text:
On Being Human
They asked me to sit down and join them for grilled fish dinner.
They had no clue who I was-other than a dumb blonde wearing a pink Hello Kitty shirt, balancing on a broken straw chair at the waters edge of a port side restaurant, trying to make a picture of hanging octopi.
"Please be careful, that chair is broken." His English was perfect.
Finished testing my inevitable liquid fate below, I dismounted my stand and glanced his way-to give the quick non-committal nod and a smile of acknowledgement. He sat with a young boy, an older boy, and a woman wearing a hijab.
I didn't want to engage-I was emotionally spent. I wanted only to ensconce myself in my wildlife world, even if it was merely with dead octopi. I tried to walk by. But I'd seen too much in the last 24 hours, and the words simply exploded.
"Where are you from?"
We locked eyes, he knew what I was asking; knew I already knew the answer.
"We are Syrian, from Syria." He paused, eyes sparkling, and sabotaged my next question: "Yes, we came in as refugees, on one of the boats." He added quickly, "But we are still normal, we have money, we eat in the restaurants too."
Perhaps my pause was too long, or it was the look on my face, but, he started to talk. The conversation was raw and real-we were low on time, no reason for bullshit; a conversation one has when there is nothing left to hide; and only reality to face. An open explanation of identity; a conversation one has when an entire life is left behind and, the search for a new one has begun.
The four of them had come onto Lesvos island the night before on an overfilled black dinghy from Turkey, for which they paid 1200 dollars per person for passage.
"Our boat capsized; it turned over."
His accent was barely apparent—he could have been Greek; could have been from any other European country, could have been my neighbor in Washington, DC.
He went on, as if we'd known each other for more than the four delicate minutes I'd been standing there. "I've cried twice in my life; once when my mother died, and yesterday, when I saw my child and wife in the water in front of me. I didn't have a life jacket. I knew that I would not be able to save them."
I choked back my own tears. I asked him why they left Syria. My question sounded ignorant, but, I was desperate to hear the stories. I'd spent the day watching black dinghys race from the Turkish shore, powering their ways like ants over the water; little torpedoes with a destination. Some of them made it, some of them stalled and needed to be rescued, and some of them sank. But, all were overflowing with lives coming to shore to find something better–grandmothers, grandfathers, infants, teenagers, men, women, mothers, daughters.
I'd stood on the beach and waved with the volunteers as Syrians, Iraqis, Afghans and Iranians climbed out of the water with a backpack, or a baby, or a garbage bag filled with their possessions; while they shrieked and cried and laughed and hugged each other as their feet connected with Greece's rocky ground.
They took selfies on the beach. They called their families to let them know they were alive. They hugged each other; they hugged the volunteers. They smiled at me, knowing little English, and gave me thumbs ups, and cheers, and motioned me in a universal language, to take their picture.
He went on.
"There is nothing left. Our home is destroyed, my oldest son was arrested for no reason. We had to leave-there is nothing for us anymore, everything is gone. It is not safe. But, in that water knowing I could not save my family, I thought, why did we leave? I regretted leaving. At least in Syria we would be bombed, and I could die quickly, and not watch my family drown in front of my eyes."
He didn't stop there.
"I want to tell you something. I want you to tell people. I want the world to know: we Syrians-we have money. We have food. We are not poor people asking for help. We are just people. We want a life where there are no bombs, and where we can just live."
He is educated; he has a PHD in business.
He has family in Canada and the US; but, can't land visas.
He is a father, a man with a family to care for, and he chose to leave. He has no destination. He does not know where they will go, other than, "away."
But that night of broken chairs and sharing, they had another crucial part to their new beginning; they had boat tickets. After the fish dinner, they would get on the ferry to Athens.
'And then, after Athens?' I asked.
He said Germany. I said I'd heard the borders were closed.
He shrugged his shoulders, and lifted his hands in the air, and smiled a wonderful, sad smile sprinkled with the dust of hope; 'We will go anywhere. It's better than there. We will try. We must try. That is all we can do.'
He asked again if I'd join them in dining, but my colleagues were waiting. I shook his hand, and his sons', and his wife's. I wished for them strength and hope and luck, and sheepishly gave him my card, with the true hope that one day I will hear from him; one day I'll receive an email that says, 'we are well, and safe, and happy.'
I felt useless and somehow ashamed.
He asked me to take a picture of him and his sons. I snapped just to snap; and now wish I'd done more.
But, my regret is even larger: I do not know his name.
I hope that one day I will.
I hope that one day, we all learn to ask for names first; and share stories, and put aside our paranoia, and fears, and be Human, to each other.
I hope that one day, we can all know, what it's like, to be human.
The State of Grace
The phone call changed the course of the day, and that's how I met Grace.
I'd driven four hours across Florida on a whim to photograph half a story–the second half wouldn't happen till months later–if it happened at all. I had no buyer, no budget, perhaps no common sense; just a desire to document complete cuteness; as everyone loves a baby otter. I raced through Ocala National Forest as the sun threatened to paint the sky perfect for long leaf pine silhouettes. Fighting with my eyelids (four am is no time to start a drive when you get in bed at 1am) I cranked the radio and welcomed the dawdling cars challenging me to pass them on the inky curvaceous two lane road through park.
I googled the nearest Dunkin Donuts. Apple Maps lied again, and almost two miles further from the highway exit than expected I reached my non-caffeinated patience limit. I needed my 'half-hot-chocolate-half-french-vanilla-coffee', and an 'everything-bagel-not cut-with-cream-cheese-on-the-side' pronto.
My blood pressure skyrocketed and my voice came out low and slow and halting.
"You. Don't. Have. Bagels?!?"
"We are a Dunkin Donuts Express."
"Maybe you should put that on the highway sign before people get off and drive the four miles down the road to get here." Too early, and no bagels; the mouth had opened itself before my filter switch activated.
"Yes. Ma'am, we've complained to management more than once on that matter. You are not the only one to complain."
Apparently I was not the only tired and hungry pissed off customer wanting nothing more than a 'medium-half-hot-chocolate-french-vanilla-coffee-everything-bagel-don't-cut-it-cream-cheese-on-the-side.'
Starving, irritated, and one lackluster regular coffee later, I finally made it to my four hour shooting session with the rescued otter. Adorable is an understatement, but this story isn't about the otter. We were finally wrapping up and I was working my way out of the house.
"So, are you spending the night down here?"
It had crossed my mind, but budget was an issue.
"You know, I was going to, but would rather not spend money on a hotel." I said embarrassed, but too tired to care.
"Hold on. Let me call my friend. She might have a room." Ten minutes later the response came in. The room would come with a trade. "Would you mind taking a few pictures for her? She has an animal rescue too and would love just a few simple shots of her critters. It will only take a few minutes."
I'd just driven hours at the crack of dawn to shoot a brown velvet fur ball on spec. Pictures of animals for a place to sleep? No problem.
And that's how I met Grace–and Iggy, and Izzy, Ramsey, the 'other Iggy', and Rhonda and Rhett and Casey and Katrina. And, that's how I met Lenne, and the Gulf Coast Iguana Sanctuary in Tampa Bay, FL.
Unbenounced to most people, Iguanas are non-native to Florida. That means, they don't belong there and are not supposed to be there, but, they, like many other species that don't belong-live there. The Orange State is filled with non-native permanent residents due in large part to the exotic pet trade. Mom's buy their kids iguanas-the kid goes to college-mom doesn't want the lizard anymore, and hey, the palm trees in the back yard look like they would make a great place for pet Izzy! But, it is illegal to release iguanas in Florida. It is not however, illegal to capture iguanas and sell them back to pet stores. Makes sense no?
Lenne takes in unwanted iguanas — they come from all over. They are found in yards, they are pets that no one wants anymore. Located on the grounds of her St. Petersburg FL, hotel-Lenne has about twenty rescued iguanas that live in a climate controlled enclosure.
Lenne and I met the afternoon after my fabulous night sleep, and after my second session with the otter.
"Thanks SO MUCH for doing this. I just want a few good shots of the iguanas for my website. This will just take like fifteen minutes."
I smiled to myself. I probably invented the phrase, "just one more." No photo has ever taken me 'just fifteen minutes.' Especially not with an animal as a subject.
One hour and a half later, I emerged from the 80 degree hothouse. The cameras were wet, I was wet, and my gear bag was wet-as happens when strategically placed under the mister. Lenne greeted me with a bottle of cold water.
"You must have some amazing shots."
I laughed. "I never know until I look later! So – tell me about the iguana with no tail?"
It was Lenne's turn to smile.
"That's Grace-she's been with me the longest-over fifteen years. She was in a breeders place in Florida. He'd used her as a breeder, but didn't want her anymore.
Lenee's hand brushed back her blonde hair, her eyes sparkling under her large format aviator glasses.
"I went to get her, she was so sick. She had a parasitic infection. We gave her antibiotics and extra calcium. But, before we could fix her up some of her fingers fell off, and we had to amputate her tail. She's a sweetheart. She loves to be held and pet. She's really the only one who loves to be touched. She's cute isn't she?"
Cute isn't a word that would ever cross my mind to describe an iguana—especially not a full grown crumbly creature with no tail. But, I'd spent long minutes contorted on wooden beams with a macro lens focused on Lenee's 'babies.' Each was a unique character–brown eyes, red eyes, white scales, orange scales, a busted lip, an old man face…Grace, in my eyes was the furthest thing from 'cute.'
My day had gone from one extreme to another. My brain tried to grasp the irony—a veterinarian spent her days at work and nights getting up to feed a four week old otter—with the sole intention of getting that animal back in the wild. And here another woman dedicated space on her hotel grounds to giving a home to animals that were bred by humans, discarded by humans and persecuted out of that same wild.
