Caught by a Computer
As I sat in his office, sweat dripped off my long brown bangs onto my light blue collared button-down shirt. It was not because I was nervous, it was because it was the end of April and unseasonably warm in Charlottesville, Virginia. I was there, in my professor’s office, in my mind, because he wanted to get caught up with me about my future plans after graduation. He was curious about my plans for the summer, plans for my fiancé and I, and plans for my career as a high school teacher at the public school in my hometown, Mclean, Virginia. I was alone in his office, waiting for Dr. Bloomfield to show up to his office for our casual meeting scheduled for 3:30 that afternoon. The heat was becoming unbearable. The University of Virginia’s century old buildings on the quad were not air conditioned, and I was beginning to wish that I had paid the extra tuition to have them installed. I sat in his small dimly lit office, becoming impatient because it was nearing four o’clock. I began to notice the pictures that cluttered Dr. Bloomfield’s overrun office. Pictures of his wife, his twin daughters, who appeared to be roughly the same age as I, and his younger son, in his early teen years, sat atop stacks of periodicals and yet to be graded finals. I noticed my final research paper on the top of the stack. This seemed odd; however I guessed he only wanted to discuss it while we met, as foreclosure to the popular Intro. To Physics class for upperclassmen of his that I was enrolled in, as it was our final assignment. I was distracted once again by the array of pictures throughout his undeservedly small office. Among these were more pictures of his boat, his bay house on the Chesapeake Bay, and his chocolate lab Mocha, whom I was familiar with at this point due to several stories he shared in class. Dr. Bloomfield was a family man whom I had gained great respect for over the years. My aspirations for what I wanted my life to turn out like very closely replicated his own life. Sitting alone in his office gave me time to think about what I wanted to become, who I wanted to marry, how many kids I wanted to have and so on.
On the evening of Monday, October 28th, 2002, this great woman visited the faculty, staff, students and guests at Rutgers University. To enter the little gymnasium on College Avenue, where the event would be held and would eventually house nearly 2,000 people, everyone needed a ticket, a ticket that I did not have because they had sold out so quickly. Nevertheless, I was determined to be there. So I adorned myself in the appropriate attire, left my apartment, and at 6:45 found myself on College Avenue in a line that spanned from the doors of the gym all the way to Au Bon Pain. No one seemed to care that it was 30° outside that night. Up and down the line you could hear snippets of conversations resonating excitement and anticipation of the night’s event. For some who had seen Dr. Angelou in the past it would be an added treat, but for me it would be a first. I was going through ideas of things to say to the doorperson so they would let me in without a ticket.
I envisioned my experience at the Governor’s school. Spending my summer surrounded by North Carolina's best instructors and rising seniors. I visualized attending the theater events that other students performed. I wondered what my roommate would be like. I fantasized decorating my dorm room with meaningful pictures, awards, and my acceptance letter to the Governor’s school. I imagined the sound of my mother’s gentle voice on the phone
Atherosclerosis is a disease that occurs when arteries become blocked, inflamed, or hardened. As a result of this, blood cannot easily pass through the artery, and blood pressure increases. Many people suffer from atherosclerosis as they age, but young people can be affected by atherosclerosis also. There are many preventative steps that can be taken to decrease the risk of atherosclerosis; however, if atherosclerosis does develop in the arteries, medications can be given to help the individual receive adequate blood flow to important tissues. Atherosclerosis is a very serious condition that requires medical attention and a change in life style because it is a precursor to many dangerous and potentially fatal diseases.
1) Coronary Artery Disease (CAD)/Coronary Heart Disease (CHD): In the United States, CAD accounts for one death every minute making it a leading cause of death (Kones, 2011). Individuals at risk for CAD include those with modifiable and non-modifiable risk factors. Non-modifiable risk factors for CAD include: age, race, family history. Modifiable risk factors include: hypertension, obesity, smoking, hyperlipidemia, diabetes, and minimal to no physical exercise. If untreated, CAD can lead to heart failure (Kones, 2011). Individuals with CAD may present to their primary care providers with symptoms such as: angina, shortness of breath, indigestion/heartburn, and dyspnea on exertion. Individuals develop CAD when plaque obstructs the coronary arteries
Skloot, Floyd. “In the Shadow of Memory.” Intersections: An Introduction to the Liberal Arts. Ed. Peggy Fitch. Littleton, MA: Tapestry, 2011. 79-84. Print.
Forty ordinary male citizens of New Haven and the surrounding New England areas-representing several occupations, ranging in the ages of twenty to fifty years old, were solicited and recruited under the premise of participating in a study of “memory and learning”. Each subject was compensated $4.50 for participating, and told that the payment was for their attendance to the Yale University laboratory, and no matter what the outcome the payment was theirs to keep. The controlled assignments were an experimenter/authority figure, portrayed by an impassive, somewhat stern thirty-one year old male, and the victim portrayed by a mild-mannered, likeable forty-seven year old male. Through rigged drawings, the uncontrolled assignments or subjects were always selected as teachers (Milgram, 1963).
