Seminar Stereotypes

Pat yourself on the back, for you completed your very first cold read this week. We have all observed the many personalities that arise during such a competitive discussion.

America is not only obsessed with body image, but stereotypes seem to be a common fad as well. Thus, as an American myself, I decided to stereotype the three personalities I have observed that sprout during socratic seminars.

1. First, there is the "I'm-Going-To-Talk-Just-To-Talk" and maybe by some chance I will spit out something significant and recieve a "wow" from the teacher. Where is my gold star?

2. Staring blankly down at his desk while teetering a pencil back and fourth, he is a "Mouth-Not-Matching-Mind." His thoughts are existentually beautiful, but the distance from his brain to mouth is too far for thought transportation. Because he lacks this communication bridge, you take his points away; however, he will keep his true treasures tuckered away safely in his tinker.

3. And lastly, we have the "Wow-Nice-Yeah." This person knows what to say, what not to say, when to say it, and when not to say it. He is at equilibrium between numbers one and two. Grade? A. But still not on the market for Yale eggs.

WANTED KILLER VEGGIE 5 DOLLA REWURD SAVE THE PLANTS

A blood curddling scream pierces the air as she gnaws on Teddy Gram's left leg. Nibble nibble nibble nibble nibble. Right leg. Munch munch munch munch. Left arm. Crush crush crush. Right arm. Crack crack. Head. Chomp! Teddy's petite torso is all that remains. Motionless on the butcher's table, he never had a chance against the vicious, cannibalistic vegetarian.

Not yet satisfied, she tears open a bag of gummy worms and peaks in at the little buggers. They tentatively eye her back. You guys never had a chance at life, she spits. A long thread of drool bungees from her lip and lands on Wilson the Worm. Right from the beginning, I knew you were destined to fill my hungry belly. She reaches in equipped with claws like a teradactyl. Come to momma.

She murders dozens of living, breathing, photosynthetic plants each and every day. Innocent creatures, they desired nothing but to absorb the sunlight on a sunny Sunday. Charlie the Chive, Petey the Potato, Eleanor the Eggplant... all victims of vegetarianism.

If we don't step in to stop these killers, the following creatures will soon go extinct:
1. Animal Crackers
2. Peeps
3. Juju Bees
7. cAntaloupe
13. Cow Tails
25. Nerds

Twenty five species threatened from a single lifestyle. We need to stop these cereal killers before it's too late. Yes, they even murder cereal. Specifically, Fruity Pebbles. My pet rock would not be happy about that. Rocks have feelings too, ya know! THEY CAN FEEL PAIN. EVEN ASK PETA.

Existence

I do not live in a bedroom. I do not live in a house, a contraption of claustrophobia.

I am the offspring of Mother Nature.

I rise each morning with Sun. The green blanket of Earth tickles my skin, soft as Squirrel. In the hug of a warm willow, wee Owl rests. Camoflauged beneath the web of dewy maple limbs, my alarm chirps Sunrise. I pick parts of my earthy pillow out from my fawn-colored hair and my morning shower, a spontaneous drizzle, decides my natural scent has become too much for the Robins to Bear. I wash up and attend to the melody of my stomach.

There is a wall of trees, but I do not suffocate. The air still breathes and the sunshine peaks though the maze of leaves in the sky. Rather than bound me, the maples and oaks and willows and birch hug my existence in the open meadow.

The sun drops on the horizon, night covers my eyes. 

Time.

The sun rises on the horizon, morning lifts my eyelids. 

The harsh sun disturbs my sleeping solace. The grass blades cut my skin, now texturized with a hellicious rash. My allergies begin their daily tantrum. An owl, fatiqued with darkness, succumbs to circadian rythyms on a protruding branch. Tweets pierce the atmosphere, though no bird nest exists in the trees, but rather atop my head. My hair, tangled with twigs, is an animal within itself. Thunder rumbles in my stomach, and the cumbersome quest for food commences.

Puzzle Paragraph One: Daughter of God

Once upon a time, I was the scum on your bathroom tub. I was the jam between your wart-infested toes, the lint in your chubby bellybutton, the sweat under your unshaven pits. Always trailing ten steps behind my male counterparts, I walked under a cold shadow, longing for the kiss of sunlight, even if the exposure burnt my fair skin to a rosey pink. I was tired of playing the insignificant mouse. I yearned to be the elephant: substantial, important, and dominant. If my wishes were to be granted, I would bask in the sun as the great pink-skinned elephant that my heart tells me I am inside.

(Holy snicker doodle, they really do exist.)

Submissive me, I prayed to Jesus Christ for guidance. But it struck me like a lightning bolt across a midnight sky: Jesus has a chiseled face, defined muscles, and a beard. Testosterone courses through his veins. Jesus is a man! We do not call him the Daughter of God. My mother is the Daughter of God. My neighbor, Ms. Indepene, is the Daughter of God. My sister is the Daughter of God. Jesus is the Son of God. He walks in the sun as the Son, and here I am, kneeling beside my bed, asking a man to lead the women of my generation out of the slums, the shadows, the Red Sea, and into the light. Even in my prayers--my personal thoughts--a male rules over me.

