If you want to succeed at plagiarizing, there are some basic rules you need to keep in mind:
1. If you literally copy a text from the internet, make sure all the give-away layout (such as the telltale blue keywords from Wikipedia) have been removed. Your professors are familiar with these sites, and seeing words such as "construct" or "commercial newspapers" highlighted in blue will make them sit up and pay attention. Also make sure that the font you use in the rest of your paper matches the font of the text you're taking from the internet. Although most professors are old-school, they do recognize the difference between say a Times New Roman and Verdana font
2. If you use someone else's words without giving them any credit, make sure that their writing style is at least within reaching distance of your own. Your professor will notice the difference between an introduction that talks about "this paper is gonna look at 2 different things about how the media is an influence" and a main paragraph that uses a sentence such as "therefore, the main premise that underpinned the magic bullet paradigm comes from a combination of Freudianist beliefs and social behaviorism". A sudden use of GRE-level words will also make your teacher sit up and pay attention.
3. If you are going to copy something from the internet, make sure you remove sentences and lines that may give away your endeavor. Including a line that says; "Please read the following summary and then click on the "quiz" button to take the quiz and test your understanding" in an assignment will generally make a professor realize what you have been up to.
4. Don't plagiarize on your first assignment. Not only is your professor likely to still be fresh and awake, and not yet beaten down by hundreds of assignments and papers, and thus notice your subterfuge, you will also piss them off for the rest of the semester. And next to a woman scorned, your greatest fear in life should be a mad professor.
5. If you are caught plagiarizing, don't try and make the crime seem less offensive by claiming that you actually didn't write the paper, but your roommate did. It will not help. At all.
No, I am not making this up. Any of this. We're three weeks into the semester, and except for number 5, which took place last semester, all of them have already happened. If it weren't so very sad, I would call it a miracle.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Hobby
I need a hobby. And I don't mean this in a factitious "Wow, dude, chill, you really need a hobby" way, no, I really need a hobby. Something to do besides working, sleeping, cleaning, running, volunteering, and taking care of my family. Now I know that when you look at that list, most of you are probably wondering why on earth I need another hobby. You would think that I have enough to do without adding yet another responsibility to my life. But I don't. Well, I do, obviously, but ever since we found out that adding a baby to our family was out of the question, there is an empty space in my life, one that I know I need to fill. So what is a girl to do?
For about a milisecond, I considered going back to school. It's possible it was less than a milisecond actually. Maybe it just flitted across my thoughts while I was asleep. Either way, it's not going to happen. First, I wouldn't know what to do in school. Get a degree in, say, logistics, or French, or nursing, and then what? Become a nurse, a logistician, or a French teacher? It would seem the logical thing to do. But you know, I really don't want to be something else. I mean, I may complain about my job, but I do actually like what I'm doing. And secondly, and probably more importantly, having spend a serious amount of time in school, I really don't want to go back. Honestly, I'm not sure how I ever made it through that many years of school in the first place. I certainly wouldn't have the motivation today. I mean, the thought alone of having to write essays, study for tests, and listen to endless lectures is enough to make me want to lie in bed and watch TV. So with all that in mind, going back to school is probably going to do very little in terms of filling the void.
And that left picking up a new hobby. Something to do that didn't involve donning spandex clothing, tying one's hair back, and producing copious amounts of sweat. But what to do? The past years, my entire life has centered around working, sleeping, cleaning, running, and the family, so my inspiration regarding hobbies has all but dried up. Fortunately, in a dark and murky past, I was quite the extracurricular activist. I would get so bored with my job as a researcher, that I tried possibly every workshop and class that my local community center had to offer. I played the piano, drummed the djembe, sang in a choir, performed in musicals, took pottery lessons, did a workshop on belly dancing, did one on tai-chi, took Italian classes, rode horses, made collages, learned how to paint with oil on canvas, did karate, and a whole host of other creative things I've forgotten. So plenty of inspiration there. After some deliberation, I decided that I would really like to do something creative again. Taking up pottery, or maybe learning a new skill, like glass blowing, or drawing, sounded really good.
And so, Dixiechick the eternal optimist looked around her little town for classes and workshops. I'm sure you know what's coming. There are no pottery, painting, drawing, or glass blowing classes offered in town. They're not even offered anywhere in a fifteen-mile radius around my town. The nearest place that offers anything creative is thirty miles away, and it doesn't even include pottery. Oh, there are plenty of classes here in town. Mommy and me swimming lessons, lamaze classes, natural birthing workshops, quilt classes for beginners ("we start with baby blankets!"), sewing workshops ("make your own baby clothes!"), and a whole slew of bible studies, including the "Bad girls of the bible" study offered on base.