We parted ways in the parking lot, and I began my trek back to the other side of the state. My head spinning with the thrill of another creature encounter while a nagging discontent crept in through the crevices. I thought about 'grace.' Grace the Iguana, born into a life of captivity in a state she didn't belong in; and 'grace' the dictionary entry: "elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action"; "favor or goodwill"; "a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment"; "to favor or honor", "mercy; clemency; pardon" which perfectly defined the animal, and the actions, of not only the two women I'd met in the past 24 hours- but, all the humans who rescue, rehab, and give their lives to the lives of the creatures many of us don't think twice about.
As the road ahead again turned to darkness, and I once again struggled to stay awake, I filed another amazing experience into life's cabinet. The one thing I knew for sure was that overnight, I'd had a lesson in grace. Grace, is two amazing women giving their lives to help the lives of the creatures many of us don't think about twice. Grace, is all the beautifully designed creatures that were here before us, and struggling to live by our rules. Grace, is irony. Grace, is an iguana.
And perhaps for a tiny fleeting second – that peaceful second before I realized that I'd left my stupidly expensive polarized sunglasses at the IHOP 17 miles back where I slammed down a grilled cheese – I might have been convinced, for maybe a second, that Grace, is also, 'cute.'
In Search of Snakes
Dinero, Texas
In search of snakes, I'd been informed that a particular steel piling in the ground next to one of the pasture gates-sometimes-had a snake in it. Desperate for a subject, but not expecting to find anything at all, I pointed my flashlight into the blackness as my imagination took over and conjured my solo heroic rescue of a feisty, hissing, hungry, twelve-foot rattlesnake trapped for days at the bottom of the pipe. While half my brain embellished the reptile rescue fantasy–my heart skipped a few beats as the left brain informed my eyes of an actual THING sitting at the bottom of the pipe. There was something down there—not the scaly diamonds I was hoping for, but the telling stripes and spots of the obnoxiously elusive Texas Spotted Whiptail (Cnemidophorus gularis)—a lizard that had mocked me and my camera for weeks on the other side of the property.
I'd spent countless hours; days really-camera in hand-lying on the ground, decorated in cammo, pretending to be a rock strategically placed next to various lizard burrows. My disguise was an utter failure. Dirt was kicked my way; leaves were strategically moved over holes and occasionally the end of a tail flicked in my direction. I did not have one clear shot of a lizard-any lizard-and I'd long before given up on the Whiptails.
But now, I had one. My dilemma: how to get a lizard faster than lightning out of a three foot deep, six inch wide vertical rusted pipe with nothing but a 12in x 12in container to help me (alas, the fearless snake hunter with no snake hook).
The rescue began; plastic container in one hand; long skinny stick in the other. Unimpressed with my presence—the animal looked up as if in challenge: 'go ahead and try it lady.' From side to side it jumped as I lowered the branch in to the chasm; the lizard could not, as hard as it tried-get up the rusted walls of the pipe. Stick lowered and in place, I gently coaxed the lizard onto the branch while at the same time trying to push it up the side of the pipe without impaling it. After several attempts at launching itself head first back into the abyss, the Whiptail gave in and took the free ride to Rubbermaid incarceration. Proud of myself-I secured the lid and took a closer look at the reptile through the plastic. The lizard looked a bit thin, it's skin saggy and dehydrated; but, it's face was stunning-nothing short of prehistoric.
I didn't want to stress the animal any further. But, in trade for immediate freedom-I wanted a photograph. I put what I knew to the test. I readied the macro lens—I wanted details and scales-I wanted personality. I turned over the container-laying it flat on the nearest rock, slowly sliding the lid out from under it. Down on my knees-one hand on the bin, and the other on the camera, I focused on the end of the container—once I lifted the bin-I needed to be ready to fire. My experience is that when a creature is covered – there is a several second window after you lift the container before the animal realizes it's free. Battling for balance and steadiness I focused and held my breath. Ever so softly, I lifted the container and pushed my finger into the trigger.
The shutter rattled.
The lizard froze.
I got closer.
Barely thinking, my eyes scanned the edges of the frame which I filled with lizard head, foot, and scales-careful not to cut anything off. I focused again, and pressed again. Finally remembering to breathe, I instinctively looked up and over the camera – as if a timer had gone off, and I needed a more personal connection with the animal. The Whiptail slowly turned its head, eyes locking with mine; 'are we good'? it seemed to ask.
It then looked to its surroundings. Freedom beckoned. With one last glance my way, the lizard nonchalantly walked down the side of the rock.
"Thank you little guy," I called out loud, as I always do to the animals that allow me a moment of their lives.
And perhaps it was my imagination at work again, or just the rustle of leaves on the wind, but I could have sworn the lizard gave me a quick nod of that beautiful dinosaur-like head, and whispered 'No, thank you,' right back at me.
From Pretty Picture to Portfolio
For me, in the beginning, it was about pretty pictures and a love affair.
The affair began simply enough–on the final night of a last minute-two day safari to the Masai Mara–in a safari truck filled with student tourists, parked next to an acacia tree housing a lazy leopard. The cat had no intentions of getting up, and we had to leave the park. A duvet of stars spread out above me, and the primal roar of lions echoed in the distance-my heart was instantly stolen.
And so commenced my wildlife photography. I was a 'people' photographer, now hooked on a continent, and also quite obsessed with spotted cats and cameras. At the time, I was a good people photographer. I could capture "moments" and portraits. Shooting wildlife? Never crossed my mind. But, the obvious way to get back to Africa was on a safari, taking pictures.
The trips to Africa began, and the first days in the bush after long absences were like a Wild West shoot-out for me. Sleeping lions? Rat-a-tat-tat-tat went the shutter. Impala herd? Three gigabytes gone. Zebra stripes? More pixels exhausted. Hundreds of fish eagle portraits, dozens of midday shots of giraffe; I filled every second on the vehicle with shutter noise. Each time I returned to the US from a safari, I'd scour my images. I am a decent editor, so I knew which ones to choose. Everyone loved them. My mother thought they were the best compositions on earth. My father beamed. I had parties and showed my friends who 'ooohed' and 'aaaahd.' But somewhere between my third and fifth trip, something inside me changed. I was no longer satisfied with my images–ironic, as I'd taken them. I had stunningly pretty pictures of Lilac Breasted Rollers, and leopards in trees. There was nothing wrong with the images. They were well lit, and well composed. Sure, the cats were different, and spot patterns were unique, and the light varied a bit, but a leopard face was a leopard face. It hit me. I had these shots already. At the time, I didn't know how to fix that. I didn't know what I didn't know.
I am a photo editor by day; a photographer all the time. I know what makes a good photograph, as I'm surrounded by the highest standards, the best images and the best photographers in the wildlife photo industry-on a daily basis. Unlike most photo editors, I also know what it's like to be a photographer: emotionally attached to images and experiences. I know what it's like to look at my own images that are "almost there", and I know all the excuses I use to keep those files from the trash bin. But, as an editor, I know there's another pro out there who actually already has the shot I almost got-and has already won some award for it. The combination makes me my own worst critic. Which, in hindsight, was the reason I kept going back for more. I was missing something in my own images, something that others had figured out how to capture.
It takes time to begin to learn that photography, if you want it to be, is more than just an exercise in shutter depressions. It is more than just taking images. For me, this lesson was an accident. Five trips back and forth to Africa, and a few key experiences later I began to understand the nature and satisfaction of the photographic wildlife game.
Two years ago, I spent two consecutive weeks in Zimbabwe with the unique opportunity to follow African Wild Dogs. I had no interest in the dogs as a subject (and secretly figured that I'd be able to see a spotted cat at least somewhere during that time), but the opportunity was in front of me, so I went along for the ride. For two full weeks, morning and afternoon, I followed dogs. We napped with them in the heat of the day, and raced alongside them at dusk; we watched while they greeted each other as the sun came back over the horizon.
I was forced by circumstance to ignore every other photographic subject, and forced to quell the urge to take 'pretty pictures' of everything we were speeding by. I was forced to relax, and forced to focus. I was forced to give up the need to constantly shoot, and was forced to figure out when to shoot. We had one subject-it was my only choice. The first week, was filled with pretty portraits of dogs.
And then, I started to shoot.
I became driven; by the shots I missed, and the shots I didn't have yet, by the behavior I was learning but had not yet been smart enough to capture. I wanted the chase, the kill, the greetings, the licking, the frolicking and the blurred motion. I wanted dogs on green grass, and puppies and play. My editor side kicked in-I was going to be brutal to myself-if it wasn't 100%, then "DELETE." There was a tomorrow, and I would try again. If I could say, "I already have that shot," then I needed to look for new ones, and new ways. I didn't want pretty shots. I wanted compelling ones. I wanted ones that others didn't have.
And that's when it hit me. The feeling I'd been missing in my images was now clear: there was no Intimacy, and there was no Time. I'd never taken the time. I had been a 'drive by shooter." It finally clicked-this time in my brain. This was how I wanted to shoot; in horizons lined with black storm clouds, in the wind and pouring rain; in air too hot to breath, and mornings too cold to get out of the sleeping bag. The only way to truly capture behavior is to witness it in all situations. The dogs were dealing with their environment, and the only way to tell their story, was to be doing the same as them.
It's a simple equation. Time. If you are not there, you can not capture it, and if you don't spend the time, you won't know HOW to capture it. Time teaches behavior, and behavior teaches anticipation. Anticipation of behavior, let's you better position yourself for the possibility of shot you don't already have.
The beauty of photography is that it is completely subjective. There is nothing at all wrong with 'pretty pictures.' But, if you want to create a solid body of work, or a thorough portfolio of a subject, you must push yourself further.
