James Baldwin and Brent Staples

I loved Black Men and Public Space by Brent Staples. It is written so well, and it’s such a fast read, but nonetheless, he reveals his message so powerfully. I found his writing technique MUCH more useful than James Baldwin’s in Stranger in the Village. I found Baldwin’s essay too verbose, so much that I actually found it difficult in the beginning. I had to re-read several parts to understand exactly what he was saying. Additionally, it seems as though Baldwin seems to be making many arguments in one essay. Given that Baldwin’s audience is well-educated white men and women, it is clear that he may be using such verbose language in an effort to demonstrate his intellect, and therefore, prove his point that black men are just as capable as white men. In comparison to Staple’s essay, I found that since Staples was inundated with personal experience throughout, he created strong pathos as opposed to Baldwin. I found Baldwin to be making large philosophical statements a little too much, with little to grab the reader’s attention.

The readers of the Ms. Magazine that Staples wrote for was read by women who were afraid of black men, as the introductory paragraph mentions. As aforementioned, if found Staples essay serve well for his purpose. He cites many instances where he was harshly and wrongly judged as a thread since he is a black man. At the same time, he adds his own feelings to each specific experience, thus allowing the reader to understand the whole point of his essay. His experiences recount the female's fear, his women audiance can clearly relate to his point.

Random Blog

It was a beautiful, yet hot and humid day. Watching the mountains as I sang Hindu songs at the top of my lungs, several things were going through my head as we drove to the place that has become my second home. When I first arrived at James Madison University on August 19, 2009 with my older sister, younger brother, and my lovely mother, I was, simply, lost. Looking at the various license plates on the many cars that were lined in the parking lot in front of my hall, Shorts, I felt excited that there were people here from so many different places. But at the same time, I remember I had already begun feeling nostalgic. And even nervous. Okay, I was REALLY nervous.

Coming here, I didn’t know anyone besides one girl from my high school in Northern Virginia, who is currently a junior. The fact that I was going into a completely different place (I had never been to Harrisonburg prior to starting to school here) was arduous for me. Don’t get me wrong—I love meeting new people. Being a journalist all four years of my high school taught me to become a people person. Yet, there is always that initial feeling of just being apprehensive.
Now, only a month later, I, for a lack of better word, love it here. It’s amazing because I’ve NEVER met anyone who says they don’t like JMU.

There is a certain optimistic vibe here that I’ve definitely caught onto. The highlight of my time here has been joining clubs. Student organization was overwhelming because it had so much to offer, yet so exciting. I signed up for anything that caught my eye, and if someone called me over to get me to join their organization, I just could not refuse. So I ended up signing for the Astronomy Club, Student Ambassadors, the political science society, International Student Association, Muslim Student Association, the Bhangra Team, the Sign Language Club, and many others.

Of course, since time is the devourer of all things, I have decided to cut my list short, and commit myself only to about four clubs. And I’d say it’s a good mix of educational and social experiences. For fun, I’m in the Bhangra (type of Hindu dancing) Team and the International Student Association. The Muslim Student Association will really give me a chance to educate myself and the Harrisonburg community about one of the most widely misunderstood religions of the world, Islam. Being the Multicultural Representative will allow me to get to know people in my hall much better.

Most importantly, it’s the thought of being independent that doesn’t cease to motivate me. I love the idea of waking up on my own, doing my own laundry and grocery shopping, and being responsible for every decision I chose to make. It’s so enlightening. Yet, this thought itself is a continual reminder for me to make the right decisions and really utilize time. Quite honestly, I have not mastered time management yet, but I am working on really becoming satisfied with how each day goes.

I really do hope that by the end of my four years here at James Madison University, I can look back at it with pride and know that I’ve grown academically, socially and culturally.

