FD5: Final Exam- Dogs Can Train Owners, Too

Marlene Nishime

FD5: Final Exam

6, May 2011

 Dogs Can Train Owners, Too

I met my furry best friend when I was seven, at a lovely suburban home with a white picket fence to keep the puppies from straying too far from their mother. My parents had paid notice to all the drawings of dachshunds on my wall with the word “weener dog” handwritten underneath them with crayon. They had made me wait long enough before deciding I was old enough to take on this responsibility. My mother sat me down and made a proposal that consisted of me taking full responsibility of the puppy for the times I was home with it. When I was at school or doing other extra curricular activities, my parents would be my dog sitter substitutes. To a seven year old, all that meant was as long as I play with it and feed it when I was around, I could keep it forever. With that, my first and immediate answer was “yes, I promise I’ll do all those things and I’ll never complain ever again.”

I named our dachshund after my stuffed animal seal, Dixie, who had a long and round body that was held up by its stubby front fins. Dixie was my favorite stuffed animal up until we brought the puppy home. After that, it became a mystery where I left the stuffed animal, for I never thought about it again. The new Dixie in my life was sitting on the concrete patio floor staring at me like she had never seen a child before. My parents gave me the rest of the day to play with her and get her used to her new surroundings. At night she would howl into the wind, calling out for a companion to sleep with, and in the morning, she would release small whimpers when I would have to leave for school. Afternoons were her favorite time of day, because I was home and available to give her attention. My daily routine was to lay on the ground next to her bed in the dining room and do my homework while she jumped around my back and weaved through my limbs, only to fall asleep in an awkward position on an inconvenient part of my body. To me, Dixie was my other half—my equal—and life could never be the same without her.

There was one day where I was left home alone with Dixie due to the cold I had just contracted. Though the nurse said I was sick, I felt completely fine besides my running nose. With my brother safe at school, my mother left me for an important meeting to attend to, and my father had commitments with his boss. Sitting on the floor with Dixie resting in my lap, I waved good-bye to my mom who rushed out the door with her leather suitcase and dangling car keys. I spent most of the day on the floor at Dixie’s eye level. I set up teatime for her, dressing her up in my doll’s clothes to help her fit in with the rest of the tea party. I sipped my orange juice while she lapped the water out of the plastic teacup. Next, we ran back and forth in the back yard, looking for unknown treasures, only to find remnants of her dried feces or dead bugs. When she was too tired to continue, I wiped her muddy paws and carried her to her round dog den, where she slowly drifted off to sleep. I napped beside her so that we could play again when she woke up. About twenty minutes passed until I was ready to play again, but Dixie was still completely knocked out. I wiggled her belly and uncovered her from her blanket to wake her up. Excited to see her eyes open, I grabbed her toy balls and rolled them to her belly. She wasn’t quite as excited as I was about that gesture, and pushed them away from her with her nose. I took this as a sign of playfulness and continued rolling the balls to her, where she would repeatedly push them away. I came closer to her face and this time I tried balancing the ball on top of her head only to pull back suddenly, realizing that she had just nipped at my nose. Offended and scared, I pulled back completely, threw the balls at her, and walked off to the kitchen table. She stared at me for a while before bending her head into the blankets and falling back asleep. I teared up a bit before deciding that I didn’t want to be around Dixie anymore. For the remainder of the day, I sat on the living room couch and watched afternoon cartoons.

I made it a point for the next two days to ignore Dixie, for I learned on Animal Planet that depriving a dog of companionship was the ultimate punishment. Every hour, though, Dixie would waddle up to me with her stubby tail wagging behind her, hoping I would make some sort of eye contact or gesture. To her disappointment, I stubbornly pretended she didn’t exist. Dixie’s new routine consisted of eating, checking on me, going back to her bed and resting, checking up on me again, going to the backyard to poop, coming back to check on me, and so forth. I did not want to give into her glassy, sobbing eyes, but every time she came to me with her wagging tail, it was as if the speed of her tail was slowing down with every hour of check-up. After the end of the second day, I couldn’t resist her sagging face anymore, so I leaned forward from the couch and brushed my fingers through her fur, giving a sigh of relief that she was once again a harmless puppy. She was so excited to be with me that I realized I couldn’t ever ignore her like that again. It was too heartbreaking to see a lonely dog, and it still is.

Dixie is now 14 years old, living with my parents while I'm away in college. Every break I bring my boyfriend back home with me to spend some time with the family, including Dixie. Today, however, I sat in a separate room from my boyfriend, because just a few hours ago, we argued about something insignificant again. It's times like these when I wished I was back home instead of in college. This time, though, instead of trying to teach him the lesson of how arguing with me will result in his loneliness by ignoring his existence, I poured him a glass of orange juice, his favorite drink, and left it on a coaster next to his laptop where he works. Every hour I visited him, offering him a friendly gesture, and seeing if he was ready to talk. Every hour I waited patiently, hoping he would eventually brush his fingers through my hair again. When this moment finally came, I embraced my other half and acknowledged to him that life wouldn’t be the same without each other.

Our Not-So-Distant Future

Marlene Nishime

FD4

2, May 2011

                                                        Our Not-So-Distant Future

When I was in 6^th grade my mother bought me my very first cell phone. It was a Nokia brick phone with a very thick set of buttons and a very small screen. The phone was so bulky I could barely wrap my hands around it, and even when I did, the phone’s weighty thickness created an extra obstacle for stuffing in my jean pockets. My brother and I shared this phone for nearly a year before my mother finally bought my brother his own phone. She realized the pointlessness of having a wireless phone that we could only use when we were together (which was rare). I saved up enough allowance money to purchase a blue and purple phone case that decorated the frame with flowers and iridescent streaks. At the time, 7 dollars for such an accessory was an investment, for it ensured that the phone would not break if I were to accidentally drop it; however, I really just used this as my own personal justification for buying the most fashionable case available. My brother found his own case that uniquely expressed his personal tastes. Together, we both felt extremely privileged to be able to carry around a device of communication that normally would be stuck to a cord and wall. [THESIS] Nine years later, I stand in the middle of the Apple store realizing that no one will ever share the same excitement and gratitude about having a cell phone as I did that year. [THESIS]

Even though cell phones had been around long before I was born, I felt like they were a whole new revolutionary technology while I was in elementary school. All of the other kids boasted about their cell phones, using it as a status booster on the playground. My father, however, made sure this never happened to me, for he was very strict about how I used my phone. He said that I could only use it in emergencies and nothing more. Because I never actually ended up making that many phone calls, I found myself accessorizing every inch of my phone so that I felt as if I were giving it the attention it needed. Texting was a very new feature for us, so of course I couldn’t use that either. It wasn’t in my father’s phone plan, so every text would cost a certain amount of cents per sent and received. It really wasn’t until early high school when I was finally able to use my phone to its full potential.

