Sharing is Caring

The best experience I had sharing my essay happened previously we I shared the rough draft with my brother that recently left on his mission and my parents. However since I finally finished the essay I was finally able to share it with Brother Miller with whom I wrote the essay about.

The best part was that Brother Miller was not expecting it at all, and he told me that he felt the same way, that we are the best of friends. He even made a joke about cleaning those bathrooms, which is an experience that can't be forgotten. So it was special to be able to share it with the person that was the inspiration behind my essay.

Sharing a Good Time

      In sharing my personal essay there are three specific individuals that immediately came to mind. The first of which is Bro Miller. He is basically the insperiation fo my essay, and it duscusses many of the experiences that we had together and the many things that I've learned from him. Next is my best friend Zach. After our mission he joined the marines and I don't get to see him much, but he could definately apperciate the story, serveral parts he was even present for as well. Last of the individuals that I'm going to mention by name is my good friend from high school named Corey. He was baptized right after we graduated and then went on a mission and has since been married in the temple. It gives me a good excuse for me to connect with him agian.

      Next I'm not going to be posting this essay on facebook, but I will tweet it out to any of my followers that want to take a read, as well as include some LDS hashtags so that even those that I don't know could take a look at if they so choose. Also I'm going to let my mom and sister post my essay or maybe at least links to it so that my extended family can take a look at it as well.

      When it comes to social networks offline, I'm not someone who tipically writes anything period, and so I'm kind of shy to go and just pass it out in the Wilkinson Center or even submit it to the Daily Universe. I have however been pondering using this in a Sunday School or Elders Quorum lesson on Sundays. This would be easiest by simply playing Tori's video about my essay just to get a taste, and then giving the the link to the essay if they want to read it. Other than that I'll probably send email it to a few of my companions from my mission as well as a couple of investigators/members from my mission if I can find a way to get in touch with them. 

   Finally I'm planning on sharing Ryan Parker's essay with my dad. I'm not exactly sure why, but I just had the feeling that he would be able to connect really well with Ryan's essay, so I'm going to share it to him when I go home for Christmas. I also think my sister-in-law Mikjan would appreicate it and could learn from it since she has been through at lot resently and could use a spriritual boost. Also if she feels inclinded she could end up sharing our videos and essays with the seminary class that she teaches.

When you least expect it

I'm the third out of six children in my family. We have all served missions so far. My three siblings that are younger than me are all boys. One is on his mission in the Ukraine, the other is going to Iowa and went into the MTC today, and the youngest is a senior in high school. So this past week my parents drove down from Canada to bring my brother to the MTC.

Yesterday I convinced my parents that they need to see Christopher Nolan's new film Interstellar, so we all went including my missionary brother to see the movie in IMAX in Sandy. On the way back I was driving and figured I should get my brother to read my personal essay draft and give me some spiritual insight since he has been set apart as a missionary. So he grabbed my phone and read it to himself as I was responsibly paying attention to the road. He laughed out loud during the middle section which I was hoping he would.

Once he was finished he simply said it was good and smiled. I did a bit more proding and he reminded me of the few grammar errors, but said that he really enjoyed reading it and then turned and handed the phone to my dad that was sitting in the back seat with my mom and said "you should really read this." My dad asked what it was, and after my brother wouldn't tell him he began to read it out loud so my mom could hear so she wouldn't have to read it again.

It was an interesting experience to hear my dad read my words out loud. My family is very family with the friendship that I have with brother Miller, but haven't heard all the little stories. His voice went from an almost confused tone, to one of recognition, to laughter, and then finally to tears. My mom was also crying, and I too was getting choked up by their reactions. After a long pause ounce he finished reading I finally had the gumpsion to tell them that I wrote the essay to make people laugh and not cry. We all had a little chuckle, but it was very strong spirit that we felt in our CRV driving back to Provo.

I was reminded that my dad also had a very strong friendship with brother Miller having served as a counsellor to him in the bishopric in our ward before. He too had a great amount of respect and love for this man as I do, and we shared a special moment together. I never would have guessed that this relatively insignificant piece of literature that I managed to piece together. 

Chess Master

The first match ended almost before it began. I should have seen it coming. The first pawn of mine that was taken resulted in check-mate. So as suddenly as we started it was over. I don’t take losing easily and wasn't going to let that happen again, despite my lack of experience in playing chess, compared to the 72 year old retired English teacher with an Afro that was sitting across from me. 

