"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed" -- Ernest Hemingway
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?"
My 4th period juniors have been quite a challenge this year. They are good kids, but their collective ego could use some humbling. I have several varsity football players in that class, and our team does quite well. Put a bunch of successful athletes who are also buddies in the same class and it becomes an ego-off. I make one statement and I have six boys trying to out smart-ass each other.
Of course, I've been through the steps of smart-ass management. First, I seat them far away from one another, and when they should across the room, I send them outside and call parents. When those consequences wear off, I go to siting quietly at my podium, looking disgusted and bored at their witty banter, reminding them to "Waste all the time that you want. I'm not the one whose gonna end up with more homework because y'all need to be the center of attention." That usually gets their peers, just as "over" by their antics to apply some peer pressure.
Yes, there are moments when I consider seating them together in the back corner of the room and telling them to just bro-love themselves to death as long as they don't disrupt what I'm teaching (and their grades will tank because they won't know what's going on), but I refuse to give in.
With enough patience and consistency, I usually get them in line within a month or so.
Then Spring Break hits and everything goes to shit. All systems break down. All adherence to the rules goes out the window. It becomes pure survival: juniors want to be seniors, seniors want to be graduated, and I want to be on an Italian Vineyard sipping wine.
To keep both me and the students from going nuts, I find a compromise between my teaching integrity and their unwillingness to do anything. I ease up on the homework, slow down my pace within the classroom, and do my best to teach something the students will enjoy (or at least not whine every time I ask them to get out their books).
Currently, I am teaching my juniors the novel, The Great Gatsby. Of course, most have seen the movie, but my approach is to have students determine whether F. Scott Fitzgerald would approve of Bax Lurhmann's interpretation: does he represent the spirit of the novel or would Lurhmann's adjustments to plot and character representation give Fitzgerald reason to rise from the grave and sober up long enough to tell Lurhmann Gatsby never loses his cool.
But I digress.
As expected, my 4th period egos are interested in Gatsby. He is a baller; the novel is full of drinking and drama. It's all about flash and display of greatness (I wait until the end of the novel to explain that Fitzgerald is criticizing these ideas).
Today, the class analyzed how the party guests who attend his parties and wreck his house and Gatsby himself are represented in the novel. I told them to list adjectives to describe the characters' behavior. With the party guests, I specifically said to not use the adjective "drunk."
Immediately, the students start shouting out, "how about lit? Buzzed? Wasted? Wrecked? Trashed?'
"Nor any synonyms for drunk," I emphasized. "What can you say about people who get that drunk all the time?" Then I waved off any answer to that question, realizing that at that age being falling down drunk is cool.
I knew I was taking a risk giving this task to my 4th period full of the "in crowd" and ADHD, but I'm edgy. Or stupid--the verdict is still out.
After a few minutes of vigorous scribbling, I have the students share their adjectives with their neighbors. I specifically say, "With those sitting next to you."
Immediately, one of my rambunctious athletes, Caleb, who sits two feet from my podium, shouts to his friend across the room, "Hey, Freddy. I put lit, wasted, and fucked-up for party guests. What did you put?"
The class goes silent. Students look at me and then look at Caleb. My forehead hits the podium.
"What?" Caleb asked. "What did I do? Ms. Vance, are you okay?"
Wine, whether on an Italian Villa or no, here I come.
Friday, April 14, 2017
In Awe and Reverence of Parents
I am amazed to see parents who can manage to hold down a job, keep a house, remain social, and not go absolutely nuts. Several of my co-workers have young children and every day they show up with a smile on their faces to teach even more children. With smiles on their faces. Fashionably dressed. Healthy, packed lunches at the ready. I'm convinced they are medicated.
Or, Holden Caulfield so eloquently stated, "All mothers are slightly insane."
I keep my nephews for 24 hours and I feel, look and behave like a mental patient whose been on the streets for weeks. If manage to brush my teeth, I feel like a champ.
There is nothing, nothing I love more in this world than my two nephews: Jay, who is 5, and Blake, who is almost 1 1/2. They spend the night with me often, usually one at a time, but there are occasions when I keep both. One is hard enough; two, OMG.
