to be done.
To be honest, I myself was nowhere near sober either. I must have taken at least four shots of vodka and mixed three potent drinks. My petite physique struggled to keep up with the pace I was drinking at. However, I knew that I was in better shape than Nicole. She needed me, so I had to find a way to sober up so that I could take care of her. My night of drinking officially ended. It was time for me to be the responsible and reliable teen, which I normally was. I was slightly disappointed in the fact that I wouldn’t be able to just enjoy myself the rest of the night. However, Nicole had taken care of me during times of slight intoxication. It was my turn to return the favour. Everything was going to be fine. She would throw up a bit and probably just pass out in the back of somebody`s truck. I had taken care of numerous drunken people before, all of which just slept it off. They may have awoken with a pounding headache, but that was nothing too serious. Nicole would be fine, right?
Thoughts of doubt raced through my mind as it became increasingly apparent that Nicole’s condition was declining. This time I wasn’t so sure that I’d put her to bed and that she would only awake with a pounding headache. What if she didn’t awake at all?
Kelly and I stumbled as we struggled to drag Nicole out of the house. Tyler noticed our struggle and offered his help. With ease, he picked Nicole up and carried her down the stairs and off the deck. He gently set her down on the ground. Nicole’s body looked as though it went limp for just a moment, and then with extreme force violently began to vomit. I held her hair back as she purged, her body’s final attempt to excrete the poison from her system. Her body nearly convulsed as the alcohol, along with all of her stomach contents came back up in reverse order. I noticed that her vomit was a peculiar d the vomit was camouflaged ark colour. In fact, the colour was so dark and black that the vomit was barely observable next the dark tinge of the dirt. Vomit as dark as the night sky was not a good sign. I had watched intoxicated teens barf their brains out at parties numerous times previous to this, but their vomit never looked like this. Something was seriously wrong.
“Hey is Nicole alright?” said some random onlooker, with great concern present in his voice. “She’s not looking very good, and neither is her puke. I don’t think it’s supposed to be black.”

“Does she look alright?!” I shouted back in a slightly defensive, yet frightened tone. “I don’t know what to do with her! She’s not even responding to her name anymore!”

By this time a small crowd began to accumulate around Nicole and I. This only frightened me more, as I knew people would expect me to know what to do. I was always the responsible one. I had to have a plan.

“Maybe she has alcohol poisoning. Her puke is black. I think that’s what happens when you have alcohol poisoning.” suggested Tanner. “She’s a pretty tiny girl you know. Probably just couldn’t handle her liquor.”

Alcohol poisoning: “A condition in which a toxic amount of alcohol (ethanol, ethyl alcohol) has been drunk, usually in a short period of time. The toxicity is related to the blood level of the alcohol. The individual may become disoriented, unresponsive/unconscious, with shallow breathing. Alcohol poisoning can be fatal, thusly emergency treatment is urgently needed.” (definition from MedicineNet.com)

The thought that Nicole might in fact have alcohol poisoning scared the hell out of me. For an instant I even felt guilty, as I thought I could have prevented it if I would have arrived earlier. I shook off the feelings of guilt and supressed my fear as much as possible. Panicking would only worsen the situation. Adrenalin pumped through my veins, putting my body under stress. My heart began to pound viciously in my chest as butterflies swirled in my stomach. I felt as though I myself could vomit, just not for the same reason as Nicole.

My brain immediately began devising a plan. Ultimately I concluded that we had to take Nicole to the hospital. There was no avoiding it. I knew she would be punished by her parents if I took her to the hospital. However, I had to be more concerned with her safety and well-being. She was now throwing up blood and required medical attention. I was left with no other choice.

Tyler swept Nicole’s body from the ground and began carrying her towards his truck. Nicole, completely unaware of the fact that we were taking her to the hospital, lay limp in Tyler’s arms. This made it difficult to load her into the vehicle. Kelly and I hopped into the backseat as Tanner and Tyler lifted her in. She laid across mine and Kelly’s laps. We made certain that she wasn’t on her back just in case she began to vomit again. Nicole’s breathing became very shallow, almost as though she wasn’t breathing at all.

