FD2: Wonder Woman

Margo Alvillar
2 March 2011 
FD 2

As I scrambled to loosen Natalie's headlock grip from my neck I screamed, "Okay, I get it. I get it. I will stop being the victim!" As Natalie acknowledged my cry, the spell seemingly unbroken, Natalie released her long arms from me, stood to compose her 5'7" frame,  and attempted to regain her composure. As I stared at her in confusion and disbelief my best friend of five years walked out of our shared apartment, and as a form of brutal punishment, out of my life for three years. Natalie was never one for subtlety. Now, 11 years later, my boisterously loud friend and I can joke about that moment so long ago. Natalie jokes that taking me down to my knees wasn't difficult, as I am only 5 feet tall. I laugh and quickly return the dig about how I could have taken her if I wanted to had I only gone for her weak and skinny knees. [THESIS] On the surface, this moment seems such a trivial memory, as our 17 years of friendship have seen many more ups than downs, but when we speak of this fight my love for her swells, because that is the moment she changed my life. [THESIS]

Natalie and I met during our freshman year of high school in a manner that wouldn't be considered best friend love at first sight. I thought she was loud and bossy and I'm sure she thought of me in the same way. How could I be queen bee if she was vying for the same position? I first became friends with her older sister, Angie. I thought Angie was cool. Not only was she an upperclassman, but she had her own wheels and was willing to take me along wherever she roamed as her faithful freshman follower. One day our roaming adventures took us to her house. She had to take care of a few chores and left me alone in the living room to wait. A few moments later, Natalie walked in to the room and unexpectedly began to speak with me. We talked about our first year of high school, made jokes about our classmates and teachers, and talked about boys and music. By the time Angie returned to the living room, I realized I had been wrong about Natalie. Sure, she was domineering and confrontational, but if there was anyone that could handle her, it would be me. I don't remember hanging out with Angie much more after that day, as it seemed Natalie and I grew attached at the hip from that point on.

When my mother nearly died my sophomore year, in many ways, Natalie saved my sanity if not my life. I was frighteningly suicidal, and because we were so close, she knew just when to swoop in and save the day. She was in essence, my own personal Wonder Woman. Because our birthdays were only a day apart, she made sure to include me in her birthday celebrations with her family. She drove me to get my braces on and to each subsequent orthodontist appointment. On the day I turned 16, as I readied myself to take the road test for my driver's license, Natalie offered to loan me her car, a beat up old Oldsmobile. As we drove to the motor vehicle, she confidently reassured me that I had the ability to pass the test, although as I prepared to drive away with the intimidatingly stern DMV worker, she screamed in jest, "Clear the sidewalks, Margo is on the road!" She never thought twice about sharing her life with me. In many ways, I'd like to think I saved her too from the typical teenage mania that comes with raging hormones and indelible pride. When a violent and obsessive ex-boyfriend threatened Natalie our senior year in high school, I marched right over to her house preparing to stand tall, at 5', and take him on if he chose to show up at her house. We were not only each other's sidekicks and confidante's but we were each other's champions.

At 19 years old, we found ourselves as roommates.  She had agreed to be my roommate as I was afraid to be alone. The first few months were some of the most fun I would ever know.  After six months, however, the honeymoon ended as we had realized that throughout our friendship Natalie had been rushing to put band aid's on my mental boo-boo's rather than insisting that I work to heal the emotional scars that I had been covering up with my own brand of Neosporin, Natalie's love. By taking up so much of her time to keep me happy and alive, she had failed to live and keep herself happy. On the day, Natalie decided to have a talk with me about her growing frustration that had been mounting, I panicked.  I resorted to the measures I knew best, to threaten suicide. As my threats grew louder, I expected Natalie to buckle under the pressure, admit defeat, and continue being my emotional servant. My strong and adamant friend Natalie did not. Instead, she took me down to the ground in one swift movement and held me down while she unremittingly told me her invaluable truth. I would only be a victim to this sadness, if I allowed myself to be. I'll never forget her tearful words as she spewed, "Everyone has crap they have to deal with in their lives. Some people grow up with parents that don't love them. Some kids are homeless or abused.  I can't imagine the pain you are going through, but enough is enough! Grow stronger from it and quit being the victim!" I helplessly, sat upon my knees as her emotions spilled out and covered my entire being. Finally, I exclaimed that I understood, and when she walked out of that shared apartment, I acknowledged that I would no longer be a victim to depression and fear. It was time to heal.

