Saturday, April 30, 2005
Monster
I've seen the way you give nasty looks to innocent strangers who smile at you as you brush shoulders. Heck, you've done it to me. You talk about going to the mall, buying clothes and "cute shoes," handbags, makeup and whatever. Then you go to class and discuss literary criticism about living in a material world--this is so true, I know you say to yourself as your eyes open up wide during a moment of epiphany. In a moment of honesty you raise your hand and admit it. You admit that it's so true and you tell how materialistic you and your friends are and... There's a pause... You wish you weren't like that.
But when class is over you go meet your friends and talk about getting pedicures and manicures at the mall. It comes so natural like you never wished it were any different, like you never meant it, or like you don't believe you can change the things you do. I thought you said something; I thought you meant something.
And you. Urgh, YOU. You obsess about recycling. You actually bother to wash your bottles and take off the labels before you put them in the recycling bin. You lecture us about turning off the lights, and energy efficiency. You'll only interview with companies that are environmentally friendly, and your standards for that are very strict. YOU call yourself an environmentalist...
"But I love my SUV," you say confidently as if it's some caveat. As if every other environmentally friendly thing you do balances out your SUV loving, your oil addiction, your fondness of gas-guzzling machines. And you still have the nerve to give us a nasty look when we don't wash the bottle before recycling.
And you, Mr. You walk around with such a bad attitude, giving everyone who looks a dollar richer than you a nasty look. Yeah you're from the hood. You pulled yourself up from your boot-straps, and because you had such a rough childhood in the projects, you seem to have made it your life mission to bash every person who didn't. When someone tries to understand you, to listen to you, to help you it's all, "Oh snap, you don't know anything, you're ignorant."
You say this world is racist and intolerant. And I agree with you, it needs to change. But the way you decide to hate on everyone who didn't have it as bad as you claim makes me wonder if you enjoy being intolerant more than you want equality.
And the professor who snubs his students. And the lawyer who goes after the sick and the injured by day and who sleeps in pillows stuffed with money by night. And the college advising deans who get paid to make students cry. The politicians who pretend to care till the day they get elected. All the so called respectable men in suits and ties who cheat on their wives twice a month. The people who don't care about anything but what's on their agenda.
No one's perfect, we can't expect that. We've all got to give and take a little bit, but that's no excuse for some of the things we do. Sometimes it's worth slowing down to see if we're really making sense.
But when class is over you go meet your friends and talk about getting pedicures and manicures at the mall. It comes so natural like you never wished it were any different, like you never meant it, or like you don't believe you can change the things you do. I thought you said something; I thought you meant something.
And you. Urgh, YOU. You obsess about recycling. You actually bother to wash your bottles and take off the labels before you put them in the recycling bin. You lecture us about turning off the lights, and energy efficiency. You'll only interview with companies that are environmentally friendly, and your standards for that are very strict. YOU call yourself an environmentalist...
"But I love my SUV," you say confidently as if it's some caveat. As if every other environmentally friendly thing you do balances out your SUV loving, your oil addiction, your fondness of gas-guzzling machines. And you still have the nerve to give us a nasty look when we don't wash the bottle before recycling.
And you, Mr. You walk around with such a bad attitude, giving everyone who looks a dollar richer than you a nasty look. Yeah you're from the hood. You pulled yourself up from your boot-straps, and because you had such a rough childhood in the projects, you seem to have made it your life mission to bash every person who didn't. When someone tries to understand you, to listen to you, to help you it's all, "Oh snap, you don't know anything, you're ignorant."
You say this world is racist and intolerant. And I agree with you, it needs to change. But the way you decide to hate on everyone who didn't have it as bad as you claim makes me wonder if you enjoy being intolerant more than you want equality.
And the professor who snubs his students. And the lawyer who goes after the sick and the injured by day and who sleeps in pillows stuffed with money by night. And the college advising deans who get paid to make students cry. The politicians who pretend to care till the day they get elected. All the so called respectable men in suits and ties who cheat on their wives twice a month. The people who don't care about anything but what's on their agenda.
