Know the Child Left Behind Feature: Still Working On...

Like all teachers-in-training, I am required to observe local, experienced teachers in action, and this past week, at a Prince William County school, a curly haired 6th grader asked the question on all adolescents’ minds, “Why are we doing this?” However, it was not because she was bored, over-challenged, or simply being snarky. She merely wanted to know, “How is this going to help me on my SOLs?”

The classroom I was observing was a Language Arts class, and the teacher decided that it would be fun to write and illustrate an alternate ending to the poem The Walrus and the Carpenter. The students were not enjoying the creative writing process even though they could use markers to illustrate their poem. Instead, they were too worried how this exercise was going to prompt them for the upcoming Standards of Learning standardized test. This state-mandated test is in direct response to No Child Left Behind—a controversial legislation passed in 2002 by former President George W. Bush.

By glancing at NCLB in my textbooks, I find it hard to see how it could be so controversial. Who wants to leave children behind? It strives for all students especially those at high risk environments to have quality education. Unfortunately, the legislation does not address the specialized needs of the gifted and talented students.

There are approximately three million students labeled as gifted in the United States who spend around 80% of their time in the regular classroom (The National Association of Gifted Children). By ignoring these students, we are indubitably ignoring the right of all students to receiving an education that meets their academic needs. We need to KNOW the child left behind, and in this case, know the gifted student who is able to pass the SOL, yet, is often bored in the classroom and unable to reach his full potential because the teacher has to stick to the curriculum and the demanding needs of the SOLs.

Mrs. Xavier (pseudonym) , a PWC teacher for 11 years, admits, “Because of the SOLs, I have not been able to teach as much as I used to. I used to do a lot of fun projects with my students, but since I have to inform administration of the SOL objectives I covered today, I am limited in what I can teach. Plus, the students completely tune out if they think I’m teaching them something that will not help them pass the SOL.” Since she knows I am a young, wide-eyed, aspiring drama teacher at heart, she added, “Forget about reading a play if you haven’t read all the fiction, non-fiction, and poetry sections. Administration just won’t let you do it.”
There are exactly 990 teaching hours in Virginia classrooms. Those hours are dedicated to meeting the high-stake SOL standards. Where my concern lies is with the curly haired student who wants to know why. She seems to have forgotten completely that learning English can be a creative process because the SOLs ask mere comprehension and basic knowledge questions.

I have taken more than a handful of Education courses in preparation to receiving my endorsement to teach Secondary education, and not one of those courses told me it was beneficial to teach to a test. In fact, I have been told it is counterproductive. Students learn in an environment that appeal to all their senses and where they can construct knowledge off of previously acquired knowledge. I am encouraged to teach reading and writing alongside one another. I am begged to use multi-cultural texts in the classrooms. I am required to get students to think critically. Then, I step into the real classroom and my mentor teacher says to forget it all because administration and parents just want their children to reach the next grade level by passing their test. School districts get their money, and parents get their children one step closer to graduation. What exactly though are we risking if this thought process continues? If NCLB remains as it is, gifted and talented students will be a thing of the past.

The gifted students’ full potential is limited and will regress when it comes to reducing the achievement gap. According to James J. Gallagher, a senior investigator at the Frank Porter Graham Child Development Institute, “the gap between low performing groups (economically disadvantaged, major racial and ethnic groups, students with disabilities, and English Language learners) and high performing groups are expected to be reduced over time”. In other words, low performing groups will progress while high performing groups either stay the same or regress. This phenomenon is known as the regression effect where students in gifted programs or even remedial programs will score as a group toward the mean average (Davis 300). This is because gifted and talented students are not challenged by the current classroom environment under the legislation. They cannot excel further when their teachers spend the large majority of their classroom time dedicated to students catching up to the standards.

Teachers focus on lower level of thinking skills present on Bloom’s Taxonomy: Knowledge, Comprehension, and Application. For example a 6th grade question in social studies is, “If someone really wants to conserve resources, one good way to do so is to:” and the following answers consist of “A. Leave lights on even if they are not needed. B. Wash small loads instead of large loads in the clothes washing machine. C. Write on both sides of a piece of paper. D. Place used newspapers in the garbage” (Popham). This question requires the student to define (Knowledge) the word conserve and then apply (Application) it to the choice of questions. The question is unchallenging to a gifted student because it ignores the higher order thinking skills of Analysis, Synthesis, and Evaluation. A higher level of thinking question might read something like, “Prepare (Synthesis) a list of ways in which to conserve resources.” This question would be more appropriate to gifted children because they would have to design a plan and think creatively.

The manner in which the tests are currently written, the scores absolutely cannot “indicate whether these students are being sufficiently challenged to maintain their academic interest, an issue of particular concern in high school” (Popham). Since the questions lack the higher-level of thinking skills, gifted students are not adequately challenged. Students then become unmotivated and bored. In paper-pencil tests, it is nearly impossible to assess creativity, a common characteristic of gifted students. Many stakeholders (local school board members) in program evaluations find that the only valid test is an objective one, and they refuse to question the validity of these tests. As a direct result of the types of questions asked on the tests, gifted students are left in classrooms that monotonously review information they already know.

Since NCLB, according to the National Association of Gifted Students, 25% of gifted and talented students have dropped out of school—and these are the students who are passing the standardized tests. This percentage nearly doubled since 2000. Why would they drop out of school if they are receiving passing scores on the state-mandated tests? Well, two statisticians Joseph Renzulli and Park Sunghee wanted to find out too, and they surveyed students who are classified as gifted and found out that 37.4% of gifted male drop-outs and 35.5% of gifted female drop-outs said that they did not like school. The excuse for not liking school was the number one reason for leaving for females (The National Association of Gifted Children).

But, wait, what about Bush’s Texas Miracle? Apparently, since Elementary and Middle schools in Houston began using state-mandated tests, drop-out rates significantly decreased and test scores soared! No Child Left Behind is a success, and these schools’ results were the catalyst for other states to begin using tests like Virginia’s SOLs.

However, the data gained from the Houston schools was inflated and illusory. There was a dramatic increase in students classified in “Special Education” and their tests were not counted toward the schools’ averages. Furthermore, students who dropped-out of school were not included in the averages, if they attended alternative programs (in other words, drop-out recovery programs).

Yet, No Child Left Behind supporters still claim that students have never been better—or simply admit there is simply no other cost effective way to make sure all students are obtaining basic level objectives. And, yes, No Child Left Behind sounds nice—who wants to leave someone behind, left alone a child? Still, since the creation of this legislation, there has been no correlation to an increase to test scores or decrease in drop-out rates (except for ones that are inflated—well, I guess everything is bigger in Texas).

When I was in Middle School, I do not remember the questions and answers to my multiple choice questions. I do not remember the character names in stories I read; I do not remember dates and facts and long teacher lectures. I remember dissecting a cow’s eye and watching the pupil bounce into the teacher’s gray and white hair. I remember performing A Mid Summer Night’s Dream in my drama group: Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,/While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,/And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,/And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. I remember writing a poem about a pineapple (that I still have saved to Microsoft Word). What are our students going to remember when they graduate from Elementary and Middle School if all their learning consists on multiple choice tests?

Feature Article: Know the Child Left Behind

As all teachers-in-training, I am required to observe local teachers in action, and this past week, at a Prince William County school, a curly haired 6th grader asked the question on all adolescents’ minds, “Why are we doing this?” However, it was not because she was bored, over-challenged, or simply being a snarky—she merely wanted to know, “How is this going to help me on my SOLs?”

The classroom I was observing was a Language Arts class, and the teacher decided that it would be fun to write and illustrate an alternate ending to the poem The Walrus and the Carpenter. Nonetheless, the students were too worried how this exercise was going to prompt them for the upcoming and impending Standards of Learning standardized test. This is a state-mandated achievement test in direct response to No Child Left Behind—a controversial education legislation passed in 2002 by former President George W. Bush.

Even though these state-mandated tests strive for all students especially those at high risk environments to have quality education, Mrs. Xavier (pseudonym) , a PWC teacher for 11 years, admits, “Because of the SOLs, I have not been able to teach as much as I used to. I used to do a lot of fun projects with my students, but since I have to inform administration of the SOL objectives I covered today, I am limited in what I can teach. Plus, the students completely tune out if they think I’m teaching them something that will not help them pass the SOL.” Since she knows I am a young, wide-eyed, aspiring drama teacher at heart, she added, “Forget about reading a play if you haven’t read all the fiction, non-fiction, and poetry sections. Administration just won’t let you do it.”

