Irony

How many times did I convince myself the false truth?
I was lonely.
I whined and dined alone.
The world appeared as a place for settlement.
And you came about,
Put your arm around me,
From that single moment,
I knew I’d be happy,
We laughed together,
And truth was made,
Irony set in,
This was still the false truth,
I was lonely,
I still whined and dined alone,
It wasn’t settlement,
You didn’t put your arm around me,
I wasn’t happy,
I thought we’d laugh forever,
As all things,
I should have recognized it eventually fades.

Bad Eye

The light scattered,
Was it a disco ball?
Perhaps it was the flicker from a movie projector,
Or maybe the glare off a shiny guitar,
It glistened,
That light,
It shined,
Right into my bad eye,
My mind grew befuddled,
That light,
It blinded me for some time,
But as it ended up,
That light scattered,
Because of the first,
Because of my favorite,
Because of the disco ball,
You shine.

1,2,3

It’s love you see,
Or atleast I do,
When I walk up and down the pavement,
Class,
Work,
Study,
Stress,
But you are always with me.

You See the Sea

You suck me in,
Spit me out,
And twirl me all around,
I surrender you sea,
With you I’ll be.

The Song

When I think of you,
I think of white,
When I dream of you,
Your face,
It shines,
When I call your name as time gets tough,
You save the world from falling on my shoulders,
And so I thank you for all that you do,
My life would be a bland affair without you.

Power of a Dream

I’ve often fell entraced to the simplicity of a dream,
The winds push across the land,
Running from something,
All the souls of our ancestors,
Compacted into a force,,
And they swirl,
Twist,
Blow,
And glide,
To set me free across the world so wide,
They push me away,
Away,
Away,
To a place above the sky,
And my mind drifts away,
To a state of solitude,
Where the forceful winds pushed me,
And I breathe,
And I breathe,
And I breathe a triumphant breath,
Until the last one chokes,
I’m sent spiraling to my death,
The world becomes quiet,
And my fate becomes clear,
I join the roaring winds,
I push across the lands,
I take away the fear.

The Monkey

Hope is fickle,
One day we want this,
The next day that,
So let’s be happy now,
Realize we hope for what we cannot have,
It is not a pessimistic fight,
But understood in a realistic light,
The true idealist can certainly even see,
You’re the man for me,
I’m happy when you make me tea.

Weisse Rose

A fleck of frozen,
Crystallized like a magic labyrinth,
It floats down,
Down,
In the dark of night,
Collecting into heaps in the depths of my mind,
A message from above,
So strange,
Like those ashes once,
There is pain,
I think of all the unfortunate folk subjected,
To those words similarly whispered by my mother,
So I scan the world around me,
The flecks of frozen are speaking,
They want to be free,
They keep falling,
Thump,
Down,
Thump
Solidified in my mind,
They want to be free,
But this world is so unkind.

Anxiety

Just breathe,
Inhale,
Your sorrows are gone,
Exhale,
Peace of mind sets in,
Second breath,
You’ve got it made,
Clarity presents itself,
Contentment is clear,
Take on the world,
Breathe.

Him

It was so simple,
So sweet,
The world was at my feet,
But your face turned so cold,
I ran away,
Slammed the door,
Cried until my eyes were sore,
Sleeping pills became my friends at night,
And during the day,
I walked around in fright,
Hoping to find someone to understand my pain,
But I was never good enough,
They all thought me insane,
It all spiraled out of control,
I was incomplete,
Disarray,
Still something kept me going,
I’m glad I’m alive this day.

My Problem

I don’t know,
You hear this as a refrain,
A look like a squint,
Discombobulate,
Perhaps I don’t know,
Like life is one big trick,
So I think,
I thought,
I’ll ponder it all,
That’s what I know,
I know it’s true,
It’s you.

Live

I set off on a journey,
Twas my last resort,
I didn’t care where,
I just wished to experience new things,
And come back and report,
So I set myself free,
Discovered a new land,
And what I found,
Was a value very grand,
The people understood me,
I found myself once and for all happy,
And upon my return,
All I wished to do was learn.

