Unpacking

It's almost been a month since Scott has burned down my kitchen, and I still haven't cleaned all the soot off of all of our possessions.
It feels like my entire life will always be contained to boxes. I have acquired a lot of things overs the years, mostly books and shoes, and I have not been entirely unpacked and moved into a space since 2010. Between living in dorms, moving out of my childhood home, house sitting, living in Caldwell for my first summer, and house fire.... I haven't felt like I haven't been in my own space for a very long time. And now I have to unpack boxes just to pack them all up again and move them somewhere else.
But finally that somewhere else is going to be my own place with my own decorations and my own books on the shelves and the walls and running boards will be clean and I don't have to pull other people's hair out of the bathtub drain. I can't wait to unpack.

Blogception

This is a blog about a blog. 

Whoa. 

Anyways.

My favorite blog doesn't really exist any more. 

When I was first dipping my toes into the vast waters of the Internet, someone shared the blog Hyperbole and a Half with me, saying that the girl responsible reminded them of me. 

Allie from Hyperbole and a Half describes herself as "heroic, caring, alert, and flammable."

These things do describe me, so I gave it a shot. 

Allie is hilarious. Her simple art work accompanies real-life adventures that are enjoyable and which most readers can easily relate. 

Her last post was about depression, however, and despite promises of a book, the blog hasn't been updated since 2011. I think about her a lot, and hope that she is doing well and still creating. 

Allie is still a big part of the Internet. Her illustrations of the 'alot' still roam the Interwebs, as well as the meme "all the things!" which is a self-portrait. 

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/

Better Than a Poke in the Eye with a Sharp Stick

I grew up hearing these words. They were supposed to be a comfort for a scrapped knee, bonked head, or hair pulled by a grumpy sister. 

It was the response to complaints about dinner, movie choice, or uncomfortable car rides. 

Variations also occurred. It came about during playful teasing: "I'm going to poke you in the eye with a sharp stick!" when somebody actually found a sharp stick: "Hey hold still so I can poke you with this!" when someone didn't want to wake up: "I could poke you in the eye with a sharp stick, that would get you out of bed." Although never serious, these threats are scattered across my childhood. Morbid? Maybe. But it's better than a real poke in the eye with a sharp stick. 

A Passion for Education: but not the kind you're expecting

There are many things I'm passionate about; Harry Potter, tattoos, writing, art, dance, music, the Internet, cats, gay rights, women's rights, clean water for everybody... but my latest passion and almost obsession has been advocacy. Training to be an advocate at the College of Idaho has consumed my life this semester. I have learned more about the cycle of abuse than I can possibly imagine, and one of the most important things about the cycle of abuse is how little people know about it.
Recently on Reddit there was a picture depicting

 the cycle of abuse. This image shows how if a child is abused, he or she may grow up to also be an abuser. What isn't shown is how children start to associate abuse with love and aren't aware that what they are doing is wrong. Daddy wouldn't hit me if he didn't love me. This thinking is then carried on to when that child becomes a parent.
Reading the hundreds of comments on this photo was actually very heartwarming. Many of the posters had been abused as a child and took that experience and turned it around. "My dad hit me and because of that I will never raise a hand to my children." These statements gave me such hope for humanity.
What this picture doesn't explain is that there are two cycles of abuse. The second one happens later in life, and is usually associated with women. If a woman's first relationship is with an abusive partner, that woman is more likely to have another abusive relationship in the future. It's the same ideology; equating love with violence. Manipulative charmers--men who are most likely to become abusive--pick up on this psyche. Women who have been in abusive relationships are usually vulnerable and more susceptible to abusive partners. Until they get outside help or come to a great epiphany, the circle of abuse will continue.
Education is key in stopping both circles. With the power of the Internet and other accessible materials, people are becoming more aware that an abusive childhood is not the norm. People are still afraid to talk about abuse, and this taboo subject needs to be more open. If the cycle of abuse was taught in grade school, the cycle could be broken before it continues. But no one wants to talk about it, and no one wants to expose their children to that kind of violence. But the reality is that some children are in the middle of that kind of violence, and there is no excuse for that.