Yes, of course, I'm going to go to a natural birthing class, or a workshop where you can learn how to sew your own baby clothes. Because we all know that besides shooting bamboo up my fingernails, self-flagellation is one of my favorite pastimes. So with that out of the question, that leaves bible studies. And you know, I don't want to learn about God and the bible right now. Call me petty and childish, but I don't want to learn about how wonderful any of that stuff is when He and I are not on speaking terms right now.
But not all is lost. You see, just the other day I discovered a belly dancing class offered on one of the many satelite campuses in town. And a few days later a friend asked if I wanted to learn how to line dance with her. Now although I never considered line dancing as a serious hobby, it would definitely be an interesting conversation starter at work:
"So what did you do last night?"
"I learned how to kick my right leg really high while lifting my cowboy hat at the same time and calling out "yee-haw". And then I do-see-do'd with a man named Bubba."
So, line dancing it is. At least I'll finally really earn the name DixieChick.
For about a milisecond, I considered going back to school. It's possible it was less than a milisecond actually. Maybe it just flitted across my thoughts while I was asleep. Either way, it's not going to happen. First, I wouldn't know what to do in school. Get a degree in, say, logistics, or French, or nursing, and then what? Become a nurse, a logistician, or a French teacher? It would seem the logical thing to do. But you know, I really don't want to be something else. I mean, I may complain about my job, but I do actually like what I'm doing. And secondly, and probably more importantly, having spend a serious amount of time in school, I really don't want to go back. Honestly, I'm not sure how I ever made it through that many years of school in the first place. I certainly wouldn't have the motivation today. I mean, the thought alone of having to write essays, study for tests, and listen to endless lectures is enough to make me want to lie in bed and watch TV. So with all that in mind, going back to school is probably going to do very little in terms of filling the void.
And that left picking up a new hobby. Something to do that didn't involve donning spandex clothing, tying one's hair back, and producing copious amounts of sweat. But what to do? The past years, my entire life has centered around working, sleeping, cleaning, running, and the family, so my inspiration regarding hobbies has all but dried up. Fortunately, in a dark and murky past, I was quite the extracurricular activist. I would get so bored with my job as a researcher, that I tried possibly every workshop and class that my local community center had to offer. I played the piano, drummed the djembe, sang in a choir, performed in musicals, took pottery lessons, did a workshop on belly dancing, did one on tai-chi, took Italian classes, rode horses, made collages, learned how to paint with oil on canvas, did karate, and a whole host of other creative things I've forgotten. So plenty of inspiration there. After some deliberation, I decided that I would really like to do something creative again. Taking up pottery, or maybe learning a new skill, like glass blowing, or drawing, sounded really good.
And so, Dixiechick the eternal optimist looked around her little town for classes and workshops. I'm sure you know what's coming. There are no pottery, painting, drawing, or glass blowing classes offered in town. They're not even offered anywhere in a fifteen-mile radius around my town. The nearest place that offers anything creative is thirty miles away, and it doesn't even include pottery. Oh, there are plenty of classes here in town. Mommy and me swimming lessons, lamaze classes, natural birthing workshops, quilt classes for beginners ("we start with baby blankets!"), sewing workshops ("make your own baby clothes!"), and a whole slew of bible studies, including the "Bad girls of the bible" study offered on base.
Yes, of course, I'm going to go to a natural birthing class, or a workshop where you can learn how to sew your own baby clothes. Because we all know that besides shooting bamboo up my fingernails, self-flagellation is one of my favorite pastimes. So with that out of the question, that leaves bible studies. And you know, I don't want to learn about God and the bible right now. Call me petty and childish, but I don't want to learn about how wonderful any of that stuff is when He and I are not on speaking terms right now.
But not all is lost. You see, just the other day I discovered a belly dancing class offered on one of the many satelite campuses in town. And a few days later a friend asked if I wanted to learn how to line dance with her. Now although I never considered line dancing as a serious hobby, it would definitely be an interesting conversation starter at work:
"So what did you do last night?"
"I learned how to kick my right leg really high while lifting my cowboy hat at the same time and calling out "yee-haw". And then I do-see-do'd with a man named Bubba."
So, line dancing it is. At least I'll finally really earn the name DixieChick.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Stagemiep
Ik heb over een uur en een beetje een afspraak bij het lokale televisie station, en dat vind ik best wel spannend. Ondanks dat ik namelijk al zo'n honderd jaar onderzoek doe naar de media, en lesgeef over de media, ben ik eigenlijk nog nooit bij een echt televisie station geweest. En dus heb ik mijn netste pak aangetrokken, mijn haar in de rollers gedraaid (en deze er weer uit gedraaid), en er op alle mogelijke manieren voor gezorgd dat de mensen bij het televisie station niet denken dat wij hier op de universiteit van dat langharig werkschuw links tuig zijn. Want dat zijn we natuurlijk niet.
