Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Toys

Toys are still very gendered. While I believe that we have made some improvements in gendered toys, making a trip down the toy isle in Wal-Mart will show you that we have not done a lot to change the fact that toys are gendered.
            One can find that toys are gendered by just taking a look down the isles of Wal-Mart and finding that “guy” toys and “girl” toys are separated by differing isles. On one isle a person can find racecars and action figures. Down another isle, one can find dolls and kitchen toys. The isles also have differences in colors. One isle will have more “masculine” colors, like blue, and another will have more “feminine” colors, such as pink. I believe walking down the “girls” isle; I did not see one thing that did not have the color pink on it. Wal-Mart even separated the Legos. One isle would have car and knight Legos, while the other would have Legos in pink boxes that were used to make houses or kitchens. There was an obvious gender divide created by Wal-Mart in the toy isle.

            

In Wal-Mart I did see one thing that caught my eye, and that was a doll for guys. While it was something I had never seen before, it made me wonder what makes it a doll for guys? Is it because it is a male doll or the fact that the case is not pink? It was an attempt to make a non-gendered toy, but by making it a doll for boys, the manufacturer ended up gendering the doll. Why could a girl not play with this doll? Better yet, why can boys not play with the other doll? 

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

What Is Your Mindset?

I believe we are tools that shape younger generations and the world that they will be living in. As a future educator, I want to believe that I am more than a guy who is controlled by the tools around him. Do not get me wrong, technology is an amazing thing that will further the ability for teachers to do their jobs well – but at the end of the day a teacher must have a personal connection with students to be able to make a real impact in a students lives. There are not many machines that have the ability to connect with students in a way that will have an impact in their lives.
            I also believe that people choose to be a “tool” or a “tool user.” There are many educators, high school and college level, that just flip through slides and do not try to create a personal connection between the subject and student. While some teachers believe that there is more to teaching than being able to take a test well or being able to memorize equations. Some teachers make themselves the tool, and become an essential part to their students growing process. This influence does not have to be a political or social influence, but rather the encouragement of self-thinking and creativity, because this is what makes truly great thinkers and leaders for the future.

            This concept could also be used in other things that are not teaching. If someone wants to go into business, one would want to believe that they are making some kind of difference, not just a replaceable part. In parenting, parents should raise their children to think for themselves, and to always search deeper than what is presented to them. One should try to have the mindset of being a tool in everything that they do.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

What I Have Learned In College

The best thing that I have learned in college would have to be the importance of organization in your work. Whether it is organization in papers or being able to keep track of all the homework assignments that I have done, organization is a huge key in being a successful student. How would I be able to study for a class if I keep losing all of my study materials? How can I write a good paper if my ideas are not organized? The key to being a good student is being able to be organized.
            I have also learned how not to be a “yes man” while in college. My freshman year I was part of the BSM, Wesley, Vice President of Texas Tech for CASA, Paradigm, and intermural sports. I did not know how to say no to people, and it had an impact on my personal life. My sleep patterns were not amazing my freshman year. Then came sophomore year, and I quit all but Paradigm (the college ministries of First Baptist Lubbock). I learned that the more I did, the less attention I could give to the activities I was participating in. Saying “no” is not always a bad thing.
            I also learned in college that there are some things worth skipping class for. Now this probably makes me sound like a terrible student, but I would like to mention that I have only missed six classes in my college experience. Freshman year a friend could be in the hospital and I would still be in class. As I have gone through college, I have missed classes to help friends who are having car trouble or are in the hospital. I have gone through the process of learning that there are some things more important than class. There is an importance in being interruptible. 


Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Imitation Assignment

The goal of my assignment is to imitate Charles Bukowski. I admit that I am not a fan of all of his work, but the works that I enjoy are some of my favorite poems. One aspect that I am trying hard to imitate is his ability to say so much without being wordy. I do have plans for some edits that I am going to make, such as taking out unnecessary words. I also realize that I am about a hundred words off of the word limit, and that will be fixed in my final draft (another poem may need to be added).

Bukowski:

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.


during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn't any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn't rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't built to carry off taht much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn't
STOP
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again.
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling,
and all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.
the pets refused to go out
and left their waste in
strange places.
the jobless men went mad
confined with
their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments
as notices of foreclosure
fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans,
bread without butter;fried
eggs, boiled eggs, poached
eggs; peanut butter
sandwiches, and an invisible
chicken in every pot.
my father, never a good man
at best, beat my mother
when it rained
as I threw myself
between them,
the legs, the knees, the
screams
until they
seperated.
"I'll kill you," I screamed
at him. "You hit her again
and I'll kill you!"
"Get that son-of-a-bitching
kid out of here!"
"no, Henry, you stay with
your mother!"
all the households were under
seige but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
Ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would
stop.
and it always seemed to
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
  drip
    drip
  