We all sat in complete silence as we made the twenty minute trip to town. The only sound came from Nicole as she occasionally began to cough and spit up blood. The twenty minute drive may as well have been twenty hours. Time seemed to pass that slowly at least. Reaching our destination of the Crowsnest Pass felt like an eternity. In order to try to make the time pass quicker, I called Nicole’s mother to inform her of the situation. I could hear the disappointment in her mother’s voice, but most of all I heard genuine concern.

As we approached the hospital, I could already see Nicole’s mom waiting for us to arrive. We swiftly unloaded her from the truck and placed her in a wheelchair. I held her head and body up as we frantically wheeled her into the emergency room. She looked alien to me, as her eyes rolled back into her head and her mouth dropped open. This was no longer the Nicole I knew and loved. She wasn’t present in her body. All that was there was the alcohol.

Before I knew it, nurses were starting IVs and pushing meds into her veins. They asked me a bunch of questions, questions that now I don’t specifically remember. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to comprehend the situation. Nicole was completely unresponsive, her blood pressure was through the roof, and her O2 stats were falling when the nurses checked her vitals. They began rubbing her chest, using their knuckles, with extreme force in an attempt to wake her up. Her body remained motionless and oblivious to all that was occurring. After I answered the majority of the medical staff’s questions they sent me out of the room. I didn’t mind, as it was frightening to see a good friend is such a fragile condition.

Nicole was the only thought on my mind for the rest of the night. I wasn’t able to sleep because my fear and anxiety made it impossible to do so. Finally, after spending six restless hours in bed, I received a text message from Nicole’s mother. Turns out that Nicole spent the night in the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital. Her vital signs were not stable enough, so the doctor made sure they were repeatedly checked in intervals of fifteen minutes. IV medication was administered all night to reduce the effects of the alcohol. Since Nicole vomited such a great amount before we left the party, pumping her stomach was not necessary. By 8 am Nicole became responsive, as the effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off. Eventually she was discharged from the hospital and sent home within the same morning.

Nicole was lucky. She recovered well from this incident, sustaining no long-term health complications. Needless to say, there were still consequences for her actions. Nicole’s mother grounded her for two months. All of her freedoms and privileges were stripped from her. She was denied her cell phone, computer, and social life for the months of September and October. More importantly, Nicole lost the trust of her parents. She’s slowly began to earn some of this trust back, but the fact remains that it will never be the same. Nicole’s parents no longer give their approval for her to drink, whereas before they didn’t mind if she had a few. To this day, they remain apprehensive about letting Nicole go to parties at all, even if she doesn’t intend on drinking.

According to a BBC Panorama program, Nicole is not alone. The number of youth admitted to the hospital for alcohol poising has increased by a staggering rate of 20% annually. Yes, 20% every year. It is estimated that approximately twenty-three children are diagnosed with alcohol poisoning every day. In 2008, there were 8000 youth under the age of eighteen treated for alcohol poisoning. This was a huge increase from 6,288 in 2000. Alcohol poisoning in teens is not a rare occurrence, but in fact quite the opposite.

Once you lose the trust of adults, it’s nearly impossible to earn it all back completely. Even through my own personal experiences, I know the worst thing your parents can say to you is “We’re not mad at you, just disappointed in you.” Those are the words that no kid wants to hear. I’d like to think that the majority of kids want to make their parents proud of them, and hearing that phrase means you have done otherwise. This is why it is crucial to make smart decisions. Nicole’s situation could have been a lot worse. It had the potential to even prove fatal. Thankfully, I was there to recognize the signs that something was seriously wrong with her. Otherwise, I could be writing the ending of this story a lot differently. Take Nicole’s case as a warning.

I know it’s not realistic to expect teenagers not to drink. However, it is crucial to inform the student population of the dangers of alcohol consumption, and the possible implications it could have. Alcohol abuse in teenagers is a serious issue in our society. Ultimately, it is your own personal decision to choose to drink. The facts have been laid before you. I hope that after reading about Nicole’s story that you will at least consider the dangers of drinking. Alcohol poisoning happens all the time, even in our small community of Lundbreck. If it happened to Nicole, it could happen to me or it could happen to you. Don’t think that you are the exception.
-Shaylee

“Well… This is it.”

