My Warren Wilson College Visit

One of the colleges I applied to was Warren Wilson College. Most people I have spoken to have never heard of it and the ones who have either think

1. it’s absolutely the coolest college they’ve ever head of OR
2. it’s the strangest college in existence and I should stay clear of it or else I will turn into a raging lesbian, catch the herp from drinking the tea, and start practicing magic in the woods.

I tend to think it’s the former (not that there is anything wrong with being a lesbian witch, though) and here’s why:

Warren Wilson, all cuddled up at the feet of the Appalachian mountains like a sleepy kitten, is a working school. Unlike other schools where work study is optional, everyone who attends WWC works for the school in some way. This tradition is carried over from the days when it was a small farm school, allowing for the poor mountain folk to work the land in exchange for an education. It’s still a small school, with only 900 or so undergraduates, and it still has a farm but Warren Wilson offers a little more than it did in the late 1800s. Not only does it have one of the greatest creative writing programs in the nation, but the school values social justice and environmentalism like Paula Deen values butter. Plus there is a vegan cafeteria on the bottom floor of the main cafeteria. Breakfast, lunch, AND dinner.  But I’ll go into more detail on another day.

I applied to Warren Wilson and I sincerely did want to visit there. But my mom works during the week and couldn’t make the trip. My admissions counselor e-mailed me about a visit, I e-mailed back with my situation, and we waffled for a few days. Then she offered to come and pick me up. As in, drive down to my apartment, get me, and take me to visit the college. Though I was stunned by her generosity, I gladly accepted her offer.

I didn’t have school on President’s Day, so she came and picked me up at around 11 in the morning. And we were on our way.

The drive was beautiful.

Warren Wilson Bound, No. 1

Warren Wilson Bound, No. 2

Warren Wilson Bound, No. 3

Warren Wilson Bound, No. 4

Arriving at Warren Wilson

Part of the WWC grounds.

And then I got out of the car.

My admissions counselor led me to the office where I would meet with a student who would take me on a tour of the school.

My name is at the very bottom.

My student tour guide was Jay. Or J. Or maybe Jaye. I don’t know how she spelled it, but it was pronounced all the same. She was a fifth year senior, wearing a stripped buttoned-up shirt with the sleeves barely rolled up. Even so, I could just make out the “9 3/4″ tattooed on her arm, which I later confirmed that it was inspired by the train platform in the Harry Potter books. Her hair looked like mine, cropped short in the back and a bit longer in the front, but a much darker brown. She was very outgoing.  And so we began the tour, starting with the farm and gardens.

The greenhouses.

After showing me the herb garden, the recycling center, and the blacksmith workshop, she asked me what I wanted to study. I replied with something to the effect of: “Uh, either creative writing or art but preferably both, but I don’t know maybe philosophy, too.” Bless her, she was patient with me. She led me to the art buildings.

Just outside of the art buildings.

And then the freshmen dorms. The largest one is called Sunderland.

Sunderland, one of the freshmen dorms.

Then I saw the library. It was magnificent and I would have gotten a photo of it, both inside and out, but I was dazzled. I began daydreaming about spending the colder winter days studying and reading in it’s comfy corner couches in between Jay’s (or J’s or Jaye’s)  facts about the number of books and the loan program with the surrounding college’s libraries.

Lunch time. My meal at Cowpie consisted of butternut squash soup, kale with lemon, and chickpeas in a flavorful tomato sauce. Thankfully I forgot my fork because it reminded me that I also forgot my drink. I drank water.

As the tour came to an end after lunch, J/Jay/Jaye asked if I had any questions before she left me on my own to explore. I asked a few things and she answered. And then I was on my way.

