Hanna Le

Hanna Le

Frances Charteris

WRTG3007

March 18, 2014

Ending It

I have finally found the strength and courage to admit to the world that I am in a severe, verbally abusive relationship. I’m crazy about him. I can’t leave him, because I love him. I want nothing more than to lay down beside him. I would do anything for him, because I need him. But when he speaks, his words hit hard—like bullets. And even though his words are explicit, I’m still infatuated with him, and I listen when he calls me a “bitch”—like it’s my first name.

“Don’t you ever bitch your lip unless you ‘bout to suck my dick, bitch.”

“Sit down, bitch. If you move again, I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“I invented violence, bitch.”

…as if he made himself clear. And despite this abuse, I still stick with him. I can’t leave him. Overflowing with tears and fears, I’m still here—addicted and loving him so much that now I even say it with him:

“Fuck these bitches.”

“I so-what these bithces.”

“I care about everything, except these bitches.”

His name is Eminem. Marshall Bruce Mathers III. The real Slim Shady.

I am hung up on every lyric, every song, every mix tape and every album. I am bobbing my head to the tune of every beat and every one of his rhymes. I remember the very first time that I heard his music. It was love at first sight. It was easy to ignore what he was really saying. I fell in love with him without listening to his lyrics.

Mr. Mathers, I understand that you’re hard and that you’re from the streets. I guess that I should accept that and as a woman not feel offended by your words, but as a feminist I can’t accept it. I love you like you wouldn’t believe—but your music is oppressive. Your genre is demeaning; your songs are infected; and your insecure masculinity keeps penetrating your lyrics. Stop disrespecting women and normalizing sexism. I reject your songs that sing, “Fuck these bitches” and glorify violence against women. Instead, I suggest a song entitled “Fuck you, Shady”—a new anthem, on the behalf of every woman that you have ever called a bitch, a hoe, a slut, or an object in one of your songs. When you spit, stop referring to them as shit. Because when you’re rapping about “how you did a bitch right,” I’m wondering who the hell is kissing your daughter Hailie goodnight.

Le - Asst #1f

Mitch Harris - Multimodal Video

WRTG 3007
Frances Charteris

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bbjJ_ILaBI

Katharine Robbins

Change Has Come

Katharine L. Robbins

Professor Frances Charteris

Writing for the Visual Arts

Personal Narrative

January 26, 2014

The Green Staircase

            I sat near the base of the back staircase, my spot right before the secure cover of the wall ends, the place I always sat waiting. I can’t remember now why I was down there.  Its been a long time since I stepped foot in that house. I must have heard talking or happened to walk down into the middle of the conversation. And although the door to the kitchen was cracked open, I knew with my cover they could not see me sitting there.

            I could feel things hadn’t been quite “normal” for a while. But what does “normal” even mean. It’s different for me and it’s different for everyone. I just didn’t anticipate overhearing what I did. I don’t remember being shocked. Was I even sad? Or did I really know this was unavoidable? The years since may have washed it into numbness. It has been five years, a fourth of my life ago. That feels like a long time to me.

            Maybe I was happy to look forward to a more peaceful time; A period free of waiting. Without having to look forward to something, or someone, that I know won’t follow through. I wanted everyone to just be alright; That’s the least I could ask, just being alright. How could I have been so calm? I was young, this kind of change was new. Maybe I didn’t believe that it was happening. Or maybe I was waiting. Waiting for someone to tell me. Waiting for the moment for it to become real.

            Should I have walked into the kitchen and told them what I had heard? Or wait until someone “officially” told me? It didn’t matter at that point. I knew… and nothing could change that. So, I turned around and walked back up the stairs and straight into my room. Who knows what I did for the rest of that night. Nothing special. Everything had to be alright on the outside, so it was by the morning.

            No one ever told me. Not that I remember. Maybe she did; It didn’t matter. I might have nodded in response, more agreement. I knew. She must’ve sensed that I had an idea of what was going on. I just needed to give her a sign, this is what I want too. It’s fine. Even for the best. Maybe I was expected to ask what was going on, or was it understood that I knew. I paid attention to things, even if I was the quiet one. This would be hard to slip by me.

            I guess that’s been a theme in my life. It would be easier if everyone could be upfront, or at least honest. Either way, I didn’t quite feel this way about what happened in my old house. She says that house is cursed, everyday I believe a little bit more in it. We were in a venomous environment and had to get out. We did, ultimately. We didn’t move far, but it was new and that’s what was needed. The next place was better, but I still carry bad memories.

