Imaginary homeland

In the text "Imaginary Homelands” that author Salman Rushdie discusses being a migrant, an Indian writer outside of India. He writes that he has an image of his homeland, an imagination of India that exists partially in reality and partially in his own mind. The only memories he retain of home are in the black-and-white of old photographs. His introduction begins with him discussing the black-and-white photo of his Bombay house, hanging on the wall of his office, how this image seems more real to him than the actual memories.

I myself particularly identify with this sentiment. On my desktop there is an image of a house in autumn, slate stone walls contrasting with the fiery brightness of Canadian maples in fall. This is how I've come to picture my house, as the image I first see when I open my laptop, a contrast of dull grey and flaming reds. I know that the seasons have changed, that all the leaves have died and fallen and been swept away in the winter wind, but the image on my desktop remains the fixed image of "home".

Rushdie also writes about the “fragmented vision” in which one deals when one has left home. One’s views have been mixed with international perspectives and the ideas and ideals of several groups, people, and situations. Rushdie’s experience of living in England will have certainly influenced his perspectives on the British as a whole, not just from the Indian point of view. To some, this may seem a broken image, tarnished by the influence of foreign ideals. However, the globalization of perspectives is once which is becoming rampant in modern society. We look upon supposedly “untainted” views, views which have never explored beyond the borders of one’s country, as ignorant, uneducated. “The broken mirror may be as valuable as the one which is supposedly unflawed”. The globalized perspective is in truth more valuable than the homegrown.

The metaphor of the mirror also applies to one’s reminiscing. Bits and pieces of Canada come back as fragments when I strain to recall. Walking to the bus stop on a Monday morning in harsh January sleet, standing in line at Tim Horton’s for a chance to win at Roll Up The Rim coffee, sweltering by the splash pad in downtown Guelph, racking up huge piles of fallen leaves in the backyard and then swinging headlong into it from the tire swing suspended from the branches above. Fragments return just as Rushdie recalls random fragments of India: school scenes, neon jeep signs on marine drive, bits of Bombay dialogue and clothing that people wore. The past surprises us endlessly with its random bursts of recollection and the precision of little details, making the imagined scene of our homelands that much more real.

As Woodstockers, especially international students, this text as a whole is particularly significant in terms of how we identify home. We live at school live in the hill station on Mussoorie. None of us really identify Woodstock as our home: home is always somewhere else, and we always look back on home through the lens of reminiscence.

When we do return home things will never be quite the same as when we left. As the author Terry Prachett once wrote, "Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.” When we return to the starting line it’s not the same as never having run the race

Living in the past, a country from which we have all migrated, serves little purpose in the lifelong race that is life. No matter how much we wish we could return, we will always have grown up and moved away. In that shared loss we find each other, as adults seeking to reunite with what was once untarnished and joyful, untouched by the stresses and concerns of modern life. But in that fragmented mess we become whole. The pieces of India will influence my experiences of Canada for years to come, perhaps the rest of my life. Canada may have stayed the same, but I will not be the same person that left. I will have been changed by my separation, the Canada that was my homeland is now but a memory, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What went wrong?

4) Lisa Fischer-Luckenbach writes a scathing letter about Krakauer’s piece for
Outside magazine (see p. 285). Respond to her criticisms by agreeing with her,
disagreeing with her, or qualifying her argument.

Lisa Fischer-Luckenbach wrote a very critical and demeaning letter to Krakauer
shortly after the magazine article was published. She lashed out at him,
stating that he had the "uncanny ability to know precisely what was going
on in the hearts and minds of everyone in the expedition". This accusation
is not entirely true. While Krakauer did several times put his own
interpretation of events into the novel (and presumably the Outside article),
he has been meticulous in his efforts to verify his information with interviews
and recorded details. Krakauer has in fact stated several times that he was
quite inebriated during the time of the disaster, and was completely exhausted
and hypoxic during the time of the disaster, when he “scrambled back into his
own tent for safety and survival”.

