Collegiate Gladiator in the Gauntlet of Education by Justen Calvacca
I felt the presence of early morning dew against my skin as I marched through a grass field on a brisk October day. My classmates exuded enthusiasm; this excursion was reason to escape the confines of our bleak high school. There was abundant conversation with the occasional youthful act of animation, like sprinting downfield or throwing a rock. The world seems just a bit different when a student is taken from a classroom setting into a non-academic one. Opportunity and freedom appear to be ever so present. Perhaps, that was reason for our class being outside during my regularly scheduled English period. In all honesty I was quite skeptical. I have never been a morning person and can be a silent cynic when it comes to group events. I staggered behind the group, hands in pocket, submerged in totally unrelated thought.
My teacher led the way stammering uphill and clenching his worn black book, almost appearing as if he was Moses carrying the Ten Commandments up Mount Sinai. After trekking through the endless barren of soccer and lacrosse fields, we came upon the overgrown pathway that led into the woods. Many of us were familiar to this area, coaches often made their teams run through these wild trails. Others seemed puzzled. Stepping into the wild that day we crossed the threshold on many levels: not just escaping into nature but escaping from ordinary thinking. For me, the change in location would also mark a change in philosophy. Some distance I have covered.
The start of my journey seems like a lifetime ago. Blinded by innocence and burdened with little responsibility, being eight years old had its perks. Sure I had to attend school, but what exactly was school at that echelon? A day spent singing songs, playing dodge ball, paper macheing cardboard figurines, with the occasional napping and recess break. Almost like summer camp. To my surprise, second grade was far from what I imagined. My year revolved daily lessons on reading and writing... in hopes of achieving basic literacy. With the occasional dip into the kiddy pool of arithmetic, second grade was a year of hard work. I was lucky to have an incredible teacher like Mrs. Perdiz. She pushed me so hard, so hard that at times I disliked her. Music, math, and art took a definite backseat to reading. She wanted all of us to excel. In order to promote the idea of reading for pleasure, she devised a contest in which we earned points for every hour of reading. Those points would later come in handy when we redeemed them for cheap Taiwanese toys like water guns, Frisbees, and even a pogo stick. In addition to the prizes, our teacher posted a colorful chart on a rather empty wall that publicized our accomplishments. That was a big deal. In the end I read over twelve Goosebumps books to take a respectable third place, topped by two bookworm classmates who now are freshmen at Dartmouth and Harvard Universities. Although I never got to test drive that pogo stick, I learned a valuable lesson. That desire will always require drive. Without pursuing both ideals, one is just getting by.
Getting by the toppled branch would require a giant step. Eight years after our elementary reading contest I find myself stumbling through the woods. Not exactly something I imagined myself doing in high school. Following our teacher, we ventured pretty far into the wilderness. The rising sun emerged over our shoulders, its rays slicing through the labyrinth of trees casting a surreal setting. Nature’s effect became more noticeable with every step taken forward. Voices became quiet, the only noise heard were leaves rustling and birds chirping. We continued hiking up twisting trails and down sloping ravines until we reached a fork in the road.
The biggest bump in the road came in eleventh grade. Accustomed to smooth streets and easy teachers, honors English was an awakening. This year would be different. I was under the strict scrutiny of Barbara Stephens, a middle age lesbian English professor who secretly wrote romance novels under a mysterious pen name. She was meticulous, driven, and not at all forgiving. No make-ups or extra credit of the kind, not even a measly participation grade for cushion. After such an abstract teacher like
Mr. McFarland, Ms. Stephens seemed like a literature Nazi. Her intense liking towards magic markers and oversized water bottles made her a teacher to remember. We invested most of our time to writing polished five paragraph essays. We would storm through every chapter in a novel uncovering every hidden meaning, theme, and symbol in the span of… two and half weeks. This gave me the chance to catch up on all those “classics” a serious English major must conquer in order to be worthy of true academic achievement. Tearing through the pages in the book, we would spend a week delving into the world of organized brainstorming and spend another assembling the final essay. The nature of this process was quite discouraging at first. I invested weeks of thought and labor to produce only five meager paragraphs of writing. It just didn’t add up. When I got my paper back, it appeared as if a street graffitist got a hold of my essay and were instructed to go to town. From there, a natural sort of competition would arise: who can get the least amount of tags in the least amount of colors? Ms. Stephens was infamous for founding a color coded system for correctional purposes. Red was reserved for grammatical errors, blue represented idea development, and green stood for anything else you could have screwed up. Disappointed with the grade scribbled on the last page, Iwould timidly waltz over to her desk hoping to receive an explanation. She would look me in the eyes, take a huge gulp of water, and hit you with the evidence. In retrospect, I realize the importance of her method. It wasn’t until senior year that I truly respected her efforts; the amount of time she dedicated to each student went above and beyond the normal duty of a teacher. Ignorance can so be blinding, most students thought negative of her because she didn’t hand out A’s or B’s. I’m still trying to conceptualize the idea that grades do not necessarily represent how much a student has learned. Although she made my year strenuous and cumbersome, she was the best thing for the aid and development of my writing technique.
