Workshop for Eye essay #1

Okay so today I really need to work on what this essay is actually about. I like the two first paragraphs, but it's really just a description of the show. The third paragraph is leaning into what I want to write about, being why the viewer is on the side of serial killers, and how we can relate to dexter. The last paragraph where I write all those questions is just me taking notes on what I might want to talk about, which I didn't really mean to add in my essay. It makes it confusing.

I hope today to figure out exactly what I want to say about Dexter and it's viewers. Hopefully go into the fact that we all have secret little lives and that seeing someone worse makes us feel better.

Or maybe................

Eye Essay #1

NOTE: To me, this comes off as really journalismy. I really struggled with this essay so this is beyond a draft.

The walls of the “kill room” are lined with transparent plastic tarps. Not just the walls, but the ceiling and floor too. It makes for easy clean-up, and not a shred of evidence to be found after the kill. A man or woman, made unconscious, is laid on a plastic covered table in the center of the room. Their body is saran wrapped to the hard surface, and held down tightly so that when they wake up, they have no possible way to get up. Photos and newspaper clippings of the victim’s victims are hung around on the walls and ceiling as reminders to the lifeless body of the evil deeds they have done. Knives, power tools, and other deadly weapons are spread out on another table in the room. The scene is like something out of a bad horror movie, and it is clear what is about to happen in this space. The lifeless body suddenly becomes alert, and their eyes open wide. They usually struggle and stifle a scream, and their eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what is happening to them. They notice the photos of their victims hanging around them, and the lethal hardware strategically placed in an order of some kind on another table, and the fear sets in.

Dexter walks in calmly, with a determined look on his face. A smile creeps across his chin as he reveres in the fact that his victim is awake. Gracefully and routinely he takes a small, short knife out of his pocket and walks towards the writhing body. He puts the blade on the face of the squirmer and drags it across their cheek. Using a dropper, he takes a sample of the blood that drips slowly down the victim’s cheek. Dexter places the blood on a slide, and adds it to his collection of dozens of others he keeps safely tucked away in a place that only he can find them. This is when the victim usually asks why they are there, and why this Dexter has put them in that place. What did they do to deserve this? This is when Dexter looks at the man or woman in the unfortunate position of being about to be killed, and tells them to look around at the people in the photos staring back at them. He mentions “the code” and begins his work on dismembering their bodies while they are still alive, using various tools to get the job done.


This is a common scene on the show “Dexter” which plays on the Showtime network. It is about serial killer, Dexter, whose victims are killers. As a young boy, his mother was murdered right before his eyes, and he was adopted by the police officer who found him a couple days later in a shipping container. Ever since then, he has felt compelled to kill. It started off with just urges, but then his stepfather, Harry, showed him how to satisfy those urges in a way that he wouldn’t be caught. He would kill animals once in awhile when he really couldn’t hold back, but as he grew older, his father taught him how to kill human’s quietly, efficiently, and secretively. It became a way of life for Dexter, and to commemorate each kill, he would keep a sample of each person’s blood. He turned his fascination with dead bodies and blood into a profession as a blood analyst, and was a member of Miami metro homicide in Florida. Throughout the series, Dexter learns through experience how to feign feelings and commonality as he begins a family. He tries to “blend in” as his stepfather Harry suggested to him, to keep his anonymity as a serial killer.

Dexter is charming, handsome, and mysterious. To women, he is the picture of perfection. He has perfected the act of “normalcy”, so much so that even his own wife does not know his true identity. Viewers of the show are enthralled by his hunt to find a killer to kill, and we root for him the whole time. Yes, I said it. We are on the side of the serial killer. Before “Dexter”, killers were crude and cold-blooded. “Dexter” shows us another side of the serial killer. It shows us the human side; the side that needs to kill to survive. Ah, the irony. As we watch, we hope that he finds the victim he is hunting, because we are made to feel like that person deserves to die for what they did. As we start to get to know Dexter, we start to believe the same things he believes: that people who kill the innocent should die for what they did. But wait a second, does that make us believe that in the real world, all killers should be put on death row? After watching an episode of Dexter during which I am fascinated by his killing technique, watching his victim get his limbs sawed off by a chainsaw and dumped into the ocean, I question the appeal. I wonder, how can the Showtime network as us, the viewers, to identify with a serial killer? How can the general public possibly relate with a person who kills people for fun; who needs to kill?

