A Post on Senior Pranks (FW)

For the senior prank this year our class decided on the senior snuggle.

We had more than thirty students participate and we snuggled for around a half an hour. We all received referrals and may receive detentions. This is frustrating seeing as having a senior prank is a tradition and our prank was not destructive in any way. If we do get detention we may have a early morning dance party or continue our snuggle-fest. Fair warning. The senior prank is a right of passage and gives seniors a chance to blow off steam as well as leaving a legacy for high-school students below them. Besides getting me my first referral (wootwoot!) this experience has caused me to wonder what other schools have done in the past. Surely it must have been worse than snuggling. Here is what I found.
Seniors have done ridiculous things in the past. Pranks range from the classic saran-wrapping of the school officials cars to the more contemporary filling the school with packing peanuts. One school filled thousands of Styrofoam cups with water and placed them in the hallways so that nobody could get into or out the school without flooding the halls or picking up all the cups. Other pranks involve animals (Letting three chickens free in the school and labeling them 1,2, and 4) and destruction of property (badly damaging paper mache mascots by launching them on top of the school building. Really is that better than taking a senior nap for half an hour during AP Prep?
Senior pranks around the world:
 In Australia and Britain, the senior prank day is referred to as a muck-up day.  Often the staff of the school help the seniors out with the prank. Pranks done on muck-up day with the help of school administrators include dyeing the school swimming pool purple, doing fake announcements on the school intercom and filling the hallways with streamers, calling school off and throwing a party. The administration usually supports these antics and joins in (we would have made room if Black River's administrators wanted to snuggle too!). In Germany seniors made a fake gravestone for the senior class ("Senior class 1997, Because they knew too much") and placed it in front of their school.

This concludes by senior prank blog-post. I think graduating seniors should have a right to blow off some steam as long as the prank is not destructive and does not endanger anyone. So...

The troubles with poetry (dark pun intended) (PW)

 So today has been a hot mess. Everything was well until I began researching Tibetan architecture for my Art History Presentation. I was online looking at pictures of this beautiful temple when I found out the temple had been destroyed and burned to the ground by the Chinese government. In the past 50 years it is estimated that the Chinese Government has murdered atleast1 million Tibetans. It was all a number until I saw the pictures of destruction and demolition online. Peoples houses, as well as my beautiful Buddhist temple have been burnt to the ground. I was really upset (I guess I still am because I'm writing this post). Anyways for my poetry write I chose to look up more destruction. In this post I'm combining my love of the Troubles history and Ireland with my love of poetry. 
 
Here are two poems. Casualty was written in 1979 about the Troubles (ongoing conflict between the Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. Easter, 1916 refers to the Easter Rising in 1916 when a thousand Irish Republicans died trying to get Ireland to secede from Britain.
Casualty
By Seamus Heaney
He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another rum
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman's quick eye
And turned observant back.

Incomprehensible
To him, my other life.
Sometimes on the high stool,
Too busy with his knife
At a tobacco plug
And not meeting my eye,
In the pause after a slug
He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own
And, always politic
And shy of condescension,
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals.

But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled. 

Easter, 1916

By William Butler Yeats

I have met them at close of day   

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk among grey   

Eighteenth-century houses.

I have passed with a nod of the head   

Or polite meaningless words,   

Or have lingered awhile and said   

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done   

Of a mocking tale or a gibe   

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,   

Being certain that they and I   

But lived where motley is worn:   

All changed, changed utterly:   

A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent   

In ignorant good-will,

Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

What voice more sweet than hers   

When, young and beautiful,   

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school   

And rode our wingèd horse;   

This other his helper and friend   

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,   

So sensitive his nature seemed,   

So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,   

Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,   

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone   

Through summer and winter seem   

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road,   

The rider, the birds that range   

From cloud to tumbling cloud,   

Minute by minute they change;   

A shadow of cloud on the stream   

Changes minute by minute;   

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,   

And a horse plashes within it;   

The long-legged moor-hens dive,   

And hens to moor-cocks call;   

Minute by minute they live:   

The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.   

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven's part, our part   

To murmur name upon name,   

As a mother names her child   

When sleep at last has come   

On limbs that had run wild.   

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;   

Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith   

For all that is done and said.   

We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;   

And what if excess of love   

Bewildered them till they died?   

I write it out in a verse—

MacDonagh and MacBride   

And Connolly and Pearse

Now and in time to be,

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:   

A terrible beauty is born.

