The Class Wars

Irony

2009-03-03T15:58:00.000-08:00

So, i don't know why I expected everyone to have done the assignment. I mean, the assignment was to draft your essay and bring it in for peer review, that is "cut and paste" the poem and then write a two page analysis of it after that, make copies to hand out so other students can read it. Seems so simple, right? Well, we got into groups of four, and two of the students in the group only wrote the poem. Excuse me, I should say they each just took twenty random lines from at least ten poems from inside our anthology. The other student wrote two pages of analysis, but that sort of spiraled off into how she was sad about a friend of hers who died in high school.

So, we were supposed to spend twenty minutes on each essay. With only two poems and barely an essay to read, we were basically done with everything in twenty minutes. At least another person wrote something! This is my favorite line from the "essay" that the student whose friend died:

"It is kind of ironic when it says 'the universe seems cramped to you and me' because the universe is so vast and humongous and so there should be all the space we need but there is not."

This was taken verbatim from her paper.

The Dark Gift (working title)

2009-03-03T09:19:00.000-08:00

The Lady of Shalott by John Atkinson Grimshaw

I really hope that no one from school finds this blog, especially my teachers.

The first draft of my first essay is due this afternoon. My first essay is a "Patchwork Poem," that is a poem constructed of borrowed lines from other poems cut and pasted to create another poem. I don't know about you, but last I checked that was plagiarism. I guess under the umbrella of MLA format, you can use anybody's work to create your own. Beyond the poem, I have to write two pages of analysis. This means point out the figures of speech, tone, theme, etc. It's so asinine that I feel like I have to dumb myself down to do it. We were only allowed to use poems in the anthology, but I decided to ask if I could use some other poems I like, and she said yes. So, just to mess with the professor, I decided to base my poem on a satanic ritual. Oh, but here's the thing, today the first draft is due. Sounds simple, right? Well, cause this jr. college, "first draft due" actually means "group peer review." So, I have to get into a groups and have these other students (the brightest, ever) read my poem and respective analysis. So special, right? I'll let you know how it goes. Here's my poem:

The Dark Gift (working title)

The chess master says nothing (Rumi, "Sublime Generosity")
other than moving the silent chess piece (Rumi, "Sublime Generosity")
When the evening is spread out against the sky, (Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? (Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn")

To what green altar, Oh mysterious priest. (Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn")
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form (Keats, "The Eve of St. Agnes")
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm (Keats, "The Eve of St. Agnes")
Some picked up stones because they had them. (Nye, "All Things Not Considered")

She loosed the chain, and down she lay (Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott")
Like a patient etherized upon a table. (Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair (Harper, "The Slave Auction")
Battling the hotness or clawing the suffering dust. (Brooks, "The Chicago Defender Sends a Man to Little Rock")

The cry climbed up the alley. (Brooks, "The Boy Died in My Alley")
It went up to the wind. (Brooks, "The Boy Died in My Alley")
With anguish none may paint or tell. (Harper, "The Slave Auction")
Singing in her song, she died, (Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott")

Her mane falls wild on her forehead, (Wright, "A Blessing"
The Master said, panting as one fatigued (Alighieri, "Inferno")
Just so much honor, when though yield'st to me, (Donne, "The Flea")
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee. (Donne, "The Flea")

The Life and Times of Zachary Jensen

2009-02-26T08:06:00.000-08:00

He sits in the back with me. He's proportionally too skinny for the mass deposit of bone in his chin, which is always sprinkled with uneven red hair. His skin is pale, accentuating the acne he, at only 19, is just getting over. He always wears a baseball cap, black socks, and brown utility shorts that end where his black socks start at his calves. When he's not grimacing or scowling at the rest of the class, he is laughing at something only he himself has found amusing: "My fuckin' alcoholic friend won't come to class. That shit's funny, dude." He laughs by putting his left hand into a fist and holding it up to his wide smile as if he were going to breathe into his hands for warmth. His teeth have bits of brown and black in the gummy crevices.

Yesterday, we had to get into groups to review for our test, which is later this morning.

"This professor is fuckin' hard, dude," he tells me. He looks at the pretty young girl in our group. "Ay, where did you graduate from high school?"

"Burrows," she says. She looks at me and asks, "How old are you?"

