Writing

The ability to write is not a genetic trait, nor is it something that just anyone can pick up.  That leaves it in a class all it's own. Who can write? And what does it mean to write something effectively?

Writing is something that comes deep from within the wrinkles and crevices of our brains.  Writing comes from the valves pumping blood through our hearts.  Writing comes from the acids in our stomachs and intestines.  Writing comes from within a person.  Writing comes from us physically and mentally.  There are synapses that are fired while writing, as there are synapses that are fired during every second of every day.  Why are the synapses from writing different?

For some people it's a feeling of euphoria, for others it's a feeling of despair.  For me, writing is almost second-nature.  Does that mean it's easy? Absolutely not.  There are times that I write and delete, rewrite and then redelete.  Other times I can sit down and just let my fingers type magical things into the computer's text box.  The most revealing pieces of writing are those that don't use the backspace key.  The stream of consciousness that forms on the paper (or in this case on the screen) can reveal some crazy things that exists between our ears.

How does one become an effective writer? Well, some say to read and read a lot.  "The more you read, the more good writing you'll read and the more you'll want to emulate that," some say.  I don't know how accurate that really is.  Sometimes it depends on how well formed your brain is, and how good of a grasp on the language you're writing in you have.  For example, if I wrote in Spanish (algo que puedo hacer), the stream would flow much differently than when I write in English.  The more immersed in a language you are, the more mastery of it you will acquire.

If in middle school someone had told me that I would eventually begin to enjoy writing, no, that I would begin to love writing, I would have told them that they were insane.  I'd have directed them to the nearest mental institution because they needed to check themselves in.  Here I am, more than six years after leaving middle school, loving writing.  I don't know what I would do if I couldn't write out my thoughts.  I may not have gotten involved with the newspaper.  I may not have decided to minor in journalism.  I might not have become a news junkie.  This isn't a case of the what-ifs.  This is self-reflection and thanking.  I am extremely thankful for every opportunity I have been given.  Some opportunities I found for myself; some were given to me on a silver platter.  I am thankful for all of them.  Most of the opportunities have been extremely rewarding opportunities.

Writing well means to write deep from within. I just let the words come out of my fingertips onto the page.  I'll reread them a few times, but usually -- when it comes to a blog -- I just let them sit as they've come out.

The "Race Card"

Why is this a card anyone ever put in the deck of life?  I don't understand when someone says "I don't mean to play the race card..." Well, if you don't mean to, then why are you?! 

Race, as I've stated before, is a social institution.  Why have a race card if so many people claim that "we [as a country and/or society] have moved past race."  This is clearly not the case.  It still matters to far too many people.  As long as someone thinks about race -- as long as they're thinking about it, they don't necessarily have to speak it or write it -- then there is still an issue with race.  America, come on.  We're better than this.  If you think you can joke about race but that you don't have an issue with it, you're wrong.  Race doesn't matter. It's not something worth joking about, laughing about, talking about or even thinking about, let alone "pulling the race card."

Something I said in a previous post that I feel is still worth saying now:

Race is a touchy subject in America. For example, as long as Barack Obama is the "first black president" instead of the "44th President of the United State of America," race will still be a problem.  All of this notion that we've "moved past race" as a culture is clearly hogwash.  As long as FSU students remain afraid to go south of Gaines St. or go out on the FAMU homecoming weekend, we clearly still have an issue with racism.  There may scientifically be three races (Mongoloid, Negroid and Caucasoid) but all three are still human beings.  Every person on this earth bleeds the same color: red.  That is something that won't change no matter what color skin we might have, what socioeconomic class we might fall under, who we go to sleep with at night, or what gender we identify with.  We all need food, water, shelter, compassion and most importantly, we need each other.

 Race DOES NOT MATTER. I don't know how else to say that.  I don't know how I'm supposed to help society move past this horrible notion.  I don't see color; I have friends who are black, white, yellow and purple.  It doesn't matter to me.  When I'm describing someone I don't say they're "black, tall, fat and bald." I say they're "tall, fat and bald."  Why? Because it doesn't register in my brain that they're black.  I don't care... it's not only that I don't care, it's that I don't even think about it.  My brain is so inclined to not care that I legitimately don't see it anymore.

"Black people like fried chicken." Well, I guarantee, I can eat just as much fried chicken as a black man.  I adore fried chicken. 
"Asian people love rice." Again, I could eat you out of house and home when it comes to rice.  I love it; I eat it more than once a day.

I hate racism.  I hate social institutions.  It doesn't matter!  Move past it. Sheesh.

Give it a rest, already!

Some have told me to "Give the Maya Angelou thing a rest, already."  It may sound strange, but after reading I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I feel like I've known Maya for my entire life.  For a book to impact me like that is amazing.  It was like someone really knew and understood my soul. Not my feelings, not my emotions -- my soul.

