Growing my paper: Intro to a thesis

Today we were given an outline of expectations for our upcoming thesis driven paper. When told that it would involve the role our educators should play and using two teachers as examples, I immediately came up with an idea. My teachers will embody two important roles educators play: the disciplined, organizational teacher, and the compassionate, inspirational teacher. Both will be fairly simple to compare and contrast, but my thesis may pose a bit of a challenge. Where do I exactly  stand with the two? I believe both types of teachers are important, one teaches self sufficiency while the other teaches empathy and inner growth. Sir Ken Robinson made some great points about creativity and our the deficiencies of the public education system. I agree that public education has negatively effected creativity, but on the other hand I find that people are becoming more or less undisciplined. Not in a don't do this, do do that kind of thing, but more in an organizational and self disciplined way.  I look forward the rest of our "inspirational" media, hopefully they will help me to fully realize the point I want to convey.

Final Paper #1 Educational Narrative

 Circumstances can push a person to do something that is completely against the grain.  I had a plague that many young ladies could relate to, an unfortunate relationship with the wrong guy.  This relationship reached its head the day after pay day.  I went to fill up my car to find my barely employed boyfriend had spent my entire paycheck on illegal substances, while I had slept.  I made it clear our lives were forever separated.  His only request was that I did not join the military or he would commit suicide.  This thought had never crossed my mind before, but it grew on me. Three days later I was shipping off for basic training. If you had known me just two weeks prior to enlistment it would not have seemed my style, some would have even considered me an antiwar animal loving hippy and it was not very far from the truth.  

Basic training was like being thrown from a warm bed into icy cold waters.  It was pretty obvious from the start that I did not belong, but at least from looks of disbelief and fear in the eyes of others I was not alone.  Drill Sergeants knew who did and did not belong, and made a point of picking on those who didn't.  It was their jobs to turn undisciplined civilians into soldiers, and sometimes that required breaking someone down to nothing and building them back up into something or someone else.  Luckily for me, I really did not have much left to break down and I quickly built back up into a new more confident person.  Although some of my colleagues back home would consider it unwise to give me a gun, the army found me fit to fight and I graduated from Basic Training.

After learning what it meant to be a soldier, we were sent to Advanced Individual Training (AIT). I joined the army to become an Automated Logistical Specialist, fancy words for a supply clerk. Advanced Individual Training was designed to teach me how to perform my job in the Army. AIT was like a college campus, with one big difference: the drill sergeants. Everyone woke up earlier than dawn for physical training, and after personal hygiene and breakfast we moved off to class for the rest of the day. Our weekends were usually free, as long as everyone followed the rules.

I received my orders to report to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas. El Paso is a city sitting on the border of Mexico in the middle of the desert. If basic training taught me anything it was that nothing tastes sweeter than freedom. My first year in the military consisted of working hard and partying harder, building lifelong friendships with my fellow soldiers and preparing for the inevitable deployment.

In the fall of 2009 we deployed to Kirkuk, Iraq. My unit’s area of operation contained the northern portion of the country. I was completely lost in the sauce, as were many of my newly arrived colleagues. We were bombed on our very first night and I will never forget the feeling of true terror, not knowing if that night would be my last. I will also never forget the complacency one develops towards the booms in the night. Work usually kept us more than twelve hours a day, so it was no surprise that we adjusted to the nightly mortaring, I frequently slept straight through the loud booms and glaring sirens.   Just as I became adjusted to my hard schedule and surroundings the army reminded me that first and foremost a soldier is an infantryman and that our Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) came second.

One day I was sitting on a wooden box in the supply yard smoking with a few of my team members, when I see my Platoon Sergeant driving a gator truck in our direction. He made the point that we were sitting on a coffin, and that was bad luck. We were quick to hop off, and seeing as the mood was ruined we began to walk away.  It became apparent that the bad luck would be mine when my platoon sergeant pulled me aside to talk privately. I had been voluntold (military slang for you have been mandatorily volunteered) to join a tank unit to search Iraqi women at checkpoints throughout the city of Kirkuk.  I never considered leaving the Forward Operating Base an option, seeing as my job was considered essential. Within a week I was outfitted with excessive ammunition and received a refresher course on searching personnel.

