A Day in the Life of Laurie

                I roll over on to my side, feeling the after-sleep drowsiness creep through my body and the drool encasing my pillow. I reach over, finding the broad shoulders of Dan, and begin stroking the hair encompassing his earlobe. I chuckle at the fact that he refers to this part of his body as his “crown.” Dan turns his back to me, signaling his wish to become the little spoon in the next hour or so of cuddling. Of course I abide. I love my little bird.

            Our daily ritual continues and I slip off the covers to trudge to the bathroom. I cannot help myself from stopping in front of the mirror, analyzing my curvatures. Dang I have a rockin body. The offspring of Jon and I would have become the most attractive children in the world. Wow, that would make a great tweet. I write it down on a sticky note and post it on Dan’s toothbrush so I will not forget it. In the reflection of the mirror, snow drifts down from the sky outside the window. Another blizzard means another day in utter blackness all alone with my Dan. I will make sure to really ruffle his feathers this time around. From the corner of my eye an eerie green light protrudes from underneath the bathroom door. Rather than waking my Big Daddy Bird, I open the door to investigate. All of the sudden my head begins to spin, my insides clench and…

            “Begin with the body! DO THE MOTHER F#@!ING BODY FIRST!” I rub my eyes, attempting to find my bearings. Yet in all this confusion, I think I remember that voice, because I recall how I agreed with her in that, yes people should definitely do my body first. Hold on a second, I most assuredly know that voice. But how? My eyes finally adjust to the light and, sure enough, there I sit in front of the one and only, Ms. Serenksy.

            I try not to panic as I wonder how I could have travelled back to my junior year of high school. My mind races as I glance across the semi-circle to see the genius couple holding hands underneath their desks. Wow, nothing has changed. Even the same girl giggles in the end seat while the semi-Asian girl makes faces at her. Ugh, I wish Jon was here.

If I Were A Girl

“Stay away from AP English like the plague.” “Have fun repairing your writing hand next year in AP English.” “I heard students in AP English sit around in a circle everyday and discuss their problems.” “The AP English teacher could force a penguin to migrate south.” “You take AP English? You’re a doofus.” Although somewhat outrageous, I heard these exact words in my career at CFHS from older students and younger students alike. These threats, conspiracies and facts most definitely rattled my younger, sophomore self. Yet somehow, someway (although it may have come from the fact that my lazy older brother found a way to finish both years of AP English), I accomplished the first year of the stressful course with hovering colors. Now, as a veteran in the form of AP English, I believe that I have an honor, no, a duty, to pass along my insurmountable knowledge of the class to younger ladies and gentlemen who face a similar situation as I once did. So, without further ado, allow me to begin a spiel containing information and advice regarding AP English that will hand success to readers on a silver platter. To begin with, a student must never, under any circumstance, start a day off in AP English with a lack of a black and blue pen. This deems the first and most important rule a student must remember before entering the gates of Serensky’s lair. I once learned my lesson the hard way after forgetting this key rule, and in turn, walked out of class that day with eyes resembling the colors of the pens I should have brought to class. In all seriousness, the teacher requires students to bring a pen everyday, yet I have learned during my adventures that bringing two pens enables a student to feel twice as prepared. Now for rule two: a student must train his/herself to love a variety of television shows. After school each day, an AP English student should work out their writing hand by flipping through the channels on their remote. A stronger writing hand equals a faster writing pace and therefore more success in the world of AP English. Thirdly, an individual under the teachings of Ms. Serensky needs to acquire a certain sense of humor. A student must learn to laugh at things that others may deem cruel, unusual and most definitely awkward. For example, strangely located tattoos, dying horses, and abnormally large ladies facing terrifying circumstances involving men with pig faces, now prove side-splitting funny to students of AP English. Sharing a similar sense of humor with the instructor of the class enables time to fly in the utter bareness of the room residing at the end of the hall. Lastly, a student that wishes to excel in AP English must become as close to female as possible. Weird, I know, but you heard correctly. I do not think it necessary to exclaim that I only speak to males regarding this last rule. Females swarm like insects into the AP English classes, outnumbering the boys by tenfold, creating an environment unfit for individuals who prefer campfire over candlelight. The saying, “If you can’t beat them, join them” directly applies itself in this situation. Girls possess greater writing skills than boys. Fact, not fiction. Therefore, begin practicing this transformation by curving your calligraphy, analyzing the un-analyzable, and dotting your letter “i’s” with cute heart bubbles. A student who follows these four simple steps will find themselves overwhelmed with success in the world of AP English. 

Another Dreadful Day

Before you read: Ana Moran serves as a fantastic, non-judgmental writing partner. Readers should not take this piece of writing seriously.

