Finding My Voice

Awarded to Caitlyn Gordon for work submitted in Spring 2022 to Dr. Sheila Otto in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

Growing up in a small town in Northwestern Kansas is nothing like a Hallmark movie. There was very little charm about the dusty, windy town of Colby, Kansas. A handful of red brick buildings made up our downtown, but aside from that, our town consisted of dilapidated warehouses, grain elevators, and a couple hundred tiny, single-family homes. It is a homogenous culture. Towns like Colby, Kansas, are places where the people rarely challenge the status quo. Anything even slightly foreign to their society is viewed as threatening and unacceptable. It can be a wonderful place to live for some people. For anyone that doesn’t fit in, however, it’s a difficult way of life.

Each morning, a newspaper delivery pick-up truck would toss a rolled-up copy of the Colby Free Press onto our stoop. It was something that my parents, brothers, and I read throughout the day to keep up with the national and local news. I would sit at the kitchen table and run my finger along each ink-printed line, trying to make sense of the tiny words that formed lines and paragraphs. My mother would peer over my shoulder and add context, explaining what I was missing. She never sugarcoated the news; she felt like it was important for her children to know what was going on in the world.

When the United States invaded Afghanistan in 2001, stories of war filled the pages of our little town newspaper, and scenes of our soldiers bombing homes and buildings in a faraway land were splashed across the Nightly News. Throughout this time, my mother would explain to me what was happening. It was too much for a child to make sense of; I am an adult now and my mind still has difficulty wrapping its head around the idea of war.

One night following dinner when I was ten years old, I spied the Free Press perched on top of the kitchen counter. It was open to the Opinion Editorial section on page two. A local pastor was given a twice-weekly column where he could pen his opinions about things going on in the community or world. I always had a sinking feeling when I saw his name in the byline of an Op-Ed. I was too young to really understand why his name made my stomach twist itself into knots, but now I recognize it as the same gut feeling I get when I realize someone is not to be trusted.

The tone of this particular day’s column was humor. “Top 10 Reasons Why Afghan Men Become Suicide Bombers,” stuck out in large, bold letters, and a hard lump began to form in my throat. “1. Their wives smell so bad they want to kill themselves,” he wrote with a chipper tone. “2. The food their wives cook for them is so awful they don’t see any point in living,” he mused. “3. Their wives don’t shave their armpits. Enough said!” he joked.

My hands trembling, I moved my finger down to the fourth item on the list, unable to stop myself, even though I knew I didn’t want to see what I was about to see. “4,” he continued, “Having multiple wives means having to put up with multiple wives and three times as many children as Christian families have here in America.”

Everything in my vision began to blur and go white. Every ounce of my ten-year-old body was vibrating with rage. My skin was tingling, the hairs on the back of my neck were standing upright, and my heart was pulsing loudly and rapidly. I did not know if the lump in my throat would turn into a scream, a sob, or if my dinner was about to come back up. I stood there, trembling, with ringing in my ears and no thoughts in my head. The moment was nothing but this intensely physical feeling. It can only be described as an awakening.

My mother’s hand on my hair brought me back to the cold, tile floor of our kitchen. I looked up at her with a tear-streaked face, not even realizing that I had been crying. Without speaking, I pointed at the column, and she nodded. “I know,” she said, which was all she had to say. With those two words, I knew that she had seen it and we shared this feeling of bone-chilling fury. That was when she spoke the words that I attempt to live by every day: “If what he did makes you feel this way, then you should do something about it.”

First, I took a breath. Next, I went into my room and collected my thoughts in my purple notebook. Then, I booted up the PC, logged into my Hotmail account, and started to peck at the keys until I had crafted my very first Letter to the Editor. “I may be only ten years old,” I began, “but I know that this man is no better than the bullies in my class at school.” The words started to pour out of me. “We should not act as if we are better than anyone else just because we were born in America,” I typed, my pointer finger pressing one key at a time. “We just got lucky that we were born here.”

I also recounted in this letter that, although I had a limited amount of understanding about the War in Afghanistan, I also knew that our goal as a nation was to try and help the Afghans stay safe from the very evil group of people that was leading their country. If we were there to help them, who were we to judge them? I concluded my letter by stating that, “all women deserve respect and that he, a leader of both a church and also our community, should be ashamed of himself.”

Just as I hit send on the email, I felt the energy in my body evolve. What was a sky-high heartbeat began to slow. My muscles loosened and started to relax. I felt exhausted, but I noticed that something within me had shifted.