A refresher did not prepare me mentally for the unique challenges ahead of me. When I was married with my new platoon, I became all too aware that I was in a man’s world, and not welcome.  Combat MOS soldiers are not practiced in working with females, and leadership gave strict orders to only speak to me if it was deemed necessary. Out of fear of reprisal my platoon would not speak a word to me. Within a week things had relaxed, and it seemed that only the leadership had a problem with my presence. It took a lot longer for the Joint Force Task members to speak to me. They were the police officers of Kirkuk, and their Muslim beliefs forbid them to speak with me. Eventually with the persuasion of our interpreters and a common love for chai tea even broke down their barriers. My love for culture overshadowed the fact that we were sitting at a checkpoint in the middle of the war and at any moment disaster could strike.

At first I had my reservations about taking part in a war I did not agree with, but after working with some of the locals I realized that we actually helped liberate a people known as the Kurds. The Kurdish is a race of people who originated in Northern Iraq encompassing portions of Turkey, Syria and Iran; their roots can be traced back several thousand years.  Throughout the twentieth century hundreds of thousands of Kurds became victims of genocide. Many escaped to other countries while some stayed and formed a military unit known as the Peshmerga. The arrival of US troops to Iraq marked a turning point for the Kurds, and the Peshmerga played an important role in the support of the Iraq War. Our checkpoints were of no exception, and with the Iraqi Elections on the horizon our fellow Joint Force Task members began to show their true colors. In order to stamp out discrimination among the police force, the Iraqi officers were forbidden to show their allegiance to any particular political party.  In silent protest they would stuff their party member’s flag in their back pocket. Almost every officer had a red white and green flag with a blazing sun in the center, the flag of Kurdistan peeking out of their back pockets.  The interpreters later informed me that the Iraqi team we were coupled with was actually undercover Peshmerga. This would explain why they were willing to sit, speak, and drink tea with a woman such as myself.

Being assigned to the checkpoints was a blessing in disguise, and there was nothing I appreciated more than meeting the women of Iraq. Due to religious reasons my male counterparts were forbidden to speak or even look upon an Iraqi woman, and that is where my job came in. In the process of searching females for explosives I came upon the unique opportunity to speak with a people who were otherwise silent and unseen to the world. Most women would dress in black from head to toe, and in the presence of their men remained completely silent; once separated it was like night and day, they uncovered their faces and the silence was broken. After searching my group of females I always stole a few moments to answer their questions and ask a few of my own. More often than not I was questioned as to why my family would allow me to come to such a dangerous place, or if I would marry their sons. They were shocked to find out that I had the freedom to choose what I did or did not do, and of course I never did accept a marriage proposal. Election Day marked a turning point for the Iraqi women, and everyone who filed in to my search area proudly showed a black finger. For the first time in their lives they were allowed to vote.

By the end of deployment I am proud to say I was never once shot at, no one tried to blow me up and I know I made a difference in people’s lives. I will never regret the sacrifice our soldiers made in Iraq, and although we went there for the wrong reasons I know some Kurds who will always be grateful that we helped make their way of life possible. I joined the military to escape my problems, but instead I learned what real problems are and how to overcome them.  By the way, my ex boyfriend never did commit suicide and is working on becoming a better more sober person far away from me. 

