In the 2012 Summer, I decided to take an Argumentative Writing coure. My assignment was to compose a Rogerian style essay about a controversial topic while incorporating elements from Shakespeare's Othello. It was perhaps the most difficult essay I had ever attempted. And I really do mean attempted because I didn't finish it. At two in the morning, I finished what I was willing to turn in: a pleading for a better grade than a zero. I never wrote the rogerian essay. Instead, I wrote a little essay about my life and what went wrong entitle Oh Why, Oh Why? I hope you enjoy the first part.
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Long ago, but not too long ago, if you happened to be walking down an old quiet street near a catholic hospital, you might have spied a child being born. It wasn't unusual for children to be born at a hospital, for most children are hardly born anywhere else, neither was it unusual for hospitals to have fraternity wards where babies are placed in incubators. But what would have been unusual was if you were were walking down an old quite street near a catholic hospital on this particular night. It was a Wednesday night, a work night, with no time to spare for late night excursions to local hopstitals. Instead, you might have been with friends or family members celebrating the fall of another great empire. With glasses filled high, you should have been celebrating as all Americans do. This was the year 1991, the fall of the Soviet Union, the great clamour after the wintry wars, the year a child was born in a catholic hospital.
For whatever happened to that child, from there to now, will not be told in every detail and in every way - heaven knows it would take almost twenty-two years. But what will be told is how unusual his life was, and how it became tangled, and perplexed, and every other sort of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination. For it began early one morning during his 5th grade year.
"Logan!... No reply... "Logan!" ... No reply... "Logan!" ... still no reply. His mother came in slamming open the door and ripping the binds nearly off their hinges. For an obscure reason, as we may all know the nasty habit of an unwilling spirit near a fragile device, the clock at the bed-side had malfunctioned during the night. The alarm didn't sound and he was late for school.
In shorter time than it takes an angry mother to count to three, Logan was sitting at the breakfast table looking like a tornado through the prairie land. But he was eathing without another worry. Surely the storm was at it's eye. Was there no bus-stop to which he would, shortly, be frantically running? Was there not a bus drive who brought doughnuts every Wednesday or a teacher at the other end of the transit system by which little people were kept to tight schedules and packed classrooms? Nay, the only transit system was his sppon and his bowl of cereal. And if you ask me, they were quite efficient.
By breakfast's end, Logan should have been sitting with is classmates preparing to share his dreams of becoming something when he became an adult. His previous classmates wanted to be lawyers and doctors and teachers and firefighters and policement and everything to do with great services for the common good. But not Logan. Logan wasn't at school today, nor any other day that year, because in his fifth grade year his mother began teaching at home.
In the 6th grade year, opening his father's chemistry book, he didn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor or a teacher or a firefighter or a policeman or anytihgn to do with great services for the commond good. Logan wanted to be a physicist or a chemist. And what naturally attraced his attention wasn't the beginning of his book, where the safe metals and metloids could be found, it was the back where chapters started with Nuclear. The more complex they were, the more he wanted to learn. The more dangerous they were, the more he wanted to master. Perahps, it was best he wasn't at a school with packed classrooms and tight schedules. Perhaps, a slip of a wrist or a push of a schedule would send more than enough wind to rattle a paper's edge - and all the doughnuts would be burnt as well. For whatever purpose he was not at school, he was learning at home in a most unusual way.
But promise is a promise and, when I promise not to tell every detail, I mean to keep it. There was a long span between his 6th grade year and his college summer class where he expanded his mind and learned how the world didn't work. He learned commerce and how to have business talks with representatives of multi-million dollar companies - of course, between highschool exams. He traveled the United States and learned about the Civil War by the sites he walked. But the comings and goings of adventure between his elementary and college education is succumbed with too much detail. It was unusual, yes, but his college summer class is where his life ceased to be unusual and became tangled, and perplexed, and ever other sort of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination. His summer college class was fraught with essays.
He was not longer awaken with spontaneous explosions from his door and his eye's seared by he sudden burst of light. No one was yelling his name or counting to three - no one was awake. Instead, a small device near his bed-side miraculously began to work. For, miraculously, was the only way to describe the working of that clock. The sound was that static screech between channels. It was broken without hope. But every morning at 5:30am, between Monday and Thursday, Logan slumped out of bed and crawled to the shower. Not even tornadoes dance at this time.
The shower brought no comfort. Slouching the corner, face to the wall, he would fancy catching the lasts bits of sleep or preparing for the upcoming class. On his desk, in his room, he knew the essay wasn't complete. He knew any mad attempt to finish the last lines would end in failure, he knew his time was up. His life had ceased being unusual and became tangled, and perplexed, and every other srot of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination at 6:30am. But this is the story of a child born in an old catholic hopsital, on a Wednesday night, the year a great empire fell.
As a student, I know what's it's like when you see another essay deadline. You don't see completion, you don't see victory. You see something dark, and cold, and long nights, and early mornings, and an endless spiral to insanity. In short, it is universally agreed by the student body that essays are the bane to good health. But this insignificant body of "soon-to-be's" aren't the only ones. They are not alone against college professors. There are legions of psychologists and neuroscientists who agree that sleep deprivation, the leading side-effect to essays, alter emotional balances, increase a human's probability of being violent (emtionally and, potentially, physically), reduce cognitive reflexes, and reduces overall retention.
(To be continued...)
