I love public transit, especially since I am fortunate enough to have a bus pass that only costs $10 a month that gets taken care of by school grants, so technically it is free. That being said, I don't love or even like rude assholes on the bus. What do I consider a "rude asshole," you ask? I've compiled a tiny list.
1. People that don't give consideration to disabled and/or elderly passengers. I have a bum foot so I use a cane to get around sometimes. If someone gets on the bus who needs the front seats (or any seat if the bus is full) more than me, I'll move or ride standing. If you are a strong looking teenager, don't get pissed off at me if I glare at you when you refuse to move and let my ass sit down. Along the same lines, disabled people tend to move a bit slowly. Kicking the back of my feet while in the queue is not going to make me move any faster. In fact, it may make the queue come to a screeching halt because I will turn around and bust you in the balls with my cane.
2. People who don't look before they sit. I have been sat on, as if I were invisible. I've gotten people's asses in my face as well as all sorts of bags and backpacks. It doesn't take long to do a quick scan of the area before you flop your ass down on the seat.
3. The cell phone megaphone. Talking on the phone on the bus happens for a variety of reasons. I have no problem with people using phones quietly. When the entire bus can hear how much of a cunt your girlfriend is or how much of a drunken asshole your boyfriend is, it is time to evaluate the volume of your voice. Your kinks, your bratty kids, your family drama, your eviction notice, your hernia surgery or the boil on the crack of your ass, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT and neither does anyone else.
4. People who have no sense of hygiene. I know, some days, it gets entirely too hot. Sweating a bit and smelling like B.O. is something that just happens on a hot day in a crowded area. There is however, a difference between being a bit sweaty and smelling like you haven't showered in a year. Also, if you smell like ANY type of bodily fluid or excretion, it might be time to bathe.
5. Perfume bathers. A few spritzes is fine, the whole bottle is not. If you alone can make the entire bus smell like the bastard child of Bed Bath and Beyond and a Mary Kay outlet store, you have used too much fragrance. Please consider the nasal passages of your fellow passengers while dosing yourself.
6. Teenagers. 90% of them have no sense of shame, decorum, class or decency. When sharing a public space, a certain amount of respect is expected and required in order for things to function smoothly. Making out like you are trying out for a soft-core porno is not acceptable bus behavior. Nor is loudly making drug deals. Asking people where to get drugs isn't exactly a good idea either. Even if I knew where to get drugs, I sure as hell wouldn't be telling your punk ass. The bus is not a rolling spot to hang out. Pick a spot, go there and STAY THERE FOR A WHILE. The bus is not your bedroom with wheels. Don't stick gum on the seats, don't leave trash and don't tag stupid shit all over the bus. No one likes cleaning it up.
7. The obscenely dressed. I dress like a freak. I know this and embrace it. I have no problems with people letting their freak flag fly. However, I don't want to see your bush, your cock, your hairy ass or your incredibly ample muffin top. If I can make out your sexy bits through your clothes, consider going up a size. Also, crack kills. Wear a belt. Knowing your bare ass is touching the seat is kind of a disturbing thought.
tl;dr: People should respect others while using public transit. Don't be a tool on the bus.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Review of Infected Mushroom: Army of Mushrooms
I've been an Infected Mushroom fan for a long time. I love how their music is constantly evolving and how no two albums sound identical. That being said, for the majority of their releases, they've gone with a mostly psychedelic trance sound. With the new album Army of Mushrooms, this is not the case.
My verdict on the new Infected Mushroom album Army of Mushrooms: I love it. I think that adding more variety to their songs while at the same time keeping their signature sound (especially with the synths) is a good move. They sound a bit more Goth on some tracks and they even get into some dubstep (check out U R so Fucked, the song is hilarious as hell, so is the video) Psytrance purists be warned, this album is nowhere near as trance-ey as their previous releases. The track Pink Nightmares (Which isn't on the album even though it was supposed to be, it's a pre-release single) is rather "old Mushroom," however, so is their cover of The Pretender and Serve My Thirst. Pick this album up if you are in the mood for different. It may not be 100% trance but it is 100% Infected Mushroom.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Musings...
I wasn't born with a pencil in my hand.
I am not a natural.
I spent a long time thinking my creative brain was a curse because no one told me art is a process.
Someone told me once that I had the heart and soul of a poet.
Ive been told I'm a storyteller.
Art is suffering, some say.
I have so much shit inside my head but getting it out seems impossible at times.
Some days, it seems too easy.
I'm a bright red spot on the beige backdrop of life yet no one can see me.
I'm so bright, I'm invisible.
I'm so invisible, I'm bright.
Burning up the fuel until I hit the ground, nowhere to go but up.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Confessions: Part One
Part one of a series of writings to help people learn a bit more about me...
-------------------------------------
My husbandwife (yes, she is both) was born inter-sexed. I entered into the relationship knowing something was different about her, but wasn't sure what it was. In the beginning, she presented herself as a male. At birth she was gender assigned as male and was raised to believe that she was 100% physically a male. However, during puberty "he" started developing breasts. Her mother put her on male hormones, believing that developing breasts was a sign of some sort of defect. She only took the hormones for a few months but stopped once she realized what she was taking. For a long time (with the exception of performing in drag) she kept her female side a secret. This negatively impacted her relationships with women and with men. Women said she was not "man" enough, and men said that she was just trying to marginalize being gay by dressing up like a woman. When I met her, I was instantly attracted to her feminine qualities, which shined through even when she was living as a man. From a young age, I had found androgyny attractive and I was happy to have met someone at least somewhat androgynous in my small, ultra-conservative community. Honestly, I don't remember exactly when the whole subject about her dressing in female clothes came up, but I do know that we never really "discussed" the subject. As the relationship progressed, I did notice that we both liked sexy girl clothes (although I will admit I like them better on her). Even before we got married, I felt as if I was more of the "man" in the relationship and that it didn't really bother me. I grew up being a 100% tom-boy. My father ran a construction business and from a young age I felt more comfortable helping him work than sit around the house and play with dolls and kitchen sets. Before I met my wifehusband, I didn't really know how to cook or otherwise keep a house. I've gotten better, but I still am not as good at it as her. My relationships with traditional men were train wrecks because both of us were trying to be the "man." I am aroused by and enjoy heterosexual sex, to a point. I also enjoy having sex with females...to a point. I always wished that I could combine the things I like about both and have them at the same time (yeah, I'm greedy.) Then, the most wonderful person in the world decided that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. I'll admit, I have to get used to calling her female, as she spent the majority of our relationship being male in public but other than the public switch, things aren't different. There was no revelation of "I want to be a girl," I always knew that. People in general didn't and if they don't like it, oh well. I have found the perfect person, the perfect human being, for me.
