Blogs.

     Blogs are informative and an interesting way to learn about what others think about specific topics. From political issues to personal rants, these blogs are diverse in all of their ways. While many may enjoy blogging their every moment, I prefer to simply live in the moment. I hate blogs.
     Aside from a flagrant dislike of being forced to write creatively each week, I also do not enjoy sharing my word vomit with other people. When, and if I am inspired, blogging can be a wonderful outlet, however, when I am 10 blogs behind and find myself being 'inspired' by the very hamburger that I am eating, I scold myself. No one wants to read about a hamburger, Sam.
     So where can I go from here? Write about the mundane happenings of my boring life to become the laughing stock of writers everywhere? Or take the hit on not blogging because writing these blogs are the bane of my existence?
     I digress-blogging is not entirely awful. When I have the need to blog, I appreciate that this tool is there for me. Yet these yearnings are few and far between, and certainly not often enough to desire to keep up an official blog. Long story short, I would rather write more stories than blog about nonsensical daily musings. Tweeting might also be a good compromise. You can really say a lot in those few characters, and they are much easier to get 'on the scene scoops.'
     Regardless, I hate blogs. I hate blogging. And my blog is almost as awful as my feelings towards it. 

Homecoming Recovery

     Midterms have passed, fall break is over, and finally Homecoming is over. Yes, finally.
     While the rest of campus was getting friendly with the alumni, attending events with the Board of Directors, and enjoying the seemingly endless abundance of alcohol, I was cleaning plates, serving three-course meals, and replenishing the coffee of the rich members who pay for my existence at this fine establishment. Yes, I am a caterer. And while everyone got to enjoy the lovely weekend and were exhausted on Monday, I was exhausted for an entirely different reason; I worked 45 hours in the course of three days. Dressed head-to-toe in a fabulously tragic all-black ensemble accented with a cheap tacky rad satin tie, I was hot, tired, and frazzled.
     Yet, in the midst of the chaotic frenzy of polishing 5,124 forks, knives and spoons, setting 437 tables, replenishing 123 chaffers, and serving 6 meals to the Board of Directors, all was not lost. As I stood in the completely converted room of Shouvlin 105, apron covered in salad dressing, knives stabbing me as I tried to quickly bus out the plates, people yelling at me demanding coffee, I looked around the room at the gold drapes lining the walls, glitter gleaming in the lights, and the posters of the alumni. This was the dinner for the alumni who graduated 50 years ago, and as I stood there frustrated and overwhelmed with sweat beading on my forehead, I had a moment of peace. These people had accomplished so much. They were laughing and talking about Greek life, telling stories of all the insane things they did on campus, and enjoying the company of there long lost friends. In the middle of this crazy night, my heart was filled with so much joy. The bitterness and disappointment of missing homcoming was replaced with an overwhlming sense of gratitude as I realized something. While I may have missed out on catching up with my old friends, I gained a new appreciation for homecoming. Homecoming isn't all about catching up or partying. While that may be a large part of it, there is something that lies much deeper and connects to the beginning roots of the school. It's about appreciation. It's about looking at those who have graduated and gone before us, and realizing that the friendships we are creating now will last a lifetime.
     As I continued clearing plates, I looked across the room at my best friend who was filling coffee cups to the ever demanding group, and we exchanged a smile of acknowledgement, that one day we will take the place of these alumni and enjoy the true purpose of Homecoming: being reunited with the people you adore in the place where your friendships began.
    
    

Abducted.

     12 years. That's how long Sabrina Allen had been missing. Officials say that she was taken from her home in Texas at the age of four, and was held captive by her own mother. Her mother then fled to Mexico where they remained in hiding for 12 years.
     There is something truly haunting about this story. To be kidnapped in any situation is just horrible, but to have the offender be your own mother? I can't even imagine the psychological anguish that this teen is feeling. Her mother would make her go through extensive changes to ensure their anonymity. Different hair colors. Different hair cuts. Different styles. Constantly running from a force that she couldn't see, and the only person she could trust is the person that has been lying to her for her entire life. This is the definition of true terror.
     Yet, beneath the dark and desolate blanket of this story, lies a silver lining. Even though 12 years of this girl's life has been squandered, her strength has overcome her pain, her perseverance has overcome her victimization, and her will to survive has overcome her captor. She will be reunited with her father, and although she may suffer some trauma, above all, she is a survivor.

