AP English 13

         Gritting my teeth, I manage to finish the essay in record time.  Even though my hand throbs with biting pain after having to write pages of analysis, a wide smile still encroaches my face as I realize I just finished my last writing assignment in AP English class.  What a wonderful day!  After years of grueling effort and exertion, graduation day from high school, or more accurately, graduation day from AP English, stands only a day away.  Tears of happiness begin to swell in my eyes.  I love my lif—
          BOOM!  A large flash of light expands across the classroom.  Complete darkness follows, along with rampant screams of terror.  What could possibly…the snowstorm!  My feelings of prior jubilance soon melt into a puddle of depression.  The latest crescendo of wind outside must have knocked down the local power lines.  In the blackness, panic became almost palpable.
          “It seems the power has gone out.” All eyes turn toward the front classroom, revealing Ms. Serensky at her desk, a flashlight shining on her face—reminiscent to that of an adult telling a scary story at a campfire.  After a moment of silence, she proceeds to the classroom door and tries to open it, but fails.  “That latest bout of wind also seems to have caused part of this school’s infrastructure to collapse.  Or in layman’s terms, we’re trapped in here.”
          Gasps of fear erupt throughout the room.  I hear a person next to me begin to sob.  “Your lives are in my hands.  I am the king of this island now,” continues Ms. Serensky.  She shines the flashlight on the classroom closet.  “Exit, pursued by a bear.” 
          Antigonus jumps from the closet space, with a large ferocious mammal right behind him.  “Please, no!  Don’t do this Ms. Serensky! God help me,” bellows Antigonus.  Panting with dread, Antigonus tries to make run for the line of windows.  However, the large grizzly bear beats him to it and mauls the poor man’s body apart, limb by limb.  Blood splatters across the nearest row of students.  The fervent cries of Antigonus, once loud and powerful, soon fade to silence.
            “As you all can see, this is what happens if any of you betray me.”  Solemnly, Ms. Serensky scans the classroom, shining her light on everyone’s faces.  The bear meanders its way to her, and she pets the animal’s bloody, mangled hair.  “Let the games begin.”

Five Steps to a Five/P90X

It took some significant effort to compile this concise and effective source of AP English advice and stratagems.  Please guard this manual with your life and treat it with reverence.  If you follow these five steps, you can expect glory, wealth, and a 5 on the AP exam in the near future.  However, if you digress from this set path of instructions, prepare for pain and anguish.

Step One:  Never look back. 

            It all comes back to the origin—that time you first sign up for AP English 11.  When you sign your scheduling contract with the Chagrin Falls Counseling Department, your soul will become the property of a higher power.  Do not fret.  Do not cry.  Do not get anxious.  These emotions will only weigh you down, and in some severe cases, destroy you.  Honestly, you will probably lose many of your friends on this journey.  You must leave them behind, as only the strong survive.

 Step Two: Weight training for your hands.

            Unless you start bulking your hands up with some serious muscle, you can anticipate to have arthritis by the time you turn twenty. Many a student has suffered a drop in his or her English grade because of the inability to cope with the physical stress.  Weak hands, weak mind.

 Step Three: Stock up on blue and black pens.

            Only two colors of ink have permission to enter the domain of Ms. Serensky.  To bring any other color would shake the foundations of the classroom.  Red?  Purple?  Green?  Sorry, fat chance.  How about black and blue?  Sure, if you can handle Ms. Serensky making you black and blue.

Step Four: Never miss a day of class…ever.
            The bus has broken down and your car has no gas.  Also, a lightning storm rages outside your window and the temperature has dropped below zero.  School starts in less than thirty minutes.  What do you do?  You run as fast as humanly possible—or collapse from complete exhaustion—until you reach the AP English classroom.  Missing one day could freeze the world over and permanently prevent you from catching up.  Punctuality or failure?   Personally, I prefer the former option.

 Step Five: Make friends with smart people.

             Only four days of the year in AP English offer a glimpse of hope for a good grade: Extra Credit Multiple Choice Day.  During any one of these joyous days, you can actually see your grade increase in AP English.  Therefore, to optimize that percentage of increase, ditch the dummies and find a group of people you think could answer multiple choice questions efficiently. 

I Need an Alphabet Song for My Name

[The following paragraph comes from a diary entry from the one and only Katie
Schmiedicker.  I managed to steal a page and transcribe it myself.  Enjoy.]

