Pictures Be True

This is the picture that I brought on Wednesday. My family and I were at some fishy part of Disney World, and, of course, the parents had to document every single moment of it. As my dad points for us to look at the camera, we smile—and it got me mid-blink. I remember my dad telling me he caught that shark and gave it to Disney because he's a good man. With childhood innocence, my sister and I believed. What father lies to their kids?

To me, this is how I remember that moment, how my mother captured the three of us in a happy time.

Susan Sontag disagrees. She claims, "one never understands anything from a photograph," and I can see where she is coming from. If some random person saw this picture, would they get the story that I experienced? Even for me, the memory is vague in my mind: I have no idea who took the picture; I have no idea if my eyes are closed or just small; I have no idea if my dad said he donated the shark to Disney. I'm "[filling] in the blanks." I can understand Sontag's argument that "functioning takes place in time and must be explained in time."

However, I wouldn't call all of this "mental pollution." I would not say that photographs prevents us from seeing the open skies. Sure, they can be "a semblance of knowledge, a semblance of wisdom," but they can incite action. Doesn't Sarah Mclachlan's commercial prove that? Since its airing, it raised $30 million for ASPCA. Photographs are triggers to memories, to feelings, to experiences. There is more to "the world"—"reality"—than the aesthetics.

I Don't Even Know

We all have that one friend: he has the varsity sport, the presidential authority, and those indescribable good looks. If high school was like nature, Darwin would praise him for being the best; if high school was like a religion, he would be our deity. And everyone doesn't stop talking about him; he actually doesn't need to brag about himself because every other person will do it for him.

"Did you hear? He got the best score."

"Yesterday, he saved a kitten, dog, pig, ... from a burning building."

Of course, everyone loves hearing this stuff—it's great inspiration of what we could have been. When college decisions start to come out and we see that he got into some prestigious university, we'll be happy for him. It's another thing we can all talk about. We won't be jealous at all because we've built this guy to be the best—we knew this was coming. Everyone bragged about him, complimenting every single achievement, supporting him after he already succeeded.

I'll be happy for him too—but I think there are better things to worry about. Sometimes, I think that people get so engrossed in other's works, comparing their achievements to their peers, that they lose sight of their own prize. High school is a lot of pressure, where we truly see the hierarchy of intelligence, athletics, etc., but everyone has their own path to follow. Walking down someone else's, discussing the latest test scores or essay grades, won't get you where you want to go.

Society's Believe It or Not

Figure 1

I have my qualms with the banana. It's too soft for my liking, and the taste is, at best, unique. Sometimes, I'd eat four bananas in a day, while for the next two months I wouldn't touch one. Is it even a fruit? It doesn't have any seeds to produce other banana-giving life. This is why I have trust issues. Recently, I found out the yellow fruit we call the banana, that long, soft byproduct of some tree, isn't even real. 

As seen in Figure 1, this is a wild banana. It's smaller and, somehow, in some unnatural way,  contains seeds to continue the banana bloodline. Only through human intervention, the domestication of the fruit eight thousand years ago, that thing sitting on our counter is not of Nature. We've neutered the banana, ridding its seeds for convenience. It's ironic that we advertise the all-natural banana as something untouched by the pesticides we've created, as if one could walk into the tropics and pick a pure, luscious—seedless—banana. Human-kind has broken Nature's beauty, mangling it into its own image.

I can relate to Chet Raymo's reaction to genetic engineering: it does give a "sense of foreboding" (9). The banana is proof that "a gene is potentially immortal" (10), that there should be something to be uneasy about, and impossible to revert back to purity. We see the wild banana above as odd, a hoax; we are accustomed to the unreal than the natural. The world that I live in is ultimately a synthetic one, a "spooky Frankensteinian quality" (10), unsure what is wild or some patched-up gene experiment. Even for the "unconquerable" (1) Okefenokee Swamp, we can't be certain if this swamp has been spotless of human hands.