Nostalgia

There’s a lot to eat,
Everything to see,
We dance around and around the cobblestone street,
The atmosphere,
Like a phonograph aring a simple tune,
Is all encompassing,
But will come to an end soon,
Wait,
Just wait,
A moment and a day,
So I can experience what I want,
And then my mouth will produce the words I wish to say,
So long dear city,
I’ll keep a part of you with me,
And when will I come back?
Well,
We’ll just have to see.

Soy Cuba

Well good morning fellow people of the world. Can you believe it? Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my lovely expedition to Ukraine. I thought that for this momentous occasion I would provide you with some reading material which I have composed since then.

Here is a Cuba paper I wrote...My great uncle who lived in Cuba despised Castro. I have become a little obsessed with Fidel's personality and find him absolutely fascinating:




Pivotal Personality: Foundation of the Cuban Revolution



In the years prior to the Cuban Revolution of 1959, tensions within Cuba surmounted. The Cuban people were fed-up with a variety of oppressors like the dictatorial rule of Batista, negative American influence, and tyrannical capitalist companies. Eventually, these tensions started to form cracks through Cuban society, dividing those who supported Batista and his regime, from those who longed to live free from his oppressive rule. Thus, a revolution weighed heavily on majority of the minds of the Cuban population. Yet, a question still arose. How could the revolution be successful? And who could lead such a feat?

Luckily, the answer to this question naturally presented itself, and the large task of sparking a revolution did not seem so far out of reach. One man took action to bring together his followers and plan the Cuban Revolution: Fidel Castro. Fidel’s upbringing was almost entirely responsible for his perfect revolutionary qualities. His autobiography, Fidel: My Early Years, described much of his childhood and university education which made his eventual role as the Cuban Revolutionary leader logical. Also, historians Dick Cluster and Rafael Hernandez described in their book, History of Havana, the steps Castro took to carry-out the revolution. The revolution was a very complex set of events which remained a wonder to onlookers. It was difficult to understand how one man could lead such a successful movement. With that, in historian Nelson Valdez’s article, “The Revolutionary and Political Content of Fidel Castro’s Charismatic Authority,” Valdez described how Castro’s charisma really was responsible for making the Cuban Revolution possible. By considering these three writings of Castro, Cluster and Hernandez, and Valdez, it was clear that Fidel Castro’s personality facilitated the revolution as a result of his revolutionary knowledge and charisma.

To begin with, Fidel Castro developed an imperative revolutionary knowledge which he successfully utilized in staging the Cuban Revolution. He constructed his revolutionary intelligence throughout his life. Experiences of his early life, especially during childhood allowed him to understand the importance of hard work, education, and knowledge which can be noted extensively in his autobiography, Fidel: My Early Years (2005): “I began to acquire values of which I was very aware. I had to demand very firmly that I be sent away to study—perhaps not so much out of a love of study, but rather because I felt an injustice had been committed against me” (59). At this point, Fidel was still attending primary school, and he demanded to be sent to boarding school because the people at his school told his parents that he behaved badly and then he was punished (59). He also understood at this age that other students who attended the elite school where he went did so for reasons of social achievement, not to focus on education (59). Therefore, at this early moment in Castro’s life, he was able to recognize an injustice, and he acted upon it by convincing his parents that he needed to go to boarding school.

Moments like this were parallel to the eventual Cuban Revolution when he had to convince the entire Cuban people of a particular issue. However, Fidel Castro was able to recognize that he did not form his revolutionary ideals overnight. Castro (2005) stated, “One could say that it took me six years to acquire a revolutionary consciousness and draw up a revolutionary strategy” (105). The Cuban Revolution was a significant undertaking, and in order for it to be successful, Castro needed to study what would work and what would fail. In this instance, he may have referenced the six years from the July 26th movement (the attack on the Moncada barracks) to the actual Cuban Revolution and final overthrow of Batista. If so, the success in getting rid of the dictatorial regime was dependent on his participation in what evolved into the July 26th organization. Cluster and Hernandez pointed out this in their book, History of Havana (2006), and elaborated that Castro led all of the stages of the revolution that organized into the July 26th movement which targeted the oppressive plights of the dictatorship (207). The Cuban Revolution did not happen in one night, so it was apparent that Castro put a lot of time and effort into planning it.