PCS: post concussion struggles

8,765 hours, 365 days, one year. That’s how long Kaylee Gialamas has lived with a concussion.

Gialamas is a soccer player at Wittenberg University, and has struggled with concussion-related illnesses after braving an injury on the field. At an away game she fell, hitting her head against the hard cement-like ground and suffering immediately from the injury.

For weeks, she would struggle to be able to wake up. In class, she would sit, staring at a board with words moving. On tests, she would struggle to make out coherent sentences and would have to squint extremely hard to even see a single letter.

After failing multiple concussion tests, she became so familiar with them that soon she began passing them. Finally, she was admitted to the Cleveland clinic and began taking medicine for her injury. Yet, every day, she still struggled with the pain and the frustration. The hardest thing for her was not missing out on fun with friends, struggling to complete school work, or traveling to multiple hospitals around Ohio, but she found it the most challenging not being able to play soccer.

In August, Gialamas went to yet another hospital, only to find that her injuries and suffering were due to a neck injury that was overlooked when she was diagnosed with her concussion. Finally, with help from the Athletic Trainer, she has finally been ‘fixed.’

This Saturday, Gialamas will finally be hitting the field with her teammates. After an entire year watching her teammates play from the side-lines, she can officially say that she is cleared to play. Her reaction: she is overwhelmed with joy. Not only did the doctors tell her she would probably never play again, but she was also encouraged by her family and friends to quit. Now, Gialamas can prove that statistics are only numbers, as she takes on the field once again.

The Memorial Fire

     A charred light post, teddy bears burnt to a crisp, and the ashes of blankets that once were: these are all that remain. A fire was set to a memorial created for Michael Brown yesterday.

     Since the death of the young man, the community of Ferguson, MO has been the scene of many uproars. Yet, this has been the most disturbing for the residents. Some believe that the fire was started from the candles that were often lit at the memorial, however there is a greater belief that the fire was started by gasoline.

     There is something tragically heart wrenching about this. On top of the grief that the family, friends, and community are already experiencing, this seems like yet another blow. Whether the culprit be a candle mishap, or a hate-charged arson case, the community still suffers.

     In the face of this tragic act, the community has stayed together. Instead of mourning over yet another blow, they have strengthened their bonds and continue to forge on. The community has replaced the burned down objects with fresh teddy bears and blankets. Even in this time of strife, they have continued to stay strong.

Hope for a Desolate City

Photo Courtesy of abandonedplaces.livejournal.com

     12.94 miles. That is the distance from my house to the beautifully broken city of Detroit. Once a bustling city full of life and people, now lies devastated and desolate. After the decline of the auto industry and factories, Detroit like most cities that suffered from many depressions, remains in ruins. From the run down train station to the decrepit buildings that line the streets of the inner city, most people would see sadness, trash, and the capitol of poverty. However, for life-long Detroit resident, Tyree Guyton, the city has become a piece of art.
     28 years ago, Guyton created and founded the art phenomenon known as the Heidelberg Project. He has taken two blocks in the downtown area to create a masterpiece. He uses every day items that most would view as trash and re-purposes them into artistic creations for all to enjoy. They not only allow tours of the creative space, but they actively engage the community to allow growth. They believe that in order to rebuild a community, the citizens must take a stance to reclaim their city. The offer art programs for the children of the community as well as education for adults.
    Detroit may seem like a run down town, yet there is hope for the city. Many people don't even know about the project, however for those who live in the area, the project hits much closer to home. With only 12.94 miles between myself and a struggling city, Tyree Guyton and the Heidelberg Project make me proud of where I come from.
 

