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FC: Gardens Of Memory

1: The world, like gardens of memory, still shimmered with magic. ~Orhan Pamuk

2: The Authors

3: Table of Contents Sarah Van Cleve Making Ice Cubes in the Mini Freezer Stephanie Cousins Kumon Kids Unite Connor Sullivan A Flair for the Dramatic Molly Finn Carl’s Ariana Mooradian Zoo Day Betsy Cole The Legacy of the Three Wise Men Alex Schaefer All the Names Robert Stevenson America’s Most Wanted Caroline Lemp A Modern Masterpiece Surin Lee Welcome to Facebook! Susan Good Flavors Briana Cacuci More Than Just a Game

4: Making Ice Cubes in the Mini Freezer: An Exploration of Life The things which a child loves remain in the domain of the heart until old age. The most beautiful thing in life is that our souls remain over the places where we once enjoyed ourselves. ~Kahlil Gibran The ordinary memories I have of my grandparents’ house are abundant. I remember that it was my job to shower the Slice N’ Bake sugar cookies we made together with yellow granulated sprinkles. While they baked, I remember that I got to play with the dolls or the game machines in the playroom as the aroma of baking butter and sugar wafted towards me from the kitchen. I remember playing the faded brown piano in the corner—the same song, my favorite song—over and over because it was the only one I had memorized. I remember that my grandparents never complained. I remember what I always forgot—to bring my swim suit—so I remember that when I swam in the small, square swimming pool on the brick terrace in the backyard, I wore one of my grandfather’s massive collared shirts. I remember that I lay sideways on the tall bed in my aunt’s childhood room, feet in socks pressed firmly against the wall, head engrossed in a book. I remember that I circled my grandfather’s office, examining the enlarged photographs of my father as a child. I remember running my fingers against the edges of the massive dictionary in the small, sunny study off the living room and feeling the fragility of the almost-transparent, feather-thin pages. I remember that I descended the cold, stone basement steps to watch my grandmother do laundry. I remember that I sat at the bottom of the carpeted central staircase and slid myself upward, pausing

5: occasionally to stand up and and jump as many steps as my courage allowed. I remember that I could rattle the large, wooden grandfather clock by the door if I leaped with enough force. So it was that I spent many hours of enjoyment at my grandparents’ house, amused by other people’s inventions—things, books, games, plans, and activities. The most valuable lessons I learned from that house, however, came not from those external entertainments but from my heart, from just me—the curious kid and the intrepid explorer. That is, I was once, and am no longer (a phenomenon I will uncover and explain later), an intrepid explorer of what might seem to be ordinary places. By that I mean that I was an investigator, a storyteller, a seeker, and an examiner of attics, stairwells, libraries, basements, nooks, crannies, and corners. By exploring these places in my grandparents’ house, I was unconsciously delving into deeper things in the way that small children often do—haplessly stumbling upon experiences that will shape their personalities and guide their adult lives. Before I launch into my memories of exploring, I want to add that exploring is a universal experience among all children; everyone is an explorer. At the same time, as in all things, there are degrees of severity and extremity. In other words, some explorers are more exploratory than others. At one end of the spectrum, some explorers have investigated only one closet or nook in their lifetime. At the other end, some explorers—and I count myself among this category—are so captivated by an extraordinarily vivid imagination that they become the Crocodile Hunter of suburbia, the Nancy Drew of reality, and the writer of their own adventures.

6: In the closet of an old bedroom in my grandparents’ house was a long, white string hanging from a rectangular shape in the ceiling. If I was lucky, and mygrandparents spoiled me so I often was, my grandmother would pull down on that string until the wooden door slowly came towards the floor. I once was of the opinion that she so laboriously pulled the slab of wood down and so deliberately unfolded the steps because she wanted to increase the suspense already causing my ears to pound with blood and my heart to beat in nervous apprehension. Today, I am of the opinion that she pulled the trapdoor down slowly because it was heavy, meaning that, in reality, she had no idea how nervous I was. After all, I am not even sure why I was quite so nervous about an attic stuffed full of boxes of useless trinkets, Christmas ornaments, old baby teeth, birthday cards, dusty jewelry, stacked photographs, sleeping bags, suitcases, toys, yellowed documents, and folded clothes. Yet my memories of climbing the narrow, rickety steps to emerge in a dark, vast, and chilly attic are tinged with exhilarating fear. My grandmother never came up to the attic with me, and I never found the courage to venture far beyond the staircase into the abysses of history. Instead, I stood just at the top stair and gazed for several minutes in every direction at the yellow insulation exploding from the walls, the ominously slanting roof, and the haphazard piles of boxes bursting with forgotten memories. The second place I exploded in my grandparents’ home was my father’s old bedroom—a room that, by some hideous misfortunate of design, found itself thickly carpeted in a dreadful shade of maroon. The effect of the carpeting was that the room forever exuded a sense of darkening gloom, suspicion, and mystery. It was these qualities that were so captivating to my young, impressionable, exploring self. Digging my toes deep into the plush carpeting, I

7: wandered the room—examining the walls, pictures, and bookshelves. I loved to hide in this dark and forgotten room while I was being called for dinner, not because I wished to be bratty and difficult, but because I liked to think that I alone was part of the house’s secrets. Because it had a curving back staircase that led to the kitchen, this room also played a part in the adventures I shared in that house with my cousins. When my relatives were in town for Thanksgiving, Christmas, weddings, funerals, or reunions, we played a game with my uncle called Monster. It was essentially a combination of tag and hide-n-go-seek; my cousins and I waited in apprehensive fear when my uncle crept silently towards us from some unknown location in the house; we screamed when he jumped out at us; we sprinted away when he chased us; and we shrieked again and gave chase when he hauled the unlucky cousin over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Oddly enough, though, the fondest memories I have of my grandparents’ house are actually of a small mini-bar—partially blocked from view by a large, potted tree-like plant—in a sunken and forgotten corner of the living room. Because I was far too short to be seen from above the bar, in the living room itself, I led a sort of secret life in the mini-bar kitchen. Everything I did went unnoticed, and that was precisely the way I liked it—busily wiping down the counters, arranging the silverware, turning on the faucets, moving the water pitcher around on the counter, and peering into the lower cabinets. My favorite thing to do in my pseudo-kitchen—the thing that always came to mind when I thought of visiting my grandparents—was to make ice cubes. This may not seem like a very interesting or amusing pursuit, and it certainly does

8: not seem like one worth keeping secret. But making ice was such a joy for me; it was one of life’s simple pleasures. After I filled the plastic molds with water from the tap and gently slid them into freezer, I sat down cross-legged on the floor to wait. I just sat there, occasionally organizing my kitchen space, but mostly just waiting patiently in the way that only young children, with not much to do and not much to worry about, can manage. Every so often, I would open up the freezer door, stick my littlest finger into the ice mold, and test the temperature of the water. Pretty cold. Not frozen. If I was at my grandparents’ house to spend the night, I was lucky enough to freeze the trays in a single visit. If I was only there for a few minutes or hours, I might not be so lucky. When I did finish a batch of ice, I simply took it out of the freezer, broke the ice out of the mold, dumped it in the sink, filled it back up with water, placed it in the freezer again, and sat down to wait. I do not know why it is that these particular memories—these memories of my grandparents’ house—are still with me when others have long since escaped to dance beyond my grasp. I do know that we, all of us, are defined by the collection of memories that inexplicably cling to us. As we grow older, we will continue to collect memories; we will continue to lose memories; we will continue to remember some memories again—our memories mark the cycle of our lives. When we move beyond childhood, our priorities change, and our memories are altered so that the additions to our collection are tainted by the stain of experience, rather than painted with the rosy innocence and naivet they once were. After my grandfather got sick and could no longer climb the stairs to his bedroom in the old house, my grandparents moved to a new house. My

9: memories of the new house are limited, then, because I was never young in it, I was never free in it, and most importantly, I was never an explorer in it. Instead, I was an adolescent; I was a teenager, and I was a person of adult sensibilities who was at once too collected and too busy for genuine curiosityabout ordinary places. This disinterestedness was not the result of any pointed attempt to appear grown-up or mature before my time. Rather, it simply did not occur to me to play monster on the dark stairwell or investigate an odd closet. I was being ushered into the adult world—a world where fear or curiosity is rarely displayed and where every situation is handled with apparent confidence and ease. That is not to say that an adult could tackle a 600-pound grizzly bear with fearless gusto, but it is to say that adults do not meet the inner recesses of a dark attic with the same wildly beating heart that a six-year-old girl might. And while I might now miss the trivial excitements that I, like every good explorer, once experienced, it is unquestionably better that the adults of the world—the parents of the world—might sit in soft armchairs by the living room fire, look up from the newspaper, and give their daughter a hug that exudes both comfort and security, in the quick moment before she rushes back to her exploring. ~Sarah Van Cleve

10: Kumon Kids Unite Go down deep enough into anything and you will find mathematics. ~Dean Schlicter Hidden within the depths and folds of the Presbyterian Church on the corner of Wydown and Skinker is a secret society. O it is nothing like the Skull and Bones or the Mafia for that matter. Although it is not of high caliber, this society is secret and prestigious and dangerous nonetheless. While many people in the world are waking up on Saturday morning watching Saturday morning cartoons or strolling around in the park or quite possibly running errands about town, there are children being drilled and brainwashed with math problems. Dear readers, I have managed to escape this mathematic cult, and it is with this testimony that I reveal the inner-most secrets of the club. From the outside, Kumon is an underground club where children enter happy and spirited and emerge from the abyss tired and down. There is a money box outside its doors (this is where the Mafia misconception comes into play) and a private entrance on the side of the church for its members. Its existence is esoteric, only for those in the know, as it is hidden from the naked eye. In fourth grade, I started Kumon, young and nave, ignorant of the dangers associated with the club and what threat it would have on my psyche. I entered the church and walked down the steps, not knowing what to expect. It smelled