This parenting shit is hard. And I am not even parenting; I'm quasi-parenting. Actually, I just keep them alive. Naively, I figured all it required was to throw food at them, change a diaper, and block them from running into traffic. Guess what? It takes a lot more than that.
I have to convince Jay flipping over couches and leaping off chairs can result in him getting hurt, try to get him to eat anything other than candy and chips (I have no problem spoiling him; I do have a problem with the demon within unleashed by sugar), and if I take him to the park? That adds at least 100 other ways he can hurt himself: slides, swings, strangers, oh my.
And the gear one needs to keep a baby alive: I don't know how anyone can afford to be parents. You need diapers, 5 changes of clothes per day, a sleep sack, butt cream, wipes, whole milk, baby food, regular food (that he'll like, that he can "swallow" without choking because chewing is new), a high chair, and a pack-n-play. Oh, and toys. Lots and lots of toys.
The first time I watched both boys for an extended period of time, we barely made it. And when I say "we" I mean me. After that harrowing 24 hours, I swore the next time my sister asked if I could take both overnight, I'd immediately volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games. I just don't have enough arms, patience, and brain cells to keep both of them alive for an extended period of time.
As with all other great pains in life-- heart-break, labor, crossfit--time blotted out the memory of it, so when my sister and mom went to DC for five days, I volunteered as tribute to watch both nephews overnight to provide her husband with a break.
I prepped like a motherfucker: I stocked up on child and baby preferred snacks: Cheerios, bananas, fruit, and cookies. Bottles are pulled out and lined up on the counter. Sheets were laid over the furniture to save them from ruin. All breakable items were stashed in a closet. Pack-n-play was set up (after a lot of cursing and sweating). Wine was chilled. And if shit really gets rough, children's Benedryl was loaded in the medicine syringe ready to fire.
The first 5 hours, I managed fairly well. Kids were fed and entertained. My apartment was littered with toys, but nothing has been broken. Each kid had only one or two brushes with death.
Inevitably, my strength waned. I'm not sure why Jay can't get it through his head that he shouldn't cover his brother's face, and since I don't speak baby babble, I'm not sure how to communicate to Blake that kamikaze diving off my ottoman is not a good idea. I had been watching Teen Titians, PAW Patrol, and Team Umizoomie forever, so I found the movie Dawn of Justice: Batman vs. Superman for them to watch--it's about superheroes, so it's child-appropriate, right?--but after Jay asked me 1000 questions about the plot, I'm ready to go back to helping Umizoomie save another one of their dumbass friends. My feet were pock-marked from stepping on legos. I considered putting tape over Blake's mouth to keep him from shoving anything and everything into it--he can still breath through his nose--but the last thing I need to be doing is giving Jay ideas.
I had poured a glass of wine, but couldn't find two seconds to actually drink it. One of the kids might have drank it; I don't know.
When I got Blake to go to sleep for the night, I figured I might be at the end of the gauntlet. Jay was watching television, so I told him I was going to take a quick shower. And I mean quick--long enough to get clean--no relaxing, not pampering. In and out. But as soon as I had lathered up my hair and then . . . surprise! My shower curtain flew open and there was Jay, "Auntie, are you done yet?"
Yes, young man, I am done. And I still have about 12 hours to go.
I'm sure parenting books have a chapter on how to synchronize the sleeping of multiple children, but I haven't read them. Blake was asleep at 8:30 p.m. and then up at 3 a.m. We hung out for two hours--me trying to convince myself that I'm a rockstar being up at 3 a.m. I think "rockstar" status is negated by poopy diapers though. I finally got Blake back to sleep at 5 a.m. just to have Jay pounce on me at 6 a.m.
I had to make it until noon. If I made it, I had planned on auditioning for Survivor.
Jay doesn't understand the concept of brain development. To tell him that Blake "doesn't understand"--well, anything--doesn't quite sink in. So, when Blake threw his Cheerios all over the floor, Jay figured he had license to throw his much bigger bowl of Cheerios on the floor. Fuck it; I told them to pick their breakfast out of the carpet. Hell, I saw Blake eat a few Cheerios he peeled off the bottom of his foot. Breakfast turned into a scavenger hunt since they had to sift through the toys that blanketed the floor.