Find a subject-like it or not-but, stick with it. Shoot that subject at night, shoot it in the rain. Shoot your subject with a long lens and a macro. Shoot it at slow shutter speeds. Get on the ground. Get in the air. Use a pole cam and a remote. Study what others have done, and then try everything they haven't. The more you work one subject, the better your images will get. Spend the time, go back again and again and you will reap the rewards.
I've finally graduated from the portraits, and pretty pictures. Today, getting the images I want, means day to day with my subject. I didn't know that until I actually did it, and for me, living on a continent 14 hours away, makes it a much more difficult task. Two years and many trips later, I'm still not done with my dogs. I don't yet have all the moments that I want. But, I do have a solid, intimate portfolio of a highly endangered species that has not only taught me how to shoot, but how to fall in love all over again-cats might just have fallen to number two-I never did see that spotted cat in Zimbabwe.
Post Script: I'd like to thank Gerry van der Walt who has a great site: www.photo-africa.com, and who asked me to write a guest post for his blog last week. He gave me the space to write this posting, and I liked it and wanted to repost it on my own blog. You can see the original posting here: http://bit.ly/cQ5Hbo. I changed a few of the pictures-and added a few others, since the BBC article has some of the same ones on the original posting on Gerry's site. Thanks again Gerry, it made me really think about my own photography, and my own learning experiences.
Living Dreams: BBC Wildlife Magazine
Sometimes, I think we overlook the fact that at times, we actually are living our dreams.
My first ten page "report" was for Ms. Anderson's science class in middle school. Internet was a mere figment of the future, and I was left to conventional sources: the stale pages of Brittanica, and the glossy spreads of National Geographic – both educating me on the biology of Cetaceans. Slouching over my desk twelve hours before deadline, I tediously hand wrote each sentence with a pen, desperately hoping that simply rearranging the words counted as original thought. But, at that moment, more clear to me than anything else, was the effect of the images behind that yellow bordered cover – the creatures below the waves seemed alive. The Sperm Whales gazed at me, watching me. I remember thinking, "I want to be right next to you guys, just like the guy who took this picture."
I turned in the report, and never gave it a second thought.
If I look back at all my seemingly small decisions, and the places I've ended up without even thinking about those decisions-there's a pattern. Each choice was made by following something that I felt within, but could not necessarily define. It sounds simple and trite. I chose to follow the moments that defined what I loved. Looking back, if I had to explain those choices now, I'd say they were my Dreams and Aspirations-in chemical form.
Growing up overseas changes your chemical makeup-at least, that's my excuse. Sentenced to an American high school at 14, I held on desperately to all things over the ocean. It wasn't a conscious choice, but I never felt like I belonged, and I missed my home; a home made of my past in another country. From high school to college to real life after college, I spent a summers in France and Switzerland, and vacation weeks with family in Europe. I signed up for a semester on a ship that went around the world. I signed a contract to teach English in Taiwan. I travelled alone. I took off, I came back. I lived in New York where I unconventionally worked my way into a job at NBC TV by hostessing in a restaurant in the base of the NBC building–I met the night crew that came for breakfast; they brought my resume upstairs. I later quit. I traveled more. I was a photographer's assistant. I got fired for disinterest. I traveled again. I waitressed again, I temped again, and I finally lied my way into a photo editing job-with nothing more to show than a portfolio of pretty pictures and some long eyelashes.
I made seemingly little decisions, I didn't look to the outcomes. I didn't think. I just called, or inquired, or desired, because I felt like it, and I could. I could not describe what I wanted. I truly did not know. All I knew, was how to hold on desperately to the few things that I knew I loved. My friends were on paths to big careers….Doctors and Lawyers and Teachers. They knew what they wanted to be. I knew how pay the rent, and most of the time, I knew how to choose things I liked to do, to make that rent money. In the end, unbeknownst to me, those little paths, put me on a collision course with a fate that somehow I chose.
My grandfather was a photographer. I barely knew him. We made short infrequent visits to his house over the years. He was often with a camera. I never made the connection. Had I known what I wanted, I could have learned from him. I could have also majored in photography. I did neither. I often wonder where I would be today, had I made those choices. I've often wondered what my grandfather would think of me today—he who photographed Einstein and Mussolini, Louis Armstrong, and the first African American baseball team; he who has so wonderfully captured history. I take images of animals. If I could change the world with them, perhaps he'd be proud. My father's father; I grew up on the other side of the world from him. Our paths barely crossed – and now, I see, we loved the same, and followed what we loved.
National Geographic happened because I was bored at my job. I took a workshop, and I kept in touch with the teacher. A year later, I invited her to lunch one day while shooting in DC.
"I'd do anything to work at NG. " My mouth had a mind of it's own.
"Really?" She sounded genuinely surprised. "Well, there's a position available down the hall from us, and one upstairs. If you send me your resume, I can pass it along."
And that's how it happened. Over lunch. I realized a dream that I never specifically set out for, but a dream that somehow, one long night, through the jaundiced light of my pink desk lamp, engrained itself for the duration, in my head. It was the Sperm Whales. There are times when I wish they had yelled from the pages: "Go be a photographer! Go take a photo class. Here are the rules! Here is the recipe!" But, in the end, their silence led me to the dreams that were already mine, they were just not yet translated.
My life has been defined by adventures, and places, and colors and faces. I knew what I liked, but not what I wanted. Along the way I picked a lot of the correct paths. No one told me what to do. I made many mistakes. But, I stayed true to the only drives I knew–to see and experience—I found ways, and subconsciously perhaps, knew that I wanted something that all these things embodied.
I reflect, because today, I stand here in my life, and take a step to the side for just a minute so I can see it all clearly. Again, at the end of a roundabout path, I am again, staring at one of these amazing unintentional dreams that has become real. I fell in love with Africa years ago. I spent all my free time going back. My heart said I had to. I knew no other reason why. I took pictures. I liked the pictures I took. I went back. The pictures got better. Did I want to be a photographer? I honestly never thought about it. I just did it along with my day job.
Today, the June 2010 issue of BBC Wildlife Magazine-one of my bibles of wildlife photography–is on the stands. My African Wild Dog pictures, that I've been taking for two years, are stunningly laid out in vivid color, on 14 glossy pages. It wasn't a goal I specifically set out to attain. It's another one of my crazy 'fork in the roads' that worked out-another one of those little dreams that 'just happen' for me, because somehow I made the perfect combination of choices. It's a publication I never dreamt I could be in, and once again, somehow, my little decisions have led me to this place.
So, dreams happen while we are living our lives. They creep up on us when we shake a hand, or follow-up on a business card exchange, or have lunch. Whether we know it or not, we do choose to make them happen. What we need to remember, is to every once in a while for a moment, step outside ourselves; look back, smile, and appreciate that some of our dreams, are what we are living.
*African Wild Dogs are a highly endangered species. I hope you get a chance to see them on the pages of BBC Wildlife.
Thank you BBC. This dream is real.
Chasing Dogs: Lycaon pictus.
Painted Dog. Cape Hunting Dog. Spotted Dog. Painted Wolf. African Wild Dog. Resembling a dog, but, not a dog at all—it is one of the most feared and loathed, and endangered animals in Africa. And, it is one of my favorites.
The decapitated, kitted-out Toyota HiLux torpedoes through a solid wall of Zimbabwean thicket at 40 miles an hour. Physically resembling something out of a Mad Max movie, the truck ricochets forward looking deceivingly out of control. I sit at the front of the flatbed, smack in the middle of a modified rise–the perfect target for blood thirsty Acacia thorns and steroidal Golden Orb Spiders. I've already lost my bandana to a thorn bush, and have unsuccessfully dodged about 143 spiders the size of my hands, that are now crawling over every part of the truck around me. All I can think of is my 6 foot 2 brother who'd be screaming like a girl if he were sitting in my place.
The truck careens to the left, I fly to the right, and duck as a fat Mopane branch threatens to take my head off. A camera clutched in the left hand, a camera between my legs, and my right hand clutching the towel on the back of the driver's seat-i'm being held in by nothing more than a hand and my toe that is wedged in between the seat cushion. It's just about 5:30 am. The sun seems to have pressed snooze, and I see nothing but teasing rays of it, glistening off sticky webs and branches headed directly for my face.
In front of us, galloping with certain graceful power and stamina, 17 African Wild Dogs take off at full speed, with a mission: find breakfast. And the two people in the Mad Max truck? Determined to be present when they take it down.
Yes. I've come here for a week, to do this for fun.
Every morning since Sunday, I'm up at 3:30 am, in Mad Max at 3:45, and driving an hour to the West where we left the dogs the night before. They could be anywhere within, or outside of this 50,000 hectare property. We fly through what's left of the night on the convulsive red dirt road, passing animals otherwise seen in zoos around the world. A crested porcupine gives us the blow off as the spotlight brightens him for viewing. A genet bounds up a tree trunk, a leopard, who's eyes sparkle as they cross the path of the beam, is startled by the bright-eyed torpedo coming towards him. Night Jars fly left and right, a croc watches as again, we disturb his post at the mouth of the river. In the distant treeline, impala huddle together; hundreds of tiny reflected eyes staring out of the blackness. We stop for none, as the dogs soon will begin to move.
This obsession of mine started by accident almost a year and a half ago. I needed shots of Lycaon pictus for a story I was editing for NG Kids magazine. The ususal stock agencies were void of anything that would work as a cover shot. As a last resort, I checked out Flickr, and randomly found some shots from a wildlife film maker. I shot him an email to see if he might have what i'm looking for. He responded immediately.
"I need a cover shot," Was my demand. "I need a wild dog puppy, looking at the camera, and smiling."
He responded: "I'm in the middle of filming a dog movie. I'm trying to habituate a wild pack-spending day and night with it in the bush. They've just moved den to a new, crap location. They barely let me close enough to film. You're joking about the smiling right?"
