Welcome to my website!
Please select English 11, or College Writing from the menu on the left
College Writing and Junior English assignments and Announcements have been moved to Google classroom.
Please be sure that you have joined my Google Classroom.
College Recommendation Announcements:
Recommendations will be written on a first come-first served basis.
Please remember that if you have a very early deadline (before November 1st), you need to get the request in ASAP
I will not write a recommendation without a written request from you. Please see this page for details:
Hyper-by David Baker
Then a stillness descended the blue hills. I say stillness. They were three deer, then four. They crept down the old bean field, these four deer, for fifteen minutes—more—as we watched them in the field, in the soughing snow. That's how slowly they moved in stillness, slender deer. The fourth limped behind the other three, we could see, even in the darkness, as it dragged its right hindquarter where it was hit or shot. Katie sat back on her heels. The dog held in his prints, or Kate held him, hardly breathing at first. Then we relaxed. Blue night descended our neighbor's blown hills. And the calm that comes with seeing something beautiful but far from perfect descended— absolute attention, a fixity. I say absolute. It was stillness. In the books we gathered, the first theory holds that the condition's emergence is most common at age eight, if less in girls than boys, or more vividly seen in boys whose fidgets, whose deficit attentions, like little psycho-economic realms, are prone to twitches-turned-to-virulence, anxieties palpable in vocalized explosions—though now we know in girls it's only on the surface less severe, which explains her months of bubbling tension, her long blue drifts and snowy distractions. I say distractions. Of course I mean how, clinically, tyrosine hydroxylase activity—the "rate limiting enzyme in dopamine synthesis"—disrupts, burns, then rewires her brain's chemical pathways. Let me put it another way. After twenty-four math problems, the twenty-fifth still baffles her, pencil gnawed, eraser- scuff-shadows like black veins on her homework. It's not just the theory of division she no longer gets, it's her hot clothes, her itchy ear, the ruby-throated hummingbird's picture on the fridge, what's in the fridge, whose socks these are, why, until I'm exhausted and yell again. Until she's gone away to her room, lights off, to sulk, read, cry, draw. No longer trusting to memory, she writes everything in her journal now, then ties it with a broken strand of necklace. Of her friends: I am the funny one. Mom: She has red hair and freckles to. Under Dad: I have his bad temper. I know. I looked. In one sketch she finished, just before we learned what was wrong—I mean, before we knew what to call what was wrong, how to treat it, how to treat her—she captured her favorite cat with a skill that skips across my chest. He's on a throw rug, asleep. The rug's fringe ruffles just so. The measure of her love is visible in each delicate stroke, from his fetal repose, ears down, eyes sealed softly, paws curled inward, to the tiger lines of his coat deepened by thick textures where she's slightly rubbed away the contours with her thumb to winter coat gray. He's soft, he's purring, he's utterly relaxed asleep. One day, before we learned what was wrong, she taped it to a pillow on my bed. Terry Is Tired she'd printed at the top. How many ways do we measure things by what they're not. I say things. Mostly her mind is going too fast, yet the doctors give her, I'm not kidding, amphetamines— speed, we used to say, when we needed it— Ritalin, which wears off hard and often, Adderal, which lasts all day though her food's untouched and sleep comes late. The irony is the medicine slows her down. She pays attention, understands things. The theory is, AD/HD patients "aren't hyper- aroused, they're underaroused," so they lurch and hurtle forward, hungry for focus. Another theory says the brain's two lobes are missized. Their circuits "lose their balance." One makes much of handedness—left—red hair, allergies, wan skin, an Irish past . . . We watched four deer in stillness walking there. Stillness walking, like the young blue deer hurt but beautiful. In her theory of division, Katie's started drawing them— her rendering's reduced them down to three. She has carefully lined the cut bean rows in contours like the dog's brushed coat. Snowflakes dot the winter paper. Two small deer stand alert on either side of the hurt one leaning now to bite the season's dried-up stems. Their ears are perched like hands, noses up, tails tufted in a hundred tiny pencil lines. She's been hunkered over her drawing pad, humming, for an hour. So I watch. I say watch. I ask why she's made the little hurt one so big. Silly. He's not hurt that bad, she says. She doesn't look up. That one's you.- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20411#sthash.YNUzbdke.dpuf