I've heard parents--moms especially--lament the time they used to have to themselves. They claim they can't do anything alone. My own mother swears that she hasn't "peed or had a can of Pepsi to herself in 35 years."
While my nephews scrounged for their breakfast, I decided to duck into the bathroom. Not ten seconds after my butt hit the toilet seat, Jay comes in asking me how kryptonite works. As I explained this (for the 100th time), Blake toddled in with a small tennis ball and began bouncing it off the walls.
Taking a dump while explaining the power of a glowing green rock while a ball pings around my head: #glamlife.
At 11:30, I loaded those kids up and drove 80 miles an hour to meet up with their dad to hand them off. In my pajamas.
When I got home, it took me hours to get my place and my psyche back in order. A week later, I'm still stepping on Cheerios.
In my opinion, setting a pack-n-play up and breaking it down qualifies as a workout. I may not have been able to brush my teeth, but I could scratch "exercise" off my list. Shit, I can't even do that on a day without kids.
Or, Holden Caulfield so eloquently stated, "All mothers are slightly insane."
I keep my nephews for 24 hours and I feel, look and behave like a mental patient whose been on the streets for weeks. If manage to brush my teeth, I feel like a champ.
Those who own me. |
This parenting shit is hard. And I am not even parenting; I'm quasi-parenting. Actually, I just keep them alive. Naively, I figured all it required was to throw food at them, change a diaper, and block them from running into traffic. Guess what? It takes a lot more than that.
I have to convince Jay flipping over couches and leaping off chairs can result in him getting hurt, try to get him to eat anything other than candy and chips (I have no problem spoiling him; I do have a problem with the demon within unleashed by sugar), and if I take him to the park? That adds at least 100 other ways he can hurt himself: slides, swings, strangers, oh my.
And the gear one needs to keep a baby alive: I don't know how anyone can afford to be parents. You need diapers, 5 changes of clothes per day, a sleep sack, butt cream, wipes, whole milk, baby food, regular food (that he'll like, that he can "swallow" without choking because chewing is new), a high chair, and a pack-n-play. Oh, and toys. Lots and lots of toys.
The first time I watched both boys for an extended period of time, we barely made it. And when I say "we" I mean me. After that harrowing 24 hours, I swore the next time my sister asked if I could take both overnight, I'd immediately volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games. I just don't have enough arms, patience, and brain cells to keep both of them alive for an extended period of time.
As with all other great pains in life-- heart-break, labor, crossfit--time blotted out the memory of it, so when my sister and mom went to DC for five days, I volunteered as tribute to watch both nephews overnight to provide her husband with a break.
I prepped like a motherfucker: I stocked up on child and baby preferred snacks: Cheerios, bananas, fruit, and cookies. Bottles are pulled out and lined up on the counter. Sheets were laid over the furniture to save them from ruin. All breakable items were stashed in a closet. Pack-n-play was set up (after a lot of cursing and sweating). Wine was chilled. And if shit really gets rough, children's Benedryl was loaded in the medicine syringe ready to fire.
The first 5 hours, I managed fairly well. Kids were fed and entertained. My apartment was littered with toys, but nothing has been broken. Each kid had only one or two brushes with death.
Inevitably, my strength waned. I'm not sure why Jay can't get it through his head that he shouldn't cover his brother's face, and since I don't speak baby babble, I'm not sure how to communicate to Blake that kamikaze diving off my ottoman is not a good idea. I had been watching Teen Titians, PAW Patrol, and Team Umizoomie forever, so I found the movie Dawn of Justice: Batman vs. Superman for them to watch--it's about superheroes, so it's child-appropriate, right?--but after Jay asked me 1000 questions about the plot, I'm ready to go back to helping Umizoomie save another one of their dumbass friends. My feet were pock-marked from stepping on legos. I considered putting tape over Blake's mouth to keep him from shoving anything and everything into it--he can still breath through his nose--but the last thing I need to be doing is giving Jay ideas.
I had poured a glass of wine, but couldn't find two seconds to actually drink it. One of the kids might have drank it; I don't know.
