Dana Edwards 09/03/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

Apologies

Driving home from preschool one day, my mother informed me that I had a present waiting at home. This was big. Not only was I three years old, an age during which all aspects of life enthralled me, but I also rarely received presents outside of the expected- birthdays and Hanukkahs. I was so excited it was unbearable, and spent the car ride speculating as to what this surprise gift could be. After much thought, I realized- no, it was more of an epiphany- that it had to be one of those plastic toy helicopters that are wound up and quickly released for a few seconds of airtime. I had experienced this contraption firsthand during a playdate with Tyler, and immediately sought after one. My mother must have realized the extent of my desire for the helicopter, due to several times that I had mentioned it, and that is how the surprise present came about. 

After the box was opened and the toy removed, my smile turned to confusion, and then a frown. It was the wrong kind. Not a helicopter, but a spinning disc that is released for a similar effect. I did not thank my mother; I complained that she had gotten the wrong one, and that I didn’t like it. My mind had been so set on the particular toy that the minor difference amounted in me to profound disappointment. At that point I believe I began crying, or threw a fit. 

Now let me add that I was not an especially fussy kid; in fact I was incredibly happy and easily pleased, but this one event brought out something that was really not like me. It was a first in many ways. The fist time I rejected a gift, the first time I was deliberately ungrateful and disrespectful to my mother, and the first time for which I would experience remorse. Insignificant as they may sound, my actions that day disturbed me for years. I felt horrible for what I had done, but I never did anything about it until recently

I was, once again, riding in the car with my mother- perhaps this is what sparked it- and the memory- more like a stabbing rush of emotion entwined with a few blurry visuals- hit me hard. My eyes began to water. I said I was sorry for what I had done. She, of course, had no idea what I was talking about- come to think of it she probably thought nothing of it at the time it took place- just the erratic emotions of a toddler acting up, far from offensive- but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t about her. It was about me. That single affair changed me as a person, more, I think, than any other in my life. That apology, one that had been stirring inside me for a decade, was and still is the most genuine I have ever given.

Dana Edwards. 09/04/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

Biddy Don

Babies’ first words are usually something like “mama” or “daddy”. They can range to really any easily pronounced string of sounds that refers to the parent. I can picture, for instance, “baba” or “moomoo” coming from the mouth of an infant as drool drips down his soft little cheeks and his mother and father swell with pride. Considered such a hallmark in the development of a child, the concept of a first word, however, seems vague to me, for babies begin making noises from the day they depart the womb- horrible, screeching noises-, and as they grow, these screeches slowly become more refined- by the time they are six months old, they sound almost human. When a baby is a year old, he can create simple vowel sounds like “oo” or “ahh”, but only several months later, when the sounds emanating from his little voicebox can be interpreted as words, are his efforts realized and applauded. It is an arbitrary point in an ongoing process, recognizable at the discretion of the child’s parents, for perhaps only a day before the baby said something so very close to “mama”, but not close enough, not discernable enough for the mother to celebrate the achievement. 

My point is that the forming of words for a child is a gradual process, almost like evolution- in fact that is a fine analogy- for as does natural selection, a baby’s speech encounters random mutations- he tries making this sound or that, or placing his tongue a certain way- and those which are beneficial- that his parents respond positively to and encourage- like a koala born with better claws for climbing Eucalyptus trees-he keeps and continues to expand upon. Those that receive no or negative attention from a parent are immediately dropped. In this fashion, a child’s speech develops to the point of fluency. 

I say all this because I am a complete exception to the abovementioned process. I didn’t make many noises nor attempt to speak for a long while, and I think it worried my parents. I was more interested in eating, playing, observing the world. One day, however, I spoke. We had some relatives over- my uncle and his wife and kids. My cousin, Don, who was about ten years older than I, spent the day trying to teach me my first word. After several hours, and in the presence of the whole family, I said it, “booger”. 

