United Kingdoms Social Policy with Reference to Child Poverty under Term Paper

United Kingdoms Social Policy with Reference to Child Poverty under the New Labour Government - Term Paper Example One of the roles of the government is the formation of a legal framework and approach towards various activities that affect the living conditions of its citizens. The formation and application of these legal frameworks present various challenges while at the same time managing to improve the affected person’s standard of living. The concept under which a government seeks to improve the welfare of its citizens by the formation and implementation of various legislations and guidelines is referred to as a social policy. To illustrate the concept in detail, this essay will focus on the United Kingdoms’ social policy with reference to child poverty under the New Labour government. The gaps existing in policy development will also be given. The evaluation will be guided by information sourced from various written policy documents and statements from key politicians regarding child poverty (Davies 2008). Child poverty can be defined as a situation where a household lacks adequate resources to live above a generally agreed lifestyle. The British government approached child poverty from four aspects which are enshrined under the 2010 Child Poverty Act (Preston 2008). Under the Act, child poverty is defined from four perspectives, namely: relative low-income poverty, absolute low-income poverty, persistent low-income poverty and finally material deprivation. Under the relative low-income poverty, a child is deemed poor if their family’s income is below 60% of the median income. Absolute low-income poverty arises where a child’s family constantly holds an income of less than 60% of the median income for one fiscal year. The Act identifies persistent low-income poverty as one where a child’s household lives on an income of less than 60% of the median household income for a period exceeding 3 years.  

The Mbuti Culture Essay Example for Free

The Mbuti Culture Essay The Mbuti Culture The way a culture makes their living impacts many aspects of cultural behaviors and has been a very effective way to organize thoughts and studies about different cultures. For most of human history people have lived a foraging or in other terms, hunting and gathering type of lifestyle. It has been said that foraging is the oldest form of human society and it was dated all the way back to the Paleolithic period, which was at least a million years ago (Nowak Laird, 2010). The Mbuti are Bantu speaking foragers, who live in small, independent communities within the northeastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. There actual location is found in the southern part of the Ituri Forest (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). Mbuti people have a nomadic lifestyle within a certain territory and live in a subsistence economy, meaning they only produce what they need to survive (Nowak Laird, 2010). They make their living by hunting and gathering, and this has had a big impact on their kinship, political organization, and their beliefs and values. The Mbuti culture has also had to overcome many changes throughout the past seventy years. Among foragers such as the Mbuti, there’s an endless movement of goods through kinship ties and residential closeness that have a positive impact on people’s obligations to one another. The responsibility to share and the traveling lifestyle prevent the buildup of individual wealth. No one person owns or has control over the resources and there are no differences in wealth among individuals (Nowak Laird, 2010). However, individuals do have rights over the natural beehives or termite mounds which they have located and marked (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). The Mbuti culture has certain beliefs and customs regarding marriage. When people from the Mbuti culture marry, it involves the payment of bridewealth or either the exchange of sisters or other close female relatives. The bridewealth was usually paid with iron implements or bark clothing, but today it’s paid in cash. Nowadays, exchanged marriages are the most common in bridewealth and they account for nearly half of the marriages in some bands. A rightfully married couple most of the time lives  virilocally, which leads to the band structure of partilineally related men and their wives and children. Families are involved in clans with each specific clan having certain names and totemic animals that are avoided by members (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). â€Å"Actual band composition is, however, more composite, with uxorilocal residence, and band fission and fusion† (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006, p.3). Aside from kinship, the political organization is another feature that is greatly impacted by the primary mode of subsistence. It has been said that, the main difference between our society and the Mbuti’s society is that, ours is based on discrete or â€Å"separated individuals†, while theirs is a single corporate group (Ground, 1983). Within each band, there is a spokesperson called the kapita. Until recently, the kapita’s role was limited to liaison work with horticultural villagers and regional administrators. The kapita handled things such as tax collections, census taking, and administrative demands. If those demands were not in-fact handled, the kapita was called into the local administrative office. Oddly enough, the kapita authority was recognized by other band members, through recognition of his sufferings on behalf of the community. Conflicts within the band were handled usually by face-to-face interactions, especially when it had to deal with labor, food, material culture, and bridewealth (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). Decisions that needed to be made concerning the entire band such as camp movement or certain hunting grounds are made in the course of men’s gatherings in what they call the tele. The opinions that came from the elderly and more experienced individuals were respected th e most. Sometimes the aged women were allowed to join in on the discussions, but the younger women had to listen quietly from their families homes. Usually when conflicts arose, one of the disputants moved to another camp to calm down. If the conflicts resulted in injury, the matter was submitted to the local village’s court (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). Another aspect of the Mbuti culture, that the primary mode of subsistence impacts is their religious beliefs and values. For the Mbuti people, their physical environment is clearly all accommodating, their food is fresh in hand every day, and they don’t have marked seasons so in return, they live day to day rather than thinking about the past and future. Their attention is on the present moment as well as the present space. They do not worry about what  isn’t here and now and that goes the same for time and space as well. Like for instance, if the hunting and gathering isn’t good near the camp, they would just simply move the camp. This method helped to restore