I wasn't joking. Several emails later, and with a desire to meet my challenge of "get me the perfect cover shot," he called me in the office, from Zimbabwe. Little did he know that his invitation to "come out here and see his dogs" would turn into more than just one trip, a friendship, and my own personal obsession to capture these incredible creatures beautifully, with the camera.
The Bio Tracker finally beeps. We are close. Faster louder beeps mean close and running. Slow loud beeps=sleeping, general putzing around, or staring at moving water. Once again, we slam through the thickest of vegetation, and there they are in the undergrowth, their big ears turned in our directions, as if to say, "You morons. You left us here last night. What did you think, we'd be gone?"
As we switch off the truck, and pull the spider collection from our brows, the pack starts it's squealing fit of a morning greeting. Everyone, adults and teenagers alike, bound around in an organized chaos, licking and sniffing, peeing, pooping, jumping and cavorting, as if they'd not just spent the night together in a pile. Everyone says good morning. Everyone says hello. And then, without fanfare, their playful leaps turn to calculated determination; their play turns serious. The leader moves into a trot, and a single file line of painted fur moves into a unified front. Every day in the bush is different, every spider and animal count a little less or a little more. But, every day in the life of an African Wild Dog begins the same way-a welcome greeting, and a plan.
And, so here I am. In Zimbabwe. In Orb Spider city. Spending mornings and afternoons, seven hours at a time, sitting in a truck, creating bruises, chasing African Wild dogs. Sometimes they impress us, sometimes they outwit us, and, sometimes they lay around bellies fat with a kill we didn't even get to see. An entire pack melts into the bush in a blink, while we, desperately trying to keep up, can barely make it around the first tree. Most of the time, we are "just" too late; pathetic competition for keeping up, leaving us with the after kill scene: a football team huddle of white tails high in the air, ripping apart an impala at lightspeed.
But we keep trying. There's always tomorrows drive, which will be the same, and yet so different, as life is here in the bush. And, that drive starts for me in three and a half hours.
Sleep well.
Far For a Week?
"Isn't that far for a week?" my colleague asks.
I am on a plane again. This time to Zimbabwe. For a week.
Is it far? Well yes-I suppose, but, San Francisco is 6 hours. Amsterdam is 8. Tokyo is a whole lot more. I've never really thought of it in terms of "far." For me it's a routine of Home. Pack. Get in cab. Check in. Take off boots. Laptop out. Ignore the baggie rule and see if I get caught. "M'am, we need to go through this bag of cameras." "Yes, I know." Stroll to gate. Get sushi. With extra eel sauce. The guy knows me now. Board plane. Have argument over size of camera bag. Hover and stake out extra seats to sleep on.
If I had a second home, it would be between an airport and a plane, on the way to somewhere.
For me, an airport embodies dreams, and possibility. You can go anywhere. Do anything. Be anyone. Call me crazy, hundreds of destinations spelled out in lights on a black board. Pick a gate number-any number. Where do you want to go? Shopping in Paris? Melting raclette in Zurich? Dancing in Rio? Table Mountain in Capetown? It's all possible. Some you must hurry for-they are boarding. Others are delayed, another bottle needs an owner in the Duty Free shop. Some, like mine, are right on time. Right out of Dulles-straight for Johannesburg.
So, is it far. In miles. In mind, for me, it's right next to my heart, so the hours of stars and clouds that parade by my window at 35,000 feet, are just there to entertain me while I wait a bit-to get to the the place I miss; to the place I hear the Fish Eagle call; to the place where my brain can think again.
I watch two of twenty movies for the offering. I spread out in the two seats I've managed to hoard on a full flight. I've made friends with the preacher directly behind me, and an "airline people" who is based in Johannesburg. I endure the screaming child strapped to his car seat in row 32 and refrain from the desire to ask his mother if she wants me to walk him up and down the dark sleepy aisles. We can all hear him loud and clear-even at row 53, and his parents remain deaf to him, and his older brother sleeps. The flight attendent begs, "please get up and console the child-take him to the back, or try and make it better, but there are other passengers, and they are complaining, so at least look like you are trying to do something about it."
I stand for a bit as we stop in Dakar to refuel – the preacher and I will that no new passengers get on-the second seat is a blessing. I take half an ambien after take off, and dream until an hour before landing. We disembark, I run through the transit hall, through security again. I'm now in one of my favorite airports. Johannesburg. It's familiar. I know the store clerk in the safari clothing store. I buy chocolate and biltong, quickly check email, and then go to A24 for the flight to Harare. It's raining. Boarding is delayed. We drive around the tarmac looking for the misplaced plane. I sit next to a sweet Zimbabwean who gives me his card; if I ever need anything in Harare, please don't hesistate to call. We land in the dark. I pay my 30 dollars for a visa. And my purple duffel bag shows up. Success.
So, is it far? No. It's worth it-as I sit here in a pink bedroom in Harare, on the floor at midnight, not sure if I need to sleep, eat or start writing by hand; my laptop battery is at four percent, and I've brought the wrong plug. But the rain patters down in a steady stream just outside the fairy curtains; a cool warmth seeps into the room. I am not far at all from where I will be tomorrow. On a truck, in the hills, chasing wild dogs with the camera. A week is not too short to live a passion.
So no-it's never a far journey, to get to be where you want.


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Right here Are The Best Programming Languages To Study In 2018
Laptop programmers write programs in quite a lot of pc languages, such as C++ and Java. While programming expertise just isn't a requirement to enter the program, aptitude for programming is critical and would include strong language, downside solving and logic abilities. Study the fundamentals of programming by means of HTML, CSS, and Python. Programmers can earn certifications in each languages and platforms.
Since isomorphic apps pretty much have to run on the platform, which is in JavaScript (the identical language utilized in front-end), will more than likely solely change into more in style with time. Study Important Programming Fundamentals. In that spirit, listed below are some things I've come to study programming which I hope could also be helpful to people thinking about giving programming a strive.
Our programming contest decide accepts options in over 35+ programming languages. With a huge collection of packages(code examples), complete course materials and compiler for apply, all of your programming wants are bundled in a single app to your daily observe.
These courses introduce college students to broad rules of laptop science and programming. We theorized what would possibly happen if programmers created the earth (spoiler alert: it is not nice). As Ruby reads like English and Rails has instruments that make frequent development tasks simpler out-of-the-fieldâ€, many would recommend learning Ruby as your first programming language.
High-level languages allow the programmer to write down programs in phrases which are extra summary , and less bound to the underlying hardware. Gasoline higher studying: MyLab creates actually personalized online studying experiences that help students make actual progress of their programs and of their lives.
His e-book Programming Ruby introduced the Ruby language to the world, and Agile Net Growth with Rails helped kickstart the Rails revolution. Desk 1.6 ought to offer you a feel for the place we stand with laptop programming languages at the moment.

subset: commoncrawl


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On the Coastal Skipper course take your adventures further afield, learn how to skipper a yacht, day or night, on coastal journeys
- Full course price £599 (inc VAT)
- 5 day course.
- Maximum 5 students per course.
- Accommodation provided onboard.
- All meals eaten onboard provided.
- Free parking at Port Solent Marina
Course aims:
The Coastal Skipper course aims to build on the Day Skipper syllabus for more experienced yachtsmen and women. Involving more challenging day and night passages, this course will help you practice your boat handling skills in more demanding situations.
Course content:
The course will build on the students knowledge as a skipper. Over the 5 days you will cover longer distance passage planning, pilotage, and yacht handling under sail and power. It will also cover how to prepare a yacht for sea, coping in adverse weather conditions, and emergency situations.
Course pre-requisites:
The course assumes a good level of knowledge and experience as a skipper. It is required that you have covered 300 miles at sea, have spent 15 days on board, including 2 days as skipper, and 8 hours at night. It is highly recommend that students have completed the Yachtmaster shore based theory course as there is insufficient time to teach this to students during the week.
Book Online:
Related course materials…
Buy RYA Passage Planning at the RYA Shop
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Our Twitter
More Info
For further information please contact our School Administrator:
Stephanie Roberts
Teaching & Learning Support
The following pages provide information to parents/carers to help support teaching and learning:-
As part of our monitoring process, Mr Coleman and Mr Jennings regularly observe lessons. We then send letters to the classes letting them know what they have done well and areas they could improve.
Click on the link below to read the letters.
Year 3


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Are you looking for an unusual and memorable show? Do you want to surprise and impress your guests? You are on the right place! Your guests will not forget our breathtaking exhibition.
Choose from the options we offer or we can even arrange show suited to your individual needs. We have several obstacles and constructions. Members of In Motion team will show you only the best they have learned during years of training. All of this is processed into action choreography, so your guests will not be bored for a moment.
Our clients: O2, NIKE, Wrangler, Lilly
If you are interested, feel free to contact us.
Our show in Czech & Slovak got talent.


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This is a $400 value people!!!
Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list...
Ok. I'm game. I'll be snapping some pictures tomorrow and linking back. We're doing a Detroit Tiger's baseball theme tomorrow...along with hotdogs, beer, peanuts and popcorn. Oh yeah!! As you can imagine, we have a slight thing for pandas in our house.
Ok, that photo of Savannah at the end is beyond precious.
LOVE the panda hat and the photos! The caution tape wrist bands are too cute! I forgot to snap a picture of Miss Thing this morning! Darn!
Here's entry 1. I'm a follower and I've always admitted it!
I love pandas..duh! Almost as good as Tiger Blood. ;)
We're officially linked and posting back to your blog. I let Josie pick out her attire. She's wearing Detroit Tigers for her top and a lovely set of Halloween stretch pants on the bottom! I Cheers!
I love pandas!...and YES!, I'm already a crazy follower to this "rehab"! I'm drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
Count me in, I want that hat!