My mother was the main igniter for the use of cell phones for more than just emergencies. She convinced my father that it would be much more convenient to use it to talk to clients and friends wirelessly rather than waiting to get home to use the telephone. It was 2004, three years since I first received my cell phone, and finally our family was ready to embrace modern technology. Our new Motorola flip phones were smaller that the brick phones, but thicker in size, and the screen was just about the same. The biggest upgrade for us was the fact that it flipped open. What an amazing technology, I thought; to be able to protect the screen and buttons by flipping the phone upright and closing it back down like a shell. I was very excited, even though looking back now it could have easily been mistaken for a child’s toy. Even though I felt like I was a part of the technology saavy scene, I was everything but that. My friends compared phones, explaining how theirs can take photos, but someone else’s can send instant messages. In the end, the winner of them all went to the girl with the Korean phone, which had everything plus more. None of us realized at the time how far ahead of the technology race Asia was compared to us, and I didn’t realize that I was carrying a new phone that was actually 3 years old in the market. Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to tell that one year could make all the difference in the cell phone world. I was completely unaware of how far mobile phones had come along for the short amount of time it had been around.

From the first commercial cellular network (1979) to cell phone fashion (1996), all the way through Bluetooth technology (1998) and into smart phones (2000), cell phones have defined our generation’s needs and wants for better and for worse. Every year cell phone companies raced to redefine the technology again and again, never settling for less. Because of this, consumers’ demands and expectations have risen higher and higher. Throughout high school I found the frequency of cell phone usage to increase so much that there was not one day I went without seeing crowds of teenagers either texting or calling on their cell phones. Sometimes I would even mistake their phones for iPods, with their headphones tucked into their ears, connecting them to a communication device with endless possibilities. Despite all the amazing technologies emerging around me, I was still lagging behind everyone else with my simple phone plan of unlimited calling and text messaging. I never had Internet capabilities, for my phone was barely fast enough to send low quality picture messages. This didn’t bring me down, though. In fact, I was proud of my phone because I knew I could live an everyday life without being completely dependent on it. I liked the feeling of independence and living around myself, not my phone. My mother was happy to know I felt this way, for it meant she wouldn’t have to worry about the expensive phone bills and the thought of me becoming spoiled with what she saw as high-tech and unnecessary gadgets. She had successfully raised me to believe that I should only buy what is absolutely necessary. She believed that all the conveniences and bells and whistles of having a cell phone was not worth the cost. I agreed with her.

When I graduated high school my mother bought me a new cell phone for my college needs. Touch screens had become the new “big thing” in the cellular market, especially with the iPhone 2’s release, and she happened to get a nice deal on our family plan, so I found myself holding a rectangular, rubbery plastic-lined Samsung touch screen phone. It was the very first time I had to touch sensors for buttons and take pictures by rotating the phone landscape-style. I was excited to try something new, but also content that it still had no Internet capabilities. It was a nice upgrade, but still wasn’t suited for the fashion, fun, and endless capabilities that all my friends took for granted. I knew that if I had any more than that, I could consider myself conformed to being glued to my device. My mother, on the other hand, upgraded herself to have Internet capabilities and multiple keypads for her comfort needs. It wasn’t until a year into college when I came home and realized my mother had changed dramatically since I last saw her. Instead of cooking with her laptop filled with recipes on the counter, she would have her cell phone accessing recipes in her pocket. She knew about all the latest viral videos and popular music artists, and didn’t hesitate to show me all the high-quality photos she had taken on random occasions in her life. Her ring tone was a clear song rather than an electronic midi-toned beep, and her email messages beeped constantly with unique alerts to help her tell the difference between a new message and a reoccurring message. Every family member was assigned their own ringtone along with their own photo to help identify the caller faster. She could even use it as a navigation device while on the road. It was the closest thing to an iPhone for her, all she needed left were the downloadable applications; but of course, she felt it was an unnecessary accessory to pay the extra money for.

Most recently, I was able to shop for my own phone, seeing as my touch screen had taken a toll on the years of wear and tear. I ended up buying an older model flip phone new from the factory. It was long and thin, smooth and sleek—just how I like it. It was my first “fun” phone, where its stylish looks complimented its highly customizable software. It still did the same things my touch screen did, but made using my phone a fun activity rather than a necessity. I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision though, so I called my mother to ask for her opinion. What she told me came as a bit of a surprise, but I couldn’t say I didn’t see it coming. The iPhone 4 had released not too long ago, and my mother had purchased it with all the features that it came with, including those applications she once frowned upon. She told me I should invest in one because it was completely necessary to. “What do you use it for?” I asked. “Everything,” she answered. Everything. From phone calls, to text messaging, to emails, GPS, Internet access, and even Facebook updates—my mom could not put her phone down. She told me that now that she’s experienced everything phones have to offer, and that she can’t imagine her life without it. Even the applications were necessary for her, for whatever reason I won’t ever know. Her biggest discovery was the video calls that could be clearly made using the devices. Video calls. So as to say that maybe one day phone calls will become obsolete, and that I needed to jump onto the bandwagon before I get left behind. She wanted me to join her so that we could video chat to each other. “Why don’t you sell your phone to a younger college student, you don’t need that phone, it won’t do much for you,” is what she said to me about the flip phone I had just bought. I was a little offended, but I decided she was only trying to help. With that, I found myself in the midst of a busy and brightly lit Apple store, where followers of the technology mindlessly lined up for the best new product while fiddling with the Apple products they already owned. I looked around and saw children, younger than 5^th grade, tapping on their iPads and tugging on their mothers’ clothes to find out how much longer until the front of the line. The kids looked so grown-up holding those touch screens. I took out my flip phone from my pocket and sent a text message, only to see a little girl gazing up at me. While holding onto her mother’s hand, she pointed at my outdated device and asked, “What is that?” When I told her it was my cell phone, she stared at it with a wide-eyed wonder, as if she had never seen such a tall flip phone before. When the line had died down and everyone had their new iPad2’s, I looked over and saw the little girl fiddling with her mother’s new toy only to set it down minutes later and wander around the mall.  

Log of Completed Activities

_x__ Apr. 7- Intro to Paper #4: Read Guidelines for Paper #4: Literary Journalism

_x__ Apr. 11- Complete readings for paper #4: chap. 15

_x__ Apr. 15- Laulima Discussion #1.

_x__ Apr. 21- Laulima Discussion #2.

_x__ Apr. 29- RD4 due [50 pts] Review the guidelines.

_x__ May 2- Submit three RD4 evaluations. [50 pts] Review the guidelines.

_x__ May 4-9- FD4 due [150 pts] Review the guidelines.

Our Not-So-Distant Future

Marlene Nishime

RD4

29, April 2011

                                                              Our Not-So-Distant Future

When I was in 6^th grade my mother bought me my very first cell phone. It was a Nokia brick phone with a very thick set of buttons and a very small screen. The phone was so bulky I could barely wrap my hands around it, and even when I did, the phone’s weighty thickness created an extra obstacle for stuffing in my jean pockets. I shared this phone with my brother for a while, but after realizing how pointless that became, my mother soon became convinced to buy my brother his own brick phone. I saved up enough allowance money to purchase a blue and purple phone case that decorated the frame with flowers and iridescent streaks. At the time, 7 dollars for such an accessory was an investment, for it ensured that the phone would not break if I were to accidentally drop it; however, I really just used this as my own personal justification for buying the most fashionable case available. My brother found his own case that uniquely expressed his personal taste. Together, we both felt extremely privileged to be able to carry around a device of communication that normally would be stuck to a cord and wall. [THESIS] Nine years later, I stand in the middle of the Apple store realizing that no one will ever share the same excitement about having a cell phone as I did that year. [THESIS]

Even though cell phones had been around before I was even born, I still felt they were a whole new revolutionary technology while I was in elementary school. All of the other kids boasted about their cell phones, using it as a status booster on the playground. My father was very strict about how I used my phone, however. He would say that I could only use it in emergencies and nothing more. Because I never actually ended up making that many phone calls, I found myself accessorizing every inch of my phone so that I felt as if I were giving it the attention it needs. Texting was a very new feature for us, so of course I couldn’t use that either. It wasn’t in my father’s phone plan, so every text would cost a certain amount of cents per sent and received. It really wasn’t until early high school when I was finally able to use my phone to its full potential.

