Tuesday, August 4, 2015

A flaw in parenting mentality

One of my summer school students came up to me out of nowhere and said, "My cousin got a really good score on that S test and she goes to Princeton. But my brother, he did really bad on it, and now he goes to Binghamton. My mom says he's stupid."

In this rather sad moment, we see that a child too young to remember the acronym "SAT" has already been brainwashed to equate standardized testing results with intelligence. Moreover, she has already been taught the "correct" hierarchy of American institutions of higher education. I would have found the statement audacious and uncalled for if I didn't find it so upsetting.


I know it isn't my place to comment on how this child is being raised, but I strongly believe that this sort of parenting is to blame for many of the issues facing our education system. Kids are taught to value empirical statistics - SAT scores, college rankings, etc. - over legitimate indicators of merit. Granted, it is much more efficient to rank the students of the world using various numerical criteria. This system does work, but only to an extent. As we all know, one must consider analytical skills, personal qualities, way of thinking, and many other abstract markers in order to determine how "smart" or qualified an applicant really is. Most college admissions offices already take these factors into account by requiring a personal statement or two (or six), an interview, a resume, and occasionally, a list of the applicant's favorite films, books, performances, etc. That's all good in theory, but the aforementioned criteria rarely ever weigh more than GPA, course rigor, and standardized test results in the admissions process. 

The bottom-up approach - that is, fostering a more well-rounded mindset in young kids - is the only way to reverse this trend. I happen to think that if children grow up appreciating learning for learning's sake, they will make academic and extracurricular choices that are of interest to them. Children who grow up thinking that "Ivy" and "League" are the two holiest words in the English language will confine their path to the narrow window of opportunities that "look good for college."

Don't get me wrong, it's a good thing to instill ambition in kids; without it, you can't expect them to be academically motivated. But, there's a right and a wrong kind of ambition. A child ought to strive to be able to think critically, to formulate and argue opinions, to entertain all perspectives, and to discover and digest information independently, without having it spoon-fed via worksheet. Sadly, many children in our society (i.e. affluent suburbs) strive to become the perfect college applicants - high grades and test scores, innumerable extracurriculars, and cookie-cutter essays. In the fervor to check off all preset categories, they lose sight of who they are, and of what actually interests them. 

The same issue comes into play again when seniors have to select an institution from the ones to which they were accepted: too many of them go for the better name over the better fit. If more students were to consider where they belong in terms of their attitude towards learning, their intended major/general area of study, and their personal attributes, then college campuses would be happier places. If I may speak from personal experience, I don't regret choosing the school that I did over an Ivy League one. I did a good deal of research and determined that I was a better fit for the university that I ultimately chose than the one that had the more recognizable name. If I have to deal with exchanges like this one I had with an anonymous party, then so be it. 

"So where are you headed next year?"
"The University of Chicago"
"Oh, well, that's a fine school."
"Thank you!"
"You really should transfer to a 4-year college after your first year. Nowadays it's impossible to do anything without a real degree."
"Thanks so much for the advice, I'll definitely consider it."


Friday, June 26, 2015

Some thoughts about graduating

It's 11:30 am on graduation day and I'm getting dressed. I pull out my frankly ratty and worn-out black button-down shirt. Well, it's not really black anymore; it has adopted a grayish-green hue in the 50+ times that it has been washed. As I'm fastening the buttons I realize just how often I've worn this shirt - every orchestra concert, every musical, every opera, every solo recital, every somewhat-upscale occasion. I think of how nervous I've been in that shirt waiting to perform or to meet someone important. I'm also reminded of how happy I've been in it, celebrating successful performances in good company. While it's not a trait many would envy, my sartorial predictability has provided me with a beautiful keepsake of my time in high school. I look at it and remember all the highs (and a couple lows) of the last four years.

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It's probably about 3:00 pm and I'm rushing to get my beautiful blue, synthetic gown back on after performing Tico Tico no FubĂ  — a selection as festive and energetic as it is unexpected at a graduation ceremony. In my hurry to make it to the podium in time to give a speech, I accidentally zip my shirt collar into the gown's flimsy zipper and curse under my breath. The combination of post-performance endorphins and pre-performance tension is quite intriguing but I don't have time to analyze or process it. 

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I've spoken now, and it has gone well, I think. But as I sit down I realize that that performance and that speech were the last things I'll ever really do as a high school student. As a reserved and emotionally stagnant person, I am rarely moved, but this realization both shocks and grounds me. That was the last time I'll feel my hands shake over the keys as I ghost over the opening bars of the piece in preparation. The last time I'll play an A to tune the instrumentalists and cringe until they reach a consensus regarding their intonation. The last time I'll nod at the cellist to indicate I'm ready to start. And the last time I'll bow with my friends after a good performance. I know I'll get to experience all of these moments at some point in the future, but never in this context. We live in an age in which virtually everything is possible, but dilating time to extend a moment or traveling back in time to relive one is not. 

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It's 8:00 and I'm tossing my shirt into the laundry hamper. I've had a lovely dinner with my family during which I was congratulated profusely. Why, I don't know. We're expected to graduate from high school, so doing so is no indication of superiority. For that reason among others, I find it awkward to accept such praise. I also can't accept it as a remark geared toward only me because my high school experience was made possible and made exceptional by many people. So as my relatives propose toast after toast, I mentally spread my thanks to those who have taught me, guided me, and mentored me. I hope that one day, I will be able to thank them properly.

