Yahoooooo! Spring Break has begun! I celebrated Friday night by promptly spewing the contents of my stomach (not recommended as part of the Weight Watchers Plan). Everything from the previous 18 hours came back "up" to haunt me. The ghosts of a birthday cupcake and a slice of pepperoni pizza from lunch seemed to taunt me from the Great Beyond (i.e. the bottom of the commode):
Double, double toil and trouble,
Acids burn and stomach bubble.
Fillet of a salmon sauted not broiled,
In the stomach bubbled and boiled.
Toe of frog and eye of newt,
Next time eat a piece of fruit.
Chicken's leg and buffalo wing
Will wake you up and make us sing . . .
Double, double toil and trouble,
Acids burn and stomach bubble.
To make matters worse, I have TMJ problems. During the first upheaval, I began having problems with my jaw. I guess you could say I was "locked and loaded."
What bothers me the most is that it had to happen after school got out. Had it happened the previous day, I could have had an extra day off. At the very least had it happened during the day on Friday, I could have had some fun. You would just have to imagine some kid's t-shirt
ala Jackson Pollack. Parent complaint? I could say that they were interfering with my right to artistic expression. What better way to say, "You're not doing your work to the best of your ability," than a vomit-stained article of clothing!
The important thing is that I'm feeling better. Nothing says Spring Break like some tongue-in-cheek humor.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Hidden in the Words
I am preparing lesson plans for a unit on Memoirs. The school is in the process of adopting a new writing program, and we decided to try one of the units now to get our feet wet for next year. In the Memoirs Unit chosen by my team, teachers and students are expected to look at Life Topics - the underlying themes that run through our writing. According to the text, most people may write about a variety of topics, but they only have 3 - 4 themes that lie hidden.
It takes some deep digging to ferret out those themes and bring them up for closer inspection. I've been thinking about that the last few days as I've mapped out my expectations for my students. What do we reveal about ourselves with our words?
I know that my writing tends to be about my family/genealogy. But, I like to think that all of my writing is more a reflection for the purpose of learning and moving forward. It will be interesting to think about in the next two months as I travel this path with my students.
It takes some deep digging to ferret out those themes and bring them up for closer inspection. I've been thinking about that the last few days as I've mapped out my expectations for my students. What do we reveal about ourselves with our words?
I know that my writing tends to be about my family/genealogy. But, I like to think that all of my writing is more a reflection for the purpose of learning and moving forward. It will be interesting to think about in the next two months as I travel this path with my students.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Creative Stories
At the end of the day Laurie (aka Dandy Walker) and I were talking about articulate youths and thier lies - namely - ourselves. We know that none of our darling students lie nor even stretch the truth to fit their purposes *cough* *hack*. I told Laurie that my siblings were gullible targets and promised to blog a few choice favorites.
- The Infamous Broken Balloon Lie - This one was inspired by an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle in which Boris and Natasha are stuck on a hot air balloon with no rope and no way to get back down. Now at the time, I was six and my sister was five. The perfect age for someone with a year of school tucked under their belt to prey upon another just learning the ropes. My sister was chewing on a very gross balloon. It had a hole and would not be sailing any maiden voayage into the heavens. Within a short time, sis had actually chewed the top off and was showing that you could still blow air through this and pretend the balloon was still attached. That's when she swallowed it. I can tell you what I didn't do. I didn't go get help or slap her on the back to knock it out. Instead I said, "Now every time you take a breath, it's going to get bigger until you float away and die." She ran home, her hand covering her mouth to block air while crying, "Mom, I don't want to die!" How did I know she was going to believe it? I mean there was no balloon attached to take in air. My mom didn't buy it either.
- The Infamous Green Bean Lie - This one was also inspired by an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle in which plants are taking over the town. Same age. Same victim. I don't know how we got on the topic, but in short: I told my sister that green beans had seeds in the pod. Every time you ate a bean, the seeds would grow in your stomach, the plant would take over, and you would die. My sister was starting to wise up. "How come it doesn't happen to you?" I replied matter-of-factly, "Because I'm six. Your body changes and they let you go to school all day. She didn't say anything. Now, what vegetable do you think my mom served with almost every meal? Green beans. The one that she could be sure would be eaten by three picky kids. My sister was eating hers slowly that night. She cut each one in half, picked out each little seed, and then ate the bean with the seeds pushed over to the far side of the plate. My mom asked her if she was okay. "Mom," she cried, "I don't want to die!" Same ending.
