Goodwill: Gross and Great all in One Place.

Goodwill. We all know it. That dingy looking store that appears like clothes are about to spill out of it. We’ve all donated to it, or known someone who has. It’s a place to dump that pantsuit with the shoulder pads (my mom), or in my case, get rid of that gosh awful pleather skirt from Limited Two. Funny, how there are never a lot of cars in Goodwill’s parking lot.

Tonight I am going to a dance party with Intervarsity. Theme: What Not To Wear. Despite the fact that I am not exactly the best dresser, I couldn’t find anything too outrageous in my closet (other than the orange and black leopard print leggings, but that’s for another day). So, I called up my best friend Jane and we headed to Goodwill.

When I first walked in the door, I was overwhelmed by the amount of junk in Goodwill. Old stained shirts, bright orange ball gowns, and Mennonite garb fill the racks. The next hour was filled with “Oh! Here you go Jane! This is the perfect jean jumper for your date next week!” and other such banter. Finally, I found the winner. A pant jumper thing, similar to the old Osh Kosh B’gosh overalls I wore when I was two. Who makes these things in girl’s XL? Even further, who even buys that in the first place? I ended up asking myself these same questions as I browse the Christmas vests, Go-Go boots, and Pooh sweatshirts.

I think the saddest part about it is, I actually left there with two “real” purchases, a sweatshirt and a jacket. I approach the cash register with Jane and the cashier could not decipher our joke purchases from our real purchases. As she stroked a piece of hair from her fake ponytail hairpiece out of her eyes with her long red nails she says “I love this hot pink dress with the rhinestone in the middle! I don’t know why this is what you wouldn’t wear! I love pink!” Jane and I bit our lips trying to hide our laughter.

You can find some great things at Goodwill. I think if I searched hard enough, I would find a few more things worth buying (at least for two bucks). Goodwill is just one of the great parts of American culture. Its throwing away things you don’t want, just to return to the place and buy other people’s junk.

Writing

I have done a variety of different writing assignments over the course of this year. They all differ so much in the style and personality. When writing narratives for this class, I have a point to make, an opinion that is my own. However, my other writing varies from this writing in many ways.

Weekly, I have a write-up for my psychology class. This is usually a high stress assignment in which I have to answer a prompt and support my claim with evidence from the textbook. Even though it is a lot of work, it helps me learn the material much better because I am applying theories and data into real life circumstances. In this work, I am simply reading a textbook and making my claim from research, not from any one idea I have a strong opinion on.

I also do some nonschool-related writing as well. I have a weird love for journals. I am always tempted to buy more even when I have plenty at home. In these journals I write numerous things. I write down day-to-day thoughts, prayers, quotes, or simply just doodle. This writing is what I call my “free spirit” writing. Sometimes its nonsensical, and it always lacks real purpose. In my free spirit writing, I just write whatever is on my mind, rather than pre-planning what I am going to say and how I am going to say it.

Home

I am driving in the car with my sister Melissa and her husband Kyle. I am sitting in the back seat of their van, with their dog Shay. Many smells have permeated the car, but the worst so far has been Shay’s gas. It really is intoxicating. But…I’ll take it any day, because I am headed back to Richmond, to my home.

This will be my first time home since I’ve come here to JMU. I don’t think I could be more excited. I’m almost curious to see how it will feel. Despite the close relationships I have with both of my parents, I have talked to them very little. I have this nervous, excited feeling you get when you haven’t seen someone in a very long time.

My parents and I have always been really close. My mom was a stay-at-home mom and we are best friends. She does everything she can for me and she is really like my home base. I feel safe and comfort whenever I am in her company. My dad is also my best friend. He always wants to hear everything I say, and is always excited about my life and what I am learning. He is so wise, and I could talk, and listen, to him for hours. I have missed my parents more than I ever thought I could.

Autumn is the best time in our house. I guess it’s because my mom puts so much time into decorating the house. I can picture my house right now. It makes me so excited. I walk up the sidewalk greeted by a large autumn wreath on the red front door. Stepping in to the house I am hit with the strong smell of my home. It is not a bad smell, its not a fragrant smell, its just a good smell…and I cannot wait to smell it. I see orange, brown, and tan Yankee candles in burning in every room. Passing the kitchen I am hit with the aroma of some amazing recipe my mom is cooking.

