Too young to feel this old

Jennifer Lett
12/14/09
FD4




In the United States, men account for ten percent of the population who suffer from anorexia. One out of five men would trade three to five years of their life to achieve their weight goals. One out of four men are on a diet at any given time. According to Sokol, a child and adolescent psychologist at Menninger, a psychiatric hospital in Topeka, Kan, "It is more dangerous for men to develop anorexia nervosa than for females ... because when males get down to the lowest weight ranges, they've lost more muscle and tissue, whereas [fat] is something you can lose for a period of time without repercussions."[Thesis] Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of all mental disorders. [Thesis] This is John and George's story.

John is making progress. Today, he has eaten one whole apple. He spends most nights alone in his room, imagining the feasts he would eat if only he could. George is an all-star athlete, and has been since age five; he plays rugby and chases after girls. He weighs a healthy 180 lbs. Occasionally, George will pose for the school’s calendar – he sports a well-defined six-pack. George tried out for the wrestling team last week. It was the first time he had ever fasted. He fasts once a week. Once, during his fast, he put a piece of chocolate in his mouth, savored it, and then quickly spit it back out.

John’s liver is failing him. At 6’3 he weighs 115 Ibs – this is the average weight of a woman standing at 5’2. John’s journal reads, “Fat is your enemy. Don’t let it take control. Food is TOXIC.” He repeats this passage in his head until his inner voice overcomes the sound of his stomach’s grumbling - the journal tightly clenched underneath his frail arms, now, not so much arms as they are skin and brittle bone.

George is running twice a day now. He wakes up most mornings at 3 a.m. and has learned to control his appetite by aggressively brushing his tongue until the taste of food is smothered by the taste of his own blood. He consumes only 500 calories a day. Lunch consists of two chicken breasts and dinner is a lean cuisine. George has made the wrestling team. He is determined to maintain his weight class. He offers an inordinate amount of energy to defeating fellow schoolmate, Brian, who stands at 5’11 weighing 144 lbs. George has become accustomed to winning - and with that idea he rewards himself with thoughts of Jenna and her skin tight jeans.

John’s hair has begun to wither and is falling out. He noticed it one morning on his way to school. John was making his way to the back of the bus as he usually does when he discovered a trail of hair along the aisle after he sat but said nothing. He sits with eyes dimly lit and his mind wonders. A long time ago, it seems, he had a close group of friends. Occasionally, they pass each other in the halls but they only see his pale skin and stare at his nervous hands. He avoids them, and comes home to an empty home. There is nothing for him to find when he arrives at his home, so he finds comfort in being alone.

The first match of the season gives George his anticipated and hard earned victory. He is celebrated by his teammates as they carry him through the gym like an emperor. It seems a throng of young girls have gathered to congratulate him; Jenna, has become somewhat infatuated with George. He finds her sitting at the bleachers during his practice. She stares admiringly at him, she laughs coyly and her eyes invite him over. George is suddenly aware that his weight loss is inarguably making him feel attractive, faster, and stronger.

John has been hospitalized. His doctor is talking to his father; John can barely hear and cannot speak. He is being fed through a tube. He has only seconds of clarity, John is heavily sedated. His father is very old-fashioned, he has never heard of what this doctor is explaining is his son's condition. "Twenty-five percent of males are now diagnosed as having Anorexia Nervosa. Mr. Dunne, if your son refuses the treatment, the likelihood that this fatal mental illness will take its course is almost certain," "Well, how long do you give 'em?" "It is hard to say, but my medical opinion is one month." "In ninety percent of bulimia cases, the liver fails, then the kidneys, oftentimes the intestinal tract develops excruciating ulcers and then finally, cardiac arrest." "I am sorry, there is nothing else I can do."

George and Jenna have been dating for three weeks now and they are inseparable. Jenna worries that George does not eat as much as most boys in her class, but she does not bring this concern to George's attention for fear of disappointing him. He is afraid to tell her the truth about his eating habits. He begins to find food repulsive and Jenna is beginning to take notice of this. George is not running as often as he used to and soon enough, his wrestling Coach starts to notice as well. "I want you to understand something now George, fasting is one thing. We fast before a game as a group to cleanse our bodies and clear our minds for a day or two and then begin a regimented diet. But what you're doing is going to cost you. Its gonna cost you a lot. Men lose muscle when they starve themselves. Get it? You can't be on my team if you got an eating disorder."

John's liver is failing; his skin has become jaundiced and his hands are now a bluish green. His father's visits are less frequent; his attitude towards his son's condition is disturbingly apathetic. John's father tells the school that his son has contracted the flu and is home, bed-ridden. No one knows the truth. John's journal sits at home, pleading to be read.

Jenna has distanced herself from George; her friends call George a freak. George avoids all situations that might lead him to eat. His eating habits are now precarious; he counts five pieces of cornflakes and a fourth of an apple. He searches the internet for tips on how to conceal his illness. George attempts to recover his relationship and promises Jenna that nothing is wrong, "I just need to keep my weight class," "I don't have an eating disorder. I'm not a chick." He even takes her out to eat. Their plates arrive, George confidently takes a bite. He feels he has no choice. George excuses himself; as he walks to the bathroom, he starts to cry. He feels disgusted and angry.

John's heart has failed. He is gone. No one was there to see him die. After a brief recovery, John relapsed. His father refused to take John to support groups, sadly, no one in the family knew of his condition. John's father received the call early in the morning, "Ben, I am sorry. I don't know what to tell you. There isn't much time left. Come and say good-bye." But John was dead before Ben even made it into the hospital room. The room smelled of his son's death and with each breath he took, he felt his son's presence fading faster and faster away. He coldly wrapped his son's hands together in prayer form as he recited an, 'Our Father.'

