1. The rise in tuition costs. This year, tuition went up. And we pay the lump sum without realizing the different fees in the tuition. 12 dollars of the 150 dollars per credit hour goes to sports. I have never even been to a game, yet I paid $168 this semester alone in sports fees. Should we be paying for other students extracurriculars? Or should only those participating in each part of college life pay for them?
2. The effect facebook (or other social networking sites) has on relationships. We, as college students especially, interact with one another a lot on facebook. While it is good for staying connected with out-of-state friends of friends back home, it is also exessively used for staying in touch with people you see on a daily basis. We learn of life changing instances, not through face-to-face communiacation, but through wall-to-wall. UCF students use facebook as a way to start clubs, or form study groups. Many people post way to much on their pages as well. Instead of talking trough arguements, angry comments get posted. Are these social networking sites a great new way to stay connected, or unhealthy for our relationships?
3. PARKING! I hate the parking situation. It has gotten to be so bad, I now get stressed leaving my house because I'm worried I won't find a spot. WHY did they get RID of parking to build ANOTHER building?!?!?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Problem With Ants...
When I was little, my sister and I would play games in our backyard. We’d experiment with the basic principles of physics, completely unaware of what we were doing. We would take a bucket of dirt, swing it over our heads, and not a speck of dirt would fall out. Our childhood brains could not comprehend any explanation, other than magic, that kept that dirt in the open bucket—upside-down. I knew, however, that I wanted more of an explanation than mere fantasy. At this age, my mind was closed to exploring more than one solution to a problem, and it took one horrifying experience with ants to change that.
I spent my elementary school years living in Monument, Colorado. We lived on an acre of land up the side of a hill. Our driveway up to our house was a quarter of a mile long. In the summers, my sister and I would play outside in the dirt. We would fill buckets with water from the hose and then add dirt and weeds until we created our own special “soup.” We’d map out spaces between the trees where our houses were, and we’d play neighbors. The yard around our house was natural. It wasn’t a perfectly cut lawn, or neatly manicured shrubbery, which made it an optimal playground for little kids. Anything could happen in that forest. One day we’d be mothers, the next explorers. On the weekends, we’d hear our dad working outside, cutting down dead trees or planting new ones.
One memorable morning, my sister and I were playing with our buckets. The bucket I was using was from the past Halloween. As I played, a smiling orange face would whiz over my head and laugh with me. Every swing, every successful attempt, filled me with an odd sense of accomplishment. We’d test our experiment out on different soils, we’d add grass and weeds, and (if we were feeling really daring) we’d even add water.
I found a cluster of small rocks up against the house, left over from one of my dad’s yard projects. I grabbed a handful and listened to the satisfying plunk, plunk, plunk as each pebble slipped through my fingers and hit the bottom of my bucket. “Erin, do you think these pebbles would stay in?” I asked my sister. I looked at Erin and she shrugged her shoulders. But before I could hold her attention, I had already lost it. As I was collecting the pebbles, she had noticed something up the hill behind me. My eyes followed her as she ran up the hill to what had diverted her interest. She stopped suddenly and called out, “Over here, Lindsey! What about this dirt? It’s practically sand. Do you think it will still stay in?”
I went up the hill to meet her, my bucket swinging loudly beside me. And she was right, a new type of soil to test! Would these heavier grains of sand stay in as well? Or would the magic not work for this shinier, more slippery dirt? I stood and pondered the ground before me, the bucket of pebbles forgotten at my side. My sister stooped over and scooped the sand into her Little Mermaid bucket. I held very still and I watched as my sister stood up straight, secured her grip on the handle, and gracefully swung the bucket in a perfect arc over her head. Not a grain of sand fell out. Another successful attempt! I was about to leap for joy, when I felt something crawling up my leg.
I looked down, and was frozen in horror. As I had stood still with anticipation and watched my sister, I’d been standing on an ant hill. These ants, angry at the intrusion, began crawling up my legs. I couldn’t even see my shoes, the swarm of ants covered them completely. But what was I to do? Thinking quickly, I realized I needed someone else to brush the ants off.
