Scott Pero
AP English Language—Mr. George
May 25, 2010
Outliers Prompt 1
I have always been an intellectually inclined student. As far back as I can remember, I was always the student who loved being a student. I think part of that was because of my inherent intelligence. I value humility, so it’s really weird boasting my intelligence; I do not like to do it often. Even so, I always earned decent grades, but that was because school naturally came easy to me. After reading Outliers, I am guessing my IQ contributed significantly to that fact. I have an IQ of 134, which, apparently, is enough to finish a graduate program. Also, though, now that I think about it, there were other factors that acted in an inverse manner to push me more toward academic success.
Whether genetically, or simply because I was too lazy as a child, I was always a big kid. I tried sports, but I just was not as good at them as other kids were, partly because I could not keep up with them. A perfect example is soccer. I played for six years as a kid, but I got bigger and just stopped playing. I love soccer and wish I could play it, but I physically do not think I’m capable. So, rather than apply myself to sports, I turned to academics and books. Because my physical self was not up to par, it made my intellectual self all the more prominent.
I have benefited from AP English because, I believe, it has helped me figure out my path in life. Up until this year, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I only took Honors English Classes because English was fun and in all honestly, I liked being in Honors rather than College Prep. It wasn’t until AP that I thought of turned my love of English into a career. It also helped me prepare for college, in a way. In theory, AP English was a college level course. If I could endure it, I could endure college. I think I have done well this year, and that makes me think I’m ready for college, thanks to AP.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Trojan Lion
Scott Pero
AP English Language—Mr. George
May 17, 2010
Me Talk Pretty One Day writing sample
The Trojan Lion
Resistance is…what? If you felt the uncontrollable urge to finish that sentence with the word “futile”, chances are, you are a nerd. And I don’t mean the good grades kind of nerd. I’m talking full out comic book loving, Star Trek watching, video game high-scoring geeks. You may think you know what nerdy is. My response to you is thus: …BAHAHAHAHA! After which I would promptly wipe the cascading tears of laughter from my eyes and hold my stomach like it was about to fall off. Unless you know my friends and me, you do not know what a true nerd is.
They are all nerdy in some type of area. And yes, nerdiness can come in different types, much like Mt. Dew with its 800 different flavors. My friends and I all differentiate in terms of our readings on the nerd-o-meter, but I must be the Grand High King Nerd of them all. My crown would be fashioned from old school game controllers and 20-sided die, my lustrous, flowing cape made from taped together comic books. Why am I the Chief Numero Uno with a pocket protector? Because I share in all of their nerdy tendencies. And I never realized what utters geeks my social group was until we tried introducing Troy into our band of friends.
From the get-go, I immediately likened the situation to a lion trying to coexist with a family of meerkats. The lion was bigger, more powerful, and looked out of place roaming the savannah with a herd of the sorriest animals on the Serengeti. I don’t know about you, but when I think of the name Troy, I picture someone with strong arms and a macho cleft in his chin, someone who would be right at home in a huge wooden horse in the war of the famous city for which he was so fittingly named. What we meerkats got was not so far off from our expectations. He was around 16 or 17, a junior, like us. Even so, however, Troy’s biceps and pectorals, straining beneath his T-shirts, would not look out of place beneath Grecian Battle Armor. Though he had no pronounced cleft that we could find, his hair was the type many romanticists would classify as “thick, wavy locks”. We Athenians were surprised. We expected a Trojan, not Achilles.
We first knew Troy was the complete opposite of us when we first hung out. Upon walking around town, we wondered why everyone was walking out of our way. Normally, we would be forced to blend through the oncoming crowd, and face the risk of inevitable dangers, like the White Collar Massacre of ’02, during which Harold had taken on a horde of businessmen, emerging with one black eye, two fractured ribs, and a terrible burning sensation no one could really ever explain to this day. Suffice to say, he was awarded a medal of honor for his bravery on that fateful day. Ever push past someone when you’re walking through a city street? Yeah, we’re those people. But when Troy joined the ranks, we were able to cross a crowded city square with no broken bones or bruises, not even a scratch. A young boy the age of 4 even came up to Troy asking if he was Superman. We were then dubbed the annoying reporters following Superman around to get his identity. The sad part was, we were the ones wearing the shirts that made us look like superheroes, and we had the thick-rimmed glasses that made Clark Kent an every day person. We were a collective invisible man. Troy was the pair of floating sunglasses that made us visible.
