How I Started to Write

Ashley G

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

12/13/12

How I Started to Write

                The author of this piece Carlos Fuentes spends this essay talking about all of the things in his life that have influenced him. He speaks of his Mexican heritage, books he’d read, and comics that had been popular in his time. Together all of these influences contributed to who he became as a writer. I tried thinking about all of the things that influenced and influence my writing. In my early stages of fiction writing the first piece I attempted ended up being a poorly thought out, impossibly confusing rehash of Star Wars. I was born into a middle class family in the Northeast and ended up being the middle of three sisters; this has significantly influenced my writing. From how I write sibling relationships to the way I write about the seasons, all of my writing is influenced by some part of my life. Based on where I grew up and the kinds of TV show I watch the vernacular of my writing is distinctive. I use certain words more than others and because of an English teacher I had in middle school I overuse commas and semi colons. The more I think about it the more I realize that every part of my writing is an direct result of something else in my life.

Attraction of Opposites

Ashley G

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

12/6/2012

Response to “He and I”

                I cannot pretend that I have any personal romantic relationship knowledge.  I am simply a “people watcher.” It is rather fun to watch married couples, particularly those that have been happily married for many years.  The people of the couple depicted in this essay are mostly opposites. They bicker, fall asleep at another’s function, and have exceptionally different personalities. But somehow it works; they love each other in spite of their differences and even appreciate some of them. My grandparents ought to have their own sitcom. The two of them are positively hilarious. As a kid I knew that if I asked one of them for something and they refused, that the other would say yes. Their banter between one another is laughable but still at the end of the day I know that they love each other. My parents are like this too. My mom (and  my little sister) will stay up into the wee hours of the morning watching a poorly made romantic tearjerker type film but if she watches something my dad likes (like an action flick) she’ll be out on a matter of minutes. My dad is an introvert, my mom and extrovert. Mom can play the piano in her sleep and dad can sing a little. I’m not certainly convinced that opposites always attract but it seems to work for them. So perhaps one day I’ll be sitting watching a film with a man who likes to go out a lot and is hot all the time.

Tropmann

Ashley G.
Professor Zoller
Life Narratives
12/4/2012

Tropmann

                 This essay was very hard for me to read. I’ve always had mixed feelings about execution. On one hand I feel a sense of justice that the person must pay for their crimes and has been convicted of some heinous act (however justice systems are not always perfect). On the other hand my heart asks, “Who are we as feeble humans to judge, is that not God’s job alone?” The piece really pulled at my heart strings. It was especially hard to hear the author say that Tropmann was younger than twenty probably meaning that he was about nineteen or eighteen; the thought of someone my age murdering someone makes my blood run cold. What made it worse is the fact that I felt somehow drawn to sympathize with Tropmann, almost that he could have been innocent or that his crimes did not fully warrant death. But then again, who are we to judge what crime deserves death? Tropmann, according to history, did in fact “deserve” death. The author could not himself watch the actual execution and I can say definitively that neither could I. I’ve seen movies with comparable violence but I have always taken solace in the fact that the people who were “killed” in films were not actually killed and are not in fact real in any way shape or form. The fact that this account actually happened makes my stomach churn. I know people have been executed before in history but this in-depth and personal account made me uncomfortable. I agree with the author’s final statement that executions should be abolished and that they ought not to be public (as they had been in his day). I do not think that we as humans have the authority over another’s life and we certainly should not give people the sick opportunity to something like this unfold.

June 1935

“Motherless migrant children. They work the cotton. June 1935.”

                This is the only title to a photograph that depicts three sad looking children living on their own in the dusty, desolate area of a 1930’s cotton field. The center of the photo shows the trunk of a thick tree, with wavy bark and some vines hanging towards the top. Beside the tree to the left, you can see a section of a tent, obviously the dwelling of the three children in the photograph. The tent houses an old dilapidated stove with a bent smoke stack, a few pots and pans, a large wash pail, and a small table. To the right of the tree, in the distance you can see a field, dead looking and dusty, with an old pickup truck idling. The focal point of the photo is the three children that sit or stand near the tree. Two of the children, a boy perhaps nine years old and a girl maybe seven, sit at the base of the tree. They wear old, worn clothes, the boy overalls and a newsboy’s cap and the girl a tunic-like dress. Directly to the right of the tree is an older girl of approximately twelve years stands. Her face is turned towards the tree and she has her hands on the trunk, perhaps picking at the bark. Beside her are old, flattened tires. She wears a thin white dress that resembles the cloth of a food sack. All the children look rather hopeless and the youngest girl looks a little bit angry. The boy is simply staring off into the distance.

                The “story” of this photograph is clear: these children have next to nothing. They have no family except each other, no one to take care of them, no substantial sources of food, no warm place to spend the night, and no hope. The caption of the photo says that these children work in the cotton fields. That is certainly not an occupation that will give them very much money, especially considering that they are children. This leads the viewer of the photograph to infer that these unhappy children will perhaps always look this unhappy. They will never get ahead, for they will have few opportunities for advancement. It would take a miracle or the kindness of some well off stranger to help them succeed. The viewer sees that they must raise themselves and each other and with all that time working in the cotton fields they will have no time to attends school or even to play. It’s almost hard to imagine that they had time to pose for this photograph. Because of the time in which they live, the 1930’s during the Dustbowl, there will be virtually no one to care for them or to take them under their wing. The faces of the children add to this story. The younger girl’s face is hardened and angry but also a little sad; she knows what her future holds. She thinks that her life will never get better, and that she will never be happy. The boy is looking off into the distance looking dejected but not angry. His face is perhaps the shining focal point of the photograph. He is saddened by his situation but not yet defeated; he had not yet given into anger. On his face you can see the smallest glimmer of hope that says, “Maybe, just maybe, we can survive this.”

