It is human obsession with survival that results in the taste for depictions of death and suffering. In Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag asserts, “Photographs of the suffering and martyrdom of a people are more than reminders of death, of failure of victimization. They invoke the miracle of survival” (87). People want to appreciate life. Viewing people suffering awakens a sense of gratitude for life that is often neglected. Driving past a car accident, you look out your window to ascertain that the victim has indeed survived. If it is a gruesome scene, you empathize of course; you also feel thankful that you are safe and it was not you involved in the crash.  Similarly, people view horror movies in order to gain appreciation for their luck and ease in life, the fact that they have survived thus far. In Letters from of Iwo Jima, this human obsession with survival is taunted when the American soldiers discover the two Japanese soldiers. To the audience, it seems that the Americans are amiable when they offer them water. You actually believe initially that they were going to help them survive, but, of course, one of the Americans shoots both soldiers point blank, one after the other. For the second soldier, the very last thing he sees before he dies, after watching his friend falling to the ground, is the American’s gun, and his drooping cigarette. He then closes his eyes, accepting his fate. The brief moment between gunshots seems somehow fathomless. By forcing the audience to live the Japanese soldier’s last moment through his eyes, one forgets who the “Other” is, and must ponder the atrocious nature of humanity. This scene inspires feelings of sympathy for the ‘”Others” as well as reinforces the notion of survival as a miracle. The faux mercy that the Americans show at first emphasizes the ruthlessness of human nature, but what proceeds is a sense of appreciation for life in general.  Nothing makes survival seem more miraculous than tyranny.

Blog #4

            After viewing and analyzing my Facebook page, I have come to the conclusion that my persona is depicted as being a happy, carefree individual who is completely content with the life I’ve been given. While this description seems ideal, it is in no way who I really am. The written texts on my page serve this persona indirectly through a more reflective and focused happiness, although my images show a direct attempt to convey a more superficial, “caught in the moment” happiness.  Namely, almost every photo features me smiling, whether I’m with friends, family, or my dog.  They look natural enough, and yet none are candid; they are stages smiles. They show me with friends at parties, posing as if we are having the time of our lives; or with my sister, smiling as if we're the happiest people on earth. My attempt at conveying constant happiness is indirectly a result of my subculture as an American teen; we all want to live the ideal life, so we smile as if this life is our own.

            The written text on my page is more effective in depicting my actual thoughtful character, yet it still has the essence of false happiness. In my “write something about yourself” box are Bob Dylan lyrics, “the man in me will hide sometime to keep from being seen, but that’s just because he doesn’t wanna turn into some machine.” This quotation serves my character well because I often feel like an outsider and I try my best to avoid conformation. However, my status that simply states “I love it all” directly combats this meditative thought and once more adds to a sense of happiness that is not real; instead, it’s just an attempt to prove to other members of my subculture as an American teen that I am just as happy as they are. In short, my Facebook certainly depicts a false, exultant character that is not my own.

            It was one of those long exhausting days that make you question who you are and what your purpose here on earth is. Melodramatic as it may sound, I was seething over my homework load and my swimming practice schedules, wondering how it was that I signed up for this deathbed known as college. I was sitting in the Tolbert laundry room reading one of my three required sociology textbooks while simultaneously texting my dear mother. She kept insisting that I find a way to branch out and meet people, people like me.

            “I know you’re not into sororities, but there’s got to be a cool one!” she texted. What a dreamer. My mother, of all people, should have known how terrified I am of crowds of girls and their evil ways. Thinking about groups of girls paying for their friends and attending killer parties while absentmindedly skimming my text started to make me feel sluggish, and slightly depressed. The sound of the air conditioning kept humming—it was quite hypnotic. Within moments I was fast asleep.

            “You cannot enter!” cried the pig. Why?, I thought. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was. Everyone was crowded around the mountain and the pig was sitting on top, as if the huge rock was his throne.  This creature looked like any ordinary pig, only colossal in height and width, and with a strangely menacing English accent. Even worse, he was wearing my favorite blue top—the one with the bow in the center and the swoopy back. The sight of this monstrous creature wearing my favorite shirt made me grow quickly infuriated. Who did he think he was? He was stretching it out with every exhale; I could see the seams were on the verge of splitting. He bent down from his rocky throne and made close eye contact with me—and then, disgustingly, blew a nasty waft of air in my face.

            “What’s your deal?” I bellowed, infuriated. “I just want my freaking shirt back!” The beast laughed, his giant pig belly gyrating under my cute top.

            “You think you are WORTHY of a shirt of this status? Don’t make me laugh! Now go to class.”

            “What?”

            “Sofia. Go to class. You fell asleep….Your laundry should be done now..” exclaimed the pig. Suddenly I was being shaken, by the pig…no…by my roommate, Ashley.

            “You’ve been asleep for like…ten hours,” she said. Wow, I thought; what a dream. As she exited the room I reached for my laundry basket and walked over to the dryer, still pondering over the bizarre dream I just had. What was it supposed to mean? Clearly, I’m not worthy of something; but what? It didn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense, but I was thinking so deeply about it that I faltered to realize something was drastically wrong with my laundry pile—something blue and adorable was missing.

