June 9th

Why are you interested in our college?

My elementary school art teacher neglected to teach me how to draw a bear, but the color wheel was my friend. I was best at making brown. Distinct, beautiful colors combined a million ways made the same shade I'm still comfortable with. My definition of Brown is a diverse multitude of the brilliant shades and tints that the University has accepted. Brown University is my first choice to attend college in the fall of 2012. Their open curriculum allows me to experiment with different classroom environments, take full advantage of their incredible faculty, and converse with the grandest spectrum on the northeastern seaboard. I am interested in Brown's opportunities, and the type of person I believe I would become while I attended this place of prestige. Running up in yellow boat shoes, a knee-length skirt, braided hair, late, I met my tour guide. Her energy was genuine, and she loved her school. She was interesting without noticing it, interested individually in her followers, was driven and effective in sharing her wealth of knowledge. I wanted to have her tanned face, her explosive personality, her control over herself and mind. At Brown, chances are quite literally limitless. There isn't a way I can let myself down in a pass/fail class in an area that worries and interests me. To feign incompetence would be a sorry sight; culture, knowledge, diversity, opportunity would mock such a student. I am a responsible person, to take charge of my education will be a welcome achievement. If I am lucky enough to let them pick me, I will choose to walk down Thayer Street in the next four years, walking to the beat of the band's drumline. The second time I walk through the Van Wickle gates, I will be the person I dream of meeting. I will be able to draw a bear, my beautiful shade of Brown.

Why do you want to major in biological engineering?

"This course of study enables individuals to utilize mathematical and scientific principles to the design, development and operational evaluation of biomedical and health systems and products such as integrated biomedical systems, instrumentation, medical information systems, artificial organs and prostheses, and health management and care delivery systems. Subtopics include bioengineering and biomedical engineering, biological/biosystems engineering as well as others."

I enjoy learning about math and science. Biology has always made sense to me; molecular biology, genetic studies, and systems have been my strong suits in both Regents Biology in eighth and AP Biology in 10th grades. I fully understood my appreciation for engineering in my freshman year, when I won the ReDesign Dimension Printing Engineering contest. I like to create, tangible structures fulfill my sense of purpose. Combining my two strengths in biological engineering is a partnership beyond its name. Biological engineers re-grew a man's fingertip with "pixie dust," a powder made up of the cells of a pig's bladder after it was hacked off by a model airplane. Eighteen people die per day waiting for an organ, and one day, biological engineers will create organs to save the thousands of people that die each year. The traditional medical field is an avenue that I would love to pursue, but it is also lined with needles. Through pursuing a major in biological engineering I would be able to avoid my queasiness, but satisfy my interest in biology, as well my desire to help everyday people. A major in biological engineering will be challenging. A major in biological engineering will be worth it.

May 31st

In this week's paper, if the year was still 1997, I could see the picture of my eldest daughter and I, holding hands in the park. She was so little then, so scared to talk to anyone and she needed my hand to hold. The photographer saw that, put a black and white image on the second page of the Record. I've kept that image of her and me in that wooden box with all of her ribbons, but now it's gone. Fitting, because now she's gone. We used to read at night, back when she needed to hold my hand. She'd get dropped off at two o'clock, back at our house next to the river by my mother, every Wednesday after they had gotten french fries from McDonald's. Common sense says that Mom shouldn't have given a little four year old girl a medium fry to eat all by herself, but she was such a good little girl.
So she'd get dropped off at two without the remants of salt on her face but with the smile, and we'd read together until it was time for me to get changed to go to work. We had started out with the simple stuff, would read her Goodnight, Moon when it was time to go to bed at night, and read her the books she picked out by herself in the library. Those kids were so cute, walking down the street all holding onto the scarf-rope. Her fingers were clenched tight, she's always taken rules seriously,didn't want to get lost on that block they walked. I wonder if she remembers that, if she makes the connection that she was one of those children when she eats her raw fish at that sushi place she likes and sees them all trot by.
I wonder if she notices me notice, if she's forgotten all I've done for her. She's growing, well, she thinks she's grown, and she has forgotten I was there in the first place. That I was the one prepping her for her kindergarten interview when she was worried, and I was the one who was confident that she would do well; I was the one to tell her mother not to worry because she was so smart that she'd be too afraid to not be friendly, too.

Now she reads her books, and she counters me when I bring up mine. She judges me at dinner when I keep quiet, the voices of the three girls humming and brimming with drama and laughter. I'm proud when I find time to finish one of my books, gives us something to talk about. My daughter, though she doesn't see me do it enough. I hear her mother whisper to her that she thinks I'm jealous of her. Jealous of my own daughter? Ridiculous. How could I be?

I always am.

I know I made her, I know she's a direct product of me and all of my efforts. I taught her to swim, I taught her to read, I taught her to write, I taught her to run, I taught her to excel. I always made certain that she was doing the best. And academics are the most important. In Lenape when she was learning about the Irish, she wrote that story that made Mom cry. A nine year old! She wrote about death and despair and potatos. When she was ten, we made that tsunami for her, and the big crocodile, and she was so proud of us for making that Croc come in third. I think that was the last time she was proud of me. Can't she see? That I've always been more proud of her. She's won awards since then, she's gone places I could have never gone, she's read books I could have never read. I've been proud of her this whole time. Even when she was weak, and she came out crying talking to Pa, even after I prepped her, I'm still proud of her, because she got through it, and wrote the Veteran's paper, and made her grades a little higher, a little smarter than she already was.

