In All Honesty, I'm a Moron, So Give Me Your Scholarship

This Wednesday I’ve agreed to participate in a student panel discussing what teacher has influenced me the most and why, things that have enabled me to learn the most deeply, and things that have hindered my learning in school. I also just received an email asking me to write a short biography of myself, including the answers to a few key questions, which will serve as my introduction to the audience.

One of these questions asked me to rank myself as a student (academically) as above average, average, or below average. I laughed inside myself, wondering if I should put “below average.” Every panel needs a below average student, and I can’t deny that I essentially do have a “C’s get degrees” mentality. And I am a slacker. But I’d never consistently describe myself this way, so, I answered “average”…and then had an interesting memory come to mind.

I remembered this scholarship essay I wrote in high school, that I titled “The Average among the Elite.” I think I had it in my head back then that honesty was one of the most impressive qualities a student could have, perhaps even more so than…academic success. Yeah, so, it is with great shame and much amusement that I present to you my essay for the ACCESS Scholarship for Women:

“Recently in my biology class, I had the opportunity to crossbreed fruit flies. Seeing as I was the only one to volunteer, I went to work by myself to anesthetize the flies before they reached sexual maturity and sort them according to sex and type. However, to my dismay, I used a tad too much “Fly Nap,” and accidently killed the flies instead. Oh darn, failure isn’t all that fun. Of course, I did learn from my little mishap and made sure not to make the same mistake again in the second attempt. Although, the next attempt was not successful either because many of the flies drowned in the banana mush I prepared as a food source, which I guess was a bit on the watery side. I’m certain that if a third attempt were in fact called for, little if nothing would go wrong.

You see, I have not always been the most qualified for a given task. Maybe someone else could have performed the fruit fly experiment with success the first time. But I was the only one that volunteered, and thus the only one who learned anything at all, in this regard. In pure honestly, my GPA and ACT score hardly qualifies me for this scholarship. Perhaps it is my willingness to learn from ignorance and to enroll in advanced courses despite my average profile that qualifies me to even seek such an opportunity of being awarded this scholarship. I am willing to try, to fail, and to learn next time how to do better. That is the best way to learn.

My interest in science classes has often puzzled people. As a sophomore my favorite class was chemistry, which I recall many people, including my parents, claimed they never really cared for and even hated. But I always found it easy to look beyond the equations and theories because of my interests in the applications chemistry had in how things functioned and how they influenced the world. I went into AP Chemistry as a junior with full knowledge that I wasn’t exactly above average, but I didn’t want to be deprived of higher learning just because I didn’t stand out as a “science whiz.” Along with some of the other students in my AP Chemistry class, I enrolled in a lab course at the University of Utah. Yes, I found the class a little difficult, but I managed to get a B in the end, which I thought was pretty good considering that Professor Ragsdale grades on the bell curve and that I was amongst such bright kids.

I was the only girl in my AP Chemistry class who didn’t drop out, and the first girl ever from Wasatch to complete the lab course at the U of U. Perhaps that is one reason why this scholarship interested me. I love science and have tried my best to pursue it despite the intimidation of being the only girl at times, and having a lower GPA and ACT score than other AP students. I even look back now and can’t believe that I sacrificed my Friday nights to stay up and do my equations rather than go out with friends and see a movie. Although, in the end I came out with the same grade as the rest of my classmates from Wasatch, I truly think that perhaps my efforts to achieve an average among the elite students has given me my own distinctive and unassuming way of standing out.

Throughout my years at Wasatch I have taken an interest in the basic and essential sciences such as biology and chemistry, and have come to especially enjoy physiology where both of them come into play. I hope to learn more about many areas of science and wish to be able to be given the opportunity to acquire this knowledge and grow from the challenges of doing so.”

Wow. I’m pretty sure that this essay got crumbled up and thrown in the trash after someone read, “In pure honestly, my GPA and ACT score hardly qualifies me for this scholarship.” Then again, maybe this person had a sense of humor, and read the whole thing before disposing of it. With that in mind, I wonder what happened when the panel judging the Sterling Scholar applications opened my friend Kendall's portfolio full of I.O.U.'s...

At least I can say that I now HAVE successfully completed an experiment with fruit flies (in my genetics lab a little over a year ago). In fact, I think that my partner and I were the most successful students in the class with that experiment. And I got an A in the course. So, I ended up all right. Perhaps that would not have been the case without those crazy days of drowning flies in banana mush and writing lousy scholarship essays about the value of determination. I dunno. But I think I’ll avoid discussing my fruit fly breeding experiences with the panel on Wednesday, at least.

