All I want for Christmas is... extra credit

Last year, I experienced what many may call a “Christmas miracle.” As someone with a rocky track record of responsibility for my belongings, I agree with those miracle believers. From third grade to present, I have misplaced four retainers and two cell phones. Thus, one can imagine the horror I faced when I realized my current phone disappeared from the pocket of my ski coat somewhere along my twists and turns down a trail of Holiday Valley. Frantically, I urged Anna McCuaig and Mairin Magnuson to help me in what I thought was a helpless rescue of my little black Samsung. As they followed in discontent, I attempted to identify which amateur ski tracks belonged to me. Long story short, I thought I failed. So, naturally, I fell to the ground at the thought of trying to convince my parents someone had “stolen my phone from my pocket.” I began to shovel in the snow with my arms without purpose, like I’d seen on TV. And miraculously, below the surface of the random location I chose to dig, the screen of my phone lit up. My previous luck fostered the notion that I would never again receive a Christmas Miracle. But, I stand corrected. This year, my miracle represents one of hope… three possibilities for extra credit in AP English. Come winter, I possess a lack of motivation to do just about anything besides Christmas-themed tasks. My ambitions include pinpointing the perfect gifts for my family and friends, baking superfluous amounts of desserts for each of my four “secret santas,” and listening to the “Love Actually” soundtrack until I become physically sick of the repetitive love anthems. However, as my holiday enthusiasm snowballs day by day, my academic promise wanes. My Infinite Campus epitomizes the sickness traditionally given to those seniors who have temporarily (or in some cases, permanently) misplaced their sense of commitment. For me, Senioritis commences upon returning from Thanksgiving break and lasts for a dreadful twenty days until winter break. The worst part remains that those twenty days begin only four days into the advent calendar, prolonging my Christmas yearning. The unfortunate display of work ethic I have showcased these past few weeks do, in fact, have a silver lining: a Christmas miracle in the form of multiple potential extra credit opportunities. So thank you, Ms. Serensky, for re-instating my hope in attending those colleges who require my first semester grades, much like Santa used to fulfill my Christmas wishes. However, unlike Santa, who I lost all faith in when I didn’t find a Felicity American Girl doll under my Christmas tree in 2002 (I expected that the elves would pull through for me despite the fact that these dolls remained discontinued for the past two years) Ms. Serensky remains. She offered us three opportunities for extra credit, which any sane AP student considers the Holy Grail. First, students competed through our artistic abilities in attempt to create collages of characters in The Great Gatsby. Next, students will compete for a spot in the master data sheet with their writing partner. And lastly, students will take the AP multiple-choice test that looms at the end of each quarter. Whether or not Ms. Serensky actually rewards me with those coveted extra credit points, I remain thankful for the possibility of improving. The incentive provides me with hope of success on the one day of the year where hope can triumph all else.

Crying tears of joy after miraculously finding my misplaced phone.

Passing the "human" test

Each Thursday, I comment on two blogs of my peers. And each Thursday, I struggle to “prove [I’m] not a robot,” as Blogger directs, to publish my comments. The website requires each user to type a sequence of numbers and letters illustrated ambiguously in a picture. Although this seems an easy task, it takes me two or three attempts to decode the annoyingly deceptive sequence. In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, it takes the characters more than typing a jumbled code to prove their human capabilities. Determining whether or not a character possesses the redeeming qualities to be considered a human becomes the conflict. Throughout the novel, a showcase of the seemingly perfect lives of New York’s elite social class, few characters prove themselves as living, breathing and compassionate human beings. Fitzgerald portrays the remainder of the characters as insensitive, paralleling them to those blog-hacking robots that I attempt to separate myself from every Thursday. Often, the true identity of a person becomes apparent during or following a traumatic experience. Fitzgerald emphasizes this claim through the reactions of the characters amidst the hit-and-run incident that killed Myrtle. For instance, Fitzgerald portrays Nick as one of the few characters whom the accident affected. He revealed that he had “had enough of all of them” (142). His disapproving tone indirectly characterizes him as compassionate, ultimately foiling him to the other characters that did not feel guilt following Myrtle’s death. Next, he depicts Tom as sensitive through his thoughtful act of “picking up Wilson like a doll,” to console his mistress’s husband (141). His behavior indirectly characterizes him as caring, also foiling him to the unaffected “non-humans.” Contrastingly, he illustrates Gatsby and Daisy the characters who committed the crime, as more concerned about themselves, therefore, portraying them as apathetic “robots.” Gatsby behaved as if “Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered,” indirectly characterizing him as ignorant to the true problem: his role of accessory to murder (143). Gatsby became more involved with personal matters instead of dealing with the consequences of his actions. Similarly, Daisy “stood [the accident” (143). By indirectly characterizing her as content, even after killing a human being, Fitzgerald underscores her lack of empathy towards other individuals. Gatsby and Daisy’s reactions to the crime they committed would not pass my “prove you are not a robot” test.

R.I.P. Springs

Like almost every child in America, my life goal from age four to nine amounted to one thing: getting a dog. However, the more I begged and pleaded, the less successful my persuasion of my parents became. No matter how many times I Google-Imaged cute pictures of puppies and delivered them to my mom’s desk, my attempts proved worthless. Until the nearing of my fifth birthday, I lacked any hope. My mom hinted that my birthday would contain a “big surprise,” so naturally my almost-five-year-old brain anticipated nothing less than a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with a ribbon around his or (preferably) her neck. On September 16^th, the day of my fifth birthday, I kept my eyes on the prize. I did not want any part in school festivities or even birthday cake. I only thought about a furry, little puppy licking my hand for the first time. Gift time came and went and just as we finished cleaning up, my mom brought out one last present. “But wait,” I thought, “there is no way my puppy can breathe in that tiny box!” So I rushed as I tore off the wrapping paper and eventually found not a dog, but a frog, sitting idly in a miniature tank. One can imagine the level my confusion; instead of a proud owner of a new four-legged friend, I owned a frog that could not even leave its tank. This grand travesty came to mind upon reading the quote on Ms. Serensky’s board today that originates from William Shakespeare, saying, “Expectation is the root of all heartache.” The frog did not meet my expectations, leaving me quite disheartened. I realize that Shakespeare’s quote most likely pertains to expectations in love. However, today represents the two-year anniversary of little Springs’ death. I grew to love my frog, Springs, and even stopped petitioning for a dog. The incident inspired me to re-evaluate my expectations, however, and three years later my mom shocked me with a puppy on my eighth birthday. Shakespeare’s quote applies to the discussion of love in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Gatsby maintained a mystifying persona throughout the first half of the book, however, allowed his expectations to surpass reality when he confronted his loneliness. For five years, he imagined his encounter with former lover, Daisy Buchanan. When the two finally reunited though, Gatsby wonders about the “quality of his present happiness” (95). Gatsby’s doubtful tone surfaces the implication that in the time of the couple’s absence from each other, he became infatuated with the memory of Daisy that did not coincide with Daisy’s current state of mind. Shakespeare reaches out to the overly hopeful people to encourage them to re-evaluate their expectations to avoid feeling dejected of reality.