Tales From the District Attorney's Office. Part One

As my semester comes to a close, everything is wrapping up and being tied away as neatly as possible. As such, my internship at the District Attorney has been completed. In a nutshell what I did with the DA was work with the Reentry Taskforce. We helped men and women who were coming out of incarceration get jobs, find housing, get into drug rehab programs, and start a new life. I did just about everything you can imagine in relation to that job – from working with drug councilors and doctors, to interviewing our clients, to sending faxes, to organizing and closing cases, and on and on. Needless to say, my knowledge of both the rehab clinics, and the employment and housing agencies in this area is much more extensive than before. The following are moments from my time spent there that I will never forget. (All names and locations have been changed for security purposes).

First day on the job I was whisked off to parole. I was fresh-eyed and innocent and didn't know much about what I would be doing, or what I was getting myself in to. My "welcome" to the office consisted of two security guards eyeing me with interest, and then kindly saying "welcome to hell." Good. It wasn't hell, exactly, but it certainly was bordering on right-around-the-corner from "the grass is greener on the other side" and down the street from "This ain't heaven, baby, so I'm goin someplace elseee."

My first miscreant (my fond name for our clients) sat and stared at me and refused to talk, and when he finally did spoke no English whatsoever and covered his mouth. I found out later that he was suspected of being an illegal alien and had a bad tooth.

A couple weeks into the job I was at parole when we were all ushered in to the conference room. Everyone was extremely serious, and when a number of security guards filed in and told us that an assassination attempt had been called in, the place began to buzz. A parolee had been targeted by one of the gangs in the area, and the shootout was supposed to go down that day outside of parole. Continued next post

Tales From the District Attorney's Office. Part Two

They wanted him out of the way and wanted to send a message. It was a serious situation because this had happened a number of years ago and a couple of people at parole had died. A picture of the man was passed around, and the office went into a sort of lock-down. Anyone around the parameter of the building had to put on a vest, and the rest of us were kept safely away from windows and doors. Soon after my boss and the guards decided they wanted me out of the “situation” so I was escorted out to my car and taken to safety. Later that day they were able to get a hold of the guy before he was murdered and everyone was okay. Phew.

My miscreants would often say the craziest things, and this one time a young guy at parole who was not a part of our program came in with a busted face. When I asked him what happened he said the following.
“Well, man, I was really needing some crack the other day so I let these guys beat me up for ten dollars and the whole time I was worried about them breaking my crack pipe. I should have been worried about my head probably, but then I went home and my landlady told me to shut up about being loud but I wasn’t being loud and told her so and she got her boyfriend and he threw me down the stairs and I was just really really worried that I was going to break my crack pipe but I didn’t. But my face got busted. It’s cool though.” Good. Continued next post

Tales From the District Attorney's Office. Part Three

One of my favorite clients was this little short guy with round glasses and a big mustache. He kind of looked like a turtle and he was the most polite and “old fashioned” gentleman in the entire building. The first day I met him he told me the most interesting story about his time in prison. In a nutshell, during his days there he had realized that it was his purpose in life to become a motivational speaker. He had gotten a “brood” of guys to flock around him and had become their mentor. He helped them get through the good and the bad days, and his philosophy on seeing life in the most positive way had helped keep many of them out of trouble. He was inspiring and completely committed to his ideas and his motivation to help others – not something we saw very much with our clients.

A couple of months into the job I was helping a client organize his life situation, and I needed to make copies of his IDs. He was rather ADHD, so when he didn’t respond to my request I just thought he had spaced out. I asked again, and he leaned forward and asked if he could go to the bathroom. Confused I told him that he could go in a minute, but I needed his IDs first. ....continued in next post

Stories from the District Attorney's Office Part Four

“No no no,” he told me as if it was perfectly obvious, “I have to go to the bathroom IN ORDER to get my IDs.”
I was completely taken aback, so I simply obliged and walked him to the bathroom. A few moments later he resurfaced with his IDs, though I told him to “just hang on to those.” I had no idea what to do so I did the noble thing and passed him off to one of my male coworkers. I had class! I had to go! Needless to say my coworker thanked me profusely the next day.

My last day at parole was not as eventful as some weeks, but it did include the following: One of our clients came in and when I sat him down for his interview he seemed extremely agitated. I managed to get him to start talking, and he finally explained in very rushed and tense tones that “My number one girlfriend told me yesterday that she was pregnant and then my number two girlfriend told me today that she’s pregnant too and I just stole a car and got caught and I need a job in order to pay for my babies and I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”
Needless to say I had some choice things to tell him, but refrained and simply talked him through till he had calmed down a little. But for the future, dearest darling, wrap it up and then narrow it down to just one girl. K? Cool. Oh yeah, and don't steal cars.

