It's been a while

It's been a long five months. A VERY short recap:

Visited Oregon (heart achingly beautiful)
Tried Thai food for the first time (and have been craving it ever since)
Devoured Vietnamese food for the first time
Ate my first gyro (lamb is YUMMY, by the way)
Watched my niece turn 1 year
Met the man of my dreams
Got my first job on campus
(In the midst of) Struggling through my last round of Lib. Eds
Tried Sushi (including eel...made a mess and LOVED it)
Tried raw squid at a Thai restaurant (and LOVED it)

I could go on. Suffice to say, it's been a busy five months. So much has changed!  School is much more difficult, but I've got a great group of friends (who I've also met in the last five months) here now, and an amazing boyfriend I get to see on the weekends, and a loving family I catch up with when I can. My niece is starting to understand and convey more and more every day (she knows what 'put it back' means...and actually obeys. She is speaking more too; she points and says "there you go" when she has dropped something and can't reach it).

The biggest development: my need for real writing (you know, outside of class) has returned. I may actually be posting some writing soon enough (if I can find time between studying and homework)...turns out that the man I love also proves to be my missing muse. 

Oregon was amazing. I got to spend time with my aunts and uncles, with my grandma. I miss them so much; about as much as I miss Oregon itself. I got to talk to my grandma about WW2. Her father was in publishing, and wanted by the gestapo...he was gone a lot, because they lived kitty corner to the gestapo station. How nerve wracking would that be? She talked about how they made their own candles, and about how school wasn't very constant for her because their schools kept getting bombed. They were always sent home with days worth of homework because they never knew when or where they would be able to meet next. What a different life. I don't think many people of my generation in the US can imagine a life like that. I know I can't.

What I loved most about being in Oregon, (aside from seeing family), was returning to such beautiful landscape. My aunt Bonnie drove my best friend and I around Portland, out to Multnomah Falls (we climbed to the top...jeez that was rough for my out of shape body) and the Gorge. Everything is just so green. The trees are wet with dew, carpets of moss and vines crawl up bark that you can only assume is brown. The hiking trails are spongy from consistently damp dirt and grass that sparkles under the rain. Even bridges, dare they to go unused, are almost immediately consumed by the surrounding environment. Northern Oregon is a testament to how eager mother nature is to reclaim what we've ground up and replaced with steel and stone. It's as close to a rain forest as I'm willing to get (they lack the murderous creatures found in other parts of the world). Just outside of Portland, like in West Linn where my aunt lives, I couldn't help but feel that this was one of the last bits of the (livable) world where we have carved out enough space in the wild to live in...but not enough to conquer. Trees looking old as time stoop over small cottages, vines entwine themselves with porches and climb over roofs. Little neighborhoods nestled inside a large, seemingly endless bit of forest. Call the people 'green,' 'environmentally friendly,' or 'tree huggers,' but I give them props for coexisting with mother nature, not overwhelming her. Don't get me wrong...I'm not granola at all. But it's a peaceful, freeing, magical feeling that overcomes me as soon as I return to this state. Besides, it ALWAYS smells of rain. What a purifying whiff of life. I love it. Not to mention the deserted, clean beach my uncle Wally took my BFF and I to once we hit the sand dunes. It was quite the hike; barefoot through prickly bushes, patches of evergreen trees, and very hot sand for at least a quarter of a mile. But was it ever worth it. I never thought I'd see a whole stretch of white sandy beach completely deserted but for hundreds of empty shells. The sand was soft and fun to sink aching (and splinter filled) feet into. The water (being Oregon in May) was cold, but still fun to sprint into and run (yelping) back out of.

 Here's the Gorge

View from the bottom of Multnomah Falls

 

View from the top of the Falls, one mile of incline later...

 The sand dunes; you can see the ocean wayyyy in the background. We walked that.

Uncle Wally took a picture of me waving from the water--he stayed by where the dunes open to the beach.

A tree so large and within reach that I just had to hug it.

 GREEN! And if you can't tell...my favorite picture.

It's been a very interesting five months. I'm looking forward to the next seven.

Interesting Links

A previous teacher sent me a couple links today, rather distracting me from my studying... but they were too good not to share. "The School I'd Like" is an article about kids who have sent in their ideas on what the perfect school would include. Considering most were elementary kids, some of their responses were impressive and exhibited more forward thinking than I thought possible from children under 12. Of course, some were just plain cute.

"Every class should have a cow so they can sell the milk from the cow and improve the school," wrote Joshua Kennedy, 11.

Don't forget to look at the Children's Manifesto. 

Then there was the link to The Finland Phenomenon, a short piece discussing the school system in Finland. As the video describes, it's a school where teachers aren't evaluated, students aren't given standardized testing... it's a system based on trust. It's sad to see where the USA stands on the chart included in the article. Sad to know this system apparently work here. I'm excited to track down this documentary.

Uh Oh.

Here's the deal.

While I'm perfectly willing to give up most of my classes for the summer (American Lit, Anglo Saxon England, Writing Creative Nonfiction), there are one or two that I'm not. I've also just realized the reason behind it is not just the subject matter, but because of the teachers. While I have immense respect for my Anglo Saxon England teacher, this course was not my favorite. It pales in comparison to the Myth class I took with him. My American Lit class was torture. I'm sorry; I'm sure she's a nice person, but she should not be teaching this class. I've never actually enjoyed reading something, only to come to class and have that enjoyment taken away during lecture. That's ridiculous. Then there is my Writing Creative Nonfiction class. Again, nice person, but not the best in the classroom setting. The two classes I will miss most?

British and World Drama and Mass Media in Society. Why? Was it the subject matter? Well, sure. But what else? It was how enthusiastic I felt while learning in those classrooms. I think my back actually feels better because in these classes I (literally) sat forward (instead of slouching to rest my head on the back seat). I wanted to learn. I couldn't wait to hear what was going to be coming to us next. In my British and World Drama class, I have never had so much fun with group work, watching others present and presenting myself (though on occasion that aspect got a little sketchy). The highlight was watching one group turn their TV show into a miracle play-- using one of my friends as a whore. When she jumped across the table (literally, and in a short skirt too), I almost died laughing. She hates being in front of people speaking. She's shy. And there she was, in a short skirt, tube top, and kick ass boots, sliding across the table to her friend, flirting. What a way to learn.