Dear Diary,

Ugh!  What another boring, long day.   Why do seniors have to go to school second semester?   I do not see the point.  This morning, I had another substitute teacher in one of my classes.  Obviously, teachers do not want to show up anymore as well.  Anyways, the substitute spent five minutes mispronouncing my name during the call for attendance.  “Skmid-idick-er?” No. “Smyde-deeker?”  Still, no. “Can you sound it out for me, Katie?” Has everyone forgotten how to use phonetics? People just need to sound it out.  Come on, root words.  Besides having a first name shared by hundreds of people in Chagrin Falls High School, I also have the longest last name no one has ever heard of—such a sad paradox.  Later in the day, things picked up a little bit.  During gym class, I demolished everyone in volleyball.  Honestly, the other team should not have even showed up.  I mean, they call me the “Gold Digger.”  It felt wonderful to vent some of my anger and frustration with the school system into an athletic activity—so many problems around here (sigh).  After teaching those underclassmen a lesson in sports, I began the trek to the classroom of AP English 12.  It only took a few self-motivational speeches, but I managed to convince myself to enter through the doorway.  Inside, I sat next to my writing partner, Alex King.  Among all of the writing partners I have had before, Alex and I probably share the most compatibility.  We procrastinate, waver on what to write about, and usually have no clue what to do most of the time.  Would I call these qualities ingredients for success?  Probably not, but who cares.  Today, Ms. Serensky gave the class a prompt with two poems and asked us to pre-write for it.  By the time she called “time,” I had only just started my outline.  Bummer.  Also, I think she mentioned something about a project deadline…worth half of my grade…maybe not.  Darn, I lost my train of thought.   What did I want to say?  Oh yeah, I hate school.  Alright, I am off to bed.  I already spent four hours on this diary entry.

Peace out,

Katie Schmiedicker (Spelled S-C-H-M-I-E-D-I-C-K-E-R)

Standing Still

          Life has many milestones—specific marks of achievement spread both structurally and sporadically throughout a lifetime.  Some milestones lay in conspicuous plain sight, waiting for that specific time of grandeur to arrive.  Other milestones occur at seemingly random times, surprising us with their presence.  The first milestone I can remember occurred twelve years ago.  I stood before an imposing entrance to a frighteningly large elementary school, and I can recall feeling contrasting emotions of fear and excitement.  In a matter of moments, I would meet my classmates of tomorrow and start my formal journey of education.  Entering that building would obviously initiate Kindergarten, but it would also initiate the beginning of maturity, of growing up.  While I did not specifically know the latter fact at the time, I still felt aware of the magnitude.  That experience of immobility, standing still before my future and thinking about the life-altering events to come, perfectly encapsulates the same position I find myself in now as I prepare to graduate high school and enter college.  How do I want my college peers to view me next year?  What kind of impression do I want to leave in the minds of people I have never previously met before?  I have had quite some time to ponder these questions and I think the answer has relative simplicity.  While I consider myself to have changed considerably since my kindergarten self, I think my approach to interacting with others has not deviated.  I want others to see me as welcoming and accepting.  A whole world of people and culture exists outside the boundaries of Chagrin Falls, and I want to fully explore that world and take advantage of meeting unique people.   Therefore, I want others to think of me as genuine, sociable and eager to embrace novel experiences.  In my mind, the worst thing I can do in college consists of closing myself off to unfamiliar territory and associating myself with similar people.  Twelve years ago, a boy took those first steps.  He broke his torpor, held his head high, and walked into a new phase of life with a broad smile.  I look to his straightforward but bold actions for compelling guidance.