-------------------------------------
My husbandwife (yes, she is both) was born inter-sexed. I entered into the relationship knowing something was different about her, but wasn't sure what it was. In the beginning, she presented herself as a male. At birth she was gender assigned as male and was raised to believe that she was 100% physically a male. However, during puberty "he" started developing breasts. Her mother put her on male hormones, believing that developing breasts was a sign of some sort of defect. She only took the hormones for a few months but stopped once she realized what she was taking. For a long time (with the exception of performing in drag) she kept her female side a secret. This negatively impacted her relationships with women and with men. Women said she was not "man" enough, and men said that she was just trying to marginalize being gay by dressing up like a woman. When I met her, I was instantly attracted to her feminine qualities, which shined through even when she was living as a man. From a young age, I had found androgyny attractive and I was happy to have met someone at least somewhat androgynous in my small, ultra-conservative community. Honestly, I don't remember exactly when the whole subject about her dressing in female clothes came up, but I do know that we never really "discussed" the subject. As the relationship progressed, I did notice that we both liked sexy girl clothes (although I will admit I like them better on her). Even before we got married, I felt as if I was more of the "man" in the relationship and that it didn't really bother me. I grew up being a 100% tom-boy. My father ran a construction business and from a young age I felt more comfortable helping him work than sit around the house and play with dolls and kitchen sets. Before I met my wifehusband, I didn't really know how to cook or otherwise keep a house. I've gotten better, but I still am not as good at it as her. My relationships with traditional men were train wrecks because both of us were trying to be the "man." I am aroused by and enjoy heterosexual sex, to a point. I also enjoy having sex with females...to a point. I always wished that I could combine the things I like about both and have them at the same time (yeah, I'm greedy.) Then, the most wonderful person in the world decided that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. I'll admit, I have to get used to calling her female, as she spent the majority of our relationship being male in public but other than the public switch, things aren't different. There was no revelation of "I want to be a girl," I always knew that. People in general didn't and if they don't like it, oh well. I have found the perfect person, the perfect human being, for me.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Why I was late for work...
A conversation I was having with my spouse reminded me of this (now) hilarious incident from years past. Our roommate went nuts one night and jumped through the front window. He proceeded to get naked and run up and down the street yelling that he was God. The police were called and they tasered him several times before taking him into custody. Suffice it to say, I was a bit late for work the next day. We never did find out why the guy went nuts.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Passive-aggressive Behavior: What I Know Now
This is a paper I wrote for a Human Relations course. This is a reflection about an interaction I had with a person. Posting this on the blogosphere may be in and of itself a passive-aggressive maneuver, and I acknowledge that. However, putting it out there may also help someone else going through a similar situation and may give them the courage to stand up for themselves.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I met Mr. X at a very transitional point in my life. I had just gotten together with my husband and I was just starting to step into a new life of school, work and other adult responsibilities. I had known for a very long time that I was a passive person, but I did not know how much my nature influenced my interactions with other people. When I met Mr. X, he presented himself as being very passive. He had many problems involving his roommates and his employment situation, but he always expressed that these problems were due to him being “taken advantage of.” Since I had experienced similar problems in my transition to adulthood, I believed his explanation even though he is a few years older than me. I did notice, even back then, that he never blamed himself for any of his problems. He always justified himself by saying that things didn't go his way based on the actions of other people. Because I am so passive with people, I have a tendency to give myself too much perceived control. When something goes wrong, I feel as if I could have done something to prevent it, even if there is absolutely no way I possibly could have. I'll go as far as apologize for other people, even if the people I am apologizing for are hurting me in some way. Through courses at LCC and therapy, I know on an intellectual level that I do not have control over the actions of others, but I still find myself fighting this aspect of my personality and that it causes conflict with others.
Mr. X became my roommate the first time because his previous roommate evicted him. Of course, he told myself and my husband a tale of woe and assured us that the problem was with his ex-roommates and not with him. Mr. X has lived with us several times. At first the situation was amicable. He paid his rent on time and was mostly conscious about keeping the house clean. I felt that he placed value on our friendship and demonstrated this by being generally helpful around the house. The problems began when he entered into a relationship. The first relationship I found out about when I came home from work on my lunch break one day and found him asleep on my living room couch with another person, naked. I was concerned because I had never been introduced to this person before. At the beginning of our roommate relationship, all members of the household had agreed that anyone staying overnight would have to be introduced to the rest of the household. His disregard for something that everyone had agreed to made me feel that my trust in him was misplaced. Soon after this incident, he decided to move out, citing the fact that he didn't feel comfortable having his significant other stay over night, even though the only thing I had asked was to be introduced before overnight visits started. Mr. X over-generalized and assumed that I would react negatively, even after formal introductions were made. He also sent a contaminated message when he informed me of his discomfort. His tone implied that I was doing something to make him feel uncomfortable and that I should not have placed so much value in our previous arrangement because we should trust each other to make appropriate choices when inviting other people into our home.
After his relationship ended, Mr. X once again found himself looking for a place to live. He apologized for his previous behavior and assured me that he placed as much value our friendship and mutual living situation as he placed in his romantic relationships. He demonstrated again, however, that this was not the case. Again, Mr. X started spending more and more time and resources on his new relationship. What made this situation different is that the person he was involved with was on house arrest and therefore could not be introduced to us. Eventually, he began ignoring household responsibilities and became unreliable with his rent payments. This time, my husband made the decision to ask Mr. X to leave, after several failed attempts at trying to communicate our dissatisfaction with the situation. In all our conversations about the subject, Mr. X made me feel like I was being aggressive. He claimed that the reason why I was upset with him was because his significant other was on house arrest and that I didn't understand the situation. He also stated that he thought it was unfair that we were annoyed with him spending money to see his significant other while he still owed rent and utility payments. He argued that he would support me if I were in a similar situation and that he would be understanding if my rent was late because I needed to see the person I was having a relationship with.
After the second round of living with Mr. X, he disappeared for several years. He would contact us every so often through electronic means, and about once a year, a phone call. These calls usually involved Mr. X telling us about something tragic in his current relationship and that he wished he would have just stayed living with us. As the years went by, communication between us made me miss his company, even though he had treated me poorly in the past. Thinking about it now, I feel like he was diminishing his passive-aggressive behavior in order to make his relationship with me more beneficial to him. He often claimed that we were his “best friends,” yet his previous actions proved that we were not that valuable to him. Eventually, his relationship ended and he once again found himself homeless. Even though my husband was the one who eventually put his foot down and kicked Mr. X out the last time we were living with him, he was the one trying to convince me that Mr. X moving in was a good idea. It didn't take much, because Mr. X did a good job of convincing the both of us that he had changed his ways. Again when Mr. X moved in, he was in full honeymoon mode. He politely did everything we asked of him and was conscientious about figuring out how he was going to pay his share of the bills. After a couple of months his behavior began to decline. He became lazier about helping out with the chores and spent most of his earnings on going out to bars. He spent more time surfing dating chat websites than he did trying to find a permanent job. When asked about his lack of concern, he would either assure us that he was “on top of” everything or he would quickly change the subject. Whenever I would try to be assertive with him, he said or did something that made me feel like I was being aggressive and that I should back off. One example is a rather heated conversation with him about ignoring the dishes for days at a time. I mentioned that the dishes were piling up. He responded by stating that he was tired from donating plasma (his only income at the time) and having gone out the previous day. My husband said that doing the dishes was Mr. X' only chore and that he had better start doing it or face the possibility of being kicked out. Mr. X responded with a tirade about not wanting to clean up after us, and that he felt disrespected that we would even ask him to do the dishes when we knew that he was feeling “sick.” Mr. X did the dishes the next day, but they were done so terribly, we felt like it was useless to keep asking him to do the chore. A few days later, Mr. X apologized and said that he would handle the dishes if we didn't “bug him so often about it.” Up to this point, Mr. X had given me very little reason to put faith in his self-management abilities, but I knew also that if I did “bug” him about the dishes, they were just going to be done in a sub-standard fashion. The dishes were only one of many points of conflict between us. I began to feel trapped in the situation because my desire to remove Mr. X from my life was being shot down by my desire to avoid conflict and appear non-aggressive. This time, I was again provided with an easy out. Our landlord did not approve of Mr. X living in our apartment. Due to legal concerns, I had a legitimate excuse to kick Mr. X out. However, while giving this information to Mr. X, he tried to make us feel guilty about the landlord's decision. He insisted that we didn't “talk with the landlord” and that there was a way we could convince the management company to allow him to stay. He also claimed that we never told him that in order for all of us to remain living together, we would need to move into a bigger apartment. When we started living together again, both my husband and I made it clear that moving would have to be a priority and that my income would not be sufficient enough to accomplish that goal. He would have to be able to provide extra income above the rent in order for us to upgrade. We reminded him of these previous conversations. Mr. X then said that he felt that it was unfair that he should sacrifice his social life, when we could have made the current living situation work.