Zachary laughs, contorting his arm up into his face. "This dude," he's referring to me. "This dude has taken this class like five times."

"Oh my God," the pretty girl says. "I guess that means we'll have to repeat."

"No," I said. "I didn't pass before because I didn't show and didn't do anything. And, I'm 27."

"Oh my God," the pretty girl says. "You don't look 27."

"Right?" Zachary says. "Yeah, he couldn't pass before because he was smoking too much weed."

I furrowed my brow at the lie. "Um, that's not--"

"That's why I dropped out last semester. I only came for two weeks but started partying too much. I haven't partied at all since I've started this class. That's been two whole weeks, man. But this class is fucking hard."

THe pretty girl laughed.

"Wait," I said. I pointed at Zachary. "When did you graduate from high school?"

"2008." Zachary was proud of himself.

"Damn," the pretty girl said. "I feel so old now."

"When did you graduate?" I asked the girl, not wanting to hear the answer.

"2004," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "Well, I graduated in 1999, last century."

"Yo, dude, but you're 27," Zachary said to me. "That's all I can think about is being your age. That's fuckin' cool, dude."

"No, it's not. Take it from me, you should pass this class now."

"But," Zachary said, "if you're 27 that means you've had six years of being able to buy alcohol."

I laughed and shook my finger at him. "That's a very under-21 thing to say. I promise you it's not that exciting when you hit 21."

"Dude, I believe that. When I was 17 all I wanted to do was turn 18 so I could buy cigarettes. I turned 18, and it didn't even matter."

Dr. Witt walked up to the front of the class and said, "Ok, someone come up and write one of the problems you've been doing on the board."

A short Philippino girl walked up with a dry erase marker and started scribbling on the white board. Every once in awhile, she would turn back to her group and bark at them, "Do you see this? Ok, this is the answer. Hey, ohmygod, is this what you guys got? Listen!"

Zachary turned to me, "This chick is cute but I kinda wanna slap the shit out of her right now."

The pretty girl laughed, "She thinks she's the teacher."

The Philippino girl finished the problem. "That's the right answer," Dr. Witt said. "As I was walking around, some of you had this answer. They did back there," he pointed at our group. "But, most of you didn't. Which means most of you won't pass this class. If you can't do this problem, you'll fail the class, cause everything builds off of this."

Zachary put his hand up to his mouth again. "Fuck this dude. He's such a fucking dick. My mom had him. This class is fucking hard and fucking gay."

"Wait," I asked. "Your Mom had him? What did she say about him?"

Zachary said, "He locked her out of the class room."

"That's not nice," I said.

"Whatever, dude." Zachary rolled his eyes. "I fucking hate my mom. I don't give a shit."

"Well," I said. "He does seem pretty doom and gloom. Like this is a part of him that really wants to see us fail so he can say 'I told you so.'"

"I know, dude. Fuck." Zachary looked up at us. "My mom was all," he mocked writing something down, "she said to me, 'I'm going to register you for this guy cause I remember him.' Can you believe that, she registered me for this dude because she knew he was an asshole. Fucking bitch."

There is a Conext

2009-02-24T16:23:00.000-08:00

So, I started school exactly and week and a day ago. I don't know, maybe I've gotten into the groove of this sooner than I thought. To be sure, my math class is difficult. I had every reason to believe it was easy from the casual approach I took to school in my early twenties. From this perspective, I can say that it's difficult. I should say it is difficult, but It's doable. I can see my younger self in the other students. The ones who hurry and do their homework before class, who zone out when the teacher is talking about something they think they already know, who fumble for an answer and accidently spill their soda.

Tuesday and Thursday I have both of my math and english classes. Campus is by the baseball diamond where my little brother used to play little league and I'd sit and watch him while I read Anne Rice books. This baseball diamond is across the street from Verdugo Park, where when I was a child my uncle (who is now in prison for vehicular manslaughter) fell from a tree and broke his left arm. It was this same park that my brother's high school band was asked to stop performing because their brand of metal music didn't suit the flavor of the old people at an annual picnic. It is in this park every Tuesday and Thursday that I now, by my self, eat a home made lunch consisting of a ham sandwich, an orange, and a 100-Calorie bag of baked Cheetos. The subtle sounds of this park's past are not lost on me.