Ms Fischer-Luckenbach did make an astute point when she says, “You have commented
about what SHOULD have been done by the leaders, the Sherpas, the clients…” She
is correct in her statements, but she neglected to mention the amount of“should-have’s” Krakauer administered to himself. Krakauer wrote “[She was] amere 350 yards away” (speaking of Yasuko Namba) and he was in his tent, unaware of her plight for survival, something he has written will haunt him for years
to come.

When Ms Fischer-Luckenbach addresses the issue of Krakauer’s “analyzing,
criticizing, judging, or hypothesizing”, one must recall that it is Krakauer’s
duty, his job to write in a manner that does not simply gloss over the tragedy,
that does not simply recall details and events. As a journalist it is his job
to report, with a degree of analysis and criticism, the events that transpired
on the summit of Everest during the spring of 1996.

I find myself disagreeing with Ms Fischer-Luckenbach in terms of this letter. It
seems to be a catharsis, unleashing her pent-up anger and grief on the first
target to present itself, John Krakauer through his Outside magazine piece. She
made several accurate and touchy points in her letter, about Krakauer’s blame
spreading and resulting consequences for the involved parties, but this has
done little good to ease the pain of Krakauer’s “ego” and her grief over losing
her brother.

While it was probably quite healthy for Ms Fischer-Luckenbach to vent herself in this manner, perhaps it would have been best for all involved if this letter had never been sent.

My stand on creationism vs. evolution

2) Take a stand and post your opinion on a controversial subject. Your goal should be to persuade those who would disagree with you to at least consider your position and points.

Creationism vs. evolution. Why is there such a debate about the two of them, as though the two of the cannot co-exist? 

Creationists insist that the world was created in 7 days, with everything falling into place exactly as it is today, with no changes other than those of the divine plan. The bible is literally translated, taken word for word as truth.  Because if this, some schools are forbidden from teaching the concept of continental drift, the idea of Pangaea. Because of this, evolution is seen as lies, denial of divine truth, sinful.

In fact, the creation story can be taken simply as an allegory. Every civilization, every group of humans ever has their own interpretation of how we came to exist. With modern resources and scientific evidence, we are able to theorize about our creation not just as a story, not just a metaphor for something incomprehensible. I ask you, do you think it possible that the civilizations of millennia ago could have even begun to understand the concept of space/time being created in a cosmic explosion of unfathomable magnitude? That our planet is a lump of rock whizzing around a fiery ball of hydrogen and helium millions of kilometers away? Of course not. To paraphrase Terry Prachett, "Humans create little stories for themselves to explain away the unexplainable. Then once they feel they understand the story, they feel that they understand the huge, incomprehensible thing". Does this mean the creation story is false? No, it means that it is an interpretation of what could be true, what could be comprehended at that point in history.

I am a Christian who believes in evolution. Does this make me any less Christian? I don't believe it does. I think that evolution is part of the divine plan, that the history as interpreted in the bible is a metaphor for the ancients to understand the utterly incomprehensible. I believe that science is a way of seeking to understand God's magnificent creation instead of just accepting what I am told in the bible. I want to go beyond the ages-old text and discover something more about this universe in which I live.

Once, I saw a boy wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with cartoon characters of Jesus and Darwin. Jesus was in the midst of shooting Darwin in the head with a shotgun, and the image was captioned "Evolve THIS!" I was deeply saddened by this perversion of Christian ideology. Jesus was a man that preached, "love your enemies", "turn the other cheek". Above all else he taught peace and love, for every one. This seemingly deliberate contradiction of what is taught in Christian scripture is what gives Christians their cultural stereotype of non-acceptance and ignorance.

That form of Christian identity is not one which I identify with, one by which many Christians are horrified. But the most vocal of groups is the one that gets noticed, and the stereotype catches us all in its net.

Day-to-day jobs

There is a certain peace that comes from performing menial tasks, like washing dishes, cooking, cleaning your room, and most recently, packing your bags. The peace of mind that comes from accomplishing something productive that needs to be done, while not the most thrilling of passtimes, is ceratinly welcome in the busy, hectic schedule that is a high-schooler's life. 