I will wear it proudly!
Lazy on Loblolly
I do love Panda's and I've been admiring your talents for awhile. Not sure how to link up, but I enjoy your blog. Keep up the good work.
I didn't get pictures this morning, but my daughter wore a skirt with pants and off-brand Ugg boots to school. Oh, did I mention that its 86 here??
I was quite fashionable in black sweatpants, a yellow shirt, and purple hoodie.
My son is the most stylish preschooler you've ever seen. Sometimes I let him pick out my clothes.
I knew panada were in danger, but not that they were surrounded by caution tape.
O.k., so yes I have had too much wine tonight because we went to a party, so I don't understand what I have to do to win that panda hat. I am going to bed now, so tell me in the morning.
this is very cute ..
love pandas.
bless them.
That is the awesomest thing EVAR!! Not just the hat, but the whole outfit. Can I enter to win Savannah? She can be my new...Savvy...fashion guru.
lol that's funny . I don't want the hat and I'm not entering unless you can make me a pope hat. this is Alphabe Thursday girl! c'mon you know we have to visit others and leave our comments right?
My daughter went to China last year and played with pandas as part of her zoology class....
Doesn't seem like school to me!
I love pandas....
You guys are a riot!
Love the Panda hat!
Been stalking you for ages, but now I am an official follower!
Hey mama, I love Pandas!!!
I also am a follower!! Your sweet Savannah did good, she is so cute too, with her caution tape, and freckles.
Bella :)
I'm a longtime follower, so count me in! :)
This is going to seem like a very bizarre thing to say if you're not a South Park fan, but this reminds me of Sexual Harassment Panda :p
What a laugh! This whole post just totally cracked me up.
Trust you to send off this final round of the Alphabet with a ... panda hat!
Thanks for all the creativity and smiles this round. I always love stopping by.
The police tape wristbands are definitely a look I haven't seen.


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Tackle Football FAQs
How Are Divisions Determined?
A Squad – Grades 7 & 8, no High School Students, NO weight restrictions
B Squad – Grades 5 & 6, Skill positions limited to 125 pounds or less, players over 155 pounds are limited to play only the interior line.
C Squad - Grades 4 and under. Skill positions limited to 115 pounds or less, players over 125 pounds must play interior line.
*Older but Lighter Rule available - Can't play a skill position, players may play down a division weight restrictions will apply, please contact a board member prior to registration*
When do practices start?
Different this year than in the past, we will have 3 evaluation days over a 3 week span, One night a week. Conditioning/Evaluations will take place July 17th 6-8pm, July 25th 6-8pm and Aug 2nd 6-8pm. It is not mandatory to go to all the evaluations but suggested, You must attend one evaluation. Team practices will start on August 13th, running Monday -Thursday from 6:00 to 8:00 PM. Practices will be held at Farmington High School. The week of August 27th through - the end of the season practices will be held on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday same time (coach may choose to practice different days), until we lose daylight, at which point, times will be changed and communicated.
Where are practices/games held?
Practices are generally on the football practice fields at Farmington High School, the fields by the first parking lot and the turf. All Home Games will be held at FHS.
When will we receive uniforms/pads/equipment?
All equipment will be handed out August 11th 8-11am. Players will receive all necessary pads, helmet, practice pants, and game uniforms. Proper fitting is supervised by our experienced coaching staff to ensure that standards of safety are met. Equipment day is at Roo Storage 610 New Britain Ave, Unionville,
Does a player need to attend practice to receive pads?
All players must be present for 3 practices before suiting up in pads.
What does a player need to buy?
Players must be prepared with a t-shirt and shorts for the first week of practices. Cleats should be worn (any rubber type will do). If this is not possible, sneakers will suffice for the first week. When contact begins, players will need their own athletic supporter and mouth piece and cleats. See equipment document
What days/times are games?
Games will begin on (Labor Day weekend for the 2018 season)
Games are held on Sundays. We make every effort depending on amount of teams per division to travel together as a town (meaning if you have multiple players at different levels you might not need to be in two different places) Estimated game start times are:
C Squad – 9:00 AM - 12:00 PM
B Squad – 11:00 AM - 1:00 PM
A Squad – 12:00 PM - 2:00 PM
The finalized game schedule will be published prior to the beginning of the season.
How are squads decided?
Players are separated into three Divisions A, B, and C, based on grade and age chosen by the coaches based on the evaluation days. There maybe multiple teams per division. Please contact a board member for any questions about which squad your player should play at.
What Towns Do We Play?
We are part of the newly formed Nutmeg Youth Football League (NYFL) a Premier Youth Football League, playing games against other nearby towns of West Hartford, Southington, Granby/Suffield. We have a strict set of rules that all towns must follow to make the game safe yet still fun for the kids and parents.
How Much Does it Cost to Play?
Registeration for tackle is $220-$285 depending on which squad your player will be on, this includes everything you will need except for, cleats, mouth piece and athelitc supporter.
MudHogs offer full to partial scholarships provided by a generous donation from a annyomous donation. Please reach out to a board member for furhter infomation.
How do I get in touch with someone from the league?
Try our Board Members page. If you still can't find who you're looking for, firstname.lastname@example.com I'll be happy to answer any questions.
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Can James Franco's movie become the first since 'Tyson' in 2008 to win the Un Certain Regard competition at Cannes?
Jim Parrack & James Franco in As I Lay Dying
As I Lay Dying, written, directed and starring James Franco, is aiming to become the first American movie to win the Un Certain Regard award at the Cannes Film Festival since 2008's Tyson documentary. Franco's movie is adapted from William Faulkner's classic American novel of the same name and stars the Oscar nominee as a son's quest to bury the body of his mother in accordance with her wishes.
Watch the As I Lay Dying Trailer!
Though the trailer hints at Franco's penchant for the avant-garde, it looks far more of a straight narrative affair then, say, Interior. Leather Bar. Franco plays the second oldest child Darl, while Tim Blake Nelson appears to do a sublime job of portraying father Anse. Danny McBride plays friend of the family Vernon Tull while Ahna O'Reilly - who's making a buzz with the Weinstein's Fruitvale - plays daughter Dewey Dell. The movie has a reasonable chance of scooping for 30,000 euro prize at Cannes, though it's safe to assume festival favorite Sofia Coppola is the frontrunner with hipster tale The Bling Ring - still, it would be a long-awaited American success.
Continue reading: James Franco Takes On Faulkner In 'As I Lay Dying' [Trailer & Pictures]
The nominal plot has stout-hearted Colonel Loring Leigh (C. Aubrey Smith -- who else?) kicked out of the Lancers for signing an order allowing a shipment guns to find their way into the hands of a band of Indian rebels, who end up massacring 90 men at one of those Indian passes so famous in '30s movie adventure yarns. Colonel Leigh is drummed out of the army but knows he's been set up and his signature forged. Returning to England he summons his four sons -- dim bulb Oxford student Rodney (William Henry), pompous barrister Wyatt (George Sanders), shallow ladies man/aviator Chris (David Niven), and stuffy British attache Geoffrey (Richard Greene) -- in order to show them the evidence proving he was framed by an international gun cartel. He doesn't get that far. While the boys are sipping bitters in the ante room, Colonel Leigh is shot dead in his study and the evidence removed. The press claims Leigh committed suicide from his disgrace, but the boys know better and set about to find his killer and clear his name.
Continue reading: Four Men And A Prayer Review
The New York Film Festival offered a double bill of savory morsels in this succulent vein, presided over master chef Martin Scorsese and his restoration outfit, The Film Foundation. On the bill-of-fare at The New York Film Festival were two 20th Century Fox three-strip Technicolor sweetmeats -- John Ford's Drums Along the Mohawk and John Stahl's Leave Her To Heaven.
Continue reading: Drums Along The Mohawk Review
The Chats' debut album High Risk Behaviour is the most punk thing we've heard in years.


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Note from Austin B. Hahn: I always appreciate hearing or reading an opposing viewpoint. I thought this was interesting, so I figured I'd share it.
Commentary by Austin B. Hahn
While I do believe that human variation such as culture, ethnicity, gender, nationality, race, religion, sexual orientation, and other attributes help us to identify one from another, (imagine trying to file your taxes, but there was no way to verify your identity), I do agree that when we use them to segregate ourselves, they become weapons.
Cultural Appropriation
By Austin B. Hahn
Cultural appropriation is defined as the adoption or usage of elements from one culture by another culture, and although it is generally understood as "Western appropriations of non‐Western or non‐white forms, and carries connotations of exploitation and dominance," anyone can appropriate (Drabble, et al.). The topic has been a point of contention in social media. Franchesca Ramsey, an actress and videoblogger, spoke about the matter on MTV News stating that, "the main problem with cultural appropriation comes from dominant groups 'borrowing' from marginalized groups who face oppression or have been stigmatized for their cultural practices throughout history." In addition, actress Amandla Stenberg stated in an online video from Hype Hair Magazine that appropriation occurs, "when the appropriator is not aware of the deep significance of the culture that they're partaking in." Evidently, there are multiple viewpoints on what constitutes cultural appropriation, but one interpretation remains consistent: it happens when a dominant cultural group incorporates aspects from another culture, usually less dominant, that are not perceived to be their own.
The debate doesn't just stop at social media. In September of 2015, a yoga class at the University of Ottawa was cancelled, according to an email from a representative, due to "cultural issues of implication involved in the practice" (Moyer). The representative went on:
Yoga has been under a lot of controversy lately due to how it is being practiced and what practices from what cultures (which are often sacred spiritual practices) they are being taken from. Many of these cultures are cultures that have experienced oppression, cultural genocide and diasporas due to colonialism and western supremacy, and we need to be mindful of this and how we express ourselves and while practicing yoga. (Moyer).