The dreaded seventh period hovers around the corner. I wish sixth period would last forever. I guess I missed the shooting star last night though, because the bell chimes three times, signaling for all students to continue on with their day. I drag my feet along the hallway carpet, thinking that maybe if I can create enough friction and then touch Ms. Serensky’s door handle, I can electrocute myself so that I do not need to endure another day with my writing partner. I inhale deeply and flash-forward a few months. There I stand, gazing up at the ceiling of a brilliant hall in Harvard University, accompanied by other teenagers able to understand the theory of quantum entanglement. I snap back to reality and take my seat in the semi-circle. Across the room, the boy with the abnormally large head and UNC t-shirt laughs as he makes a sexist joke. I do not think he would laugh so hard when he hears that his fellow female classmate plans on attending Harvard next year. Ha! Such short-sightedness. And then he walks in. Him. How could fate turn against me so that I must endure him for a full semester as a writing partner? Actually, how could Ms. Serensky turn against me by pairing me up with this oaf? I make a note to myself not to include her in my speech after winning the Nobel Prize. He walks next to me. Goodness! I cannot become accustomed to his height! He would give Frodo Baggins a run for his money. Lol. Good one, Ana. He struts casually into his desk wearing a college logo t-shirt and gym shorts with black basketball shoes. Whoa Derek! Try not to step too far out on that limb! Maybe tomorrow he will decide on jeans…probably not though. Ms. Serensky asks us to begin discussing a chapter from Watchmen with our writing partners. Derek turns towards me, with concentration written on his face, preparing for an in-depth comment, and states, “So…I really thought that Laurie was like…super sexy.” Wow Derek, your insightfulness never seizes to amaze me. Ms. Serensky goes around the circle, passing back in-class essays. I fold back the corner of mine to glance at the AP Rubric score: 10+. Not bad. I sneak a quick glance at Derek’s paper and find him grinning from ear to ear at his 5- score. Atta boy, Frodo. Congratulations on scraping your way to a passing grade once again. The three “dings” from the bell cause everyone in the classroom to throw their belongings in their packs and race for the door. An innocent bystander would think the bell acted as a fire alarm, not a normal “beep” that signaled the end of classes. I follow in the wake of the students, eager to rush home and shower after another day with my writing partner.

Welcome to the Future

              Next year, I, the one and only Derek Stevenson, will attend Grove City College. I know, shocking, this college does in fact exist, located an hour south of Pittsburgh. I look forward to meeting a plethora of new people and pray that some of my peers feel sympathetic enough towards me to act as my friends. With this in mind, I would like to leave a certain impression upon these unfortunate students. To begin with, I would like my future friends to think of me as sociable. My tuxedo shirt already hangs in my closet, waiting for me to strut my stuff in it, giving me the impression that I strive for formality, but also look to party. Seeing that Grove City has remained a dry campus since the age of dinosaurs, this goal may look slightly different than most people imagine. After my first year of college, I hope all the students in my hall view Derek Stevenson as a friend they can go to for a hang-out, a serious conversation, or help in revising their English papers. As seen from my parents and two older siblings, college friendships have the potential to become strong bonding relationships that last past the few short years of education.  Secondly, I want my future friends in college to admire my work ethic. College acts as a place for learning, and I would bet my left knuckle that Jim and Barb will constantly remind me of this fact. With the pleasant reminder from my parents and the challenge set before me by following in my older brother’s footsteps, I will work harder than a woodpecker in a petrified forest. In doing so, I must become accustomed to hours spent in the library, creating flashcards and forming study groups. Pride would radiate from my body if I could start college as a mechanical engineer and finish the four years of college with this same title. Finally, I would find it quite pleasing if my friends thought of me as an overall joyful person. In order to achieve this goal, this summer I plan on watching and analyzing the PBS legend, Mr. Rogers, along with the rest of his neighborhood, putting my skills learned from AP English to good use. Red V-neck sweaters, along with very young children, will become my new best friends. If I can accomplish these few goals, I will enjoy the next four years of life and I hope I can positively affect the lives of students around me.

Dear Individual,

                 I have heard of the unfortunate circumstance regarding your special someone and hope to provide advice you can utilize in order to solve your problematic situation. Unfortunately, I know few details about your current relationship, so I must share general information about relationships that I have accumulated over a long and inspiring dating career. To begin with, buy your own tampons. Secondly, buy the condoms if you find yourself involved in a physically sexual relationship. After interacting with certain young men just the other day, I discovered that asking a gentleman to buy tampons may prove the most repulsive task ever asked of them. In fact, the reason why your boyfriend wishes to leave you in the first place may stem from that exact request. As you can see, I do not understand the word or concept of “filter;” one will discover only utter bluntness in my advice. To continue along this pattern, cut back on the southern fried okra. Allow me to introduce you to your new favorite friends: fruits, vegetables and discipline. Also, I luckily stumbled upon another useful tip during my younger years. Delve into the art of Zumba. This erotic dancing shapes the hips, making the men desire the lips. I do not know the location of your nearest gym, but I do know that the daily trip to work out that soon-to-be sexy bod can cause a dent in your gas money. So toss that Hummer you drive around town to the nearest cars salesman available and acquire a machine that acts a tad nicer to the environment. While also saving Mother Earth, your boyfriend will love you for downscaling the size of your vehicle, cutting the difference in proportion between your car and his red Prius. I hear my microwave in the kitchen beeping, informing me that tonight’s broccoli has cooked to perfection. Therefore, I must wrap this to a close, but not before I give you the most important advice you will hear in this letter. I save the best advice for last, so you must try and brace yourself. I admit, if anyone had told me this next tidbit of advice only a few years ago, I would have called them crazy. However, after reading the graphic novel, Watchmen by Dave Gibbons and Alan Moore, I came to fully understand the tastes and likes of the opposite sex. In actuality, you possess too much intelligence. This deems the reasoning behind your boyfriend’s departure. You must dumb yourself down so your I.Q. hovers around that of a toothpick. As clearly seen in the character, Laurie, from this novel, who plays two males at once, guys dig the shallow stupid girls. I hope my knowledge will allow you to make the necessary adjustments within your daily life and in turn bring your boyfriend running back to you.

