The 9th grade African American history students I work with have been working on their “Semester of Service” for almost two months now. This particular class wants to write children books about African American history in Philadelphia, which they will share with 3rd graders at a neighboring elementary school. For the last few weeks, however, the students who have been tasked with creating the stories and drawings for the picture books have been in a tough spot—they have struggled to agree on what they want produce, how many books, what types of stories, etc. Their lack of group vision has caused many of the students to grow frustrated, as it hasn’t felt like they are making progress.

But last week, something changed. My placement teacher invited a local artist who works extensively with children to visit class. She showed the children the books she creates with young kids, many of which incorporated not only stories and art but also unique structures—like cool pop-ups, cut-outs, and unique fabrics and other materials. After sharing these examples with the class, this artist began posing a lot of logistical questions regarding how many different books the students wanted to create, did they want duplicates of the stories, how big did they want the books to be, how long were the stories, etc.?

I’ve been here before.

There is a sense of excitement that accompanies encountering the familiar, paralleled by discontentment at being unable to articulate the vague and seemingly random connection I am feeling...

I felt it even as we drove to our destination, passing the rooftops of buildings in Manayunk. Manayunk, which according to Wikipedia, literally translates from the Lenape language as, “place to drink.” It was their word for River. I take note of the tall sign that marks a movie theatre. It is also the sign I look for to indicate the entrance to a small outlet containing a liquor store.

“Place to drink” was indeed my experience with Manayunk this past summer, though I recognize that the Lenape Indians and I most likely have different interpretations of the word “drink.” 

I’ve been here before.

We step out of the vans and the sense lingers. Anticipation holds a sense of remaining unfulfilled… Is that what this unease is, being unable to place a finger on how you know a place or why you know it?

ECON 136:  Week 14,  Friday

Effective Communication of Quantitative Information 

Here are the examples I presented in class

Dan Heath on making things stick and the Fishman article on water bottles.

Hans Roling on measuring human progress

Annie Leonard on responding to climate change

"Are we really still in Pennsylvania?" I kept asking. "This place has been here for the past four years?" I found it hard to believe. Wissahickon holds the kind of beauty that in my mind is reserved for mountains of Colorado or West Virginia. Or, at the very least, rural-rural PA. But not Philly. Not Germantown. Not 20 minutes away from the place I've been living for the past four years of my life. For me, Bryn Mawr has never been a place to be connected to nature, to escape from the developed world. I suppose I've tried a couple times - sitting quietly at the labyrinth and lookin at the sunset, pretending the grass around me wasn't perfectly groomed and ignoring Rhoads and the vast athetic fields stretched out before me. The back porch of Batten offers a beautiful view into the woods, but just beyond that is a big road and it's hard to block out the noises of cars zooming past. The stars are somewhat visible at night, but not to a large degree, what with all the light pollution from the city and suburbs. I've resigned myself to a life without much connection to nature whenever I'm at school.

I've been to the Wiss twice before, though only in the summer, and both times during the cross country pre-season. The whole team–at least those who could run–piled into the BMC athletic vans for a morning run along the trails. I remember covering a good five-six miles, climbing up hillsides, jumping rocks, skirting tree branches and hurtling small streams, cursing the hills for being so steep only to feel the elation of finally cresting the top. Rain aside, the Wiss was just as gorgeous coming back in the spring as it was in the summer and I did enjoy my time there. At the same time, however, I could not help but feel my own limitations. I wanted to climb to the top if the rock formations, to run up the trails as they spiralled higher and higher till they reached the top of one slope, only to find another slope still left to summit. I wanted to run like I had so many months ago; to take in the fresh air, the dirt, the rocks, the trees, the river; to feel that same freeing happiness I remembered. Yet this time around, it felt like I was watching myself and my classmates enjoy the experience, like there was a wall separating me from everything else. Maybe it's just the concussion talking, and regardless I loved being outside and escaping the confines of my dorm room, but I couldn't help but feel that something was missing...

Enjoy the pictures of yourselves--but also don't miss that
wood duck @ the end: he is totally postmodern!

I have to admit, I was feeling a bit down on Friday--you could say I'm not the biggest fan of rain so I was a grumpy about hiking in the weather we were experiencing and feeling tired from a long, grueling week. But once we started walking around together, I immediately felt like a load had been lifted and I could truly feel a sense of peace. I left behind the stressful week I had just had and listened to the rain falling, friendly conversations among my classmates, and took in the fresh, lush smell of the trees and creek. Spending time in Wissahickon, as my "ditch" for the day was exactly what I needed to feel refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to embrace and take on the rest of the semester. 

There was a point on our hike that struck me, where we crossed a bridge and climbed up a hill and looked out at tbe view of where we had just stood on the bridge. So much of life feels like that; so often you get used to one perspective, only to then discover the fleetingness of any one 'phase' in life, and promply move on, only able look back at where you were, but never again experience its perspective. Makes me think of Joni Mitchell...

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game