Introduction | Klynton Jessup

I like to work. I have had a job continuously since I was 12. It started with the family and their farm and them moved on to the food service industry. I worked as a dishwasher at a Mexican Restaurant in Beaver for 4 years before moving on to work full time at a truck stop doing the graveyard "thing".
Currently I work at Convergys as an Associate Trainer, I work upwards of 50 hours per week and I go to school full time. I have been in my position as a trainer since October of last year, making this coming month my 1 year anniversary. Late but still done.

introduction | Naiomi Hoggan

I am the only one in my family that is born outside the United States. Every silbing I have is all born in the U.S.A. I was not, I was born in Japan. The reason because I was born in Japan is because my dad was and still is in the navy. Also because of this, everyone in my family was born in a different place. My older brother was born in Flordia, My sister was born here in Utah, and my little brother was born in Hawaii.

Tyson Pulsipher | Introduction

Unfortunately I was a little late to class the first day when we were supposed to write down an interesting thing about ourselves. I asked the girl next to me what we were supposed to do, and she said, “Write your name, address, email, and something interesting about yourself.” “Great,” I thought, “a ‘Get-to-know-you’ game.”

Well, I searched my dull and uneventful life for a few moments, and the most interesting fact I could come up with was this: “I have never broken a bone in my body.” Lame. There are hundreds of people who have never broken a bone! And let’s be honest here, what is cool about not breaking a bone? You can’t just jump into a conversation where everyone is talking about broken arms from climbing accidents, and broken legs from motorcycle accidents and say, “Oh yeah, well this one time, I jumped off this gnarly ramp on my bike….and, uh…landed it!”

I was hoping that only the teacher would be aware of my ‘un’interesting fact, but now the whole class will know that I am pretty darn boring!

All the same though, I do count myself pretty lucky. I have had a few “crazy” things happen to me, and have been able to emerge with only scratches or a sprained ankle. I played sports all four years in high school, and you’d think I would have something to show for it…but I don’t. I sprained my ankle once in basketball, and in football I was just a wimp. The only time I wasn’t afraid to hit was when we were practicing on the tackling dummy. Perhaps if I was a little more aggressive I would have something to “show and tell.”

Not breaking a bone is not cool, but it is less painful. After sharing with someone that I had never broken anything, I have yet to hear the response, “Man, you’re missing out! Excruciating pain is the bomb!”

Grand Canyon Introduction | Benjamin Dowse

Having enjoyed climbing and boulder-hopping and those types of things my entire life, it may be safe to say that I didn't really respect heights. I didn't respect gravity either. I could, of course, feel its pull in my everyday movements, but I never figured it was strong enough to overpower me. Notice all of this is in the past tense. This was how I felt before my experience in the Grand Canyon.
Along with my friend Mike, his dad and a group of about 14 young boy scouts, I was headed off to the wilds of the Grand Canyon, to hike in and out again and live to tell the tale. That was the goal, and I had not doubt I would accomplish it. As I mentioned, I had no respect for, let alone fear of heights.
We came to our first major drop, about a 40 foot cliff, and I quickly descended, finding a suitable path, and then climbing back up again to guide the boy scouts along their way. I took a post about half-way down the cliff face, Mike was about 10 feet below me. As I showed one scout where to put his feet and get down to where Mike was waiting, I looked up and that saw Larry, an obese young man who was already sweating profusely, was coming down towards me. I immediately realized that I was going to have to find new footing for myself to make room for him.
Reaching over and grabbing onto a new handhold, I quickly, and without thinking, put my weight onto that handhold to adjust my feet. As I did so something happened that I had never really experienced before. Gravity took over. As the rock broke away in my hand, I fell backwards the 20 feet to the floor of the cliff below. In falling, I didn't have a "life flashing before my eyes" experience at all. I probably would have been disappointed if it weren't for the fact that taking the place of my life-flashing experience were my survival instincts. I could only think, Don't let your head hit! I gradually manipulated my body and struck the ground with my upper back, rolling as it hit so the impact spread throughout my back and into my hips.
I laid there for a minute, trying to make sense of what had happened. I wasn't unconcious. I wasn't dead. In fact, I felt pretty good. I got up and brushed myself off. Besides a few cuts and bruises, I was just fine! Mike, who had watched me fall straight past him and I'm sure had given me up for dead, dropped down next to me and looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost. I returned his stare.
"Thanks for catching me!" I said, then I grinned and headed back up the cliff.

