The Power of Words - Rose

The Power of Writing

Writing is such a vague concept to report on. I feel as though it is one of the most basic art forms there is. Almost every form begins with a feasible thought process which can most easily be communicated through words- and in turn,  writing.
For me, writing is the most essential form, it is simple, basic and most easily relatable. I love all art, but there is something so beautiful about simplicity. It is raw. It is powerful.

Writing has been the friend that I have always had around when no one else was- a sort of pocket therapist, if you will. It is the anonymous tip for those who will never know my face. It is something that lives on much longer than any author- or reader for that matter.

Writing, books, poems, imagery, etc can take you to different places, whether they have been deemed “real” or not. It is a way to escape your own reality, or to make it more real. Books and writing have helped me to escape when reality has been too much to put up with. I believe that there are many others who feel similarly to this as well.

My mom used to read to me when I was a tiny baby fetus in her tummy. Maybe that is why I am so obsessed with literature. It is something natural almost, like talking or drinking water. I have memories of her reading The Chronicles of Narnia to me. When I was younger, I had a little green journal which I would attempt to write my own fantasy novels in (granted they never went very far). However, I was still obsessed with the idea of one day writing my own stories. I remember I would take these short attempts and read them aloud to my mother.  In a way she is the reason why reading and writing has been such an important thing in my life.

As I have gotten older, I have used it to tune out responsibilities, and ignore unpleasant situations- to an extreme. For example, when my family first moved to California we took our green Subaru, packed it up with five bikes, boxes in a jumbled mess, so high that you literally could not see out of the back and a cat. My family fought a lot, blasted music and our cat was certainly not happy about the situation and was very verbal about this. My response was to tune it out as best I could with countless novels, which I would collect from town to town.
During my freshman year of high school I was known for my ability to walk around crowded halls, up and down three flights of stairs with kids who liked to linger in really inconvenient places- and not die (by this I mean crash into anything). I would spend most of my class time and breaks with my head buried in stories because it was too difficult to face the reality that I was stuck with people I could not relate to, in an overcrowded school, learning nothing.

At night I have a difficult time sleeping, so I read to fall asleep. I can’t relate to people, they make me anxious, so I read to understand human interaction. My family likes to argue, so I read to ignore the fact that family isn't always perfect. I don’t understand why the world is so messed up, so I read, partially to understand it and partially to tune it out. I don’t know how people love each other in times of war, so I read about that too.

Writing has shown me that it is about having the power to communicate ideas to people regardless of external circumstances. Words have the power to educate, inspire and cause destruction and revolt. Many authors have been placed on America’s banned books list. For example; many authors who speak of the more unpleasant history of our country have been banned from lessons in schools. Authorities fear that people may understand the truth behind their roots and rise up against those who took what was theirs from them.

In Arizona, (my hometown) many books about Native/Mexican culture and the origins of Columbus have been taken out of lesson plans. In addition,  Arizona’s SB1070 requires that every person over the age of fourteen have legal documentation on them at all time that declares that they are an American citizen.

Both of these things happened at the same time- in my opinion, as a way to ensure that people be kept in the dark, ignorant of their oppression because authorities feared that too much knowledge would cause rebellion against authorities for equal rights for people native the colonized land.

For some time, The Catcher in the Rye and The Perks of Being a Wallflower were on this list. The reason I believe is because they are both very realistic and accurate depictions of how difficult it is to be a teenager. The world know how to face conflicts, or own up to the fact that there may be problems with American systems/culture.

Authorities know that there is power behind being a literate person. It is the reason why books are being banned. It is the reason why slaves, brought here from Africa were not allowed to be literate people. It is the reason why women were not allowed to attend universities for a time. It is why poor people are often not.

Words are pure, simple, raw and powerful. They have the power to incite minds, to educate and create true change in the word. The more that people become literate, the more chance there will be of revolt. Once oppressed people have other things to compare their lives to, they will realize that they are not being given nearly enough. This is the greatest fear that people of power have. The loss of their power- of the pyramid scheme.

The world has become such a complicated place. Words are basic, simple. This is why I love it so much. It takes you back to something simple and more easily understood. Spread literacy dudes.

The Power of Animation - Alina Hubbard-Riley

Animation is a medium that gives the artist’s imagination free range. Any number of vivid worlds can be realized with the stroke of a pen, brush, or mouse. The audience of an animated picture may find themselves completely immersed in an unfamiliar world – the world of the creators’ imagination. Even the most overt inconsistencies with reality may fall away before the viewer’s eyes, and they may be submerged in the story and the atmosphere of the piece.

Animation rips the robes off of the human psyche, delving into those dreams that no-one dares illustrate without fear. There would be no other way to present the towering, chimerical Nightwalker from Princess Mononoke, at least not to the same effect. There is a certain amount of unreality that is achieved only this way.

Through Walt Disney’s classic Alice In Wonderland, a surreal world unfolded from celluloid, ink, paint and paper, leaving an imperishable imprint on the minds of millions of children. Those settings, characters, and songs leaped past dimensional restrictions and became real in that infinite universe of consciousness.

Animation is often criticized for being too heavily youth-targeted. Indeed, most animation is geared towards children or adolescents, but this is more a strength than a weakness. Try naming the most popular and enduring characters you can think of. Are they not mostly from children’s media?  This is the power of the young mind. Young humans are so alive, so imaginative, so willing believe anything. Of course their loves will always dominate the culture.