In my Mass Media class (the one I can't stop talking about), I haven't laughed so hard in a very long time. In or outside the classroom. I haven't done so much research on my own before (hello, learning about Watergate was the highlight of my semester, call me crazy). I haven't written in the margins so much (notes like, Random Fact: Thomas Edison was not all that, look to Tesla, SEE EDISON ELECTRIFYING ELEPHANTS, or Babalonians went by base 60 number system, or 'Boredom' Coined by Charles Dickens or 'ZOUNDS=GOD'S WOUNDS); especially notes like: Look Up: aphoristic, antithetical, gauche, malfeasance, prurient, SLAPS TEST, MILLER TEST, Planegate, Joe Wilson, Grand Old Party, Iran Contras, Bolan Amendment, Oliver North, William Blake, Leo Straus, I.F. Stone, Protagoras, Swedenborgian, Smith Munt Act. . . You get my point. I don't think I've ever been so engaged. Or more motivated to study on my own. Or should I say, so engaged or more motivated on topics that have (almost)  nothing to do with my major. This is all history or mass comm. One of my friends asked me the other day if I should be re-thinking my majors. I disagreed on the grounds that this one class may keep me engaged, but I'm not sure I have any desire to take classes like Communication Law or Audio Production. Though I have signed up for Media Ethics next semester. Of course, I've also never met a teacher who can talk about foam and bubbles and the social connotations behind them for ten minutes and make me more awake than I was before coming to class. I think that's a talent few people have. I've never cared for straight lectures. In fact, I usually hate them. They are boring, they don't engage the students, and in today's world of the 'new york minute' attention span, they are useless. But love or hate this professor, you have to try pretty hard to ignore him. Even when he comes to class unprepared, he knows enough on enough topics to keep us busy until the last second of class (I managed to get him riled up on the topic of marketing to children once, and he scrapped his prepared lecture on violence to talk about how crappy Baby Einstein is and how much he hates Disney).

This brings me to the one thing (well, one thing of a very few) that managed to anger me in the New York Times last week. This shocked me. Even though it probably should have been a given. Not one of the people mentioned in this article, Michelle Rhee, Davis Guggenheim, Bill Gates, went to a public school. And they are the ones trying to reform it?

In November, Mr. Gates and Mr. Duncan (University of Chicago Laboratory School) called on public school leaders to increase class size as a way of cutting costs in these hard times. The two men suggested that schools could compensate by striving to have an excellent teacher in every classroom. The private school Mr. Gates attended has an average class size of 16, according to its Web site. The home page says the best thing about Lakeside School is it “promotes relationships between teachers and students through small class sizes.” Mr. Duncan’s private school has an average class size of 19. 

So, as I read this article (and the paragraph above in particular), I had the funny feeling that either I was being too harsh and not looking at both sides of everyone's view, or these people are trying to sabotage public schools. Call me crazy.

Chester E. Finn Jr. (Phillips Exeter) is the president of the Thomas B. Fordham Institute and a senior fellow of the Hoover Institution, two of the country’s leading conservative research groups. Mr. Finn is the scholarly counterpart of Ms. Rhee. Early on, he supported the privatization of public education, the use of vouchers and the development of a national core curriculum, which could possibly mean every public school would be teaching the same thing at the same time. His recommendation for reforming the public school system: “Blow it up and start over.”  

Now, I need to look into what exactly 'same thing at the same time' really means. Will this limit freedom of what teachers are able to use as curriculum in their classroom? Is it a standard to be met, allowing teachers (like in my high school) to use materials that apply, but ones of their choice? I know one teacher who would have a fit (and has) at the idea of another teacher on the same floor teaching the same material. But if this means that everyone is going to be teaching "To Kill A Mockingbird" at the same time, everywhere, year after year, I'm not for it. Why would people want to teach the same material for 50 years? Sure, I could probably teach something for that long, but it would have to be something like Harry Potter. I'm not sure how crazy I would be for Young Goodman Brown or the Lottery or The Yellow Wallpaper after teaching it year after year after year unless I was able to find creative ways to teach them. . . but there are only so many ways you can teach something.

When President Bush signed the No Child Left Behind legislation, he expressed his hope that it would combat the “soft bigotry of low expectations.” Indeed, the law could not have higher expectations: every child in the nation is required to be proficient in math and English by 2014. Schools that do not meet their proficiency goals, which are raised every year, are labeled as failing.

Last month, Mr. Duncan predicted that by the end of this year, 82 percent of schools will miss their goal. At this rate, it is highly likely that in a few years, every single public school in the United States will be labeled a failure. 

Great. And apparently, Michelle Obama is the only one standing against standardized testing. I've found something I agree with her on. Is it odd she's the only one in this article who attended public school?

In contrast, Michelle Obama, who attended public schools (Whitney Young High, Chicago), has frequently spoken out against the education law’s reliance on testing. “If my future were determined by my performance on a standardized test,” Mrs. Obama has repeatedly said, “I wouldn’t be here, I guarantee that.” 

Then there is this (I had to laugh): 

The New York City Department of Education, a pioneer in the science of value-added assessment, can now calculate a teacher’s worth to the third decimal point by using a few very long formulas. (No word yet on whether department researchers have developed a very long formula to assess chancellors and mayors.) 

Math can judge how effective a teacher is in the classroom of 30 plus students (some who need paraprofessional help but aren't getting it because in some schools they are being fired because of budget cuts)? I'd like to see those formulas.I've said it before and I'll say it again: how can we trust tests that judge the fates of our schools, students, and teachers when the ones who matter, the ones who ARE NEVER discussed or thought about, DON'T CARE? I'm not saying they don't care about school. Just the opposite. They don't care about these tests. The tests are seen as things that take us away from class. Whether seen as a positive or negative, just a glace around that cold, screamingly quiet room and you see people with their face down, a finger on the arrow key and counting; pausing to slap the enter button. The ones who do care enough to try are irritated at missing class and speed through, wanting to get back to a lab or test they are inevitably missing. We don't take them seriously.  I should add that my statements are based upon what I've noticed in my own high school. I'm not trying to speak for the rest of the nation. 

Going back to saying that students aren't discussed or thought about in terms of education reform. . . it's always an economic issue. Or a numbers issue. A factory line issue. Students are products that are shipped through a machine; if they aren't coming out quite right, then it's time to tweak this nut or turn that bolt. I don't remember the last article I read where these 'education reformers' actually mention the needs of students like they are humans, not something that needs oiling. 