Introduction | Marjorie Riches

I grew up in a small town in Alaska where everyone pretty much keeps to themselves. My nearest neighbor was about 10 miles away and the trees became my best friends. From this, you may think that I had a pretty boring childhood. If you think this, however, you are wrong. I had a very exciting childhood, full of all of the insane little things that my parents did and forced on me. One such thing is riding motorcycles. My Dad is a traditional Harley Rider. He's big, has wavy long hair, wears every Harley t-shirt that ever existed, and is, simply put, crazy. He even has a fumanchu for gosh sakes. My dad has been riding motorcycles since he was 15 and he will be riding motorcycles until the day that he dies and possibly even past that. He's kindly informed us all that when he dies he wants to be strapped to his motorcycle and driven into a river. You may find this a little disturbing, but you'd have to know my Dad to understand. My mom isn't quite as hard core. She didn't even know how to ride a bicycle until she was 30. This is when she met my Dad. He, of course, had to convince her to start riding motorcycles and riding a bike seemed to be the first step. She has learned very well, and now this tiny little woman rides a motorcycle that is bigger than my Dad's. You may be asking where I fit in to all of this. Well, when my parents started having kids, they had to figure out how to keep riding motorcycles. I was the youngest so by my time they had it all figured out. As a baby they would bundle me up in a tiny leather jacket, with tiny little boots and a tiny helmet (Owning a leather store helped them out in this). Then, my Dad would put my on the gas tank of his Harley and hold me there in front of him with one arm while he used his other arm to steer. You may be wondering how I survived my childhood. All I have to say in response to this is that someone was watching out for me. When I was old enough to sit up and hold on for myself, I was moved to the back of my mom's motorcycle where she, as any loving mother would, asked me to sing all of the time so that she could hear me and know that I was still there. I guess that it is good that she instilled in me a love for singing. When you have to sing for hours on end, you start to make up crazy songs, but that was her way of knowing that I was safe. Ever since that time, I have continued to be a biker. I still enjoy going on trips with my parents, although all of their old biker buddies have switched from calling me "little Margie" to "biker babe". I guess the main point I am trying to get across is that through their love of motorcycles, my parents instilled in me a sense of adventure. And of course, of creativity when you have to bring along your kids.

Introduction | Melissa Erickson

Disney can cause very powerful addictions. Their constant portrayal of abnormally-large, wide eyed, furry animal fluff balls led me to believe that every species can only be cuddly loving bundles of joy that spread happiness everywhere. I longed only to become life-long companions with every fluffy living thing, and have their adoring, warm admiration for my friendship. This, however, is extremely misleading. Due to being taught at a young age that all animals are pleasant, I ended up putting my faith and trust into a colossal falsification.

I was too young to know any better; and completely unaware that a brisk walk down a residential street would lead to grueling hours in the hospital. It all started when I walked across a rain grate in the sidewalk filled with fallen leaves. A brief rustle caught my attention, and I peered down in the opening. A small, round, terror-filled eye blinked up at me. With another rustle, the leaves shifted and revealed a petite grey body. It was a squirrel. Trapped, scared, alone, and in desperate need of tender loving assistance. Colorful images floated through my mind of my furry companion and I romping through flower infested fields. Poor guy; he would just refuse to leave my side since the day I saved his life. I lifted out one of the grates entrapping him, but he only maneuvered his way under a second grate that was cemented in. I was angry. “Stop it! Don’t you want to love me?!”

I’ve always had the problem of thinking while I perform an action; not before. So it was only natural that I wondered if I should grab a stick during the time I bent down and stuck my finger in front of his nose to bump him out gently. The pain was excruciating, and the little ungrateful demon scurried backwards and leapt out of the grate; running into the distance, never to be seen again. Eight stitches later, and the reputation of being called “Squirrel Girl” every time I revisit that particular emergency room, I learned a very valuable and harsh lesson. Now, I’m known to never take things to extremes, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that all animals are evil spirits whose only desires are to inflict pain and harm to the humans who only long to love them.

