Becoming Archetype

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that the assignment given to us on Wednesday slipped my mind until just this morning. We were supposed to research the female archetype. After looking through several pages of links, I found that most of them mentioned four different archetypes, coinciding with the stages of one's life, which reminded me of the Sphynx's riddle to Oedipus. What has four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening? Anyways, the four basic archetypes are the virgin, the temptress, the mother, and the crone. The virgin, obviously, is the young one, beautiful, pure, untainted by the immorality of her world. Then she grows up, discovers the power that she has, and becomes the temptress, the seductress, the black widow as it were. The mother archetype is a common symbol of fertility, domestic pursuits, and the nurturing instinct. Last but not least, the crone, no longer considered attractive or desirable. Instead, she is seen as uncomfortable, as the grandmother in A Good Man Is Hard To Find, or even sometimes as a witch. Anyways. That's what I found. I don't have much else to report, but I wanted to at least get that much up.

Shaking Music From It

This was not the first time I had read Araby, however, this was the first time that I had really paid attention to it. I read it through twice, attempting to make sure I did not miss anything, but I cannot really guarantee that I found every detail in the story that is worth noticing. There were, however, a couple details that came to my attention. The first was towards the beginning of the story, in “dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness.” It struck me to wonder how one could, in shaking a harness, somehow have music fall from it. Was there some musical quality in a horse's tack that I had never noticed before? Perhaps this only refers to the jingling and shaking of the metal buckles, however, I refuse to take the most obvious solution. There is, I realized, a sort of a musical quality in everyday life, even in the sound of your own breathing and your footfalls as you trudge through life. Would it not make sense that this musicality extend to the rest of the world? I certainly found it understandable enough. The second thing that caught my attention was something that we mentioned in class, that is, the phrase killing time. The unnamed boy mentions that he wishes to annihilate the days left until his visit to the bazaar. It seems remarkable to me now that he is so eager for something to happen that he would wish to kill several days in order to skip ahead. However, I must admit that I have experienced this feeling before. There have been times when I wished I could just skip ahead to a better day, or through something that I knew I wasn't going to enjoy. But now I see what a waste it is! Why would anyone kill time? Every moment, every pulse that we have is a precious resource, one that we cannot buy, sell, or steal, and every pulse can be used for something important.


Unfortunately, I don't have quite as much to say about the other three stories. Cathedral was an uncomfortable story. I must admit that I was not sure what to think about the blind man. He made me almost as nervous as he did the husband. Even at the end of the story I was left with a vague sense of discomfort that I could not explain. The wife's attachment to the blind man was rather troubling to me. She had married two men and didn't seem to care about either of them as much as she cared about Robert. I had to wonder, perhaps along with her current husband, why she hadn't pursued a relationship with him from the first when he seemed to be such a prominent part of her life. I certainly understand that you do not love all of your friends in a romantic way, but this still didn't make sense to me. Or was it the story that did not understand me? Both copies of The Lady With The Pet Dog were, in my opinion, far more comfortable and heartwarming tales. The second one in particular made me happy, partly because I know exactly how the woman feels. It was not so much the writing style of Oates' story that made me prefer it—although it was easier to understand. Instead, it was that I identified more with the characters in her story. I know what it is like to feel guilty for loving someone, only to find out that it was the right thing to do after all. The moments of guilt when you wonder what would happen if he found out you were holding hands, touching another boy, and the times when all those thoughts are driven from your head and you know that no matter what anyone says, you've done something right for once. It might sting for a little while but in the end you know everyone will be better off for it. And that is all I have to say about that.

East

Is it possible that I forgot to mention the story of Psyche and Eros? A tragedy indeed. This happens to be one of my favorite stories in the class thus far. Dear Sleeping Beauty, you know that you weren't supposed to look, now you see what happens when you do? Your beautiful lover flees with a cry, leaving you alone, in tears, and with a child to raise. Yet would it have been better if you had kept your eyes shut? Then you would never have known just how beautiful he was, how lucky you really were. Yet while your good fortune lasted you had no idea. Anyone who had ever read the story East by Edith Pattou can see the similarities to the tale of Psyche. This is particularly interesting because East itself is a retelling of an old Norwegian folk tale called “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” which I have never read, but am now oddly tempted to. I read East the first time a couple years ago, and yes, it was of my own volition. My mother of course disapproved of the story, after all, there was magic in it, and everyone knows that magic is “of the devil,” however I found it quite a fascinating story. I wished that I was as brave as Rose. I wanted to go out into the world, for better or worse, and see what I could find. It took longer than I ever thought it would, but now the world has opened up before me. Psyche, Rose, and also Belle had something in common—for a while, they did not know whether they'd fallen in love with a prince or a monster. Could it be possible, though, that they had done both? What if men are not merely one or the other, but a potent mix of wonderful and wild? Sometimes Prince Charming is very charming indeed, but sometimes the beast comes raging through, leaving tears and bruises and a frightened princess.


