Thursday, June 16, 2016
Academic Writing
As I try to unjumble the convoluted mess of a thesis chapter that I have created, I have come to an idea of what it really takes to write academically: we borrow key phrases from our predecessors in order to substantially back up our own claims. What if, though, our claims, as profound as they are, have not yet been previously spoken of? What if we have elucidating ideas about certain things, yet no pre-written documentation of said things to back ourselves up? Do we not, then, acquire the same level of merit? Do we only surmount to what our predecessors have left for us? Cannot we be something greater? Who were the predecessors of our predecessors? And if there were none, what then is legitimacy?
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Welcome
I have decided to create this blog to share my innermost thoughts throughout my journey towards academia.
Let me tell you a little about myself. My name is Nicole Haddad. I was born in 1991 in the (not so lovely then, not so lovely now) town of Sunshine, in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, yielding the pair of scissors that the nurse could not take from me in order to cut my umbilical cord; I suppose, then, that metaphorically speaks on my behalf, in that I was born ready to slice through educative prejudice.
Throughout primary school, my mother was given the option to allow me to skip classes. She refused on every offer, on the account that I may feel weird and not fit in. I thus did not skip classes, but I still felt weird and did not fit in. I read comic books and brought along two electronic devices: my Gameboy and my Tamagotchi. And life was fun, and adventurous. A memorable moment was when my little friendship group consisting entirely of boys wandered to the back of the school oval, in the 'forbidden area', behind our school church, and we saw a dead raven, belly up, its wings stretched out on its sides. We looked up and saw the stained glass picture of Jesus on the cross. Then one of the boy claimed that he felt a grip on his shoulder. We thought it was Satan and screamed and never went out of bounds in the school oval again.
High school was difficult. I was away from the friends I knew, I could not quite get along with the girls I met, and I felt so restrained in that I was to only wear a skirt or a dress. I had no access to my gender fluidity back then, because it was not part of the dominant narrative. I complied, and when I rebelled I wore my sports uniform so that I could bring out the androgyny that I always felt I had. Apart from that, I sat by myself. My favorite location was the back of the classroom, and my favorite things to do were draw, write, and read. And those I did. I seldom spoke to anyone, and I seldom explored myself. I only was able to express myself through the occasional novel idea, and through art. I grew fond of the idea of tattooing, and took a liking to it. It was my way of belonging, of bonding. Shortly after it was known that I had an interest in tattooing, my peers would approach me and ask for me to sketch a design on their hands. It was the only time where I specifically bonded with another human that was not my family member. And I enjoyed that.
But my family members intervened, and thought it best I would not pursue that career path. Reasons being several words of prejudice which I will not allow to resurface. Hence, I stuck to what I knew best: art, in its most traditional form, and English. I did not, however, know how to professionally incorporate them into my lifestyle, nor into my future. I did not even realise that they could be incorporated into my future, per se.
My parents suggested I teach English. I, 18 years old then, did not see myself as able to. I tried, though. Having scored unpleasantly in year 12 due to depression, I could not see myself attending a university, let alone pursuing a university degree. So I applied for the Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing at Victoria University, deeming it as fit to cover my literary needs. Halfway through, I felt unimpressed. I felt out of touch. I was naive. I had not been in a relationship, I had no connection to human beings, I had not felt intimacy - how was I expected to write poetry? To express myself? To understand expression? I was scared. It was a ground I had not yet discovered. So I abandoned it halfway.
I jumped into the Diploma of Information Technology at Victoria University also. I thought it was great at first. I was the only girl in a class full of guys and I loved how they assisted me. Some male teachers, however, did not. One in particular was excessively sexist, and I failed his class. His class was the only class I needed to pass to acquire my diploma, to acquire some sort of paper evidence that I was worthy. That I was something. And he could not grant me that. Ashamed, I left that too. I was disheartened because I excelled in Project Management and in Website Development, both classes that have, to this day, aided in my digital literacy.
The rest of that year was terrible. I was so lost. I was seeking jobs, seeking anything to grasp onto, anything to make me feel as though I were a part of the human race. And then my parents brought up teaching again. Armed with the same attitude that I was with the previous two diplomas, I decided to undertake Victoria University's Diploma of Education Studies.
And I wasted an entire semester. I felt as thought I was in the right course, but I did not feel right with any of the tutors that I came across. Semester two brought significant changes, however. One particular tutor came in to replace a terrible one, and absolutely blew my mind. She carried herself majestically, glided across the room and spoke with a voice as fresh as a meadow beaming with fragrant flowers. She taught me a revolutionary way of approaching literature, approaching a thing that I had not, prior to that moment, known: academia. She taught me to 'nomalise', to observe large bodies of words and summarise it into a few words. And I excelled at reading in a way that I never did before, and I began to write with a new voice. I was able to articulate meanings in my head, complex ideas that I would have otherwise brushed aside. I was able to write with confidence, with a new feel. I strengthened the connectors present in my mind and I took a liking to it.
