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Who I am as  a student, writer, and future educator

As a student, I work hard but not too hard. That can be good and bad. It’s good because I get done what I need to in a fashion that is done correctly and efficiently, but also getting a bad grade doesn’t really phase me. I do get disappointed and understand that I need to work harder, but when I know I did my best getting below an A in a course doesn’t usually keep me up at night. Sometimes that can be a dangerous mentality because it helps drive procrastination and even laziness. Overall, I think i’m a good student and a hard worker in class.

As a writer I don’t really know where I fall. Last semester I was in a class where we wrote zines. A lot of my stories were about my family and personal relationships. They ended up being really emotional, but I was really proud of the artistry I was able to put into each one of them. I also like to do journals that mostly just cover my to day, feelings, and other significant events.

As a future educator, I want to be so many things. It’s hard to narrow it down to a few goals. I think mainly I want to show my students how they can contextualize the world around them through literature. I want to help provide them with the tools that help them recognize an unjust situation. I also want to try to help them love reading and writing, especially if they come into my class hating it.

Here I am!

Here’s a link on more about zines: http://mentalfloss.com/article/88911/brief-history-zines 

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technology in the classroom

I think I have a good amount of experience working with social media as a way to connect with others. Like many people my age, I have a few social media accounts that I keep active on. I think that it’s a skill my peers and I have grown up with and it makes it easier to transfer those skills into pedagogical mediums in the classroom. 

The authors of these readings advocate for the use of technology in the classroom rather than villainizing it. Technology can help students, especially in urban schools, express themselves in a way they otherwise can’t at home. I think this is a major potential to incorporating social media in the classroom. I think one of the downsides is entrusting that students are using the technology appropriately and that they aren’t getting distracted from the task at hand.

Ultimately, I think I would allow my students to utilize technology in the classroom. I think the goods outweigh the bads and that with some enforced ground rules technology would help students’ ideas flourish and even make it easier for them to collaborate and become inspired. Here’s a link that discusses more about the benefits technology has to offer in the classroom: https://www.teachhub.com/benefits-technology-classroom 

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Advanced Writing Workshop Reflection

Aside from easily being my favorite class this semester, I am so grateful that this class helped introduce me to zines. For a long time, I have been searching for a fulfilling creative outlet. I’m not a very good artist, and I like playing music but I’ve never been able to record or produce anything. I feel like I am a good writer and being able to write zines and have a tangible, final product has been incredibly rewarding. I’d like to keep doing zines, and I have already created one that isn’t for class. They’ve helped me become a better writer by practicing showing rather than telling and I’ve had an easier time avoiding cliches. Most of my zines have been about relationships with my family or my family members in general, and something I’d like to work on is expanding the subjects of the zines I make (or any kind of personal writing in general).

 I’m not sure where I’ll go with zines. I think for now I’ll be keeping them personal or giving them away as gifts. I think a downfall to making zines is that to my understanding it’s only in physical form. It would be nice to transfer it to digital form to allow more people to see it, but I think you risk stripping it of its niche hand made craft. Regardless, I’m excited to see what avenues writing zines creates for me and as a teacher I’d like to include it in the curriculum for my classes if I can. 

As for this class, I think it was set up very nicely. I liked that it was only 12 people because often times writing can unravel personal details about our lives, and being in such an intimate space helped me be more comfortable with that. I thought Lane was always incredibly helpful and always looked forward to looking at our work. 

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What felt comfortable? What seemed beyond your comfort zone? Are there ethical issues involved in these methods? What seemed fruitful to you? Go into some depth with observation and analysis and critique, be it literary, procedural and/or sociological. (250-350 word length, roughly) 

When I was conducting interviews and observing for some of the projects for this class, I didn’t come across a ton of discomfort. Most of my observing was accidental. I found myself in situations that fit the prompt for our pieces in my day to day and ended up recounting them. The only time I felt a bit awkward in interviewing was with my grandpa. The conversation went smoothly, but I felt like he was holding back in some ways. I understand there’s things he’ll want to keep to himself, but I was hoping to find something deeper. There were some more sensitive moments to our conversation, but his consent to have them put in the story seemed hesitant. I plan to be careful about what I put in, but I’m worried about telling his story accurately. 