And what happens, may I dare ask, if the man who thinks he is Prince Charming turns out not to be at all? True love doesn't always happen the first time. Sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince, and sometimes the frogs don't understand that they aren't princes. What if he keeps following you around, warts and all, and pesters you to try once again—maybe you didn't do something right the first time, maybe the second time it will work. The prince, the good man you found, isn't so good after all. He's only trying to blind you, to trick you into missing out on me—what's really good, croaks the frog. Won't you give me a second chance? Then he says he only wants to be friends. You know it's a lie, yet you can't just tell him that, don't want to step on him—after all, it's not his fault he's not your prince. He didn't do anything wrong, he just didn't do it right.

So what can you say?

A Sparrow Falls

So, sometimes I notice things that I think belong in my next blog post, but I have a tendency to forget them before I get back to my computer. Every once in a while, though, something will happen that reminds me of one of them—such a scenario happened just this morning. Perhaps it was because, as usual, I was running late to my first class. This time I was later than usual, and I'm pretty sure this was also true the day of the noticing, so maybe that was what triggered it. Anyways, it was just past eight and I was walking past Linfield Hall when the empty set of steps caught my eye. You wouldn't think that nothing would be able to grab your attention, but there was a certain empty space that hadn't always been there. You see, one day I was walking to class (running late) and saw a tiny, fluffed-up sparrow sitting on the step, looking miserable. I wanted to stop and see what was wrong with it, but as I mentioned before I was already late, so I continued past it, glancing backwards, and on my way to Howard Hall. Well, today I was reminded of that, and as I scurried once again towards Howard I wondered what had happened to that bird. It hadn't looked very healthy when I saw it. Perhaps, I pondered, the steps served as the carriage stop for the tiny thing's Demon Lover. Being female, and perhaps not as heartless as it sometimes seems that I am, I could only hope that it had gotten up and flown away, perhaps in search of Cinderella, but how high should my hopes have been, really? Sadly, I really have no way of finding out what happened. However, that might be for the best, for that means the ending is up to your imagination.

Catching Up

Despite the fact that I haven't updated my blog in far too long (oops) I'd like to think that I have been doing all right with keeping up with the readings. It might take me a while to get my blog posts caught up to the reading, at least if I intend to write something about each of the stories—although, I could probably manage to tie at least most of them together. Last week I had about twenty-five hours of work outside of class time on an art project, so I claim that excuse for the fact that I haven't been blogging. I have finished the first book of the Brothers Karamazov, and I am proud to report that so far it does not find me too boring. I will admit that there is a bit more setup before the story begins that I am accustomed to, but this is not necessarily a bad thing. The Lot series was, I hate to admit, a bit too familiar to me. It should not be possible to hear a story too many times, but it seems that most of the versions of this story are quite close to the same. Gomorrah was my personal favorite, though there was not much of a contest. The best part of this tale, though, is that it is a prime illustration of the business of stories—that is, doing something that you have been told not to do. Don't eat that apple, don't speak to the wolf, don't turn back and look at the city, don't fly too close to the sun. But if you don't break the rules, you will never experience the conflict that causes a story to be set into motion. Rules, it seems, are made to be broken, for if everyone obeyed them, there would be no storytelling! Icharus learned the unfortunate consequences that come from doing what you're “not supposed to.” His story did not turn out as well as Little Red Cap's. Neither did Lot's wife's.