But I digress. This has been a growing headache in my mind, and I'm hoping to hear thoughts back; hopefully ones that disagree and attempt to prove me wrong. Bring it on.

What would you ask?

Well, I've turned in another paper for Writing Creative Nonfiction. While I haven't edited it a million and ten times, I'm going to trust in my BFF's once-over and deem it ready to post here:

Home Sweet Home (Updated)


Ignore the title. And the final line. The title is probably one of my worst (including calling a braided essay I wrote: Braided Essay), and definitely my cheesiest.The same could be said of my final line.

But that's not the main reason why I'm writing (typing) today.

There are only 28 days left of school.

On one hand, I'm ecstatic (on the other, it means I won't be in another classroom until the middle of August, instead I'll be working my tail off to pay to be in another classroom). May 17th- May 25th I will be in Oregon with my best friend and my dad's family who live there. Talk about exciting! But I am nervous as well. I'm looking forward to seeing my grandma (who I've only seen about three other times in my life), but there has been something clouding my thoughts. My grandma lived in Holland during WWII during her teenage years. She met my grandpa in Iraq while on holiday (though for the life of me I have no idea why someone would go to Iraq on holiday. Why not France or Italy?). But what's been tapping on my mind is this: would she be willing to talk about the war? How much would she remember? How much did it affect her? These are just a few questions that I want to ask (aside from what brought her to Iraq on holiday). My dad tells me she is willing to talk to me about it, though she never discussed it with him or his brother or sister growing up.
What questions do you ask a World War II survivor? Dad said she watches documentaries and reads books on the topic though it never fails to reduce her to tears. I don't want to upset her, but I don't want to miss a chance to listen to a first hand account on the war that tends to fascinate me the most.

Any ideas? What would you ask her if you had the chance? If I am able to record her, I may post it here when we return.

Mind=Blown

Who knew? Thanks to this post, "The 'B' Word" by my professor in Mass Media, I've discovered just how truly biased I am against, what I feel are, liberal extremist comments.

If someone condemns Fox News, for example, because they have a conservative bias, then other outlets fall somewhere along the line between left and right by default. MSNBC, naturally, must be liberal, and being liberal, according to the logic of the accusation, implies that it is better. (Meanwhile, CNN (ugh) remains pathetically and uselessly "centrist.") These networks, it turns out, plot themselves along this paradigm resulting in disservice to all.

But what's lost here are other, more important qualities than being right or left, such as being right or wrong. Here's what I mean: to discount a report or a story because you view it as "liberal" or "conservative" is merely to ignore that which doesn't support your prejudices. It's faulty thinking. Each of these terms, "liberal," "conservative," and "biased" are so vague as to be useless, and no combination of them can yield a meaningful critique.

Neither being liberal nor being conservative is the same as being wrong. Either one of them might, in fact, be wrong. Or both might be. But it wouldn't be because they are liberal or conservative. It could only be because their reasoning is faulty and their statements do not align with the truth, meaning "with reality," which is accessible in some measure to us all. 

I have grown up around people (including my parents) who say, "psh, you can't trust that, you heard it from CNN."  Just because it's an unpleasant thought, or an opinion voiced by someone known for being liberal, I shouldn't take it as false. I've never thought of journalism, media, or any kind of news in terms of, "I wonder where that information came from, I wonder if they have data to back it up, I wonder." I realize now that I probably don't have very good critiquing skills beyond deciding if the statement sounds extremist (liberal or conservative). 

A good example of my in-bred bias happened just tonight while watching a video on PBS with Daniel Ellsberg and a few journalists from the New York Times. Ellsberg was predicting that if we have a republican House and Senate (this was a video from September of 2010), journalists will be pulled in more and more under pressure of revealing sources from whom they received top secret information or documents, under threat of being held in contempt. As soon as he said this, I jumped back in my chair with a "Wait just a damn minute" face locked into position. And then I thought, wait. . . what do I really know about this issue? What do I know about any secrecy acts? What do I know about who stands where on this topic anyway? What do I really know about politics? 

And so it began. I'm still struggling with the idea of listening or reading information, no matter their reputation for being liberal (CNN, perhaps, or NPR?). I'm not sure how to go about looking for information that hasn't been labeled either which way politically, and then determining if it is factual, or if it is trustworthy information. I tend to base my beliefs on the trust that I have in people who tell me about information, or the trust I have in some newspaper or news show. I feel unsteady. How do I decide what is fact? It's a bit easier with news or information or events that occurred 30+ years ago (I'm starting to really get into the whole deal with Nixon and the Watergate debacle, I'm going to start on "All the President's Men" soon); there are books, many people who have written on the subject. I can research that. But on topics like 'global climate change?' What trustworthy data is out there for me to find? Will it take me 30 years to feel comfortable with making a choice as to whether I believe we are in serious danger or not (though, the question then becomes, are we in serious danger from rising ocean levels? Thanks to Times Talk on Monday, the answer is undoubtedly YES)? 

Gah. It's a lot to think about. If anyone has any suggestions on how to start again, how to obtain the critical mind necessary to make an informed decision before I turn 40, I would love to hear it.

Mind=blown.

Is that. . . Spring???

I was walking in the tunnels to class yesterday, accustomed to the clouded, gray sky I saw through the windows just peeking over the grass outside. When I emerged from Hagg-Sauer at 9:35, I saw more of the same, dreary, gray sky. I scurried past the smokers because it was still cool, being 9:35 in the morning, and the sun had yet to really rise let alone attempt a break out from the jail that seemed to trap it. And I really needed my coffee. Then, on my way back to Hagg-Sauer from Sattgast around noon, I had to blink. A lot. What was this thing, this thing that burned my eyes? It was less yellow than the lights in the buildings. . . could it be. . . SUNLIGHT? I felt my skin burn, not crawl with cold. I smelled evergreens. I was outside, and I could smell something other than COLD. I laughed. Out loud. I made the person walking by me jump--perhaps it was a crazy laugh. I had the first scent of Spring, and I wasn't about to go back inside anytime soon. Even if it meant walking through many puddles of water with my holey shoe. Because that was melted ice I was walking through. Not ice.

