Here's that writing sample that terrified me so much last night. It still terrifies me, but I'm happy to have it done and sent in. I could have used some old material, but everything saved on Mac just seemed so juvenile. So, in true Holly fashion (well, in true Holly Fantasy Study Abroad fashion), I spent the entire day dashing about Paris, staring at Marcel Proust and Oscar Wilde's graves (asking for some help in the inspiration department), and I whipped out this tidbit an hour ago. I hope it's all right. I know it's nothing wonderful, but it reflects what I've been dealing with today, and I actually think it's kind of funny. I hope the professor agrees...
I tried to count, once, how many times you complained. I used my fingers, because I thought keeping a tally in my notepad would be too obvious, and maybe too concrete. One for your feet hurting, two for having to use the bathroom (yet again was what I didn’t say out loud), three was that you have to work over break, and oh man, you have to drive to Springfield to cosign your house lease.
After three, my fingers clenched into fists of their own accord, and I found myself swinging my stiff arms like an upright gorilla. Steam was coming out of my nose, thick as King Kong’s breath on some unsuspecting townsperson’s shoulder.
I huffed and puffed with that pent-up tally as you ordered a crepe. The man swirled the batter deliberately, used his fingers to lift and flip the pancake. While the other side sizzled you dug in your purse for change. One coin short, you moaned about high prices, and I ticked four in my head. I also handed you fifty cents.
Your crepe was warm, but you apparently were not, as we picked our way through the nightlife. Five was tallied walking past a porn shop. I ducked my head stupidly as a woman with big hair and big shoes beckoned us in. The neon lights glittered against puddles in the street, which you hated, hated to walk through. You paused, and I wondered, only half jokingly, if you expected me to offer to carry you across the water. I couldn’t anyway, because one entire hand was already carrying your complaints.
You hit six and seven waiting for the crosswalk to turn pedestrian green. My fingers clawed and jutted against my hips, and I trembled a bit. You get uglier every time you talk. Someday, when you’re not so old, I think your chin will melt against your neck. It’s used to being there as you look down your nose at puddles and people and such. Someday your eyebrows will fuse together in a permanent scowl, and then you won’t have to flex any muscles at all to achieve your favorite expression. I think how happy you’ll be, and then remind myself that you won’t be, of course.
Eight was a beggar who clung to your arm for a few seconds until you shook him off. I’ve sorry, sir, I mouthed, I’ve given my fifty cents away to someone else. I don’t think he understood.
Nine was schoolwork, and ten was me. Me, the dawdler, who couldn’t be bothered to appease beggars or glare at prostitutes or ferry over puddles. You threw ten over her shoulder as you continued on, leaving me out of fingers and gasping on the sidewalk. I felt my jacket shred off my arms, felt the fur burst onto my forehead and nose. I was on all fours behind you, pawing the ground with strong feet. You sashayed away, and I sat back on my haunches and watched you go.
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
In Which Kevin and Perry Force My Hand
I don't know if I can do it, you guys. Maybe Morris has spoiled me too much, or maybe my childhood was too sheltered, or maybe I'm just not the right kind of person. But I don't know if I can be friends with these people.
They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.
For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.
Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?
Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.
I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.
I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.
Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.
And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.
Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.
Stay gold. I'll be trying.
They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.
For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.
Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?
Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.
I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.
I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.
Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.
And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.
Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.
Stay gold. I'll be trying.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Everybody Likes Walt Whitman
I never read any Walt Whitman until just weeks ago-in the first semester of my sophomore year of college. I had heard of him before then, but my impression was rather blurry; when I thought about Walt Whitman, I imagined a huge, bearded man walking around Civil War battlefields, looking stoutly on the aftermath of bloody skirmishes, and then going home to his white farmhouse to sit by his fire and write poetry about what he had seen.
I knew he was The Great American Poet, but that knowledge was perhaps why I've avoided him until now; I tend to vainly shy away from things that everybody likes, preferring instead to seek out the little-known, the unusual. I thought Walt Whitman's poetry would be brilliant, but worn out. I thought that years of praise and criticism and analysis would dull his words on the page for me.
The first Walt Whitman poem I read was assigned in my American Literature class. The poem was "Song of Myself."
