Relating with Juli Bovard

The essay "The Red Chevy", by Juli Bovard has been written by a women whom has come to terms with the fact she was raped. The calmness in the tone of her writing said it all. So many women have read this essay and can easily put themselves her beside her laying in the field feeling exactly the same fears and confusion Juli Bovard felt. I know more women and girls that have been raped then have not. I have friends that have been taken out for a date and then it quickly becomes a situation of the guy wanting something in return and the girl feeling for some unknown reason feels as if they should comply. During my junior high days I saw naive girls being taken advantage of the fact these girls are desperate for any kind of male attention they can get. Girls usually do not even realize until they grow into women that they were abused. How cliche', I know, but more importantly how true. The worst rape I remember was back in 1994. My best friend and I went to a frat party and even though we were under age no one asked us to leave, but of course it was Wabash. I would love to see a true statistic on how many girls are assaulted on that campus every year. The privileged class can hide things better than the rest of us. My friend and I left the party and headed for our safe haven of our friend who had saved us from past bad experiences. We tried to sleep in our friends room because he kept others from us, like a big brother. Before we got to his dorm my friend wanted to stop off at the Beta House to see a guy my friend had been dating. His room was set up like a bar and the boys eagerly offered to mix us up a couple drinks. I remember putting my coat on to leave, but we never made it out the door. Both of our memories stopped here. The next thing that flashed in my mind was hearing my friend screaming. I kept trying to wake up, I was in between asleep and awake. I couldn't get to her. She was being gang raped by a group of boys she knew, and worst of all the boy she liked turned out to be the ring leader. They beat her so badly, she had ten stitches in her head, a black eye, swollen busted lips and a river of semen running down her legs. The boys had to call an ambulance at this point. They dressed her before the EMTs arrived and said she fell down the stairs. At the hospital doctors found chunks of flesh and skin hanging from her fingernails from where she had tried to fight. The lab report also concluded that both of our blood contained a date rape drug and alcohol. The frat boys had already began to protect their brotherhood by sending affidavits to the police stating that we were told to leave the Beta House and we had refused. The boys involved had all dashed to their places of their alibis, which were mostly from their rich parents. The detectives had all the physical evidence they needed to proceed with a formal investigation, but we were informed that no one in town including the prosecutor did not want to go up against Wabash College after about a week of questioning. Instead, my friend and I were given minor consumption charges and the boys walked with nothing. Privileged or not they will be judged and it will be in the highest court of God.

My Most Vivid Memory Blog 7

As I am setting up my blocks, left foot set at 8 while the other is set at 4; my heart begins to pound. I feel a cool drip of sweat slowly trickle down my face. I feeling of nervousness chills my spine as I think to myself, can I do this? I know that this is a moment I will never forget as I hear the announcer say "ready". I turn to my block holder Michael and say, "I don't know if I can do this". He calmly smiles and says "yes you can." As I get ready in my blocks, I position my legs perfectly in my set. Then the announcer yells "set." I know that go is coming, but am I ready? Immediately following; the word "go" is mouthed from his lips as the gun goes off. I am focused on getting to the first hurdle. It's the one thing my eyes see. It's smooth sailing over the first hurdle. It is incredible that the crowd is yelling with all their might and I am so focused I can't hear a thing. It is as if the world has stopped in time, and I am still chugging along. Still as I head to the next hurdle I can't help but smile because I finally nailed my three step. I had been working on that my whole season. This would be certain to shave down time? But would that be enough to win? Within seconds I am smoothly sailing over the last hurdle and crossing the bright white line that was the finish line. I lean over trying to catch my breath as my time coach runs over to me with a huge smile on his face. He slowly showed me my time of 16.04 secs. I wave of shock runs through my body and I cannot believe it, that's the best time I have had all season. Just then, the announcer yells over the intercom my name. I am completely in awe. I had just won the 100 meter hurdles, and wait I am only a freshman. Everything I had been working so hard on came down to this and I prevailed! I was the only freshman to run in that race. This title meant that I could advance to sectionals. Never had I thought that I could as a freshman beat girls that were 3-4 years older than me and much more experienced. I soon became the coach’s pride and joy, and colleges began scouting me!