Denzel at His Finest

I remember visiting my grandparents, who lived in New Jersey, and my cousins, who still live in Lincoln, Nebraska during my elementary years. My mother, two brothers and sister would endure the eight hour ride out to the east coast once a year to hang with my mother’s parents. My father on the other hand, seemed to always have work to do, ironically enough. Since Cleveland, Ohio to Lincoln, Nebraska tops the list of “The Longest and Most Boring Drives in the Country,” we chose to make the 16 hour drive once every three years or so. Despite this infrequency, one can imagine how much time my family spent in our Honda minivan. Since kids under the age of 13 cannot sit still in a car for more than an hour at a time, and since we frequently drove across the northeastern United States with four children under the age of 13, my mother permitted us to bring the portable television and VCR on our trips. These road trips allowed me to learn and memorize every line from the movie, “Remember the Titans.” Often times seen up to three separate times on a road trip, I quickly became acquainted with the characters and actor of Denzel Washington. At my young age, I did not understand the importance of the racial segregation depicted within the movie, or the appreciation for the movie’s fantastic soundtrack, or the talent of the actors, or even the comical quotes and scenes captured by the filmmakers. I just loved to watch football. About a month ago, I found myself browsing the channels on my television and stumbled upon the astounding film featured on ABC Family. Denzel Washington huddled up his football team in the locker room before their first game, looked at each of his players and told them, “Like all the other schools in this conference, they (the opponent) are all white. They don't have to worry about race. We do. But let me tell you something: you don't let anyone come between us. Nothing tears us apart.” After Denzel finished his sentence, I wished nothing more than to go back in time and join the Civil Rights March on Washington. Excuse me, for I find myself jumping ahead and confusing those who have yet to experience the thrill of watching this movie. Allow me to provide a brief synopsis. Based on a true story, “Remember the Titans” begins with the integration of blacks and whites into a Virginia high school by the name of T.C. Williams in 1971. Teammates on the football team hate each other based on the color of each other’s skin. Even the coaches have trouble getting along. However, against impossible odds, these high school boys find a way to turn their animosity into brotherhood, weaving an inspiring tale one cannot miss. Every moment in “Remember the Titans” on and off the football field carries a wide range of emotions from that of misery to exhilaration. Denzel Washington’s character as coach of the T.C. Williams football team, constantly inspires his audience with quotes of community, pride and morality. To this day, my brothers and I quote the movie, when we remember the Titans.

Read If You Dare

I have a fairly long one.

However, I do not feel animosity

From others for retaining one of such length.

Madonna wishes she had one.

The governor of California, the famous

Actor, has an extremely long one.

Asians tend to have short ones.

It’s intriguing to of think how diverse they

Come, varying in sizes. Am I the only one out there

Fascinated with the assortment of last names?

           

I thought long and hard about what I should venture into this week in order to cause extreme discomfort for the readers of my blog. After hearing a Brian Regan stand-up comedian act in my father’s car this weekend, I knew what words to throw on paper in order to make my audience squirm. Regan brought to my attention the frequency at which people pronounce names incorrectly. He used the name “Caroline” as an example, not knowing when to stress the “I.” Regan continued to tell of the unspoken truth about how individuals become extremely offended when a person pronounces their name incorrectly. For this reason, I think the awkward diction of “last names” truly distinguishes the above poem as possessing an uncomfortable tone. I bring to my audience’s attention the assertion that people tend to accept everyday patterns of life without thought, the concept of last names acting as one of these patterns. The abstraction of such a notion astounds me: the variety, length and differences in pronunciation deem endless. I also choose to format my poem in such a way that radiates awkwardness. Instead of following a symmetrical approach by centering the poem on the paper, in response creating a light-hearted tone, I attempt to vary the length of each line within the poem. This unbalance, along with the strange use of enjambment in certain places, exemplifies the instability the poem possesses, disrupting the flow of the reading. From the use of these structural and literature elements, I strive to make my audience wriggle with displeasure from the uncomfortable feeling emitted by the poem.

Dear Derek,

            Hello there my eleven year old self. Possessing the ability to view all events from your present time to your senior year, I have some advice I would like to give to you. Let us begin with the topic of girls. Firstly, do not talk to girls from now until the time you reach 11^th grade. The definition of “talk” in this case, means to never make eye contact with people of the opposite gender unless over the age of thirty…seven. In all honesty, girls do not want to talk to you. I had the misfortune of not realizing this until too late. In fact, women to this day have no interest in interacting with me. With that in mind, you can probably skip Mrs. Rathbone’s second semester class (the reproductive unit) because you most definitely will not need that information for a long, long, long time. Now that we have that touchy topic covered, let us move on to advice about school, or more specifically, English class. To begin with, go out of your way to help out Mrs. Wallenhorst in any way possible; she is a saint. The following year, however, you will receive She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for your English teacher. Have fun re-enacting “The Diary of Anne Frank Play” for three and a half months. Yet try and persevere, because your English teacher your freshman year remains one of the coolest cats ever to walk the halls of Chagrin: Mrs. Ashkettle. Ask her strange questions about her daughter Frankie, and all that weird jazz you somehow tend to have a knack for. Finally, you will remarkably make it to junior year and meet the legendary Ms. Serensky. Fun fact for you: the seemingly hard to read, blunt and harsh Shakespeare professor actually spends her time angelically dancing to Zumba in her spare time. Remember this when a big fat 1 appears on the grade of one of your in-class essays. Another thing I should make known to you: some students actually obtain essay scores of 8’s and 9’s, you just suck too much to get such a score. In all honesty, I do not know why I have shared this tidbit of information with you since such information only further lowers your writing confidence. O well, humility is a virtue. Allow me to shift our conversation to the topic of style. When you feel like wearing something, wear it. Dress for comfort, if you would like. If a teacher one day calls you a name like, o I don’t know, a lumberjack for instance, because you decide to dress normally in a plaid shirt and jeans, let the comment bounce off your shoulder. Remember that only insecure people make fun of other people’s apparel. Good luck in the future and I hope this advice helps you out in your endeavors.