The Window Seat

This poem is about an experience I had on my plane ride home from Mexico. I hope I don't offend Harry Potter fans, but I do find J.K. Rowling irritating sometimes.

The Window Seat

The trip was over and I was flying home,
sitting in the window seat, staring

into the clouds, forever grateful

that J.K. Rowling could not

hold my attention.

Else my thoughts would have been

in a book, my mind barely amused
by forcefully colorful adjectives
describing the faces of little witches,
which boxed in my imagination

like a paint-by-number set.

My eyes would not have searched

beyond the window, to capture

a miraculous display of light

suspended in time.

A sunset, enveloped in an entire

spectrum of color, layered in horizontal stripes
from bottom to top -violet to red-

solid and spectacular
like rock strata on the horizon.

I gazed in joy and surprise.
I gazed…forever.
The moment did not end.
The colors did not fade.
And the sun did not sink.

What a chance of circumstance,
to travel west into another

time zone, just as the sun begins to set.
It was continuously beginning to…

And I, the only one

to witness it, to watch the "gold"

and see it stay, had no business

or book to attract my eyes.

Dis-tract my eyes.

I had only a fool’s faith in the window seat.

I Love the Devil (but not really)

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to read through and comment on some poems that a friend of mine was preparing to get published, and it got me in the mood to write some poetry of my own. It was a pretty rare mood actually, as the only times I’ve ever written poems in the last few years have been times when I simply had nothing else to do. Sometimes I wrote them at work because one of the rooms I was stuck in for 5 hours didn’t have a computer, and if I forgot to bring something to work on, it was an incredibly boring work environment. There was always paper and pen there as a backup for something to do, though. Unfortunately, those poems I wrote at work always turned out…shockingly depressing. I say “shockingly” because I had no idea I was feeling that way until they were written. So, honestly, writing poems wasn’t ever an especially pleasant experience.

I remember one incident where I was simply waiting for some spaghetti noodles to cook, and decided to write some poems while I waited. Afterwards I told my roommate that I just wrote two poems while my food was cooking, and that one was a love poem, and the other was about the devil. I read one aloud to her, and she asked, “Was that one about the devil?”

I hung my head, “That was the love poem,” I answered, a bit discouraged and confused. To be fair, I think that perhaps I do have a bit of a dark sense of romantic attraction. For instance, if I were a fictional character in a story, I can very well see myself as the girl who is secretly in love with the villain. Like, if I were What’s-Her-Bucket in The Phantom of the Opera, I know I would go for the Phantom. Crazy though he is. Seriously, villains are far more interesting than heroes, in general, wouldn’t you say? Incidentally, the villain in a story I was working on a long time ago was based off of the guy whom the love poem was directed to. So maybe there is more to this, “Was that one about the devil,” madness than meets the eye.

I guess perhaps I’m getting at the fact that when I do decide to share my poems, no one really gets them. But writing for clarity, with poems, is never my intention, anyway, so, I’m not entirely certain why that is frustrating. In fact, I think that when I do write them, they are basically about very personal information that I have chosen to put in a short enigmatic poem, rather than to elaborate on and actually explain. Because that would probably turn out to be even more shocking to myself, and if I decided to share it, it would be more embarrassing if people really knew what I meant. On the other hand, what would be the point of sharing it, if people didn’t know what I was talking about?

Luckily, with this sudden mood to write poems a few weeks ago, for the fun of it and not because I was bored, I actually wrote about positive and incredible experiences that I had. In fact, that was really the best part of being in my poetry mood. I made a list of really wonderful or important feelings in my life that I wanted to share with people, however or whenever possible. I’m hoping to be able to share these experiences with those of you that read this blog at least. And I will give some details so that you don’t confuse my feelings on love for my feelings on the devil. That incident was just…so odd.

My Letter Box

I have a letter box that contains practically all of the written correspondence I’ve had since high school. I keep as many birthday cards and thank you notes as I can remember to stash away. I keep every wedding announcement – even if I didn’t know the couple so well.

Yet of course there are the important things, like the original draft of a letter I sent once, that came as close to saying “I love you” as I could at the time. And the reply, still wrapped in the original red ribbon. I think his girlfriend must have picked it out. Read the letter. Tied the bow. I used to read it all the time. I tried to read it out loud once, to a friend, but couldn’t. My voice…cracks. That’s probably why when I felt that way for someone new, I couldn’t say it either. I wrote it in a letter. This time there was no mistake. It said, “I love you,” clear and true. Then again, do written words really say anything? I wish so, or that letter box is just a box.