Je zou denken dat het voor een onderzoeker-slash-docent schandalig is als je nog nooit op een televisie station geweest bent, maar eigenlijk valt dat wel mee. Dr. Dixiechick is namelijk theorie-statistiek miep. Ik ben zo'n docent die superenthousiast kan worden over aanvallen op het neo-positivisme, of bijvoorbeeld nieuwe ontdekkingen op het gebied van construct validiteit, en die eindeloos kan doorgaan over de beste manieren om vragenlijsten te formuleren, media ethiek, de vertegenwoordiging van mannen, vrouwen, kinderen, en allerlei ethnische groepen in de media, en allerlei andere prachtige theoretische, maar lichtelijk zinloze onderwerpen. Zo'n docent die zo verslaafd is aan haar vak dat je helemaal stuiterend uit een college komt, en je dan tien minuten later afvraagt, "maar waar ging het nou eigenlijk over?". Zo iemand dus. Dus niet iemand die ook maar iets weet van hoe je een camera moet vasthouden, hoe je een microfoon goed afstelt, en wat je moet doen als de belichting in een ruimte niet goed is. Ik kan er met mijn theoretische hoofd heel wat van maken hoor, maar echt weten, dat niet.
Dus waarom moet ik nu in een keer naar een televisie station? Dat heeft niet zozeer te maken met mijn expertise, als wel met mijn onvermogen om "nee" te zeggen. Toen vorig semester de docent die het stagevak begeleiden aangaf er geen tijd meer voor te hebben, keek men naar mij, en natuurlijk zei ik ja. Want dat doe ik nou eenmaal. Dus nu ben ik de stagemiep, en help ik studenten een stageplek te vinden in het laatste jaar van hun studie.
En gelukkig zit ik niet helemaal met mijn handen in het haar. Onderzoeksbureaus, die snap ik. Kranten en andere schrijf-stages, die snap ik ook, want gelukkig heb ik ooit ergens ook nog eens op een blauwe maandag een "editorial and critical writing" vak gegeven. Maar ja, er zijn ook studenten die bij een televisie of radio station willen werken. En daar weet ik dus niet zo heel veel van. Of eigenlijk helemaal niks. Ik bedoel, in mijn optiek vereist het bedienen van een camera en een teleprompter tegelijkertijd minstens een doctoraat, en zit een groot station helemaal niet te wachten op een stelletje spring in 't veld studenten. Maar dat is dus niet zo. In ieder geval, dat hoor ik van mijn praktisch ingestelde collega's. Blijkbaar zijn de kleine lokale televisie en radio stations juist erg blij met onze studenten. Het is bijna niet te geloven, maar waar. Dus daarom ga ik straks praten met het televisie station. Ik ben benieuwd.
Laten we om te beginnen maar eerst eens kijken of ik het station met mijn niet praktisch ingestelde hoofd kan vinden.
Je zou denken dat het voor een onderzoeker-slash-docent schandalig is als je nog nooit op een televisie station geweest bent, maar eigenlijk valt dat wel mee. Dr. Dixiechick is namelijk theorie-statistiek miep. Ik ben zo'n docent die superenthousiast kan worden over aanvallen op het neo-positivisme, of bijvoorbeeld nieuwe ontdekkingen op het gebied van construct validiteit, en die eindeloos kan doorgaan over de beste manieren om vragenlijsten te formuleren, media ethiek, de vertegenwoordiging van mannen, vrouwen, kinderen, en allerlei ethnische groepen in de media, en allerlei andere prachtige theoretische, maar lichtelijk zinloze onderwerpen. Zo'n docent die zo verslaafd is aan haar vak dat je helemaal stuiterend uit een college komt, en je dan tien minuten later afvraagt, "maar waar ging het nou eigenlijk over?". Zo iemand dus. Dus niet iemand die ook maar iets weet van hoe je een camera moet vasthouden, hoe je een microfoon goed afstelt, en wat je moet doen als de belichting in een ruimte niet goed is. Ik kan er met mijn theoretische hoofd heel wat van maken hoor, maar echt weten, dat niet.
Dus waarom moet ik nu in een keer naar een televisie station? Dat heeft niet zozeer te maken met mijn expertise, als wel met mijn onvermogen om "nee" te zeggen. Toen vorig semester de docent die het stagevak begeleiden aangaf er geen tijd meer voor te hebben, keek men naar mij, en natuurlijk zei ik ja. Want dat doe ik nou eenmaal. Dus nu ben ik de stagemiep, en help ik studenten een stageplek te vinden in het laatste jaar van hun studie.