At the insistence of many of our mutual friends we reconnected and resumed our friendship after a three year hiatus, and we both found ourselves on the verge of epic moments in our lives. Natalie was about to be married, and my daughter Isabella was on the way.  Our friendship didn't skip a beat. In no time we were exchanging jabs, laughing it off and sharing our lives. Through the years we have seen each other through marriages, pregnancies, teething babies, divorces and more. There are times when we go months without speaking, but when we come back together it is like we never left each other's sides. We both now know that we each need time to live, be happy and breathe. So much so, that at 30 when I decided to sell everything I owned and move to Hawaii in order to make school a priority, Natalie was by my side helping me to pack, and helping herself to the shoes in my closet. My interminably vociferous partner in crime would scream at me at every moment of doubt, panic or fear that I could do it, and that I was ready. She may be bossy, she may be loud, and she may have a mean hook with her right arm, but the only thing louder than my friend Natalie, is her heart. That is why I am proud to call her my best friend.

Log of Completed Activities
_X__ Feb. 4 – Intro to paper #2: Portraits
_X__ Feb. 7- Complete readings – all of chap. 13. Optional: “Cucarachas” by Madeline Sonik.
_X__ Feb. 10- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Lee and Simic.
_X__ Feb. 14- Laulima Discussion: Portraits by Steinbach and Toth.
_X__ Feb. 18- Laulima Posting: Sample from Your Portrait.
_X__ Feb. 25- RD2 due [50 pts] Review the guidelines.
_X__ Feb. 28- Submit three RD2 evaluations. [50 pts] Review the guidelines.
_X__ Mar. 2-7 – FD2 due [125 pts] Review the guidelines. * FD1 Returned 3/18

RD 2: Wonder Woman

Margo Alvillar
25 February 2011
RD 2

Wonder Woman

As I scrambled to loosen Natalie's headlock grip from my neck I screamed, "Okay, I get it. I get it. I will stop being the victim!" With those words, the spell seemingly unbroken, Natalie released her long and gangly arms, stood to compose her 5'7" frame, and once she was sure she had regained her composure, my best friend of five years turned on her heel, walked out of our shared apartment, and as a form of brutal punishment, out of my life for three years. Natalie was never one for subtlety. Now, 11 years later, my boisterously loud friend and I can joke about that moment so long ago. Natalie, in her ever present sarcastic tone, jokingly recalls taking me down to my knees, and as an added jab, for which she is famous for, jokes that I didn't have far to fall as I am only 5 feet tall. I laugh and quickly return the dig with a comment of my own about how I could have "taken her" if I wanted to had I only gone for her weak and skinny knees. [THESIS] On the surface, this moment seems such a trivial memory, as our 17 years of friendship have seen many more ups than downs, but inside my heart, when we speak of this fight my love for her swells, because that is the moment she changed my life. [THESIS]

Natalie and I met during our freshman year of high school and needless to say, it wasn't best friend love at first sight. I thought she was loud and bossy and I'm sure she thought of me in the same way. How could I be queen bee if she was vying for the same position? I first became friends with her older sister, Angie. I thought Angie was cool. Not only was she an upperclassman, but she had her own wheels and was willing to take me along wherever she roamed as her faithful freshman follower. One day our roaming adventures took us to her house. She had to take care of a few chores and left me alone in the living room to wait. A few moments later, Natalie walked in to the room and unexpectedly began to speak with me. We talked about a recent play we had both been a part of. We laughed and made jokes about our classmates and teachers, talked about our first year in high school, boys and music. By the time Angie returned to the living room, I realized I had been wrong about Natalie. Sure, she was domineering and confrontational, but if there was anyone that could handle her, it would be me. I don't remember hanging out with Angie much more after that day, as it seemed Natalie and I grew attached at the hip from that point on.

