Final Paper Extension

Hermes drew a deep breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he stepped onto the elevator of the Olympian Mountain Apartment Complex. ‘Embodiment of extreme mobility and I still don’t take the stairs,’ he mused to himself, shaking his head with a weary grin. There was a time when Hermes’ messenger service primarily served his father Zeus, but recent earthly advancements in communication had made the demand for his work skyrocket. As a result, Zeus commanded that Hermes open his own business, Divine Delivery, and the poor messenger’s days grew increasingly longer. His social life had especially suffered this past century, ever since the invention of the telephone. Now instead of zipping to and fro between the mortal world and his father’s celestial abode, Hermes existed almost entirely in the filthy human realm, only returning to the heavens with enough strength and time to collapse into bed.
As the lift rose, Hermes mused to himself about the good ol’ days, working for his old man. Sure, Zeus could be a bit of a tyrant sometimes, but even the demands of the king of the gods couldn’t compete with the high-tech thirst of millions of people worldwide. Humans had an insatiable need for immediacy that even the quickest deity couldn’t comprehend.
The lift pushed through the clouds and came to a stop at Hermes’ loft, where he kicked off his winged Birkenstocks and poured a glass of wine before glancing at his furiously blinking answering machine. Each night, Hermes returned to thousands of messages listing customer complaints, from dropped calls to letters that arrived past their past their promised delivery date. Rolling his eyes, the exhausted messenger took a long sip from his glass, mentally thanking his brother Dionysus, and pressed “play.” Surprisingly, it was not an automated recording about a misdelivered package, but his father’s voice that came on the machine.
“Come on up when you get this, son,” Zeus boomed, rattling the little box that still flashed its blinking red alert. “I have a job for you.”
Hermes’ jaw dropped, his mouth as wide and gaping as the gates of Hades. Another job? He could barely handle Divine Delivery! Besides, how many times was he going to have to tell his dad that he had been too old for chores since he turned 2,000?
“It never ends,” Hermes griped to himself as he stepped back into the elevator and rode it all the way up. The doors swept open to the top floor of Olympian Mountain Apartments, where the king of the gods sat awaiting his son’s arrival. Zeus beckoned for Hermes to take a seat.
“I know you’ve been tired,” he began, hesitating for a moment at the sight of his son’s pained expression. “But it hasn’t been enough. The people’s demand for rapid communication exceeds the present capacity of your services, Hermes. I need you to find something more, something better.”
“But Dad,” the messenger protested, “I’m already working around the clock. They have express package delivery, instant telephone connections - what more could they want?”
Zeus sighed, rubbing his temples. “Son, we both know this can only end up a mess. Humans are foolish! They prove this to us time and again. Although they do have some attractive ladies down there...” Zeus trailed off in wistful thought until Hermes’ disgusted expression snapped him out of his lurid daydream.
“Anyway,” he continued, “it is their desire, and we must let them discover this truth on their own. Otherwise, they’ll never learn.”
Tired and dejected, Hermes returned to his apartment and brewed a pot of extra-strength espresso – he knew he wouldn’t be catching a wink tonight. He labored over his new project all night, stopping now and then to grumble about the unappeasable mortals. What improvement could he make that they would actually satisfy them? Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, it came to him. As Helios awoke and the sun rose, Hermes put the final touches on his creation: a worldwide connection of networks. He called it the internet.
The people of the world were overjoyed. Now, an even quicker and more accessible method of communication allowed them to instantly send messages to one another without any form of real human contact. It seemed perfect. Hermes was as busy as ever, but at least they had stopped their complaining for the moment.
Soon, however, the online correspondence that Hermes had provided wasn’t enough. The mortals wanted something even quicker than the electronic mail, or “e-mail” they had been using. After another sleepless night, the messenger god presented them with instant messaging, or “IM,” as the people called it. In order to expedite their messages, humans had created a system of abbreviations, shortening even the briefest of phrases.
Hermes dragged himself into Olympian Mountain after yet another frenzied day. As he struggled against his leaden eyelids, he rued the day he created this “IM.”
“Sure I’m in the best shape of my life,” he groaned, “but I never want to hear the word ‘LOL’ again! What am I saying?! It’s not even a word!” Disgusted, Hermes stalked into the kitchen, only to be greeted with empty cupboards. Not surprisingly, Hermes hadn’t even had time to stop at the agora today. He sighed as his stomach grumbled, a glaring reminder of the colossal appetite he worked up dashing around all day.
Hermes spent most of his time at work longing for his favorite phrase: “BRB.” Hermes loved when humans would “be right back”; it was his only chance to catch his breath and slap a Band-Aid on the blisters left by his now well-worn Birkenstocks. On this particular evening, as Hermes settled down on the couch and pulled off his sandals, one of the wings tore clean off, leaving just a regular, plain, tattered shoe in Hermes’ hand. The messenger was beyond indignant; now the very symbol of his daily labor was destroyed. Something had to be done.
A barefoot Hermes stormed back onto the elevator and once again rode it all the way up. Zeus glanced up in surprise as the messenger huffily exited the lift and announced his presence.
“I’ve had enough, Dad!!”
The king of the gods eyed his disheveled, shoeless son. With a heavy sigh, he set down his copy of The Olympian Gazette.
“I’m listening.”
“I can’t do it anymore, I can’t!” Hermes cried, the ire in his voice gradually becoming more like a whimper. “I’m tired, and my feet have blisters. And the wings fell off my shoes!”
Hermes slumped down on the seat next to his father, feeling like a little 500 year old again. He curled into the fetal position as Zeus rubbed his back in sympathy.
“There, there son,” Zeus soothed. “Yes, yes, I know it’s hard. But you’re a grown god now and that’s why you can handle this. In time, their lesson will be learned. You’ll see. The people will get what they deserve.”
Hermes knew his father was right, so he gritted his teeth and went back to work with one duct-taped sandal. At first, Hermes saw no punishment inflicted on these cretins who were causing him so much grief. As time went on, however, the people of the world became more and more withdrawn, spending days at a time hovering over their keyboards, typing furiously to the friends that they had once spoken to in person. Outdoor games of pickup basketball became online tournaments with virtual spectators cheering on digital athletes. Zeus’ prophecy was correct: communication had rendered the people of the world isolated.

Averno response

Most of Gluck’s piece seems to be set in a contemporary time period – she references modern things such as electric chairs (yikes!). However, in her narration about Persephone, the time period is left ambiguous. The tone of the piece is a little bit dark, especially due to the death-related content, but at the same time it is very contemplative. The narrator has a very reflective voice and is observant about the world around her. She seems to value her time to think, especially when surrounded by nature: “When I was a child, I suffered from insomnia. Summer nights, my parents permitted me to sit by the lake; I took the dog for company” (23). The Persephone narrator conveys more disdain for the earth than I would have pictured – “everything in nature is in some way her relative. I am never alone, she thinks, turning the thought into a prayer. Then death appears, like the answer to a prayer” (50). The last line on page 16 reads “a character in Hawthorne,” which I assume refers to the author Nathaniel Hawthorne, although I don’t know specifically what character. I didn’t really feel like I found a passage that I would describe as “second guessing.” The author does describe things in a variety of different ways, but I felt it seemed more like an elaboration, a method of representing a train of thought, which is what a lot of the piece seemed like to me. The difference between the two sections seems to be about the general theme of each – the first section discusses more sexual and relationship things, while the second sections turns more towards the idea of death. This is represented in the Persephone the Wanderer sections. In the first, Gluck writes “Persephone is having sex in hell,” while in the second, she opens with “In the second version, Persephone is dead. She dies, her mother grieves- problems of sexuality need not trouble us here.” After reading Gluck’s interpretation, it definitely made me rethink the idealized aspects of the myth: perhaps Persephone wasn’t so pure and enchanted only by nature; maybe the horrible fate of being taken from her mother was more like freedom than imprisonment. The questions that Gluck poses in her description of Persephone (“Is she at home nowhere?”) are thought provoking in making you question a widely accepted belief, both about the myth of Persephone as well as other things that you just accept as truth.

My memoir

To the misguided

I can’t find the sense
In causing another pain
Because of your own.

What causes such hate?
Contempt that becomes so vast
That it comes to this?

The experience
Of loss is one without true
Expression in words.

The emotion of
Grief is one without any
Remedy but time.

You cannot ever
Underestimate effects
Your actions will have.

Looking back on it, I can’t remember why it made me so angry that Colleen always left the cap off the toothpaste. It was typical sibling bickering, I suppose. She could get away with all the things that I couldn’t; when you’re the oldest, you’re just supposed to “know better.” Apparently, sometime during my two years before Colleen was born, I attended the lesson on how to put something away so it doesn’t leave a crusty trail of Crest all over the counter. You never know how much you can truly miss someone until your whole body aches to find a minty mess on the bathroom sink.

