221 *Mini* B

The hall of Old Main was bustling with activity, for class had just been released: ten to noon. I slipped out of my Creative Writing classroom, eyes flickering around, catching sight of my peers scattered along the corridor's walls. Marley followed after me, and we both strode past my next class' door, attempting to secure a segment of the wall for ourselves. We settled down, mirroring one another, chatting about the mundane, although I loath to describe our conversations as such, for I grasp any snippets I can get, cradling them with reverence. Five to noon. My finger settled on the phone, eyes darting periodically to check the time, as class started at twelve, and even the concept of lateness generated discomfort in me. With a minute to spare, I bid her goodbye, refocusing my mind toward class.  Stepping into Room 207, I sat myself down, preparing for a film. I lacked all knowledge of what the movie could be, for I failed to remember its title from the syllabus, and had not i

The light was beginning to dim as I made my way across campus, heading toward the Student Union efficiently, yet not hurriedly, for I had ensured ample time to arrive. Earlier in the day, I had hesitantly asked Dr. Kirchner if I could miss a portion of our weekly evening class to attend the Lumen Open Mic event, and to my relief, she assured that I could, recognizing the importance of English and writing to my college experience. With her express permission, I left the classroom in the middle of lecture and trekked down the stairs of Hirt, anticipation and nerves welling within me. I waged a war in my head, debating on whether to read a piece of my poetry or not. Logically, I knew what the answer should be: participate and read; however, public speaking withers me down, rendering me a wired ball of anxiety. Heart pounding, legs shaking, voice wavering: all the works. It's tedious, but I have steadily improved over the years.  I made my way down to Luke's Landing, making note of

William Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily" details the various points of Miss Emily Grierson's life, leading the reader through the townsfolks' perceptions of her throughout different periods of time. Miss Grierson's perspective and thoughts are never given, but can be surmised through Faulkner's masterful attention to detail. He plays with the reader's ability to interpret, never outwardly claiming that particular events occurred. Homer Barron's death, for example, is not stated, for the skeleton is not named, but his disappearance was mentioned earlier in the text, allowing readers to make the connection. The specification that his death was indeed a murder is also left to the reader, as they know that Miss Grierson bought arsenic for an unspecified purpose, but that was never brought up again. The puzzle pieces all align for the reader to assume that certain sequences took place, which makes the short story far more intriguing than if Faulkner had ex

I feel a particular dichotomy when it comes to Walt Whitman. I, admittedly, am not terribly well-read when it comes to this author, but from what I have, my opinions on the works have contrasted dramatically.  For our class, we read "I Celebrate Myself, and Sing Myself," which reeked of privilege and ignorance. His opening stanza, for example, sings of equality, and while he may see that as the ideal, the concept rings false in reality. To assume it undermines the past and continued struggles of minorities to thrive in a racially biased society. Seeing as he is writing about America and prideful patriotism, this has even more prevalence, for our country's entire history is stained with racism. He also claims that his entire being was formed from the soil of the land, which is simply not true, as somewhere along his family tree, ancestors migrated over from another land. The only people who can fully stake their roots in the United States are Native Americans, which he was

The moment I entered Room 207 the first day of class, I was boisterously greeted by Dr. Reed. He and I had only met in passing once before, so this was my primary introduction to the English professor. From the moment he asked for my name, then clarified if 'Elizabeth' is my preferred moniker, I knew I would enjoy the entirety of what the class offered. There was this comfortable ambiance in the air that I rarely feel, especially on the first day of a course. Words rolled off my tongue with ease, pleasantries and inquiries— so commonly spoken around me— were perched and primed as ammo for conversation. I felt the confidence of a well-studied student on an exam; I was ready. We were swiftly asked to find another peer to converse with, and I happened to lock eyes with Megan, so I made my way over to her section of seating. I learned a great deal about her in a short period of time, and that information now resides in my mind, able to be recalled on a whim; in fact, that previous