Schools and Rules are Tools for Fools-- Part II of IV

This is part of a four-part post about art and schoolwork. To see the introductory post, click here.

I mentioned that as a homeschooler, I am able to take classes this year that I almost certainly would not have the opportunity to participate in were I in public school. The first of these classes I would like to discuss is not really a class at all, but a discussion group for literature.

This discussion group is held at one of my friend's houses. Every Thursday, seven of us gather to have a really great, nearly entirely student led discussion about whatever work of literature we are currently reading together, drink tea, chat after the discussion, drink tea, talk about fandoms and writing, and drink tea. Did I mention the tea? We like tea.

I feel incredibly blessed to be surrounded by such a great group of like-minded peers like this. We all are very interested in writing and reading. Many of us are actors as well. Our shared excitement for a good story and fascinating characters that can be related to is definitely perceivable in our discussions. (In fact, a few of us went to the children's section in a book store the other day, and we found ourselves discussing the characterization of Lucille from the Junie B. Jones series). Although we are definitely interested in all elements of a good story-- plot, pacing, setting, description, etc. --I think it is safe to say that it is the characters in a book hold the most interest for many of us. And we're all fans of Doctor Who, to cap it off. Really, I just love this whole group to pieces, if you couldn't tell already.

We have a wonderful adult facilitator who picks out books, provides discussion topics if we need them, and gently steers the conversation back on track when we deviate to topics such as gay rights, Doctor Who, human nature, Doctor Who, feminism, or Doctor Who. Other than that, the discussion is completely student led.

I believe that the thing that makes all this possible is that this 'class' is mandatory for none of us; we all really want to be there. In a public school, the discussion of literature in this fashion would probably be mandatory, which, depending on the group of students, could take a lot of the joy and purpose out of it. If just one person doesn't want to be in a class like this, they sort of put a damper on the whole group. It's not that large-scale education facilities really have a lot of choice in this matter; their job is to educate and broaden the horizons of as many people as possible, and I appreciate that the difficulty of this task increases with each additional student who walks in through their doors. But my point is, because of the small size of my group and the honest desire of each of us to ascertain more knowledge about the fascinating psychology of the crazy, terrible, wonderful, mad species known as human beings though the study of literature,  we are able to have some really fascinating, scintillating discussions.

So far, we have studied The Dead (James Joyce) and The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald). We are currently reading A Passage to India (E.M. Forster), which is a fascinating social commentary on the colonized India of the twentieth century. I'll spare you all my rants about each of these fascinating books. I admit that I probably would not have made my way through most of these stories without the relative structure of the group to answer to, as A Passage to India in particular can be a bit of a slog at first (it's worth it once you get to the middle, by the way). That's another thing the group is useful for. It really motivates me to finish a work I might not even have picked up otherwise, because if one of us doesn't do the reading, the discussion pretty much becomes pointless.

I'll end with one of my favorite quotes. "When I learn something new--and it happens everyday-- I feel a little more at home in this universe, a little more comfortable in the nest." --Bill Moyers. I'll admit that I have no earthly idea who Bill Moyers is or was or why he said that, but I think he's on to something. Stories are, and always have been, a way for us to explore our own humanity through the eyes of another: an author or a fictional character. Sometimes the view of an outsider is needed in order to let us see what should be obvious about our own lives, and that's something that stories (and art in general) gives to us.
 

I'm back. Did you miss me?

Well there. Erm. Hi, readers. How’s it going?  You all look lovely today. Really, you do. And I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to get on your good side. Really.

You may have noticed a profound lack of posts on this here blog as of late. I could give you an excellent and touching excuse, eloquently recounted in a tale that will make you laugh, cry, grip the edge of your seat in suspense and ultimately win you over to my side of this situation. Or, on the other hand, I could tell you the truth. I assure you that the former option will prove to be much more entertaining than the latter, and if that is what you want to hear, just say the word.

What’s that you say? You would rather hear the truth, no matter how boring it may be? Well, ok. If you’re sure. But first, I would like to confess an anxiety of mine.

I do not like crowds. I really don’t. I don’t even like friendly crowds with the intent to bestow lavish praises on me and fill my pockets with chocolates, roses and money. But Naddie, you say. Aren’t you an actor? Don’t you enjoy attention? Didn’t you once march into a convenience store late at night in very dark blue face paint and play your ukulele and sing loudly for all to hear? Well reader, yes to all three. But I find that performing in front of crowds on a stage (or, in the case of the Great Convenience Store Caper, in front of a small group near the cash register), is much easier than walking amongst a large crowd of people I don’t know who might try to talk to me. Anyway, my point is this: I don’t like crowds. I don’t even like reasonably friendly crowds. I especially do not like angry crowds wielding torches and pitchforks. At this point, we cease to refer to them as a crowd and designate them for all intents and purposes as a “very angry mob.” 