Now, I was very much tired from all the walking–the campus is very hilly, afterall–so I discovered a nice warm bench in the sun and sat down. My sitting soon turned into slouching and from there turned into lying down, belly to the sky, with my eyes closed. I rested for a bit and thought about my day so far. Figuring I still had a lot of time left since it was only after lunchtime, I dug into my bag and took out one of the papers I had gotten when I arrived. The paper showed a list of the classes I could sit in on. Crossing off the ones I had missed (I’m sure people were dying to visit an 8:30am class as much as the students who were actually taking it) and also casting away the ones in which I had no interest (think math and advanced chemistry) it left me with a few options, including some in the social sciences (Latin American history, gender studies) and the more artistic ones (ceramics, writing, music). I chose the introduction to creative writing class.

It just so happens that the professor of this class was the best dressed professor on campus–at least according to, well, every person on campus: Dr. Gary Hawkins.

I learned two things about Gary on the day of my visit.

1. Despite being so tall, he had a grace about him matched only by the wealthy hands that I imagine must have designed his shoes.
   
2. He loved reality television.

Concerning that second one, he even used clips from one of his favorite reality shows in the lesson. We watched two clips from Project Runway, specifically of Tim Gunn critiquing the designers about their creations. He then told us we would use the same approach that Gunn used with the designers to critique poetry. We split up into groups.

My group consisted of three other people: a biology major who worked on the farm crew, an anthropology major on the athletics crew, and an undecalred/undecided major on the plumbing crew. Each of them read their poems, starting with the undeclared-plumbing-crew-boy.

His poem was a humorous ode to his work and the activities he engaged in during his labors, but it wasn’t obvious until it neared the end. The language was forward, bold.

Next was the anthropology major. He wrote his poem about a dream he’d had the previous night. Free-verse coupled with odd, yet arresting, imagery.

Last was the biology major. Her poem was my favorite, detailing the pigs (or one pig in particular) from the farm on which she worked. The language was smooth and the descriptions made me feel like drawing out the scene she spoke of.

Class ended.

I ate dinner at Cowpie and, lucky for me, Mondays are always Mexican night. Vegan tacos with beans, onions, peppers, and lemon tofu. The sides included rice and a rich brownie. I didn’t forget my fork this time but I did forget my drink. I drank mint tea.

After dinner, my admissions counselor called my cell phone. I met up with her outside of the cafeteria and we talked about my day, what I liked and what I wanted to know more about. After a few minutes of chatting, she informed me that a student would be driving me back home and any questions or concerns I had could be discussed on the way. I thanked her though it didn’t feel like nearly enough.

And I went home.

"Warren Wilson College: Founded in 1894..."

Letter to the Editor: Response to “The Vegan Diaries”

In the latest issue of my school’s newspaper, the Mannuscript, one of the copy editors wrote an editorial about her week-long experience with veganism. A photo of her article is below. It’s a high enough resolution to read if you open the photo up to it’s largest size.

"The Vegan Diaries" by Megan Plassmeyer

I had a lot of problems with the article, to say the least. So, as any good citizen (or in my case, student) ought to do, I wrote a letter-to-the-editor. It was my first time doing so. I felt pretty satisfied.

I’ve already e-mailed it to the teacher in charge of the paper though, if it ends up getting published, they’ll probably have to cut a lot due to length. Below is my letter in it’s entirety.

As a vegan for almost 5 years, I was shocked when I read some of the misconceptions and plain out falsehoods in Plassmeyer’s editorial, “The Vegan Diaries”, starting with the very definition of veganism. In the editorial, veganism is presented as a mere diet or hip and fashionable “lifestyle”. The word ‘vegan’—coined in 1944 by the Vegan Society’s founder, Donald Watson—means that in addition to abstaining from eating animal products, one also abstains from wearing things like leather or fur and using products that have been tested on animals, among other things. In 1951, the definition was extended to mean “the doctrine that [humans] should live without exploiting animals.” Simply, veganism is neither a “diet” nor a “lifestyle” but putting into practice the philosophy that one’s belief in non-violence should extend to non-human animals wherever possible.

