Matt:

When Matt wrote his first draft of the first paper it was completely academic.  He used other academics opinions instead of using his own commentary.  Then, as the class progressed, as well as the assigned papers, I was able to hear his voice and his own thoughts on the subject.  Matt’s first paper had a theme of academic adjustments, which is exactly how he progressed through his writing and finding his distinct voice against past teachings.  He would look at both sides of an argument and find some type of compromise in the conclusion.  Matt is a very logical writer with certain structure he enjoys implementing like the letter format inserted in two of his papers, creating fun visually and interest for the reader.  He started writing without a voice and now his voice shows his viewpoints poetically and artistically in a structured manner.

Eric:

As an intellect, he seems focused on improvement.  In his last paper, he emphasized that he struggled with citing sources and in the second paper he wrote I thought he did an excellent job of incorporating sources.  So, he must be drastically improving or he is hard on himself.  The sources that he used seemed to be information he learned from past classes, and the sources applied supported his points well.  Eric’s first paper had the theme of recognizing personal thought through constructive conversation and one’s voice can create opportunity for thought exchange.  However, one’s voice is altered in different settings like in revision and conversation, which was explained in his second paper.  In the memoir, he seemed to relate the message that he wants his voice to ring without too emotion.  So, in all three papers Eric is trying to create a voice that can be understood.  Eric shares some interesting ideas on voice in writing and academic Socratic seminars that was fun to read.

Brianna:

In her second paper, I completely could relate to her struggle in finding ownership in the text when writing the imitation piece section.  She established the theme of identity to audience.  All writers know the struggle in having the ability to relay what you have to say while keeping the audience’s community in focus.  The ideas constructed in her writing are connectable.  This theme of audience is apparent in Brianna’s memoir.  The first draft had an overload of information, but she transformed and revised the memoir to focus on attending to the idea of truth.  A truth that the reader can find provided in the presented story.  Her explanation of the struggle to write objectively about people in memoirs is an honest realization.  Her tactic of expressing a self-realized epiphany is something I want to and try use in my writing as well.  I would comment on the first paper but I couldn’t since it wasn’t there.

Chelsea:

On her about page, she talks about the fear of exposing her writing to the class.  She definitely took a leap of faith in sharing her memoir, and sharing very personal experiences with others, despite the possibility of unfavorable reactions, was very mature.  Intellectually, this she showed her ability to set aside emotion to learn the how to write about uncomfortable issues in an articulate manner.  In Chelsea’s first paper, she wrote about the potiential maintaining individualism in academic writing.  The theme of being an individual is observant in the second paper.  She explains how she stays true to her own voice—sustains independence—through the way in which she words the subject, even if she doesn’t agree on the subject matter.  Also, Chelsea’s memoir addresses being independent (individual) and having to rely on herself to surpass tough times.  The drafts, especially in the memoir, improved in coherency.

Reflection on My Work:

The first draft I wrote was definitely raw.  I struggled in transitioning between paragraphs, and I’m still working on that in my writing even today.  I have good ideas in the body of my papers; I just need to play the elementary game “Connect the Dots,” so my audience completely grasps the relationship between those ideas.  There were some presented ideas that needed more clarification, and I just need to improve on helping my audience know exactly what I am writing about instead of assuming they can put the thousand puzzle pieces together.  I am not satisfied with the first and second final papers because they weren’t “A” papers, but there’s nothing I can do to change those grades, which was somewhat disappointing since I’m a perfectionist.  I have put in a lot of effort into all my papers, and I am happy how my memoir turned out.  I liked playing with the visual structure and the punctuation.  This has been a great class, and I have learned steps to improve my writing, which is what life is about, self-improvement.

             Scorching sun-rays beam through the white, whipped clouds and the serine, smooth, blue sky, and reach the soft, stable, firm ground of reddish-brown dirt.  Deep, dark, thick but cut, green grass borders the rounded, diamond-shaped dirt; the grassland extends eastward until the surrounding metal fences, about ten-feet-high, prevent it from further growth.  At the fences’ corners, bright-yellow left and right field foul poles stand—in opposite directions— an unyielding two-hundred fifteen feet away from home plate.  The centerfield fence lands ten-feet farther than the foul poles.  Parallel to the right field fence and the visitor’s dugout, then past the high school parking lot, stands the eroding Rocky Mountains.  The hillside’s vegetation is starting to fade straw-yellow and become vacant.  Fellow classmates, some friends, and family watch the intensifying game from the stands.

          The cool afternoon, crisp, fall air turns sour.  The fifteen girls, including myself, surrounded the varsity head coach outside of the dugout hoping for words of encouragement, but knew those words would not come from his mouth or ever reach our ears.  We had lost the lead; we were now tied 2-2 in the bottom of the fourth inning.  Coach just glares.  Coach has dark hair with few grays covered by our team hat and dark eyes that are concealed behind black lenses.  His ordinary t-shirts and khaki shorts are always cleaned and pressed.  His white shoes gleam an impeccable, blinding light despite at least a couple years of wear.  His facial expressions and body language are frightening.  I can always tell when his eyes are rolling underneath his shades because his dark, bushy (yet well-tamed) brows will raise above the top of his sunglass frames and his mouth unleashes a loud, frustrated sigh.  When he is in an irritated mood he crosses his arms, turns his entire body 180 degrees, shows his back to home plate, and ignores the batter’s existence, which leaves her to feel abandoned, embarrassed, and humiliated.  He has self-destructing putdowns too. Intimidation is his evident persona.  However, I was finally a fairly mature senior that stayed with Coach’s reputable program.  My dad advised the possibility of transferring to a high school that had a more reasonable, a more compassionate, and a more pleasant varsity softball coach.  No matter where I go, ultimately I will have to deal with disagreeable people.  Anyway, I do not run from adversity. I was convinced I could handle any curve ball thrown by him.  Some nasty pitches were somewhat deceitful and misinterpreted through perspective.