We were born and raised in typical American suburbia, in a town just south of Denver, Colorado. Columbine was actually quite a pleasant place to grow up. We made snow angels in the winter, chalky hopscotch boards in the summer. Every morning, perky blonde mothers on our block handed sack lunches to their pigtailed children as they skipped out the door to catch the school bus. If had you asked me ten years ago about my top neighborhood concern, my answer probably would have been “the next block party.” Safety was a given. We never had any reason to think something like this could happen.

As a proud member of Columbine High School’s graduating class of 1999, I felt it was my duty to fully embrace my blossoming case of senioritis whenever possible. Every day brought me closer to my impending graduation, and by April I could hardly combat the pressure to spend class time perusing the spring sales in downtown Denver or munching on Mexican food with my best friend Claudia in her new Jeep. On the morning of the 20th, feeling particularly proud of my perfect attendance so far that week, I decided that Tuesday was the perfect day for tacos. At 11:10am, as I ordered my brunch fajita, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold entered Columbine High with a duffel bag full of weapons. Before the hour was up, they had wounded 24 students and killed another 12, including my sister Colleen.

The first time my mother’s number appeared on my caller ID, I ignored it without a second thought. ‘As far as she knows’, I reasoned, ‘I’m in a very important lecture and simply can’t be bothered.’ After my phone began to rattle for the third time in a minute and a half, I answered in mock irritation, ready to chastise her for tearing me away from Shakespeare and his ingenious use of iambic pentameter. I had barely begun to speak when my mother’s frantic words silenced me immediately.

“Jessica,” she trembled, “you need to come home. Something horrible has happened.” The rest of our conversation is completely blurred in my memory. I vaguely recall wondering whether I was on the verge of screaming or vomiting. The next thing I remember is staring vacantly out the passenger side window of Claudia’s Cherokee as she sped towards my house. In my reflection I could see the glimmer of tears coating my cheeks, although I couldn’t feel their moisture.

Though the immediate effects of a great earthquake are catastrophic, there’s something to be said for the destructive abilities of the aftershock. For months my mother engaged in a pattern of self-accusatory behavior, reliving the events of that ominous morning again and again.

“Colleen hadn’t been feeling well,” she would tell me tearfully. “I knew she was running a fever. Why didn’t I let her stay home? What kind of mother sends her daughter out into the world with a fever?” Right before my eyes, my once composed and capable mother melted into a puddle of regrets and misgivings. She couldn’t even find consolation in my survival. In her eyes, I wasn’t alive due to any effort on her part; I escaped the tragedy at Columbine by cutting class, which displayed her incompetence as a parent in a different, albeit less glaring, manner.

In the fashion of a true alcoholic, my father seized this opportunity to return to his binge-drinking habits, eliminating two years of struggling through AA meetings and ten years of blissful (at least for the rest of us) sobriety. As his drinking increased, so did my mother’s weepy self-criticism, and his response was to match each of her “what ifs” with a shot of whiskey.

“What if she had been running a temperature of 100, instead of just 99?” my mother would ask. “I always kept the girls home when the thermometer hit three digits.” The only sound that came from my father’s end of the couch was the clank of an empty shot glass hitting the coffee table.

The shock of losing my only sibling, my baby sister, was one I never could have prepared for. As I witnessed the collapse of my entire family structure, the sole comfort I longed for was that of Colleen, the one other person in this world who could ever understand how it felt to console our increasingly unreasonable mother or sweep up the glass from a shattered bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the kitchen floor. The idea that no matter what I did or what I sacrificed, I absolutely could not see her was completely suffocating and unbearable. My solitary consolation came from Claudia, my only friend who never tired of my random bouts of tears, or 1 A.M. phone calls pleading for her to pick me up so I could escape yet another example of my parents’ faltering marriage. In September, it was Claudia who helped me pack up and move into my dorm at CU Boulder, although, to my parents’ credit, they had planned ahead in happier years and saved up enough for my in-state college education.

It has been almost eight years since Colleen’s death and still neither one of my parents has quite recovered. I guess I’m not sure you could even say that I have. If nothing else, I'd like to think that I've learned from my experience. Though I can't forgive Fate for stealing not just one, but three of the people I knew and loved, I’ve developed an understanding of appreciation that you cannot obtain until you’ve lost something so great. There's something about loss that colors the things that you still have. In her own way, Colleen colored my life.

WRITING RESPONSE:

Writing this piece that joins imagination with real events was a heavy assignment. I wanted to express something creatively without infringing on the real experience of someone who actually lived through such a tragedy. This is why I chose this event – I felt like I knew enough details about the situation to write about Columbine, but I’ve also closely witnessed the effect that a child’s death can have on a family, although the extent of this family’s collapse was more of a creative extreme I took as a writer. The combination of imagination and reality reminds me of a discussion I had when reading The Things We Carried by Tim O’Brien. Although it is true that he served in the Vietnam War, he claims that the stories in this book are fictional, and so this blurs the lines a lot when you’re reading the book. A more “reliable” form of depicting a historical event could possibly then be in a textbook or something along those lines, because they carry with them the promise of bearing facts. However, I think that personal accounts give you a more genuine view of what went on at a different level, although its legitimacy can possibly be altered by emotion, perspective, etc. The Museo Storico dell Liberazione made me think more seriously about the pain that comes with tragic events and how desperate it can make a person feel, and I tried to reflect that in my piece.

If This is a Man response

The poem at the beginning set the tone of the piece for me. It was somber and powerful, but also uplifting in a way because it reminds you how much you really have. To sum up the poem in one sentence, I would say "Don't take things for granted." I would describe the narrator as strong, determined, realistic, intelligent and scrappy. I think this helps me sympathize with him; he tells the facts as they are without overdramatizing things (as far as I can tell) and that makes the story feel authentic. The moments that stood out the most for me were the paragraphs of description such as what things were prohibited in the barracks, or how they were arranged. These left an impression on me because they gave such a vivid idea of how life was in this memoir and I was impressed by how detailed they were while still feeling like part of a narrative.

My dialogue piece

Night had only just fallen, yet Mary could scarcely hold open her drooping eyes, their lids as heavy as sandbags. Yawning, she peered out the window at Joseph as he corralled the last few stragglers into their pen. The life of a shepherd’s wife was far from luxurious; when Mary wasn’t tending to their humble two-room home, she stayed busy by aiding her husband with his flock or looking after the farm. Each night she collapsed into bed exhausted, and this cool March evening was no different.

Some hours later, Mary was suddenly awoken by a beam of light cascading through their tiny bedroom window.

“No…oh please, no,” she murmured in despair, unable to even lift her weary head. “If a higher power truly existed, it wouldn’t already be morning.” At that moment, a delicate melody filled Mary’s ears, as if a symphony of harps surrounded her bed.
“Hello, O chosen one,” sounded a melodious voice that seemed to come from the ray of light illuminating the entire room. Startled, Mary snapped out of her sluggish fog and shook her sleeping husband.

“Joseph, wake up! Do you hear that? Do you see it?” she whispered, but was answered only with a guttural snore. Her anxious effort to awaken him was interrupted by another melodic utterance.

“Do not be afraid,” boomed the voice as the luminous beam began to fade, revealing a beautiful young man cloaked in radiant gold, his mahogany curls framing a lustrous complexion. “I appear to you with no intention to harm.”

The alarmed young woman sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes as if removing their filmy coating of sleep would erase this manifestation before her.

“I’ve had some batty dreams,” she muttered, “but this one is by far the silliest.”

To Mary’s dismay, the man responded to her remark with a chuckle.

“Dear child,” he said with a confident smile, “this is no dream. My name is Gabriel and I have been sent here to inform you of your duty to our Lord and to the world…nay, to the future.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mary replied incredulously. “I am no child, and I haven’t the slightest idea of what you speak. You’re here to inform me of my duty? I don’t even know who you are!”

“I am Gabriel,” the man repeated slowly, “and it is my duty to-”

“You speak of duty, sir,” Mary interjected, “but to be perfectly honest, I see no reason whatsoever to abide by your decree. In fact, I’m appalled by your audacity! My home may not be noble, but that gives you no right to enter without invitation.”

Her outer bravado faltering, Mary turned to Joseph, who continued to snore beside her despite the animated conversation that reverberated throughout their undersized bedroom. With a tightening throat, Mary grasped her husband’s shoulder and heartily shook, again to no avail.

“Please, let me explain,” the man sighed. “Your husband will not wake, but you need not be afraid. I am here to announce your role in the future of this world. It is because of your integrity, Mary, as well as your strength. You have been chosen.”

