A Farewell To Home

As I pack up the last of my favorite things into two suitcases for the next year, I spend my final moments at home finding comfort in leaving everything behind for 365 days. This comfort is found in the past two months I've spent saying goodbye to my family and friends.
Everyone keeps saying to me how brave and free spirited I am. They confess that they could never leave their mamas that long or move so far from home. Well, your family may be the reason you stay, but mine is the reason I leave. I push myself to explore and travel because since last July that has been when my heart is happiest and my spirit at its highest. Although I love my hometown, more now than I did six months ago when I left for New York, I still have places to go and people to meet. I venture from this place in hopes of finding the best version of myself because that is who my friends and family deserve.
Your family and truest friends will love you no matter where your life choices take you. Believe me, I know this 100%. However, we should live our lives so that they are proud and loving us is easy.
Most of you my age are in the boat of figuring out what it is we wish to do for the next 30 years, and that boat feels like it's sinking a bit more every day that we spend undecided. Well, I've upgraded to the Titanic which has allotted me at least another decade to "get it together." There is too much to do in life to feel grounded to a 9-5 at age 24. I was poor for the last five years in college, so what's a few more years of pb&js if it means I'll discover an endless array of opportunities. :)
I've had a few months to think about the past year of my life and where it has brought me so far. I then perused the ideas of where the next year in China will take me. When I get scared I find comfort in the fact that it is just one year, and in the grand scheme of things, that's no time at all.
A year from now I hope to fluently speak Mandarin, pick up Kung Fu as self defense, hit a few countries in Asia, find happiness in teaching children then return to New York and pick back up on publishing and writing dreams. But, if that's not what happens then so be it.
My blogs typically have a purpose or meaning because it isn't often I blog just to type. I wanted to write something to my friends and family to thank them for their love and support. Sooo here goes...

I used to regret some of the friendships I've lost throughout the past 24 years. I've wondered "what if" and wondered who those people are today. Some of the friendships ended as a result of some typical girly cat fight, others from time and distance, lack of common interests, etc. However, I now know why all of those friendships are no more. The core of my existence are the people who have remained in my life up to today.
"You never know what you've got until it's gone."
Well, I never knew how many truly wonderful friends I had until I decided to leave them for a year.
My dad always jokes with me and tells me, "everyone is your best friend." Well, they really are. If you are a friend of mine, you are most likely a best friend. With my schedule, I don't have much time for "lets grab a coffee" friends. I reserve my spare time for the shoulders I can cry on and for those who rely on my shoulders, too.
Every friend in my life has an individual purpose. Each one of you brings something different to my life that keeps me going. And when we can gather together, well, that's just a bonus. :)
To my favorites: here is what I can say in the shortest, least embarrassing amount of words.

Mom - For your beauty, strength and encouragement: inside and out.
Dad - For always letting me be your little girl.
Bubba - For being your truest self and the lack of fear you have about it.
G - For being the most important woman in my life.
Meg - For always asking, then always listening.
Gigi - For coming back and keeping G company
To the rest of my family: For the love and claiming me as one of your own :)

Natalie - For being there. Literally and always.
Kayli - For becoming a mother. It only made you a better friend.
KB- For being the first to show me about being a free spirit.
Britney & Bob - For loving me as much as you love each other.
Wesley - For everything.  
Jeff & Brandi - For the pride you have in me.
Bri - For always reminding me to not fear the unknown.
Justin - For your belief in my humanity. :)
Liz - For all of your wisdom
Lauren - For "if anyone is going to do it, it'd be Amie."
For all of you and the unmentioned: For believing, encouraging and keeping me around with my unpredictable language and actions.

We truly do meet every one for a reason. It's just that some are meant to stay forever and some are meant to just pass through until they find the people that best fit them. Throughout the next year, as I conquer Beijing's heart, you will all be in my heart and mind.

"Be you! Do what you wanna do."