There are many, many other stories from the darling DA, but I’m already dragging this through four posts so enough is enough. I learned a lot and saw a lot and will certainly never forget the experience!

Fictional Writing

Somehow I have spent the last three years of college writing papers on everything and in every style but fiction...until now. For the first time in my history at Manhattanville, I received a fictional writing assignment. It was no joking matter. It was for my Law and Literature class, so as you might imagine it had something to do with that subject matter. The requirements were fairly open, save for the fact that we had to include characters from many major works of literature in our completely new and original story. The concoction that I came up with includes the dear old figures of Holmes, Watson, Horace Rumpole (from the Omnibus series) David Copperfield, Inspector Lestrade, Billy Budd, Amelia Nettleship, Nigel Baringham, and other odds and ends thrown in there. When I first began to write I had no idea where the story was going, so the five page limit turned into a 20 page “good ol’ yarn.” Or something like that.
I must admit that it was strange to delve once more into the land of fiction. Ideas and words coming straight from my head, with no limitations on the part of construed prompts or topics, was a little more different than my usual fare of essays. Overall, however, it was an enjoyable experience. I’m taking a couple more literature classes next semester so perhaps this will not be my only jaunt into that other world.

Memory

I think that magic exists. I've found it a couple of times, tucked around the corner of seemingly ordinary ideas, thoughts, and circumstances. I've made magic a couple of times...at least I think so.
Last summer in early August, she was a dancer, I was that musician of sorts. We had spent the majority of the evening wrecking havoc of our own sort on the island I call home for the summertime. Food had been ingested, umbrella's stolen, footballs thrown down store corridors, hijacking boats considered and then abandoned for opera house cafe's where out of tune piano's were played. She thought most of it was a riot, but wasn't satisfied with my ability to charm the funky notes into anything magical, so we went elsewhere. I didn't know what the goal was at first, just followed her into the car and to the island cottage. There was more sneaking, a breaking in of sorts, and we were in a dark room. She told me to close my eyes and suddenly that piano was in front of me. I didn't say anything for the next twenty minutes, just played and played and played. Four months without a real instrument will do that to you.
When I finally looked up she was dancing. It was just me and a piano, an empty room, and her dancing. We were separate in our worlds of creativity, but together they blended and wove to make something entirely new. You can call it what you want.

Small Acts of Kindness

I was sitting at work in the library today when my Italian professor from last semester walked in. She is an adorable little woman who speaks in slightly broken English, loves her students, and is always interested in learning more about the “Americano” way of life. Last semester she would often ask us students to explain certain phrases or words that did not make sense to her. Most often those explanations ended in laughter.

Today before taking her normal place at one of the back computers, Professor Alfeo approached me at the desk and asked me what I wanted to drink. I looked at her quizzically and she told me that she wanted to buy me a drink. I asked for a hot chocolate, though I was still unsure what she was up to. She smiled and went off, and a few moments returned with the hot beverage, along with a Snapple for my coworker.

“See I remember you like Snapple,” she told him.

“Thanks so much but…why?” I said to her.

“It is because I taka yoga classes,” she said with a grin, “and they teaches us to do these acts of small kindnesses. So this is my smallest kindness for the day….plus I just like you.”

Ken and I laughed delightedly and she smiled even bigger and went on her way. In retrospect, although out of the ordinary, what she did was really quite wonderful. It was simple and easy and made us both happy. Small acts of kindness, as a theory, should be something that I subscribe to more often. Next time she comes in I’m going to return the favor!

I Smell Spring

I know when the first moments of spring hit our campus. It is when I wake up early in the morning because there is a certain smell creeping in under the window that doesn’t close all the way. It is because when I wake the birds are making sounds that they only make at that time of year. They are happy birds.
And I definitely know when spring hits our campus because all of a sudden, in the course of one day, the quad is lined and littered with people. Blankets are spread out, balls are kicked around, Frisbees make war paths across the paths of pedestrians, and as the days grow on towards May, less and less clothing is worn.
Crossing the quad during that time becomes a social obligation. It is like navigating a busy party where clusters of your friends are around every corner. People are more aware of what they are wearing as they go to class, since now the animals are not the only spectators of the outdoors.
I am not complaining, though. I love those days just as much as the next eager mville student. When all the trees are budding around the parameter of the walkways, people smile more. That’s just a fact. I guess, really, spring on our campus helps us remember why we liked it in the first place.

