Language Investigation #3

I honestly cannot recall much of my early writing processes; until I was a junior in high school, I was completely determined to be a marine biologist. Therefore, I was always fascinated by science. I read a lot, starting novels when I was in third or fourth grade, and I can remember a great deal about the reading tasks we were assigned. For me, writing didn’t become a passion until well into my high school years, and when it did, it was an explosion. I had a change of heart, virtually overnight, to wanting to be an author rather than a research scientist.
I can recall two instances from elementary school in which we specifically dealt with language, at least on a superficial level. When I was in third grade I wrote my first story. I don’t know if I watched Homeward Bound all the time or what, but I must have written ten short stories about animals going on adventures. I would always have the animals talk and go on these elaborate journeys. Our teacher encouraged us simply to write. There was only one stipulation: it had to make sense. In other words, our focus for that class was completely on plot progression. We had to set up a background, then tell a few events that made everything relevant. Language was not very important; of course, we were required to use new vocabulary words that we were learning at the time, but honestly I have no idea what those words were. Each week, we would get three of four new words on the blackboard (pre-whiteboard era) and in our story we had to include those three words somehow. So, it was good to be enlarging our vocabulary, but I didn’t learn anything at all about syntax and subject / verb agreement until sixth grade. If I did learn these basic skills, I was too young to remember.
Another thing I remember is being absolutely awful at handwriting (penmanship). I could never hold my pencil correctly, and to this day my handwriting looks like a second-grader. It was the only class I got a C in from Kindergarten through 9th grade. This mark kind of discouraged me from writing, at least by hand, because my teacher really made a big deal about it. She kept physically twisting my hand into the correct writing position, and I got pretty annoyed after a while.
In junior high school we learned sentence structure. All I can remember about this period of my life was being bored out of my mind. I loved the books; The Hobbit, Tom Sawyer, and Huckleberry Finn I thoroughly enjoyed. I didn’t care how the sentences were put together, what the past participles were, I just enjoyed the stories. However, I survived the writing exercises well enough, despite having an awful teacher. Mrs. Moore: picture a fifty-five year old woman, very thin hair, and a hoarse voice caused by smoking twice an hour. “Diagram these two sentences, everybody,” while she stepped outside for a smoke break, then came back in, her eyes bloodshot and smelling like an ashtray in a dress.
Anyway, I digress. High school was the turning point, the place where I found a passion for literature and writing. Like I said, I wanted to be a marine biologist; until I discovered the advanced math necessary to be a research scientist. So, my high school English teacher, Mr. Schuessler told me once that I was a very good writer. I don’t know exactly what assignment I turned in to make him believe this, but nonetheless, I received the compliment and began writing furiously, all the time. First in journals, then I progressed to argumentative essays. My junior year I was placed into AP English, with about seven other students. I took this class both of my remaining years. And that’s when my writing skills were sharpened. Our school went to seventy-minute classes that year, which allowed for fewer classes in the day but with more time in each class. The first twenty-five minutes of every single class, we were given a writing prompt and we would write a five-page essay. I wrote fifteen essays a month, all with support and feedback from my teacher, and all of us in the class prepared for the AP essays.
Language played a huge role in my development as a writer. My teacher would remind us who we were writing to, so as to avoid that ‘collegy’ language, the pretentious words that made us sound like we had a Master’s in language when we were sixteen. So, we wrote in a language that our classmates could understand. More important than the diction was the sentence style, though. We spend an entire unit on rewriting sentences to give them voice and create our unique writing methods. I probably wrote one hundred college-level essays by the time I graduated from high school, each one sharper and clearer than the last. I got a four on my AP exam, tested out of English I, and jumped into ‘beginning creative writing.’
Every college essay I write for this university reflects the teaching of Mr. Schuessler. From structuring the entire essay so that arguments are supported by textual evidence, to writing stylistic sentences, his keen attention to detail allowed me to develop my skills. Of course, my education on writing continued into college, but the framework was established years ago and now, it’s a matter of handing in the paper, then getting it back with a grade. There is not as much personal attention, which is okay because I never have problems with the grades I’m given. I believe writing is a fundamental and essential tool, which leads to success in all subject areas.

