Picasso's portraits

These are portraits of a few of the Miami students who visited the Drop Inn to serve meals as part of ENG 226, Intro to Creative Writing. "Picasso," the Drop Inn's resident artist, drew them -- thanks Picasso! you're fantastic!

Food I Remembers

I remember serving food and serving our minds.

I remember shucking corn on the deck with no shoes on while the sun was setting and talking about how my sister's boyfriend set a table on fire at the ku ke lau.

I remember waking up every Sunday and smelling the aroma of fresh cut celery and carrots before they were tossed into the bubbling pot of chicken broth.

I remember the scent of overcooked mystery stew as it wafts with the almost-forgotten hint of Jack Daniel and Weed.

I remember the smell of spaghetti wafting through the room, enticing the entire Drop Inn community.

I remember the ravioli mom used to make. The big ravioli drenched in bold red marinara, sprinkled with parmesan like snow.

I remember when we ran out of ravioli. When the ravioli turned into beans, mush, mud. But they ate it anyway, only some complained.

I remember boiling a pot of hot water, making a mug of Tazo Clam Tea, sitting back in one of the two big leather recliners in my living room, and turning on a movie.

I remember the anticipation building as the smell of taco spices crept up the steps and infiltrated my room while I sat at my desk.

I remember chewing Trident spearmint-flavored gum after my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, all packed in a brown paper sack.

I remember dinner requests, although, variety and choice was lacking.

I remember the thick, stewy soup that was served to the Drop-Inn residents.  A lot of residents thought it looked unappetizing.  I didn't think it looked that bad.

Traumatic Memories (Edited)

I remember when my sister came in my room crying, she came to wake me up to tell me that my uncle had a heart attack and passed away.

I remember waking up to Christmas morning and my father not being there—the family trying to tell us he will be there next Christmas.

I remember going to the emergency room because I had such a severe upper respiratory infection that I couldn’t breathe.

I remember the relief I felt when I pulled into my parents driveway after 15 hours of travel. I remember the emptiness that enveloped me when I realized my father was no longer there.

I remember the smell of the soil as we covered the top of the shoebox and laid it to rest forever in the earth. The neighbor boy sarcastically laid down dandelions as I tried to piece together, in my mind, why it had not made it through the night. Goodbye, calico bunny.

I remember the phone call, my young brother's voice trembling across the line as he tried to watch through the chair legs at what was going on in the other room. A feeling that I would not know how to handle; the denial that would send me running from the emergency room in a frenzy.

I remember the feeling—the feeling of not being able to breathe as I continued to jump for the surface. Jumping harder then I ever jumped before, trying with every gasp of air to yell for help, thinking that with everyone that was around, no one would save me.

I remember that my mom's bed was made when I left a pile of my dad's emails on it. They were to another woman.

I remember spending everyday at the hospital that summer. The teardrops that left my mother's eyes carried the feelings of failure and disappointment and shoved them in my face.

I Remembers: Home Themed

I remember feeling at home.

I remember people crowding in front of our little house for a party we were throwing. It seemed like people were coming from all directions. I never expected them all to fit in the house.

I remember talking without speaking in the split-level, sea level house in Montgomery I call home.

I remember that I will always miss those covers in that tiny room and the smell that somehow remains within the walls.  I need to grow up and learn to let go of that home.

I remember the sweet nostalgia and security of visiting home for the first time after having moved out.

I remember being truly happy.  Truly at home.

I remember the smell. You typically don't know the smell of your own home until you've come back from a trip, or left it behind for some time. I always wanted to capture that smell and keep it with me when I went away.

I remember smelling skin, wood, and Chianti in my new home in Wyoming I will soon, for myself, call home.

I remember feeling insecure about having a home

I remember moving twice, each time, losing a little of myself in each previous house.

I remember missing my old house because that is where my true memories reside. 

Sibling/Family I Remembers

I remember lining up with my sisters and neighbors on the first day of school each year. We would all take a picture on our porch before walking the four blocks of school together.

 

I remember watching whatever my sister waned on the TV because she was bigger and stronger than me.

 

I remember joking and laughing with my sisters, teasing and antagonizing each other.

 

I remember the first time I was allowed to ride my bike to the ice cream store without my older sister.  

 

I remember the chaos that was always present within the walls of our house.  The friends of my brother and sisters that sometimes seemed to pack up and move in.

