Post by meg on Jan 14, 2009 15:24:12 GMT 10
[/size]`harper leigh whittier-campbell!!!
intellectual . caring . free-spirited
Name: Harper Leigh Whittier-Campbell. (Her parents had to be forward-thinking and hyphenate; sometimes she thinks of dropping a name or two.)
Nickname(s): Harp, Witty, Wit, etc.
Major: Writing (or maybe Journalism, really; it’s an awfully big decision, she thinks.)
Age: Nineteen.
Grade: Sophomore.
Birthdate: May 8th, 1989.
Orientation: Straight.
Location: Jacksonville, FL.
`Appearance ,,
Harper is an easy sort of pretty. She doesn’t spend terribly long on how she looks in the morning, leaving her with a casual air of natural beauty, with just a hint of polish. There isn’t a single feature on her face that in itself is strikingly beautiful, but, together, they all seem to fit seamlessly. Her eyes are a warm brown, with the corners often crinkled from the slight smile that graces her face, and her hair – still undecided whether it is blonde or brown, straight or waved – falls just to her shoulders, carefree. Her skin is pale and smooth, and Harper’s decided it blushes far too easily.
She stands somewhere between 5’6’’ and 5’7’’, a little taller than most, but just barely. She has a thin frame, more fit than curved. At one point in high school, she was thinner – too thin – and uncomfortable with her physique. But college (with so many boys who think she’s pretty, who want her body and without so many of those horribly plastic, unreal girls like on television ads) has made things better. And, because Harper shops as stress relief, she’s been forced to recognize that clothing does look nice on her figure. Though she has a good sense of style, her day to day clothes at college are overwhelmingly casual because, let’s face it, people are lazy at school, and she’d rather be comfortable, if she’s spending the day in class.
Harper is an easy sort of pretty. She doesn’t spend terribly long on how she looks in the morning, leaving her with a casual air of natural beauty, with just a hint of polish. There isn’t a single feature on her face that in itself is strikingly beautiful, but, together, they all seem to fit seamlessly. Her eyes are a warm brown, with the corners often crinkled from the slight smile that graces her face, and her hair – still undecided whether it is blonde or brown, straight or waved – falls just to her shoulders, carefree. Her skin is pale and smooth, and Harper’s decided it blushes far too easily.
She stands somewhere between 5’6’’ and 5’7’’, a little taller than most, but just barely. She has a thin frame, more fit than curved. At one point in high school, she was thinner – too thin – and uncomfortable with her physique. But college (with so many boys who think she’s pretty, who want her body and without so many of those horribly plastic, unreal girls like on television ads) has made things better. And, because Harper shops as stress relief, she’s been forced to recognize that clothing does look nice on her figure. Though she has a good sense of style, her day to day clothes at college are overwhelmingly casual because, let’s face it, people are lazy at school, and she’d rather be comfortable, if she’s spending the day in class.
Best Feature: “Well, you know, sometimes when people are being nice, they’ll say things like, “oh, your skin’s so even, like porcelain,” or whatever. And it is, I guess. But my favorite thing is, when you lean in really close, there are freckles across the bridge of my nose, see? It’s like, you could spend all this time looking at me and never even see them, until you’re right up in my face. It’s hidden. I’ve always liked that.”
Worst Feature: “I’ve never understood this, really. Take Hanna – my sister – she’s only a sophomore in high school, but she has these ridiculous boobs. I swear, they’re huge. So you’d think that mine would be ridiculously, mindblowingly huge like Hanna’s, too. But no. In fact, they’re so small they’re practically concave. They’re, what, a 32B on a good day?”[/size]
`Personality ,,
Perhaps more important than the fact that Harper is intelligent is that it is a characteristic that she finds important about herself. When she’s in the worst of moods or when nothing seems to be going her way, she finds happiness that there’s that spark of curiousity, a voracious desire to know more. Imagining a perfect day, Harper sees herself curled up in an armchair in a small coffee shop with a novel or book of poetry, reading her cares away. In her childhood, she was always precocious, driven by the competition of being smart and of knowing things, but, now, she’s grown simply to love knowledge. Like Plato says, there’s no greater beauty than that of intellectual truth. Still, Harper hopes that she won’t end up as a stuffy sort of academic; she’d much rather use her love of knowing to bring about some good in the world, as impossible as it sometimes seems.