After not living with Mr. X for about a month and a half, I have realized a few things. First of all, I realized that the prolonged stress of being in a perpetual state of conflict with him was negatively impacting my physical and mental well-being. As the months of living with Mr. X passed, I noticed that my emotional state was becoming more negative. I became argumentative with my husband and withdrawn from my peers and family. I was sleeping less and feeling poor physically. I began to miss classes and let my attentiveness to my studies slip. I also took less pride in my work. When Mr. X left, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I knew that prolonged conflict could lead to problems, but I didn't understand how profound those problems could become. The second thing I realized was that Mr. X was being passive-aggressive with me the entire time I have known him. After a class lecture about passive-aggressive behavior, I began to wonder if Mr. X was exhibiting this type of behavior or if I was simply taking him the wrong way. After exploring a few academic journals, I found a paper by Nora J. Johnson and Thomas Klee that explored the topic of passive-aggressive behavior and how it might be predicted in the workplace. They used several models to describe passive-aggressive behavior. The model I was particularly interested in was taken from the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. According to Johnson and Klee: “the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders requires that a person with PA (negativistic) personality disorder exhibit four or more of the following seven criteria beginning in early adulthood and in a variety of contexts:
1. passively resists fulfilling routine social and occupational tasks;
2. complains of being misunderstood and unappreciated by others;
3. is sullen and argumentative;
4. unreasonably criticizes and scorns authority;
5. expresses envy and resentment toward those apparently more fortunate;
6. voices exaggerated and persistent complaints of personal misfortune; and
7. alternates between hostile defiance and contrition.”
This model interested me because it seemed to be the one that fit my observations most accurately. I know that I am not trained enough to make a clinical diagnosis of anything, but everything I have observed while interacting with Mr. X convinces me that his behavior fits this criteria. Researching passive-aggressive behavior and having an understanding of it's definition helped me to see that Mr. X's problems were not entirely my fault. I also can put his behavior into context and am now able to better analyze the behavior of others and will hopefully be able to prevent such a prolonged period of conflict with someone else. I realize too, that I enabled Mr. X's behavior towards me. By not being more assertive, I communicated to him that I was willing to tolerate his behavior. The whole experience has taught me that assertiveness does not equal aggression and that being firm with one's needs and standing up to the resulting small conflict is a lot better than putting up with several years of hurt feelings.
References:
Johnson, Nora J., and Thomas Klee. "Passive-aggressive behavior and leadership styles in organizations." Journal of Leadership & Organizational Studies 14.2 (2007)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I met Mr. X at a very transitional point in my life. I had just gotten together with my husband and I was just starting to step into a new life of school, work and other adult responsibilities. I had known for a very long time that I was a passive person, but I did not know how much my nature influenced my interactions with other people. When I met Mr. X, he presented himself as being very passive. He had many problems involving his roommates and his employment situation, but he always expressed that these problems were due to him being “taken advantage of.” Since I had experienced similar problems in my transition to adulthood, I believed his explanation even though he is a few years older than me. I did notice, even back then, that he never blamed himself for any of his problems. He always justified himself by saying that things didn't go his way based on the actions of other people. Because I am so passive with people, I have a tendency to give myself too much perceived control. When something goes wrong, I feel as if I could have done something to prevent it, even if there is absolutely no way I possibly could have. I'll go as far as apologize for other people, even if the people I am apologizing for are hurting me in some way. Through courses at LCC and therapy, I know on an intellectual level that I do not have control over the actions of others, but I still find myself fighting this aspect of my personality and that it causes conflict with others.
Mr. X became my roommate the first time because his previous roommate evicted him. Of course, he told myself and my husband a tale of woe and assured us that the problem was with his ex-roommates and not with him. Mr. X has lived with us several times. At first the situation was amicable. He paid his rent on time and was mostly conscious about keeping the house clean. I felt that he placed value on our friendship and demonstrated this by being generally helpful around the house. The problems began when he entered into a relationship. The first relationship I found out about when I came home from work on my lunch break one day and found him asleep on my living room couch with another person, naked. I was concerned because I had never been introduced to this person before. At the beginning of our roommate relationship, all members of the household had agreed that anyone staying overnight would have to be introduced to the rest of the household. His disregard for something that everyone had agreed to made me feel that my trust in him was misplaced. Soon after this incident, he decided to move out, citing the fact that he didn't feel comfortable having his significant other stay over night, even though the only thing I had asked was to be introduced before overnight visits started. Mr. X over-generalized and assumed that I would react negatively, even after formal introductions were made. He also sent a contaminated message when he informed me of his discomfort. His tone implied that I was doing something to make him feel uncomfortable and that I should not have placed so much value in our previous arrangement because we should trust each other to make appropriate choices when inviting other people into our home.
After his relationship ended, Mr. X once again found himself looking for a place to live. He apologized for his previous behavior and assured me that he placed as much value our friendship and mutual living situation as he placed in his romantic relationships. He demonstrated again, however, that this was not the case. Again, Mr. X started spending more and more time and resources on his new relationship. What made this situation different is that the person he was involved with was on house arrest and therefore could not be introduced to us. Eventually, he began ignoring household responsibilities and became unreliable with his rent payments. This time, my husband made the decision to ask Mr. X to leave, after several failed attempts at trying to communicate our dissatisfaction with the situation. In all our conversations about the subject, Mr. X made me feel like I was being aggressive. He claimed that the reason why I was upset with him was because his significant other was on house arrest and that I didn't understand the situation. He also stated that he thought it was unfair that we were annoyed with him spending money to see his significant other while he still owed rent and utility payments. He argued that he would support me if I were in a similar situation and that he would be understanding if my rent was late because I needed to see the person I was having a relationship with.
After the second round of living with Mr. X, he disappeared for several years. He would contact us every so often through electronic means, and about once a year, a phone call. These calls usually involved Mr. X telling us about something tragic in his current relationship and that he wished he would have just stayed living with us. As the years went by, communication between us made me miss his company, even though he had treated me poorly in the past. Thinking about it now, I feel like he was diminishing his passive-aggressive behavior in order to make his relationship with me more beneficial to him. He often claimed that we were his “best friends,” yet his previous actions proved that we were not that valuable to him. Eventually, his relationship ended and he once again found himself homeless. Even though my husband was the one who eventually put his foot down and kicked Mr. X out the last time we were living with him, he was the one trying to convince me that Mr. X moving in was a good idea. It didn't take much, because Mr. X did a good job of convincing the both of us that he had changed his ways. Again when Mr. X moved in, he was in full honeymoon mode. He politely did everything we asked of him and was conscientious about figuring out how he was going to pay his share of the bills. After a couple of months his behavior began to decline. He became lazier about helping out with the chores and spent most of his earnings on going out to bars. He spent more time surfing dating chat websites than he did trying to find a permanent job. When asked about his lack of concern, he would either assure us that he was “on top of” everything or he would quickly change the subject. Whenever I would try to be assertive with him, he said or did something that made me feel like I was being aggressive and that I should back off. One example is a rather heated conversation with him about ignoring the dishes for days at a time. I mentioned that the dishes were piling up. He responded by stating that he was tired from donating plasma (his only income at the time) and having gone out the previous day. My husband said that doing the dishes was Mr. X' only chore and that he had better start doing it or face the possibility of being kicked out. Mr. X responded with a tirade about not wanting to clean up after us, and that he felt disrespected that we would even ask him to do the dishes when we knew that he was feeling “sick.” Mr. X did the dishes the next day, but they were done so terribly, we felt like it was useless to keep asking him to do the chore. A few days later, Mr. X apologized and said that he would handle the dishes if we didn't “bug him so often about it.” Up to this point, Mr. X had given me very little reason to put faith in his self-management abilities, but I knew also that if I did “bug” him about the dishes, they were just going to be done in a sub-standard fashion. The dishes were only one of many points of conflict between us. I began to feel trapped in the situation because my desire to remove Mr. X from my life was being shot down by my desire to avoid conflict and appear non-aggressive. This time, I was again provided with an easy out. Our landlord did not approve of Mr. X living in our apartment. Due to legal concerns, I had a legitimate excuse to kick Mr. X out. However, while giving this information to Mr. X, he tried to make us feel guilty about the landlord's decision. He insisted that we didn't “talk with the landlord” and that there was a way we could convince the management company to allow him to stay. He also claimed that we never told him that in order for all of us to remain living together, we would need to move into a bigger apartment. When we started living together again, both my husband and I made it clear that moving would have to be a priority and that my income would not be sufficient enough to accomplish that goal. He would have to be able to provide extra income above the rent in order for us to upgrade. We reminded him of these previous conversations. Mr. X then said that he felt that it was unfair that he should sacrifice his social life, when we could have made the current living situation work.
