Week Four: I am not a special snowflake.

I am NOT a special snowflake.

So often, after explaining my views about unschooling, I am told "not everyone could do that. You, you're different. You have a thirst to learn. You clearly are a human with opinions, and you have gone out and actually wanted to learn things, and here you are. Not everyone is like that. You're special."

Given, this may not be the exact words that are said, but the idea behind them is there. Always lurking behind the fact that I can measure up to whoever is holding up the yardstick is the subtle (or not so subtle) inference that I just happened to get lucky, and that I'm not the norm.

Before I go any further, I want to make something abundantly clear. I am not saying that my lifestyle is for everyone, since I know a few friends who have been unschooled for their entire lives, and then chose to go to school because they wanted to. I'm not saying that some people don't need structure. I'm not saying that everyone would do well in the intensely radical life that I lead.

Here is what I am saying.

I am not an abnormality.

I am not some sort of wonder child who has managed to reach beyond my hopelessly unstructured and uncontrolled life to grasp at knowledge against all odds.

I am not a special snowflake.

When you tell me that I'm an anomaly, that I'm doing well, but that's not the norm, you are doing a number of things, and none of them are kind.

First, you are seriously underselling the vast majority of people, and their abilities to function in the world. I am a firm believer in the theory that, if given the chance and left to their own devices, most (if not all people) will end up knowledgeable in whatever field that interests them. A structured, oppressive school system feeds information into people's heads so that they can take tests well. This is what school is for. School is not for following passions, for finding out who you are, or who you want to be. It is for taking tests and passing tests.


Secondly, you are saying that I have, against all odds, managed to be a person with thoughts, intellect, and a grasp on what everyone so maddeningly calls "the real world*". When you think you're complimenting me, what you're really doing is congratulating me on overcoming my life.

My life is not something to be overcome. It's not something that I struggled against. It's not a miracle that I'm doing as well as I am.

So in closing, even if you think it's a compliment, please don't tell me that I'm a special case, and that I'm just better/more motivated than everyone else.

If you want to compliment me, just please do not do it in a way that makes it seem like I have overcome my chosen education.

Thank you,

~Whimsy

P.S. Thinking about doing a series of posts on unschooling.

P.P.S. The heavy topics will eventually go away, and we'll go back to Whimsy's Usual Madness.

*There's so much to say about this, too.

Week Three: Thoughts On The School System.

A friend of mine asked for suggestions on how his English teacher could improve her teaching. Well, it kind of evolved into this rambling reply regarding my first few thoughts on the school system.

Here is the massive message I sent, totally unchanged from it's first draft.

My thoughts on the school system are MANY AND VARIED, but my viewpoint boils down to this:

Firstly, compulsory education is kind of bullshit. No matter how old you are, you should have the right to choose if you do or do not want to do something.

Secondly, all educations should be set up like college is: if you want to go, you go. If you don't, you don't.

Thirdly, regarding college: There should be no "required classes". If I'm going to college to get a piece of paper that says "Yes, good on you, you know lots about maths", then why should I be required to take an English class (and vice versa).

Fourthly, testing is not, never has been, and never will be an accurate way to measure if learning has taken place, or if you have knowledge of a certain subject.

Fifth, (and this is more of a collective social consciousness type-thing), there needs to be NO STIGMA AROUND WHAT CLASSES/SCHOOLING/COLLEGE/LACK-THEREOF YOU CHOOSE. On the flipside, there needs to be a general consensus that if I'm home/un/private/public schooled, that does not mean that I am anything other than a human being. Do not assume that I am a genius, or that I have no social skills, or that I am stupid, or that I have no thoughts of my own, or any of those things.

Sixth, respect. Now, I'm not talking about the mouth-shut-listen-to-me-while-I-am-talking kind of respect for teachers, but more along the lines of I-am-a-person-you-are-a-person-respect.

Seventh, safe space. Create one, enforce it. If someone's breaking the safe space, get them either A: spoken to about it or B: removed from the space.

Really, there's only two of these that your teacher-person can do anything about, and that's the last two. I'm going to go into a bit more detail on each of them now.

Respect: the thing is, I think a lot of teachers think that the students should respect them purely on the grounds that they are The Teachers. In reality, all this hierarchy crap is just that, crap. If you are expecting respect without wanting to give it back, that's just not going to work. I seriously doubt that in a teacher's personal life, they expect respect without giving respect in return. Bottom line, your students are people, same as you, no matter what age they are. Treat them like you want to be treated. Don't be an ass based on age or supposed classroom hierarchy.

Safe Space: this kinda falls under the umbrella of respect, but since this is super-crazy important, I'll say it again. Please, if you ask your teacher to do any one thing, ask her to make sure that her classroom is a safe space for everyone, including and especially lgbtq+ students. If she can educate herself about making sure she's not making unintentionally hurtful comments, and if she can make it damn clear that anyone who does is going to be spoken to about it, and that she won't tolerate that kind of crap, all the better for EVERYONE.


~Whimsy

Week Two: Whimsy's list of wonderful things!

Lat year, I posted a getting-to-know-you type blog. This year, I'm doing a bit more simple version of the same thing.