Downtown Glendale, CA

2009-02-20T12:26:00.000-08:00

Glendale Community College is on a hill. The main parking structure is at the top of this hill. Between this hill and the rest of campus is a clock tower that also serves as two elevators transporting students from the parking lot to their classes. The only way to get to this clock tower from the parking structure is a giant bridge. This is the view from that bridge:

The Extremes

2009-02-20T09:00:00.000-08:00

So, this semester is messing with my mind. My Algebra class is harder than I thought. Well, that's not true. It requires a lot more time and effort than I had ever originally thought. Again, maybe that's why I never passed in the first place. The teacher is far from encouraging. Maybe he's trying to weed out the students who are this close to dropping, but he basically tells the class that only a few will make it to the end of the semester. I'm staying until the end of the semester. I'd rather be struggling with an Algebra problem in my dining room than sitting in an office in Woodland Hills fact checking.

In contrast to my Algebra class, my English class is almost offensively base. The struggle with this class will be caring enough to do the work. It's not that I know everything already; it's more subtle than that. Consider yesterday's class, for example: We're starting a section on poetry. To get us ready for the poetry section, we started talking about different figures of speech. But, before we could have that discussion, we had to talk about what a figure of speech was cause the class was oblivious. Seriously. Seriously. We also discussed the difference between voice and tone, which proved difficult when Kristina realized no one knew what the word "abstract" meant. I raised my hand only a few times. I don't want to be that tool who answers everything. Every time the class reacted to an inane question with silence ("What is a simile?" Dead silence.) I gaped in disbelief with bulging eyes.

A few of my favorite moments:

Kristina: Can someone tell me what "theme" is?

(Silence. Me gaping. After a few moments a girl in the back row raises her hand.)

Girl in the Back Row: Location!

Kristina: Um, yes, well, that's part of something we call location.

Kristina: So, can someone give me an example of symbolism?

(Silence. Me gaping. Finally, a hot guy in the front row raises his hand.)

Hot Guy in the Front Row: I think it's something like swastika. It symbolizes Christianity and hate.

(I'm sitting in a group of four. Linda is to my left. She's vaguely familiar, but I can't place her. She might've at one point in my life pissed me off, and I'm just blocking it out. Melissa is to my right. She's 20 and is a Psych major but doesn't want to be a therapist, so she's lost. Across from my painfully small desk is Jarzen, who is a German exchange student and is adorable, which is an illusion, seeing that euro dudes dress like American gay men and all foreign exchange students are excessively polite. We are discussing the imagery in Yeats' The Second Coming.)

Melissa: I think the poem is boring. It's so old. It's not even scary any more.

Jarzen: Philip, what is this word means, "flaw"?

Me: It means something that's wrong with it.

Melissa: Ok, next question. What senses are used within the poem? Oh, that's easy. Scary.

Me: That's an adjective.

(From the group next to us, a semi-attractive gay asian dude who always wears smart cable knit cardigans and hangs out with an ugly Armenian chick turns to us. He's sporting pompous smile.)

Asian guy: You guys, what does "persona" mean?

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

2009-02-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

I have been caffeine free since October of 2006. Caffeine exacerbates my anxiety, and I mainly refuse to partake for the sakes of the people around.

I always used to wear "being a student" as an accessory. You know, just carry around the books, tell people I'm a student, and show up for class just to be seen. I've never been a successful student. What I'm realizing is that to be a successful student I have to do two things I've never done before:

1. Work. I've never worked hard for anything. Maybe that's why I never finished school.
2. Manage my time. I've never been so involved with something that involved structuring my down time. Crazy! Truly, these are concepts that have completely escaped my existence. Again, maybe that's why I've come so far.

Last night, I had a dream. I dreamt I'd snuck a can of Coca Cola out of an office. I could tell the can was cold as I held it. Heaven! Not being able to drink it, I just caressed the can against my mouth and cheek, trying to smell the caffeine through the red aluminum. I scratched my teeth against the side, tearing a small shred from the side of the can. Before I knew it, I had sucked and drained the can of all of its contents like I a vampire coming off a hunger strike.

I don't what it means, but school is more stressful than I thought.

