The debate last night was a success, at least on our end of the spectrum. We had been told by our administration to make the presentation as professional as possible. Their goal for the night: Make the school look good. They didn't care so much about the candidates, just so long as we looked good. Well, I for one cared about the candidates.
The forum focused mostly on the education issues that will be facing the next governor, whoever that may be.
For those of you not familiar with the Maine elections, Here are the candidates, listed in order of poll results, highest to lowest.
Paul Lepage
Libby Mitchell
Eliot Cutler
Shawn Moody
Kevin Scott
Out of all of the candidates many speeches last night, I got the most of of Cutler's, Lepage's, and Scott's speeches. Moody and Mitchell fell short. I like most of Scott's ideas, but he does need a little bit more substance. His speaking skills were phenominal, and I went up to him after the forum and told him so. He thanked me, and we launched into a ten minute discussion. One thing Scott has emphasized throughout the entire campaign process is that he isn't really a politician. He doesn't come from a political background, and he uses this as an advantage. I think it's a unique way to go about campaigning, and I love some of his ideas for how to run the state and fix our problems, but he's the lowest in the polls, and needs some more umph in his campaign. I can't remember if it was he or Moody who didn't take their public campaigning money, but if it was Scott, hoooboy, he should have.
I have a Cutler sign outside of my house, and I support him the most out of all of the candidates. One thing I noted last night was the manner in which the candidates answered the questions that we, the students, presented. Going from left to right from my point of view, Scott made a point to use your name and look at you and only sometimes at the audience or the camera. Moody looked mostly at the camera, and a little bit at you, and also made sure to use your name, Mitchell... well, heaven only knows where she was looking. I think she was aiming at the camera, but from my angle, it looked more like she was talking to a fly on the ceiling of the auditorium, head held high like a day dreamer. She didn't look at me even once. Lepage gave the camera and the questioner equal attention, used names, but mostly talked about policy. It was an efficient way to deal with the questions- I was impressed, despite my general dislike for the man. Cutler, however, really impressed me. Perhaps he had an advantage, because he was closest to the questioner, but he made it a point to look directly at you the entire time he was answering the question. For him, it was about answering YOUR question, not turning every question into a chance to campaign. I felt like all of his answers were honest and down to earth, and I respect him for that.
I was also incredibly impressed when, after the debate, both Cutler and Scott remembered not only my name, but the names of all of the other students around me. There's something to be said for charisma.
Lepage's answers, I think, had the most information in them. His plans do make a good deal of sense, and I like some of his positions quite a lot. However, he's shown a lack of diplomatic ability- something that's very important to have as governor of Maine, or any state. I'm not just talking about his "get the hell out of my state" comment, but his entire campaign. He was well behaved last night, though, so he gets a brownie for that.
All of this having been said, I have to admit that I'm not the most politically minded person on the planet. I am swayed sometimes by emotion, and am not always well read on the issues. But I do think it's important that the voice of youth be heard before the elections. Your decision affects us too. Most of all, everyone needs to vote, and understand what they're voting on before they go. I know, I sound like a nagging public service announcement, but it's true and you know it. Just do it.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Go Fight City Hall, or At Least the Superintendent.
Tonight is the night of the gubernatorial debate, and it's going to be a long day. Tune in, if any of you get ABC.
Yesterday, Dad got an e-mail from our superintendent, concerning the letter I sent her. As far as I know, it said nothing besides requesting an "audience" (her word, not mine. It's an interesting choice of words, and it indicates and ego complex, if you ask me..) with myself, dad, and our principal (Mr. N). It took her three weeks to get back to me, and she didn't even get back to ME. I'm sorry, but if someone takes the time and trouble to send you a carefully planned letter, you ought to do your best to return the favor. It's not like she's celebrity status or anything. I'm sure she has more important things to worry about, but...really? I have to be a little offended that after proving that I am capable of thinking for myself and acting like an adult, I deserve to be treated like an adult.
So, the way I figure, this could go one of two ways:
1. Oh, shniekie, I'm in trouble. The superintendent wants us to drop the issue and just keep our heads down and do as we're told. Bad dog! Sit!
If this happens, of course, dad, as an employee, has to say "yes, ma'am". I think he's under the impression that that's what I'd say, too. But I'm not obligated to say "yes, ma'am". I'll say ma'am, of course, but I think it'll be more along the lines of "No, thanks very much, ma'am. I'm right, and you know it".