Troy was a transfer student, but when asked why he transferred, he responded with, “I just moved.” Our nerd hive mind would not accept that bland and cliché answer. There is nothing worse than a nerd’s imagination, and we soon devised plausible (to us) reasons why this boy now attended our school. “Maybe he’s an undercover agent sent to keep an eye on the first batch of government-created superteens!” Colleen suggested. “Perhaps he’s a mass serial killer that jumps from school to school, picking off anyone with a GPA of 4.0 or higher.” Spenser mused. “He might be sent from the Gods of Olympus to choose their next hero.” Daphne pondered. Huh. Now there was an idea. Troy certainly seemed Godly enough by our standards. I took it upon myself to quiz him on his Greek Mythology. Big Mistake:
“Who’s Persephone?” I’d casually inquire.
Troy would deliver his blank stare, then respond cautiously, “That’s the stuff they give you for like, syphilis, right?” There goes that theory. Anyone who would mix up the Goddess of Spring with Penicillin was not a demigod. They were probably a Roman.
Another thing about nerds—we don’t get out much. We don’t tan, we combust. Fresh air may trigger an asthma attack, and if we stray too far from our trusty inhaler, we may be forever crunching our math problems from the comic store in the sky. During one of our weekly game nights—chock full of RPGs and strategic board games—Troy arrived with a massive black plum in place of his right eye. We immediately began to think up reasons for it: He forgot to use a power-up, there was a complication during the beaming process, or that he didn’t have the +20 Defense bonus from the Shield of Azaroth. Troy was still fuming from whatever happened, and exploded with a litany of fucks and shits, crudely getting the point across that he’d been in a fight. There was an excited hush the swept across the gang like the plague. He actually swore, rather than use fudge or Sugar Honey Iced Tea—something we could only dream of in our wildest, fairly frequent daydreams. We’d heard of physical fighting before, but we always thought our highly developed intellects could get ourselves out of it, if push came to mental shove. Apparently, he had fought someone who had insulted him. That was another thing we didn’t understand. Why resort to brute violence, when silently loathing the person from afar seemed to work just fine? I noticed Eugene inconspicuously examining his rubber band muscles, then cringing when he saw Troy’s truck tires flex. None of us could fare in a fight like Troy could. We’d be lucky if we didn’t have a panic attack within the first few seconds.
The pièce de résistance of our unorthodox relationship with Troy was his immense physical ability. Most of us intellectuals tend to sneak through PE by feigning some farfetched illness or forging a doctor’s note. Troy, though, barreled through the gym battlefield, armed with merely two dodge balls he liked to jettison with the force of an artillery cannon. Befriending Troy gave us the advantage we finally needed. He steered clear of pummeling us to death, as was the usual game of dodgeball, but instead chose to massacre everyone else instead. The greatest day of PE history was when every bully lay face down and shellshocked from Troy’s mighty blitzkrieg. Nerds 1, Everyone Else Zip!
Being intellectually inclined, the gang had never heard of this concept called “sports”. We asked if Troy meant laser tag or live action role playing when he said he had a sports game coming up, and wanted to know if we could make it. We agreed, but as soon as he left, we divvied up the research load and set to work discerning what exactly a “sports” was. We figured it was some new-fangled trading card game, in the same vein as Magic: The Gathering or Yu-Gi-Oh. What we deciphered was that sports, as they were so called, were duels of physical prowess, each with a specific set of regulations and tasks one must complete. Truly fascinating. Sports were comics for the popular kids, video games for the jocks. Our only task now was to observe this newly discovered species of pastime in the field.
We stepped out of our research transport, thanking my mom for driving us, and ventured into the unknown. Apparently, this specific sport was called “hockey”. I guessed it was invented by masochists, because even the spectators froze their limbs off just from the stands. We theorized, though, that the cold was one of the challenges of the game. Only later did we see that it kept the ice from turning into a pool, and according to natural science, one couldn’t really skate on water. Another factor that I believed linked the ice rink to masochism was the amount of violence that occurred per game. Had Conan the Barbarian lived in modern times, he would have strapped on a pair of skates and grabbed a puck in a heartbeat. Troy would have pulverized the mighty warrior though. Another sport that Troy monopolized was basketball. This was the sport my group of ragtag scientists had the most difficulty making sense of:
“It appears that the object of the game is to pass the ball through that net.”
“And what does that accomplish? Points in random ones and twos whose total must be higher than the other team’s to win? Then why does one not simply walk over and do the deed manually?”
“Apparently the ball must be dribbled, rather than walked. Perhaps a rite of passage in order to get to the hoop? There must be some reward or punishment if each team viciously protects their own net. Have you come up with anything for these ‘mascots’ yet?”