The fork that split the woods in two demanded a choice. My eyes glanced from left to right focusing on the two possible paths. I have always been an indecisive person. My teacher was much more certain; he leaned against an aged oak tree that lay at the junction. Pulling reading glasses out of his pocket, he flipped through the pages of his book. Clearing his throat he started to read…
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth…
The poem, Robert Frost’s “The Road Less Taken”, seemed so fitting. Here we stood before two different paths, each with their own direction and consequence. My mind started to connect the dots marking the birth of a drastic epiphany. I started to understand the principle of life that every choice made has its own path and a subsequent result. Life is completely made up of choices! Where do I want to go in life? How will I get there? Who knew that a simple reading of a poem would cause such a reaction? It was there, in the middle of the woods behind my high school, that I realized what literature can do to a person. I decided that I want to affect people with my words the same way Frost had affected me. My path was chosen.
I owe much of my success to Mr. McFarland’s sophomore English class. He was the one to us into the woods to read Frost. He was the catalyst for the magnificent epiphany that occurred that day. He made a difference, an impact, and because of that I will always be aware of the influence he had on me. Being a young man from South Boston who earned the title of being “cool”, students would admire his ways. He spent his summer’s life guarding and surfing the waves of Cape Cod. He knew every player and their respectable stats on the Red Sox. He always had Miles Davis or Dave Matthews jamming out on his computer for the class to enjoy. He was so cultured and expressive yet so masculine and well liked. He explained what it meant to be a assionate reader and writer. We read controversial short stories, discussed current events, and analyzed the lyrics of our favorite song during a snow storm. He convinced many doubters that reading and writing can be interesting and appealing by showing us the broad spectrum of literature that existed. Working with each of us individually, he taught us how to write from the heart and convey emotion and power in our words. We read what we wanted with the occasional required text in between, just enough to satisfy course requirements. Without him, I’m not exactly sure that my major would consist of English.
In retrospect, I realize the importance of each teacher I had. Like elements in a chemical reaction, each played an important and specific role of my becoming. Mr. McFarland explored the more abstract and aesthetic side of literature while Ms. Stephens concentrated on the fundamentals and ideology of technical writing. Each teaching style perfectly complemented each other. The supplemental result of course, is I, an enthusiast and apprentice of literature with both analytical skills and stylistic views. (Like a gladiator in full-armor possessing a sharp sword). At the start of senior year, I felt prepared for anything. At times I would coast behind the mirage of senioritis basking myself in the rays of mediocrity. Other times I would emerge above the surface, excelling at whatever assignment lay before me. Looking upon a blank screen in Word the same way a painter stares into the abyss of white on his empty canvas. With motivation and desire.
I have evolved greatly in my quest to understand and interpret literature. With the guidance of some truly remarkable teachers and the constant support from my parents I have become a passionate reader and writer. I have embarked on a journey that took me from stumbling word to word withClifford the Big Red Dog to breezing through the Goosebumps series to analyzing difficult Shakespeare. Little by little I gain enough experience to enter the next stage of literature comprehension. On a metaphorical level, it’s like hitchhiking down the literary road to mastery. Although the road taken is demanding and ridden with obstacles it is equally rewarding for the distance I have traveled and equally promising for the distance I have yet to go. Still traveling down that road, I look uphill, ready for what lies ahead. Hopefully my training and perseverance will prevail.
Collegiate Gladiator in the Gauntlet of Education, draft 1
I have evolved greatly in my quest to understand and interpret literature. With the guidance of some truly remarkable teachers and the constant support from my parents I have become a passionate reader and writer. I have embarked on a journey that took me from stumbling word to word with Clifford the Big Red Dog to breezing through the Goosebumps series to analyzing difficult Shakespeare. Little by little I gain enough experience to enter the next stage of literature comprehension. I like to think of it as the literary road to understanding.. Although the road taken is demanding and ridden with obstacles it is equally rewarding for the distance I have traveled and equally promising for the distance I have yet to go. Still traveling down that road, I look uphill, ready for what lies ahead. Hopefully my training and perseverance will prevail.