Three Part Blog: A Visit, A Photograph, and A White Suite

A Visit from the Weekly

I was really dreading coming to class last Thursday. I was stressed about my fiction writing class. I woke to a campus crisis that implicated me personally as well as an organization that I have come to care about deeply in the last nine weeks. I was not ready to interact with people who may be directly influential on my future. When I sat down across from George Prentice and Tara Morgan from the Boise Weekly, I was immediately put at ease. George Prentice in particular has a large presence that didn't overwhelm or intimidate me. I went from dreading class to enjoying it in a matter of minutes. Listening to both editors tell their stories made me remember why I wanted to be a journalism minor in the first place. I want to tell stories. Other people's stories. I want to find the interesting things that are happening around me and share them with the world. I sent in an application to intern at the Boise Weekly. Full disclosure, more than anything I just want to listen to George Prentice tell more stories.

Finding a Photograph

I don't know her name. I don't know where she lives. She was 17 when this photo was taken but I don't remember when that was or how old she was now. I didn't retain much from Postcolonial Studies last fall, but I do remember this photograph. Out of all the books we read and all of the lives we learned about, I remember this stranger's face better than anything. Her smile is so genuine. She's in the middle of a war. She might die ten minutes from now. 17 year old girls should not be caring firearms on their backs. And yet she's happy. She shows no fear. I can not imagine being in her place, and yet she's laughing. This photograph makes me realize what is really important in the face of danger. This photograph reminds me that happiness can be found in the most diverse, disruptive places. An idea that is getting harder to remember these days.

Flash Nonfiction Essay
Anne Panning wrote a story about her father. Not about the wonderful moments they had together or the fun times growing up. Anne Panning wrote about the death of her father's mind, and the cruel twist of irony that resulted from it. "The White Suit" in particular struck me because of the subject matter. Talking about your father losing his mind and being locked up in a mental institute isn't something you drop into casual conversation. Anne Panning wrote this story in the space of a page length. It's maybe 700 words. I've read blogs about cake that lasted longer than this story. And yet it's so poignant, so beautifully crafted. Anne Panning spent so much time putting this page together. Each word was very carefully thought out and selected you would never know that this page was plucked from the pages of a much larger narrative. It stands alone, and in that it is beautiful.

My Grandma's Coat

It's been called my Superman coat, my hipster coat, a worn-out, out-dated thing that needed to be replaced. But my step-grandma's ski jacket is special, even though the tassels have fallen off the pockets and the zipper needed to be replaced and it is in desperate need of a wash. One of the pockets is torn and pens and pieces of gum sometimes make their way into the lining. It's blue, with an orange and yellow diamond on the back; iconic of the styles of the late 70s, early 80s with its big color and tight fit. I don't remember when I got it, sometime in high school because I have a vivid memory of the dashing school president complimenting it when I was a sophomore. I've had countless strangers ask me where I bought it or if it were a Goodwill find. Last winter, the metal zipper older than I finally went out, but I cared enough to get it replaced with a sturdy plastic version; amazingly in the same dark blue color. It's my armor against the cold, a hug from a long-gone relative, a reminder that sometimes the old is better than the new.

A Home Among the Books

The Terteling Library has become somewhat of a second home to me over the last three years. Its heavy doors welcome me, and I have come to view this passage as a test of my moxie. If I can successfully maneuver through this unwieldy portal without embarrassment or injury than I have passed the first test. Navigating the book catalog is yet another challenge. Wading through the ocean of information to find the one book by Roald Dahl is worthy quest; the maze of novels proves to be quite the opponent. Discovering my target is a victory; I have defeated the worthy shelving system and have not fallen pray to thieves or ne'er-do-wells.
My favorite reading place is a green chair, old and worn in just the right places, located in the quiet comfort of the second floor. This chair holds a great deal of memories: long study sessions, countless assigned readings, naps, even as an occasional procrastination destination. However, towards the end of my second year, this green chair disappeared from its place by Meeting Room B, never to be seen again. I mourned for this chair, and I think of it fondly. A not-as-comfortable brownish chair has taken its place, but I can't help feel a pang of regret every time I sit in this replacement.
Sometimes I get lost looking at titles. There is a certain charm that comes from looking at the rows and rows of books. I think of all the hard work that each author has pouring into each bound treasure, and cross my fingers and hope someday my name will be placed among these noble predecessors. I'll pull out a particularly old book, frayed with age, with titles such as The Viking Age: A Reader, Behind the Beautiful Forevers, and Every Molecule Tells a Story.
The Terteling Library is a place of inspiration, a place of stories, a place of learning.
It's also a place of free printing, which is always extremely appreciated to the broke college student that I am.