Don was extremely pleased at the fruits of his labor, and that moment, I believe, aside from being the subject of many future dinnertime jokes, was the start of our relationship as friends. Don- Biddy Don as we called him- was a spirited and funny guy. His attitude was contagious- constantly playing practical jokes, all in the essence of humor- albeit sometimes a little over the top- and never meaning to harm anyone. He was always involved in some sort of project; it was part of his character; he would think up an idea, and become totally immersed in it. It was his vivacity, his passion for life, which rubbed off on me. As a result of his mentorship, I became a sort of cute little smart-ass, not the excessively annoying, pessimistic kind, but the happy one that always pushes the bar. 

Sadly, our companionship didn’t last long. Don died in 1996- at the age of sixteen- in a tragic car crash. It devastated the entire extended Edwards family. He was the spirit, the heart of the young generation. Though my memories of him are few, they are of the absolute fondest sort. I looked up to him in the way only a little toddler can to an incredible older friend. I’ve seen home videos where I do not leave his side. Together we built the playground in my old backyard. I adored him. And, he changed me as a person. My values, my world outlook, were molded-at a young age- from my experiences with Don.

I think, from our early encounter, the relationship that would follow was inevitable, for the story of my first word is one that sums up Biddy Don and me in one fantastic word, “booger”.

Dana Edwards. 09/05/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

Expressions

When it comes to greetings, mine are varied

Passing a person I am familiar with, it’s sort of a jerk of the head

And a mumbled “hey”, loud enough to count as acknowledgement,

But obscure enough to pass for a hiccup or involuntary gasp

From a distance, I yell the person’s name

In Chinese, I stick to “Ni Hao”, not mumbled but clear and with the proper tones

Tones are very important in Chinese.

You don’t want to disappoint Mr. Li

To friends:

I am usually comfortable and don’t worry about what I’m saying

Or what my facial expressions are

But sometimes when they talk too much or they have lost my interest,

I space out and stare at them totally blank

I’m not very good at faking emotions

Unlike girls, who are very good. That’s a generalization, but I know at least my sister is.

I’m not sure if I am jealous of this trait

Not really come to think of it

I am also fine with the fact that I am oblivious

Saying farewell, I have options

“See you later”, “see you”, “later”, and just “lates” 

Those work in most situations

If I feel like being lame, “peace” or “peace out”. As a statement-

“I think I’m going to peace out”

On occasion- “catch you on the flip side”

To parents: it depends

To Nick Bern: “speak slower”

To Mr. Semple: “stop speaking”

Dana Edwards    08/31/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

Likes, Dislikes, Beliefs, Aspirations

I like spontaneity; I find it a superb way to go about my life, which I love. Well, now I do- I am somewhat bipolar. But I have both ears, and am not very artistic. That’s why I said somewhat. I am more often content than not, and when I realize I’m upset or insecure, I’ve learned to simply ignore my own thoughts, they being of little redeeming value when I find myself in such a state. Speaking of states, I hate Delaware (I’ve never actually been there, but it just sounds so uninteresting), and love California. Mostly the northern half, the bay and up, though I suppose Santa Barbara is okay, sort of an island of semi-coolness in a region of lame Los Angeles-ness. There are far too many people in LA, and it is a centre of materialism, which I find revolting. 

I look down on stupid t-shirt slogans and bumper stickers. Those who sport them have no excuses; it’s not as if they accidentally ended up wearing “Teenage Princess” across their chests; they went out of their way to purchase and subsequently don such idiocy. I don’t like cars with “Support our Troops” stickers on them; not because I don’t think our armed forces should be commended, but because of what the sticker implies about the person in the driver’s seat. I hate false modesty, which is extremely common. To those who pretend to be such- being modest is about discouraging the applauding of oneself or one’s abilities. By pretending to be modest, modesty being a virtue, one seeks out praise for his apparent virtuousness, the very antithesis of modesty, and an act easily seen through. At least by me. I’m pretty sure I think too much, and often too deeply. At least for someone of my age, though I wouldn’t know what’s normal, because I can’t read minds, yet. Thinking, I openly admit, is overrated, and overemphasized in western culture. I see value in mediation and clarity of mind.