Two is Better than One

            I had told her I would arrive at her doorstep at six. Here I stand, 29 minutes after five, waiting in the rain, holding a blue umbrella in my left hand. I use my second hand to ring the doorbell. Her father answers the door. I glance at his gun collection over his shoulder. Uh oh. The second hand reaches itself out to firmly shake his hand. His daughter appears at the door. The second hand guides her down the slippery stairs to where my car remains idling. I scoot ahead to open the passenger door with my second hand, and then follow her into the car.

            We drive through town. One hand remains on the wheel while the second hand strokes and caresses her fingers. “Even though it’s raining, you’ve got your shine on.” Stupid. I mentally smack my head against the window. She smiles. We reach the roller rink. I jog ahead of her to open the doors. Surprisingly, my outstanding strength cannot open the doors with one hand. The second hand comes to the rescue. Close call.

            I slide my arm around her waist.  Using my second hand, I pay for our tickets, flaunting my wallet. She seems unimpressed. Note to self.

            I tie my skates tightly and quickly. The second hand reaches down to hold her laces while she knots them together. Brownie points. We skate out to the rink. I clumsily fall onto my face within the first few seconds. My first hand begins to break the fall. The second hand finishes the job. She must hold onto the railing from laughing so hard. This is too easy.

            Everyone starts circling together. We stick our first hand out and shake it all around. Next we thrust our second hand into the air and shake it all about. I love hokey pokey.

            The night comes to a close. I walk her to her door. She grasps onto my arm while my second hand protects us from the night’s shadows caused by the moon.

            I sit in my car. And thank God for giving me two hands.  

The Cowardly Lion

            The dull hum abruptly stops. Sweat beads my forehead. I gaze across the black nothingness to see my fellow accomplice shivering. He tends to do this in the face of danger. Nervousness seizes his body. We remain there in the darkness, contemplating our next move. So far, my partner and I have run into little interference in reaching and executing our quest. Everything went according to plan, just as the boss said it would. But here we sit, waiting to complete the last stage of the plan, unrewarded if we cannot reach our objective. The boss warned us of the vulnerability we would encounter in this next stage due to a “blind spot” in the operation. Now comes the time when the men separate themselves from the boys, when the soldiers separate themselves from the citizens, and when the courageous separate themselves from the…uncourageous. My companion and I look to each other, “1…2…3” we recite in sync. I thrust my weapon deep into my pocket as we step out into the tundra air. Time seems to slow as my instincts take over. I distinguish the outline of every snow flake whipping around my head while the wind howls with rage. My partner slithers around the left flank, as we practiced a million times back at the base. All seems well, until I venture a step from my concealed location. Immediately, lights shine upon me, igniting my body with a bright glow, resembling my grandpa’s birthday cake in a dark room. Unfortunately, I am slightly allergic to dying, so I dive behind a large, gray obstruction protruding from the ground. I hold my supplies near to my chest, cowering in the dark, praying that my leap to safety proved quick enough. My eyes pop open as I hear voices beginning to make their ways towards my location. Shadows materialize near my feet, and the sound of boots crunching on snow cause me to shove my head into my arms, hiding in fear. Yet the voices fade away as soon as they appeared. Did they not catch a glimpse of me? Am I still alive? I know the answer to the latter question because I can hear my breath rattling now in the quick confines of safety. Finally, after reciting Mel Gibson’s speech from Braveheart, I inhale deeply and then jump to my feet, flying across the icy ground. Bright lights shine upon my figure but I continue to push forward, no longer caring for the safety of my well-being. I trip over a low bush, losing my balance and hitting the concrete hard, yet land on my shoulder, enabling me to roll right back up and continue my sprint. Finally, in a breathless haste, I crash into the glass doors, fumbling momentarily with the handle before I am able to take a step into the cozy foyer of Chagrin Falls High School. I journeyed through Chagrin Falls, crossing the deadly senior lot, and have once again arrived to school on time.

The End is Near

            Our blogging adventure has at last come to a close for this semester. The New Year arrives and weekly habitual actions find themselves replaced by other, less desirable things. However, the AP English teacher decided to make the weekly action of blogging “go out with a bang.” All the AP English students know of our teacher’s dedication towards the sports world. Therefore, I think her students can all agree that ESPN’s top ten sports plays of 2012 inspired her with the idea of this next blog post. Why not take the coolest moments of our blogging adventure and compile them all into one paragraph? Genius. I look forward to reading this week’s list of blogs because it will parallel watching a highlight film of our class’s greatest works. So, without further ado, I take pleasure in sharing my own top features from my blog. A couple of blogs battled for the position of the “Most Well-Written Blog Award.” However, “The Surprisingly Dreadful Day” came out on top for a variety of reasons. To begin with, the blog catches the reader’s attention with a surprisingly ironic statement. I then continued to write about a small anecdote that happened in English class at the beginning of the second quarter, relatable to all my readers and containing a touch of humor to keep one’s focus. I proceed to transition to a light-hearted mood to a more serious topic of answering the question: why does a leader emerge within a pair of people? The blog analyzes the “Second Bakery Attack” to solve such a question in a very coherent manner if I say so myself. This blog also found its way onto the AP English Blogger Show, invoking pride towards this short paragraph. Next, we move on to the “Most Interesting Blog Award.” Again we had a war between posts to make it to the podium but only one prevailed: “Ernie Should Have Confided in Bert.” I believe this post proved my most intriguing piece of writing because it shared with my audience a lot about myself as a person. Looking back on it now, I think that after a summer of reading other’s blogs and commenting with one another, this paragraph deemed the breakpoint in my ability to feel comfortable with my blogging. Therefore one can understand why I find this post most interesting; I could not believe I voiced such strong opinions and disrespectfulness to my classmates and on the web. For example, I informed my peers of my fearfulness of finding myself in a situation necessitating small talk. Finally, Claire Kampman won the award for “Favorite Comment Award.” Let me share with the audience a snippet of her reply: “Competition drives success, and losing builds character.” I absolutely love this quote because I could not agree with it more. Competition drives the ways of the world and promotes hard work as well as entertainment. Thank you Claire for your enlightenment to my blog.