I hate to admit, however, that A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings found me to be a horribly confusing reader. I have never been a big fan of Gabriel García Márquez, for I was far too young to read 100 Years Of Solitude when I did. I fear it scared me from his writings for life. The story was...intriguing. The idea of the old man's frail humanity was very striking, yet, the ending seemed for some reason not to make sense. He was, indeed, an angel? And one day he just up and flew away? I have to admit that I had some idea of where the story might be going, but my suspicions turned out to be wrong. The old man—or angel—did not mean to cause any harm after all. Perhaps I am unusual for desiring a less-than-happy ending, but it almost seemed to end too well. Despite my confusion as to what exactly was going on, the story held promise, but the ending seemed almost too clean-cut for my preferences. This is definitely an example of a story where the moral is the story itself, that is, there is no moral to the story, no greater life lesson to be learned. It is simply a story, to provoke thought and provide a few moments of distraction. At least that's my opinion. A Good Man is Hard to Find is another one that stretches the brain cells a little. I was a bit curious to hear more of the Misfit's story. What had actually happened to his father, and why was he accused of the crime if, as he claimed, there was no crime committed? Where was he planning to go? If he knew that he was going to kill the family if he stopped, why did he?

He seems to take no pleasure from the killings, telling Bobby Lee that it wasn't such a good thing after all. Yet he must have known that if he stopped, the family would die. Is he really such a good man after all? The statement “She'd have been a good woman if there had been someone there to shoot her every minute of her life” got me thinking. What would I do differently with my life if I realized that every moment could be my last? Humans have a horrible tendency to act as though they'll live forever. They do not seem to understand just how fragile, how temporary life is. If every moment was our last, I have to wonder if we wouldn't be more interesting people. Which leads me to recall that I haven't mentioned conversations that I've overheard. I know that this will make me sound vain, but honestly, the most interesting conversations that I have overheard happen to be some of my own. I hang out with a rather entertaining group of people—there's never a dull moment when they're around. And although sometimes the same jokes get told more than once, I never get tired of listening to them. Or retelling them. Honestly, I consider myself lucky, as a person who doesn't usually have very much to say in a crowd, to have friends who are so talkative as to fill the silence around me. It takes a lot of work for me to speak up enough to gain other people's attention—I am an altogether forgettable character, and I do not try to deny it. However, my part in the story, I think, is to listen, and I'm definitely okay with that.

Test Notes

NOTES FOR THE FIRST TEST

1. Arnold Friend is ______________.
a) The Devil
b) The Demon Lover
c) The Imagination
d) And all that

2. Grimm vs. Perrault
Perrault ends with the moral of the story, Grimm ends with everything set aright. The question will assume that you know the endings of both stories (and which is which)

3. Twisted, cruel, alienating, ugly, deformed—what word are we looking for (describes the works of Flannery O'Connor)?
Grotesque

4. What is the difference between the Smooth Talk ending and Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?
Ambiguity is implied in the end of Joyce Carol Oates' story. The film was taking liberties. Pay close attention to what the story actually says, not to what you infer from it.

5. What is the difference between the woman in the “Demon Lover” and Connie?
What is the woman giving up to go with her lover? A husband and children.

6. Archetype: an image or a pattern that is repeated in literature and fantasy

7. Who did Joyce Carol Oates say she dedicated her story to?
Bob Dylan—It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

8. Why did Lot's wife turn into a pillar of salt?
She looked back at the destruction of the city

9. Who said that we should “tell the truth, but tell it at a slant”?
Emily Dickinson

10. Because I could not stop for death...
he kindly stopped for me.

11. The slanting rays of the setting sun refers to what?
Alyosha's first memory of his mother

12. Although Alyosha is highly spiritual, he is still inflicted with the Karamazov curse, which is...?
Libido, sensuality

13. The three boys represent these three things...
Alyosha: spiritual (man of the spirit)
Ivan: intellectual (man of the mind)
Dmitri: primal (man of the earth)

14. What is anemnesis?
Remembering (specifically dreams in this class)

The Company of Wolves

All right. It's time to do some catching up. I didn't get to do nearly as much reading this weekend as I had originally anticipated, but I can at least write about the stuff I have read. I thought Prof. Sexson's earlier comments about Arnold Friend and Prince Charming were very enlightening, especially when I looked at it through my own personal experience. Perhaps, we might reason, Arnold Friend is not the bad guy after all. Perhaps, as Prince Charming did, he has fallen for a beautiful girl and wants to free his lady love from the monotony and pain of her own life and bring her into a world where everything is brighter and beautiful. I am in no way suggesting that he did this—from the tone of the story I would say that it is not likely—but what if he had? What if he truly had Connie's best interest at heart? It gives food for thought. Perhaps, one could reason, it was only society that made him seem like the bad guy when he really wasn't. What if the evil stepmother had told Cinderella that the prince was up to no good, that she should stay away from him? Her rebellion might have been similar to Connie's then.