It is as Raymo warns: "The unexamined quest for knowledge is hemmed with peril" (11). Step one was the banana, but years from now, who knows what else (flying pigs, the Loch Ness Monster, etc.) we will see as Nature's picture.

Puzzle Paragraph 1

Once upon a time, we slept, unaware of the "pitiful privilege" (44-45) happening between our deep breaths. And as Jesus begged his disciples to stay up with him before his crucifixion, Florence Kelley presses us to do the same: to stay up with her against child labor and fight for women suffrage. Nearly everyone, mostly of women, at the suffrage convention had to be invigorated by Kelley's speech; knowing most of her audience are the caretakers of their families, she uses her pathos to make child labor laws an idea worth supporting. Her rhetoric appeals to her audience's emotions, like her first sentence, the statistic that "we have . . . two million children . . . who are earning their own bread" (1-2). This is plainly backwards. These kids, capable of more than factory work, are the ones supporting their families; they are the ones that keeping their family afloat "while we sleep" (29). Even today, this is overall taboo—a disgrace. Kelley wants us to stop seeing the pink elephants, to think everything is all right as we topple into bed and knock out through the work shift. "For the sake of the children (92), sober up because there is a battle to be fought. 

Action-Reaction

For the woman in "Black Men and Public Space," is there anything wrong with her response? There is always that slim chance she would get jumped in that "mean, impoverished section of Chicago" (1), and I honestly see nothing wrong with the woman "[picking] up her pace" (1) and dashing out of a possibly dangerous situation. Brent Staples, the author of the piece, even admits he is "indistinguishable from the muggers . . . from the surrounding ghetto" (2). Hypothetically, if the person behind the woman is white instead of black, still tall with "a beard and billowing hair" (1), would she act the same? Unless someone follows her around, no one knows, not even Brent Staples.

Yet, there is no denying the social stigma attached to black people. Staples is consistently battered by a fake reputation that he unwillingly has to endure, like the scene at the office (8) and dog incident at the jewelry store (9). What can Staples do to cleanse this stigma? What can he do to change a person's instant reaction? That woman won't just stop being careful because there is always a slight risk no one wants to take.

That's why Staples "smother[s] the rage" (11); he "whistle[s] melodies from Beethoven and Vivaldi" (12). At the moment, there seems to be no way around the generalizations except to adapt to it. The best option is to let the stigma peter out.

League of Dad-Legends

Jealous?

I wouldn't say the relationship between my father and me is physical; it's more along the lines of digital. 

If anyone knows me, I am Korean. And we all know what "sport" Koreans are known for: my people are amazing at video games. From what I hear, there is a huge gaming addiction there. It's so bad that Korea had to place a Shutdown law (also known as the Cinderella law) where kids under the age of sixteen are not allowed to play games from midnight to six in the morning. But nonetheless, my dad and I embrace our culture, cry over Kim Yuna's silver medal, and go on the computer to play some games. 

He never plays with me but watches me press some keys and get some pentakills. Oddly, during those late nights of gaming with my dad next to me, I realize that this is our father-son quality time. Before anyone starts to judge, I don't see this as weird because my dad is just cool like that. He knows the games I play and is slowly picking up on game lingo. Sometimes, I think he does this to know me more, putting in the time to see what I'm interested in, and this alone shows love. 

For me and probably many others, the father-son relationship is subtle. Somehow, there's always a way around verbal love, but I'm glad my dad and I can relate on this one thing.

The Melody of the Night

"The Melody of the Night" by Leonid Afremov

Down this river walk,

It's the Melody of the Night,

Layered by the hum of the street lights,

The ripples echoing like bells

The serenity of this quiet moment.

To stand in awe is impossible,

Understanding is incomprehensible;

It just compels us forward

Every moving chord towards

An unknown end.

