blog journal 5

 

1. Working on the website design gave me a greater appreciation for the process of designing websites. It taught me how to organize information in a way that is aesthetic, simple, and straightforward. I used alignment to help everything look polished and I also used repetition to create coherence amongst the website. I loved how creative this assignment was and I liked how many different directions people could take it and add their unique touch. This assignment was frustrating because designing a website is inherently difficult, especially with making everything perfectly aligned. If I'm ever in a situation where I am designing or editing a website or social media page for a job, I will remember this assignment and to be patient with the process.
2. I had a class last semester where the instructor taped QR codes around the room and we all scanned them and they led us to an activity. I would want to implement something similar into my own classroom in the future. It would be very helpful to have various QR codes around the room that offered help in different subjects. I would label one for math, reading, science, etc. Of course, it is best to ask the teacher for help, but maybe it could lead them to a video to watch at home or the homework for that subject. With technology being more and more inevitable in a classroom, it seems like a good way to offer help. 

3. Case: While overwhelmed with grading, a teacher discovers a website that automatically grades student's paper's and generates feedback. The tool is efficient and relieved the teacher's stress, but the tool can be inaccurate and give cookie-cutter feedback. The teacher begins to use it regularly. 

I absolutely think this tool is devaluing, awful, and should not be permitted for teachers to use. Your entire purpose as a teacher for is to give individual feedback and give personal guidance for the students. They depend on and respect you, not just a machine. If this is a free online tool, couldn't the students use it at home? If it's being used in schools by this teacher what's the point of them even going to class? Personal writing feedback is vital to evolving as a writer. 

 1. I do not have much experience with blogging at all throughout my life. I enjoyed reading other people's blogs when I was younger, such as my friends' blogs. I also remember a teacher who would always create a weekly blog for our class. Writing these posts have provided me with an idea of what blogging regularly would be like. It would be challenging for me to construct weekly blog posts without these prompts, so the thought of maintaining a personal blog sounds a bit stressful. 

2. My personal thoughts consist of mostly negatives, simply due to the negative connotations I have in my head about generative AI. However, I do understand that AI is already integrated in practically everything online in some shape or form. When I consider the implications of implementing it as a tool into specifically younger ages (K-5th grade), I feel especially worrisome. That period of time feels crucial for development, and providing a tool that weakly substitutes the individual help that comes from a teacher, in my opinion, dampens the knowledge that should be extracted from school. I'm not sure exactly where to stand because in some contexts it is inevitable, but I fear especially for elementary students and how to navigate teaching them to use AI. 

3. I used ChatGPT to generate a lesson plan for that assignment. It was helpful to construct a thorough base for the lesson, but what makes a lesson plan work is that it's tailored to your classroom. I don't think I would change anything if I ever asked it to create a lesson plan. I would take the bones of the plan and add what I thought would work for my classroom. 

4. It's hard to envision how to incorporate generate AI into school. Part of me believes it's impossible to do it well, especially with creative subjects. Like I said above, it can be useful in creating a detailed teaching plan, but I think teaching is so individual and requires a passion that generative AI weakens. It would be best to be open with your classroom about your beliefs surrounding it no matter which way you lean due to its increasing relevancy. 

 1. Typically, throughout my entire life, I always used Google Docs over Microsoft Word. I wrote lots of stories when I was younger, and something about Google Docs felt more straightforward than Microsoft Word. My friends and I shared our Google Docs too, so that was a large factor in why I began using it. I have used MS Word more in college and it is more similar to Google Docs than I thought. Everything feels smaller and harder to find in MS Word, but I don't have a strong opinion about it. 

2. The standard that stood out to me the most was 2.3, Citizen. Understanding how to safely access the digital world is a tool that is learned, not just a set of rules to follow. Teaching kids how to contribute in a fruitful way to the internet and in online spaces is crucial as technology progresses and integrates into more jobs. It is also such an important job to monitor students' use to protect their data and privacy. One lingering concern I have is that I wonder if this will turn into a one-time lesson rather than an ongoing process of learning to be digitally literate. 