Daunted by the length, I initially decided to skim, turning pages swiftly and without interest. But then a stanza caught my eye, and I found myself really reading. Quickly flipping back to the beginning, I proceeded to read the entire 52 section poem aloud to myself.
I think I now know why 'everybody likes' Walt Whitman.
Walt Whitman stands in the middle of a vast, empty field blowing up a balloon. As the balloon expands, it begins to encompass nearby trees and a creek rippling a few miles away. The balloon grows still larger, and soon it encompasses farm houses, children playing, animals, and then entire towns, roads, lakes, forests, cities, clouds. Everything is operating with a deafening roar inside that one balloon, and the roar only grows as the balloon does. Ladies chatter at their tea, trains hum along their endless tracks, crowds cheer after lines of racing horses. People are born and live and die inside Walt Whitman's balloon, trudging along while entirely unaware that they are a part of one man, and that he is a part of them. Walt Whitman knows, though. He knows that he is the barking dog and the coal miner and the giant sequoia tree. Walt Whitman walks the Civil War battlefields and and writes in a farmhouse by a fire and feels always the slightly uncomfortable tug of the entire universe.
I knew he was The Great American Poet, but that knowledge was perhaps why I've avoided him until now; I tend to vainly shy away from things that everybody likes, preferring instead to seek out the little-known, the unusual. I thought Walt Whitman's poetry would be brilliant, but worn out. I thought that years of praise and criticism and analysis would dull his words on the page for me.
The first Walt Whitman poem I read was assigned in my American Literature class. The poem was "Song of Myself."
Daunted by the length, I initially decided to skim, turning pages swiftly and without interest. But then a stanza caught my eye, and I found myself really reading. Quickly flipping back to the beginning, I proceeded to read the entire 52 section poem aloud to myself.
I think I now know why 'everybody likes' Walt Whitman.
Walt Whitman stands in the middle of a vast, empty field blowing up a balloon. As the balloon expands, it begins to encompass nearby trees and a creek rippling a few miles away. The balloon grows still larger, and soon it encompasses farm houses, children playing, animals, and then entire towns, roads, lakes, forests, cities, clouds. Everything is operating with a deafening roar inside that one balloon, and the roar only grows as the balloon does. Ladies chatter at their tea, trains hum along their endless tracks, crowds cheer after lines of racing horses. People are born and live and die inside Walt Whitman's balloon, trudging along while entirely unaware that they are a part of one man, and that he is a part of them. Walt Whitman knows, though. He knows that he is the barking dog and the coal miner and the giant sequoia tree. Walt Whitman walks the Civil War battlefields and and writes in a farmhouse by a fire and feels always the slightly uncomfortable tug of the entire universe.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Finals Finale
I'm done.
After about a week solid of sleeping 4 hours a night, after writing 3 papers and taking 2 exams, finals are finally, finally over.
I have to say, I don't remember finals being this bad last year.
I also have to say I'm proud of myself. Around this time on Sunday, I wasn't sure I could do it.
But I did. Somehow. And actually, I'm feeling good about what I've accomplished. My honors paper (as I told you) was pretty bad, but my Understanding Writing reflection paper was probably the best thing I've written for that class yet, and my Icelandic Sagas paper (which I finished about 3 hours ago) was decent as well.
As for the exams, well, I don't know. For German we had to write a 200 word essay in 2 hours (in German, obviously). The upside was that we could use our books. Having learned from the practice essay we wrote a few weeks ago, I made things easy for myself and wrote simple sentences. You know, "I gave my mother a book." That type of thing.
American Lit. was harder than I expected, truthfully. I studied the authors' names and work titles until I knew absolutely all of them, but maybe I should have made sure I knew what was in their works also. Oh well. The essay part was awesome! For the prompt I chose, I had to pick a character and explain (using Puritan, Enlightenment, and Romantic/Transcendentalist principles) why that character was unAmerican (hmm that word looks strange, but spell check is accepting it, so whatever). I wrote about Bartleby from Bartleby the Scrivener. I hope the essay turned out as well as I thought it did, because near the end of it I was so desperate to be done that I think I may have rambled a bit. Hopefully the ramblings were coherent.
