settled down with her sixty-one-year-old husband, Dennis Zafuto. They had been married on November 2, 2002, in a quaint lodge in Cambria, California, twenty-nine miles northwest of Paso Robles. A wedding in the woods—just what she had wanted. Though late in life, Marilyn felt like she had lived a fairytale: she had extensively traveled the world, dabbled in photography, and lovedliving a free life. But while she had seen half of the world, Marilyncouldn’t imagine any other place she felt more at home than settleddown in the tranquil hills of California with Dennis, the love of herlife. Yes, to be in love at Christmas was the best sensation you couldever experience. “Can we turn on some Christmas music?” The girl’s humming hadcrescendoed into singing. “Good idea!” Marilyn agreed. Another ordinary day proving to be merry and bright—three daysbefore Christmas. While the sun beamed outside, a chill crept up the backbone of thebrick buildings on Park Street; and except for the occasional strandof Christmas music tiptoeing from the shops, the silence stung just assharply as an inhale of the December air. ***Nick Sherwin handed his wife, Patricia, a caffeinated mocha, a cupthat contained all the energy that would be needed for the day.His daughter attended two customers who were perusing thecrystal cases, attempting to hide their admiration of the jewelsbeneath. Maybe the opals would finally be sold today.He fingered the case where the diamonds rested, recalling theexcavating adventures he and his wife went on in search of gemstones,only then a coal-like mound of rock. Amazing what could be cleanedup from the rubble.Though Nick enjoyed seeing the gemstones sparkle, he relishedwatching his customers pore over the jewelry cases. The nervousfiancé’s delight in finding the perfect ring or the experiencedhusband’s quest to find a birthday present or the wife’s desperationto find the right watch—Nick thought that helping the customerschoose a treasure made his life complete. The bell above the shop’s glass door swung gleefully. After 51thirty years of running the jewelry store, Nick never gottired of hearing that bell announce a customer’s arrival.No more time for reminiscing.
Overhead, he heard the clock strike11:15. Time to show off the rubies salvagedfrom the rubble mines. *** To this day, the whole town still shudders when theythink of the minutes following the clock’s 11:15 strike. Twenty-four miles north of Paso Robles, in a seaside towncalled San Simeon, the tectonic plates snapped. Seismologistsdescribed it as a reverse fault—an event caused when unforeseenpressure pushes the tectonic plates upward, gridlocking themovement. While all this was unseen, the waves from the epicenter rippledacross the Central Coast hills like a racing bullet—past farms and openspaces, west toward the Pacific coastline, north toward Steinbeckcountry, and south toward Los Angeles. But its first pit stop was Paso Robles. At 11:16, the earthquake took its cue, jolting the landscape withouthesitation and without warning. As a seasoned Californian, Nick Sherwin immediately recognizedthe source of the shaking. “Run! Everyone out!” Nick Sherwin directed. No one could discern between employee or customer as thetwo floors above began to groan and snap and crash around them.The sound of crashing debris filled their ears as the employees andcustomers fled out the door into the blinding sunlight. One, two, three, four, five, six—Sherwin counted as the bodiesraced to safety. But, wait. In the confusion, two elderly customers stumbled and staggered. Without hesitation, Nick and Patricia threw their bodies overthe customers, shielding them from the slabs of ceiling plummetingaround them—hoping, praying that they would get out alive. ***In Ann’s Dress Shop, Marilyn and her colleague felt the tremor;but unlike in Pan Jewelers, the two did not have people like Nick andPatricia Sherwin to save them. Customers fervently scrambled to find a doorway for refuge. As the ceiling began to buckle to the floor, one elderly customer52 crouched down, hoping to wait out the storm of debris. But Marilyn and the girl retreated toward Park Street, toward the sidewalk basking in sunlight, toward what they thought would be shelter.
For thirty seconds, the earth shook and howled and stamped like a child having a tantrum, and all the buildings were victim to the rampage. Roaring, the earthquake tore foundations, peeled away bricks, sledgehammered highways, and pummeled the town square. The shaking felt like a dramatic battle of tug-of-war to see which would stand—the earth or the buildings. By the time the ground stopped shaking, it was painfully clear whohad won. Onlookers, who were enjoying their coffee in a cafe across Ann’sDress Shop, watched as the roof slammed into the clock tower andcrashed into the street like a waterfall, misting dust and debris. But Marilyn and the salesgirl didn’t see the waterfall’s mistingcrash—they couldn’t have seen—as the building plunged over them,claiming their lives on the sidewalk with a vicious cold-blooded thud. Later, among the rubble, the rescue team from the Paso RoblesFire Department found an engagement ring, crushed by brick andsplintered wood, along with sale clerk’s shattered dreams. *** The quake had stopped its game of tug-of-war, but for June Ellart,the world didn’t stopped spinning. A dark haze of dust consumed her. Where are they? June began screaming for Nick and Patricia who, last time shechecked, were on her heels. Heart pounding, she silently pleadedthat her parents hadn’t turned back to save any of the jewelry—theycouldn’t have. “The jewelry is not as important as your life,” Nick and Patriciahad adamantly instructed.1 They had told the employees to neverworry about the jewelry and to always run. No matter what. Surely, the two had followed their own advice! An avalanche of brick soot swirled around her, and everything wasdust and darkness. June couldn’t breathe. There! Four figures emerged from the crumbling storefront.Through her streaking tears, June could make out the silhouettes ofher parents staggering out of the doorway and supporting the twoelderly customers. 531 Alan Gathright and Carolyn Lochhead, “6.5 Quake Razes Landmark, Kills Two in Paso Robles,” SFGate, December 23, 2003, http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/6-5-quake-razes-landmark-kills-two-in-Paso-2545365.php#photo-2682936.
Racing toward the couple, June threwher arms around them and enveloped themin a puddle of tears and silent thanks. “Thank God you’re all right!” She may havechoked on the words, and her tight embrace expressedall the things that words couldn’t seem to capture in themoment. Through the fog of dust, June could see her family’sbusiness lying in shambles. But for right now; they were safe; theywere together; and it was more than enough. Across the street in the City Park, a tangle of workers fromsurrounding restaurants and offices reunited, hugging, crying, andclinging to the people who had made it out alive. ***Dennis Zafuto almost drove through two red lights on his way toAnn’s Dress Shop.As he sped into the heart of town, Dennis recalled Marilyn’sembrace before leaving for work earlier that morning. He may haveeven still felt the imprint of his wife’s kiss and hoped against thesinking feeling in his stomach that it had not been the last.Pulling up to the wreckage site, Dennis’s eyes widened. A bombhad gone off—no, it couldn’t have been. He specifically rememberedfeeling the earthquake’s tremor at his worksite across town.House of Bread looked like a pile of toothpicks; Pan Jewelers layshuddering in a haze of dust; and the storefront of Ann’s Dress Shophad toppled over and lay stretched like a guillotine’s blade across arow of cars parked on the street-side curb.Marilyn. Dennis’s breath caught as he scurried through the crowdof people skirting the park sidewalk.“My wife! Have you seen Marilyn?” Dennis tried to claw his waypast the yellow police tape.“We have two bodies unaccounted for,” one of the firemen haltedDennis’s frantic beeline toward the rubble.The husband watched helplessly as the firemen in their neonyellow suits crawled into the dust storm, combing through the crumbsof brick and mortar. An eternity seemed to pass before a chaplainapproached the sixty-year-old engineer. “They located a body without an ID card,” the chaplain said solemnly. “We need you to identify the body.”54 Dennis tried to move, but his feet remained planted. The sequence of events that followed remain blurry in his mind as the chaplain spread his arm around Dennis’s shoulder and gently guided him past the police tape.