Introduction | Lara Bennett

I am not the world's most commitment-loving person. Throughout my life, I've had many hobbies, paying close attention for a few months at most, then losing interest and moving on. I have a hard time making decisions, dedicating myself to romantic relationships, staying focused on schoolwork, even choosing an outfit. I'm a Gemini, we're supposed to be like this. Jack of many trades, master of none. My interests have always been all over the place.
But there's one thing I am serious about, and it's music. Much like my tastes in pasttimes, my tastes in music was incredibly varied- from my third grade obsession with the Backstreet Boys, to a pop punk passion in junior high, followed by a private Beatlemania in high school, I was incredibly attentive, learning each lyric, memorizing every note to each song. But two years ago, my love for all other music came to a halt when I first heard the sweet crooning voice of alt-country songwriter Ryan Adams. Never before had a song brought me so close to tears, had taken me to another world. For a year, I dreamed of seeing him perform live, stroking the strings of his guitar. In September of 2006, my dream finally came true. After much begging, my mom agreed to let me travel to Anaheim, California with my two best friends, Shannon and Jon, to see him. We drove the 279 miles to the House of Blues inside Disneyland and so ensued one of the best weekends of my life. We talked to a fat man wearing elf shoes, made fun of the boys dancing behind us who had no idea who Ryan Adams even was, and most importantly, saw the prolific drunken god slur his speech and sing each of our favorite songs beautifully. After a quick swim in the ocean the next morning, I realized that I was addicted.
I waited all year and finally in July, found out that he would be making a stop at the University of Utah's Red Butte Ampitheatre. Shannon and I bought our tickets and left early in the morning, driving the full 452 miles with only two quick stops for gas. We wore our dresses and cowboy boots; words cannot describe how amazing this night was. We made so many friends, we danced with a pair of yoga teachers, was fed Crown Royal all night by a 42 year old man who offered to take us to his private island in Panama, and met boys our age named K.F.A., Mitch, and Zurmyles. My heart soared and my eyes tore up as I watched the illustrious instrumentalist serenade us as the red mountains above him turned purple in the sunset. At the end of the show, Shannon and I rushed to the edge of the stage where the musicians walked off. When he departed we called out to him but he swerved into the woods to avoid giggling girls like ourselves. The rest of his band members came off next and I recognized one, and called him by name and asked him to bring us to Ryan but he laughed and told us to "write him a letter or something." On the way home, I was quiet and sad. Seeing him was like taking a drug that lifts your spirits incredibly high, followed by crashing waves of sadness when you realize it's over. For weeks, it was all either of us could talk about.
I checked his website daily for additions to the tour dates. He was coming nowhere near the west coast, I considered flying out to New York City and staying with my friend who recently moved there just to see him on Halloween, but it was in the middle of the week and I knew missing that many classes would wreak havoc on my blossoming college career. However, I should not have feared. Soon his label announced a few dates in Texas. Seeing Ryan Adams in Texas! What could possibly top that? Many a lonely nights I had driven home, listening to his voice and imaging that I was driving down a country road. I emailed my aunt who lived outside of Dallas and twisted my tongue in an effort to make it sound like the point of the trip was to see her, not him. In a bit over a month, I will be travelling another 1,195 miles to reach the epitome of musical bliss. By the time I return, I will have travelled 3,852 for him. Third time's a charm, perhaps this time our paths will cross at last and he will leave his girlfriend and spend the rest of his life writing songs about me.

Uvula Introduction | Tawn Jewkes

“Mom, it smells bad in here. I’m not that sick.” I didn’t want to be there. I hate needles. I hate pills. I hate sick people, but most all, I hate the smell and the always way-too-happy doctors. All doctors are always the same. Always have a smile on their face. Even if you were dying, they would still be smiling. I hate going to the doctor’s office.

On this particular visit though, the doctor told me I was “special.”

“Tawn?” the nurse announced in the waiting room.

“Great,” I thought, “now everybody knows my name too…stupid nurse.”

“So what are you here for?” she asked me.

“Because I’m sick…duh!” I thought to myself, but my mom shot me a warning look so I put on my “big girl face” and said politely, “Because I’m sick.”

“Ok, the doctor will be right with you Tawn.”

I sat quietly and waited impatiently for the doctor to knock on the door. He never did though. He just walked in. I hate when they do that. He walked over the counter and grabbed all his doctor “tools.” As if the room didn’t already smell like rubbing alcohol, he cleaned every instrument over there. He finally picked up a popsicle stick—tongue depressor as he called it—and said, “Open wide and say awww!”

“Awww…”

The doctor chuckled before proceeding to say, “Has anyone ever told you that you are special?”

“Only my mom,” I replied.

“Well, you have something that most people don’t have. Your uvula—the “hangy down thing” in the back of your throat is unusual. See, most people just have an oval shape. You have an upside down heart. It splits into two. Here’s a mirror, see for yourself.”

I looked deep inside my mouth and sure enough, there it was, the upside down heart.

“COOL!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know that everybody’s doesn’t look like that! I thought it was just normal.”

“Just for being so special, you get an extra sticker and another sucker to eat when you get better,” the jolly doctor nearly shouted to me with a smile on his face of course.

Ever since that day I have to show everybody my “hangy down thing.” Instead of thinking of it as a deformity, I use it as a tool. It sometimes is a good awkward moment filler in a conversation because all I have to say to get a conversation going again is, “I bet my uvula is better than your uvula!” Although people sometimes look at me funny at first, everybody always ends up wishing they had a uvula as “special” as mine too.

So why do I hate doctor’s so bad if this doctor showed me something I never knew about myself before? Well, the next question he asked me with a big grin on his face was, “So are you ready for your strep throat shot now?”

Chris Tash | Introduction

Had I known my interesting fact would be publicly known, on the internet of all things, I might have settled on something that seemed a little less…criminal. Now, I’m not guilty of anything other then being in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing. I’m sure you’ve all had these fun experiences.

