NSA

N.S.A. Gathers Data on Social Connections of U.S. Citizens  by James Risen 

http://www.usnews.com/cartoons/editorial-cartoons-on-the-nsa


NSA scandal or near-perfection?  by Jenifer Rubin

According to Jenifer the NSA scandal is not as big of a deal as most people think it is. Although 
I do not fully trust her statement, she does have some numerical figures that may or may not be accurate. The chance of the NSA committing an "error" is  .00001156666 which is almost nonexistent.  Of course, that is assuming that statement  the NSA released about making 20 million inquiries each month is true. Out of the 2,776 errors (incidents) 1,904 of them involved foreigners whose cellphones were being wiretapped. But does that make it fair? The NSA scandal isn't only about Americans, although it is the primary focus, but it's about assumptions made and distrust created. Even if the error rate is extremely low, the errors made cause immediate negative impact. It's not only about this error it's also about spying and even though they claim they don't "eavesdrop", who can really believe them. It seems like no one can trust anyone anymore; skeptics are everywhere. 

Cheat

The author of “The Shadow Scholar: How I Made a Living Helping College Kids Cheat,” Dave Tomar, demonstrates how cheating can follow a student to a professional, and how these cheaters are leading the academic world because of the pressures of exam-based learning. In his article, "How I Helped Teachers Cheat" he explains how form 2001-2010 he helped teachers cheat because they were under the pressure of helping their students pass the proficiency exam, or they were students who needed to pass rather than learn. He was a ghostwriter. He knew what he was doing, yet continued being a ghostwriter for almost a decade. Although he blames the system rather than the people, he shows that the current system of exam-based learning is not increasing success but it is increasing the cheating rates. He also shows how cheating as a student continues through life and although that person becomes successful and decides to become an teacher , do you really want that person as a teacher?

Complain

I'm not a complainer... Okay, that's a lie. I complain ALL the time but that's less spoken of than thought of. Why is that? A lot of people have quieted down.. settled down, but there are still so many things that we can "fix". I agree with Buckley in his essay, " Why Don't We Complain?" that part of the reason we don't complain is we want someone else to do it for us, who is in the same situation. I, for one, hate being the one who points out "hey, I need this!" I feel ... needy. I hate being the one who stands out I suppose... For my personal reasons, I don't mind suffering a bit, rather than resolving small issues that won't severely affect me. I mean, there have been some moments where I regret not speaking up but, that was entirely my fault. I suppose we do NEED to voice out our opinions for the greater good or for ourselves but we always wait... What idiot does this? Me.  And who else speaks when they shouldn't? Me.

I'm a feisty child. Always have been. I've never learned to control my temper too well, just at home though, I've got an excellent "mask"  at school. Anyways, you're basic story of a daughter-father argument. 

 Yep... something like this, I speak up and it is DEFINITLEY not a good idea. I acted this way because I tried to start a conversation and ended in argument. Daily typical thing. Except after the last scene of this strip, my dad didn't fly off , we argued more. 

Depends... do you trust me?

Trust is a hard topic to describe. There are different levels of trust but circumstance exists between those levels that change someone's level of trust, such as not giving money to the homeless to lending money to your family members. I honestly don't know where this idea developed, what began the symptoms of differentiating of what to trust and what not to trust. I do not know if it is some psychological instinct of some sort. For example, if our minds are still implemented in thinking that we cannot trust others such as in before we were just here for our own survival thus had to keep everything for ourselves to spawn and such.  But now today, you would  hope people change, you would hope that there is enough faith in humanity to trust others, that civilization is modern enough to know "Hey! Why  not give someone a chance?" But no, there are still many issues; we are still "behind" there are so many incidents that just create a higher likelihood for mistrust. But the problem is not only in those incidents we must also think about why those incidents happen. Why do people steal, kill, destroy and leave? Is it really always logical? Is it rational? Or moral? Maybe not. Thus people like to play safe. They like avoiding the possibility of being part of those incidents. Thus the trust crumbles.But there are still those who believe/trust in everything. Those we consider gullible;,or how many think of them, those who "fall into the trap."  It's not unusual seeing these extremes: those who are skeptics and those who are gullible; but, who is to say that a middle cannot exist. Where is that level where no one needs to lost and no one needs to win. I guess it just doesn't always exist.
And.. here's a cute comic ☻

