Ben's Civic Life Blog

Author’s note:

This exercise in creative writing has been an equally frustrating, rewarding, and thought-provoking experience. At first, I thought this would be a relatively simple, 600 word assignment. As such, I chose a one of the initial prompts, that to begin each sentence with the word that preceded it. After a few sentences, I knew this would be a puzzling task. Each phrase had to be rearranged to follow this format accurately. As a result, the post at times reads awkwardly, with seemingly inexplicable structures thrown into the text. However, as a whole, I think it reads well, and demonstrates a proficiency in imagination.

As the assignment progressed, I decided to attempt to lengthen this unnatural writing style as long as I could. I lasted about 400 more words – for a total of 1,000 – before it became too arduous of a task, too rooted in the minutiae of switching words around, to warrant any more time. To complete the post, and to stick with the theme of my childhood, I decided to add a vignette from a specific moment of my early life – one of my first vivid memories – with a focus on detail, dialogue, and an attempt at nonfiction storytelling.

Pennsylvania is the original home to neither my mother nor my father. Father Berkman – my dad – was also present at my naissance.  Naissance is traditionally a French word: a language I started studying about ten years after my birth. Birth is something that I experienced on April fourth, 1995. 1995, the year in which I was born was a significant year – but you already know that, as this is getting redundant. Redundancy is something one wishes to avoid while writing, even if each sentence must start with the word that preceded it. It, according to my parents, was a rainy day on which I was born.

Born into this world, my first word was not “hamburger.” A hamburger, however, almost forced my father to miss my entrance into this world. World hunger may be bad, but my father wanted a hamburger while waiting for my mother to go into labor. Labored by my father’s absence, my mother went into labor while my father fetched his meat. “Meet me in the hospital room,” was what my father heard on his phone as he was eating. Eating quickly, he ran back up to the hospital room just in time to see baby Ben become a little boy. Boy, that was a cheesy story.

The story goes that had I not been born on April fourth, my mother would have needed a cesarean section, as I was nearly three weeks late. Late, according to my mother, was better than never. Never did she anticipate me being so late, but I was. “Was I worth the wait?” I once asked her. Her response, relievingly, was yes.

Yes, I emerged from my mother’s womb into a warm blanket on April fourth. April fourth, 1995 was also the day on which there was a large fire in a barn, fifteen miles from my hospital- the largest fire in years. Years later, exactly eighteen to be exact, on April fourth, 2013 there was another large fire in another barn, also fifteen miles from where I live. Living through two fires, the first on the day I was born, and the second on the day I became a man, fire has become a special symbol, a unique omen, for my family and me.

We discovered the second fire one morning, while reading the newspaper during breakfast. Breakfast time, in the Berkman household, is often a silent affair: everyone is immersed in either a paper, a magazine, or the news. News is a valuable thing to become acquainted with every morning. This morning, the morning of my eighteenth birthday, we scanned the local newspaper, The Centre Daily Times. Times sure have changed in the many years I’ve read the CDT: the paper’s quality has worsened significantly, and the news it contains is often unoriginal, uninteresting, or simply poorly written. Written, however, in the corner of the “Breakfast Briefing” section was a short, fifty world article with the headline “Local Barn Fire Destroys Property”, or something like that.

That, however, was enough to spark my father’s interest.

“Out of interest,” he asked me, “didn’t a barn burn down the day you were born as well?”

Well immersed in a copy of the New York Times, his question  surprised me. “Me — you’re asking me?” I clarified. “Yes, I very well remember that did occur.”

“Occurrences like those are rare,” my father responded. “Rare enough that you wouldn’t expect them to happen again. However, it happened again last night, the evening before your eighteenth birthday.”

Birthday boy Ben was shocked to hear of such a coincidence. “Coincidentally, I was just reading about wildfires out in California in this issue of the Times.” Times like these are oft documented throughout the Berkman household — the newspaper clipping of the two separate barn burning incidences are hung on our refrigerator, on clipping in front, the other after.