In the last couple of years I've tried priding myself on being an open-minded accepting human being. I think I'm doing a fairly decent job along the way; however, I think the thing I'm being least honest about is who I am. I have spent so much time running away from the small town, close-minded world I came from and mocking the stereotypes of the South that I've neglected some of the things I've always loved most in life.
I've been so distracted exploring the world, new cities and new faces and finding new hobbies, music and making lifestyle changes that I've often neglected the hobbies, music and lifestyles that were once all I knew.
The idea began when I realized I'm going home to Louisiana in less than two weeks, only to jump back on a plane to flee the country for a whole year. For my entire stay in New York City I haven't missed home. Not a bit. Have I missed my family and friends? Of course, occasionally, anyway (no offense, guys!)
Truth is, I love Louisiana... The saying, "you never know what you've got until it's gone," can apply to most any situation. I love Louisiana! As much as I dislike certain things about my home state, there are things I love there - stereotypes included. I belong in an open field with freshly cut grass blowing in the wind around me. I love cut off blue jeans and worm dirt on my hands while throwing a rod with my old man. I love that I can go for a jog in my neighborhood with my dog trotting along side me without being on a leash. I love that everyone waves and knowing someone is irrelevant. I love the mushy mud in my toes when I'm wading into a lake. I love a cold beer around a bonfire on a night that's hot or cold. I love beer from a Dixie cup when I'm getting my ass beat in a game of beer pong.  I'm most comfortable in a sundress and cowboy boots. I love the fact that I can walk around barefoot in my yard and not worry about catching sepsis or some other disgusting disease lurking on the filthy streets. And yes, I love big trucks and country music.
What I'm saying is it's okay to love all of these things but at the same time love going on a wine tasting around New York City, dressing like a hipster to fit in when you need to and spending $15 on a sandwich. It's okay to want a Louis Vuitton or Michael Kors bag that you wouldn't dare spend a dime on in reality. I'm still a southern girl. I still have my accent, and for the most part my charm. However, I've learned when to shrug people off, when to be short and when to walk quickly. Just because I'm not from here, doesn't mean I'll let you tread on me. 
It's great that I listen to hip-hop and enjoy it, but I'll still tap my foot with the best of 'em to the best of Waylon Jennings and Merle Haggard. I don't have to be a redneck to enjoy real country music, and I don't have to be a city slicker to know every word to the Billboard's top 100.
It's OK to be different. You can make friends and get by in life by staying true to yourself and that's what matters most at the end of the day. I never want to forget that one of my favorite songs was written and released in 1980, or that my favorite musician is Elvis Presley.
My motto in the last year has been to embrace life. Take every chance you can. Leap! Now, I want to remind myself, as I leap not to leave the old Amie behind. Shred the bad parts of yourself, but always hold onto your innocence and all of the things that set you aside from the rest of the world. 

"Home is Where Your Story Begins"

Today I was leaving Trader Joe's, my new, as local as it gets, grocery store in downtown Brooklyn, when a Dodge Dually pulling a horse trailer passed on by. Now, if that doesn't make me homesick I don't know what could. For a moment I thought I'd zapped back home to Springridge because duallys and horse trailers are a daily occurrence.

I think it's rather clear that I love my new life adventure but I recently realized wherever life takes me, my journey will end in the South. Maybe not my hometown, (for everyone's sake I hope not) but it's certainly where I belong in the end. I miss it daily. Despite all the wonderful things I see in this great big city, I miss the basics and the things that I know best and love most. Until I moved north I never realized how much I loved crawfish and king cakes.

So, I think it is safe to share now, via the Internet, that my parents are selling our home. Now, I know I live in New York, I'm 23 years old, I haven't lived there full-time in years since leaving for college, but you all know what it means to go home to mom and dads. There is just something about it: the scents, the sounds of the house, your pets, the neighbors, dads quirks, mom's obsessive need to cater to you. All that stuff, and more, is what makes a house a home.

On a daily basis, people here and family and friends back home ask if I miss Louisiana. In all honesty, I didn't until my parents broke the news to me that they were selling. In my mind, I didn't need to miss home because I knew it would always be right there waiting for me whenever I returned.  Except now it isn't. At least not the home I grew up in.

My parents will buy a home in the city with less maintenance and drama and for that I am grateful because the truth is, they'll get old one day and I don't know that I'll be around to ensure the grass is cut, the limbs are trimmed and the house is power washed. I assure you my dad would drag his 80-year-old butt outside to do it, too.