En gelukkig zit ik niet helemaal met mijn handen in het haar. Onderzoeksbureaus, die snap ik. Kranten en andere schrijf-stages, die snap ik ook, want gelukkig heb ik ooit ergens ook nog eens op een blauwe maandag een "editorial and critical writing" vak gegeven. Maar ja, er zijn ook studenten die bij een televisie of radio station willen werken. En daar weet ik dus niet zo heel veel van. Of eigenlijk helemaal niks. Ik bedoel, in mijn optiek vereist het bedienen van een camera en een teleprompter tegelijkertijd minstens een doctoraat, en zit een groot station helemaal niet te wachten op een stelletje spring in 't veld studenten. Maar dat is dus niet zo. In ieder geval, dat hoor ik van mijn praktisch ingestelde collega's. Blijkbaar zijn de kleine lokale televisie en radio stations juist erg blij met onze studenten. Het is bijna niet te geloven, maar waar. Dus daarom ga ik straks praten met het televisie station. Ik ben benieuwd.
Laten we om te beginnen maar eerst eens kijken of ik het station met mijn niet praktisch ingestelde hoofd kan vinden.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dorky, dorkier, dorkiest
I am an absolute dork. Or geek. Or nerd. It doesn't matter what you call it, I am it (The cheering you're hearing is twelve years worth of classmates who tried to tell me this for years). Overall, I'm OK with this. I wear my geekiness as a proud badge of honor, and go on with my life. But a geek, I am.
Just to provide some sort of frame of reference for this statement: I was, and am in fact, the type of person who loves reading a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia. I can hear a word like "egregious" on NPR on my way to work, not be 100% certain of how it differs from a word like "ostentatious", and then brood about that until I can walk up to my bookcase and look it up. Now I realize that many of you are writers yourself. Some of you have even written about looking up the spelling of words before using them in your blog. I know that others love learning new words as much as I do. So until today, I felt as though perhaps I wasn't that big of a nerd. that perhaps I'm not a nerd at all, but all those classmates were just completely uneducated and superficial.
But then today, my new copy of the AP stylebook came in. I don't teach journalism writing classes, so I didn't really need it. But I ordered it anyway. Because I'm a nerd. Or just an educated person eager to learn, you pick. But I quickly realized that I am, in fact, the biggest nerd in the world. Because you know what I am currently doing while on my lunch break? That's right. Reading the stylebook. And not just reading it, absorbing it. Committing it to memory. Exclaiming "huh!" at some of the more obscure references, and mumbling "I knew it!" at others. It's absurd.
Well, maybe it's not. I mean, if you're into writing, this book is truly your bible. It has the most interesting random and yet relevant facts you can think of listed in alphabetical order. Allow me to provide you with a sample.
"Prison, jail. Do not use the two words interchangeably. Prison is a generic term that may be applied to the maximum security institutions often known as penitentiaries..All such facilities confine people serving sentences for felonies. A jail is normally used to confine people serving sentences for misdemeanors, people awaiting trial or sentencing..."
Call me ignorant, but until 11:30 this morning, jail was jail to me. The big house, the slammer. The place you went if you broke the law. But apparently jail is not just another word for prison. There's a fine distinction. I mean, who knew?
Or how about those things that people do, and that annoy the pants off me?
"Off of. The of is unnecessary. He fell off the bed. Not: he fell off of the bed"
Thank you!
And then there are those things that everyone talks about, and yet I'm never quite sure what they mean. Usually it's things related to economics, or chemistry, or physics. Classes I loved but just don't remember enough of to make sense of some of it. No more! The AP Stylebook has come to the rescue:
"Hedging. A method of selling for future delivery whereby a dealer protects himself from falling prices between the time he buys a product and the time he resells or processes it..."
And then the lovely little details, presented with a clear "well duh!" undertone:
"Hangar, hanger. A hangar is a building. A hanger is used for clothes."
Did you hear the "you idiot" at the end of that entry too?
And then of course there are entries that are just words; a way to help people figure out how to spell obscure words such as "taleggio cheese" and "scurrilous", and remind us that it's "toward" and not "towards". And those entries that focus on appropriate word usage:
"Ghetto, ghettos. Do not use indiscriminately as a synonym for the sections of cities inhabited by the poor. Ghetto has a connotation that government decree has forced people to live in a certain area."
It's amazing.
And I just realized there's a whole section punctuation, media law, sports, and business. I am taking this book home tonight.
Just to provide some sort of frame of reference for this statement: I was, and am in fact, the type of person who loves reading a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia. I can hear a word like "egregious" on NPR on my way to work, not be 100% certain of how it differs from a word like "ostentatious", and then brood about that until I can walk up to my bookcase and look it up. Now I realize that many of you are writers yourself. Some of you have even written about looking up the spelling of words before using them in your blog. I know that others love learning new words as much as I do. So until today, I felt as though perhaps I wasn't that big of a nerd. that perhaps I'm not a nerd at all, but all those classmates were just completely uneducated and superficial.
