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. 

Thank you, butterfly

As I sit at my desk Wednesday after Wednesday, trying to conjure up a “Blogging All-Star”-worthy topic, I often find myself woefully uninspired, today without exception. Frantically, my eyes searched around the room for insight other than the blank Microsoft Word document that stared at me unforgivingly until they gravitated to the little blue star next to my favorite quote from our in-class “speed-dating” discussions. Henry David Thoreau observes, “Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.” Despite the unexpected choice of a “butterfly” for the simile, I believe that Thoreau accurately represents the true meaning of happiness. He claims that the search for happiness proves unsuccessful and that one should acquire an alternate, more realistic goal. Additionally, he claims that without expectations for one’s happiness, a person can more thoroughly enjoy life, therefore, lead a happier life. The transcendentalist philosopher’s ideals reflect the common theme in The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald along with my experience writing this blog. In Fitzgerald’s novel, he depicts the intertwined lives of New York socialites in the “roaring ‘20’s,” as nothing short of extravagant. However, with their wealth and social status come expectations associated with their state-of-minds. For instance, Daisy, the cousin of the narrator, Nick, behaves ambiguously to hide her true emotions. Her façade of a confident and happy heiress does not deceive Nick, though, who observed, “I felt the…insincerity…as though the whole evening had been a trick” (17). He directly characterizes her as insincere, therefore, portraying her as someone who puts on a front on the exterior that does not correlate with her true feelings. Fitzgerald, through Nick, exhibits Daisy as a person who strives for happiness in the wrong ways such as: She stays with her husband despite his betrayal and she emphasizes the importance on material goods and social status. To reach a state of happiness, as according to Thoreau, Daisy should alter opinions of what fosters happiness and focus on them, allowing room for the figurative “butterfly” to grant her contentment through her newly acquired behavior. I, too, have found authenticity in Thoreau’s quote. Instead of happiness, though, I sought the perfect blog topic. However, when I stopped thinking so hard to discover an award-winning idea, a certain little butterfly came and rested on my shoulder.

"Adapting" or completely changing?

I remember the days of first through sixth grade when a simple question from my mom could sum up an entire day of school: “What did you learn today, honey?” Now, I can’t even gauge what I learned before second period in response to that simple question. But today, upon my arrival home, I educated my mother on our short story unit in AP English and consequently, the film adaptations that go along with these stories. I attributed my sudden urge to inform my mother to the time I spend following my 7^th period English class pondering the decisions made by film directors in regards to the adapted stories, predominantly in “The Balloon.” Donald Barthelme wrote this story that Martynas Zaremba later adapted, signifying two very contrasting works. Throughout our reading-then-watching journeys, I formed the belief that directors take too many liberties in relation to the authentic stories. The majority of their alterations to the story lines ultimately skew the purposes of the literature. This belief led me to encourage my mom to watch the video without any prior knowledge of the story. I did so in hopes of comparing her perception with mine (which the previous reading of the story heavily influenced). As the credits rolled, my mom explained that she thought the balloon transpired as a symbol for unity, bringing together all types of people who shared the same curiosity for the unknown. What she failed to understand resulted as the fact that the tattooed man and woman controlled the balloon, and observed the people around them in the process. Her perception of the film without first reading the short story contrasted Barthelme’s intended purpose, which I believe emerged as conducting a social experiment and thus criticizing curious people’s need to associate meaning with everything in life. What would Barthelme think of this reconstruction to his writing? If one wishes to use another person’s original thoughts to benefit themselves, shouldn’t they persist in conveying the same underlying message? To me, my mother’s inability to grasp Barthelme’s main objective underscored the fault in the film adaptations. I firmly believe that if modifying an author’s work, one must showcase the original story’s purpose accurately. Whether watching “The Balloon,” “The Sound Machine” or even “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,” one should indicate a film’s success largely based on the true correlation to the writing.