But, wait, Mrs. Xavier, what about Bush’s Texas Miracle? Apparently, since Elementary and Middle schools in Houston began using state-mandated tests, drop-out rates significantly decreased and test scores soared! No Child Left Behind is a success, and these schools’ results were the catalyst for other states to begin using tests like Virginia’s SOLs. However, unfortunately, the data gained from the Houston schools was inflated and illusory. There was a dramatic increase in students classified in “Special Education” and their tests were not counted toward the schools’ averages. Furthermore, students who dropped-out of school were not included in the averages, if they attended alternative programs (in other words, drop-out recovery programs).

Yet, No Child Left Behind supporters still claim that students have never been better—or simply admit there is simply no other cost effective way to make sure all students are obtaining basic level objectives. And, yes, No Child Left Behind sounds nice—who wants to leave someone behind, left alone a child? Still, since the creation of this legislation, there has been no correlation to an increase to test scores or decrease in drop-out rates (except for ones that are inflated—well, I guess everything is bigger in Texas).

In fact, since NCLB, according to the National Association of Gifted Students, 25% of gifted and talented students have dropped out of school—and these are the students who are passing the standardized tests. Why would they drop out of school if they are receiving passing scores on the state-mandated tests? Well, two statisticians Joseph Renzulli and Park Sunghee wanted to find out too, and they surveyed students who are classified as gifted and found out that 37.4% of gifted male drop-outs and 35.5% of gifted female drop-outs said that they did not like school. The excuse for not liking school was the number one reason for leaving for females (The National Association of Gifted Children).

There are exactly 990 teaching hours in Virginia classrooms. Those hours are dedicated to meeting the high-stake SOL standards. Where my concern lies is with the curly haired student who wants to know why. She seems to have forgotten completely that learning English can be a creative process because the SOLs ask mere comprehension and basic knowledge questions. Since NCLB claims to not let any child behind, I am left to wonder are gifted and talented students being overlooked merely because they can pass the test. Is that what education has come to?
There are approximately three million students labeled as gifted in the United States who spend around 80% of their time in the regular classroom (The National Association of Gifted Children). By ignoring these students, one is indubitably ignoring the right of all students to receiving an education that meets their academic needs. We need to KNOW the child left behind, and in this case, know the gifted student who is able to pass the SOL, yet, drops out because he is bored in the classroom.

There is currently a love—hate relationship concerning gifted and talented students. This love—hate relationship stems from the teachers’ and administrators’ admiration of the gifted students’ intelligence and motivation; however, American culture has a sense of egalitarianism, an innate belief that everyone should be equal. I say this because our Declaration of Independence says, “All men are created equal” and NCLB makes sure every student passes a standardized test—whether they are capable of more. Since no two students are the same cognitively, why promote tests that are homogenous, identical, and standardized?

The gifted students’ full potential is limited and will regress when it comes to reducing the achievement gap. According to James J. Gallagher, a senior investigator at the Frank Porter Graham Child Development Institute, “the gap between low performing groups (economically disadvantaged, major racial and ethnic groups, students with disabilities, and English Language learners) and high performing groups are expected to be reduced over time”. In other words, low performing groups will progress while high performing groups either stay the same or regress. This phenomenon is known as the regression effect where students in gifted programs or even remedial programs will score as a group toward the mean average (Davis 300). Gifted and talented students are not challenged by the current classroom environment under the legislation. They cannot excel further when their teachers spend the large majority of their classroom time dedicated to students catching up to the standards.

Teachers focus on lower level of thinking skills present on Bloom’s Taxonomy: Knowledge, Comprehension, and Application. For example a 6th grade question in social studies is, “If someone really wants to conserve resources, one good way to do so is to:” and the following answers consist of “A. Leave lights on even if they are not needed. B. Wash small loads instead of large loads in the clothes washing machine. C. Write on both sides of a piece of paper. D. Place used newspapers in the garbage” (Popham). This question requires the student to define (Knowledge) the word conserve and then apply (Application) it to the choice of questions. The question is unchallenging to a gifted student because it ignores the higher order thinking skills of Analysis, Synthesis, and Evaluation. A higher level of thinking question might read something like, “Prepare (Synthesis) a list of ways in which to conserve resources.” This question would be more appropriate to gifted children because they would have to design a plan and think creatively.

The manner in which the tests are currently written, the scores absolutely cannot “indicate whether these students are being sufficiently challenged to maintain their academic interest, an issue of particular concern in high school” (Popham). Since the questions lack the higher-level of thinking skills, gifted students are not adequately challenged which can lead to unmotivated and even bored students. In paper-pencil tests, it is nearly impossible to assess creativity, a common characteristic of gifted students. Many stakeholders in program evaluations find that the only valid test is an objective one, and they refuse to question the validity of these tests. As a direct result of the types of questions asked on the tests, gifted students are left in classrooms that monotonously review information they already know.

When I was in Middle School, I do not remember the questions and answers to my multiple choice questions. I do not remember the character names in stories I read; I do not remember dates and facts and long teacher lectures. I remember dissecting a cow’s eye and watching the pupil bounce into the teacher’s gray and white hair. I remember performing A Mid Summer Night’s Dream in my drama group: Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,/While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,/And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,/And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. I remember writing a poem about a pineapple (that I still have saved to Microsoft Word). What are our students going to remember when they graduate from Elementary and Middle School if all their learning consists on multiple choice tests?

"The Shark and The Dolphin" REVISION

If you were wondering, there are twenty-six different types of shark tooth necklace straps at the Baltimore Aquarium gift shop. They vary in size, color, and material—some crafted of leather, others of beads, and still yet some of silver chains. Of those twenty-six different necklace straps, each shark tooth pendant is completely unique—each its own shade of cream.

The possibilities are endless—so why I convinced my boyfriend (who just so happens to tap his foot twice on the first step to a bus before taking the next step, and just so happens to sort through Q-tips to find the “right” ones and throw away the “bad” ones) to pick out the necklace he likes the most is now appearing on the next episode of Unsolved Mysteries. He had to carefully inspect each necklace by picking it up by the clasp, making sure it worked, and pinching the shark tooth in-between his thumb and pointer finger to see how it would score on the rock hardness scale. He had to see if the color had any flaws by bringing it within two inches of his eyes. If there was a speck— it was flawed. Next, he had to try it on, to make certain the length of the strap as well as the size of the tooth fit appropriately to his body type.

“Should I really go with the leather strap?” He quizzed me at least twenty times.

Even if he went with the leather strap, “Should I go with the light beige or deep brown or this one that looks like amber? Here, Liz, hold these.”

I was instructed to make three different piles: The “Yes,” “Maybe,” and “No” pile. In the “Yes” pile I held the ones that he wrapped around his neck and were approved by glancing at a nearby mirrored wall. As he gazed at his new look, he smiled then posed with varying facial expressions—seeing if this necklace would fit his many moods. I think once, though it may be my imagination, he actually smelled a shark tooth pendant. The scent must inevitably be an important factor for all your shopping needs. The “Maybe” pile consisted of the pendants that were too perfect to reject, but the strap was definitely the wrong shade of brown. The “No” pile did not even get the chance to go past the first step of inspection. The piles grew larger, and my hands grew heavy. The teenager behind the register thought we were buying necklaces for our 200 hundred children we left at home.

“Liz!” He spoke my name as if I was his mother. “Liz, did you see these!” He moved to the next wall—the next wall—that stood at least seven feet tall. From top to bottom, it was full of seashell and beaded necklaces. He ran his finger through the rainbow of tiny fragmented seashells on a string. The movement caused a sweet chiming noise, but to me, it sounded like the Jaws theme song. Dun-na. Dun-na. Dun-na. I had to do something before he attacked these innocent necklaces.

So, before he could slide a necklace off the racks, I pushed my way between him and the display.

“This one! This one! This one is so you,” I lied, and grabbed a multicolored puka shell necklace that was designed for a five year old girl. Just as I took it closer to the register, Keaton replied, “Oh, nevermind. Guys don’t really wear necklaces anymore. Let’s go look at the exhibits.”

And if you are wondering, there are exactly four sections in the Baltimore Aquarium. In those four sections, there are a total of 25 subsections consisting of exhibits, restaurants, galleries, an atrium to a dolphin show, and more gift shops. However, unbeknownst to me there is an order and time limitation assigned to each area which can be found in Keaton’s Top 10 Tips Visitor’s Guide located at the front desk.

After you pass the front desk, there are these large bubble tubes that connect the floor to the ceiling. They light up a bright cyan and leave cylinder shadows on the carpeted floor. While Keaton took a hold of the guidebook and began to map out our adventures, I danced through the maze of bubble tubes, weaving in and out of its massiveness.

“Lizzy Lou Lou, be careful, you don’t know who has touched those already.” I checked my purse to see if I brought my fingerprint test analysis kit with me, but instead I found my camera.

“Can I take a picture of us with the bubbles in the background?”