I am up to the plate with two outs and runners on the corners; the opportunity to hit in the winning run arises.  Coach expects me to perform.  The umpire announces, “No balls.  Two strikes.”  The brain fuses all possible outcomes.  I have to come through and do not strike out.  Coach stands next to the third base with a noticeably unpleased look.  He claps (more like slaps) his hands together with an impressionable force that could kill any nasty insect, points his top right hand towards me, and spits, “C’mon.  Hit away.”  I am subconsciously terrified of failure.  Stepping in the batter’s box with the desire and uncertainty, the pitch travels high and outside of the strike zone: rise ball pitch.  The late swing whisks the air.   Strike three.  The hitting slump continues.  I return to the dugout with my head down.  My lack of confidence was reeking off my uniform and leaving semi-permanent stains. I comprehend that there is a chance for redemption defensively.  Ready to run out to right field with my visor and glove, I notice another teammate at my position.  Utter confusion.  One of the assistant coaches tells me to take a seat.  My worst fear turns into reality. 

            Coach temporarily used the authoritative control to press the dreaded repeat button of my junior year labeled, “The Season of Picking out the Pine Splinters.”  Unfortunately, those benches in our dugout were not the modern, aluminum shiny-silver seating, but the actually ancient lumber-crafted, splinter-producing structures.  Both types of benches are equally uncomfortable.  Junior year, I had become familiar with the pine and spent half of the fall season on it in bitter discontent.  I played the pity-party, “Why me?” game.  I lost my starting position to a senior; I possessed better athleticism and fundamentals than her.  The injustice felt unwarranted and undeserved.  At the post-season team banquet, one of the assistant coaches stated matter-of-factly, “Noél is her own worst enemy.”  He was one-hundred percent correct.  Every time I performed poorly at the plate, my body language translated defeat.  My internal dialogue revolved continuing self-destructive curses.  

The poor attitude from high school ball improved for the summer competitive club/travel team that both high school varsity assistant coaches managed.  The assistant coaches saw my talent, potential, and value as a player.  I excelled in competitive ball because of my relaxed, carefree approach.  The assistant coaches constructed my confidence by always reminding me of my strengths.  Regardless of my summer success against better competition, I still struggled and failed offensively my senior year.  My substandard performance usually connects to my frowning, and my frowning has been in direct correlation to my “bad,” attitude and frustrated feelings.  

            My face remains expressionless in order to maintain composure.  I shrug my shoulders, “Oh well,” and cheer for our pitcher.  This was the first time I did not pout on the bench.  Two balls are hit to right field and both are dropped.  Coach furiously screams, “C’mon.  Gotta have those.”  (That would not have happened if I was out there.  Coach knew it too.  He made a coaching mistake.)  Fortunately the opposition only snags one unearned run, but unfortunately the score is now 3-2.  The fifth inning ends with the bottom of our fruitless hitting line-up producing absolutely nothing offensively.  The assistant coaches nonchalantly convince Coach to at least let me play defense.  He reluctantly agrees.  No action in the outfield for two innings.

            It is the seventh inning.  Our last chance to win since high school games only last seven innings unless there is a tie.  There are no outs with runners on first and second; I am granted the opportunity to bat.  The opposing team calls a time out.  I run from the batter’s box to Coach sixty feet away.  He awards me some last second encouraging words, “C’mon.  You haven’t done anything all year.”  How inspiring.  I took some quick warm-up swings and repeated fifteen times the most “Beep you!” phrase that is too inappropriate to convey verbally to Coach.  (The censored ‘beep’ is a four-letter multi-functional word that may be used in various grammatical contexts like as a verb, a noun, an adverb, an adjective, and an in-suffix.) 

Anyway, neither pressure nor self-doubt struck only readiness as I step into the white-chalked batters’ box.  The pitcher is confident.  She struck me out last time.  She decides to challenge with straight fast-ball, belt-high, down the middle.  The swing thrashes the air.  Crack.  I sprint to first then as I am about to step on the corner of second base, I realize the ball like missile shot over centerfield fence by about ten feet.  The ball was crushed.  My sprint decelerates to a jogging trot.  I touch third base and my teammates are waiting for me at home.  I jump up and land both feet together on home plate.  They bang my helmet.  The screams and cheers explode.  We won 5-3.

All the years engaged in sports, my attitude was the underlying problem.  In my last year of high school ’ball I figured it out the saying: Life is ten percent of what happens to you and ninety percent of how you react to it.  “Jeez,” my dad says, “Your mom and I have talked to you about your attitude since you were this big.”  Then he lifts his arm and pats the air waist-high with his hand to show about how tall I was when my ‘attitude’ started.  But the friends and family who know me best would agree that my attitude—which usually springs forth the rolling eyes and grumbling sighs—has drastically improved over the last several years.  Said my mom recently, “Your positive outlook and upbeat attitude make people want to be around you more, and I’m proud of you for looking at all the positives in your tough situation.”  Attitude is a small perspective adjustment that can make a big difference on an experience: Too many of us underestimate the power of our minds. 