2. She actually wants to discuss her reasoning and why she is or is not planning on changing her policies.
I'm almost hoping for the first option, because this one is a whole lot more fun, even if we do get in trouble. The more difficulty we have getting what we want, the more people can get involved. I was telling my fellow debaters about the situation, at one of our tournaments, and they got very fired up. They're ready to go to a school board meeting and (respectfully) speak their minds. It makes a captain proud. Either way, I got the meeting, and that does say something. I suppose I shouldn't be too offended that they contacted dad rather than me- I have to pick my battles. But by George, I'm going to win the ones that I do pick.
Yesterday, Dad got an e-mail from our superintendent, concerning the letter I sent her. As far as I know, it said nothing besides requesting an "audience" (her word, not mine. It's an interesting choice of words, and it indicates and ego complex, if you ask me..) with myself, dad, and our principal (Mr. N). It took her three weeks to get back to me, and she didn't even get back to ME. I'm sorry, but if someone takes the time and trouble to send you a carefully planned letter, you ought to do your best to return the favor. It's not like she's celebrity status or anything. I'm sure she has more important things to worry about, but...really? I have to be a little offended that after proving that I am capable of thinking for myself and acting like an adult, I deserve to be treated like an adult.
So, the way I figure, this could go one of two ways:
1. Oh, shniekie, I'm in trouble. The superintendent wants us to drop the issue and just keep our heads down and do as we're told. Bad dog! Sit!
If this happens, of course, dad, as an employee, has to say "yes, ma'am". I think he's under the impression that that's what I'd say, too. But I'm not obligated to say "yes, ma'am". I'll say ma'am, of course, but I think it'll be more along the lines of "No, thanks very much, ma'am. I'm right, and you know it".
2. She actually wants to discuss her reasoning and why she is or is not planning on changing her policies.
I'm almost hoping for the first option, because this one is a whole lot more fun, even if we do get in trouble. The more difficulty we have getting what we want, the more people can get involved. I was telling my fellow debaters about the situation, at one of our tournaments, and they got very fired up. They're ready to go to a school board meeting and (respectfully) speak their minds. It makes a captain proud. Either way, I got the meeting, and that does say something. I suppose I shouldn't be too offended that they contacted dad rather than me- I have to pick my battles. But by George, I'm going to win the ones that I do pick.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Growing Intolerance
My family used to go strawberry picking every spring or summer. There are several different farms around that produce whole fields of the bright red berries, and depending on the prices, we'd go to a different one every year. My parents always warned me about pesticides, but I would sneak a few of the juicy red fruits into my mouth when they weren't looking. After we finished picking, the old man at the gate who ran the strawberry field would jokingly tell me that he was going to do a tongue check to make sure I didn't eat any. He must have known by my bright red tongue, but he always laughed and then just let my parents pay for the ones we picked.
We'd return home with arms full of the little green cartons filled to the brim with big, triangular, deeply rouged berries, and I would hurry for them, enjoying every ripe bite with sugar or without. We never cooked with them, really. We just ate them, plain and simple, sometimes with whipped cream and other times with cereal.
They were my favorite food, but I never really realized. One year, we brought home even more than usual, a bumper crop of strawberries in our hands. And I ate them. Probably more than my little body could hold. I don't think I realized I was eating so many strawberries, but since they were going fast, I must have been. Strawberries with breakfast, strawberries for lunch and after dinner. If I was going out into the yard, I brought a handful, just in case I was out there for a long time and got hungry. I rode my bicycle with a handful of them, I'd sneak out of bed to grab a few, I'd bring them to my room when I was playing with my dolls. They must have disappeared in just a few days. And then, one morning, I woke up, and I scratched.
My stomach. My arms. My neck. All bright pink with spots and scratches. My mom took a glance at them, and concluded that I must be allergic to strawberries. When I shouted my dismay, she admitted that it could also be the pesticides. She returned to her reading, and sulking, I walked away.
It wasn't the pesticides, unfortunately for me. Since then, I have lusted after strawberries. For awhile after my diagnosis, I would still eat everything strawberry. Since I grew into the allergy, and it wasn't severe at first, my parents still kept the fruit in the house. I distinctly remember a night when my father had bought a container of strawberry ice cream, and thinking that just a little bit wouldn't hurt me, I helped myself to a few scoops. But after that helping, I still wasn't satisfied, and I thought, " Just one more scoop." And before I knew it, just a small serving must have turned into half of the box. And I was just fine, pleased with myself for having defeated my allergy. Little did I know that the fruit residing in my stomach was plotting its revenge for when I least expected it. I threw up the contents of my stomach that night, and woke in a puddle of pink, melted, half digested strawberry ice cream. I never tried that again.