Our footsteps gliding across the glossed floors

I see my black dog, by my side, curiously staring into the river;

Its shallow breaths keeping this timeless moment in check

A metronome to pulse reality in me,

That by day thousands forget

The symphony playing in the background,

Even I myself am unaware of the sounds
Of the flashing hues of blue in the sky
Or the gentle rhythm of the city cries.
I'm doubtful of what the future holds
It's like this path, fogged up ahead
We're just a new couple;
We don't know what to expect.

Yet now it seems

So beautiful through my senses

The trees' respectful silence

Our single path illuminated by their colored leaves—

The natural prisms—

The lights reflected off the stained lenses.

This romantic song shared between me and her
And I pull her closer to me,
To think it all started as an honest dog walk.
We strolled through the streets alongside our opposite pups
Soon it was nothing, the absence of street talk.
Daylight's curtain rose and
The artificial fires flared out of the posts.
She gasps at the breathtaking light show.
The city has so much to offer,
Its odd moments of tranquility.
Our relationship touched by the river flow
And stable beside the greens,
It's hard to determine what's to come—
The misty unseen.
We're only following the hum of the lights
She and I together, listening to the quiet, bright
Melody of the Night.

Kimchi

"This is Water"

This spicy side dish stars in every single breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a fellow like me. Without it, a meal seems incomplete; it lacks that hot component that many Koreans love, even though I personally think it is refreshing. It is fermented cabbage that is massaged with this red paste plus spices. Despite being incredibly delicious, there is a drawback: kimchi has this odor that sticks. That is why my mom never let me take some to school.

She was worried that other kids would make fun of me for smelling, and then I would get bullied - and leave school because I was Korean. None of this really made sense to me though. I just wanted some kimchi to compliment my other non-stinky foods and live the life I'm supposed to live. I guess I understood why my mother didn't want me to. She knows what bullying is; being an immigrant, she knows the dangers of being different.

My mother told me a different message than what Amy Tan's narrative "Fish Cheeks" says. Tan's mother asserts to her daughter, "'But inside you must always be Chinese. You must be proud you are different.'" She wants Tan to embrace her culture and not deny the Chinese half of her identity. That is why the mother chooses to cook all of "[Tan's] favorite foods." There is nothing weird about "slimy rock cod with bulging eyes" or a plate of skid that resemble "bicycle tires"; all it is is just the normal foods Tan eats.

At home, a day doesn't pass when I don't eat some kimchi, yet my mother was afraid to show everyone that this is normal to me. Assimilation seems to be the safest choice in America, to eat what everyone else is eating - or to smell acceptable to everyone.

But I still ate that kimchi everyday. And my mom never forgets to put it at the table. She never forgets. With one foot stuck in society's grasp and the other supported by my culture and family, I remember who I am by what I put in my mouth.

And guess what I eat everyday.

Expectations

Earlier this week, I looked back on my essays that I wrote; I was not too surprised. I know what kind of essay a 2.5 is. I remember I told that score to a past student of Miss Valentino, and he asked if I wrote in Chinese. First, I am Korean. And I did not. Those essays that I wrote were just plain bad and did not make sense. I looked at a sentence I wrote on one of first few essays and realized that those words did not formulate an understandable sentence. Even now, I am not sure if I make any sense.

As I skimmed my illegible handwriting, in between those moments of embarrassment, disgust, and shame, I saw improvement. That 2.5 rose to a 3, then to a 5; it stopped at 6 and hopefully goes up from there. My view towards english has completely changed. Last year, I hated the words "so what" or "why" and refused to reevaluate my paper. Now, I still hate those red marks on my essays, but at least I think about why they are there. Slowly but surely, I am improving.

Now that second semester started, I expect nothing more than incremental success. No one just jumps from a 2.5 to a 9 in a week, especially not me, but I have plenty of chances to get up there, like a chance every single week. I am not excited for the coming in-class essays or grades, but I look forward to the next writing reflection

Langston Hughes' Theme and Versimilitude

What is one theme Langston Hughes creates? How does the verisimilitude foster the theme?

