reflecting on the year spent sitting in front of a gandhi quote
5:49 PM
And then I think of myself, and what sort of person I've become this year. I grew out of my love for college hoodies because they bunched at the neck. I can finally answer what my favorite songs are. I took detours to avoid going to classes too soon after the bell, and thus met some really friendly people. I sent and received rebate cards. I had a spring break that would be insulted if I called it adequate.
I try to write of all these things in an aware manner. I hope that the attention I've learned to give to writing this year has helped me become coherent. In third grade, the teacher complained that she couldn't make sense of my stories because I included too much detail. If I wanted to explain a dog I saw, I would attribute an entire paragraph to its fur color. I still do that, but AP Lang's strict guidelines have forced me to stop rambling for the sake of grades. The class timed writings have really sped up the process too. Twenty-five minutes to write an argument essay (holla) for the SAT seems time enough.
But being mostly present in class has seriously lowered my faith. I noticed that I write in the same way over and over, and it annoys me. I use polysyndeton like it's the only rhetorical device, and it's pure agony to have to ration hyphens so Zavitz (lovingly referred to as Z-money when she leaves the room) doesn't think I can't function without them.
I still hate the things I write. I wish poetry were an acceptable medium for the AP exams because like past me of nine months ago, I overenjoy metaphors. It'd be wise to focus on paragraph transitions and support examples instead, but right now, the world will just have to deal with my shortcomings. Maybe I'll be useful for something, like classified: Looking for additional textbook writer. Must be inefficient communicator.
Reading books doesn't require as much skill though, so I haven't screwed that up this year. The Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby, The Awakening were books I'd meant to read but never had. And now I can be excited for Leonardo diCaprio and Carey Mulligan in the upcoming Gatsby film, and whatever, I enjoyed Kate Chopin. Rapidfire reading of classics has really, just. It's kind of made me more appreciative of symbolism and how someone insignificant can leave a legacy. Kate Chopin wasn't easy on the eyes, apparently, but look at her (well, not look at her; she was ugly).
I'm half-panicked for the multiple choice and synthesis essay for the AP exam next week. When people give me ten pages of information, I tend to make my own information up, so I should stop doing that. "As evidenced by document B, all American presidents have been dark, brooding characters." Then the grader finds out that #B is actually a political cartoon about democracy in Congress. For real, though, I wish as many synthesis as argument essays had been done this year, due to its occasional trickiness.
And adieu to those group worksheets. Doing those were the pits. I hated them, and would have much preferred for a question to be written on the board and for everyone to just magic marker some answers to read aloud as a class. Like a half-written, half-oral seminar.
AP Lang was such a long course in realization and correction. Maybe it should get a yearbook so I can appreciate it some more with what I hope is good writing. And if it's not, that's okay too. And if it is, what a relief.
0 comments
literary movement i hate least
4:06 PM
Andrew Jackson was the self-made man of his day and a century later, Andrew Carnegie emerged from the ranks of factory worker immigrants to that of prosperous steel tycoon. They're both considered self-made, rags-to-riches men, and they are my idols. If they were on Dancing with the Stars or People's Choice or Survivor, I'd vote for them because people who have distressing childhoods just kill me. Jackson also ended up on the twenty dollar bill, and as a person, I feel like that is the Mount Everest of successes. Well, excuse me, says Benjamin Franklin.
Transcendentalism appreciates that "I don't need no man," sassafrass independence. It got the Declaration of Independence written, which indicates game over for the other -isms. I imagine it beating sad realism and overwrought romanticism over the head at the literary movement reunion.
During the transcendentalist fervor, Emerson and his buddies stayed in society long enough to publish their books and then packed bags to live in utopian societies. They sat around campfires reciting poetry until a fire actually burned down one of their major villages. They had to return to society after that, but I enjoy the idea of living with your ten favorite people who would rather you write about nature than go to your job. In fact, I thoreauly enjoy it, and everyone can just put me on trial for that one because wordplay is criminally funny.
Transcendentalists deep-dived into their souls and I think it'd be fair to say they were the much tamer version of the sixties counterculture. Both enjoyed nature as a basis for understanding society better. In short, really, I just enjoy any writing that questions the predictable yet supposedly fulfilling education-marriage-retirement spiel, and transcendentalism really succeeds at doing that.
0 comments
research reflection
4:48 PM
Eventually, I became a little weak, a little desperate and sent someone the essay. It was dauntingly long:
But I hid seventeen one-liners within the text to make the reading more bearable.
---
The writing of the paper itself, though, wasn't painful at all. The in-class step-by-step checks of a typed hypothesis, then an essay outline, and afterwards a rough draft were so beneficial. I'm not that that skilled at procrastination, but I do sleep excessively. (Correlation: I've grown nearly two inches this school year.) The constant checkups on the assignment really kept me scared enough to stay alert long enough to work on a small part of the project everyday. Usually, I let sleep run away with my entire soul in its arms, groom and bride-style. I leave for the honeymoon, untouched by any due date. And then it's the night before and I'm typing with the speed of ten flashing blitzkreig wars before sleep tells me public education is government propaganda and I give in because sleep promises that, as newlyweds, we can try that inception thing.