Ben is driving home. He feels his eyes begin to water but he suppresses his reactions. Ben opens the door to his house and already, he feels the emptiness of the house - and his heart. He cannot help but to cry as he walks past his sons room. "Get through the day - at least today, Ben," he thinks to himself. It is evening now, Ben is looking for tasks to fill his time. He decides to do a load of laundry and instinctively walks to his son's room to gather John's dirty clothes. He remembers that his son won't be needing anymore clean clothes. Exhausted, Ben sits on John's frail bed and feels a sharp pain in his leg. It is his son's Journal. John's Journal is full. The past three years of John's life are documented in it.

The following morning is colder than usual. George is on his way out. He notices a fresh paper has arrived and is waiting for him on the front steps of his porch. George kneels to pick up the paper and slowly reads the bold headline,
"John Dunne - 17, Dies of Anorexia."



"Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies" - John Donne

Log of Completed Activities

_X__ Nov 16M- Intro to Paper #4: Read Guidelines for Paper #4: Literary Journalism (Confirmation reply required.)
_X__ Nov 20F- Complete readings for paper #4: chap. 15 (Confirmation reply required.)
_X__ Nov 25W- Laulima Discussion #1.
_X__ Dec 1 (Tue)- Laulima Discussion #2.
_X__ Dec 4F- RD4 due [50 pts] Review the guidelines. (Confirmation reply required.)
_X__ Dec 7M- RD4- Reviews due [50 pts] Review the guidelines. (Confirmation reply required.)
_X__ Dec 10-14- FD4 due [150 pts] Review the guidelines. (Confirmation reply required.)

What if this is as good as it gets?

Jennifer Lett
FD5
12/11/09




When I was ten years old I spent an entire summer in my room in front of my t.v. - alone - for ninety-eight days and ninety-nine nights all I did was watch and re-watch all of my favorite films. One film in particular, "As Good as it Gets" spent the longest time in my vcr. It couldn't have made much sense to me as a ten year old child but I watched it. I watched it while I brushed my teeth in the morning and as I got ready for the day. I would watch it while I ate. What does a ten year old girl know about social anxiety or obsessive compulsive disorder? What does a ten year old child know about the trials and tribulations of life which lead people to premature insanity and settling for a relationship which they know is destined for failure? According to my mom, "Ju don't even know how to wipe jor ass." I seriously doubt it mom.

However, I do believe that this movie served a useful purpose in my life; thanks to this movie, I now know that people who have O.C.D. typically tend to distrust others' abilities to clean silverware thoroughly. I also learned that maniacal older men can win the affection of sexy and overworked women easily, as long as the woman in question is vulnerable and the man in question pays her a compliment on occasion as well as her son's medical bills. In fact, I learned about the dynamics of complicated relationships through this movie and If I am to make a valid assesment of the influences in my childhood that are still a part of my life 'as an adult', I would have to acknowledge that watching film and studying people has and will always be a part of my life.


When I was twenty-one, I went to India, I found myself surrounded by people who I couldn't sit and have meaningless idle chit chat with - for the most part, we didn't speak the same language. I had to figure out what to do with the silence. I could participate in life through observation. That is the feeling that I experience when I watch a really great film. I felt the same way when I saw the Curious Case of Benjamin Button. This film is set in New Orleans during the early 1900's. I felt connected to a place that no longer existed. I existed in this time and participated through laughter and tears, in much the same way that an audience observing a play might. It is a wonderful film about a boy who is aging backwards; he is born a sickly, rather ugly old man. The movie is three hours long, as I watched it, I felt myself age.


This film is many things to many people. I felt the movie was about love; a mother's love, a father's love, a husband's love, and a man's love, abandonment, heart break, love lost, and fantasy. I could literally pause or fast-forward all of the painful experiences of life which are quite frankly drawn out, repetitive, and sometimes a bit boring and still understand human nature just by watching a great film like Benjamin Button. And yes, perhaps to someone else this movie was not about love, maybe it was about struggle or about independence. It could have been about loss. Perhaps, the movie, the Curious Case Benjamin Button was about family or maybe it is just an old tale about old people. That is the beauty of film. Like Theatre, film has evolved from story-telling. Film can offer catharsis or a feeling of emotional cleansing to anyone; a muti-cultural therapeutic tool. The same kind of release we can feel from a warm hug. Films offer us a chance to spend time with ourselves, the unadulterated version of ourselves - no pretensions. If we sit and analyze, observe or 'watch a person long enough, we discover their humanity.' But, what we are really discovering, is our own humanity. I'm certain that soon enough, when I begin the semester at Miami International University of Art that I will keep this in mind. I will remember that every moment is as good as it gets and that every second of life is precious, while we are dying someone is living and while we are being someone is watching. My real story isn't special. I am not special. I am just like everyone else.

All that separates me from almost everyone else is one vital piece of information - I understand that success in life-- be it happiness, academic achievement, money, or family requires me to see what is really there, take what I see that is really there and make it so much brighter than it is. With a sense of urgeny, I have been cultivating that passion since I was ten.

RD4

                                    All American Boy

 

           

            John is making progress. Today, he has eaten one whole apple. He spends most nights alone in his room, imagining the feasts he would eat if only he could. George is an all-star athlete, and has been since age five; he plays rugby and chases after girls. He weighs a healthy 180 lbs.  Occasionally, George will pose for the school’s calendar – he sports a well-defined six-pack. George tried out for the wrestling team last week. It was the first time he had ever fasted. He fasts once a week. Once, during his fast, he put a piece of chocolate in his mouth, savored it, and then quickly spit it back out. Anorexia does not only affect women. [Thesis]

 

            John’s liver is failing him. At 6’3 he weighs 115 Ibs – this is the average weight of a woman standing at 5’2.  John’s journal reads, “Fat is your enemy. Don’t let it take control. Food is TOXIC.” He repeats this passage in his head until his inner voice overcomes the sound of his stomach’s grumbling - the journal tightly clenched underneath his frail arms, now, not so much arms as they are skin and brittle bone.