It’s no secret that Harper loves people. She has the sort of personality that just exudes caring, a desire to help. Harper is one of those sorts of people that actually gets a thrill out of fixing peoples’ problems or being a shoulder to lean on. She’ll often put others’ needs before her own (her therapist says it’s a coping mechanism; she shrugs him off), and, especially in high school, she was the girl people would confide in, even if she didn’t know them. Still, having someone you don’t know show you their scars from cutting, it takes an emotional drain, and a little bit of Harper needs gratification. She has the façade of not needing people, not being affected by indifference, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she likes caring for and about people. It’s probably worthwhile to mention that baking is among her favorite activities – and she always shares.
Harper actually hates the term free-spirited; it’s a little soppy, in her opinion. And does she have opinions. Harper does what she wants and says what she wants, convention to the wind. While she doesn’t run around like the town crazy, she isn’t driven by what other people think. She would rather have an argument and hold her opinion against a crowd of people than pretend to agree. When she isn’t riled up, this gives her a general feeling of content with herself because she isn’t ashamed of how she acts or feels. In general, Harper knows what she wants and can usually think of how to get it.
Really, more than anything, Harper’s an enigma.
Perhaps more important than the fact that Harper is intelligent is that it is a characteristic that she finds important about herself. When she’s in the worst of moods or when nothing seems to be going her way, she finds happiness that there’s that spark of curiousity, a voracious desire to know more. Imagining a perfect day, Harper sees herself curled up in an armchair in a small coffee shop with a novel or book of poetry, reading her cares away. In her childhood, she was always precocious, driven by the competition of being smart and of knowing things, but, now, she’s grown simply to love knowledge. Like Plato says, there’s no greater beauty than that of intellectual truth. Still, Harper hopes that she won’t end up as a stuffy sort of academic; she’d much rather use her love of knowing to bring about some good in the world, as impossible as it sometimes seems.
It’s no secret that Harper loves people. She has the sort of personality that just exudes caring, a desire to help. Harper is one of those sorts of people that actually gets a thrill out of fixing peoples’ problems or being a shoulder to lean on. She’ll often put others’ needs before her own (her therapist says it’s a coping mechanism; she shrugs him off), and, especially in high school, she was the girl people would confide in, even if she didn’t know them. Still, having someone you don’t know show you their scars from cutting, it takes an emotional drain, and a little bit of Harper needs gratification. She has the façade of not needing people, not being affected by indifference, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she likes caring for and about people. It’s probably worthwhile to mention that baking is among her favorite activities – and she always shares.
Harper actually hates the term free-spirited; it’s a little soppy, in her opinion. And does she have opinions. Harper does what she wants and says what she wants, convention to the wind. While she doesn’t run around like the town crazy, she isn’t driven by what other people think. She would rather have an argument and hold her opinion against a crowd of people than pretend to agree. When she isn’t riled up, this gives her a general feeling of content with herself because she isn’t ashamed of how she acts or feels. In general, Harper knows what she wants and can usually think of how to get it.
Really, more than anything, Harper’s an enigma.
Likes: thunderstorms, modern art, parties, sunrises, writing – especially creative non-fiction, scribbling on napkins, knitting, running, cats, libraries, hidden corners of campus, the beach, studying in armchairs, being a vegetarian, getting lost alone in big cities, cooking, people-watching, sleeping in late, satire, activism, guitar, coloring books, cherry chapstick, that fresh shower smell of soap mingling with baby powder, roller coasters, living the life (you know which).
Dislikes: war, John Irving novels, patriarchy (really, you try having two last names and filling out any important paperwork), Jacksonville, telephones, people who just accept things without thinking, technology – especially computers, sad movies, saying retarded to mean stupid, small talk, oatmeal raisin cookies, television, those people who are always saying things like, “omg, baby I loooove you soooo much” and can’t stop holding hands long enough to go through doors.
