The Ferguson Thing

First let me say that there are certain facts about this case that are irrefutable. For example:

1) A young black man who was completely unarmed was shot and killed by police officer Darren Wilson.

2) The police department initially reported that Mike Brown (the victim) was killed 35ft from the SUV of the officer. Later, it was revealed that this was incorrect, and that Brown really died 150ft from the car. This is understandable, clearly. I mean, they’re not too far apart, right? It’s not like that’s four times the first stated distance, right?

3) Mike Brown had stolen something from a store prior to the incident. (X)

4) Darren Wilson DID NOT know of this theft prior to their altercation. Brown was stopped for jaywalking. For those of you who don’t know, jaywalking is that misdemeanor that no one takes seriously including the cop that sees me doing it on a weekly basis whenever the opportunity presents itself. Even when I go up to them literally the next day, all they do is smile and say good morning before stopping traffic to allow me to get to the other side of the road (I should include here that I feel that this is because Ferguson’s police department has serious issues that I will address later). Details are fuzzy regarding whether Wilson learned of the robbery at some point during his interaction with Brown. The Ferguson police department has given conflicting statements on the issue.

5) Eyewitness testimonies conflict with each other. Some support the scene described by Wilson, where Mike Brown allegedly charged at him as he was under fire. Some support a scene in which Mike Brown faced the officer, surrendered, asked him not to shoot, and then was killed. Physical evidence of the bullet wounds can be used to support either version of the story. The wounds suggests that Brown was bent over and had moved closer to the officer at some point. This could have been in surrender, and after having been shot, being bent over in pain. This could also have been charging into the bullets being fired at him (which is really odd behavior for someone who, at the very most, was only high on marijuana).

6) Ferguson police demonstrated blatant disrespect and apathy about the situation by driving over and allowing their dog to urinate on the Mike Brown memorial. Source.In case you didn’t believe that one. And another because I didn’t believe it and I had to really look into this.

7) The Grand Jury decision requires at least nine of twelve votes.

8) The Grand Jury was made up of nine whites and three blacks.

9) Grand Juries are usually given a list of charges on which to choose from to indict the suspect. The St. Louis County prosecutor did not suggest any charges against Darren Wilson.

10) Grand Juries don’t usually hear testimony from the defendant. Darren Wilson gave a four hour testimony.

11) The grand jury heard MANY accounts of the situation and viewed evidence that is far more than typical.

12) Darren Wilson and Mike Brown are VERY SIMILAR in size.

In conclusion: this situation is so difficult. One thing is clear: this IS a RACE ISSUE. The outburst of protests spurs from the distrust of white police officers in an area dominantly populated by African Americans. The outburst of protests spurs from the distrust of police from African Americans EVERYWHERE because racial profiling is not some concept that some people invented for sympathy. It really happens and it is really detrimental to everyone involved. The police are also not releasing consistent evidence or information regarding the case, which leads me to believe that this case was SERIOUSLY mishandled.

Do not assume everyone is innocent until proven guilty. There was no trial. There will be no chance to prove him guilty. There was no chance to prove Mike Brown guilty. Do not forget this.

Also, in case you missed it, the literal KKK has a position on this particular issue (X). There are alleged ties between Darren Wilson and the KKK (X)(X). Wilson also literally compared Brown to a demon during his testimony.

Police officers, in theory, should have enough training to arrest one unarmed man. Police officers should not have to resort to fatal means of self defense after two punches. Police officers should wear body cameras we should do that as a country because the amount of distrust that many situations like this creates too much fear in all communities especially when you are taught that these people in uniforms are here to protect you.

DO NOT forget that this is not about one crime that could quite possibly go unpunished. This is about an entire country that was founded on the concepts of equality, freedom, liberty, and justice for all being so racist that it will allow the killer of an 18-year-old black man to walk free without so much as a trial. A country that takes abortion more seriously than the death of an actual, fully formed human being with a family who had gotten to know and love him over the course of their lives. The news will paint this all in a negative light, but they are distracting from the big picture.

Protests are meant to make noise in a nation where no one sees what is going on. No one is listening.

Are you?

