Dana Edwards  09/26/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

My Most Memorable Encounter with a Machine

When I was quite young, I had a different perspective on eating than I do now. I used to look at food as not just for my mouth, but also for my face, my clothing, the birds, and all of nature. I was so keen on sharing my food with my surroundings that I was placed outside on the porch to eat for the first few years of my life. Often I was hosed down after meals because I had smeared food all over my body. Although that sounds like just a gross thing that a baby would do, I actually believed that other parts of my body required nourishment. I figured that if my bellybutton or my ears didn’t get anything to eat, than they would go hungry. I also would never go through a meal without throwing some food around for the raccoons, deer, squirrels and birds.

One day, when my parents were out and I was left at home with my babysitter, I decided to go exploring. I found many new things, but the one that caught my interest was a big silver box with a rectangular flap that would open and close if you pushed it. It was a curious device, and I had no idea of its purpose. However, after examining it, I concluded that it must be hungry, because no one had been feeding it. So, I fed it my peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I had been given for lunch, because although I was hungry, I understood that it needed the food more than I did. I opened its mouth, and shoved the whole sandwich inside. I was sure that the box would appreciate my contribution.

I was satisfied with my gift of food to the mysterious silver box, but when my parents came home, they had a different reaction. At first, they were surprised to find a peanut butter and jelly sandwich inside the VCR, but they soon got angry and told me that it wasn’t OK to put sandwiches inside things. I tried to explain to them that it was hungry, that nobody had been feeding it, but they simply wouldn’t listen. I thought they were cold and heartless, neglecting the needs of the big silver box. I often miss thinking with extreme naivety as I did when I was two years old, when ideas that seem completely ridiculous to me now were commonplace.

Dana Edwards    09/04/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

My Worst Experience in a Confined Space

As youngsters, my sister and I would play games often. One of our favorite games was called jumpity-jump. It was one of many activities in which we involved the giant cushions in our living room. These cushions were enormous. They were probably about four by four feet and maybe a foot thick, and as a four year old they seemed colossal. Basically, we would stack all eight of the cushions on top of one another to form a giant, unstable tower. We would gather small pillows from our bedrooms to line the floor in front of the tower, in order to provide for a safe landing. Then, one of us would begin to ascend as the other held the swaying mass of cushions for stability. Occasionally, it would topple during the climb to its peak, but usually we would make it to the top. There we would usually spend some time sitting at the top, just staring at the looming floor below us. Finally, after gathering up enough courage, we would leap into the air and plummet into the soft heap of pillows awaiting us on the ground. It was definitely one of our most exciting activities, and after jumping a few times, we would run around the house yelling, “jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump” out of sheer joy.

However, as much as my sister and I loved each other and enjoyed playing games together, we would occasionally get into tiffs, and, to tell the truth, they were most always started by her. My sister would often take advantage of my being the younger, more ignorant sibling, and do something along the lines of steal a piece of candy that I had been given, one that she had also received. Most of the time, I was too young and unknowledgeable of the workings of life to understand what had happened, but occasionally I would catch on and realize that she had just stolen my candy. If this happened, I would be rightfully upset and demand it back. She would never comply, and that is how the great majority of our fights were started. 

I remember on one such occasion, after playing jumpity-jump, my sister took something of mine (I cannot recall exactly what), and we began to get in a physical fight. Most of the damage that I inflicted upon her was grabbing one of her legs and running while holding it, forcing her to hop at high speed along with me, whilst she had a variety of attack methods up her sleeve. She would hit me, pull my hair, pinch me with her nails, kick me, hold me down with her legs and repeatedly poke me in the chest plate, and so on. But on this day, she took it a step further. We were both pretty worked up, and she decided to grab one of the big cushions from the living room and put it on top of me as I was lying on the ground. She sat on the pillow on top of my head, as I panicked and struggled to breathe. I yelled and yelled, and she began to jump on top of me as I lied there helpless. It took a while for her to realize she had gone to far, and that I really was scared to death and suffocating. She released me, and I cried for a long time. It was my first and still worst encounter with claustrophobia.

Dana Edwards 01/04/06

Holiday Realization

It was another warm day in Mexico. The air was moist, but not steamy. Perfectly comfortable. It smelt of ocean, since I was staying roughly thirty feet from the beach, as the crow flies. Which is about eighty feet, as the Dana walks. Yes, even traversing that short distance was quite the expedition. To accomplish such a feat, you first had to prepare yourself and gather the necessary supplies for the journey to the water: Change in to swimsuit; oh no, swimsuit is wet, better wait until it dries. One hour later: change in to swimsuit, get a towel, obtain sunscreen, wake sister, wait for sister to get ready, head for the door, “Dana, make sure you wear sunscreen”, “okay mom”, what’s that scrumptious smell, “dad are you making quesadillas?”, eat quesadillas… 

Next, you had to embark on the excursion: walk outside, shade eyes from sunlight and stand for a while, allowing pupils to make the proper adjustments, walk down six steps, rest, reach bottom of the staircase, observe the path and mentally prepare, walk towards the gate, “whoah, look at all those seagulls”, think to self, I wonder how you say seagull in Spanish? It’s probably seagullito, or seagullita, depending on its sex. Yeah, that sounds right. Open the gate, step in to sandyness, lay towel on the ground, make a sand pillow under the towel to rest head on, collapse. Oops, forgot the sunscreen. No, I’ve come too far; my skin’s just going to have to take one for the team. 

With the hard part out of the way, it was all chillin. Relax on the towel, catch some rays, maybe flip over now and then. Swimming occasionally occurred, provided there was ample stamina. The water rejuvenates all. Splishy splash. Play in the waves with newfound vitality, careful to avoid slimy rays. Feel like gooey slithering thingies under the toes. Good thing they’re not stingrays. Or maybe they are, just really nice stingrays, or ones whose stingers are temporarily broken, or retarded stingrays. Perhaps I was a ray in a previous existence, and therefore they sense that I am friend, not foe. Spare me of the stinger, little one; I was once one of you. I know the hardships of stingray life. Living in the warm water, burying oneself in sand now and then, and swimming around, rather flapping around like an undersea bird. Hey wait; rays are the birds of the ocean. Yes, that’s it. 

Okay, so in the ocean, if rays are the birds, than who are the monkeys? Probably sea monkeys. No, but those are really small, and they don’t exhibit any monkey-like characteristics. Cats would definitely be catfish, because of the whiskers, and they must chase some sort of sea mouse. Okay, so who are the sharks of the ocean? Wait, sharks live in the ocean. Never mind. Who is the Wil Weaver of the ocean? Oh that’s easy, a lobster. But here’s the real question, who am I in the ocean? Who is my water dwelling counterpart? Is he some sort of eel, like a spotted eel? No, of course, he must be a merman. He lives in a tranquil sea cave, with a beautiful mermaid wife, Natalia, and two little mer-children, Juniper and William. He swims to far away places in the ocean, seeking adventure, but always returns home to be with his family. He relaxes on his balcony, and listens to the whales as they sing into the abyss.  And he thinks to himself, this is the life; there is nowhere I’d rather be than here in my serene sea cave, chillin with my lovely Natalia, and my little kidlings, Juniper and William.

Such is a peak of inside the mind of Dana during break. Although somewhat fictional and exaggerated, it is a good example of Dana’s mind and body in its most relaxed state. He is in vacation-mode, closely related to summer-mode. His body runs at a turtle pace, and his mind goes in to a dreamy state. Thoughts are slow, drawn out and vivid, like daydreams. He is reflective, and at times deep and philosophical. Sometimes his mind acts as two people, talking to one another and such. He is ultra-lazy. Staying in a warm climate by the beach, as took place last winter break, just adds to the sloth-factor. Sloths, by the way, are my new favorite type of animal. They are friendly, slow-paced, and lazy. So lazy, in fact, that they are one of the seven deadly sins. How could a sloth be deadly? They are cute leaf-eating tree dwellers, who move at one mile per hour, when they’re in a hurry. Their reaction time is the slowest of any mammal, five times longer than a human’s. Sloths are my idle idols.

