The taste of sulfur still lingering in the air, the man coughed. Felt the debris cut pieces from his throat and coughed up more blood onto the frozen ground. He looked up into the gray and the dark of the sky and shouted to god;

Have you no mercy!?... Have you no shame!?

His breath riding on the wind, the cold air making silhouettes of the shadows of what full trees once looked like. It reminded him of how hope took false forms, how it was a bargaining chip from god to the damned, and all he could do was sit. Trying to extract the pieces of the mirage from his mind.

What do you want from me!? What do you want from us!? Why am I still here!!!

The ringing silence that bounced off the wind taunted him, the apples fallen and rotting at his feet.

He thought of the rain, he thought of the simmering ground how it was always cold and thawing but never completely unfrozen. What an irony in a world of fire, He thought of floods, and noah, and world's end, he thought of water, and the life that is given with a boat. How long would it sit frozen? The rust eating away at the pipes. You cannot clean the world of soot, or ash, or singed leaves that have long fallen and been dead. Hell was right here.

Isn’t it?

In the rotting of dead men, with teeth like splinters, everything, burned.

The reason I chose this section on page 119 right before the man goes into the house and chews the hay seeds, is because I honestly felt as though something was missing. That we missed something between those two moments That break in a paragraph has the ability to further create a dialog of what it means to be forsaken. Especially in a world like this. It raises the question of; Can truly even be a good guy? Apples are always a significant tool used in literature. Authors make choices when they write, and McCarthy being the poetic writer that he is I believe chose apples rotten apples and a burned apple orchard or I interpreted it at least, as addressing the idea of the world's end and being forsaken, because prior to this scene in the apple orchard we hear talk of serpents and other biblical references. Therefore I tied back that piece of genesis with Adam and Eve to the end of the world, how she had forsaken mankind and now the time has now ended completely. That hell is the very world you live in. I chose this theme in particular because the Man’s conversations with god many times turn to arguments, vast exchanges of silence and anger and shouting between the man and the sky, and then there is this other piece of god that the man has which is through the boy, and what it means to have faith. It is as if the boy is his god, because the boy is what he believes in. The boy in many ways which are more innocent is this all knowing being, who often times brings the hope back to the man, and keeps the man going. The boy is the man’s god because the man has unwavering faith in the boy, as one does in god, the boy has to live, the boy has to keep moving, the boy drives the man’s will to live, the mans faith in his entirety. The only way the man still feels anguish in a world this doused in pain is because of his love and obligation to protect the boy whom he has deemed sacrosanct.

“To love someone just the way they aren’t”

The taming of the shrew and Bridget Jones' Diary

Analytical Essay:

War is dense. It pulls at the mental and physical stability of a person until they are constantly running off of an adrenaline rush in order to survive the intense circumstances that is war. “The yellow birds”  depicts this easily by constantly personifying the war, calling the air of shrapnel it’s breath, how its constant weight of death is a heavy reminder that war is patient, and murderous. Powers begins the book by saying “The war tried to kill us in the spring . As the grass greened the plains of Nineveh and the weather warmed” This completes imagery and personification of the war is continuously used throughout the book to prove a further point on which Powers decides to elaborate, on. War creates the armor of the soldier. It makes him numb to all things human, and embeds the constant feeling of survival, a life on adrenaline, a permanent fight or flight syndrome. War strips a person of their emotional connection to life due to survival, resulting in PTSD and a severe lack of empathy and room for grieving. Changing the world starts with the empathy for people, without it nothing can be changed because no one is understood. The eradication of war would create a world united in improvement and not destruction.

In a war it is said that one, a soldier is their country, that they are fighting for the very glory and victory of their own nation. However the truth to be seen is that in reality there are no winners in a war. Those who empty there guns first and find themselves with the most bodies at their feet envy the deceased, because they now live with the permanent memories of gore embedded in their minds, are called cowards if they cannot cope with the after math of their doings or admit that they might need help. How can one be able to create a change if they are not able to seek help? To find guidance and be in agreement on the problem? Instead problems are created at home. In a heated discussion with his mother Bartle says “Got dammit Mama all I fucking do is think.” After she asks him what he does in his room all day. After this statement springs out of his mouth it becomes clear to the reader the amount of agitation he is feeling, constantly on edge in the small expert of expression within a sentence to his mother. This is the first time Bartle comes home before he dies. After seeing enough, after not wanting to see anymore.