The pieces were quickly retest which wasn't hard considering the brevity of the first match. The board was then rotated and play continued. Things were different this time. Play progressed, a queen was captured, castles consumed, knights knocked out, and pawns bishops bagged until finally I had his king trapped with no means of escape. My cunning and daring strategy had somehow outwitted the years of experience that guided the pieces opposite of mine.

Anyone else observing this scene would probably have difficulty believing their eyes. Here is an old man playing chess, which isn’t a surprise, but the fact that his opponent was barely a third of his age. Not a common occurrence especially which his opponent is there by choice and not out of obligation or any other ulterior motives. The old man’s junior, if he were common to his generation would expect to mercilessly distract by his phone and other outside forces, but somehow managed to keep these at bay. They formed what many would call a lopsided friendship. 

From an outsider’s perspective we had very little in common at all, but they couldn't be more wrong. Despite the many years that separated us, we had a lot in common. We both had the same sarcastic and ridiculous sense of humor, loved music and played the guitar, and liked to make fun of each other and others. Despite our physical age differences, our minds are both about the age of 13, which makes things almost too fun at times.

Once upon a time we were both working janitorial on weeknights cleaning the offices at a truck depot. It was probably the nastiest job that I have ever had. Especially the bathrooms, which were at times tainted by trucker blowouts. The only thing that made this bearable, and the only reason I was even there was because we had so much fun together. One night my “supervisor/boss” strategically hid himself in one of the back offices that I always got around to vacuuming last. As I opened the door I found a dirty rag flying at my face, and heard an unearthly yell. Needless to say I was quite startled and once I had my wits about be I found and old man literally rolling around on the dirty carpet with short bursts of giggling escaping at sporadic intervals.  

This is only one example of the many adventures that shaped and forged this unlikely friendship. Despite all of the fun and practical jokes, there were times when we would discuss more serious in an often light-hearted way, but knowing that deep down we both recognized the true importance of these more heavy matters.

As with most friendships time and circumstance would take us far from each other. Even with the many advantages with modern communication, we would rarely talk to each other. However whenever circumstances and time would permit we would make plans to go get a cheap senior discounted mean at a fast food restaurant, or for the first time, a friendly and competitive match of chess. Either way, whenever we would get together it was awesome because we both would be practically the same person that we were the last time that we met. It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks and when you’re as hard headed as me, change is slow and far between. I am always looking forward to the time that we get together. I also start to feel a bit older too when, we get to reminisce  about the many good times that we have had in the past.

My mom would always tell me growing up that friends would come and go but family is the only thing that will last. While she was right about basically every friend that I've had growing up until know that has been relatively close to my age has moved on for some reason. Marriage, graduating, military, and careers all seem to pull those friends of mine from my life. However I can truly say that I've had one friend that despite distance and changes in my life has always been there, and can without a doubt make me laugh. I don’t even want to think about the time that will come when he literally won’t be around anymore. At any rate before I know it I’ll be the one on the experienced side of the chess board, reliving my younger years with some punk kind.

The "Good News"

2013. The year of sisters getting mission calls. This was a crazy time and anyone could be next to get called on a mission. Some girls kept it private until they received the letter that they were going to serve a mission. So some events seemed a little out of the blue or unexpected “mission call opening events.” Facebook posts, blogs, Instagram and all social media were bursting with pictures of girls with large white letters or scripture quotes or videos of the special event. Everywhere I looked there was someone with a large white envelope bursting with good news.

Kellie was always excited for them, clapping and cheering with such enthusiasm that I couldn’t seem to muster. She is one of those sympathetic people that always try to take an interest in another’s life. As a somewhat selfish individual, I wanted to develop that quality that seemed to come so naturally to her.

That night it was Jackie’s turn to open her call and so we walked across the dark cold hallway of our apartment complex to support/satisfy our curiosity. The group gathered on the couches, seated in chairs, and lounging on the floor ranged from close friends and family to people she had met yesterday. As a general rule, it didn’t really matter if you knew the person that well, everyone was invited to come over and watch that lucky one open their envelope and see where they would serve as a missionary for a year and a half.

 After about 12 of us were seated in the living room, Jackie brought out the envelope. She held it with care as if it were something precious and not just a large white paper envelope. I imagined that she had waited by the mailbox everyday just to see if it had come yet.

