#anyways wish me luck I have to face trigonometry again

[prisonpodcast]

I have school tomorrow 🤡

[charlieswan-squad]

Twilight Rewrite First Sight (ii)

Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like a prison cage, that after sixteen years was finally locking me in. 

Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted optimism. Good luck tended to avoid me. Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined the familiar kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing had changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. 

Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those were embarrassing to look at; missing front teeth, the horrendous haircuts, the braces - I would have to see what I could do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here. It was impossible, being in this house, not to realise that Charlie had never gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.

 I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I donned my jacket - thick and unbreathing like a biohazard suit - and headed out into the rain.

 It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. Only in a town like Forks, would it be normal for the chief of police to keep his house key in such an obvious place. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under my hood. 

 Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. It was a strange combination, but not totally unpleasant. The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a bonus that I hadn't expected.

 Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-coloured bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal

detectors? You know, all the homely aspects of a school in a city like Phoenix.

 I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading Front Office. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door.

 Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a large, friendly-looking woman wearing glasses. She was wearing an orange t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed.

 The woman looked up. "Can I help you?"

 "I'm Bella Swan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. The Chief's daughter, the one with the unstable mom, come home at last.

 "Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school, Isabella." She brought several sheets to the counter to show me.

 “Um, it’s Bella, please.”

“Oh, sure, Bella.”

 She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

 When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me.

 I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorise it now; determined I wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. It won’t be that bad, I lied to myself feebly. Seriously Bella, it’s just high school, it wasn’t like anyone was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.

 I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief.

 Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

 The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

 I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name - not a particularly encouraging response - and of course I felt blood rush to my cheeks. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. 

I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting… and boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

  When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin problems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

 "You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type.  

"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

 "Where's your next class?" he asked.

 I had to check in my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."

 There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes. I wondered if this is how animals felt in the zoo. 

 "I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way…" Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Eric," he added.

 I forced a smile. "Thanks Eric."

 We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. Several people seemed to be walking too close behind us - like they were trying to eavesdrop or something. I hoped I wasn’t becoming paranoid. 

 "So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.

"Very.” 

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?”

"Three or four times a year."

"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.

"Sunny," I told him.

"You don't particularly look like you grew up in the sunshine." he laughed; most likely referring to the fact that I don’t even have freckles, or that, despite the rain, I wasn’t in shorts and flipflops with a baseball cap or something. I never did fit any of the Arizona-stereotypes.

"Well, you know what they say about vampires."

He studied my face apprehensively, and I stifled a groan. It looked like clouds and a sense of humour didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm. 

“I’m joking, Eric.” 

He began to laugh too loudly and forcefully to be real. I could still read the confusion in his eyes, suggesting he didn’t understand my joke, but at least he hadn’t run away screaming that the new girl is a freak. Just give it time. 

 We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.

 "Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other classes together." He sounded hopeful.

 I smiled at him, in what I hoped was not an encouraging way and went inside.

 The rest of the morning passed in much the same way. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, and tripped over my own feet on the way to my seat. 

 “Nailed it.” I thought snarkily.

 After two classes, I started to recognise several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed the map.

 Every one of my teachers called me Isabella, and though I corrected them immediately, it was depressing. I had decided at the age of three that I was Bella, and had refused to answer to anything else until Mom and Charlie got the message. At home, no one remembered that Bella was just a nickname; but now I had to start over again.  

 One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the canteen for lunch.  She was tiny, several inches shorter than my average height, but her hair was pulled into a very tight ponytail on the top of her head which made up a lot of the difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she rattled about teachers and classes and what gossip I had to catch up on. I barely listened let alone try to keep up.

 We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them. At least I couldn’t complain about the manners here. They all seemed to think it was really cool and brave of her to invite me. Eric, the boy from English, waved at me from across the room, and my neighbours all laughed. I thought it must be a new record for me, already the butt of a joke. But none of them seemed nasty about it. That was something at least.