Right now, I am somewhere in between vacation-mode and school-mode, my dreaded, more astute state of existence with alarms, commitments, homework, teachers, formal dinners… Oh what am I whining about? I have it made. I got in the car this morning, an awesome white 1982 Volvo station wagon, and drove on 101 along the beautiful Santa Barbara Coastline. I stepped out into a stunning school atop a mesa, overlooking the ocean. The school happens to be an excellent one, and enrolled are nice students: mostly great people, whom I feel comfortable and friendly around. The teachers are top-notch, for the most part, and they also happen to be interesting, kind people. I ate a waffle in the dining hall and went to my classes, which, despite viewing the grade on my last math test, were enjoyable and enriching. I finished the ‘academic day’, biked down to the parking lot behind the pool, hopped into the JV surf van with such characters as Wilcox and Neddo, listened to some tunes, paddled out into the surf, and even caught a wave or two, despite the crowds and the discouragement of getting caught inside during the biggest set of the day. I got back to school, showered, dressed up and went to watch some Cate alumni play blues songs. Pretty good music too. As I walked up to the dining hall with the stampede of students and faculty, I was caught for a formal dress-up infraction. I have to learn how to tie a tie. My first detention ever, I might add. Dinner was nice, despite the Robins table’s sad attempts at hushing the crowd. I socialized with friends, hopped back in the Volvo, winded down the Cate hill, back along the beautiful highway, back to my humble abode, with mother, father, doggie, snake, and sister, whom I love and care for greatly, and began writing this. 

So, I guess there is something this jumble of an essay is alluding to. I came to a realization; it became clear to me as it does from time to time, that life is good. It really is. Sometimes I forget this. It took some time away, a drastic change of pace, a good deal of thinking, a lot of lazing about, and some observation for this basic yet essential philosophy to register in my mind, and I hope it will remain.

Dana Edwards 10/02/06

English 10- Mr. Robins

An Intense Regret

Up until the age of seven, when my family departed on our sailing voyage, I had three best friends. We would spend all our time together, and often sleep over at each other’s houses. We four were inseparable; Tyler, Jeffrey, Shajee, and I.

I met Tyler in preschool. We were a quite mischievous pair. While all the kids were inside, listening to our teacher read a story aloud or singing, “I’’m a little teapot”, Tyler and I would scheme. One day, we decided to make a trap to catch girls in. We dug a whole in the ground near the playset, perhaps a foot deep. But the plan hadn’t been thoroughly thought through, because we needed something to cover the top of the whole with, so it would be a hidden trap. We walked up to our teacher, and asked, as innocently as possible, if we could have a cloth of some sort. She knew we were up to something, and refused to provide the cloth. We moved on, and I suggested to use my shirt to cover the whole. It worked out perfectly; the shirt covered the trap, and we sprinkled dirt on the top of it, making it all the more discreet. We waited all day for a girl to step in the whole, but no such luck. The next day, our trap was still there, and we used a new strategy, luring the girls towards the trap. Now, you must understand that we were at the age of cooties, and getting a member of the opposite sex to do your bidding was unheard of. However, we were smart, and figured out what to do. We started a game where you would run from one point to another, right over the hidden trap, Tyler and I would simply jump over the whole as we passed it. Eventually, a girl snagged her ankle inside the trap, and we ran off, extremely satisfied with ourselves. Those were the kinds of things Tyler and I enjoyed doing. 

When Tyler and I entered the first grade, we met Jeffrey and Shajee. They were both just as smart as Tyler and I were, and together we dominated our first grade class. While everyone was learning simple addition, we were on to subtraction with borrowing, and multiplication. There was a period during the day when you had the option of either reading or writing. We always chose writing, and every day added on to a series of stories we would write together. The series was called Beezy. He was an adventurous Beaver, who would go on journeys to places afar, including Tibet, Antarctica, and outer space, yet still be home by night to sleep in his dam.

Sometimes we would go over to Jeffrey’s house, and play Legos or watch Pokemon. Other times we would stay at my house, and make concoctions out of everything in the fridge; milk, sugar, soy sauce, chocolate, broccoli, and then dare each other to drink it. Or we would build a maze and put my pet rabbit through it, and when she couldn’t find a way out, she would ram her way out. Other times it was to Tyler’s house where we would make giant castles out of blocks, and then get those little windup toy cars to crash into it, and make it fall. At Shajee’s house, usually all we would do was eat the yummy Middle Eastern food that his mother cooked.

The times I spent with Tyler, Jeffrey, and Shajee are the happiest memories of that period of my life. We really enjoyed hanging out with each other, with no disregard for rules, doing whatever we pleased. When I left on my boat, I was extremely sad to leave my three best friends, but I assured them I would be back soon. That wasn’t exactly true. I came back five years later, to find my friends different people, not the happy kids I knew in first grade. I suppose that’s one of the sacrifices my family had to make in leaving society for so long.

Over the period I had been gone, I had changed greatly. I was given a unique perspective of the world that most children never get. Living on a sailboat, traveling the Pacific, experiencing different cultures and peoples, formed my values. It was weird going back in to seventh grade with my old buddies. We weren’t close like we were before. Tyler had gotten really big, and he stopped hanging out with Jeffrey and Shajee. Jeffrey had become completely focused on doing well at school, and didn’t even spend time with friends. We had gone our separate ways. 

Since my family moved down to Santa Barbara, I haven’t talked with them once. If there is one thing I regret more than any other, it is losing those incredibly close friendships.

Dana Edwards 02/15/07

English 10- Mr. Robins

Mooloolaba

Mooloolaba is a town on the Sunshine Coast of Queensland, where I lived for almost a year. Our boat was docked in the town’s marina, and during our stay I attended a nearby school. The Australian school system is, shall we say, not up to American standards, so despite my being only ten years old in a seventh grade class full of twelve and thirteen-year-olds, I went through the course with ease and was rarely challenged. My time in Mooloolaba, therefore, was not spent on schoolwork; instead with the array of local friends I had made. Not to brag, but I was a pretty popular guy. I attribute this, not to my personality, but to my being a foreigner. My American accent, though faded and distorted from four years at sea, never ceased to fascinate the Australian girls, who insistently urged me to speak, and would in turn giggle at my apparently absurd parlance. Funny, because I thought the same of their manner of speaking. 

Honestly though, an Australian accent is much more obscure than a Californian one. Yes, it is all about perspective, however if you take a neutral, unbiased party to compare the speeches of an Australian and a Californian, the Australian’s would most definitely be deemed weirder. They unfailingly greet each other with “g’day mate”. That is enough in itself. I mean, who says “g’day mate”? That’s ridiculous. In addition, Australians are obsessed with abbreviating words by subtracting the final syllables and adding a “y” sound. For instance, they would never go have a shrimp barbecue and watch football on television. Instead, they would “throw some shrimpies on the barby and watch footy on the tely”. What’s up with that? It sounds like baby talk. Also, they have weird rhyming slang that makes no logical sense. For instance, instead of saying, “let’s hit the road”, they would say “let’s hit the frog and toad”. Why? The reason is not apparent to me. Let it suffice to say that Australians are an odd folk; I love them, but they’re quite bizarre.

So, one day I was cruising through the town with my Australian pals, one of our chief pastimes. More specifically, we would cruise from hotel to hotel, “pool hopping” as we called it. Mooloolaba was a happening place, and its most desirable beach strip was lined with hotels and inhabited by tourists, whom I did not associate myself with. I was a local, just like my Aussie buds. We felt compelled to take advantage of the facilities of the high-class hotels that were capitalizing our little town of Mooloolaba. There was somewhat of a routine to it. One of us would walk through the front doors and scope out the situation. If there was a clear route to the pool and hot tub, the scout would give us a signal, and we would all run through the doors and out to the pool. It worked most of the time, and we came to know secret ways into the facilities of most of the hotels. 

However, this particular day, I was caught in the act. While running through the main lobby of a particularly fancy establishment, I was grabbed by the arm. Terrified, I looked up at a huge, buff, bald, hotel worker. He said angrily, “What are you willie wollies doing, messing around in here”? I couldn’t think of a particularly good response, so I somehow slipped out of the man’s grasp and bolted. The man continued to chase after me, but after a while he gave up and I continued on. As I was leaving, he shouted to me, “Don’t come back here, you wanker!” 