The Washington Post later cited a similar sentiment expressed by the Hindu American Foundation, an advocacy group based in Washington, D.C., who is leading an initiative called "Take Back Yoga":
As the multi-billion dollar yoga industry continues to grow with studios becoming as prevalent as Starbucks and $120 yoga pants, the mass commercialization of this ancient practice, rooted in Hindu thought, has become concerning. With proliferation of new forms of 'yoga,' the underlying meaning, philosophy, and purpose of yoga are being lost. ("Take Back Yoga").
In short, the advocacy group wants to sustain the practice's cultural authenticity.
Other communities have also voiced their concerns over preserving the cultural customs that their ancestors once held dear to them. As stated by Hoodoo practitioner Madame Omi Kongo in an article from Broadly, a website dedicated to the publication of women's issues, "Ancestry is extremely important. It makes up your spiritual frame" (Bess). Hoodoo, also known as conjure or rootwork, is an eclectic form of magic that was used as a tradition of protection by African slaves (Bess). Madame Kongo believes that "without an African ancestral link, the practice becomes something other than Hoodoo" (Bess). Several blog posts from people of color coincide with Kongo's opinion on heritage and detest the appropriation of their craft by "white pagans and general magic practitioners" (Bess). Ironically, as Gabby Bess points out, a staff writer for Broadly, the practice utilizes African spirituality and also "stems from an appropriation" of Christian rituals that slaves had "newly encountered in the Americas." Maybe a deeper issue lies in the argument concerning cultural appropriation. "We have scammers appropriating and selling our traditions," says IHeartFREDA, a blogger who was cited in Bess's article, "Our community is not a trend" ("things").
Some critics argue that the ideology implies "you are only allowed to behave in accordance with the culture into which you were born" (Patterson). Jenni Avins, a writer for the Atlantic, contends that "we have to stop guarding cultures and subcultures in efforts to preserve them. . . . [T]he exchange of ideas, styles, and traditions is one of the tenets and joys of a modern, multicultural society." Furthermore, John McWhorter, a professor at Columbia University, asserts that "the debate over … cultural appropriation has roots in the justifiable resentment of white pop musicians imitating black genres for monetary gain," but has now "morphed into a parody of the original idea." McWhorter goes on citing Harlem during the 1920s when Caucasians used new styles of music they learned from African Americans to create today's musical landscape and adds, "a stipulation that brown people in America must be shielded from [cultural cross-fertilization] will serve no purpose except to provide people with something to be upset about. It will keep happening."
After examining both sides of the debate, they each have their valid points. Minority groups continue to be stigmatized today. For example, in 2013, a twelve-year-old African American female in Florida faced the possibility of expulsion because her natural hair was considered "distracting" (Sehgal). In states such as Ohio and Oklahoma, schools have tried to ban Afros (Sehgal). However, no sanction has ever been imposed against Caucasians by any public school system because of their hair. In spite of the fact that the United States is a multicultural nation, this double standard illustrates the cultural bias that ethnic communities still face in the twenty-first century.
On another note, telling someone what they can wear, how they can style their hair, or how they should conduct themselves based on their ethnic origins, regardless if they're a part of the dominant cultural group, is not conducive to a progressive society. Doing so only creates more racism and separatism. No one's culture is a materialistic possession that others have to ask permission to use or to incorporate into their lifestyle. Despite the efforts of some well-intentioned groups wanting to spread cultural awareness, labeling an entire race of people as "privileged" because of the color of their skin while ignoring socioeconomic factors and accusing them of stealing something as intangible and inconstant as culture fuels xenophobia. People are curious about other cultures in the age of rapid electronic communication. We cannot expect our children and future generations to be tolerant of diversity when they're discouraged and shamed for exploring the cultural influences that compose the fabric of their nation.
By no means do I support perpetuating stereotypes, but taking historical events out of context, such as the exploitation or genocide of minorities from previous generations, and using racial identity to justify what is socially acceptable for someone contradicts any social progress we have made. By implementing a list of behavioral regulations according to group membership, we're reverting to the pre-Civil Rights era. No one wants to be told what they can or cannot do because of their ethnicity just as no one wants to be told what public accommodations they can use because of their race, which is why we abolished the Jim Crow laws. Perhaps instead of telling people what culture they're allowed to partake in, maybe we should focus more on addressing the root causes of cultural discrimination.
If someone cannot style their hair a certain way or wear an article of clothing because of their race, then we have failed at every effort to achieve equality.
Works Cited
"Take Back Yoga: Bringing to Light Yoga's Hindu Roots." Hindu American Foundation. Hindu American Foundation, n.d. Web. 26 Jan. 2016.
Avins, Jenni. "The Dos and Don'ts of Cultural Appropriation." The Atlantic. The Atlantic, 20 Oct. 2015. Web. 23 Jan. 2016.
Bess, Gabby. "Black Magic: Hoodoo Witches Speak Out on the Appropriation of Their Craft." Broadly. Vice Media LLC, 23 Sep. 2015. Web. 26 Jan. 2016.
Drabble, Margaret, et al. Eds. The Concise Oxford Companion to English Literature. 3rd ed. n.p: Oxford University Press, 2007. Oxford Reference. Web. 24 Jan. 2016.
Hype Hair Magazine. "Amandla Stenberg: Don't Cash Crop On My Cornrows." Online video clip. YouTube. YouTube, 15 Apr. 2015. Web. 24 Jan. 2016.
IHeartFREDA. "things I have noticed online and offline." Tumblr. Tumblr, Jul. 2015. Web. 29 Jan. 2016.
McWhorter, John. "You Can't 'Steal' a Culture: In Defense of Cultural Appropriation." The Daily Beast. The Daily Beast Company LLC, 15 Jul. 2014. Web. 5 Feb. 2016.
Moyer, Justin Wm. "University yoga class canceled because of 'oppression, cultural genocide'." The Washington Post. The Washington Post, 23 Nov. 2015. Web. 25 Jan. 2016.
Patterson, Steve. "Why Progressives Are Wrong to Argue Against Cultural Appropriation." Observer. Observer Media, 20 Nov. 2015. Web. 31 Jan. 2016.
Ramsey, Franchesca. "7 Myths about Cultural Appropriation DEBUNKED! Decoded MTV News." Online video clip. YouTube. YouTube, 11 Nov. 2015. Web. 24 Jan. 2016.
Sehgal, Parul. "Is Cultural Appropriation Always Wrong?" New York Times. New York Times, 29 Sep. 2015. Web. 23 Jan. 2016.
By Austin B. Hahn
If there is anything I have learned in psychology, then it would be that the accuracy of something isn't reflected by how many people believe in it.
When Will We Care?
By Austin B. Hahn
I live in a country where talking about sex is more taboo than saying to someone, "I hate you."
I live in a country where people pay more attention to Beyoncé than to their own government.
I live in a country where at-will employment is the norm, but its own people complain about corporate corruption.
I live in a country whose constitution affirms that "all men are created equal," but I can still get fired in 29 states just for being gay (Short).
I live in a country where political correctness receives praise, but doing community service is assumed to be a court-mandated punishment.
I live in a country whose elected officials can get away with lying while holding a public office, but an ordinary citizen can go to jail for lying on a resume (Kreps).
I live in a country where people are more concerned about their bullshit moralism than women's reproductive rights being taken away.
I live in a country whose people are obsessed with demographics, but they don't seem to care about anyone's motivations.
I live in a country where I constantly wonder when people will actually give a shit.
How many more will have to die or suffer before we start to care?
Kreps, Lauren. "The Legal Risks of Lying on Your Resume." Shake. Shake. 25 Jun. 2015. Web. 17 May 2016. <http://www.lrc.ky.gov/statutes/statute.aspx?id=18882>
Short, Kevin. "The 29 States Where You Can Still Be Fired For Being Gay."Huffington Post. Huffington Post. 30 Oct. 2014. Web. 17 May 2016.
U.S. Values That Need to be Revamped
By Austin B. Hahn
Author's note: Because the word American can pertain to those who are in Central, North, or South America, people in the United States are referred to as U.S. Americans.
Materialism Although life satisfaction and wealth are modestly correlated below an annual salary of $75,000, there's little association between long-term happiness and wealth; yet, U.S. Americans own twice as many cars and eat out twice as much as they did 55 years ago (Lilienfeld et al. 430; Gregoire 1). These statistics may come as no surprise to those who shop during the holiday season. In 2012, shoppers spent $59.1 billion on Black Friday alone (Fox). This finding contradicts the long-held belief that the United States does not have the means to help all of its people. While having sufficient financial resources is not an issue, allocating them may be.
The United States has created a materialistic culture. U.S. Americans can't celebrate holidays, such as Christmas, without purchasing and receiving gifts. On average, people will spend $700 on holiday shopping, which the National Retail Federation estimates to a total of $465 billion, and countless ads will air convincing parents to buy that one "special" gift for their kids ("Made in America"). Children are raised on commercialism. For example, in my experience, when parents ask them if they had a nice Christmas, they're usually expected to base their answer off of how many presents they received. Parents will spend hundreds of dollars on Christmas. Oddly enough, when their kids get to college, they'll have no money for them unless they were financially planning ahead which brings us to our next value: education.
Education On average, a college graduate with a 4-year degree owes $29,000 in student loan debt (Holland; White). From 2004-2014, student loan debt rose by 56 percent (Camera). This financial burden has affected economic and social life in the U.S. Data from the Centers for Disease Control indicate that "the birth rate among women aged 20 to 29 is now at a record low, and has been declining since at least 2008″ (Holland). A report from CNBC also revealed that the homeownership rate for U.S. Americans under the age of 35 dropped from 43.3% in 2005 to 34.6% in 2015 (Holland). According to the National Association of Realtors, 23 percent of first-time buyers said they were having difficulty saving for a down payment, and 57 percent within this group said student debt was preventing them from saving (Holland). While these statistics are alarming, the issue of debt education is not new.