Death's Cruel Sting

Response to “The Death of the Moth”

                Moths are very small. They are seemingly in no way significant but this author found some significance. This author, Virginia Wolf, found a narrative in death. She was watching a moth flutter around between window panes one day and noticed how full of life it was. To the author’s credit, many people do not take the time to watch such little things with such rapt attention. But nonetheless Wolf was able to see that the moth had little to do with its life but buzz from one side of its window to another. When it fell she wanted to right it with her pencil but stopped seeing that it was near death. The author seems to want us as readers to infer that death is inevitable. If it was not she would have righted the moth so that it could properly fight death. However she hesitated knowing that the little moth did not have the power to conquer death.

                I am not sure whether the author means to say that humans also cannot fight death. For everyone knows that death is unavoidable. Perhaps the author means that there comes a point when we cannot fight death any longer. There comes a time when we are like the little moth; a time when death will not release us from its grasp. Like the moth we were once so full of life but then are not.       

Blindness... a gift?

Response to “Blindness”

                Very few people would see blindness as a good thing. Even fewer would say that it is a gift. Jorge Luis Borges thinks that his blindness was a gift. Through his blindness his eyes were opened to forms of literature he had not explored before. The irony of it all is that when he first began losing his sight he had recently begun working in a library. He found that he could not read the titles of the books off of their spines. Borges apparently (he doesn’t explain this in great detail) had to have others read to him. I myself would hate being blind. I love to look at art and see films. I cannot for the life of me understand how Borges could come to the conclusion that his blindness was a gift. Sure he ended up exploring other forms of literature that he had not before but at what cost? He said he was only about three-quarters blind and could still see a few colors. How can that be a gift? Perhaps if I was an optimist I could understand his reasoning. But I’m not so this piece has left me a bit confused. I see that he is trying to make the best of it, and he even cites other authors that also went blind. But to be a lover of reading and then to have that ability impaired would be awful. Sure people could read to him but that’s not quite the same.

All Cracked-Up

Ashley G

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

11/6/12

Response to “The Crack- Up” by F. Scott Fitzgerald

                In this essay Fitzgerald speaks about a time in his life when he came to dislike most people and most things that had previously made him happy. He says that he suddenly realized it one day after two years of this behavior. He spent a great portion of those two years secluding himself from other people. I’m sure that many people have read this essay and been confused. Strangely enough, I think I can relate. I am by my very nature a reasonably introverted person, this may confuse some people. Over the years I’ve developed a very sturdy façade to use in social situations that I cannot escape from. It is easy for me to be in social situations but at some point I need a break, the socializing and other people make me tired. Fitzgerald had his “crack-up” after hearing some bad news at the doctor. His new behavior was a way to cover up his inner feelings of fear. He “cracked- up” in response to something traumatic; I seclude myself when I encounter social situations that become exasperating for me. So I understand, at some smaller level, how Fitzgerald felt and why he did what he did.        

Response to "On Being an American"

Ashley G

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

11/1/12

Response to “On Being an American”

                I found this essay to be particularly confusing. Reading the first paragraph of it I assumed that the author was not American, in fact I turned back a page to see what country he hailed from. I found that he was in fact an American. Confused I decided to just read the rest of the essay. The author made the interesting choice to talk about Americans as if he was not an American. Perhaps it would have been easier to read if I had not known he was an American.

                The author spends much of the piece commenting on American politics and at one point makes the comment that American politics are the best. However he cites them as being the best because American politics are the most entertaining. I’ve never really thought of our politics as amusing. Truth be told I didn’t think that non- Americans (even though the author is American, he’s coming at the essay from the perspective of a non- American) really cared very much about our politics.

                I was slightly offended by some of the author’s comments about Americans. He makes us seem to be clowns running around like crazy children for the entertainment of the world. He calls us young and says that we act like youths, “It is easy to excite them. It is easy to fool them.” That is not the way that I would describe Americans.   

On Good Film

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

10/29/2012

On Good Film

                Have you ever gone to see a movie? Have you ever gotten halfway through the film and been on the edge of your seat? The characters have been developed and they are at their breaking point but somehow keep going, heading toward their goal. Have you ever sat in crazed anticipation with your eyeballs practically jumping out of your skull? The final half of the movie is what you have been waiting for; you need to know how these characters are going to save the day or how they are going to pull their broken relationship back together. Have you ever felt these things and then walked out of the theatre feeling like the director of the movie was a lazy bum who was too much of an overpaid indolent jerk to actually come up with a good ending? I have.