            This instance at my old house is one of those times I would love to put in the past. But recently the situation has been swapped on me. I am the one that was knowingly shared a secret, nearly the very same secret, and I am now expected to keep it. I thought this was over. But it is beginning to be a cycle in my life- and my biggest fear is that it will never be broken. I will live in a world of secrets constantly splintering at my consciousness.

Braden Waller Multimodal

https://vimeo.com/88987094

Braden Waller

Multimodal Narration

It seemed like such a great plan to relocate ourselves to the nearby mountains for the final year of our education. After living in Boulder for two years, the tranquility came across as rather endearing to my roommates and I. And so for three months we slept soundly to the trickles of the gentle creek that ran beside our house, and we stood proud on our mountain deck immersed in the songs of the hummingbirds. And for three months we grew as shepherds and guardians of the neighboring lands of the national forest. After a few months, we somehow became partially blinded in our seclusion and unfortunately never concerned ourselves with any of the logistical problems with the property, such as the 200 yd. steep narrow driveway along a canyon wall. We were content. And then it rained a bit.

I awoke on a casual Thursday school morning to find that our pleasant little creek had intriguingly become a 50 foot gaping river. My roommates and I all shared a similar reaction.

Not really knowing what to do, and still not fully grasping the gravity of the situation, I decided to shoot some aesthetically pleasing, exceedingly cliché slow motion HD footage of the new flowing water next to my house. One of my roommates informed me to have a look at our driveway. It was then that I understood that we were completely stuck in our dearly beloved mountain home.

We were marooned for six days without some of the bare essentials, but although clean water seemed scarce, beer was not in short supply. For the days we lingered around the house combating a ruthless enemy; boredom. Nights we remained in isolation listening to the rhythm of the pitter patter on the cool shingles above.

Events livened up a bit on the third day when our 500 gallon propane tank collapsed over an eroded cliff edge. The propane spewed out of the valve in a swirling icy mist, a cool steam across the meadow. The gas disgorged such as a witch’s frothy cauldron. And so I squired my roommate Hiroki with the umbrella into certain death. Then he shut off the valve.

The close pounding of the chopper blades on the sixth day felt like the end of a glorified war movie, or Jurassic Park. Shortly after, the five-minute helicopter ride into Boulder was gratifying and shocking. I first realized that water damage and Godzilla’s aftermath are remarkably similar. Then came my final realization. I was homeless.

https://vimeo.com/88987094

Personal Narrative

Narrative in video based on Personal Narrative:

If it is to be, it is up to me.
Dad,
        I love you more than anything. I do, and so that’s where I want to start. You are the reason that I am where I am today and why I am able to do what I am doing. You support me in everything that I do and I am extremely thankful for that. You have been there for me as long as I can remember, never doubting me and always pushing me to excel. Teaching me your motto: “If it is to be, it is up to me”, the 10 2-letter words. I have been hearing that from you for as long as I can remember. It is engrained into me. It has made me that much closer to you and work that much harder to be everything you wanted in me.
       However, for a very long time there has been a large gap in our relationship. You see, you were the star athlete, playing and excelling in numerous sports, ultimately becoming a division 1 athlete at Texas Tech University. And I…didn’t. I was a mediocre swimmer most of my life who eventually went on to place in state, but I never won. I would never be good enough to go anywhere on scholarship, and it just wasn’t where my heart was. The only reasons I swam were to hang out with my friends and to impress you. I never did any of the team sports because I just wasn’t any good at them. And that crushed you, or at least I think that it did. I could always sense you yearning for me to do sports — you kept pushing me to try and try out, but I just hated it and couldn’t do it. On the other hand, I excelled in school, rarely needing to put in any sort of effort to make straight A’s throughout high school, and even into college. You rewarded me for my ‘efforts’ in school. You take so much pride in this aspect of my life. I see you smile every time you say that I was valedictorian. But when it comes to my true passion in life, the thing that I work so hard at, I can barely get you to scratch the surface of that overwhelming pride you have in me.
      Your…lack of pride let’s call it, is existent simply because my passion is in something that, until I arrived you had no interest in: my love of Theatre and Technical Production work. While you are extremely supportive of me, it just doesn’t interest you. I have tried time and again to make you interested in my field, tried to prove to you it is a real career and not just a hobby, but you still keep telling me I need to take accounting classes. Asking me to run the bank just continues to prove that my passion and love are, to you, just that and not a viable job or major choice. The other day someone asked you how a guy who played D1 basketball ends up with a son in the performing arts, and you said “it has certainly broadened my horizons.” I heard just a little bit of regret in that when you said it, as if you wished I could be something different.
      When I started working for the marketing department and you heard that I could get a Letterman’s Jacket for my efforts, your eyes lit up, like that was your dream. And then I wore it that first day I saw you when I had it and I could tell, I could see how proud you were of me. Even though what I was doing was just a hobby you acted like having this silly jacket was better than anything. I’ve won awards for my designs on shows, and I wish that you would show that pride in what I love to do.
       One day I want to have my name in lights, literally. I want to be on the cover of a Broadway Playbill, I want to win a Tony, and when I’m standing there after achieving the highest honor that one in my field can reach I want you to smile at me and be able to swell with pride at my accomplishment, and it wasn’t sports, or grades, it was Lighting Design. You always told me to follow the 10-2 letter words: “If it is to be, it is up to me.” The Byron Mantra. The Bateman way of life. And here I am telling myself if I want you to have pride in my work, I need to prove to you that I can do it. I am the one who needs to make it happen, and while sometimes, late at night, I wish I didn’t have to prove anything to you; I am glad that I do. It will make my own personal victory that much sweeter. When I see that look on your face, those tears in your eyes, because of something I’ve done. Then that gap in our relationship will be closed and we can be father and son.



