I don’t have a quote today.
My circle of college friends suffered a horrible loss today, on Christmas Eve, and to write about anything else seems small and inappropriate.
In the early hours of the morning of December 24, my dear friend Stephen Hentchel was in a single-car accident, and he passed away.
I’m having a difficult time really understanding that he is gone from this world. All I can think about is what he was like when he was here.
Stephen liked bookstores. And milk. And toast topped with his mother’s jam. He drove a series of poorly maintained red minivans. He was man enough to admit he liked musicals.
He liked to write. Though he ended up with a double major in math and English, and also spent his last few years in the Navy, what he really wanted was to write for TV. I always wanted him to make it, though I was never completely convinced he’d be able to schmooze well enough to break into the industry.
You see, Stephen was kind of a jackass. He knew it, and strove to maintain that reputation. He did things the way he felt like doing them, and he didn’t really give a shit if it bothered anyone else.
This doesn’t sound like much of a tribute, does it? Yet it is the truth, and I don’t think he would want me to pretend that it wasn’t. Stephen knew who he was, and he didn’t apologize for it. While this caused us to get in our fair share of fights, there was always something admirable about that, too.
And more importantly, when it came right down to it, Stephen was a fiercely loyal friend. He would make me hopping mad one day, then not hesitate to stand up for me the next.
I saw him nearly every single day during my last year in college. He was my neighbor and practically my brother. In the years since then, the thing I appreciated the most about him was the ease with which we always picked up our relationship. I didn’t see or speak to him all that often in the last 5 and a half years, but each time I did, there was not a speck of awkwardness. There was never any undertone of guilt about the amount of time that had passed between phone calls. There were no long silences when either of us did not know what to say. Instead, we just traded banter much like we always had.
The last time I spoke with him was shortly before the date of the Chicago Marathon. He had corrected my grammar on a facebook post, and I made a snide remark back. Instead of posting again, he called me. We ended up talking for quite some time about my upcoming marathon and his impending move to Japan. It was an effortless conversation, like it always has been. I hung up the phone thinking our next conversation would be similar.
But he’s gone now. I won’t talk to him again. Ever. And I find that I cannot help but wonder where he is now.
Oddly enough, the thought makes me smile just a little bit. Because, you see, Stephen did not believe in God, or heaven, or any kind of afterlife. It was a rather sore spot in his relationship with me and the rest of the people in our circle of friends. The discussions (and fights) we had about this were never very productive, though, because really – who can know for sure?
Now, Stephen is the first to know. And I do believe he is still out there, somewhere, in some form. Because I can still feel him. It makes me laugh to think of him wherever he is now, pissed off because the rest of us were right, but also drumming his fingers with an evil laugh because he knows he’ll be able to point and laugh as he watches the rest of us do stupid things for the rest of our lives.
Wherever you are, Stephen, know that I will miss you. You were sometimes lazy, often thoughtless, and always a pain in the ass – but also always a good friend, in the end. You did not deserve to die that night. And I promise you, every time I feel you laughing at me for the rest of my life, I will take a moment to think of you -- and tell you to shut up.
I love you, jackass. Always.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Almost Truth
“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.”
-from Emma by Jane Austen
A few weeks ago, a woman I did not know walked into my office at work. “Are you Katie?” she asked. I debated saying, “That depends on what you want,” and instead admitted that I was, indeed, Katie. She told me her name and said that she had just starting working there a few days ago. Someone told her to come and introduce herself to me because she was a recent graduate of the Northwestern Learning Sciences master’s program – the same program from which I received my M.A. from in 2007.
We chatted for a bit about the people and the program, exchanging war stories and name dropping. When she left, she said something to the effect of “Well, it’s nice to know that there’s someone around here that knows what learning sciences is!” I agreed, and admitted that I often tell people that my master’s is in curriculum design, even though that’s not exactly true.
That small lie is just easier than explaining that design is only one of the three pillars of learning sciences, the others being cognitive science and social influences on learning. And actually, the design pillar is instructional design, which is broader than curriculum design, because it includes… well, I’ll stop there, because I think I’ve made my point. Learning sciences is a broad and complicated field, and since I am using my degree to work in the development of a math curriculum, it’s easier to just tell people that my entire program was about the narrow focus where I ended up career-wise. It’s not outright deception – the fields are so closely related that most people walk away with the right idea. But it’s not the truth.