This weekend is going to be so fun. In about thirty minutes I have “girl’s night” with my mom and three sisters. Tomorrow we have a baby shower for my sister Melissa. It will be a great weekend. My family is home to me. And being brought back home, after a long time away, simply, makes a large smile spread across my face.

Baldwin and Staples Response

In "Stranger in The Village" the author, James Baldwin, talks about his experience with the villagers in a small town in Sweden. His experiences here are different from the typical American experience with African Americans. He is treated as an alien, but in a way that is almost foreign to the American way. They treat him literally as an alien. They are amazed with the color of his skin and the texture of his hair. He is a "creature" so unfamiliar to them that they are in nothing but awe. They do not really seem to perceive him as a human. They do not know how to perceive him as human. They are an ignorant people. The people in his town are ignorant through naivety.

Their ignorance differs from the attitudes of the people described in Staples' essay "Black Men and Public Space". Their ignorance comes through more of a racist lens. They have preconceived notions of black men of Staples' race, age, and stature. Where the people of the Swiss village don't even know about black men, people in America have a stereotype of black men. They put black men in the category of criminals or peoples up to no good.

Baldwin is writing to Harper's magazine. His audience is most likely a group of men and women sympathetic to the racial problems African American's face. Since he is not trying to change the political ideology of his audience, his essay sounds more encouraging rather than convicting. He talks about how Americans are pretty much a step ahead from the rest of the world. Whites have more of a kinship with blacks because of their rocky past. They are not stuck in a time of complete ignorance. They are moving toward a growing relationship.

Staples' essay is slightly different in his target. He is writing to Mrs. magazine. His audience is most likely middle-class white women. This essay is slightly more convicting in its argument. He talks about how he has been discriminated against because of his race. He gives instances of when people have been afraid of him, the very people reading this magazine.

Morning on the Quad

The professor wrapped up with the last slide on the power point. As he made announcements about upcoming assignments, I hear the ruffling of papers, the zipping of backpacks, and the squeaks of chairs. I check my watch. It is 11:00 am…it’s the weekend. I follow the crowd of people out the classroom door, up the stairs, and finally, out of Moody Hall into the cool brisk air of the early fall day.

The flood of people exhilarates me. I love to watch them as I make my way out onto the Quad. A girl with a smiling face walks down the pathway toward me blowing bubbles. The little spheres of crystal touch my clothes and pop, bringing a soapy smell to my nose. I plop myself down on the steps of Wilson, pondering what I am going to write for my next blog assignment.

But I get distracted watching people…wondering what they are thinking; wondering what their life is like. I see a girl running. Long thin legs are carrying her swiftly across the pathways taking her past building after building. I see a group of people talking to an older man. I’m trying to figure out what the man is doing talking to this group of young kids, so I put a keen ear to that conversation while I think to myself “I can see that girl’s butt crack, I wonder if she knows...” By the way, I hear the older man say “God” many times. Now I’m extra curious to hear the rest.

The girl sitting closest to me is wearing tight little jeans, with a colorful scarf wrapped around her neck. She is smoking, and as I involuntarily breathe in the choking flames, dramatic me wonders if I am dying a little more inside. On my other side is the green plush grass of the Quad lawn. It looks so inviting, I would love to lie on it and take a nap. A few people have already beaten me to it. One boy is lying on his stomach, completely sprawled, and completely unconscious.

I notice the girl’s bottom is still hanging out of her pants…

I see my best friend walking briskly across the Quad for class. She is wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and literally looks like she just rolled out of bed. I call her over with a loud “JANE!!” which of course, makes everyone look. She quickly hurries over, tells me how stressed she is and how late for class she is. I tell her to have a great day and she leaves.

I take a deep breath, stretch; check up on my little preacher, his audience seems slightly more enthused. I wonder if they at all care about what he is saying.

I just got really excited because I turned around and saw a tour of prospective students. I love to see all the eager faces, and standoffish attitudes towards their parents. I think about how glad I am to never have to return to high school. And how much I miss my parents…

The preacher is now sitting down with this group of kids…too cozy? Maybe.

Pause. I have just seen my friend Abby running down the quad…scarf flying behind her, books looking like they are about to fall at any moment…I laugh to myself, she has not seen me yet. I call her name, and a huge smile spreads across her face. She runs over and all in one breath says, “HI!! I was just running to catch up with my GCOM group!! Wow, it’s so great to see you! Wanna swim later? Or maybe not swim…eat junk food later? Look! My GCOM group is studying right behind you! Ok, gotta go! But don’t worry, I’ll be right here!” I laugh, tell her good luck, and resume my blog. Yes, I have decided that my observations today on the quad will be my blog entry.