After not living with Mr. X for about a month and a half, I have realized a few things. First of all, I realized that the prolonged stress of being in a perpetual state of conflict with him was negatively impacting my physical and mental well-being. As the months of living with Mr. X passed, I noticed that my emotional state was becoming more negative. I became argumentative with my husband and withdrawn from my peers and family. I was sleeping less and feeling poor physically. I began to miss classes and let my attentiveness to my studies slip. I also took less pride in my work. When Mr. X left, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I knew that prolonged conflict could lead to problems, but I didn't understand how profound those problems could become. The second thing I realized was that Mr. X was being passive-aggressive with me the entire time I have known him. After a class lecture about passive-aggressive behavior, I began to wonder if Mr. X was exhibiting this type of behavior or if I was simply taking him the wrong way. After exploring a few academic journals, I found a paper by Nora J. Johnson and Thomas Klee that explored the topic of passive-aggressive behavior and how it might be predicted in the workplace. They used several models to describe passive-aggressive behavior. The model I was particularly interested in was taken from the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. According to Johnson and Klee: “the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders requires that a person with PA (negativistic) personality disorder exhibit four or more of the following seven criteria beginning in early adulthood and in a variety of contexts:
1. passively resists fulfilling routine social and occupational tasks;
2. complains of being misunderstood and unappreciated by others;
3. is sullen and argumentative;
4. unreasonably criticizes and scorns authority;
5. expresses envy and resentment toward those apparently more fortunate;
6. voices exaggerated and persistent complaints of personal misfortune; and
7. alternates between hostile defiance and contrition.”
This model interested me because it seemed to be the one that fit my observations most accurately. I know that I am not trained enough to make a clinical diagnosis of anything, but everything I have observed while interacting with Mr. X convinces me that his behavior fits this criteria. Researching passive-aggressive behavior and having an understanding of it's definition helped me to see that Mr. X's problems were not entirely my fault. I also can put his behavior into context and am now able to better analyze the behavior of others and will hopefully be able to prevent such a prolonged period of conflict with someone else. I realize too, that I enabled Mr. X's behavior towards me. By not being more assertive, I communicated to him that I was willing to tolerate his behavior. The whole experience has taught me that assertiveness does not equal aggression and that being firm with one's needs and standing up to the resulting small conflict is a lot better than putting up with several years of hurt feelings.
References:
Johnson, Nora J., and Thomas Klee. "Passive-aggressive behavior and leadership styles in organizations." Journal of Leadership & Organizational Studies 14.2 (2007)
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Madness Returned Part One
Part One in a story I'm puttering with
Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ. I couldn't be sure of my senses, or even awareness of senses, or even what senses were. I think I remember learning about that in elementary school science class, or was it something I saw on TV? I remember something vaguely sexual about the whole experience. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on but I really can't blame myself because I was only in fifth grade after all.
God, the cooties were terrible. I still have nightmares from time to time.
I kept staring at my hands hoping that I could just fade out of existence and reappear someplace a lot less confusing. Confusing isn't really the right word for it. Awkward? Obvious? Maybe it didn't matter.
“Arthur?”
I glanced up from my musings, trying to figure out what I was going to say before I knew the question.
I have a hobby. It involves dissecting the elements and re-assembling them in my own image. Oh, wait, not my image; that would be egotistical. Maybe some other image like Mona Lisa or David or Richard Simmons. I would try to explain but the whole idea seems preposterous. I mumble something somewhat reassuring adding “I'll be all right, mother.”
Would I be, would I ever really be “all right?” Too many questions and not enough answers to be had. Musical chairs of answers. The loser doomed to exist in purgatory until the next time, if there was one. That always seemed to be the last question on my mind. I stared at my hands and then at mothers stew. I could see the past, present and future staring up at me in small, carroty and potato-shaped bits. I felt a tingle in the back of my brain, I didn't want to deal with her right now.
“Mother, do you ever think about your place in the universe?” I tried to break up the ice forming around the edges of my mind.
“Oh don't start that tripe again. Shut up and eat.”
If eating made any sense right now I would.
“Quit nitpicking,” I replied absentmindedly.
“Who is it that you are always talking to?”
“N-n-n-othing, mother.”
I felt her eyes through the back of my head. How much did she know, exactly? All or nothing or somewhere in the middle. Did she know I would end up this way? Somehow, I was eating again.
“Thank you,” at least that's what I intended to say as I got up and walked too the door. I couldn't handle much more hiding. I kind of figured my hiding was obvious and that I shouldn't worry because she knew. Maybe I was being purposely deceptive because it felt natural at the time.
The doorknob felt slippery. I couldn't quite place where I had felt the same thing before. I tried to grab on to the thought, tried to make it manifest itself once more but it ended up dashing away with the breeze. The desert heat beat instantly upon my face and stung my eyes. I squinted as I fumbled around looking for my sunglasses until I realized I had them on.
“Christ on a cracker, that took you long enough!”
I jumped out of my skin and spun around, surprised to find the smiling image of my good friend and roommate glaring at me from the passenger side of a nearby car. In the short while I was lost within the confines of mother's kitchen, I had forgotten what she looked like. The fender was missing on one side and the other side didn't match the rest of the body. There was a curious dent in the hood that I know I didn't cause, but I could have.
“What did you do, forget I was out here?”
I silently slid into the driver's seat, not wanting to admit the truth. I shouldn't be driving in my state of mind but I knew I didn't have too much of a choice.
“Did you bring me any?”
“Any what?” I mumbled to the tune of the song on the radio
“Food, that I know you must have scarfed on while I was sitting out here in the blazing heat, listening to shitty top-40 radio”
“At least you had the sense not to let the battery die” I observed.
“Not that it matters, you have to roll start this pile of rusty shit anyhow”
I was about to reply with venom until I realized he was right. The ignition switch was broken long ago. I have a fuzzy memory that the debacle involved a trip gone bad and reality collapsing in on itself temporarily. Push starting the vehicle was almost as automatic as turning a key, and I found it strangely satisfying. I often wondered, if I was presented with the opportunity to own a car with a functional ignition switch and an actual key, would I use it or would act on a subconscious impulse and destroy it? Is self sabotage a hobby?
