I really appreciated Lauren Swanson's blog about the 're-definition' of her own family, and with many of her points, I agree. The 'modern day' family image has completely transformed from the black-and-white T.V. shows of two loving parents, a couple o' kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. I think that this change is for the better...I think it is good to mix things up every once in a while. It keeps things fresh.
The show that particularly comes to my mind as a new take on family is ABC Family's "Modern Family." The show depicts the 'everyday' lives of one family, split into three different intermediate families.
Although one of the three immediate families is more traditional, with two parents and three kids, the other two families stray far from what would have been considered the norm in the "Honey, I'm home" era. One of the non-traditional families consists of two homosexual men who together, are raising children that they adopted. The other non-traditional intermediate family consists of an attractive Colombian woman married to a man that is probably twenty years her senior, and together the two are raising the Colombian woman's son from another marriage, along with a baby that the two had together.
As the show follows the different story lines of the family members, I can't help but realize that while yes, the show is meant to be a sitcom, 'Modern Family' is also a commentary on how the family dynamic does not have to be 'traditional' in order to work.
Families come in so many different shapes, sizes, and dynamics, and honestly, as long as from each family unit there is an outpouring of love (even though sometimes the love doesn't always seem to be there), then really, who cares if the family is not 'traditional'?
Sunday, September 21, 2014
We're Gonna Make This Place Your Home
Bid Day: Black and Crimson streamers hanging from the banister, pearl-white balloons littering the carpet, gaggles of giggling girls 'crafting' signs--if there was ever a time for be to embrace my inner sorority girl, today was it. Because today, the women of Alpha Delta Pi welcomed 11 new members into the sisterhood.
Amid the incessant chants of "Boom-boom I wanna go ADPi" and the squeals of delight at having captured the perfect picture on the steps of the house, we all waited in anticipation for the calls of new members accepting their bids.
Not even two years ago, I would have mocked all of this. I considered myself to be more of a tomboy, an introvert, an athlete: the antithesis of a 'sorority girl.' Honestly, if someone had told me in high school that I would be into the sorority life, I probably would have laughed in that person's face. But indeed, that sorority world has become my own. Not my entire world, maybe just a hemisphere, but nevertheless, it is still there.Always.
And that's the thing: my sorority and the 80-something new sisters that I have gained are always there, even in times when I don't think that I need them.
They were there at the finish line of the sweltering-hot All-Ohio Cross country meet, toting 'Go Sarah!' posters along with their totes. They were there with words of encouragement when my fingers and my mind were at a disconnect and I couldn't seem to play the piano to save my life. They were there with chocolate and chick flicks when my heart was torn out of my chest and smashed on the cold, hard ground.
And I know that some would scoff at that statement. I mean, really. How can a group of sorority girls really ALWAYS be there? Aren't sorority girls supposed to be catty? And I will tell you that yes, collectively and individually, we have had our problems, but somehow we manage to work through them.
And that is why no matter how tired and worn out all of the bid day festivities had me, by eight o' clock, I felt like I was just riding a wave of energy as I thought about welcoming home 11 new women into our supportive sisterhood.
Amid the incessant chants of "Boom-boom I wanna go ADPi" and the squeals of delight at having captured the perfect picture on the steps of the house, we all waited in anticipation for the calls of new members accepting their bids.
Not even two years ago, I would have mocked all of this. I considered myself to be more of a tomboy, an introvert, an athlete: the antithesis of a 'sorority girl.' Honestly, if someone had told me in high school that I would be into the sorority life, I probably would have laughed in that person's face. But indeed, that sorority world has become my own. Not my entire world, maybe just a hemisphere, but nevertheless, it is still there.Always.
And that's the thing: my sorority and the 80-something new sisters that I have gained are always there, even in times when I don't think that I need them.
They were there at the finish line of the sweltering-hot All-Ohio Cross country meet, toting 'Go Sarah!' posters along with their totes. They were there with words of encouragement when my fingers and my mind were at a disconnect and I couldn't seem to play the piano to save my life. They were there with chocolate and chick flicks when my heart was torn out of my chest and smashed on the cold, hard ground.
And I know that some would scoff at that statement. I mean, really. How can a group of sorority girls really ALWAYS be there? Aren't sorority girls supposed to be catty? And I will tell you that yes, collectively and individually, we have had our problems, but somehow we manage to work through them.
And that is why no matter how tired and worn out all of the bid day festivities had me, by eight o' clock, I felt like I was just riding a wave of energy as I thought about welcoming home 11 new women into our supportive sisterhood.
