The Perfect Man

Have you ever fallen in love - furiously, deeply, and passionately...with a book character? If you say Edward Cullen, stop reading IMMEDIATELY and go pick up Catch 22, Don Quixote, The World According to Garp, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, or even a Sherlock Holmes story if you need something a little shorter and more two-dimensional to start off with. I'm not going to lie: in real life you might dislike and disrespect Yossarian or T.S. Garp. Some of the protagonists here are arrogant and distant, many are arguably insane, and others cheat on the women they claim to love.
And yet...
There's something noble, passionate and beautifully truthful about each of them. They all have an intoxicating zest for life and find unique ways of living it to the fullest. But they'll be something different for you than they were for me, and that's the beauty of it. Unlike movie men, often gorgeous but underdeveloped and rigid in their roles, we can see literary characters with our own eyes. Between the printed lines, our minds morph them into something new. Ultimately, we infuse ourselves into them and they become a sound reality in fictitious skin: the perfect man.

More Vampires!

Here's an even better picture of Nosferatu from the 1979 "Phantom der Nacht" version. There are still no sparkles.

I love Gir...

And this seems oddly appropriate.

Vampires Don't Sparkle!

I am by no means a horror purist. If a writer wants to change their definition of a particular monster or creature so that it better fits their vision, then who am I to stop them or criticize them? Considering that the popular monsters of today come from folklore all over the world, it makes perfect sense that not every writer will chose to include some aspect of their popular mythology. Having said that, I do believe that there are some rules that need to be followed always: zombies don't run and vampires don't sparkle. I would have thought that both of these two rules are self-explanatory, but I suppose that they aren't. My evidence? Twilight:

"Edward in the sunlight was shocking. I couldn't get used to it, though I'd been staring at him all afternoon. His skin, white despite the faint flush from yesterday's hunting trip, literally sparkled, like thousands of tiny
diamonds were embedded in the surface. He lay perfectly still in the grass, his shirt open over his sculpted, incandescent chest, his scintillating arms bare. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut, though of course he didn't sleep. A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble, glittering like crystal."(260).

My problem with this isn't the fact that he's in the sun. Like I said, if a writer wants to change aspects of popular mythology in order for a monster to fit their vision, then that's great. Besides, early vampire folklore doesn't even mention the sun. I'm pretty sure the sun-allergy doesn't come up until Bram Stoker, actually. Nor is it the purple prose, although it's rather dreadful as well.

No, my problem with this is the fact that he's sparkling. Last time I checked, vampires were supposed to be frightening. Perhaps this is just me, but I don't find sparkly objects terrifying. When was the last time you saw somebody running away in abject terror from a diamond? That's what I thought. Glitter and sparkles have never scared anybody ever. So, why on earth would anybody ever make a vampire sparkle? Really, I don't understand it. Edward Cullen might as well be covered in pink satin while riding a unicorn. The sparkle-factor completely eradicates any potential to frighten anybody.

What happened to making vampires badasses? Why did that suddenly stop? If I wanted a character that was sparkly, I would have watched My Little Pony. I would not have picked up a book about vampires. Vampires are supposed to be creatures who were damned from their search for immortality. They are humans who have become un-human. And that is why they are terrifying. What the hell does sparkling have to do with that?

(Pictured: Nosferatu. Not Pictured: Sparkles.)

Is it too much to ask for vampires who actually deserve the title? And, if it isn't, then how long am I going to have to wait before vampires start being vampires again? How long until this sparkling menace goes away?