I Believe in Miracles

            Another day of English goes by and a paper-cut appears on my hand. Or maybe scissors created the blemish? Perhaps a crayon somehow scarred my hand. “Impossible!” you say to yourself.  “Only an idiot could cut himself with a crayon.” Well I have a confession to make: I am that idiot when it comes to art. In fact, when my English teacher informed the class last week that we would participate in a friendly competition involving creativity and imagination, my stomach landed on top of a freshman’s head while she sat in Mr. Kerul’s room. I hate art for a variety of reasons. To begin with, sharp objects and I go about as well together as Hanukah and Christmas. Let us flashback to my sixth grade year when my entire grade took a field trip to The Pond. To this day I do not understand how the ice became sprinkled with red while a puddle of blood formed in my right hand, all happening while part of my right pointer finger dangled from a thin piece of skin. I ended up losing that small portion of my finger and have the scar in remembrance. Again, I do not do well with sharp objects, like ice skates. Only to make matters worse, my siblings found it amusing to call me Peter Pettigrew the following month after the incident. Hopefully I have portrayed the fact that art utensils and I butt heads. My rock bottom creativity also adds to my distaste for crafts, such as creating collages. Allow me to explain. I think most teenagers enjoy decorating their Christmas tree with their siblings. I, however, can barely tolerate the experience. Many of my family’s ornaments come from the creations of the Stevenson children at young ages. Unfortunately, I learned how to draw a circle after I learned how to ride a bike. Therefore, the ornaments I created at a young age deem indistinguishable. My siblings, always the genuine supporting cast I need in my life, ask me if Stevie Wonder helped me meld together an attempted image of a star and manger. My creativity and skills with a marker depicted itself again just this past November. One of my mother’s friends walked into our home and pointed to one of my youthful decorations hanging on the wall: “Wow Barb! I cannot believe you’ve already started decorating for Thanksgiving!” In actuality, my mother had yet to relieve the walls from our Halloween decorations. Ouch. Despite these slight artistic disabilities, here I sit today, alive and well, writing on a keyboard with ten fingers and two eyes after cutting out magazines and gluing my hands together. I suppose miracles do have a tendency to happen.

The Power of Analyzation

            People express their personalities in hundreds of different ways nowadays. Individuals use clothing, shoes, cars, bumper stickers, jewelry, phone cases and other possessions to tell the world of their certain interests and pet-peeves. Posters remain one of the most widely utilized ways to assert such personality traits. I take myself as an example. If one has the honor to walk up the steps of my household to the hallway connecting my family’s bedrooms, they would see a larger-than-life size poster of the famous Sandra Bullock hanging from one of the doors. Not risqué in the slightest bit, this poster captures the amazing beauty of the brilliant actress in a gorgeous snow white dress, batting those mysterious luscious eyes of overwhelming delicacy. Above the worldly goddess resides a poster containing a cartoon replica of spider-man. To the right of this Marvel superhero sits Kobe Bryant, staring menacingly at the stairwell. After briefly analyzing the decoration of this door, one can imply that, most likely, two boys share this dormitory. Through the depiction of the posters containing a basketball superstar and an actress, one can infer that the older boy sleeping in this room loves sports while also possessing an unbelievable taste in women. From analyzing the Marvel poster, a bystander can come to the conclusion that the younger boy sharing this room enjoys movies and reading. Both assumptions would deem correct in this situation. So, if a simple poster depicts specific details about the owner, what does the poster hanging in Ms. Serensky’s room containing characters from the Harry Potter series portray? To begin with, I question why the poster chosen for our teacher’s room includes an advertisement for the fifth Harry Potter movie. The date on the bottom of the poster, depicting the release of the “Order of the Phoenix,” portrays that the hanger of the advertisement obtained the propaganda before the release of the last two movies. The poster’s owner’s decision to hang this poster however, a symbolic representation of the darkest of J.K. Rowling’s novels at the time, creates numerous implications surrounding the owner of the ad. I can infer that the inhabitant of the room containing the poster possesses a dark sense of humor as well as a complex mind. Those fascinated by the magical fantasies of Harry Potter and profound genius of Rowling’s work prove extremely intellectual. I support this claim through personal experiences. Also, the teacher’s decision to include a poster portraying various characters instead of a single witch or wizard proves interesting. The numerous characters represent the open-mindedness of the owner of the poster. Instead of analyzing things from one perspective, the possessor depicts his/her ability to evaluate things from numerous views. Finally, the poster’s deceptive location tells me much about its owner. By placing the poster nonchalantly on a filing cabinet in the back of the room, the teacher wishes to portray to others that the object proves of little value to her. However, the ad, almost directly sitting across from the teacher’s desk, depicts the necessity the owner feels in gazing at the propaganda. In conclusion, despite acting as if the Harry Potter books play a minimal role in her life, our English teacher lives day to day with the fond memories of Hogwarts.