Many would argue that war is a constructive way of solving conflicts. That it has its purposes and allows the job to get done with as much gratification for its successor as possible. However the toll that it takes in the aftermath of itself proves to be far more harmful than beneficial. It begins the road to poverty from destruction people who had nothing find themselves having less than before, people betraying their countries in order to survive and dying at the hand of the war with no one to grieve their loss. “Shukran, Afwan, Qumbula, Thank you, Your welcome, Bomb. This is Maliks old stomping grounds!...We did not see Malik get killed but murph and I had his blood on both of our uniforms.... Doesn’t count does it? No. I don’t think so. Where are we at? Nine-sixty eight.” (Powers 11) The beginning of the conversation has such a thankfulness ring to it. As if Malik is of value and immediately after his death they didn’t even include them in their count of dead men, for the loyalty to their own soldiers. For the defense of their own bodies.

The soldiers will later go home to grieve in silence. To never open up their room or windows, and while The Yellow birds tells the story of two men who had died and follows them through the most painful and concise instances of their life. Without war, they could’ve kept the streets clean, help build from the rubbles that had been lost, but war has changed the world. It has turned it gray and shoved soot into the lungs of children crying for their fathers while they watch their mothers dig bodies out of the ground at dawn, while we force our children to dig cereal from a bowl before school. It has deprived those who rightfully so deserve it. War is a last breath, is a barbaric resort to a frustration for the yearning of immediate gratification.

Works Cited for Analytical Essay:

Powers, Kevin. The Yellow Birds: A Novel. New York: Little, Brown, 2012. Print.

Dahlen, Dr. Barbara Van. "PTSD / Video." PBS. PBS, n.d. Web. 22 Jan. 2015.

Narrative Essay:

In 1973 Richard Nixon installed a coup to take down Chilean president Salvador Allende. To be rid of the communist rule that had gained so much power for the poor people in the country. A country rigged with classism prior to his election. The coup lasted for years, and resulting in the assassination of Salvador Allende and the installment of Pinochet killing millions of communist and liberal chileans. There was a black-list that had my uncles name on it.

The evolution of technology within the medical field has taken on a vast development allowing for more effective treatment options for diseases, that affect everyday life factors for many people. From insulin for diabetes, to the treatments of one particular genetic disease, hemophilia The lack of medical precaution taken for the developing treatments for hemophilia is a prime example of the vast amount of leniency our government allows in regards to public health.

Hemophilia is a genetic disease found in the X chromosome that affects the clotting factor within blood (Factor IV). Without this particular factor found in blood a patient can find themselves in excruciating pain after they have had a paper cut, or hit there leg on a chair, because their bodies to not contain the proper factor within them to stop bleeding. This results in cases of internal bleeding and death from excessive loss of blood. From the early 1940’s up until the late 1950’s treatments for these bleeds consisted of transfusions of whole blood in order to replace the factor in order to be rid of the bleed and allow the blood to clot. The issue with this is that one can have patients sit through the excruciating pain of the bleed for hours even days to be rid of it. This caused the lives of hemophiliacs to be long and painful. In 1957 Charles R Drew discovered the use of a discarded substance while researching blood. This was the plasma which could be separated from whole blood in order to suffice as a quicker and safer means of curing bleeds. It was able to be packaged and sold to hospitals for the treatment of hemophiliacs from Hours or days of excruciating pain to merely one or two hours due to the waiting room. However while this development was a breakthrough the real means to a normal life for hemophiliacs came several years down the line in the mid 1960’s where the separation of complete factor from plasma became possible.

This breakthrough in science allowed for a convenient and normal lifestyle for hemophiliacs. Now able to play sports and partake in extra curricular without the strain of and constant anxiety of a bleed. Nevertheless where hope seems to shed its light we begin to see a dark truth behind the curtain of such a miracle. In order to supply and maintain a proper or substantial amount of blood toward hospitals, several blood banks had imposed locations within impoverished areas where one could donate blood and receive a cash compensation for their donation. However the predicament one can often find in offering money for donations such as blood allows a motive for people to lie about their health. For instance, if a heroin addict who has been diagnosed with HIV is offered an easy and quick way to earn money, they would have no concern for those who would be receiving the blood that they have donated but that of their own well being. Also withholding the factor of testing peoples blood to save time and resources those who could have been infected had given blood. The method of which blood was processed to create factor was also irresponsible. Blood from several different people regardless of type, conditions, and age, were being to mixed together in large basins in order to process and separate factor from blood more quickly in larger amounts. Therefore if we return to the blood bank where someone has contracted HIV/AIDS virus and gave their blood in order to receive cash and their blood is then mixed into these large basins where the blood is processed the entire supply of blood has been infected.