He walked over with his head down, and his eyes on his watch. “We need to hurry if we are going to be in time for the dolphin show. I suspect there will be a line; so, let’s get there early. Then, after that, the Immersion Theatre has a showing immediately afterword. We can catch that, then, we’ll have the rest of the time to visit the exhibits. You can pick where we go first…” I snapped a shot just as he was setting the timer on his wristwatch.

Of course I forgot I had the zoom to maximum on my camera, so I was instructed to take the picture until both of our faces were properly placed in the frame.

Just I finished, “Go! Go! Go!” I was a soldier in combat who must reach her destination before a fleet of bombs reached me from overhead. Keaton led the way with a march-like run. I followed behind in a clumsy gallop as I became too distracted by the all window wall that looked out into the Baltimore Harbor. A ship was sitting proud in the dock painted up as a shark like a child with face paint.



There was no line to get into the dolphin show. There was just a massive pool surrounded by nearly empty bleachers. We both stood without moving—each waiting for the other to pick a seat.

“There is no one in the Splash Zone Area…and we might get a little wet…” I spoke almost in a squeal excited about the possibility of water tickling my nose.

“I’m wearing Steve Madden’s.” Up until this day I always wondered why he was wearing a comedian’s shoes until I realized Steve Madden and Steve Martin are not the same person.

We eventually found our way to the row behind the Splash Zone seats. Then, seconds later sat one row behind that one…”just in case.” No one got wet who sat in the Splash Zone even as the dolphins sped past waving their flippers up and down—smacking the clear pool water. The dolphin trainer spoke long speeches about conservation and dolphin training and I forgot what, but I remember how Keaton’s hand find mine and how he let my flip flop rub up against his Steve Madden’s without worry if they were wet or dirty.

The dolphin show ended in great applause, and people from the bleachers lingered at their seats—chatting and laughing and eating pretzels they brought from home. But, as soon as the dolphin trainer said goodbye—Beep!—Keaton’s wristwatch let out a warning it was time to get moving.

He grabbed my hand tightly, and we took large leaps over the bleacher seats. There was no need to fight through a motionless crowd, but I think he liked taking the lead, and I let him. I let him weave in and out of lingering individuals as if we were the only ones who knew there was a fire and the Aquarium roof was going to fall in seconds.

But I had to eventually let go. When we reached the exit by going down a set of stairs (I think he tapped his foot twice before descending), I had to stop and look and the underwater tank of dolphins. He didn’t notice I stayed behind, and he already started going up another set of stairs to the Immersion Theatre.

A dolphin’s body slid past the glass, and I outreached my hand in hopes it would come back. I saw it twist its way around and around like a county fair ride that spins too fast. It was so free in that tank…but not as free as it could be in the ocean. I looked away and saw Keaton looking down at his watch, tapping his feet on the top of the stairs. He stood there like he was waiting for Godot. For a brief moment, I simply stayed below the stairs with my hand resting on the tank…watching my boyfriend calculate the minutes…the seconds…planning and re-planning and taking into account I was setting up a delay.

It took me until I was in Middle School to really know how to read a watch, but Keaton—that’s his life—a collection of watches—ranging from Chronographs, Seiko 5s, Citizens, Vintage watches, Diver watches, black, brown, orange watches. They are all neatly placed in a miniature trunk with a broken lock. His mind is on time. I do not think he’s ever been late to anywhere. He leaves a half an hour early to get to his job that he could walk to in 5 minutes. I think if he could he would wear five watches on each arm to double check the accuracy of them.

When he makes meals, he sets multiple timers. He’ll wear one watch, hold another, use the oven timer, and set an egg timer, so that all of his meal is done at the same exact moment.

“It’s efficient, Liz.”

Efficiency is his motto, and because of it, he was able to put up sale signs faster than his managers on his second day of job training.

Sometimes I forget the difference between the minute and hour hand, but there he was…on the aquarium stairs with his eyebrows tense—as he watched the minute hand move faster than his liking. He was legitimately worried, and his lower lip curled beneath his upper lip. His face as looked like this before…We were on a video conference on our laptops when he said, “Someone slept in my bed.”

“O.K. Papa Bear…did they eat your porridge too?”

“I’m being serious. Someone was in my bed.”

“How do you even know this?”

“I left Mario on my pillow. Now when I came home, he’s on my desk.”

“You’re making a conclusion like that because your stuffed Nintendo character moved locations? Maybe you forgot where you put him.”

Keaton forget? That was a silly allegation.

“My pillow smells differently.”

He was right, though. His roommate did let someone sleep in his bed when Keaton was gone. Keaton had to wash his pillow cases and sheets, and I don’t think he’s ever cuddled Mario quite the same ever since.

Maybe it’s in this last name. Case. He was born to be a detective and solve cases. Detective Keaton Case—undercover, solving crimes, collecting clues, paying attention to details, getting a Criminal Justice Degree at VCU. He tells me that he learns to analyze the life cycle of maggots, and to take pictures of crime scenes using different camera angles and zoom settings. I wonder if that’s where he learned to critique shark tooth necklaces…but how can he have that much attention to detail and overlook how beautiful a dolphin is in its aquatic wonderland?


“Come look at the dolphin swim?”

“We just saw the dolphins.”

I left the tank and walked up the stairs. I would rather swim in a pool than in the ocean too—as long as I don’t have to swim alone, I can dive in with the sharks.

“I love you.”

Up the stairs, we saw a sign: Shark Shop.

That night when we were home, Keaton proceeded to do goodnight rituals. Pick up one neatly folded pair of penguin pajama bottoms with gray shirt, head to the bathroom, take off his jeans first then his shirt second, put on his pajama bottoms, then his gray shirt, take out his contacts (right eye first), put on his glasses, use a Q-tip to clean his ears (right ear first), open the toothpaste bottle, brush his teeth, close tooth paste bottle, and come out of the bathroom and say, “Lizzy Lou Lou, it’s your turn.”

My turn for my goodnight rituals—pick up whatever and throw them on whenever. However that night after the Aquarium, after the shark tooth necklaces, after picking a seat to the dolphin show, after a timed schedule, when I went to brush my teeth, the toothpaste bottle was open. I closed it.

Feature Articles

“The Marrying Kind”
Lisa Belkin
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/28/magazine/28FOB-WWLN-t.html

Lisa Belkin is leaving Oscar Wilde with the question of who is an Ideal Husband and taking on her own inquiry about what makes a good wife. She begins her feature article by describing a personal narrative relating to her mother. Her mother, a several year widow, is moving in with her boyfriend, but refuses to marry him. She relates this antidote to the fact that there is a fast growing rate of cohabiting couples and many of these couples are the ones who previously ridiculed the idea during their youth.

Belkin continues her article by presenting justifications as why many senior citizens decide to move in with their boyfriend or girlfriend without marrying him or her: Social Security may be in jeopardy, life savings may go to medical bills, or bad memories of the previous marriage.

There is a new definition of what marriage is to these couples and the word “wife” may never have the same connotation as it did when women stayed at home baking apple pies and vacuuming while wearing pearls. I enjoyed that Belkin added a survey of British customers in a grocery chain. This survey proved that only a small percentage of contemporary women can do stereotypical housewife activities such as make their own bread or gravy from scratch. It gave a quantitative proof about her assertion wives are not the same as they used to be.

Belkin also did some research. The terms “bride” and “groom” are being replaced by “spouse” on marriage licenses since there has been legalization of same sex marriages in some states.

My favorite part of her article was the conclusion. She retouched on the story about her mother, and completed by saying that her mother’s boyfriend does all the cooking. It was a nice touch of humor that stayed within the tone of the piece—which was very personable.


“A Nope for Pope”
Maureen Dowd
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/28/opinion/28dowd.html

Mareen Dowd begins her article by a rhymed couplet: “Yup, we need a Nope. A nun who is pope.” This humorous assertion is then followed by unnerving details that Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger has been ignoring warnings that Rev. Lawrence C. Murphy has molested over 200 deaf boys.

She interviews The Times’s Laurie Goodstein who tells her that all victims gave similar stories of the priest pulling down their pants and touching them. One victim, Arthur Budzinski, was first molested twenty years ago, but even though there were complaints the priest was never defrocked.

I think it is important Dowd includes the interview in her article, or it may seem she is just another extremist against the church not allowing priest to marry. Her article could seem cliché, but the interview made it more distressing because the reader sees another point of view who gives details about the allegations.

Dowd keeps her article interesting and witty but incorporating religious diction such as “stained glass windows” and “flock.” However, she uses them in a mocking manner which is in conjunction with her opinion that the Catholic Church is hypocritical and looks the other way when concerning allegations of these sorts.

In her conclusion, Dowd mentions that nuns have “cleaned up messes from priests” but her proof is nonexistent. Since she makes the claim that the pope should be a nope, I would have liked to hear her make a claim for why a nun should be pope. Instead, she just informs the reader about what priests and cardinals have done wrong.