My Writing Process

I’ve always thought of writing as a flower. In sixth grade, my English teacher, Mrs. Gilliam, had asked the class to think of metaphors to describe the writing process. My two favorite comparisons that my brain can recall are the salad bowl and the flower. In my amateur writing, I remember describing writing as, “Just like a flower takes time to bloom, writing takes lots of patience and drafts. But the end process is beautiful, just like how a flower turns out.”

And so it has always been this way for me—a LONG process that entails LOTS of patience. First of all, as I am doing now, I like to write down my drafts. As old school as I am, I let my thoughts flow on paper and be written by a pen, not the keyboard. I would say that like Anne Lamott, I definitely write AMAZING shitty drafts. If you could see my paper now, you’d see the many scratches, the terrible spelling, and the numerous side notes.

It’s almost like going for a run. When I first start out writing, I somehow ALMOST always feel frustrated, even a little incapable of writing well about whatever topic. But then, as the words form and my inner voice starts forming thoughts and ideas, I start feeling a sort of adrenaline rush—an exigency to keep going. Similarly, after a good 15 minutes of running, I become refreshed energized as I sweat bullets all over my body. After 15 minutes of intense focusing on writing, my brain gets excited and as long as I am making SOME progress, I feel good.

Another part of my writing process is that I LOVE to write outside in the nature. It’s inspirational and helps me think of metaphors and similes. After writing the first draft on paper, I then type it up. I find this quite beneficial as when I am typing, I make more additions and corrections as needed. So I’d say that I follow the traditional writing process as I then I make revisions to my first draft. Again, I prefer to edit on paper, not on the computer. Additionally, I really prefer numerous people reading my drafts to get as much feedback as possible. My final piece has to be read by me many times before submission—something I can truly value and turn in to be read by someone else.

A detriment to my writing is that I really, really cannot write last minute or under pressure. It continues to amaze me that sports writers or journalists are continually writing on some intense deadlines, especially the articles that must be published two minutes after a game. However, I do hope that one day I would have the ability to form ideas at such an amazing speed.

My Childhood Room

It was a magnificent home. In it, I was Alice in Wonderland, getting lost in the new things I explored day, discovering myself and the world around me all over again each day. Born in Pakistan, I vividly remember the huge home I grew up in—all seven large bedrooms, the beautiful garden, the porch, and the trees that enveloped our house in their mysteriousness.

The small desk in my room bore perhaps little resemblance to the desks of most children. I am and have been obsessed with newspaper clippings every since I was a child. I kept different notebooks of various cut outs, categorizing them in a way that only I could understand. During the evening, while I sipped on mango lassi or milkshake, I’d immerse myself in the pages of the notebooks, getting lost in the stories my mind created with their images and headlines. A cut out of a teacher teaching a class brought about endless stories in my own mind—I’d think about my own teachers, I’d think about what my says about respecting teachers, I’d think about teachers in other parts of the world, and finally I’d think about what could the teacher in this specific picture be teaching. It may sound a bit naïve, but this was the highlight of a my evenings until—

“WHY do you have this newspaper on my desk again??” interrupted my older sister as she snatched the newspaper and threw it on my bed.

Despite the size of our house, my sister and I shared a room. Like many other siblings, we didn’t get along too well as children. There was a dividing line between my side and her, so much so that we even outlined this line with duck tape.

The favorite part of my room was the money plant. My love for the money plant that both my mom and I grew together never died out. My mother gave special attention to it, increasing my interest in this piece of nature. I’d water it at the break of dawn when the intense Pakistani sun would show its face across the sky, signifying the call for the morning azan, or prayer. To me, the money plant represented life. I remember at night, I would vigilantly watch one of its branches that stretched all over my wall, trailing the mysterious green “texture”. I’d imagine the branches as different roads of my life. I’d sit comfortably in my bed, sometimes in the warm care of my mother’s arms around me, which road was the safest, the one that would take me to eternal happiness in life.

Of course, now when I look at a money plant, I know there is no such thing as “eternal” happiness. Life is filled with happy, sad, challenging and successful times.