In autumn of 2004 in my freshman—yes, freshman, not first-year—semester of college, I took English 120, the mandatory college-writing class that for some unknown and unintelligent reason mixes ESL students with budding novelists. In four months, a professor strives to transform this motley crew of freshmen into active readers and grammarians. Of course, this goal is impossible to achieve.
Courses like English 120 fail on two levels: they fail ESL students who speak English readily but cannot write at a native speaker's level, and they fail students who know and love reading and writing by giving them an easy ride.
Because I had studied the science of English—its grammar, syntax, and style—the class was easy, yet unbearable. For three hours a week, I was bored and learned nothing. The professor tried to teach students who wrote run-on sentences: "Use a comma and a coordinating conjunction." (Really, would you know what she was talking about?) And once the class understood, she'd throw in a wrench: "You can use a semicolon too."
Nevertheless (a linking adverb, FYI), I did produce one of my finest literary achievements for English 120, a research paper on Charlotte Perkins Gilman, which I'm not posting. Instead, I'm including a short in-class essay inspired by a phrase found in Stephen Dunn's poem "Hard Work."
I began working at a city guidebook company in junior year of high school. The job consisted of mainly deskwork in a casual office. Unlike Stephen Dunn's protagonist, I had no contempt for the job; my petty act of free will resisted my high school.
I involuntarily attended a Catholic high school, pleated skirts and all. The school's clothing rules bothered me the most; for example, denim shirts and jackets were prohibited. Another rule had to do with appearance on the commute to and from school: No one was allowed to change clothing.
Did the temperature drop dramatically during the night? Females who chose to wear skirts could not arrive with leggings protecting their legs from frostbite-causing wind. Galoshes were out of the question when it rained; students must tolerate their cold, wet feet during the day.
When I accepted the job offer, my boss told me to bring a change of clothing to work. “Be comfortable,” he suggested, “and your work will show the better of it.” So I did.
Each day I wore a normal shirt under the uniform shirt and packed jeans and sneakers into my already over-flowing book bag. At first, I changed in the office bathroom upon arrival. My boss was right; comfort was key to good work.
I commuted by train to work. Since my high school is located near one of the first F-train stations, my car would often be sparsely populated. One day, the car contained no one but myself.
Imagine a cartoon version of the devil—after all, I did attend a Catholic school—appearing on my shoulder. I followed his advice and changed from my billowy skirt into sleek jeans. The lifeless Oxford shirt that hid my figure gave way to a T-shirt that confessed: “Don't dream it. Be it.”
From that day forward, I always changed on the train going to work—even when straphangers rode with me. They paid no attention, looking at me for an instant with a glazed, nonchalant stare. There was nothing to see because I'm sure they've seen worse.
The saying “Some rules are meant to be broken” provides great advice. I'm proud I broke the rules because, from my experience, Catholic schools kill the soul they claim to build. By changing my clothes that day and every day thereafter, I proclaimed freedom from laws that my school claims prepare its students for the professional world and gave myself a solid starting point for my professional world.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
an introduction to one of my men
Friends, acquaintances, strangers:
I have a draft of a very good post in the making; however, I feel bad that I haven't updated. Thus, I shall wish a happy one-day-belated birthday to David Gilmour.
Since 1968, David Gilmour has been, accurately, "the voice and guitar of Pink Floyd," which is how his new album is being promoted. I had never liked Pink Floyd; the one time I watched The Wall I had nightmares of marching hammers for a week. It was not until late 2003 that I discovered what I had been missing.
In the first semester of my senior year in high school, I had the honor of taking general psychology, a college-level class. I had befriended that class's teacher in my sophomore year after playing Clelia Waldgrave in the Stanner Players' production of The Nerd by Larry Shue. My locker was by his classroom and he told me how much he enjoyed the performance. After that brief meeting, I eavesdropped on his lectures whenever I opened my locker. When his students took tests, he watched concerts or played Pink Floyd. On one such day I barged in and expressed my uneasiness regarding the rock band.
"When you take my class, I'll make you like them," he replied. (Note that he said when, not if. General psychology was a stamp of senior-hood; nearly everyone who graduates takes that class and commands the underclassmen to take it.)
And he succeeded. A Pink Floyd fan I became. I fell in love with The Dark Side of the Moon, especially the track, if any song on that album can be considered a track since they all glide seamlessly into each other, "Time":
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you’re older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say
Really, can anything else capture the pathetic human condition of monotony as well as "Time" does?
After Dark Side I moved to Wish You Were Here. I fell in love with the voice of these songs, David Gilmour; the same gentle voice that misses a friend in "Wish You Were Here" uses a gravelly sarcasm in "Money." I also fell in love with the man; he was daymn sexy.
As any Pink Floyd fan knows, Roger Waters, the lyricist and bassist, got an ego trip beginning with Animals through The Wall and ending with The Final Cut. Though Roger created a hellish experience for the other band members during the production of those albums—and a cringing sensation in fans when they listen to those albums—Gilmour's voice and guitar make Floyd's last creative efforts enjoyable. He even pieced together two post-Roger Floyd albums. What a guy.