Educational Narrative Rough Draft

 Sometimes certain things can push a person to do something that is completely against the grain.  I had a plague that many young ladies could relate to, an unfortunate relationship with the wrong guy.  This relationship reached its head the day after pay day.  I went to fill up my car to find my barely employed boyfriend of the time had spent my entire paycheck on illegal substances, while I had slept.  I quickly addressed the problem and made it clear our lives were forever separate.  His only request came as a shock, “Please just do not join the military; if you do I will kill myself.”  This thought had never crossed my mind before, but it was growing on me. At just twenty years old I joined the army, and if you had known me just two weeks prior to enlistment it would not have seemed my style.  Some would have even considered me an antiwar animal loving hippy, and it was not very far from the truth.  Three days later I was shipping off for basic training.  So when asked why I joined, throughout my military career I had the pleasure of spiting the bastard again, “Because my ex-boyfriend said he would commit suicide if I had joined.” The truth though of course was more complex.  I was escaping my problems, and needed a fresh start at life.  The military held promises of discipline, education, and new life experiences.  In the end the promises held true, but in ways I would never have imagined.

Basic training was like being thrown from a warm bed into icy cold waters.  It was pretty obvious from the start that I did not belong, but at least from looks of disbelief and fear in the eyes of others I was not alone.  Drill Sergeants knew who did and did not belong, and made a point of picking on those who didn't.  It was their jobs to turn undisciplined civilians into soldiers, and sometimes that required breaking someone down to nothing and building them back up into something or someone else.  Luckily for me, I really did not have much left to break down and I quickly built back up into a new more confident person.  Although some of my colleagues back home would consider it unwise to give me a gun, the army found me fit to fight and I graduated from Basic Training.

After learning what it means to be a soldier, we are sent to Advanced Individual Training (AIT). I joined the army to become an automated logistical specialist, fancy words for a supply clerk. Advanced Individual Training was designed to teach me how to perform my job in the Army. AIT was like a college campus, with one big difference: the drill sergeants. Everyone woke up earlier than dawn for physical training, and after personal hygiene time and breakfast we moved off to classes for the rest of the day. Our weekends were usually free, as long as everyone followed the rules.

I received my orders to report to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas. El Paso is a city sitting on the border of Mexico in the middle of the desert. If basic training taught me anything it was that nothing tastes better than freedom. My first year in the military consisted of working hard and partying harder. Building lifelong friendships with my fellow soldiers and preparing for the inevitable deployment.

In the fall of 2009 we deployed to Kirkuk, Iraq. My unit’s area of operation contained the northern part of the country. I was completely lost in the sauce, as were many of my newly arriving colleagues. We were bombed on our very first night and I will never forget the feeling of true terror, not knowing if that night would be my last. I will also never forget the complacency one develops towards the booms in the night; I became so adjusted to mortaring I frequently slept straight through the loud booms and glaring sirens.  Just as I became adjusted to my surroundings the army reminded me that first and foremost a soldier is an infantryman and that our military occupational specialty came second.

One day I was sitting on a wooden box in the supply yard smoking with a few of my team members, when I see my platoon sergeant driving a gator truck in our direction. He made the point that we were sitting on a coffin, and that was bad luck. We were quick to hop off, and seeing as the mood was ruined we began to walk away.  I quickly discovered that the bad luck would be mine when my platoon sergeant pulled me aside to talk privately. I had been voluntold (military slang for you have been mandatorily volunteered) to join a tank unit to search Iraqi women at checkpoints throughout the city of Kirkuk.  I never considered leaving the wire an option, seeing as my job on the forward operating base was considered essential. Within a week I had been outfitted with an excessive number of weapons magazines, and received a refresher course on searching a person.

A refresher course did not prepare me mentally for the unique challenges ahead of me. When I was married with my new platoon I became all too aware that I was in a man’s world, and I was not welcome.  Combat MOS soldiers are not practiced in working with females, and their platoon sergeant gave strict orders to only speak to me if it was deemed necessary. For a few days they would not speak a word to me. Within a week things had relaxed, and it seemed that only the leadership had a problem with my presence. It took a lot longer for the joint force task members to speak to me. They were the police officers of Kirkuk, and their Muslim beliefs forbid them to speak with me. Eventually with the persuasion of our interpreters and a common love for chai tea even broke down their barriers. My love for culture overshadowed the fact that we were sitting at a checkpoint in the middle of the war and at any moment disaster could strike.