Memories in the snow blog 5

I can’t seem to remember my first snow, but my most powerful memories of winter are those of sledding with my cousins. My grandparents used to own a horse farm with a lot of woods attached to it. In the woods they had trails for the horses; they had areas planned out for hay fields, and they had a tree field out there for our future. There was a perfect spot out there for sledding by one of the hay fields, if you minded the trees surrounding it. Being slightly reminiscent of “A Christmas Story,” where the little boy has so many layers on that he can’t put his arms down, we would start the hike to the sledding hill. It was about a fifteen minute walk past the horses, the manure, the stalls and the hay barn just to get to this prime sledding location. It was a steep incline but we didn’t have too much trouble getting up it. Once on top of the hill we would try to decide who would slide down first on the sled we brought with us. The only sled we had was an old wooden one with metal runners, which our mothers had used, to share between the five of us. After we took turns sliding down the hill, we would chase each other up the hill, make snow angels, and/or wreak any and all sorts of havoc while the adults couldn’t see. We used to try and walk on the ice of the little creek that ran by the hill, but usually fell in soaking ourselves to the bone. This was our little haven where we would spend hours out of everyone’s hair and we would enjoy the snow that covered the hill. I think that is why we always had so much fun sledding in the woods. We would be away from the adults and not have to worry about getting in trouble. After we were so cold that our fingers started to throb and sting, we would make the long walk back to the house. Once we were back to the house we would enter into the warm little room, off of the kitchen, to start the unthawing process. With our noses, cheeks, and ears beat red from the wind and the cold, we would take off the layers of clothes that tried to keep us warm. Every winter we would do this, not only for the fun but for the bonding as well. These are the best memories I have of winter.

Where Home is... blog 4

The painting, "Ryder's House" by Edward Hopper, has a cold, uninviting feel to it. The house that is painted has no doors that can be seen and no driveway leading up to it. The grass along around the house is long and unkempt, telling me that no one even tries to trim it. It brings to my mind the difference between a house and a home. This building that is depicted is a house because it has not been lived in or loved by anyone. A home is where you can feel at ease, feel welcomed, or feel cared about. To quote an old saying, "Home is where the heart is."
Thinking about the differences between what makes a home and what makes a house has me thinking of my childhood home. It is an old house in a small town. It has been in this small town since the town's been founded. The house has white siding that is trying to fall off and green shutters that are now brown from neglect. Looking from the side street you see the backyard and the garage. Scanning the backyard you can see a huge elm tree that would take three full people to wrap around its trunk. You would also see a big rose bush that will be full of large red roses in the summer. As you continue to look you see a one car garage that is the same color as the house with two large green doors that are man gates. The doors can stand up to anything, even cars running through them; they are fully functional but are ugly as sin. You can see the back door that leads into the kitchen. Everyone that knows my family walks in through the back door never the front door. Going inside you see where my family always seemed to center. When I walk into that room now and breathe in deep, I smell all the old scents and hear all the laughter from the giant family of six that used to dwell there.
Just thinking of my dad’s house makes me very nostalgic. I can only really think of all the Christmas mornings where we sat at the top of the stairs, waiting for mom and dad to wake up, trying to see our presents. I remember having to share a room with my siblings because there just wasn’t quite enough room for us all. I remember the fights my brother and I got into over nothing. I remember chasing the panther of a cat and then being chased by him in return. I remember all of this so clearly and I long for the past and for simpler times. I long for when my parents weren’t separated, when my brother wasn’t over in Japan, and when I could just be carefree. But then I look around me now and I realize that I don’t need those things. I now have a place I call home with MY family, and I am going to start those memories with them.