                I really like films. I’ve written an eleven page paper about the mythological references and allusions in the Star Wars saga. I’ll watch a good movie dozens of times and in each viewing I catch something new that I had not noticed before. “Ooh that was foreshadowing! Oh that’s why he said that. Look at that character development, the writer made that character really dynamic.” I say. I will watch a bad movie once and the curse the director silently in my head and hope that they have a change of heart and change their profession. I hope that they realize what a horrible detriment they have done to the film world and repent for their cinematic sins. One of these sins is the overuse of bad special effects and 3D. (P.S. to directors: making a movie in 3D does not make it better than 2D. 2D is easier on the eyes and on the wallet. Note specifically to Disney, I would like a refund for the showing of Beauty and the Beast I saw in 3D. My eyes still hurt and the animation looked fuzzy, thank you for blemishing a piece of my childhood. )

My dad and sister and I went to see two separate movies on two separate occasions. The first was a sci-fi thriller and the other was an adventure movie. The latter was the sequel to a lucrative saga and the former had an actor in it that starred in one of my favorite movies. We sat down in the theatre with our overpriced popcorn and soda that should have been from the fountain of youth for the amount of money we had paid for it. In each instance I was really excited for the movie, the trailers had been amazing and my dad had taken my sister and me for the late night showing. What teenager wouldn’t be super excited? The first three quarters of each movie was great. There was mystery, science, adventure and the hero of one movie kicking some serious bad-guy butt. Then the last twenty minutes of each respective movie rolled before our eyes. And twenty minutes later I was sitting watching the respective credits roll and saying the same thing. “Aliens? Aliens! Why did it have to be aliens? Couldn’t they come up with something better than extraterrestrials with a flying saucer?!” Note to Hollywood big shots, if a writer pitches a movie and it ends with aliens appearing out of nowhere for no apparent reason, turn them down immediately. Then tell them to go home and spend the next several days writing an actual ending to their pathetic excuse for a script.  

Lazy directors are not the only problem I have with Hollywood. I also have a problem with films that have a weak story. You can’t have a good movie without a good story. Throwing in seventeen famous movie actors does not a good movie make. In fact it ruins it. Seriously why would I want to watch a movie and be thinking the whole time, ok that’s that chick from that adventure movie and oh that’s the guy from that horrible comedy and that irritating man from that horror film. Why are they all in eighteenth century England talking in fake British accents? Directors take a cue from George Lucas, possibly one of the greatest film storytellers of the century, go find new actors and actresses that can act. Bring in some new blood, instead of just reusing old blood that makes me think of dozens of other movies while I’m watching yours. What was I talking about? Oh yeah good story. I’m not saying that writers have to reinvent the wheel with this one. If you want to write a Romeo and Juliet or Hero’s Journey story fine with me but make it good. Give the actors something to work with besides cheesy lines and pointless action. The Hero’s Journey is an archetype developed by famous mythologist Joseph Campbell. This archetype is shown in ancient mythology in the stories of Hercules, Jason and countless others. It is also the basis for the Star Wars films, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the Harry Potter Octet and Disney’s The Lion King. In my opinion good films and they all have the same basic premise. Main character leaves home on a quest then comes home triumphant with character development in the middle. This archetype has been used dozens of times over in countless ways. Directors/ writers if you have a bad story don’t just push it through (or use aliens to tie up loose ends) look at what other successful people have done and take some cues from them.

So what makes a good film? There are several things. First have a good plot that makes sense to someone else besides the writer. Second, have some character development. At least a few of your characters have to change throughout the movie because of what’s happening in the story. Third, have everything that happens have a purpose. If a character is going to break down and have a cry make sure that it’s for a reason and not just to make the ladies in the audience cry as well. That’s it really, sensible plot, well developed characters, and purpose. Throw in spectacular scenery and if the story dictates some good special effects and you have a good film.                     

Saving Lives and Wisdom Teeth

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

10/30/2012

The Knife

                The first paragraph of this essay scared me. The language used made the author sound like a serial killer who took joy from slicing people up. Much to my relief the essay was in fact about a surgeon and not an ax murderer. I don’t like surgery or needles. I can make it through a hospital drama on TV nut only if I avert my eyes for the “messy” parts. If I have to get a shot I freak out, my palms sweat and I get fidgety. I have to get a shot in a few months and I’m dreading it. I used to think that I didn’t mind needles but a shot for college a few months ago put me over the edge. I had my wisdom teeth out a year or so ago, I was only on laughing gas so I was slightly coherent; I can still remember the sensation of the doctor sawing my teeth in order to take them out. Ugh, it still sends shivers up my spine. That’s the most intense surgery I’ve ever had and I can’t imagine being put completely under. I think I would have a panic attack, literally. I will never understand why people would ever want to be a surgeon. I know it’s a noble profession but seriously the thought of cutting into someone and putting your hand inside of them freaks me out. So I say hat’s off to surgeons for having the guts (pun intended) to do what the rest of us can’t: save lives and take out wisdom teeth.   

Baby You're A Firework

A Caterpillar

                A teacher of me once describes me as a caterpillar and my older sister as an oak tree. I was nervous for an AP test and my teacher knew that I was extra nervous because I was constantly comparing myself to my older, practically academically perfect sister. My teacher explained that my sister was an oak tree, strong and unmoving and unchanging. But she reminded me that I am more of a caterpillar, I wasn’t tall or impressive now but someday I get to be a butterfly.

