Politics--eesh.

**For my style and editing course, we were asked to write a short essay (for further editing) addressing how we arrived at our respective political views--Was it religion, tradition, family life, a specific instance, etc.?


Both of my earliest memories of politics involve my father. One, being bored to death in the backseat of the car while the talk radio droned on (there was a lot of, “Daddy, can we listen to music now?!” on my part), and two—his disappointment after I told him I voted for Bill Clinton in the mock election at school my first grade year. I had intended to vote for Bush—but my best friend at the time told me that her dad told her that the Bush family had “big mean dogs” and that I shouldn’t vote for him because of it (the mind of a six year old is nothing but logical). For the longest time, I thought my father was disappointed in me because I voted for Clinton—it wasn’t until later on that I realized it was the fact that I “went with the crowd” and neglected to think for myself that probably disappointed him the most.

Both of my parents hold conservative political views. My mother was raised Catholic, and my father converted to Catholicism from the Baptist church when I was 8 or 9. Though my mother stays informed and definitely has an opinion about politics (she’s got an opinion about most things, really), it’s my father who really gets into it. Like most people, I tended to side with them on the issues growing up—mainly because I didn’t know enough (or care enough) to think differently. It wasn’t until my junior year or so of high school, with my eighteenth birthday and the ability to vote fast approaching, that I really began to think about what it was I thought about things.

My first reaction (like most teenagers) was to ideologically rebel against my parent’s views—which was difficult, because then I had to will myself to believe things that, instinctually, I found to be very wrong. Fortunately, I came to my senses, and approached things in a different way. Instead of rebelling, I started asking “Why?”—Why is the death penalty OK with Republicans, but abortion bad? If life has intrinsic value at one stage, doesn’t that carry through to all the stages of life? What’s wrong with higher taxes? With lower taxes? How do taxes even work? The questions kept coming—And still come to this day. I kept thinking “Oh, no, I have to figure this out, I have to pick a side!” when suddenly, I realized—what you believe can’t be neatly corralled into one specific party, though apparently, that’s how you have to vote. Now, I evaluate things case by case—I don’t describe myself as one particular party (although I do tend to vote Republican). And, though I vote, I find myself very cynical of the political process as a whole. All these politicians—with their slogans and catchphrases and fliers and automated phone calls—who are they really? Do they really intend to “change things for the better” or simply change things just enough so that they’ll be elected again two years from now? I know more about politics then I did when I was a kid, but sometimes, I still feel the same as that little girl, bored to death in the backseat—“Daddy, can we listen to music now?!”

Feature: Beauty Is Its Own Excuse For Being

**More to come**

The desire for beauty permeates almost every aspect of human culture. We seek the attainment of it in our art, music, writings, buildings—even our selves. Yet for all the pain and effort people undergo in pursuit their respective aesthetical goals, beauty doesn’t seem to have any real practical or functional purpose. It’s a vague and intangible concept, one whose definition varies from person to person, the realization of which occurs somewhere between our mind and our heart; a concept that, in and of itself, is nothing but good, yet incapable of sustaining a person in the same manner as food, water, and sleep—yet many are willing to sacrifice any one of those things in an instant for the possession of beauty.

There should be a differentiation made between beauty and true beauty, however—While it’s obvious that beauty is defined as something different for each person, it can’t be ignored that in every society or culture, the general definition of beauty varies. Men and women throughout the ages have sacrificed comfort and health in various forms in order to subscribe to whatever the dominant ideal of beauty might be. From foot binding in 19^th century China to Spanx and rhinoplastys in modern-day America, much has been done to alter and manipulate the human body to fit the current aesthetics of society. Yet no matter how hard we work, true and “perfect” beauty is something that is rarely able to be manufactured. No matter how carefully and lovingly painted a canvas may be, it can never completely capture the perfection of the sun dipping gently into the Atlantic; No matter how excellent her surgeon’s credentials, Joan Rivers is never going to look as fresh-faced and dewy as she did in her youth. We all know this intuitively, yet the desire for beauty in our lives is a strong one. In fact, I would argue that it isn’t simply a desire, but a necessity.