January 2012: Whimsy's list of wonderful things*.

Snow at night
Re-reading books
Dance parties in the kitchen
Green things
Hugs
Christmas crackers
Lists
Rainbows
Waltzing
Puns
The smell of books
Clever television
Making music
Writing
Baking cookies
The internet
Trees
Art
Spices
Woodsmoke
Stars
Sock puppets
Surrealist humor
Webcomics
Magic
Speculative fiction
Tailcoats
Quotes
Books
Laughter
Friendship


This is by no means an exhaustive list. However, I'm already behind with my posting for this project. HOWEVER, I will prevail!

I've started teaching the younger kids again, and as usual, it's wonderful, and the kids are charmingly adorable. I love them all, I really do.

Talk to you soon!
~Whimsy


* I am of the opinion that what a person likes gives a great slice of who they are as a person.

Week One: Bringing back The BOW Project and my personal resolutions.

As some of you may recall, last year, I took on a crazy project. The attempt was to write and publish 52 posts in a year, one each week.

As you may have noticed, I failed this project. However, I reached 45 posts in 2011, not counting the daily blogs I put out during the month of August. I count that as a success. I mean, I wrote far more than I would have otherwise, and that was the whole point.

Because I haven't learned my lesson from last year, I'm trying again. Yes, The BOW Project is going on into 2012, and I couldn't be happier.

I don't like to do new year's resolutions, and the reason is this: I don't want to feel like I failed at something. I think that too many people set themselves up to fail when they pick the resolutions that they choose. That being said, I'm making some resolutions that I think I can keep up with.

In no particular order:

* Don't run away from new experiences based solely on my anxieties and irrational fears.
* Do things that make me happy.
* Create more things.
* Don't second-guess myself so intensely.
* Do something that I've never done before.
* Write what I'd like to read.

I think those are good goals.

Week Forty-Five: Playing Catch-up

Oh, Yuletide. You're always such an interesting time of year. From the endless Frosty and Rudolph songs on the radio, to making gifts for my friends and family, to finding a tree, all the way to the various holidays that we celebrate, it's always a fun time of year.

This year, as I mentioned previously, I am becoming increasingly more and more fed up with the radio's song choices, and have gone to far as to talk about creating my own station of holiday music for the EXPRESS PURPOSE of not playing any songs about magic snowmen or reindeer. I don't dislike the songs completely, but the frequency is really wearing on me.

As usual, I'm busy at work, creating gifts. I always make gifts, and although it takes a while to get it all done (and my out-of-state friends may end up with late gifties, sadly), I love doing it.

Remember the classes that my family and I teach, the ones that started in September? Well, just yesterday was the final day of the semester, and I could not be prouder of all of the students. It was a lot of fun, and while the workload of getting everything prepared for the ten classes we taught at once was admittedly heavy, I can't say that I didn't enjoy it. We're already brainstorming for next semester, and it's looking like we'll be teaching a whole pile of new classes, and I'm thrilled.

Life is always busy, and right now is no exception. I'll be surprised if I reach my goal of 52 posts by the end of the year, but let me tell you, I'm going to try my best.

This has been a pretty newsy post, so I'll toss it to you all...if there's still anyone reading this, that is.
What's new in your life?

Now I must go so I can sleep so I can wake up and do more Yule elf things.

Cheers,
Whimsy

Week Forty-Four: The Face On The Milk Carton

This was written as a project for one of the classes my family and I teach. We did a book report on our least favorite book from the six that we covered in our Banned Book Club. I had great fun with this.

The Face on the Milk Carton

This book tells the story of a teenage girl who finds out that she was kidnapped as a toddler through a series of totally unrealistic coincidences and absurd conjecture. Janie Johnson is our paper-flat heroine, a girl with no apparent interests other than the boy next door and no more character depth than trying not to drink milk because of her mild lactose allergy. One day, while surrounded by her insipid and wildly annoying friends who don’t seem to really know her at all, (judging by the fact that they can happily ignore that Janie is having a complete and total mental breakdown while they cheerily eat their lunches,) Janie finds a photo of herself in a missing children’s ad on the side of a milk carton. She recognizes the photo of herself from the dress that she’s wearing, goes into a tailspin and promptly decides that her loving parents must have stolen her away from her “real” family at a young age, all in less time than it takes her school lunch to get cold.

Here is where the real fun starts for Janie. Not only does she spend ninety percent of the rest of the book flip-flopping between hysteria and numbness, she also acquires a markedly crappy boyfriend named Reeve and fails every single one of her classes, but she also becomes so attached to the milk carton with her face on it, she can’t be without it for more than an hour at a time.

During poor cardboard Janie’s meltdown of self destruction, the strangest part of the book happens. Nobody notices. Her teachers just simply keep on giving her assignments, not one of them stopping to wonder why this formerly brilliant pupil is doing so poorly. Her friends actually get mad at her for being distant, not even noticing that she’s having full-blown panic attacks in front of them. Her supposed “Best Friend” calls her up one night, and when Janie doesn’t want to make small talk about nail polish and boys, gets so upset that she essentially disowns her as a friend.