Anyway, one morning a few friends and I started trekking off into the foothills near our town. About an hour into it we noticed a helicopter fly overhead. I didn’t take it as much, maybe someone looking for a lost cow or geological work, but nothing more. We continued on, over a ridge and into a small valley with a pasture down at the bottom. Dead center is an old tree with twisted and gargled branches which was the only source of shade until you met the next rise of hills. Climbing down into the valley I noticed, again, the same helicopter off in the distance. We reach this tree and my friends felt like taking a break. They drop their packs and quickly settle in under the cool shade and chat about the branches. I was feeling pretty good though and pulled my pack up tighter while saying, “I’ll meet you at the base of the next hills.” This was my first mistake.

Water had made miniature canyons in the little pasture. They’re only about two feet deep but have ridged edges and I was having fun jumping over them; the gaps were a few feet apart and some areas were even larger. Guess you could call these actions mistake two. To clear some of the larger ones I had to get a bit of momentum going. And now for the sake of getting to three, let’s consider my running the final mistake. Jump. Run. Jump. Run.. Before I knew it I was nearing the other side. As I stopped to look back at my friends who were still relaxing under the tree I saw the same helicopter sailing in closer. Traveling fast it closed the distance quickly and turned some thirty feet over my head. About forty yards away the helicopter slowly landed on the uneven terrain and a few suited officers stepped out of it and made their way to me.

Panic first erupted though me when I noticed how close the helicopter was traveling. I felt it even more when flying machine touched ground for the first time. Then I could feel a drop of sweat run down my back as I listened to the engine slowly start to wind down. There was red writing splashed across the side that I could now clearly read; CHP, or California Highway Patrol. At the age of 14, too young to even acquire a permit; I was pulled over by a police helicopter. Scared? Nope, the word ‘scared’ doesn’t give the feeling any justice. My heart was beating so fast that I wondered if it was beating at all.

The rest isn’t all the interesting. Turned out there was suspicion that someone was growing illegal plants about a mile from where we were hiking. After seeing me ‘flee’ from the tree the officers felt I needed to be questioned. It was tremendously horrifying at the time but now I just like using it as a fun fact. Can't imagine the types of faces you get when you mention being pulled over by a CHP helicopter. I just smile.

Robin Cole | Introduction

I have never, ever had a brain freeze in my life. That's not to say that I've been a very cautious ice cream consumer, or a slow slurpee sucker. I eat my dessert as fast as the next girl. I can hold ice cubes to the roof of my mouth and nothing will happen. Any ice cream eating contest you can throw at me will be pleasant.

Of course, this seems like a very sub-par super power, but think of all the time I'm saving. While the rest of your frozen brains delicately finish dessert, I finished horking down my chocolate chip cookie dough twenty minutes ago. I can start studying earlier, practicing my music sooner, and turning out the lights while everyone else is still working. Eventually, I have the potential to add months, maybe years to my life. Years completely unoccupied by brain freeze pain. Just think of all the damage you're doing.

Disgusting Cereal Bowl - Chase Ferguson

An interesting thing about myself is that I was born with an indented chest. It has had advantages and dis-advantages throughout the years. Luckily I don't have a more severe case. In some cases a persons chest cavity is so far indented that it hit with each heartbeat. They have to carefully remove the ribs inside the indent and then replace them with metal rods. Though I didn't need this surgery I was embarrassed in swimming suit. My rib cage sticks out a little bit and my friends always had a good joke about it. I would usually find it comical myself and try to adapt to my skeletal deformities. I would use my indent for a cereal bowl! A little milk and cereal of course this could get messy as you could only get one bite out of it. The idea has been suggested that I try putting a gold fish in it. Although some might find it entertaining I don't think it would be able to swim as much as the water would splash out and I'd be left with a disgusting little fish flopping on my chest. There is a weird and twisted little fact about me!

Heavy sleeper|Joseph Petersen

I didn’t sleep much through my junior high years, at least not at night. I dosed in and out during classes, but at night I rarely got more than three or four hours of sleep. I would lie in bed hoping sleep would come, trying to turn off my constant river of thought and internal dialogue, but when sleep didn’t come I would read. This became a pattern for me into high school. Then, other activities cut in to my reading time as interests changed, girls, computer games, friends, late night TV, and girls predominately. I recall coming home at four one Thursday morning just in time to read a little and get an hour of sleep before school. My parents were recently devoiced, so former rules were relaxed or all together ignored. While I was in high school, I also learned a technique for shutting down my mind, so I could get to sleep whenever I choose. But, Habits being what they are, I rarely choose to until I joined the army. They I used the technique nearly every night.