However, there were other events in Fidel Castro’s early years which contributed to his revolutionary knowledge. For instance, Castro studied revolutionary doctrines like those of Jose Marti. He stated in his autobiography, Fidel: My Early Years (2005), “I had traditional ideas concerning the War of Independence and Jose Marti’s writings; I strongly supported Marti and his thinking” (103). Much of Marti’s ideals revolved around the freedom of Cuba from Spain, discussions on race, and essentially the importance of human rights and liberty. Cluster and Hernandez also provided support to this idea of the importance of Marti in shaping Castro’s revolutionary plans. In particular, Cluster and Hernandez (2006) described, “January of 1950, ten months after the coup, marked the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Jose Marti, ‘The Apostle,’ who by then was treated with the kind of secular religious devotion the name implies” (204). Castro was a Cuban and he understood why his fellow Cubans viewed Marti as an “apostle.” It was because Marti stood up for the Cuban people and allowed their voice to be heard. Basically, Fidel Castro took his understanding of Marti’s ideals and morphed them into his plans for the revolution. It was almost as if he wanted to bring Marti back to life and mimic his ideals again.

Still, Fidel Castro did not base his Cuban Revolution off of solely Jose Marti’s ideals. Instead, there was a multitude of sources that he considered which he especially studied during his years at the university. His autobiography, Fidel: My Early Years (2005), outlined his views of the university, “I believe that in any analysis of my life, nothing was more valuable for me than those years of struggle in the university” (107). Castro explained that it was during his university years that he became a revolutionary devotee to Marti and also became a socialist because of some of the classes he took (83). At this point, his revolutionary knowledge was contextually set, but he also had to understand how to work with people and what actions were successful. Castro (2005) elaborated, “The FEU elections were approaching and that mafia gang forbade me from attending the university” (97). Castro was banned from the university because he helped to remove the president of the law school from his position. This was disapproved by the mafia who dominated the university, and so, they threatened Castro (95-96). Yet, Castro still fought through all this and learned from it. It was an event like this that really allowed him to reflect upon his actions and decisions and realize that it would have been beneficial if he acted differently. This allowed him to understand what would be successful action for the Cuban Revolution. He gained political experience and military strategies because he had to protest this event without arms (96).

Therefore, this also was an event that fed Castro’s reasoning for leading the revolution. His rights as a human and collegiate citizen were infringed upon.
In contrast to the idea which was professed through Castro’s, Fidel: My Early Years and Cluster and Hernandez’s, History of Havana, Nelson Valdez’s article, “The Revolutionary and Political Content of Fidel Castro’s Charismatic Authority” (2008), suggested that the Cuban Revolution was caused solely by Castro’s charisma and not his revolutionary knowledge. Valdez (2008) explained, “Analysts often assume that the interaction between Fidel Castro and the Cuban population is based on emotions rather than ideas or policies” (30). His charisma, as part of his personality, helped spark the revolution because his emotions brought people together and mesmerized them. Valdez (2008) went on to explain, “Ethical populism was consonant with charismatic leadership as long as the leader was not individualistic” (31). This meant that Castro had the perspective and opinion of the Cuban people in mind and that he did not use any of his own personal opinions in facilitating the revolution. Valdez (2008) further elaborated, “Charismatic leadership becomes the possibility in times of institutional crisis and breakdown” (28). The Cuban Revolution was made possible because the institutions in place in Cuba were no longer working and they were not appeasing the people. This crack in Cuban society allowed Castro to fill them in with his charisma in order to bring the people back together.
Additionally, Valdez suggested that Fidel’s revolutionary ideals produced his charisma which, in turn, facilitated the revolution. Valdez (2008) described, “His revolutionary strategy helped to create the charismatic moment, but it was a propitious symbolic event that transformed him into the island’s charismatic revolutionary leader” (28-29). With that, Valdez described that the symbolism of the revolution was what really created charisma for Castro. This was because it was such a well-known, popular event, and Castro really spoke to the Cuban people. However, Valdez’s arguments (2008) were not completely unbiased because he described Castro’s charisma with an American perspective, “The Hollywood style of packaging and marketing of U.S. politicians as commodities or brands has become so pervasive that it seems natural to explain Cuban politics with the same ‘logic’” (30). So, Valdez explicitly stated that he explained Castro’s use of charisma from a biased perspective. Just because Americans saw their politicians as commodities to be sold, does not mean that the Cuban people really thought the same way. As Fidel Castro would say or even Cluster and Hernandez, it was through his hard work and development of revolutionary ideas that he led the Cuban Revolution.