Langston Hughes focuses on the marginalization of blacks in order to create unity among the forgotten race. In "I, Too," Hughes states that he is the "darker brother," describing not only his nationality but also the unnoticed, racial discrimination in America. Furthermore, the poem centers on the idea of breaking the monarchy of whites; by envisioning--hoping that people will see blacks as a part of "America." Many blacks relate to this experience: their ancestors were kidnapped from their homeland and forced into a life of heartless orders and metal chains. In his other poem "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," Hughes mentions the major rivers of the world like the Euphrates, the Congo, and the Nile to show that black history is as ancient and rich as the "human blood in human veins;" their culture is crucial to America's past but a compete enigma to the naive Americans. Hughes' poems brought forth a debate many feared to argue. Titled the Poet Laureate of Harlem, Langston Hughes represented the wants--the yearnings--of black Americans, creating verisimilitude in his poems, whether it be through his first-person accounts of a Negro pianist making the "poor piano moan with melody" or recounting the command-obey relationship between a slave and his master. It is the "Weary Blues" or the singing "America" or the deep "rivers" that unite the scattered black sheep: the first stimulus to the inevitable Movement.

Great Gatsby Rhetorical Précis

In the great American novel The Great Gatsby (1925), F. Scott Fitzgerald claims that the lavish life brought by money is not as wonderful as it seems. Fitzgerald supports this by contrasting the characters' wealth with their completely unappealing personalities, by describing the unhappiness and annoyance between the characters, and by ending the novel in tragedy to exemplify that money does not bring true joy. The author's purpose is to inform the dangers of living excessively so that others do not fall into the trap of wealth. The author writes in a sarcastic tone for young Americans in the 1920s (and onwards).

F. Scott Fitzgerald coined the term "Jazz Age" for the 1920s to describe the wealth and carefree personality of that period, and this is obviously shown in The Great Gatsby and his other works of literature. His stories usually accentuate the wealth that his characters have like Gatsby's yellow car and Tom's stable full of top-notch horses. Another characteristic that Fitzgerald highlights is a human-being's imperfections, an example being Gatsby yearning for the past instead of accepting the present. Also, Fitzgerald crushes our joy and motivation--our dreams. Like in The Great Gatsby, like in "Winter Dreams," the characters (which represent people of the 1920s) are left dissatisfied in the end. Whether it be the failure to marry that girl or to achieve the American Dream, Fitzgerald brings us to reality that sometimes, dreams are not completely fulfilled and only wishes unanswered.

Larry Wu, You Are Right

After finishing The Great Gatsby, I realize that Larry Wu of our own class was right this whole time: "People are greedy." I want to think that we have goodness in all of us--to look out for others and live in harmony--but that is clearly not true in The Great Gatsby. 

First, who steals a married woman from her husband? I guess there is somewhat of a loophole there as Daisy is not happy with her marriage with Tom, but then I have to question why she does not get a divorce or why she picks Tom over Jay Gatsby in the end. She is just another money-grabbing woman, switching from man to man. She is greedy. 

And after Jay Gatsby is shot, no one comes to his funeral. Even though Nick earnestly tries his hardest to gather a respectable amount of people for Gatsby's final party, no one comes. After the constant parties that Gatsby held, or the numerous favors that he did for people, no one comes. Daisy does not come even though Gatsby committed his whole life to her. Also, Gatsby was going to take the fall for Daisy, but the bullet got to him first.

In a world driven by money, people are greedy. As Daisy denies Gatsby when he asks her to marry him because he is too poor, as Gatsby rises up in the social ladder but still gets rejected by Daisy, greed is the undeniable trait of human kind. Larry Wu, you are right.

HP=EK

My life should have started with drums. The booms--quiet at first--slowly crescendo, intensifying the importance of the birth of this One boy. This boy is the chosen One. As my mother was giving her all in the hospital, as I came into the world, as I nearly died with the umbilical chord around my neck, the drums give its final slam and SILENCE! Only the heartbeats of everyone in the room--now plus One--carry the rhythm of life. Later that day, I was given the Elder Wand, a diploma from Hogwarts, and some Butterbeer.

