I wrote this little piece when I was working as a Guest Services Representative at the Best Western Freeport Inn in Freeport, Maine. I found it on my old Myspace and thought it was a fun one to share :)
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Today is an appallingly beautiful day. It's appaling to me because after such a horrible and treacherous winter, any day that even whispers hope of sunshine seems fantastic while days like today, which are truly stunningly perfect just leave me... stunned. Of course today had to occur today, though, as today is my double-shift Wednesday, the one day a week when I am confined to a small lobby for 16 hours straight. I answer phones, talk to guests about how beautiful it is, and wish them pleasant nights while I silently beg to be kidnapped and abandoned somewhere nearby but not anywhere I can easily get back to work from so that I may enjoy this awesome weather guiltlessly. I wish I were at the park walking my dog, walking a trail by the bay, or even just sitting on my balcony that overlooks the parking lot of my apartment complex. Instead I'm doomed to sitting here in the lobby of the hotel watching the sun set behind the tree line next to the highway as the day slips away. I'm grateful that the phones are quiet and that the office is seperate from the rest of the inn so that I can sit here and wallow in self pity in solitude.
Truthfully, I don't mind being here alone on the most perfect Wednesday that Mother Earth has granted us Mainers so far this year. Truthfully, there was one splendid day last week that I completely wasted, although I had every intention of taking my Husky for a walk along Baxter Ave. in Portland. It's just that the TV sucked me in. I feel disgusted with myself as I remember that because missing out on beautiful days makes me not only sad, but nervous. Always the pessimist, the joys of a gorgeous Spring day are usually overshadowed by the notion I harbor somewhere deep inside that this might very well be my last chance to enjoy the sun. I'm so morbid. But I'm resinged. I can't help that I lie awake a night praying to the unknown that I'm not in a car accident tomorrow or get diagnosed with terminal cancer and given one hour to live. I am a prisoner of my own dark imagination. The worst part is that I don't really fear death. I fear having to stare Death in the face and regret not doing the same to Life. I just know that as I suck in my last breath, as I watch in slow-mo the semi-trailor careening inevitably toward me in my matchbox sized Toyota, that my last thought will be, "Damnit. If only I had made the most out of yesterday's beauty by walking Buddy in stead of watching What Not to Wear on TLC." SMASH.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Free Condoms! Sex Education in Schools
In a perfect, disease-and-accidental-pregnancy-free world, all young people would wait until marriage to have sexual intercourse and start popping out the 2.5 babies perfect Americans are supposed to produce. In a perfect world, there would be no poverty, no social classes, and no homework. However, we do not live in Utopia- we live in the Real World, a world where teenage pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases run rampant throughout society. Unmarried, underage, and inexperienced teens are learning the consequences of sex the hard way because of the push to ban or sugar coat sexual education in schools.
Conservatives across the nation are preaching Abstinence as a form of birth control. Ironically, the state with the highest rates of teen-pregnancy, according to MSNBC is Mississippi, a very "religious" state that generally frowns on the use of contraception. The people who preach about the values of waiting for sex and being monogamous are the ones who are to blame for the current epidemic of teen birth rates (in my humble opinion). What teens and young adults need isn't a bible lesson or a lecture on morals- it's education and access to contraceptives. It's human nature to be sexually charged and curious, a trait that sets in right around puberty. It isn't something that can be suppressed or changed. Sexual Education needs to be more thorough and fact-based in it's teachings of anatomy, sexually transmitted diseases, prevention, and treatment. Telling horror stories about the repercussions of sex only makes it more dangerous, and therefore alluring. According to a very informal and casual survey I conducted, most teens lose their virginity at or around the age of sixteen. At sixteen year's old, kids live with their parents and depend on them for transportation and money. They can't really ask Mom and Pops for a ride to the drug store to pick up a box of Trojans after school. This is why I firmly believe schools should educate students about the various forms of birth control and offer free condoms at the health station. I do not believe giving children the accessibility to contraceptives condones or encourages them to have sex; rather, I believe allowing them to access such items helps them in making responsible and mature decisions about their sex lives and helps protect them against pregnancy and STDs. Let's face it: They're going to do it whether or not they have access to birth control. It might be distasteful to be so blunt, but sex is normal and natural. Educating students on all aspects of sex is critical to the health of society.