Next, Plassmeyer claims that “the removal of protein and dairy products is unhealthy”, suggesting that 1) protein is not available from plant sources and 2) that dairy is a necessary part of the human diet. The American Dietetic Association, the largest organization of nutrition specialists in the world, states that “…appropriately planned vegetarian diets, including total vegetarian or vegan diets, are healthful, nutritionally adequate, and may provide health benefits…”. Protein is just amino acids and combinations thereof; there are no amino acids present in meat that are also not present in plant foods. As for dairy, it is completely unnatural for humans to consume. In fact, humans are the only species to drink milk from another species and humans are also the only species to drink milk after infancy. The ADA agrees that dairy is not needed to get the proper amount of calcium.

Also, reading ingredients and labels isn’t something that someone gets used to overnight. It took me about a month to get the hang of it but now it takes me barely any time at all to get through the store, partly because I read fairly quickly and partly because I get used to buying the same things on grocery trips. In addition, the “certified vegan” symbol, a V inside of a heart, is gaining popularity among many companies to label their vegan products. For the more technologically savvy, there are apps on the Android market that allow the user to scan an item’s barcode to tell if the food contains any animal ingredients. The user can even adjust the settings for kosher and gluten-free food.

Finding vegan-friendly restaurants also takes some getting used to, but after a while is just as easy as my aforementioned grocery trips. Many Hispanic, Asian, and Indian places already have an extensive vegetarian section of their menu which can easily be made vegan upon request. I’ve also never been to a coffee or tea shop that didn’t carry soy milk. On a side note, there is an easy solution to the Taco Bell debacle: when you order a bean burrito, specify that you would like it without cheese. Check your order before you leave to make sure they get it right. If they do, enjoy your meal. If they don’t, nicely ask them to make you another burrito in the way that you asked. If you are feeling really daring, you can get what I order at Taco Bell: a crunchwrap, substitute the meat for beans, minus cheese and sour cream, add guacamole and fiesta, which is like pico de gallo.

Another thing I find problematic are the various times that Plassmeyer claimed that veganism is difficult. Considering the amount of time it took me to get used to reading ingredients, going shopping, and eating away from home—about a month or so—I doubt anyone who, presumably, had little to no previous knowledge or experience with veganism could properly determine the difficulty of it after only one week. My first week was challenging, but not hard. The second week, less challenging, The third, even less. And so on. Being vegan is easy and is now so natural and part of my every day life that many of the things Plassmeyer claimed were hard are second nature to me.

Furthermore, the whole “vegan celebrity” bit is, quite frankly, pretty ridiculous. The majority of “attention” I get from people at stores for the food I buy or order has to do with addressing misconceptions such as these. Countless times I’ve been asked: how do you get your protein? Do you just eat salads and granola? How do you feel about the feelings or rights of plants? As for this last one in particular, I simply ask the questioner to grab a knife and choose to either cut a head of lettuce or cut a dog’s throat and then ask themselves why they chose the one they did, which usually puts how I feel about “plant feelings” into perspective so as long as the person is not an amoral sadist. If this is what “celebrity” life is like, it is far from glamorous.

Lastly, the way Plassmeyer refers to animals throughout the article is paradoxical. At the beginning, while chronicling the start of her attempt at veganism for a week, she uses terms like “pig butt” and “cow hooves” to describe a few ingredients. However, at the end of the article and having admitted defeat after one week, she refers to the same animals as before, but this time as “baby back ribs” and “steak.” The language we use is important and often reflects our attitudes and beliefs, especially when we try and define and understand our relationships in a social context. In Plassmeyer’s case, when she was vegan, she saw animals as individuals, as cows and pigs. On the other hand, after the week ended, she saw animals as things, as objects, like steak and ribs. This is cognitive dissonance at its finest.