No one's perfect, we can't expect that. We've all got to give and take a little bit, but that's no excuse for some of the things we do. Sometimes it's worth slowing down to see if we're really making sense.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Hi to a Friend
As I was heading up the stairs to leave the library I saw Jim rushing through the exit door. Jim, skinny tall Jim with the dark blonde flimsy hair, whom I don't think I've ever seen carry a back-pack. Jim.
I hesitated. I could have ran after him to say hi, or I could have just let him escape. What difference did it really make? But I took stock: I've seen him more than I've spoken to him lately, and something just didn't seem right about that thought.
As the door swung shut behind him, I accelerated to a quick jog. "Jim," I shouted as I took my last leaps through the quiet library. I flung the door open and he turned around, smiling.
"Heya Jim," I began. "I've seen you around a lot lately, so I thought 'I should catch up with him this time' because we're well due for a conversation." Well, it's not like we haven't talked in that long. We walked home together from class on Monday.
"Yeah," he snickered in his semi-high pitched, squeaky, really nerdy sounding voice. "I've seen you around a lot lately, too."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, I saw you today twice and at the dining hall up north and at the dining hall on west the other day," he confessed. Woha, I thought to myself. He's got me beat.
"So why didn't you say 'hi' to me then?! Come on!" I nudged him jokingly.
"Yeah, I saw you up northing eating alone," ohh, now he was really starting to rub it in.
"What?!" I shouted in outrage. Well, I wasn't to shocked or too offended, I saw him coming up to the north dining hall that day, too. I just wanted to be invisible because being spotted alone isn't always the funnest of things. "So you want to tell me you saw me sitting alone and you didn't even come up to say 'hello'? That's not right..."
"Yeah," he says that a lot, "I was with some friends both times I saw you in the dining hall."
"So you're too cool to say 'hi' to someone sitting alone when you're around your friends? Is that it?" Now I was pushing it, half joking though.
He giggled, we laughed. I think he got the point. I think I got something off my chest which wasn't even bugging me that much. I'm just really glad I caught myself after the fact practicing what I preached. And looked what I gained, unsolicited smiles and giggles! Tee hee :)
I hesitated. I could have ran after him to say hi, or I could have just let him escape. What difference did it really make? But I took stock: I've seen him more than I've spoken to him lately, and something just didn't seem right about that thought.
As the door swung shut behind him, I accelerated to a quick jog. "Jim," I shouted as I took my last leaps through the quiet library. I flung the door open and he turned around, smiling.
"Heya Jim," I began. "I've seen you around a lot lately, so I thought 'I should catch up with him this time' because we're well due for a conversation." Well, it's not like we haven't talked in that long. We walked home together from class on Monday.
"Yeah," he snickered in his semi-high pitched, squeaky, really nerdy sounding voice. "I've seen you around a lot lately, too."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, I saw you today twice and at the dining hall up north and at the dining hall on west the other day," he confessed. Woha, I thought to myself. He's got me beat.
"So why didn't you say 'hi' to me then?! Come on!" I nudged him jokingly.
"Yeah, I saw you up northing eating alone," ohh, now he was really starting to rub it in.
"What?!" I shouted in outrage. Well, I wasn't to shocked or too offended, I saw him coming up to the north dining hall that day, too. I just wanted to be invisible because being spotted alone isn't always the funnest of things. "So you want to tell me you saw me sitting alone and you didn't even come up to say 'hello'? That's not right..."
"Yeah," he says that a lot, "I was with some friends both times I saw you in the dining hall."
"So you're too cool to say 'hi' to someone sitting alone when you're around your friends? Is that it?" Now I was pushing it, half joking though.