An Open Letter to Stephenie Meyer

Ms. Meyer,
I'm not entirely sure how to begin this letter, because there are so many things that I want to say to you. I suppose I should begin by telling you that I read your first book, Twilight. Not really because I wanted to, you understand, but mainly because I was so curious to see what all of the fuss was about. I don't know if you've noticed, since you're probably to busy enjoying making more money than I will ever see, but there's a lot of fuss about these books. And I was curious. Now, the problem for me, Stephenie, (I'm sorry, do you mind if I call you Stephenie? Typing out Ms. Meyer every time I want to address you directly is going to take too long.) is that I still don't understand the fuss. I mean, the book wasn't as bad as I was expecting it to be, but it also certainly isn't The Great American Novel, either. It's pretty much the perfect example of a book that someone would bring to read at the beach: a petty distraction and the kind of book that nobody would be devastated if they lost it. To be entirely honest, all of the characters are completely one-dimensional, especially Bella and Edward. With the other characters, it's a little harder to notice because they aren't in as much of the book. But I found Bella to be completely lacking in a personality. She doesn't do anything but fall in love, which is something that really doesn't require a lot of effort. And don't get me started on Edward. Perhaps you'll argue that I'm not in the right demographic to be a fan of Twilight, but I'm fairly certain that that isn't true. While the book is considered to be "young adult," which generally translates to "teenager," and I am 20 and so no longer fall under that title, I know many people (alright, women) who also do not fit the demographic and who have loved the book. So, I don't think that's the reason. But there has to be some reason for why these otherwise extremely intelligent young women would collectively obsess over what is a mediocre book at best. I can't understand what it is, though. I asked a close friend of mine who has read all four books why she read them. This was her reply: "It's like crack cookies*. They're of no substance or real appeal and you're horrified for eating them but you can't stop 'cause you're hooked." So, I suppose you've created some sort of literary crack. Are you proud of yourself?

There are a lot of problems that I see in your book. I'm not talking about the ridiculous amount of adjectives that you insist on using, either. Seriously, I don't think I have ever read that much purple prose in one book before. (Or, as you would probably prefer "amethyst text.") And, considering the narrator is 17, the adjectives seem even more over the top. I have a very hard time believing that any 17-year-old talks like that. (And I would know, Stephenie, seeing as how I was one only 3 years ago.) But that wasn't what I was going to criticize you for, I'm sorry. There are two major problems that I want to talk to you about, one of which will end up in its own post. The first is that the relationship between Edward and Bella is highly disturbing, and that I think you're setting a very poor example for young girls with that relationship. The second is that vampires don't sparkle. (That will be in a separate post because I don't think I have enough room to tackle both of these at once.)

In all seriousness, however, the relationship between Edward and Bella seems unhealthy at best. After Bella discovers that Edward is a vampire (Did she seriously have to google vampires? How is it possible that she didn't know what vampires were? Really?), she decides to not act on the knowledge, "Because when I thought of him, of his voice, his hypnotic eyes, the magnetic force of his personality, I wanted nothing more than to be with him right now."(139). Really? Really? Do you honestly believe that the first reaction a girl would have on finding out that the boy she has a crush on is a vampire would be to shrug it off? I could understand her choosing to ignore Edward being a vampire if she had thought for more than a second about what that would actually mean. But she didn't. Because she had already decided that she would dedicate herself to him. Later on in the book, it's revealed that Edward watches Bella sleep. Honestly, Stephenie, if I woke up and saw any vampire, even Edward, watching me sleep, I would give his sparkling ass a restraining order. Do you have any idea how creepy that sounds? That is seriously screwed up. And another thing, Stephenie: Edward and Bella have only been together for a few months when Bella asks Edward to turn her into a vampire so that 'they can live together forever.' Do you have any idea of the message you're sending to young, impressionable pre-teen girls? You're essentially telling them that "It's ok to have low self-esteem because it will help you find an Edward Cullen of your very own. And once you find a man, you should devote every aspect of your life to him. If he's stalking you or watching you sleep, it's only because he loves you so very much. And don't forget that you are going to want to spend the rest of your life with him, even if you've only known each other for a few months, because the first man you meet is obviously your soul mate." Seriously, this is a horrible message to send out. While most of your readers know that this is a horrible message, I'm very worried about the ones who are too young to know that. And you should be too.
Sincerely,
Kat

*Crack cookies is a term that refers to the sugar cookies with bright colored frosting that are sold at supermarkets and have no real taste. The name comes from a joke that the cookies are made up of sugar, flour, water, and crack. The cookies taste horrible and yet people cannot seem to stop eating them.