3. I only partially agree with calling gen z digital natives because growing up surrounded by internet tech doesn’t necessarily mean you have skill. People generally use social media apps easily yet struggle with other digital literacy like troubleshooting or file organization. I think future students will likely be  much more AI-reliant and use digital tools more fast paces. Attention control and critical evaluation would need to be explicitly taught in the future if this is the case. 

Woman Typing on Computer Keyboard by is licensed under CC0 1.0

(no author name available)

blog post one virginia g

• I am taking this course as a requirement for my major in English, but this topic is very relevant in the landscape of technology and education today. I'm intrigued by how technology affects our perception and understanding of class content, especially with the expanding field of AI. I am interested in how the progression of AI will affect the future of school and how it will be integrated. I hope to either teach or be an editor, which both require a broad understanding of the various text mediums and how to implement them into academic and everyday life. 
• Throughout elementary and middle school, I rarely used the technology I use for school today. We used projectors, but that was about it. In the middle of eighth grade, quarantine came and we switched over to zoom. Because I don't have vivid memories of this time, I retrospectively realized that online class affected how much I learned in a huge way. Interaction with other people is crucial in learning about a subject. Since then, the weight of technology feels heavier each day, almost an impending doom. I'm looking for a balance with using technology and when it does or does not belong in my life.
• I try a variety of different hobbies that always seem to quickly die off, but I have recently been learning about art using oil pastels. Whenever I use them, I am usually following a Youtube or Instagram video. For offline help, I might ask my friend who is a skilled artist, which would provide more detailed and individual help. The difference between these two learning resources is stark, and shows me how disconnected technology can feel even when it is helpful.

The Axe

By Hannah Stake

Long ago, there was a vast forest of trees, each with their own personalities. They had been ruled by the same Grandfather Oak, who had grown to a width that no other tree could compare to, for centuries. But soon a dark mysterious illness sprung and ate at the Grandfather Oak’s roots and deteriorated him from the inside out, leading to his death. After his final leaves fell, the trees had to make a decision. They needed a new leader.

Through the loss of their leader, the trees began to finally form their own opinions about who should rule them. There were many things to consider like whether they supported the growth of moss, how far apart each tree should grow from each other, and if intertwining trees are accepted. Because of all of this unrest, the trees began to turn against each other and after many races between trees no one won. Lacking a leader, the forest began to turn against itself and each section of the forest became divided; no woodland creature was safe anywhere and without the nourishment that the creatures brought the trees would die out soon. 

No one had visited the forest for years and without the trees knowing, humans had discovered the magical forest. They had long heard the legends of what cures the forest held, and in the current state that the forest was in, now was the best chance to raid it. Knowing that they couldn't over take the forest with such ancient trees and plants in it without being destroyed, they decided to form a plan — they were gonna send The Axe.

When The Axe ventured into the forest he was almost immediately killed until he explained why he was there.

 "I heard," he started, " That this forest is beginning to fade after the death of the Grandfather Oak. Since I am one of you, I wanted to come and save my homeland. I am here to run for King. " 

 "What is he saying?!" The trees scoffed to one another.

A crowd gathered as branches from all over the forest crossed territory lines to listen in through their leaves. 

 "What blasphemy is this!" The trees grumbled, "You are not one of us, you are an axe. You have never experienced the true roots of what our ancients stood for." 

The Axe was prepared for this and cunningly replied, "I may not look like one of you, and it is because my life has been cut short. I was torn down from my true home, where I used to be rooted like you. I was cut down, shaped, molded, and forced to do what the humans commanded, but I resisted. I ran away and I knew that this was my destiny. I too, am made out of wood and I have come to save my home." 

The trees muttered but none of them could come up with a good argument. Eventually The Axe won over each one of them and began his work. He acted as though he loved each and everyone has them dearly and became involved and many of the forest activities, mending friendships and stopping feuds. Little did they know that he was digging up dirt on each one of them just to pull it out when he became king so they would turn against each other in the end. For it is well known that it is much easier to tear a person down when they're weak and alone than when they are strong and united together. 