When Janie finally reaches her breaking point, she skips school with her boyfriend, Reeve, and takes a four hour trip down to New Jersey to attempt to find her family through searching through a phonebook at then stalking them outside their home. Neither Reeve nor Janie seem to see any problem with this, and they wait creepily in the car while Janie’s assumed biological family comes home from school. In this interlude, Reeve appears to just have been waiting for Janie to be done with her parked-car stalking so that he can ask her to go to a motel. Janie turns him down, and they get back in the car to make the four hour drive back home. About halfway back home, without having exchanged more than six words, Reeve turns off the highway, drives into a astonishingly skeezy motel parking lot, and rents a room using his mother’s credit card. Janie, who has not been interested in finding a motel *wink wink*, turns him down yet again and then they get back in the car and drive away, not even bothering to check out. With Janie’s breakdown taking up most of her brain space, is it really the golden opportunity to try to find a motel?
For the rest of the ride, Reeve doesn’t speak to her until they realize they had better get their stories straight for their parents, who are going absolutely insane from wondering where their children have gone, and then shortly after the road trip to New Jersey, he dumps her.

I think now is a good time to pause the manic action of this book and talk briefly about the writing style. For example, the metaphors weighed down the pace of the book like a dumbbell on a folded paper airplane. As a matter of fact, wading through the metaphors was like sloshing through a four foot vat of jelly. Reading the superfluous metaphors made me feel as if I was drowning in the ocean with thousands of paper cuts all over my skin.

When the plot wasn’t being bogged down by the poor word choices, The Face on the Milk Carton felt both intensely melodramatic and breakneck, slowed down and meticulously described in all the wrong places, and then suddenly the writing would take off and sweep over hours or days of time in a sentence or two. There was no plot arch, and the one big plot point of the book was stretched out into an overlong, dazed and poorly paced literary cacophony of confusion.

In short, The Face on the Milk Carton is a novel full of unrealistic coincidences, gaping plot holes, overly complicated metaphors, and a plot that is stretched so thinly it’s nearly at its breaking point. The underdeveloped characters left me without a speck of sympathy for their unrealistic plights, and the ending, while leaving the story open for a sequel , left me apathetic with no real desire to read onward.

Week Forty-Three: Out Of Hibernation

Hello, bloggy-types!

Yes, I know, it's been a while. I disappeared during November, but on the bright side, I've written my third novel.

It went better than I'd expected, actually. Especially since I had my busiest November on record, managing to finish 50,000 words has been quite the trip. I had very little idea as to what I wanted to do with my novel this year, and almost everything that I'd planned went straight out the window. I couldn't be happier.

As of now, I'm re-reading it, and to my surprise, there's actually some not-that-bad bits in there, including an argument that I particularly liked. Clearly, I'm going to need a lot of time to edit it into something coherent, but at least it's there. I had a really good time with it this year, and I'm really proud of my little fledgeling book-baby.

With the self-imposed challenge of BOW'11, I've obviously missed a handful of weeks, but that's okay, I think. My goal has been revised to post 52 times this year, so look forward to tons of posts until December 31st. Even though I technically failed the guidelines of this challenge, I don't really feel like it. I've posted roughly forty-three more times than I would have without attempting this mad project, and because of that, I have a window to look back at how I was feeling, what I was doing, and who I was throughout this past year, and in that case, it was totally worth it.

It's the Christmas-Yule season now, the house is decorated, and the holiday music is playing over the radio.

For now, I have to say goodbye. It's time to go get the tree, and we need to find the biggest, fattest tree we can, so I must go.

Look out for Whimsy's triumphant return, as I attempt to write 10 blog posts in three weeks.

Happy holidays!
~Whimsy

Week Fourty-Two: Shanta

Once upon a time, I had the best dog ever. Her name was Shanta, and she was everything from a partner in crime to a pillow. Shanta and I grew up at the same time, we spending thirteen years of our lives together. I remember when I was younger, Shanta was a staple in whatever I was doing, whether it was smashing dog treats with rocks and feeding her the mixed up powder as a gourmet doggy restaurant, or playing house in the woods with Shanta as my pet wolf, she was always there.

One year, my sister and I decided that since Shanta was a husky, it would be a brilliant idea to hitch her up to one of the sleds and have her pull us down the hill. Shanta decided that it would be the opposite of brilliant. To our dismay, she was terrified of the sled, and so ended our very short career as mushers.

In the summers, I spent hours making terrifically inedible foods from flowers and sand. Shanta, who wanted to be included, regardless of what it was we were doing, developed a habit of helping herself to whatever blossoms were designated for our colorful salads. In turn, we developed a habit of plucking rhododendron flowers and feeding them to her, in lieu of actual dog treats from the store.

As I grew older, flowers gave way to little bits of whatever food I was eating that day. Carrots and sandwich bread, egg salad and potato chips, you name it, Shanta wanted some. Everything but fruit, that is. She couldn’t stand fruit, yet she would beg for it if we had some. It never seemed to cross her mind that she didn’t, in fact, like apple cores, no matter how much fun we seemed to be having with ours.