I ask you this: Do you believe Sexual Education classes in schools should be refashioned and modernized to include a more in-depth look at the potential outcomes of sexual intercourse and a safe haven for students looking to score (pun intended) free contraceptives?
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Does This Make You Angry?
Does this image evoke strong emotions from you? I'd imagine so, as it certainly did for me. This image is controversy at it's finest. It takes a hot topic- gay marriage- and brings it to light in a very relatable way.
I am a huge proponent for gay marriage and gay rights. Raised in a very forward-thinking household, I was taught that homophobia or bigotry toward homosexuals was the same as being racist- ignorant and not to be tolerated. Living in Maine, a very liberal state and one of the few that has legalized Gay Marriage, cemented this stance and today I voice my opinions on gay marriage loudly and as often as possible, much to the annoyance of some of my more conservative peers.
This cartoon compares today's struggle for gay marriage rights to the struggle inter-racial couples faced in the 1960's in a very effective manner. The arguments against gay marriage are the same as the old arguments against inter-racial marriage: it violates the sanctity of the sacred institution of marriage. The interesting part of this cartoon are the actual characters depicted; the person in the drawing of the 1960's protest is an older white and the person in the drawing of the protest in 2000 is an older African-American. This can be interpreted in two ways, the first being that if even the African Americans, a historically oppressed people, are fighting against gay marriage, there must be some validity to the argument. The second, and in my opinion more rational interpretation, is that if African-Americans and other minorities have won the right to marry despite protest, gays and lesbians should be extended the same right. Prejudice is a vile and stubborn disease that lasts through the ages, and unfortunately even those who have been subjected to unequal treatment themselves sometimes fall victim.
Controversy can also be found in the wording of this cartoon. The "sanctity of marriage" is at stake in both instances of protest. Yet I question the values these protesters are trying to protect in the first place. Is marriage, even the most vanilla of marriages between a white men and white females, really sacred anymore? In the past, it was a violation of the sanctity of the institution if either parties were not virgins when entering the marriage. It was also a violation of the institution to separate, let alone divorce and re-marry. Let's take it a step further and discuss marriage in ancient times. Back then, men were expected to take on several wives. It wasn't unusual for these wives to be child-brides, sold for money by greedy parents to wealthy men, either. That was considered a common aspect in the sanctity of marriage. My point is that times have changed; Blacks are allowed to marry whites, women are not forced into arranged marriages at tender ages, couples are not scorned for engaging in pre-marital sex, and marriage has been redefined as a union of two people.
That said, does the marriage of two men who love each other really violate anything sacred? Does the legal and ceremonial union of two women who care about each other on an intimate level truly sour the sanctity of marriage? I think not. Of course, there are many individuals who disagree with me. Such is the essence of controversy.
The All-American Hispanic
I often think of my father as the typical All-American dad- he works a steady job, owns a home in the suburbs, and rides a motorcycle in his free time. He enjoys weekends at the beach and makes a mean hamburger. Many people would go so far as to call him average- a middle-aged, middle-class male working a white collar job as a manager at Tire World. But there is so much more to this man who calls me daughter than meets the eye. He has a past rich in cultural experiences that has shaped him into the multi-faceted person he is today.
