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Hendrix Magazine Online

Hendrix Alumni Blogazine

Meet the class of 2010- Connie Jia Yue

(Students, Summer 2006) Permanent link

jia yueConnie Jia Yue is a graduate of Central High School in Little Rock

Experience shapes every individual.  It is the most effective way to gain knowledge.  Even at my relative young age, I have obtained knowledge that I could never gain from the written word alone.  There is not just one experience that has created the diversity I take to college.  My single-most formative experience has been extensive travel to very different places.

When asked where I come from, I simply say, "China."  After all, I look Asian and my parents are native Chinese.  Although this is the truth, the answer is somehow inadequate.  In fact, I have been shaped, literally, by travels beyond China.  Most Asians think I appear to be a Japanese girl, which is an oddity because Asians can distinguish among Orientals.  However, as a young child, I lived in Hokkaido, where I was dramatically influenced by the culture.  Anime and Manga, typical Japanese Art, inspired me to draw and design, which have became my passions.

Japan and anime influenced my earliest years, but I returned to China during junior high, spending two years at a boarding school.  At first, speaking Chinese was a challenge.  Incomprehensible words and gestures swirled around me, followed by embarrassing laughter.  To compensate for my language problem, I sank into piles of textbooks.  Soon, I was able to speak and write Chinese fluently.  In the process, the "Japanese girl" was absorbing Chinese traits.

Fate had even greater plans for me when my family moved to Stockholm, Sweden.  The beauty of the drastic differences between the Occidental and Oriental worlds fascinated me, and I could not get enough of the openness of Europe and the Europeans.  For one thing, my life in Sweden introduced me to a new passion - sports.  There were swimming, skiing and soccer.  I did not become a pro-athlete, but I definitely reached pro-amateur status.  For another thing, traveling around Europe, I met a host of new friends.

The destiny of this Oriental-European gal was not finished.  Three years ago, I came to America.  Influenced strongly by a new community, I was able to think like an American.  I went public with my drawings, which were no longer hidden in sketchbooks.  My artwork was in demand!  Much of my work has been permanently hung in classrooms, competition halls, and even on club T-shirts.  Best of all, the more people liked my work, the more confidence I gained, and the better my work became.

Where am I from? I am form Japan, China, Sweden and America.  I am the global society's poster child, multi-cultures to the extreme, representing diversity at its best.  Flexibility in accepting new environments and cultures is the natural for me.  Possessing an open mind, I've gained international values from four cultures and four languages.  My travel experience prepared me for the global society awaiting me.  I'm artistic, diligent, and vigorous.  Confident and articulate, I meet no strangers.  I come from worldwide destinations, and the path to my next formative stage clearly points to Hendrix College!

Meet the class of 2010- Lauren Rosales

(Students, Summer 2006) Permanent link

rosalesLauren Rosales from Austin, Texas, is a graduate of Lyndon B. Johnson High School.

To the sophomore English class (comprised largely of future math and science majors), a poem was something relatively short - perhaps a page at most - that rhymed. The Iliad, with its several hundred pages, looked to them like an anthology, or perhaps numerous copies of the appendix to Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Also, the translation was that of Robert Fagles-not the Pope version presented in rhyming couplets. To my classmates, the Iliad held no relation to poetry other than the fact that they disliked it.

I, however, did like it; so much, in fact, that I embarked on a voyage to discover any texts that held relevance to it. I unearthed everything from Euripides' Menelaus. What fascinated me was the purpose in each of Homer's seemingly over-elaborated details. References Agamemnon made to Iphigenia within the epic poem would mean little to anyone who hadn't read Euripides' play, or weren't familiar with the mythology. My creative writing teacher summed it up for me when she explained, "In poetry, every word, every 'the,' matters."

I wanted to share the fun I was having thinking of the scout Dolon, sent by Hector to spy on the Argive ships, who was caught by Odysseus and Diomedes from behind. He attempted to run away and then realized, "Hector - he duped me!"

