I've entered into the realm of 'published Erieites' this past weekend, when I was informed that my article/reflection of my trip to Slovakia was run on Christmas day as kind of a 'family special'. In keeping up with this trend, I was also recently informed that another one of my op-ed pieces will be published on a Friday in January as a 'Friday Forum', which entails a discussion of the topic (on the newspaper's website) once the article has reached the presses. I'm curious as to the reactions that people in Erie will have to my suggestions on demarcating 'bike zones' on all major city streets. To say that I am ambivalent about the honor of getting two articles published in less than a month would be a lie. In fact, to the contrary, it's made me realize the power of words and the ability to evoke emotion just from writing. Now, I'm not even going to remotely say that I am a 'writer' by any means, but I will say that I've been pleasantly shocked as to the reaction I received from the public who read the article. I received emails and had phone calls--even from strangers! They told me tales of tears and unexpected joy at reading my story; they asked me to write more, and were even quite animate about the fact that it is MY calling to write for people to read. Now, of course, I'm sure some of this has to do with initial reactions to the ONE article I actually wrote for the Erie Times, but it made me feel nice.
When I sit down to write, I often go through about a twenty minute 'prep' period where I think about all the other, better things I could do with my time. I mean, I could peruse through pictures of friends on facebook, or in my yearbooks--after all, I am a very nostalgic person. Or, I could drink a beer and read a book. Maybe I could work on my language and read some Czech? (which I have been doing a lot of since my GRE). Or, I could just listen to some music while drinking some tea. And usually, in the end, the urge to write wins out, as I find the habit to be quite relaxing and important. Writing has a way of making me slow down, and really reflect. Even when I write quickly and I feel as if I'm just skimming through the pages and writing the shallow reflections from my conscience, I still acknowledge the worth in putting SOMETHING down on paper to reflect on later. It's personal therapy for me, and I enjoy the creative/artistic side of it. I've never been one to have a knack for all things cerebral and artistic, but I do realize my own natural grown talent to write my ideas--a talent I would like to nurture. It's so much easier for me to describe a scene through words than it would be to paint one on a canvas: I am the man who recently drew a 'Four-leaf clover' so badly that three people around me guffawed with the honest quiff, "Jesus, Jeremy, it looks like a 6-year old drew that."
I don't know what I'm really writing about now, and to tell you the truth, I'm not so sure I even had an intention when I started, which makes me wonder why I even post on a blog anymore. Do I REALLY believe that people want to read my thoughts!? Do I REALLY think my opinions on issues are anymore informed/observant than my neighbors? HA! I know they're not....so...sorry for dragging you through this post. It sucks. I know.
So, as I sit on the brink of ushering another new year, I'm dumbfounded as to what I'm going to do. I'd really love to take a few drinks, get a little buzz and speak at an octave or two higher than normal, but I'm a twenty-five year old in Erie with no real community. I could go to a pub, but I'd prefer to not have my ear drums ring for the forty minutes thereafter, and I'd like to call some of my friends over, but my house is a grimy mess, and I don't feel like sweeping the dust bunnies out from under the table. Ugh, the conundrum of being lazy on a Friday afternoon...
Yet, what will 2011 mean to me? Will it be another year of adventure, where I put my wanderlust before responsibility and jump to somewhere else on the globe? Will it be a year where I find my life's work? Will it be the year where I return back to school a little more experienced and mature than I was four years ago? Will it be a year of uneventful days and nights, where I live with Jamie, eating dinner, watching hockey and riding bikes? Is that such a bad thought? Oh, 2011, where will you take me? Will you bring me money? Will you bring me friendships? Will you bring me pain, sorrow, anger, joy, BOREDOM? Probably all...
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Many positive happenings have taken place in the last month, and tonight after my quick workout at the gym, I felt compelled to write an update as to what has transpired since November.
For one, I've begun the process of applying to The Trinity Fellowship at Marquette University, which is a fellowship that encourages graduate students to work for Milwaukee-area nonprofits throughout their two years of study for a Masters degree. The night I stumbled upon the offering, I had already been looking in vain for schools that have a relationship with Americorps. I was hoping to come across a few schools that would do more than just match the $5,000 education award that I'm expecting to receive at the termination of my year with Americorps. I also wanted to search for a humanities or a general sciences program that stayed clear of politics and public administration. Yet, after fifty-five schools and nearly two hours of researching programs, I began to feel a sense of resignation in the fact that I probably wouldn't find a school that will give me money to study, and if they did, they sure as hell probably wouldn't be offering a Masters of Linguistics, History or Geography. Thank god I didn't log off the website before I took a gander at school number 60: I found Marquette third from the last
Marquette is the United State's largest Jesuit school and is located in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which is NOT the Upper Peninsula of Michigan--the oft-cited location. It's a well-known school that is respected, and best of all, they give out money to former PeaceCorps of Americorps members--a whole $64,000 worth. Doing the calculations on my fingers, I was pretty sure that two dived by 64 equaled 32, which meant that they would be paying ME, Jeremy Ault, $32,000 to study History and to work in a nonprofit. Not bad, huh? I didn't think so either, so I began the application process by writing my four essays, requesting for my recommendation letters, and--the monster of them all--registering to take the GRE.