That kind of a connection through text, and text alone, does not come easily.  I, too, know why the caged bird sings.  There is a feeling of entrapment, of a shadowy cloud that cannot and will not stop hovering just over your head.  Seeing the stories that such a phenomenal woman went through on paper in front of me not only showed themselves to my eyes, they spoke to me.  The words were more than just mere words on that page -- they were Maya's soul poured into the binding of that book.  Maya's soul, my mother's soul, my father's soul, my sister's soul, my brother's soul, my friend's soul, your soul and everyone's soul.

Words on a page can have a far deeper impact than just passing a story along. But having the ability to talk to the woman behind the voice on that page was the most... liberating experience.  Hearing Dr. Angelou explain the process of Caged Bird to ME -- not explaining it to Larry King, or Oprah but to me: Turner G Cowles -- was absolutely amazing. Amazing, frankly, doesn't do that situation justice. There really are no words to adequately describe how it felt to hear her say "Hello, good morning. Is this Mr. Cowles?"  Here is a woman who has, not only talked about doing, but done things in her life that so many people never even dream of: working with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, studying in Africa, learning six languages, teaching at Wake Forest, and writing poetry and books galore. And from all of this, she was talking to me.  Now, I may have been just one interview on that particular day, but for those minutes, she was talking with me.  ME. Lowly little college journalist at FSU.

So, to "give it a rest" would be a horrible injustice to Ms. Angelou and to her legacy. I will forever cherish those minutes with her forever.

Maya Angelou

Here I am, at twenty years of age, and I have the opportunity of a lifetime sitting there on my Google Calendars.  This coming Friday I will be speaking with Dr. Maya Angelou. The Maya Angelou.

Born in 1928, Angelou has been a poet, playwright, author, singer, dancer and role model for many generations.  How did a twenty-year-old kid get the opportunity to interview such an important member of our society? Does it matter? The possibility is there, and I'm going to take full advantage of it.  Maya Angelou's book I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings has changed the way I look at many things about life.

What should I ask her? What will I ask first? Again, does it really even matter?  She is a woman who has worked with Malcolm X, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Bill Clinton. Needless to say, she has some weight in her words. In her poem "And Still I Rise" she talks about how no matter what happens to her she will "still rise."  I believe that she's saying that no matter what she is put through in life, whatever trials and tribulations, she will still be able to enjoy her life.

I have an email full of questions ready to go.  What an opportunity. Updates to come after the interview!

Medal of Honor

Today, January 3rd, 2010, I had the most amazing opportunity of my journalism career to date.  I had the opportunity to meet one of this country's greatest heroes.  His name is Colonel Retired George "Bud" Day.  He received the Congressional Medal of Honor in 1976; President Gerald Ford presented the medal. 

The Congressional Medal of Honor is presented to those who show extreme bravery and valor in the line of duty.  Colonel Day showed this when his F100 fighter plane was shot down during the Vietnam War.  He was a prisoner of war at the same camp and at the same time as current Arizona Senator John McCain. 

The Department of Defense keeps this citation in their records for Colonel Day:

Citation: On 26 August 1967, Col. Day was forced to eject from his aircraft over North Vietnam when it was hit by ground fire. His right arm was broken in 3 places, and his left knee was badly sprained. He was immediately captured by hostile forces and taken to a prison camp where he was interrogated and severely tortured. After causing the guards to relax their vigilance, Col. Day escaped into the jungle and began the trek toward South Vietnam. Despite injuries inflicted by fragments of a bomb or rocket, he continued southward surviving only on a few berries and uncooked frogs. He successfully evaded enemy patrols and reached the Ben Hai River, where he encountered U.S. artillery barrages. With the aid of a bamboo log float, Col. Day swam across the river and entered the demilitarized zone. Due to delirium, he lost his sense of direction and wandered aimlessly for several days. After several unsuccessful attempts to signal U.S. aircraft, he was ambushed and recaptured by the Viet Cong, sustaining gunshot wounds to his left hand and thigh. He was returned to the prison from which he had escaped and later was moved to Hanoi after giving his captors false information to questions put before him. Physically, Col. Day was totally debilitated and unable to perform even the simplest task for himself. Despite his many injuries, he continued to offer maximum resistance. His personal bravery in the face of deadly enemy pressure was significant in saving the lives of fellow aviators who were still flying against the enemy. Col. Day's conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty are in keeping with the highest traditions of the U.S. Air Force and reflect great credit upon himself and the U.S. Armed Forces.^[19]

Colonel Day was invited on behalf of the Scott-Carroll Inaugural team to attend the Military Appreciation: Honoring Those Who Serve event.  The event featured renowned country artists John Michael Montgomery, Aaron Tippin and even Lee Greenwood.  

The ability to meet and talk to one of this country's greatest warriors is a truly humbling experience.  Here is a man who has given far more to this country than any of my generation's "heroes" like movie stars or singers.  Here is a man who was willing to -- in the face of imminent death -- defy his captors and hold true to his values of Americanism and keep this country above and beyond himself. 

Here is a man who was willing to break out of a prisoner camp to seek American help, only to be recaptured and tortured even further and yet not let his spirit break.  A man who not only earned but deserves the salutes of all of those who have served, and the thanks of every single person in this great country of ours.

Here's to Colonel Day, a modern day hero in a post-modern day society.