 It was there, sitting in the canteen, attempting to make conversation with a bunch of strangers, that I first saw them. I was surprised it had taken me so long to notice them.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Navigatio Britannica: Planar Trigonometry

Chapter 4: Of Trigonometry, Sections I - V

The first half of this chapter is Planar Trigonometry, which I learned in high school and have used on-and-off ever since; the second half of this chapter is Spherical Trigonometry, which I know nothing about. Consequently, I’m dividing this chapter into two parts -- before we let John Barrow attempt to teach me spherical trig (wish me luck!), I want to do a fast recap of what he has to say about planar trig...

Section I: Definitions

Everything is defined geometrically, on the unit circle, via a diagram that I have yet to find in this scan. (Also, even if I do find the page, I don’t have much hope that it will have been scanned correctly, since Google’s scanning machine can turn pages but not unfold them.) Happily, Barrow is pretty good about describing his figures in enough detail that I can reconstruct them as I go, which is the only reason I was able to understand anything in this chapter.

Not many surprises here, although I did learn that cosine, cotangent, and cosecant are the sine, tangent, and secant of the complementary angle, and likewise that the tangent of an angle is called the tangent because its physical instantiation lives on a line tangent to the circle. Also, Barrow defines the Verse-Sine, which was new to me: geometrically, it is the part of the radius that isn’t the cosine. (Algebraically, it is 1 - cosine.) Wikipedia says the versine was important to navigation, so I assume it will come up later.

Section II: Geometrical Constructions of the Tables of Sines, Tangents, Secants, &c.

In which we are instructed to build ourselves a unit circle, mark it off in 1-degree intervals, and construct ourselves a... well, it’s gonna look a bit like a ruler, but it’s going to measure 1 to 90 degrees, on several parallel scales: chords, sines, versed-sines, tangents, etc. To make this thing, you use your compass and measure the length of a chord for a 10-degree angle, then mark it on your chords-scale, and label it “10 deg.” Repeat for the other 89 degrees, and ta-dah, you have a chords-scale! Then do it again for sines, versed-sines, tangents, and so on. When we get to actually solving trig problems, how to use this scale is one of the three standard methods that Barrow is going to teach us.

Section III: Arithmetical Constructions of the Tables of Sines, &c.

First off, Barrow reassures us this is going to be easy-peasy, no need to panic -- which is our first cue that panicking will be required before we’re done.

But true to his word, Barrow starts out easy, using similar triangles to prove all the basic trigonometric identities: tan = sin/cos, sec = 1/cos, etc. All well and good, except it’s all done in proportions and nothing is called out by name, only by referring to various line-segments in his nowhere-to-be-found unit circle diagram. All of which makes it difficult to absorb at a glance, but once you finish decoding everything this is basically just SOHCAHTOA.

Then he proves two variants on the standard trigonometric sum/difference formulas (although he expresses them as proportions and via verbal descriptions, talking about the means of equi-different angles and the differences between them): 

cos x = (1/2) (sin y + sin (y + 2x)) / sin (y + x)

sin x = (1/2) (sin (y + 2x) - sin y) / cos (y + x)

You can verify those via the standard trigonometric sum/difference identities if you want. (I did.) But they’re also pretty straightforward geometrically, if you take the time to very carefully reconstruct what his diagram must have been: in the end, it’s all just similar triangles. He then proves several corollaries -- which in hindsight are simple enough (just straightforward algebraic manipulations, multiplying everything by two, or both sides by the denominator), but sadly, I lost MANY HOURS to a rash of typos in them.

Then. 

Oh, then.

All hell breaks loose as he endeavours to prove that a semi-circle has an arc-length of pi. I admit to not following this bit: I haven’t seen Newton’s notation for calculus since I was seventeen, when that one weirdo physics professor used it in lectures, and I didn’t really feel like re-teaching it to myself for this. Nor did I really want to get into re-teaching myself binomial expansions. Also, the type-face on all the fractions in the expansions was super-squinchy to read, and you know what, fuck it, I think it’s well-established that a semi-circle has an arc-length of pi, let’s move on.