“What is on the menu for next weekend, mate?”
“Fuck,” I blurted, “This weekend isn't even over yet!” I had an inkling it was still Sunday. Mother always served stew on Sunday.
“True that. We still have a few hits and a shit-load of weed to work through,” my companion said through a cloud of thick, purple smoke.
What the hell was this, a contest? Some sort of drug-fueled brawl?
“Pushing the limits of reality and telling it to piss off, eh mate?” I felt a firm, but friendly slap on my shoulder. I stared out over the dashboard, suddenly fascinated with the road and everything in front of me. The road was straight through a deep valley, surrounded by sagebrush on one side and a lake on the other. The lake resembled an overgrown mud hole and was always crowded with birds of varying types in the summer. I thought it was pretty, but was too concerned about appearances to ever mention it to anyone. “I wonder if the lake will ever just disappear and not come back.”
“Aww there you go with that existential bull crap. Life is too short to be occupying our brains philosophizing about huge, water-filled holes.”
“That water-filled hole could be whats separating us from annihilation,” I said, speeding up the car just a little bit.
“Hey, do you want to get pulled over? Knock it off, crazy ass hole!” I was shaken awake by a punch to the arm. I replied by turning the radio up and focusing on the road. It must be Sunday because there isn't much traffic. The speedometer bounced angrily, unable to continue it's clockwise journey. Maybe I was going a bit too fast for the conditions. Another cloud of purple smoke lazily spun its way through the cabin. I inhaled deeply, hoping to catch somewhat of a second hand buzz.
I got the feeling that the people in the cars I passed were staring at me. Maybe not at me specifically, but at the whole environment I was surrounded by. The car looked like it was being held together by prayers and duct tape. The passenger was gloomily puffing on a pipe, alternating between staring at me and gazing off into the horizon. I was fairly sure that every hiss, every pop, every auto-tuned note could be heard for miles, rattling and radiating from our rolling disaster area. I felt myself start to hum along with the song on the radio, even though I didn't really care for it.
Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ. I couldn't be sure of my senses, or even awareness of senses, or even what senses were. I think I remember learning about that in elementary school science class, or was it something I saw on TV? I remember something vaguely sexual about the whole experience. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on but I really can't blame myself because I was only in fifth grade after all.
God, the cooties were terrible. I still have nightmares from time to time.
I kept staring at my hands hoping that I could just fade out of existence and reappear someplace a lot less confusing. Confusing isn't really the right word for it. Awkward? Obvious? Maybe it didn't matter.
“Arthur?”
I glanced up from my musings, trying to figure out what I was going to say before I knew the question.
I have a hobby. It involves dissecting the elements and re-assembling them in my own image. Oh, wait, not my image; that would be egotistical. Maybe some other image like Mona Lisa or David or Richard Simmons. I would try to explain but the whole idea seems preposterous. I mumble something somewhat reassuring adding “I'll be all right, mother.”
Would I be, would I ever really be “all right?” Too many questions and not enough answers to be had. Musical chairs of answers. The loser doomed to exist in purgatory until the next time, if there was one. That always seemed to be the last question on my mind. I stared at my hands and then at mothers stew. I could see the past, present and future staring up at me in small, carroty and potato-shaped bits. I felt a tingle in the back of my brain, I didn't want to deal with her right now.
“Mother, do you ever think about your place in the universe?” I tried to break up the ice forming around the edges of my mind.
“Oh don't start that tripe again. Shut up and eat.”
If eating made any sense right now I would.
“Quit nitpicking,” I replied absentmindedly.
“Who is it that you are always talking to?”
“N-n-n-othing, mother.”
I felt her eyes through the back of my head. How much did she know, exactly? All or nothing or somewhere in the middle. Did she know I would end up this way? Somehow, I was eating again.
“Thank you,” at least that's what I intended to say as I got up and walked too the door. I couldn't handle much more hiding. I kind of figured my hiding was obvious and that I shouldn't worry because she knew. Maybe I was being purposely deceptive because it felt natural at the time.
The doorknob felt slippery. I couldn't quite place where I had felt the same thing before. I tried to grab on to the thought, tried to make it manifest itself once more but it ended up dashing away with the breeze. The desert heat beat instantly upon my face and stung my eyes. I squinted as I fumbled around looking for my sunglasses until I realized I had them on.
“Christ on a cracker, that took you long enough!”
I jumped out of my skin and spun around, surprised to find the smiling image of my good friend and roommate glaring at me from the passenger side of a nearby car. In the short while I was lost within the confines of mother's kitchen, I had forgotten what she looked like. The fender was missing on one side and the other side didn't match the rest of the body. There was a curious dent in the hood that I know I didn't cause, but I could have.
“What did you do, forget I was out here?”
I silently slid into the driver's seat, not wanting to admit the truth. I shouldn't be driving in my state of mind but I knew I didn't have too much of a choice.
“Did you bring me any?”
“Any what?” I mumbled to the tune of the song on the radio
“Food, that I know you must have scarfed on while I was sitting out here in the blazing heat, listening to shitty top-40 radio”
“At least you had the sense not to let the battery die” I observed.
“Not that it matters, you have to roll start this pile of rusty shit anyhow”
I was about to reply with venom until I realized he was right. The ignition switch was broken long ago. I have a fuzzy memory that the debacle involved a trip gone bad and reality collapsing in on itself temporarily. Push starting the vehicle was almost as automatic as turning a key, and I found it strangely satisfying. I often wondered, if I was presented with the opportunity to own a car with a functional ignition switch and an actual key, would I use it or would act on a subconscious impulse and destroy it? Is self sabotage a hobby?
“What is on the menu for next weekend, mate?”
“Fuck,” I blurted, “This weekend isn't even over yet!” I had an inkling it was still Sunday. Mother always served stew on Sunday.
“True that. We still have a few hits and a shit-load of weed to work through,” my companion said through a cloud of thick, purple smoke.
What the hell was this, a contest? Some sort of drug-fueled brawl?
“Pushing the limits of reality and telling it to piss off, eh mate?” I felt a firm, but friendly slap on my shoulder. I stared out over the dashboard, suddenly fascinated with the road and everything in front of me. The road was straight through a deep valley, surrounded by sagebrush on one side and a lake on the other. The lake resembled an overgrown mud hole and was always crowded with birds of varying types in the summer. I thought it was pretty, but was too concerned about appearances to ever mention it to anyone. “I wonder if the lake will ever just disappear and not come back.”
“Aww there you go with that existential bull crap. Life is too short to be occupying our brains philosophizing about huge, water-filled holes.”
“That water-filled hole could be whats separating us from annihilation,” I said, speeding up the car just a little bit.
“Hey, do you want to get pulled over? Knock it off, crazy ass hole!” I was shaken awake by a punch to the arm. I replied by turning the radio up and focusing on the road. It must be Sunday because there isn't much traffic. The speedometer bounced angrily, unable to continue it's clockwise journey. Maybe I was going a bit too fast for the conditions. Another cloud of purple smoke lazily spun its way through the cabin. I inhaled deeply, hoping to catch somewhat of a second hand buzz.