This entire system of giving taking and processing blood resulting in a massive outbreak of HIV among American Hemophiliacs using the factor IIIV. This was at about the same time that HIV had become a worldwide epidemic and hit the US resulting in homophobia and fear of hemophiliacs who had also contracted the disease. Despite these horrific circumstances there was never a recall of the Factor IIV, instead a warning label had been placed upon the bottle and those who were more aware or afraid of them or their children contracting HIV had gone back to the use of whole plasma which was a longer process but much safer. However the use of plasma for treatment had become nearly obsolete since the development of the separation of factor IIV. The pharmaceutical companies who had allowed this amount of harm to come to innocent people were never required to submit to a recall or nor were they required refund those who had been infected and continued to profit off of their treatments.

When asked, the medical industry in charge of the developing treatments for hemophilia might say that because of its rarity it was not a priority to seek out treatment therefore more strict regulations were not called for, but on closer inspection the issue was not with the priorities of the diseases, but with that of profit for there was no immediate recall of factor IV in fact there never was one.

Hermanastros Pérez y Cabra son los dos cantantes del grupo Calle 13, consiguieron primero un contrato discográfico con White Lion Records después de enviar la etiqueta de una cinta de demostración, y después de la controvertida canción "Querido FBI" fue puesto en libertad, el grupo ganó notoriedad en Puerto Rico. En 2005, Calle 13 lanzó su álbum debut homónimo, que se hizo muy popular debido a los sencillos "Se Vale To-To" y "¡Atrévete-te-te!". En 2007, el grupo lanzó su segundo álbum, Residente o Visitante, que también fue muy exitoso y experimentado con una amplia variedad de géneros. El álbum ayudó al éxito de la ganancia del grupo en toda América Latina y ganar tres Grammys Latinos. El grupo lanzó su tercer álbum, Los de Atrás Vienen Conmigo, en 2008, que ganó Álbum del Año en los Premios Grammy Latinos 2009. Calle 13 dio a conocer su más reciente álbum, Entren Los Que Quieran, el 22 de noviembre de 2010.  También conta la historia de la gente nativo de puertorico que se salieron de su hogar y se fueron “Pal norte.” La canción representa un tipo de gente muy específico. Los artistas hacen eso en muchas diferentes formas durante el video pero por lo general están enseñando la cultura latina.

Estoy muy de acuerdo con el significativo de este canción. Obviamente se trata de la  inmigración. Pero el mensaje más profundo es que dificil es ser inmigrante en este País, y tratando de descubrir su identidad. La inmigración para mucha gente es como un deporte. Siempre están tratando de saber quienes son y desarrollar la idea de su identidad y como se identifican cuando se salgan de su hogar. Calle 13 depicta la imagen de los jóvenes que vienen de un lugar al otro para tener una vida más estable con seguridad. Un educación mejor para sí mismo y cosas así.  Para mi la canción tiene una mensaje bien fuerte no solo para la gente Puertorriqueña, pero también para la gente que son inmigrantes de otros países diferentes. Por ejemplo la de México, O Cuba, los inmigrantes vienen de todas partes y la canción “Pal Norte” es un gran presentador para toda la gente emigrante del mundo que viene a los estados unidos o europa o lo que sea. El proposito para la canción también era para apoderar a la gente inmigrante de otros países.

El papel de este cancion es para dar una cantidad de empatía, y respeto para la gente inmigrante en países diferentes. La tema del emigración en los Estaos Unidos siempre es uno que es bien polémico. La razón para esto es que la gente sin papeles necesitan cualquier trabajo. Si es vender ropa o cuidar a los niños o limpiar casas, esa gente te va a dar ese servicio para mas barato por que es una operación que es “Debajo de la mesa” que quiere decir, si uno no tiene los papeles de ser ciudadano o una visa ni nada ellos no tienen derechos a trabajar legalmente debajo de los leyes en los Estados Unidos. Pero la problema del emigración ilegal también traiga el otro problema de que los Estados Unidos lo hacen los estapas para ser ciudadano más difícil que deberían ser. Es seguro de decir que la emigración es una tema muy controvertido para razones que en mi opinión son ridículos. Realmente no es justa para cargar otra gente con los ideales morales de los Estados Unidos porque la mayoría de la gente que vive aquí tiene sangre de un inmigrante. Y en la canción “Pal Norte” te puedes ver, que ellos también están hablando de la migración injusta que tenían que hacer después de que los de Inglaterra y Europa vinieron. Por lo general deberíamos aceptar y respetar la gente sin embargo su raíz su país de estar original o la idioma que habla. Por que todos somos de sangre mezcla de una manera o de otra. Y está canción depicta esto perfectamente. Por lo tanto yo veo la canción “Pal Norte” como una inspiración para la gebta Latino en todas partes del mundo. Por que de una manera o del otro todos somos inmigrantes. Es injusto para decir que no tuviéramos nada de ver con el gran estado de integración que tenemos aquí en los Estados Unidos.