He giggled, we laughed. I think he got the point. I think I got something off my chest which wasn't even bugging me that much. I'm just really glad I caught myself after the fact practicing what I preached. And looked what I gained, unsolicited smiles and giggles! Tee hee :)
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Walking Out
We Americans have a funny way of showing how we care. Or maybe what's funny is how we pretend to care.
Tonight Paul Rusesabagina, the real person about whose life the movie Hotel Rwanda was made spoke at my school. The man who lived through the real Hotel Rwanda experience told us about his first-hand brush with genocide. It was a terrifying confirmation of the horrors from the movie. Hollywood dramatizes, but in this case reality was probably way more dramatic. Mr. Rusesabagina told us how fighting had been going on in Rwanda for decades; how in 1993 when the UN came they were a sign of hope, "surely no one would dare murder with the UN around, much less come close to harming the UN." But these hopes were shattered when a rebel group murdered the Rwandanese President and his 10 UN guards.
At that point the UN peacekeeper started to pull out. Instead of the promised 5000 plus peacekeepers, less than 300 remained to try to stop the genocide of a million people. As western governments pulled out their UN peacekeepers they also evacuated their citizens and turned their backs on this massive civil war. "They evacuated their citizens and even their dogs, but they wouldn't evacuate any of us," Mr. Rusesabagina testified.
100 days of hell broke out when every day about 10,000 people were killed. Can you imagine? Poof, poof, poof. Every day the country loses 10,000 people. 100 days later a million are dead. Mr. Rusesabagina told us how he traveled around the country a bit. Dead bodies were everywhere and the air smelled like rotting human flesh. Dogs roamed the streets gnawing on corpses, thousands and thousands and thousands of them.
I sit there hypnotized by his accounts, knowing that denial is far from possible. I try to grab onto his words, as if each and every one that comes out of his mouth is my last proof that the world is still way messed up and here are the words to prove it. Here is the proof! I wait for him to enunciate my calling and a calling for everyone else to get up and do something. Do something because Mr. Rusesabagina went to Sudan and saw the horrors of Darfur and told us how many other places in Africa people live in fear, in persecution, homeless refugees, militia, corrupt governments. "The Sudanese government funds these militia with money from their oil. Why is there no embargo on Sudanese oil?!" Mr. Rusesabagina shouts in outrage.
But once his speech is over and the clapping stops, it's over. There is still a lively question and answer session but the trickle out of the auditorium begins. Q-A: our chance to learn more, to interact... Yes it was interesting, but some questions were off the cuff. One girl, who began by profusely thanking Mr. Rusesabagina for his movie ends by complaining in front of a whole auditorium of people and the man himself how the movie is really biased and should have included more perspectives. Honey, this whole world is biased, don't delude yourself waiting for the ultimate unbiased story, if we did then we'd be waiting our whole lives. Why can't we just appreciate something good when it happens? Another questioner questions the UN humanitarian aid workers who he claims were feeding and helping the militia. What kind of world have we become if even our most selfless humanitarians get shot down? I'm not saying we should be naive, but we need to have some faith, too.
By the time the lecture is over the auditorium is about a third empty. As I leave, I hear a girl complaining, "this talk was sold out, but by the end there were so many empty seats. What if all the people who really wanted to come could have been here?" As the auditorium empties, the chatter restarts... "Oooh, I'm tired." "Ooh, I'm hungry." "I'm cold." "I have homework to do." I see pretty Americans in pretty, expensive clothes, with pretty handbags. I don't hear a soul talking about what we all just heard.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying all Americans are like this. We're a nation filled with caring, good-intentioned people. But we also have this bizarre dominant culture of apathy going on. We're a funny people, the way we pretend to care sometimes. We bring speakers from far-away lands who had lived through true horrors to speak to us about things we will never see or know of. We bring them 11 years after the fact and call them heroes instead of helping while the mess was going on. We clap and give standing ovations if we're really impressed. We take pictures of these celebrities with our cellphone cameras in the middle of the lecture...