and there was no smog then
and by 8 a.m.
there was a
blazing yellow sunlight,
Van Gogh yellow-
crazy, blinding!
and then
the roof drains
relieved of the rush of
water
began to expand in the warmth:
PANG!PANG!PANG!
and everybody got up and looked outside
and there were all the lawns
still soaked
greener than green will ever
be
and there were birds
on the lawn
CHIRPING like mad,
they hadn't eaten decently
for 7 days and 7 nights
and they were weary of
berries
and
they waited as the worms
rose to the top,
half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them
up
and gobbled them
down;there were
blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to
drive the sparrows off
but the sparrows,
maddened with hunger,
smaller and quicker,
got their
due.
the men stood on their porches
smoking cigarettes,
now knowing
they'd have to go out
there
to look for that job
that probably wasn't
there, to start that car
that probably wouldn't
start.
and the once beautiful
wives
stood in their bathrooms
combing their hair,
applying makeup,
trying to put their world back
together again,
trying to forget that
awful sadness that
gripped them,
wondering what they could
fix for
breakfast.
and on the radio
we were told that
school was now
open.
and
soon
there I was
on the way to school,
massive puddles in the
street,
the sun like a new
world,
my parents back in that
house,
I arrived at my classroom
on time.
Mrs. Sorenson greeted us
with, "we won't have our
usual recess, the grounds
are too wet."
"AW!" most of the boys
went.
"but we are going to do
something special at
recess," she went on,
"and it will be
fun!"
well, we all wondered
what that would
be
and the two hour wait
seemed a long time
as Mrs.Sorenson
went about
teaching her
lessons.
I looked at the little
girls, they looked so
pretty and clean and
alert,
they sat still and
straight
and their hair was
beautiful
in the California
sunshine.
the the recess bells rang
and we all waited for the
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told us:
"now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did
during the rainstorm!
we'll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you're first!. . ."
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, not
exactly lying but mostly
lying and some of the boys
began to snicker and some
of the girls began to give
them dirty looks and
Mrs.Sorenson said,
"all right! I demand a
modicum of silence
here!
I am interested in what
you did
during the rainstorm
even if you
aren't!"
so we had to tell our
stories and they were
stories.
one girl said that
when the rainbow first
came
she saw God's face
at the end of it.
only she didn't say which end.
one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was
over.
"thank you," said Mrs.
Sorenson, "that was very
nice.
and tomorrow the grounds
will be dry
and we will put them
to use
again."
most of the boys
cheered
and the little girls
sat very straight and
still,
looking so pretty and
clean and
alert,
their hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the world might never see
again.
and


Michael Hartsfield's: 

I Saw A Man

I saw a man on the sidewalk
earlier
around the corner,
he stood against the wall
and as the crowds passed
he looked to the ground
and never made eye contact   
but his eyes said,
I am sorry.

he is the inconvenience we
deal
with.


walls

the idea of walls makes us
comfortable.
both insider and foreigner can be and
feel safe.
insiders can sleep with peace of mind.
foreigners keep receiving aid and missionaries.  
in one year the walls on the boarder
should have been built.
the many years to come both insider and
foreigner will work together and build
their walls.  
they will be content.
until the walls are
up.

the idea of walls make us
comfortable.
the people building them become
comfortable.

yet foreigners must leave.
and insiders must forget.

they are foreigners.
they are not
insiders.

yet the culture can
stay.

once in the year
we will celebrate the foreigners
and the memories will come back to
us
and the crowds will
drink, because it is
Cinco de Mayo.


Who really killed Harambe?

throughout my hours spent
on the social media
on the Facebook
or the few on
MySpace
I always feel a little
paranoid-
scared of my
image-
offended by the opinion of
others
that scream in unison
for whatever is popular
but it comforts those in
Syria
and sends prayers
never spoken
to the
French.
it is
blind to the
reasoning and the
questions.
the possible solutions
the
outcomes.
to do what one says
is a foreign idea and
impossible to the millennials-
this is the purpose of
social media.

and to do, not tweet
will be the test for a
blind generation-
seeing only others, sitting,
typing all their problems.
because what really matters is
who it was
that killed
Harambe?


Vates

there’s a poet on the street that
needs us to listen
but we are busy doing nothing,
and scream, I have no money,
I’m not interested in your
words.
there’s a poet on the street that
needs us to listen
but we walk quickly and say
nothing
and the pain and the hurt
and the loneliness
stays put
where
it is.

there’s a poet in the street that
needs us to listen.
but we are busy doing nothing,
and scream,
go away, do you not know that we
are busy?
why are you disturbing the
peace?
why don’t you go get a job in
business?
there’s a poet in the street that
needs us to listen
but we don’t understand, we only know that
he cries loudly
at our busiest.
we scream, we want you gone,
so please go
away.
then he cries louder,
but we’ve heard more
than enough, we let him continue to
cry
but one day his voice
leaves
without
any notice
and we begin to cry
about a poet’s
death, but do we
truly know what
was lost?


