'Food' Vocabulary

Why do I even bother? I've been going through the motions of the first chapters of my Norwegian material, because somehow it seems right to go through these things formally before I move forward. I was writing down the word list I want for food in English, and then I was going to write the Norwegian equivalants in the next column (looking them up), and then quiz myself until I knew all the words. But when I hit Cola (which, surprise, surprise, is the same word), I switched to Norwegian and had written about 20 words before I even noticed it. So the list now reads:


Knife
Fork
Spoon
Plate
Mug
Bowl
Glass
Sugar
Tea
Cola
Kaffe
Brød
Ris
Fisk
Tomater
Mais
Mango
Egg
Ristet brød
Eple...

And so on. I blame being tired for not noticing, but honestly... :P Altadonna better be happy.

Hairspray and Hispanohablantes

My sister and I went to see Hairspray today. It was really silly, quite unrealistic, but still, cheerful and fun. It was funny how they combined the plight of black people and that of fat people... Also, there were a couple parts that were really amusing and detailed. For example, when the best friend's hyper religious mom starts randomly reading from her bible, and she just happens to read that... um... interesting part about "Let us make our father drink wine, and lay with him." Also, a scene with the two antagonists (blonde and skinny, but rather beautiful), has them against some white wallpaper in their house, in white dresses, with a fluffy white dog. That was great.

Before we saw that we ate in the food court. Melissa got Chinese and I got Japanese... wow, we're so original. I was actually torn between a roast beef sub and Japanese, but I'm glad I picked Japanese. The person in front of me in line was friends with the guy who worked there, and they spoke softly but I could just make out that it was in Spanish. So I ordered in Spanish, and the guy was thrilled... we chatted in Spanish as the food was prepared and he gave me a nice discount. :D (Barry Farber is right and my hero. Buy his book. They've actually just republished it in a nice, thick hardcover, but the tiny paperback (beats me) is just a nice.)

Norwegian - The Class

I finally got all the paperwork filled out, signed, and turned in. This involved a classic chase scene before first hour in which I ran down to Plunkett's office to find her, then was told she might be by the senior locker bay or the cafeteria, at this point the bell rang, raced down to the cafeteria, didn't find her but had Mr. Bollman radio her and tell her to stay where she was (near the locker bay), ran up three flights of stairs, gave her my form, spoke a bit of Norwegian for her amusement, ran back to where I left my stuff, was interrogated by Sra. Altadonna, grabbed my stuff and ran across the floor to Art History just in time for class. And I made the deadline for adding a class. SO worth it.

The idea of having Norwegian for an actual class thrills me. It's also nice that I'll only be required to do the level 1a equivelant, because I'm only doing it for one semester. But after I finish the wordlist I've assigned myself for the first night... "Ja, nei, hus, tog, fly...", I get on youtube and watch funny videos. No, I don't understand every word, but yeah, I do understand most of it. If only they knew...

And speaking of funny videos, this one was especially amusing. (The one with the blonde girl and the computer geek was almost as funny, but subtitled and not really especially Norwegian in content...)

For those of you who don't speak Norwegian but wish to enjoy the snippet, basically it's about a whole bunch of Italian death metal fans who are learning Norwegian so that they can understand their favourite bands or even have their own fake Norwegian death metal songs. The best scene is when they're all in the classroom wearing black and goth make up, reading from a book that looks just like my textbook... Oh, but I have to give the one guy credit. He knew more of the anthem than I do. (I only know enough to recognize it, really...)


***

Edit: I looked up the sentences in question, they almost have to be from some version of Teach Yourself Norwegian, which says,

"Her kan vi spise koldtbord. Det er typisk skandinavisk... jeg liker fisk og reker."

While the film says,

"Her kan vi spise koldtbord. Jeg liker fisk og reker. Det er typisk norsk."

Computer Problems

So I stayed up late and took my time writing my Norwegian Independant Study Proposal. I went to print it and thought I'd also send a copy to Altadonna so we could make changes easily. I copied it and switched to email. And tried to past. And the email froze. I went back to Microsoft Word and it was frozen. I opened up Notepad and pasted. Notepad froze. I opened up Wordpad and pasted. Wordpad froze.

I closed down everything and then I ran searches for cached copies or 'recovered copies'. Nothing came up.

I retyped the entire thing. The same thing happened again.

And at this point my mom feels the need to come across the hall and point out that it's late. Then when I explain to her why I'm still up and haven't even started on the rest of my homework, she just bitches about the computer, and it's "Dad says this" and "Dad says that".