The Catholic writer and theologian G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “The world will never starve for want of wonders, but for want of wonder”. One of the functions beauty serves is to inspire wonder. To realize something (or someone) as being truly beautiful, all of your attention is required.

Part I: Pops

Much our world today is constructed to convenience us, to help us live our lives more efficiently, to “work smarter, not harder”—and this is a great thing! But in making our lives simpler, we’ve also complicated them. When you’re used to living a certain way, unaccustomed to unreliability, it’s easy to take an inconvenience and sensationalize it. Suddenly, a minor problem becomes mid-grade apocalyptic event, and your day is ruined because of it. I, personally, have been reduced to tears over an ill-timed computer malfunction, and, needless to say, it didn’t help. The disproportionate amount of stress experienced doesn’t solve the problem and just gives you an ulcer in the process. I feel incredibly humbled, then, when I meet individuals for whom this isn’t the case—like my paternal grandfather, for instance. I have never seen a trace of irritation on his brow—patience just seems to come naturally to him. His easy smile, booming voice and ready laugh are the hallmarks of his personality, causing him to aptly fit the affectionate title we refer to him by—Pops.
A Virginia native, Irving Lewis Crockett was born into a close-knit and hard-working black family in May of 1933, the third child of seven, six of whom made it to adulthood. He and his family lived and worked on a 65-acre vegetable farm owned by his grandmother. “It was a hard life, but a good one,” Pops says, “We were a close, happy family, despite the bad things.” In addition to working the farm, both of his parents also worked outside of the home; his mother, Sally, cleaned and did laundry for white families in the area twice a week, while his father, James, worked at a coal plant. His father had no problem holding down the job; bringing his earnings home, on the other hand, was a bit of a struggle, and he frequently chose to spend it on alcohol rather than support his family. This left his mother as the main provider for the household.
For a good portion of his childhood, Pops’ family didn’t have much use for doctors—In fact, when Pops was seven or eight, his older brother, Bill, frustrated at having to do chores, decided to throw Pops his axe after he had finished chopping wood with it. At age ten, his aim wasn’t very good, I guess, and he ended up cutting Pops’ toe clean off. His grandmother reacted by grabbing her sewing kit and reattaching the appendage. It healed perfectly. Things changed, however and not for the better, when Pops was around nine years old. His mother was diagnosed with uterine cancer, while his father and two of his younger siblings all became sick with tuberculosis. With both parents unable to work, and three family members in quarantine, the family was forced to go on welfare. After a year, they were cut off—his two eldest brothers, then teenagers, were deemed old enough to begin providing for the family. At age ten, Pops himself began working at a nearby farm, giving his $3/week salary directly to his mother. In 1944, yet another hardship struck the family; Pearl, the youngest daughter of the family, died from polio at age four. Pops cites his father’s job at the coal plant as the one thing that helped them to pull through. Though James was unable to work for four years after becoming sick, and never fully recovered from his illness, the coal company continued to issue him a paycheck during the entire time he was ill. This income, meager though it was, helped to cover their financial needs.
As the years progressed, things gradually began to get better, though money was still tight. Education was a luxury that Pops had never been able to afford, and school was always secondary to work. When Pops was a sophomore in high school, he dropped out to work full-time. “My father was sick, my mother was up and down, Herbert [youngest brother] wanted to go to college, and Sister [Adelle] was in high school,” Pops says, “I wanted and needed to help out.” Pops got a job with Greyhound, “cleaning and greasing” in the mechanic’s shop. He gave all of his paychecks to his mother, just like he did when he was ten. His mother’s health began to progressively get better, and when his step-grandfather died, his grandmother turned the farm over to Pop’s father, giving him the position of overseer. It made him happy to have something to do, to have a sense of purpose and a way to help his family. Life for the Crockett family was alright.
During the Korean War in 1953, Pops was drafted into the Army as a foot soldier. “I thought that the military was a life that every young man should be required to go through,” says Pops, “It was good training, but it was rugged training. You don’t realize how much punishment a body can take until you go through it.” All of his training, however, never ended up being put to the wartime test—“I never went any further than Kentucky,” says Pops. “I wasn’t interested in going overseas at first, but by the time I was almost done training, I had decided I wanted to go.” Three weeks before the end of his training, however, an armistice was signed—much to my grandmother’s relief. Though Pops may have felt somewhat cheated, his company as a whole breathed a collective sigh of relief at the news; the Army had been planning on sending his entire company to the front line. “Just think, Alex!” Gran Gran pointed out, “If they had been sent overseas, you might not be here right now!”