The Bigger Picture

Dear Distraught Girlfriend,

            Examining your request for advice, I can tell that you very much want your current relationship to succeed.  Therefore, I will provide two avenues of recommendation—one that you want to hear, and one that you need to hear.  To begin, let us explore that first avenue.  For any relationship trouble there exists the potential for conflict resolution.  Identifying and comprehending that conflict serves as the most important step in salvaging a deteriorating relationship.   Keep in mind that most complications that initiate breakups do not arise spontaneously.  If your boyfriend wants to break up with you, and you think your relationship can continue in its current state, you must have ignorance to the very problem inhibiting unification.  Relationships do not typically go awry in less than a day.  It takes time for couples to drift.  Remembering what brought the two of you together in the first place may reinforce the foundations of your relationship and shed light on what gave impetus to your boyfriend’s dissatisfaction.  Now, we shall explore the second avenue.  Despite your knowledge of your partner’s inclination to end the relationship, you want to hold on to a sinking ship.  The definition of a relationship describes “two” people who want the best for “each” other.  The moment a relationship becomes singular and one-sided, the purity of a relationship becomes tainted.  Most likely, the two of you once had a successful rapport in the past, but now you both have different interests, goals, and priorities.  Even if you do manage to convince your boyfriend to stay with you, his past desire to end the relationship will forever cast a dark shadow on your future.  Moreover, doubt and uncertainty will linger in the periphery of your thoughts.  Following this logic, you have two options.  You can either take a temporary relationship hiatus and see how life fairs without your boyfriend or you can break up and move on to bigger and better things.   Do not fret over others’ perception of you.  Select the decision that would make you most happy and content.  I wish you luck in your decision.

The One and Only,

Ms. Serensky

The Perplexing Search for Perplexity

            As long as I can remember, people have inquired about my “favorites.”  Favorite color, favorite food, favorite movie, etc.  The expectation that people easily select and share their favorites serves as an instilled societal norm.  Unfortunately, I am an outlier—as always—for this social trend.  I find it very strenuous to recite the things I enjoy most, or consider superior.  I think this partially has to do with my aggravating tendency to find fault in everything.   Because everything has flaws, I see no reason to pinpoint a “favorite thing” if no perfect archetype exists in the first place.  Thus, my favorite book, music, and the like seem to deviate daily.  Crazy, right?  Now, after explaining my personal madness, I feel equipped to answer the question at hand: What movie sits atop my all-time favorite list? After much contemplation, I have come to a decision: Inception.  The movie has that typical standard of a wonderful cast and superb special effects, but also has something I value and find paramount to the title of “all-time great.”  The plot for Inception has such novelty and complexity unmatched in other films.  Usually, I find the majority of movies to have predictable storylines and conclusions.  Most films dabble in what made other movies successful, and synthesize a series of well-known concepts to make a decent, if not original, story.  Instead, Inception journeys into a new world of ideas.  Exerting myself mentally to determine my favorite movie reminded me of the similar headaches I experienced while watching Inception in the theater.  The movie follows a thief who journeys into the subconscious of target to implant an idea for a shady client.  The thief utilizes dreams within dreams within dreams to tap into the deepest recesses of the target’s mind.  Just thinking of that intricate plan made my own mind spin for hours on end.  I love it when a movie prompts the viewer to think critically, form hypotheses, and invent interpretations of meaning.  A movie that has that open-endedness, permitting an individualized experience for every viewer, has a very special attribute.   I may have much difficulty in evaluating the favorites of my life, but at least I now know one.   Inception plays with the nature of reality and people’s personal perceptions of it.  That focus on individuality, like my idiosyncrasy to inefficiently choose favorites, makes the movie that much more one-of-a-kind.   

Taken

I have watched her a long time

And now she seems mature and prime.
At dawn, I decided to have her and struck,
Grabbing and placing her in the back of my truck.
I thanked the dealer for the sale
And then drove out into the strong gale.
Tears streamed from her eyes like a broken faucet
Despite my vocal instructions to stop it.
Finally the vehicle pulled into the house
I could not wait to show the puppy to my spouse.

                Recently, as a leading member of a planning committee, I helped organize a forum at the Cleveland City Club about human trafficking.  Many people know of this crime’s propagation across the globe, especially in third-world countries.  However, many individuals do not know of its domestic pervasiveness.  Currently, the city of Toledo, Ohio serves as the premier hubbub of human trafficking, or “modern slavery,” in the United States.  In my poem, I wanted to throw the reader off guard and contemplate this harsh topic before they reached the poem’s conclusion.  I utilized words like “dealer” and “sale” to construct a harsh and sympathetic tone (4, 2).  The description of buying a potential human being arouses extreme discomfort from persons living in relative security.  Additionally, I decided to build a somber mood by comparing the tears of the puppy to a “broken faucet” (7).  The image of a busted faucet conjures to mind a seemingly endless streaming of tears, which tugs at the heartstrings of the reader and pushes the implication of future pain or torture.  Most of all, the opening line of the poem, “I have watched her a long time,” begins the story with a sense of horror (1).  The ominous tone of “watched her” has a disturbing connotation and portrays the speaker as a stalker.  Human trafficking can arise in nearly any environment and flourishes on the ignorance of the uninvolved.   Hopefully, my uncomfortable poem spurs the reader to do some research on their own.  Humans need a medium like film, journalism, or poetry to espouse the empathy required to take action.