Numbly, Dennis approached the stretcher where the paramedics uncovered a body. His knees buckled at the sight, and a cry of pain escaped his lips. What he saw was an image that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. There, on the stretcher laythe love of his life. Marilyn. *** Watching the rescue teams clamber up and down the mound ofrubble, Nick tried to tear his gaze away from the scene of shreddedwooden beams and crumbling brick, but it was like a bad dream.Maybe if he stared at it long enough he would wake up. But no, itwas real life; and Nick watched as thirty years of his life’s work laytrampled under the rescue team’s feet. Scanning the crumbs of rock and splintered wood, he spotteda clock’s hour hand, then a minute hand. He clenched the salvagedhands of the clock, the broken and bent hands that forever froze thismoment in time. Nick determined to give it to the owner of the clocktower building as a testament that he and his family had made it outalive. Within the next few days as the fire department picked their waythrough the rubble, they would find the faces of the four clocks whosechime once pulsed through the town. Still ticking. Still beating.***RebuildingDecember 23, 2003The sky cried a soft drizzle; the raindrops were muffled by thelayer of dust on the hickory brick sidewalk.It would be a grim Christmas for the town.Throughout the coming week, city inspectors would replacewreaths on front doors with green and pink slips. The green slipswere the green lights—it was safe to go inside. But the pink slips werealmost treated as death sentences, announcing that the building orhouse would need to be restructured, demolished, or retrofitted.Nearly fifty-two businesses and families were turned away into theDecember rain. Twenty-one out of twenty-seven historic buildingssuffered from the quake’s blow. Later, the county reported thatPaso Robles suffered nearly $100 million dollars worth of 55damage.22 Daryl Kelley, “Quake Still Felt in Paso Robles,” LA Times, July 6, 2004, http://articles.latimes.com/2004/jul/06/local/me-quake6/2.
Three hundred citizens gatheredtogether on the edge of the devastation siteto listen to the governor who traveled fromSacramento to view the damage for himself. Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger surveyed thewreckage throughout the town. Circling the downtownarea, his brow furrowed deeper. To ward off the Decemberchill, he wore a black zip-up sweatshirt inscribed with a Californiaseal and American flag. In the City Library parking lot, one of the town’s deepest secretshad burst through the cracks—spewing a hundred and six degreesulfur water. The sulfur springs, that once healed tourists seekingrelief from their achy muscles in the 1800s, had collapsed into asinkhole and now threatened to overflow the streets. At a glance, no one would have been able to guess that a half aminute’s worth of damage had turned the charming downtown intoan excavation site. Shattered glass and brick shards littered Park and12th Street. Sparrows aggressively picked through the carcass of the Houseof Bread for any remaining crumbs. Ann’s Dress Shop sagged underthe collapsed roof while the crumbling Pan Jewelers shivered in theDecember wind. Observing the huddled crowds in the dismal rain, GovernorSchwarzenegger tried to offer some comfort: “This was an Americanmain street alive with energy. Today, this is a site of devastation. Butwe will come together once again as Californians and as neighbors.These buildings may have crumbled under the force of the quake, butI know for sure that the people will not buckle that easily.”3 Concluding his speech, the governor slipped off the stool that hadbeen snatched from a firetruck and began to mingle casually withthe crowd, offering a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder or a hardyhandshake. The governor’s words stirred something deep inside the citizens’hearts, and the people of Paso Robles were inspired to extend ahelping hand, to take action. The spirit of the townspeople could not be as easily shaken. Locals swept up the dust and rolled their sleeves up, ready to face the years of rebuilding ahead. The wake of tragedy knit strangers into neighbors who offered help and support to the businesses 56 which had to relocate. 3 Carolyn Lochhead,“Paso Robles Merchants Stunned by Damage., SF Gate, December 24, 2003, http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/Paso-Robles-merchants-stunned-by-the-damage-2524664. php.
Following the governor’s address, Sergeant Bob Adams of the Paso Robles Police Department resolved that the town would indeed rise again. “We’re a small town, but we have a can-do attitude,” he stated. “We’ll be here, we’ll rebuild, we’ll be back.”4 *** On a hill outside of town, a local landscaper knocked on theetched glass door. A string of Christmas lights hung limply from theeaves. Dismal rain drops pattered softly on the sod outside the two-story stucco house. Dennis answered the door. With swollen eyes and graying stubble,Dennis almost looked as if he had aged overnight. “Is this where Marilyn Zufato lives?” the landscaper asked meekly. “Yes—well, it was,” Dennis hesitated.5 A team of landscapers had arrived to offer their support. Theybegan digging up the soil outside Dennis’s house, implementingMarilyn’s design for her dream-home garden. “You guys go home,” Dennis waved them away. “You don’t have towork in the rain.” “No, we want to do it for you,” one of the landscapers insisted.“We’re going to finish today.”6 Dennis shrugged and managed a hoarse thank you before lockingthe door and retreating into his living room. A Christmas tree,crowned with ornaments, sparkled dully in the corner while a bundleof carefully wrapped presents were nestled underneath, presents thatwould never be opened by the cheerful and compassionate recipient. *** Paso Robles, CA Time Still Ticks Today, the story of December 22, 2003, is almost folklore tothe townspeople of Paso Robles, a story that distinguishes the oldgeneration from the new series of residents who have since relocatedfrom the noisy cramped spaces of Southern California or the foggydimness of San Francisco. Some Decembers, the date marches bywithout a second thought and without an apology. The cracks and scrapes in the highways were the first to heal.4 Simone Sebastian,“Spirit Lives on in Paso Robles / Shaken City Copes with Subdued Christmas Joy,” SF 57Gate, December 26, 2003, http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Spirit-lives-on-in-Paso-Robles-Shaken-city-2524884.php.5 The Baltimore Sun,“Town Suffers Emotional Brunt of Quake,” December 24, 2003, http://articles.baltimoresun.com/2003-12-24/news/0312240238_1_paso-robles-clock-tower-rain.6 Alan Gathright, “Quake Claims Late-in-Life Newlywed Man’s Bride,” SF Gate, December 24, 2003,http://articles.baltimoresun.com/2003-12-24/news/0312240238_1_paso-robles-clock-tower-rain.
