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Monday, December 10, 2012

Magic


As most of you probably know, I work in a movie theatre.  It’s not the fanciest theatre – far from it.  We have six theatres crammed into a small space, a lobby that, on a major opening weekend can at times feel about as large as a residence hall room, and out of date décor.  But hey, a movie is a movie, and most don’t need a particularly shiny box to play in.

What some people don’t know is that I “grew up” in this theatre.  I was there the night it opened – Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure was playing.  Of course, everything sold before we could even catch a glimpse of the lobby through the glass doors.  So, we went home and came back after things had calmed down a bit.

The movie theatre played a major part in my life.  Driving home from shopping in West Lebanon, we’d always make sure to drive by the theatre to see what movies were listed on the sign, often having a good chuckle over the funny abbreviations and combination of titles they’d put up there (“Die Hard Bambi” is still a personal favourite).  I got to see re-releases of classic Disney animated features with my family, anything I could get into with my friend Susan in elementary school (to this day when I have to card someone for a ‘R’ rated movie, I remember the time we were denied access to Parenthood – it was PG-13, and I was only 11), and when I was older going on holidays with my sister when we just needed to get out of the house.

I saw Sneakers with a group of friends, and had my first (and only) experience of the projectionist having threaded and run the wrong movie.  It was also one of the few times I hung out with a group of my peers and didn’t feel like the odd one out.  When Titanic opened, I was there opening night.  When The Wizard of Oz was re-released fore the 60th Anniversary, I sat in the theatre of my youth, watching the movie of my childhood.

Over the years, the theatre has fallen into disrepair.  The carpets are rundown and worn from the hundreds of moviegoers seeking a few hours of escape from their lives.  The concession stand is dated (the same one I used to buy candy from as a child).  And even though I spend most of my time there, even though I have seen where the magic comes from in the projection booth (I even get to run the projectors some nights!), and even though I know all about the business end… when I come in to see a movie, as soon as I walk down that long, dark hallway, open the door and choose my seat, it is all magical again.  I still catch my breath as the lights dim, and the “click, click, click” of the projector can be heard.  Sadly, that is soon a thing of the past, as now all theatres (including mine eventually) are being forced into the digital age.  But, that is a rant for another time.

Yes, I work in a small, run-down theatre in an age of fancy theatres with stadium lounge chairs and full-on meals out of their concession stands.  But truly, when the sparkly packaging is stripped away, you are still left with entertaining stories being played out on a screen in a dark room; yes, when you strip away all the fanciness, you are left with magic.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Ritual Sacrifice. With Pie.


Happy Thanksgiving!  As a student of history, I could go on about how as a society, we collectively lie about that first Thanksgiving, direct you to articles and documentaries about the history of Thanksgiving, but really?  Who cares.  Today is a day we stop for a moment, look at where we are at, and take note of the things we are thankful to have.  And then we partake in a ritual sacrifice.  With pie. (It’s a Buffy reference.  You’re welcome). 

So, this year, before I indulge in all the foods, I will share what I am thankful for in my life.

Ø      My Family.  My family has been here for me throughout all my craziness, and hasn’t given up on me yet.  My parents have always taken me in when I need a roof over my head, and have loved me unconditionally my whole life.  They have been patient with me, supportive, and proud of my accomplishments.  This includes my sister and my niece, whom I adore.  I am always especially grateful to have my niece in my life – she was a big reason that I not only went to college, but worked so hard and graduated.  She provides endless entertainment and is so full of love and light.  Yes, I am very thankful for my wonderful family.

Ø      My Friends.  My friends are right up there with family.  The ones that truly matter have also stuck with me, even during my crazy periods.  They have offered shoulders to cry on, ears to listen with, and laughter aplenty.  If I was ever away from home during a holiday, they took me in so I wouldn’t be alone.  I have always been one who doesn’t have a lot of friends, but the ones I have are truly special and amazing.  Y’all know who you are.

Ø      My Job.  I bitch and moan about my job all the time, but the fact that my bosses think I am capable of running a movie theatre when they’re all away instills such confidence in me.  I have learned a thing or two about the film industry from the theatre’s point of view, and have been lucky enough to get to work with the film projectors before they are retired for good.  I have also been given the opportunity to continue to use the leadership skills learned during my time in ResLife.  And in this economy, having a job at all is truly a blessing.  Especially one that will help me in my future plans.  And free movies?  Hell yeah.

Ø      My College Experience.  I graduated college this year.  Thusfar, the greatest accomplishment of my life.  Not only am I thankful for having the perseverance to push through that last semester, I am thankful for the entire four years I spent at Keene.  I grew so much, I can’t even say.  I am forever grateful and thankful for the fact that ResLife not only took a chance on me initially, but kept me around for three years.  I was never the perfect RA, but I tried, and came out the other side a new confident woman.

Ø      My Boyfriend.  I know, I know.  I’m that girl.  But truly.  I have been in some ok relationships, some good ones (that I screwed up), and some downright bad ones.  This has been the most honest and real relationship I’ve ever been in.  He is unbelievably supportive of me and my goals.  He makes me feel beautiful and desirable.  And he makes me laugh.  A lot.  He is a decent guy who has his own goals and drive, who is thoughtful of others and just a lot of fun to be around.  He’s also super cute. J  I am also very thankful for our mutual friend Blair, who threw the shindig at which we met, and who talked us both down from ledges when we thought we’d messed up before we’d even had our first date! 

There are a lot of things to be thankful for today.  These are merely a few.  So, take the day, relax and reflect.  Enjoy your feasting, and your families.  For those who are stuck working (as I will be later today), hey, at least we have jobs! 

And for those who are partaking in the insanity that is Black Friday, try to remember the spirit of the day – it started as the day people kicked off their Christmas shopping, to find gifts for friends and loved ones.  Not the day to get out there and buy, buy, buy for themselves.  If you are out shopping for you, try to remember to pick up a little something for someone else.  

Friday, November 16, 2012

Saying Goodbye


            Well, I did it.  Yesterday, I applied to graduate school.  My application to Chapman University’s M.A. in Film Studies program is now in God’s and the admission office’s hands.  I should be feeling all weightless and shit.  But now the waiting begins.  First, waiting to see if the two recommendations and my transcript make it there on time.  Then, waiting to find out if the next step is in Southern California or not.  And let’s face it – waiting is not something I do well.

            Stalling, however, is a skill which I have honed for years.  I had chosen Chapman over a month ago.  I had sort of started my essays with ample time, contacted people for recommendations, all the while telling myself “you’ve got plenty of time!”  Then November hit.  Well, fuck.  I have one month to get my shit together.  But I was dragging my heels.  Why?  Well, there was the fear factor (what if I don’t get in?!).  But really, it was quite simple – before I could begin this next step in my life, I had to say goodbye to previous ones.