All in all, the Cuban Revolution was successful, and a new Cuba was developed with the results that were put in place by Fidel Castro and his followers. By considering the works of Castro, Cluster and Hernandez, and Valdez, it is certain that the revolution was caused by one man: Fidel Castro. However, what capabilities allowed Castro to lead the Cuban Revolution remains in question. There are many other contributing factors that could be considered like the outside world’s view of Cuba and Castro, the clothing he wore, in particular his military uniform, the infamous beard of Castro, or even his participation in various other revolutions throughout Latin America. Therefore, it is definite, at least, that Castro’s role in the revolution was a complex one and very impactful.

Fidel: My Early Years (Melbourne: Ocean Press, 1998).
“Many Happy Returns?: US Occupation and Its Aftermath;” “City Lights: The Fabulous Fifties,” and “Havana in Revolution,” The History of Havana (NY:Palgrave, 2006), chapters 7, 12 & 13.
“The Revolutionary and Political Content of Fidel Castro’s Charismatic Authority,” A Contemporary Cuban Reader: Reinventing the Revolution, eds., Philip Brenner et alia (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefirled, 2008), chapter 1.

I sit here at my silly little computer with lightweight Magnesium Alloy casing, 8 hour battery life, built in dvd drive, 4g wimax, just about ready to take on this enormous midterm essay assignment. Still, will all this technology I am fortunate to have, I find that I cannot even begin to write it. I have far too much weighing on my mind...


To begin with, it's beautiful outside. I want nothing more than to slide open the patio door, feel a rush of warm breeze, then pick up my feet and leap outside into the sweltering sunlight. I think I would feel like I'm in the tropics. Yes, I would pretend there are palm trees and coconuts with the tiki straws, and a ridiculously laden tropical fruit assortment. I am imagining that I would dance the salsa and the tango with some dashing gentleman, and dip my feet into the ocean. Haha, I suppose this is my view of Latin America. This is my simply construed, 2 second long synopsis of what it means to be Latin American. This is my deceived opinion which has sourced out of my misinformed years of public education. This is sad.


Instead, what I have begun to learn during my undergraduate studies is that Latin America can not be simply lumped into a narrow synopsis such as the one I constructed above. Latin America is a term to describe a highly complex, varying set of countries. Each one possesses a unique and ever-changing history and future.


So, yes it's beautiful outside, but there is snow in Latin America. There is rain in Latin America. Majority of places do not have beaches. And not all of the men are gentlemanly. More importantly, I have much to learn. I have much to question.

Amarillo

It's that feeling you get when you run up a very large hill to the top and can see for miles. It's that moment of self-discovery when you desire to run around and scream. You want to be in a million places at a million different times. It's the EUREKA moment that I experience quite frequently. I had it, as you may recall, yesterday. Now I'm on this bloggie think where I write down my crazy ideas for people like you to fathom and laugh at me for.


So anyway, to my dismay, I found out my lovely parental unit decided to read my blog. HOW EMBARASSING. I referred to myself as "my dad's little meechy." I will never be allowed to live this one down. My mom just caught me off guard when I walked in the door after work, and she was all like "guitzalitza" is also Hungarian. I just thought to myself "oh-freakin-no-way" "They read my blog." However, in a way, the mental torment of them constantly telling me old stories for the billionth time and being proud to have a daughter who is seeking to embrace her heritage are all worth it for the information I will actually gather from them. I just hope with every ounce of anything I am that is substantinal that they do not parade around my blog at family functions. I don't wish to be the center of Christmas party discussions. I prefer to be the wallflower in the back who wears good clothes and looks pretty.