Regaining my sense of self, I helplessly looked to my sister. “Erin! I’m covered in ants! Please! Get them off, get them off, get them OFF!” I pleaded, and screamed.
My sister—my loving, beautiful, caring sister—was forever an indoor girl. It took hours of pleading some days just to get her out of the house with me. And here, in my moment of need, she clearly gave me a look the said “you want me to do what?!?”
Now all I felt was panic. The ants continued to crawl up and down my legs, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I certainly was not going to touch them. That meant I still needed someone else’s help. But who? My sister had already refused. Through my panic I remembered: my dad. He was outside planting trees today, he could help!
I took off running up the hill, in absolute terror. My dad heard me coming and turned around to see a very small, hysterical girl tearing through the woods to meet him. I had difficulty explaining to him what the situation was. Initially, I wasn’t even able to finish a whole sentence through my hysteria. But I finally calmed enough to exclaim, “Daddy, my legs are covered in ants. Please! Get them off of me! Erin wouldn’t help! Please!” Now understanding the problem, my father bent down to brush the insects of my legs.
But there were no ants left.
Ironically, the act of me running up the hill to my father knocked all the pesky ants off my legs. I had helped myself, completely unaware of it. In that moment, looking into the laughing eyes of my father, I realized that there was more than one way to solve a problem. My seven year old mind was opened to a completely different way of approaching a problem. In this situation, I saw ants on my legs, and my only solution was to have a third party brush them off. I didn’t see the other solution that had ended up working. With every conundrum I now face, I see a web of solutions beyond what is intrinsically obvious. Without the help of that ant community, and even my sister, I may have never learned to always keep an open, unbiased mind when faced with a problem. And, of course, I always avoid ant hills.
I spent my elementary school years living in Monument, Colorado. We lived on an acre of land up the side of a hill. Our driveway up to our house was a quarter of a mile long. In the summers, my sister and I would play outside in the dirt. We would fill buckets with water from the hose and then add dirt and weeds until we created our own special “soup.” We’d map out spaces between the trees where our houses were, and we’d play neighbors. The yard around our house was natural. It wasn’t a perfectly cut lawn, or neatly manicured shrubbery, which made it an optimal playground for little kids. Anything could happen in that forest. One day we’d be mothers, the next explorers. On the weekends, we’d hear our dad working outside, cutting down dead trees or planting new ones.
One memorable morning, my sister and I were playing with our buckets. The bucket I was using was from the past Halloween. As I played, a smiling orange face would whiz over my head and laugh with me. Every swing, every successful attempt, filled me with an odd sense of accomplishment. We’d test our experiment out on different soils, we’d add grass and weeds, and (if we were feeling really daring) we’d even add water.
I found a cluster of small rocks up against the house, left over from one of my dad’s yard projects. I grabbed a handful and listened to the satisfying plunk, plunk, plunk as each pebble slipped through my fingers and hit the bottom of my bucket. “Erin, do you think these pebbles would stay in?” I asked my sister. I looked at Erin and she shrugged her shoulders. But before I could hold her attention, I had already lost it. As I was collecting the pebbles, she had noticed something up the hill behind me. My eyes followed her as she ran up the hill to what had diverted her interest. She stopped suddenly and called out, “Over here, Lindsey! What about this dirt? It’s practically sand. Do you think it will still stay in?”
I went up the hill to meet her, my bucket swinging loudly beside me. And she was right, a new type of soil to test! Would these heavier grains of sand stay in as well? Or would the magic not work for this shinier, more slippery dirt? I stood and pondered the ground before me, the bucket of pebbles forgotten at my side. My sister stooped over and scooped the sand into her Little Mermaid bucket. I held very still and I watched as my sister stood up straight, secured her grip on the handle, and gracefully swung the bucket in a perfect arc over her head. Not a grain of sand fell out. Another successful attempt! I was about to leap for joy, when I felt something crawling up my leg.
I looked down, and was frozen in horror. As I had stood still with anticipation and watched my sister, I’d been standing on an ant hill. These ants, angry at the intrusion, began crawling up my legs. I couldn’t even see my shoes, the swarm of ants covered them completely. But what was I to do? Thinking quickly, I realized I needed someone else to brush the ants off.