            My boyfriend and I traveled to my alma mater, Keene State College, this week.  I wanted to show off the campus, introduce him to people; treat him to the Dining Commons.  But something felt off.  I felt like I was intruding on a world that I no longer belonged in.  Then I realized why I’d wanted to go back to Keene so badly.  I wanted to say goodbye.

            During my four years at Keene, I made some friends, got involved and connected and found a home in ResLife.  I worked my butt off academically, and finished with a GPA just shy of honors.  Still a sore spot, but also something to be very proud of.  But being so much older than the rest of the students (combined with severe social anxiety/awkwardness), I always felt like an intruder of sorts.  Like I didn’t really belong there.  And in a way, I was right.  I will always cherish the time I spent there, but the illusion of belonging has been shattered. 

            Once I was able to say goodbye, I was able to complete my application to Chapman without hesitation.  I can now only hope that it was not in vain, and this is the next step.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Four More... What?


So, today was Election Day.  This was my fifth presidential election.  Starting in 1996, I voted (absentee) for Bill Clinton.  2000, Al Gore; 2004 John Kerry; 2008 Barack Obama.  This year, I voted once again for Obama.  Why?  Because I don’t like anyone treating me, or any other citizens of the United States, like a second class unimportant person. 

There are people who wonder why we should even vote.  I don’t know about everyone else, but I have always had a hard time expressing my opinion.  Mostly because I have thought for a long time that my opinion doesn’t matter.  But voting is one way that I get to voice my opinion; to quietly stand up for myself and what I believe in.  Please do not confuse quiet for passive – exercising your right to vote is anything but passive. 

If you are someone who is disenfranchised or uninformed and is exercising your right to not vote today, this is your decision, and I respect that.  However, in this day and age it is not difficult to not only find information, but to find ways to process and understand the information you have found, and that excuse will only fly so far.  Find the issues that matter to you, and choose the side that supports your opinions and values, whatever they may be.  Don’t let others browbeat you into voting one way or another, because in the end whatever you do at those polling stations is between you and whatever higher power you believe in (if any) and that is that.  I voted how I felt was the right way for me and my personal beliefs and values today.  In the future, I encourage everyone else to do the same.

And on a lighter note, if all else fails, vote like this guy:



Tuesday, October 30, 2012

'Til the Storm Passes By


A couple of Sundays ago, we sang one of my favourite hymns as the choir anthem.  It is called “’Til the Storm Passes By”.  Not only is the melody just great fun to sing, the lyrics are very meaningful to me.  My whole life, there has been a tornado raging in my head, winds taking thoughts and whipping them around so fast that I can’t always catch them.  Lightening and thunder drown out the good thought and provide amplification to the bad.  But every now and then, I remember the words to this hymn, and the storm calms just long enough for me to breathe, relax, and continue on my path. 

The past couple of days I have been thinking about this song as a massive “Super Storm” has been winding its way up the East Coast.  As is often the case in times like this, humour has been getting people through, while funny memes and Twitter accounts circulate our virtual lives.  It is easy for those of us a little more removed from it to laugh about the situation, but when it starts to hit closer to home, the laughter is silenced.  I myself was in denial about just how bad it would be, until last night when I saw images of my beloved New York City being downright devastated in some areas.

I was then infuriated at the current students at my alma mater bitching and moaning about having to attend their classes tomorrow.  Yes, a day off every now and then was always welcome, especially in the dead of winter when it was always preferable to hole up under the covers and order Dominos then to schlep to class.  But in this case, where the worst they got was some wind and heavy rain, it was downright petty whining.  There are people who have lost so much in just one day, who may have lost jobs and loved ones.  Who may not be able to pay for college because of the damage this storm has caused.  Count yourselves lucky that you are not one of those people.  That you were kept safe and sound, and that you are able to resume your lives and your education without issue. 

Today the storm is moving on, it will eventually be stopped and there will be calm.  In the aftermath, in the bigger, emotional storm to follow as people try to put their lives back together again, just remember.  It, too, will pass and you will once again find that calm.  Until then, may some of you find the same comfort I have found in this song



Sunday, October 7, 2012

New and Exciting


If anyone had told me a year ago that I would be living at home, working as a supervisor at a movie theatre, and dating an amazing man now, I would have given them a healthy dose of “Man, you CRAZY!”  But here I am.  Nowhere near where I thought I would wind up.  But surprisingly content.  For now.

Do I still want more?  You bet.  I have decided to apply for grad school in the field of film studies, with the ultimate intent of being a professor.  But now there’s this guy.  This guy who makes me beyond happy.  He makes me laugh, makes me feel beautiful and special, he listens when I talk and values my opinion.  He has taken the time to get to know me.  We can be absolutely ridiculously silly together, and still have a real conversation.  So far, even with the usual little bumps, this has been very easy and natural.  Even when we have told each other things we know are hard to say/hear.  I don’t live in fear that if I say one wrong thing, everything will fall apart, a problem I had with many of my past relationships.  There is no walking on eggshells here.  What he sees is what he gets, and so far (for whatever insane reason) he likes what he sees.  This is no new and foreign to me. 

The thing is, we haven’t been together all that long.  Only known each other existed for about 6 weeks.  Only been dating for about a month.  But it feels like we’ve known each other for ages.  And not in a bad way.  There was this connection that neither of us could pinpoint, and still can’t.  It’s not intense in the cinematic sense, it’s just there.  And for the first time in my relationship-having life, my relationship is the one thing that I am not worried about.  Money?  Absolutely.  My career?  Yup.  Grad School?  Uh-huh.  But my relationship?  Nope.  The only thing that is up in the air is where I go to grad school, and how that will effect us, but like the grown-ass people we are, it is an ongoing discussion and something we will deal with when the time comes.  When did I stumble into a real relationship?  The hell?

So what about the things I am worried about?  Fuck if I know.  I do know that I have made the right choice, grad school studies-wise.  Cutting ResLife out (for now) still stings, but I know that it was what I needed to do.  For the first time, I get excited about the curriculum and programs offered in the film studies programs.  This is my passion, and I am going to go after it no matter what.  My only regret is that I didn’t have that “Ah-Ha!” moment sooner!

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Shorten the Path


I have made a decision.  It was not an easy one at all.  But, I am no longer going to pursue the ResLife career path.  It was never my end game, anyway, and I have decided to just focus on that.  And what is that, you ask?  First, let me tell you about my initial plan…

The plan was to go to grad school and get a Masters in Student Affairs/Higher Ed with a focus in Residence Life.  From there, I was going to get a gig as an RD, and get a masters in History.  After all that, I wanted to apply to the Film Studies PhD program at Harvard.  The end goal was to be a film studies/history professor at a small to midsize, liberal arts college, not unlike Keene State College, while serving as a liaison between Academcs and Student Affairs.

