Watch (learning) curves

Image by Mira (on the wall) via FlickrI signed up for a tutor for the biology class. When I read the same paragraph in the textbook repeatedly, the time has come.

The tutoring starts next week. Costs me nothing - it's a service of the college. I love free stuff.


Reaching out for a helping hand is not something I take lightly. In order to do that, I have to have exhausted my own resources and admit something is not clicking.




Biology lab was fun tonight. The four of us were really "on" and we finished quickly. Nice when things go smoothly and there's camaraderie.


Long day. Tired.

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Homework

Image by ConnectIrmeli via FlickrToday, my back-to-school venture feels like a wrong-sized coat. Everything about it is annoying. The bureaucracy. The school game. The investment of time with no weekly paycheck.


At 3 p.m. I look at the course schedule for Medical Terminology. It's in calendar format. I have looked at it more than once and things just didn't register. I have suspected there was something was due today, but what? What I'm looking for, and don't see, is each requirement in language I understand. It says homework is to be collected next Wednesday. Fine. But it says it's "due" tonight. What is the difference?

Well, it's like this. There are learning objectives that somebody came up with that entail repetition - the acts of reading, then re-reading, writing answers to review questions, and then regurgitating said answers on quizzes and exams. My own brand of reinforcement is different. Mine is flipping to the review questions while I read,  and working them out in my head, associating them with what I might already know, or what's in the illustrations or diagrams or text boxes in the book. Normally, I would go through again and type out the answers to the review questions.

But we are supposed to read the chapters and write the answers in the book before each class. Well, frankly, my handwriting is nearly illegible, even to me. I hate looking at it anymore. If I had my druthers, which yes, I know - I don't because I am paying the educators for their druthers - I'd leave the book pristine. I'd type pages that would be nice, neat, legible and easy to review and impressive enough to hand in.

But that is NOT what we're doing here. And, never mind I have the answers. In fact, my mouth is one of the happiest flappers in the class every time the instructor queries us.

In short. I didn't do my homework.

Well, I mean, I didn't complete my homework. The instructor checks to see who's done it and who hasn't. She gives a mock gasp when she sees most my pages are empty. Somehow, this feels like high school. NO, grade school. She's kindhearted. It's not like I'm mad at her, but this system seems weird to me. There are plenty of others who didn't do the homework. Who knows why. The instructor gives us a friendly warning and resumes her lecture and drills. The homework is worth points. Points are worth grades. I want an "A," natch.

On the drive home, a chilling thought occurs to me. These courses are designed to prepare for professions where you follow directions and make few decisions of your own. Good reason for that. You could accidentally kill or maim somebody.  I start getting anxious again. I've spent a lifetime learning to be ultra-self reliant and to think (often creatively) on my feet  -- just to survive. Am I in the right place? Okay. Okay. Maybe this is just an adjustment period and I'll adapt, toe the line, ultimately get the piece of paper and this phase will be long forgotten.  I've somehow felt swept along into this back-to-school current. Trust. Gotta trust. There is a reason for being where I am. Someplace, there is room for strength, divergent thinking, innovation.

Deep breath. Exhale.

Now I remember. The purpose of this first semester is exploration.

There is other homework for me to do, obviously.

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Up and atom

Image via WikipediaMy mood brightened this evening following a long day of mixed results and responses to various  matters.

At three o' clock I felt anxious and overwhelmed. My day had been devoured by non-school business. I was considering dropping the biology class, frustrated by how long it takes to read the books and do the review questions. "Where the Hell am I going to fit income-producing activity (otherwise known as "work.") into this?"  I ask aloud.

An hour later, disappointment over my failure to read tonight's assigned chapter is superseded by determination nipping my heels. I pick up my pride, my coat and my bag and head out the door. Arriving on campus a half-hour early tests an idea I had. Finishing up the reading steps from the classroom instead of doing it at home and then driving like a maniac is far more relaxing. The idea worked.

Chapter 2 covers atoms, molecules, elements and their behavior. Tom, the instructor, gave a quick run-through on the topic to the twenty or so pairs of glazed eyes staring back at him. No, we don't have to become atomic scientists. This atomic stuff will all make sense when he relates it to cellular biology next week. That's what he promises us.

Lab time. Complete the last exercise of Thursday's lab. The exercise centers on measuring the volume of a test tube. At first, the memory of last week's methodology for calculating mass - using a ruler - persists.  Somebody grabs a ruler from the tray. I exclaim that there was no difference between this inquiry and using measuring cups in the kitchen. Lightbulbs go on. We're back in business.

Everything worked out so well that we finished ahead of most the other groups. Then, all four of us thought we heard the instructor say to do the next exercise, so we dove into it. But we couldn't concentrate because the group next to us was discussing their back to school stories. I was more interested in hearing the back to school stories than doing the assignment. Then, we realized we weren't supposed to do the exercise until after another lecture. Oh, well. Such overachievers.

I listened to two men in their mid- to -late twenties discussing being bounced out of their careers. They were choosing nursing as a second career. Two gals, near the same age, chimed in with their stories.

So it comes to this. What a boon for the education business. Two of the kids hadn't even paid off their school loans from their first bachelor's degrees. They all agreed that job prospects in the health sciences field look very good. Cognizant that the health science courses are filled within the first 30 minutes of registration, I did some math in my head.  I wonder, just how many millions of us graduating from these programs will be looking for jobs at the same time. . .

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Driving the speed limit for the first time in weeks.

All I could think of was food, all the way home.

Ready. Or, not.

Image via WikipediaI don't watch television, but I hear that a new genre of reality show about hoarders is becoming popular.