I stuck to education, though. A promise to count this year as the first year of the Bachelor of Education (P-12), I thought, why not? But I found myself distracted in classes that weren't based on literature. I found myself researching random ideas at times when I should have been writing mathematical equations. I found myself reconnecting with my younger self, and connecting those moments to educational theory. I found that I was drowning in literature: but not exactly drowning, rather, swimming. I was yet to find the shore.
Three years and one semester into Education, I was lost. I was caught in a difficult situation at a placement setting and felt as though those who were meant to assist me turned on me. That was such a degrading feeling, having most educators glare down at me as though I was just a petty naive student. I wanted to scream. I wanted to prove them wrong. But I had no voice. I did not know how. This was wrong. This was not what I signed myself up for. But my parents begged otherwise. Think of the money! they cried. But I thought of myself and cried instead. It was not for me. It did not grant me the voice I expected it to. I was drowning in ideals of what a teacher is. The kids loved me, and I loved them, and I engaged with them so well. But I could not accept the fact that the older staff members doubted me. They had gotten the wrong idea of me and they had utterly disrespected me. And I felt that I needed to point that out by tweaking my course in education a little, into more of a direction that was beginning to suit me.
In my Literature and Art electives, I bonded with people who were not studying my Education degree. I bonded with them rather well and felt as though I belonged. So after three years and a semester, I transferred out of education and into the Arts. Nobody praised that move, not my parents nor my education peers. I did not care. I was mocked because of the old Arts cliche that surrounded the fact that I will not be able to find a job. I did not care. I laughed back at them, telling them in my mind to wait. Wait and see what I can do. And now, I am doing. Despite a coordinator scoffing at my goals to become an 'academic', I am halfway through my Bachelor of Art Honours year, and am developing my thesis, which is somewhat covering new grounds.And I am happy.
I am content. I am writing with sophistication, with a new voice which expresses my ideas in the fields that I research. And I am rather enjoying it. My goals are being met. I am writing more, I am entering competitions and getting my name out there. I am challenging myself with research and writing and I am meeting those challenges and I await more. At the end of this year, in fact, I will be presenting a paper in my very first conference, a paper that is said to also be covering 'new grounds'. I am excited, and a little nervous. But it is okay to be nervous about something you really want, is it not?
But again, I am trying to prove myself to the literary world. I am trying to prove, somehow, that I deserve a place in it. I will keep on proving until people believe me. Up until now, I am only an aspiring academic. One day soon, I will remove the first word and stick to the latter.
Join me on my journey towards academia. Tell me about your struggles, your advances, everything. I want to hear from all bodies of academia, whether you are just starting out or whether you have been in it for years. This is a space where you can read and tell.
This space is also safe for and pre-service teachers to share their experiences. I know that I had nowhere and nobody to express to. Feel free to express yourself.
I am here for you in the same way that I hope you will be here for me.
Let us bond.
Enjoy.
Nicole.
Let me tell you a little about myself. My name is Nicole Haddad. I was born in 1991 in the (not so lovely then, not so lovely now) town of Sunshine, in Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, yielding the pair of scissors that the nurse could not take from me in order to cut my umbilical cord; I suppose, then, that metaphorically speaks on my behalf, in that I was born ready to slice through educative prejudice.
Throughout primary school, my mother was given the option to allow me to skip classes. She refused on every offer, on the account that I may feel weird and not fit in. I thus did not skip classes, but I still felt weird and did not fit in. I read comic books and brought along two electronic devices: my Gameboy and my Tamagotchi. And life was fun, and adventurous. A memorable moment was when my little friendship group consisting entirely of boys wandered to the back of the school oval, in the 'forbidden area', behind our school church, and we saw a dead raven, belly up, its wings stretched out on its sides. We looked up and saw the stained glass picture of Jesus on the cross. Then one of the boy claimed that he felt a grip on his shoulder. We thought it was Satan and screamed and never went out of bounds in the school oval again.
High school was difficult. I was away from the friends I knew, I could not quite get along with the girls I met, and I felt so restrained in that I was to only wear a skirt or a dress. I had no access to my gender fluidity back then, because it was not part of the dominant narrative. I complied, and when I rebelled I wore my sports uniform so that I could bring out the androgyny that I always felt I had. Apart from that, I sat by myself. My favorite location was the back of the classroom, and my favorite things to do were draw, write, and read. And those I did. I seldom spoke to anyone, and I seldom explored myself. I only was able to express myself through the occasional novel idea, and through art. I grew fond of the idea of tattooing, and took a liking to it. It was my way of belonging, of bonding. Shortly after it was known that I had an interest in tattooing, my peers would approach me and ask for me to sketch a design on their hands. It was the only time where I specifically bonded with another human that was not my family member. And I enjoyed that.
But my family members intervened, and thought it best I would not pursue that career path. Reasons being several words of prejudice which I will not allow to resurface. Hence, I stuck to what I knew best: art, in its most traditional form, and English. I did not, however, know how to professionally incorporate them into my lifestyle, nor into my future. I did not even realise that they could be incorporated into my future, per se.
