The Gift of AP English

As the workload in AP English 11 increased with our first soapstone, I wondered when I would start to see the benefits of my hard work and extensive time. I persevered through numerous soapstones, stressful discussions and difficult in-class essays only to realize, at the end of the year, that my writing ability and speed had significantly increased. Yet, I knew there were more benefits to be revealed. As senior year began one of my friends, a freshmen in college, instructed me, “Seriously, worship Ms. Serensky. She helped so much, I can’t even tell you.” From that point forward, I accepted all English assignments, and tried my best not to complain, as I believed my efforts would eventually pay off in college, and not just in English class. Although I may have occasionally complained to my friends, in the back of my head, I knew that all the work Ms. Serensky had assigned had a point and would be of value later, that she demanded no busy work. As I completed my college essays, I often thought to myself, “I cannot wait until college, when the two years of AP English will pay off and I will be able to write much faster and maybe better than my classmates.” I never expected to reap the benefits in the middle of senior year. On the first night of break, I checked my email and to my surprised delight, discovered that both the University of Michigan and the University of Chicago had issued acceptance to me. Upon further review, my acceptance email from the University of Chicago noted that I “have distinguished [myself] in the University’s largest and most competitive Early Action pool to date.” I then realized it was probably not my test scores that distinguished me from the other applicants, but my essays. I would like to thank Ms. Serensky for teaching me how to write well and fluently. Without her guidance, my college essays would have been less polished, less creative, and less reflective of me and I probably would not have been accepted into competitive universities. I think I have finally begun not only to see the real benefits of my time and hard work the past two years, but also to experience AP English in the real world! Thank you again, Ms. Serensky.

University of Chicago

"Insanely" Confused

As we concluded One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, one question lingered in my mind: what constitutes insanity? From the beginning of the novel, I questioned the criteria the patients met that, in turn, led to their admission to the ward. It seemed to me that patients like Harding and Bromden, were restricted by lack of self-confidence, and that no real mental problems existed. Ironically, as the book continued, it seemed as though the patients, through their actions and interactions, demonstrated more sanity than most of the staff. Clearly Nurse Ratched seems irritable, negative and power-hungry and in those respects perhaps, less mentally healthy than the patients. Had I not been provided with the roles of the characters and instead had merely received descriptions of their actions, I feel as though I would have titled the violent and out of control Nurse Ratched as “insane,” and the clever and crafty McMurphy and Bromden as “sane.” As I researched many authors’ and psychologists’ “criteria” for insanity, I was stumped. The concept of “insanity” refers to a legal standard, not a medical one, implemented prior to the publication of the book and usually used in reference to “not guilty by reason of insanity" or NGRI. If it can be proven that at the time of the commission of an offense, the person did not know, as a result of a severe mental disease or defect, what he/she was doing or if he/she did know what he/she was doing he/she did not appreciate the wrongfulness of his/her acts that person can be found NGRI, or insane. Immediately my mind flashed back to McMurphy and Bromden, two “rebels” in the novel. McMurphy, always out to target and humiliate the Big Nurse, seemed fully conscious of his acts and planned them carefully and meticulously. No evidence for insanity in his inpatient behavior. Bromden, although hesitant at times to rebel in the ward, seems entirely aware of his decision to suffocate McMurphy, the repercussions for that act, as well as his decision to escape the ward. He appears “sane” according to the definition used by society at the time of the book’s publication as well. Then, who in the book is truly “insane”? I am beginning to feel clueless. 

