Passport #4
Capture the essence of a piece in the UMMA
Joseph Wright’s The Dead Soldier is extremely powerful and speaks about love, family, war, birth, death, and isolation. It is a scene of a woman holding her baby and the hand of a dead soldier. Each figure is touching every other figure present in the painting, representing unity, which is highlighted against the fact that the family is now obviously broken because one of them is dead. The woman weeps both for herself and for her child. This scene also juxtaposes life (represented by the pure, glowing, naked baby who is held above the ground with his rosy face revealed) with death (represented by the soldier, who is fully clothed and crumpled on the ground with his face and half his body hidden). Pain and sorrow is evident through the woman’s grasp on the soldier’s wrist, the baby’s sad eyes, and earthy dark tones.
The smoke rising into the sky in the distance suggests the war is over. The devastation caused by it is highlighted by the fact that there are no other humans in sight and the only other forms of life remaining are the blooming trees, which seem to mock the death of the soldier as they leave the war undamaged. It is unclear whether the soldier is on the side that won or lost, though that is unimportant for the essence of this painting; the important detail is the fact that the soldier’s identity is anonymous. War comes with great costs, to both sides, and he was just another number that was sacrificed for the cause. The spotlight on the woman, her baby, and the dead soldier demonstrates that to this family unit, the soldier’s death is significant and personal. They are separated from the battle scene by distance and a sheet draped over a tree. The woman and baby are now all alone, with no means of support, and unsure of where to go from here. The sunlight in the back symbolizes a new day/beginning, but the darkness in the front symbolizes the beginning of hardship.
The smoke rising into the sky in the distance suggests the war is over. The devastation caused by it is highlighted by the fact that there are no other humans in sight and the only other forms of life remaining are the blooming trees, which seem to mock the death of the soldier as they leave the war undamaged. It is unclear whether the soldier is on the side that won or lost, though that is unimportant for the essence of this painting; the important detail is the fact that the soldier’s identity is anonymous. War comes with great costs, to both sides, and he was just another number that was sacrificed for the cause. The spotlight on the woman, her baby, and the dead soldier demonstrates that to this family unit, the soldier’s death is significant and personal. They are separated from the battle scene by distance and a sheet draped over a tree. The woman and baby are now all alone, with no means of support, and unsure of where to go from here. The sunlight in the back symbolizes a new day/beginning, but the darkness in the front symbolizes the beginning of hardship.
Passport #5
Describe a place I don't know through a place I do know
People say it’s hard to find love in a big city, but I imagine it’s just as hard to find love in Buford, Wyoming. Unlike New York City, the most populous city in the United States with a population of over 8 million, Buford has a population of 1. It was sold to two Vietnamese businessmen for $900,000, equivalent to the price of a 2-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. With only a gas station, a convenience store, a cabin, a garage, a 3-bedroom house, and a schoolhouse from 1905, it doesn’t have the bustle or liveliness that characterizes NYC. You are as likely to get a ticket for jaywalking in Buford as you are to see someone riding a 4-wheeler dirt bike down Park Avenue. Without anyone to murder or rob, there’s no need for a police force to patrol the streets in navy uniforms. There aren’t any skyscrapers housing corporate offices, so the sky is always visible without any obstructions. At night, you can see the stars, even identify constellations if you wanted to, because there aren’t any bright city lights to blind you.
During the wintertime, there’s no 76-foot Christmas tree on display or men dressed in Santa suits asking for donations for the Salvation Army. During the springtime, you can’t ride your bike through Central Park or visit outdoor museum galleries. During the summertime, there aren’t any children playing in the water sprayed from a fire hydrant or Mister Softee ice cream trucks stationed on every other street. During the fall time, there aren’t any back-to-school sales or parades.
Both Buford and NYC attract travelers, though not equal in numbers or types. Whereas people usually plan their trips to NYC, Buford is just a pit stop on people’s way to Yellowstone National Park. People often dream of picking up and moving to NYC, but most haven’t even heard of Buford.
