Weekly Blog #7

While both Quinn’s parents and Emma’s parents have inherently bullied their children into destructive behavior, it comes as no shock that Glee’s “ultimate bully,” Sue Sylvester, was once subject to cruel parental bullying.  As seen in Season One’s episode, “Furt,” Sue’s mother comes to McKinley High as Sue, coincidently, is planning a wedding to marry herself.  The phrase, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” can’t help but describe this mother-daughter relationship.  Doris Sylvester’s blunt, condescending tone and banter match Sue’s persona to a “T.”  But, as it is quickly revealed, this Nazi-hunting “mother” often abandoned Sue and her older sister, Jean, to go on gallivanting quests to destroy any remaining, hidden Nazis, much to Sue’s dismay and disgust. It is Doris’ self-righteous mannerism, however, that makes her the only one, perhaps, who can bring down the narcissistic exterior of Sue Sylvester.  Doris’s subtle jabs at Sue’s being, perhaps hinting at undiscovered insecurity in response to her mother’s actions as the underlying reason for Sue’s despicable behavior, that leave but a juxtaposing, silent, and timid Sue Sylvester: “I mean, when you were little, the other mothers used to tell me that you'd never find anybody. But I said no, no, no, no. She's a perfectly okay child. She'll grow into her looks. And you know what? I believe you still might.”

             Doris Sylvester’s track record of parental shame and neglect as well as her naïve and arrogant habits continue even throughout the wedding plans as she demands to sing a song at Sue’s wedding.  However, contrary to the popular notion that the “bride” gets to make the decisions, Sue cannot even pick the song her mother will sing as it will cause pain and disappointment for Doris—a “guilt-trip” in it’s finest light.  These instances conceivably lead to the very core of the Sue Sylvester bully; an abandoned and lonely soul attempting to survive in a world built by relationships in a self-sufficient way, after years of suffering from vulnerability, insecurity, and repression, all stemming from toxic parenthood: “You’re a bully, mother…I can remember a conversation where I didn’t walk away feeling worse about myself.”

 

Weekly Blog #6

Piracy is something the world could do without.  It’s stealing—that’s plain and simple, black and white.  And yet, it’s something that so few find morally and ethically unacceptable.  Maybe this is due to the fact that most pirated items are not physically tangible.  Movies are seen.  Music is heard.  But, books are held.  Paintings and other artwork are most commonly created so that their final products are physically observed, not digitally.  Therefore, movies and music are more commonly pirated because the perpetrators of the crime are under the impression that their felony cannot actually be seen.  “[But] by stealing the creative product of talented people, this form of piracy deprives artists of the rewards they deserve. If left unchecked, such crime would drain the incentive to create that enriches our lives” (Paul McNulty).  So, on the contrary, these crimes can be seen.  For example, in the music industry, it costs approximately $1 million to fully promote and produce a single (assuming the artist is signed to a major label, this includes the production of a music video and radio promotion).  This $1 million is essentially loaned to the artist, and through their record/single sales, ticket sales, and merchandise sales it becomes to artist’s responsibility to pay back the label or risk being “dropped” or having paying the money out of pocket.  When it is considered that the bulk of artists are young, is this potential amount of debt not a shocking burden to bear so early on in a career?  Therefore, every little bit of sales helps, even if it is just $0.99 for a song.  To deprive an artist of royalties through piracy is stealing.  Money is money, and most of the time money, itself, can even be as abstract as the creative content pirated.

Weekly Blog #5

*Note: This is only part of the greater story of when a man attempted to break into my house when I was home alone.  This blog is from when my mom came home and I started filing the police report.  I wanted to actually tell all of the juicy parts, but this blog would end up being at least four times as long.  But, I’m sure I’ll be able to work the rest of the story into another blog J

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I could sleep better now, knowing that for the next three years, at least, he would be rotting away in the state prison in Harrisburg.  The cold sweats of anxiety lifted from my skin as I was told that I would not have to testify; he had decided his life would be better off in prison than, again, living a life of parole. I could not concentrate knowing that the man who had drastically changed my life was a few yards away and that I may have to look him in the eyes. It had done me no good to bring my book along.  Had he really had a goatee?  Flipping through his criminal record, it seemed absolutely pointless that the police and lawyers would not just believe me, and his history, to know that the power-wheelchair was a hoax and this criminal was pure evil. 

In time, the chief detective dutifully relayed that the court date would be set according to his criminal history and the caliber of the crime; I would be sent a subpoena in the mail. For how professional and experienced these nine police officers were supposed to be, it was taking an awfully long time to get the fingerprints off of the doors and windows and to access the damage to our back fence.  Is my youth coming across in some weird way to these officers?  I can’t help it that I have an extremely sharp short-term memory.  Isn’t it the point to write a detailed report so that he can be charged accordingly?  I continued to file my report—on to the fourth page—apparently this was “outstandingly” detailed and a little excessive at this point. 

She unwillingly began to calm down after my mom went outside to explain the entire hubbub.  Officers started yelling warnings in retaliation to her panicked, confused swearing.  However, my sister had now come back home to utter chaos.  As I sat down in a moment of silence, I realized that I was wearing a really grungy and embarrassing outfit for all of this excitement.  Like a slap in the face, I finally needed a glass of water.  Color began to come back to my vision and I was regaining a sense of normalcy in my limbs.  A much-needed hug from my mother finally triggered the decline of my hysteria.