Writing

My World

        School has never been my cup of tea.  It seems to require a very specific combination of special information and skills that I simply do not possess.  My mind is a mirage of thoughts like: “maybe if I were more confident,” “maybe if I could just talk with them,” “maybe if I wasn’t so inherently awkward.”  Somewhere in me logic is stifling a laugh and muttering “you don’t fit in because you’re that weird chick who is constantly reading a novel, you talk about comic books, and your social etiquette is lacking on the best of days.”  And so, for me, I spend my seven institutionalized hours a day sitting in various, equally hideous rooms, making no noise and pretending I’m not there.

        This quiet, mild-mannered, painfully shy girl disappears once I have sat down on my bed, laptop on my legs, fingers hovering above the keys.  I slowly transition from the trauma of another day wasted to the places that is entirely mine.  As I put in my earbuds and select the playlist titled “Imogen” or “Cove” I find my paradise.  The carefully compiled sets of songs that I feel represent the chosen character wash over me and my muscles start to act involuntarily, striking the keys with purpose and dedication, words flowing onto the page.

        As my thoughts end up appearing sentence by sentence in front of me I frequently pause to flip frantically through notebooks filled with character analyses, tentative plot outlines, diagrams that at one point meant something, before I find the scribbled memo I was in search of.  In this way my novel takes form.  It’s a long, arduous, and all over frustrating process.  As I write words, decide they sound wrong, delete, start over, realize I’ve made the scene worse than it was the first time, try again, find out three times is not the charm, get fed up, go make myself a fresh cup of Earl Grey, giving up often seems like a good option.  When a manuscript you’ve poured your heart and soul into turns into a disaster that is only causing you frown lines and lost sleep it’s easy to say “I’m done with you!” slam the laptop shut, and storm off, with the feeling that you’ve won.

        An author always goes crawling back to their novel, including me.  It’s because of their characters, and their places.  I have spent months developing my protagonist Imogen, and the cursed town she lives in, Echo Cove.  A character quickly becomes more than that, they become a person with a multi-dimensional personality, complex interpersonal relationships, and thoughts and opinions of their own.  Imogen is no longer a seventeen-year-old girl who lives in Oregon.  She is me: albeit a smarter, prettier, wittier, skinnier, me, with boy problems.  Unlike me, I am sorely lacking in the boy department at all.  It’s unfortunate.  Imogen is no longer a character I think of as a “small-built girl, with short, dark hair, grey eyes, and stunning likeness to the portrait of Maeve hanging in the entryway of Worthington.”  She is a hero, with brains, and more fight in her than anyone else, and who is willing to sacrifice her own life to save the lives of the ones she loves.  And she is a creation of mine.  I shaped her simply from my own imagination, tweaking until Imogen was exactly what I had imagined in my head.  The rest of her character was molded by the plot of the manuscript, and her evolution has been incredible as her role has made drastic changes.

        Places receive this special treatment from their loving author as well.  When I began writing my novel the location seemed entirely unnecessary.  It says in my notes “birthplace: Deep South (not important,) current home: small town in Oregon.”  There have been some large additions to this section.  The history of Imogen’s hometown in rural Mississippi fills half a notebook, and the small town in Oregon is carefully mapped out in sticky notes on my wall that can be moved around when locations for certain important places do not work well.  Favorite locations of mine have sketches and earn special attention in their descriptions in my writing, as I want my writers to see them the coastline from Worthington exactly as I do.  I want them to see the gray, churning water swelling and cresting in whitecaps, before slamming into craggy boulders along the rocky shore.

        When I lay on my bed in the dark, eyes shut, music playing softly in my ears, just thinking, I know that this is what I'm meant to be doing.  With all the plot lines my mind is constantly inventing that quickly twist themselves together into a tale that is dying to be told, it seems that the only thing I can do is sit down and put pen to paper, leaving my thoughts in a more tangible form.  Creating people and places and their stories is what I love.  Through writing I have found my identity, I am a writer.

The Incredible Dr. Banner

The Incredible Dr. Banner

            “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Banner.  Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled.  And I’m a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”  These words, the first interaction between Tony Stark (whose fame as a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist is trumped only by his alter ego as Ironman) and the recently returned Bruce Banner, perfectly capture the war that is constantly waged by his two personalities.  The unsuspecting physicist-turned-third-world-doctor Bruce Banner and his more volatile side: The Incredible Hulk. 