Dr. Sarah Allen

Art of Persuasion

September 29, 2008

Developing a Writer

My younger brother T.J. was told he was an “excellent” writer in the third grade, and I was (and still am) envious because I wasn’t told I was a good writer until I was a high school senior.  He wrote a ridiculous but creative short-story about the superhero Captain Underpants defeating the antagonist Mr. Pot and ultimately preserved universal harmony.  T.J. and I went to the same elementary school, but he had a different third grade teacher than me.  His teacher Mrs. Jursaw was renowned for consistently engaging and encouraging her students through creative academic activities.  My third grade teacher’s typical mundane methods were of no significance to remember.  I had learned writing in an orthodox manner and consciously viewed it as a monotonous chore.  My writing did not evolve into innovative material until Ms. Smith came along my final year at Dakota Ridge High School.

            Ms. Smith questioned, challenged, and altered her senior classes’ cookie-cutter composition skills.  She expanded the standards of the common, five-paragraph essay (an introduction with the thesis, body paragraphs with supportive examples, and a conclusion with summary points).  She questioned her students’ writing and expected thorough, personal, philosophical explanations that gave insight to individual opinion and voice.  Religiously every class, the students immersed themselves in varied writing activities similar to free writes. 

One class, I had to select from a pile of rectangular cards; these cards had squares filled-in with solid color and a descriptive name of that color.  (These cards can be found at Home Depot-type stores and are used by shoppers to discover options for home-decor paint.)  Then, I was instructed to write anything about this color for ten minutes.  This free write, along with the countless others, forced me to assemble the skill of articulately expressing ideas and practice uninterrupted writing.  Although, my class enjoyed the various writing activities, these writing practices were similar to the traditional English class in the sense that the practices can become tedious.  However, this repetition of creative writing is still valuable in developing students’ necessary writing skills.

Developing students’ writing talent correlates to the phrase “Practice makes perfect.”  As much as I hate this overused, trite quote, it truly means practicing skills will assist and eventually develop an apprentice into a more seasoned craftsman.  The everyday practice of writing prepared me to write more intricate, longer pieces, which improved my self-confidence.  I do not want to dismantle the established English classroom, but instructors definitely need to implement everyday writing in their teaching plan, especially in innovative ways to aid students in wanting to partake and establish strong writing skills. The renowned scholar Peter Elbow would heavily agree with teachers employing the free write activities.  In Elbow’s book Writing Without Teachers, he wrote “The most effective way I know how to improve your writing is to do freewriting exercises regularly” (3).  Personally, free write activities improved my writing.  Academically, schools upholds such expectations of qualifiedly, scholarly writing from its students, and if the teacher does not set aside classroom time for the students to practice their writing skills, then the students are not positioned to succeed. 

Practicing skills is in extreme correlation to sport.  My softball coach would not be able to expect her players to be able to hit the ball well without concentrated, focused practice of the fundamentals needed to perform the action of hitting.  Practice may become repetitious, but there are different drills that can be used to progress and sustain the fundamental skills.  These drills prepare the athlete for the actual event, and this preparation creates feelings of self-belief for that individual.  Writing needs to be practiced frequently and in creative ways to keep students interested and confident.  Teachers need to guide students in such writing activities.

Ms. Smith not only promoted creative writing, but she led her classroom to have active participation through the sharing of writing.  Some brave souls would read aloud their free writes to the classroom, and I even had the courage show the class one of my early drafts on the overhead.  My classmates critiqued my style and content.  I received suggestions on sections that needed improvement and discovered concepts that could be expanded.  The positive feedback was most encouraging.  This peer review directed by Ms. Smith facilitated the improvement of my writing.  I realized how to evaluate my writing and analyze classmates’ works as well.  Work-shopping students’ written material will allow for progression towards finishing a well-edited piece— not only in regards to the conventions but in subject matter.  This classroom analysis contributed to my progress as a writer. 

Furthermore, Ms. Smith did not even restrict her students grammatically.  I was permitted to play with writing conventions.  For example, italicizing, bolding, and capitalizing all the letters of a certain word to create emphasis were acceptable to Ms. Smith’s grading scale.  I loved being able to use an ellipse every now and then too.  Once a student understands grammar rules… he or she should be able to circumstantially break the academic rules.  [Sometimes breaking the rules (in writing) can be fun.]  The play on grammar assisted my growth as a writer.

 Ms. Smith further developed writers in philosophical debate.  Eventually the class became a comfortable, inviting, fun place to share writing and discuss ideas in Socratic fashion.  Our classroom discussions— sometimes including civil disagreement- were enjoyable, intriguing, and enlightening.  My perspective was wiped clean of most stereotypical ways of understanding text and writing.  Ms. Smith challenged our classroom to view universal-applied, life themes non-conventionally.  She wanted us to propose scholarly writing creatively.  We wrote papers that interpreted classical readings (i.e. Shakespeare’s Hamlet), exposed underlying meaning, and defined words in terms specific to our individuality.  These pondering questions brought up during class enhanced the students’ connection to the books that have been placed on an exalted pedestal.  I know I benefited from evaluating the text in these classroom discussions.   These discussions definitely impress new viewpoints on students about the readings and possibilities for writing.

Ms. Smith instilled great confidence in my academic writing abilities, and she is the reason why I have decided to become a high school English teacher.  I wish to employ her creative ways as my teaching strategy.  I want to be the teacher that shows her students their potential.  Hopefully, my future students will adopt the fundamental writing and reading skills that I was taught.  Truly, I desire for my students to achieve the basic writing ability, surpass the academy’s writing standards, and create outstanding literary work.  I know that grammatical freedom may liberate some of my future writing student’s inner voice and class discussion elucidate the text better.  I understand that my dream may sound unrealistic because there are students that would rather liberate themselves by indulging in animalistic rituals than by writing, but if I impact some students the way Ms. Smith impacted my infrastructural being, than there is no predicting some students’ capabilities

Work Cited

Elbow, Peter.  Writing Without Teachers.  Oxford University Press, USA.  New York: 1998.

