Tell-Tale ♥ EDGAAAAA

Everyone has a really good analysis on Tell-Tale Heart but I just think this man is MAD. I read this short story in 6^th grade and I already listened to the tape recording so I knew this was a male, but I never learned the exact analysis and meaning behind this.

In my opinion, I thought the narrator was just too paranoid and his disease had got to him. If you look at that eye in the picture, who wouldn’t be afraid! From my source, it says there is a belief that centers on the idea that those who posse the “evil eye” have the power to harm people or their possessions by merely looking at that. I found this very interesting.  What left me confused was the fact that the narrator did not want any of his money and there was no clear explanation why he wanted  to kill him (of course), but  I think his anxiety level became too high. When the narrator heard the old man’s heart beating under the floor, I thought he was just hearing his own heart beat.  

I’m still curious to know if he is telling his story at court or if he has another motive for killing this man, that’s why I’m not that best analyzer. COMMENT if you have any other suggestions.

Merci

MY REALIZATION

August 31 to September 3, 2010. The most critical days of my life.

September 4 to September 13, 2010. The long days taking it all in.  

September 14, 2010. The day of relief, worries, and boredom.

September 15, 2010. The day I realize something very important. 

           

            I always thought there was nothing exciting in my life. I imagined telling my future kids my adventures, hardships, and success living in Chicago. I always wished I had something amazing to tell. If you ask me, I have no clue what amazing is. On August 31, 2010 I was diagnosed with the Steven Johnson syndrome due to an allergic reaction to my medication. I guess now I have a story to tell.  

            August 31, 2010: Day 1

            Tears and agony. It was around 7:30 P.M when the reaction really got to me. I had awakened from a long nap in my living room. Earlier that morning I woke up with bright red eyes, a major headache, and a terribly itchy body. It was only when I took a shower that I noticed the bumps on my chest and under arm became bigger and red. When I came out of the shower I noticed huge blisters forming in my mouth. An hour later, my mom took me to the doctors to have a quick check up. “Your daughter has a simple virus. This virus has been spreading around lately. She’ll be just fine.” Liar.

Back to 7:30 P.M. Tears rolled down my cheeks. My eyes burned even more, just the smallest bit of light burned my eyes with pain. That nap was supposed to make me feel better. My dad came to be as I screamed, frightened of what was happening to me. I rushed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, my mouth. My mouth was filled with blisters. Every inch of my mouth was covered with big, juicy blisters. My head pounded like a drum. I ran back to the living and screamed, slamming my body on the floor. My dad pulled me up and guided me to the coach. I could hear my mom crying on the phone, shouting for assistance. What was happening to me?

            Next thing you know I’m waiting in the Children’s Memorial Hospital in my all blue Aeropostale outfit, sweat pants and hoodie. Time was definitely not on my side. The wait took forever. My vision grew worse and I noticed my hands turned red. I laid down on the plastic coach while my mom filled in insurance papers. I shut my eyes, an attempt I made to keep the pain away. As I was waited, I heard a complaint from a Mexican man about insurance, a women pestering about her sick toddler to her husband, and a little girl who would not stop crying. Make the noise stop.

            Next thing you know I am once again checked up by a nurse then sent to another room where several doctors came to me. After another long wait I decision has been made.

            “Melanie my love,” my dad whispered into me ear. His voice cracked, “My love, everything will be all right. The doctors said you have the Steven Johnson Syndrome. You are going to the ICU now. It’s alright.” I did not complain and nodded my head as two nurses moved my stretcher down the noisy hallways.

            September 2, 2010: Day 3

            I am awakened by the voice of my uncle  also squeezing my hand. I attempted to open my eyes but they seemed sealed shut.

            “MmmTimmto Micmmmachmmel…” Why can’t I speak?  

            “Melanie, I’m here this is your Tito Mike. Don’t move, don’t talk, everything is going to be alright.”

            “Melanie, hi your Tita’s are all here.”

