BAS 490 GMU Impact of Lack of Diversity Training In ISP Organizations Capstone so i have attached most of the documents here and we will discuss more to ma

BAS 490 GMU Impact of Lack of Diversity Training In ISP Organizations Capstone so i have attached most of the documents here and we will discuss more to make sure we get the right things added in it. “Happy Endings”
Margaret Atwood
John and Mary meet.
What happens next?
If you want a happy ending, try A.
A.
John and Mary fall in love and get married. They both have worthwhile and remunerative jobs
which they find stimulating and challenging. They buy a charming house. Real estate values go
up. Eventually, when they can afford live-in help, they have two children, to whom they are
devoted. The children turn out well. John and Mary have a stimulating and challenging sex life
and worthwhile friends. They go on fun vacations together. They retire. They both have hobbies
which they find stimulating and challenging. Eventually they die. This is the end of the story.
B.
Mary falls in love with John but John doesn’t fall in love with Mary. He merely uses her body for
selfish pleasure and ego gratification of a tepid kind. He comes to her apartment twice a week
and she cooks him dinner, you’ll notice that he doesn’t even consider her worth the price of a
dinner out, and after he’s eaten dinner he fucks her and after that he falls asleep, while she does
the dishes so he won’t think she’s untidy, having all those dirty dishes lying around, and puts on
fresh lipstick so she’ll look good when he wakes up, but when he wakes up he doesn’t even
notice, he puts on his socks and his shorts and his pants and his shirt and his tie and his shoes, the
reverse order from the one in which he took them off. He doesn’t take off Mary’s clothes, she
takes them off herself, she acts as if she’s dying for it every time, not because she likes sex
exactly, she doesn’t, but she wants John to think she does because if they do it often enough
surely he’ll get used to her, he’ll come to depend on her and they will get married, but John goes
out the door with hardly so much as a good-night and three days later he turns up at six o’clock
and they do the whole thing over again.
Mary gets run-down. Crying is bad for your face, everyone knows that and so does Mary but she
can’t stop. People at work notice. Her friends tell her John is a rat, a pig, a dog, he isn’t good
enough for her, but she can’t believe it. Inside John, she thinks, is another John, who is much
nicer. This other John will emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, a Jack from a box, a pit from a
prune, if the first John is only squeezed enough.
One evening John complains about the food. He has never complained about her food before.
Mary is hurt.
Her friends tell her they’ve seen him in a restaurant with another woman, whose name is Madge.
It’s not even Madge that finally gets to Mary: it’s the restaurant. John has never taken Mary to a
restaurant. Mary collects all the sleeping pills and aspirins she can find, and takes them and a
half a bottle of sherry. You can see what kind of a woman she is by the fact that it’s not even
whiskey. She leaves a note for John. She hopes he’ll discover her and get her to the hospital in
time and repent and then they can get married, but this fails to happen and she dies.
John marries Madge and everything continues as in A.
C.
John, who is an older man, falls in love with Mary, and Mary, who is only twenty-two, feels
sorry for him because he’s worried about his hair falling out. She sleeps with him even though
she’s not in love with him. She met him at work. She’s in love with someone called James, who is
twenty-two also and not yet ready to settle down.
John on the contrary settled down long ago: this is what is bothering him. John has a steady,
respectable job and is getting ahead in his field, but Mary isn’t impressed by him, she’s impressed
by James, who has a motorcycle and a fabulous record collection. But James is often away on his
motorcycle, being free. Freedom isn’t the same for girls, so in the meantime Mary spends
Thursday evenings with John. Thursdays are the only days John can get away.
John is married to a woman called Madge and they have two children, a charming house which
they bought just before the real estate values went up, and hobbies which they find stimulating
and challenging, when they have the time. John tells Mary how important she is to him, but of
course he can’t leave his wife because a commitment is a commitment. He goes on about this
more than is necessary and Mary finds it boring, but older men can keep it up longer so on the
whole she has a fairly good time.
