I wrote this memoir for my Creative Writing class. My mother might dispute some of the details in the story. But this is how I remember it. Please look for irony, sarcasm, and my #1 trait of being stubborn. Enjoy. :)
I think I was born stubborn. This, of course, manifested itself in both good and bad ways. My mom often reminds me about the time I was three and learned to ride a bike. “Three-year-olds physically can’t ride two-wheelers,” she often says. “But you were not going to let that stop you!” She tells that story with pride as proof that I had the same stubborn tenacity as a child that has prefaced my collegiate work. However, there was nothing but frustration in her voice as she told me that summer day in my youth to “sit on the piano bench until you apologize to your sister.”
I was not going to apologize, I thought to myself as I settled down next to my sister on the piano bench. I was right! Although I don’t recall the specifics of the argument, it probably had something to do with the vacuum cleaner and our small staircase. My chore for the day was vacuuming, and my poor sister had most likely tried to pass me on the stairs while I was working. Some sort of argument had ensued, and my mother broke us up and set us on the piano bench. The details of the argument are hazy because what I remember are the long hours I was sitting on that bench.
My sister, never one to stay angry for long, apologized to me within 15 minutes and happily skipped off to finish her chores. I, however, was going to show my mother that I don’t apologize when I’m right. I knew that after a few hours, she would realize her folly and let me get off the bench. She might even excuse me from the rest of my chores because I had been wrongly accused!
Such was my childhood fantasy. I sat on that bench, angry, for several hours. The piano was conveniently situated in the middle of our small living room, between the staircase leading to the upstairs and the front door. Because of the placement of the piano, if anyone went anywhere in my house, they saw me on the piano bench. I had to endure several rounds of “Breanne, don’t you want to apologize?” from my mother as she walked back and forth with loads of laundry. “I don’t apologize when I’m right,” I thought to myself as I glared at her.
My mom, I think, had forgotten how stubborn I was—otherwise she would have given me a bigger punishment than just sitting. After several hours my mom gave me an order: “Apologize to your sister and finish the vacuuming.” I was relieved. Sitting on the piano bench was deathly boring and my back was starting to hurt. But I was also triumphant. As I muttered a half-hearted apology to my sister and finished the vacuuming, I laughed to myself because once again, I had won. I was more stubborn than my mother! I won the battle!
This story became a hallmark example of my stubborn tenacity. And through the years, I would remember this story, laugh, and continue with my determined, although sometimes defiant, pathway to greatness.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
A Squished Spider in Shakespeare
I think we have already established the fact that I hate spiders. Really. I try to be adult-like most of the time, but spiders put me over the edge every time.
Even in my Shakespeare class.
Today we were sitting in class in a circle. I was sitting close to the wall, with my backpack sitting open in the chair behind me. One of my classmates was giving a presentation. We were all silent.
And then I saw movement on the wall out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw a spider crawling quickly, almost over my open backpack. There was nothing else I could do. I was sitting next to the girl presenting and quickly said, "I'm going to squish a spider." (The whole class saw the spider at the same time I did.)
I quickly took off my shoe and slammed it, hard, against the wall. I then calmly put my shoe back on, apologized to the girl giving the presentation, and class went on. The laughing only lasted for about 30 seconds. :)
Even in my Shakespeare class.
Today we were sitting in class in a circle. I was sitting close to the wall, with my backpack sitting open in the chair behind me. One of my classmates was giving a presentation. We were all silent.
And then I saw movement on the wall out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw a spider crawling quickly, almost over my open backpack. There was nothing else I could do. I was sitting next to the girl presenting and quickly said, "I'm going to squish a spider." (The whole class saw the spider at the same time I did.)
I quickly took off my shoe and slammed it, hard, against the wall. I then calmly put my shoe back on, apologized to the girl giving the presentation, and class went on. The laughing only lasted for about 30 seconds. :)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Taco Bell, round two
Remember snake girl from Taco Bell?
Well, today I went to Taco Bell at the Cougareat to grab some lunch. There were 10 students in line and twice that waiting for their food. Taco Bell goes through hundreds of customers everyday, and I just happen to be one of the million on an almost daily basis.
Anyway, at Taco Bell they usually ask for your name (although sometimes they ask for your favorite movie) and so today I was ready to give them my card and my name after ordering the chicken burrito, to go. But snake girl was my cashier and instead of asking what my name was, she said, "It's Breanne, right?"
I laughed and said, "I come here way too much." But actually, I think it was the snake incident that made me memorable...
Well, today I went to Taco Bell at the Cougareat to grab some lunch. There were 10 students in line and twice that waiting for their food. Taco Bell goes through hundreds of customers everyday, and I just happen to be one of the million on an almost daily basis.