            I felt gentle pats on my body. Is that you? Is that really my family? I’m in pain! Comfort me, stay with me, down leave me! I wanted to scream out those words and open my eyes. I ripped my hand away from my uncle’s grasp and took my hands in attempt to open my eyes. Someone grabbed my hands. I ripped them away and touch my lips. They felt rough and dry.

            “Melanie don’t touch!”

            Why can’t I open my eyes? Why are my lips disfigured? I started to scream and tears dropped down my face. I wept with frustration and anxiety.

           

            September 4-6, 2010

            There were several days I went crazy. I had awakened from a nightmare and saw at least five nurses around me. I swore they were just my imagination. The seemed unreal and I hated them. I pounded on their chests and screamed they were fake. I ignored their words of comfort and refused to listen. I don’t know what happened after that. They were real.

            One night I dreamt of Christopher, one of my family friends who recently passed away. He was only twenty one. In my dream he smiled at me…

            I remember waking up from screaming. Eye doctors were placing at least three different types of eye drops into my eyes. I thought I was never going to see again.

I will not tell a lie. I lost faith in God. I resented him. It’s my time to die, I thought. I remember that time I wrote in my diary. Perhaps I’d be the second to die in my family. I will be forgotten once I leave. What was I thinking…?

            September 7, 2010: First day of School

            I could not believe I was missing the first day of school. The first day of sophomore year! It was the day to see old classmates and see who had changed dramatically over the summer. It was going to be my fresh new start. No one would realize I was gone any ways. Stop lying to yourself, I thought. I am stupid.

            Someday

            There were days I didn’t even keep track of. I slowly learned what had happened to me and I gained a huge bond with one of the nurses. I was receiving family visits every day, including lots of doctor visits. The first day I was allowed to eat food, actual solid food, I asked my aunt to buy me one small McDonalds fudge sundae. I reminisced the days I saved the hot chocolate fudge for last. The taste of the sundae was so tasty in my mind. When I took my first bite there was no breath-taking, delicious flavor. It was upsetting and I cried. I was always curious what my body and face looked like. My body was too difficult to describe. Another day I ordered food and used the silver spoon as a mirror. When I looked at my reflection… Disgust.

           

            September 14: Day 14

            My last day and my last night. I could not believe it. I imagined staying in the ICU for months.  I no longer depended on my IV and my monitors, everything was taken off. The news of finally coming back home gave bright smiles to my parents. I was going to leave this place.  Loneliness grew in my like a virus. Everyone was excited for me to come home, but it seemed like I was the only one not willing to leave. Nurses packed up my belongings. Janitors began early cleaning. Why wasn’t I excited to leave? I had a fake smile on all day and night…  

           

            September 15, 2010: Good-bye Children’s

                        Waiting to go home and leaving the hospital was hard for me. Not being able to step outside even once in the past 15 days, made me feel out of place. It was hot outside and I was ugly. I felt ugly and gross. I was especially weak. The feelings I had when I walked into my house, my house. It was unbelievable.

           

 GAP

            After eating dinner my family went out to play a game of volleyball outside our front yard in the side walk. The summer breeze felt great. I sat on the grass, using my front yard fence as a guard to not get hit by the ball. I sat the game out and watch since my arms were weak and still bruised from the IV. As my brother started the game, I squatted down and breathed in the warm air. The breeze caressed my scared face and brought shivers down my spine. I clutched the green grass and pulled up my long sleeves to glance at my scars.  “One in a million chance,” I thought. I laughed. What a stupid saying. A “One in a million chance” is something doctors tell you for comfort. I will never believe in that phrase again. For some reason, as I gazed upon my family something hit me. Smiling at their funny facial expressions and their attempts to hit the ball I realized I didn’t love my family. I treasure my family. They are the only people sacred to me. They are the only medicine I need. Despite all I went through, they give me confidence and happiness. Instead of taking this as a punishment, my condition brought us all back together and that’s all that matters.

Search the Steven Johnson Syndrome. Look at the images and think of me. My mind and body suffered. From August 31 to September 15 I felt tortured and betrayed, but it wasn’t until I realized my family was my strength. I realized this over a volley game.