This blog is mainly for me so I can write in words how I feel about the situation, but I'm always surprised that some of you find something meaningful, inspiring or helpful in my blogs, so as usual my words are yours to read.

When I was 14, my family sold our house in town and moved to our current home to be near my grandparents because my Pawpaw was battling congestive heart failure and there was much upkeep. And my pawpaw was equally obsessive about seeing that his six-acre spread was manicured. The day my parents signed the papers on our home in town, my pawpaw passed away. It is one of those eerie, fate type feelings that you just aren't sure how to react to, or, in my case describe. We just assume Pawpaw knew we'd be there to tend to the lawn and care for Granny so he no longer needed to hang around.

The day my Pawpaw died was the first time death effected me. I'd grown up in a Southern Baptist church, which meant you attended services every time the doors were open - funerals included. I'd seen it all before and had already lost both of my paternal grandparents, but there is something about being 14 and finally realizing all good things must come to an end. Being a teenager was going to be damn hard, and Pawpaw dying was the first sign of it. This was also the first death when I realized nothing last forever and death is never fair.

Obviously the first 14 years of my life weren't all that life-altering, aside from upgrading from a training bra to a real bra and trading my Chuck Taylors for flats. You begin to think boys are actually kind of cute, rather than infested with cooties (whatever those are). Lastly, you one by one go through a number of friends only learning who to trust when it's too late.

Life starts in your teens. For me, life began in Springridge. I laugh at how tragic I considered all these moments at 14 that I would die to live again over some current life situations at 23. So, we sold our house and were temporarily living in what I love to call, "The Crap Shack," while I was suffering through sophomore year on the pep squad. Eventually we got our mobile home (as mom always specifies,) and I was instantly in love with having my Granny for a neighbor, Saturdays mowing the pasture and the crickets singing at night.

I only recently began to appreciate the little things about home: bullfrogs on the pond, countless stars in the sky, walking around barefoot and the peace and comfort of always knowing who you were surrounded by. Aside from these things, my home reminds me of all the other factors growing up: boys, heartbreak and friendship, of course. :)

I was a teenager before that first crush never acknowledged my existence, that first boy never called again and then of course, the boy you love who is dating and noticing everyone but you. I lived here the first time I lied to my parents about where I was going and with whom. I had my first boyfriend over to the house, my first double date disaster and last but not least, my first broken heart. With my first broken heart came crying myself to sleep for countless nights, but in the end it resulted in the first time a boy came to apologize and we spent hours talking in the driveway like an old chick flick.

I had the first of many parties when my parents were out of town at home and along with those parties came a million memories (and blackmail worthy photos). Throughout high school I'd have sleepovers with the girls where we'd sneak out late to go to the boys sleepovers. My parents would find a half empty bottle of Taaka Vodka in the fridge my friends and I overlooked during clean up. I'd get grounded for lying, being in past curfew, and sometimes I think I was under suspicion just because I was a teenager.

Around 16, my parents and I fought like cats and dogs. The routine stuff of me wanting to be an adult and they insisting having a license didn't entitle me to the world. They were right. Looking back now I wouldn't change a thing and I wouldn't have changed any of the friendships gone wrong, the friendships that persevered and the boys I so foolishly thought I loved because I learned something valuable from each and every one of those experiences.

Given how much I feel I've grown (mentally) in the past year, it is impressive that I feel valuable lessons come from times when I was so young, but the things we learn from mistakes and living guide us, regardless of when and where.

Finally, I went to college. I'll never forget packing up my clothes and all of my favorite knick knacks and heading to my aunts an hour and a half from home. I'd never not lived under my parents roof and I couldn't wait for freedom. Granted, I went home every weekend for the first year so I guess I wasn't quite as ready for freedom as I played up to. When I got my first place sophomore year of college, I hardly believed it. It was the hardest adjustment, to this day, that I'd ever made. I didn't know how to register for electricity and water, much less how to pay the bill at the end of the month. I didn't know if my tips would pay the bills and I damn sure didn't know what to do if they didn't.







I've lived in five places now, and granted I've experienced many life lessons at each of these residencies, none are as meaningful as those that we learn at home where a hug from dad saves the world, the sight of your dog is the only thing that brings an instant smile to your face and your cat is the only one who knows when and how to comfort you (specifically on the same pillow as your head, ha). 