Crazy and not crazy seem to look about the same

The Nameless Elf

This past weekend I volunteered at Holly Hall. As I walked in the door, the woman in charge performed a rapid assessment and concluded that I was probably her “helper” and not an excited child waiting for Santa Claus. This woman, although very outgoing, neglected both to ask my name and also to introduce herself. Uncomfortable at the thought of working with her for two hours without knowing her name, I attempted a self-introduction. She ignored my attempt and walked away, leaving me task-less and confused in the lobby of Holly Hall. Soon thereafter, I heard her yell from across the room, “Hey helper, come here for a sec.” I could not believe she had just summoned me using the impersonal title, “helper.” Wow! For the next hour, as I sat behind a table serving hot chocolate, I reflected on the strangeness of our meeting. Has common courtesy evolved to the point where names no longer seem important? I remember learning, as a child, to introduce myself to adults, but apparently that is no longer expected. I could not help but think back to The Namesake. Throughout the book, Gogol had obsessed over his name, yet it seems to some (this woman at Holly Hall) that names just do not matter. I felt, well, nameless, common, ordinary and easily replaced. After an hour had passed, the friendly, yet bizarre woman returned, “Hey helper? Two women from the Women’s Society are going to man this table now. I would like you to help Santa when he gets here.” Immediately my heart began to race. I remembered Kaleigh’s blog post from a few weeks ago over the stress of being one of Santa’s “elves” at Holly Hall. The nameless woman handed me a red, corkscrew spring hat with a ball on top, evidently the requisite apparel for elves. I soon heard the loud “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as Santa barreled in. He spoke briefly with me and requested that I obtain each child’s name and then, when the child’s turn came, whisper the name into Santa’s ear. I tried to reassure myself that it would all be okay, but Kaleigh’s post still loomed in my brain. The first child indicated that his name was “Jack.” I whispered it to Santa and heard Santa greet the excited boy with, “Well hello, Zack!” “Jack!” I tried to correct him. After a few minutes Jack’s mom, in an irritated tone, corrected Santa once more, “His name is Chet. C- H- E- T.” I immediately felt like a failure but Chet did not seem to mind. As the children continued to filter through, miscommunication flourished. One mom informed me that her daughter’s name was “Jade” and her son’s “Julien.” I, in turn, whispered to Santa, “Jade and Julien.” The problem arose when Julien decided he was too old to sit on Santa’s lap, so only Jade proceeded forward as Santa bellowed to her, “Julien, it has been a year since I have seen you! Look how big you are!” To my amazement, the inattentive mom exclaimed to her daughter, “Look! Santa knows your name!” As I attempted to muffle my guffaws, I flashed back to The Namesake. Gogol was obsessed with his name. No one in the last two hours has used mine. I have struggled to hear and repeat the names of dozens of children only to have them miscommunicated and mangled.  Knowing how important, Gogol’s name was to him and how awkward I felt not knowing the name of the woman in charge and her not knowing mine, I was disheartened to be part of the butchering of many children’s names that afternoon. Finally it was 1:30 and the nameless woman yelled across the room, “Elf! Your time is up. You can leave now.” Aware that if I saw her again, she would neither speak to me nor would I be able to greet her by name, I took my anonymity and went home. Upon further reflection of this incident, I find it ironic that while I remained nameless, my job was to convey the names of others. Hmmm….             

"Insanity" in Everyday Life

 It seems as if whenever we read a book in class, a central word from the book occupies the forefront of my brain for weeks. For The Namesake this plaguing word was “India” and for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, “insanity.” One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest has caused me, subconsciously, to pay attention to the use of the words “insane” and “insanity” in my everyday life. Fascinated by their frequency over the past week, I decided to document these occurrences throughout the day on Saturday:

1. “Trying to park the car was insane. I could not find a parking space anywhere.”
2. “Yeah, this time of year she goes insane. Extremely anxious and what not.”
3. “That’s insane!” (referring to the conditions of a jail cell show on television)
4. “You find out about your first choice for college in March? It’s insane that you have to wait that long.”
5. “You like dot drills? You’re seriously insane!”
6. Insanity Workout-Get Fit or Get Out DVD (spotted at the store)