Dr. Allen

Art of Persuasion

October 13, 2008

Combination of Voice

“I can’t hear you because the voices in my head won’t stop yelling.”  I have seen this bizarre phrase in white lettering on black t-shirts that some odd, high school students decided to wear.  Well, I am actually more interested in discussing the “voice in writing.”  Voice is the style of writing not the substance.  Voice is individualistic, and writers have individualistic ways in presenting ideas.  In academic writing especially, the content of a student’s paper may not be what he or she wants to discuss and address.  The students are forced to choose content within the allotted topics.  More specifically, academic research writing has even more restrictive standards on the students thus narrowing the options for content.  When the goal of the paper is to present research findings (i.e. historical or scientific), the students must present factual information untainted from their convictions; and the students will be unable to assert his or her belief system in correlation to content of the paper.  (I do not dislike the institution’s methods; I am just presenting how it is.) 

The paper’s content is what teachers’ grade.  The content will need to tackle the topic and maintain focus of the subject matter, which will help avoid the promotion of the student’s inner voice overflowing in beliefs.  Prohibiting this overflow of beliefs may be perceived as positive since the student will focus more on logical argument than their personal opinion that the reader, the grading teaching, might not agree with.  Then, the teacher will hopefully be able to objectively grade the writer based on the presented argument instead evaluating values.  Unfortunately, there have been reoccurring situations in which the authoritative teachers award lowly, reduced grades for content that disagreed with the teachers’ ideologies.  In repercussion, the students are not permitted the freedom to explore content in terms true to their conviction. 

So what scraps of creative fabric are students rationed in respect to voice?  Students got last night’s dinner leftovers taste of style. Style permits humor, playfulness, genuineness, seriousness, and many other nouns that contribute to the writing’s uniqueness; it varies in sentence structure and punctuation in the flow of writing.  The topic does not matter as long as am able to express my personality through style.  I wrote a research paper in eleventh grade about euthanasia, assisted suicide.  I particularly do not agree with euthanasia, but in my essay I argued for it.  It was much easier to write about the benefits of euthanasia than to argue that euthanasia is immoral since people have different moral values.  I found more reasons and research to promote the controversy and had difficulty supporting my morality.  In the end, I got an “A” grade for essay even though it did not match my moral code, but hey, I got the grade I wanted. (I worked the system, and this society is about success and making the grade anyway.) 

To prove the point that I am able to work the education system and effectively present my voice in terms of writing style, I imitated Harry G. Frankfurt’s On Truth.

Individualistic points of view are not the essential deciding factors.  Society’s influence controls the decisions people make similar to those insane religious cults. Political and economical standards are motivating factors as well. The post-modernists thrive on the question of whether a person may solely rely on individualistic beliefs or may a person openly refer to the whirlwind of conflicting and demanding society.

Could the post modernists have asked a question with a more obvious answer?  No matter who does the questioning, the main point is to reach an objective perspective.  For example, an architect and an engineer must achieve objectivity accurately.  Their skills and available resources are used to overcome the difficulties to achieve their plans, which are meticulously measured and constructed.  These carefully designed plans are executed and cannot be dependent on an individual outlook, and these particular plans are not subject to change because of demanding societal law or taboo.  However, a plan’s precision is not enough.  The measurement must be correct under any social condition and from any perspective.

After I participated in this imitation exercise, I have realized some new revelations.  Voice cannot merely be defined as style.  Although style allows the writer the playfulness of different grammatical usage, this grammatical usage is not enough to establish the writer’s authentic voice because the style is in close correlation to subject matter.  It was difficult to play with grammar with the sentences because the sentences’ ideas were not my own.  I did not create the ideas, and I find it much easier to have style in my writing when the content came from my intellect to paper; these foreign ideas are difficult to implement as my own. 

To implement someone else’s ideas as my own is somewhat like a hospital patient that recently underwent a kidney transplant surgery.  The patient’s body is heavily medicated in order for it to accept the unfamiliar organ as its own, and over time the body will hopefully accept the transplant.  Sometimes the transplant is rejected.  Time has an obligation to let kidney, the new ideas or someone else’s ideas, settle in this different body, mind.  The medication figuratively represents the preparation of my mind needing to be ready and open to receive new data.  Then the time expected for the transplant to become apart of a new system correlates to the time I must allow for innovative ideas and content to become apart of my arsenal before I can recycle them out of my mouth to the pen on paper.  The idea of transplant rejection means I disagree with the presented information and decide not to make this information apart of my truth, but given time to understand new influences definitely helps me write with my own voice.

Because subject matter sometimes makes it very difficult to use my voice in terms of style, I have to allot myself time to fully grasp new data to able to regurgitate the idea in my voice (stylistically).  I honestly feel like I lost my voice in imitating a section of Frankfurt’s writing.  I maintained the same content, but put the writing into my own style that particularly fits my personality and did not feel like I showed my own voice (contextually).  It was still Frankfurt’s writing voice, even though the syntax was changed, because I maintained his ideas.  His ideas were not apart of my agenda.  That imitation exercise did not allow much opportunity for my voice to change; it felt like this was an exercise of limitation.  No matter how I view voice, either as the writing’s content or style, the education institution puts some limitation on the academic writing.  Content is restricted on topic choice, and style is confined in the way it is written, formally or informally.  The voice can be restrained and mine was stifled.  If I would have done the imitation exercise by changing the content to fit my own beliefs and feelings on the issue, then I would have felt that my voice would come through more vibrantly.