Anyway, I'm all packed and ready to go home, just waiting for Mom to come get me.
I have to say, it still hasn't hit me that I'm actually finished with this semester, and that I'll have a whole month off to read and work and sit around. I kind of feel like I've been the energizer bunny all semester, just going and going and going, and now I've suddenly hit a brick wall, and I'm still lying stunned on the sidewalk, unable to comprehend what happened.
I'm sure I'll recover soon enough. In the mean time, "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."
After about a week solid of sleeping 4 hours a night, after writing 3 papers and taking 2 exams, finals are finally, finally over.
I have to say, I don't remember finals being this bad last year.
I also have to say I'm proud of myself. Around this time on Sunday, I wasn't sure I could do it.
But I did. Somehow. And actually, I'm feeling good about what I've accomplished. My honors paper (as I told you) was pretty bad, but my Understanding Writing reflection paper was probably the best thing I've written for that class yet, and my Icelandic Sagas paper (which I finished about 3 hours ago) was decent as well.
As for the exams, well, I don't know. For German we had to write a 200 word essay in 2 hours (in German, obviously). The upside was that we could use our books. Having learned from the practice essay we wrote a few weeks ago, I made things easy for myself and wrote simple sentences. You know, "I gave my mother a book." That type of thing.
American Lit. was harder than I expected, truthfully. I studied the authors' names and work titles until I knew absolutely all of them, but maybe I should have made sure I knew what was in their works also. Oh well. The essay part was awesome! For the prompt I chose, I had to pick a character and explain (using Puritan, Enlightenment, and Romantic/Transcendentalist principles) why that character was unAmerican (hmm that word looks strange, but spell check is accepting it, so whatever). I wrote about Bartleby from Bartleby the Scrivener. I hope the essay turned out as well as I thought it did, because near the end of it I was so desperate to be done that I think I may have rambled a bit. Hopefully the ramblings were coherent.
Anyway, I'm all packed and ready to go home, just waiting for Mom to come get me.
I have to say, it still hasn't hit me that I'm actually finished with this semester, and that I'll have a whole month off to read and work and sit around. I kind of feel like I've been the energizer bunny all semester, just going and going and going, and now I've suddenly hit a brick wall, and I'm still lying stunned on the sidewalk, unable to comprehend what happened.
I'm sure I'll recover soon enough. In the mean time, "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."
Monday, November 22, 2010
Carrying the Cross
I attended a Catholic school all the way from preschool to 8th grade. Did you know that?
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.
What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.
Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.
The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).
You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.
It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.
I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.
Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.
As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.
The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.
Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.
Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.
The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.
After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.
My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.
Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).
Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.
I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.
While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.
What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.
Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.
The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).
You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.
It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.
I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.
Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.
As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.
The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.
Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.
Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.
The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.
After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.
My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.
Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).
Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.
I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.
While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Stress Levels High
Here's what I have to do:
1. Study for a German test on Friday
2. Begin researching/writing my 10+ page Understanding Writing research paper
3. Write a paper for Icelandic Sagas (4 pages, due next Friday)
4. Write a paper for Honors: Traditions in Human Thought (5 pages, due next Friday)
5. Figure out topics for the above 3 papers
6. Give blood tomorrow
7. Work tonight, tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday
8. Do laundry
9. Get my Mac fixed once and for all
10. Study for American Literature Midterm next Friday
11. Finish reading Atonement (pleasure)
12. Sign up for Intramural badminton
13. Sign up for Big Friend/Little Friend?
14. Become a superhero so that all the above tasks can be successfully completed.
1. Study for a German test on Friday
2. Begin researching/writing my 10+ page Understanding Writing research paper
3. Write a paper for Icelandic Sagas (4 pages, due next Friday)
4. Write a paper for Honors: Traditions in Human Thought (5 pages, due next Friday)
5. Figure out topics for the above 3 papers
6. Give blood tomorrow
7. Work tonight, tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday
8. Do laundry
9. Get my Mac fixed once and for all
10. Study for American Literature Midterm next Friday
11. Finish reading Atonement (pleasure)
12. Sign up for Intramural badminton
13. Sign up for Big Friend/Little Friend?
14. Become a superhero so that all the above tasks can be successfully completed.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Book Buying Money Spending Adventures
As of today I officially have less than a month left of summer left before school starts. Incredible, isn't it? My reactions to this realization have been varied, and range from "Yes!!! School!!!!" to "Holy cow I have so many books I want to get through before going back!" to "I'm going to miss working at Target" to "Wow I have some serious back-to-school shopping to do."