A Random Hall

2009-02-18T14:11:00.001-08:00

The Line for the Bookstore

2009-02-18T07:26:00.001-08:00

HaHa!

2009-02-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

I love when my horoscope is right on. From today's LA Times:

Cancer (June 22-July 22): It's back to the drawing board. Only this time, the "board" comes alive with pictures of a future you are excited to participate in.

Day One! (cont.)

2009-02-17T20:23:00.000-08:00

I cancelled the rest of my afternoon and night. No House of Sand and Fog. No drinks with Acey. I forgot something about school. Or, I should say, I never realized something about being successful a successful student: It's work!

But, first. So, parking was a breeze. It's usually never a breeze the first day of a semester. However, I got there with perfect timing. They opened up the faculty parking to the students, and I happened to be the first one they told. So, I pulled into a parking lot that was over half empty. Because of this, I was about forty minutes early to my Math class. It wasn't enough time to buy my books. The line for that was already across the main quad. So, I hung out by a soda machine waiting for my class to start. While I was waiting, a man slipped on wet steps, crunching his left arm. Poor thing. He really hurt his arm. No one helped him, and a group of girls wearing too-tight jeans and too much eyeliner laughed at him. The woman that was with him helped him up and away as soon as he could stand up.

I really think Glendale Community College might be hell. It's sort of like Jr. High in the sense that as you walk by groups of scary men and women huddled together they stare at you and snicker to themselves, except now they're adults and might actually have the resources to kill you. Not many smile. The only smiles are shared between cohorts who seemingly have gotten away with something, be it the sneaking of a joint into class, the successful lear at a busty teacher, or just the construction of joke.

Luckily, my Math teacher knows what time it is. His name is Dr. Witt, and he's the perfect tough, fair dad. He explained that the only way you can pass this intermediate algebra class (5 Units, by the way) is to do at least two hours of homework a day. If you don't, you just simply won't pass. Now, I've never done my homework. He also stated that while we've all met the prerequisite for the course, it doesn't matter if we can't remember what we learned in the previous classes. This was especially biting to me, seeing that it's been five years since I attempted to take Intermediate Algebra.

Dr. Witt knows exactly who the students are. He insists that he is not making anyone take this class. Look at what he has in his syllabus: "Your instructor has a B.A. and an M.A. in mathematics, as well as an Ed.D. in education. He has over 30 years of community college mathematics teaching experience and should be considered an expert in his field. It is inappropriate to express your opinion about specific test questions, the manner in which the class is being graded, how many questions should be asked, whether a test was "fair", etc., during class time. You do not have the expertise to make such suggestions."

Great, right? He asked us to be mature about food and drinks in the class. Apparently, monetary cutbacks now only allow the janitorial staff to clean the floors once a semester. Crazy, right? The book, over priced of course, was made a great deal of. In fact, he said, "Books may be old fashioned, but that's what learning math may be." I feel safe in his hands. He already gave us homework, and I've already finished it! The class was only an hour long and will be every day. Another thing, I think the desks have shrunk since I was in college. Maybe my backside has just grown. In any event, an hour is all my back can handle!

After class, I had an hour and a half before my English class. Algebra is going to be a challenge. It's doable, but it will take effort, which is difficult for me, seeing that I've never worked hard for anything in my life. Maybe that's why I'm almost thirty, over weight, and still taking general education classes at the community college a few miles from where I grew up.

Well, I was in such a hurry this morning that I didn't pack my lunch. But, I had to buy my books so I could do my math homework. So, instead of eating, I went to the bookstore where I waited in line for half an hour just to get into the bookstore. I found my books, and 250 dollars later, they were mine.

At this point, I had about forty minutes left, so I thought I'd walk over to the little strip mall across the bridge from campus. Lines at both the italian fast food and Quiznos were crazy, so I walked a little further to McDonald's, where the line was also insanity. So, I took my books and school bag and schlepped back to campus. I found a tiny "cafe," which is actually a window that you order sandwiches out of, and got a turkey sandwich on a french roll. My hunger might have belied how bad it actually was. I sat by myself on the side of the "cafe," out of the rain, watching the faceless young roam around searching for their futures.