11: like an old house and newspapers as the parents who waited for their children read the Saturday paper or a book of their choice. Hidden behind a curtain was what I could only imagine as the “center.” The opening in the curtain was the receiving area—it was from here that I began my Kumon experience for what would culminate into five years of torture. As I looked at the folding curtain adorned with plaques of the names of the many people who had completed certain difficult levels or given their lives for such a period of time to the program, I realized that many before me had braved the same journey. This gave me hope and encouraged me to pass through the weathered curtain and step into the math and reading land. There were seven tables with five chairs: each table served to bring together a group of people with either age or math level in common. In the middle of the table was a bin complete with timers and stopwatches, pencils and erasers. These tables constituted the math section; there was a smaller more intimate section in the back of the center for reading. There were mostly little children in that section, seated at the two tables, immersed in books and studying word charts. I started Kumon from the bottom up, taking tests to test out of addition, subtraction, and multiplication until I got to division and my weakness in that unit was exposed. It was discovered on that first day of Kumon that I would be starting on Level C. They made it official by giving me seven math packets, one for each day of the week, and my own plastic white box with the Kumon insignia and my name on the inner-fold; I was truly a member. Throughout the week, I worked out the math problems and completed the packets, timing each one with the intended purpose of trying to become more efficient and expedient at my craft. My parents bought a timer for my sister and me to aid me in this attempt. We would sit in the sitting room on the couch and do math problems

12: with music blasting in the background. I returned to the church the following Saturday and handed my packets to Fatima, the manager of the Kumon center in Clayton, and she, in turn, gave me a packet to work on during the morning at one of the tables and also packets for the oncoming week. The cycle never ended. As I got older, the Kumon, as with any inversely proportional and unfair relationship, got harder. I was on level G, the hardest level of the series as the math transitions from algebra to trigonometry, when I discovered my absolute hatred of Kumon. I would do everything possible to avoid going on Saturdays. I would spend the night at my Friends’ houses, eat breakfast slowly, and watch TV begging my dad to let me watch the next show instead of doing Kumon. Of course, I kicked and screamed and cried, but when that did not work, as all of us know it never usually does, I had to become more creative with my efforts of resistance. Since my parents were paying for the program, there was no way I could not do the packets and quit all together, so I decided to lighten my load. At this time, I was in seventh grade; because I was on Level G, I had a gray box, and each week I received two math packets to complete. Dear readers, just to let you know, all Kumon packets have a noticeable front and back, so ingeniously and inconspicuously, to lessen my load, I ripped out a couple of pages in the middle of each packet and hid them around the house. Under my bed, under and in between the couch cushions, in my bookcase, in my medicine cabinet, never the trashcan—these were just a few of the myriad places I hid my packets, thinking no one would notice. For a while, no one did until Fatima noticed and

13: the jig was up, and needless to say, I was reprimanded. From time to time, I still find packets around the house, and they bring a smile to my face. Last summer, I cleaned out my dresser and found about ten pages hidden in between my clothes; two years ago, five in my toy chest. Saturday morning sessions at Kumon were always interesting and sometimes incredibly embarrassing. There was one kid, at least three years my junior, who was on the same math level as I. He did not stand out as a particularly nerdy kid; he looked normal. His voice was loud and high pitched and, as a result, although he probably never intended to, he annoyed me whenever he talked. Not only did I have to arrive at the center the same time he did on Saturdays (that's just my luck), but also I had to sit next to him (thank you Fatima), and watch him breeze through a packet I was struggling with. Despite the fact that he was a child prodigy and was winning awards like crazy for his “gift,” I still felt horrible about myself. Although the sessions were uncomfortable and at times demoralizing, they added stability and regularity to my Saturdays. Every Saturday, I would wakeup around 8:00 and do math packets in haste because I never had any time during the week to do them as I should have. I would get dressed, and then my father would take my sister and me to the Kumon center around 11:30. After Kumon, I went to diving practice, which switched with piano lessons as I got older. Kumon was every Saturday, all year round; it was a vicious cycle. I never had a break, not even during the summers or holidays. To appease the children, to makeup for its demanding schedule, Kumon offered gifts. With “Kumon dollars,” which were earned by completing packets in a certain amount of time, we could buy bracelets, rings, action figures, and Kumon trading cards.

14: Kumon fashioned a whole world of its own. Kumon was more than just a center; it was a society, a family with hallowed traditions and honored members. After five years in Kumon, I have left my mark on the program. My name is finally on one of the plaques I saw on my first Saturday at the center. While I had a horrible experience in Kumon, it nevertheless laid the foundation for my math career of which I am truly grateful. I am now in BC Calculus and enjoying myself without having any problems with the subject material. Although I did not always enjoy the program and will run like the dickens if forced to go back, in the end, I was and will always be proud to be a Kumon kid. ~Stephanie Cousins

16: A Flair for the Dramatic “Do you realize that even as we sit here, we are hurtling through space at a tremendous rate of speed? Think about it. Our world is just a hanging curveball.” - Bill “Spaceman” Lee It was a sight that made the Seven Wonders of the World crumble in comparison. It was like I had found the Holy Grail, except I didn’t have to leave it behind like Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade. It triggered a beautiful obsession. It sparked unparalleled dedication and passion. It resulted in the discovery of seemingly flawless role models who could perform miraculous feats. After my first trip to a baseball game, I had found Heaven on Earth. “I don’t believe what I just saw!” Jack Buck exclaimed those words as Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder Kirk Gibson hobbled around the bases after hitting a home run to win Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. I have said these same words during every baseball game I have ever seen, whether I was amazed in person or watching on television. That’s the beauty of baseball: there’s an unforgettable moment every time players take the field. It doesn’t matter if it’s April or October; excitement and drama are the omnipresent companions of the American pastime. As I sat in a slightly ramshackle seat by the foul pole at Busch Stadium, I stared down for the first time at the components of what is definitely the most valuable experience. I was lucky that I got the royal treatment; my first game was at a stadium already laden with tradition. The old Busch Stadium was a place of worship; every time you stepped foot on the cement concourses, you felt connected to the legends of the game and the zeal stemming from baseball’s origins. I still am grateful that I ate my first ballpark frank, found my

17: boyhood idols, and learned baseball’s splendor at Busch Stadium. Regardless of how my baseball beliefs have developed, all of my passion stems from one of baseball’s holy sites. The first vital step in the baseball experience is becoming a fan; you must pledge a general allegiance to the game or choose one team to follow religiously by the time you are eighteen. I say eighteen because when you are young, you are way too irresponsible to make such a monumental decision. I cite my father as an example; my father’s first game was at Comiskey Park, the former home of the Chicago White Sox, but my father did not immediately become a White Sox fanatic. He matured, eventually spurning the team with arguably the sketchiest history (see the Black Sox Scandal, potential moves to Milwaukee and Tampa Bay, the Ken Williams/Ozzie Guillen era, etc.) and settling in as a St. Louis Cardinals fan. My father knew the correct way to take the first step; you can choose whatever team you wish to root for, regardless of location (he actually should have been a Cubs fan if you go by territorial allegiance), but you have to make a decision by the voting age and never reconsider. I moved towards taking the initial step after attending a game for the first time; I was naturally captivated by the game of baseball, and I naturally became enthralled with the Cardinals because they were the first team I watched. This incipient love was a result of my father’s teaching, and so my first potential team to follow diligently was the Cardinals; however, my mother began to wave another option in the form of the New York Mets as I grew older. My mom grew up on Long Island and could have persuaded me into worshiping players like Tug McGraw and Darryl Strawberry. Fortunately, I was not too enthused about the team my father referred to as “Pond Scum.” Frequent visits to my granddad’s home in the northeast presented the allure of the Boston Red Sox; as I discussed baseball and watched Sox games with my granddad and cousins, I became more immersed in Red Sox nation. It was hard

18: to come to a decision, but my granddad’s wisdom was all too prominent; I never developed any resentment against the Redbirds, but just became a Red Sox fanatic over time. In 2004, when the two teams met in the World Series, my fate had already been sealed. The result of the series (Sox swept after completing the greatest comeback in ALCS history) had no influence on my devotion; at that point, I had become indebted to the BoSox, but a loss would have been less painful had it not been against the team that my father admired and that played a definite role in developing my love for the game of baseball. I got some grief following 2004 from my father and friends who were Cardinal fans, but I reminded them that the Cards actually held the edge over the Red Sox (with wins against the Sox in both the 1946 and 1967 World Series). It is difficult to carry on my granddad’s legacy with the constant temptation created by being surrounded by so many Cardinal fans; the Cardinals are one of the most important and well-maintained franchises in baseball history, which I appreciate greatly, but because of the stunning introduction I received to the Boston Red Sox, I will forever love the Sox above all, and hate the New York Yankees with a passion. The second step in the baseball experience entails gaining a tangible connection to individuals you will likely never talk to; as you begin to understand the unique thread that connects spectators to professional baseball players, you will naturally choose your favorite players whom you feel like you must genuflect to. Favorite players are gods. These are the individuals who command your attention at all times during a game. These are the ultimate heroes who deserve more recognition than applause. These are the players whom you feel like you can never appreciate enough and can never watch too much. They don’t have to be superstars or the statistical kings; not every Sox fan’s favorite player is David Ortiz, and not every Cards fan’s favorite is Albert Pujols. Every fan can have more than one favorite, and not all of their favorites must be from their team. For example, Reggie Sanders will always classify as one of my favorites even though I primarily watched him play for the Cards. Tony Gwyn, the San Diego Padres Hall of Famer, will always be designated as a favorite because he seemed to be one of