Anyway, at Taco Bell they usually ask for your name (although sometimes they ask for your favorite movie) and so today I was ready to give them my card and my name after ordering the chicken burrito, to go. But snake girl was my cashier and instead of asking what my name was, she said, "It's Breanne, right?"
I laughed and said, "I come here way too much." But actually, I think it was the snake incident that made me memorable...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Creative Writing and Me
I am in a creative writing class right now. You know what that means--even better blog entries! I thought I would put a few samples of my writing up of the more exciting stories throughout the semester. Round 1: a very short story.
The situation started innocently enough. The tense atmosphere in the Tel Aviv airport was no more than usual and perhaps a little mild, comparatively. The Israeli soldiers, most of them women, paced around questioning anyone who looked suspicious. In Tel Aviv, this was everyone who wasn’t Israeli, and even some who were. In such distressing times, security was more important than hospitality.
He was a German man, middle aged, and standing indiscriminately by his luggage. Perhaps it was his age or his impatient German manner, but the Israeli guard closest to us chose him for a random passport check. After looking through his passport, she began to question him. “Where are you going?” “Cairo,” he answered. “What will you be doing in Cairo?” The man, stifling his irritation, sighed. “I am attending a meeting of Lutheran church leaders for a week of training.”
His answers were short and impatient. Perhaps he didn’t know this was a dangerous combination in an Israeli airport, but he seemed eager to get his luggage searched (a standard procedure for all who fly out of Tel Aviv), checked, and into the boarding area. The guard, sensing his frustration, continued questioning in a methodical, condescending manner.
“Do you have an itinerary for your time in Cairo?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but it’s all in German,” seeming to hope that this language barrier was key to his quick escape into the boarding area.
“Can I see it?” The question was innocent enough, although her condescendingly sweet voice offered no explanation of why she would need to see the itinerary of this passenger, which was written in a language she did not speak.
By this time the man was visibly irritated. Other passengers close to him in line averted their eyes, trying to avoid the barrage of questions they would be assailed with if they showed too much interest.
“It’s in my luggage. Do you really want me to pull it out? It’s all in German.”
“Yes, please.” The Israeli soldier was insistent.
The man sighed heavily and pulled a small spiral bound booklet from his luggage. After handing it to the Israeli guard with a look that said, “See, it’s all in German,” she turned to him and said, opening to the middle, “Translate this for me.”
I nervously edged away, grateful it was my turn for my luggage to be searched. Since I was next to him in line, I was a prime target for questioning if I stood too close. I could still hear the man talking loudly as my luggage was being searched.
“It says that at this time we will have a meeting, at 12 we will eat lunch,…”
The soldier interrupted him. “What about this page?”
My luggage cleared, I quickly left the area. The atmosphere was so tense in line I didn’t even care when the male soldier searching my luggage had broken the perfume bottle I bought in Egypt. Even after he offered to get his supervisor to take care of the situation, I refused. I knew what would happen if he got his supervisor: “Where did you buy this perfume bottle?”
The situation started innocently enough. The tense atmosphere in the Tel Aviv airport was no more than usual and perhaps a little mild, comparatively. The Israeli soldiers, most of them women, paced around questioning anyone who looked suspicious. In Tel Aviv, this was everyone who wasn’t Israeli, and even some who were. In such distressing times, security was more important than hospitality.
He was a German man, middle aged, and standing indiscriminately by his luggage. Perhaps it was his age or his impatient German manner, but the Israeli guard closest to us chose him for a random passport check. After looking through his passport, she began to question him. “Where are you going?” “Cairo,” he answered. “What will you be doing in Cairo?” The man, stifling his irritation, sighed. “I am attending a meeting of Lutheran church leaders for a week of training.”
His answers were short and impatient. Perhaps he didn’t know this was a dangerous combination in an Israeli airport, but he seemed eager to get his luggage searched (a standard procedure for all who fly out of Tel Aviv), checked, and into the boarding area. The guard, sensing his frustration, continued questioning in a methodical, condescending manner.
“Do you have an itinerary for your time in Cairo?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but it’s all in German,” seeming to hope that this language barrier was key to his quick escape into the boarding area.
“Can I see it?” The question was innocent enough, although her condescendingly sweet voice offered no explanation of why she would need to see the itinerary of this passenger, which was written in a language she did not speak.
By this time the man was visibly irritated. Other passengers close to him in line averted their eyes, trying to avoid the barrage of questions they would be assailed with if they showed too much interest.
“It’s in my luggage. Do you really want me to pull it out? It’s all in German.”
“Yes, please.” The Israeli soldier was insistent.
The man sighed heavily and pulled a small spiral bound booklet from his luggage. After handing it to the Israeli guard with a look that said, “See, it’s all in German,” she turned to him and said, opening to the middle, “Translate this for me.”