This May Burn a Little
Eric Hansen
http://outside.away.com/outside/culture/200804/mexico-tequila-trail-1.html

Eric Hansen started his article by formulating an adventure-like scenario where me, the reader, could come along with him and his friend Tim on the Tequila Trail around Central Mexico. This four day trip was consisted of tasting all sorts of tequila and meeting interesting locals, visitors, and tour guides.

Including the dialogue between him and other people he met along the trail was a lot of fun to read because I could get a portrayal of all the quirks the people had. For example, he met several local girls who let him try what they considered to be the best tequila. However, they said it was a secret tequila, and no one knew who made it. Yet, the girls kept changing their story and at one moment no one made, the next drug runners made it, and finally they pointed across the hills, saying it was made over there. Hansen was intrigued by their story as well as the taste of the tequila and went on a mission to see who made this “crazy good” tequila.

Hasen was very detailed in explaining the ingredients of what goes into the tequila. He also added the legend about how primitive tequila was made and how tequila is more accessible today and can range from $30 to $300.

Hasen has this very charming and friendly voice throughout the article. Even though he was talking about tequila and how some days he had a hangover, he never came across as a frat boy or obnoxious which was refreshing. Instead, he focused on describing the beautiful scenery of Mexico and the exotic flavors in the different types of tequila.

Dialogue Exercise

"Conveyor Belt Love"



I want to quit.

Congratulations! I’ll hire you.

You haven’t gotten paid in over two months.

My boss is out of town.

He was deported. There’s a difference.

He wasn’t deported.

Have you heard from him?

So, I'll start my own business.

What happened to your bar idea? Anyone with the last name Bartles needs to have their own bar.

I'm waiting for you to quit. Every bar needs a bartenderista.

Oh my God, so, to-day at lunch, she decides to go to Ledo’s Pizza. She orders a cheeseburger. She comes back, unwraps the cheeseburger, inspects the cheeseburger. And I quote, “The cheese is on the bottom! Who puts the cheese on the bottom?” And dutifully throws the entire thing away. Tell me this! Why don’t you flip the sandwich over? FLIP THE SANDWICH OVER and take it out of the trash and into your mouth.

Can you guys hear the music I play over there?

The Haunted. The Dead Eye. Yeah. She hates it. She says she’s going to call the cops.

Good. Do you think if I throw this brownie at the wall it will stay in the plastic or explode?

Depends on how hard you throw it.

I think it’ll explode.

I hope not. I don’t want to clean it up.

I bet she’ll think I’m punching the walls over here.

O.K.

Damn!

Oh shit. That looks like—

Yeah, it does.

I’m not going to clean it up.

Leave it.

O.K.

You want to smoke weed in the refrigerator?

Not really. You want to make out in the back?

Eh, not really. You want to sit on the roof?

I’m afraid of heights.

You get to see the stars.

We’re in Woodbridge, you can never see any stars.

You need to know where to look.

Up, you look, up. I haven’t been looking down for stars all my life.

You’re mad at me.

No, I’m not mad or I wouldn’t have come over here.

I don’t have a fiance.

Uh…

I told her I had a fiance so she wouldn’t think—

Don’t worry about it.

My girlfriend was a bitch.

Seriously? Dave, leave it.

No. She lost the kid. Stupid bitch went horseback riding.

Oh. Sorry?

No, I don’t want her kid. I want kids, but not hers. I can’t believe I bought her a ring. I was about to tattoo her name on my arm, but I spent the money for her to get a tramp stamp of a bleeding black heart. How appropriate in retrospect.

We don’t have to go on the roof to look for stars. I can point out Jupiter, if the sky is clear enough.

I really do want kids. I want him to be like my little brother. He saved my life you know. I wanted to blow my brains out. I locked my door, and held the gun in my hand. It was loaded, Liz. But, he got in my room somehow. I locked the door, but he got in. And he just looked at me. He wanted to play with the gun. But I just held him.

They tell me to hold ice.

They tell me to just breathe.

Conveyor belt your thoughts?

Yeah, but I still miss my brother. Some thoughts just keep coming back. I don’t want to live so far away anymore.

That’s why you give that guy and his kids three subs for a dollar?

That and all the food here is old.

And you can’t open your register.

He only gets to see his kids once a week. And, he takes them here.

I wonder if all Blimpees are like this.

I wonder if all PostNets are like yours.

Only when they’re connected to you.

I learned to spell your name in Kanji.

From that guy who works with you. He freaks me out.

First of all Kanji is Japanese, not Pakistani, and...I’ve been meaning to say I’m sorry about yesterday.

What was up with that?

I don’t know; but he threw the oldest ass condom at us. We’re not even like that.

Yeah, we’re not even like that.

We’re not even like that.

I know.

"Many Mansions" By Joan Didion

http://books.google.com/books?id=DMDjrDjBYZgC&pg=PA67&lpg=PA67&dq=joan+didion+many+mansions&source=bl&ots=HR3gqAa-IE&sig=md7ABJ6_cZ_1HOSjsX-Yr9j6eow&hl=en&ei=dTiqS6-9NoT6lweVsODfBA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=5&ved=0CBIQ6AEwBA#v=onepage&q=&f=false



Above is a link to "Many Mansions" by Joan Didion.


This narrative begins with descriptive language about the structure and foundation --what went on to building it -- of the house. However, everything is "un"--it's unfurnished. It lacks. Through this subtext, we learn that Didion is associating this house with the bankruptcy of California during the time. It's a symbol for all that has faded.

Her narrative is also heavily sprinkled with real estate jargon--this jargon is used uniquely because she mocks the diction. It calls attention to what the house is not--therefore making it appear to be inauthentic. It claims Americana history--but there is more room in the Governor's house for booze than books.

However, Didion does know life with a soul--it is a house that has more human spaces, more charm, and more privacy.

"The Shark and The Dolphin"

If you were wondering, there are twenty-six different types of shark tooth necklace straps at the Baltimore Aquarium gift shop. They vary in size, color, and material—some crafted of leather, others of beads, and still yet some of silver chains. Of those twenty-six different necklace straps, each shark tooth pendant is completely unique—each its own shade of cream. The possibilities are endless—so why I convinced my boyfriend (who just so happens to tap his foot twice on the first step to a bus before taking the next step, and just so happens to sort through Q-tips to find the “right” ones and throw away the “bad” ones) to pick out the necklace he likes the most is now appearing on the next episode of Unsolved Mysteries. He had to carefully inspect each necklace by picking it up by the clasp, making sure it worked, and pinching the shark tooth in-between his thumb and pointer finger to see how it would score on the rock hardness scale. He had to see if the color had any flaws by bringing it within two inches of his eyes. If there was a speck— it was flawed. Next, he had to try it on, to make certain the length of the strap as well as the size of the tooth fit appropriately to his body type.

“Should I really go with the leather strap?” He quizzed me at least twenty times.

Even if he went with the leather strap, “Should I go with the light beige or deep brown or this one that looks like amber? Here, Liz, hold these.”

I was instructed to make three different piles: The “Yes,” “Maybe,” and “No” pile. In the “Yes” pile I held the ones that he wrapped around his neck and were approved by glancing at a nearby mirrored wall. As he gazed at his new look, he smiled then posed with varying facial expressions—seeing if this necklace would fit his many moods. I think once, though it may be my imagination, he actually smelled a shark tooth pendant. The scent must inevitably be an important factor for all your shopping needs. The “Maybe” pile consisted of the pendants that were too perfect to reject, but the strap was definitely the wrong shade of brown. The “No” pile did not even get the chance to go past the first step of inspection. The piles grew larger, and my hands grew heavy. The teenager behind the register thought we were buying necklaces for our 200 hundred children we left at home.

“Liz!” He spoke my name as if I was his mother. “Liz, did you see these!” He moved to the next wall—the next wall—that stood at least seven feet tall. From top to bottom, it was full of seashell and beaded necklaces. He ran his finger through the rainbow of tiny fragmented seashells on a string. The movement caused a sweet chiming noise, but to me, it sounded like the Jaws theme song. Dun-na. Dun-na. Dun-na. I had to do something before he attacked these innocent necklaces.

So, before he could slide a necklace off the racks, I pushed my way between him and the display.

“This one! This one! This one is so you,” I lied, and grabbed a multicolored puka shell necklace that was designed for a five year old girl. Just as I took it closer to the register, Keaton replied, “Oh, nevermind. Guys don’t really wear necklaces anymore. Let’s go look at the exhibits.”

And if you are wondering, there are exactly four sections in the Baltimore Aquarium. In those four sections, there are a total of 25 subsections consisting of exhibits, restaurants, galleries, an atrium to a dolphin show, and more gift shops. However, unbeknownst to me there is an order and time limitation assigned to each area which can be found in Keaton’s Top 10 Tips Visitor’s Guide located at the front desk.