            “My shirt!” I screamed. I tore through the pile again and again, until I was absolutely sure it was gone. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and I couldn’t believe someone would have the nerve to come in and steal my shirt, from an occupied drier nonetheless. My thoughts crept back to my dream, and I realized that the entire fantasy must have been some form of reality. Asleep, it was as if some part of me realized that an injustice was being committed against me. Worse even, I began to reflect on the bitter feelings I had before I drifted off to sleep—alienation from groups of happy girls, stress from my workload—and now my favorite shirt was missing. Once more, I was sinking in a sea of melodramatic depression. Somehow I just wasn’t good enough on some level, and the world was seeking its revenge on me for being so inferior. I picked up my laundry basket, still seething, and trudged off to my dorm to drop it off.

            On my way to class, I couldn’t help but notice the slight breeze that was rustling the leaves in the trees. It brought me back to autumn days at home with my dad, picking up leaves and examining the arrays of colors. I wondered how my parents were doing, how my dogs were holding up. Thoughts of home brought forth some level of comfort, and before I knew it, my depressed disposition had blown by like the dust in the wind. My sociology class flowed by surprisingly smoothly, and I was thankful for having read the chapter after all. As I walked back to my dorm after my class, I began to wonder why I was so upset. Sure, my shirt was missing, but it was just a material possession. So what if I never achieved a level of popularity like I would in a sorority of material girls? So what if I have to drown in a sea of homework,? The results yielded can only be positive.

            I ascended the stairs to my dorm with a feeling of unannounced accomplishment. I felt good about my day for some reason. When I reached my door, to my astonishment, something blue lay in a folded heap on the floor. My shirt! I picked it up and rejoiced, bringing it close to my face. I smelled it and almost gagged. Bacon! Ew! I thought in revolted happiness. It smelled like the very pig who stole it, and yet I couldn’t care less. Some stranger had borrowed it, ate bacon in it, and yet was kind enough to return it. The world isn’t so bad after all, I thought. I headed down to the laundry room to cleanse the pig out of my shirt, once and for all.

Reflection:

Blog Assignment #3

The scene opens up with a car accident; a fatality seems to have occurred based on the damages.*ACT: These actions set the scene up for an explanation of the fatality on the part of the boy. **REF: The action seems to take place in a crowded city of some sort, a setting where tumultuous fatalities are likely to occur.

“I’m ready to communicate with you now, tell you my secrets.” ***HER: The enigma is revealed; what secret is the boy keeping from his mother? “Someone got hurt. A lady, she died.” “You can see her? (Mom leans over steering wheel, looking for carcass in street) Where is she?” ****SEM: The unstable meaning, the dead person, is what the mother expects her son to be referring to, yet he is finally addressing his sixth sense and she has no idea what he is actually referring to. “Standing next to my window.” ***Equivocation: The mother cannot see the corpse, so to her it seems that he is lying, yet he can actually see her; both fraud and truth intermingle.

“You see ghosts Cole?” He nods. “They want me to do things for them.” ***Partial answer: Cole has revealed that he can see spirits, yet the specificity of such an occurrence is still yet to be uncovered by the mother. “They’re the ones who used to hurt me.” ***Suspended answer: Rather than explaining how or why or in what manner he sees the spirits, he adds a new detail to the already overwhelming news.

“She [grandma] wanted me to tell you she saw you dance. She said when you were little that you and her had a fight right before your dance recital. You thought she didn’t come see you dance. She did.  She hid in the back so you wouldn’t see. She said you were like an angel. She said you came to the place where they buried her, asked her a question. She said, the answer is ‘every day.’ What did you ask?” “Do I make her proud?” ***Disclosure: Not only is the truth of Cole’s talent revealed, the mother finally believes him, for he has a validation of events that happened unnoticed by the mother, reinforcing his claim. Mother and son embrace. *The mother finally feels a connection with her son that she hadn't felt ever before.

Blog Assignment #2

http://www.goldengatepolygraph.com/About%20us/aboutus.aspx.htm

The image I’ve selected is a manifestation of American pride. It is synonymous with salutes and hands over hearts. The motion of the flag in the wind suggests almost a godlike quality that is reinforced by the matching blues of the flag and sky. This classification of color gives the flag an almost serene quality, as if we as Americans we’re meant to be here, to prosper, to conquer. The red directly contrasts with the sky, evoking feelings of power and might. Metaphorically, the emphasis of light shining through the stars adds to the supernatural quality; it is as if god himself is piercing through the flag. This image is quite conventional; the centering is pretty even, giving off an even sense of balance. Like any typical American flag, it is the epitome of pride. 

The French theorist Jean Baudrillard referred to the “murderous capacity of images,” stating that they are “murderers of the real, murderers of their own model.” This concept is exceptionally outlined in the photo I selected. Such a boastful, proud image is initially looked at as an icon of an amazingly powerful yet perfectly gentle country. The words I added beg to differ. Each country I mentioned that stands alone is another country of whom America has intervened in within our history as a sovereign nation. The goal of my revised image is to evoke feelings of irony and even hypocrisy for we, as Americans, are constantly boasting about doing anything to annihilate terrorism, and yet, somehow along the way, we became the dreaded terrorists.  The first image, as Baudrillard stated, truly isn’t reality because it does not capture the atrocities America is responsible for; it only shows the sugarcoated pride that is instilled in the masses with cliché songs and pledges.  Therefore, the second image is a more accurate representation of reality, for it represents the baggage that accompanies being a so-called “powerful” nation.