When I was presented with the assignment to interview a subject for my blog, I flippantly considered my father. Sure, it would meet the requirements for English, I thought, but what is there about Dad that I don't know? Our relationship is very close and we share almost everything with each other. I could probably answer most of the questions for him quite thoroughly. I figured my best bet for an interesting piece would come from interviewing one of the Greek restaurateurs I work with. Everyone enjoys a rags-to-riches tale, especially when it glorifies America as the land of opportunity. However, being the procrastinator I am, I completely forgot about this assignment until Monday night. My Dad sat downstairs in the living room watching television as I ran down the stairs, notebook and pen in hand. “Wanna do me a huge favor?” I asked with a grin. “How much money does it require,” he quipped with an arched brow. “Zero. I forgot that I have an English paper due tomorrow at 11 and you’re going to help me get it done.” I plopped down beside him, cleared my throat, looked at him with what I hoped was a professional reporter’s gaze. “Oh my god, Chelsea, how typical.” He rolled his eyes at me, but with an amused smirk turned off the TV. Thus began one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with my father.
My father grew up in a diplomatic family and spent much, if not most, of his childhood in Latin America. My grandfather, born and raised in Venezuela, worked for the Organization of American States, a career that required extensive travel. At the age of three, my father’s family moved from the tri-state area to the Dominican Republic. He returned to the States when he was four and lived in Montgomery County until he was eight, when my grandmother, grandfather, and he moved to Columbia. He once again became a resident of the USA right before his twelfth birthday and then, at the age of sixteen, moved to Venezuela where he lived until he was nineteen. He returned to the USA and has resided here ever since. “So,” I began, “I know you’ve gotten to live in many countries. Which would you say you enjoyed the most?” My first question, bland and straightforward, merited a similar response. “Venezuela,” my father stated. With some prodding from me, he elaborated. “I was old enough when I lived there to appreciate the experience and the people I met. In Columbia and the Dominican Republic, I was always with my parents. I was sheltered. In Venezuela I had freedom. I had a car and friends of my own. Plus we had a bigger house,” he chuckled.
I asked him what opportunities he felt had been awarded to him because of his time abroad and he replied, “A lot. I’m bilingual because of my time there.” Then he got serious. “I became very culturally aware. I realized early on that there are different cultures in the world and that Americanism isn’t the only way of life. The food there was different, the lifestyle, and especially the family values.” Interested, I asked him to go on. “Social interactions with family and friends are more of an integral part of life. The family is very important to Latin Americans. Here, we work to live. Our job is the key element, the first thing on our list of priorities and all else falls second. There, family and friends always come first, always. They place more emphasis on keeping the family together and happy than wealthy. That’s why the divorce rates are so much lower.“ He tells me about the college kids choosing universities near their home states because they want to stay close to their parents, and smiles over at me as I cringe. “Unlike me,” I say, “I couldn’t wait to get away. I was set on going to school on the other side of the country.” I pause and look at him impishly. “No offense,” I offer. “None taken,” he replies before he goes on. “One thing I’ve noticed about Hispanic families,” I wonder, “is that the father plays the biggest role. It seems like a very patriarchal society. Grandpa is always talking about how he is the head of the family. But that value didn’t seem to transfer to you. You raised us in a setting of equality and never showed signs of machismo. Why do you think that is?” I pondered. “Well, I was exposed to both the Hispanic and American cultures. I guess you could say I learned from both and extracted useful information from each. I believe in true equality, that everyone’s opinion should be heard and valued whether they be the mother, father, or child.” He laughs and looks at me knowingly. “It helps that I was raised with a very strong willed American mother. She was the true head of the house,” he says and I laugh because I know it’s true.
