Amber
DeFabio
English/Professional
Writing with Culture and Media Studies
Minors in Communications, Public Relations, and Literature
Kutztown
University
Spring
2016
May
7, 2016
Throughout
my collegiate and writing careers, my styles regarding sentence structure and
genres has greatly transformed and developed. Regardless if it has to do with
the subject or the material of the work, the past four years has shown my
journey as both a writer and a professional. The pieces included in this
portfolio not only illustrate my path as a writer, but also show how I am
capable of growing for any genre and industry.
I have learned that it is ‘ok’
to mess up and fail as long as that failure is not wasted. The Professional
Writing program at Kutztown University has taught me how to overcome adversity
and stand up for those who do not have a voice. I am proud of the work I have
accomplished because it demonstrates these qualities. As a woman, I have and
will be faced with hardships. However, there are always those who will
experience worse. My objective is to continue growing as a social mediator
between the public and the media to enlighten those on what has been happening
in the culture and politics around us. I have learned how to do this through
written and spoken communication as well as photography, videography, and
graphic design. My experience within my curriculum has been, overall,
priceless.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Resume . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 4
Most Valuable Player of the Month . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . Page 5
Trans Community Weighs in on USA Rugby Rules
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 6
Kutztown Coach Battles MS . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .Page 10
The Boy Who Made Me Cry . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . Page 14
The Pew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Page 21
Muscles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 22
During my
internship with Goff Rugby Report, my goal was to create a larger readership
for the publication. In order to determine what the current readership was at
the time, I created an interactive nomination experiment. What I found was
staggering. I had to edit the caption with my graphically designed photo
because one gender didn’t participate. The edit was to say that the nominations
were open to both men and women, because after two days only men had been
nominated. There were over 70 some comments on my first post for Player of the
Month for men and none for women. Once I edited the caption to read it was open
to both genders, more women were nominated.
I then put the top nominated
athletes in a poll and the results were shocking. Whereas more men were
nominated, more people voted for the female athletes in the poll. This
demonstrated the reach that Goff Rugby Report did have and the reach it could
have with both genders.
This was one of my first
culturally diverse works within my internship. Up until this point, I had been
writing match reports and game analyses. However, this was the first piece that
got a reaction – positive and negative. To me, any reaction at all was better
than none. This meant that my articles were creating the conversation I had set
out to mediate when I became a Professional Writing major. By covering a topic
that many rugby sport publications had not covered before, I opened the door
for people to express their opinions or trans players in a physically
dominating sport.
This also allowed me to begin
writing more stories that had to do with the social, cultural, and political
norms that surround rugby and in turn, the American culture. Sports reporting
is a great way to use the metaphor of athleticism to speak for our culture as a
whole.
Int'l
News
Trans
Community Weighs in on USA Rugby Rules
Photo
courtesy of UGA Women's Rugby Football Club
03.01.2016
- Amber DeFabio
One
of the greatest aspects about rugby is that it breaks all gender barriers.
Regardless if it’s for a men’s or women’s team, the rules, field size, and ball
size are the same. Men and women with different experience levels and body
weights and sizes are able to compete freely in the rugby world.
However,
this concept becomes muddled if a player’s gender is not one they were
biologically born with.
“I
don’t like being called a lady or a man. They both seem very extreme to me,”
University of Georgia wing Jaye Cora said. “So, I just thought, ‘Let’s forget
the social constructs and be who I am.’”
Cora
identifies with the use of “they” and
“them” instead of "he" or "she" - the preferred pronouns
have gender neutrality. Cora is gender neutral; they were born a female but
don’t feel identified by that term; they like to wear makeup but not shave
their legs.
When
Cora first joined UGA athletics, they wouldn’t correct anyone who used “she,”
“her” pronouns, and eventually, Cora began to resent sports because they didn’t
think they’d be respected in this aspect. However, they found rugby and an
accepting community. Their coaches and teammates are continually supportive of
their gender identity.
Gender
Identity Disorder and Disorders of Sexual Differentiation are complicated. Many
terms such as transgender, gender neutral, gender fluid, etc. have varying
definitions that in and of themselves have sub-definitions. Just as feminism
has different branches that identify with it in various forms, and religion has
multiple sectors under one large umbrella term, the trans and gender queer
communities do as well.