After I was born, I was released from the hospital and moved into my first home. That home is not where I call home now. Now, my parents live in a more isolated, residential part of town. Town — the “borough of State College” — however, is where I now live, as a student on campus. Campus living, in a sense, has brought my 18 residential years in State College full circle.

Circling in on this fact, my mom and I remarked on this realization the day before I moved into school and bid my parents good-bye.

“By moving into the dorms,” she said, “you’ll be living less than a mile from where you did as an infant; isn’t that funny?”

Funny wasn’t the operative word I was looking for in that circumstance, so I instead decided to humor my mother by responding, simply, “hilarious, mom, I know.”

“Know that I’ll miss you, and that I want you to be safe,” she said, in typical motherly fashion. “But also have fun despite all of your work and labor.”

Labored by the fact that I’d be living a mere mile from my first home and less than three from my current abode — it felt like I’d still be living under my parent’s watch — her words of warning struck a disconnect.

“Disconnected from you, I will not be,” I responded to her, easing many of my mother’s qualms.

[Note to reader: Here I’m switching style to “descriptive narrative” because 1500 words beginning each sentence with the word that ended the previous sentence is too strenuous to be effective.]

Continuing with the theme of my formative year’s, here’s a brief vignette from my childhood:

I associate two things with the town of Great Neck, New York, a small city on Long Island: traffic and rain.

It was doing both of these this late August afternoon.

Eight years old, I exited the movie theatre in the classic American strip mall with my two cousins and uncle, who resided within the cities limits.

I was visiting before school began for the year, enjoying a weekend in suburbia before the hectic rush that accompanies a new semester.

After the movie — “Pirates of the Caribbean”, I believe — we ran across the parking lot, dodging pellets of rain along the way. We reached the car, a blue Toyota Corolla, soaking wet, but in good spirits that we would be soon returning to the safe and dry confines of my cousin’s home.

But just as we were about to back out of the parking spot, I noticed I was missing my sweatshirt, a prized Reebok hoodie, that had become my favorite article of clothing.

I opened the window, craning my head out the door to see if I had left it behind during the sprint.

There it was! A speck of red in the desolate, puddle-ridden parking lot.

But my uncle did not see that I had stuck my head out the window. In fact, he only noticed that water was entering the vehicle, and he was not pleased. Immediately, he closed the window from his driver-seat controls.

The window, propelled by electronic gears, pushed up on my neck, which was still extended out the window longingly looking for my Reebok.

The relentless window reached my Adam’s apple, pushing deep into my trachea.

“Stopppp” I yelled, or more properly moaned, as the plastic window stifled my voice box.

My cousins, who were also seated in the back seat, noticed as well. But my uncle wasn’t aware of what needed to be stopped.

He pressed on, driving the window farther into my neck, suppressing now not only my vocal capabilities, but now also my ability to breathe. Miraculously, I slipped a finger between my throat and the window, and using the inner-found strength of a chiseled body-builder, I pushed the window back down, proving man can conquer technology.

I collapsed, exhausted from the struggle. It was only then that my largely clueless uncle realized his faux-pas.

But I rallied, made a full recovery, and sustained virtually no lasting injuries. It was a horrific event, and now one often mentioned at family reunions.

After looking through various sites, I’ve decided I want to construct my e-portfolio on Weebly. Intuitive, and with ample videos to guide one through challenging sections, it seems like the most user friendly domain.

I believe that the link is: http://www.bens-eportfolio.weebly.com. However, it may not be live until I publish the site. Stay tuned.

I don’t really know the story of how I was born. Born was I on April fourth, 1995. 1995 is a significant year in many ways: it started on a Saturday, a karaoke fire in Taiwan killed 64, and Jacques Chirac was elected as the President of France. France is the country about which my mother is a Professor. Professor Silverman – my mother – gave birth to me on April fourth, 1995 in State College, Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania is the original home to neither my mother nor my father. Father Berkman – my dad – was also present at my naissance.  Naissance is traditionally a French word: a language I started studying about ten years after my birth. Birth is something that I experienced on April fourth, 1995. 1995, the year in which I was born was a significant year – but you already know that, as this is getting redundant. Redundancy is something one wishes to avoid while writing, even if each sentence must start with the word that preceded it. It, according to my parents, was a rainy day on which I was born.

