"I'm an eye. A mechanical eye. I, the machine, show you a world the way only I can see it. I free myself for today and forever from human immobility. I'm in constant movement. I approach and pull away from objects. I creep under them. I move alongside a running horse's mouth. I fall and rise with the falling and rising bodies. This is I, the machine, manoeuvring in the chaotic movements, recording one movement after another in the most complex combinations.Freed from the boundaries of time and space. I co-ordinate any and all points of the universe, wherever I want them to be. My way leads towards the creation of a fresh perception of the world. Thus I explain in a new way the world unknown to you." - Dziga Vertov, 1932
This past Sunday I accompanied my boyfriend to see Michael Moore's new film, Sicko, a "documentary" on the shortcomings of the American health care system. Before going to the theatre, I had already braced myself to see a signature Michael Moore film: extreme leftist views, wry humor, drama and partial facts that serve his purpose only (they're not meant solely to inform, but to gain the viewers support of his cause).
While he was extremely accurate in his portrayal of how the American health care system differs with foreign ones (French, Cuban, Canadian and British) financially - health care has been nationalized, and is therefore free - he failed to show the quality of care that people in these countries have. As Americans, we may be paying up the ass for health care, but we're paying for convenience, efficiency, and quality.
What really upset me was that he did not document one of the most important subjects in this issue: American doctors. There's this idea in this country that doctors rip people off and make tons of money. While doctors do tend to make larger salaries than much of the American population, some doctors just make enough to live comfortably. My dad is one of these doctors.
When my mother died, my father suddenly became a single parent to a 16-year-old, and a 7-year-old. Knowing that children of these ages should not be left alone at home all evening after school, my dad cut his work hours dramatically, eventually to the point of not accepting new patients. This resulted in a much lower salary. When I started college, my father - for the first time in his life - had to start living paycheck to paycheck in order to pay for my schooling (and to save for my brother's).
The field of medicine is not what it used to be either. My dad can remember a time where people didn't sue for every little thing, and when insurance companies didn't charge so much; it's becoming almost impossible to be a doctor these days. Though my dad is still very much interested in what he does, and gets great satisfaction from helping people, he no longer loves it, and lives for the day that he's able to retire.
He's recently told me that when he retires, he plans on joining Doctors Without Borders. He's always been interested in travelling to other countries (something that he's been unable to do with the crazy schedule he works), but his main reason for going is the people he hopes to help . "People like that actually appreciate the care they're given. Americans just aren't like that," he said me, "in this country, we feel entitled to everything and take things for granted."
I agree that there needs to be some sort of change in how our health care system is run, and I also agree that everyone should be able to receive health care no matter what their economic background. Unfortunately, the American health care system - much like America itself - is run as a business and only stands to benefit the upper tier of society.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
I know that the majority of this entry is not written by me, and the theme is a little morose, but it's such a great bit of poignant dramatic writing that I just had to share...