Although not all “self-quotes,” the frequent repetition of the word “insane” in a single day troubles me. It concerns me that not one of the quotes uses the words “insane” and “insanity” correctly in terms of the context and meaning of the quote. As I focus on the above examples, it seems to me that in the majority of the examples, the words “incredible” and “ridiculous” could appropriately replace “insane” and “insanity.” As I stare blankly at the computer screen, attempting to formulate explanations for the excessive and improper use of the word “insane” instead of a more descriptive synonym such as “ridiculous,” two words pop into my head, “laziness” and “ignorance.” After struggling to believe the patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to be insane, the improper use of “insane” to describe someone (examples 2 and 5) irritates me. Why should a person with an unusual taste or a person with anxiety be grouped with someone of mental instability? I think the repetition of “insane” displays both the ignorance and laziness of society as people impulsively speak the first word that comes to mind, regardless of whether or not it relays the proper meaning. This same thing seems to happen with other words as well, like “retarded.” The misusage of each of these words seems demeaning and belittling to those who suffer from mental illness or compromised intellect. Although I know I cannot stop the improper use altogether, I will work diligently to only use word when appropriate in context. 

Little Ms. Serenskys?

Today in class while discussing Harding and McMurphy, two characters in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Carley mentioned that McMurphy seems like a younger version of Harding. She then continued to assert that we (AP English 12 students) are like younger versions of Ms. Serensky. Although I agreed with Carley’s first statement to an extent, my eyebrows raised as I contemplated the second unsettling suggestion. For the rest of sixth and seventh periods, this thought replayed in my head.

I ventured to the library seventh period to use the computer for an in-class assignment. As I attempted to complete the assignment amidst many distractions, I found myself overhearing the random conglomeration of students around me. Apparently many of these students were never taught about “library voices” as they not only talked loudly to their neighbors but also spoke aloud each sentence they typed. As I listened to their self-talk, I identified numerous uses of contractions, many misuses of “good” and “well” and frequent displays of sentence fragments. I became extremely (probably irrationally) impatient with the students’ apparent lack of knowledge. I then began to wonder, am I really a younger version of Ms. Serensky? After all, I can not stand stupid people, I automatically correct grammatical mistakes, I read with a pen in my hand, I feel inferior when writing with blue ink and I analyze literary devices in everyday conversation. Soon my mind drifted again, this time focused more on Ms. Serensky than myself. I began to wonder, “Where did Ms. Serensky learned to annotate, write and read the way she does? Did she read books as a senior the same way we do? Where did she learn to write? Is she a younger version of her teacher?” My mind raced. “Are we, then, reflections or younger versions of one of her teachers?” Where does this stop? Why do we incorporate traits of one teacher and not of another? I guess I need to take AP Psychology next semester and figure this out. 

An Insanity Epidemic?

On Tuesday night, for homework, we researched different definitions of insanity. My personal favorite was one by Benjamin Franklin, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.” At first I laughed at this unusual definition as I thought to myself, “you would have to be stupid to do the same thing repeatedly, and expect a different result each time.” But, upon further contemplation, I realized that on numerous occasions, I have done just that. Take, for instance, my family’s yearly tradition of Black Friday shopping. Every year following Thanksgiving Dinner, my mom and I sift through the hundreds of newspaper ads in search of ridiculous bargains that we want to pursue at 4 am the following day. We typically find about 15 items that have piqued our interest enough that it seems worthwhile to brave the cold weather and wait outside various stores until their doors open. Although I do enjoy the mad dash to desired department of each store, the yelling and screaming of moms and children still dressed in pajamas and the diving into various buckets for small bargain items, I must admit that year after year I have a hope that the lines outside the stores will be shorter. To my disappointment however, the lines only seem to get longer. I have no idea why I believe that the number of crazy shoppers would possibly decrease from one year to another when that has not been the case the past five years. Am I insane because I expect a different result? Last week, the night before our first basketball game, I asked my mom if she would mind washing my game socks. She said that it would not be a problem, so I assumed that the next day I would have socks for the game. As I was packing my bag, five minutes before picking up a teammate, I asked my mom where she put the socks. “Oh, they are in the washer. I washed them, they just need to be dried,” she innocently responded. Somewhat annoyed that she did not understand “washing” meant drying as well, I raced up to my room in search of a pair of clean socks. I kindly asked my mom if next time she would dry them too, and with that, I was out the door. As the night before our second game rolled around, my mom yelled upstairs, “Em, I’m doing dark laundry. Would you like me to wash your socks?” I immediately said yes. Once again, as I was packing my bag for the game, I noticed my mom had again left my socks, cleaned yet wet, in the washer. Am I insane for assuming that when my mom said for the second time that she would “wash” my socks, I expected them to be dried as well? As I think more and more about the application of Benjamin Franklin’s quote in my life, I start to wonder about my sanity. If I experience numerous instances of doing the same thing repeatedly, and expect a different result each time, do others have similar expectations? If so, could Franklin’s implication be that all people experience insanity? Now I am really confused. 