My mother was the largest igniter of using cell phones for more than just emergencies. She convinced my father that it would be much more convenient to use it to talk to clients and friends wirelessly rather than waiting to get home to use the telephone. It was 2004, three years since I first got my cell phone, and finally our family was ready to make an upgrade. Our new Motorola flip phones were smaller, but thicker in size, and the screen was just about the same. The biggest upgrade for us was the fact that it flipped open. What an amazing technology, I thought; to be able to protect the screen and buttons by flipping the phone upright and closing it back down like a shell. I was very excited, even though looking back now it could have easily been mistaken for a child’s toy. Even though I felt like I was a part of the technology saavy scene, I was everything but that. My friends compared phones, explaining how theirs can take photos, but someone else’s can send instant messages, but the winner of them all went to the girl with the Korean phone, which had everything and more. None of us realized at the time how far ahead of the technology race Asia was compared to us, and I didn’t realize that I was carrying a new phone that was actually 3 years old in the market. Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to tell that one year could make all the difference in the cell phone world. I was completely unaware of how far cell phones had come along already for the short amount of time it had been around.

From the first commercial cellular network (1979) to cell phone fashion (1996), all the way through Bluetooth technology (1998) and into smart phones (2000), cell phones have defined our generation’s needs and wants for better and for worse. Every year cell phone companies raced to redefine the technology again and again, never settling for less. Because of this, consumers’ demands and expectations have risen higher and higher. Throughout high school I found the frequency of cell phone usage to increase so much that there was not one day I went without seeing crowds of teenagers either texting or calling on their cell phones. Sometimes I would even mistake their phones for ipods, with their headphones tucked into their ears, connecting them to a communication device with endless possibilities. Despite all the amazing technologies emerging around me, I was still lagging behind everyone else with my simple phone plan of unlimited calling and text messaging. I never had Internet capabilities, for my phone was barely fast enough to send low quality picture messages. This didn’t bring me down, though. In fact, I was proud of my phone because I knew I could live an everyday life without being completely dependent on it. I liked the feeling of independence and living around myself, not my phone. My mother was happy to know I felt this way, for it meant she wouldn’t have to worry about the expensive phone bills and the thought of me becoming spoiled with what she saw were high-tech gadgets. She had successfully raised me to believe that I should only buy what is necessary. She believed that all the conveniences and bells and whistles of having a cell phone was not worth the cost. I agreed with her.

When I graduated high school my mother bought me a new cell phone for my college needs. Touch screens had become the new “big thing” in the cellular market, especially with the iPhone 2’s release, and she happened to get a nice deal on our family plan, so I found myself holding a rectangular, rubbery plastic-lined touch screen phone. It was the very first time I had to touch sensors for buttons and take pictures by rotating the phone landscape-style. I was excited to try something new, but also content that it still had no Internet capabilities. It was a nice upgrade, but still wasn’t suited for the fashion, fun, and endless capabilities that all my friends took for granted. I knew that if I had anymore than that, I could consider myself conformed to being glued to my device. My mother, on the other hand, upgraded herself to have Internet capabilities and multiple keypads for her comfort needs. It wasn’t until a year into college when I came home and realized my mother had changed dramatically since I last saw her. Instead of cooking with her laptop filled with recipes on the counter, she would have her cell phone accessing recipes in her pocket. She knew about all the latest viral videos and popular music artists, and didn’t hesitate to show me all the high-quality photos she had taken on random moments in her life. Her ring tone was a clear song rather than an electronic midi-toned beep, and her email messages beeped constantly with unique alerts to help her tell the difference between a new message and a reoccurring message. Every family member was assigned their own ringtone along with their own photo to help identify the caller faster. She could even use it as a navigation device while on the road. It was the closest thing to an iPhone for her, all she needed left were the downloadable applications; but of course, she felt it was an unnecessary accessory to pay the extra money for.

Most recently, I was able to shop for my own phone, seeing as my touch screen has taken a toll on the years of wear and tear. I ended up buying an older flip phone new from the factory. It was long, but thin, just how I like it. I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision though, so I called my mother up to ask for her opinion. What she told me came as a bit of a surprise, but I couldn’t say I didn’t see it coming. The iPhone 4 had released not too long ago, and my mother had purchased it with all the features that it came with, including those unnecessary applications. She told me I should invest in one because it was completely necessary to. “What do you use it for?” I asked. “Everything,” she answered. Everything. From phone calls, to text messaging, to emails, GPS, Internet access, and Facebook updates—my mom could not put her phone down. She told me that now that she’s experienced everything phones have to offer, and that she can’t imagine her life without it. Even the applications were necessary for her, for whatever reason I won’t ever know. Her biggest discovery was the video calls that could be clearly made using the devices. Video calls. So as to say that maybe one day phone calls will become obsolete, and that I needed to jump onto the bandwagon before I get left behind. She wanted me to join her so that we could video chat to each other. “Why don’t you sell your phone to a younger college student, you don’t need that phone, it won’t do much for you,” is what she said to me about the flip phone I had just bought. I was a little offended, but I decided she was only trying to help. With that, I found myself in the midst of a busy and brightly lit Apple store, where followers of the technology mindlessly lined up for the best new product while fiddling with the Apple products they already owned. I looked around and saw children, younger than 5^th grade, tapping on their iPads and tugging on their mothers’ clothes to find out how much longer until the front of the line. The kids looked so grown-up holding those touch screens. I took out my flip phone from my pocket and sent a text message, only to see a little girl gazing up at me. While holding onto her mother’s hand, she pointed at my outdated device and asked, “What is that?” When I told her it was my cell phone, she did nothing but stare at it with a wide-eyed wonder, as if she had never seen such a tall flip phone before. When the line had died down and everyone had their new iPads, I looked over to see the little girl fiddling with her mother’s new toy only to set it down minutes later and wander around the mall.

FD3: Transitions

Marlene Nishime

6 April 2011

FD3

                                                Transitions

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes is the ground—black and rubbery, with dark blue speckles patterned over. Bits and pieces of glitter, rhinestones, and crystals decorate this ground like leftover stars that had fallen from the sky. Girls around my age are sitting next to me, struggling to balance their outstretched legs on the bare and almost broken bench that I myself am having a difficult time sitting on.  There are a few girls in a corner gossiping while tying their laces together, and a few more walking around the room as if their legs had fallen asleep and they’re trying desperately to wake them up. I breathe in the cold air nervously, trying not to pay attention to all of these distractions. I stand up and face the wall behind me, trying to stretch out my body and keep it warm. We are all wearing tight dresses with intricate designs paid for by our parents who love us so dearly. A few mothers walk in and begin their long process of hair and makeup, all to make their little girl look as presentable as possible to the judges. This act always makes my heart beat heavily. At any moment my own mother will walk through those same doors and greet me with her own set of makeup and hair pins, and will give me a hug, and will tell me she loves me and that I have nothing to be nervous about. I look around the room at all the girls in their skinny little outfits and overly done makeup, smiling at their mothers who live to pamper them. Some mothers give whispering speeches to their daughters, either pressuring them to not mess up or praising them for being their little ice princess. Some girls are smiling with confidence and some are responding with a nervous silence. We are all preparing for the same thing, yet we all seem to be doing something completely different to get us there. I look around and I can’t help but wonder if I am supposed to be here. [THESIS] It’s times like these I when I wish I could have gone back and told myself that it’s not about winning, it’s about being happy with where and who you are [THESIS]. No matter how we looked and felt on the outside though, we were all shouting the same thing to ourselves on the inside: I can’t let these girls beat me.  I’m going to win.