I have always enjoyed the simple act of washing dishes. I like things to be meticulously clean when I eat off of them. Since I was 7 years old, my job has been washing dishes whilst my brother takes care of drying and my stepbrother outs them away. I enjoy the community and the fun of spending time with my family. We get to share a lot of stories and jokes with one another, and take some time out of our day to spend time being together, which rarely happens in a split household. 

I also enjoy towel-whipping my brother when I'm on drying duty, but that's beisdes the point

Cooking is a day-to-day activity that requires a basic amount of creativity and ingenuity to perform.

As dorm students, we seem to find great joy in the simple act of preparing our own meals. We get to reclaim a bit of authority in the day-to-day function of our lives, instead of eating what is provided for us by the cafeteria. We get to make whatever we want (within the realms of our modest budgets). Spending time at Woodstock has really awakened my desire to cook for myself. I am excited by the prospect of going home and having the resources to create an extravaganza of food from several global locations.

I believe this is why the Masterchef competition of the French 5 class was such a sucess. We were given the opportunity to be creative, make something delicious within a certain budget, and enjoy it altogether as a group. The fact that it was a competition came second to the fun of creating our own meals.

Unlike many teenagers, I atually find pleasure in cleaning my room. I'll put on my heavy metal playlist and power through the piles of laundry and dust bunnies, straightening surfaces and organizing my cupboard. I am always unable to concentrate in a messy environment, which is probably why our room always has perfect room check scores and I get little homework finished before 7 pm. Cleaning gives me time to think, reflect, and then move on with my day. Tacking the seemingly-impossible task of cleaning out my cupboard lets me think about everything else that's happening in my life, and I can happily concentrate on schoolwork when the time comes.

The offshoot of cleaning up is it's larger form of packing everything you own into suitcases and tin trunks. Packing always feels like the beginning of a new adventure to me. Wenever I need to pack, I'm going to do something crazy a cross-US roadtrip in an RV, going on a choir tour to Whistler, British Columbia, or, heck, going to live in India for a year! Packing to go home, on the other hand, promises time with my family and friends, sleeping in my own bed, and seeing my cat. A different form of adventure, but it's the alternative adventure of venturing home.

Packing is a simple activity that promises a lot of excitement to come, which is probablywhy I've already finished my packing for this winter break...

(credit to Allie Brosh of http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ for this meme. If you've never read that blog go read it. I guarantee you'll almost pee your pants laughing)

Best of luck to everyone cramming for exams and writing their butts off getting all these posts done!

Emily

The Plastic Pink Flamingo: AP practice essay

1. (Suggested time—40 minutes)

The passage below is an excerpt from Jennifer Price’s recent essay “The Plastic

Pink Flamingo: A Natural History.” The essay examines the popularity of the plastic

pink flamingo in the 1950s. Read the passage carefully. Then write an essay in which

you analyze how Price crafts the text to reveal her view of United States culture.

   My essay:

       

 In the United States today, the pink flamingo is seen as something flashy, a symbol of trashiness. However, this was not always the case.  In her essay “The Plastic Pink Flamingo” Jennifer Price analyzes how the pink flamingo came to such popularity during the 1950’s and 60’s, and what it represents about American culture. She shows in her essay the American penchant for flashiness and showing off one’s wealth, as well as how Americans tend to take what already exists and improve it, make it bigger, better, bolder. This essay effectively uses the classic lawn ornament to demonstrate an interesting and well-illustrated view of American culture.

              Americans stereotypically have a tendency to show off, demonstrate their power and affluence in extravagant ways. This characteristic is aptly shown in the popularity of the flamingo symbol and it’s evolution in American culture. In the 1910’s Miami Beach opened up its first grand hotel: the Flamingo. This has “made the bird synonymous with wealth and pizzazz”. From there, the pink flamingo rapidly became a symbol for showcasing wealth and affluence in extravagant and flashy ways. The symbol rapidly spread through the middle and working classes, from modest hotels and restaurants themed around the snazzy pink bird, to the famed plastic lawn ornament. Working class families “could inscribe one’s lawn… with Florida’s cachet of leisure and extravagance”. The flamingo, in all its tropical magnificence and glory, beautifully showcases the American penchant for flashiness and showing off.