But then today, my new copy of the AP stylebook came in. I don't teach journalism writing classes, so I didn't really need it. But I ordered it anyway. Because I'm a nerd. Or just an educated person eager to learn, you pick. But I quickly realized that I am, in fact, the biggest nerd in the world. Because you know what I am currently doing while on my lunch break? That's right. Reading the stylebook. And not just reading it, absorbing it. Committing it to memory. Exclaiming "huh!" at some of the more obscure references, and mumbling "I knew it!" at others. It's absurd.
Well, maybe it's not. I mean, if you're into writing, this book is truly your bible. It has the most interesting random and yet relevant facts you can think of listed in alphabetical order. Allow me to provide you with a sample.
"Prison, jail. Do not use the two words interchangeably. Prison is a generic term that may be applied to the maximum security institutions often known as penitentiaries..All such facilities confine people serving sentences for felonies. A jail is normally used to confine people serving sentences for misdemeanors, people awaiting trial or sentencing..."
Call me ignorant, but until 11:30 this morning, jail was jail to me. The big house, the slammer. The place you went if you broke the law. But apparently jail is not just another word for prison. There's a fine distinction. I mean, who knew?
Or how about those things that people do, and that annoy the pants off me?
"Off of. The of is unnecessary. He fell off the bed. Not: he fell off of the bed"
Thank you!
And then there are those things that everyone talks about, and yet I'm never quite sure what they mean. Usually it's things related to economics, or chemistry, or physics. Classes I loved but just don't remember enough of to make sense of some of it. No more! The AP Stylebook has come to the rescue:
"Hedging. A method of selling for future delivery whereby a dealer protects himself from falling prices between the time he buys a product and the time he resells or processes it..."
And then the lovely little details, presented with a clear "well duh!" undertone:
"Hangar, hanger. A hangar is a building. A hanger is used for clothes."
Did you hear the "you idiot" at the end of that entry too?
And then of course there are entries that are just words; a way to help people figure out how to spell obscure words such as "taleggio cheese" and "scurrilous", and remind us that it's "toward" and not "towards". And those entries that focus on appropriate word usage:
"Ghetto, ghettos. Do not use indiscriminately as a synonym for the sections of cities inhabited by the poor. Ghetto has a connotation that government decree has forced people to live in a certain area."
It's amazing.
And I just realized there's a whole section punctuation, media law, sports, and business. I am taking this book home tonight.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
"So, uhm, professor, do you really think we need to get a degree to be successful? I mean, I know lots of people who never went to college and who are really successful."
This question interrupted my "Welcome to our program, get with it, or get out" speech that I give to our incoming sophomores every fall semester. Please picture this scene with me. I have just introduced myself as Dr. D., thus indicating that I have spent the better part of my life so far in school. I have inquired whether everyone's registration proceeded smoothly, both academically and financially (read: "don't forget to pay your positively ginormeous fees on time or you will be dropped"). And I then launched into a five minutes inspirational tirade about the importance of working hard and excelling at all you do so you can make it in a very competitive industry. And then I was interrupted by a smart-looking girl with the question phrased above.
So what does an educator say at this point? I know what Dixiechick wanted to say. She wanted to tell the kid that if she thinks she is important enough that she can interrupt me, doubt the relevance of a college degree, and good enough to make it her own, she has my blessing to go out and give it a shot. But I can't. You see, I'm supposed to be better than that. I'm supposed to understand the limited scope that some our studens have, as this is solely the result of a non-academic background, I am supposed to see through their lack of motivation, and interpret it as a mere lack of comprehension of the opportunities offered by education. I'm also expected nurture their budding talents, however slight they may be, stimulate their development, and hold their hands throughout the entire process. Now I can understand, interpret, nurture, stimulate and support. I can do this like no other. But when someone has the audicity to question the validity of going to school in the very first lecture, the nurturing, supporting, and understanding simply has to take a backseat.
"Well, you are very welcome to drop out and give it a try."
Some students laughed, and the student who asked the question looked concerned, "No, for real, is this all really necessary?"
"Well, you're asking a person with three letters behind her last name, what do you honestly think I am going to tell you?"
I think it may have taken her a while to grasp that with "three letters" I meant Ph.D, but once she did, she once again repeated her question. And at that point, the nurturing, understanding, and supportive side of me kicked in. I patiently explained expounded on concepts such as luck, exceptions that prove the rule, and the fact that without a college degree you may get somewhere, but it's a question whether you'll ever really be headed anywhere else.