Common Sense

Dear Eleven Year Old Self,

     I apologize for the extenuated period since I last wrote.  I have attempted to rebuff your presence, but it seems I can do so no longer.  Years of forced repression tend to do that to willpower.  Anyways, I am writing this letter as a source of forthright advice—some may call it criticism—to help you.  Think of it as a free how-to-succeed-in-life manual, but with snarky comments and a lack of positive reinforcement.  I believe John Holmes once stated, “There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.”  Therefore, by bringing you down, I am logically exercising my mind (a far more useful organ than the heart).  First order of business, lose the infantile and eccentric hobbies.  Owning a magic kit does not make you Houdini.  Spending your time practicing magic tricks equates to heightened awkwardness and the delusion that “everything will magically be okay.”  Furthermore, please discard the massive piles of rocks in your room.  What would someone intentionally spend money on rocks?  A geology degree does not wait in your near future, and I am fairly certain owning “pet rocks” represents significant psychological issues.  And speaking of rocks, I cannot even begin to comprehend your reasoning behind owning a rocket launcher—I think you know the solution to that dilemma.  Second, drink up on milk.  Hopefully, this will spur your osteoblasts to ossify what you need most: a backbone.  Harboring fear for darkness, for heights, for not doing a homework assignment…things need to change.   Doing one wrong thing, like breaking the law, skipping school, or forgetting your lunchbox, will not bring about the end of the world.  Getting anxious about minute problems makes you hauntingly shallow.  Grow up, crybaby.   Lastly, please—I beg you—purchase a real haircut.   The bowl-cut you “rocked” for eleven years needs to hit the road.   If you had any shred of self-awareness, you would realize you live as a modern day kid in twenty-first century United States, not a reclusive farmer in sixth century China.  In conclusion, if you heed my words of infinite wisdom, you will find little difficulty in the coming six years.   You might even ascend from the status of “unique” to “almost normal.”  What an accomplishment.

Yours Truly,

A Better You      

A Story to Tell

             Tears streamed down Maya’s face as she vigorously pumped her legs and ran down the street.  Running seemed the only rational action to calm her chaotic thoughts.

            “This—this cannot be happening,” heaved Maya.    Thump, thump.  Her feet rhythmically pounded against the solid pavement.  Each stride only confirmed the reality of the world around her.  Maya quickened her pace, desperately trying to defy her sense of perception.  The mental walls protecting her from harm, from the truth, began to deteriorate.  She needed to escape.

            The second hand bookstore stood at the intersection of Main and Worthington.  A dilapidated building that had seen more corrosion than customers, the bookstore exuded an aura of mystery.  Its apartness from the surrounding stores attracted the tired Maya.  She hurriedly wiped her face and entered the disheveled building.

            Shelves of misshapen books lined the small space from wall to wall.  A musty smell permeated the air.  From her peripheral vision, Maya could see myriad colors and sizes of books.  Not one seemed similar to another.

            An old man with large round rimmed glasses sat at an oak counter, reading a crumpled book with copious ink stains.  “You have quite the collection of books, sir,” said Maya, trying to steady her voice.  “Do you get many customers?”  She could not remember a single customer leaving with a purchase.

            “Bah,” exclaimed the old man. “I only keep this place running for my wife; she’s a schoolteacher.  She could never let this place go.  It’s too special to her.”

            “My mother is a schoolteacher too!  She always presses me t—” Maya cut herself off.  She had temporarily forgotten.   “She was a schoolteacher.”  Maya finished softly.

            The old man took off his glasses, exposing wrinkled, yet compassionate eyes.  “You know, stories are not confined to books.  Stories told through words, that are passed on to friends and children, are just as immortalized as text on paper.  The carriers of books, those that bring them to this store, have stories as well.”

            He beckoned to a padded chair beside him. “Come, this is a place where stories are remembered.”      