Ah yes, fond memories. I guess that's what makes a good teacher. Someone with practice who knows what to watch out for.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Reading Questions
Laurie asked me some good questions about what I read, so I thought I would respond in my blog.
When I go to the library or bookstore, I come home with waaayy more non-fiction (except when I'm getting children's books - then it's 50-50). When I go into a bookstore, the first place I head is the "New in Non-Fiction" section. Within the non-fiction, I lean towards getting something historical whether it's religion, economics, politics, etc.
The problem with juvenile literature is that as soon as I pick it up for me, I begin thinking how I might use it in the classroom. The choices available to kids today is astounding! If they don't want to read about dead/dying animals, they do not have to. There's plenty of other books from which to choose.
I tend not to read magazines. If I'm in a waiting area, I'll read Time or Newsweek. I refuse to read magazines like People. With the internet, I do read a lot of newspapers on line. I love to read about a story in an American paper and then find the same story in an international paper. It gives a different perspective.
Lastly, I should say that I spend too much at bookstores and do not always take advantage of the local library (and we really have a great local library). I guess I buy books because of all the books I had to get rid of every time we moved.
The important thing is to Keep reading!
When I go to the library or bookstore, I come home with waaayy more non-fiction (except when I'm getting children's books - then it's 50-50). When I go into a bookstore, the first place I head is the "New in Non-Fiction" section. Within the non-fiction, I lean towards getting something historical whether it's religion, economics, politics, etc.
The problem with juvenile literature is that as soon as I pick it up for me, I begin thinking how I might use it in the classroom. The choices available to kids today is astounding! If they don't want to read about dead/dying animals, they do not have to. There's plenty of other books from which to choose.
I tend not to read magazines. If I'm in a waiting area, I'll read Time or Newsweek. I refuse to read magazines like People. With the internet, I do read a lot of newspapers on line. I love to read about a story in an American paper and then find the same story in an international paper. It gives a different perspective.
Lastly, I should say that I spend too much at bookstores and do not always take advantage of the local library (and we really have a great local library). I guess I buy books because of all the books I had to get rid of every time we moved.
The important thing is to Keep reading!
Raining Books - Part II
Here are a few more books that had an impact on how I think about my reading. I picked up the following for a good cheesy scare and instead developed a deep, life-long respect for these authors. No movie has come close to capturing the ideas because they tend to focus on the superficial horror while ignoring the underlying meaning.
- Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Robert Louis Stevenson) - This book may be about an exaggerated character, but it forced me to think about my own actions in life. I also found myself becoming more understanding of the complexities of people. Perhaps now, I am more forgiving of their mistakes and joyous of their accomplishments.
- Dracula (Bram Stoker) - It seemed to me that this book challenged the Victorian/English precepts of the time. Women: In the novel the men are constantly telling the women to stay home and cower while they go off. However, in the end it's a woman who saves their frightened asses! Good/Evil: Characters spout off about what is evil, but they themselves have no problem bending the rules when it suits their purpose. Religion: The men (again!) make comments as to how God is on their side and they will prevail, making fun of local customs. No sooner do they land in a village outside the castle, then they are wearing garlic and making the sign of the evil eye.
- Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (Mary Shelley) - What a commentary on modern man!! It didn't take long for me to realize that the Dr. was a jerk. Duh! The title is about the doctor not his creation. In this time of cloning, we must remember that her story was not about the what we create. It is about who we are and what we become in the process.
I know most people expect something different when they pick these books up and so they put them down. I guarantee they are worth the read.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Raining Books (not Cats and Dogs)
Not only was it another glorious, sun-drenched day, I was given $500 to go shopping for classroom library books! Yahooooooooooo! Hopefully everyone I cut off along the highway received my telepathic apology. It would have been better, however, had they received the telepathic message to get out of my way as I was on a biblio-driven mission.
I love to read - love language and words. I love to picture the words and watch them take shape into scenes. Laurie (aka Dandy Walker) and I have discussed some of our favorite books. Truly, there are too many to list. But, here are some of the ones that had an impact on how I think about books and reading.
I love to read - love language and words. I love to picture the words and watch them take shape into scenes. Laurie (aka Dandy Walker) and I have discussed some of our favorite books. Truly, there are too many to list. But, here are some of the ones that had an impact on how I think about books and reading.
- Where the Red Fern Grows (Wilson Rawls) - I read this in 5th grade and was horrified by the ending. How could those innocent dogs have been killed (forget about the guy with the axe in his chest)? It made me realize that every "classic" book my teachers gave me to read had some poor animal croaking (pun intended).