Additional Sources: (X)(X)

Examples of appalling police brutality against (SURPRISE) black people: (X)(X)

Application Process

My name is Katie.
I’m not on the varsity soccer team, I have yet to land the lead in the winter musical, and I haven’t logged any community service hours throughout all of high school. I probably look astonishingly similar to the bulk of your other applicants.

I have received above average grades in honors and AP classes and my SAT scores are at the minimum for your university. All things considered, I know for a fact that I probably don’t stand out. But last night, in the process of writing my application essay, I was visited by my former self.

Freshman Katie stands next to my bed, two feet shorter, seventy pounds heavier, wearing a sweatshirt in June, and her skin is three shades paler. She avoids signing up for any and every club, she avoids her three siblings, she even avoids herself. Her curtains are always drawn. Lying in her top drawer is a Swiss army knife that no one knows she uses on a regular basis; no one will ever find out. There is a stack of books in the corner of her room that is taller than she is, but she will never get around to reading them.

So I may not look incredibly impressive on paper, and I won’t be able to write you an extraordinary essay about the animal hospital that I work at on the weekends and what I’ve learned from my experiences there, but I have made a hell of a lot of progress during my four years. I have cut and cried, argued and fought, stayed up until 3am to finish homework and still woke up at 6am to get to school on time until I became the person I am today. I’ve learned why a bullet shot from a gun will hit the ground at the same time as an identical bullet dropped from the same height, but I’ve also learned that sometimes you’ll have to throw away your Swiss army knife for yourself because no one else will. I learned that being your own hero is your best and safest option. I learned that you can work your ass off and smile through every day and still have the lowest class rank out of all of your fellow honors and AP friends. I learned that no matter what the letters of recommendation say, nothing you will see on the other side of this is going to tell you who any of us are. We are all so much more than our GPAs. I am not an SAT score.

It’s Not Rocket Science (Well . . . Actually. . . )

Allow me to set the scene for you.

The whole class is sweaty, the room hot and stuffy from the abundance of teenagers with increased body temperatures due to the previous gym period. Every single student had either played basketball or handball, leaving them absolutely drained of energy as they pulled out their notebooks.

The physics teacher, noting the lack of liveliness in his usually over-active class, crossed to the front of the room slowly and opened a wooden drawer under his brand new sliding white boards. Retrieving a small nerf-missile launcher, he faces the class again with a smirk. He begins shooting the small foam missiles at one of the most talkative girls in class, missing every time until he finally gets the full attention of the class.

Once the room is silent aside from a few lingering comments about the cheap toy, the teacher once again reaches into the drawer, this time drawing out a small toy sling-shot. He proceeds to shoot small foams balls at the same girl, still always missing. This man has embarrassing aim.

After all of this, somehow he led into a sheep mooning his wife on their honeymoon in Ireland. Believable enough. Let me also set this scene for you.

The sheep is on a stone wall, as there are many of both sheep, and stone walls in Ireland. First, it is facing the road that the teacher and his wife were driving on. They pull up and stop to take it’s picture, probably thinking something along the lines of “Oh, cute, sheep on wall, so adorable, rap scallion”. . . who knows, they’re at least ten years older than me. Old people, you know?

At the flash, the sheep turns around on the wall, ‘moons’ his wife, and proceeds to jump off the wall on the other opposite side. What’s on the opposite side? A cliff. Water. Sharp rocks. Unhappy endings.

To this day, the teacher insists that the sheep landed on a small ledge on the other side of the wall, although he never stopped to check. During this explanation, a student asked the only logical question one could ask: “How?”

The physics teacher, being the sarcastic little shit he his, got up onto a lab table in front of the entire class and said the words “Like this” followed by him backing off the table with a short “HAH!” disappearing behind the bench where no one could see him.

Believe it or not, we actually learned in physics today. We calculated the sheep’s falling speed and it’s horizontal acceleration to see whether or not it would land on the rocks or in the water. But, let’s be honest, that is not the part of the class any of us will remember come the test. 

It’s Monday

Happy Monday! You know. . . Monday. It’s the day before Tuesday.

Tuesday, the day that today is not. Because today is too busy being Monday it can’t possibly find the time to be Tuesday. So this is definitely Monday, tell your boss that’s why you didn’t come into work yesterday.