The month of November saw my days turn into work/study periods: I would work from 8:30 am to 5:00pm, only to come home and then study esoteric vocabulary that I knew I would never speak in real life; therefore, I began to pick up one of the many history books I had laying around the house. I pilfered the book for "GREesque" words. I seemed to be most successful reading the gargantuan, brick-sized works of British historians; they just use such a robust vocabulary that can't, sadly, be found on facebook. I saw the word lugubrious used not once, but TWICE. Yeah, I was gonna stick the GRE verbal. However, my math skills were a different story.
The night I came across the word 'obtuse' my mind reminded me that obtuse is not only a characteristic of people, but is an angle. Uh oh, maybe I focused a little too much on the verbal aspect of the test. I couldn't remember how to do algebra. I forgot what the Pythagorean theorem actually theorizes. I didn't know how to find the area of a cylinder, nor did I really care. I forgot FOIL and 'Pardon My Dear Aunt Sally." I was pretty much floundering. I answered 20 questions in about 45 minutes and finished in the 7th percentile; meaning, that nearly everyone could and DID better than me on the test. Consequently, for the next two weeks I sat in my recliner and basked in the light of my lamp. I reread two GRE math books, and began going to the library to practice my arithmetic skills.
I tried not to let myself get too nervous about the test, as I find the GRE to be a fairly silly way of gauging the potential of students, as the test really only is an accurate indicator of the prior educational circumstance of students-- a circumstance which is often not chosen by the students themselves--and of how long one has studied for the specific test itself: It has no measure on how to gauge one's drive, talent, passion or inquisitive nature. Anyways, I had resigned myself to a confident "the-test-doesn't-define-me attitude" until, however, the night before the test date came. I couldn't sleep. My mind was a jumbled mess of nerves. I kept on having recurring images of me slamming my head off of the desk in pure anger and despair that my FUTURE, MY DEAR FUTURE, HAD BEEN....lost. I guess I didn't handle the pressure as well as I would have liked to admit...
I slunk out of bed the next morning, ate a 'brain breakfast' of organe juice, cheerios and peanut butter toast and made my way down the snow-covered streets of Erie to the testing building. Upon entering, I was informed that I had to empty out all of my pockets and place my belongings in a locker at the front of the building. I then proceeded to fill out the paperwork that was mandatory for all test takers, which unbeknownst to me, required me to actually write in cursive--something I have not done in ten years. Everyone around me seemed to be on edge. Would they pass? or, would they have to find a new profession? Ugh.
The test got underway at 8:30 am, as I was placed into my minute cubicle and told that I would not be able to leave--even to pee--for the next four hours. If I needed to go, I had to raise my handd and then be given permission from a rather rotund woman sitting behind a glass wall. I felt like an elementary school child in the principles hall.
I began the test by writing two essays, which got my confidence in gear. I then jumped to the verbal section of the test. Once I saw that my questions had become literally impossible to answer, I postulated that I was scoring highly on the verbal, so I left that section feeling encouraged. Then came my dreaded bride, the math. I jumped right into the section and didn't blink. I made motions as if I was jotting down notes and formulas, but it was all a mirage. I had no idea how much time I had, but I knew that I was moving too slowly for the first five questions, which initiated a grave decision on my part: I started to guess. My unwritten rule for the rest of the test was that if I didn't instantly recognize an answer (which was a majority), I would spend no more than one minute guessing. And, I found the most mathematically apt equation for the situation to be of much help many times over: Ini-mini-myni-mo. And, at the end when my scores were revealed, I shook with joy, as I had answered more than half of the math questions correctly. As for my verbal, it was a decent score. I left pleased and happy, yet a little embarrassed that I let the test get to me so badly. I now felt ready to continue on in the graduate school process, which is where I stand right now: I have two weeks until deadline. I will wait patiently as to see what will happen....
In other news, I was informed this past week that my article about my trip to Slovakia will be published in the Erie Times as a two-week Saturday special to be published on Dec. 18th and--of all times--on Christmas. I was pleased, and I hope that the people in Erie will enjoy the story.
Well, that's it for now. I'm off to read and write some letters.