A lot of work, a lot of school, a lot of years.  

Since I’ve been removed from ResLife, I realized that this is not how I want to go about things.  That I can still be a professor and be involved in the “other end of campus” without having been more than an RA and involved in some student organizations.  I still want the opportunity to be a mentor and teacher, but I would rather go at it academically than in the Residence Halls.  It is easier to connect with people who share your passion than not. 

I am also taking my age into consideration.  When I was a fulltime student in the thick of it, I was able to relate to them, albeit the “what the fuck are you thinking?!” thought danced through my head on a regular basis.  But there was always a little bit of a distance, and the older I get, the more that distance will grow.  Also, I m 34 years old.  I don’t want to be 45 before I set foot in a classroom. 

So, I did what any normal person these days would do – I posted on Facebook.  I asked for suggestions of what I should do.  And Crystal asked me a question that gets asked a lot – what are you passionate about?  The first thing that came to mind was film and writing.  That was my wake-up call.  That the end goal I’d been planning should be the focus, and I need to shorten the path to it – not meander around in circles to get there.

I want to be a Film Historian.  I want to study, watch, analyze and write about films.  I want to teach Film History, and a course on the use of history in films.  It is what I have wanted since Freshman year of college, I just got distracted a little.

I will be forever grateful for everything I got out of ResLife.  I am a more confident, well-put together person because of my time as an RA.  The people I have met over the years will always be in my life, one way or another.  I would not have had the experience I had in college if it were not for being an RA.  I will continue to be supportive of and loyal to Residence Life and the Student Affairs programs that exist, because they are so important to the college experience, and changed my life.  But my role now is just that – one of support. 

I have found the next step, and I am certain of it at this moment.  I am looking at grad schools for film studies, and instead of being stressed about it, I am excited.  That’s gotta be a good sign, right?

Friday, September 14, 2012

Lost in the Woods


Today, I went for a walk in the woods near my house.  I was inspired by this guy I’ve been seeing the last few weeks, as he takes a daily walk, and is committed to self-improvement.  I grabbed my camera, my newly found iPod and my water, and I was off.

I once wrote about a moment when I felt the peace of God for a writing class (posted it here).  I had another one of those moments as I stood over a little log bridge.  The sun was peeping through the trees as a light breeze kicked up and leaves freed themselves from their branches to float to a resting spot on the ground.  I felt calm and secure.  But still uncertain about my life.

As I walked up and back down a big hill, I noticed something.  My eyes rarely left the path.  I never look too far ahead, for fear that I’ll trip on something right in front of me and fall.  I do the same with my life.  I only look ahead in small doses – where will I be this time next month?  In the next six months?  Next year is pushing it, but it crosses my mind.  But if I try to plan out too far ahead, inevitably I will get tripped up by something, and the plan changes.  So, I keep my head down and my eye on the path before me.

For the past three years, the plan has been a career in student affairs, reslife.  But now, seeing posts that friends and acquaintances who are still RAs or starting their professional careers in grad school, I can see just how much better suited they are for it.  That just because I love reslife doesn’t mean that it loves me, or that it is what I am meant to do.  And if not ResLife, what?  I have no clue.  So, I am back at square one.  Not sure if I want to move to NOLA, not sure if I want to follow the career path I had set out for myself, not sure if there is anything out there that I would be good at.  Suggestions welcome, because the path has changed, and I am seriously lost in the woods.



Friday, September 7, 2012

Portfolio Piece #12: Summer Breeze Makes me Feel God


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Summer Breeze Makes me Feel God.
Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year

It was one of those perfect sunny days.  A gentle breeze, blue sky, big fluffy white clouds everywhere.  I was walking across the field at Camp Sentinel, a Baptist camp in Tuftonboro, NH.  This was my second or third year attending Sentinel, so I must have been around 12 years old. 
            At this point in my life, I was fairly secure in my faith.  I felt like I was somehow lacking because my Biblical studies left much to be desired, but being a Minister’s daughter, it was just understood that I believe in God.  Every year at Sentinel, there was a different “Head Minister” who would determine the focus of the week.  They all blended in with me, I couldn’t tell you any of their names or what they looked like, except for this particular week, I recall he was a larger man with white hair.  I suspect many of the Ministers we had were retired.
            This particular week was all about accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savoir.  Something I assumed I already had done, since I went to church every week and prayed all the time.  I thought maybe I had missed something, and that once again my Christianity was up for debate because I hadn’t actually made this claim out loud.  But still, I pushed it aside to the corner of my brain while I focused on all the cute Christian boys the camp had to offer.
            A few days into the week, one of my cabin-mates got sick.  She was stuck in the Nurse’s cabin for at least a day.  At lunch that day, our counselor asked us if someone could bring her lunch to her.  I volunteered.  It was the right thing to do, and it made me look good.  It was also a gorgeous day, so it would mean some time out in the sun by myself.
            As I crossed the field over to the Nurse’s cabin, a slight breeze picked up and stopped me dead in my tracks.  I closed my eyes and breathed it in.  A strange feeling came over me – absolute calm.  For the first time since I had been born, everything in my body quieted down.  I opened my eyes and took everything in: the clear blue sky, the clouds, the green trees, the giant boulder in the middle of the field where we all met for morning activities, simply known as “the rock”.  In that instant, it came to me, I finally got it.  My faith suddenly turned from an assumed knowledge to a real understanding.  Without hesitation, without question or doubt, my mouth opened up, and the words “I accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savoir” flowed from within me into the breeze.  It wasn’t a definitive statement; it was a statement of wonder and awe.  My chest bubbled up with joy, a smile crept across my face, and a satisfied sigh escaped from within me.  With a nod to the beautiful day, I went along my way to deliver lunch to my sick cabin mate.
            I have not felt that kind of peace since.  I would like to say my faith has come as easy as the breeze that day, but faith is not that simple.  Even though two years later I was Baptized, even though I taught Sunday school and sang in the church choir, I question my faith every day.  I ask why it can’t be as simple as a summer day at Baptist camp, and I don’t think I will ever understand why.  So I keep that day in my back pocket, and pull it out when I fear that God isn’t listening, take a deep breath, and hope to catch the breeze.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Portfolio Piece #11: Strings