    Love,
    Your favorite Son

Personal Narrative

Video: https://vimeo.com/89008943

Personal Narrative:

            Personal narratives have never been anything short of a struggle for me. The very thought of having to pen a personal experience to paper sends my mind into a state of oblivion and unrest. Time slips away and somehow the daunting white page seems to only glow larger. My brain pulsates, the thoughts comes to mind like wildfire but their impact is lost in the translation from mind to matter.

            The puzzlement of this progression of mental matter to an inability to rendition is a familiar one. As far back as I can remember, I’ve always chosen the internal route of self-expression over external exposure. I’ve always chosen to avoid taking about matters concerning myself, regardless of how immaterial or revealing they might be. A possible personal flaw, but one that I always find myself repeating. The medium is irrelevant, be it paper, speech or another the block persists. Opening myself to unfamiliarity and on most occasions’ familiarity is a series of battles.
            A few days ago I met a random man in a hallway. He was what some would term the epitome of Boulder – unshaven with an entitled sense of neglect, immersed deep in his thoughts that his words were no more than disjoint rambles while the rest of him hinted of natural newly legal fragrance. He stood atop of a wet carpet; it posed as his podium attracting an audience, amidst an empty hallway, a true beatnik.

            He began to chatter, telling tales of his life, of injustice and adventure, of seas and lands and of riddles and truths. He must have been in his mid forties, he had a wisdom about him that grows with experience but that wasn’t it, there was something else. Something about him that seemed so relatable. He talked on a while, hazardly leaping from one thought to another, enthusiastic with a sense of indignation at life. Passionate to leave no thought unturned in a mind convoluted with thoughts.
            It was then he said it, casually, almost as if he could read my mind “I’m one of those people, I don’t quite know how to deal with personal situations. I’m so overly sensitive that my mind shuts down at any hint of unhappiness”. And that was it. It didn’t strike me quite then but in a breath he had told me something so personally insightful about myself and he didn’t even know it.
            I have thought of his words far longer than our conversation lasted, and even now they linger. I have contemplated the weight of each word; it’s meaning and its embodiment through my own fears of evading unhappiness and the consequential vulnerability that comes with opening up.
             I did once however, manage to push the anxiety aside, a few years ago I opened up to somebody. In eventuality he broke my heart though we’d play the blame game, and he’d argue I broke his. The wave of unsettling emotion that sent me through ensured an ever-enhanced weariness of people and extinguished the desire to expose myself to anyone. Till date, it hasn’t been too taxing; by sharing impersonal information, smiles and nods instead of matters personal to me I’ve managed to reach a happy medium. Though psychologically I know this isn’t a favorable course, and it’s one I need to empower myself to steer away from, not towards.
            It has been said everything happens for a reason, and maybe meeting that animated stranger was being handed the paddle. In the second draw of my dresser I’ve a stack of photos hidden that no one knows about, my favorite birthday present is a sewing machine shaped pencil sharpener I got when I was three, I find myself immensely trusting everyone I meet and yet no one at the same time and more than anything looking up at the stars gives me a sense of belonging.
            These are things that shouldn’t have to be kept a secret, but through some irrationality have been. This is only the surface and there is a long list, and a long way to go, but time is not of the essence. This week, compare to most has been as uneventful as the last except for one small change. I guess it’s strange how much you can gather from coincidence, regardless of how fleeting the experience or event might actually be.