The election finally came, and The Axe won by a landslide. When the time came for him to present his speech, he began sounding honest and good. Then quickly, he began to pull out all the deepest darkest secrets and feuds of each tree. Commotion broke out and violence quickly followed. Limbs and leaves scattered among the forest and hours later no tree trusted the other. 

Only a few days later did the humans come and begin chopping down each tree. The trees were defenseless alone and couldn't put up a fight. 

As the Grandfather Tree’s stump looked on what had happened, he felt immense guilt in dying before he could share his last piece of wisdom. Being unable to speak, he thought to himself with the last of his life, “One can be easily deceived when they are weak enough to let their anger sever their friendships.”

Peace Within Diversity

By: Hannah Stake

My door closes and I finally let out a sigh that I've been holding in for awhile.

So many thoughts are whizzing through my head at one time that I cannot grasp a single one. I'm wound up so tight I can feel it in my shoulders all the way down to my sweatshirt sleeves that my fingers are grasping the ends of. 

I rub my temples, brushing my bangs, as I plop down on my bed. 

I know there is only one process that can help me unwind and release today's stresses so I begin grabbing various items off my floor. One of them happens to be a rubber band so up my hair goes into a makeshift bun atop my head. 

Now I can finally focus.

My ukulele is brought down from the pegs that it usually rests upon and there are two books laying beside it, my journal and my sketchbook.

At times like these, simplicity is key, so I make sure I have only one soft pencil, my favorite black pen, and my warm vanilla candle burning. 

My Christmas lights sparkle form above and other than my flickering candle, it's the only source of light in the room. 

I place my ear buds in and immediately the piano and melodic voices of whatever deep calm song I'm into recently brings a new depth of emotion into my soul. 

Then I begin. 

My hand flies across my journal, curling onto the pen in a familiar way, as my heart fills the once bare pages. 

Soon those words are transformed to song as my ukulele lets out soft music, ricocheting off of the walls. 

After my fingers have plucked enough they gravitate again to the familiar grip of my pencil. Strokes soon appear on lined paper and a shape is formed. 

Lastly I breathe. 

Inhaling and exhaling whilst laying upon my pillows, focusing on each word being sung through my earbuds. 

Each word is purposeful and filled with emotion from someone who's had a day just like me. I lay there and appreciate each chord and word. 

It's not just one moment or one thing to do that brings joy and peace for me. It's a diversity. 

No one thing on earth can satisfy forever and that is what brings a vibrant diversity to each of our lives that would otherwise not be there.

The Next Challenge!

 Good evening authors,

I apologize for this late post but as you know- life has been busy for all of us! This weeks writing challenge is...

Write a short (ish) narrative using an overarching moral. It could be a fable or a cute story that could be found in a children's book. 

Try to keep it limited to 650-700 words at most which I hope is enough leeway for those of us who like to describe things with intimate detail! I would also like to give a minimum of 350 words though so we can make sure that there is a good story line/plot within your narrative/fable. 

Also please give at least three named and important characters in your story.

Other than that- have fun!

Enjoy writing! 

-Hannah 

The Joys of Art

By Audrey Harlacher

 **3:57 p.m.**

“Don’t you look at me like that!”

The canvas in front of Alice didn’t change, seeing that it didn’t have eyes, or a face, one could only assume Alice was being sarcastic or seeing things. 

Luckily, Alice was not seeing things, but that might have been part of the problem. The canvas taunted her with its blankness. No matter how hard Alice tried she could not see anything on the canvas. The canvas was empty and inspiration had taken a three week vacation to the Bahamas. 

“Fantastic!” Alice groaned, “Just what I need! All day long I’m full of ideas but as soon as I get to the paint and paper they disappear!” At that she flung herself over her bed, hanging her head off the edge. She looked at the canvas from upside down. 

It was just an upside down canvas to Alice’s disappointment. 

Since she had no inspiration and the canvas was being a jerk to her, Alice went to scavenge the fridge for something edible. 

**4:19**

After consuming an apple, two cheese sticks, and a glass of chocolate milk Alice was ready to paint. Of course, she still didn’t know what to paint.

“I hate you.” She glared at the cavas. The canvas didn’t seem to care, but then again, canvases can’t care, due to their lack of human emotion. 