I collapsed laughing. A man had just called me a wanker. Although I was getting accustomed to Australian society and was even picking up a strong accent (despite what my Aussie friends would say), my American heritage would not allow me to hear something such as that and not think twice. It was unbelievably funny, a reminder of how far away from home I really was.

Dana Edwards 09/01/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

My Most valued personal Object

I do not have any singular item to which I would call my most valued object. Rather, I have an evergrowing collection of items which I do value very much, probably more than anything else in my possession. They are my photographs. I love everything about photography. The process of taking pictures; figuring out the composition of the shot, the camera itself, developing the film, and finally seeing the final products, the photos. My father was the person who first struck my interest in the field of photography. He  has been a photographer for all his life, only shooting slide film. I decided that that was how I would begin, with slide film. One of the reasons I use slide film is that a slide is actually the developed positive of the film. It is not an enlargement or duplication or a print, it is the actual piece of film that was exposed to light through the shutter of the camera as I held it in my hands. Wherever I have traveled to with my camera, the film has been with. It, in a way has experienced the same sights that I have, if only for a 120th or 250th of a second. The film is a real artifact of the places I have visited. So, when I go to a new place, I usually do not feel inclined to purchase a souvenir, because I have the film from my camera that captured the brief, beautiful moments of my experiences.

Dana Edwards 01/15/07

English 10-Mr. Robins

Writing about Nine Stories: Comparison and Contrast (revised)

Throughout J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories, relationships between children and parents are evident. Those between mother and child struck me as specifically interesting. The stories, Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut and Down at the Dinghy had particularly remarkable examples of the different ways a mother can parent a child.

Eloise, the mother of Ramona, is a totally unsupportive and tactless parent. She does not realize the care and thoughtfulness that should be put in to mothering a child. For instance, she scolds Ramona and makes fun of her for having an imaginary friend. She doesn’t understand that Ramona resorts to non-existent playmates only because she has not other children to play with, being an only child and living in a neighborhood with no other kids. She neglected her child’s need to play, that which is so important in the development of a child. At the end of the story, she walks in to Ramona’s room to find her sleeping on the edge of her bed. Ramona tells her she is doing so in order that she won’t roll on top of her imaginary friend, Mickey Mickerrano. Instead of allowing her to continue sleeping that way, Eloise forces her to sleep in the middle of the bed, yelling that Mickey does not exist. Ramona was simply being a child, one who happened to be deprived of social interactions and resorting to her imagination for companionship. Eloise later is very upset by her actions. She tries to console herself, pleading with Mary Jane that she was once a nice girl. Eloise was simply unfit to be a mother. However, I do not believe that hope is lost for her. She at least recognizes what an abusive, immature drunkard she has become. Acceptance is the first step to change; so, having realized and accepted what a monster she was, she was on her way to becoming a more stable person, but more importantly, a better parent.

On the other hand, Boo Boo is a much better parent. She manages to be kind and loving, while instilling values and discipline into her child. When she walks down to the wharf to find her son in the dinghy, she plays along with his games. She does not ostracize herself from her child, as Eloise does, and instead treats him in a friendly manner and plays along with his imagination. Her tactfulness in teaching her child is quite evident. In particular, when he throws the mask into the water, Boo Boo shows that it is wrong by threatening to throw the keys in the water when he asks for them. That showed him that one shouldn’t do things that one wouldn’t like done to oneself. At viewing the simple act, the child immediately understood the message his mother was trying to convey to him. Finally, at the end of Down at the Dinghy, the child admits what had been upsetting him, obviously comfortable enough around his mother to allow his inner feelings and thoughts to shine through.

As is apparent in these two stories, a mother can act in many ways as a parent. In order to be successful as a mother, she must be mature and self-confident and treat her child with kindness and respect, while still acknowledging his childishness, imagination and naivety.

Dana Edwards 02/21/07

English 10-Mr. Robins

Of Mice and Men

The first page of Of Mice and Men sets the scene for an interesting story, a tale of two men, two traveling laborers in California. There are, perhaps, several messages Steinbeck tries to convey throughout the book, several themes. First, I believe he attempts to display the rugged lives of the workers. Perhaps the novel was a call to attention of the tough circumstances the laborers in the Central Valley endure. However, I think there is another theme in the story. There are quite interesting relationships throughout Of Mice and Men, and Steinbeck does an excellent job of showing some of the ways different personalities can interact with one another. The most obvious relationship is that between Lenny and George, the two main characters of the story, and the two men described emerging into the tranquil scene by the river described on the first page. Lenny is big and mentally slow. George, more astute, feels responsible for his large companion, and begrudgingly takes care of him. He knows that Lenny would not be able to function on his own, so he takes it upon himself to look after the guy, but complains often of what a burden he is. However, I think that their relationship is not quite as parasitic as it seems. George needs Lenny, even though he regularly states his desire for being alone. Their companionship is mutual.

Those are, I believe, some of the themes of the story. In addition, I think there is further meaning conveyed within the passages on the first and 99th pages of the novel. They are both descriptions of the same natural site, a beautiful, deep green pool by the Salinas River, in the late afternoon. However, there are evident differences between the two scenes. On the first page, the site begins tranquil and undisturbed. Steinbeck excessively describes the beautiful intricacies of the peaceful site, the birds, trees, mountains, and rabbits. At the end of the passage, the two men trudge into the scene, briefly upsetting the peace, causing the animals to run and hide. 

In the passage at the end of the book, the scene remains tranquil. It is still the same place, but a different side of the natural beauty is shown. Steinbeck describes a water snake gliding in the pool, which is eaten by a heron. The very same heron, perhaps, as was described in the passage on the first page of the book. In describing such, Steinbeck was showing another facet of the serene pool and surrounding natural life. He does not judge; he simply shows that there are many aspects of the scene. The heron that was described “pounding” down river, eats a snake in the latter passage of the book. Similarly, a wind is described in the second passage that does not exist in the first. There are no rabbits in the latter passage, recounted as “little gray, sculptured stones” in the first. In the concluding passage, Steinbeck could have chosen to display similar features of the animals and site, yet he chose to expand upon alternative perspectives. I believe he consciously emphasized the subtle differences in nature between the two passages. 

In addition to the different side of the tranquil site shown on the 99th page of the novel, a different side of the humans who approach the pool is similarly portrayed. Just as the once calm water is later shown with tiny wind waves, and the flying heron is later shown swallowing a bird, the once human Lenny is later described as an animal. On the first page, it simply states that “two men emerged from the path…”. The key word is “men”. Steinbeck, although not going into any form of detail about them, states that they are human. On page 99, Lenny is introduced as a creeping bear. He slowly and quietly makes his way to the water to drink, as does a vigilant animal. He kneels down to the water and drinks, not with his hands, as you would expect a human to, but rather he places his lips directly on the surface of the pool. When a little bird “skittered” behind him, he quickly jerked up his head to look, and strained to see if there was danger near, but eventually dropped his head and drank again. When he finishes drinking, he turns so that he can watch the trail’s entrance, to spot potential predators. He is acting in total survival mode, as do animals in the wild. 

As is evident, there are different sides to both the site of the pool and Lenny displayed in the passages on the first and 99th pages of the book. A perhaps more violent side of the nature is shown in the second, with the heron eating the snake, and the wind picking up and disturbing the calm surface of the pool. Similarly, a more primitive side of Lenny is shown, one where he acts as an animal. This contrast between alternate views of the same subjects is, I believe, the most significant of all the themes of Of Mice and Men.

Dana Edwards 10/06/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

Phoebe

Historically, humans and dogs have had a unique relationship. Dogs have been called, “a man’s best friend”, and for good reason. An amazing friendship exists between the two species. Some have attributed this to our long existence together. Since humans and dogs have lived with one another for millions of years, we have evolved together, forming a mutual symbiotic relationship. 

