My dearest imaginary readers,
Now, at the end of May, is the best time for reflection. You alone have been here every step of the way with me. I value your unerring opinion above all else. Even now as I sit in this windowless box, I am thinking of you, dear reader, and your preferences for writing. It has been this that has driven me throughout the year to excel through this blog, to post my thoughts for all the imaginary world to see.
In all reality, this blog has driven me insane this year. I began with a study of feminism combined with religion, something that bored me to tears. I have fallen through topic after topic, leaving each one as I become less and less committed to actually thinking about the words I post. Vegetarianism, dog breeds, animal rights, hardcore feminism, and so much more have made appearances on this blog. And I always, without fail, ended up hating every last topic. It was as if my self was beening sliced in two, writing in two different arenas. On one hand, I enjoyed thinking critically about the literature I read and analyzing rhetorical strategies, but here I was, writing as if I were some other person. I enjoyed drawing in the beginning, those fun little expressions of creativity. But soon even those grew tiresome and impossible in the schedule of high school.
I tried to find a cause, a purpose for which to write. Though this was first and foremost a class assignment, I wanted to make it count. With all of you reading, I knew if I could just find the right words to say, my writing would catapult to a new level. March rolled around and I couldn't go on anymore. I had to stop crusading for innane topics. And so, after much discussion, I decided to release my hold on the blog and write about whatever came to mind. Which is, by the way, much harder than it sounds.
I settled into a real style, one that fit my personality, and writing became not easier but more enjoyable. My favorite post this entire year was Flying, a true expression of the way I think. This, I believe, is the only triumph I have experienced this year, although it is a big one. Self-discovery is a quite amazing thing.
I'll be honest; I'm not going to continue writing on this blog. Maybe when I'm older, wiser... but then again, I never want to go through this torture again. I do believe this has made me a better writer in many respects, teaching me about my limits and strengths when I write. I look forward to developing a more concrete style and a palpable tone, something with the help of this blog, I have just begun to realize.
Sincerely, happily,
Mildred
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Dante's Inferno: Canto V
Last year, my teacher mentioned Dante's Inferno casually in class and referred to it as an epic poem written to condemn sinners to hell. Well, it sounded interesting. So a few weeks ago, I found a lovely copy of it at my local book consignment shop and bought it, wondering if I would be able to understand Dante in his prose. I need not have worried, because I could understand it (with the help of "notes" at the end of each canto. So far, the fifth canto has been my very favorite. This part describes the special circle of hell reserved for sins "of the flesh," if you know what I mean.
After the impersonal description of a few greedy, disgusting sinners, Dante moves to discuss one couple, Francesca and Paolo, who committed adultery because they were in love. Francesca, even as a spirit, is a lovely person to talk to and tells Dante the pilgrim her sad story.
Francesca and Paolo had been reading of the love affair of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guenevere when they apparently realized that they really loved one another. As I remember the story of Lancelot and Guenevere, it went nothing like Francesca said. First, King Arthur married Guenevere even though he knew she was in love with Sir Lancelot. Second, after Arthur and Guenevere's son died, they grew apart. Third, Guenevere sought Lancelot out and persuaded him to become her lover. Finally, this love affair destroyed Camelot. So I really don't understand how this story is in any way romantic. After finishing the canto and feeling kind of sorry of Francesca and Paolo, I read the notes where the translator pointed out that their punishment was to remain together forever. Francesca refers to Paolo as "this one," which is no way to call your dearly beloved. And it's hell, so it must have been agony. After I finished reading the notes, I felt a little taken in by Dante, as though I was supposed to realize this all on my own, but I didn't. Even in English and with notes, I managed to completely miss his point.
After the impersonal description of a few greedy, disgusting sinners, Dante moves to discuss one couple, Francesca and Paolo, who committed adultery because they were in love. Francesca, even as a spirit, is a lovely person to talk to and tells Dante the pilgrim her sad story.
Francesca and Paolo had been reading of the love affair of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guenevere when they apparently realized that they really loved one another. As I remember the story of Lancelot and Guenevere, it went nothing like Francesca said. First, King Arthur married Guenevere even though he knew she was in love with Sir Lancelot. Second, after Arthur and Guenevere's son died, they grew apart. Third, Guenevere sought Lancelot out and persuaded him to become her lover. Finally, this love affair destroyed Camelot. So I really don't understand how this story is in any way romantic. After finishing the canto and feeling kind of sorry of Francesca and Paolo, I read the notes where the translator pointed out that their punishment was to remain together forever. Francesca refers to Paolo as "this one," which is no way to call your dearly beloved. And it's hell, so it must have been agony. After I finished reading the notes, I felt a little taken in by Dante, as though I was supposed to realize this all on my own, but I didn't. Even in English and with notes, I managed to completely miss his point.
City v. Country
Sometimes we forget who we actually are. Music pounds out from our cars, television blurs our sight, and schedules become the raison d'etre. Instincts that were programmed into us are now ignored, until an unguarded moment.
Spring in Iowa is actually one of the best and worst times of the year. Storms are strong, the temperature varies from freezing cold to over eighty degrees, and the lure of the outside is the strongest. This morning, the sky was purely blue and wonderfully unblemished, but the air under that sky was heavy. There was a new kind of thickness that circled around me uncomfortably. I, not wanting to care about anything but getting in the car and starting my day, slammed the door behind me and turned up the radio.
Lunch time. I had forgotten Advil in my car and I could tell I would need it within another thirty minutes. There was ten minutes until the start of the next class, so I hurried along. I pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the muggy blue-ness. A few puffy thin clouds hung on high, but I worried only about how I had walked for two minutes and was already sweating. Back inside.
Rushing, rushing, rushing. Late to my flute lesson. I flew down the road and parked -- remarkably well for my current mindset -- and ran inside. There were more clouds in sky, but it was hard to notice them from indoors. When I stepped outside once more, the sky in the west had begun to darken. Now almost completely clouded over, the sky was the most beautiful it had been all day. The stillness of the clouds cut the leaves and greenery into sharp edges. The birds sang louder than ever before, conducting some unknown ritual. Rain. I felt it deep inside, that the sky would open and we would have a spring shower. Somehow I knew there would be no thunder, no lightning -- just a soft patter of raindrops.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live in a city. The rhythym and cadences of nature must be completely lost on those people who look up and see only a square of blue. Furthermore, the appreciation of our world must be lost in that high pace of life, always doing, seeing, or going. Although I would recommend living in the country or close to it, I know that it's not for everybody. Some people love to shop or hate the smell of cows. Some people prefer areas like California and its coastline to the rolling hills of Iowa. This always confused me personally as well. Why take pride in the fact that you're from a certain area of the nation (i.e. California Gurlz) if all that's there is a bunch of people and no water? I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings but the country (or what I know of it from Iowa) has an entirely different pace of life that brings a person back to themself. Try it, it's good for the soul.
Spring in Iowa is actually one of the best and worst times of the year. Storms are strong, the temperature varies from freezing cold to over eighty degrees, and the lure of the outside is the strongest. This morning, the sky was purely blue and wonderfully unblemished, but the air under that sky was heavy. There was a new kind of thickness that circled around me uncomfortably. I, not wanting to care about anything but getting in the car and starting my day, slammed the door behind me and turned up the radio.
Lunch time. I had forgotten Advil in my car and I could tell I would need it within another thirty minutes. There was ten minutes until the start of the next class, so I hurried along. I pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the muggy blue-ness. A few puffy thin clouds hung on high, but I worried only about how I had walked for two minutes and was already sweating. Back inside.
Rushing, rushing, rushing. Late to my flute lesson. I flew down the road and parked -- remarkably well for my current mindset -- and ran inside. There were more clouds in sky, but it was hard to notice them from indoors. When I stepped outside once more, the sky in the west had begun to darken. Now almost completely clouded over, the sky was the most beautiful it had been all day. The stillness of the clouds cut the leaves and greenery into sharp edges. The birds sang louder than ever before, conducting some unknown ritual. Rain. I felt it deep inside, that the sky would open and we would have a spring shower. Somehow I knew there would be no thunder, no lightning -- just a soft patter of raindrops.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live in a city. The rhythym and cadences of nature must be completely lost on those people who look up and see only a square of blue. Furthermore, the appreciation of our world must be lost in that high pace of life, always doing, seeing, or going. Although I would recommend living in the country or close to it, I know that it's not for everybody. Some people love to shop or hate the smell of cows. Some people prefer areas like California and its coastline to the rolling hills of Iowa. This always confused me personally as well. Why take pride in the fact that you're from a certain area of the nation (i.e. California Gurlz) if all that's there is a bunch of people and no water? I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings but the country (or what I know of it from Iowa) has an entirely different pace of life that brings a person back to themself. Try it, it's good for the soul.
Farmer's Markets
Many people do not live in California where farmer's markets have the essentials of life, but I had no idea that the farmer's market in my hometown is as organized as it is. When looking at the sparse website, I clicked on the blog thinking, "Why not? Maybe there I can find something to blog about." Farmer's markets have been labelled as something of a saving grace to our supermarket-itis. In an enormous store, it's truly difficult to find the things you really want while the items you don't need are circled around you.