One day James breezes in on his motorcycle with some top-grade California hybrid and James
and Mary get higher than you’d believe possible and they climb into bed. Everything becomes
very underwater, but along comes John, who has a key to Mary’s apartment. He finds them
stoned and entwined. He’s hardly in any position to be jealous, considering Madge, but
nevertheless he’s overcome with despair. Finally he’s middle-aged, in two years he’ll be as bald
as an egg and he can’t stand it. He purchases a handgun, saying he needs it for target practice-this is the thin part of the plot, but it can be dealt with later–and shoots the two of them and
himself.
Madge, after a suitable period of mourning, marries an understanding man called Fred and
everything continues as in A, but under different names.
D.
Fred and Madge have no problems. They get along exceptionally well and are good at working
out any little difficulties that may arise. But their charming house is by the seashore and one day
a giant tidal wave approaches. Real estate values go down. The rest of the story is about what
caused the tidal wave and how they escape from it. They do, though thousands drown, but Fred
and Madge are virtuous and grateful, and continue as in A.
E.
Yes, but Fred has a bad heart. The rest of the story is about how kind and understanding they
both are until Fred dies. Then Madge devotes herself to charity work until the end of A. If you
like, it can be “Madge,” “cancer,” “guilty and confused,” and “bird watching.”
F.
If you think this is all too bourgeois, make John a revolutionary and Mary a counterespionage
agent and see how far that gets you. Remember, this is Canada. You’ll still end up with A,
though in between you may get a lustful brawling saga of passionate involvement, a chronicle of
our times, sort of.
You’ll have to face it, the endings are the same however you slice it. Don’t be deluded by any
other endings, they’re all fake, either deliberately fake, with malicious intent to deceive, or just
motivated by excessive optimism if not by downright sentimentality.
The only authentic ending is the one provided here:
John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.
So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known
to favor the stretch in between, since it’s the hardest to do anything with.
That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what
and a what and a what.
Now try How and Why.
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Year 0
Your girl catches you cheating. (Well, actually she’s your ?ancée, but hey, in a bit it so won’t matter.) She could have caught
you with one sucia, she could have caught you with two, but as
you’re a totally batshit cuero who didn’t ever empty his e-mail
trash can, she caught you with ?fty! Sure, over a six-year
period, but still. Fifty fucking girls? Goddamn.Maybe if you’d
been engaged to a super open-minded blanquita you could
have survived it—but you’re not engaged to a super
open-minded blanquita. Your girl is a bad-ass salcedeña who
doesn’t believe in open anything; in fact the one thing she
warned you about, that she swore she would never forgive, was
cheating. I’ll put a machete in you, she promised. And of course
you swore you wouldn’t do it. You swore you wouldn’t. You
swore you wouldn’t.
And you did.
She’ll stick around for a few months because you dated for
a long long time. Because you went through much together—
her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed
on the third attempt). And because love, real love, is not so
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easily shed. Over a tortured six-month period you will ?y to
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the DR, to Mexico (for the funeral of a friend), to New Zealand. You will walk the beach where they ?lmed The Piano,
something she’s always wanted to do, and now, in penitent
desperation, you give it to her. She is immensely sad on that
beach and she walks up and down the shining sand alone, bare
feet in the freezing water, and when you try to hug her she
says, Don’t. She stares at the rocks jutting out of the water,
the wind taking her hair straight back. On the ride back to the
hotel, up through those wild steeps, you pick up a pair of hitchhikers, a couple, so mixed it’s ridiculous, and so giddy with love
that you almost throw them out the car. She says nothing.
Later, in the hotel, she will cry.
You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her
letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. You compose
a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their
e-mails. You change your phone number. You stop drinking.
You stop smoking. You claim you’re a sex addict and start
attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your
mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo.
You ?nd a therapist. You cancel your Facebook. You give her
the passwords to all your e-mail accounts. You start taking
salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of
you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you
claim that you were weak—It was the book! It was the
pressure!—and every hour like clockwork you say that you’re
so so sorry. You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in
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bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from
the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. You consider
not going. You consider a squat protest. In fact, you say won’t
go. But in the end you do.