“It’s
not this even track that we’d like to think of it as. It’s about how you feel
about yourself and how you feel about your gender,” Cora said. “Gender is much
more socially constructed and ambiguous.”
World
Rugby rules are very cut-and-dry. It leaves the decision to commit a player to
the label of “man” or “woman” based on psychological and physiological
evaluations. GRR contacted USA Rugby Women’s Pathway Manager Tam Breckenridge
to clear up any questions trans players may have for USA Rugby. She led us to
World Rugby’s Gender Identity Disorder (GID) and Disorders of Sexual
Differentiation (DSD) Policy. Although Breckenridge sent us USA
Rugby's policy, the International Rugby Board's policy mirrors that of World
Rugby's and USA Rugby's and can be found here.
World
Rugby and USA Rugby believe that there’s no problem if someone undergoes sex
reassignment before puberty. In the rugby world’s eyes, that person is the
gender they have transitioned to. These rules become more intricate once
someone undergoes sex reassignment after puberty. A transgender player is only
eligible to participate in the gendered team they chose if they meet the
following criteria: Surgical anatomical changes have been made to external
genitalia and gonadectomy,
official authorities have legally recognized them as their transitioned sex,
and hormonal therapy has been continuous for at least two years.
For
players with disorders of sexual differentiation, the player must be assessed
by a medical specialist to determine the player’s hormone levels. The medical
reports then go to a panel for risk assessment to determine the effects the
player will have on themselves and other players in the gendered team they
choose.
It
seems like a process of checking “yes” or “no” on a required list. Cora doesn’t
believe that it’s all as simple as checking a box on a form or choosing
"yes" or "no". Instead, Cora wants to advance the notion
that sex is more of a biological label, while gender is psychological one, and
both have more than two options.
“People
like to demonize it. My testosterone levels are naturally high,” Cora said.
“It’s hard to get people who make these rules to understand that nothing is
what it seems. We just assume that everyone is just a woman on every women’s
team. But, that’s just not plausible because there are a lot of non-binary and
trans people out there. They made these rules under the lie that sex is a
dichotomy or gender is a dichotomy.”
Cora
does agree with the World Rugby openness to the idea that a player should be
able to choose what team they belong to. The policy states, “A World Rugby DSD
Panel will be appointed to consider each case on its merits to determine
whether an individual can play Rugby in their preferred gender group.”
Safety Questions
For
safety purposes, World Rugby does not condone coed tackle rugby after a certain
age. Yet, Cora believes the player’s skill level should be tested in comparison
with other players’ skills on the team. Cora believes testing hormone levels
limits players who want to participate for a team they identify with if they
don’t meet World Rugby’s policies for that gender, and Cora doesn’t agree with
having a “men’s” and “women’s” team.
“In
the grand scheme of life, this all doesn’t matter. Rugby is one of the most
inclusive sports, so why can’t we just get past this one thing?” Cora said.
Cora
is maybe 120 lbs. at their heaviest. Their opposition, who could be
biologically born a female, could be over 200 lbs. The hormone and testosterone
levels in each player will also be vastly different. Yet despite these extreme
physical differences, Cora is still expected to make the tackle. So for them,
what would be the difference between Cora tackling a player biologically born a
woman who is 200 lbs., and Cora tackling a transitioned woman who is Cora’s
weight, but might not meet the hormone levels USA Rugby requires to be deemed a
female player?
“We’re making a lot of assumptions when we say that someone taking hormones has
to play on a certain team. Everyone has a different level of hormones,” Cora
said. “I think a lot of people freak out and are like, ‘Oh, if you start taking
hormones, you’re going to be way stronger than every else and you’re just going
to hulk out and kill all the players. But, I don’t think that’s really the
case.”
For
Cora and other trans players, the goal is to erase the discomfort society feels
towards the trans community due to a lack of education and discussion.
It
appears like USA and World Rugby are attempting to open the doors for trans
players by having the policies in place, but some players believe they could
make that door more accessible by meeting with trans players and opening a
discussion.
“It needs to be a conversation that’s more
personal instead of a widespread rule that says, ‘You can’t play,’” Cora said.
“Maybe it would be valuable to break away from the idea that there are just two
categories and have two ‘different’ teams instead of a set men’s and women’s
team.”