I am no doubt subject to this special relationship, because I truly enjoy dogs, as do my father and sister. Unfortunately for us, my mother is not as much of a dog lover. We have always begged her to allow us to have one, but she would never comply. Not owning a dog, in fact, only increased my love for them, and I treasured the occasional encounters with friends’ dogs. Yet we always wanted to have our own pet dog, although the possibility of that happening seemed slim.

However, to the great happiness of Rachael and me, my dad loves dogs possibly even more than we do. He decided to take it upon himself to let my sister and me experience one, just as he had throughout his childhood. This important decision took place in the summer of 2004.

It was nearing late July, the time of my birthday, and my mother was away sailing our boat from Hawaii to San Francisco. My father is known to make rash decisions when being the only parent present. He told us one day that we were quickly going to get a dog while our mother was still gone. We were unbelievably happy. Years we had spent waiting for that day, and even after living so for so long on our sailboat, the prospect of getting a dog had not faded from our minds.

We decided to adopt from a pound, because there were so many unwanted puppies there, and we felt it was the best thing to do. We didn’t spend long looking through the mass of imprisoned dogs, barking and howling, because one caught our eye early one. She was a brilliant brindle color, a pit-mix, like the majority of the dogs there. Instead of participating in the maudlin display of vocal expression the other dogs were so deep into, she simply put her paws up against the fence, wagged her tail, and gave a big smile, panting heavily. She was friendly, happy, beautiful, and playful; and after a short session in a room, acquainting ourselves with her, we decided she was the one.

Her given name was Brandy, but we didn’t think the name suited her, so we rechristened her Phoebe. The first few weeks living with Phoebe were amazing and hectic. She turned out to be much more unruly than we had suspected when we met her in the pound. Un-house-trained, and badly mannered, she spent her time living by her own rules. Secretly, I loved her untrained manner, because I was able to play rough games with her, such as tug-o-war. She had such a strong jaw that if I were to lift the piece of rope while it was in the grasp of her teeth, I would lift up her entire body. Another favorite game of ours was sort of like tackle football. I would have some friends over, and inside our large living room with many big couches, we would give Phoebe a tennis ball. Despite being outnumbered, she was incredibly fast and nimble, and would dodge all of us, and jump great heights over the couches. In the rare occurrence that one of my friends or I got the ball from her, it was a different story. We simply played hot potato, quickly passing the ball to one another, to avoid getting mauled. 

Phoebe was, in fact, so strong and fast that I couldn’t run fast enough to keep up with her when we went for walks, resulting in my being vigorously pulled along with her. I began going on bike rides with her, during which I was able to go at a pace fast enough to satisfy her running needs. She soon learned that bolting in front of the tire after a squirrel was a bad idea. Overall, Phoebe and I had a lot of fun together.

However, my mother was not quite as happy with the new addition to the family as we were. When she returned to find a relatively large dog jumping on her as she walked through the door, she was very upset. After a long serious conversation with my father, they came to a conclusion. We could keep Phoebe, but only if we responsibly took care of her, house-trained her, and taught her to sit, stay, heel, and not jump on people. That was the end of my vigorous games with Phoebe. We would do anything to keep her, and after weeks of failed attempts at training her, we brought her to a class, with other rebellious dogs learning their manners. This also proved to be unsuccessful. Our final option was to hire a private trainer. We called a guy who claimed to be able to train any dog in one day.

The trainer was amazing. Using his big black lab as the example, he taught Phoebe to sit, stay, lie down, and not pull on the leash while on walks. Our problems were cured; all we had to do was train her a little bit every day so she didn’t lose her newfound skills. 

Eventually, though, Phoebe did go back to her original rowdy state, and my mother began to get upset again. She warned us that if Phoebe didn’t behave better, we weren’t allowed to keep her. The situation became pretty bad; if you were to so much as open the front door, she would run away not to be found all day. Often, I biked around my town searching for her. The climax of the unfortunate situation came when Phoebe escaped from our house one day. We had been looking for hours, but Phoebe was not to be found. We sullenly laid back on our couch, hoping she would return soon, since nightfall was approaching. Soon after, we received a phone call from a neighbor frantically telling us he had our dog. We zoomed down the street to the man’s house, to find a horrible sight. Phoebe had attacked a baby deer, and it lay bleeding in the man’s backyard. He had a stick in his hand and was attempting to get a hold of Phoebe. We knew that was it. Phoebe had to go.

The dog police even showed up at our house, warning us that if Phoebe had another incident, she would have to be put down. We were extremely sad; we loved her so much we couldn’t stand the idea of leaving her. We luckily found a good new owner for her, our veterinarian. I am very grateful to that kind woman who decided to save Phoebe and keep her, when no one else would.

After Phoebe left, the idea of asking our mother for another dog seemed pointless. She trusted us with Phoebe, and we failed her. We basically moved on and put the idea out of or minds. However, there is always the chance that a rare opportunity might arise. When we moved to Carpinteria in the summer of 2005, we came across something amazing.

We were renting a place in a lemon orchard in a beautiful valley. One day, a dog showed up at our house. She was black and white, medium-sized, and very cute. She looked to be some kind of terrier- Border collie mix. We let her inside, and she displayed a very relaxed, friendly manner. She was well trained, and understood the concept of playing fetch. She eventually wandered back down to our neighbor’s house where she lived.  We decided to meet the neighbors, having just moved in, so we followed the dog down to her house. 

By remarkable coincidence, the dog’s name was Phoebe. We couldn’t believe it. We took it as a sign from the heavens. We sat there, listening to our neighbors explain that the dog was in fact their son’s, and that he couldn’t keep her any more because he was moving to a small apartment in San Francisco. 

She was looking for someone to keep Phoebe. Without hesitating, we said we would take her. Once again, my mother happened to be gone on a business trip while this was taking place. However, unlike the last time we acquired a dog while she was away, we notified her before letting Phoebe move in. My mother said no on the phone, but after meeting her, and experiencing her quiet, friendly, loveable nature, she allowed us to keep her.

Living with the new Phoebe was great. She had a very versatile personality. Inside, she was calm and low-key, almost lethargic. Outside, she was adventurous and playful. We often went on hikes with her, and she was a great hiking dog. She would prance along the trail, giving friendly greetings to other hikers and animals, but always stop and wait for us before getting too far ahead. We also found her to have many skills, including her highly acute mouth-eye coordination. She had an uncanny ability to catch things in her mouth. We would throw a peanut or cheerio high into the air from a great distance, and without difficulty she would catch it in her mouth. 

During the day, while everyone was gone, she explored the vast lemon and avocado orchards in her backyard. Sometimes we would come home to find her lying in the grass, enjoying a ripe avocado, what we think to be her favorite food. It seemed that she understood the concept of ripening, because if she came back with a hard avocado, she would place it in the sunlight and wait days until it was ready. 

At night, her gentle snoring became the ambient noise by which my sister and I worked. When I went to sleep, I secretly allowed her with me on my bed. She slept soundly, despite occasionally waking up and joining in the chorus of coyote howls, no doubt feeling that she was getting in touch with her ancestors. Such were the joys of living with Phoebe. 

 I truly believe that the presence of a dog is the best psychology possible. If I ever feel sad, all I have to do is look at Phoebe, and my worries vanish. I don’t fully understand why dogs bring so much happiness to people. Perhaps it is their innocence and naivety that reminds us of the simplicity of life. For me, being with dogs makes me feel like a young kid, enlightened, free of worries, unclouded by the structured chaos that is high school life.

Dana Edwards 04/22/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

The Power of Anger

Most of my anger is self-directed. I don’t feel as if I have the right to be angry with other people. I am not they; I don’t understand their situations; they probably have valid reasons for their potentially upsetting actions. That being said, I find myself angry at my own actions on a regular basis. I will do something utterly stupid, and later spend my time infuriated at my idiocy. There is a drastic change in perspective from when I commit such an act and when I later look back, enraged at my foolishness. This change has become so noticeable that I am beginning to think there are two distinct sides of my personality- an irresponsible, worry-free side that carries out witless acts, and a sensible side that has to deal with the follies of its reckless counterpart. 