Born into this world, my first word was not “hamburger.” A hamburger, however, almost forced my father to miss my entrance into this world. World hunger may be bad, but my father wanted a hamburger while waiting for my mother to go into labor. Labored by my father’s absence, my mother went into labor while my father fetched his meat. “Meet me in the hospital room,” was what my father heard on his phone as he was eating. Eating quickly, he ran back up to the hospital room just in time to see baby Ben become a little boy. Boy, that was a cheesy story.

The story goes that had I not been born on April fourth, my mother would have needed a cesarean section, as I was nearly three weeks late. Late, according to my mother, was better than never. Never did she anticipate me being so late, but I was. “Was I worth the wait?” I once asked her. Her response, relievingly, was yes.

Yes, I emerged from my mother’s womb into a warm blanket on April fourth. April fourth, 1995 was also the day on which there was a large fire in a barn, fifteen miles from my hospital- the largest fire in years. Years later, exactly eighteen to be exact, on April fourth, 2013 there was another large fire in another barn, also fifteen miles from where I live. Living through two fires, the first on the day I was born, and the second on the day I became a man, fire has become a special symbol, a unique omen, for my family and me.

We discovered the second fire one morning, while reading the newspaper during breakfast. Breakfast time, in the Berkman household, is often a silent affair: everyone is immersed in either a paper, a magazine, or the news. News is a valuable thing to become acquainted with every morning. This morning, the morning of my eighteenth birthday, we scanned the local newspaper, The Centre Daily Times. Times sure have changed in the many years I’ve read the CDT: the paper’s quality has worsened significantly, and the news it contains is often unoriginal, uninteresting, or simply poorly written. Written, however, in the corner of the “Breakfast Briefing” section was a short, fifty world article with the headline “Local Barn Fire Destroys Property”, or something like that.

That, however, was enough to spark my father’s interest.

“Out of interest,” he asked me, “didn’t a barn burn down the day you were born as well?”

Well immersed in a copy of the New York Times, his question  surprised me. “Me — you’re asking me?” I clarified. “Yes, I very well remember that that did it occur.”

“Occurrences like those are rare,” my father responded. “Rare enough that you wouldn’t expect them to happen again. However, it happened again last night, the evening before your eighteenth birthday.”

Birthday boy Ben was shocked to hear of such a coincidence. “Coincidentally, I was just reading about wildfires out in California in this issue of the Times.” Times like these are oft documented throughout the Berkman household — the newspaper clipping of the two separate barn burning incidences are hung on our refrigerator, on clipping in front, the other after.

After I was born, I was released from the hospital and moved into my first home. That home is not where I call home now. Now, my parents live in a more isolated, residential part of town. Town — the “borough of State College” — however, is where I now live, as a student on campus. Campus living, in a sense, has brought my 18 residential years in State College full circle.

Circling in on this fact, my mom and I remarked on this realization the day before I moved into school and bid my parents good-bye.

“By moving into the dorms,” she said, “you’ll be living less than a mile from where you did as an infant; isn’t that funny?”

Funny wasn’t the operative word I was looking for in that circumstance, so I instead decided to humor my mother by responding, simply, “hilarious, mom, I know.”

“Know that I’ll miss you, and that I want you to be safe,” she said, in typical motherly fashion. “But also have fun despite all of your work and labor.”

Labored by the fact that I’d be living a mere mile from my first home and less than three from my current abode — it felt like I’d still be living under my parent’s watch — her words of warning struck a disconnect.

“Disconnected from you, I will not be,” I responded to her, easing many of my mother’s qualms.

[Note to reader: I’m switching style to “descriptive narrative” because 1500 words beginning each sentence with the word that ended the previous sentence is too strenuous to be effective.]

Continuing with the theme of my formative year’s, here’s a brief vignette from my childhood:

I associate two things with the town of Great Neck, New York, a small city on Long Island: traffic and rain.

