I really like the Persian proverb that says “when it is dark you can see the stars.” To mean it means two things, one meaning is that when we are going through the worse times there is always some hope somewhere, even if it seems dim and far away. The other meaning is that during the worst times in history ordinary men and women can become heroes. We are finally able to see the compassion and the love that everyone including ourselves posses. In conflict and trials we find our most notable heroes.

In the graphic novel Persepolis we find a hero in the protagonist and author Marjane Satrapi as she has to live amid the religious upheaval of Iran in the seventies and the war between Iran and Iraq in the eighties. Even after escaping her homeland, Marjane has to survive in a strange country where she is called an Ausländer, foreigner. In Iran Marjane protests against the dictatorial Shah, or king, of Iran, even though people are stabbed, stoned, and shot at these rallies. After the take over of the country by the fundamentalist Muslims, Marjane keeps her independence by listening to American music and wearing American clothes, a crime that could be punishable by death. When Marjane finally gets out of Iran and into Austria, she survives for months on the street in the winter. Marjane got and education so that she could make something of herself. Finally, Marjane got a divorce from her husband, which in Iranian culture made her a sex object because she was no longer a virgin.

In Hotel Rwanda, a humble hotel manager becomes the savior of more than a thousand refugees, at the risk of his own life. The manager, named Paul Rusesabagina, gets caught in a civil war between the Hutu and Tutsi peoples in the small country of Rwanda. Daily in the civil war people are shot in the street, houses are burned, and buildings are firebombed. Paul has to pull as many favors as he can from the white European tourists he has met to keep the hotel itself from being overrun by the Hutu army. Paul is faced with the task of keeping his Tutsi wife and Hutu and Tutsi neighbors from being killed, so he takes them to the only safe spot he knows, the hotel. Paul nearly loses his life trying to get food and water for his hotel guests by meeting with militant suppliers, the only ones with food and water. Finally Paul uses his wits to get his refugees evacuated to Tanzania, saving their lives.

In both of these periods of time ordinary people accomplished the extraordinary. A girl fought against a revolution and a hotel manager saved his neighbors and friends. When it gets dark, we really can see the stars.

Nick B.

I think Persepolis is one of the best books I have read in an English class. Persepolis is so endearing to me because it fits so well into what I am learning about now. I did a report of Nazism and its beliefs and attitudes. But looking at the web pages of names, dates, and German words loses some of its meaning. Persepolis is more personal and written in a style that is simple enough to read, but deep enough to remember. Along with Persepolis is 1984 that we just finished reading. The only problem with 1984 is that it is fiction, and is extreme. So extreme that it is somewhat hard to empathize with its protagonist Winston Smith. Persepolis is nonfiction. Its descriptions of “the Guardians of the Revolution” the meetings, and the television shows seem much more real that 1984 or the book We, by Yevgeny Zamyatin, where the main character loves the totalitarian government.

Persepolis has showed me that “comic” books can be more than just the “Incredible Hulk” or “Garfield”. I never really thought that this genre could be so meaningful. Persepolis combines simple meaningful art and endearing characters to display the struggles of a real totalitarian regime.

Nick B.

The saying “when it is dark enough, you can see the stars” reminds me of the expression “the coldest hour is the one that comes just before the dawn.” I can see the application of this kind of wisdom in the group home. I am going through a lot more right now than I have previously had to face, such as taking a polygraph (lie detector) on Monday, meeting with the families of the people I have hurt, and having to again confess to the police. It really does seem impossible to be able to make it through, but I’ve talked to the police, and I have taken a polygraph before, and I have my letters for the families. Gradually I’m transitioning home and God willing I will graduate.

I want to be out soon after June 6th, D-Day, the day I came into the program. At ten thirty I came to the group home that overcast morning. My life has soon since changed in many dramatic and subtle ways. So when it gets dark, I’ll try to look up to see the stars, those bodies which have directed sailors and warriors for as long as we have chosen to look up.

Nick B.

The first quote by Churchill, “If you’re going through hell, keep going,” is one of my favorites. I love it because it applies so well to my life. It gives me inspiration and strength to get through want I have to face. Whether that is a level drop, being in a program, or coping with depression, this quote has helped me through, especially since I have been in the group home. It makes my consequences seem less eternal, and my suffering less complete. I first read this quote while playing Call of Duty 2. When you are killed in the game the screen goes black and a quote pops up, this was one of the better ones.

The second quote reminds me of a story my mom told me about her junior high experience. Somebody called her a bitch and she turned and, with a smile, said “gee, I really am a bitch, thank you!” and walked off leaving the kid stunned. I think the Othello quote “The robb’d that smiles steals something from the thief” really applies to life.