19: the most amiable people in baseball history, not to mention he was a pudgy lead-off hitter who seemed to hit .350 every year. I would say that, out of current players, Kevin Youkilis of the Sox, Pedro Martinez of the Mets, and Juan Encarnacion of the Cards stand out as my most favorite. I have way too many favorites to count who come from a number of different teams; baseball is great because there are so many heroes. Once you have your team and some favorites, the culmination is watching one of your icons perform a miracle; you have to experience one of those moments that defies belief. Ideally, you get to see it happen in person at a stadium, but seeing it on T.V. is quite unreal as well. These moments are revelations. These moments ruminate in your mind for years. These moments have a category of their own. They capture the drama that elevates baseball above all. After you’ve seen the unforgettable, baseball is forever divine. Fenway Park, America’s most beloved ballpark and home of the Boston Red Sox, is a little different from any of its counterparts. As I passed through the turnstiles and stepped onto Yawkey Way for the first time, I could sense almost 100 years of baseball lore. This place just had a different feel; there was undeniable holiness and sanctity within the brick walls. The Green Monster just seemed to be something that God himself created. The first time I sat down in one of the small, rickety seats that had been in place for such a long time, I just had a feeling. I just knew that I would see the unforgettable at Fenway. It’s the ninth inning, and Fausto Carmona of the Cleveland Indians is in a serious jam. He’s got runners on first and third in a tie ball game; his only option is the inning-ending double play or a strike out. Mark Loretta of the Sox is at bat. Loretta is a solid hitter who’s got decent knowledge of situations; he probably knows how to get the run in, but still I can’t be sure he’ll do the job. One thing I am sure about is that I’ve never seen a walk-off hit before. Countless times I’ve seen the euphoria of the walk-off hit on T.V., but never have I witnessed that feat in person. On a 3-1 pitch, Loretta shoots a line drive towards left field. From my view near Peskey’s Pole, I know it right off the bat. The ball will hit off the Green Monster. The runners know it. This game is over. “I don’t believe what I just saw!” ~Connor Sullivan

20: Carl’s: A Place for Mr. President A restaurant is a fantasy—a kind of living fantasy in which diners are the most important members of the cast. ~Warner LeRoy The red door swings open, and the bell sounds to alert everyone to my arrival. I am greeted by a wall of bodies, three people thick. The rather short waitress walks up and down the counter, asking if I’ve been helped, trying to find me among the sea of customers. Finally, she sees a fraction of a wave and hears the desperation in my voice as I shout out my order, trying to be heard above the chatter. “One cheeseburger, loaded, small beer, large fry, cheese!” I await her response, craning to hear confirmation that my order has been received. I wait. Finally, I hear a shout back, I no not from where, “For here or to go?!” This is where only veterans are apt to make the right decision. I quickly weigh my options: do I brave the masses and hope that one of the eight bar stools opens up, or do I take the safe route and eat my food elsewhere? The orders are coming up quick today, so I decide to wait and try my luck at a stool. “For here!” I shout back, trying to sound unconcerned as three new arrivals elbow their way into the already packed standing space. Despite the obvious struggle that is the “lunch rush” at Carl’s Drive In, it is a one-of-a-kind eating experience and a chance to be involved in something greater than your typical restaurant service. It may sound a little too “hard core” for the average customer, whose will to push others out of the way for an order is weak and who simply wants the full attention of her server while she sits comfortably at a booth far removed from the others around her. Well, I can tell you, as one who began as that exact sort

21: of person, that Carl’s has the power to change you. Carl’s has the privilege of employing three of the most sarcastic, critical, and loud human beings I have ever met. As far as I can tell, they have never heard the phrase “service with a smile,” or if they have, they have chosen to ignore it completely. These three women, Pam, Kelley, and Lisa, make the Carl’s experience one that I feel the need to have at least once a week. They all began their work at Steak ’n’ Shake but were smartly recruited by Frank, the owner of Carl’s. Now you may ask why Frank owns “Carl’s” or why he did not change the name to “Frank’s.” Both are reasonable questions which only history can explain. I had the great fortune to be in the restaurant one Thursday night, and I looked down the counter to see Frank chatting with one of the regulars. This man, dressed in a blue sweater, with grey hair parted to one side, did not seem like anything special to my naked eye. Being the naturally curious person that I was, I began listening to their conversation (not a difficult feat since I was seated only one stool away). The man went on to discuss how “the old place had changed a lot,” and I was amazed to hear that he had been coming there for something close to fifty years. Now, I know what you’re thinking, who could eat the same hamburger at the same restaurant for FIFTY YEARS!?!? But this would only prove that you have not yet been to Carl’s, which I hope you are discovering is not just a place to get a burger. As I was saying, the man had been coming there for quite some time, and he and Frank were discussing the history of the place. “Hold on a minute,” Frank said, and he stepped into the back. He emerged a few minutes later, carrying a few large dusty pictures and one or two pieces of paper. He proceeded to wipe down the counter so as to display these precious pieces of

22: memory. He showed us the progression of the restaurant from gas station, to convenience store, to combined restaurant and store, to the Carl’s as I know it today. I wish you could have seen the look of pride on his face as he told stories that previous owners had passed down to him. If you had, you would understand why no one who has as much respect for the place as he does could ever change its name. I believe I had been talking about the three lovely ladies who work at Carl’s, so it is to them I shall return. Kelley is an absolutely delightful woman, certainly the loudest of the three, and she is always ready to give you a piece of her mind. I remember just a few weeks ago when my family went in on a Thursday, as we often do. My mother was running late as usual; she’d been “on her way” from just up Lindbergh for twenty minutes. We were all hungry and restless, and apparently when my sister asked my dad to pass her drink down the bar she forgot to say please. Well, this threw my dad into one of THOSE moods where he begins correcting everything anyone does. He immediately launched into a speech about how he says please more in one day than any of us have in our entire lives. Well, little did he know that only a short while later he would be doomed to regret his statements. Kelley had been standing there listening as my dad gave my sister an ear full, and I could feel the tension of Karmic retribution in the air. As my dad was about to begin eating his onion rings, he realized that something was horribly wrong. He did not have a napkin. Being the polite man that he is, he said, “Kelley, could you pass me a napkin.” Kelley’s face lit up; this was the moment she had been waiting for. “I can’t do that Mr. President, because you didn’t say please.” We all burst out laughing, and my dad immediately stopped talking. I am very happy to say that this is not the first time

23: that Kelley has put him in his place, nor will it be the last. To back up for just a minute, you may be wondering why Kelley called my dad “Mr. President.” This jeering title has been in place since the most recent election in which George W. Bush was the victor. My dad has always made it known that he supports the president, much to the annoyance of my mother, my immediate family, and the ladies at Carl’s. Because he is alone in his political beliefs among the liberal ladies of Carl’s, they have taken to constantly reminding him of such. It is for this reason that he has earned the title “Mr. President.” The ladies at Carl’s have this sort of personal relationship with everyone who has been graced by their presence more than once, which is not to say that they are not perfectly willing to crack a few jokes on a new-comer should the opportunity arise. I sincerely hope that the anecdotes I have recounted for you have served their purpose, which was not to scare you into never going there. At least you now know to enter armed with a witty mind and possibly a S.W.A.T. shield. I hope that you have been able to share in some of the magic that keeps me going back to this amazing place. I have discovered that it is far more than a restaurant; it is a haven for those who value tradition, laughter, and the company of like-minded individuals. ~Molly Finn

24: Zoo Day: A Walk on the Wild Side Zoo: An excellent place to study the habits of human beings. ~Evan Esar Zoo Day zu dey n. 1. A fun-filled journey to the St. Louis Zoo 2. An indispensable part of any good life 3. A pastime, a stress relief See happiness “Today is definitely a zoo day!” Molly exclaimed. Adj. 1.Of, or relating to, time spent at the zoo “Yesterday was very zoo day; too bad we didn’t go.” Origin: Coined by Molly Finn and Ariana Mooradian, date unknown. To the jaded interpreter, a zoo day is nothing more than a trip to forest park, but those in the know recognize it as something extraordinary. In order for a visit to the zoo to merit the title “Zoo Day,” it must meet a set of criteria. First and foremost, to have a successful zoo day, good weather is required, and by good weather I mean mild, unobtrusive, unnoticeable weather. Of course, the major caveats immediately negate any potential: snow, sleet, rain, or heavy wind. A general range of temperature would fall somewhere along the lines of 65-80 degrees Fahrenheit, though of course these numbers are by no means codified or strictly enforced, merely guidelines. Ultimately, the weather should not in any way interfere with the day’s agenda. So if you don’t notice