Black Friday line outside of Circuit City

Familiar scene at Target on Black Friday

Analysis Compulsion

As our class received our new books, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, it became apparent that the unusual shape of the novel bothered a few of my classmates. Some inquired about the book’s “bible” shape while others stared blankly at the cover trying to decide whether a longer and skinnier novel was better than a traditionally shaped book. Oblivious to the novel’s odd shape, I opened the novel and turned to the first real page. My eyes grew wide as I glared at the unusually small side margins on the page. Irrationally concerned, I exclaimed, multiple times, “how will I be able to fit my notes on these pages?” Following Ms. Serensky’s directions, I put the book aside and forgot about this “problem” until I began to read tonight’s reading. As I attempted to write my notes extremely small in the margins, I realized they would not fit. I would have to either condense the notes or write them on a separate sheet of paper. Both of these ideas frightened me. As I pondered this rather absurd phobia, I remembered a time earlier this year in Creative Writing. We were to bring a book to read for pleasure every Wednesday in class. On the first Wednesday, Ms. Beach informed the class to have fun reading and not not worry about taking notes, “this is not English class” she repeated numerous times. I looked about the room as my classmates opened up their novels and began to read. I studied everyone’s hands in hopes I would find one student, grasping a pen to take notes, but I was soon disappointed. After some deliberation, I decided to just read the book as instructed. About ten minutes later, I found myself ironically stressed and anxious while completing a supposedly relaxing and peaceful assignment. I fumbled in my backpack for a pen, and soon scribbled notes and literary devices on every page. Somehow analyzing the text put me at peace, and I was able to enjoy reading for the rest of the period, pen in hand. Wait, what? I found analyzing a book comforting? Now that’s frightening. I wonder why I feel the constant need to analyze the text in front of me. I can somewhat humorously accept analyzing what people say, “that indirectly characterizes her as…” but my need to analyze every book perplexes me. I wonder if subconsciously I feel as though I will not grasp the purpose or meaning of the book if I do not analyze. Who knows? I am left to wonder however, if I will ever read a book without a pen in hand. If not, I guess at least I will make myself feel somewhat smart as I continue to jot down notes in my book.  Although it generates panic over small margins, becomes a part of everyday conversation and increases relaxation while reading a book for fun, literary analysis has, startlingly, become second nature to me!  

An Unexpected Thanksgiving

Two weeks ago Thursday, Ms. Serensky raved about the food she typically eats for Thanksgiving. Although the conversation eventually turned absurd, as she declared, “Get me a raft that functions as a floating tray! God, I disgust myself,” I ventured to 7^th period thinking about my family’s Thanksgiving the past few years. My initial descriptors included “lame,” “pathetic” and “boring.” I craved the experience Ms. Serensky and my classmates described. Since freshmen year, my family has remained at home for the holiday and has “celebrated” in the absence of extended family. Spending Thanksgiving with only my parents seemed mundane and pathetic to me. At that moment I decided that I would blog about Thanksgiving between 4pm and 6pm on Thanksgiving Day. I would rant about my pathetic family and our lame celebration. I even found a picture for the blog of our pitiable table on my phone from last year’s Thanksgiving (see first picture below). I hyped myself up for this blog for the better part of two weeks. However, as Thanksgiving Day concluded, I realized my hopes for an epic Thanksgiving-bashing blog would never come true. I had actually enjoyed myself! As I sat down to begin my blog, I reflected on the day. I realized I had spent almost every hour with my parents, either watching the parade, commenting on the dog show, playing ping-pong or viewing movies. Our dinner was not unlike any other year’s dinner (see second picture below) yet the day seemed much more enjoyable than the previous Thanksgivings. I realized the catalyst for this change was not the amount of food on the table, but instead, the increased amount of time I spent interacting with my parents. I concluded that time well spent with those you love is more valuable than anything material, food or otherwise. I decided at once to cherish the remaining hours with my parents and write my blog the next day, with a more positive and grateful attitude than originally intended. This year, I am thankful for my wonderful and loving parents and the holiday of Thanksgiving, which helped me learn this life lesson. 