And then I launched right back into my motivational speech. I'm not sure what I said exactly, but I think it amounted to notion that if you don't believe in what you're doing here, there is no point in sticking around. I explained that without a positive attitude, a thirst for success, and a desire to learn and grow you would never walk across that stage (to get your diploma). I added that if you have doubts now, you might as well drop out while you can, because all you will be doing is accruing a lot of debt. But, I added, if you are motivated, persistent, willing to learn, and willing to do whatever it took to be successful, you would be one of those students we would be talking about for years.
One can never be sure if speeches like this work, but honestly, I think we have ourselves a group of motivated, browbeat, gung-ho, and slightly freaked out sophomores right now. A perfect way to start the new year.
This question interrupted my "Welcome to our program, get with it, or get out" speech that I give to our incoming sophomores every fall semester. Please picture this scene with me. I have just introduced myself as Dr. D., thus indicating that I have spent the better part of my life so far in school. I have inquired whether everyone's registration proceeded smoothly, both academically and financially (read: "don't forget to pay your positively ginormeous fees on time or you will be dropped"). And I then launched into a five minutes inspirational tirade about the importance of working hard and excelling at all you do so you can make it in a very competitive industry. And then I was interrupted by a smart-looking girl with the question phrased above.
So what does an educator say at this point? I know what Dixiechick wanted to say. She wanted to tell the kid that if she thinks she is important enough that she can interrupt me, doubt the relevance of a college degree, and good enough to make it her own, she has my blessing to go out and give it a shot. But I can't. You see, I'm supposed to be better than that. I'm supposed to understand the limited scope that some our studens have, as this is solely the result of a non-academic background, I am supposed to see through their lack of motivation, and interpret it as a mere lack of comprehension of the opportunities offered by education. I'm also expected nurture their budding talents, however slight they may be, stimulate their development, and hold their hands throughout the entire process. Now I can understand, interpret, nurture, stimulate and support. I can do this like no other. But when someone has the audicity to question the validity of going to school in the very first lecture, the nurturing, supporting, and understanding simply has to take a backseat.
"Well, you are very welcome to drop out and give it a try."
Some students laughed, and the student who asked the question looked concerned, "No, for real, is this all really necessary?"
"Well, you're asking a person with three letters behind her last name, what do you honestly think I am going to tell you?"
I think it may have taken her a while to grasp that with "three letters" I meant Ph.D, but once she did, she once again repeated her question. And at that point, the nurturing, understanding, and supportive side of me kicked in. I patiently explained expounded on concepts such as luck, exceptions that prove the rule, and the fact that without a college degree you may get somewhere, but it's a question whether you'll ever really be headed anywhere else.
And then I launched right back into my motivational speech. I'm not sure what I said exactly, but I think it amounted to notion that if you don't believe in what you're doing here, there is no point in sticking around. I explained that without a positive attitude, a thirst for success, and a desire to learn and grow you would never walk across that stage (to get your diploma). I added that if you have doubts now, you might as well drop out while you can, because all you will be doing is accruing a lot of debt. But, I added, if you are motivated, persistent, willing to learn, and willing to do whatever it took to be successful, you would be one of those students we would be talking about for years.
One can never be sure if speeches like this work, but honestly, I think we have ourselves a group of motivated, browbeat, gung-ho, and slightly freaked out sophomores right now. A perfect way to start the new year.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The price of beauty
The days of wearing almost whatever you want to work are officially over. Although the official communique regarding summer dress code that we received in May claimed that "relaxed casual dress", whatever that may mean, was going to apply until Labor Day, we all know better. The moment the students show back up, everyone needs to look their Sunday best. It's like visiting the in-laws, only now imagine your in-laws dressed in sagging pants, cropped tops and sneakers, while you're wearing your nices suit, and then having them wonder why you're wearing a blazer and a shirt.
Anyway, as of last Monday, there are no more capri pants, no more polo shirts, no more sandals, and definitely no more shorts. You may recall from an earlier blog that shorts were not acceptable anyway, but here in the mass communication department, we're a rebellious bunch, and so every once in a while, Steve would decide to let his legs see daylight, and show up in a pair of faded shorts. But no more. It's back to dresspants, skirts, button-downs and blazers. And as usual, after a summer of pretty much wearing whatever, I like being able to dress up again. I have only one problem, as I discovered today, and that is with wearing pumps.
You may recall that I broke my little toe sometime in March. For about six weeks, I was unable to wear anything but my lovely hot pink crocs, much to merriment of both faculty and the students. By the time the semester ended, I was able to graduate to normal shoes once again, but at this point summer had started, and so I merely migrated to sandals and flip flops.