            George is running twice a day now. He wakes up most mornings at 3 a.m. and has learned to control his appetite by aggressively brushing his tongue until the taste of food is smothered by the taste of his own blood. He consumes only 500 calories a day. Lunch consists of two chicken breasts and dinner is a lean cuisine. George has made the wrestling team. He is determined to maintain his weight class. He offers an inordinate amount of energy to defeating fellow schoolmate, Brian, who stands at 5’11 weighing 144 lbs. George has become accustomed to winning - and with that idea he rewards himself with thoughts of Jenna and her skin tight jeans.

            John’s hair has begun to wither and is falling out. He noticed it one morning on his way to school. John was making his way to the back of the bus as he usually does when he discovered a trail of hair along the aisle after he sat but said nothing. He sits with eyes dimly lit and his mind wonders. A long time ago, it seems, he had a close group of friends. Occasionally, they pass each other in the halls but they only see his pale skin and stare at his nervous hands. He avoids them, and comes home to an empty home. There is nothing for him to find when he arrives at his home, so he finds comfort in being alone. 

          The first match of the season gives George his anticipated and hard earned victory. He is celebrated by his teammates as they carry him through the gym like an emperor. It seems a throng of young girls have gathered to congratulate him; Jenna, has become somewhat infatuated with George. He finds her sitting at the bleachers during his practice. She stares admiringly at him, she laughs coyly and her eyes invite him over. George is suddenly aware that his weight loss is inarguably making him feel attractive, faster, and stronger. 

John has been hospitalized. His doctor is talking to his father; John can barely hear and cannot speak. He is being fed through a tube. He has only seconds of clarity, John is heavily sedated. His father is very old-fashioned, he has never heard of what this doctor is explaining is his son's condition. "Twenty-five percent of males are now diagnosed as having Anorexia Nervosa. Mr. Dunne, if your son refuses the treatment, the likelihood that this fatal mental illness will take its course is almost certain," "Well, how long do you give 'em?" "It is hard to say, but my medical opinion is one month."         

George and Jenna have been dating for three weeks now and they are inseparable. Jenna worries that George does not eat as much as most boys in her class, but she does not bring this concern to George's attention for fear of disappointing him. He is afraid to tell her the truth about his eating habits. He begins to find food repulsive and Jenna is beginning to take notice of this. George is not running as often as he used to and soon enough, his wrestling Coach starts to notice as well. "I want you to understand something now George, fasting is one thing. We fast before a game as a group to cleanse our bodies and clear our minds for a day or two and then begin a regimented diet. But what you're doing is going to cost you. Its gonna cost you a lot. Men lose muscle when they starve themselves. Get it? You can't be on my team if you got an eating disorder." 

         John's liver is failing; his skin has become jaundiced and his hands are now a bluish green. His father's visits are less frequent; his attitude towards his son's condition is disturbingly apathetic. John's father tells the school that his son has contracted the flu and is home, bed-ridden. No one knows the truth. John's journal sits at home, pleading to be read. 

        Jenna has distanced herself from George; her friends call George a freak. George avoids all situations that might lead him to eat. His eating habits are now precarious; he counts five pieces of cornflakes and a fourth of an apple. He searches the internet for tips on how to conceal his illness. George attempts to recover his relationship and promises Jenna that nothing is wrong, "I just need to keep my weight class," "I don't have an eating disorder. I'm not a chick." He even takes her out to eat. Their plates arrive, George confidently takes a bite. He feels he has no choice. George excuses himself; as he walks to the bathroom, he starts to cry. He feels disgusted and angry. 

   John is dead. No one was there to see him die. His father is secretly ashamed. He coldly wraps his son's hands together in prayer form as he recites an, 'Our Father.' His father drives home; he feels his eyes begin to water but suppresses his reactions. He curiously steps into John's room. John's journal is full. The past three years of John's life are documented in his Journal. 

FD3

Jennifer Lett
English 273
November 15, 2009
FD3

Divine Art




Sylvia was an eight year old prodigy. Her most valued possession was a set of prisma watercolor pencils, they were carefully packaged in a white tin case. Each colored pencil was sharpened, each a different size. "Sylvia has ben drawing since che guas about forr", her mother once told me while we played in her backyard. Sylvia was the first great source of creativity, art, and personal introspection in my life. It was then, in the third grade, that I began questioning whether I too could begin a relationship with divine art and creation. (Thesis)

It is fourteen years later, I am twenty-two years old. I anxiously pick up a stick of black cante for an assignment in my art class. I put on my headphones, the lights in the classroom dim, and I am transported from my body. I see nothing and think of nothing other than my still life --- the task at hand. My assignment is to draw a composition of dark and light textures. Composition, conture lines, cross-hatching, value; these terms once so intimidating become more than just concepts. They are all I see, all I think about.

Professor Hodges believes in me and I see the effect it has on my confidence. In fact, I learn quickly that in order to accomplish a successful drawing, I must feel confident. The room appears to be still, but it is not. Everyone in the room is moved. My fellow artists and I are inspired. We work diligently. We force ourselves to see. "Look at the lines," our professor pleads. "Do not draw what you think the figure looks like, do not draw the shape of a pear, draw what you see." This is when I realize that art is a skill. At times, a very frustrating skill. And while the room appear to be quiet, it is not. All of us are thinking. We are asking questions. We are asking ourselves, "What do I see?"

We spend hours committed to one piece and yet we are told, "Do not hold anything as precious, the moment you cannot part with a piece which you find beautiful is the moment that you stop learning." This is unlike anything that I have ever experienced. How can I compare this with anything else that I have ever done in my life? I cannot see myself or anyone for that matter, deleting the quintessential sentence of their essay. It would seem pointless and ungrateful. But, when it comes to art we are taught to understand that the source of this knowledge and beauty is not in the sentence but in the author. If once in our lives, we wrote a best seller, we are taught, at times in a seemingly harsh way, that we can accomplish it again and next time we must aim for a Pulitzer.

Because I cannot hold anything as precious, I am forced time and time again to erase my favorite parts of my drawings -- the details. To me, they are the most beautiful parts of a drawing -- I spend hours on details. The shape of an eye, the deliberate contrast in sizes of eyes. I am told, "Do not get trapped in the details," "The point is to plan your drawing and if you start with the details you might as well be drawing the plans of a house by starting with the window treatments --- it is fun but it will not yield practical or accurate results."