Plassmeyer did get one thing right, though. If you are thinking about veganism, keep in mind your motivation for doing so. Your decision should be based off your ethical stance on how non-human animals ought to be viewed—which, in my case, means choosing to view sentient animals as persons, as someones with the capacity to feel pain and pleasure and as creatures like us who, if given the chance, would choose to avoid the former and seek the latter. For me, it means rejecting the idea that animals should be viewed as pieces of property, no different than the table and chairs at which many people consume them on a daily basis. I follow this view to its logical conclusion by not engaging in or supporting animal exploitation; simply, I practice veganism.

Avett Brothers New Year’s Eve Concert

Months ago, I ordered two tickets to see the Avett Brothers on New Year’s Eve with my partner, Caleb, thinking it would be a great way to finish off the holidays with him. ‘Great’ was a tremendous understatement.

Caleb arrived at my house in the morning on Saturday, December 31st. We took a nap, tuned my mandolin, and he taught me 4 chords.  After getting over my embarrassment of practicing in front of him–and after he played a few songs with ease–we got ready and left to meet up with some friends downtown: Connor and Ian, twins, who were also going to the show.

We explored downtown Greenville, stumbling upon a combination arcade and indoor put-put golf course. The smell was old and decaying like the only  employee present in the facility, sitting motionless behind a counter reading an issue of Southern Homes and Gardens. None of the video games were more recent than the early 90s and the level of difficulty of the golf course looked about as mentally challenging as a bowl of wet noodles. We quickly left so we wouldn’t be noticed by the old worker–hoping to escape any chance of feeling sorry for him and having to buy a round of golf.

More exploring, some iced coffee from Coffee Underground, and finally we’re on our way. The show begins at 8pm so we figured we should get to the venue at around 6. Having parked at Governor’s school, it was a very long walk to the Bi-Lo center though, funnily enough, we arrived there at about 5:45. The way we came, we showed up at the back entrance of the center where about 10 or 12 people were spread out and lined up at the cluster of 4 doors. We wondered if something was wrong, if we had arrived at the wrong door. Connor and Caleb ran around to the other side to see the state of the other entrances while Ian and I saved our places. Maybe 3 minutes later, they ran back around. There were at least a hundred people on the other side. Obviously we stayed where we were, though still with a feeling we were at the wrong door.

Thankfully, a woman came to the door when we got her attention and assured us that we could get in this way, but this entrance was the farthest away from the stage. We figured, being about the 2nd in our line, we could run faster than all the other people at the front entrances could take tickets. We stayed.

Of course, cameras with detachable lenses were not allowed. I should have guessed. It’s a venue policy, not a band one, as there was no such policy at the Bell Auditorium in Augusta, GA last March when Caleb and I saw the Avett Brothers for the first time. I wrapped both of my lenses in a jacket and hid my camera at the bottom of my bag. The lady merely ran her hand over the jacket in my backpack while scanning my ticket. I guess I didn’t look like much of a threat to her to properly go through my belongings.

And we ran. We got to the floor and were standing almost against the barrier while rivers of people were quickly streaming in from the various entrances  around us. Compared to the other shows I’ve been to, like Strike Anywhere and The Bouncing Souls or even My Chemical Romance, this crowd was peaceful and calm–quite unlike the choppy, raging waves of fans at the aforementioned shows. It was so calm, in fact, that I could sit down and wait for the hour to pass until the opening act got on stage.

Sitting on the floor, behind the barrier, at the Avett Brothers show.

Then it was time for the opening band, Danielle Howle. She was strange, saying something odd between nearly every song, but I liked her sound.

The opening act. She was an odd bird, she was.

After about an hour, Howle went off and a curtain was lowered.

A curtain was let down after Howle got off stage; Avett Brothers were next.

The lights changed, a few chords were strummed, and the curtain dropped. They began the night with Kick Drum Heart.

Joe Kwon. The most fun to photograph, as he was not bound to a microphone.

Scott Avett.

Seth Avett or, affectionately, "Sethie" to whom Scott once referred.

They played for nearly two hours. The set itself was a really heavy I and Love and You set, but there were glimmers of Emotionalism and Four Thieves Gone throughout the night. At about 11:45, they went off stage for a break. As they came back on, we counted down to midnight. And then came the balloons.