When I got Blake to go to sleep for the night, I figured I might be at the end of the gauntlet. Jay was watching television, so I told him I was going to take a quick shower. And I mean quick--long enough to get clean--no relaxing, not pampering. In and out. But as soon as I had lathered up my hair and then . . . surprise! My shower curtain flew open and there was Jay, "Auntie, are you done yet?"
Yes, young man, I am done. And I still have about 12 hours to go.
I'm sure parenting books have a chapter on how to synchronize the sleeping of multiple children, but I haven't read them. Blake was asleep at 8:30 p.m. and then up at 3 a.m. We hung out for two hours--me trying to convince myself that I'm a rockstar being up at 3 a.m. I think "rockstar" status is negated by poopy diapers though. I finally got Blake back to sleep at 5 a.m. just to have Jay pounce on me at 6 a.m.
I had to make it until noon. If I made it, I had planned on auditioning for Survivor.
Jay doesn't understand the concept of brain development. To tell him that Blake "doesn't understand"--well, anything--doesn't quite sink in. So, when Blake threw his Cheerios all over the floor, Jay figured he had license to throw his much bigger bowl of Cheerios on the floor. Fuck it; I told them to pick their breakfast out of the carpet. Hell, I saw Blake eat a few Cheerios he peeled off the bottom of his foot. Breakfast turned into a scavenger hunt since they had to sift through the toys that blanketed the floor.
I've heard parents--moms especially--lament the time they used to have to themselves. They claim they can't do anything alone. My own mother swears that she hasn't "peed or had a can of Pepsi to herself in 35 years."
While my nephews scrounged for their breakfast, I decided to duck into the bathroom. Not ten seconds after my butt hit the toilet seat, Jay comes in asking me how kryptonite works. As I explained this (for the 100th time), Blake toddled in with a small tennis ball and began bouncing it off the walls.
Taking a dump while explaining the power of a glowing green rock while a ball pings around my head: #glamlife.
At 11:30, I loaded those kids up and drove 80 miles an hour to meet up with their dad to hand them off. In my pajamas.
When I got home, it took me hours to get my place and my psyche back in order. A week later, I'm still stepping on Cheerios.
In my opinion, setting a pack-n-play up and breaking it down qualifies as a workout. I may not have been able to brush my teeth, but I could scratch "exercise" off my list. Shit, I can't even do that on a day without kids.
Friday, October 2, 2015
Honoring Dad
My
father, Michael MacDonald Vance, died from a heart attack on Friday, September
4, 2015 at 11:59 p.m. He was 69 years
and 6 days old.
I
am very conscious of dates and time and so was my father. Therefore, I am exact when people ask me when he died. Those who knew him would appreciate that
he died at 11:59 and that he expected me to be accurate. He died on Friday night not Saturday morning.
Such an error in detail would be egregious.
But
since Dad has died, my concept of time has been thrown off. From the time when
he went into the hospital for a host of other physical ailments to the time he
passed was 3.2857142857 weeks and yet to me it feels like 6 months. Then there
are days when I feel like I have just seen him; have just talked to him. He is no
more distant than the moment I am thinking of him.
Dad with his "kitties" Fluffy and Scooter |
Every
day this week I’ve been thinking, “Friday will be one month since Dad died.” I’ve rallied friends to keep me company so that I don’t cry my face off. Then
last night when I was shuffling around my apartment I happened to glance at the
calendar and realized that today is the 2nd, not the 4th,
of October. It is not the one-month
anniversary of his death, but the four-week anniversary. The only timeline that’s
measured in weeks is pregnancy, so Dad
would be annoyed if I mourned his one-month anniversary today, because it isn’t the one-month anniversary. And there’s a part of me that wants to honor
his love of the punctilious and reign in the emotions until Sunday.
But when it comes to love and grief, time means nothing and everything. Those sentiments would make him crazy, but that's also a way for me to honor my father. I loved prodding him with such lofty, abstract thinking.
Nevertheless Dad, I miss you every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of the month.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
The Party Never Stops
Teaching
writing is far more challenging than teaching literature. With literature, a
teacher has fascinating characters, engaging plots, and important themes that
they can easily get behind. English
teachers, even those who are just paying the bills until they get their great
American novel published, did not choose their major because they loved writing
essays (or even novels). They did so because of literature. Teaching straight, expository writing is much
more challenging because it’s hard to make the writing process interesting to
students.