This isn’t the only regular lie I tell, either. Just this morning, I was sitting next to my friend Meg at a volunteer training, and someone asked how we know each other. I said that we went to college together. Technically, this is not a lie; Meg and I did go to the same university for undergrad, and we each knew who the other was at the time. But we didn’t become friends until much later. I tell people that we went to college together because the truth is much too complicated and personal to tell to people that we don’t know; it involves liking the same guy, going through a period of disliking each other, and then finding out that the guy was not worth it. This all happened in Chicago, nearly a year after I graduated. So, “we went to college together” is not really a truthful answer to how we know each other.
The longer I think about this, the more of these habitual lies come to mind. Yes, I loved my study abroad program! (Actually, while I did love parts of it, my semester abroad was one of the darkest times in my life when it came to social anxiety and depression.) Yes, I understand that some people just are not good at math. (While I definitely believe that some people have a stronger natural affinity for math than others, I do not believe that there are any people who are inherently incapable of learning calculus. It’s all about your teacher and your attitude.) The list goes on and on.
These lies are, for the most part, harmless. Telling the whole truth would lead to many bad things; I’d bore the listener to death, say socially inappropriate things, or betray the trust of a friend. Yet sometimes I wonder if, each time I tell one of these lies, I slide further down a slippery slope. When do I cross the line from innocent glossing-over of the truth into outright deception? Am I slowly building up my tolerance for deceit, until one day I will feel justified in saying just about anything I like?
That thought truly frightens me, because I do not want to be a liar. Without a doubt, some of the most painful episodes in my life have been a result of finding out that someone I trusted lied to me. I don’t want to inflict that feeling on another person.
The funny thing that occurred to my while I was writing this, though, is that while there are clearly some situations in which I am reluctant to tell the truth, I’m perfectly willing to post the truth on the internet, knowing full well that at least a handful of people will read it. Maybe more people will read it than I’ll ever know. The people that think I have an M.A. in curriculum design could find out it’s really in learning sciences. People who think Meg and I know each other from college will find out we barely spoke there. But I don’t care.
It’s not that I’m unwilling to tell the truth. I just think the truth is, on some occasions, inappropriate. When I start to be afraid of what happens when the truth comes out, that’s when I’ll know I crossed a line. But until then, I’ll continue to spare people a speech on the three pillars of learning sciences. I think future casual inquirers into my education will be grateful.
-from Emma by Jane Austen
A few weeks ago, a woman I did not know walked into my office at work. “Are you Katie?” she asked. I debated saying, “That depends on what you want,” and instead admitted that I was, indeed, Katie. She told me her name and said that she had just starting working there a few days ago. Someone told her to come and introduce herself to me because she was a recent graduate of the Northwestern Learning Sciences master’s program – the same program from which I received my M.A. from in 2007.
We chatted for a bit about the people and the program, exchanging war stories and name dropping. When she left, she said something to the effect of “Well, it’s nice to know that there’s someone around here that knows what learning sciences is!” I agreed, and admitted that I often tell people that my master’s is in curriculum design, even though that’s not exactly true.
That small lie is just easier than explaining that design is only one of the three pillars of learning sciences, the others being cognitive science and social influences on learning. And actually, the design pillar is instructional design, which is broader than curriculum design, because it includes… well, I’ll stop there, because I think I’ve made my point. Learning sciences is a broad and complicated field, and since I am using my degree to work in the development of a math curriculum, it’s easier to just tell people that my entire program was about the narrow focus where I ended up career-wise. It’s not outright deception – the fields are so closely related that most people walk away with the right idea. But it’s not the truth.
This isn’t the only regular lie I tell, either. Just this morning, I was sitting next to my friend Meg at a volunteer training, and someone asked how we know each other. I said that we went to college together. Technically, this is not a lie; Meg and I did go to the same university for undergrad, and we each knew who the other was at the time. But we didn’t become friends until much later. I tell people that we went to college together because the truth is much too complicated and personal to tell to people that we don’t know; it involves liking the same guy, going through a period of disliking each other, and then finding out that the guy was not worth it. This all happened in Chicago, nearly a year after I graduated. So, “we went to college together” is not really a truthful answer to how we know each other.
The longer I think about this, the more of these habitual lies come to mind. Yes, I loved my study abroad program! (Actually, while I did love parts of it, my semester abroad was one of the darkest times in my life when it came to social anxiety and depression.) Yes, I understand that some people just are not good at math. (While I definitely believe that some people have a stronger natural affinity for math than others, I do not believe that there are any people who are inherently incapable of learning calculus. It’s all about your teacher and your attitude.) The list goes on and on.
