Keeping Up

As I sit in front of my computer and try to think of blog topics that haven’t been brutally abused over the last few weeks, nothing specific comes to mind. However, a book that lies right beside me sparks an idea for this upcoming post. Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell has recently, like Kreger, been my pleasure reading book of choice and contributes to the motive behind this discussion.

It seems as though our AP English class does an unusual amount of complaining about the workload given to us and trust me, I am as guilty as anyone. Although, after reading Outliers my perspective has completely shifted, hopefully for the long haul. During the book, Gladwell discusses the differences between Asian and American abilities in subjects like math and science where the typical assumption is that Asian students contain higher IQs and therefore excel beyond their American counterparts. However, contrary to that popular belief, the intellectual achievements from Asian students stem from their ability to simply outwork everyone else. Priscilla Blinco conducted an experiment which investigated the amount of time American students put into an incredibly difficult puzzle versus the amount of time from Japanese students: the Japanese lasted roughly 40% longer than the Americans before "giving up". You get the point. 

The conclusion I came to after reading this passage coupled with the spirit of Thanksgiving is: I am extremely thankful AP English pushes me to my limits. Furthermore, Ms. Serensky does not allow for any of this so-called "giving up" which keeps me, at least for the time being, in stride with those darned Asians. 

Only In AP English

Days before break, days with a substitute teacher, or days that follow incredibly difficult exams usually describe the days where a movie plays in front of the class for an entire period and students feel completely relaxed. If someone wants to let their eyelids slightly droop and doze off for an extended period of time, not a single person cares because anything goes on movie days. Homework, quiet chatter, calculator gaming, or even a short nap all remain acceptable activities while the teacher grades papers or leaves the room to make copies for their next class. When a movie appears on the television screen or on the board from a projector, the class, no matter what the subject, transforms into a joke.However, AP English 12 is (Passive Voice ALERT! A perfect example of how much this class screws with my brain) not any class. When word gets around that we watched The Namesake in our eighth period class, my first reaction did not resemble the expected “Oh yeah!” but closely paralleled “Oh no! What kind of eight page analyzation paper on the differences between tone shifts in the book and movie will we have to write next?” As eighth period drew nearer, the anticipation built. Would we immediately need to take notes and further wear out our exhausted brains after they completed a marathon data sheet the previous evening? Or would she, once, show mercy upon our dilapidated fingers and allow tranquility to settle over the pitiable classroom. Unusual amounts of light sifted through the blinds as I walked into the room that fateful afternoon, “a good omen,” I thought hopefully. I sat down and grabbed a pen out of my backpack to prepare for the worst and yet, it never came. We joyfully watched forty-five minutes of a film with no subtitles to compensate for the Bengali spoken in most scenes and no recognizable actors except Kumar from the “Harold and Kumar” series. This ranks on my “Top 10 Greatest Surprises” list and only trails the Quinn-Hillis trade (pure Denver stupidity) and my five on the AP Computer Science AP Test (Vegas gave it 1000-1 odds). The assortment of emotions due to one class still stuns me and I must leave readers with.... only in AP English. 

Did I Miss Something?

(I apologize in advance for the following entry, this comes after five straight hours of the data sheet)

As we come to the conclusion of our beloved book The Namesake, I tend to find myself asking the same question over and over, "Did I miss something?" Please, allow me to list a few words off the top of my head: money, women, sex, and power. This could either quote the Donald Trump personal slogan, or highlight the majority of Gogol Ganguli's life on earth. Throughout the entire novel our class pours over Gogol's internal conflicts and relationship issues and insecurities and family disputes and troubles in assimilation and blah blah blah. Once again, "Did I miss something?" Gogol Ganguli lives the freaking life! The man partied in high school, found himself at Yale, became an architect, lives in the most vibrant city in the world, and dates beautiful, intelligent women who have commitment issues. I still have yet to see a single problem in his life. Ok, so he divorces his wife before the age of thirty-five and he has slight insecurities due to his name, big deal! Half of America divorces at some point in their lives, and the name change remains his own little idiosyncrasy. I realize he ventures through a rough patch with his family but who doesn't? My class spent two whole days in discussion where we talked about Gogol’s betrayal of his family when he moved in with the Ratliffs. Can we really fault him for his move into an all-inclusive mansion, where people tend to his every need and take him on breath-taking vacations to one of the most remote and beautiful locations in the United States? He dines nightly on “sushi and salads and cold poached salmon” which makes my mouth water, versus his former living conditions where “there is so much street noise that when he is on the phone...people often ask if he is calling from a pay phone” (142, 126). Who would not make that move? Before I conclude, I plead that someone can explain to me where I can find the negatives in Gogol’s life but until then, “Did I miss something?”