I nervously edged away, grateful it was my turn for my luggage to be searched. Since I was next to him in line, I was a prime target for questioning if I stood too close. I could still hear the man talking loudly as my luggage was being searched.
“It says that at this time we will have a meeting, at 12 we will eat lunch,…”
The soldier interrupted him. “What about this page?”
My luggage cleared, I quickly left the area. The atmosphere was so tense in line I didn’t even care when the male soldier searching my luggage had broken the perfume bottle I bought in Egypt. Even after he offered to get his supervisor to take care of the situation, I refused. I knew what would happen if he got his supervisor: “Where did you buy this perfume bottle?”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Texas Nephews
I actually only have one nephew in Texas. But the title seemed to flow better with nephew in the plural. And since I have blogged about my trip to Texas but nothing about the reason for going, I thought I would throw a few pictures up.
This is my nephew Talmage. Isn't he cute? His mom definitely thinks so (as do we all!) and posts an almost daily record of his progress on their blog (which we all appreciate Kaitlyn!). But as his aunt, I like to think I have bragging rights too. :)
Anyway, I was only able to visit my sister and her husband and son for two days--long enough for us to make a trip to the grocery store, make falafel, go to a garden-park in Houston, and stop by Coldstone (the highlight).
While there, Talmage decided he wanted ice cream faster than his mom was giving it to him. In a split second when his mom looked away, he grabbed the lid of her milkshake and threw it off, flipping ice cream everywhere. Then, with my sister distracted with trying to grab the lid and straw from him before he made too much of a mess, he grabbed for the milkshake with his other hand and stuck his hand in it, almost knocking the whole thing over.
My quick thinking saved the day. :)
He tried to look innocent
but the evidence was all over his face.
He thought it was pretty funny!
This is my nephew Talmage. Isn't he cute? His mom definitely thinks so (as do we all!) and posts an almost daily record of his progress on their blog (which we all appreciate Kaitlyn!). But as his aunt, I like to think I have bragging rights too. :)
Anyway, I was only able to visit my sister and her husband and son for two days--long enough for us to make a trip to the grocery store, make falafel, go to a garden-park in Houston, and stop by Coldstone (the highlight).
While there, Talmage decided he wanted ice cream faster than his mom was giving it to him. In a split second when his mom looked away, he grabbed the lid of her milkshake and threw it off, flipping ice cream everywhere. Then, with my sister distracted with trying to grab the lid and straw from him before he made too much of a mess, he grabbed for the milkshake with his other hand and stuck his hand in it, almost knocking the whole thing over.
My quick thinking saved the day. :)
He tried to look innocent
but the evidence was all over his face.
He thought it was pretty funny!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Population: Me
The other day I was driving to school. Yes, I live far enough away and I leave early enough and get home late enough that I justify driving to campus. And I was listening to an Evangelical Christian radio station. Sidenote: I really like listening to these Christian radio stations. First of all, I think it is a great way to reach out and understand people of other faiths. I like how they talk about family values and faith and God without feeling awkward about it. And a lot of the time I really like the songs they sing. What can I say, I love the Christian pop music scene.
And as I was driving and worrying about my oil, which I had just realized was leaking, and the traffic, which was clogging up around campus, and being late for class, I heard this song. And I thought, maybe God is trying to tell me something? Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
And as I was driving and worrying about my oil, which I had just realized was leaking, and the traffic, which was clogging up around campus, and being late for class, I heard this song. And I thought, maybe God is trying to tell me something? Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
17 Minutes at the Alamo
While I was in Texas I drove out to Austin to visit UT-Austin (a possible future graduate school option) and then stayed that night at my friend Michelle's house in San Antonio (thanks Michelle and Chris!). I realized that I might not ever be in this close of proximity to that Alamo again and decided that I had to go see it.
As I exited the freeway and approached this historical monument, I looked down at the gas gauge and foud it to be nearly empty. Now wanting to search for parking and run out of gas in the middle of downtown San Antonio, and also not knowing exactly how many minutes I had before the tank was dry (because it was my brother-in-law's car), I began searching for a gas station. And searching. And finally, just when I thought the car would die for sure, I ran across this place:
It looked relatively safe (it had to be safe! It was right across from the cemetery)
so I hopped out and went to the pump. Unfortunately, this gas station was so ghetto that I had to go to the cashier to pay. And the gas station was a booth, with a cashier, some drinks and candy, and cigarettes inside of the booth. In order to pay for my gas before I could pump it I had to walk up to the window (see the woman bending over next to the window in the first picture?) and tell the cashier inside of the bullet-proof cracked glass that I wanted $20 of gas. I gave him my card and, since it was debit, I had to enter my pin. While I was wondering how I would ever do that, the side of the wall opened up with the key pad in it. I suddenly realized that if anyone needs to enter their pin, or if they buy anything, the cashier puts it in the "box" from his side and then shuts it on his side, which opens it up to the other side. Perhaps this is to keep the cashier (who was probably 5'11" and 250 pounds and didn't look like he needed defending!) safe?