These lies are, for the most part, harmless. Telling the whole truth would lead to many bad things; I’d bore the listener to death, say socially inappropriate things, or betray the trust of a friend. Yet sometimes I wonder if, each time I tell one of these lies, I slide further down a slippery slope. When do I cross the line from innocent glossing-over of the truth into outright deception? Am I slowly building up my tolerance for deceit, until one day I will feel justified in saying just about anything I like?
That thought truly frightens me, because I do not want to be a liar. Without a doubt, some of the most painful episodes in my life have been a result of finding out that someone I trusted lied to me. I don’t want to inflict that feeling on another person.
The funny thing that occurred to my while I was writing this, though, is that while there are clearly some situations in which I am reluctant to tell the truth, I’m perfectly willing to post the truth on the internet, knowing full well that at least a handful of people will read it. Maybe more people will read it than I’ll ever know. The people that think I have an M.A. in curriculum design could find out it’s really in learning sciences. People who think Meg and I know each other from college will find out we barely spoke there. But I don’t care.
It’s not that I’m unwilling to tell the truth. I just think the truth is, on some occasions, inappropriate. When I start to be afraid of what happens when the truth comes out, that’s when I’ll know I crossed a line. But until then, I’ll continue to spare people a speech on the three pillars of learning sciences. I think future casual inquirers into my education will be grateful.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Pronownseeashun
"Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name properly; he kept calling her 'Hermy-own.'
'Her-my-oh-nee,' she said slowly and clearly.
'Herm-own-ninny.'
'Close enough,' she said, catching Harry's eye and grinning."
-from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling
I consider myself to be pretty good with words. I can write reasonably well. I'm an excellent editor. (Of other people's work, at least -- not so much with this blog.) I have a respectable vocabulary. However, there is one aspect of language with which I am miserable: pronunciation.
Sometimes, the root of the problem is simply that I've never heard a word before. If that's the case, my brain simply tries to pronounce every letter and take a guess at the stress syllables. These guesses are usually based on a word I know. It seems like a reasonable plan, right?
But it doesn't always work. I clearly remember reading the passage above, because up until that point, I had pronounced Hermione's name as Her-mee-OH-nee. Why? Because that's the only way I could figure out to pronounce all the vowels, and because her name looked vaguely like minestrone.
Other times, words are very long and my brain just gets overwhelmed. For instance, there is an outdoor market in Daley Plaza in Chicago every year at Christmastime. The name of this market is as follows: Christkindlmarket. It is pronounced just like it looks: krist-kin-dle-mar-ket. However, for some reason, my brain just cannot translate this word into sounds. I usually give up and say the some other words I know that are close: Kris Kringle Market. I'm sure the Germans are thrilled with the way I slaughter their language.
So, I can't pronounce unfamiliar words, and I can't pronounce long words. That doesn't seem so bad. But alas, there are occasions when words both short and familiar still come out wrong. Early in my editing career, I learned that the word "leading" is used to refer to the space between lines of text. Not knowing any better, I read this word as leed-ing. I figured it referred to one line leading to the next. Almost a year later, I found out that the word was led-ing, referring to lead parts of old printing presses. I know now that the word is led-ing, but if I am not concentrating, I still say leed-ing. I hate it, because it makes me seem like I don't know what I'm talking about. Curse you, English language! You AND your heteronyms.
You would think that hearing words before seeing them written would solve a lot of my problems, but that's not always true, either. Just as I can't always translate words into the correct sounds, I don't always assign the right letters to sounds that I hear. I can still remember an episode from 15+ years ago when I was playing Catchphrase, a game that requires you to describe words or phrases for your teammates to guess. My turn came, and this is the word I saw: quiche. Having never seen the word before, I tried to think of a word that sounded like those letters might be pronounced, and I came up with the word cliche. I spent my allotted 30 seconds trying to get my team to say cliche, and I failed. Somehow, it came out that the word was actually quiche. My teammates were annoyed, the opposing team found it hysterical, and I was monumentally embarrassed.
So, to everyone out there that has suffered from my terrible pronunciation -- people with unusual names, audiences at my presentations, and my teammates during Catchphrase -- my sincerest apologies. Next time I simply smile and nod, you'll know why.
'Her-my-oh-nee,' she said slowly and clearly.
'Herm-own-ninny.'
'Close enough,' she said, catching Harry's eye and grinning."
-from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling
I consider myself to be pretty good with words. I can write reasonably well. I'm an excellent editor. (Of other people's work, at least -- not so much with this blog.) I have a respectable vocabulary. However, there is one aspect of language with which I am miserable: pronunciation.
