Writing Coursework

Creative Nonfiction

Buchtel Memorial Tower

A memorial surrounded by academic buildings. A collection of structures designed to honor those who gave their life for our country. Intricate engravings and and military crests adorn the walls. Warm shadows dance across the cool stone, bringing the chapel to life. The memory of those dedicated to the protection of freedom and civil liberties. Over 300 individuals strong, each member contributing to a stronger and more diverse educational experience. Dedication and commitment is etched into the structure of the building. The War to End All Wars, a great loss of life to so many with the steadfast devotion to others. An ultimate sacrifice made, unspoken benevolence, unwavering courage in distant lands for unknown individuals. The memory of each is not lost, commemorated in the eternity of stone, each brick laid with intention. The mission-style church endures, regardless of popularity, funds, and the changing landscape.

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A student at the University of Denver, eager to begin their first term of college, stumbles across a slow burning flame. Plumes of smoke permeate the otherwise blue sky. Fresh air cut with the stench of smoldering wood and slow falling ash. First responders slowly arrive, faces flush from the frenzy of fanning the flames. Streams of water sizzle against the charred remnants of a once stoic building. The blaze slowly diminishes with the onslaught of attention to the crumbling structure.

The remnants of the Memorial Chapel, lay scattered and scorched across Carnegie Green, leaving only the bell tower casting a shadow over the destruction. The hollow rings of the steel bell ringing empty across the singed grass. The student continues walking, pulling the neck of their shirt to filter out the tarnished air. The bell tolls, once, twice, three times. Cheers echo from the north end of campus, reduced to intermittent hums overlaid the steady thrum of traffic from Evans Avenue and University Boulevard. The speaker booms announcing another win, followed by the whoops and whistles of a point fought and won. At the conclusion of an athletic faceoff the tower radiates a deep chime, resonating in the bones of those in close proximity.

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The clash of sweaty bodies exhausted from the physical and emotional exertion of America’s favorite pastime is juxtaposed by the sweet melody of the bell across campus. Otherwise, the tower remains solemn, silent, and unmoving, unless given reason. Pioneer Passage, the opening ceremonies to the waiver-less four-year contract of college, warrants firm strikes of the metal. Spring Commencement ceremonies rings in the end of an academic year and the last sounds of the Memorial Tower until the evenings get cooler and the days get shorter.

During the school year the tower stands, casual glances noticing but not processing. A new name on the tower bears little significance to the rush of people. New chancellor, new students, new buildings, but the space remains preserved. Stone doesn’t decay like wood, it stands waiting to be taken down.

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Once a symbol of the athletic competency of the University of Denver, the Buchtel Memorial Tower now sits empty. Invisible to the baby-faced first-years scurrying to and from their classes. Upperclassmen might recognize the tower, some might even be able to name the tower, point out the secret room inside. The base of the tower has been repurposed, attempting to draw in curious foot-traffic to the mysterious tower. A newly constructed study room sits at the base of a tower, windows surrounding the small square space. A rectangular oak table sits in the center of the room. Six wood-backed chairs surrounding the table, framing the grey walls and stream of sunlight. From the window, one can catch a glimpse of a freshly manicured lawn perfectly green. There are children playing outside, screeches barely audible through the stones encasing the tower, creating a sound barrier. The bell is silent, and so is the room below. A regal building, looming over campus, empty once again.

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Leap Poem

The sharp breath that cuts your lungs

splitting the vessel that keeps you alive

Airports at midnight

The pop of an ankle and

the crack of your back

Foreign grocery stores

A rush of pressure in your ear

then relief

The doctor’s office

A straight line without

the use of a ruler

Empty auditoriums

The teacher calling on someone else

when you don’t know the answer

Car dealerships

A nap that’s just the right length

unaware of your location, but still content

Hotel lobbies

A single peel

exposing the soft flesh of a clementine

The kitchen in my childhood home

Continuity of Parks Translation from Spanish

He had started reading the novel a few days before. Urgent business made him abandon it for a time; but he returned to its pages while on his way back to the farmland estate. He gradually let himself become interested in the plot, in the characters. That evening, after writing a letter to his representative and discussing a matter of sharecropping, he took up the book again in the tranquility of his study which gazed out upon the park of oak trees. As he lounged in his favorite chair with his back to the door that would have bothered him with the irritating potential for intrusions, he let his left hand stroke the green velvet once then again, and he began to read the final chapters.