It’s been a cold winter. I’ve been trying to sort out the means of my anger the way this great country taught me how. So when they turned up the air conditioning inside the interrogation room to make my blood boil I just thought; Yall should know by the grins I’ve been given, that I was born cold blooded. Ohhh!! How I laughed. Sat there staring at that mirror smirkin’ at all that I done did, and how they  think a little air conditioning gone make me cringe. The door creaks open. When I look up a man walks in too insecure to fit his cheep pinstripe suit. Oh he’s just shakin’ in his boots. He can’t see I’m handcuffed to a table?

“BOO!” He don’t even flinch. Like he saw that comin.

“ Very funny Tom. Smoke?” He pulls out the dented package of Camel Backs from his inside jacket pocket. I take one.

“Light?” I lean my head forward as he strikes the match. Fire pleases me. It reminds me of good times.  

“Those are some interesting tattoos you got there Tom. Mind telling me what they mean?” I puff out a cloud of smoke into his face. I haven’t stopped making eye contact yet.

“Never met a man who was confused by a swastika before.” I say laughin.

“Mph, I guess that’s fair. So Tom,  mind telling me why you’re here?” I look him up and down quickly.

“You tell me. I didn’t cuff myself to this table.” He looks up from the manilla folder calm and smirking.

“So, you gonna tell me or not Tom? Cause I’ve got time. and we’ve got...”

“Let me guess. My DNA is everywhere and this isn’t my first offense they’ve caught me on. Save it. Cause I know you don’t. I’m not sloppy with what I do. And I know your lying, cause you’re tappin’ your foot faster than a winning horse in a race. You see Officer.....”

“O’neil”

“O’neil, good name. Irishman. Me too as a matter of fact. You know we came over here and built this country from the ground up just as much as those gorillaz did? But we still had our skin color cause this means power.” I point at my hand proudly for him to see. I laugh.

“ You see, It always saddens me how a good white man like you shakes in his seat when he sees someone like me. Cause we’re one in the same!! Just lookin’ for a good ride you know? To feel that true white power we’ve been blessed with since birth.”

“You might be right Tom. So Why do you feel like it’s your responsibility to take care of these “Vermin.”

“I see. huh. You want a story. Just like the rest of em. You see people don’t hate me. How could they I make a good find for a story. It entertains people when they can hate or love. But people love to hate, and you best believe people love me.”

“Then give me a story Tom. If you’re so loved and hated. Spit it out.” He looks at me with dead eyes, like my fathers.

“I hate the gaps that we live in. The fact that we have to share the same grounds with animals makes me sick to my stomach. How everything shifts and changes. I remember when we looked at vermin with sideways glances like they didn’t even belong on the bottom of our shoes. The first time my father told me about purpose of the nigger I had to grit my teeth, because I learned how broken we are as a people struggling to come out on top. Cause I’ve got a whole lot of memories that make me wanna challenge the ideals of what it means to be a white man again. When daddy came home too dirty to sit from the coal mines in little stockton, indiana.

“Daddy! Can we play catch outside?”

“No, kid. Daddy’s too tired.” He always said that. While mumblin’ his frustrations of porch monkeys who shared his benches and wages and “morals!” Even way of life. The only power he had was his skin. So he used it. Every time one of those things would walk bye. He never cared much for me. Only joy he ever got out of his time was making cocktail bombs to light niggers on fire he said. And even then, he never felt like he had enough whiskey to ease himself to sleep. Momma was always waltzing with the wind anyway. Never payed me no mind. So the first time I played tag along with daddy I was ten. And boy was I excited. When you’re younger you always wanna lift up that curtain to see where your parents go, when they say “grown up stuff”. So I asked him can I come, and he said.