What the bloody hell? Why does mom think that when I'm exhausted and frustrated, what I want is for her to come and rub it all in and try to blame me for it in any way she can? I wish she would just stay away from me most of the time... :(

Be A Man!

Let's get down to business
To defeat the Huns
Mou stilan koritsia ki andres pia kapnos.
Vous êtes plus fragiles que des fillettes
Et jusqu'au bout et coup par coup
Maar ik maak jullie elk tot een man.
Rolig når du skyter
Men med ild i sinn
Mille e più minacce vi transformerò
Fino a fare di voi degli uomini
Ja tiedän sen, on nähty tuo.
Teistä viel'miehen näin minä luon.
No puedo ya ni respirar
Despedidme de mi gente
Di por qué falté a la escuela a entrenar
Han skrämmer ihjäl de där.
Hoppas att han inte fattar.
Borde nog ha lärt mig simma eller så
(Nan zi han)
Xing dong kuai su xiang na jiang he tuan ji
(Nan zi han)
Po huai li xiang na feng bao wu qing
Dzielny bądź!
A równocześnie tak tajemniczy
Jak księżyc co
Wygląda tu zza chmur
Tiden løber fra os;
snart slår fjenden til
teng ho gok chui zhuek ngo
kuen dik ya da dou
Não consegues nem lutar, então
Põe-te a andar, pois decidi
???
Homem ser!
Seremos rápidos como um rio!
Homem ser!
Com força igual a de um tufão!
Hombres ser!
Violentos como un fuego ardiente
Cumpliendo muy misteriosos la misión
(Savaşgı)
sakin bir nehir gibi olalım
(Savaşgı)
firtınalar kadar kuvvetli
Sei ein Mann!
Wir müssen heiß sein, wie Höllenfeuer
裏をかく戦術　知恵
*Ura wo kaku senjutsu chie

Basic Day

My day starts out with my alarm going off and waking me out of some sort of nightmare or another. Strange, that... I didn't ever have nightmares until a few months ago. But even now I often persevere through the hardships my dreams present. Last night, for example, my mom and I had to hitch a ride from some dirty old man who was hitting on me. Then he took us to his house and kept us prisoner for a while, which wasn't fun. But at the end of the dream, when my alarm clock went off, I had him locked in a room and was ready to make an escape as soon as I had grabbed as much of his stuff as I could carry.

Anyhow, I wake up feeling like I was hit by a truck because I stayed up late doing homework if I had a lot or emailing Liisa if I didn't. I get dressed, look beautiful, walk Tidbit to the corner and back, eat a bit of breakfast, and then drive to school listening to Rush Hour Italian!

The school day is lovely for a while, starting with AP Art History. It's an Honours class, and so not exactly a blow off, but it's easy, too. And it makes me excited that I already know the Spanish stuff, and that I've seen most of the Latin and part of the Greek pieces in real life! Actually, having been to the Louvre, Musee D'Orsay, the Van Gogh Museum, Museo Nazionali (Napoli), and the Acropolis Museum, I've seen a fair amount of all of it.

After Art History I go to German, lovely little class which is in the Transition Mode of a year 3 language. Ah, I remember those times from Spanish, although I must say I was better with Spanish then than I am with German now. The class is mostly Sophomores, a bit immature, but that suites me fine - it makes things easy.

And after that I go to limbo - well, currently, that's Student Aiding for Sra. Altadonna, but as soon as we finish the paperwork it will be NORWEGIAN! What joy...

Then I go to Spanish class, which is a blast, though it's starting to think about challenging. We have discussions and debates and are actually trying to hammer out the mistakes that have haunted us all along. Kiser is merciful about mistakes, and you feel comfortable spreading your wings in her classroom, even if it means you occasionally call a hammer a suitcase. Lucia's in this class too, which makes it fun!

Then right when I'm thinking that this can't possibly be school - it's too much fun - I go to Lunch. A crazy, chaotic, noisy cafeteria that pulls me right back to reality, although I can be with friends. :D This year lunch is, strangely, almost the same cast as last year. Rachel, Gwen, some guy that belongs to gwen, Wendy, Lisa, and so forth - Luckily all those who take a level 5 in languages (except Spanish) have first lunch by default, so that's a lot of my friends. Kate and Stephanie, for example, are outside in the courtyard. Christy is still in Chazen's room, but our Lunch Bunch is disbanded and she's almost alone.