Farmer's markets are good and bad. First, they allow you to choose your own food, to see the person that grows it and harvests it. In the movie Food, Inc. they show a farmer who does butcher animals but keeps them (when they're alive) in such a way that it's more natural for them and does not in any way resemble the cruelty that can be present in factories. This world was given to us for the care and keeping, not for exploitation. If we do not realize that our world is not ours for the killing, than kill it we will. Farmer's markets attempt to combat this by encouraging us to think about what we put in our mouths, something we don't do a lot of in America. Our dietary and health trends demand a change, even more so than the environmental challenges, and becoming involved in our food again is part of the answer.
Unfortunately, farmer's markets can be a place for extremely high prices for no actual difference in product. The nutritional value of the food doesn't increase because it came from around that area, but it does cost more. The governmental policies favor large companies in agriculture and smaller farmers are being run into the ground. For someone who is competeing against a factory farm next door, the only option is to raise prices. But by doing so, farmer's markets cut the lower class out of the bracket for customers, and these are the people who need access and knowlege about fruits and vegetables the most. In America, we have a problem that reaches beyond farmer's markets and the locavore movement. The idea that is important isn't that we should only eat what's around us. If that was truly plausible, Iowans would be eating a whole lot of cort and not a whole lot of citrus. The true goal of the different food movements is to get people to understand that what they put into their mouth matters and affects their lives and those of their children.
Farmer's markets are good and bad. First, they allow you to choose your own food, to see the person that grows it and harvests it. In the movie Food, Inc. they show a farmer who does butcher animals but keeps them (when they're alive) in such a way that it's more natural for them and does not in any way resemble the cruelty that can be present in factories. This world was given to us for the care and keeping, not for exploitation. If we do not realize that our world is not ours for the killing, than kill it we will. Farmer's markets attempt to combat this by encouraging us to think about what we put in our mouths, something we don't do a lot of in America. Our dietary and health trends demand a change, even more so than the environmental challenges, and becoming involved in our food again is part of the answer.
Unfortunately, farmer's markets can be a place for extremely high prices for no actual difference in product. The nutritional value of the food doesn't increase because it came from around that area, but it does cost more. The governmental policies favor large companies in agriculture and smaller farmers are being run into the ground. For someone who is competeing against a factory farm next door, the only option is to raise prices. But by doing so, farmer's markets cut the lower class out of the bracket for customers, and these are the people who need access and knowlege about fruits and vegetables the most. In America, we have a problem that reaches beyond farmer's markets and the locavore movement. The idea that is important isn't that we should only eat what's around us. If that was truly plausible, Iowans would be eating a whole lot of cort and not a whole lot of citrus. The true goal of the different food movements is to get people to understand that what they put into their mouth matters and affects their lives and those of their children.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Chapstick
Behold the Chapstick Conundruum.
I bought a little tube of strawberry Chapstick a few weeks ago and I am most unhappy. It smells so good, it makes my lips feel good, but there's something awry. About 30 minutes after the application, I cannot feel as though I have been properly moisterized. My lips are dry and my Chapstick tube becomes an addiction.
It feels as though the Chapstick company has designed to be only semi-effective, a horribly deceptive idea. What kind of sick person does this? Now I have two choices. First, I could continue to feed the consumer cycle of comfort and apply more strawberry Chapstick. Or I could throw the pink tube in the trash can and endure a few days of uncomfort. Obviously, I'm going to choose option one; I'm American.
This problem makes me wonder, how many other products have been designed like this? In the junior's section of department stores, most shirts are see-through. Most girls do not walk around with see-through shirts, and so they are made to buy undershirts, which are conveniently located next to the see-throughs. In our materialistic society, this race against morality is an awful reminder of who we are. Instead of sucuumbing to this American push, use your free will to choose things that don't support this deception.
Moral: Don't buy Chapstick unless you want to make a lifelong investment.
I bought a little tube of strawberry Chapstick a few weeks ago and I am most unhappy. It smells so good, it makes my lips feel good, but there's something awry. About 30 minutes after the application, I cannot feel as though I have been properly moisterized. My lips are dry and my Chapstick tube becomes an addiction.
It feels as though the Chapstick company has designed to be only semi-effective, a horribly deceptive idea. What kind of sick person does this? Now I have two choices. First, I could continue to feed the consumer cycle of comfort and apply more strawberry Chapstick. Or I could throw the pink tube in the trash can and endure a few days of uncomfort. Obviously, I'm going to choose option one; I'm American.
This problem makes me wonder, how many other products have been designed like this? In the junior's section of department stores, most shirts are see-through. Most girls do not walk around with see-through shirts, and so they are made to buy undershirts, which are conveniently located next to the see-throughs. In our materialistic society, this race against morality is an awful reminder of who we are. Instead of sucuumbing to this American push, use your free will to choose things that don't support this deception.
Moral: Don't buy Chapstick unless you want to make a lifelong investment.
The Knack
Everybody's a writer nowadays, anybody can publish anything, even half-rate love stories that go "he said, she said" all over the place. What's even more repulsive than the quality of the work being published is the people writing it. They're horrible to be around, these half-writers. For instance, a half-writer I know believes that she truly has the ability to write for a living. She forces everyone in her writing class to give her their own work so that she may make suggestions and feel as though she is better than them. Somehow, it seems to me that writing second-rate fantasy stories does not mean you have the Knack.
The Knack is elusive and is impossible to describe, and yet anyone who compares Twilight with Austen novels can see the difference due to the presence of the Knack. Many people believe they have a talent when it comes to writing, but they are sadly mistaken. As with most things, when a person begins to believe that they are talented in some area of their life -- truly believe that they have within them a flame of art or passion -- it is then that they become unbearable in company and through their work. Usually their work will consist of meaningless words on a page, unimaginative plots, or outright imitation. And also, these people are only under the impression that they're any good. A blind man with a stick could tell them otherwise.
The Knack-deception is a horrible cycle, full of lost friends and headaches... for everyone else. The would-be writer remains completely oblivious and scorned by all. Whenever she is confronted with her inadequacy, she finds it impossible to believe that there is really a problem with her writing. The only way to improve in an art -- or anything for that matter -- is to be able to see where you fail. This doesn't mean that you should be able to proofread your paper as though you've never read it before, but you should be able to admit that you're wrong. When this happens, the would-be becomes humble and begins to search to make themselves better, just for the sake of learning. This situation is more ideal and is conducive to the Knack. It is in the depths of despair that the true writer emerges, when the art is unleashed and inspiration runs rampant. Here, the writer is able to truly think and discard ideas without feeling as though every errant thought is a perfect piece of philosohpy.
The Knack-deception cycle does not just apply to writing, but as this is for a writing class, I doubt that my failure in French is anywhere near applicable. Sometimes it's dangerous to be at the top, to always be able to perform better than everyone else. At this point, it is healthy to attend a French contest where you can see your glaring pronunciation problems or lack of conversational ability. After this experience, it is typical to return home feeling somewhat relieved that there's work to be done and modes of improvement. This was not a case of thinking that I had a Knack, but simply being thrown to the top, asked all the questions and being able to answer them. I know that I haven't fallen into the Knack-deception cycle because the thought of putting hours of extra work into my problem areas is exciting and new, to be able to expand and learn in AP French next year.
Please, if you know anyone who is a victim of the Knack-deception cycle, call this number (000) 000-0000 or hit them upside the head with a book and hope they never speak to you again.
The Knack is elusive and is impossible to describe, and yet anyone who compares Twilight with Austen novels can see the difference due to the presence of the Knack. Many people believe they have a talent when it comes to writing, but they are sadly mistaken. As with most things, when a person begins to believe that they are talented in some area of their life -- truly believe that they have within them a flame of art or passion -- it is then that they become unbearable in company and through their work. Usually their work will consist of meaningless words on a page, unimaginative plots, or outright imitation. And also, these people are only under the impression that they're any good. A blind man with a stick could tell them otherwise.
The Knack-deception is a horrible cycle, full of lost friends and headaches... for everyone else. The would-be writer remains completely oblivious and scorned by all. Whenever she is confronted with her inadequacy, she finds it impossible to believe that there is really a problem with her writing. The only way to improve in an art -- or anything for that matter -- is to be able to see where you fail. This doesn't mean that you should be able to proofread your paper as though you've never read it before, but you should be able to admit that you're wrong. When this happens, the would-be becomes humble and begins to search to make themselves better, just for the sake of learning. This situation is more ideal and is conducive to the Knack. It is in the depths of despair that the true writer emerges, when the art is unleashed and inspiration runs rampant. Here, the writer is able to truly think and discard ideas without feeling as though every errant thought is a perfect piece of philosohpy.
The Knack-deception cycle does not just apply to writing, but as this is for a writing class, I doubt that my failure in French is anywhere near applicable. Sometimes it's dangerous to be at the top, to always be able to perform better than everyone else. At this point, it is healthy to attend a French contest where you can see your glaring pronunciation problems or lack of conversational ability. After this experience, it is typical to return home feeling somewhat relieved that there's work to be done and modes of improvement. This was not a case of thinking that I had a Knack, but simply being thrown to the top, asked all the questions and being able to answer them. I know that I haven't fallen into the Knack-deception cycle because the thought of putting hours of extra work into my problem areas is exciting and new, to be able to expand and learn in AP French next year.
