Some advice (because I care):

And like I said in class, as in life, a positive "first impression" always earns extra points. When I look at some papers (which might be wrinkled or smeared with ink) and there is: no name, no title, no date (or some of these are penciled in afterwards) - it is NOT a good "first impression." One of you even tried to hand in an essay written in pencil. This is 10% of your grade. Not a "wake up in the morning and type out some random crap" kind of essay where you forget your name and student info. IF and WHEN you go to university, AVOID at all costs these "little" over-sites, because they may earn you a D or an F or (if you are lucky) a C. 5 minutes late to your professors office to hand in a term paper? "Sorry. It's past the deadline. No grade." Seriously. It happens. So, my advice: BE METICULOUS in all aspects of life. Take pride in your work. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Serve your essays to your teachers on a shining silver platter that says "This is QUALITY work, teacher. I deserve an A++. And it's handed in a FULL DAY early! I'm awesome!" That's my rant for today. Also title your work creatively. "Review: Earthlings" is boring.

Academic Film Review: Earthlings

Two Part Assignment:

Part 1: FIRST DRAFT HARD COPY (on paper)

DUE DATE:  ASAP!  First 8 students who hand this assignment in on paper get bonus points.  Last eight students get minus points.  From a descending scale of +.08 to -.08

Part 2: Second Draft: Blog version enriched with grammatical clean up and video and images etc.

DUE DATE: When you get it back on paper.

Hello Students,

We didn't finish watching Earthlings, and I think you should watch the ENTIRE thing again before you write.  Here is the best video quality link I can find - straight from the earthlings.com website:

http://earthlings.com/?page_id=32

I also encourage you to READ and investigate the film a little.  What do other people say?
Google it! But IMDB is a good place to visit:

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0358456/



Here are the requirements for your assignment:

Official Prompt: After watching the film "Earthlings," share your opinions while keeping in mind a few key questions. How effective was it? Did it change any of your views/habits? How valid is the message? Do you think the logical, emotional, and ethical appeals of the film are balanced or particularly one sided?

Word Count: 800 - 1000. No more and no less. Points will be deducted for shorter and longer.

Tone: Pretend you are writing for an ivy league student newspaper. You can be a bit more academic and informally engaging with your style of writing. A bit of cracked.com with a bit of Wiki mixed in.

After hunting around various Ivy League newspapers, Berkley's was the best for film reviews:

http://www.dailycal.org/section/arts/film-and-television/


Structure: 

Intro: Paragraph one should have a hook! You can summarize the film and tell us the important details, BUT don't bore us from the start.  Get us interested in the issue and confront us with the essence of the film.

Body Paragraphs: You can get a bit TOEFL mode here, and analyze and evaluate up to three points/segments of the film that interest you.

SUPPORT your opinion/credibility with: Quotes from the film, quotes from other critics, quotes from the filmmakers (Joaquin Phoenix, Shaun Monson).  HYPERLINK with embedded links to your sources.

Conclusion: Bookend what you started with by delivering what your "hook" started.  Give us your final verdict.

INCLUDE: Relevant video, pictures, links etc.

Focus on CONCISION and lean sentences. Don't be repetitive or make the same point twice.  Keep your reader engaged and moving forward through your review.

REVISE and don't upload a post full of missing articles, ugly paragraphs, and misspelled words.

Assignment #1 Scores and Feedback

Here are your scores for assignment number one.  I was very satisfied with these essays, and in essence they all deserve an A for content.  But grammar and attention to detail does play a part, so I want you guys to strive for immaculate essays.  If I sense that you wrote your essay quickly, did not reread it, did not revise it, and did not attempt to organize it to its best potential to the best of your ability, I will have to dock points.

Some of you have lived abroad and have it easier, but you still tend to make glaring errors that signal "did not reread" before posting.  If and when you enter university, DON'T YOU DARE hand in an essay with a missing "the" or a lower case proper noun or a mixed verb in the first sentence. 

Each essay accounts for 10% of your grade.  So take them all seriously and SPELL CHECK.

