Writing Skill Diminishes In Youth

Here’s the rundown of my life so far in college, a place I never thought to be again, and perhaps somewhere I shouldn’t be, not a t my age. I say to people that I am old and though thirty-six isn’t young, I don’t actually feel old beyond a few aches that I never noticed before. Then I arrived at college a few weeks ago and bam! Pow! Right in the kisser with the age-punch I never saw coming.

Those kids are young, but it isn’t in the way they look, which is obvious, but in the way they think. They’ve come from a different education system than the one I grew up in and I guess... it irritates me. A grumpy (old) man am I? Maybe I am, maybe I’m just out of touch, or maybe I forget that once I was nineteen and thought I knew everything.

Of course, that’s part of the problem, knowing everything. In comparison to the kids in my class, I will claim an advantage now in terms of knowledge and I’ll claim that same advantage for my nineteen year old self, too. It goes beyond the spelling errors (adgenda? When the fuck did they put that second ‘d’ in there?), or not knowing how to write in cursive (I’m sorry to Mrs. Morang, my sixth grade teacher, who struggled so hard to teach me legible cursive, since apparently that sort of thing doesn’t matter anymore). Turning in papers for class that are handwritten instead of typed is a thing now, I guess (it is 2012, with fucking computers practically inserted in our asses, right?), but even that doesn’t burn me the most or make me feel ancient.


The kids in my classes don’t know how to fucking write!

I mean, wtf, omg, lol- these are considered higher forms of communication. When my dog Ollie stands on his back legs to put his front paws on the counter (for any possible crumblies that might be there), and lets out a series of farts, those farts communicate with more intelligence than many of my classmates.

Sentence structure, grammar, formulation of paragraphs and the ability to make a complex argument using actual, mother-fucking words are... no big deal. If a thought can’t be written in a text or expressed in the space of a single tweet, then, well I guess it isn’t that important. Right?

I could be overreacting, I suppose, just a stodgy old curmudgeon. I should reserve judgement until the end of the semester, give the kids a chance. I mean, why should I be angry, anyway? Communication, intelligent debate, reason, these are all hallmarks of the world in which we live. We couldn’t use more articulate discussion in the world. Conversation online isn’t overheated or partisan.

Who needs the ability to think, write and express a thought critically when we have the power of one-line zingers learned by the time we all were ten? No further advancement of writing skill required today, I guess.

So says the old guy in the back row.

Back To School: Redux

Between emotional extremes, life continues, unfinished, uncertain, frightening but marvelous.

Yesterday I met with my academic advisor, a woman I have not seen in a decade, and together we poured over my college transcripts to decide my best course of action for the upcoming semester. Yes, indeed. I’m returning to school.

The run from the parking lot (in which I parked illegally, as I did almost my entire career in college) was longer than I remembered. I was late as usual, a steady reminder that even older, I still misjudge the travel time from my hometown to the university. I never seem to factor in the parking and walking portion of the trip, a rather important portion of the equation. Perhaps this time I will learn more and reform.

Or not. I muddled through the first time.

From english major, to maintenance man, to possible teacher. A longer path than I anticipated with a destination I hadn’t expected, but there you go, Folks. Life in all the vagaries, in all the guises and missteps and exaltations, is nothing in the end except life. My life in this case.

I start next week back to the grind, taking education courses while planning for my ultimate goal of getting into a masters program next summer. Then an intense year in which being broke will be an aspiration as the hunger will prod me to achieve that wonderful prize at the end; a chance to teach secondary school.

Let that sink in. Jealous?

Me, I’m equal parts fear and excitement. But that’s life, isn’t it? We just have to find a way to live it the best we can.