I most appreciated this ability when I was unexpectedly sent to a base called Asadabad. It was in a beautiful green valley in the high desert mountains of the Hindu Kush range in north eastern Afghanistan, foothills leading into the Himalayas. The base held about three hundred soldiers, about thirty percent of whom were in the Afghan Army. I had been sent to support a mission with a little less than thirty minuets of notice. About an hour after my gear was thrown unceremoniously from a Blackhawk, with me only half an instant behind, (the pilots in a hurry to be somewhere else); the artillery began firing at the hills. Working in aviation I hadn’t been around Howitzers much, and never when they fired. Everything shakes when those big guns fire. My room/shop was about ninety yards from the nearest Howitzer, and when that gun fired everything shook. It even shakes you a little bit. I had come with a few brand new guys. They had only been in the army about three months and in country about three days. When they heard that big boom and felt the walls and floor shake they ran to find a bunker. Slowly and sheepishly they returned once they noticed they were the only ones heading for the bunkers. (It’s easy to tell if artillery is incoming or out going, if you here a big boom and then a little boom it’s outgoing, if you here a little boom a then a big boom it incoming). The artillery fired about every ten to fifteen minuets that day, and that night, and the next day, and so on with only occasional breaks in firing. After the first night my companions were tired, but I had slept well, undisturbed. By the end of the week nearly everyone managed to sleep despite the noise and world shaking.

Rachael Fawcett | Introduction

The most interesting thing about me is that I love to write. I write poetry, short stories, and the occasional script. Currently I am working writing a fantasy novel about a girl who rides dragons. So far the book is still in the rough draft, and has yet to tie itself together. In whole so far there are thirteen chapters.

Marissa, the daughter of Sandria and Eilatan Sorceice, who after her mother dies giving birth to twins, is taken in by the village wizard and his sister. Marissa soon learns of her own abilities as a mage, and that the mage and his sister are really her aunt and uncle. But just as she starts to understand her situation, she is forced to leave her home town by the invading Varderls. On her journey she meets up with her father who has been gone for a long period of time. He takes her with him on his dragon to meet the Elves. There she learns that she is to become a dragon rider and other important details about her own life that she never knew before.

Someday I wish to publish my book under the title Flight of the Dragon Rider, but that is still a long way off. I know that this seems like a pretty normal thing for a creative writing student to be doing, but for me it is almost a miracle. I was once told by a teacher that I couldn't write, anything, poetry, stories, or essays. Then another teacher told me that I could write, all I had to do was put the pen to the paper. Without that teacher I would not have been able to write again. Because of that teacher my writing has improved significantly.

That's not all there is that is interesting about me, but the other stories will have to wait. There is not enough time to tell my interesting life story. So this will just have to do. Someday there may be more, but for now goodbye.

Introduction | Keisha McGovern

Well lets start off by saying that there is nothing really interesting about me, at least I don't think so. But if I have to tell everyone one thing interesting about me it would be that I have a crooked toe. Yeah this toe is ugly and I have hated it since I was a little girl. Lets start off telling everyone that this was an accident that I never asked for. First off this accident took place when I was the age five, I was at my grandma's house with all of my cousins, my cousin troy and I were riding the old banana bikes and I never put shoes or socks on. The next thing I know my big toe was stuck inside the bike chain and I was screaming bloody murder. So my mother was called, from work to pick me up and rush me to the hospital. The lady across the street was the one who got my toe out of the chain. All I can remember is that there was a lot of blood and I was ready to pass out. So when we arrived at the hospital I was taken for surgery and then I was fine. Come to find out three years later my toe looked very odd. I asked my mom what could be wrong with it, she told me " its from the stitches being sewed to tight and it made my toe turn crooked", I still have not got the toe fixed, I look at it as my past adventure and pain. The toe is still way ugly and I make fun of it everyday; especially when I wear flip flops now that is way funny.

Interesting Thing | Jessica Flory

Ug did not look like a racehorse—or even an ex-racehorse. His eyes were closed and his chin rested on the bar to which he was tied. His coat was no longer a normal gray, but a matted mess of mud and manure, making it take on shades of brown and yellow. Every now and then, he would let out a long, deep sigh hoping to drop a hint to the people around him of how bored he was... as if they couldn't tell already.

I made my way towards this sorry excuse for a racehorse and swung onto his back. The stirrups were far too long for my reach and the rope had been tied to the halter, making this the only means to control the horse.

No matter, I thought, I'm just going to ride in the arena.

Soon after I had made this mental decision, I noticed my sister cantering up the road that runs parallel to the arena. Thinking that she wasn't going very far, I guided Ug outside and urged him up the road.

My sister and I met up with a neighbor and we continued on a ride around the block, talking and laughing and yelling things to friends as they passed.