“Why the hell not. No son of mine is gonna grow up to be a pussy anyway so you best get on up and learn what it means to be a man.” I still can’t stand the smell of Budweiser. The way it hangs on breath like bitterness. But that’s what Daddy was. Bitter. I knew though, he was a man. And I needed to learn how to hold my head up in front of one. So we rode out in his busted up white pick-up truck. Painted with the confederate flag on the back of it. The only thing he truly loved. He drove us into town and we stopped at uncle Pat’s bar. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. So when my dad walked in with his ten year old son no heads even turned. Not like now in these big cities yall have where everything is I.D’s and responsibility. We walked up to my uncle Pat wiping down the bar.

“How’s business?” Uncle Pat looks up at my dad and chuckles, like that was the dumbest question in the world. The bar was empty.

“Well this don’t help none.” When he pulled up his hand, I saw something that stuck with me for the rest of my life. His palm was covered with a black square kind of thing that was made by to separate lines that had curved with sharp edges inside of a white circle. Covered in another square that was red and bright. Like a flag.

“I told you, open hate is never no good for business. But you insisted. Always gotta be loud and proud Pat.” I hadn’t seen my dad laugh joyfully since I was five. He and Momma were dancing around the living room. It was christmas eve and I came down looking for santa.

“Hurts like a bitch too. Remind me never to get wasted with you ever again. Heyya Tommy.  Your Old man tells me you’re ready to play with the big boys now?” I always loved uncle Pat growing up. He was the only adult who had this warm feeling towards me. Like it was okay for me to be boy and not man for once.

“Yeah!! Daddy said it was time for me to learn how to be a man and I’m ready!”

“Well that’s good big guy. Cause tonight we’re meeting some friends and they know all about what it means to be a man. And it’s about time you meet them.” Uncle Pat climbed over the bar top and gave me one of his big rocket ship hugs, where he picks me up and throws me. After that he squeezes me until I can’t breathe.

“Put him down. He’s too old for that shit!” My dad hates when Uncle Pat treats me like a kid.

“Oh calm your fucking tits Lucas. The kid needs someone to love him every now and again.” I liked my dad’s name. I loved Star Wars as a kid, so I guess since his name was Luke like that Skywalker guy that maybe he could be the hero one day. He never was. Just gave me a lot of bruises and drank a lot of beer.

“Whatever, I don’t have time for pussies right now. Can we go? Have they started yet?” Uncle Pat put me down and stared at my dad for a long time before answering.

“Yeah we can go. They’ve started betting already too.”

“What round is Tommy up?”

“After Buchanico and Jackson.”

“Who’s he fighting?” Uncle Pat put on a smile that I had never seen him in before.

“ Eddie’s kid.”

“Ahhh!! yes!! that bastard has to watch while his kid gets fucking trashed. Teach him to mess with us again.”

There were only two Eddie’s in the whole town. One was Dad’s and Uncle Pat’s friend. He was fat and smelly. He didn’t have any kids. I don’t think he ever could give a woman his seed anyhow. The other one was Eddie Baxter. He owned the local Pharmacy. But his kid went to my school back then. His name was Lewis. The only nigger in our grade, so he never talked much. Still I didn’t know what they were talking about. When they started walking towards the back of the bar, there was this drop in my stomach.  I felt myself kind of weighing down trying to slow my steps. I was being a little bitch basically, is what was happening. So I gathered myself and stood up straight. Uncle Pat unclipped the keys that he always kept on his belt loop and opened this rusty steel green door, that you could only hear noise come out of when it was opened. When it was, there was this huge roaring noise of men's voices, and they were all proud. I recognised so many different faces. Friends dad’s, my teacher Mr. Shuels was there, even some of my friends who were with their dads. Like I said it’s a small town. They were all gathered around this cage that looked like a ring except there was no padding or anything it was just metal and concrete. There were no seats just men crowding behind each other screaming

“ Beat him! Beat the nigger!”

And the flag on Uncle Pats palm was hanging above the cage high. Proud. When we reached the front of the cage I saw these two boys, who were older than me. Luis Buchanico and Freddy Jackson. The men all around were waving bills in the air, no less than 20’s. Except for Freddy’s Dad in front of the cage. I have only ever seen a grown man cry twice in my life, and Freddie's Dad was the first time. His face was pressed up against the cage covered in his son's blood and these hysterical tears. Behind him Mr. Shuels was pushing his face against the cage and holding his hands behind his back. Uncle Pat was laughing hysterically.