Finally the Emerson quote “we acquired the strength we have overcome” reminds me of the saying “whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” We have to go through trials to perfect ourselves “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things” so that we can get stronger. It’s like in therapy when one gets close to a relapse. The best way to get out of that situation is to learn from it and grow.

Nick B.

Speaking

If I could download any talent from a computer I think it would be great public speaking. I want to be able to speak to a crowd and make them believe what I tell them. I want them to be devoted to what I thought and willing to do anything to please me. I would want that power so I could make changes that I think and feel are necessary. I want this talent so I could have a position of power. Maybe not necessarily be the leader of a movement, but I could be its icon, champion, and voice.

I want to be remembered after I die. My words could live a thousand years even if I only live twenty years. They would be translated into a hundred different languages and a thousand dialects. People who have never seen my face could recite my feelings about government or God in their native tongue. I want to be able to compel humanity to make peace, or total war. I want to stir the masses into frenzy and cause the middle class to throw off their oppressors. I want to start a revolution. All this is within reach with my new power of persuasion, a microphone, and a keyboard.

Nick B.

They say that the first things animals hear when they enter this life is the voice of their mother. When I came back to this life I heard something like “if you’re a good boy I’ll untie one every half hour”, definitely not Elizabeth, my mother. It was sometime around three in the morning. The only light in the inky blackness was provided by a three foot by six inch window showing the nurse’s station. I didn’t have my glasses so everything more than a foot away from my face was distorted, but that wasn’t the first thing I noticed, I was tied to my bed. What would you do if you found your wrists and ankles fastened to a bed? I began to bite at my bonds. This upset the male nurse reading in the dark; I think he was supposed to supervise me. He told me rather forcefully that he would untie me if I was a “good boy”. So I laid back and fell asleep. When I awoke it was day and I was untied, apparently I was a good boy.

I want to say it was around seven in the AM. Elizabeth came and sat by my side. I can’t remember what I said. She said I was über-pissed. Soon there came a social worker. He talked about my family dynamic and why I did what I did. He asked if I was safe to go home. I essentially told him to f-off and die. After he left my mom looked at me with sad, weary eyes, she wanted me to be safe. We watched TV and I fitfully slept. Dinner came and it was heavenly. I had the best cake I can ever remember. I was almost like a Napoleon, but was not a soggy. I think it had coconut in it, that pastry was the highlight of my day. Finally a nurse came in with bits of paper. She gave them to Elizabeth to sign. She told me in a mocking tone “no more Tylenol”, I think I grinned sardonically at her. We collected my meager possessions and left.

Days later I was told that I became violent during my blackout and I punched a nurse in the face when she held me down. Mom said I tried to pull out my IV. That was why I was tied up. I felt bad about hitting the nurse, yet I had no qualms about treating my mom like a lower form a life, interesting.

It turns out that there is Benadryl (hydrocortisone) in Tyelnol PM. In small doses it induces sleep; in large doses it makes you crazy. I was also told that I would have destroyed my liver because of all the acetaminophen (Tylenol) I had consumed. That chemical kills your main filter cell by cell until your skin turns yellow and you die. But my liver moves on and so do I. Why did I want to die? I wanted to know what death was like, a much more noble reason than wanting attention, like my suicide threat a few weeks after this odyssey. Looking back I don’t want to put my mother, or any other family member through what I put them through that February evening. I don’t want to experience death until I have tasted life. This and the label “manic depressive” are what I took from my attempt--my vain attempt to experience the eternal.

Nick B.

Narrative: Body Paragraphs

I watched as my mother walked upstairs to make sure I was alone. It seems to me that everything from that point gradually becomes fuzzy. From here on out I will need to use the accounts of others to supplement my own.

I moved into her bedroom. I knew what was there. On her new nightstand from Wal-Mart sat a bottle, a white, generic Tylenol PM bottle from Costco. It held somewhere around 400 pills. It had been used before, but it had enough for my purposes. I took the bottle into the bathroom, and setting it down I took off the lid. With two or three handfuls I, and the hospital staff, think I took forty or thirty of those blue capsules. After the first handful I knew that my stomach would have none of this. After struggling to keep down each dose of chemical, I hid the bottle in the bathroom and walked back to my computer to continue playing on the internet. There I sat, each minute my insides aching worse and worse. Soon I feared that I would not be able to hold it down. I got up and somewhat staggered back to the bathroom. My vision blurred slightly I vomited in the toilet, on the seat, and on my hand. I recall seeing bits of blue amongst the remains of my meal.