After you pass the front desk, there are these large bubble tubes that connect the floor to the ceiling. They light up a bright cyan and leave cylinder shadows on the carpeted floor. While Keaton took a hold of the guidebook and began to map out our adventures, I danced through the maze of bubble tubes, weaving in and out of its massiveness.

“Lizzy Lou Lou, be careful, you don’t know who has touched those already.” I checked my purse to see if I brought my fingerprint test analysis kit with me, but instead I found my camera.

“Can I take a picture of us with the bubbles in the background?”

He walked over with his head down, and his eyes on his watch. “We need to hurry if we are going to be in time for the dolphin show. I suspect there will be a line; so, let’s get there early. Then, after that, the Immersion Theatre has a showing immediately afterword. We can catch that, then, we’ll have the rest of the time to visit the exhibits. You can pick where we go first…” I snapped a shot just as he was setting the timer on his wristwatch.

Of course I forgot I had the zoom to maximum on my camera, so I was instructed to take the picture until both of our faces were properly placed in the frame.

Just I finished, “Go! Go! Go!” I was a soldier in combat who must reach her destination before a fleet of bombs reached me from overhead. Keaton led the way with a march-like run. I followed behind in a clumsy gallop as I became too distracted by the all window wall that looked out into the Baltimore Harbor. A ship was sitting proud in the dock painted up as a shark like a child with face paint.

There was no line to get into the dolphin show. There was just a massive pool surrounded by nearly empty bleachers. We both stood without moving—each waiting for the other to pick a seat.

“There is no one in the Splash Zone Area…and we might get a little wet…” I spoke almost in a squeal excited about the possibility of water tickling my nose.

“I’m wearing Steve Madden’s.” Up until this day I always wondered why he was wearing a comedian’s shoes until I realized Steve Madden and Steve Martin are not the same person.

We eventually found our way to the row behind the Splash Zone seats. Then, seconds later sat one row behind that one…”just in case.” No one got wet who sat in the Splash Zone even as the dolphins sped past waving their flippers up and down—smacking the clear pool water. The dolphin trainer spoke long speeches about conservation and dolphin training and I forgot what, but I remember how Keaton’s hand find mine and how he let my flip flop rub up against his Steve Madden’s without worry if they were wet or dirty.

The dolphin show ended in great applause, and people from the bleachers lingered at their seats—chatting and laughing and eating pretzels they brought from home. But, as soon as the dolphin trainer said goodbye—Ding!—Keaton’s wristwatch let out a warning it was time to get moving.

He grabbed my hand tightly, and we took large leaps over the bleacher seats. There was no need to fight through a motionless crowd, but I think he liked taking the lead, and I let him. I let him weave in and out of lingering individuals as if we were the only ones who knew there was a fire and the Aquarium roof was going to fall in seconds.

But I had to eventually let go. When we reached the exit by going down a set of stairs (I think he tapped his foot twice before descending), I had to stop and look and the underwater tank of dolphins. He didn’t notice I strayed behind, and he already started going up another set of stairs to the Immersion Theatre.

A dolphin’s body slid past the glass, and I outreached my hand in hopes it would come back. I saw it twist its way around and around like a county fair ride that spins too fast. It was so free in that tank…but not as free as it could be in the ocean. I looked away and saw Keaton looking down at his watch, tapping his feet on the top of the stairs. He stood there like he was waiting for Godot. For a brief moment, I simply stayed below the stairs with my hand resting on the tank…watching my boyfriend calculate the minutes…the seconds…planning and re-planning and taking into account I was setting up a delay.

“Come look at the dolphin swim.”

“We just saw the dolphins.”

I left the tank and walked up the stairs. I would rather swim in a pool than in the ocean too.

“I love you.”

Up the stairs, we saw a sign: Shark Shop.

That night when we were home, Keaton proceeded to do goodnight rituals. Pick up one neatly folded pair of penguin pajama bottoms with gray shirt, head to the bathroom, take off his jeans first then his shirt second, put on his pajama bottoms, then his gray shirt, take out his contacts (right eye first), put on his glasses, use a Q-tip to clean his ears (right ear first), open the tooth paste bottle, brush his teeth, close tooth paste bottle, and come out of the bathroom and say, “Lizzy Lou Lou, it’s your turn.”

My turn for my goodnight rituals—pick up whatever and throw them on whenever. However that night after the Aquarium, after the shark tooth necklaces, after picking a seat to the dolphin show, after a timed schedule, when I went to brush my teeth, the toothpaste bottle was open. I closed it.