            The flamingo by itself, with its bright plumage and tropical feel, is quite a beautiful species. However, “the pink flamingo is hotter than its natural counterpart, and even a real flamingo is brighter than everything around it”. This desire to improve, to make what is already bright and bold, brighter and bolder, is shown not only in the plastic lawn ornament but also by nearly every aspect of American culture. This can be seen in their extravagant hotels, sumptuous meals, massive urban sprawls, and ever-improving technology. Perhaps this is best demonstrated by the city of Las Vegas, the “flamboyant oasis” in the middle of the Mojave Desert, famed for its extravagance and flashiness. It shows how everything can be made better, grander and more splendid with the right (or perhaps wrong) human touches. Bigger, better, brighter is a theme that carries over into almost every aspect of American lifestyle, and the flamingo is clearly no exception.

            To conclude, the history of the plastic pink flamingo displays key aspects of American culture: the desire to showcase one’s wealth using the flashy and extravagant, and the desire to improve, to make it bolder, more vivid and special. Despite how it is perceived today, the plastic pink flamingo’s history shines a light on these aspects of American culture, and is an undeniable symbol for the American lifestyle. 

Except (Jennifer Price)

When the pink flamingo splashed into the fifties

market, it staked two major claims to boldness. First,

it was a flamingo. Since the 1930s, vacationing

Americans had been flocking to Florida and returning

home with flamingo souvenirs. In the 1910s and

1920s, Miami Beach’s first grand hotel, the Flamingo,

had made the bird synonymous with wealth and

pizzazz. . . . [Later], developers built hundreds of

more modest hotels to cater to an eager middle class

served by new train lines—and in South Beach,

especially, architects employed the playful Art Deco

style, replete with bright pinks and flamingo motifs.

This was a little ironic, since Americans had

hunted flamingos to extinction in Florida in the late

1800s, for plumes and meat. But no matter. In the

1950s, the new interstates would draw working-class

tourists down, too. Back in New Jersey, the Union

Products flamingo inscribed one’s lawn emphatically

with Florida’s cachet of leisure and extravagance. The

bird acquired an extra fillip of boldness, too, from the

direction of Las Vegas—the flamboyant oasis of

instant riches that the gangster Benjamin “Bugsy”

Siegel had conjured from the desert in 1946 with his

Flamingo Hotel. Anyone who has seen Las Vegas

knows that a flamingo stands out in a desert even

more strikingly than on a lawn. In the 1950s,

namesake Flamingo motels, restaurants, and lounges

cropped up across the country like a line of semiotic

sprouts.

And the flamingo was pink—a second and

commensurate claim to boldness. The plastics

industries of the fifties favored flashy colors, which

Tom Wolfe called “the new electrochemical pastels of

the Florida littoral: tangerine, broiling magenta, livid

pink, incarnadine, fuchsia demure, Congo ruby,

methyl green.” The hues were forward-looking rather

than old-fashioned, just right for a generation, raised

in the Depression, that was ready to celebrate its new

affluence. And as Karal Ann Marling has written, the

“sassy pinks” were “the hottest color of the decade.”

Washing machines, cars, and kitchen counters

proliferated in passion pink, sunset pink, and

Bermuda pink. In 1956, right after he signed his first

recording contract, Elvis Presley bought a pink

Cadillac.

Why, after all, call the birds “pink flamingos”— as

if they could be blue or green? The plastic flamingo is

a hotter pink than a real flamingo, and even a real

flamingo is brighter than anything else around it.

There are five species, all of which feed in flocks on

algae and invertebrates in saline and alkaline lakes in

mostly warm habitats around the world. The people

who have lived near these places have always singled

out the flamingo as special. Early Christians

associated it with the red phoenix. In ancient Egypt, it

symbolized the sun god Ra. In Mexico and the

Caribbean, it remains a major motif in art, dance, and

literature. No wonder that the subtropical species

stood out so loudly when Americans in temperate

New England reproduced it, brightened it, and sent it

wading across an inland sea of grass.