The art room feels different every time I walk in it -- dependent upon the previous assignment's success or failure my mood alters. I am a perfectionist by nature but when it comes to art, this quirk is very self-defeating, "The point is to take as much time as you can to revise your drawing, you must never complete the assignment," it's as if he can pick up on the stubborn nature of my thoughts by just watching the movement of my drawing hand. My hand learns faster than I do and at times, it becomes difficult to keep up.

After we have spent hours working on an individual project, putting into practice every element we have learned, we are beckoned by our Professor, "Please stand up and walk around." If anyone is like me, they are secretly hoping their drawing falls into the 'impressive drawing' bracket. I am always surprised by how I feel after this exercise. People tend to think the worst about their work. But, I have never come across any of the drawings done by any of the students in this beginning to intermediate level drawing class and experienced anything less than amusement and appreciation. "I want everyone to walk around and observe the work you see before you, I want everyone to take an element of each of these drawings -- take something that you like and use it," the softness of my professor's voice soothes me.

In a conventional classroom setting, we are told that plagiarism is not only of poor character and low intelligence but it is also punishable by strictly enforced school regulations. I have always been perplexed by this idea because of the many gray areas left unexplained. How many ideas are actually original? Who hasn't been inspired by another? The classical greek philosopher, writer, and mathematician Plato was mentored by the great Socrates and taught Aristotle who in turn taught Alexander the Great the wonders of metaphysics among other transcendental concepts. In Art, this theory is paralleled by MichelAngelo's Sistine Chapel -- a product of Botecceli's influence.


We are taught how to hold our instruments; they are no longer pencils, now they are paint brushes. Instruments become an extension of our hands, where a pencil would be held at an angle, as a foreign object, our instruments are held as an extra finger. The strokes are delicately unpretentious and with every stroke, I am humbled.


Log of Completed Activities
_X_ Oct 20-21- Intro to Paper #3: Personal Essay. (Confirmation reply required.)
_X_ Oct 26- Complete readings: all of chapter 12. (Confirmation reply required.)
_X_ Oct 28- Laulima Discussion 1: “Chimera“
_X_ Oct 30- Laulima Discussion 2: “Notes of a Native Son“
_X_ Nov 2- Laulima Discussion 3: “Under the Influence“
_L_ Nov 4- Laulima Discussion 4: “Being Brians“
_X_ Nov 6- Laulima Discussion 5: “Warring Memories“ and “Snakebit“
_X_ Nov 9M- RD3 due [50 pts] (Confirmation reply required.)
_L_ Nov 12T- RD3 Reviews due [50 pts] (No confirmation reply required.)
_X_ Nov 16M- FD3 due [125 pts] (Confirmation reply required.)

RD3

Jennifer Lett
English 273
RD3
Divine Art


Sylvia was an eight year old prodigy. Her most valued possession was a set of prisma watercolor pencils, they were carefully packaged in a white tin case. Each colored pencil was sharpened, each a different size. "Sylvia has ben dra wing sens che guas ebot forr", her mother once told me while we played in her backyard. I didn't realize it then but Sylvia, at only eight years old, opened the door for creativity, art, and personal introspection. (Thesis)

Its fourteen years later, I am twenty-two years old and I am anxiously picking up a stick of black cante for an assignment in my art class. I put on my headphones, the lights in the classroom dim, and I am transported from my body. I see nothing and think of nothing other than my still life --- the task at hand. My assignment is to draw a composition of dark and light textures. Composition, conture lines, cross-hatching, value; these terms once so intimidating become more than just concepts. They are all I see, all I think about.

My Professor believes in me and I see the effect it has on my confidence, I feel like an artist. In fact, I learn quickly that in order to accomplish a successful drawing, I must feel confident. The room appears to be still, but it is not. Everyone in the room is moved. My fellow artists and I are inspired. We work diligently. We force ourselves to see. "Look at the lines," our professor pleads. "Do not draw what you think the figure looks like, do not draw the shape of a pear, draw what you see." This is when I realize that art is a skill. At times, a very frustrating skill. And while the room appear to be quiet, it is not. All of us are thinking. We are asking questions. We are asking ourselves, "What do I see?"

We spend hours committed to one piece and yet we are told, "Do not hold anything as precious, the moment you cannot part with a piece which you find beautiful is the moment that you stop learning." This is unlike anything that i have ever experienced. How can I compare this with anything else that I have ever done in my life? I cannot see myself or anyone for that matter, deleting the quintessential sentence of their essay. It would seem pointless and ungrateful. But, when it comes to art we are taught to understand that the source of this knowledge and beauty is not in the sentence but in the author. If once in our lives, we wrote a best seller, we are taught, at times in a seemingly harsh way, that we can accomplish it again and next time we must aim for a Pulitzer.

Because I cannot hold anything as precious, I am forced time and time again to erase my favorite parts of my drawings -- the details. To me, they are the most beautiful parts of a drawing -- I spend hours on details. The shape of an eye, the deliberate contrast in sizes of eyes. I am told, "Do not get trapped in the details," "The point is to plan your drawing and if you start with the details you might as well be drawing the plans of a house by starting with the window treatments --- it is fun but it will not yield practical or accurate results."

The room feels different every time I walk in it -- dependent upon the previous assignment's success or failure my mood alters. I am a perfectionist by nature but when it comes to art, this quirk is very self-defeating, "The point is to take as much time as you can to revise your drawing, you must never complete the assignment," it's as if he can pick up on the stubborn nature of my thoughts by just watching the movement of my drawing hand. My hand learns faster than I do and at times, it becomes difficult to keep up.