As we passed our arena, we decided that we would ride halfway to our neighbor's house and then come back. It was there that we decided to try a small canter to end the ride with some excitement. I was confident that I could handle Ug with just a rope and halter and that I would be able to keep, at least, my toes in the stirrups. But as we started cantering, I realized how wrong I was. As Ug pulled right beside our neighbor's horse, I remembered the fact that our neighbor was also on his old racehorse. And they were picking up speed.

The smile on my face lasted only for a short moment. My neighbor's yells brought me back to the reality that we weren't going to be able to stop the horses. Our surroundings echoed with the pounding of shod hooves on the pavement, desperate attempts were made to stop the horses by attempting to run the horses into garbage cans.

As the road curved, our neighbor's horse finally slid on the pavement and into the grass. Ug soon followed suit and the beasts stood there, chests heaving. My neighbor and I weren't breathing so steadily ourselves.

Introduction | Kaytlen Bennett

I’ve always tried to do things differently than anyone else in my family. I’ve always been the weird youngest who was well, interesting. I guess you can say it all started with me wanting to be a boy when I was little. I hated the fact that I was a girl and that I couldn’t run around with my shirt off like boys could. I became a tomboy at a very young age. I barely showered, brushed my hair (which was VERY long) or my teeth and I wore the same clothes over and over. In elementary school, I would try and hang out with girls and do “girlie” stuff just so I wouldn’t be too weird but I always got bored and ended up playing soccer with the boys.

I am proud to say that by 6th grade I had grown out of it slightly (I showered and tried doing my hair). In 7th grade, I was the nerdy smart girl who still didn’t know anything about dressing myself or living up to the expectations of my peers (I thought doing my hair with the wooden chopsticks from Chinese food restaurants was cute… it wasn’t!)

Finally in 8th grade I realized that if was ever going to get the attention I wanted from my peers, especially a certain boy, I was going to need to do some readjustments. I did a huge hair style change at the end of the school year. I went from my natural hair color with a few highlights to bleach blonde hair on top with dark hair on bottom (for the record I did this before it was popular!!!) I started doing my makeup better, I used eyeliner AND mascara. About at this same time I started Rodeo Queening in my Jr. Posse (a youth rodeoing group).

This was also the year I decided that I, Kaytlen Bennett, was going to be the first girl on the football team. My health teacher had been the football coach for some years but had just been replaced due to the fact that our team had had a five year losing streak. He was still determined to help me do whatever it would take to get me on the team. Only a few people knew that I was planning to tryout. So that summer along with Rodeo Queening I attended a month long weight and strength training course put on by my teacher. During that time I won my first title as 1st Princess in my posse. Right after that was complete I showed up for my first day of football camp. I got asked countless times if I was going to be the water girl and got the “you’re crazy” look when I told them I was trying out.

The new coaching staff was awesome. They were totally supportive of me trying out but they never for one second went easy on me. Here’s the point where I’ve got to admit, I had only watched football. I had never in my life actually played football and the majority of the boys that were trying out had been playing since before they could walk. I was very intimidated but I still worked my butt off.

I never actually expected to make it. Honestly who in their right minds would put a clueless blonde “princess” who had never played football on the team? I guess my coaches were smoking something because I made the team. I was the first girl not only in my school but in the whole county to make a Jr. High football team. I also am proud to say that we won our first game that year (I wasn’t even there; I was on vacation in Mexico that week). Looking at me now, you’d never know that I, a college student with pink as the main color of her dorm room who spends at least an hour just on her hair in the morning, was not only a tomboy but a football player. Guess what else, I’m the only one in my family to ever do that!

Katrina Cox | Introduction

I remember how my hands were shaking as I opened up the letter. I remember the thoughts that went rushing through my mind--daydreams of how my time had come, and I finally had a chance to prove to everyone that I was someone.

At the young age of sixteen years old, I received a letter from a representatitive of the United States of America, introducing me to a program that has become known as "People to People: Student Ambassadors." Based on the ideas of President Dwight D. Eisenhower's belief of international peace, I had received an invitation to represent my country and the entire state of Nevada. Someone, somewhere, had nominated me to be a student ambassador and representative of the United States of America. I received the letter late in the year of 2004; and in June of 2005 I would board a plane along with forty-and-some other teenagers from across the nation to go to Fiji, New Zealand, and Australia to live their cultures and promote democracy.

The process of preparing for the journey was long and strenuous. Weekly meetings were held, and I had to do X Amount of research on Fijian, Kiwi, and Aussie culture--ethnicity, religion, current events, sports, likes, weather, dislikes, etc--and prove that I was worthy of being sent over. I had to fundraise my plane tickets, which were anything but cheap (total of around $6k). But the day when I checked in at McCarren International Airport and met together with my delegation leader...it was all worth it. Saying goodbye to my family was anything but easy, as that was my first time leaving the country and I was to be utterly seperated from them, but I remember the pride I held inside my heart. I remember thinking just how unique of an opportunity I had been given and how I meant to enjoy it to the fullest.