As the allergy has grown worse, I've become almost afraid of strawberries. I can't even touch them anymore, and I obsessively check ingredients lists on the backs of cartons and wrappers, just in case. Just the sweet, tart smell makes me cringe.
We discovered, a few years back, that my allergy was caused by a chemical in the strawberry, called Salicylic Acid. Apparently, Salicylic acid is in everything- acne medications, lotions, oranges, kiwis, tomatoes, asprin.
So I live my life in paranoid fear, and find my allergies one by one.
We'd return home with arms full of the little green cartons filled to the brim with big, triangular, deeply rouged berries, and I would hurry for them, enjoying every ripe bite with sugar or without. We never cooked with them, really. We just ate them, plain and simple, sometimes with whipped cream and other times with cereal.
They were my favorite food, but I never really realized. One year, we brought home even more than usual, a bumper crop of strawberries in our hands. And I ate them. Probably more than my little body could hold. I don't think I realized I was eating so many strawberries, but since they were going fast, I must have been. Strawberries with breakfast, strawberries for lunch and after dinner. If I was going out into the yard, I brought a handful, just in case I was out there for a long time and got hungry. I rode my bicycle with a handful of them, I'd sneak out of bed to grab a few, I'd bring them to my room when I was playing with my dolls. They must have disappeared in just a few days. And then, one morning, I woke up, and I scratched.
My stomach. My arms. My neck. All bright pink with spots and scratches. My mom took a glance at them, and concluded that I must be allergic to strawberries. When I shouted my dismay, she admitted that it could also be the pesticides. She returned to her reading, and sulking, I walked away.
It wasn't the pesticides, unfortunately for me. Since then, I have lusted after strawberries. For awhile after my diagnosis, I would still eat everything strawberry. Since I grew into the allergy, and it wasn't severe at first, my parents still kept the fruit in the house. I distinctly remember a night when my father had bought a container of strawberry ice cream, and thinking that just a little bit wouldn't hurt me, I helped myself to a few scoops. But after that helping, I still wasn't satisfied, and I thought, " Just one more scoop." And before I knew it, just a small serving must have turned into half of the box. And I was just fine, pleased with myself for having defeated my allergy. Little did I know that the fruit residing in my stomach was plotting its revenge for when I least expected it. I threw up the contents of my stomach that night, and woke in a puddle of pink, melted, half digested strawberry ice cream. I never tried that again.
As the allergy has grown worse, I've become almost afraid of strawberries. I can't even touch them anymore, and I obsessively check ingredients lists on the backs of cartons and wrappers, just in case. Just the sweet, tart smell makes me cringe.
We discovered, a few years back, that my allergy was caused by a chemical in the strawberry, called Salicylic Acid. Apparently, Salicylic acid is in everything- acne medications, lotions, oranges, kiwis, tomatoes, asprin.
So I live my life in paranoid fear, and find my allergies one by one.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Exciting stuff and things! Stuff and things! Excitement!
It's a gubernatorial election year. Woooohoooo.
Yeah, I know, not super exciting. But! It does allow some exciting things to happen. For example, last week, a "debate" (more like a Q&A. Not a single one of these candidates would stand a second in a real debate round) was held at my school for the candidates.
Debate team kids got free tickets. I don't really remember why, but I think their line of thinking was that the geeks are also politically minded. Oh. 'Kay then.
That's not that exciting though.
What's exciting is that next week, we're hosting another one. But the students are running it! And, because geeks are politically minded, the debate team is heading it up. We'll be moderating online chat rooms, where people can discuss the issues and send in questions, greeting people and candidates, helping some with press, and moderating the debate.
Yup. Geeks are politically minded.
So, I'll be moderating the debate. The hardest part will be refraining from asking pointed and sarcastic questions.
Yeah, I know, not super exciting. But! It does allow some exciting things to happen. For example, last week, a "debate" (more like a Q&A. Not a single one of these candidates would stand a second in a real debate round) was held at my school for the candidates.
Debate team kids got free tickets. I don't really remember why, but I think their line of thinking was that the geeks are also politically minded. Oh. 'Kay then.
That's not that exciting though.
What's exciting is that next week, we're hosting another one. But the students are running it! And, because geeks are politically minded, the debate team is heading it up. We'll be moderating online chat rooms, where people can discuss the issues and send in questions, greeting people and candidates, helping some with press, and moderating the debate.
Yup. Geeks are politically minded.
So, I'll be moderating the debate. The hardest part will be refraining from asking pointed and sarcastic questions.
Spirit Week. Rah, Rah... raaaaaah.
This week is spirit week at my school.