Once
I wrote the article on the gender neutral player, I began to realize there were
many aspects within the rugby world that people had not explored or talked
about. Around this time, my coach for the Kutztown University Women’s Rugby
Football Club as diagnosed with MS. Many people face this disease every day. To
explore the public relations aspect of my internship, I set this article to be
published on National Rare Disease Day. Not only was a telling someone’s story,
but I was also advertising the awareness of rare diseases.
This was also the first time I
had written a journalistic article and was told that it was fine to put my own
opinion and experience into it. Normally, a journalist would not do this.
However, my internship supervisor and I believed that because the subject had
been my coach for four years that my opinion with him as a person was valid and
would add to the emotional appeal of the article.
College
Women
Kutztown
Coach Battles MS
03.02.2016
- Amber DeFabio
Sean
“Tag” Cobb posted this status to Facebook on February 5 at 4:19am: “So it is
4:00am and I can't sleep. Yesterday I was diagnosed with MS which has [led] me
to think a lot about pretty much everything. Luckily it has lead me to
understand how blessed I truly am. I have been blessed with an awesome
girlfriend, Amy Lauren, (I guess this makes it Facebook official) who has been
by my side the whole time. I couldn't have gotten through yesterday without her
love and support. Thank you Amy for everything.
“I have been blessed with an amazing family who would do anything for me. From
my nuclear family, which is relatively small, to my extended family, which is
not so small, I have received nothing but love and support. Anyone who knows me
knows that family is a big part of my life and it is times like these that
remind me why family is so important.
“I have also been blessed with a great group of friends. Over the last 24 hours
I have heard from friends far and wide and while I know I don't get to see all
of you as often as I would like I love the fact that you are always there for
me. Friends are often thought of as the family we choose and over the course of
the last 36 years my family has grown by leaps and bounds.
“To be clear this post is not meant to [draw] sympathy or make people feel bad
for me. In the long run I will be fine.
“This post is simply a way for me to thank all of my friends and family who are
such a big part of my life and are there for me every step of the way. I look
forward to seeing you all again soon. Whether that be on the ski slope, the
rugby pitch or just hanging out I look forward to spending time with the people
who really matter.”
For
many, this was the first time hearing of the Kutztown Women’s Rugby Team’s head
coach’s news that he had been diagnosed with Relapsing-Remitting Multiple
Sclerosis at the age of 36.
At
first, the doctors believed Tag may have had a stroke. He was too young to have
a heart attack yet too old to just now be experiencing symptoms of MS. At one
point, the doctors even contemplated a complex migraine in Tag’s leg and back.
However, after hours of testing, the official verdict had been made.
Upon
Tag’s first MRI, the doctors spotted 12 lesions on his brain. These 12 spots
will eventually heal and scar. However, this was proof that their theory of MS
was now a reality.
“I
felt like I was in an episode of House,” Tag said.
When he was 13, Tag broke his left hip by snow tubing off of a 10 foot cliff
into a road. As he got older, he began experiencing pain and tingling and
sometimes numbness in his leg or back. He mistakenly assumed that these were
symptoms caused by his childhood accident. His doctors now believe that these
were earlier symptoms of his MS.
Relapsing-remitting
MS is the most common form of MS. Parts of the brain and spinal cord become
inflamed, causing temporary disabilities such as loss of feeling in parts of
the body or loss of movement in the body. The inflamed areas will heal over
time as will the patient. However, stress, higher body temperatures, and
alcohol (anything that affects the central nervous system) could have a
negative effect on the remitting stage of MS.
Despite
his recent diagnosis, Tag isn’t wasting any time getting back into his daily
routine.
“I
want to go back to work; I want to come to practice,” Tag said. “This isn’t
going to stop me from living my life.”
After word of Tag’s disease spread, the effect he has had as a family member,
friend, and coach began to make itself clear. Numerous past and present players
changed their Facebook profile pictures and statuses to let him know that he
was in their thoughts and prayers.
Kutztown prop Laurie Segreaves said, “This disease didn't know the kind of man
it picked. A man that won't let it ‘win.’ You teach us how to overcome obstacles
daily; you coach us in how to come up with a game plan to win - and we've been
champions. I have no doubt you will set a winning game plan to attack this in
the same way. You've been in our corner; it’s our time to be in yours. Love
you, Coach.”