In 2006, Jeffrey J. Williams, a professor at Carnegie Mellon University, noted in his article "Debt Education: Bad for the Young, Bad for America," that student loan debt for undergraduates had more than doubled from 1992, when it was $9,200, to $18,900 in 2002. Political science professor at Queens College New York Andrew Hacker and New York Times columnist and associate professor at Columbia University Claudia Dreifus have cited several reasons for the skyrocketing cost of college in their 2010 publication Higher Education? One of them was presidential compensation. Between 1992 and 2008, presidential salaries more than doubled while "some rose closer to threefold" (Hacker and Dreifus 119). For example, Stanford's president went from getting paid $256,111 to a whopping $731,614 while the pay of NYU's president increased from $443,000 to $1,274,475 (Hacker and Dreifus 119).
Among other reasons for the rising cost of college listed by Dreifus and Hacker include: funding colleges' legal expenses, paying for athletic departments, extravagant amenities and tenured professors' salaries, and to attract applicants (Hacker and Dreifus). Dreifus and Hacker noted that "behavioral economics posits that when people feel what's being asked is too low, they suspect something might be wrong with the product" (Hacker and Dreifus 116). In other words, people associate a higher price tag with a higher quality of education. Shortly after Pennsylvania's Ursinus College increased its fees by 17 percent, enrollment had grown by a third four years later (Hacker and Dreifus 116). Perhaps we can conclude that soaring tuition rates are, in part, due to the public's expectation that money equates with quality, or is this presumption because of how market capitalism socializes us to think and how colleges advertise themselves?
Many U.S. Americans still value education. A survey conducted by Discover Student Loans found that 95 percent of parents believe that "college is somewhat or very important to their child's future" (Holland). However, the Bureau of Labor Statistics reported that adults between the ages of forty-five and fifty-four with an average income of $81,884 "spend $3,244 on eating out," yet, personal expenditures for education totaled $2,012 (Hacker and Dreifus 130). As Hacker and Dreifus point out, this "raises questions about how many parents are writing five-digit checks for their children" (130). In a 2009 College Board survey, twenty-five percent of respondents, who had the most savings, said their parents had put less than $20,000 aside (Hacker and Dreifus 130). Even more shocking, Hacker and Dreifus claim that Princeton parents who make $125,000-$150,000 now have to pay "only half of their full bill," and while colleges state "that gifts support scholarships," six-figure parents are often the recipients of such contributions (130).
Taking all of the aforementioned into consideration, our education system is creating an entire generation of indentured students. Many graduates will go on unable to pay off their student loans. Meanwhile, as the cost of higher education rises, individuals from less affluent backgrounds who possess artistic, executive, or scientific talent will turn away. The incoming generation is being financed by loan companies at the expense of what goods and services they could produce in the future. Despite numerous reports and statistics on the burden of student debt, the federal government doesn't seem to care, or otherwise a bill making higher education more affordable would have been passed long ago.
Baby boomers and Generation X have been fed a poisonous cultural narrative by the media that millennials are lazy and carry a sense of "entitlement" as a way to pass down blame for the economic circumstances we are in today. Consequently, they're angry, and they've become convinced that putting their tax dollars towards education for our young people wouldn't be a worthwhile investment. As our leaders continue to find someone to blame, tuition rates are exponentially increasing and fewer people can afford to attend college. An entire generation is on the verge of financial collapse, and little to nothing is being done to mitigate the effects of debt education. When will policy makers pay attention? How about taking out a portion of the military budget and allocating it to education? We cannot expect to have productive citizens who will contribute to society when they're solely focused on paying back their debt. An overhaul of the education system is long overdue.
Celebrity worship U.S. culture idolizes the rich and famous, and the media industry waists time reporting on their lives instead of focusing on actual news such as Supreme Court decisions, medical breakthroughs, or the latest advancements in technology. Celebrities are expected to stand in as role models for parents who don't want to raise their kids. In addition, the famous are constantly put under scrutiny by social media. For example, in July of 2015, when Taylor Swift and Nicki Minaj got into a dispute on Twitter, it became a national news story. There were reports from various media outlets, including CNN and Time (Chan; Grossman).
While these stories may sell and generate profit for media conglomerates, what about the voice of the poor or lower middle class? I never heard about them as a child who frequently watched television, and I still don't today as an adult. From my point of view, excessive media coverage on celebrities has prevented us from addressing real issues: poverty, racial injustice, rising college tuition rates, the cost of healthcare, and unemployment. Celebrity worship as a cultural plague must be transformed into admiration without becoming obsession so that we can direct our attention to finding the root causes of our domestic problems and work towards creating solutions.
Perfectionism When I went to school as a child, teachers often taught me only one way how to do something. If I did anything differently on an assignment, project, quiz, or a test, they would mark me as wrong. Sometimes I was completely incorrect, and, at other times, I was just experimenting with my creativity. Either way, I felt discouraged by my teachers. They would deduct points off my grade, marginalize me and other children by putting us in a "lower level" group, and reprimand me. Eventually, I became fearful of taking risks, which also reflects in my adulthood today, and I stifled my creativity.
I valued perfectionism at the expense of learning from failure. Unfortunately, I don't believe my experience is unique. My generation was taught that everyone makes mistakes, and we suffer the consequences for them, but we were told that's okay. In retrospect, how can a person feel permitted to make an error if they're expecting to suffer a consequence for it? According to oxforddictionaries.com, the definition of consequence is "a result or effect of an action or condition." For years, I associated this word with a punishment when, in actuality, it refers to the outcome of something. Because of the context that it was used in, I thought it implied something negative. As a result, I didn't want to make a mistake because I thought enduring a consequence meant that I would be penalized and that I did something bad.
We are inhibiting the development of our children's intellectual capacities by punishing their mistakes. We are striving for an unattainable image of greatness while killing innovation. Our culture needs to reassess how we handle mistakes and to see them as blessings in disguise that provide us with learning experiences rather than being ashamed of them. If our nation is to continue making progress in engineering, medicine, technology, and in other domains, then we must grant ourselves the freedom to make mistakes in order to create. The pursuit of perfection is squandering our opportunities for ingenuity.
Respect We tell our youth to respect authority figures, their elders, and even people who are considered "legends." What does this mean, though? Everyone starts from the bottom somewhere and has to put in the work in order to gain authority in a specified field. Growing old is part of the life cycle that we go through if we're lucky enough to experience it; it's not an accomplishment. Furthermore, what makes someone a "legend"? Is it someone who's constantly under the spotlight like Kim Kardashian? Is it a person who made remarkable humanitarian efforts like Mother Teresa? Is it somebody who has achieved incredible career heights such as Michael Jackson or Robert J. Oppenheimer? Regardless of whatever constitutes a "legend", they all live and die like other people; they're just portrayed in the media more.
Respect, as a U.S. American value, needs to be reformed. The status quo has been to treat someone with respect based on perceived superiority. Consequently, our children, who go on to become our future leaders, grow up thinking that once they achieve a certain status, treating their subordinates poorly is socially acceptable. While this approach may have worked in the days of "do as I say, not as I do" and for the hierarchical structure of the industrial era, it has outlived its purpose in the new age of global relations and social networking. We need to teach our young that respect is earned by how you treat people and not because of age, executive power, or occupation title.
Hard work U.S. Americans pride themselves on working hard, and, coming from the perspective of someone who was born and raised in the United Sates, they're exhausted. They kill their health by working long hours, leaving little to no time for leisure activity, and resort to eating fast food since they're too tired to cook for themselves. Furthermore, "the United States is the only developed country [in the world] that does not have a minimum number of paid vacation days and holidays for its workers" while countries such as Denmark, Norway, and Sweden have twenty-five (Croteau and Hoynes 238). The United States needs to come out of the dark ages when their ancestors had to work painstaking hard for survival; we don't live in that time anymore.
U.S Americans also adhere to the notion that a person's suffering or rise in status is a result of their work ethic. If someone is struggling, then they should "pull themselves up by their own bootstraps" or rely on themselves to better their life. However, they fail to acknowledge that circumstances that are beyond someone's control can either enhance or undermine their opportunities to obtain emotional and financial security. Sociological context, comprising of economic, political, and social factors must be taken into consideration. For instance, growing up poor in a household plagued by domestic violence might interfere with a child's ability to concentrate in school. Consequently, this situation may affect their overall academic performance, thus, limiting their chances to pursuit a higher education, resulting in constrained career options.
The value of hard work and its merits need to be reevaluated. What is it anyway, and why do we boast about it? What might be hard work to one person could be just work to another. What's more, working hard to further one's own interests is not admirable; it's been done throughout the course of human history. If someone's working diligently to achieve their aims at the expense of others' well-being, then they're not benefiting society. We need to examine personal motives before giving appraisal. On a sociocultural note, we must discard the belief that someone's income equates with how hard they work. Firefighters, hotel cleaners, and teachers work hard, but they don't get paid millions of dollars to dribble a ball or to sing into a microphone.
The idea of the hardworking self-made man or woman is no longer applicable in the twenty-first century. Unlike previous generations, millennials can't pretend that their achievements are a result of their personal efforts while neglecting those who contributed to their success. With broad trends such as economic deterioration, outsourcing of jobs overseas, and student debt, working hard is not enough; making professional connections is paramount. We need to start working smarter, not harder.
Works Cited
"Consequence." Oxford Dictionaries.com. Oxford Dictionaries, 2015. Web. 14 Nov. 2015.
"Made in America Christmas: Are You In?" ABC News. ABC New, n.d. Web. 22 Dec. 2015.