I like being extremely lazy, and extremely active, but don’t care much for something of a balance between the two. Moderation is key to survival, but far less exciting, or boring, than living in extremes. I like to push others beyond what they are comfortable with, intellectually speaking. I detest falsity, but hypocrisy is okay, except only for me. I cannot stand it when others ask me something out of their or our society’s idea of courtesy, when they really do not want to hear a full answer. If someone asks me how my vacation went, he or she should be prepared to hear a full account of my summer adventures.

I think children are wonderful and untainted, a cliché, I know, but something I shall state nonetheless. I feel very strongly that a child should not be subjected to strong, absurd customs or opinions. I am speaking mainly of religion, which I do not outright hate (I see benefit in the sense of community it establishes, and in some practices which help and humble the mind), but think that the teachings and beliefs of all forms of it, are, to varying degrees, complete crocks of shit, and those who follow them are helpless and unbelievably stubborn sheep. However I realize that, above all else, what matters is being happy. 

Sometimes I offend people, not because I am mean, but because I don’t have much respect for political correctness. Most people like me, however, and I, in turn enjoy the company of others, though I ultimately consider myself more of an introvert than an extrovert. 

I like humor and seriousness, and don’t believe someone should have too much of each. The concept of death intrigues me, while the process of dying terrifies me. I seek only to find inner peace.

Dana Edwards   10/03/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

A Nuclear Solution

Most hear nuclear and think bad. People link the word to giant explosions, war, and radiation poisoning. They think glowing green bars of uranium and catastrophic meltdowns, having probably heard the word “Chernobyl” tossed around in conversation. 

Nearly all Americans are ill-informed on the matter. There exists in this nation a lingering anti-nuclear sentiment that has its roots in the 60’s, when people shied away from a powerful new technology they knew little about. Today, this is no longer valid. It is well understood, and as an energy source, nuclear fission is safer, cleaner, and more sustainable than the burning of coal and oil, America's primary means of electicity production. We should not shy away from this incredibly useful tool. Most people simply do not know a few basic facts that make nuclear power plants the most practical and viable solution to America’s energy-related problems. 

And these problems are many. Indeed, our dependency on foreign oil has forced the United States to meddle with corrupt and tyrannical governments in the Middle East, and in the last five years, wage war against them. It is ironic, then, that the peace sign was originally the symbol of the anti-nuclear movement of the 60’s, when it is by extension our very lack of nuclear power plants that caused the war in Iraq. Total energy indpendence could be achieved by means of nuclear power, rectifying the need for hostile relations with oil-rich nations. 

I do not mean to suggest that nuclear power is the best possible means of generating electricity. It is less that nuclear power is good as that burning oil and coal is bad, a great compromise rather than a perfect solution. An example of this type of logic is shown in the 2004 presidential elections. Most voters did not feel a particular allegiance to either candidate. Many people who voted for John Kerry did so not because they liked him, but because they hated Bush. They took the glass-is-half-empty approach, seeing Kerry as less bad. Similarly, we should switch to nuclear power because the implications of our current trend of burning fossil fuels are worse than those of nuclear fission-generated power.

Indeed, more ideal electricity-producing technologies exist. Both solar power and wind-driven power are superior methods. They produce no harmful byproducts; they are totally risk-free and totally sustainable. But they are neither practical nor economical. The costs of either on the scale that would be necessary to support the United States’ vast energy needs would be unrealistic. Nuclear power, as of now, is the best solution. Why, then, have we not embraced it? Forty years ago, the country had plans to build many more nuclear power plants than exist today. Most were canceled. Had their construction not been hampered, we would arguably not be facing such imminent issues of oil-shortage, war, and environmental pollution.