I originally stated that voice is simply style.  Well, it is much more complex then style.  My own voice’s style did not shine in the imitation exercise of putting Frankfurt’s writing in words.  I felt that the words did not completely broadcast my voice because the ideas were Frankfurt’s.  In order for the ideas to be projected as more authentically mine, I need time to imbed the ideas in my brain.  These ideas and the content within an essay are also what an instructor assesses, and the academic writing may have specific limitations.  My voice was fenced in the restrictions of grammar in the imitation piece.  The voice is not only style but ideas and content.  Content that belongs to the writer is a form of his or her voice in combination to the style.

Dr. Allen

English 319

December 4, 2008

Attitude

            Scorching sun-rays beam pass the white, whipped clouds; the clouds contrast the serene blue sky like a black and white photograph.  Underneath the sky is the soft to touch, yet stable to stand-on, diamond of reddish-brown dirt.  Bordering the dirt is dark, thick but cut, green grass; the grassland extends eastward until the metal fence.  The ten-foot, chain-linked fence prevents the grass from further growth like a watch-guard prohibiting the unwanted from entering.  At the fences’ corners, bright-yellow left and right field foul poles stand—in opposite directions— an unyielding two-hundred fifteen feet away from home plate.  The centerfield fence lands ten-feet farther than the foul poles.  Parallel to the right field fence and the visitor’s dugout, then past the high school parking lot, stands the eroding Rocky Mountains.  The hillside’s vegetation is starting to fade straw-yellow and become vacant.  Fellow classmates, some friends, and family watch the intensifying game from the stands. 

The crisp afternoon, fall air turns sour.  The fifteen girls, including myself, surrounded the varsity head coach outside of the dugout hoping for words of encouragement, but knew those words would not come from his mouth or ever reach our ears.  We had lost the lead; we were now tied 2-2 in the bottom of the fourth inning.  Coach just glares. 

Coach has dark hair with few grays covered by our team hat and dark eyes that are concealed behind black lenses.  His ordinary t-shirts and khaki shorts are always cleaned and pressed.  His white shoes gleam an impeccable, blinding light despite at least a couple years of wear.  His facial expressions and body language are frightening.  I can always tell when his eyes are rolling underneath his shades because his dark, bushy (yet well-tamed) brows will raise above the top of his sunglass frames and his mouth unleashes a loud, frustrated sigh.  When he is in an irritated mood he crosses his arms, turns his entire body 180 degrees, shows his back to home plate, and ignores the batter’s existence, which leaves her to feel abandoned, embarrassed, and humiliated.  He has self-destructing putdowns too. Intimidation is his evident persona. 

However, I was finally a fairly mature senior that stayed with Coach’s reputable program.  My dad advised the possibility of transferring to a high school that had a more reasonable, a more compassionate, and a more pleasant varsity softball coach.  No matter where I go, ultimately I will have to deal with disagreeable people.  (Anyway, I do not run from adversity.)  I was convinced I could handle any curve ball thrown by him.  Some nasty pitches were somewhat deceitful and misinterpreted through perspective.

I am up to the plate with two outs and runners on the corners; the opportunity to hit in the winning run arises.  Coach expects me to perform.  The umpire announces, “No balls.  Two strikes.”  The brain fuses all possible outcomes.  I have to come through and do not strike out.  Coach stands next to the third base with a noticeably unpleased look.  He claps—more like slaps—his hands together with an impressionable force that could kill any nasty insect, points his top right hand towards me, and spits, “C’mon.  Hit away.”  (I am subconsciously terrified of failure.)  Stepping in the batter’s box with the desire and uncertainty, the pitch travels high and outside of the strike zone: rise ball pitch.  The late swing whisks the air.   Strike three.  The hitting slump continues.  I return to the dugout with my head down.  My lack of confidence was reeking off my uniform and leaving semi-permanent stains. I comprehend that there is a chance for redemption defensively.  Ready to run out to right field with my visor and glove, I notice another teammate at my position.  Utter confusion.  One of the assistant coaches tells me to take a seat.  My worst fear turns into reality. 

*          *          *

            Coach temporarily used the authoritative control to press the dreaded repeat button of my junior year labeled, “The Season of Picking out the Pine Splinters.”  Unfortunately, those benches in our dugout were not the modern, aluminum shiny-silver seating, but the actually ancient lumber-crafted, splinter-producing structures.  Both types of benches are equally uncomfortable.  Junior year, I had become familiar with the pine and spent half of the fall season on it in bitter discontent.  I played the pity-party, “Why me?” game.  I lost my starting position to a senior; I possessed better athleticism and fundamentals than her.  The injustice felt unwarranted and undeserved.  After that agonizing and disappointing experience, at the post-season team banquet, one of the assistant coaches stated matter-of-factly, “Noél is her own worst enemy.”  He was one-hundred percent correct.  Every time I performed poorly at the plate, my body language translated defeat.  My self-talk revolved the continuing self-destructive curses.  

My poor internal dialogue was a direct reflection of my poor attitude.  However, the poor attitude from high school ball improved when I played summer ball.  The competitive summer club/travel team was managed by both high school varsity assistant coaches.  The assistant coaches saw my talent, potential, and value as a player.  I excelled in competitive ball because of my relaxed, carefree approach and the assistant coaches constructed my confidence.  They verbally reminded me of my strengths.  Regardless of my summer success against better competition, I still struggled and failed offensively my senior year.  Typically I showed my frustration with failure through negative facial expressions.  My substandard performance connected to my frowning, and my frowning has been in direct correlation to my “bad,” attitude.  