After we have spent hours working on an individual project, putting into practice every element we have learned, we are beckoned by our Professor, "Please stand up and walk around," if anyone is like me, some of us are secretly hoping our drawing falls into the 'pretty good drawing' bracket. I am always surprised by how I feel after this exercise. People tend to think the worst about their work. But, I have never come across any of the drawings done by any of the students in this beginning to intermediate level drawing class and experienced anything less than the amusement and appreciation. "I want everyone to walk around and observe the work you see before you, I want everyone to take an element of each of these drawings -- take something that you like and use it."

In a conventional classroom setting, we are told that plagiarism is not only of poor character and low intelligence but it is also punishable by strictly enforced school regulations. I have always been perplexed by this idea because there are so many gray areas. How many ideas are actually original? Who hasn't been inspired by another? The classical greek philosopher, writer, and mathematician Plato was mentored by the great Socrates and taught Aristotle who in turn taught Alexander the Great the wonders of metaphysics among other transcendental concepts. Similarly, in art Botteccelli is upstaged by MichelAngelo's Sistine Chapel.


Most importantly, we are taught how to hold our instruments; they are no longer pencils, now they are paint brushes. Instruments become an extension of our hands, where a pencil would be held at an angle, as a foreign object, our instruments are held as an extra finger. The strokes are delicate and unpretentious and with every stroke we become modest people.

Mi Yeyita FD2

Mi Yeyita
Jennifer Lett
English 273-WI
19th of October, 2009
FD2-Portrait









At 5'7, Aida Izcaray de Villegas was the tallest woman in our family. She was named after an internationally acclaimed play written at the end of the 19th century. Aida's mother became enamored of a tragic love story set in Egypt and showcased in Cairo, 1871, Aida, just before giving birth to my great grandmother. I didn't always know her name. Like a lot of children who think their grandmother's name is "gran gran" or "grandma", I thought her name was "yeyita". In Spain, great grandparents are known as Yeya or Yeyo, and like all spanish terms of endearment, I added the diminutive -ita and thus, Yeyita. More precisely, my Yeyita.


I became aware shortly after my Yeyita's death that having at all had a relationship with one's great grandmother was a rarity and an honor. [Thesis] One of my favorite qualities about her was the quality of her voice; a refined tone. Always, it pacified my anxieties. As a child, I'll admit - I was inconsolable. I cried - a lot. I cried until I felt her loving and warm embrace. She would sing beautiful melodies while I wrapped her fertile arms around me, even during the last year of her life and even at the peak of her illness, her integrity was still with her. And when she died, I felt I had lost the sense of who I was. The time I had with the person who provided me the answers to so many of my inquisitive little mind's questions was ephemeral. She was gone.

She was an elegant woman, the great granddaughter of a Duchess. She never argued -- never yelled; She spoke Spanish, English, and French but she preferred to communicate with her eyes. What I remember the most about her is how much she loved my mother. "Patica, Donde estas mi amor?" she would call for my mother and I sensed how much they loved each other in the familiarity of their tones. She would worry about my mother and grandmother's relationship. She had apprehension towards her son-in-law. Her instincts were keen; my grandmother would later divorce her husband. He beat her. Once, he beat her for chatting with the mail man. Fortunately, my Yeyita always felt her duty as the Matriarch of the family was to assuage familial disputes. Always the voice of reason, Yeyita simply uttered her thoughts by virtue of those huge beautiful brown eyes seasoned with a hint of basque spice and subtlety. Everyone's bickering and quarreling would cease eventually.

Her parents were remarkably unique, they were not just Spanish, they were Basque or "Vasco". The Basque are a culturally distinct group of people in Northern Spain and France. They don't consider themselves Spanish or French, typically, they consider themselves as independent from the rest of Spain. Along with spanish, they speak a basque language with non-Indo-European origins and eat basque cuisine which is influenced by french cooking and is famous for its cider houses. Cider houses are large country restaurants with enormous barrels of cider. Her father was Basque but her mother was from Madrid. Aida was the daughter of Dona Fili Munoz de Izcaray and Don Fausto Izcaray. He was a mortgage lender by day and thespian by night. Fili, short for Felipa, happily participated in and encouraged his theatrical inventions. And soon after her parents were married, Eduardo, Moises, Armando, and finally my great grandmother Aida were born and followed in their theatrical footsteps.

Aida was a dancer. In 1928 - at only 8 years old - my great grandmother was a star performer in the Circo Teatro in Colombia. She was prodigiously skilled at the Charleston; a dance made famous in the 1920's by African-Americans living on an island near Charleston, South Carolina. "Baila Negra!," her brothers, Moises and Armando would call her to dance the Charleston with Eduardo. During their tour through Latin America, they danced alongside Alla D'Assia, a famous Russian Ballerina. Their parent's insistence on musical exposure for the family would lead her older brother, Eduardo to become a skilled pianist and famous composer.

This decade, during the "Roaring Twenties", was possibly the pinnacle of self-realization and happiness for her. I understood this first hand when in 1998, the last year we would share together, she asked my mother for one single thing -- an album, "The Roaring Twenties". Every so often, I put on her favorite song and imagine her singing in front of the mirror, complementing the lyrics with her graceful facial gestures and I am watching, "You're the cream in the my coffee, you're the lace in my shoe. You will always be my necessity, I'd be lost without you."

I can see her in my mind's eye. She is sitting at the edge of her day bed watching her novelas with her rosary dangling over her hands and long fingers. She was a devout Catholic. She prayed in the mornings before her breakfast, during lunch while she sipped on her favorite beverage Cafe con Leche, and she prayed at night, her face peaceful and gentle like the night breeze. The experience was almost as if she were in a meditative trance. She was like the stars outside of her bedroom window, at first glance they appeared to be standing still, alone in the darkness. But, the stars -- like my great grandmother are sources of guidance. They are the royal road to bliss.

I would like to think that she is still sitting there in prayer with one leg swaying back and forth crossed over the other. This tick and chocolates were her only vices. I'd like to think that she is still watching over us, protecting us. She made sure no one stayed angry, this is just who she was. My Yeyita had many opinions and I'm sure plenty of them were not always nice but, her loyalty was immeasurable and so she kept to herself the opinions she knew would hurt or injure. My mother jokes that if my Yeyita ever saw any one of her nieces, daughters, or granddaughters doing anything inappropriate, she would turn a blind eye and say, "You are perfect", "Don't listen to anyone who says otherwise!".