"Harry Potter was just a boy who lived. Like all of us." 
                                                       -NIKKI GIOVANNI, "Sanctuary: For Harry Potter the Movie"

I have started to realize how much Death is around me. Lingering on the news, or playing around in the Philippines, It is an unrelenting force, only stopping to see the ones afflicted. Sometimes It comes by and takes someone I know--It nearly took me when I was a baby. And I'm just here, "[living] and [telling] the story" (33-34). If I am like Harry Potter, am I destined to save the world--to stop some nose-less figure from enslaving mankind or hook up with my best friend's sister? I am the boy who lived, and it is proven through my struggles. Harry Potter failed countless potions classes as I bombed a couple of tests before; Harry Potter went to a school filled with monsters as I went to school which indubitably has bullies. We all have the ability to save the "vanishing Savannah" (97-98), whatever that Savannah may be, and like Harry Potter who triumphed over the worst villain of all, we have to find out how we are going to do it.

"I'm just the boy who lived and in living I have to find my way."
                                                        -NIKKI GIOVANNI, "Sanctuary: For Harry Potter the Movie."

Punctuation is Important. Period.

Despite the constant disagreements to the rules of writing, punctuation is the foundation of all literature in any time period, and without it, the meaning and order of a certain prose or poem is lost.

Punctuation and writing go hand-in-hand: even if changing times call for a change in the rules of literature, punctuation will always be a prevalent player in any form of writing. Emily Dickinson, a revolutionary poet of America, used the dash in order emphasize certain words or phrases. Like in her poem "I dwell in Possibility--," which solely uses dashes, she separates phrases like "--for Doors--" (Source C) to show the symbolism in her poem and also to contrast the windows mentioned in the line before. Dickinson's dashes provided a feel that a period nor a comma can not; her specific use of the dash allowed for a completely different meaning to be interpreted. Also, in "Semicolons: A Love Story," Dolnick mentions William James uses the semicolon to keep the "'stream of thought from appearing... as a wild torrent" (Source E). Because of punctuation, order is kept. As periods and commas supplied this order before, semicolons did the same for William James, showing the change in times but the same applicability of different punctuation marks. Despite these examples, people say that punctuation gives up creativity for "more precision and exactitude" (Source D). For Elizabeth Austen in her poem "On Punctuation," she is against the "dogma of the period" (Source B), flowing every line together in one stream and in essence, proclaiming her creativeness--her style--for her lack of punctuation, but this is not the case for other writers. Andrea Gibson uses Twitter as a "testing ground for her more developed writings"  (Source F). Posting only a few words, she uses Twitter to get feedback and later incorporates it into her poetry, where a single punctuation mark "is enough to destroy the whole work" (Source D). This signifies that, yes, punctuation can have its limits in writing, but it can also have its own beauty in a concise manner. In all, literature is built upon punctuation, the figurative foundation of literature; every comma, period, semicolon, or dash carries its own meaning and has a everlasting importance in the unity and message of a piece of writing. 

This Is Not a Disney Story.

In the last few chapters of The Scarlet Letter, Hester never gets the European vacation she always wanted, Roger Chillingworth fades into dust, and Dimmesdale exposes his naked chest to the world and yells out his sin until he dies. Did anyone get his or her happily-ever-after in this book? Where are the feels like the ones I got at the end of Toy Story 3? Woody goes with Andy; Buzz and friends are passed down to another kid. It is hopeful--it is a new beginning. Hawthorne, on the other hand, does not give such a satisfying ending but one where everyone dies. Who got their happily-ever-after?

For Chillingworth, his death can be seen as a happy one. Obsessed with the identity of Pearl's father, Chillingworth changes from a man of knowledge to an ugly demon smiling and chuckling evilly at everyone's misfortune. Hester and Dimmesdale's sin ruined his life, but once the secret was out, the Leech lost his host and "was left with no further material to support [himself]" (255). Chillingworth died as an accomplished man, succeeding in his sole goal and free from the Devil.