It was doing both of these this late August afternoon.

Eight years old, I exited the movie theatre in the classic American strip mall with my two cousins and uncle, who resided within the cities limits.

I was visiting before school began for the year, enjoying a weekend in suburbia before the hectic rush that accompanies a new semester.

After the movie — “Pirates of the Caribbean”, I believe — we ran across the parking lot, dodging pellets of rain along the way. We reached the car, a blue Toyota Corolla, soaking wet, but in good spirits that we would be soon returning to the safe and dry confines of my cousin’s home.

But just as we were about to back out of the parking spot, I noticed I was missing my sweatshirt, a prized Reebok hoodie, that had become my favorite article of clothing.

I opened the window, craning my head out the door to see if I had left it behind during the sprint.

There it was! A speck of red in the desolate, puddle-ridden parking lot.

But my uncle did not see that I had stuck my head out the window. In fact, he only noticed that water was entering the vehicle, and he was not pleased. Immediately, he closed the window from his driver-seat controls.

The window, propelled by electronic gears, pushed up on my neck, which was still extended out the window longingly looking for my Reebok.

The relentless window reach my adam’s apple, pushing deep into my trachea.

“Stopppp” I yelled, or more properly moaned, as the plastic window stifled my voice box.

My cousins, who were also seated in the back seat, noticed as well. But my uncle wasn’t aware of what needed to be stopped.

He pressed on, driving the window farther into my neck, suppressing now not only my vocal capabilities, but now also my ability to breathe. Miraculously, I slipped a finger between my throat and the window, and using the inner-found strength of a chiseled body-builder, I pushed the window back down, proving man can conquer technology.

I collapsed, exhausted from the struggle. It was only then that my largely clueless uncle realized his faux-pas.

But I rallied, made a full recovery, and sustained virtually no lasting injuries. It was a horrific event, and now one often mentioned at family reunions.

Abstract: These instructions for rising from slumber can be repeated no matter the date, time, or location. For this set, however, we will instruct the participant on how to wake up on a normal weekday, in which he or she has class that morning.

1. The evening before, before retiring for the night, set your iPhone alarm for exactly an hour before first class. Make sure to set a back up alarm precisely ten minutes later than the first, just in case. This will provide you the necessary time to shower, dress, and grab a quick breakfast.

2. Fall asleep, with the confidence that your alarm will wake you on the other side.

3. Wake up to the melodic jingle of the default iPhone alarm tone. Despite the dulcet tone, groan loudly because you have to get out of bed (not too loud, you may wake the roommate). If it’s winter, and thus colder outside the wrath of your blankets, groan extra loudly.

4. Emerging from your cocoon, quickly grab a towel and sprint to the shower. This is the only way to fully awaken. A day has not begun without a proper shower.

5. Upon showering, your bed will look like a comfortable counter option to getting dressed and braving the elements. Do not fall for this trap. Get dressed, pack your back and head to breakfast.

6. Having woken only twenty minutes earlier, you may not be hungry, or may even be repulsed by the idea of a breakfast sandwich. However, numerous highly acclaimed, award winning, ethos invoking health experts have suggested that breakfast may possibly be one of the three most important meals of the day. Get something from Rediffer and wolf it down.

7. You’ll have approximately 15 minutes to get to class. The prospect of being rushed so earlier in the morning is unappealing, and your bed will beckon. Once again, don’t fall for these fruitless traps, and get to class.

8. Enjoy, best served warm with milk.

I don’t really know the story of how I was born. Born was I on April fourth, 1995. 1995 is a significant year in many ways: it started on a Saturday, a karaoke fire in Taiwan killed 64, and Jacques Chirac was elected as the President of France. France is the country about which my mother is a Professor. Professor Silverman – my mother – gave birth to me on April fourth, 1995 in State College, Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania is the original home to neither my mother nor my father. Father Berkman – my dad – was also present at my naissance.  Naissance is traditionally a French word: a language I started studying about ten years after my birth. Birth is something that I experienced on April fourth, 1995. 1995, the year in which I was born was a significant year – but you already know that, as this is getting redundant. Redundancy is something one wishes to avoid while writing, even if each sentence must start with the word that preceded it. It, according to my parents, was a rainy day on which I was born.