They let down balloons at midnight. Of course I took one home.

And yes, I did get a New Year’s kiss.

They played about five more songs, ending the night with Talk on Indolence.

After the show, we met up with a few other friends who drove us to our car. We all met at Waffle House and indulged in the cure to cold climate: coffee. Spending nearly 2 hours laughing and getting warm in the only establishment open for miles (excluding the 2 other Waffle Houses in the area) Caleb and I arrived back at my house a little after 3 in the morning. We fell asleep watching Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

As for my resolutions, I haven’t got any. I tend to think of resolutions as bits of wishful thinking; as goals on a to-do list, never to be crossed off; as dreams. And if I’ve learned anything from Harry Potter, especially after a night like that–full of experience and wonderment at human expression–it’s that I should not “…dwell on dreams…and forget to live.”

Voter Registration and College Acceptance

It’s been a week full of first experiences. Not only have I registered to vote in the next election, but I was accepted into my first college: Rutgers University.

Since I am an eligible voter in the next election, we filled out registration forms in my Economics/Government class. I was mailed my voter registration card a few weeks later. Of course, I censored my address. Also, I took this photo straight out of the envelope, which is why I had not yet signed it.

As for the college thing, I found out Friday morning on December 2nd as I woke up for school that I had been accepted to Rutgers. I saw on my phone that I had an e-mail. No big deal, nothing out of the ordinary. I usually had a few in the mornings but they were either junk or reminders about scholarship deadlines. But on this morning, I had only one new e-mail. And it read “Congratulations”.

My acceptance e-mail from Rutgers. It read: "Dear Khaetlyn, Congratulations and welcome to Rutgers! You have been admitted to at least one school of the university..."

When I check my Rutgers account to see the status of my application, I find out that I was admitted to 2 out of the 3 schools I applied to so far: The Newark College of Arts and Sciences and The Camden College of Arts and Sciences.

Still waiting to hear back from the School of Arts and Sciences in New Brunswick.

What’s probably the best part about getting accepted to Rutgers was the essay that I used in my application. A few of my teachers said not to use it, that it was too comical or too dangerous. I wrote about the ginger seal.
The topic was about how Rutgers is a very diverse campus, so write about your experiences, talents, and whatevers to show what you can contribute to the campus and also what you would get out of it. Here are the first few paragraphs of my essay.

Living in South Carolina is hard enough—but living in South Carolina as a woman from a working class, immigrant family is as much of an experience

Photography (c) Anatoly Strakhov

in diversity as was that red seal being born into a group of brown Fur seals in Russia. Not too long ago, ABC reported that photographer Anatoly Strakhov came across a baby ginger seal on the Tyuleniy Island. The seal was abnormal among his kind, with icy blue eyes and rusty fur, as Fur seals are typically a dark brown all over. The photographer found him hiding in a pile of wood because all of the other seals his age would not play with him—and even attack him if he came too close. It seems that the prejudice against gingers transcends the human species.

While he was not accepted by the other seals

Photography (c) Anatoly Strakhov

around him, he was taken to a dolphinarium where he would receive the care he needed in a welcoming and nurturing environment. Like the ginger seal, I have had my fair share of unwelcoming experiences. It is no secret that racism and misogyny are alive and well in America, especially in the south. But like the ginger seal, the very things about me that made me unusual, and even unwelcome, in my home setting are the same things that will allow me to flourish and blossom in the right environment—an environment such as Rutgers.

The rest of my essay talks about my involvement in the arts and social justice activism, how the two are connected, and how this relates to diversity.