My daughter is seventeen, and scares me. She treats me with an insincere "Hello" when she gets home, something she's forgotten I hate. We're having conversations about colleges, all those Universities that bombard our mailbox with glossy pictures of kids in on grassy hills. Yesterday, she asked me "Do you think I would fit in in Washington?" She would fit in wherever she pleased, as long as she wears normal clothes: Levi's, and sweatshirts, and sneakers. Her worries about two years from now confuse me, how could a kid like that not get in? How could she scrutinize herself so much for one place, one town, one college? I've prepped her for everything, taught her the most important concepts, but she's been pushing away, farther from her father, leaving the uncredited teacher she's always had ever since that time when I let her down, when I let her fail, and quit. The yellow pad, the one with all of her goals and accomplishments is still there, in that box with the ribbons, but the pad is all she sees. It's all she's allowed herself to see. The one thing I want to write on there are words of encouragement, but she doesn't listen. She's never listened to the words of encouragement I've been embarrassed to say. She wants to make me proud, and wants to see the smile I've always had for her, since that first Wednesday when the french fry monster could read to me.

Her worries about colleges are her worries when she was getting ready for that interview for kindergarden. her classmates are the same, but the people are different, the schools are different, the libarary that she used to walk to is different, and the desk she's behind is different.

The newspaper is different now, too. There's no more chance of seeing that black and white photograph again now that I've lost it from that wooden box. In the era of technology and matters of importance, I doubt that her feet have been scanned into the computer, or that wooden beam she stood on next to me. It's this week's paper, but the year is not 1997, and my eldest daughter does not have those days at the park, she does not have those bangs that invade her eyes, and she doesn't have me to hold her hand.
She has what I've given her, what I've prepped her for, what we've prepared. And she'll be okay. Hell, she's getting her own french fries now, and reading her own books.

May 24th

Dearest Little Boy,

Let me first start by making my sincerest apology. The first time you saw me, I frightened you, which wasn't considerate of me; I owe you an explanation. I arrived late last night, while you were asleep in your mother's arms (although, in my opinion, you are much too large). I entered your house in my good friend's borrowed clothes, careful to take off my smelly shoes that threatened to make a ruckus leaving the mudroom. Your dog had met me outside, the big, black, beautiful thing that doesn't know who I am, even when I've visited before; your family has neglected to introduce me to her. She barked, but you never woke up to listen. I sat down next to your toys and played with a figurine, engaging in conversation with your family. Your father was quietly, solemnly confident in trusting me, thinking I'm a good influence. Your mother was encouraging my conversation with your sister, and I think she and I, we could be good friends if she needed another,talking about the arts, ballet, that big city. This morning, you've figured the situation out with your brother and I; I adore him, and although he neglects me, he finds me often. (Be patient, I'm trying to get him to share me with you.) And so, I spent the night at your house without your knowledge, and I'll be there again. I slept in that bed, with red-and-blue pillows that lies across from yours. You arose from your dreams, and at seven-thirty in the morning you saw a stranger you've glimpsed before. I was wearing black leggings, a large shirt that showed a bookshelf and a dog with a bloody mouth on it reading "Man's Best Friend." I had one of your little-kid books in your lap, engorged by a duck and surprised I hadn't read it before. There are a lot of things that make you different from me, but neither one of us is any better.

I know you, that's one of the best gifts of being me. You've made delectable soups on Friday afternoons, encouraged by your classmates to sip a portion, and surrender the ladel to the next King. Creating finger puppets out of socks, you've created worlds unbeknowst to anyone, and you can see the remote control etched into the virgin piece of wood that's controlling the aliens beneath my feet. You've participated in celebrations between colorful ribbons and tall wooden poles, dancing in barefeet, to faerie's music. Outside, you run to wield the wooden sword against me, your least fearsome foe. Somehow, you still had that shield, which I suppose is fair, I have my age. You've grown up next to your own lake, fish at your fingertips, and the oppurtunity of relaxing in that nice, comfortable hammock on the far side. This autumn morning you have whispers of ideas at a carefully constructed identity, a fallacy enabling you to steal the grocer's candy. Just this morning, you wanted to be a vampire, a ghost, and the headless horseman. I see you in each as you dictate where I should cut next on the pumpkin's head, I'm scooping out all of the gross parts, the guts, seeds and string that devalue the face of the vampire your mother drew. For simple tasks, you might need me, but you always have had the option of turning to someone else to do the work for you. This morning was one of the times you did. You ran out of the room. You ran down the old hallway into the bathroom. But then you came back again. And we played. And we read.