Outline for Sketch of Person Paper

JK, I changed my mind. I decided to extend my story I wrote about the Sketch of a person. I want to add more stories about my trip to the Baltimore Aquarium that adds to the personality to my boyfriend.

~~~~

When my mom was an adolescent, she moved to the Philippines because her father was stationed at a navy base. For much of my childhood, she would tell me stories about the adventures she would have on the base. For this assignment, I want to write her story as a pre-teen in a foreign county and how at time she would feel very out of place. She had to combat not only the natural environment but also the social discrimination going on during the 1960s (she had a Filipino boyfriend her parents did not approve of).

The events I want to highlight include: how she would count the geckos crawling on her wall at night, the time she had to fun away from monkeys in the jungle, and how she would sneak out at night to see her boyfriend. I want to use the counting the geckos as a framework—having her lay in bed—unable to sleep—remembering these events that have happened. I know she felt very venerable during her stay there, so I hope to capture that feeling. Also I kind of want to link the stories of running away from the monkeys to how she runs away from her parents--or how people stare at her because of the relationship.



I interviewed my mom about these stories, and below is the transcript of the time she had to run away from monkeys.

“I would go down to the swimming pool like all the time by myself. To get there, I would cut through areas nowadays would seem really dangerous. I remember one time, I was coming home from the Philippines. Uhm, there was this huge, huge steep hill that you would have to get up, and there was no way home other than that. I had to ride my bike or walk everywhere, and I remember I was all by myself. I had to go home, and I was wet. I had my towel and my stuff, and I was walking up the hill, and all of a sudden, I looked on both sides, and of course it’s in the middle of like jungle on either side of the street. Huge trees! And I looked on both sides, and there were hundreds and hundreds of monkeys. Not like the nice, cuddly, oh aren’t you cute chimpanzee monkeys. I wish I could remember the name. The kind that have really sharp teeth, and they are just looking down at cha.

But anyway, that was something I had to learn to just used to. Like, oh okay, there are monkeys everywhere, but I didn’t know what to do, and I was a super athlete back then. So, I remember being absolutely terrified. Remember, I am scared of geckos. So, I had to just take a deep breath. I counted to three. I said a prayer. My heart was pounding out of my body. I couldn’t go back down because I had already gone a little up that huge steep hill. I mean it was a long way to go. I had no other way up or down. I was in a really dangerous situation. There was nothing I could do. There weren’t any cell phones.

So, I remember, I had to run for my life. I also remember just like running running like just (pause) like just (pause) for my life. I just counted to three and just started running like the wind, and it felt like I didn’t breath until I got to the top of the hill. I would look up every so often to either side, and yeah, all the monkeys were still there (pause) making a hideous noise. Just like hideous noise. Just pounding my ears. My heart is pounding, and I’m going as fast as I could to get to the top of the hill. Uhm, I was able to get home, but that’s something I will never forget. Uhm, (pause) I still think about that."

Final Draft: The Countdown

"The Countdown"

The New Year countdown began. My mother, older brother, and I were ready to welcome 1991 as we sat in our living room with my coloring books and crayons scattered on the floor. My favorite teddy bear with one arm and black button eyes sat there beside me as I colored outside the lines, transfixed on making the perfect picture that had just the right amount of blue, green, and red. Amongst the clutter of drawings, toys, and my two family members, I noticed there was someone missing from this picture. I looked up to my mom who had just turned on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve countdown and I said, “When is Daddy going to get here?”

I knew if he didn’t arrive soon he would miss the great big ball drop. He would miss the fireworks, and the popcorn my mom made, and my brother falling asleep, and the picture of a bear with a giant red heart in the center I was just about to finish coloring. My four-year old mind knew the very first second of 1991 wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t there to hear Dick Clark shout amongst the crowds of people in New York City, “Happy New Year!”

I remember the excitement from the people on the television screen. I remember hearing a wave of shouts and laughter from people I did not know who were dressed in Eskimo-like jackets and glittery sunglasses. I thought to myself, “If it’s so cold there, why are they wearing sunglasses?” However, I remained silent as I watched the television show clips of people waving hello to their loved ones back home, people clapping with large gloves that looked like oven mitts, people laughing, people crying, and people kissing. What type of person was I? I looked to my brother, and he was one of the people who decided to eat all the popcorn himself. I looked to my mother, and she was one of the people crying.

I climbed onto the couch and placed my head on her shoulder. Together we listened to Dick Clark talk about New Year’s resolutions and jokes about people kissing that I didn’t understand.

“What is a resolution?” I asked.

My mother rubbed my forehead and kept me close as she described that people make resolutions to bring in the New Year. “They are goals,” she said.

Goals. I have heard people shout, “Goal!” during a soccer game, but I knew somehow that it wasn’t the same thing. I then asked, “What is your resolution?”

By this time my brother had dozed off and his head was rested on my mom’s other shoulder. She held him close too, and there we all were. We were like the people on the television screen who bundled up close to keep warm. My mom replied to my question in a quiet tone that made me feel safe, “To keep you happy, to keep you safe, and to keep us together.” She then gave me a hug so tight I thought I would burst like the big giant ball would when the countdown ended.

I liked hearing the word together. Together. I wanted to be sandwiched in between my mom and dad and feel their warmth. I wanted to smell the collage of scents coming from my mom’s hairspray and my dad’s work clothes that smelled of fresh produce. I wanted to have one hand hold onto my mom’s slick hands that she recently put lotion on and my dad’s tough hands with dirt under the fingernails.“My New Year’s resolution is to give Daddy the picture I colored,” I spoke to no one in particular.

I slid off the couch and landed on top of a mound of childhood masterpieces. Each drawing inferior to the one I was coloring for Daddy. It has to be perfect; I picked up a midnight blue crayon and made a border around the teddy bear. I smiled with pride because its completion was nearing.

Suddenly, the television beamed loudly with excited screams I have never heard before in my four years of life. The ball was about to drop! I was seconds away from seeing that silvery disco ball of lights flash the numbers 1991. Could I put it on pause? Could the clock roll back time? The ball cannot drop without my say-so!

Then there was a knock at the door. Maybe just maybe my dad wouldn’t miss everything. Perhaps, everything would be as it was the previous New Years. I could see it now—my dad would rush in the door, but my mom would stop him saying, “Take your boots off first,” and he would. He would pick me up and then place me on his lap. Together as a family, we would countdown, “Five…four…three…two…”

“Stay on the couch” My mom was standing at the door now. Her voice was elevated, and I thought I was in trouble, but I still wanted to follow her.

My brother woke up and turned down the television so we could hear who was at the door. I wanted him to scoot closer, but he didn’t move when our front door opened and the January wind blew inside the house. My eyes squinted, but I couldn’t see who was at the door because my mom was blocking my field of vision. I wiggled on the couch, tossing my head left to right. My hands clutched down on the couch cushion, and I threw my head over my shoulder to look at my brother. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His eyes were wide, and his thin lips were closed tightly shut. He didn’t seem excited, and I wanted to know why. I opened my mouth to speak, but he snappily put his finger up to his lips as an indication for me to stay quiet. I reached out to give him a much needed punch on the shoulder but…

My mom cried, “Don’t come back, Bob…”

It was my dad!

Without notice, I heard glass crash onto our porch. It would almost be beautiful if the song it sang was not a sad one. I wanted to know what the sound was. Did Daddy drop a gift for me? Did he brings a dozen bright yellow sunflowers for Mommy, and the vase fell? Or, was it the glass bottles I have seen before—piled high in our recycling bin while Daddy sat motionless with his face flat against the dinner table.

No one ever told me what shattered onto the concrete, but I always knew. I knew Daddy never would bring a dozen flowers for Mommy anymore. Daisies, a spring tulip, roses—they would always find their way in the trash along with the “I’m sorry” card attached to the stem. So, I guess that night Daddy decided to bring a strange bouquet of a dozen glass bottles for himself. I knew what it was even though my mother stood in front of the door as if it was a shield from the person on the other side of it.

She looked unfamiliar as I saw half of her body was inside and the other half was outside. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but the part of her that was outside was moving threateningly. Her hand pointed and waved accusingly. It was like she was two people—one half calm, the other half hysterical. The other half took over.

“Don’t take a step into this house smelling like that. Your children are here. I won’t give you any more money. Go away. Go spend New Years where you came from. Just go! Just go…” I heard the front door slam, and a car speed away into the night. It was silent.

My eyes filled up with tears, and my face got tight as I grinded my teeth. I stared at my mom as I complained, “Why did you go and do that? Let Daddy come inside! It’s not fair that you made us all miss the ball drop! It’s all your fault!” I ran to the door and held my hand out to it. It was icy cold. I wanted to open it, but I could not reach the top lock. I stood on the very tip of my toes, but it was useless. I was trapped.

My mom just sat down, and looked at the television while my brother gave her a hug. Why would my brother do that? She sent Daddy away! He came home but she made him leave. By this time there were multi-colored glitters of fireworks blasting into the night sky on the television screen. The television was still on mute, so I couldn’t hear the blasts, the people cheer, and Dick Clark wish me a Happy New Year. All I could see was lots of lights amongst the faces of people. They were smiling so wide with their arms so high up into the air.

Then I directed my eyes to my living room. It wasn’t the same as New York City. That night I saw my mom and brother hold each other and cry. I searched for the picture I colored of the teddy bear with the heart in the center, but I could not find it in the collage of coloring books. I got down on my hands and knees and tossed pictures into the air, shuffled them into piles of paper, and looked under the couch several times. I couldn’t find it anywhere. For a brief moment, I forgot about the yelling at the front door and thought I already gave it to my dad. But, no. The picture was missing. It was lost. It was gone, and I gave up looking.

Recommended Reading #3: Nonfiction by Roger Dean Kiser

I was reading some short non-fiction stories by Roger Dean Kiser, an author to the Chicken Soup for the Soul Series.

You can find them all on http://eastoftheweb.com/cgi-bin/read_db.pl?genre=non-fict&search_field=classic&search_for=N&order_by=author_last,title&page=1&type_ind=stories. His narratives describe particular events during his childhood when he lived in an orphanage. The story I enjoyed reading the most was "Elvis Died at the Florida Barber" which you can zap your way to by going to: http://eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/ElvDie.shtml