Dance Party in a Baptist Church

watch us dance the night away
but we will regret it in the morning.
We do not think of what the elders
will say.
much less what will be said on the day
of judgment.
we dance like Christ is near and then
sleep
and rise early to hear what our pastor
has to say about the sins we have
committed
and the JUDGMENT we will receive and
the CONDEMNATION and
the FIRE
and many will TALK about the grace
of Jesus and how the Jews
crucified him in the worst of ways
and there will be JUDGMENT
CONDEMNATION AND FIRE
cast
onto the sinners of this world
and the sin
will forever
cease
and all the nations will
weep,
because all
will be CONDEMNED;
only the elite receive
and deserve
grace and
mercy.

the sermon comes to an end and
the congregation rises to receive mercy and
forgiveness.
though we don’t mean it.
we dance the next day in the
sanctuary: twirling, flailing, jumping, and skipping
and it must be said that we are not very good,
we dance like middle school kids
at their first homecoming,
and the blame goes to the pastor
because he would not
let us learn how
to be in the world
but not of it.
the party goes on,
the horrific dancing continues
but we can’t help but wish we were
Pentecostal or Methodist
or even
Charismatic.
the Charismatic churches dance
even in the sanctuary
during service.
the joy they seem to have
while worshiping
their God of love.
their explanation for this forbidden action
is that David danced
in worship for the Lord.
flailing and jumping, like a Baptist,
worship without shame, somewhat
forbidden; shameless joyful
worship, and even done
while wearing nothing.
King David, a man after God’s
own heart, danced naked
in the streets
as his wife
CONDEMNED him,
his dancing, his worship, his
commitment
to his
God.
“What are you doing,” she yelled
to him. “You are sinning against the Lord
and the Church!”
of course she did not actually say this
but she thought it.
She hated his
worship.
the Baptist are just like Michal.
loving David but we hate what he
does because it isn’t
Baptist.
and during our dance
or praises to our Lord
the deacons walk in
and it was as if
JUDGMENT
ambushed the sanctuary,
the stained glass
was sucked
of its
vibrant color,
the church lost its grace and
mercy
and even lost its
hope.
we thought all was
lost.
and we were taken, immediately, to the
pastor.
and he had to be waken up from his
sleep
because 2 a.m.,
the ungodly hour,
was no time for a Holy Man
to be awake.
Bang
                        Bang
            Bang

went the knocks of the deacons
and it continued
until 3 a.m.
because 2 a.m.
is a time of
ungodliness.
and when
the pastor came
to the door
he greeted us with JUDGMENT:
BANG! BANG! BANG!
and all was gone and appeared again
but we were all in a court
shocked
by the blinding light that was
God
and there he sat with
a gavel in hand
and the pastor sat in a seat of
JUDGMENT
and
CONDEMNTATION
and
FIRE.
The pastor attempted to explain his case
about how he was a Holy Man.
How he was never up during
the ungodly hours
and how he respected the church,
and never danced in it.
but God questioned his
worship.
The pastor explains how he
sang at an approved
volume and never moved his
hips.
but God questions his
commitment.
the pastor then
explains
the countless hours he spent
following the rules
and CONDEMING
those who didn’t .
how he brought JUDGMENT
on those who didn’t
and warned them of the
FIRE to come.
He explains how he traveled
the world bringing heathens
to Christ!
how he CONDEMNED
the dancing tribes in Africa.
JUDGED the Catholic
immigrant.
Brought FIRE to the funerals
of the sinful!
God then questions his
GRACE
MERCY
and
LOVE.
The pastor then explains his
love.
“I have a love that is tough and
CONDEMING.
I have a love that is harsh and
JUDGING.
I have a love that warns of the
FIRE.
love is CONDEMING to the needy.
love is JUDGING to the searching.
love is the truth of FIRE to the deceived.
love is tough.”
God then calls to His son and
displays the scars on his hands.
“This is LOVE.
LOVE is grace.
LOVE is mercy.
you were not to
CONDEMN.
you were not to
JUDGE.
you were not to bring
FIRE.
It is the job of the judge to
JUDGE
and you are no JUDGE
rather the CONDEMNED
because I did not know
you.”

God then turns to us and says what all
want to hear,
“well done good and faithful servant.”
wells of joy overflowed,
and almost by
instinct we danced,
but
we then stopped in shame.
embarrassed by the
sin we had committed.
God looks at us with sorrow
and grieves over the
lies the pastor taught us.
David then appears in our midst.
gleaming and beautiful.
he then instructs us on worship.
“worship is SHAMLESS.
worship is COMMITTED.
worship is
NAKED.”
The rest of eternity will be spent
in SHAMLESS, COMMITTED, and NAKED WORSHIP.