There are three main reasons why the United States is today not a nuclear nation, as are many modern countries, such as France, which recieves 80% of its energy from its own nuclear power plants. The first is straightforward, and unfortunately little can be done about it; it is the lobying of the oil corporations. They have become so large and powerful that their say in government has prevented the US from  building new nuclear plants, which would take profits away from the oild industry.

The second reason is one I have mentioned earlier, that people are scared and misguided. They are scared of those two massive, mysterious steam vents that epitomize the nuclear power plant. They are scared because they think these plants are highly unstable and can explode at any moment, causing a mushroom cloud large enough to see from space to rise into the air. (In reality this is impossible; nuclear power plants cannot explode.) They fear leaks in radiation, which do occasionally occur, and are indeed damaging, but are nothing compared to the collective harm caused by coal and oil power plants. Carbon emsissions, the primary source of this enviromental harm, is not the result of rare catastrophes, but is rather a constant, unavoidable byproduct of the burning of fossil fuels. 

Environmental consequence is an aspect that should be further discussed. Indeed, the last reason why American nuclear power plants do not exist in abundance is because of the issue of radioactive waste. In the process of nuclear fission, when free neutrons are shot at Uranium-235, the ensuing chain reaction produces several kinds of radioactive waste that are difficult to dispose of safely, because of their incredibly slow rate of decay. It is indeed a serious issue, but remember the switch to nuclear energy is a compromise. The damage inflicted by carbon emissions (global warming: increased worldwide temperatures, melting ice-caps, submerging island nations, extinction of many species of plants and animals) is far worse than a small amount of radioactive waste, which can be contained in a small area. «All the waste in a year from a nuclear power plant can be stored under a desk.»I –Ronald Reagan. 

America is the world's largest consumer of electricty. We should, then, set an example for the rest of the world by switching to nuclear energy. Global warming would be slowed and we would not have to fight unjustified wars with Middle-Eastern nations. It is a compromise that simply makes sense.

Dana Edwards   10/08/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

Snaps

“Okay, the name of the game is snaps. Trevor plays snaps; Raymond Cheng plays snaps.” Tori excitedly snapped her fingers twice, and then continued on with the nonsense. Her usual jubilant and bubbly character was elevated to hysteria. We all stared in bewilderment.

At first the game –called Snaps as you might have guessed –intrigued us. Michelle and Tori were the only ones who knew how to play, and hence all attention was devoted to them. One would cover her ears as the other, with the help of the spectators, would decide upon a person place or thing. She would then embark on a baffling, prolonged journey of gibberish. Somehow –god knows how –the unknowing girl would blurt out the noun, having extracted it from this utterly nonsensical combination of finger snapping and random, sometimes complicated words. 

The novelty soon wore off. We were relaxing –the girls sunbathing –on a smooth rock out in the river, just a ten-minute walk from Henry’s Camp, the central hub of the Juniors’ Kern backpacking trip. Given the option of going on various day hikes or simply wandering upstream, we –that is about fifteen of us –had chosen the latter. In hindsight this was a bad decision.

 As I said, we had been listening to this snaps thing for a little too long. I was getting annoyed. Garner was actually pissed off, and was threatening to injure the two talkative females. As it turns out, however, that is essentially the purpose of Snaps, to aggravate those not in the know. Michelle and Tori refused to tell us how to play; we had to figure out by ourselves as, to their great amusement, they watched us struggle.

I had gathered that the jabbering, snapping girl was not spelling out the word, but rather describing it, for on one occasion Michelle had guessed “Dana’s pants”, when the word was in fact “jeans”. Similarly, Tori had once thought “dolphin” when it was actually “whale”. This discovery would turn out to play a key role in the workings of Snaps, helping me to realize that the game, at first a seemingly impossible marvel, is in fact a simple and pointless diversion. 

Anyways, this continued on for the better part of the day, and no one was any closer than I to knowing how Snaps worked. On one level, we didn’t really care, but just as one is compelled to lick the painful sore on the inside of his cheek, we could not help but to yearn hopelessly for the solution to the unrelenting annoyance that is Snaps.

