Left, right or center – liberal, conservative or moderate – politics do not belong anywhere in tragedy.
I am a recovering anorexic.
I am not fully recovered, nor will I ever be.
However, I am at a point in my recovery — and a point in my life — where I feel like I can share my story.
I know this is supposed to be stuff I didn’t write for the campus newspaper, but this was a person I met who greatly impacted my life and I hope that I can continue to look at my life differently because of this one person.
Without further ado, meet Luis Aleman.
It was miserable. It was a place where people labored, day in and day out, carrying boxes of potatoes from one end of the warehouse to another — it was the place Luis Aleman spent a year in order to raise money to go to college.
“I remember thinking ‘Is this what hell feels like?’” Aleman said.
Just because I couldn’t forget about this story I wrote for the University of Idaho campus newspaper a year or so ago, i wanted to put it here too.
The door, locked to most, hides a secret of campus. To the left and right, and even straight ahead, rooms overflow with clothes. Some are ‘60s patterns and trends, others are silk kimonos from pre-1900. There is even a 100-year-old replica of an 18th century French Court gown worn to costume balls in the late 1800s or early 1900s. Continue reading
A green sprout pushes towards the bright morning sun,
Yawning and rubbing the sleep from is eyes.
He calls out a cheery hello
As all the little bluebirds greet the day.
He stretches and stretches as the morning goes on,
And a full head of hair is first
Before the clever northwind blows
And all of his locks are lost from sight.
He is withering now, so old and frail
But he smiles insdie because he knows
He is going to a better place
And wonderfull roses
Who just never stop growing.
With a sigh our sprout says,
Little black eyes watched box after box rumble underneath him. His head, black to the beak, twitched in anticipation.
Air rushed around his little head, his wings dipped and metallic scents filled his nose. Another sparrow drifted near, resting on an updraft. He watched. He waited. The first sparrow imagined a titter, a laugh … a challenge.
The game was simple. Dive towards the black rock and miss all the metal boxes passing in the way of it. The rewards were bragging rights and the large chest plumes. The risk was death.