Exposure

Back in 2009, Obama made a promise to the American people, referring to what would soon be known as the Obamacare, making health insurance affordable to all. Obama stated,  "Here’s a guarantee that I've made.  If you have insurance that you like, then you will be able to keep that insurance. If you've got a doctor that you like, you will be able to keep your doctor." According to the article, "Clarence Page: Obama Told "One Of Those Political Lies" About Health Insurance," Clarence Page defends Obamacare and yet justifies that Barack Obama did lie although he states that it was "one of those political lies."  Although a supporter of Obamacare,  his positive opinion on Obama's broken commitment to the people of America seems to persist. And although, the reporter (Hugh Hewitt)  tries to insist that what Obama has done is something that the American public may disapprove  Page continues avoiding the subject because these lies through politics are "regular" "common" and people should be "used" to them. It's amusing.. well not really, its  bit annoying how lies easily slip in the politcal world and many other places.  I get it, you want to get better results for a better good, but once oyu make a commitment and it has been recorded you're done, you cannot change it or else you deceive he peopel and yourself on your promise. And someone accepts that this is...reasonable. I dislike the liar but I am frustrated and provoked at those who accept these broken promises. Although in the end Page clears up the details with the reporter by stating "Well, a lot of things bother me more than that, but not because of overselling his program. Every president oversells their programs. But just the fact that the whole process of putting Obamacare together disturbed me that he gave up too much early on, in my view." Though I know there would be others who would not follow such beliefs. 

Girls like English Boys like Math

AP, Advanced Placement classes, meant for the scholarly student that are assumed to gain broad knowledge about a subject. The Princeton Review, the company who writes the books for these AP students, are known for their success and deemed as "flawless." With The Princeton Review's version on AP tests anyone can get a higher score, right? Based on these covers, the AP English Literature and Composition, U.S. History, Calculus AB & BC and Physics C exams are focused for a certain audience. It has usually been presumed that males were good at Mathematics and Science while the females were good at English and History. This image depicts, even now in 2013, that the belief still surges through. What strikes me that even those with and "ivy league" title were careless/ignorant enough to portray their covers as such. Another thing to notice is the people's position. The women seem reserved, shy if you may, merely concealing their pride and the men in the other hand seem to be more open and prideful.. All are smiling at least. It is just quite intriguing how even if through our conscious or unconscious decisions we tend to classify roles to certain sexes. It's amazing how sexism runs society.

Infierno

I am in the darkness. It's not cold.They  had learned the cold was not a torturous temperature for we eventually become numb. Its not hot. They learned that the heat scorched our senses in the same way the cold numbed them.We're melting. Then they freeze us. Then they melt us again. We can never adjust to the environment and this is just part of the physical torture.

We were tricked. We were deceived. We thought we were led to heaven. We did not know that Satan was a beautiful creature. He allured us into the depths of hell. He was the fallen angel, Lucifer. Whenever we got the chance we made fun of him and called him Lucy but when we were caught we were stuck in the realm of hallucination. We were back into the living world and we were betrayed in the worst way possible. I guess he was stating that even Jesus, the one who was betrayed, was us and that we did not have the ability to escape after three days and resurrect. We were stuck in that realm for three eternities instead. I was there with my family. I loved them they did not love me. They sent me away and instead I was tortured. I was twisted until my bones flew out. I was given false hope that they would save me and love me again.

In hell you get used to the torture. It still hurts everyday but you forget what you once considered yourself, a human soul. That is when you enter the next level as a demon. They are all psychopaths. You don't want to become one of them, they are the devil's minions. They lose all sense of rationality and feeling. They only live by Satan's command and they cannot even sense a will anymore. My father has become a minion. I visit him daily, always hoping he will remember me. He does not. Instead he eats the devours the flesh of creatures. As he was morphing into a minion he was dying. It hurt him so much. It was painful. I hated hell. They say once you start talking in past tense that those are sign that you are becoming a minion. I guess it is not so far because all I have left of my soul are images of torture.

I am starting like it here.