One of the best plays (if not the best) that I have ever seen in my life is "The Pillowman" by Martin McDonagh. I won't give away the plot here, but the title refers to a story told by the protagonist of the play. Here is that story:
Katurian: Once upon a time...there was a man, who did not look like normal men. He was about nine feet tall...And he was all made up of these fluffy pink pillows: his arms were pillows and his legs were pillows and his body was a pillow; his fingers were tiny little pillows, even his head was a pillow, a big round pillow...And on his head he had two button eyes and a big smiley mouth which was always smiling, so you could always see his teeth, which were also pillows. Little white pillows...Well, the Pillowman had to look like this, he had to look soft and safe, because of his job, because his job was a very sad and a very difficult one...Whenever a man or a lady was very very sad because they'd had a dreadful and hard life and they just wanted to end it all, they just wanted to take their own lives and take all the pain away, well, just as they were about to do it, by razor, or by bullet, or by gas...By whatever preferred method of suicide - 'preferred' is probably the wrong word, but anyway, just as that person was about to do it, the Pillowman would go to them, and sit with them, and gently hold them, and he'd say, 'Hold on a minute,' and time would slow strangely, and as time slowed, the Pillowman would go back in time to when that man or that lady was just a little boy or a little girl, to when the life of horror they were to lead hadn't quite yet begun, and the Pillowman's job was very very sad, because the Pillowman's job was to get that child to kill themselves, and so avoid the years of pain that would just end up in the same place for them anyway: facing an over, facing a shotgun, facing a lake. 'But I've never heard of a small child killing themselves,' you might say. Well, the Pillowman would always suggest they do it in a way that would just look like a tragic accident: he's show them the bottle of pills that looked just like sweeties; he'd show them the place on the river where the ice was too thin; he'd show them the parked cars that it was really dangerous for them to dart out in between; he'd show them the plastic bag with no breathing holes, and exactly how to tighten it. Because mommies and daddies always find it easier to come to terms with a five-year-old lost in a tragic accident than they do with a five-year-old who has seen how shitty life is and taken action to avoid it. Now, not all the children would go along with the Pillowman. There was one little girl, a happy little thing, who just wouldn't believe the Pillowman when he told her that life could be awful and her life would be, and she sent him away, and he went away crying, crying big gloopy tears that made puddles this big, and the next night there was another knock on her bedroom door, and she said, 'Go away, Pillowman. I've told you, I'm happy. I've always been happy and I'll always be happy.' But it wasn't the Pillowman. It was another man. And her mommy wasn't home, and this man would visit her every time her mommy wasn't home, and she soon became very very sad, and as she sat in front of the oven when she was twenty-one she said to the Pillowman, 'Why didn't you try to convince me?' And the Pillowman said, 'I tried to convince you, but you were just too happy.' And as she turned on the gas as high as it would go she said, 'But I've never been happy. I've never been happy...' Well... the end of the Pillowman...See, when the Pillowman was successful in his work, a little child would die horrifically. And when the Pillowman was unsuccessful, a little child would have a horrific life, grow into an adult who'd also have a horrific life, and then die horrifically. So, the Pillowman, as big as he was and as fluffy as he was, he'd just go around crying all day long, his house'd be just puddles everywhere, so he decided to do just one final job and that'd be it. So he went to this place beside this pretty stream that he remembered from a time before...And he brought a little can of petrol with him, and there was this old weeping willow tree there, and he went under it and he sat and he waited there a while, and there were all these little toys under there...Anyway, there was a little caravan nearby, and the Pillowman heard the door open and little footsteps comeout, and he heard a boy's voice say, 'I'm just going out to play, Mom,' and the Mom said, 'Well, don't be late for your tea, son.' 'I won't be, Mom.' And the Pillowman heard the little footsteps get closer and the branches of the willow tree parted and it wasn't a little boy at all, it was a little Pillowboy. And the Pillowboy said, 'Hello,' to the Pillowman, and the Pillowman said, 'Hello,' to the Pillowboy, and they both played with the toys for a while...and the Pillowman told him all about his sad job and the dead kids and all of that type of stuff, and the little Pillowboy understood instantly 'cos he was such a happy little fella and all he ever wanted to do was to be able to help people, and he poured the can of petrol all over himself and his smiley mouth was still smiling, and the Pillowman through his gloopy tears, said, 'Thank you,' to the Pillowboy, and the Pillowboy said, 'That's alright. Will you tell my mommy I won't be having my tea tonight.' and the Pillowman said, 'Yes, I will,' lying, and the Pillowboy struck a match,and the Pillowman sat there watching him burn, and as the Pillowman gently started to fade away, the last thing he saw was the Pillowboy's happy smiley mouth as it slowly melted away, sinking into nothingness. The last thing he heard was the screams of the hundred thousand children he'd helped to commit suicide coming back to life and going on to lead the cold, wretched lives that were destined to them because he hadn't been around to prevent them, right up to the screams of their sad self-inflicted deaths,which this time, of course, would be conducted entirely alone.