            “Tears roll down my imperfect face when I look at myself, but knowing you will always be there… It’s all I need.”

BAMBI ♪ TOKYO POLICE CLUB

         There are many ways to analyze a song or poem... Every interpretation is neither right nor wrong. The song I chose was Bambi by Tokyo Police Club. Great song... Great song... Just recently I fell in love with it.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smqNtBXN5Mc

I wanna tell you there's a really good reason
why I came home wasted in the middle of the night
a tiny kingdom at the bottom of the trees
where I was always a winner and I was usually right

oh, you can watch it when you get a bit older
but for now in the bad bits, I should cover your eyes
she painted pictures with the tips of her fingers
sewing buttons to Bambi, tying strings to a kite

turning into black and white
underneath the swinging lights
barely awake
but I still got my stripes
'cause you're the killer with the colored kite

I wanna tell you there's a really good reason
why I came down easy, spinning threads to a throne
a tiny kingdom at the bottom of the trees
where I was always a winner and I was barely alone

turning into black and white
underneath the swinging lights
barely awake
but I still got my stripes
'cause you're the killer with the colored kite

tangled up, tongue tied
tell me what to do
tangled up, tongue tied
tell me what to do

turning into black and white
underneath the swinging lights
barely awake
but I still got my stripes
'cause you're the killer with the colored kite
turning into black and white

☺

     I must say you have to read the lyrics a few times in order to get a solid idea on what's going on. Because I've never been drunk before maybe adults have experience this feeling of free-ness and POWER. My first time actually reading through the lyrics, I thought the singer was really "wasted". I still do. I see two different emotions in these lyrics. If you were to listen to the song and read the lyrics at the same time, you'd feel excitement and tons of energy coming out of the speaker. If you were to read the lyrics on its own, then you'd think the speaker is very protective and secretive. The speaker says "you can watch it when you get a bit older but for now in the bad bits, I should cover your eyes". Perhaps I am unable to fully understand this song until I get older... The symbols he speaks of seem to be for eyes only. Ultimately, I see someone having the best time of his life but it won't last. 

On the res·er·va·tion

     Before reading this blog I have one thing to say.

Mr. McCarthy I highly suggest we have our first field trip to some sort of amazing reservation when the weather gets warmer. That would be great~ Let us take a journey like Thomas and Victor.

According to a online source, an American Indian reservation is an area of land managed by a Native American tribe under the United States Department of the Interior's Bureau of Indian Affairs. The purpose of reservations was to provide the natives homes and land for agriculture.  I must say having your own little land to yourself is quite nice. Unfortunately, many Natives Americans struggled through cruel conditions. Well, that is the way I see it. From watching Smoke Signals (which was a very entertaining movie, “HEY VICTOR”) which took place in Coeur d'Alene Reservation, my views on what a typical Indian reservation shifted a bit. The reservation was not too big which I imagined, there was absolutely no traffic which is a plus, and everyone seemed very conservative.

                To tell you the truth, I was not 100% sure what the point of the movie was besides the fact we are reading about discrimination towards Indians and how they are viewed upon, but I guess after watching this movie I had a good laugh and I had the chance to see another type of reservation. I guess I have to read other people’s blogs and learn more facts.

Propaganda

What is propaganda? 

PROPAGANDA = BADDDDD 

PROPAGANDA = "must read information" 

Propaganda is the manipulation of public opinion. It is information, ideas or rumors deliberately spread through media that may harm a person, group, movement, or nation. Although it has a negative connotation, it is used as an attempt to shift opinions persuasively by presenting new ones. There are good and bad propagandists. All propagandists use varieties of techniques in order to express their issue or subject. But remember it is important for the reader to understand these methods and understand the purpose of the propaganda before being biased. Think twice before you click on that online article or People magazine.  