I will keep my hard work to myself and refuse to discuss the contents of this blog, for I have this lingering little feeling that I am going to encounter a multitude of obstacles...


So, you are all DYING to know...where did I get to today? Well, I'll tell you where...absolutely the middle of nothing, zero, zilch, null.


However, I did encounter some great websites that present to the public some digital history:


http://braceroarchive.org/


Digital history is really fascinating to me. It is the future of everything, and I enjoy flipping through pictures of people I don't know, their stories, and trying to form an argument about the way they lived in my head.


I can tell you there are no sources out there with this much pizzazz on the Mariel Boat Lift of 1980. What I have discovered so far is a 1 cubic foot box of photos located in an archive out in Lacrosse, and some oral history interviews which my advisor has notified me of. I can't wait to grab a hold of these precious pieces of the past. Maybe one day I can create a digital history source revolved around my senior thesis. One can only hope.


So anyway, I am stuck here reflecting on my past. On how embarrassed I am that my parents read my blog.


With that, if you have time, please allow me to embarass myself a bit more. Go ahead read my literacy autobiography. I hope it gives you a sense of how I write, why I write, and why projects like this senior thesis of mine on Cuba and America has grown so fascinating to me:



Spiral, Twist, Explode! With Literacy

I wish that within my collection of vivid memories there was some dazzling story about the day I became literate. I wish I could explain I was a child of 5 years because five is a more advanced age to start reading than the typical six. With that, my brilliant story would go a little like this: one fateful day, after months of practicing the alphabet, moving on to phonics, and eventually words, I finally open to the first page of the classic book Dick and Jane. At this point, I open my mouth and allow my brain to interpret the meaningful symbols written on the first page, thus producing the sounds required to say “This is Dick.” From this moment, I continue flipping through the book’s entirety until I mutter the last word on the last page. Now is when I jump up with glee from my seat and shout throughout the house, “I know how to read!” Perhaps my mother would even go as far as to create a display case in the living room that details the exact date, time and how long it took me to read Dick and Jane. Yet, disappointingly enough to me, memories just don’t work out this way. Instead, my case is much simpler than this. I uphold nothing other than a boring, typical story about my coming to terms with literacy. I don’t really remember it. It’s just a big blurry concoction of several moments twisted up and down from side to side.

In actuality, I recall sitting at our nineties caramel colored, wicker kitchen table with a pair of my favorite yellow monkey scissors, a Bic blue ballpoint pen, and some scraps of paper I had cut-out. Upon these mangled scraps my nimble little fingers gripped the pen and etched writing in cursive lettering, resulting in a series of connected “M’s.” At my age of four, I was convinced that about ten “M’s” in a row spelt my name, Michelle, and so at this point, I was persuaded of my own literacy. The fact that I thought I could interpret a series of symbols meant that I understood the convention of reading and writing, but I hadn’t quite achieved literacy.

This memory continues to be my first concerning literacy. From this carefree point of my life, I entered into a world spiraling, twisting, and exploding with books of all shapes and sizes. They began to float through my mind, words spun through the depths of my brain, and pens accompanied with paper scattered around my world.

Naturally, as is true with most peoples’ development of literacy, this familiarity began during formal training within the confines of brick elementary school walls. My teachers would spit out instructions concerning how I was to go about reading, or how I was to go about writing, and as one of many students, I would gladly memorize and regurgitate it. In all honesty, I would prefer to point out that I was never bubbling with excitement about learning to read. For example, in first grade, our teacher asked us to share what we wanted to learn most over the course of the year. Literally every single student with the exception of myself and maybe one other boy declared: “I want to learn how to read.” What was my expectation? “I want to learn about nature.” Really? Did I have to be that different? Would this simple goal of mine in the first grade that seemingly ignored the importance of reading, writing, and literacy forever impact my impending future?