And then we leave. And it's back to life. And it's school, work, stress. It's football and basketball and baseball on TV. It's college parities and alcohol and maybe some illicit drugs. We walk out, and move on with our lives that center around ourselves more than anyone else, and then it's over. Mean while, who knows what sort of tragedies are shaping up around the world and how many people are dying from them. No worry though, maybe in 20 years we'll make a movie about it and call one or two of the survivors a hero, too.
There's still a lot to be done. Paul Rusesabagina, a true hero, set up a foundation to rehabilitate Rwanda and provide kids there with an education.
Tonight Paul Rusesabagina, the real person about whose life the movie Hotel Rwanda was made spoke at my school. The man who lived through the real Hotel Rwanda experience told us about his first-hand brush with genocide. It was a terrifying confirmation of the horrors from the movie. Hollywood dramatizes, but in this case reality was probably way more dramatic. Mr. Rusesabagina told us how fighting had been going on in Rwanda for decades; how in 1993 when the UN came they were a sign of hope, "surely no one would dare murder with the UN around, much less come close to harming the UN." But these hopes were shattered when a rebel group murdered the Rwandanese President and his 10 UN guards.
At that point the UN peacekeeper started to pull out. Instead of the promised 5000 plus peacekeepers, less than 300 remained to try to stop the genocide of a million people. As western governments pulled out their UN peacekeepers they also evacuated their citizens and turned their backs on this massive civil war. "They evacuated their citizens and even their dogs, but they wouldn't evacuate any of us," Mr. Rusesabagina testified.
100 days of hell broke out when every day about 10,000 people were killed. Can you imagine? Poof, poof, poof. Every day the country loses 10,000 people. 100 days later a million are dead. Mr. Rusesabagina told us how he traveled around the country a bit. Dead bodies were everywhere and the air smelled like rotting human flesh. Dogs roamed the streets gnawing on corpses, thousands and thousands and thousands of them.
I sit there hypnotized by his accounts, knowing that denial is far from possible. I try to grab onto his words, as if each and every one that comes out of his mouth is my last proof that the world is still way messed up and here are the words to prove it. Here is the proof! I wait for him to enunciate my calling and a calling for everyone else to get up and do something. Do something because Mr. Rusesabagina went to Sudan and saw the horrors of Darfur and told us how many other places in Africa people live in fear, in persecution, homeless refugees, militia, corrupt governments. "The Sudanese government funds these militia with money from their oil. Why is there no embargo on Sudanese oil?!" Mr. Rusesabagina shouts in outrage.
But once his speech is over and the clapping stops, it's over. There is still a lively question and answer session but the trickle out of the auditorium begins. Q-A: our chance to learn more, to interact... Yes it was interesting, but some questions were off the cuff. One girl, who began by profusely thanking Mr. Rusesabagina for his movie ends by complaining in front of a whole auditorium of people and the man himself how the movie is really biased and should have included more perspectives. Honey, this whole world is biased, don't delude yourself waiting for the ultimate unbiased story, if we did then we'd be waiting our whole lives. Why can't we just appreciate something good when it happens? Another questioner questions the UN humanitarian aid workers who he claims were feeding and helping the militia. What kind of world have we become if even our most selfless humanitarians get shot down? I'm not saying we should be naive, but we need to have some faith, too.
By the time the lecture is over the auditorium is about a third empty. As I leave, I hear a girl complaining, "this talk was sold out, but by the end there were so many empty seats. What if all the people who really wanted to come could have been here?" As the auditorium empties, the chatter restarts... "Oooh, I'm tired." "Ooh, I'm hungry." "I'm cold." "I have homework to do." I see pretty Americans in pretty, expensive clothes, with pretty handbags. I don't hear a soul talking about what we all just heard.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying all Americans are like this. We're a nation filled with caring, good-intentioned people. But we also have this bizarre dominant culture of apathy going on. We're a funny people, the way we pretend to care sometimes. We bring speakers from far-away lands who had lived through true horrors to speak to us about things we will never see or know of. We bring them 11 years after the fact and call them heroes instead of helping while the mess was going on. We clap and give standing ovations if we're really impressed. We take pictures of these celebrities with our cellphone cameras in the middle of the lecture...