the habitual â€Å"goodness† for the â€Å"here† and the â€Å"nowà ¢â‚¬  (Turnbull, 1985). â€Å"Even the visual aspect of the Mbuti world has a profound effect on their thinking† (Turnbull, 1985, p.9). They see the forest clearings to be cavernous, their houses are sphere shaped, and their concept of space is also spherical. They believe that each hunting camp and house is its own sphere surrounding the greatest sphere of all, the forest. All in all, every Mbuti is in the center of his own sphere that moves with him through time and space; he is always equally adapted to everything that is around, at any given moment (Turnbull, 1985). The Mbuti people believe that forest animals are an important source of food; however, some of them could cause awful diseases and other hardship if they were eaten imprecisely. For example, they felt that pregnant women and babies were vulnerable to certain animals and these animals were called kuweri. It was stated, that about eighty percent of the sixty mammals were avoided for that particular reason for at least a part of the life -cycle (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). Mbuti were famous for their dancing and singing; this was performed for amusement as well as the essential part of the rites of passage. Some examples were circumcision, girls’ puberty, marriages, and funerals. There were also known for communicating with the dead ancestors, who supposedly caused the living to sing and dance. The different kinds of songs were associated with different types of activities such as net fishing, elephant hunting, and honey collecting (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). One ritual that the Mbuti often practiced was the Ritual Performance of the Molimo Made’ and Molimo Mangbo. This particular ritual involved the use of a trumpet that was made out of wood and was secretly hidden in a tree, deep into the forest. â€Å"The ritual itself involves both dance and song for the trumpet (referred to as â€Å"the animal of the of the forest†) as well as for all other participants† (Turnbull, 1985, p.12). Singing and dancing takes place every night that the ritual lasts and the appearance of the trumpet is unpredictable. The Molimo Made’ might only last one night, but it seldom ever went past three or four nights and the trumpet would usually make at least one appearance per night (Turnbull, 1985). â€Å"This ritual is intended  to â€Å"cure† noise-or akami- and the trumpet appears in the form of the elephant in direct response to such akami† (Turnbull, 1985, p.12). On the other hand, the Molimo Mangbo continues for about a month or so, and the trumpet only appears when there’s ekimi (Turnbull, 1985). â€Å"This is the molimo that cures death itself, by â€Å"making it good†, a process that demands the total ekimi it brings, with the trumpet appearing as the leopard† (Turnbull, 1985, p.12). In both cases, a young Mbuti member goes off into the woods to find the trumpets hiding spot after dark. There isn’t anything special about how t hey go retrieve it, but the youth are all boys and are close to the marrying age. When the boys do in-fact find the trumpet, there is a certain ceremony that one boy must perform because the trumpet isn’t sacred all by itself (Turnbull, 1985). â€Å"Like any Mbuti ritual paraphernalia, it is not sacred merely for what it achieves† (Turnbull, 1985, p.12). If the trumpet just so happens to be rotten or is becoming too short, it is left there to rot without ceremony. Each time that the trumpet is taken down from a tree, the young boys inspect it and test the sound (Turnbull, 1985). When the trumpet arrives at the camp, the ritual will differ according to whether or not it is of greater or lesser molimo. If it’s lesser, the trumpet will circle the camp numerous times sounding shrilly just as if a herd of elephants were surrounding the camp. Then the young boys will all put one hand on the trumpet and run head first into the camp. They go right through the central place and attack the house that’s on the opposite side. Sometimes they might would run directly into it and beat on it with their fists or tear off some of the leaves, or they might even uproot the sticks that were used to make the foundation. After that, they run back through the central place and attack the house that was closest to where they came out of the forest. This is repeated and every time they make sure to cross the central place and if anything should be in the way, it was destroyed (Turnbull, 1985). The Mbuti people, who were in the houses that were being attacked, tried to plead with the young boys to go away, but neither the people who were barricaded in their homes nor the young boys would make direct references as to why the akami had brought out the molimo made’. The Mbuti people knew everything was over when they heard the boys singing as they took the trumpet away after its final attack. The song that the boys sang was a rather aggressive, defiant and  potentially destructive sound, like the elephants would make. When the boys got back to the hidden place to put the trumpet back into the tree, they would make a shrill trumpeting sound into the instrument. If it was a molimo mangbo, the trumpet would again circle the camp, kind of like before, but growling and coughing sounds would be made, like a leopard (Turnbull, 1985). â€Å"It occasionally breaks into song as the singer echoes the sound of all those gathered around the central fire, the kumamolimo. Sometimes this is all the youths will do, refusing to enter the camp at all† (Turnbull, 1985, p.14). If this was to happen, then the kumamolimo knew that it was in-fact their fault, because they didn’t sing and dance well enough. This would be repeated every night until the singing and dancing around the central place was sufficient enough to entice the greatest dancer and singer of all (Turnbull, 1985). When the trumpet did decide to enter the camp, it was welcomed because it brought ekimi rather than akami. The trumpet may stay all night or it may only decide to stay for a few minutes, but that depends on how well everyone sings and dances. â€Å"There is always a sense of sadness when the trumpet finally leaves as suddenly as it came, for it brings to the camp a degree and quality of ekimi that, the Mbuti say, mere humans can never achieve by themselves† (Turnbull, 1985, p.15). At the end of the festival, when the curing is complete, the dancing becomes more intensive and makes it more communal rather than individual, with very specific uniqueness to the occasion. Within the final week of the festival, an old woman joins the group of men and she also brings a number of nubile girls. The girls take over the men’s position of singing and dancing until the tribute is paid. Then one night the woman will dance around slowly through the fire, scattering the burning logs to every side. â€Å"After that, the men jump to their feet and kick the logs back into the center, dancing around as if in a communal act of regeneration, clearly imitating the act of copulation as the fire springs back to life† (Turnbul l, 1985, p.15). It has been stated that this would happen several times and then the old woman triumphs. An