Regaining my sense of self, I helplessly looked to my sister. “Erin! I’m covered in ants! Please! Get them off, get them off, get them OFF!” I pleaded, and screamed.
My sister—my loving, beautiful, caring sister—was forever an indoor girl. It took hours of pleading some days just to get her out of the house with me. And here, in my moment of need, she clearly gave me a look the said “you want me to do what?!?”
Now all I felt was panic. The ants continued to crawl up and down my legs, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I certainly was not going to touch them. That meant I still needed someone else’s help. But who? My sister had already refused. Through my panic I remembered: my dad. He was outside planting trees today, he could help!
I took off running up the hill, in absolute terror. My dad heard me coming and turned around to see a very small, hysterical girl tearing through the woods to meet him. I had difficulty explaining to him what the situation was. Initially, I wasn’t even able to finish a whole sentence through my hysteria. But I finally calmed enough to exclaim, “Daddy, my legs are covered in ants. Please! Get them off of me! Erin wouldn’t help! Please!” Now understanding the problem, my father bent down to brush the insects of my legs.
But there were no ants left.
Ironically, the act of me running up the hill to my father knocked all the pesky ants off my legs. I had helped myself, completely unaware of it. In that moment, looking into the laughing eyes of my father, I realized that there was more than one way to solve a problem. My seven year old mind was opened to a completely different way of approaching a problem. In this situation, I saw ants on my legs, and my only solution was to have a third party brush them off. I didn’t see the other solution that had ended up working. With every conundrum I now face, I see a web of solutions beyond what is intrinsically obvious. Without the help of that ant community, and even my sister, I may have never learned to always keep an open, unbiased mind when faced with a problem. And, of course, I always avoid ant hills.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Problem With Ants... (Draft)
I remember being a kid and not understanding the science of our world. It was impossible for my young brain to understand the explanations behind everyday occurrences. Something as simple as a light turning on by the flip of a switch baffled and fascinated me. When you are an infant, you are oblivious to such a cause and effect. As you grow up some, you are more interested in the cause than the effect. And then you hit a certain age, and you find yourself curious about the process of the cause. For instance, my sister and I would play in our backyard with the basic principles of physics, and not even know it. We used to take a bucket of dirt, swing it over our heads, and not a speck would fall out. I couldn’t comprehend an explanation, other than magic, that kept that dirt in the open bucket—upside-down. But I knew I wanted more of an explanation than fantasy.
I spent my elementary school years living in Monument, Colorado. We lived on an acre of land up the side of a hill. Our driveway up to our house was a quarter of a mile long. In the summers, my sister and I would play outside in the dirt. We would fill buckets with water from the hose and then add dirt and weeds until we created our own special “soup.” We’d map out spaces between the trees where our houses were, and we’d play neighbors. The yard around our house was natural. It wasn’t a perfectly cut lawn, or neatly manicured shrubbery, which made it an optimal playground for little kids. Anything could happen in that forest. One day we’d be mothers, the next explorers. On the weekends, we’d hear my dad up and behind our house planting trees.
One memorable morning when I was seven, my sister and I were playing with our buckets. The bucket I was using was from the past Halloween. A smiling orange face would whiz over my head, and laugh with me. Every swing, every successful attempt, filled me with an odd sense of accomplishment. We’d test our experiment out on different soils, we’d add grass and weeds, and (if we were feeling really daring) we’d even add water.
Running up the hill from me, I heard my sister call out, “Over here, Lindsey! This dirt is practically sand. Do you think it will still stay in?”
I went up the hill to meet her. And she was right, a new type of soil to test! Would these heavier grains of sand stay in as well? Or would the magic not work for this shiner, slippery dirt? I sat and pondered the ground before me, as my sister began scooping some into her little mermaid bucket. Holding very still, I watched as my sister stood up straight, secured her grip on the handle, and gracefully swung the bucket in a perfect arc over her head. And not a grain of sand fell out. Another successful attempt! I was about to leap for joy, when I felt something crawling up my leg.