warm up for 9-17

1. I noticed from chapter six that Rose used many different writing activities that combined several types of media. For example, he would bring paintings of the human figure to class and have students categorize them based on similarities, in order to get them thinking about classification. This assignment was given so that the veterans in the Extension building would learn to describe how classifying ether takes away or adds to the overall theme of a piece of art. This was one example of engaging his learners beyond just the literal text.
3. I noticed that ‘remedial’ was used very often to describe the veterans, a word that implies a lack of cognitive skills and learning abilities. This word creates a kind of ‘outsider’ label, because it forces the student to look at what kind of people are not remedial, and then they assume since they don’t belong in this ‘normal’ category, they are less important. Rose was able to turn this around by giving his students complex topics, such as the comparison between the big bang theory and the aboriginal mythology; normally, this would be a very difficult task. However, Rose shows his students that he has confidence in them, and his confidence in turn boosts their own courage in regards to writing about complicated issues. He first empowered his students, simply by giving them the assignment he showed them that he believed they could do it. At first, it was difficult, but with patience and group work, the class was able to bring together individual knowledge about the subject and these so-called ‘remedial’ learners were engaging in a fascinating task.

investigaciones de lengua 2

Pretty much the only ‘community’ I’m in that’s unique (not as general as “my age group”) is snowboarding. I love snowboarding. It’s a passion. I grew up in the mountains, about forty minutes from Loveland (ski area) and twenty minutes from Eldora. Not very big ski areas, but good places to learn. My high school did not have class on Fridays, so I went snowboarding every Friday and Sunday during the ski season – religiously. If I couldn’t find anyone to go with, I’d go alone, which wasn’t as fun, but very relaxing. Chillin to some music while riding on three feet of fresh powder, going my own speed, choosing my line… I can’t wait for this season, but this is the first year since I began at thirteen that I won’t be buying a season pass – I can’t justify spending the money when my son needs clothes and food more than I need to snowboard. I’ll probably do some backcountry though (yes, Mom, I have a avalanche training and a beacon).
Anyway, alright. On to the assignment. I developed much of the slang and technical terms for snowboarding working at Eldora last season as a ski and snowboard instructor. Also, my group of friends definitely has our own unique language. I’ll distinguish between technical terms, the words that anyone in the industry (making them) or profession (riding them) would know, and also the lingo, words that are probably relevant to my age group of snowboarders. The first thing I taught my classes was the names of the various parts of a board. So, when I told them to put pressure on their heelside edge, they would know what I meant. The heelside is the long edge of the snowboard that is at the back of your foot; conversely, the edge in front is the toeside. When you put pressure on your heels or toes, you turn forward or back; alternating pressure will allow you to carve, the S-shaped motion that riders perform as they travel down the slope. More pressure allows for a tighter turn, or carve. There are also heelbacks, a very important part of the board that most people overlook; these are the parts that can fold down to the board and determine how much your ankle leans forward or back; again, more forward lean means you will turn sharper on your toeside but you will need more pressure to turn heelside. Most of this is best explained visually.
So, we have the terms that deal with the mechanics. Now, on to the fun stuff. ‘Shred’ is a very common term. It relates to ‘carve;’ images of cutting, or slicing, which is pretty much what the sharp edges of a board (or skis) do to the snow. I suppose it’s a verb, as in “Hey bro, let’s go shred some pow!” (pow is just short for powder) “Shred the gnar!” is one my friends and I use, kind of as a joke, like to mock the 90’s surfer slang. (I guess ‘gnar’ is gnarly, as in rough, tough terrain… or something.) “Chill uphill, thrill downhill” is pretty much our philosophy when we go riding, one of my friends came up with in a rare moment of (probably inebriated) brilliance. You get to relax on the chairlift up, then you go bomb the hill. ‘Bomb’ is pretty obvious, you go way too fast and scare (and almost destroy) old ladies and tiny children meandering across the ski slope. One last word: a recent addition to our vocabularious arsenal is “steazy.” I love this word. It means ‘someone who wears something completely outdated, ugly, off-color, retro, or just weird… and can pull it off. Someone wearing a pink leotard and green goggles and an 80’s hair-band wig… but they get respect, man, cuz they can shred the gnar and bomb the hill and throw down a cab-540 and a rodeo in the same run. (the tricks are a whole ‘nother story).
That was fun, but I guess I should write something scholarly… These words show an “I get it” attitude toward the sport. They represent that we appreciate the 80’s fashion and we can talk about these things in the middle of summer to our friends, and someone from Miami has no clue what we’re saying. Which is good. Because Florida sucks. Anyone, young and old, can appreciate the ski/snowboard lifestyle, a lifestyle of kicking back in the parking lot with a beer while you grill some burgers. Of riding in the spring with no shirt on because it feels so good, so exhilarating, to wipe out going thirty miles an hour on slush… with a sunburn. The clean, fresh air, the sounds of edges carving on snow, they’re all part of a specific lifestyle, the Colorado skiers and riders, of people who just love to be outside even in January when it’s 15 below.