Spirit week is only four days, apparently because it always used to fall in the week of Columbus day. I think it's just because the administration doesn't want to put up with it any more than they have to.
So, technically the festivities start tomorrow. But today was declared, by the underground of the student body, to be Zombie day.
It's one of those things when you think to yourself "I know I shouldn't care what other people will think, but I'm not going to do it, because I know no one else is going to do it."
Yup. Two of my friends dressed up. I'm personally in favor of doing one of those full out zombie vs. Human games, like the ones that colleges sometimes do.
I think the whole spirit of spirit week is lost. Which is fine by me. The whole idea is that we celebrate how awesome our football team is and sing the school song and chant things, or whatever. It's how I imagine Spartans must have spent their Sundays. Our school system certainly makes an effort to have it center around football. We have mandatory pep rallies (which I usually hide from, in the library), and the band at some point will march through the halls of the school, playing the school song. By the way, I can't think of a single person in this school who isn't a cheerleader who knows the lyrics of the school song.
The idealized spirit week and homecoming...is totally barbaric. So I like to think of it as just a week where I get to dress up in awesome costumes and shoot zombies with a nerf gun.
**An update on my taking down the system:
My letter went out early last week, and I still haven't received a reply from our superintendent. I'm giving it two more days, and then I'm looking into a schoolboard meeting.
Spirit week is only four days, apparently because it always used to fall in the week of Columbus day. I think it's just because the administration doesn't want to put up with it any more than they have to.
So, technically the festivities start tomorrow. But today was declared, by the underground of the student body, to be Zombie day.
It's one of those things when you think to yourself "I know I shouldn't care what other people will think, but I'm not going to do it, because I know no one else is going to do it."
Yup. Two of my friends dressed up. I'm personally in favor of doing one of those full out zombie vs. Human games, like the ones that colleges sometimes do.
I think the whole spirit of spirit week is lost. Which is fine by me. The whole idea is that we celebrate how awesome our football team is and sing the school song and chant things, or whatever. It's how I imagine Spartans must have spent their Sundays. Our school system certainly makes an effort to have it center around football. We have mandatory pep rallies (which I usually hide from, in the library), and the band at some point will march through the halls of the school, playing the school song. By the way, I can't think of a single person in this school who isn't a cheerleader who knows the lyrics of the school song.
The idealized spirit week and homecoming...is totally barbaric. So I like to think of it as just a week where I get to dress up in awesome costumes and shoot zombies with a nerf gun.
**An update on my taking down the system:
My letter went out early last week, and I still haven't received a reply from our superintendent. I'm giving it two more days, and then I'm looking into a schoolboard meeting.
Monday, October 11, 2010
SOOOO Much Yarn.
I am drowning in yarn.
No, seriously, whatever sheep were shorn meant business.
My cousin came up for the long weekend (she lives in Boston, where she does fabulous things. She really deserves a whole post for all of her stories), and, taking advantage of our dual power, my aunt invited the two of us over to paw through a bunch of her old yarn. As I understand it, she just has a huge back up of yarn that was intended, upon its purchase, to become something. But she just doesn't have the time to knit anymore, so she gave it all to us.
Fine by me.
Because she buys really, really nice yarn. Not the "nice" stuff from AC Moore, but the nice stuff from the local knitting holes.
We split the yarn evenly between us, which, if you can believe it, left each of us with overflowing extra-large shopping bags.
Some of it's sock yarn (I'll be learning to knit socks soon, which is good, since my feet are constantly the temperature of a dead body left in Alaska), some of it's for felting (destined to become finger puppets, probably), there's a little bit of hemp, and then a bunch of the types of yarn that sort of fall in the middle.
WHAT DO I DO?
I would like all of your suggestions, please.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Bathroom Graffiti, Pt. 1
I like graffiti in bathroom stalls.
it's real
melodramatic,
poised and ineloquent,
extending beyond
the constraints of time,
"JL
+
SM
4EVR"
Rough gouges
and permanent
marks by
permanent markers
and minds
2-dimensioned and dark
on grimy, scratched barriers
vehicles of the words
that I'm pretty sure
no one would actually say...
"I was here"
Stalls clean
and shining
proud of their no-graffiti status
I'm to good for that crap
Barren worlds of
the deaf and dumb
populations of potty-goers
happy to expel
reluctant to express.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Fight, Fight for Victory Today, or, I Thought My Principal Would Kill Me, or, Flubber Neck.
Yesterday, I was privy to a conversation between my father and another teacher.
