Well...now that I've spoken with the handy-dandy tech support and spent 3 extremely productive hours turning my computer on and off, I now know what's wrong with my internet...nothing (Hmm, Lo, do we sense some hostility?) I will now attempt to recreate my original blog entry about the NCLB Act. Trisha was the only person who had posted before me the first time around and I will try to stay true to that original post. Here goes: While I sat reading the No Child Left Behind Act, I found myself furiously highlighting and bitterly chuckling to myself about some of the language, purposes and goals mentioned. Like Trisha, I was most bothered by Section 301, Title III--Language Instruction for Limited English Proficient and Immigrant Students; however, not for quite the same reasons. Yes, the bill states that students with limited English proficiency should meet the same expectations as native speakers, and without the help of bilingual instruction. As concerned as I am for the children, I am more concerned (on a purely personal level) for the teachers, my mom being one of them. After 33 years of teaching, half of those years in Ohio where there were not very many non-English speakers, she is now taking classes that teach the teacher how to teach these students. If that sounds confusing and ridiculous, it is. Living in the Southwest and so close to Mexico, I realize that our schools are going to have students who speak Spanish. And many people here, myself included, are able to speak and understand enough to "get by." But what happens when a student who speaks Arabic is placed in one of these classrooms? This year, The ESL--or rather ELL (English Language Learner)--teacher would come to my mom's class and sit with the Arabic student and try to relay what was being taught. Not only is her entrance and exit disruptive to the valuable "learning process," but there were constantly two voices speaking at the same time. Next year, there will be no ELL teacher to "help." My mom has been named the "designee" for her grade level, as the teacher who will have ALL ELL students. She has taken 20 "professional development" hours of training, she will need to use different methods of teaching and more visuals like graphs, charts, etc. in order to clearly relay the information. Poor woman's retiring in three years. Things aren't what they used to be. And if all that doesn't sound bad enough and the general concern for teachers is much less than mine, let's consider the students. The ELL student will spend all day, grappling with information in a different language from his own. He will then return to a home in which his parents don't even speak English and the day's efforts will have been in vain. Also, what about those other students in the classroom, who do know English? How are they to compete with the attention of a teacher who is catering toward a non-English speaker. I thought the act was NO Child Left Behind. But these students will be. My other problem with the document is the word "accountable" used several times in reference to teachers, educational agencies, and schools. They will be held accountable for the progress of the students. They will be held accountable for the English proficiency skills. However, parent participation is merely encouraged and promoted. Where's their accountability?

Sorry, don't know why this posted twice.

Ok, I'm the first to enter my blog this round, so I might be setting myself up for embarrassment and ridicule if no one else came away with my same query: Am I missing a couple pages at the end? I truly thought we would find out who this mysterious narrator is. Perhaps it is alluded to and I'm too dense to recognize it. I also found it quite odd that the book should end with the story of Dean Makepeace, as he was such an obscure (please don't hate me for choosing that word) character throughout the novel. He rarely makes an appearance and I can't help but equate the ending with that of a cheap thriller where the villain is revealed in the end to be someone of no consequence. That said, I think I may be projecting a harshness toward this book that I don't necessarily feel. I really did enjoy the book and can identify traces of Hemingway's style in the writing. Last semester, Dr. Scruggs reminded me of the "iceberg theory" surrounding Hemingway's writing. Not having read Hemingway since high school and having failed at that time to invest much in his writing, I had forgotten Hemingway's own confession of his style: "If it is any use to know it, I always try to write on the principle of the iceberg. There is seven-eighths of it underwater for every part that shows. Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg. It is the part that doesn't show. If a writer omits something because he does not know it then there is a hole in the story." I see this same theory at work in Wolff's story as well. On the surface, we are to believe that the narrator plagiarizes another's story because he believes it to be his own. Yet, when reading the plagiarism segment, I couldn't help but think that the narrator was indeed, subconsciously, retelling Bill White's story. Susan's story is unmistakably about repression stemming from religion, not just class. The fact that the narrator draws comparisons from her account of taking the bus to the Y and their shared "cigarette-craving," illustrates how much he missed the point. Yes, he knows she's Jewish and must hide it, as he believes to be true of himself. But, as we discussed in class (and I am in complete agreement with Keren), he is not Jewish and truly has nothing to hide. His friends know that he was raised a Catholic. So although he can elicit certain superficial parallels, he cannot appreciate the origin of Susan's struggle--as can Bill. Somehow, I gather that the narrator knows this--hence the "iceberg theory"--and he writes the story on behalf of Bill. When the two boys are together in their room discussing their stories, Bill's own truth of not having written a story is reflected in the narrator's thoughts. He himself has not written a word, yet claims that it is "going...Like gangbusters" (118). Bill returns with his own over-enthusiastic claim that his is "like a house afire. Like crazy. Like nobody's business" (118). The story ends there with no reflection upon the statement from the narrator. Here, I deduce that he knew the truth of Bill, just as he knew the truth of himself--he hadn't written a thing. When he copies the story and substitutes his own name for "Ruth," essentially, he is testing the limits for a response to such a "taboo" story. Upon its acceptance and praise, the narrator seems to have broken some new ground for Bill who hides his identity. Yet, by not using Bill's name, he has not risked anything on his friend's behalf. Here is just one instance where I see Hemingway's "iceberg theory" at work. There are others, but I fear I have written too much already that is based solely on speculation and I may be way off base. For those who think this is crazy, I hope it at least provided a good laugh.