My House

The beginning of chapter four shows a painting of a house standing alone on a prairie. The house is a cold scene. I believe the house started as one small house and then was added onto, but now is abandon.
My house was similar to the cold feeling. The house was a manufactured ranch style home. It was very plain. My mother only went outside when it was absolutely necessary. There were no flowers or perfect little vegetational arrangements at my house. My house was a boring looking house with white siding and black shutters. The structure was just as boring as the color. A rectangle with a triangle sitting on top of the house.
I recall being jealous of the other houses in my neighborhood. It was an older neighborhood for my little town, but new houses were springing up all the time. Beautiful house built with bricks and high ceilings. My favorite house had a large wrap around porch and gingerbread trim around the top. Why couldn't we live there?
Although we lived in town our house sat on three lots. There were no houses to the left or the right. This made my house look smaller than others in the neighborhood. Some people might like having all that space but, I only saw it as more grass for my brothers to mow and more sticks and walnuts for my sister and I to pick up.
We had a deck on the back of our house, but it was a waste of lumber as far as I was concerned. We had a table on the deck, but no one ever stepped foot on it unless we were sneaking out for the night. I wished my family would have sat and talked or anything on the deck. I felt sorry for it always having to be alone.
The inside of my house was about as inviting as the outside. My mother was boring with the colors of the inside as well. Mauve and country blue was pasted all over the house. The manufacturing company had offered many different colors and designs. I remember how I wanted her to choose something different for every room,but I should have known it would be droll and boring. The front room was the first room you see when you walk in. It was the biggest room in the house. It was kept company by my mother and her second husband. Like the dining room where my siblings and I ate alone, the house had one feature sat up for a reason. The master suite and our bed rooms were on opposite ends of the house.

Seven Again

Have you ever returned to a place that you had only seen as a child? I did this by accident once when my friends and I took a road trip to the University of Illinois as teenagers. We were going to a little novelty art store when I began to have what I thought was the most real sense of deja vu I had ever experienced. The items I purchased then are completely forgotten now, but the voice in my head saying,'I've been here before", is still fresh. We walked back down the art stores steps and ventured out on to what was suppose to be unfamiliar territory. I would have rather joined in with my friends who were talking about a million words a minute, but instead I walked behind them feeling old ghost around me with every step. The afternoon quickly turned to night. We met an entourage of frat boys who were more than generous about sharing their beer and their knowledge of the campus. They took us to an open area of grass centered by a half circle of cement steps submerged in the ground. The air at this place had a strange familiarity. I ignored this feeling and the night progressed on as nights do on a college campus. The sun seemed to rise earlier than usual on this unusual night. That morning our "tour guides", walked us a different route back to our car. Up in the distance I saw the back alley of a small church parking lot. I was seven again. I snapped back to reality knowing exactly where I was at. My father and his wife had lived in the basement apartment of this church. I was quick to break away from the group so I could explore what was one of the most important locations of my childhood. My father had died when I was twelve, but I had not spoke to him since I was nine. I had distant memories of him. I could not remember exactly how he looked or the way his voice sounded, yet I cherished what little I did remember. So many forgotten memories came rushing back. It was difficult to distinguish between what I had imaged and what was real. I walked with childlike eyes around the church taking in all the details. Had this building shrank? It use to be the size of Notre Dame to me. I use to race around it for hours never realizing I was on a college campus. I did not know my father had went to college. I ran to the front of the church to see the sapling we had planted was now a ten year old tree. I remember how exciting it was to dig a hole and plant this little tree. We were suppose to come back and see how it had grown, at least that was the original plan. I just did not realize I would see it by accident or by myself. At this point I was to my knees grasping the grass around me to try to keep stable from the Earth's excelling speed. I looked up and saw the other side of the art store we had been the previous day and realized it was the store my father had worked. I had to know why the grassing area with the steps was also so familiar. I had one of my new friends take me back there. How could I have forgotten? It was all so obvious now. This was the only place on the entire planet I had ever spent time with my father alone. My father was an artist and his paintings were very dark and frightening to my young mind. He had had a very abusive upbringing and continuous battle with a heroine addiction until the day came that it finally won. This pain was evident through the contents of the large painted canvases crammed into the tiny apartment. I recalled one of the paintings to be one of that of a silhouette of a child in a cage, but it was very abstract. It was difficult for me to see what it was until my father explained it to me. Another canvas took up almost the entire living room wall and depicted what I thought was hell on earth. Demons were pillaging and destroying a city, I was petrified of these images. I was suppose to sleep on the couch next to this hellish image, but couldn't I was to afraid. That is when my father took me to the grassy place. My mother never let us stay up late, but there I was running through a sea of grass holding hands with the most mysterious people of my life. My father talked to me about the way he loved the night air and described to me all the scents that it carried that night. He spoke of how we all must overcome fear. I was soaking up his every breath. My mother hardly spoke to my siblings and I at all, let alone explain and talk with us about any subject that did not pertain to herself. Next my father place me on the steps and sketched a drawling of me, in my young opinion the best work he had ever done, but I think he was trying to show me that he could draw things of innocent beauty as well as things of a darker nature. He just didn't have much experience in the happy go lucky department. I wonder what happened to that sketch. I wish I had his paintings, his journals, or the many letters he composed over the years to my siblings and I. It would take away so many mysteries about him, perhaps fill up a little bit of the void I have lived with the majority of my life. After his death my mother refused to let us see or read any of those things. She told us she would keep them for us until we were old enough to understand. Whatever that means. Later in life our mother would tell us the place she put our fathers few things he left for us were destroyed by a flood. A guess a flood would be a proper story since everything about him was washed away. I've never went back to that campus since that day. I will take my children and pray that more memories come back or maybe I can feel close to him again. Until then I am confident in one thing, that day did not happen by chance or by mistake. I was called there.