- Charlotte's Web (E. B. White) - I'm probably the only person who abhors this book (see above). My belief: if you can make up a story where a spider talks, said spider can defy nature and live to be older than Methusalah.
- The Godfather (Mario Puzo) - Tired of the same old, I read this in 6th grade (taking it from my mother's night table when she was otherwise occupied). At the time I couldn't pinpoint what it was that I liked about it. I didn't understand any of the parts about sex although I completely understood the part of killing (see above.) Mostly I loved the telling of the family's story minus the horse in the bed.
- On the Banks of Plum Creek (Laura Ingalls Wilder) - One of my friends in 7th grade pointed out that the teacher was not going to accept a book report on The Godfather or its ilk. She suggested this book as a quick easy read. I was entranced. This book helped me to identify what types of books I enjoyed reading - historical fiction and non-fiction. Family sagas and the unfolding of their lives was a fascination, a peek into others' lives.
More later. Until then, Keep Reading!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
A Sunshine Day
Bright sunshine and azure skies are spilling out. It was the kind of day that makes you want the feel of grass under your bare feet. Although Spring snow storms are inevitable, today was a promise that winter would not last forever. I have always been a sun-worshipper, but I must say I've become less tolerant of heat.
Growing up, my mother was a firm believer that kids should be outside playing and getting fresh air. I don't remember ever using sunscreen or getting burned. I guess we knew when to come in and when to put a hat on. I spent a few years growing up in southern Turkey just a two-hour drive from the Mediterranean. The climate was hot and dry most of the year and going to the beach was a special treat. It was there that I learned seaweed is gross, slimy, and unnerving when you swim into it unexpectedly. I also learned that when you do an underwater somersault, the salt burns the inside of your nose.
We also spent some time with relatives on the island of Malta. Everyone was olive-toned and sat outside with chairs drawn up outside on the sidewalks and streets to chat with neighbors and passersby. You went to the beach after school, after work, and after church. Families strolled hand-in-hand along the boardwalk on Sundays stopping to talk with those they knew. It was on Sunday that men and women had arms and legs covered - out of respect for the day rather than their leathery hides.
Coming back to the States, we were unaware of just how dark we had become until our travels took us to southern Idaho. Now this was back in the early '70s and as foreign a place to me as Turkey was to them. The kids in my 5th grade class were unprepared for someone who claimed to be American yet was born in England, raised (mostly) overseas, spoke a few words of other languages, and knew people of other faiths and cultures.
I did not fit in.
As the school year wore on and winter approached, I began to make friends and felt that people were getting to know me. That was my mistake. I learned later that the reason people were starting to like me was because they realized I was white. I should have picked on the clues - like the questions people asked. "My mom wants to know, do you have someone black in your family?" "Are you Indian?" (I thought they meant from India at first until I considered they didn't know where that was.)
Maybe I had been naive at first, but I eventually saw that there was no one of any color in our elementary school. Winter months had softened my skin tone, and they could see I was not a person of color either. I guess for some, their world went back on its axis and they could breathe safer. I, on the other hand, knew this was not the place for me. I breathed easier when we were told we would be moving again. I did not shed any tears.
I have refrained from mentioning this town, because so many years have gone by and things can change. I did discover that an acquaintance of mine had spent a brief time their during her high school years. She continues to refer to the place as a "vicious den of iniquity."
The whole experience was sobering, yet I hope it has helped me to become a better person and a better teacher. I don't want to sound too preachy, but I try to recall that year whenever I see injustice. I believe that when we are considering the feelings of others and putting ourselves in their shoes, that's when the sun is most bright.
Growing up, my mother was a firm believer that kids should be outside playing and getting fresh air. I don't remember ever using sunscreen or getting burned. I guess we knew when to come in and when to put a hat on. I spent a few years growing up in southern Turkey just a two-hour drive from the Mediterranean. The climate was hot and dry most of the year and going to the beach was a special treat. It was there that I learned seaweed is gross, slimy, and unnerving when you swim into it unexpectedly. I also learned that when you do an underwater somersault, the salt burns the inside of your nose.
We also spent some time with relatives on the island of Malta. Everyone was olive-toned and sat outside with chairs drawn up outside on the sidewalks and streets to chat with neighbors and passersby. You went to the beach after school, after work, and after church. Families strolled hand-in-hand along the boardwalk on Sundays stopping to talk with those they knew. It was on Sunday that men and women had arms and legs covered - out of respect for the day rather than their leathery hides.