When she lived outside, Shanta slept in the snowdrifts, nose tucked under her tail, leaving behind a little round icy divot in the flakes. During her days, she raced through the woods, catching anything foolish enough to wander into her path, and more frequently than not, devouring it. The sheer fact that she could catch birds was a testament to her speed and agility, and her area of the yard became a graveyard for small woodland creatures, while our family struggled to remove the hapless toads that hopped in her way.

Twice, we almost lost her. The first time, we could only assume that she chased after a deer and sprinted out of the range of her invisible fence. The second time, we found her (with the help of some wonderful people) three and a half hours away in Wrentham, MA. She had been hit by a car, broken her leg, and almost certainly been abducted. From that day forward, Shanta became an indoor dog. Her life and our family’s lives changed forever.

A “begging line” was established in the kitchen, and Shanta’s disgusting but well-loved toy, “hamboogie”, moved inside with us. Tina learned to tolerate the new addition, not finding much joy in having an intruder in her cat-only home, and we learned to tolerate the mountain of fluffy white hair that Shanta left wherever she went. The house was full of laughter and an enthusiastic dog. Suddenly, picking up spilled food became Shanta’s job, a job that she was all too happy to take on. I should say, she was happy to clean up everything but the fruit. Old habits die hard.

After a while, I decided that Shanta needed a voice to share her opinions about what was happening around the house, so I became her “tail-voice”, vocalizing on her behalf, and attempting to tap into what she was thinking from the look on her face. It soon became clear to everyone in the house that Shanta had very clear opinions about certain things, like perceived favoritism of the cat, certain high-pitched singers on the radio, what sort of food should be cooked for dinner, and was indefinitely puzzled by the fact that humans shed their entire coats every day, and that while her snowdrifts of hair were a source of annoyance, nobody found the fact that humans sheadded daily odd at all.

It never really occurred to me that, while I was growing and becoming older, Shanta was, too. In my mind, she was always my puppy, and I called her that, as the years past. Last April, Shanta suffered a series of seizures, and rapidly declined, dying a week later.

I miss my puppy every day. She was one of the most sweet, gentle, loving, funny creatures I have ever met, and I am immensely privileged to have spent 13 years of my life with her.

Once upon a time, I had the best dog ever. Her name was Shanta.

Week Fourty-One: NaNoWriMo Prep

Why hello again, my charming bloggians.

As you all know, November is creeping up ever faster that I thought possible. I am without a full-formed plot, without main characters, and without an outline. In addition to this, I will be teaching three days a week in November (and spending countless hours doing prepwork for the classes), attempting to keep sane, not fall behind on my BOW'11 project, and furthermore, the show that I'm in is opening the first weekend of November. It's all I can do to keep my head above water now, let alone attempt to write a book.

So now it's time for me to step back and look at my November in a realistic way. Will I be able to handle all this without going utterly bonkers? Can I take even three minutes to squeeze in another handful of words? No.

Is it madness to think that I could take on a project of this magnitude? Yes.

Will I be doing it anyway, despite my better judgement? You bet.

Am I taking on 50,000 words of a genre that I am not wildly familiar with? Indeed.

How excited am I? There are no words.

~Whimsy

P.S.
Thank you to all those who have commented. I love you all and send tons of hugs your way. I wish I had time to properly write back, but maybe in December? Thanks for sticking with me!

P.P.S. Are you NaNoing this year? What's your book about?

Week Fourty: Everything Is Happening.

Do you ever have one of those weeks where everything is happening at once? Yeah, me too.

So that's why this is just bordering on late. I've been splitting my time between teaching and prepping for 10 different classes on three different days, rehearsing for the show I'm in, trying to get ready for NaNo, still keeping up on my weekly ASL lessons, learning to roller skate for the aforementioned play, read at least a little, keep the laundry going and the house at least marginally clean.

Clearly, it's been a bit nuts over here.

Just today, I spent 2 hours at the local skating rink just practicing going around and not falling over while holing on to a stack of books. Not as easy as one would think, especially since the last time I roller skated was at my cousin's birthday party, when he turned 5 or something. (This would have made me 6 years old.) Two weeks ago, the role I was play in the show swapped from the smallest part to one of the lead roles. For this new part, I have to learn to skate. Yes, I'm trying not to kill myself.

In addition, as I mentioned before, I'm thinking about NaNo. It's looking like my novel this year will be a huge sci-fi crazy-thing, and I couldn't be happier.

Anywho, I'm getting tired (it is 1:15am, after all), so I'll let you all go.

Hoping for a better post next week,
Whimsy

Week Thirty-Nine: Unbridled Enthusiasm

There's something I've noticed, and it's become more and more blatant the more time I spend with young children*.

When young children see something that makes them happy, they show it in every molecule of their body. They see no reason to tone down the absolute joy that they feel. If something is exciting, they jump up and down, squealing with glee. When they find someone who likes the same thing that they like, it's a cause for a party.

Here's the thing. When we grow older, many, many people lose that unbridled enthusiasm. We go from showing our happiness on every inch of our bodies to hiding the fact that we're enjoying inside ourselves. At some point, it's like there's an unspoken rule that a certain amount of joy and outwardly expressed emotion that becomes uncool.