When my mother nearly died my sophomore year, in many ways, Natalie saved my sanity if not my life. I was frighteningly suicidal, and because we were so close, she knew just when to swoop in and save the day. She was in essence, my own personal Wonder Woman. Because our birthdays were only one day apart, she made sure to include me in her birthday celebrations with her family. She drove me to get my braces on and to each subsequent orthodontist appointment. As a fellow brace-face, she told me all of the foods to avoid and laughed when less than an hour after getting my braces put on, I broke my first bracket on a tough piece of Taco Bell tortilla. On the day I turned 16, as I readied myself to take the road test for my driver's license, Natalie offered to loan me her car, a beat up old Oldsmobile. As we drove to the motor vehicle, she soothingly reassured me that I had the ability to pass the test, although as I prepared to drive away with the intimidatingly stern DMV worker, she screamed in jest, "Clear the sidewalks, Margo is on the road!" Later, Natalie, my shiny new driver's license, and I headed to lunch, which Natalie insisted on paying for. Her reason? She stated rather matter-of-factly, "My mom did it for me, and although I'm sure your mom wishes she could do it, but can't, it's what any best friend should do." In many ways, I'd like to think I saved her too, from the typical teenage mania that comes with raging hormones and indelible pride. When a violent and obsessive ex-boyfriend threatened Natalie our senior year in high school, I marched right over to her house preparing to stand tall, at 5', and take him on if he chose to show up at her house. I helped her get her first job alongside me at Griff's Hamburgers. Together, we had a ball working on evenings and weekends selling hamburgers, fries and shakes. We had even more fun spending our hard earned paychecks on swag at Target. We were not only each other's sidekicks and confidante's but we were each other's champions.

At 19 years old, we found ourselves as roommates.  I had recently quit attending a college, more than an hour away from home, due to my ongoing depression and fear of solitude. I decided to go to a college closer to home, and Natalie and I moved in to our own very first apartment. The first few months were some of the most fun I would ever know, although I again quit college in order to have more time for partying. After six months, however, the honeymoon ended and we realized on the day of that shocking physical confrontation, that all these years Natalie had been rushing to put band aid's on my mental boo-boo's rather than insisting that I find professional help to heal the emotional scars that I had been covering up with my own brand of Neosporin, Natalie's love. By taking up so much of her time to keep me happy and alive, she had failed to live and keep herself happy. On the day, Natalie decided to have a talk with me about her growing frustration that had been mounting, I panicked.  I resorted to the measures I knew best, to threaten suicide. In my four years of entitlement, I had begun to feel as though everyone owed me something for my mother's illness. As my threats grew louder, I expected Natalie to buckle under the pressure, admit defeat, and continue being my emotional servant. My strong and adamant friend Natalie did not. Instead, she took me down to the ground in one swift movement and held me down while she unremittingly told me her invaluable truth. I would only be a victim to this sadness, if I allowed myself to be. I'll never forget her tearful words as she spewed, "Everyone has crap they have to deal with in their lives. Some people grow up with parents that don't love them. Some kids are homeless. Some kids are abused. Alright, Margo I get it! You lost the mother you knew, and now she can't be there for you. I can't imagine how much that hurts. But, enough is enough! Use your near loss to be your future's gain. Grow stronger from it and quit being the victim!" I helplessly, sat upon my knees as her emotions spilled out and covered my entire being. Finally, I exclaimed that I understood, and when she walked out of that shared apartment, I acknowledged that I would no longer be a victim to depression and fear. It was time to heal.

At the insistence of many of our mutual friends we reconnected and resumed our friendship after a three year hiatus, and we both found ourselves on the verge of epic moments in our lives. Natalie was about to be married, and my daughter Isabella was on the way.  Our friendship didn't skip a beat. In no time we were exchanging jabs, laughing it off and sharing our lives. Through the years we have seen each other through marriages, pregnancies, teething babies, divorces and more. There are times when we go months without speaking, but when we come back together it is like we never left each other's sides. We both now know that we each need time to live, be happy and breathe. So much so, that at 30 when I decided to sell everything I owned and move to Hawaii in order to make school a priority, Natalie was by my side helping me to pack, and helping herself to the shoes in my closet. My interminably vociferous partner in crime would scream at me at every moment of doubt, panic or fear that I could do it! I was ready. She may be bossy, she may be loud, and she may have a mean hook with her right arm, but the only thing louder than my friend Natalie, is her heart, and that is why I am proud to call her my best friend.

                 



 



       

FD1: The Small Chapel

Margo Alvillar
3 February 2011
FD1

As my brother and I entered the small dwarfed version of the numerous grand Catholic churches I was used to frequenting with my mother on holy holidays, the size of this sanctuary was irrelevant of the big prayer being repeated in our heads for God to answer. This miniature chapel sat on the 8th floor of Denver Health Hospital. Denver Health Medical Center, a leading Level 1 Trauma Center in Colorado was an establishment used to chaos and tragic circumstances, my brother and I however, were not. The hospital itself was much like any other in the world. The furniture was uniform, bland, and uncomfortable. The hospital designers, it seemed, were unaware of the many families that would be spending hours and possibly days sitting upon their cheap mass-manufactured upholstered seats. The walls were painted in quiet muted tones; gray, sage and mauve in the hope that this tranquil tone would somehow send a message to its visitors to, "Calm down," and sheepishly taunt, "What's happening to you isn't unique and new but rather commonplace. Everyone dies eventually, right?" Moments before, my brother and I walked through the cold hallway as the smell of antiseptic, bleach and medicine permeated the air stifling our every breath thus serving as a constant reminder of where we were and that that we could not escape. Finally, we reached the entrance of our small safe haven where God was surely to be in attendance, in order to submit prayers for our mother. [THESIS] As we sat in that 8th floor sanctuary fighting back the fear of the unknown, our mother was in a fierce battle of her own, her fight to survive a brain aneurysm. [THESIS] 