A few pages into my reading of Old School, I was struck by the significance of characters' names, most notably Makepeace and Gershon. After the narrator's encounter with the school janitor, which results in a visit to the dean's office, I referred back to other names to see if they held the same value as the two men. Makepeace seems the most straightforward characterization of his name, especially when he urges the narrator to "clear things up with Gershon" (21), and even the subtle act of leading applause for Robert Frost in what seems to be a moment of uncomfortable silence. Speaking of Gershon, his name became more meaningful with the information of his Jewish heritage and his experiences during the war. Gershon, an Old Testament figure, is paralleled to Wolff's Gershon. The biblical figure is appointed service to the building of the tabernacle. Wolff's custodian leads a life of service as well. Gershon, whose name means "banishment," along with other Israelites, is commanded to leave Sinai. I equate this with Gershon and other Jews being taken from their homes to camps during the war. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but it does seem significant that this name over others was chosen. Even the narrator's friends have names that suggest a deeper meaning. George Kellogg and Jeff Purcell possess fairly prominent names: Kellogg calling to mind, among many of that name, the cereal manufacturer. Purcell, I think, referencing the Baroque composer. I have yet to understand the importance, if any, of these names but I think I have a fair analysis of Bill White's name. There seems to be a lot of emphasis on the fact that Bill is Jewish and the narrator's befuddlement at such an idea. He is the "poster Aryan--so blond, so fair, so handsome" (74). Bill is white ... or rather whitewashed. His very name masks his identity and bears his secret. Which begs the question: Why the need for such a secret? The narrator's concern of his own Jewish heritage is an issue as well. Understandably, it is 1960 and people are still feeling the effects of the Holocaust, but how does this concern play into the narrator's story? Perhaps it is an issue of which he will come to terms as he begins to learn more about himself--which is a major preoccupation in the novel, as Vicki pointed out. To quote myself from my first blog entry, the narrator's "views on politics, religion, sociology, psychology, and life in general" seem to be "in a constant state of metamorphosis depending on how the things [he] read[s] affect [him]." From Maupassant to Frost to Rand, and finally to his old standby Hemingway, the narrator seems to define himself in terms of each author's views on life. While I generally agree with Steve F's assessment of humanizing each author, I believe Wolff's purpose is to illustrate the fleeting nature of young people and how they are easily influenced by outside forces. Perhaps the narrator will come to this conclusion that, again as Steve so eloquently stated, imitation is not the surest path to success. On a personal note, I can sympathize with the narrator's investment in an author, his stories and his characters, specifically Hemingway's In Our Time. Each story in the book is filled with such substantial characters and a very subtle but important message is sent, that it is understandably difficult for the narrator to go back to reading The Fountainhead, which seems a shallow story based on the egomaniacal Frank Lloyd Wright. But that's just my opinion.

Well, where to begin? The final parts of Jude The Obscure are so wonderfully replete with issues to discuss that I cannot decide upon which I would like to write. I will first mention that as a sucker for tragic love stories, I could not help recognizing the parallel between Jude and Anna Karenina, but not as the note on the back cover suggests. I find it interesting that the editor should liken Sue to Anna based on the idea that she is "the modern emancipated woman" as was Anna. In the beginning, Sue does seem unconventional and independent; but once tragedy strikes, as the note also tells us, she "proves unequal to the challenge." Anna would have never returned to Karenin, and did not, even after essentially "losing" her child. Here, I find Jude to be much more Anna's equal than Sue. We've talked in class of Sue's inconsistencies, and her final decisions finally prove her to be a quite a capricious woman. Although she vows to love Jude til the end, her actions dispute her claims--especially when she gives in to her conjugal duties to Phillotson. Anyway, back to Jude and Anna Karenina. Just as Anna was left behind by Vronsky, Jude was left by Sue. Anna returns home only to see her son one last time and then throws herself in front of a train. Jude returns to see Sue one last time and then attempts "suicide" by traveling in such a condition. Jude is entirely honest with himself and with others through the story. He wholeheartedly loves Sue and literally lives for her. Everyone--Sue, Arabella, Phillotson, etc.--knows this to be true. But only one person (herself) knows that Sue loves Jude, although others may suspect, because she is continually denying her affections for him. But not to get off onto a completely different novel that we have not read for the class ... I will move onto another topic of interest. Father Time and the other children. I LOVE Father Time. How could you not love such a child in such a story? I really wish there had been more focus on him in the novel because he is the one character who is completely selfless; although suicide is a pretty selfish act, his motives were otherwise. But I was really disturbed by the lack of suffering on behalf of Jude and Sue. Other than Sue's completely justified hysterics at the gravesite, the reader never encounters suffering, depression, madness, anguish, anything in either of the parents. Only remorse for their own sinful ways, viewing it as a punishment for their own behavior. They are still all for themselves. Sue's declaration that she is "glad--almost" because the children "were sin-begotten. They were sacrificed to teach me how to live! -- their death was the first stage of my purification" (363) indicate just how selfish she and Jude are. What matters to them is how they may be affected by a given situation. They cannot help it and I don't dislike them for it, it's simply fact. Perhaps Jude's exclamation to Sue is the reason for her distant approach to the death of her children: "Yours is not a passionate heart--your heart does not burn in a flame! You are, upon the whole, cold,--a sort of fay or sprite--not a woman!" (353). Her dispassionate manner toward Jude extends to her children as well. That she is "not a woman" is likely to most accurate description of Sue. With Phillotson, she feared his touch and would choose death over it. With Jude, her love seems almost platonic. Even though we know she has three children by him, there is not account of her sensuality or physical engagement with Jude. And finally, with her children, she seems to lack a maternal instinct, made apparent with their deaths. It did seem against her nature to accept Father Time so willingly and lovingly when he came to live with them, though. She is indeed an enigma.