One of the best plays (if not the best) that I have ever seen in my life is "The Pillowman" by Martin McDonagh. I won't give away the plot here, but the title refers to a story told by the protagonist of the play. Here is that story:
Katurian: Once upon a time...there was a man, who did not look like normal men. He was about nine feet tall...And he was all made up of these fluffy pink pillows: his arms were pillows and his legs were pillows and his body was a pillow; his fingers were tiny little pillows, even his head was a pillow, a big round pillow...And on his head he had two button eyes and a big smiley mouth which was always smiling, so you could always see his teeth, which were also pillows. Little white pillows...Well, the Pillowman had to look like this, he had to look soft and safe, because of his job, because his job was a very sad and a very difficult one...Whenever a man or a lady was very very sad because they'd had a dreadful and hard life and they just wanted to end it all, they just wanted to take their own lives and take all the pain away, well, just as they were about to do it, by razor, or by bullet, or by gas...By whatever preferred method of suicide - 'preferred' is probably the wrong word, but anyway, just as that person was about to do it, the Pillowman would go to them, and sit with them, and gently hold them, and he'd say, 'Hold on a minute,' and time would slow strangely, and as time slowed, the Pillowman would go back in time to when that man or that lady was just a little boy or a little girl, to when the life of horror they were to lead hadn't quite yet begun, and the Pillowman's job was very very sad, because the Pillowman's job was to get that child to kill themselves, and so avoid the years of pain that would just end up in the same place for them anyway: facing an over, facing a shotgun, facing a lake. 'But I've never heard of a small child killing themselves,' you might say. Well, the Pillowman would always suggest they do it in a way that would just look like a tragic accident: he's show them the bottle of pills that looked just like sweeties; he'd show them the place on the river where the ice was too thin; he'd show them the parked cars that it was really dangerous for them to dart out in between; he'd show them the plastic bag with no breathing holes, and exactly how to tighten it. Because mommies and daddies always find it easier to come to terms with a five-year-old lost in a tragic accident than they do with a five-year-old who has seen how shitty life is and taken action to avoid it. Now, not all the children would go along with the Pillowman. There was one little girl, a happy little thing, who just wouldn't believe the Pillowman when he told her that life could be awful and her life would be, and she sent him away, and he went away crying, crying big gloopy tears that made puddles this big, and the next night there was another knock on her bedroom door, and she said, 'Go away, Pillowman. I've told you, I'm happy. I've always been happy and I'll always be happy.' But it wasn't the Pillowman. It was another man. And her mommy wasn't home, and this man would visit her every time her mommy wasn't home, and she soon became very very sad, and as she sat in front of the oven when she was twenty-one she said to the Pillowman, 'Why didn't you try to convince me?' And the Pillowman said, 'I tried to convince you, but you were just too happy.' And as she turned on the gas as high as it would go she said, 'But I've never been happy. I've never been happy...' Well... the end of the Pillowman...See, when the Pillowman was successful in his work, a little child would die horrifically. And when the Pillowman was unsuccessful, a little child would have a horrific life, grow into an adult who'd also have a horrific life, and then die horrifically. So, the Pillowman, as big as he was and as fluffy as he was, he'd just go around crying all day long, his house'd be just puddles everywhere, so he decided to do just one final job and that'd be it. So he went to this place beside this pretty stream that he remembered from a time before...And he brought a little can of petrol with him, and there was this old weeping willow tree there, and he went under it and he sat and he waited there a while, and there were all these little toys under there...Anyway, there was a little caravan nearby, and the Pillowman heard the door open and little footsteps comeout, and he heard a boy's voice say, 'I'm just going out to play, Mom,' and the Mom said, 'Well, don't be late for your tea, son.' 'I won't be, Mom.' And the Pillowman heard the little footsteps get closer and the branches of the willow tree parted and it wasn't a little boy at all, it was a little Pillowboy. And the Pillowboy said, 'Hello,' to the Pillowman, and the Pillowman said, 'Hello,' to the Pillowboy, and they both played with the toys for a while...and the Pillowman told him all about his sad job and the dead kids and all of that type of stuff, and the little Pillowboy understood instantly 'cos he was such a happy little fella and all he ever wanted to do was to be able to help people, and he poured the can of petrol all over himself and his smiley mouth was still smiling, and the Pillowman through his gloopy tears, said, 'Thank you,' to the Pillowboy, and the Pillowboy said, 'That's alright. Will you tell my mommy I won't be having my tea tonight.' and the Pillowman said, 'Yes, I will,' lying, and the Pillowboy struck a match,and the Pillowman sat there watching him burn, and as the Pillowman gently started to fade away, the last thing he saw was the Pillowboy's happy smiley mouth as it slowly melted away, sinking into nothingness. The last thing he heard was the screams of the hundred thousand children he'd helped to commit suicide coming back to life and going on to lead the cold, wretched lives that were destined to them because he hadn't been around to prevent them, right up to the screams of their sad self-inflicted deaths,which this time, of course, would be conducted entirely alone.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
On Fame
"What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little." - Lord Byron
I blame my friends. I blame my family. And most of all, I blame my boyfriend for my recent brush with "fame," or rather, for not preventing it. The names of the people involved have been omitted to protect me from humiliation.
