I've started so many blogs in the past. I think this one is my fourth. Or possibly fifth.
They're so much fun in the beginning. I would spend hours formulating the first few posts of my other blogs, careful as I bared my soul for the world to see (though of course it's really not that dramatic; a mere writer's vanity.)
I wrote and deleted endlessly, trying to present my best face to the vast depths of the internets. One or two of my blogs even caught an occasional comment, someone who viewed the blog by chance or through a friend's link. As much as those comments excited me, as much as I was thrilled (wow, someone is actually reading something that I wrote! Me!) the novelty quickly wore off and boredom set in.
Blogs, it seemed, always needed a theme. They required shiny photos, dashes of humor, a deep metaphor every now and then, insightful musings on day to day things that occurred to the author. Most importantly, blogs needed consistence. Without frequent updates, even the most polished blog will wither and die.
I was so focused on every post being as perfect as could possibly be, I became bogged down, churning out posts with increasing lethargy until the blog stuttered to a halt entirely. At times the blog would be forgotten until I would decide, once more, to start a blog, only to be confronted by a blog three or four years old, containing one or two posts or sometimes just the title page with no posts at all.
My goal for this blog then, is this: to post at least once a week (though I will fail gorgeously, of that I'm sure) and when I post, to write what comes to mind without excessive editing.
The truth is, that was probably the point of keeping a blog in the first place.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Critical Thinking (A Short Story)
(The following short, I am sorry to say, is based on a true incident. Do forgive the slightly preaching tone, I wrote this for a religious magazine but they rejected it due to disturbing content.*)
~*~
Lauren bounced four inches into the air as the bus driver sped over a pothole, and landed on the faux leather seat with a jolt that clicked her teeth together. She was thankful not to have bitten her tongue.
She wished she had held her tongue earlier. The ramifications of what had happened less than four hours ago were starting to sink in.
The day started out on a positive note, with the second snowfall of the season dropping from the sky. The tiny flakes hurried downwards as if they were late to their appointment with the earth. Lauren wouldn't have hurried as much if she were a snowflake. It wasn't as if a nice cushy snowbank awaited them. These flakes were melting right into the concrete and asphalt, making the streets slick and forming a big slushy puddle at the street corner of her school, where the drain was always getting plugged up with wrappers that some girls accidentally--or perhaps thoughtlessly--dropped.
"Lauren! Eyes to the front of the classroom, please!"
Sure. Call out the class goody-goody for looking out the window because you're too chicken to confront the girls behind her, who are whispering, giggling and passing notes. Lauren understood. Teachers preferred to make examples of easy targets sometimes…but understanding didn't make it fair.
Sarah, her best friend, tossed her a note from across the aisle. Lauren trapped it beneath her shoe but didn't bend to pick it up, knowing that the teacher was just waiting for an excuse to send her out of class.
Her classmates loved acting up in Mrs. Gray's class. She was a newbie, just cutting her teeth on her first year of teaching. She tried to be friendly the first week of school, instead of strict the way most teachers were. But she had no idea how to maintain the proper space between herself and her students, and as a result she had completely alienated the girls. In Lauren's opinion, a big part of the problem was that Mrs. Gray had forgotten what seventh grade was like.
Mrs. Gray taught reading comprehension, which was widely regarded as a waste of time. "Girls, you need to think critically," Mrs. Gray said. "Don't take everything at face value. What is motivating the characters? What is the meaning behind their words?"
Lauren's classmates would openly mock Mrs. Gray's lessons during recess time. Lauren felt sorry for the teacher and tried to defend her sometimes, as long as she could do it without being called a teacher's pet.
The fact was, in a school system where teachers simply demanded respect, the girls were bewildered by a teacher who wanted to be their friend. Mrs. Gray would need to get the respect afforded to the other teachers the old-fashioned way - she'd have to earn it.
Mrs. Gray, beneath her fixed smile and chirpy voice, had other plans, and apparently these plans involved picking a class martyr.
"Lauren West?"
Again, she jerked her head away from the window, expecting another reprimand. Or maybe she had missed a question? But no, Mrs. Hamilton, the secretary, stood at the door, keeping it ajar with one hand resting lightly on the handle. Lauren stood up quickly, bumping her hip into the desk, and walked to the door, feeling thirty-two pairs of eyes follow her as she went.