Oh, you went to work yesterday? Good for you, over-achiever. Ranking in those over-time hours so you can buy yourself some. . . uh. . . cookies. Yeah, get yourself some cookies with that money. You deserve one after working over-time.

You poor people, working on Sunday. I guess you lost track of your days. You probably just checked off two days on your calendar on Saturday by accident instead of just one. Or your alarm clock just went off on the wrong day. It happens sometimes, you know. If you set it wrong, it does. 

Alright. I’m late. I admit it I’m sorry. I have to tell you it’s taking quite a bit of effort to get back into running this blog, and it’s such a mess sometimes that I think no one even cares anymore when posts like this happen. Truth is, I forgot yesterday was a blog day and that’s all my fault (and also a lot of other people’s faults because I had a lot of work to do on the day I had to get fitted for a gown. Don’t teachers understand I can’t do everything at once?).

Today is still Monday because on the internet I can make up my own rules. This is MY BLOG DANG IT. So happy Tuesday/Monday, because today is definitely not Tuesday and if you need evidence to tell your boss why you weren’t there yesterday (you know, for those of you who weren’t working over-time) you can e-mail them this post for support. 

Your employee is telling the truth. Today is Monday. Your whole life is a lie. You should go home and think about that. 

Swallow Your Pride

Sometimes, it’s hard to admit when you’re wrong. If you’re like me, it’s damn near impossible to admit when you’re wrong (because you’re so rarely wrong and you’re just not used to that yet). But sometimes, even if it’s ever so rarely, you are wrong. So here goes, time to swallow it up and admit it.

I was wrong. I used to blame everything on that one person and I was wrong. It wasn’t in her hands. It wasn’t in anyone’s hands. It was me. I AM STEPHANIE BELL HAR HAR HAR I LOVE KATIE HAHAHA SHES DOING SOMETHING FOR MY SKYPE FIR ME RIGHT NOW HELLO HELOOO I LOVE KATIE HAHAHAHAHAHA WERE BEST FRIENDS EVEN THOUGH SHE CONSTANTLY PICKS ON ME FOR MY SPEECH ISSUES MY FIRST LANGUAGE ISNT ENGLISH I CANT HELP IT THAT SOMETIMES I ENGLISH VERY WELL BUT SOMETIMES NO ANYWAYS BYE BYE HAVE FUN READING HER SAD, TYPED DIARY HAHAH HAVE A NICE DAY. <33333

LOVE STEPHANIE BELL.

^^Alright so I had a totally different idea for this post but my friend and I swapped laptops so I could help her out with something and this was the result. I don’t have it in me to finish/change this post right now so here it is.

P.S: English IS her first language and she picks on me just as often as I pick on her, if not, more.

Traumatic Acquisition of Spectacles

I, a sixteen year old girl, grew up in a school system where we were screened for our vision once a year, every year for as long as I can remember. It’s called a ‘physical’ if you could really consider it that. Especially when the school nurse does it, it isn’t exactly thorough, but can you blame her? I mean, the poor lady has to see at least 800 kids in one week (I go to a relatively small school).

However, due to this routine screening and also regular visits to the doctor, I had NO reason to believe there was anything wrong with my vision. Me, the girl who had done vision screenings for at least TEN YEARS.

Well, one day I went to my doctor and, low and behold, I’ve got pretty awful vision in one eye. I’m not angry about this, but honestly if my right eye was ever below-par and you neglected to tell my parents I should see an optometrist then I’m going to hold a bit of a grudge.

I wouldn’t have, if it weren’t for the fact that the nurse was such a snob when I was being tested. With her snide little “Can you read the line above that? How about the next one up? Above that one?” No, lady. I can’t. It’s too blurry. Is that a C, G, or an O? Can anyone even read these things?

Then she proceeds to say “You’ll be driving soon?” in that stupid little condescending tone. Sorry that you never told me I needed glasses, woman. Since it wasn’t corrected, it got worse. Your fault.

Even this wouldn’t have forced me to hold a grudge. But no, when I saw the optometrist (sweetest guy on the planet), he asked in disbelief “You’re school screens your vision every year and they never said anything?” No, they didn’t. Because they really don’t care.