I decided to record the interview with my grandpa and then later transcribe it. I soon found out that transcribing was a lot of work, and I had to replay lots of clips from the interview to make sure I typed it out correctly. However, I am glad that I recorded the interview to hold onto. I’d like to have it to play back someday when my grandpa is no longer around. I think it will be a nice thing to keep. 

I was thinking about interviewing my brother for the next project, so maybe I can tweak my method to make it less tedious to transcribe and possibly figure out an easier way to record it as it was hard to find a way to record audio on my phone while also talking on it. Either way, I’m glad these projects helped me learn more than just how to be a better writer. 

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Characters in my life

Someone I consider a bit of a ‘character’ in my life is my Aunt Jeanie. One of the reasons Jeanie is a character is what she chooses to post on Facebook. It’s lots of pictures in weird positions when she’s on vacation. For example, one time she went to one of those islands where there’s pigs roaming free. So, Jeanie decided to show to the island in a pig costume. I swear it’s true. She proceeded to pose with the pigs, and willingly uploaded it Facebook. I’m not saying what Jeanie is bad. Based on the comments, it definitely seems to make my family members laugh. I remember Jeanie showing up to Christmas one year with an interesting sweater. On the front was the face of Rudolph, but it almost looked like stuffed animal of Rudolph was ripped apart and the face was stitched to the front while his hind legs and butt were stitched to the back. I admit, that made me laugh. For awhile, she was doing this thing where she would recruit strangers she’d find on the street to do a kickline with her, record it, and put it on Facebook. In fact, there’s a picture of her with her priest doing a kickline titled “Just kickin’ it with Christ!”.One of the memories I have of Jeanie in specific is the candy she would get all the kids during Christmas time. Not just any candy though, I’m talking huge candy. Jaw breakers the size of a Nerf ball, peanut butter cups the size of dinner plates. She would never tell us where she got them, it was just a new gigantic candy every year. It was only a matter of time when she’d recruit me, and sure enough when we were taking out family photo I was standing next to Jeanie. She asked me to link arms with her and raise my leg. I knew it would make her happy, and after all that’s all she’s trying to do: find the brighter side of things, so I kicked up my leg with her. I appreciate that Jeanie tries to make people laugh. I think that’s her motivation, after all. That fact makes me happy. Keep on keepin’ on, Jeanie.

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Local Literary Scene Event

On Thursday, October 25th I went to an event on campus where Roxane Gay spoke. Roxane Gay is the Author of both Bad Feminist and Hunger. Bad Feminist is a series of essays in which she considers what it means to be a feminist in the 21st century. Something she discusses is enjoying rap music, a genre that often dehumanizes women within its lyrics, but still identifying as a feminist. Does that make her a “bad feminist”? 

The event started with the mediator giving a small introduction on Roxane Gay. I didn’t know this before, but apparently she is very active on Twitter where she advocates for POC, women, and the LGBTQ community in tweets that often hilariously condemn her haters. When Roxane Gay came out on stage, the mediator started by talking about her most recent book, Hunger.

Although I haven’t read it yet, Hunger seems to be about Roxane Gay’s on going struggle with her health and weight. She read an excerpt in the book in which she talks about how much she hates exercise. It seems like the book continues on in discovering how to love your body despite the frustrating beauty standards women are often put up against. 

After some time answer questions about her book, she talked about teaching at Purdue. She said that she had just recently achieved tenure and was finally able to find her voice as a faculty member. As a woman of color, she said she struggled to be vocal in certain meetings for fear of putting her job in jeopardy. She also talked about how she lives in LA and makes a constant commute out to Perdue to teach there. I thought this was interesting and I wish she commented more on what kind of stress that puts on her (if any). 