Shelby Simpson: A Story From Copenhagen

https://vimeo.com/88968411

The beer was over served by women in short, tight, pleather cop outfits and aviators that confront your reflection in their blurred lenses.  Men were rocking feather boas and grinding on each other's smoothly manicured skin. Tall bodies with sequin bellbottoms and bedazzled five-inch heels stood several feet above me. The sun warmed our drunken faces and the smiles grew contagious.  It was impossible not to get up and dance as the music faded in and out.  Crazy electronic beats radiated the dance floor and “To Russia, with LOVE, from Copenhagen,” was a distance sound, barely audible amongst the screaming transvestites. 

The Copenhagen Pride Parade was night that challenged my sexual preference. The night that made the unwanted, lip licking desirable and absolutely irresistible.  It was the night that awoken my sexual subconscious. On the dance floor, I let my hair blow in the soft breeze, allowing my body to move, as it desired.  All of our inner fantasies began to emerge into a camouflaged society, in a moment free of judgment.  It seemed as if the entire city was a sacred space of dancing and celebrating, which continued until sunrise. 

Hannah was the first person to approach me.  My American accent must have been a dead giveaway and she like me, was intimidated by free love and the anything goes environment, or so it seemed.  Hannah was visiting from Paris but she was not your stereotypical Parisian.  Hannah, originally from Texas, was living in Paris, studying social engineering in her second masters program. She had long dark hair, pale skin, and a smile that went sideways when she spoke to me.

  As I sipped on my fourth beer of the evening, I listened to Hannah tell me story after story. Her energy was intoxicating and I was fascinated by the stranger I had met only a few hours before.  It seemed as if we were sitting in this peculiar bubble, unaware that there was an outrageous party occurring around us.  People grew drunker and the music got louder, but I was hypnotized by Hannah and needed to know more. I told her about my dreams of becoming an artist and she shared her plans to save the world.

The conversation was flowing effortlessly and she created and environment that allowed me to confess my darkest and most secretive insecurities.   It was the conversation about her learning how to speak French when I finally began to realize where the day was going.  I was in utter disbelief when she revealed to me that her ex-girlfriend was an older French woman whom she had been cohabitating with for a year and a half.  The conversation quickly progressed into a discussion about gay sex. 

I cracked beer number six and chugged it almost instantly and the conversation quickly turned become more provocative.  As the conversation grew more and more blurry, thoughts started to overpower my words. Anxious and nervous, I began to have somewhat of an outer body experience.  I started to wonder if Hannah felt the same way. Would this friendly conversation progress into something more?   

My excitement quickly turned to fear.  Luckily, nature called and I interrupted Hannah to take a bathroom break only to find out that she also had to use the toilet.  Together we maneuvered through the chaos to avoid being soaked in beer.

McDonald’s was our closet option.  We bee-lined it across the street, nearly getting trapped in the dust of glitter that covered the street.  The line to the bathroom was a mixed gendered mob of people that ransacked any stall that was open.  I followed the footsteps of a few brave women and used the urinal to relieve my bladder.  Washing my hands was almost beside the point and I had to get out of there as quickly as possible.  

I waited for Hannah as people were making out. The floors were covered in French fries and rainbow flags.  I started to laugh at myself, realizing that I was apart of the most outlandish shows of Copenhagen and I, in my drunken state, came off to be a lesbian to a woman who just went through a break up. But it didn’t matter, today was a day full of happiness and love, not whether Hannah wanted to kiss me or not.  I patiently waited for her to come out of the stall, but she never did.  One minute she was there and the next she was gone.  It wasn’t possible that she left because I watched her enter the stall, but yet there was no Hannah to be found.  It was almost as if she flushed herself down the toilet or she was a figment of my imagination.

I stood there utterly confused but finally decided to leave because I looked like a complete weirdo alone in a McDonald’s bathroom.  Passing drag queens with broken heels and struggling to walk down the cobblestone streets, I wondered how that could have happened.  The city was out of focus and I was completely baffled by my experience.

The world we live in is strange in the sense that people come in and out of our lives so fleetingly and how in a moments time, even the most secure person can question life and how the live it. It is people like Hannah that influence change and challenge the status quo. Maybe she was the woman I needed to understand this unspoken and unidentifiable emptiness in order to grow. It is funny how someone who might have just been in a drunken banter can have such a profound effect. I hope to meet Hannah again.

Maya McComas

Personal Narrative

I have learned over the years that I have a secret desire, a desire to preserve every moment in my life as accurately as possible. When I say “accurate” I don’t actually mean remembering the events and how they happened, I mean more of an accurate memory of how I felt. How does one do this, you might ask? Well there are three ways.