Please, if you know anyone who is a victim of the Knack-deception cycle, call this number (000) 000-0000 or hit them upside the head with a book and hope they never speak to you again.
Hate
Sitting across from me at this very second is a girl which, to my dismay, I cannot stand. Her very presence in the room annoys me and leaves me in sort of an odd fear that she might come talk to me. Unfortunately, we share some of the same environments and can't avoid seeing one another. This is not a relationship where we openly hate each other -- rather, we have to pretend to be nice. Well, at least I'm pretending.
As humans, and the only creatures to possess compassion, our capacity to hate is astounding. The largest global problems are founded on hate. But there is a difference between the kind of hate that makes a person refuse to be served by a woman wearing a hijab and the petty kind of hate that stops us from fully enjoying life. Ever since September 11, 2001, hate has been the dominant theme of relations between the United States and the Middle East. The people of that region hate Americans, believeing that we want to eradicate their belief system and replace it with our own governmental and societal ideals. This has been the battle cry for Islamic extremists for a decade now, and to some extent it is true. If the Islamic belief system truly supports oppression and dictatorship, then yes, America wants to eradicate the threat this brings for American global security. But I do not believe that most Muslims would support a dictatorship or genocide. Never having read the Koran, I cannot say for certain that it endorses the killing of infidels, this being the accusation of many Christians. But the people, that's a different story. Radicalism and fundamentalism is dangerous today, and if it in any way threatens the United States, our government has the responsibility to respond to that threat to protect the people. How far that goes in the world is uncertain and up for debate. But even with all the hate and the suicide bombings being thrown in our face, we have no right to hate our own citizens or even other people of the world. Without the retaliatory hate of the Americans, terrorists would lose some of their momentum.
So I'll smile and be nice. I'll make small talk if it kills me. Even though I can't stand her, and she does deserve to some degree my disdain, I cannot give it to her. I cannot believe with our world in the state it is that two wrongs will ever, ever make anything right.
As humans, and the only creatures to possess compassion, our capacity to hate is astounding. The largest global problems are founded on hate. But there is a difference between the kind of hate that makes a person refuse to be served by a woman wearing a hijab and the petty kind of hate that stops us from fully enjoying life. Ever since September 11, 2001, hate has been the dominant theme of relations between the United States and the Middle East. The people of that region hate Americans, believeing that we want to eradicate their belief system and replace it with our own governmental and societal ideals. This has been the battle cry for Islamic extremists for a decade now, and to some extent it is true. If the Islamic belief system truly supports oppression and dictatorship, then yes, America wants to eradicate the threat this brings for American global security. But I do not believe that most Muslims would support a dictatorship or genocide. Never having read the Koran, I cannot say for certain that it endorses the killing of infidels, this being the accusation of many Christians. But the people, that's a different story. Radicalism and fundamentalism is dangerous today, and if it in any way threatens the United States, our government has the responsibility to respond to that threat to protect the people. How far that goes in the world is uncertain and up for debate. But even with all the hate and the suicide bombings being thrown in our face, we have no right to hate our own citizens or even other people of the world. Without the retaliatory hate of the Americans, terrorists would lose some of their momentum.
So I'll smile and be nice. I'll make small talk if it kills me. Even though I can't stand her, and she does deserve to some degree my disdain, I cannot give it to her. I cannot believe with our world in the state it is that two wrongs will ever, ever make anything right.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Bees
Fear is an odd thing -- sometimes it's irrational, and we know whatever it is that we're scared of is just a little (fill in the blank with object of fear), but we still tense up. Every spring, the bugs wake up, warmed by the spring air, and so do the bees. I don't know what it is about them, but bees have always been terrifying to me. They're like little bullets of pure evil, yellow and black, outfitted with a stinger of death.
As a little kid, I used to scream and run. I wouldn't listen when my mom would tell me I was probably scaring the bee -- what did I care? If the bee was scared, he could fly away and leave me alone. Now, I see a bee (or a wasp, or a hornet, or a yellow jacket) and I can't move. If I can, it's usually backwards and away from the buzzing horror. As far as I know, I've always been terrified of bees, and maybe that's a good thing. At least I'm not afraid of something like dogs!
In first grade, we had a beekeeper come in and inform us about bees and making honey. Unfortunately, I had chosen a front row seat. I thought he was just going to show us a jar of honey and then give us honey candy, but no. About halfway through the presentation, he pulled out this box from a black duffel bag. This box was filled to the glass side windows with bees. They were walking through their honeycomb in that menacing, hunched manner. As I said before, I usually avoided seeing bees at all costs and usually left (screaming and running) if they did appear. Now here I was, faced with a box full of them which was held by a man who apparently believed in letting kids experience things up close and personal. He waved the box around in front of the first row, where I was ironically seated. I closed my eyes and waited for the torture to be over. Finally, the man pulled out a basket full of honey-flavored candy and told us we could have one as we left. We filed out, and when I came to the basket I took two spitefully, to punish the man for his awful little comrades. Unfortunately, I found out later I didn't like honey candy. Everything about these bees seems to disagree with me.
As a little kid, I used to scream and run. I wouldn't listen when my mom would tell me I was probably scaring the bee -- what did I care? If the bee was scared, he could fly away and leave me alone. Now, I see a bee (or a wasp, or a hornet, or a yellow jacket) and I can't move. If I can, it's usually backwards and away from the buzzing horror. As far as I know, I've always been terrified of bees, and maybe that's a good thing. At least I'm not afraid of something like dogs!
In first grade, we had a beekeeper come in and inform us about bees and making honey. Unfortunately, I had chosen a front row seat. I thought he was just going to show us a jar of honey and then give us honey candy, but no. About halfway through the presentation, he pulled out this box from a black duffel bag. This box was filled to the glass side windows with bees. They were walking through their honeycomb in that menacing, hunched manner. As I said before, I usually avoided seeing bees at all costs and usually left (screaming and running) if they did appear. Now here I was, faced with a box full of them which was held by a man who apparently believed in letting kids experience things up close and personal. He waved the box around in front of the first row, where I was ironically seated. I closed my eyes and waited for the torture to be over. Finally, the man pulled out a basket full of honey-flavored candy and told us we could have one as we left. We filed out, and when I came to the basket I took two spitefully, to punish the man for his awful little comrades. Unfortunately, I found out later I didn't like honey candy. Everything about these bees seems to disagree with me.
Review Book Bonanza
For high school students around this time of year, studying becomes tedious, all-encompassing, and smothering. In many schools, the AP tests are coming. Last January, I thought it would be a great idea to take three of these "college-level" courses. I can handle it, I thought. It won't be that bad, I told myself.
Yeah, right.
The review is falling behind, the homework is piling up, and it's getting harder and harder to keep my grades up. I was going to create my own review sheets out of my textbook, but after a few days, I realized I didn't have the time to be retaking notes on all the chapters. So yesterday, I went down to Barnes&Noble, in defeat, to buy some ready-made review books, which I knew would cost a fortune.
The shelf, set in plain view for desperate students, had an overwhelming amount and variety of review books for every subject imaginable. I tried to find ones on the subjects I was looking for -- maybe a better way to phrase that would be to say that I tried to carry the books I found. The cover of one for AP U.S. History struck me as odd. "A BETTER SCORE GUARANTEED!" How on earth can you guarantee a better score? How do you say to yourself afterwards, "Man, if I only didn't buy that book, I would have gotten a 4 instead of a 3!" That's just ridiculous! Needless to say, I put that one back.
One of them was about three inches thick and impressively large. Large means more information, more information means a better score, right? Well, the first 50 pages were introduction and the next 100 on test-taking tips. I figured if between previous AP tests and the ACT and the ITED tests I've taken I have not been able to figure out how to answer a test question, there was no way one book was going to help me in the weeks before the tests. So that one was dragged back to the shelf and placed on the lowest level -- although it wasn't in its section, it was heavy and kept flipping open when I tried to put in back where it belonged.
Another said "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" in huge yellow letters on the front. What, I wonder, is the value of "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" when you have teachers and resources with ten-plus years of released exams and essay questions? I didn't even take this one off the shelf. The next book was entitled "500 Questions You Should Know for the AP Exam." At first I was a little suspicious of this book, but I opened the AP Biology one and was pleasantly surprised. It was divided into the same sections the College Board divides the course into, and the multiple choice questions were legitamitely hard. I set this one aside, even though I hadn't come for an AP Biology review book. The only thing that kept nagging at me was that it was $14.00. That's a lot of money!
I finally chose the Kaplan Express Review books for AP U.S. History and English Language and Composition. I don't have that much time, and these were also the least expensive. These companies must make a fortune on the books, because I doubt that they cost $25 a piece to make (that was the most expensive book there). Obviously, AP students are extremely reliant on these books because they're easier than writing review sheets for every chapter in your textbook. I didn't want to be the person who buys the review book and prays for a 4. But with three classes, there isn't a chance on this earth I can do this alone.
