the unexpected scientist

Today in English we had a really interesting discussion about the science of writing. When we first walked in to class, Chia had two things on the board for us to work on. One was to find the molality of a glucose solution. The other was to find the derivative of x^2. In English class. I have often heard of strange things such as this in a class ending up changing people's perspective about a teacher, how they learn, life, the universe, etc. I was excited to see where Chia would go with this. Chia then asked us, if Meaning of The Great Gatsby=X, find X.

Unfortunately, I had to wait until after second lunch to find out why molality and derivates matter. Next we read the story of Goldilocks, complete with enlarged text about the great big bear, middle sized text about the middle sized bear, and small text about the teeny tiny bear. Finally, Chia explained himself, slowly getting us to work through the idea that we used a formula to find the math questions, so we could use formulas to find meanings in books. He started to tell us about the first of these formulas, deconstruction, before the period ended. Deconstruction is the idea of looking at what we accept as fact, such as Goldilocks being a white, young, pretty blonde, and asking, "What if this weren't true?"

I enjoyed the lesson, and even though I knew something strange was coming, I still never really figured out what Chia was going for until the last few minutes of class. It's weird, because I love writing, love English class, love words. On the other hand, math and science aren't my strongest suits or preferences. Because of my previous dissassociation between math and english, I find myself strangely hesitant to embrace the idea of finding out the meaning of a text through using formulas. I would much rather find it through thought and discussion. I guess that I am subconsciously using these formulas, but now that I know/am learning them, I will be conscious of them. It will be difficult for me to apply known science and math into, gasp, English class.

I know that I'll get used to it, but I wonder if it will change my perception of either English or Math class. I guess I'm more of a scientist that I realized.

eye of the tiger

I've noticed that ever since I started posting here, I walk around and I notice things that i could write about. I think, "Oh, that would be interesting to write about, I would write '.........'" Unfortunately, I often forget these after about 10 minutes, because I have other things on my mind. I would write it down, but oftentimes I am not in the best place to write stuff down. For example, on my trip to Minnesota and Iowa this past week (the reason the masses had to languish in the agony of an old post), I saw plenty of stuff to write about, from in the airport to at the schools where I stayed.

It's frustrating to forget, but I guess that I can take heart that I'm thinking of all these things, and that hopefully I'll remember one day.

giving credit where credit is due

Today I was sitting in class and I tried to articulate an idea that I have been stewing over ever since I finished The Sound and the Fury, the idea that Benjy is much smarter than most readers, let alone the Compson family, give him credit for. What stopped me is my inability to explain as well as I needed to without taking up 20 minutes and boring the entire class. So, instead, I will take 20 minutes here and bore everybody (just kidding, hopefully it won't be boring...or 20 minutes).

Most people in class identified Benjy's ability to notice things and attribute it to his mental problems, saying that Benjy's senses are heightened because of his problem. At the same time, however, people are still making the same stereotype that the Compson family is making, the same generalization that the class is quick to point out. If people are willing to say the Benjy is the only clear, objective voice in the entire novel (except for perhaps Dilsey), I don't see why it is so much of a reach to say that Benjy not only is noticing things, but that he is cognizant of some of the implications. It is not so strange that a figure in literature would know more than society would anticipate, take One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest or The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Phil made the interesting point that Benjy only notices the significant events in the book, that he is aware of things like his name change and Damuddy's death. Benjy also notices Caddy's change from smelling like trees to smelling like perfume, and her dirty underpants. I don't think that this is just a naive observation, as some people in class thinks, but rather Benjy's awareness of what has happened to Caddy.

Benjy is not unaware, he is just not able to convey his thoughts in the way that "normal" people would. Instead, Benjy conveys his emotions and thoughts through pure emotion and simple explanation of the situation. His screaming is not just sadness at being apart from Caddy or from being pushed down, but his only way of expressing his distaste for the situation and world that he is living in. Also remember that Benjy is 33, he has seen a lot, and his unique way of recollection keeps things that have happened years ago fresh in his mind, because it is difficult for him to discern a memory from the present. Maybe Benjy is supposed to be the idiot, but, in my mind at least, it is the other narrators who are idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

freezer burn

So I was walking to my AP Mod and African classroom today, and Garrett comes up to me and goes, "a window just shattered in my classroom." It just so happened that it was my classroom. I need to explain.

This room, ever since the beginning of school, has been the coldest room in the entire school. Whenever we come back to school the school always has the air conditioning up too high, and this year was no exception. This year, however, the second floor of the new building is extra cold. My African teacher actually told us the first day of school to bring a sweatshirt for that class, because it is so amazingly cold.

When I walked into Mod, the temperature was actually a little bit better, up to around 45 degrees. The custodian was in the room putting a board up on the window. Apparently, and get this, the temperature difference between the outside and the inside of the room was so great, that the window completely shattered.