old man would slowly stamp through the ember, putting out every last one until the fire that fed the molimo was indeed gone. The trumpet sounds for the last time and this time, it leads the singing. This camp remains very special until the camp decides to move. It’s special because it has been transformed by the molimo mangbo (Turnbull,  1985). Needless to say, the Mbuti Molimo Ritual is a major ritual in Mbuti life. The molimo is associated with the death after a successful kill has been made and could also take place at the time of a crisis such as a poor hunting season. Mbuti’s current situation is very different now then back in the day. The profitable meat trade began in the nineteen-fifties and intensified in the nineteen-seventies and has inspired market-oriented hunting for the Mbuti. The Mbuti had links to the outside economy only indirectly with their villager patrons before the development of the meat trade. The meat trade aloud traders from outside of the forest to visit Mbuti camps and do face-to-face transactions with the hunters and this avoided the traditional kpara relationship. â€Å"The kpara relationship has declined as it’s economic basis of meat and labor has lost its former importance† (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006, p.4). In the nineteen-eighties, the gold dust mines opened and this caused the immigration to progress. The Mbuti population has increased by as much as forty percent during this same time period. Deforestation and degradation of resources was caused by the sudden increase in population (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). The Mbuti have become more involved in the market economy and they have had to start paying government taxes. â€Å"Most Mbuti men in the Teturi area now pay half the tax paid by villagers, and hold their own national identity cards. In addition to tax collectors, there are soldiers and civil servants demanding meat and labor from Mbutis† (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006, p.5). The main reason that the sedentarization plan failed is because of the flight of Mbutis from officials and government agents back in the nineteen-seventies. To say the least, the Mbuti are gradually becoming incorporated with the Zaire/Congo state through the ways of taxation, elections, national identity cards, and participation in other national events (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). In conclusion, the Mbuti are Bantu speaking foragers, who live in small, independent communities within the northeastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo. There actual location is found in the southern part of the Ituri Forest (The Mbuti of northern congo, 2006). Mbuti people have a nomadic lifestyle within a certain territory and live in a subsistence economy, meaning they only produce what they need to survive (Nowak Laird, 2010). They make their living by hunting and gathering,  and this has had a big impact on their kinship, political organization, and their beliefs and values. The Mbuti culture has also had to overcome throughout the past seventy years as well. References Ground, P.L.B., Berger, P.L. (1983, April 10). Western complaints. New York Times, pp. A. 13. Retrieved from http://search.proquest.com/docview/424621445?accountid=32521 Nowak, B.S., Laird, P.F. (2010). Cultural Anthropology. Retrieved from http://content.ashford.edu/AUANT101.10.2 The Mbuti of northern Congo. (2006). In The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Hunters and Gatherers. Retrieved from http://credoreference.com/entry/cuphg/i_iv_7_the_mbuti_of_northern_congo Turnbull, C.M. (1985, Autumn). Processional Ritual among the Mbuti Pygmies. The Drama Review: TDR, 17(3), 6-17. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/1145649

Economic And Social Impacts Of Lakemba Street Festival Tourism Essay

Economic And Social Impacts Of Lakemba Street Festival Tourism Essay Within the sport and hospitality field, the term event is used to describe a wide range of event categories many of which have quite different characteristics. According to the article à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. Such events range from the Olympic Games at the mega-event end of the scale to small regional festivals. Jago and Shaw (1998, p.29). Other good definitions could be used including, (Getz 1991; Jago Shaw 1998; Arcodia Robb 2000). According to Jago and Shaw (1998, p.29), the definition of subcategories of events, including community festivals, and mega events is a onetime infrequently occurring event of limited duration that provides the consumer with a leisure and social opportunity beyond everyday experience. Community events and festivals according to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. Reflect and celebrate the community in which they are staged. This statement is continued by suggesting that street parades and festivals can create a sense of pride and a sense of place or identity. They provide for different levels of participation which helps bring people together. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. Events and festivals can boost the local economy, by attracting visitors and showing them that the area is a great place to live, work and invest. Managing a community event or festival is complex and could be very overwhelming. Nevertheless when profitable, an event can be extremely enjoyable, rewarding and pleasurable. Introduction With a crowd of 30,000 people the Lakemba street festival held on Saturday 7th August 2010, celebrates the local multicultural community coming together. The Lakemba City Council strongly believes that staging street parades, festivals and events are an important part within Lakemba, as they help unite the community and the local neighborhood in celebration and festivity. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦.. Street festivals offer the population with a sense of belonging to their local community and are also seen as an effective promotional tool for the many groups and organizations that operate within the municipality. Indicated on the websiteà ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. The festival included a variety of foods including food stalls offering a range of cuisines and treats from different countries including Malaysia, Fiji, India, Greece, Turkey, Lebanon, and the Cook Islands. This statement is continued by sugges ting that the event embraced the theme World on your Plate' suggesting the celebration of a multicultural community. Staging events and festivals also assist by supplying the opportunity for people to express and convey their cultural prosperity and diversity of the community, as well as some unique features including the areas environment factors and heritage. The vision of the Lakemba City Councils with the assistance of hosting events and festivals in the local area are established with the community goal to: Support and encourage community belonging, and to Support the contribution and participation in leisure, by distinguishing and understanding the benefits that participation in local festivals brings to the community and the individual welfare. Resources There is a great expectation that staging events provide a high visitor spending that will contribute extensively to the local economy. Stated in à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. The anticipation of tourists and increased expenditure in the destination area is a common feature of any special event (Murphy and Carmichael, 1991). However this approach can be impractical unless the area has a mixture of entertaining factors that assist in attracting people which benefit the economy growth and development. With Lakemba providing a clean environment, sufficient services and infrastructure, and a wide range of events and attractions including Justice Dance Crew, Politician à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦.. and many more singing and dancing acts, appeal to different people from different places to the area. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. Local groups recognize that the econom ic value of events needs to be recorded in order to make effective decisions (Yoshioka, Virden and Knopf, 1991). Costs Festivals and Special events can create extensive economic costs, which are usually not thought of or might be missed during the excitement of the event. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦.. These can include direct, indirect and opportunity costs (Crompton, 1995). This statement is continued by stating that the direct costs associated with staging a local event are similar in nature to mega events only in smaller size. These include, police responsibility, managing traffic, medical aid, security, garbage removal, and other costs. Indirect costs might be difficult to record but include, personal or property damage connected to drug or alcohol use at the event, social conflict, congestion, disruption to lifestyle of local people and vandalism. Benefits According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. The direct and indirect benefits of a local festival event are similar to a mega event only smaller in magnitude. Staging street parades and festivals are known to increase employment, income, production, investment, additional services, infrastructure, innovations and improvements to the area. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. Intangible benefits such as growth in community strength and co-operation can result from the host community which is involved in event planning and production. This statement is continued by identifying that the event also has the ability to enhance the values of the local people as well as providing economic stimulus (Getz, 1991). Activities such as having help from volunteers in planning, organizing, marketing and production can provide important relationships which help create and attract donations to the develop ment of the local community (Williams, Dossa and Tompkins, 1995). The Lakemba street festival helped create an abundance of community assistance and generosity through the support of volunteers and entertainment acts that performed. Staging local events and festivals must generally influence and affect the host community with a positive impression while providing economic motivation and productivity. Hall (1992) suggests that the impact of volunteer labor is a good example of added economic value which provides additional benefits to a local event. Identified in à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. Williams, Hainsworth and Dossa, (1995) also explains the significance of having volunteer work to the event by providing free labor in areas such as hosting visitors, maintaining services, event management, and ensuring safety and security. Due to the fact that volunteer work is mostly offered from leisure time, it is understood that in turn this would provides minimal opportunity costs making the community benefits as a whole. Economic Impacts According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦ Richie (1984) he notes that using two major sources to constantly and frequently provides an extensive demonstrable data base for economic effect estimates. These major data sources include direct and indirect procedures. Gaining information from people at the event directly can enable researchers to gain information about economic impacts. Indirect data can be gained from organizations that either participated or were affected by the event (Uysal and Gitelson, 1994). In order to acquire suitable, consistent and reliable data, using both direct and indirect measures is necessary. According to Burns and Mules (1986), the geographical frame of reference of an event is an important factor to consider when assessing costs and benefits. They suggest that people attending the event that spend money is indicated as an important aspect of funds from outside the area. With events that are staged in smaller events, there is more ability for money attached to imported goods and services at events. In the case of the Lakemba street parade the indirect measures of spending is difficult to estimate. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦.. Funds paid to businesses outside the region are expected to be substantial due to the nature of purchased goods. Most small regions including Lakemba do rely greatly on goods and services imported from larger cities and shopping centers. Social Impacts Other important factors that impact on street or festival events include social impacts. Some examples include the strengthening of already established services and convenience stores, attracting new and different people to the area (Getz 1991). According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦. (Onyx Bullen 2000) issues such as safety, trust and a sense of personal efficacy have importance in the study of social impacts place on festivals and community events. Delameres (1997) states that to the success of the event, some social factors that affect events and festivals include the friendliness, safety, acceptance and creativity of the community. According to à ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦Ãƒ ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦ social impacts are defind as factors that have an impact on the quality of life for local community. This indicates that economic effects of the event including employment opportunities and environmental impacts including litter are likely to influence the general view of the local people. In conjuction with this statement Ritchie (1984), and later Hall (1989, 1992) identified six elements that have the ability to impact on an event. These include economic, tourism/commercial, physical, socio-cultural, psychological, and political factors. Some examples are shown in the table below. CONCLUSION Many local, community events are unique in their design, format and operation system relying on the local community. The potential for people attending to spend money can be inadequate and restricted. The Lakemba street festival was the 11th held this year. The festival was located at the main street of Lakemba where people where able to participate in and enjoy fun activities, dance and food. The event is run by Canterbury Council, which it celebrates respect, unity and peace.