"You need to go to the principal's office," Mrs. Hamilton told her once they were both in the hallway.
"Why?" Lauren asked. Mrs. Hamilton either didn't know or wouldn't say, so they proceeded towards the office in silence. The empty hallway seemed eerie to Lauren, who rarely left class other than at recess and lunch time.
She wasn't the kind of girl who got into trouble. The only thing she could think of was that Mrs. Gray had handed her in as the class troublemaker, but that didn't make any sense. Maybe Lauren didn't always pay attention, but it would be more logical for Mrs. Gray to send some of her rowdier students to the principal.
Mrs. Hamilton opened the door to the main office and sat down at her desk. She nodded towards a door set into the back wall, indicating that Lauren should go into the principal's inner office. Her stomach churned as she realized the gravity of the situation. The principal usually came out to the main office to scold students for small infractions. What could be so serious that Lauren was being swallowed up into the very bowels of the school?
She knocked hesitantly on the door. "Come in," the principal called, and Lauren went into the back office, ignored by Mrs. Hamilton, whose fingers were flying over the keyboard of her computer.
"Hello," the principal said, her smile frosty.
"Um, hello." Lauren replied.
"Lauren," the principal said, her eyes narrowing, "I've called you in here to discuss something very serious." The churning in Lauren's stomach rose to her throat in a sudden wave of nausea.
"I'll get right to the point," the principal continued. "Someone left a tack on Mrs. Gray's seat last Tuesday. Do you know anything about that?"
The principal wore a look of triumph on her face, as if there was no doubt that Lauren was the culprit. Lauren, however, was completely confused.
"Um…a tack?" she asked. She knew nothing about a tack, and it didn't sound like something her classmates would do. It sounded like something out of a book, a classic prank. But the worst Lauren's classmates did was throw paper airplanes. A tack seemed unusually cruel, even for them.
"Luckily, she saw it before she sat down," the principal continued. "But she was really very upset about it, and came to me. I'm looking into who could have done it. And I have to say, I'm really surprised at this, but your name came up."
Confusion and panic scrambled together in Lauren's brain, each vying for the prime spot of language so they could voice their opinions. So it was a few shocked seconds before Lauren could reply.
"I didn't do it!"
The small, windowless room suddenly seemed very much like a prison. Lauren swallowed, suddenly aware that she was hardly breathing. Why should the principal believe her? Someone else had obviously done it, and then blamed her. Who could it have been? Was the principal calling in all the students, one by one?
"Really?" the principal asked. At first she appeared doubtful, then decisive. "Then who, in your opinion, did do it?"
Lauren froze. Was this why she was here? The principal wanted her to betray her classmates? Lauren didn't want to be a snitch, but she also didn't want to be blamed and punished for something she hadn't done. If someone really HAD put a tack on the teacher's chair, then they deserved to be disciplined, right? Except Lauren had no idea who might have done it. She shook her head.
"You don't know?" the principal said, frowning. "Maybe you could guess?"
Her voice trembling, Lauren named three classmates who were often the perpetrators of the worst pranks. Even if they hadn't put the tack on the chair, they would probably know who did, and the principal might obtain some useful information out of them.
The principal thanked Lauren, assured her she wouldn't be blamed, and sent her back to class.
"Psst! What did she want?" Sarah whispered to her, leaning over the aisle between their desks. Lauren shook her head.
"Later," she mouthed, and bent over her wide-ruled looseleaf paper, pretending to take notes on a lesson that she couldn't hear over the thump of her heart pounding. What had she done? What had just happened?
On the bus ride home, she began telling Sarah what had taken place earlier. But as she recounted the story out loud, something didn't seem right. The story was too contrived. The principal knew that Lauren never got into trouble, and always got good marks. Why would she believe that Lauren had done such a terrible thing? And then it hit her with a jolt stronger than any speed bump the bus might encounter. The perfect alibi.
She hadn't been in school last Tuesday. She had stayed home with a bad cold. And instead of explaining this to the principal, she'd been so overwhelmed with panic that she'd ratted out her classmates.
This led her to the obvious conclusion. The principal had never actually thought that it was Lauren who had put the tack on the chair. She had just been using Lauren to get information about the class troublemakers. And Lauren had fallen for the ruse.
"Sarah!" she burst out, interrupting her retelling of what had happened earlier. "Did someone put a tack on Mrs. Gray's chair last week?"