The point of establishing that a semi-circle has an arc-length of pi is so that we can calculate the arc-length of one minute (simply divide pi by 10,800 minutes, easy-peasy), which we will then use as an approximation of the sine of one minute. ... Which, okay, I suppose if your angle is small enough and your applications are practical enough you can get away with that? But it makes the mathematician in me cry, I’m just saying. (Even as I admit that you really can get away with it for most purposes: according to my handy-dandy TI-84 Plus, pi/10800 differs from sin(1′) in the ninth significant digit. But Dr. Roberts and Dr. Chrestenson would never have let me get away with that shit, never mind that I also have an engineering degree and thus should be okay with this kind of ruthless practicality. In my soul there is a mathematician and an engineer battling to the death over questions like these, you simply don’t know how much shit like this wounds me.)

Anyway, once I finally got over my fit of vapours...

Now that we have an approximation for the sine of one minute, we can calculate the cosine of one minute via the pythagorean trigonometric identity, and then...

And now I want to cry again, because now we get to build our table of sines (and along with it, our table of cosines), minute by freaking goddamn minute, by using the above equations like so:

2 cos (1′) sin (1′) - sin (0′) = sin (2′)

2 cos (2′) sin (2′) - sin (1′) = sin (3′)

2 cos (3′) sin (3′) - sin (2′) = sin (4′)

...

Continue until I cry blood and the seas boil dry.

(At one point Barrow admits that it’s possible to build this table in 5-minute increments and interpolate the intervening minutes when you need them. While this reduces the task to 1/5th of the original, I still want to hug and rock myself and cry.)

Happily, I don’t need to cry, because Barrow includes these tables in the book? But someone cried blood to make those tables, and John Barrow wants us all to know it.

Section IV: Actual Trigonometry Problems, At Long Last!

A ton of sample problems, all worked three ways:

Geometrically: Basically, use a compass and straight edge and your scale-thingie of chords/sines/secants that you made earlier, and draw a triangle of  the correct proportions. Then just read/measure your answer right off the actual triangle in question, ta-dah! No abstract math required, just pretty pictures!

Arithmetically: What you learned in high-school, using the tables that someone cried blood over but without calculators (although you can use logs if you want to skip ahead to chapter five for them!) God, it looks miserable and grindingly awful, and I admit I don’t have the strength of character to follow any of these calculations through to the end.

Magic, I mean, Gunter’s Scale: The instructions here are amazingly low-key -- use your chart-dividers (what tumblr calls a pointy-leg-man what it likes to make walk on tippy-toes across charts) to measure off an interval on one scale, and then drop that same interval across the appropriate second scale, and voila! You have found your answer!

Of course I wanted to know what this magical tool is!

Apparently it was a slide rule without the slidey parts -- you used your dividers to accomplish what the slidey bit does on a slide rule -- but with some extra scales especially chosen for the convenience of navigators. 

Apparently these things were so common among navigators that they were simply called Gunters, and I WANT ONE SO BAD. Here’s a nifty article about them, complete with pictures, and did I say? I WANT ONE SO BAD. I collect old-school mathematical tools and I WANT ONE SO BAD.

Ahem.

Anyway, Section V is more trig homework, except now we’re no longer dealing with right triangles. I admit it, I skimmed this like fuck.

And ta-dah! That’s Planar Trigonomometry, according to John Barrow in Navigatio Britannica, or, A Complete Guide to Navigation, pub. 1750!

Up next: Section VI - Spherical Trigonometry, what makes William Bush cry. Do I have the fortitude to teach myself spherical trig? PLACE YOUR BETS NOW.

[yespoetry]

Monica Rowley: #NotTrump Series

Some Advantages of a Nervous Breakdown When The Nation State is Turning Corporate Feudal in Front of Your Eyes and the Debate is Now Kleptocracy or Kakistocracy or Both

                                                “I have lived in important places, times

                                                When great events were decided…

                                                     Till Homer’s ghost came whispering to my mind.

                                                He said: I made the Iliad from such

                                                A local row. Gods make their own importance.”

                                                                                     Patrick Kavanagh

See you in the holes of America. Poetry must be written.

But also be sure to read the writing on the red hats

MOTHERFUCKERS, this is

the death of THE NATION STATE, which let’s face it:

good for the imperialists and colonizers and the rich, but the rest of the world

NOT SO FUCKING MUCH.