“But…how do you know my name?” Mary stammered. “And what do you mean by ‘chosen’? I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying, nor can I comprehend this entire situation.” She stared at her visitor in apprehensive confusion, awaiting an explanation.

“It is difficult for mortals to comprehend the heavenly realm,” he replied. “This is why I must reveal to you the duty of which I speak, in order to breach the gap between the two spheres.”

“Well then, breach it already,” Mary scoffed. “I await my enlightenment.”

“Very well,” the man began, inhaling deeply. “At the beginning of time, before the conception of man, there existed only one being. This being was our Lord, God, the creator of the world and the one true deity. Although His supremacy has remained absolute throughout time, humans have failed to acknowledge His eminence. It is imperative that His greatness be recognized. This is where your duty becomes crucial; you, Mary, are to carry the son of God. In nine months, you shall receive the greatest gift any mortal could hope for - you shall birth the son of God, our Savior, Jesus Christ.”

“This is what you call a gift?!” the “chosen one” retorted. “What would my husband think of my pregnancy by another man? Why do you wish shame on me and my family? Please, I bid you leave my home and never return again. I want only a peaceful night’s rest and never to think of this indiscretion again.” Pulling herself out of bed, Mary beckoned towards the window, her molten glare smoldering with red-hot palpability.

The man’s once-confident face became contorted in desperation as he dropped to his knees.

“Please, Mary, I beseech you - heed my command! The future of mankind is in your hands. With your assistance, your son will carry out the word of God on Earth, and in turn he shall atone for the sins of all humans. Please believe me. Without your compliance, the fate of humankind is doomed!”

Mary’s face softened and her lips pursed in contemplation.

“Kind sir,” she began softly. “I deeply apologize, but I cannot submit to such a request. How could I? I know nothing of this God whom you speak of so urgently. I fear that it is much too foolish for me to acquiesce with your request.”

Slowly, the man rose to his feet and took a step towards her. As he did so, the faint glow that still shone through the window fell across his shoulders, revealing an ivory pair of wings sprouting from his back. Mary felt her breath escape her and she drew her hand to her chest, clutching at an exquisite burgundy and charcoal garment that had somehow suddenly replaced her meager nightgown.

“Gabriel,” she whispered, unable to muster any louder speech.

The angel returned to his knees at Mary’s feet and motioned towards the window, where the dim glow had returned to its earlier brilliance. Within the radiant beam, Mary glimpsed the innocent faces of two smaller angels and, between them, an illustrious white dove encased in a radiant veneer of light.

“Good Lord,” spoke Mary, her breath regained. “I will gladly accept my duty.” As a glimmering halo appeared above her, the mother of Jesus Christ bowed her head.

I chose the Annunciation piece because during our discussion, someone mentioned that Mary looked as if she were resisting Gabriel’s request, and that gave me an idea for the dialogue. I thought it was challenging to make the dialogue both convincing but also informative enough that it revealed aspects about the character and the situation in a realistic manner. I thought the visual work both added and detracted – it gave me a base to start with, but I was also limited to certain aspects within the painting. One of the most notable differences between Rome and Naples is the quality of pizza!! But other than that, I thought that Naples had a more authentic feel. I don’t think that the city had too much of an effect on how I wrote this piece because it was set in a different time period and not necessarily even in Italy, but if I had been writing a piece more focused on the city itself, I think it would have come out very differently.

Juvenal reading response

Juvenal depicts wealth very critically, speaking of wealthy groups of people as greedy and over-excessive. He does this by mentioning these different groups and scoffing at their indulgent activities, such as in the First Satire, where he writes, “Meanwhile, all by himself, on a couch unshared, their good king will Gobble and guzzle down the choicest products of land and ocean.” Like Twain, Juvenal is mocking this greed, although he does it in a very flat out manner, whereas Twain revealed his opinion through irony, by giving his narrator a personality that places a strong emphasis on monetary things. Similarly, the concept of hypocrisy in regards to wealth is a clear point in both Juvenal and Twain’s works. In the Fifth Satire, Juvenal writes of the wealthy patron’s gluttony, but then also his stinginess in sharing with others, as the artist Trebius is served “One prawn, half an egg – the kind of supper people leave at the tombs of the dead by way of a token.” This reminded me of Twain’s description of Roman churches – decked in marble and expensive décor, but indifferent to the herd of starving beggars outside their door. Juvenal address sedition and free speech in the same pointblank, stinging manner, stating “If you suppose that your tongue is going to earn you a living, Or do you teach declamation? What iron nerve must be needed While your class, by the score, knocks off tyrannical monarchs…What refutation will come from the speech of the opposition? That’s what they all want to know, but no one is willing to pay for.” I didn’t really remember these themes playing a major part in Twain’s piece however, so I wasn’t sure how they compared. The interaction between artists and patrons in Juvenal’s work is similar to Twain’s – he portrays the patrons as rich and uncaring and the artists as nearly begging for scraps, such as in the Fifth Satire: “The height of good luck! What more could you ask for? Trebius has good cause to break off his sleep, to come running, Shoelaces not yet tied.” From the reading, I got the impression that Juvenal finds morality to be the most noble thing of all. He criticizes things like gluttony, hypocrisy, and mistreatment of others, and overall his attacks are all at moral misdeeds such as these. He also expressly states that nobility “lies in more than a name and title,” which furthers my opinion.

First satire: “Hence come sudden deaths, too sudden for old men to make wills. What a good laugh for the town at all of the dinner tables! Hear the disgruntled friends cheer at the funeral service!” I found this excerpt entertaining because it was mocking the gluttony of the rich and using hyperbole in saying that they would simply keel over after such a filling dinner. He also uses irony in his statement that the friends would cheer at the funeral service, the mental image of which I found amusing as well.

Fifth satire: “To the main event, a battle royal, the freedmen Versus the rest of you, with goblets and crockery flying. You stop a jug with your face, pick up a napkin to wipe it.” I thought this was amusing because of the casual nature with which Juvenal describes getting hit in the face with a jug. This use of burlesque is entertaining because it’s so informal sounding, as if getting hit in the face like that was cleanable simply with a napkin.

Seventh satire: “If you are lucky, you hurl the javelin farther than any, Make the greatest orations, and even with laryngitis Sing like an angel.” I thought this was amusing because of the reference to laryngitis – this example of a person so blessed that even with a sickness of the throat can still sing brilliantly is a funny way to make a point. This seems to also be a use of burlesque language due to its contrast between subject matter and style.

Eighth satire: “You can go back a long way, tracing your roster of forebears, Yet in the end, you will find you came from a shameful asylum.” I thought this quote was funny because it reminded me of the Pazzi family we learned about when we discussed the Medici. The Pazzi were very proud of their family lineage, that they could trace their family back to a soldier who climbed the walls of Jerusalem, but in the end they fell, after an audacious attempt to assassinate Lorenzo Medici when he was attending Easter Mass, something I personally find to be crazy. In addition, we recently learned in Italian class that “pazza” means crazy, another connection to this. I thought this quote employed hyperbole – most of the “forebears” wouldn’t actually belong to an asylum, although Juvenal’s use of this word definitely gets his point across.

My satire

Essay on Overcoming Our Personal Hurdles
Mr. Johnson’s class – Period 4
By Courtney Coleman

I’m sure that most of you won’t understand this, but it’s not always easy being drop-dead gorgeous. You have no idea how much responsibility comes with looks like mine. I mean, sometimes I feel like that girl Helen, you know, from the story by that guy Homer (no, not from “The Simpsons”! Don’t worry, I thought that too). But like, look what she had to deal with because of being so beautiful. A war was fought over her! Sometimes I feel like that.

First of all, people look up to me, you know? When I walk down the halls here at Jefferson High, I can tell that all eyes are on me, which means I have a duty to always look my best. Obviously I have loads of natural beauty – other people spend fortunes trying to get blonde locks like mine! But what makes me especially attractive is my stylistic abilities. I am an expert at hair straightening. There’s a technique, you know. And when it comes to fashion, let’s just say that I’m Christopher Columbus and new trends are like America. I’m always discovering something totally fresh that everybody loves. And…well I’m not sure exactly how the Indians fit into that metaphor, but if they were still around, I know they’d all want to wear what I’m wearing too.

As you can see, I have a lot to think about every morning when I wake up. What color looks best on Wednesdays? Should I wear the eyeliner that makes my eyes look smoky or the one that makes them sultry? And don’t even get me started on accessories. So many girls ignore this crucial part of outfit selection and it totally drags down their whole ensemble. Because I’m really interested in helping out the community, I’ve recently drawn up a petition to institute a class on accessorizing. That way, people can choose to take a helpful course instead of like, gym or something (all that class does for me is clog my pores – yuck).