And so today, when I decided to wear a pair of closed pumps for the first time in about five months, I realized once again how much shoes can hurt. And I mean hurt. My feet hurt so much, I am reminded of the evil stepsisters in Cinderella. No, not the endearingly clumsy ones from the sugarcoated Disney version, I'm thinking of the posivitely evil siblings from the original version, where they pretend to fit into Cinderella's shoe by cutting off their heel and their toes respectively. If there was a bird in a bush somewhere, it too would be singing about how these shoes don't fit me. I have a bandaid on both my heels, two of my toes, and still my walk resembles that of a pirate with a wooden leg. I never knew how far the walk to the bathroom actually is until now. I have the feeling that tomorrow I will be switching back to my open-toed pumps, because one, I don't think that my raw little stumps that are supposed to pass for my feet are ready for another day cooped inside very tight shoes, and two, anything slightly more comfortable is simply not allowed. I'm telling, for the country that worships the sneaker (or tennis shoe, as they say down here) on their days off, they sure are strict about their footwear at work.
The price of beauty truly is unbelievable...
Anyway, as of last Monday, there are no more capri pants, no more polo shirts, no more sandals, and definitely no more shorts. You may recall from an earlier blog that shorts were not acceptable anyway, but here in the mass communication department, we're a rebellious bunch, and so every once in a while, Steve would decide to let his legs see daylight, and show up in a pair of faded shorts. But no more. It's back to dresspants, skirts, button-downs and blazers. And as usual, after a summer of pretty much wearing whatever, I like being able to dress up again. I have only one problem, as I discovered today, and that is with wearing pumps.
You may recall that I broke my little toe sometime in March. For about six weeks, I was unable to wear anything but my lovely hot pink crocs, much to merriment of both faculty and the students. By the time the semester ended, I was able to graduate to normal shoes once again, but at this point summer had started, and so I merely migrated to sandals and flip flops.
And so today, when I decided to wear a pair of closed pumps for the first time in about five months, I realized once again how much shoes can hurt. And I mean hurt. My feet hurt so much, I am reminded of the evil stepsisters in Cinderella. No, not the endearingly clumsy ones from the sugarcoated Disney version, I'm thinking of the posivitely evil siblings from the original version, where they pretend to fit into Cinderella's shoe by cutting off their heel and their toes respectively. If there was a bird in a bush somewhere, it too would be singing about how these shoes don't fit me. I have a bandaid on both my heels, two of my toes, and still my walk resembles that of a pirate with a wooden leg. I never knew how far the walk to the bathroom actually is until now. I have the feeling that tomorrow I will be switching back to my open-toed pumps, because one, I don't think that my raw little stumps that are supposed to pass for my feet are ready for another day cooped inside very tight shoes, and two, anything slightly more comfortable is simply not allowed. I'm telling, for the country that worships the sneaker (or tennis shoe, as they say down here) on their days off, they sure are strict about their footwear at work.
The price of beauty truly is unbelievable...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Eindelijk...
Na vier huizen hebben we eindelijk gordijnen in de slaapkamer. Het werd hoog tijd, overigens. Niet dat ik nou zo'n gordijnen fan ben, hoor. Het maakt mij eigenlijk helemaal niks uit wat er voor de ramen hangt, ik slaap toch wel. En eerlijk gezegd vind ik de Amerikaanse raamkozijnen zo mooi dat ik er iets voorhangen zonde vind. Maar ja, ik ben getrouwd, en dan moet je soms compromissen sluiten.
Je zou denken dat manlief, een geharde militair (nou ja, een beetje dan), net als zijn vrouw door alles heen kan slapen; hijgende honden, een woelende vrouw, het licht van de volle maan, maar nee dus. Ik snap er niks van, en heb hem ook wel eens gevraagd of hij op uitzending dan maar drie maanden helemaal niet slaapt. Ik kan me namelijk zo voorstellen dat als een zich wassende hond je uit je slaap houdt, je al helemaal niet kan slapen als de mortieren en kogels van het afweergeschut je om de oren vliegen. Maar dat is blijkbaar anders. Op uitzending wordt er namelijk niet zomaar gewerkt, er wordt keihard gewerkt, en dan ben je 's avonds zo moe dat je door alles heenslaapt. Ik heb maar niet gezegd dat dit misschien betekent dat hij thuis gewoon niet hard genoeg werkt, en braaf geknikt toen hij over gordjinen begon.