I consider myself courageous, sometimes, for the things I’ve allowed myself to share through a box, an inbox. My friend once told me that the internet was like a refrigerator door, a place to look at memos and information at a glance. Except, my letters were an extension of that. My feelings, in words, and occasionally unrequited words, may as well have been that cold. I’m a great friend…like an industrial refrigerator, which is, essentially, a giant box.

I can’t write him the way I used to. And now that courage has nowhere to show itself. Oh, I could share it with those I don’t trust as much. But I don’t think they would understand. That’s where the courage has run. But I don’t want it hidden. I can’t stand it that way. Incredible moments, feelings, and ideas are not supposed to stay in my head, or my journal, or my inbox. I can’t hoard them away, and mix the powerful with the mundane like I do the notes inside my letter box. That deep red ribbon is of much more value than that pristine and glossy white one from that random wedding announcement.

More than the fear that people may misunderstand, I know, is the fear that they will not care to. The fear that to them I am really nothing more than a refrigerator door, with a memo that reminds them to get around to reading that book, eventually. Or to pick up batteries at the store. But they forget the errand nonetheless. Useless fears. I must encourage my courage to come out to play. Or else these words remain inside...my mind (a box), my heart (a box).

Pig-headed Cures for Pig-hideousness

I think that I am prematurely turning into one of those bitter old cranks that spouts off the saying, "they ain't as good as they used to be" about basically everything. In the case of movies, though, I generally do mean it. Maybe there are still a good number of interesting, novel, and unpredictable plotlines and characters emerging in at least the independent genre, but how often do we ever get to see that stuff? Surely not on a monthly movie night basis. That's how often I'd like to go out to the movies, if I felt it were worth it.

To tell you the truth, I'm not concerned about wasting time or money on movies that aren't very good. Sometimes the bad movies are so entertaining that they happen to be a welcomed use of my time and money. But, that's not what I mean by "worth it" regardless. The issue is, I don't want my standard of what makes a great movie to be compromised.

While I'm on the subject, is it a bad thing if someone pays for your movie ticket (date or otherwise) and you start laughing at how absurdly awful the movie was afterwards? Particularly when you know the other person doesn't agree? Cause, I do that. Sometimes. I'm specifically remembering the incident after the latest Hulk movie. I imagine it must have been better than the previous one...but I honestly can't picture how.

I know what you are thinking, "Why should we listen to someone that loves movies like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure?"

And I'd say, "Come on now, you know that is truly Keanu Reeves' best work."

There are a few different things I could decide to go off on regarding what I don't like about a lot of the movies I've seen lately. But today I am irritated by the movies that promote inner beauty and self-acceptance, and then create a physical manifestation of beauty and social acceptance as the reward for having done so. That is clearly ironic, and clearly unintentionally so. And the combination of "clearly ironic" and "clearly unintentional" spells out, "WTF were you thinking?" Then again, that's the current Hollywood scene for you, in regards to romantic comedies at least.


What got me thinking about the inner-beauty moral was a movie I saw recently called "Penelope." It's about a pig-nosed girl that is cursed with this deformity until she gets a blue-blood (old money, aristocratic type) guy to marry her. Interesting thing is (and by that I mean it is entirely uninteresting), the girl is very attractive besides having a snout. So, right away we can see where this is going. The curse will be broken and she'll be beautiful once the prosthetic is gone.

And cliche of cliches, what actually breaks the curse is her own self-acceptance of who she is and what she looks like. That's not a bad cliche, except since this self-acceptance magically caused the problem to completely go away, doesn't that completely defeat the purpose? That's right, your strength of character and confidence in yourself is only good for acting as a mystical potion that dispels your nasty pig-hideousness. After that, you can trade it in for some equally bogus cure for vanity.

Now, we are all familiar with the movies about the pretty girls with low self-esteem who just get a make-over and suddenly they are Miss Awesome. That seems to defeat the purpose of the message that is trying to be communicated, that we shouldn't dismiss the geeky kid, or even the smelly one, because deep inside they are wonderful people. For that "inner-beauty" stuff to ring true, wouldn't the smelly kid have to stay smelly? And we just love him despite the fact?

That's not the crime of the modern film makers alone by any means. How bout that tale of the ugly duckling? A swan?! Oh, please. Why can't the "special" person really be ugly? And stay that way? Is it because wonderful people don't deserve to be ugly? That too tragic for your comedy? Or is it because we can't swallow the self-acceptance tripe we are dishing out? Either way, this trend is the hallmark of a bad movie. It doesn't quite rank up there with the mistake of using monkeys for comic relief in my book, though.