When I catch that first scent of Spring, I go a little crazy. Like a man that was shut in solitary for six months emerging to a sunny day in August, by the ocean with a view of the mountains, his favourite dog waiting for him by an ice cream van on free ice cream day.
Once, in middle school, emerging to very little snow, a lot of mud puddles, and a hot sun grazing my face, I ran to the middle of the 'recess' area and began twirling. I also tried to dance with my friend, who was very put off by my odd behaviour. So, I stopped twirling and dancing. It's hard to twirl and dance with someone standing as still as possible, hoping to get away from the freak who went from being slightly depressed to maniacally happy.

So I went to my creative nonfiction class yesterday at 4, on the verge of skipping out and running to the park to find a bench to perch on. When I got to class, I just couldn't help myself. The words spilled out as soon as my professor walked in with her high heels and knee-length skirt.
"We should have class outside today."
"Okay."
Huh? Did she see what she was wearing?
"You'll have to go through some snow to get to the benches." I was staring at her heels. And her poka-dot leggings.
"Okay. As long as everyone else is willing, I sure am."
So that's how we ended up trooping outside to find some benches to sit on. Half of us got settled before she stared at the snow and said, "I'm thinking we might freeze out here."
You're in a skirt and heels, I thought. She continued to say that we should go inside to do the presentations. And then she made me feel like an idiot, because yes, while it was my idea, I was high on sunlight and temperatures that I'm sure actually hit 33. She yelled, "Sorry, Kris, but I promise we'll have class outside as soon as it gets nice."
This isn't nice? After below zero weather and a sun that seemed to have gone south with the birds?
I'm pretty sure at least half my writing class was irritated with me that day. Jenny (my friend in the class) thought it was all very funny. At least she did.

Don't get me started on today. It was 40 and so sunny I tried to think where I left my spare sunglasses. . . and remembered they are on the back seat of my Dad's 'burbon, 90 miles away. The sad thing is, we'll get another snowstorm before Spring really hits. Ah, Minnesota weather.

Response Day

I realize that I talk about writing a lot on this blog. But one thing that I don't do, as frequently as I talk about it, is do it. I rarely write for myself. And I'm starting to think that it was because I was adopting a 'good enough' mentality. Writing was becoming lackluster. In theory, I knew that I had a lot to learn as far as the craft and art of writing goes, but I just didn't feel it. I'm not trying to say I felt superior. But I felt like I had learned a lot more ahead of time; this was proved in my Advanced Writing class when I wrote a braided essay for my final assignment (because I LOVE braided essays) and no one in my class had ever written (or heard of) braided essays. It wasn't just the braided essay either. People in that class were still in the 'I think your paper was good, end of story' critiquing stage. No one had the guts to tell me where I went wrong, and even my professor decided my papers were 'just fine,' most of the time.

Until now. Now, I still maintain that my creative nonfiction teacher is not as great as she could be. Quite a lot of my classmates feel the same way, and have even started skipping class to do the homework and reading--not because they didn't have the time to do it the rest of the week or weekend, but because they feel it's a better use of time than sitting through class.

But today we had our first response day (we do a LOT less writing in this class than my Advanced Writing class). We only had four papers to read and respond to because she broke us down into smaller groups. My paper was discussed last. This time, I wasn't getting the same old 'this is really great, end of story' line. I was given a good critique of my paper (they actually told me WHY it was confusing, and WHERE, not just that it was confusing, end of story), not just by my classmates, but by my teacher (or at least more of a critique than I've had since high school) as well. She gave me a B+. Hell, I wish it was a B- or C+ (I admit, anything lower probably would have not only bruised my ego but destroyed me and would leave me in need of time to recuperate). I didn't like my paper. I whipped it out of my rear end. While I didn't think it was terrible, I knew, like usual, it needed improvement. My teacher literally typed a full page, critiquing my paper. She found things in there that I didn't even think of. She pretty much had my personality to the T by the time she was through with me. And best of all, by the time I was done staring in shock at that grade, I was filled with a sense of desire to write. I have not felt this feeling, this blaze of fire. This need to pick up a pencil, say screw my homework, and just write. About anything and everything. Needless to say, today I discovered what is just so great about my teacher. While I don't find myself wanting to adopt most anything about her process of critiquing (or, indeed, teaching), she awed me with how much she got out of my paper-- stuff that I didn't think was that obvious, or even present. I've got a lot more respect for her than I had yesterday. Or two hours ago.

Funny how a B+ affects a girl these days.

Here is the paper I turned in. I might be editing it later, expanding a lot, to turn into a final paper.

Scars Essay1

Music Amazing

I'm a fan of wandering on the site stumble.com. I come across travel sites, photography sites, music sites. . . anything that I told it was something I was interested in. Tonight, while relaxing after homework, stumble brought me here: to Andrew Bird. He plays every instrument in the song, he's cute, and he whistles like no tomorrow.

And then stumble brought me here: to a website that scans your handwriting so you can write letters with a personal touch. I now have my own font called KristenCraze. Don't judge, it's the best I could come up with on the spot. This is a very cool concept, though a bit of a faulty one. While the individual letters are indeed my own, it is not my writing. I connect almost all my letters, like a cursive of my own. Still, the idea is interesting.

And finally, there is Jamie Lidell singing 'The City.' I love it because he makes his own music. . . with his mouth. Reminds me of a kid in high school. Anyway, nice use of his mouth. And his voice doesn't hurt either.

It Started

With a text.
"Hey, want to go to the martin luther king jr freedom march with me from paul and babe to the baux arts room? There will be chili!"
How could I resist chili? Even IF the sun was going down, the wind picking up, and the temperature dropped below freezing again. And even IF I had a headache. And two tests to study for. And a paper to write. And a presentation to research. And notes to take. I could go on, but I digress.
My friend Sara and I suited up (she was still expecting the weather from the day before, not the sleet and freezing rain we encountered, and so she only had a light jacket on) and walked against freezing rain to Paul and Babe. The group we met there was small, but I saw we were going to have a police escort. This obviously meant this was going to be more than just a walk down the sidewalk, like I had figured. There was someone from a TV station interviewing the man heading up the walk. And then they handed out flags. Someone pushed one into my hands--it was the Chinese flag. There were others that I didn't recognize, the flag for the British colonies, and one for Japan. I still didn't know what to expect by this point, except that I was probably going to be an icicle by the time I returned to campus. I was right. But I can't think of a more memorable experience since arriving at BSU. Here's what happened:

We began walking, the police giving us one lane of traffic and slowed down all the others (it was about 5:30 at this point, meaning people trying to get home must have been pretty upset). Sara and I had fun staying out of the way of flags whipping in the wind and pointing out houses we liked or ones we could imagine fixing up. Some cars honked in support while a few newspeople ran around us or in front of us with heavy TV equipment or cameras trying to get something useful. There were some kids behind us that were using us as a shield from the wind--which was pretty darn smart. They were both holding flags of their own. When we finally reached the Baux Arts room back on campus, wind battered and frozen to the bone, we discovered chili. So we ate chili and waited for people to speak (which I wasn't expecting, I was just expecting chili).