And then we leave. And it's back to life. And it's school, work, stress. It's football and basketball and baseball on TV. It's college parities and alcohol and maybe some illicit drugs. We walk out, and move on with our lives that center around ourselves more than anyone else, and then it's over. Mean while, who knows what sort of tragedies are shaping up around the world and how many people are dying from them. No worry though, maybe in 20 years we'll make a movie about it and call one or two of the survivors a hero, too.
There's still a lot to be done. Paul Rusesabagina, a true hero, set up a foundation to rehabilitate Rwanda and provide kids there with an education.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Lux et What?!
Being a warm, sunny day I decided to make the walk up to North campus this evening--the place where the freshmen reside and where the food is purported to be a bit better. Not only that, I just wanted a change of scenery and a slightly different selection of food and drinks.
Woha. On the stairs leading up to the dining hall I ran into a line spanning a full flight and a half of stairs. Assuming it was a bizarrely long line to enter, I took my place. But then I traced the line to its origins and noticed that they were all standing aside while some students seemed to bypass their way right in. I leapt out of the line and up the stairs and made my way to the entrance.
"What's going on?" I asked the girl in front of me who was wearing flip-flops, tiny shorts and whose hair dangled out of her pony-tail in sweaty strands.
"I don't know," she said to me. "Who are you?" She asked the people at the head of the line.
"Yale rowing," one of the guys snapped tritely and then looked away. Ah yes, I should have guessed. Well, I should have guessed at least part of it based on all the guys wearing Yale shirts.
Once I made my way into the busy, bustling dining hall, I tried to spot a seat. I headed over to the section with the booths and the small tables next to the windows. As I approached a table, a man more than a full head taller than me and probably twice my width stopped me, "Are you with the Yale rowing team?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, you can't sit here. This whole section is reserved for the Yale rowing team."
"I can't even sit at the edge at the two-seater table by the window?"
"No," he blurted coldly and echoes of his scorn reverberated in waves through his big body's jelly.
Ooookay. I didn't want to start messing around with him. It seems like the elite bends head over heels to bring their self-segregation with them anywhere they go. Was that so necessary? They're visitors at another school, why can't they forage for tables just like any other student. Heck, maybe they'd even mingle with some us in the process, and wouldn't that just be peachy-keen?
Under the scrutiny of the scary guard's ominous gaze I made my way to the opposite end of the dining hall--as far away as possible so he wouldn't tell me that that table was reserved, too. I got my food, put the tray down on the table, and then went to get some drinks. As I carried my lemonade cup in one hand and raspberry lemonade (how snotty of a drink does that sound like?) cup in the other back to my table, I noticed some Yalies decided to defy the norm and sit at the table right next to me. Would there be mingling after all?
As I put my cups on the table the plain-lemonade cup slipped out of my hand. The cup fell on its side, facing the Yalies. The lemony liquid zoomed across the surface of the table on a trajectory right towards the Yalies. They boys looked at me in fury. But our tables weren't connected, so for the most part the lemonade fell off the side of my table before it could splash them. The Yalie sitting closest to me might have gotten a few spritzes of lemonade, but really nothing even close to serious.
"Ooops," I looked at them smiling. I've grown tired of acting tomato-red-blush-embarrassed by each mistake I make, I'm only human, too. "I'm really sorry," I said as I began to wipe the table up with napkins.
The Yalies were outraged. Apparently this kinda s!*t doesn't fly in high society. The three of them pierced nasty looks at me, grabbed their trays and moved away. Oooh snap.
Yale, thank you for rejecting me. Actually, no I still wish I were the one who got to reject you. I could never pull an attitude like that, I don't think I would have fit in too well.
