Quick rant/eliminate negative focus

I am writing a 50% final on Tuesday. It is half essay, half multiple-choice. Or, in other words...in the most lame scenario: pulling bullshit from your ass versus eenie-meenie-miney-moe with 25% probability, at most. This emphasis is intended to be all-encompassing. However, people retain information they want to know, or if they think they will need it. Instead of encouraging and nourishing the curious mind in exercise and critical thought, multiple choice dwindles the participants intelligence to regurgitative tactics. In effect, in final exam season, the student stresses to remember information quickly and stores it in a short term memory. Anything that is not of interest or need is dismissed. Where it goes, I don't know. Mandatory public confession: this post relates and relays things "as I see it." I have expertise only through my mind - my only formal credential, if that. The information that is retained should be of greater importance. Simply put, the legend lives on through this way. In this sense, one better well [fucking] question why multiple-choice testing is even used. If professors are teaching you because they are passionate about their subjects, should they not want to position their role as a teacher to attribute the students capacity to learn through using concepts and meaningful critical thinking? If not, one might question the objectives of the professor in a syllabus, and observe the adherence to the principles; or, in other words, do the objectives reflect the objectives of a learning environment? Without a direct connection between the learning environment, where the category of testing strategies is found, then perhaps one might see the logic of how multiple choice may have been theorized as beneficial. Not that this is acceptable, mind you.

This is not an attack on this course I am writing the final for, nor an attack on the course instructor (whom has been integral to my success thus far in the course). This rant is not personal. It is not a means that I am using to bolster my strong opinion through a passive voice to someone. That 'someone', perhaps even you, dear reader, who may have received this blogs link through my public website link on Facebook (even if you are not a friend; it is public). Don't read me wrong, you're reading is my benefit regardless of whether I know who and who has not read this. The issue is larger than my personal opinion. Of course, my opinion is tragically a result of the invasive ways of multiple choice; I am biased. But that gives credence, to some degree. My urge is that someone will see fault in my logic and present an alternative. And dear soil, dirt and earth I hope this happens. My logic asserts that the above situation is a fallacy commonly found today. One that disseminates essential values and purposes of education in exchange for speedy processes with generic answer keys and no comments of consideration.

Someone, pass me a tissue...erm, I mean eraser. I hope I circled the wrong answer.

Gratefulness

For one, Canadian banks are weaksauce. In my personal experience as a customer in both Canada and the UK, without a doubt all arrows point to the reality that the banking system in the UK is much stronger. I'm constantly reminded of this in so many ways....like today.

Today, at the grocery store, my debit card declined despite the fact that I knew there was more than enough money. Haven just checked online, it seemed impossible to even arrive at this reality. So, I promptly walked up to the bank ATM which stated a favourable number but it would not let me access these funds because they were on hold from a cheque I deposited last week. his meant $10 working dollars to my name.

I return to the grocery store, happy to buy salad supplies for dinner with the last of this accessible money. (In doing so, I honestly didn't mind putting back the tasteless cucumber...really). Done, finally. Equipped with all the salad goods one could want, my hands firmly gripped the bag handles. Shifting all my weight on my heel, I pivoted with grace to quietly slip out of the fluorescent lit store. Needless to say, I was ready to forget the experience happened and chalk it up to another undesirable experience with the bank. Fate had something else in store for me.

The man patiently waiting in line behind me asked to wait - and as I paused - he turned to the cashier with my rejected cucumber in hand and said he wanted it. I thought - what a cruel joke! - thinking he must had done it to say hey! all is not lost; I'll take what you can't. My nihilism was challenged as he said "WAIT!" again. This time he passed me the cucumber and simply said: enjoy.

Humbled. No other explanation. I truly tried to keep my cool in each part of this situation - I retried my pin, calmly explained to the cashier I didn't know what was up, left for the bank and upon my return, rationally explained I had forgotten that they put holds on cheques deposited in the ATM. There was, to me, no invitation to pawn off my chosen cucumber, nor an established desire or crisis exasperating the situation to suggest that I truly fucking needed that cucumber. Like I said, I don't particularly fancy them. Yet, this man took the liberty to...to...to reaffirm some sort of underlying human connection. Forgive my grandiose generalization if you so like, but I am not sorry.