This day, a part of me broke open, and that part still lives inside me to this day. Before I even recognized the significance of this man’s words, it was in this moment that I learned to trust myself. If a situation causes my body to physically respond in this manner, something is wrong. As women, we are conditioned to “just go with it,” “get over it,” or to “stop being dramatic.” But I don’t ever want to “just go with” sexism, xenophobia, and racism. I want to listen to that voice inside me that’s telling me something isn’t right. That was the moment that I learned to trust my feelings.

Because of this local pastor, I also learned that men in positions of power often treat women as if they are objects, or the butt of a joke. He also wrote those words knowing they would become public and seen by every member of our town; he was proud of himself. I needed him to know that his behavior was nothing to be proud of.

His words were not the only words that ended up being printed in the local newspaper. Mine were stamped underneath Letter to the Editor the next week. Seeing my name in the Colby Free Press made me recognize that I have a voice. Not just that, but my voice has worth. My voice has something to say.

The Chapters of My Life

Awarded to Ashley Wood for work submitted in Fall 2022 to Dr. Aaron Shapiro in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

My story ended a long time ago.

The harsh October winds from outside of the classroom window matched how chaotic and out of control I felt inside. I sat in my seventh-grade English classroom as I gazed at my essay grade despondently. Atop the page in the left comer was a scarlet letter D. The teacher commented in the margins that my essay had improper grammar, spelling errors, and an incorrect thesis. This was unacceptable, and nothing new for me. I never did well on essays or writing assignments and that never bothered me. I mean, I did care about my grades so I could prove I was smart. The true reason it bothered me was that I wanted to be an author. That could never happen if I had poor grammar.

To add salve to my wound I would read stories about characters having adventures in a fantasy forest, flying by wings or metal, as they make unbreakable bonds with others. How I craved to have a taste of the latter. Because in fiction the main protagonist has faults that they overcome at the climax, and their friends are by their side along the way. My chest felt hollow, empty, much like the settling after a storm knowing it was unattainable in the real world.

The feeling of emptiness became the catalyst for me to make my own stories and adventures I would embark on. I would sink into my puffy white pillows on my bed that leaned against the soft grey walls in my room. I would feel the warmth of my laptop on my lap as my fingers grazed the keys with courage and passion and mischief in mind.

The main protagonists in my tales were powerful, clever, and witty by default because the characters I wrote about were those who I desperately wanted to be in the real world; because in the land of make-believe nothing is wrong or limitless. It became my escape from reality.

I was unstoppable until I remembered.

“Your daughter needs to get tested for a learning disability and should get held back a year,” WVCS elementary school begged.

“It looks like a non-English speaker wrote it,” my English teachers would say.

“I see no future for you,” adults would say to me every chance they got. Like an infection, their opinions festered into my mind with no return. I played what they told me on repeat, until it was like a gnat that bothered me every single day until I became accustomed to it. That is when I accepted the inevitable. I could never be an author because I could not write.

My life was a cruel paradox.

As time continued my ability to write essays hasn’t changed since that paper from seventh grade. It was the beginning of August as I felt the California sun blazing down on me. It was also the first day of sophomore year in high school. I did get better at school in my other subjects and learned better ways to take notes and study, but I was still ashamed and frustrated that my writing hadn’t improved as well. So, after seventh grade, I stopped trying to be an author knowing that I would be a failure if I chased the phantom of a dream.

So, I studied during the day and dreamed at night. The sun was for logic, and I chased the stars at night. Even though all I truly wanted to do was sink into my comfy pillows and write whatever chaotic story walked into my head; knowing that could never happen because I was a bad writer. I also knew saying I wanted to write stories was equivalent to me saying I wanted to be a pop star. Not only did I not have the talent to be a writer, but it’s also very unrealistic to make it in that field. So, I locked the idea of me writing stories in a box and left it in the storm to drown. I thought I was doing life right and that I was finally on the right path now. I thought me having better grades since seventh grade and building this phenomenon for a career is what would lead me to succeed in life. A part wondered if maybe I could be more than what my grades say or the dream, I wanted to write for myself. I wondered if it was possible for me not to sound irresponsible for wanting to write stories even knowing the odds are against me, but just sound like me. To be a human who has imagination, dreams, and passion for what brings them joy and peace.

I knew this as I padded my way to my second-period English class in the blazing hot sun and knew where I stood in the world. I was not going to add water to the seed, and just try to pass all my classes with good grades.