 

I remember the dents in our doors, which were given life when I, or my brother, were fortunate enough to escape each other's fits of sibling wrath by barricading into our rooms.

 

I remember when Kyle had a house party and we put a hole in the wall

 

I remember jumping in between my brothers two identical twin beds in footie pajamas and thinking 9:00 at night was very late.

 

I remember going to the baseball field to watch my brother's game while my dad coached. Multiple game nights consumed the majority of my summer nights growing up. I wouldn't have it any other way.

 

 

I remember the night my father got so upset about the fighting over what television show we were going to watch that he got up, took out his trusty pocketknife from his back pocket and cut the cord in half.

 

I remember the crimson red walls from which hung paintings -- obsessively perfectionist architect brother. 

 

I remember the sound of shrieks and giggles as she lay helpless on California Shag as a brother's fingers tickle -- obsessively annoying brother.

 

I remember the playhouse in the backyard filled with me and my brother’s playful spirit and how we never thought we would actually grow up. 

 

I remember skipping school to stay home and bake cookies with my mom and little sister--for no particular reason other than that I was in first grade and sometimes even first graders need a bit of a break.

 

I remember building a treehouse with my brother so we could have a place all to ourselves.

 

I remember when my brother and his friends ‘accidently’ caught the tree line behind our house on fire. I waived down the fire truck while my dad attempted to put the fire out with a tiny, plastic bucket.

 

I remember happily pushing my little sister around in a shopping cart. I begged my mom for something different in every aisle. Fruit Rollups! Score.

I Remember

I remember driving around,
scared...
Should we stop and go in?
Is this teacher crazy has she been here before?
So we stopped...
Locking the doors and locking arms,
we marched inside...
We did our job,
and then we left...
I remember,
but I don't remember why I was so scared.

Take a Picture

Introduction:
As a young boy,
I was The Perfect Child –
My secret heart was
Sweeter than doubt
Sweeter than two-percent milk

I am an adult now,
I write misspelled words
My sycophancies are frozen into ice
I live a life of quiet desperation

Miami University:
Here, it is how you say “sweet” and “cute”
But what would the walls of the brick buildings say
If they could talk?

Drop Inn Shelter:
Serving food and serving our minds.

Smile. I am screaming inside.
“Why not me?” as I fill cups with water, scatterbrain-like,
I dream to take this “thing” away.

Picasso draws exquisitely – “thank you”
Everything I see has more color now
Who put their warm hands over my eyes for so long?

Conclusion:
Miami University: Love and Honor
Drop Inn Shelter: social progress

The End.

Flashbacks

The first half of the day has been building up to this point
Lunch time in the cafeteria is not taken lightly.

The smell of mass produced food
Wafts through the air.
Anxious children push and shove silently,
Not wanting to be last in line.

The atmosphere of the room is playful
Secrets are told and high-fives are given.
Laughter and nameless chatter bounce
Off the walls of the café.

The cafeteria ladies dish out
Unappealing food to each empty tray.

The oldest children get to go first,
Leading the way to collapsible
Tables and chairs where they will
Finish their meal in record time.

Talk of sports and games,
Accomplishments and great feats
Dominate the conversations.

Children on duty help clean up,
Their recess time is reduced severely.

The children are dismissed to break,
Where they will play and dream of
Great fortunes in their futures.

How many of these dreamers
Will find themselves in a strange
Deja vu years from now
In a place much darker than this?

I Remember

I remember lining up with my sisters and neighbors on the first day of school each year. We would all take a picture on our porch before walking the four blocks of school together.

I remember the smell of sticky buns and egg strata drawing me into the kitchen after ripping through my presents on Christmas morning.

I remember the smell of spaghetti wafting through the room, enticing the entire Drop Inn community.

I remember watching whatever my sister waned on the TV because she was bigger and stronger than me.

I remember people crowding in front of our little house for a party we were throwing. It seemed like people were coming from all directions. I never expected them all to fit in the house.

I remember the crowd outside of the Drop Inn. Where did all these people come from?

I remember joking and laughing with my sisters, teasing and antagonizing each other.

I remember feeling cramped in the small building, and imagining how everyone else felt.

I remember feeling at home.

I remember feeling lost.

I Remember (Sorry It's Late)

I remember talking without speaking in the split level, sea level house in Montgomery I call home.

I remember hearing the musical call and response of "clang" and "wip" at the Drop Inn from the tray cleaners.