The announcer calls our group out. All eight or nine of us rush out of the locker room with our mothers left behind to gossip and small talk amongst each other. My mother leaves this crowd and joins my family upstairs in the bleachers. I step onto the blistering cold ice, feel the wind across my bare shoulders, and let out the biggest bursts of energy to help me get around the ice rink. I feel as though I am stuck in the midst of a herd of galloping horses that have pushed their way through the heavy gates and found freedom on the other side. We stick together, skating the same direction and almost the same patterns, all until we’ve found our spot and have begun our individual warm-ups. At this point, it didn’t matter whether or not I was supposed to be here, because now, I am here, and now, I have to win. The wind against my face is harsh, as I feel like I’m skating forty miles per hour (but the exact speed I will never know). I feel free, yet nervous, because I look at all of these girls and how amazingly talented they are, and how I am so lucky to be the underdog who made it to final round. After our warm-up concludes, I am stuck back in the locker room waiting for my performance to come, and after it does, I am ashamed that I ever thought I could be a figure skater. My mother runs downstairs and hugs me, telling me that it’s okay and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of my performance. She tells me that I should be happy I even made it this far, and that it’s all for good experience. My coach also gives sympathetic hugs and tells me that I will do better next year. I know that I will not. I walk away with last place out of eighteen finalists.

It’s been over five years and I am still in shame from thinking about how often I slipped and fell that day. As a sixteen year old, I was born and raised to believe that I was a talented figure skater, and that I would go on to do “great things”. Regionals, Sectionals, Nationals, and the Olympics—they were all waiting for me. At the time, I belonged in the skating world, and even if I had doubts about it, I knew that there was no other place I knew enough about to say the same. I had belonged there for thirteen years until the demands of college forced me to quit. I am twenty-one, a junior in college, an aspiring filmmaker, and I am wondering, do I belong here? Sometimes I feel as though I’m just chasing after another fantasy of the Olympics, except now I’m working for something just as far away, and in a much more sophisticated and competitive world.  I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake in turning away from my previous life.

When I was twelve, I took group lessons with other figure skaters around my age. We all learned under one coach at the same time, like group therapy, where we all addressed our problems and the coach worked on us while everyone else watched and learned. I hated how people looked at me. In fact, I hated the thought that people were looking at me so much that I wondered why I am even a figure skater, a sport the requires hundreds of people to watch and critique your every move for four minutes before applauding you off the ice until the next skater comes on. My group buddies included a little Chinese girl, Caroline, and an even littler Japanese girl, Mirai. Though the sessions didn’t last long, I got to know these two girls enough to know that they were the real deal. They were talented, small in size, and confident—all things I saw in the ideal champion. We watched each other make mistakes and get back up from them, all with the hopes that each session would make us a better skater. At the time they were merely two ordinary girls looking for the same thing as me. We wanted to make our families and ourselves proud, and we wanted to do this by winning the gold medal. We adored Michelle Kwan and other Olympians of that generation, and only hoped we’d be able to skate with them one day. It was not until high school when this dream became my reality. I became a regular at her family’s rink, skating almost everyday with either her or one of our mutual friends. Everyone seemed to be connected in some way, and Olympic stars that I used to see glittering on television were nothing more than fellow skaters in bland warm-up outfits who shared the same ice on different days. Of course, when competition season came around, they were gone again, travelling the world and doing what they did best. I worked out at the rink and watched them skate on the T.V. that was pasted against the wall. I wondered if I would ever be where they were one day.

When college came around the corner, reality struck me that I could not keep skating for the rest of my life. It was costing my family an outstanding amount of money to let me do what I loved doing, and yet I seemed to be going nowhere with it. I was too distracted with wanting to explore other worlds that I found myself less attentive to figure skating and more attentive to growing up. I wanted to be independent for once. All of my skating friends were so tied to their families for their own success, but I wanted to make my own. So I left to the place most faraway from the ice I could think of that might be able to help me find what I was looking for. Hawaii became not only a place for me to grow on my own, but acted as a wild card that, for me, was filled with endless possibilities and opportunities. It was a jungle of my own self-identity where anything, good or bad, could happen. If I couldn’t be the figure skater that I dreamed of being, then I didn’t want to be one at all. Instead, I waved good-bye to my friends in California and pushed myself to the islands, where almost everyone was a stranger and barely anyone had seen ice before. 

It was from entering the real world outside of the rink that I realized that I could never win in the game of figure skating because I wasn’t looking for a win at all. I loved skating because I loved the feeling of going fast, with the wind gathering my hair and my blades pressing against the solid ice. I loved the lyrical movements made with every nuance of the music, painting a visual picture of the tone I was trying to set with my body. And it was this realization that I found myself falling into cinema, a place where I could practice just that without the pressure of winning or losing. I found satisfaction in being artistic rather than competitive, and even though film in itself is a competitive world, I’ve found peace in choosing to go my own path and to flow with whatever comes rather than striving to win. I don’t belong in the skating world anymore. I don’t belong in a place where life is about winning and prestige. I belong here, in this life of being behind the spotlight, where I can practice what I love without people watching me all the time. I indulge myself in films as if it were my new skating sessions, learning from each one I watch. I stretch and warm up my body the same as I did before stepping onto the ice, except now I do it because it’s all I have remaining in myself from my skating past. Now, I turn on the T.V. and see Mirai, my old friend, skating at the Olympics, and I smile at just how far we’ve both come along. It took us eight years to arrive here. I can’t help but wonder if we will still belong here eight years from now.

 Log of Completed Activities

_x__ Mar. 3- Intro to Paper #3: Personal Essay.

_x__ Mar. 7- Complete readings: all of chapter 12.

_x__ Mar. 10- Laulima Discussion 1: “Chimera“

_x__ Mar. 14- Laulima Discussion 2: “Notes of a Native Speaker“

_x__ Mar. 16- Laulima Discussion 3: “Under the Influence“

_x__ Mar. 18- Laulima Discussion 4: “Being Brians“

_x__ Mar. 29- Laulima Discussion 5: “Warring Memories“ and “Snakebit“

_x__ Apr. 1- RD3 due [50 pts]

_x__ Apr. 4- Submit three RD3 evaluations. [50 pts] Review the guidelines.

_x__ Apr. 6 - FD3 due [125 pts] You can submit it anytime during this period.