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Strings
Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year.
Most people who know me know that I love music.  I have it constantly playing, whether it’s on my computer, the radio in my car, or on my iPod as I take walks around campus and town.  If I don’t have my tunes, I am lost.  When asked what my favorite music is, I always answer “everything”.  A trite answer? Yes, but an honest one.  I was raised on everything – from the contemporary music of my childhood, back to classical greats such as Bach and Vivaldi.  My music of choice varies dependant on my mood, and the task at hand.  Happy, care-fee mood? Dance music or pop, and sometimes big band.  Feeling sexy?  Some Cibo Matto, or Back to Basics era Aguilera.  Feeling pensive? Jukebox the Ghost.  Stressed to the hilt? Classical.  Preferably Edvard Grieg or any composer from the Baroque period. 
            My love of classical music, especially the pieces that heavily feature stringed instruments such as the violin or cello (my absolute favorite instruments) comes from Mrs. Johsnon and her violin classes.  In fourth grade, we could take violin if we wanted.  In fifth grade, you could take up a band instrument.  Many took violin to tide them over until they could play something more compact like the flute, or cooler like the saxophone.  Myself, I took the violin because when I heard the strings teacher, Mrs. Johnson, play for us in a demonstration, I was transfixed.  The way her body swayed with the music, the way the bow slid across the strings to create such a beautiful melody convinced me – I wanted to play the violin.  I went home that day and excitedly told my parents I wanted to play.
            I was both grateful and a little surprised that they let me take the violin.  For years, I had begged them for ballet lessons, and every year I was told “Not enough money this year – maybe next year”.  I suppose the reason I was allowed to take the violin was because it was offered through the school, and we were given a free violin from a family friend. 
            The violin I had was too big, but I learned how to grow into it.  At first I practiced every night, imagining that I was playing for a big crowd in some ornate theatre.  The music swelled from my instrument, my bow gracefully danced over the strings.  The notes were clear and so beautiful, they would bring tears to my listeners eyes.  In reality, the “music” I made from my violin surely must have brought tears to people’s eyes – tears of pain.  It was not an instrument that came easily to me, mostly because I quickly grew lazy and did not practice as much as I should have.  Besides, I had decided I wanted to play the flute instead – my sister and my dad played the flute.  I wanted in on that.  But my dad convinced me to stick with the violin, telling me that there are a million flute/woodwind players, but only a few stick with the strings.  So, I toughed it out.
            I stuck with the violin, and Mrs. Johnson, all through high school.  I was never very good at it, mainly because by the time I reached high school, I was more focused on singing.  Instead of the private violin lessons Mrs. Johnson suggested, I opted for voice lessons.  I sang day and night, my violin slowly falling into disrepair from being neglected.  But for some reason, even though it brought me so much frustration, I loved playing.  The sound of a violin still evokes a sense of peace and joy, especially when I listen to pieces I had once fumbled my way through way back when.  I can remember how badass I felt when I was able to master the complicated runs of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and how I broke into tears when I heard my peers play the same piece of music in a way I knew I would never be able to.
           I still think about taking up the violin again every now and then.  I know I will never be a maestro, but I loved to play, and that is all that matters.  I wonder if it would be different to play just for me, and not for my patient teacher and an audience of my not so patient peers.  Sometimes I catch myself listening to pieces I once attempted holding an imaginary violin in my left hand, my fingers positioning themselves to form the notes.  All I need is an instrument and a bow.  

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Portfolio Piece #10: Etna


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Etna
Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year

            Etna, NH was in the country.  There were no blocks, no sidewalks, barely any traffic.  But it wasn’t completely barren of civilization.  We had a church, a branch of the Hanover Town Library, a Post Office, and a General Store.  I think I always wanted to live in suburbia, because growing up in Etna was so different from what I saw on TV – neighborhood kids who played together, block parties, neighborhood barbeques.  We had none of this.  I mean, there were some kids our own age, but none that ever stuck around long enough to really get to know.  I had a friend named Trent Nutting who lived next door, but his family moved away when we were in early elementary school.  A couple of kids from my school lived within walking distance, but I wasn’t really that close with any of them. 
            The houses that lined our road were a mystery to me.  I thought I didn’t know anyone who lived in them.  Looking back, I knew more people than I realized from church, I just had a hard time placing people out of context. 
            Back in the 80s, there was a big Halloween scare because it got all over the news that candy and other Halloween goodies were being tampered with – razors in apples, poison in candy.  The hospital started offering to X-Ray candy bags.  I thought it was ridiculous – just because the houses were mysteries to me didn’t mean the people in them were.  I assumed my dad knew everyone in Etna, because he was the minister of the church, and he wouldn’t take me Trick-or-Treating at houses that were inclined to kill me. 
            Mom didn’t really interact much with people, from what I recall.  But Dad was a social butterfly.  His dad was, too.  It’s where he got it from.  A quick stop at the Post Office would quickly turn into 20 minutes of us waiting impatiently in the car, rolling our eyes and watching the clock.  Even now, when we stop at the general store after Sunday lunch out to get the newspaper, Mom has to remind him “don’t stay and talk for 20 minutes, just get the paper”, and we sit and roll our eyes and watch the clock.  He’s gotten better, but the man does like to talk.
            The thing I never quite got was that not all of the people Dad would gab with were church-goers, or affiliated with my school.  And since church and school made up my whole world, I didn’t realize there were other people out there worth talking to.  I didn’t get that feeling of community pride, because we weren’t an organized community.  But Dad got it.  He understood the importance of knowing who lived on your road, and who hid out in the woods.  Other than knowing that the best place to buy a bike was from the guy down the road who fixed up old ones and sold them cheap (who will forever be simply known as “The Bike Guy”), if they weren’t a member of our church, I didn’t know them.  My world was very small, but I guess everyone’s is.  Even Dad’s doesn’t really stretch much beyond the Upper Valley
            When you get older, you realize that while your world may be small, it can still be rich and meaningful.  When you’re just a kid, you wish it was bigger, with block parties and sidewalks.  