Were my teachers right? Was my essay too comical? Or were they wrong because I got accepted? Or were they right, that my essay was too comical, but it didn’t matter? The general attitude toward college essays, from both my teachers and my peers, seems to be that they have to be serious and professional. I think this is true, to an extent. But I think creativity and a bit of humor, where appropriate, is sometimes appreciated. Just think of all the poor souls whose job it is to read all of those things! How dreadful would it be for someone to have to read thousands of essays all about students’ involvement with the church, sports activities, and school spirit? (Note: these are the most common topics written about by my fellow students and from when my teachers applied to college. I wasn’t generalizing or pulling it out from my backside.) Not only would that be the exact opposite of what the college is looking for–diversity–but it would be awfully boring and quite stuffy for people to read.

Vegan Thanksgiving 2011

While I’m generally not in favor of celebrating the oppression of Native Americans and the colonization and exploitation of their homelands by white English folks,  my mom figured that this might be the last time my family could have Thanksgiving dinner together with me going off to college in the fall and my brother going to basic training soon. She made me delicious, vegan food. How could I tell the old lady no?

Vegan Sweet Potato Soufflé - Mashed sweet potatoes, almond milk, cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg, maple syrup, crushed walnuts, and Dandies (vegan marshmallows).

Fried White Bean Patties - Breaded, spiced, and fried white bean patties.

Vegan Mushroom and Asparagus Casserole - Mushrooms, asparagus, wine and Veganaise based sauce with mozzarella Daiya "cheese" and breadcrumbs.

Creamy Vegan Mashed Potatoes - With the skins left on.

The Plate - Compliments of mom.

National PTA Reflections Contest and Conference in Orlando, FL

I entered into the PTA Reflections contest at the beginning of my junior year because of a suggestion made by my art teacher. I entered one piece in the visual arts category and another in the literature category. I didn’t think much of it. I thought I’d get a paper “certificate of participation” or something. But after winning in both categories in the school-wide competition, and again the southwest area, I continued to move up until reaching the state level in the literature category for my poem, “Liberation and Justice for All”. Then something else happened.

From the National PTA website:

National PTA^® announces the 2011 Reflections Outstanding Interpretation Award winners in six arts categories, along with almost 200 other Awards of Excellence and Merit. In its 41st year, PTA^®Reflections^SM is one of the country’s oldest and largest arts recognition programs.

And from my school district’s website:

The National PTA® recently announced the 2011 Reflections Outstanding Interpretation Award winners in six arts categories. J. L. Mann High Academy junior Khaetlyn Grindell received a first place award in Literature for her essay, “Liberation and Justice for All.”

The winners were chosen from hundreds of thousands of submissions from students across the nation who participated in this year’s program, themed “Together we can…” Each year the program provides opportunities for students to receive recognition for their artistic efforts and expressions.

Khaetlyn and the other five winners will be recognized during a special ceremony at the 115th Annual National PTA Convention and Exhibition in June in Orlando, Fla. They also will receive a certificate, medallion, and $800 for their winning entry. A special award of $200 will be granted to each winner’s local PTA.

The National PTA contacted me and my mother and arranged the whole trip. They covered the cost of the flights, our hotel, the lot–something for which my mother and I were thankful. Our flight was in the wee hours of the morning on June 9th. We had to be at the airport so early, in fact, I didn’t even bother going to sleep that night as we were packing things in the car at about 3am. Then we headed out.

The Greenville Spartanburg International Airport...at about 5am. Plane windows are small, but passenger plane windows are even smaller.

This was my first time on a plane. It wasn’t large at all, maybe room for 30 people at the most. I couldn’t tell if the anxiety stabbing at my gut was from not sleeping, having only eaten a bag of sunflower seeds and some water within the past 12 hours, and inhaling a combination of musty fabric seats and subtle B.O. with every breath–or, if for some strange reason, I was nervous because I was in a metal box that was about to go sailing through the air at speeds far exceeding any vehicle I’ve ever been in. My mom told me not to worry. The creaking floor and weak, stained seat-belts told me to run. I didn’t listen to either of them and got out my camera. If I was going to worry about dying, I might as well be productive, create something, during the process. Our first flight took off. We were Charlotte, North Carolina bound.

Taking flight / with Greenville below / and none were awake but the lights.