Empty Wells

     Drip. Drip Drip. The sound of the water droplets as they splash against the side of the sink is deafening. The reverberation of the droplets resounds in my mind long after I leave the room. I can still hear the dripping as I participate in the day's activities. The constant sound of the annoying little drops rings in my ears and echos in my head, driving me past the tipping point of sanity. My unfailing ability to create a mountain out of a molehill is unveiling itself effortlessly.
     As I sit in class, trying to ignore the faithful dripping noises inside of my head, I hear something that makes the monotonous tones of falling water seem frivolous. Currently, California is experiencing a drought. The lack of rainfall is particularly harsh in the southern part of the state as they depend on it to fill their wells. Without the rainfall, the wells have begun to dry up leaving citizens water-less. The biggest issue however, lies within a complicated ethical dilemma. California is the largest almond producer in the world. In order to produce crops and export goods, companies obviously need to water these crops. The dilemma lies in this: in order to water their crops, they need to dig their wells deeper. However, if they dig their wells deeper, it actually makes the water level change for the next rainfall. Instead of refilling the wells of the citizens when it rains, the water will drain into the deeper-dug wells leaving the citizens still water-less. So who is right? The companies who need the water to supply the world with food, or the citizens who need water to survive?
     The dripping sound is gone now, yet in its place lies an uneasy emptiness, a sort of unnerving calm. Here I am, losing my sanity over the constant drip of water, yet across the country, people are suffering from a severe lack of water. In an uncomfortable juxtaposition of abundance and drought, I find myself helplessly saddened. The dripping sound has vanished from my head, but this complicated issue remains drowning my heart.

The Drought of the Snakes

     "Man on the floor!" I cannot begin to describe how many times I have heard this phrase in the past 36 hours. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when I first heard these words, as the entire Sigma Kappa house sat in front of fans, stripped down to nothing but shorts and athletic tops. This is when the trouble began. 
     As the plumber made his way to fix a shower that was no longer working in the room referred to as the Penthouse, the entire house was without water for about an hour. In order to fix another small plumbing problem, the plumber returned on Tuesday to assess the situation. After having the water turned off for 4 hours, they finally left and all was well. "Drip, Drip, WHOOSH." From the ceiling in the Grand Room came water at such a rate that ordinary buckets could not keep up with. In a moment of desperation, phone calls were made and an inflatable pool was rushed in to contain the ceiling's outpour. The plumber returned at 10 p.m. only to report that the entire house was too old to fix small issues, and that all the pipes corroded with calcium, needed to be replaced.
     Those who had alternative places to stay scattered quickly and those who had no other choice but to wait it out, held tight to their Macbooks knowing they had to survive in the jungle that had become of the Snake House. It was every sister for herself and the house was filled with cries of desperation into the great unknown.

Wasteful: the truth behind the CDR

     The CDR means many things to many different people. For athletes, its the time for their team to gather and unwind after a long day of practice, for freshman, its an intimidating place filled with awkward first encounters, and for the rest of the those who dine there, it is a convenient place to eat and meet up with friends. While many flippantly complain about the food being served there, there is a more urgent and disheartening concern at hand. Every night, after dinner is over, dozens and dozens of chaffers of wasted food are poured out into the trash. Due to food regulations, Sodexo cannot donate food from pans that have already been served from. However, what about the trays upon trays of untouched food that go to waste? Instead of feeding the impoverished citizens of the city we are so distinctly removed from, the food is then put in the compost barrel or thrown away.
     Living amongst the impoverished citizens of Springfield, it seems like a crime to be throwing away all of this food when our neighbors are struggling to feed their families.

Great Expectations

There are very few things I enjoy more than writing, and those things are, in this exact order: cats and the color black. With that being said, writing is a wonderful third thing to love, and as it is with all wonderful third loved things, it is only natural to practice them in all applications. When it comes to newswriting however, my skills often fall short and I find myself stuck between writing an intolerably dull piece or turning a short brief into an overly colorful disaster. I expect that through this course I will be able to find a new voice worthy of newswriting, and learn the skills necessary to write effective stories. I also expect to be challenged in finding interesting topics as well as creating a varied writing style. I suppose these are great expectations, however, nothing was ever gained from a lack of things expected.