That night our mother had been rushed to Denver Health after collapsing for the second time in two months. The month prior, the doctor sang sweet praises to our mother as she had somehow heroically survived a brain injury that kills most. They had operated swiftly. Within weeks my adventurous and strong mother was again at home, and not willing to let a little brain hemorrhage ruin her Saturday night, had plans to go dancing. She ended up collapsing on the dance floor. After this fall, however, there were no sweet praises being sung of my mother's audacity to survive.  "I'm so sorry, when we operated the first time, we simply did not see the second aneurysm hiding in the shadows." lamented our trusted neurosurgeon. He continued, "Had we known..well things might be different. I think it's time you prepare for the worst." As we were released to do just that, my older brother and I staggered into the waiting chapel. This small holy place was meant to serve not only as a quiet place to reflect on my mother's life and possible tragic end, but also a place to affirm, in front of a presence more grand than either of us could ever know that we would be okay.

Although I was 15 and nearing the end of my sophomore year in high school, I crawled onto my 24 year old brother's lap, like a small child needing comfort after suffering a "boo boo" from a fall. He wrapped his arms around me and soothingly repeated, "We are going to be okay, we are going to be okay," as if he were able to convince me to believe it, he could too. I discovered later that after my mother's first close call she had asked my brother, nearly a child himself, to raise me should anything prevent her from doing so in the future. To this point, her strength had kept her from falling victim to many of life's ailments; being a single parent to three kids, raising a hearing impaired child, being in a mentally abusive relationship, not to mention working her way off of welfare. My mother was a survivor. Realizing that her superhero perseverance did not mean she was invincible to brain injury, had given light to the fact that she had one more child to see through to adulthood. My father was an alcoholic, and thus not a viable option. All that was left to care for me was the responsible man she had raised on her own, her only son. When approached with the task of possibly having to parent his little sister, my brother affirmed his vow to care for me, nonchalantly saying to our mother, "Of course I will, but nothing will happen to you mom, so don't worry about it." Now, as we sat praying for a miracle or at least the will to go on, this chapel sat listening and taking it all in like an old faithful friend.   

After 30 minutes of prayers and consoling, my brother and I stood up from the velvety pew, grasped each others hands and walked out of the chapel, more calm than when we had walked in.  The doctor's direct orders to, "Sort it out." had not cured our ills, the neurosurgery ward wall paint had not muted our fears, and the notoriety of this fine establishment and their qualified staff made no difference to us.  Instead, it was this small and tranquil setting that answered our quiet requests. For we knew after visiting with our friend, that regardless of how God chose to answer our prayer, we were already blessed..with each other. Fifteen years later, the small Denver Health chapel still sits stoically on the 8th floor, boasting beautiful stained glass doors with God's image, and serves faithfully as a safe and quiet place to share the hopes, dreams and prayers of all the guests that should come by for a visit.

Photo from Google Images Search

Log of Completed Activities

* I joined the class on Wednesday, January 12th

_X*__ Jan. 10- First Day of Instruction. Log in to our class blog, our Laulima discussion forum, and your hawaii.edu mailbox. Become familiar with these instructional media. Carefully review the information in our class blog, especially the syllabus (click on the tab at the top of the page) and schedule.
_X*__Jan. 11- Intro to Paper #1. Read the "Guidelines for Paper #1" by midnight.
_X*__Jan. 11- Laulima Discussion: Who Am I? Post your response by midnight.
_X__Jan. 12- Begin setting up your personal blog for all class papers. Click here for instructions. Alternately, see the "Blogger" links in the right sidebar in our class blog. To begin, complete the initial setup. You'll be able to add finishing touches as the RD1 due date approaches. If you need help, post a request in the "Q&A About My Blog" forum in Laulima.
_X__Jan. 18- Complete readings for Paper #1
_X__Jan. 21- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Ehrlich and Legler.
_X__Jan. 26- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Gilb and Whitehead.
_X__Jan. 28- Review Draft #1 (RD1) due. [50 pts] Read the guidelines.
_X__Jan. 31- Submit three RD1 evaluations. [50 pts] Read the guidelines.
_X__Feb. 3- Final Draft #1 (FD1) due [100 pts] Read the guidelines.