A Manuscript

                When a book is sent to a publisher and it is not finished it is considered a manuscript. That’s how I see myself, mostly written but there’s still time for editing and revising and that editing and revising is inevitable.  Not yet finished not yet done, finding the ending is hard but its half the fun.

A Chameleon

                I have many different colors and I use some colors to hide from things.

A Geode

                A geode is a rock that when broken open contains quartz like stones that look like jewel s. Sometimes I think that people look at me and see the academic Ashley and expect me to act a certain way, a boring and dry way. But beneath the surface I think I’m very different than that, less boring and more interesting.

A Firework

                You have to have fire to set me off and then you have to light my fuse. I have a long fuse but when you reach the end of my fuse you should step back. Because when that fuse reaches its end… boom.  

Imaginary Things Research

On Imaginary Things- Research

 

                Why do people make things up? I’m not talking about lying. I’m talking about things that are imaginary. As a self-proclaimed amateur novelist (heavy on the amateur), I spend a lot of my time making stuff up. So this begs the question, why do people make things up? Is there a specific psychological reason or is it just something we humans do?

                Imaginary friends and imaginary companions are a psychological and social phenomenon where a friendship or other interpersonal relationship takes place in the imagination rather than external physical reality (Wikipedia, this may not be the best source but it’s a start). An article in Scientific American, titled Imaginary Friends: Television programs can fend off loneliness, makes an interesting point about “imaginary friends” in adulthood. When people are lonely or feel unwanted in their everyday lives they seek out other relationships that do not necessarily have to be real. That is why people often feel so connected to television characters. As it turns out imaginary friends are a way to fill some unfilled psychological need. So just as children make up imaginary friends to provide companionship, adults become emotionally attached to imaginary things like television programs. That’s just one reason that people make things up.

Latin Kid- Secunda

Ashley G

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

10/11/2012

Latin Kid

I was a bit of a dork in high school. I had intellectual conversations about sci-fi movies, was in band, choir, theatre, and Latin Club. “Latin Club?” You may say in confusion. “I thought Latin was a dead language, who would voluntarily study that in school?” Well, it’s not and I did. I took Latin because I thought it sounded cool, in a I- can- go- around- speaking- Latin- and- no- one- will- know- what- I’m- saying sort of way. I saw it as a secret code to be deciphered and an adventure to be had. After all I had always enjoyed Greco-Roman mythology and I decided that Latin was something that I could study for five years (my school started languages in eighth grade). I got much more out of those years than a Latin education.

                      On my first day of Latin I was formally introduced to Mrs. Perry, the one and only Latin teacher at my middle/ high school. She was quite a character to say the least. Her attire was simple yet elegant and reflected the teacher style that dominated schools twenty years ago; she wore long skirts and blouses often with little flats. But the most noticeable aspect of her appearance was her hair. Mrs. Perry, Magista or Gistra to those of us who came to love her, had white hair that was in a sort of frizzy triangle shape. It stuck close to her scalp then puffed out in a conical shape that came just below her petite shoulders. A student once made a toilet paper roll doll of her that had a literal cone of white paper on the top; she kept it and thought it was hilarious.

That was another thing I loved about Magistra (her name a reference to the feminine form of the Latin word for teacher), she was perhaps the happiest and funniest teacher I have ever had. She was always happy to go off on a tangent about something that was even the slightest bit related to our lesson and was humorous. When teaching us the word for ‘suddenly’ she ducked behind her podium and leapt out crying, “Subito!” In our first year of Latin she had us do exercises where she would say “Insperata, experata,” repeatedly as we breathed in and out. Then she would have us point to various parts of our bodies in a Latin version of “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes,” which always concluded with us bending and straightening our legs while we did spirit fingers. A strange sight to say the least.  

Perhaps you’re thinking, “Well, was she a good teacher? That stuff seems kinda silly.” To which I respond, yes Magistra Perry was one of the greatest teachers I have ever had. Then you add, “Oh then you must be a very good speaker of Latin.” For all those years of Latin I can honestly say that I cannot form more than a few sentences in Latin, but nowadays the approach to Latin is to have it be more of a literally supplement that having it become a second language. It’s not a dead language (though my older sister would disagree) but it is not spoken fluently in common conversation. Latin provided me with a time to learn from an exceptional teacher and to spend time with some of my greatest friends, Andromeda, Ulysses, and Aurora to name a few.    

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                This brings me to Latin Club.  When a Latin student reaches junior year they are automatically inducted into Latin Club. Its primary, and really only function, was to provide a way for us to go on a trip to New York City every other year. Well my junior year finally came I was ecstatic to go on the trip; I myself had not been to NYC in a few years and was excited. We rode down in the morning, hot chocolate, doughnuts and Pillow Pets in hand as we boarded a charter bus the club had rented. Then came the three hour drive to the city, I remember nothing of it.

Our morning was spent in the Cloisters Museum, a relatively small hodgepodge museum building drawing from numerous medieval styles. It houses many medieval pieces of art and is an offshoot of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where my class was headed later in the afternoon. I can still visualize the rooms and the layout of the small museum that houses sculptures of Christ from numerous periods, the tombs of knights and the famous Unicorn Tapestries. For those of you not well versed in famed medieval tapestries, the Unicorn Tapestries are a series of seven tapestries depicting a unicorn hunt. The tapestries seem to some to portray the unicorn in Christ-like way as the unicorn is slaughtered in the end but turns up in a later tapestry alive. The most famous of the tapestries is titled The Unicorn in Captivity and shows the seemingly resurrected unicorn enclosed in a fence. The tapestries occupy their own special room in the Cloisters. I’m not really sure why we all found these tapestries so interesting but I guess that’s beside the point.