A couple of months ago, I went to the city with a bunch of girlfriends to go to a comedy club that we frequent on weekends. We'd seen and met dozens of celebrities and famous comedians while hanging out here; we went there so much, in fact, that one of the regular performers - an old wash-up riding on his glory days at SNL - remembered all of us by name each time he saw us there.
On this particular night, the wash-up was scheduled to perform, along with several unknowns, and one semi-famous comedian who'd had a successful show on Comedy Central for several years. The semi-famous comedian brought the house down with his raunchy sex jokes, the ability to off-handedly shame any audience member who dared to heckle him, and his scathing commentary on recent events (example: he was performing the week that Don Imus was fired; his comment to Imus: "Just because you look like Thomas Jefferson, doesn't mean that you're allowed to talk like him). He was definitely the audience favorite of the night, and I have to admit, I too was a fan. Back when I first started college, I remember watching his television show late at night with friends.
After the show let out, my friends and I went to the bar next door to get drinks and hang out for a while. While waiting to get the bartender's attention, I noticed a figure sidle up next to me. When I looked in that direction, I saw that it was the semi-famous comedian.
He then commenced to speak to me; names were exchanged (even though I already knew his name), and such information as where I'm from, and "what I do."
As the time neared 1AM, I told him I had to go to catch the next train home (why on earth does the metro north close at 2am on weekends??). He then asked me, "would it be out of line if I asked for your number?"
Maybe it was the fact that I'd been drinking. Maybe I just wanted to impress my friends. Either way, beyond my better judgement, I gave him my phone number.
Over the next few weeks, I recieved many relentless phone calls, begging me to come to the city, to hang out, to get drinks, etc. After consulting my boyfriend, and actually being given permission by him to hang out with this guy, I returned his most recent phone call and set up a date.
We met at a park in midtown in the afternoon. He was hungover (this is part of his persona as a comedian). We got some grapefruit juice, sat down, and proceded to talk for about 2 hours.
I learned about his low self-esteem (no matter what people say, he doesn't think he's a good comedian), his strange family (including his brother's mail-order bride), and the reason why he's not married (the alcohol had something to do with it). The whole experience was really strange and surreal. It was like hanging out with a drunk, creepy uncle who'd hit on me from time to time. It was very unsettling.
The one thing that really struck me about this meeting was the fact that he kept getting recognized. People would just come up to him and start talking to him (even though he was clearly busy) like they knew him. And as I sat there, not one of them even looked at me. To them I was a nobody. It was really strange to be completly ignored like that. I just didn't exist to anyone.
And then I wondered what it was like for him. To have people you've never seen before call you by your name. How weird it must be to have someone talk to you like they know you. How does one respond to something like that?
He greeted these people nicely, and then not so subtlely hinted to them that it was now time for them to step away.