The Little Red Riding Hood series was interesting too. The disambiguation at the end found me quite boring, for I did not understand the superego and id and was quite confused by the explanation attempted by Red's Oedipal feelings for her father. The thing that bothered it the most was that someone was attempting to explain the story. I have always rather hated morals, and frequently skip over them—now I have some understanding of why. I do not want to be told what I should learn from the story. Instead, I would choose to learn what stands out to me the most, be it large or small. I did like the gradual change in the stories, though, from the wolf seeming to represent evil incarnate to becoming a part of human nature that we must battle against—or, as Anna the Matriarch did, embrace whole-heartedly, to throw ourselves into the world of darkness, sharp teeth, and warm blood spilling onto the snow. My personal favorite? One Beast and only one howls in the woods by night. This story directs us to parts of the tale we thought improbable. The huntsman and the wolf one and the same? It cannot be. And yet it is. And again we discover that the wolf is not as fierce as we once thought he was. All it takes is a little coaxing and he will curl up with the sweet lamb in his arms.

More updates to come as I have time.

A Youngster's Memory

Sometimes I am surprised by my own forgetfulness. It took me more than three weeks to remember something that should have jumped out at me from the very first. You see, last year in my writing class, I did my own set of retellings. We had two different assignments in which we were to replicate a story. The first was what caused me to remember—the collection of Little Red Riding Hood stories was quite similar to the retellings of Aesop's Fables that we had to write—however, the second project was, at least in my opinion, more interesting. The assignment was simple enough. We were to write a short story in the pattern of a tale known as “the Griffin.” Unfortunately I cannot remember the name of the author, but the basis of the story is that there is a young boy who has to undergo a series of heroic events in order to win the king's favor and capture the love of the princess. If you don't already have enough to do, you can read the short story here.

Anyways, I was planning to write about my earliest memory. I have several from around the same time period, so I'm not exactly sure which one is the earliest. However, I shall choose to share perhaps the most humorous of the lot. It seems that I was a rather grown-up preschooler, because one of my memories involves a Christmas play in which, along with a group of other three- and four-year-olds, my job was to “wake” Santa from an enchanted sleep and thus save Christmas. I couldn't have been more than three and a half at the time, yet I remember thinking that the whole thing was rather ridiculous. The man wasn't asleep, he was only pretending; besides, that couldn't be Santa because the jolly old saint was busy at the North Pole making my presents. Every time I remember that, I chuckle a little at my precociousness. I don't think it's any wonder that my parents put me in preschool so I would learn how to play. By the time I was two I could say the word “ptarmigan.” Sometimes I laugh at just how ridiculous I was. More comments to come later.

Forget The Day

Groundhog day definitely could have started better. Six o'clock rolled in—of course, I slept through the alarm I set (there was a reason I set my phone to vibrate). The bed was hard and lonely. My boyfriend had to work that night. Blankets and a lavender bunny across my back managed to keep me warm, but I slept only moderately well. My phone went off again at 8:30, this time playing music, and once again at 8:40. I spent the time in between moaning my own misfortune. I didn't want to get up, or go to class. I'd never thought that a twin bed could actually be too big. The second time my alarm went off, I actually opened my eyes and rolled out of bed. I put on a pair of jeans, but couldn't be motivated to change from my pajama shirt to a t-shirt. I examined it in the mirror, and it didn't look too wrinkly, so I decided to let it slide. I didn't have time to put my contacts in, either, although I did actually brush my teeth. One sweatshirt, a pair of socks, and a portfolio later, I left the dorm room. My roommate was still sleeping, curled up like a puppy. She'd felt sick yesterday and decided to skip her morning class. I couldn't blame her and wished that I could do the same, but the art school is surprisingly rigid when it comes to absences. However, I couldn't last without stopping at the bathroom first, so I was a few minutes late to class. We usually start late, though, so it wasn't too horrible.