Bitter Sweet

            The AP English Student of the Month Award remains one of the most valued endowments in the school. At least I like to think this. As the year progresses, however, such a distinction becomes less…well distinct I suppose. The preposterous fact that no person may receive the award more than once parallels the same philosophy to that of my kindergarten soccer coach. Sure, many of my teammates found it entertaining to pick daisies as the ball rolled pass their ankles. Sure, none of the kids on the field could even spell scoreboard. Sure, most of the players on my team showed up week after week solely for the free, grape snowcone they received after the game. However, these actions should not diminish the fact that, when the game ended, one team lost and one team won. Yet my coach allowed these small factors to change the rules of the world. After the game, my coach assured us that “we were all winners,” even after a lost. When we won, I knew the exact same scenario happened on the opposing sideline. I figured that I, a responsible human being, would inform the players on the other team that in actuality, they were in fact losers and that their coach lied to them simply to make them feel better. I remember this happening one Saturday morning, while lining up to shake hands with the other team after the game. My coach taught us to go through the line and say “Good game” to each of the opposing players. Even though anyone with the slightest math background understood that my team won the game by five goals, I knew that the opposing coach had repeated the cursed statement to his players. So, I figured I would act as the better man and go through the line saying, “7-2. 7-2. 7-2” and so on and so forth. However, I learned to live through countless scenarios of “spreading the wealth” (although my mother demanding that I share my Skittles with another boy because he cried almost killed me). For this reason, I believe that I will persevere through the rest of the school year, with the rest of my fellow AP English Students of the Month Award winners, despite knowing the fact that we will never again win such an award. Therefore, I will attempt to live by the cliché, “If you can’t beat them, join them.” Although winners of this high honor will never again feel the suspense that comes during the drum roll before the announcement of the victor of the award, I urge ex-winners to set aside their distaste for the rules of the world and support their new brethren. For example, brainstorming photo ideas for the new hero would prove exceptionally helpful. As the year continues, I expect the photo shots of the monthly winners to become more and more creative. Despite Osgood’s past, visionary pose, jumpstarted with Hinman’s stellar mannequin performance, I think such a goal remains reachable.

Ernie Should Have Confided in Bert

              
                     After long, seemingly endless conversations about the topic of happiness in English class last week, Thanksgiving Break finally rolled around to relieve my classmates and I from awkward “speed-dating” situations. I firmly believe that I, over the course of my teenage years, have justly earned the title of “World’s Worst Small Talker.” Perhaps my peers enjoyed the experience of conversing with a person for a minute or two before whisking away to another individual. I, however, could not help wringing out my sweaty hands, scrambling around my brain for anything that would keep the discussion running, all the while thinking of any tips that Will Smith may have mentioned in his movie, Hitch. In fact, when consultation hit rock bottom, I began reciting Bible verses in my head, praying that I would survive this experience in one piece. Awkwardness kills me. Anyways, as I said earlier, these quick yet numerous interactions with my classmates centered around the idea of happiness. Before I begin a spiel on contentment, I think I must establish my personal thoughts and feelings about thinking and analyzing the term “happiness.” I hope I have not lost you. I believe that thoughts on an abstract thing like joy delve into the psychological world. I do not think such thoughts prove futile; many benefits can arise from analyzing how the brain works. However, in the long run, interpreting these ideas will turn a person in a complete circle, placing an individual back to where they started. Every individual acts in their own, specific way. No two brains operate identically. Therefore, why should we possess the arrogance into thinking that every human shares the same feelings as us in reference to such an abstract idea like happiness? I believe that scraping the surface of this topic can reap results. However, attempting to discover deeper meaning in this psychological area proves inefficient and unnecessary. Now that I finished my rant on psychology (I hope I did not offend any of my readers), let us move to the topic at hand. More specifically, let us turn to Ernest Hemingway, American author and journalist who claimed that “Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.” While reading this in class, the urge to decapitate a small stuffed animal overcame me, followed by a loathing for this man. The author’s quote offended me because I like to think that I possess a tiny bit of intelligence (when you recover from the fall off your chair, you can keep reading). In many cases, intelligence brings forth worldly possessions. Hemingway depicts the claim that these worldly goods distract people from things that bring true happiness: family, friends and companionship. However, as discussed this past day in English class, winning the lottery and becoming wealthy yields worldly possessions, promoting comfort and relaxation. Truly intelligent people understand the driving forces behind obtaining happiness and have the ability to analyze the dangers that come with intelligence. I think that Ernie should have pondered his statement about such a debatable subject before speaking to the press.

