Bridal Veil

The summer that my friend Brenten invited our friend Derek and my sisters Abbie, Lexie and I to camp with his family in Yosemite was the first time I had ever been to that park. We packed heavily and joked that we had brought everything PLUS the kitchen sink, because of the sink on the trailer behind us, brought solely for humor and secured carefully beside a full sized and open trampoline.

This camping trip was a chance to be more active in the outdoors than I expect most of us usually were. We rode bikes most places, went for long rides, walked, and rode the bus into the small nearby town to explore the museums. At night the girls slept in a tent atop the trampoline, and the boys slept beneath the trampoline on the trailer. We kept ourselves busy mostly, exploring nature trails, or going on guided walking tours sometimes.

One day we found a moderately safe rock face and began rappelling down the side of it, the ambitious Fillmores both teaching us how and advising our descent. Probably the height of our energy saw us hiking the Bridal Veil trail one day. I had no idea what I was getting myself into at the time. I don’t know if I would have done it had I known the full extent of the climb before I began; but today I would always do it over. We all began determinedly: the veteran climbers who had done it before and knew what to expect along with the cautious tenderfeet.

The climb was just as I had expected – at first. Then it continued, going on and on, farther and beyond what I had imagined. I hiked without a word – at first, but it was fairly obvious that I was a bit plagued by the trail when I straggled behind the large group of climbers with the mothers attempting to hike while carrying, or pulling along their young children. Everyone reached the top eventually whether in the front or back of the group.

The trail surprised me; I had never seen such a popular trail with some parts so seemingly risky. In some spots we hiked through mist and water droplets, right beside a waterfall and in others the path narrowed out so much there was a guardrail and we walked single file. The view on top was amazing, but the climb itself was the most fun part for me. I had always heard of Yosemite and how great it was, but going there myself established a fondness of not only Yosemite, but of being outside doing the things that I learned to do there.

Palermo vs. Biggs All Stars

I wrote this story about the year I made it to All Stars. 

 

It was the thick smoky summer of 2009. The young Palermo and Biggs All Star girls practiced catch before what was to be an important game. It didn’t matter that California was having a problem with fires during the summer dry spell, and that the air was full of smoke: the teenaged girls were adamant about playing through the game. The die-hard sports parents and relatives lined the bleachers, equipped with score pads and folding chairs. You could feel the determination of the Little League teams when they filed out of the dugouts to stand along the baselines, hands over hearts to hear the national anthem.

 All at once the players were on the field: the pitcher throwing a few practice pitches, the overzealous first baseman shouting out reminders to her teammates. The smoke was obviously visible in the air, although not quite extreme enough to make a game postponement mandatory. Biggs was the home team, so the Palermo girls started off at bat. There was an out, a walk, and then things started to become heavy.

The umpire was making calls on close pitches and base outs, and consistently in favor of the Biggs team. A Palermo scorekeeper began to bother the umpire about the way he was keeping score, until finally the umpire warned: “One more time and I’ll throw you out!” another close call was made, one that the scorekeeper found so ludicrous that she could not keep quiet, and was thrown out of the game.

The coach took over scorekeeping for the Palermo team, while the newly excited crowd sat forward in their seats, spitting sunflower seeds enthusiastically and calling out encouragement to their favorite team. Both teams resumed playing, the Palermo team taking the field in their crisp new uniforms, with newly sewn on All Star patches, and the Biggs team stepping into the batter’s box. Two innings later, the Palermo coach was fit to be tied due to the umpire’s calls. When the coach began to attempt to speak to the umpire about his calls, the umpire confined the coach to his team’s dugout, forbidding any further comment from the man or his team.

 The coach was not content to stay within his dugout peacefully however, and in between innings he stomped out onto the field to confront the umpire. The umpire’s immediate response was to throw the coach out of the game. Now the crowd was really excited, the umpire had thrown TWO of Palermo’s officials out of the game! There was a great deal of calamity as the team’s manager became scorekeeper while the coach stormed off the field, throwing his hat off angrily.

As the sun beat down on the players, the crowd really had their eye on the umpire, who began to call less and less miraculous base outs and unbelievable strikes. By the end of the game the Palermo team had made a comeback in the game, winning the Biggs team by a thin margin. It was this ability to come back from a loss, and their habit of doing so, that was to later earn them the nickname among their umpires “the comeback team.”