The American Scholar, Spring 1999

Writer's Festival

3) Summarize and comment upon the Writers’ Festival event you attended, trying to make connections between what you learned there and what Krakauer writes about (if possible).

         During the writer’s festival here in Mussoorie, we were privileged to witness some very interesting, compelling, fun and informative presentations. One of the speakers we heard was the long-time alpinist Steve Swenson, hailing from Seattle. He spoke of his experiences climbing various peaks in the Himalaya, including being one of the first to summit Saser Kangri II, the second tallest unclimbed peak in the world.

         However, his experience that stuck me the most was when he described his experience of climbing Everest in 1994 without supplemental oxygen. He went solo up the mountain (with Sherpas?), but was dismayed to see the commercialization of this great peak, sullied with tons of people with their own ambitions, their own dreams, their own motivations, and their own set of morals. He witnessed people abandoning teammates in distress in order to fulfill their own summit dreams. After this “depressing” experience on the mountain, he vowed he would never again climb a peak over 8000m, as these had become so commercially exploited.

         This relates to Krakauer’s descriptions of Everest in “Into Thin Air”. Krakauer discusses the commercialization of Everest as something of a sacrilege to some people. He adds that he and his climbing compatriots, when he was younger, looked down on Everest for its commercialization and the obsession with it that seemed to clutch amateur climbers. Towards the end of the book, Krakauer discusses a situation exactly like the one that so depressed Swenson.

Bruce Herrod was a member of the South African team. On the team’s summit day, Herrod began really strong. As Breshears recalled “Bruce looked strong, really good. He shook my hand really hard, congratulated us, said he felt great”. (page 290) He later says “Please be careful…Remember that getting to the summit is the easy part; it’s getting back down that’s hard”.

Herrod was still far below when Woodall and O’Dowd reached the summit, and still struggling upward when they came back down. He continued-alone-to the summit, and reached the top just after 5 pm. It took him 17 hours to get up there. As one teammate said “The fact that he was up there that late, with no one else around, was crazy. It’s absolutely boggling”.

His teammates waited for him to radio in that evening, but they fell asleep, casually disregarding their teammate, abandoning him to his death atop the mountain.

This demonstrates exactly the casual disregard of teammates for one another atop one of the world’s most commercialized mountains. Herrod was left alone, despite his struggle, and is now presumed dead, somewhere up in the atmosphere.

On being a poet

A poet is a strange specimen of humanity.

They are people that look to find a deeper meaning in the mundane, people looking to find the art, the beauty, in the otherwise unrecognizable or meaningless activity of day-to-day life. The poets I know are people tring to express an artistry they have found somewhere, through pain, pleasure, or witnessing something awe-inspiring.

The term "poetry"- as anyone who has ever studied it will know- is a rather vague term. Poetry is not limited to (as some people believe) rhyming verse or structured, syllabic rhythm. It can be only a few words long, or be an epic recounted in 300 pages.
Poetry can include free verse, haiku, quatrain, limerick, sonnet, acrostic, slam, found, shape, visual, the list goes on for miles.
The Oxford dicitonary defines poetry as "literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm."
Style. Rhythm. Expression. Feeling. Insensity. This is what poets attempt to convey in their writing, and sometimes, though it may be a rare occurence, suceed.

I myself am a poet. I have been attempting to write and express myself ever since I could hold a pen and guide it across a page to represtent these buring ideas.
I write poetry to try and understand, to find my little niche and be heard in this cacophonous world.

Please feel free to critique the following (these are my own works)

The stars above:

Star light…

All the stars in the Milky Way, reaching towards infinity

Star bright…

Vega, Altair, Deneb, Polaris

The first star I see tonight…

Venus, Saturn, Andromeda far in the distance

I wish I may, I wish I might…

A child staring up into the heavens, wishing with all her might

Have the wish I wish tonight

The faintest breath of a sigh; “I wish for…”

Before the majesty of millennia, here I stand.