I have a black and white picture of her; I look at it almost every day. I framed it a year ago hoping to keep it intact for longer than it should be. I look at it and I see my sister, I see my mother, I see my grandmother, and I see myself. I see four generations when I look at her picture. My mother's eyes are her eyes. My sister's nose is her nose. My lips are her lips. My grandmother's love is her love. I met my Yeyita after life gave her diabetes, after her husband left her, and after every single last piece of jewelry was gone. I know that being her great grand-daughter is the closest I will ever come to an exceptional human being.






Log of Completed Activities

_X__ Sep 22t – Intro to paper #2: Portraits

_X__ Sep 25F- Complete readings – all of chap. 13. Optional: “Cucarachas” by Madeline Sonik

_X__ Sep 29t- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Lee and Simic.

_L__ Oct 2F- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Steinbach and Toth.

_X__ Oct 7W- Laulima Posting: Sample from Your Portrait.

_X__ Oct 12M- RD2 due [50 pts] Review the guidelines.

_X__ Oct 15T- RD2 Reviews due [50 pts] Review the guidelines.
_X__ Oct 19M- FD2 due [125 pts] Review the guidelines.

Mi Yeyita

Jennifer Lett
English 273-WI
12th of October, 2009
RD2-Portrait

At 5'7, Aida Izcaray de Villegas was the tallest woman in our family. She was named after an internationally acclaimed play written at the end of the 19th century. Aida's mother became enamored of a tragic love story set in Egypt and showcased in Cairo, 1871, Aida, just before giving birth to my great grandmother. I didn't always know her name. Like a lot of children who think their grandmother's name is "gran gran" or "grandma", I thought her name was "yeyita". In Spain, great grandparents are known as Yeya or Yeyo, and like all spanish terms of endearment, I added the diminutive -ita and thus, Yeyita. More precisely, my Yeyita.

I became aware shortly after my Yeyita's death that having at all had a relationship with one's great grandmother was a rarity and an honor. [Thesis] One of my favorite qualities about her was the quality of her voice; a refined tone. Always, it pacified my anxieties. As a child, I'll admit - I was inconsolable. I cried - a lot. I cried until I felt her loving and warm embrace. She would sing beautiful melodies while I wrapped her fertile arms around me, even during the last year of her life and even at the peak of her illness, her integrity was still with her. And when she died, I felt I had lost the sense of who I was. The time I had with the person who provided me the answers to so many of my inquisitive little mind's questions was ephemeral. She was gone.

She was an elegant woman, the great granddaughter of a Duchess. She never argued -- never yelled; She spoke Spanish, English, and French but she preferred to communicate with her eyes. What I remember the most about her is how much she loved my mother. "Patica, Donde estas mi amor?" she would call for my mother and I sensed how much they loved each other in the familiarity of their tones. She would worry about my mother and grandmother's relationship. She had apprehension towards her son-in-law. Her instincts were keen; my grandmother would later divorce her husband. He beat her. Once, he beat her for chatting with the mail man. Fortunately, my Yeyita always felt her duty as the Matriarch of the family was to assuage familial disputes. Always the voice of reason, Yeyita simply uttered her thoughts by virtue of those huge beautiful brown eyes seasoned with a hint of basque spice and subtlety. Everyone's bickering and quarreling would cease eventually.

Her parents were remarkably unique, they were not just Spanish, they were Basque or "Vasco". The Basque are a culturally distinct group of people in Northern Spain and France. They don't consider themselves Spanish or French, typically, they consider themselves as independent from the rest of Spain. Along with spanish, they speak a basque language with non-Indo-European origins and eat basque cuisine which is influenced by french cooking and is famous for its cider houses. Cider houses are large country restaurants with enormous barrels of cider. Her father was Basque but her mother was from Madrid. Aida was the daughter of Dona Fili Munoz de Izcaray and Don Fausto Izcaray. He was a mortgage lender by day and thespian by night. Fili, short for Felipa, happily participated in and encouraged his theatrical inventions. And soon after her parents were married, Eduardo, Moises, Armando, and finally my great grandmother Aida were born and followed in their theatrical footsteps.

Aida was a dancer. In 1928 - at only 8 years old - my great grandmother was a star performer in the Circo Teatro in Colombia. She was prodigiously skilled at the Charleston; a dance made famous in the 1920's by African-Americans living on an island near Charleston, South Carolina. "Baila Negra!," her brothers, Moises and Armando would call her to dance the Charleston with Eduardo. During their tour through Latin America, they danced alongside Alla D'Assia, a famous Russian Ballerina. Their parent's insistence on musical exposure for the family would lead her older brother, Eduardo to become a skilled pianist and famous composer.

This decade, during the "Roaring Twenties", was possibly the pinnacle of self-realization and happiness for her. I understood this first hand when in 1998, the last year we would share together, she asked my mother for one single thing -- an album, "The Roaring Twenties". Every so often, I put on her favorite song and imagine her singing in front of the mirror, complementing the lyrics with her graceful facial gestures and I am watching, "You're the cream in the my coffee, you're the lace in my shoe. You will always be my necessity, I'd be lost without you."

I can see her in my mind's eye. She is sitting at the edge of her day bed watching her novelas with her rosary dangling over her hands and long fingers. She was a devout Catholic. She prayed in the mornings before her breakfast, during lunch while she sipped on her favorite beverage Cafe con Leche, and she prayed at night, her face peaceful and gentle like the night breeze. The experience was almost as if she were in a meditative trance. She was like the stars outside of her bedroom window, at first glance they appeared to be standing still, alone in the darkness. But, the stars -- like my great grandmother are sources of guidance. They are the royal road to bliss.