The Chrysanthemums :: essays research papers

In Steinbeck's "The Chrysanthemums" Elisa, poster woman for the feminist movement is a victim of her environment by disconnected. Working attempts to change and coming to realization that she will remain oppressed. Elisa opens her door of acceptance to Tinkerman. She yearns for someone to understand her quest for adventure. Buried in the third world of individualism, behind her fenced flowers, she longs for escape. Despite her efforts, she looks forward to the recognition of her circumstance and imprisonment. Elisa Allen is a lonely woman who enjoys growing and nourishing her chrysanthemums. Since her husband is always working by the fence, he never gives Elisa due attention and affection. Knowing that she can never intervene her husband ¡Ã‚ ¦s work  ¡Ã‚ §Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. ¡Ã‚ ¨ Her husband says:  ¡Ã‚ §I wish you ¡Ã‚ ¦d work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big. ¡Ã‚ ¨ Letting alone his lack of interest for her chrysanthemums, he does not even care about her. Elisa is vex and anger by her husband ¡Ã‚ ¦s lack of care, and she decides to take care of her chrysanthemums-symbol of how beautiful she really is. Despite her effort, she realizes that she is gradually detached from the world outside the garden. Her gardening area is a  ¡Ã‚ §cage ¡Ã‚ ¨ that protects her from potential harms. Everything changes, however, when the tinkerman arrive. Seeing that the tinker shows interest in the Chrysanthemums, Elisa, altho ugh hesitant at first,  ¡Ã‚ §melted ¡Ã‚ ¨ the irritation from her face and begins to reach out towards the outside world. Knowing that the flowers and Elisa have interchangeable meanings, the tinkerman shows interest in her chrysanthemums, which reflects to Elisa directly, in order to persuade her to find something for him to fix. He says  ¡Ã‚ §oh beautiful, ¡Ã‚ ¨ with this, she now feels appreciate and attractive to this stranger. His compliment to her about her flowers leads her to feel obligate to allow him to enter her world. The tinkerman asks Elisa to help another lady, Elisa feels strong and  ¡Ã‚ §tight with eagerness. ¡Ã‚ ¨ After giving the instructions, Elisa feels proud and good. After hearing the tinkerman ¡Ã‚ ¦s description of his profession, Elisa wishes to explore more with him,  ¡Ã‚ §it must be very nice. I wish women could do such things." The disappointment for Elisa follows her wishes, the tinkerman says  ¡Ã‚ §it ain ¡Ã‚ ¦t the right kind of a life for a woman. ¡Ã‚ ¨ The time has come, Elisa must let the tinkerman go on to his own adventure, but in their exchange , Elisa gain confidence and realize how beautiful she can be.

Analytical Reading “The Luncheon” by Somerset Maugham Essay

The text under analysis belongs to the pen of William Somerset Maugham, the one of the best known English writers of the 20th century. He was not only a novelist, but also one of the most successful dramatist and short-story writers. He was born in Paris in 1874. His parents died when he was very young. The boy was taken away from the French school, and went for his lessons daily to the apartment of the English clergyman at the church, then he was sent to England to attend school. In 1890 he went abroad and studied at the University of Heidelberg from which he returned to England in 1892 and became a medical student at St. Thomas’s hospital in London. After that Somerset decided to devote his life to literature. â€Å"I didn’t want to be a doctor. I didn’t want to be anything but a writer†. The technique of the short story had always interested Maugham. Somerset Maugham has written 24 plays, 19 novels and a large number of short stories. At the beginning of the text the narrator, who is the author’s mouthpiece here recognizes a woman with whom he had a lunch several years ago. Then he starts remembering that unforgettable evening: He was a young man, living in Paris and could barely keep body and soul together. She had read his book and wrote a letter to him, expressing her wish to have with him a little luncheon at Foyot’s – a very expensive restaurant. He couldn’t say no to a woman and invited her for lunch. He had only eighty francs to last him the rest of the month. To his horror she ordered one expensive dish after another. He paid the bill and was left with no money at all. However, at the end of the story, the narrator feels that he has finally had his revenge when he sees that the lady has put on a lot of weight. Compositionally the story falls into 3 parts. The story begins with the exposition, which extends over the first several paragraphs. At the beginning of the text the narra tor sees a woman at the theatre in many years since they first met and can hardly recognize her. Then the author presents a flashback to the past which goes to the last paragraph with a help of the sentence â€Å"Did I remember?† which allows us to know what had happened many years ago. Here we learn about the place of action and its time. The reader gets information  about the events, preceding the meeting of the main characters and also understands that the narrator was a very poor man. Then come complications, opened with the sentence: † She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive.† The action takes place in the restaurant. Here the reader learns more about the characters. The author describes how this lady enjoys the meal, ordering the most expensive dishes and he is wondering about the bill. The bill was finally paid and the narrator found himself with not a penny left in his pocket for the whole month. After it the author comes back to the present time and here comes the climax. Now, after 20 years had passed by, the narrator has had his revenge at last because â€Å"Today she weighs twenty-one stone†. This story is a first-person narrative. The dialogues are predominant in the complications – the biggest part of the text. The general atmosphere of the text is emotional and ironical (even the title â€Å"The Luncheon† is ironical, because the word â€Å"luncheon† means a â€Å"light snack†, but in fact it turned to be an abundant and very expensive meal), but also strained (â€Å"I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthfuls, and in my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans.†; † Panic seized me. It was not a question now of how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill.†). The tone of this story is ironical. The author uses direct (â€Å"But I was flattered, and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman†; â€Å"I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat†¦Ã¢â‚¬ ) and indirect methods of characterization. The characters are presented through their actions, descriptions of the outward appearance and things that surround the characters. The waiter might be called a minor character. To my mind the woman is smart, gluttonous, selfish, cold, indiscreet. She is a villain who serves a foil to the protagonist. By constantly repeating her ironic expression † I never eat more than one thing † she emphasized the conflict between what she says and what she does. The author – the protagonist, is a poor, kind, honest and sincere man. The author’s style is vivid, clear and emotional. The author uses stylistic devices sparingly. In my opinion there is an external conflict in this story. The theme of this story is appearance against reality. Everything in the  story is not really what it seems to be. The narrator expected to have a little luncheon with a beautiful lady. But it turned to be an expensive meal with an unattractive woman. This woman repeats â€Å"I never eat anything for luncheon†, but eats everything she can. I think that the author’s message â€Å"the appearance is not yet the reality† is very important and relevant today.