I had served this man at work several times, many of which we spent talking about Germany (his nationality), farming, local produce and energy consumption - and often to great lengths. While I do consider positive relations with almost every customer - or strive to steer them in such a direction - I do not assume that many people recognize me when I'm out and about in Sackville. Since I'm not from here, I generally assume that nobody really either i) recognizes me; or ii) knows me [because my name isn't one of the four that come from Midgic and make up most of the local population (if you're interested - Hicks, Sears, Estabrooks, and Ward are the family names)]. Yet, I think I underestimated myself. More importantly, I underestimated him, a symbollic representation of a mere acquaintance. His generosity was not expected. Then I remembered - slowly, at first, until a series of memories flashed in my mind quicker and quicker and stopped in conclusion with this man, whose name I do not know. Each of these were framed separate occasions strung together in my memory because they represent moments in time. Moments in time that are not particularly frequent, but weigh heavily on my mind when they arrive. Threading each memory is a side of people that challenges notions of selfishness. In fact, in my experience the nature of these acts occur more frequently in small towns. Spots in places where we recognize one another's faces, our families, our contributions, and so on.

This is why Sackville equates to what one might term Sackvegas. Also doubles as the reason I wish to not leave any time soon. Why? Ultimately because the small things trump larger things like the quest for money and success (if one even attempts to classify the two separately). Too often we - or perhaps I'm solely speaking for myself (to make a grand generalization) - forget the how meaningful these gestures are. In one shining light, indeed this might be what Miriam Toews called a complicated kindness.

And so, I share with you such a beautiful piece of literature that envelopes and pontificates my intentions in ways that I cannot...please forgive the gender binaries:

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.
For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.
For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.
For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.
For poise, walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone.
People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; Never throw out anybody.
Remember, If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.
As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.
The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.
The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!

-Sam Levenson

To be, or to not be...that is the question.

Identity. It's the big "I" word that inherently lies within each of us. I consider my most active roles as I sit here in a candlelit room, tucked away in an attic in a rural town in Canada amongst the hours deep into Friday night:

• female
• student and employee
• Canadian and British
• daughter, sister, cousin, niece, grandaughter, friend

These are tangible parts of my identity by means of gender, heritage, nationality and family. But other parts of my identity are cornerstones of my personality and sense of role in both personal relations and community. Sometimes these identities to not accentuate, or even align, with each other. Does this make me a hypocrite?

One of the most obvious examples dates back to prehistoric days: high school. Employed by the local public health unit under a provincial grant, I was a "peer leader" promoting smoke-free environments. Part of this employment was a personal commitment to advocating a tobacco-free lifestyle. Less than five years later, I just finished a cigarette before writing this first blog post. What transitioned a strong and public profile as an advocate for smoke-free Ontario to becoming a smoker? This has been a contradiction (for lack of a better word) within myself that admitting to comes without ease.

This strong example is also the reason I have withheld my public admittance of other personal identities like religion and politics. Although I have opinions and experiences with both, I do not openly identify as anything. I have abstained. This choice has come out of caution of public flack.

A few months ago my father called me a socialist. I was offended. Not because he was, admittedly, right. Rather I was offended that someone would compile my opinions and formulate an identity for me when I had not openly done so first. Later I realized that everyone does this to varying degrees, including myself, whether we admit it or not. Above all, the idea of image resonates strongly with my as I move forward into more commitments involving leadership.

The accountability I have striven to ambiguously avoid comes at costs. These costs are both hard to quantify and qualify. True to human nature, I know it is easier to be less active in roles and pass off neutrality. At what point to the costs of conscious passivity outweigh the larger significances at hand? By this, I mean, I often wonder if one (I) should "suck it up" and move from the margins to a cause that one (I) believe(s) in. This thought has an added weight when one considers the democratic approach so embedded in society (and politics) today.

I have not truly reconciled my promotion of anti-smoking in high school and my "guilty pleasure" in cancer sticks today. Of many people, I am critically aware of the harmful impacts and choose to negate them for cigarettes themselves. I enjoy smoking. I enjoy a deep breath of air, and one especially coupled with nicotine. I do not foresee myself as a smoker for my entire life, so in part I feel as though being "lost in translation" is okay, because this is "just a phase." Yet, my choices indicate that I am heading for the path I do not want to follow. (As a side note: how interesting to note that I criticize politicians for their focus on short-term policies instead of long, yet follow the same suit).

Reconciliation is not an easy task. It never will be. In part, I am at a loss. The larger message to take home is not of continued passitivity, in my case, nor publicly admitting these truths as excuses to dismiss further consideration because they may be "hard" (which, believe me, they are). Rather, the overarching and ever-continuous question: how.