Camera, Lauren. "2014 Graduates Had Highest Student Loan Debt Ever." U.S. News & World Report. U.S. News & World Report, 27 Oct. 2015. Web. 26 Dec. 2015.
Chan, Wilfred. "Twitter defends Nicki Minaj after Taylor Swift feud." CNN. CNN, 22 Jul. 2015. Web. 15 Nov. 2015.
Croteau, David and William Haynes. Experience Sociology. n.p.: The McGraw-Hills Companies, 2013. Print.
Fox, Emily Jane. "Black Friday shopping hits a new record." CNNMoney. CNN, 28 Nov. 2012. Web. 24 Nov. 2015.
Gregoire, Carolyn. "The Psychology of Materialism, And Why It's Making You Unhappy." The Huffington Post. The Huffington Post, 15 Dec. 2013. Web. 23 Nov. 2015.
Grossman, Samantha. "The Taylor Swift-Nicki Minaj Twitter Drama, Explained With Emoji." Time. Time Inc., 24 Jul. 2015. Web. 15 Nov. 2015.
Hacker, Andrew, and Claudia Dreifus. Higher Education? How Colleges Are Wasting our Money and Failing our Kids–and What we Can Do About It. New York: Henry Hold and Company, 2010. Print.
Holland, Kelly. "The high economic and social cost of student loan debt."CNBC. CNBC, 15 Jun. 2015. Web. 29 Dec. 2015.
Lilienfeld, Scott O., et al. Psychology: From Inquiry to Understanding. 2nd ed. Vol. 2. Upper Saddle River: Pearson Education, Inc., 2014. Print.
Williams, Jeffrey J. "Debt Education: Bad for the Young, Bad for America." Dissent Magazine. Dissent Magazine, 2006. Web. 30 Dec. 2015.
White, Martha. "How Student Loans Can Ruin Your Life Decades After You Graduate." Time. Time Inc., 21 Dec. 2015. Web. 21 Dec. 2015.
Source: Croteau, David and William Haynes. Experience Sociology. n.p.: The McGraw-Hills Companies, 2013. Print.


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For Week 1 of my A STEM Summer plans, my kids and I went to Ballard to visit the Hiram M. Crittenden Locks. This was a great chance to see engineering in action. We got to see boaters go through the locks and salmon swim up the fish ladder.
Our trip to the Ballard Locks was also a chance for Bruce(7) to learn about technology. He took a bunch of pictures with our digital camera, and then a few days later I helped him create a 2 minute movie using Windows Live Movie Maker. You can tell which pictures Bruce took, because they have the railing going across them, or else are shot from the ground looking up at the signs!
If your family gets the chance to visit the locks, see if you can plan to go during summer when the salmon are making their way through the fish ladder. It's pretty cool!


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Amman, Jordan, 22 June 2011 Elsevier Middle East announces that the Arab Journal of Gastroenterology has been selected for inclusion in MEDLINE, the premier bibliographic database of the U.S. National Library of Medicine (NLM). Citations for articles indexed, the indexing terms and the abstract printed in the journal are now searchable using PubMed (www.pubmed.gov). Indexing using the US National Library of Medicine's (NLM) advanced MeSH terminology will begin in the current volume of the journal.
"We consider this a milestone which will ensure more international dissemination and visibility of the journal," commented Abdel Meguid Kassem, MD, Editor-in-Chief of Arab Journal of Gastroenterology. "The importance of availing the content of the Arab Journal of Gastroenterology to researchers and clinicians all over the world is beyond doubt."
"The growing importance of the Middle East region in the field of scholarly research should not be underestimated," said Haifa Mughrabi, Director of Elsevier Middle East. "Moreover, the outstanding dedication of the editorial board of Arab Journal of Gastroenterology is quite apparent with this significant achievement."
The Arab Journal of Gastroenterology is the official journal of the Pan Arab Association of Gastroenterology and reflects the current status of gastroenterological research and practice in the Arab region and beyond. In its effort to contribute to the advancement of research and clinical practice, the journal publishes original research articles, reviews and practice guidelines related to the diverse study of the digestive system and gastrointestinal disorders.
|Contact: Anne Marie Pordon


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Here is the promised second recipe for Baked French Toast. Great thing about this French Toast is that you can prepare it upto 4 hours in advance. Make it as soon as you get up, pop it in the refrigerator and work on other dishes or have your leisurely morning cup of joe. When everyone is up, put it in the oven and bake per instructions.
And if you didn't see my Mother's day brunch table setting, it is here.
Ingredients :
Irish Soda Bread 1 loaf minus three smaller slices on the side
Heavy Cream
Whole Milk
Butterscotch Flavor essence 1 Tbsp or Vanilla Extract if you don't have Butterscotch flavor
Dash of nutmeg (optional)
Demerrara Sugar ½ cup
Eggs 4
Strawberries about 2 cups, cut up in large lengthwise sections.
You can do a mixture of Strawberries and blueberries if you would like that as I did.
Cut the Irish Soda Bread in thick slices and set aside. In a bowl, whisk the eggs until foamy. Add the Cream, Milk, Nutmeg, Butterscotch Flavor and mix thoroughly. Pour about 1/3 of this mixture on the bottom of 8 inch square or 8 x 11 inch pan. Arrange the Bread slices on top in a single layer. Add smaller pieces of bread if there are empty spaces in the pan. Pour rest of the mixture carefully on top of the bread ensuring to cover all the bread is covered. Tightly wrap in a plastic wrap and refrigerate at 2 hours and up to 4 hours before baking.
When ready to bake, heat the oven to 325 degrees. Remove the plastic wrap from the pan and cover with aluminium foil. Bake for 20 minutes. After 20 minutes, sprinkle the Sugar on top of the bread, cover back with foil and bake for another 15 minutes. Then remove the foil and bake for another 5 minutes. Top with berries of your choice. Let cool a little before serving. Best served warm or at room temperature.


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Make two columns. On one side, make a list of things you love to do. On the other side, make a list of things you are good at. How can you (or do you) combine aspects of both sides to create a meaningful outlet or career for yourself?
I Love To:
– helps others
– make people smile
– do all things creative
I'm Good At:
– getting others to see things from a different perspective
– storytelling (comically, so I've been told)
– listening and relating to others
I use all these things that I love to do to inspire, to share, and to find ways to listen and then convert troubles into something manageable.0


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Your screen is to small to play this fun online game.
What's the best way to get over a breakup? A banana split! Sure, you might have broken up with the love of your life five minutes ago, but when you sit down and share this banana split with your BFF, the tears will fall away as you scarf down the ice cream and laugh away the heartache. Have Fun!
Do you like to eat banana splits, and do you also like to play a fun web game? If you are in the same mood as us today, you probably would like to play our free Banana Splits Ville game online right now. Am I correct? ;)
Use your mouse to play this fun online game.
According to WikiPedia there are many fun facts to learna about Banana Splits. A banana split is an ice cream-based dessert. In its classic form it is served in a long dish called a boat. A banana is cut in half lengthwise (hence the name) and laid in the dish. There are many variations, but the classic banana split is made with scoops of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream served in a row between the split banana. In no particular order, pineapple, strawberry and chocolate sauces are spooned over the strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream. It is garnished with crushed nuts, whipped cream, and maraschino cherry.
There's something about a traditional banana split that gets our heart racing.According to AOL.com for well over a century, banana splits have been an essential part of American culture. Devoured post-baseball games, at trips to the local mom-and-pop shop or at the pharmacy around the corner, there's simply no wrong time to partake in the split experience. According to sources such as vueweekly.com, banana splits came to life in 1904. Created by David Evans Strickler, a young 23-year-old apprentice at a pharmacy in Pennsylvania, these dishes served in boat-like containers spread like wildfire after becoming popular with local college students. We know one thing is for certain; you better eat your banana split in a lickety-split; they're so tempting, others will surely reach for a spoon and help themselves!
Note: In order to play some of our games, you need to activate Adobe Flash Player. Use our Flash Game Guide to figure out how.


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Briarcliffe College is accredited by The Commission on Higher Education of the Middle States Association of Colleges and Schools. The commission on Higher Education is an institutional accrediting agency recognized by the U.S. Secretary of Education and the Commission on Higher Education Accreditation.
Briarcliffe College is registered by the Maryland Higher Education Commission, 6 N Liberty Street, 10th Floor, Baltimore, MD 21201, (410) 767-3388.
The New York State Board of Regents also authorizes Briarcliffe to offer Diploma, Associate degree and Bachelor's degree programs.
Additional information is available at:
The Commission on Higher Education of the Middle States Association of Colleges and Schools
3624 Market Street
Philadelphia, PA 19104
New York State Education Department
Office of Higher and Professional Education
Education Building Annex
Albany, NY 12234
(518) 474-1551
Students are strongly encouraged to utilize the School's grievance procedure which can be found in the Catalog . The school's grievance procedure allows for the prompt resolution of grievances. For additional state and accreditor contact information, please click here.
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The program in dental hygiene at Briarcliffe College is accredited by the Commission on Dental Accreditation and has been granted the accreditation status of approval without reporting requirements. The Commission is a specialized accrediting body recognized by the United States Department of Education. The Commission on Dental Accreditation can be contacted at (312) 440-4653 or at 211 East Chicago Avenue, Chicago, IL 60611-2678. The Commission's web address is: http://www.ada.org/100.aspx.
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text: Are you willing to join Papa's Pizzeria unblocked and take a chance to become an excellent staff in this game? Once joining, you will have a lot of activities and tasks to do. As a new staff of the restaurant, you need to take the orders from customers, then you have to begin cook and prepare all food. Make sure that you deliver foods which are the same as what customers ordered to gain higher cash. Try to complete your job in the least amount of time possible. Let's start your challenge now!