Woha. On the stairs leading up to the dining hall I ran into a line spanning a full flight and a half of stairs. Assuming it was a bizarrely long line to enter, I took my place. But then I traced the line to its origins and noticed that they were all standing aside while some students seemed to bypass their way right in. I leapt out of the line and up the stairs and made my way to the entrance.
"What's going on?" I asked the girl in front of me who was wearing flip-flops, tiny shorts and whose hair dangled out of her pony-tail in sweaty strands.
"I don't know," she said to me. "Who are you?" She asked the people at the head of the line.
"Yale rowing," one of the guys snapped tritely and then looked away. Ah yes, I should have guessed. Well, I should have guessed at least part of it based on all the guys wearing Yale shirts.
Once I made my way into the busy, bustling dining hall, I tried to spot a seat. I headed over to the section with the booths and the small tables next to the windows. As I approached a table, a man more than a full head taller than me and probably twice my width stopped me, "Are you with the Yale rowing team?"
"No, I'm not."
"Well, you can't sit here. This whole section is reserved for the Yale rowing team."
"I can't even sit at the edge at the two-seater table by the window?"
"No," he blurted coldly and echoes of his scorn reverberated in waves through his big body's jelly.
Ooookay. I didn't want to start messing around with him. It seems like the elite bends head over heels to bring their self-segregation with them anywhere they go. Was that so necessary? They're visitors at another school, why can't they forage for tables just like any other student. Heck, maybe they'd even mingle with some us in the process, and wouldn't that just be peachy-keen?
Under the scrutiny of the scary guard's ominous gaze I made my way to the opposite end of the dining hall--as far away as possible so he wouldn't tell me that that table was reserved, too. I got my food, put the tray down on the table, and then went to get some drinks. As I carried my lemonade cup in one hand and raspberry lemonade (how snotty of a drink does that sound like?) cup in the other back to my table, I noticed some Yalies decided to defy the norm and sit at the table right next to me. Would there be mingling after all?
As I put my cups on the table the plain-lemonade cup slipped out of my hand. The cup fell on its side, facing the Yalies. The lemony liquid zoomed across the surface of the table on a trajectory right towards the Yalies. They boys looked at me in fury. But our tables weren't connected, so for the most part the lemonade fell off the side of my table before it could splash them. The Yalie sitting closest to me might have gotten a few spritzes of lemonade, but really nothing even close to serious.
"Ooops," I looked at them smiling. I've grown tired of acting tomato-red-blush-embarrassed by each mistake I make, I'm only human, too. "I'm really sorry," I said as I began to wipe the table up with napkins.
The Yalies were outraged. Apparently this kinda s!*t doesn't fly in high society. The three of them pierced nasty looks at me, grabbed their trays and moved away. Oooh snap.
Yale, thank you for rejecting me. Actually, no I still wish I were the one who got to reject you. I could never pull an attitude like that, I don't think I would have fit in too well.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
When It Hurts
I have a powerbar sitting on my desk. Eat it, it'll give you strength.
This week so far has been intense (what else is new, eh). On Monday Bill Nye the Science guy plopped himself right beside me at breakfast. I also got approval to graduate a year early. It seems official (but ya know ain't nothing done till it's done). But along with that comes a lot of stress: preparing for life after school and doing what I gotta do to get them to let me out of here.
So for that purpose, mostly, I met with my faculty advisor today. Two and a half ours we both sat in his basement office, walls lined with books. Two and a half ours we talked about my senior project. After two and a half hours I left nervous and shaking. He ran out for a cigarette.
This when I start to get nervous. It's about breaking the rules. It's about the lives we live and how we live. The things we say and what we dream about. The things we do. It's as much about me as it about anyone and about you--yes, you, the reader. More than anything it's about honesty. The whole premise of this project is to be honest.
