Heb. #2 "Not Persuaded"

Nikki B.
Heb. #2

This heb. is supposed to be about which of these two articles (“Poising Children’s Culture: Comics and Their Critics, by Amy Nyberg and “Design for Delinquency,” by Fredric Wertham, M.D.) persuaded me more to believe their argument about the effects of comic books. The truth is, I can’t write that heb. I simply wasn’t persuaded.
I could sit here and blandly tell whoever is reading this that according to the points given in “On Summary” by Michael Bernard-Donals and Jennifer R. Grifith, “Design for Delinquency” was more persuasive, but it didn’t work on me. Dr. Wertham, in order to be more persuasive, should have shown a greater direct correlation between the cases he presented and comic books. To me, his argument is nothing more than to say every teenager who owns a bandana is likely to be in a gang.
My own opinions more closely follow that of “Poisoning Children’s Culture: Comics and Their Critics,” but the truth of it is, it wasn’t that persuasive as an article. It is hard to persuade anyone when, unless your reading it for a class, it is so lack-luster that no one would actually read through the whole thing to get persuaded in the first place. So instead, I am going to explain why these articles did not persuade me and how they managed to find the wrong girl on the day.
An interesting thing to note is that of anyone in our English 100 class, I am probably the closest thing to Dr. Wertham’s target audience. I have a little brother who just turned seven this month and I am very much like a mother to him. My parents and I don’t completely censor violence from him or swearing, we simply teach him the difference between right and wrong. We took him to see Alien vs. Predator in the theatres and on his seventh birthday we almost bought him a BB gun, but we questioned if his arm was long enough to pump it. Some people may call that irresponsible parenting, but I think that you need to know your children.
If the comic books are really having this effect on these children, I would like to ask where the parents are. My brother would have been carefully supervised with the BB gun and he understands the concept of the movies being pretend. He isn’t going to kill anyone or torture animals. He is a typical, well-behaved, sweet, loving child. (and completely adorable, not that that is relevant)
I too, have been raised around guns. I spent every Saturday keeping score at the local sporting clays range, my dad hunts, I’ve helped with surgeries and autopsies of animals before the age of ten, I listened to music with lyrics not suited for my age and I watched rated R movies. I don’t think that I am desensitized to true pain and suffering, nor do I think that any of these factors would have the effect that Dr. Wertham describes if the person is in a state of good mental health.
It is ridiculous to insinuate that censorship is a good idea. Comics, although not my passion, are a reputable and artistic form of literature. Not even a little M. D. after a name is going to convince me of that.

this year's school photo 

brett and me 

me and my brother 

By: Ralph Birch 

A Little Honesty

Nikki B
1-19-05
Hebdomadal 1


I love to write…most of the time. I like writing for me. I don’t like having to drone on about topics that I don’t find interesting. My favorite kinds of writing are these crazy rambling that I do every once in a while. They are stream of consciousness, every thought passing through my mind, utterly useless other than for myself kinds of writings. The only purpose they serve is honesty.
These little writings I do force me to be honest to myself and examine the situations I am in and extent to which I am being reasonable and logical. Sometimes I need this honesty. As much as I appreciate the freedom of honesty in my writing, I can think of many who have not.
One such unlucky soul was the first boy to break my heart. It was middle school and I couldn’t have been more fragile. My pre-teen concepts of love, life priorities, and place in the social ranks were all hit by the garbage truck when Mason, the love of my pre-teen existence, told me he didn’t want me to be his girlfriend anymore, and then scampered off to third period.
I hit the third stage of grieving from our breakup in 10 minutes flat. Denial and inward anger didn’t seem that satisfying. The third, outward anger lasted a whole lot longer. Seeing as Mason wasn’t in my third period class, this outward anger had only one was out and that was through the pen in my hand. Every reason he didn’t deserve me, every reason I hated him, every reason why he would regret what he had just done to me, spit all over the page in pink sparkly ink. It was then carefully folded into a perfect triangle and placed into my pocket where it would wait in anticipation of scarring Mason as he read each word.
I can’t say that my letter quite served its purpose, seeing as Mason moved on with his life and is not a shattered individual still graveling at my feet. Fortunately, I am now glad that my writing didn’t have the profound effect that I wanted it to have at that moment. I got over it and expanded from my pre-teen world.
Since then, with a little practice, my writing has become a little more concise and easier to follow, although I still attempt to maintain my raw honesty. My words loose their sugar coating when they are written and not spoken directly. Writing allows me to be blunt. In a fit of rage I tend to forget parts of what I want to say and with writing, my words tend to be more carefully chosen. I guess that you could say that my written words are more meaningful than my spoken words.
My writing is often not what others or I would like to hear, but it is always as truthful as I can make it. I love that about writing and I love that in other writings as well. Frills and sweetening of words doesn’t do anybody any good and only clouds the message from author to audience. A little harsh honesty is better than a life of illusions.