the story of school

I'm sitting in class at the moment and suddenly I'm rather overwhelmed with the idea that college seems really pointless. Like, why am I here, learning about Marxism and hegemony and the Ideological State Apparatus? In theory, I really like abstract thinking. I really like making my brain hurt. My critical theory English class was one of my favorites. Well, sort of my favorite. I liked the subject a lot. I like this subject a lot-- critical theory as it relates to Dramatic Literature. In both cases, however, I find lectures and the members of my class unbelievably cloying. Almost unbearable, really.

Today our discussion has included the question of education: is it necessary, why is it necessary, who decides that it's necessary, what aspects of education are necessary, etc. I'm scheduled to graduate in April, and in light of my current academic standing, as well as my burning senioritis, these are questions which I ask myself on a daily basis. Two months left, and the daily grind is frankly almost enough to just chuck it. Who needs a dopey piece of paper to tell me, or anyone else, that I'm educated?

*

The fact is, I'm really not a great student. I'm smart, and I like to learn, but I don't play the academic game very well. I never have-- something to which my parents will attest. I've always been of the mindset, especially in college, that I'd rather have a well-rounded education, with the distinct recognition that "education" does not necessarily mean sitting through a lecture/discussion. For example, my involvement in nine theatrical productions in the last year and half has certainly taken up a lot of time I might have spent in the library, but how do I begin to convey what I did learn spending hours and hours in rehearsal, or driving around Utah in a van with the same seven people for a whole semester, or growing closer to my mom and sister?

So I get a B instead of an A. People are more important to me than little letters and numbers on a transcript.

*

I was in 5th grade the first time I forgot to do my homework before it was due. It was a math worksheet on lilac colored paper. My teacher asked us to turn it in and I was filled with a burning sense of dread that I only remember so well because I hate to admit, but I've felt it often since. My hand shot into the air and I asked if I could use the bathroom, please. I raced to my locker, where I had conveniently left it anyway, ran to the bathroom, and locked myself in a stall, where I proceeded to frantically work out the questions as quickly as I could, pencil squeaking as I wrote against the back of the red bathroom door. I didn't need the right answers, I just needed some answers, and some shoddy work to prove I had arrived at those answers somehow, all to be accomplished within an amount of time reasonable for me to use the bathroom. Hands shaking, I returned to class with the homework shoved in my pocket, pretended to retrieve it from my desk, and placed it on top of the pile. I think I ended up with a decent grade, too. Of course I don't remember the exact math concepts that were taught on that worksheet, but I learned two important things that day:

1. Any worksheet that can be completed in the amount of time it takes to use the bathroom is a waste of time, no matter how old you are.
2. How to procrastinate-- and get away with it.

*

From the get-go I'm going into this university education with a somewhat unconventional attitude. Considering I don't really have any interest in a very serious degree at a very serious school, I don't see this as a real problem. Combine it with the philosophy I've been raised on-- you don't go to college for a career; you go to college for an education.

Again, that mysical concept education...

If I wanted a career, I could go to a trade school and become a massage therapist in 7 months. Hypothetically, I don't have to have any formal training to have a career as an actor or a writer, just a lot of ambition, guts, and raw talent. An education teaches you how to think, how to contribute a little something to a teensy corner this enormous world.

I was blessed to come from parents who were music performance majors, so my major (Theatre, which was switched to English Literature) has never been questioned-- clearly because there's such financial security in both those fields, so they never have to worry. Studying English has certainly made me feel educated, whether I actually am or not, and regardless of a secure job offer after graduation. For some reason, the ability to write 15+ page papers on nerdy/useless topics like the historical, literary, and linguistic significance of the slang used by Louisa May Alcott in 19th century American literature is impressive to people. To me it's like, all in a day-- and I confess I shrug it off with a certain smug satisfaction that I'm actually smart and nerdy enough to write a paper like that. Admittedly, I'm also really impressed and humbled by people who do things like split atoms and discover mathmatical formulas, so tit for tat or something.

I feel educated. There is success there.

*

Feeling smart does not come without some resistence. Yesterday I was bemoaning my constant struggle with German. I have ceased feigning any enjoyment in German. I don't care about it anymore. I need the credits to graduate--I need a grade, and that is all. Mid-moan, Ames smiled at me and said, "Isn't free school a blessing?" I blinked and wanted to glare at him, and I probably did for a second-- enough to point out, "I only get half of school for free," thanks to my dad's employment at BYU. He said, "Then German is the free half. You're lucky!"

I didn't really want to admit that he's right, but he is. Of course, considering German as the free half of my education makes me feel a little wasteful (since I hate it) and more than a little guilty (since I hate it, and I haven't taken advantage of it). I can't decide if my fun classes should be the free ones, because then I'd be paying a lot of money for classes I don't like (to reiterate: German). There are a lot of people in the world who would like to have access to those free classes, German or otherwise. I am really lucky to have them. But I ask you-- what is it about (poorly) attaining a certain level of foreign language training (if you can call it that) that determines me "educated?" My English classes have intellectually stretched and stimulated me a lot, so why am I required to take Physical Science 100, which I have promptly forgotten anyway? Who decided this, and why, and when, and how is painfully sitting through them actually making me more educated?