“Crude representations of the idols each team worships?” To this day we still do not understand the game fully, and don’t even get us started on conversions. But one thing we did understand each time we endured another attack on our intelligence: the smile that ruled Troy’s face when he saw us at each game. This was the same smile that made every female in our high school, and even some of the males, go weak at the knees. And here it was, showcased solely for us. If nerds are anything, we’re loyal. We aren’t athletic. We’re not up on current trends. We can’t even talk to the opposite sex without breaking out into hives. Troy can do all of that, and look good while doing it. He was normal, but he always sat with us at lunch and we always helped him with homework. We were his friends when he had none. From the moment we met Troy, we knew he wasn’t a nerd. But after Troy met us, he didn’t think we were either.
AP English Language—Mr. George
May 17, 2010
Me Talk Pretty One Day writing sample
The Trojan Lion
Resistance is…what? If you felt the uncontrollable urge to finish that sentence with the word “futile”, chances are, you are a nerd. And I don’t mean the good grades kind of nerd. I’m talking full out comic book loving, Star Trek watching, video game high-scoring geeks. You may think you know what nerdy is. My response to you is thus: …BAHAHAHAHA! After which I would promptly wipe the cascading tears of laughter from my eyes and hold my stomach like it was about to fall off. Unless you know my friends and me, you do not know what a true nerd is.
They are all nerdy in some type of area. And yes, nerdiness can come in different types, much like Mt. Dew with its 800 different flavors. My friends and I all differentiate in terms of our readings on the nerd-o-meter, but I must be the Grand High King Nerd of them all. My crown would be fashioned from old school game controllers and 20-sided die, my lustrous, flowing cape made from taped together comic books. Why am I the Chief Numero Uno with a pocket protector? Because I share in all of their nerdy tendencies. And I never realized what utters geeks my social group was until we tried introducing Troy into our band of friends.
From the get-go, I immediately likened the situation to a lion trying to coexist with a family of meerkats. The lion was bigger, more powerful, and looked out of place roaming the savannah with a herd of the sorriest animals on the Serengeti. I don’t know about you, but when I think of the name Troy, I picture someone with strong arms and a macho cleft in his chin, someone who would be right at home in a huge wooden horse in the war of the famous city for which he was so fittingly named. What we meerkats got was not so far off from our expectations. He was around 16 or 17, a junior, like us. Even so, however, Troy’s biceps and pectorals, straining beneath his T-shirts, would not look out of place beneath Grecian Battle Armor. Though he had no pronounced cleft that we could find, his hair was the type many romanticists would classify as “thick, wavy locks”. We Athenians were surprised. We expected a Trojan, not Achilles.
We first knew Troy was the complete opposite of us when we first hung out. Upon walking around town, we wondered why everyone was walking out of our way. Normally, we would be forced to blend through the oncoming crowd, and face the risk of inevitable dangers, like the White Collar Massacre of ’02, during which Harold had taken on a horde of businessmen, emerging with one black eye, two fractured ribs, and a terrible burning sensation no one could really ever explain to this day. Suffice to say, he was awarded a medal of honor for his bravery on that fateful day. Ever push past someone when you’re walking through a city street? Yeah, we’re those people. But when Troy joined the ranks, we were able to cross a crowded city square with no broken bones or bruises, not even a scratch. A young boy the age of 4 even came up to Troy asking if he was Superman. We were then dubbed the annoying reporters following Superman around to get his identity. The sad part was, we were the ones wearing the shirts that made us look like superheroes, and we had the thick-rimmed glasses that made Clark Kent an every day person. We were a collective invisible man. Troy was the pair of floating sunglasses that made us visible.
Troy was a transfer student, but when asked why he transferred, he responded with, “I just moved.” Our nerd hive mind would not accept that bland and cliché answer. There is nothing worse than a nerd’s imagination, and we soon devised plausible (to us) reasons why this boy now attended our school. “Maybe he’s an undercover agent sent to keep an eye on the first batch of government-created superteens!” Colleen suggested. “Perhaps he’s a mass serial killer that jumps from school to school, picking off anyone with a GPA of 4.0 or higher.” Spenser mused. “He might be sent from the Gods of Olympus to choose their next hero.” Daphne pondered. Huh. Now there was an idea. Troy certainly seemed Godly enough by our standards. I took it upon myself to quiz him on his Greek Mythology. Big Mistake:
“Who’s Persephone?” I’d casually inquire.
