Suburban-Charmed Kinda Life: Rural or Citified?

"I'm just a little bit caught in the middle..." - "The Show" by Lenka

Lenka, girl, I can relate. My whole life has revolved around being trapped in the middle in some form or fashion, most pronouncedly in regards to my location. I live in a small town that, in one direction, lies 15 minutes from acres upon acres of farmland owned by the same three families who first purchased it decades ago. In the other direction, the blossoming home of blues and rock and roll, Memphis, TN, is an equidistant 15 minute commute. Then, there's my hometown: the pinnacle of suburbia, the crossroads of ruralization and urbanization, population 12,345 (yes, really), Marion, AR.

Marion's education system and town surroundings have been the only standards I have ever known. However, my cousins live in one of the more highly populated areas in Memphis, so we are able to compare the opportunities and standards of a big city versus a small town, the pressing debate proposed by Blaze Wifi. Honestly, the contrast is astounding and quite unnerving.

Their high school, approximately three times the size of mine, provides many more opportunities for community outreach, has better trained faculty members, and contains actual cultural diversity. In my town, a student has enough volunteer opportunities to fit on one hand, no more and no less. As a result, I chose to seek out volunteering in the Memphis area. Over the course of my high school career, I had a total of six teachers that I truly felt cared about their students while each of my cousins' teachers have gone above and beyond to teach well. As far as diversity, we have but one school district, so most of the students you begin school with are the same peers you end it with. As a student body, we are composed of about half Caucasian, about half African-American, and about one-68th other races, such as Asian or Hispanic. As someone who falls into the "other" category, I can honestly express that this does not make me feel like an outsider; however, speaking as someone who has always loved learning about other cultures, it is severely stifling to go to school with the same people for 13 years, most of whom have the same opinions and outlook on life. The comfort that results from knowing everyone in your area is not preparatory for college nor does it stimulate crucial self-discovery and personal growth. Yet, in any Memphis school (or any big city school), everywhere you look lies a student of a different race with individual opinions.

In terms of a lifestyle, rural areas are exactly as one would imagine. There is little to do on a Friday night besides attend a football game and a lot to do with small town gossip. However, on the plus side, I like to remain active and go outside everyday if possible, and in a rural area, the threat of polluted air or robbery while out alone as a young female is negligible.

Brunetti Park in its golden hour glory.

I live within walking distance from a small park (pictured above) with a multitude of trees (Woohoo! Fresh oxygen!) and a running track. When I'm not running here, I'm running around my neighborhood, a key opportunity unique to rural areas that I take for granted daily.

Farm land for days.

However, this sole benefit does not outweigh the sedentariness that inevitably results from living in a rural area. Additionally, this farming landscape gets old after a while.

Memphis is where I thrive. The creativity and culture of a big city simply cannot be replicated in a rural setting, and I believe this is crucial to developing a broad sense of the world. It's where my soul comes to life, being surrounded by fellow foodies...

The "Say Cheese!" food truck at a local arts festival.

One of the additions to midtown Memphis in the recent boom of new restaurants.  

Babalu's food is just beautiful. Like I said, Memphis is where I thrive.

...getting active with my friends in extraordinary ways...

My friends and I at the 2014 Color Run.

...taking advantage of a crazy awesome zoo...

When have you last seen sheep so majestic?

...and letting my inner concert lover take flight.

Yes, the Man Bun King, Hozier, came to the King of Rock and Roll's home for Memphis in May.

Personally, I am very much a city dweller. Having been exposed to both environments, it is from my experience that I can conclude rural areas are not ideal for anyone desiring to venture further than the small town limits he/she is raised in. They simply do not provide the necessary opportunities to stand out in a college application, a job interview, or any other competitive setting. Living near a big city has allowed me to become the open-minded, culture-seeking teenager I am today.

Prove you're down with the kids and click here to view our fricky fricky fresh presentation on "The Twelve", yo

Nothing to fear but fear itself? I think Stephen Kumalo begs to differ.

Alan Paton introduces Stephen Kumalo in  Cry, The Beloved Country as a well-known priest in his town in South Africa whose close family long ago ventured to the infamous town of Johannesburg, where many go but none return. Over the course of events presented in the novel, Kumalo faces many trials and tribulations that let his personality traits pierce through the pages, such as his his inability to remain rational in times of shock but also his strong morality. Paton's display of the different sides of Kumalo makes him a round character to the reader. In Book 1, Kumalo inevitably succumbs to the corruption of city of Johannesburg and metamorphoses from a man firm in religion who laughed in the face of the Devil to one without a trace of hope or belief in God. This transformation makes him a dynamic character.