Twilight 1. FIRST SIGHT

Meyer, Stephanie, 1973- Twilight : a novel / by Stephanie Meyer. – 1st ed. Summary: Grade 9 Up – Headstrong, sun-loving, 17-year-old Bella declines her mom's invitation to move to Florida, and instead reluctantly opts to move to her dad's cabin in the dreary, rainy town of Forks, WA. She becomes intrigued with Edward Cullen, a distant, stylish, and disarmingly handsome senior, who is also a vampire. When he reveals that his specific clan hunts wildlife instead of humans, Bella deduces that she is safe from his blood-sucking instincts and therefore free to fall hopelessly in love with him. The feeling is mutual, and the resulting volatile romance smolders as they attempt to hide Edward's identity from her family and the rest of the school. Meyer adds an eerie new twist to the mismatched, star-crossed lovers theme: predator falls for prey, human falls for vampire. This tension strips away any pretense readers may have about the everyday teen romance novel, and kissing, touching, and talking take on an entirely new meaning when one small mistake could b e life-threatening. Bella and Edward's struggle to make their relationship work becomes a struggle for survival, especially when vampires from an outside clan infiltrate the Cullen territory and head straight for her. As a result, the novel's danger-factor skyrockets as the excitement of secret love and hushed affection morphs into a terrifying race to stay alive. Realistic, subtle, succinct, and easy to follow, Twilight will have readers dying to sink their teeth into it. For my big sister, Emily, without whose enthusiasm this story might still be unfinished. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die. Genesis 2:17 PREFACE I'd never given much thought to how I would die – though I'd had reason enough in the last few months – but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this. I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me. Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something. I knew that if I'd never gone to Forks, I wouldn't be facing death now. But, terrified as I was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision. When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end. The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me. 1. FIRST SIGHT My mother drove me to the airport with thewindows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees inPhoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I waswearing my favorite shirt – sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearingit as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka. In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small townnamed Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United Statesof America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade thatmy mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until Iwas fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for twoweeks instead. It was to Forks that I now exiled myself- an action that I took withgreat horror. I detested Forks. I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved thevigorous, sprawling city. â€Å"Bella,† my mom said to me – the last of athousand times – before I goton the plane. â€Å"You don't have to do this.† My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt aspasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fend for herself? Of course shehad Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still†¦ â€Å"I want to go,† I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now. â€Å"Tell Charlie I said hi.† â€Å"I will.† â€Å"I'll see you soon,† she insisted. â€Å"You can come home whenever you want -I'll come right back as soon as you need me.† But I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise. â€Å"Don't worry about me,† I urged. â€Å"It'll be great. I love you, Mom.† She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and shewas gone. It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother me; the hour in the car with Charlie, though, I wasa little worried about. Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemedgenuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him for the first timewith any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registered for highschool and was going to help me get a car. But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was what anyonewould call verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. I knew he was more than a little confused by my decision – like my motherbefore me, I hadn't made a secret of my distaste for Forks. When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it as an omen- just unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun. Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too.Charlie is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primarymotivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds, wasthat I refused to be driven around town in a car with red and blue lightson top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop. Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off theplane. â€Å"It's good to see you, Bells,† he said, smiling as he automaticallycaught and steadied me. â€Å"You haven't changed much. How's Ren? ¦e?† â€Å"Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad.† I wasn't allowed to callhim Charlie to his face. I had only a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable forWashington. My mom and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it was still scanty. It all fit easily into the trunk ofthe cruiser. â€Å"I found a good car for you, really cheap,† he announced when we werestrapped in. â€Å"What kind of car?† I was suspicious of the way he said â€Å"good car foryou† as opposed to just â€Å"good car.† â€Å"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy.† â€Å"Where did you find it?† â€Å"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?† La Push is the tiny Indianreservation on the coast. â€Å"No.† â€Å"He used to go fishing with us during the summer,† Charlie prompted. That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blockingpainful, unnecessary things from my memory. â€Å"He's in a wheelchair now,† Charlie continued when I didn't respond, â€Å"sohe can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck cheap.† â€Å"What year is it?† I could see from his change of expression that thiswas the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask. â€Å"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine – it's only a few yearsold, really.† I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe I would give up that easily. â€Å"When did he buy it?† â€Å"He bought it in 1984, I think.† â€Å"Did he buy it new?† â€Å"Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties – or late fifties atthe earliest,† he admitted sheepishly. â€Å"Ch – Dad, I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix it if anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford a mechanic†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"Really, Bella, the thing runs great. They don't build them like thatanymore.† The thing, I thought to myself†¦ it had possibilities – as a nickname, atthe very least. â€Å"How cheap is cheap?† After all, that was the part I couldn't compromise on. â€Å"Well, honey, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift.† Charlie peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression. Wow. Free. â€Å"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car.† â€Å"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here.† He was looking ahead at theroad when he said this. Charlie wasn't comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. I inherited that from him. So I was looking straightahead as I responded. â€Å"That's really nice, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it.† No need to addthat my being happy in Forks is an impossibility. He didn't need to suffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth – or engine. â€Å"Well, now, you're welcome,† he mumbled,embarrassed by my thanks. We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for Conversation. We stared out the windows in silence. It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green:the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves. It was too green – an alien planet. Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the small,two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days oftheir marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had – the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new – well, new to me – truck. It was a faded red color,with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my intense surprise, I loved it. I didn't know if it would run, but I could see myself in it.Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged -the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed. â€Å"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!