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Portfolio Piece #9: Ready for my Close-Up


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Ready for my Close-up
Written for Autobiography Workshop, Written Junior Year
At the tender young age of 31, I was sitting in my French class, fall semester of my sophomore year at Keene State College.  I was bored, as usual.  I had taken French grades 4-8, and had a refresher when I was in my early 20s, but still took Elementary French I.  Now, before you start thinking Oh, you only took it because you wanted an easy ‘A’, let me explain my reasons for taking such an easy class:
1. I needed it for my major.
2. I like French
3. Need I remind you I.Am.Old. It had been years since I last took French.
Lucky for me, I had a nice (and attractive) French professor who didn’t seem to care that I was never, ever paying attention.  Indeed, I would nod off in that class on a regular basis.  Not only because the subject matter was boring (despite how cute Monsieur Adorkable was I was still bored) but because it was at two o’clock in the afternoon, which is normally reserved for naptime.
So, anyway, I was sitting in my easy ‘A’, boring French class, when I decided to look out the window instead of at the Professor for a change.  It was late in the semester, and the weather was starting to fall right out of autumn and into the void that is New England winter.  My view looked like it had been filmed in black and white.  The twisted branches of the visible trees were bare, and there was nary a squirrel in sight.  It had started to snow.  That kind of small, sideways snow that it is no way the end to a romantic comedy, but a mood setter in a suspense, or as I thought of it, the signal that something dramatic and life-altering was about to take place.  I looked down at the doodles on my notebook (I didn’t even try to hide the fact that I had stopped taking notes a month ago) and when I looked back up, the snow had stopped as suddenly as it had started.  My heart dropped.  If it was going to be grey and gloomy, at least give us something pretty to look at! It’s just like It’s a Wonderful Life, when you know George got his life back.  The snow was the signal.  As this thought sledded through my mind as quickly as the snow had come and gone, I realized that my entire life was about the movies.  Not just that I enjoy movies, or am just a movie buff, but in my mind, my life is a movie. 

Monday, September 3, 2012

Portfolio Piece #8: Word Search


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.


Word Search
A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

I am running around the library, looking for words.  All of the books have been sucked dry, leaving a trail of blank white pages.   I had been working on my senior thesis for months, and as soon as I began writing the conclusion, language escaped me.  I knew there were some books here that could help me get it back, but I couldn’t find them.  I begin to frantically pull books off the shelves, searching for one that still has written language on the pages. 
            My heart skips with excitement when I spy a book open on the floor, ink on the pages.   I race over to it, and pick it up.  Immediately, I slam it shut in frustration.  The printing is just an illustration, and there are no captions or story to go with it. 
  Standing in the middle of the stacks, I want to scream, but I can’t.  I grasp my hair in frustrated fists and scrunch my face in agony.  “Where did all the words go?”  I whisper to the empty books.  Even the labels are gone. 
            I see a figure pacing the stacks, like a panther prowling for a meal.  I poke my head through the open space on the shelf.  “Hey!  You!”  I hiss to the dark figure.  They stop, but do not turn around.  “Are you taking the words away?”  Slowly, the figure turns around, an indigo mask covering their face, their hair covered by the hood of the black cape that was flowing down their back.  An indigo-gloved finger rises up to the painted mouth.  “Ssshhhh…”  And with that, the dark figure turns and prowls away, their black cape flowing behind them. 
            I pull back into my aisle, and flop onto the floor, defeated.  I close my eyes, and lie on my back, arms outstretched, breathing deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to ease my anxiety. 
A loud “thump” brings me out of my self-pity, and I sit up.  The masked figure is standing at the end of the aisle, a large book at their feet.  They hold out a hand, a gesture of benevolence.  In the blink of my eyes, the figure is gone. 
I crawl on my hands and knees to the book, kneeling in front of it, as though beginning some sort of ritual sacrifice.  I slowly open the cover, and see them: words.  I don’t know if they are what I am looking for, but it is a start.  I close my eyes and place my hands on the book.  Suddenly, the words are in my head and the book is empty.  Tears of gratitude fall down my face.  I rise up and head to the back of the library, for along with words, the book instructed me on where to find the rest.  I sucked the books dry, and returned to my computer, where I was able to turn the words into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, and complete my senior thesis.  

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Portfolio Piece #7: Birthday


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.




Birthday
A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

I had been hiding in my room all day, wondering why my head did not fit anymore.  The clock told me it was time to rest.  I prepare to go to bed, brushing my teeth at a row of sinks.  There is a song I can’t quite name in the distance.  My head rises in slow motion to look in the mirror, but the face looking back is a stranger.  I close my eyes. “One… two… three.”  When I open them again, the face is still not my own.  The eyes, nose and mouth are the same, but it is not me.  A cocktail of confusion and fear enters my body, and I turn to exit the bathroom.  Upon opening the ugly dark wooden door, I am met with another door.  This one is prettier, painted white with a window filled with darkness.  I push the door open, and am face to face with the stranger that had frightened me only moments before.
I ask her what is going on.  “Shhh” is her answer.  She points to her right, her eyes never leaving mine.  “Who are you?” I whisper, afraid to hear the answer.  She simply smiles.  I turn my head and look in the direction of her pointed hand.
Suddenly, I am standing in a field, full of sun, blue sky, and yellow daisies.  My twin stranger is standing on top of a hill, her white dress blowing in the wind.  “Who are you?!” I try to yell, but it comes out as a whisper. 
The sky has turns grey as the stones, an eerie blue tint has fallen on the earth.  I find myself on top of the hill, surrounded by graves. There are no names, but each is adorned with the same date: “June 23, 1978.”  I turn to see my unrecognizable doppelganger standing in front of me, holding a birthday cake with a blue candle, decorated with white frosting, pink trim and black roses.  Her face wears a mask of fear and desperation.  Her blue eyes fill with tears as she blows out the candle.
Slowly she fades away, placing the cake in my hands.  “Wait!” I cry out.  “Where did you come from?  Where are you going?”  A hint of a melancholy smile is formed by her pink lips as one tear slides down her face.
A room of mirrors erects itself around me.  I close my eyes, but this time when I open them, I recognize the face in the mirror.  Bringing the platter to my face, I take a bite of the cake, my face covered in butter cream and chocolate.  Her voice rings out with the song I heard in the bathroom: “Happy Birthday to You”.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Portfolio Piece #6: Gingerbread


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.



Gingerbread
A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

Kayla missed class again.  She said it was due to the snow.  I looked out my window and saw powdered sugar on a gingerbread landscape.  I assured her it’s not that bad, but she had already hung up.  I heaved a sigh of annoyance.  She always missed class at the sight of a snowflake, and doesn’t listen to me anymore.  I feel obsolete.
            Jesslyn and Meghan were making marshmallow snowmen on my lawn, laughing loudly at private jokes they never intend to share, as people wearing gumdrop hats wandered around, smiling and waving at each other.  My window fills with frost, as my heart slips to my feet.  I turn away and see my dear friend sitting at my generic college-supplied desk.  “I love you,” I say to his back.  He turns around, a big warm smile on his face.  “Awww, I love you, too.”  His smile picks up my heart and puts it back in its place.  It is always nice to know that someone cares. 
            I walk up behind him and give wrap my arms around his shoulders in a snuggly hug.  “I am so grateful to have you in my life, “Big Brother”.  You always appreciate me.”  He stands up and takes both my hands in his.  “Come on, let’s go out and join them.”
            We walk hand in hand catching powdered sugar on our tongues.  Whimsical music is tinkling around us as we stroll through this gingerbread world.  I wave to Meghan and Jesslyn, their snowmen falling over as they turn to wave back.  Gumdrop-hatted people call out with enthusiastic greetings to him.  It’s always to him – I get polite nods. 
            “Hey, “Little Sis”, you know I’ll always be here for you.  Right?” “Of course I know that.  The feeling is mutual,” I say to the falling powdered sugar that has distracted me with its sweetness.  When I turn to smile at him, my heart once again falls.  I am alone.  I heaved a side of sadness, though I am not surprised.  Gumdrops and marshmallows are always more exciting. 
I try to call Kayla back, to tell her it’s safe to come to school, but she doesn’t hear me.  She is too busy with other people.  I try to join Meghan and Jesslyn in their snowmen endeavors, but they have wandered off together.  I smile and wave at the gumdrop people, and am ignored.  I shrug and go back inside, taking my perch by the window.  “I knew it,” I whisper to the frosty window.  “I am obsolete.”