Kutztown flyhalf Mary Cate Matta said, “His is just a great person. I owe him
my choice of school because he was a major deciding factor. He really cares
about the team. This puts a perspective on how much he’s done for us. It shows
how much time and money he has given to us, and now it’s time for us to help
him and thank him for his time.”
Before he was a coach, Tag began his rugby career playing for Kutztown. He
received the nickname “Tag” because he would push players instead of tackle
properly.
“I think I make a much better coach than I ever did a player,” Tag said. “It
was my first semester at KU, and I was just this soccer player pushing people
around.”
After
his senior year, Tag began playing for Philly White Marsh. In 2005, he was an
assistant backline coach for Albright College before moving to the Kutztown
Men's B-side as a developmental coach in 2007. It wasn’t until 2011 that he
took on the title of Kutztown women’s head coach. Under Tag’s leadership, the
Kutztown women have made it to the MARC Championship four years in a row and
Nationals three years in a row.
“If there’s a tournament available, I’ll play. Playing rugby didn’t onset my
MS. But, my first obligation is as a coach,” Tag said. “I just want more people
to be aware of this disease.”
As a former player for the Kutztown women’s
team, Tag has had an astronomical impact on my life. And for me, the hardest
part of saying goodbye to rugby was saying goodbye to him.
For more information on MS and National Rare Disease Day, please follow the links
below:
http://www.nationalmssociety.org/
http://www.rarediseaseday.org/
The genre of creative nonfiction is still one of my biggest
passions. During my Advanced Composition class, Dr. Amanda Morris introduced
this genre to me. It had the appeal of a journalistic style as well as the
creative license of fictional works. For me, this was the best of both worlds.
This style could be used in marketing, journalism, and magazine writing.
I struggled with a conclusion
that gave the reader the closure she craved for. My peers and professor worked
diligently to help me achieve that goal with this piece. I decided that I would
wrap up this work with boldened print that drew that eye to the grieving
process those in abusive relationships feel. By doing this, it highlights the
steps it takes to heal, and I received feedback that this had resonated with
many women who had gone through the same abuse I had. This was the first time I
felt like my work truly created an impact.
The
Boy Who Made Me Cry
I cried.
It seemed I always cried lately. And, as I sobbed on the ground, the small
spaces between the floorboards making indents into my knees, he just stared at
me with emotionless eyes. There was no sympathy or apology hiding behind their
depths, and I realized that after everything we had gone through, after
everything we had shared, I meant nothing to him. The countless nights I’d
stayed up with him, holding him and kissing his forehead as he wept over his
deceased mother were forgotten. Every morning we had woken up next to each
other, tangled in blankets and limbs and sharing kisses until the afternoon,
had disappeared.
He turned away from me and began to walk
toward the kitchen door. And, in a last pathetic effort, I asked him to stay. I
knew I should have kept my mouth shut when he slammed his fist into the wall
and whipped toward me with raging cheeks. He took two hostile steps in my
direction, and I caught myself involuntarily flinching.
“No!
I hate everything you do. This relationship is literally tearing me apart,” he
groaned, exasperated. “You’re a psycho bitch. I just want this to be over. We.
Are. Done!”
To
hear those words from the same person that had told me he loved me every day for
a year and a half was what made me let him go. It didn’t make sense to me that
an hour before we had been the happiest we’d been in a long time. He had held
my hand and kissed me all day, whispering excitedly about the adventures we
were going to have once school let out. We were going to go horseback riding
and skydiving through the Poconos. We were supposed to finally be happy.
He
slammed the door, leaving me trembling on the floor, and trudged through the
snow to his father’s car. I didn’t ask him to stay again or chase after him
like I had done what seemed to be a thousand times before. I didn’t watch him
speed away. I just shook and cried. I cried so hard I gagged, and then I cried
some more at what months of verbal abuse had turned me in to.
Unfortunately,
this wasn’t the only time Kyle had left me, a snotty mess, balled into a
trembling figure that barely resembled the confident, independent woman I used
to be. No, this was not the worst way he had ever left me.
xxx
His
phone continuously lit in the corner of my room. My eyes rolled toward him to
see if he was asleep. I knew I shouldn’t, but I needed to. My feet touched the
ground, steadily making their way from the bed to the dresser where the white
IPhone shined. I slid it from the mahogany wood, its warmth pressing into my
hand. Slowly, I made my way down the carpeted hallway, down the stairs. I knew
I shouldn’t, but I needed to.