A classmate told me that I should be an English teacher. I considered this, imagining how delightful and fulfilling it would be to be paid to help students see that when Hera seduced Zeus with her feminine wiles and "the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing," (courtesy of Aphrodite), and convinced Sleep to overcome him so that she could help the Argives, she was committing date rape - Ancient Greek style. Why shouldn't I get paid to share my passion with others and encourage them to give the literature a chance? I've been set on the idea since.

I'm quite a passionate person about poetry and literature. Since the tenth grade I've abandoned my idea of winning an Academy Award or an Olympic medal in softball to plan for a career relating to reading and writing when I "grow up." I would love, for a living, to incite others to consider and accept the hopeless romanticism of Jay Gatsby, the naïve-yet-charming foolishness of Marianne Dashwood, and the-yes, sometimes infuriating, but also very human-wistfulness of Emma Bovary: especially students whose talents lie elsewhere and who might struggle with the intensities and subtleties of literature.

Meet the class of 2010- A.J. Prassas

(Students, Summer 2006) Permanent link

 prassasA.J. Prassas is an entering freshman from McKinney High School in McKinney, Texas.

Aliens abducted him. Thrice he ascended heavenward, beckoned forth from earth to meet Jesus Christ. Or so he said; his mind was a jumble of muddled thought and hallucinatory memories, his stories were farfetched, or even outright lies.

On a southern California afternoon I sat on a bench alone, thinking things of little consequence, expecting nothing. I merely reclined and enjoyed solitude. Seagulls circled through the sky as a salty sea breeze dissolved into my breath. This was all - senses dancing with surroundings, my mind a passive player.

Something stirred behind me, breaking my quietude. Walter's voice proclaimed, "Hey, nice day, isn't it!"

I walked over to the outgoing stranger. In the corner of my eye I caught the metallic glint of an object in his hand. He dipped the metallic object, a spoon, into a peanut butter jar. From his cart he pulled another item, bread. "Want a sandwich?"

"Sorry, I just ate." My fears dissipated. All he owned he offered to me as a covenant meal, in the form of a sandwich.

He said I was of peace and the Spirit of God was in me. He even grabbed my wrist and felt "the God electricity" vibrating inside my arms. He again attempted enacting the Sandwich Covenant with me; I was Melchizedek, and he was Abraham. Or something like that. He was awfully generous.

I ate up his stories. Alien conspiracies, angels of mercy, devastating motorcycle crashes, illnesses and injuries, natural disasters, the transforming power of faith - he cooked up an incoherent narrative gumbo for me, leaving me full.

Walter unearthed treasure; from an immaculate folder came technical drawings of various innovative mechanical designs and images of alien spacecraft. Pages of notes accompanied his pictures -  it was evident Walter's mind tried to make sense of his own senses and imagination.

I don't remember how we parted. Maybe aliens abducted Walter again, or Heaven hosted him a fourth time. Though Walter remains an enigma, with familiarity I return to my exchange with him.

Destitution and joy, heartbreak and hope, poverty and generosity - can such incongruities exist in one person? I reflect upon his attributes. I know Walter reflected upon mine. Walter asked questions, made theories, tested ideas; I seek to internalize his system of perception. Searching for truth, living by joy, seeing beauty, passing these on to others - these were the actions reinforced by Walter. Awakened by his witness, I now seek to attain truth, joy, and beauty in every moment.

Meet the class of 2010- Corey Jones

(Students, Summer 2006) Permanent link

jonesCorey Jones of Jonesboro, Ark. is a graduate of the Arkansas School of Math and Science.