For a while you haunt the city, like a two-bit ballplayer
dreaming of a call-up. You phone her every day and leave messages which she doesn’t answer. You write her long sensitive
letters, which she returns unopened. You even show up at her
apartment at odd hours and at her job downtown until ?nally
her little sister calls you, the one who was always on your side,
and she makes it plain: If you try to contact my sister again
she’s going to put a restraining order on you.
For some Negroes that wouldn’t mean shit.
But you ain’t that kind of Negro.
You stop. You move back to Boston. You never see her again.
Year 1
At ?rst you pretend it don’t matter. You harbored a lot of grievances against her anyway. Yes you did! She didn’t give good
head, you hated the fuzz on her cheeks, she never waxed her
pussy, she never cleaned up around the apartment, etc. For a
few weeks you almost believe it. Of course you go back to
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smoking, to drinking, you drop the therapist and the sex addict
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groups and you run around with the sluts like it’s the good old
days, like nothing has happened.
I’m back, you say to your boys.
Elvis laughs. It’s almost like you never left.
You’re good for like a week. Then your moods become
erratic. One minute you have to stop yourself from jumping in
the car and driving to see her and the next you’re calling a sucia
and saying You’re the one I always wanted. You start losing
your temper with friends, with students, with colleagues. You
cry every time you hear Monchy and Alexandra, her favorite.
Boston, where you never wanted to live, where you feel
you’ve been exiled to, becomes a serious problem. You have
trouble adjusting to it full-time; to its trains that stop running
at midnight, to the glumness of its inhabitants, to its startling
lack of Sichuan food. Almost on cue a lot of racist shit starts
happening. Maybe it was always there, maybe you’ve become
more sensitive after all your time in NYC. White people pull
up at tra?c lights and scream at you with a hideous rage, like
you nearly ran over their mothers. It’s fucking scary. Before
you can ?gure out what the fuck is going on they ?ip you the
bird and peel out. It happens again and again. Security follows
you in stores and every time you step on Harvard property
you’re asked for ID. Three times, drunk whitedudes try to pick
?ghts with you in di?erent parts of the city.
You take it all very personally. I hope someone drops a fucking bomb on this city, you rant. This is why no people of color
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want to live here. Why all my black and Latino students leave
as soon as they can.
Elvis says nothing. He was born and raised in Jamaica
Plain, knows that trying to defend Boston from uncool is like
blocking a bullet with a slice of bread. Are you OK? he asks
?nally.
I’m dandy, you say. Mejor que nunca.
Except you’re not. You’ve lost all the mutual friends you had
in NYC (they went to her), your mother won’t speak to you
after what happened (she liked the ?ancée better than she
liked you), and you’re feeling terribly guilty and terribly alone.
You keep writing letters to her, waiting for the day that you
can hand them to her. You also keep fucking everything that
moves. Thanksgiving you end up having to spend in your
apartment because you can’t face your mom and the idea of
other people’s charity makes you furious. The ex, as you’re now
calling her, always cooked: a turkey, a chicken, a pernil. Set
aside all the wings for you. That night you drink yourself into a
stupor, spend two days recovering.
You ?gure that’s as bad as it gets. You ?gure wrong. During
?nals a depression rolls over you, so profound you doubt there
is a name for it. It feels like you’re being slowly pincered apart,
atom by atom.
You stop hitting the gym or going out for drinks; you stop
shaving or washing your clothes; in fact, you stop doing almost
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everything. Your friends begin to worry about you, and they
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are not exactly the worrying types. I’m OK, you tell them, but
with each passing week the depression darkens. You try to
describe it. Like someone ?ew a plane into your soul. Like
someone ?ew two planes into your soul. Elvis sits shivah with
you in the apartment; he pats you on the shoulder, tells you to
take it easy. Four years earlier Elvis had a Humvee blow up on
him on a highway outside of Baghdad. The burning wreckage
pinned him for what felt like a week, so he knows a little about
pain. His back and buttocks and right arm so scarred up that
even you, Mr. Hard Nose, can’t look at them. Breathe, he tells
you. You breathe nonstop, like a marathon runner, but it doesn’t
help. Your little letters become more and more pathetic. Please,
you write. Please come back. You have dreams where she’s talking to you like in the old days—in that sweet Spanish of
the Cibao, no sign of rage, of disappointment. And then you
wake up.
