The

Undeniable

Ruth

®

…and the Ruth shall set you free!

  • Hat Tip to Ms. Donovan

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    Ruth Carter

    With few exceptions, reading fiction does nothing for me. Since I know it’s not real, I don’t have motivation to remember it. I sucked at writing stories in school and I didn’t care about the books I read in English class. I read, but I can’t tell you what happened, in Beowulf, Pride and Prejudice, and don’t even ask me about anything Shakespeare wrote unless I’ve seen the movie. (On my bookshelf, I have a copy of Hamlet in Klingon – Shakespearian English on the left and Klingon on the right. I like to say I have a book in two languages, neither of which I can understand.) Looking back, I have no idea why we were ever tested on the “facts” of any story. It would have been much more interesting to use excerpts from books to learn about their historical or cultural significance, or merely tools to learn about literary concepts.

    Sometimes going analogue is the only way to go by Tobias Vemmenby from Flickr (Creative Commons License)
    Sometimes going analogue is the only way to go by Tobias Vemmenby from Flickr (Creative Commons License)

    It never crossed my mind that I would ever be a writer – until I was required to take expository writing during my senior year of high school. That was the class that taught me the art of ranting on paper and being a truth-teller (well as least as we knew it as a bunch of 17 year-old kids).

    Ms. Donovan taught us that not all writing needed to be academically correct or high-brow impactful. She exposed us to different styles of writing that demonstrated that being raw, direct, and creative was powerful because the writer didn’t get tangled in the minutiae of how he/she wrote and focus on the what message they wanted to convey.

    This was the first class I ever took that provided a truly creative platform for my thoughts, where rawness and thoughtful feedback was encouraged. I still remember some of the essays we read, things I wrote, and I’m pretty sure I have some of the notes from my classmates in my memory box.

    Taking expository writing challenged me to give a voice to my perspective and values – an undertaking I face every time I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. This was the course that taught me not to worry about being right; just be real. Being a writer is one of the most usable and transferable skills in my arsenal. For the rest of my life, not matter what I do, I hope I can honestly say, “I’m a writer.”

    I am thankful that St. Vincent High School made me take this class and I am especially grateful that Ms. Donovan was there to lovingly nurture me (and I hope my classmates) to not only create quality works in her class, but become writers for life.

    Ms. Donovan still teaches at St. Vincent High School in Petaluma, CA. I hope her students know how lucky they are to have her.

  • Hair on Fire | Birthday Memories

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    Ruth Carter

    Last year for my birthday, I asked my friends to send me stories related to our friendship. I spent my birthday taking a trip down memory lane, reading through all of them. This year, I asked some of my friends if I could share their memories with you.

    12 Molar Hydrochloric Acid by maticulous from Flickr (Creative Commons License)
    12 Molar Hydrochloric Acid by maticulous from Flickr (Creative Commons License)

    This final memory comes from Tavys Ashcroft, one of my classmates from St. Vincent High School. I remember this day from Mr. D’s Honors Chemistry class our junior year. (NEAT STUFF!) It was an experiment that required an acid that was so strong that thick white fumes rose from the bottle when you opened it. Mr. D. selected me to be the one who administered the acid, advising me to hold my breath.

    Here’s how Tavys remembers that day:

    I think it was 10, maybe 12 molar hydrochloric acid (mid-to-high thirties percent concentration). The kind of acid that could ruin your whole day. There was a story about highly diluted test-tube splatter dissolving pants.  

    Only one was to be chosen to dispense this liquid danger. Who among them had the implicit trust of the man at the front of the room?

    This was a serious production. Lab coats. Check. Goggles. Check. (Put down your strikers!) Notify all nonessential personnel to vacate the area. Do not reenter the laboratory until the “all clear” is sounded. 

    Out came the bottle, a surprisingly large plastic jug. Aitch Cee Ell. The cap only just removed and already a fine mist began to appear. And the clock was ticking.

    Bench to bench, beaker to beaker, she carefully administered each allotment.  

    Slowly enveloped in a faint fog, the room faded away. Out in the hallway, the wafting swimming pool aroma gave way to burning eyes and tightening throats.

    She emerged, lab assistant triumphant. The incongruous wisps from her brow a steaming halo of pride and sublimation.

    Was it sugar hydrolysis? Did carbon snakes leap from glassware? I don’t quite recall the purpose of the lab (me neither), but I clearly remember the poison cloud and the smoking hair.

    During the experiment, Mr. D. asked if I could smell the chlorine. When I said, “Yes,” he said, “You’re burning your lungs.” I probably damaged all the cilia along my respiratory tract that day. Ah, the sacrifices we make for science.

  • Memories of Malcolm

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    Ruth Carter

    Mr. Malcolm and his bowling ball “Edna”

    I received the sad news last week that one of my high school science teachers, David Malcolm, died unexpectedly. He was only 68. I’m glad I was able to attend his retirement party a few years ago, especially since I couldn’t attend his memorial service.

    I had Mr. Malcolm for Freshman Science and A.P. Physics at St. Vincent High School. He loved his students and he loved teaching. He didn’t just teach science; he also tried to instill life lessons whenever he could. This would occasionally lead to the “Malcolm rant” where it’s best to put your head down and wait for the storm to pass. I seem to remember him often saying “Life’s not fair.” His tests for Freshman Science were challenging, and he made sure we knew that he didn’t give us our grades but we earned them and all the whining from parents wouldn’t change that.

    I always called Mr. Malcolm “Malcolm” because that’s how he referred to himself. My locker was right next to Malcolm’s classroom during my senior year. I was usually at my locker as he was heading into his room every morning and I would greet him with an exuberant, “Morning Malcolm!” and he would grumble back, “Morning Miss Carter.” He wasn’t mean; he just wasn’t a morning person. But he was always willing to help me if I had a physics question before school. He cared that we learned the material so he would work with us to figure out an answer instead of just doing the work for us.

    I have one unique memory of Malcolm. After the A.P. Chemistry test, we basically got to play around and do cool science stuff for the last three weeks of the year. Malcolm had a Freshman Science class across the hall during the same period as A.P. Chemistry. I remember one morning his classroom door and the chemistry room door were open. I sat on the floor and scooted across the hall until I was sitting in his doorway and watched him teach, at least until he caught me and sent me back. He understood and respected teenage playfulness.

    Thanks for the memories Malcolm! I’m sorry we had so little time with you. In your words, “God bless.” Your family is in my thoughts.

     

    Photo courtesy of St. Vincent High School