Life.  It's made of everything from the dew on the hay in your uncle's yard to those truck rides in the hills on holidays to see the cousins.  It has to include the noise of family gatherings and the soft humidity of the scents from ham and turkey and biscuit-made dumplings.  It's filled with the heys and yays and darns that fly around every quiet morning and rumbling lively conversation and blazing argument.  It is nothing without the golden autumns with some colored leaves in dense populations everywhere that the wind touches and many that it hasn't.  It is full of muddy driveways after the damp sweet inhale of a summer rain.  It's everything from the dusty pickup with the broken air conditioner that you drove at seven to the hotrod your dad handed off to his brother a couple months ago.  The smoke from the believers and the dry lukewarm of the outside all swirling in the spring breeze while the air is still free of the clouds from burnt fields.  It is the nights of the lulling drone of countless insects and frogs stabbing a bit before drawing out the assurance, as well as the calm twitters and caws of hawks and jays and morning birds aplenty.  Life is somewhere in that.  Somewhere under the snow on the steps of that old trailer is the life, the feeling, the meaning.  The meaning is somewhere inside, at the center of it all…

There's no culture unless you know your roots.  Whether in shame or pride, you know how your great-grandparents drove the wagon to church and how their parents and the whole town knew one another and worked every minute the sun was up.  You're southern if you remember that your family is southern, and everyone connected to them.  All of the things you've been through, like them or not, are the leaves on the tree.  It's the roots that hold it up.  Names like Wimma-Jean and Pood and Elvis don't make the culture; it's the culture that makes them.  Going to a dragon boat race doesn't make you Chinese.  Living in your garage and sleeping in your trailer doesn't make you southern.  You can't be proud or ashamed of being southern without acknowledging that your heritage is southern.  That's what it means to be southern, or to be of any culture:  to acknowledge your roots as significant. Anyone can sit under a tree barefoot eating grapes between barbecues.  It takes someone that cares about the roots to be a southerner.

Meet the class of 2010- Bridget Goggin

(Students, Summer 2006) Permanent link

gogginBrigid Goggin is a graduate of Thomas A. Edison High School in Tulsa, Okla.

Shh. We have to be quiet now.

I make my way to the door. Feeling, listening, sensing. Nothing. With calm flutters of excitement, seen in my eyes, felt in my stomach, I open the door, stepping into the only place where the angels reside in one being. The temperature is perfect inside the little room, its only heater the little body which does its job serenely. Slowly, my eyes adjust and I see the perfect, sweet chaos of a child's world under the haze of night. Silent pastels tip-toe around the room, just as I tip-toe. Blue. Pink. Yellow. Green. The colors of giggles, the colors of peace, the colors of tears. The smell. It is the meeting point where swamps and lush fields of lavender coincide in perfect harmony.

The only way true love could smell.

My quiet breathing begins to match a much quieter, much smaller, puff of steady air. I slowly make my way to the crib.  I see the rising and falling of the tiny chest, assuring my suspicions. She is sleeping. The pink pajamas lovingly placed on her hours before are now twisted in intricate patterns that only baby dreams could explain. By the look on her face, the eyes gently closed, the lips perfectly parted, cheeks a healthy rose, I have no doubt she is playing with the angels. Patty cake, Ring around the Rosy, Hop-scotch. These are the games that occupy the inhabitants of the clouds while the innocent sleep.

Leaning over the slatted wood, I enter that world. A world we all fear may become corrupt. For even though this little girl has angels for friends, demons await. This sister of mine is too little, too sweet to handle what calls out her name, the real world. It hurt me, will it hurt her? I pray this moment, where she sleeps in perfect trust, will remain forever.

Perhaps I can live that life for her, keep her from harm.

No.

That is not what I wish. She must live, she must hurt, she must smile, she must cry. But her angels will not leave her. Nor will I.

Now I begin to feel the heavy blanket of sleep wrap around me. I must leave this magic place to dream my own dreams. Never as delicate, never as innocent, but they are my dreams.

This little girl who has entered my life teaches me new things every day, patience, pushes me to be a better person. She inspires me to live a life she can mimic; a life full of purpose. I am grateful for her and hope that, as she grows, she will be grateful for me as well.
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