Gingerly,
I entered his passcode, which I’d obtained after a long fight regarding my
trust for him the night before. Yet, this was the cause of that fight. Her name
reminded me of an ancient evil, Carissa, like a snake hissing. As her name
glared at me from the screen, I clenched the phone harder, the warmth of it
becoming unbearable.
He wrote
to her, telling her what he’d like to do to her, where he would like to kiss
her. My insides collided, making my breath catch and my eyes prick. He said he
loved me. He’d kissed me when he’d said it. I felt like a fool, ensnared by his
false romantics and my friends’ opinions. “He’s perfect for you,” they would
coo as he twirled me in the air. I was enthralled by his lies and his constant
use of “I’m sorry.” What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough?
I knew I
shouldn’t, but I needed to. So, I snuck back up the stairs and through the
hallway to my room where he still lay, unaware that I knew of his deceptions. I
hated him, and I ripped the covers from his body, yelling his name loudly. Kyle
woke quickly, launching from sleep to see his lit screen held to his face. He
blinked. He paused. He frowned. Then, he spewed.
“Are you
serious?” he bellowed, lifting himself from my bed to step toward me. “You woke
me up for this? You’re crazy.”
“For
this?” I questioned disdainfully. “This is a big deal, Kyle. You told me you
wouldn’t speak to her anymore.”
“We were
just talking,” he rumbled, walking past me to begin gathering his things.
“Talking
about how much you loved touching her,” I said, my hands flying as I tried to
make him understand that this was wrong, that he was hurting me.
“You’re
being ridiculous like always,” he laughed as each shirt flew into his bag. His
visit was over.
“I’m
being ridiculous?” I said incredulously. How could he not see what was
happening?
“Yeah,
and I’m leaving,” he said, his tone of voice throwing me the middle finger. He
left, stomping down the carpeted hallway, down the stairs, and out the door.
My brain
couldn’t process what had happened. He showed no remorse, so maybe I was being
ridiculous. Was this cheating? As far as I knew, he hadn’t physically cheated
while we were together. Maybe it was my fault. I cried just as I’d cried so
many times before and would cry so many times after. And in the end, I was the
one to apologize, and he was the on to take me back. I knew I shouldn’t, but I
needed to.
My
friends never told me he was the perfect guy for me again, and after that day,
Kyle never picked me up and spun me around like Cinderella either.
xxx
My
stomach rolled over and over, making me feel like I was going to puke. I wanted
to back-pedal and curl up in my bed, thinking about how if I would pull the
blankets over my head and couldn’t see him, then he wouldn’t be able to see me.
I attempted to act like my throat hadn’t constricted when he knocked on the
door and that the pulse in my neck, the one that pumped like an erratic drum,
was not dancing wildly under my skin.
Two
knocks later, my roommate looked at me nervously and quickly dismissed herself
to her room. I trudged toward the door, hesitating before I told myself to grow
up and turned the knob. He stood in my doorway. His eyes didn’t leave his feet
as he said, “Hello,” and shuffled inside. For a second, I thought about hugging
him and pretending like he hadn’t said such awful things to me.
I wanted to forgive him and deny the fact
that he would never change.
Then, my
friend’s words of advice drifted into my head. “Amber, he can’t even accept
that his mother is dead. She has been gone for nine years. I don’t mean to
insult you, but your relationship in comparison to her death is nothing. If he
hasn’t even grieved over her yet and accepted she is never coming back, this
breakup isn’t even real to him right now. You have to make it real. He needs to
know that you’re not coming back.”
I shut
the door quietly behind him and ushered him up to my room. We anchored down on
opposite sides of my bed already feeling like complete strangers. His eyes were
unfocused and every time I took a deep breath to start our conversation, he
flinched. He was dreading this talk just as much as I was. Over and over again
he traced circles in my bed, wrinkling up my sheets to avoid making eye contact
with me.
I grew infuriated.
How dare
he reduce me to this sniveling person who was still telling herself that he
would change – that he just needed time to himself for the next few days? It
was pathetic. Kyle was possibly the worst and best thing that had ever happened
to me. He had taught me to be more patient and more open minded and how to love
again after my last boyfriend had torn me apart with his suicidal tendencies.