Boston v. New York

The thing about Boston is, it’s all very intimate. I know what you’re thinking: how can a huge, bustling, always constructing and building city be intimate? Just look at all the one way streets which have you so tangled that by the time you find out where you actually are you’ve lost yourself somewhere along the way. How can that be intimate? Well it is.

I was there the other day and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. I was standing on the subway, then I was standing waiting for the bus, then I was sitting on the bus, and the whole time I was uneasy. The snow was falling and the light was dim and there were people around. That is not unlike New York. The standing and the busses and the subways and the sitting are not unlike New York. My mood was not unlike New York. Being in an unfamiliar place was not unlike New York.
Then I noticed it. Everywhere people were watching, looking, noticing, glancing, talking TO me, not around me.
That is not New York.
Mostly no one notices in New York. You can go days surrounded by nine million people and never be noticed. You don’t ever quite catch someone’s eye. You might be sitting, standing, walking, running, subway, bus, apartment, but no one is quite looking your way. Sometimes you think you’ve gotten half an eye, but you’re the one who looks away first.
In Boston my hand slipped on the subway between Park Street and Harvard Square, and the girl next to me turned, checked my hand position, and asked me if I was all right.
I told her I was fine, then spent the next three stops trying to figure out why and what she had meant. In New York touch means you shift your position to look through their position a little differently so that you don’t touch anymore.
In Boston you touch. You look. You are noticed. You make full eye contact.
This makes me uneasy. This is intimacy that I’m not sure I care to take advantage of. It is not unpleasant and threatening. It is just there.
In fake New York people live alone.
In Boston they are intimate.
At least they were that one time.

Poetry Time

Okay, so, I haven't written poety in years, and then a few friends coherced me into trying my hand again. The basis for the following piece is a conversation between myself and my friend Max. He told me a story about an ex of his who started as a fuck buddy and then became a girlfriend. Not long after the official title had been added, however, they found that what they had built their relationship on (aka really great sex) was nothing more than a sand foundation that was slowly crumbling. Things didn't work out, and Max asked the question "what is left when really great sex isn't enough, or when that physicality is what you've built everything on?" I was assigned the task of writing out those feelings, so this is what you get.

After Sex

I think,
I do not know for sure,
but I think it possible
that stark and sterile are the
new thing.

Before, we grabbed the hem of the sky,
Purple-blue and pink horizons touched together,
we touched, flashing neon arrows in our minds
splashed bright spots to our backdrop,
I dropped, and gasped, and smiled, and lived.

Over and again,
cliff jumping, sky-diving,
belay me up beside you,
virtual rungs of sexual existence going up and up and up,
but then…what happens when we belay to the top?

The surroundings are an open eye, up there,
staring us down in unblinking determination,
stripping away our understanding
of the mural world around us,
a panoramic view that we no longer know.

An elephant is there with us
named namely for its size
its prowess of grey skin
shaped around the insecurities
of our seemingly emotional lack.

I never imagined that
once you’ve fucked your way to the top,
the elephant will be there to join you,
intent on staying until you find a different circus
for its existence.

Sex, it consumed us,
point and check for the rewards
that had illuminated our meaning,
a hallelujah chorus striking symbols
that have now turned to muted silence.

The elephant has replaced
that purple-blue haze,
neon signs glow dimly with sparks spitting
out the remnants of what we’d built
our relationship on.

Stark is the contrast
between now and then,
Sterile is the taste, and the smell,
and the emotion, the six senses shutting out
the used-to-bes and the what ifs of “us.”

If we stare that elephant down
will it disappear?
Or will we?
Will it end?
Will we will it to end?

A circus comes through and we must decide,
We bring the elephant and join!
No…we leave the elephant and join!
No…I’ll go and you’ll stay with him,
Perhaps we’ll have weekend visits.

…perhaps not.