During the wintertime, there’s no 76-foot Christmas tree on display or men dressed in Santa suits asking for donations for the Salvation Army. During the springtime, you can’t ride your bike through Central Park or visit outdoor museum galleries. During the summertime, there aren’t any children playing in the water sprayed from a fire hydrant or Mister Softee ice cream trucks stationed on every other street. During the fall time, there aren’t any back-to-school sales or parades.
Both Buford and NYC attract travelers, though not equal in numbers or types. Whereas people usually plan their trips to NYC, Buford is just a pit stop on people’s way to Yellowstone National Park. People often dream of picking up and moving to NYC, but most haven’t even heard of Buford.
Passport #6
Describe a stranger on campus and someone I know very well
Someone I know: KL is full of contradictions. Though she is empathetic and kind, she says she hates people, always bitching about the talkative frat boys/sorostitutes or annoying Asians we somehow always manage to sit next to. She says she is lazy and wants to lie in bed forever, but she is always willing to wake up early/stay up late to study and is committed to service. She thinks she is awkward and shy, but she is always friendly to and talkative with strangers. She has a “I-don’t-give-a-shit mentality” about bad things that happen to her, but she is easily hurt by boys who are jerks. She thinks the worst about herself, but I only see the best in her.
She is a friend who is consistently reliable, supportive, and fun. I see her every single day and every day, we do the exact same things. Our conversations always center around the same topics: whether or not we should get more coffee, how hungry we are, how tired we are, how much we hate the people around us, Buzzfeed quizzes, and how we have the worst luck in the world. She ends all her messages with LOL because she probably is actually laughing out loud. Her positive energy does wonders for those around her, especially me as I provide the pessimism in our friendship.
Someone I don’t know: As I cross the Diag in my winter coat, boots, and scarf, I walk by a 6 foot tall white guy wearing salmon shorts, a button-down shirt, Sperries, Ray Bans, Beats headphones, and a Michigan snapback. He is lanky with blonde hair, stubble, and probably blue eyes. It is 48 degrees; it feels much warmer because we are all acclimatized to below zero weather, but not warm enough to wear late spring/summer colors and clothes. From head-to-toe, he looks no different from every other frat boy on campus, and like the rest of his brothers, he appeared to be trying too hard to look unassumingly cool.
He could be a kind, sensitive fellow who did something other than take shots, play beer pong, and grind on wasted girls at their themed parties on the weekends, but that certainly wasn’t my first thought. He may also a brilliant student, but from his swagger and decision to don the epitome of a frat star outfit, I assume he does not care about academics and is likely concentrating in an easy major, such as communication studies or psychology, rather than engineering. These stereotypes led me to the conclusion that he has a common white male name, such as Jake or Scott.
She is a friend who is consistently reliable, supportive, and fun. I see her every single day and every day, we do the exact same things. Our conversations always center around the same topics: whether or not we should get more coffee, how hungry we are, how tired we are, how much we hate the people around us, Buzzfeed quizzes, and how we have the worst luck in the world. She ends all her messages with LOL because she probably is actually laughing out loud. Her positive energy does wonders for those around her, especially me as I provide the pessimism in our friendship.
Someone I don’t know: As I cross the Diag in my winter coat, boots, and scarf, I walk by a 6 foot tall white guy wearing salmon shorts, a button-down shirt, Sperries, Ray Bans, Beats headphones, and a Michigan snapback. He is lanky with blonde hair, stubble, and probably blue eyes. It is 48 degrees; it feels much warmer because we are all acclimatized to below zero weather, but not warm enough to wear late spring/summer colors and clothes. From head-to-toe, he looks no different from every other frat boy on campus, and like the rest of his brothers, he appeared to be trying too hard to look unassumingly cool.
He could be a kind, sensitive fellow who did something other than take shots, play beer pong, and grind on wasted girls at their themed parties on the weekends, but that certainly wasn’t my first thought. He may also a brilliant student, but from his swagger and decision to don the epitome of a frat star outfit, I assume he does not care about academics and is likely concentrating in an easy major, such as communication studies or psychology, rather than engineering. These stereotypes led me to the conclusion that he has a common white male name, such as Jake or Scott.