You can write with abandon.  You can fuck meter.  You can sit your fat ass prepositions all over the white space of this page because covering the white is turning out to be preferable and maybe even necessary. 

Eat hallucinogens. 

Epic poetry is now back in — you’ll need your imagination. 

The Poets must be verbose now. The current leader, the spearhead of this 9-5 serfdom, is winning brevity with his 140 character ruling decrees. 

Terseness is something to leave behind. 

(A lot of my male friends will not like this stance,  but you and I both know those men that object

still resist a female lead; and you’ll take this longwinded bitch

in a foxhole over their sparse verse any day—

well not any day— actually not most days, 

but you will on the day the shit hits the fan). 

WE ARE GOING TO BE IN CRISIS. 

I am one shitty poet,  but turns out I am also a good-ole-fashioned,  write-that-new-Amendment,  type of suffragist,

civil rights teacher-reader

poet of a patriot.

Seems politics are starting to loop back around to needing my type of poetry. 

I am with you in the holes of America.  I read too much history.  I have too many facts

to not WARN you, 

that this time—  actually— it is different. 

Things won’t really ever be the same again:

And I, for one, blame it on white women

who cared more about marriage than democracy.

 November 9, 2016: Some Thoughts For My Students and My Niece Annabelle

Today your mother, my sister, texted me.  Your mother told us, all six of her siblings,  when you woke to hear the news:

Hillary lost, Trump was King,  you cried your eyes out, and she told us when she assured you it would change in four years, you asked if you would live to be seventeen. 

*

My beloved sophomores, so bright and young and new, I am sorry I missed our classes today. 

You see, I have been waiting for a woman president all my life. 

My mother likes to tell the tale of my first feminist moment:

riding in the back of a brown-paneled station wagon,  I argued with a minister’s son,  I was all of five. 

I told him God didn’t have to be a man.  My mom recalls I then yelled up to her for support. She said, she hadn’t 

really thought of it until then. There are more stories of how 

I got to be waiting for a woman to be president all my life. 

Suffice it to say, I thought it would happen this time. So, on Tuesday, at five p.m.,  I let work know 

I would not be in on Wednesday.  Surely, I would be too hung over from shots of whiskey victory. I wasn’t.  

The sexual assailant won,  not the woman with thirty years experience. 

I was not hung over from booze,  but I was battered in grief. 

*

I am so sorry to all of my Muslim students, friends,  and their families. I thought, 

knowing the Know-Nothings and Nativists the way I do, that history 

could not repeat itself again. I, being raised Catholic and part of an Irish clan, 

assumed we were past those days when we elected the first non-Wasp man. 

I am sorry I did not know better.  I am sorry I believed in everyone so much.  I really should have guessed this.  I mean, that Catholic president, was shot in Dallas dead, cold, assassinated and such. 

*

I know most of my black friends, co-workers,  and past lovers aren’t shocked. I was so sure this moment, 

the suffragists’ moment was coming,  I did not want to listen to your worry about this Tuesday— your doubt and anger. 

I assumed there simply was no way the evening’s winner would be

endorsed by the KKK.

My naivety and privilege let me think this could never be true; it was as if I believed

my own experience was the thing that would drive voting that day and I am so sorry I did not listen to you. 

*

I want to speak to all the victims of sexual assault. 

Yet again, you are not believed and we had another lesson in how rape culture is taught. 

I wish this were not the case,  what will it take for people to believe that powerful men do rape? 

*

I think about all the workers in Nevada, the Latinx hotel employees I do not know.  You showed up in numbers and turned

that swing state blue. 

We all should have followed your warning, you know Trump all too well— You work in his establishments and cannot

unionize in his hell.

I have a sad message to the Syrian children hoping to come here. 

We elected a man who is scared of you,  and I regret to say, there is no chance you will be allowed in. 

*

I suspect almost all of the indigenous people fighting for water could say how they knew this was coming, if I really think about it,  quite frankly, this is nothing new:  de rigueur actions from Americans’ politics and politicians, even Obama is slow in helping you.

*

This bigoted assailant will now try to regulate love, and who can marry whom; but don’t worry too much:  we all can go buy guns. 