The conflicting sides of my character take control of my body on somewhat of a routine. The evening is often the time of the impetuous and immature Dana, while the morning is home to regretful and responsible Dana. My study habits suffer because of this. Many nights I return home, loaded with homework or some other form of responsibility, and end up doing none. I’ll begin by making myself something to eat- the more work to be done, the more elaborate the meal. An example of my thought process: I have a chemistry lab, a Chinese worksheet, and an essay for Newsome…. I think I’ll make a grilled cheese sandwich. Or, Oh, would you look at that; these avocados are perfectly ripe. I’ll have to make some guacamole before they go bad. Such is my logic. My meals are often followed by one or more relaxing sessions in the hot tub. Of course I have to go for a dip; I need a break from my stressful life. After the hot tub, anything goes. That is, anything but work. I’ll organize my socks, play with my dog for two hours (until even she gets bored and goes to sleep), attempt absurdly difficult crossword puzzles in the New York Times magazine, get wrapped up in intricate daydreams about hiking in Norway or life as a Koala, stare at the wall, stare at the itunes visualizer, stare at my lava lamp, stare at the words on the pages of assigned reading, stare at my feet… and so on.

At 5:00 the next morning, when the loud beeping of my alarm commences, I think how horrible I am to myself when I do this, when I force myself to wake up in the wee hours of the morn to rush through essays and write sloppy Chinese characters. Why can’t I just work at night? There is this constant battle being waged between the two sides of Dana, and lately I think the bad one- the shanker of responsibilities- is winning. 

Sometimes my foolish side gets inspired with a great idea; when this happens, things go very bad. Like the night when I decided it would be a good idea to drink some coffee. Not one scoop, not two scoops, not three scoops, not even four, but six scoops went into the coffee maker. After consuming the black, goo-like substance, I was pumped and ready to work. Full chemistry lab report, here I come! I sat at my computer and typed like a madman, jittering from the caffeine. Thirteen pages and five trips to the bathroom later, I decided it was probably time to catch some rest. I lay in my bed, thoughts racing and body still shaking. After perhaps the most conscious and painstakingly long five hours of my life, I rose to a surreal, dream-like day. In the middle of class, I started laughing hysterically, suddenly seeing the humor in what I had inflicted on myself, my caffeine-induced delirious state.

But that is nothing compared to my most recent foolish action, that which I am currently paying for. Yesterday, Saturday that is, I decided to go adventuring with my dog, Phoebe. We walked up a hill near my home, and I saw a hidden trail that went further up, where I had never ventured. We walked along it until there was no more trail, and we were bushwhacking our way through thick brush to the top of the hill. From all the strenuous uphill, I started sweating and took off my shirt to cool down. The leaves of the brush that I was literally crawling through looked a lot like poison oak, I remember thinking. I dismissed the idea, reasoning that they were too small to be of the evil, menacing plant, that which I have had many previous unpleasant experiences with. That was my logic- that they were too small! So I continued onward, horrible rash-causing oak leaves skimming across my arms, chest, back, legs, and face. A few of the sticks from the poison plant scratched my stomach, leaching their oils under my skin. 

When I returned from the hike, the thought occurred to me again that it could have been poison oak that I had been rubbing against for the last half an hour. I was not capable of accepting the obvious, because it would mean that I had knowingly inflicted the most horrible of skin maladies upon myself, placed myself subject to days on end of endless itching and discomfort. So, rather than apply the anti-poison oak miracle product which happened to be sitting conveniently in my bathroom, I went to sleep. I spent the night basking in the poison oils and ensuring my miserable fate for the next week or more. By morning, my entire body was red; the full extent of what was in store for me became clear. I couldn’t believe my stupidity. The same had happened to me back in eighth grade, and yet I hadn’t learned my lesson. Every part of my body, without exception, was inflicted with the rash. My face had begun puffing up and my eyes were slowly shutting, they would soon be mere slits. I took a double dose of Benadryl, and soon passed out from the drowsy side effects of the antihistamine. I woke up at seven in the evening to horrible itching skin and realized that I was not only under intolerable irritation, but still had lots of make-up homework to do, including this journal entry that was due almost a month ago. So, in all my misery, I read the prompt “the unseen power of anger” and could think of nothing else but how angry I was with myself, my irresponsibility. Hopefully my ways will change, but I suspect foolish Dana will show his face again in the future, though not for a while. For now, responsible Dana is in charge and will not allow any further mistreatment of my body. 

This journal entry probably makes no sense, but I am so itchy and upset that I don’t care. My situation is almost laughable. In fact it is. Right now I am laughing at how cranky and uncomfortable I am. For instance, in a fit of discomfort, I saw the leftover pasta sitting on the kitchen counter, and fed the entire container to Phoebe. For no particular reason, I was just very grouchy. I threw the pieces of pasta in the air faster than she could catch them. I then continued sulking, and will continue to do so until my rash goes away. I am simultaneously very upset and laughing at my situation, a feeling that can only be described as insanity. Now I will take another Benadryl and escape my miserable life.

Dana Edwards 01/05/07

Random Stream of Thought

Clothing. Jackets and button-up shirts hanging in my closet. Zippers and hoods, leather jacket, Hawaiian shirts, Thai cotton, seventies shirts, orange vest. All in my closet. My closet with the angled roof and small hanging rack, with the gloves, hats and belts on top, and random gear on the floor. Mainly camping stuff. Tent, pads, tarp, backpack, sleeping bags: my dad’s old giant, bulky sleeping bag from the 1940’s or whenever he lived. Man, he is old. The thing must weigh 10 pounds, and it barely fits into its massive stuff sack, about two feet long and a foot wide. That thing always weighs me down when I go backpacking. I like to pack lightly, but my light ambitions are often thwarted by the sheer mass of the old artifact of a sleeping bag. Not to mention, it isn’t warm. Apparently it is rated to twenty degrees. More like twenty degrees, plus about forty. Maybe I could sleep comfortably on a warm spring night in the giant bag, but nothing under fifty. Every time I go camping, I end up curled up in a tight ball, like a fetus, inside the giant bag, the string pulled tight with only my nose poking out into the night air. Sometimes I try new things to keep warm. Completely cover the whole with my fleece jacket, resulting in a few minutes of relative warmth, follwed by suffocation. I’ve tried sleeping in the nude, some people say that’s how you stay warm. Those people are wrong. Being naked in that sleeping bag just lets other parts of your body join in the cold suffering. My butt cheeks deserve to be warm. The sleeping bag’s total lack of insulation can take away my body heat, along with my will to live, but my butt cheeks will stay warm. I’ve had it with this bag. Twenty degrees, yeah and pigs fly.  You know, last time I checked, the Farenheit system hasn’t changed in the last century. So whoever was in charge of the temperature rating of the old sleeping bag is either incredibly cruel, mentally slow, or a walrus, with much blubber protecting him from the freezing night air and skewing his climatic judgement. Go back and live in the sea, walrus. You don’t belong here. You are unqualified for the position of sleeping bag warmth inspector. Go back to the ocean, where you belong. No, don’t you talk back to me, you giant blubbery mass of brown fur and blubber. Blub blub blub, blubbery blubbery blubberly blub blub. You know, your tusks don’t intimidate me. Go eat some fish and hang out with the belugas. That’s right, walk away. Damn walruses, trying to scare me.

Dana Edwards 10/15/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

 Running Away to Berkeley (Revised)

It is difficult for me to keep a straight face when lying, so I have learned over the years to adhere to the truth to avoid being caught in an act of dishonesty. In addition, I tend to feel guilty and awkward even when telling a simple white lie. However, once in a while, a situation arises in which lying is necessary, or I am simply put on the spot and with no time to think I lie. One such situation occurred when I was in eighth grade. It was by no means a complicated lie that I told, but at the time it seemed of extreme importance.

I was spending the night at my friend Myles’ house, something I did quite regularly because we were close friends and next-door neighbors. Myles is an interesting kid. He is small and scrawny, yet very athletic. There are always donuts and cookies and other assorted junk food items in his cupboard, which I often delighted in after school. Myles is also very witty. Together we would come up with and execute all sorts of ideas, including successfully sneaking out on a Sunday night to visit a friend of ours; climbing her balcony and managing not to set off her high tech alarm system, and ending up back at home in bed by five a.m.