I opened the door and instantly felt the freezing blast from the A.C. as I walked down the endless hallway. I held my head high and strutted like the characters that were overconfident and unbreakable because they would not let anything (anyone) get in their way. I got to the end of the hall and reached the entryway where I scanned the room for any open seats in the back comer. The room was big and not stuffy like the hallway and had triangle desks. The floor was checkered tile, and the walls had colorful inspirational posters all around.

My stomach dropped and I looked like a deer in the headlights when the only available seat was in the front row. Right in front of Mrs. Franklin’s podium. She had brown skin, braided hair, and a welcoming smile that made her appear friendly. Feeling pale I walked to the seat and sat down. On the first day, she handed out The Once and Future King by T.H. White. I remember staring at it confused as I flipped through its soft pages. This was not the book I was expecting to receive. The class was instructed to read the first two chapters by next week to be
ready for a chapter quiz. After the school day, I got home and went straight to my room to start reading it. I was stumped when I opened the first page because it was hard for me to read and comprehend, and I was never sure if I read the page right. I just knew Kay called Arthur ‘Wart’ and Merlyn turned Wart into different animals.

Next week I walked down the hall that led to the strange triangle desk and took my seat right up front. On the front wall she had a giant board where she could write. She would write about the different animals’ Wart turned into, and we had to say the significance of that animal and why the author put it in. We had to find the motifs and foreshadowing used to understand why this story was written and what message it had. Before this class, I didn’t know what foreshadowing was or motifs, but it made me think about how I would use them in my own stories. It made something click inside me to want to know why authors wrote certain stories, and why some pieces of literature are still read today. This was not a waste of time but enlightening for my mind to blend fiction with reality. In the class, we were required to write constant paragraph responses to the text which helped me immensely with my grammar and structure.

I was excited to read the book and come to class to analyze what the symbols meant, something I never thought I would feel. I did not feel ashamed for being wrong about something or not knowing when I tried to guess what the text meant. It’s okay to make mistakes and fail at things, even things I enjoyed like writing. It started making me believe again that maybe I could try to take a shot at writing. It’s not the end just because I started out later than others. One thing Mrs. Franklin said repeatedly, “there is nothing wrong with ignorance it’s wrong if you choose to stay that way.” That made me understand it is better to be wrong than never try at all. I realized ignorance didn’t mean it was unfixable that I could get better at writing. The class gave me hope and made me understand I didn’t have to be a great writer to write my stories. I just had to take the leap and be willing to pick myself up, again and again, every time I fell.

As I walked into the bright sun it clicked that my journey as a writer had only begun. That just because I started off rough and jagged does not mean it is impossible to polish it up. I learned it is okay not to have all the answers or be perfect at everything because no one is at first. I had to have faith in myself and know it was not the end of the road for me. As I walked on the grey pavement into the soft orange sky filled with fat puffy clouds–I knew my story was not finished yet.

Too Mexican and Too American

Awarded to Jessica Guerrero for work submitted in Fall 2022 to Danielle Williams in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

Coming from an immigrant household, knowing Spanish and English couldn’t have been stressed enough. Learning the two languages at once was difficult, my parents spoke to me in Spanish at home and I spoke English at school. At a young age, I started liking English more as a result of learning how to read and write at school. I soon realized that English brought me closer to my friends and teachers. I slowly started speaking more English even at home. My mom disliked the fact that I started to respond to her in English. After a while, she didn’t mind too much since I was the youngest kid. I slowly started to forget a bunch of words in Spanish since I had not been practicing. Even though I preferred English I was not good in class. I always struggled with it and especially since I just could not wrap my head around all the rules the English language has. I always have been bad in English class and since I am dyslexic it made me frustrated with reading. I always read the story wrong or misunderstood it. When we started doing the Accelerated reading (Ar) program I dreaded reading even more. We had to read a book at our grade level and test over it. I was bad at focusing on the stories which made me bad at the testing part. My English grades started dropping and I started to hate reading. Once I entered 3rd grade, I started getting made fun of for being different from all the other kids. It was so confusing for my 8-year-old self to suddenly be made fun of for my Mexican accent and my brown skin. Those who I considered my friends were even joining in on the bullying. I was already having such a hard time at home since my dad was very ill with cancer. The bullying went on for weeks then my dad passed away. The kids felt bad for me, so they stopped. I thought it was a one-time occurrence, so I became friends with them again since we all grew up together.