He thought these words as he sat and stared at the blank word document before him.

“I guess I’m gonna fail English.”

It was late May, and he had yet to do any of the assignments his teacher had given him at the beginning of the year. The five major essays that would determine whether he would pass or fail this course were screaming silently about how he shouldn’t bother, and he should just open up YouTube and work on his shuffling so he could kill the dance floor at the next party he went to. Maybe he should head out to his garage and work on his currently atrocious kick-flips, or perhaps take advantage of this blank page and create yet another rap that almost no-one would have the privilege of hearing. He felt that his voice was too white for rap, but his mind was constantly going over his creations just in case he ever decided to man up and show the world what he’s made of.

“You wouldn’t think it would be this hard to just find an interesting topic and write about it.”

But it was hard for him. You see, he had a condition known as ADHD-PI, and he suspected that it was not just that, it was also the SCT variant. Terms he had learned today in his English class, in between his several visits to Facebook and Twitter. He now had 44 followers, two of which had just appeared at sometime today. He realized that at some point after his old phone was smashed and then soaked in a puddle, some of his followers must have lost interest. There wasn’t really anything interesting for them to hear him say anyways, with only a measly 18 tweets, he wasn’t the most active user the world has ever seen. But I digress.

“EVERYDAY I’M SHUFFLIN’!”

He had become caught up once again in the “Party Rock Anthem”, which was quite eagerly reaching for the 90 plays mark in his iTunes library, almost surpassing his previous favourite song, Mac Miller’s “Senior Skip Day”.

But he was in no mood for rap anymore. The last couple of weekends had changed that. Electro-hop was his new passion, even if his own creations would never be party anthems. His one attempt to write a party rap, which had been christened “D.A.F.”, didn’t seem to suit him at all. And the hook left something to be desired, being that he couldn’t weave anything intelligent into it, and he had sworn an oath to himself that he could “Speak No Evil” with his music. He had been trying to live up to a line he himself had written in a non-rap related poem entitled “Darkness”;

“I don’t need a guiding light because it blinds my vision. Or a voice to follow because then I can’t hear, and if I’m deaf and sightless, then all I can do is speak evil.”

If he continued to follow the common ideals, soon he would be spouting the same drivel, and he couldn’t bear to bring himself to that level. He had worked too hard to revise every one of his songs into an intellectually stimulating story for him to bitch-slap himself with an exaggerated party song. Loving the music of others was one thing, but emulating their style would only bring him to the same platform.

He felt that he deserved better than that. Sometimes receiving the highest honours meant that your pedestal was too high for all to see. He didn’t want to have to step into the spotlight only to find he had left himself in the shadows, and so he settled for the knowledge that he put his soul into his music, instead of money into his wallet, and his name was spoken by some with respect, instead of by all with slurred speech. If he ever summoned enough courage to actually release some of his music to the public, he had no doubt that the music of his alias would not be requested at parties. When it came to his lyricism, he had “lost all his mirth” so to speak.

He takes a break from his writing so that he can transfer yet another illegal download into his iTunes library. He’s just recently had a few computer crashes, and he has had to restart his previously immense song library yet again. Just breaking the barrier of 4050 songs, he’s only about a quarter of the way back to the previous size of his library. Music is his love, although he is not the most musically inclined person. He plays bass; however the quality of his playing is mediocre at best because he cannot manage to focus for long enough periods for him to reach any advanced proficiency level.

The ADHD-PI at work again. Which, by the way, stands for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder – Predominantly Inattentive; a variant of ADHD which was previously called ADD. However the term ADD has been obsolete in the scientific community since 1994, although it is still widely recognized to be the more relaxed version of ADHD by the general populous. The SCT, or Sluggish Cognitive Tempo portion of the disorder is not as of yet recognized as an official scientific term, although the symptoms seem to fit his personality slightly better than the traditional ADHD-PI.