After the doctor’s little “Which one is better, 1 or 2?” session (is there even a difference for 50% of the options because I’m pretty sure there isn’t) he put in eye drops with the line “Now these are going to numb your eye.”

Yeah, now there’s trouble.

Here is the part where I explain that I am a mess. Just an absolute wreck that can be very hard to understand at times which is why I will probably never have a successful relationship. Some of the things that makes me a mess is my anxiety/insane fears/ panic attacks. One of these insane fears is people touching/things touching/any contact with my eyes whatsoever.

Naturally, when goopy stuff is put in my eye along with the announcement that it is for the purpose of numbing my eyes so that I won’t feel what he’s about to do to my eye. . . yeah, trouble.

I basically started to have a panic attack. Hyperventilating, shaking, sweating, went white in the face panic attack. I can look back on it and laugh and also say “what in the world is wrong with me.”

The purpose of the drops, for anyone who has been to the optometrist, is so that he could test the pressure in my eyes. Depending on the doctor, I know a lot of them use the ‘poof test’ where they have a machine blow a puff of air into your eye. My doctor has a little instrument instead that he uses to just touch your eye, though you never really feel it. It just looks like it’s coming really close to your eye. This, for obvious reasons, terrified me. Made me cringe. Then the doctor said the famous line that stuck in my memory and will never leave. . . “Are you hyperventilating?” Yeah, I am, doc. Thanks for noticing.

God I hope he doesn’t peruse the blogosphere in his free time because he would totally know this is me.

Anyway, then they did the little “these are for dilating your eye” which meant more eye drops which we all know are so popular with me. They sent me out into the waiting room until I was all dilated where the receptionist expressed her concern for me.

“Are you okay? You look really pale. Are you going to pass out? Would you like something to drink? I’m going to get you something to drink.” I didn’t want anything to drink. She brought me pepsi. I hate soda. They made me drink it anyway.

Now, about a month later, I have my glasses and I’m using them right now. You’d be so proud. No, you wouldn’t, but I need to feel some sense of pride that I survived that experience.

And now the end. I never know how to end these things.

So uhm. . .

See you next Monday,

You know,

If you follow me.

If not

 

 

 

 

 

 

YOUR LOSS!!!!!!

The Dreaded Year

Well, it’s the first Monday of my junior year of high school and I’m back to blogging. After my hiatus, I’m just going to ignore that it ever happened rather than explaining it to you because I figure most of you don’t actually care, and I don’t want to waste your time.

So here we are, another school year begun, another new set of books, pens, pencils, glasses, clothes and teachers. Junior year, the dreaded year, the year I have been warned about time and time again, especially as an honors student. So far, high school has been as follows:

Freshman Year: the year of loneliness (don’t worry, things have gotten better)

Sophomore Year: the year of activities

Junior Year: yet to be decided, but if all goes according to legend, it will become ‘the year of homework’

This may come as a shock to. . . well. . . everyone, but I actually enjoy school. I like being able to see my friends. I appreciate the opportunity to get smarter. I enjoy learning.

I, however, DO NOT like homework, or getting up in the morning, or taking tests, or the fact that our value as a person is decided by a number we have to earn by being quizzed on things we might not be good at, like history or math. 

I understand that having signed up for all honors classes, I have basically sacrificed any social life I possess in order to maintain good grades. I accept it. Hell, I welcome it. But things that I have heard about teachers that I have this year are far worse than any homework horror story the now-seniors can feed to me.

One teacher, according to common tales, is just the opposite of what you would hope for in a teacher. A teacher that speeds through material and proceeds to talk to you as if you’re stupid when you ask her questions. Evidence thus far in the school year has indicated these tales are 100% true.

A teacher could give me a mountain of homework and a multitude of essays to write and still not be as bad as this teacher, because this is the worst injustice a teacher could pull on a student. Teachers are supposed to help you if you need it. They tell you to ask questions if you need help. Their main goal in their job is to help you succeed, so why would any one of them treat you like you’re stupid when you ask a question?

Other than that particular teacher, looks like this year will be loaded with homework, which is manageable if I ‘budget my time wisely’ as they keep reminding me. The most terrifying thing would be play season, especially considering I will be auditioning for both the fall play, and the winter musical.

