Teen Spreding Wide
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When it comes to controlling anger and violence among children, failure is an ugly option. In Glenwood Springs, prosecutors will soon try a 14-year-old on charges of first-degree murder for allegedly shooting a 9-year-old acquaintance in what was little more than a spat over friendship. In Denver, prosecutors will try a teenager for allegedly stabbing to death another teen in a high-school cafeteria during lunch.
Neckties would spread wide and neckties would shrink thin. Bell bottom jeans would be in. Then out. Then in again. But every year, no matter, what, my father would fire up the blowtorch on the holiday bird.
The police is also spreading awareness via a campaign and is sending suggestions to schools, asking teachers to strike a conversation with students about these issue. The issue of resisting the lure of such online games has been widely addressed on their Twitter handle time and again.
Here, I explore Hell House, a performance-installation that casts notoriously jaded New Yorkers in the role of \"true believers.\" For those new to this tradition: hell houses are haunted house-style attractions run by North American fundamentalist Christians, and operated in the days before Halloween.1 Unlike conventional haunted houses, hell houses feature exhibits depicting sin and its consequences. These exhibits tend to focus on \"sins\" that are also overtly political issues for the religious right in the United States. Common examples include abortion, homosexuality, and premarital sex. Pioneered by Jerry Falwell in the 1970s, and franchised by Pastor Keenan Roberts since 1992, today's evangelical hell houses offer complex strategies for producing affect-based faith. Their goal is ostensibly to shock, scare, or otherwise sway attendees into conversion by dramatizing \"the devastation that Satan and the world can bestow on those who choose not to serve Jesus Christ.\"2 Yet the overlooked flipside of this fire and brimstone approach lies in its paradoxical pleasure. Who can forget the Texan teenager featured in George Ratliff's documentary, and her unadulterated joy upon learning the outcome of her audition: \"I get to play the girl who has an abortion!\" October 2006 marks the first time this Bible belt phenomenon comes to New York, and it is through their commitment to staging an \"authentic rendition\" of Pastor Roberts's trademarked Hell House Outreach Kit that Les Freres Corbusier's Hell House raises its most provocative questions.
What does it mean to transplant a communal mode of building, enacting, and touring Hell to a city known for its cool intellectualism Will New Yorkers derive either enjoyment or an urge to repent from observing the horrific fates of pregnant teens and gay men Sarah Rose Leonard explains the Brooklyn production's site-specific edge: \"While the show itself isn't particularly gory or spooky, the system of evangelical beliefs it represents is sharply disconcerting to a secularized, urban audience\" (Leonard 2006: 6). More to the point, producer Aaron Lemon-Strauss (who is Jewish) and director Alex Timbers (a Catholic) refuse to stage their project as a send-up. Instead, they deliver a jarringly \"straight\" representation in the hope that viewers will draw their own conclusions.
The first scene is a rave. I'm reminded of shows such as Scare Tactics or Punk'd, where viewers know an unsuspecting victim is being set up. Our tour guide introduces a fresh-faced teen named Jessica. Visibly nervous, she's approached by a youth who offers a pill to help her relax. After sipping her tainted drink, Jessica instantly passes out. Her seducer cackles, \"Let's rape her!\" as a hoard of men and women pounce. We cut to sobbing Jessica's bedroom. To my shock, our guide blames the gang rape on the incest she endured as a child. Urging her to \"take control of her life,\" he gleefully watches Jessica pull a gun from under her pillow. There's a deafening blast, the lights fade, and we're sprayed with what feels like her blood. \"Oh shut up!\" our guide retorts to our disgusted groans. \"It's only water.\"
While the rape scene is strangely slapstick in tone, a subsequent abortion seems downright harrowing. A cheerleader clutches her pompoms, legs spread wide open. \"You lied to me!\" she shrieks. \"You said it wasn't going to hurt!\" Far worse than the bloodbath on the walls are the crimson entrails the doctor extracts from inside her. These, we are made to see, are pieces of her aborted fetus. Our horror turns to awe, however, as we're herded into a large domed tent: the cheerleader's womb! Enchanted by its pink interior, we marvel at the tiny person within it, wearing a velvet jumpsuit. A pair of giant forceps invades the soothing space, yanking the little one out. Our guide fumes sarcastically, \"It isn't a complete waste, though. Soon, we'll be harvesting her body for stem cells!\" It's only when a young female spectator responds with a jovial \"Yay!\" that I snap back in touch with my own political values: I, too, support stem cell research and women's reproductive rights. How could a simple spectacle cause me to lose sight of that
Why does it matter For me, her heartfelt participation in a constructed spectacle sheds light on how today's young women inhabit prescriptive cultural scenarios. While Mullins's original lyrics praise a collective's supremacy-\"Our God is an Awesome God\"-Tracy's sign language recasts that power as her own: \"My God is an Awesome God.\" Her embodied translation not only breaks rank with her friends' cool detachment, but also departs from the song's plural assurance, implying an individual bond to divinity. Tracy's unorthodox alignment with Christian spirituality leads me back to the Texan teen who reveled in playing the girl who has an abortion, putting herself in the place of a specter of defiled promiscuity. Citing the rules yet differently, these social performers risk forging self-made connections where conventional wisdom says none should exist. Though fleeting, their transgressive identifications offer certain spectators enduring hope.
A grand staircase takes us to the entrance of the hospital, and it is here we meet Dr. Telemaque. She has on a hot-pink scrub top and beams a wide smile that reveals a tiny gap between her front teeth. After brief introductions, she hands us a plastic grocery bag filled with clothes and instructs us to go into the hospital and change into scrubs and hair nets: Alonso and I are going to be observing her in surgery. 59ce067264
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