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What I'm trying to say with this long-winded and probably unsuccessful extended metaphor about a shirt that has more than run its course, is that high school wasn't terrible. It wasn't the awkward or torturous time that the stereotype suggests it ought to be. Looking back on it all, I had a really good time. I grew, I learned, and I met wonderful people along the way. 

Monday, August 26, 2013

Perks of Being a Junior I

   I woke up to a soothing 5:30 a.m. alarm and instinctively tossed my hand in the general direction of my cell phone. Upon “sliding to stop alarm,” I realized that today is August 26th. There are only 7 days left of summer. 7 days until the sh!t hits the fan. Once the shock of that realization wore off, I proceeded with my usual routine, dressing myself in burgundy flat-front chinos; a light-gray, finely checked button-down and a pair of black oxfords – my quasi-uniform.
            I find that during the summer, the days of the week tend to blend together; weekends lose their novelty. Today, however, is a Monday. That errant day whose name rings shrilly in ears all over the world. For me, Mondays mean a trip to Manhattan to prepare for the number one perk of being a junior: the SAT.
            Ah, the SAT. The letters stand for nothing whatsoever since their entity is no longer capable of fulfilling an actual title. The score you receive measures nothing besides how coachable your brain is. So why do we subject ourselves to this? The answer’s simple: because everyone else does. I often wonder if I am actually a viable student, or just a guinea pig running on a mechanized wheel set to a speed of the SAT, SAT II’s, AP’s, GPA, et cetera. My fears are allayed only when I pick my head up and look at the plethora of successful individuals who are also products of this abbreviation-obsessed mentality. My use of the work “plethora” only goes to show that CollegeBoard has executed a successful incursion into my brain and taken out all my defenses.
            Evidently, what was supposed to be an uplifting, cheery, “good luck this year”-post morphed into an oddly personal foray into my wardrobe tendencies, followed by an even weirder metacognitive rant regarding our deficient education system. With that disclaimer and with the following quote from my sagacious SAT instructor, I leave you to your summer assignments:

“Junior year will not be a bag of sh!t”

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Happy Fourth of July!

           Happy Fourth of July! Every year on this day, people go around saying how much they love America and how great a nation it is. This patriotism is a good thing, of course, but it sometimes feels empty and void of true belief on behalf of the public. Phrases like “I love my country” and “The USA is amazing” have become July 4th’s equivalent to the cashier’s “Have a nice day!” They are said only because not saying them would be rude and socially unacceptable. Therefore, instead of just posting a status on Facebook with the generic Happy Fourth (yes, I know it’s the title of this post), I’ve decided to share a story with that reveals one of America’s true virtues.
            As many of you know, I am a first-generation American; my parents’ and grandparents’ generations were born and raised in the Soviet Union. When the USSR collapsed in 1991, my mother and her parents found themselves in the middle of a civil war in Moldova (a former Soviet Republic). As with all multinational empires throughout history, nationalist sentiments were a perpetual and powerful force in the Soviet region. Thus, uprisings broke out in many republics post-1991. My maternal grandmother is a Ukrainian Jew; on its own, this made her, as well as her husband and daughter, into targets for persecution. To make matters worse, my grandfather is Russian Orthodox and at the time, was a very highly ranked Russian army officer. This mix of ethnicity and religion made the Moldovan crisis into a terrible ordeal for my mother and her parents. The native Moldovans rallied with anti-Semitism and nationalism, pushing Jews, Russians and all other non-Moldovans back to their homelands during the Trans-Dniester crisis.
            My family’s attempt to wait out the war was short-lived. Residence, jobs, and even basic amenities and food products were extremely scarce. My grandparents could no longer live a humane lifestyle, let alone find a future for their 21 year old, college-educated daughter. Thus, they began the immigration process to the United States. My grandmother’s two brothers as well as my uncle already lived here; this gave them grounds for approval. After a maze of paperwork my mother and her parents were approved to come to America.

            The United States took in thousands of refugees that found themselves in the same predicament as my family. For that, I believe, this country should be recognized. By no means is everything perfect here, the flaws are countless. However, America has been a beacon of hope and a promised land for millions throughout its young history. As this nation gets one year older, we owe it to celebrate this fact. With that, have a happy Independence Day!

Sunday, June 2, 2013

There's a first time for everything

     Hello all. The title of this post speaks for itself- this is my first blog post. Ever. So if this seems awkward, that's why (or it's just my personality). My initial goal was to produce some quality writing and to use this as a tool to improve my writing. Throughout my research, however, I realized that I could use a blog as a medium for expression. Naturally this thought didn't occur to me beforehand.
     I'm slightly apprehensive about this whole thing; I doubt my ability to write well, to entice readership, and to commit my time. As is probably obvious by now, I'm not familiar with casual writing. Or casual talking, for that matter. Considering the number of sentence fragments I've written already, I'd say this is progress.
    I leave you with the following: don't judge me (or anyone, for that matter) and give this a shot. Thank you.