**12:07 a.m.**

Alice was drifting off to sleep when it hit her: avocados. 

She ripped the sheets off of her, leapt out of bed, tripped on her feet, hopped back up, and grabbed a tube of green paint. The inspiration was flowing through her veins, all she could think of was avocados. The paint was swirling on the canvas, the paintbrush dancing in her fingers, oh yeah, it was all coming together.

**2:15 a.m**

Alice was exhausted, but satisfied, her masterpiece was finished. It looked good at the moment, and hopefully it would look good in the morning when she wasn’t running off of adrenaline and art. She cleaned off her brushes and went back to bed.

**10:28 a.m**

When Alice woke up she felt dead, she was tired, “Why did I have to wake up today?” she groaned, but before she could wallow in dread and sleepiness her mom walked in.

“Nice avocados Alice.” She said before walking out.

Alice rolled  out of bed to check if her art still looked good. 

Alas, when the lighting was good and her heart filled with the dark pessimistic-ism of mornings her painting did not look as good as it did when she had first painted it.

“Eh, It isn’t terrible. I did art, whatever. Maybe next time talent and inspiration and motivation will line up and work for me.” She shrugged, "Ah the joys of art." 

The Third Shelf

 "Why does she always choose pens?" Cybil asked from the third shelf.

From down below, Maggie Peters was opening a brand new box of black pens.

"Pencils are a perfectly good option." 

"Be patient my friend, take in the relaxing nature of the third shelf while you're up here." Mark said nonchalantly. 

"Oh you better believe I'm patient. I've been patient for three weeks, sitting up here." Cybil grumbled, watching Maggie begin to draw with her pens using long, even strokes.

"Do you know how many pencils are used a day in the United States alone?" Mark asked. Cybil hesitated. She did not need Mark's fun facts right now. But, curiousity got the best of her. "Okay, Mark. How many?"

"Four. HUNDRED." He said proudly.

"Well I wish I was one of them." Cybil sighed. "You're impossible to cheer up." Mark said. 

"And yet you try and do it every day anyways!" Cybil laughed fondly.

"Hey, what's the big idea???" Yapped a raspy voice with a strong brooklyn accent.

"Uh oh. She's using the scissors." Mark and Cybil peered down. Maggie grasped the scissors and made choppy cuts into the paper as the scisscors voiced his complaints in a very colorful way. "Why I outta strangle ya and shove ya in a choppa and ship ya ta new mexico!" He yelled as she set him down.

"Now there's someone who deserves to be on the third shelf." Cybil mumbled.

Mark grunted in agreement.

All day, Maggie drew and colored and only took breaks for meals, and all day Mark tried to cheer Cybil up with interesting facts. 

"Did you know there are more pencils in the world then blades of grass?"

"Did you know pencils are the reason humans exist?"

"Did you know a pencil saved Lance Armstrong's life?"

"That doesn't make any sense." Cybil objected.

"That's what Lance said!" Mark said defensively.

Finally, at the end of the day, Maggie stood up on her chair and peered across the third shelf, and seemed to be looking for something. Cybil held her breath and shut her eyes, over joyed that she was finally going to be chosen.

Then, Maggie reached into the bin titled "MARKERS"and grabbed something. Cybil opened her eyes. Maggie was bringing down Mark. Cybil dismally let out all her breath, and she was back to feeling even worse than before.

She sat in her sorrows for awhile, too sad to watch Maggie draw.

Then, a fellow marker named Arnie whispered, "Hey look at Markie go!" Cybil tentatively looked down. 

Mark was making strong moves that brightened the whole page, and the red strokes of the marker really accentuated the bold black lines of the new pens.

It was mesmirizing, and Cybil decided that she could never do that, and Maggie definetly knew what she was doing when she chose Mark. Maybe Cybil wasn't right for drawing, But Mark definetly was.

When Mark was thrown back into the marker bin, he was still in a creative daze.

"Mark, that was more amazing then I ever could have done. Good job." Cybil said with pride.

"Cybil... I'm sorry you didn't get picked." Mark said.