Friday, August 31, 2012

Portfolio Piece #5: Old


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Old
A Dream Story Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year
It had been more than a decade since I last saw Jon.  He used to know me better than anyone, and was the passion of my youth, but I rarely thought of him.  Lately, he had been lurking in the dark corners of my mind, a reminder of who I once was.  Making me nostalgic, and regretful.  My heart ached for him.
I was sitting on my bed when he appeared.  His clear blue eyes and dimpled smile reminded me why I once loved him. 
“You look old.” I say. 
“I am old.” he says. 
“You always were.”  We laugh, my head resting on his familiar shoulder.  I feel at home.  “Let’s get out of here,” I murmur into his shoulder.
“OK.” he mutters to my ceiling.
We are sitting at the RHO meeting, when he introduces himself.  He turns to me and loudly questions my being in college at my age.  “Oh, hey now!” Jana says, her voice issuing an unspoken warning, as she fixes an intense gaze from her scary eyes at him.  I am touched that she defends me.  There is laughter around us, but my heart hurts a little.  I thought he would be proud of me.  I look at him, trying to hide the embarrassment and pain in my eyes.  His face turns apologetic, and he takes my hand in his.  He nods his head towards the door, a signal of his desire to leave.  I smile.
We walk by the pond, two old friends, arm in arm.  “I miss you.” I say to the clear blue sky and the sparkling water.  He melts my heart with his smile, warmth creeping from my belly out.  I snuggle up against him as a breeze kicks up.  His soft lips press against my forehead and my heart drops.  “You know I don’t like it when you do that.  It always means goodbye,” I say to his chest, inhaling the scent of sandalwood oil and pipe tobacco.  He steps away, his face tired.  “I know,” he says as he fades away.
I am left alone and confused, the warm autumn day giving way to chilled blue twilight.  I feel old and run down.  The water has lost its sparkle, and I feel empty.  I meander through the deserted campus, leaves whirling around me, a melancholy soundtrack playing in my head.  As I enter my room, the emptiness of it makes it difficult to breathe.  I climb onto my bed, and smell the sheets, but his scent is gone.  My heart aches with disappointment and loss.  I slide in under the covers and try to sleep, hoping to see his face once again in my dreams. 

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Portfolio Piece #4: Go Fish



Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Go Fish
A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Junior Year.

“I am a big fish in a teeny-tiny pond.  I need to get out,” I state clearly and plainly to my goldfish.  “You know how it feels, when you outgrow your tank.”  My goldfish swims over to me and swishes her tail in agreement.  “Yes, I do.  By the way… the tank is getting small again.”  I just shrug and turn to face the revolving door in the middle of my bedroom.  “Sorry, Ms. Fish.  Not my problem anymore.”  I push the door…        
            And come out in the Plaza Hotel lobby in New York City.  Everything is black and white, except for the brass door, creaking to a stop behind me.  A piano plays something mellow from the dining room.  The lobby is void of furniture, plants, and and full of a seemingly endless rows of treadmills.  On the treadmills, identical people wearing identical black tracksuits, smooth skin where their faces should be, walk in steady unison.  They all turn their blank faces to me.  There are no empty treadmills, so I have to go.  I turn and push on the door…
            The Chinese Theater in Los Angeles towers over me.  It is abandoned, a breeze gently swaying my skirt, old movie posters scattering at my feet.  I am surrounded by Technicolor, big band music playing from the sky.  I walk over to Judy Garland’s prints, but they are gone.  She has left me a message in the pavement: “Stop trying to be me and find your own way!”  A sob breaks out from my chest as I push my way through the door…
            I land on Appian Way in front of the Keene State College Mason Library.  It is an average fall day, leaves scattered all around, and the perpetual smell of apples surrounds me.  The computerized library bells clang out a Beatles tune.  There is an old woman standing on the stairs to the library, a history book in one hand and a graduation cap in the other.  On the step next to her is the fish tank with my ever growing fish.  The tank is twice the size, but the fish is still the same.  I turn around, but the revolving door has disappeared, a grassy lawn in its place.  I step forward to hug the old woman, take the book and put it in the backpack that has appeared at my feet.  I put the cap on my head, and pick up my fish.  “Yeah, I guess we didn’t really need a bigger tank after all.”


Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Portfolio Piece #3: Someone's in the Kitchen with Pooh-Pah


Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.


Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.


Someone’s in the Kitchen with Pooh-Pah
Written for Cooking Eating and Dreaming, Junior Year