So no. I'm not going to concern myself with analyzing a text almost no one has heard about. I'm not gonna wax philosophical and political and cultural for 100 pages about something no one ever read. It's about what's messed up and why it's messed up. Its about among other things, how we love to box, categorize, rank, and evaluate people and the repercussions that spin from that habit. Yes it's political, cultural, philosophical, scientific but more than anything it's personal. Not just personal for me... for everybody, and yes, you.
This is why it's unique, he says.
This is why it sounds interesting.
This is why it's exciting.
And then there's the issue of honors. What's the difference? Why does it matter, I ask. My advisor smiles in understanding, and he shrugs, mumbles, it's a nice thing to have... I'm doing my project because I care about it. I'd do the same amount of work if it were honors or not. So what's the difference? Well for honors you need a committee and they have to evaluate you. Evaluate me... And why would it matter whether or not I get cum laude or magna or summa? I'm going to an ivy league school. I have a high gpa. At the end of the day does it really make a difference if I have two or three latin words tagged on to my diploma? At the end of the day, you're in an academic institution and this is how it works. We have to evaluate you somehow.
This week so far has been intense (what else is new, eh). On Monday Bill Nye the Science guy plopped himself right beside me at breakfast. I also got approval to graduate a year early. It seems official (but ya know ain't nothing done till it's done). But along with that comes a lot of stress: preparing for life after school and doing what I gotta do to get them to let me out of here.
So for that purpose, mostly, I met with my faculty advisor today. Two and a half ours we both sat in his basement office, walls lined with books. Two and a half ours we talked about my senior project. After two and a half hours I left nervous and shaking. He ran out for a cigarette.
This when I start to get nervous. It's about breaking the rules. It's about the lives we live and how we live. The things we say and what we dream about. The things we do. It's as much about me as it about anyone and about you--yes, you, the reader. More than anything it's about honesty. The whole premise of this project is to be honest.
So no. I'm not going to concern myself with analyzing a text almost no one has heard about. I'm not gonna wax philosophical and political and cultural for 100 pages about something no one ever read. It's about what's messed up and why it's messed up. Its about among other things, how we love to box, categorize, rank, and evaluate people and the repercussions that spin from that habit. Yes it's political, cultural, philosophical, scientific but more than anything it's personal. Not just personal for me... for everybody, and yes, you.
This is why it's unique, he says.
This is why it sounds interesting.
This is why it's exciting.
And then there's the issue of honors. What's the difference? Why does it matter, I ask. My advisor smiles in understanding, and he shrugs, mumbles, it's a nice thing to have... I'm doing my project because I care about it. I'd do the same amount of work if it were honors or not. So what's the difference? Well for honors you need a committee and they have to evaluate you. Evaluate me... And why would it matter whether or not I get cum laude or magna or summa? I'm going to an ivy league school. I have a high gpa. At the end of the day does it really make a difference if I have two or three latin words tagged on to my diploma? At the end of the day, you're in an academic institution and this is how it works. We have to evaluate you somehow.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
I'll Getcha Good
I don't know exactly how she came to mind, but Shania Twain inspired the title of this post. Woo hoo lol. Get y'alls country boots on because that woman's singing my song, "Like I should, I'll getcha good."
OK, granted, she's probably singing about getting a boyfriend or something. That's not quite my intention. This post is about a much blogged about, but still unresolved, issue with one conspicuous girl! Lol.
After revising my last English paper, I wrote up an attachment with some thoughts, reflections, concerns about the essay, the writing process, and some of my reader's comments. That girl took it to the next level in her latest comments on my essay, "I'm afraid I find this paper rather unimpressive...generic." Like I said, if she wants to be constructive and support that assertion with examples from my writing and suggestions on how to improve, that'd go down a bit better. But she didn't even bother to note anything or any points or any place that needs improvement. It was like a slap in the face, goodbye.
