The Story of Laika

Today we have a post from a special guest.  6th-grader Alan Kaufman of Orangeview Elementary felt slighted by his grade on a class assignment.  I told him that he needed a place to vent and that he could publish his essay here.  Please welcome, Alan Kaufman.

Hey everyone.  Thanks for reading this.  The whole class was given an assignment, which was already up on the board when we got back from recess.  It said: Compare and contrast the beginnings of the Soviet and American space programs.  What was far more interesting to me was the footnote in our history book about Laika, the Russian dog (I doubt she knew she was Russian) that had the distinct pleasure of being the first creature in space.  Sadly, though, she died a few days into orbit.

But she had a story.

What was her emotional state?  Did the Earth look smaller?  Did she find it tedious to lunge for her floating kibble?  I thought I'd write Ms. Pendleton (that's my teacher--she kind of looks like a dehydrated camel) a first-dog account of Laika's adventures, from liftoff to her last moments, when she'd press her little paw delicately against the porthole as she waved goodbye to milk bones and fire hydrants.  Beside it would a lot more fun for Ms. P to read.  And a lot more fun to write.

Alan Kaufman

6th grade, Rm. 5

Ms. Pendleton

The Space Race Essay: The Laika Report

Day 1, 9:33 A.M., seconds into orbit

I can’t feel my tail. It’s got to be there, but I can’t feel it. I’ll try wagging it. Nothing. In fact, I can’t move at all.

Oh god, I feel dizzy. Why is it dark outside, when only moments ago it was light?  What’s happening to me?

What’s happening is that I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Where’s my squeaky toy?  Somebody?  Anybody?

I WANT MY SQUEAKY TOY!

Day 1, 9:37 A.M.

Okay, I’m better now.  Kind of.  I can’t move because I’m strapped to the floor.  But I can move my head around.

I’m in some sort of small metal doghouse.  There’s a round window, not that I can see out of it, but it’s there.  And, yes, my tail is still there.  I can see it when I turn my head the right way and it happens to float up on its own.  That’s weird.

I need to scratch behind my ear really bad.  I can’t, however, use my paw.  I’ll try flapping my ears.  See if that helps.

My ears are floating, too!  I shake my head, but my ears don’t react like they should.  They just sort of slowly wave in opposite directions.

Wait a minute!  What’s that?  A tiny black dot is suspended in the air in front of me.  A dot with legs.  A flea!  There is a flea floating in front of me.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Day 1, 10:22 A.M.

I have to pee.

As a Writer: The Hunger Games

I suppose my passion for The Hunger Games really stems from my fascination with the propaganda of the Russian Revolution. It's the idea that people can be governed or calmed or emboldened by words rather than by force. Especially statements that are worded in such a way that the truth is barely recognizable, if at all, beneath the layers of rhetoric. So I was drawn early on to Orwell's 1984 and Animal Farm, where the smallest of creatures looked past the words, made the smallest of actions (with or without knowing it), and lead a revolution.

My interest notwithstanding, I'd be hard pressed to find a book with more crucibles. Everyone belongs to Panem: a utopia, as touted by the government, and a dystopia, as felt by the people. This is the ultimate kind of crucible in literature--instant conflict where escape seems impossible but actions, and reactions, are inevitable.  The game itself is another crucible. You cannot win without living. But all of this changes when Katniss spends enough time at the Capitol to figure out it's all a charade. And her behavior, and more importantly, her choices in the game start a revolution. Combine all of these elements with the fact that every action could lead to the possible murder of her family and her one true love, then you have conflict and suspense on every page.

Katniss as a character is smart enough to garner respect, but not so smart as to be cloying. She's tough enough to survive, but not so tough as to be cold and aloof. It's this blend of survivalist and tactician that makes her a fascinating character, especially since she's up against such incredible odds. She is constantly forced to make choices, and each choice comes with both the good and the bad.

Collins created a rich and detailed history. From the plastic Capitol to the deadly coal mines, every piece seems to be at odds with each other, like the game itself. On one hand, the post-apocalyptic world seems so far away, and yet, nearer than we'd like to believe.

I was happy to share this world with Katniss but also afraid since it's a horrifying future.  But for every horror, there's a triumph. And when a book contains this much horror, the triumphs are all the more powerful and lasting.

Gay High School: It won’t make a man out of you

Queer boys don’t experience real high school; at least, not the kind the straight boys do.  The general roughhousing in the locker room is reserved only for the guys who actually require a jockstrap for athletic purposes, not aesthetic ones.  The wild parties, the drinking games, and the shoulder slaps are sacred among those who treat guys like guys, which sadly leaves little Josh in the back row of the choir with nothing to do but nudge the erection under his robe.  For some, even the gay college life lacks total fulfillment of the masculine kind.  Crushing beer cans against one’s forehead isn’t one of the most logical rites of passage, but it is one, dammit!  

I would have given anything to ride around the back roads of my small hometown in the pickup truck of the seventeen and stubbly and straight Jason Tessero.  We’d toss empty, generic beer cans into the back and say things like, “Hell yeah!”  Instead of this type of manly pursuit, I lounged around the speech and debate room practicing my dramatic interpretation of some long forgotten piece of tragic nonsense that would ultimately leave me with nothing more than third place in the tri-county tournament for the hopelessly geeky.

I was bettering myself, or so I thought.  I was convinced that while they were tossing the ball back and forth and hanging each other’s underwear from the flagpole, I would make something of my life, something great.

And I did.  Really.  But I still felt slighted.

What’s a gay boy to do?  Where was I to find all things masculine?  When could I get my share of the “dude life”?  All I seemed to have were my girlfriends, my sisters, and a whole slew of Marys.  Where were my buddies, my amigos, my homies?  There didn’t seem to be an answer to this, just another question: Why did I care so badly?  But since enlightenment wouldn’t come untilmuch later in life, I unconsciously enrolled in gay high school.