We all have something we do in private that we don’t want anyone to know about. We all have secrets and we all tell lies. It feels good to watch someone on television with worse secrets and worse lies then our own. Since killing may be considered the "ultimate sin", maybe turning the killer into a hero of sorts, killing those who have already killed, makes it okay. But since when is killing humans okay, even if they are guilty?

Blurbs for Eye Essay

I had some more ideas of what I could possibly write about for my eye essay including...

~ Wine
~ John Cena (Wouldn't say I'm an expert, but i'm almost fascinated by wrestling and am strangely attracted to him)
~ Country music (I have just recently become enamored with the genre)
~ Movies (There Will Be Blood, Goodfellas, Mean Girls, Zombieland)
~ TV Series (How I Met Your Mother, King of Queens, Lost, DEXTER)

Now that I'm writing it out, I think I could write quite a bit about the show Dexter, however I have no idea how I could make it interesting, and not just my opinion about the show. The show is about a serial killer who only kills "bad guys". In the beginning of the series he doesn't think he is capable of "normal" feelings, however throughout the series he starts to develop them slowly but surely. He has a family, and hides his deep dark secret behind lies and his charm. He also works as a blood analyst in the homicide department of the Miami metro police department. I love this show because the premise is very original, and Michael C. Hall who plays Dexter is endearing, and even though you know watching it that he kills people maliciously, you can't help but love him. That is fascinating to me.

I could also write a bit about celebrity gossip. I wrote about that in my previous blog entry, or just a little snippet about that I could almost consider myself an expert on it. I read a LOT of blogs, and most of them are healthy living blogs, and gossip blogs, which is ironic because i'm not sure healthy living involves being obsessed with celebrities. ANYWAY, usually when people try to tell me something they heard about a celebrity, I have already heard it. It's kind of embarassing to admit, and I have no idea why I care about these people I don't know. However I have tried to turn my obsession into something productive by finding specific gossip blogs that also have current events and post about other things besides celebrities, such as my favorite blog: www.jezebel.com

Brainstorming for "eye" essay...

I don't really consider myself an "expert" on anything. There are a lot of things that I know a lot about, but nothing I consider myself an expert on. I am finding this essay extremely challenging. I love to write stories about myself and my experience, (how modest am I), however to write about something else, seems pretty journalisty, and I don't want it to come off as me writng an article about something. Well, here are some things I could consider writing about, and clearly, I am a tomboy.

~ Babysitting
~ Rugby
~ Nintendo 64
~ Yankees
~ Alexander McQueen
~ Celebrities
~ Technology
~ Health food/blogs

I'm sure my story will differ completely from these ideas, however this is all I could muster up without my notebook next to me. I will probably add to this list as I think of more ideas.

I Essay #2 Draft----NOT FINISHED AT ALLLLL

It smelled like moth balls and old people. Some people may say those smells are one in the same, but my experience had lead me to be able to distinguish between the two. It was white, or it used to be, and there was a screen porch hanging by a thread off the front steps. We ate macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, and iced tea mixed with orange juice off of paper plates on the patio furniture encrusted with dirt in all the cracks. That iced tea was legendary. I still believe to this day my Grandma invented mixing iced tea and orange juice. The tangy citrus of the orange meshed perfectly with the strong mellowness of the teabags. Some summers I would come here with my sister and my cousin with the see through skin. My parents would shake us awake really early in the morning to roll out of bed and into the Pontiac for the drive to the trailer park. I would usually fall asleep in the car, but from the times my eyes wouldn’t shut I remember the drive. We drove down long stretches of highway where the mile markers crept along in a pattern. Deer occasionally leaped alongside the road, and I always caught my breath when they came too close. My sister Taylor snored, and my cousin Mary drooled. My parents listened to hair bands and sang in harmony for the entire two hour drive, (they still do that).

As we approached the entrance to the trailer park, it reeked of cliché. We pulled in and the pavement turned to gravel. There was an eerie playground to the left that looked haunted, surrounded by a wooden fence with only two rungs. Tents were scattered around the perimeter of the vicinity, and the smell of burning firewood filled my lungs. We made the first right after the ice cream store and the bingo hall. Taylor would stretch her arms in the air, moaning loudly to emphasize how tired she was. Mary never made a sound.