    There is no correct meaning for propaganda but it has been debated. In my opinion I believe propaganda is a bad thing. My mother warns me not to pay attention to such garbage, but I do find People magazines and E! news quite entertaining. I have not been exposed to "good" propaganda recently or ever so if anyone could tell me where I could find it that would be great. I guess you can say our school's Beacon is a good propaganda. I have discovered juicy rumors about CPS especially on Facebook.   

  http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/the_awful_truth/index.html <<<< check out that

tsk tsk. Bad stuff

WOW IT'S A WHITE ONE!

    Black Boy has been one of the most interesting books we have read so far, but I must say Beat Street is an awesome movie. I was wondering what was the point of watching Beat Street since it is not so relevant to our reading, but now I have realize watching this movie gives us the determination to strive what we love and to give it your all. Beat Street takes place in the 1980’s where a couple of young men (boys) try to make their biggest dreams come true. Lee wants to be a famous break-dancer. Kenny wants to make it big with his DJ-ing skills at nightclubs and Ramon wants to express his love for graffiti.

     This movie was really inspiring for people who have the passion for art. All the characters stood out to me but Ramon stood out for me the most. When you want to become recognized, you need to make some changes and even take some risks. Ramon definitely took risks. His father was unhappy of what he was doing and his girlfriend wanted to be together with his child. Ramon looked for any opportunity to express his art. Every time he saw a clean wall or luckily a white train he used it as his canvas. He showed and expressed his graffiti in that way. He took graffiti as something he would do for the rest of his life. People looked at graffiti as vandalism but he took it for something of his own. I think we can learn from this movie.

HUNGRY FOR ATTENTION

     Richard Wright is a young boy hungry for attention.

1. Burning his house on fire

2. Killing a kitten

3. Getting drunk at the age of 6

4. Learning how to count

These are some of the actions Richard took in order to receive attention, either from his parents or from random people on the street. Of course Richard is not alone. I do not blame Richard for his actions. That is just what every child wants. Attention. Am I right? In most causes kids always want to impress their parents. For some reason Richard has this strong desire for attention. In most cases, his original intentions result in becoming out of hand. “Hunger stole upon me slowly that at first I was not aware of what hunger really meant… It had been a normal hunger that had made me beg constantly for bread, and when I ate a crust or two I was satisfied.” Although, Richard was referring to hunger relating to food, I took it as if he was explaining about his fetish for attention. Once you receive the attention you wanted you are satisfied. But in Richard’s case, anything he does is not enough. When you do not get the satisfaction you want, the hungry will control you. (That’s just in my opinion).

     Young Richard isn’t alone in his craving. Everyone always longs for some attention. When you are young, when you are a teenager and even when you are an adult. At school the one person in your class who tries to be funny and talks too much, is the person who is hungry for attention. Or that is just the way they are. A little boy who takes his father literally by killing a kitten is hungry for attention. Or he is just being a kid. OR he is out of his mind.   

I am hungry for attention.

Sometimes…

(S.S.R.R part 2) On Being a Mexican American & How Being an Immigrant Shaped my Life

    After reading all the short stories, poems and articles from What is an American, I've come to the conclusion that "On Being a Mexican American" by Joe I. Mendoza and "How Being an Immigrant Shaped my Life" by Sonia Pressman Fuentes  were the best of my interest. Both articles seemed to grab my attention the most. Even though I am neither a Mexican American nor an immigrant the feelings they portrayed seem to sink into me.

     "On Being a Mexican American"

Joe Mendoza was a Mexican born in the U.S.A. As a young boy he was very proud of what and who he was. As he grew older, he experienced feelings of angry and confusion. He experienced his first time of segregation. Before long, his thoughts about who he was and how people react towards different cultures soon expanded. More things in his life were changing and he later became "anglocized" or "acculturated". The realization and feelings he felt was what a typical ______ (<< fill in some sort nationality) American would go through life. Right? Well, that’s what I think at least. While reading his life story there was many things he said that I happened to agree on. For example, his first sentence “It is important for Mexican Americans to accept the fact that they are a unique group at a crossroads.” True but it’s also for other cultures as well. For me Filipino American’s have a huge fact to accept their culture and especially their language, Tagalog. “But there was always a source to turn to for emotional first aid -- one's family and friends.” This is true for everyone. No one else but your family and friends can understand you the most and how you feel.