RD3: Transitions

Marlene Nishime

31 March 2011

RD3

                                                                     Transitions

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes is the ground—black and rubbery, with dark blue speckles patterned over. Bits and pieces of glitter, rhinestones, and crystals decorate this ground like leftover stars that had fallen from the sky. Girls around my age are sitting next to me, struggling to balance their outstretched legs on the bare and almost broken bench that I myself am having a hard time sitting on.  There are a few girls in a corner gossiping while tying their laces together, and a few more walking around the room as if their legs had fallen asleep and they’re trying desperately to wake them up. I breathe in the cold air nervously, trying not to pay attention to all of these distractions. I stand up and face the wall behind me, trying to stretch out my body and keep it warm. We are all dressed in tight dresses with intricate designs all paid for by our parents who love us so dearly. A few mothers walk in and begin their long process of hair and makeup, all to make their little girl look as pretty and presentable to the judges as can be. This act always makes me nervous. At any time my own mother will walk through those same doors and greet me with her own set of makeup and hair pins, and will give me a hug, and will tell me she loves me and that I have nothing to be nervous about. I look around the room at all the girls in their skinny little outfits and overly done makeup, smiling at their mothers who live to pamper them. Some mothers give whispering speeches to their daughters, either pressuring them to not mess up or praising them for being their little ice princess. Some girls are smiling with confidence and some are responding with a nervous silence. We are all preparing for the same thing, yet we all seem to be doing something completely different to get us there. [THESIS] I look around and I can’t help but wonder if I am supposed to be here [THESIS]. No matter how we look and feel on the outside though, we are all shouting the same thing to ourselves on the inside: I can’t let these girls beat me.  I’m going to win.

The announcer calls our group out. All eight or nine of us rush out of the locker room with our mothers left behind to gossip and small talk amongst each other. My mother leaves this crowd and joins my family upstairs in the bleachers. I step onto the blistering cold ice, feel the wind across my bare shoulders, and let out the biggest bursts of energy to help me get around the ice rink. I feel as though I am stuck in the midst of a herd of galloping horses that have pushed their way through the heavy gates and found freedom on the other side. We stick together, skating the same direction and almost the same patterns, all until we’ve found our spot and have begun our individual warm-ups. For me, it didn’t matter at this point whether I was supposed to be here or not, because now, I am here, and now, I have to win. The wind against my face is harsh, as I feel like I’m skating forty miles per hour (but the exact speed I will never know). I feel free, yet nervous, because I look at all of these girls and how amazingly talented they are, and how I am so lucky to be the underdog who made it to final round. After our warm-up concludes, I am stuck back in the locker room waiting for my performance to come, and after it does, I am ashamed that I ever thought I could be a figure skater. My mother runs downstairs and hugs me, telling me that it’s okay and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of my performance. She tells me that I should be happy I even made it this far, and that it’s all for good experience. My coach also gives sympathetic hugs and tells me that I will do better next year. I know that I will not. I walk away with last place out of eighteen finalists.

It’s been over five years and I am still in shame from thinking about how often I slipped and fell that day. As a sixteen year old, I was born and raised to believe that I was a talented figure skater, and that I would go on to do “great things”. Regionals, Sectionals, Nationals, and then the Olympics—they were all waiting for me. At the time, I belonged in the skating world, and even if I had doubts about it, I knew that there was no other place I knew enough about to say the same. I had belonged there for thirteen years until the demands of college forced me to quit. I am twenty-one, a junior in college, an aspiring filmmaker, and I am wondering, do I belong here? Sometimes I feel as though I’m just chasing after another fantasy of the Olympics, except now I’m working for something just as far away, and in a much more sophisticated and competitive world.  I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake in turning away from my previous life.

When I was twelve, I would take group lessons with other figure skaters around my age, and we would all learn under one coach at the same time. It was like group therapy, where we would all address our problems and the coach would work on us while everyone else watched and learned. I hated how people would look at me. In fact, I hated the thought that people were looking at me so much that I wondered why I am even a figure skater, a sport the requires hundreds of people to watch and critique your every move for four minutes before applauding you off the ice until the next skater comes on. I think at the time I was looking to address my fears and face them, and so maybe that’s why I put myself through that kind of torture at such a young age. My group buddies included a little Chinese girl, Caroline, and an even littler Japanese girl, Mirai. Though the sessions didn’t last long, I got to know these two girls enough to know that they were the real deal. They were talented, small in size, and confident—all things I saw in the ideal champion. We watched each other make mistakes and get back up from them, all with the hopes that each session will make us a better skater. At the time they were merely two ordinary girls looking for the same thing as me. We wanted to make our families and ourselves proud, and we wanted to do this by winning the gold medal. We adored Michelle Kwan and other Olympians of that generation, and only hoped we’d be able to skate with them one day. It was not until high school when this dream became my reality. I became a regular at her family’s rink, skating almost everyday with either her or one of our mutual friends. Everyone seemed to be connected in some way, and Olympic stars that I used to see glittering on television were nothing more than fellow skaters in bland warm-up outfits who shared the same ice on different days. Of course, when competition season came around, they were gone again, travelling the world and doing what they did best. I would work out at the rink and watch them skate on the T.V. that was pasted against the wall. I wondered if I would ever be where they were one day.

When college came around the corner, reality struck me that I could not keep skating for the rest of my life. It was costing my family an outstanding amount of money to let me do what I loved doing, and yet I seemed to be going nowhere with it. I was too distracted with wanting to explore other worlds that I found myself less attentive to figure skating and more attentive to growing up. I wanted to be independent for once. All of my skating friends were so tied to their families for their own success, but I wanted to make my own. So I left to the place most faraway from the ice I could think of that might be able to help me find what I was looking for. Hawaii served not only as a place for me to grow on my own, but as a wild card that, for me, was filled with endless possibilities and opportunities. It was a jungle of my own self-identity where anything, good or bad, could happen. If I couldn’t be the figure skater that I dreamed of being, then I didn’t want to be one at all. Instead, I waved good-bye to my friends in California and pushed myself to the islands, where almost everyone was a stranger and barely anyone had seen ice before. 

It was from entering the real world outside of the rink that I realized that I could never win in the game of figure skating because I wasn’t looking for a win at all. I loved skating because I loved the feeling of going fast, with the wind gathering my hair and my blades pressing against the hard ice. I loved the lyrical movements made with every nuance of the music, painting a visual picture of the tone I was trying to set with my body. And it was this realization that I found myself falling into cinema, a place where I could practice just that without the pressure of winning or losing. I found satisfaction in being artistic rather than competitive, and even though film in itself is a competitive world, I’ve found peace in choosing to go my own path and to flow with whatever comes rather than striving to win. I don’t belong in the skating world anymore. I don’t belong in a place where life is about winning and prestige. I belong here, in this life of being behind the spotlight, where I can practice what I love without people watching me all the time. I indulge myself in films as if it were my new skating sessions, learning from each one I watch. I stretch and warm up my body the same as I did before stepping onto the ice, except now I do it because it’s all I have remaining in myself from my skating past. Now, I turn on the T.V. and see Mirai, my old friend, skating at the Olympics, and I smile at just how far we’ve both come along. It took us eight years to arrive here. I can’t help but wonder if we will still belong here eight years from now.