My First Philosophy Lesson

I have just started my first semester of school. A single mother of three going to college in her thirties is such a cliche, but here I am composing blogs and learning things I never cared to think about before. I choose 'Introduction to Ethics' not knowing what is was and I am still not claiming any kind of expertise on the subject. However, my other choice was psychology. I have been going to a psychiatrist, mental hospitals, and specialist since the age of thirteen. Therefore, I don't find psychology interesting. I figured I would try something I didn't know anything about. My first impression of the class was curiosity about why people would even care about what anyone had to say during the time before Jesus. How could anything a Greek multi-god worshiping person say or write about be relevant to today's' world? The only information I knew about Ancient Greece were from movies. According to Hollywood there was an abundance of half-naked, high testosterone, war-mongering men roaming from land to land pillaging and killing continuously. This what was presented to me by modern age version of the time. The instructor gave us Plato's "Symposium" to read for our first assignment. My attention was immediately captured. I had heard the names Plato and Socrates many times, I had no idea what social, political, and philosophical issues they addressed and the student/teacher relationship that they shared. I also assumed the reason I had heard of Socrates so much was because fabulous literature he had composed for us. I then learned Plato idolized Socrates and then became his voice. I found in my example that brilliance can be passed on without writing it yourself. Socrates is the man with all the answers. He picks about each speaker individually. He let's them know why their speech cannot possibly be true about love. He at times seems condescending of his present company. These were men of privileged society and well educated. Socrates was a man who did not bath on a regular basis, hair a mess, without shoes, wandering around pondering the meaning of everything and anything. The book speaks of times when Socrates is in such deep thought he abruptly stops and stares off into the abyss. The citizens around him accept these strange ways of thinking and then coming to conclusions. Next they wait with great anticipation for him to come back to reality and share with them what he has been pondering. They wait for this incredible conclusion, thirsty for knowledge and learning from this philosopher. Socrates then replies with "I know that I know nothing". What the hell? If a person stands thinking about something so precisely, so in depth for so long, I would a expect something a little deeper. Maybe deeper isn't the word because I do get the meaning of what he said. My expectations for someone that we have studied for centuries would have a little more profound. Socrates had bad hygiene, he spoke in what I like to call circle talk until he convinced his fellow citizens that they were wrong, and then they would agree with him. That's not persuasive, it's people easily giving up their arguments. He lured students in by using false pretenses on the whole homo-erotic student/teacher relationship. Then he would confuse the young boy by not allowing the boy to gratify him sexually and making him feel rejected. He posed as a different character for each person. He then convinced his following that he was the authority on everything and nothing by twisting words, and causing utter confusion. He seems to be a classic case of crazy. This is not unusual for an extremely bright person to be slightly insane. Socrates was not the first, and he will not be the last. Perhaps if wasn't this way to begin with Ethics wouldn't be what it is today. Back to the "Symposium", I found it ironic that Socrates who gave the most important speech of this male dominated drinking party was quoting a women in the majority of his speech. Women at this time were not exactly held in the highest regards. The men were even offended that Alcibiades brought in a female flute player to interrupt their male bonding. Women did not participate in most activities in this age. They were not revered as good enough to be educated as the men were. They were not involved in these "highly sophisticated" drinking parties. Yet, the answer all these men were looking for about love came from a the words of a woman. I hope continue to relate to this course and enjoy thinking outside the box.