At least I
can make the topics of writing more edgy and fun when I teach my college
students. For example, when introduce the
classification and analysis essay, I ask students to break up the guests of a
typical House Party into different categories.
The term “guests” is a bit of an euphemism because very few people at
House Parties are actually invited. For
those of you whose rebellion happened before the 21st century, House Parties,
formally known as Flyer Parties (90s), formally known as Ragers (80s) occur
whenever a teen’s parents have gone out of the town for the weekend and word
gets out that there is an adult-free abode in which to indulge in iniquities. Concept has been around for decades (hell,
centuries) but the name has changed.
Same with
those who attend. As the students shared
their categories, I learned some new labels.
For those
who for the tradition of drinking:
·
The hot
heads: The ones that start drinking and just want to get down. “Getting
down” means to fight. I thought it was a reference to sex. In context, both definitions
make sense to me.
·
Flops:
People that can't handle their alcohol
The fact that
no one offered a category of silly, jovial drunks makes me wonder just how much
fun is to be had at House Parties.
For those
who are into a little bit more than alcohol:
·
Burnouts:
People who come to do drugs
·
Fiends:
People that are just looking to smoke weed and just want people to smoke them
out. I assume they differ from burnouts because they are cannabis-focused where
burnouts will take anything.
·
The
Dealer: The person that comes to make money from drug selling.
·
Ballooners:
Go to party to do noz from the noz tank until they forget how to speak. This party
behavior is new to me. Apparently, if it’s
a good party, then there will be a tank of nitrous oxide to take hits off of
(kind of like a step-up from inhaling from helium balloons). And yes, the goal is to become a drooling
idiot. I also pointed out that the goal
is to kill off your brain cells. Permanently.
For those
looking for a little tail:
·
The thirsty:
people desperate to have sex. Before
submitting this category, a student asked me if I know what “being thirsty”
meant. I was a little suspicious: either they think I’ve been ballooning too
much or if it was too scandalous to put into spoken (or written) language. I
told them I assumed that it referred to a bonafide alcoholic. I stand
corrected.
·
Smashers:
girls only good for sex.
·
Outcasts:
socially awkward people that show up so they could get noticed.
As a teacher
and possible mentor, even to college students, I did take this opportunity to
point out that these highly destructive behaviors are all ways to escape. Those who frequent House Parties are probably
suffering some sort of personal trauma or self-esteem issues. I commented on the irony of parties becoming the
stage to let all the things that are no-so-fun about us to come out. Our social lives, which are meant to be a reprieve from stress and anxiety, are quickly becoming the fuel for more stress
and anxiety.
Not sure
anyone understood me. Maybe too many Ballooners in the room. Maybe I have fallen into the Party Pooper category.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Smarter Than I Look
I understand that most teenagers
believe teachers (hell, adults) behaved differently when they were
teenagers. We went to sock-hops. We
loved school. If we felt like rebelling,
we wore racy clothes and drove our cars too fast. Maybe smoked a
cigarette; maybe took a couple sips from a beer occasionally. Honestly, I don't blame them. I thought the same thing too.
What
strikes me is that they think we are not akin to their subterfuges.
The
high school I teach at starts a half-hour later on Fridays; combined with the
fact that this occurs at the end of their week makes hitting Starbucks a must
for adolescents. I sympathize
and have no problem with that as long as students arrive to class on time and don’t
spill that Venti, blended goodness all over my floor.
But
this morning, a little lady told me a bold-face lie so that she could retrieve
her beverage after class had started.
One thing I have no patience with or tolerance for is lying. She asked me is she could go to the restroom.
I gave her permission. She came back
with a Venti passion tea.
Really?
I
hauled her tush outside and said, “Samantha, don’t ever lie to me. You ask to
go to the bathroom and you come back with Starbucks. Did you really think I
wouldn’t catch that?”
Her
eyes get real big. “I didn’t lie. I just
happen to run into my friend, and she had an iced tea for me. I swear.”
My
response: “Do you really think I’m that stupid?”
“I
swear that’s what happened.”