LATIN. Gah, what is to be said about Latin? It's a language that I once loved, and still find bits of enjoyment in. But it's too late to be a class... What can I say? If it had been a class from the beginning it would have been one thing. I would have learned well and never felt inferior and perhaps not have taken German. Who knows? But as it is... well, the days of the easy H are no gone, and we weep for McAllister. I feel like I'm starting to get things, and in the long run, if I do, I'll be grateful for the swap, but it's awfully hard and hurts me.

After Latin is the double whammy of Math and English, real classes. I like both my teachers, but not their classes. Dean teaches Calculus. She's a good math teacher - I understand when she teaches. But I feel I'm behind on the underlying concepts, and Calculus is still hard, and anyway no one can say Mrs. Dean is FUN, exactly. My goal in there is to survive. English, on the other hand, is intimidating.

Mrs. Smith is smarter than I am. A lot smarter. And I'm not used to that. Okay, I'm a bit of a snob, but hear me out. I'm quite used to beating a lot of people without trying, although I don't take any pleasure from that. More pleasing is the smaller group that are near my level, who I can beat with a little, or a lot, of effort. And then there are the people who I enjoy the most, whose IQ's are either matched with mine or quite different, so that in competing we bring each other to new levels, or so that there is no need to compete, only to admire.

But Mrs. Smith is none of these. She is smarter, a lot smarter - formidable, frightening... But nice, never forget that, and she has a sense of humour that you like to appeal to even when you feel that she is mocking you and are embarrassed... She's been teaching us Latin a bit, and that's bad enough. But English is completely her domain. If only the woman would let us speak! You get halfway through a comment and she's challenging you already! I love the challenge but sometimes she takes it too far, in such a strange direction... perhaps in more limited doses it would be more effective. We'll see, we'll see!

But although part of me enjoys the dialog, a part of me is scared to death that a grade depends on such things! I could never get a degree in English, much as I casually adore it.

Done with English, out to the car, home, play with Tidbit, talk with mom. I've got a new technique for that, by the way. I grab something to eat and let her bitch and complain about what a burden Melissa and I are. Every time I want to make a retort that's really deserved but will only exacerbate the situation, I take a bit bite instead.

"Wow, Miranda, you really are going at those Rice Cakes!"

No Shit.

But Later...

"Thanks for listening."

See, she doesn't really mean that she hates me and I cause her so much pain and that she wishes she'd never have children and why can't I just sit in the corner and grow up! Well, she does sometimes. But not always or really.

Then work. Library or Lydia. Or, if I'm lucky and it's a Wednesday, Japanese lessons! These are great - I got a book and so we're actually learning something this time! I'm finally getting the syllabaries down and some of the vocab, although Hirayoshi-san tires of the repetition at times. She's neither a language teacher nor a linguist, she doesn't understand... Oh well, I study it more at home, then.

Then I come home and shower and study into the night... And then go to the nightmares.

Hope and Memory

Dear Liisa,

I've actually gotten rather comfortable with memories, which may be surprising given my history. As a child I could get myself worked up over the end of anything - saying to myself, "Well, this is the last morning bus ride of my third grade life..." and sniffling a bit. But I'm a little better now. It's always a bit sad when things end, and especially when you have to leave people behind that you will never see again, but I'm a little better at packing the memories away. For something new to come after, something must end, after all, and the memories - they're safe in my heart, and I collect them like treasures. Pictures and mementos don't hurt either.

Of course, this approach only works if you have your memory, and I am also scared of these things... Alzheimers and Amnesia and such. They almost seem worse than death... especially if they come, as they often do, late in life. I think I'd rather just die, though to tell the truth, I'm not always optimistic about what happens after death. I think I would be content to live in my memories, perhaps to relive my life again and again. Some say that memories are what make a soul rich, perhaps that is what such a thing means.

But death is frightening too, isn't it? The other day I ran into a rather terrifying line of reasoning that took me a while to answer with any sort of hopefulness. I was thinking about ghosts and their transparent fingers, the way they slide through life without feeling. If they cannot feel without fingers, how can a ghost see without eyes? How can one hear without ears? How can one even think, without a mind? How can one remember? And if one does not remember, did one ever really live?