After chatting with the mediator Roxane Gay took some questions from the audience. Several people lined up to ask her various questions. Two that stuck out to me was one young woman asking about the importance of youth voting. Roxane Gay made a point to stress the importance of voting. Another question that I really liked was that of a young English teacher. She asked how she can better influence her students to write openly, and Roxane Gay give her great advice finishing with “The fact that you’re even asking this question tells me your students are in good hands.”

I really enjoyed seeing Roxane Gay speak and I hope to check out some more literary events around campus or the Milwaukee area soon. 

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Future Projects

For the next zine, I’m thinking about interviewing my grandfather, Jerry. He’s had a very interesting life. Recently, I went to visit him in Florida for the week. It was the first I ever got one on one time with him for a long span of time. We talked a lot about politics, love, family, and religion. As I spent the week with him I began to realize how similar we were. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t scare me a little. Part of what makes my grandfather interesting is a direct result of his love life. He’s been married 3 times, and all my life he’s had girlfriends come in and out playing a grandmother figure anywhere from 1-4 years. Whether that be good or bad I haven’t decided, but I do know he’s one of my favorite people in the entire world. I like that I inherited his kindness and ability to go above and beyond for the people he loves. I think he’d really like being interviewed for something like this. He lives far away, and it makes me sad that I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like to. It would be nice to call and talk to him for awhile. I have a feeling with his recollection of certain events throughout his life, I’d be able to learn more about him and piece together a nice story. 

My other idea is to call and interview my brother. Unfortunately, he also lives further away in lower Michigan. He’s four years older than me, and because I don’t see him often I feel like I forget who he is. Not in a way that’s like “oh, yeah I have an older brother.” We both grow and experience so much in a short amount of time, I feel like we’re different people by the time I see him again. Even if it’s not for the project, I want to start calling him more.

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Notes From the Underground

I like the context that this book gives to zines. Before taking Lane’s class I had never heard of Zines before. Duncombe suggests in his book that Zines are more part of a punk, underground literary scene. It makes me think that Zines are like the Indie music version of writing.

Duncombe also comments on loneliness. He says that “Part of the motivation is loneliness, pure and simple. Zine writers may not be able to communicate well face-to-face, but like most people they want company.” This makes me think that Zine authors are somewhat outcasted, and they find community within the works of one another. What I like about writing zines is they can be so variant. This is the first time I felt like I’m actually producing work instead of typing another short story and a blank piece of paper. I think zines help give character to the writing, and that’s what Duncombe is trying to say as well.  

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Mining the Mundane

One of the photographs taped to my wall is in black and white. It shows a young woman of about 19 or 20. She shares my smile, nose, and wavy hair. She’s smiling directly at the camera. The corners of the photograph curl inwards from the heat of the radiator. Every so often I have to press the picture of my young mother in a book to flatten it out again. 

I found the photo when I was rummaging through the storage room of my basement. The way I held it in my hands was like that of an architect discovering something historically altering. I’ve only ever know mom as mom. I needed to know more about the picture. First of all, who took it? Why? When? I was infatuated. 

I soon found out that my dad took the photograph for his art class in college. They were only dating during that time. It was such a beautiful picture of her. It was minimalistic and it begged for questions. I wonder if when my dad took the picture if he knew that he’d achieve 26 years of marriage with his photo subject- and counting. I wonder if my mom knew that she’d have and wonderfully raise two children with her photographer. 

And did they ever think that more than two decades later their youngest son would proudly hang it in his room, framed in lights? I look at the photo and remember it’s back story with a full heart. I look for the ways in which I can amplify and radiate the love and tenderness the photographer and the model have shown one another all these years. 

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If You Find a Mouse on a Glue Trap

This piece discusses the pain a woman and her husband experienced upon finding a mouse stuck to a glue trap they were unaware of in their attic. As she writes, she explains that she doesn’t kill things. She saves stink bugs, frogs, and other creatures that find their way into her home. She describes apologizing to the mouse as she douses him in olive oil, trying to set him free from the glue trap as gently as possible. She contemplates killing the mouse as the most humane option- putting it out of its misery. Ultimately she chooses not to because again, she’s not someone who kills. After some struggle, the mouse is free. She leaves some seeds and cheese for him to eat, but whens he comes to check on him in the morning she finds him dead. 

