Where I come from... (Revisited)

It’s a typical, humid, late summer, Friday night in the lesser known, east coast, Bel Air. 

Most girls my age are running around in cut-off jean shorts, skin tight tank tops and brightly colored flip flops. The boys chasing after them, tongues hanging out, are wearing baggy shorts, a t-shirt two sizes too big and their favorite “skater shoes”. They are all off to have some sort of juvenile fun wearing their latest renditions of youth style.

                What am I doing this evening?

                I am riding the medic.

My evening attire will be a drab gray polo shirt with Bel Air Volunteer Fire Company plastered across the back. My navy blue trouser styled pants, which look like they have seen the wash one too many times cover the tops of my black steel toed boots.

My evening fun will probably consist of nursing home runs, taking care of the trivial aliments that the responsible parties in the home felt couldn’t wait for the transport company. I will be spending quality time with grandmas who will be dressed in their night gowns with tattered slippers. Yet they will still insist on wearing their nicest coat before they leave their putrid smelling rooms to visit the local Emergency Room.

So why do I bother to blabber on about what the citizens of Bel Air will be wearing on a Friday night?

It’s all about style. A word that is as complicated as culture itself.

It was not by choice, but by riding on the ambulance, I have received my own education on how style has changed throughout the years. The eldest matriarchs our of humble community still worry about looking presentable even when they need to be taken to the hospital.  In contrast, young girls much less than half their age are leaving the house with barely anything on. In the past style was all about what you had to wear, but today it’s all about whatever you want to wear.

Where I come from...

It’s a typical, humid, late summer, Friday night in the lesser known, east coast, Bel Air. 

Most girls my age are running around in cut-off jean shorts, skin tight tank tops and brightly colored flip flops. The boys chasing after them, tongues hanging out, are wearing baggy shorts, a t-shirt two sizes too big and their favorite “skater shoes”. They are all off to have some sort of juvenile fun that may or may not involve fast cars, loud music and alcohol.

Me?

I am on the medic.

My evening attire will be a drab gray polo shirt with Bel Air Volunteer Fire Company plastered across the back. My navy blue pants that look like they have seen the wash one too many times cover the tops of my black steel toed boots. There is no doubt in my mind that I will I be picking up one of the above mentioned suspects later.

But before the usual car crash at midnight I will probably be making nursing home runs, taking care of the trivial aliments that couldn’t wait for the transport company. I will be spending quality time with grandmas who will be dressed in their night gowns with tattered slippers. Yet they will still insist on wearing their nicest coat before they leave their putrid smelling rooms to visit the local Emergency Room.

So why do I bother to blabber on about what the citizens of Bel Air will be wearing on a Friday night?

It’s all about style. A word that is as complicated as culture itself.

It wasn’t by choice, but by riding on the ambulance I have received my own education on how style has changed through the years. Little old ladies still worry about looking presentable even when they need to be taken to the hospital.  In contrast, young girls half their age are leaving the house with barely anything on. In the past style was all about what you had to wear, but today it’s all about whatever you want to wear.

Word Count: 339      Above picture is of my aunt and my Grandmother, note the cool old photographs they were looking at.

Controlled by Organization

My life, as I know it, has become controlled by a small, pink, spiral assignment book.

Oh, it may look cute and packed full of enjoyable things to do. But don’t be fooled as I have, or it will suck what was once your interesting social life into its pages of not fun!

For this book contains a pre-planned day by day agenda of the next 14 weeks of my life.

 Everything I do now depends on whether my day is already full before it even begins.

Jam-packed with assignments, homework, projects, meetings, classes, exams, quizzes, and even the rare days I get to escape home are contained inside this dictator of a book.

With every turn of a page, I whimper at what lies ahead for the next week. 

This is what I have become.  Controlled. By an assignment book!

I once consciously made the decision to be in charge of my own life when I came to this university. All I wanted was to be educated for my career.

But I was fooled.

Even now as it sits across the room, secure in my black backpack, it holds power over me still.

This small, pink, spiral assignment book has taken over my life.

Word Count: 205 ---- Picture designed and editted by Meghan Cochran & Lisa McPherson

Opportunity to Fly

Very few people ever get the chance to notice an opportunity for fulfillment. Fewer actually take it, and fly with it.

My story starts in the small but big town of Bel Air in Maryland. I grew up with my family and a few close friends, there wasn’t much more that I needed. I liked to enjoy the simple things in life.

On my sixteenth birthday I joined my local volunteer fire company, BAVFC. After only my first call, a drunk who physically threatened me and the paramedic, I knew that I was sold. This was my opportunity. Soaring right into my training I became a certified Emergency Medical Technician before I turned seventeen.

After three years, I couldn’t imagine going into any other career. The time I have spent in the back of those ambulances has provided some the most rewarding experiences of my life.

Word Count = 146