Around local schools a common debate is brewing; should cell phones be used in the classroom? This argument is growing especially loud in Jenkintown after the creation of stricter policies towards the end of January. After a recent incident involving cellphones during the school day, the school has adopted a harsher plan that bans the use of these electronic devices in hallways and classes. If a student is found to be using a cellphone at a banned time, the device will be taken away. According to the school’s 2012-2013 Student Handbook, available online, student cellphone use is restricted and may not be used on “school property during school hours”, though in practice students are able to use electronics at lunch in the cafeteria. At the end of January the policy was strengthened and repeated to the students through the Daily Bulletin; if a student is caught using a cellphone at a restricted time they will be sent to the office and the device will be confiscated. Recently, staff members have begun to monitor hallways while students switch class to enforce these rules. This policy has propelled the discussion about technology usage in classrooms to skyrocket. “I think it’s a convenience, and if a teacher is clever enough to exploit it efficiently, great, but I don’t think it’s a significant thing,” said Mr. Hench about cellphone use in his courses. “They [cell phones] have the potential to be a teaching tool or learning aid,” Ms. Brooks said, listing various classroom activities that could be helped by cellphones such as recording labs and doing calculations. In her classes, she says students would not have time to waste texting or playing games if they wanted to finish the activity. This opinion was seconded by students, who pointed out that cellphones have more purpose than simply texting. Many kids, said a student who wished to remain anonymous, have smart phones that are quicker and more efficient than most classrooms’ technology. Click the link below to continue reading
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Doublethink is Holding Two Opinions and Accepting Both
The sense that you are being watched feels unsettling and strange. Perhaps, you get a mental warning that another pair of eyes has been resting upon your back for a while now. A sudden chill, a nervous feeling, an uncomfortable sense - these may be the reactions to the sensation of being spied upon. But what if you felt this at all moments of the day, every day of the week, and every week of your life? What if the feeling was no longer a feeling but reality? Here we view the world of Winston Smith, the protagonist of 1984. In the dystopian society of Winston’s world, the government, controlled by a group called the Party, watches every individual within the country Oceania. Although George Orwell, the author, illustrates a fascinating world full of interpretive thought and theory, the actual plot of the story is dull, boring, and lengthy. In George Orwell’s 1984, Winston Smith lives in Oceania, a nation run by a small percentage of the population called the Party, where he works for the Ministry of Truth, editing and changing the past to fit the Party’s needs. In this nationalistic, dystopian society, Winston is always watched by “Big Brother”, the face of the Party. He struggles to be free of the themes presented by Big Brother - political slavery, sexual suppression, consistent censorship, and strong nationalism among others. Due to an innate seditious attitude towards the Party, Winston must appear to be fully engaged in the interests of his country to avoid being eliminated from history. This challenge becomes more difficult as he develops a relationship with Julia and faces the wrath of his totalitarian government. 1984 brings to light ideas of power and control of the minds of individuals that add to the analytical experience. There is plenty to interpret as Winston faces what is reality and what is not. For example, when one commits “thoughtcrime”, the holding of thoughts that oppose those of the Party, they are taken by the police and vaporized from existence. Winston explains this when he writes, “Thoughtcrime does not entail death, thoughtcrime IS death” (28) in his journal full of his own thought crimes. The mere thought of doubt or conflict with the government will ensure obliteration from all reality: the criminal is actually erased from history. All records of the rebel are edited, and all who used to know him are forced to behave as if he never existed. The idea of such punishment provides a great deal of contrast with the world most of us live in today, forcing us to think “what if?”. What if we lived like this? What would count as thought crime? Why must we die because of our thoughts? These are the questions that George Orwell poses in our minds. Even the very slogans of the Party, the essence of the message they wish to communicate, are contradictory and interpretive: “War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength” (26). You become subject to such theories that the constant warring of the three superpowers that exist in Orwell’s world is what keeps Oceania in balance (War is peace): the war unifies the nation’s citizens against common enemies while subjecting them to propaganda. Being an individual with your own rights sets yourself up for failure (Freedom is Slavery): attempting to find freedom will do more harm than simply being a slave. A citizen who knows little ensures that the nation remains strong (Ignorance is Strength): the less the average citizen knows, the more powerful the government will be. Ultimately, these theories are correct in a sense. Contradictions are laced within the words of much of the novel, offering food for thought and inquiry and discussion. The downside to the fabric of powerful notions that is 1984 exists in the repetitive, gray, and long passages within the book. The story moves forward at a slow pace, especially in the beginning: certain parts are drawn out to the point that they become boring. An example of this is the reading of the book, written by the supposed leader of rebellion Emmanuel Goldstein. As Winston reads aloud the wordy writing of the book to