“You see that Tommy? That’s what weakness looks like.” He wiped a tear from his face since he was laughing so hard. I remember thinking weak. Why didn’t he try to help his fucking son instead of crying like a little bitch while everyone laughed at him. But that’s what you get when you take cattle to slaughter. Freddy stopped getting back up after a while, watching him fall was surreal. His eyes didn’t match up anymore and he was looking at the ceiling and then boom he fell. This awkward exchange happened between the screaming of Freddy’s Dad there was just a wave of two different emotions. About a quarter of the bills floated out towards the center of the ring echoing with

“FUCK!” and

“Never Bet on NIGGERS”!

Others had a thrill in their voices. They were betting against who would win. You could always tell who lost. When they picked freddy off the ground I don’t remember if he was breathing. I remember his dad got lost in the crowd and was no longer being pushed up at the edge of the cage and Freddy had disappeared when I looked back up.

“Your turn kiddo.” I looked back, waiting for the voice of Uncle Pat but it wasn’t. It was my Dad. He hadn’t looked at me like that in a long time. Like he loved me. He held up a 100 dollar bill to my face and said:

“I’m betting on you.” Then something yanked my arm and I moved through the crowd of men quickly and found myself in the middle of the cage. There was this gigantic wave across the mens voices cheering. I felt tall. Like I was the strongest person in the world. Like a superhero. I then saw that cocksucker Eddie crash through the crowd and Mr. Shuels held him up against the cage just like he did with Freddy’s Dad. I looked at the concrete floor. It was bloody, but you could tell that this game was old by the stains on the concrete. Because they’re were the fresh ones from Freddy, and then others that had turned purple from being there for god knows how long. Uncle Pat Has Eddy’s kid by the neck and throws him into the ring. Eddy’s kid was a lot smaller than I was, He was fragile. Not like Freddy’s boy who was a football player and had a much bigger build. He was just skin and bone. they tore our shirts off and a bell rang. The men started screaming, this blood curdling scream from a crowd. And the little shit in front of me was shaking. He had fucking pissed his pants, and you could tell that he was holding back tears in his eyes.

“HIT THE LITTLE PORCH MONKEY!!”

“Yeah do it KIDDO!!”

“PUNCH HIM IN THE GUT!”

“KNOCK HIM OUT!”

I could hear my dad through all those voices, so I hit his face as hard as I could and he went tumbling down quicker than anything I’ve ever seen. He stood back up and his mouth was bleeding. And the entire side of his face was blown up like a balloon. He was barely standing, when I heard the voices again. So I clocked him in his face as hard as I could and I watched him go down screaming, and I kept hitting him over and over, And it felt good. You never know power until you watch someone worthless completely collapse beneath you. When I got up the bell rang. I looked at Eddy’s Dad with his face pressed up against the cage. That was the second time I watched a grown man cry.”

“Do you love your father?” Officer O’neil hadn’t moved. I forgot he was there for a while actually. I felt like I had just woken back up.

“What!?”

“ Do you, Thomas Gibson Love your father?” He staggered his words like my fucking father did before he hit me with his drunken hands. Like I was stupid.

“YES! The fuck kind of question is that? He taught me how to be a man. How to walk How to speak. And those fucking koons got what they deserved. Cold and hard on a platter for taking our place in the world. Like we didn’t fucking Own it!!” Shit! He sees it now. Never go vulnerable in an interrogation, ever. I do love my father no one will ever deny me that ever!! He was the only person who would ever love me.

“Did I hit a nerve?” He had this smile on his face like he knew he had me, I was losing the game. I don’t care if I go to jail. But I sure as hell won’t go a pussy. I’m giving them a story. People love a good documentary about someone they should hate.

Breathe, I have to breathe.

“No.” I say calmly catching my breath.

“So mind telling me why you did it Tom?” I’m still a little out of it. Forgot where I was who I was with. If you’ve ever lost control you know. How weak you feel. How everyone uncovers those dirty little secrets.

“How I torched the Nigger? Or skinned him? Which one do you prefer?”

“Well I’ve only got the one you burned sitting here. But you’re welcome to tell me about either one.” I lean forward over my cuffs and get close to his face.

“I would do it all again.” He stops. Leans back into his chair trying to hold his breath. I watch him get up and walk out. I know what he’s going to do now.Like all the others, he’ll ask for a new detective because they don’t know why they feel sorry for me. Everyone is a sucker for a good story.  So I stare through the mirror where they watch me from. I smile. Pretend like I have control between my teeth, when I know that I hated my father. That he was the first time I killed someone, and it felt good.