It has been almost 10 years since I started my story at home, and I think my parents selling our home is a sign to continue on my own journey. There will always be a new home to make. Meanwhile, I'll continue making memories as a guest in cities around the country until I make it back to the South: my true home.

Above all else, this home is a family compound and I don't care how "redneck" it sounds. Growing up, before living on the land, I spent every holiday and weekend fishing, swimming in a horse troth we substituted for a pool and being taunted by my older cousins for being "the baby." Our house is simply four walls, it's what is in my head and my heart that I will remember most in the end. So, home, I bid thee farewell, but thanks for the memories! :)

The levee in the fall :)

Gravel roads...

The pond...

Enjoy, Coca-Cola

I don't agree with the controversy of Coca-Cola's Super Bowl commercial. After I saw all the protests and comments on social media, I had to see what the fuss was all about. With that being said, I'd buy the entire stock of Coca-Cola products if I could afford it to support their work.

I realize, as Americans we love English as our one and only language. I also realize this is because many of us don't know other languages. This due to the fact that It's frustrating and hard as hell to learn one. I've been working on Spanish for the last five months and probably couldn't carry on a conversation with a three-year-old child whose first language was Spanish.
Many American people were, and still are, upset that "America, the Beautiful," was sung in multiple languages in the Coca Cola commercial. Many say they don't appreciate it because it was an "American song/anthem" sung in multiple languages and they would've appreciated it more in English.

That's where the controversy comes (and the ignorance in my opinion.)

This is where, I as an American, get upset. I was almost in tears at how beautiful the commercial was. Growing up, in school and even in church, we would sing "America, The Beautiful," on certain patriotic occasions or at school assemblies and I only ever heard it in English. When I heard the rendition on the Coca-Cola commercial I was speechless. How beautiful that an anthem to our great nation can be just as inspiring when sung in multiple languages by fellow Americans.
People, get over yourself. There is no one true American. George Washington was British by birth and he was our nation's first president, but he spoke English so it's okay. Aside, from that, Native Americans were here before and if I had to guess, I wouldn't say English was their native tongue.
We have to get beyond the frustration of language barriers and appreciate how beautiful each language is.
I spent the summer in Europe in twelve different countries and at least eight of those countries had a different language. Sure, they were frustrated when I didn't comprehend their Italian, Spanish, Dutch or German, but they didn't bitch about it. I mean maybe they did after I left, but the point is, I knew I didn't understand them and that was my problem, not theirs.
Someone told me today that people go to different countries to gain citizenship because they love that countries laws, religion, language, etc. That isn't always the case. Many, non-English speaking Americans (as their first language) may be here because of exile, persecution, immigration (not by choice,) family, jobs and a million other reasons. We do not know people's life journeys.
Should they learn our language? Of course! But not for us, because it's easier on them. And because we should all know multiple languages. Should we never branch our minds out and attempt to at least learn phrases of other languages? Absolutely not.
Language is one of the most beautiful and unique characteristics a human beings could possess.
There are 6,912 languages in the world and more than 500 of those are extinct.  English is in the top 10 spoken languages, but it isn't number one. Let's remember there are roughly 190 countries in the world and America isn't the largest. There is the geography portion of this blog. 
I know I have had more experiences traveling and seeing the world than many have or ever will. However, from personal experience, take my word that it isn't easy. I'll give you a brief story on my first hand experience with the burden of language and why I believe we should be more accepting.
In Rome, we were leaving an opera show and split into two groups to catch a cab back to our hotel. Rule number one about traveling in a country where you don't speak their native language is to always carry a hotel business card so you can simply show it to your cab driver. Well, of course this night we did not. We wound up getting lost, meanwhile, a fellow friend was gripping about the fare steadily increasing as we continued driving around lost. The cab driver was frustrated right along with us and I'm sure all he wanted was these obnoxious American girls out of his cab. He didn't speak a lick of English and we didn't speak a lick of Italian. The only thing I knew to say was, "mi dispiace." This means "I'm sorry," in Italian. The situation was scary, yet eye-opening. I now know how every Spanish speaking person I bitched about for not knowing English felt when I was rude to them. 
I'll end by saying we (Americans) should remember that in the beginning, America was the place to come to escape persecution. Now it appears to be the number one country for ridiculing people who stand out. We have it in our minds that America means English. That isn't true. We are a melting pot, at least we were at one point. Let's try to remember that the next time some one says "si," instead of " yes." 
And take note that Coca-Cola was simply saying everyone one enjoys a nice, refreshing Coca-Cola; regardless of who you are. :) And maybe, just maybe, it was encouragement to be more open minded. I mean, other than baseball and apple pie, there isn't anything much more All-American than Coca-Cola. It's a classic, after all. ;)