Here's the really memorable experience part. The keynote speaker was a woman (I think her name was Dr.Anne B. Henry) who met Dr. King Jr. She began by saying how much she loves shopping. So when Dr Anne went to stay with her cousin and her cousin's husband, the cousin told the husband to take the Dr shopping. He had a plan to drop her off at the mall and pick her up later. But first, he had to drop something off at a friend's house. She thought this was a good deal, so they went to the friend's house. When they got there, he asked Dr. Anne to go up to the door and knock while he got something out of the trunk. So, she went up and knocked. When the door opened, she began to stammer apologies for intruding, because the man who opened the door was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. She also told us that she met this man in 1968.
She said it was the first time she went to a new city and didn't go shopping.
He invited her in and they talked about his hopes for the future. He told her that someday she would be able to go to college to earn her masters and someday her doctorate. She refused to believe him.

She went on to talk about not just tolerating, but accepting, people. About how Mississippi wants to celebrate a KKK leader on their license plate and that this is just one of many signs (another is that two men in Brainerd beat a man apparently only because he was black just ten days ago) that we are not yet the "United" States of America. She told us that if someone told her in the 60's that she would live to see a man of color become our president she would have called them crazy.

Now, to quote my mass media teacher, I do not drink the Obama Kool-Aid. But I saw what she meant. It's very cool that as a country we were able to vote in a man of color to presidency. I believe that this act is a landmark in time that we will be proud of as a nation.

What I thought about the most during her speech was this: northern Minnesota (I'm being specific to northern Minnesota because I haven't lived anywhere else and actually been able to remember living there) does not know a lot about living with people of different nationalities. Or so it seems. I know that in elementary school there was one black kid in our class until fifth grade. Then there were two. By the time we hit high school, it was culture shock. I think people started moving to TRF from all over (I know some kids were from South America and South Africa) for the jobs at Digi Key (why else move to Thief River Falls?). My point is that before this time, we never really got to experience anything other than that single dominating race. What does that do to a person's mentality? Does it affect how a person thinks racially? Are they less able to accept people of other races because they weren't raised to accept, not just tolerate, them in daily life? I hope an answer to that last question has more to do with the general goodness of a person's mentality toward the world. I know that there were kids in school who were downright shockingly racist, but from what I observed from afar, I think even though the experience with people from different cultures had been relatively minimal, the general population didn't just tolerate their classmates. They accepted them, became their friends. Does that say something about people in general, people from small towns, or just about our town?
I think I would consider living in a big city (maybe New York. Go big or go home, right?) just to see what the difference is. In all aspects of life. Of course, I would return to a small town somewhere (somewhere soon, I would bet), but I think there's something to be said about big city living.

I digress. I just thought our keynote speaker was a really sassy, New Orleans type lady; a person I never got the chance to meet even when I WAS in New Orleans (I was surrounded by 4000 other church kids, the city was overrun with tourists). Her experience was worth thinking about and listening to. If you want to read about it here it is. So, thanks for the text, Sara.

The Wind is Beginning to Change. . .

I love this time of year:

 

When the winter gloves are next to the summer sandals. =D It really gives a person hope. 

Creative Writing Class

I think I've mentioned before how interesting it is when I write something, usually a memory, for a paper in class and then have my best friend look it over. She is almost always included in these memories (our trip to Europe, our trip to New Orleans, our trips to the cities. . . ect.), so when I ask her for comments, it's usually along the lines of, "No, that's wrong. This is what happened."

Usually, she's right. My memory is terrible. Though, for the record, I still believe the Mercedes CLK 65 Black we saw in New Orleans was gray. No one would destroy that beautiful power-fiend by painting it baby blue.

The latest example is of a paper I just finished writing tonight. I shot her an email and asked her to edit before I hit print. It was about our trip to Valley Fair this last summer with my dad. My assignment for my Writing Creative Nonfiction class was to write out an 'explodable' memory. Draw it out, take it step by step. This was hard for me, because most memories I treasure aren't terribly exciting. Most involve staring out over an Italian landscape or the first time my niece found out how to make me laugh. But then I remembered the rip cord.

I should explain. I am afraid of heights. I mean, heights above those which I can't jump down from safely. This is probably why I never climbed any of the awesome evergreen trees in our yard (probably too, because I hated having sappy fingers). But I've always wanted to skydive. Call it taking on my fears, but I've always wanted to experience the feeling of falling. But, you know, not the whole dying part. Parachute. Problem solved. Anyway, we were at Valley Fair, and I think we were pretty tired by this point (we got there early and spent the day on water rides and walking around). I saw the rip cord. There was a lot of joking about going on about doing it, until my dad told us he would pay, but only if my friend went with me. The long and short of it is what I drafted into this paper.

Form and Technique 2

My friend text me and said I was wrong. I had pulled the release cable. I refused to believe this. I have no memory of pulling the cord, just hanging on to her for dear life. I was scared witless. I wanted to throw up. I also remember the sun almost piercing my skin. Then she reminded me that my dad had caught it all on camera. I went to look at the video, and sure enough, I pulled the cord, and it was cloudy (borderline raining). Again, I do have a terrible memory. But what gets me is that I can still feel the sun on my skin. I wrote the paper to what is true to my memory. Maybe it was tainted by the absolute fear gripping my heart and lungs. But I think this is what I love most about creative nonfiction. It doesn't matter that my friend was too scared to pull the cord so I was forced to volunteer, or that it was about to rain. I wrote this how I remember, and the best part is arguing the details with my friends and family. Because we all have different views of what really happened.

Calvin and Hobbs

I haven't always loved Calvin and Hobbes. To be quite frank, they confused me when I was little. I thought that for a cartoon, there was too much dialogue I didn't understand. So I went back to my Nancy Drew. Actually, for the most part, I hated comics. They were too short, didn't have enough of an exciting plot, or I just didn't understand them. It took a while to grow into them, and in fact, I can say I've never appreciated them more than now.