Dreary Mr. Poe

Sometimes people don't see eye to eye. I of all people know this. Being a person that generally considers herself to be correct, I have a hard time discussing with someone the idea that I may, in fact, be in the wrong and even worse the person I am speaking with is annoyingly in the right. However I am beginning to make my way and learn how to handle myself in such a situation. One way I have discovered is not to make the conversations you have about a wrong and right person, or in other words, don't try to pit yourself against your fellow conversationalist. This places you in a mode where you are not actually debating anything, you're just mildly milling over an event. You know who isn't very skilled in mildly milling over an event? Edgar Allan Poe. I say this not only because it is somewhat random, but because I have been inclined, (Which here means assigned to read in school) to read a few of his stories. One of them which I was familiar with from a previous year, "The Masque of the Red Death," I was this year asked to analyze, as it is apparently an allegory. This of course led to a minor Google search, because I was in no way sure what in the world Poe was attempting to symbolize with this somewhat gruesome story, however I found that he had somehow skillfully matched this vivid story to an equally gruesome allegory. For those unfamiliar with the Masque of the Red Death it basically consists these following events. In the beginning is introduced a horrible disease which consists of much bloodshed and death within a half hour of the victim. It is within this chaos that a prince, Price Prospero, a very content, happy, and wealthy man invites 1,000 of his friends to a special area he has constructed which they weld shut behind them, hoping to lock the horrors of the Red Death out side the walls. Here the prince and his 1,000 guests are treated with all of the very best luxuries, and eventually about 5 or 6 months in Prince Prospero decides to throw a rather exciting party. This occasion is set up with seven very lavish and multicolored rooms which the prince designs himself and the last of which is a frightening red and black room with a large clock within that everyone avoids. Every hour on the hour the clock tolls and all stand still and tremulously regard it, but aside from that they spend their time unceasingly indulging within the festivities. It is said that Prince Prospero had a love of the bizarre and so encouraged his guests to dress very grotesquely, but when a single man appeared dressed in a burial shroud and wearing a lifelike mask that appeared as the face of a corpse, along with blood down his front he was shunned. The people knew well he was dressed as the Red Death and so disapprovingly avoided him. When the prince came upon the man he became very angry at the apparent mockery of his party and chased the man down upon catching up with him the prince fell dead and the rest of the partygoers caught the man bravely now, at last recognized him as the Red Death himself, and all died that day. The hidden symbols within this story are Prince Prospero representing prosperity and wealth. The Red Death as death, the clock signifying the judgement of death, and the seven rooms signifying life, the last black one the endpoint, or death. The hidden moral of the story? You cannot hide or run from death. No matter how wealthy, prosperous, well to do, no matter what palace of safety you preside in or what countrymen you scorn you cannot cheat the judgement of death, and all will be dealt fairly. A bit morbid, don't you think? Then again, Poe's life as a general was very sad and I can see it accounting for his upsetting stories in which everyone dies. As an infant Poe's father left him, and at age 3 his mother died. He was then taken in by a wealthy businessman, but the two had a very brooding and stormy relationship. When Poe was kicked out of college for gambling debts, he decided not to go back to the man, and to form his own family with his aunt and cousin. A year later, however, Poe married his cousin publicly, although it was thought they married in secret a year previously. His young cousin was two or three years younger than him, but she died 11 years later, leaving behind a very devastated Poe. Only a few years after Poe himself died, finally leaving behind a very unfortunate life, which had undoubtedly fed his famous gothic writings. I must say, it is a bit strange that they would want to feed such depressing things to high schoolers as well as set him on a pedestal as a very great man. For while Edgar Allan Poe's works were very skillfully done, witty, well thought out and incredibly complex, they were also just plain depressing. I have never read a Poe story in which at least half of the main characters do not die in the end. All I am saying is, I think the man could have done with a bit more positivity in his life. For poor Mr. Poe, however it was not to be, Shakespeare, and so was another classic hit with a shockingly and horrifyingly unhappy ending. It is a story like this that makes me optimistic about my life and its progressions, for I am certain that it will end much more pleasantly, I know that I have begun much more pleasantly, and I am confident in my ability to rock the whole living thing  :).