I remember smelling skin, wood, and Chianti in my new home in Wyoming I will soon, for myself, call home.

I remember thinking about the ugly word ”poverty" at the Drop Inn while I handed Styrofoam cups filled with water to members of my group.

I remember talking to my dad in the mahogany and silver kitchen and not even caring about what is able to be recycled as the wall reverberated trust.

I remember being at the Drop Inn with people of all different colors, and sports coats shuffling through the dinner line, business as usual.

I remember calling my girlfriend Carrie on the Westside and surprising her where she worked at BW3's.

Sorry I'm late, buuut I Remember...

I remember being in shape and basketball
I remember feeling good playing against the city's best
I remember losing.... a lot
I remember how it feels to block a dunk and the crowd loving it
I remember being the away team and being dunked on and the
crowd loving it
I remember the rare on-bus victory beers, drank in secret
I remember the also rare victory shower with the jersey still on and drinking another victory beer
I remember how it felt to be a leading scorer
I remember how it felt to not score a point on senior night
I remember caring about the school
I remember practices and running
I really really remember running
I remember being a part of something with friends that gave a damn about something
I remember being in shape and now I'm missing it

I remember...

I remember chewing Trident spearmint-flavored gum after my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, all packed in a brown paper sack.

I remember the smell of Downy, clean sheets, and linens.

I remember the itch that chlorine left on my skin, and showering after practice to get it off.

I remember soft carpet and hard wood floors, real Christmas trees that shed pine needles everywhere, and meals that I loved to eat but never cooked.

I remember summers without work or responsibility.

Memories

I remember the first time I was allowed to ride my bike to the ice cream store without my older sister.  The summer air that I broke through as I reached unimaginable speeds down the enormous hill. 

I remember the way back.  How the blacktop driveway seemed so far as I struggled to push my bike back up that enormous hill.

I remember how I liberated myself of that bike helmet.  Older kids did not wear bike helmets.  But the meanest mom on the street told on me for that helmet hanging on my handle bars.

 I remember playing our favorite invention in the basement to desperately escape from the blistering summer sun on Wedgewood Drive. Dark crawl tag was the best game ever.

I remember my grandma coming over to watch us.  Somehow, she had the ability to make the best mac and cheese, and put just the right amount of Jiff smeared over Wonder bread.

I remember my stupid school uniform that I always wanted to get out of.  It was as if I was a total outcast when I road the bus with all of the public school kids.

I remember finally being a cool eighth grader.  I also remember the fake tan that my friends and I "secretly" acquired by walking to CVS.   Streaky, orange skin is never in style.

I remember feeling alone when I walked into an entirely different atmosphere.  I wore the school uniform, but never felt pride for those letters written on my blouse.  

I remember spending everyday at the hospital that summer.  The drops that left my mother's eyes carried the feelings of failure and disappointment and shoved them in my face.

I remember the chaos that was always present within the walls of our house.  The friends of my brother and sisters that sometimes seemed to pack up and move in.

I remember that town that appeared so boring and desolate for teenagers.  Maybe we would not have made so many of those mistakes that resulted from straight boredom.

I remember leaving the only home I had known for 18 years.  The surprise I felt when I actually did miss Chesterland, Ohio.

I remember returning to that blacktop driveway.  Seeing what seemed to be a stranger stumbling through the doorway each night at 10, and the other on the couch too sick to try again.

I remember those long, lonely days in another strange atmosphere that I despised.  Once again, trying to figure out where to go.

I remember those endless conversations.  I never realized how much comfort one voice can send from miles away.

I remember that I will always miss those covers in that tiny room and the smell that somehow remains within the walls.  I need to grow up and learn to let go of that home.

Editing Group

After vigorous debate, we have concluded that all decisions rendered by our group will be produced through a fully democratic process where each member is allotted one vote.  If there are any decisions that we feel require input from the whole class, we will surely bring the issue to the classroom floor.  There will be no Editor in Chief.

We have also determined that all classmates ought to have some form of creative representation included in the final project.  As we continue to review and peer edit the class's Drop Inn projects, and as the decisions of the Design group reach us, we will be able to come to a clearer consensus as to the direction the project will take.  Until then, we will continue to brainstorm ideas regarding the organization of the project, and wait to hear the resolutions provided to us by the Design group.

I Recall...

I remember the dents in our doors, which were given life when I, or my brother, were fortunate enough to escape each other's fits of sibling wrath by barricading into our rooms.