Wings, a Coke and Grammar

On Saturday, my family ventured to Station 43 in Aurora for some savory chicken wings. Despite the half-price special on a delectable item, very few people seemed to be dining in. We were seated immediately and ordered a few baskets of wings and some fountain drinks. After our waitress took our orders and our menus, I noticed the placemats sitting on the table (see picture below). The words “Open Sunday’s for Breakfast,” at the top of the placemat, jumped out at me. I figured someone had just overlooked the minor grammatical mistake, so without any hard feelings, I continued to scan the rest of the placemat. After about 15 seconds, I noticed that someone had added an apostrophe “s” to every day of the week. Questioning the intelligence and carelessness of the “proof-reader,” I then noticed that on November 5^th, Station 43 served “$2 Margarita’s and Corono’s.” Seriously? I could not believe what I was reading. The “author” of the placemat had not only, once again, confused plurals and possessives, but also misspelled a common brand of beer. I soon began to wonder how many people dine at Station 43 and notice this poorly written placemat in front of them. I wondered if it was carelessness or lack of intelligence that allowed for a placemat with glaring grammatical errors to be printed. In either case I find it completely unacceptable. Am I too impatient and critical? After finishing a delicious serving of wings, amidst mild frustration, I returned home and looked through the large pile of mail on the counter. A bright, lime-green brochure jumped out at me, so I began to sift through the seemingly endless number of magazines my mom receives on a daily basis. After a minute of sifting, I located the green flyer and read, “we will plow if there is 2 inches’ of snow or more.” Again? Another problem with possessives and plurals? Another grammatical error? Wow. I understand this is for a plow truck driver, but I feel as though any business owner, regardless of profession, should have the ability to proofread, spell check, differentiate between possessives and plurals and match subjects with verbs. If owners lack these capabilities, then they should find people who understand the basics of the English language and will proof-read their documents. Is this too much to ask? I’m still not certain if my impatience and frustration with grammatical errors stem from a year and a quarter of striving for AP English stickers, or if, I just cannot tolerate the ignorance and stupidity which seem to pervade our society.

Overachievers Expect Perfection

Each day, as I walk through the hall following class, I wonder if, as a class, we have criticized the characters in the book too harshly. I realize it may be easier to judge and criticize someone who repeatedly appears weak and pitiable through the text, but at times I feel as if we expect too much from a character or characters. After reading Othello, we discussed how our initial frustration towards the characters for failing to realize Iago’s evil intents was almost irrational since, in order to realize his tricks, the characters would have had to constantly question each others’ actions, something we today would refer to as paranoia. After realizing our unrealistic expectations from all of the characters in Othello, I would have thought that we would have had more patience with the characters in the The Namesake, but that clearly did not hold true. At least once every class period, someone, oftentimes myself, expresses frustration towards one character or another in the book. For instance, today we mentioned how people felt frustrated that Gogol rediscovered the book only because his mom encouraged him to clean out his room, not because he himself had the aspiration to explore a novel from his father. Other students expressed irritation that Gogol waited until the age of 32 to read a novel his father gave him for his fourteenth birthday. Do you really think a disappointed fourteen-year old, hoping for exciting presents rather than a book given to him because it relates to his name, which he hates, is going to enthusiastically and immediately read the book? I know on numerous birthdays, I have completely disregarded and dismissed “boring” gifts, despite the giver, and have never given those gifts another thought. I understand that Gogol should have displayed more interest, even if feigned, in the book, as not to completely dismiss his father, but I feel as if we must give Gogol a break. No one is perfect, and, perhaps, at the age of fourteen he might not have understood the story anyway. As I think back on the book as a whole, I realize that, had I been in Gogol’s position, with his father’s book, with his name, with the issue with Moushumi and her name and with Moushumi’s affair, I would likely have acted in a fashion similar to Gogol, and therefore I feel I have judged him too harshly throughout the entire novel.  