(Jonathan is tossing and turning in his bed because he is having nightmares about a monster from childhood.)

(Something falls and Jon Jumps from his sleep) All that I know, from every creak in this wood and every bump in the night is that there are too many bags sagging under your eyes to keep them closed half the time. I always find myself back in this same place with you and I can’t find a way to let you go!! Its like I-I-I can feel you breathing down my neck every second that it gets dark and I’m tired of thinking that I’m crazy! Remember when mom said if I was ever scared, to hold onto my kneecaps, because our kneecaps are the closest we come to god before bed, but my kneecaps, are ashy and scared. God has never taken a seconds breathe out his time for me and why should he. I’m still a boy trying to face my childhood demons under the covers. As if goose feathers in fabric will somehow protect me from what lurks behind splintering wood. And yet, you’re the only one who ever listened. Mom was always gone off to work cus’ of that no good bastard who only gets off  using his semen as a legacy. Spitting out children like mucus and he wasn’t the only one. Remember the two after? Coming and going like zombies tearing up used condoms and when I screamed she never heard me. After I told her that-that-that THE SOUND OF JINGLING BELT BUCKLES felt like fingernails on chalkboards but too quiet for anyone else to hear. YOU WATCHED! and I screamed.  Monsters were never made easy work of but befriended in this house. Fathers are supposed to protect their sons the only way a Father could. But every man that comes through that door is another bruise on mom another scream another tear,  so I guess I don’t deserve that because everything just comes and goes as it pleases. Ghosts, Zombies, Terrorists, dressed in sweatpants and tattered t-shirts. Came and left, but you, You’ve always been faithful. You never left just got louder! Just listened! and every time I woke up you were waiting to be my nightmare in solid sound. Breathing and creaking, because you only came out when it was dark and cold. It’s always cold when you’re in the closet! The only thing I have ever talked to honestly yet my bones tremble every time I’m waking up in the middle of the night! Because you’re here! Shaving the enamel off my teeth in blood curdling screams. I should have never let you stay, but it seems monsters in the souls of men are the only things that I am familiar with. I hate you. Because you make me a coward as well as a child in one body. When I hold my stomach to open the closet! or when I tremble on cold nights tossing and turning, to afraid to get up because I always regret finding surprises under the bed. I am tired of treating you like an ally when are you have ever been is a concoction of painful memories wrapped up in fear. A monster in the closet.

Soledad Alfaro

When in conversation one tends to select a dialect, a rhythm, even a tone of talking depending on the relationship with whom you are conversing. The words that are selected from the back of the mind and pushed out through the mouth carry an empathetic consciousness based on the prior knowledge and experiences of both people. Therefore, it forms the outcomes of our discussions with one another. For example a conversation between two lawyers who handle criminal justice cases would include terms such as “abate” or “abstention doctrine”, when speaking of conflicts within the courtroom or their law offices. They are comfortable with the language in the scenario because they both are aware of the terms, and come from  similar backgrounds which merge together through their profession. This may be unlike the conversation between an E.R. doctor, and a police officer on patrol. If the doctor chooses to use advanced terms to describe the diagnosis of a patient to our officer, it is more than likely that he will ask for clarification for the unfamiliar terms. This is because these words will sound foreign to him based on the inferences we can make of his prior knowledge. The officer and the E.R. doctor would not have an advanced medical conversation, or one about the systems or vows of a police officer, because they have been educated in different ways and do not understand all of the details inside the languages of these different professions and environments. The name for these terms is called Jargon. Jargon is displayed in every situation that we are in, in terms of conversation. There can be many different variables that affect the type of language we use and all are sub situations of jargon. Such as the slang we use based on the cities that we are from, or the distinguishing of different classes and the concept of code switching. Jargon is the foundation of familiarity in language. It is how we find comfort in our conversations with others, and establish common ground in one’s culture.

Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, is one not only known for its historical landmarks such as the Liberty Bell and Benjamin Franklin’s burial site, but also its borderline foreign use of slang applied in informal conversations between locals. In different parts of the city one can open their ears and listen to colorful conversations that are  sources of coded language which can only be translated by a Philadelphian. For a New Yorker or someone from Kansas this is an unclear vernacular, that is only understood by those who have familiarized themselves with it. It is a jargon among the people of its city. The word “Jawn” is a prime example of the Philadelphian tongue. “ Jawn can mean anything. Person place or thing. Sometimes if we are telling a story, and we don’t want people to know what we are talking about we’ll plug in jawn for everything. The other day I was at the jawn...not knowing I had that jawn on me.” (MK Asante, Buck pg. 4)  When the writer uses “I was at the jawn” to describe a place, and then follows with “not knowing I had that jawn on me” to describe a thing. The only way one could distinguish the two would be for them to already have a preconceived understanding of the Philadelphia jargon and the word “jawn”

When the subject of slang comes up as a form of terminology it is often deemed one of uneducated people. However there is a sense of comfort in broken language that rolls off of slurred tongues and sounds like home to many. We hear it in the music of different cultures. How country delivers these sort of simple abbreviations of “yall” or “fixin” and then in music like rap we hear words of a similar cadence. One could also say that it is a clear observation that the music people listen to, also corresponds with the language of its audience, in order for it to be received as relatable to its listeners. Many times the particular dialect can have a major affect on the different classes that we have in America and how we infer who is of which class. Native Son by Richard Wright, shows us a clear dynamic of racism in relation to classism in the 50’s. It talks about a boy who is trying to accept his class and his current position in life.  “Goddamnit, look! We live here and they live there. We black and they white. They got things and we ain't. They do things and we can't. It's just like livin' in jail.” (Native son by Richard Wright) In this quote you don’t only see the clear frustration of the character but you also notice his dialect. It is one that rules him to be inferior to those above him, which specifically in this era would be white people, but he is also comfortable speaking the way he does in this quote. You can hear the sense of familiarity that comes along with the person of whom he is speaking to. One would guess that it would be a friend or a family member someone who already knew him well enough to understand his anger and the way he talks.

Language is the backbone of communication between humans. It is how we receive all types of messages whether they are met to be formal, informal or personal. When we are addressing these different social situation there is a manipulation that we take on with our tongues. We insert these codes in language in order to get across certain points and drive these ideas into the minds of others solely using words. This is why we have uses in language  such as slang, which simplify words to make them more understandable. Some of the most valued people in our society were manipulators of language. People who were poets and writers, who could take words and give them a whole new meaning through this manipulation was translated into these roots we call “slang”. In African American communities it can be considered a call to home. The slurred words that were caught between confused lips when slaves were first brought to America had to be relaxed somehow in such a hard language. In that there were abbreviations of sounds that weren’t there before in order to hold a sturdy tongue in front of the masters. Saul Williams, is one of those masters of manipulating language. He is a poet who is famous for his depth in the routes of our history and how we communicate through tools such as jargon. “Whereas the Quanti drum has allowed the whirling mathematicians to calculate the the everchanging distance between rock and stardom”. (Saul williams, Coded language) This quote is from a poem performed at Def Poetry Jam. Williams  is talking about how we use language to analyze and to better understand the systems of the world. Hence the comparison of the Quanti drum which is a drum that originates in Africa to the logic of the mathematician. It is a series of questions and answers that are spoken in different tongues but all in the same language.

We hold onto what we know like crutches. Pushing words through the spaces of our teeth trying to find balance between what is familiar and what is foreign. Coming to grips with the fact that we all speak in unfamiliar tones based on the home in our voices. Every sentence has a rhythm every word one thousand meanings to it based on the type of pronunciation. Jargon, is how we remember where we are and where we came from, because it sticks in our minds our jobs and our lives. It is how we communicate and it is how we will always understand one another.

Works Cited:

Wright, Richard. Native Son,. New York: Harper & Bros., 1940. Print.

The public education system in the U.S. is far behind those of the other world and is holding back on its true potential to raise its youth. Money from schools is being cut at bigger and bigger rates each year and by the millions. Most would think education would, and should be the last thing to cut. The public schools’ budget and make it that much harder for them to educate our youth, schools are being closed and deteriorating by the second because they do not have enough money to keep their schools afloat. The district requires the all the district affiliated schools in philadelphia to take the PSSA’S and only recently have they caught a surprising number of schools cheating because they cannot pass these tests otherwise. So much of the resources used to help prepare these kids for the standardised tests has been lost because of these enormous budget cuts, yet they almost passed a bill about increase in your taxes. So where's all this money going exactly? Obviously not to our schools. Statistics say that in the state of Pennsylvania third grade test scores are the judgement of how many penitentiaries they are going to build on account of that state that year. The United States of America has put its future in a state of emergency where we are stuck are youth is not expected to catch up after the third grade yet many schools are trying to prepare it students for jobs and critical thinking that they aren’t even sure how or when or what they will be applied to, but they no it will be needed.