I finished my sandwich and slogged over to the auditorium, where my English class was going to take place. I get into the class room, and it's literally half the size of my living room. Kristina is the teacher. She is young, curvy, and has a neurotic streak to everything she does. Her eyes dart from side to side when someone asks her a question. She laughs nervously when she looks at her watch. She adjusts piles of paper even though all edges are already even. It must have been excruciating for her to respond in the negative to students' inquiries about adding the class. Luckily, her enthusiasm brought color to the bleakness of the walls and day.

As she passed out the syllabus, began describing the class, and interacted with the other students (all of whom, by the way, I was at least five years older than) I realized that this class was going to be a cake walk. I mean, when it comes to writing I guess I have more experience than your average high-school grad, but this class is sort of structured around getting students excited and in the mood to write. As we read the assigned novels (The Bluest eye, by Toni Morrison and The Tortilla Curtain, by T.C. Boyle) our notes are actually an assignment. Every class is going to begin with a ten-minute "free write" just to get us in the mood. For the record, the notes and "free write" will not be read, just checked off as being done. There will be three essays, which have to be workshopped. Annoying! I hate group work and I don't want to peer review these kids. But, I think this class will be a great contrast with the work I have to do for Math. I'm not going to mention to Kristin that prior to my magazine and freelance careers I was a writing tutor for four years.

Kristina let us go and hour early, after we all went around and introduced ourselves.

I came home exhausted from walking all over the campus, fell asleep, and spent the rest of the afternoon doing my homework.

Day One!

2009-02-17T08:14:00.000-08:00

Ok, class starts in less than two hours.

Here's my schedule. Ignore the classes that say dropped. I thought I was supposed to take them, but apparently I don't have to. Stupid.

(click on the picture to make it bigger)

If you look closely, you'll see that I'm taking intermediate Algebra. If you look at the post below, you'll also see that when I started Pasadena City College nine and a half years ago, I also took this class my first semester.

Just to give you a framework of my returning to school, here's what my life has been and will be like for the past and next 24 hours. Last night, my best friend (who doesn't support my return to school) came over so we could rehearse our upcoming show. Now, by show I mean the pop inspired spectacle of our twisted concepts of music. And by all that, I mean our parents and friends are coming to watch us dance before karaoke night at a local bowling alley. We've come a long way. We used to perform on people's decks:

While she and I rehearsed, her girlfriend and a member of her staff played Rock Band 2 in my living room as my little brother and his fiance ran around trying to find a TV to watch Hero's.

After rehearsal we were hungry, and since I didn't have to start my first true semester of school in over five years, we decided to go grab some American comfort food at our favorite place for such delights, Conrad's.

There, service was terrible, I stared a gorgeous man the entire time, and a fight broke out in the parking lot. But, man that patty melt and Shirley Temple were good!

After class today, I must flee Glendale for West Hollywood. There is a jewelry store on La Cienega called the House of Luck and Love I have to write a review for. I keep wanting to call it the House of Sand and Fog, but that wouldn't make very good jewelry, would it?

From there I have to schlep back to Glendale, update this blog, then meet my friend Acey for drinks. Acey is a friend I haven't seen since a painfully excessive weekend in Las Vegas when I was nineteen. She's traveled the world and has finally landed in Burbank. Her misfortune? We'll find out. This Vegas weekend I mentioned was so manic I popped a blood vessel in my right eye after three guys dramatically hit on me. One was a mid-western hick who didn't know mints could come in a tin, the other a Tina Turner impersonator with cheek implants, and the other an online stripper who made his jewelry choices based on the cover of J-Lo:

These men were all named Larry. True story. Acey and I are meeting tonight at the newly opened Embassy Suites a few blocks from my condo.

Now, somewhere within all of that I have to do some factoring and reading. Tomorrow, after my math class, I have to run down to a gallery on Melrose where an exhibit of furniture based on "red carpet madness" is just begging for me to write something sarcastic about it. After that, I'm going to a phone bank to try and win back marriage for gay and lesbian couples in California. You should come!

Anyway, I have to shower, and I guess it's time to face it. I haven't used it in over ten years. But, I finally have to make that decision. Do I use my Prada bag with the messenger style strap, or do I (shudder) use my blue Jansport circa 98? Fuck, school's hard.

