(no subject)
So, I really like my classes.
I especially like my African-American Lit class, because the discussion in there is amazing. No one is afraid of stepping on people's toes, no one ever gets offended, and not once has anyone started flinging accusations, a common event in other classes when the topics turn controversial.
I like my Maya class, because they were pretty interesting jungle-y people. And they had cool buildings. And Lecount is pretty crazy and entertaining. She said titties in class last week.
I like my Social Structure class, even though the professor is rather obsessed with Southern Spain and relates everything back to that area. I mean, there are worse places to discuss.
I like my Discoveries in Archaeology class because I know so much more than the freshmen. I knew this random skull was from a monkey, for example. No great achievement, but it pleased me to know something that someone else did not. Is that bad? Maybe, but I don't care. Because I'm smart, dammit, and that's something I've worked very hard for and should therefore be respected for. The class is also pretty interesting, aside from my feeling superior. And it's Lecount again, which is awesome.
The other day I walked by a door that had rusty streaks on it. It reminded me of this door that was on a building behind a house that I pass when I go to my grandmother's house. When I was younger, I couldn't see the door too clearly. It looked like the door was painted, and to me it appeared to be the head of a horse, with pretty grasses and trees in the background. I always looked at that door when I went to my granny's house, and felt a little happiness because of the pretty painting. I thought an artist used that building for a studio, and he/she like horses so much that they decorated their door with one. I even thought that maybe, just maybe, as a child they had had a horse like the one on the door. But it had died, and they were so sad that they never got another horse. They just painted that one on their door.
When I was eleven, I got contacts. I saw that the wonderful horse and the story I had imagined for it were nothing but a big spot of rust. A lot of that sort of thing happens when you're eleven.
I especially like my African-American Lit class, because the discussion in there is amazing. No one is afraid of stepping on people's toes, no one ever gets offended, and not once has anyone started flinging accusations, a common event in other classes when the topics turn controversial.
I like my Maya class, because they were pretty interesting jungle-y people. And they had cool buildings. And Lecount is pretty crazy and entertaining. She said titties in class last week.
I like my Social Structure class, even though the professor is rather obsessed with Southern Spain and relates everything back to that area. I mean, there are worse places to discuss.
I like my Discoveries in Archaeology class because I know so much more than the freshmen. I knew this random skull was from a monkey, for example. No great achievement, but it pleased me to know something that someone else did not. Is that bad? Maybe, but I don't care. Because I'm smart, dammit, and that's something I've worked very hard for and should therefore be respected for. The class is also pretty interesting, aside from my feeling superior. And it's Lecount again, which is awesome.
The other day I walked by a door that had rusty streaks on it. It reminded me of this door that was on a building behind a house that I pass when I go to my grandmother's house. When I was younger, I couldn't see the door too clearly. It looked like the door was painted, and to me it appeared to be the head of a horse, with pretty grasses and trees in the background. I always looked at that door when I went to my granny's house, and felt a little happiness because of the pretty painting. I thought an artist used that building for a studio, and he/she like horses so much that they decorated their door with one. I even thought that maybe, just maybe, as a child they had had a horse like the one on the door. But it had died, and they were so sad that they never got another horse. They just painted that one on their door.
When I was eleven, I got contacts. I saw that the wonderful horse and the story I had imagined for it were nothing but a big spot of rust. A lot of that sort of thing happens when you're eleven.