The first is to keep a journal. Yes there was a time in my life I abused the freedom of having a journal and wrote nothing but love notes to the popular boys in shcool, but now I think I’ve got it right. Write down every time you feel alive. But Maya, I’m always alive. Yes, that you are, but when do you actually consciously think to yourself “Damn! I’m flipping ALIVE!” It’s probably not as often as you might think. I have reserved the journal as a sort of coin collection of these moments, and it was the best damn idea I’ve ever had. The first time my lips ever graced those of a boy I wrote it down.

Jan. 19^th, 2006

OMG. It finally happened . . . I kissed a boy. But . . . It sucked! Why does everyone like this? He hit his braces on my teeth . . . ugh it was actually kind of gross. Maybe I did it wrong . . .?

            This wasn’t a firework inducing moment in my life, no, but it was a moment. Times when you feel alive aren’t always going to be chocolate icing on the cake good. Sometimes they are waving at someone who doesn’t wave back kind of awkward. But the fact is that it makes you feel something, and that something is strong enough to remind you that your heart is indeed, still beating. I am beyond excited to go back through all of the journals I’ve kept in my life when I’m 80 and re-experience all the ups in downs of my journey through life.

            Now the second way is far more common, taking pictures. I can’t remember a time I went somewhere and didn’t take any pictures. I’ve gone so far as taking “selfies” in the Dentist’s office right before I got my wisdom teeth out (and this was only three weeks ago). I actually might have an addiction to clicking the little black button on the camera, it just feels so . . . right. They say that if you take a picture of something you remember it less but I choose to ignore that. How can you remember less when you have an actual image frozen in time that you can look back at forever? The displaying of these pictures is perhaps the best part. If you were to walk into my room, you would have an overload of hundreds of faces staring down at you from the walls. If you asked me what the color of my walls are, I couldn’t tell you. It’s been that long. When you are surrounded by that many memories you never have a chance to feel alone. They allow you to go back to a specific place and time and visually relive the experience.

            The third way is to film things. When I say “things” I really mean everything. You never know what’s going to make an interesting shot or what’s going to trigger a memory somewhere down the road. A really great place to start practicing you filming skills is a night of drinking with your friends. That’s cruel, Maya, what’s wrong with you? I know, I know, but hear me out on this one. While your filming, most people want to be on camera while intoxicated (because for some reason most people turn into a much nicer version of themselves) and no one is camera shy. This is great news to any videographer, because there is nothing worse then a conversation on film like this:

            Videographer starts filming Person 1.

            Person smiles for 10 seconds like they are posing for a picture.

            Videographer: “Oh its not a picture, it’s filming.”

            Person: “Oh, uh, ok. Um hi Mom!”

            Videographer: “Just act natural, like I’m not here.”

            Person: “My butt itches.”

Avoiding these awkward moments on camera will allow for the most candid of memories. You could also just strap a Go-Pro camera to your forehead but I suggest going for the less obvious route.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGPsr26kR9A

Home, Morgan Kitzmiller

https://vimeo.com/90618642
Home
I find refuge in the silence that falls between the gusts of wind and the rustling of the grass. In the way you can hear your heartbeat and the sound of your breath, without interruption. In the way the stars shine ruthlessly after golden hour fades away. I find refuge in the mountains. They say home is where your heart is, and this, up here, is home.

            I remember pressing my face up against the glass window as we wound through roads lined with walls of trees that touched the sky. I would watch as my breath coated the window’s surface and trace my fingers in patterns and designs, peeking through the lines at the world outside. I came to be enthralled with the world around me- captured by the moon hanging in the night sky, absorbed in the deep blue that paints the air we breathe, and amazed by the vastness of the universe. Over the years, I came to love it. 

My best friends became family to me, and time after time, we would find ourselves wandering to the mountains. We would soar through fields of white powder beneath a sky of trees, bike for 6 hours to gaze upon whimsical sunsets, or even climb to the top of the world to watch the golden clouds make their rounds. Nevertheless, we would find ourselves snuggled together when those endless nights would turn to dust, and the lights hanging in the sky would be dismissed. It was the views, the experiences, and the company that made me the happiest person in the world. When you're surrounded by this amazing world, the endless skies, beautiful people and a mind at peace, there's no reason not to be. 

Moments like these have built up over the years, caught in feelings, friendships, eternal memories and photographs- because watching the sun kiss the horizon each morning and night from a mountaintop seems more like a dream than reality. And when dreams come true, you know you’re in a good place.

I once heard a quote that goes like this: “Find someone that makes you realize three things: one, that home is not a place, but a feeling. Two, that time is not measured by a clock but by moments. And three, that heartbeats are not heard, but felt and shared.” This is what the mountains mean to me. The peaks that serve as an attainable paradise, nestled in a sea of trees, warmed by the glow of the sun. This is home.