Sarah frowned. "A TACK? Seriously? Nope, don't think so."
"Last Tuesday," Lauren urged. "Did anyone put a tack on her chair?"
After thinking for a moment, Sarah gasped. "No! Lauren! Last Tuesday…Mrs. Gray wasn't even here. We had a substitute."
As they looked at each other in shock, the implications of the principal's scheme began to sink in.
Lauren had been lied to and manipulated by someone who was supposed to be on her side, someone she was supposed to trust. She was beginning to understand what Mrs. Gray had been hoping to accomplish by teaching reading comprehension. If Lauren had been able to think critically and logically while she was in the principal's office, she may have walked out with her pride intact.
As she rode home, ashamed and upset, she was slightly mollified by the thought that some lessons are learned through bitter experience rather than in a comfortable classroom setting, and she had just learned an important one.
She wished she had held her tongue earlier. The ramifications of what had happened less than four hours ago were starting to sink in.
The day started out on a positive note, with the second snowfall of the season dropping from the sky. The tiny flakes hurried downwards as if they were late to their appointment with the earth. Lauren wouldn't have hurried as much if she were a snowflake. It wasn't as if a nice cushy snowbank awaited them. These flakes were melting right into the concrete and asphalt, making the streets slick and forming a big slushy puddle at the street corner of her school, where the drain was always getting plugged up with wrappers that some girls accidentally--or perhaps thoughtlessly--dropped.
"Lauren! Eyes to the front of the classroom, please!"
Sure. Call out the class goody-goody for looking out the window because you're too chicken to confront the girls behind her, who are whispering, giggling and passing notes. Lauren understood. Teachers preferred to make examples of easy targets sometimes…but understanding didn't make it fair.
Sarah, her best friend, tossed her a note from across the aisle. Lauren trapped it beneath her shoe but didn't bend to pick it up, knowing that the teacher was just waiting for an excuse to send her out of class.
Her classmates loved acting up in Mrs. Gray's class. She was a newbie, just cutting her teeth on her first year of teaching. She tried to be friendly the first week of school, instead of strict the way most teachers were. But she had no idea how to maintain the proper space between herself and her students, and as a result she had completely alienated the girls. In Lauren's opinion, a big part of the problem was that Mrs. Gray had forgotten what seventh grade was like.
Mrs. Gray taught reading comprehension, which was widely regarded as a waste of time. "Girls, you need to think critically," Mrs. Gray said. "Don't take everything at face value. What is motivating the characters? What is the meaning behind their words?"
Lauren's classmates would openly mock Mrs. Gray's lessons during recess time. Lauren felt sorry for the teacher and tried to defend her sometimes, as long as she could do it without being called a teacher's pet.
The fact was, in a school system where teachers simply demanded respect, the girls were bewildered by a teacher who wanted to be their friend. Mrs. Gray would need to get the respect afforded to the other teachers the old-fashioned way - she'd have to earn it.
Mrs. Gray, beneath her fixed smile and chirpy voice, had other plans, and apparently these plans involved picking a class martyr.
"Lauren West?"
Again, she jerked her head away from the window, expecting another reprimand. Or maybe she had missed a question? But no, Mrs. Hamilton, the secretary, stood at the door, keeping it ajar with one hand resting lightly on the handle. Lauren stood up quickly, bumping her hip into the desk, and walked to the door, feeling thirty-two pairs of eyes follow her as she went.
"You need to go to the principal's office," Mrs. Hamilton told her once they were both in the hallway.
"Why?" Lauren asked. Mrs. Hamilton either didn't know or wouldn't say, so they proceeded towards the office in silence. The empty hallway seemed eerie to Lauren, who rarely left class other than at recess and lunch time.
She wasn't the kind of girl who got into trouble. The only thing she could think of was that Mrs. Gray had handed her in as the class troublemaker, but that didn't make any sense. Maybe Lauren didn't always pay attention, but it would be more logical for Mrs. Gray to send some of her rowdier students to the principal.
Mrs. Hamilton opened the door to the main office and sat down at her desk. She nodded towards a door set into the back wall, indicating that Lauren should go into the principal's inner office. Her stomach churned as she realized the gravity of the situation. The principal usually came out to the main office to scold students for small infractions. What could be so serious that Lauren was being swallowed up into the very bowels of the school?