DRIVING ME CRAZY

Driving with Mrs. Whitt was terrifying. Mrs. Whitt was terrifying. She was also the only certified Behind the Wheel driving instructor in the entire county. While it was possible to take Behind the Wheel with any Virginia driving school, it was cheaper to take it through the high school’s certified instructor. Mrs. Whitt was a chain-smoking, sixty-something year old bus driver, infamous for her Behind the Wheel teaching style. And though I had heard horror stories from my classmates about their experiences with “The Whitt”, I never fully believed them; they seemed way too insane to be completely true. I soon found out, however, that they weren’t as far off base as I’d originally believed . . . .

One of the worst things about Behind the Wheel was how long it was. Three days, to be exact. Three consecutive days of on-the-road driving instruction, culminating in a two-part exam on the third day, where, if you passed, you would receive a temporary 90-day license. After the first day, I was ready to be finished. If I went even one mile over the speed limit, Mrs. Whitt yelled at me. If she thought I wasn’t going to slow down in time for the next speed limit sign, she yelled, or slammed on her master brake, or both (usually both). If I moved my hands out of the correct positioning on the steering wheel, she yelled. All of this was punctuated by her loud, vehement smoker’s cough. Usually, it was just a cough here and there, but every now and then, she’d have a real doozy of a coughing fit that shook her whole body. It was a little unsettling to be driving when one of these came on, because she’d still try to talk/yell at you while it was happening. I didn’t know if I should be worried or not, so I’d look over briefly at her, and she’d yell, “Eyes (cough) on the (cough) road! (Cough, cough) Eyes on the ROAD!” After an especially bad coughing fit, she said, “If I die in here, just shove me out of the car and keep driving, just leave me. Drive until you run out of gas.” I wish I could say she was joking, but it wasn’t really clear that she was.

On the second day of driving, I was approaching a stop light in the far right lane. The lane had an arrow indicating it was both a turn lane and continued through the intersection; Mrs. Whitt wanted us to go straight, so, instead of getting into the next lane, I stayed in the far right. I began to drive through the intersection as, suddenly, Mrs. Whitt yelled, “I said we were going STRAIGHT! You have to make a right here!”, grabbed the wheel, and yanked me into a right turn, scratching her arm on my fingernail in the process. “Now look what you did!” she yelled, while, at the same time, I yelled, “What are you DOING?!” I had never yelled at someone 40-plus years my senior before, and it didn’t go over well. She made me pull over, which I did, and she proceeded to yell and berate me; interestingly enough, it wasn’t my being in the “wrong” lane that made her so angry, but the scratch she received when she yanked the wheel from my hand!

While I knew I wasn’t the best 16 year old driver in the world, I did know that in this particular situation, I had done nothing wrong, and my stubborn streak of teenage pride wasn’t about to let go without her first admitting that fact. After she finished yelling, I explained to her, as calmly as I could, that I hadn’t done anything wrong—I went straight because the lane had an arrow that indicated I could go straight. She didn’t believe me. But, in an attempt to prove me wrong, I guess, she had me turn around and drive back to the intersection we’d just left. As we drove by, I pointed out the lane in question. BAM! I was right. Everything in the lane was exactly as I said it was. She conceded that I hadn’t really done anything wrong, “technically”, but went on to say something along the lines of how, in the future, I should stick to the lane with the straight arrow only. It was hard for her to admit she was wrong outright, so she danced around it, but I didn’t mind—either way, we both knew that I was right.