By 2010, the open wound in the CityLibrary parking lot—the pit swelling withputrid sulfur water—was finally drained andsealed shut. Sergeant Bob Adam’s prediction came true:Paso Robles rebuilt. For Paso Robles’s downtown district, the geography hasn’tchanged. The dust cleared. The broken bricks were swept away.On the corner of a Park and 12th Street, the Pan Jewelers jewelswere salvaged from the cases that were miraculously unharmed. Intime, Nick Sherwin retired but still keeps a scrapbook heavy with thememories of that fateful day. New businesses began to flood into the renovated storefronts.Visionaries braved the long rebuilding process and began to watch astheir fragments of dreams molded into real-life storefronts. Park Street began hosting a trendy downtown square. Like aFrench fashion show, chic shops and restaurants made their debut,drawing tourists from around the world. By 2006, the clock tower was restored to its original glory. Itschime returned to the town and announced to the locals they wereout of the woods; the shadowy horror of the events so long ago hadpassed. The clock tower with its copper enameled acorn-shaped roofglints in the California sunshine. The timepiece faithfully ticks to theheartbeat of town, proving that no matter what happens,Paso Robles still stands. 58
“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace— only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” —Anne Lamott
During the summer, my best friend and I enjoy ambling along the alpinetrails behind her family’s cabin. In this pantoum, I try to capture the blissful feeling of spending a summer in the mountains of Lake Arrowhead. Lake ArrowheadIn those days, the sunlight painted us gold—For a moment, time seemed to stand still.Dandelions carried our wishes on the pine-scented breeze,As we relived our childhood past.For a moment, time seemed to stand still.As we drank in the pine-sweet air,We relived our childhood past.Dusk settled, and a honey sunset melted into the horizon.We took in one last sip of pine-sweet air.As amethyst light clung to the trees.Dusk settled, and a honey sunset melted into the horizon.Why couldn’t summer last forever?Amethyst light clung to the trees,And night stained the ombré sky.Summer couldn’t last forever,But our memories would never fade. 60
I don’t like goodbyes. But as time goes on, I have learned that even during the seasons of goodbyes, a type of grace remains. In my short snippet, I ponder how goodbyes magnify the significance of the little moments. Bittersweet“This time next year, we won’t be here,” I told my roommates aswe were finishing our Thanksgiving dinner.It was then this realization shattered around me: nothing will lookthe same next year. The words seemed to break something in me.When people told me about senior year, I pictured attending aplay every weekend, going on spontaneous adventures, and leavinghomework assignments to sit on the shelf collecting dust becauseI would be too busy having the time of my life. Turns out, senioryear looks more like unforeseen goodbyes and feels a little morereminiscent of freshman year: sometimes you feel like a fish out ofwater; sometimes you feel like you’ve got your life under control; andsometimes you don’t know how to feel at all.As my friends and I collected the gravy-polished plates, I lookedaround the cafeteria, at the crumb-dusted tables full of peoplelaughing in sunshine yellow chairs. Lately, I feel like I haven’t beenable to look at everything hard enough; my mind has been dartingback and forth like a pendulum swing—one moment rushing to geteverything done now, the next flitting about in a desperate attempt tointentionally soak up every detail before it all slips away.Above all, everything feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.Like a sieve, my fingers are filtering through moments, people, places,and details that I wish I could forever hold onto. Time is acting like anhourglass running out of fluid, and moments are slipping throughlike grains of sand. And it sometimes feels like I’m losing it all—that life as I know it is mounting to one huge goodbye.My roommate Randi says that a bittersweet taste is 61better than a sickeningly sweet taste. And I guess, she’sright. We’d never fully recognize sweetness if we neverdetected bitterness. If we never experienced a season
of goodbye, we might eventually wear outour present life—however sweet it is. Butchange forces us to look a little harder at lifeand to cherish the relationships, the experiences,the moments that are dropped into our palms for aflickering moment in time. And I guess, that’s the beauty of life: we can’t hold onto itfor forever. We simply must watch the whole world with glitteringeyes and anticipate the next chapters that fall breathtakingly andbeautifully one on top of another. 62
They say that time heals all wounds. But sometimes, I think that peoplesimply choose to forget. In this short essay, I ponder how we humans can be so quick to forget moments of crippling heartbreak. The End of Missing October 30, 2009. The phone rings, and mom hesitates, tellingme that it’s my sister Tricia. Don’t answer it. I think to myself as the memory replays in myhead. But nothing could have delayed the news the phone call wouldbring. “Hello?” Mom picks up the receiver. “What…” Her countenancefalls, and she clutches her chest. “I am—” Mom chokes. Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong. My heart begins topound in my ears. “I am so, so sorry. We will be there as soon as possible.” She hangsup, sobbing. “It’s—it’s Jarrod, Grace.” “Is he dead?” I don’t know what made me blurt out the words. “He was killed, Grace. He was riding his motorcycle home when adriver hit him.”***There are moments in life that no matter how much time marchesby, I will remember the details with a fierce vividness. Though nearlyeight years have passed since the fateful news was delivered over astaticky phone call, I remember sinking to the floor in the doorway indisbelief, waves of numbing grief spreading through my body.Within the hour, we heard Dad’s Toyota Rav 4 puttering upthe hill to our house. I watched as Mom opened the door slowly,hesitantly. I didn’t hear the words she stumbled over to deliverthe news. I didn’t need to. She collapsed into Dad’s arms, 63and he doubled over in gut-wrenching sobs on the pine-needle dusted walkway—that said enough, my thirteen-year-old self cemented that memory.
Some years, the date of my brother-in-law’s death comes with gentle reminders.Some things, usually at Christmas, remind methat I had a brother-in-law who we teased becauseof his dramatic camera shyness, who willingly gave intomy pleas to play a board game, who used to fight Dad topay the restaurant bill. Other years, like this one, I forgot the anniversary. I forgotthe significance of October 30 and let the day slip away without asecond thought. To my shame, I had to Google news articles aboutthe memorial service just to make sure it happened. A picture of mybrother-in-law in his California Highway Patrol uniform appeared onthe Google search, and then the familiarity came back. I rememberedthe flag that waved solemnly over the Santa Barbara courthouseduring the memorial service; my sister, emaciated by grief, hanginglimply onto the arm of the police Sergeant; and my four-year-oldniece’s face, vibrant and youthful face and unable to fully comprehendthe of the occasion that had called the sea of black-cloaked figurestogether. And it makes me wonder, when did the missing stop? Why are wenot allowed a choice in the remembering? How are our lives—stories,memories, words, faces—forgotten, disintegrated, erased by an instantin time? 64
Maya Angelou wrote, “People will forget what you said. People will forgetwhat you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” In this personal essay, I write about how the moments in the spotlight are faintcompared to memories that will remain with me long after the curtain call. After the Curtain CallThe first time I stepped into the Experimental Theatre, I didn’tnotice the floor. I was too preoccupied calming the nervousnessjittering through my body as I prepared to audition for my first collegeproduction.There’s nothing too significant in the floor except for the chaoticpaint spots that blemish the polished concrete. Over the years, thegrayness of the concrete has become unrecognizable, smeared andslathered with paint and plaster. The floor is streaked with whiteand blue and green, smudged with brown, pummeled with orange,and pockmarked with splotches of red—the telling evidence of theproductions that have paraded through. During a new season ofproductions, directors administer another collection of paint splattersto the impressionistic painting. Throughout the years, many of thefaculty have discussed repainting the floor, not realizing that thepatterns, the splatters, the handprints, and the paint spills articulate amore coherent story that few can decipher.The Experimental Theatre is a room that contains manystorytelling opportunities. To innovative directors, the sixty-by-sixty-foot square room is a blank canvas, offering endless opportunities fortheatre staging. Theatre-goers, however, view it almost like Pandora’sbox—they never truly know what to expect from the performances thatare locked up inside.When I was a starry-eyed freshman, I wanted so desperatelyto be on stage, to bask in the spotlight, to make my mark on thiscampus. Whether it was the lights, the costumes, the scripts, orthe actors, there was something almost addicting about the 65Experimental Theatre, I wanted to be up there with theactors whose eyes sparkled in the shimmering lights andwhose names were printed in roman type in glossy
playbills. I couldn’t leave my mark on thiscollege through sports or collegian activities,but maybe, just maybe, the theatre had a spotfor me. After walking away from my first audition withouta part, I still found ways into the Experimental Theatre—Ivolunteered for parts I didn’t really want. I helped backstage.I took classes to help sharpen my theatre skills. After each collegeperformance I attended, I boxed away the production’s programs,hoping that my name would someday appear as a starring role. *** Sophomore YearThe stage was set. I marked my calendar for audition day, the daythat officially began production season.I auditioned.I got callbacks.I wasn’t chosen.That reality haunted me and stuck close to my heart at everyaudition I would attend for the rest of my sophomore year. I was notchosen—four little words that gnawed at my self-confidence.After the auditions had been conducted, the head director, Mrs.Webb, called me to the director’s table.To a sophomore still dipping her feet into the theatre community,my opinion of the renowned Mrs. Webb was only carved and moldedby the rumors I had heard. She was the key to getting onto the stage,but she was supposedly one of the harshest critics on this campus.Previously when I had caught glimpses of her, I had never seen Mrs.Webb smile, and the nasality in her voice added a stringent, sardonicquality to her intonation. The few times I interacted with Mrs. Webb, Ioften avoided eye contact and cowered in her presence.“Zach Vance needs an assistant director for the upcomingproduction, You Can’t Take It with You. Would you be willing to assisthim?” Mrs. Webb gave me a pointed look.“I mean—I—I would prefer to actually be on stage—” I stammered.“I know, but I don’t think it’s your time yet.”Not my time? I thought. After so many auditions, I had everyright to be on stage with the other actors, didn’t I? I felt the indignant tension tingle through my body.66 Mrs. Webb’s expression turned solemn as she observed the disappointment on my face. From her look, I immediately knew she would not accept no for an answer.