Empathy

I have been often been called kind. I never thought myself of this; I thought I was just the average human being, but my ethics are different from others. I have often found myself unconsciously picking up an object someone has dropped and returning it to them and though I usually get a grunted thanks; I still feel good. Nowadays this is seen as empathetic/kind, but I wonder if I do it for others or myself. I don't know if my conscience wants me to give/ help others because I feel guilty or if I truly want to help the other person. I honestly don't know if I believe "our generation" has become less empathetic but if I had to state my side I would think we have. The pressure of rising and being the best has made us topple through some obstacles and made us colder, I suppose in order to not regret our decisions.

I feel as if empathy has become an artificial emotion. It's something you do because it's part of "human nature." We are born with it I suppose, but will we trigger the emotion? If people have begun to mistrust the empathy then that means that they themselves have experienced or gone through a certain situation to feel that the lack of empathy has affected them or others negatively. For example if we are given a list on when we should use sympathy, although it comes "naturally," that must indicate a growing lack of empathy. It's like a guide on how to be human.

But I feel that this only applies in certain places, especially in the USA where the "American dream" forces us to try our best and think in a capitalistic manner where we have to beat others in order to be ahead. like the comment in article of "What, Me care? Young Are Less Empathetic"  states: Population pressure reduces empathy. Now the question is where does that pressure come from, until where can we trace the pressure back to, how far back must we go until empathy was a factor of  a human trait rather than a trait that is recognized as a "rare" aspect that makes you a good human being. When did we become so disconnected?
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2877627/

Response to Kozol and Ascher

Both essays evoke a sense of sympathy/empathy, whatever one wishes to call the emotion. Using certain examples that the reader can relate to for he/she has seen on a daily basis or has simply heard about such circumstances can really make the reader sway his/her opinion on the matter. I appreciate that Kozol's essay uses more fact-based data to exemplify the illiteracy rate in the US and how it causes a lot of problems for people who struggle daily to live based on images rather than letters. I also like the more personalized examples on Ascher's essay which bases her viewpoint based on personal experience. Both essays make strong points. They both show  a sense of empathy although one, like the title says, focuses on what is compassion and Kozol's essay focuses more on sympathy. The "On Compassion" essay "asks" the reader to differentiate between the emotions of pity, care and compassion because it seems that often these feelings overlap or we simply do not take into consideration as to the reason why we do such actions as in "giving money." "The Human Cost of a Illiterate Society" immediately, at least for me, made me sink in to a sense of sadness, pity and disappointment. It was more like of a "wow, really?" type of moment, rather than the Ascher essay which felt more of a "oh, I do wonder if..." I do admit Ascher's essay was more thought provoking with all the rhetorical questions. Both essays do make me wonder deeper on a matter that I always consider on my sense of empathy. Especially with the homeless, what if they don't want to be pitied, as one of my teachers had taught me before, what if it's a statement that they are trying to make, or is that too broad of a generalizations.. I think so, but there are always exceptions. As I sit and type this, the Kozol essay made me wonder about who can read this, for I guess I assumed that everyone who lived in the same country as I do, knew how to read, I guess I'm  ignorant and foolish for thinking that. I feel as if both essays are about having biased opinions and how eventually we just presume we know stuff that we might not.

That one dream

We were living in a simple house. I was nine years old. In that one house my mother did all the cleaning and cooking while my father hanged out in the dark alleys without notifying us of  his whereabouts. My father ran away. He ran of with his new wife, whose nicknames "Grissy." Grissy was a very pretty lady. She had black hair, it reminded me of the sheen of a black stallion, her eyes were the brown of a caramel and the blush of her cheeks was faint but admirable. I had wished that Grissy was me and that I was Grissy, so my father could take me away. I did not want to live in that house where the peach tree sank in sorrow. The peach tree which never bared fruit.

The peach tree is where the story begin and lives end. It was surrounded by white chrysanthemums . They were beautiful, always in bloom and they would always point up straight towards my eyes looking down on them. The peach tree did not nourish much as the chrysanthemums did. The tree did not reflect the life the flowers evicted. It never bloomed its buds which turned into flowers which transformed into peaches that would eventually be picked by us or picked at by the crows. There never was a plop nor splatter of the fruit for the fruit was never there. The tree was dead; if it did not provide fruits for my mother and I to enjoy it was dead and so the tree took the dead with it.