The aforementioned back-to-school shopping begins now, actually. I'm about to hit Amazon.com to buy my books.
Now, for anyone who is heading off to college for the first time this fall, or even for anyone who has been in college for a while and hasn't yet tried ordering books online, I would highly recommend it.
Not only because you save A TON of money (last semester I saved upwards of $200 buying my books off Amazon) by using an alternative to the famously expensive College Bookstore, but you avoid the long lines, the sometimes sold-out shelves, and the general stress of attempting to buy books the day before classes start. In my opinion (although I am, admittedly, a bit of a nerd), it's also fun to be able to page through your books ahead of time. And getting mail is always great, right?
Despite my obvious excitement over this whole book-buying undertaking, I have to say that it is difficult for me to spend so much of my hard earned working-early-Target-shifts money in just one evening. I do have three jobs waiting for me at Morris, however, so it's certainly good to know that there is more money yet to be earned this year.
Here are said jobs (because I don't think I've told you about two of them yet)
1. Information Desk in Student Center
2. Administrative Intern in the Social Sciences Office
3. Tutor in the Writing Room of Briggs Library
Okay, I'm venturing out into Amazon now. Wish me luck!
P.S. On page 256 of Jane Eyre. Seems like it's finally getting its act together and turning into a the classic romance I've heard so much about.
The aforementioned back-to-school shopping begins now, actually. I'm about to hit Amazon.com to buy my books.
Now, for anyone who is heading off to college for the first time this fall, or even for anyone who has been in college for a while and hasn't yet tried ordering books online, I would highly recommend it.
Not only because you save A TON of money (last semester I saved upwards of $200 buying my books off Amazon) by using an alternative to the famously expensive College Bookstore, but you avoid the long lines, the sometimes sold-out shelves, and the general stress of attempting to buy books the day before classes start. In my opinion (although I am, admittedly, a bit of a nerd), it's also fun to be able to page through your books ahead of time. And getting mail is always great, right?
Despite my obvious excitement over this whole book-buying undertaking, I have to say that it is difficult for me to spend so much of my hard earned working-early-Target-shifts money in just one evening. I do have three jobs waiting for me at Morris, however, so it's certainly good to know that there is more money yet to be earned this year.
Here are said jobs (because I don't think I've told you about two of them yet)
1. Information Desk in Student Center
2. Administrative Intern in the Social Sciences Office
3. Tutor in the Writing Room of Briggs Library
Okay, I'm venturing out into Amazon now. Wish me luck!
P.S. On page 256 of Jane Eyre. Seems like it's finally getting its act together and turning into a the classic romance I've heard so much about.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sleep Aids
I haven't been sleeping well lately. I go to bed at around 1 a.m., and I wake up around 11 a.m., which sounds like a solid amount of sleep, although it's not considering that in between those two times I wake up continually. When my alarm goes off at 11, I'm not tired, exactly; I simply feel like I missed out on sleep, like my brain isn't fully satiated. It's very similar to the feeling you get when you're incredibly thirsty, but you can only have a small glass of water. It doesn't quite hit the spot.
I wasn't sure why exactly I wasn't sleeping well until my mom suggested today that maybe it's because I haven't had enough mental stimulation. That kind of makes sense. Thanks, Mom.
I mean, think about it: I went from going to class every day and having to concentrate and take notes and grasp the material and then go back to my dorm and study for hours, to sitting around and reading and watching TV and working maybe 30 hours a week on average. My work can be stressful, sure, but at this point I know enough about what's going on that I have to concentrate a lot less.
How to get that mental stimulation back? Well, I have a few ideas.
Idea No. 1: Begin teaching myself German.
My Dad has old German textbooks around somewhere, and I found a great free language teaching website called livemocha that is very helpful. I am taking German 1 in the fall, but it certainly can't hurt to get a bit of a head start.