            The tone is bitter when Bruce Banner says "Tony Stark and Reed Richards use their genius to save the world every other week. That's how they'll be remembered in history. Meanwhile, I – I who, forgive me, have just as much to contribute – will be lucky if my tombstone doesn't simply say "Hulk Smash.""  His hatred of the Hulk is deep-seated and justifiable.  The abuse he suffered at the hands of his alcoholic father (who killed his mother, the only one who loved him, in a fit of rage) coupled with the trauma of waking up surrounded by rubble and the knowledge that it is due to your alter ego's destructiveness would be enough to convince anyone to think the thing they shared their body with was a monster.  Each Hulk Out leaves Bruce to wake up alone, not knowing where he is or what The Other Guy has done, but knowing that there is a body count and a city in ruins around him.  Hulking Out not only has psychological effects that leave Banner with blame and guilt on his very un-green shoulders, but physical effects.  Bruce's body is left exhausted, with sore muscles, and a pounding headache that can last for days. 

            The major flaw that comes from Bruce Banner not remembering anything from his time as The Other Guy is that he only has his pre-conceived notions of what the Hulk does when he hijacks his body.   This is unfortunate because the Hulk is not a monster who goes out and destroys cities, like King Kong.  The Hulk, sometimes referred to as The Jolly Green Giant, was selected by the Strategic Homeland Enforcement Intervention and Logistics Divisions, otherwise known as S.H.I.E.L.D., to be a part of the Avengers Initiative, an elite team of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.  The screening process was long and arduous.  Tony Stark, was originally kicked out of the initiative for displaying compulsive behavior, self-destructive tendencies, and textbook narcissism.  To have picked for the Avengers Initiative by Director Fury makes it clear that the Hulk can do more than just destroy things.  And he's proven it, even with the mindset of a child who says little more than "Hulk smash" and "Puny God" he has saved the life of more than one of his teammates.  For instance, in the Avengers movie, when Tony fell from the sky (again) without the aid of the Mark VII the Hulk came from nowhere, caught him out of thin air, and landed with him gently. 

            The sweet, shy, socially awkward physicist-turned-third-world-doctor that is the unassuming Dr. Banner is a surprisingly emotionally unstable person.  After suffering the horrible childhood that seems to be a prerequisite for becoming a male comic book superhero it’s not too surprising, and his transitions into an enormous green rage monster certainly do nothing to help his mental state.  To most the Hulk would be a superhero, a great power, but for Bruce Banner the guilt and blame combined with memories of suffering at the hands of his father makes The Other Guy something Banner hates and wants rid of.  Several times badly enough to take drastic measures against his own life, saying once to Betty Ross: “It’ll be worth dying, Betty – if it rids this planet forever of the Hulk.” He claims that the Hulk is too much of a liability, and is too much of a danger to everyone on the planet.  It’s the reason he goes into “exile” in the third world pre-Avengers movie.  It’s his way to stay calm, and keep The Other Guy at bay.

            “It’s a . . . terrible privilege” Tony Stark says when talking with Bruce Banner, speaking directly about the Arc Reactor that keeps a cluster of shrapnel from crawling into his heart, and indirectly to Bruce’s transformations into the Hulk.  Bruce’s response is to ask what exactly The Other Guy saved his life for, foreshadowing the later confession of his latest suicide attempt.  Banner’s beliefs that the world would be better off without the Hulk have been disproven over and over, and are quelled by the other members of the Avengers throughout the movie.  As a successful character for fifty years the Hulk has more comic books than anyone could ever keep track of, and they all show why the earth, and the fictional planets of the Marvel universe sorely need him.

            While most people would be green with envy at the chance to change into the Incredible Hulk, Bruce Banner thinks of it as a curse.  As The Other Guy is triggered by stress and anger Bruce spends all of his waking hours struggling to quell these everyday emotions. The truly sad thing is the he spends his days in a fight against the rage that is always inside of him, and yet he is still so close to the edge at all times, like he says to Steve Rogers “that’s my secret Captain, I’m Always angry.”  He believes that every time the Hulk comes out it is a failure, even referring to his appearances as “incidents”.  And how could he not?  People walk on eggshells around him, whisper when he’s around, and always have one hand on their gun.  No one has ever made the impression that the Hulk is anything other than a monster that must be restrained at all times.

            This all changes when Bruce Banner becomes a part of the Avengers Team, and meets his Science Bro, Tony Stark.  Unlike Natasha Romanov, who pulled a gun on him only two minutes into their first meeting, Tony doesn’t fear the Hulk.  On the contrary he tries to draw him out, even stabbing Bruce with a sharp object just to see what would happen.  As the teams’ view of Bruce and the Hulk slowly begins to shift, so that Bruce is not feared and the Hulk is seen as an ally in battle it becomes more and more apparent that Bruce’s fear of the Hulk may not be entirely necessary.  In the end the Hulk is called on by the team for help, and while it is still saddening how easy it is for the anger to overtake the physicist it is nice to see that the Hulk does not constantly need to be restrained, and that perhaps S.H.IE.L.D. doesn’t need a Hulk-proof glass prison aboard the Helicarrier.