Now, pardon me, but this is where I would like to jump in. I think that the idea that we have to squelch the fact that we're happy is complete and utter bollocks. The whole "cool people don't subtly jump up and down, quietly cheering when they find the book that they wanted at the library" idea is completely absurd.

I know many, many people who have a bunch of wonderful interests, and yet, most of the time, they live in a state of restraining themselves from letting themselves really become enthusiastic about what makes them happy.

When you can't even express your joy outwardly, I think that's so very sad. Furthermore, when people do express the fact that they're excited, I've actually seen them apologize for it. Being enthusiastic is not a bad thing, people. Let's stop treating it as such.

So go ahead, enthuse about your favorite books. Spend the whole day in excited anticipation of a new episode of a TV show. Do a happy spin because you've found the exact tea you wanted at the grocery store.

Just don't let enthusiasm die out. Please. If enthusiasm dies, what a bland world we'd have.

Happy Saturday, everyone!





*And by "young children", I pretty much mean anyone from the age 6 to 11...loosely around there, at least.

Week Thirty-Eight: Boy Meets Boy

I was poking around on the internet, and I happened to come across some surprising controversy about David Levithan's "Boy Meets Boy". Now, if you haven't read the book, you should be able to gather that yes, it's a gay love story. The people I saw disliking the book were not people who don't support lgbtq people, but instead tended to be lgbtq people themselves. The reasoning seemed to be that it was unrealistic, that a world like Paul's is so removed from what we have now, it felt weird.

You all know me. I have plenty of opinions, a blog, and a penchant for lgbtq books. Of COURSE I have something to say.

Boy Meets Boy is a romantic comedy in a book. It follows the formula that we are all familiar with after watching a few "chick-flicks". Boy meets boy, boy loses boy, boy re-unites with boy, we all live happily ever after. For some reason, this doesn't feel trite at all, instead, leaving me feeling like I'm drinking the best hot cocoa ever, surrounded by a pile of kittens.

Is the book realistic? Good question. In the same way that Harry Potter, Eragon, Lord of the Rings, or any other alternate reality is realistic, I would have to say yes. When I look for realism, I look for characters reacting in a way that feels right for their background, people who I actually believe could exist. The bottom line is this: do I believe the writer? Can I look past the words on the page and say "yes, you exist"? In the case of Boy Meets Boy, the answer is a resounding yes.

The world that Paul and Noah live in might not look like your world, or like my world, but that doesn't stop me from trusting the author and going along for the ride. And for the space between those two covers, I live in a town where drag queens are the star quarterbacks, where the local scout group is not the homophobic boy scouts, but instead, the co-ed, diversity-friendly Joy Scouts. On those pages, I stand in Noah's room and paint music, and I eat at Veggie D's.

Do I believe that a world like that could exist? With all my heart. That's the world I look forward to living in one day.

One thing I have to say is this. Do yourself a favor. No matter who you are, or what words you use to identify with, you should read this book. Read it and bask in how wonderful it will make you feel.

~Whimsy

P.S. Happy Banned Book Week! Boy Meets Boy has never been banned, but it's been challenged at a few libraries. Celebrate Banned Book Week with me, read one.

Week Thirty-Seven: "This what I get for trying to avoid social interaction."

Before I say anything else, I want to make it perfectly clear that this story is one hundred percent true, not embellished by anything, exactly as I remember it. All right. Here we go.

Because of Tropical Storm Irene, our home and surrounding property sustained damage, so we put in a request to FEMA for disaster relief. On Sunday, the FEMA guy* came to our house to assess the damage.

Being the socially suave animal that I am, I always feel awkward when service people come to the house and I'm just sitting there, doing nothing, or carrying on with my normal life. I realize that I don't need to feel awkward, but the fact remains that I do. There's something that feels just WRONG with just having jelly toast when the furnace man is working his butt off and I'm doing nothing to help, not even paying any attention to him.

I actually had the conscious thought "I don't feel like being social right now", so instead of remaining at the kitchen table and continuing to work on a plan for NaNoWriMo (like a normal person would), I decided to take my noveling folder and head upstairs to my room, to essentially hide away until the FEMA guy had gone. Since there was no damage to the upstairs, I figured that I would be out of the way. I sat down on my bed and put my headphones on, turned up the Jonathan Coulton music** and pulled out my pen.

Everything was wonderful until mom called up the stairs "We're coming up there, are you okay?" now, this might be a normal occurrence in someone else's home, but my room isn't a mom-free zone, and announcing her presence as she came up the stairs is something that just never happens. Even though it was a normal thing to say, it felt like she was yelling "come on, make sure you've got your pants on."

So I looked up from my writing, and suddenly, I realized that I had left at least three bras on my desk, the middle of the floor, and on my CD rack. Panicking now, I ran around like mad, scooping up my underthings from their precarious positions where they had been strewn, and cursing my untidy nature. Finally, I managed to corral my brassieres, and had just managed to tuck them away in the bra-housing-place, when the FEMA guy came up the stairs. I posed myself in what I hoped was a casual place, over by my desk.

This would have been a perfectly fine idea if I had followed through with actually being interested in what was on my desk, but because of my aforementioned untidy nature, there was a stack of clean laundry to put away, a pile of cd's, and no place to work on something that would genuinely hold my attention for a few minutes, so I did what any normal person would do. I just sort of stood there, watching him and smiling like a loon.