It wasn’t a long flight from Greenville to Charlotte. Maybe 45 minutes at the most. The flight was a bit shaky but my anxiety soon subsided when I realized how truly awesome it was being in the sky. And I am not misusing the word “awesome” like many do today. Getting a hot dog at Sonic, buying new shoelaces, or going to see Twilight at the midnight premier are all things that, while some may describe them as such, are not  awesome. They do not bring one to their knees from being filled with awe. But being in the sky and overlooking my city as if it were a mine–excavated, polished, and sparkling with electric gems–was priceless.

But we came closer to our destination and the sun began to rise. Worst of all, my Sickness was back on duty and thought to remind me of all that could go wrong as we began to land. And unless you count having to hold back my vomit and do some deep breathing, everything went smoothly.

The sun was just starting to rise.

And not long after we arrived in North Carolina, we got on yet another plane. This time to our destination: Orlando.

I think this was over Florida, but it could be anywhere between North Carolina and Florida.

My second least favorite thing of the day was landing. For the second time. The first? Landing for the first time. It’s scary as hell.

Unfortunately, none of my photos picked up the split second of smoke that surfaced when the tires hit the ground.

So we get to Orlando, get on a bus, and I fall asleep. About an hour later, my mom tells me we’re at the hotel. It was a fancy Disney resort hotel with a bunch of pools and direct buses to all of the parks. We didn’t mess with any of that, though. We head to our room, get in comfortable clothing, and fall asleep watching TV.

And did pretty much that the next day. We took a few walks and I took a few photos. But the next day was the big thing. The next day, June 11, was my reading. I’d never read any of my creative writing to people before. I was sort of freaking out. It felt heavy just to think about, worse than landing.

Before the big moment, though, was lunch. Two things.

1. I was already feeling uneasy about having to read my poem, and on top of that they wanted to put food in my belly first? Whoever came up with the schedule of events should be fired. Or, better yet, forced to write a poem and read it in front of a convention of people.
2. I’m a vegan.

Number 1 was to be expected. I get nervous about a a lot of things. As for number 2, my mother and I had both forgotten to inform them before the lunch that I would require a different meal. Thankfully, despite it being such short notice, the hotel was more than happy to accommodate me and promptly brought out my food with everyone else’s. 

Lunch was a delicious tofu and vegetable stir fry.

Just when I thought I wouldn't get any dessert, they brought this out. Everyone else had boring slices of cake.

Then lunch was over and I was rushed backstage. I started feeling a little sick and thought maybe I shouldn’t go through with it.

There was a really bright light above me. I have a better tan than that, I swear.

…But I did it. I had the option to, if I was really scared, let one of the women in charge read it on my behalf. I considered it, but quickly changed my mind, knowing that nobody knew my poem better than I did. I knew how to read it. Being four pages long, I couldn’t risk someone who was unfamiliar with the meter and the punctuation having to read it. At first my voice was shaky, but it got stronger and more steady when I noticed people in the crowd smiling as I read. I was the last one to present my art, and having to present it after my talented peers and their works was a lot to live up to. But I finished reading, looked up, saw everyone standing and heard them clapping. I’d like to think that their applause was from genuine appreciation for my poem and not just out of habit or expectation. Either way, I felt accomplished for having actually read something of my own–something personal and creative–in front of hundreds of people.

I did end up getting a "certificate of participation", but this one had raised script and a fancy cover. It's legit.

I walked to the other end of the stage, got my paper, my trophy, and my medal, shook some hands, and went to sit with my mom. Then, as the president of the PTA spoke, there was a loud groan from the audience. From what I gathered from the moms sitting next to me, they had been stuck on a vote since yesterday about whether or not to raise the annual dues. Raise the annual dues by how much? “Fifty cents,” one of the women replied. Well, what sort of things would the spending cuts  mess with if the dues aren’t raised? “Mostly the Reflections contest and support for school art programs.” Hearing that answer, I got mad. Really mad. How dare they be so stubborn as to fight over pocket change–pocket change that would fund the very program they just watched and enjoyed! I signed up to speak at a microphone and as I waited for my turn, I got out a pen and pad to write.