Back to the point, though. My daily personal hurdle is living up to the expectations that have been set for me because of how I look. Now don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have it any other way, but sometimes I think that ugly people don’t know how good they’ve got it. They don’t have to worry about whether their baby blue tank top accentuates or detracts from their ocean blue eyes. It’s a little unfair when you think about it. If I make a mistake fashion-wise, it’s a BIG deal, but if they do something like wear navy blue with black (which happens all the time, and no, it doesn’t match!), well, nobody even notices. Some might say that invisibleness is bliss.

I can’t dwell on my hardships, though. I know that even though some days I’d kill to wear a sweatshirt to school, I have to remember my responsibility to my appearance. It’s like what my mom always tells me – “If you’re not looking your best, what else do you have to offer?” I know that sounds mean or whatever, but it’s just her way of reminding me to “emphasize my assets.” I mean, I’m really, really interesting and everyone loves hearing my stories about meeting my mom’s model friends and the Gucci fashion shows I’ve gone to with her. But…it might be nice if every once in awhile people wanted to hear about the funny story I wrote in English class, or the B+ I got on the Algebra final. I studied really hard for that, but my mom’s right – people would rather see my senior pictures on the fridge, not a boring old math test.

I’m really lucky to have a mother who is so involved in my life. She would never let me embarrass myself by going out in clashing shades of red, and she’ll spare any expense to make sure I always have a matching Coach handbag. Some moms just let their kids run wild and wear whatever they want, but I was blessed with a mother who cares. Just think – without her, I might be sporting Skechers right now! I guess you could say she’s like a really good trainer who helps me get in shape to get over all the hurdles in my life, like how to say no to brownies, even though they’re my favorite dessert. It’s tough but then she reminds me that I’ll never get a date to prom if I can’t even fit into my evening gown. That’s a life lesson too – I need to stay in good shape if I’m going to meet a successful, handsome husband to support me. After all, I probably won’t go to college or anything, and I’ll need a fallback plan if modeling doesn’t work out for me. Sure I’m gorgeous, but if I don’t work hard enough on my figure and complexion, I won’t get hired, which Mom never lets me forget. See, there’s another way she’s supportive. She helps me keep my priorities straight and plan for my future. What else could you ask for from a mother?

In the end, I know that my personal hurdles aren’t too high to overcome. I wake up every morning ready to look my best and I embrace the fact that I’m the golden standard of style at Jefferson. And whenever I feel like it’s all too much, my mother is there for me, waiting with her arms outstretched, holding a pair of designer jeans in one hand and a tube of CoverGirl Blushberry lip shine in the other. Gloss is a girl’s best friend, you know. My mom told me that.

Writing response:
Why did you choose the character(s) you did for this assignment? What was the most challenging part of writing a satirical piece? Is your character “round” or “flat”? Did you return to Twain’s excerpt while developing your own satirical piece?
When I was trying to come up with characters for my assignment, I thought about things that bug me or that I find humorous, and one of the first things that came to mind was self-centered, egotistical people. I started out my story intending to write about a girl who thought she was perfect in every way, not just in appearance, but I decided that to make a more complex character, I wanted to show her insecurities as well and that’s where the character of the overbearing mother came into play. The most challenging part of writing this piece was trying to make the satire funny and amusing but develop an interesting, multidimensional character at the same time. I think my character is more rounded by the end of the story than she was at the beginning – at first, she appears one-dimensional, only interested in looks and fashion, but as her “essay” goes on, she reveals that other things are important to her, and her mother is revealed as the source of her fascination with beauty and appearance. I wouldn’t say I necessarily returned to Twain’s piece – I loved his work, but my piece had very different subject matter. I did try to draw from some aspects of his writing however, like the first person narrator who is oblivious to his or her own flaws.

Mark Twain response

Italian government: squandering their funds, violating of the church, incompetent
Italian churches: overly decadent, juxtaposition between great riches inside and starving poor outside
Duomo: unnecessary, taking precious resources from the people in Florence, over-praised
Medicis: wasteful, flamboyant, wrapped up in material things, overly confident about their importance
“Masters” aka talented artists of the Renaissance: mindless servants of their patrons, dependent on patrons
Dominican friars: having the façade of being completely pious while simultaneously commandeering the Inquisition and its horrible acts
Civitavecchia: dirty, disgusting, having lazy and ignorant inhabitants, unworthy of even a patron saint
Papal States: having an incompetent bureaucracy, archaic and un-advanced
Romans: slothful, superstitious, ignorant, provincial, poorly dressed, having a corrupt church system, unsophisticated, prejudiced

St. Peter’s: bulky, unattractive, overly huge without being impressive
The Inquisition: hypocritical, barbaric
Ancient Roman entertainment at the Coliseum: barbaric, fruitless, over-hyped
Italian obsession with Michelangelo: excessive, exaggerated, unnecessary
European guides: a necessary evil, unintelligible, not knowledgeable – instead, just reciting facts, praise-seekers

Humorous quotes:

-“And now that my temper is up, I may as well go on and abuse everybody I can think of.”

-“And now- However another beggar approaches. I will go out and destroy him and then come back and write another chapter of vituperation.”
[Vituperation means “verbal abuse or castigation; violent denunciation or condemnation” – it is shocking and humorous that he is describing himself so harshly as well]

-“One of these fat barefooted rascals” – in reference to Dominican friars

-“I suppose it will be sent up and filed away among the criminal archives of Rome, and will always be regarded as a mysterious infernal machine which would have blown up like a mine and scattered the good Pope all around but for a miraculous providential interference.”

-“Butchered to make a Roman holiday sounds well for the first seventeen or eighteen hundred thousand times one sees it in print, but after that it begins to grow tiresome.”

-“In Florence he painted everything, designed everything nearly, and what he did not design he used to sit on a favorite stone and look at, and they showed us the stone.”

Twain uses shocking and blunt language and phrases that the reader wouldn’t expect. It surprises you in its harshness and forces you to consider the truth behind his words, although it might not be to the extent he conveys. He also uses a lot of sarcasm, which mocks his subjects in a more subtle, intelligent fashion rather than outright insulting them (though he does a great deal of that too).

My character

Emily crouched quietly in the shadowy room, gazing around at the empty shelves and dresser drawers around her. Suddenly, the deafening silence overcame her and she fell to her knees, instantly sobbing. Waves of salty tears cascaded down her sun-spotted cheeks as she unleashed an anguished cry that echoed against the bare walls, a further reminder of her solitude. As the last of her sobs subsided, she drew a deep breath and rose to her feet, prepared to face her first day without Kate.

With a click, Emily shut the door to her daughter’s vacant bedroom, hoping that Kate’s closed door would keep her memories at bay. She made her way downstairs where the morning sun streamed through the skylight, casting a ray across Emily’s half unpacked suitcase. Draped across the luggage was her newly purchased “NYU Mom” sweatshirt, its cuffs streaked with mascara from their role as Kleenex on her cross-country plane ride the night before. Leaving Kate at a school three thousand miles away was excruciating for Emily. This past weekend had been such a blur – meeting Kate’s new roommate, a trip to the grocery store to stock her mini-fridge, and then Emily and Cliff hugged their only child goodbye knowing they wouldn’t see her smiling face again until Christmas.

The foyer was lined with family photos and the framed snapshots beckoned to Emily as she passed through on her way outside to the mailbox. Kate with her soccer team after their championship win, the three of them on a weekend trip to Sun Valley, the beaming graduate in her cap and gown - all these memories washed over the lonely mother and at once she became livid. How dare Kate leave her alone? How could she do this to Emily, who had devoted her entire life to her daughter? And out of all the schools that had accepted Kate, why on earth would she pick the furthest away?

‘How ungrateful,’ Emily fumed to herself, storming down the front walk. Peering inside the mailbox, she was all the more distraught to find an envelope addressed to Kate - some brochure from one of the various California schools Kate had turned down in favor of the East Coast. Emily had had enough. In one swift movement, she slammed the mailbox shut and spun around, stomping back up the walk and into the house.

Cliff came home from work to find his wife in a crumpled ball on the kitchen floor. There she sat amid bits of smashed chinaware, clutching a half eaten package of Oreos in one hand while aimlessly flipping through a dog-eared photo album with the other. Hundreds of other family photographs lay strewn about Emily, who glanced up warily when she heard Cliff enter the room. Her expression explained it all to her husband; the mixture of sorrow, fear and remorse spoke more than any of Emily’s words ever could. Cliff extended his hand and pulled Emily to her feet, leading her to the couch before turning to the wreckage in the kitchen.