Hester's life sucks, even to the end. She is never free from her scarlet letter and does not get to live the rest of her years with Dimmesdale, her true love. Instead, Dimmesdale dies, she lives with the same guilt and shame from the scarlet letter until her death, and her sin follows her past death onto her tombstone ("'ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES'" (259)). It is sad that Hester, the pitiful character that tries to dutifully protects the identity of her partner, never gets her happily-ever-after.

Dimmesdale's ending is, in truth, a happily-ever-after. He confesses the sin that has been burdening his chest for years and dies a God-fearing man. He does not have to deal with Chillingworth's evil presence nor his double life of pastor by day and sinner by night. He is a free man, but it is hard to say if he would have been happier if he lived and left with Hester to Europe. Ignoring the fact that Chillingworth would have followed them, Dimmesdale and Hester would have that classic ending where they happily grow old together. Once their decision was made, Dimmesdale said he was "made anew" (198) and this is the "better life" (198). If everything went perfectly--and Dimmesdale decided not to confess and bail on the plan during the ceremony--. Hester and Dimmesdale would have had their happily-ever-after.

The only loser in this story is Hester, which demonstrates her strength and perseverance, but these aren't Disney endings. These three characters, all loved or hated, all reach some serenity in their deaths. Hawthorne's genius way of showcasing their ends truly prove the realness and consequences of a secret.

I Pity the Sinner

Eve took a bite of the apple--this was the first sin. Ruining the perfection of humans, letting sin manifest itself in every human onward, Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden and had to fend for themselves. These two were God's beloved creations, tainted after the original transgression, and now, after possibly tens of thousands of years, does this sin make any difference in our lives? Many would say they don't feel the effects of this sin, nor think about it, nor believe it. Is time enough to forgive a sin?

In the Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne builds pity for Hester, the sinner everyone is talking about; she is publicly shamed, cast out of the Puritan society, and stuck to raise a child alone. But why would Hawthorne want us to pity a sinner? She is an adulteress; she cheated on her husband; she is a sinner. Even if she did it for love, is she justified? If my neighbor (bless that grandma) cheated on her husband because she loved someone else, would that be okay? Like the Puritan society, we would label her an adulteress and shun her. "Regardless of your reason, you cheated," my teachers would say. Why should I pity a sinner?

"Forgiveness," Hawthorne will answer. After years of guilt and inner-torture, Hester is slowly accepted back into society. People start to realize her selflessness and pureness in her heart--they see the actual person instead of the sinner. As years pass, like Adam and Eve's first sin, it is slowly being forgotten in a way. Though I believe true forgiveness comes from God, is Hawthorne trying to say that sin is forgiven over time? Only time will tell.

Rich

Entering my second year of high school, I was fearful for my GPA. It was my first year with AP classes, and I was going all out: AP Chemistry, AP Calculus BC, and AP U.S. History. Also, I can openly admit I do not deliver the best work compared to my peers nor do I try as hard; nonetheless, I had to keep up. I had to challenge my intellect and slowly strangle my social life and sleep away (everyone knows that grades are inversely proportional to the amount of sleep a student gets). Of course, I had a decent amount of sleep in the beginning of the year so my grades weren't as high, but once I realized the amount of time people were putting in to these AP classes, I changed my ways. Now, as I review the frustrations I had throughout my sophomore year, I realize that the true currency of life is effort. 

Grades in school are indubitably important but overrated also. Students rank each other based on their grades, and students act different to others that are supposedly not as smart as themselves. This illusion of what a grade means is completely wrong. A test is supposed to test you: that 100 is not a prize-winning cod waved around in the air for everyone to see. People only see the number and not the calculations leading to the answer. No one sees the effort. 