We flew first to the air terminal in Los Angeles, California and then boarded a Red-Eye flight to Sigatoka, Fiji. The flight was a VERY long fourteen-hour venture, and due to both my nerves and inability to get comfortable in the upright seats, sleep did not befall my eyelids. Fourteen hours really gives way for deep introspection. I thought about the fact that I would be crossing the International Dateline in X-Amount of hours. I thought about how I would be losing a day traveling and then gaining it again when returning to the USA.

We were greeted with a very warm welcome at the Fijian Airport at the early hour of 3am. There was a group of men wearing flowered necklaces, strumming guitars and singing their hello to us. We met up with a native who was to be a delegation leader in that country, and he immediately greeted us with the native word, "Bula!" He taught us a little about their customs, their languages, and their history. Fiji was once the Canibal Islands, and my fellow ambassadors and I were more than intrigued to hear it all. I fell in love with the island of Fiji, and I was minorly bereft to leave its paradasical glory.

New Zealand was cold and wet with the highest temperature being eight degrees Celcius. I stayed with a famiy, the Clarke family, and attended a public all-girls high school with the eldest daughter. I was excited to attend her English class and utterly shocked when the teacher marked my grade down when I expressed a negative opinion of lowering the drinking age.

Australia was a bit warmer, but the company wasn't as friendly as the previous two islands. Most Aussies weren't the nicest when they discovered Americans were in their midsts. But, I also met some of the friendliest natives. I was able to go inside the Sydney Opera House and learn about its architectural structures and accoustics. I was able to get on a yacht and sail out to Tituva Island -- the island where "Scooby Doo: Mystery Island" was filmed.

Returning to the United States was heart-wrenching. Many of the other teenagers I traveled with were equally heartbroken at the notion. We had been away from our families for three weeks, but yet it had seemed more like three days. We all had matured and grown up while abroad. We had all experienced the journey of a lifetime.

Introduction | Ashlie Meredith

I have an irrational fear of airports. If you have ever felt anxiety over taking a test, asking a girl out, or coming home to your parents after a fender bender in the parking lot, you know about one tenth of the agony I feel before embarking towards that hangar of hell. Mostly I'm afraid of missing my flight and being stuck in the airport for nine hours on Fourth of July weekend waiting to get on a standby seating list while 28 year-old ex-frat boys offer to buy me rum and cokes at the nearest sports bar. Of course I would oblige to their hospitality, get relatively drunk to relieve the stress, miss my name being called, and realize with absolute horror that I would not be getting out of Las Vegas in the immediate future. Not that this has ever happened before...

The worst part starts at the very beginning. Of course, I spend the whole night paranoid and sweating, packing and repacking each duffel bag. I make checklists for checklists and scratch them off over and over again until I have a completely black page--a mess of raw emotion, ink on paper, my finest works of art. Then, I surrender to the comfort of sleep just long enough to miss 2 of the 3 alarms I had set. My ride to the airport looks over in pity as I ask them to pull over so I can throw up the stress on that freeway that goes from Park City to Salt Lake. We are an hour behind schedule. Not that this has ever happened before...

I am afraid of security. Did I leave a lighter in my carry on? What will they say if I did? I scan my ticket over and over again for those little star hole punches they put on them for the random "extra screenings". What does that mean? Will they make me go in a special room, strip down, or worse yet... submit to a cavity search?! I hold my breath and step through the metal detector. There's a loud beeping--it is just my cell phone, put it through the x-ray, go back through, it's all O.K. I can finally exhale. Now its on to brave the newsstands, the pretzel kiosks, overpriced trinkets with the name of the city your flying out of, themed bars (gag), tiny awkward smoking rooms where everyone has to look at each other, anxious people glued to blue monitors, luggage everywhere, children everywhere, and the future worry of baggage carousels, it is a nightmarish three ring circus.

Then there's those awful chairs you wait in after going through security. Why do they have to be so close together? There's tons of room in those waiting rooms and is it really necessary to force me to feel the breath of a screaming baby, with breast milk dripping from its toothless mouth, on my face? But finally, I'm on the plane and I can settle in and hear the familiar speech about what to do should the pilot prove incompetent or the weather unfortunate. I know these by heart. I am not worried in the least about a plane crash. I smile sit back and read Catcher in the Rye like I have done on every flight since I was 14.

Vanessa Pelo | Introduction

Growing up, I never knew what the inside of a public school looked like. From the time I was supposed to start preschool, my mother decided she was not ready to give me up to strange teachers and so began researching something known as "homeschool."

At the time, very few people in Utah homeschooled their children. It was almost a new experiment and parents were not sure how their children would turn out if they were taught in the home. My mother had a difficult time the first few years as she experimented with the concept of homeschool. Neighbors criticized her for the fact that I was not reading by age five, and commented consistently on my lack of a "social life." However, I still do not believe I "missed out" on anything.