Emily awoke early the next morning and shuffled into the kitchen to brew Cliff’s daily pot of espresso. As she reached into the pantry for the coffee grounds, her hand grazed against the jar of Jif peanut butter, Kate’s favorite. Emily had used it to make Kate’s sandwiches for years, even back before her daughter decided she was much too grown up to go by Katie. Emily felt a twinge of despair as she recalled little Katie’s pigtails and chocolate stained lips. How wonderful a time that was for a mother, to be so adored by her child. Determined not to repeat the previous day’s actions, Emily turned her attention again to her husband’s coffee, pushing her longing memories to the side, at least for now.

After Cliff had left for the office, Emily decided she must spend today differently. She could dwell on Kate’s absence no longer. Musing over the day of freedom ahead of her, Emily began to list the ways she could spend her time, but she realized that each of them ultimately led to Kate. ‘Why don’t I run errands?’ she thought, but there was no prom dress to be picked up from the cleaners, no mechanical pencils needed for tomorrow’s math final. Grocery shopping was her next option, but without a group of ravenous teenagers around, the cupboards were more than well-stocked. It occurred to Emily that it was time to do something for herself, and herself alone.

Once she had pulled on a pair of sweats and tennis shoes, Emily set out to explore the neighborhood where she had spent the last few years. The three of them had moved into this cozy gated community right after Kate’s last year of junior high; Cliff had just gotten promoted and the new location allowed Kate to attend one of the best private high schools in the state. Emily had hardly gotten to know the place in all the time she had lived there, however. Throughout Kate’s education, Emily encouraged her to participate in a variety of activities and played an active role in her daughter’s life, attending PTA meetings, cheering at the sidelines of every game and assisting in the production of any recital or play that featured Kate. As busy as her daughter was, Emily’s schedule was just as hectic, if not more. As she strolled through the winding roads and cul-de-sacs, it dawned on this overachieving mother that for the past eighteen years, she had almost nothing that she could call her own. In fact, she had only one thing to show for nearly two decades of time and effort: Kate. All Emily had ever wanted was to be a good mother, but with her daughter becoming an adult, it was apparent that there was something more to life. Though only the day before she had been terrified of her loneliness, she now saw that her solitude was liberating. It was at that moment that Emily felt truly alive.

Writing response: I chose this character because I wanted to write in the perspective of someone in a different situation than myself but with certain aspects that I understood or had experienced. I’ve had friends go far away to school and I’ve missed them a lot, so I thought about how that felt and then took it to an extreme in the form of an overbearing mother. Something I thought was challenging was portraying both good and bad qualities while still making her believable. I wanted to show how Emily was very loving but also dependent to an unhealthy extent, which is something that’s tricky to portray. I used both familiar aspects (family, college, etc) and unsettling things, such as Emily breaking the dishes out of anger. I thought that would be the best way to make a believable character who still had some extreme characteristics.

Middlemarch response

Dorothea: naïve, inquisitive, confused, romantic, lonely
Eliot on Dorothea: P195 – “It would be a unique delight to wait and watch for the melodious fragments in which her heart and soul came forth so directly and ingenuously.”
Telling the same idea: Dorothea is a very emotional character. She deals with things with her feelings rather clearly exposed. Though this can be viewed as a flaw, in moments of happiness it is a gift of hers and is very endearing to Ladislaw.

Mr. Casaubon: experienced, knowledgeable, jaded, proper, guarded
Eliot on Casaubon: P185 – “With his taper stuck before him he forgot the absence of windows, and in bitter manuscript remarks on other men’s notions about the solar deities, he had become indifferent to the sunlight.”
Telling the same idea: Mr. Casaubon is a very smart man, but he focuses his intelligence and intuition on his work rather than the life that is taking place around him. Though he is very learned about people and places, he can’t read the events that occur in his life. This is shown in his reaction to Dorothea’s questions about what he thinks of art and architecture; he rattles off facts to her about the pieces, but has no emotion or connection to them.

Will Ladislaw: charming, scholarly, creative, observant, animated
Eliot on Ladislaw: P192 – “But the idea of this dried up pedant, this elaborator of small explanations about as important as the surplus stock of false antiquities kept in a vendor’s back chamber, having first got this adorable young creature to marry him, and then passing his honeymoon away from her, groping after his mouldy futilities (Will was given to hyperbole) – this sudden picture stirred him with a sort of comic disgust…”
Telling the same idea: Will is also emotional and tends to be extreme (“given to hyperbole” indicates a tendency to exaggerate). This sentence is what led me to describe him as animated – he experiences dynamic emotions such as “comic disgust.” He is also romantic like Dorothea, as is shown by the jealousy he feels that Casaubon mistreats his wife (in Ladislaw’s opinion, anyway).

Eliot rejects the concept of fancying up characters in order to conform to some sort of ideal. Instead she seeks a “rare, precious quality of truthfulness” and attempts to portray characters as real people who are identifiable and can be loved even despite their flaws. I think she does practice what she preaches to some extent in Middlemarch; all three main characters do have flaws and are interestingly developed in a way that you can identify with each one. The only qualm I would have with the story is the way that Ladislaw is shown in a mostly positive light. His flaws aren’t developed as well as Dorothea’s or Casaubon, but I think that is only because we read such a short section of the story.

My own story

“Buona sera, grazie mille,” I thanked the cab driver as I quickly exited the trusty taxi that had just dropped us at the Siena train station. It was a few minutes past nine (21:00, that is) and our six-person gruppo needed to catch the 21:18 if we were going to make it home that night. Thankfully we made it with a few minutes to spare, and soon we were taking our seats on Saturday’s last Florence-bound train. A sense of relief flooded over the six of us, thankful to be on our way back to Firenze where we could catch a connecting train home. After a week’s stay in Florence, we had spent the day in Siena exploring the beautiful Tuscan hill town, but we had no intention of spending that night anywhere but our apartments back in Rome. With a heavy load of schoolwork to be done by Monday and empty pockets from a week of Florentine leather market perusing, we felt a sense of comfort knowing that in a few hours we’d finally be back in the Eternal City.

Our train rolled into Florence’s Santa Maria Novella Station just before eleven and we gathered at the end of the platform as Katie, a member of our gruppo, went to double-check departure times. Earlier that day I had jotted down a couple of the latest trains we could take that night, but we hadn’t bought tickets yet because we weren’t sure exactly when we would be back from Siena. A few minutes later, Katie returned with a clearly distressed look. She sighed as she told us, “Guys…the next train isn’t until 6:30 tomorrow morning.” We stared back at her with gaping mouths, shocked that neither of the trains we were counting on would be taking us back to Rome tonight. What in the name of Medici were we going to do?

After a few minutes of evaluating the situation, we decided to make absolutely certain that no train would be leaving for Rome before 6am. One of the few workers still at the station informed us that no, we were out of luck at Santa Maria Novella, but there were night trains running at Campo di Marte, the smaller station across town. The six of us quickly decided that this was our chance, and hastily hailed a cab to the other station. As our taxi sped across Firenze, we waved goodbye to the Duomo and the Florentine facades we had grown to love that week, but were ready to leave.

We pulled up to Campo di Marte, crossing our fingers for a night train to Roma, and sprinted into the station. Our hopes were crushed, however, as we scanned the departure times – the next train home wasn’t until after 7am. Forlornly, we dragged our feet along the platform with no real destination before hearing “Ciao! Ciao!” Having grown accustomed to Italian catcalls, we ignored the greeting until we realized it was coming from two formidably attired carabinieri who sternly demanded our passports. We waited nervously as the carabinieri read our information into their radios. I’m sure the same thought was running through all of our heads: paying for a hotel room would have been better than spending the night in a Firenze jail cell!

Thankfully, our passports were returned to us with only a few questions about our travel plans, and when the carabinieri learned that we were trying to get back to Rome that night, they pointed to a train a few platforms over and told us that it was about to leave for Roma. Frantically the six of us raced over to the train, limbs flailing and luggage dragging in a desperate attempt to make it home. We had just barely arrived when the conductor at the other platform corrected us – this train was going to Naples, not Rome. Thoroughly discouraged and now out of breath, we had to accept our fate. We weren’t making it out of Florence that night.

We stepped out onto the freezing, empty street and gazed around at the quiet store fronts, all boarded up for the night. With no other option, we chose to do the American thing – settle into one of Italy’s many McDonald’s. Open until 4am, this fast food establishment served as our warm haven until we made our decision. Should we pay for a few measly hours in a hotel or tough it out in the cold until the 6:30 train? As the sole male member of group, Ryan volunteered to venture out and see what he could find out about a cheap place to stay. Soon he returned with an offer we found hard to turn down – a nearby hostel for 22.50 euro per person. Defeated and exhausted, we gave in. It was almost 2am and we weren’t getting home to Roma, no matter how badly we wanted to or how hard we tried.