Yeah, right.
The review is falling behind, the homework is piling up, and it's getting harder and harder to keep my grades up. I was going to create my own review sheets out of my textbook, but after a few days, I realized I didn't have the time to be retaking notes on all the chapters. So yesterday, I went down to Barnes&Noble, in defeat, to buy some ready-made review books, which I knew would cost a fortune.
The shelf, set in plain view for desperate students, had an overwhelming amount and variety of review books for every subject imaginable. I tried to find ones on the subjects I was looking for -- maybe a better way to phrase that would be to say that I tried to carry the books I found. The cover of one for AP U.S. History struck me as odd. "A BETTER SCORE GUARANTEED!" How on earth can you guarantee a better score? How do you say to yourself afterwards, "Man, if I only didn't buy that book, I would have gotten a 4 instead of a 3!" That's just ridiculous! Needless to say, I put that one back.
One of them was about three inches thick and impressively large. Large means more information, more information means a better score, right? Well, the first 50 pages were introduction and the next 100 on test-taking tips. I figured if between previous AP tests and the ACT and the ITED tests I've taken I have not been able to figure out how to answer a test question, there was no way one book was going to help me in the weeks before the tests. So that one was dragged back to the shelf and placed on the lowest level -- although it wasn't in its section, it was heavy and kept flipping open when I tried to put in back where it belonged.
Another said "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" in huge yellow letters on the front. What, I wonder, is the value of "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" when you have teachers and resources with ten-plus years of released exams and essay questions? I didn't even take this one off the shelf. The next book was entitled "500 Questions You Should Know for the AP Exam." At first I was a little suspicious of this book, but I opened the AP Biology one and was pleasantly surprised. It was divided into the same sections the College Board divides the course into, and the multiple choice questions were legitamitely hard. I set this one aside, even though I hadn't come for an AP Biology review book. The only thing that kept nagging at me was that it was $14.00. That's a lot of money!
I finally chose the Kaplan Express Review books for AP U.S. History and English Language and Composition. I don't have that much time, and these were also the least expensive. These companies must make a fortune on the books, because I doubt that they cost $25 a piece to make (that was the most expensive book there). Obviously, AP students are extremely reliant on these books because they're easier than writing review sheets for every chapter in your textbook. I didn't want to be the person who buys the review book and prays for a 4. But with three classes, there isn't a chance on this earth I can do this alone.
Sock Puppets
Fiction is an extremely limiting genre of writing. Ever since I was old enough to write stories, I did, usually fashioning them after a book I liked at the time. And I thought I was amazing at it, but something funny happens as you grow up and learn new things. You realize actually how bad you were to begin with. If I ever do try to write something fiction now, I am confronted with the awful dilemma of lying to my audience. Of course, they know that I am lying to them, but still. If I'm going to make something up, I need to make it a good lie at the very least.
And this is where the problem starts. I like to focus on the character, what he's feeling, what he thinks. The only issue is I can't seem to write about things I haven't experienced. I can't write about being in nineteenth century France because first I live in the twenty-first century and second I've never been to France. I can't write about a male perspective because I've never experienced that. Every time I try to pick up and write, I just as soon stop when I realize how limited my life has been.
Obviously, this doesn't bother many writers. Some choose to ignore it completely, writing about vampires, werewolves, and a whole list of things no healthy human has seen. Others imagine around it and simply imagine what it might feel like. But for me, that sort of imagining is just like lying to myself. I can't tell myself I know what it's like to be Amish or a cheerleader or being able to sing. It just ends in bad writing.
This is why I've come to appreciate nonfiction writing. I can take something that's real (or at the very least based on something real) and fashion words around it. The tone and style that result become so much more vivid and represenative of myself. Although it is thrilling to live through a character and watch her grow into her own person, I can't help the selfish inclination to write from my point of view. For one thing, it is so much easier. I don't have to add insane amounts of dialogue if what I really want to do is rattle around a bit inside the topic I've chosen. The narrative is what is powerful and compelling, not the characters, because when you step back and look, the characters are only sock puppets for the author, and unless that author is extremely talented, the sock puppets resemble those made by a child in daycare.
And this is where the problem starts. I like to focus on the character, what he's feeling, what he thinks. The only issue is I can't seem to write about things I haven't experienced. I can't write about being in nineteenth century France because first I live in the twenty-first century and second I've never been to France. I can't write about a male perspective because I've never experienced that. Every time I try to pick up and write, I just as soon stop when I realize how limited my life has been.
Obviously, this doesn't bother many writers. Some choose to ignore it completely, writing about vampires, werewolves, and a whole list of things no healthy human has seen. Others imagine around it and simply imagine what it might feel like. But for me, that sort of imagining is just like lying to myself. I can't tell myself I know what it's like to be Amish or a cheerleader or being able to sing. It just ends in bad writing.
This is why I've come to appreciate nonfiction writing. I can take something that's real (or at the very least based on something real) and fashion words around it. The tone and style that result become so much more vivid and represenative of myself. Although it is thrilling to live through a character and watch her grow into her own person, I can't help the selfish inclination to write from my point of view. For one thing, it is so much easier. I don't have to add insane amounts of dialogue if what I really want to do is rattle around a bit inside the topic I've chosen. The narrative is what is powerful and compelling, not the characters, because when you step back and look, the characters are only sock puppets for the author, and unless that author is extremely talented, the sock puppets resemble those made by a child in daycare.
Wikiup
The particular branch-shaped bruise is the only physical reminder I have of my semi-successful hike at Wikiup, but it's quite sore now. Wikiup Outdoor Learning Center is just that: an outdoor preserve of trails, a large pond, and a prairie. It's a beautiful, well-kept place, and actual wild animals live there!
Yesterday I had decided to go off the trail and slide my way down to a tiny little creek. Creeks are fascinating. They are so much more lighthearted than rivers. What was interesting about this particular creek was that it had worn a 3 and 1/2 foot canyon out of the ground. The water was at deepest a few inches -- how many years it took to carve that cut in the earth is mind-boggling. The landscape we see around us was formed in that fashion. Each hill was meticulously carved by the bottom of a glacier; each cut by the creeks a force of eons of water flowing by; each river stone smoothed by the current of a river. The sheer amount of time it took to make what we see around us is what makes it so precious. In an antique store, people look for the oldest, best preserved items so they can marvel over their beauty and hold something of another time. It's the same with nature; here we have something that has lived steadily through our wars, our lives, our deaths, our defeats, and our victories, something we can't even begin to take credit for but we can take inspiration from. We've invented air conditioning, the blender, and nonfat ice cream, but we have yet to create the majesty of a sunset.
For animals, the homes we live in are quite ostentatious. All the little burrows beside the creek were half hidden and only revealed by a careful survey of the area. Here, a muskrat family could live out their days in peace, hidden from predators and yet situated close to water. Here a frog could blend in with the intricate tapestry of fallen trees and branches and live his life happy and free. On the other hand, humans live in houses or apartments, easily distinguishable from the landscape and easily invaded. This past winter, a mouse illustrated this point well by gnawing through the side of our house into my bedroom and attempted to run into oblivion by disappearing into a closet. Unfortunately, this didn't work out well for him and he ended being trapped in a handheld vacuum cleaner and freezing to death outside. But the point is that mouse, probably half-mad with the cold from the recent snow, managed to find a way into my house and managed to wreak havoc on our perfectly ordinary morning. There's never been any hope that a human-made living area would blend into the background when threats appear. The earliest settlements still were distinguishable from the surrounding landscape, showing something intrisic and basic about the level of human fear. If we are willing to live so openly and boldly, even before the age of modern technology, humans must be less afraid of the natural threats than other animals. Fear is not inborn in us as it is in other animals. We weren't born to burrow deep into a riverbank or blend in among the grass. We were born to live freely, to be assured of our capability to protect ourselves. And that, with all its contradictions and assumptions, is a unique and critical facet of humanity.
Yesterday I had decided to go off the trail and slide my way down to a tiny little creek. Creeks are fascinating. They are so much more lighthearted than rivers. What was interesting about this particular creek was that it had worn a 3 and 1/2 foot canyon out of the ground. The water was at deepest a few inches -- how many years it took to carve that cut in the earth is mind-boggling. The landscape we see around us was formed in that fashion. Each hill was meticulously carved by the bottom of a glacier; each cut by the creeks a force of eons of water flowing by; each river stone smoothed by the current of a river. The sheer amount of time it took to make what we see around us is what makes it so precious. In an antique store, people look for the oldest, best preserved items so they can marvel over their beauty and hold something of another time. It's the same with nature; here we have something that has lived steadily through our wars, our lives, our deaths, our defeats, and our victories, something we can't even begin to take credit for but we can take inspiration from. We've invented air conditioning, the blender, and nonfat ice cream, but we have yet to create the majesty of a sunset.