Born into this world, my first word was not “hamburger.” A hamburger, however, almost forced my father to miss my entrance into this world. World hunger may be bad, but my father wanted a hamburger while waiting for my mother to go into labor. Labored by my father’s absence, my mother went into labor while my father fetched his meat. “Meet me in the hospital room,” was what my father heard on his phone as he was eating. Eating quickly, he ran back up to the hospital room just in time to see baby Ben become a little boy. Boy, that was a cheesy story.

The story goes that had I not been born on April fourth, my mother would have needed a cesarean section, as I was nearly three weeks late. Late, according to my mother, was better than never. Never did she anticipate me being so late, but I was. “Was I worth the wait?” I once asked her. Her response, relievingly, was yes.

Yes, I emerged from my mother’s womb into a warm blanket on April fourth. April fourth, 1995 was also the day on which there was a large fire in a barn, fifteen miles from my hospital- the largest fire in years. Years later, exactly eighteen to be exact, on April fourth, 2013 there was another large fire in another barn, also fifteen miles from where I live. Living through two fires, the first on the day I was born, and the second on the day I became a man, fire has become a special symbol, a unique omen, for my family and me.

We discovered the second fire one morning, while reading the newspaper during breakfast. Breakfast time, in the Berkman household, is often a silent affair: everyone is immersed in either a paper, a magazine, or the news. News is a valuable thing to become acquainted with every morning. This morning, the morning of my eighteenth birthday, we scanned the local newspaper, The Centre Daily Times. Times sure have changed in the many years I’ve read the CDT: the paper’s quality has worsened significantly, and the news it contains is often unoriginal, uninteresting, or simply poorly written. Written, however, in the corner of the “Breakfast Briefing” section was a short, fifty world article with the headline “Local Barn Fire Destroys Property”, or something like that.

That, however, was enough to spark my father’s interest.

“Out of interest,” he asked me, “didn’t a barn burn down the day you were born as well?”

Well immersed in a copy of the New York Times, his question  surprised me. “Me — you’re asking me?” I clarified. “Yes, I very well remember that that did it occur.”

“Occurrences like those are rare,” my father responded. “Rare enough that you wouldn’t expect them to happen again. However, it happened again last night, the evening before your eighteenth birthday.”

Birthday boy Ben was shocked to hear of such a coincidence. “Coincidentally, I was just reading about wildfires out in California in this issue of the Times.” Times like these are oft documented throughout the Berkman household — the newspaper clipping of the two separate barn burning incidences are hung on our refrigerator, on clipping in front, the other after.

After I was born, I was released from the hospital and moved into my first home. That home is not where I call home now. Now, my parents live in a more isolated, residential part of town. Town — the “borough of State College” — however, is where I now live, as a student on campus. Campus living, in a sense, has brought my 18 residential years in State College full circle.

Circling in on this fact, my mom and I remarked on this realization the day before I moved into school and bid my parents good-bye.

“By moving into the dorms,” she said, “you’ll be living less than a mile from where you did as an infant; isn’t that funny?”

Funny wasn’t the operative word I was looking for in that circumstance, so I instead decided to humor my mother by responding, simply, “hilarious, mom, I know.”

“Know that I’ll miss you, and that I want you to be safe,” she said, in typical motherly fashion. “But also have fun despite all of your work and labor.”

Labored by the fact that I’d be living a mere mile from my first home and less than three from my current abode — it felt like I’d still be living under my parent’s watch — her words of warning struck a disconnect.

“Disconnected from you, I will not be,” I responded to her, easing many of my mother’s qualms.