The dust of these stars comes together to create this being.

The roar of these stars brings me to life

The dust of suns and fallen worlds

Is my breath, my body, my bone

Who am I?

How much of me is what I’ve done?

My actions painting a picture of me that speaks to the viewer

More clearly than any well-written speech

Everything that I’ve done to someone, around someone

Locked away under memory and time

How much of me is what I’ve sung?

Composing a map of my soul on a white blank page

Music and artistry fills every crack and rough corner within my heart

Would I crumble and collapse were it not there?

If not for my song, this spirit would never have been unveiled

How much of me is what I‘ve read?

Words lasting like the brand of fire within a susceptible young mind

All the literature and poetry and prose and stories that create us as human beings

Setting us apart from the animal

Sharing the writer’s voice with the seven-year-old girl climbing up her mother’s bookshelf.

How much of me is what I’ve said?

Heated words spoken that perhaps should never have been spoken aloud

Words of beauty whispered in a lover’s ear

Words spoken in a scream of joy to the loud, babbling world

My voice becoming one more element of the din

Who am I?

Mythological nonsense

Up, up, up, and away we go
Where we're going, I don't know
The turtle runs fast and the hare runs slow
So up, up, up, and away I go

Up, up, up and away we go
The earth is above and the sky is below
Son, don't fly near the sun's warm glow
Or down, down, down to the sea you'll go

Up, up, up and away we fly
Over the sea and into the sky
You can't catch me even though you try
Up, up, up and away I fly

Up, up, up and away we go
The sun shines high and the moon shines low
Hades and Persephone dance below
Down, down, down, and deep they go

Up, up, up, so very high
I think I'll try my wings and fly
But if I do I'll surely die
Up, up, up, so very high           

Commenting enabled

Hello all,

For those that have said they are unable to comment on my blog, I have fixed the settings so that anyone can comment on my posts.

Just letting you know.

The inactivity week

1) Write an account of an event or events from your activity week. Consider how you choose to portray involved parties, and try to find an objective truth, rather than your subjective opinions.

Activity week was somewhat less than inspiring for me. Liek a few other grade 11's, I was signed up to go on the advanced trek of 7 days to Braadsar lake. As Kalkidan and I had a fantastic experience of trekking over quarter break, we were awaiting activity week rather over-eagerly. By mid october, I was making statistics in my head about snow probability, student/teacher ratios, boy/girl ratios, number of porters per hiker... I was rather preoccupied, to say the least.

We left at 6:45 am on the 21st of october, loaded with our packs and positive energy. The bus ride to our first camp took us 8 hours through the hills and valleys of the mountains, resulting in more than one person getting carsick. I started feeling a little unwell myself after hour 6, but thought little of it.

Arriving at our beautiful first campsite, I was still feeling unwell, and my health deteriorated though the evening. By evening I was unable to holld down even a bit of chapatti and rice. I spent a night of fitful sleep with my stomach roiling in pain and discomfort.

The next day wasn't much of an improvement. I felt too weak to stand, let alone walk with a 15 kg pack up the side of a mountain. I forced down a little bit of breakfast and our porters came and took my bag over to the mules. It was more than a little embarassing to be the slowest member of the group and not even carrying anything!

By lunchtime, I was crawling on all fours up the hill about 1/2 hour behind my compatriots. Staying by my side were Ms Fiddler and tentmate Asma, encouraging me to press on and keep climbing. However, as I continued to feel bad and much worse by tunrs, it became apparent that continuing upwards wasn't soemthing to consider for much longer.

At about noon, one day after setting out from Woodstock, Mr Latimer and Mr Hepworth approached me and gently reccomended that I return to Woodstock, to rest and recover rather than risk complications in my illness due to altitude. Reluctantly, I agreed to go back down with our guide Titu, the only member of staff that spoke hindi.

Had I known what else this would entail, I doubt I would have agreed to it so easily. As one of the female persuasion, I required a fellow female to come with me back down the mountain and to Mussoorie. The selfless and praiseworthy Kalkidan volunteered for this position, despite her eagerness to go on the trek and her prisitine health.