I would like to think that she is still sitting there in prayer with one leg swaying back and forth crossed over the other. This tick and chocolates were her only vices. I'd like to think that she is still watching over us, protecting us. She made sure no one stayed angry, this is just who she was. My Yeyita had many opinions and I'm sure plenty of them were not always nice but, her loyalty was immeasurable and so she kept to herself the opinions she knew would hurt or injure. My mother jokes that if my Yeyita ever saw any one of her nieces, daughters, or granddaughters doing anything inappropriate, she would turn a blind eye and say, "You are perfect", "Don't listen to anyone who says otherwise!".

I have a black and white picture of her; I look at it almost every day. I framed it a year ago hoping to keep it intact for longer than it should be. I look at it and I see my sister, I see my mother, I see my grandmother, and I see myself. I see four generations when I look at her picture. My mother's eyes are her eyes. My sister's nose is her nose. My lips are her lips. My grandmother's love is her love. I met my Yeyita after life gave her diabetes, after her husband left her, and after every single last piece of jewelry was gone. I know that being her great grand-daughter is the closest I will ever come to an exceptional human being.

Gate B26

Jennifer Lett

September 21, 2009

FD1

 

"Gate B26"

   When I was in India, I loved India, but I do not wish to recite the wonders of the Taj Mahal, or Gwalior, or Delhi. When I was in Venezuela, I also loved Venezuela, but I don't want to talk about Caracas, or Angel Falls, or Margarita Island. [Thesis] I know the truth is that self-discovery can find you in an Airport. [Thesis] There is no greater place for a heart seeking to wander nor is there a more ideal place for a person to find freedom. The exact location of the place that changed me, a place where everything converged in a boisterous thwack! of humanity, was Gate B26. 

The smell of the airport is always familiar; stale black coffee permeates the air. Every starbucks coffee cup I happen upon amuses me, how much energy could a person need to sit for 3-9 hours in the same position? Every airport terminal feels different and yet the same. Its as if your body adjusts faster to the time change when during check-in, you run into your old friend, Mr. "This Airline is incompetent! Do you have any idea who I am?!" And every now and then, you can catch someone glaring at you in the most peculiar of ways. There, at Gate B26, a pair of eyes connected with mine - the bluest of eyes. Its strange, you'll notice, that in an Airport Terminal when someone stares for a little too long, the feeling isn't always of physical attraction as much as it is purposeful curiosity. Those pair of eyes are wondering, "Where are you from? Is there something that I have to learn from you? Do you speak English?" 

Before I could wash off the outside world's figurative residue, I  would first have to make a practical run to the bathroom - stretching the savory final moments that I had to relax before it was time to board and my journey would begin its descent. I walked into that dark bathroom and realized how pleased I was at the thought of the automatic toilet seat covers. Airport bathrooms are always clean, ready for us when we get there - even if we're an ungrateful part of that process. While in the stall, I reflected on how happy I was feeling, completely opposite to the feeling I experienced in the outside world where anxiousness had become a monotonous reaction to trivialities. 

As everyone waited at Gate B26- hoping we hadn't missed our flight, I looked around me to see what class of humanity I had to learn from. I asked myself questions like, "Is this person sitting next to me Spanish? He looks Spanish." To my curiosity's satisfaction, moments later, the most pronounced Cuban accent exploded from this man's skinny mouth. I learned quickly to be careful what I wish for. For the next twenty minutes, my ears were forced to endure a rendition of Castro's assumption to Power in Cuba. I learned that "Castro" comes from the greek "Castrum" - A roman military camp. "I'm glad I learned that useful piece of information," I thought to myself and I was. 

It didn't take long for this man to lose interest in his own conversation and look over his shoulder to discover whose pair of hungry eyes were listening for any left overs. "It is I," my eyes proclaimed with confidence. "If he asks, I'll just tell him the truth, my dad is Cuban and my interest in your conversation was purely based on that correlation, please excuse my impolite staring." No doubt, it would most likely come out with stuttering and stammering. He reminded me of my father. Not physically - at first. I hadn't seen my father in 14 years. He and my mother split up when I was two. But, I noticed that my body recognized him because the impulse to cry was almost unbearable. 

I imagined that the stranger was my father and immediately, I slumped in my chair and worried that I wasn't dressed appropriately, "My pants are too frayed and my hair is undone," I berated myself. I literally began to feel myself dumbing down. I quickly listed all of the books that I had read in college and tried to remember my scholastic achievements in case he might ask.

After this defensive reaction of mine ceased, I relaxed and I reciprocated his eye's kindness. I felt my posture begin to take shape again. Yet, I couldn't bear to think of myself as being that hopeless and weak so I clumsily ran into the dark bathroom. At first, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I drifted back in time. As a child, I used to avoid mirrors, always preferring to use the side mirror in a car in lieu of the one above me. Only laughter was able to snap me out of my daze - two young girls giggling at each other for whatever reason young girls giggle. I forgot what I was doing, I laughed along with them and I unintentionally looked up in the mirror as I softly sang, "When you forgive your imperfections and you've auctioned all your clothes, and look to see your true reflection. You will be the one who loves you the most"1

I found my face.  It was beautiful. No flaws to be found. Only a pair of beautiful eyes. I walked a proud walk back to my seat. I remembered my love of music and words and my ability to hear what so many others could not. As I settled comfortably back into my seat beside the man with the skinny lips I offered him a smile. "Boarding will begin now. Passengers, please board the plane." Slightly conflicted, I reluctantly gathered my things and anxiously made my way to the end of the line. With my heart pounding, my eyes searched for the stranger who reminded me so much of my father, but I never saw him again,"How strange and possibly cruel of fate. I thought that I had already left that place of wanting." Then I remembered the wish I wished the day I bought my plane ticket, "Make me a stronger person," I said to life.  

People leave their homes to go to places like the Middle East and South America or Europe because they are hoping to fall in love with themselves; to love who they are or to become who they love. But I believe there are thousands of avenues and hundreds of instances through which we can experience growth. It happened for me, at Gate B26.