He adjusts the brim of his fitted cap and sits back down after a long break in which he drank copious amounts of juice and ate a few cookies. Not an irregularity for a person with such bad eating habits, considering his day’s nutrients so far. Four McDoubles, a large fries, a large sprite, an ice-cream bar and a blue Amp Energy drink (they were out of green) combine their powers to make one hell of a lunch. And I mean HELL. He constantly finds himself lost in the idea of what he’ll do when his metabolism becomes as inactive as he is. He tells himself that he will stop eating this way, but deep down he feels as if it’s too late, and he doesn’t bother to do anything pre-emptive. Or perhaps it’s the ADHD-PI SCT at work yet again.

It’s a shame because he feels as if he can successfully analyze the problem, and the solution is simple enough, but he lacks the willpower required to do anything before something forces his hand. He is like this with everything in his life. He needs external stimulation in order to reach a point where he will actively make a change in anything. In the case of his English, his stimulation is that he believes he will fail if he doesn’t work really hard over the next few days. If only it were that easy to focus on his English, but the truth is, he has more important issues at hand right now.

He feels as though school should be the last thing on his mind. He’s hard at work trying to keep an active social life, because as the end of school approaches, his friends all plan to begin to move away. If he doesn’t build up his relationships with people before he leaves, he’s scared that he’ll end up without any. It doesn’t help that his birthday is so late in the year, meaning that he can’t go out to the clubs and bars his friends have begun to frequent, and is often left at home without any plans. Everything seems to be working against him. He doesn’t have his driver’s license, and therefore can’t drive the 2001 Ford Focus that just sits in his driveway, although there’s many a day when he almost gives in to the temptation. Perhaps if it had a license plate, he would.

He starts his job at Wal-Mart again this weekend, but he really doesn’t want to start this early because he feels it will interfere with his social life, although without any money, he’s often forced to rely on his parents for funds, which only works about 60% of the time. It’s a catch-22. He hates those. He’s decided that he’d rather take out a few more loans from the first bank of his parents in order to avoid sacrificing what little free time he has left before he re-enters the working world. He’ll make the call tomorrow and tell them he can’t start work until the summer starts. His reason will be that he needs to focus on his schoolwork, but the truth is that he just needs more time to work on his social life.

He sits back down yet again, preparing to really get to work this time. He won’t though. This time he’ll simply write down a few extra verses to his latest invention, a lyrical masterpiece in his opinion, dubbed “Inception”. The song’s not as lame as the title makes it sound. He’s excited because this is the first time he’s successfully sustained a six syllable scheme for more than a couplet, and it still flows like water.

“T-Bai’s gonna be impressed with this one.”

T-Bai is his friend from Toronto, otherwise known as Tyler, who’s dropping his first mix-tape this summer. He and Tyler went to elementary school together, and he’s been giving Tyler advice on his rap and trading songs with him on Skype since Tyler put his first rap up on Facebook.

The rapper he most respects is Shad, a Canadian rapper whose lyrics never enter the realm of the profane, and whose thoughts are almost always deep. If there’s one man he wouldn’t mind if his music sounded similar to, it would be Shad. His laid-back style doesn’t interfere with his positive messages, and although there are a few Christian references in his music, he’s not preaching like some purely Christian rappers like Lecrae or Sho Baraka; rappers whose music he respects as well, but he is nowhere near religious enough to write Christian rap.

As he realizes that he hasn’t started his assignment yet, he opens up a new word document, careful to save his work on his song. His laptop just crashed for the final time, and it refuses to turn back on, and he lost 4 or 5 potential concepts. He’s learned his lesson though. He’ll copy what he’s typed out into a traditional notebook later that night. He’s always been faster at writing than at typing anyways, so he can get his thoughts out faster before they become confused in his cluttered mind. He decides that he’ll start work after he checks out his Facebook again.

He anxiously prepares to check his Facebook, in the hopes that she has responded. She is a girl he met at a party and is totally awesome. He waits with the hope for a positive response to his bold suggestion earlier, however he is unsure of whether or not she will respond with the affection he is seeking. He is by no means a ladies’ man, and fears the worst because he thinks he probably just misread her friendliness as something more, because he’s pretty inexperienced when it comes to that kind of thing.