Coming back to the States, we were unaware of just how dark we had become until our travels took us to southern Idaho. Now this was back in the early '70s and as foreign a place to me as Turkey was to them. The kids in my 5th grade class were unprepared for someone who claimed to be American yet was born in England, raised (mostly) overseas, spoke a few words of other languages, and knew people of other faiths and cultures.
I did not fit in.
As the school year wore on and winter approached, I began to make friends and felt that people were getting to know me. That was my mistake. I learned later that the reason people were starting to like me was because they realized I was white. I should have picked on the clues - like the questions people asked. "My mom wants to know, do you have someone black in your family?" "Are you Indian?" (I thought they meant from India at first until I considered they didn't know where that was.)
Maybe I had been naive at first, but I eventually saw that there was no one of any color in our elementary school. Winter months had softened my skin tone, and they could see I was not a person of color either. I guess for some, their world went back on its axis and they could breathe safer. I, on the other hand, knew this was not the place for me. I breathed easier when we were told we would be moving again. I did not shed any tears.
I have refrained from mentioning this town, because so many years have gone by and things can change. I did discover that an acquaintance of mine had spent a brief time their during her high school years. She continues to refer to the place as a "vicious den of iniquity."
The whole experience was sobering, yet I hope it has helped me to become a better person and a better teacher. I don't want to sound too preachy, but I try to recall that year whenever I see injustice. I believe that when we are considering the feelings of others and putting ourselves in their shoes, that's when the sun is most bright.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Piled as High as an Elephant's Eye - Part II
Am I a control freak?
Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Does a one-legged duck swim in circles? Yes to all (except the last one 'cause that's just you not thinking)!
As I mentioned before, I'm an organizer. My need to systemize things is a symptom of my bigger need to control my environment. One of my fantasies is that I'm Samantha Stevens in Bewitched or Jeannie in the show I Dream of Jeannie. With a twitch of my nose or the blink of my eyes, I can regiment the world around me. Housework is done instantly. Lesson plans are brilliantly completed in seconds. No more driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But of course, none of that could happen. Instead, I'm left twitching and blinking in a perculiar, maniacal manner.
I did always wonder a few things about these two shows. For instance, why did these women always limit their abilities to small stuff? There's no mention of catching crooks and murderers, but heaven forbid Gladys Kravitz should be standing on the front lawn. And why is it that these women had simpering, spineless men at their sides? Perhaps a therapist from the Great Beyond could explain their deep-seeded needs, but I find it highly incredulous. Besides the afore-mentioned deeds, I could use my abilities to find Osama Bin Laden, the Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Jimmy Hoffa. We could have world peace and and a patched-up ozone. We'd have a place to raise happy, healthy children.
But I digress.
I have come to the realization that I cannot blink or twitch chaos into world order. So if you hear someone honking behind you on the freeway, it could be me hinting for you to get out of the way!
Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Does a one-legged duck swim in circles? Yes to all (except the last one 'cause that's just you not thinking)!
As I mentioned before, I'm an organizer. My need to systemize things is a symptom of my bigger need to control my environment. One of my fantasies is that I'm Samantha Stevens in Bewitched or Jeannie in the show I Dream of Jeannie. With a twitch of my nose or the blink of my eyes, I can regiment the world around me. Housework is done instantly. Lesson plans are brilliantly completed in seconds. No more driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But of course, none of that could happen. Instead, I'm left twitching and blinking in a perculiar, maniacal manner.
I did always wonder a few things about these two shows. For instance, why did these women always limit their abilities to small stuff? There's no mention of catching crooks and murderers, but heaven forbid Gladys Kravitz should be standing on the front lawn. And why is it that these women had simpering, spineless men at their sides? Perhaps a therapist from the Great Beyond could explain their deep-seeded needs, but I find it highly incredulous. Besides the afore-mentioned deeds, I could use my abilities to find Osama Bin Laden, the Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Jimmy Hoffa. We could have world peace and and a patched-up ozone. We'd have a place to raise happy, healthy children.
But I digress.
I have come to the realization that I cannot blink or twitch chaos into world order. So if you hear someone honking behind you on the freeway, it could be me hinting for you to get out of the way!
Monday, March 5, 2007
Piled as High as an Elephant's Eye - Part I
My teammates/sisters and I were enjoying a nice lunch together. One, married for three years, asked, "At what point in the relationship do you just get your spouse to get rid of his stuff?" I forget the exact wording, but it doesn't matter. What does matter is that I refrained from yelling out, "THREE YEARS AGO!" But, I suppose that would not be starting a relationship on the right foot.