What I didn’t realize, at that time, was the fact that to fully learn about nature, I needed to become literate. My idea of reading and writing would come back to haunt me intermittently throughout my learning career. I conceptualized these practices as something to be strictly learned and thought it was most important to be the best at it, remaining completely blind to what I could let soak into my young soul. I just wanted to look smart. Therefore, I never grasped the enjoyment a book could bring. So, when my class would read wonderful non-fiction like Mr. Pauper’s Penguins or The Series of Unfortunate Events, all I wanted to do was sit in class and scan the pages as fast as I could. I wasn’t interested in the life of Mr. Pauper or his penguins, and Lemony Snickett never became my friend. I only strived to be the best reader, and my little mind believed that fast readers were best. However, the fact was, those who took their time and actually enjoyed the stories within what they read were the best; they were literate.

For the longest time, I would continue on with my determination to become a speed reader. Take, for example, the second grade, we were forced into nightly reading of fifteen minutes each, to be documented on a monthly calendar. Now this was just about the worst assignment any teacher could assign a speed reader wannabe. I would sit and try, try, try so hard to actually enjoy what I was reading, but my mind was in the clouds, content on dreaming about far off places, places anywhere else than those within the structure of the book sprawled open on my lap. I read to get through the pages, interpreted the symbols but never what they meant.

Upon reflection, my desire to be a fast reader was among other influences that deterred my desire to read for content. I used to plop down the stairs to our creaky, dark, spooky basement. I’d walk over to our meagerly filled, antique hand-painted bookshelf to place my young fingers on the spine of some dusty old book, and slide it off the shelf, only to find a title none of my classmates ever heard of, let alone their grandparents.

Growing up working-class, with a pair of antique obsessive parents, I did not have easy access to the works of all the authors my classmates were enthralled with. I could never read Eric Carle, Beverly Cleary, or Judy Blume. Instead, I read over and over Susie the Squirrel or Never Tease a Weasel that contained explicitly cheesy 1950’s moralistic lessons. With no other options at hand, I chose to just deal with what I had, and at the end of the month bring my fifteen minute a day reading calendar to my mom. She would willingly sign each blank with her initials to declare to my teacher that yes, in fact, I did read. Yet, at this point, I never did. I continued to fake it.

Regardless of just feeling insecure, out-of-the-loop, and lame due to my limited access of books, I still constantly sought to be the smartest. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, I was a part of the gifted and talented program in elementary school. The unconventionality of my childhood, and attempts to look smart by speed reading, really allowed for my placement in these programs. The old books or lack of books in general that I had to read, required me to create stories and worlds within my own head. Instead of looking to authors for inspiration, I came up with detailed daydreams and imagined various life scenarios. By pairing this practice of mine with the appearance of being a fast reader, I could easily slide through the typical cracks of what shapes students to become literate It always seemed like I wore some mask that officially labeled me and allowed me to take on many feelings of superiority. I could feel the need to skip reading all together, and did for several years.
Eventually, an even more amplified version of fifteen minute nightly readings appeared, the dreaded, the hated, the things which I loathed so entirely, AR points: accelerated reader points. This was a system in which every student was required to accrue a specific amount of AR points at the end of each grading period. To gather the needed amount, I had to read books from the school library and then take computerized comprehension tests to assess whether or not they read the book. I recall being so overly anxiety-driven about these tests. My teacher would call out during free reading time that students who needed AR points could head to the library to check out whatever literature was worthy of being a part of the system. Naturally, I would lift myself up out of my seat, walk down the tiled floor hallways, and enter the library bursting with books. Of course, approximately only ten-percent of the thousands of books were AR point books, so I had to search, dig, and suffer through migraine-like headaches to find a book I actually liked. I recall dreadfully boring titles including: A Wrinkle in Time or The Chronicles of Narnia. Consequently, to spark my interest, I checked-out every book with which there was a movie remake of, and apparently there were enough of these books within the AR system to just let me slide by. It is obvious that even my 6th, 7th, or 8th grade self could realize AR points were contingent upon reading for the sake of reading, and I became determined to recognize and exploit the flaws of the system. This was when I began to realize that reading was worth more than points. It was about more than being the first to finish a book.