A week later I saw my mom, she was floating off a branch of the tree. I tugged at her foot and she simply spun a little. Her foot was stiff. As a child, I knew she had died. I don't like peaches. They separated me from my mom and sent me off. Months later, after staying in that one house where all the lonely children stayed my aunt came to pick me up. She asked me to live with her and I went. Her house was very big, blue and had no peach trees; I was very happy. But soon my aunt was sent to the hospital and never came back until I saw her in the casket; my uncle angrily tossed me back in the simple house I lived in and I stayed there a few hours until my neighbor came. I was saved.

I eventually grew up in that house. I did not live there though, my life was in m,y neighbor's house, with his child, around my age, who was named Tom. Tom gave me life and while I spent my nights in torture, to try to heal myself from my backyards memento, I focused on the life in the daytime where I loved to hang out with Tom. Eventually, Tom's father told me I should continue my education and so I did. I did not only that but worked so I could eat my own food and pay my own bills. I fell in love with Tom and we got married. We moved to another city and as a memoir of my mother I planted a peach tree and surrounded it with chrysanthemums. I felt like good things had finally begun to happen. I had a child. I lost that child. Tom lost me. We lost each other. All that remained was the peach tree and myself. I then felt my mother's heart ache. I climbed up the tree and positioned the rope my mother had done so years ago. I then slid down and let myself drop. It was the end of my attempt on life. The peach tree stayed there. It eventually withered and the chrysanthemums died as well.  I suppose the peach tree was my companion from the beginning.

Celebrating December

As my brother opens the gates, Mocoñoño walks up and greets my brother while panting happily. My brother tauntingly shakes the black plastic bag filled with secrets only the children,including myself, could identify: fireworks. These are not the fireworks one who lives in the United States sees, they are not super flashy and don't fly so high up  they can be seen across your city, they are small and feisty. I even remember one time my cousin, at the time my best friend, burned her finger as one, we call "cebollitas"  exploded on her as she stubbornly held it to see the sparks fly in front of her. Since then , I've been scared of those little bombs.

Typically, every year, the Sotos convince whoever they can to go back to their homeland down to a small town called Zinapecuaro. For the Soto family, an activity  and is infamous for its fire, sparks, burns, smiles and laughter is when the older, but adventure-filled relatives, such as my brother, go down to "el mercado" to buy a bagful or two of fireworks and the magic that results of that purchase happen in the night. The smaller of the children carelessly handle the cebollitas while the big kids ruthlessly scare the smaller children, and sometimes the adults, with the louder, smokier, and more colorful of the fireworks. I have often been scared for one time the abejita flew right in between my clumsy feet and seemed like it would cause a fire, on my shoelace. Then again, I was always the scaredy-cat of the group the one who let her imagination run wild on ideas of getting hurt, considering every single possibility. Yet, I always was deeply entertained while watching others, eventually joining in myself. I remember thinking, as we would drive into the gate of my grandmother's home how excited I was for Christmas in order to light up the fireworks. It was a time of festivity, the only time I felt I was surrounded with magic.

Even now, I love joining on the fun that I felt ten years ago. Flashing fireworks, will always flood down memories of my family coming together, without religious differences, family grudges, skin color differences tagged along with accents and cultural barriers ; the flick of the match and the roll of the lighter to set the wick on fire have always been a sign of unity.

Response to the Articles

Both articles, "The Essayification of Everything" by Christy Wampole and "Blogs vs. Term Papers" by Matt Richtel, suggest a negative depiction upon the difference in cognitive process and "meditative deficiency" which is displayed through essays rather than blogs which more commonly contain posts about occurring events in someone's life. Wampole's essay, which to my surprise could be considered and essay, seems to have more of  a persuasive tone when compared to Richtel's article which does not connect with the reader as easily and lacks the detail Wampole adds to interest the reader more and convince the reader of her knowledge upon the subject of "essayification."

Christy Wampole adds intriguing facts such as historical ones and fancies others' creative terms while adding some of her own, essayificaiton and essayism, making her viewpoint more entertaining and proving her point on how essays cannot be categorized. Although similarly both Richtel and Wampole argue that nontextual essays lack critical thinking and depth when compared to the term paper or written assignment, Wampole does not add many solutions to the problem. She instead adds to why students prefer the format of a blog rather than the format of writing an essay. Generally, most welcome quick feedback and interaction between his or her reader, whether it be through a "like, follow, tag, etc." Of course, the majority of students should receive feedback on their essays, whether the feedback is positive or negative, but although there is a satisfaction observing how teachers have looked analyzed student's  papers and shown  that they have acknowledged it, one person is simply not enough for attention nowadays. It does add that it was someone most would admire but quantity seems to overwhelm quality when needing feedback. While the internet provides instantaneous responses from many places, although some are not very valid nor fair, the student/person immediately is tangled by the numbers rather than the quality of the commentary or views.Although not all blogs are essays they still have some traits such as visualizing an opinion and explaining that opinion though still are insufficient when the concept of critical thinking is considered.