Junkies and addicts

We are all aware of the tragic and sudden loss of actor, Phillip Seymour Hoffman known for his roles in more films than I care to list today. My personal favorite is his role as Truman Capote in the film Capote. I may be biased because that is one of my favorite books, but nonetheless he did a phenomenal job!
I'm not an actress, aspiring actress or big fan of theater (or movies even,) but this blog isn't necessarily about the greatness that is, and always will be, Phillip Seymour Hoffman.
Before I write anything further, let me clarify that I am not bashing Phil in any way, shape or form. My blog is merely something for people to consider.
Hoffman overdosed on heroine, after becoming sober 20 years ago then recently battling his addiction again in the last several years. 
This morning I was scrolling through the Twitter feed of trending #PhillipSeymourHoffman tweets. I came across one that grasped my attention and has yet to leave me. I attempted to scroll back through the feed moments ago, but that trending topic has since become invisible in the 5,000+ tweets posted in the past 24 hours. 
I'll paraphrase, but the tweet read something like, "an actor overdoses and it's tragic; everyone else we just label junkies."
I thought to myself, "Wow, this guy is 100 percent right."
I guess I never gave it much thought before because any time a celerity dies, regardless of their stardom, it's always a "sad" or "tragic" loss.
Off the top of my head, I can name 20 celebrities who died too young, or in general, from drug overdose. And I am quite terrible with pop culture. 
For pete's sake, my musical idol died popping pills "on the toilet," (as my friends like to tortuously remind me.)
I'm not saying these icons and public figures whose deaths occur from overdose aren't tragic because they are. However, the prostitute in the run-down motel room, the homeless guy on the street and the troubled teenager we label as junkies are also tragic deaths.
We have a tendency of putting celebrities on a pedestal, which is normal human behavior. However, let's not forget they are simply human.   
Lets not reject their humanity because they never made an iconic impact on the world between highs. Think whatever you will of humans and their drug abuse addictions or problems, and call them junkies if you must, but just remember any death caused by the inability to limit ones self or say no is a tragedy.

A mile, or so, in a prisoner's shoes

Per request of a former professor, I am rummaging through old stories and articles from college to send for her students to read as examples and I came across one of my personal favorites. Since I wasn't a blogger in these days I thought I would post it. If you have nothing better to do than read this I highly encourage it. If you know me, you know I feel strongly about the justice system, prison life, death row and much more regarding criminal justice. This story I wrote for a class as a feature article after my second field trip to Angola (Louisiana State Penitentiary.) After reading this, I think you will realize there is more to Angola than hand-carved furniture, paintings and one helluva rodeo. This story explains fairly in-depth why I feel the way i do about criminal justice and why, shortly before moving to NYC, I applied to grad school to earn a master's in CJ. Here goes...

A mile, or so, in a prisoner’s shoes

At the end of LA Highway 66 near St. Francisville, La, sits an 18,000-acre gated community.

This community bares beautiful gardens with bright purple petunias and roses, a deep blood-red. A nine-hole golf course is adjacent to the cemetery that is neatly lined with headstones engraved for former residents. Fields of wheat sway gently in the acres surrounding the enormous livestock population. Little white chapels populate the community for residents to worship in.

What mars this otherwise picture perfect scene are the razor sharp wires that glisten in the warm spring sunshine.

Louisiana State Penitentiary, Angola, is the largest maximum security prison in the nation.

I am in a white school bus now with 15 fellow journalism students, and our professor, Dr. Beth, preparing to tour this beautiful community.