Besides finally reading Steinbeck's Pulitzer prizewinner The Grapes of Wrath, I did find some merit in this research paper. When I received my grade, I realized that a few easy points weaseled out from under me because I never pay attention to the quality of the bibliography, so now I know what to focus on in the future. The overwhelmingly near future of AP Lit.
0 comments
gatsbying around the american dream
4:07 PM
Fitzgerald closes his commentary on the American Dream with incomparable eloquence: "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but no matter. Tomorrow we will run faster, reach out our arms farther. And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
The green light that Gatsby watches boyishly loops him into his own frustrated death. But why should that be an indication that the American dream is dead? All the American dream, or any dream, is pursuit of the uneasily attainable. Happiness makes a person boring, so endlessly, dissatisfaction maintains interest by wheeling us into a panorama of people embarrassingly better. Gatsby could have married Daisy, and ignored lifelong the green light, but that's no story too worthy of reading. He could have waltzed into a completed American dream, but that wouldn't be an accurate representation of anybody. Economics and crimes sabotage a lot of things, but that preference for something that coincidentally is never the present is enough substance to keep the dream noticeable and uncrippled.
Often, what people want is someone's attention. They want to be promoted, they want to be told they have nice eyes, they want to be loved, so they work faster, look more people in the eye, become lovable. And in other times, larger houses are sought; fame becomes an obsession. That kind of wishful thinking exactly characterizes the American dream, and it's an unavoidable part of life, so there's that dream, undying.
0 comments
valentine's day
5:17 PM
Case in point: In two of my classes, there's a girl (whose redeeming qualities I'll ignore) who walked in on Valentine's with an orange rose and an armful of hideous cards glued to thumb-sized chocolate bars. "These are for you guys," she said loudly, as she handed out three. Later on in the day, I overheard her telling her friend that her parents had given her the flower as a fun gift and that she was carrying it around to impress people. "It looks like I have a boyfriend," she whispered. Her friend asked her if she wanted one that badly. "Yeah," she said. "I don't get why no one will ask me out." Her friend then told her that she looked cute in her pink shirt and hairsprayed hair. What she should've pointed out that if she hairsprayed her hair other days too and maybe didn't talk about only herself, people would like her a bit more. But I digress. She does have nice eyes and she probably doesn't have allergies.
It's not only her though. There are other people who somehow think that just because it's a calendar holiday, they're likelier to get a date. "It's Singles Awareness Day," read one out of five statuses in the news feed this year. My sympathies to the guy with slouching posture and a great sense of racist humor -- and the girls who befriend food to show how independent they are. I didn't know chocolate was an independent sport.
On the other end of the spectrum, there are people in relationships who believe in consistency and that showing a Valentine's day-equivalent love throughout the year is better. It does seem more rational to have that mindset. I have an aunt who says things like that and has never celebrated her anniversary even though she got married on Valentine's Day itself. Anyways, she got divorced last year.
It's not like I'm sour, but the two times I've received chocolate, the givers ended up eating most of the box. On the other hand, for the past two years, I've won a prize in my Spanish teacher's love poem contest by writing about how much I love my reflection. That's good enough for me.
0 comments
stuff white people like
9:02 AM
Over the course of a calendar year, white people have ample opportunities for themed parties and drinking: Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day, and Cinco De Mayo are the most popular officially sanctioned holidays. But that does not mean that white people shy away from creating their own impromptu themes for parties and evenings- mustache party! ’90s prom! Designing Women!
Lander begins with a semicoloned sentence recapping the popular drinking days of the year, and then quickly transitions into a list of impromptu themes. His abundant examples highlight the tackiness of "white people" and their tendency to overdrink.
During the month of December, white people face an especially difficult challenge. This is the time of year when parties and drinking are most appropriate, but the most obvious theme of Christmas must be avoided. This is because Christmas forces Christianity upon others, and though their ancestors had no problem with this activity, modern white people are quite disgusted by the idea. Hanukkah parties are fun, but a bit too exclusive, and a Kwanzaa Party requires an enormous amount of physical, mental, and ironic labor that can only be done by the most elite of white people.
White people needed to find a party that was completely without religious affiliations, but still connected enough to the idea of Christmas that they could serve eggnog and hot toddies. The answer: ugly sweater parties.
These parties feature festive drinks, Christmas music by Sufjan Stevens, and most importantly, intentionally hideous sweaters. These ugly sweaters provide white people with an invisible shield that protects them from any criticism that might emerge if any Christianity accidentally slips into the evening.
“Hey man, I love that Burl Ives song, but um, you let Silent Night slip into the mix. That’s kind of awkward because, you know, the Crusades?”
White person points to sweater and makes a funny face.
Order is restored.
If you find yourself invited to one of these parties, you must begin your preparations immediately. Craftier white people have been searching used clothing stores since last Christmas, and so you should not expect to find anything of significant ironic value. Instead, your best hope is to see if any of your family members have an old sweater lying around.