Richtel on the other hand, supplies the reader with the less focus on the concept of the essay but instead focuses on the contrast between papers, term papers to be specific, and blogs. He clearly defines how the term paper is superior in any perspective and how blogs basically should not be considered par t of the academic criteria. Though his backup nformaiton is sometimes a little over a decade old, "A study in 2002 estimated that about 80 percent of high school students were not asked to write a history term paper of more than 15 pages" and contains some crude commentary from sources " Writing is being murdered... We don't pay taxes so kids can talk about themselves and their home lives." Although his biased opinion lack updated information and may be frank at times it does acknowledge both sides of the arguement, though there is an obvious lean towards the traditional term paper. He states how the "new literacy," blogs and such, are becoming more popular than the "old literacy," essays and research papers. Later on Richtel argues that althouhg blogging is not the best of forms it does adapt better than bad writing as Professor Davidson stated in his point.

Some facts about myself

Hello world, in order to keep this blog  more private I have decided to call myself Soto. Soto is my last name which sounds very Japanese like, and I have looked it up and it means outside in Japanese and grove in Spanish, but it' is not Japanese for racially I am categorized as a Mexican. Being part of a Mexican family, I have many cousins, so many in fact those that those my mom mentions do not interest me for I have never met them. My close family is large compared to the average white american family, I have four siblings and two parents. All of my siblings are older than me, and even though we are siblings we do not have much in common, one looks like a blonde, another like a typical Mexican, and the other two look white. Of course, based on my parents genetics I'd expect them to be pale for my parents are/were quite pale themselves. My mom is what in Mexico they call "blanquita" which is a light-skinned person, in other words white but the meaning is much softer than that in Spanish. My father was quite pale, but as he joined my grandfather out in the fields of celery and paved the concrete with the company he burnt and crisped, now it's quite a remarkable sight to see today for when one lifts up his arm sleeve is skin is white while on the outside he is a very scary and intimidating dark  man. Now I, myself look a lot like my mom. I have her green/hazel eyes which slant downwards making me look either tired or sad, her pale complexion (well not so much because I tanned), her ex-straightish hair, and her petite height. What runs through all my family is our shyness. Now, my father is very loud and can make anyone fear him but that is simply because of his high blood pressure and in my childhood I suffered and cried a lot, but I was just a cry baby. I was a crazy child. I broke my dad's new thousand stereo, painted on the wall with some human bodily brown stuff, called England, people had to call the firefighters twice to get me out of the house which I locked, almost threw my potty training toilet at my uncle and broke my front teeth because I tripped on my birthday shoes. Everyone knew me as "traviesa" which means troublemaker. I made my mother suffer quite a lot I was the most troublesome of the five, I cried all through out the night as an infant my mother did everything: she changed my diaper, gave me medicine in case my head hurt, gave me food, milk, made me burp, tried to rock me to sleep, took me on a walk and so many more but I was  a very demanding child and simply wanted a bath... What an odd child. I grew through elementary school as a very enthusiastic wild child who didn't mind being Mexican and played with whomever she wanted. Soon after entering middle school. That's just a weird stage for everyone so lets keep it that way;I switched into shy mode in middle school and have stayed there since. In eighth grade I met Sara, my Upward Bound English teacher she was crazy and has one of the most ridiculous laughs. She taught me about racial differences and criticism and to analyze the text more but also made me less trustworthy of human nature. Instead of being encouraged, which she was trying to do, to be proud of my heritage I became ashamed.  From there came high school where my most memorable experience was in tenth grade, where I went experienced la Ruta Quetzal. The summer after tenth grade I went to Colombia and Spain for free and met so many Latinos people who were friendly and were one of the only who have truly given me strength to be inspired. It was there where I learned so many things about commitment, friendship, cultural, and happiness. Now I am a senior striving to succeed.