This piece made me emotional. The author, Suzanne Smith, did a good job conveying her pain to the page. As I read I found myself thinking “Did you try this?” “Could you do this?” because I desperately wanted to help the mouse, too. This reminds me of a personal experience. I was 10 years old and I was just getting back from one of my summer evening youth baseball games. The cracks in our driveway had just got freshly tarred. When I went to the garage to put away my baseball bat I saw a small black bird stuck in the tar by his wing. I yelled for my Mom to come out- we share the same emotional triggers. Always wanting to help. My mom used some de-greaser on his wing to free him, and I got a shoe box to put him in. I decided (stupidly) to name him petey after my favorite superhero Spirder-man (Peter Parker). Once we managed to free Petey, we put him in the shoe box and gave him some bird seed. His wing was still full of tar. Petey survived the night, and my mom brought him into the humane society. A few days later, she called to check up on him. Unfortunately, just like the Mouse- Petey didn’t make it.

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Realism

Casio Watch:

My watch rests on my nightstand when I’m not wearing it. It silently ticks away while I sleep and when I’m not aware of its presence. It’s simple. Black with a white face a little bigger than the size of a quarter. It seems a useless purchase with clocks in every classroom and my phone always in my pocket, but when I forget to put it on my arm feels lighter and I feel naked. It’s funny to think about what my watch and I have been through since I bought it in late spring. The minute hand has circled its way through an entire summer. 

In fact, the minute hand was quietly ticking when I met her in late June. It inched around the face of my watch around these times too:

-When I offered her a sweatshirt

-When she touched my back

-When I intertwined my fingers in hers down East Mason St. 

-When I met her family 

And my watch ticked when everything blew up. Or at least things blew up for now. They blew up recently, just after writing everything above. In fact, it hurts to read everything above because I miss her. She’s still mine, but she’s hurt and alone and I can’t contact her for the moment. This entry is becoming more about my emotions and less about my watch, but it’s what I need. I hope my watch is still ticking when things go back to normal. I hope it’s strapped to my left wrist when I see her again. I hope I catch the time when she stops shaking. I hope she spends her day today in normalcy surrounded by people who care about her. I hope she knows that I’m waiting and that I’m here and that she can count on me. 

I was at a coffee shop this morning with my best friend. Yes, my watch was present. It was ticking when I shoved my tongue between my teeth. It ticked along when I realized how much she would love coming to that coffee shop with me. And the fucking sad music didn’t help. And the empty fucking shop. And the dark morning. And the down pouring fucking rain.

It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. I’m waiting for my watch to count seconds on better days. What a terrible couple of days.  

Ouch. 

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Lydia Davis’s Varieties of Disturbance

What I noticed upon first reading Davis’s book was that the series of short stories didn’t seem to connect. The narration alters between first and third person, so maybe some of these stories root from personal account. He writing style seems very cut and dry. To me, it feels like there are a lot of hard stops and that her writing doesn’t have an easy flow to it. This might be what she was aiming for as she put together this collection of short stories, so as a reader I feel indifferent about her style. 

One of Davis’s short stories, “Enlightened,” encouraged me to reflect on what it means to be “enlightened”. Davis talks about someone she can no longer remain friends with because she is not enlightened. My first thought was a political difference, and maybe Davis is suggesting their difference in political views more or less terminates their friendship. The theme as a whole seems to be that Davis changed, grew, and became informed while her friend remained unchanged. I related to this in my own life because I have had to end relationships with people due to the fact that they refused to embrace change. 

Some of Davis’s works in this book are only a sentence long. One called “Collaboration With a Fly” says “I put that word on a page, but he added an apostrophe”. It’s hard to find a ton to analyze in this sentence, but I think it presents opportunity to interpretation for readers. For some reason I envision Davis working on a piece, and literally killing a fly on the paper which made it look like an apostrophe appeared on the page. It might not be so literal, but that’s what I saw during my first read through.