25: anything bothersome while performing a preliminary stroll outside, you are mostly likely good to go. Closely following the weather, personal appearance is a consideration in participating in a zoo day. Like the weather, clothing should not affect any part of your day, and it should never take center stage. I’m sure this goes without saying, but you can’t just wear anything to the zoo. For example, blazers and the otter slide at the children’s zoo are inherently incompatible, so Mondays are seldom an option. Closed toe, closed heel shoes, however, might prove an asset but are not required. If you can keep up in flip-flops, you will not be discriminated against. Finally, under the aesthetic preparation for the zoo, comes a basic rule in opposition of excessive make-up. It’s not Cotillion; it’s the zoo: tone it down. This rule is simple and for the benefit of everyone involved; no one wants to see two pounds of mascara fighting the effects of the sprinkler system. The mention of these sprinklers marks the beginning of my venture into the must-see attractions inside the facility. In the vernacular, these sprinklers are referred to as Misters. Stops at the Misters hardly ever last long, as most people are quickly repelled by the sight of ten five-year-olds drinking the water they know is recycled throughout the zoo, the whole zoo. Luckily, those who are disenchanted with the Misters can find an assortment of beverages to quench their thirst in the Lake Side Caf. Sojourns at the Caf consist of French fries and lemonade; however, these aren’t your typical snacks. The former is a concoction of potato-substitute and grease so potent it permeates the red-checkered basket; the latter is tantamount to watered-down Crystal Light that costs six dollars. Don’t fret, though! It is most definitely worth it, because that six dollars buys

26: you a collector’s edition zoo cup. You’ll accumulate one from every zoo day, losing them within hours of returning home. The joy in receiving one from the Cafe, however, will never cease to be found. The exploitation of consumerism does not end at the Caf; rather, it is a motif present in most areas of the zoo. Take the penguin exhibit, by far one of the most popular. Often, its popularity lies in its reduced temperature as part of a “simulated habitat” to which many retreat during the hotter days. This creates a problem as indicated by the line that forms and extends down the walkway to the neighbor animals, who are none too pleased to have their front lawn used as a waiting room for the penguins. How, you might ask, would one exploit the penguin exhibit? Excellent question! The answer, two words: gift shop. Meandering around the penguin dome is not random; we know where we are headed. Dedicated to penguin paraphernalia, the shop is the pool into which pours all traffic. Why do you feel like you need a penguin back pack, or a penguin umbrella, or a penguin paper weight? Probably for the same reason you needed the four-dollar Dippin Dots purchased on the way in. But these aspects of the zoo are not to be ridiculed; like most cultural institutions, the zoo is one place we willingly succumb to inflation as part of the holistic experience. Another necessary element of a zoo day is the train. The train is the foundation of sight-seeing at the zoo. Though the train travels slower than your average walking pace, though you could explore an entire wing in the time of one stop, no zoo day is complete without a train ride. A commitment to zoo day is a commitment to the train: not just one leg of the trip, or even two, but all four. The key to a perfect train ride is seating. You must carefully space yourself between any speakers or small children, because both have the potential to be

27: obnoxious. Whether narrating the zoo’s history or screaming in the dark tunnels, background noise could ruin all your hard work. You must also situate yourself in plain sight of the conductor in case he forgets to blow the whistle and needs a [subtle] reminder. The zoo is, of course, nothing without the animals. Big Cat Country, the bears, and the Gorilla Pen all take top priority. A trip to the Seal pond, however, constitutes a tradition. No one can resist feeding time, a magical convocation of all zoo tourists. As the seals slap their arms together and AAAAARK in confusion, spectators applaud the show with their own round of shrieks: it’s quite the ironic spectacle. Lions and tigers and bears are all fun to visit, and should be staples of any zoo day. However, not every animal deserves to be or can be called upon. There are two inaccessible edifices at the zoo: the Reptile and Monkey houses. Entering the Monkey House is simply unfeasible; it smells too bad. Attempts have been made to mollify accounts of the monkey house: words have been manipulated with mentions of “a pungent odor that mutilates one’s olfactory senses” or “a stench so putrid it leaves an after-aroma,” but no euphemistic language can alleviate what everyone who has ever been there knows. Moving on, the Reptile house is innately untouchable. Even a mention of this House of Horror can give pause to the lightness of a zoo day. Since it may not be as obvious to some, I will, so that we are all clear, disclose why the Reptile House has no place during zoo day. Inside, there are S-N-A-K-E-S, big ones, and they are S-C-A-R-Y. That’s enough attention there; moral of the story: those houses are no-man’s land and should be steered clear of.

28: However, zoo days are rarely without sacrifice. Who among us has not pined for the crackling tune which emanates from the rusted carousel? That sweet serenade of yesteryear? When the dawn sets on yet another perfect zoo day, you will most likely be left with one last wish: to ride the carousel. From a distance, it will appear as a mirage, tempting you with its garishness. Internally, you’ll debate whether you’re in the mood to ride the horse, the generic white four-legged creature nobody can discern, or just ride in the sleigh. But through all these musings, you will know, with a tinge of nostalgia, that they are unrealistic, because you are broke. Flat broke. After the Children’s Zoo, the Caf, Dippin Dots, the Penguin Gift Shop, and the train you have no money. In fact, you are wondering if you remembered to fill your gas tank before leaving. Luckily, a missed excursion to the Carousel does not a Zoo Day negate. It serves as an unrequited desire, some unfinished business: a reason to come back soon. Finally, your company makes or breaks a zoo day: choose wisely. After all the hype in anticipation, you don’t want to arrive only to a chorus of complaints from the peanut gallery. Yes, this bench is sticky. No, I don’t remember where we parked. Good friends guarantee good times and lasting memories. Zoo Days are some of my fondest memories. Whenever the weather allows, it is the first suggestion to remedy any boredom. I’ll always revert to Zoo Days when reminiscing about the good old days, and I’ll always have the tradition to share with my friends. ~Ariana Mooradian

30: The Legacy of the Three Wise Men O star of wonder, star of night, Star with royal beauty bright, Westward leading, still proceeding, Guide us to thy perfect light. —We Three Kings of Orient Are The story of the three wise men has been told over and over again throughout the ages. The magi have been portrayed as intellectuals who studied the skies and learned of a star that proclaimed the birth of a king. Every little child knows about the three men who brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh to Jesus, traveling a long way, following the bright star in the sky, until it finally came to rest over the place where Jesus was. The magi followed the star and arrived at the stable to present their gifts to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. But who exactly were these three wise men? And what prompted them to travel far away from their homeland to visit this newborn king who was to save them one day? Certainly the idea that a newborn baby could be their savior was not the only reason they left…or was it? Growing up, I always enjoyed Christmas. Certainly, the abundance of presents left under the Christmas tree was not a deterrent, but the real reason I loved Christmas was the excitement. Hanging up the Christmas lights, getting the Christmas tree, shopping for presents — all these things that only happened once a year were part of the reason that I enjoyed Christmas so much. Traditions like singing along to Christmas carols during Advent, addressing Christmas cards to wish family and friends a joyous holiday season, and watching White Christmas on Christmas Eve all were part of our celebration that I enjoyed so much as a child.

31: The best part of the Christmas season was waking up on Christmas day, after a sleepless night of waiting for Santa Claus. I was so excited to see what Santa had left for me. It was tradition that my sister and brother and I would wake up together and then go and get my parents who were still “sleeping.” My dad would film us walking down the stairs to the living room to open our presents. The excited looks on our faces must have been the real joy that my parents got from Christmas. I remember one year when I was little it snowed on Christmas Eve. Right after we had finished watching White Christmas, my mom got up and looked out the window. When she exclaimed that there was snow on the ground, my sister and brother and I all ran to the window to look at the snow. Seeing the white powdery snowflakes falling onto the frozen ground made our Christmas special that year. Because it had snowed just in time for Christmas, I thought it was supposed to snow every year on Christmas Eve and was thoroughly disappointed the next year when it didn’t snow. When we are little, we must appreciate the simple pleasures in life, like snow on Christmas. If a white Christmas will make the holidays all that much more enjoyable for us as children, then that’s wonderful. But as we grow older, we must reach beyond our simplistic views. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, white snow can actually hold a deeper meaning. White is the color of purity. Jesus, while he was fully human, was also fully divine. The symbol of the color white, therefore, is Jesus, as the epitome of purity. As I grew older, the meaning of Christmas changed for me. The switch from Christmas as a secular holiday to a spiritual one allowed me to see the season in the month of December as a time to spend with my family. The two-week vacation from school gave me the opportunity to enjoy the company of my

32: immediate family as well as my relatives who had flown in from out of town. Spending time with those whom I loved was a great end to the secular year and beginning of the liturgical year. The excitement of Christmas had not diminished for me; however, it had just changed. I was still hanging Christmas lights with my family, getting a Christmas tree, and shopping for presents. The important thing was not the actual traditions themselves anymore — it was about the opportunity to spend precious time with those I loved. Today, Christmas still holds the same joy for me as it did when I was a kid. I love all the festivities, especially spending quality time with my family, now that we have gotten so busy. But I have come to understand that Christmas is not really about what we do so that we can enjoy the time off from school or work. It truly is about what we do for others. Like the message that Jesus proclaimed during his lifetime, Christmas now holds a similar message for me: what am I doing for others? A lot of people can realize that Christmas is the birthday of Christ, but what does that mean? Are we celebrating the miracle of a virgin birth? Or the amazing wonder of a child who would grow up to save the world? Or are we really confused about what we are celebrating, choosing instead to dwell on the superficial, not wanting to really understand the joy of Christmas? As I have matured, I have realized that if Christmas is a religious holiday, it is therefore about celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. When He was born, Jesus was given the name “Emmanuel,” which means “God is with us.” At Christmas, it is important to remember that God is truly with us. The birth of Jesus Christ, God’s own son, lets us know that God loves us and is with us always. Christmas is a time to celebrate the gifts that God has given us, as well as a time to remember the power of Christ.