nine three oh eight warm up

1. I saw a lot of patterns in the formation of the unique words. For example, much of the language that was family-specific originated when a family was all doing something together; eating a traditional French meal, or camping, or in one case there was a pet that the family shared. In other words, there seemed to be one event or object that the family would center around... a meal or a pet. I think many words were 'invented' at these times because they are casual, social moments, everyone's joking, laughing, and just the fact that they're in a group is cause for sharing. And stuff. And I guess traditions are huge, because a family adopts what the family before it would do. In other words, my mother and father reiterated what their parents did, and that was a pattern that was in all of the posts.
2. These patterns reveal that often, language is formed and adapted so much that even with English as the national language, there are so many variations among social classes, geographic regions, and other effects that cause local dialects and diction to simply emerge and form a virtually new language. Or something like that.
3. An insider is someone who 'get's the joke,' someone who understands why a certain saying is funny (or annoying, or whatever) because they have grown up and have been immersed in that culture. So yeah.

Language Investigation #1

My father was born in a barn. Well, not literally, but he was raised on a farm in rural Illinois. Much of what I heard growing up carried heavy implications of a farm lifestyle. My dad would wake up at 4:00 in the morning to feed the pigs, milk the cows, you know, do farm stuff, and to this day he still wakes up this early. I remember dragging myself out of bed at eight o’clock and he had already read the newspaper, drank a pot of coffee, and in the winter, had already shoveled the driveway; in the summer, he would run three miles. Every morning this happened. I also grew up with his lingo, his Midwest terminology. “Troy, do me a favor and move the davenport so I can get the sweeper under there.” Alright, Dad. I’ll move the couch so you can vacuum underneath. One of his favorite things to say to us, every night, without fail, was “Bedtime in the Rockies!” I suppose this directly correlates to the region in which I was raised. My father moved out to Colorado after serving a term in the Air Force and nearly every phrase was followed with “in the Rockies.” Dinnertime in the Rockies, homework time in the Rockies.
Other than my father, my family really didn’t have a culture-specific dialect. I and my older brother lived with my father and mother in virtual isolation for fifteen years deep in the mountains to the west of Denver. Forests completely surrounded our home; we could not see our neighbor’s houses, and a fifteen minute hike was necessary for a get-together with the new neighbors; in other words, we didn’t know very many people in our ‘community.’ That was kind of the point. My parents lived in Denver until I was five, and moved away to avoid the busyness of city life: the noise, the paved streets, grocery stores, movie theatres. My childhood was spent almost entirely with my brother and our mutual best friend, Nick. The three of us would explore the woods and mountains, fish in the lakes, and build forts. My graduating class had seventeen kids. Our church had fifteen members, all of them over 45 years old. Socializing was never really a concern. I knew how to clean a rainbow trout, but I didn’t know how to lead a group discussion.
Anyway, other than my father’s Midwest slang – my brother and I rolled our eyes at “warsh up fer supper” – we basically used everyday language, no different than other families. My mother moved every two years growing up; her father was also in the Air Force, and he was stationed in a different place for twenty years. My mother went to six different schools, in Los Angeles, Phoenix, Cleveland, Las Vegas, Indianapolis, and Denver. She never even got a chance to assimilate into a culture, to pick up on local dialect. My brother and I were raised in a log cabin in a forest. “Let’s go climb the rocks. Let’s build a raft. Let’s catch a rabbit. Mom, we’re camping in the backyard tonight.” “Okay, boys. Don’t burn the forest down.”

Where I'm From

Growing Together: a prose poem[1]

The forest grew with me. It grew around me, it thickened, the trees got taller, wider, more numerous. The woods provided more shade. As my desire to explore grew, my understanding of the immensity of the forest grew. I hiked for miles around my house, seeing nothing but the trees, growing slowly in their expansive family. As my height grew, so did the height of the aspen in front of our deck. My parents cut it down when I left for college, for it obscured the view of the lake.

I would watch the storms coming over the divide from the west, growing in intensity as they gathered strength. I would watch the sky grow dark as ominous clouds crept over the twelve-thousand foot ridge seven miles away. I would watch the snow collect on the deck, watch the blanket grow from one, to two, to six feet high. When I grew enough, I strapped on snowshoes and went out into the quiet, feeling ten feet tall atop four feet of snow.

And the casinos grew; much too quickly. Too fast for nature to compensate. They grew like concrete and iron trees, square trees, fifteen-story trees, straight up out of the ground, overnight. The city itself grew. On Friday nights the inhabitants grew from the local population of 400 to the tourists and gamblers: 35,000. The lights from the city illuminated the sky to the south; the light grew brighter every year. The sky used to be darker. The stars used to be brighter.


[1] or something.