“Hey man, nice sweater. It’s so ugly.”
“Yeah, when my family first got to this country we had to shop at Goodwill, this is the first one my father bought to get him through his first winter here. Good thing they didn’t have these parties back then, right? He would have died.”
“Geez, man, I’m sorry, you can cut in line for egg nog.”
He adopts a very logical structure, addressing the problems of having religious parties for the sake of celebrating -- problems only "the most elite of white people" can avoid. But fortunately, he proposes a solution for everybody else, and he does it dramatically with a colon: "ugly sweater parties."
His incorporation of dialogue at a hypothetical Christmas party both entertains and classifies white people into a homogeneous mass. The reader begins to see whites as all programmed to react and speak in the same way. He furthers his stereotypes of his subject by normalizing the search for the ugly holiday sweater, which cleverly expresses how strange he considers his...less...pigmented brothers.
In item #1 to #118 to #countlessly many, Lander remains detached and observant, as if he isn't a member himself of the species he describes.
0 comments
trying to be american
8:19 AM
I have the same dilemma as other ethnic people do in America: How do I become more American? Because being born here just doesn't seem enough sometimes; somehow, it seems as if I'm always one step behind on culture. So that's how I ended up watching a romance at 2 AM.
According to comedian Russell Peters, his father posed the same question. And one night, Peters said, his old man figured out how to become a Canadian. "We will have a barbeque," he said. So they had a barbeque with the neighbors, and a younger Peters watched his dad char hamburgers and "hoddogs." Halfway through the backyard social, his dad beckoned him over and asked him to look at the mesh in the grill. "Why is the rice falling through?" asked his dad.
Trying to become more Western hemisphere isn't easy, especially when most people around you tell you to calm down after you enthuse about Thanksgiving, your first Metallica CD, the Superbowl, Manhattan and Chicago. I've tried dealing with this by celebrating with my own traditions. On Thanksgiving, I visit Golden Corral's supersized buffet. A month later, I walk to the drugstore on Christmas and buy premade gingerbread and pretend it's homemade. On New Year's, my mother tells me to stop wearing glitter and wait until February. On Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I give him a mental heyo. And if I have time to bake the day before, I hand out cookies on Valentines Day. And so on. July Fourth is a real kicker; I Google local parades online. It's the best I can do when no one will sit outside with me and a cooler.
In a red white and blue nutshell, I'm not very good at this. I American't.
2 comments
reflections on huck finn
7:49 AM
Twain starts off with something one of my friends at another school called "the best introduction ever":
"You don't know about me, without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth."
Clever self-promoter.
Huck is reminiscent of Nancy Drew in a tight spot; he's quick-witted and he lies scarily well. When he's caught pretending to be a girl, he apologetically promises to tell the truth -- and then he tells another lie. His method of coping with questioning strangers reminds me of a piano teacher. I quit piano at ten, but until that glorious winter day I buried finger warmup books in the cold snow, I had to deal with an incurably nosy teacher. His small talk was erratically placed throughout lessons, and the quality of it just furthered my suspicions that he lived alone.
Anyways, he would ask what my hobbies were, where I went to church, what I had for lunch, the names of my friends, how much money I think we made. So I would try to maintain eye contact and a truthful tone. "I like running with my dog," I said. I didn't own one. He said, "Oh. Oh, I'm allergic to dogs." "Me too," I said.
Honest Abe watched from above as I responded to the other questions:
I think he liked me a lot, in the way America might enjoy a small, nine-year-old Kardashian.
But even more ruthless and sharp than Huck is his right hand Tom Sawyer. I sort of wish Twain had penned a novel with the two living together as adults. Maybe it could be set in industrial America at the turn of the century, with them fooling Rockefeller into handing over his business to them. "Oil get ye lads," Twain would have Rockefeller say, as critics would call Twain an untalented and depressed maniac.
0 comments
interes-ted & other okay jokes
9:18 PM
The first time she reads off the screen is around 2:38 -- three women on the sofa, watching a pink smudge Donnelly painted on a TV. "Why do I get this vague notion that something is always expected of us?" She uses this question as a springboard to elaborate on how the "rules keep changing." A subsequent slide: A blonde emptily looking at a rulebook on "you name it." The crowd laughs again, and the laughter seems to oil her self-confidence.
She then pulls up a
She has nice handwriting.
And she goes into how she began drawing to make sense of the unfavorable environment she was in. She says that her humor didn't keep her family together, even though younger her thought it would. But she did realize that paper was a medium that allowed her to avoid pink, heels, rules. It empowered her to shed the weakness that she had when she had to fulfill her expected societal role.
She starts sneaking in her main point around 6:27, which is around the time when an illustration about how "in one day, I went from tweeting my oatmeal to tweeting a revolution" surfaces onto the screen. She says that she thinks that women can change their roles through humor. She nods and walks off stage. The audience applauds; it's notable that the audience only has women.