Everything below my heart felt like it was being mixed with an egg beater. I decided that a bath would help transition me between consciousness and the eternal. I sat there, stewing it felt like in the hot water and soap bubbles. After a half hour of slowly becoming sicker, I realized the bath was not helping. So I got out, drained the tub, and moved for my bedroom. I laid there, on my queen sized bed trying to suck it up and keep quiet. I heard my mother go back down stairs. Finally the second decision came. I got dressed and stumbled down the hall, down the two flights of stairs and into the basement. I lurched into her room and sat on her four poster bed. I looked her in the eyes, with mine full of tears. I said we need to go to the hospital. She asked why and I repeated the statement and said nothing more. She asked again, and I told her I overdosed. She got up and hurriedly put on another dress over her nightgown. The clock said it was around five now.

Every moment my mind grew more distant from my body. I became sleepy but could not sleep. So, after several minutes my grandmother, mother, and I set out for UVRMC. I tried to sleep as we came down the hill, past the sub station and followed the cliffs at Provo’s border to the hospital, all the while Elizabeth, my mother, told me to not fall asleep.

We parked at the far end of the ER parking lot. I slowly tottered my way through the darkening lot toward the double glass doors. We finally made it and I sat down. Elizabeth was doing something important as I surveyed the place. Soon my surname was called, and I slowly arose and reeled into the small examining room. A large, shaved headed man asked me what happened. I told him I overdosed because I was depressed. I said this five times, each more angry than the last. He kept asking why I did it. Was he not listening? Apparently I was slurring my words. We moved into a hospital room and they drew my dark almost maroon blood. My memory fades much from this point, but here is what I perceived.

I was given a Styrofoam cup of what they call charcoal. It was black, acrid, and thicker than motor oil. I tried to suck it down with a straw, nice wish. I saw a woman in black standing a little ways off in the hallway looking at me. They said that no one was there. Was this a woman a person who succeeded in her overdose? I remember reaching for a string that hung from my bed. It, like the specter, was never there, but I saw it. The last thing I remember is feeling something trickle down the back of my throat as darkness overcame me.

Nick B.

Narrative Introduction

It’s amazing what details come up in family therapy sessions. How the facts that have long remained in a chemical fog come to light and paint a clearer picture. As disquieting as these times are they allow me to recount this story in more depth than I ever could on my own.

I remember it was an overcast day in late February. It must have been something past three because the school day was over and I was on the other side of town. The matriarchs of my family, Elizabeth and Dorothy, took me to Iceberg to get some food and a good shake, but when the order came, they left the cheesecake out of my beloved frozen raspberry-cheesecake dessert. Was this the last straw? I can’t remember. However, I do remember we made our way through the residential parts of Orem, seeing the newer homes and the ones as old as ours. I remember we came home in time for my second favorite show.

How long ago did I make the decision? I can’t recall. I toyed with the idea, the philosophical and metaphysical ramifications, and the emotional consequences. Why did I choose that weekday in February? This also eludes me, but the fact remains, that is when I made my choice.

King of the Hill came on at the stroke of five, as constant as the sunrise. I was on Wikipedia looking up a murderer as I watched, whose name escapes me, but he was brought up in one of the two sequential episodes as the man that Ladybird’s mother had tracked down. Even thought my attention was split between the internet and the television I made my move, I felt it was time. I told my mother that I loved her and I shuttled her upstairs. I was alone with my television and computer, the two facets of my life. I moved from the stairwell to my mother’s bedroom. Thus it began.

Nick B.

Haikus

Ancient mountain stones
Accost, the western sunset
As darkness takes hold.

Forgotten seeds rise,
Casting off their beginnings,
To accept their end

The sun creeps northward,
As earth prepares for summer.
Shedding life and light.


I think this section has given me a greater appreciation for poetry. I believe that because of this class I am now able to understand why an author chose the words they did, or the subject they wrote on. This class has given me new insights on how to read into what is on the page.
We should write poetry because it is a release. Poetry transcends prose because when we create poems we are not held back by grammar and punctuation. Poetry is like a higher form of English where we can create, or manipulate words as they are to mean something more.
Reading poetry doesn’t have to be drudgery. One of my favorite ways to enjoy poetry is by listening to music. Well written lyrics can be beautiful, tragic, or inspirational. I like listening to music with deeper lyrics, it give me something to think about.
Poetry is making language into art, without it language would be dead.


Nick B.