Terwijl wij bezig waren met onze zoektocht naar "de" gordijnen kwam ik tot de conclusie dat geen van de Amerikanen die ik ken gordijnen in huis hebben. Of in ieder geval niet van die dikke gordijnen die je, zoals in Nederland, elke avond sluit. De meeste mensen hebben, net zoals wij, luxaflex voor alle ramen hangen, en sommigen sluiten die niet eens. Een aantal mensen hebben wel van die mooie siergordijnen, maar die hangen er dus inderdaad alleen maar voor de sier, en worden dus nooit dichtgedaan. Voordat u nu als nieuwsgierige Nederlander uitkijkt naar het naar binnenkijken in alle Amerikaanse huizen die u op uw volgende reis naar Amerika gaat tegenkomen; dat gaat helaas niet. De reden waarom Amerikanen volgens mij bijna nooit gordijnen hebben is namelijk dat Amerikaanse huizen veel minder, en veel kleinere ramen hebben dan Nederlandse bouwsels. En voordat u nou gaat roepen dat dat niet gezellig is, dat is misschien wel zo, maar met de hitte die wij hier in Georgia voor onze kiezen krijgen, wil je geen mooi doorzonraam. Geloof me. Daarnaast staan Amerikaanse huizen vaak verder van de weg en hun buren af dan Nederlandse woningen, en dus in van naar binnen kijken al helemaal geen sprake. Tel daarbij op dat bij ons het nooit later licht is dan half tien 's avonds, en waarom zou je dan in hemelsnaam gaan klooien met gordijnen en roedes en rails en andere nare dingen?
Nou, niet dus. Behalve wanneer je een man hebt die van elk beetje licht en geluid wakker wordt. Het geluid heeft hij opgelost door oordopjes die mijn familie braaf elke maand uit Nederland opstuurt, en het licht is dus sinds afgelopen weekend ook geen probleem meer. Onze kamer is nu zo donker dat toen ik vannacht naar de WC moest, ik over beide honden struikelde, tegen het bed aanliep, en de badkamerdeur niet kon vinden. Maar dat heb ik graag over voor een goed uitgeruste man hoor. Zo aardig ben ik dan ook wel weer. En om heel eerlijk te zijn, de gordijnen staan eigenlijk best wel gezellig.
Je zou denken dat manlief, een geharde militair (nou ja, een beetje dan), net als zijn vrouw door alles heen kan slapen; hijgende honden, een woelende vrouw, het licht van de volle maan, maar nee dus. Ik snap er niks van, en heb hem ook wel eens gevraagd of hij op uitzending dan maar drie maanden helemaal niet slaapt. Ik kan me namelijk zo voorstellen dat als een zich wassende hond je uit je slaap houdt, je al helemaal niet kan slapen als de mortieren en kogels van het afweergeschut je om de oren vliegen. Maar dat is blijkbaar anders. Op uitzending wordt er namelijk niet zomaar gewerkt, er wordt keihard gewerkt, en dan ben je 's avonds zo moe dat je door alles heenslaapt. Ik heb maar niet gezegd dat dit misschien betekent dat hij thuis gewoon niet hard genoeg werkt, en braaf geknikt toen hij over gordjinen begon.
Terwijl wij bezig waren met onze zoektocht naar "de" gordijnen kwam ik tot de conclusie dat geen van de Amerikanen die ik ken gordijnen in huis hebben. Of in ieder geval niet van die dikke gordijnen die je, zoals in Nederland, elke avond sluit. De meeste mensen hebben, net zoals wij, luxaflex voor alle ramen hangen, en sommigen sluiten die niet eens. Een aantal mensen hebben wel van die mooie siergordijnen, maar die hangen er dus inderdaad alleen maar voor de sier, en worden dus nooit dichtgedaan. Voordat u nu als nieuwsgierige Nederlander uitkijkt naar het naar binnenkijken in alle Amerikaanse huizen die u op uw volgende reis naar Amerika gaat tegenkomen; dat gaat helaas niet. De reden waarom Amerikanen volgens mij bijna nooit gordijnen hebben is namelijk dat Amerikaanse huizen veel minder, en veel kleinere ramen hebben dan Nederlandse bouwsels. En voordat u nou gaat roepen dat dat niet gezellig is, dat is misschien wel zo, maar met de hitte die wij hier in Georgia voor onze kiezen krijgen, wil je geen mooi doorzonraam. Geloof me. Daarnaast staan Amerikaanse huizen vaak verder van de weg en hun buren af dan Nederlandse woningen, en dus in van naar binnen kijken al helemaal geen sprake. Tel daarbij op dat bij ons het nooit later licht is dan half tien 's avonds, en waarom zou je dan in hemelsnaam gaan klooien met gordijnen en roedes en rails en andere nare dingen?
Nou, niet dus. Behalve wanneer je een man hebt die van elk beetje licht en geluid wakker wordt. Het geluid heeft hij opgelost door oordopjes die mijn familie braaf elke maand uit Nederland opstuurt, en het licht is dus sinds afgelopen weekend ook geen probleem meer. Onze kamer is nu zo donker dat toen ik vannacht naar de WC moest, ik over beide honden struikelde, tegen het bed aanliep, en de badkamerdeur niet kon vinden. Maar dat heb ik graag over voor een goed uitgeruste man hoor. Zo aardig ben ik dan ook wel weer. En om heel eerlijk te zijn, de gordijnen staan eigenlijk best wel gezellig.
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