The more we learn about the mind, the less room there seems to be for anything else inside of it, anything resembling a soul, anything that endures. Hope was easier when these things were a mystery. Still, I can't help but think that it's possible that our senses are only a very physical and earthly extension of senses we might have more easily on some other, higher plane of existence - that when we live inside our bodies it is like slipping a hand into a glove or watching a sonar graph, that when we die we recede from these things just as easily...

Nothing terrifies me more than the alternative, that what follows death is nothingness, like before our births. I have heard older people, in their sixties and so on, say that they are beginning to understand that life has an ending, and are content with it... they feel finished and used up. I hope that if nothing follows life that I come to such a state before the end, but I despair of ever doing so. Right now I am so greedy for life... I want to see and taste and feel and experience so many thousands of things - anything and everything.

And I love all my memories, and fiercely hoard them. The experiences may be good or bad or even embarrassing, but the memories are lovely all the same. Sometimes you can feel a memory in the making, and other times the most precious memories spring from the most mundane things, the things you take for granted until years later, remembering long summer nights playing flashlight tag or sunlight on snow on a winter morning. And such memories can flare up and make themselves felt again, as if they never really left, when a smell or a turn of the light takes your heart back again.

And I can't help but think of dreams, in which there is often a long and extensive back-story woven into the detail. We remember it all naturally and perfectly while asleep, and upon waking only remember what was remembered, if that makes any sense. Do you ever wonder if your existence is only actually this very moment, and everything before that you think you remember is nothing more than a memory?

But which is more important, the memory or the truth? Would you rather remember a thousand rich falsehoods or forget a lifetime of experience?




Ha! You've written me such nice emails lately, filled with wonderful and intriguing detail. I've gone and repaid you with nothing but ignorant philosophy... (And I didn't even get to the religious aspects of any of this...) Sorry, my dear... I will write you all about school and teachers and such in my next email. I hope this made you feel a little big better and then a lot worse and then a tad bit hopeful about that strange thing we call memory...

- Miranda

Wings

"I'd be happy with Italian," I said to Sra. Altadonna, "But what I really want to study is Norwegian..."

"Norwegian?" She says, and, oddly, she reverts to some midwestern accent from her youth. "I haven't used Narwegian for... perhaps twenty two years. I don't have books, or..."

"I have a dictionary. And a phrasebook. A newspaper a friend brought my home from a cruise. An anthology - and a workbook to go with it. And Teach Yourself Norwegian, and the Hippocrene Beginner title. And casettes..." She must have seen the light that was just allowing itself to shine in my eyes.


I took Tidbit for a walk and went up to a field where we used to fly kites, where I laughed one day at my first childish love. Stephanie told me that with my short legs, I don't really have the figure or the grace for running dramatically across a field. But the whole way down I didn't think of falling.

I was quite conscious of the grass beneath my feet, of Tidbit's muscles moving and rippling beneath her greying fur, of my own arms, smooth and firm and white. At the beginning I could, out of practice, distinguish the sounds of separate cicadas on branches spread against the sky, but as I ran they blended into a single sound which grew in gently, almost lazy intensity like the waves of the ocean.

Looking at the dark and stormy sky, it might as well have been a clear blue day.


I am aware that I am quite mad...

Meh

I stayed up late during the night listening to Italian songs and doing copious amounts of English homework that I left to the last minute. I thought dark thoughts about my parents. It's best they don't read this, I suppose.

I can't help but feel that they don't understand me. When I try to communicate myself to them I get no where and only make matters work. They either mock me as though I was a small child or the criticize what I say or they comfort me and say, "oh, you don't mean it, you are tired..." and often I give in and agree because I know they are not really hearing me anyway.

This problem between my mom and I is deeper than a single fight which burns and then recedes. It even goes beyond her never ending nagging, although that is an undeniable part of it.

When it suits her I am not her daughter but her friend and her confidante. When that does not suit her I am her daughter. There is no democracy, she says, though I don't ask for democracy, only the right to lobby and make my feelings known.

And my dad is no better, he is almost worse. I think he could understand me if he tried, but of course he must support my mother. He mocks me and says "I know you can't stand to not be heard." That was cruel - to mock me for that earlier this summer. It's true! I admit as much! I will not be ignored. I am not that sort.

And when he said I didn't find acceptance in my peer group, so I searched for it within the family... Ha! What are families good for if you have to search for acceptance within them? To hell with them all.

I'm well liked. I am. No one else has a quarrel with me. I even have good friends, though not many of the classic sleepover variety. I have people I trust and care about very much. And my teachers love me - not just as a student, but as a person. I adore them too and love the stimulation of the school day, even when it leaves me exhausted. My babysitting clients love me - I'm quite popular. And I do a good job at work and adore my coworkers.