Option 1

Dear Abe Lincoln,

How’s it going old pal? It’s been awhile since we last talked. You were busy emancipating the slaves while I was slaving over my studies. It’s been generations since we last talked, but let me tell you what I’m up to. I’m 18 now, far removed from my younger days when we used to be buds. I’m studying at Penn State University, in the state of Pennsylvania, which was just a small commonwealth in your day. I’m studying Economics and French, I write for a campus news website, I do research for a professor, and I have a ton of work. Things have changed since the old days, haven’t they? What have you been up to? How’s Mary Todd? I hope she’s well.

Your friend,

Ben

—

Dear Abe,

Hope you’re well. I’m in college, studying Economics and French. I write for a campus news source, and I help a professor conduct research. Unlike past times, I have a lot of work.

Hope to hear from you soon,

Ben

Option 2

Objective written in upright text, subjective follows in italics.

My best friend Nikhil lives in a big house at the top of his street, which sits upon a hill.

Nikhil’s house is a large, imposing brick structure. It’s removed from the houses on either side, pushed into an inlet of woods. The front porch lights are almost always off — as are many of the lights in the front of the house — which produces an unwelcoming affect to the uninitiated visitor. I, however, have become accustomed to the dark exterior.

On weekends, Nikhil and I would hang out, filling our time with mindless activities such as driving around town for hours on end.

Despite the fact that we never really had anything to do, we were almost never bored. On slow weekends, after school, or even during the school day, we would take my old Nissan Sentra for spins around State College. We’d get food, visit a random assortment of friends and acquaintances, listen to music, or, more than anything, just talk. It was those seemingly pointless car rides that solidified our friendship.

I’ve known Nikhil since the first grade.

Nikhil and I were in the same first grade classroom, and we’ve been in the same schools ever since (except for now). However, our friendship is far from linear. We were friendly in elementary school, but, like any fourth grader, our relationship didn’t expand much past playing kickball at recess and eating lunch at the same table. In middle school, we had different groups of friends, and often quarreled. I hung out with the athletes, the kids who were on the school basketball team with me. He spent time with the “academics”, the science olympiads, the debaters. It wasn’t until the tenth grade, when we were once again in the same upper level classes, and realized that we shared many of the same interests despite our appearances and backgrounds, that we truly became buds.

Nikhil now studies at UPenn. I go to Penn State.

Our friendship has changed a lot in the past year, as he moved away for college and I stayed in State College — along with many of our high school friends — to attend Penn State. Nikhil always breezed through high school, while I spent a lot of time studying to keep up. Now, for the first time in our collective lives, he’s working exponentially harder than me, studying Bioengineering and Economics in a competitive joint degree program. In some extents it’s a sweet irony. Despite the distance, we’re still close. We text more days than not, spend time together on breaks, and occasionally meet up in New York City for a weekend.

Option 3

-Mom, can I stay out past midnight?

-No

-Why not?

-Why do you want to?

-Why can’t I?

-Because you don’t have a reason to.

-If I had a reason to stay out, would I be allowed to?

-Do you have a reason?

-Yes. I want to, and it’s unfair because you don’t have a reason not to let me. Your only reason is that I don’t have a reason, which isn’t a reason at all. It’s hypocrisy!

-Is that your reason?

-Yes. So can I stay out?

-No.

Dorothy Parker: “Good Souls”

How does Parker use language and craft devises (questions, specific vocabulary) veer the essay away from a list of opinions and moves towards an authoritative voice?

This is, undeniably in my opinion, an opinion essay. However, Parker constructs it in a way very much different than any formal piece of rhetoric. For that reason, it appears more effective. Parker describes Good Souls as “curious creatures”, pointing out their “peculiarities.” Good Souls, of course, are nothing more than honest, caring, and trustworthy people. But, in Parker’s belief as least, they are so rare they assume an almost other-like character, going so far as to write that “they are wholly unconscious of their condition.”

It’s a complex form of sarcasm that’s both poignant and powerful. At the same time, she both praises do-gooders and laments that the societal norm is now to not be a Good Soul. For instance, she writes “there is no accounting for Good Souls.” Moments like these suggest that these Good Souls have difficulty operating in such a cold community. While humorous, Parker’s essay paints a bleak image of human nature.

What effect does the paragraph full of questions (pg 577) have on Parker’s voice and how she engages the reader?