We started guessing at the places she could go and what language she could possibly learn. I yelled my vote for Belgium and others were guessing somewhere in South America. We turned back our attention to her and we asked her where she wanted to go. She responded with a small smile and the standard “anywhere the Lord sends me”, and then added on in a bit of a rush “BUT if I had to choose I would pick Italy.”

 I had resolved to put on a convincing show this time and be super happy for her. If I was not vocal about my ecstatic joy for her then I was not supporting the missionaries. So I got ready. I was on the edge of my seat. I was prepared to cheer and jump up and down.

Going on a mission is a pretty big deal, in The Book of Mormon there is a legacy of missionaries going out of their home countries to share their beliefs about God to people of foreign lands. Like the Alma in The Book of Mormon who was called of God to teach the gospel, youth today can be called to go and be missionaries. At this moment it was Jackie’s turn to see where the Lord had called her.

Finally she slipped open the envelope and began reading. “Sister Brown you are hereby called to serve as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Florence Italy Mission.”

My breath caught and I could not believe it, people very rarely got sent where they wanted to go. I mean there was always a chance but I had never been to a mission call opening where that happened. My eyes widened. I started clapping and jumped up to give her a hug. It was so amazing and her prayers were answered for sure, I thought, this day. It was a gift from God to His daughter.

“No way!” and “Oh my gosh!” and other such phrases were being tossed around the room. I joined in with relish but I soon noticed someone missing in the celebrations.

I looked over at Kellie, sitting on the couch, legs crossed and smiling but absolutely not her normal gushing self.

Suddenly, I was suspicious.

And then I knew. The letter was a fake and we had been tricked. Good one Jackie, good one.

Down the Window Crack

We were sitting in front of my apartment in his car, uncomfortably damp in our swimsuits after a summer night in the hot tub. I was making dumb conversation, not wanting to go inside and end the night.

“Let’s get drinks,” he said.

Thrilled he wanted to spend more time together, I suggested Sonic and we were off.

Waiting in the drive-through line we compared each other’s drivers’ license pictures while I worried his eyes would linger too long on my weight stat.

“Okay, let’s talk about something else,” I said, grabbing my license.

He put his license back in his wallet and took out his credit card. He rolled his window down because we were next in line to pay.

He snapped his card back and forth as he told me a story about his roommate. He gestured his left hand to emphasize a point when the card sailed away. 

There was a brief silence.

His face, always so collected, turned an endearing and entirely new shade of red.

“Did you just drop your card?”

“Uh. Yeah,” he said, leaning outside of the car to look down at the street.

“Do you see it?”

He kept staring outside and then felt down under his seat, but the card would not be found. 

"I'm sure it's here," I said with a nervous laugh.

“So," he said after a moment, "I don’t know how this happened…but I think it's down the window crack."

There was no way, yet it was true. He rolled his window up and down but the card would not come out. 

We lost ourselves in crying laughter before the car in front of us pulled away. I didn't care that I had to buy the drinks now; having an inside joke was worth four dollars. 

"I didn't even know that was possible," he said with a gruff laugh, rolling his eyes as he put the car in drive. 

We pulled up to the cashier with wet faces as he handed her my card. 

Mafia Mormons

Sitting in Sunday school I almost cringe every time that Peter would raise his hand. He never said anything that was wrong, offense or even inappropriate, but it was the way that he would talk. His voice would immediately increase in pitch as he would talk. It would become very soft and airy, and the content would always turn to some mission story. I have nothing against return missionaries or having them impart of their wisdom, but the way that they go about it make them seem like they are the most holy person in the room. It seems almost degrading just to be in their presence and hear them speak. I don’t want to have to strain to hear them speak, and then I don’t even want to participate in the lesson anymore because I don’t have anything that can top them. Church over for me as soon as he starts talking because he is always going to have the final word, so there is no point in even trying. His intentions aren't bad, but it seems more like he have something to prove. Missions change people’s hearts, minds, and souls, but why does it change the voices so many missionaries as well?

Without every fast Sunday Brother Falcone would slowly make his way to stand with his hunched back, slicked back hair and black pin-striped suit. It was inevitable that he would give a monologue about his Italian heritage and growing up in the slums on the east coast. The story seemed to be the same every week with very little variation. He would talk very slowly without looking out at the congregation, but instead he would stare at the base of the microphone while fiddling with the actual mic with one hand. The mic would making popping and scratching noises has his wingers would continue to connect with the mics surface and he would speak very softly, almost a whisper for a very long time. Then he would slowly make his way back to his seat. No one ever complained, but no one was ever really surprised by his reoccurring appearance each month. I don’t ever remember seeing him on any other Sundays, but without a doubt he would be there on fast Sundays. I always thought it was cool that we had a mafia member straight out of movie in my ward. He was so cool that everyone was afraid to tell to go sit down because he would be talking for too long. I was living life on the edge somehow through Brother Falcone making his appearances in church.