 Anyways, as soon as I arrived at his house, I sensed something was wrong. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but there was a concerned look in his eyes. We went into his room, and he wrote down on a piece of paper, “I’m running away”. We had a conversation in whispers, during which I tried to find out his reason for wanting to run away. 

“Myles, why do you want to run away?”  

He answered, “ Because I need some time away from my sheltered life here. This town is a joke. I need a taste of the real world.”

  I replied, “Why don’t you just go camping or something?”

 “No, I’m running away, I’ve already decided.” 

The conversation was basically pointless, because when Myles got into moods like these, he became very stubborn.  He was upset and had already decided he was leaving, despite my attempts to dissuade him. The only thing he hadn’t decided upon was where he was going. 

First he said he was going in to San Francisco, and was going to stay there for as long as he pleased. I knew immediately that no matter how far he went, his mother would be extremely upset, because he was an only child, and she was overly protective of him. Yet, instead of agreeing upon somewhere closer to home due to my trying to discourage him, he wanted to go farther. Before long, he was checking the online Amtrak schedule for trains to Oregon. We were up till 2 a.m. figuring out what his route would be, and there was nothing I could do. The only thing stopping him from taking a train hundreds of miles away was money. He only had twenty dollars in his wallet, and had no way of accessing his mother’s credit card. So, due to a lack of finances, and whatever else was going through his head at that time, he settled on Berkeley. Now, Berkeley is one of the worst possible places for a small, lone thirteen-year-old to run away to. It is full of sketchy people. He had made up his mind, and he declined my offers to join him. He was planning to leave his house the next morning at five, and bike to the Menlo Park train station in order to catch a six o clock train to Berkeley. 

The next morning he packed some food, warm clothing, his cell phone and his wallet into a backpack. His mother was always up by five, so we had to think of an escape route that didn’t pass by her door. We climbed out of Myles’ tiny window next to his bed, and crept toward his garage. Luckily, the garage door was open, allowing us to take our bikes without waking up his mother. In an early morning daze, we biked off into the distance. So, after a tiresome early morning bike ride, we arrived at the Menlo Park train station. While we were waiting for the train to come, he bought more food supplies at a 7/11, including a few boxes of pop tarts and some chocolate milk, in case he was to stay longer than planned. When the train arrived, I made sure he knew what his plan was, I bid him farewell, and then biked back home as the sun was rising. By the time I arrived at home, I was exhausted, and decided to go back to my house to sleep, in order to avoid Myles’ protective mother when she realized her son was gone. And sure enough, a few hours later, the phone rang, and I, being the only one home, answered it. Myles’ mother sounded worried as we spoke on the phone, and when she asked me where Myles had gone, I simply replied that he had left. She frantically asked where he had gone to, and, having promised Myles not to disclose his location, I said I had no idea. She was practically in tears on the phone, and it was at that moment that I realized the full extent of the burden Myles had placed upon me by running away and leaving me to talk to his mother. Before I could say another word to her on the phone, she was yelling at me that I was a horrible person, and that she was going to call the police immediately. There wasn’t much I could do at that point to stop her. I called Myles to tell him that his mother was freaking out and had called the police, but he didn’t pick up, so I left a message telling him to come home, that it wasn’t worth it. That was the first of three messages I left on his phone, each of increasing urgency, as the situation became more dire. 

Before long a police car pulled up at my house, and a single female officer walked to my door. This was one of the few times I had dealt with police, so I was pretty scared. Her name was Officer Glembot. My experience with her was very unpleasant. She had many tactics. At first, she was nice, and politely asked for information. However, when I lied, and said I didn’t know where Myles had run away to, she changed her strategy with me. She threatened to arrest me, explaining that it was a crime to withhold information regarding crimes. I kept my promise with Myles and continued to tell the Policewoman that I didn’t know where he was, even when she called in for reinforcements, as if I was a threat. I considered letting my dog in the house so she could attack Officer Glembot, but I decided against it when I saw the pepper spray and gun holster on her belt. 

More worried people began showing up at my house, including the family of Myles’ girlfriend, asking me if their relationship had something to do with his running away. They all started blaming me for his departure, saying that I should’ve stopped him from going. It’s incredible how accusing people get in the face of crisis. Eventually, the police got fed up with my unwillingness to cooperate and attempted to call Myles’ cell phone. They reached him once, but made the foolish mistake of identifying themselves as the police, and so he hung up and could not be reached from that point on.

After a while, Myles’ mother had become a nervous wreck, crying hysterically, and blaming me for letting him go. I couldn’t stand it any more, the pressure, and Myles’ crazy mother on my back. I considered lying again; telling the police he had gone to San Francisco or something, but I figured that would get us both into deeper trouble than we were already in. So I gave in and told the police he had gone to Berkeley. They wanted to know more; where in Berkeley he had gone, what clothes he was wearing…etc. However, the truth was, I had no idea where in Berkeley he had gone to, and I had been much too tired and disoriented earlier that morning to take note of the clothes he was wearing.

 They notified the police in Berkeley, and they eventually left my house, to my great relief. However, it seems as if the Berkeley police are not very good at finding people, because Myles was there for three days, sleeping on a bench at U.C. Berkeley. At one point, he even walked into a Berkeley station to report his stolen wallet. All that time, I only had one phone conversation with him, during which he seemed pretty relaxed. He told me that he had gone to a Cal football game, watched some tennis matches, and even made friends with some homeless people sleeping on benches close to his. It was only when he came home that he realized how selfish he had been in running away, leaving his mother worried to death, and me to deal with police.

Things changed when he came home. Myles had not anticipated the state that his mother was in. She was tearfully happy when he returned in the back of a police car. He had, in fact, taken a train back by himself, and was only picked up by the police while biking home from the train station. 

Myles seemed relatively normal. I would even say that the whole experience did him good. His mother, however, had really gone off the deep end. She had to see a psychiatrist to help her come to terms with the traumatic experience. I eventually explained to Myles that it is unfair to put his mother through such a horrible experience, even if she is totally irrational. Mothers, as illogical as they may be sometimes, are still our mothers, and we have to love and treat them well.

Dana Edwards 04/23/07

Most Disturbing, Serene, Bizarre, or Amusing Event of Spring Week

The events of my Spring Week could be described with all four of these adjectives. I will give an example of each.

Disturbing- Yes, parts of my week were quite disturbing. First, let me explain the situation. I didn’t go on one of Cate’s trips, rather I took the week off to spend with my relatives. About a week prior to the beginning of Spring Week, my aunt passed away. She had been suffering from pancreatic cancer. Her memorial service was to be held on the Tuesday during Spring Week, so my sister and I decided to attend it and miss the Cate outings.

I will be totally honest; it was not the death of my aunt that disturbed me. As sad as it was, I knew it was coming, and had already said my goodbyes. I was also not particularly close with her, as she was not a blood relative and I only saw her twice a year at most. It was the reactions of my family that disturbed me, my father’s side of the family, that is. The Edwards’ are all successful yuppies: my grandfather, Don a retired congressman, uncle, Bruce a writer of calculus textbooks and esteemed professor at the University of Florida, cousin, Eric, an up-and-coming business attorney, and uncle, Leonard, a juvenile judge. Observing Leonard and Eric, the husband and son of the late Inger Sagatun- this is what disturbed me. 

They are such intelligent, witty and suave people, eager to talk politics or discuss their latest round of golf. But when it comes to serious personal matters, they do not function. Listening to Eric’s forced jokes while sitting together- it killed me. Inside, he was devastated-his mother was now dead-but he had no way of physically dealing with his grief. He continued on in his normal manner, and it was painful to watch. Leonard, similarly, did not shed a tear. He ran around the house, keeping himself busy, not even mentioning his wife once. That night, we rented a movie to watch together, “Children of Men”- a horrible choice. Every scene was depressing; it was set in the future when humans have become infertile and are essentially going extinct. Throughout the film, neither Leonard nor Eric broke down, as I would have expected. Perhaps they were in shock and their grieving process would begin later. Nonetheless, their actions were disturbing.