Has it been that long?

I'm certain that all loyal reader(s) of Secrets have come to hate me for my horrible lack of posts. That will get better soon, I hope. Meanwhile, go to Carefuleugene.blogspot.com (or follow the link to Careful with that blog, Eugene on your left), comment on the latest post and pester him to write something new already!

Honestly, I hate blogs and blog posts that only update the readers on what they've been up to: they're pointless and irritating. That's all I seem to be able to write though. I'm harder on CWTB,E and sometimes BSD than I am on myself because while sometimes they write about nothing, its that fun and fascinating Seinfeldian type of nothing.

So go light a fire under Paul and Read BSD's latest post. Secrets will be back when I finish finals and figure out how to enjoy writing, or When Kat has time to post!

Shameless Filler Post

Wow, so I have been extremely neglectful of Secrets lately.I am very, very sorry. My only real excuse is the turmoil that is moving three times in one semester, and living with three different families in four months. This isn't a real post at all, actually. This is just me saying that I'm probably not going to be able to post again until I finally come home, in early December. I'm sorry.

Yes, We Did!

This is probably not going to be the most coherent or eloquent bit of writing that I've ever posted, and I'm sorry about that. If this post goes all over the place, it's because I'm bouncing off the walls in delirious happiness.I'm far too excited and tired to be capable of writing anything that people will actually want to read. Instead, I'm posting for entirely selfish reasons. I'm writing this so that years from now I can remember how I felt tonight. For the first time since the year 2000, I feel like I can actually believe in democracy again. It's such a wonderful feeling, and it scarcely feels real to me. I keep having to tell myself that Barack Obama is the President Elect of the United States. "Yes, we can" became "Yes, we did." This is what winning feels like; I like winning. I've been told that people are cheering in the streets, although not apparently in Arizona. I've been holding back a scream for the past two hours, so as not to alienate my new host family. But I would just like to say once again, that I am absolutely ecstatic and so proud of my country. Thank you America, for restoring hope to a jaded, cynical college student. Thank you, God bless you all, and good night.

This is Halloween

So, I realize that here at Secrets we don't have any Halloween-related posts yet. Now, I had been planning to do a Dia de los Muertos post, which, for the record, is not at all similar to Halloween in any way, except in my head. I might still do that, but considering I don't know whether or not I'll be in Mexico then, there's probably no point. Instead, as a small token Halloween offering, I give you this bit of a classic:

Faith, Hope, and Charity?

I am probably one of the most naïve 20 year olds on the planet, which is extremely odd considering my personal history. I really should be far more jaded and cynical than I actually am. But, being the naïve idiot that I am, I decided a long time ago to take my naiveté in stride and to be happy about the fact that I am so optimistic, and gullible, and positive. I’m generally very slow to see problems that most people would see almost right away. So, generally, when I see something right away and think that it’s very, very wrong, it really is. Something has to be pretty screwed up for me to notice right away.

I recently started working at a shelter in Nogales, Arizona. I need to acknowledge first that the shelter does very good work, and that it’s the only place on the American side in Nogales that gives people food and a place to stay. It’s very important, and I don’t want to deride that. However, I have several problems with it already. I feel like I have to question why the shelter exists. And I don’t think it’s because there’s a need in Nogales, although there certainly is a need here. It seems to me like the directors of the shelter started it because there religion told them to. I went to Catholic school, but this shelter is the most “Christian” environment I have ever been in. Before I began working here, I had never been asked for my “salvation story” before. (I still don’t know if I even have one of those, or if I do what it is.) I suppose part of my problem with this place is my own personal history with religion and with overly religious people. My own crises of faith have left “indelible” marks. Religion, or rather, my lack of it, killed what was once a very close friendship and I still sort of regret my own part in that.