I remember the big yellow slide out back, infested with bees and treacherous for any neighborhood adventure seeker brave enough to awake them.

I remember the giant snowball in the front yard, a product of two days worth of labor, getting stuck in the middle of our driveway.  None of the cars could get out of the garage.  

I remember waking up every sunday before the Packer games and smelling the aroma of fresh cut celery and carrots just before they were tossed into the bubbling pot of chicken broth.

I remember the thick, stewy soup that was served to the Drop-Inn residents.  A lot of residents thought it looked unappetizing.  I didn't think it looked that bad.

I remember the drive down to the Drop-Inn, hearing nothing but the deafening sound of the heater.

I remember

I remember
I remember when Kyle had a house party and we put a hole in the wall
I remember the stools in the kitchen with images of pies painted on them that we sat on while my Mom cooked dinner
I remember feeling insecure about having a home
I remember shucking corn on the deck with no shoes on while the sun was setting and talking about how my sister's boyfriend set a table on fire at the ku ke lau
I remember the time stuffing pillows under the covers actually worked, but I still panicked for days thinking that my Mom knew.
I remember my cat breaking Christmas ornaments
I remember thinking that most of these men looked much more aged than they were.
I remember the fringe on the oriental rug- it always got stuck in the vacuum cleaner by accident
I remember wishing that I could hear every story of every person there.
I remember that my Moms bed was made when I left a pile of my Dads emails on it. They were to another woman.
I remember jumping in between my brothers two identical twin beds in footie pajamas and thinking 9:00 at night was very late.
I remember thinking that it was odd that a singular possession could be a defining characteristic

I Remember...

I remember waking up to the sound of the vacuum running downstairs, wondering to myself how many times my mom would clean an already spotless cream carpet.

I remember feeling the need of wanting to escape from everything that was familiar in my little hometown. I wanted to live life, dream big, as any kid does. I went away to school to escape the homeliness that I desperately long for now.

I remember the anticipation of not knowing what to expect. Pulling up to the front of the building, it was hard not judge as the saying goes 'a book by its cover.'

I remember going to the baseball field to watch my brother's game while my dad coached. Multiple game nights consumed the majority of my summer nights growing up. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I remember how thankful everyone was when they passed through the line."Thank you," they said, even though it was unnecessary. "My pleasure," I responded, and I meant it too.

I remember the countless hours I spent in my pool over the summer. I'd bask in the sun for hours, determined to get the golden brown tan that my best friend always had by the end of the summer. The water seemed so peaceful as I floated from one end to the other, eventually letting myself fall asleep.

Oh, how I remember

I remember the phone call, my young brother's voice trembling across the line as he tried to watch through the chair legs at what was going on in the other room. A feeling that I would not know how to handle, the denial that would send me running from the emergency room in a frenzy.

I remember, the cool November night, it was the 6th, and I had sneaked away from a project so he could take me to dinner. I knew I was in trouble, but I stayed outside under the stars for as long as possible, until he had to go. And before he left, he had a question, he wanted to know if I would be his girl?

I remember the little rat, the one my sister was holding as I disembarked from the bus, I remember it greeted me with a wagging tail and many kisses. The rat, Mugz, my Shetland Sheep dog.

I remember the feeling, the feeling of not being able to breathe as I continued to jump for the surface. Jumping harder then I ever jumped before, trying with every gasp of air to yell for "help", thinking that with everyone that was around, no one would save me.

I remember Cincinnati from a different perspective, one from the truly homeless perspective. The day that brought tears to my eyes to see a man climbing through a dumpster for food, we gave him 2 hot dogs and a bag of chips. Knowing that would only help him this time.

I remember some of the faces, those that really left an impression. The young girl that was about my age; I felt sorry for her, sorry that she had to come get a free meal. The Native American woman that looked like she had a million stories to tell, but did not speak a word to me. The young boy, the one from rehab, the one that was from my neck of the woods, the one trying to get his life back on track, I felt proud of him for trying.

I remember the kid listening to headphones, break dancing by the tv for everyone to watch. He didn't care who was watching or what they would think. He just kept breaking it down, all night.

I remember, the perfect night, in August, he held a perfect little box that encased a perfect little ring. The perfect little ring that he would slide perfectly onto the 4th finger of my left hand. The perfect symbol that no one would understand.