Another piece that caught my eye was called “Forbidden Subjects”. This story reminded me of sensitive subjects that come with hard conversations or battles of depression. It’s hard to feel like you’re walking on egg shells with a partner or friend. I think Davis captured that well here, and she talks about repairing forbidden subjects to acceptable ones.

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Walkabout Start / Planning

As I rounded the corner to my apartment, I spotted the older woman and her white and black spotted dog. I think it was a terrier of some kind, but I see them walking all the time. In the morning, after school, even at night on weekdays and weekends. Sometimes even more than once a day. Although it’s not very out of the ordinary, I couldn’t help but think why she walks her dog so often- sometimes even without a leash. To be honest, walking a dog multiple times a day sounds like a wonderful time to me- but also, why?

I’m starting to think she herself has medical stipulations that require her to walk X amount of times throughout the day, so why not take along her dog? Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe her dog has medical stipulations that require X amount of walks throughout the day. 

Or maybe white and black spotted dog is just her companion. A friend after the death of a spouse, distance from possible kids or grandkids. Either way, they make a cute pair. 

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Today on campus, I noticed a university police officer walking across campus, clearly headed somewhere. I had some time and maybe too much curiosity, so I followed him. It didn’t take long to find out where he was headed. The huge poster of the fake bloodied fetus and large gathering of college students was his destination. Two pro lifers vs. about 27 UWM students. The pro lifers were screaming about women being baby killers, and the UWM students were retaliating with colorful language. There were some peaceful counter protestors on the outskirts of the group with quickly made paper signs with messages like “her body her choice”. 

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The last person I took note on was a young woman who stopped me while I was waiting for the bus home. She had on a button up shirt, a cardigan, and an ankle length skirt. I could tell what she was going to ask me before she opened her mouth. “Do you have time to talk about the Lord our Savior?” followed by “Do you ever think about where you’ll go after you die?”. I gently declined her offer, and I felt bad about it because she seemed very nervous. I had hoped that people who weren’t interested in the offer had been forgiving. She stumbled on her words, spoke softly, and planted a lot of awkward silences into our interaction. She another woman with her, too, dressed similarly and asking the same questions to other students as they walked by. The whole time I waited for my bus to arrive, not one student had taken one of their pamphlets. Unlike the pro-lifers from before, they were considerate and respect towards those who declined. I think I’d like to write more about these two women.

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A Memoir Mood

 The last memoir I wrote was sometime in 8th grade. I haven’t messed with the idea of memoir since that time, and I couldn’t tell you what piece of my life it was about. Not that there was a ton of life lived to write about yet, being 13 and all. If i’m going to start a memoir here, I’ll pick apart my time in 8th grade- everyone’s favorite time.

A weird year. On the brink of high school, it was time to leave behind the elementary ties to the budding experience of young adult academia. Out of all the interesting things 8th grade brought me, I’ll never forget one teacher in particular. Mrs. S. To put it plainly, she was odd. She was older, and I think because of that, ran an old school style classroom. I think most 8th graders would say they hated Mrs. S, but I think what they really hated was how she chose to ran her classroom. 

Even I couldn’t stand it. 

What pushed Mrs. S to my shitlist was the day she introduced our poetry unit. Don’t get me wrong- I love a good poem, but I can’t say I was exactly thrilled when each of the students in her class were expected to memorize and then recite, in front of everyone, Whitman’s “O Captain! My Captain!” She was insistent. No short cuts. No notes. 

So, my angsty 8th grade self decided to privately retaliate. Emphasis on privately. It starts with the unexpected friendship that started at the beginning of the year. Somehow, I got really close with a girl I’ll call Kristine for the sake of this post. I say it was unexpected because Kristine was quite literally the antithesis of my whole being, then and now. She was beautiful, popular, and dangerous. I was entranced and confused with the fact that we were getting so close.

Kristine and I even began passing notes during class. Which, if caught and found guilty as a note passer in Mrs. S’s class, was a big fat Junior High death sentence. To make matters even more risky, the notes were about Mrs. S and they definitely didn’t contain an overwhelming love for her.