My mom, standing behind him, having no idea why I looked the the cat that had just eaten the proverbial canary, kept giving me looks, trying to ask me what on earth was up by only using her eyes. Of course, all I could do was continue to smile at her, in what I hoped was a charming manner, all the while thinking "Oh god, this what I get for trying to avoid social interaction".

He just kind of looked at me, after he finished measuring the room and said, "Well, I'll let you get back to what you were doing, then". I think I thanked him and then he left, so I got out my guitar and played some wizard rock***.

After a little while, I thought that it might be awkward if I stayed in my room for the whole time the FEMA guy was here, so I packed up my stuff and made my way downstairs. My sister, who had the sense to remain at the kitchen table and keep on with her sewing project, saw me return from my hidey-hole, and without my needing to say a single word, casually said "He's outside".

I spent the rest of his visit pretending to play it really cool, but paying VERY close attention to the door to see if Mister FEMA Man was going to return.

He didn't.

The moral of this story is twofold. One, I am a gloriously socially awkward human being, and two, hiding from the FEMA man only makes it worse.

Good people of the blog, this is my brain. Good night.

* Dear FEMA guy: if you are reading this, I hope I amused you, and that you didn't think I was hiding drugs in my room or something.

** The amount of time I've spent listening to The Princess Who Saved Herself and watching the Doctor Who music video that a fan did to go along with it is absurd.

*** Story of my life, people.

Week Thirty-Six: Spoiler-free thoughts about Pottermore and my own personal Sorting.

Wow. It sure feels like it's been a while since I've posted, but I know it's just because BEDA is over, and I'd been in the habit of blogging every day.

As is usually the case, I've been busy. The show that I'm in is going into our third week of rehearsals, with 2 1/2 hours of rehearsal three times a week. Everyone is hilarious, and I'm having a great time. As is with last winter/early spring, I'll be teaching classes with my family at a homeschool co-op. Last year, we taught 3 classes at one co-op, all day on Tuesday. This fall, we've got proposals in at three different co-ops, and if all the classes we've proposed get the minimum enrollment, we'll be teaching 10 different classes. I have to say, I'd really excited about this. Between proposals for Banned Book Club (something I've already started calling "the BBC" in my head), teaching American Sign Language to two different age groups, and all the other amazing stuff, I really can't wait to get back to teaching. Autumn, here I come!

In other news, I finally got my Pottermore welcome e-mail!
When it appeared in my inbox, I literally jumped out of my chair and went shrieking into the kitchen saying something to the effect of "It's HERE! My Pottermore e-mail! I'm MAGICAL!!!" Seriously. Best e-mail ever.

No spoilers will be in this post, so don't worry. I wouldn't do that to people.

I've completed the first book, and it was amazing. Being a die-hard Potterhead, just having some new HP related things, directly from Jo Rowling herself is amazing. Without saying any more, I just have to say that I can't wait for book two!

Of course, the question that seems to be looming over everyone's head is about the Sorting. I was so nervous and SO excited, so naturally when I reached that part, I was just a tiny bit nerved up. I've self-identified as a Slytherin since the age of 9, (over half my life, and over ten years), so I have some very strongly held attachments to the house of the snake.

I took ages to complete my Sorting test, because I wanted to give the honest answers SO badly without trying to skew the results (either subconsciously or not) in any direction. After agonizing over every question, I pressed the button to get my result, the screen changed over to a bright, brilliant and shining RED.

I was in shock. Gryffindor? The house that I've spent years of my life teasing? The one house that I said that I wouldn't be happy about getting into on Pottermore?

I'll admit it. I started crying.

After a while, I managed to pull myself together and began to come to terms with the fact that being placed in Gryffindor is not, in fact, a bad thing*, and that the fact that I've been sorted into a house that I didn't think I was in does not mean that my whole life was a lie.

Because of my Sorting, I've been taking a new, closer look at Gryffindor, as a house. Some of the stereotypically Gryffindor traits are not things that I hold very dear to my heart, but once I looked past the James Potter-esque contingency, I can see that Gryffindors are just as varied as I've been trying to convince everyone that Slytherins are.

So much of my time has been spent trying to convince people that Slytherins aren't all bad. There's a surprising amount of house prejudice out there, and the misconception of Slytherins as selfish, evil, manipulative, cold-hearted bastards who care for themselves first, foremost and only really bothers me. As soon as people find out that I am a Slytherin, I've had every reaction from people physically backing away from me, to giving me really odd looks and asking why I wanted to be a Slytherin, to telling me I'm "too nice" to be a Slytherin. I think it's absurd that you can be "too nice" to be a Slytherin, just as I think it's absurd that you can be "not nice enough" to be a Hufflepuff. People who are sorted into different houses are still just people, and they come in a variety of personalities.

We need to remember that we see the Harry Potter books from Harry's point of view, and that what he perceives is not going to be 100% accurate (can anyone remember his repeated accusations of Snape or Draco being behind everything that seems just a slight bit off?) and that Harry is a person, with his own experiences coloring his view of the world, including the houses at Hogwarts.