33: The magi who came to visit Jesus left everything in their homeland to travel to a faraway place to visit a newborn baby. They studied the stars and saw one star in particular that they knew was special. They followed it until it came to rest over the place where Jesus lay. The magnificence of the baby they saw let them know that they had done the right thing. Giving Jesus gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, Melchior, Caspar, and Balthasar truly realized the magic of Christmas: the birth of Jesus is about celebrating all that Jesus lived for. By giving gifts to a baby that symbolized his royalty, his divinity, and his humanity, the magi recognized God’s creation in all its forms. The three wise men were the first people to celebrate Jesus. They realized that a baby they had never seen before, in a place far from their home, could truly be the savior of the world. Our challenge today is to accept the baby Jesus as our savior and realize that He came to save us. Like the magi used the Star of David to guide them to the holy family, Christmas is a time when we can use the power of God and our faith to guide us to the “perfect light” of Christ. - Betsy Cole

34: All the Names Not only does Gogol Ganguli have a pet name turned good name, but a last name turned first name. ~ Jhumpa Lahiri So what’s really in a name? I ask you, my readers, this question out of a genuine curiosity towards the eccentricities of the human naming process, which, I guess encompasses the naming of anything by a human, really. Let’s start with some basic inquiries. Why a name at all? Who came up with this concept? I remember watching The Busy World of Richard Scarry as a little girl, and one episode addressed this very question. In an ancient Busytown, there were several citizens with the same name. I can’t quite recall it, so we’ll just use John for this purpose. One John was a carpenter; another was a baker, and another was a singer; Busytown, in an innovative fashion, began to regard said citizens by their professions to keep them apart. What I got from it was that names were used to distinguish people, specifically though, their actions or characteristics. I guess I agree with that statement; however, why not numbers or facial expressions or something I can’t even think of? Whatever, so we have names. Readers, from this I must branch out and ask: what gives a name meaning? I mean, I feel like the word stapler has a meaning—it means an object, usually metal, that staples stuff. I hear stapler, and I hear that chunk and crush of the teeth puncturing paper and forever fusing words, pictures, nothing, whatever

35: you want together. I feel the hinge cracking and resting on its complement. I see the piercing. With a name, for example Jane, none of my five senses come alive. Perhaps their origins shed light on their respective meanings. My name, Alexandra, is Greek in origin and means “defender of men.” It also has a royal connotation. Okay, let me think about my name and how it relates to me. Well firstly, I am not Greek…not even a little. I don’t think that I defend men, and I know that, although it would be nice, I am not part of a monarchy. You try it, the whole origin thing. I can almost guarantee that you're in the same boat. Most parents put a lot of thought into their child’s name. Some want it to represent desired qualities. They choose names like Faith, Hope, Chastity. Now, this might just be me talking, but those names do NOT render the assumed qualities; they actually remind me a lot of country music for some reason. That being said, emotions, ideas, concepts—whatever, do not usually transfer well from a name into a person’s personality. If names no longer hold true to their origins and cannot infuse positive qualities into their owners, then maybe they are an expression of art. What I mean is, look at a name. Listen to a name, my readers! Names can be beautiful; they can be fun to write, pronounce, manipulate. Back when I was in Beasley and Middle School, a friend had a unique name—Berkley. I loved pronouncing every consonant and letting the vowels tag along. I loved bragging about how cool her name was…I knew everyone was jealous that she was my companion. To me, Berkley was a beautiful sound; it was an auditory privilege to hear her being addressed.

36: Some names, although common to the ear, are absolutely gorgeous to the hand and eye. It is in this category that I throw all unconventional spellings—Kelley, for example. My wrist sways in harmony with the pencil as loops connect the K to the e’s, l’s, and y of my best friend’s name. Her word is a pleasure to write; it almost feels good, oddly enough. What’s more is that if done correctly, Kelley looks like a masterpiece—a ribbon of black ink on a line titled “Name:” If not art, or a quality, or an origin, or a sense, or an action…then why all the names? This is what I have gathered: a name is what the bearer makes it. At birth, unless one is named after another who has followed my previous credo, their name caries little meaning. It is the choices they make that add weight to their word. For example: Bill Gates, n William Henry Gates III, was probably a name that few outside of his hometown of Seattle recognized until he made it big with Microsoft. Cornell Iral Haynes, Jr., Shawn Corey Carter, Clifford Joseph Harris, Jr.—any of these ring a bell? Said individuals, rappers Nelly, Jay-Z, and T.I., respectively, made new names for themselves, literally and metaphorically speaking; their birth names have no significance to who they are to the world. So readers, what’s in a name? I’m still not entirely sure; however, one can make his or her name what he or she wants it to be. The meaning is in the eye, ear, mind—whatever of the beholder. ~ Alex Schaefer

38: America’s Most Wanted: An Encounter with Saint Nicholas Let’s be naughty and save Santa the trip. — Gary Allan I can still remember the day I discovered that he was not real. His beer belly, tacky garb, and amusingly medieval mode of transportation threw up the red flag. His awkward candid photo-opportunities complete with terrified toddlers litter the fireplace mantles of millions of Americans. It’s not as if I was upset; Santa’s fictitious being had entangled my life up until that fateful night, the night I recognized the truth behind his fraudulent ways. This was the night I discovered that his deceitful past went as far as to claim the lives of impressionable youth all over this world. Santa Clause has ruined Christmas. At least, to me, this deceitful plan is now know as the “Santa Scandal.” Santa’s posse of falsified fellows— Rudolph, Frosty the Snow Man, and the Grinch— all are major players in his ostentatious scam to “stick up” each and every young American, but Santa’s credentials are far superior to those of anyone else in the pack. He has broken into your home, stolen your milk and cookies, and implanted in our minds the notion that we deserve to receive whatever we want on Christmas day. Santa even has the creepy prospect of watching you while you shower, but somehow you still confide in this portly old man to bring you what is rightfully yours. Santa is similar to a politician; every year, he fashions a dramatic scheme and is able to muster the support necessary to claim his share of Christmas cash. His all-inclusiveness has broadened his global appeal; Muslim or Jew, Christian or Atheist, Hindu or Buddhist—all religions are created equal in the eyes of Saint Nick. And his plan, as anyone but his most blindly loyal followers should see, has

39: become the cornerstone of the global holiday economy. As Santa spreads his “Christmas cheer” by way of his assorted endorsements and theme songs in various Jackson Five Christmas albums, we all seem to overlook the true intentions of this jolly fat man— the perpetuation of the skewed representation of Santa Claus is the plight of our society. In the early 2000’s, I began to understand the hidden meaning behind the daunting faade of Christmas. As a generation, we are capable of kindness. I have seen that as a community, we have demonstrated that we are prepared to stand for what is good and right — raising awareness about societal injustice, eating disorders, driving safety, and disease — all of these good deeds exemplify who we are and what we represent. What does, or ought to, detach us from past generations is our sense of unabridged morality to do right towards others. That we’re also egotistical, materialistic, and the least value-oriented generation to ever walk this earth is our shame —and our paradox. We people are a group that is capable of collective kindness, but so commercialized is the holiday shopping season, that, as a community, we forget what Christmas is truly about. Which brings us to the real question: Have the values of our once- meaningful holiday been set aside? Where is the old Christmas spirit? Why are we so inconsistent in following our moral intuition? MICDS senior, Jerrell Coleman- Miller, blames our generation’s materialism on “our desensitized beliefs enabling us to think that we are entitled to everything that we see… we do not realize that the Christmas holiday is about putting others above ourselves.” The Christmas season has morphed into frenzy, a free-for-all fight in an attempt to make our children happy. According to Jerrell, “Santa is the one to blame.” Jerrell shares, “Happiness comes from being with friends and family… you cannot fill this empty void with material things.” But, what is the solution? In addition to your holiday

40: rituals— visit your family and volunteer your time—we must set aside our egos in order to achieve what is good and right. In turn, ditch our neo-traditional ideas of a modernized Christmas and start back from scratch, because, we cannot become consumed in materialism. Throughout most of this community, you’re not required to aid a stranger, but the moral value of assisting others should create a sense of obligation to do what is right or moral. Our lives are consumed by obligatory acts of moral behavior that often go unnoticed; holding open doors, returning lost money to its rightful owner, telling the truth during pressing situations —morality is not an option, but rather a solemn request to do what is decent. Morality is built on the phenomenon of empathy. How would you feel if you had no one to share the spirit of the holidays with? What would you think if you woke up Christmas morning without a single gift? We must understand that we are only one small piece of the ever-expanding human pie; sacrificing a small portion of our Christmas to improve that of others only brightens the true spirit of the Christmas holiday. We must not allow ourselves to be consumed by Santa’s idea of a self-indulgent Christmas. Santa Clause has only fueled the raging inferno of human egotism. Our chronic self-congratulation has forbidden us from taking action. Failure to act only prolongs the flawed ideas of the Christmas season. In our community, we often make a distinction between the physical action of helping someone and an omission to act upon our intuition. Always, always, remember that recollecting the regret and guilt after admitting that you could have made a difference can shatter and curdle even the best intentions. This is not a plea to end Christmas, but rather a request to set aside our own desires in order to better the holidays for those who surround us. Let’s act now. ~Robert Stevenson