*          *          *

            In order to suppress the bad attitude, my face remains expressionless.  I maintain composure.  I shrug my shoulders, “Oh well,” and cheer for our pitcher.  This is the first time I did not pout on the bench.  Two routine fly balls are hit to right field, and both balls are dropped.  Coach furiously screams, “C’mon.  Gotta have those.”  This most definitely would not have happened if I was out there.  Coach knew it too.  He made a coaching mistake.  Fortunately the opposition only snags one unearned run, but unfortunately the score is now 3-2.  The fifth inning ends with the bottom of our fruitless hitting line-up producing absolutely nothing offensively.  The assistant coaches nonchalantly convince Coach to at least let me play defense.  He reluctantly agrees.  No defensive action in the outfield for two innings.

            Finally, it is the seventh inning and we are up to bat.  It is our last chance to win since high school games only last seven innings unless there is a tie, then the game goes into extra innings.  There are no outs with runners on first and second; I am granted the opportunity to bat.  The opposing team calls a time out.  I run from the batter’s box to Coach sixty feet away.  He awards me some last second encouraging words, “C’mon.  You haven’t done anything all year.”  How inspiring.  I took some quick warm-up swings and repeated fifteen times the “Beep you!” phrase.  (The censored ‘beep’ is a four-letter multi-functional word that may be used in various grammatical contexts like as a verb, a noun, an adverb, an adjective, and an in-suffix.)  This phrase is too inappropriate to convey verbally to Coach. 

Anyway, neither pressure nor self-doubt struck, only readiness; I step into the white-chalked batters’ box.  The pitcher is confident.  She struck me out last time.  She decides to challenge with straight fast-ball, belt-high, down the middle.  The swing thrashes the air.  Crack.  I sprint to first then as I am about to step on the corner of second base, I realize the ball like missile shot over centerfield fence by about ten feet.  The ball was crushed.  My sprint decelerates to a jogging trot.  I touch third base and my teammates are waiting for me at home.  I jump up and land both feet together on home plate.  They bang my helmet.  The screams and cheers explode.  We won 5-3.

*          *          *

All the years engaged in sports, my attitude was the underlying problem.  In my last year of high school ’ball I figured out the saying: Life is ten percent of what happens to you and ninety percent of how you react to it.  I decided consciously to choose to be positive.  Even though coach benched me that game for poor performance, I was not going to choose a poor attitude to go along with it.  I actually swallowed my bitter, self-absorbed pride and cheered for my teammates that were playing.  I absolutely hated cheering, but I guess I needed to do it to get over myself.  

“Jeez,” my dad says, “Your mom and I have talked to you about your attitude since you were this big.”  Then he lifts his arm and pats the air waist-high with his hand to show about how tall I was when my ‘attitude’ started.  But the friends and family who know me best would agree that my attitude—which usually springs forth the rolling eyes and grumbling sighs—has drastically improved over the last several years.  Said my mom recently, “Your positive outlook and upbeat attitude make people want to be around you more, and I’m proud of you for looking at all the positives in your tough situation.”  Attitude is a small perspective adjustment that can make a big difference on an experience: Too many of us underestimate the power of our minds. 

Dr. Allen

English 319

November 20, 2008

Attitude

            Scorching sun-rays beam through the white, whipped clouds and the serine, smooth, blue sky, and reach the soft, stable, firm ground of reddish-brown dirt.  Deep, dark, thick but cut, green grass borders the rounded, diamond-shaped dirt; the grassland extends eastward until the surrounding metal fences, about ten-feet-high, prevent it from further growth.  At the fences’ corners, bright-yellow left and right field foul poles stand—in opposite directions— an unyielding two-hundred fifteen feet away from home plate.  The centerfield fence lands ten-feet farther than the foul poles.  Parallel to the right field fence and the visitor’s dugout, then past the high school parking lot, stands the eroding Rocky Mountains.  The hillside’s vegetation is starting to fade straw-yellow and become vacant.  Fellow classmates, some friends, and family watch the intensifying game from the stands. 

The cool afternoon, crisp, fall air turns sour.  The fifteen girls, including myself, surrounded the varsity head coach outside of the dugout hoping for words of encouragement, but knew those words would not come from his mouth or ever reach our ears.  We had lost the lead; we were now tied 2-2 in the bottom of the fourth inning.  Coach just glares.  Coach has dark hair with few grays covered by our team hat and dark eyes that are concealed behind black lenses.  His ordinary t-shirts and khaki shorts are always cleaned and pressed.  His white shoes gleam an impeccable, blinding light despite at least a couple years of wear.  His facial expressions and body language are frightening.  I can always tell when his eyes are rolling underneath his shades because his dark, bushy (yet well-tamed) brows will raise above the top of his sunglass frames and his mouth unleashes a loud, frustrated sigh.  When he is in an irritated mood he crosses his arms, turns his entire body 180 degrees, shows his back to home plate, and ignores the batter’s existence, which leaves her to feel abandoned, embarrassed, and humiliated.  He has self-destructing putdowns too. Intimidation is his evident persona.  However, I was finally a fairly mature senior that stayed with Coach’s reputable program.  My dad advised the possibility of transferring to a high school that had a more reasonable, a more compassionate, and a more pleasant varsity softball coach.  No matter where I go, ultimately I will have to deal with disagreeable people.  Anyway, I do not run from adversity. I was convinced I could handle any curve ball thrown by him.  Some nasty pitches were somewhat deceitful and misinterpreted through perspective.