So I called her out on that in my comments I wrote to the teacher. Today after class my English teacher approached me and caught me completely off guard when she said that she agrees with me. She spoke to "girl" and told her she needed to get her act together a little more.
Hmmmm. Sigh of relief. It's always nice to see feelings translate into saying something, doing something, especially when the appropriate authority takes care of it. Action!
Catharsis?
OK, granted, she's probably singing about getting a boyfriend or something. That's not quite my intention. This post is about a much blogged about, but still unresolved, issue with one conspicuous girl! Lol.
After revising my last English paper, I wrote up an attachment with some thoughts, reflections, concerns about the essay, the writing process, and some of my reader's comments. That girl took it to the next level in her latest comments on my essay, "I'm afraid I find this paper rather unimpressive...generic." Like I said, if she wants to be constructive and support that assertion with examples from my writing and suggestions on how to improve, that'd go down a bit better. But she didn't even bother to note anything or any points or any place that needs improvement. It was like a slap in the face, goodbye.
So I called her out on that in my comments I wrote to the teacher. Today after class my English teacher approached me and caught me completely off guard when she said that she agrees with me. She spoke to "girl" and told her she needed to get her act together a little more.
Hmmmm. Sigh of relief. It's always nice to see feelings translate into saying something, doing something, especially when the appropriate authority takes care of it. Action!
Catharsis?
Monday, April 04, 2005
Thanks for the Comments...
I have this 8-10 page English paper due tomorrow, and right now it's still a 6-page draft. This is the same paper I wrote about in my last post, the one that got "critiqued" by my classmates. I've always wondered what's up with that word, "critique." What's up with the "que"? Is this an attempt to make the act of critiquing sound more constructive, or something elite?
Critiquing, as it occurs in college English classes, can be quite vulgar and "unimpressive" (see the comments to my last post). I just got done reading through my classmates' written comments on my paper, and it left me pretty aggravated.
I know the sayings about writing, "the only good writing is rewriting," or in order to write well you have to "kill your babies." Let go of what you value, be willing to destroy even the things most precious to you in your writing... OK. Aside from the fact that killing my babies is not an appealing idea, it's definitely not something I'm going to do with a mob of angry, irrational classmates egging me on.
Just because I need to clear my head of this clutter in order for me to move on and tackle this paper... here are some of my impulsive reactions to my classmates' critiques of my essay:
Critiquing, as it occurs in college English classes, can be quite vulgar and "unimpressive" (see the comments to my last post). I just got done reading through my classmates' written comments on my paper, and it left me pretty aggravated.
I know the sayings about writing, "the only good writing is rewriting," or in order to write well you have to "kill your babies." Let go of what you value, be willing to destroy even the things most precious to you in your writing... OK. Aside from the fact that killing my babies is not an appealing idea, it's definitely not something I'm going to do with a mob of angry, irrational classmates egging me on.
Just because I need to clear my head of this clutter in order for me to move on and tackle this paper... here are some of my impulsive reactions to my classmates' critiques of my essay:
- Didn't yo momma ever tell you that if you have nothing nice to say, dont' say it at all? Yes, those of us in the business of "critiquing" need to highlight weak points and offer suggestions, but bashing and derogating isn't going to encourage many people to do a better job. Just like you believe an essay can always be improved, don't underestimate the fact that there's always something good in an essay. Give some credit where it's due. Even one nice word can drastically improve the way someone will take your comments.
- If you're going to call my essay "convoluted" at least have the decency to spell it right.
- Don't be so narrow-minded. Can you hold your breath and not judge after reading the first sentence? Can you read through it once before forming an opinion and only then go back and re-consider? It's so obvious when you read my essay only once in a 2-minute rush before class. And your comments sound kind of ignorant when you do that (wo, snap).
- It's an essay for school, are you going to get personal with me about this? Some of you write like you want to step outside and fight it out.
Mary J., I'm tried of this drama too. Mom got two calls today. I'm a bit down in the doldrums, so much work, so little time, no energy.