Despite my previous troubled interactions with religion, however, I’m still extremely ambivalent about it. I realized a while ago that religion (or at least Catholicism) was never going to play the part in my life that I wanted it to and that it did in my friends’ lives. For several years, I felt as if I were religiously incompetent—that the reason religion didn’t mean anything to me was because of some inherent flaw I had, and that’s why I “couldn’t” pray, why I lacked the faith and personal relationship with God that everyone around me seemed to have. It’s hard to tell now how much of it was a crisis of faith and how much of it was something entirely different, but that was one of the hardest times in my life. And religion and that time are intrinsically linked in my head, which is probably slightly unfair. However, and I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, exactly, I still see religion in a fairly positive light. If I’m completely honest, part of me is still extremely jealous of “people of faith” because part of me still wants what I was never truly able to have. Despite all of the problems it’s caused me, and, more importantly, the world in general, I still see religion as inspiring acts of great good.

But a discussion I had with a friend a while ago made me think about whether motives matter. Is it a problem that people do good work because they think Jesus told them to, instead of out of compassion for their fellow human being? Does that even matter? Is the only important aspect the work that is done? After all, if it weren’t for Christian beliefs, all of the people that I helped feed today wouldn’t have had lunch, and they wouldn’t have been given food to take home, or beds to sleep in. The small utilitarian part of me thinks that the work is so important that it doesn’t matter why it was done. But the rest of me, while I still acknowledge the importance of the work, sees a problem with giving people a side of Jesus with their soup. These next two months should be very interesting…

One-and-a-half-lingual?

Sorry for the double post. I have limited Internet access, and as such, I decided that it would be easier to just post two entries that I'd already written at once. I have several more ideas for posts, that I hope I'll be able to post next week. However, since I don't have the most reliable access, that's hardly a guarantee.
This is something that I’d have never thought I would say: expressing even my most basic thoughts is extremely difficult. I’ve always identified myself as articulate, well-spoken, and, on occasion, perhaps even eloquent. I might be quieter than most, but that’s because I’ve always tried to choose my words well. That way, when I do speak, and when I do I usually speak for a long time, what I say has more weight. The words I use, and the thoughts that they’re conveying are stronger that way. While I might on occasion complain about my articulateness, I’ve always known that I am capable of explaining any of my thoughts or beliefs in English, and that my explanation will be understood. In fact, any problems that I might have in self-expression stem not from linguistic inability, but rather from the fact that I don’t understand what I’m trying to say. The language itself isn’t the problem.

Or so I thought. Until I came here I don’t think I understood exactly how difficult learning another language actually is. Granted, I knew that I wasn’t fluent in Spanish, but I think I thought that I was close enough that I would be able to get by, and that I would be able to express myself and make myself understood. I assumed that I wouldn’t need to be fluent, exactly, but fluent enough. And to be fair, this was a somewhat logical assumption. After all, I’ve been taking Spanish classes since my freshman year of high school. All of those years must have taught me something, right? Well, they did, but I don’t think that they taught me enough. I can usually understand what somebody says to me, and I can usually answer them back, but there are so many more things that I want to be able to say, so many ideas that I want to be able to explain. Whenever I’m in a situation where I need to discuss a complex idea, I find myself stricken mute because I don’t have the words for it. Or, when I do have the vocabulary I need, I begin to obsess about the different grammatical structure and I stumble over conjugations that I learned years ago, and so I still can’t express myself at all.

I suppose my choice to live on the border was particularly apt. In addition to living 5 minutes from the steel wall that separates México and the U.S., I’m also living in two languages. I still think in English, and thankfully, all but one of my classes are in English, but my family doesn’t speak any English at all. With my family, and with random people on the street, I speak Spanish. I watch Spanish TV, unless I’m feeling extremely homesick, in which case I watch American movies with Spanish subtitles. I cross the international border every Monday through Friday, but I cross the language barrier every five minutes. While I’m living a bilingual life in a bilingual world, I am not bilingual at all. At best, I’m one-and-a-half-lingual. (I don’t know what the prefix for one-and-a-half would be.) I can express basic ideas in Spanish, but my English is still light-years ahead of my Spanish. If I’m being completely honest with myself, it probably always will be. It’s extremely frustrating and exhausting to not be able to be as articulate as I normally am. Little misunderstandings are depressing, if only because I thought that I was beyond them. The most amusing part of this language struggle, at least to me, is that my host family seems to be pretty much oblivious to it. They’ll say things like “Ella se habla muchísimo Español.” Or, “Tu Español es muy bien. Entiendes casi todos.” I just don’t have the words to make them understand. Hasta luego, Kat.