For animals, the homes we live in are quite ostentatious. All the little burrows beside the creek were half hidden and only revealed by a careful survey of the area. Here, a muskrat family could live out their days in peace, hidden from predators and yet situated close to water. Here a frog could blend in with the intricate tapestry of fallen trees and branches and live his life happy and free. On the other hand, humans live in houses or apartments, easily distinguishable from the landscape and easily invaded. This past winter, a mouse illustrated this point well by gnawing through the side of our house into my bedroom and attempted to run into oblivion by disappearing into a closet. Unfortunately, this didn't work out well for him and he ended being trapped in a handheld vacuum cleaner and freezing to death outside. But the point is that mouse, probably half-mad with the cold from the recent snow, managed to find a way into my house and managed to wreak havoc on our perfectly ordinary morning. There's never been any hope that a human-made living area would blend into the background when threats appear. The earliest settlements still were distinguishable from the surrounding landscape, showing something intrisic and basic about the level of human fear. If we are willing to live so openly and boldly, even before the age of modern technology, humans must be less afraid of the natural threats than other animals. Fear is not inborn in us as it is in other animals. We weren't born to burrow deep into a riverbank or blend in among the grass. We were born to live freely, to be assured of our capability to protect ourselves. And that, with all its contradictions and assumptions, is a unique and critical facet of humanity.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Hunter Smells a Storm
My dog Hunter has the innate ability to sense when a storm is coming. Here, to my right, he pants his smelly, hot breath on me, hoping that I have some magical power to make the upcoming weather disturbance go away. How on earth does he know, so completely and without doubt, that something is coming? He doesn't have to look at the sky or check Joe Winters's forecast. The dog simply knows.
Animals are fascinating. They don't think, they don't step back and try to figure out a problem, and they don't empathize, and yet they are many times infinitely more at peace than any human. We worry, we stress, and we cry, but we never stop doubting ourselves or fill the void in our lives. Most people don't acknowledge the void. Instead, they continue to fill their lives with stuff. You know the people. New car, redecorated house, nice clothes, soccer practice for their kids. But if you really know them, you know something's always wrong with the car, or the coach isn't being fair, or there's never enough shopping. There are very few moments were they step back and say, "I never want more than this. If I could stay here forever, I would."
The difference between a human and, say, a porcupine, is that the human needs a sense of purpose, of value. Finding, killing, and eating our food is not enough. There is something special about being human, something mysterious and critical to understand. We analyze, hypothesize, and love, but we need to be even more human. A common cry of environmentalists -- especially the more radical -- is that people need to be more in touch with nature. The transcendentalists held this belief above all else. However, I believe that a person can only connect with nature after they have connected with their own self. What's more horrible than seeing a squirrel diligently gathering nuts for an unknown occaison and not truly knowing who you are? Nature is a beautiful and irreplaceable part of our lives, but it should not be the most important part, nor the most vibrant.
Animals are fascinating. They don't think, they don't step back and try to figure out a problem, and they don't empathize, and yet they are many times infinitely more at peace than any human. We worry, we stress, and we cry, but we never stop doubting ourselves or fill the void in our lives. Most people don't acknowledge the void. Instead, they continue to fill their lives with stuff. You know the people. New car, redecorated house, nice clothes, soccer practice for their kids. But if you really know them, you know something's always wrong with the car, or the coach isn't being fair, or there's never enough shopping. There are very few moments were they step back and say, "I never want more than this. If I could stay here forever, I would."
The difference between a human and, say, a porcupine, is that the human needs a sense of purpose, of value. Finding, killing, and eating our food is not enough. There is something special about being human, something mysterious and critical to understand. We analyze, hypothesize, and love, but we need to be even more human. A common cry of environmentalists -- especially the more radical -- is that people need to be more in touch with nature. The transcendentalists held this belief above all else. However, I believe that a person can only connect with nature after they have connected with their own self. What's more horrible than seeing a squirrel diligently gathering nuts for an unknown occaison and not truly knowing who you are? Nature is a beautiful and irreplaceable part of our lives, but it should not be the most important part, nor the most vibrant.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Poetic License
I was reading Everything and More: A Compact History of Infinity by David Foster Wallace for my language arts class when I realized that I had never stopped to wonder what it was that I was solving all the math problems for. I never thought "53/14 whats?" and I had certainly never stopped to think about math as anymore than going through the motions. Obviously, this is okay and most people do it, but really? Has math become so compartmentalized and watered down that the doers can't even see it as real life and vital, beyond the train problems of course.
It was interesting, walking into my precalculus class the next day and seeing the fingerprints of great mathematicians throughout the simple exercises we were doing. As my teacher explained the area under a curve idea and natural logarithims, much of Wallace was saying sort of made sense. This just wasn't taking the derivative or sine or tangent for nothing. This was math that could be applied, that could be lived, and it was kind of beautiful.
As the AP Language and Composition test looms, I can't help wishing that I had learned more formal grammar back in elementary school. We learned the basics of "either/or, neither/nor" and all the parts of speech basics, but those were just enough to get by. The clearest memory I have of a grammar discussion was when, in fourth grade, we discussed poetic license, and that doesn't count. We didn't diagram sentences or memorize prepositions, and yet the world hasn't run out of writers.
The two subjects, math and writing, are in this respect oddly related. Math continuously runs the risk of loosing its beauty and its wonder, especially in lower level math courses because it is sometimes reduced to basic steps instead of creative thinking and ingenuity. With writing, the opposite has been happening. Kids have to read to get better, have to expose themselves to wide ranges of styles, tones, difficulties, and ideas to even begin to write coherently. There is a hunger in every student meant to write (as in every student meant to wrap his mind around advanced mathematics) to know, to learn, and to be the best at that particular subject. No student who has a dominant, in-born talent for writing gives up reading early on because they were not clearly and concisely drilled with different types of sentence structure. You can't escape your personality forever, and the change that will happen, that will overcome you is you coming to yourself. There is no other way to put it. As a person becomes more and more himself, ability and talent override training, which becomes irrelevant as the person excels and thirsts and discovers.
Sitting in math class right before lunch, my teacher told us to be patient with him, to just move our pencil how he tells us -- for now. As the bell rang, he spoke over the din, saying, "You're just rookies now, but someday you'll be able to do real math." Real math. It sounds elusive and terrifying all at once. It fills you with a sense of impatience and a knowing, a knowing of the change that undoubtedly will come with the advent of Real Math and Real Anything.
It was interesting, walking into my precalculus class the next day and seeing the fingerprints of great mathematicians throughout the simple exercises we were doing. As my teacher explained the area under a curve idea and natural logarithims, much of Wallace was saying sort of made sense. This just wasn't taking the derivative or sine or tangent for nothing. This was math that could be applied, that could be lived, and it was kind of beautiful.
As the AP Language and Composition test looms, I can't help wishing that I had learned more formal grammar back in elementary school. We learned the basics of "either/or, neither/nor" and all the parts of speech basics, but those were just enough to get by. The clearest memory I have of a grammar discussion was when, in fourth grade, we discussed poetic license, and that doesn't count. We didn't diagram sentences or memorize prepositions, and yet the world hasn't run out of writers.
The two subjects, math and writing, are in this respect oddly related. Math continuously runs the risk of loosing its beauty and its wonder, especially in lower level math courses because it is sometimes reduced to basic steps instead of creative thinking and ingenuity. With writing, the opposite has been happening. Kids have to read to get better, have to expose themselves to wide ranges of styles, tones, difficulties, and ideas to even begin to write coherently. There is a hunger in every student meant to write (as in every student meant to wrap his mind around advanced mathematics) to know, to learn, and to be the best at that particular subject. No student who has a dominant, in-born talent for writing gives up reading early on because they were not clearly and concisely drilled with different types of sentence structure. You can't escape your personality forever, and the change that will happen, that will overcome you is you coming to yourself. There is no other way to put it. As a person becomes more and more himself, ability and talent override training, which becomes irrelevant as the person excels and thirsts and discovers.
Sitting in math class right before lunch, my teacher told us to be patient with him, to just move our pencil how he tells us -- for now. As the bell rang, he spoke over the din, saying, "You're just rookies now, but someday you'll be able to do real math." Real math. It sounds elusive and terrifying all at once. It fills you with a sense of impatience and a knowing, a knowing of the change that undoubtedly will come with the advent of Real Math and Real Anything.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Blogging
When writing on this blog for a grade, it is extremely difficult to be motivated when you're past your word count. The ideas stop flowing, the will to write dissipates -- but I need just one more post. This is a bad habit run rampant in society. Only do as much as needed, then stop. Passion -- the need to do whatever it is -- has hidden itself behind the mundane life. However, it is this lack of passion that tells us just as definitely what we should do as its presence.
In the seventh grade, I wanted to be a writer. I could dream of no greater feat than to have words -- my words -- published. I liked to write, but I didn't need to, not to survive. Now, I know this neutrality about the whole thing is a sign of it not being what I want to do. I can draw reasonably well and I enjoy it immensely, but I dabble, not finding it necessary to continue to express myself through colors on a paper. Again, a failed attempt at a life plan.