His memory retained with no effort the names and appearances of the main characters, and so the novelistic illusion came upon him almost immediately. He took an almost perverse pleasure in letting himself tear through line after line of what surrounded him. All at once he felt his head relaxing comfortably in the velvet of the old recliner, cigarettes persisting within reach of his hands, and, beyond the large windows, the evening air dancing below the

oaks. Word for word, absorbed by the heroes’ sordid dilemma, he cast himself adrift towards the images which concerted and acquired color and movement, evidence of the last meeting in the mountain cabin. First the woman came in, mistrustful. Then her lover arrived, his face hurt from the whiplash of a branch. Admirably she clotted the blood with her kisses, but her caresses were rejected: he had not come to repeat the rituals of a secret passion protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths. The dagger grew warm against his chest, and below beat cowering liberty. A breathy dialog ran through the pages like a stream of serpents, which felt as if it had always been so. Even as these caresses swirled around the lover’s body as if trying to hold him and dissuade him, they drew at the same time the abominable shape of another body which had to be destroyed. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, mishaps, possible mistakes. From this hour forth, each moment would have its use, minutely detailed. The merciless re−inspection was hardly interrupted for a hand to caress a cheek. It began to get dark.

No longer looking, bound rigidly to the task which was awaiting them, they separated at the door of the cabin. She had to follow the trail that led north. From the opposite trail, he turned for a moment to watch her run with her hair flowing loosely. He then ran in turn, taking shelter beneath the trees and hedges until, in the mallow mist of twilight, he was able to make out the avenue that led to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark; and they didn’t. The majordomo would not be in at this hour; and he wasn’t. He climbed the three stairs of the porch and went in. In the blood swishing between his ears rang the words of the woman: first a blue room, then a gallery, then a carpeted staircase. Upstairs, two doors. No one would be in the first room, no one in the second. The door of the living room, and then the dagger in his hand, the light of those large windows, the old recliner with green velvet seat, the head of a man reading a novel.

Final Reflective Memo

When I first started this account, I was super ambitious. In some ways, my plans and goals for this account were unrealistic. I had made a specific plan detailing what I would be posting each week and what part of Denver I would be eating in. I am not sure if I assumed that I had enough content to cushion myself if I was unable to go to a specific place. I had the intention of traveling to different neighborhoods in Denver, posting a variety of different foods. I had set this goal to provide a diverse feel to my feed. I wanted to showcase all the different places and cuisines that Denver had to offer. I also had the belief that this would be feasible and easy to do while balancing a full course load, two jobs, and my extracurricular activities. Boy, was I wrong. Not only did I realize that it was nearly impossible given my schedule, but it also but a large financial worry over my head. After the first two weeks, I realized how difficult it was to maintain this plan. At that point, I began to shift my focus towards submissions from my peers, posting older content, and posting homemade meals. Something that I hadn’t expected was how this gave me more authenticity as an account. While my followers may not have realized, I noticed that it showed more of my personality and made the account realistic. Another goal I struggled with (there were many) was posting similar content that all meshed together aesthetically. “Ideally, goals should be measurable so you can evaluate how well you’re achieving them,” obviously, my goals were not realistic, therefore not achievable (Canavor, 2012, pg. 219). In retrospect, these goals were very easily met or not met. I should have been more realistic in my goals and have set standards that were tailored towards myself and my schedule, rather than what I thought I should be achieving.

One thing about my account that was successful was my targeted audience. My use of geotags and Denver-specific hashtags attracted many local residents as well as restaurants in the Denver area. I even got featured on some of their accounts! I also gained followers who had similar food blog style accounts. This was neat to see as I could gather inspiration from their accounts and where they were eating. I would say this helped with my overall perception and interactions with similar accounts and posting similar content.

As Canavor (2012) discusses in chapter 11, formulating interactions and creating genuine relationships is crucial to using social media in professional contexts. In these contexts, only one type of content will not be useful in setting my work apart from others. Multimodality will help create an engaging and entertaining, “use this mode to communicate representations of how something looks or how someone is feeling to instruct, to persuade, and to entertain” (Arola, Sheppard and Ball, 2014, pg. 6). Multimodality is definitely something I will take with me onto my professional and even non-professional set of skills. Creating content that followers want to engage with beyond a “like” is something that I also learned about. Asking questions, having interactive stories, and engaging with other accounts were great strategies to increase interactions on my posts. My mutual followers would then do the same on my accounts and we could form a “virtual” relationship of engaging with each other’s content.

Overall, this project was challenging. I enjoyed it because it was a different unconventional way to explore social media and digital writing in a way that wasn’t formal blogging. After this project, I definitely have much more respect for Instagram influencers and people who make a living off of social media. Not only was it difficult to post regularly, it was also hard to have the content that was high quality enough to post. Being an influencer or famous on social media is something I could never be, but I am glad to have taken the opportunity to try it first hand and see what it was like.