At first I had my reservations about taking part in a war I did not agree with, but after working with some of the locals I realized that we actually helped liberate a people known as the Kurds. The Kurdish are a race of people who originated in Northern Iraq encompassing portions of Turkey, Syria and Iran; their roots can be traced back several thousand years.  Throughout the twentieth century hundreds of thousands of Kurds became victims of genocide, many escaped to other countries while some stayed and formed a military unit known as the Peshmerga. The arrival of US troops to Iraq marked a turning point for the Kurds, and the Peshmerga played an important role in the support of the Iraq War. Our checkpoints were of no exception, and with the Iraqi Elections on the horizon our fellow joint force task members began to show their true colors. In order to stamp out discrimination among the police force, the Iraqi officers were forbidden to show their allegiance to any particular political party.  In silent protest they would stuff their party member’s flag in their back pocket. Almost every officer had a red white and green flag with a blazing sun in the center, the flag of Kurdistan peeking out of their back pockets.  The interpreters later informed me that the Iraqi team we were coupled with were actually undercover Peshmerga. This would explain why they were willing sit, speak, and drink tea with a woman such as myself.

Being assigned to the checkpoints was a blessing in disguise, and there was nothing I appreciated more than meeting the women of Iraq. Due to religious reasons our male counterparts were forbidden to speak or even look upon an Iraqi woman, and that is where my job came in. In the process of searching females for explosives I came upon the unique opportunity to speak with a people who were otherwise silent and unseen to the world. Most women would dress in black from head to toe, and in the presence of their men remained completely silent. Once separated from their men it was like night and day, they uncovered their faces and the silence was broken. After searching my group of females I always stole a few moments to answer their questions and ask a few of my own. More often than not I was questioned as to why my family would allow me to come to such a dangerous place, or if I would marry their sons. They were shocked to find out that I had the freedom to choose what I did or did not do, and of course I never did accept a marriage proposal. Election Day was a big day for the Iraqi women, and everyone who filed in to my search area proudly showed a black finger. For the first time in their lives they were allowed to vote.

By the end of deployment I am proud to say I was never once shot at and one tried to blow me up, but I know I made a difference in people’s lives. More importantly I will never regret the sacrifice our soldiers made in Iraq, and although we went there for the wrong reasons I know some Kurds who will always be grateful that we helped make their way of life possible.  By the way, my ex boyfriend never did commit suicide and is working on becoming a better more sober person far away from me.

Cubing Exercise on my own paper

Describe it: My narrative involves my military career and focuses on my deployment experience. I will first close my eyes and soak in the senses. I can smell and taste the sand in my mouth, burning hot sand. I also smell gunpowder, oh and the smell of chow always the highlight of my day. I can hear gunshots, incoming, military patrols and men joking. I can feel nervousness, I was always on edge to some degree. I cope with this by pushing it into the back of my mind and letting it filter through with a certain level of hyper alert. Most things I saw were sand, and alot of it. Sand comes in different forms, and the worst sand is wet sand. Mud in Iraq could easily swallow you to your knees.

 Compare it: Iraq does not compare easily. Well first comes to mind is you don't choose your clothes, no fancy shirts or jeans, no indecision always my uniform. Sometimes the ladies would wear fancy lace underwear just to feel feminine, personally I did not work a job that allowed something so fancy and too dirty too long of a day. There never really were many choices, something I found crippling in the cereal isle when I returned back to the states. Every day was different, and even though they were long hard and kind of dangerous there was a purpose. That purpose is hard to come by these days, and sometimes I wonder if making choices are as important as we think they are.

Analyze it: my paper is made up mostly chronological: Before I joined, During my training, joining my unit and finalizing with my deployment... maybe. It will touch up on my preconceived notions of the Iraq War, versus my learned notions.