My Daily Pi

Pacing back and forth, I glance at the dining room table. Stacks of large volumes of text lay scattered on its surface.  Peering at one of the open pages, my eyes take in the haunting image of thousands of characters and symbols.  I know that I need to do this.  The time has come to begin my math homework—a three step process.  First, I pull out the calculator from my pencil pouch.   Before I can actually use the gadget’s software, I have to solve a series of twelve mathematical algorithms on the calculator.  If I do not complete these twelve problems within five minutes, a chip embedded in the calculator’s computing system automatically explodes.  From personal experience, a few of my friends unfortunately bit the dust due to slow reaction times.  The Chagrin Falls Math Department describes this pruning process as “natural selection.”  Second, I select a specially crafted mathematics pencil.  The eraser tip of the pencil has a coating of sulfuric acid.    Erasing errors on paper scorches the skin, which teaches the user to never make written mistakes.  Truly, no other mode of learning works more effectively than classical conditioning.  Third, I start solving the assigned 1,000 problems, which span over 16 textbooks written in four languages, including Swahili.  The first 500 questions inquire the basics: differential equations, integration, and world hunger.  After problem 500, things get a bit dicey.  The subject matter shifts to astrophysics.   Questions range from “How many stars exist in the sky?” to “Determine the flight path of Earth in 168 years.”  To reduce the incidence of mistakes, for every wrong answer, a random bone in the body breaks.  Luckily, the human skeletal system has 206 bones.  I can usually endure ten wrong problems before I have to go to the hospital.  If I am lucky, I finish within the 12 hour limit.   If not, I lose the privilege to see my family for two months.  Isolation from relatives reinforces work ethic and the cost of failure.  After a routine night of math homework, I will then treat any chemical or physical damage.  Optimally, I sustain the ability to walk and move my facial muscles.  After I put away my math binder, I assemble a machete and a pair of nunchucks for the more difficult task ahead.  English homework. 

 

Final ADDition to My Blog

            A new year represents rebirth, recovery, and restoration.  Meaning, the previous year has gone to rest and new horizons and excitement have arisen.  Family and friends, aroused by this concept of limitless opportunities, tell us to make resolutions, or long term goals to improve happiness.  Losing weight, becoming richer, gaining popularity—these ambitions encompass only a fraction of possibilities.  Unfortunately, in order to successfully follow through one of these admirable resolutions, one needs something called dedication.  Merriam Webster dictionary construes dedication as “self-sacrificing devotion.”  Notice the imperative stipulations of “sacrifice” and “devotion.”  Hard work and focus, not fairy dust and rainbows, will make a goal materialize into reality.  Looking back at my previous resolutions, I can only remember failure and shame.  How depressing.  I relate my resolutional shortcomings to my miniscule level of focus.  I hypothesize that starting at age six, the development of my ability to fixate on one subject stunted.  My parents identify me as having a large, tumultuous imagination paired with the attention span of a gnat.  Honestly, to write these blogs, or any writing assignment for that matter, I have to continuously slap my face, talk to myself, walk around, watch television, and read a book in order to write down just twenty words on a piece of paper.  Truly, blogs serve as a serious calorie-burning activity for me.  Coincidentally, my favorite blog I wrote this semester, “The New Times of Romans,” pays tribute to my rudimentary concentration capacity.  I discuss how Times New Roman acts as a barricade to my creativity, and exacerbates my now notorious infantile focus level.  Watching myself type a blocky, trite font on the computer deeply disenchants me.  Readers of this blog will probably come to one of two possible conclusions: one, Times New Roman does indeed inhibit the writing process; or two, this kid needs a psychiatrist.  Following this theme of plausible insanity, I would choose “Spaghetti and Meatbrawls: A King Family Specialty” as my most interesting piece.  For the first time in media history, external observers got an inside look into the King family.  Ironically, while I wrote about my family’s opinion of the most "interesting" people of 2012, I find my family structure even more interesting.  I utilized accurate characterizations of my discordant family members to help portray my typical dinner experience—inexplicable topics meet manic personalities.  Speaking of incongruity, my favorite blog comment came from Claire Kampman, on my blog titled “What Not to Say in Class Discussion."  After reading of the "mini-me", Claire juxtaposed our childhood selves.  Claire radiated happiness, worked to please her teachers, and frequently acted on her curiosity.  I emanated cynicism, judged my classmates, and got caught up in numerous thoughts.  Amazingly, despite these obvious differences, we somehow have a strong friendship.  Realizing the number of supposed impossibilities I have overcome in my life, I am content with myself even though I have failed every New Year resolution to date.  The small achievements—like getting along with family, gaining friends, or even finishing a blog—give life its defining sense of fulfillment.