One afternoon a note we’d been passing back and forth for some time landed on the floor and Mrs. S targeted it immediately. 

I was fucking toast, and I knew it. 

“Alright, hand it over,” she said slyly while I pretended not to hear her. I pretended like she wasn’t talking to me. I pretended like there was no note containing an extremely unflattering picture of Ms. S being compared to a sloth sitting between my feet. Ms. S unfolded the note, scanned it slowly, refolded it, tossed it into her desk drawer and continued on with the lesson, but not before awarding Kristine and me some extra time with her over our lunch period. 

Lunch period is nothing to me. What scarred me more was the fact that I wrote something mean about another person, they read it in front of me, and I was drowning in the guilt of how that might have made them feel. I had to say something to her. I couldn’t let it stay the way it was. Kristine thought otherwise. For Kristine, this was another note passing escapade that went somewhat wrong. She continued on with her day and told me to relax. 

I guess I took her advice, because the only way I could relax was by confronting Mrs. S and apologizing. I stepped into her room shyly during her prep period. Shaky and nervous, I let my apology spill out. Mrs. S smiled at me, laughed a little, and told me it was okay. And then she said “I always thought I was more of the rooster type!” and flicked a piece of hair that always sticks up in the back. 

Honestly? What a sweetie. Making my punky, 8th grade ass feel at ease when I was, yes young and dumb, but also the one completely in the wrong. Even to this day I didn’t expect that kind of response from Ms. S, but I thank her for it and the lesson we collectively taught myself that afternoon.

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I Remember

I remember playing the prince. I remember drawing square bodies and being condemned. I remember salty tears falling on a dress. I remember getting sick on Grandpa’s shoes. I remember sobbing down the aisle. I remember not wanting to be the flower girl. I remember how the football stung my hands. I remember forcing myself not to express the pain. I remember thinking Monday was a good day, so Tuesday would have to be bad. I remember buying new skateboards, new ramps, and more bandaids. I remember my uncle looking me in the eyes and telling me “NOTHING is impossible.” I remember my Grandpa looking me in the eyes and telling me “I will be there for you.” I remember laughing with Maddie at midnight in my yard. My neck was craned to the stars and she told me to spin in a circle. The light from her phone hit my eyes and I collapsed to the grass in a fit of giggles. I remember she called it star tripping.

I remember nothing about Ann. I remember asking my Dad again and again. And I remember his delicate shrug and the tap of his fingers on his legs. I remember while I realized I picked up his habit. Tapping fingers on whatever was in reach. Snapping my fingers when I am nervous. I remember touching Ann’s hair on Easter. It came out of a box. It was still in a ponytail. I guess that was normal back in the day. Regardless, it was soft and the closest I have ever come to touching her. I remember Grandpa telling me he ditched priesthood to marry her. No, I’m not religious. But I remember wondering what it felt like for him to find a love greater than God. And I remember wondering what it must have felt like to lose that. 

I remember swimming out to the swim platform at the lake with Nina. I remember having cannon ball contests and washing our hair in the water. I remember gliding on a glass lake. I remember looking into the water and thinking it was hard to tell sea from sky. I remember never wanting to leave that moment. I remember the loons in the morning. I remember pancakes before church. I remember brimming with love for twin girls, a cabin, and hammocks. 

I remember being specially chosen to be a percussionist. I remember the fundamental lessons that made me want to quit. I remember not really understanding what I was doing, but somehow doing it right. I remember my middle school band director teaching me drumset after school. I remember him crossing lines. By the end, I remember wondering if he even thought I was a good musician. 

I remember pretending to be Danny Phantom in 1st grade. I remember pretending to be Spider-Man at recess most of elementary school. I remember being six and begging my mom to let me take my shirt off at the pool. I remember telling my cousin John “I’m just like you! I even pee standing up!” I definitely remember that being a struggle. I remember my bed time prayers included “and make me a boy when I wake up. Amen!” I remember being 10 and sitting with my mom as she watched Oprah’s episode on transgender people. I remember asking “Did you ever think that was me?” She said “Sometimes.”