Adpi karaoke
Currently on the scene at founders: wittenberg female students of all origins, backgrounds and interests, all joined together making fools of themselves for some bid day karaoke.
There are dancers, rugby players; there are English majors, math and biology majors, there are sophomores and seniors. And all have come together to momentarily take their eyes of their newsfeeds of constant bid day photos to laugh at our fellow sisters as they belt out sweet Caroline.
And as I glance around, I remember why I have joined this Amazing group of women. We can put aside our differences and belt out the lyrics because "good times never seemed so good. So good! So good!"
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Blank Slates Marked with Scribbles
Blonde hair, blue eyes, white skin complete with a sprinkling of freckles--what could I possibly add to the conversation about race relations and racial profiling? For that reason, I have been very hesitant to write this blog, but the more I think about it, the more I feel that I need to confirm the obvious: racial profiling is a very real thing. A very real, terrible thing.
I know this because I myself have been guilty of it.
I am not going to devote this blog to statistics and my poorly-crafted interpretations of those statistics. Instead, let me tell you a story:
Three girls not yet eighteen amble through the historic streets of 'old Pari', completely enraptured by the ornate cathedrals glinting in the sun, enthralled by the old time-y vendors dotting the banks of the Seine, charmed by the old French man smiling as he sells his delicious masterpieces: nutella crepes.
Then, jolting them out of their 'I-love-Paris' reveries--a (peaceful) protest of some sort, consisting of twenty or so men of color. The trio quickly crosses to the other side of the street, eyes downcast and satchels clutched tightly to their sides. They exchange furtive glances, as they scurry away to the metro, despite the obvious lack of danger.
The protest is soon forgotten as the three marvel at the day's purchases: a painting of the Seine, kitsch-y figurines of the Eiffel Tower, a true 'parisian' baret. The dank metro car is crowded, mostly with work-weary Parisians, and the three giggle at one woman's complete lack of regard for personal space. Oh well, it must be a Paris thing, they thought; she's harmless, she basically looks just like us, right? Wrong.
Turns out the woman was a thief, and while the girls were completely unaware of their surroundings (lulled into a sense of security while surrounded people that 'look just like us'), the woman was in fact, cutting the straps to one of the girl's satchels, which the girl had carelessly flung over her shoulder, in spite of the crowded metro.
It is probably not hard to figure out that one of the girls in the story is me, but allow me to get to the bigger picture: I do not consider myself a racist; I do not think that any race is inferior to any other, and yet why am I guilty of racial profiling? I wasn't born thinking 'black is bad' or dangerous. So why?
As a firm believer of John Locke's 'blank slate' theory, I believe that throughout my socialization process, society has scribbled my 'slate' with racism. A racial slur here. One scribble. A racist comment there. Two scribbles. And so it went for 18 years until my slate was so messed up that little high-schooler me thought it was OK to make judgments about one group of people based on the color of their skin.
And so, in order to fix this 'very real, very terrible' thing, I think that the first step is that people (like myself) need to be made aware of this issue at hand. And not just made aware of the unnecessary police brutality against people of color (because honestly, we can condemn and condemn those officers all we want), but rather, people need to be aware of their own subconscious thoughts, and how society may have influenced those very thoughts.
Until this awareness of subconscious is universal, I do not think that a change can truly be made. One the surface, yes, but deep down, no. To bring about a change, society really needs to work on erasing those scribbles of racism that are ingrained on the subconscious of so many.
I know this because I myself have been guilty of it.
I am not going to devote this blog to statistics and my poorly-crafted interpretations of those statistics. Instead, let me tell you a story:
Three girls not yet eighteen amble through the historic streets of 'old Pari', completely enraptured by the ornate cathedrals glinting in the sun, enthralled by the old time-y vendors dotting the banks of the Seine, charmed by the old French man smiling as he sells his delicious masterpieces: nutella crepes.
Then, jolting them out of their 'I-love-Paris' reveries--a (peaceful) protest of some sort, consisting of twenty or so men of color. The trio quickly crosses to the other side of the street, eyes downcast and satchels clutched tightly to their sides. They exchange furtive glances, as they scurry away to the metro, despite the obvious lack of danger.
The protest is soon forgotten as the three marvel at the day's purchases: a painting of the Seine, kitsch-y figurines of the Eiffel Tower, a true 'parisian' baret. The dank metro car is crowded, mostly with work-weary Parisians, and the three giggle at one woman's complete lack of regard for personal space. Oh well, it must be a Paris thing, they thought; she's harmless, she basically looks just like us, right? Wrong.