            The negative views Bruce Banner has about the Hulk certainly stem from his childhood and from the psychological effects of sharing a body with something that many deem a monster, but overall his view on the Hulk is one with considerable bias.  As he has no memory of what happens while he is the Hulk there is no validation to him that the Hulk is a hero, instead of a senseless murderer who will take over his body if he isn’t constantly vigilant in his control.  Even with the two entirely different views, the two manage to work together to make the world a better place.

Why I Want to go Into Social Work

Many factors have influenced my decision to study social work in college, which draws closer as each quarter passes.  One of the most important components that went into the choice of social work as my future career is the adversity I have observed, and how truly blessed my life has been.

            After leaving the quintessential southern town I was born in my family lived for five years in a diverse area only ten minutes from where we currently reside in stereotypical suburbia.  It was an eye-opening experience for me.  Yes, there were students who had more than me, and who lived in nicer houses and had more toys, but the other end of the spectrum was also well-represented.  As a kindergartener I didn’t fully understand why my mom, dad, sister, and I lived in a nice house with big windows, a large playroom, and a much-loved swingset in the backyard, while other kids my age lived in such widely different circumstances.  My school bus each morning passed run-down homes and squalid apartment buildings, and even at five years old it made me appreciate my home a little more each day.

            As a first grader I would often observe the other students, and I one time had the realization that the pants’ of the little boy who sat in front of me were an inch above his ankles.  As I scanned the other kids I became hyperaware of the new clothes I wore, that had just arrived by the boxful from Land’s End.  Some of the other kids wore what could only be hand-me-downs from many years ago.  Before the day I noticed the difference between my clothes and some of my other classmates’ I had never known what the Salvation Army was, and I had no idea what happened to the clothes you donated to Good Will.  After school as I stood leaning against my closet door and looking in at my wardrobe it again brought to mind just how blessed I was.  That night when I prayed I made sure I thanked God for taking care of my family so well.      

            When I was in the second grade I helped my mother mass-produce my favorite dinner, ham-and-noodles, to take to our church that evening.  As I stood and stirred the simple white sauce I had been taught to make my mom explained who the church was feeding that evening.  It was a group of homeless families who, to stay off the streets, traveled and slept in churches for a week at a time, where they were fed and cared for by the ministry.  I was slightly shocked. 

            We carried the meal into the gym of the church, where there were families lined up and waiting to eat.  I couldn’t help but look at the people as I helped get all the food into the shining industrial kitchen.  In the line there were plenty of moms, dads, and other adults, but what really got me was the kids.  Waiting in the line for a meal were dozens of babies and toddlers and second-graders like me.  One girl in particular caught my eye, simply because she looked exactly like me.  As I ate my dinner that night in my dining room I couldn’t get that girl out of my mind.  I pondered the unfairness of it all, that I had so much and the other little girl had so little.  I lay in bed that night and gazed around at my belongings.  I carefully appraised the large pile of stuffed animals that graced the corner of the room.  It saddened me to think that not every kid had a stuffed animal.  Even at age seven I wanted to do something to help just that one girl that I had seen that day.

            Christmas is my favorite time of year.  It’s magical, the lights and the carolers, they all come together for just a few days a year.  One thing that has always really impacted me when it comes to Christmas is the Giving Tree.  Every year our church has two trees covered in slips of paper, with a large box sitting beside them holding even more as they await their turn to be placed on the tree.  These brightly-colored papers hold the Christmas wishes of people who are not going to receive any gifts for the holiday.  Looking at the tags is always saddening.  There are hundreds at our church alone, and this doesn’t even begin to cover out community.  Reading them simply makes it more apparent that many of the people receiving presents from the giving tree are children, and teenagers like me. The adult requests are just as heart wrenching, most comprising of socks, underwear, and blankets.  These are the things I would throw into the cart while out shopping, not ask for for Christmas.  As I stand in front of the Giving Tree each year I am thankful for all that I have.

Babysitting

           When people ask me what my job is I always tell them “I manage a small business, most of the work I do involves conflict resolution, time management, overseeing that the specified work gets done, and most importantly, making sure my charges are happy and entertained.  In other words, I am a babysitter.

            To say I was nervous the first few times I was left in a house alone with the responsibility of keeping several young children alive for two hours would be a grand understatement.  I was terrified, and reasonably so.  Other than a six hour course on safety that had been held in the basement of a church, my knowledge on small kids was limited.  I have now babysat hundreds times for many families, with little ones of all ages; however, some particular experiences I still remember.

            My third babysitting job was particularly rough.  Not that the first and second hadn’t been, but the third has always stood out.  Job number three has come to be known as “The Almost Fire.”  I was watching three young children, and I was just a kid myself, only eleven years old at the time.  As I stood at the stove and concentrated on making boxed macaroni correctly, I heard the sickening thud of somebody’s head hitting concrete.  I dropped my spoon and sprinted for the back yard, to see the middle child lying on the ground with blood pooling around his head.  I sat down next to him, pushing his hair back to see where he was bleeding from.  Luckily, it was only a small cut that I was sure would stop bleeding with some ice and a gauze pad.  Once the three siblings had stopped crying (and I had managed to get the tears out of my eyes) we walked back to the house.

