Writing Thoughts

In my writing workshop last night, we had an engaging conversation about the differences between the American education system and eastern education systems. With a Korean student and a Vietnamese student in the class, we were able to talk about the differences between writing pedagogy in the U.S. and eastern education systems. The Korean and Vietnamese students were of the opinion that writing in their homelands meant repeating things they read or that other people have already said. They said that they were never required to create their own theses or arguments. Their input really put the American way of writing into perspective. We like to be original.

Sometimes I think, though, that American writing style is too direct. I appreciate the freedom to argue whatever you want as long as you support it, but I often think that there is not enough room for showing the humanity of the writer. A lot of the time the writer portrays the persona of an expert, like they arrive at their conclusion without any struggle at all. To me, some of the most interesting arguments are ones that divulge information about all the steps (for better or worse) that the writer had to take to arrive at their conclusion. This also makes the writer seem more human and as a result, the material seems more important.

I understand why high school teachers often tell their students not to use "I" in their essays, but like how Joseph Williams calls countless grammar rules "folklore," this piece of advice turns into a rule that student writers think they cannot break. I've been in a number of classes in which students raise their hands and ask, "Do you want us to use 'I'?" when talking about a paper assignment. The teacher usually has a good answer, explaining that you can use it, but you should not use your personal opinions to make your argument. When I meet with students (some of them college seniors), they still don't understand when they should and shouldn't use "I" in academic writing. It's not easy to know when it's appropriate and when it's not, but more experience writing pieces that require both personal and academic voices might help students learn how to negotiate their voices.

Problems in public school systems bring me to tears

I heard yet another astounding story on This American Life. This time it's about how the NYC public school system holds hundreds of teachers in a reassignment center as a form of punishment for misconduct. It's actually pretty comical. Imagine hundreds of teachers hanging out in a room with nothing to do for years. Sad, too.

The Rubber Room
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPMtYjhnRqc&NR=1

NY Times story
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/10/education/10education.html

I saw this in San Francisco.

Whose Mom Is Here?

Most college-age women choose to give Halloween some sex appeal with costumes that are ordinarily seen on toddlers. I’m never sure if they actually purchase toddlers’ costumes and stretch the tiny garments around their busts, waists, and nothing else, or if they paint their brassieres black and yellow and tape black paper polka dots to their red panties. In an attempt to stay true to my efforts to live in opposition of the norms of college life at a Big Ten university, however, I avoided the whole dilemma. I never chose to be sexy for Halloween, nor did I choose to be scary. I chose to be ugly.

I got the inspiration for my first costume from the character Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) on the short-lived TV series Strangers With Candy. Jerri Blank is a forty-four year old drug and alcohol addicted ex-convict who returns to high school to find that things are not any easier than the first time around. Everyone makes fun of her and the boys are just as hard to woo. In a fat-suit designed to mimic the pear-shaped body of a chubby middle-aged woman, Sedaris dresses in earth-tone turtlenecks and high-waist pants. She wears her short, streaked brown hair swooped to one side and contorts her face to express disappointment, shame, and sexual intrigue and arousal. Having practiced mimicking Sedaris’ facial expression, I saw dressing up as Jerri Blank for Halloween as an opportunity to showcase my amateur acting abilities. Also, having idolized Sedaris for her odd yet hilarious gigs in entertainment, I saw this costume as a testimony to her work.

The response to my costume, however, was less reverential and more confusing. Shortly before Halloween, while visiting my parents’ house I asked my mom if I could borrow a few things from her for a costume. “Oh sure!” she said, too excited to even ask what kind of a costume I needed them for. Overjoyed as always by the act of giving things away, she pulled out the perfect pair of jeans and a turtleneck from her closet, handing them to me with a smile. I ordered a wig called the “You’re Fired!” wig off the Internet, which I assume was intended for the Donald Trump or "big mean boss" costume. On the night of Halloween I stuffed the back of my over-sized jeans with two small, square pillows and the front of the jeans with a bunch of rolled up socks. I put on the turtleneck, the wig, some blue eyeshadow, and some tennis shoes.

With low expectations I hauled my new self off to my friends’ party. On my walk, I received a number of hollers from college guys in passing cars. I didn’t quite know how to react yet. I hadn’t gotten in character. When I walked into the house everyone started giggling, but when I turned around to sit down in a chair, they started laughing hysterically. It was a hit.

When my boyfriend and his friend arrived, though, I experienced a new perspective on my costume. At first they laughed like everyone else, but when my boyfriend and his friend saw my backside, their expressions turned to horror.
“It looks really…realistic,” his friend said, staring.
“Yeah, yeah it does,” said my boyfriend, laughing uncomfortably.
Throughout the night I caught my boyfriend’s friend staring at me with the same look of horror on his face. Finally I approached him.
“Do I scare you?” I said, joking.
“Yeah,” he said, snapping out of it. “Yeah, you do.”
I laughed.
“Why? Don’t you know Jerri Blank?” I said, making the face.
“Yeah, it’s just—“
“What?” I said.
“Don’t ever get fat, Annika. Or old. Please.”
I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if it was an insult or not, so I started laughing. I hadn’t realized my costume looked so realistic.