Sometimes, the root of the problem is simply that I've never heard a word before. If that's the case, my brain simply tries to pronounce every letter and take a guess at the stress syllables. These guesses are usually based on a word I know. It seems like a reasonable plan, right?
But it doesn't always work. I clearly remember reading the passage above, because up until that point, I had pronounced Hermione's name as Her-mee-OH-nee. Why? Because that's the only way I could figure out to pronounce all the vowels, and because her name looked vaguely like minestrone.
Other times, words are very long and my brain just gets overwhelmed. For instance, there is an outdoor market in Daley Plaza in Chicago every year at Christmastime. The name of this market is as follows: Christkindlmarket. It is pronounced just like it looks: krist-kin-dle-mar-ket. However, for some reason, my brain just cannot translate this word into sounds. I usually give up and say the some other words I know that are close: Kris Kringle Market. I'm sure the Germans are thrilled with the way I slaughter their language.
So, I can't pronounce unfamiliar words, and I can't pronounce long words. That doesn't seem so bad. But alas, there are occasions when words both short and familiar still come out wrong. Early in my editing career, I learned that the word "leading" is used to refer to the space between lines of text. Not knowing any better, I read this word as leed-ing. I figured it referred to one line leading to the next. Almost a year later, I found out that the word was led-ing, referring to lead parts of old printing presses. I know now that the word is led-ing, but if I am not concentrating, I still say leed-ing. I hate it, because it makes me seem like I don't know what I'm talking about. Curse you, English language! You AND your heteronyms.
You would think that hearing words before seeing them written would solve a lot of my problems, but that's not always true, either. Just as I can't always translate words into the correct sounds, I don't always assign the right letters to sounds that I hear. I can still remember an episode from 15+ years ago when I was playing Catchphrase, a game that requires you to describe words or phrases for your teammates to guess. My turn came, and this is the word I saw: quiche. Having never seen the word before, I tried to think of a word that sounded like those letters might be pronounced, and I came up with the word cliche. I spent my allotted 30 seconds trying to get my team to say cliche, and I failed. Somehow, it came out that the word was actually quiche. My teammates were annoyed, the opposing team found it hysterical, and I was monumentally embarrassed.
So, to everyone out there that has suffered from my terrible pronunciation -- people with unusual names, audiences at my presentations, and my teammates during Catchphrase -- my sincerest apologies. Next time I simply smile and nod, you'll know why.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Echoes
"Egypt loved the lotus because it never dies. It is the same for people who are loved. Thus can something as insignificant as a name -- two syllables, one high, one sweet -- summon up the innumerable smiles and tears, signs and dreams of a human life. ... My heart brims with thanks for the kindness you have shown me by sitting on the bank of this river, by visiting the echoes of my name."
- from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
I've always thought that names had an interesting, powerful quality. They are chosen for us either before we are born or very early in life, yet they become the most important words we will ever use. Names sum up an entire identity in a way that no other phrase can. When I think of a person's name, a flood of images, characteristics, and episodes come to mind immediately.
Just today, I heard the name of someone I have not spoken to or heard from in years. I won't actually say her name here, but these are the sorts of things that immediately came to mind: She loved to talk, that one. Still, she listened too. I don't think she had any idea what she wanted to do with her life, but at least she owned that. She didn't fake it the way I did. She said and did some weird things, but she was a good friend. She took good care of my on my birthday that year. She had read a ridiculous number of books.
At times when I have a flood of thoughts of a person, I sometimes wonder the kinds of things that come to mind when people hear my name, whether they have talked to me recently or not. Here's a few of the things I'm betting come to mind:
I never understood how she finished her work that fast. Though I am not a mathematician by trade, I still think in mostly mathematical terms. I'm always quantifying the time and effort involved in tasks and looking for the most efficient way to get things done. Thus, I have found that I can accomplish a 10-week quarter's worth of work in 8 weeks. Lest this sound like bragging, let me assure you that this makes me miserable for 8 weeks, and usually is not worth the 2 extra weeks of freedom. Yet, I can't help it. I'm always afraid of running out of time, and so I try to do things as fast as I possibly can.
Man, that one used to cry a lot. I have virtually no control over my tear ducts. I have cried in front of every boss I have ever had, my advisors in both undergrad and graduate school, and probably every friend I've ever had. Genetics are partially to blame -- my mother is the same way. Still, I am a crier all on my own.