He talks of the general economy of the “deep south,” as our family jokingly refers to our homelands. He speaks of the unfortunate political and economic turmoil the citizens of Venezuela face, and his voice turns bitter as he speaks of the current president, Hugo Chavez. “Unfortunately, while I believe Venezuelans are advanced when it comes to social and familial workings, they are not enjoying the financial success of the US.” I inquired about his last trip to Venezuela, the first in over 17 years, and he described it as simply disappointing. “It seemed like there was no progression, only regression. It was dirty and corrupt. The people have lost their pride in their country, probably due to the leadership.” He told me he’d never want to me to go there, because I have an image in my mind of this beautiful, rich nation with warm, loving people and he doesn’t want to shatter my vision. “I wish you could see it as I remember it,” he says wistfully. “My father owned three farms. We lived in the mountains, and as a child I’d talk to the monkeys in the ravine. I’d go to the high point on our property and make gorilla noises as loud as I could and all the monkeys would mimic them back.” He stops and straightens up like an excited child. “One time, we found a three-toed sloth in our yard. He stayed there for over a week!” We laughed as he detailed how slow moving it was, like a miniature orangutan with “really long arms.” We sit in silence for a moment, each imagining a lush mountainous region full of humorous wildlife. He turns to me and says, “It broke my heart to see what the nation is like now. I have no desire to go back and have my heart broken again.”
Despite this, when asked if he considered himself lucky to have been allowed to live abroad, he firmly says “Absolutely. More than anything, I’m grateful.” The All-American self-made man contributes his love for Spanish foods to his upbringing on platanos and arapas and his dedication to his family and friends to a childhood full of family dinners and reunions.
“I think everyone should spend some time abroad. Everyone should leave the country at least once,” he says to me as the interview draws to an end. I realize that we’ve spend an hour talking about nineteen years of my father’s life that I knew virtually nothing about. I look at the man in front of me, fit and tan in his khaki pants and t-shirt. Nothing about him screams world-traveler or culture connoisseur. But in essence, that is what he is. When I hear him speaking Spanish to my Aunt Belarmina in a rapid, rolling way or telling stories of banana trees and treacherous mountain roads, I remember that this average American male is anything but average. I hug my Dad and tell him he’s he best last-resort for an English paper ever and go to bed dreaming of monkey calls through the trees.
When I was presented with the assignment to interview a subject for my blog, I flippantly considered my father. Sure, it would meet the requirements for English, I thought, but what is there about Dad that I don't know? Our relationship is very close and we share almost everything with each other. I could probably answer most of the questions for him quite thoroughly. I figured my best bet for an interesting piece would come from interviewing one of the Greek restaurateurs I work with. Everyone enjoys a rags-to-riches tale, especially when it glorifies America as the land of opportunity. However, being the procrastinator I am, I completely forgot about this assignment until Monday night. My Dad sat downstairs in the living room watching television as I ran down the stairs, notebook and pen in hand. “Wanna do me a huge favor?” I asked with a grin. “How much money does it require,” he quipped with an arched brow. “Zero. I forgot that I have an English paper due tomorrow at 11 and you’re going to help me get it done.” I plopped down beside him, cleared my throat, looked at him with what I hoped was a professional reporter’s gaze. “Oh my god, Chelsea, how typical.” He rolled his eyes at me, but with an amused smirk turned off the TV. Thus began one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with my father.
My father grew up in a diplomatic family and spent much, if not most, of his childhood in Latin America. My grandfather, born and raised in Venezuela, worked for the Organization of American States, a career that required extensive travel. At the age of three, my father’s family moved from the tri-state area to the Dominican Republic. He returned to the States when he was four and lived in Montgomery County until he was eight, when my grandmother, grandfather, and he moved to Columbia. He once again became a resident of the USA right before his twelfth birthday and then, at the age of sixteen, moved to Venezuela where he lived until he was nineteen. He returned to the USA and has resided here ever since. “So,” I began, “I know you’ve gotten to live in many countries. Which would you say you enjoyed the most?” My first question, bland and straightforward, merited a similar response. “Venezuela,” my father stated. With some prodding from me, he elaborated. “I was old enough when I lived there to appreciate the experience and the people I met. In Columbia and the Dominican Republic, I was always with my parents. I was sheltered. In Venezuela I had freedom. I had a car and friends of my own. Plus we had a bigger house,” he chuckled.