The bus drives down a blacktop road lined with Cypress trees carrying us to the first stop on our tour, the dormitories.

Mary Anthony, classification manager at Angola and our personal tour guide began telling us facts as the bus rode along.

“Of the 5,218 inmates incarcerated, more than 3,800 are serving life sentences, and will never experience freedom again,” she said.

Life sentences in Louisiana are natural life sentences without parole.

“Most of them die here, and most of their families can’t afford funerals so they are buried here, too.”

Angola has prisoners ranging from age 18 to 80 plus years old.

This is my second trip to Angola, and I was really looking forward to a replay of my last visit. Unfortunately, I did not realize this trip included a full tour of the prison until we got there because I had just tagged along with Dr. Beth and her class. The day turned out to be something I was not quite emotionally prepared for.

My first visit to Angola consisted of a three-hour seminar with The Angolite staff in a secluded classroom. The Angolite is Louisiana State Penitentiary’s award-winning magazine written, edited and published by a staff of inmates.  I was really close minded to the realities of prison then. I suppose I could blame my conservative, southern Baptist raising to the attitude I had then. A trip to Angola is a sure fire way to open up a persons mind.

The layout of the dormitory, oddly enough, reminded me of summer camp, but with grown men in uniforms. The dormitory shelters 90 men. Rows of bunk beds lined the room with trunks on each end for the prisoner’s personal belongings, if he has any. The bunks were immaculately made and shoes were paired up beneath each bunk in a straight line. There are a lot of loafs of bread, and I think to myself that they must snack on a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  

Already I am annoyed by this tour. We are not allowed to talk to the prisoner’s but it is okay for us to walk through their home and gawk at them like zoo animals.

We left the dormitories and headed to the hospice area. A hospice nurse, whose name I have forgotten, spoke with us about how hospice came about, why and when. Then, she showed us a trailer for the upcoming documentary that is going to be shown on TV. At that moment, the tears involuntarily poured down my already red, heat-stricken cheeks.

Prisoners are people, too. I just wish everyone on the outside understood that the way Angola does, thanks to Warden Cain.  

I voluntarily stayed behind with Dr. Beth while the other students strolled through the hospital quarters. I knew what to expect in there, and that was something I was not brave enough to witness.

Next comes the best part of the tour that I had long anticipated. At the end of a hallway, there are offices full of books, old computers and journalists. These journalists are prisoners. Trustees, prisoners who have good conduct and have been incarcerated for at least seven years, make up the staff of The Angolite. The magazine is written solely by its eight-member inmate staff.

I stood toward the back, leaned against a countertop and began taking notes while Kerry Myers, editor of The Angolite serving a life sentence, began talking to us.

He wore blue jeans, a maroon Angolite T-shirt, clean, white New Balance sneakers and a gold chain necklace. He looked like any man you’d see on the outside.

Myers talked about the magazine not being a general news magazine, but a criminal justice magazine. He said the staff covers the prison and tries to reveal what the mainstream media does not.

“Mainstream media does not dig deep enough, they just take the governments word as truth and regurgitate it,” he said.

Their magazine makes a person think beyond the limits of mainstream media, which Myers said is managed corporately, not journalistically.

He talked about the staff’s limited resources. They have no Internet access and rely on books, outside sources, other prisoners and their own knowledge to write their stories.

“We have a lot of freedom, but we’re still in prison,” Myers said.

Myers, a 15-year veteran of The Angolite staff, said the staff takes pride in their job, and not just anyone can be part of the crew.

“The pool is broad but not deep,” he said. “We have to know everyone here can be trusted and has the same goal, and that’s the magazine.”

The eight men work together day and night to produce their award-winning magazine.

One of the students asked Myers how long he had been there and he replied, “21 years today.”

The date seemed irrelevant to me, until now. It was Tuesday, April 5, 2011.

I am only 21 years old, as of a month ago. I was 13 days old when he came through Angola’s gates. I do not know Kerry Myers personally, and I had no idea who he was until last October when I first visited Angola. Regardless, it doesn’t seem fair that he has spent, what is to me, an entire lifetime in prison.

I cried a little inside because I had already realized this last October when I visited Angola, but it took me this long to remember the sad thought.