Bodies upon bodies
Sand upon sand
Miles upon miles
Blood upon tiles

Kingdom after empire
Movement after war
People searching high and low
For something that is more

Flags accosting the bluest sky
Red running into green and grey
Sabers rattling and glinting in the light
They can make the masses sway

Blood upon tiles
Bodies for miles
Bombs and ships go
After the sun sets

New lines on the map
The erasures are clear
More mountains and fields
Their sovereign is here

Bullets upon helmets
Blood upon tiles
Warriors burn files
As land changes hands

Nicholas B.

Stone

I think of stone.
A stone that has seen thousands of thunderstorms, and has seen king after new king.
I see rocks that have been a silent witness to culture following culture,
Stones that quietly gaze down on city, farm, and town.
I see stone that has been used for fortresses to keep out,
Hearths to invite in,
Walls to hold back,
And roads to push away.

Picks and dynamite.
Something as temporal and fleshy as man
Molding the immortal and timeless, this outcrop.

What I see is a stone, a rock, a boulder, a monolith
That will be there long after its descriptions decay
And those who look on it in wonder die.
Our buildings made of you will change hands,
Change purpose, crumble under the weather and turn to dust.
Castles cannot keep you out,
Cathedrals cannot keep you in.
When I am gone all that will be left is stone.

Nick

I like the song “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. In my mind I can see some references to Christian mythology such as “look to the west” and “soul is crying for the leaving”. L liked this song because it is not blatant in its meaning. Some songs come out and say things like ‘I fell this way and that way’. Some songs try to hide their meanings with characters behind assumed names like Romeo or Juliet. However this song style by Led Zeppelin reminds me of the band The Church. Their songs are deeper in meaning than most.

I think “Stairway to Heaven” is talking about trying to find meaning in life and being rewarded for the good one does, like the reference to the forest echoing in laughter when the piper leads us to reason.


Nick B.

Bodies in the sand,
Conquerors from a foreign land,
Who bring their god
To replace our own

We decipher their language
At the end of a sword.
To them we succumb,
Slaving to the beat of a newer drum.

We bow to them, but
They bow to us.
To some extent, they
Need our trust.

But I am content
To sit back and watch.
All we are is another notch.

I’m only defiant with knees bent.


Nick B.

I don’t think that suicide is all that wrong really. First, I think that people aren’t all that selfish when they commit suicide. They aren’t all that selfish because they could die to save society or others from themselves. Would you really be all that sad if a murderer or a serial rapist killed themselves? Also, I think it is equally selfish to want to keep a suicidal and depressed person alive. Would you really want to keep someone alive for another fifty years if every day is practically unbearable? What happened to loving someone so much you let them go?

The topic of suicide and depression brings up in my mind Mormonism. I believe that some of its doctrines are false. I believe that suffering should end at death. However in the “plan of happiness” we are able to suffer and sin after death. If we were to be exalted to the status of gods we would have children who suffer in their lives. Their pain causes the parents to feel pain. So it is more of a “plan of suffering and some happiness”. I can’t see how merciful God is when he creates creatures to have them suffer, die, and writhe in agony forever. These are some of the reasons I have failed to believe in Mormonism. Also when looking at these beliefs I tend to question Christianity at large.

Nick B.

Hamlet’s indecision is a critical part of the play Hamlet. One reason is the basic fact that if Hamlet had acted immediately on the news that his uncle Claudius had killed the king, Hamlet’s father, and taken over the throne of Denmark the play would have ended with the first act. The fact that Hamlet learns that something is rotten in the state of Denmark early on fuels the conflict that makes the play interesting and continues it for five acts. Hamlet’s indecision is what made the play interesting and a classic.
Another reason that Hamlet’s irresolution affects the play is that it allows for character development and let’s us see a glimpse of humanity. The whole theme of the play is to be or not to be, to act or to stand by, to live or to die. The fact that Hamlet analyzes his surroundings and situations allows ourselves to experience his feeling for ourselves. If Hamlet had acted rashly, we would not see the doubt he had, experience the fear of the unknown, and feel the pressure of facing eternity and mortality.
However, Hamlet’s indecisiveness allows for some sad things to occur in the play. For example, Hamlet was not sure how much Rosencrantz and Guildenstern loved him and were his true friends because of this they were sent to their deaths in England. Another example is he wasn’t sure who was spying on him and the queen. So acting out of guessing he stabbed to death the man hiding behind the tapestry doing the spying, Polonius, king of France.

Nick B.