The next year I didn’t have as grand of a plan, but I knew I wanted to continue to counteract the sexy Halloween costume trend. The night of Halloween, I pulled out a black fur hat that I found in my grandmother’s apartment in Sweden a few years before. It was the strangest looking hat. My mom always seemed nostalgic about the hat, repeating over and over again that she wore it to school when she was maybe ten, smiling every time, but I never understood it. There was no doubt that the hat would be warm—it covered every inch of the head including the ears, jawbone, and underneath the chin with thick, black animal fur—but I couldn’t take the way it looked seriously. It looked like a gorilla head.

So that’s what I dressed up as. I put on a pair of black pants and long-sleeve black shirt to which I taped part of a paper bag that I had cut out so that it looked like a monkey’s chest. I drew nipples on the chest and put on the big, black fur hat. Nobody knew what I was. Actually not many people even asked. I seemed to disappear in the crowd. I obviously wasn’t sexy, but I wasn’t ugly either. I looked like a black blob.

So the next year I decided to put more effort into making a statement about Halloween costumes. For the past two years, I had been thinking about the year I dressed as Jerri Blank as one of the best times of my life, so I decided I would do something similar. Since the big ass was the best part of the costume, I looked for a costume that would allow me to stuff my pants again. Browsing at a second hand store, I noticed that most of the clothing looked like something a grandma would wear, so I decided to go for it. I dressed as a grandma. It made things easy since I could pick up almost anything from the racks and it would work. I selected a pair of bright peach Capri pants and a white t-shirt with small red palm trees on it. To top it off, I picked up a bright purple visor with a palm tree pattern on the brim.

At home I got to work immediately, pulling out the old “You’re Fired!” wig, rolling a bunch of socks into balls, and releasing the square pillows from their handmade pillow cases. I borrowed a pair of white tube socks from my roommate and put on my running shoes. Within five minutes, I was ready. I knew what to do, and it looked great. My ass looked huge and just as realistic as two years ago, and the wig fit nicely under the palm tree visor. “Florida Grandma,” I named myself.

At the party I got a similar reaction to when I first arrived as Jerri Blank. Everyone started laughing.
“That is the best costume I’ve ever seen,” someone said. This time my boyfriend was less horrified. I think he knew what to expect when I told him I was going to dress as a grandma, so he acted more proud than anything else that his girlfriend had such a hilarious costume. With this attitude I felt like I was going to be able to live my role as a grandma to the fullest that night.

As more guests started to arrive, though, my costume slowly started to lose its thrill. Good friends of mine reacted positively, laughing and complimenting me. As the party progressed normally as most parties do, however, (into groups of people standing around drinking and talking), I kept finding that I had no one to talk to. It wasn’t that I didn’t know anyone at the party. I knew who plenty of the people at the party were—I wasn’t necessarily friends with them—but when I tried to get their attention, they either failed to notice me or diverted their attention. I felt like everyone was acting like they didn’t know who I was. A few times I tried to join the conversation groups in which my boyfriend was participating, but no one acknowledged my presence. When I tried to get a word in, the conversation kept going as though I never said anything. So I gave up.

Standing against the wall with no one to talk to, I heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “Whose mom is here?”
I saw a few masked faces turn in my direction, and then I heard a cohort of chuckles. I retreated to the kitchen and indulged myself in the snacks.
What is going on? I started to wonder. People didn’t normally treat me like this. And why wasn’t my boyfriend helping me out? He wasn’t even including me in the conversation. Maybe it’s because I’m ugly tonight, I thought. My anger started stewing.

I dashed down to the basement. I stopped and observed the groups of costumed people. I couldn’t catch anyone’s glance. Not even my boyfriend’s roommates’ or his sister’s. Not even his. I stormed up to my boyfriend and pulled him out of his circle. I pulled his head down and yelled into his ear over the music.
“You’re not including me in conversation because I'm ugly, right?” I said.
He pulled his head back and stared at me.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
I was too upset to make a better argument.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Forget it.”
I walked back upstairs to the snack table.

The night started to improve. I finally got the attention of some of my friends and had good conversations. It felt so normal and natural that I forgot I was dressed like a fat grandma for most of the rest of the night.

Near the end of the party, I was standing in the kitchen by myself finishing off the last of the snacks. I was really enjoying eating whatever was there—some veggies and dip probably—when I looked to my right and saw myself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall. I almost jumped. I was standing with my mouth agape and a dip-frosted carrot about to enter a bulb shaped body. The peach, and the purple, and the red colors glared back at me, hurting my eyes. My feet were like little white pins compared to my middle. Dark strings of messy hair protruded from underneath the bright purple visor. I didn’t even recognize myself. I wanted my blond hair back.

I ripped my wig off and ran outside, gripping the tangled brown and purple mess in my hand, carrying it high in the air like a torch.
“I don’t want to be ugly anymore!” I yelled as I ran to where my boyfriend was saying goodbye to a few friends.
He turned, and then his friends did the same.
“I don’t want to be ugly anymore,” I said once more as I stopped in front of them.
They smiled and turned back around, saying their final goodbyes. I caught my breath and lowered my palm tree patterned torch. That’s it? I thought. They completely ignored my epiphany. It seemed like they already knew what I had just realized. I yanked the pillows out of my pants and threw them on the ground.

My boyfriend walked away from his friends and bent to pick up the pillows.
“Why are you throwing these on the ground?” he said.
“Look!” I said, throwing my arms up in the air to show my figure. “I’m not ugly anymore!”