I never saw him again after that. He'd been busy in the next couple of months following our "date," filming a special for HBO, and touring. I'd get the occasional e-mail from him. My friends saw him about 2 weeks ago at the very bar that I'd met him at. He came up to them, I guess recognized them, and proceded to ask them questions about me. Even though I was pretty creeped out by the whole experience, I was pretty flattered that I had had an effect on this person's life. Even though he meets tons of people everyday, I'm the one he remembers.
I blame my friends. I blame my family. And most of all, I blame my boyfriend for my recent brush with "fame," or rather, for not preventing it. The names of the people involved have been omitted to protect me from humiliation.
A couple of months ago, I went to the city with a bunch of girlfriends to go to a comedy club that we frequent on weekends. We'd seen and met dozens of celebrities and famous comedians while hanging out here; we went there so much, in fact, that one of the regular performers - an old wash-up riding on his glory days at SNL - remembered all of us by name each time he saw us there.
On this particular night, the wash-up was scheduled to perform, along with several unknowns, and one semi-famous comedian who'd had a successful show on Comedy Central for several years. The semi-famous comedian brought the house down with his raunchy sex jokes, the ability to off-handedly shame any audience member who dared to heckle him, and his scathing commentary on recent events (example: he was performing the week that Don Imus was fired; his comment to Imus: "Just because you look like Thomas Jefferson, doesn't mean that you're allowed to talk like him). He was definitely the audience favorite of the night, and I have to admit, I too was a fan. Back when I first started college, I remember watching his television show late at night with friends.
After the show let out, my friends and I went to the bar next door to get drinks and hang out for a while. While waiting to get the bartender's attention, I noticed a figure sidle up next to me. When I looked in that direction, I saw that it was the semi-famous comedian.
He then commenced to speak to me; names were exchanged (even though I already knew his name), and such information as where I'm from, and "what I do."
As the time neared 1AM, I told him I had to go to catch the next train home (why on earth does the metro north close at 2am on weekends??). He then asked me, "would it be out of line if I asked for your number?"
Maybe it was the fact that I'd been drinking. Maybe I just wanted to impress my friends. Either way, beyond my better judgement, I gave him my phone number.
Over the next few weeks, I recieved many relentless phone calls, begging me to come to the city, to hang out, to get drinks, etc. After consulting my boyfriend, and actually being given permission by him to hang out with this guy, I returned his most recent phone call and set up a date.
We met at a park in midtown in the afternoon. He was hungover (this is part of his persona as a comedian). We got some grapefruit juice, sat down, and proceded to talk for about 2 hours.
I learned about his low self-esteem (no matter what people say, he doesn't think he's a good comedian), his strange family (including his brother's mail-order bride), and the reason why he's not married (the alcohol had something to do with it). The whole experience was really strange and surreal. It was like hanging out with a drunk, creepy uncle who'd hit on me from time to time. It was very unsettling.
The one thing that really struck me about this meeting was the fact that he kept getting recognized. People would just come up to him and start talking to him (even though he was clearly busy) like they knew him. And as I sat there, not one of them even looked at me. To them I was a nobody. It was really strange to be completly ignored like that. I just didn't exist to anyone.
And then I wondered what it was like for him. To have people you've never seen before call you by your name. How weird it must be to have someone talk to you like they know you. How does one respond to something like that?
He greeted these people nicely, and then not so subtlely hinted to them that it was now time for them to step away.
I never saw him again after that. He'd been busy in the next couple of months following our "date," filming a special for HBO, and touring. I'd get the occasional e-mail from him. My friends saw him about 2 weeks ago at the very bar that I'd met him at. He came up to them, I guess recognized them, and proceded to ask them questions about me. Even though I was pretty creeped out by the whole experience, I was pretty flattered that I had had an effect on this person's life. Even though he meets tons of people everyday, I'm the one he remembers.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Journalism and the Issue of Objectivity
"The corporate grip on opinion in the United States is one of the wonders of the western world. No First World country has ever managed to eliminate so entirely from its media all objectivity..." - Gore Vidal
Whether or not it is clear to most people, America - just like any journalistic publication - is run as a business. When reading any sort of recent journalistic publication (or even watching the news on TV), it is not difficult to see that there is an agenda behind it, and the nature of that agenda is not neccessarily just to inform an audience. Truth no longer seems to be the ultimate goal of journalism in this country, but rather gaining a readership, swaying the opinions of the masses, etc. Apparently, objectivity and truth aren't entertaining enough to the American public; that's not what sells.