To make matters worse, everything and everyone played Snaps but us. Indeed, after naming every Wilcox Weaver, poodle, yak, or super sexy person, Michelle or Tori would add, coolly, “plays snaps”. What resulted was a statement along the lines of “Monkeys play snaps. Bob Dylan plays snaps. Beavers play snaps, Ben Williams plays snaps.” So Mr. Williams could play snaps, but I couldn’t. 

Eventually, it was time to return for dinner, and the snapping befuddlement was temporarily forgotten. Later on that evening, all the Juniors, dirty and rugged but in high spirits, crammed around a cozy fire. We occupied ourselves with various games; most involved clapping and calling out the names of others, who would have to respond in rhythm. But after a while, what do you know, Michelle and Tori were playing snaps again. A collective moan of discontent. Unlike the rest of us, who were considering leaving the two girls to their own obnoxious devices, Nick Bern listened attentively, his unswerving intellectual curiosity now sparked. There was little else to do, save roasting marshmallows, but having eaten a few too many a mallow, I gave it another shot.

Okay, I devised, the first letters of the random nouns spell out words, therefore Raymond Cheng simply represents the letter “r”, and has nothing else to do with our beloved late classmate. Connor Lemos and I collaborated, and a crucial discovery was made. “Yes, the words all begin with consonants…” I interjected, “…therefore the snaps must represent vowels. The number of snaps corresponds alphabetically to the order of the vowels, therefore one snap is an “a”, and two is an “e”.” I was quite right. To clarify, when the word is “spider”, one must think of a description, (for instance, “has eight legs”) and then spell out “has eight legs” by saying words that begin with the letters, like “happy person” for h, and by substituting snaps for the vowels. It is utterly stupid, but I was delighted; I had figured it out. Victory, sweet victory

 The fire glowed ever brighter, illuminating my already radiant face. Nick Bern still looked confused; Garner had left; Shelby almost had it. I gave it a try for the first time: “Sparrows play snaps, neurotic nymphomaniacs play snaps, –snap, snap, snap –pompous protagonists play snaps, and so on. I liked to get creative with my acronymic phrases. Oh, what hopeless idiots we were. But I cared not; my smile was wide. By bedtime everyone knew how to play, and the game was pointless. I tucked into my sleeping bag, and slept the night totally content.

Dana Edwards         09/02/07

AP English 11- Mrs. Edwards

Snapshot Scene

The infant, warm, padded with blankets, lay in a clear rectangular container atop a table. Standing over the box, arms outstretched, stood a woman with a disheveled and out of style 80’s haircut, in an unflattering hospital gown, tired-looking but with eyes full of love and wonder. Just a minute ago, not far away, skipping through the hallways like an awkward puppy was a cute toddler, emitting high-pitched noises, perhaps words, of sheer joy. Closely trailing a handsome, dark-haired man was equally excited but far more reserved. In his hand and held up to his eye was a video camera, recording, though he thought nothing of it. The door opened, and the little girl did not at first see the wrapped bundle on the table. She ran to the woman, who, in wide-rimmed glasses, greeted the child with a smile as radiant as hers. She felt the now slightly diminished bulge on her mother’s stomach, searching, probing. Her face turned to concentration, and she spotted the baby. It took a few seconds for her to process, and she was in sheer awe. Silence, utter silence. A stare, beyond fascination, a stare that seemed to defy time. The woman, arms outstretched, lifted the newborn out of the vessel, so the little girl could see clearly her brother for the first time.

AP Disaster

I walked into my AP exam essentially brain-dead. My mental faculties were simply not in order. Perhaps I had drunk too little –or too much –coffee early that Wednesday morning, or perhaps I was simply drained from days of relentless procrastination -and an ensuing lack of sleep -in response to all the studying I could have been doing. 

The caffeine kept my eyes open but did not fool my brain into thinking it was daytime. The result was a sort of apathetic torpor that was tempered with grouchiness as I looked around the room at my lively classmates, chattering and jittering with anticipation. “How are you so happy?” I thought, “This sucks.” 