	Optimus Prime		92.30
	Bumblebee		92.00
	Ratchet		91.50
	Ironhide		91.70
	Mudflap		91.10
	Jolt		90.50
	Inferno		91.80
	Sentinal		90.90
	Kickback		92.60
	Wheeljak		91.20
	Megatron		91.10
	Demolisher		91.00
	Star Scream		90.00
	Ravage		89.40
	Devastator		89.30
	Rampage		92.70
	Scrapper		89.40
	Laserbeak		90.80
Class Summary
Average		91.08
Highest Score		92.70
Lowest Score		89.30

Ray Bradbury and "the collective unconscious"

I hope you enjoyed the 25 minute documentary we watched about Ray Bradbury.  I found it provides a lot of valuable context for The Martian Chronicles, and it's also very interesting to note the world's population at the time it was made (it has since DOUBLED) and the "technology" Bradbury found so intriguing and potentially "horrifying."  Computers have definitely changed since then, as has the phone (both combing to become one entity).

We saw the masks in Bradbury's office, which might give you a sense of the "collective unconscious" he hints at throughout the many stories.  Carl Jungs ideas in relation to Bradbury may be coincidental or explicit - I'm not sure.  But we can see a connection.  Keep this in mind as you read.

For many reasons, I feel the film Apocalypto also bares some resemblance to what's happening on Mars.  Here is the ENTIRE MOVIE on YouTube.  Watch it if you are bored. It's pretty amazing actually:

There are some good quotes where I found the film here at www.brainpickings.org - which is a very cool site in istelf:

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/08/22/ray-bradbury-story-of-a-writer-1963/

And here is the original film if you feel like watching it again, which you probably don't:

"You" vs. "He/She" vs. Past vs. Present

The writing assignment I've given you can be a bit challenging since you aren't allowed to use the plain and simple "I".  However, I think the process of writing will become more interesting, and, IF you treat it seriously, you will likely produce something you are proud of.

The YOU narrative can achieve a lot of things, and really grab your reader and put them in YOUR shoes.  You might have a number of reasons for doing this.  You may want to educate them, or simply make them feel what you felt as strongly as possible.

As writers, you have to make decisions to best suit what you are writing and WHAT you are writing it for.  Think about it before you write.  Third or Second person -- both have clear advantages in particular instances.

As I mentioned in class, I found this "Letter to an Expectant Father" in Esquire Magazine to be really well written.  You may want to consider this kind of approach - writing a letter to a "soon-to-be" KMLAian. 

Here it is:

http://www.esquire.com/fatherhood-0612/

And here is where the "You" really works effectively in a personal anecdote:

You will occasionally fail at something very simple — probably because the honking has given you the yips. Awake at 3:00 A.M. with nothing else to do but watch the Concerned Mother/Crying Baby Subunit in full symbiosis, you will, say, decide to sterilize a new pacifier and you will, say, put the pacifier in a saucepan with some water and you will turn the burner up to high and you will come back to the sofa and you will sit down next to the mother and the baby, who is now feeding and thus quiet, and you will fall asleep. And after the water has all turned to steam, the pacifier will begin to melt and then burn in the saucepan. You will wake to the sounds of the mother freaking out. This is bumbling. Technically, it's a kitchen fire. But you will extinguish the flames. The important part is: Somehow, against incredible odds, and only because you were trying to help, you will set a pacifier on fire. Metaphorically, at least. But you will handle the crisis. Because there's too much at stake. 

What's at stake is best contemplated when you are alone with the baby. And being alone with the baby is best done a few days in and very late at night — because you want to allow the baby's mother to get some sleep. And being alone with the baby late at night — watching it fall asleep in your arms and then wake up over the course of two or three hours — is as unfamiliar as it gets. Heat will radiate from its tiny body into your stomach. There will be squirming. There will be shitting, the sluicing sound of which is louder than you'd think. Its eyes might open a little, even while it's sleeping. And at some point there will be staring. Having a staring contest with a newborn is one of the weirdest things you will ever do. And it is highly recommended. Because the baby is a stranger, and you need to get to know it. It is a tiny stranger that has come into your home, demanding to be fed, demanding to be cleaned, and then staring at you for long periods of time without smiling — or blinking. You might not feel love for this stranger at first. You might feel mostly gravity. But the gravity begins to get replaced by love over the next few days or weeks. And the staring seems to accelerate things. The baby becomes more familiar. 