Idea No. 2: Write more.
I haven't worked on any of my stories for a few days. I should definitely get back on that.
Idea No. 3: Run around outside more.
I work so much that I don't really have time to get much exercise, or even to be out in the fresh air. I should take advantage of the time I have at home and go for a bike ride or something.
I wasn't sure why exactly I wasn't sleeping well until my mom suggested today that maybe it's because I haven't had enough mental stimulation. That kind of makes sense. Thanks, Mom.
I mean, think about it: I went from going to class every day and having to concentrate and take notes and grasp the material and then go back to my dorm and study for hours, to sitting around and reading and watching TV and working maybe 30 hours a week on average. My work can be stressful, sure, but at this point I know enough about what's going on that I have to concentrate a lot less.
How to get that mental stimulation back? Well, I have a few ideas.
Idea No. 1: Begin teaching myself German.
My Dad has old German textbooks around somewhere, and I found a great free language teaching website called livemocha that is very helpful. I am taking German 1 in the fall, but it certainly can't hurt to get a bit of a head start.
Idea No. 2: Write more.
I haven't worked on any of my stories for a few days. I should definitely get back on that.
Idea No. 3: Run around outside more.
I work so much that I don't really have time to get much exercise, or even to be out in the fresh air. I should take advantage of the time I have at home and go for a bike ride or something.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
And Now, in Other News...
This week:
1. Band concert Monday. I have a solo in Symphony that I tend to go out of tune on, so hopefully that goes well. Maybe if I play really, really loudly...
2. Work. Always, always work. I like my job, though, so no worries.
3. Friday is senior skip day. I'm skipping, but I have a valid excuse. I'm going up to Morris to register for classes. I also have to take math and spanish placement exams. Ick.
I think that's all. Just preparing for graduation in general.
1. Band concert Monday. I have a solo in Symphony that I tend to go out of tune on, so hopefully that goes well. Maybe if I play really, really loudly...
2. Work. Always, always work. I like my job, though, so no worries.
3. Friday is senior skip day. I'm skipping, but I have a valid excuse. I'm going up to Morris to register for classes. I also have to take math and spanish placement exams. Ick.
I think that's all. Just preparing for graduation in general.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Things going on
Here's what's happening in my life right now (in a convenient list-like form):
1. Chemistry test on Monday. I got an A+ on the last one (I studied really, really hard), so I hope to do as well this time. We'll see. This chapter is very long and complicated.
2. I just watched about a half hour of Fiddler on the Roof. I need to see the rest of that movie sometime. It's the perfect combination of beards, vodka, and arranged marriage.
3. I hate Mrs. Lideen right now. Absolutely loathe. In corrective advisement last week, she intentionally humiliated a student for no apparent reason. I just cannot believe that a teacher would ever do that to a student.
4. I still haven't decided on a college.
5. I'm reading twilight fanfic (sorry, Amelia).
6. I had an amazing time at the pep fest. People always complain about them, but I think they're so much fun. It's great to see all the grades in one room, and to be in the middle of all the cheering. Plus, the drumline played all the way down the hall. My ears are still ringing, but it was great.
7. Becca only laughed at my 'lumberjack shirt' once today. New record.
8. Speech tomorrow. I'm in the process of rewriting, so a bit nervous for this one.
1. Chemistry test on Monday. I got an A+ on the last one (I studied really, really hard), so I hope to do as well this time. We'll see. This chapter is very long and complicated.
2. I just watched about a half hour of Fiddler on the Roof. I need to see the rest of that movie sometime. It's the perfect combination of beards, vodka, and arranged marriage.
3. I hate Mrs. Lideen right now. Absolutely loathe. In corrective advisement last week, she intentionally humiliated a student for no apparent reason. I just cannot believe that a teacher would ever do that to a student.
4. I still haven't decided on a college.
5. I'm reading twilight fanfic (sorry, Amelia).
6. I had an amazing time at the pep fest. People always complain about them, but I think they're so much fun. It's great to see all the grades in one room, and to be in the middle of all the cheering. Plus, the drumline played all the way down the hall. My ears are still ringing, but it was great.