However, this discussion of organization vs. piling has been a point of conversation between Caveman and me. I am an organizer. It came from years of moving from air base to air base as a kid, deciding what it was I wanted badly enough to be shipped 8,000 miles. On the other hand, Caveman is both a piler and a collector. Newspaper articles and notes are placed in specific piles on the floor of our basement. There they begin to collect dust and resemble a home for a colony of rats. Once, I confronted Caveman with a receipt for one item - dog food.
"What's this?" I began.
"A receipt. I meant to put it with my other receipts."
"But why save it at all? As much as we love the dog, the IRS frowns on claiming her as a dependent." We both laughed. The receipt went but the other 9999 did not. Too bad I don't have a witty remark for each of those. But then, there'd be nowhere for the rats.
Caveman collects things that he finds at garage sales and estate sales - a tradition, seemingly, passed down through the males in his family. Among other things, our basement is currently home to a large massage table - the kind only found in chiropractic offices. It oscillates for stretching the muscles. It would be nice to use, but papers are piled on top of it.
Caveman does respect the fact that our entire way of living cannot be consumed in this manner, and so his stuff is relegated to the basement. And while I may not value his junk in the same way he does, I do value the the heart behind every treasure. Each piece is brought home with the same enthusiasm as a bludgeoned mastadon or a speared fish. It is his way of showing that he has gone past the hunting stage to the gathering stage.
One teammate made me realize, however, that it must have been women who invented fire. I am not above setting his things aflame - to make room for the newest stuff.
However, this discussion of organization vs. piling has been a point of conversation between Caveman and me. I am an organizer. It came from years of moving from air base to air base as a kid, deciding what it was I wanted badly enough to be shipped 8,000 miles. On the other hand, Caveman is both a piler and a collector. Newspaper articles and notes are placed in specific piles on the floor of our basement. There they begin to collect dust and resemble a home for a colony of rats. Once, I confronted Caveman with a receipt for one item - dog food.
"What's this?" I began.
"A receipt. I meant to put it with my other receipts."
"But why save it at all? As much as we love the dog, the IRS frowns on claiming her as a dependent." We both laughed. The receipt went but the other 9999 did not. Too bad I don't have a witty remark for each of those. But then, there'd be nowhere for the rats.
Caveman collects things that he finds at garage sales and estate sales - a tradition, seemingly, passed down through the males in his family. Among other things, our basement is currently home to a large massage table - the kind only found in chiropractic offices. It oscillates for stretching the muscles. It would be nice to use, but papers are piled on top of it.
Caveman does respect the fact that our entire way of living cannot be consumed in this manner, and so his stuff is relegated to the basement. And while I may not value his junk in the same way he does, I do value the the heart behind every treasure. Each piece is brought home with the same enthusiasm as a bludgeoned mastadon or a speared fish. It is his way of showing that he has gone past the hunting stage to the gathering stage.
One teammate made me realize, however, that it must have been women who invented fire. I am not above setting his things aflame - to make room for the newest stuff.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Here's Mud in Your Eye
This morning I settled down comfortably to do the Sunday New York Time's crossword puzzle. However, I find it increasingly less fun to do for the simple reason that I need reading glasses. A five-letter word for "dyed-in-the-wool" (total) is not the same as "died-in-the-wool" (chops)!
Last spring I spoke to my ophthalmologist about this. Dr. Stan is a parent of one of my former students and has been my eye doctor for quite awhile. I joked easily that it was getting more difficult to read ingredients on labels and asked if I was ready for bifocals. Without batting an eye he said, "You're not there yet. You'll know you're ready when it's no longer amusing but annoying."
Annoying happened this past summer. Caveman and I were trying to find our way into downtown Chicago to meet a cousin. He was driving, and I was the navigator. For some reason, Caveman does not trust my driving skills when visiting new, large cities. If I make even the slightest shift of the steering wheel, it will elicit the stiffening of body parts (arms, legs, back - get your mind out of the gutter) and a roaring of his voice. However, his brother will drift through Chicago freeway lanes with no signal while turned to talk to those of us in the backseat. Caveman will not show even a feeble token of discomfort or acknowledgement of honking horns. Instead, he will carry on an animated discourse on the stock market and ever-increasing gas prices, thereby encouraging his brother to turn towards us with his own ideas on how the economy is going to hell-in-a-handbasket (and no doubt drifting through lanes along the way while Satan himself is honking his horn and yelling, "Get off of the road, You Nut!).
But I digress.