His Smile

Marlene Nishime

March 3, 2011

FD2

                                                His Smile

It took me thirty minutes to erase all of my mementos of him. Only thirty minutes. The email messages, long online chats, e-cards, and phone messages all vanished into nothingness with the click of a button.  Pictures of us were pasted into digital folders that were organized chronologically. There were only three folders in the two and a half years we spent in each other’s company. He never liked taking pictures, and in the end, I was glad that he didn’t. [THESIS] As I went through these old images, I found myself pulling out memories, both good and bad, that I didn’t know I still had, and wasn’t sure if I still wanted. [THESIS]

 I went through each photo, remembering how we used to smile. It was almost surreal to think that his small beady eyes will never look into mine the same way again. His half-smile half-smirk when awkwardly posing for these pictures made me giggle after the shutter button released. He went through several stages in the time we knew each other, but I will always remember him the way I want to. Black bowl-cut hair parted in the center to hide his expressions from the side, a round nose that could easily distinguish the difference between a good Japanese meal from the other, and a tall lengthy stature that walked with subtle confidence. He was kind to the eyes, yet deceiving to the voice.  He could gaze into me with such admiration, yet stare at me with such disappointment, all while rehearsing the same lines over and over again, “Everything is okay.” I couldn’t help but believe him every single time he said it. Coming back to my reality, I took a breath, rubbed my forehead, and continued tapping the tab reading, “delete”. 

There were times in our relationship when I wished I could have seen through him. The phone calls he would make to other girls, telling me they were his good friends from high school, the fights he would get into at school with other guys because there would be some illogical quarrel about them being jealous of him. He would tell me one day that he had to leave for some time, and that he wouldn’t be back for a month or so. I would ask him if he would call me or write me, but he would always give hesitation before replying, “ I’m sorry, but I can’t. They won’t let me”. Somehow, through all the times we spent together, I was okay with that. I looked back now and thought, how could I have been so relaxed about these situations? I let him get away with too much. Maybe it was his smile that persuaded me everything would be okay, and that he really is leaving for an important trip. He did have a strange and clever way with words that would always somehow put me at ease with every situation he gave me. Though thinking about how oblivious I was to everything he had said, I now know what he was actually doing.  Still, I put it on myself to let him hurt me, and so I couldn’t give him all the credit for this heartache. 

There was one instance in particular that tends to stick with me when I try to recall our most memorable moments. We were flirting with each other at a casual local diner. He grabbed my arm and we began arm wrestling across the table. Both of our waters, filled to the brim, sat symmetrically between the outside of my arm and the salt and peppershakers against the wall. His was the same on his side. I leaned forward to try to fight his fist against mine, all while gritting my teeth and laughing at his cringed face. I must’ve gotten out of control because before I knew it, I had knocked over his water, spilling it across the table and soaking both of our laps. He immediately let go of my hand and stared at the mess we had created. Cold water dripped off the table and ice slid across the table counter. “I’m so sorry!” I kept repeating to him, but he just looked at me and muttered, “This is so embarrassing…” I tried cleaning it up myself but the napkins were already ten times heavier from soaking in the water. The waitress came over and helped clean it up for us. We both apologized to the waitress, who was completely fine with it, and was just glad that it wasn’t coffee or anything else that would otherwise cause harm to us. When she left, he didn’t look at me. Instead, he gazed away from our table and rested his head on the palm of his hand. “We are never doing this again,” he mumbled. I was relieved he didn’t make a scene about it, but I was also ashamed that I had embarrassed him. The fact that he kept saying to me with his soft voice how this was his favorite diner and how he couldn’t ever come back here again from embarrassment didn’t help my conscience. Lunch was a quiet one, and afterwards, he walked ahead of me instead of next to me. I knew I was a clumsy person, but I didn’t know it would affect us this much. I began to think that maybe he’ll never accept such a flaw from me. I ran to him with my short, stubby legs, and apologized that it would never happen again. With a long sigh, he forcefully pushed out a breath of, “Don’t worry about it.” There was no eye contact given, just a brush of his hand against my arm that had ruined our date. 

After cleansing my computer, I proceeded to my backpack where I kept all my gifts from him. All my gifts meaning the one, tiny little keychain he gave to me while we were strolling through the city on a cool September afternoon. It was nothing romantic, but definitely meaningful, for it was the first time he gave me something of his. This tiny trinket, no bigger than a thimble, was from what he called “Evangelion”, a Japanese anime show I’d never seen before. Mine was yellow, and his was white. He told me that he wanted me to think of the good times we had when I looked at the trinket.  I thought that was a little cheesy of him, and a bit sad considering we were reaching the end of our relationship (and we both knew it), but I went with it anyway. He took my hand and showed a warm, soft smile. It was this moment when I felt that he was real. This was genuine. I knew he was happy to be with me, yet we weren’t doing anything extraordinary. It was the first time in years where he apologized to me without making excuses for the way he was. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all after that. He just walked me, hand in hand, back to my dorm, with the most genuine smile I had ever seen.  

I still cannot understand why his smile meant so much to me, and why I decided that night to keep the trinket safely hidden in my backpack instead of tossing it into the garbage. Perhaps I felt bad that no matter how much he feared being alone, he would always remain alone for as long as he continued his vicious cycle of swinging between different women at a time. Perhaps I wanted to remember that no matter how hard I tried to forget these moments of him, he would always be permanently embedded in my life, and so I may as well keep the one good memory we had. Still, I think to this day how pathetic it was for me to give in to his coldness that day I spilled the water, and how I should’ve left after that. I should’ve realized at that moment that I shouldn’t be with someone who couldn’t have a sense of humor about situations like that. And it wasn’t until I found my own real love that I discovered all of this. It wasn’t until I began making new memories with someone else that I realized how much of a low self-esteem pushover I was. And now, as I look through my emptied folders and my empty backpack, I see that I can’t use them anymore. As much as I want to, and as much as I’ve been meaning to, I can’t replace this backpack with new memories. I can’t erase this hardheaded, stiff man from my life. No matter how much harm he did to me, I could never forget that awkward smile of his, the one that wasn’t sure whether or not to face up or face straight. Every time I think about this, I can’t help but smile back at him. And then I look at myself and I say, “Everything is okay.”

 _x__ Feb. 4 – Intro to paper #2: Portraits

_x__ Feb. 7- Complete readings – all of chap. 13. Optional: “Cucarachas” by Madeline Sonik.

_x__ Feb. 10- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Lee and Simic.

_x__ Feb. 14- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Steinbach and Toth.

_x__ Feb. 18- Laulima Posting: Sample from Your Portrait.

_x__ Feb. 25- RD2 due [50 pts] Review the guidelines.

_x__ Feb. 28- Submit three RD2 evaluations. [50 pts] Review the guidelines.

_x__ Mar. 2-7 – FD2 due [125 pts] Review the guidelines.

His Smile

Marlene Nishime

February 24, 2011

RD2

It took me thirty minutes to erase all of my mementos of him. Only thirty minutes. The email messages, long online chats, e-cards, and phone messages all vanished into nothingness with the click of a button.  Pictures of us were pasted into digital folders that were organized chronologically. There were only three folders in the two and a half years we spent in each other’s company. He never liked taking pictures, and in the end, I was glad that he didn’t. [THESIS] As I went through these old images, I found myself pulling out memories, both good and bad, that I didn’t know I still had, and wasn’t sure if I still wanted. [THESIS]

 I went through each photo, remembering how we used to smile. It was almost surreal to think that his small beady eyes will never look into mine the same way again. His half-smile half-smirk when awkwardly posing for these pictures made me giggle after the shutter button released. He went through several stages in the time we knew each other, but I will always remember him the way I want to. Black bowl-cut hair parted in the center to hide his expressions from the side, a round nose that could easily distinguish the difference between a good Japanese meal from the other, and a tall lengthy stature that walked with subtle confidence. He was kind to the eyes, yet deceiving to the voice.  He could gaze into me with such admiration, yet stare at me with such disappointment, all while rehearsing the same lines over and over again, “Everything is okay.” I couldn’t help but believe him every single time he said it. Coming back to my reality, I took a breath, rubbed my forehead, and continued deleting these moments. 