Most obviously, Parker formally addresses her audience, beginning each question with “Do you”. By doing this, she is calling us out. Parker is questioning our own intuitions, hoping to lead us to the realization that, yes, we too have taken advantage of the Good Soul. There is always that one kid “upon whom all the other kiddies play their complete repertory of childhood’s winsome pranks.” Parker wants us to acknowledge that, possibly repent for it, but most importantly respect the Good Soul who is either the victim or the abstainer.

Dorothy Parker: “The Sexes”

How does the dialogue help to shift the sense of power in the story?

Even without any descriptive text, we gain a very keen insight into the couple’s relationship. The dialogue begins with the man, more or less, in power. He simply offers the woman a cigarette as a conversation starter, something to share the experience with. What is originally a simple, kind gesture turns into the basis for an argument, as the woman becomes increasingly irritated and the man becomes increasingly defensive. By the end of the dialogue, it could be argued that the woman is in control, grilling her partner on the pretty lady that he was talking up at a party the other night. In a span of a few minutes of conversation, the dialogue shifts from the man being the head of conversation to him nearly pleading for forgiveness.

How does the dialogue convey the emotions of the characters?

Initially, the “young man” is confident, speaking in short, succinct, yet powerful phrases. In the beginning, he offers the woman a cigarette, with confidence. However, as the conversation unravels, and as he becomes increasingly flustered with the qualms his partner has regarding other women, her friend’s work, the man’s dialogue changes. Her becomes very defensive, saying, “My God, this what’s-her-name girl came up and began talking to me before I even saw anybody else; and what could I do? I couldn’t sock her in the nose; could I?”

Meanwhile, the woman is at first reticent, hiding many of her emotions. However, by the latter stages of their talk, she has opened up about her concerns, and thus becomes a much more powerful member of the conversation. In the final part of the conversation she exposes shades of jealousy, say, in reference to another girl, “She has got an awfully funny nose. l really feel sorry for a girl with a nose like that.”

In what ways does the dialogue show the relationship between the two characters?

We never are specifically told that the two are dating, but I think it can be inferred. Regardless, it seems like the woman doesn’t trust the man very much. She’s both insecure about the girl he was talking to and the fact that he may rather be elsewhere at the moment of the conversation. The young man, meanwhile, seems to get easily irritated with his female friend. From this conversation, they don’t appear to be particularly compatible partners.

I plan to examine the notion that is ‘general education’. First, it should be defined, which I’ll complete in my first post. I want to then examine general education in American and abroad, as they differ mightily. Is general education a good foundation for learning? Or should we focus on more streamlined learning techniques, dedicated to our career paths? Is there a correct answer, or is it different for each individual? I think this will prove to be a valuable study: we’re all young college students. Gen eds make up nearly half of our course requirements. Without them, could we graduate in half the time, and thus save twice as much money? As of now, I’m not sure, but I hope to explore these questions in the coming semester.

Three weeks ago, I sat on a rock overlooking the West Bank: the high tension Palestinian occupied territory that runs along the Eastern border of Israel and the Western border of Jordan.

I was with birthright: a foundation that provides free trips to Israel for Jewish young adults. As we sat on this rock, a Palestinian speaker was telling us a story.

“There was a Palestinian boy visiting the Golan Heights,” he said, referring to the rugged mountain region in the north of Israel. “He wandered into a mine field, and accidently stumbled over an active mine. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem, there are numerous nearby hospitals that treat similar injuries with regularity. However, he had to drive five hours to a hospital in the West Bank, because Israeli hospitals won’t admit a Palestinian. He bled out in the car and died.” He was only eight years old.

I believe in coexistence. As I traveled through Israel over winter break, it’s evident that self-segregation between Israelis and Palestinians is omnipresent. However, it’s even more evident that this quasi apartheid hinders the lives of both groups. Economically, the Israeli government financially placates the territories in an effort to dissuade Palestinians from attacking Israel. Frequently, however, this money and these materials in fact fund terroristic missions. Culturally, Jerusalem, the Holy City for both Islam and Judaism, is so bogged down by security it’s nearly impossible to get around. If you’re a Palestinian, good luck reaching the Wailing Wall. And if you’re a Jewish tourist, it may be even tougher to visit the Dome of the Rock.