Ugly American Tourists and Hostels Galore

First of all, I need to apologize for going so long without posting. My only real excuse is that I’ve been extremely busy. I spent the past few weeks preparing to leave Tucson, which of course meant that I only had time to write papers and do all of my reading. I barely had any time to spend with my absolutely wonderful Tucson host family. And after Tucson, I spent the past week in Mexico City, and I was in no position to post anything there. I did have access to the internet, but I had to pay for it. And more importantly, I was definitely still trying to process everything that I had seen and experienced.

Of course, to be entirely fair, I still haven’t processed everything that I saw while I was in Mexico City. To some extent, I’m not even sure what I should think about the trip. On the one hand, it was a program-based excursion, complete with fascinating talks about the student rebellions in Mexico in 1968(and the massacre on October 2) and 1999, internal migration in Mexico and the legal and economic ramifications of NAFTA. (Ok, so the economic discussion wasn’t as fascinating: I find numbers boring in my first language, but in my second, they’re impossible.) This part I loved, and, what’s more, I don’t feel bad about loving it. While we did do some touristy things, like going to the Torre Latino and the Frida Kahlo museum, we weren’t there solely to be tourists. That changed the dynamics of the trip, at least for me, because in a sense, it allowed me to feel a small sense of superiority, especially when I compared myself to the other people staying in my hostel. For the most part, they did not speak any Spanish, and were only in Mexico City to shop and go clubbing. (Granted, I did both of the last two things as well: the former quite a bit, the latter only once.) During the programmed part of the week, I felt different from those tourists, because I was there to learn more about complicated problems that some of them had probably never even heard of. I’ll admit it was a really nice feeling.

If you think I sound extremely arrogant, you’re right. However, that sense of superiority quickly disappeared once the programmed part of the week ended and my fall break began. I didn’t have a better reason to be in Mexico City anymore. I quickly began to feel like the epitome of the ugly American tourist, hated the world over. Now, I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed all of the time that I spent in Mexico City, because I really did have a lot of fun and I managed to learn a lot, even during my break. I loved going to Bellas Artes, the Palacio Nacional, and the Mueso de Antropología. I will even admit to loving the tour that my hostel gave that took us to the Basilica de la Virgen de Guadalupe and Teotihuacán. That was an incredible experience, and not just because we went to two absolutely awe-inspiring places. The group that went on the tour was a mix of different nationalities, and while English was a second language for quite a few people, Spanish was spoken by very few. That was ok, however, because our tour guide spoke English. The places we went to were beautiful and absolutely sublime. As a lapsed Catholic, I was especially affected by the Basilica. Seeing the tilma with the Virgin’s image on it, affected me in ways that I wouldn’t have expected. A few days after going to the Basilica, I found myself praying in my head, which is something I hadn’t done in years. I don’t really know what I should make of that development, other than that I was less lapsed than I’d thought. But Teotihuacán was something else entirely. Walking through the reconstructed ruins is something left me speechless for the entire day. I still am unable to describe it in a way that is even remotely comprehensible. I also am struggling to write about the place without romanticizing it. I am a horrible romantic, but I know that if I describe Teotihuacán the way I want to, as the ruins of an extinct civilization, then I am not describing it as it is today. If I write about the glory of the Teotihuacános, and the Aztecs who only later inhabited the city, then I’m ignoring all of the people who still make a living there. While Teotihuacán is frequently seen as a reconstructed, it is still alive. Granted, it is not as alive as it once was, and it isn’t the same, but it is still very much alive. The streets are no longer filled with Aztecs, but rather tourists, tour guides, and the thousands of vendors who sell at the feet of pyramids that used to be the site of human sacrifices.