I'll be back later this afternoon.

My College Career, By the Numbers

2009-02-13T15:50:00.000-08:00

(You can enlarge the pictures by clicking on them.)

This wonderland of academic ups and downs left me with:

a cumulative GPA of 2.55.

attempting (and never completing) Intermediate Algebra 4 times.

being put on academic probation 7 times.

10 As

6 Bs

6 Cs

3 Ds

5 Fs

13 Ws

A Wall of Dreams

2009-02-13T15:00:00.000-08:00

Because of Diana Vreeland (above), when I had a cubicle to decorate, I did.

Five minutes after I got laid off, after fact checking and not getting paid to write news stories about pregnancy for over two years, I was removing these pictures from my wall collage.

Sarah Jessica Parker in Vogue:

Elizabeth Taylor in The New Yorker:

Katharine Hepburn paparazzi shot:

Kate Moss modeling her signature line for TopShop in Vogue UK:

DVF circa a long time ago:

My editor in chief, who'd just informed me position had been eliminated walked into my cubicle, the executive editor following close behind.

"Philip," The executive editor said. "You've gotta makes us proud."

"Yes," the editor in chief said, her eyes still wet with tears from letting me go.

The executive editor continued, "You have to make us proud and finish school! When you graduate from college I promise I'll be there. You invite me, and I'll come to your graduation."

I hadn't thought about going back to school. I'd attempted to take a few classes at Pierce Community College but that had fallen through. Besides, it had already been a year since then. I didn't want to tell the executive editor that I had no intention of going back to school. All I wanted to do was to get out of the office so, I lied.

"Oh," I said. "Yeah, I'll probably go back."

From Another World

2009-02-12T23:26:00.000-08:00

On the evening of October 23, 2006, a month into the magazine job I'd later be laid off from, I was standing on a south-facing balcony at the Standard on Sunset gazing over a twinkling, twilight West Hollywood. Leaning against the rail across from me was Jason, the boy who six years earlier I'd met on-line and flew to Chicago to meet—despite having a boyfriend at the time—because I thought I was in love him. In 2000, Jason was a skinny, blue-eyed kid from New Jersey studying film at Northwestern. In 2000, I was a skinny, brown-eyed kid who had just dropped out of college for the first time to pursue the perfect J-Lo remix. In time, after getting his act together, Jason graduated, became a vegetarian and got a job as a producer for the Biography channel. In time, I went back to school only to drop out again five years later without a degree.

The city at our feet, Jason smiled and gave me a quick, warm hug. "Wow," he said. "It really is you." His smile was still adorable.

"Yes, it's really me," I said back. "You know, it was so weird visiting you back then. I was so crazy. I just wanted that kind of life you were living. I've experienced the same feeling with Gina, my best friend who went to a private college here in LA. Remember, I dropped out of Community College because of this magazine career I sort of fell into, and I've always felt that I missed out on something because I never had that real college experience. I never left home; I never lived in a dorm. It was so fascinating being in your world for those two days, the people you run into, the meetings at like three in the morning, the sleeping situations, the communal bathrooms, the whole vibe of communal living at such an age and to be learning all of those things was so evocative, and I really feel like I missed out. I mean, I went to Pasadena Community College, didn't graduate, and was one of thirty thousand students. You were tossed into an amazing situation with other young people and spent your days learning about film. Yeah, that life I didn't lead is so amazing to me."

"It wasn't that special," he said "Yes, I have a degree, but the experiences you've had are just as good. And," he lit up a cigarette. "You could always go back."

"What?" I said. "No way. I'm 26 now. Can you imagine me finishing my general eds in jr. college then having to take Intermediate Algebra and Political Science 101? Then transferring to a university and living in a dorm? With those eighteen year olds? I'd kill myself or them."

"After everything you've been through? I think it would be hilarious. Can you just imagine it?"

"No," I said. "No way." I sighed. "Let's go to dinner."

While talking, twilight had given way to night. We stepped back into the plastic and faux fur hotel room. I grabbed my Prada purse from the coffee table and held it up for Jason, "I bought this with my first pay check. You like?"

"I noticed that!" he said finishing off his glass of wine. "I think I'm a little buzzed. Is that purse real?"

"Of course it's real!"