My dad brought me four Calvin and Hobbes books on his way down to Rochester this last week, and I've had time to devour one and a half of them. I almost died laughing when I realized, here are comments on topics I am covering (or have recently covered) in Mass Media in Society, American Lit, or other college classes. There is one I just read where Hobbes is looking at a book about how technology takes over humanity-- Calvin agrees this is terrible, but interrupts himself with, "Ohmygosh, is that the time? I'm missing my TV show!" This couldn't have been more on mark with what I'm reading in a book by Neil Postman for my Mass Media class right now.

And then, there is just the pure fun of Calvin's life. I keep thinking of how amusing it would have been to be Ms. Wormwood. What would I do if I saw Calvin pretending to be Spaceman Spiff, flying his ship? Arms outstretched, the look of being windblown? I've been roaring with laughter for the past few nights, that's for sure. I have to say, my favorite strip is when he combs his hair and puts his dad's glasses on and tells his father to go do something he hates because it will build character. I couldn't stop laughing for about five minutes. I'm glad I don't have a roommate. I'm reading my absolute favorite collection now, "Something Under the Bed is Drooling."

Anyway, I could go on forever about Calvin and Hobbes. In fact, tonight I met one of my friend's BFF from back home; she has a tattoo of Calvin and Hobbes hugging on her foot. We bonded over favorite strips and how terrible it is when we meet people who DON'T know who they are. My point to this post is something I came across when looking at Calvin and Hobbes tattoos, to see what people have done with them. Some went as far as getting entire strips on their arms, legs, or backs.

 This one of Spaceman Spiff is my favorite.

 Though, if I got one myself, it would be of them in their wagon. Or sitting next to the fire.

 This one is the one my friend has, but she's got it on her inner foot.

Another of my favorite strips



But then, I saw this:

 

I can't begin to describe the pit of sadness that weighed me down after looking at this. It was a result of this article. It talks how it won't be mandatory for students participating in athletics to take drug tests before starting the season. It merges onto the topic of students taking Ritalin or Adderal to do better in school. It wasn't even the article that upset me. It was the bottom two panels of the above comic. It's almost like they killed Hobbes. The idea of Calvin growing up, Hobbes forgotten, is down right depressing. This is the most imaginative kid EVER. Ughhhh. My point, I suppose, is that this was depressing. And I thought I would share it with the world. Take it for what you will-- it's late, and I'm going to read me some hilarious Calvin-Hobbesian antics before bed.

Here are a few pictures I found that made me feel better: 

 This is with Suzie, who my friend said she could just see being Calvin's future girlfriend.

Why Do I Write?

My Creative Nonfiction class has given us the assignment to write five starting paragraphs to the question, "Why Do You Write?" Ordinarily, I would have found this assignment cool and fascinating to see what I come up with. This may still be the end result, but right now. . .

I am aggravated. How many times have I been asked this question? How many times have I explored it on my own? And now it's become redundant. Irritating, even. Of course, I would probably begin by assigning this as the first topic too. None of my aggravation is directed at the professor, or the class. Just the question. "WHY DO I WRITE?"
It stares at me from the page, so non-threatening, so innocent. It's a valid enough of a question. Usually it's the first one to be asked any author, right ahead of, "Where do you come UP with this sh**?" Or so declares interview upon interview with any of my favorite authors.

So, why DO I write? To tell the truth, outside of class assignments, I can't remember the last time I wrote just for myself (outside of the occasional journal session at night). I can't recall the last time I attempted something fictional (which is first and foremost my true love in writing) or even nonfictional (again, aside from the journal entries, which too have become rare). I know I love writing. Why don't I sit down and do it? Is it a time issue? The amount I spend on Facebook tells me no.

I think it's because I'm lazy. I've gotten into the habit of 'not-writing' so much that it's easier for me to lay down and just think about what I would write instead of actually doing it. This doesn't go well with my "Just Do It, Already!" New Years resolution. So how do I break the chain?

Just do it?

Anyway, here is what the assignment turned out to be:

Why Do I Write?

Ha. . . Or Not.

In reference to this post, 451, Here we come, from TeacherScribe, I couldn't resist sharing a strip from one of my favorite cartoons.

Is it Sci-Fi or Something Else?

Thanks to my Mass Media professor, here is the link to something I find rather disturbing. According to the article, if you haven't clicked to read, Intel is in the process of developing a chip that can harness brain waves to control computers, TVs, and cell phones.

When I was in middle school, I came across the book "Feed" by M.T Anderson. I was trying to pry my fingers off the Harry Potter books at home; the bindings were wearing faster than I could buy them again, so I was perusing the school library.
"Feed," I had thought. "Sounds interesting."
Scary, more like. It's a futuristic story from the point of view of a boy who is a part of a generation with the internet/TV hardwired to their brains. Literally. As babies, a chip is implanted into their brains. The book follows this boy as he meets someone who will try to change his view on the world. This someone (obviously) is a girl. She had the chip planted much later in life, as a teen. This, and having parents who believed in education outside of holograms and whatnot, allowed her to experience the world outside the "Feed." While a great book, it has haunted me ever since. By the end of the book, I vowed that no machine would ever hook into my head, nor to any child of mine I should ever have. My Dad smiled when I told him I was afraid of this future. He said, "Kriss, it's Sci-Fi. We probably won't see that future come to pass. Don't worry."
Ha.
Now, here it is. Thanks, Intel, for making my nightmares come true.

Going back to the article, I want to leave you with one quote that struck me as down right horrifying.
"He also predicted that users will tire of having to manipulate an interface with their fingers." Are you kidding me???? WALL-E ANYONE???

Get ready: more thoughts on college

I have stated before that there is a difference between college professors and high school teachers. There is the usual-- high school teachers have to not only keep up with several classes and hundreds of students (though, professors do as well), but they coach, advise the student body, or have some other miscellaneous work on the side. College professors (as far as I know) at most have to do some research and publish something occasionally. Mostly this gives them the time to be out of class and allow a grad student to teach. But there has to be more. I keep talking about how awesome some of my professors are (for many reasons, and tonight I can add that for one class there are no tests, and the final is listed as 'celebration TBA'), but I had some pretty awesome high school teachers too. But were my high school teachers limited because they are high school teachers? Are the professors allowed some kind of 'get out of jail free' card? Because, I'm baffled over how I can have a class without tests or a midterm, and a final that essentially is going to get drinks (or so was the case with a friend who took this professor's class for seniors). I'm pretty sure that would NOT go down in a high school environment, even IF it was legal at that age group.