41: The Internet: A Modern Masterpiece When a writer uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he is aware of it or not, putting great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble one another, that others carry wounds like mine––and that they will therefore understand ~Orhan Pamuk I once read somewhere that we write to feel close to others. That through writing, we find a way to relate to others and ask the world to feel our burdens. This quote came from Orhan Pamuk’s Nobel Lecture, “My Father’s Suitcase.” The words just jumped in and out of my head as I was speed-reading to get this English assignment finished. But, as my class reread the quote out loud, it struck me as an interesting hypothesis. Could this be true? Is this the reason humanity writes? After reading this, I decided to commit an act only writers and detectives do: observe the human race. I realized that not only writing, but rather everything we do is to feel a connection between someone else, to share a secret, to carry a burden, to touch a nerve. We want to feel close so we do not feel alone. Many people are aware of my obsession, maybe bordering on unhealthy, with the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling. Her ability to write a convincing, thorough, and involving novel just captures me, and I wish with all my heart that I could slip into her pages and become a student at

42: with all my heart that I could slip into her pages and become a student at Hogwarts. My worries would be about Transfiguration class rather than European History. My friends and I would visit Hogsmead instead of the mall, and we would drink butterbeer instead of chocolate milk. Life at Hogwarts would just be amazing, and, every time I open Rowling’s books, I feel at ease, as though nothing could go wrong in Harry’s life. I feel relieved that every tiny detail is solved, every question is answered, and every door leads to a new story. In the seventh book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Harry faces his final battle, where it comes down to good versus evil, hallows versus horcruxes, Harry versus Voldemort. The part that touches me the most is towards the end, when Harry is walking, of his own volition, to his death, and asks the eternal question no one has ever been able to answer. It was late afternoon; I had been reading Harry Potter for the past twelve hours and I was determined to finish in twenty-four hours so no one could spoil the ending for me. To show my dedication to Harry, I restrained myself from eating, showering, sleeping, socializing, all the core essentials to a normal life. I had locked myself in my room, basking in the aura that is Harry Potter, and forbid everyone in my house to talk to me. Later moving to the kitchen in desperate need of sustenance, I came to the fateful page where Harry asks, ““Does it hurt?” (J. K. Rowling) to die, and I just had to pause. I do not think I have ever succumbed to tears over a book before, but this passage left me bawling. I had to take a break, wipe my tears away, and continue through watery eyes. Death, the inevitable outcome of everyone’s life, is the most unifying factor for all of humanity. Thus, when Harry innocently asks if it hurts to die, I could feel

43: is the most unifying factor for all of humanity. Thus, when Harry innocently asks if it hurts to die, I could feel my own heart asking as well. At that moment, I felt myself completely in accord with Harry, his character, his doubts, his beliefs, his life, his world, his everything. At that moment, I fell in love with Rowling’s writing all over again. When reading a book, there is a connection between the author, the reader, and the text. Yet when I was reading Harry Potter, I felt myself connecting with the text but not giving a thought to the author. She has completely enthralled me, given me hope in times of need, and raised my morals. After rereading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the third time, I was finally connecting Harry's story to his creator, J.K. Rowling. I started asking questions, like how does her imagination take over? Does Harry Potter really exist? Why do I care so much? Why do I continually reread her books? Some of the questions I already knew the answers to, but others were just interesting to ponder. Without realizing it, I had actually slipped into Rowling’s books, not only as a fan of her writing, but also as an observer of the human race; I finally understood Rowling as both an author and a human being. I believe the reason she writes her books is to bring magic into the lives of her readers, and for me, magic is a wonderful thing to believe in. Unfortunately, my generation is not always as enamored with reading as I am. We do share the same need to feel close to people, but our route is taken via the Internet. In fact, it is so important that my spell check insists that it be capitalized. Why do we continually talk on Facebook? Instant message? Check our mail? Because we want to feel close to

44: Facebook? Instant message? Check our mail? Because we want to feel close to someone, we want to feel needed, wanted, loved. Every day when I come home from school, I watch television, make a snack, and get on my computer. Why? I used to blame it on a habitual occurrence, but now I realize that in this twenty-first century, a new form of literature has appeared, and our generation uses it profusely to relate to human kind. Why would we send emails at the rate of a nanosecond if we did not want to feel connected to others? Facebook, instant messaging, email––we are all culprits of the Internet addiction. But why do we take part? The reason is simple, so simple that we do not see it. Even while writing this essay, I will take “breaks” to check my Facebook, because with every poke, every wall post, every picture attached, every group I join, every sentence, every word, I feel connected and attached to my peers and to the world. The Internet supplies us, as a generation, the same thrill as writing did previous generations. Whichever vehicle we use, we are all trying to connect, to relate, to understand, and to resemble each other. We are all writing, whether in experimental essays or in an email to a friend. Could these words coming out of our pens (or keyboards in this twenty-first century) simply be for fun? Maybe. But I would have to agree with Orhan Pamuk, that “the belief that one day our writings will be read and understood, because people the world over resemble one another” is the answer. ~Caroline Lemp

46: Welcome to Facebook! Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow. ~Mark Twain At the end of the day, the sun makes its daily commute to the other side of the world. We are slowly blanketed in darkness; the skies are now only lit by the miniscule stars and the pale moon. As the street lights turn on one by one, the warm, soft light from the windows of the suburban houses start to disappear as the majority of people tuck themselves into their soft, cozy beds to get the recommended eight hours of sleep. However, at the end of the cul-de-sac, in the second story of a typical suburban house, a window is lit by an odd sort of glowing—a bluish, artificial light is emanating from a sleek, silver laptop whose owner is simultaneously playing music, surfing the internet, playing a futile game of text twist. She is doing so many things yet nothing in particular, being productive yet unproductive—she is practicing the art of procrastination. It pains me to admit that this girl is me, that I have mastered the art of procrastination to an extent that no human has ever reached before. I cannot tell you that it has made my life easy, but I can tell you that it has made my life quite…interesting. Way back in time when I was still in elementary school, fifth grade to be exact, homework was always a predictable five-page, one-sided paper packet. The questions were spaced far apart on the pages; it was always due on a

47: Tuesday just in case we forgot about it over the weekend, and we were actually rewarded for doing our homework. Mrs. Keenoy, a hilarious and generous teacher and also an incredible cook, would bring us homemade, freshly baked, and delicious cookies, brownies, and cakes to reward us for our good work. So then, why was it so hard for me to finish my homework even back then? Frankly, there were, and still are, too many distractions that drew me away from being productive, that led me to live in a dreamy, unrealistic world where I navely believed that everything would get done in its own time. The playground was cushioned with woodchips and dirt, enclosed by a black metal fence, and filled with ridiculously entertaining equipment. It was by far the best playground I have ever been to in my entire life, and trust me, I have been to quite a few. Out of all of the great distractions—the monkey bars where my friends and I pretended to be Olympic gymnasts and attempted flips off of, the rolling-pin slide that surpassed any slide ever created in originality and speed, the soccer field where I got hit in the face by a drop-kicked soccer ball—the tire swing was definitely the main culprit of my procrastination. The tire swing, such an undervalued and now-endangered type of playground equipment, stole most of the time from my days. It is sad that such a seemingly simple contraption—an old tire strung up by two chains and hung from up above—was capable of so much destruction. It routinely held my friends and me hostage until our 5:30 curfew. By the time I got home, I would be so dizzy and lightheaded from spinning around for so long that it was impossible for me to do my homework. Unwilling to do my homework in a dazed state, I convinced myself that it would be better to push back doing homework until I would be able to think clearly, which most often ended up being Sunday or Monday night.

48: As I grew older and switched schools, I could no longer blame my procrastination on the tire swing. This sent me on a quest to find something else to blame it on, which ironically led me to procrastinate even more. I was like a hamster spinning on a wheel; I had no idea how to get off and was so amused at the same time that I kept spinning in a circle again and again. The wheel of procrastination held me hostage as the tire swing had in the past, and oddly, I found that I did not mind. I always searched high and low, near and far, for another accomplice to aid me in my procrastination. Though I have found many throughout my years, nothing can ever compare to my most recent and most dependable accomplice: the beauty and the beast that is Facebook. I find myself sucked into the ever-expanding world of Facebook, a world where there are so many possibilities, so many ways to waste so much time. Wall posts, private messages, photos, groups, Christmas presents, aquariums, horoscopes, superlatives—the masterminds behind this madness have not forgotten anything. The most fascinating thing is that I do not go out of my way planning to waste time on Facebook; it simply just happens. Once I went on Facebook with an extremely valid reason; I was going to send a nice, friendly reminder to a very forgetful friend to remember to bring snack the next day, so he would not be banished by the other members of my advisory. I sent the wall post and had every intention of starting my homework when suddenly, a loud and very familiar “PING” noise emanated from the speakers of my computer. I was then compelled to check my e-mail, and unsurprisingly, I sat staring at another Facebook notification: “Caroline Sophia Lemp wrote on your wall.” Obviously, I now immediately had to check my Facebook—what if it was an emergency? What if her car died on Ladue road and she was asking for my help via Facebook mobile? Would I be willing to sacrifice my good friend’s well-being to start some usual homework?