I've been trying to remember that (just like is true with Slytherins) there's not just one kind of Gryffindor. Remus Lupin, one of my favorite characters in the HP series is a Gryffindor. So I have to say that while I'm not exactly happy with where I got Sorted, I'm coming to terms with being a Heart Slytherin and a Pottermore Gryffindor. What a weird mix.

So thank you, J.K.R. Thank you for forcing me to look at myself differently, and for giving us HP fans even more to look forward to. Thank you for writing, and thank you for helping make people into readers.

I'll see you all on Pottermore.

~Whimsy

*Please understand that I have many friends who are Gryffindors, and I love them all dearly, it's just that's not where I saw myself being placed, and after living as a very proud and out-there Slytherin, it can feel not-particularly-fantastic to be told that you're playing quidditch for the other team, as it were.


P.S. If you're on Pottermore, feel free to add SilverSpell70, and if you do, leave me a comment here so I can know who you lovely people are. Cheers!

Week Thirty-Five: My Last BEDA post, and a wrap-up of the Unschooling conference!

Written on September 2, my first day with power since the 28th. Still no internet, but flush toilets are working!

[Edit as of 9/4: Electricity is back, and so is the internet. everything's working again!]

The conference I went to was utterly fantastic. I got to see some of my friends who I haven't seen since last year, and I got to meet some new friends who are equally amazing as the ones who I already know.

It was five days of hanging around with the most supportive, creative, and really genuinely nice people I can think of.

As it is usually, my conference was a mix of games, thoughtful conversations, music, and silliness. I did end up speaking on the panel, and I have to say that it was absolutely nerve-wracking, and I really can't see myself doing that again. My fellow panelists were amazing, and were great about letting me take the microphone and shove it into their hands when I couldn't answer the question we were asked. If either of you are reading this, please know that I am so grateful for how nice you were to me.

I did end up preforming at the talent show, in two different acts. I played and sung Here Comes My Baby as a solo act, and then I did a duet with my friend where we sung On The Rise from Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog. I have video of both those performances, and I'll probably upload them to YouTube and post them here when I get internet back again.

One night, we decided to learn how to dance Thriller, and I have to say, I have never had so much fun learning a dance. (Also, there's a LOT of pelvic thrusting that goes on in that dance.) We all got together and did Thriller together at the dance, and there was a group of maybe...15 people, all zombie-walking in synch. So. Cool.

Of course, just like last year, there was a LOT of playing Werewolf...and staying up to un-godly hours. It's also my one year anniversary of starting to learn sign, and it was SO helpful (and awesome) to be able to sit there in person and have a whole conversation with my ASL tutor and not even need to say a single word. It really showed me how far I had come in a year.

Going to this conference is rejuvenating. When every one of my age peers are getting ready to go to college, or finish up high school, or do something very school-related, it's nice to have a reminder that I'm not the only one who's continuing on this (admittedly radical) path.

It's hard to believe that I won't see a LOT of these people until next year, but I've made promises that we'll keep in touch on the computer, and for some of them, promises that we'll actually see each other in person more than once a year.

The worst part of the whole conference is giving everyone hugs and then walking away to your own car. I try not to become all melodramatic about it, but I couldn't resist literally hanging on to one of my friend's ankles when we had to leave him. Goodbyes suck. A lot.

At the same time, I know it's not a final goodbye, just more of a "see you again". Next year, it'll start all over again. A wonderful conglomeration of hugging, dances, late nights, games, conversations, new experiences, community, art, music, laughter, support, bravery, connections, and most of all, joy.

~Whimsy

Failure, but not really.

Written on September 2, 2011.

Well, as you can most certainly tell, I failed BEDA. However, it was not for lack of trying on my part.

You see, I live in an area that pretty much got the crap kicked out of it by Tropical Storm Irene. Because of Irene, my family ended up staying an extra day at the hotel. Frankly, I wasn't complaining about that, because I got to go to the picnic on Monday, and spend more time with my friends who I rarely get to see.

When we finally made it home on Monday night, it was to a house without electric lights, flush toilets, a way to cook, keep food cold, running water for a shower, a telephone, and yes...no internet either. Prior to that time, I was feeling pretty good about BEDA, since I had written an extra blog so that if I was tired on Monday, I wouldn't have to worry about failing this project.

On the way home from the conference, it was abundantly clear as to WHY we had no power. Everywhere I looked, trees had collapsed on power lines, sometimes blocking an entire road. And I'm not exaggerating when I say you could not go a quarter of a mile down pretty much any given road before you saw another tree, upended on power lines. Driving around at night was particularly weird. No traffic lights, no friendly glow from people's living rooms, no street lamps, no floodlights on front lawns, just...nothing. After arriving home that first night, we all sort of stopped and stared at the sky. I'm telling you, it has never been so clear, and I have never seen so many stars. It was beautiful.

One of my mothers, Nay works for the power company, and she's still working 6am-10pm every day, trying to fix all the damage from Irene. At first, my town didn't have a single person with power. We were 100% dark. And we weren't the only ones, by far. As of yesterday, there isn't a single town in my state that is completely up and running.