            Directly into smoke.  In my haste to make sure there wasn’t a kid bleeding out in the backyard I had abandoned the macaroni. The children were immediately sent back outside to sit quietly, as I didn’t want another head injury on my hands, while I shut off the stove and ran water into the black and smoking pot.  The stench was horrendous, and the noodles were a blackened lump in the bottom of the pan.  The kids and I forewent a hot lunch of macaroni and cheese at the table for peanut butter sandwiches in the grass, while we aired out the house as best we could.  It was an interesting day, but we made it through.

            Another day of babysitting I’ve always remembered is the day that I first put a baby to bed.  The child was six months old and I was entirely convinced that this was the best baby in the world.  Unlike other babies I had worked with, she ate happily, was content to be carried around on my hip while I helped her older sibling, and loved to just be held in someone’s arms.  I made the mistake of assuming that she was going to be an easy baby.  I was wrong.  As soon as we went up to her nursery, turned the lights down, and began to rock she made the face.  The face that is the thirty second warning before a child starts to sob.  As soon as the tears began I began saying “don’t panic” although to whom I was talking to I’m not sure.  I quickly realized that I was not as great with babies as I thought I was.  I read stories, she drank a bottle, we walked around the room, I located a pacifier, I tried everything I could think of that would put a baby to sleep.  After thirty minutes of the six-month-old wailing I thought of one last thing. 

Feeling a little silly, I began singing “All the Pretty Little Horses” quietly.  As I only knew the part that is about receiving the pretty little horses I attempted to switch songs after about five minutes.  This was not okay with the baby.  For half an hour I sang the chorus to “All the Pretty Little Horses” until I was hoarse.

At nearly nine p.m. the baby’s older brother arrived in the doorway, to ask bluntly “do you know any other songs?”  I stifled my laughter, but when I looked down at the baby her eyes had drifted shut.  So I did what any babysitter would do.  I put the baby in her crib, turned on the monitor, and got out of the room as quickly as possible.

If I ever thought babysitting was going to be an easy job I found out just how wrong I was when a five-year-old boy I was babysitting darted out the front door, grabbed a scooter from the driveway, and proceeded to make a break for it down the street.  I stood in horror for a moment, staring at the runaway's sisters for a brief second before making a snap decision.  I shoved the phone into the oldest girl's hand, giving her instructions to call my mom (who lived in the next neighborhood over) and to tell her that "my brother’s gone, we need you."  Leaving a child only seven years of age standing in the middle of the front yard I put the littlest girl in the wagon and started on a nearly ten minute wild goose chase through the subdivision.  I ran barefooted down the street, dragging the wagon haphazardly behind me as I screamed the boy's name.  As my feet pounded the ground I pondered things like "why would you not have a lock on your front door?" and "maybe I should work out more often."  While I looked for a scooter abandoned in the grass the sister of the little escapee shouted threats such as "I'm telling mommy!" and "you're going to have so many time-outs for this!"  I wanted to tell her that this was probably counter-productive, but she had to be just as scared as I was so I let her continue explaining the punishments to her brother.

Finally I gave up and accepted the fact that I was not going to find this kid, and made my slow return to the house.  With my luck the oldest child would be gone to.  I was horrified by what had happened.  In one hour I had lost thirty-three percent of this family's children.  I arrived back at the house to see the missing child seated on the front steps eating a Popsicle. Simultaneously I wanted to hug the little boy and never let him go, and to make him sit in time-out for whatever time his sister's deemed appropriate for scaring me that badly.  Instead I led him inside, where my mother was sitting at the table.  I had been half expecting some sort of speech along the lines of "how could this happen" but instead all I got was a hug and a lesson on how to give a proper time-out.  Looking back it's ironic because if I'd already had a lesson on how to give a time-out then maybe I wouldn’t have ended up chasing a five-year-old through the streets only to find out he had already returned home.

 

Over the years babysitting has taught me not only a lot about children but a lot about myself.  When “The Almost Fire” occurred I went from high-strung to calm and collected, and I handled the situation well.  The time the baby screamed for half an hour gave me some much-needed patience, I got over my fears and tried something new, and it worked.  And the time that the boy ran out the door I learned how I really react in an emergency, and how far I can go to make sure that the kids are all safe.  Babysitting has taught me far more than I ever thought it would when I began years ago; I’ve learned stuff about myself and about kids and about life.  Because of my time babysitting I know I want to work with children.  It’s a job that I love and each child I've worked with has shaped me into who I have become.