A Language of Her Own

The first time I saw Sydney I thought she was a homeless person. 

I was unable to decide if she was male or female. She sat at the kitchen table speaking with my mother as if they were old friends. I did the awkward hello that usually happens when strangers invade your house. She said something back and then pretended as if she knew me. She was shocked at how much I had grown and I was shocked at the fact that she wasn't some homeless person that my mom was giving dinner to.

She had an interesting tone to her voice, one that comes from being unable to hear what you are saying. Her voice faded in and out and it was hard to discern what she was saying. As she spoke with her guttural voice, she also spoke with her hands, mixing gestures with sign language into a unique language of her own.

The moment she stepped out the door, I turned to my mother and inquired about their relationship. Turns out she was a friend of my dad’s, from years ago. They formed a bond over their deafness. A sort of bond like that cannot be faked, because unless someone has gone through it themselves, they have no chance of understanding. I can still remember Sydney’s face as she said how sad she was that he was gone and that she hadn't even known until nearly eight years after the funeral.

As I learned more about her, my feelings and regard for this strange woman shifted from wariness and fear, to warmth and understanding. She was a survivor, a woman made rough by the trials of life, but with a heart that still beats warm under the thick skin she grew.

A lesson well learned, an outward appearance does not always portray the true depth of a person. 

A Bald Mans Worst Nightmare

I am bald. My hair line started receding at the ripe old age of 17 and continued falling out until there was nothing left at the age of 22. Since I have grown accustomed to no longer having hair I have also grown accustomed to the absence of little strands of hair in my personal space, especially my food. This became a problem when my sister in-law moved in with us for the summer. 

Kimber is a hair dresser and as you would expect is always sporting the latest updo, melt, wave or braid. Now don’t get me wrong, she has very beautiful hair. It is the kind that glistens in the sun and looks as if it should be spotlighted in an Herbal Essences commercial but because of her profession she doesn't seem to recognize the beauty of being bald.

 

I was excited for her to move in. We grew up in the same neighborhood and have known each other since the 5^th grade, but that excitement ended the first night she decided to cut a “girlfriends” hair in our kitchen, right above the air vent. It seems that as she was chatting away with her friends doing “a little trim” the air conditioner turned on and blew strands of hair all over the kitchen.

Now I am a pretty easy going guy but when my wife makes me a tatter tot casserole for dinner and the first bite I take is accompanied by a long, black hair whose genetic code has no relation to any of the residence in my home, I go a little crazy. Once I pulled the long, greasy strand out of the once tasty meal in my mouth, I looked at my sister in-law and said “whose is this?” and she replied “oh… you know… just a friend’s!” and then went back to her meal as if there was no problem. I then replied “since I am such a nice guy I am going to let this slide, but please clean up all the hair when you are done cutting it” to which she rolled her eyes and said “yea, yea!”

The next day I had all but forgotten about the previous evening’s event and decided to make a sandwich for lunch. I took a huge bite and started to chew until I felt something foreign rolling around my mouth with the lettuce and turkey. I stuck my fingers in and pulled out another long, black piece of hair to which I rolled my eyes and thought “this is going to be a long, long summer.”

The Road

My dad is in the front driving intently, without having slept in a couple of days, and my oldest sister is in a deep sleep towards the front of our 15 seat van. The contrasting image blares at me from my past. The road trips with the family are some of the most amusing times I have ever experienced while traveling in cars. Dad sits in the front with his headphones on to block out all the noise from my siblings and I. We travel to visit when the sun goes down and the stars come up. As the road goes on my dad keeps trudging forward like a captain of an army. He does not stop and does not turn back. The car is starting to smell like everyone’s body odor and my brothers disgusting toots and feet. Going through state to state to reach the destination by morning, my dad is focused to get there before we all wake up and become needy like newborn puppies and there mom. 