The word document sits blankly in front of him, the writing icon blinking wildly away as it tries vainly to redirect his attention, as school becomes totally obsolete to this young lad, for what seems like the millionth night since he began school almost twelve years ago.

“Party Rock Anthem” hits 120 plays as he opens up a new tab in his internet, pushing thefriesen.com further back into a long list of tabs including Twitter, Stumbleupon, YouTube and PartyRockLife.com, where he curses his lack of a job and therefore funds for an “Everyday I’m Shufflin’” shirt.

He opens up his Facebook to a bright red “1” where the message notifications button is, and his heart skips a beat. As he adds a fresh number to the contacts in his phone, he pumps his fist once into the air, not for the music, but for himself. His smile is enormous as he turns up his music and sits triumphantly back in his chair, his arms reaching for the back of his head as if he means to lay himself out on a patch of fresh green grass and watch the clouds drift by. He hasn’t felt this happy in a long time.

In spite of his victory, however, he’s still going to fail English.

In the first stanza, readers can interpret that the lines are relevant to Plath’s feeling towards her father’s influence on her life. By symbolizing herself as a foot (3) and her father as a black shoe (2), Plath creates the imagery of the speaker encased in a shell of grief and depression caused by the loss of her father. Also, by stating that she had been that way for ‘thirty years, poor and white’ (4) we get that this is has been Sylvia’s perspective since the death of her father, her completely innocent or caged away from the rest of life in the black shoe and now totally spent, nothing else left to give, due to Otto’s detrimental demise. On the other hand, by mentioning her social condition Plath could be voicing her state after the divorce of her husband. In addition, Plath sets up the idea about the German language being an influencing force in her identification with her father by using ‘achoo’ (5) which develops more thoroughly in later stanzas with the use of ‘ ach, du’ (15) and ‘ich’ (27).

The second and third stanza provides viewers with a personal yet mocking rendition of Sylvia’s father before his passing. Readers can sense that this depiction of the daddy is with a childish remembrance because of the comparisons used. By depicting the father as a ‘bag full of God’ (8) or as ‘big as a Frisco seal’ (10) shows the omnipotent authority that a parent seemingly has over their young children. By mentioning how the father has his head in the Atlantic Ocean can represent Sylvia’s attachment to her father’s death, and her inability to run away from it, even when she moved to England or travelled to France and Ireland. Interestingly, the mention of ‘one gray toe’ (9) is a reference to Otto Plath’s diabetes and the reason why he had his leg amputated. The most fascinating part of these two stanzas is Plath’s blatant mention of her father’s death. By saying she has had to kill him (6) may be Plath’s way of communicating to others that she has mentally had to destroy the memory of her father so she can attempt to live her life normally and by doing so she may have imagined a ‘bad’ dad so she does not feel the guilt or depression of losing a loving one. Also, by writing ‘you died before I had time –’ (7) represents Plath’s remorse over her father’s passing, but indicates to the viewers that she is purposely omitting the rest of the thought with the double dashes. By doing this, outsiders understand that the death of her father was a pivotal moment in her life, leaving no time for reconciliation.

The idea of reconciliation and language is seeped into the fourth and fifth stanza with the mention of her father’s origins. Sylvia emphasises her parent’s abilities to speak German and her father’s immigration from Poland. By examining the word choices, we can see these stanzas harbour Sylvia’s defeatism in learning German and not her inability to be able to speak to her father when she uses the specific word ‘tongue’ (16/25). When writing ‘German tongue’ (16) readers know she is talking about the German language, but when she says ‘the tongue stuck in my mouth’ (25) we assume she means that her tongue is stuck, causing her to be rendered dumb. However, the true meaning is that Plath could never speak to Otto, her father, in the German language and therefore never felt the powerful connection that language can create.