I asked him what opportunities he felt had been awarded to him because of his time abroad and he replied, “A lot. I’m bilingual because of my time there.” Then he got serious. “I became very culturally aware. I realized early on that there are different cultures in the world and that Americanism isn’t the only way of life. The food there was different, the lifestyle, and especially the family values.” Interested, I asked him to go on. “Social interactions with family and friends are more of an integral part of life. The family is very important to Latin Americans. Here, we work to live. Our job is the key element, the first thing on our list of priorities and all else falls second. There, family and friends always come first, always. They place more emphasis on keeping the family together and happy than wealthy. That’s why the divorce rates are so much lower.“ He tells me about the college kids choosing universities near their home states because they want to stay close to their parents, and smiles over at me as I cringe. “Unlike me,” I say, “I couldn’t wait to get away. I was set on going to school on the other side of the country.” I pause and look at him impishly. “No offense,” I offer. “None taken,” he replies before he goes on. “One thing I’ve noticed about Hispanic families,” I wonder, “is that the father plays the biggest role. It seems like a very patriarchal society. Grandpa is always talking about how he is the head of the family. But that value didn’t seem to transfer to you. You raised us in a setting of equality and never showed signs of machismo. Why do you think that is?” I pondered. “Well, I was exposed to both the Hispanic and American cultures. I guess you could say I learned from both and extracted useful information from each. I believe in true equality, that everyone’s opinion should be heard and valued whether they be the mother, father, or child.” He laughs and looks at me knowingly. “It helps that I was raised with a very strong willed American mother. She was the true head of the house,” he says and I laugh because I know it’s true.
He talks of the general economy of the “deep south,” as our family jokingly refers to our homelands. He speaks of the unfortunate political and economic turmoil the citizens of Venezuela face, and his voice turns bitter as he speaks of the current president, Hugo Chavez. “Unfortunately, while I believe Venezuelans are advanced when it comes to social and familial workings, they are not enjoying the financial success of the US.” I inquired about his last trip to Venezuela, the first in over 17 years, and he described it as simply disappointing. “It seemed like there was no progression, only regression. It was dirty and corrupt. The people have lost their pride in their country, probably due to the leadership.” He told me he’d never want to me to go there, because I have an image in my mind of this beautiful, rich nation with warm, loving people and he doesn’t want to shatter my vision. “I wish you could see it as I remember it,” he says wistfully. “My father owned three farms. We lived in the mountains, and as a child I’d talk to the monkeys in the ravine. I’d go to the high point on our property and make gorilla noises as loud as I could and all the monkeys would mimic them back.” He stops and straightens up like an excited child. “One time, we found a three-toed sloth in our yard. He stayed there for over a week!” We laughed as he detailed how slow moving it was, like a miniature orangutan with “really long arms.” We sit in silence for a moment, each imagining a lush mountainous region full of humorous wildlife. He turns to me and says, “It broke my heart to see what the nation is like now. I have no desire to go back and have my heart broken again.”
Despite this, when asked if he considered himself lucky to have been allowed to live abroad, he firmly says “Absolutely. More than anything, I’m grateful.” The All-American self-made man contributes his love for Spanish foods to his upbringing on platanos and arapas and his dedication to his family and friends to a childhood full of family dinners and reunions.
“I think everyone should spend some time abroad. Everyone should leave the country at least once,” he says to me as the interview draws to an end. I realize that we’ve spend an hour talking about nineteen years of my father’s life that I knew virtually nothing about. I look at the man in front of me, fit and tan in his khaki pants and t-shirt. Nothing about him screams world-traveler or culture connoisseur. But in essence, that is what he is. When I hear him speaking Spanish to my Aunt Belarmina in a rapid, rolling way or telling stories of banana trees and treacherous mountain roads, I remember that this average American male is anything but average. I hug my Dad and tell him he’s he best last-resort for an English paper ever and go to bed dreaming of monkey calls through the trees.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Give that girl a helmet!