Michelle my oldest sister sitting close to him is deep in her sleep and starts to sleep talk occasionally. She abruptly sits up and yells “Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad” constantly until my dad cuts through his focus and pulls over to the curb asking Michelle, “ What do you need?”. The family’s attention is drawn to the front seats wondering why Michelle is screaming, and why we are pulled over. Michelle wakes up from her deep sleep and also wonders why the van stopped. You can almost hear my dad’s eyes rolling over as he turned back onto the highway like a loyal captain to his army. We all go back to sleep now that it is around the middle of the night and my courageous dad keeps driving. He drove us a few more miles until we all here “Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad” once more coming from my older sister. That was the start to one of my family’s extensive road trips. More rolled eyes, more miles, more snoring, and lots of good times on the road.

The Envelope

2013. The year of sisters getting mission calls. Everywhere I looked there was someone with a large white envelope bursting with good news. My friend Kellie was always so excited for them, clapping and cheering with such enthusiasm that I couldn’t seem to muster.

That night it was Jackie’s turn to open her call and so we as good members of the ward walked across the hall to support/satisfy our curiosity. As a rule, it didn’t really matter if you knew the person that well, everyone was invited to come over and watch that lucky one open their envelope.

 After about 12 of us were seated in the living room, Jackie brought out the envelope. We started guessing at the places and what language that letter would say. I yelled out Belgium and others were guessing somewhere in South America. We asked her where she wanted to go. And of course the standard “anywhere the Lord sends me, BUT if I had to choose I would pick Italy”. I had resolved to put on a better show this time and be super happy for her. If I was not vocal about my ecstatic joy for her then I was not supporting the missionaries. Finally she slipped open the envelope and started reading. “Sister Brown you are hearby called to serve in the Florence Italy Mission.”

My breath caught and I could not believe it, people very rarely got sent where they wanted to go. I started clapping and jumped up to give her a hug. It was so amazing and her prayers were answered for sure this day. “No way” and “Oh my gosh” were being tossed around the room. But there was someone missing in all the cheering.

I looked over at Kellie and she was smiling but not her normal gushing self. Suddenly I was suspicious.

The letter was fake.

The Opinionated Loud Whisperer

There was one woman in my ward that was very outspoken about her opinions. She had long grey hair, a constant scowl on her brow, and had a deep voice like a man.

Her comments in Relief Society had two crowds. The first crowd, consisting of about half of the women, held their breath and cringed in their seats, afraid of the damage she would do. The other half would excitingly turn around in their seat to give their undivided attention, with smiles playing at their lips, a gleam in their eye, and pens ready to write every word she said, that seemed to know something good was about to happen. That second group acted like it was the only thing that brought them to Relief Society, and if she didn't comment during that week, Relief Society had no meaning for them.

The best part, though, was during sacrament, when my family sat close enough to hear her comments about the members of the ward. When a member of the ward spoke about a scare she had with breast cancer, the mumble in the back row came loud and clear during the silence between speakers saying, "I highly doubt that." Or when a child ran off into an isle: "They need to have better control over their children." Or sometimes, "Wow, that baby isn't cute at all. She looks like her dad."

One Sunday, during a Testimony meeting, "Brothers and Sisters, I don't know if you know, but I am in charge of the Family History department for our ward. And I just want to say what a spectacular thing it is," she said in her deep voice that seemed to carry only two or three different pitches, "And the youth should really get involved in it. If the leaders ever need something for the youth to do, they can call us up and schedule a time for the Family History Library. I'll be there. And the adults should get involved in it too." And then she sat down.

There was no testimony. There was no typical closings that are common for Mormon speaking. The audience members didn't know if they should say "amen" anyway or just sit in silence. It was almost refreshing. After she sat down, she asked her husband, "Did I do good?"

Perfectly Pious

Every time Sister H gets up to the pulpit everyone holds their breath.  There is an audible breath drawn in almost collectively.  Mothers blush as their children make noise or argue and fathers holding smart phones pretending to "look up bios of the prophets" squirm in their seats.  The message is always the same: money is evil, people in the ward have money, therefore, the ward is evil.  She gets up humbly flaunting her very modest choices in clothing: always the same style earth-toned pioneer skirt and a peasant top or button-up shirt in some sort of a neutral print.  She never wears a heel or jewelry, because that goes beyond the Law of Consecration.  That breaks the mold of the perfectly pious.