Then there is freedom of attendance. A minor point, but one I figure is worth addressing. High school is all about the attendance. Well, obviously, not ALL about it. But it was always a part, if not 10% or more depending on the teacher, of our grades. That is the case with some of the professors here. They are sticklers for attendance (as well as showing up on time). Some go so far as to refuse completed assignments if you have been absent for a less than reasonable excuse, or drop you a grade if you are gone more than three days in the semester. And then, some just don't give a damn. They figure, if you really want to be there, then awesome. It's the student spending a massive amount of money to be there. Let them choose if they spend it wisely or not. Now, some may argue, as I may have accidentally implied, that refusing to take attendance means the teacher doesn't give a damn about the students. I don't think that's true. I think they realize they don't have the time to track down all the students who don't care enough to come to class like high school teachers are almost obligated to do. They know it's not fair to waste what precious class time they have taking ten-fifteen minutes of roll in a class close to 200 when there is only 50 minutes to make a point for the day to the ones who bothered to show.

And then there is what I enjoy seeing most in teachers: passion. Passion for their work, passion for the subject itself, and passion through teaching. In my high school, I can name a bucket of teachers who threw themselves into their work, a handful who not only threw themselves, but tackled and mastered the tasks, but only a few who did it all smiling. I think that is the hardest part of all-- loving the career for better or worse. Around here, yes, there are more teachers, but I can't say I am finding the same ratio of ones who were so passionate. I've been lucky so far, I've had a number of professors who made me excited for a subject simply by watching them get worked up and shining just by talking about it. Granted, I'm in my first year, second semester. What do I know? I've had, what, eleven different teachers so far? Four have left a lasting impression. Four have made me so excited for school, I can barely sleep at night. Like waiting for Disneyland when I was really little. Yes, I'm geeky, so shoot me. I love it.

But are they more passionate then that few who impressed me in high school? I don't believe so. Mainly because I don't think it's fair to attempt to judge a person's passion past if it catches and makes me just as excited to read a book, write a paper, study something strange, attempt to master the basics of German, or learn Shakespeare.

I should make the point that there is a difference between a 'good' teacher and a 'passionate' one. For instance, my first impression of the professor for my British and World Drama tells me he is going to be a really good teacher. He had everyone roaring with laughter, gave the classroom a friendly atmosphere, and made me feel comfortable about offering opinions in class discussion in the future. But because we have yet to really dig into our subject matter, he was just a nice guy. Just a professor who enjoys joking with the students. I've talked about my American Lit 1 professor, how just discussing history made her eyes light up and her wrinkles lift and shed 10 years off her face. And while I did like adding to discussion in her class, she wasn't usually cutting it up, making us laugh, making everyone feel comfortable. I still thought of her as a good teacher, but more importantly, a passionate one. I can guess that even when she retires, she will probably do some research now and then, and she will definitely continue to read the books that fuel the fire of her love for history. She will more than likely still travel to places like Walt Whitman's cabin, or to a rosebush that was in a poem about Lincoln.

Anyway. How about level of education? Granted, to become a professor I believe you need your doctorate, at least a masters. Most high school teachers may stop at bachelors. Assuming that the rate of education value isn't going up (say, because more and more people go into teaching, more and more need higher education like Masters just to compete to get their starting job), are college professors more intelligent simply because they have their masters or doctorates? Well, a number of my high school teachers earned their masters degrees, and maybe some are even thinking of doctorates, but have no desire to teach at the college level. Again, I have to say no, I don't think they are necessarily more intelligent. Mostly because of a question that lined the top of one high school teacher's white board; "How are you smart?" I thought this was brilliant. "How smart are you" has become an outdated query. Our world has become so specialized, so specific (can YOU count how many job titles under 'technician' or 'biologist' there are?) that we are no longer attempting to know everything in school, rather just one thing, or one area of a thing. For example, my Anglo Saxon professor (who was also my Myth professor) was telling us today that he runs the Humanities department, but he specializes in something so specific that they don't even have a class for it here anymore. And my British and World Drama professor specializes in how Latin was used throughout time. I saw a joke once about how a man was hired to fix a computer. He took it all apart and was about to leave, but before he could he was asked, "well, won't you put it back together??" And he replied, "No, there will be a guy coming to do that next week."

So, high school teachers then. As with any job, they learn as they go. I don't think in any career, especially one in education, people ever stop learning. New advancements happen every day, English is a mess to keep up with from the proper works cited format to if a title of something is italicized or in quotation marks. My dad, even as a mechanic, goes to classes all the time to keep up with new equipment, new technology. So again, are college professors more intelligent? Granted, I've met some pretty stunningly smart teachers here, but there is always that odd duck. So, the answer is unabashedly no.

Lastly, something occurred to me tonight while I was sitting listening to my Anglo Saxon teacher introduce the class, what we will be doing, and most importantly, how each of our various majors will bring different and interesting points of view to the topics. That something was this: You can't pick your students. Well, duh, you say. But can you? The professor for this class asked me to join, and the more he talked about being excited how many different majors we had in the class, I started to wonder how many more of the 20 or so of us he recruited. He doesn't care for a group of one type of person, say, just English majors or just history majors or just art history majors. When he asked me to join the class, it was because he wanted my point of view as an English major. He was gleeful to discover we had a bio-chem major and a psych major as well. The rest of us are scatterings of history and English majors, though I think someone is a literary geography major or something along those lines. Now, I may be wrong, but I think as far as high school goes, you get what you're given. Another point to college professors. 

I think my overall point is this: are high school teachers held back? Are they getting the short end of the stick compared to college professors?
Perhaps. They tend to worry more about students showing up, they have to take attendance, make sure to get papers back on time (whereas some college professors never give them back, I just ended up with grades), they have to deal with parents more, they are required to have some kind of coaching/advising/other job on the side, and they aren't strongly encouraged to hand off their classes to a graduate student so they can go research for a year or two.  They also don't get to type 'celebration TBA' in the place where the word 'final' should go on the syllabus. And it seems they don't have to explain where their grading comes into play. My Astronomy professor BSed most of the what our grade was supposed to be made up of, mainly because it was a lecture class of 100+ students. Again, who is going to take attendance of 100+ students?

