Author: Chaim Green

As unorthodox as this sounds I believe the best writing comes out of a person is when they’re under pressure. Although honestly, that may just be a result of me continuously finding myself in situations writing with the pressure of a deadline edging closer as a result of my own procrastination, drawing me to near to many mental breakdowns. But before I abject myself to all personal blame, I have to acknowledge that I have repeatedly tried to write before I reach this point on multiple assignments but I’m always displeased with the result and from my view it always feels tasteless on the page. Nonetheless, after completing a full piece that feeling afterwards, that complete absence of the creativity and vitality, that you just held so firmly in your grasp is the telltale sign of a great piece of writing. Writing is an act that should feeds imagination: forcing the user to become reliant to the point when after completion one’s energy is ebbing from their body. I also believe that all writing should teach the reader something: whether it be about a scientific breakthrough, more about the author themself or just sharing a new point of view the reader should leave with some new knowledge imparted upon them. That’s one new skill that writing in English 203 has added to my arsenal: the constant awareness of the world around me. As I looked for inspiration for my blog posts I unconsciously became addicted to observing events around me, juxtaposing them against what was discussed or read for class and finding the connections within them.
My first blog post, “Do we attribute too much to science? was the first glimpse of me actively attempting to draw a connection but is most notably characterized by the lack of cohesivity in the post. In “Do we attribute too much to science” a small comment was made during our classroom discussion which echoed the sentiments of a podcast “The Brilliant Idiots” that I had listened to the same week. Immediately I was filled with excitement for I believed I had my first idea for a blog post but, I had trouble expressing it through writing and it was left as a draft for months, left to fester in my blog bank for months. This is what I believe to be a huge factor for the lack of flow within the post because after revisiting the post the conversation nor the podcast was fresh in my mind, so I was left trying to describe a conversation that happened months ago. This resulted in the post being scrambled, garbled and leaving much to be desired.
My second blog post, Page Poerty marks when I began using the blog for it’s actual purpose and began reading the work of my classmates. This same exchange of ideas influenced the creation of other posts like “Chicago, One, and Two.” This is when I began to view my classmates in a different light , genuinely starting understand the types of writers my classmates were and to be completely honest I was pleasantly surprised. I never expected a blog to be filled with so many varying thoughts, opinions and responses to life itself. I was taught about literary techniques, myths, cultures and responses that idea doubt I would’ve encountered on my own accord. Beyond Dr. Beth McCoy’s instruction inside of the classroom class, the students’ discussions in class and the posts outside of it gave me an equal exposure to challenging minds and thought-provoking ideas.
Within the post “Language in Zulus” I spoke about the stress of language in the piece Zulus, an excerpt from Percival Everett’s book “re:f gesture.” Since I studied four years of Latin within high school I could immediately recognize and roughly translate (I’m a little rusty) some the the Latin that he implemented within the piece which led me to seek translations for the other languages that he Everett used which gave Zulus a completely new meaning. I was enthralled by this skills as it seemed to be an interesting method of discreetly placing hints for the reader to give them more glimpses into the world that the writer creates. I even tried to implement this in my posts “One” and “Two” by putting the numbers for the journal entries in Wingdings, hoping that they would be perceived as hieroglyphs and add to the tone of the piece.
For my paper comparing the “Bacchae” and “Frenzy” I spoke about a phenomenon that I self- coined the immortal quandray that I wanted to share with the class so I decided to write a blog post about it. The immortal quandary deals with the transition that gods seem to go through after coming into contact with humans that is characterized by their increased levels of empathy and understanding for their “puny mortals.” As a child I always loved getting myths read to me and as soon as I reached the age where I could take the reigns myself, my own family couldn’t see my eyes unless they peered over a book of Greek Myths. This obsession continued into adolescence and early teen years with Rick Riordan releasing the renowned Percy Jackson and the Olympians series which still holds a special place in my heart. So once I saw the name Dionysus on the first page of the Bacchae I allowed my confidence to get the best of me and already began trying to decipher the book and draw conclusions based on the attitudes and actions that Dionysus exhibited in other myths that I read about him. However I was thrust into a story that completely defied my expectations, paired alongside “Frenzy” I physically could see the duality of the two interpretations of Dionysus on the pages and see the events leading up that left him with such contrasting personalities. Then it dawned on me, and all the myths that had retreated to the dark recesses of my mind and I saw the common thread of the immortal quandary within all of them. Two books that were just supposed to be read as assigned reading made me brought me to one of the few, honest and notable “Eureka!” moments that I had in my entire life.
My final blog post, a piece that was my personal favorite “Conversation with an Ex-McCoyian” was such a random, event but also has the most significance to me. The fact that I “just happened” to meet a man who was in graduate school, pursuing the career that I would dream of having, and an ex-student of the professor’s literally a day before the final blog post was due felt like some immaculate form of divine intervention. Although our conversation was short it was thrilling to see the connections that writing can bring between people outside of just words on a page.
Beyond the blog posts, this class introduced me to Sidney Poitier, a man whom I had never ever heard of before this class, in the space of four months changed to become one of my most prominent literary heroes. This is what the true essence of writing is, creating a world that is so thought-provoking, so enticing that the reader has to do more research of their own, lest they be haunted by that unknown knowledge. This blogging assignment allowed me to recognize the faults in my own writing from the outside-in a learn from my mistakes as time went on. The class itself has taught me that the best writing comes from a genuine place within oneself. When I started having writer’s block I started just writing about myself and eventually I would naturally fall back into the rhythm of writing. This class has taught me about the traits of epistemophilics, the complexities of Not Sidney and the layers of Dionysus’ character but most important thing that this class taught me was persistence.