Though it cost us a collective 135 euro, we made the right choice. The hostel was clean, safe, and more comfortable than I expected, plus it gave us something that resembled a full night’s sleep. The next morning, we caught a 9:00 train and finally stumbled into our apartments around noon, drained and weary, but exhilarated from a night spent unlike any other before.


Writing response:

From writing this story, the most apparent thing I learned was how to cut out unnecessary details. I’ve realized I put in extra words and extra sentences, which is good when writing a really descriptive piece but when I’m trying to convey a message, sometimes it gets muddled. I would have liked to write this longer and include more thoughts and details of what happened because we had such a crazy night, but I think that this length showed the events and still conveyed the emotions we felt.

Benevenuto/Roman Hours reading response

In Roman Hours, the author makes himself much more accessible in the way that he portrays himself as weaker and more flawed. He speaks of how awestruck he was as a boy by such a lavish apartment, and how that apartment still has a hold over him now, which shows a human characteristic with a sense of fragility, whereas The Life of Benevenuto seemed a lot more like an attempt to impress. Something about his tone and the anecdotes he uses makes Cellini’s piece seem like an attempt at proving himself and asserting his skill and abilities. I think both are equally conscious of the reader’s presence, as each one is portraying an important feeling, but Cellini’s piece seems more like an attempt to impress the reader. I think because of this Aciman’s piece is more believable. As I said before, it’s more accessible and personally, I can relate to his feeling of awestruck wonder walking around Rome. I loved Aciman’s piece and I thought it was a more pleasant read, but part of that was the relation I felt to it because it was written in more present times about very familiar places.

My fable

There once was a town called Crayola, a place of great variety, where no two inhabitants looked exactly the same. Its plain cardboard walls contained vibrant streets filled with townspeople of every shade imaginable, from lemon yellow to robin’s egg blue. These townspeople, called Crayons, sent their children to the Academy of Chromatics, where young Crayons learned important things about their world, like why red mommies and yellow daddies have orange babies.

Children of all colors attended this school, but the most popular of them all was a little girl named Patricia. Patricia was a beautiful shade of neon pink, and her vivid hue complimented her bubbly personality perfectly. Her outgoing behavior and attractive color made it very easy for Patricia to make friends with the other children, and she was always the center of attention. Unfortunately though, she wasn’t always a very nice young lady. Patricia’s father was one of the wealthiest Crayons in town and since the moment she was born, Patricia had received every doll, dress or dessert she ever requested, and she was used to getting her way.

Another student at the Academy was a young boy by the name of Brandon. Brandon lived with his parents in one of the poorer areas of Crayola, and instead of sporting fancy new shoes every week like Patricia, Brandon rarely owned a pair of sneakers that his older brother hadn’t worn thin a couple of years before. Though he was very kind and caring, Brandon was also horribly shy and spent most of his time alone. To make matters worse, he was a plain shade of brown, making him an endless target of schoolyard teasing.

Every year on Patricia’s birthday, her father threw her an extravagant birthday party, with all of her favorite treats and whatever entertainment she desired, whether it was a petting zoo or a traveling circus. All of the children in town loved Patricia’s birthday parties and eagerly awaited their invitations in the mail. This year, however, Brandon’s mailbox was empty. The little brown crayon sadly dragged his feet into house and sat down at the kitchen table where his mother Betsy flipped through the Crayola Daily Chronicle. Noticing her son’s visible distress, Betsy asked him what was wrong, and when Brandon told her about the missing invitation, she reassured him it must just be a mistake.

“Go ask her tomorrow at school,” Betsy advised him. “Maybe she had our address wrong. I’m sure she meant to send you one.”

The next day before class, Brandon walked up to Patricia in the hallway where she was surrounded by a multicolored group of giggling schoolmates. Mustering up every ounce of courage he had, Brandon tapped Patricia on the shoulder. As she turned to face him, Brandon quietly explained his empty mailbox, nervously grinning as he suggested that maybe his invitation had gotten lost in the mail.

Patricia stared back at him for a second before she burst into laughter. “Your invitation wasn’t lost,” she replied. “I didn’t send one! I don’t want a loser like you at my birthday party!” All the other students in the hall joined Patricia in pointing and snickering at Brandon as he ran off down the hall in shame.

That weekend at Patricia’s party, all the children of Crayola – that is, except Brandon - brought presents in colorfully wrapped boxes and bags. After they had all stuffed themselves with cake and ice cream, it was time for Patricia to open her gifts. She excitedly tore at the first one, a striped package from her best friend Gretchen, a spring green Crayon with evergreen freckles. However, once she had ripped away the wrapping paper, Patricia’s beaming grin fell into a stormy frown.

“I already have this doll,” she pouted. “And I didn’t even like it in the first place.” Gretchen looked around the room in horror, completely embarrassed by bringing such an unacceptable gift to the party of the year. The rest of the presents were opened in the exact same fashion though, with Patricia promptly insulting each and every one. By the time she had whined about the final gift, all of the other kids at the party were more than ready to leave. Patricia had hurt the feelings of all the children of Crayola and this was the last straw. As the last of her supposed friends filed out her front door, Patricia yelled after them, “Fine! I don’t need any friends anyway! I’d rather be all alone!”

That Monday, Patricia walked into the Academy of Chromatics determined not to speak to anyone. She was better off by herself, she reasoned, and her wish was granted. None of the other children would even acknowledge her presence and the little neon pink Crayon spent her entire day alone, even sitting at her own table at lunch. When she felt a pang of loneliness, Patricia reminded herself how lucky she actually was – most days she ended up sharing all her cookies because they were from the best bakery in Crayola, but today, she had them all to herself. Little carnation-colored tears welled up in her eyes as she forced the last bite of cookie into her mouth, feeling a bit sick from all of the sweets.

When she got home that day, Patricia decided to have a tea party with her toys; after all, they couldn’t ignore her like all of the kids at school. As she set her little table and poured the cups of tea, Patricia turned to her favorite doll and asked her about her day. Not surprisingly, the doll stared mutely back without a word. Patricia sighed in disappointment. With no one to talk to, she was starting to feel quite isolated and lonesome.

“I’ll go for a walk,” she said to herself, thinking that the fresh air and colorful streets would perk her up. At first, her idea did the trick – with the waves from her neighbors and the smiling faces of the vendors lining the streets, Patricia didn’t feel so alone. After a bit of walking and a few wrong turns however, Patricia began to feel much worse. She had left her familiar neighborhood and had no idea where she was; Gretchen had always been the one who was good with directions. Patricia was terrified and felt more lost than ever, so she sat down on the curb and began to cry. Through her sobs she could hear footsteps approaching. She lifted her head to see Brandon staring back down at her tear-streaked face.

“Are you lost?” he asked her, tilting his head curiously. She sniffled and peered around the street before looking back up at him and nodding. Brandon thought to himself for a second, then smiled and extended his hand to her.

“Here, take my hand,” he offered. “Let me help you up.”

Stunned, Patricia took his hand and pulled herself to a stand, brushing off her peony-colored sundress. Why was this boy being so nice to her? She had made him the laughingstock of Crayola, yet he was the only child in town who would speak a word to her.

Her train of thought was broken by Brandon’s voice. “If you’d like, I can help you get home,” he offered. Thankfully she accepted, and the pair headed back to Patricia’s neighborhood. As they arrived at her front door, Patricia turned to Brandon and asked him why he would show her such kindness after what she had done. Brandon shrugged and answered simply, “It’s what I would want someone to do for me.” Patricia smiled back at him and began to open the door before spinning back around and wrapping her arms around Brandon in a grateful hug. After a moment, she stepped into the house, leaving Brandon blushing on the front step.

That night, Patricia climbed into bed feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Brandon had taught her an invaluable lesson – if she wanted to be treated with kindness, she must show others the same. The next day at school, she apologized to all of the children and promised never to treat them so badly again. Once again, Patricia was surrounded by friends, but this time with Brandon by her side.

My response:

What process did you use to select and narrow down anecdotes to use in your piece?

When picking anecdotes in my piece, I wanted to choose elements that would go together logically in a story, but would build on each other and become more significant, as the assignment mentioned. For example, in my second cycle of actions, I picked three things that Patricia would do by herself, with each one making her realize a little more how lonely she was.

Is your Resolution positive or negative?

My resolution is positive – Patricia realizes how she should treat people and becomes a better person because of it.

What is the Moral?

My moral is to treat others how you would like to be treated. This concept is sometimes called the “Golden Rule” and I really believe in it – treating people with respect is really important to me and I think that kindness is often an overlooked characteristic these days.