This past week, I looked at two different news sources from two different countries: CNN.com and BBC.com. Without even reading the stories, I noticed immediate differences in the same stories being covered (7/4/07):
"6 Canadian soldiers slain in Afghanistan (US)" vs. "Afghan bomb kills 6 Canadians (UK)"
"Missing lake was swallowed by crack (US)" vs. "Warming 'made lake vanish' (UK)"
...and so on.
The US news source dictates the facts to give emotional leverage, which in turn sways the audience's opinions and increases circulation (or the amount of "hits" on its website). Words like "slain" give emotional appeal to a headline; and if "global warming" wasn't an already benign enough term to describe what's happening to our fragile planet, how about denying it all together (a "CRACK?!")? And this is supposedly a more liberal and objective news source in this country.
But it's so easy to point fingers. Sometimes it seems like the liberals aren't any better than the conservatives.
Whether or not it is clear to most people, America - just like any journalistic publication - is run as a business. When reading any sort of recent journalistic publication (or even watching the news on TV), it is not difficult to see that there is an agenda behind it, and the nature of that agenda is not neccessarily just to inform an audience. Truth no longer seems to be the ultimate goal of journalism in this country, but rather gaining a readership, swaying the opinions of the masses, etc. Apparently, objectivity and truth aren't entertaining enough to the American public; that's not what sells.
This past week, I looked at two different news sources from two different countries: CNN.com and BBC.com. Without even reading the stories, I noticed immediate differences in the same stories being covered (7/4/07):
"6 Canadian soldiers slain in Afghanistan (US)" vs. "Afghan bomb kills 6 Canadians (UK)"
"Missing lake was swallowed by crack (US)" vs. "Warming 'made lake vanish' (UK)"
...and so on.
The US news source dictates the facts to give emotional leverage, which in turn sways the audience's opinions and increases circulation (or the amount of "hits" on its website). Words like "slain" give emotional appeal to a headline; and if "global warming" wasn't an already benign enough term to describe what's happening to our fragile planet, how about denying it all together (a "CRACK?!")? And this is supposedly a more liberal and objective news source in this country.
But it's so easy to point fingers. Sometimes it seems like the liberals aren't any better than the conservatives.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Blog #1 - How I Spent My Summer Vacation....in School
Starting from the moment that I could make any objections (probably around 18 months old), my father has repeatedly told me, "Erin, there are always going to be things in life that you don't want to do, but you just have to do them." And so it is with this statement in mind that I've come to take Writing for the Media - a requirement for graduating communications majors at Manhattanville College.
My academic background can be describe in one word: non-linear.
I started college back in September 2001 (yes, that September) at Massachusetts College of Art in Boston, MA. I was a declared sculpture major with dreams of doing special effects makeup and prosthetics for film and television; my goal since the age of 5 was to work for Jim Henson Productions/Creature Shop. Unfortunately, art school was not at all what I had anticipated it to be. Expecting to do mostly figure sculpture and casting moulds, I was forced into compromising my work to fit into the "art world" - which at the time (and still today) is mostly interested in conceptual work (a real example from one of the students in my class: taking a dump in a paper bag, covering it in honey, and telling the class a story of how it relates to her childhood).
Additionally, as I became more involved in my field, it started to become apparent to me that the FX makeup industry was becoming more and more obsolete, as computer animation/CGI became more advanced.
After having to re-evaluate my entire education (and my dreams), I decided to go into film; but while I was interested in the production aspect, I was more interested in the analysis and criticism of film. This meant that I was not only at the wrong school, but also in the wrong part of the country. Surprisingly, instead of telling me to just "stick it out," my father said, "maybe you should consider transferring."
