How long has it even been since I did Eight Days a Week? I don't even know. Far too long. I'm getting myself back on track.
So this last weekend I visiting Harding University, and I kinda fell in love with it. They have a good English department, a good theatre department, they're sound (with the exception of a few avoidable Bible teachers), the campus is gorgeous... need I go on? However, Harding is in Arkansas, so guess what I did ALL DAY Monday?
HAHAHAHA.
But seriously. Sixteen hours. LOTS of car time.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Late Night College Essay Party
Hey guys.
I will spare you the details, but between being exhausted from losing an hour of sleep this weekend, being stood up by a cadaver lab instructor, and figuring out that the honors college application due Friday was FAR more extensive than I previously thought, Monday wasn't the best of all days.
However, as a result of the aforementioned realization about the college application, I cranked out a college essay in the last hour or so that turned out pretty well and I thought it was blogworthy. The prompt was to write about the importance of academic excellence in 300 to 500 words, and this is what I came up with. (It's 500 words exactly. I was proud.)
Academia Nut
I failed my first AP Calculus test.
The red score at the top of the page might as well have been a stab in the heart as I, the hardcore intellectual, the straight-A student, the never-less-than-a-B-in-the-class academic, stared in bewilderment at the tear-jerking failure in front of me. My specialty had always been English, but I normally excelled at everything, whether it be poetry or trigonometry. But there it was at the top of the page, a blazing twenty-three out of fifty, a sobering reminder of my inevitable fall from perfection.
Test corrections were available, and I managed to bring my grade up to a C— small comfort for a girl accustomed to acing exams. Nevertheless, I maintained a positive attitude and a B in the class. Everyone has bad days, I thought. Mine had to come eventually. It won’t happen again. Blessed with a wonderful memory, I had never had to study for tests, particularly not math tests, but in fear that the devil grade had been a result of my neglect, I practiced several problems prior to the next test. I would not have my near-perfect grade point average ruined by something so petty as an inability to integrate differential equations.
I got a D.
One sub-C grade in a person’s lifetime is permissible, even if that grade does happen to be less than a fifty percent. However, two scores on the wrong side of the Bell curve is enough to threaten your status as a nerd for life.
The next assessment arrived shortly after in the form of a low point-value quiz. While I managed to scrape a B, the elusive A, the mark I truly craved, evaded me still, despite much practice and study. Test corrections and routine homework assignments kept my grade in the class tottering on the edge of a B and a C, but I might as well have been tottering on the edge of a cliff overlooking a pool full of piranhas. I was ashamed of the few B’s I had received in my high school career, and one C would surely jeopardize my chances of ever gaining admittance to the college of my choice. In my distress, I did what every tough go-getter does— I talked to Mom.
She said she wasn’t worried about it.
I eyed her with disbelief. This woman who got A’s all her life, the valedictorian of her graduating class, doesn’t care that I might have a C in the class?!?
“Are you doing your best?” she asked.
I nodded.
“That’s good enough for me.”
I was awestruck. Never in my life had my best been anything less than an A, but maybe, just maybe, this time it was all right.
What is academic excellence, anyway? Is it getting A’s, or is it throwing yourself wholeheartedly into your work, learning everything you can, and accepting whatever grade comes with your effort?
I still haven’t gotten an A on a calculus test.
Somehow I’ll go on.
I will spare you the details, but between being exhausted from losing an hour of sleep this weekend, being stood up by a cadaver lab instructor, and figuring out that the honors college application due Friday was FAR more extensive than I previously thought, Monday wasn't the best of all days.
However, as a result of the aforementioned realization about the college application, I cranked out a college essay in the last hour or so that turned out pretty well and I thought it was blogworthy. The prompt was to write about the importance of academic excellence in 300 to 500 words, and this is what I came up with. (It's 500 words exactly. I was proud.)
Academia Nut
I failed my first AP Calculus test.
