Seriously? Group work?

Everyone has a story about a time when they were forced by a professor to participate in the activity most dreaded  by the smart people of the academic world: Group work. The name in itself is and oxymoron because the "group" "working" never actually takes place. Group work is a myth. What is not a myth, however, is the concept that one ( occasionally two) people - who actually care about their grade- get roped into doing literally all the work. Sometimes this is a result of  A) other lazy group members simply not participating or B) the less intellectually competent members of the group do their portion, but they do a horrid job and the nerds have to fix it so they are not the laughing stock of the presentation list. Seriously, there is always one presentation that everyone goes " oh well at least we were better than that." I, for one, refuse to be "that" presentation.

I love how professors try to come up with ways to "ensure" that everyone does their part. It never works... ever. I don't care if you think you've come up with the almighty algorithem to the group work conundrum. It will fail. Teachers seem to believe that the best way to make group work "equal" is to devise a comment section about " who did what." The problem with this, is that 1) no nerd will turn in the cool kid for not doing the proper amount of work ( this applies especially to high school situations)  2) the evaluation is completed at the END of the presentation, thus in the midst of adrenaline rush and total and complete relief the nerd forgets that they spent all night doing the presentation without any help 3) The nerd already accepted the fact that they were going to do the work, simply to ensure an " A" and they really couldn't be bothered having an argument about the grade with their partners now that the project is complete ( this would require further, unnecessary communication).

It also annoys me when teachers assign group work and in response to the "groan heard round the classroom" they say something like " it's teaching you team work kids". UM, actually it's not. Teamwork is working toward a common goal that you all share. For example, on a lacrosse team everyone wants to win the game- so they work together to achieve that goal. What makes teamwork distinctly different from group work is that in group work you get the lovely mixture of people who give a shit, and people who don't. In each group you have those whose main goal is to achieve a solid grade, and you have the people whose main goal is to pawn off their work on the nerds/ over achievers. As you can see, these are not common goals. Therefore, group work is nothing like team work. At all. It's more like " Lets see how much stress I can pile on a few individual students so I only have to grade 8 presentations instead of 24 separate ones" work.

Conflict is defined as " two or more individuals whose goals are not in accordance with each other."
I rest my case.

The Intimacy of a Letter

 Do you know why they call the good ol' days the "Good ol' Days" - well I will tell you- it's because they wrote letters. They may have worn tights and lots of lace around their necks and the women may have been wearing corsets that made them pass out, but  NONE of this matters; they used letters as their main correspondence which is exponentially cooler than anything else.

It is hard to treasure things written via technology nowadays. I for one would not be keen on holding my computer close to my heart because my loved on posted on my "wall." No, I would look completely insane and it would be quite cumbersome. However, a letter- now that I can hold close to my heart all I want and it would be perfectly fine. Sure letters take time to send and receive especially to loved ones far away, but seriously they are so much better! Take the new fabulous invention of Skype. Sure, it's great! I love being able to see my friends faces who lives thousands of miles away from me. However, in order to do so I must also make myself presentable prior to skyping so that I don't look like a complete and utter slob. This is not an issue with letters. Back in the day men would send letters to their ladies from war. For all they knew their ladies could be sitting at home corset-less drinking a glass of ale reading that letter, but it wouldn't matter. HOW WOULD THEY KNOW? They wouldn't, which is awesome.

Using skype also requires me to remain engaged for the entire conversation because, well , they can see you and if you were doing something else that would just be rude. A letter however, allots you the opportunity to put it down, re-read certain lines, come back to it with a cup of tea in hand- you name it. You are given time to think about what is actually being said. I hate how technology requires an instant reply- Exhibit A:
Bob sends an e-mail to Jim at 11:50 am, Jim decides to go to lunch and respond to the e-mail afterwards. The following conversation takes place:
Bob: Hey, Jim you know I sent you that e-mail about 15 minutes ago.
Jim: Oh hey Bob, I was going to respond to it after I ate lunch.
Bob: I see, but I mean you had ten minutes...
Jim: I wanted to make sure I said everything I wanted to say.
Bob: I understand Jim, but it was ten minutes ago.
Jim: Sorry Bob.
See if it had been letters it would have been more than acceptable to wait a week or more to respond. Awesome.

Finally, I love how intimate letters are. I have a handful of really personal and intimate letters I have received in my life, and I honestly do treasure . I have a box where I put them all so that one day I can look over them and remember the people who wrote them to me. I know that if the world were to come to an end, I would not head over to my computer and read my "wall posts" from start to finish. No I would go to my box with photos, keepsakes, and of course- my letters. I would sit and read them and think about the moments that were recounted in them. After all, i'd rather have my memories in a box than on a hard drive.

The Highwayman

Perhaps my favourite poem written by Alfred Noyes 

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
         His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
         Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
         Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
         Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
         Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
         Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

.       .       .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
         Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


 

Our Deepest Fear?

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure."- Marianne Williamson ( she said it first, Mandela later used it in his inaugural address thus making it famous)

For most of us this quote rings a rather loud and obnoxious bell. We have heard it many times; in graduation speeches, splashed across motivational posters, and in the occasional Facebook " favourite quotations" section. I have to give credit to Marianne here, it's a nice thought. However, this quote bothers me, as i'm sure it bothers many others. The reason I find it irksome has nothing to do with how often I see it used, but rather the blatant disregard for putting it into action. I'll admit that I am guilty of doing this, and so is pretty much any other person who has ever quoted it ( which is a lot ). Mrs. Williamson makes a valid point of saying " Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure" of course we are, we are the human race- the most intelligent life form on this planet ( save debate about life forms for another time). Sadly though, I think our deepest fear has become that we will  not be able to achieve certain lifestyles for ourselves- we've become overly materialistic ( I blame Madonna). I mean really, on a daily basis how many people sit around going " oh my deepest fear is that i'm not living up to my potential." Of course we don't, if we did that we would all be manically depressed and nobody would speak to us. They would say things like " Oh [ insert name] is always so negative about all of us wasting away our potential" and you'd never be invited to anything ever again. Instead, we  focus on worrying about the latest exam, or the project our boss gave us, or some other meaningless mundane task that we "simply must complete" in order to move on to the next mundane task- all in the name of progress. Progress toward what may I ask?  I just began University and I sit in a classroom with 300 other "young adults"  all learning the same subject, all competing for the top score. We spend our lives trying to make it onto the " elite list" so that we can feel like we have accomplished something. So great you land the job that gives you a better-than-average  salary and two weeks vacation a year. Splendid. After all who needs more than two weeks of free time? Honestly, don't be ridiculous. I suppose all I am saying in this little rant of mine is that Ms. Williamson ought to be thoroughly disappointed in us; we've lost sight of what our potential can truly be. Perhaps she should change the quote to " Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, but rather that we aren't better than everyone else." It would probably be more accurate and it would certainly be quoted significantly less often.