Now thankfully, I overcame my anxiety post-middle school through a lot of determination and hard work. Happily, AR points weren’t a complete whirling black hole within my memory of literacy. Instead, they taught me I couldn’t achieve intelligence by covering up my insecurities and remaining lazy. Sooner or later, I felt guilt. I would get off the bus with a backpack containing a day’s worth of homework, walk up the street, to my front door. Here, I entered the living room, and headed to the kitchen table. Now, I would plop myself down, scruffle out all my assignment sheets and reading, scramble, and finish within fifteen minutes. After this daily routine, I’d flail out in front of the electric box of a T.V. to watch pointless programs about family dramas and everything unenlightening until bed. Overtime, I realized I had to wake up, smell the roses, and put in hours of hard, hard work, but I was so far behind. It is true: T.V. rot my brain.

So, in high school I did it; I finally began to read again. With this chance to turn a new leaf, I read textbooks, the stories we were assigned and became determined to no longer live a lie. There was only one problem; my reading comprehension was nonexistent. It seemed impossible for me to remember anything that I read. I tried, and tried, and tried, but it was one of the biggest struggles of my life. In addition, I didn’t want to ask my parents or teachers for help because I was always labeled as being “gifted and talented.” That would have just been a complete embarrassment. So, I would once again enter our creaky, creepy basement. With book in hand, I read everything out loud to myself. I remember pronouncing, all the phonemes, words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, books, and upon finishing had such a sore, scratched, fatigued voice. Regardless of its difficulty, I was dedicated to this strategy; it was the only way.

In addition to improving my reading, I also focused on mending my non-existent writing skills. As was the case with my reading out loud, I learned to compensate for my writing in a similar fashion. For high school essay assignments, I would attempt to twist the words of other author’s in order to write what I thought sounded intelligent. I can vividly recall going onto Google, typing my topic into the search box, and then copying and pasting an author’s work into a word document, where I would attempt to rewrite and make my own work sound similar. This was a lengthy, difficult process, but it propelled me to become a cohesive writer. Eventually, I didn’t need to utilize these aides I created for myself.

After a couple of years of this self-prescribed reading and writing remedy of mine, I began the most important moment of my literacy career. It hit me with a huge punch. My quest for knowledge and literacy would finally coincide. It was senior year, contemporary communication arts class with Mr. Penn. I was seventeen and we were assigned to read a book entitled Kaffir Boy. Prior to choosing this course, I would see students carry this book through the hallways, and the picture of a saddening African boy on the front cover always made me question how such a discontented face could exist in the world.

Then I opened the book, began reading, and my world was twisted upside down, shaken 60,000 times, and forever changed. This book about a boy, Mark Mathabane, growing up in Apartheid South Africa, marked the fever-pitch of my life: I finally identified the importance of literacy. His story chronicles his own struggles with literacy that were far more dreadful and significant than my own. It goes on to explain how reading, writing, and knowledge of the world eventually sparked his success. With my jaw permanently dropped, I finished this book in two days which was a record for me, and I wrote the accompanying essay with ease.

On the whole, my literacy career is not ideal. I didn’t start with a triumphant moment, but the fact that it came about later in my life through reading Kaffir Boy speaks volumes. Eventually, as I have begun to study the teaching profession, part of my decision to continue down this career path is to inspire all my students to experience a similar shining literacy moment. Whether it occurs for them at age 6 or 17, the ability to read and write is a value like nothing else in this world.

I realize that achieving literacy was a result of my own independence and determination. From this, it is incumbent upon me to suggest that all students grasp literacy in a different fashion because all students are different. As a future teacher I will poke, prod, inspire, and work hard to understand what interests my diverse students. With this knowledge, I can warp my curriculum to suit their individual needs and communicate the value of literacy. That way, they will be able to discover through their own will, the value of reading and writing: the value of literacy. Their world will spiral, twist, and explode with literacy.