I think that betrayal is when people take the trust that has been given to them and use it to get something at the other person’s expense. For example. I betrayed my victims because I used their trust in me to manipulate them so I could sexually abuse them. Another example is C.Y. Robi Ph.D. He was giving me sex offender treatment, and he gave me a psychosexual evaluation (a test to see what level of care I need). His test said I should stay with him in a level two, paying him one hundred dollars a week for treatment. I went to an independent tester, and she said I needed level six treatment. So here I am. He betrayed me by sacrificing my treatment for money, I betrayed my victims by causing them to suffer depression, anger, self hate, and confusion by raping them.

To conclude, I think that betrayal is low and dirty. I think that it should be avoided like the plague and society will be better without it. I’m working on not betraying others so I can make this world a better place.

Nick B.

The quote that means the most to me is the one that talks about the fact that people seek forgiveness or want to repent because they are afraid of the consequences, not because they are genuinely sorry about causing pain. I know this is the reason I came out about being a sex offender. I didn’t, and to some extent, don’t care about the many victims and what I have done to them. I only care about not going to hell and suffering for what I have done. Confessing wasn’t an act of bravery but of cowardice.
To me it seems like the consequences both for time and eternity are the same whether I came forward or not. I can never undo the suffering I have caused to so many people. This whole ordeal seems to be just one selfish choice after another. So all I have really done is ceased any happiness for the victims and myself for a very long time.
I believe that forgiveness and repentance are only as real as the feelings of sorrow one has for the acts that need forgiving. I think it is interesting that repent comes from the Latin word for pain. When the word was originally was written down it meant to feel regret for ones sins. I guess there is a difference between being forgiven and being repentant.


Nick B.

Backpacks in School

I think that backpacks should not be allowed in school. There are many reasons why backpacks are a nuisance and hazard. People could easily bring dangerous or illegal things to school. Backpacks also can cause injury to students and teachers. Backpacks are more trouble then their worth.

A great reason to not have backpacks in school is physical injury. An example would be younger or smaller students getting irreparable damage done to their spines by the loads they have to carry on their backs. Due to these injuries families could sue the schools or the districts. Carrying so much stuff is also cumbersome and uncomfortable.

Another reason why book bags should be banned is the fact that they clutter up classrooms and block pathways. Backpacks all over the floor make teacher access to students more restricted and difficult. Backpacks also block walkways that could be needed in case of a fire. Also, backpacks are easy to trip on and cause bodily harm
.
Finally, book bags help facilitate students in bringing weapons or drugs to school. Backpacks are difficult to search and can harbor large weapons and ammunition or illicit substances and paraphernalia. Quite simply they make it easier to bring dangerous items to school.

Some people may argue that backpacks are necessary to carry all of the supplies needed to be ready for class. The fact is that most schools have lockers where one could store their stuff between classes, and breaks long enough allowing plenty of time to gather needed materials for the next class. Also, binders and folders make class work and material more easily organized and accessible without backpacks.

In conclusion, backpacks are dangerous by allowing people to bring harmful things to school. They can cause harm to the students carrying them and the teachers tripping over them. Backpacks also can pose a danger incase of a fire or other emergency.
Backpacks are more trouble than they are worth.

I think that war is generally pointless. I think that there is rarely any justified conflict involving death and destruction. For example there is the war in Iraq. I think that we have turned the war there from something that could have ended sooner and saved lives into the mess we have as of now. It seems like all we care about is American lives, but how many Iraqis have died? We’ve lost several thousand men, but I think the collateral damage exceeds our own losses. Why don’t we care? Perhaps it is the fact that they worship a different god and speak a different language, or maybe their completion is too dark for them to want freedom. How can we agree with something that causes desolation and death.
I’m tempted to think that all of this suffering is caused by hatred and fear, such as fear caused when we meet people who are different from us. Why do the Shi’ite and Sunni have to kill each other; don’t they worship the same god and revere the same prophet? It makes as much sense as the Protestant English killing Catholic Irish. If they were true believers, they would know how God feels about murder.

Nick B.

I think that the ghost of King Hamlet is benevolent. I don’t think it wants to do any harm to Hamlet; just giving him advice or possibly warn Hamlet about something important or bad is going to happen in the future.

I think the ghost will tell Hamlet about who murdered his father and how the murdered it. I think the ghost will tell Hamlet to avenge him and get revenge on the killer, who is probably the new king, Claudius. The ghost could possibly tell Hamlet how exactly he should do away with Claudius, or whoever the murderer is. Finally the ghost might shed some light on what the afterlife is like.

I believe that meeting the ghost will set in motion many important events that need to happen in the play. I think that the ghost incites one of the major conflicts that happen in “Hamlet”, conflicts between Hamlet and himself and Hamlet and his uncle Claudius. The ghost in my mind is necessary for the progression of the story.

Nick B.