What a Nightmare

            This past week, I experienced an event in English class unlike anything I have ever encountered in my life. The teacher’s directions seemed straightforward enough. Read a short story, do a SOAPSTone for the passage, and come to class prepared with reactions about the piece of work. Students in AP English read Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Tell-Tale Heart” and, let me assure anyone reading this, Poe’s tale definitely proved itself as a “piece of work.” I think I should establish certain facts about myself before I continue with my experience. To begin with, I scare easily. For example, while in a haunted house this past year, I screamed so loudly that the witch who scared me asked if I…she asked a question that implied I shared numerous feminine qualities (use your imagination). Then the year before that, a certain girl and I shared a crush on each other. However, after a scary movie night get-together with friends, this girl shockingly informed me that she “wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with me anymore,” shortly after the movie night. I understood, and supported, her motives. Certain words definitely describe my personality when it comes to terrifying encounters. Words like sissy, wussy, and wimpy find their way right up my alley. Anyways, in class, we watched a short clip based off Poe’s work, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” adapted by Darrin Walker and Travis Mays. Walker and Mays attempt to dull down the fear-factor in their work by omitting a scene which includes human incapacitation as well as including a celebrity look-alike of Robert Downey Jr. These minor changes however, provided me with absolutely no sources of refuge from the terror that covered the screen. After peeking between my fingers for the majority of the film and turning purple in the face due to valiant efforts to withstand from screaming, I sneak a glimpse at my teacher during the closing credits. What I witness causes my heart to leap. For there, in her chair, some sort of fit seems to overcome my English teacher. I pity her, for I know the embarrassment of such reactions to a horror film. However, after seconds of watching her, I realize that she does not twitch uncontrollably in her chair due to fear, but rather because of laughter. I cannot believe my eyes. There I sit, haunted by an older man’s “vulture eye” and Robert Downey’s unspeakable deeds, while my teacher laughs in hysteria. I ask myself the question, “How could anyone find such enjoyment in a horror film?” After pondering this question for a couple days, I arrive at only one conclusion: certain people actually enjoy the feeling of going into cardiac arrest when their heart stops beating. Similar to riding a roller coaster, particular individuals harness the suspense created in a scary movie and somehow channel this energy into a thrill that leaves them hungry for more. In all honesty, I believe that there resides a bit of jealousy within me towards these people who relish horror movies. Over the next year, I will search for ways that will hopefully allow me to build a tolerance towards these films, and therefore enable me to watch scary movies with people of the opposite sex.

The Surprisingly Dreadful Day

            Certain students enjoy receiving new writing partners. I, however, find the extravaganza quite a demoralizing event due to the unspoken truth: last year, my teacher often paired a great writer with another student whose writing could use a little help. Shockingly, the majority of my past writing partners have proved themselves as some of the best writers in the grade.  Although this trend seemed much stronger last year, I think the above hypothesis still holds validity this year for at least one of her students: this guy. For instance, last Monday, my teacher paired me up with the student who won the “English Student of the Year Award” last year. I wish my teacher would have just slapped a sticker across my forehead that read “I SUCK” instead of pairing me up with this genius. Such an experience would have proved less humiliating. Anyways, after receiving our new writing partners on Monday, my teacher exclaimed, in a voice that haunts my dreams to this day, “This is the first test to prove your dominance over your partner and show that you are the leader of the pair.” Although paraphrasing slightly, the remark made me ponder this question: why does a leader emerge within a pair of people? I think author, Haruki Murakami, answers this question in his short story, “The Second Bakery Attack.” In a year when Japan experienced 8,581 violent crimes (1985), Murakami weaves a tale of a newlywed couple attacking a McDonalds in order to break a curse placed upon the duo. During the attack, the wife orders her husband to “Lower…shutter and turn off…sign” (7). The commanding diction of “Lower” and “turn off” creates a dominating tone, indirectly characterizing the wife as the leader of the couple. The woman’s ability to think quickly and intelligently during the attack implies that she possesses a history in crime. For this reason, Murakami asserts that the person with more experience in a certain situation will naturally arise as the leader of a couple. After the conclusion of the McDonalds attack, Harukami writes, “she [the wife] fell asleep” and “I [the husband]…closed my eyes” (9). The mood of closure depicted by the pleasant diction of “asleep” implies that the couple finally finds peace from the detestable curse. Through this sense of contentment, Harukami develops the claim that leadership brings about happiness. The author urges those familiar with the topic at hand to take leadership within a group in order to bring about success. On the other hand, I urge those humble enough to admit their weaknesses in certain aspects of life (especially writing) to accept their role as side-kick and support their leaders.

Raw Broccoli

            After completion of Elizabeth Strout’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Olive Kitteridge, I for some odd reason cannot help but compare the book to raw broccoli…without dip. At first thought, one must think that Olive Kitteridge proved one of the worst books I have ever read in my entire life due to raw broccoli’s repulsive taste. I, however, will explain why such a rash and hasty inference deems preposterous in this scenario. People who have never experienced the displeasure of eating raw broccoli should consider themselves extremely lucky. The initial outrageous blandness of such a vegetable hits the tongue’s taste buds and somehow, someway, turns the bland taste into a malevolent foulness, often becoming difficult to swallow. The same rings true for Strout’s novel. At some points during the reading, I wanted nothing more than to “spit” the words back out. Strout includes narratives that prove difficult to “swallow,” like raw broccoli. For example, the author writes a short story about a young woman named Julie, still controlled by her mother, Anita, despite Julie’s entrance to womanhood. Julie recollects to her younger sister how “Most mothers don’t shoot their daughter’s boyfriends,” after Anita attempts to kill Julie’s ex-fiancé (195). Although quite scary, Strout surely captures an accurate mother-daughter relationship in certain American families within this narrative. This thought urges me to put the broccoli down. In another narrative, Strout explains how the main character, Olive Kitteridge, visits her son, Christopher, in New York City. Olive, a widow that lost her lovable husband to a stroke, maintains few friends in her growing age. Christopher remains one of few reasons Olive continues to keep living. However, by the end of her stay in New York, Olive explains why she cannot call her son, “He was cruel” (232). This direct characterization of Christopher creates realization towards Olive’s situation: she has no one left in her life to live for. However, as with raw broccoli, many people forget the effects of battling through such horrible “taste.” Raw broccoli deems great for the human body, providing a person with physical strength and endurance. Olive, though quite old in age, battles through the curveballs and difficulties life throws at her. Due to her perseverance, Olive falls in love with a man, filling each other’s “holes” within their lives, like “two slices of Swiss cheese pressed together” (270). Although very depressing at points, Olive Kitteridge ends on a hopeful note. In doing so, Strout utilizes the character of Olive to speak to those encountering difficult life problems in order to tell them that there is always a reason to live. Similar to broccoli, Olive Kitteridge proves worthwhile to “eat.”