Turns out the woman was a thief, and while the girls were completely unaware of their surroundings (lulled into a sense of security while surrounded people that 'look just like us'), the woman was in fact, cutting the straps to one of the girl's satchels, which the girl had carelessly flung over her shoulder, in spite of the crowded metro.
It is probably not hard to figure out that one of the girls in the story is me, but allow me to get to the bigger picture: I do not consider myself a racist; I do not think that any race is inferior to any other, and yet why am I guilty of racial profiling? I wasn't born thinking 'black is bad' or dangerous. So why?
As a firm believer of John Locke's 'blank slate' theory, I believe that throughout my socialization process, society has scribbled my 'slate' with racism. A racial slur here. One scribble. A racist comment there. Two scribbles. And so it went for 18 years until my slate was so messed up that little high-schooler me thought it was OK to make judgments about one group of people based on the color of their skin.
And so, in order to fix this 'very real, very terrible' thing, I think that the first step is that people (like myself) need to be made aware of this issue at hand. And not just made aware of the unnecessary police brutality against people of color (because honestly, we can condemn and condemn those officers all we want), but rather, people need to be aware of their own subconscious thoughts, and how society may have influenced those very thoughts.
Until this awareness of subconscious is universal, I do not think that a change can truly be made. One the surface, yes, but deep down, no. To bring about a change, society really needs to work on erasing those scribbles of racism that are ingrained on the subconscious of so many.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Die-hard Dedication to Disheartening Disappointment: The life of a Cleveland Sports fan
For me, the team that particularly pulls at my heartstrings are my beloved Cleveland Indians. Every year, no matter how mediocre-at-best the future seems, I await the first day of baseball like its Christmas morning. Because for me, a game at "the Jake" (ok, Progressive field) is like Christmas morning: the booming sound of Tommy Hamilton's voice equivalent to Santa's cheery "ho, ho, ho!"; fans joyously singing "Take me out to the ballgame" equivalent to Christmas carols; even the rubbery taste of dollar dogs equivalent to warm Christmas cookies.
Why all this excitement if every year, the Tribe falls (sometimes) heart-breakingly short of even a Wild Card spot? Even this year, as the days of September slowly trickle by, I haven't let myself give up hope. You see, they have me caught. Kluber will pitch an amazing game and they will win five or six in a row, finally breaking through the 500 mark, and then come back and lose the next four. Or Chisenhall will come through with an ungodly amount of RBI's, and then they will get swept by the damn Detroit Tigers. One step forward, two steps back.
Why do I let myself get so invested if year after year I am just left with disappointment? Is it because that is the Cleveland way: to dust yourself off and through the rubble of another butchered season look, with fresh faced optimism, at the glimpse of hope that lies just on the horizon of next April?
I honestly couldn't tell you. What I can tell you is this: I am one Tribe fan who is tired of defending mediocrity, sick of checking my ESPN app only to see a toppling loss, and most of all, I am one Indians fan who is dying to see the Tribe win a World Series in my lifetime. Just one.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Sunshine, Sunflowers and Sisters: A Place Where Nothing Else Matters
 |
| Picture of sunflowers at the sunflower field |
As several other Wittenberg students this weekend, I found myself meandering through the chaotic, yet beautiful patch of sunflowers. Hundreds of them.
I don't know if words can do the scene justice but let me give it a try: The colors, vivid and vibrant, looked straight out of an camera filter. The golden flower heads, some tattered and some in full blossom, all faced toward the sun. The green stalks twined throughout the field, their rough textures snaking underfoot. And all of this under the canopy of an impossible blue sky, with a few puffy clouds occasionally interrupting the sun's warm, gentle, touch.
I went with a couple of my sisters, and of course we had to take the obligatory group pictures, each of us squatting in our much-rehearsed sorority squats.
But after the pictures, we each kind of went our separate ways and I found myself in a world where nothing else really seemed to matter. I could no longer hear the cars whooshing by right next to the field, or the other people squealing in delight as they captured the moment with dozens of selfies. Instead, I heard the rhythmic hum of the bees, the slight rustle of the nearby trees, and the sweet melodic whistling of the tiny birds; it was nature's symphony, and I was the audience of one.
And in this moment, my mind was solely focused in the present. The here and the now. And afterwards, I realized what a rarity that is: for a college girl with a billion different preoccupations to be truly aware of her surroundings, and to be enraptured by everything around her.