I got the feeling that the people in the cars I passed were staring at me. Maybe not at me specifically, but at the whole environment I was surrounded by. The car looked like it was being held together by prayers and duct tape. The passenger was gloomily puffing on a pipe, alternating between staring at me and gazing off into the horizon. I was fairly sure that every hiss, every pop, every auto-tuned note could be heard for miles, rattling and radiating from our rolling disaster area. I felt myself start to hum along with the song on the radio, even though I didn't really care for it.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
My 4 AM World
Everything around here closes at 2300
Except the gas station up the street
The food is expensive
I'm not all that hungry anyway
You've been asleep for hours
I'm not tired and besides
I know you sleep better knowing I'm awake
You seem to think that I'm going somewhere
that one day I'll go up in a puff of smoke
I won't lie to you
because it isn't up to me
I just don't know what to say
So I sit in silence
contemplating everything and nothing
hoping I can keep a promise
that I know I will never make
Except the gas station up the street
The food is expensive
I'm not all that hungry anyway
You've been asleep for hours
I'm not tired and besides
I know you sleep better knowing I'm awake
You seem to think that I'm going somewhere
that one day I'll go up in a puff of smoke
I won't lie to you
because it isn't up to me
I just don't know what to say
So I sit in silence
contemplating everything and nothing
hoping I can keep a promise
that I know I will never make
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Waaayback Machine
This is something I wrote in 2004 I found on my Myspace page.
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There arent many things I can tell you now for you are young and unready for some things. I can tell you this much for now, you shall read this with a different mind later for you know that this will not last even though it may feel that way. I am writing through you for you to understand what it is that needs to be known. Live in this life as if you know what is to pass for though you do not know what is to pass, you live life in that way so as to give the appearance that you know. For knowledge is power and you have power, the power of God in heaven. Know that you are imbued with the power of God in heaven even though there are those that choose not to believe. There is a way for you to make it seem as if you know more than you do, and that is to admit that you know nothing save for what is present and real. Real does not mean what you see or hear or think. Real is a state of consciousness, a door to a beginning. What is real on earth is not true, what is true on earth is not real. Humans are incapable of understanding reality, it is beyond them. Humans do not perceive truth because truth is not a perception. It is an extension of a collective creative force not able to be seen or touched or thought. Thought is only perception, it is nothing more. Thoughts are not a manifestation of the will of man for man has no will save for the will of the Creator God and the forces set in motion by It so that Its plan can be executed in accordance to a power It doesnt even comprehend. The Creator God is sexless because sex and gender are perceptions not needed by the Creator God. The Creator God does not perceive things because It understands all. Note that It does not KNOW all but UNDERSTANDS all. Why is this? Knowing is nothing more than a perception, that is why knowledge is power. How does one know? They perceive that they are capable of reciting things perceived by others as factual when indeed, all that is known is a fallacy created by the small boundaries of perception. Make others believe that you know, for they understand knowledge, but do not understand how to be devoid of such fallacy. Knowledge is indeed power on earth because common perception makes it so. If people know you know, they will believe for they cannot perceive any alternative. You KNOW nothing. They know all collectively. Understand, do not know. Understanding may seem like a type of knowledge but this is not so. Understanding involves only going beyond the limits of perception and experiencing what the absence of perception is. THAT is understanding. To understand, do not know. To know is to NEVER understand.
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There arent many things I can tell you now for you are young and unready for some things. I can tell you this much for now, you shall read this with a different mind later for you know that this will not last even though it may feel that way. I am writing through you for you to understand what it is that needs to be known. Live in this life as if you know what is to pass for though you do not know what is to pass, you live life in that way so as to give the appearance that you know. For knowledge is power and you have power, the power of God in heaven. Know that you are imbued with the power of God in heaven even though there are those that choose not to believe. There is a way for you to make it seem as if you know more than you do, and that is to admit that you know nothing save for what is present and real. Real does not mean what you see or hear or think. Real is a state of consciousness, a door to a beginning. What is real on earth is not true, what is true on earth is not real. Humans are incapable of understanding reality, it is beyond them. Humans do not perceive truth because truth is not a perception. It is an extension of a collective creative force not able to be seen or touched or thought. Thought is only perception, it is nothing more. Thoughts are not a manifestation of the will of man for man has no will save for the will of the Creator God and the forces set in motion by It so that Its plan can be executed in accordance to a power It doesnt even comprehend. The Creator God is sexless because sex and gender are perceptions not needed by the Creator God. The Creator God does not perceive things because It understands all. Note that It does not KNOW all but UNDERSTANDS all. Why is this? Knowing is nothing more than a perception, that is why knowledge is power. How does one know? They perceive that they are capable of reciting things perceived by others as factual when indeed, all that is known is a fallacy created by the small boundaries of perception. Make others believe that you know, for they understand knowledge, but do not understand how to be devoid of such fallacy. Knowledge is indeed power on earth because common perception makes it so. If people know you know, they will believe for they cannot perceive any alternative. You KNOW nothing. They know all collectively. Understand, do not know. Understanding may seem like a type of knowledge but this is not so. Understanding involves only going beyond the limits of perception and experiencing what the absence of perception is. THAT is understanding. To understand, do not know. To know is to NEVER understand.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Im Gonna be a Rockstar
This essay is what catapulted me into an A in my last writing class. It is a reflective piece on my writing and how the class helped me improve. Enjoy!
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One of my earliest childhood memories is of my grandmother's typewriter. I remember it being big, black and heavy. I remember the smell of the ink and the sound of the keys hitting the paper as I spent many hours watching my grandmother type letters to friends and family. At the time I didn’t understand what she was doing, but the rhythm of the keystrokes and the “ding” at the end of every line made me feel at peace. Sometimes, my grandmother would sit me on her lap and let me poke at the keys. I wasn’t sure what the black marks that appeared on the paper were, but I had a lot of fun making the typewriter make noise. When I first learned how to read, I remember thinking “I want to make stories too!” As a youngster, I had quite a few problems with handwriting which discouraged me. I was absolutely thrilled when I found out that big, black, noisy box with keys could make words that other people could read. At first I practiced copying books. After a while, I became comfortable with putting my own thoughts down on paper. My first writings were simple ramblings about my pets or my latest video game adventure. Eventually I started to come up with stories detailing the adventures of a dog/cat hybrid trying to live in two societies that didn’t accept him. I think my parents still have those stories in a box somewhere. While other kids in preschool were doodling stick figures, I was doodling with words.
When I first entered elementary school, I didn’t think I was abnormal. I spent every free moment, and even some moments in class, either reading or writing. I remember my kindergarten teacher often becoming upset with me because I had my nose stuck in a book while I was supposed to be paying attention. I soon began to realize that when it came to reading, I was ahead of my peers. This made me the target of bullying from my classmates and the target of scorn from my teachers. I often was assigned extra class work during reading periods so I wouldn’t have time to read the books that I brought from home. In middle school I tried to make my obsession with reading and writing a more private affair. I would often sit in my room from the time school was out until sunrise either reading the latest library find or writing down an idea. I stopped taking books from home to school entirely after a teacher had confiscated one of my books because I wasn’t paying attention to a chapter review. The fact that I got an A on the related test still didn’t convince the teacher to return my book. Despite social pressure to the contrary, I still ended up spending almost every recess period in the school library because I didn’t feel safe reading on the playground. I always did well in any course that involved reading and writing but admittedly I never really put in all that much effort. My teachers were always impressed with my work but it was nothing special to me. I had learned early on in school how to regurgitate information but at the same time I found it incredibly boring. Chasing my own ideas and reading books that weren't in the juvenile or young adult section of the library was far more interesting.