I looked down, and was frozen in horror. As I had stood still with anticipation and watched my sister, I had been standing on an ant hill. The ants, angry at the intrusion, began crawling up my legs. My legs looked black from all the ants crawling on them.
Regaining my sense of self, I helplessly looked to my sister. “Erin! I’m covered in ants! Get them off, get them off, get them OFF!” I pleaded, and screamed.
My sister—my loving, beautiful, caring sister—was forever an indoor girl. It took hours of pleading some days just to get her out of the house with me. And here, in my moment of need, she clearly gave me a look the said “you want me to do what?!?”
Now all I felt was panic. The ants were crawling up and down my legs, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I certainly was not going to touch them. So I needed someone else’s help. And then I remembered: my dad.
I took off running up the hill, in absolute terror. He heard me coming and turned around to see a very small, hysterical girl tearing through the woods to meet him. I had difficulty explaining to him what the situation was. Initially, I wasn’t able to talk to him because of how hard I was crying. But I finally exclaimed, “Daddy, my legs are covered in ants. Please! Get them off of me!” Now understanding the problem, my father bent down to brush the insects of my legs.
But there were no ants left.
Ironically, the act of me running up the hill to my father knocked all the pesky ants off my legs. I had helped myself, complete unaware of what I was achieving. In that moment, I realized that there was more than one way to solve a problem. My mind was opened to a completely different way of thinking. In this situation, I saw ants on my legs, and my only solution was to have a third party brush them off. I didn’t see the other solution that had ended up working.
It took a few years, and a lot of classrooms, before I learned what kept the sand in those buckets time and time again: centripetal force. The force keeping the dirt in those buckets was not magic, the only solution I could see at the time, but a natural scientific occurrence.
My seven year old brain was suddenly enlightened to a new analytical way of thinking. My eyes were opened to millions of possibilities beyond what was everyday apparent. Every conundrum I now face, I see a web of solutions beyond what is intrinsically obvious. Without the help of that ant community, and even my sister, I may have never learned to always keep an open, unbiased mind when faced with a problem. And, of course, I learned never to stand on ant hills.
I spent my elementary school years living in Monument, Colorado. We lived on an acre of land up the side of a hill. Our driveway up to our house was a quarter of a mile long. In the summers, my sister and I would play outside in the dirt. We would fill buckets with water from the hose and then add dirt and weeds until we created our own special “soup.” We’d map out spaces between the trees where our houses were, and we’d play neighbors. The yard around our house was natural. It wasn’t a perfectly cut lawn, or neatly manicured shrubbery, which made it an optimal playground for little kids. Anything could happen in that forest. One day we’d be mothers, the next explorers. On the weekends, we’d hear my dad up and behind our house planting trees.
One memorable morning when I was seven, my sister and I were playing with our buckets. The bucket I was using was from the past Halloween. A smiling orange face would whiz over my head, and laugh with me. Every swing, every successful attempt, filled me with an odd sense of accomplishment. We’d test our experiment out on different soils, we’d add grass and weeds, and (if we were feeling really daring) we’d even add water.
Running up the hill from me, I heard my sister call out, “Over here, Lindsey! This dirt is practically sand. Do you think it will still stay in?”
I went up the hill to meet her. And she was right, a new type of soil to test! Would these heavier grains of sand stay in as well? Or would the magic not work for this shiner, slippery dirt? I sat and pondered the ground before me, as my sister began scooping some into her little mermaid bucket. Holding very still, I watched as my sister stood up straight, secured her grip on the handle, and gracefully swung the bucket in a perfect arc over her head. And not a grain of sand fell out. Another successful attempt! I was about to leap for joy, when I felt something crawling up my leg.
I looked down, and was frozen in horror. As I had stood still with anticipation and watched my sister, I had been standing on an ant hill. The ants, angry at the intrusion, began crawling up my legs. My legs looked black from all the ants crawling on them.
Regaining my sense of self, I helplessly looked to my sister. “Erin! I’m covered in ants! Get them off, get them off, get them OFF!” I pleaded, and screamed.
My sister—my loving, beautiful, caring sister—was forever an indoor girl. It took hours of pleading some days just to get her out of the house with me. And here, in my moment of need, she clearly gave me a look the said “you want me to do what?!?”