Positive Traits: Sweet. Frankly, it’s hard to dislike Harper. She’s never intentionally mean toward anyone, unless someone has been intentionally hurtful or disregarding toward her. Even then, she tries to keep it civil, and she almost never gossips. She just has a gentle way about her.
Introverted. While Harper has good people skills, she just doesn’t feel the need to be friends with everyone or to strike up a conversation. Although she enjoys friends and parties as much as the next person (probably more, really, seeing her love of helping people), she’s happy spending time by herself, too.
Silly. Or perhaps, crazy – but in the best way possible. For all of the pragmatism Harper tries to have in her life and all the responsibility that seems to be heaped on her, there are just the little moments that sneak out where suddenly she’s 12 years old again. In middle school, she and her group of friends decided in history class that castles should be an extended analogy for sex – while the class was watching a series of education videos on exactly that. (Castles, not sex, unfortunately.) Sometimes, Harper still dies laughing when someone mentions a castle, forgetting that no one else is in on the joke. But really, nothing’s better than laughing.
Negative Traits: Realistic. That is to say, pessimistic. Harper says she just likes to see things the way they are, get her hopes down before someone else does. She doesn’t have much hope that world peace will ever really happen or that relationships work out well in the end – although this doesn’t stop her from trying. She wants to be an optimist, really, but sometimes it’s hard.
Stubborn. It’s the natural flipside of having strong, carefree opinions. Once Harper decides something, it’s decided; arguing with her will probably just solidify her opinion, instead of changing it. She can talk herself into logic and refuse to give it up. The only time people might get actually angry at her – as opposed to just frustrated – is when her headstrong nature clashes with them.
Neurotic. Just a little bit, really. It’s just, she has a thing for making lists. And a lot of other unhealthy personal habits. And, okay, sometime’s she’s a little bit anxious. But it’s alright, or at least it’s going to be, she thinks. Everyone has quirks; Harper’s accepted hers, mostly. When she says things, though, sometimes, her therapist looks a little astonished, and it’s always really bothered her. Harper thinks he should be happy, though, knowing he has a patient for at least the next thirty years – some things that are broke you just can’t fix. Still, most of the time, Harper feels pretty good, all things considered.
Greatest Ambition: Although she's a writing major, Harper isn't looking to write the next great American novel. She wants to write to affect peoples' lives and make them think of the world. She doesn't want to spend her time behind a desk; she'd rather be out walking the streets.
Greatest Fear: Harper's continually afraid of being controlled or boxed in because she values her sense of independence and self. Her greatest fear is having her wrist turned, especially by men.[/size]
`History ,,
Harper likes to imagine that May 8, 1989 was a beautiful day, with the sun high in the sky and the birds outside, singing cheerful songs, when the world was first graced with her presence. Of course, this was probably not the case, as Dr. Whittier-Campbell (the female one – a cinematographer who at thirty decided that she would rather be a radiologist and went back to medical school) struggled painfully to force a child into the world while Dr. Whittier-Campbell (the male one – always certain he wanted to deal with trauma, suturing other people back together) paced anxiously, strangely close to passing out for a man who routinely dealt with carnage in his career. But, a few hours later, Harper was born, and that was all that mattered.
Four years and some odd months later, Hanna, followed suit. A couple years would pass, and, with two fully working parents who loved their jobs (complete with odd and exhausting hours), Hanna became a playmate at Harper’s disposal, like a stuffed animal to hug and dress. Now, Harper laughs with a little bit of embarrassment at the stories they have of their early childhoods. Hanna still won’t let go of the time when Harper was eight and gave her the ultimatum: play dolls with me, or I’m moving out. It wasn’t until Harper was out the door, suitcase in hand, that Hanna screamed for her to please come back, that she would play dolls.