† Now my horrific day tomorrow would be justthat much less dreadful. I wouldn't be faced with the choice of either walking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the Chief's cruiser. â€Å"I'm glad you like it,† Charlie said gruffly,embarrassed again. It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the westbedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had been belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the yellowed lace curtains around the window -these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Charlie had ever made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. Thedesk now held a secondhand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was a stipulation from my mother, so that we could stay in touch easily. The rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner. There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have to share with Charlie. I was trying not to dwell too much on that fact. One of the best things about Charlie is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settled, a feat that would have been altogether impossible for my mother. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the window at the sheeting rain and let just a few tears escape. I wasn't in the mood to go on a real crying jag. I would save that for bedtime, when I would have to think about the coming morning. Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty-seven – now fifty-eight – students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together – their grandparents had been toddlers together. I would be the new girl from the big city, a curiosity, a freak. Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this tomy advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan,sporty, blond – a volleyball player, or a cheerleader, perhaps – all thethings that go with living in the valley of the sun. Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft somehow, obviously not an athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye coordination to play sports without humiliating myself – and harming both myself and anyone else who stood too close. When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom necessities and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up after the day of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed through my tangled, damp hair. Maybe it was the light, but already I looked sallower, unhealthy. My skin could be pretty – it was very clear, almost translucent-looking- but it all depended on color. I had no color here. Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And if I couldn't find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here? I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning. I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle. Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobiacreeping up on me. You could never see the skyhere; it was like a cage. Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me. Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothingwas changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those were embarrassing to look at – I would have to see what I could do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least whi le I wasliving here. It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie hadnever gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable. I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I donned my jacket – which had the feel of a biohazard suit -and headed out into the rain. It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under my hood. Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly,to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that I hadn't expected. Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences,the metal detectors? I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading front office. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door. Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a large, red-haired woman wearing glasses. She was wear ing a purple t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed. The red-haired woman looked up. â€Å"Can I help you?† â€Å"I'm Isabella Swan,† I informed her, and saw the immediate awarenesslight her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter of the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come home at last. â€Å"Of course,† she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. â€Å"I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school.† She brought several sheets to the counter to show roe. She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could. When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me. I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck. I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief. Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A largeblack â€Å"3† was painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door. The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here. I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name – not an encouraging response – and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting†¦ and boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on. When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin problems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me. â€Å"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?† He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type. â€Å"Bella,† I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me. â€Å"Where's your next class?† he asked. I had to check in my bag. â€Å"Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six.† There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes. â€Å"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Definitely over-helpful. â€Å"I'm Eric,† he added. I smiled tentatively. â€Å"Thanks.† We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid. â€Å"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?† he asked. â€Å"Very.† â€Å"It doesn't rain much there, does it?† â€Å"Three or four times a year.† â€Å"Wow, what must that be like?† he wondered. â€Å"Sunny,† I told him. â€Å"You don't look very tan.† â€Å"My mother is part albino.† He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds and a sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm. We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked. â€Å"Well, good luck,† he said as I touched the handle. â€Å"Maybe we'll have some other classes together.† He sounded hopeful. I smiled at him vaguely and went inside. The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, and tripped over my own boots on the way to my seat. After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed the map. One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my five feet four inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of the difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. I didn't try to keep up. We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them. They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy fromEnglish, Eric, waved at me from across the room. It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them. They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught, and held, my attention. They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big – muscled like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller, leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. The last was lanky, lessbulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers here rather than students. The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl was pixielike, thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black,cropped short and pointing in every direction. And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes – purplish, bruiselike shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their features, were straight, perfect, angular. But all this is not why I couldn't look away. I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful – maybe the perfect blond girl, or thebronze-haired boy. They were all looking away – away from each other, away from the otherstudents, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I watched, the small girl rose with her tray -unopened soda, unbittenapple – and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging. â€Å"Who are they?† I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten. As she looked up to see who I meant – though already knowing, probably, from my tone – suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, the boyish one, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine. He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance, his face held nothing of interest – it was as if she had called his name, and he'd looked up in involuntary response, already having decided not to answer. My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did. â€Å"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife.† She said this under her breath. I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now,picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking quietly to them. Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. But maybe that was in vogue here – small town names? I finally remembered that my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in my History class back home. â€Å"They are†¦ very nice-looking.† I struggled with the conspicuous understatement. â€Å"Yes!† Jessica agreed with another giggle. â€Å"They're all together though – Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together.† Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip. â€Å"Which ones are the Cullens?† I asked. â€Å"They don't look related†¦Ã¢â‚¬  â€Å"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twenties or early thirties. They're all adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins – the blondes – and they're foster children.