There were times in our relationship when I wished I could have seen through him. The phone calls he would make to other girls, telling me they were his good friends from high school, the fights he would get into at school with other guys because there would be some random quarrel about them being jealous of him. He would tell me one day that he had to leave for some time, and that he wouldn’t be back for a month or so. I would ask him if he would call me or write me, but he would always give hesitation before replying, “ I’m sorry, but I can’t. They won’t let me”. Somehow, through all the times we spent together, I was okay with that. I looked back now and thought, how could I have been so relaxed about these situations? I let him get away with too much. Maybe it was his smile that persuaded me everything would be okay, and that he really is leaving for an important trip. He did have a strange and clever way with words that would always somehow put me at ease with every situation he gave me. Though thinking about how oblivious I was to everything he had said, I now know what he was actually doing.  Still, I put it on myself to let him hurt me, and so I can’t give him all the credit for this heartache. 

There was one instance in particular that I am to this day embarrassed about. We were flirting with each other at a local diner. He grabbed my arm and we began arm wrestling across the table. Both of our waters, filled to the brim, sat symmetrically between the outside of my arm and the salt and peppershakers against the wall. His was the same on his side. I leaned forward to try to fight his fist against mine, all while gritting my teeth and laughing at his cringed face. I must’ve gotten out of control because before I knew it, I had knocked over his water, spilling it across the table and soaking both of our laps. He immediately let go of my hand and stared at the mess we had created. Cold water dripped off the table and ice slid across the table counter. “I’m so sorry!” I kept repeating to him, but he just looked at me and muttered, “This is so embarrassing…” I tried cleaning it up myself but the napkins were already ten times heavier from soaking in the water. The waitress came over and helped clean it up for us. We both apologized to the waitress, who was completely fine with it, and was just glad that it wasn’t coffee or anything else that would otherwise cause harm to us. When she left, he didn’t look at me. Instead, he gazed away from our table and rested his head on the palm of his hand. “We are never doing this again,” he mumbled. I was relieved he didn’t make a scene about it, but I was also ashamed that I had embarrassed him. The fact that he kept saying to me with his soft voice how this was his favorite diner and how he couldn’t ever come back here again from embarrassment didn’t help my conscience. Lunch was a quiet one, and afterwards, he walked ahead of me instead of next to me. I knew I was a clumsy person, but I didn’t know it would affect us this much. I began to think that maybe he’ll never accept such a flaw from me. I ran to him with my short, stubby legs, and apologized that it would never happen again. With a long sigh, he forcefully pushed out a breath of, “Don’t worry about it.” There was no eye contact given, just a brush of his hand against my arm that had ruined our date. 

After cleansing my computer from this era of my life, I proceeded to my backpack where I kept all my gifts from him-- meaning the one, tiny little keychain he gave to me while we were strolling through the city. It was nothing romantic, but definitely meaningful, for it was the first time he gave me something of his. This tiny trinket, no bigger than a thimble, was from what he called “Evangelion”, a Japanese anime show I’d never seen before. Mine was yellow, and his was white. He told me that he wanted me to think of the good times we had when I looked at the trinket.  I thought that was a little cheesy of him, and a bit sad considering we were reaching the end of our relationship (and we both knew it), but I went with it anyway. He took my hand and smiled the most genuine smile I had seen from him yet. I really felt at the time that he was happy to be with me, yet we weren’t doing anything extraordinary. It was the first time in years where he apologized to me for the way he was. He didn’t try to get out of anything by making excuses like he usually did. He didn’t try to explain that it was his lack of a better childhood or that it was “in his nature” that was the cause for his coldness and rash decisions.  In fact, he didn’t say anything after that. He just walked me, hand in hand, back to my dorm, with the most genuine smile I had ever seen.  

I still cannot understand why his smile meant so much to me, and why I decided that night to keep the trinket safely hidden in my backpack instead of tossing it into the garbage. Perhaps I felt bad that no matter how much he feared being alone, he would always remain alone for as long as he continued his vicious cycle of swinging between different women at a time. Perhaps I wanted to remember that no matter how hard I tried to forget these moments of him, he would always be permanently embedded in my life, and so I may as well keep the one good memory we had. Still, I think to this day how pathetic it was for me to give into his coldness that day I spilled the water, and how I should’ve left after that. I should’ve realized at that moment that I shouldn’t be with someone who couldn’t have a sense of humor about situations like that. And it wasn’t until I found my own real love that I discovered all of this. It wasn’t until I began making new memories with someone else that I realized how much of a low self-esteem pushover I was. And now, as I look through my emptied folders and my empty backpack, I see that I can’t use them anymore. As much as I want to, and as much as I’ve been meaning to, I can’t replace this backpack with new memories. I can’t erase this hardheaded, stiff man from my life. No matter how much harm he did to me, I could never forget that awkward smile of his, the one that wasn’t sure whether or not to face up or face straight. Every time I think about this, I can’t help but smile back at him. And then I look at myself and I say, “Everything is okay.”

Open Your Eyes

Marlene Nishime

03 Feb. 2011

FD1

My sophomore year of college had just concluded when I found myself back home in the silent suburbs of Cerritos. I had made a goal for myself to explore my area in an attempt to learn more about it. Though Cerritos was old news for me, I felt as though I was old enough to explore a much more mysterious and foreign land-- Los Angeles. Having my driver's license for a few years now, and a newborn confidence to venture on my own, I decided to get together with a few of my old high school friends and take a few trips out to the area, the city of entertainment as they called it.  My most memorable experience was visiting the Los Angeles Film School for a prospective student campus tour.  [THESIS] It was here where I discovered that even though I was Los Angeles County born and raised, it was Honolulu that best suited my life, and that it was where I humbly belonged. [THESIS]

I embarked on my journey with my good friends, who supported me by sitting in the back of my blue Kia Rio and listening to some soft rock while egging me on to drive a little faster. The sun's light grazed my car's hood, reflecting off the delicate clouds that lightly decorated the sky. KTLA news predicted 80 degree weather and a small breeze-- a perfect day to drive into L.A. I had always dreaded taking my fragile and beat-up car into that place, where traffic seemed to make us all mindless ants trapped in a never-ending line, and danger could come from any of the thousands of people sharing such a tight space on the road. With music occupying our ears and the air conditioning blowing past our smiles, we excitedly drove through the freeways with ease. 