Headed along the yellow brick road towards the registration office, I was intercepted by my malevolent manager, the “Ineffable John” as he was called by my fellow co-workers, and he said unto me, “Michael, you don’t want to go to college, stay here and you shall have bestowed upon your unworthy head all which you need to know. Here, fill up my coffee cup.” With his words still echoing in my mind, I wanted to sprint down the hallway, pole-vault over the cubicle prisons, hurdle the water ration cooler, and dive through the double-paned sliding glass doors. This spectacular display of athletic ability would have been terrific, but the ball and chain still shackled to my ankles would have slightly hindered my escape.
Finally, here I am typing this assignment on the first floor of the library finishing this paper so I’m able to continue onto my college and career journey. I’ve learned so many thing in just the past couple years that’s helped with other situations in my life and I will carry them to help me along with things through the rest of my life; like multitasking, highlighting the important facts, summarizing, communicating, to not be so self conscious, and finally to be successful in pursuing my dreams and going to UNLV and becoming a criminal profiler.
As I opened the doors to Lynn Gross Discovery School P.S. 17Q. I felt the butterflies in my stomach. It was the first day of school in America for me and had a bad feeling. My mom, my dad, my sister, Monica and I step inside the school. I looked inside the enormous hallway and the walls covered with artwork and pictures. My dad commanded my sister, Monica and I “I have to go to the office and do something. You two sit down on the benches and wait with your mom.” Monica and I agreed and said, “Okay.’’ I felt the clock ticking by and I wished for the world to stop turning. I waited and waited and waited. Finally, I decided to ask my mom something. “Mom, do you know how to say I don’t know how to speak English in English?” I asked her in Russian. She told me how and I tried to remember. I repeated the words over and over again like a singer trying to memorize the lyrics to a song, until my dad finally came out the office. My dad told us “You are now officially students of P.S.157. Now it time to go to your classrooms” in Russian.
There are certain moments in my writing process, even more than twenty years later, that I can still imagine hearing that sharply critical voice striking a deep and lasting blow as the journalism assignment replete with bloody red ink landed on my desk. “This is all wrong,” were the words my high school journalism teacher stabbed me with as she passed down the aisle pausing only long enough for me to catch a whiff of her nicotine breath. At the very same moment my stomach muscle knotted, my face burned as if with fever, and those four words echoed out of control over and over again in my ears. Notoriously late for class due to her love of smoking cigarettes in the teacher’s lounge (in those days smoking was allowed in school buildings), Ms. B’s entrance into the class on this particular day was no exception. With a flurry of authority, arrogance, and impatience, she appeared before me-the subservient and humble student. Her disdain for my writing was obvious in her written comments on the returned assignment. But it was the spoken word about my writing that intimidated and humiliated me, even to this very day when I allow myself to think back on the incident.
Two weeks later, the professor's wife, who teaches psychology, gave an examination to her advanced class. Halfway through the test a student asked to go to the bathroom. She was gone a long time, but the psychologist, who employed the young woman as a lab assistant and was directing her honors thesis, suppressed her suspicions. That evening, she visited the ladies room. In the toilet stall she noticed a sheaf of papers stuffed behind a plumbing pipe. They turned out to b e handouts distributed in the course, covered with notes in what she believed was the student's handwriting.
School had just started; it was the fall of my sophomore year. I was excited about having new teachers and being able to boss around those little freshmen since I had finally lost that ridiculous title of “freshy.” Although one class did turn all that excitement right into knots in my stomach, it was English 10. Ugh I hated English, partially because I could never remember all those rules of writing, which I had just thought of as “dumb.” I figured, “Why would I ever need to know all them? Computers will be able to fix all my mistakes for me!” As I would soon find out, boy was I ever wrong. Surprisingly, class was going good; our teacher Mr. Mieckowski seemed to be a little weird and quite boring at times but all in all not too bad I mean who isn’t boring occasionally? He had a shiny head with very little hair and never wore long sleeves to class. He was also quite tall and skinny, so everyone had his or her own conclusion about Mr. Mieckowski’s personal life. A lot of the time this ended up being the topic of conversation for his students, along with his hatred towards icicle lights, white reindeer, and especially technology; the thing I loved most.
Being a student in Mrs. Wroblewski’s classroom always made me feel safe. Whenever something was bothering me, I knew I could talk to her in order to work things out. I knew that if I told her, she would actually do something about it. I still remember when I was sick on the second day of seventh grade and when I came back the next day sh...
Sitting there taking down electron arrangements, it perversely occurs to me that I could use this episode as a topic for my personal essay, after all, aren’t personal traumas the common fodder for moving essays? A friend slaps me on the back, congratulating me on my “heroism.” Inwardly, a coward contemplates the bulky science teacher.
I cannot forget how excited I was when I first bought my own computer. Like a mother who spends time sewing and knitting for her newborn baby, I spent hours and hours to sparkle my computer. I waited a long time to buy a brand new computer. I had to work more hours and saved money to buy a computer. I did not want to buy a cheap computer, but I wanted to buy a professional one. Was I professional on computer? No! I was not. I did not even know how to type, but I was sure that my expensive com puter could make me a computer expert. 17 inches monitor, color printer, two speakers and well-designed fancy keyboard made me just happy by looking at them on my desk.