I literally walk out of that room shaking with my teeth chattering every single day. I don't understand why the school cannot just change the temperature of the automatic thing up a few degrees. I know that they want to keep it nice and regulated for us, but what is wrong with opening the windows and letting the amazing weather we have been having take care of it?

what is writing, why do we do it, and what makes us good at it?

So I just started thinking about this. I don't really know how it came into my head, but I started thinking about what writing actually is (by the way, this isn't really an English class blog, despite the fact that it is about English). Writing, I decided, I think, is just a means of communicating thoughts and feelings that we want other people to share (for the most part, obviously journals and the such are not necessarily meant for others eyes). Writing, in its most basic form, is the communication of ideas, the process of making you see what I mean.

So, then, what makes some people better at writing than others? It is certainly not intelligence. Some of my friends are extraordinarily smart, could tell me things about math that I don't even know exist, yet I know that I could write something more coherent while I was asleep than they ever could. I don't even think that it is the way that certain people think. Some people say "Oh, well right brain v. left brain." I'm not sure if that argument holds water, if only for this question: what makes writing good?

Is Fitzgerald's Gatsby a better piece of writing than Darwin's Origin of the Species? Not necessarily (even though I think that Fitzgerald's is far better, I'm trying to be objective). Sometimes I think that what makes people better at writing than others is the ability to love what they are writing about. That sounds simple enough, but think about it. Sometimes, when one sits down to write a boring paper about the impact of the fourth line of the third scene of the fifth act of MacBeth, the paper turns out to be terrible. Or, when one sits down to write a narrative about the modern dancing, aka "grinding," it could also be terrible. Even when somebody sits down to write about how a certain flower was this color because of the color, height, and type of the flowers that came before it, it could be lousy.

At the same time, however, the phenomenal thing about writing is, that all three of those could be equally great. This goes back to loving what you write. Personally, anything that I think to write on my own, or anything that is of a creative nature is just going to be better than anything else that I write. It's because I know what I want to say, and I know that in general my reader will be of typical mind, and I know how to express my thoughts in words that will make my reader follow me. In the same way, Darwin knows what excites him about evolution, and, I'm sure, to somebody who loves science, Darwin's love and expertise comes across clearly.

I guess what I am trying to get across is that writing is a great thing, something that I love. I can also admit, however, that there have been times where I have snubbed other pieces because I disapproved. I realized today that just because a piece of writing was about something I didn't love, wasn't the one thing that I craved to learn more about, doesn't mean that to somebody who does crave the knowledge in that subject, that that particular piece of writing could be an amazing read.

putting them in their place, so to speak

In our class discussion to day about families, one of the themes that came up a few times was the idea of "putting our parents in their places," albeit, politely. This, I believe, goes hand in hand with another idea that we had, the idea of seeing our parents as parents vs. our parents as people. When we were young, I think for the most part my loyal readers and I can agree on the fact that our parents were special. They were an enigma, people for us to fear, love, respect and generally, be-in-awe-of.

I also think that my fanbase; my mom, Mr. Chiapetta and I, can agree that as we grew older, our perceptions of our parents changed. When I was young, everything my parents did was perfect. If they were angry it was because my sister and I had done something wrong, and we deserved to be reprimanded. If they were happy, then all the world was right, and, as children, my sister and I had nothing to worry about. I think that the inbetween times, the times where my parents had to cover up their sadness or their hurt, their worry, and their tiredness to put on a happy face are the times that I never noticed. They were still my parents, as implacable and immovable as ever.

I think that the perception has begun to change, and not necessarily in the way that the title of this post suggests. Now, instead of always seeing my parents as the people who run the well oiled machine that is my family, I have the opportunity to see my parents as not only people, not only adults, but as friends. I can see my mom on days where she is not herself, and I can talk to her about it, to make her feel better. Instead of always being cordial, my mom and I can get in a mildly heated debate about the school's new attendance policy (which is ridiculous by the way). Instead of seeing my parents as the people who have raised me, I can see them as the people who I will continue to grow with, people who make mistakes, say the wrong thing, get sick. I think that I have come to terms with this, and I love the depth with which I can now converse with them. In youth, it might have been limited to basic conversation, but now it can be so much more than that.

The hardest part of this realization for me to wrap my mind around is the part where I realize that they were the same way when I was younger, I just couldn't tell.

a blog?

For me? It seems odd, but I have never minded the idea of a blog, the idea of getting people to think about things that I write because they either happened to stumble across it for the first time, or because they genuinley like it. My secret blogger has been bursting to escape, however, ever since Amanda put up her blog. Things like the things she writes are the kinds of things that I want to write.

The only difference, is that I won't only be posting only for my own good. I am also posting for my English teacher, Mr. Chiapetta, to read about the various hypothesizing that I have been doing in, about and around his class (don't worry, I didn't force him to read a teenager's random babbling, it's an assingment). This is not my first "entry," for a grade, but it is the first one explaining everything before I just jump into espousing my theories left and right.

Also, as a side note, the title of the blog is supposed to be "APe Talk" a clever reference that I cannot take credit for, (my mom, however, can) to the influence that my AP English class will have on the postings.