You stop sleeping, and some night when you’re drunk
and alone you have a wacky impulse to open the window of
your ?fth-?oor apartment and leap down to the street. If it
wasn’t for a couple of things you probably would have done it,
too. But (a) you ain’t the killing-yourself type; (b) your boy
Elvis keeps a strong eye on you—he’s over all the time, stands
by the window as if he knows what you’re thinking. And (c)
you have this ridiculous hope that maybe one day she will forgive you.
She doesn’t.
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Year 2
You make it through both semesters, barely. It really is a long
stretch of shit and then ?nally the madness begins to recede.
It’s like waking up from the worst fever of your life. You ain’t
your old self (har-har!) but you can stand near windows without being overcome by strange urges, and that’s a start. Unfortunately, you’ve put on forty-?ve pounds. You don’t know how
it happened but it happened. Only one pair of your jeans ?ts
anymore, and none of your suits. You put away all the old pictures of her, say good-bye to her Wonder Woman features. You
go the barber, shave your head for the ?rst time in forever and
cut o? your beard.
You done? Elvis asks.
I’m done.
A white grandma screams at you at a tra?c light and you
close your eyes until she goes away.
Find yourself another girl, Elvis advises. He’s holding his
daughter lightly. Clavo saca clavo.
Nothing sacas nothing, you reply. No one will ever be like
her.
OK. But ?nd yourself a girl anyway.
His daughter was born that February. If she had been a boy
Elvis was going to name him Iraq, his wife told you.
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I’m sure he was kidding.
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She looked out to where he was working on his truck. I
don’t think so.
He puts his daughter in your arms. Find yourself a good
Dominican girl, he says.
You hold the baby uncertainly. Your ex never wanted kids
but toward the end she made you get a sperm test, just in case
she decided last minute to change her mind. You put your lips
against the baby’s stomach and blow. Do they even exist?
You had one, didn’t you?
That you did.
You clean up your act. You cut it out with all the old sucias,
even the long-term Indian girl you’d boned the entire time you
were with the ?ancée. You want to turn over a new leaf. Takes
you a bit—after all, old sluts are the hardest habit to ditch—
but you ?nally break clear and when you do you feel lighter. I
should have done this years ago, you declare, and your girl
Arlenny, who never ever messed with you (Thank God, she
mutters) rolls her eyes. You wait, what, a week for the bad
energy to dissipate and then you start dating. Like a normal
person, you tell Elvis. Without any lies. Elvis says nothing,
only smiles.
At ?rst it’s OK: you get numbers but nothing you would take
home to the fam. But after the early rush, it all dries up. It ain’t
just a dry spell; it’s fucking Arrakeen. You’re out all the time but
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no one seems to be biting. Not even the chicks who swear they
love Latin guys, and one girl, when you tell her you are Dominican, actually says, Hell no and runs full-tilt toward the door.
Seriously? you say. You begin to wonder if there is some secret
mark on your forehead. If some of these bitches know.
Be patient, Elvis urges. He’s working for this ghetto-ass
landlord and starts taking you with him on collection day. It
turns out you’re awesome backup. Deadbeats catch one peep of
your dismal grill and cough up their debts with a quickness.
One month, two month, three month and then some hope.
Her name is Noemi, Dominican from Baní—in Massachusetts it seems all the domos are from Baní—and you meet at
So?a’s in the last months before it closes, fucking up the Latino
community of New England forever. She ain’t half your ex but
she ain’t bad either. She’s a nurse, and when Elvis complains
about his back, she starts listing all the shit it might be. She’s a
big girl and got skin like you wouldn’t believe and best of all
she doesn’t privar at all; actually seems nice. She smiles often
and whenever she’s nervous she says, Tell me something.
Minuses: she’s always working and she has a four-year-old
named Justin. She shows you pictures; kid looks like he’ll be
dropping an album if she’s not careful. She had him with a
banilejo who had four other kids with four other women. And
you thought this guy was a good idea for what reason? you say.
I was stu…
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