I nodded reluctantly. “I’ll help him.” “Good, good!” Mrs. Webb tapped thetable with her palms as if sealing the agreement.Turning to Zach, I was introduced to a wearysenior whose face was whitewashed with stress andwhose eyes were bloodshot. My heart immediately went outto him. Zach mumbled an introduction and quickly showed mea tentative rehearsal schedule. Cherry red due dates swam beforemy eyes, and I shifted uneasily as I looked at the following weeks thatwould be heaped with rehearsals.The following weeks brought a dizzying semester of stage building,blocking, scripting, shouting, note taking, and rehearsing. Zachproved to be a skilled director, teaching me the mechanics of directinga cast and crew and making a script come alive on stage. Every week,I would enter the Experimental Theatre and see new paint spotsstreaking across the floor—brown one week, green another.My days consisted of juggling classes and spending time buildinga production in the Experimental Theatre. On Tuesdays, Zach and histeam added more paint streaks to the floor, playing pranks on eachother and tagging each other with our paint-stained fingertips. By thecircles darkening under my eyes, my aching back, and the paint fleckscaked into my skin, it was evident that the Experimental Theatre hadleft its mark on me. While our hands built a strong set, our hearts builtindissoluble friendships.As rehearsals progressed, I was astounded not only by theconstruction of the stage but also by the cast members who beganto rapidly turn into family. The cast was made up of studentsfrom several different majors, creating a colorful kaleidoscope ofindividuals who all exhibited unique talents on the stage. Joel,Stephanie, Kim, Olivia, Jessie, Karis, Jason, Wesley, Hunter, andBethany—these names began weaving stories onto my heart.Working with the cast increased my love for the theatre arts.Behind the scenes,, I often stared in amazement at these actors whoinvested their time and effort into the production and their fellowactors. We didn’t know it then, but while we whispered backstage,while we squeezed each other’s shoulder’s with assurance, whilewe helped pin costumes, and while we ran around trying to calmeveryone’s frayed nerves, we had been knitting a true family.When sickness threatened our health, when exhaustion 67creeped into our eyes, when the classwork becameoverwhelming, we were there for each other withhoneyed tea and jokes that never grew old. We
couldn’t point to the moment when theseparation between acting as a family onstage and acting as a family offstage happened. After the curtain call, Mrs. Webb pulled measide. “Thank you for stepping in and helping Zach,” Mrs.Webb said, her voice tinted with approval. “He wouldn’t havebeen able to do it without you.” My heart warmed at her words, and my mind reeled of all thememories—and all the new friendships—I would have missed if I hadwalked away from Mrs. Webb’s offer. Over the trailing weeks, myopinion of Mrs. Webb had evolved. No longer was she a tyrant or animpenetrable force in my mind but a mom who would do anythingfor her theatre troupe. Working with Mrs. Webb, I realize now thatshe painted the true purpose of theatre in my mind. The way in whichshe extended compassion with a soft word, a tender hand, or a firmcoaxing showed me that theatre isn’t so much training the best actorsbut looking after a family. Standing on that paint-splattered floor of the theatre, I lookedMrs. Webb in the eye and thanked her for handing me the opportunityto help direct a successful performance. “You’ll come back,” Mrs. Webb said with a knowing smile. “I knowyou will.” *** Junior YearMy junior year came stamping in like a demanding drill sergeant,screaming for my attention. As the writing assignments tumbled inone by one, I only then realized why people had warned me that junioryear was the most exhausting stage of any college career.Even though the prospects of my junior year looked daunting, Istill had my eye on being on stage in the upcoming productions.The doors of the Experimental Theatre were thrown open. Asthe crowd filed in, I noted a few new paint splotches that stainedand scarred the chipped concrete. The room wasn’t full of strangersanymore. Audition night felt as though it were a family reunion as Iembraced the people who I had gotten to know through the theatrecommunity. Louie, Reagan, Jesse, Joel, Mariah, Kayti, Zach, Kim, Wesley, Mrs. Webb—familiar faces blurred around me. My heart68 swelled with warmth as I glanced at the people who had rooted for me and supported me, people who had left their names written in my story, people who had painted my memory with love, laughter, and joy.
After the auditions had died down and the theatre cleared, I stumbled on an old playbill from a past production. Unfolding the crinkled corners of the program, my eyes scanned over a series of unrecognizable names. How strange! I thought. As an upperclassman who knew most people involved in the theatre community, I found it odd to recognize only one ortwo names. Where were they now? Fingering the listed names, Iwondered what their life stories were and what aspirations had driventhe actors to the stage. Maybe this semester I too would see my name appearing with thestars of the show. *** Senior YearSenior year rolled around, and the semester’s screenplay was verymuch the same.I auditioned.I got callbacks.But there was a plot twist this time around. I was chosen.During my senior year of college , I have experienced theatre lifein the Dale Horton Auditorium, the stage that has entertained severalgenerations of students. With its brown fleur-de-lis patterned carpetand faded rosey-pink seats, the auditorium looks more like a museumthat encapsulates the essence of the late 1980s rather than a modern-day stage. While it has been a dream to perform on this specific stage,something always brings me back to the Experimental Theatre.One night after rehearsals, I sneaked into the ExperimentalTheatre and inconspicuously slid into a chair in the back of the room.In preparation for the season’s productions, the tech crew dimmedthe lights, testing the spotlights tinted with vibrant light gels. In theglow of the dimmed lights, small flecks of dust sparkled faintly whilenostalgia squeezed my heart. In the stillness, I felt the warmth of thetheatre wrap around me, and I relished the familiarity of the spacetingling all the way down to my fingertips. I remembered all the playswe had performed in the room and the friendships made within theblackened walls.In that moment, an epiphany toppled over me. Now, as asenior, I felt like I was on the precipice of a goodbye. I felt 69like this chapter—with all the glimmering theatre lightsand deafening applause—was about to snap shut. I wasabout to walk away from a chapter of my life that I
held so close to my heart. In no time, I toowould be simply a forgotten name preservedin a discarded playbill. Looking back, the fleeting moments spent inthe spotlight were faint compared to the moments ofworking with the delightful collections of casts. Maybe that’s how real life works too. When I look back, I know I won’t remember how manytimes my name appeared in the cast list or the thrilling soliloquythat I performed for commencement or the applause that thunderedthrough the black-box theatre. When I leave, I’ll remember theencouragement pressed onto the corners of our hearts by the actorswho cheered me on. I’ll recall the way we reached out to one another,pausing in the wake of our busy seasons to touch each other’s lives. Because once the stage is torn down and the paint stains have beenwashed out of our fingertips, once the makeup is removed and thecostumes are folded away, it’s the laughter and the names we stampedonto our hearts that we’ll keep close. It’s the camaraderie we formed;it’s the gentle encouragement whispered behind the curtain; it’s theimpression that we shined little piece of God’s light into the hearts ofour fellow actors that will stick with us for the rest of our lives. Maybeit’s about the paint-streaked stories we left on the theatre floor—theinfluence we had on each other’s lives—that will last long after thetheatre lights dim and fade. 70
“Courage is grace under pressure.” —Ernest Hemingway
When I was assigned to write a direct mailer for a copywriting class, I knewI wanted to write for a company that sold one of my favorite things—coffee! In his mock-up direct mailer, I try to persuade a potential customer to purchase a Keurig Coffee Machine. Keurig Direct MailerDear Kate Hadley:Secret’s out, Kate. We know how you maintain beingthe awesome and successful human being that youare—your morning cup of coffee.But we get it. Sometimes mornings are chaotic andbrewing a cup of coffee in peace can be a luxury.Thank goodness the Keurig coffee machine can brew acup of coffee within a minute—just in time for youto grab a cup of coffee when you’re on the run.We at Keurig Green Mountain Company have workedespecially hard to create a coffee machine that cankeep fueling your busy lifestyle.Don’t want to bother with messy coffee grounds?The Keurig’s got you covered. The disposable K-CupPods make cleanup quick and convenient. On thosedays when you need an extra pick-me-up, the Keurigcoffee machine also offers a strong brewing optionto make the perfect cup of joe. From easy cleanup to brewing coffee in under a minute, the Keurig is the coffee machine that can do it all, so you don’t have to. 72 But wait, you know that the Keurig coffee machine can make more than a cup of coffee, right?