Consider this post a bit of a heads up, play/homework/school related posts are coming! Auditions are around the corner so trust me, it’s coming.

Besides that, have an awesome week. I’ll be back here again on Monday to share with you all the tale of my acquisition of glasses.

General Feelings on a Monday

GAAAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH. BIRUWLSKhoakisnmvosuhwosm, 

Do we have to do stuff today?

RAWR. HURGABHURG.

Can I go back to sleep yet?

UUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH.

How about food now?

GROOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSS.

Alright. That’s enough effort for one day.

GGGGRRRRRUUUUUHHHH.

What is it about Mondays that just make everyone feel like absolute crap?

Honestly, I’m not even doing real things, I’m not even being productive. Just the fact that I have to get out of bed is bad enough.

Welcome to Monday. Welcome to hell.

8 Hours, $75, and 28 Bites

My brother graduated recently, meaning only one thing to the rest of the family. GRADUATION PARTY!

I’m really happy this came up when I googled graduation party because orange and blue are our school colors and this is so accurate to this graduating class.

For those of you who’ve never been to one, it’s basically a bunch of family members that hardly know each other awkwardly hugging and talking to each other, trying to pretend they actually know the name of the person they’re talking to (seriously I must have talked for half an hour with a woman I’m not even entirely convinced I’m related to).

Here is a time to mention that my family has a relatively large yard, mostly because we live in a farming area, so we have parties outdoors. This particular party started at 2 but I didn’t really go inside until 10.

My family is also very . . . Irish. By decent, of course, but Irish nonetheless. Which means lots and lots of alcoholic beverages. And I mean LOTS.

I’ll skip the explanation, but somehow I wound up with the job of bartender. . . I’m fifteen years old. I had to stay outside the entire time. This is what the ’28 Bites’ part of the title comes from.

For some reason, mosquitoes love me. I woke up the next morning with 28 bites. Four of which were in an area I’m not quite sure how mosquitoes got access to. Two are on my right arm. All of the rest are on my calves. Eight hours bar tending, 28 mosquito bites, and $75. My family consists of some really good tippers. I wasn’t paid to mix drinks, but I did have a tip jar. I think most people just tipped because they thought it was funny that I was behind the bar making at least thirty gin and tonics, and at least fifteen vodka and cranberries.

My tip for anyone planning a party outdoors this summer is this: STOCK UP ON LEMONADE I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH WE BOUGHT TWO GALLONS AND IT WASN’T ENOUGH WE HAD TO SWITCH OVER TO ICED TEA ABOUT HALF WAY THROUGH AND EVERY TIME PEOPLE HEARD WE WERE OUT OF LEMONADE THEIR FACES FELL LIKE I JUST CRUSHED THEIR DREAMS I FELT LIKE A USELESS PAPERCLIP IT SUCKED.

Basic Human Rights

I’m pretty sure we are all aware, politically, of what is currently going on in the United States.

This is an issue of human rights. If you want to know my stance on abortion, fine. Here it is: a woman should be able to decide what she wants to do with her own body. It’s that simple. Let’s be honest, I don’t want someone who was impregnated through rape to be forced to have the baby. Or, even worse, live in a country where abortions are illegal and have to get one in some run-down building and wind up getting hurt or dying. I mean, are we forgetting why we legalized abortion in the first place?

And if you’re against abortion, let me ask you this. If that baby that you saved is born gay (don’t even TRY to tell me they aren’t born gay), will you still fight for its rights? Yes, I am looping both groups in with each other because I’d genuinely like to know answers.

You want to know my stance on gay marriage? Here goes: everyone should have the ability and the right to love whoever they want. Everyone DESERVES to be happy, to be able to love, and to be recognized equally under the government. You can say it’s because I’m a theatre dork and I have gay friends, but it’s not. If you know my generation, we, for the most part, have a lot of similar views because of the times we were born into.

When we were born, the idea of gay people wasn’t taboo, it wasn’t gross, it wasn’t even a little bit odd. It was normal. So why do we all think so much of gay rights? Because we don’t see homosexuals as homosexuals. We see them as people. The way everybody should see them. Homo sapiens. Human beings. Living things with emotions. People. Don’t ever tell me anyone doesn’t deserve the same rights you get.