“Pooh-Pah!  Are you making dinner?  Can I help?”  Mary runs into the kitchen, excited in that five year-old way to play chef with her grandfather.  I smile and laugh – my niece is so much like me.  She climbs on her chair in front of the stove and throws me a heart melting smile over her shoulder. 
“Auntie!  I’m helping!” 
“I see that, Mary!  Be careful, and listen to Pooh-Pah.”
 “Oh, Auntie!” she giggles as she turns back to stir the boiling water for the Kraft mac and cheese.  I watch for a moment, enjoying the scene with wistful eyes.  I can’t lie - I am a little jealous.
I am a daddy’s girl.  Always have been.  My father was the cook of the family.  He taught me, encouraged me.  When I was living on my own for the first time, he was the one I called for cooking advice.  Now he cooks with his granddaughter, her tiny chef’s cap and apron adorned with Disney Princesses, his gentle guidance teaching her how to properly stir the mac and cheese.         
It is December, and I am home from school.  December in my family means a lot of things: school vacations, Christmas Pageants, Caroling.  Singing the Christmas Cantata on Christmas Eve; complete with a duet of “O Holy Night” with Dad during the Offertory.  And fudge.  Tons of fudge.
Fudge has been very important in our family for decades.  My dad used to make it to give to bank tellers at Christmas, and for our annual Open House.  Eventually, it spread to our teachers in school, the ladies down at the JC Penney Hair Salon, church members, our bosses at work, and friends who lived far away.  He would even make it for someone’s birthday in July if they asked.  Watching Dad make batch after batch every Christmas, sweating over the hot stove, cutting the freshly chilled fudge with his giant machete, was fascinating to me.  One year, he finally taught me how to make the fudge.
            He stood next to me, giving me gentle directions.  We chatted about how he came to this particular recipe (which I will not share, so don’t ask), which pot works best, and his off-temperature candy thermometer.  “If I ever lose this thermometer, I am screwed.  It’s off by a few degrees, but I know exactly where it needs to be to hit the right boiling point.  That is the key to making fudge.”  I nodded, taking in his sage advice while I continued to stir the pot.
            After the mixture had reached the magical boiling point, we mixed in the chocolate and poured it into the pan to be refrigerated and sent out as Christmas gifts to loved ones and acquaintances.  It turned out pretty good, in case you’re wondering.
            I have since forgotten how to make Pastor Ted’s Etna Famous Fudge.  I know he will show me again and again until I can make it from memory, batch after batch, just like him.  Someday, we can both teach Mary how to make it, keeping the family tradition alive in her.
            I still call my dad for cooking advice.  I give him a hard time for putting his Furi knife in the dishwasher.  We talk about Top Chef and Rachel Ray.  Cooking always and forever will be a major part of our relationship.  Even when I insist on making food for my family with no help, he is always there in the background, a calm reassurance that if I mess up, he can help fix it.  If it is beyond fixing, he eats it anyway, insisting that the effort was more than enough.
            One Fourth of July, he taught me how to grill steaks.  I had broiled and pan fried steak before, but was nervous about the grill.  He sat out in the blistering heat, the sun shining in our eyes.  Once he showed me how to get the grill heated properly, he sat in the sun lighting sparklers.  I soaked the steaks in my fabulous bourbon marinade; caramelized onions, cooked corn on the cob and fresh green beans.  We had Hood ice cream cone sundaes for dessert.  Mom and I ate in the living room, while dad sat at the kitchen table, occasionally piping up as we talked about traditional Fourth of July movies.  Mom took two bites of her steak and proclaimed “Ted, I think Beth may have surpassed you!”  After much protest from me, Dad quietly but firmly stated from the kitchen “That’s how it should be.”
            As I stand in the kitchen of my childhood, watching the new baby of the family learn from the master, I think to myself “the baton has been passed...”  Dad has always said that I would be his little girl; that no matter how old children get, parents will always think of them as kids.  That is, of course, until they have children of their own.  The day Mary came into our lives, I was no longer the apple of my Daddy’s eye.  She has his heart in her tiny fist, and none of us really seem to mind too much.  I suppose that’s how it should be.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Portfolio Piece #2: Generation of Idiots




Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Generation of Idiots:
Every Child Left Behind
Written for Creative Non-Fiction, Sophomore Year.
“A teacher has two jobs; fill young minds with knowledge, yes, but more important, give those minds a compass so that that knowledge doesn't go to waste” (Mr. Holland’s Opus, 1996).
This country is raising a generation of idiots.  Rather than teaching children how to think, schools are teaching them how to memorize.  My first day of high school, way back in 1992, my social studies teacher, Mr. Bohi, taught us a very important lesson: “What is thought is often more important than what is.”  He taught us about perception, how we, as a country, put values on things which have no intrinsic value.  He made us think, give our opinions and stand by them.
I know a woman who has been a Special Education teacher for thirty years.  In her time, she has seen many changes to the education system, the worst of which came after the turn of the millennium - No Child Left Behind.  This program focuses so much on standardized testing that the main focus of educators is to cram as much information into young minds as possible.  When she suggested to her Principal a Native American parent should come in and give a presentation, as it would be educational as well as entertaining, the principal answered:  “It’s not in the curriculum, so we can’t do it.”  This is a serious problem facing many teachers today.  Since the federal government is not footing the bill for all this Education Reform, it is up to the individual states.  The result?  An increase in time, money and effort spent on curriculum for the standardized tests, and nothing left over for enrichment or enlightenment.
So, what is No Child Left Behind?  In an effort to find a clear-cut definition, I turned to www.ed.gov, the official Education Department web site.  The most information I received was the Overview - the Four Pillars of NCLB:
·        Stronger Accountability for Results.  “Under No Child Left Behind, states are working to close the achievement gap and make sure all students, including those who are disadvantaged, achieve academic proficiency…. Schools that do not make progress must provide supplemental services, such as free tutoring or after-school assistance; take corrective actions; and, if still not making adequate yearly progress after five years, make dramatic changes to the way the school is run.” (www.ed.gov)
So, they check up on the schools to make sure all students are passing the tests, and if they aren’t they have to offer more assistance.  Sounds good, right?  In theory, sure.  Most schools should be offering these kinds of programs, anyway.  But, who’s footing the bill?  Is the federal government going to pay for all these required programs?  I think you already know the answer to that one.  So, if low-income school districts are required to offer these services, where is the money coming from?  Where the money always comes from in times of budgetary crisis: the arts, class trips, vocational programs, etc. (Fletcher, 161). 
·        More Freedom for States and Communities: “Under No Child Left Behind, states and school districts have unprecedented flexibility in how they use federal education funds.  For example, it is possible for most school districts to transfer up to 50 percent of the federal formula grant funds they receive under the Improving Teacher Quality State Grants, Educational Technology, Innovative Programs, and Safe and Drug-Free Schools programs to any one of these programs, or to their Title I Program, without separate approval.” (www.ed.gov)
While this sounds pretty good, note how it is possible for most schools - not all.  Which schools are included, and which aren’t?  Also, do you really think that schools are going to use their funds like this?  Sure, they might use them to increase teachers’ salaries, which they can, but really, is giving that kind of freedom to individual schools such a wise move?  And what about those who don’t have much funding to begin with? 
·        Proven Education Methods: “No Child Left Behind puts emphasis on determining which educational programs and practices have been proven effective through rigorous scientific research.  Federal funding is targeted to support these programs and teaching methods that work to improve student learning and achievements.” (www.ed.gov)
Why does this sound familiar?  Oh, right.  eHarmony.com uses the same thing in their advertising!  Does the government really think selling NCLB in the same manner as an over-priced singles web site is helping their cause?
·        More Choices for Parents: “In schools that do not meet state standards for at least two consecutive years, parents may transfer their children to a better-performing public school, including a public charter school, within their district.” (www.ed.gov)
This is laughable to me.  If the entire district is under-funded, who’s to say that one school is better than another?  The scores may only be marginally higher, and there is still no guarantee that your kid will benefit from this move.  Also, according to Edward Fletcher in his essay “No Curriculum Left Behind: The Effects of the No Child Left Behind Legislation on Career and Technical Education”, “only 2% of students have taken advantage of the option to transfer to another school” (160).  I mean, let’s be serious - what kid is going to want to change schools and leave all their friends just because the school is failing, in the government’s eyes, to “educate” them?
The federal government sticking its nose into education is nothing new.  Since the beginning of the United States of America, it has played some kind of role.  That role has varied throughout the years, but it has always been there (Anderson, 6).