Keurig can make you tea, cocoa, and even soup (who knew, right?) at the touch of a button. Whether you’re entertaining, preparing a special treat for the kids, or wanting a meal on the go, Keurig’s got you covered. To request your Keurig coffee machine, send inyour order through the order form included in thisletter, order online at www.keurig.com, or calltoll-free at 802-244-5621.But wait! Order now, and enjoy a cup of coffee onus! Just mark the box on the included order formand send it back to us in the pre-postage envelope.We will send you 12 K-Cup Pods. This free K-CupSample Pack includes four teas, four premium coffeeblends, and four specialty K-Cup Pods.Brew a better tomorrow with Keurig, the coffeemachine that does it all so you don’t have to.Order your Keurig coffee machine today!Sincerely,The Keurig Green Mountain CompanyP.S. Discover more about Keurig coffee machines,accessories, and the wide selection of K-Cup Podsin our monthly catalog. Or follow us on Facebook,Instagram, and Twitter to read testimonials, getmatched up with the perfect coffee machine andreceive exclusive updates on what our developersare creating in the Keurig factory. (See next page for order form) 73
Keurig Green Mountain Company Order Form74
When I was assigned to review a book for a creative nonfiction class,I immediately snatched up Hemingway’s memoir A Moveable Feast. In this book review, I evaluate Hemingway’s descriptions of the City of Light. A Feast to Remember: A Moveable Feast ReviewIn A Moveable Feast (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons,1964), Ernest Hemingway describes five years of his life spent inParis, France, during the Roaring Twenties. Fifty-seven-year-oldHemingway recounts his younger days spent wandering the streets ofParis with his ragtag group of aspiring writers whom the world wouldlater remember as the “Génération Perdue,” or the Lost Generation.Known for his unadorned literary style, Hemingway’s portrayal ofParis reveals a softer nature to his blunt and crude writings. Likeunfolding the creases of a worn journal, Hemingway honestly exposesthe humble living he experienced as a writer struggling to make aliving from his craft in Paris.While at first glance his life in Paris may appear like a literaryfan’s dream, Hemingway strips away our Gatsby-veneered perspectiveof the Roaring Twenties and describes his life characterized byhopelessness. On the very first page, Hemingway begins, “Then therewas the bad weather” (Hemingway 1964, 3), impressing the readerwith a rather bleak beginning scene. While many associate Fitzgerald’sglamorous and gaudy lifestyle with the 1920s, Hemingway exposes ableak era experiencing the aftermath of World War I, describing “inthose days we did not trust anyone who had not been in the war, butwe did not completely trust anyone” (Hemingway 1964, 82). SinceHemingway was deeply affected by the war, his writings reverberate atone of post-war hopelessness: “I thought that all generations werelost by something and always had been and always would be”(Hemingway 1964, 30). Hemingway’s pessimism reverts ourromantic perspective with a somber portrait of the City of 75Light.Though struggling with post-war hopelessness inParis, Hemingway inserts moments of nostalgia as he
recalls the rudimentary beginnings of hiswriting career. He writes that he “was alwaysempty and both sad and happy” (Hemingway1964, 6) after writing as story. Despite his often drywriting style, his voice is full of a distinct longing and amourning to return to Paris: “There is never any ending toParis and the memory of each person who has lived in it differsfrom that of any other. We always returned to it no matter whowe were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, itcould be reached. Paris was always worth it” (Hemingway 1964, 211).Hemingway’s nostalgic perspective depicts his affection toward a citythat shaped him as both a person and a writer. Though Hemingway overlays his Parisian living with nostalgia,Hemingway omits sensory details, making his writings difficult todigest. The Seine, the cafés, the seasons sweeping through the cobbledstreets—these shards of Paris emerge from the pages. However, theway in which Hemingway writes, he expects the reader to alreadyknow beaucoup Français (a lot of French) and connaître la ville(to be familiar with the city). Because his account is ladened withthe naming of the specific places, streets, and cafés, the reader maybecome lost in the names. “I walked down past the Lycée HenriQuartre,” Hemingway writes, “and the ancient church of St.-Étienne-du-Mont and the windswept Place du Panthéon and cut in for shelterto the right and finally came out on the lee side of the BoulevardSt.-Michel and worked on down it past the Cluny and the BoulevardSt.-Germain until I came to a good café that I knew on the Place St.-Michel” (Hemingway 1964, 4-5). Because Hemingway’s writings lackimagery, readers who may never have set foot in France might be leftto imagine the maze of streets and landmarks on their own accord. Despite his unembellished style of writing, Hemingway’s poignantexposition makes this book worthy of literary acknowledgement.Hemingway uniquely describes the impression Paris ironed onto hismemory, saying, “Paris was a very old city and we were young andnothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, northe moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someonewho lay beside you in the moonlight” (Hemingway 1964, 58). His exposition also lends a reassuring voice, especially to other writers pursuing their craft. As he wandered the streets drenched in rain, he writes, “I would stand and look out over the roofs of 76 Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will always write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence
you know’” (Hemingway 1964, 12). Hemingway’s simple yet profound exposition makes A Moveable Feast worth the read. Opening the cover of A Moveable Feast is like accepting an invitation to walk the wet cobbled streets of Paris with Ernest Hemingway himself. Hemingway’s minimalistic and honest perspective of Paris combined with his nostalgic tones and poignant exposition create a uniquememoir for writers to savor. Hemingway’s blunt and often wry writingstyle can be viewed like the salad course of a meal—readers must eatit before relishing the dessert that comes later in the meal. Yet asone must survive the salad course before diving into the dessert, onemust dismiss Hemingway’s blunt writing style in order to savor hisprovoking exposition. A Moveable Feast remains a classic, must beread and admired to experience the world of Hemingway. 77
After experiencing the world of theatre, I know how daunting applyingtheatre makeup may be. In this project, written for a technical writing class, I present the step-by-step process on how to apply eye makeup for both the expert and the beginner actress. Technical Writing MemoTo: Dramatic Productions ClassFrom: Grace ShafferSubject: Makeup MemoDate: April 2, 20___ How to Apply Basic Character Eye Makeup for the Seasoned ActressThis memo reviews basic character eye makeup for the stage. The followingtools are needed from the Ben Nye Kit: shadow, creme highlight, a blackeye pencil, a thin flat brush. My comments focus on the three main stepsto achieve the basic eye makeup look for the stage: applying the shadow,applying the highlight, and finishing the look.Applying ShadowPrior to application, remember to remove street makeup and applymoisturizer. With the flat brush, apply shadow to the crease of the eyestarting from the inner corner of the eye and following the natural arch underthe brow bone to the outer corner of the eye. Blend until shadow does notappear like a harsh line.Applying HighlightWith the thin brush, apply creme highlight to the brow bone. Apply highlightevenly on the lid of the eye. Blend with the finger, taking care not to blendwith the shadow in the crease. Finishing the Look With the black pencil, apply the eyeliner, starting at the inner corner78 of the eye and following the lash line to the outer corner of the eye. Do not give the eye a winged look unless you have your director’s approval.