The red score at the top of the page might as well have been a stab in the heart as I, the hardcore intellectual, the straight-A student, the never-less-than-a-B-in-the-class academic, stared in bewilderment at the tear-jerking failure in front of me. My specialty had always been English, but I normally excelled at everything, whether it be poetry or trigonometry. But there it was at the top of the page, a blazing twenty-three out of fifty, a sobering reminder of my inevitable fall from perfection.
Test corrections were available, and I managed to bring my grade up to a C— small comfort for a girl accustomed to acing exams. Nevertheless, I maintained a positive attitude and a B in the class. Everyone has bad days, I thought. Mine had to come eventually. It won’t happen again. Blessed with a wonderful memory, I had never had to study for tests, particularly not math tests, but in fear that the devil grade had been a result of my neglect, I practiced several problems prior to the next test. I would not have my near-perfect grade point average ruined by something so petty as an inability to integrate differential equations.
I got a D.
One sub-C grade in a person’s lifetime is permissible, even if that grade does happen to be less than a fifty percent. However, two scores on the wrong side of the Bell curve is enough to threaten your status as a nerd for life.
The next assessment arrived shortly after in the form of a low point-value quiz. While I managed to scrape a B, the elusive A, the mark I truly craved, evaded me still, despite much practice and study. Test corrections and routine homework assignments kept my grade in the class tottering on the edge of a B and a C, but I might as well have been tottering on the edge of a cliff overlooking a pool full of piranhas. I was ashamed of the few B’s I had received in my high school career, and one C would surely jeopardize my chances of ever gaining admittance to the college of my choice. In my distress, I did what every tough go-getter does— I talked to Mom.
She said she wasn’t worried about it.
I eyed her with disbelief. This woman who got A’s all her life, the valedictorian of her graduating class, doesn’t care that I might have a C in the class?!?
“Are you doing your best?” she asked.
I nodded.
“That’s good enough for me.”
I was awestruck. Never in my life had my best been anything less than an A, but maybe, just maybe, this time it was all right.
What is academic excellence, anyway? Is it getting A’s, or is it throwing yourself wholeheartedly into your work, learning everything you can, and accepting whatever grade comes with your effort?
I still haven’t gotten an A on a calculus test.
Somehow I’ll go on.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin'
I've been trying to blog this for ages, and it just hasn't been working out. I can't leave my thoughts on musical unspoken, but there's simply no way to explain it to you.
If you've never been on a stage, you can't possibly comprehend the feeling that wells up inside you in the seconds before you go on. A reverential hush settles over the murmuring audience. The lights go up. You step out into the glorious warmth of the spots. That's what you can see-- but how to explain the rush of joy, the adrenaline, the heart-beating-out-of-your-chest feeling as you take that first step? It can't be done. There isn't a metaphor to do it justice. What about the swell of pride that erupts in your heart as you take that final bow? If it's never happened to you, you can't possibly understand. And if you've been on stage, there's no need for me to explain it to you. You know exactly what I'm talking about.
I don't know how to explain the bond I formed with a person who doesn't even exist. I feel bad for people who don't do theatre-- they only ever get to live one life. Theatre nerds get to slip into someone else's life over and over again, experience things they would never get the chance to otherwise. However, when you spend the majority of your free time in someone else's skin, it takes effort to peal away and become yourself full time again. I swear I'm not schizo, but I can't bring myself to say goodbye to Laurey Williams. As disgustingly cliche as the words are coming out, she's a part of me now, and I'll be keeping her strength, her determination, and her "come hither" looks in reserve for whenever I should need them.
Perhaps the most inexplicable thing is the profound connection you make with inanimate objects. A ribbon in your hair. The "Elixir of Egypt" that's actually a bottle of candy from the dollar store. The set. Oh goodness, the set. They tore down Aunt Eller's house last week and I cried. I feel crazy for caring so much about a few pieces of wood and a ribbon, but I do. That ribbon was as much Laurey as I was, and that house had become so much more than a set.