I honestly enjoy my drawing fundamentals class, but Groundhog Day wasn't the best of days. We were doing critiques, commenting on the class's pictures of a boot on a pillow. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind doing this, but I wasn't feeling well; I was very glad that we're allowed to leave the classroom, because I spent a sizable part of the class in the bathroom. I'm so glad that you're reading this. It's a lovely story to have to share. At least I wasn't actually sick, only feeling that way. Anyways. My art class lasted, in my opinion, far too long. I spent most of it texting my friend from Ohio, whining about my misfortune. It took two and a half hours to critique all the students, and the remaining twenty minutes were spent talking about our next assignment. Once class was let out I bolted for the door, without any clear idea of where I was going. I decided that I would walk over to my boyfriend's room to wake him up for lunch. As I walked I pondered his tendency to sleep through class. It's funny the way you can keep walking without looking where you're going. After a while this campus is easy to memorize. I stopped in the bathroom again in the lobby, then climbed the flight of stairs, feeling tired. I dropped my portfolio and laptop bag and tried the door. It was locked. I slammed my hip into the door and jiggled the handle till he opened the door and let me in.

There's some sort of relief that comes with walking into that room, with the constant smell of popcorn and the tan-and-blue striped comforter. I crawled into bed next to my boyfriend and he wrapped his arm around me, so I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep. That only lasted for ten minutes, then I went down to the bathroom again. This time after I climbed into bed I actually managed to fall asleep. Through Econ. For the third class in a row. However, once I woke up I felt much better. I was glad I'd remembered to set an alarm, though, cause I had an appointment with health services at 2:15. I managed to crawl out of bed at about two-oh-five, feeling bad that I hadn't gotten there fifteen minutes early like I'd planned to, but at the same time realizing that I wouldn't have been able to get there early if I would have gone to class, which ended at two. Perhaps it's weird that I wasn't horribly worried about going to the doctor, even though I was supposed to get back blood test results. I've always found it difficult to worry about my own life. It's other people who leave me in a tizzy. A tall girl with dark hair held the door open for me. She didn't seem very sure of herself, and I wondered what she was doing there. By this time, I knew to sign in at the computers on the wall. Even looking over my information made me smile. I was glad to see my boyfriend's name as the emergency contact.

Once I had checked in, I hit the bathroom again and then walked back to the offices, where I was given a yellow clipboard to fill out. It's such a familiar process I can almost do it without thinking. The guy sitting two seats over from me seemed nervous. Having grown up in a doctor's office, I do not understand the fear that people associate with the waiting room. It's nothing but a bad smell. I don't start to worry until I see needles. I suppose it is the waiting that's the worst part. After a few minutes, one of the CMAs came and took me back to her office. She checked my blood pressure again, weighed and measured me, though I was sure that they already had my measurements, and then sent me back to the waiting room. I sat staring at a sign talking about depression, an all-too-common phenomenon in Montana—we have something close to the second highest suicide rate in the country. That's not difficult to understand. There really is nothing out here, and it can get very boring at times. The doctor called my name and took me into her office. We talked about my test results (Insert HIPAA violation here), and then she told me to schedule an appointment for a couple of months so they could do some more tests. Since there was still about an hour till my boyfriend's first class, I decided to head back there so we could talk about my test results. Perhaps I am psychotic and masochistic, but as I walked, kicking slush beneath my feet, I remember being vaguely disappointed that the tests hadn't turned out as bad as I had originally anticipated.

Even though I'd left the door unlocked, when I got back to my boyfriend's room I found that he'd locked it. Once again I jiggled the handle and banged on the door for a moment. Then I sat in the hall, wondering whether he was actually going to sleep through my racket again. I sent him a text, thinking that if nothing else I could hear his phone ring. He texted me back saying that he was at the SUB, which was surprising. Actually getting out of bed before class? Unheard of. I sat in the hall for a few minutes, until I got tired of feeling like a creeper, and decided I'd walk to the SUB to try to find him. But once I'd crossed the street I recognized his familiar striped sweatshirt and ginger hair, so I stopped to wait for him. He greeted me with a smile and took hold of my hand as we walked inside. He'd picked up a pair of headphones and tried to cash a check, but the bank wouldn't take it because it was dated January of 09. We discussed the stupidity of that idea and then I told him about my test results. All in all I think he took it rather well—he worries about me more than anyone else I know, no matter what I tell him. It doesn't bother me, but I still wish he wouldn't. We ended up talking until he left for class, at which time I gathered up my stuff and went back to my own room, which was empty again. I settled down to work on an art project, because I had a meeting after dinner and was supposed to prepare a prototype beforehand. It took me two hours to make, and I hated it, so when dinner came along I was all too happy to toss the project aside in favor of food—even though it did come from the cafeteria.

