Woodshop

I smelled popcorn on Thursday while I was in the engineering building - all heat and air and too much salt. It triggered flashbacks to the woodshop class I took last semester. I realized that more than the aroma of wood shavings or the acrid scent of Wilcox oil finish, popcorn is the scent of woodworking to me.

My professor, Dr. C (who knew you could get a PhD in tech ed), would make popcorn on our workdays and during open labs. As the symphony of whirring blades and droning machinery commenced, Dr. C would go back to the storage area to pull out a cast iron skillet, seasoning and a big metal bowl to put the popcorn in when it was done. He even had these neat little bags on his desk with “Hot and Delicious Popcorn” printed on them in a cheery red font. The bags reminded me of the kind you get at a carnivals or the state fair – cheap thin paper that the oil soaks through in spots. They also remind me of barf bags on an airline, tucked in the mesh pocket in front of you, ready for when you start feeling sick. I don’t think I’ve ever been more stressed out by a class.

***

I have this memory of laying on the grass with my friend Jared on a lazy August evening right after I moved out to Utah and right before the start of my freshman year. I was picking at the grass compulsively while he was on his back next to me with an arm flung behind his head. I recall our conversation going like this:

“I’d be terrible at computer science,” I said (which was his major), “I don’t understand computers at all.” I tend to be like that about a lot of things – convinced I will be terrible at something because I’ve never done it before, because I don’t already know how. I could have said the same thing about wood working before the class.

Jared was quiet for a minute then he propped himself up on his elbows, looking at me, “How good are you at flying helicopters?”

“I dunno, I’ve never flown a helicopter before.”

“Hm…” he said, falling back onto the grass, “and have you coded before?” He had caught me in my own logical fallacy. 

***

It turns out there is whole body of work published about the assumption that you’ll be bad at something you’ve never tried. Psychologist Carol Dweck refers to it as having a ‘fixed mindset’. I read a lot of her research when I took a psychology class in high school. And since I’m trying to figure out why the smell of popcorn has my cortisol levels running so high, I quickly looked up a few of her articles and skimmed through them again. 

In a fixed mindset students believe that their basic abilities – intelligence, talent, athleticism – are all immutable. They have a certain amount and that’s that, so their goal becomes to look smart all the time and never look stupid.

In woodshop there is no appearance of competency. It’s a skills class, not an academic class where I can sit back and be a warm body. I remember when I was taking calculus in high school I would avoid asking questions because I felt I would be perceived as stupid. Everyone around me was sitting silently too, a clear indicator to me that they understood what I was missing. Meeting up with classmates in the evenings to study at together at Caribou coffee, it became evident that all of us had been playing the same game. We were all high-achieving, disciplined kids who had been praised for our ‘intelligence’ our whole lives. We all sat confused and lost and silent in class together because we couldn’t bear the appearance of ignorance. I guess it comes down to the interpretation of a question – is asking questions seizing an opportunity for growth or a sad revelation of your inferiority?

There was no way to hide my ignorance when I was learning to use a table saw under the amused observation of my peers. Peers which consisted mostly of male TechEd majors who wear Carharrt, the brand of the blue collar working man, like it’s a lifestyle. The first time I ran a board through a table saw I went so slowly that the blade burned the edge of the wood, leaving deep red marks. Everyone could smell the smoke. The process of experiential, tactile learning made it painfully obvious that the mere appearance of knowledge is worthless. You either know what you’re doing or you don’t. There’s no bullshit, no fluffing out papers to make them reach the page requirement or anything else sly like that. In woodworking you have to make precise cuts, and sand down boards to exact thicknesses. Any error in craftsmanship is evident in the final object.

I don't know if having a fixed mindset is really as much about believing your skills are unchanging as it is about being haunted by fear that people will discover you as a fraud. In my mind, I imagined this nightmarish situation in which Dr. C turned to me and would say, "you're not good at this. Why are you here?"

I guess maybe it all comes back to something that my friend Molly recently brought up in a phone call during finals week - entertaining the notion that we may not be at college to be perfect, but rather, to learn. 

With what little I bring

"Does the sun ask itself, 'Am I good? Am I worthwhile? Is there enough of me?' No, it burns and it shines. Does the sun ask itself 'What does the moon think of me? How does Mars feel about me today?' No it burns, it shines. Does the sun ask itself 'Am I as big as the other suns in other galaxies?' No, it burns, it shines."

 I am a practicing Latter-Day-Saint, but I grew up surrounded by Jewish tradition from my father's side of the family. The rituals and remembrances of holidays like Passover and Hannukah hold deep importance for me. This year though, as we lit the Hannukah candles and my brother retold the story of the re-dedication of the temple, I began to think of the story in a different light....

  

A long, long time ago, around the 2nd century BC, a group of Jews revolted against the Greeks who were ruling them in order to regain the ability to worship their God. The Jewish temple had been completely defiled by the Greeks - a statue of Zeus erected in it. When the Maccabees won the temple back, they had to re-dedicate it, which involved a process of lighting oil in the temple over a span of eight days. However, they could only find a single jar of oil which would only provide fuel for a single night. And this is where it gets interesting, because they decide to light that bit of oil anyway. The miracle is that it lasted for all eight days. That's what we celebrate. 

Hannukah isn't actually a high-holy day for Jews. I love celebrating it, but always thought of it as the Jewish holiday which was blown out of proportion because it landed close to Christmas. But this year, I take it as a reminder of trust, and moving forward with faith. 