Just Another Growing Stage

Sometimes life is so incredibly busy that when you finally get the chance to stop, every minute seems to be in slow motion. Which is to say, because you have been living so breathlessly and not taking the chance to "stop and smell the roses," now you have run out of things to do each minute that was previously one that could not be spared. Now you begin to wonder why you were ever in a hurry in the first place. After all, if you had been slower and taken more time with each moment, then perhaps you would now have something to do other than stare blankly into space. I'm talking about school, can't you tell? Lately I have had quite a lot of interesting things to consider. First there's the fact that I finally decided to graduate high school a semester early. This decision, however, has thrown me more prematurely than I had previously expected into a higher level of growing up, which is making the transition into becoming a college student. Although I haven't yet become a college student at all, the advanced planning has surprised me in its quickness of which it snuck up on me. Now there's talk of where I'll go to college, saving for this pastime, where to stay, whether or not to travel, and many other stray and whimsical thoughts previously unthought of. My family has been considering moving to Alaska, where I would be welcome, but other parts of my extended family will still be here. While I am not particularly close with many people here outside of my unusual family members, I have grown quite attached to this state. I can tell you it certainly isn't the freedoms that attract me, because those seem to be very few and far between compared to Alaska, but rather this is the place I was born. It's the family, and a bit the warm climate combined with the fact that the few friends I do have here are very dear ones. Not to say I won't travel either though (anyone's head spinning yet? I believe that's the college spirit!). I think a visit to Alaska might be a fun experience. I miss it there a little. I want to see the little library where I spent so many hours volunteering, visit my favorite little Alaskan friend, Sophia, see our tiny little dry cabin and the other half of my collection of beloved books that stayed there when I left. In the end though, at this stage of my life I'm not ready to move there for any permanence, and I think perhaps this may be my time to show a little independence. I know I can handle it. My mother and I have also recently been looking into maybe taking a trip to New York for a few days sometime. I've never been there, and it could be a neat experience. On another note though, today is a day to celebrate for me. I got my permit again, and this time I intend to keep it until I exchange it for my license. I truly believe I can do it, and it's nice to take this step forward. Driving is no longer the obstacle and cause of frustration to me that it has been, and I don't intend to be driving a horse and cart as my grandpa Butch enjoys teasing me. (Although, they are entitled to share the road according to the drivers handbook, along with tractors and other strange vehicles. Just saying ;). I know these are just the first steps for me into a stage that so many have surpassed already, and honestly I cannot wait to tackle the obstacles standing in my way this time. I am extremely confident in my ability to come out ahead.

A Faustian Tale

This was to write a Faustian tale. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it means the basic stereotypical stories over time about one very distinctive character who "sells their soul" to the devil for one reason or another. The basic requirements are that the main character must be characteristic, with distinctive traits, he must meet and "sell his soul" to the devil figure. And finally the main character must learn their lesson and suffer some sort of consequences. Definitely not my favorite writing form, but it was an interesting learning experience I suppose.

In a crowded neighborhood full of cookie cutter houses in uniformly dark colors, where the weather was always blustery stood many a towering and well-kept house. At the edge of the town however, stood a dilapidated house that didn’t match the rest; despite the fact that it was unsightly and somewhat resented by the newer homeowners, the occupant of the house refused to give up her stronghold, having lived there longer than any of the rest. The homeowner was Elizabeth Anne Cruise, and she had lived in the house since before anyone could recall. Her legal address was still Ms. Cruise, for she had never married, but she kept a strange cat with an odd little twitch and had visits from her brother’s children now and then. The visits were paid by her two young nieces and older nephew of nine years. The three always trailed her into town like ducklings when they came, and so they did on Friday morning when the woman, her nieces, and her nephew were seen at the local farmer’s market. The children oohed over the miscellaneous trinkets to be seen and made a beeline for the neighborhood fountain nearby. Elizabeth strolled along, eying the booths, while also keeping watch on her brother’s angelic children. She truly was fond of the children, even if she was somewhat harsh and headstrong in relation to everyone else; and it was as she continued her slow pace that she came upon a very strange looking booth indeed. Seated behind it was a woman with dark skin, wearing obviously expensive clothing, and selling an array of strange objects no one quite knew anything about. “My dear,” the woman addressed Elizabeth, surprising her. “Are these your children?” “I am looking after them,” Elizabeth replied, not one to stall with long and revealing conversations. “But they are not yours.” The strange woman stated this knowingly, as though the question had been rhetorical all along. “Do you not wish you had some of your own? The world has been cruel to you Elizabeth Anne; do you not deserve a pleasing husband, children of your own, and a beautiful home? Do you not deserve the beauty that others have as much as they do?” she shook her long beautiful hair, her intricately braided headband sliding down further into her thick hair. Elizabeth drew back from the booth as though burned, “How did you know my name?” The question was met by a nonchalant shrug, in which looked across at her subject of interest. “You know, you could have all of the things you desire so strongly. You could be young and beautiful, have a husband and children, you could have all of the wealth and riches of a queen.” Elizabeth nodded and smiled a bit, getting the feeling that this woman was quite mentally ill. She had already worked it out in her head, the woman must’ve heard the children call her by name when she arrived, and she must have been guessing at the rest. She turned from the booth now, and the woman called after her, “I know someone who could help you, I’ll be here next Friday if you change your mind, dear.” Elizabeth was unsettled by the woman, and so she gathered the children and returned home without anything from the market at all. Later that week, her brother and his wife came to collect the children, and she was left behind in her old house again. Even though Elizabeth had dismissed it strongly at the time, the woman had been right in her assumptions. Elizabeth really had many losses and felt the world had been unfair to her. It was this series of events, and the fact that she came to be alone in the house for several days beforehand that led Elizabeth to make her way back to the farmer’s market on Friday once again. It won’t be silly, she reasoned; if the woman was there she would speak to her – if not she could assume she had been crazy. But the woman was there when Elizabeth arrived, and lounging as nonchalantly as ever behind her booth, her beauty again striking Elizabeth. “Ah,” said the woman in her knowing way. “You’ve returned, Elizabeth Anne. You know I would like you to meet my father, for I think you may find he could grant your wishes.” The farmer’s market disappeared as the woman took Elizabeth’s hand, and she saw around her a barren wasteland where no life was sustained, and no hope seemed to glow. The woman was here with her, still holding her hand, and before them was a tall and mighty muscled man. He was positively angelic, and his smile charmed Elizabeth deeply. Behind the man stood many figures clad in shackles, held to one another and looking sickly and sinister. Both the man and the woman ignored these, having only eyes for Elizabeth. “My father,” introduced the woman. “Hello my Sarah, and Elizabeth Anne,” the man welcomed pleasantly. “I gather that you would like to make a deal?” “Yes,” sighed Elizabeth, taken by his wonderful presence. The man smiled at her, “Very good.” The man promised her all of her heart’s desires in exchange for a later favor. Elizabeth agreed; she and the man shook hands as Sarah stood nearby dazzlingly. Immediately she reappeared in the farmer’s market she had been in before. Sarah was behind her booth, smiling at her. Elizabeth looked down at her hands, and they were young and smooth, her clothes were expensive looking, and clutching at her leg was a five year old girl, with rich, smooth hair and a chubby face. “Mommy,” the beautiful girl addressed her, looking into her eyes, “Can I play in the fountain?” Elizabeth reached down and patted the girl on the back gently and unbelievingly, “Of course dear.” Elizabeth’s life had been transformed. She had a wonderful house, and a handsome, wealthy husband to accompany her beautiful daughter and her own youth. After three years, Elizabeth had become delighted with her life, her, she was happily married and her daughter had grown to be eight years old and now had a younger brother. They continued to live a privileged life until one day there was a knock at the door. The angelic man was on her doorstep, and Elizabeth knew him immediately. “I have come to collect, Elizabeth Anne. Your favor is due.” She frowned, taking the man into another room before she asked, “What is your favor?” He smiled again, “Here is your favor, do you remember Sarah? She had grown tired of caring for her post as my recruiter.” “Recruiter?” questioned Elizabeth. “Oh, yes,” the man began to show her images of the poor, the destitute, those in the world who lacked much. “Who are these people?” Elizabeth asked, distressed. “They are those you have stolen from,” the man replied calmly. “All that you have seen are those that you have taken your wealth and good fortune from, Elizabeth.” Elizabeth was horrified. She looked on her children, and glanced in a nearby mirror at her unnatural youth. “No!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know!” the images of the unfortunate people flashed through her mind. “Do not be so distressed,” the man said to her, “For you may keep all that you have gained, if only you draw for me another to draw power from as I have from you. My appetite for wrong has grown, and I need more to draw from.” Elizabeth cast a pained glance on her fortunate life, thinking of the one she had had before, and then she looked at the man before her. “Who are you?” she questioned. “I go by many names,” the man smiled gently at her. Elizabeth remembered the pain of the people she had seen, the hopelessness. “You’re the Devil, aren’t you?” “Indeed,” replied the man, seeming disappointed at the severity with which she said his name, “That is one of them.” “Sir, I cannot agree,” Elizabeth mumbled, looking at the floor. “I can no longer bring these people to pain.” The Devil seemed hurt at her implications, “My dear,” he told her. “You realize this is giving up all you have here? Your life will return to the way it was, you will be older, poorer, and without a family.” “I do.” The woman replied, weeping. At this, the man became angry. He silently and roughly took her by the hand and she found herself back at the farmer’s market. Sarah was there for a brief moment; and she glared menacingly at Elizabeth. And then she was alone. She was three years older, with nothing to show for it, but no one else would ever know that. She glanced around her forlornly and started for her dilapidated old home. She vowed beneath her breath never to make a deal with the Devil again.