High school was, for the most part, more of the same story. I wrote mostly for myself, with little bits of academic work here and there. I became much more serious about my writing when I met my writing mentor, Mrs Block. She taught a middle-school English class that a friend of mine had been in and she also ran the local Star Trek fan club. Mrs. Block took a genuine interest in my writing after I showed her a back-story I had come up with for one of my role-playing characters. She encouraged me to develop my skills as a writer and to think critically about what I wrote, especially about the things I was reading and writing for school. She often assured me that I am a good writer and that I shouldn’t think of anything I write as “just a doodle.” She also was the first person to help me understand that writing, reading and thought are all connected. All the previous instruction in writing I had up to that point had convinced me that thought, reading, and writing were separate things. Reading is done to gain knowledge, writing is used to regurgitate that knowledge, and thought is better left to the “experts,” whoever they may be. Mrs. Block taught me and the students in her classes that thinking genuinely matters and that you don’t know exactly what you are thinking until you write it down. It was Mrs. Block’s encouragement that inspired me to tackle the more advanced English classes in high school. I was also inspired to become first the Junior ROTC assistant communications officer and then to take over as the head of communications. I wrote, edited and published several newsletters for my ROTC class and had a few press releases published in the local newspaper.
During my senior year of high school, I thought I was at the top of my writing game. Class assignments were still very easy but I tackled them with a much more critical eye. I began to truly enjoy reading assignments because even though I didn’t really discuss them with my classmates, I still could discuss them with Mrs. Block. I also felt that my creative writing endeavors had a purpose, even if I was the only person who would ever read them. I graduated in the top 10% of my class and floated off to college thinking I would be on top of the world there, too. I soon found out that college was an entirely different ball of wax. I found myself in lecture classes with over 100 other students. My professors didn’t have the time to be interested in critical thought, opinions, or observations made by students. Their job was to make sure we “mastered” the material enough to move on to the next course. I again found myself discouraged and uninspired. I managed to pass my classes but I stopped thinking of my writing as an extension of my thoughts. Writing became a means to getting the education that I thought I needed in order to make money and land my “dream job.” After three years of college-level classes, I gave up. With very few exceptions, I didn’t feel that any of my course work was appreciated. My professors were interested in what I had learned at the end of the class as opposed to having any interest in the learning process. I also didn’t feel any personal connection with my studies. I ended up working minimum-wage jobs off and on to get by. Sometimes, I worked over 40 hours a week, yet I was not able to fully support myself. My job security was dependent on the economic success of those in upper management. I slowly realised over the course of the next nine years that I was not on the path to personal success. I also realised that most of my despair stemmed from the fact that I had stopped reading and writing almost entirely. I read work-related materials, jotted a few things down in a journal, and posted quite a bit on chat forums, but I still felt that I was wasting my potential.
One day, I decided that I was going to leave my jello-brain life behind. While trying to “find myself,” I had moved away from my childhood home in Nevada, thinking that minimum-wage drudgery would somehow be different in Oregon. I soon found out that the only difference was that Oregon drudgery was a lot more damp. I decided to jump back into the academic world with both feet, hoping that my community college experience would be better than my university experience. I took Writing 121 my first term back because I knew that my writing skills were rusty and that there was always room for improvement. 121 challenged me because I was out of practice but after the first few assignments, I realized that my basic set of skills were still intact. I did well on the smaller assignments and I received an A on my first argumentative essay. I was surprised at the A, honestly. I had struggled with the first paper and when I turned in my final draft I was convinced that I had gotten maybe a C. My professor gave me hard criticism and forced me to keep thinking about my ideas. He also prodded me into becoming specific and concrete. Even though he picked apart our writing, I still felt that he genuinely enjoyed teaching the students in the class how to be better readers and writers, and was enthusiastic when any of us made a breakthrough in understanding. Writing 121 is the only writing class required for a two-year multimedia design student, but I felt that having an even stronger skills in thinking, reading, and writing would benefit my further academic work as well as my professional career.
I signed up for Writing 122 hoping to advance my writing skills and have a bit of an edge over my peers who decided to stop at 121. As I sit, contemplating what I got out of the course, I can’t help but think that I gained way more than just a new set of professional skills. The work is daunting and was a challenge throughout the entire term. As with my 121 course, 122 challenged me to think in different ways and further pushed me away from regurgitation mode. I also gained more confidence in my work because I built on the skills that I learned in my previous course. Previous college writing courses were tedious and aggravating because I would have to learn a new regurgitation style for every class. The reading assignments in this course were also interesting. In my beginning college years, my 122 level class spent the majority of the term reading from a book very similar to Keys for Writers. The information was useful insofar that it taught the technical aspects of writing, but it taught very little else. I was very glad to find out that this incarnation of 122 is very different. Even though my 121 course was extremely helpful in my development as a writer, I feel that 122 has been even more helpful. The discussions both in class and on Moodle helped me understand my own thoughts better. Having a conference with the professor was also very helpful. I felt that he was genuinely interested in what I had to say and was interested in helping me say it. His enthusiasm for the subject was evident even on the syllabus. On the first page, he encourages the class to ask questions and to keep asking questions. Alternating fonts and font sizes is also a really nice touch. Large, bold font is a pretty good indicator that the author finds something to be incredibly important. During the lecture, I found the enthusiasm of the instructor and my fellow students to be infectious. When I missed classes due to illness, the constant buzz on the Moodle forums helped me stay focused. I learned even more about grammar, although I don’t think I will ever have a total grasp on all of the rules.
Writing 121 got me back into the writing frame of mind but 122 helped me understand why I was so fascinated with the written word as a young child. I find reading, writing and thinking to be incredibly fun. For the longest time, the only other person I could have an intellectual discussion with was my husband. I was reminded this term that it is entirely possible to have an intellectual discussion with myself through writing. Remembering that fact alone makes me glad that I enrolled in 122. The work kicked me squarely in the rear end and my powers of last-minute-BS-ery were pretty much useless. I had to actually think about what I was writing and invest myself in it again, not just puke on a page. At times I thought “Why do I care? I’m going to be a big-shot producer anyway.” There are several reasons. Even though it was difficult, I did actually find the work enjoyable. Also, I have become better at editing my own work. I feel more confident as a writer and as a reader. I know that my confidence will shine in my future work in both the academic and professional arenas. My goal this term was to become a better writer. Not only did I become a better writer, I also became a better reader and thinker as well. Overall, the time and effort I put into Writing 122 yielded results that exceeded my expectations. I now am hungrier for knowledge and hungrier for honest and thoughtful discourse with myself and others. The brain is like a muscle: if it doesn’t get used it tends to atrophy. Even though I experienced brain cramping more than once, I believe pain was more than worth it.
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One of my earliest childhood memories is of my grandmother's typewriter. I remember it being big, black and heavy. I remember the smell of the ink and the sound of the keys hitting the paper as I spent many hours watching my grandmother type letters to friends and family. At the time I didn’t understand what she was doing, but the rhythm of the keystrokes and the “ding” at the end of every line made me feel at peace. Sometimes, my grandmother would sit me on her lap and let me poke at the keys. I wasn’t sure what the black marks that appeared on the paper were, but I had a lot of fun making the typewriter make noise. When I first learned how to read, I remember thinking “I want to make stories too!” As a youngster, I had quite a few problems with handwriting which discouraged me. I was absolutely thrilled when I found out that big, black, noisy box with keys could make words that other people could read. At first I practiced copying books. After a while, I became comfortable with putting my own thoughts down on paper. My first writings were simple ramblings about my pets or my latest video game adventure. Eventually I started to come up with stories detailing the adventures of a dog/cat hybrid trying to live in two societies that didn’t accept him. I think my parents still have those stories in a box somewhere. While other kids in preschool were doodling stick figures, I was doodling with words.