Adios Amigos!



Michelley

Quiero un animal

Hasten to battle, men of Bayamo,

For the homeland looks proudly to you.

You do not fear a glorious death,

Because to die for the country is to live.


To live in chains

Is to live in dishonour and ignominy.

Hear the clarion call,

Hasten, brave ones, to battle!



This is the Cuban National Anthem. For those of us who remain more cultured than the rest, in Spanish:



Al combate corred bayameses

que la patria os comtempla orgullosa

no temais una muerte gloriosa

que morir por la patria es vivir

En cadenas vivir es morir

en afrenta y oprobio sumidos

del clarin escuchad el sonido

a las armas valientes corred.



It is my utmost goal in life to read out loud these lyrics and truly understand what they mean. I want to understand not only what they mean to me, but to the lives they've affected for years...






Little did you know, my grandma lived in Cuba. She was "Grandma Z" as I knew her. Her real identity. Her real alias was: Florence Hedin(later on Florence Zapf). She was a simple Swedish lady. She was tall, had blonde hair, was kind, funny, witty, and put a smile on everyone's face. Well, Florence, or "Grandma Z," one of a few silly Swedes seeking a fortune in Cuba, lived along the shores of the Isle of Pines with her parents Ellen and Lars, 3 sisters, and brother.

Her days were spent riding the beachy shores of the island just off the coast of Cuba on horseback, eating coconut flavored ice cream, and lazing away the evenings while watching the flames of a bonfire dance across her vision. It was a mysteriously pleasurable life that keeps me wondering.

These tales of her life were the tales of my childhood. My dad used to tell his little Meechy (yes that was my nickname) to drink all of my "guitzalitza." What is guitzalitza? Haha well it's delicious. It was that wonderful powdered drink...you know, the one that turns your tongue and lips an obnoxious color and even at times gave you a subtle mustache. Yes, it was koolaid. And how was koolaid in anyway guitzalitza? Well, it was mixed with lemon lime soda. That was our guitzalitza. It was refreshing. It was sweet. And everytime it made its way into our refrigerator, an hour or so later I recall my dad creaking open the white box's door, pouring himself a glass, and belting out in a satisfied voice, "guitzalitza." This hysterical word was no doubt stamped into the back of my mind because it is so odd. Who could have possibly thought up that word? Thought up that drink? Later on in life, I'd find out it was Grandma Z. It was her. She was embodied into a single word that was no doubt a product of her past. It represented a conglomeration of her experiences. It was the Swede in her mixed with Spanish mixed with her goofy mind, mixed with the rosy colored memories of childhood and the American culture. It stands for my family. I am a guitzalitza I think. I am crazy, and I am about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. I am about to embark on an investigation of this past.

Where will I begin this trip?




Stop 1: THE SENIOR THESIS


Prepare to stay tuned and read about my exotic investigation into the lives of the Mariel Boat Lift Refugees in 1980. Who were they? They were Cuban. Where did they live? Right in your backyard, Fort McCoy, in Prarie Du Chien, WI. Why should you care? Because I bet you never knew they existed. They made an impact, and one that I will tell you about over the course of the next year...

Why am I writing about them? Well, I have grown fond of Latin American history. It's this spiraling ball of complicated information that has somehow transparently manifested itself into my mind. I suppose you could say its been a long time coming. I've been searching for an identity and one to grab a hold of. I've done the whole German extravaganza. I took a Swedish class or two. I went across the globe to Ukraine, and still my world was not fully rocked. Then I took some Latin American history, I engaged in many conversations with particular people of Latin(ish) American decent and found myself pining. I found myself considering the one identity I had shoved to the bottom of my list for such a long time. Essentially, forever. I discovered that I had unraveled the possibility of experiencing a world much like Grandma Z's. I'm going for it now. I've got so much to do, so many places to go, so many people to meet. I can't wait to hasten like a brave one to this battle. This battle to establish my identity...to follow my dreams.

Here's what I've learned so far:


Quiero un animal, pero no quiero un perro. This is the extent of my Spanish. So brilliant.





TATA



Michelle