Argue it:  I still personally believe we went to Iraq for the wrong reasons, what weapons of mass destruction? Maybe Bush just did not know the middle east very well and meant Iran. Besides that point, I still deployed! Luckily I had a unique chance to speak with many local people in Iraq and learned about the Kurdish plight.

"I Wanna Be Average" questions to ponder

1. Rose's life in Vocational Education was lack luster, and did not benefit him from an educational stand point. The root of the problem were the educators, most did not make any attempt to reach or properly educate the students.  They seemed to dislike or just not care about their jobs or the education of the youth.  Unfortunately I would find it hard to believe that no one has ever had that teacher that just did not care. Some teachers just walk into class, assign homework and reading than do whatever they pleased. Other teachers just don't have the authority needed to educate a room full of rowdy youth.
2. Vocation Education ruined Rose and his fellow students abilities to learn in a classroom settings.  It set bad habits, and did not seem to teach them much in the educational sense. The youth new they were not receiving quality education, and they did not openly seem to care. They adapted to the situation and learned skills in different ways. Their education taught them they were average and no one cared enough to make them above average.  They would be forever scarred into believing they could not achieve an above average intellectual level.  Being around other students requiring an alternative education taught Rose how to cope with more extreme personalities, thus his social skills were forced to adapt and improve. Unfortunately for Rose, the lack of education and structure led to him falling behind with the regular school population. He lacked the studying skills, and self taught improper formulas in algebra.  Bad habits are harder to kick than learning good habits.
3. Mike considered Ken slow, and that the school did not tailor its education plan to improve his intellect.  Students get categorized as achievers, average, and below average. The teenage years are a time of change, coming to understand ones self, and developing lifelong friendships. When no one seems to care about your education and life is so full of change it is easy to get lost in the soup. Ken decides to just settle with being average, and loses all interest in becoming all that he can be. Most kids whose educators don't care about, stop caring themselves. Sometimes students become bored and cynical, others students turn to developing their street smarts.
4. College itself is not very confusing, it seems that balancing adult life and getting an education poses the greatest confusion.  Their is work, family, and school prying for your attention.  My own personal challenge has been the fact that college is relatively self led, and my military experience has made me comfortable with being told exactly what, where, and how to perform a task.  College is about being organized and self motivated.
5. Like Rose I received an alternative style of education. In contrast I was there by choice, I participated in an Off Campus program that essentially meant I was home schooled by the public school system.  It is a self motivated program that in contrast to Rose led me to success. Some students who do off campus could not function in a school environment for various reasons, while others like myself possessed the motivation and study skills to learn on our own or with a tutor when something needed clarity.
 

Prewriting

Throughout my education I have used most prewriting styles, usually forced by my educator. Sometimes the education comes in handy.  Writing usually comes fairly easy to me, and generally I excel in my English courses.  When assigned a paper to write, I first brainstorm a subject within the perimeters that truly makes the paper my own.  Nothing makes writers block worst, than writing a paper I do not relate to.  Once I have a topic I usually free write, actually I almost always free write.  I free write so much that in order to receive full credit in my English classes in the past I have free written my paper, and then turned around created another prewritten format.  Unfortunately free writing is not always guaranteed to carry me to the end, and I get a case of the writer’s block.  When this happens I begin mapping my paper out. Sometimes the mapping is chronological, or in other cases just a crutch to pull me out of my temporary stuck spot.  It is better to maintain progress than to just sit and hope a thought will come to mind and save your day.  Mapping is an indispensable tool for me, if I am stuck in a certain spot I can jump ahead to another spot on my map and fill in spots as I go.  By the time I am finished my rough draft usually resembles a big bowl of alphabet soup. Proper Rearrangement of sentences and double checking for over repetition of words or ideas sets me up for a quality second draft.  