Sylvia contrasts all of her previous stanzas and constructs the turning point of the poem in the sixth stanza. Instead of her previous desire to speak German she casts it aside by calling it obscene (30) for she was barely fluent (28) which could have caused resentment or jealousy of her parents for Plath was able to succeed at everything else but German. The statement of ‘I thought every German was you’ (29) shows Plath’s envy, symbolizing her imperfection, a source of constant annoyance, and a connection she felt was missing. Sylvia voices this in the next verse by connecting the language as an engine and her feeling as an outsider represented by a Jew. It can also be related to the many stays Sylvia had at her grandparent’s house when her brother and father were sick, feeling as if she was chuffed off because she was unwanted.

Plath again places herself in the poem by discussing critical moves in her family and her time she dabbled in her husband’s beliefs. By calling her family gipsies (38) Plath is drawing attention to the fact that her father was an immigrant and the many moves made for jobs to support the family. The relocation happened mostly in Massachusetts – from Boston to Winthrop, Wellesley to Northampton. When leaving the nest, Plath flittered from New York, England, and visited Spain, Paris and Madrid while on her honeymoon. The odd phrase about the speaker’s Taroc pack (39) followed by reinstating the speaker’s Jewish-ness (40) adds to the idea of her being an outsider but also attribute to Sylvia’s following of her in-laws occult practices. By using this technique, Sylvia is pointing out the differences between her and her father as she grows older as if she is trying to give reasons to be victimized.

In the tenth stanza onward, Plath’s tone becomes spiteful towards the people mentioned. She contrasts her earlier statement of comparing her father to a bag full of God (8) to that of a formidable swastika (46) – once viewed upon as good but now, in her later life, represents evil. We see this again when Plath associates her father with the devil (54) and with the imagery of a cleft chin (53) representing the devil’s hoofs. By comparing her father to a vampire, describing how the villagers celebrated his death (77-79) may be speaking to how Sylvia’s inner demons were finally trying putting to rest the tormenting image of her father, always knowing it was him at the source of her internal issues (79). However, the last line has the taste of a bittersweet victory. By calling her father a bastard she compares them together by highlighting how he was disowned and how she basically grew up without a father figure in her life, making them both children without a father. Yet, by saying she’s through (80) it’s like she is saying ‘I’m done’ and wants to move on from these haunting thoughts.

Sylvia touches on the grim topic of her struggle with suicide in the twelfth stanza and recovery in the thirteenth, referencing her treatment at the asylum and her father’s burial. Although her father died when Sylvia was eight, by using the age of ten in her poem (58) gives her a slight distance from the poem so it is not fully about herself and gives leeway to deny a connection. A striking similarity between the speaker and Plath hits the reader most when she mentions the age, twenty (59), when she first attempted suicide. The phrase ‘I thought even the bones would do’ (60) gives the pretence of her once believing that the slightest reconnection with her father through death would give her satisfaction but then, after her recover and electroshock treatment (62), she learnt better – there had to be a substantial connection to her father, cuing the entrance of the long string of boyfriends.

The poem may seem rather ambiguous about whether Plath secretly desired an abusive relationship or if they happened upon her, but towards the end of the poem her intentions become clear. Readers are given insight to Sylvia’s twisted idea of a lover with the statements ‘every woman loves a Fascist’ (48) or ‘I made a model of you | a man in black with a Meinkampf look’ for they convey a patriarchal relationship but also the message that Sylvia purposely sought out these types of men to connect with her father. The use of the demeaning phrases such as ‘the boot in the face’ (49) or ‘and a love of the rack and the screw’ (67) may reference Sylvia’s previous sexual relationships and how she was the inferior, pushed around by the men that courted her just for her looks and for carnal pleasure. The reference to her marriage to Ted Hugh’s is spiteful, calling him a vampire for the entire seven years they were married (74). With the incriminating statement ‘if I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two –’ is a reference to Plath’s previous killing off of her father (6), the first man she killed, the second man being the divorce of her husband for his adultery with a college student.