Passport #7
Describe myself in the moment the photo (of two friends and me) was taken
When I first met them, I didn’t know who I was. 9 years later, I still don’t know who I am, but I at least have a better sense of it. For six years, I saw Nancy and Sophia almost every day for 5 days of the week for 40 weeks of the year. They helped me struggle through depression, friend drama, boy troubles, family problems, SATs, college applications, and the fear of leaving my home of 18 years. And now, we’re lucky if we’re even in the same state for more than twice a year. Somehow, New Year’s became our time; midnight was the moment when we’d walk into the new year together with limited inhibitions, an unbelievable hangover, and an overwhelming feeling of happiness.
All smiles, I had just changed into a dress I had picked up cheaply from H&M, because who wants to spend a lot of money on something that’s going to be covered in sticky beer anyway? It was finally 8 P.M. Time for the festivities to start.
Salt. Tequila. Lime juice. Repeat 6 more times.
Everything, but me seemed to be in motion. Everything made me laugh. My friends, the lanterns on her wall, the eagle necklace around Sophia’s neck. Irek, the Polish friend with an incredible tolerance for liquor, was the only one capable of operating a $2000 Canon camera.
Snap. Eyes squeezed shut, mouths wide open as the sting of the expired lime juice and Jose Cuervo mix spread through my veins.
Snap. Flying hair and blurred faces. Laughter drifted out of us like hiccups, uncontrollable and unpredictable.
Snap. Wobbling, we finally managed to get a good picture while holding onto each other as we tried to keep our heavy bloodshot eyes open.
Plenty of decisions made that night should have been reconsidered. Wine. Vodka. More vodka. More wine. But out of these bad decisions came another affirmation that these girls are whom I can trust my soul and life with. Though they believe in taking risks and living by the YOLO motto and have made mistakes themselves, they somehow always know when to stop me from crossing the fine line into death. Despite being 930 miles from Sophia and 650 miles from Nancy, I always consult them for both minor decisions, such as online purchases, and major ones, such as graduate schools and career choices. They encourage me to have fun (but to also be safe), to be true to myself (but to also not be afraid to try new things), and to help others (but to also take care of myself). Who they are and their opinions are integral to how I have become and come to understand “Sophia [Peng]”.
All smiles, I had just changed into a dress I had picked up cheaply from H&M, because who wants to spend a lot of money on something that’s going to be covered in sticky beer anyway? It was finally 8 P.M. Time for the festivities to start.
Salt. Tequila. Lime juice. Repeat 6 more times.
Everything, but me seemed to be in motion. Everything made me laugh. My friends, the lanterns on her wall, the eagle necklace around Sophia’s neck. Irek, the Polish friend with an incredible tolerance for liquor, was the only one capable of operating a $2000 Canon camera.
Snap. Eyes squeezed shut, mouths wide open as the sting of the expired lime juice and Jose Cuervo mix spread through my veins.
Snap. Flying hair and blurred faces. Laughter drifted out of us like hiccups, uncontrollable and unpredictable.
Snap. Wobbling, we finally managed to get a good picture while holding onto each other as we tried to keep our heavy bloodshot eyes open.
Plenty of decisions made that night should have been reconsidered. Wine. Vodka. More vodka. More wine. But out of these bad decisions came another affirmation that these girls are whom I can trust my soul and life with. Though they believe in taking risks and living by the YOLO motto and have made mistakes themselves, they somehow always know when to stop me from crossing the fine line into death. Despite being 930 miles from Sophia and 650 miles from Nancy, I always consult them for both minor decisions, such as online purchases, and major ones, such as graduate schools and career choices. They encourage me to have fun (but to also be safe), to be true to myself (but to also not be afraid to try new things), and to help others (but to also take care of myself). Who they are and their opinions are integral to how I have become and come to understand “Sophia [Peng]”.
Passport #8
Describe a scene from Spring Break in a form that parallels the content of the story
Burnt Spaghetti
A story about how a 20-year-old girl burned something submerged in water.
Ingredients
1 Emerald Isle beach house
12 University of Michigan students
1½ boxes of spaghetti
1 burnt pot
12 sets of abs sore from laughing
∞ jokes to follow
Method
1. Call shotty on spaghetti night because even an amateur cook can’t mess up boiling pasta.
2. Buy enough spaghetti to feed 50 people instead of 12 to ensure error.
3. Fill pot more than halfway with water. Add some salt to reduce the amount of time needed to bring the water to boil.
4. Break raw spaghetti in half. Make sure to make a mess around the burner. Stuff as much spaghetti as you can into the pot.
5. When you think there’s absolutely no room left for any more spaghetti, confirm with your friend, Ryan, and add more until the water rises to the rim.
6. Ignore people’s concerns about the scent of something burning filling the air. Attribute it to bits of ground beef that must have fallen under the burner while the meat sauce was being made (don’t worry, that’s someone else’s job).
7. Let the spaghetti cook until water starts boiling out the top and dripping onto the red-hot burner underneath. Try not to stir it too much so that the noodles can stick to each other and the pot.
8. Pour the spaghetti into a colander. Allow the steam and smoke to rise into your face and open your pores as only half of the pot’s contents plops out. Allow the burning stench to burn your nostril hairs as desired. Beckon 11 other people over so that they can bask in the wonderful aroma of smoky pasta too.
9. Look into the pot and make sure there is a 1-inch layer of partially cooked spaghetti still stuck to the bottom. If there isn’t, you’ve done it wrong and you need to start over. If there is, give the thumbs up for 12 sets of abs to start shaking. Clutching sides in pain from laughter is optional.
10. Give the pot to 5 people to take out to the deck for a photo shoot of the intentional disaster. Encourage them to post it on Instagram and Facebook.
11. When they return the pot, try to scrape out the stuck pasta with a fork. Give up and let it soak in the sink so that you can enjoy the delicious dish you have just created. Encourage everyone to eat up.
12. Put the massive amounts of spaghetti leftover in a Ziploc bag. Store it in the fridge even though no one will eat them.
13. Recount the story as often as possible in the future; make sure you’re the butt of the joke.
A story about how a 20-year-old girl burned something submerged in water.
Ingredients
1 Emerald Isle beach house
12 University of Michigan students
1½ boxes of spaghetti
1 burnt pot
12 sets of abs sore from laughing
∞ jokes to follow
Method
1. Call shotty on spaghetti night because even an amateur cook can’t mess up boiling pasta.
2. Buy enough spaghetti to feed 50 people instead of 12 to ensure error.
3. Fill pot more than halfway with water. Add some salt to reduce the amount of time needed to bring the water to boil.
4. Break raw spaghetti in half. Make sure to make a mess around the burner. Stuff as much spaghetti as you can into the pot.
5. When you think there’s absolutely no room left for any more spaghetti, confirm with your friend, Ryan, and add more until the water rises to the rim.
6. Ignore people’s concerns about the scent of something burning filling the air. Attribute it to bits of ground beef that must have fallen under the burner while the meat sauce was being made (don’t worry, that’s someone else’s job).
7. Let the spaghetti cook until water starts boiling out the top and dripping onto the red-hot burner underneath. Try not to stir it too much so that the noodles can stick to each other and the pot.
8. Pour the spaghetti into a colander. Allow the steam and smoke to rise into your face and open your pores as only half of the pot’s contents plops out. Allow the burning stench to burn your nostril hairs as desired. Beckon 11 other people over so that they can bask in the wonderful aroma of smoky pasta too.
9. Look into the pot and make sure there is a 1-inch layer of partially cooked spaghetti still stuck to the bottom. If there isn’t, you’ve done it wrong and you need to start over. If there is, give the thumbs up for 12 sets of abs to start shaking. Clutching sides in pain from laughter is optional.
10. Give the pot to 5 people to take out to the deck for a photo shoot of the intentional disaster. Encourage them to post it on Instagram and Facebook.
11. When they return the pot, try to scrape out the stuck pasta with a fork. Give up and let it soak in the sink so that you can enjoy the delicious dish you have just created. Encourage everyone to eat up.
12. Put the massive amounts of spaghetti leftover in a Ziploc bag. Store it in the fridge even though no one will eat them.
13. Recount the story as often as possible in the future; make sure you’re the butt of the joke.