† â€Å"They look a little old for foster children.† â€Å"They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they've been with Mrs. Cullen since they were eight. She's their aunt or something like that.† â€Å"That's really kind of nice – for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they're so young and everything.† â€Å"I guess so,† Jessica admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that she didn't like the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances she was throwing at their adopted children, I would presume the reason was jealousy. â€Å"I think that Mrs. Cullen can't have any kids, though,† she added, as if that lessened their kindness. Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat. â€Å"Have they always lived in Forks?† I asked. Surely I would have noticed them on one of my summers here. â€Å"No,† she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like me. â€Å"They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska.† I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard. As I examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullens, looked up and met my gaze, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. As I looked swiftly away, it seemed to me that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation. â€Å"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?† I asked. I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other students had today – he had a slightly frustrated expression. I looked down again. â€Å"That's Edward. He's gorgeous, of course, but don't waste your time. He doesn't date. Apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him.† She sniffed, a clear case of sour grapes. I wondered when he'd turned her down. I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at him again. His face was turned away, but I thought his cheek appeared lifted, as if he were smiling, too. After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful – even the big, brawny one. It was unsettling to watch. The one named Edward didn't look at me again. I sat at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than I would have if I'd been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my first day. One of my new acquaintances, who considerately reminded me that her name was Angela, had Biology II with me the next hour. We walked to class together in silence. She was shy, too. When we entered the classroom, Angela went to sit at a black-topped lab table exactly like the ones I was used to. She already had a neighbor. In fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the center aisle, I recognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting next to that single open seat. As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my slip signed, I was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed, he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting my eyes with the strangest expression on his face – it was hostile, furious. I looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over a book in the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl sitting there giggled. I'd noticed that his eyes were black – coal black. Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense about introductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, he had no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room. I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by him, bewildered by the antagonistic stare he'd given me. I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat, but I saw his posture change from the corner of my eye. He was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face like he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair. It smelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. It seemed an innocent enough odor. I let my hair fall over my right shoulder, making a dark curtain between us, and tried to pay attention to the teacher. Unfortunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied. I took notes carefully anyway, always looking down. I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally through the screen of my hair at the strange boy next to me. During the whole class, he never relaxed his stiff position on the edge of his chair, sitting as far from me as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath his light skin. He wasn't nearly as slight as he'd looked next to his burly brother. The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the day was finally coming to a close, or because I was waiting for his tight fist to loosen? It never did; he continued to sit so still it looked like he wasn't breathing. What was wrong with him? Was this his normal behavior? I questioned my judgment on Jessica's bitterness at lunch today. Maybe she was not as resentful as I'd thought. It couldn't have anything to do with me. He didn't know me from Eve. I peeked up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaring down at me again, his black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from him, shrinking against my chair, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind. At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Edward Cullen was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose – he was much taller than I'd thought – his back to me, and he was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat. I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so mean. It wasn't fair. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the anger that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear up. For some reason, my temper was hardwired to my tear ducts. I usually cried when I was angry, a humiliating tendency. â€Å"Aren't you Isabella Swan?† a male voice asked. I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his pale blond hair carefully gelled into orderly spikes, smiling at me in a friendly way. He obviously didn't think I smelled bad. â€Å"Bella,† I corrected him, with a smile. â€Å"I'm Mike.† â€Å"Hi, Mike.† â€Å"Do you need any help finding your next class?† â€Å"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it.† â€Å"That's my next class, too.† He seemed thrilled, though it wasn't that big of a coincidence in a school this small. We walked to class together; he was a chatterer – he supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in California till he was ten, so he knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out he was in my English class also. He was the nicest person I'd met today. But as we were entering the gym, he asked, â€Å"So, did you stab Edward Cullen with a pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that.† I cringed. So I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently, that wasn't Edward Cullen's usual behavior. I decided to play dumb. â€Å"Was that the boy I sat next to in Biology?† I asked artlessly. â€Å"Yes,† he said. â€Å"He looked like he was in pain or something.† â€Å"I don't know,† I responded. â€Å"I never spoke to him.† â€Å"He's a weird guy.† Mike lingered by me instead of heading to the dressing room. â€Å"If I were lucky enough to sit by you, I would have talked to you.† I smiled at him before walking through the girls' locker room door. He was friendly and clearly admiring. But it wasn't enough to ease my irritation. The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn't make me dress down for today's class. At home, only two years of RE. were required. Here, P.E. was mandatory all four years. Forks was literally my personal hell on Earth. I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how many injuries I had sustained – and inflicted – playing volleyball, I felt faintly nauseated. The final bell rang at last. I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong, and colder. I wrapped my arms around myself. When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked back out. Edward Cullen stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized again that tousled bronze hair. He didn't appear to notice the sound of my entrance. I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free. He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the argument. He was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology to another time – any other time. I just couldn't believe that this was about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look on his face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me. The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Edward Cullen's back stiffened, and he turned slowly to glare at me – his face was absurdly handsome – with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. He turned back to the receptionist. â€Å"Never mind, then,† he said hastily in a voice like velvet. â€Å"I can see that it's impossible. Thank you so much for your help.† And he turned on his heel without another look at me, and disappeared out the door. I went meekly to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, and handed her the signed slip. â€Å"How did your first day go, dear?† the receptionist asked maternally. â€Å"Fine,† I lied, my voice weak. She didn't look convinced. When I got to the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this damp green hole. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly. But soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, fighting tears the whole way there.