Serene- During the service, in the Stanford Memorial Church, I was overcome with a feeling of serenity. Only a few other times in my life have I experienced such intense peace and contentment. My full attention was given to those speaking in the front of the chapel. Their words echoed in every cell of my body, their meaning so clear. Time stopped; I was weightless, living in the moment. An almost spiritual experience. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

Bizarre- On the weekend, my sister and I drove up to Santa Cruz to visit the UC campus that she will most likely attend for the next four years. I can’t place a finger on what exactly was so bizarre about it. Perhaps it was our tour guide who was, for lack of a better word, a real loser. She, like so many overachievers, groveled about getting A-minuses, and failed to mention anything of value about the school. Not what I expected. Or it could have been the stereotypical college guys who, as we walked through one of the dorms, greeted us with an air of extreme cockiness “Welcome to Santa Cruz”. Total idiots. However, I think the bizarre feel of the situation sparked from the simple fact that I was visiting the place where my sister and I would part ways. We have spent our entire lives together; she is by far my closest friend- to see the physical place where she will leave me and begin her new life is…well, bizarre. 

Amusing- Ah, thinking about this still makes me laugh. I ordered dog booties from an online store. The booties are for my dog, Phoebe, for she will join me on an extensive hike in the high Sierras this summer, and I feared her paws would get sore from the rough terrain. Upon receiving them in the mail, I excitedly decided to slip them on her to see if they fit. I sat her down, placed them on her paws as she stared at me with a dumbfounded expression. I asked her to stand up, but she just lay there. Finally she registered, clambered to her feet, and shortly after fell right back down. She slowly stood up again, and, realizing her situation, refused to walk. She stood there, looking utterly pathetic. After a number of minutes, she attempted walking. What followed was the most awkward form of movement I have ever seen. She lifted one paw at a time, high into the air, and so carefully placed each right in front of her. The effect was hilarious. After a while I took pity on her and removed the silly booties. I have decided that she will be okay without them this summer.

Dana Edwards   02/09/07

English 10-Mr. Robins

President Bush, Human or Mutant Mouse?

White house employees recently made a shocking discovery about the nature of America’s current leader. 

“It just doesn’t add up,” said Malmud Achmed, supervisor of baklava production in the white house kitchen. Achmed sensed something odd about the nation’s commander and chief, and his suspicions were shared by many others. “I just can’t pwace a finger on it.” Said head sushi chef Tokyo Arigato. “I know dare’s someshing about Pwesident Bush. Someshing about the way he eats his sushi is not right.” 

However, one employee, Jean-Claude Pierre, air freshener and carpet inspector for President Bush’s private quarters, made a remarkable discovery on the matter. “Becauze off ze job,” Jean-Claude says, “I get to see eenside Meester Bush’s room, and I can deescovare a lot about eem.” Indeed true, for Pierre took the next step and dared to propose the unthinkable. “I aim certain zat Meester Bush is a mouse.” boldly stated Jean-Claude. “Ven I am picking through ees carpets, I find many zings. Mostly leettle chewed up pieces off wood, or ze torn up news magazines. Oh and boogers; Meester Bush leaves many boogers on ze floor. But a few weeks ago, I started noticing zese tiny leettle white hairs all over ze ground. I am not a scientist, but I knew it vas not ze human hairs. I talked to my friend, Maximillon, who ees a vet, and ee tells me it looks like ze mouse hairs. ‘I knew it!,’ I said to eem. Because ze room vas always smelly, like zee ome of a rodent.”

When Jean-Claude shared his discovery with his fellow White House workers, everything came together. “It all makes sense now!” exclaimed Avraham Wienerstein, head accountant for President Bush, “ I sensed something was off when I processed Mr. Bush’s finances last week. He spent six thousand dollars on sawdust and pellets. Not to mention the giant cage he is building on the front lawn of the White House. A playground, he told me; how could I have been so gullible?” Wienerstein is among many amazed by the discovery.

Bush’s White House psychiatrist, Dr. Ernest Thornrackle, had further evidence of the president’s true identity. “I’ve known all along.” said the doctor, “During all of our sessions, George has shown an unbending fascination with those rotating cylinders in fun houses. Oh, and there is his irrational fear of cats. At first I thought he was dealing with deep psychological identity issues, but I soon realized that he is a rodent. Not any rodent, but a mutant. He switches from human form to that of a small, white mouse. Similar to a werewolf, but he undergoes the transformation at the sight of a full wheel of Swiss Cheese. He’s the first weremouse I have encountered in all my career.”

Although it is slightly unsettling to know that our nation is in the hands of a mutant mouse, some are able to see goodness in the rodent nature of our president. “I think we should stop criticizing Bush.” says political analyst Elaine Spockner. “I mean, look how well he has done as president, given his circumstances. We should stop giving him a hard time. He must be the smartest mouse alive; we, as Americans, should be honored to have him as our leader.”

Dana Edwards 11/13/06

English 10-Mr. Robins

Two Experiences That Still Make Me Cringe

In Thailand, I encountered all sorts of different people. I met schoolteachers, taxi drivers, rice farmers, children, monks, Mao tribeswomen that follow you around selling carved wooden frogs… and so on. I can reasonably say that, having spent a month there; I have a good feel for the exterior of Thai people and culture. And if I had to describe Thai society in one word, it would be something along the lines of “friendly”, or “hospitable”, exactly as the stereotype goes. On the surface, Thailand truly is the “land of smiles”. Its population seems for the most part, happy, amiable, and polite. People in a village wave as you pass them. Salesmen at a night market smile as they rip you off for a pair of Thai Boxing shorts. Some are more reserved and adhere to a courteous bow, hands together up by the face, and a quiet “Sawad-dee Kah”, a common Thai greeting. 

However, all societies, Thailand included, have bad people. As our trip leader, Mac, would have put it, “There are assholes everywhere. The ones in Thailand just stick out because everyone else is so damn nice.” It’s true. I would be lying if I said I didn’t come across the occasional uncaring, impolite, disrespectful idiot. Oddly enough, it seemed as if there was no one in between. For instance, out of one hundred Thai people, I would say that ninety-nine would be nice and good-natured, and one a complete jerk. I’m not sure what to think of this social phenomenon, but it certainly made encounters with the jerks all the more interesting. 

One morning, Trevor and I awoke from inside our mosquito nets and walked out of our room to find a large gathering of people. We were sleeping in the monastery, which happened to be the center of all village activities. Some mornings, we would be woken up at five by ridiculously loud Thai pop music, consisting mostly of a Thai version of that “numa numa yay” song, and Shakira’s “My Hips Don’t Lie” badly dubbed in Thai. But that morning, there was no blazing music signaling market day, or little children running around throwing mud. The mood was much more serious. Not after long, we realized it was a funeral.

Men, women, children, and dogs made their way through the high gates of the monastery, and gathered around a small building with a tall, elaborate spire. There was a dark metal hatch in the front of it.  It was blackened from smoke, and quite frightening looking. The building was a crematorium. 

In the Buddhist philosophy, death is a natural process not to be feared. However, Buddhism, like all other religions, does not exist today in its pure form. There is much superstition associated with the crematorium, and people avoid it for fear of ghosts and such. 

While everyone stood around the building, a pickup truck with a body in the back came through, followed by a procession of the dead man’s relatives. After ceremoniously circling the crematorium a number of times, the procession stopped at the front of the building, and the corpse was unloaded. He was placed in a wooden coffin, and after his friends and family laid flowers upon him, he was carried inside the dark looming hatch, and the door was shut.