For this reason, before I tell you why I haven’t been posting, please agree to and sign the following:

I, (name here), hereby promise that when I hear Naddie Boyne’s reason for not posting on the blog known as Singing Dragons, I will not collect farm tools, space guns, cranky toddlers, or any other dangerous weapons. After I do not collect these items, I will not gather in a large group of my fellow Singing Dragons readers and track down Naddie Boyne. Once all of this is not accomplished, I will resist the urge to proceed to chase Naddie Boyne around town and shout threats and possibly tie her to the railroad tracks that will certainly not be nearby, due to the fact that I shall never, ever accomplish any of this in the first place. All this I hereby swear on the name of my closest living relative, the life of the queen of England, and all that is holy and/or delicious.

(Sign name here. Use black or blue ink only.) ________________________________________________

Thank you. I feel much better now.

Ready for the excuse? It’s not too late to turn back now. You don’t have to hear it if you don’t want to. What’s that? You are tired of my pointless, irritating and lengthy stalling tactics? Fine. If that’s how you feel, here it is:

I forgot. I got busy and I forgot. And then, when I got a few minutes every now and then I didn’t feel like it.

Please don’t be angry. Remember the form you signed. Now, I am about to go on a backpacking trek in New Mexico. In the wilderness. Completely without any wi-fi. But don’t worry! I won’t abandon you again. I will write several posts in advance and schedule them to post themselves during that time.

Welcome back to Singing Dragons! I hope you enjoy the posts coming up over the next three weeks.

~Naddie Boyne

Trash Cans, Procrastination, and Joseph Glidden

Four million African-Americans were freed from slavery due to a Union victory in the Civil War. The Solomon Island Leaf Frog has no tadpole stage but emerges from the egg as a fully-formed froglet. There are ten semitones in a diminished seventh, Joseph Glidden invented barbed wire in the late nineteenth century, and David Tennant played the Doctor for three seasons of Doctor Who.

...And you're probably wondering about now why on Earth I have just supplied you with a string of mildly interesting but almost certainly useless facts. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret. These facts are meant to have the same effect as a magician's flash of light or colored puff of smoke: I would like to distract you from what is actually going on here.

"What is actually going on here, Naddie?" you say. Well, dear reader, in response to your excellent question, you may have noticed that I haven't posted in a little while. Ok, fine, a large while. I had an excellent arsenal of excuses all ready to go, but I have decided to spare you the tedium of the precise nature of my procrastination and instead educate you with useless facts while simultaneously distracting you from my laziness. Two birds with one stone!

Oh, don't worry. I actually do intend to include some worthwhile content in this post, not only distractions, excuses and similes. And no, I'm not posting the waltz I wrote. Not yet. I still haven't figured out how to imbed a sound clip in a post (if you haven't guessed by now, my talents lie outside the perplexing realm of computers and technology). The waltz will have to wait a little longer. However, I recently became very bored quite late at night and the following writing resulted:

Six Good Reasons Why Every Room in Every House Ought to Have Two Trash Cans

1. You don't have to take out the trash so dreadfully often.

2. Each trash can needs another trash can to talk to. This is important. It can get to be terribly lonely, sitting there day after day while everyone's filling you up with trash. Only another trash can can really understand and sympathize with a trash can. Sometimes a really good actor wearing a convincing enough costume can do it, but it should be noted that this is not a good substitute for getting a second trash can for each room because most actors will not put up with sitting still all day while people throw things away in them.

3. If one of your trash cans gets burnt to ashes because some idiot thought it would be good fun to throw away a lighted match, then you've got a spare can all ready to go.

4. If you have to throw away something really big, you can cut it in half and share it between the two cans. Teamwork!

5. If you have a sudden urge to play a game of indoor soccer, pour out the trash from one can into the other. Then proceed to kick the empty can around the room until the game ends or you get bored or dizzy or all three.

6. If you are confronted with a bare light bulb, if you're at a New Year's party, or you find yourself for any other reason in need of an emergency lampshade, empty one trash can into another as discussed in reason #5. Then place the empty can on the light bulb or head. Note: This only works with lamps and cans that are of compatible sizes. Please do not attempt to place a very large trash can on an average-sized human head.

And thus I shall conclude this long-ish post. I hope to be able to post more often now, as many of my scholastic commitments this year have ended or are soon to do so.

~Naddie Boyne

Four Signs That Your New Friend May be a Time Traveler

I wrote this because you just... never... know.

Four Signs That Your New Friend May Be a Time Traveler

1. Your friend has the irritating habit of, during a completely normal conversation, suddenly adopting a look of alarm and running away with a sense of urgency, often accompanied by a brief utterance, such as “Then it’s not too late!” or “Forget the stupid time-space continuum! I can fix that!”