   The Cloisters is a small museum but it does have a small garden on a terrace overlooking the Hudson River. Oh the times we had on that terrace. On one occasion, a few of us were up on the terrace in the garden and were looking at the various plants. Strangely, a cluster of plants was labeled “Magic Plants.” My friend Silenus (as I did before, I will refer to my friends by their Latin names or nicknames) informed me that those types of plants were thought to have had magical properties in medieval times. While I was pondering this Silenus proceeded to break off a piece of one of the plants and eat it.

“Silenus!” I scolded in a hushed whisper. “You can’t eat the plants. They’re the museum’s plants. Why would you eat that anyway? That’s gross.”

“It was just a chive.” Silenus answered completely avoiding my first point. He shrugged it off and continued around the garden. I rolled my eyes and followed him. I suppose it would be pertinent to mention that, at prom, when he got a decorative flower on his plate he ate that as well. I rolled my eyes then as I had before.

The Cloisters has another terrace that more directly overlooks the Hudson on an adjacent side of the museum. That terrace really took us back in time. You exit out of an ancient wooden door and onto an entirely stone veranda and see the river beyond. I remember imagining that I was on the walls of a castle that my friends and I were invading and that our foes were preparing to charge onto the terrace and challenge us to a duel. Thinking back, I know that if that had been the case my friends would have had my back against our fictional foes (except Silenus, he’s a pacifist).      

Being in the Cloisters is like going into a castle, you feel as if a knight is around the next corner going toe to toe with his greatest enemy. Or that you are a princess walking around your expansive home. Aurora and I were quite fascinated by the all the old doors in the Cloisters and decided immediately that each one led to Narnia. In fact the whole rest of the day we said that every old door we saw led to Narnia. I always hate leaving the Cloisters; it is like watching an amazing movie (but better) about medieval times and then having the television break halfway through, you feel unsatisfied and craving more.

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                Before I get to the second half of the trip I should explain something. As I said before the Latin Club trip usually happens every other year. However I had some unfinished business at the museum and I loved Latin, so I convinced Magistra to let my class go again our senior year with that year’s juniors. It took a lot of convincing, especially considering the fact that our Latin fund only had sixty bucks in it when I asked. So my friend Daphne and I researched fundraising. I will say that there were several (dozen) times where we almost didn’t go on the trip because we didn’t think we would have the funds but we made it and got to go to NYC a second time.   

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The main part of the Metropolitan Museum is as equally impressive as the Cloisters. The first time we went for Latin Club I had been waiting all day to see the famous “Washington Crossing the Delaware” painting by Emanuel Leutze, you see I am rather fascinated by - obsessed with- the American Revolutionary War. To my deep disbelief the painting was out getting restored. My friends tell me that I nearly bawled my eyes out in the middle of the gallery. So the second year we went my friends all made sure that I got to see Washington, and see him I did. I had never realized how huge the painting really is, but it was somehow just as impressive that my friends cared enough to make sure that I saw my painting. Andromeda, Marian and Silenus made sure to take a picture of me in front of the painting. I was beaming like the crazed school girl that I was.

 Our second year we did something a little different. You see another teacher, an English teacher, whom I will call, Goody H, accompanies us every year. Goody H usually does a walking tour where she takes a group of willing students up Fifth Avenue to Times Square. At first I was not truly a willing student but most of my close friends were going so I went. In this case peer pressure turned out to be a good thing. We breezed by a hundred or so famous landmarks with Goody H narrating like a seasoned tour guide. My friends and I saw the inside of the Plaza and Trump Towers, Central Park, the FAO Schwartz store and Rockefeller Center. Our group must have looked ridiculous running along in the throngs of people holding hands to stay together. Goody H moved at a very brisk pace and we had a tough time keeping up; because of this we had to dash forward every so often. With Silenus leading the charge, imaginary sword brandished above his head, Andromeda, Marian, Brit-Briqt (don’t ask), and I would sprint back to Goody H’s side shouting, “For Narnia! For Aslan!” It was one of those, you-had-to-be-there sorts of things.

As with the Cloisters I was saddened to leave New York at the end of the day. Andromeda and I planned the whole way home to return after graduation but we never went back. Perhaps someday we will return and relive those times we had with Latin Club, with Marian, Silenus, Magistra and others.      

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People sometimes ask me, “Ash, if you can’t speak the language fluently then what was the point?” Well to that I say, first off that I can more effectively determine a word’s meaning by using a Latin root then my non- Latin versed schoolmates. Second, when I hear phrases like, carpe diem, bona fide, or caveat emptor, I know what they mean. Latin is an essential part of a well-rounded linguistics background and being a writing major I think that my Latin knowledge will serve me well.  Nevertheless the best things I got out of Latin were the relationships. Magistra Perry became an essential part of my day; I never dreaded but always looked forward to Latin class and now in college I miss her dearly. Also several of my close friends took Latin alongside and in grades below me; I would never give those times with them away. We were all in a way part of this little secret society and had Latin names that we chose for ourselves; I was friends with Andromeda, Ulysses, Silenus, Aurora, Bacchus, and Daphne and I was Athena. Those trips to NYC and the hours spent in Magistra Perry’s classroom with her and my friends will forever be engrained in my mind, will forever shape me. I will always be a Latin kid; it will always be a part of who I am. A small part of me will always be Athena, goddess of war and of wisdom.  