Troy would deliver his blank stare, then respond cautiously, “That’s the stuff they give you for like, syphilis, right?” There goes that theory. Anyone who would mix up the Goddess of Spring with Penicillin was not a demigod. They were probably a Roman.
Another thing about nerds—we don’t get out much. We don’t tan, we combust. Fresh air may trigger an asthma attack, and if we stray too far from our trusty inhaler, we may be forever crunching our math problems from the comic store in the sky. During one of our weekly game nights—chock full of RPGs and strategic board games—Troy arrived with a massive black plum in place of his right eye. We immediately began to think up reasons for it: He forgot to use a power-up, there was a complication during the beaming process, or that he didn’t have the +20 Defense bonus from the Shield of Azaroth. Troy was still fuming from whatever happened, and exploded with a litany of fucks and shits, crudely getting the point across that he’d been in a fight. There was an excited hush the swept across the gang like the plague. He actually swore, rather than use fudge or Sugar Honey Iced Tea—something we could only dream of in our wildest, fairly frequent daydreams. We’d heard of physical fighting before, but we always thought our highly developed intellects could get ourselves out of it, if push came to mental shove. Apparently, he had fought someone who had insulted him. That was another thing we didn’t understand. Why resort to brute violence, when silently loathing the person from afar seemed to work just fine? I noticed Eugene inconspicuously examining his rubber band muscles, then cringing when he saw Troy’s truck tires flex. None of us could fare in a fight like Troy could. We’d be lucky if we didn’t have a panic attack within the first few seconds.
The pièce de résistance of our unorthodox relationship with Troy was his immense physical ability. Most of us intellectuals tend to sneak through PE by feigning some farfetched illness or forging a doctor’s note. Troy, though, barreled through the gym battlefield, armed with merely two dodge balls he liked to jettison with the force of an artillery cannon. Befriending Troy gave us the advantage we finally needed. He steered clear of pummeling us to death, as was the usual game of dodgeball, but instead chose to massacre everyone else instead. The greatest day of PE history was when every bully lay face down and shellshocked from Troy’s mighty blitzkrieg. Nerds 1, Everyone Else Zip!
Being intellectually inclined, the gang had never heard of this concept called “sports”. We asked if Troy meant laser tag or live action role playing when he said he had a sports game coming up, and wanted to know if we could make it. We agreed, but as soon as he left, we divvied up the research load and set to work discerning what exactly a “sports” was. We figured it was some new-fangled trading card game, in the same vein as Magic: The Gathering or Yu-Gi-Oh. What we deciphered was that sports, as they were so called, were duels of physical prowess, each with a specific set of regulations and tasks one must complete. Truly fascinating. Sports were comics for the popular kids, video games for the jocks. Our only task now was to observe this newly discovered species of pastime in the field.
We stepped out of our research transport, thanking my mom for driving us, and ventured into the unknown. Apparently, this specific sport was called “hockey”. I guessed it was invented by masochists, because even the spectators froze their limbs off just from the stands. We theorized, though, that the cold was one of the challenges of the game. Only later did we see that it kept the ice from turning into a pool, and according to natural science, one couldn’t really skate on water. Another factor that I believed linked the ice rink to masochism was the amount of violence that occurred per game. Had Conan the Barbarian lived in modern times, he would have strapped on a pair of skates and grabbed a puck in a heartbeat. Troy would have pulverized the mighty warrior though. Another sport that Troy monopolized was basketball. This was the sport my group of ragtag scientists had the most difficulty making sense of:
“It appears that the object of the game is to pass the ball through that net.”
“And what does that accomplish? Points in random ones and twos whose total must be higher than the other team’s to win? Then why does one not simply walk over and do the deed manually?”
“Apparently the ball must be dribbled, rather than walked. Perhaps a rite of passage in order to get to the hoop? There must be some reward or punishment if each team viciously protects their own net. Have you come up with anything for these ‘mascots’ yet?”
“Crude representations of the idols each team worships?” To this day we still do not understand the game fully, and don’t even get us started on conversions. But one thing we did understand each time we endured another attack on our intelligence: the smile that ruled Troy’s face when he saw us at each game. This was the same smile that made every female in our high school, and even some of the males, go weak at the knees. And here it was, showcased solely for us. If nerds are anything, we’re loyal. We aren’t athletic. We’re not up on current trends. We can’t even talk to the opposite sex without breaking out into hives. Troy can do all of that, and look good while doing it. He was normal, but he always sat with us at lunch and we always helped him with homework. We were his friends when he had none. From the moment we met Troy, we knew he wasn’t a nerd. But after Troy met us, he didn’t think we were either.
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