By age sixteen, I was actively involved in my college career and very successful in it. I am still frequently asked if I feel like I missed out because I did not attend public school. I can confidently answer "No." My parents made sure I was involved in extra-curricular activities, such as ballet, piano lessons, study groups and church events. I had plenty of time with my peers, but better yet, I was able to spend time with adults and my nine younger siblings. As a family, we are all very close. We consider each other our best friends and do everything together. I was also able to spend quality time with those older than me and learn from their experiences, as well as learn how to interact and communicate with adults.

Growing up as a "homeschooled" child, I was labeled as many different things. Stupid, shy, and awkward being a few. Overcoming these stereotypes strengthened me as a person and made me really discover who I am. When I began attending college, I felt I had an advantage--I already knew who I was and what I believed. I did not have to experiment and get into trouble to find out what my beliefs were. I already knew.

I do not by any means feel that I am better than other people or even that I know more than them. I am constantly learning from life, but I will always be grateful for the things homeschooling taught me. It taught me who I am, what I believe, how to be happy, to love learning and seek that knowledge.

Do I feel like I missed out? Not at all.

Samantha Gay | Introduction

I live in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of everywhere. My house is situated next to two baseball fields, one is owned by the city and the other is owned by the high school, and is at the end of a dead end. There is a wall and a whole field between us and our next-door neighbors, though we do have regular football practices right next door in late summer. I used to wake up in the morning to manly grunts and shouting coaches, then peek out my window and giggle at the heavily armored high school boys doing ballet-type exercises.

My house is a little brick house, with vines growing all over it. The house sits on about a half acre of land, which meant a huge yard and the perfect play land for us children growing up. Besides the many other trees surrounding the house, the land has an orchard and a little grove of trees that sits next to an old milking barn. It rests on the opposite end of the property from the house; the closest landmarks are the sand box and the swing set. (This swing set, it is important to mention, is not like the wimpy, small, plastic-y ones that are prominent in backyards now a days. This swing set was like the big metal ones that you can still sometimes find on old playgrounds. The swing sets with long, metal chains and a heavy plastic seat; where you could swing up really high and feel like you were touching the clouds with your toes. But back to the old milking barn…) The barn has always been old and has always been falling apart. We would play inside occasionally, but we mostly avoided it because of its dim spidery depths. It was a dark, dismal place really; with rusty old junk and full of filth. There was a random door in the attic that opened up into the outside, above the entrance to the front door. It would have been perfect for a balcony, but no balcony existed. It was probably used to pile hay in to feed the cows. Whatever the door’s original purpose was, it is with this door that my story truly begins.
My Dad got the idea one day to create a zip-line, starting from the barn to the swing set; just enough for a short, but fun ride. He attached a thick heavy cable just above the barn’s attic door, a good 20 feet above the ground and strung it down to the swing set. For handles, we used some old bike handle bars and a pulley. The door that had had no purpose before was now where we would push off and ride down the line till we hit the ground with our running feet, laughing. It worked really well, and I have many a found memory of the zip-line.

One day however, I was standing in the attic doorway, clutching the handle bars, I decided that I would push off extra hard and go down the fastest that I had ever gone. I gave an extra hard kick off the door frame and swung into space… and that is where things went seriously wrong. I didn’t even feel the pulley and the handle bars stop dead. The next thing I knew was staring up at the sky, flat on my back, immobilized with shock and pain. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. My lungs refused to expand, my chest felt tight, as if a block of heavy concrete was pressing down on me. I heard my brothers and sisters yelling and screaming, looking down at me with anxious faces. It was only a few seconds before I could move, but it seemed like forever. I was in agony. Finally, I waved my siblings away angrily, embarrassed and dizzy, struggling to sit up. I somehow managed to stand and then limp my way to the house, still fighting to breathe.
I finally reached the house and collapsed on the couch in the front room, managing at last to take painful gulps of air. I don’t really remember much after that, it’s all hazy. I began to fell weird, like I was on sleeping drugs. I got up and walked towards the bathroom. Then I just stood there, feeling dizzy. It was like when you stand up too fast, and black spots cloud your vision, but these black spots wouldn’t go away. They kept getting bigger and bigger. My mom was standing in front of me, trying to get me to talk, but I couldn’t respond. She caught me as I slumped forward and laid me on the ground, screaming for someone to call 911. But I could talk again, and my vision was clearing slowly and thankfully, the paramedics did not have to come. She took me to the hospital anyway, just to make sure that I was really ok, and it turned out I was.

I made myself go on that zip-line a few days after my fall. I was terrified, but I knew I had to do it again. I successfully zipped down it without falling… though I didn’t push off extra hard, and I must admit that I was quite happy when my feet touched the ground running.