She'll start with some sort of scripture like Matthew's "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God" and segway into how most of the people in our ward have "stuff" (said in a condescending tone of course) like boats and trailers and ATVs that will do nothing for our salvation.  Instead, her children wear second-hand clothing and cultivate necessary talents like becoming a scriptorian.  A talent I actually do want to cultivate... on my own. They don't seek worldly talents like sports or dance like the vain do.  It's not all condescending, she will encourage us to live the Mormon Mold, seek to live the Law of Consecration and devote our lives to God through service.

Which is not to be marred by the recent arrival of Brother F, an endodontist who spent the last 6 weeks in South America on a medical mission giving complimentary dental work to people about to lose their teeth. When asked about his trip he would modestly and humbly disclose that he provided his own supplies and fare for the trip.  Nor is it to be marred by Sister K and Sister J who provide a weekend's worth of  meals to over 100 kids in Mesa each weekend whose teachers know they only eat at school.

Maybe definitions of pride, wealth and service are different for each person, but Sister H has helped me on the way to scriptorianhood.  Maybe she encouraged members of the ward to let go of worldly things or maybe she encouraged them to serve instead.

Testimony Meeting Support Group

“I don’t know if any of you know this, but I struggle with depression and ADHD…” she prefaced her comment for the umpteenth time. I struggle to keep from rolling my eyes and the rest of the class sinks farther into the couches—lulled to sleep by the familiar declaration and the sure knowledge that any attempt at participation is futile. Many times my seminary teacher does not even have the chance to finish her question before Anna is off, taking us all on a rambling, bumpy journey through an experience relating only vaguely to the subject matter or cataloguing a litany of self-diagnosed psychological illnesses. It requires either prophetic knowledge of the next question or nigh-on divine intervention for anyone else to respond. My mind drifts off during this latest contribution to envision myself diving across the room, covering her mouth as I rapidly covey the spiritual experience I had last week that relates exactly to the verse we are discussing. I tune back into a passionate account of how hard it was for her to try public schools for a few weeks after being home schooled her whole life. Because everyone else in the room attends public school, I am not sure how much sympathy this arouses. There is nothing like waking up at five in the morning and driving in the dark and cold over roads covered in black ice to put you in an uncharitable mood. It doesn’t help that her bastion of bravery in psychological illness has encouraged many others in the youth group to share their own strivings against depression, ADHD or bipolar disorder at every opportunity. Youth testimony meetings have started to feel more like treatment support groups; the percentage of self-reputedly depressed youth in our ward is double the national average (not an exaggeration, I looked it up). But maybe Anna’s over-eagerness to share psychological weaknesses, has given me a chance to work on improving my own spiritual weaknesses: the patience and charity for others.

Those Needle-pointing Students

And then, there are those students. You know, the ones who are normally (at least) ten minutes early to each class and who sit in the very front. Occasionally they’re late, but never unprepared. They come squeezing up with their big backpack, their lunch pail dangling from their wrist, not to mention books in their hands and the newest action figure swinging from their backpack. They loudly and not very gracefully make their way to the very front of the classroom where they feel they belong. Normally they’re very engaged and you know—answer every question asked. Sometimes it is rather annoying as they mutter off an answer that seems to be as long as a novel. But other times where no one else has an answer, you wait and wish that they would save the class by having something to add and relieve you from a possible pop quiz. All too often though you check out when they raise their hand, maybe even roll your eyes for others to see? It becomes somewhat of a habit, and unfortunately it’s as if they whole class is united against this student (sometimes even the professor too).  

We’ve all been in that class. We all know those students; maybe we even are those students to an extent. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being a diligent student, let alone contributing to the class discussion; but sometimes it can be a little too much for one class to handle. This “student” was once in one of my religion classes…we will call her…Jessica. And Jessica never came unprepared; she had her backpack, her lunch pail, books, and extra bags overflowing with random knick-knacks. She wore this knitted animal hat (at least I think it was an animal) and not only did she sit towards the front and answer just about every question, but her unique and redeeming quality was that she did so while either knitting or doing needlepoint. I was fascinated (and to be honest, distracted) by her skill at giving such insightful comments, as well as staying so focused on her task at hand. I thought she was one of “those” students, and maybe she was, but it wasn’t overbearing, as she too looked engaged in her needlepoint, and not necessarily in just dominating the class.

-Lizzy S.

*As Dr. Burton said, there is a fine line between humor and an unfair stereotype. I hope that I was able to mostly just air on the side of humor, and not offensiveness. My intent was not to offend, and I am truly sorry if I did.