Especially if it's free?

*

There's an episode of that TV show Pete & Pete that revolves around Y. Not so much the question "why?" or specifically the letter. I just remember Ellen sitting at her desk with a big Y written in her notebook, and her pen circling around and around and around that Y. She raised her hand in the middle of math class, stood up and asked (or proclaimed?), "Y?!" In my memory, Ellen's persistence with this question/statment started ticking off teachers, forcing them to leave one by one, being driven so crazy by her dedication to Y, since it's the only question/statement she would say in class, that they just couldn't take it anymore.

Lately, I've felt kind of passionate about Y, particularly since there seems to be double meaning in the fact that I attend BYU. In this Dramatic Literature class I just want to stand on the desk, stare my teacher in the face, and ask/say, "Y?!?!"

I don't remember how that episode ended. Some kind of resolution was made I'm sure, since the plot returned to the crazy antics of Pit Stain and Artie (the Strongest Man in the World) and Mom and the plate in Mom's head. I wish I could find some satisfactory answer/comeback to my own Y.

*

And I mean, okay-- let's assume I don't chuck it. I kill myself to walk across that stage and actually get that dopey piece of paper that allows me to sign my name, if I should choose to, Emily L. Dabczynski, B.A. What next? Is that it? The hierarchy of higher education says that's not it. If I really want to be a somebody, I need to be an M.A., and then a Ph.D. I guess I could get a law degree, and go to business school, and maybe tack on a few years of medical school because WHY NOT?! All of those fancy extra letters after my name look really impressive as I'm trying to, you know, have a family and maybe get a few essays published in a few obscure literary journals or something. 

Except, Emily L. Dabczynski, Esq. will always sound way more refined and snooty and awesome than boring old Emily L. Dabczynski, M.D., anyway. I guess the moral of the story here is that I need to come into some grand state of wealth and just become a property owner. Education be damned.

a favorite

Can I tell you something that I love?

I love pronouncing the word damnable. It's one of the few times you get to say the n in damn. There's a certain added satisfaction, don't you think?

dam-na-ble

Delicious.

to do: stop doing

I am a natural-born multi-tasker. I was born with that feminine instinct which allows me to do 80 things at once. Apparently this is a concept that most men cannot fathom. For example, most men (and I dare say, some women) cannot comprehend the idea of putting on mascara, making a phone call, singing along with the radio, composing an essay, and thinking about a conversation you need to have with someone-- while driving up University Parkway, steering with your knee.

That is, of course, a rhetorical situation. 

But this is what girls do. Girls sit in class taking notes, making a To-Do list, passing notes with their friend across the aisle about the inane discussion, writing in their journal, rereading a paper due in an hour, and checking their phone every six seconds to see if they got a text from that cute boy. All in a day, you guys, right?

Though some might covet the ability to do so much at once, I've been trying to break myself of the habit this semester. My focus lately has been shot-- I mean, completely non-existent. I don't blame myself for not being able to retain German vocabulary since I can't seem to settle myself long enough to remember that Ansteckung means infection. Okay, I remember that one after all, but you understand my point.

What I need is to embrace some masculine inclination and learn to compartmentalize my thoughts, focusing on one thing at a time to ensure that everything I wrote on that To-Do list actually gets finished. I need to put on my male thinking cap and when it's time to do German, I will do my German. When it's time to read The White Lady, I will read it. When I need to do laundry and clean my room, I may dip my toe into multi-anything, play music and dance as I do so. The best way to get through cleaning is to dance your way through it. And by gum, I'll actually sit down and finish that stupid Biology course. Actually, first I'll sit down and really start it.

I'm hoping the attempt will also help me better understand the men in my life who can't think about so many things at once. I'll learn to focus on one thing at a time, and not get quite so stressed out over things as I over-think. The process of thinking about one thing at a time really tends to neutralize emotions too, I would think. Like, romantic feelings don't just disappear when someone doesn't text you as they're doing homework or rehearsing or whatever. Hopefully, my own compartmentalization will reenforce that notion and give me more control over my feelings. That's really what this is about-- it's an issue of control. I aspire to be in control! 

So my plan of action? 

Step 1:  Start the day with proper scripture study.

Step 2:  PRAY FOR HELP!

Step 3:  Complete tasks in order of priority.

Step 4:  Quit texing quite so much... ahem.

Step 5:  Remember that I am, in fact, a girl, and it's okay for me to have emotions.

Notes to self: Recognition of those emotions will not complete my tasks any quicker, nor does the recognition provide me with justification for distractions. Also, don't steer cars with my knee.