Two Names, Different Meanings?

Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel, The Namesake, has encouraged me to consider my name in a whole new light. Some people have always referred to me as “Emily” and others “Em,” without giving it a second thought. I have always responded to both names, yet noticed those few people who address me as “Em.” Recently, however, after reading about Gogol and his two names, I have paid special attention to not only the people who call me “Em” but also the times and situations when they do so. Before he legally changed his name, Gogol often used the name Nikhil when meeting new people. Additionally, he used the name “Nikhil” when partaking in actions which would not receive his parents approval, “He feels... protected as if by an invisible shield” (96). Although I typically write my name as “Emily,” I, unlike Gogol, have no real preference over which name I use, because, to me, they mean the same thing and refer to the same person. I have noticed in the past two weeks or so that only about four of my friends and two of my teachers refer to me as “Em” on a regular basis. This select group of friends includes the people to whom I feel the closest and with whom I have a very deep or long-lasting friendship.  I have also concluded that the two teachers who use “Em,” like my four friends, seem to know me the best. Through my increased focus on peoples’ use of “Emily” and “Em” in the past few weeks, I have determined that the use of “Em” likely represents a sense of familiarity and endearment. Because of this realization, I think my preference over the use of “Emily” and “Em” has changed slightly. I hope that people who feel close to me continue to refer to me as “Em” instead of “Emily” because it makes me feel somewhat special. However, I still love the name “Emily” and I do not take offense or resent the people who choose to refer to me by my real name instead of my nickname, “Em,” unlike Gogol who desires to only go by one name, “Nikhil.” 

Frequent Frustration

In Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel, The Namesake, Gogol and his name usage have consistently elicited my frustration. Since the beginning of the book, when, as a kindergartener, Gogol chose to use his pet name, Gogol, instead of his good name, Nikhil, I have felt frustration toward both Ashima and Ashoke. This frustration multiplies later when his parents neither objected to Gogol's idea for a name change, nor explained to him the significance of his name. In Chapter 9, during the wedding, Gogol flashes back to when he told Sonia his idea for a name change, ‘“You can't do that,’ she'd told him... ‘you can’t. Because you're Gogol”’ (221). Sonia, at the time, a mere thirteen-year old, serves as a foil to her weak and timid parents as she boldly asserts that her brother has no right to change his name. The juxtaposition in Chapter 9 of this opinion with the narrator’s statement, “he still felt guilty at times for changing his name,” makes Gogol appear pathetic, as his thirteen-year old sister knew he should not change his name. I feel by waiting this long in the novel to insert Sonia’s opinion on the name change, the frustration and guilt evoked becomes more focused toward Gogol and less on Ashima and Ashoke as the reader learns that although his parents did not object to the change, he received some guidance from his sister. My frustration increases with his inability or refusal to tell Moushumi how he feels throughout Chapter 9. For example, the narrator acknowledges that although “he hasn’t admitted this to her, he’d [Gogol] hoped,” that Moushumi might consider changing her last name to Ganguli “as a tribute to his father if nothing else” (227). Although in a strong relationship a wife may have the ability to intuit her husband’s desires, some blame remains on Gogol for not confessing to Moushumi his hope that she would change her name. This failure to speak his mind not only indirectly characterizes Gogol as weak and timid but also parallels Gogol to his parents, in their inability to speak up against his name change. However, I now realize I cannot entirely fault Gogol for his refusal to speak up, his parents modeled this behavior through allowing him freedom with his name and he allows Moushumi the same.