   

1. Song lyric by Brett Dennen "You will be the one who loves you the most"

 

 "He who travels in search of something which he has not got, travels away from himself and grows old even in youth among old things.  Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"  

   

   Log of Completed Activities

X_Aug 24M- First Day of Instruction. Log in to our class blog, our Laulima discussion forum, and your hawaii.edu mailbox. Become familiar with these instructional media. Carefully review the information in our class blog, especially the schedule and catalog.
_X_Aug 25t- Intro to Paper #1. Read the “Guidelines for Paper #1″ by midnight, Aug 25.
_X__Aug 26W- Laulima Discussion: Who Am I? Post your response by midnight, Aug 26. [5 pts]
_X_Aug 31M- Complete readings for Paper #1 [5 pts]
_L__Sep 1-4- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Ehrlich and Legler. [10 pts]
Sep 7M- HOLIDAY: LABOR DAY
_X_Sep 8-11- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Gilb and Whitehead. [10 pts]
_X__Sep 14M- Review Draft #1 (RD1) due [50 pts]
_X__Sep 17T- RD1 Evaluations due [20 pts]
_X__Sep 21M- Final Draft #1 (FD1) due [100 pts]

"Gate B26"

Jennifer Lett

14 September 2009

RD1

                         "Gate B26"

   When I was in India, I loved India, but I do not wish to recite the wonders of the Taj Mahal, or Gwalior, or Delhi. When I was in Venezuela, I also loved Venezuela, but I don't want to talk about Caracas, or Angel Falls, or Margarita Island. I know the truth is that self-discovery can find you in an Airport. There is no greater place for a heart seeking to wander nor is there a more ideal place for a person to find freedom. The exact location of the place that changed me, a place where everything converged in a boisterous thwack! of humanity, was Gate B26. 

The smell of the airport is always familiar. Every airport terminal feels different and yet the same. Its as if your body adjusts faster to the time change when during check-in, you run into your old friend, Mr. "This Airline is incompetent! Do you have any idea who I am?!" And every now and then, you can catch someone glaring at you in the most peculiar of ways. There, at Gate B26, a pair of eyes connected with mine - the bluest of eyes. Its strange, you'll notice, that in an Airport Terminal when someone stares for a little too long, the feeling isn't always of physical attraction as much as it is purposeful curiosity. Those pair of eyes are wondering, "Where are you from? Is there something that I have to learn from you? Do you speak English?" 

Before I could wash off the outside world's figurative residue, I  would first have to make a practical run to the bathroom - stretching the savory final moments that I had to relax before it was time to board and my journey would begin its descent. I walked into that dark bathroom and realized how pleased I was at the thought of the automatic toilet seat covers. Airport bathrooms are always clean, ready for us when we get there - even if we're an ungrateful part of that process. While in the stall, I reflected on how happy I was feeling, completely opposite to the feeling I experienced in the outside world where anxiousness had become a monotonous reaction to trivialities. 

As everyone waited at Gate B26- hoping we hadn't missed our flight, I looked around me to see what class of humanity I had to learn from. I asked myself questions like, "Is this person sitting next to me Spanish? He looks Spanish." To my curiosity's satisfaction, moments later, the most pronounced Cuban accent exploded from this man's skinny mouth. I learned quickly to be careful what I wish for. For the next twenty minutes, my ears were forced to endure a rendition of Castro's assumption to Power in Cuba. I learned that "Castro" comes from the greek "Castrum" - A roman military camp. "I'm glad I learned that useful piece of information," I thought to myself and I was. 

It didn't take long for this man to lose interest in his own conversation and look over his shoulder to discover whose pair of hungry eyes were listening for any left overs. "It is I," my eyes proclaimed with confidence. "If he asks, I'll just tell him the truth, my dad is Cuban and my interest in your conversation was purely based on that correlation, please excuse my impolite staring." No doubt, it would most likely come out with stuttering and stammering. He reminded me of my father. Not physically - at first. I hadn't seen my father in 14 years. He and my mother split up when I was two. But, I noticed that my body recognized him because the impulse to cry was almost unbearable. 

I imagined that the stranger was my father and immediately, I slumped in my chair and worried that I wasn't dressed appropriately, "My pants are too frayed and my hair is undone," I berated myself. I literally began to feel myself dumbing down. I quickly listed all of the books that I had read in college and tried to remember my scholastic achievements in case he might ask.

After this defensive reaction of mine ceased, I relaxed and I reciprocated his eye's kindness. I felt my posture begin to take shape again. Yet, I couldn't bear to think of myself as being that hopeless and weak so I clumsily ran into the dark bathroom. At first, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I drifted back in time. As a child, I used to avoid mirrors, always preferring to use the side mirror in a car in lieu of the one above me. Only laughter was able to snap me out of my daze - two young girls giggling at each other for whatever reason young girls giggle. I forgot what I was doing, I laughed along with them and I unintentionally looked up in the mirror as I softly sang, "When you forgive your imperfections and you've auctioned all your clothes, and look to see your true reflection. You will be the one who loves you the most"1

I found my face.  It was beautiful. No flaws to be found. Perfect skin. Beautiful hair. Beautiful Eyes. I walked a proud walk back to my seat. I remembered my love of music and words and my ability to hear what so many others could not. I thought of my darling husband who I still loved just the same as the day we were married. As I settled comfortably back into my seat beside the man with the skinny lips I offered him a smile.  "How strange and possibly cruel of fate,"  I  capriciously thought to myself. I thought that I had already left that place of wanting. Then I remembered the wish I wished the day I bought my plane ticket, "Make me a stronger person," I said to life.  

People leave their homes to go to places like the Middle East and South America or Europe because they are hoping to fall in love with themselves; to love who they are or to become who they love. But I believe there are thousands of avenues and hundreds of instances through which we can experience growth. It happened for me, at Gate B26.  

   

      

 

1. Song lyric by Brett Dennen "You will be the one who loves you the most"

 

 "He who travels in search of something which he has not got, travels away from himself and grows old even in youth among old things.  Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"  

Please click on the link below to watch the song performed by Brett Dennen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7qD6RZObvk