It concerned several policies that our superintendent imposed involving the debate team and the specifics of how we get to the NFL national competition. I'd heard about them before, but I'd forgotten about them entirely until they were brought up yesterday. The policies are as follows:
-Coaches who are also staff members of the school system cannot attend a regional or national competition with a qualifying student if that competition falls within the school year (Relatively reasonable. But our competition falls in finals week. A robot could give an exam). Parents will attend the competition with the child (At a national debate tournament, we must provide a qualified judge for our qualifiers. A parent doesn't meet those requirements).
-As a team, we cannot fundraise for nationals. We also are not allowed to use our budgeted funds to sponsor our trip to the national competition. So, these two policies combined means that the full burden of paying the fees of a national trip falls on the parents, which creates a hierarchy among the qualifiers: Those who are wealthy get to debate at a higher level.
*I need to make it clear that by changing these policies, the debate team, or any other club or team, would not recieve any more money than they already do from the administration and taxpayers.
Well, hearing about the injustices again fired up my passion against our superintendent, who I disagree with on most things, and who strikes me as prime material for the role of Scummy Politician. I'm sure that she's a nice person. But I don't get along with most anyone who's got their fake smile plastered on 24/7 and speaks with the oral skills of Hillary Clinton. So, I resolved to send a letter to the superintendent, presenting my entirely logical arguments, and starting up a campaign to change these policies. If she doesn't explain any valid reasoning behind her decisions, or doesn't respond to the letter, then I'm going to attend a school board meeting to present a speech about the issue. I think it's important. Maybe it's not the top priority, but it's still important, and ought to be changed.
So, I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon writing my letter. I've never written a formal letter before, and I had to google it to make sure I was doing it right. I wore my Harvard baseball hat, because it made me feel smarter. Dad helped me some by offering objective information about how we funded our trip (Dad is a teacher and the debate coach. Sooo, a little bit of bias, but what can you do?), and proper protocol in a situation like this. He pointed out that it would be proper to run this by my principal before sending the letter. Woah, woah, woah. Stop right there.
Run it by the principal? I almost ran and hid under my bed at this suggestion. It's not like I was doing anything wrong, but then again, you probably haven't heard my principal's reputation. I go to a big school, and have seen him around maybe once or twice.
You have to know a few things about the man I will hereafter refer to as Mr. N.
Mr. N is old. Very old. He's pretty much been here forever.
Mr. N likes to glare. A lot.
He has a lot of liverspots, and those liver spots glare too.
Last year he had his picture on the front page of the paper. He glared in that picture too. I think he wanted to look special for such an occasion, so he folded his arms over his chest to accessorize the look.
A few years ago, he rolled his lawnmower, and broke a leg, four ribs, and punctured a lung. He was going to retire after that, but no one wanted the job. That's because no one in their right mind would want to be principal of a high school. I've always been convinced that Mr. N took the job and keeps the job because he's strict and militant enough to get away with doing it without being terribly involved.
I knew that to make sure that all of the administration knows I mean business, I had to bring the letter to Mr. N. So, I printed off two copies. One to give to him, and a back up in case the lasers that beam from his eyes toasted the first when he tried to read it. I went to the office today, and asked if he was in, and they told me to go check, hardly looking up from their Very Important Business. So I peered into Mr. N's office, which I have never been in. Somehow, I always thought it was between the offices of the two assistant principals, which are on the edge by the hallway, and have an outermost wall made of bulletproof glass (my freshman year, some kid threw a stapler at one of the assistant principals through the bulletproof glass. I guess it's not staplerproof). But instead, it's tucked in a corner in the innards of the main office. The only reasoning I can think of behind this floorplan is that the principal can make a quick escape out the window if someone snaps and starts shooting the school. The room seemed larger than the other office, and Mr. N's desk was in the middle. The first thing I noticed was the jar of M&M's in front of his computer. They seemed to contradict everything I had heard about him, and so I straightened up, ready to deliver my Very Important Letter. The setup seemed similar to that of the Oval office, and Mr. N ruled supreme in his own little office. His bloodhound's eyes glared up at me from underneath liverspotted overhanging eyebrows, and his mouth seemed to be permanently droopy. I was concerned that it would just...slide off his face. I handed him my letter, briefly explaining its contents, and sat in one of the simple, assembly line chairs lined up a good five and a half feet from his desk. They were in a perfect row, not touching the wall, and far enough away from Mr. N that he could probably tell when students (or staff) tried to text in his presence. He leaned his soft, jello body back into his office chair, and commenced in reading my letter, which I had handed to him before sitting. As he read through, his head moved with his eyes, looking like a short pendulum, as if to say, "Yes, I am reading this. One. Line. At. A. Time". His jowels flabbed up and down, like he was chewing something. Possibly his tongue. Maybe he liked gum? I pondered the sorts of gum that Mr. N might favor, and decided that he was a Big Red kind of guy, because it was strong enough that his geriatric tastebuds might be able to almost taste them. As he chewed, the drooping sides of his face morphed into one fleshy ocean with his saggy chin, and then became seperate again as his teeth were brought together. The transition fascinated me, and I wondered how long the structure of his face had been able to change shape, like Flubber. Finally, after an eternity of trying to not stare too hard at the wrinkled curtains of skin, Mr. N put the letter down, sat up straight and said to me, after a pause, "Very well done".