Trevor and I considered leaving to go biking or something, but decided that it would be a good experience to witness a Thai funeral.  Or rather, a guy came up to us and convinced us to stay and watch with him. He led us to a large room in the monastery, reserved for special occasions, where people had began seating themselves. The man was completely loud and obnoxious. He insisted on speaking English with us, even though he knew very little, about as much as I knew Thai. He continued trying to communicate with us as the room hushed and the monks filed into the front. People immediately began looking over their shoulders to see who was so rudely speaking while the abbot started the service. It was absolutely embarrassing to sit next to him. He continued to ramble on in broken English, and didn’t stop when we began completely ignoring him.  I remember his bugging me to take a picture of him as the service progressed. The thought occurred to me that he could be drunk; however, he didn’t smell like liquor and he didn’t seem under the effects of alcohol. I concluded that he was just a total jerk. We tried to leave many times during the service, but the man insisted on our staying. Finally, a break in the service occurred, and we quickly got out of there.  

The encounter with the rude man made me start observing the actions of people more closely. I looked at the monks I was living with. None of them acted as one would expect a monk to. Instead of abiding by the monastic laws, they smoked, played soccer games on their cell phones, made fun of each other and swore. They were just regular guys, who happened to be wearing orange robes. 

One night, Trevor and I spent some time with them. One of the monks was old and weathered looking. We brought a guitar for him to play, and he started playing old time rock and roll hits. He was an amazing guitarist, but his singing sounded like a dying giraffe. When another monk came to join us, they all remarked that his nickname was “super gay”. We thought we misunderstood them, but somehow that was actually the man’s nickname. We inquired as to why he was “super gay”, and they said it was because he was evil.

That sparked our interest. We wanted to know more about this evil so called “super gay” man. The monks said that the orphan monastery boys were also evil. We didn’t understand, but everything soon became clear. 

One of the boys was chasing a small bird around the room, and attempted to catch it. He failed, however, but found a tiny dead bird in the process. He held it in his hand, and then shoved it in his pocket. We thought it pretty odd, but kept watching the boy, intrigued. He went into another room, and came back with a large plastic bag filled with dead birds. He added the newly found one to his collection, and replaced the bag. At that point, Trevor and I were relatively disgusted. We agreed that the monastery boys were weird. We asked one of the monks why the boy kept a bag of dead birds. He explained to us that every night at one o’clock, the boys, along with Mr. “super gay” ate the birds. We were not only revolted but also frightened. We knew the boys were strange, but we had no idea that they held satanic bird eating rituals each night. I thought that perhaps they didn’t get enough food and therefore had to eat the birds, but I realized that the monastery had plenty of food. The village was pretty well off, and the boys, although orphaned, were not starving. They were just very weird.

Every night after then, the boys came to our room and peered into our windows. I remember waking up at midnight, and seeing them standing outside our door, looking in, creepy as ever. One night they shoved burning incense under our door. Trevor and I were truly frightened of the “bird children”, as we called them, and we never went anywhere alone at night. 

On our last day in the village, I decided on impulse to let the bird children inside to say goodbye. I thought that Trevor and I had built up most of the fear inside our heads, and that they might actually be nice boys. They seemed okay at first, so we decided to give them these little plastic toys that we had been given for teaching. They said thank you, and I felt glad that I had given them another chance. However, not long after, one of the boys broke off the doll’s head, and started laughing menacingly with the toy’s head in his hand. They were actually evil children.

These two experiences that I have described both make me cringe when I think about them. I flinch when I think of how embarrassing it was to sit next to the obnoxious idiot at the funeral, to see everyone turn around and look at me during such a serious, morbid occasion. And I shudder to think about my encounters with the “bird children”, during which they succeeded in utterly frightening me. They were both moments of extreme discomfort, but they were not without reconciliation. I learned from those experiences that you can never be too sure about people; that they are rarely as they seem on the surface.

Dana Edwards     05/12/07

Placed elegantly and stupendously atop a great, towering, gargantuan hill, a mound of extraordinary size and stature, some of whose inhabitants would boldly venture to call a “mesa”, across from yonder mountain where, graciously and with exuberant joyousness, great flocks of hoofed, regal horses graze and trot about, enthralled at their tranquil state of affairs, their green pastures enclosed in quaint, white picket fences; said Mesa is indeed within sight of the thrashing yet calm, enormous, blue, boisterous, inconceivably unfathomable ocean of the Pacific; many an exquisitely colorful dusk do the imprisoned youngens, deprived of all social eloquence, gaze out from the scenic bench of the House of Long to indulge in the calamitous effects of the undeniably extraordinary multitude of the billowing clouds, rich in all shades of pinks and reds, perhaps even a touch of violet, and the far-away mountainous peaks, engulfed in dark shadow and remarkably lustrous cracks and crevices, and upon seeing yonder colors and exquisite beauties, such rare gems of their ephemeral existences, they yearn in solitude, yearn with all the facets of their heart and soul, to only depart the ghastly Mesa, taker of hope, green, tranquil giver of despair, and live amongst those other youth on the great, massive earth, or perhaps, only for one fleeting moment to leap off the mountainous, grassy prison and fly, soar among the majestic eagles and ravenous vultures, so deeply do they wish to leave the Mesa, for they, like I, Emily Bronte, the great, esteemed Victorian novelist whose delicate name contains two minute dots atop the “e”, have no life, and spend their pitiful substances wandering aimlessly atop a mesa, like I, who spent my days sulking in an aloof cottage in the hills of remote Britain, panning through vast dictionaries to find ample meaningless, inert, obscure, bygone adjectives to fill prolonged, unnaturally extensive sentences that contain little or no meaning, so, as it now seems perfectly clear, those Mesa-bound adolescents are no so different from me, for they and I, we will all die with nothing to our names, except, perhaps, my disgraceful excuse for a novel, Wuthering Heights, which, ironically enough, they are forced against their will to read in their English class.

Dana Edwards 09/17/06

English 10- Mr. Robins

Yosemite 

There were many remarkable moments during our recent backpacking trip to Yosemite. Among these were swimming in the cold lakes and streams, enjoying the views atop Vogelsang peak, hiking in the evening to avoid the approaching rainstorms, sledding on steep snowfields, and watching Nathan take off his underwear beneath his pants. However, there were also many moments that weren’t as outstanding, ones that I probably won’t remember in years to come. It is not that they weren’t good or happy; they simply were subtle, light moments. I will write about one such event that I feel is worthy of recognition, not for being outstanding or phenomenal, but for being one of the little, understated things that happen during the course of our lives that are usually not appreciated.

Tuesday evening, we were camped at Evelyn Lake. After a hearty dinner of quesadillas and rice (somehow it turns out that almost every camping meal has a Mexican component), we were satisfied but still extremely happy to receive the unknown desert. Mr. Mochel went around and allowed us to take ten jellybeans for starters, and made it clear that we couldn’t pick what flavors we took, but were allowed to trade with others. I immediately started searching for people who liked black licorice, because I can’t stand them. I found a taker, and willingly traded my two licorices for a dark cherry and a blueberry. I did not even make an attempt at finding someone who enjoys butter popcorn, because there is no one who likes butter popcorn flavored Jelly Bellies. I do not understand why the Jelly Belly factory continues to make butter popcorn; they are a disgrace to all jellybeans, and they are horrible. Nathan and I agreed that one day we would put a gun to the owner of the Jelly Belly corporation’s head and force him to discontinue the making of Butter Popcorn flavored jelly beans. Anyways, the only way you can get rid of butter popcorn is to cover up the small brown splotches, so it appears white, and find an inexperienced Jelly Belly eater who will trade something for what he unknowingly believes is a coconut. Oh, will he soon learn that it is no coconut, and that he has been royally screwed by the most obvious of Jelly Belly cons.

What I find amazing about Jelly Bellies, and I never really put much thought into this until we ate them in Yosemite, is that the beans taste exactly as the flavors indicate. A root beer actually tastes of root beer, and a grapefruit tastes just like grapefruit. And, if you think about it, a butter popcorn really tastes like butter popcorn; the only problem is that butter popcorn is not the kind of food that tastes good compressed into a gooey candy. 

As I sat there, having already finished with all jellybean negotiations, savoring each one as I ate them with my chopsticks, I realized how truly great the small things in life are. The light moments are what I really enjoy and learn from. Although eating jellybeans seems only a trivial matter, reflecting upon it, I realize that I gained from it, and I would never have all these ideas and thoughts had it not been for that simple, enjoyable experience.