I’m sorry; I’m not being very articulate. I suppose I still don’t know exactly what I should say about this past week. I still feel overwhelmed by the entire experience, and I’m having difficulty sticking with only one topic, when there are hundreds of things that I could be saying. However, I do have some good news for the very few readers of this blog: I have several ideas for more posts, so keep an eye out. Hasta luego, Kat.

Untitled

Once upon a time,
in a world that's never been,
I awoke to find myself
in the middle of a dream.

The stars, they glittered dully
on this midday summer's eve,
the flowers tickled grass blades
who cried-laughed happily.

And the clock chimed one
as the summer sun
fooled by the winter's day
glumly pranced and sadly danced
'till the gravestones ran away.

Then a tiny child of sixty-five
walk-galloped up to me.
Bareheaded, she wore a pretty pink hat
and stood grinning seriously.

"Don't you see?" She shouted at a whisper.
So I looked to hear the mute man's speech
and the call of the rainbow-black bird
And although the pink river flowed loudly upstream
Do you know, I smelled every word.

The elderly child poked my back
with a touch like silk and cut glass.
"You know," she said
"you've crossed the bridge
you must enter before you've passed."

I looked ahead-behind me:
a bridge of golden-silver wood
stood innocently-guilty crossed
as bridges always should.

I crossed the bridge and entered-left
the world that's never been
and yet never have I woken
from that strangely normal dream.

The Line Has Not Held

I’m not entirely sure how I want to begin this entry. I feel like there’s so many things that I need to address here, and I don’t know where to begin. This leaves me feeling slightly hesitant and anxious about the whole concept behind this post, and I know enough to know that that probably isn’t a good thing. I’m having trouble expressing myself in a way that isn’t completely self-centered, because what I have to say is beyond myself, and is more important than I am. It’s far more important than anyone person, really, and I’m at a point where I’m struggling to reconcile my personal emotions with what actually needs to be said.

I’ve come to realize that my own emotions won’t change anything. All of my anger at this situation, and all of my grief cannot fix this. If anything, that knowledge only seems to make me even more frustrated. I’m going to try as hard as possibly can to not be preachy about this, but I feel very strongly about this issue, so I can’t make any guarantees. I apologize ahead of time if what I say offends anyone, because I’m about to discuss a very controversial topic, and I understand that many people are going to disagree with what I’m about to say. I understand that, but I’m saying this anyway, because it needs to be said, and I feel that I need to say it.

Illegal immigration is a hugely controversial issue, with both sides having very strong arguments. I’m going to skirt around the “legal” question as much as I can for now, although I may feel up to addressing that issue later on in the year. The fact is, many people are coming into the United States via Mexico, regardless of whether one believes they should be able to legally or not. Ignoring the legality of this issue, there is a larger problem at stake: people are dying in their attempts to cross the desert. Why? Well, back in 1994, the Border Patrol decided that it would increase its efforts to crack down on illegal immigration. Knowing that the vast majority of migrants crossed in the urban areas on the border (because that’s where it’s easiest and safest to cross), the Border Patrol began to close up the border in those areas. This operation had different names in different cities: in San Diego, it was Operation Gatekeeper, here in Tucson it was Operation Safe Guard, and in El Paso, it was Operation Hold the Line. Operation Hold the Line is what all three are most commonly referred to. The Operation was a success, in that the number of apprehensions in urban areas has plummeted in the 14 years since. However, Operation Hold the Line has not reduced the number of people crossing into the United States. Instead, it has made a “funnel effect”; it has funneled people into crossing at the only available point now: the desert between Arizona and Sonora. Operation Hold the Line did not decrease the number of migrants, because it did not address the root causes of why migrants are crossing, and as a result, the line has not held. Increased militarization of the border is not the solution.