I remember the smell of the soil as we covered the top of the shoe box and laid it to rest forever in the earth. The neighbor boy half sarcastically laid down dandelions as I tried to piece together in my mind why it had not made it through the night. Goodbye, Calico bunny.

I remember laying in the tall grass with an Indian boy who couldn't say my name. We held each other like lovers as i casually broke the silence with a philsophical tangent about the expansive universe. Maybe it was the accent barrier, or he was just in complete agreement, but he only had one thing to say when I was done: Exactly.

I remember back when I already knew everything. Everyone younger was immature and foolish and everyone older was pricky and stupid. The grass seemed extra green that summer.

I remember the first time I scouled in church.

I remember I was running first in the cross country meet. It was a small race, and I was running JV...but nobody could make me feel anything but ontop of the world. That was until, several moments later, I realized I had strayed off course by about 50 feet and was now in 14th.

I remember...

I remember laying outside watching the meteor shower every Fall. The blackness surrounding our huddled, little bodies as we lay on the damp trampoline. The night sky lit up like it was the 4th of July.

I remember the prickers that stuck to the bottom of our feet as we ran across the field barefooted in a race to be the first to the fort. I remember opening the prized box of Jell-o that tasted like the sweetest piece of candy a six year old could ever want. I remember the tanginess as it poured into our mouths. I remember being surprised when our mother found out what we had done. How did she know?

I remember standing in the checkout line and staring at the gum. I remember thinking no one would know. I remember getting caught with a packet of Chiclets down my shirt on October 31, 1975 in Novato, California. I remember hanging my head as I walked back into the store with my father to apologize to the storeowner. I remember wondering if I'd get to go trick-or-treating that night.

I remember seeing my first Playboy magazine. I was only 5 years old. We found it in the bushes on our way home from school. The pages were warped and dripping from the rain.

I remember the night my father got so upset about the fighting over what television show we were going to watch that he got up, took out his trusty pocketknife from his back pocket and cut the cord in half.

I remember my dad trimming his toenails with that same knife. He also used it to take out splinters that had lodged deep into our tiny hands, and gutted the rainbow trout we caught from Birch Creek.

I remember the relief I felt when I pulled into my parents driveway after 15 hours of travel. I remember the emptiness that enveloped me when I realized my father was no longer there.

I Remember...

I remember the scent. A mixture of windex, Yankee Candles, Tide, Soap -- obsessively clean mother.

I remember the scent of overcooked mystery stew as it wafts with the almost-forgotten hint of Jack Daniel and Weed.

I remember the crimson red walls from which hung paintings -- obsessively perfectionist architect brother. 

I remember the childlike crayon box colors that contradicted with wishful innocence and realistic experience

I remember the sound of shrieks and giggles as she lay helpless on California Shag as a brother's fingers tickle -- obsessively annoying brother.

I remember the muffled voices saying 'Good and you?' and sometimes a 'Thanks' beneath the downtrodden eyes who lack a reason to sparkle.

I Remember...

I remember the sweet nostalgia and security of visiting home for the first time after having moved out.

I remember the old, white farmhouse that was almost perfect because I lived there before I began to harbor any kind of bothersome memories.

I remember the kittens in the back shed and how I would sneak out to see them because that was the most rebellious thing that I could think of doing.

I remember going to the emergency room because I had such a severe upper respiratory infection that I couldn’t breathe.

I remember moving twice, each time, losing a little of myself in each previous house.

I remember visiting the drop-in and wondering how many times the people within its walls had moved.

I remember the big-screen tv and thinking that it was bigger than any tv I had ever owned.

I remember him asking me where the clinic was and I remember feeling useless because I had just arrived and I did not know the answer.

I remember wondering what it’s like to fall on difficult times and then recalling my own family’s shaky financial state.

I remember being at the drop-in and feeling a sense of safety and wellbeing in spite of the somewhat dangerous streets outside.

I remember my intoxicatingly pink bedroom and the privacy of it over a dorm room.

I remember hearing about how the men’s beds were anything but comforting. How you could not snuggle up with your blankets and pillows if you were tired, sad, or cold. 

I remember not wanting to leave high school. I did not want to leave my friends, cheerleading, homecomings, proms, and everything I had done in that small town I call home.

I remember looking around the room wandering about what their lives consisted of. Where were their families and friends? I did not feel bad for them; I felt how strong they were. I know that I could not go on without my friends or family by my side.