You Go Ahead

When discussions begin in AP English 12, the mood of the room immediately changes from its lively pre-class routine of dissing Thomas and poking fun at Carolyn to a every-man for himself attitude. In all honesty, who wants to get a nine out of fifteen for their lack of effort to speak? The class remains so intense that a sharp knife could slice right through the tension in the class. Everyone knows the awkward feeling when two people begin to speak at the exact same time and no-one knows what to do even though this situation occurs daily. The person who continues to talk almost always leaves a noticeable trace of guilt that stems from their robbery of points from a fellow classmate (the only exception I have found to this “guilt rule” remains Henry). The tension and guilt, that routinely comes hand in hand with these discussions, parallels the marriage of Gogol and Moushumi perfectly. Following their first anniversary dinner, Moushumi begins to have “tears filming her eyes” and Gogol considerately questions her but after no substantial answer to her sadness he begins “to lose his patience with her” (252, 253). The lack of communication in their marriage leads to incredibly awkward situations and foreshadows a potential break-up in the Ganguli’s future. Furthermore, after Moushumi starts her affair with Dimitri she endures multiple sleepless nights and the supposedly indifferent narrator states that, “She stays awake for hours after they’ve turned out the lights” (265). The inability to calmly drift off to sleep indirectly characterizes Moushumi as extremely guilty and uncomfortable with her marital situation. The author, Jhumpa Lahiri, utilizes pathos to evoke hatred toward Moushumi because even with her immense guilt she continues to cheat on Gogol. The parallel between the tension and guilt in our class discussions and in the Ganguli’s marriage thoroughly intrigues me even though the situations contrast each other tremendously. 

The Light That Left Me

The warmth upon my hand calmed the slight cramps I received from writing a painful journal entry on the characterization of Moushumi and Gogol’s absurd relationship; however, as I soon found out, all good things must come to an end. The following afternoon when I anxiously awaited that afternoon sunlight, a dark, frightening shadow engulfed the beam of hope that shown into the treacherous room. As quickly as she came, and eliminated my happiness, she left without a word other than, “No sunlight for you, you can live in the darkness like me!” and a cackling laughter that still, almost a week later, wakes me in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Ironically, a frost seemed to drift over the entire class that fateful afternoon when this denier of light, Ms. Serensky, left us with the horrific notion that the narrator contains an indifferent, didactic tone throughout the entirety of The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri and gives just the straightforward facts with no emotion. I am horrified by this statement because throughout the book I did not recognize this purely factual style, which highlights my weakness in AP English 12. However, the repetition of rhetorical questions, from Moushumi, at the end of chapter eight still puzzles me because the interrogative diction “why hadn’t he told her these things?” definitely creates a saddened and confused tone towards Moushumi's former love's, Graham, actions (217). This seems to contradict the fact that the narrator has an indifferent tone but, as Ms. Serensky brilliantly put it, these questions do not come from the straightforward narrator but really from Moushumi’s mind. Nevertheless, I remain under the impression that the narrator’s purpose consists of discussing what occurs in the plot besides the dialogue. I am thoroughly convinced that the narration, which includes the rhetorical questions, consists of tone but who am I to dispute the great one? Which leaves me still cowering in darkness with no refute at least until college when I will have enough effrontery to dispute my teacher.