Yes, she thinks I'm that stupid.
Yes, she thinks I'm that stupid.
“So, you expect me to
believe that the exact same moment you had to ‘go to the bathroom’ your friend
happened to be walking the halls with an ice tea for you? You really think I am
going to believe that?”
“I
swear.”
“I
don’t believe you.”
She
stands there blinking at me.
“Don’t
ever lie to me again.”
She
huffs and storms into the classroom.
(Little
does she know that next time --or the next dozen times-- she asks to go to the
restroom, the answer will be “no.”)
I
tell my students from the beginning of the year that they will always win with
honesty and never win with lying. Honestly doesn’t mean no consequences, but they
will come down soooo much easier. All
Samantha had to do was say, “Hey Ms. Vance, my friend just brought me an
iced-tea. Can I go grab it?”
It’s
Friday. We are just doing some leisurely reading. She’s playing it straight. I would have said,
“Sure, but this is an exception. Don’t make this a habit.” The end.
Instead,
she lies. Instead, she assumes that I’m not going to catch on. She assumes that I am stupid. I’m a lot of
things, but stupid ain’t one of ‘em.
Trust
me, I was not a straight-laced kid. I rebelled. I rebelled hard. And I used the same tricks they try to use on
me. When I set my watch back 20 minutes
so that when I arrived home after curfew I could raise my little doe-eyes to my
parents and show them how my watch says I’m on time? When I forged my own notes
to get out of school early (I had an “injured knee” my junior year and had
many, many doctor’s appointments) did the attendance workers know I was lying
and just didn’t have a way to call my bluff? (They never called my mom, which is
good, because then I’d be well . . . dead).
My parents never have been push-overs.
If I got caught doing wrong, punishment was severe and swift. Yet I still ditched; I still snuck out; I
still lied. I wonder how much they actually knew and just didn’t address
because I was still bringing home good grades and treating them with
respect? Were they just worn by the
demands of their daily lives so they would allow a few transgressions?
The
message I’d like to send to all teens is this: we know a lot more than you
think we know.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Not as Turn't Up as I Hoped
As previously posted, I hate grading papers,but there is an exception: my students' personal statements for college. I enjoy these papers because I get to learn about who my students are as young men and women. It is often enlightening, sometimes heartbreaking, and once in a while didactic.
One young lady wrote about her struggles making a new group of friends when changing high schools--quite a formidable one for a teen. (We all know the critical role our homies play during the adolescent years). She shared that unlike most of her peers, she doesn't like to get "TUed (turn't up)" on the weekends, so finding like-minded peers was difficult.
I had encountered "turn't up" before: the first time was a couple summers ago when one of my college students used it to help me understand "ratchet" when I was investigating that word (my investigation led to an article still in the revising process), but using slang to help define slang only increases confusion. Most recently, a student asked me how my weekend had been, and in response to my assurance that it had been good, asked "did you get turn't up?"
It doesn't take a linguist to figure out what it means. Hell, it only requires rudimentary understanding of teenage rebellion. But, I thought that the word's longevity might allude to a deeper meaning. (As with all things, the Internet speeds up the spread and burn-out of slang terms.) I decided to do a little investigating.
I had a few minutes of class left after finishing one of my lessons, so I asked a group of seniors what "turn't up" meant. After the laughter that inevitably results from my questions on slang died down, I get a mixture of voices yelling, "Partying," and "Getting wasted" paired with raise-the-roof gestures and bodies dancing behind desks.
I focus on the young lady sitting closest to me and hear her say, "It's like getting crazy."
"In my day, we called it 'getting amped', is that what you mean?"
"Exactly!"
I need to read my own blog posts. Not only was I trying to use slang clarify a definition of slang, but I was using slang of my generation. I probably could have said, "we called it 'getting ugga-bugga'" and would have gotten the same response. At least she wouldn't have known that "getting amped" ususally mean consumption of methaphentomine.
Fortunately, I went in with a pretty good idea what "turn't up" meant: increasing the energy level of a social situation through being more boisterous and less inhibited, usually with the assistance of drinking, drugs,and music. Nevertheless, I wanted to clarify if, getting "turn't up" required drinking and drug use. Could one drink too many espressos, throw on the Motely Crue, and get "turn't up?" Do teens who do not experiment (or become dependent on) drinking and drugs use the term?