Ambulantem est Pacis

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

10/9/12

Response to “Walking” by Henry David Thoreau

                While I am not one who really enjoys hiking, I don’t mind strolling through the woods. Don’t even try to get me to camp but I’ll take a leisurely walk in the woods (as long as I have bug spray).  I see what Thoreau is getting at, the peacefulness of a walk. He describes “walking” as something more than simply walking, putting one foot in front of the other. He speaks of walking with no real destination in mind. I would wager that he used that time to think and ponder. I may not wander around in the forest but some of my best thinking happens when I walk on the beach in the cool of the evening. The act of putting one foot in front of the other in complete and utter silence of the mind is wonderful. When I walk on the beach I cannot stop looking at the water, trying to look as far as I can to the horizon. I’m not sure what I think I’m going to see there but I look none the less. It is strange there is somehow purpose in a seemingly purposeless walk. I am not walking anywhere in particular in fact the plan is to turn around and go back from whence I came. But each step feels purposeful and direct. My thoughts swim more than normal and things seem clearer. Walking is peaceful.  

Taste and See

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

10/4/2012

Response to “Seeing” by Annie Dillard

                What is sight? There is the scientific definition that says that it is light hitting our eyes and transmitting a signal to our brains that we interpret to make images. Annie Dillard seems to say that there is a difference between looking at something and “seeing” something. In this narrative she talks for a bit about blind individuals who have gotten their sight back. Some of those “cured” of their blindness will keep their eyes shut because they do not understand sight or dislike it. I was struck by this and then decided to experiment. Closing my eyes I felt around at my work space and ran my fingers across a book, some fabric and my cell phone. I tried to forget what the sensations of touch meant to me as someone who has never been blind. It was nearly impossible. As much as I tried I could not stop “seeing” the image of what I was touching in my mind. I can only imagine the shock that someone who had been blind their whole life would experience when seeing for the first time. I put so much stock in sight. I am a writer and could write without seeing, using braille for example, but what would I write about? It seems that everything I write I visualize in my mind. I am a very visual person; if someone is explaining something to me I usually want to see it for myself. Even after all this thought I still mull over the same question. What is sight?   

De Gustibus

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

10/2/12

Response to “An Entrance to the Woods” by Wendell Berry

                I am not a “campy” person. If I walked through a patch of poison ivy, I would have no idea; if I had to pitch a tent I would probably end up sleeping outside. Needless to say, when I think of the woods I think of a dirty, damp, inhospitable place. I went camping once when I was a kid but that time I was in my uncles RV.

                Wendell Berry obviously likes camping and he speaks of technologically advances civilization like a curse. He comments that life moves too fast there. Berry sees the beauty of nature and enjoys his time there. Born and raised a suburbanite I can’t say that I agree or disagree fully with Berry. Yes I can see the beauty of nature as part of God’s creation. I see flowers and trees and leaves and think that they are beautiful. But just don’ expect me to go out into God’s creation and fully like it. If you dropped me out in the middle of nowhere (and no my college campus doesn’t actually count) and expected me to be happy about it I would probably gripe and complain. I did the whole summer camp thing when I was a kid; I didn’t really like it then and I really don’t like it now. I am reminded of a common Latin phrase, de gustibus non est disputandum, which translates roughly as "to each his own." Berry is entitled to go running around the woods but leave me to my cozy, clean home far away.   

Latin Kid- Prima

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller
Life Narratives
9/27/2012

Latin Kid

     I was a bit of a dork in high school. I had intellectual conversations about sci-fi movies, was in band, choir, theatre, and Latin Club. “Latin Club?” You may say in confusion. “I thought Latin was a dead language, who would voluntarily study that in school?” Well, it’s not and I did. I took Latin because I thought it sounded cool, in a I- can- go- around- speaking- Latin- and- no- one- will- know- what- I’m- saying sort of way. I saw it as a secret code to be deciphered and an adventure to be had. After all I had always enjoyed Greco-Roman mythology and I decided that Latin was something that I could study for five years (my school started languages in eighth grade).

                      On my first day of Latin I was formally introduced to Mrs. Perry, the one and only Latin teacher at my middle/ high school. She was quite a character to say the least. Her attire was simple yet elegant and reflected the teacher style that dominated schools twenty years ago; she wore long skirts and blouses often with little flats. But the most noticeable aspect of her appearance was her hair. Mrs. Perry, Magista or Gistra to those of us who came to love her, had white hair that was in a sort of frizzy triangle shape. It stuck close to her scalp then puffed out in a conical shape that came just below her petite shoulders. A student once made a toilet paper roll doll of her that had a literal cone of white paper on the top; she kept it and thought it was hilarious. That was another thing I loved about Magistra (the feminine form of the Latin word for teacher), she was perhaps the happiest and funniest teacher I have ever had. She was always happy to go off on a tangent about something that was even the slightest bit related to our lesson and was humorous. In our first year of Latin she had us do exercises where she would say “Insperata, experata,” repeatedly as we breathed in and out. Then she would have us point to various parts of our bodies in a Latin version of “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes,” which always concluded with us bending and straightening our legs while we did spirit fingers. Perhaps you’re thinking, “Oh then you must be a very good speaker of Latin if you had such a good teacher.” for all those years of Latin I can honestly say that I cannot form more than a few sentences in Latin, but nowadays the approach to Latin is to have it be more of a literally supplement that having it become a second language. It’s not a dead language (though my older sister would disagree) but it is not spoken fluently in common conversation.  