She knocked hesitantly on the door. "Come in," the principal called, and Lauren went into the back office, ignored by Mrs. Hamilton, whose fingers were flying over the keyboard of her computer.
"Hello," the principal said, her smile frosty.
"Um, hello." Lauren replied.
"Lauren," the principal said, her eyes narrowing, "I've called you in here to discuss something very serious." The churning in Lauren's stomach rose to her throat in a sudden wave of nausea.
"I'll get right to the point," the principal continued. "Someone left a tack on Mrs. Gray's seat last Tuesday. Do you know anything about that?"
The principal wore a look of triumph on her face, as if there was no doubt that Lauren was the culprit. Lauren, however, was completely confused.
"Um…a tack?" she asked. She knew nothing about a tack, and it didn't sound like something her classmates would do. It sounded like something out of a book, a classic prank. But the worst Lauren's classmates did was throw paper airplanes. A tack seemed unusually cruel, even for them.
"Luckily, she saw it before she sat down," the principal continued. "But she was really very upset about it, and came to me. I'm looking into who could have done it. And I have to say, I'm really surprised at this, but your name came up."
Confusion and panic scrambled together in Lauren's brain, each vying for the prime spot of language so they could voice their opinions. So it was a few shocked seconds before Lauren could reply.
"I didn't do it!"
The small, windowless room suddenly seemed very much like a prison. Lauren swallowed, suddenly aware that she was hardly breathing. Why should the principal believe her? Someone else had obviously done it, and then blamed her. Who could it have been? Was the principal calling in all the students, one by one?
"Really?" the principal asked. At first she appeared doubtful, then decisive. "Then who, in your opinion, did do it?"
Lauren froze. Was this why she was here? The principal wanted her to betray her classmates? Lauren didn't want to be a snitch, but she also didn't want to be blamed and punished for something she hadn't done. If someone really HAD put a tack on the teacher's chair, then they deserved to be disciplined, right? Except Lauren had no idea who might have done it. She shook her head.
"You don't know?" the principal said, frowning. "Maybe you could guess?"
Her voice trembling, Lauren named three classmates who were often the perpetrators of the worst pranks. Even if they hadn't put the tack on the chair, they would probably know who did, and the principal might obtain some useful information out of them.
The principal thanked Lauren, assured her she wouldn't be blamed, and sent her back to class.
"Psst! What did she want?" Sarah whispered to her, leaning over the aisle between their desks. Lauren shook her head.
"Later," she mouthed, and bent over her wide-ruled looseleaf paper, pretending to take notes on a lesson that she couldn't hear over the thump of her heart pounding. What had she done? What had just happened?
On the bus ride home, she began telling Sarah what had taken place earlier. But as she recounted the story out loud, something didn't seem right. The story was too contrived. The principal knew that Lauren never got into trouble, and always got good marks. Why would she believe that Lauren had done such a terrible thing? And then it hit her with a jolt stronger than any speed bump the bus might encounter. The perfect alibi.
She hadn't been in school last Tuesday. She had stayed home with a bad cold. And instead of explaining this to the principal, she'd been so overwhelmed with panic that she'd ratted out her classmates.
This led her to the obvious conclusion. The principal had never actually thought that it was Lauren who had put the tack on the chair. She had just been using Lauren to get information about the class troublemakers. And Lauren had fallen for the ruse.
"Sarah!" she burst out, interrupting her retelling of what had happened earlier. "Did someone put a tack on Mrs. Gray's chair last week?"
Sarah frowned. "A TACK? Seriously? Nope, don't think so."
"Last Tuesday," Lauren urged. "Did anyone put a tack on her chair?"
After thinking for a moment, Sarah gasped. "No! Lauren! Last Tuesday…Mrs. Gray wasn't even here. We had a substitute."
As they looked at each other in shock, the implications of the principal's scheme began to sink in.
Lauren had been lied to and manipulated by someone who was supposed to be on her side, someone she was supposed to trust. She was beginning to understand what Mrs. Gray had been hoping to accomplish by teaching reading comprehension. If Lauren had been able to think critically and logically while she was in the principal's office, she may have walked out with her pride intact.
As she rode home, ashamed and upset, she was slightly mollified by the thought that some lessons are learned through bitter experience rather than in a comfortable classroom setting, and she had just learned an important one.
~*~
*The disturbing content being, of course, an adult who *gasp* is a manipulative liar.
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