Now all I felt was panic. The ants were crawling up and down my legs, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I certainly was not going to touch them. So I needed someone else’s help. And then I remembered: my dad.
I took off running up the hill, in absolute terror. He heard me coming and turned around to see a very small, hysterical girl tearing through the woods to meet him. I had difficulty explaining to him what the situation was. Initially, I wasn’t able to talk to him because of how hard I was crying. But I finally exclaimed, “Daddy, my legs are covered in ants. Please! Get them off of me!” Now understanding the problem, my father bent down to brush the insects of my legs.
But there were no ants left.
Ironically, the act of me running up the hill to my father knocked all the pesky ants off my legs. I had helped myself, complete unaware of what I was achieving. In that moment, I realized that there was more than one way to solve a problem. My mind was opened to a completely different way of thinking. In this situation, I saw ants on my legs, and my only solution was to have a third party brush them off. I didn’t see the other solution that had ended up working.
It took a few years, and a lot of classrooms, before I learned what kept the sand in those buckets time and time again: centripetal force. The force keeping the dirt in those buckets was not magic, the only solution I could see at the time, but a natural scientific occurrence.
My seven year old brain was suddenly enlightened to a new analytical way of thinking. My eyes were opened to millions of possibilities beyond what was everyday apparent. Every conundrum I now face, I see a web of solutions beyond what is intrinsically obvious. Without the help of that ant community, and even my sister, I may have never learned to always keep an open, unbiased mind when faced with a problem. And, of course, I learned never to stand on ant hills.
Memo to Ms. Moody
To: Ms. Moody
From: Lindsey Pratt
Date: Wednesday September 16th, 2009
RE: Memo Assignment
The feedback I was given was very helpful. I am going to listen to what advice I was given, mainly in connecting the story completely. So far I have yet to make a real point, and to connect the ideas I have presented cohesively. I need to include dialogue as well. I need to look through my first paragraphs and be sure I have enough variance between sentence structures. I do not believe I have yet to perfect the flow of my writing yet either. My peer reader believed my theme seemed to be heading to a story of my love of science, which isn’t my point at all. I will have to work to make my real theme apparent.
My biggest challenge for finishing my memoir is smoothing out my vision into one understandable story. I can visualize in my head how I want the story to read, but it will be a challenge making all my ideas come across clearly in my paper. My story is going to continue on to tell of one morning where, playing in the dirt, I was covered in ants. I ran to my dad for help, but knocked all the ants off in the process. The insightful significance (my true point) of this memory is that this was the first time I realized that every solution is not black and white. There are solutions in the grey areas too.
From: Lindsey Pratt
Date: Wednesday September 16th, 2009
RE: Memo Assignment
The feedback I was given was very helpful. I am going to listen to what advice I was given, mainly in connecting the story completely. So far I have yet to make a real point, and to connect the ideas I have presented cohesively. I need to include dialogue as well. I need to look through my first paragraphs and be sure I have enough variance between sentence structures. I do not believe I have yet to perfect the flow of my writing yet either. My peer reader believed my theme seemed to be heading to a story of my love of science, which isn’t my point at all. I will have to work to make my real theme apparent.
My biggest challenge for finishing my memoir is smoothing out my vision into one understandable story. I can visualize in my head how I want the story to read, but it will be a challenge making all my ideas come across clearly in my paper. My story is going to continue on to tell of one morning where, playing in the dirt, I was covered in ants. I ran to my dad for help, but knocked all the ants off in the process. The insightful significance (my true point) of this memory is that this was the first time I realized that every solution is not black and white. There are solutions in the grey areas too.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Opening Scene of my Memory
I remember being a kid and not understanding the science of our world. It was impossible for my young brain to understand the explanations behind everyday occurrences. Something as simple as a light turning on by the flip of a switch baffled and fascinated me. When you are an infant, you are oblivious to such a cause and effect. As you grow up some, you are more interested in the cause than the effect. And then you hit a certain age, and you find yourself curious about the process of the cause. For instance, my sister and I would play in our backyard with the basic principles of physics, and not even know it. We used to take a bucket of dirt, swing it over our heads, and not a speck would fall out. I couldn’t comprehend an explanation, other than magic, that kept that dirt in the open bucket—upside-down. But I knew I wanted more of an explanation than fantasy.