                This brings me to Latin Club.  When a Latin student reaches junior year they are automatically inducted into Latin Club. Its primary, and really only function, was to provide a way for us to go on a trip to New York City every other year. Well my junior year finally came I was ecstatic to go on the trip, despite the fact that the AP European class was tagging along- none of us liked the teacher and weren’t really friends with the students. I myself had not been to NYC in a few years and was excited. We rode down in the morning, hot chocolate and pillows in hand as we boarded a charter bus the club had rented. Then came the three  hour drive to the city, I remember nothing of it, the return ride however was a bit more eventful but I’ll get to that later. Our morning was spent in the Cloisters Museum, a small hodgepodge building drawing from numerous medieval styles. It houses many medieval pieces of art and is an offshoot of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where my class was headed later in the afternoon. I can still visualize the rooms and the layout of the small museum that houses sculptures of Christ from numerous periods, the tombs of knights and the famous Unicorn Tapestries. Being in the Cloisters is like going into a castle, you feel as if a knight is around a corner going toe to toe with his greatest enemy. Or that you are a princess walking around your expansive home. A few friends and I were quite fascinated by the all the old doors in the Cloisters and decided immediately that each one led to Narnia. I always hate leaving the Cloisters, it is like watching and amazing movie (but better) about medieval times and then having the television break halfway through, you feel unsatisfied and craving more.

The main part of the Metropolitan Museum is equally impressive. The first time we went for Latin Club I had been waiting all day to see the famous “Washington Crossing the Delaware” painting by Emmanuel Leutze, you see I am rather fascinated by – obsessed with- the American Revolutionary War. To my deep disbelief the painting was out getting restored. My friends tell me that I nearly bawled my eyes out in the middle of the gallery. So the second year we went my friends all made sure that I got to see Washington, and see him I did. I never knew how huge that painting is, but it was somehow just as impressive that my friends cared enough to make sure that I saw my painting. There are other tales about that second trip that are currently swirling in my mind at the moment but I will refrain in order to finally make my point.   

People sometimes ask me, “Ash, if you can’t speak the language then what was the point?” Well to that I say, first off that I can more effectively determine a word’s meaning by using a Latin root then my non- Latin versed schoolmates. Second, when I hear phrases like, carpe diem, bona fide, or caveat emptor, I know what they mean. Nevertheless the best things I got out of Latin were relationships. Magistra Perry became an essential part of my day; I never dreaded but always looked forward to Latin class and now in college I miss her dearly. Also several of my close friends took Latin alongside and in grades below me; I would never give those times with them away. We were all in a way part of this little secret society and even had Latin names that we chose for ourselves; I was friends with Andromeda, Ulysses, Silenus, Aurora and Minerva and I was Athena. I will never forget those trips to NYC or the hours spent in Magistra Perry’s classroom with her and my friends. I will always be a Latin kid; it will always be a part of who I am. A small part of me will always be Athena.  

Trigger from Such, Such Were the Joys...

Ashley G.
Professor Zoller
Life Narratives
9/25/2012

“And the child thinks of growing old as an almost obscene calamity, which for some mysterious reason will never happen to itself.” George Orwell in Such, Such Were the Joys

                You would think that by college it would have hit me already. I should feel, at least somewhat, like an adult. But I don’t. I guess I never have liked change. When I turned five for example, I hid under the table at my birthday party with my family because I didn’t want to turn five. I didn’t grasp the idea that I was turning five no matter how much I whined; I did not have the power to stop the clock. Though it is not just the fact that I want to stop the clock, it is the fact that I don’t think that the clock moves as fast as it does. When I was in elementary school, high school students looked so big and I never thought I would be that big, not in a million years. Despite the fact that I am still vertically challenged, I did make it through high school. Never in my childhood did I think I would actually get to college. It’s not that I didn’t think I was smart enough, I just thought, “I’ll never be that old.” Growing up in a Christian home my belief that would never reach adulthood increased by the book of Revelation.  After hearing all about the Rapture and the fact that many Bible scholars thought that it could be near I decided that the Rapture would come before I was “an adult.”

Okay maybe that’s a weird way of looking at things but even now I think, “I’m never ever going to be as old as my parents.” The concept just makes my head spin. Even as I am a college student working to be en elementary school teacher somewhere in the back of my mind I think that I will never actually get to my career. Perhaps this is my way of pacifying the part of my personality that hates change. I say to that part of my brain, “No, don’t worry I’m never actually going to be that old.” The anti- change part of my brain breathes a sigh of relief and wipes its imaginary brow. But another part of brain, however small and quiet, knows that the inevitable is coming; someday I will be twenty five, thirty, and forty. The anti- change part of my brain is still reeling that I’m going to be nineteen in three months.