I remember winning the fifth grade D.A.R.E. essay contest. It was so exciting to know that I had won something and for my entire grade to be there to see it happen, along with my mom.

I remember the enthusiasm Billy D. had about his keychains. I was ecstatic for him because I know that what he was doing was a big accomplishment and huge steps toward his future. 

I remember the playhouse in the backyard filled with me and my brother’s playful spirit and how we never thought we would actually grow up. 

I remember missing my old house because that is where my true memories reside. I wonder what they miss....

I remember the magic of Christmas morning—the enchantment that came from the mere sight of gifts mysteriously placed beneath an artificial tree.

I remember gazing into a room packed with so man different faces, wondering what circumstances had brought them there. Did they make a few bad choices? Or could it have been a case of undirected aspiration that led them to the shelter? Sometimes I feel lost, too.

I remember the school nights I spent lying on the couch, trying to stay up for Late Night with Conan O’Brien, hoping that my mom wouldn’t hear that I was awake and make me to go to bed.

I remember all of the “thank yous” I was given as I served the Drop Inn guest bowls of watery beans. I wondered if they would have thanked me if they knew that the ones who were served before them got beef ravioli.

I remember the anticipation building as the smell of taco spices crept up the steps and infiltrated my room while I sat at my desk, struggling through pre-algebra homework that I was sure I would never need to apply in real-life.

I remember getting back into the van after leaving the Drop Inn, hoping that the heat would come on fast as snowflakes dotted the windshield.

I remember

I remember teaching my dog to jump through our first floor window so he could go outside whenever he wanted...a strategy that backfired splendidly when my dad put the screens in for summer. No one in my family ever did figure out what could have inspired the dog to try to jump through a screen.

I remember the kitchen table. Antique oak, my favorite table I've met thus far.

I remember the rows of folding tables and chairs, not matching nor very inviting. Impersonal in their stark arrangement.

I remember skipping school to stay home and bake cookies with my mom and little sister--for no particular reason other than that I was in first grade and sometimes even first graders need a bit of a break.

I remember the mandate "One cookie per person." And the rush for cookies when it came time for seconds.

I remember building a treehouse with my brother so we could have a place all to ourselves.

I remember going to a homeless shelter for English class to serve food.

i remember when it was nearing thanksgiving. i hadnt gone home yet. i was so antsy. this place was suffocating me, i could feel it in my legs, my lungs, my chest. i needed to go home. 

i remember when i first walked in. there were so many. how do they fit? i wondered if they missed their home like i did.

i remember the ravioli mom used to make. the big kind. the big ravioli drenched in bold red marinara, sprinkled with parmesan like snow. i used to gobble it up in short minutes. so fast that it always stained my face. 

i remember when we ran out of ravioli. when the ravioli turned into beans, mush, mud. i felt so bad for the people who didnt get a chance to have the ravioli because the others seemed pretty satisfied, the red sauce getting caught in their tangle of a white beard. but they ate on anyway, only some complained.

i remember falling asleep on the couch in front of the tv. big leather brown cushions with one shaggy black and white dog at my feet and one plump black one at my head. peace. 

i remember the rows. rows and rows of hard wooden benches, like pews, facing the large flat-screen tv. squeezed in like sardines. it looked anything but comfortable, let alone peaceful.

i remember my memories. i remember growing up, moving, making friends, going to college. one time i flipped over our little yellow race car at my granparents old house and had to get seven stitches.

one man remembered walking across the US in a peace walk. did it really happen? i wonder if they had vivid memories of their childhood like i did. 

Design Group

As a design group there are some remaining questions that need to be answered as a class prior to our finalization of a design for the book and/or placements. First, the layout of the design depends upon which medium we choose to publish book/placemat. Second, we think that photos and colors would be essential to the placemat or book and therefore, we would need to know what pieces would be in the book -- editing group. Finally, the money group said that if we used place mats we would make 1,000 copies by copies do you mean exact replicas of the same place mat or could we have numerous different place mats? We really think it would be beneficial to have borders on the place mats that could be composed of a consistent phrase throughout all the place mats or the title of the piece or the authors name etc.

I Remember.

I remember walking down my stairs, every morning, hearing the sound of the morning news in the background of breakfast demands and daily planning. 

I remember dinner requests, although, variety and choice was lacking.

I remember boiling a pot hot water, making a mug of Tazo Clam Tea, sitting back in one of the two big leather recliners in my living room, and turning on a movie.