Everything seemed to click and make sense in the second grade. I was lucky to have such an incredible teacher like Mrs. Perdiz. She pushed me so hard, so hard that at times I disliked her. We would read like there was no tomorrow. The most significant happening in the second grade was our reading contest. For evry hour you read you would get a certain number of points. Those points would later come in handy when we redeemed them for cheap Taiwanese toys like water guns, Frisbees, and even a pogo stick. In addition to the prizes, our teacher posted a colorful chart on a rather empty wall that publicized our accomplishments. That was a big deal. In the end I read over twelve Goosebumps books to take a respectable third place, topped by two bookworm classmates who now are freshmen at Dartmouth and Harvard Universities.
Eight years later I find myself sitting smack dab in the middle of Mr. McFarland’s sophomore English class. He played an important role in my literary track as someone who was very influential to me. He was a young man from south Boston who embodied cool. He spent his summer’s life guarding and surfing the waves of Cape Cod. He knew every player and their respectable stats on the Red Sox. He always had Miles Davis or Dave Matthews jamming out on his computer for the class to enjoy. He explained what it meant to be a passionate reader and writer. We read controversial short stories, discussed current events, and wrote about the feelings we got when the Pats won the Superbowl. He convinced many doubters that reading and writing can be interesting. We wrote poetry in the woods and analyzed the lyrics of our favorite song during a snowstorm. Working with each of us individually, he taught us how to write from the heart and convey emotion and power in our words. He showed us the broad spectrum of literature that existed. We read what we wanted with the occasional required text in between, just enough to satisfy course requirements. Without him, I’m not exactly sure that my major would consist of English.
Collegiate Gladiator in the Gauntlet of Education, draft 2
I have evolved greatly in my quest to understand and interpret literature. With the guidance of some truly remarkable teachers and the constant support from my parents I have become a passionate reader and writer. I have embarked on a journey that took me from stumbling word to word with Clifford the Big Red Dog to breezing through the Goosebumps series to analyzing difficult Shakespeare. Little by little I gain enough experience to enter the next stage of literature comprehension. I like to think of it as the literary road to mastery. Although the road taken is demanding and ridden with obstacles, it is equally rewarding for the distance I have traveled and equally promising for the distance I have yet to go. Still traveling down that road, I look uphill, ready for what lies ahead. Hopefully my training and perseverance will prevail.
Everything seemed to click and make sense in the second grade. I was lucky to have such an incredible teacher like Mrs. Perdiz. She pushed me so hard, so hard that at times I disliked her. We would read like there was no tomorrow. Music, math, and art took a backseat to reading. She wanted all of us to excel. The most significant happening in the second grade was our reading contest. It was so perfectly simple: for every hour you read you would get a certain number of points. You could later use those points to buy cheap Taiwanese toys that all of us desired (water guns, Frisbees, and even a pogo stick). In addition to the prizes, our teacher posted a colorful chart on a rather empty wall that publicized our accomplishments. That was a big deal. In the end, I read over twelve Goosebumps books to take a respectable third place, topped by two bookworm classmates who now are freshmen at Dartmouth and Harvard Universities. Although I wasn’t a proud owner of an electric blue pogo stick, I learned a valuable lesson: that desire will always require drive. Without pursuing both ideals, one is just getting by.
Eight years later I find myself sitting smack dab in the middle of Mr. McFarland’s sophomore English class. He played an important role in my literary track as someone who was very influential to me. He was a young man from south Boston who embodied cool. He spent his summer’s life guarding and surfing the waves of Cape Cod. He knew every player and their respectable stats on the Red Sox. He always had Miles Davis or Dave Matthews jamming out on his computer for the class to enjoy. He explained what it meant to be a passionate reader and writer. We read controversial short stories, discussed current events, and wrote about the feelings we got when the Pats won the Superbowl. He convinced many doubters that reading and writing can be interesting and appealing. We wrote poetry in the woods and analyzed the lyrics of our favorite song during a snowstorm. Working with each of us individually, he taught us how to write from the heart and convey emotion and power in our words. He showed us the broad spectrum of literature that existed. We read what we wanted with the occasional required text in between, just enough to satisfy course requirements. Without him, I’m not exactly sure that my major would consist of English.