It was so pleasant, refreshing even, to have a few minutes of solitude to be away from the constant buzzing of my phone, which as of late seems to be glued to my hand. I really wonder what the world would be like without instagram, Facebook, snap chat, and the nagging desire to always be connected. Would people be nicer? Less dismissive? Would they have more time for what truly mattered? Would they appreciate a sunflower for more than just the amount of instagram likes they can get? Hmm…I wonder.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
3 going on 30
Giggling girls, roaring hairdryers, cries of despair at the broken coffee maker: this is currently the scene at the ADPi house. Not unlike this morning, the house, between the hours of 8AM and 1AM (sometimes even later), becomes a whir of activity. Sometimes sisters move so fast on their way out the door, that only the Vera Bradley backpack pattern can confirm who it is.
As I walk downstairs, bleary-eyed to (not) make my coffee, I am struck by how different this scene is to the one that I had become very accustomed to for the past three months: me and my three roommates, living in a spacious house built for five.
The scene at that house was very different indeed, with some mornings not even starting until 11AM, and even then, the majority of the days (while we weren't at work) were spent lazing around in the hazy Hollow, trying not to die of heat stroke.
And the quiet...oh my...if you have never stayed on a college campus in the summer, then you wouldn't know of the eerie, lethargic hush that seems to blanket everything--even the trees couldn't be bothered to rustle their leaves. At the beginning of the summer this sort of quiet was so tranquil, therapeutic even, but towards the end of the summer, I would have given almost anything to be surrounded by even a fraction of the activity that goes on in the ADPi house.
And so, walking back to the five-man (the room that I share with four other girls) amid frenzied sorority girls getting ready for class, I can't help but acknowledge the difference between living with 3 and living with 30.
As I walk downstairs, bleary-eyed to (not) make my coffee, I am struck by how different this scene is to the one that I had become very accustomed to for the past three months: me and my three roommates, living in a spacious house built for five.
The scene at that house was very different indeed, with some mornings not even starting until 11AM, and even then, the majority of the days (while we weren't at work) were spent lazing around in the hazy Hollow, trying not to die of heat stroke.
And the quiet...oh my...if you have never stayed on a college campus in the summer, then you wouldn't know of the eerie, lethargic hush that seems to blanket everything--even the trees couldn't be bothered to rustle their leaves. At the beginning of the summer this sort of quiet was so tranquil, therapeutic even, but towards the end of the summer, I would have given almost anything to be surrounded by even a fraction of the activity that goes on in the ADPi house.
And so, walking back to the five-man (the room that I share with four other girls) amid frenzied sorority girls getting ready for class, I can't help but acknowledge the difference between living with 3 and living with 30.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Heat, Humidity, and Hannah
Picture this: Lush, green grass tall enough to brush the backs of your knees, a blue canopy of sky with a few pillow-y clouds, the perfume of wildflowers thick enough to tickle the back of your throat. Sounds perfect, right? Ha, I wish.
Now, just add 85 degrees, 95% humidity, and 7 half mile repeats and there you have it: a typical cross country workout day.
The girls team had an unexpected afternoon practice after lightening streaked through the sky at the original practice time of 6:15 AM. As my roommate and I walked to the HPER center at 4 o' clock for round 2, the skies opened up yet again. Secretly, I was kind of hoping for a random lightening strike to send me to bed for an afternoon nap.
However, as typically happens with Ohio weather, the storm came and went in a matter of fifteen minutes. And so, off to Ferncliff cemetery we went. Trying to keep an open mind and positive attitude, we embarked on our journey of repeat after repeat; each repeat bringing heavier legs, more blisters, depleted lungs and a desperate hope that it was the last.
The only thing keeping us going was one another; the girls in "equal fitness groups" are like each other's safety nets: dragging one another along when we need an extra push and reeling each other in when the other gets a little too far out of reach. For this workout, my main safety net was my teammate, Hannah, and man, would I need her.
First repeat: breathing ragged but OK. Stay up with Hannah. Third repeat: Sweat stinging eyes. Losing Hannah, crap. Fourth repeat: need inhaler. Sixth repeat: Just keep slogging through. You can do it. Catch Hannah up ahead. Seventh repeat: You've got this. You and Hannah both. Finally, done.
In the end, I am overflowing with pride for myself, yes, for finishing yet another brutal cross country workout, but more importantly for my team. We ran together. We sweat together. We even bled together (yes, blood blisters are a real thing). And I am a firm believer that teams that run, sweat, and bleed together, stay together.
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