Do you think your Reversal comes off successfully; does it “surprise” the reader? Why or why not?

I think my second reversal is more surprising than my first. In the first reversal, Patricia just goes from being very popular to very lonely, which is a big change, but not as drastic as her change in attitude that comes in the second reversal.

Did you return to Machiavelli’s fable as an example and point of reference while you constructed your piece?

Machiavelli’s piece was helpful for me because it helped me see how the elements of a fable can all go together with the feel of a story rather than an outline, but what really helped me was the exercise in class where we constructed our own fables with that format.

What was the most challenging part of the assignment?

The most challenging parts of all these assignments for me has been the choice of language. I like my pieces to show, rather than tell, and it takes me a long time to write them because I keep stopping and rewording almost every sentence. This piece in particular was difficult for me because I couldn’t fit my whole story into 2 or 3 pages. I actually had it written as a bedtime story a mother is telling her children, but with that element it was more than a page longer than it is currently, so I took those out.

Do you feel better prepared to construct your next story after having done this assignment? Why or why not?

I do to a point – this assignment helped me think about the construction of stories and writing an outline for a story much like a paper. That helps me focus the piece and write in a way that leads to the intended outcome.

Machiavelli fable response

The context is set in Belfagor through an explanation of the initial conflict (the question of whether wives were truly the cause of misery), the nomination of a central character who will pursue a solution (the archdevil Belfagor), and a basic plan of action that the character will take (finding a wife for himself and reporting back). I think these three serve as the three standard European context elements. The turning point is Belfagor/Roderigo’s proposal to Gianmatteo: “In reply, Roderigo said: ‘My brother, I am deeply in your debt and want to satisfy you in every way; and so that you may believe what I can do I shall tell you who I am.’” At this point, Roderigo has in a way shifted the role of main character to Gianmatteo, and also switched the plotline. This is done through a few general core actions – Roderigo going broke, running from his wife, and proposing a deal with Gianmatteo. I’m not sure I see one central moral within the story, especially since it’s divided into the two main parts (one about Roderigo, one about Gianmatteo). The overall moral seems to speak about the problems that money can bring, although this is not stated explicitly. The main reversal was Belfagor’s threat to Gianmatteo, placing Gianmatteo in a sort of “jeopardy,” and creating a hurdle for Gianmatteo to overcome. The resolution comes in Gianmatteo’s defeat of Belfagor by scaring him with threats of his wife. What I liked most about the piece was its tone. It was pleasant without being overly simplistic and was an enjoyable read.

My own myth

Hermes drew a deep breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he stepped onto the elevator of the Olympian Mountain Apartment Complex. ‘Embodiment of extreme mobility and I still don’t take the stairs,’ he thought to himself, shaking his head with a weary grin. There was a time when Hermes’ messenger service primarily served his father Zeus, but with recent advancements in communication, his work days had grown increasingly longer. His social life had especially suffered this past century, ever since the invention of the telephone. As he rose, Hermes mused to himself about the good ol’ days, working for his old man. Sure, Zeus could be a bit of a tyrant sometimes, but even the demands of the king of the gods couldn’t compete with the high-tech thirst of millions of people worldwide.

The lift pushed through the clouds and came to a stop at Hermes’ loft, where he kicked off his winged Birkenstocks and poured a glass of wine before glancing at his furiously blinking answering machine. Each night, Hermes returned to thousands of messages listing customer complaints, from dropped calls to letters that arrived past their past their promised delivery date. Rolling his eyes, the exhausted messenger took a long sip from his glass, mentally thanking his brother Dionysus, and pressed “play.” Surprisingly, it was not an automated recording about a misdelivered package, but his father’s voice that came on the machine.

“Come on up when you get this, son,” Zeus boomed, rattling the little box that still flashed its blinking red alert. “I have a job for you.”

“Does it ever end?” Hermes wondered aloud as he stepped back into the elevator and rode it all the way up. The doors opened to the top floor of Olympian Mountain Apartments, where the king of the gods sat awaiting his son’s arrival. Zeus beckoned to Hermes to take a seat.

“I know you’ve been tired,” he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “But it hasn’t been enough. The people’s demand for rapid communication exceeds the present capacity of your services, Hermes. I need you to find something more, something better.”

“But Dad,” the messenger protested, “I’m already working around the clock. What more could they want?”

Zeus sighed, rubbing his temples. “Son, we both know this can only end up a mess. But it is their desire, and we must let them discover this truth on their own.”

Tired and dejected, Hermes returned to his apartment and brewed a pot of extra-strength espresso – he knew he wouldn’t be catching a wink tonight. He labored over his new project all night, and as Helios awoke and the sun rose, Hermes put the final touches on his creation. A worldwide connection of networks, he called it the internet.

The people of the world were overjoyed. Now, an even quicker and more accessible method of communication allowed them to instantly send messages to one another without any form of real human contact. It seemed perfect. As time went on, however, everyone became more and more withdrawn, spending days at a time hovering over their keyboards, typing furiously to the friends that they had once spoken to in person. Outdoor games of pickup basketball became online tournaments with virtual spectators cheering on digital athletes. Communication had rendered the people of the world isolated.

My response:

At first, I was having a lot of trouble deciding what I wanted to write about. I wanted to include something modern that had some sort of meaning to me, or at least that I used frequently. To get ideas, I browsed through the glossary for names of gods or characters that I recognized or could use. I came across Hermes, which gave me the idea to write about the status of present day communication. The metaphor was somewhat challenging – it made the structure of the myth a little different than my original idea because at first, I was only going to write about Hermes inventing the internet, I hadn’t incorporated the message of the detriment of technology. My third person point of view had a more traditional myth feel to it, which I think the reader would find less jarring than a first person point of view when telling a myth. I included dialogue between my characters because it helped me tell the story; without the conversation between Zeus and Hermes, it might have been more difficult to develop the plot and wouldn’t have fit with the tone as well. The most challenging part of this assignment was definitely getting started. I had a lot of trouble creating a story and starting the myth, but once I had the first paragraph, it came much easier.

Reading response: Ovid, Demeter/Persephone

The first thing that I noticed about Ovid’s style of writing was the concrete feeling of his descriptions. Though the language was still very interesting and expressive, it was much less abstract than Calvino’s and didn’t have as much of a metaphorical sense. For example, in Ovid’s description of the story of Lycaon, the phrases he uses describe visually the changes Lycaon underwent in his punishment (“foam dripped from his mouth,” “his robes were shaggy hair,” (967) etc.). Another really prominent difference is that Calvino is mostly describing cities, not individuals, but often personifies the city, giving the description a metaphorical feel. Ovid, in contrast, tells stories about individuals and though they are not necessarily realistic and possible, they still seem more concrete to me. One major similarity between the two texts is the predominance of descriptive language. Even though, as I mentioned, Calvino’s seems more abstract to me, the bulk of both Invisible Cities and Metamorphoses is description, rather than just plotline. Another similarity is the fantastical nature of the texts – Calvino’s depicts imaginary cities full of impossible happenings, while Ovid’s work deals with mythical characters and stories. The relationship between gods and humans in Ovid’s work isn’t always an amicable one. Already on the third page of Metamorphoses the gods declare that “a race must be destroyed, the race of men” (966). Humans often defy the gods and are punished, such as Narcissus who was turned into a flower for his vanity. However there is also often a romantic element between them, such as Apollo and Daphne, and many humans are also respectful of the gods, as shown in Perseus’ sacrifices to Mercury, Pallas and Jove (983). The creation myth in Ovid reminds me very much of the biblical myth of creation. The concept of the world as a mass of shapelessness and from that a division of land, water, etc., occurred is really similar to the seven day creation that is described in Christian beliefs. Ovid’s tone seems to me to be somewhat instructive – the nature of the myths themselves is to tell a story and the way in which Ovid describes the characters and the plot teach a lesson to the reader. I also get this sense from the way that Ovid uses descriptive but not flowery language.

The most apparent difference between the two versions Demeter/Persephone myths is their format – Hawthorne’s piece is prose, while Homer’s is poetry. Because of this, the tone varies between the two pieces. Homer’s is more serious and formal, while Hawthorne’s is more casual and reads more like a piece of folklore. The characters are also portrayed somewhat differently in the two pieces. For example, Persephone seems more youthful and innocent, almost naïve in Hawthorne’s piece. Also, in Homer’s version, female characters are treated somewhat better, given more respect and power.