John Corley, another lifer and Angolite staff member, was still there. I met Corley on my first visit to Angola and couldn’t forget him since he is a fellow die-hard Elvis Presley fan such as me. Leave it to me to find that out in a five-minute conversation.  

I shook his hand and told him I was glad to see him again and asked how he had been.

Thinking back that seems like a moronic question to ask a man who is serving a life sentence in prison and essentially has the same daily routine.

The day was depressingly steady as we moved from site to site of the prison, and it never got happier.

Our next stop was the old execution and lock down area known as “Red Hat Cell Block.” Mrs. Anthony informed us that this was where prisoners were sent for punishment when the prison first evolved. They were stripped of their clothes and feed through food slots in the door and sometimes 12 men were piled into one eight by eight holding cell.

Directly next to these cells is the former execution room.

In front of the execution chair is standing room for the public who came to watch executions. Public executions ended in 1973 and Ms. Anthony said that 65 men and one woman were legally executed in that room from 1957 to 1973. She put a lot of emphasis on legally.

The next building we toured was apparently newly erected and resembled the entrance of an elementary school, and for whatever reason I remember the distinct smell of freshly-baked blueberry muffins. I had no idea where we were until someone informed me… We’d arrived at death row.

Inside we walked through a set of doors and proceeded down a hallway that had phone booths and visiting rooms to the left. Ms. Anthony informed us that four times a year, death row prisoners are allowed a visitor, if they are really good.

At the end of the hallway, another door leads into death row. In the center is a round room enclosed by glass with computers and what I assume to be security, surveillances and what-not. The room serves as the center of the building where hallways extend like rays of sunshine, but really the hallways are more like blades on a razor-sharp saw.

I tell Dr. Beth I do not want to walk down the death row hallway, but she insists I cannot truly know how disgusting it is until I go.

So I follow her, and the rest of the students. In a single file line we walk to the end, turn around and return in the same fashion. Again, unable to speak to the prisoner’s, but able to gawk at them like zoo animals.

Again, the tears involuntarily stream down my face, faster and longer. I am disgusted not only with the system, but with myself. I didn’t need to walk the plank to know how disgustingly heartbreaking that was going to be.

There are 83 death row inmates who spend 23 hours a day in their cell and are allowed one hour outside for exercise, twice a week. The exercise area is set up in a small, fenced in area that looks like batting cages. Each cage has a basketball hoop. Their shower stalls are in their cellblock, so they really see nothing but death row. The only sign of life they see in a day, aside from a guard, gawking tourists or fellow inmates passing by is a thin line of trees and grass barely visible through the thick iron bars. It is tragic, and I am slightly nauseous at this point.

There is one more stop on our tour and I can’t even fathom what is left to show in such a hell. Well, of course it only gets worse. Not far from death row is the execution room. Again we are at the end of a hallway. To our right is where the victim’s family, lawyers, etc., sit and watch the inmate die, by lethal injection, through a glass window.

Directly in front of us we proceed through to the room which holds the lethal injection table. An execution table looks exactly like one would imagine or see in a movie. Gray and bleak, with three thick, burgundy-brown colored straps, two at the feet and one around the waste to restrain the inmate. If you need any more of a visual you can watch Dead Man Walking which was filmed at Angola in the late ‘90s.

Angola has used this table since 1991. Eight people have been executed since then.

Inside the execution room, there is a reaper (as I choose to call him.) He is inside a smaller room within the execution room and no one ever sees him except the prisoner facing execution and the warden standing beside the prisoner, but only once the curtains close over the large glass exhibition window. The reaper then comes out, injects the euthanasia, and returns to the closet-sized room and almost instantly, the prisoner is dead.  