U-Turn

            Elizabeth Strout’s 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, dives in and out of numerous peculiar narratives about the townsfolk in Crosby, Maine. Each narrative includes the character, Olive Kitteridge, in some way or form, weaving her unforgettable presence into many people’s lives. Now two-thirds of the way finished with Strout’s work, my feelings towards her book have changed since the beginning of the novel. No longer do I read Strout’s work with a smile on my face and an urge to turn the page, but rather a depressing feeling that just wants Strout’s tales to end. I find that as the book progresses, the narratives become darker and darker with more evils entering into the character’s lives. For example, Strout’s first few narratives of her work end with lessons learned by certain characters, as well as hope. For instance, Strout constructs a story about a young boy named Kevin Coulson who plans to commit suicide. However, while risking his life to save a childhood friend from the ferociousness of the ocean, Kevin admires his friend’s will exclaiming, “Look how she wanted to live” (47). Kevin’s commendable tone towards his friend’s perseverance to live strikes hope in the minds of the readers, suggesting that Kevin may choose not to commit suicide. The very next narrative ends in a similar, hopeful way. The piano player in the town’s bar, Angela O’Meara, struggles with relationships. Strout describes a past relationship with a fellow pianist named Simon, as well as a current relationship with a married man named Malcolm. After a night with confrontations between both Simon and Malcolm, Angela makes the decision to move on, announcing that “Even drunk, she knew she would not call him [Malcolm]” (60). Angela’s choice to leave crippling relationships to better her life motivates Strout’s audience to do the same in their lives. After these inspiring narratives however, Olive Kitteridge seems take a U-Turn. Strout relates a tale of a young anorexic girl named Nina. With the help of Olive Kitteridge and a widowed woman named Daisy, Nina seeks the aid of her parents in order to cure her disease. Despite all of Daisy and Olive’s efforts, Daisy must pass on the saddening news a few months later, “The funeral’s private” (100). Strout creates false sense of hope in this narrative, robbing readers of a feeling of success and happiness. Strout then goes on to weave a story of how the Kitteridges unfortunately become hostages in an armed robbery at the hospital. Instead of finding peace and forgiveness after the drastic event, the townspeople conclude that “Both Kitteridges were changed by the event” (105). The next paragraph goes on to explain how this “change” experienced by the Kitteridges proved unhealthy. Strout’s writing clearly depicts how not every challenge encountered by an individual ends happily ever after.

Olive

            Elizabeth Strout, author of the 2009 Pulitzer Prize Award with her book, Olive Kitteridge, weaves numerous narratives together all in the presence of one, unforgettable character, in her masterpiece. Not surprisingly, this one distinguished character goes by the name of Olive Kitteridge. Strout’s prized character, Olive, mirrors the author’s life in certain areas. For example, after growing up in various towns in northern New England, Strout decides to develop the character Olive in a small town by the name of Crosby, Maine. Olive Kitteridge teaches for a living, paralleling Strout’s mother. Despite these charming comparisons, I would most definitely not befriend Olive due to her pretentious demeanor and shrewd attitude. The novel begins with a narrative that describes the relationship Olive possesses with her husband, Henry Kitteridge. Henry, a laid-back man who runs the town’s pharmacy with a young woman by the name of Denise, loves interacting with his working partner and her husband. While the Kitteridge’s eat dinner with the young couple (despite Olive’s protests), Olive cries out, “for God’s sake,” after Henry spills ketchup down the front of his shirt (7). Olive’s profane diction creates a tone of resentment towards her husband’s clumsiness. The italicized word “sake” indirectly characterizes her as accusatory and fed up with Henry’s actions. She goes on to announce to her husband that Denise “Looks just like a mouse” (5). The simile portrays Olive’s judgmental mentality towards others, illustrating her as an arrogant person. I do not desire to become friends with a woman that treats her husband as cruelly as Olive Kitteridge does and who possesses an air of contempt toward other people. Strout delves into another narrative about Olive Kitteridge’s son’s wedding day. Christopher Kitteridge, Olive’s son, unsurprisingly marries a woman with similar qualities to his mother: controlling and arrogant. Olive seems to understand the danger of having a daughter-in-law that thinks she can do nothing wrong, and the effects it will have on her son. In realizing this, Olive decides to steal and undergarment from Suzanne’s room, as well as a shoe. She also goes into Suzanne’s closet to draw black marker on one of her sweaters. Olive chooses these things “just to keep the self-doubt alive” in her daughter-in-law (74). Who is Olive to decide to vandalize and steal certain belongings of Suzanne in order keep intact the young woman’s arrogance? In her actions, Olive proves more audacious than her daughter-in-law. Speaking personally, I would not like to befriend a person who stole my underwear unknowingly from me. Strout warns those in search of friends to take care in choosing friends who think of themselves more highly than others.