Once I started 7th grade everything went downhill. When Trump started to run for office I had it much worse. I was told several racist things like go “back to your country” and more. The bullying was such a hard thing to face especially since it was something I could not change. I would tell the teachers about the awful things that were being said and they would just tell the kids to stop and nothing more. I felt unsafe at school and I wanted to run away from my life but my mom said it will pass. After going into a deep depression, I realized I hated the fact I was Mexican because it only caused me trouble. I worked hard to get rid of my Mexican accent and develop a “country” accent. I learned how to mimic others’ personalities to fit in better. I learned about all the popular hobbies going on in school. I started to finally fit in. I tried harder in English class to improve the way I talked. I was at the point where I forgot all my Spanish. I became an angry person and I got mad when my mom talked to me in Spanish or tried to remind me that I was Mexican. I wanted to pretend I was just like everyone else in my small town. When someone made a racist joke to my face I would laugh too and pretend that it did not apply to me. At this point in my life, I was your average country bumpkin. I hated it on the inside but it did make me fit in a lot better. I felt like I didn’t have a choice in being who I truly wanted to be.

My mom is originally from Mexico and she wanted to travel back to her hometown to see her family. I started going to Mexico every summer with her and I felt bad I could not talk to my cousins or aunts. I felt so lonely only being able to talk to my mom, so I decided to relearn Spanish. I asked my mom to teach me Spanish at home so I could surprise them the next time we visit. In Mexico, my cousins would make fun of me because I was not Mexican enough. They made fun of how I dressed and how I had an American accent. Anytime I messed up on my Spanish they joked about it. To this day they still quote my mistakes and cackle at them. I hated how I was always different and I could not fit in one place. I was always the butt of the joke and I was so tired of it. After a few years, I learned no matter what I will never fit in perfectly. I then started embracing myself more. I realized that being myself is the best option for me.

I got back into learning about my culture and I loved it! I stopped pretending to be someone I was not and I acted differently in my hometown. After I started to get prouder about my culture I decided no one will ever change me into what I used to be. I was so excited when I realized I could read and write in Spanish! I won’t ever forget how happy that made me. I still messed up on random words I don’t know but it was huge progress. Now I’m very outspoken about Mexican culture. I also like reading more than I used to and I look at books in English and Spanish. I know what genre I like now so I’ve gravitated to enjoying books more. My English high school teacher was such an inspiration to my English journey. I was in her creative writing class and I had so much fun when she would help me create work that I was proud of. I learned how to have fun in the process of writing and convey my emotions to others. She was an amazing teacher that I am glad I came across. I’m glad I had the opportunity to go to Mexico at the time that I did. I’m proud to have learned more about my culture and language. I have taken my experience to help others who go through the same problem. I helped people who only spoke Spanish with learning English. The person I taught the most English to was a little boy going into kindergarten. I worked with him on the basics and helped him learn the pronunciation. Now he’s in 8th grade and speaks fluently. These experiences helped me grow into the person I am now.

Working Out the Kinks

Awarded to Kamarian Gates for work submitted in Fall 2022 to Candie Moonshower in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

If you take a look through the history of black hair in America, you will find multiple transitions through an unlimited number of hairstyles. Rice and seeds were hidden within cornrow braids by enslaved Africans to keep themselves fed on slave ships. Relaxers and wigs are used in schools and offices, even today, as African Americans are told their natural hair is “unprofessional.” Box braids and twists are protective styles used to grow and shelter kinkier hair textures. Through all these changes, new products have surfaced, and advertisers have created different tactics to draw customers to their merchandise. In the article “Advertising’s Fifteen Basic Appeals,” Jib Fowles demonstrates the different appeals companies use to grab their audiences’ attention based on instincts and emotions they can’t ignore. Hair care advertisers, such as Ultra Sheen in 1973 and Creme of Nature in 2019, continuously latch onto the appeal to the need for autonomy, and they have successfully used this tactic for over 40 years. Despite this similarity, the use of the appeals to the needs for affiliation and attention in the 1973 Ultra Sheen ad contrast well with the use of the appeals to the needs for guidance and nurturing in the 2019 Crème of Nature ad.