Eleventh grade honors English was an awakening. No longer would I look forward to entering through the doorway of English class. This year would be different. I was under the strict scrutiny of Barbara Stephens, a middle age lesbian English professor who secretly wrote romance novels under a mysterious pen name. She was meticulous, driven, and not at all forgiving. No make-ups or extra credit of the kind, not even a measly participation grade for cushion. After such an abstract teacher like Mr. McFarland, Ms. Stephens seemed like a literature Nazi. Her intense liking towards magic markers and oversized water bottles made her a teacher to remember. We invested most of our time to writing polished five paragraph essays. We would storm through every chapter in a novel uncovering every hidden meaning, theme, and symbol in the span of… two and half weeks. This gave me the chance to catch up on all those “classics” a serious English major must conquer in order to be worthy of true academic achievement. Tearing through the pages in the book, we would spend a week delving into the world of organized brainstorming and spend another assembling the final essay. The nature of this process was quite discouraging at first. I invested weeks of thought and labor to produce only five meager paragraphs of writing. It just didn’t add up. When I got my paper back, it appeared as if a street graffitist got a hold of my essay and were instructed to go to town. From there, a natural sort of competition would arise: who can get the least amount of tags in the least amount of colors? Ms. Stephens was infamous for founding a color coded system for correctional purposes. Red was reserved for grammatical errors, blue represented idea development, and green stood for anything else you could have screwed up. Disappointed with the grade scribbled on the last page, I would timidly waltz over to her desk hoping to receive an explanation. She would look me in the eyes, take a huge gulp of water, and hit you with the evidence. Although she made my year strenuous and cumbersome, she was the best thing for the aid and development of my writing technique.
In retrospect, I realize the importance of each teacher I had. Like elements in a chemical reaction, each played an important and specific role of my becoming. Mr. McFarland explored the more abstract and aesthetic side of literature while Ms. Stephens concentrated on the fundamentals and ideology of technical writing. Each teaching style perfectly complemented each other. At the start of senior year English, I felt prepared for anything. Like a gladiator in full-armor possessing a sharp sword. At times I would coast behind the mirage of senioritis basking myself in the rays of mediocrity. Other times I would emerge, excelling at whatever assignment lay before me. Looking upon a blank screen in Word the same way a painter stares into the abyss of white on his empty canvas. With motivation and desire.
Collegiate Gladiator in the Gauntlet of Education, Process Memo
When I was first assigned this paper, I was disappointed and skeptical. I didn’t like the idea that I had to venture down memory lane and discuss the importance of my second grade teacher. As I started typing, the idea flow began to increase. I realized that I have had several instrumental teachers that have taught me many valuable aspects of reading and writing. At first, I had a rather linear approach to writing this paper: and introduction and a summary of three teachers. After my meeting with Ms. Cuesta, I discovered that I was writing my paper the way I was trained to using five paragraphs and a sticky conclusion. Although I have always despised this format of writing, it has become second nature to me. After reading my first and second drafts over again I realize how boring and lackluster they were. Sure the paper had a nice flow, clean and polished look, but it failed to be different. When I read the first paragraph it just didn’t suck me in like a good piece of writing should.
I knew my paper needed to be revamped. The conference which was scheduled with my teacher was of the utmost help. She kindly brought it to my attention that this is college, an atmosphere that encourages its subjects to “think outside the box”. She gave me some ideas that would help connect the gap which my paper suffered from. When she mentioned that something in my head clicked, a nerve impulse or something of the kind. I decided to take her advice; using Mr. McFarland’s field trip as an anecdote. I was proud on how I cleverly arranged the paper. How the story intertwined throughout the story, thereby uniting everything. Skipping from second, to eleventh and finally to tenth grade added an element of surprise. Predictable writing is so mediocre. The field trip, in my opinion, was an excellent example because of how it worked on many levels. For one, it happened in high school English class; two, it was multi-leveled on a literal and metaphorical scale; and thirdly, it told the story of how I became to love studying English on an academic stage. It was also very crafty for it served as an interlude between grades.
In all honesty, I didn’t think peer work-shopping was much of a help. Marking up the text and filling out a questionnaire proved too laborious and repetitive. Students would often coast through the sheets quickly before another paper was thrown onto their desk with the same questions. Since this process memo is of my opinion, I have a suggestion. Maybe the peer group can actually be a pair. Two people working with each other throughout class to ensure enough time for each paper. A lot more could be accomplished that way. You have to make it exciting or else people will become apathetic and bored. I much rather write on their paper and pick at them than filling out a repetitive questionnaire. How many times must I assess their detail use?
On the whole, this paper was a very positive experience. I believe I did a job well done. It was fun to write once I got going. The conference was successful and seemed to put fuel in the fire. Perhaps, even another meeting would strengthen my paper even more. I am eagerly looking forward to the next paper in hopes of trying out new ways of writing.