Why Hobby Lobby won't have to shut down

Here is where my inner nerd and love for Constitutional Law comes out! 
As a lover and supporter of all things controversial (usually,) Constitutional Law (I & II) turned out to be my two favorite, most challenging, classes in college. I kept these 1,000 page books and at the time I had no idea why. Now I do. I have so many marginal notes and highlights throughout every page of these two books that you'd think I bought them used. Well, I didn't. I'm browsing Facebook, as I do every day, and come across the Hobby Lobby article floating around. The light goes off in my head and I take action and drag out those Con Law books I love so much to let my followers now why they don't need to panic. Or perhaps why they should provided a little legal knowledge.
I am going to attempt to give my legal viewpoint of why Hobby Lobby can win this case, based on former Supreme Court decisions based on the opposite of what Hobby Lobby's case is. In a nutshell, a new government healthcare mandate wants Hobby Lobby's insurance/health plan to cover "emergency contraceptives," such as the morning-after and week-after pill. As a Christian based company it is against their religious beliefs to support such a pill.  
From a legal standpoint, here is why Hobby Lobby won't be closing down, folks:

• Hobby Lobby has, "with great reluctance," filed suit to a federal court in request to stop the mandate. I'm not saying Hobby Lobby is going to win because they've filed a suit, that doesn't mean bologna in the system. However, if they lose at whichever court they initially filed, there is no doubt in my mind this case could go to the Supreme Court (if it isn't settled at the district courts first.) For those who find the whole court system, branches of government, etc., extremely complicated (as I do,) this website can help! 
• This case could potentially become the first, of many, from this new government health mandate (which most likely stems from Obama care, but don't take my word because I haven't researched that much.) 
• The American people, the media and the Supreme Court love these types of controversial cases. Here are some former cases that are semi-oppositely related to Hobby Lobby's case, but could potentially help them. 
• Poe v. Ullman (1960)- This case was dismissed by The Supreme Court, however, was significant in future cases regarding the use and selling of contraceptives. 
• Griswold v. Connecticut (1965) - In this case, a Connecticut law prohibited medical contraceptives, even the counseling of use, a criminal act: for married couples. Thanks to the Bill of Rights and the right to privacy, the Connecticut law was overturned.
• Since Roe v. Wade (1971,)  to date probably one of the most controversial cases in Supreme Court history, the issue of abortion has become a key player in politics. Being pro-life or pro-choice is an everyday question that is the root of many discussions and conflicts. In this Supreme Court decision, the privacy act established in Griswold v. Connecticut was put to use. "This right of privacy, whether it be founded in the 14th Amendment...., is broad enough to encompass a woman's decision whether or not to terminate her pregnancy." Before the case of Roe v. Wade, pregnancies were only allowed to be terminated if the mother's life was in danger. 
• So, historically, all the above listed cases are foundations for other cases regarding the use, selling and counsel of contraceptives and the legal acceptance of abortion. Although it is 2014 and these cases seem ancient, they are helpful. I don't know that Hobby Lobby would choose to directly use them in their argument, but, they provide hope. 

Here is how it breaks down. Basically, the Constitution and anything pertinent to this country and its government was founded on our forefather's religious beliefs. If you don't believe that then you have obviously never read any historic document or a letter written by George Washington or Thomas Jefferson. Were the forefather's beliefs right in today's standards? Absolutely not, and that is why our Constitution has Amendments that change with the times. Were our forefather's wrong? Not entirely, but they lived hundreds of years ago and America has come a long way from The Revolutionary War, tacky wigs, and ink-dipped feather pens.
I say all of that to say, if the above listed cases can be passed because of religion (in a sense), Hobby Lobby's case could allow them to be omitted from the healthcare mandate for the same purposes. Religious cases are a continually recurring issue in the Supreme Court, yet every one is examined differently. 

On a personal basis, here is why I see Hobby Lobby coming through:

• They are a Christian-founded, family-owned business. Yes, they are a huge company now, but they stick to what they believe. 
• I don't support religious persecution, but I don't believe a government has the right to make demands and force a company to diss their beliefs because the government deems it fit.
• If you've ever been to a Hobby Lobby you know they are a Christian-based organization for two reasons: 
• They are always playing Christian music, mostly old hymns or newer renditions of old hymns. 
• Secondly, they are never opened on Sundays and you know it even though you drive half way across town before you realize it. 

• If you work anywhere and you seriously want your insurance to cover, over-the-counter, morning-after or week-after pills, you are absurd. I am pro-choice, but that's a bit tacky in my opinion. 
• I am pro-choice, but as I said, I don't approve the government butting into a company like Hobby Lobby expecting them to abide by this mandate. Morning-after pills are completely different from other forms of contraception. Get real people!