 

RD 1: The Small Chapel

Margo Alvillar
28 January 2011
RD1


As my brother and I entered the small dwarfed version of numerous grand Catholic churches I was used to frequenting with my mother on holy holidays, the size of this sanctuary was irrelevant of the big prayer being repeated in our heads for God to answer. This miniature chapel sat on the 8th floor of Denver Health Hospital. Denver Health Medical Center, a leading Level 1 Trauma Center in Colorado was an establishment used to chaos and tragic circumstances, my brother and I however, were not. The hospital itself was much like any other in the world. The furniture was bland and uncomfortable, seemingly unaware of the many families that would be spending hours and possibly days sitting upon their cheap mass-manufactured upholstered seats. The walls were painted in quiet muted tones; gray, sage and mauve in the hope that this tranquil tone would somehow send a message to its visitors to, "Calm down," and sheepishly taunt, "What's happening to you isn't unique and new but rather commonplace. Everyone dies eventually, right?" Moments before, my brother and I walked through the cold hallway as the smell of antiseptic, bleach and medicine permeated the air stifling our every breathe serving as a constant reminder of where we were that that we could not escape. [THESIS] Finally, we reached the entrance of our small safe haven where God was surely to be in attendance, in order to submit our prayers and request a swift response for our mother. 

That night our mother had been rushed to Denver Health after collapsing for the second time in two months. The month prior, the doctor sang sweet praises to our mother as she had somehow heroically survived an injury that kills most, a brain aneurysm. They had operated swiftly. Within weeks my adventurous and strong mother was again at home, and not willing to let a little brain hemorrhage ruin her Saturday night had plans to go dancing. She collapsed on the dance floor. On this night, however, there were no sweet praises being sung of my mother's audacity to survive.  "I'm so sorry, when we operated the first time, we simply did not see the second aneurysm hiding in the shadows." lamented our trusted neurosurgeon. He continued, "Had we known..well things might be different. I think it's time you prepare for the worst." As we were released to do just that, my older brother and I staggered into the waiting chapel. This small holy place was meant to serve not only as a quiet place to reflect on my mother's life and possible tragic end, but also a place to affirm, in front of a presence more grand than either of us could ever know that we would be okay.

Although I was 15 and nearing the end of my sophomore year in high school, I crawled onto my 24 year old brother's lap, like a small child needing comfort after suffering a "boo boo" from a fall. He wrapped his arms around me and soothingly repeated, "We are going to be okay, we are going to be okay," as if he were able to convince me to believe it, he could too. I discovered later that after my mother's first close call she had asked my brother, nearly a child himself, to raise me should anything prevent her from doing so in the future. To this point, her strength had kept her from falling victim to many of life's ailments; being a single parent to three kids, raising a hearing impaired child, being in a mentally abusive relationship, not to mention working her way off of welfare. My mother was a survivor. Realizing that her superhero perseverance did not mean she was invincible to brain injury, had given light to the fact that she had one more child to see through to adulthood. My father was an alcoholic, and thus not a viable option. All that was left to care for me was the responsible man she had raised on her own, her only son. When approached with the task of possibly having to parent his little sister, my brother affirmed his vow to care for me, nonchalantly saying to our mother, "Of course I will, but nothing will happen to you mom, so don't worry about it." Now, as we sat praying for a miracle or at least the will to go on, this chapel sat listening and taking it all in like an old faithful friend.   

After 30 minutes of prayers and consoling, my brother and I stood up from the velvety pew, grasped each others hands and walked out of the chapel, more calm than when we had walked in.  The doctor's direct orders to, "Sort it out." had not cured our ills, the neurosurgery ward wall paint had not muted our fears, and the notoriety of this fine establishment and their qualified staff made no difference to us.  Instead, it was this small and tranquil setting that answered our quiet requests. For we knew after visiting with our friend, that regardless of how God chose to answer our prayer, we were already blessed..with each other. Fifteen years later, the small Denver Health chapel still sits stoically on the 8th floor, boasting beautiful stained glass doors with God's image and serves faithfully as a safe and quiet place to share the hopes, dreams and prayers of all the guests that should come by for a visit.