I don't really know how I found Manhattanville College. I just know that I was accepted, offered a scholarship (beyond all reason), it was close to NYC, and they offered film courses. I think it was the fact that they had a castle on campus that really swayed my decision. That, and I was told that I didn't have to take any classes involving math. Nonetheless, I embarked on a new phase in my life, which included living on a real campus and writing papers for the first time since high school. It was a bit of a culture and academic shock for me, so I decided to take some time off ("some time" turned out to be a year-and-a-half). I re-enrolled in 2005, and haven't looked back.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Upon graduating, I don't plan on working - at least not right away. For the past twenty-five years, I've lived a very comfortable and privileged existance, and while I fully appreciate every opportunity that I've been given in life, I feel very compelled (almost guiltily so) to give back. That's why I plan on working/volunteering in Africa for AIDS/HIV-related issues (either in Kenya, Sudan, Ethiopia, South Africa, or Ghana) right after I graduate. I have plenty of time in my life to work in America and earn money and support myself, but I anticipate the intrinsic value coupled with the experience of helping people (who really appreciate it and need it) far outweighs the former.
So here I am now, with 25+ research and term papers under my belt, taking the required Writing for the Media (during summer vacation, no less) so that I can graduate. Though I'm not exactly thrilled with it, I know it is something that will help me as a writer, and will eventually help me when I embark on a definite career path (I've been told in every communications class I've ever had that potential employers greatly value writing skills). I know that I'll work hard, but I can't say that I won't call my dad and complain a bit.
My academic background can be describe in one word: non-linear.
I started college back in September 2001 (yes, that September) at Massachusetts College of Art in Boston, MA. I was a declared sculpture major with dreams of doing special effects makeup and prosthetics for film and television; my goal since the age of 5 was to work for Jim Henson Productions/Creature Shop. Unfortunately, art school was not at all what I had anticipated it to be. Expecting to do mostly figure sculpture and casting moulds, I was forced into compromising my work to fit into the "art world" - which at the time (and still today) is mostly interested in conceptual work (a real example from one of the students in my class: taking a dump in a paper bag, covering it in honey, and telling the class a story of how it relates to her childhood).
Additionally, as I became more involved in my field, it started to become apparent to me that the FX makeup industry was becoming more and more obsolete, as computer animation/CGI became more advanced.
After having to re-evaluate my entire education (and my dreams), I decided to go into film; but while I was interested in the production aspect, I was more interested in the analysis and criticism of film. This meant that I was not only at the wrong school, but also in the wrong part of the country. Surprisingly, instead of telling me to just "stick it out," my father said, "maybe you should consider transferring."
I don't really know how I found Manhattanville College. I just know that I was accepted, offered a scholarship (beyond all reason), it was close to NYC, and they offered film courses. I think it was the fact that they had a castle on campus that really swayed my decision. That, and I was told that I didn't have to take any classes involving math. Nonetheless, I embarked on a new phase in my life, which included living on a real campus and writing papers for the first time since high school. It was a bit of a culture and academic shock for me, so I decided to take some time off ("some time" turned out to be a year-and-a-half). I re-enrolled in 2005, and haven't looked back.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Upon graduating, I don't plan on working - at least not right away. For the past twenty-five years, I've lived a very comfortable and privileged existance, and while I fully appreciate every opportunity that I've been given in life, I feel very compelled (almost guiltily so) to give back. That's why I plan on working/volunteering in Africa for AIDS/HIV-related issues (either in Kenya, Sudan, Ethiopia, South Africa, or Ghana) right after I graduate. I have plenty of time in my life to work in America and earn money and support myself, but I anticipate the intrinsic value coupled with the experience of helping people (who really appreciate it and need it) far outweighs the former.
So here I am now, with 25+ research and term papers under my belt, taking the required Writing for the Media (during summer vacation, no less) so that I can graduate. Though I'm not exactly thrilled with it, I know it is something that will help me as a writer, and will eventually help me when I embark on a definite career path (I've been told in every communications class I've ever had that potential employers greatly value writing skills). I know that I'll work hard, but I can't say that I won't call my dad and complain a bit.
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