The national government has supported education since the beginning of the republic, and there have always been different ideological perspectives on the appropriateness of federal involvement in general and with regard to specific programs. (Anderson, 6)

            Teachers and education majors alike are concerned over the amount of control the federal government has over education.  Recently, I mentioned to several education majors here at Keene State college that I was writing a piece on No Child Left Behind and the education system here in the U.S.A..  Each time, it was met with the same reaction: an eye roll, a groan, and “I hate No Child Left Behind!  The education system sucks!”  This is coming from students who have been through the program.  They are asking for more; why not give it to them?
Indulge me while I look back to a better time in education… Back in my day, as we old people say, education was truly valued.  I consider myself lucky to have gone through the town of Hanover’s school system, K-12.  There were resources galore at our fingertips.  We were required in fourth grade to take French, and were given the option that same year to learn the violin.  Many held out until fifth grade, when you were allowed to take up a band instrument.  We had choruses for third, fourth and fifth graders, putting on various concerts throughout the year.  In second grade, we had Colonial Days - a time when we would study colonial life, and have two days to live it - we farmed, made our own mugs, worked with the blacksmith, cooked, and attended school, complete with a dunce cap and tardy sign.  In third grade, we studied Japan, and put on a Japanese Festival.  All the third grade students ran various booths: serving rice and teaching how to use chopsticks, making hats, a tea ceremony, flower arrangements, and more.  We learned Japanese songs and folktales. 
My fourth grade teacher had the freedom to teach us about Ancient Egypt, and read to us from The Hobbit.  In fifth grade, we got to learn all about Medieval Times, and put on the Medieval Festival - a two day event during which we sang Medieval songs, put on skits and plays from the olden days, reenacted battles, learned dances of the time, and jousted.
My high school offered a lot for people who were struggling academically.  I was enrolled in one such program, The Dresden Program, but never really took advantage of it.  But it was there.  Our theatre and music programs were excellent - when you’re turning people away at the door for the spring musical, you know you’re doing something special.  There was a lot of freedom, and a lot of educational options.  It truly prepared us for the freedoms found in college.  We were taught to think, encouraged to question, and learned more than what was in a text book.  The lessons learned inside and out of the classrooms have stuck with me more than a decade after graduating.  We never asked to be taught just what we needed for the test - we took it all in.
I feel sorry for today’s youth.  It is becoming more evident that they are not being challenged.  In one of my classes, we were told to visit a web site to supplement what we were learning in class.  One student asked “Is there something specific we should be looking at for the test?”  To which my professor answered “Just look around it, it’s got a lot of stuff on there.”  Student: “But is there anything specific for the test?”  Professor: “Just look around at it.”  Me: facepalm. “Really?!  What ever happened to learning for the sake of learning?  Damn kids today…”
More like “damn administrations today…”  They are teaching for the sake of passing tests.  Kids are learning that it isn’t useful or important to learn about the world around them unless it’s going to be on a test.  Is this really what we want to be teaching them?
In an effort to save their own asses, school administrations are now lowering their standards to make themselves look good.  In his article for the “New York Times”, Sam Dillon reported

A new federal study shows that nearly a third of the states lowered  academic proficiency standards in recent years, a step that helps schools stay ahead of sanctions under the No Child Left Behind law. (Dillon)

            This way, their test scores read better, but this is unfair and confusing to parents (Dillon).  They think their kids are learning more, but really, all the schools are doing is dumbing the lessons down, “allowing a lower score on a state test to qualify as proficient”. (Dillon)
            In reality, academic achievement has hit a lull.  When the National Assessment of Education Progress test was administered in 2009, the results were surprising.  Student achievement was actually slowing down.  Before No Child Left Behind, achievement was growing at a pretty good clip. (“No Child Left Behind Act”). 
I have pondered the idea of being a teacher in the past.  I wanted to be the cool history teacher who reenacted battles, made the entire class sit on four desks to show what is was like for slaves crossing the Atlantic, and asked the opinions of students regarding the validity of their text books.  What once would have been considered progressive is now antiquated and inappropriate.  The standardized tests don’t care if you know how it felt to be an African slave, so why bother teaching it at all? 
No Child Left Behind sounds like a good idea - it’s a catchy name, but it doesn’t deliver.  If we want to overhaul the system, standardized testing and redistribution of funds isn’t going to cut it.  The average kid in public school has little interest in learning for fun - they never have.  Programs like Colonial Days and Medieval Festivals are needed for just that reason.  Teaching the arts and vocational studies are just as important as math and science.  Not everyone is cut out for Harvard, or even Keene State, why not give them a chance to learn and excel as well?  As Mr. Holland so eloquently put it, “Well, I guess you can cut the arts as much as you want… Sooner or later, these kids aren't going to have anything to read or write about” (Mr. Holland’s Opus).  You can force these kids to memorize all the facts in the world, but sooner or later they aren’t going to have any opinions or thoughts of their own. 




Works Cited
Anderson, Lee W.  Congress and the Classroom: From the Cold War to No Child
Left BehindUniversity Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State
University Press, 2007.
            Dillon, Sam. “Federal Researchers Find Lower Standards in Schools.”  New York
Times 30 Oct. 2009: Education, n.p.
30educ.html?_r=1&adxnnl=1&emc=eta1&adxnnlx=1258940982-OvUSKlg+1jOSU1g7QKX6pQ>
            Fletcher Jr., Edward C. "No Curriculum Left Behind: The Effects of the No Child
Left Behind Legislation on Career and Technical Education." Career & Technical Education Research 31.3 (2006): 157-174. Education Research Complete. EBSCO. Web. 15 Nov. 2009.
Mr. Holland’s Opus. Dir. Stephen Herek.  Perf. Richard Dreyfuss, Glenne Headly,
            Jay Thomas, and Olympia Dukakis. Hollywood Pictures, 1996.
Unknown.  “No Child Left Behind Act.”  New York Times 15 Oct. 2009: n.p.
no_child_left_behind_act/index.html?emc=eta2>
U.S. Department of Education01 July 2004