Dinner consisted of roast beef, potatoes, and gravy, hardly a toxic combination, and almost worth enjoying. After dinner, I went back to the dorm with my boyfriend and a couple of my friends from my floor. I had to run upstairs to get my prototype, so they went into the lounge to hang out for a while. I was supposed to go with them to a floor meeting that night, but unfortunately my group meeting was scheduled for the same time so I couldn't. My boyfriend decided to leave a few minutes before the meeting started. He might have been planning to get some homework done. The meeting was just starting when the rest of my group showed up. As I got up and left, I wondered if the other girls were wondering what the hell I was doing. The other girl in my group was on time, she just lives downstairs, but the younger guy was about four minutes late, and came in panting claiming the place was “A long-ass walk” from the other side of campus. The thing that amused me about that was that he claims to be in the army. That and that the two of us girls walk it every day without dying of exhaustion. We sat in the lobby for a few minutes comparing our prototypes, and then decided that we'd wait for the forth member of the team in the art lounge. The other girl left a note at the front desk, and we trooped back and down the hall. The army boy commented on how nice the lounge was. They didn't have anything like that in his dorm. I remember being unimpressed with it. Ok, sure, it has a light table, but other than that there's not much going for it. The fourth member of our group was about fifteen minutes late, understandable as he works a night shift and had to get up early for the occasion.

The meeting was about an hour and a half, almost painfully boring, and I spent most of the time wondering when it would be over. At the end we finally thought we might have an idea of what the project was going to look like, and we agreed to present the idea to the teacher in class the next day. I rushed upstairs, wanting to finish my homework as quickly as I could, however, my roommate and a few of her friends were there watching SNL. I spent about an hour looking through my art history book to find the pictures I was going to use for the outline that was due tomorrow, then once I had picked a couple I printed off the form and tried to fill it out. It didn't go very well, so I decided that I would just go back to my boyfriend's room and work on in there. He's usually less distracting (or at least less noisy) than my roommate and her gang of friends. I love them all, but they're not very homework friendly. The amount of confidence with which one can walk down the street amuses me, especially when I think of how timid I was about going to my boyfriend's room before he was my boyfriend. It was a few minutes before ten, so I was able to get in without having to ring for him. I climbed the familiar staircase and opened the door—this time, he had left it unlocked. At this point in time, I'm sad to admit, I've already lost track of what happened, but it has to be similar to what happens every other night. We stayed up late, maybe we watched a movie, maybe we took a midnight Walmart run to buy more food—we always seem to be running out. At any rate, I know our plans involved the guys next door. I love that they say I'm just one of the guys. We would have curled up in bed at about two, my boyfriend's arms around me again. It always takes me a while to fall asleep, and this time I can tell you exactly what I was thinking while I waited for my eyelids to grow heavy. I was once again pondering how incredibly lucky I am to be living my life right now, and how much I couldn't wait for tomorrow.

I know that there are a lot of details that I've forgotten. On the one hand I wish I could remember them, but on the other I think it's sort of a good thing. Humans are incredibly lucky to be able to forget. There would be so much more hate in the world were it not for our forgetfulness. Surprisingly, now that I can't remember every detail of this uncomfortable and somewhat boring day, it no longer seems so terrible. It was just another day, just another chance to mess up and fail and start over. I get another one every 24 hours, but who knows how long that will last. I might as well enjoy it while I can.

Class Groups

Group I
Codey D, Tim M, Kendra S, Yevgenii K, Brittnee D, Devynn B, Erin M, Janessa M

Group II
Anne H, Spencer S, Lindsay E, Lindsay C, Jordan M, Kristine L, Dani L

Group III
Matt R, Lena T, Seth G, Molly H, Andrew H, Corinne N, Stephanie P

Group IV
Garrett B, Ashley A, Jen P, Heather K, Christine B, Colton S, Amber H, Sarah

Group V
Rachel Y, John W, Jess W, Annabelle R, Avery A, Michelle S

Group VI
Tim M, James R, Anthony S, Karinne N, Eric L, Shayna W, Matt P