What the solution is depends on your point of view, I suppose. I certainly don’t have any real answers, other than dealing with the immediate humanitarian crisis here in the desert. According to Coalición de Derechos Humanos, since October 1, 2007, 148 bodies of migrants have been recovered in the desert. (Nobody knows how many bodies have not been recovered, but given the extreme conditions of the desert, it’s likely that the actual body count from this year is much, much higher.) This is why I’m so angry and depressed and guilty and frustrated. People are suffering and dying and there’s absolutely nothing that I can do about it, except to tell more people about this horrible situation. I suppose one of the reasons that I’m writing this is that I hope that maybe one of the two regular readers of this blog (well, besides me), will be able to help me in what I feel just might be the most important thing I’ve ever done. (Ok, that was extremely preachy, and I appologize for it.)

La Frontera

So it seems that moving half-way across the country can cause a person to become slightly neglectful of previous responsibilities. I'm really sorry. In my defense, I have been pretty busy these past few weeks. I've also been thinking about what exactly I want to write about, because I can think of several experiences that would all make excellent posts. However, seeing as how decision-making is not my greatest skill, I think what I'll do instead is take bits and pieces from all of that and put it into one post. If my thoughts seem disjointed, it's because they are.

I suppose one of the first things that I noticed about Tucson, was, obviously the climate. For a girl from Michigan, moving to the desert is quite difficult. It’s very hot here, and I find myself missing the humidity. Now, tanner than ever, and slightly sunburned, I feel that I’m starting to become adjusted to the intense (for me) heat. The desert is surreal and sublime. I can look out my window and see cacti. It’s very odd…I wouldn’t have thought that it could be so beautiful here. I always thought that a desert was lifeless, but that was before I saw the flowers and the fruit of the cacti. Before I got here, I hadn’t ever seen the sun set over the mountains, or for that matter, even seen mountains up close. Tucson is so different from everything I know and love, and at times I feel as if I were living on a different planet. A different, but very beautiful planet where everything is strange and weird and wonderful. Of course, I have more than just the physical environment to adjust to. There is the social environment as well. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the large size of the University of Arizona’s campus didn’t terrify me when I first saw it. As a student of a tiny college, I’m not used to be surrounded by so many people. Standing alone in a crowd of thousands of people, staring at a map, desperately trying to figure out how to get to the library, I have never missed my home campus so much. I took for granted the tiny campus of Albion, where a five minute walk could take me from one end of campus to the opposite. So I’ve been adjusting. I’ve been puzzling over a bus map, trying to figure out how to get around.

But I haven’t only been in Tucson; I’ve been on the border, learning about the policies that have made it into what it is today. It’s very hard for me not to go into a very long, very angry political rant right now. I probably will go into one at some point, but I’d like to avoid it for the time being, at least until I feel like I know enough that I can actually be eloquent instead of just angry. For now, however, I will just say that seeing that long green wall for the first time was one of the hardest and most emotional experiences of my life. It was one of the many times that I’ve realized that my perception of reality, and actual reality were different. And just like all of those other times, I’ve learned from the discomfort and I’ve grown from it. I promise that I will write much, much more about the Border, and about immigration policy, and about the all of the people that I’ve already met who are suffering because of it. But before I can do that, I need some time to process what I’ve seen and experienced. But look for that sometime soon.

A Working Title

Kat in her infinite wisdom and infinite business left the blog in my charge for the last few weeks...and possibly longer still. I'm sorry to say I've made a pretty poor showing so far, but no more!

Coming soon: Stef's Conundrums

Intriguing, eh? Stop by sometime within this next week for a sample
You thought this post would have some substance, didn't you? Well HA! Fooled you!

Border Studies, 2008

Hi, everybody! This isn't really going to be an actual post. This is pretty much just me saying that I"m not going to be able to post for a while. I'm not entirely sure when I'll be able to post again, because I'm going to spend my semester on the U.S./Mexican border, and I'm very busy with getting ready for Tucson, Arizona. I'm going to try to write somewhat frequently, but I can't make that guarantee, because I don't know my schedule yet. At this point, all I know is that I leave on Saturday. I'm sorry.