4th annual

happy batman day, everybody.

i stalk you long time

QUESTION:
Is it wrong to stalk people on the internet?

Now I don't mean looking up personal information, or school records, or anything creepy like that. What I mean is, is it wrong to spend more than a few minutes looking at someone's Facebook profile/pictures, or going back a few pages on their blog?

Because here's the thing-- I totally do that. I'm such a professional blog/Facebook stalker, you guys. Of course, it's not the kind of thing I'd admit to being with any kind of detail. It's enough that you know I possess the capacity; you don't need to know who it is I'm stalking or why. I think my favorite people to stalk are those who are peripherally important to me-- people who are close to people I am/want to be close to. Sure, sometimes it's because I'm suspicious of them, or jealous. And duh, stalking people I don't like at all is morbidly fascinating and definitely a good way to spend a few slow minutes at work. I don't know, maybe I'm crazy. I feel like I'm not alone in this pursuit, however, even if you won't admit it...

Thinking about this curious habit of mine got me wondering for a minute about my personal feelings regarding people stalking ME. Don't deny it. There are people reading this entry right now who don't know me, or at least not well, or your motives for reading are inspired by varying curiosities: you're wondering why my IP Address is on your statcounter, aren't you? Or maybe you clicked the link Julie posted in an entry a few weeks ago. Or maybe you read an essay I wrote which mentioned my blog? Maybe you clicked the link I pimped in my Facebook status even though we're not really friends, or maybe you actually despise me and are seething with disgust and frustration at my self-indulgence, or maybe you're trying to decide if I'm awesome enough to be hanging out so much with your brother/son?

Frankly, these are all valid reasons for stalking me. I don't blame you. In fact, I encourage it. It helps me justify myself when I wind up on your blog for similar reasons.

Also, the way I see it, the more people who read my blog, the more potential sales I'll have when I decide to publish that book someday.

in defense of randomicity

So that game "25 Random Facts" is taking over Facebook. It's been kind of interesting to read them, though I can't say I've done more than skim over most. I've really just enjoyed reading things about people I know very well and seeing the facts they choose to post about themselves. Very revealing, I guess.

It has me thinking, though-- a lot of people have begun with some declaration of resistance, like, "Okay, I've had 87 requests from other people. FINE, I'll do it!" First of all, I don't believe you're being pressured into anything. If you're so weak-willed that you can't escape scary, oppressive Facebook games, my guess is you need to do some reevaluating in your life. The bigger question, however, is why people feel the need to insist something like, "I never know what to say about myself" and "#25 is not going to be clever because I can't think of anything?" Really? Is this true? Or is it some kind of attempt to seem humble-- like 24 facts is acceptable, but 25 just smacks of pride.

The fact is this: I have no trouble whatsoever coming up with 25 random facts to list about myself. Indeed, I have no trouble whatsoever making all sorts of confessional lists about myself on an almost weekly basis. I have had two recent blog posts entitled "Blog Secret," based on the concept of Post Secret, which is, when you boil it down, just a slightly more revelatory version of "25 Random Facts." Does this make me a self-centered person? What does it mean, exactly, that I can talk on and on and on about myself? I like to think that it means I'm just a very open person who knows herself well. That's what it means right?

I'm actually kind of proud of that fact-- that I've come so far as to consider myself an open person. For much of my life I wanted to be an open person, but wasn't actually. I didn't talk to my family about personal things for most of my childhood and youth. I have always had a few close friends who know everything about me, but frankly, that's what my journal has always been for. In the last few years, it's been so much more liberating to just be happy with myself, and proud to be an interesting person (within reason, of course).

I saw that movie Ghost Town recently, which was a whole lot more adorable than I expected it to be-- also a lot more poignant (pronounced "poiguh-nant" for those of you who call yourself English majors) than I anticipated. At one point, Tea Leoni is going on about the vitality of living your own life, no matter how small it is--

We just get the one life, you know, just one. We can’t live someone else’s, or think it’s more important just because it’s more dramatic. What happens matters. Maybe only to us, but
it matters.

Maybe it's silly, but that's what this "25 Random Facts" business reminded me of. I don't think people should be lothe to talk about themselves, or pretend like they have nothing interesting to say. I think it's really great that people are opening up, even if it's just to list a few seemingly insignificant things about themselves that most people probably didn't know. Habits and behaviors are really interesting and I, for one, like reading about them.

But listen-- if you can't come up with 25 things of your own, by all means, I'll make up the difference for you.

control < out of control

This is my hardest semester of college so far, in part because of my course load, in part because I actually care. German is all I (should) think about. I eat out too much because I don't have time to eat at home. My car is becoming a money pit. I don't work enough to make money to pay for anything, to say nothing of actually saving. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself after I graduate. My room is a disaster. I need to do laundry. I lost one of my favorite bracelets. I'm not 100% memorized. I don't sleep nearly enough.

Perhaps it's delirium, but I can't help being exceptionally happy all the time.