So maybe college professors have it alright in comparison. But let me tell you, if I had a job offer from each area of teaching, I would go for the high school kids every time. Some high school teachers (I know of one in particular) will laugh at me and beg me to choose otherwise. Maybe I'm thinking too optimistically here. But of the professors around here that haven't impressed me, haven't made me want to get up to go to class in the morning, there is a level of desperation/depression/lack of emotion that registers on their faces more so than high school teachers who wail that they are going to give up, going to quit. And that scares me. Because the way I see it, those teachers howling with anger over 'obstinate' teens, those who are fuming at the end of the day, haven't actually given in yet. They are still kicking and fighting and trying to do their best in class and for the students. It's why they are so frustrated. Because they still care. It's the professors here that are mellow, monotone, and have a dull look in their eyes that scare the hell out of me. Because they gave up a long time ago, and it looks like something gave up along with their determination. They look like the living dead (which reminds me of Prof. Binns in Harry Potter. He got up and walked away from his body one day, still teaching, unaware he is a ghost. That's what these people remind me of). I'd rather be wailing at the end of the day, smoke coming from my ears than to be one of them. At least I'll still know I'm alive.

High Expectations

I'm one of those people with high expectations. Not just for myself, but in many aspects of life. Movies, books, classes, ect. This tends to lead me on, ending (usually) in disappointment. So when my adviser told me, in regards to my Mass Media and Society class, to "just do what you can and get out," I knew not to expect as much of it as I would have. Which is probably why I was so impressed by the end of the class period.

He began by showing us the blog our class has--forget D2L, forget paper syllabus. He made us a blog so he can post videos and google docs for us. And then he began to tell us the main point behind the first book we will read. The medium of our information. He is adamant that getting our information from a book or newspaper is better for us on some very deep level than from a screen. Not that the information is better ("SCREW the information!"), but the paper, the act of reading a book is better than reading from a screen (like an e-reader, thus making us subscribe to the New York Times newspaper). I've never thought about that before. I just prefer the feel of a book, the pages, and yes, the smell of a book better than drawing my finger across a screen to read. He also told us a rather funny story about deleting his Facebook account (which is another goal-- to get at least some of us to delete our Facebook accounts). I am amazed at how difficult it is. You actually have to go to an outside source to learn how to do it. Anyway, he deleted it because he enjoyed it too much. It had become an addiction. If it weren't for being connected to my family through Facebook, I might just do it. Though. . . whatever happened to snail mail? I used to write to my aunt all the time. Am I making excuses?

Did I mention he is the youngest professor I've seen so far on this campus?

Okay, so what if he is supposed to be a big liberal? I've been around that before, and he doesn't seem the type to just ignore other people's opinions. But that's just my first impression. Besides, who cares what political stance he takes if he is already making me think more about his introduction to the class than I have for any class previously? I'm more excited for this class then I could have imagined.

His stance on using technology is probably what interests me the most. I've had teachers who are trying to do everything possible to integrate technology of all kinds into the classroom, from iPods to blogs. I always figured this would be a good idea, perhaps kids will relate to a class more when being taught through a medium they understand best. I'm not sure yet the extent my professor is for or against this. He doesn't 'believe in' PowerPoint, makes all (close to) 200 of us subscribe to the New York Times (and forbids us to read it online), and he strongly believes print is better for us than virtual anything. But he isn't even attempting to get us to give up the internet all together.

This class is going to be awesome.

Hopefully. Side note, he has a funny thing about using loose leaf paper. He said if he tells us to take out a piece of paper and he hears a riiiiiip noise, he is going to throw up all over the counter. So DON'T DO IT. Like I said, this is going to be interesting.

As for my other classes today; my first hour (Understanding Short Story) is canceled until next Wednesday. My professor is going to be gone. Which leaves my four o'clock class, Writing Creative Nonfiction 1. The teacher is from warmer climates, so she was quizzing us on what is the coldest it gets here, how long does it last, and what about the bugs? I have a few friends in that class that I met in Advanced Writing, and there is a guy from Alaska that is pretty funny; he was wearing shorts because our zero degree weather is a heat wave to him. I'm a little wary about this class; the teacher gave the impression of treating the subject almost formally, talking to us like she was briefing us on a (dare I say) five-paragraph essay that CAN NOT go wrong. She seemed nice too, though, so perhaps this was 'first day jitters.'

Tomorrow I have the next round of new classes. I'm looking forward to my British and World Drama class. I can't wait! It's been a long time since I've been this excited about going to class every day. . .

Going Back

Sunday is my last day at home before the second semester begins at BSU. And now that I'm on the other side of my month of freedom and brain-dead vegetation, I am reluctant to return. Yes, just a few posts ago I was complaining of boredom, but, for one, it means actually being goal oriented again. It was nice being able to just spend time sleeping, day dreaming, and not worrying over what time it is. And playing with my niece (who, at just the beginning of her seventh month is standing up on her own!!!!! Yes, I am a proud aunt). And reading books that had nothing to do with school, but instead everything to do with Jeremy Clarkson's nonsense (which turns into sense after reading article after article after article). Now I have to start with the lists again. For instance, tomorrow I hope to achieve: Seeing my niece and sister-in-law, watching the second Narnia movie with my BFF, cleaning my room, going grocery shopping, finishing things I made to decorate my dorm, and beginning the final rounds of laundry. The day after I need to make sure everything is packed, do Thank You's to scholarships and family, and send the Times my grades so I can actually receive my scholarship. It's an exhausting thought after doing next to nothing for the last few weeks.

But I can't help my excitement, either. New classes! Most of which are for my majors, not lib. eds (mainly because the ones I would have taken aren't offered this semester and because IF I attend Eurospring next year, I need to have lib eds to take while I'm there). I have twelve books (for a total of six classes) this semester, a mind blowing amount compared to the five I had last semester. While this means I'll be forced to make my way though a million more pages of required reading before ever reading another book for pleasure, that's okay. Because I've found that the required reading includes books I've been meaning to get to, but substitute for Swan Song by Robert McCannon or another round with Harry Potter. Or one of the many other books I have been given for Christmas, my birthday, ect. I am bringing back a thousand more books to my dorm than I took home. I might even be drowning in books by the time I unpack everything. But what a way to go!

Anyway, I still have to pack and finish gathering all my laundry, and stop myself from being distracted by two new books I just got in the mail as Christmas presents: Alex Rider's newest thrilling tale, and A Clockwork Orange. I am not sure I can keep my hands off of them. . .