My job as navigator was to look at the map for the street we wanted and let Caveman know where to turn. The problem? In order to read the map, I had to take my regular glasses off. Then I had to put them back on to see what street we were on, then take them back off to find the corresponding street on the map. Of course, by the time I put them back on and realized where we were, we had missed the turn and now were on a one-way street trying to find our way back. Hence, the whole process started over again.
So, here I am today faced with the certainty that in a couple of months, I will be the proud new owner of some bifocals. I will mark that occasion with some four letter words.
Last spring I spoke to my ophthalmologist about this. Dr. Stan is a parent of one of my former students and has been my eye doctor for quite awhile. I joked easily that it was getting more difficult to read ingredients on labels and asked if I was ready for bifocals. Without batting an eye he said, "You're not there yet. You'll know you're ready when it's no longer amusing but annoying."
Annoying happened this past summer. Caveman and I were trying to find our way into downtown Chicago to meet a cousin. He was driving, and I was the navigator. For some reason, Caveman does not trust my driving skills when visiting new, large cities. If I make even the slightest shift of the steering wheel, it will elicit the stiffening of body parts (arms, legs, back - get your mind out of the gutter) and a roaring of his voice. However, his brother will drift through Chicago freeway lanes with no signal while turned to talk to those of us in the backseat. Caveman will not show even a feeble token of discomfort or acknowledgement of honking horns. Instead, he will carry on an animated discourse on the stock market and ever-increasing gas prices, thereby encouraging his brother to turn towards us with his own ideas on how the economy is going to hell-in-a-handbasket (and no doubt drifting through lanes along the way while Satan himself is honking his horn and yelling, "Get off of the road, You Nut!).
But I digress.
My job as navigator was to look at the map for the street we wanted and let Caveman know where to turn. The problem? In order to read the map, I had to take my regular glasses off. Then I had to put them back on to see what street we were on, then take them back off to find the corresponding street on the map. Of course, by the time I put them back on and realized where we were, we had missed the turn and now were on a one-way street trying to find our way back. Hence, the whole process started over again.
So, here I am today faced with the certainty that in a couple of months, I will be the proud new owner of some bifocals. I will mark that occasion with some four letter words.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Theory of Relatives
My theory is that we are all related. I must be some distant cousin of Einstein: albeit, the one who saw a purpose in physics but couldn't get past spewing the contents of my last meal on plane rides - let alone traveling at high speed on some rocket through space. I'm that lady at Six Flags who got them to stop the ferris wheel and let me off because they recognized a real scream of panic when they heard one.
Back to my theory . . . Yes, we are all related, and I can prove it through simple mathematics. You have two parents, right? Four grandparents? Eight great-grandparents? 16 great-great-grandparents. It keeps doubling each generation. By thirty generations, you have 1 billion ancestors. The only problem is that 30 generations back, there weren't 1 billion people on the planet. I'll leave you to mull over where we all came from. Those who study calculus and such can explain it better, but it seems that gene skipped me, too.
Unfortunately, that might also mean that we're related to people we would just as soon not mention in polite circles. BUT since we're family, I suppose we can talk about them behind their backs when they don't arrive at the annual Christmas get togethers.
Personally, I think people/relatives are far more complex than the Theory of Relativity - and more interesting, too. Really, wouldn't you rather sit around the dinner table while Grandma (who's been into the liquor cabinet) gossips than sit in a lecture hall discussing speed in relation to energy and mass?
So sit back, cousin (or sister, brother, uncle with 6 toes, or whoever), it's going to be a bumpy ride.
Back to my theory . . . Yes, we are all related, and I can prove it through simple mathematics. You have two parents, right? Four grandparents? Eight great-grandparents? 16 great-great-grandparents. It keeps doubling each generation. By thirty generations, you have 1 billion ancestors. The only problem is that 30 generations back, there weren't 1 billion people on the planet. I'll leave you to mull over where we all came from. Those who study calculus and such can explain it better, but it seems that gene skipped me, too.
Unfortunately, that might also mean that we're related to people we would just as soon not mention in polite circles. BUT since we're family, I suppose we can talk about them behind their backs when they don't arrive at the annual Christmas get togethers.
Personally, I think people/relatives are far more complex than the Theory of Relativity - and more interesting, too. Really, wouldn't you rather sit around the dinner table while Grandma (who's been into the liquor cabinet) gossips than sit in a lecture hall discussing speed in relation to energy and mass?
So sit back, cousin (or sister, brother, uncle with 6 toes, or whoever), it's going to be a bumpy ride.
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