A Summer Reading List

Sorry I haven’t posted in so long. Believe it or not, this has been in the works for awhile. I’ve spent a good part of the last few days organizing all of my books (about two ceiling-high bookshelves full, plus some) and deciding which combination of old favorites and new prospects were worthy of a place in my bedroom bookshelf. After all that, I feel qualified to make a couple of suggestions. If anyone interested comments, I promise I’ll post more. I know this is coming late in the season, but if you’re not ridiculously bogged down with finishing (or just starting) an assigned reading list, check some of these out!

1. I’m sorry, but our blog is named for it, so it’s the only place to begin – Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. It’s jumbled and wacky from the beginning and the harsh ridiculousness of the surrealism Heller plunges you into, not to mention the 50+ characters he introduces can make the book difficult to digest. But once your mind clicks into Heller's world- the bureaucratic nightmare he creates, the truth of the entire book becomes laughably obvious. It’s the best anti-war and anti government satire I’ve ever read.

2. A Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde is next. The picture in question is a clever, though admittedly obvious conceit for appearances vs. reality. Sir Henry really makes the book when he spouts off hedonistic philosophies that he has no intention of ever living by. Just about every character is madly in love with Dorian, which can get a little old, but still the book flows surprisingly well for Victorian literature.

Okay, time for a little non-fiction. I’m trying to keep it short, so just one more.

3. No God but God: The Origins, Evolutions, and Future of Islam by Reza Aslan – this book reads like fiction, which to me is one of its best qualities. As the title implies, it discusses the history of Islam, but it tells the story like a fairly tale which made the book impossible for me to put down. Aslan is surprisingly unbiased and the book is very approachable, even for a non-Muslim. I especially recommend it if you find anything about current middle-eastern policy and politics involving Islamic countries confusing.

Changelings

Those few people who are regular readers of this blog know of my (slight) obsession with mythology/folk-lore/fairy-tales, etc. It's not something I try to hide; it's just an aspect of my personality that I don't always showcase. But I'm digressing. One of the most common stories (and one of my personal favorites), is that of the changeling. The changeling, depending on where the story comes from, is either Troll or Fairy or Fae, and is left in place of a human child, usually while the mother is either asleep or has her back turned. Why the child has been stolen also depends on who is telling the story. According to some, they thought the human child was pretty. Others say that they wanted their children to be raised as human for a better life. Many however, believe that the Fae desired human children as teinds, or tithes, who were sacrificed every seven years. But generally, that doesn't matter, because the story focuses on the concerned parents of the child. Almost always, they realize that something is wrong with their child, and they seek the advice of a priest or an old woman. (Why are wise women always old?) The sage tells the parents that they should try to boil water in eggshells (or brew beer in an acorn) in front of the child. If the child is a changeling, they will laugh and question the odd behavior. If the child is not a changeling, they will continue to lie there like the boring (but oh so adorable) baby they are. Once the parents know that their baby is a changeling, they abandon it in a field, so that the Fae parents will want to switch it back. And that's where the story always ends. But that ending always struck me as rather hollow. I always wondered what happened to the changeling, and what happened to human child while it was in the land of Fae. And then I found "The Stolen Child." (Yes, this entire post was just an excuse for me to post this.)
"The Stolen Child" by W.B. Yeats

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scare could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than he can understand.

Yet another appologetic post

It's been awhile since my last post, and I appologize for that. (Far too many of my posts seem to begin with that phrase, and I appologize for that as well.) The reason I haven't written in awhile is because I haven't had anything to write about. All I've done lately is work, it seems. (Well, that and see Batman: The Dark Knight. I thought about writing a post on the movie, however, the only thing I have to say about it holyfuckingshitohmygodthatwassofuckingawesome!, and that didn't seem like a very good post.) However, Stef's away for awhile, so I'm responsible for the maintanence of Secrets, and I'd feel bad if I let her down.
I promise to post something with a bit more substance soon, but for now, here's another random youtube video.