#slice2013 27 of 31

My sophomore year History teacher taught me that people remember memorable things.

Her name was Mrs. Campbell and whenever she wanted to tell us something that she found particularly important to our overall knowledge of the topic, she would get up on top of her desk in the front of the classroom and scream it at us. However, this was only one of her many methods of attack. Another commonly used Mrs. Campbell trick was to make up strange songs and dances to go along with important historical happenings.

On my first day of History class sophomore year, the first things Mrs. Campbell said to our class was "I want to be the teacher you remember in 20 years. However, I do not just want you to remember me because I was crazy, I want you to remember me by the things you learned." I can in all honesty say that I will never forget John Locke and Thomas Hobbes because of Mrs. Campbell jumping up on her desk almost once a week and screaming at the top of her lungs, "LOCKE IS KEY."

I don't want to make this lady sound completely insane, however, because her teaching method definitely worked. Our class average was consistently higher than all of the other history classes and my writing skills definitely improved as well due to her multiple surprise in class essays that she almost never graded, but always intensely revised.

Mrs. Campbell, I will remember you in 20 years.

#slice2013 26 of 31

I had a slight writers block trying to think of what to write for this post, so I decided to make a list of important life/educational lessons I have learned over the years from teachers. This helped me remember lots of little stories that went along with these lessons I learned. I'll only share one today, but possibly expect one tomorrow [foreshadowing].


In fourth grade, a couple of my good friends and I decided to form a little club with the oh-so-original title the "I Hate Math Club." It was just me, Hannah and Abbie because we were the three musketettes who did everything together. Hannah hated math, so Abbie and I therefore did as well. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Bren, was not too amused with our little club, as you might imagine. Usually she let our little antics pass on by, but she was under the firm opinion that this "I Hate Math Club" needed to come to an end. The lesson Mrs. Bren taught us that I will forever keep with me is that "Just because you don't like something doesn't mean it's not important. You may dislike math, but try to choose to respect it instead of choosing to hate it."

Of course, Hannah, Abbie and I paid her absolutely no mind and continued with our "I Hate Math" chants until we eventually got sick of it. It wasn't until a couple years later that I realized how valuable Mrs. Bren's lesson really was.

#slice2013 25 of 31

I am extremely scared of my golf coach.

I'm pretty sure that every person who does any sport has that one coach that they're scared of during their lifetime. For me, he is that one coach.

I've lucked out on coaches so far. My three dance instructors that I work with are some of the nicest people I have ever known, so I have never had any reason to be scared of them. Growing up, I played soccer until sixth grade and my dad was my coach. Whenever he tried to make me scared or force me to respect him, I just thought it was hilarious. No, dad, I am not doing fifteen pushups.

However, my golf instructor this year is someone who I legitimately to not want to anger. Unfortunately I already have due to the fact that I forgot to bring in a copy of my physical the first day of practice. He told me that if I didn't bring it the next day I would no longer be able to practice as part of the team. If he had been someone who I felt comfortable and sassy with, I would have responded with something along the lines of "well, that seems a bit extreme, doesn't it?" However, because this particular man is not exactly one to appreciate a bit of sass, I responded with a brisk nod and an affirmative mental note. Trust me, I remembered the forms the next day.

I love golf and a coach's serious, Debby-downer attitude isn't going to take that away from me. Even still, I think anyone who has played a sport can agree with me when I say that the coach is an important part to enjoying the game.

I think I will make it my goal to earn his respect through my love for the game, and with that respect maybe I'll also earn a couple more compliments.

#slice2013 24 of 31

This morning in my mad rush to get to my dance competition, I spilled some yogurt. Well, I wouldn't say that I just spilled the yogurt. A more accurate description is that I dropped the full container of yogurt and watched in horror as it splattered all over the kitchen table, then rolled off the table and hit the floor. Well, not just the floor. It landed on the kitchen carpet which is nearly impossible to clean.

Just as I was running over to grab a towel while desperately trying to keep my dogs away from the spillage, a car honked in my driveway. My ride was here.

"Cecily!" I screamed, "Please come down here I really need some help!"

"Larkin are you joking me!" She yelled back, "I'm naked!"

"It's an emergency my yogurt exploded and my ride is here!"

So this is a public thank you to my 10 year old sister, Cecily, who came downstairs to the kitchen completely naked other than a sports bra to clean up my mess for me. Cecily, I owe you one.

#slice2013 23 of 31

DEADLINES: THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE

I cannot do deadlines. Seriously, though. I hear about a deadline and it goes through one ear and out the other. I am going to make a new March resolution, since New Years has already passed, to make a habit of writing down deadlines because I honestly miss every other one. It's been a miracle that I've remembered to post every day.

I've missed deadlines for school, deadlines for my friends, deadlines for contests and deadlines for summer programs. It's really, really bad. I'm applying to a Columbia summer writing program and my mom and I originally thought the deadline was March 1st. I didn't make it. However, no need to worry, the deadline is actually April 3rd--my mom and I are just illiterate and I am extremely lucky! 

It's not as if I don't care or as if I don't sometimes enjoy doing the work. It's just that I'm extremely talented at forgetting important dates. There's so much I have to remember on a daily basis, and I often hear the words "due in two weeks" and completely relax. 