I unclasped my pale palms and stood up next to the end of my bed, where a quilt my great grandmother sewed for my thirteenth birthday lay disheveled in a pile. I ran my fingertips over its raised fabric squares; each was a different pattern, yet they were sewn together to create one coherent piece of art. I could not rely on myself alone for change. One square does not create a quilt. In fact, it usually ends up in the scrap bin without hesitation. Women needed to create one united power for feminine progress, with everyone's individuality weaved together to foster strength and in turn, change. We needed to become persuasive together, our words needed to drip with rhetoric, to drown out the deep voices of the men, to wash them away in the flood. We needed to build our own arc and sail to a New World, accompanied by all the pink elephants of the land. We needed to write our own history.

What we do today influences what we accomplish tomorrow. 

Shut up and eat your cake.

I love my father dearly, but he is just about as stubborn as a pack mule. As his youngest daughter, I reflect his stubborn nature like water reflects the sunlight. Not only am I never not right and always never wrong, but I adore pushing his buttons. Claiming to be Independent regarding politics, my dad unknowingly leans Republican. Whenever his Republican tendencies stick out like a sore thumb, I lean Democrat just to burst his elephant-sized bubble. It is a recurring cycle of debating and argumentation, but an oh-so-fun one at that. We become so frustrated with one another that we can't bare to be in the same room as the other. Our bantering expands further than politics. It reaches religion and philosophy and the mundane thoughts of everyday living. It kind of goes like this, but replace "cake" and "pie" with complex, well-developed thoughts.

Father Yeskey- "I would rather have Cake than Pie."
Daughter Yeskey- "Yes, Cake is fluffy and goodly and sweet. Nice texture too. My favorite is red velvet. Cream cheese frosting. Rainbow sprinkles and I'm sold.  But... I also like Pie. So, I support Pie. Sorry, Cake, but you just didn't make the cut."

Upon further analysis, I have come to realize that it is not our differences that separate us, but rather our likemindedness. I am in denial that we may actually be alike, and I use my stubborn demeanor to mask our oneness. I would rather argue with my father than admit we share the same views. It is a strange idea, but it is true. We should just shut up and eat the cake, huh?

(**Totally off topic, but if you're reading this... Come see the musical, Godspell, this Friday at 7pm! It's going to be awesome!)

Vive Mademoiselle

The vibrations of the orchestra seep into her skin and tickle her ears. As she fans her powdered face, she fans away the men she never needed. Independently living and thinking and breathing, she confidently supports herself on a crimson cushion. It is her personal podium, stained with the blood of the battles she fought to reach her current position. She is a woman of wealth. She wears her power around her neck as a string of pearls. Her hair shines golden like her riches. Her white gloves, her purity. The glistening chandelier--perched above her head like a crown--declares her royal presence. C'est la vie.

From across the theatre, the men, pretending to be absorbed in the music below, let the corners of their eyes deceive their front-facing postures as they eye Mademoiselle. Her blushed pink beauty and foreign femininity intimidate them. But Mademoiselle notices not. She leans comfortably to her side. Contempt with her current situation, she expresses a reserved yet elegant smile. With her chin tipped above the crowd below her loge, Mademoiselle finds herself contempt for once in her female existence. La vie est formidable. 

The orchestrations radiate through the Theatre. Soaring. Humming. They are birds. Floating. Swimming. They are fish. Tiptoeing. Spinning. They are ballerinas. They travel, attracted to Mademoiselle's demeanor. In the air, they speak her joy. They celebrate. Vive Mademoiselle!

(*The second is my personal rendition of Mary Cassatt's "At the Theatre" in acrylic. It's in the never ending hallway if you are interested. I must admit that I don't enjoy viewing the two side by side. It's a bit like comparing the Statue of Liberty in New York to the one in Las Vegas.)

Bloopers

The following passage was a potential conclusion for my essay re-write. Fortunately, I realized I would rather have the grade over the giggle. Enjoy.

"It is interesting to think that Nancy Mairs manipulates language herself in order to communicate her idea that dressing up language distracts the reader or listener from the truth. For that matter, it remains important to always read for a deeper understanding of an author's true intentions. In this way, language reveals itself to be a powerful tool in influencing the innocent and vulnerable minds of the youth (who are not taking AP English, at least.) Having read Mairs' piece, AP Englishers will "swagger" their way to freedom of language. This is ironic because, in reality, AP students lack the swagger gene. But that's okay because that is evolution. Manipulating language, I have tricked you that: I am intelligent. When in reality, I end my essays with swagger, evolution, first person, and misplaced colons."

I thought it was funny at the time. Oh, the effects of sleep deprivation on a poor "AP Englisher's" mind.

I actually enjoyed Nancy Mairs piece, though. Language is a fascinating tool. By manipulating itself, it can manipulate people. One must always read with caution, for the truth lies between the lines. Oh boy, did I just unknowingly create a paradox? The truth lies...