She wasn't fast, but she never quit. Running has become a part of my identity in recent years, and I don't see it going away for some time. Most days, I think "runner" is a generous term, as I don't run fast and usually don't run far. However, motivation is definitely not my problem. I get out there at least four times a week. And I have to be very, very injured or discouraged to quit a training program. I think people remember that about me.
Wow. Paranoid much? She can worry about anything! I am quite the anticipator. I will sit and analyze something that is coming until I have found every possible thing that could go wrong. I have to give a presentation? I have definitely misinterpreted the assignment, and I will fail. I'm going to this party later? No one I know will show up, and I stand awkwardly in a corner for a while, then leave. I have the worst headache of my life? This definitely means it's a brain tumor. Know me long enough, and I'm certain you will remember me for my inane worries.
She's nothing if not punctual. I hate being late. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Thus, I am always on time or early, to the point that people call me, worried, if I am not there 3 minutes after something is supposed to start.
That girl was unhealthily obsessed with showtunes. What can I say? I can sing every word of several Broadway scores. I've seen 66 different musicals. I just love musical theater. I've yet to meet anyone else with quite the same appreciation for musicals. It's something uniquely me.
Obviously, I'm prouder of some of these things than others. But overall, I'm comfortable with what I imagine are the "echoes of my name." Part of me thinks I should aspire to change my echoes to things like She really gave of herself, but another part of me is content to be thought of as a real, multidimensional person. If these are the things that people remember when they hear my name, then I can at least be content that they really knew me. That's enough for now.
- from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
I've always thought that names had an interesting, powerful quality. They are chosen for us either before we are born or very early in life, yet they become the most important words we will ever use. Names sum up an entire identity in a way that no other phrase can. When I think of a person's name, a flood of images, characteristics, and episodes come to mind immediately.
Just today, I heard the name of someone I have not spoken to or heard from in years. I won't actually say her name here, but these are the sorts of things that immediately came to mind: She loved to talk, that one. Still, she listened too. I don't think she had any idea what she wanted to do with her life, but at least she owned that. She didn't fake it the way I did. She said and did some weird things, but she was a good friend. She took good care of my on my birthday that year. She had read a ridiculous number of books.
At times when I have a flood of thoughts of a person, I sometimes wonder the kinds of things that come to mind when people hear my name, whether they have talked to me recently or not. Here's a few of the things I'm betting come to mind:
I never understood how she finished her work that fast. Though I am not a mathematician by trade, I still think in mostly mathematical terms. I'm always quantifying the time and effort involved in tasks and looking for the most efficient way to get things done. Thus, I have found that I can accomplish a 10-week quarter's worth of work in 8 weeks. Lest this sound like bragging, let me assure you that this makes me miserable for 8 weeks, and usually is not worth the 2 extra weeks of freedom. Yet, I can't help it. I'm always afraid of running out of time, and so I try to do things as fast as I possibly can.
Man, that one used to cry a lot. I have virtually no control over my tear ducts. I have cried in front of every boss I have ever had, my advisors in both undergrad and graduate school, and probably every friend I've ever had. Genetics are partially to blame -- my mother is the same way. Still, I am a crier all on my own.
She wasn't fast, but she never quit. Running has become a part of my identity in recent years, and I don't see it going away for some time. Most days, I think "runner" is a generous term, as I don't run fast and usually don't run far. However, motivation is definitely not my problem. I get out there at least four times a week. And I have to be very, very injured or discouraged to quit a training program. I think people remember that about me.
Wow. Paranoid much? She can worry about anything! I am quite the anticipator. I will sit and analyze something that is coming until I have found every possible thing that could go wrong. I have to give a presentation? I have definitely misinterpreted the assignment, and I will fail. I'm going to this party later? No one I know will show up, and I stand awkwardly in a corner for a while, then leave. I have the worst headache of my life? This definitely means it's a brain tumor. Know me long enough, and I'm certain you will remember me for my inane worries.
She's nothing if not punctual. I hate being late. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Thus, I am always on time or early, to the point that people call me, worried, if I am not there 3 minutes after something is supposed to start.
That girl was unhealthily obsessed with showtunes. What can I say? I can sing every word of several Broadway scores. I've seen 66 different musicals. I just love musical theater. I've yet to meet anyone else with quite the same appreciation for musicals. It's something uniquely me.
Obviously, I'm prouder of some of these things than others. But overall, I'm comfortable with what I imagine are the "echoes of my name." Part of me thinks I should aspire to change my echoes to things like She really gave of herself, but another part of me is content to be thought of as a real, multidimensional person. If these are the things that people remember when they hear my name, then I can at least be content that they really knew me. That's enough for now.
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