I think I might have exploded a little bit in gratitude. I had been so nervous.
Mr. N continued on to say that he wasn't sure of what the superintendent's reaction would be, but that her decisions probably had to do with the budget cuts. I refrained from pointing out that we weren't asking for more money, and instead took my letter back (unsinged), thanked him, and went on my way.
If I get my way with this thing, I might send him a pack of M&M's.
It concerned several policies that our superintendent imposed involving the debate team and the specifics of how we get to the NFL national competition. I'd heard about them before, but I'd forgotten about them entirely until they were brought up yesterday. The policies are as follows:
-Coaches who are also staff members of the school system cannot attend a regional or national competition with a qualifying student if that competition falls within the school year (Relatively reasonable. But our competition falls in finals week. A robot could give an exam). Parents will attend the competition with the child (At a national debate tournament, we must provide a qualified judge for our qualifiers. A parent doesn't meet those requirements).
-As a team, we cannot fundraise for nationals. We also are not allowed to use our budgeted funds to sponsor our trip to the national competition. So, these two policies combined means that the full burden of paying the fees of a national trip falls on the parents, which creates a hierarchy among the qualifiers: Those who are wealthy get to debate at a higher level.
*I need to make it clear that by changing these policies, the debate team, or any other club or team, would not recieve any more money than they already do from the administration and taxpayers.
Well, hearing about the injustices again fired up my passion against our superintendent, who I disagree with on most things, and who strikes me as prime material for the role of Scummy Politician. I'm sure that she's a nice person. But I don't get along with most anyone who's got their fake smile plastered on 24/7 and speaks with the oral skills of Hillary Clinton. So, I resolved to send a letter to the superintendent, presenting my entirely logical arguments, and starting up a campaign to change these policies. If she doesn't explain any valid reasoning behind her decisions, or doesn't respond to the letter, then I'm going to attend a school board meeting to present a speech about the issue. I think it's important. Maybe it's not the top priority, but it's still important, and ought to be changed.
So, I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon writing my letter. I've never written a formal letter before, and I had to google it to make sure I was doing it right. I wore my Harvard baseball hat, because it made me feel smarter. Dad helped me some by offering objective information about how we funded our trip (Dad is a teacher and the debate coach. Sooo, a little bit of bias, but what can you do?), and proper protocol in a situation like this. He pointed out that it would be proper to run this by my principal before sending the letter. Woah, woah, woah. Stop right there.
Run it by the principal? I almost ran and hid under my bed at this suggestion. It's not like I was doing anything wrong, but then again, you probably haven't heard my principal's reputation. I go to a big school, and have seen him around maybe once or twice.
You have to know a few things about the man I will hereafter refer to as Mr. N.
Mr. N is old. Very old. He's pretty much been here forever.
Mr. N likes to glare. A lot.
He has a lot of liverspots, and those liver spots glare too.
Last year he had his picture on the front page of the paper. He glared in that picture too. I think he wanted to look special for such an occasion, so he folded his arms over his chest to accessorize the look.
A few years ago, he rolled his lawnmower, and broke a leg, four ribs, and punctured a lung. He was going to retire after that, but no one wanted the job. That's because no one in their right mind would want to be principal of a high school. I've always been convinced that Mr. N took the job and keeps the job because he's strict and militant enough to get away with doing it without being terribly involved.
I knew that to make sure that all of the administration knows I mean business, I had to bring the letter to Mr. N. So, I printed off two copies. One to give to him, and a back up in case the lasers that beam from his eyes toasted the first when he tried to read it. I went to the office today, and asked if he was in, and they told me to go check, hardly looking up from their Very Important Business. So I peered into Mr. N's office, which I have never been in. Somehow, I always thought it was between the offices of the two assistant principals, which are on the edge by the hallway, and have an outermost wall made of bulletproof glass (my freshman year, some kid threw a stapler at one of the assistant principals through the bulletproof glass. I guess it's not staplerproof). But instead, it's tucked in a corner in the innards of the main office. The only reasoning I can think of behind this floorplan is that the principal can make a quick escape out the window if someone snaps and starts shooting the school. The room seemed larger than the other office, and Mr. N's desk was in the middle. The first thing I noticed was the jar of M&M's in front of his computer. They seemed to contradict everything I had heard about him, and so I straightened up, ready to deliver my Very Important Letter. The setup seemed similar to that of the Oval office, and Mr. N ruled supreme in his own little office. His bloodhound's eyes glared up at me from underneath liverspotted overhanging eyebrows, and his mouth seemed to be permanently droopy. I was concerned that it would just...slide off his face. I handed him my letter, briefly explaining its contents, and sat in one of the simple, assembly line chairs lined up a good five and a half feet from his desk. They were in a perfect row, not touching the wall, and far enough away from Mr. N that he could probably tell when students (or staff) tried to text in his presence. He leaned his soft, jello body back into his office chair, and commenced in reading my letter, which I had handed to him before sitting. As he read through, his head moved with his eyes, looking like a short pendulum, as if to say, "Yes, I am reading this. One. Line. At. A. Time". His jowels flabbed up and down, like he was chewing something. Possibly his tongue. Maybe he liked gum? I pondered the sorts of gum that Mr. N might favor, and decided that he was a Big Red kind of guy, because it was strong enough that his geriatric tastebuds might be able to almost taste them. As he chewed, the drooping sides of his face morphed into one fleshy ocean with his saggy chin, and then became seperate again as his teeth were brought together. The transition fascinated me, and I wondered how long the structure of his face had been able to change shape, like Flubber. Finally, after an eternity of trying to not stare too hard at the wrinkled curtains of skin, Mr. N put the letter down, sat up straight and said to me, after a pause, "Very well done".
I think I might have exploded a little bit in gratitude. I had been so nervous.
Mr. N continued on to say that he wasn't sure of what the superintendent's reaction would be, but that her decisions probably had to do with the budget cuts. I refrained from pointing out that we weren't asking for more money, and instead took my letter back (unsinged), thanked him, and went on my way.
If I get my way with this thing, I might send him a pack of M&M's.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Creative Writing or, Therapy, or, Goals, or, Crazy Stuff I'll Do Someday
This year, I'm taking creative writing for school. It's an elective course, and it only happens once a day. It's taught by this completely inspiring, down to earth young woman, who is one of those teachers who kids switch classes to get. I'm not sure how long she's been teaching for, but she's not new, but has escaped the waning of enthusiasm that seems to plague teachers after the ten year mark.
The class is based around free writing. We're currently in our memoir unit- which seems silly, because it's a class full of sixteen and seventeen year old kids. What could we have to remember? Oooh, y'know, back in my day, things were very different. Get this- Dial up was the newest thing to have, and if you wanted to watch a movie, VHS was how it went. Can you believe it?
So, almost every day, we're given a prompt to think on and then write about in our journals. This class is the only time I'll ever admit to owning a journal, because journals always just sort of seemed like a word to use when you didn't want to admit you kept a diary. But all the same. We've been writing about memories and learning different ways to approach a prompt. But my teacher doesn't stop there, oh no. This is one of those classes where the instructor isn't just interested in you growing as a student- she also wants us to grow as people.
Not a bad thing, no. But it's ambitious, and is absolutely the right way to approach this class. It's sort of like therapy in the middle of the day. On Monday, she told us to create our life list, which is a list of 25 total things that we want to accomplish or do before we turn thirty. 5 of them are supposed to be things that you hardly dare to say, since they're so wild or difficult or inconceivable. I thought this might be a good place to post up mine, and I'll discuss them more as the year goes on. Most of them are pretty self explanitory, but I'll explain the ones that aren't.
BECCA'S LIFE LIST
1. Join Peace Corps
2. Roadtrip to nowhere
*Drive and get lost.
3. Go raspberry picking
*We used to pick Strawberries, before I became allergic. So, I want a replacement. Crops in Maine are sort of limited, and picking potatoes just doesn't have the same appeal.
4. Sing the national anthem for something
5. Record an album. Or at least a song, or something.
6. Become a really really exceptional female Ultimate player
7. Learn 25 new veggie dishes that don't taste like crap and aren't super expensive.
*I am an extremely unhealthy vegetarian. I need to fix this.
8. Get a shot
*This sounds weird, and maybe a little bit masochistic, but my greatest fear is syringes. I can't even look at them when they show flu clinics on the news, because it makes me hyperventilate. I'm three years overdue for my tetanus booster. So, I guess, what I really want to do is proactively get a shot, which means calling and making the appointment and trying to act like a big girl. Easier said than done.
9. Make Honor roll/Make it into NHS
10. Go white water rafting
11. Model professionally
*as in get paid. It's just one of those things I've always thought would be neat to try.
12. Go to France
13. Make a difference in the homeless community
14. Make it to NFL nationals
*For those of you who don't know, the NFL isn't actually the National Football League. Although it'd be sweet if I was a Quarterback in real life, no? NFL stands for National Forensics League, the national association for Speech and Debate.
15. Get a lead role.
16. Dance again
17. Parkour, Parkour! :D
18. Give a speech at my high school graduation
19. Get an oboe scholarship for college.
20. Convince someone that I'm British, just for shits and giggles. (Bonus points if the person is from the UK)
RIDICULOUS THINGS THAT BECCA DREAMS OF DOING.
1. Hike the Appalachian Trail. Barefoot.
2. Publish my writing. And I know that when I post this, the little button I click says "publish post", and all... but that doesn't count, guys!
3. Vanquish my ADD
4. Run a Marathon
5. Do something so mindblowingly awesome that people stop and stare and then want to shake my hand and say "you, miss, are a lady and a scholar, and also quite intriguing."
Goals.
The class is based around free writing. We're currently in our memoir unit- which seems silly, because it's a class full of sixteen and seventeen year old kids. What could we have to remember? Oooh, y'know, back in my day, things were very different. Get this- Dial up was the newest thing to have, and if you wanted to watch a movie, VHS was how it went. Can you believe it?
So, almost every day, we're given a prompt to think on and then write about in our journals. This class is the only time I'll ever admit to owning a journal, because journals always just sort of seemed like a word to use when you didn't want to admit you kept a diary. But all the same. We've been writing about memories and learning different ways to approach a prompt. But my teacher doesn't stop there, oh no. This is one of those classes where the instructor isn't just interested in you growing as a student- she also wants us to grow as people.
Not a bad thing, no. But it's ambitious, and is absolutely the right way to approach this class. It's sort of like therapy in the middle of the day. On Monday, she told us to create our life list, which is a list of 25 total things that we want to accomplish or do before we turn thirty. 5 of them are supposed to be things that you hardly dare to say, since they're so wild or difficult or inconceivable. I thought this might be a good place to post up mine, and I'll discuss them more as the year goes on. Most of them are pretty self explanitory, but I'll explain the ones that aren't.
BECCA'S LIFE LIST
1. Join Peace Corps
2. Roadtrip to nowhere
*Drive and get lost.
3. Go raspberry picking
*We used to pick Strawberries, before I became allergic. So, I want a replacement. Crops in Maine are sort of limited, and picking potatoes just doesn't have the same appeal.
4. Sing the national anthem for something
5. Record an album. Or at least a song, or something.
6. Become a really really exceptional female Ultimate player
7. Learn 25 new veggie dishes that don't taste like crap and aren't super expensive.
*I am an extremely unhealthy vegetarian. I need to fix this.
8. Get a shot
*This sounds weird, and maybe a little bit masochistic, but my greatest fear is syringes. I can't even look at them when they show flu clinics on the news, because it makes me hyperventilate. I'm three years overdue for my tetanus booster. So, I guess, what I really want to do is proactively get a shot, which means calling and making the appointment and trying to act like a big girl. Easier said than done.
9. Make Honor roll/Make it into NHS
10. Go white water rafting
11. Model professionally
*as in get paid. It's just one of those things I've always thought would be neat to try.
12. Go to France
13. Make a difference in the homeless community
14. Make it to NFL nationals
*For those of you who don't know, the NFL isn't actually the National Football League. Although it'd be sweet if I was a Quarterback in real life, no? NFL stands for National Forensics League, the national association for Speech and Debate.
15. Get a lead role.
16. Dance again
17. Parkour, Parkour! :D
18. Give a speech at my high school graduation
19. Get an oboe scholarship for college.
20. Convince someone that I'm British, just for shits and giggles. (Bonus points if the person is from the UK)
RIDICULOUS THINGS THAT BECCA DREAMS OF DOING.
1. Hike the Appalachian Trail. Barefoot.
2. Publish my writing. And I know that when I post this, the little button I click says "publish post", and all... but that doesn't count, guys!
3. Vanquish my ADD
4. Run a Marathon
5. Do something so mindblowingly awesome that people stop and stare and then want to shake my hand and say "you, miss, are a lady and a scholar, and also quite intriguing."
Goals.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)