When I first entered elementary school, I didn’t think I was abnormal. I spent every free moment, and even some moments in class, either reading or writing. I remember my kindergarten teacher often becoming upset with me because I had my nose stuck in a book while I was supposed to be paying attention. I soon began to realize that when it came to reading, I was ahead of my peers. This made me the target of bullying from my classmates and the target of scorn from my teachers. I often was assigned extra class work during reading periods so I wouldn’t have time to read the books that I brought from home. In middle school I tried to make my obsession with reading and writing a more private affair. I would often sit in my room from the time school was out until sunrise either reading the latest library find or writing down an idea. I stopped taking books from home to school entirely after a teacher had confiscated one of my books because I wasn’t paying attention to a chapter review. The fact that I got an A on the related test still didn’t convince the teacher to return my book. Despite social pressure to the contrary, I still ended up spending almost every recess period in the school library because I didn’t feel safe reading on the playground. I always did well in any course that involved reading and writing but admittedly I never really put in all that much effort. My teachers were always impressed with my work but it was nothing special to me. I had learned early on in school how to regurgitate information but at the same time I found it incredibly boring. Chasing my own ideas and reading books that weren't in the juvenile or young adult section of the library was far more interesting.
High school was, for the most part, more of the same story. I wrote mostly for myself, with little bits of academic work here and there. I became much more serious about my writing when I met my writing mentor, Mrs Block. She taught a middle-school English class that a friend of mine had been in and she also ran the local Star Trek fan club. Mrs. Block took a genuine interest in my writing after I showed her a back-story I had come up with for one of my role-playing characters. She encouraged me to develop my skills as a writer and to think critically about what I wrote, especially about the things I was reading and writing for school. She often assured me that I am a good writer and that I shouldn’t think of anything I write as “just a doodle.” She also was the first person to help me understand that writing, reading and thought are all connected. All the previous instruction in writing I had up to that point had convinced me that thought, reading, and writing were separate things. Reading is done to gain knowledge, writing is used to regurgitate that knowledge, and thought is better left to the “experts,” whoever they may be. Mrs. Block taught me and the students in her classes that thinking genuinely matters and that you don’t know exactly what you are thinking until you write it down. It was Mrs. Block’s encouragement that inspired me to tackle the more advanced English classes in high school. I was also inspired to become first the Junior ROTC assistant communications officer and then to take over as the head of communications. I wrote, edited and published several newsletters for my ROTC class and had a few press releases published in the local newspaper.
During my senior year of high school, I thought I was at the top of my writing game. Class assignments were still very easy but I tackled them with a much more critical eye. I began to truly enjoy reading assignments because even though I didn’t really discuss them with my classmates, I still could discuss them with Mrs. Block. I also felt that my creative writing endeavors had a purpose, even if I was the only person who would ever read them. I graduated in the top 10% of my class and floated off to college thinking I would be on top of the world there, too. I soon found out that college was an entirely different ball of wax. I found myself in lecture classes with over 100 other students. My professors didn’t have the time to be interested in critical thought, opinions, or observations made by students. Their job was to make sure we “mastered” the material enough to move on to the next course. I again found myself discouraged and uninspired. I managed to pass my classes but I stopped thinking of my writing as an extension of my thoughts. Writing became a means to getting the education that I thought I needed in order to make money and land my “dream job.” After three years of college-level classes, I gave up. With very few exceptions, I didn’t feel that any of my course work was appreciated. My professors were interested in what I had learned at the end of the class as opposed to having any interest in the learning process. I also didn’t feel any personal connection with my studies. I ended up working minimum-wage jobs off and on to get by. Sometimes, I worked over 40 hours a week, yet I was not able to fully support myself. My job security was dependent on the economic success of those in upper management. I slowly realised over the course of the next nine years that I was not on the path to personal success. I also realised that most of my despair stemmed from the fact that I had stopped reading and writing almost entirely. I read work-related materials, jotted a few things down in a journal, and posted quite a bit on chat forums, but I still felt that I was wasting my potential.
One day, I decided that I was going to leave my jello-brain life behind. While trying to “find myself,” I had moved away from my childhood home in Nevada, thinking that minimum-wage drudgery would somehow be different in Oregon. I soon found out that the only difference was that Oregon drudgery was a lot more damp. I decided to jump back into the academic world with both feet, hoping that my community college experience would be better than my university experience. I took Writing 121 my first term back because I knew that my writing skills were rusty and that there was always room for improvement. 121 challenged me because I was out of practice but after the first few assignments, I realized that my basic set of skills were still intact. I did well on the smaller assignments and I received an A on my first argumentative essay. I was surprised at the A, honestly. I had struggled with the first paper and when I turned in my final draft I was convinced that I had gotten maybe a C. My professor gave me hard criticism and forced me to keep thinking about my ideas. He also prodded me into becoming specific and concrete. Even though he picked apart our writing, I still felt that he genuinely enjoyed teaching the students in the class how to be better readers and writers, and was enthusiastic when any of us made a breakthrough in understanding. Writing 121 is the only writing class required for a two-year multimedia design student, but I felt that having an even stronger skills in thinking, reading, and writing would benefit my further academic work as well as my professional career.
I signed up for Writing 122 hoping to advance my writing skills and have a bit of an edge over my peers who decided to stop at 121. As I sit, contemplating what I got out of the course, I can’t help but think that I gained way more than just a new set of professional skills. The work is daunting and was a challenge throughout the entire term. As with my 121 course, 122 challenged me to think in different ways and further pushed me away from regurgitation mode. I also gained more confidence in my work because I built on the skills that I learned in my previous course. Previous college writing courses were tedious and aggravating because I would have to learn a new regurgitation style for every class. The reading assignments in this course were also interesting. In my beginning college years, my 122 level class spent the majority of the term reading from a book very similar to Keys for Writers. The information was useful insofar that it taught the technical aspects of writing, but it taught very little else. I was very glad to find out that this incarnation of 122 is very different. Even though my 121 course was extremely helpful in my development as a writer, I feel that 122 has been even more helpful. The discussions both in class and on Moodle helped me understand my own thoughts better. Having a conference with the professor was also very helpful. I felt that he was genuinely interested in what I had to say and was interested in helping me say it. His enthusiasm for the subject was evident even on the syllabus. On the first page, he encourages the class to ask questions and to keep asking questions. Alternating fonts and font sizes is also a really nice touch. Large, bold font is a pretty good indicator that the author finds something to be incredibly important. During the lecture, I found the enthusiasm of the instructor and my fellow students to be infectious. When I missed classes due to illness, the constant buzz on the Moodle forums helped me stay focused. I learned even more about grammar, although I don’t think I will ever have a total grasp on all of the rules.
Writing 121 got me back into the writing frame of mind but 122 helped me understand why I was so fascinated with the written word as a young child. I find reading, writing and thinking to be incredibly fun. For the longest time, the only other person I could have an intellectual discussion with was my husband. I was reminded this term that it is entirely possible to have an intellectual discussion with myself through writing. Remembering that fact alone makes me glad that I enrolled in 122. The work kicked me squarely in the rear end and my powers of last-minute-BS-ery were pretty much useless. I had to actually think about what I was writing and invest myself in it again, not just puke on a page. At times I thought “Why do I care? I’m going to be a big-shot producer anyway.” There are several reasons. Even though it was difficult, I did actually find the work enjoyable. Also, I have become better at editing my own work. I feel more confident as a writer and as a reader. I know that my confidence will shine in my future work in both the academic and professional arenas. My goal this term was to become a better writer. Not only did I become a better writer, I also became a better reader and thinker as well. Overall, the time and effort I put into Writing 122 yielded results that exceeded my expectations. I now am hungrier for knowledge and hungrier for honest and thoughtful discourse with myself and others. The brain is like a muscle: if it doesn’t get used it tends to atrophy. Even though I experienced brain cramping more than once, I believe pain was more than worth it.
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