That’s not to say that I’m not excited about getting older but somehow I feel like I’m never going to get there. Even in high school I couldn’t comprehend that I would graduate eventually but I did and I’m still processing that fact. I remember sitting next to my friends in the front row looking out at all the parents in front of us in the bleachers. I tired so very hard to drink in every word that my friends said in their valedictorian and salutatorian speeches and still I felt like a passive observer, like this wasn’t my graduation. Well it was and now I’m a college student. Weird huh?

     Now my anti- change brain has moved onto my next graduation. “You’ll never be twenty-two, you’ll never graduate college. You’re smart and everything, but it just isn’t going to happen.”  I’ve given up arguing with the anti- change brain, perhaps it will always be back there under my dining room table screaming that I will never be five for as long as I live.       

               

               

Circus Girl

Ashley G
Professor Zoller
Life Narratives
9/18/2012

 

Response to “The Ring of Time” by E.B. White

                I think that the main point that E.B White is trying to get across in his narrative, The Ring of Time, is that no matter how much we want it to stop, time moves on. At the beginning of the essay, White tells the story of a girl who is a performer at a circus and whom he sees riding a horse. The circus girl performs various tricks on the horse while trotting around a circular ring and White comments that the girl has no grasp on time. He believes that the girls goes around the track and does not realize that time is passing. She is absorbed in her activity and in her youth. White remarks that, “The only sense that is common… is the sense of change- and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it.” In connection to his narrative about the circus girl, White seems to say that all people entertain puerile thoughts of wishing to stop time. The very title of the narrative, The Ring of Time is a reference to the circus girl and how she continued to go around the track, satisfied to believe that she would always be going around the track, that she would always be as happy as she was in that moment. White is saying that we all struggle with wanting a “ring of time;” we all, at some point in our lives, want to remain as we are. 

 

 

Soft Sand and Salty Scents

Ashley G.
Professor Zoller
Life Narratives
9/13/12

Response to “One More to the Lake”

            In the opening paragraph of the short story, Once More to the Lake, E. B. White speaking of his family’s summer beach home said, “We returned summer after summer- always on August 1 for one month.” This resonated with me; my family has almost always gone to the shore and always in August.

            Years after his childhood, White returned to the lake of his childhood with his own son. He remarked how the place had changed, become more modern; the peace of the shore interrupted by the motors of boats. I can relate. The beach of my childhood was quieter and more subdued but never boring. White recalls the smells and the sensations that brought him back to his youth. As our car approaches the beach each year, I ask my mother to crack the windows so I can breathe in the salty vapors that tell my body that we have arrived. When we finally get down to the beach I remove always my flip flops and dig my toes into the soft sand. With each step I grind the balls of my feet into the coarse material and feel it go in between my toes. I like the sand just before the water best; it is damp and flexes beneath my feet but does not give. Like White I will bring my (future) children to the shore, to smell the salty air and feel the sand between their toes.        

 

Mount Up On Wings Like Eagles

     I remember very little from the “first” September 11^th. I was in early elementary school and didn’t even hear about the attacks until I got home later in the afternoon. However, I can see clearly in my mind my mother standing before a television in our home glued to the screen. Though I am sure I paid the TV no mind my brain has seen fit to insert a video clip onto the TV screen in the memory since I now know what happened. I recall my mother telling me something bad had occurred by I didn’t worry about it very much, bad things happen every day on the news, I thought to myself.

      Only now do I realize the significance of that day, only now do I cry along with the rest of the country when those oh so famous newsreels are replayed. This past 9/11, I watched many of the TV specials about the attacks and will never forget what those Twin Towers looked like. This past year a trip to NYC gave me only a glimpse of the new memorial and its massive reflecting pool. As I passed I said a prayer for the families and thanked God that He protects me every day. I know there will never be enough words for the families of the victims but I hope a few of God’s words bring, at the very least, some comfort.  

     Isaiah 40: 31, But those who wait on the Lord Shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint.

 

Response to “Glory Days: What We Watch When We Watch the Olympics”

Ashley G.

Professor Zoller

Life Narratives

9/11/2012

Response to “Glory Days: What We Watch When We Watch the Olympics”

            I thoroughly enjoyed watching this year’s Summer Olympics. Strangely enough I do not usually enjoy sports, playing them or watching them. Theatre became my sport in junior and senior high school. Nevertheless, just a few weeks ago I was fully glued to my TV, enthralled by the 2012 Summer Olympics.

            It was interesting to read the article “Glory Days” by Louis Menand because he starts off by saying that he likes sports even though his family does not; I am mostly the opposite. Menand, in my opinion, rambles on about the Olympics. He touches on the fact that if you look at the games, forgetting all the idealism that surrounds them, they are rather strange. They have become a tradition woven into our world culture. He also makes the point that you cannot simply read about the games, you must watch them to receive their full effect. I thoroughly agree. Archery has been a vague interest of mine since watching Disney’s animated version of Robin Hood as a child and I will confess that I got rather worked up when the US men’s archery team only got silver.

            I do agree with Menand that it does not particularly matter what the games mean. They exist and we should do well to enjoy them. Besides what other time does the world come together and compete simply for the sake of competition without starting a war?