Several students said, "no" but with some hesitation. My guess was that the answer was really "yes," but they were trying to protect me from the iniquities of teenage life. You know, because when I was in high school I didn't nothing more devious than drinking Diet Rite Cola and playing Candyland. On nights I really wanted to take it to another level, I busted out the Monopoly and regular Rite Cola.
While trying to get a consensus on the role of illicit party favors in the definition, a student said, "It's because of the song!"
"What song?" I asked.
" 'Turn't Down for What' by Lil Jon."
This brought on a couple more questions from me: "Do you use 'turn't down' too?" and "I thought it was Lil Wayne."
No on both accounts. Apparently there is a Lil Jon as well as a Lil Wayne, a Lil Kim, a Lil Fizz, a Lil Bibby, a Lil Boosie, and a Lil Bub. And while using "turn't up" is cool, "turn't down" is lame.
My students exhorted me to look up the lyrics to the song. I did and they provided no further insight. In fact, the entire song is a repetition of these three lines: Fire up loud/ Another round of shots/ Turned down for what?
"These lyrics aren't saying anything profound," I said. "In fact, they aren't saying much of anything at all."
I am assured that if I listen to the song, it will enrich my understanding. I was not sure how, but I played the song. As it turned out, I had heard the song before, quite a bit actually, but since my clubbing days are quite over and have been for several years, I related it to a funny cat video on Youtube called ""Kitten Jam Turned Down for What." I admit, it does have a good beat.
But the lyrics = lame.
"Fire up loud" means smoke weed.
"Another round of shots" means another round of shots.
"Turned down for what?" has a couple interpretations. One is "I am not turning down any weed or shots;" another, "why not get wasted?" If Lil Jon could let Lil Ol' Holly know which interpretation he meant, I would greatly appreciate it.
And the next time anyone makes fun of Whitesnake, Poison, or Warrant, I am just going to turn up Kitten Jam on Youtube.
One young lady wrote about her struggles making a new group of friends when changing high schools--quite a formidable one for a teen. (We all know the critical role our homies play during the adolescent years). She shared that unlike most of her peers, she doesn't like to get "TUed (turn't up)" on the weekends, so finding like-minded peers was difficult.
I had encountered "turn't up" before: the first time was a couple summers ago when one of my college students used it to help me understand "ratchet" when I was investigating that word (my investigation led to an article still in the revising process), but using slang to help define slang only increases confusion. Most recently, a student asked me how my weekend had been, and in response to my assurance that it had been good, asked "did you get turn't up?"
It doesn't take a linguist to figure out what it means. Hell, it only requires rudimentary understanding of teenage rebellion. But, I thought that the word's longevity might allude to a deeper meaning. (As with all things, the Internet speeds up the spread and burn-out of slang terms.) I decided to do a little investigating.
I had a few minutes of class left after finishing one of my lessons, so I asked a group of seniors what "turn't up" meant. After the laughter that inevitably results from my questions on slang died down, I get a mixture of voices yelling, "Partying," and "Getting wasted" paired with raise-the-roof gestures and bodies dancing behind desks.
I focus on the young lady sitting closest to me and hear her say, "It's like getting crazy."
"In my day, we called it 'getting amped', is that what you mean?"
"Exactly!"
I need to read my own blog posts. Not only was I trying to use slang clarify a definition of slang, but I was using slang of my generation. I probably could have said, "we called it 'getting ugga-bugga'" and would have gotten the same response. At least she wouldn't have known that "getting amped" ususally mean consumption of methaphentomine.
Lil Jon |
Several students said, "no" but with some hesitation. My guess was that the answer was really "yes," but they were trying to protect me from the iniquities of teenage life. You know, because when I was in high school I didn't nothing more devious than drinking Diet Rite Cola and playing Candyland. On nights I really wanted to take it to another level, I busted out the Monopoly and regular Rite Cola.
While trying to get a consensus on the role of illicit party favors in the definition, a student said, "It's because of the song!"
Lil Wayne |
" 'Turn't Down for What' by Lil Jon."