Every child remembers the monumental moments in their lives when they achieve a goal that truly exemplifies their transition into the world of being a "big kid": their first day of school, their first video game, the first time they swam in the deep end of the pool, and so on. For me, the defining moment was when my Dad told me he took the training wheels off my bike.
My shiny pink two-wheeler sat proudly outside our apartment complex, the spokes of it's metal wheels glinting in the summer sun. It LOOKED like a big kid bike. But when my dad proclaimed it was time for me to jump on and ride, I suddenly felt like an infant without my blankie. "But I don't know how..." I whimpered to my dad, my six year old face bright with fear. "Well," he replied, "If your sister can do it, you can do it, too." I scanned the parking lot for my four year old little sister and found her zooming behind parked cars on her bicycle sans training wheels. Her green basket was stuffed full of barbie dolls and accessories, as if to say "not only can I ride this bike, but I can carry cool stuff, too!" My fear turned to embarrassment and determination. I simply could NOT let my younger sister beat me in the race to Big-Kidedness.
I marched my tiny self up three flights of stairs to our apartment and prepared myself for the adventure I was about to undertake. I padded my tiny butt with toilet paper, strapped on knee and elbow pads, put thick socks on my hands and earmuffs on my ears. I took a small pillow from my doll's crib and stuffed it up my shirt to protect my ribs. I knew I'd fall, but I would not allow myself to be humiliated by getting hurt. The last thing I wanted my youngster sibling to see was me in tears attempting to learn an activity she had already mastered. Much better to look a little silly at first, I reasoned.
When I was satisfied with my preparations, I waddled back outside to meet my Dad and bike. He dutifully suppressed his laughter when he saw me, round as a marshmallow with my toilet paper stuffing, and helped me atop the bike. He told me to pedal like I usually did and gave me hints about how to keep my balance. He ran with me as I gained speed, all the while swearing he was going to keep holding on. Then, he let go. Oh, how I sailed! I was Queen of the Bicycle as I glided across that black top, my toilet paper stuffing unraveling from my pants and flying behind me like a kite. I smiled as I whizzed past my sister and then turned to beam up at my father... except, he wasn't there. He was a few yards behind me, cheering me on with a proud grin on his face. My glee turned to panic in an instant. Surely I couldn't keep this bike going on my own! In terror, I jerked the handle bars and slammed against the curb, sending myself flying. I flipped over the handle bars and landed on my side in the grass. My pillows and toilet paper did nothing to dull the sting of deception and humiliation. I wailed, "Daddy, you promised not to let gooooo!" and ran back to the apartment, bits of toilet paper falling behind me like crumbs in a forest. I flung myself on to my bed and cried myself dry.
A little while later, I heard a gentle knock at the door. When my dad peeked his head in with a mixed expression of guilt and humor on his face, I folded my arms across my chest and stuck my chin belligerently into the air. He came into my room and sat on my bed and apologized for letting go so soon. "But you have to understand, Chelsea," he patiently explained, "sometimes in life you're going to fall down and get hurt. Sometimes you aren't going to know how to do something but you have to try to do it anyway. Sometimes, you're going to try and fail, but that just means you learned one way NOT to do it. You have to keep trying until you get it right. Do you know what I mean?" I didn't in the least, but it seemed like nodding my head yes in a thoughtful manner was the mature thing to do. I solemnly bobbed my noggin twice and then said "Uh huh!" He took me by the hand and led me back outside and told me to try again. I told myself that I couldn't be scared. I had to prove to Dad and Whitney that I could do it. I climbed a top of that shiny pink bike and timidly propped myself up off the kick stand. With a slight push from my dad, I gained a little momentum and started to pedal. "Hey," I thought out loud, "this isn't that bad!" I was riding a two wheeler all by myself and it only took me two tries!
I fell many times that day, and many more times in the years that followed, but I will never forget the lesson my father taught me on the warm summer afternoon: You are only a true Big Kid when you realize that there is no fun in giving up.
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