My own "Invisible Cities"

RAMONA
Theme: reminiscence, nostalgia

In Ramona, no new memories are created. The memories you hold when you enter are what you experience each day, over and over again, sometimes in a different order, but always with the same feeling. Each new person you meet reminds you of another you had met in the past; each sight, smell or sound recalls another moment, a figure or a fragment or glimmer of another time. You will never again think of the young girl who skips past you down the streets of Ramona, and she will never again think of you. Instead, when she sees you, she will be reminded of the grocer in the next town over, the one with the smiling eyes, who slipped her a piece of candy with a wink as her mother gathered their milk and fruit and turned to leave the store.

If you stay in the city long enough you may have the opportunity to experience another’s memories. In Ramona, memory is traded at every solstice. Twice a year, time stops – just for a moment – and at that moment, an exchange of remembrances occurs. All of a sudden, the friendly grocer’s wink becomes as real to you as it was to the little girl as she gratefully clutched her sugary treat. The unfamiliarity of the moment will be refreshing; though the memory is recycled, it is new to you. The exchange works both ways, however. No longer will your memories be your own. Do you recall that afternoon you spent strolling in the country with your sister last year? The two of you commenting on the crimson hue of the fruit you plucked from the tree that offered you a shady spot to rest and enjoy your peanut butter sandwiches, the ones on wheat bread, crusts sliced off, do you remember that? Of course not. That afternoon is now a fond memory held by the elderly man sitting in his rocker a block away, chuckling as he thinks of the lovely picnic he and his sibling once shared under a cherry tree.

FELICITY
Theme: chasing the unattainable

The city of Felicity is arranged unlike any other. Instead of a standard cluster of neighborhoods, Felicity is shaped like a wavy line, with only one road in the whole city. Main Street, as the inhabitants fittingly call it, is a winding, skinny pathway lined with houses. Walking along the main drag, I wouldn’t have guessed immediately that this town was different than any other. The homes were warmly welcoming, with well-kept lawns and modest exteriors. Children rode brightly colored bikes past me as I strolled, while a dog barked from a healthy green yard where a young woman tended to her vegetable garden, pulling weeds as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. Felicity’s sole distinguishing characteristic was her lack of cross streets, a characteristic which itself became unnoticeable after a bit of walking.

I entered Felicity with the intention to only pass through. Though my map was mysteriously torn at the opposite end of Main Street, I had heard that the neighboring city was just beyond the town square, around the last bend in the road. At first I felt I was making good progress through the town; with my long flamingo legs I took lengthy strides. However, it seemed strange to me that at my pace I hadn’t yet reached the town square. Around the next bend, I came across a man peering into his mailbox, hunched over as he rooted through the bills and flyers that spilled out through his fingers. I tapped his shoulder and he turned to me with a friendly smile. When I asked how far it was until I came across town square, he stared back at me, confused for a moment, before he chuckled with realization and shook his head.

“So she’s got you now too,” he replied, and when my only response was a look of pure confusion, he continued, “Felicity, she’s got you now too. You see, there is no town square, there is no city at the end of Main Street. In fact, there is no end of Main Street at all. Once you enter this city, you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

I began to protest, but the man stopped me.

“Don’t you want to be happy?” he asked, to which I answered, “Of course.”

“And is this city not a happy place?”

I couldn’t argue – I had not seen a frown or tear in all my time spent walking.

“Then why would you leave? Everyone chases happiness when they have it at their fingertips, they just do not see it. Happiness is the name for a city in the distance, and if you approach it, it changes. No one ever wants what they could have so easily. But don’t you see? This town is happiness, it’s even in her name.”

‘Felicity,’ I thought to myself. ‘Of course. After all, there is no language without deceit.’

CLAREVOYA
Theme: accepting what you have

In Clarevoya, it is a complete normalcy for one to have six senses. Each inhabitant possesses the standard five: sight, sound, smell, touch and taste. The sixth sense varies however, and is passed down generation through generation, much like blonde hair, or freckles, or a pointed nose.

Some Clarevoyans have the ability to visually sense the emotions around them, however hidden by expression or body language. In their eyes, happiness shoots off of the body like neon rays of light, bouncing off of walls and windows and brightening each object in their path. Gloom appears as a fog, dark and malleable and thick, coating those who feel it and sweeping over anyone near to them. Anger’s form is that of a smoky red gel, sweeping over irate citizens and shrouding them in a cloud of soot and grease.

Other Clarevoyans are able to hear thoughts, and carry on silent conversations with each other, never saying a word that is audible to those who do not possess the sense. Other Clarevoyans tend to avoid their presence, feeling vulnerable and violated by the lack of privacy in their own mind. What they don’t realize (and no one tells them) is that the thought-hearers have an exceptional sense of “regular” hearing as well – anything that is said aloud within the city limits is perfectly discernible to them anyway.

There is one man in Clarevoya with only five senses. At some point in his childhood, it became apparent that he did not possess either his father’s skill of foretelling weather patterns, or his mother’s ability to maneuver perfectly in completely dark areas. Cards and flowers were delivered to their household, sending condolences and mourning this child’s misfortune. In his youth, the boy felt he had been cheated, that he was an unlucky pariah without any special advantage. As he grew older though, he watched his father grow agitated in the days before a particularly harsh storm and he glimpsed the wistful sigh of a thought-hearer who knew she was once again avoided for her ability but that her cerulean hue of sadness was apparent to many Clarevoyans around her. Upon reaching adulthood, the man came to a realization of the blessing hidden beneath his curse – his sixth sense in fact was peace.

APERFICO

Imagine a place that is the epitome of perfection, and that place is Aperfico. A city of absolute bliss, there is never a tear shed in Aperfico, nor is a harsh word ever uttered. Every child is born without an ounce of pain felt by its mother and infants emerge smiling and giggling, not a scream to be heard. All marriages are healthy and happy, and the word “divorce” is an absolutely foreign idea. No one ever feels hunger or sadness, nor do they truly understand the meaning of these concepts.

One day, the city of Aperfico was invaded and left devastated by a group of pillaging travelers. Most houses were left at the mercy of a torch and turned to ashes, destroying all the provisions and possessions left inside and killing many of the city’s residents. With this invasion, the essence of perfection that existed in Aperfico was also destroyed. At once, the citizens felt desperate hunger, emotional agony over their lost companions and belongings, and physical pain from the injuries inflicted by their attackers. It seemed as if true happiness would never be found again.

Eventually the invading vagabonds moved through Aperfico and away from the city’s walls, leaving behind them a site of complete desolation. Without any practice in handling misfortune, the city’s inhabitants had no idea how to react or overcome such a tragedy. The town stayed in a state of chaos until a young girl emerged from a partially sunken ruin of a home and extended her chubby, dirt-caked hand to a woman who sat sobbing on the street outside. In the child’s palm was a half-eaten red apple, dull from the light film of dust that covered its skin. Though it was far from Aperfico’s standard of perfection, the woman thankfully grabbed the apple and devoured it hungrily. At that moment, she realized that nothing she had ever eaten had tasted as delicious and rewarding as the filthy fruit she had just gulped down. It was the first time she had actually felt satisfaction – a sense of gratification stemming from the fulfillment of some absence. And it occurred to her that Aperfico had never been perfect in the first place – nothing in the world she had known could ever compare to her realization of the true perfection that comes from rising from adversity.

Questions:

- The theme that was easiest for me to write about was “reminiscence,” partially because it was my first city that I wrote about, but also because I felt the theme connected to so many thoughts and feelings I’ve experienced lately, especially being in a new, foreign place. I have with me my memories from back home and I’m adding to them so many new memories in a completely new environment.

- I thought each way of writing was harder and easier in its own way. A theme was a good building block from which I could jumpstart my idea, but often I’d find myself straying from the idea and either changing my theme or having to rewrite a section. Writing without a theme was also difficult however, because I didn’t have a specific thread to tie back into until my story was fully developed.

- The most difficult part for me was thinking of different cities. Once I had one, I kept thinking of similar concepts and it was hard for me to branch out and dream up a new one.

- I enjoyed Calvino’s use of language, particularly his descriptive phrases. I love descriptive writing and most of the quotes I picked from his cities were descriptive phrases with interesting and vivid word choice. These were the things I tried to emulate in my own cities.

- As I said, I tried to emulate/borrow a certain element of Calvino’s style, his word choice and descriptive choices, because I felt that they created such vivid mental imagery that really add substance to a written piece.

- I personally took “Invisible Cities” to be a piece of work all pertaining to one city, each story elaborating one of the city’s many complexities. Rome is definitely a very complex city. It combines so many aspects of modernity and antiquity and this adds a really interesting element to the city. In this way, I think Rome is definitely an “Invisible City” as Calvino might describe it.

- I would have chosen “complexity” or “contrast” if I had written about Rome as a whole. Like I said before, Rome has so many conflicting, complex elements and that is what makes it such an interesting remarkable city.