Geez. "Real Simple" on the rack at the check out stand and t.v. shows documenting the prevalence of people with too many things. High unemployment in a slow-to-recover economic recession and footage showing over-consumption. Constant change and increasing pace of life that would seem to preclude extraneous baggage (of any sort) and basements filled with mountains of stuff.

Hmnmm. What does that say about this era?

I know. Most people watching hoarder shows probably don't attach any sociological or political significance to the behavior. Fine. Then on a very practical level, I say there are good reasons for hanging onto stuff. Somewhere in the subconscious mind, a future need has been marked. What I'm rationalizing here is my own style of hoarding. But I don't call it hoarding. I call it stocking up, being prepared.

Take, for example, my several large boxes of office supplies. For years, September back-to-school sales drew me like an ant to honey. I would purchase all sorts of  writing and highlighting implements, notebooks of various sizes, tacks, tape, glitter, glue, scissors, binder clips, paper clips (oooooh - love the GOLD ones!), clipboards, staplers, staple removers, stamps, ink, erasers, rulers, tabs, folders, portfolios, envelopes, carbon paper (yes!), and so on. I even have a sporty little Dyno label maker and colored tapes to go with it.

So, when I began preparing for my education venture, I lugged out the boxes and went "shopping" in the privacy of my own home. Having what I need when I need it (some purchased at 1995 prices, yet) is quite satisfying. Sure, more than once I forgot the exact contents of the boxes. Sure, my stash might be considered a hoard. You know what, though? What those boxes have consumed in floor space is nothing compared to what they save me in fuel and time. At 2011 prices.

Therefore,

I'm not a hoarder.

I'm ready.

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Thursday on ice

Image via Wikipedia

Rhinitis phlegm micro-photo with gas bubbles.

I have diagnosed myself with rhinitis. Stuffy nose. Headache. Sneezing. Coughing. I'll live. Nonetheless, I've been in a crappy mood all day. Roads were crappy. Class was crappy. I was in no mood for interaction with other humans, but we had our first biology lab tonight and it's worth ten points. Three kids got stuck with my congested snorting and clumsy attempts to calculate metric conversions.

At one point, Carrie grabbed the ruler out of my hand saying I was looking at it upside down or backwards or something. She then realized she was looking at it wrong and that my stated measurement was actually correct. Like I said, I've been in a crappy mood all day. I must have given her some kind of dirty look. She backed down. We resumed the measurements.  Performance anxiety affects different people differently.

One bright note. Yellow, as a matter of fact. I used a liquid solution on the car windshield to make it easier to scrape the ice, an activity which took a good 10-15 minutes after class. Thanks to foresight, I had packed this wondrous spray in the car just yesterday. Looks like urine. Melts ice and snow like urine. Probably has alcohol in it. Maybe Coors. Huh. They always said Coors was. . oh, never mind.

There. Done for the week. Back in my nest. Tomorrow is another day.

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Once upon a time I lived where palm trees grew. 

Answers are everywhere

Image via WikipediaFirst session of Medical Terminology tonight.

Back in December, when the brilliant idea to go back to college turned into action, I had ordered the big, fat Medical Terminology textbook from Amazon.com.
When it arrived, I had begun paging through immediately, poring over pictures and noting how the information was organized. Then the tome moved to several locations in the house before I picked it up again after the holidays.

I mowed down three chapters in a week. This is wordplay to me. Dissect the terms by suffix first, then the root, then the prefix.  I went through the exercises in the book and on the CD. I was feeling like a hot shot. I didn't want to write in the book. Wanted to keep it clean so each time I studied, I'd still be challenged.

Uh-uh. The instructor wants us to turn those pages in to her. If you do it carefully, she tells us, you can separate the sections from the spine.

Guess I'm going to get even more practice.

The instructor handed out copies of exercises printed on festive green paper.  At the end of class one student asked what the last two pages were for. Evidently the answer pages were copied along with the the exercises! The instructor accepted the goof with a laugh. I wondered out loud why the morning class hadn't noticed it.

Roads were crappy tonight.

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First day (night) of class

Image via Wikipedia

Typical media weather drama - "Severe Weather Alert - Icy Road Conditions."

Tuesday, January 18, 2011 at 5:15 p.m., I-90 was fine. It was salted and okay on the way home at 9 p.m.

I digress.

Dusk. Interior shot. Camera follows main character (me) as she enters the off-campus building. The only section of Health Sciences Biology that was open when I registered is held 20 miles from home. At night.

With close to $200 in shrink-wrapped Biology books in hand, I sit down at the back of the room. Look around. A wide range of ages. Yeah. It's cool. I'm cool. I'm wearing Billibong.

But hey, what am I DOING in a room that is outfitted as a science lab?

This is different. Suddenly I realize, I'M different. Who I always was, but now also who I wasn't.

I am listening to the instructor's overview of the syllabus. He broadly discusses what we will be covering and shows us this online resource called "Blackboard" where we can track our grades, find resources and more. He tries to ease any performance anxiety with assurances that we're all starting out with the same number of points. Show up for lab and participate - an automatic 10 points. Exams - 50 points. Do the reading and follow the yellow highlighting in his PowerPoint slides and you can keep most of those points. Turn in a completed lab book at the end of the course - more points.

He's enthusiastic.

My mind wanders in and out of present time as he discusses blood typing of bobcats to trap poachers, trillium-munching white-tailed deer, the gene that causes Tay Sachs, recent additions to the periodic table of elements. Science is changing all the time, he says.

He's got my interest. Some of this stuff looks familiar. Whatever isn't, he'll knit it together with what I do know.

Ok. I can do this.

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