Julia, his lover, even he takes note that all that was being said is not news: “He understood how; he did not understand why. Chapter 1, like Chapter 3, had not actually told him anything that he did not know” (217). The book takes up several pages within the novel, and most of it is a collection of knowledge that the reader has already absorbed. The reading of the book proves to be the slowest reading of 1984; it is, however, not the sole blame for the boredom that sometimes occurs. Sections when Winston is doing his work at the Ministry of Truth where he edits historical documents to fit the Party’s needs are long and dull. These along with the repetition of the same thoughts - thoughtcrime, punishment, history, doublethink - occurring within Winston’s mind create the feeling that you simply have to “get through” this part of the book. This does not mean the entire book will bore you to the point of giving up and throwing the masterpiece across the room. Winston’s affair with Julia and, ultimately, his capture are exciting yet predictable, surprising yet unsurprising: “It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes” (221). Not only do these parts make up for the dragging moments of the story, they also add to the social commentary of the story. Although occasionally boring and dry, the plot has its fast-paced, exhilarating moments and very strongly supports the themes exhibited by Orwell. In all due honesty, if you are not prepared to have a book twist the thoughts in your head, then 1984 may not be the best; nevertheless, I would strongly recommend it for most avid readers. The ideas, theories, matter, substance that Orwell puts into this book easily leave you with an abundance of brain activity and theories of your own: perhaps, we as a people are not free similar to the people of Oceania under Big Brother. Surely, dictatorships like this have happened before. Do not let the mouthfuls of text take away from the experience that 1984 offers. A blinding mask
In the shade Is where I hide Can’t be caught Can’t be alone They can’t see me. Can’t see them. With my blinding mask. No one for me. No one for them. The stench of filth, And cruelty Is here to stay. Will I ever leave? Even if possible, I couldn’t. Because I can’t see anything With my forlorn face, And with my blinding mask. Can I make a difference? I most likely cannot. Will he ever come back? He most likely cannot. Will my country ever let go? To all the bombs, And all the warfare, And all the terror, And all the gunfights? It will most certainly not. But can I make a difference? I most certainly can. It’ll be a challenge. And will take some guts. With my blinding mask. The people we are. The people we stand. We will never let go to others. And even ourselves. We’ll do it together. Against all the warfare. And all the terror. And all the gunfights. And I’ll help fight against it all. Even if I have to stand and fight. With my blinding mask. They weren’t just plain nightmares anymore; they were something bigger, more in depth, almost real. She could hear the creaking of the floors in the hallway, almost like he was standing outside her door, waiting for just the perfect moment to strike. His voice seemed to flow constantly in her ears, but he had no mouth. His cold stare would look right through her tiny soul, but he had no eyes. He was always there, always. Especially when night drew near, he’d be more powerful. It must make him happy to know that I have been suffering from the wrath of his little mind games. This goes on throughout each night until my savior, the morning light, comes to recue me from the tossing and turning.
Her mother tells her it’s all in her head. That nothing will come to hurt her, and that she is safe here at home. I am not quite so sure of that yet. Actually, she knows it’s not true. She will never feel secure again, not as long as he’s there. No one can save her now. But no one will believe her either. She is completely, utterly helpless. The time comes around once again. Tonight, he’s closer than before. He stands there outside my bedroom door. That’s his favorite place to lurk, in the darkness he hides from me. If he knows he can just get me now, why must he wait. To torture me so that I’ll just flat out die from the suspense? No, he has better plans. Wait, just then there was a scratching at the door. Her eyes slowly shift from the ceiling to the door as she tries not to make any other movements with her body. The scratching got louder and deeper, turning into a banging. Then it stopped, all at once. She was relieved, but only for a second. The feeling of a person grabbing her arms and legs came over her and a cold stale feeling made her flinch. Then she heard it. “I’m coming, you’re done, give up.” The words were so clear and fluent, she new she couldn’t have been dreaming. But the better question would be: Was it true? The feeling left her and she was alone. But the cold still clang to her bones, shifting it’s way I her body making her terribly unnerved. She couldn’t find herself to go back to sleep, so she just waited out the night. It seemed that the morning came late that day, and it took a toll on her. When her mother asked why she looked the way she did, she just replied: “Because.” Her mother took the response anyway, said see you later, and went out the front door for work. As her mother shut the door behind her as if by magic, he appeared again. She didn’t want to have to worry anymore, she simply uttered these words: “I give up.” Later that afternoon when her mother came home, she entered the door abruptly and called to her daughter. No one answered. She called again, this time in a much louder voice. Still no answer. She looked all around the house for her daughter but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone. Living forever, who could have resisted? Certainly not I, but I have come to believe that is apparent now. But, it is a small price to pay having to drink blood to stay young forever, and have the strength off an inhuman monster. But I am no monster. Ever since I can call to mind I have always longed to be… well… what I have become. To live forever. What a promising destiny.