How to Apply Basic Character Stage Makeup for the Beginning Actress This tutorial explains how to apply basic character eye makeup for the stage. The following tools are needed from the Ben Nye Theatrical Creme Pro Makeup Kit: creme shadow, creme highlight, a black eye pencil, a no. 3 flat brush. My tutorial elaborates on the three steps to achieve the basic eye makeup for the stage: applying the shadow, applying the highlight, and finishing the look.Applying the ShadowLike everyday makeup defines the eyes, creme shadow helps define the placeson the eye that may be washed out by the bright stage lights. Before you start,remove everyday makeup and apply moisturizer. With the thin brush, applyshadow to eyelid, following the natural crease of the eye. If you have troublelocating the crease, open your eye halfway and gently follow the arch fromthe inner corner of the eye to the outer corner of the eye. Blend until no harshlines are visible.Applying the HighlightLike lighter eye shadows open up the eye, creme highlighting brightens theplaces where the harsh stage lights may darken. With a flat brush applyhighlight to the brow bone, the area just below the eyebrows. Apply directlyonto the eyelid just below the shadow. With your finger, blend the highlightlightly until no harsh lines are visible.Finishing the LookWith the black pencil, apply eyeliner, starting 3/4 toward the inner cornerof the eye following the lash line toward the outer corner of the eye. Do notapply a winged look unless your director approves since the winged look maynot be appropriate for the play’s time period. To check if you have appliedenough shadow or highlight, stand three feet from the mirror in a well-litroom. The eye should be bright and have a defined shadow emphasizing thecrease of your eyes. 79
With a world knit together by technology, why does this generation strugglewith feelings of loneliness? In this op-ed piece, I explore what would happen if we simply disconnected for a while. Disconnected in a Connected SocietyEvery time I emerge from my room into the great world, it seemslike I am nearly run over. My life is not endangered by a movingvehicle, which you might first assume would pose the most danger toa pedestrian, but by an actual human being. Why? Well, one objectcan be held accountable for the daily threat to my life: mobile devices.Because wherever I go, somebody’s navigational skills are hindered bytheir eyes being glued to their personal device.Seeing the amount of people whip out their devices in public isn’treally a shock anymore since 95% of Americans own a cellphone,according to a survey done by Pew Research Center.1Not only do most Americans own a personal device, but Statistaestimates that 2.46 billion people around the world are active onsocial media.2 This statistic shows that a mind-boggling 2.46 billionpeople are maintaining online connections through Facebook, Twitter,Instagram, and other social media platforms.Through social media, technology has eliminated manyboundaries that would otherwise hinder relationships. Distance?Irrelevant. Time zones? Merely a nuisance. Translators? Well, there’san app for that.Despite the many opportunities to connect with other humanbeings through technology, an increasing number of people stillsuffer from loneliness. In fact, a survey conducted by the MentalHealth Foundation indicates that young people between eighteenand twenty-three tend to experience more depression and loneliness than the elderly. This means more young people80 with thousands of Instagram followers are more apt to feel 1 “Mobile Fact Sheet,” Internet and Technology, Pew Research Center, last modified January 12, 2017, http://www.pewinternet.org/fact-sheet/mobile/. 2 “Number of Social Media Users Worldwide from 2010 to 2021 (In Billions), Statista: The Stastics Portal, last modified 2017, https://www.statista.com/statistics/278414/number-of-worldwide- social-network-users/.
lonelier than the elderly who have retired in nursing homes.3 In a generation knit together by extensive threads of technology and social media, why do people still feel more disconnected than ever? Today’s society is beginning to lose the drive to establish meaningful relationships, replacing personal interactions with shallow online connections. Many peoplechoose to connect online rather than in person, claiming that onlinerelationships are more convenient. New York Times writer JennaWortham says, “I have lots of online-only friendships, and I love them.I’m very comfortable with the fact that I don’t know [these people] inreal life, and I don’t have any plans to.”4 Because technology is unavoidable, the question isn’t “How do weget rid of technology?” but “How do we manage technology?” While technology has become such an integral part of in today’sworld, loneliness can be actively prevented. Society needs to lessen the amount of time connecting with theirall-consuming technology and must learn how to better connect face-to-face. In fact, disconnecting from technology even makes peoplehappier and healthier. Psychology professor Barbara L. Fredricksonadvocates that “when you share a smile or laugh with someone faceto face, a discernible synchrony emerges between you . . . It’s micro-moments like these, in which a wave of good feeling rolls throughtwo brains and bodies at once, that build your capacity to empathizeas well as to improve your health.”5 In-person interactions makerelationships thrive. For example, one of my best friends and I metthrough the internet eight years ago. Since then, we both live inCalifornia and have determined to visit each other every summer.Even though constant texting and occasional FaceTime chatspreserve our connection, we know that these times together in personstrengthen our friendship more than our screen time. For my millennial generation especially, technology has becomea necessity, a lifeline. But ultimately, this generation is allowingtechnology to become a hindrance in creating quality relationships.And, unfortunately, the withdrawal symptoms of technology arefrightening.3 Natalie Gil, “Loneliness: A Silent Plague that Is Hurting Young People Most,” The Guardian, last modified July 8120, 2014, https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jul/20/loneliness-britains-silent-plague-hurts-young-people-most.4 Kyle Chayka, “Let’s Be Friends,” New Republic, last modified March 2, 2015, https://newrepublic.com/article/121183/your-internet-friends-are-real-defense-online-intimacy.5 Barbara L. Fredrickson, “Your Phone vs. Your Heart,” The New York Times, last modified March23, 2013, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/24/opinion/sunday/your-phone-vs-your-heart.html?_r=0.