"I know, but- WOAH!" Cybil was whisked away from the third shelf, and suddenly she was flying though the air with nothing to keep her tethered but Maggie's hand carrying her through.

As she was going through the air she could see clearly all the beautiful artwork Maggie had been creating all day, and they all fit together like a puzzle! They were all connected, and they all told a story. But a story needs words. Cybil grinned when she hit the paper. Maggie began to write her story, with Cybil as her guide.

"Four hundred and one." Mark said happily from the third shelf.

This Week's Prompt! -- 8/24/2020

 Welcome writers! Today is our second writing assignment.

This week, you will be writing a story to describe or talk about a hobby—any hobby you choose! 

The stories this week will have no word limit, they can be as long or as short as you want (as long as you don't write a novel). 

Just like last week, your stories should be posted by this Sunday (8/30/2020). 

Hannah will choose our next assignment on Monday.

Have fun writing, writers!

-SAMARA

Update: Since none of us were able to upload this week due to various reasons, the publishing date will be moved forward a week. Your stories should now be posted by September 6th (9/6/2020). 

The Train Station

By Samara Walters

Tap. Tap. Tap. The girl’s foot beat light and quick on the ground, full of impatience. Not annoyed, but nervous. Her hands were clenched on a small handbag in her lap, squeezing it tight. Her face was tense. She seemed to be waiting for something. But then again, who wasn’t at a train station? 

It was currently 8:03 AM. I was seated at the train station waiting for the 8:15 train to take me to work, reading a newspaper I had picked up earlier. Well, I was. I’m not sure what drew my eyes to her in the first place, actually. Perhaps it was her gentle tapping. In any case, she was an interesting subject to observe. I wondered what her story was.

You find a lot of people like that at train stations. People with stories you’ll never know. Sometimes you’ll find an old lady waiting for a train. Is she visiting grandchildren? An old friend? Or is it just a trip for fun? Sometimes you’ll see a family. Are they having a picnic? Visiting some museum? You never know. 

I wondered what her story was, and what she was waiting for.

A train obviously, but someone on that train? Or a train to take her to someone? Or somewhere? I observed her further. Her eyes glinted with suppressed excitement, but they had a sparkle of mischief too. Perhaps she was embarking on some frolic with a friend. But the large suitcase seated next to her spoke otherwise—possibly a vacation instead?

At that moment, a soft sound interrupted my thoughts; a rhythmic puff growing louder each second. The girl’s head perked up and her foot stopped tapping. She grasped her ticket in her hands.

The train had almost arrived when she bounded up out of her seat. But as the train began to pull in, a sharp wind suddenly whipped the ticket out of her hand. She let out a cry of dismay and jumped to grasp it, but it was no use. Frustrated, she pulled out her handbag. But as she rummaged through it again, a look of shock, and then distress came over her. She must have been out of money.

By now the train had come to a complete stop, and passengers were filing off the train; but the girl turned back, disappointed, to go collect her suitcase. She would not be going on this train. 

She started to walk away, when a clear voice rang out above noise, “Darla!” The girl looked back, surprised, her eyes searching for the caller. Was Darla her name? I didn’t have much time to wonder, because her face suddenly lit up, and she dashed off. I looked to see where she was running towards, and saw her embrace with an older woman, both of them squealing in excitement. The sight warmed my heart. I didn’t know who she was to the girl, but it was evident that this was who the girl had wanted to see. 

After a bit, they both left the train station, all smiles and pure contentment. I knew that encounter would forever remain a mystery to me, but I was filled with a sense of their contentment too. 

This is what I like about train stations. You never know the people you’ll meet there, the stories you’ll see unfolding in front of you. But there always comes a point where you have to move on, and it seemed my time had come. After all, I still had a train to catch.

Finally Seen

By Hannah Stake

Many people have rhythms to their days. Some play the same song every morning, others do certain stretches to extend muscles that have been frozen for hours. I look in the mirror to memorize my outfit. 

Living in New York, you see all types of styles and fashions: that's my problem. 

I got into NYU due to my " fashion talent” which I don't actually possess. 

I take my seat there and wait for my professor to step in and describe what outfit I'm wearing today in her eyes. 