Some much-needed analysis:
The two poems are both hauntingly beautiful. They also are set in Ireland, written by Irish-born poets and deal with death. They differ in that Casualty focuses on a commoner with no connection to the conflict going on around him. He is never given a name because he is meant to represent every unaffiliated bystander who has been or will be harmed by the Troubles. The man's only fault was that he disobeyed curfew to have another pint at a pub.
Easter, 1916 is more specific. For one, it focuses on a specific event while the casualties of the troubles were ongoing for a good forty years. It also focuses on specific leaders. Patrick Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, Connoly and the others mentioned were all leaders in the rebellion who were executed by the British.
Both poems provide social commentary in different ways. Both poems have the ability to make me cry. I wish I could provide better analysis than this but it is 12:50 pm on a Wednesday and I'm so done.
Here are some pretty pictures of Northern Ireland

Who on earth is Beloved? Does it really matter who she is?(CC)

 
I recently finished reading "Beloved" by Toni Morrison for my High school English class. I realize that I've just committed to writing an entire blog post about the book but I really cannot describe my feelings toward it. It was disturbing and engrossing and disgusting and revolting. I mean I didn't go into reading a book about infanticide and slavery thinking it would be cheerful, but OH MY GOODNESS. It was also the weirdest book I've read since I read "Winkie" which is a fantastic book about a teddy bear who comes to life, quotes transcendentalists and is taken into custody by the U.S. Government as a terrorist.

The most confusing character I ran into was Beloved. I mean really, who is this chick? She appears sopping wet by house 124 shortly after Paul D scares away the baby ghost that was haunting Sethe (the mom who killed the baby) and her family for the last 18 years. Some thinks she is the spirit of the baby ghost, some think she is just a girl who was kept in captivity her entire life and ran away and some think she is the re-incarnation of Sethe's mum. Other more intelligent people have given up on pondering nonsense and have decided that Beloved is just an allegory for the past infiltrating the future and left it at that. I would attend to agree with their approach.
Does it really matter if Beloved is a ghost, a spirit, or just a really screwed up human being? I don't think so. What matters is the effect she has on those around her. Sethe believes her to be the dead baby reincarnate and out of a strange mix of guilt and love she rearranges her life to accommodate her. In that way the past controls the future. Sethe and Denver almost starve because Sethe lost her job due to the time she spent coddling Beloved. This event led to Denver finally going out into the world and assuming a new, healthier identity. Whether or not Beloved was actually the dead baby, Sethe and Denver embraced their pasts by taking her in and when she left they were finally able to move on. This way of thinking about Beloved is a lot easier for me than trying to contemplate spirits, slave ships and reincarnation. It was the same way for me with reading "Life of Pi". I got so frustrated at the end when you realize that the tiger might not actually be real that I worked to omit the last chapter of the book from my memory. Sometimes analyzing complicated books in simple ways is the best.

Behind the Burqa (IR)

For our independent reading, my group decided on "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini. The book gives a fantastic inside view on life in Kabul under the Taliban and Sharia law. The book really appealed to my feminist critic side because it goes in depth about the treatment and status of women in Kabul. The two main characters in the book are Laila and Miriam and when Kabul comes under Taliban rule they are no longer allowed to venture outside A.) unless they have a male relative with them and B.) if they are wearing a Burqa. Burqas have always terrified me. They seem like more like a cage than actual clothing.
The Burqa:

The Burqa is the more extreme form of traditional head coverings such as the Hajib, Naqib and Chador. It literally covers women from head to toe, leaving a mesh covered part for the eyes so women retain some vision. They're heavy and they're hot. Their supposed purpose is to keep men from temptation. In the western world they're seen by many as a sign of oppression. France actually outlawed the wearing of burqas for that reason as well as security reasons.  The thing I found most interesting about the Burqa when I was reading "A Thousand Splendid Suns" and later "The Swallows of Kabul" was that at first the female characters hated the garment but in time they almost grew attached to it. Yes, the burqa is demeaning and sexist and uncomfortable, yet it did offer a sort of protection. All the female characters had the realization that when they wore the burqa they seemed to get more respect from people around them and the anonymity it offered protected them from leers and stares. I ran into a sort of similar situation when I was traveling in India. After the first day, I learned to always cover my hair when I went out because when I did men stopped bothering me. I gained respect and the cute street-children didn't try to stop me and pull on my red hair to see if it was actually real. I didn't want to stand out as a white woman traveling in India and covering my hair helped a lot. It was a really good thing for a woman to not stand out in Taliban-run Kabul and the the burqa provided that.
I'm not saying that the burqa is a good thing. It's horrible that woman are forced to hide their faces and lose a big part of their individual expression just for the sake of saving weak men from temptation. It's sexist and revolting. However one should not overlook the fact that perhaps some women may want to keep the burqa. I argued in the 10th grade human rights paper that if women in France wanted to wear the burqa, they should be allowed to. That is as long as its a personal choice and not one being forced upon them by men.