2. When you first met your friend, they were dressed strangely, or even offensively. Examples include wearing a life preserver far away from any body of water or a hat resembling a small, sleeping wombat. Either they have just arrived from another time and have not had time to change, or they are unaware of what the rules of acceptable dress are in this time.

3. Your friend does not know how to use, or appears transfixed with, commonplace technology. Examples include attempting conversation with radios or television sets, riding escalators up and down over and over again, playing with the lever on toasters to such an effect as to burn the bread, or walking endlessly in circles in a revolving door. (Note: this last example does not necessarily indicate that your friend is from another time.)

4. Your friend uses uncommon or outdated slang terms, such as “That’s just infestational!” or “This is heavy.”

Also, a tip: If you ever pick up the phone, the caller doesn't introduce themselves, and the voice on the other end sounds remarkably like yours, just hang up and register for a new phone number as soon as possible.

~Naddie

Ninjas vs. bunnies (or, community education takes an unexpected turn)

The following is the second of three stories that I wrote as part of my Girl Scout Silver Award report. To give you some background, my project, called 'Bun on the Run' was to teach different Girl Scout troops about rabbit care (i.e., don't keep them in hutches, please spay and neuter, yes, rabbits can be litter trained, etc.) In total, I brought the class to the meetings of well over 100 girls. But because animals and small children were involved, it was inevitable that there would be some, ah, "memorable moments," like the one that follows.

#2: Teenage Mutant Ninja Bunnies

I think that many girls who do their Silver Award do at least one thing that they have never done before, never in their wildest dreams imagined they would do, and hope never to do again. Each of these experiences is unique, memorable, and completely weird. Having said that, I think mine could easily top the experiences under this category of many, many Silver Award veterans.

As part the Bun on the Run program, I always had the girls take a look at one of the rabbit pens I had set up, and ask them what they saw in it. They would all look, and as they told me each object that they saw, I would explain what the rabbit used it for and why.

After they had a rough idea of what a rabbit needed in his or her enclosure, I would ask the girls what they thought you shouldn't put in a rabbit’s cage. This was a list that reliably included, depending on the group, “plastic toys,” “poisonous plants,” or, the ever-popular “things the bunny could choke on and die.”

This is why I was fairly unprepared when, on an evening in early May, I had this talk with a Brownie troop, or more specifically a Brownie troop including one particular Brownie, sitting in the back of the group with her blond hair in a ponytail.

The conversation went something like this:

Me, to troop: “What do you all think I shouldn’t put in a rabbit’s cage?” *hands are raised. I call on Girl 1.*

Girl 1: “A Barbie doll!”

Me: “That’s right. The rabbit would get sick from chewing on it, and your doll probably wouldn’t look so good anymore besides. What else should you not put in a rabbit’s cage?” *hands are raised. I call on Girl 2.*

Girl 2: “Anything rubber!”

Me: “Exactly! The bunny would get really sick from eating rubber. What else?” *hands are raised. I call on Girl 3, who is bouncing up and down in her seat, making faint ‘ooh, ooh!’ sounds.*

Girl 3: “Things the bunny could choke on and die!”

Me: “Exactly right! I think that stands for itself. What else shouldn’t go in a rabbit’s cage?” *hands are raised. I call on Brownie with Blond Ponytail.*

Brownie with Blond Ponytail (and slight smirk on her face): “A highly-trained ninja.”

Now, at first this may not seem that bad. While this answer is a bit awkward to respond to in a group of young kids, particularly when you were expecting an answer like “candy” or “poisonous plants,” it is a no-brainer that highly trained ninjas should not go in a rabbit’s cage. But then another girl pipes up and asks me “What is a highly trained ninja?” Fifteen pairs of eyes turn towards me expectantly.

I am caught by surprise. The Brownies’ parents are watching me. I look behind me at my two volunteers for support. One of my friends is politely trying to stifle a laugh, and the other is not looking at me and seemingly very amused by something on her shoelaces.

“Um, a highly-trained ninja is a person who punches people for a living,” I say to the group of impressionable young children.

Before that moment, I never imagined for a minute that doing a Silver project about animal shelters and bunny rabbits would lead me, through various twists and turns, to explaining to a group of wide-eyed, innocent seven year olds what a ‘highly-trained ninja’ was. As policy, I do not think exposing children to violence is that great of an idea.

Yet somehow, I admire that girl with the blond ponytail, who caused me to be in such an awkward situation. She demonstrated an ability to voice her opinion, no matter how strange an opinion it was. Perhaps she will grow up to be an artist, or a highly successful politician. And why not admit it, she reminds me of myself when I was seven.

~Naddie