Dear would-be Madam President, I apologize to you.  I’m sorry you won the popular vote but not the electoral too. 

I apologize to all my white friends who warned me that Trump could be our fate. 

I argued with your profusely, I did not take your stance. 

If you knew this was the outcome, why did you do nothing to stop it?

(I wonder how you cast your ballot, which of them are you)

To all the American white people.  I hope you don’t rule again for years.

* 

But, I am mostly sorry to my sophomores, so sorry I did not make it to school November 9th.

I did not come to let you know it would be okay.  I’m not one for lying to children anyway.

I am sorry I was missing.  I will be there tomorrow. 

We will read Tagore and Yeats. 

Will you please forgive me? 

I am still crying, as ridiculous as that might be, and although an adult, it feels like I am still riding in the back of that station wagon on my way to preschool

very unsure about the rules of this world

and wondering when women will have their shot.

Okay, Annabelle, my tenth graders? 

I leave it now to you.

Monica Rowley teaches amazing high school students in Brooklyn, noting that they are far better than she is at trigonometry and pentameter. She loves sharks and tigers, Gilgamesh, and Ramprasad Sen's poetry to the Goddess Kali. She is the oldest of seven, and her siblings are her best friends. She considers this turn of sibling luck the best fortune she could have.  Monica has been the recipient of several grants and awards, including one from the National Endowment for the Humanities. If you would like to read more of her poems, check them out on Brooklyn Poets’ The Bridge or in the upcoming issue of the Irish literary journal, The Ogham Stone.

[huffeldooduffle]

Hi, beautiful people! 🙂 Honestly, there are times when I feel like I have no right to write, that my words don’t matter to the universe. That these frail sentences won’t matter to anyone but myself, as a way of letting go of the feelings that pent up inside my heart or as a way to express the things I can’t control or put in order. Yet, I promised someone important that I will write more regularly. So, dear reader, despite the doubt, I will do just that. Starting with… a recap of January!

A.

School has been pulling me in like the tides of the sea that draw in sand–eroding the land ever so slightly until one day there’s no land left. But don’t worry, I won’t drown! Once I told you about the subjects I’m taking, right? Well, I forgot to mention how I changed a lot of things. The subjects I’ll permanently take over these two years are Biology HL, Economics HL, English A Literature HL, ESS (Environmental Systems and Societies), Math SL, and Chinese ab initio. HL  means higher level, meaning there are more class hours dedicated for it, hence it’s more rigorous. IB is… demanding. It feels like a never-ending stack of homework or that pile of laundry that you keep putting off. It’s manageable though, don’t worry. And as much as people talk about how little they sleep or how stressed they are, I believe that if you can discipline yourself you’ll do fine…kinda. Hehe.

Anyway, in Biology, I’ve already learned most things we’re learning right now, since I was in jurusan IPA (science major). However, it’s still challenging, because I always have to study and memorize things before a test, otherwise I’ll probably fail. Reviewing and taking notes everyday is crucial, otherwise you’ll get left behind… unless you’re a genius that is.

All my life, Economics has been my weak spot. I never could understand when I read something in the news about it, or when someone started discussing it. So I thought that if I actually wanted to learn something new I’d better take it. It was the best decision ever. Economics is my favorite subject right now, maybe because I have an amazing teacher, or maybe because I it’s so relevant and important to understanding the world. After all, “you can’t always get what you want”–no one can–and it’s that allocation of resources that we study. During the holidays I read Poor Economics, which I recommend everyone to read, because it taught me so much about effective and non-effective ways of helping the poor. It’s quite easy to understand the concepts of Economics, and satisfying as well.

Literature… gahhh!!! This is the class that worries me the most. I took it thinking I’ll be okay, ready to face the risk of challenge, or whatever. How disenchanted I was upon the realization of it being the epitome of technical difficulty! It’s true that I love reading. That is not an issue. I read all the books and understood them easily. I loved the class discussions about the characters, plot, themes, similes, metaphors, backgrounds, and so on. However, believe me when I say that analyzing literature is not fun. Especially when you have to do it in a certain structure, at a certain depth, with an abstract and subjective marking scheme to judge your work upon. I hate how my grade hinges on how well I write the analytical essays. I dislike how the IB turned something I love into a seemingly insurmountable burden. I just pray that it’ll be worth it in the end…that there will come something out of it. However, dear reader, if you don’t want to torture yourself, it’s better to take English A Language and Literature, which is relatively easier. It doesn’t dive so much into one area but instead skims a broader range of texts, such as advertisements, news, novels, and so on.