I'm not gonna lie, I'm still coping with the confusion produced by sudden copious amounts of free time. I have frequent withdrawals that only listening to the Oklahoma! soundtrack on repeat can resolve. (Haha.) But I can't tell you how thankful I am for the incredible experience. There are moments that will remain in my mind forever, for whatever reason.
There are firsts: the first time we saw the lights on the finished set, the first time we sung with the orchestra, the first time I hit that note in "Out of My Dreams," the first time I nailed the hand jive in "Oklahoma!"
There are in-betweens: dance parties in the wings during "Scandal/Outrage," green room Adele sessions at intermission, goofing off on stage between school and rehearsal, fireside chats at Ms. Murphy's house.
There are lasts: The last time Murphy called places, crying on stage for real on closing night, the last "Yeow!", the last curtain call.
To those of you uninvolved, these mean nothing. They're words strung together. But to me, and anyone else reading this who knows what I'm talking, about, they're everything.
About halfway through, I received a pair of leather character shoes. They're black, scuffed, and vastly uncomfortable, but I wouldn't trade them for anything. Remember how at the end of the ball Cinderella got to keep her slippers? Yeah. That's how I feel. :)
Thanks for the adventure. I love you all. :)
If you've never been on a stage, you can't possibly comprehend the feeling that wells up inside you in the seconds before you go on. A reverential hush settles over the murmuring audience. The lights go up. You step out into the glorious warmth of the spots. That's what you can see-- but how to explain the rush of joy, the adrenaline, the heart-beating-out-of-your-chest feeling as you take that first step? It can't be done. There isn't a metaphor to do it justice. What about the swell of pride that erupts in your heart as you take that final bow? If it's never happened to you, you can't possibly understand. And if you've been on stage, there's no need for me to explain it to you. You know exactly what I'm talking about.
I don't know how to explain the bond I formed with a person who doesn't even exist. I feel bad for people who don't do theatre-- they only ever get to live one life. Theatre nerds get to slip into someone else's life over and over again, experience things they would never get the chance to otherwise. However, when you spend the majority of your free time in someone else's skin, it takes effort to peal away and become yourself full time again. I swear I'm not schizo, but I can't bring myself to say goodbye to Laurey Williams. As disgustingly cliche as the words are coming out, she's a part of me now, and I'll be keeping her strength, her determination, and her "come hither" looks in reserve for whenever I should need them.
Perhaps the most inexplicable thing is the profound connection you make with inanimate objects. A ribbon in your hair. The "Elixir of Egypt" that's actually a bottle of candy from the dollar store. The set. Oh goodness, the set. They tore down Aunt Eller's house last week and I cried. I feel crazy for caring so much about a few pieces of wood and a ribbon, but I do. That ribbon was as much Laurey as I was, and that house had become so much more than a set.
I'm not gonna lie, I'm still coping with the confusion produced by sudden copious amounts of free time. I have frequent withdrawals that only listening to the Oklahoma! soundtrack on repeat can resolve. (Haha.) But I can't tell you how thankful I am for the incredible experience. There are moments that will remain in my mind forever, for whatever reason.
There are firsts: the first time we saw the lights on the finished set, the first time we sung with the orchestra, the first time I hit that note in "Out of My Dreams," the first time I nailed the hand jive in "Oklahoma!"
There are in-betweens: dance parties in the wings during "Scandal/Outrage," green room Adele sessions at intermission, goofing off on stage between school and rehearsal, fireside chats at Ms. Murphy's house.
There are lasts: The last time Murphy called places, crying on stage for real on closing night, the last "Yeow!", the last curtain call.
To those of you uninvolved, these mean nothing. They're words strung together. But to me, and anyone else reading this who knows what I'm talking, about, they're everything.
About halfway through, I received a pair of leather character shoes. They're black, scuffed, and vastly uncomfortable, but I wouldn't trade them for anything. Remember how at the end of the ball Cinderella got to keep her slippers? Yeah. That's how I feel. :)
Thanks for the adventure. I love you all. :)
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