By seventh grade, Hanna was annoying, but, worse than that, they read To Kill a Mockingbird in English class. It was then that the jokes started. “Your name’s Harper Lee? Your parents really liked that dumb book!” “No, it’s Leigh, L-E-I-G-H, not L-E-E, and it’s not a dumb book, anyway.” People have never let that one go, really. While she used to correct people, Harper now just sighs and says, “Yes, Leigh like the book.” It’s one less battle to pick, really. And, by the time she was in high school, Harper – at that point academic, quiet, with far less understanding of the way anatomies meld than she does now – had a lot of battles to pick with the people around her. Beyond a few close friends, she never quite felt like she fit in, and living with her parents, especially her mother, was always an ordeal. And, by that point, Hanna was outgoing with far too many loud, obnoxious friends whom, of course, her parents adored, when they were even around.
But then college happened. Wonderful college, with its wonderful people. A change was what she needed, after the trial by fire that was high school, and WUofA provided. The first two weeks of school are still among the happiest and most carefree of her life. Still, she looks forward to breaks, if only to see Hanna. Somehow, the whole distance thing has reminded her that her sister is, if annoying at times, lovely – and hers. They have understanding. And, Harper doesn’t doubt that her sister would still chase her into the streets to bring her back. She not only loves Hanna but genuinely likes her and tries her hardest to protect her. And, all right, things are a little bit messed up at home right now, but Harper has her distance, and she's going to take it all in stride, anyway. (Therapy helps some, too.)
Harper likes to imagine that May 8, 1989 was a beautiful day, with the sun high in the sky and the birds outside, singing cheerful songs, when the world was first graced with her presence. Of course, this was probably not the case, as Dr. Whittier-Campbell (the female one – a cinematographer who at thirty decided that she would rather be a radiologist and went back to medical school) struggled painfully to force a child into the world while Dr. Whittier-Campbell (the male one – always certain he wanted to deal with trauma, suturing other people back together) paced anxiously, strangely close to passing out for a man who routinely dealt with carnage in his career. But, a few hours later, Harper was born, and that was all that mattered.
Four years and some odd months later, Hanna, followed suit. A couple years would pass, and, with two fully working parents who loved their jobs (complete with odd and exhausting hours), Hanna became a playmate at Harper’s disposal, like a stuffed animal to hug and dress. Now, Harper laughs with a little bit of embarrassment at the stories they have of their early childhoods. Hanna still won’t let go of the time when Harper was eight and gave her the ultimatum: play dolls with me, or I’m moving out. It wasn’t until Harper was out the door, suitcase in hand, that Hanna screamed for her to please come back, that she would play dolls.
By seventh grade, Hanna was annoying, but, worse than that, they read To Kill a Mockingbird in English class. It was then that the jokes started. “Your name’s Harper Lee? Your parents really liked that dumb book!” “No, it’s Leigh, L-E-I-G-H, not L-E-E, and it’s not a dumb book, anyway.” People have never let that one go, really. While she used to correct people, Harper now just sighs and says, “Yes, Leigh like the book.” It’s one less battle to pick, really. And, by the time she was in high school, Harper – at that point academic, quiet, with far less understanding of the way anatomies meld than she does now – had a lot of battles to pick with the people around her. Beyond a few close friends, she never quite felt like she fit in, and living with her parents, especially her mother, was always an ordeal. And, by that point, Hanna was outgoing with far too many loud, obnoxious friends whom, of course, her parents adored, when they were even around.
But then college happened. Wonderful college, with its wonderful people. A change was what she needed, after the trial by fire that was high school, and WUofA provided. The first two weeks of school are still among the happiest and most carefree of her life. Still, she looks forward to breaks, if only to see Hanna. Somehow, the whole distance thing has reminded her that her sister is, if annoying at times, lovely – and hers. They have understanding. And, Harper doesn’t doubt that her sister would still chase her into the streets to bring her back. She not only loves Hanna but genuinely likes her and tries her hardest to protect her. And, all right, things are a little bit messed up at home right now, but Harper has her distance, and she's going to take it all in stride, anyway. (Therapy helps some, too.)