Behind the Wheel continued more or less uneventfully after that. She still yelled, coughed, and slammed on her brake plenty, but was a teeny tiny bit more gentle than she’d been before (at least to my ears). When the time came for me to take the test, I scored a 96 overall, and Mrs. Whitt (sincerely) told my driving partner and I that she was proud of us, and wasn’t worried about us being on the road at all; I guess even she knew that once you’ve Survived the Whitt, you can survive anything.

Cameron, Part I, Draft I

Out of all the places we've lived, Goldsboro, North Carolina was easily my least favorite. There's one thing about out time there, however, that I wouldn't trade for the world. 

Cameron Raphael Crockett first graced the world with his presence on May 19th, 2002. 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 10 fingers, 10 toes--everything was as it should be. He was my parents fourth child and first son together, my first baby brother. His birth was uneventful; no complications or anomalies stood out in the beginning. 

They were in the car when my mother's water first broke. Mom says one of the first things my dad did was complain that the amniotic fluid was going to ruin the car's interior. Dad doesn't recall any such thing. They drove to the hospital, and a few hours later, Cameron was safely delivered. I remember the first time I held him more clearly than I remember holding my other siblings. I had fallen and broken my wrist at school a few weeks before and still wore a cast. Cameron's little legs rested awkwardly on my cast while my right arm cradled his neck and head. Thick, spiky black hair, dark brown eyes, the tannest skin yet out of all us kids; his face all scrunched up in complaint against the overhead lights. He was a drop-dead gorgeous baby, and we all fell in love with him from the very beginning. Even Aleah, who was one and thought she owned the world, was gentle and tender with him. 

The Hair.

Complete strangers have been awestruck by my hair. So much so that, at times (5, to be exact), they have felt compelled to touch it without my consent or approval. To you, this might seem a little strange, maybe even slightly creepy. Well, that's because it is. I'm awestruck by the height of Snooki's hair, but that doesn't mean I'd touch it if I happened to come across her in a public restroom.
At the same time, though, I have to admit: It's kind of flattering. I was born with a full head of soft, dark hair, but from there it changed and grew into tight, corkscrew style curls. For most of my life, my hair and I have had an up-down-rollercoaster of a relationship. Not neccessarily because of how it looked, but mainly because of how much it hurt. When I was a little girl, getting my hair done was always an Ordeal. A lot of crying and begging on my part, and scolding and pulling on my mother's. I'm sure she tried, but I never really felt as though she was very gentle about it, and my whining definitely didn't help her mood.
In addition to having a lot of it, my hair is constantly tangled, especially in the back, where it grows the thickest. Because of this, for most of my childhood, my hair was almost always in braids of some kind, and the Combing and Crying ritual happened almost everyday. As I grew older, my hair style evolved from cute little girl braids to just being super short. Not a good look for a girl with cheeks as fat as that one kid from Goonies. It wasn't until my freshman or sophomore year of high school that I began to reconcile myself with the lot I was given. Now, I kind of like it. It's crazy and unpredictable and all over the place, but I know how it feels. I'm not the most organized or focused gal in the world, that's for sure.


We've got an understanding, my hair and I.

The Metro Ride

I hate riding the metro by myself. The constant stop and go. The feeling that you’re picking up every single virus known to man (plus some) every time your hand touches the seat, the pole, anything. Being surrounded by people, yet still feeling lonely. There’s set of unspoken rules here that most everyone abides by: head down, eyes averted. People-watch if you must, but avoid eye contact at all costs. Forget how to smile. Your smile is no good here. Smiling invites conversation, which you’re not about to have. Just keep your eyes closed or fastened on your e-reader or cell phone. You’re all on the train together, but you’re not “in this together”. Or—that’s what it seems like, at least. Every now and then, something happens that helps to remind me that I’m surrounded by people, real living, breathing, heart-pumping, blood-rushing humans. A well-dressed, middle aged businessman stops a girl from falling over as the train stops, starts again, then lurches to a stop. A young woman offers her seat to a much older woman standing by the door. A man and woman defy the rules of Metro Ride Etiquette and strike up a conversation over a book in the man’s hand. We are people, people who crave words and interaction with other people—why do we allow ourselves so often to get tricked out of this fact?