Weeks have passed since my transformation, and never again shall I allow that pure red liquid to touch my lips, to travel down my throat and fuel the horrific beast that has become of me. I wish to rid my body of this, this ailment, this plague that riddles my life. To become one with the ashes of the past, but such a destiny is beyond me. One cannot take the life of his own the council has said, or may they be cast into the depths of the underworld. The dwelling of those of which I share a nature. The dwelling of the wicked. The corrupt. The sinister. I am dead, though my body is still mobile. My soul has departed. I am no longer clinging to life. It is beyond my grasp. This wretched choice I have made will haunt me forever. a child,
stares at the insane sky. walking toward the street, it rains the storm clouds shaped, as snakes and spiders the sky cries, it’s tears of crystal for the morbid world the child cries for the skies sorrow, the sky turns into a beautiful sunset on a very wild day. Protector,
at least supposedly. Done for own gain, to save face. Father’s careless eyes, pretend to guard, but only for own gain. Seems pure, but corrupt in every way. Protector, should be there for the people he “protects,” but instead works for own gain When loneliness and sadness strike, Protectors Should, Protect. yellow, which
tinged the bodies lying limp, in the street, I searched the cobbled stone road, littered with lifeless bodies, and yellow, unmoving eyes, until my gaze fell upon a single figure. It was contorted into an unnatural position, engulfed in a pale yellow. I staggered dizzily toward the stiff body. Too young. Too young. The words echoed around my head as I picked up the limp body of what was once my brother. He will always be too young. mass graves, piled up to the heavens, creating a mountain of death, of decay, of sorrow, I am vaguely aware of being lifted by a black hood, and I'm sure I am peering into the face of death itself. My body is rocked violently up and down as all of my weight is rested on a single, squeaking wheel. Suddenly, the jerking stops, and I feel a sensation of falling, but am quickly cushioned by a soft mound of…What are these?! I muster enough energy to lift my head and take in the pile of decrepit bodies I have come to rest on. Without warning, I feel an implausible amount of weight press down on my person, causing me to suffocate between the stench and ragged clothing. My eyes begin to close, and the last thing I see is blood trickling from my wrist. Darkness has taken me hostage, as I become one with my surroundings. a shadow had been cast, over the lives of the lost, of the spared, Why couldn’t it have been me? Why couldn’t it have been me? These thoughts fill my skull as I stare at what once was the living body of the women I loved. Why have I been spared? I wish I could join her. Depart this plague-ridden world forever. But the guilt would overwhelm me. They need someone to care for them. They need a father. They need me. shrieks of longing, blended with the foul miasma of death drifted, toward the sky, becoming lost, before the hand, of God. Leaves twirl before my eyes,
as they turn miscellaneous colors in the wind. Carols calling from the glass window fill my ears with delight. Flickering candles dancing on a cake, bring exhilaration to the butterflies in my stomach. Laughing, cheering, and clapping, fond memories I withhold. Crying, hugging, smiling, and comfort, infuse my memories with segments of confusing days In the end all is well. These fond remembrances penetrate my thoughts, leaving myself pristine and pure in my bed of memories. Victimizing,
Slaughtering, remorse………None Anyone could be a sacrifice But……. Matty is unique he wanders the bone-chilling area, with dignity. WHY? Even Matty, doesn’t understand. |
All work on this page was created by Middle School & High School students. We hope you enjoy reading their amazing poetry, essays, and stories.
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