If you want to realize just how different regions of the United States can be, just consider the school holiday. Few things in the life of a student are as sweet as a break from classes. There’s no jarring sound to break into your peaceful morning slumber. There’s no early morning rush to get ready after you accidentally hit the “snooze” button too many times. And if, God forbid, you do have some type of homework to do, you don’t have to put on proper pants to do it. My school holidays were spent sleeping in and generally doing nothing because I like to ascribe to Calvin and Hobbes’ philosophy: “Weekends don’t count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.” And in rural…
I spend a good chunk of my time filling up a reporter's notebook with my hastily-scribbled notes.
Posts from the “Carthage” Category
I moved to Westchester County, New York in late May. Since then, I’ve been trying to figure out why Westchester is so different from where I grew up in Panola County, Texas. It’s not that there aren’t obvious differences: Westchester happens to be a suburb of New York City. Panola County is in the middle of East Texas nowhere. On East Texas radio, you hear mostly country music. In Westchester, it seems they really, really, really like Prince. Prince of the “Little Red Corvette” and “Raspberry Beret” era. One is suburb, the other rural. But they both have cities (or in Westchester’s case, villages) that are small. I grew up in Carthage, which had a population of 6,660 at the time. Irvington, one of…
I’m taking literary journalism this semester, and one of our assignments was to write about a moment in our life. I’m posting my moment here because one of my classmates wanted me to so she could send the link to her boyfriend. Plus, this is really funny: I am a high school band legend. That’s what I’ve gleamed from a conversation with Matthew, my cousin while we sit in my grandmother’s kitchen and watch the Thanksgiving lunch preparations. “My band director told us about a girl whose pants fell down while she was marching,” he told me. I’m not exactly sure how we came to discuss this, but I do remember sitting up straight in my chair and asking excitedly, “Did he say where she…
I remember the first time I told my mother that I would be going to see a movie… alone. “Why would you do that?” She asked. “Don’t you have a friend you’d like to go with?” Ok, so maybe those weren’t her exact words. It was some time ago, and I am not Sherlock Holmes. But it brings up a question: why do some people find it difficult to go see a movie alone? It’s not like sitting in a restaurant by yourself, where all the other patrons will stare as you pick at your food and wonder why you didn’t bring a book to read. At the movies, everyone is looking at the screen. There’s no talking (hopefully). There’s no interaction with other people,…
When I was in school (that is to say, CISD), Wednesdays were always the best day of the week. Why? Because Wednesday was Chicken Day. Basically, every Wednesday the cafeteria would serve fried chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans and a roll. It was Southern comfort food, and the cafeteria staff knew what they were doing. Eventually state laws turned the fried chicken into baked chicken. This could have ruined Wednesdays, but the magical power of the chicken kept it going. Except for one particular Wednesday of my junior year in high school when the staff decided to serve “Happy Chicken” (chicken patties cut out with a smiley face and decorated with little colored balls of flour baked into the crust). I’m not making…
What I did was much worse. I didn’t blog for over a week. I know, I know. The shame! The horror! Why are you even keeping this blog?! I guess I should explain: The Internet… it had a conniption on my laptop. Therefore I couldn’t access my blog except via my brother’s computer. Which was painful. Mostly because the spacebar didn’t work properly. Sure, he doesn’t mind that hiswordsstick likethisontopof one another. But that kind of thing bothers me, you know? But apparently, you guys just went nuts while I didn’t have 24/7 access to the Internet. Michael Jackson? The scary-looking white woman who used to be a black man? Sold out concerts. Facebook? That whole Twitter-jealousy complex just took a “Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!…