Yes, segregation, especially self-segregation, impedes the progress of both groups of people. Yet learning to live peacefully with an ethnicity that you’re taught to hate is no easy task. For example, we traveled with eight Israeli soldiers: many of them said they refused to fall asleep on a public bus while in uniform because they worried a Palestinian boy would stab him or her, as has happened multiple times in the past months.

In Israel, everyone has a different opinion, and there is no saliently correct answer. But the issue of coexistence extends much further than the West Bank or the Gaza Strip. On a much more micro level, we deal with it everyday: with those we live with, those we learn with, and those we play with.

In college, our dorm hallways are lined with posters urging us to respect each other’s differences. If someone has an opposing view, we’re taught to respectfully listen to our peer, and then go our separate directions. But that’s not what coexistence means. Instead, we should embrace our dissimilarities, and learn from each other. My hall is an eclectic mix of kids from backgrounds unlike my own. But I’ve learned more from the kids on it than I have in 18 years of hanging out with kids that share so many of my beliefs.

This I believe: I should learn from my neighbors who are different than me. If we all do that, maybe fewer innocent eight year olds won’t unnecessarily die.

I thoroughly enjoyed last semester’s activity in which we were to reconstruct the story of our births, while starting each sentence with the word or phrase that ended the previous sentence. At this point, I’m not sure how I’ll expand it, maybe I can write about something else in a similar manner. I think I could work on improving the end, it became a bit of a stretch and veered into a tone that seemed like I was just trying to follow the rules of the exercise. Here’s what I have so far:

I don’t really know the story of how I was born. Born was I on April fourth, 1995. 1995 is a significant year in many ways: it started on a Saturday, a karaoke fire in Taiwan killed 64, and Jacques Chirac was elected as the President of France. France is the country about which my mother is a Professor. Professor Silverman – my mother – gave birth to me on April fourth, 1995 in State College, Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania is the original home to neither my mother nor my father. Father Berkman – my dad – was also present at my naissance.  Naissance is traditionally a French word: a language I started studying about ten years after my birth. Birth is something that I experienced on April fourth, 1995. 1995, the year in which I was born was a significant year – but you already know that, as this is getting redundant. Redundancy is something one wishes to avoid while writing, even if each sentence must start with the word that preceded it. It, according to my parents, was a rainy day on which I was born.

Born into this world, my first word was not “hamburger.” A hamburger, however, almost forced my father to miss my entrance into this world. World hunger may be bad, but my father wanted a hamburger while waiting for my mother to go into labor. Labored by my father’s absence, my mother went into labor while my father fetched his meat. “Meet me in the hospital room,” was what my father heard on his phone as he was eating. Eating quickly, he ran back up to the hospital room just in time to see baby Ben become a little boy. Boy, that was a cheesy story.

The story goes that had I not been born on April fourth, my mother would have needed a cesarean section, as I was nearly three weeks late. Late, according to my mother, was better than never. Never did she anticipate me being so late, but I was. “Was I worth the wait?” I once asked her. Her response, relieving, was yes.

Yes, I emerged from my mother’s womb into a warm blanket on April fourth. April fourth, 1995 was also the day on which there was a large fire in a barn, fifteen miles from my hospital- the largest fire in years. Years later, exactly eighteen to be exact, on April fourth, 2013 there was another large fire in another barn, also fifteen miles from where I live. Living through two fires, the first on the day I was born, and the second on the day I became a man, fire has become a special symbol, a unique omen, for my family and me.

Family means something different for everyone. Everyone has some sort of family, yet no one has exactly the same one. One child is all my parents decide to have, so I have no brothers, no sisters, only a dog, Shayna. In Hebrew, Shayna means beautiful. Beautiful, also, means something different for everyone. Everyone can agree, however, that my dog is beautiful.