But, he had also taught me that some battles were unbeatable. I never gave up
on anything. Once I started something, I saw it through to its end. He had
broken me down so much that I was about to surrender. Because of this, I
continued to hate him. And, as that hatred grew, it empowered me. This feeling,
this anger, was so much better than feeling depressed or sorry. I had found a
new resolve, so I let it consume me.
“I’ve
literally given you everything, Kyle,” I ground out. “You take and take, but
never give anything back. You throw insults when you’re angry and you punch
walls or throw chairs. You hold everything inside until it explodes and then
you take it out on me. When you say jump, I jump. I’ve done what I have in this
relationship for us, whereas you do everything for you. I can’t give you any
more because I have nothing left to give.”
I paused
in my ramblings as he looked at me for the first time since he’d come into the
house. His eyes were pained and tears trickled from their corners. He had
ceased tracing circles into my sheet.
Right then, I felt sorry for him.
I was
sorry that he grew up without a mother to guide him, and he still hadn’t
admitted to himself that she was not coming back. I was sorry that he and his
father never had the relationship a father should have with his son. I was
sorry that before me, no one had ever told him that it was ok to cry and that
it was ok to feel sad and that talking didn’t make you weak. But mostly, I was
sorry that he would probably never have a single healthy relationship in his
life and that this would eventually destroy him.
Yet,
that didn’t mean I had to lose myself to fit amongst the rubble that surrounded
his feet.
“I
don’t want to lose you,” he whispered and my heart shriveled up and plummeted
into my stomach.
It
took everything I had not to reach out to him and brush the tears from his
face. Even now, I still loved him. Because, this vulnerable guy was the guy who
had picked me up and swung me around like a princess. This was the guy that
left rose petals leading to a warm bath on Valentine’s Day. This was the guy
that held my hair back and stayed home with me when I had the stomach flu. Not
once did he leave my side in those times.
“You
keep pushing me away, and I can’t keep questioning our relationship. Look at
all the fights we’ve had, Kyle. Really think about it. Would you want to be
with someone that treated you the way you treat me?” I questioned.
His
body shook as the first big sob emitted itself from his throat. He clenched at
the sheets with one hand as he covered his face with the other. This time, I
did reach out and touch his fisted hand with mine. A louder sob began, and I
pulled him toward me. He leaned over, dead weight pressing into my body as he
continued to cry.
“I
hate how my emotions are so up and down and how one minute I’m sad and the next
I am happy and then the next after that I’m angry. I just can’t do it anymore,”
I whispered against his forehead. “You
know that even if we get back together, our relationship will stay the same
regardless of how many promises we make to each other. I know I want to feel like myself again.”
He sat
up and swiped the moisture from his face. Blowing his nose into a tissue, he
rose from the bed and quickly put his shoes on. Fumbling with the shoelaces, he
shoved both feet into his sneakers and began to walk out of the room. I
silently sat, watching him walk away again.
“I’m
sorry,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “I’m so sorry.” Then, he fled down the
stairs, and I heard the front door click shut. I sighed softly, waiting for it
to hit me and for my own tears to come. Yet, they didn’t.
I was denying myself forgiveness. I would
grow. I would do what he could not. I would change to be the person I knew I
needed to be.
I hate poetry. I hate poetry so much. I hate the interpretation
that goes with it and the hidden meanings. I hate that there is no wrong or
right and there is no blatant reasoning behind it. I hate the flowery language
and the metaphors that may or may not have the correct assumed meaning. Which
is why this is one of my most successful pieces.
I believe all aspects of
writing make a writer better at her craft. Even though I despise poetry, I felt
like I needed to force myself to accomplish the task of writing numerous poems,
so I could be at least proficient as a creative writer as much as I was a
professional writer. My professors also recommend that I create poetry as well.
This way, I could learn how better analyze language and make hazy phrases
clear. This was an excellent skill to have to determine what someone is saying
and what she actually means.
The Pew
By Amber DeFabio
Pressed hard and worn by
bodies that are grim
Search for enigmatic
replies within
Lies have been promised
throughout this hallow
Dwelling underneath this
dark room fallow.
I once filled many of
figures’ fissures.
Never did He return their
wish deserved
Wood compacted firmed
warmed seeking bodies
Wearing patches – dingy,
sodden copies.