I have to say, despite the fact that we didn't have any of the conveniences that we were used to, it wasn't all horrible. In fact, we actually had company staying with us until Wednesday. A couple of friends came back from the conference with us, and we had a lovely time. Hauling water from the brook to flush the toilet with wasn't fun, but sitting around a campfire and playing guitar, squeezebox and eating baked potatoes with friends certainly was. Our days were filled with music that we made ourselves, flying kites, wonderful conversations, and meals eaten by candle-light.

When something like this happens, it really shows you how many people care. We've had some really wonderful people who have brought us food, water, and let us use their showers.

I'm so grateful for my friends, my family, and above all, running water and flush toilets.

~Whimsy

Week Thirty-Four: Wibbly-Wobbly-Posty-Wosty

Greetings and salutations.

As I did last year, I'm putting together one more blog post than I think I'll need, simply because I get home from the conference completely worn out and very, very happy.

So here we are.

At the time you're reading this, it's August 28th. There are just 4 days left until BEDA is over. This month just flew by.

I'm going in for my first read-through tomorrow for Leading Ladies. It'll be interesting to see who else is in the cast, and to get a better idea of my line load and who Aunt Florence is as a character.

At the time I'm writing this, I have to pack up EVERYTHING for the conference that, at the time YOU'RE reading this, I've just gotten home from, far to tired to actually post a blog that makes an ounce of sense.

Now, as I'm writing this, I have roughly five zillion things to do and no time to do them in.

I must run, and I will write to you all tomorrow (for you) and in four days (for me).

I feel a bit like a Time Lord, actually. You think my posts are all linear, but really they're more like wibbly-wobbly posty-wosty...stuff.

Until we meet again,
Whimsy

Tragic Characters: a post I'd like you to read.

A friend of mine, Sarah (@NotReallyDaria) just tweeted and asked why we're drawn to tragic characters.

I just might have an answer for her.

The reason why I, personally like tragic characters is because I feel sorry for them. That's not the only reason, but I think it helps a lot. It puts your sympathies with that character, and from that point on, you're on "their side", as it were.

We feel bad for the character, and the more crap that gets dumped on them, the more we feel bad for them, and the more we like them. That's why we always root for the underdog. It's not interesting to have a character for whom everything goes right.

Let's take Snape, for instance. He's a tragic character if there EVER was one. Our hearts go out to this poor man for what he's suffered through, and we start to forgive him for the bad decisions he's made. We allow him leniency, because of what happened to him.

I, personally actively dislike characters who are perfect. People aren't perfect, and shouldn't expect them to be. Show the flaws, the not-quite-so-pretty parts. Show that there's more to your character than ingrained goodness, and allow us to feel like she's real. Don't make him a person I can't relate to, give him something that makes me say, "yes. I believe that you exist, if only for a moment, and only on this page".

Characters with tragedy give us even more to sympathize with, and we find them fascinating because of that. We wonder what we'd be like in that situation, if only subconsciously, and we spend our time hoping that they'll be able to get themselves out of whatever pit they're in.

Either that, or we watch as they fall further and further, unable to help and pull the character that we've become attached to out from the horrible mess that they've gotten themselves into. Either way, we can't look away, because we've gotten emotionally invested from the all this crap that was dumped on the poor character in the beginning.

So I think that's why. It's partly that we get drawn to the in the first place, out of pity, or something like it, and then it becomes that we're drawn in. We remain attached.

I hope that answered your question, Sarah.

~Whimsy

P.S. If there's anything that you'd like to hear my thoughts on/topics to blog about, by all means, please leave them in the comments!

Writing accidents.

My online identity has really became a part of me. You know how I know this? Well, the a few weeks ago, I had a celebration* at my house, and we ask everyone to mark their cups.

So I pick up the sharpie, uncap it and write Whimsy with a florish. And when I say I wrote Whimsy, I mean I wrote it instead of my name. Yes, I have officially become Whimsy, even in my offline life.

I only did it once, but I did it with such confidence, that was what was funny. I did go back, after I noticed and write my given name in front of Whimsy.

Have any of you done that, or something like that?

Still at the unschooler's conference, playing guitar with friends and staying up until 3am playing card games...

~Whimsy



* This was for Lughnassadh, one of the 8 Sabbats on the pagan wheel of the year.

Whimsy Speaks!

Hello! While you're reading this, I will be off at my annual unschooler's conference.

There's something so affirming about being with people who don't challenge your life, who just support you for who you are, and the conference is one of those places.

This year, for the first time, I will be speaking in front of a whole TON of people. This is both terrifying and amazing. I'm terrified because talking without a script, out in front of a bunch of people is scary.

The panel I'm speaking on is called "Ask a Grown Unschooler", where people can ask me (and some other amazing people as well) questions about what our plans are for the future, what we liked about being unschooled, and anything else they can think of.

Now, as much as I love being onstage (oh, and I do...SO MUCH), it's nervous-making to go up there and be myself. Just Whimsy, no hiding behind a script. I'm sure that says something about me, but I'm just more comfortable with pre-determined words.

So, wish me luck, my friends! I'll be sure to tell you all about the conference when I get back!

~Whimsy