I remember the business of life, the drama.  

I remember an artist.

I remember sitting around my living room, laughing.  Recognizing how grateful I am to be blessed with such a wonderful family.

I remember Lucy, my fat, yellow lab, making annoying sounds and getting in everyone's way.  Yet, home wouldn't be the same without her.  

I remember being truly happy.  Truly at home. 

I Remember......

I remember when my sister came in my room crying, she came to wake me up to tell me that my unce had a heartattack and had passed away...

I remember waking up to Christmas morning and my father not being there...The family trying to tell us he will be there next christmas...The saddest moment I had for a while...

I remember being for my ninth birthday I had begged my parents for a puppy and they convinced me that I just wasn't getting one and then I went outside and here come running a little brown puppy, the most memorable day...

I remember the undesired sounds of a baby crying and the annoying yelps of the neighborhood dogs going crazy then I looked out my bedroom window and the ambulance lights nearly blinded me, not realizing what happend I had went on the front porch and I watched medical team carry out the babies mom out on a stretcher, she had over dosed....

I remember pulling up to this parking meter looking over seeing a man peeing on what I do believe was a trash can, a bunch of people standing around outside and us walking in after circling the block several times...

I remember baby sitting my Niece for the first by myself I was so scared and she was so small, I thought it just is going to go terrible...It was the best experience...


I remember going camping with all my friends, and there was 5 of us in this tent and I was scared because I kept hearing noises and I looked up with the flash light over to the other camping site and on there picnic table was a racoon who had opened a can of beer from their cooler and was actually drinking it, I had to wake everyone up so they would believe me!!!

I Remember..

I remember playing flashlight tag with the kids in my neighborhood. I hid behind the evergreen tree across from my house in the night’s wet grass.
I remember all the people standing on the ice covered, downtown sidewalk in the middle of winter waiting for a simple meal.
I remember flicking the thermometer like my mom always did but hitting it on the couch. It shattered into little pieces – mercury rolling around on the seat cushion.
I remember when the soup ran out and it was replaced by a massive bucket of foul smelling beans.
I remember when my brother and his friends ‘accidently’ caught the tree line behind our house on fire. I waived down the fire truck while my dad attempted to put the fire out with a tiny, plastic bucket.
I remember when the water jugs ran out. I asked for them to be refilled so I could keep filling the flimsy, plastic cups. But no, everyone else would have to get water out of the drinking fountain now.
I remember moving into our new house – the house specifically built for us. It took me several weeks to get use to the smell of fresh plaster and paint.
I remember the old woman with nothing but a small shopping cart to her name. She kept to herself and never made eye contact.
I remember happily pushing my little sister around in a shopping cart. I begged my mom for something different in every aisle. Fruit Rollups! Score.

I remember...

The smell. You typically don't know the smell of your own home until you've come back from a trip, or left it behind for some time. I always wanted to capture that smell and keep it with me when I went away. Olfactics are the basis for memory. A smell can stir emotions and memories more than any other sense. My home smells like Tide Original, windexed windows, lavender, wooden floors, fresh, food being cooked, warm, loving, and welcoming. It smells like my dogs, in a good way. Their happy mentalities wagging in our place of warmth and comfort. It smells like my dad's cologne that he always applies like he'll need to smell this way for 3 days. It smells like Neutrogena shampoo and conditioner my mom uses. It smells like Old Spice - Hank thinks he's a man now or something.

I remember...

The light switch to the left of one's entrance into our everchanging kitchen. My mom should've gone to school for interior design. Instead, she remodels every room in the house each year or so. The light switch is at rib level for me. It is positioned in the middle of a small column of wall before the pantries begin. The light switch isn't actually a light switch. It is a spherical knob that lightens and darkens the kitchen. The knob is ugly and off-white and needs to be replaced. It falls off if you press or pull any other way than inward. Or if your fingers are sticky. The noise it makes when it hits the ground scares my dogs. When it falls, the two of them scatter their frightened bodies away from the sound of the indestructable plastic knob.

Cost/comparison

Taylor, Amelia, Annie, Peggy

Here are some of the numbers that we found. Since we have no feedback yet from the design committee, these are just preliminary numbers. We will tweak them as we go.