Very early fatherhood is a kind of greatness, but it isn't heroism. You don't have to learn as much as you think. You don't have to do as much as you think. It's more amusing than you think it will be. It's more absurd. And it can all be reckoned with, if only task by task and despite your inexperience. Very early fatherhood is aided by skills, which you will master, and instinct, which you come equipped with, and love, which you will be engulfed by. The newborn baby requires just a little of all of that, and you will provide.

Read more: http://www.esquire.com/fatherhood-0612/#ixzz25Nmx5DyI

 

Reflective & Narrative Writing: Two Great Examples

You may know of Amy Tan. Her essay, Fish Cheeks, is a wonderful, top-notch example of a well written reflective essay.  It's 503 words, and it says a lot.  It's fun, it's fast, it's simple, and yet very dynamic.  It's a prime example of an excellent writer doing more with less.  This essay gets used over and over again to prepare students for writing College Essays. 

Below is a link. 

Between now and when you write your essay, do a lot of thinking and writing inside your brain.  How can you relate to Tan's experience?  Remember, your task is not to embrace the same kind of feeling and delivery. 

Fish Cheeks

By Amy Tan

Comparing the above essay to this next essay is a valuable endeavor, so look for patterns and similarities. Covering the 5 W's in a stylistic way that addresses an "issue" or a "problem" and comes to a concluded "resolution" is something both writers achieve - and these go beyond similar themes of culture. 

The following essay by Maya Angelou is an excerpt from her book "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," which is an autobiography about Angelou's experiences growing up as a black American during racist times.   She also wrote a poem of the same name, which I've included after the essay.  It doesn't take a genius to figure out what the caged bird represents, and what the singing alludes to - slave songs sung by those African Americans forced to work as captives before the American Civil War.  

You will notice a lot of imagery (descriptive detail) that makes this writing engaging to read.  Seek to include a bit of that.  She also knows how to begin and conclude her essay with a strong hook and strong last line.  Amy Tan also achieves this in "Fish Cheeks."

 

“Champion of the World,” 

by Maya Angelou

(from) I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

             “Champion of the World” is the nineteenth chapter in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings; the title is a phrase taken from the chapter.  Remembering her own childhood, the writer tells us how she and her older brother, Bailey, grew up in a town in Arkansas.  The center of their lives was Grandmother and Uncle Willie’s store, a gathering place for the black community.  On the night when this story takes place, Joe Louis, the “Brown Bomber” and the hero of his people, defends his heavyweight boxing title against a white contender.  Angelou’s telling of the event both entertains us and explains what it was like to be African American in a certain time and place.

             The last inch of space was filled, yet people continued to wedge themselves along the walls of the Store.  Uncle Willie had turned the radio up to its last notch so that youngsters on the porch wouldn’t miss a word.  Women sat on kitchen chairs, dining-room chairs, stools, and upturned wooden boxes.  Small children and babies perched on every lap available and men leaned on the shelves or on each other. 

            

             The apprehensive mood was shot through with shafts of gaiety, as a black sky is streaked with lightning.

            

             “I ain’t worried ‘bout this fight.  Joe’s gonna whip that cracker like it’s open season.”

            

             “He gone whip him till that white boy call him Momma.”

            

             At last the talking finished and the string-along songs about razor blades were over and the fight began.

            

             “A quick jab to the head.” In the Store the crowd grunted.  “A left to the head and a right and another left.”  One of the listeners cackled like a hen and was quieted.

            

             “They’re in a clinch, Louis is trying to fight his way out.”

            

             Some bitter comedian on the porch said, “That white man don’t mind hugging that n_____ now, I betcha.”

            

             “The referee is moving in to break them up, but Louis finally pushed the contender away and it’s an uppercut to the chin.  The contender is hanging on, now he’s backing away.  Louis catches him with a short left to the jaw.”

            

             A tide of murmuring assent poured out the door and into the yard.

             “Another left and another left.  Louis is saving that mighty right . . .”  The mutter in the store had grown into a baby roar and it was pierced by the clang of a bell and the announcer’s “That’s the bell for round three, ladies and gentlemen.”