There were so many other things Mendoza said that I can absolutely agree on but I believe his voice speaks for everyone not just Mexicans.

Eventually, I became aware that I did not really fit in with this group. And yet, I could not dismiss a new feeling -- that of still needing to be a Mexican. When I returned to my school, I had a different outlook. Although I thought I had been safely "acculturated," I found I could not so easily forget my past.

Today there is a menu of terms from which we may select a label. Should we select Mexican American, Chicano, Latino, or Hispanic? It is interesting to note that recently arrived Mexicans are not confused, for they know who they are. I submit that it is the members of the second or third generation in the U.S. who have problems with having to choose -- or with having someone else choose for them.

     “How Being an Immigrant Shaped my Life"

     I am not an Immigrant but there is one thing I can agree on with this article. While reading Sonia Pressman Fuentes’s story, I noticed I kept nodding my head. Her attitude and voice came to me and I realized I could relate this to Filipinos (I tend to connect my culture with these type of stories). When she had to move from Germany to America she wondered how her life would be different if she never left Germany. When you become an immigrant especially at a young age, you come to think being an immigrant saved your life but it has stolen or striped you away from your childhood. I talk or hear a lot of the feelings my aunts, uncles, or cousins have to say when it comes to their home land and America. American is the land of opportunity and a better way of living. Right? In the end of this story it was the happy satisfaction Sonia realized that coming to America was a good change and that being an outsider is a valuable.  

                  M: "Hey John...."
                  J: "Ya?" (...)
                  M: "Can't wait for that
                  three day weekend huh?"
                  J: "Totally."  

January 17^th, 2011 is not the day we have Monday off but a day no one should ever forget. It is somewhat like a holiday, definitely a celebration, but a day for America to remember the work of Martin Luther King Jr.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day is the first national holiday to honor an individual black American. This man helped change America. He screamed to the world and spoke out for justice for colored people, for an end to racial discrimination.

“Everyone knew that the sky is colored blue, that a spring lawn is green. But we have always argued about what to color man. King gave us the answer: Do not color him a yellow man. Do not color him a black man. Do not color him a white man. Color him or her human. It's time for a different hue.”

            Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. didn't just change the course of EVERY LIVING person in his generation but has changed those born the next generation then the next, next, next generation. He has dramatically made a difference changing the lives of everyone in the US. Thinking about King and the dramatic changes he created is just like thinking WHAT IF us humans never created google or the computer. He will still be relevant in 2011 till the end of the world. His legacy will never be forgotten.  

       .

* S.S.R.R *

“Children of the Sea” was by far the best story I’ve read so far. After finishing the last journal, I felt though it was a too short for a short story. It would be 1000x better if it were a book. I could read the entries forever if there were more. All the suspense I got was crazy after each and every journal the man and the woman wrote. I literally put down the iPad (I was using it to read the story) and just shook my head. I was disappointed. Disappointed that it was over, not because the ended sucked cough* The Great Gatsby. The books I enjoy to read are books\short stories like “Children of the Sea”. The goal in any author is to catch the reader’s attention and this book definitely kept me going. The fact that these journal entries were never send to both the man and female we very fascinating for me. Through all the entries their love and pain they  expressed was so deep and powerful while I was reading.    

       “To be Young Gifted and Black”, “I Hear America Singing”, “There was a Child Went Forth” and “This Sacred Soil” were all decent. Out of them all I liked the second reading “To Be Young Gifted and Black”. I found it interesting to discover the similarities and differences I had with the narrator. Especially the feelings she had once something occurred in her lifetime. I liked how she always seemed curious and asked herself questions and stated her thoughts she didn’t really understand, like what we all tend to do. The other poems were okay as well. They didn’t really grab my attention so much but they were interesting. There was no suspense or deep emotions (or maybe it was just how I felt about it). I’m not into poems or making my own.

  KRICK? KRACK!