For one, I've begun the process of applying to The Trinity Fellowship at Marquette University, which is a fellowship that encourages graduate students to work for Milwaukee-area nonprofits throughout their two years of study for a Masters degree. The night I stumbled upon the offering, I had already been looking in vain for schools that have a relationship with Americorps. I was hoping to come across a few schools that would do more than just match the $5,000 education award that I'm expecting to receive at the termination of my year with Americorps. I also wanted to search for a humanities or a general sciences program that stayed clear of politics and public administration. Yet, after fifty-five schools and nearly two hours of researching programs, I began to feel a sense of resignation in the fact that I probably wouldn't find a school that will give me money to study, and if they did, they sure as hell probably wouldn't be offering a Masters of Linguistics, History or Geography. Thank god I didn't log off the website before I took a gander at school number 60: I found Marquette third from the last
Marquette is the United State's largest Jesuit school and is located in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which is NOT the Upper Peninsula of Michigan--the oft-cited location. It's a well-known school that is respected, and best of all, they give out money to former PeaceCorps of Americorps members--a whole $64,000 worth. Doing the calculations on my fingers, I was pretty sure that two dived by 64 equaled 32, which meant that they would be paying ME, Jeremy Ault, $32,000 to study History and to work in a nonprofit. Not bad, huh? I didn't think so either, so I began the application process by writing my four essays, requesting for my recommendation letters, and--the monster of them all--registering to take the GRE.
The month of November saw my days turn into work/study periods: I would work from 8:30 am to 5:00pm, only to come home and then study esoteric vocabulary that I knew I would never speak in real life; therefore, I began to pick up one of the many history books I had laying around the house. I pilfered the book for "GREesque" words. I seemed to be most successful reading the gargantuan, brick-sized works of British historians; they just use such a robust vocabulary that can't, sadly, be found on facebook. I saw the word lugubrious used not once, but TWICE. Yeah, I was gonna stick the GRE verbal. However, my math skills were a different story.
The night I came across the word 'obtuse' my mind reminded me that obtuse is not only a characteristic of people, but is an angle. Uh oh, maybe I focused a little too much on the verbal aspect of the test. I couldn't remember how to do algebra. I forgot what the Pythagorean theorem actually theorizes. I didn't know how to find the area of a cylinder, nor did I really care. I forgot FOIL and 'Pardon My Dear Aunt Sally." I was pretty much floundering. I answered 20 questions in about 45 minutes and finished in the 7th percentile; meaning, that nearly everyone could and DID better than me on the test. Consequently, for the next two weeks I sat in my recliner and basked in the light of my lamp. I reread two GRE math books, and began going to the library to practice my arithmetic skills.
I tried not to let myself get too nervous about the test, as I find the GRE to be a fairly silly way of gauging the potential of students, as the test really only is an accurate indicator of the prior educational circumstance of students-- a circumstance which is often not chosen by the students themselves--and of how long one has studied for the specific test itself: It has no measure on how to gauge one's drive, talent, passion or inquisitive nature. Anyways, I had resigned myself to a confident "the-test-doesn't-define-me attitude" until, however, the night before the test date came. I couldn't sleep. My mind was a jumbled mess of nerves. I kept on having recurring images of me slamming my head off of the desk in pure anger and despair that my FUTURE, MY DEAR FUTURE, HAD BEEN....lost. I guess I didn't handle the pressure as well as I would have liked to admit...
I slunk out of bed the next morning, ate a 'brain breakfast' of organe juice, cheerios and peanut butter toast and made my way down the snow-covered streets of Erie to the testing building. Upon entering, I was informed that I had to empty out all of my pockets and place my belongings in a locker at the front of the building. I then proceeded to fill out the paperwork that was mandatory for all test takers, which unbeknownst to me, required me to actually write in cursive--something I have not done in ten years. Everyone around me seemed to be on edge. Would they pass? or, would they have to find a new profession? Ugh.
The test got underway at 8:30 am, as I was placed into my minute cubicle and told that I would not be able to leave--even to pee--for the next four hours. If I needed to go, I had to raise my handd and then be given permission from a rather rotund woman sitting behind a glass wall. I felt like an elementary school child in the principles hall.
I began the test by writing two essays, which got my confidence in gear. I then jumped to the verbal section of the test. Once I saw that my questions had become literally impossible to answer, I postulated that I was scoring highly on the verbal, so I left that section feeling encouraged. Then came my dreaded bride, the math. I jumped right into the section and didn't blink. I made motions as if I was jotting down notes and formulas, but it was all a mirage. I had no idea how much time I had, but I knew that I was moving too slowly for the first five questions, which initiated a grave decision on my part: I started to guess. My unwritten rule for the rest of the test was that if I didn't instantly recognize an answer (which was a majority), I would spend no more than one minute guessing. And, I found the most mathematically apt equation for the situation to be of much help many times over: Ini-mini-myni-mo. And, at the end when my scores were revealed, I shook with joy, as I had answered more than half of the math questions correctly. As for my verbal, it was a decent score. I left pleased and happy, yet a little embarrassed that I let the test get to me so badly. I now felt ready to continue on in the graduate school process, which is where I stand right now: I have two weeks until deadline. I will wait patiently as to see what will happen....
In other news, I was informed this past week that my article about my trip to Slovakia will be published in the Erie Times as a two-week Saturday special to be published on Dec. 18th and--of all times--on Christmas. I was pleased, and I hope that the people in Erie will enjoy the story.
Well, that's it for now. I'm off to read and write some letters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)