The Telegraph reports an experimentconducted throughout Britain, America,and China to see how a thousand collegestudents from nearly twelve campuses across theworld would react after twenty-four hours withouttechnology. Most students faced severe anxiety. Some evenexperienced irritability, nervousness, and paranoia—effectssimilar to drug withdrawals. While the results of withdrawing from our technology mayseem disturbing at first, the survey ended with a glimmer of hope.A minority seemed to have positive breakthroughs in their personalrelationships. Research leader Susan Moeller said that “when thestudents did not have their mobile phones and other gadgets . . . anumber reported quite a difference in conversation in terms of qualityand depth.”6 However severe the initial withdrawals are, managingour time with technology will ultimately provide healthier, deeperrelationships. The quality of our interactions heightens when peopledisconnect from their technology. In her article “Does TechnologyCut Us Off from Other People?” Lauren Klein says, “Researchersfound that those who feel more connected in their everyday lives alsoseemed to feel more connected to their online peers.”7 Learning to befully present and to connect well with people in person will even helpenhance our online relationships. As a college student who cannot escape a surrounding colony ofpeople, I see people hovering over their phones as if the very device istheir life support. In the elevator? Avoid eye contact and check Facebook. A stunningsunset? Let me get that on Instagram. At dinner? Need to check mySnapchat. While I’ve become good at dodging students who are endlesslydistracted by their cellphones, I wonder how much more connectedwe might be if we all just disconnected for a spell. Even thoughunplugging may seem unnatural at first, I know it will lead us tosomething far better than what’s offered on a screen.82 6 Andrew Hough, “Student ‘Addiction to Technology ‘Similar to Drug Cravings,’ Study Finds,” The Telegraph, last modified April 8, 2011, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/news/8436831/Student-addiction-to- technology-similar-to-drug-cravings-study-finds.html. 7 Lauren Klein, “Does Technology Cut Us Off from Other People?,” The Greater Good Magazine, last modified March 12, 2014. https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/does_technology_cut_ us_off_from_other_people.
In an effort to make the adoption process smoother, many people are advocating a type of openness that is actually hindering domesticadoptions. In this editorial, I analyze the misconceptions of open adoptions. Exposing Open AdoptionsIn an effort to encourage more adoptions, social workers havebeen promoting a mutual openness that actually hinders domesticadoptions.In her article, “Understanding Open Adoption,” Eliza NewlinCarney defines an open adoption as “one in which the adoptingparents and the birth mother (and possibly the birth father) havesome form of contact, directly or through an agency or lawyer.”Open adoptions have become an accepted trend, however, not ahelpful one. Open adoptions unlatch a corresponding set of problemsfor the birth parents, adoptive parents, and the adoptee.Because many Americans have been affected by adoption througha co-worker, family member, or friend, families are generally in favorof adopting. In fact, according to a 2002 National Adoption AttitudesSurvey, “Nearly four in ten Americans (39%), or about 81.5 millionadults have considered adopting at some time in their lives.”But while Americans primarily have a favorable outlook onadoption, one fear stops them from pursuing the process forthemselves. The National Adoption Attitudes Survey goes on to reportthat 82 percent of Americans fear that the birth parents may try toregain the adoptive child after a domestic adoption has been finalized.In order to address this fear, reforms for open adoptions havebeen hard pressed. A report by the The Washington Times revealsthat 95 percent of United States adoptions advocate some level ofopenness.Open adoptions offer more freedom to the birth mother.However, they shift the focus from determining what’s 83best for the child to accommodating the birth mother’spreferences.ABC News reports in the article “Open Adoption
– Pros and Cons,” “The challenge today[for adoptive parents] is often not so much infinding the right baby but in winning the heart ofa birthmother.” In open adoptions, the birth mother views theprofiles of adoptive parents to determine which set ofparents she thinks are best suited for her child. In some cases,potential adoptive parents may establish a personal relationshipwith the birth mother to assure her that she is making the best choice. While open adoptions attempt to ease the birth mother’s painfulseparation, the adoptive family rarely benefits. In open adoptions, adoptive families are more likely to getattached prior to the adoption’s finalization. Families who establish contact prior to the birth get attached toboth the unborn child and the biological family, making the processmore difficult should the birth mother choose not to relinquish herchild—a right she holds throughout the entire process. If the birth mother revokes the adoption, this decision is deemedas a “failed adoption” and leads to unnecessary heartbreak. Many prospective adoptive parents who have experienced failedadoptions view the system with suspicion. After experiencing fivefailed adoptions, Jennifer Gilmore laments in her article, “The Dark,Sad Side of Domestic Adoption,” how apprehensive she feels evenafter settling the adoption of her son. She says, “Adoption is not forthe faint of heart. Now we are four years older than when we started,and significantly poorer. I look at my son—a word I am scared toutter—and I still wonder not if, but when, he will be taken.” While open adoptions gives the birth mother more power, openadoptions can leave adoptive parents frustrated and heartbroken. Open adoptions also cause unnecessary confusion in the adoptee’slife. Though open adoptions try to mend the gap between the adopteeand the birth families, adoptive parents should focus solely onbuilding a wholesome relationship with the adoptee for the futurerather than trying to mend the past. According to a report done by the Child Welfare Information Gateway, “The task of identity development may be more difficult for an adopted person because of the additional issues related to adoption, such as why he or she was placed for adoption, what 84 became of the birth parents, do they have siblings, and whether they resemble the birth parents in looks or in other characteristics.”
Birth mothers and adoptive parents need to understand that openness does not always answer the questions that adoptees may have. Adopted children already face challenges when forming their identity. No matter how loved the adopted child feels, by a certain age, he will begin to ask questions about his past. While open adoptions are meant to expel secrecy, the adoptee may feel confused after reconnectingwith the birth family. Katy Yarnell began to question her identity after reconnectingwith her birth family years after her adoption from Polynesia: “WhenI was seventeen, I found out that I had three older siblings that mybirth mom had kept . . . I was grateful that I had been given the chanceto have a better life, but at the same time I didn’t quite understandmy birth mom’s choice to give me up when not even a year later shebecame pregnant with the twins and kept both of them.” To help improve adoption transitions, adoptive parents shouldbe open to the questions their adopted children may have concerningtheir adoption. However, open adoptions are not the solution and do noteliminate the adoptee’s confusion. As Carney says, “Biological and adoptive parents must rememberthat open adoption is about meeting the needs of children, not adults.Openness does not simply wipe away the feelings of grief, fear, orinsecurity that can swirl around an adoptive placement.” 85
People often assume writing is easy for writers. However, in this piece I wrote for a copy editing, I expose the grit that goes into writing. The “Write” Thing about WritersMy campus mom adorns the maple table with a towering bowlof mashed potatoes, the signature side dish that makes the Sundayevening dinner complete. While eight of the other campus daughters,captivated by the tantalizing smells, gather eagerly around the meal,I’m struggling for the right words to describe the bowl of steamingpotatoes. As a writer, “fluffy” doesn’t do the trick of describing such amouth-watering, wispy cloud of spuds.“What major are you, Grace?” a freshman asks, interrupting mynail-biting occupation of pinning down the right adjective.“Professional writing,” I promptly respond, bracing myself for thereaction.A myriad of reactions erupts at the table as the elementaryeducation major responds with a jaw slightly agape, and the nursingmajor attempts to stifle a quizzical glance. I note reactions of slighthorror, too, from the others (the same expression my face probablydisplays when someone enthusiastically claims to be a math educationor biology major). To be truthful, I enjoy people’s responses when Ireveal to be a writing student, but people’s reactions do cause me towonder why many regard writing to be like rocket science.I have always admired people who can draw a masterpiece, singa solo, or play the piano. Maybe it’s because I do not possess suchtalents myself. But I have to remind myself that the musicians andartists who paint and play so brilliantly dedicate more time, effort,and work into their craft than I can imagine. When I hear the effortless music lingering from the Recital Hall or see the86 intricate art displays in the VPA galleries, I so quickly assume that talent composed the music and plastered the walls. But I easily forget the hard work these artists have invested into their art. While writing is not framed