Puritans on Jeopardy

This assignment was to use the Puritan characters from the Crucible, a drama by Arthur Miller about the Salem Witch Trials. You had to write a scene for the Crucible in play format, but in a modern day setting. I chose to set them in a Jeopardy show.

(A dark stage in a wide room.

Waiting in hush is a live audience staring intently at the stage. Lights flash on and center on the stage to reveal Alex Trebek, who grins brightly at the camera and introduces himself. There’s a sound of fidgeting near the lecterns behind him. The lights and cameras center on these now to reveal three dark clad figures. They are all dressed in dark, simple Puritan clothing and keeping their eyes down in attempt to keep the awe from their faces.)

Trebek. And our three contestants this evening are: Abigail Williams, John Proctor, and John Hale! (He gestures to Abigail first, then Proctor, and finally Hale.) Now, who’s ready to play Jeopardy? (The crowd roars, and revealed in the front of the crowd are Mr. Parris, Mary Warren, and Elizabeth Proctor). Alright, let’s begin! Abigail will go first, choose a category.

Abigail (Has gained composure faster than her fellows, and decided to play along). What be they, these categories? How might I progress?

Trebek (Not losing his smile). You are going to pick from the categories on the board, and I will supply you with the answer to a question, while you will supply the question belonging to that answer.

Abigail (Intrigued). How peculiar. Speech?

Trebek (Unsure of his contestants).  After his defeat at Waterloo, he told his army “Be always gallant and good… Do not forget me”. ( Abigail remains silent, puzzled. A buzzer rings out behind her.)

Trebek. Mr. Proctor?

Proctor. Waterloo?

Trebek. Mr. Hale.

Hale. I know not, sir.

Trebek (Retaining composure). The answer is Napoleon. Ms. Williams, are you ready?

Abigail (More determined). Aye, sir. B.P.? Six hundred. Dollars?

Trebek (Amused). Oh yes, dollars. Now here’s the clue: To make dough rise, this can be used as a substitute for yeast.

Abigail (Arrives at her answer rapidly). Baking powder?

Trebek (His grin widens, looking somewhat relieved). Correct! (Abigail smiles, satisfied).

Mary Warren. Oh, that girl. Tis venom that runs through her veins! She deserveth not even to compete against two such men.

Elizabeth Proctor (Angrily). Aye, we are agreed. The girl is deceit and belongeth not there.

Parris (Fuming silently to himself). Both ye be correct in your ramblings. Tis no place for a woman there, let alone a girl. Certain as the day is long it should be me competin’ with them, for I would pose an opponent equal and more.

Abigail (Seems to gather it is her turn again and looks to the board searchingly). Antonyms of Bible books. Four hundred.

Trebek. Conclusion.

Abigail (Pauses and the buzzer rings. She glances down ashamedly).

Trebek. Mr. Proctor?

Procter. (Unsure). Revelation?

Trebek. Yes, antonyms of Bible books. Mr. Hale?

Hale (With pride). Genesis.

Trebek. That is correct!

Hale (Ambitiously). Twelve hundred.

Trebek. Influx.

Hale. (Allows for the buzzer, disappointedly).

Trebek. Abigail?