I spent my elementary school years living in Monument, Colorado. We lived on an acre of land up the side of a hill. Our driveway up to our house was a quarter of a mile long. In the summers, my sister and I would play outside in the dirt. We would fill buckets with water from the hose and then add dirt and weeds until we created our own special “soup.” We’d map out spaces between the trees where our houses were, and we’d play neighbors. The yard around our house was natural. It wasn’t a perfectly cut lawn, or neatly manicured shrubbery, which made it an optimal playground for little kids. Anything could happen in that forest. One day we’d be mothers, the next explorers. On the weekends, we’d hear my dad up and behind our house planting trees.
I spent my elementary school years living in Monument, Colorado. We lived on an acre of land up the side of a hill. Our driveway up to our house was a quarter of a mile long. In the summers, my sister and I would play outside in the dirt. We would fill buckets with water from the hose and then add dirt and weeds until we created our own special “soup.” We’d map out spaces between the trees where our houses were, and we’d play neighbors. The yard around our house was natural. It wasn’t a perfectly cut lawn, or neatly manicured shrubbery, which made it an optimal playground for little kids. Anything could happen in that forest. One day we’d be mothers, the next explorers. On the weekends, we’d hear my dad up and behind our house planting trees.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Three Events
Event One (what it is about): I was a competitive dancer when I was younger. Once I realized I had forgotten to put on my gloves for my costume before heading backstage. I realized this 30 seconds before our group number was about to start. I missed the first half of my dance routine running to get my gloves.
So what? This experience taught me that a mistake, no matter how huge it feels in the moment, isn’t a big a deal in the long run.
Event Two (what it is about): I grew up in Colorado. There was this huge hill in my neighborhood that was turned into a park. It’s called Toboggan Hill. When I was a kid, we would sled (or snow tube!) down this hill in the winter. Older kids used to build small jumps out of snow so they could practice snowboard tricks. We would snow tube over these jumps once the bigger kids had vacated them. The first time I got the courage to go over one my tube flipped mid-air and threw me down the hill.
So what? I learned you don’t always succeed at what you try.
Event Three (what it is about): In the summer, my siblings and I would play out in our yard. We had an acre of land on a wooded hill. I remember vividly playing in the dirt with my sister, when I noticed ants crawling up and down my legs. I remember hundreds of ants—though realistically it was probably closer to twenty. My sister refused to help me so I frantically ran up the hill to my dad, who was planting trees. By the time I reached my father—absolutely hysterical—I realized I had already knocked all the ants off myself just by running.
So what? I learned that they are other solutions to how one can achieve a goal—and that I don’t always need others help to achieve it. Not to mention I learned how to get ants off my legs. That’s an important life lesson right there.
So what? This experience taught me that a mistake, no matter how huge it feels in the moment, isn’t a big a deal in the long run.
Event Two (what it is about): I grew up in Colorado. There was this huge hill in my neighborhood that was turned into a park. It’s called Toboggan Hill. When I was a kid, we would sled (or snow tube!) down this hill in the winter. Older kids used to build small jumps out of snow so they could practice snowboard tricks. We would snow tube over these jumps once the bigger kids had vacated them. The first time I got the courage to go over one my tube flipped mid-air and threw me down the hill.
So what? I learned you don’t always succeed at what you try.
Event Three (what it is about): In the summer, my siblings and I would play out in our yard. We had an acre of land on a wooded hill. I remember vividly playing in the dirt with my sister, when I noticed ants crawling up and down my legs. I remember hundreds of ants—though realistically it was probably closer to twenty. My sister refused to help me so I frantically ran up the hill to my dad, who was planting trees. By the time I reached my father—absolutely hysterical—I realized I had already knocked all the ants off myself just by running.
So what? I learned that they are other solutions to how one can achieve a goal—and that I don’t always need others help to achieve it. Not to mention I learned how to get ants off my legs. That’s an important life lesson right there.
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