As a college nears, it become necessary, even urgent, to decide what "you want to do with your life." In my house, that phrase should be synonymous with "being employable." As a junior in high school, I know without a doubt that my future lies in microbiology. This is to me an example of the presence of passion guiding the purpose in life. Never have I been able to step away from the microscope. The worlds in the specimen fascinated me and continue to do that to this day, when work should be eroding that love. I think of maintaining my passion for microbiology as a marriage -- sometimes you need to simply focus on the love of your life. When we do ecology in biology, I take breaks by revisiting the cell section, focusing on only the cell, no plants, animals, or soil to interfere.
Whatever the course of my life, I know for certain that I could never become a professional blogger.
In the seventh grade, I wanted to be a writer. I could dream of no greater feat than to have words -- my words -- published. I liked to write, but I didn't need to, not to survive. Now, I know this neutrality about the whole thing is a sign of it not being what I want to do. I can draw reasonably well and I enjoy it immensely, but I dabble, not finding it necessary to continue to express myself through colors on a paper. Again, a failed attempt at a life plan.
As a college nears, it become necessary, even urgent, to decide what "you want to do with your life." In my house, that phrase should be synonymous with "being employable." As a junior in high school, I know without a doubt that my future lies in microbiology. This is to me an example of the presence of passion guiding the purpose in life. Never have I been able to step away from the microscope. The worlds in the specimen fascinated me and continue to do that to this day, when work should be eroding that love. I think of maintaining my passion for microbiology as a marriage -- sometimes you need to simply focus on the love of your life. When we do ecology in biology, I take breaks by revisiting the cell section, focusing on only the cell, no plants, animals, or soil to interfere.
Whatever the course of my life, I know for certain that I could never become a professional blogger.
Billboards
Billboards tell the true personality of a place. The ones that are in the city are flashy, depicting new technology, an urban lifestyle, or hotels. In smaller towns, there is real diversity in these enormous signs. For two days, my mother, my sister and I went down to the Missouri side of Kansas City to see the Princess Diana exhibit. (Her clothes were magnificent -- but I'm not sure how she wore them without constantly worrying that she would ruin them.) For miles in between Cedar Rapids and Kansas City, there was nothing but blissful farmland. But as we got closer to Kansas City, I began to notice a distinct trend in the billboards. I noted at least three that were religious, trying to bring the Good News to the public on I-35 south.
Now, in Christianity, this is a good thing. The final command from Jesus was, "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:19-20 NIV) There is a church in Cedar Rapids that puts a message onto a speaker, which is mounted onto the outside of the building, so the lost sheep driving down Center Point Road will be able to repent and hopefully attend the church. Now, I don't have a particularily unbiased opinion on this, but if it were me driving down Center Point Road or I-35 south, I would be about as interested in these religious assaults as if my gas tank was half full. I might recognize that they want something of me, but since it really doesn't affect my life now, well, I would just turn up the radio or wonder where I'm going to stop for lunch.
Many people would argue that this attempt at mass evangelizing will bring some people to church. Maybe it will. I don't have near enough experience to say that it wouldn't, but it seems that these attempts to publicize are misdirected in the very least. Christian people already have a reputation of being prideful, arrogant, fake, narrow-minded, pushy, intolerable, and self-righteous. Unfortunately, I'd sometimes be tempted to agree. Although the billboards and speakers are technically trying to fulfill the Great Commission (Matthew 28:19-20), I have never heard of a person's salvation story related to these things. If you're a Christian, the best way to work for God is to simply love -- not judge, not accuse, not throw their actions in their face -- love. If you're a non-Christian, remember that these people are just that -- human. The faith's legitamacy is not tainted by human inadequacy. God's love isn't reserved for the people sitting int the front row of the church sanctuary.
In Missouri, I got to thinking what kind of people it was that made those billboards, decided they were a good idea. I don't know them or their story, but I do know that I don't want to be seen like that. I don't want to be the person whose actions can't speak for themselves, who has to scream, "REPENT AND THOU SHALT BE SAVED!" just to fulfill the Great Commission. I also realized that other people look at us like I look at the billboards and judge accordingly. It was humbling and utterly uncomfortable.
Now, in Christianity, this is a good thing. The final command from Jesus was, "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:19-20 NIV) There is a church in Cedar Rapids that puts a message onto a speaker, which is mounted onto the outside of the building, so the lost sheep driving down Center Point Road will be able to repent and hopefully attend the church. Now, I don't have a particularily unbiased opinion on this, but if it were me driving down Center Point Road or I-35 south, I would be about as interested in these religious assaults as if my gas tank was half full. I might recognize that they want something of me, but since it really doesn't affect my life now, well, I would just turn up the radio or wonder where I'm going to stop for lunch.
Many people would argue that this attempt at mass evangelizing will bring some people to church. Maybe it will. I don't have near enough experience to say that it wouldn't, but it seems that these attempts to publicize are misdirected in the very least. Christian people already have a reputation of being prideful, arrogant, fake, narrow-minded, pushy, intolerable, and self-righteous. Unfortunately, I'd sometimes be tempted to agree. Although the billboards and speakers are technically trying to fulfill the Great Commission (Matthew 28:19-20), I have never heard of a person's salvation story related to these things. If you're a Christian, the best way to work for God is to simply love -- not judge, not accuse, not throw their actions in their face -- love. If you're a non-Christian, remember that these people are just that -- human. The faith's legitamacy is not tainted by human inadequacy. God's love isn't reserved for the people sitting int the front row of the church sanctuary.
In Missouri, I got to thinking what kind of people it was that made those billboards, decided they were a good idea. I don't know them or their story, but I do know that I don't want to be seen like that. I don't want to be the person whose actions can't speak for themselves, who has to scream, "REPENT AND THOU SHALT BE SAVED!" just to fulfill the Great Commission. I also realized that other people look at us like I look at the billboards and judge accordingly. It was humbling and utterly uncomfortable.
Flying
I have the single most pleasure of having a father who can fly an airplane, and because of this, he was able to fly me to the University of Wisconsin at Madison's campus this past week for a college visit. Although I liked Iowa State University better, the flight to Wisconsin was magnificent. It was one of those days nestled between rain and clouds, wind and cold that was almost perfect. Once we got up off the ground, it was only a matter of breaking through the thing layer of clouds that were hanging at about 2500 feet. The flight was an hour and a half long, and because I didn't bring any homework, I had plenty of time to look out the window.
Usually, flying in this area of the country is boring for me. When my family and I used to live in the Northeast, the splendor of an autumn's mountain could take my breath away, but here, the ground is flat and covered in fields. I watched our shadow race along the ground, curving along hills you wouldn't notice from above. Weaving in and through the fields, creeks -- full of spring snow -- were swollen. From above, I could easily see the bends and the crevices of the creeks and rivers, making an entirely new perspective than when I was on the ground.
Thirty minutes into the flight I realized that the lawns of houses were green, unnaturally so, and the riverbanks and forests brown. Already in March, the lawns were neatly clipped and obviously fertilized. The wealthier neighborhoods we flew over were blatantly doctored in some strange attempt to mollify and beautify the little piece of nature the homeowner could call his own. In a few weeks, all the residents in our neighborhood will begin to cut, to seed, to fertilize, and to do various other things to their lawns because nobody wants to stare at an ugly lawn. There's always the one person in the neighborhood that doesn't put out any effort -- it's amazing if they even get out to mow their grass -- and everyone else complains about their lack of maintenance. And rightly so! But there is a difference between maintenance and plastic surgery on the lawn. In my father's airplane, the places that were the most beautiful were the brown, barren, and wild forests and riverbeds, the hills that curved underneath the topsoil, and the water itself. There was no leaves, no wildflowers, and no green, but these places had an appeal beyond the green buzz cut of my neighbor's lawn. On his land, nothing unplanned is allowed to grow, his grass is never thin or off-color. Yes, his back yard is pretty, but something is missing.
When I was younger, my sister and I used to play make-believe in our backyard. Our favorite game was to pretend that we lived in a jungle tree house and had to make our own food. After the extremely dramatic shipwreck scene, we used the little white flowers that grew in our yard as food -- not actually eating them. One of us would gather them, and the other would put them carefully in a little hole underneath the treehouse, covering them with leaves and grass for the long winter ahead. I suppose that if you were to go looking, you might find a little store of dried white flowers under the treehouse in New Hampshire. These flowers were only weeds of course, but these weeds were beautiful and essential in the eyes of two young girls. Sometimes, the idea of a little less rigidity and a little more nature in our lives is better than a perfectly manicured, wonderfully spotless life.
Flying over Wisconsin and Iowa, a new kind of beauty, a subtle one hidden in the bend of a creek or in the rich browness of tilled earth, revealed itself. It did not need fertilizing or pruning, cutting or weeding. The minute human effort became obvious, the beauty evaporated. Nature has a store of treasures for us, but our eyes and hearts have to be open to see them. Look around you, see the tree limbs dancing in the wind, the young shoots of green grass among the older brown lengths, the way bark peels from the trunk of a birch tree. They will continue whether noticed or not, but they will make your life more vibrant, more real if noticed.