Kiser wonders what Elvis has that he doesn't have. He decides to become just like Elvis by getting his haircut like his idol; however, just as the barber is about to cut his hair, the barber's manager informs that her barber shop does not give Elvis haircuts. Tears fall down his cheek as all his hair falls down to the floor.

I liked the author's voice--because he was writing as an adult, but giving juvenile undertones.

Sketch of Person: "When Shark Necklaces Attack"

If you were wondering, there are twenty-six different types of shark tooth necklace straps at the Baltimore Aquarium gift shop. Of those twenty-six different necklace straps, each shark tooth pendant is completely unique—each its own shade of cream. The possibilities are endless—so why I convinced my boyfriend (who just so happens to tap his foot twice on the first step to a bus before taking the next step, and just so happens to sort through Q-tips to find the “right” ones and throw away the “bad” ones) to pick out the necklace he likes the most is now appearing on the next episode of Unsolved Mysteries. He had to carefully inspect each necklace by picking it up by the clasp, making sure it worked, and pinching the shark tooth in-between his thumb and pointer finger to see how it would score on the rock hardness scale. He had to see if the color had any flaws by bringing it within two inches of his eyes. Next, he had to try it on, to make certain the length of the strap as well as the size of the tooth fit appropriately to his body type.

“Should I really go with the leather strap?” He quizzed me at least twenty times.

Even if he went with the leather strap, “Should I go with the light beige or deep brown or this one that looks like amber? Here, Liz, hold these.”

I was instructed to make three different piles: The “Yes,” “Maybe,” and “No” pile. In the “Yes” pile I held the ones that he wrapped around his neck and were approved by glancing at a nearby mirrored wall. As he gazed at his new look, he smiled then posed with varying facial expressions—seeing if this necklace would fit his many moods. The “Maybe” pile consisted of the pendants that were too perfect to reject, but the strap was definitely the wrong shade of brown. The “No” pile did not even get the chance to go past the first step of inspection. The piles grew larger, and my hands grew heavy.

“Liz!” He spoke my name as if I was his mother. “Liz, did you see these!” He moved to the next wall—the next wall—that stood at least seven feet tall. From top to bottom, it was full of seashell and beaded necklaces. He ran his finger through the rainbow of tiny fragmented seashells on a string. The movement caused a sweet chiming noise, but to me, it sounded like the Jaws theme song.

Before he could slide a necklace off the racks, I pushed my way between him and the display.

“This one! This one! This one is so you,” I lied, but just as I took it closer to the register, Keaton replied, “Oh, nevermind. Guys don’t really wear necklaces anymore. Let’s go look at the exhibits.”

READER RESPONCE: You Can’t Kill the Rooster by David Sedaris

You Can’t Kill the Rooster by David Sedaris

If you can’t find the full length version of the narrative, try listen to it on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJPCHSUkruo. The online text I found is not as long as the Youtube video, and it includes some funny scenes you may miss if you just read the online text version. Plus, there are two different endings; I like the Youtube version better.

The narrator begins his story by moving from New York State to North Carolina. He could not have made a bigger transition, and this juxtaposition is further emphasized by explaining the humorous differences between his family and his brother who was born post-the move.

Paul is a feisty foil to the other characters in Sedaris’ family. Paul is “The Rooster” whose main vocabulary includes the various forms of fuck. Paul is clearly different than the rest of his family and seems to have been raised in a “different household.”

At first, due to Paul’s vulgar nature, I viewed him as a static character—merely there for humor; yet, Paul has a heart. He is the only one who visits his widowed father for Thanksgiving, and came to see him when there was a hurricane.

I was surprised to be emotionally moved by the end of the story. Beneath its abundance of “motherfuckers,” “bitch,” ect… Sedaris is telling us something more than a funny family history. He’s giving us a fun-house mirror that reflects a hint of sentimentality.

BOOK REVIEW: Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne

Today it would be nearly impossible to hide from the fact that two planes crashed into the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. It would be impossible to not know that there is a war on terrorism because we hear it all the time on the television, see it on newspapers, and view it on our computer screens. However, what if we did not have access to that media? Could we actually remain oblivious to the reality that 4,376 American soldiers have died in Iraq? In John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pajamas Bruno, a nine year old boy, remains completely unaware of the Holocaust even though it is literally happening in his backyard. Yet, however unreasonable it sounds, the reader goes along for his journey and sympathizes with his character because his story and perspective is unlike any other World War II fiction novel.

Even though, he is the son to an Auschwitz commandant, he believes that he lives in “Out-With,” not Auschwitz, a concentration camp for Jewish prisoners. He sees the world around him in total innocence: the criminals’ prison attire is merely striped pajamas, his father is loving, handsome, and intelligent, not a cold-hearted commandant, and the phrase “Heil Hitler” means, “Well, goodbye for now, have a pleasant afternoon.”

It is this innocence that makes the overall theme of friendship and bravery so powerful. Bruno is not aware of the social discrimination going on around him because his mother feels, ‘“War is not a subject fit for conversation”’, and his main concern is homesickness. He is forced to move from his five-story home in Berlin, Germany, and immediately misses his three best friends and how they reached out their arms and pretended to be airplanes as they ran throughout the streets. His new home in Poland offers no places to explore like he once did with his friends. Bruno simply passes the time by looking out his window at a large fence and the men on the other side of it.

Soon enough the loneliness and the natural adolescent inquisitiveness act as catalyst for Bruno’s exploration of the long fence that separates him from the people dressed in black and gray striped pajamas. He walks along side of the fence until he sees a dot in the distance which to his surprise is a boy his age—but much more thin. The two become fast friends, claiming to be twins because they have the same birthday. Bruno walks to see Shmuel almost every day and a very odd friendship results in the unthinkable. This friendship is a paradox in a world that fosters discrimination, violence, and innate hatred. Time and time again, Bruno wonders why he cannot play with Shmuel like he did with his friends back in Berlin. In the most heart-wrenching ending, Bruno decides to crawl under the fence to be with his only friend. The only problem is once they hold hands for the first time, they never let go.

Recommended Reading #2 : The One That Got Away by Denny Johnson

The One That Got Away by Denny Johnson traces the steps of a journalist who is trying to get an exclusive interview with Traci Edwards, the man who escaped death by fighting his way out of Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment. The narrative begins with a collage of clichés and journalist jargon, but immediately after Part I, the narrative becomes so realistic, I can't get out of my bed because I'm...afraid. I can watch a horror movie like no other, but there is something about reading Traci Edwards’ details about Dahmer’s apartment and the movements and words the serial killer made that make me feel sick.

The author often made short breaks within his interview with Edwards that made me jolt back into reality. He would say comments like, “Two short rings on the hotel telephone shook everyone back to the present in the hotel suite” and “Denny let out a little yip which startled everyone.” I needed those breaks. I needed to actually breath.

However, the way in which Johnson treated Edwards left a bad taste in my mouth. He was too much of an unemotional journalist who would do anything to get his story. Which I suppose, if that’s the way it happened—then that’s that. I was just so emotionally petrified as Edwards told his journey in Dahmer’s house and how he remembered every little detail from the type of stench and the type of pornographic pictures plastered on Dahmer's wall, I felt like I was there with him, and I wanted to get out as much as he did. Conversely, Johnson was thinking about the title of his article—uncaring about the fact a serial killer was resting his head on the chest of his victim to listen to his heart beat and say that he wanted to see how his heart looked and then eat it.

Nonetheless, read this. http://eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/OneThat.shtml It’s a unique perspective on the story we have heard too many times.

Nonfiction Narrative Assignment

"The Countdown"

The New Year countdown began. My mother, older brother, and I were ready to welcome 1991 as we sat in our living room with my coloring books and crayons scattered on the floor. My favorite hackneyed teddy bear sat there beside me as I colored outside the lines, transfixed on making the perfect picture that had just the right amount of blue, green, and red. Amongst the clutter of drawings, toys, and my two family members, I noticed there was someone missing from this picture. I looked up to my mom who had just turned on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve countdown and I said, “When is Daddy going to get here?”

I knew if he didn’t arrive soon he would miss the great big ball drop. He would miss the fireworks, and the popcorn my mom made, and my brother falling asleep, and the picture of a bear with a giant red heart in the center I was just about to finish coloring. My four-year old mind knew the very first second of 1991 wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t there to hear Dick Clark shout amongst the crowds of people in New York City, “Happy New Year!”

I remember the excitement from the people on the television screen. I remember hearing a wave of shouts and laughter from people I did not know who were dressed in Eskimo-like jackets and glittery sunglasses. I thought to myself, “If it’s so cold there, why are they wearing sunglasses?” However, I remained silent as I watched the television show clips of people waving hello to their loved ones back home, people clapping with large gloves that looked like oven mitts, people laughing, people crying, and people kissing. What type of person was I? I looked to my brother, and he was one of the people who decided to eat all the popcorn himself. I looked to my mother, and she was one of the people crying.

Instinctively, I climbed onto the couch and placed my head on her shoulder. Together we listened to Dick Clark talk about New Year’s resolutions and jokes about people kissing that I didn’t understand.

“What is a resolution?” I asked.

My mother rubbed my forehead and kept me close as she described that people make resolutions to bring in the New Year. “They are goals,” she said.

Goals. I have heard people shout, “Goal!” during a soccer game, but I knew somehow that it wasn’t the same thing. I then asked, “What is your resolution?”

By this time my brother had dozed off and his head was rested on my mom’s other shoulder. She held him close too, and there we all were. We were like the people on the television screen who bundled up close to keep warm. My mom replied to my question in a quiet tone that made me feel safe, “To keep you happy, to keep you safe, and to keep us together.” She then gave me a hug so tight I thought I would burst like the big giant ball would when the countdown ended.

I liked hearing the word together. Together. I wanted to be sandwiched in between my mom and dad and feel their warmth. I wanted to smell the collage of scents coming from my mom’s hairspray and my dad’s work. I wanted to have one hand hold onto my mom’s slick hands that she recently put lotion on and my dad’s tough hands with dirt under the fingernails.“My New Year’s resolution is to give Daddy the picture I colored,” I spoke to no one in particular.