An hour put me onto the Santa Monica freeway, where the layer of smog revealed the tall, blue buildings welcoming us to the heart of L.A. Coming off the freeway, I had my friend Drew navigate me through the small, dilapidated roads until we found ourselves in the midst of Sunset Boulevard, the street where Hollywood happens. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes pushed traffic into an aggressive, but slow race to the end of the street. Parallel-parked cars covered the curb where pedestrians crossed from every direction. People crowded themselves around street performers of various talents, juggling basketballs and taking pictures in character costumes. Old building signs were pasted everywhere-- wax museums, album stores, old theaters, tattoo parlors. Colossal advertisements were stamped across sky-high buildings, each selling something different from the other. Movie posters multiplied on walls like rashes on skin. The music in my car became overpowered by the honking of car horns and the shouting of people outside our windows. Finally, after lingering in traffic for 20 minutes, Drew nudged my shoulder and signaled me to look to my right. I leaned forward and looked up to smile at our destination-- the Los Angeles Film School.

Stepping out of the car for the first time since leaving Cerritos gave me a sense of accomplishment. The fresh feeling of finally arriving for my campus tour, and 15 minutes early too, subsided after I took my first breath in to smell L.A. smog. I had forgotten about that.  

Tall glass lined the walls to the building, where only a handle differentiated the door to the rest of the first floor's exterior. Walking in, we were greeted by faculty and staff. The receptionist gladly took my name. Immediately after receiving my name tag, the people in black "Los Angeles Film School" shirts proceeded to ask me countless questions about my life-- where I was from, what school I went to, what I was studying, everything. I am from Cerritos, I go to the University of Hawaii, and yes, the one in Oahu. I am a double major in the art and film program, and no, we don't use actual film. After some small talk with them, it was time to begin our tours. We visited various rooms with specific purposes. The sound editing room was filled with sound boards said to be worth thousands. Giant plasma screens were mounted in the front of the room, suggesting that the teacher used it for lectures instead of white boards and projector screens. The ceiling was tall and constructed in a way to produce the "standard sound quality for professional ears". It was the first room yet I was already in awe.

Moving through the hallway, the tour guide rounded us in a circle and answered any questions we had.  Soon after, a tall, stout white man interrupted us and introduced himself as the Vice President of the school. He then gave a long, drawn-out speech about film and how we will only succeed in it if we allow it to consume our lives, and how attending this school is the best option for becoming a successful filmmaker. He boasted about the state-of-the-art technology used in his building, and how only the prestige are given the privilege to use it-- prestige meaning the students who can pay the money of course. 47 thousand dollars a year is what it would take to be a part of this large family. I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to afford it, but it was still a good option to have in case I felt that the film school at UH wasn't enough for me. After he left, we proceeded deeper into the school, where the outside light had dimmed down and only soft yellow lights guided us through the rest of the building. Eventually, we came to a heavy set of double doors, which when opened, revealed a state of the art sound stage. 

The tour guide pleasantly helped us through the dimly lit space, where we found ourselves in the middle of a small home, artificially made for the purpose of filming a house scene. We were free to explore the set. Looking up were lights set perfectly in position, metal bars crisscrossing each other to help stabilize the heavy-duty equipment. Outside the fake windows were fake posters of a landscape simulating an outside world. Pastel-colored tablecloth matched the wallpaper, which complimented the white paint lining the edges of the kitchen and living room. The set was decorated by the inch, with painted stairs disguised as wood, and even a fake cat sleeping on a small cushion.

Finally, we reached the school theater, where the tour guide screened some of the students best films made at this school. I suppose my expectations were a bit high, because after seeing two of their "best films", I found myself surprisingly disappointed. Even though the production value was substantial, I was surprised to hear that a story so weak in meaning and the acting so faulty (in my opinion) budgeted at around 60 thousand dollars and made it into the Los Angeles Film Festival. I mean, really? For the resources given and the prestigious staff members, I was almost confused as to why a film with little or no point to it was praised by these filmmakers. To me, there was nothing cinematic about it besides the slightly professional look of it. I walked out of the theater in disbelief. I had to ask myself, was this what I really wanted?

Before leaving, I met with my designated counselor to talk about my prospects in joining the school. Tall and spunky, my counselor's diva look and attitude gave an enthusiastic punch to my stay. She went over funds, how I would be given absolutely everything I needed to become a filmmaker, and soon after graduation they would guarantee me a job 90% of the time. She assured me that every student is taken step by step through the process of becoming a successful artist, and that the school would support them all the way. Though this seemed like a good thing, I couldn't help but wonder, how are students learning about the real world if they are constantly being babied into the industry? How are they learning to work for their crew if they are already given everything they need from the get-go? Why are their films still no better than my school's films, when they are paying more than twice the amount we are paying for school?

It was then I knew in myself that I didn't want to be here. The resources, the professors, the state of the art technology, all things that were equally enticing, just didn't match the expectations I had to becoming the filmmaker I wanted to be. It was here I learned that no matter how much money I invested in schools to make my career, it was never going to happen, at least not like that. I had spent my whole year at UH convinced by my peers that our film program was too under-budgeted to make us good filmmakers, so poor that we didn't have a studio of any kind. I was told that our school is a joke, and we only pretend to be the filmmakers that we'll never be-- all this because we didn't have enough equipment, enough staff, or enough students to build a solid crew. And this, I was told, was the reason why our films would never be good enough to screen outside of Hawaii's islands. Yet here I was, sitting in one of the most prestigious film institutions in the country, and the films they vouch for are no better than ours besides their high-budget look. This city, so busy trying to move up in their lives, so tangled in the thought that money creates success, suddenly disgusted me. The majestically tall buildings, the lively streets, the luxurious architecture of the school, it was just a commercial pulling me into thinking I could be a part of it all. 

Though I went to the campus tour in search for self-confirmation that I could “do better”, I left with a sense of content for my home institution. Instead of turning in an application for the film school, I thought back at my experiences in Hawaii and realized that I was happier knowing that I worked creatively with what I had. I wanted to feel like I made a name for myself by the films I created, not through the reputation of the film school I attended. Even though I was in the heart of filmmaking, it didn't mean that I couldn't make comparable films back in Honolulu. In fact, I almost wanted to make a film in Hawaii just to show myself that Hollywood wasn't a filmmaker's only option. Besides, I think I will be much happier and humble working my way into the industry and building my own success in this little corner of the world that I now call home.

Log of Completed Activities

__x_ Jan. 10- First Day of Instruction. Log in to our class blog, our Laulima discussion forum, and your hawaii.edu mailbox. Become familiar with these instructional media. Carefully review the information in our class blog, especially the syllabus (click on the tab at the top of the page) and schedule.

__x_ Jan. 11- Intro to Paper #1. Read the “Guidelines for Paper #1″ by midnight.

__x_ Jan. 11- Laulima Discussion: Who Am I? Post your response by midnight.

__x_ Jan. 12- Begin setting up your personal blog for all class papers. Click here for instructions. Alternately, see the “Blogger” links in the right sidebar in our class blog. To begin, complete the initial setup. You’ll be able to add finishing touches as the RD1 due date approaches. If you need help, post a request in the “Q&A About My Blog” forum in Laulima.

__x_ Jan. 18- Complete readings for Paper #1

__x_ Jan. 21- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Ehrlich and Legler.

__x_ Jan. 26- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Gilb and Whitehead.

__x_ Jan. 28- Review Draft #1 (RD1) due. [50 pts] Read the guidelines.

__x_ Jan. 31- Submit three RD1 evaluations. [50 pts] Read the guidelines.

__x_ Feb. 3- Final Draft #1 (FD1) due [100 pts] Read the guidelines.