During my psychology final, the teacher gave the class a treat: a DVD of Gilmour in concert. Wow. Simply wow. Everyone rushed through the test in order to watch the concert because it was that good.
Gilmour played intimately to a grand audience. He played Floyd standards, his own little-known Floyd, and other people's songs that he liked; more importantly he played from the heart.
I asked if I could borrow the DVD. It remained in my DVD player for five months and was played when I needed inspiration.
I don't philosophize often, though I do think everyone needs a muse. A muse might be a child who makes your annoyingly boring life extraordinary. A muse might be a partner or spouse for whom you'd put everything on hold if he or she needed you for five seconds, two hours, or a day. A muse might be an inanimate object that means something special to you: a lovingly written thank-you note from a friend, a book whose spine is creased from many good readings, or a dried wedding bouquet. Or a muse might be recorded man performing as if he knew no other way to express himself.
It was a heart-breaking day when I had to return the DVD to its rightful owner, who surprisingly felt honored to have had chosen such a moving work of art. I ultimately bought my own copy, which I treasure.
When David Gilmour comes to New York to play two nights at Radio City Music Hall, I shall be in attendance with that psychology teacher. I wish I could tell David Gilmour how much he means to me, though I have a feeling he knows from listening to the cheers of an large audience, adoring a sixty-year-old man who still knows how to rock and to inspire.
I have a draft of a very good post in the making; however, I feel bad that I haven't updated. Thus, I shall wish a happy one-day-belated birthday to David Gilmour.
Since 1968, David Gilmour has been, accurately, "the voice and guitar of Pink Floyd," which is how his new album is being promoted. I had never liked Pink Floyd; the one time I watched The Wall I had nightmares of marching hammers for a week. It was not until late 2003 that I discovered what I had been missing.
In the first semester of my senior year in high school, I had the honor of taking general psychology, a college-level class. I had befriended that class's teacher in my sophomore year after playing Clelia Waldgrave in the Stanner Players' production of The Nerd by Larry Shue. My locker was by his classroom and he told me how much he enjoyed the performance. After that brief meeting, I eavesdropped on his lectures whenever I opened my locker. When his students took tests, he watched concerts or played Pink Floyd. On one such day I barged in and expressed my uneasiness regarding the rock band.
"When you take my class, I'll make you like them," he replied. (Note that he said when, not if. General psychology was a stamp of senior-hood; nearly everyone who graduates takes that class and commands the underclassmen to take it.)
And he succeeded. A Pink Floyd fan I became. I fell in love with The Dark Side of the Moon, especially the track, if any song on that album can be considered a track since they all glide seamlessly into each other, "Time":
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you’re older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say
Really, can anything else capture the pathetic human condition of monotony as well as "Time" does?
After Dark Side I moved to Wish You Were Here. I fell in love with the voice of these songs, David Gilmour; the same gentle voice that misses a friend in "Wish You Were Here" uses a gravelly sarcasm in "Money." I also fell in love with the man; he was daymn sexy.
As any Pink Floyd fan knows, Roger Waters, the lyricist and bassist, got an ego trip beginning with Animals through The Wall and ending with The Final Cut. Though Roger created a hellish experience for the other band members during the production of those albums—and a cringing sensation in fans when they listen to those albums—Gilmour's voice and guitar make Floyd's last creative efforts enjoyable. He even pieced together two post-Roger Floyd albums. What a guy.
During my psychology final, the teacher gave the class a treat: a DVD of Gilmour in concert. Wow. Simply wow. Everyone rushed through the test in order to watch the concert because it was that good.
Gilmour played intimately to a grand audience. He played Floyd standards, his own little-known Floyd, and other people's songs that he liked; more importantly he played from the heart.
I asked if I could borrow the DVD. It remained in my DVD player for five months and was played when I needed inspiration.
I don't philosophize often, though I do think everyone needs a muse. A muse might be a child who makes your annoyingly boring life extraordinary. A muse might be a partner or spouse for whom you'd put everything on hold if he or she needed you for five seconds, two hours, or a day. A muse might be an inanimate object that means something special to you: a lovingly written thank-you note from a friend, a book whose spine is creased from many good readings, or a dried wedding bouquet. Or a muse might be recorded man performing as if he knew no other way to express himself.
It was a heart-breaking day when I had to return the DVD to its rightful owner, who surprisingly felt honored to have had chosen such a moving work of art. I ultimately bought my own copy, which I treasure.
When David Gilmour comes to New York to play two nights at Radio City Music Hall, I shall be in attendance with that psychology teacher. I wish I could tell David Gilmour how much he means to me, though I have a feeling he knows from listening to the cheers of an large audience, adoring a sixty-year-old man who still knows how to rock and to inspire.
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