US putting its nose into other countries business is a no-no.

Our next assignment is to write about our opinions on the US' role in the world. Are we some sort of benefactor or policeperson? When do we intervene and how do we do so? To the right there is a somewhat humorous drawing in an intent to lighten the topic. Credit: http://www.thirdworldtraveler.com/PageMill_Images/how%20Americans%20see%20world-map.jpg

Following is my response.

I feel that the United States should always contain itself. Like in the "good old days" when we practiced isolationism, our presence would not be missed. We are not developed enough as a country to start helping others become their very best; a country, to murder a common saying, should clean up its own act before it starts looking to its neighbors. There is one small exception to this rule, however. Keeping in mind the larger world wars, where America, at least in our textbooks, saved the world, the United States should have one way to interfere. If the more powerful nations in the world realize something terrible is happening, and the UN agrees and collectively they ask the United States to step it, not because of our awe-inspiring abilities but because we are so large and so populous and so full of surprises, then the US will be allowed to send militia in to the country. This is not to say that the US cannot send in supplies or medical teams; I feel they should do so with little to no digression. But in terms of bombs, or tanks, or anything that involves weaponry, destruction, and the loss of our army men, the US should let the other countries fight it out in order to be poised to take over when all of them fall.

I would like to end with another quote, which gives an alternate option for those Americans that like to meddle. "Your dollar is your vote". America's dollars are our vote. What the government chooses to purchase, and who they choose to buy that from, means a lot in the global economy. Citzens can do their part by refusing to buy items made in certain countries or with child labor. This is the way we should solve minor conflicts.

Barder, the Heroic Flying Dog, in a Depressing Tale of Death, Ruin, and Tragedy.

Our next assignment: from the picture on the left, by Jan Von Holleben (Find more at http://www.janvonholleben.com/?page_id=4).
Write a story where the dog's name is Barder and the orange turban gives the power of flight.
My story follows, for more, look at my teacher's blog: http://hthi-govsoc.blogspot.com/

As the child sat astride the dead dog, he rose into the air, lifted by his orange turban. Tears were freely falling down his face, mixing with the snot running from his nose and streaming to the sides as he pushed forward into the wind that always appeared at this altitude. The war was over now, and he was going back home. Although nothing remained of the castle orphanage that had been his home for the last 7 years, the grounds were still open to him. Although there would be no fire to warm his chilled fingers, and now no Barder to lean against as they watched the flames together, home was still home, and the only place he had left to go. Everything else had been destroyed in the war by the orphans like him who fought for the brave warlords. They fought and killed each other while the lords, fat and bloated with power and fear and greed into maggots, sat and ran their fingers through the skulls and gold coins that were brought back as spoils by the army of children. The lords took and gave when they felt like it and they had rarely been in generous moods. They had taken the child's parents, knowing that orphans made better fighters, home, friends, money, life, and then gave him hope, that as a general of the child army, he would have a true family, and a home, with the lords. But then they had dealt a cruel blow and the lords had demanded the sacrifice of his beloved animal, the high desert dog Barder who was the only dog who could withstand the tremendous pressures exerted by the turbans all the orphans wore, to help them fly and signify their tribe and position within. The other children flew alone through the sleet but Barder had been a trusty companion for this child. The lords had slit his throat and laughed as the blood poured forth from it as an offering to Victory. The lords had wanted the dog cut up for meat, which was indeed scarce, but the child has stolen the body and flown home. As it started to snow, he saw the ruins of his castle ahead. Leaning forward, he took himself and the dog down for a rough landing, falling on his side into the grey snow. He struggled a little to get up but Barder was literally a dead weight on his leg, pinning him fast. And he was so cold. He laid his head down, cushioned by the turban. The snow felt like the pillows he used to have in the castle. He closed his eyes, remembering long pillow fights and then cups of hot cocoa while he rubbed Barder's flanks as they laid down, exhausted, in front of the warm fire. With his eyes closed he could almost feel it. He smiled as he slipped into a long dreamless sleep in the snow, still pinioned under Barder's thick body.
The spy sent out after the child and Barder's body came upon them an hour later. He smiled as he saw his friend at peace at last, and then bore both bodies back to the hall for a feast. The lord would be pleased with his find and might even grant him a small piece of the meat. He hoped it was the dog; peoplemeat was too tough for his liking.

Storytelling in Reverse: The Ancient Ballerina

My senior government and sociology teacher gave us an assignment on our second week of school (Yes, I know everyone else just got back today. Well, we are special.)
We were to look at the lovely and fascinating pictures on this website: http://www.3situations.com/BillSullivanWorks/BillSullivan.html
(To read about this art installation, please see the website)
Basically, it is a series of pictures of people on their way through the New York Subway Turnstile.
Then we had to choose a picture or two that struck us and create, nay, craft a story about their past, their present, and their future, based on their facial expressions, props, and any other clues we could glean from the pictures.
The following is (hopefully) my picture and the story I wrote.

She saw the man but didn't smile as his camera flashed. Her first instinct was that he was some perv trying to get pictures of the famous Anna Hope Westland but then she remembered that she wasn't 20 anymore. She was nearing 50 and the many art critics and rich old women with their opera glasses who had known her name, who had wept with pain as she danced, who had exclaimed like lovers over the beauty of her form, were all dead of living on the streets or gloriously living still, fucking the newly famous ballerinas, spinning them fairy tales of fames, glitter, and bright spotlights trained upon their fresh new faces. She was nearing 50 and she rarely ever danced anymore, just walked though the wobbly lines of young girls who were too poor for the famous schools but too naive to give up the dream (yet) of that New York lifestyle of love, beauty, and dancing. They didn't see the poison that was this city. She'd given her life, her toes, her youth, her sanity, and finally her beautiful girl to this game and in return they had thrown her aside after one mistake. No, she did not smile but she raised her chin high. She still had the bearing of a dancer, she knew, the long taut neck, the slender wiry arms, the arched back. This man was probably some art student, or an econ major, taking pictures of the poor pathetic subway riders. She would give her old peers nothing to pity. She'd called them her friends but when she'd "had the accident" as the New York Times lied, they'd shown their true colors. They'd kicked her right out. She had danced for the Queen! She was young and naïve she knew but she was not the only dancer that had fallen for that scumbag. She has just been the best. And then she had decided to keep the baby. Everyone told her she was throwing her life away but she insisted. She could feel the warmth inside her, the radiance from her belly. She was hugely overweight and she felt more beautiful than she had ever felt before, even when the scumbag’s hands had been tangled in her hair while they kissed. And she never intended to keep the baby. All she wanted was 9 months off. 7 months to be pregnant and 2 months to recover. She knew she could do it, and she had done it. But when she went to her first audition-oh the disgrace. Annie Hay Westerfield who? She was done for. And the baby was gone. So she got the only job she could find, having skipped college and gone straight to the stage. She hated every minute of that mirrored hell; she hated every shining face filled with promise. She went home at night and lay in bed, dreaming of crowds cheering and young men on bended knees offering roses, purple ones, her favorite. She’d contemplated suicide (who hadn’t contemplated suicide?) but decided she would grow old and tough and wiry and scare little kids who came to trick or treat. She would destroy her girl’s hopes of fame and love in the big city, sneakily, worming her way in. She would be kind, at first, and then shake her head at clumsiness, clucking her tongue (“oh, you’ll never make it with legs like those, you’re way too voluptuous for a ballerina, you need to smile less”). And so she pissed on their dreams. It was for their own good, really. It was the only thing that brought her joy, anymore. She thought, as she passed through the turnstile, “it is really because I care for them. I don’t want them to be hurt. Being a ballerina isn’t easy.”