Kumalo is a character most of humanity can connect with because he has encountered the universal trials of having a broken parent-child relationship and feeling the intensity of all the emotions today's society also does. Upon meeting his son, Absalom, after years and years of absence in each other's lives, Kumalo discovers he "is a stranger" whom he "cannot touch" or "reach". Though we do not know the extent or strength of the relationship between the father and son prior to Absalom's departure to Johannesburg, we do know that it has deteriorated significantly over time. A loss of relationship is a difficulty most people have struggled through at some point in time. The broken tribe and country, as well as his son committing a homicide, spurred "sadness and fear and hate" that "[welled] up in [Kumalo's] heart and mind". Although the events that caused the variety of feelings are not very common, the feelings themselves are shared by everyone. The experiences and emotions of his character make Stephen Kumalo a real person that everybody can relate to.

Kumalo's main hamartia is focusing his energy on the intense emotions he feels rather than trying to use reason to solve the issues at hand.  The accumulation of the shock and hatred and fear welling inside of him saying and doing things to people he otherwise would not say or do, such as the "wish to hurt [his son's girlfriend]" which caused him to ask her if she would accept his marriage if he proposed. Kumalo's head was not in the right place at the time, and an impious act was the result. However, almost instantaneously, Kumalo crumpled with "deep pity" "for his cruelty" and "covered his face with his hands" in shame. Even though it was too late to undo it, he realized his fault and immediately was remorseful and apologized. His conscience was still a driving force in his life. A positive and negative trait of his is seeing the good in everybody and giving people the benefit of the doubt. Upon arriving in Johannesburg, he was "cheated" by a young man who "took [his] pound" promising a bus ticket in return. His naive thinking made him a victim early on in the town. Believing all of man is as generous and sincere as he is not always a good thing. However, seeing the good in people such as Msimangu helped him survive in Johannesburg. Sometimes, the benefit of the doubt can lead you to the right places.

After everything Kumalo has seen and faced, his faith has suffered the most as it is now no longer in tact or existent. Throughout the second half of Book 1, Kumalo's loss of faith is expressed in direct phrases such as "no prayer left in me" and "God has turned away from me". His firsthand experiences with the corruption, crime, and effects of this town in South Africa have pushed his religion to its breaking point and left it in tatters. The many toils that have occurred since he first trekked to Johannesburg have changed him forever, and even if his faith returns, it will not be anything like it once was, be it stronger than ever or demolished forevermore. His heart was much too full of "fear" and "apprehension" to feel anything. His hopeless mentality came from his inability to think or feel in any other way. When one is so consumed with fear and hatred, one cannot function in hope and faith because even that is too much more of a burden to bear.

Stephen Kumalo is a multi-dimensional character that lost his head and his footing in Johannesburg. At the end of Book 1, we are not informed whether or not he finds his way back or not. As of right now, it is up to the reader to infer whether he has the strength and motivation to rediscover a relationship with the Lord, or if he will continue on without Him.

I'm A Big Girl Now... And Always Have Been.

 Another pile of clothes. Another bucket of stuffed animals. Another stack of photo albums. Sorting thorugh old “treasures” in my first house in the miniscule town of Hughes, Arkansas has proven to be monotonous and unsurprisingly nostalgic. My mom’s incessant nagging to stay focused on cleaning offered little motivation. My idea of cleaning consisted of sorting through trash, then seeing something from my childhood and getting distracted. Then again, my typical internal procrastination may be the culprit behind my refusal to clean today.

“Hey, Big Girl, are you almost done with your room?” my mom called from the hall. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s getting there!” I fibbed.

“Good. When you get done, come over here. I found something when you were little.”

The gargantuan hills of toys and books told me it might take a smidge more than a couple minutes. I filled a couple more trashbags before Curiosity and Impatience dragged me to my parents’ room.

“What do you want me to see? I asked hanging in the doorway.

“It’s your Clifford the Big Red Dog sweater! You used to wear this all the time…” She answered with a slight chuckle.

“Yeah. I remember the last time I wore it.” I said flatly.

“Oh, Marie. I’m sorry; I completely forgot. That day was such a blur, I barely remember anything about it, and your sweater was the last thing on my mind.” She said apologetically, making her way to the doorway to comfort me.

“It’s fine. I’m going to finish my room.” I shrugged her off. It was fine. And I did clean my room.

The sight of my grandma’s empty bed with my puffy-eyed mom at the edge brought a sense of uneasiness to my four-year-old stomach.

“Mommy? Where’s grandma?"

“She’s gone, Marie.” Mom answered wearily.

“When will she back?”

“She won’t. She’s passed, Big Girl.”

Reality set in, and tears started falling. Tears turned to sobs, the ugly, double-breath, desperate kind that only when happen when you find out something mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly awful. My Clifford sweater quickly transformed into a makeshift tissue. My mom came to the now damp doorway where my feet were glued to. She held me like her life depended on it, and I let her, because for me it did.

Whewwww! Whewwww!

I guess tornado sirens are my alarm clock today.

“Marie! Come down here! You’re going to sleep in between Mommy and Daddy until the storm passes.” my mom whispered urgently as thunder simultaneously boomed.

“What about Samantha?” I slurred sleepily, concerned about my snoozing sister.

“She’s not next to the windows like you are. It’s probably nothing major, but we don’t want you to get scared, Big Girl.”