Usually, flying in this area of the country is boring for me. When my family and I used to live in the Northeast, the splendor of an autumn's mountain could take my breath away, but here, the ground is flat and covered in fields. I watched our shadow race along the ground, curving along hills you wouldn't notice from above. Weaving in and through the fields, creeks -- full of spring snow -- were swollen. From above, I could easily see the bends and the crevices of the creeks and rivers, making an entirely new perspective than when I was on the ground.
Thirty minutes into the flight I realized that the lawns of houses were green, unnaturally so, and the riverbanks and forests brown. Already in March, the lawns were neatly clipped and obviously fertilized. The wealthier neighborhoods we flew over were blatantly doctored in some strange attempt to mollify and beautify the little piece of nature the homeowner could call his own. In a few weeks, all the residents in our neighborhood will begin to cut, to seed, to fertilize, and to do various other things to their lawns because nobody wants to stare at an ugly lawn. There's always the one person in the neighborhood that doesn't put out any effort -- it's amazing if they even get out to mow their grass -- and everyone else complains about their lack of maintenance. And rightly so! But there is a difference between maintenance and plastic surgery on the lawn. In my father's airplane, the places that were the most beautiful were the brown, barren, and wild forests and riverbeds, the hills that curved underneath the topsoil, and the water itself. There was no leaves, no wildflowers, and no green, but these places had an appeal beyond the green buzz cut of my neighbor's lawn. On his land, nothing unplanned is allowed to grow, his grass is never thin or off-color. Yes, his back yard is pretty, but something is missing.
When I was younger, my sister and I used to play make-believe in our backyard. Our favorite game was to pretend that we lived in a jungle tree house and had to make our own food. After the extremely dramatic shipwreck scene, we used the little white flowers that grew in our yard as food -- not actually eating them. One of us would gather them, and the other would put them carefully in a little hole underneath the treehouse, covering them with leaves and grass for the long winter ahead. I suppose that if you were to go looking, you might find a little store of dried white flowers under the treehouse in New Hampshire. These flowers were only weeds of course, but these weeds were beautiful and essential in the eyes of two young girls. Sometimes, the idea of a little less rigidity and a little more nature in our lives is better than a perfectly manicured, wonderfully spotless life.
Flying over Wisconsin and Iowa, a new kind of beauty, a subtle one hidden in the bend of a creek or in the rich browness of tilled earth, revealed itself. It did not need fertilizing or pruning, cutting or weeding. The minute human effort became obvious, the beauty evaporated. Nature has a store of treasures for us, but our eyes and hearts have to be open to see them. Look around you, see the tree limbs dancing in the wind, the young shoots of green grass among the older brown lengths, the way bark peels from the trunk of a birch tree. They will continue whether noticed or not, but they will make your life more vibrant, more real if noticed.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Musical Hall of Failures
Today, I went to orchestra practice and had to play a tiny, three bar solo. It just about killed me.
Although this seems extremely irrelevant, I have decided that my fear of performing in front of others in my church is communicable to a feeling of inadequacy that every human being experiences from time to time, if not on a regular basis.
Every year, I play at a flute recital, where I perform a long piece. This year, I will be performing with Mozart, Bach, and Handel, and yet the complex phrasings, the difficult rhythyms, and the odd key signatures riddled with accidentals don't phase me as much as playing a simple little tune in front of CHURCH. The only reason I can come up with is the people in the audience. At a recital, my parents are in the small audience, but even if I mess up the entire piece, they still have to love me. In church, all those old ladies seem like they're just waiting for me to mess up so they can snicker and point. So, this afternoon, I spent five bars prior saying to myself, "Okay, alright, okay, you'll be fine. Just count. And don't worry about everybody else. But play loud, and keep your tone sweet, lips forward, jaw down... okay.... One and Two and THIS DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT! Oh man! Missed the entrance. Maybe I can just fall in later... no, missed that note... NOW EVERYBODY'S LOOKING!" Needless to say, my face turned red and my ombusure turned up. It was bad for everyone.
I'm sure everyone wants to hole up and die after the spotlight falls on them. There's just something that amplifies the insecurities about my own playing that a solo brings. It's different for everyone, but it's important that both you and I work through this. Between now and next Sunday, I will work on that little solo, no matter how stupid, because I WILL PLAY IT RIGHT. The only way to make yourself better is to focus, to roll up your sleeves, and dig in. Fifteen little notes may be insignificant to anyone else, but if I can't try and dominate, I might as well relegate myself to the musical Hall of Failures. But hey, if I do fail, I might meet Justin Bieber.
Although this seems extremely irrelevant, I have decided that my fear of performing in front of others in my church is communicable to a feeling of inadequacy that every human being experiences from time to time, if not on a regular basis.
Every year, I play at a flute recital, where I perform a long piece. This year, I will be performing with Mozart, Bach, and Handel, and yet the complex phrasings, the difficult rhythyms, and the odd key signatures riddled with accidentals don't phase me as much as playing a simple little tune in front of CHURCH. The only reason I can come up with is the people in the audience. At a recital, my parents are in the small audience, but even if I mess up the entire piece, they still have to love me. In church, all those old ladies seem like they're just waiting for me to mess up so they can snicker and point. So, this afternoon, I spent five bars prior saying to myself, "Okay, alright, okay, you'll be fine. Just count. And don't worry about everybody else. But play loud, and keep your tone sweet, lips forward, jaw down... okay.... One and Two and THIS DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT! Oh man! Missed the entrance. Maybe I can just fall in later... no, missed that note... NOW EVERYBODY'S LOOKING!" Needless to say, my face turned red and my ombusure turned up. It was bad for everyone.
I'm sure everyone wants to hole up and die after the spotlight falls on them. There's just something that amplifies the insecurities about my own playing that a solo brings. It's different for everyone, but it's important that both you and I work through this. Between now and next Sunday, I will work on that little solo, no matter how stupid, because I WILL PLAY IT RIGHT. The only way to make yourself better is to focus, to roll up your sleeves, and dig in. Fifteen little notes may be insignificant to anyone else, but if I can't try and dominate, I might as well relegate myself to the musical Hall of Failures. But hey, if I do fail, I might meet Justin Bieber.
The Merits of a Clean Room
Ever since I was old enough to remember I have not had a clean room. I would like to say it has been a genuine struggle to change my disorganized, messy nature, but it's been more of a disinterested thumb wrestle on my part. Both of my parents are focused, exactly, and organized people, making living with what I had long considered my natural state of being difficult for them.
Lately, I have begun to suspect that this urge to pile, to lose, and to absentmindedly step over large mountains of toys/clothes/books is more a vice than an inherent quality in my nature, neutral beyond the annoyance of all who surround me. I have tried especially in the last year to overcome this with some degree of success, leading me to believe that this is an obstacle stuck in my path for me to try and scale, to conquer. Everyone has one -- math, basketball, an overinflated ego -- but it's not so fun when it's YOU diligently removing book after book from your floor, not even remembering how they got there.
Right now, all I have to do is look to my left and see five piles of books, binder, and papers sitting unobstrusively on my desk. And to think, it was only yesterday that I cleaned my computer desk. And yet it is with complete confidence that I can say that if I try, I can be super organized. A case in point is my precalculus notebook, where I scratch down every problem, every formula each day in class. The notes are labelled by color-coded sticky notes by chapter, one for each day, so that I can find whatever I need come final review time. In addition, each worksheet is folded and stuffed into the appropriate area.
I believe that all our problems, all our little vices, are set in our way to make us better people. The glutton who learns self-control, the liar who learns the power of honesty, the fool who learns to think -- all these people can be improved by the not-so-simple mind over matter. I don't believe that you have to do it alone. How can we aspire to be something more than what we are without the help of faith? All, in the end, would prove meaningless.
I don't say these things as a person who has lived a long and fruitful life after overcoming something horrible like an addiction or an abusive environment. I say these things as human to human, one girl to all the people in the world, or all the people who read my work. When I was a young child, up until about when I was eleven or twelve, I had a real problem with lying. Every little domestic issue would result in a lie.
Dad: "Did you brush your teeth?"
Me: "Yes."
Dad: "Then why is your toothbrush dry?"
Mom: "Did you eat some Halloween candy?"
Me: "No."
Mom: "Then why are there candy wrappers under your pillow?"
And so on and so forth. I finally began to care that I was doing something wrong, that I was doing something against the rest of my character, and I stopped. Not so easily as that, but still. Instead of just accepting that this was a part of who I was, I tried to become someone else. As humans, we are called to become something more than who we are, to try and strive above and beyond our nature. It is right, it is good, and it is true.
Now I have to go clean my room.
Lately, I have begun to suspect that this urge to pile, to lose, and to absentmindedly step over large mountains of toys/clothes/books is more a vice than an inherent quality in my nature, neutral beyond the annoyance of all who surround me. I have tried especially in the last year to overcome this with some degree of success, leading me to believe that this is an obstacle stuck in my path for me to try and scale, to conquer. Everyone has one -- math, basketball, an overinflated ego -- but it's not so fun when it's YOU diligently removing book after book from your floor, not even remembering how they got there.