As viewers can see, Sylvia Plath deposited herself in the confessional poem ‘Daddy’. By doing so, readers of her poetry gain an understanding of the many hardships she had to overcome because of the death of her father that may not otherwise have been gained from simply reading a biography. Through the poem, we hear from Sylvia herself and the loathing held towards her father, husband and inability to become skilled at German and the mocking tone of her recover at the hospital – as if wishing she had died at her first attempted suicide. Although the poem may be controversial for using the Holocaust and Jewish persecution in Plath’s imagery, what others need to keep in mind is that she is not just some outsider writing on an un-experienced topic for she was born during the 1930’s and was influenced, albeit from across continents and mostly safe from harm, by this tragic event.

-Reed

In a recent survey done by Statistics Canada it was found out that approximately 23, 000 Alberta seniors are experiencing some form of abuse. This wide range of abuse can include, emotional or psychological, physical, sexual, and financial. This number is steadily increasing because the percentage of elderly people in Alberta and Canada is also increasing, due to the “Baby Boomers.” The Baby boomers are the generation of people who were born between 1945 and 1960. During this time there were about 28 births per 1000 people; yes this number may seem miniscule if we don’t know all the facts. However when you compare it to the numbers being born today, it is substantial. In modern day Canada there are about 11 births per 1000 people. The first wave of baby boomers just turned 65, which is the current retirement age when you can legally receive a full pension. This means more people retiring, more people needing care, and more people slowly being introduced into the realm of elder abuse.

For the most part Mandy tries her best and is a very helpful and kind niece to her Uncle Peter. However there are certain times when the frustration sets in and she loses her patience with how slowly Peter moves. Mandy is a young woman with a fast paced life that she can easily keep up with. Her uncle Peter is forced to live in her fast paced world; one that he can no longer cope with. This is a problem that a majority of elderly people have to deal with. Shoving has become a quick fix to get Peter out of the way, and to get Mandy where she needs to be. Whether Mandy realizes what she’s doing to her Uncle or not, Peter is ending up with bumps and bruises. Not only is physical abuse a problem, emotional and psychological abuse is a growing concern within this family unit. Mandy’s frustration often leads to door slamming, raised voices, name calling, and insults.

Elder’s become a prime and easy target for their abusers. Health diminishes with age, whether that’s physical health or mental health. Senior citizens become increasingly frail with every year of life they approach. They can no longer stand up for themselves and fight back when put in a situation where this skill is greatly needed. The body’s senses such as hearing and vision are diminished with age. This creates opportunities for unconscionable people to take advantage of them and inevitably abuse them. Mental illness affects millions of elderly people; the prevalence of dementia among Canadian citizens is climbing at a rapid rate. In 1991 there were about 250,000 cases of different types of dementia among Canadians; however in 2031 there will be a predicted amount of 800,000 cases of dementia in Canada alone. Abuse towards someone with dementia could be inflicted easily, simply because of the fact that they are much more vulnerable, because of factors such as memory loss, confusion, poor communication, and behavior problems. They could forget that their loved one yelled at them the other day or that they had money stolen from them. Their behavior towards certain situations could ignite a flame of fury and frustration within the family unit or caregivers.

With time Peter and Mandy’s situation at home worsened. No longer was Peter her beloved uncle who she’d do anything for, he was her old, frail uncle Peter who has now become a burden. Neighbors had heard Peter’s unmistakable cries of pain more than once, however no one wanted to get involved. Until finally, one of the neighbors worked up enough courage to call 9-1-1 when she heard Peter’s cries through the bathroom window. When the police showed up they found Peter with a bleeding head and a broken hip. He had been laying there for hours, ever since Mandy was trying to help with his personal hygiene and eventually pushed him off his shower seat in a fit of frustration.

Senior citizens are usually the victim of abuse from family members, close relatives, or trusted caregivers. Frustration is usually the main key that unlocks the door into the world of elder abuse. Some of the main triggers of abuse can be frustration because of loss of mobility and mental capacity, or even frustration because of the loss of the senses such as sight and hearing, which usually accompany age. There are many different kinds of elder abuse, including emotional or psychological, physical, sexual, and financial. Reaching old age should be a gift and a blessing, not a one way ticket to a world of helplessness and hopelessness.
-Jemma

*Names have been changed in order to stay confidential*