Independence is a very important figure in both of these ads. It appears in different forms of the appeal to the need for autonomy. In the 1973 Ultra Sheen ad, we are presented with five beautiful women who appear very confident in their shiny variety of different hairstyles. Most people would assume they need to go to a salon to achieve this for themselves, but Ultra Sheen promises that you have everything you need in one small kit to achieve this beauty in the comfort of your own home. According to the packaging, “It makes changing your hair style—any way from smooth and sleek to bouncy curls—as easy as changing your mind.” Similarly, Fowles states, “When Visa claims ‘You can have it the way you want it,’ yet another primary motive is being beckoned forward—the need to endorse the self. The focus here is upon the independence and integrity of the individual ….” Ultra Sheen uses this logic to communicate to the customer that they can create brand new hair styles for themselves, by themselves. They don’t have to be like everyone else and stick to the things that have been done before.

Creme of Nature, in 2019, uses the appeal to the need for autonomy in a kindred manner. They want you to use their products to nourish and style black hair in its natural state. When you take your braids out, or go to wash your hair after straightening it, it’s important that you have the right products with the perfect ingredients to moisturize and cleanse your hair before you put it up again. Depending on what area a person lives in, their variety of products made for kinky and curly hair textures may be limited. Therefore, you are dependent on yourself to learn what additives are beneficial to your hair type. Creme of Nature uses well known ingredients such as coconut oil and shea butter to assure you, writing, “Pure Honey is like you: unmatched style and shine.” They want you to feel your best, with ingredients you already trust.

The appeal to the need for affiliation is based on a person’s relationship with others. Fowles notes, “According to Henry Murray, the need for affiliation consists of 24 desires ‘to draw near and enjoyably cooperate or reciprocate with another; to please and win affection of another; to adhere and remain loyal to a friend.’” Historically, this tactic is a little less innocent, but it’s all based around the same fundamentals. As black people began to enter the same professional and educational spaces as their white counterparts, they would straighten and relax their curls and coils to remove at least one reason they wouldn’t be taken seriously by them. It wasn’t just a case of fitting into a new space, but it was an attempt to rid themselves of at least a small percentage of the discrimination they would face on a daily basis.

Identically to other ads in the cosmetic industry, Ultra Sheen uses the appeal to the need for attention to magnetize women toward their product. In this example, it’s less about the text featured in the ad and more about the women that appear in it. You can’t resist their elegant allure, and it immediately catches your eye. They are perfect pictures of poise that demand the attention of everyone in the room. Fowles illustrates this idea with a related example: “Peggy Fleming flutters her legs for L’eggs, encouraging females who want to be the star of their own lives to purchase this product.” Beauty standards tend to make people, especially women, reach endlessly towards the top tier elegance and perfection they see in these ads. They want to live this lifestyle, and make other people watch as they do it. Companies know that most women can’t resist the idea of being seen as a beauty queen.

The appeal to the need for guidance plays on the childish wonder that comes from learning from your elders. Mother knows best, after all, and she always has a remedy prepared to solve all of your problems. But when mom can’t hydrate your dry curls, Creme of Nature has just the thing: “Hidden in hives and stored in nature’s perfection is the nectar of queens. Honey, a timeless, and very modern way to uncompromised healthy and moisturized hair.” The use of the word timeless makes it sound as though honey has been used for multiple generations by other people with the same problem. Furthermore, honey is familiar. It may be one of the few ingredients on the bottle you recognize. Tradition and familiarity are perfect ingredients to assure buyers that they are being steered in the right direction. It sounds like advice you would receive from your grandmother, and she wouldn’t lie to you.

The appeal to the need to nurture is defined by the exigency to provide care for those you love. However, in a busy world where you may feel it’s up to you to take care of everyone and everything, you must remember to take care of yourself as well. Fowles reports that on the topic of nurturing, “Murray uses synonyms like ‘to feed, help, support, console, protect, comfort, nurse, heal.’” In the case of our Pure Honey ad, words like moisturized, healthy, uncompromised, and unmatched are used. As you would choose the gentlest of detergents for a newborn baby, you would also choose the best of options for your own self-care and relaxation. You are automatically tempted by the product that sounds most beneficial to your hair.

Hair products and advertisements have seen many changes over the years. They both influence each other because there is much happening under the surface. A picture featuring a fluffy afro may be seen as a symbol of power, and braids may represent the cultural aspect of the hairstyles worn by black people. Regardless, black hair will continue to be featured and treasured by its community in all its forms. It’s all a natural part of working out the kinks.

Work Cited

Fowles, Jib. “Advertising’s Fifteen Basic Appeals.” Common Culture: Reading and Writing About American Popular Culture. Eds. Michael Petracca and Madeleine Sorapure. Prentice Hall, 1998.