But whatever I do, it's never quite enough for my mother. Oh, when she's in the mood to be she can be perfect. She shines so much in those moments it's harder to blame her in the others. But if only it could be more spread out! When she is not in the mood... when she is unhappy or even just discontent, which happens rather often, it's never enough. My grades are good and my character is outstanding and I don't ask for money. So she moves on to friends and fashion and calls me out for that. When I do well enough there and she can't blame me, she finds other stuff. I try to meet her demands, but there is no pleasing her, she'll keep moving down the line. My room isn't kept well enough, I don't walk Tidbit often enough, why haven't I planned the trip yet?, I never help with the meals, why am I so dreary?, I'm not nice to mommy, I shouldn't use that tone of voice, I don't get enough protein, I don't get enough calcium, I need to not do so much, I should stop babysitting at the Maniscalco's, I shouldn't take so many classes, I should brush Tidbit's teeth more often, I haven't burned her CD yet, why haven't I helped with the scrapbook?, why do I always waste food?, why do I spend so much time on my homework and not enough on the house?, why is the bathroom a mess?, I keep too many books, what about that journaling I should have done... I DONT ANSWER MY CELL PHONE... WHEN IM IN THE HOUSE...

There are times I wish I could really be bad at something so the nagging might at least be consolidated and I could hide behind the old "I'm working on it." And other times I fantasize about being bad at something to punish her. And still other times I dream that I might somehow do everything she asks and still live, still work, still attend school with passing grades, still be cheerful. And then she'd be happy with me. All of the time. But that fantasy's harder to keep up now that I haven't even time to properly check my email or write or read, and even to write this blog post cuts into my sleep and I will pay for it later...

They always say I'm going hysterical and throwing a fit. I am not throwing a fit - I am quite cold. It has been hours since the last incident, because thankfully they are in bed. They wont take me seriously and despite the fantasies I start accepting that they never will. So I look out to the exit, when I will go away. After that when I come home I will be visiting and things will be different. And once I'm out in the world, far away, whose to say that I will ever look back?

Yes, they've been good to me in so many ways...

... And don't think I've forgotten...

... But I'd rather be heard. Taken seriously. Accepted.

No, I am not hysterical, I am not throwing a fit, this is not about not wanting to take the trash out or go pick up my sister. This is a basic question of respect and understanding. You do not understand me, mother.

Do you even know what really brings me joy, when math and work and nagging starts to blur together? I stay up late if I must, cutting into my sleep, because I must... And when I study languages that keeps me sane... you don't understand that it is my passion, that it heals me.

I know you don't understand me and can only laugh when you say, "Miranda, drop a language, don't do the Italian, you'll have more time." Maybe I should have more time... but I should lose myself.

Strange that I can hardly rely on people. Some times I can rely on my mother, but I can't rely upon relying on her, if that makes sense. It's not her fault, she is human after all. But so is everyone else. How can I describe this? It's mad. Absolutely mad.

But when my soul feels quite heavy and I weep, because I never want to look back, and I feel that I should, for she is my mother and has provided for me so well so often, it is my studies that I turn to, that comfort me. The written word that shines on new smelling pages, the flash cards I write with a shaking hand, and use over and over again, the words I whisper as I fall asleep.

And how can I give that up? I can't. But you can't understand. Who can? I'm not sure. I think I must be quite mad. But still... if I trouble you then leave me alone. I am happy with myself and content with my madness. You have your own, even if you don't see it. And someday I'll find my place in the world as you have in yours.

You've said before that you hope I have a daughter just like myself. A freak, you mean. Yes, I hope I do too. I can understand a freak like me. I'm frightened of not understanding my daughter, but of course I won't because she can't be just like me. Still, I want her to feel understood. I want to understand the lack of understanding, and be comfortable with it.

Please, understand that you don't understand. Let me be who I am. I'll try to help you. I'll try to remember you're nagging me for my own sake. But it's all a little much. I don't need things slower and louder. Try to understand that you don't understand...

When I close my eyes I see a world you don't see. I think of things you don't think of. I don't know what you think of, but I don't think you're happy with it, either, so don't pity me. We have our own heavens and our own hells.

Someday soon I'll walk away from this place. And I'll find acceptance. Even if I have to walk all the way to my death to find it... Someday I will. Acceptance of what isn't me isn't really acceptance. I cannot change. I think... I believe I will find it before the end. But if I don't I will still walk bravely. I can be strong.