There's a lot of situations in life, when we feel that we do not have enough to accomplish what we need to do. Or enough to accomplish what others may demand from us. That feeling can be paralyzing. Sometimes, we want to count ourselves out before trying. Hannukah is a reminder to us that what little we bring may be sufficient. A reminder to move forward, trusting and praying that the difference will be filled in. 

Next semester, I'm starting a highly competitive program in my University. There was already one application process to fill 40 spots in the pre-major classes. At the end of the semester I'll submit a portfolio of my work. This, in conjunction with my grades and a professionalism score, will dictate whether or not I get in to the Industrial Design program. 

If  you know me, I'm great at catastrophizing. I was hesitant to put in the first application - sure I wouldn't make the cut. I'm grateful for the encouragement of friends. It's funny to me, that after all these years of formal education in Math, Science and English - booky subjects that I've excelled in - I want to go into something which is a completely new kind of skill. This is a field where you have classes on creative thinking. A field where instead of taking tests you build things in a lab full of power tools. 

I feel like I only bring a little bit with me. I have outlandish, creative ideas, a good background in drawing and a diligence in pursuing my goals. Instead of thinking that this is cannot possibly be enough, and instead of focusing on everyone else's amazing talent, I'm just going to light my oil and see how brightly it burns. 

No homework happened tonight...only cakes

Brandy's cake (she's turning 21 whoot whoot!)

Nathaniel's cake

Matt's cake

Three birthdays, three cakes, all on one day. Baking these was the most delicious way to procrastinate studying for my midterms.

First Snow

Em had never seen snow before, and so as we exited our Anthropology into a morning that was thick with the stuff, her eyes grew wide with a child-like amazement. I couldn't stop laughing. Raised in the Midwest, it's difficult for me to remember that harsh winters are not entirely part of the common human experience. I was reminded of the student who'd moved from Brazil in sixth grade and how he stood up in the middle of class and walked over to the window at first snow. He'd had that same look of awe on his face.

'You've never seen snow before?'

'Nope. Southern California isn't really the place for it' she replied, voice dripping in sarcasm.

'So, you've never gone sledding before?'

'Nope.'

'Or had a snowball fight?'

She shook her head

'And never built a snowman....' Now I was the one in shock...

The amazement in Em's eyes had been replaced with an expression that strongly communicated duh. But I was too caught up in how many activities we had to fit in this winter.

First Snowman! Built right then and there outside of Anthropology lecture.

Our attempt pales in comparison to this Michelangelic piece I saw in front of the Brittany apartments. 

Conversations with a Lab Partner

My lab partner told me he eats strawberry yogurt for breakfast every day. And when he gets a big chunk of juicy strawberry, that's when he can lean back in his chair and let out a sigh of relief. He can close his eyes and savor the redness of the flavor. Because that means it's going to be a good day. 

So today I asked him, did you get a whole strawberry this morning? How is today?

He just looked at me quizzically as he thought. Today, he said, they ran out of strawberry yogurt.

He ate blueberry one instead.

Masochist

The water in the creek was frigid. I thought back to the film of frost I'd seen on the front window of our Honda Fit that morning. Perfect weather for conducting a stream study.

"Shit, Shit, Shit, Holy Shit it's cold!" Tim stuck his hand down the pant leg of his waders. They were too tall for his stocky frame and the green gortex bunched up around him. It made him look even more gnome-like than usual. "There's a leak in the right boot! I think that water's coming up to my knee on this side. Shit, it's colder than the ice tub."

I couldn't help but laugh at the contortion of his face. My waders had holes in both boots, not just one. I may as well have been barefoot for how much water I was feeling. Actually barefoot would have been better, because the water that leaked in sloshed in my boots even when I got out on land. I was permanently submerged. All I can say is the environmental department at school runs a tight budget. And I just wished more than anything in the world I'd remembered to pack extra socks.

"Alright, let's do this guys" Catie said.

One could after all, only pity themselves for so long before moving on, gritting their teeth and accepting the cold. We set our nets in the water, kicked and counted microorganisms and measured depths.

The worst part was coming out. In the water our feet had mostly numbed. Walking back up to shore I felt off balance, because I couldn't feel below my knee and as my blood began circulating again, my nerves began to scream.

Meg was hopping up and down to try to thaw out, Kathrine massaged her toes and I peeled off my socks with distaste. A change of pants would be really nice too.

Being so cold makes a person feel so alive. Pain makes you vividly and sharply aware in a way that you can't be in leisurely comfort. And in a bizarre way want the permafrost on my toes. The soreness in my muscles, the bursting of my lungs and the dizzying feeling of losing oxygen.

I tried telling April about this in art class 6th period. By then the coldness from our morning's excursion had settled into my bones, I had made a home for it there. She told me that I'm a masochist. I guess I get that a lot. But I'm okay with it.

 It's probably true.

Living in the Trees

In my math class (Honors Advanced Functions and trigonometry), we were assigned to find the price of our dream house and then calculate the mortgage on it under various conditions using the formula:

A=R([1-[r/n]^nt]/[r/n])

Where A is the annuity, consisting of nt equal payments of R dollars each with an interest rate r, and n is the number of times per year that the payment is made.

It's the easiest and most practical project we've had all year in math, except for the price of dream house is being elusive.


Because I want to live in the trees, and apparently that is: priceless.