Right now, all I have to do is look to my left and see five piles of books, binder, and papers sitting unobstrusively on my desk. And to think, it was only yesterday that I cleaned my computer desk. And yet it is with complete confidence that I can say that if I try, I can be super organized. A case in point is my precalculus notebook, where I scratch down every problem, every formula each day in class. The notes are labelled by color-coded sticky notes by chapter, one for each day, so that I can find whatever I need come final review time. In addition, each worksheet is folded and stuffed into the appropriate area.
I believe that all our problems, all our little vices, are set in our way to make us better people. The glutton who learns self-control, the liar who learns the power of honesty, the fool who learns to think -- all these people can be improved by the not-so-simple mind over matter. I don't believe that you have to do it alone. How can we aspire to be something more than what we are without the help of faith? All, in the end, would prove meaningless.
I don't say these things as a person who has lived a long and fruitful life after overcoming something horrible like an addiction or an abusive environment. I say these things as human to human, one girl to all the people in the world, or all the people who read my work. When I was a young child, up until about when I was eleven or twelve, I had a real problem with lying. Every little domestic issue would result in a lie.
Dad: "Did you brush your teeth?"
Me: "Yes."
Dad: "Then why is your toothbrush dry?"
Mom: "Did you eat some Halloween candy?"
Me: "No."
Mom: "Then why are there candy wrappers under your pillow?"
And so on and so forth. I finally began to care that I was doing something wrong, that I was doing something against the rest of my character, and I stopped. Not so easily as that, but still. Instead of just accepting that this was a part of who I was, I tried to become someone else. As humans, we are called to become something more than who we are, to try and strive above and beyond our nature. It is right, it is good, and it is true.
Now I have to go clean my room.
The Price of Survival
In about a year and a half, I will suddenly be thrown into the world of laundary, of cooking, and of scheduling for myself. This frightens me simply because I have had my mother to cater to my needs for seventeen and a half years, and soon she will be gone, three hours down a long stretch of Highway 30. Until I figure out a better way to hem pants, I will more than likely duct tape the ends up. Microwave cuisine will dominate my nutrition, and I will have to face the horrible coin-operated washing machine all alone, armed only with a desperate need for a clean pair of jeans.
This is a part of the American educational system that some get to experience. While learning calculus, a student must also learn to live. This phase of existence is for most an unconscious right of passage, beyond the driver's license or the legal drinking age. To conquer to complexities of adult humdrumity is both exciting and overlooked.
America's ideal teenager is an overworked, overactive ball of stress. School from as early as seven in the morning to as late as 4 in the afternoon. Music lessons, volunteering, clubs, jobs, sports, speech teams, theater productions, concerts, weekend plans, showcoir competitions, and family time. In between chemistry homework and showcoir practice, there isn't much time to learn to sew on a button or learn to cook a nutritious, cheap meal -- much beyond a Smart Ones concoction. These are the kids who pull decent grades, who don't get caught doing all the awful stuff they could devote their lives to, and who are destined for a prosperous middle-class life.
But when survival invades -- and I mean the idea of no food in the refrigerator, the dirty toilet, the piles of laundary -- America's teenager has been thrown into a ring to fight a bull, blindfolded. The insane obsession with preparing for a well-to-do lifestyle sometime in the distant future, the crazed race for advantages that will translate into college acceptance, into higher-level degrees, into a comfortable job, into a home with all the fixings, has managed to silence the selfish survival instinct that children used to learn before heading off into life. Americans are characteristically selfish. We have been known to be ridiculed by natives of countries we visit (in their language, of course) for being loud, pushy, sloppy, and kind of rude. Humans known deep down inside themselves that selfish behavior is wrong -- well, most of us do. But if we expect each generation to try and find a way to rise above the self-centered template we have been given, it doesn't follow that at a time when a truly selfless personality should develop, when young adults are learning just how big and wonderful the world is, especially outside of their life, these same people must constantly think about THEIR own survival, THEIR own well-being.
There really isn't much of a solution to this problem. It isn't a cut and dry case of diet and exercise will lead to a healthy lifestyle. This is an instance where individual people can choose to try and change the world just by changing the way they think. Selfish, arrogant, disinterested teenagers could morph into some of the most caring people on the planet if they learned to survive. That out of the way, a whole lot of time is free for other things. If you aren't so absorbed in the urgency of your own life, it may just be possible to hold the door for the lady with a stroller or smile at random passerby.
This is a part of the American educational system that some get to experience. While learning calculus, a student must also learn to live. This phase of existence is for most an unconscious right of passage, beyond the driver's license or the legal drinking age. To conquer to complexities of adult humdrumity is both exciting and overlooked.
America's ideal teenager is an overworked, overactive ball of stress. School from as early as seven in the morning to as late as 4 in the afternoon. Music lessons, volunteering, clubs, jobs, sports, speech teams, theater productions, concerts, weekend plans, showcoir competitions, and family time. In between chemistry homework and showcoir practice, there isn't much time to learn to sew on a button or learn to cook a nutritious, cheap meal -- much beyond a Smart Ones concoction. These are the kids who pull decent grades, who don't get caught doing all the awful stuff they could devote their lives to, and who are destined for a prosperous middle-class life.
But when survival invades -- and I mean the idea of no food in the refrigerator, the dirty toilet, the piles of laundary -- America's teenager has been thrown into a ring to fight a bull, blindfolded. The insane obsession with preparing for a well-to-do lifestyle sometime in the distant future, the crazed race for advantages that will translate into college acceptance, into higher-level degrees, into a comfortable job, into a home with all the fixings, has managed to silence the selfish survival instinct that children used to learn before heading off into life. Americans are characteristically selfish. We have been known to be ridiculed by natives of countries we visit (in their language, of course) for being loud, pushy, sloppy, and kind of rude. Humans known deep down inside themselves that selfish behavior is wrong -- well, most of us do. But if we expect each generation to try and find a way to rise above the self-centered template we have been given, it doesn't follow that at a time when a truly selfless personality should develop, when young adults are learning just how big and wonderful the world is, especially outside of their life, these same people must constantly think about THEIR own survival, THEIR own well-being.
There really isn't much of a solution to this problem. It isn't a cut and dry case of diet and exercise will lead to a healthy lifestyle. This is an instance where individual people can choose to try and change the world just by changing the way they think. Selfish, arrogant, disinterested teenagers could morph into some of the most caring people on the planet if they learned to survive. That out of the way, a whole lot of time is free for other things. If you aren't so absorbed in the urgency of your own life, it may just be possible to hold the door for the lady with a stroller or smile at random passerby.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
What Genomics Means to Us
For a while now, we have been able to sequence the genomes of organisms, giving us a glimpse of the base of life. The practical applications of this ability are in biotechnology and engineering. Making organisms that produce things for us or disabling pathogens are only two examples of the versatility of breadth of the opportunities. Early in 2010, scientists were able to sequence the genome of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, something that causes thousands of deaths in America each year. Tracking a Superbug with Whole-Genome Sequencing shows the advances and the possibilities here for advancement.
By sequencing the genome of all sorts of strains, scientists can then construct an evolutionary tree for Staphylococcus aureus and track it. This is accomplished by comparing the genomesof multiple strains of this bacterium with each other to see the percent same of the amino acid sequence. Actually, the common man can do this online through various search engines, but the evolutionary biologists can track this bug across the world.
Some people are critical of the improved technology, saying it's not enough to be of medical significance, but these improvements aren't meant to be a final solution. This is a place to jump from, into eradication of pathogens without creating resistant strains. Antibiotics are decreasing in effectiveness because they select for those bacteria that have resistance factors in their genome, and these pathogens reproduce, even thrive, in the very environment that is supposed to kill them. At this point, with our overusage of antibiotics, we can use any advances in technology we can get.
The way to keep moving forward is simply that. I'm reminded of the movie Meet the Robinsons where the main character had to keep moving forward, look past failures and use them as stepping stones to greater success. Everybody overquotes Thomas Edison, but his perserverance has shaped the modern world. In America, we need to teach the students to think creatively and problem solve with the top minds of the world. Expose the children early, foster their curiousity, and let them think they can conquer the world, because they can.
By sequencing the genome of all sorts of strains, scientists can then construct an evolutionary tree for Staphylococcus aureus and track it. This is accomplished by comparing the genomesof multiple strains of this bacterium with each other to see the percent same of the amino acid sequence. Actually, the common man can do this online through various search engines, but the evolutionary biologists can track this bug across the world.
Some people are critical of the improved technology, saying it's not enough to be of medical significance, but these improvements aren't meant to be a final solution. This is a place to jump from, into eradication of pathogens without creating resistant strains. Antibiotics are decreasing in effectiveness because they select for those bacteria that have resistance factors in their genome, and these pathogens reproduce, even thrive, in the very environment that is supposed to kill them. At this point, with our overusage of antibiotics, we can use any advances in technology we can get.
The way to keep moving forward is simply that. I'm reminded of the movie Meet the Robinsons where the main character had to keep moving forward, look past failures and use them as stepping stones to greater success. Everybody overquotes Thomas Edison, but his perserverance has shaped the modern world. In America, we need to teach the students to think creatively and problem solve with the top minds of the world. Expose the children early, foster their curiousity, and let them think they can conquer the world, because they can.
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