Abigail (Confused). Aye… Influx… (The Jeopardy song plays loudly, breaking her concentration then the buzzer goes off).

Elizabeth Proctor (To herself). Come, John! Tis only the Bible!

Proctor (Hearing Elizabeth, straightens). Ah, well. Exodus?

Trebek. That’s right!

Proctor (Gazes at the audience giddily). Two thousand! (He put this out determinedly, but nervous.)

Trebek. All right, the Bible name that is the antonym for “Joyful utterances”.

Proctor. Lamentations.

Trebek. Right, still your turn, John.

Proctor (Searches the board). Other red, white, and blue flags? Twelve hundred.

Trebek. The historic arms of Dubrovnik are included on this Balkan country's red, white & blue striped flag.

Proctor. I know not.

Trebek. Mr. Hale?

Hale (Disappointedly). Neither I.

Trebek. The answer is Croatia. (The three contestants glance at one another in astonishment.)

Abigail. Croatia, sir? What country is that?

Trebek. A Balkan one. (Trebek reiterates tiredly, seeing that he is losing them again).

Abigail. Sculptures?

Trebek. In architecture, a column in the form of a man is called one of these, like a supportive Greek giant.

Abigail (As the Jeopardy song begins to play). In arch… Archii- (Buzzer after which each of her comrades misses the question).

Trebek. Mr. Proctor?

Proctor: Add a Letter for six hundred.

Trebek. Add a letter to "peal" to get this bike part.

Proctor. And what be a bike?

Trebek. No, that’s… That’s not the answer… (Finally gives up on his contestants). Well folks, we seem to have run out of time. Join us next time to see who wins -  Jeopardy!