I am up to the plate with two outs and runners on the corners; the opportunity to hit in the winning run arises.  Coach expects me to perform.  The umpire announces, “No balls.  Two strikes.”  The brain fuses all possible outcomes.  I have to come through and do not strike out.  Coach stands next to the third base with a noticeably unpleased look.  He claps (more like slaps) his hands together with an impressionable force that could kill any nasty insect, points his top right hand towards me, and spits, “C’mon.  Hit away.”  I am subconsciously terrified of failure.  Stepping in the batter’s box with the desire and uncertainty, the pitch travels high and outside of the strike zone: rise ball pitch.  The late swing whisks the air.   Strike three.  The hitting slump continues.  I return to the dugout with my head down.  My lack of confidence was reeking off my uniform and leaving semi-permanent stains. I comprehend that there is a chance for redemption defensively.  Ready to run out to right field with my visor and glove, I notice another teammate at my position.  Utter confusion.  One of the assistant coaches tells me to take a seat.  My worst fear turns into reality. 

            Coach temporarily used the authoritative control to press the dreaded repeat button of my junior year labeled, “The Season of Picking out the Pine Splinters.”  Unfortunately, those benches in our dugout were not the modern, aluminum shiny-silver seating, but the actually ancient lumber-crafted, splinter-producing structures.  Both types of benches are equally uncomfortable.  Junior year, I had become familiar with the pine and spent half of the fall season on it in bitter discontent.  I played the pity-party, “Why me?” game.  I lost my starting position to a senior; I possessed better athleticism and fundamentals than her.  The injustice felt unwarranted and undeserved.  At the post-season team banquet, one of the assistant coaches stated matter-of-factly, “Noél is her own worst enemy.”  He was one-hundred percent correct.  Every time I performed poorly at the plate, my body language translated defeat.  My internal dialogue revolved continuing self-destructive curses.  

My poor internal dialogue was a direct reflection of my poor attitude.  However, the poor attitude from high school ball improved when I played summer ball.  The competitive summer club/travel team was managed by both high school varsity assistant coaches.  The assistant coaches saw my talent, potential, and value as a player.  I excelled in competitive ball because of my relaxed, carefree approach and the assistant coaches constructed my confidence.  They verbally reminded me of my strengths.  Regardless of my summer success against better competition, I still struggled and failed offensively my senior year.  Typically I showed my frustration with failure through negative facial expressions.  My substandard performance connected to my frowning, and my frowning has been in direct correlation to my “bad,” attitude.  

            In order to suppress the bad attitude, my face remains expressionless.  I maintain composure.  I shrug my shoulders, “Oh well,” and cheer for our pitcher.  This was the first time I did not pout on the bench.  Two routine fly balls are hit to right field and both balls are dropped.  Coach furiously screams, “C’mon.  Gotta have those.”  This most definately would not have happened if I was out there.  Coach knew it too.  He made a coaching mistake.  Fortunately the opposition only snags one unearned run, but unfortunately the score is now 3-2.  The fifth inning ends with the bottom of our fruitless hitting line-up producing absolutely nothing offensively.  The assistant coaches nonchalantly convince Coach to at least let me play defense.  He reluctantly agrees.  No defensive action in the outfield for two innings.

            Finally, it is the seventh inning and we are up to bat.  It is our last chance to win since high school games only last seven innings unless there is a tie, then the game goes into extra innings.  There are no outs with runners on first and second; I am granted the opportunity to bat.  The opposing team calls a time out.  I run from the batter’s box to Coach sixty feet away.  He awards me some last second encouraging words, “C’mon.  You haven’t done anything all year.”  How inspiring.  I took some quick warm-up swings and repeated fifteen times the “Beep you!” phrase.  (The censored ‘beep’ is a four-letter multi-functional word that may be used in various grammatical contexts like as a verb, a noun, an adverb, an adjective, and an in-suffix.)  This phrase is too inappropriate to convey verbally to Coach. 

Anyway, neither pressure nor self-doubt struck, only readiness as I step into the white-chalked batters’ box.  The pitcher is confident.  She struck me out last time.  She decides to challenge with straight fast-ball, belt-high, down the middle.  The swing thrashes the air.  Crack.  I sprint to first then as I am about to step on the corner of second base, I realize the ball like missile shot over centerfield fence by about ten feet.  The ball was crushed.  My sprint decelerates to a jogging trot.  I touch third base and my teammates are waiting for me at home.  I jump up and land both feet together on home plate.  They bang my helmet.  The screams and cheers explode.  We won 5-3.

All the years engaged in sports, my attitude was the underlying problem.  In my last year of high school ’ball I figured it out the saying: Life is ten percent of what happens to you and ninety percent of how you react to it.  I decided consciously to choose to be positive.  Even though coach benched me that game for poor performance, I was not going to choose a poor attitude to go along with it.  I actually swallowed my bitter, self-absorbed pride and cheered for my teammates that were playing.  I absolutely hated cheering, but I guess I needed to do it to get over myself.  

“Jeez,” my dad says, “Your mom and I have talked to you about your attitude since you were this big.”  Then he lifts his arm and pats the air waist-high with his hand to show about how tall I was when my ‘attitude’ started.  But the friends and family who know me best would agree that my attitude—which usually springs forth the rolling eyes and grumbling sighs—has drastically improved over the last several years.  Said my mom recently, “Your positive outlook and upbeat attitude make people want to be around you more, and I’m proud of you for looking at all the positives in your tough situation.”  Attitude is a small perspective adjustment that can make a big difference on an experience: Too many of us underestimate the power of our minds. 