She enters, surveying my outfit. "Your red satin top with the embroidered gray skirt and those boots- I love it!" 

It's always red satin with her. Yesterday I was wearing a red satin bow, the day before red satin pants. 

In my next class, Professor Pascal was inspired to find me donning purple checked flats, a velvet skirt, white shirt and denim jacket.

People always see my outfit based on what their opinion of the perfect style is but never the real me. 

I make my way home but not without hearing, “Cute dress!” before I enter my apartment. I’m starving but haven’t made it to the store yet so I order in and hope that traffic isn’t bad. 

Later, I smell my delicious burger through the door before I even hear the knock, and I’m met with the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I’m so shocked by him I fall over.

"Are you ok?" 

I reply with a quick yes and leap up to retrieve my burger and the last shred of my dignity. 

A conversation starts and soon arises the question of where we attend school. Assuming my mask, I share that I attend NYU majoring in fashion,gesturing to my outfit, commenting “Obviously”. I wait, interested in hearing what he sees. But he looks at me like I’m crazy, shoves my meal into my hands, and then walks away.

"Wait! Why are you leaving?!" I call.

"I don’t appreciate being lied to,” He shoots back.

Offended, I retort,"Well, at least I’m not rude!" 

“Enjoy your burger.” He cockily replies. 

Why did he treat me like that? He’s just like the rest of them. I let him leave.

Yet, I can’t help but have his words in a loop inside my head, "I don’t appreciate being lied to" 

Lied to.

Then it hits me.

Realization covers the feeling of offense and replaces it with a need to chase after this man because he could be the person I've been waiting for. 

I scramble out onto the sidewalks of New York City and immediately am overwhelmed by the mass of people. I was Prince Charming, he was Cinderella, and there was no shoe.

Then I hear him.

Turning, I get his attention by yelling,"What am I wearing?"

Confused, he replies, "You're wearing a blue greasy T-shirt that's way too huge for you, no shoes, and I assume shorts under that shirt." 

I can’t believe it. 

I look down and there is the outfit I’d worked to memorize this morning. The blue shirt, covered in grease stains from numerous burgers lay there just as he’d described. No red satin, no plaid flats, just a plain T-shirt. I’m not a fashion icon. I’m me. 

He sees me for who I am. For the first time in my life. 

I never want it to stop.

Creativity's Grasp

By Libby Alley

I had been pacing across the ugly gray carpet floors of the airport. There was a steady rain outside the clear expansive windows, falling in thin sheets. The mashed-potato clouds in the sky were as muddled together as my thoughts. My sneakers and pink fuzzy socks itched and made my ankles hot. I meandered aimlessly back to my seat; I settled back down and my feet thanked me. The flight had been delayed an hour, leaving me time to write another boring article.

I wondered if my publishers could tell that I was a fake.

I opened my laptop and the screen bit into my eyes. 

I wondered if my readers knew I wasn’t a professional.

Instinctively, I opened Microsoft word.

I wondered if that was why I paced.

I began to type as slow and mechanically as a sputtering broken car engine, my mind feeling like the old car it’s attached to.

What did she say she wanted? Another weight loss one? 

“10 EASY WAYS TO FEEL COMFORTABLE IN YOUR BODY AGAIN.”

I bit my lip. Too bland.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick said the delete key as if it was mocking me.

Suddenly, thunder cracked like a whip against a horse, and the entire airport’s power diminished in a second. 

I released my lip from my teeth and lost my breath when I saw what was surrounding me. Purple heavenly light that streamed from the tall foggy windows formed a rectangular shape on the carpet. The light was a mix of all kinds of watercolor-like hues. The rain's flying pirouettes projecting directly onto the carpet. The white moon twinkled through it all, as if it was the main performer. 

A chill came across me, and I rubbed my goosebumpy arms. My mind became clear, my imagination was waking up. I looked down at the green, glow-in-the-dark keys, suddenly unaware of publishers and deadlines, only aware of my swirling and coursing thoughts being entertained by the moon and his dancers.

Creative energy is something that meets you halfway, and your job is to grab hold of it.

My fingers flew across the keys.