Saying said...or not

When I took Journalism, my professor stressed the fact that when quoting an interview source, they only said things. They never explained, commented, preached, noted, screamed, or whispered. She believed that adding other descriptions to the answer took away from the quote. Other journalists and writers believe in that same sort of writing style.
Before that class I was used to writing only creative dialogues, so the change from descriptive words to the simple “said” was a little rough. Since then I have gotten used to it, but personally I think that only using “said” is not necessarily the only way to write a journalism piece.
Below I wrote a short dialogue, first using just “said”, and second with more descriptive words. “I think this is going to be one of the most innovative parties we’ve ever seen,” said Katrina Gnatek, 19.
Meghan Roth, 21 said, “It’s going to be different. Look at our DJs. They’re different. I’m really excited.”
Here is the second with some added flavor.
“I think this is going to be one of the most innovative parties we’ve ever seen,” yelled Katrina Gnatek, 19, before she charged into the bouncing bodies of gathered dancers.
Meghan Roth, a senior who has attended many pub parties in the last four years, nodded her head in agreement. “It’s going to be different. Look at our DJs. They’re different. I’m really excited.”
As you can see, the two different versions both say the same thing, but one is a little more interesting than the other. I think the journalist should ask themselves what they are trying to portray with their piece. If they are looking for something extremely professional and hard news, they should stick with the “said”. If not, add a little spice…I don’t think it ever hurt anyone.

Grammar and Rules and Such

I grew up in a household where grammar was not “taught.” My father, a high school English teacher and published author, strongly believed that knowing the rules of grammar did little to enable a writer to be a “good writer.” Instead, he often preached, anyone who wanted to know what constituted a well constructed sentence should simply pick up a book and read. The more a person read, he said, the more they would understand grammar. I never took a grammar class. I never learned the technical definitions of verbs, adverbs, infinitive phrases, or propositions. I just read a whole lot. Over time I picked up many of the rules from hearing people speak of them, and playing the somewhat awkward ice-breakers in class that always involved some definition or use of a grammar rule. On those occasions I listened carefully and made similar judgments to those around me.
Other than that I have never found my lack of grammararian rules to be a problem. I did quite well on both the SATs and the LSATs in the reading the writing comprehension sections. I seem to do fine writing papers. If you tell me that my grammar is wrong (who knows there might even be improper grammar in this piece) I will fix it according to how I think it should sound, not according to the rules surrounding the structure of the sentence.
From my experience, not knowing the rules of grammar does not mean that the individual will not be able to write well. If I did not know the rules and had never read much, then I might have a problem. I guess that in order to be a good writer there should be a balance of good reading, and some introduction to the rules of grammar.

“Good writing is good reading.”
What makes writing “good writing?” Everyone has a different style, a different preference for how they read and what they like to read. Is good writing subjective? If so does that also make good reading subjective?
There is, I think, a line that anyone with any sort of experience in reading or writing will notice. The use of words is an art form. Some do it better than others. I read something and say it is good writing, or I read something and say it is bad writing. My opinion is subjective, but will most likely be recognized by others. I do not find J.K. Rowling to be a terribly good writer, yet her books are enjoyable to read. They are, in a sense, “good reading.” How, then, can mediocre writing be followed by good reading? Or when someone says good writing is good reading do they automatically designate a certain type of writing with their definition of good reading? Maybe “good reading” is not the same as “enjoyable reading.”
For me, good writing does constitute good reading. When the art of the written word is done well, the content and message are free to reach out and grasp the reader without first tripping over awkward sentence structure and boring word choice. J.K, Rowling’s content has to make great strides to make up for the lack-luster writing, whereas Dave Eggers paints his memories on the page on the same level as he paints the words used to describe those memories.
In the long run I guess a certain group of people are bound to have one type of subjectivity associated with that phrase, though for others it could mean something entirely different.

There seems to be a stereotype attached to homeschoolers. They are introverts, have trouble relating to peers, and are usually of some Christian or religious denomination. Maybe they even wear overalls.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3x3O0WrwsFU
I was homeschooled. I have been told that I defy that stereotype.
My parents are religious, though their reasons for homeschooling myself and my four sisters were more for geographic reasons than religious ones. Needless to say, my schooling was less than conventional. By the time I reached high school I basically taught myself what I wanted to know. Early on I decided that I was college bound, and created a program of study for myself that matched that of "normal" high school students.
I was, however, involved in the local high school for the majority of those four years. I was friends with many of the class of 2006, and because I was a violinist I was recruited to play first violin in the pit orchestra of all the high school musicals. My senior year I was actually enrolled as a full-time student at Kennebunk High School.
I entered college as a music major, but by second semester of my Freshman year I wanted to try other things. I quickly found that I loved Law. It was like performing, except instead of an instrument I played my voice.
By the beginning of Sophomore year I quickly rolled off the phrase “I’m a Communications Major with a double minor in Music and Legal Studies. I’ll be going to law school when I graduate to pursue entertainment law.”
This course is for my major, though I also love to write. Words, writing, and the media are such a huge part of law, that I believe this course will be hugely helpful in all my areas of interest!