Dr. Allen

Art of Persuasion

October 13, 2008

Combination of Voice

“Voice in writing,” is not the substance but the style.  Voice is individualistic, and writers have individualistic ways in presenting ideas.  In academic writing especially, the content of students’ paper may not be what he or she wants to discuss and address.  The students are forced to choose content within the allotted topics.  More specifically, academic research writing has even more restrictive standards on the students thus narrowing the options for content.  When the goal of the paper is to present research findings (i.e. historical or scientific), the students must present factual information untainted from their convictions; and the students will be unable to assert his or her belief system in correlation to content of the paper. 

The paper’s content is what teachers’ grade.  The content will need to tackle the topic and maintain focus of the subject matter, which will help avoid the promotion of the student’s inner voice overflowing in beliefs.   Unfortunately, there have been reoccurring situations in which the authoritative teachers award lowly, reduced grades for content that disagree with the teachers’ ideologies.  In repercussion, the students are not permitted the freedom to explore content in terms true to their conviction. 

So what scraps of creative fabric are students rationed in respect to voice…students got last night’s dinner leftovers taste of style. Style permits humor, playfulness, genuineness, seriousness, and many other nouns that contribute to its uniqueness; it varies in sentence structure and punctuation in the flow of writing.  It does not matter what I write as long as am able to express my personality.  I wrote a research paper in eleventh grade about euthanasia, assisted suicide.  I particularly do not agree with euthanasia, but in my essay I argued for it.  It was much easier to write about the benefits of euthanasia than to rebuttal.  I found more reasons and research to promote the controversy and had difficulty supporting my morality.  In the end, I got an “A” grade for essay even though it did not match my moral code, but hey, I got the grade I wanted. (I worked the system, and this society is about success and making the grade anyway.) 

To prove the point that voice is style I imitated Harry G. Frankfurt’s On Truth.

Individualistic points of view are not the essential deciding factors.  Society’s influence control the decisions people make similar to those insane religious cults. Political and economical standards are motivating factors as well. The Post modernists thrive on the question of whether a person solely relies on individualistic beliefs or does he or she refer to the whirlwind of conflicting and demanding society.

Could the post modernists have asked a question with a more obvious answer?  No matter who does the questioning, the main point is to reach an objective perspective.  For example, an architect and an engineer must achieve objectivity accurately.  Their skills and available resources are used to overcome the difficulties to achieve their plans, which are meticulous measured and constructed.  These carefully designed plans are executed and cannot be dependent on an individual outlook, and these particular plans are not subject to change because of demanding societal law or taboo.  However, a plan’s precision is not enough.  The measurement must be correct under any social condition and from any perspective.

After I participated in this imitation exercise, I have realized some new revelations.  Voice cannot merely be defined as style.  Although style allows the writer the playfulness of different grammatical usage, this grammatical usage is not enough to establish the writer’s authentic voice because the style is in close correlation to subject matter.  It was difficult to play with grammar with the sentences because the sentences’ ideas were not my own.  I did not create the ideas, and I find it much easier to have style in my writing when the content came from my intellect to paper; these foreign ideas are difficult to implement as my own. 

Somewhat like a hospital patient that recently underwent a kidney transplant surgery.  The patient’s body is heavily medicated in order for it to accept the unfamiliar organ as its own, and over time the body will hopefully accept the transplant.  Time has an obligation to let the new ideas or someone else’s ideas serenade.  I must allow time for innovative ideas and content to become apart of my arsenal before I can recycle them out of my mouth to the pen on paper.  Given time to understand new influences definitely helps me write with my own voice.

The subject matter sometimes makes it very difficult to use my voice in terms of style.  I honestly feel like that imitating a section of Frankfurt’s writing by maintaining the same content, but putting the writing into my own style that particularly fits my personality did not feel like I showed my own voice.  It was still Frankfurt’s writing voice, even though the syntax was changed, because I maintained his ideas.  That imitation exercise did not allow much opportunity for my voice to change; it felt like this was an exercise of limitation.  My voice was stifled.  If I would have done the imitation exercise by changing the content to fit my own beliefs and feelings on the issue, then I would have felt that my voice would come through more vibrantly because the ideas would have been my own despite society’s influences.

I originally stated that voice is simply style.  Well, it is much more complex then style.  My own voice’s style did not shine in the imitation exercise of putting Frankfurt’s writing in words.  I felt that the words did not completely broadcast my voice because the ideas were Frankfurt’s.  My voice was fenced in the restrictions of grammar.  The voice is not only style but ideas and content.  Content that belongs to the writer is a form of his or her voice in combination to the style.

Imitation: She transcended the steep hillside of Lookout Mountain, humming a cheerful He went through the narrow alley from Temple Bartune to herself because she was enjoying the scenery.

Model Sentence: If one must worship a bully, it is better that he should be a policeman than a gangster.-George Orwell, "Raffles and Miss Blandish"

Imitation: If she insists on having their homecoming outfits match, it is better that he wears a pink tie than a pink tuxedo.

Model Sentence: The gallows stood in a small yard, separate from the main grounds of the prison and overgrown with tall prickly weeds.-George Orwell, Burmese Days

Imitation: The child sat in the corner, apart from the other students of the classroom and isolated with embarrassment.

Model Sentence: He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it. -James Joyce, "Counterparts"

Variation of the Patterns: Because he was going to have a good night of it, he went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell.

Alternate Expressions: He quickly went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar.  Because he was going to have a good night of it, he muttered to himself that they could all go to hell.

As he went quickly through Temple Bar’s narrow alley, he muttered to himself, “You all can go to hell, and I am going to have a good night of it.”