ESS was the other subject that brought my grades quite low. In comparison to the others, it’s almost the easiest. It has a lot of overlap with both Biology and Geography. So, if you come from any of the two majors (science or social sciences), you’ll do fine in this class…kinda. 😀 However, I don’t really understand how we’re to be graded because I try the best I can with this class, the way I do with all the others, yet the teacher says I’m not thinking critically enough or that I’m not engaged enough. He actually gave me a 1 out of 4 for thinking skill on my report card. LOL. So my solution was to stop asking or asserting stupid things, in other words, to filter my words more–and to show 10 times the engagement and enthusiasm as I did in the first semester. Wish me luck!

Math SL is absolutely incredible. It’s easier than ESS for me, because I already took two years of high school math as a science student back home, and we were already beginning calculus at the point that I left. During first semester I barely studied but this semester we’re getting into trigonometry, so I think I’d better change that habit quickly. 😛

Last but not least… Chinese. Although I’m taking this at the most amateur stage, it’s another favorite subject. The teacher is funny and wholesome and he makes us enjoy learning the language. It’s taxing, but I believe it’ll be worth it in the end. My goal is to be able to speak with Chinese locals by the end of two years. 😉

Besides regular subjects, we’re being introduced for the first time ever to Extended Essay and Internal Assessment. My topic for EE is how socioeconomic factors affect the prevalence of dengue fever in a region of Tangerang Selatan, Indonesia. But please…let’s have no more talk of academics! :”)

B.

This month, on the 22nd of January, was my birthday. It was the most heartwarming thing anyone’d ever done for me. My best friend, Karol, planned most of it. I swear, it’s times like these that I feel Allah has blessed me with more than I deserve.

I don’t think you’ll be very interested in the story, so I’ll try to make it as short as possible. I was sitting there, trying to study Economics, but failing to concentrate because I was 97% sure that my friends were going to do something. Then Eesaa from Bangladesh came in and asked me to come outside. I forgot what he said because at that moment I was already grinning ear to ear and unfocused. The moment I stepped outside Kiki from China blindfolded me and put me in a chair. Then, she, Eesaa, and Amjed from Yemen pushed me to the playground, where a sweet drawing awaited upon a swing. After taking it, they blindfolded and pushed me again to the glasshouse. Along the way there a handsome tall stranger or something constantly talked about his presence, and how he’d replaced Eesaa, haha. ^_^ At the glasshouse, Karol opened my blindfold and there were about 12 or more people there, gathered in a circle around me. It was a clock. Each person said something nice about me or their favorite memory, and some brought a gift. My heart died. Karol also cooked Indomie for us all. They’d bought me a small fruity cake which was delicious. Fairy lights gave a warm ambiance to the room. I hugged everyone who came, because I truly appreciate them all. And Karol, if you’re reading this, I just wanted to remind you that you’re one of the best humans I’ve ever met. I’m not even exaggerating.

What’s interesting is that two times in a row during my birthday I’ve been reminded of time. Someone said the moral of the surprise was to cherish each second, and on my 17th birthday my parents gave me a watch so I’d inget waktu (remember time). It makes me think strange things, haha. Like how my life might end soon…? You never know.

C.

CCE stands for Chinese Cultural Evening. In this part, I’ll let the pictures and video do the talking.

Here is the video of the performances!

Anyways… besides that some other things that happened so far was:

Kak Rafa’s visit. She’s an alumni of UWCCSC who’s now attending the University of St. Olaf

Joining Creative Writing Zhixing and Choir Zhixing. This is the blog for Creative Writing Zhixing.