Best Memory: It’s funny, really, the way favorite memories are rarely the most important things that happen, or even things that really matter at all. Looking back, there are just little moments that stick in her mind. It was after midnight, probably, and she was in the passenger seat of her friend Rachel’s car, and they were driving back from something, a party maybe – what doesn’t seem important anymore. The point, really, was that it was senior year of high school, and it was February, and they were lost. Rachel pulled into the parking lot of a rundown gas station (and, really, all the best stories have rundown gas stations in the middle of the night) to try to figure anything out about where they could possibly be when Harper heard it. The faint, faint sound of waves crashing against the shore that’s never terribly far off when you live in Jacksonville. She suggested that they just go to the beach and wait until the sunrise because, “well, there’s nothing better to do at this point, anyway.” So they did. Harper can’t remember the conversations they had at five in the morning, but she knows that they were close they way all conversations with your best friend go. And she can still imagine that sunrise, a warm yellow sun changing the sky from blue to purple, pink, orange, and then, suddenly, blue again. Then, of course, they went out to breakfast, as if that had been the plan all along.
Worst Memory: Later, Harper would find it strange that the first thing she noticed when she entered the bathroom was not the stench of alcohol, nauseating in its sheer strength – or even why the light was on, anyway – but that her skin looked so pale in the mirror, she looked so sickly under the harsh fluorescent lights. And then, in seconds – in lightyears, her hand grabbed at the counter and the muscles of her delicate arm clenched to support her wavering weight as the overwhelming assault of alcohol skipped her senses and went, instead, straight to her brain to leave her dizzy. It was then, finally, that her eyes found what, perhaps, she should have noticed all along. She doesn’t talk about it, now. It’s been a few months; she’s back in school for a new year, now, away from the mess. But, even when her therapist asks, she doesn’t describe the moment when she vomits, when her brain seems to shut down all logical functions, when she can’t even think to dial emergency, when she suddenly finds herself whispering, then screaming, fuck until it’s not a word but a sound her mouth can form. The next week (the one after the hospital, spent making jokes with Hanna they’ve both forgotten, with their father sitting patiently, anxiously with his hands on the bridge of his nose) she set the parental controls on the television – oh, the irony – to block the news channels from showing any more distant suffering.
[/size]
`Writing Skill ,,
At this hour in the night, the brightly-lit parlor room, decorated pretentiously with antiqued furniture and portraits of former college presidents, is conspicuously empty; the tick of the grandfather clock is deafening, as it marks the seconds passing. The roar of drunken Thursday night festivities – a stream of confused song lyrics (“bye, my Miss American Spy”) and incomprehensible shouts – can be heard in the distance, but she tries to block it out, curling deeper into a plush gray armchair, reading nestled in her lap.
It’s hard, though. There’s something tempting about the release from the taste of alcohol as it burns down her throat and the smell of sweat as bodies melt together in the hazy darkness. It’s so easy, she thinks, to become wrapped up, lost in that world where nothing exists beyond the here and now. But she has class early tomorrow morning, and this reading isn’t going to read itself, and she’s giving all that up, anyway, she tells herself. Because the fading visceral bruises on her collarbone don’t mean anything, and, even if she felt pretty then, she certainly doesn’t now as they peek from behind the edge of her shirt like an indication of what kind of girl she really is. But, since Adam (and that was a year ago, and he’s in grad school now, and it’s almost as though junior spring didn’t happen, and she can pretend that nothing was ever wrong) she can’t bring herself to look for anything more, anything real. It all turns out the same way in the end.
The clock lets out a single deep dong, one fifteen. Her faint brow, meticulously tweezed in the bathroom when no one is around, furrows at the passing of time, and she forces her large green eyes, once described much to her dismay as googlie, now drooping with tiredness, open again with a put-on sigh. Bony fingers card their way into her sloppily pulled back hair, and she leans more forward over her reading, as though this change in posture will suddenly make a stuffy academic’s rambling thoughts on political sociology (“my aim in this concise essay is to make clear the way in which power emerges and is …”) comprehensible.