You have all the capabilities of a young prince, I promise. Stacking Legos I saw you learn, I saw you depend on your imagination, I saw you develop the story, I saw you create. You saw the twinkle in my eye, when your brother explained what you said to me. "The little wormie" was you, something I didn't understand; you didn't want me to go, you literally held onto me in your sleeping bag and wiggled yourself along those floorboards to hold onto my leg. I like you, little boy, and I think we can be friends. Not on the recommendations of your teachers, not on the rumors of your knucklehead friends, not even with the help of your mother, father, sister or brother.

So, little boy, I'm sorry I worried you this morning, and I'm sorry I scared you when you awoke from your bed. But I had a fun day playing today, and I think you liked hanging out with me, too. I'm sorry I had to go away so early this afternoon, but it was time I helped out your sister, time I hung out with your brother by myself. So take care, have fun please, and finish that book I was reading with you (it's still open on that red-blue sheet).

Love,
Literacy.

May 17, 2011

I envy creativity like one craves money. The ability to draw, play, write or mold imagination into art has always been a goal, if not very elusive. The closest I've ever gotten have been choreographing; for myself, my jazz students and last year, my lacrosse team. Instead of creating original works, I plagiarize; copying people's music tastes, author's quotes, master's dances, and mimicking literature style. The works I have read, therefore have undoubtedly impacted my own ventures in creative writing. I have always kept journals of story ideas, looseleaf pages with scribbles of first sentences, character development, and interesting snippets for plot. My ideas have ranged from sinister murder plots in a fictional hillbilly town, to affluent pre-teen girls with attitudes. Obviously enough, these attempts are embarrassing to read years later.

There has really been no change in my methods. Read, think, apply, write, repeat. Witty quips, memorable sayings, and significant theories have not been my forte. Instead, I try to twist and stretch my life into interesting plots, mold my friends and acquaintances into unique characters, and grab pieces of dialogue from the already too noisy world. Reading Margaret Atwood's "Happy Endings," I have found both resolve and resentment.

Characters : John, Mary. Place: Canada Plot: changing, but all around Love. No dialogue. But Atwood has written an incredible short story, driving her advice to hopeful writers home. She brags to me "True connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with." Obviously, I am no connoisseur, comparable rather a underage kid stealing their parent's wine. I've seen gifted author's work, I've read their masterpieces, I've copied their quotes, and still the true flavor of literary control has neglected to show. My writing sucks. Even Atwood's boring happy ending, choice "A" is written with a degree of control and style higher than mine. She explains herself; "The only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die."

So maybe, that's my biggest problem. I don't know the truth. I shield myself from reality with this plagiarized creativity, piggybacking off of other's grand realizations, and profound thoughts. My literary achievement has come across a stalemate; my creative writing has not truly advanced itself since the days I was simply copying other's style. I hope that I can actually take Atwood's advice to "Now try How and Why," and write without "excessive optimism," to not be fake. I hope to achieve true creativity, to be able to master a true art form with my imagination, even if temporarily. Reading literature, I predict will not ever hinder this creativity; how could it? I suspect that I will never be the writer I wished I could be, I will not be the next Margaret Atwood. For now, acknowledging artist's brilliance will be good enough.

May 12, 2011

Two long plaits, tied with blue gingham ribbon, secured with black Goody hairties placed me in a world that I adored. You'd never suspect that long skirts were my forte, that in the summers I pretended I was running through tall prarie grass in my side yard. My affair with the life of Laura Inglass Wilder began like a lot of other things, with my mother. There is still a section of my bookshelf dedicated to the Little House on the Praire series. Though the plot of the first few novels are fuzzy, my mother's voice as she lulled me to sleep on schoolnights reading is clear. Laura's adventures in the Midwest were so different from my six-year-old-life, yet it was so easy to just slip into her shoes. As I grew older and more independent, my literacy grew as well. I'd tirelessly read through Laura's childhood, adolescence, and finally teenage years on my own, diving into her story. My imagination grew continuing on, memorizing the books and adding in my own little details. While I played in my yard, and climbed the white fence seperating the front from back yard I imagined that I was scurrying home from my one-room schoolhouse, racing to get home. As I emulated another era, I narrarated my stories to myself, as if someone was going to read my memoirs. If transcripts from those summer days were revealed to me now, I'd probably horrified. As a little kid who did like to read a lot, and was immersed in literature, my monolougues tended to exhibit much more flambayant diction than necessary. My parents encouraged the antics of this wacky little kid, looking on from a distance without interference, letting me stay in this world of fiction. My grandmother was undeniably the largest proponent of my literacy when it came to Laura's books. An english major and fourth-grade teacher who prided herself on her lack of conventionality, she indulged my imaginations on one particular sleep-over night. An old, scrappy video opens with handwritten signs crediting my grandmother as the "Director of Cininmantogaraphy," and quickly pans out to my little sister following my bossy directions. The light in my living room's windows fades over the course of the film, as does my sister's energy. Despite the fading surroundings and attention of my co-star, my confidence in my literacy, my grasp over the stories I had read finally came to fruition. To have my family encourage my developing literacy and all the oddities that came with it was incredibly valuable to my childhood and my person today. The Little House on the Prairie series allowed an awkward little girl to cross the border into a better world with enhanced possibilities, unlocked by a compulsion to take advantage of literacy.