Placemats-11X17 paper
Color paper, black and white printing- 1,000 copies= $55.00 (this paper looked very springy)
2,000 copies= $110.00

Books- we have so many options, but here are some numbers to work with.
25 copies- 1 for each member of the class plus 3 permanent ones to leave at the Drop Inn
8 ½ inch paper, folded in half-whatever number of pages we decide on, it needs to be divisible by 4.

24 pages/ 6 original sheets printed on all sides(4pages per sheet)
White paper 20# b/w printing $6.00
White paper, color printing $33.00
70# nicer paper/different colors, black print $8.25

48 pages/12 original sheets
White paper 20# b/w printing $12.00
White paper, color printing $66.00
70# nicer paper/different colors, black print $16.50

The binding is a separate cost. Some of the ideas:
Stitch and Fold $4.00
Plastic binding $.75 each
Or they will punch holes if we want, I think for free
Also, lamination is very expensive. She suggested maybe a plastic outer sheet for the Drop Inn books at $.35 each book.
Another note, sales tax will start to be collected beginning April 1. If we can get the Drop Inn’s tax id number, then we can get the placemats printed free of tax.

So Emotional

My Experience at the shelter changed me a whole lot. I don't like seeing people who are struggling or who has nothing to go home to. When I first went to the shelter we was afraid to go inside. We was being very stereotypical. We saw people outside drinking and smoking standing and some leaning up against the wall. We drove around the block a couple of times because we were afraid to actually stop and go inside. We finally got hte courage to go inside. We was the first group to go to the drop-inn. Once we went inside it was really a sense of relief. Everyone was so nice. I felt bad for actually being so afraid. I really didn't know why I was afraid. Everyone was so grateful for everything. They treated us like we were like royalty or something. Some people just made me want to cry. Like seeing the younger people in there i could have just ran out there crying. I felt like they were looking at us like we were looking at them like some kind of a charity case or something. Just some of the things people said to me just really took an emotional effect over me. I called my mom as soon as we had left the shelter and I had told her about what we had did. The first thing that she had said was "Were you scared?". I told her how bad I had felt. I thought she was going to cry. I thought that it wouldn't bother me that much but it did. I wanted to go back with better food to give to them. I felt like they would have been offended by us going in there. I just know that I gained a whole lot more respect for my parents because they really struggled while I was growing up and we could have very easily been in there place.

Journal, March 31, 2009

Journal Entry for March 31, 2009

 

So I ruffled some feathers…that was my intention.

 

My journalism teacher in high school always told me that the best stories were about things that pissed people off. What pisses me off, is spending an entire class period arguing whether or not the people at the Drop Inn will hate us after we write about them as an object of our creativity. So, I apologize for picking on you, Jack – we can attribute my insensitivity to your feelings to woman’s monthly visitor, maybe.

 

As for my classmates who – through hearsay – have their panties in a bunch over me being hypocritical in suggesting that students who go to Miami are sheltered, I have to correct you.

 

According to the credible source, dictionary.com, sheltered is to be protected from the troubles, annoyances, sordidness, etc., encountered in competitive situations: a sheltered life.

 

Is this a competitive situation?

 

Anyway, in no way does sheltered deal with socioeconomic status in the world, but if we want to go there, we can.

 

My family would be considered upper middle class. We live in a small, modest house in a nice town. My mom drives an Escalade, so shoot me. I feel fortunate to be close with my family, be healthy, and be able to have the opportunity to share a classroom with you lovely people. Call me sheltered, I can take it. I can’t change people, but I truly don’t care.

 

Homogenous, according to dictionary.com, is to be of the same kind or nature; essentially alike.

 

There’s not a whole lot of diversity at Miami. The administration works hard to promote it, but for some reason or another, it’s not a prevalent characteristic of our university. In my opinion, I thought the usage of homogenous in regards to Miami and then to suggest inquisitively ‘Sheltered, anyone?’ was a valiant effort to make my point that Miami is an easy stereotype. It’d be easy for me to stereotype homeless people as irresponsible, but it’s just as easy for them to stereotype Miami students as sheltered. Perhaps the stereotype isn’t correct, but is it a possible characteristic for at least some of the respective category?

 

My real point in writing a controversial blog post was to say that whatever we create doesn’t need to be politically correct or sugar-coated. It also doesn’t need to be blunt or stereotypical. It’s a work produced by our class that will be given to the Drop Inn. It will be diversified enough that people are able to make their own statements and ideas, but all in all it will be one production. And what they take from it, we probably won’t know. And that’s OK.

 

I look forward to our final piece.