Titu, Kalkidan and I returned down the mountain, ever slowly and painfully. We had to return to our campsite of the night before, where we were picked up by a hitch-hiking jeep already full of people. You can imagine that in my nauseated state, I was somewhat less than wild about the idea of cramming into the back of a rickety jeep with our packs and four other indian men. Nothing overly horrendous happened, and I discovered that even on the bumpy road that made up most of our route, sitting was infinately prefferable to walking.

8 hours and 1 jeep transfer later, we pulled in outside the health center, where Kalkidan and I promptly entered and fell fast asleep, on soft beds with fluffy pillows and warm comforters.

There, I spent my activity week, unable to get anything from dorms and feeling perfectly healthy 24 hours after going on antibiotics. 
Many thanks to Mrs. Wunker for bringing me a kindle e-reader to while away the hours, and thanks to Mr Pesavento for letting me pitch in for stage set-up in Parker Hall thursday and friday.
One more person to thank, and that's Mrs Kaplan for taking in Kalkidan and helping her have a fun acitivity week, not having to stay in health center and going on all the junior school's expeditions.

Although I did not have a "good" activity week in the normal sense of the word, I am glad that this happened to me. I realized how lucky I am to even be here in Mussoorie, let alone trekking in the mountains. I realized what devoted friends I have, learned how to hang curtains on rods whilst being 20 ft in the air, and read some really good literature. I was able to get to know some people better, and I realized that even though someone may have a seemingly unpenetrable shell of non-understanding and general nastiness, everyone has something about them worth knowing.

Thank you for reading,
Emily

University fair

Using information from the University fair, discuss how Universities create identity for themselves.

The point of a university fair is recruitment. Universities are looking to enroll people to their campus, their classes, take students money into their treasuries. Each university has a different way of presenting itself in order to appeal to the students they’re looking for.

Agnes Scott College, for example, presents itself as a small, exclusively female liberal arts college. It is situated near Atlanta, Georgia in a picturesque,  On its website, its slogan reads “The world, for women”. They have a very specific type of student in mind when they go to recruitment fairs: girls looking for small, picturesque colleges with a low student-teacher ratio. This is what they advertise.

Another college that caught my interest was St Olaf College in Minnesota. St Olaf is another liberal arts college that advertises itself as a small, liberal arts college. Among the first words we read when we get to their website “One of the nation’s leading four-year residential colleges, St. Olaf offers an academically rigorous education with a vibrant faith tradition.” This one sentence tells a great deal about the college: it presents itself as a high quality, religious, and, as we read on, liberal arts college. It has a clear message that it’s broadcasting to prospective students.

Group identity

Why is group identity important? What groups do you derive some measure of identity from, and what is the significance of each?

Fundamentally, human beings are social  animals. We thrive on community, togetherness and accetance. We seek out places where we can feel we fit in, we belong.

Group identity creates a sense of purpose, of belonging, a place where each individual that makes up the group can insert a little chink of themselves . Within a group identity, each person can feel like he/she bleongs there. The group's identity meshes positively with their own. Group identity creates the group's purpose, and vice versa. The purpose of a group, be it an athletic team, a choir, a reasearch committee or an expedition to the arctic, generally defines the group's identity. As a member of several musical organizations, I feel as though I identify with the groups I am a part of. They are singers, I am a singer. I participate in poetry slams back home, sharing my poetry with other interested parties. We create a community , a group, based on our words and ideas.

This is possibly why the internet is such a crucial part of many people's lives. While in earlier times it was a lot more difficult to connect and find other people with similar interests and values, it is possible to find anyone online with a similar story or outlook. There are groups for anyone wishing to join them, only a mouseclick away.

Beginning blog

Hello readers/fellow classmates

This is not an official post, it's only establishing myself on the online database. Hopefully as of tomorrow, I will be posting regualr updates themed around the prompts given to us by Mr Wunker. Please enjoy and do not hesitate to comment with your ideas and opinions about this project!

With sincerest wishes and positive outlooks on the rest of semester,
Emily Steers