I suppose I will go start my biology paper that's due on Monday.

#slice2013 22 of 31

My mom's new thing is Ted Talks. I'd have to admit though, I really enjoy this latest obsession of hers. If you haven't yet had the pleasure of listening to a Ted Talk, I would definitely recommend it. The last Ted Talk she had us watch was a talk by a lady from Nigeria. She talked about how difficult it is to not judge a group of people as a whole and make assumptions about individuals based on typical stereotypes. This talk struck me even more than any of the others we've seen so far because I realized in horror that I often do just that-judging individuals based on group stereotypes-often without even noticing.

Chimamanda Adichie came from a fairly well-off family in Nigeria. The average, typical, white, middle-class American would make the classic assumption that people from Africa speak a foreign African language, listen to old tribal music, dress in red and orange cloths and pee in holes in the ground. Unfortunately, Chimamanda's roommate at her American college made many of these assumptions when, as Ms. Adichie points out, in reality Chimamanda "listens to Moriah Carey."

Ms. Adichie did not exactly enjoy or understand these assumptions made about herself and her culture, but did not appreciate exactly how easy it was to be pulled into the trap of believing a stereotype until she, herself, made an assumption about Mexicans based on her knowledge of the group as a whole. As the media constantly reminds us, there is an ever increasing number of illegal Mexican immigrants entering the United States. Chimamanda sheepishly admits that she saw a Mexican American and immediately assumed he was illegal. She goes on to talk about how easy it is to do to other people exactly what her roommate had done to her.

Her talk got me thinking not only about how easy it is to fall into believing the common stereotypes, but also how easy it is for the government and the media to manipulate the stereotypes we trust. 

Chimamanda Adichie did not just believe in a typical stereotype, but more specifically a stereotype created and made popular by the government and the media. If the news of the surplus of Mexican immigrants hadn't been in the newspaper and on television every other day, I doubt that the Mexican American population would be looked at in the same way that they are now.

Ms. Adichie's story just goes to show us that we need to be careful of what we choose to believe about people and what evidence we have to support those beliefs. If our only back-up evidence for making assumptions is "everyone knows that" then maybe we should take a second look at why "that" is such a commonly known fact. Maybe there's more to it than what first meets the eye.

#slice2013 21 of 31

Wow I cannot believe there are only 10 days left. March has felt so long but I do not feel as if I have been blogging for anywhere near 20 days.

My family just recently traded in our Volvo for a Honda CR-V, which I am extremely thankful to have to drive. Anyway, the other day I noticed with a shock that my tank was running on empty. I got home and told my mom and she decided that this was the perfect opportunity for me to learn how to pump my own gas. So this is the story of my gasoline mishap.


"Mom!" I call as I walk into the kitchen. I put my keys into her hand, "My tank is empty. Next time you go somewhere, can you take my car instead of yours?"

She looks at me in the way that only a mother can. "Alright, but you're coming with me."

I groan. "Mom. It's, like, 25 degrees out. Can't you teach me when it at least hits 70?"

"No."

Defeated, I walk upstairs.

A half hour later she calls up to me that she's leaving to pick up my sister and I'm going with her. I reluctantly trudge down and we walk out to the garage together. It's freezing. We get to the car and she immediately goes to the driver's side. You're kidding me. Not only is she making me fill up my tank of gas in 25 degree weather, but she's also driving. Hello, I have my license. I don't say anything though and slide into the passenger's.

We go to the gas station first. She pulls in and parks it right next to the nozzle, rolls down her window and hands me a credit card. I take it and give her a dramatic sigh. She smiles.

Once I get around the car, she begins to call directions. "Alright, I just opened the gas tank right here." I stick my head inside the car to see what she's talking about. "Now take the regular nozzle. No! Not diesel! Diesel ruins your car! Yes, that one."

I pick it up and watch as a couple drops of excess gasoline fall from its nozzle. Disgusted, I wipe my hand on my pants.

"Okay, now carry it over to the gas tank and now unscrew the cap on the gas tank. You see it?" I nod and begin to unscrew it. "Alright, good. Now just put the nozzle into the tank and pull up on that metal clamp." I do what she says.

After what seems like an eternity and a half, the tank is full and the machine stops. I remove the nozzle, screw the gas cap back on, close the latch, put the nozzle back on the holder and swipe the card. Mom nods in approval and I happily walk back around the car, blowing warm air on my hands.

I get back into the passenger's seat and stick my hands under my thighs trying to warm them up.

I crinkle my nose. "Ew, mom, it smells really bad."

"Larkin, did you get any gasoline on you?"

"No!" I exclaim, "You watched me the whole time!"

She takes one of my hands out from underneath my nice warm thighs and smells it. Her face is not too pleasant. "You have gasoline on this hand. Don't touch anything." I offer up the other hand just in case and her face is even worse this time around. "Just hold them both in front of you and don't touch anything."

Unfortunately, as I discovered later that night, the gasoline had not just gotten on my hands. Instead, the smell was all over every piece of clothing that was on my body due to my strange need to wipe my hands off on any surface available. My mom's car smelled like gasoline for a solid couple of days. Thanks to this experience, I have officially developed a slight phobia of gasoline pumps.