49: Being such a good friend, I logged back onto Facebook at once, full of concern for what might be happening when, of course, I found out that it was no big disaster at all but just a comment about something funny that happened that day. I then got sucked into a conversation when I heard a couple more “PING” noises from my computer. Every sound presented me with the dilemma each time, which always had the same predictable ending. I realize that all this talk has probably convinced you that I am crazy, so I will take this chance to defend myself and my eccentric ways. Even though there are many negative aspects to procrastination and I fully agree with them, I also can see the possible positive aspects of procrastination, though many people may disagree with me. Because of my procrastination, I experience a world that most people do not get to experience; I witness what occurs after most people go to sleep. Once I stayed up an entire night finishing a tedious art project and kept the radio on the station FM 101.1 to keep me company through the night. After the clock struck 3 AM, I was expecting the station to switch over to some annoying, pointless test sound, but I was surprised to hear an actual person still working at this hour of the night. Although I should have been sleeping, I was glad that for at least one night, I was there to appreciate her work. I bet I am the only one in my family who knows that there is an annoying and ridiculously loud owl that occasionally likes to haughtily perch on the tree in the front yard and hoot like he owns the whole world around 1:30 AM. It is interesting to me to see the world when it is not consumed by the hustle and bustle of the daylight. The world, or my neighborhood at least, is different at night—it is more peaceful, tranquil, serene. Oddly, I see my procrastination as both a blessing as a curse. Some days, I am appalled by the ridiculous times I go to bed at night; some days, I hardly

50: even notice. Nevertheless, I am hoping that maybe someday I will be able to break out of this procrastination phase. Perhaps one day, my window will no longer be the last one shining in the darkness. ~Surin Lee

51: Flavors A true marvel has a touch of the ordinary, just as a truly ordinary thing has a touch of the marvelous. ~Orhan Pamuk The lady in front of me has special-ordered a grasshopper pie. As the manager, Mr. Jitu Patel, goes in the back to get it for her, I consider the myriad options before me at the Baskin Robbins store on Clayton Road. I already know that I will order a medium chocolate chip shake, my standard order for at least ten years. Nonetheless, I take in the colors, the poster exhorting me to enjoy something called a fruit blast, the enticing picture of a frozen cappuccino. I could get a sundae in an edible waffle cup. I could request sprinkles, cookie crumbles, tiny m & m’s, nuts, skittles, all sort of colorful toppings. A mom helps her three-year-old son with his dish of ice cream at one of the tables by the windows that look onto the always-crowded parking lot—a scene peopled by little old ladies who can’t park their Cadillacs between the lines; high school students on cell phones; the well-coifed, Talbots-clothed, bejeweled woman walking toward the poorly placed mailbox on the sidewalk. A barber looks longingly out of the door of the shop next door. A man paces behind me, clearly running out of patience while Mr. Patel searches for the grasshopper pie. Maybe I’ll let him go before me in line. Perusing the 31 flavors keeps me occupied: World Class Chocolate, Very Berry Strawberry, Jamoca Almond Fudge, Gold Medal Ribbon, Reeses Cup, Egg Nog, Heath Bar Crunch, and the intriguing (but I won’t be tempted to forgo that

52: chocolate chip shake) Quaterback Crunch. I was once one of those high school students. We would come to this very same store after school. There were 31 flavors then, but their titles now seem so tame: Rocky Road, Bubblegum, Peppermint, Strawberry Cheesecake, Caramel Swirl, Chocolate Mint. Somehow, we had the idea that in the Baskin Robbins laboratories, scientists worked hard to come up with the next unusual flavor, probably scoring a huge promotion or bonus for their efforts. The chain was founded in 1945 by Burt Baskin and Irv Robbins in California. Before them, Howard Johnson’s offered the most flavors—28. Baskin Robbins expanded worldwide through franchises, which now exist from Canada and Australia to Korea and Iran. In the sixties, smoothies weren’t invented yet, and we didn’t have frozen yogurt. To be sure, notions such as “low fat” or “lite” had not been hatched. They did have a few sherbet flavors for the clearly lame customer: raspberry, rainbow, lemon. But we always ordered a double-scoop ice cream cone. Large waffle cones did not exist then, either. We could choose from sugar or cake cones. We eschewed the cake cones as being the “little kid” type. We were fascinated by those teeny tiny pink spoons, and we drove the manager crazy asking for samples of flavors we had no intention of ordering. I went to Baskin Robbins after school regularly with my boyfriend. He would order mint chocolate chip, and I would always get the peppermint; it was pink ice cream with little red candies in it. The floor was an old, somewhat buckled linoleum. In front of the windows were not tables, but those turquoise plastic molded chairs with the little side tables attached to one arm. Since we had just

53: spent what seemed like 10 hours sitting in those chairs in school, we never sat inside the store to eat our ice cream. We would go sit in my boyfriend’s car. He had a light blue Pontiac Tempest. It wasn’t the super cool GTO, but that didn’t matter. We used words like “cool” and “neat” and “keen.” Their predecessor “hip” and its step-brother “hep” were from the fifties. (Older people like Sammy Davis Junior or Frank Sinatra might call someone a “hep cat.”) We’d listen to music on the radio; this was even before cassette tapes, and if you’d told us then that we’d someday listen to music on five-inch discs instead of our beloved vinyl LP’s, we would not have believed it. We’d sing along with the Mamas and the Papas, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones. We had MoTown favorites like the Supremes and the Temptations. The Four Tops actually did a concert at our high school, a really cool thing! (This happened, obviously, due to somebody’s parents’ showbiz connections.) We were into folk music, so Peter, Paul, and Mary were big favorites, along with Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and Judy Collins. We actually saw P, P &M in concert and Judy Collins too. We loved the movie The Graduate and its soundtrack album of Simon and Garfunkel songs. (This was before VCRs or DVDs; I literally saw that movie ten times in the theater.) We knew that there was a war in Southeast Asia, but the protest movement had not touched us yet. When we got to college, though, we soon became consumed by worries over such things as Kent State, draft lottery numbers, and Watergate. I learned to drive in that car. My boyfriend was a year older, and he would give me lessons on side streets near my neighborhood—before I had a permit or insurance coverage. This got us into big trouble one day when he suggested that I drive us back to Ladue High School from the Baskin Robbins. Making a left turn out of there to get to Warson Road was daunting for an inexperienced driver. I

54: managed that OK, but unfortunately, we got caught when the boyfriend’s brother saw us. He was in 8th grade, and he was walking down Clayton Road from East Ladue Junior High (“Middle School” was not a term we knew then.) to get ice cream. He tortured us with a 14-year-old’s version of blackmail for a few days before he told on us. If I went to Baskin Robbins with my girlfriends, we might walk down to The Sign of the Arrow. They sold ribbon and this fat yarn in very bright colors that we bought to tie around our ponytails or pigtails. For some reason, braids were not “cool,” but pigtails or very low ponytails were “in.” We’d walk past El and Lee’s, the deli where I had my first knish. (Now it’s Gourmet to Go.) We’d pass Ladue Lockers (a butcher’s shop and grocery store). Was Eunice Farmer Fabrics there yet, or am I remembering a later time? Some of my friends had learned to sew in Home Ec class, but I had opted for journalism class instead (our school paper, Panorama, ran ads from Baskin Robbins), so I didn’t learn to sew until I taught myself in college. We would have finished our ice cream before we got to Sign of the Arrow. At that time, I had no clue what a Pi Phi was. In college just a few years later, the Pi Phis would be the friendly rivals of my sorority, the Kappas. We always got cones at Baskin Robbins, never sundaes or shakes. If you wanted a shake, you got it at the Steak ‘n’ Shake drive-in on Brentwood. (“In sight, it must be right.”) This landmark was torn down many years later to make way for the Crate and Barrel and P. F. Chang’s—something I still haven’t gotten over. At Steak ‘n’ Shake, we’d stay in the car and place our order with a carhop who would bring our food and drinks on trays that fastened to the side of the car. Sometimes, we’d get a burger at the Schneithorst’s drive-in, but the best shakes were at Steak ‘n’ Shake. My best friend’s brother called that restaurant “Worms” because he thought an order of their French fries looked like a plate of worms! The carhops did not travel on roller skates, which may have only happened on Happy Days. We didn’t have backpacks in those days—they were just for serious hikers. We

55: didn’t have book bags of any kind. We carried our blue cloth ring binders and books loose and left them in the backseat when we went in to get ice cream. In English class, we read Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, laughing at Yossarian’s antics, and applying the popular phrase whenever we saw unreasonable contradictions in our lives, feeling mature and “with it.” Fifteen years later, I would move into a house next door to a man who had been in the same World War II flying squadron with “Joe” Heller. He showed me photographs and other artifacts from the War, which, 20 years after that, I would ask him to share with a student who wrote an Author Project on Heller. (And he graciously told that student his war stories.) We also read Walter Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz in Miss Rhodes’ English class. We loved Miss Rhodes, and part of her aura was due to the rumor that she was an ex-nun. As you know, students love rumors about their teachers! The Leibowitz book’s sci-fi satire drew us into a fascinating world set in a future civilization devastated by nuclear war. This leads to a reaction against learning and technology, a time when books are burned and readers persecuted. Isaac Edward Leibowitz starts a monastery dedicated to protecting books. When he is eventually captured and killed, he becomes a martyr. Many years later, in the 26th century, Brother Francis discovers an ancient fallout shelter which houses relics from the monastery, including a mysterious paper on which is written: “pound pastrami, can kraut, six bagels.” We were enthralled by the notion that things we had studied and cherished as treasures from previous civilizations might be nothing more than mundane grocery lists. (Maybe, though, things that might seem ordinary do contain elements of the extraordinary.) We had grown up in the fifties, when people actually did construct bomb shelters—the neighbors who lived behind my family had one, a mysterious dome-shaped thing that we were assured by Twilight Zone episodes we’d all be fighting to get into, come the nuclear holocaust. We were also amused by the fact that the fictional 26th-century “New Rome” where Brother Francis takes the relics is situated in St. Louis. The Baskin Robbins is near the Ladue Rexall drugstore, another place we went