autobiography of Bejamin Franklin vs "Learning to Read" by Malcolm X

The excerpts I read from the Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin and the Autobiography of Malcolm X are two narratives involving the evolution of one’s ability to read and write.  Although the differences between these two narratives jump out at you pretty quickly, I see more similarities than differences in the writings.  Both had a love for reading, although Benjamin possessed a raw talent in grammar from a young age, and received a quality education. Malcolm basically taught himself how to read, as he described as almost learning a new language. Malcolm X also wrote in a simple manner and made it pretty clear that reading did not come natural, but he became a great reader through practice and repetition. I found Benjamin's writings hard to follow simply because it is so old in style; there were also a few words I had to look up just to make sure I understood their meanings. His writing may seem to be overly stylish and hard to understand, but in general he used what seemed to be to me a simple way of writing for back in the day.  Malcolm X and Benjamin Franklin pursued books with an obsession, they also shared studying styles: emulating more successful writers/readers and reading everything they could get their hands on regardless of its contents. One glaring difference between the two narratives would not involve their writing styles, but involving their history.  Benjamin did not receive the same positive reinforcement that Malcolm did. The prison glorified Malcolm X, reading was a way to pass time and educate one’s self. Malcolm succeeded in educating himself, and separating himself from the stereotype of the street thug.  Benjamin was expected to read and write, but his father used criticism as a way to improve Benjamin’s skills. Benjamin struggled to find his place in life, and carried the burden of expectation. 

My blog with Donald Johansen 1/15/13

The basic necessities to this paper will require 1,300-1,500 words and must be a narrative essay discussing an educational experience. So far we have read to narratives about internet experiences, both seemed to have similar challenges in that they had the challenge of trying to reach a wide audience.  In order to achieve a top grade you must reach further than basics though.  Use specific details, and have a paper that reaches a wide range of audience.  Both of our papers will be on a military experience, and although it is rich in story it comes with its own challenges.  Reaching to a wide range of audience is always a challenge, especially when the experiences are riddled with military jargon. I don’t want my readers to feel like Malcolm X when he picked up a book and felt he was reading something foreign. Luckily though generally military experiences are full of action and generally interesting stories.  The plan is to go ahead and just write out our story as it comes to mind, than turn around and address any military terms that might prove to be challenging to the wider range of audiences.  Also another challenge will be to make it clear what the lesson was; both stories are very personal experiences.  Discussing a war time experience can be both emotional and hard to explain.  Relating to Malcolm X’s writing could be a lot easier considering we are writing to an audience whose opinions may differ.  The narrative may compare to “How I Learned to Program Computers” in the fact that it will instill something deeper than face value. For example one describes how to do something, but also makes the deeper impression that success is tied to an obsession.  Romero’s work could inspire a similar way of starting my essay, using a hook line sentence to catch the broader audience.  The essay should not require audience to read half way through the text to begin to relate, because by halfway if they have not yet related a negative opinion or sense of bore could already be set.  

1/9/13 post

Today I read two very differing articles: “How I Learned to Program Computers” by Feross Aboukhadiejeh, and “How I Learned to Live Google-Free” by Joshua J. Romero. I found Feross’ work to be directed to a very specific target audience (not myself), making it pretty hard for me to read. He was very straight to the point, discussing how he and others achieved the “good programmer” status. His visual aids most definitely helped show how he evolved with the times as a programmer.  Romero on the other hand wrote with intent to reach any who chose to read his work. I found it to be very fluid reading, like he was telling a story. I have already decided on a subject for my educational narrative, which will discuss my military experience. I know there will be two challenges: deciding on my audience, and avoiding sounding like propaganda.  I want my paper to have meaning, and possibly pose questions about the American way of life. If I had to relate my writing to one of the two articles it will more closely resemble Romero’s work. Titling each paragraph or evolution in character would be counterproductive to my narrative, and visual aids would require an artistic talent that my time limits would not allow.