At least somewhat because of this, cartoons (and I have no shame in calling them as such, seeing as it comes from the Latin word “carta,” which I find is quite descriptive of the way they are created) have a constant cultural currency unmatched by any other art form. Every decade or so, someone may claim that animation is dead, but again and again that has proven false. Animated features continue to top box-offices and break demographic barriers. Even more strikingly, animation merchandise is inescapable in the US and Japan, with whole stores dedicated to it easily found.

Animation is so powerful that an entire subculture has formed around it. It’s not novel for a teenager to declare that they are only attracted to “2D” boys or girls. In fact, there is an entire neighborhood in Tokyo where various anime-based businesses can be found.

This culture, in turn, is a game-changer itself: a young artist can easily garner attention by drawing fan-art of an animated franchise. In fact, many fan-artists have gained their own followings online and have become employed by professional studios.

That, to me, is one of the most wonderful things about animation: its great accessibility. One only needs drawing ability, a good story, strong characters, and a computer or even just a camera to make an animated feature. Good voice actors are a plus, and music helps create a more immersive atmosphere, but really, it ends there.

Animation makes it possible for anyone, with a little work, to create a dream or a nightmare, portray a beautiful truth or a harsh fantasy, change a mind or inspire a heart.

The Power of Punk Rock (Or, How I Sat Down to Write About Music and Instead Wrote About Angst)

I feel pretty pretentious writing about “the power of punk rock” because though it might hold value to me in a certain way, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it holds value to anyone else in the same way. I could quote Kurt Cobain – “To me, punk rock is musical freedom” – but that, as well, seems wrong.

I guess I should start at the beginning. Well, there are several beginnings, but this is the one that seems the most right. For the first year and a half of middle school, I was shy, awkward, and quiet. My only friend for most of that time was a girl with whom I never spoke – we would sit at the same table at lunchtime, exchange a simple “hi, what’s up?” and then pull out our respective books and read for forty five minutes, occasionally sharing a carrot from her lunch or a cracker from mine. By the time seventh grade rolled around, we had amassed a group of book-lovers big enough to call a friend group, tied together with the weak fibers of a shared love for literature.

A lot of us received our first mp3 players as Christmas gifts, winter of the 7^th grade. Then began the frenzy of sharing and trading music, occasional adventures to Amoeba Records or to a big sibling’s bedroom in order to find something cooler to play than the others. I did my best to stay out of this frenzy, as her Gregorian Chants or her Katy Perry didn’t really interest me all that much. Instead, I quietly surfed YouTube and Google, immersing myself in the popular bands of the day – band that I’m halfway ashamed to admit that I liked, now, but that still made quite an impact on me then.

One Tuesday evening, February of 7^th grade – I remember, as I was nibbling on leftover birthday cake – reading AFI’s Wikipedia article for the umpteenth time as I waited for their album to come out (I’d have to wait another year and a half, unfortunately), my eye caught a certain phrase:

“…began performing at various small punk venues in Northern California, most notably the 924 Gilman Street Project in Berkeley.”

Berkeley? I thought. That’s where I live!

That night, I announced to my parents that, that Friday, I was going to go to my very first rock concert at a punk rock club.

Sure, my parents said. Please. Anything to get you out of the house.

So I went to Gilman and loved it – big surprise. I’ve written about the change that people saw in me after that night various times, but I suppose I’d better write it again. After that night, I discarded cargo pants and hiking boots for jeans and sneakers, plain shirts and a jewfro for band tees and a Mohawk, my grandmother’s sewing and playing cello (I was shit at it, anyway) for patches and a beat-up electric guitar that I still quite don’t know how to play.

“Stop trying to be a rebel, Mari. It’s dumb.”

See, I wasn’t trying to rebel. I was trying to grow up. I was trying to find myself. And I did, in some strange way – though part of me will always be a sad history nerd with a laptop, the other part will always belong in dingy clubs and dirty sidewalks, screaming my lungs out while my ears bleed and while the band plays and the people mosh. Or no, not even – the other part of me will always belong with the radicals, the readers, the ones questioning everything and living life to the fullest.

At the risk of sounding pretentious, I’d like to think of myself as one of them.

So I’m six hundred words into this and I’m not quite sure where the other four hundred will come from. I suppose I could talk about being bullied as a middle schooler and as a freshman, and how one of the only things that kept me sane was the group of fucked-up teenagers wearing ripped black clothing at Gilman who adopted me as one of their own. How I would leave school angry and walk straight down the road to the club by the train tracks, throw my backpack into the corner of the sound booth, and then expel my anger in the mosh pit.

            How through Gilman, I met and made friends and connections that stick with me to this day. Found music, listened to that music, obsessed over that music, started a band just to try and create that music for myself.

            How, through punk rock, I found myself.

            Yeah. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I found myself through punk rock. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a punk, but punk rock certainly helped me find myself. It helped me learn who I am.

            However, that said, this story isn’t everyone’s story. It’s probably similar, sure – punk rock changes a lot of lives – but my story is my own.

            I don’t know. I sat down to write about the power of punk rock and instead I told you a story of my personal experience with it. I suppose that’s the same thing, though. Go out and listen to any band that came out post-1975, and you’ll hear the exact same power in that band that I felt in myself.

            So yeah. That’s the power of punk rock. It changes you. It helps you grow up. It shows you who you are.

            What the hell am I writing.

            If you want to hear the power of punk rock, go listen to “Suffer” by Bad Religion. That will show you much better the power of punk rock than any badly-written blog post by an 18-year-old senior in high school could.