She might as well give up, she knows, and wing it in discussion tomorrow, but she can’t help but feel disinclined to return to her dorm quite yet. As appealing as her bed sounds as she pictures it in her mind, she also knows that returning to her dorm means an inevitably horrible repeat of last weekend. And, frankly, she just isn’t in the mood to spend another night with a wildly drunken Addie, despite the sweet pea and best friend that she normally is, listening to her moans of, “Why did he break up with me, Zoooooeeeee? Wasn’t I goooood enough for him? Oh Zoe, I’m so drunk right now, sooo drunk, I think I’m gonna be sick…”
She didn’t have any answers then, and, a week later, she still doesn’t. She can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever have anything worthwhile to say, except that he probably just wasn’t happy (and she knows not being happy and can’t bring herself to regret ending it with Adam, no matter how much he and his friends made her try), and that isn’t likely to make Addie feel any better. In frustration, she tugs at the roots of her feathery hair.
When the clock chimes again, one thirty now, Zoe doesn’t even hear it.
[/size][/center]At this hour in the night, the brightly-lit parlor room, decorated pretentiously with antiqued furniture and portraits of former college presidents, is conspicuously empty; the tick of the grandfather clock is deafening, as it marks the seconds passing. The roar of drunken Thursday night festivities – a stream of confused song lyrics (“bye, my Miss American Spy”) and incomprehensible shouts – can be heard in the distance, but she tries to block it out, curling deeper into a plush gray armchair, reading nestled in her lap.
It’s hard, though. There’s something tempting about the release from the taste of alcohol as it burns down her throat and the smell of sweat as bodies melt together in the hazy darkness. It’s so easy, she thinks, to become wrapped up, lost in that world where nothing exists beyond the here and now. But she has class early tomorrow morning, and this reading isn’t going to read itself, and she’s giving all that up, anyway, she tells herself. Because the fading visceral bruises on her collarbone don’t mean anything, and, even if she felt pretty then, she certainly doesn’t now as they peek from behind the edge of her shirt like an indication of what kind of girl she really is. But, since Adam (and that was a year ago, and he’s in grad school now, and it’s almost as though junior spring didn’t happen, and she can pretend that nothing was ever wrong) she can’t bring herself to look for anything more, anything real. It all turns out the same way in the end.
The clock lets out a single deep dong, one fifteen. Her faint brow, meticulously tweezed in the bathroom when no one is around, furrows at the passing of time, and she forces her large green eyes, once described much to her dismay as googlie, now drooping with tiredness, open again with a put-on sigh. Bony fingers card their way into her sloppily pulled back hair, and she leans more forward over her reading, as though this change in posture will suddenly make a stuffy academic’s rambling thoughts on political sociology (“my aim in this concise essay is to make clear the way in which power emerges and is …”) comprehensible.
She might as well give up, she knows, and wing it in discussion tomorrow, but she can’t help but feel disinclined to return to her dorm quite yet. As appealing as her bed sounds as she pictures it in her mind, she also knows that returning to her dorm means an inevitably horrible repeat of last weekend. And, frankly, she just isn’t in the mood to spend another night with a wildly drunken Addie, despite the sweet pea and best friend that she normally is, listening to her moans of, “Why did he break up with me, Zoooooeeeee? Wasn’t I goooood enough for him? Oh Zoe, I’m so drunk right now, sooo drunk, I think I’m gonna be sick…”
She didn’t have any answers then, and, a week later, she still doesn’t. She can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever have anything worthwhile to say, except that he probably just wasn’t happy (and she knows not being happy and can’t bring herself to regret ending it with Adam, no matter how much he and his friends made her try), and that isn’t likely to make Addie feel any better. In frustration, she tugs at the roots of her feathery hair.
When the clock chimes again, one thirty now, Zoe doesn’t even hear it.
`Behind The Character ,,
Name: Meg.
Age: Eighteen.
Role-playing experience: A whole lot.
How you found us: Through an ad thread. 8)
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