Our bright red Pontiac pulled in right behind my Papa’s picture perfect white ford. My family and I poured out of the car sleepily like syrup. Papa was sleeping on the porch in a recliner clearly made for indoors. My grandma was inside straightening her narrow bed and placing her Yankees teddy bear on her pillow. I ran inside in front of everyone eager to give my grandma a hug, well, and also claim my spot on the pull-out couch us three kids would be sharing. Grandma always had a pitcher of her famous and my favorite iced tea sitting on the counter when she knew we were coming. My parents helped us get settled in, and then they left.
Papa woke up after hearing all the commotion that three children under the age of twelve make. His knowing eyes smiled at us and hugged us, saying, “good girl”, in our ears as he always did. Dinner that night was grilled cheese and tomato soup, and of course, iced tea filled to the brim of our flowered glasses that Grandma knew we loved. We didn’t talk much. Grandma asked us how school was, and what sports we played. Papa never said much, he just smiled and nodded, listening intently while scooping that tomato soup in his wrinkly mouth. I told Grandma that I loved swimming but I didn’t make the blue team that year. Taylor said the same, and Mary wasn’t allowed to play sports, I think. After dinner which Papa cleaned up, we clamored into the squeaky pull-out couch turned bed for three. We barely fit. Only if we laid head to toe could we squish and not fall off in the middle of the night; which often happened anyway. Taylor, Mary and I giggled all night long as Grandma and Papa snored in their separate beds across the tiny hallway from each other.

We always played “house”. Grandma and Papa would sit on the front porch reading the newspaper, and us kids pretended the trailer was a mansion, and that it was ours. I always wanted to be Grandma. I tried to replicate the iced tea to put on the counter for my favorite grandchildren but I always either put too much tea or too much orange juice. Mary and Taylor were my grandchildren and they sat patiently for their pretend eggs and bacon every morning.

When I was twelve I was allowed to walk with Mary and Taylor down to the playground by ourselves. It was a big deal because it was down the road and to the left, and by the entrance to the trailer park. We flirted with boys and pretended we were runaways from home. We tried to swing all the way over the metal bar on top of the swing set, but never did. We pretended to have English accents, and sometimes the other kids even believed us. One time we spun around so much we threw up, but I didn’t tell Grandma.

One night when we came home from the playground, there was a Yankee game playing on the eight by eight inch television. Grandma and Papa never missed a game, no matter who was visiting. Taylor, Mary and I found spots on the floor at their feet to cheer for our beloved Yankees. Everytime Derek Jeter came up to bat, Grandma would reach her arms towards the television, wiggling her fingers saying, “I’m giving him the heebie jeebies for good luck!” We drank iced tea pitcher after pitcher and wiggled our fingers at the television whenever Jeter was up.

Brainstorming for I essay #2

Brainstorming for I essay #2? I loved my first essay. I am not one to say that I love essays, but this is the first time in awhile that I actually enjoyed without too much criticism something that I wrote. Anyway..............

~ Again, My Aunt Mimi's house could be a topic. It is something I want to write about, however I don't remember much about staying there. I wish I remembered more, and I bet talking about it with my Grammy or my mom would help, however they are way too sensitive about it to talk to them about it right now.

~ Going to my grandma's trailer. This would be a great topic to write about. I think its a pretty unique place and not a lot of people spent their summer weeks holed up in a trailer park with their cousins. However, my grandma just died last December, and the pain of her death still really hurts me. I don't now how hard it would be to write about my visits with her, and to be honest, I don't really feel like crying while I write.

~ Musicfest? My heart felt so happy this year. My lovely boyfriend was BEYOND happy, even though he doesn't like crowds, and thats what made me elated the entire time. I don't know. Maybe.

Essay #1 Draft

A bus packed full of high school students, obliging adults, and endless luggage pulled up to a deteriorating building known as the town’s one schoolhouse. It had been a five hour drive from the airport in Guatemala City, and we were surviving on our last few moments of sanity. Dozens of children surrounded the bus making it difficult for the driver to pull up onto the oddly flourishing grass patches in front of the school. They formed a seal of bodies around the bus as we stood up to take in our first glances of the town, El Triunfo, where we would be staying for the next eight days. There were one hundred of us, and we had signed up for a mission trip to this tiny city in Guatemala to build homes for people whose own were destroyed by natural disasters, or could not afford to build one.

We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but I then realized that I wasn’t just there to build houses. I was there to make a difference in these families lives and one way I could do it was through giving them all the love and support I could muster up in this 110 degree heat. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was all consuming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty feet by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted settlement.

The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overwhelming fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. It was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black darkness alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and pitch black so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the thick woods.

She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper in the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? My breathe became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”

Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still troubled about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, tengo miedo, lo siento, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and embraced me I knew they were comforting me; telling that it was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.