It used to bother me how easy it was for some people to understand a concept so easily or get by without studying or asking questions. It made me question why I couldn't achieve as much as they did as quickly. People say that you shouldn't compare yourself to others, but in an environment where grades can buy a reputation, where grades are what people value most, how can we not notice who is more prosperous than everyone else? In this situation, David Foster Wallace says it best in his "This is Water" commencement speech: 

"Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that hey're unconscious. They are default settings."

I learned that I have to see past the number and realize that success comes with a little work. I have to realize that it takes time and commitment to be good--great--at something. Whether success comes along or not, I think there is some value in effort.

Our Forgotten Independence

Independence. Freedom from the control, influence, support, aid, or the like, of others. This is what Americans in 1777 have fought for. Their minds were clouded with thoughts of oppression from the King, and they gave their whole heart to break away. Tar and feathers. Boston Massacre. Boston Tea Party. Today, these people are heroes. Starting this country and making the Declaration of Independence, they changed the world and started the amazing subject of American history. The King is out of the picture and America is off by itself. A while later, the Articles of Confederation failed because there was not enough power in the central government, and the Constitution apparently fixed this. It seems like the opposite today, though. There is too much government; there is too much federal power. That is just my opinion.

I think people forget about their independence--I know I do. I could have been a slave in some underdeveloped society, working all day and getting nothing in return. It is truly a humongous, great, giant honor to go on Facebook and do my daily shenanigans, unlike in China where it is banned. Instead of working the fields, I am on the computer for the same amount of time. Someone had to fight for this right, and I think it was a right worth fighting.

The Me in Name

Edward. Ead means wealth, fortune, or prosperous, and weard means guardian or protector. My parents tell me that a pastor gave me that name when I was a baby. This has to be significant, right? I was given a name awesome enough to fit my awesome character; I must have a future filled with wealth, fortune, and prosperity.

In The Crucible, one's name is synonymous with his reputation. For me, I had a huge reputation to hold ever since I was a baby. Basically, I had to be a king and take care of my loyal parents. This did not happen. Everyone in my family labeled me as the cry baby, the trouble maker, the kid no one wanted to take care of. It was really hard to keep my white reputation because my sister was the perfect child. While I was crying, she would be silently sitting. While I ran away from my aunt at the mall, soon to be leashed, my sister calmly held hands with my mom. I would cry for hours when I was hungry or cry for hours when my mom left me or cry for hours if I did not have my PowerRangers backpack with me at all times. My name was ruined by age 3.

But in truth, I didn't ruin my name. My sister did. Sike. Really though, I never had a reputation in the first place. I built this annoying, devilish persona from babyhood to now, and no one considered me a guardian anointed by a holy man. I was shaped by those words into the awesome person I am today. The point I'm trying to get at is a reputation is built; it becomes your identity. Your name is not just some grouping of letters but a bag containing the essence of your being.

Modern Day Witch Hunts

What is the Witch Hunt today? In Salem, it was the actual women that were working alongside the Devil. Miller was inspired to write The Crucible because of McCarthy's hunt for Communists in the 1950s. In modern day, we are hunting down our competitors. 

In school, there is so much competition around. There are people that want to be the best in academics, sports, and music. No one wants to be the loser or the one that is not good at anything. This can lead to some hysteria like in Salem.

By definition, hysteria is an uncontrollable outburst of emotion and fear. The craziness started in Salem once people thought there were witches in town. Abigail catalyzed the hysteria by acting out visions and forcing people in tight situations where blaming the Devil seemed to be the only way out. To compare, there is so much worry and importance in grades. I have seen people get frustrated with school or cry over a bad grade or completely melt down because of all the stress. School is hysteria. If talking about athletics, people compare themselves to others, ranking their teammates on ability. A team knows its strongest and weakest players, and from this, I would not be surprised if judgments arise. 

In the end, it is all a competition. Students are trying to get into a certain school or be the best, stressing themselves. Students have a goal to beat their peers. This is the modern day witch hunt.