I think we both knew who the scared one actually was. Contrary to popular belief, not all six-year-old girls are afraid of storms. Unlike my mother, I found them oddly soothing. Something about the steady pounding of the rain and the way the lightening lights up the sky both captivates and intrigues me. While my parents went off to Dreamland, I pondered the reason behind my nickname in my family, “Big Girl.” A physical description to them, a metaphorical description to me. My entire family is choatic and loud, so I felt the need at an early age to be the calm and sensible one. In essence, I had/have to be the “Big Girl” to save us from total destruction.

I’ve never been more jubilant to see a clean house. I feel my mom glance over at me with a smile of relief. We put our arms around each other and admired our masterpiece of categorized boxes and newly swept floors. This time, I glanced, smiling, at my mom. My mom. My safe haven. My source of insanity and sanity. I’m her rock, and she’s mine. That, I know, will never change. 

Confessions of a Bookaholic

My infatuation with books was instigated around the ripe age of four years old by the most qualified teachers available: my mom and Dr. Seuss. The first book I ever read on my own was "There's a Wocket in My Pocket!", and it's still a book I treasure. In the early years of school, kindergarten and first grade, most books were read to us. I didn't like their books, so instead, I frequently skimmed my sister's vast collection for a story that would catch my eye. After the story time era finally ended, second grade arrived and with it came new opportunities thanks to a plethora of books offered for Accelerated Reading(A.R.).

When A.R. was first introduced to us, most of my fellow classmates moaned and groaned until the cows came home. I pretended to hate it because everyone else did, but I was secretly ecstatic that independent reading was mandatory. Rather than seeing it as a satanic program that unjustly tried to force me to read, I saw it as a blessing in disguise. The elementary years were filled with Lemony Snicket, Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, J.K. Rowling, and Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was during these years that my inner bookworm flourished. I thrived on the feeling of becoming completely engrossed in a book, escaping reality and being thrown into an unknown universe full of words and bewilderment. That feeling dictated what books I chose to read; if I didn't get that feeling within the first 15 pages, I would put it back on the shelf. I still choose books that way. To put it simply, A.R. played a monumental role in my love of books. A.R. carried on for several more glorious, nerdy years with a copious amount of novels thrown in there. It finally came to an end in 7th grade.

In junior high, my reading taste evolved and matured. I began indulging myself in young adult literature such as Looking For Alaska by John Green, one of my absolute favorite books. My best friend, also a huge book nerd, started introducing me to wonderful, emotionally draining books such as the one previously mentioned. For that, I am eternally grateful. I discovered a newfound interest in books that made you think about your life completely differently by the end of it. I think that's what makes a great novel. In my opinion, if you are left speechless, lost in thought, and reevaluating your life, you've just read a quality piece of work. Maybe that's just me.

I have just started high school, so my taste and sophistication in literature hasn't really changed. Through the years, I think every experience with books has influenced my view on reading. There isn't one single thing that determined why I have such an appreciation and adoration for books, but rather several events that played an equally important role.  If my mom hadn't've taught me to read prior to school, I may not have the same attitude toward books. If A.R. wasn't a requirement in school, I may not have become as big of a bookworm as I am or read as many books as I have. If my best friend had never recommended books written in that twisted, mind boggling way, I probably would not have the same taste in books. Like all things in life, all of my past experiences impacted the way I think about reading now.

Who am I?

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

I wonder if I make milkshakes, will all the boys come to my yard?

I hear Hawaii calling, no, screaming my name.

I see Busch Stadium and the Gateway Arch waving me over to join them.

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

I pretend I don't care about the numbers

I feel like highschoolers need naptime and snack time more than kindergarteners.

I touch a pencil, a paint brush, and a blank canvas

I worry that time will continually speed up and eventually and inevitably race off without me

I cry at mankind

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

I don't understand, nor do I want to

I say be nice.

I dream of traveling and trying food everywhere on God's green earth.

I try to be consistent but rarely succeed

I hope my children appreciate good music as much as I do.

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

Simply Sinful.

Practically every story in some form or fashion is based on things we see happen everyday. “A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings” is no different. You can pretty easily infer from the title that the story includes an angel. This guy with larger-than-life wings basically crash-landed into a village that recognized the creature to be an angel, yet they didn’t appreciate this miraculous encounter. Instead, they locked him in a cage in the chicken coop “as if it weren’t a super natural creature but a circus animal.” The worst, most disturbing part is that this reflects exactly what our society does. We take blessings for granted and treat most anything ”strange” or  out of our comfort zone as a freak.

Another deadly sin we are all guilty of is greed. The family who housed the heavenly creature made a hefty sum of money by charging people to witness and ridicule it. Did they even consider how the poor angel felt? Trapped, poked and prodded, treated no better if not worse than an animal? I guess they also overlooked the “coincidence” that their feverish child suddenly became well when the angel arrived. We as humans naturally tend to be driven by selfish greed, to veer away from anything we consider out of the ordinary, and to be completely oblivious to miracles around us. This story is right on the money. We should think about how those “freaks” feel a little more often and think about ourselves a little less.