Persuasive Essay for Self-Sufficient Jails

When you think about jail or prison, what comes to mind? Heavy metal bars, a loss of freedom and privacy, and altogether sort of a scary place, if you’re like me. Prisons and jails are where people go to be punished for acting in a manner that is popularly and lawfully decided inappropriate and intolerable by other persons. Or rather, jail is where a person goes to be corrected. But have you ever wondered why jails and prisons don’t make and grow their own supplies? That would be fairly neat, wouldn’t it? And certainly it would save the taxpayers a little money. After all, currently the funding that pays for the inmates to live their day to day life, serving out their debts to society and learning their lessons concerning their crimes comes from the rest of the taxpaying people in the country. The inmates live out their correctional period doing not much of anything at all. So why couldn’t they do something constructive? Something that wouldn’t hurt their corrections, but increase their productivity and the overall value of the time they spend behind those plain dank walls? The kind of jail or prison that does this is called a self-sufficient one; which, as the name implies, means that they support themselves. The inmates of these facilities make and grow much of their own food and various other products that they use. Oftentimes the inmates would do a lot of community service also, something already very common in our jail systems. Today, Americans spend $60 billion a year, and imprison 2.2 billion people. The amount that we pay for such expenses exceeds the amount that any other country in the world pays for them. Our legislators have passed “get-tough” laws, say the National Prison Commission that has packed the nation’s jails and prisons with convicts. These convicts, they say, are mostly poor and uneducated. Because of our inefficient system, there is much strain financially on the states, and public health breaches are suffered due to parolees with communicable diseases. During the 1930s, in the Great Depression, the unions were on the rise. They were beginning to realize more the power of numbers, and now that they had permission to exist and were overwhelmed with a variety of success in their missions, they were anxious and eager to fight all of the issues they found to be somewhat of a broach of equality or unjust. In those days self-sufficient jails weren’t unheard of, and in fact they were extremely common. During the 1930s many of the prisons worked their prisoners, having them plant and grow gardens, do community service, and in those days it was not uncommon for an inmate to assist in even the job of guard for the other prisoners! In fact, this way of running the prisons was very efficient and there were often surpluses of products. These surpluses were sold for more money to support the prison. And that was where part of the problem came in. Originally there came to be two establishments opposed to the self-sufficient prisons. The first were the manufacturers. The manufacturers were angry with the prisons because they had been so successful with their system, and that they were producing large enough surpluses to compete with the manufacturers. People were buying prison-made goods instead of the goods offered by the manufacturers, and they manufacturers were highly displeased at the competition. The second enemy the self-sufficient prisons made was the unions. The unions were angry about the prisons using their inmates for labor, even labor for themselves. They complained that in working the prisoners without paying them, the prisons were practicing free and open slavery, the very thing they had eradicated not too terribly long ago. The unions argued bitterly that prisons were not just correcting or laying punishments on the prisoners as they were supposed to be, they were removing their liberties and rights. They were taking the things that made the prisoners free Americans. The unions and the manufacturers demanded that something be done about the prisons. And so in 1935, the Ashurst-Sumners Act was created and became law. The Ashurst-Sumners Act is a United States Act of Congress that makes it unlawful to knowingly transport in interstate commerce goods made by convict labor unless the prisoners were paid at least minimum wage; and so died many of the efficient and brilliantly run self-sufficient prisons. A lot of people today still agree with those ideas, that to put our inmates to work would be slavery. But ask yourself, what is the alternative? Today we have many people in jail (2.2 billion) and day by day they sit in their blank, dank, cheerless building and do next to nothing. There are some activities to do now and then, but not always, and usually nothing terribly productive. Is this better? I think not. In Boone County, Kentucky things in the jail systems work a bit differently than other places. A jailer is an elected position that people take turns at. But that’s not the only difference in their system; they also run a self-sufficient jail. The Boone County Jail has a reputation for efficiency, and they handled about 8,000 prisoners last year. The inmates grow a garden every year to offset their food costs and they run a neat work program. The work program allows inmates to do things that are productive to their community such as cutting county grass, litter pickup, dump site cleanup, and also providing $700,000 worth of free labor to the county every year. In California, we have a work program for our prison inmates called CalPIA, or California Prison Industry Authority. This program basically provides work experience for prison inmates, using the experience as a way to rehabilitate the prisoners. They offer jobs, expertise, and experience in several trades such as shoe manufacturing, bakeries, bindery, crop farming, and more. The program is required by law to be self-sufficient, and to pay the inmates minimum wage, both of which it does. They sell many of their products which pay for all of their costs, and even end with a surplus, which goes to the office presiding over that one, the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR). CalPIA is the CDCR’s most successful rehabilitative program. We would allow our inmates to work like the fellow human beings they are. There are people who still adamantly believe that to work our prisoners would be slavery, but what difference is there to a self-sufficient prison from a person getting charged community service in court? Mainly that they are kept in a facility, but it is because they are kept in these facilities that they are that much more willing to do community service. We would not work our inmates like slaves, arduously, painstakingly, and without choice. While some prisons have special programs every day, a model of what our slavery concerned citizens want, many prisons have a lot of time in which the inmates are simply sitting in their cells doing not much of anything at all. Our inmates are simply moved around from day to day, as if they were stock for a warehouse, not human beings simply trying to pay for a wrong they committed. Many of them would jump at the chance to make their prison a self-sufficient one, a prison that makes its own necessities and grows its own food. After all, our inmates are allowed to work on a bit of community service, but they can’t upkeep their own jail? Is that not community service? Is not the jail a community building? Our country, we as Americans pay more for our prison and jail system than any of the other countries in the world. I don’ think that’s something to be proud of. I think that’s something we should be ashamed of – an extreme waste. In this I do not imply that it is a waste to rehabilitate our inmates, I mean simply that there is a better easier way that we are missing completely. Reinstate our rights to run self-sufficient prisons. Every human being wishes to be helpful, or at least productive. We have a difficult time sitting around doing nothing at all because we love to have the feeling that we are an important piece to something. As humans and especially the Americans we pride ourselves as, our roots date back to hardworking, progressively delighting people. Everyone wants to know that if they were doing nothing at all then someone would miss them, and that person or group of people would need them. We are depriving the people in prison of these basic human needs. These people are human beings; they aren’t things that should be kept locked up day and night. If you ask me, keeping them in that manner is treating them more like slaves than if we allowed them to work. The inmates, in contributing to our jails and prisons are not only being productive and busy, or just helping their communities – we need them to in some ways. Prisoners aren’t my idea of free slave labor. I do not suggest we create slavery again in the U.S. What I do suggest is efficient productivity, that we may treat our inmates like they belong to our human race. If we were to make these adjustments in our country it would not only affect every community with a jail or prison, but it would remove the entire cost of jails and prisons from the United States taxpayers. We would be not just humane to our inmates but we would be hailed for our efficiency and genius in national costs by other countries. Look into your jail and prison system today. Do they seem fair?