Trying to run for College Assembly, with the help of my good friend Eesaa, but failing because on stage my voice shakes and any trace of charisma is lost

Organizing Bravery Buddies with Abigail, which is a project that partners people up from campus to motivate each other to complete something you’re scared of doing

Trying to get to the bottom of what happens to trash and food waste at UWCCSC

Organizing a World Hijab Day (which is on February 1st) workshop with the two other hijabis, or as Karol calls it, swagijabis, on campus–Neha and Coumba. B) I’ll add pics of this later.

That’s all, folks. Have an amazing day!! ❤

Starting with ABC (Academics, Birthday, CCE 2019) Hi, beautiful people! 🙂 Honestly, there are times when I feel like I have no right to write, that my words don't matter to the universe.

[tteastains]

the tension of opposites

Life pulls alternately back and forth, like a wrestling match. Love, he says, always wins.

  All my life, I have been a writer. I have always filled notebooks and journals with all kinds of stories. I have always been eager to share them with people. Writing has always been a deep-seated and essential part of my identity—the way I see myself, describe myself and place myself in the world.

All my life, I have had the idea that creative passions and careers are simply not worth the time or effort thrown at me nonstop. I have heard that creative fields are not “real jobs” and that making a living from creative passions is something that takes nothing more than privilege and a stroke of luck that is not afforded to most people.

I have now finished my first year of college, in which I took two vastly different writing classes that I thoroughly enjoyed. Having already completed two semesters of College English in high school, I’m technically “done” with it. And as my second semester wrapped up and I needed to make a schedule for next fall, I started to have this creeping feeling of something I wouldn’t quite call “dread,” but it was definitely building up to that.

I’ve always told myself (and frankly, have always been told) that writing is something I’ll always “have.” Something I can always “do,” after I find something “better.” After I find A Real Job.

But after this past year, I’ve realized something that makes my heart hurt. The minimal writing that I have been doing since finishing high school is already suffering. As an undergraduate student who did not work, I still didn’t have time to sit down and commit to writing. Because—brace yourself—writing does require discipline and commitment. Especially in my second semester, that discipline and commitment was almost exclusively applied to my schoolwork.   

So I’ve had a lot of days (and very late nights) that I just get lost in the thought of letting writing go, completely setting it aside and saving it for when I do have the time. Devote myself to this obscure concept of a “real job” that everyone talks down to me about all the time.

During the past year or two, I have taken a genuine interest in psychology. Now that’s what I call A Real Job, right? There are so many places you go with psych! So many well-paying options! All I have to do is pursue a career in psychology, land a decent job, and then all the sudden I’ll have the time and funds to commit myself to writing again! Maybe I can even write a book about psychology!

That’s not how it works. And it’s so not the point.

I am tired. I’m tired of creative people being forced to stifle their creativity and their passions because they are told that they don’t count. I’m tired of hearing the same story over and over of artists pursuing a degree in a field that they hate because they have been taught that that’s just what they have to do to survive. I’m tired of the people who do honor their creativity being stepped on by others for doing so.

Now, I understand that doing sitting at my desk alternating between scribbling in a notebook and tapping furiously at a keyboard is not a valid career option in the eyes of many. I understand that maybe it’s not a valid career option, period.

What I want to know is what the point of life is if all you’re doing is setting your passions aside for the promise of money.

The prospect of starving to death or being stuck in one miserable place (physical or metaphorical) is the only thing that has ever stopped me from completely diving into writing with everything I have. Toward the end of last semester in my writing class, we were given an assignment that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. It was a question that we had to respond to in something like 200 words.

What would we do with our lives if there was a universal basement income and no one had to work anymore? This was part of a whole discussion we’d been having about our future of work becoming overrun with technology to the point of there being no work for human beings.

It seemed like a lot of people in my class were stumped or hadn’t really thought about it that much. I don’t know that for sure because I never saw what they wrote or spoke to anyone about it, but I understand why they might have had trouble. It was a Writing for STEM class, so it’s safe to assume that a lot of the people around me were set on a very smart-sounding and impressive career that they had always wanted to pursue. Chemical engineering, professional hacking, things like that. Various jobs that people don’t really think about being taken over by robots someday very soon.