Oh, and it wasn't intimidating at all that I was the only caucasion female there, and 7 police cars passed by in the 10 minutes I was there. I felt safe in the day, but I don't think I would recommend that place at night!
Anyway, back to the Alamo. I desperately wanted to see the Alamo, but I just as desperately didn't want to pay $10 for parking. I finally found a street meter two blocks away from the edifice, and after checking how much change I had with me I put it all in the meter.
All 35 cents. Which bought me exactly 17 minutes of parking time.
I walked swiftly (I would have run, but I am sure people would have thought I had just stolen something!) to the Alamo and, as proof, took pictures of the most important things there:
A door, of course
A cactus (an integral part of the Alamo!)
And the Alamo itself.
I then walked swiftly back to my car, unlocking it exactly 17 minutes after I put my coins in the meter. It reminded me of the time I went to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and, after getting a short guided tour of the most important things, was given 30 minutes of free time. To see the whole Egyptian Museum (which is huge, by the way!). I was determined not to miss anything, and so literally ran through the whole museum looking at everything. I saw everything in that museum...but don't remember anything! Oh well, if it was there, I saw it!
It was probably a good thing that I didn't stay there for more than 17 minutes, because it didn't look like the safest place in town. I may or may not have parked 2 doors down from a bar with a creepy man standing outside keeping guard and watching me. And this was the building I parked next to:
And this was a cool picture I took out my window at the building just down the street:
Anyway, the Alamo is a lot smaller than I remembered from the 15-years-before when I had visited it for the first time. It was almost disappointing to go back as a big person and see how small it really was. And so I think 17 minutes at the Alamo was a perfect amount of time...
As I exited the freeway and approached this historical monument, I looked down at the gas gauge and foud it to be nearly empty. Now wanting to search for parking and run out of gas in the middle of downtown San Antonio, and also not knowing exactly how many minutes I had before the tank was dry (because it was my brother-in-law's car), I began searching for a gas station. And searching. And finally, just when I thought the car would die for sure, I ran across this place:
It looked relatively safe (it had to be safe! It was right across from the cemetery)
so I hopped out and went to the pump. Unfortunately, this gas station was so ghetto that I had to go to the cashier to pay. And the gas station was a booth, with a cashier, some drinks and candy, and cigarettes inside of the booth. In order to pay for my gas before I could pump it I had to walk up to the window (see the woman bending over next to the window in the first picture?) and tell the cashier inside of the bullet-proof cracked glass that I wanted $20 of gas. I gave him my card and, since it was debit, I had to enter my pin. While I was wondering how I would ever do that, the side of the wall opened up with the key pad in it. I suddenly realized that if anyone needs to enter their pin, or if they buy anything, the cashier puts it in the "box" from his side and then shuts it on his side, which opens it up to the other side. Perhaps this is to keep the cashier (who was probably 5'11" and 250 pounds and didn't look like he needed defending!) safe?
Oh, and it wasn't intimidating at all that I was the only caucasion female there, and 7 police cars passed by in the 10 minutes I was there. I felt safe in the day, but I don't think I would recommend that place at night!
Anyway, back to the Alamo. I desperately wanted to see the Alamo, but I just as desperately didn't want to pay $10 for parking. I finally found a street meter two blocks away from the edifice, and after checking how much change I had with me I put it all in the meter.
All 35 cents. Which bought me exactly 17 minutes of parking time.
I walked swiftly (I would have run, but I am sure people would have thought I had just stolen something!) to the Alamo and, as proof, took pictures of the most important things there:
A door, of course
A cactus (an integral part of the Alamo!)
And the Alamo itself.
I then walked swiftly back to my car, unlocking it exactly 17 minutes after I put my coins in the meter. It reminded me of the time I went to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and, after getting a short guided tour of the most important things, was given 30 minutes of free time. To see the whole Egyptian Museum (which is huge, by the way!). I was determined not to miss anything, and so literally ran through the whole museum looking at everything. I saw everything in that museum...but don't remember anything! Oh well, if it was there, I saw it!
It was probably a good thing that I didn't stay there for more than 17 minutes, because it didn't look like the safest place in town. I may or may not have parked 2 doors down from a bar with a creepy man standing outside keeping guard and watching me. And this was the building I parked next to:
And this was a cool picture I took out my window at the building just down the street:
Anyway, the Alamo is a lot smaller than I remembered from the 15-years-before when I had visited it for the first time. It was almost disappointing to go back as a big person and see how small it really was. And so I think 17 minutes at the Alamo was a perfect amount of time...
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