As this class comes to an end, I look back across the time we shared together and I can’t help but feel saddened by this conclusion. This class has made me realize many things about myself, one of the biggest being the fact that my biggest hindrance in not only class but life is myself. I’m not sure whether it stems from a lack of confidence in my own writing or too much confidence, so much so that I feel that my work needs no editing but I have continuously proven to myself that I am a professional self saboteur. Sadly, although I have been unable to specifically target exactly what is causing me to act this way I can say with absolute certainty that this class has helped my writing immensely.
Although I wasn’t always happy with the final products of work that I submitted for this class in retrospect I can see a world’s difference between my writing from September and my writing currently. One problem that I wasn’t able to tackle this semester was my usual foe, time management. This has always been a frustration of mine because I know that I am a smart young man but, I just can’t seem to be able to properly manage myself; no matter how much time or preparation I put into creating a schedule for myself and getting ahead of my work the tide of life always feels like it’s overwhelming me. This semester I came to the resolution that the only way I will get better is to properly prioritize my life. Although this is a very simple idea it’s surprising how many people honestly don’t implement this within their life regularly (me including). Taking self-responsibility even during the last month and a half of the semester has made me realize how easy life at college can be if it stop worrying about FOMO and learn how to properly draw lines between different parts of my life.

“Chicago” is a first-person narrative that follows the life of a young African American man as he grows and matures living in Chicago. This piece was inspired by a film Sidney Poitier acted in called “The Defiant Ones” the critically acclaimed movie “Moonlight” . This piece follows this young man as he fulfills the unspoken prophecy that the system that was put in place long before his existence lays out. It deals with the idea of self-preservation and the personal responsibility that grows within a person over their life with some unintended circumstances. Along that same thread of thought, this piece also toys with the idea of existentialism being nonexistent as the main character doesn’t even try to justify the unjust actions that he commits.

Chicago
I come from a place where power is neither given nor granted, it is earned. Every day you must wake up with the will to survive by any means possible or else that will be the day everything ends. Our oxygen has long since been polluted by the sickly, scent of marijuana and the stench of dried liquor layered over our sidewalks. First birthdays and first loves are replaced with first wounds and first scars. Knowing that there is no way you can get out of that situation, knowing that you only have two options “KILL OR BE KILLED” you come to the realization that fear isn’t a luxury you’re allowed to have. That feeling of cold metal in your hand, that feeling of finally being able to control things around you, that feeling of having the power of life and death within your thumb and forefinger is something that can never be forgotten.
At the age of 8 I lost everyone I ever loved. My father died in a prison, fatally stabbed to death because of a petty squabble over a hundred dollars that he stole to buy cocaine. My mother was never the same after Dad left us, doing drugs to cope with the pain of the gaping hole left in her life without my him. One day I came home and I saw her on the couch with a needle jammed into her arm and I guess she never woke up. My sister died walking home from school when a single shot rang out from the car across from her, clipping her in her ligamenta flava leaving her paralyzed for the rest of her life. so when people ask me “How is your day, sir” I can’t help but wonder whether or not we come from the same universe.
So don’t bother to ask me why I wear this mask, don’t bother asking who I am. I am nothing besides a product of the system I was placed within. I attack and kill my own because it justifies why I even choose to live in this pitiful existence anyway. I hold up my black fist trying to show power when my actions show nothing but weakness. True power doesn’t require violence, boastfully parading about, leaving a trail of chaos in its wake, true power doesn’t feel the need to reassure others that it exists, lashing out whenever it feels threatened…. true power knows when to remain calm, carefully calculating every decision and weighing the consequences. I am not the face of power, do not fear me; I am not the face of crime, do not be afraid……I am the face of the one who lost himself.