We were told, promised, our
piece planted deep
Unraveling along with words
so cheap
Spoken by Him through His
stout messiah.
Repel false proof creates a
pariah.
I heard sanctified boasts
from Him within
Pressed hard and worn by
bodies that are grim.
The piece below was crucial to my
collegiate career. For one reason, it highlights one of the first sports
related injuries I have had which taught me how to overcome painful obstacles.
For the other reason, it was the first work that I can remember was professional
published. I also created this piece in Advanced Composition under the creative
nonfiction genre. Up until this point, I had been telling tales that many
called depressing. My classmates asked me to challenge myself. Instead of
pointing out the hardships of life in a negative fashion, do so in a comedic
way.
Just as with writing poetry, I
found this to be a struggle. However, I completed the task and became a better
writer for it. My perspective changed as well. It is fine to tell a story that
tugs at the reader’s emotional appeal. However, a successful work can appeal to
more than the emotions of sadness and anger. It can also play off of emotions
such as love and joy.
Muscles
It
wasn’t the whistle that had everyone freezing in place. They couldn’t even hear
the whistle. It was her piercing scream, the kind that curls your toes and
creates bumps along your skin as the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand
alert, which was so loud and high-pitched that no one even knew the whistle had
been blown. They all skidded to a halt and looked back at her, writhing in
pain, covered in sweat and turf.
They
didn’t realize, until they got closer, that something was wrong with her body.
Muscles, that was her nickname, never cried or complained about pain. At the
beginning of the season, she had torn both of her quadriceps and both of her
hamstrings and still continued to play through every game. Not once did she say
she couldn’t practice. She would hold her head high and modify different
exercises to fit her needs, even though her eyes showed that her pride was
slightly wounded from not being able to do what everyone else on the team was
doing.
But,
this scream was alien. This scream was gut-wrenching – eyes immediately filled
with tears. The crowd stood up from the bleachers, hands wrapped around the
railing, turning white. Everyone strained to see what had actually happened.
“What’s
wrong?” Jess asked in a panic as she slid to her knees by Muscles’ side.
“My
arm!” Muscles cried.
And,
that’s when all the girls on the field saw it. One player glanced at the arm
and covered her mouth, holding in the vomit that was creeping up her throat
while another back pedaled from the scene, disgusted by the mangled limb.
I can’t feel my arm. It’s so cold. My mom is
going to kill me if she gets sent another hospital bill! Please, dear, sweet
baby Jesus, let them be able to fix it here.
Jess’s
face grew panicked as their coach ran to their side with the athletic trainer.
MC hobbled onto the field, moving as fast as possible with her knee brace
clanking against her leg. Both Jess and MC were kneeling on the ground next to
their friend, glancing at each other nervously as Muscles began to cry.
Coach is going to kill me if I can’t play.
What about becoming All-American? My stupid, weak, chicken wing.
“What’s
your name, sweetie?” the athletic trainer asked calmly, leaning over and
pulling gloves from her bag.
Muscles
gave her name through grinding teeth.
“Okay,
I’m going to need you to breathe for me. Okay?”
Jess
slapped MC’s arm as she began to laugh. Muscles started to take quick, deep
breaths, her face turning red and mist rising into the night sky on her exhale.
Two in, two out.
Breathe through the pain. Come on, like you’re in the gym trying to crank
through your last set.
“What
is that?” MC chuckled.
Muscles
stopped breathing to glare at her. “It’s how pregnant women breathe. And, they
push huge, fat baby heads out of their vaginas!”
Their
coach cringed. “That’s my cue to leave.”
Jess
took Muscles’ hand as she jerked in pain again and cried, “Mommy!” causing both
MC and the athletic trainer to giggle. An ambulance had been called ten minutes
before and the trainer kept glancing at her watch, checking the time and
wondering where it was. Chester County hospital was only a few minutes away.
This ambulance bill
is going to be extreme. I’m going to get such shit for this. Maybe I’ll get a
sling or something, so there is at least physical proof I hurt myself.
“What’s
it look like?” Muscles asked, her words cutting off with a choking sound as she
attempted to lift her head and see her arm. Before she could get a glimpse at
it, the trainer blocked her view, and MC pushed her head back onto the ground.
“It
doesn’t even look that bad,” Jess said, shrugging.
Muscles
studied her friends closely before replying, “You’re a terrible liar.” She
turned her attention to MC, knowing she would understand. MC had torn her knee
apart a semester before. “I’m not going to be able to play anymore, will I?”
“No,
no,” MC coaxed. “It really doesn’t even look that bad. You’re not crying
because of the pain. You’re crying because you’re worried about rugby. You need
to calm down and breathe.”
Maybe they can just
pop it back into place now and call it a day.
Muscles
nodded and once again began breathing like she was in labor. A young man
appeared out of the corner of the scene and whispered into the athletic
trainer’s ear. Muscles couldn’t hear everything he said about the other girl
laying at the opposite end of the field who had fallen seconds before Muscles
had, but she picked up the sentence, “She’s doing okay. Her nose is just a
little bloody, and she may be concussed.”
Grabbing
MC’s forearm with her good arm, Muscles asked, “How’s Mia’s face?”
Both
Jess and MC started laughing, and Muscles sighed. “It would figure as soon as I got this great
run my first time in this new position, I would stiff-arm Mia to the face and
hurt myself fifteen seconds later. That’s Karma at its finest.”
“Mia’s
fine. You know she always said she wanted to be punched in the face,” Jess
smirked, discussing the other girl’s injury.
Muscles
smiled, more tears running down her cheeks. “It hurts so bad, guys.”
“We
know,” the athletic trainer cooed. “Here comes the ambulance now.”
She
fought back tears and yelps of pain through the half hour she’d been laying on
the field. Her body cooled and the adrenaline high from the rugby game left her
system. She choked back moans as the pain began to intensify, and her arm began
to shake. All she wanted to do was straighten her elbow, but shifting sent a
spike of fire up her arm and into her chest.
The
EMT rushed over to see what he was dealing with. His eyes grew big as he looked
down at the injured rugby player. To Muscles, he resembled an owl whose head
had turned 360 degrees in surprise.
“We
need to get her to the hospital ASAP,” he croaked, clearing his throat and
summoning a stretcher through his walkie talkie.
It’s worse than I thought.
They aren’t going to just pop it back in right here. That’s it. I’m done.
“Doesn’t even look that bad,” she’d said!
Jess
and MC had sheepish looks on their faces as Muscles turned to them and pointed
at them accusingly with her right hand. “You fucking liars. You’re all fucking
liars!” she laughed.
“It’s
actually real messed up looking,” MC admitted, a small smile on her face.
Muscles
shook her head and plopped it back down on the turf, waiting another ten
minutes for the stretcher to get onto the field. Three men and the athletic
trainer crowded around her, discussing the best way to get her onto the
stretcher without causing her pain. MC and Jess took a step back and whispered
quietly about who would go to the hospital with her.
“Holy
mother of God and skittles, don’t do that!” Muscles shrieked as the young man
who had delivered the news about Mia attempted to support her arm as the other
three medical personals got ready to stabilize her.
The
young man looked nervously at his colleagues as Muscles continued spitting food
titles at him. He repeatedly tried to adjust and make her more comfortable.
“I
got it! I got it!” she insisted as the EMT grabbed her right arm and helped her
to her feet. She wobbled over to the stretcher, silently cursing to herself.
Not so gracefully, she sunk into the gurney and threw her legs onto it.
“God
bless America!” she sighed.
The
EMTs exchanged a quizzical look before strapping her in. They put a
blood-pressure cuff around her bicep and attempted to get some reasonable
vitals before whisking her away. It took them three tries to get the correct
blood pressure readings.
“On
a scale of one to ten,” the EMT started, “How bad it the pain?”
“It’s
a ten!” Muscles hollered. “It’s a freaking ten. Now, take me to the hospital!”
At
that point in time, 45 minutes had gone by from the initial injury. The EMTs
nodded and began carting her away as MC limped to keep up with them and Jess
waved. Her team began to clap for her, and through her never ending tears,
Muscles smiled and lifted her right hand, waving like a princess in a parade.
Her
teammates called after her, cracking jokes about being invincible. Yet, as soon
as the stretcher left the turf, the referee blew the whistle to start the game
again. Muscles stared longingly at her team scrumming down. She had the
strongest urge to hop off the stretcher and run back to the field. That thought
was short lived though as the wheels hit a bump and her arm was jarred.
She
flinched and ground her teeth together shortly after yelping, “Skittles!”
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