56: frequently. The joke was that you could find a last-minute gift for virtually anyone at that store. In those days, all other stores, including grocery stores, were closed on Sundays. So if you needed something (including a gift you forgot to buy for the party that very afternoon), pretty much your only choice was a drugstore that might be open on Sunday. They stocked all sorts of over-priced toys and gadgets, even transistor radios and electric razors. Inexplicably, the Ladue Post Office was situated in the back of the store. You had to go back there and wait in the very slow line, even to buy stamps, unless you could cajole the person at the front register to sell you a few. I spent my very first paycheck at Ladue Rexall. My first summer job was at a plumbing company, where I catalogued inventory—pipes, fittings, wax, bath tubs, toilets, and something called els. Did you know that tubs are classified as right-hand tubs or left-hand tubs? My job was to pull pre-punched cards to be fed into a “computer,” which was this huge Univac-type thing—no joke, bigger than a piano. I pulled those cards all day, putting them in stacks that were sucked into the noisy machine so that the warehouse would know how much of each item was being used. My paycheck for the first week amounted to $37.50 after taxes. I cashed it and went to Ladue Rexall, so pleased that I could pick out almost anything and not have to add prices in my head before proceeding to the checkout counter. I bought a box of stationery (We really did write letters!) and some perfume called “Taboo,” which struck me as so exotic. I remember that the box had black and white stripes on it. The stationery box was red. Of course, after making my purchases, I went to Baskin Robbins to get a celebratory double-scoop peppermint cone. I have been that mother with a young child at Baskin Robbins. I took my son there many times as he was growing up. At first, of course, we just got vanilla or chocolate, and I had to do damage control to contain the spills and drips. When he got old enough to manage his own cone, he would sometimes ask for me to do some “clean-up” licks—or perhaps I would insist that this was necessary, just to get some extra ice cream for myself. I’ve ordered ice cream cakes for his birthday parties, one time taking a cake packed in dry ice to his party at the Magic House, only to get a flat tire on the

57: way—with a car full of balloons, gifts, party favor bags, and an ice cream cake! And, after divorce when I became a single mom, I went to Baskin Robbins one year to pick up the special birthday cake and discovered that his dad had also ordered him a cake, so there were two identical cakes reserved under the same last name. The lady pays for her grasshopper pie. It is my turn. I have been standing in line for ten minutes, practically tasting that creamy shake, mentally savoring the luscious richness and chunky bits of chocolate that take extra strength to draw through the straw. Mr. Patel turns his questioning face to me. “I’ll have a double scoop of peppermint in a sugar cone.” ~Susan Good

58: It’s More Than Just a Game Obstacles are those frightful things you see when you take your eyes off your goal. ~Henry Ford Maybe hockey, maybe tennis…but no, football (soccer, as we defiant Americans call it) is the one sport that has never failed to captivate my attention. Unfortunately for me, I did not inherit any skill for the precious game from my European parents. Regardless, I do still appreciate it: the dedication it requires of its players, the spirit it evokes, and the power it holds. It is my favorite sport. It is not just a game; it digs deeper, below the skin’s surface, to reach every fiber in the athlete and awaken in him a desire, a need, and a privilege to represent himself, his team, and most of all his country. Every four years, there is an explosion of intense excitement as fans across the globe have the duty to celebrate their country’s pride with the next World Cup at stake. For four long years people wait in anticipation of the next World Cup, and when it finally comes, the world is aroused once more. Soccer is the most widely known sport there is, and according to National Geographic, “more than 200 countries now field national soccer teams.” (National Geographic) The recent 2006 World Cup, held in Germany, had about three million fans, from all over the world, attending the matches live, while the billions of people, religiously viewed the games on television sets at home. Soccer/football, whatever you call it: a sort of religion, a life, a chance to reach a “goal,” a patriotic catalyst, an athlete’s ballet, a weapon of escape, an inspiration, a country’s cause for “war,” a country’s cause for peace “which may all be illusions. And at the same time it is a very simple game: like dreams, almost childlike.” (National Geographic) It is a sport that unites us all through its culture as well as in mind and spirit; it is a sport that unites the world. I was about five when I saw my first World Cup. It was 1994, and Romania played beautifully, winning a match against America. It was a video tape recording, actually, that my dad had made for me to watch. The interesting aspect about watching that particular game, from my point of view anyway, was that I was rooting for both sides. I am American and I am Romanian. What I really had was a win-win situation. I watched the ball, as it rolled across the field in all directions. First, in the “hands” of the American, then almost unseen the Romanian gypsy would snatch it away because it was worth everything for him. It would move back and

59: forth between the individual players. They were the drivers, and they would circumvent any obstacle in sight, while keeping their eyes on the goal, to make it clear through, to the other side. Everything moved faster than the eye could follow, but it appeared in slow motion too, as the Romanian offense lined up for the attack—It was beautiful. Every minute of the game was beautiful, never a dull moment for me. My eyes were glued to the screen the whole way through. As many soccer game recordings as I have from previous World Cups, I never tire of seeing the re-runs. It’s great. Soccer is so loved throughout the world, and what I think is unique about it is that even if a country’s team does not qualify or eventually falls out of the running, there is the opportunity for a fan to adopt a team, and be just as passionate for its success until the very end, as if it were your own. This is exactly what I did in rooting for America in the last World Cup. America’s team was defeated, quickly, by Ghana’s team, so I adopted Ghana to cheer on. I love Ghana. It wasn’t just that I had a new team to support, but it was the work ethic that these players had. Up until 2006, Ghana had never been a real participant in the World Cup. Since the first World Cup, which was held in Uruguay in 1930, Ghana had experienced the misfortunes of not entering the games, not qualifying, or having to withdraw. This time, they were in, and they were fighting hard. I distinctly recall watching them on the Spanish channel from my comfortable burgundy couch, in my living room on a gorgeous summer day in 2006. My dad was in the seat diagonally behind me, and my mom across from me, my dog was watching the screen, his eyes darting back and forth as excitedly as ours. The game was shown on ESPN as well, and I would flip back and fourth between the two channels. In switching to ESPN, from a commercial break on the Spanish channel, I caught a glimpse into the heart of Ghana’s team. By heart, I mean their home—Ghana. At the time, some announcer was talking about Ghana, and the channel was showing clips of the players. Then, the scene depicted the biggest fans Ghana’s team had, the people in their country. What I saw next was sad, but incredibly joyful too. There was a group of about twenty people; it looked like a mix of men, women, and children dressed in ragged clothing sitting outside, on the ground, in the dust. It was a clear display of very limited resources and people

60: living in poverty. It was sad because it was an image that many people are familiar with seeing and quick to associate with a multitude of places in Africa due to conflict and issues—it was an impoverished village. What was so special and genuine about their faces were the smiles they all had. Their smiles were as bright as the sun, as they were all crammed around this small television with bad reception that they had powered by using an old car battery. Smart, I thought. It was absolutely amazing how there they were in the world, each individual face unknown to it, but because of their team and the support they were displaying for their country, the world could see them and they could see the world. In their bliss, they were happy for their boys who grew up kicking around home made soccer balls, only to come to achieve such a high level of success in their lives. They had traveled somewhere away from home and continued the opportunities for themselves with the spirit of their childhoods. It was so inspirational to me. This link that soccer has with globalization is immense and offers proof to why it is so much more than a game. The fact is that in an area like the Ivory Coast, where, for years now there has been extreme aversion towards immigrant families and Muslims, who actually make up a significant percentage of the nation’s team, these people have become “an irresistible symbol of unity” (National Geographic). The 1992 African Nations Cup had the Ivory Coast as an active participant in the games, and one of them played against Ghana. Superstition exists in their culture quite prominently, so to take control of Ghana “the sports minister enlisted a battalion of ftisheurs—juju men—to give the Ivorian team a supernatural advantage against Ghana”. This plan backfired when the ftisheurs did not receive their pay, and thus a curse was placed on the Ivory Coast’s team, resulting in their ten years of soccer misfortunes. Just in time, the curse was lifted in 2002, when the defense minister, Moise Lida Kouassi, made peace with the ftisheurs by “offering them bottles of gin and large sums of money”. Then in 2006, after years of crummy luck, the Ivory Coast’s soccer team had qualified for the World Cup! It is incredible how much weight and value, trouble and ease, worry and wonder a game can carry with it. It is a curious and amazing thing that the civil wars along the Ivory Coast were postponed so that everyone could gather together in the good light of the World Cup and watch the games. Sometimes as much as we want to comprehend why some things work the way they do, the best decision is to let it go, and value it for what it is.

61: I do not play soccer, but it has remarkable value to me. I live vicariously through the stories that my mom tells me about when she used to play in Romania. Her recollections are exhilarating, and it is a sport that truly means the world to her. It opened her chance to dream and be inspired to always work hard. Her memories of playing as a lycee student, regardless of the weather conditions, are really great to hear, and I love it because she is always so happy to tell me about playing soccer in her childhood. It holds true that it is a sport that no matter where you are, who you are, soccer player or not, it is unmatched. “Why do we fall in love with soccer? What happens?” How is it that a game I could never play to save my life has such an impact on my life? It is indeed beautiful and a challenge for those playing to endure, and it is also a net we get caught in together, a link to other places, other cultures, and other peoples. It is a fanaticism that, despite the differences in places, in cultures, and in people, I will forever hold in common with the rest of the world. ~Briana Cacuci Work Cited Anelli, Marco, and Grazia Neri. "The Beautiful Game: Why Soccer Rules the World." National Geographic June 2006: 42-69.