When my turn was up, I walked up to the microphone, adjusted the height (because it was much too tall), and read:

My name is Khaetlyn Grindell and I an going to be a senior at J. L. Mann High School in Greenville, South Carolina where I am a member of my local PTA. I have a few things to say regarding the pending motion.

But first, I would like to apologize to anyone who thinks I am speaking out of turn or I am stepping out of line. It is not my intention to offend. Do not, however, mistake this as an apology for the content of what I am about to say, because I sincerely mean every word. The following are my views and my views alone on the pending motion.

Each of you within the PTA are representatives of me, and other students like me. As a student, I do not have a respected position within the community or within schools like many of you. However, as a student, this is an issue that directly affects me.

If raising dues by a mere 50 cents is what it takes to ensure that my passions—the arts—get the funding and continued support that they have been getting, thanks to the hard work of parents and teachers like all of you, then please vote in support of this motion to raise dues.

I understand that times are not the easiest. Coming from a working class, single-parent household, I understand just how tough things can get. But if you all can understand that now, especially during times such as these, support for the arts is essential. My art class is the brightest part of my day at school and the things I have learned from art will benefit me for the rest of my life.

I can find 50 cents inside of my couch cushions or on the floorboard of my mom’s car. I can only hope that you all, as parents and teachers, cherish art education and recognize the inherent value the arts posses enough to take the time to search in your couch cushions and in your cars. Thank you.

My time at the microphone had just ran out as I finished. I took two quarters out of my purse and set them next to the microphone. And I sat down.

There was clapping. A lot of clapping. The president of the PTA said that it was time to take another vote and, if there was still no majority vote, more time would be added to the clock. And the voting began.

“All those in favor for the dues to remain…” he began, and a large group in the back immediately stood up and cheered. I recognized a few of them who spoke before me at one of the microphones. One was an older mother who, while at the microphone, expressed her extremely patriotic and pro-war views as if they were reasons to keep the dues from increasing.

“And all in favor for an increase–” he was cut off by roars of cheers and clapping from almost every part of the room.

The official count was taken. The president took his gavel and announced the results: the motion to increase annual dues, and therefore keep the funding for the Reflections art contest, passed.

I was thrilled. After the meeting was over, a lot of people came up to meet me. Surprisingly, quite a few congratulated me and said I changed their minds about the vote. When I went to speak, I didn’t actually think I’d change that many minds or any minds at all. I spoke because I had to. Even if I wasn’t sure anything would come of it, how was I just supposed to sit there and do nothing?

The next day was our last day in Orlando. My grandparents, who live in south Florida, picked us up and we had dinner. We stayed with them until we had to go to the airport. This time, thankfully, our flight went directly to the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport. I slept most of the way back; public speaking can make a person tired. I woke up just before we arrived, though, anticipating the landing. It was smooth, like the evergreen-covered red hills of South Carolina that I began to miss after having been surrounded by flat, black dirt and freeways. All was well.

Ode to Lemon Juice

In my AP Psych class, we’ve been practicing for the upcoming AP exam in May by doing some FRQs, or Free Response Questions, which are essay questions at the beginning of the exam. So we got 20 minutes in class to answer a practice question about something we were supposed to cover in the past year.

…And instead of practicing, I used my time to write an ode. Don’t judge, I didn’t know the answer anyway.

Ode to Lemon Juice

Ingredient of bitterness,
a fluid soft and sour,
I praise your ever faithfulness,
on this midday hour.
So diverse in your tastings,
‘cross the spectrum, even sweet.
and a multitude of uses–
from lemon cake to lotioned feet.
Oh, praise thee lemon juice!
Nectar bled from Heaven’s gems!
From just a sip, my throat will loose-n
to sing your well-earned hymns!