To preface these next few posts, as we’ve all been reading these assigned pieces for class across the semester I’ve been directly inspired by the films, discussions and authors introduced to us to write my own work. In no way am I trying to compare myself to prestigious authors such as these but, I am trying to say that their art is at such a high tier that it made me feel as if I would do a dis-service to them if I don’t allow their art to speak through me. Shining through most prominently however is Sidney Poitier; whom before this class I had never heard of but after just dipping my toe into his world I couldn’t stop myself from going through a vortex of research about him. Reading transcripts from his interviews, watching films of his own and watching this man exude pride and passion about blackness, which although is starting to become more accepted now, to do such a thing was even just 70 years ago was almost unheard of, touched my spirit in a beautiful manner. All of the discrimination and oppression that he experienced from actors, filmmakers and award shows alike was constantly met by his personal conviction which was to let the art speak for itself.
For each piece that I publish I will provide context and speak about what specific aspect of the class inspired me to write about it. I hope you all enjoy!

In Everett’s piece, Zulus, he organized the his pieces alphabetically, each dealing with it’s own separate topic. However, there is definitely a distinct stress on language within the piece with the inclusion of other languages . For example in “F” there is the inclusion of latin, in “T” German and in “H” Greek. Being as that I speak Latin as soon as I saw these I immediately began my rough translation of the quotes, which I knew would give me more insight”
An excerpt of the piece states “finis coronat opus” which translates to the end crowns the work. This line precedes a line about Frankenstein which most people don’t know was actually the name of the doctor that created Frankenstein, not the monster itself. At the conclusion of the book “Frankenstein” which started the entire folklore of Frankenstein and his monster, the monster travels across the world trying to kill his creator because the monster feels deserted by his master after years of improper treatment and neglect. A few lines down it states “de donde cienos, amor, mi ninos” which translates to “Where are you from, love, my children”. I read this line from the point of view of a child who only knows of their parents as “mom & dad” rather than the real “person” behind their parents. These two lines together are so powerful because I believe that they perfectly summarize the plight of parenthood; although one innately loves their children because they are literally the fruit of your loins, you watched this “thing” literally grow up before your very eyes however when neglected, whether that be accidental or purposeful, a child’s love will turn to hate. Just as Frankenstein ended up regretting his decisions I believe that destitute parents all eventually realize that the most important thing that one can do for their children is just to be there

Alexis Doanhue’s blog post about page poetry inspired my to write my own piece using the same literary technique. I distinctly remember as a child my eyes glazing over the page “reading” about this technique from my older brother’s college literature textbook from St. Johns University but, for years I couldn’t remember exactly what it was called; granted I was only 8 years old at the time but the thought genuinely haunted me for years on end. So after seeing Alexis’ post: https://readerandtext.sunygeneseoenglish.org/2013/10/01/page-poetry/ I couldn’t wait to try this technique properly. The idea of creating a new piece of art with a completely different meaning is honestly what I believe what the true essence of art in all facets is, whether it be writing, drawing, filming or otherwise. As an artist it is one’s responsibility draw inspiration to from life itself and then to leave their art to the ether of life for others to draw upon. Here is my piece of page poetry I hope you all enjoy it.

Do More (take from “The Teacher” by Luis Cernada)
class rhetoric
short chubby with glasses
Schubert
breviary in hand, hands resting in his coat pockets
cap pushed with thick gray hair
read his verses
voice aglow with heartfelt enthusiam
hard for him to understand the mockery
in a pedantic way, naturally
he encouraged me to write
critiquing them, until a graceful hold on the material
“Go to the chapel and pray
give your courage”

one gold morning
without hearing from anyone else
saw a poor little funeral turning the corner
it was my heart that told me so