This brought on a couple more questions from me: "Do you use 'turn't down' too?" and "I thought it was Lil Wayne."
No on both accounts. Apparently there is a Lil Jon as well as a Lil Wayne, a Lil Kim, a Lil Fizz, a Lil Bibby, a Lil Boosie, and a Lil Bub. And while using "turn't up" is cool, "turn't down" is lame.
My students exhorted me to look up the lyrics to the song. I did and they provided no further insight. In fact, the entire song is a repetition of these three lines: Fire up loud/ Another round of shots/ Turned down for what?
"These lyrics aren't saying anything profound," I said. "In fact, they aren't saying much of anything at all."
I am assured that if I listen to the song, it will enrich my understanding. I was not sure how, but I played the song. As it turned out, I had heard the song before, quite a bit actually, but since my clubbing days are quite over and have been for several years, I related it to a funny cat video on Youtube called ""Kitten Jam Turned Down for What." I admit, it does have a good beat.
But the lyrics = lame.
"Fire up loud" means smoke weed.
"Another round of shots" means another round of shots.
"Turned down for what?" has a couple interpretations. One is "I am not turning down any weed or shots;" another, "why not get wasted?" If Lil Jon could let Lil Ol' Holly know which interpretation he meant, I would greatly appreciate it.
And the next time anyone makes fun of Whitesnake, Poison, or Warrant, I am just going to turn up Kitten Jam on Youtube.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Thought of That THOT and Then I Moved On
I have some major linguistic knowledge to throw down.
Major. Linguistic. Knowledge.
This new slang term for an old label might revolutionize the English language.
Teens today have created a new way to call a girl a whore, and thank the goddess because pop culture does not have enough ways to pigeon-hole females. Refer to my post "Whore's Offspring"
Whore's latest addition is the eloquent, sophisticated, and innovative term "thot."
Originally an acronym for the phrase "that ho over there," T-H-O-T became the texting translation so that the youth can communicate their socially relevent commentary faster and easiter. "THOT is talking to my ex" is far less cumbersome than "That ho over there is talking to my ex-boyfriend."
A new twist texting contributes is acronyms that have a
slightly different definition. National Aeronautics and Space
Administration, NASA, always means National Aeronautics and Space
Administration, while That Ho Over There, THOT, doesn't.
Considering culture's obsession with developing a myriad of ways to call a woman a whore, I would think that it would assume that a whore's life is always interesting. So, to save oxygen and finger muscles, why not just say (or write or text) "thot?" I'm not too worried that it will be confused with "thoughts?" Problem with the verbal use, is that "THOT" sounds too much like "thought" so that whoever is receving the question doesn't know if she is being asked to share the escapes of her body or her mind. But at least without the inflection of voice needed to ask a question, a woman will know when she is being insulted: "THOT."
NASA was developed to expedite communication, but not
by teenagers.My high school students use "thot" frequently; my college students have "heard of it" but didn't know what it meant (until I told them). Unlike with BOGO, I am slightly ahead of this verbal trend instead of way behind.
By telling my college students about it, I might have just hastened the spread of its use. Life is full of irony.
Major. Linguistic. Knowledge.
This new slang term for an old label might revolutionize the English language.
Found on Pinterest Quotes |
Whore's latest addition is the eloquent, sophisticated, and innovative term "thot."
Originally an acronym for the phrase "that ho over there," T-H-O-T became the texting translation so that the youth can communicate their socially relevent commentary faster and easiter. "THOT is talking to my ex" is far less cumbersome than "That ho over there is talking to my ex-boyfriend."
Found on Kevin Gurlides' Twitter |
Considering culture's obsession with developing a myriad of ways to call a woman a whore, I would think that it would assume that a whore's life is always interesting. So, to save oxygen and finger muscles, why not just say (or write or text) "thot?" I'm not too worried that it will be confused with "thoughts?" Problem with the verbal use, is that "THOT" sounds too much like "thought" so that whoever is receving the question doesn't know if she is being asked to share the escapes of her body or her mind. But at least without the inflection of voice needed to ask a question, a woman will know when she is being insulted: "THOT."
By telling my college students about it, I might have just hastened the spread of its use. Life is full of irony.
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