It is now 11:50. I still see a butt crack in my direct line of view. How pleasant. I have listened further to the preacher. He just talked about the whole gospel message. The audience is more actively engaged. Granted, it’s only a group of five kids.

Hunger pangs are starting, but I have to wait until 12:05 to have lunch with my friend Taylor. We are going to Mrs. Green’s, which will most likely be the highlight of my day. Class is letting out again…at least for the lucky ones who get out ten minutes early. I see “hippie boy” or so he is known. He is walking around without shoes on, with his khakis rolled up mid-calf. He genially greets passersby with “Hi friends!” I smile.

Abby comes to sit beside me. She tells me she lied to her GCOM group, telling them that she was late because her sister’s cat ran away and they had to find it. She says she feels bad for lying, and then we make a pact never to lie to each other.

Finally I see Taylor emerge from Harrison. Woo! Now, I get to eat. I say bye to Abby, and set off with Taylor. It’s been a great morning on the Quad; made even greater by all the people. I should come out here more often.

Shitty First Drafts

When I begin to write a paper, I just begin writing. It is intimidating to look at the big blank paper and think, “I’ve got to make something good come out of this jumble of ideas.” But it happens. I’m the kind of writer that when I sit down I just write. I tweak as I go through it, sentence by sentence. But, once I am done with a paragraph, usually little changes besides grammar. That was also in high school. When I wanted to write a paper and get it over with. When I was less interested in what I was saying and more interested in finishing in a timely manner. I think that was a result of having to write about the same thing over and over or write about topics I really did not feel passionate about.

When I read “Shitty First Drafts”, I began to think of a new writing technique. Just to write and put everything down before I go through it again. I realized that it is okay to have this messy, terrible draft before I go through and rework, tweak, and revise. This technique sounds like it would just take a load off my shoulders. It would feel so nice just to dump all my ideas, thoughts, stories onto a piece of paper and work from there. It sounds like the way I paint, or do any kind of art. I start with something, dump it all on to a piece of paper, and then add the perfecting marks after I let my mind wander free on the paper.

I really do see writing as an art form. In a sense it is. It is using words, instead of pictures, to show the viewer your thoughts, emotions, and places.

Old Back Porch

I grew up in a small house in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. Our family of seven was always much to large for our small four bedroom split level house, but the memories made in 224 Roslyn Hills Drive, are irreplaceable. My back porch is one room that holds so many of my favorite childhood memories. As I try to pry open the impossible French doors that expand in the humidity, I am reminded of so many seasons out there on that same back porch. The musty green carpet, the iron furniture, the screens that have been broken by children, raccoons, and dogs, the creaking fan and the buggy ceiling corners bring back a sense of comfort, a sense of belonging. It is not fancy, in fact, quite the opposite.

I remember the Barbie towns that used to cover the floor. I’m brought back to the mini grocery store, ice cream shop, nursery, diner, bedrooms, salon, ballroom dresses, and tiny shoes. My sisters and I used to be lost in this “magic” of imagination. We could just play for hours. We would stay up late on our porch in those cool autumn nights in our Sesame Street nightgowns, fixing Barbie’s hair and listening to Motown and The Big Chill playing loudly on the boom box.

In the summer, most every dinner was on the porch. The seven of us gathered around the wrought iron table with the smell of the grill drifting into the porch. We would pray, then started the craziness. “Can you pass this” and “please pass the…” and “do you want this” was the topic of conversation for the first five minutes. We all eat, sit back in our seats, and listen to cicadas singing their nightly lullabies. As the years passed those nightly meals got smaller and smaller as all my siblings left for college and started their own lives. But my parents and I would still sit out on that old porch on summer nights and talk for hours over coffee and peppermint patties.

It was the room of my summer. I brought crawfish, caterpillars, minnows, and even a baby bird into this room. My poor mother! Countless times I cleaned the porch before company. With a bandana wrapped around my head I would scrub the dusty cobwebby mantles, vacuum the scratchy carpet, and clean the windows blurry with dog slobber, all in anticipation of a fun night ahead.

My porch wraps is the essence of so many memories: my messy mud pie days of summer, to my magical nights of Barbie towns, to chaotic family dinners, to quiet, sleepy fall nights.