And sucked it did. Section one of the AP English Language and Composition exam contained fifty-some multiple-choice questions pertaining to four dense, pre-Victorian passages–all of which could have been written by Emily Brontë. When I was through wracking what little brains I could salvage over the tone of a passage (Was it disdainful and pedantic or supercilious and imperious?) or the usage of parallel sentences (which are far more elusive than their geometric counterparts), it was time for a much-needed five-minute break. 

The five minutes were just long enough to take the mammoth pee I had been holding in for an hour, and not much else. I arrived back at my seat feeling relieved in one sense (the pee sense), but annoyed –no, seething -in just about every other way. It was time for section two. 

For those of you AP virgins out there, section two is the terrible one, the devil’s work. Section two makes section one look like a pleasant stroll through the park on a nice spring afternoon. It is two hours of writing essays: three forty minute essays. Because everyone knows that a meager one or two essays are an insufficient measure of one’s writing abilities. 

I objected to the notion of writing three essays in just about every possible way: visually, morally, educationally, religiously –you name it. I had known what was coming for weeks, but just seeing the packet lie there on my desk –all green and seemingly harmless –filled me with rage. My tiredness had departed, replaced by a vehemence and sheer unwillingness to comply that took me by surprise. I cried out in defiance, like the ancient Spartans. Well, not really. I probably just groaned, but inside I was King Leonidas, outraged that the Persians had dared to send a messenger to insult my wife and threaten my people with slavery and death. THIS IS SPARTA!!!

My fury was short-lived, but my distaste for the AP people –and all that they stand for –remains to this day. Having come to my senses, I decided to give the first essay a shot. It was a document based question –one in which you have to examine eight sources and use them as evidence to support your argument –about pennies. The question was, “Should pennies be banned?” “I don’t care.” I thought, “This is a stupid question. How can you write an essay on this topic?” Apparently, a lot of people cared; the documents were ripe with strong opinions and self-important defense of and opposition to the little coin (which is apparently now mostly zinc). The worst were the painfully predictable double entendre that each of the contributors used (on the other side of the coin, pennywise pound foolish, etc.). 

I began writing, but it was not easy; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had such difficulty with an essay. After an hour and about a page of incoherent, insincere jabbering, sheer futility overwhelmed me. I was not going to get it done. So I sat back and relaxed. I had given it my best, and my best was not enough. 

Suddenly, inspiration came to me. If I hated the exam so much, that’s what I should write about. So began a several page rant on the inadequacies and injustices of the AP testing system. I poured my grievances onto the page, my pen swiftly dictating the objections in my heart. I said that timed essays measure only intellectual stamina and rigidity of thought; they force students to develop a formulaic system of writing that stifles the creative process of the true art form. I compared such essays to rotten fruit, in that after eating them you are discouraged from trying one, ripe or not, for years to come. (I used my sister’s early childhood experience with a rotten avocado as evidence; for only last year did she try another.)

The experience was extremely satisfying. I felt great about what I had written; it was sincere and –I thought –persuasive. (It was probably entirely unconvincing; I can only imagine how many of these the AP graders come across. They most likely don’t even read them.) 

What I then justified as an act of bold defiance was simply mental fatigue rearing its disgruntled head. Now I recognize my actions as profoundly foolish, but I do not regret them, for there was simply no way I could have written those three essays. I didn’t even look at the other two. 

I now realize, as terrible and unfair as the AP exam is, it’s not just about being a good writer (or a good history student, a good calculus student, etc.), it’s about being able to suck it up and do something that is really terrible for three hours straight. It is a measure of your endurance, your willingness to put aside your resentment, your laziness, and your scruples with conforming to a rigid world of standardized testing. 

Of course, there is the off-chance that my AP grader becomes suddenly inspired, realizes the foolishness of the system he works for, and marks a fat “five” on the front of my paper.