A Textbook Conundrum

They're really, really heavy. My book entitled Human Resource Management in Government weighs in at about six pounds all on its lonesome. It also has whole chapters in it devoted to "designing effective performance appraisal systems", which somehow add to the weight of the book. And that was for last term.
Right now, the whole "school" thing is a little daunting.
Not that I'm complaining. Things could be worse. Have often been significantly worse. In fact, things are pretty good right now.
There is, however, a cloud of foreboding hanging over the horizon of Spring Term, and its name is Harris.
I have heard nothing, nothing, good about this person, her teaching, her treatment of students, her attitude. I have heard that, 1) She is an inconsistent grader who hands out harsh grades like candy, 2) She picks favorites, 3) Other students change their schedules to avoid taking classes with this instructor, 4) Other students change programs to avoid taking classes with this instructor, 5) She demonizes students in her classes in front of other students, 6) Students that attempt to contest the bad grades she hands out find her unwilling to talk and unavailable.
Harris also happens to be my adviser, by the way, and advised me, waaaaaay back before I started speaking to other students, to take two of her classes in one term. Next term. Spring term.
Why was this crap so much less scary down at Southern? Bah!

Cute Animals on the Internet

I loooooove animals. Furry animals, scaly animals, feathery animals, animals animals animals!
Here are some pictures of animals:

Here's some more:

And more! More animals!

And last but not least, Animal!

Aaarrgh!

Do you feel better? I sure do. Go animals!

Teenager, oh Teenager

It's freakin' February already. What is up with that?
Anyway, this morning I had coffee with my dad and a gaggle of Halfway Teenagers; a taunting of teenagers, a titillation of teenagers, a murder of teenagers, a sneering of teenagers, a pockmark of teenagers, a whining of teenagers, a short-bus of teenagers. That last part is true; the PESD speech and debate team has since time immemorial used a short bus, dubbed the "Cheese Wagon", to travel to tournaments. I remember being in those kids' shoes. Portland was The Big City. Stoplights! Neon signs! 24 hour businesses! Bars called things like 'the Rotting Peach Enclave'! People wearing makeup, not all of them women! Malls! Holy Cow, Malls! People insisting that "Gresham isn't Portland, it's Gresham. Portland is different." (No, it's not. Not really. Sorry, Portlandians and Greshamites.)
You laugh, but you were never a Halfway Teenager. Maybe you were, and you're still laughing because you remember.

Teenagers are amazing creatures:

Upon meeting a teenager, you can't help but wonder how on earth we made it this far. I mean, look at 'em. All the hormones of a twenty-something, none of the moxie. Simultaneously punky little know-it-alls and impressionable wide-eyed innocents. Pizza-faced paragons of self-interest; Skipper's mind in Barbie's body; sailors embarking on a lifelong voyage of self-discovery, punctuated by vigorous masturbation sessions.
Compound the handicap of teenhood with the sheltered lifestyle of rural Oregon, and you have the Halfway Teenager.
What comes to mind when you envision the rural Oregon teen?

This?

Come on now. Be honest. She's a nice girl, no doubt, and a fairly accurate depiction of what you'll actually find roaming the street (you read that right; street, singular) of Halfway. She's not what comes to mind, though, is she?

This is what comes to mind, isn't it?

You will also find this teenager in rural Oregon (however little you may want to find them), but they are less frequent than Carlie CutiePoo in the red stripes.

It takes all kinds, you say. No. No, it doesn't. Replace the phrase 'mud-ridin'' with any phrase of your choosing and insert it above. "Let's go cow-tippin'." "Let's go hog-chasin'." Let's go tourist-rapin'."

See? See!?!

Anyway... meeting dad and crowd whisked me back to years gone-by, years probably sweeter in memory than in actuality. People were such jerks when I was a teenager. Not me, of course. Obviously.

The world beyond Halfway was inconceivably huge and terrifying, full of excitement and opportunity, adventures and high romance. It took moving into that world to discover that it is also full of horror and hatred, full of boredom, and loneliness, and heartbreak, and cruelty. It is full of people that have lost their way, and full of those who never had one to begin with. It is full of failure, and deceit, and manipulation, and cowardice. It is full of people who want to hurt you, who see you as less than human, less than dirt, and will treat you that way every chance they get. The impulse of the sheltered Halfway Teenager upon graduating high school and being set upon the launch pad to the Outside, the impulse to hide under a blanket in their room until they turn 30, is not entirely unwise.

However, an even wiser person than the average teenager (Pema Chodron) said, “To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”

And she's right. Some of us die the day we graduate high school, metaphorically speaking, because we give in to that impulse to, speaking metaphorically, again, lie under the covers until we turn 30. 

To the Halfway Teenager I say stick it out. Walk out into the world, and when it gets rough and rocky and the light grows dim, keep walking. When you discover that your friend is not your friend, keep walking. When you fail repeatedly to reach the mark you have worked so hard to reach, keep walking. When you get lost, keep walking. When you lose everything, lose face, lose heart, lose hope, keep walking. The worst of times are learning times, even if the lessons learned we wished we never had to know.

You, teenager, have lived a great deal of your life anticipating The Future. Try, for once, to anticipate the past that the Future You will look back on. What is the best story you can possibly see? What can you do about it now? When you are walking, keep that story in mind. The details will forever change (even the big ones), but the shape of the story and your personal priorities will clarify with time. And, keep walking.

And go wash your hair, you dirty hippy.