            

               As I pushed my way into the Store I wondered if the announcer gave any thought to the fact that he was addressing as “ladies and gentlemen” all the Negroes around the world who sat sweating and praying, glued to their “Master’s voice.”¹

             There were only a few calls for RC Colas, Dr Peppers, and Hires root beer.  The real festivities would begin after the fight.  Then even the old Christian ladies who taught their children and tried themselves to practice turning the other cheek would buy soft drinks, and if the Brown Bomber’s victory was a particularly bloody one they would order peanut patties and Baby Ruths also.

            

             Bailey and I laid the coins on top of the cash register.  Uncle Willie didn’t allow us to ring up sales during a fight.  It was too noisy and might shake up the atmosphere.  When the gong rang for the next round we pushed through the near-sacred quiet to the herd of children outside.

             “He’s got Louis against the ropes and now it’s a left to the body and a right to the ribs.  Another right to the body, it looks like it was low . . .   Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the referee is signaling but the contender keeps raining the blows on Louis.  It’s another to the body, and it looks like Louis is going down.”

            

             My race groaned.  It was our people falling.  It was another lynching, yet another Black man hanging on a tree.  One more woman ambushed and raped.  A Black boy whipped and maimed.  It was hounds on the trail of a man running through slimy swamps.  It was a white woman slapping her maid for being forgetful.

            

             The men in the Store stood away form the walls and at attention.  Women greedily clutched the babes on their laps while on the porch the shufflings and smiles, flirtings and pinchings of a few minutes before were gone.  This might be the end of the world.  If Joe lost we were back in slavery and beyond help.  It would all be true; the accusations that we were lower types of human beings.  Only a little higher than apes.  True that we were stupid and ugly and lazy and dirty and unlucky and worst of all, that God himself hated us and ordained us to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, forever and ever, world without end.

            

             We didn’t breathe.  We didn’t hope.  We waited.

            

             “He’s off the ropes, ladies and gentlemen.  He’s moving towards the corner of the ring.”  There was no time to be relieved.  The worst might still happen.

            

             “And now it looks like Joe is mad.  He’s caught Carnera with a left hook to the head and a right to the head.  It’s a left jab to the body and another left to the head.  There’s a left cross and a right to the head.  The contender’s right eye is bleeding and he can’t seem to keep his block up.  Louis is penetrating every block.  The referee is moving in, but Louis sends a left to the body and it’s an uppercut to the chin and the contender is dropping.  He’s on the canvas, ladies and gentlemen.”

            

             Babies slid to the floor as women stood up and men leaned toward the radio.

            

             ¹”His master’s voice,” accompanied by a picture of a little dog listening to a phonograph, was a familiar advertising slogan.  (The picture still appears on some RCA recordings.)

            “Here’s the referee.  He’s counting.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .  Is the contender trying to get up again?”

            

             All the men in the store shouted, “NO.”

            

             “—eight, nine, ten.”  There were a few sounds from the audience, but they seemed to be holding themselves in against tremendous pressure.

             “The fight is all over, ladies and gentlemen.  Let’s get the microphone over to the referee . . .  Here he is.  He’s got the Brown Bomber’s hand, he’s holding it up . . . Here he is . . .”

            

             Then the voice, husky and familiar, came to wash over uss—“The winnah, and still heavyweight champeen of the world . . . Joe Louis.”

            

             Champion of the world.  A Black boy.  Some Black mother’s son.  He was the strongest man in the world  People drank Coca-Colas like ambrosia and ate candy bars like Christmas.  Some of the men went behind the Store and poured white lightning in their soft-drink bottles, and a few of the bigger boys followed them.  Those who were not chased away came back blowing their breath in front of of themselves like proud smokers.

            

             It would take an hour or more before the people would leave the Store and head for home.  Those who lived too far had made arrangements to stay in town.  It wouldn’t be fit for a Black man and his family to be caught on a lonely country road on a night when Joe Louis had proved that we were the strongest people in the world.

 

Kennedy, X.L. and Dorothy M. Kennedy.  The Bedford Reader, Tenth Edition.  Boston:        Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2003. 93-97. 

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Indeed, so much of American music - be it pop, blues, or rock - owes a huge debt to what Black Americans created to escape some of their suffering. Here is an example of a song she might be alluding to: