Like I said in class earlier this morning, I really did not like Ms. Daniels' actual poetry, however what affected me the most was the eloquent description she used in her poetry.

After reading Brooks' "The Mother" and then hearing Daniels' "Love Pig" I made the connection between the two poems regarding the infatuation that parents have with their infants. Although "The Mother" is relatively different than "Love Pig," Brooks' wrote "You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh/Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye," which caused me to think of "Love Pig." Daniels' talked of the infatuation that she had with her plump younger daughter when she was an infant. It's interesting to hear how some people express their love of another person.

To some, her poem may have been comical or strange. Hearing someone talk of wanting to eat their child and the way their child's body smells and collects crumbs may sound a little bit like kiddie porn poetry. However, I realized that mothers and fathers who hear that poem can identify with Daniels' because they have felt that infatuation and love for their child.

Out of the entire reading, "Love Pig" made my mind work. I loved "Genesis 1:48" (something like that) a lot. It was nicely descriptive and had vivid imagery.

Something that also seemed to apply to me the most about Kate Daniels' poetry was that same sense of being disconnected in her youth, though for me, it was simply a blissfully ignorant time. It seems to be a common trait among adolescents to distance themselves from their external realities, especially on the national and international scale. Rarely did I ever feel affected by US domestic or foreign policy, and I personally had little interest in them anyway. I had my family, my friends, and my school; and though I knew there was more out there, it really never came anywhere close to me. In a way, I too was happily scrubbing shampoo into the scalps of regular customers.

I still have not decided whether age makes one want to become more involved in the world, or if with age, the world simply invades more into your life and almost forces you to become involved. I seem to think the latter, because I never really recall a willing submission to the world and its constant motion; it seemed more to almost take me hostage, or maybe it was more like an uninvited guest who never seemed to want to leave.

A time I can remember this happening in particular was with the war in Iraq. The only other "significant" event I recall occurring during my youth was the genocide in Kosovo and civil war in the Balkans (the former Yugoslavia), during which I was in the seventh grade. For the war in Iraq, I was a junior in high school, and I was overseas at the war's outbreak. Being an American in a foreign country, I had no choice but to be informed about the unfolding events of my home country. I still can recall watching the Dutch news almost nightly about the most recent failed diplomatic mission or weapons inspection followed by the threat of using military force. I watched in disbelief as America declared war on Iraq; I was more influenced by the anti-war sentiments of Europe, especially when I had survivors of the Second World War denouncing a military attack and recollecting the horrors of war.

Either way, this created a definite shift in my paradigm and attitude towards the outside world. I could no longer choose to shut my door to the outside world and ignore everything; I was being called upon to voice my opinion about topics concerning the war of which I had little knowledge. The first Gulf War was virtually history for me, but now, I was forced to know the issues and what was confronting America and the rest of the world through the war in Iraq. I actually had the chance to talk at some length with a Kurdish girl who went to my same high school and whose family had fled the north of Iraq in the late '80s. There were faces now to the stories, and it had a great impact on my life and view. The ripples of the war were slowly carrying their effects throughout Europe, leaving us to bob a little in their wake.

During this time, there was always a potential for danger as well, with me being an American overseas, but I never lost sleep over it. It seemed to only haunt the distant corners of my mind, but I still opted for the optimistic and carefree spirit of youth, thinking it simply would not happen to me. It fortunately did not, but it taught me a valuable lesson about myself and my relation to the external world. Obviously, life in the beauty parlor could not support me the rest of my life. I had to be willing to step out the door on my own, which I did more or less, and I had to be able to stand on my own. Though I was never alone, I still had to be able to stand and support myself. It was at this time that the world opened itself before me, though I was hesitant as to how to relate to it, deal with its troubles, and handle its problems.

Being in college now, I feel a bit more of a connection to the world and try to remain part of it to a degree. I try not to remain a mere bystander or casual observer, but try to involve myself a bit, even it is only on the smallest scale of reading the newspaper, discussing with peers, and seeking out more knowledge. Though I often long for the blissfully ignorant days of my adolescence, there is a reason we all move on with our lives and became part of its grand schemes. There is only so much the beauty parlor can offer, and after a while, all the gossip can become tiresome, the shampooing tedious, and the blow dryers monotonous. There is a lot for the world to offer, it is simply a matter of whether you choose to happily stay in the beauty parlor, doing what you know and feel comfortable doing, or whether you venture out to greater things, where things are not always certain and life is definitely full of surprises. It is definitely a world of change, and if we do not watch it closely, we might fall victim to a world that has changed beyond recognition while we all had our backs turned at the sink.

Kate Daniels’ poem “Autobiography of a White Girl Raised in the South” described the narrator as “me” and the version of herself that she could have been as “not me.” This contrast between who we are and who we might have been still lingers in my mind. With so much of my personality and viewpoints depending upon my parent’s religious or political views, my family structure, my household income, and the brand name school that I attended, I am impressed with how different my life could have been if I had been born into different circumstances. Would I view poverty and socioeconomic policies differently if I had been born to a single mother living in the projects instead of my "children at play" residential neighborhood? Would I vote more democratically if my father was not in the military and if I had attended public schools? Would I believe so strongly in my God and in Christianity if my parents had not trained me in my religion? You and I know that I would be different. The Muslim terrorists are absolutely convinced that they are right just as I am convinced they are wrong because they were trained that way when they were younger. The poem by Kate Daniels brings some interesting views to light in terms of how our environment shapes us.

Another of her poems, “Shampoo Girl,” and the previous comments by my distinguished colleague Mr. Rogers also left me impressed by my worldview when I was younger. My story, however, is slightly different. My father only recently retired from the Army, and I remember how America’s domestic and foreign policy impacted my family personally. One of my family’s greatest traditions is watching the evening news and listening to the morning radio to hear about rumors of wars and troop deployments. Living in Hawai’i when I was only four years old, I remember being informed about Operation Desert-Storm and the consequences of another military deployment for my mother, my sister, and me. I remember sitting on my father’s lap and hearing how Daddy might have to leave for months at a time to go to war. Death was a concept introduced to me in terms of being permanently held as a prisoner-of-war. Even though I did not understand the politics behind the decisions, I was not ignorant of the happenings in the world; I could not risk being uninformed and allowing the “big bad gov’ment” to sneak up on me and steal away my daddy. This is how my childhood differed from the author of “Shampoo Girl.” While she remained “bubbled from the world,” I actively peered into politics and tried to (for as much as a young girl could) remain informed.