7. Becca only laughed at my 'lumberjack shirt' once today. New record.
8. Speech tomorrow. I'm in the process of rewriting, so a bit nervous for this one.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
We begin with a quote
"This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest."
That's a section of Longfellow's poem Evangeline. I'm not one for reading poetry, but I think this one is lovely.
Today was a fairly uneventful day. Not much to report school-wise. A few things happened at home, though:
1. I got my senior pictures
2. I made an amazing Knowledge Bowl playlist for the trip to North Branch on Saturday. For some reason, my computer refused to burn it onto a disc, but I can just play it right off my i-pod. It's a fairly eclectic mix, but all of the songs have something to do with Knowledge Bowl.
3. I tied a ribbon around a bag of wintergreen Lifesavers for Becca's birthday present. She really, really loves them.
That's a section of Longfellow's poem Evangeline. I'm not one for reading poetry, but I think this one is lovely.
Today was a fairly uneventful day. Not much to report school-wise. A few things happened at home, though:
1. I got my senior pictures
2. I made an amazing Knowledge Bowl playlist for the trip to North Branch on Saturday. For some reason, my computer refused to burn it onto a disc, but I can just play it right off my i-pod. It's a fairly eclectic mix, but all of the songs have something to do with Knowledge Bowl.
3. I tied a ribbon around a bag of wintergreen Lifesavers for Becca's birthday present. She really, really loves them.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
We all want to change the world
I'm kind of in the mood to post, but I don't really have anything too interesting to say.
School was decent-the usual status. I woke up this morning when my alarm went off with the same "you've got to be kidding me" state of mind I always have.
1st hour: Math isn't really my favorite subject. I only manage to do well in it because I study VERY HARD for the tests. It's just not one of those things that comes easy for me. Anyway, we're doing probability, which I didn't get in 5th grade, and don't get now. What would make the class more fun would be if there was someone I could actually talk to. I'm kind of like a leper-I don't like/know anyone so I just kind of sit alone and silently do my work.
2nd hour: AP English, always a favorite. I didn't really like Mrs. Nelson last year, but she's growing on me. I think she's one of those people you just have to get in order to like. It's funny, because at the beginning of every class in English we ask for a mental snowday, and she always says no, but we always end up with one anyway because we don't really do a whole lot in the class. Most of it is individual work-reading and projects and things like that.
3rd hour: Band. Need I say more?
4th hour: War History-an extrememly enjoyable class. We watch a lot of movies, which is fun. Recently we saw Red Dawn, which a play on America's nuclear warfare fears during the Cold War. In the movie, Cuba, Nicaragua, and Russia have invaded America, and there's a group of teenagers called the Wolverines who rebel and begin sniping off enemy tanks and soldiers. It's really, really over-dramatic. As Mr. Deede put it, "It's so horrible, it's almost a great film."
School was decent-the usual status. I woke up this morning when my alarm went off with the same "you've got to be kidding me" state of mind I always have.
1st hour: Math isn't really my favorite subject. I only manage to do well in it because I study VERY HARD for the tests. It's just not one of those things that comes easy for me. Anyway, we're doing probability, which I didn't get in 5th grade, and don't get now. What would make the class more fun would be if there was someone I could actually talk to. I'm kind of like a leper-I don't like/know anyone so I just kind of sit alone and silently do my work.
2nd hour: AP English, always a favorite. I didn't really like Mrs. Nelson last year, but she's growing on me. I think she's one of those people you just have to get in order to like. It's funny, because at the beginning of every class in English we ask for a mental snowday, and she always says no, but we always end up with one anyway because we don't really do a whole lot in the class. Most of it is individual work-reading and projects and things like that.
3rd hour: Band. Need I say more?
4th hour: War History-an extrememly enjoyable class. We watch a lot of movies, which is fun. Recently we saw Red Dawn, which a play on America's nuclear warfare fears during the Cold War. In the movie, Cuba, Nicaragua, and Russia have invaded America, and there's a group of teenagers called the Wolverines who rebel and begin sniping off enemy tanks and soldiers. It's really, really over-dramatic. As Mr. Deede put it, "It's so horrible, it's almost a great film."
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