My parents suggested I teach English. I, 18 years old then, did not see myself as able to. I tried, though. Having scored unpleasantly in year 12 due to depression, I could not see myself attending a university, let alone pursuing a university degree. So I applied for the Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing at Victoria University, deeming it as fit to cover my literary needs. Halfway through, I felt unimpressed. I felt out of touch. I was naive. I had not been in a relationship, I had no connection to human beings, I had not felt intimacy - how was I expected to write poetry? To express myself? To understand expression? I was scared. It was a ground I had not yet discovered. So I abandoned it halfway.
I jumped into the Diploma of Information Technology at Victoria University also. I thought it was great at first. I was the only girl in a class full of guys and I loved how they assisted me. Some male teachers, however, did not. One in particular was excessively sexist, and I failed his class. His class was the only class I needed to pass to acquire my diploma, to acquire some sort of paper evidence that I was worthy. That I was something. And he could not grant me that. Ashamed, I left that too. I was disheartened because I excelled in Project Management and in Website Development, both classes that have, to this day, aided in my digital literacy.
The rest of that year was terrible. I was so lost. I was seeking jobs, seeking anything to grasp onto, anything to make me feel as though I were a part of the human race. And then my parents brought up teaching again. Armed with the same attitude that I was with the previous two diplomas, I decided to undertake Victoria University's Diploma of Education Studies.
And I wasted an entire semester. I felt as thought I was in the right course, but I did not feel right with any of the tutors that I came across. Semester two brought significant changes, however. One particular tutor came in to replace a terrible one, and absolutely blew my mind. She carried herself majestically, glided across the room and spoke with a voice as fresh as a meadow beaming with fragrant flowers. She taught me a revolutionary way of approaching literature, approaching a thing that I had not, prior to that moment, known: academia. She taught me to 'nomalise', to observe large bodies of words and summarise it into a few words. And I excelled at reading in a way that I never did before, and I began to write with a new voice. I was able to articulate meanings in my head, complex ideas that I would have otherwise brushed aside. I was able to write with confidence, with a new feel. I strengthened the connectors present in my mind and I took a liking to it.
I stuck to education, though. A promise to count this year as the first year of the Bachelor of Education (P-12), I thought, why not? But I found myself distracted in classes that weren't based on literature. I found myself researching random ideas at times when I should have been writing mathematical equations. I found myself reconnecting with my younger self, and connecting those moments to educational theory. I found that I was drowning in literature: but not exactly drowning, rather, swimming. I was yet to find the shore.
Three years and one semester into Education, I was lost. I was caught in a difficult situation at a placement setting and felt as though those who were meant to assist me turned on me. That was such a degrading feeling, having most educators glare down at me as though I was just a petty naive student. I wanted to scream. I wanted to prove them wrong. But I had no voice. I did not know how. This was wrong. This was not what I signed myself up for. But my parents begged otherwise. Think of the money! they cried. But I thought of myself and cried instead. It was not for me. It did not grant me the voice I expected it to. I was drowning in ideals of what a teacher is. The kids loved me, and I loved them, and I engaged with them so well. But I could not accept the fact that the older staff members doubted me. They had gotten the wrong idea of me and they had utterly disrespected me. And I felt that I needed to point that out by tweaking my course in education a little, into more of a direction that was beginning to suit me.
In my Literature and Art electives, I bonded with people who were not studying my Education degree. I bonded with them rather well and felt as though I belonged. So after three years and a semester, I transferred out of education and into the Arts. Nobody praised that move, not my parents nor my education peers. I did not care. I was mocked because of the old Arts cliche that surrounded the fact that I will not be able to find a job. I did not care. I laughed back at them, telling them in my mind to wait. Wait and see what I can do. And now, I am doing. Despite a coordinator scoffing at my goals to become an 'academic', I am halfway through my Bachelor of Art Honours year, and am developing my thesis, which is somewhat covering new grounds.And I am happy.
I am content. I am writing with sophistication, with a new voice which expresses my ideas in the fields that I research. And I am rather enjoying it. My goals are being met. I am writing more, I am entering competitions and getting my name out there. I am challenging myself with research and writing and I am meeting those challenges and I await more. At the end of this year, in fact, I will be presenting a paper in my very first conference, a paper that is said to also be covering 'new grounds'. I am excited, and a little nervous. But it is okay to be nervous about something you really want, is it not?
But again, I am trying to prove myself to the literary world. I am trying to prove, somehow, that I deserve a place in it. I will keep on proving until people believe me. Up until now, I am only an aspiring academic. One day soon, I will remove the first word and stick to the latter.
Join me on my journey towards academia. Tell me about your struggles, your advances, everything. I want to hear from all bodies of academia, whether you are just starting out or whether you have been in it for years. This is a space where you can read and tell.
This space is also safe for and pre-service teachers to share their experiences. I know that I had nowhere and nobody to express to. Feel free to express yourself.
I am here for you in the same way that I hope you will be here for me.
Let us bond.
Enjoy.
Nicole.
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