Please. Understand that you don't understand. Let me try to find my own happiness, even if I don't find it until I walk all the way to my death. I cannot be otherwise...

Lu Purtuni

I love this song... the singer is incredible. She's not so beautiful for a music video, but it hardly matters. ^^

What a sad sound this song has... and the poem at the beginning is creepy.

A Sudden Rush

The music went on and on until it reached a song whose notes and words brought back in a sudden rush all of the old feelings... Unhappily I struck out to change the song to another, any other, as though it were urgent. Accidentally I hit the same song again the first time. After that I went to La Finforletta, a lovely sad song, and the feelings receded again, and looking back are all but incomprehensible. But it frightened me how quickly they came forward, after so many months, as easily as opening a jar of vanilla and letting the scent pervade the room...

AP English

Mrs. Sammie Smith. All I had heard of her was that she came here from teaching in Inner City Chicago. And then that she would be teaching the little ones Latin. Self taught, they said, but then she told us she majored in such things. She said so with a British accent. Almost. Her vowels are very British but the R's, the famous R's, are certainly pronounced. Did I mention she wasn't British?

So far she seems nothing short of a living, breathing, English teaching oxymoron.

She claims to be from Joplin Missouri, and it's a growing belief among her students that this isn't true, that she's covering something else up with this story. But wouldn't she try to hide the accent? Besides, I know the story's true, unless she's in cahoots with Spraley. His wife taught Mrs. Smith when she was in the Fifth grade.

She wears such strict looking clothing - suits and the like. The shoulders in particular always look rather strong and unyielding. But there's always the slightest feminine touch - the way the bottom of said suit gathers when she sits, her shoes, something. Something small but undeniable that neutralizes the image. Short hair, but a soft cut.

Her face... it's not hideous, it's not pretty. It's strong looking, a little boyish... unfriendly. Until she smiles. Which always takes you by surprise, however often she does it. And she does it a lot... and her whole face melts, and you feel suddenly quite fond of her. With her straight, hard face she tells the class that she makes incredible Brownies. Then she smiles and blushes...

"Is anyone overwhelmed?" She asks. "I don't want to overwhelm anyone." And what do you say to that? It only makes it more difficult to complain among ourselves. And there is a bit to complain about... for the first seven days, counting from the first day of school, we are given 200 pages of literatures to read and annotate.

We are reading The Awakening, Kate Chopin. I like Chopin well enough, as these things go. Her short stories were among my favorites last year. But I prefer her in small doses, a book is a lot. And The Awakening is strange. I agree with the meaning it strives for but not with the main characters methods. From the back,

"The poignant story of a woman who pursues love outside of her restrictive marriage in turn-of-the-century New Orleans." Yes, yes, forget New Orleans and the time frame and you've described a hundred stories. And usually I sympathize for the suffering protagonists. But this is different... confusing me from the start.

Edna is quite free, as far as I can tell. By restrictive marriage they can only mean "marriage"... her husband provides well for her and is friendly - even when shocked at her rather inappropriate transgressions he hardly raises his voice. Edna has adorable children and hardly any responsibility for them. She has a cook and maids for cleaning. She is free to pursue her painting and to associate with whomever she likes. On the summer vacation she swims and spends much of her time with an unmarried man - her husband is far from worried, he likes the chap. His only real demands seem to be that she treat him kindly, love the children, leave a good excuse when she goes out on the one day a week she is expected to take visitors, and not actually have sex with anyone else.

How horribly restrictive! I can see how this drives to her first to not one but two simultaneous affairs and subsequently suicide! How strange! Quid debemus cogitare?

Classes

1^st Semester

1. AP Art History - Dunsworth (3102)

2. German 3 - Eilken (3313)

3-4b. Spanish 5 - Kiser (3312)

3-4c. International Cuisine - Broemmelsick (2311)

5. Latin 5 - Spraley (3307)

6. AP Calculus AB - Dean (2419)

7. AP English Literature and Composition - Smith (3302)

2^nd Semester

1. Multimedia – Glenn (2314)

2. AP English Literature and Composition – Page (3206)

3-4b. Spanish 5 – Kiser (3312)

3-4a. Study Hall – Klund (2409)

5. Latin 5 – Spraley (3307)

6. AP Calculus AB – Dean (2419)

7. German 3 – Eilken (3313)