on walls, many forget that writing is alsoan art form. Mrs. Elisabeth Van Etten, aprevious creative writing instructor here at PCC,describes writing as an “art form. When you write,you are painting with words. . . . In this way, I think it isstronger than other visual arts because it doesn’t just drawon a few senses; it incorporates all of the senses and allowsthe reader to fill in the blanks from his imagination.”1 But likeany art form, writing is hard work too. Believe me, writing this paperinvolved a bottomless pot of coffee and a patient roommate who actedas my thesaurus. Though through my research, I have discoveredthat writers—from college-level students to the English faculty to thefamous authors who wrote the classics we continue to enjoy—all facedthe same challenges in pursuit of this art.While slaving over a laptop for the right word is a challenge initself, a writer’s biggest challenge is facing his insecurities. When Ifirst began college, I worried about one thing: would I write somethingworthwhile? Turns out, I wasn’t the only one. Jacqi Hansen, a2015 alumna of PCC’s professional writing program, said, “I thinkmy biggest struggle as a writing major was finding motivation andinspiration. . . . Unfortunately, you can’t just procure motivationand inspiration out of thin air. Sometimes, I would spend hours justsitting in front of a blank Word document, trying to write somethingworthwhile.”2 Even our very own English faculty acknowledges thehardships their students encounter. Miss Sandra Brazil observes thatthe common struggle among her students is “convincing them theyhave an ability to write.”3 Her officemate agrees. Mrs. Jennifer Miller,a creative writing instructor, says that most of her students grapplea constant “fear of failure.”4 Across the hall, Dr. Elizabeth Vinaja, agrammar and composition instructor, asserts that “starting to writeor coming up with topics” is a common struggle that she has noticedin her students.5 Whether in literature, creative writing, or grammarclasses, these instructors recognize that college students struggle withdeveloping topics and facing their fears.Not only must writers face their insecurities, but they must alsograpple with the grit of hard work. Maybe you envision a writer as aperson who is sipping a cappuccino in Italy, effortlessly typing hisnext novel. I blame Ernest Hemingway’s memoir, A MoveableFeast, for establishing this stereotype. Harlan Ellison, an 871 Elisabeth Van Etten, e-mail interview by author, Pensacola, FL, November 7, 2016.2 Jacqi Hansen, e-mail interview by author, November 7, 2016.3 Sandra Brazil, interview by author, Pensacola, FL, October 2016.4 Jennifer Miller, interview by author, Pensacola, FL, October 2016.5 Elizabeth Vinaja, interview by author, Pensacola, FL, October 2016.
American writer and screenwriter, exposesthe truth behind a writer’s life: “People onthe outside think there’s something magicalabout writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight. . . and come down in the morning with a story, butit isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and youwork, and that’s all there is to it.”6 The truth is writing, whilean art form, primarily relies on time and patience. Donald M.Murray writes in his book The Craft of Revision, “There is somethingwonderfully ordinary about writing. The result may be magical, it mayeven be called art, but the work of great writers and ordinary writers isthe same: it is the product of . . . day after day, week after week, monthafter month, year after year.”7 It is a relief to know that because hardwork characterizes a writer’s success, the art of writing can be craftedby even the unartistic. In a 1967 interview, Ray Bradbury encouraged,“Any man . . . may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make somekind of career for himself as writer.”8 English faculty member Dr. RobAchuff explains, “Writing is artificial. It is a craft. It takes time.”9 Yet,it is not the actual writing process that proves to be tedious to thewriter, but the rewriting that is involved. Most writers agree that the most tormenting part of writingdoes not involve brainstorming, finding a topic, or even fillingthe blank page: it is dedicating the time to the rewriting process.Murray succinctly defines “writing is rewriting.”10 The true mark of awriter comes when he decides to commit to the monotonous task ofrewriting. In Writers at Work, a collection of interviews compiled byGeorge Plimpton, many famous writers expose a writer’s life. ErnestHemingway once admitted, “I rewrote the ending of A Farewell toArms, the last page of it, thirty-nine times before I was satisfied.”11Can you imagine writing an English research paper thirty-nine timesbefore turning it in? Writers slave for hours rewriting their work. ButVan Etten believes the constant revising makes writing all the morerewarding: “I love seeing the work transform from the initial conceptto the final product. Some works end up so different from the way Ithought they would be—but that’s what makes it fun.”12 Etten reaffirms 6 Harlan Ellison. “Eight of the Best Writing Quotes of All Time,” Stacy Ennis, Stacy Ennis, last modified August 18, 2014. http://stacyennis.com/8-of-the-best-writing-quotes-of-all-time/ 7 Donald M. Murray, The Craft of Revision, 5th ed. (Boston: Thomas Heinle, 2004), 25.88 8 Ray Bradbury (interview 1967), Good Reads, last modified 2018, https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/231324- any-man-who-keeps-working-is-not-a-failure-he. 9 Rob Achuff (lecture, Pensacola, FL, November 4, 2016). 10 Murray, The Craft of Revision, 2. 11Ernest Hemingway, “Ernest Hemingway,” (interview by Bee W. Dabney) in Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, ed. George Plimpton (New York: Penguin Book, 1963), 222. 12 Van Etten, e-mail interview by author, October 2016.
that though the process of rewriting is tedious, rewriting transforms writing from a menial task into an art form. Since writing can be revised, rewritten, and discarded, every single word that ends up in the final product is a victory to writers. The painstaking hours melt away when the final product has been printed. Miller summarizes, “A well-written story or poem is beautiful, even ifit’s never published. . . . And to do a good job—to do something thatyou’re proud of—is rewarding.”13 The reward of writing comes morethan keeping a string of beautifully written sentences on a page; thereward comes when writers capture human nature. Shauna Niequist,a Christian memoirist, says in her book Cold Tangerines, “[Art] allowsus to live more and say more and feel more. Great art says the thingswe wished someone would say out loud, the things we wish we couldsay out loud.”14 The grief of saying goodbye, the ecstasy of reunions,the hollow feeling of loss, and the warmth of love—a writer’s rewardinvolves immortalizing the details of the world in which they live. When people ask me why I pursue writing, ironically, I’ve neverbeen able to form a concise answer. “I like people’s stories,” I say.But writing has a deeper meaning to me. I believe, as Christians, wemust understand that God created us to create. The art of writingencapsulates the essence of being human. Niequist also describes inher book Bittersweet,“Writing wakes me up, lights me on fire, opensmy eyes to the things I can never see and feel when I’m . . . coweringand consumed with my own failures and fears.”15 For me, the processof writing has taken me so many places beyond fear. It’s led me tocompassion. It’s led to me to people and friendship and eye-openingadventures and community. Knitting souls together through writtenwords—I think that is what makes writing worth pursuing. Writing is the art that allows the blind to see and the dumbto speak. Writing is the art that does not exclude even the mostunartistic. Writing connects souls and assures both the author and thereader that they are never alone in this world. When you think aboutit, writers are as dedicated as any artist. Like a pianist, they practicetheir art and dedicate themselves to their craft. Like painters, theyobserve the world around them. And perhaps, in their own heroicway, writers conquer their fears, one word at a time.13 Miller, interview by author, October 2016. 8914 Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines: Celebrating the Extraordinary Nature of Everyday Life, (GrandRapids, Zondervan: 2007), 227.15 Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet: Thoughts on Chane, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way (GrandRapids, MI: Zondervan: 2010), 161-162.
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