It didn’t take me very long at all to finish my assignment because it was a question I had already thought about extensively. If I didn’t have to worry about surviving anymore, I would create a space for myself that I could write until my fingers fell off and my eyes fell out. When I ran out of ideas or hit a slump, I’d keep going to school and learn about all the other things that interest me. I’d take a breath and commit to reading more.

The most refreshing part about that whole discussion was that the professor brought up the topic of music that had been composed by robots and screenplays written by computers. Most of the class agreed (only after the professor said it more than once) that humans in creative fields like music and writing and painting technically can be replaced by machines, sure. But when you listen to that music, or look at that drawing, or watch that screenplay being acted out… it’s just not right. “It’s just very obvious that it was not written by a human being.” After that, we had a brief discussion about how screwed up the publishing process is for writing a book after someone made a comment along the lines of, “if you’re a good writer, you sell a million books, you’re set for life.” The professor and I both cringed because frankly, I wish that were true.

But anyway. For some reason, the reflex of so many people is to stamp out any spark of creativity and spit on people who study the arts. They don’t take into account that discouraging artists will soon make movies, books, music, and interesting clothing disappear. 

They don’t take into account how much damage that does to someone, to be told constantly to find something because what they love doesn’t count.

College has brought me many things, not all positive, but I’m grateful for most all of them. Recently, I was granted the choice between statistics and creative writing.

Since go, I’ve understood college in perhaps the most incorrect way possible. I had the idea in my head that picking up classes because they sounded neat was somehow wrong. I also know that an understanding of statistics is a pretty useful tool for most things. Those two things were all it took for me to tell myself, “yeah, math sucks but this is useful and it’s better to just get it over with.”

I didn’t know at that time that a creative writing class was an alternative until a third party stepped in and laid my choices in front of me and started asking me questions that I already knew I was failing to ask myself.

And the fact is that knowledge of statistics is useful and often even required. Another fact, however, is that there is not a shortage of opportunities to pursue a statistics course. I’m not running short on time, either.

Dropping statistics in exchange for a second creative writing course was not a hard choice. In fact, it was kind of terrifyingly easy. When it comes to choosing between writing and something else, writing is my first choice most of the time. However, since about my sophomore year of high school, I’ve had to set it aside and focus on other things, and I guess you could say that my brain is hardwired that way now. Meaning, I tend to just assume that writing needs to go on the backburner until “later.”

Coming into summer and reflecting on the things I’ve learned over the past two semesters has lead me onto a weird thought train. 

I’ve learned that it’s not okay to leave the things I love on the back burner or in the margins of my life. That’s why I’m so excited about the classes I’m taking in the fall, and yet I’m still harboring a weird feeling, something that almost feels like guilt.

 Because like I said, my brain feels hard-wired into thinking that writing is something that needs to wait. It brings me back to the ideas about “real jobs” that I’ve been taught forever, that have always scared me so much for so many reasons.

Maybe writing isn’t a real job. Maybe I’ll take this next creative writing course and love it, and find the time and motivation to finish the YA novel I’ve been working on for three years. Maybe after that, I’ll be satisfied and never want to write another thing ever again.

That last one may be very unlikely, but I won’t know for certain until I get there. Nothing is certain, especially not when it comes to things like this.

I don’t want to spend my life stifling my creativity and my passions for the sake of not facing criticism or for the sake of money or because I’ve convinced myself that it will make my life easier. 

I will start my second year of college in the fall, and I will be starting it with a new mindset. I don’t want to deny myself the enjoyment of pursuing courses that seem cool just because I won’t “use” them.

I had to take a Geometry and Trigonometry (twice!) in high school and I suffered all the way through. It’s safe to assume I won’t be using those in my everyday life. So, forgive me if I’ve realized that now’s the time to take a few classes that I enjoy, even if I won’t “use” them or don’t “need” them. Because I no longer believe that those two things are or need to be mutually exclusive.

I’m not ready to be “done” with writing or English classes, and that’s something that I have always known but I had to be pushed toward realizing. Especially realizing that it’s okay, and that if I don’t go for it now, I will probably grow to resent myself at some point down the line. 

Because, of course: in the end, love always wins.

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