I slid off the couch and landed on top of a mound of childhood masterpieces. Each drawing inferior to the one I was coloring for Daddy. It has to be perfect; I picked up a midnight blue crayon and made a border around the teddy bear. I smiled with pride because its completion was nearing.

Suddenly, the television beamed loudly with excited screams I have never heard before in my four years of life. The ball was about to drop! I was seconds away from seeing that silvery disco ball of lights flash the numbers 1991. Could I put it on pause? Could the clock roll back time? The ball cannot drop without my say-so!

Then there was a knock at the door. Maybe just maybe my dad wouldn’t miss everything. Perhaps, everything would be as it was the previous New Years. I could see it now—my dad would rush in the door, but my mom would stop him saying, “Take your boots off first,” and he would. He would pick me up and then place me on his lap. Together as a family, we would countdown, “Five…four…three…two…”

“Stay on the couch” My mom was standing at the door now. Her voice was elevated, and I thought I was in trouble, but I still wanted to follow her.

My brother woke up and turned down the television so we could hear who was at the door. I wanted him to scoot closer, but he didn’t move when our front door opened and the January wind blew inside the house. My eyes squinted, but I couldn’t see who was at the door because my mom was blocking my field of vision. I wiggled on the couch, tossing my head left to right. My hands clutched down on the couch cushion, and I threw my head over my shoulder to look at my brother. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His eyes were wide, and his thin lips were closed tightly shut. He didn’t seem excited, and I wanted to know why. I opened my mouth to speak, but he snappily put his finger up to his lips as an indication for me to stay quiet. I reached out to give him a much needed punch on the shoulder but…

Without notice, I heard glass bottles drop to the ground onto our porch. One by one, I heard a dozen glass bottles shatter as they hit the concrete. It would almost be beautiful if the song it sang was not a sad one. As my mother stood by the door, she looked unfamiliar as she used the door as a shield from the person on the other side of it. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but I saw half of her body inside and the other half was outside. The part of her that was outside was moving threateningly. Her hand pointed and waved accusingly. It was like she was two people—one half calm, the other half hysterical. The other half took over.

She cried, “Don’t come back, Bob…”

It was my dad! Why did she continue to say, “Don’t take a step into this house smelling like that. Your children are here. I won’t give you any more money. Go away. Go spend New Years where you came from. Just go! Just go…”? I heard the front door slam, and a car speed away into the night. It was silent.

My eyes filled up with tears, and my face got tight as I grinded my teeth. I stared at my mom as I complained, “Why did you go and do that? Let Daddy come inside! It’s not fair that you made us all miss the ball drop! It’s all your fault!” I ran to the door and held my hand out to it. It was icy cold. I wanted to open it, but I could not reach the top lock. I stood on the very tip of my toes, but it was useless. I was trapped.

My mom just sat down, and looked at the television while my brother gave her a hug. Why would my brother do that? She sent Daddy away! He came home but she made him leave. By this time there were multi-colored glitters of fireworks blasting into the night sky on the television screen. The television was still on mute, so I couldn’t hear the blasts, the people cheer, and Dick Clark wish me a Happy New Year. All I could see was lots of lights amongst the faces of people. They were smiling so wide with their arms so high up into the air.

Then I directed my eyes to my living room. It wasn’t the same as New York City. That night I saw my mom and brother hold each other and cry. I searched for the picture I colored of the teddy bear with the heart in the center, but I could not find it in the collage of coloring books. I got down on my hands and knees and tossed pictures into the air, shuffled them into piles of paper, and looked under the couch several times. I couldn’t find it anywhere. For a brief moment, I forgot about the yelling at the front door and thought I already gave it to my dad. But, no. The picture was missing. It was lost. It was gone, and I gave up looking.

Recommended Reading #1 : Paper People by Lisa Dietz

Paper People by Lisa Dietz

I was reading the 10th place winner of Writer’s Digest nonfiction contest. The piece is entitled “Paper People” and will soon be published in The Awakenings Review. I’ll be honest. I read it because I liked the title. I liked the alliteration and the overall mystique behind people made of paper. In reality, this narrative recounted a day in the life of the author’s stay in a psychiatric ward. The people who cut themselves were forced to wear paper gowns as a preventative means for future self-inflicted injuries.

It took me until the very end of the narrative to see any promise of a conflict. The beginning and middle of the story was filled with descriptions for description’s sake. I learned more about the appearance of the nurse than Leslie, the girl who ended up cutting herself at the end of the narrative. I would have liked to have had more details about her relationship with Leslie rather than how unrelated characters looked/walked/had their hair parted. In fact, now that I look back, I question if Leslie even cut herself, or if the nurses are hitting her. However, I’m not directly told what is going on, and I don’t like making assumptions like this. I want to be in the loop--know what's happening.

I think this piece is a means to learn to only include valuable scenes in my piece. I have no idea why some details were included. What did having to get bread from her locker comment on the stay in the psychiatric ward? Also don’t judge a story by its title...even if it has alliteration. :(

Jan. 27 & Feb. 3 Responces to Readings

Jan. 27

Ch. 1-4

In Ch. 3, Zinsser preaches against the use of clutter. This is a concept I have no paid much attention to in the past. Teachers tend to avoid addressing clutter. Likewise, I realized I used some of the clutter phrases found throughout this chapter. This chapter reminded me of the Mark Twain quote, “Sorry, I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one.”

Coco Scales – “The Hostess Diaries”
This personal narrative is an impeccable example of how to incorporate voice into our writings. Phrases like “Celebrities and models are my least favorite customers,” “Drunken skeletons,” and “I call them all darling” evoke so much of the author’s attitude toward her job. She was able to portray herself as a feisty yet almost power-hungry hostess through her word choices. Scales did not explicitly say that she was spunky or aggressive, but rather let the reader make those conclusions through the mini-stories she decided to bring to life.

David Foster Wallace – “Federer as Religious Experience”
Unlike Coco Scales’ “The Hostess Diaries,” I was not engulfed into David Foster Wallace’s “Federer as Religious Experience.” I was definitely not having a religious experience as I was preached at about Federer’s tennis career. I am not entirely sure who this tennis player is, and I have a feeling that is why I did not connect to this piece. In “The Hostess Diaries” I knew Star Jones and the other celebrities depicted, and I enjoyed their out of the ordinary yet oddly predictable behavior in the restaurant. However, “Federer as Religious Experience” read too much like a sports broadcast. With that said, the author utilized action verbs uniquely and depicted an accurate account of how tennis players move.

Feb. 3

Ch. 5-7, 14

In this reading, I was drawn to the phrase “audience of one” in Ch. 5. I appreciated the advice to write for yourself—the audience is the author initially. Personally, when I have writer’s block, it is due to the explosion of assumptions I think people will make if I write this sentence or use this word. However, if I'm writing for myself, I can release myself of these assumptions. Now I just need to overcome the notion "I'm my worst critic..."

Ian Frazier "Typewriter Man"
As Prof. Goodwin brought up in class, as writers we need to find out or remember quirks or characteristics that make the people we write about in non-fiction stories interesting. The characterization of Mr. Tytell is inspirational because we get a sense of who he is—a little odd, and damn good at his job. This is a man who says, “I talk to typewriters myself sometimes” yet we feel for this character when people like him do not become army pilots.

Despite my enthusiasm for this piece, I am confused why the author decided to comment heavily on the history of typewriters. I would have liked the piece more fully if it were more about his journey with Mr. Tytell.

E.B. White “Death of a Pig”
I noticed many occasions where the author “broke the fourth wall” by commenting on the fact he is writing this piece: “I have written this account” and “I feel driven to account for this stretch of time.” It gave the narrative a more storytelling feel which I appreciated.

After first reading this, I assumed it was a sarcastic tone, yet I remember reading a thorough essay written in the 15th Century by a man who loved his rooster.

The name of the author and title of essay escapes me, but when I find it, I'll add it and give a link to it too.* This Renaissance gentlemen went on and on about his affection to the rooster because the rooster won many cockfights. There is no question in my mind he was not sarcastic, but rather heavily serious about writing poetry to his beloved.

The same can be said for this piece in that the pig was given a burial, and by the end of it, I felt sympathetic toward the death of a pig. The very concept of becoming so emotional on an animal many people eat daily for breakfast seems trivial, yet the author used such great imagery that this pig become a person-like.

Outline for Memoir: "The Countdown"

I do not have a very good memory. However, I can guarantee that I know every detail on Dick Clark's New Year's Rocking Eve of 1991. I do not even remember bringing in 2010 but I can still see the television screen displaying the people in New York for the 1991 countdown. They huddled together as they wore glittering sunglasses and oversize oven mitt gloves. The ball was huge that year. It spilled neon lights into the star stained sky, and I wanted to be there--huddled in between my mom and dad.

I was four years old, and I had no idea as I was watching the television, my dad, who I wanted so desperately to be sitting next to me, was spending the night bar hopping with the night's worst.

For my memoir, I plan to recount the details I remember watching on the television screen and juxtapose that excitement with the tension filtering in my living room as my mom and brother wait for my dad to come home. Below is an example of how I plan to incorporate the juxtaposition:

"I remember the excitement from the people on the television screen. I remember hearing a wave of shouts and yelps from people I did not know who were dressed in Eskimo-like jackets and glittery sunglasses. I thought to myself, “If it’s so cold there, why are they wearing sunglasses?” However, I remained silent as I watched the television show clips of people waving hello to their loved ones back home, people clapping with large gloves that looked like oven mitts, people laughing, people crying, and people kissing. What type of person was I? I looked to my brother, and he was one of the people who decided to eat all the popcorn himself. I looked to my mother, and she was one of the people crying."

I also plan on using speech and logic equivalent to a child's mindset in order to highlight my naivete.

"Together we listened to Dick Clark talk about New Year’s resolutions and jokes about people kissing that I didn’t understand.

'What is a resolution?' I asked.

My mother rubbed my forehead and kept me close as she described that people make resolutions to bring in the New Year. “They are goals,” she said.

Goals. I have heard people shout, 'Goal!' during a soccer game, but I knew somehow that it wasn’t the same thing. I then asked, 'What is your resolution?'"

Through this memoir I hope to accomplish a window into my life. I chose a moment in my past that I remember in such detail because it put me on the cusp of change.