For my final passion blog, I’ll talk about the narrative of studying… can you tell I am running low on ideas?
Leading up to my 2020 Advanced Placement exams, I was inflicted by a number of medical complications that made it nigh impossible to participate in distanced learning. Such left me unprepared for my upcoming exams; with only a week remaining, I was forced to find a way to learn the content I missed and relearn the content I forgot lest I fail the exams. Under stress, I developed the study strategy I currently use, which I like to think of in terms of a story – forget about ‘The Hero’s Journey’; this is ‘The Student’s Struggle’!
Part 1: Define your goal
When studying for an upcoming assessment, the first thing I recommend doing is to figure out what you need to know. Consult syllabi, study guides, upperclassmen, and even your professor. This step aims to eliminate unnecessary work of attempting to master the content you do not need to know.
Part 2: Filter your materials
The statement that follows may seem a bit circular. Nonetheless, it’s the basis for this step: “If you want to study something, study that thing and not something else.” Taking this to heart, identify the portions of your course materials (e.g., textbooks, video lectures, notes, etc.) that speak of the content you need to understand. Mark it with sticky notes, and don’t turn to any other pages.
Part 3: Restructure & Rewrite
Reorganize the content in an order that makes more sense in your head to study it. For example, perhaps you’re studying for a physics exam, and the chronological order you covered the material in the class had you learn Newton’s Law of Gravitation before you covered circular motion, but, in your head, it makes more sense to study those concepts in reverse order – then do that. Create a graphic organizer denoting the order in which covering the material makes the most sense for you. And, while you’re at it, turn that organizer into a study guide; write down every equation and every relevant detail you need to understand.
Part 4: Get energetic!
Recall content you learned in a boring lecture versus an entertaining one. The content of the boring lecture is likely more difficult to recall: It’s challenging to learn content if you don’t enjoy it. Therefore, trick your brain into making you think you’re having fun. Get energetic with reciting your notes. If you do theater, imagine you’re reciting a monologue while reading that study guide you made. I see the effect of this similar to how forcing yourself to smile can gradually affect your mood.
Part 5: Repeat for your next test – this is a never-ending cycle. Welcome to college!

Given that we are now switching full-gear into the issue brief assignment, I thought it would be fitting to discuss narratives of persuasion this week.

In high school, I did many extracurriculars, my favorite of which was being the captain of my school’s business and entrepreneurship team that participated in case study competitions (primarily those offered by Boeing). These competitions prompted us to assess and present our responses to various situations. The chairwoman of the Boeing Potomac Region Diversity Council, who headed the board of judges for our primary competition, often said that the best teams need not formulate a reasonable argument but simply present their suggestions in the most compelling way. Taking that to heart, this is the formula we created to win the competition:

Everyone loves a good story; the simple progression from A to B, and eventually C. If you can string the successive portions of your argument into a well-developed narrative, your audience will be more likely to not only comprehend it but come to agree with it – consider the results of Physics professors who explain the derivations of equations in comparison to those who merely write formulae on the board and expect their students to comprehend the relationships they describe. Therefore, to compellingly present your argument, you ought to write them in a story.

There are four primary components your story ought to contain: 1) an explanation of the issue itself, 2) the exigence of the issue, 3) what ought to be done to resolve the issue, and 4) how the audience can address the issue.

The first two components are best delivered simultaneously. For example, consider a streetside advocate who beckons pedestrians to listen to the troubling issue he wishes to make known. How upsetting it may be, most passersby have neither the time nor the patience to give an ear for more time than it takes for them to pass the speaker. Therefore, it would make sense to first explain why the issue is important to the pedestrians before delving into details, convincing them to stay awhile. However, how can you convey the exigence of an issue to an audience that does not know of the issue? You cannot. Thus, when attempting to persuade someone who has little time to listen, the first thing you present ought to present the issue AND explain why they should care. 

Here’s an example of how this could be done in political advocacy:

“Your home will be devalued if HR 123 passes Congress!”

This statement simultaneously addresses what the issue is (i.e., a bill in Congress) and why one should care about it (i.e., their property might be worth less money).

Then, to progress the story of your advocacy, you should explain how the crises could be avoided and how your attentive audience should proceed to prevent them. In the context of the previous example:

“Sign this petition to alert our representative that her constituents do not want this to pass.”

Let’s talk about the stories of empires and civilizations at large this week!

Lately, I have been falling back into my old hobbies of (perhaps excessively) listening to history documentaries, podcasts, and audiobooks. Though, being older as I am now and more attuned to picking up on patterns and trends, I thought it would be interesting to describe the consistencies I noticed. This is in no way meant to be an in-depth analysis on the nature of civilization, just the observations of a guy who loves stories. Also, note that I will be discussing agricultural societies, pastoral ones tend to follow a looser model.

Stage 1: Defining the group

The first step in the development of a new society is for individuals to realize that they are part of a group. The “group” often shares a cultural and genetic basis for why individuals associate with each other in the group. Once they develop a strong identity of this “group” they will then be more likely to view those not in the group as the “them” in an “us vs. them” which further motivates individuals to work for the greater good of the group to overcome whatever obstacles other groups (i.e., the “them”) may impose upon them.

Stage 2: Expansion

After realizing that the civilization is a collective unit with a common cultural goal and identity (that I will now collectively refer to as the “society”), the group will set out to overcome or conquer those that oppose or oppress it. Keep in mind that most empires throughout history were forged in “us vs. them” conflicts that united the people behind a mutual cause.

Stage 3: Fruits of Conquest

The result of expanding is the acquisition of more stuff – often someone else’s stuff. This will lead to prosperous times throughout the domain of the society.

Stage 4: Reflection

With the conflict that formulated the civilization now gone, and a lack of an “us vs. them” conflict to strictly define societal and individual identity, individuals have time to reflect on and analyze the current state of the society. Do they like what they see? – often not!

Stage 5 = Stage 1 Again

Patterns of civilization reiterate periodically. This is why you see civil unrest and wars for independence – when individuals realize that they are actually a part of a larger collective that share a common goal, new cultures and movements are created, starting the cycle all over again.

(Passion Blog #8)

Imagine that you are a renaissance sculptor. It is your passion to create magnificent statues in your own style. Then, one day, another artist comes along and desires to share your stationary statue with the rest of the world. Obviously, this artist can not move your statue from its current location, but he figures that he, as an artist himself, can sketch a portrait of the statue which he can then replicate to share with the world. His sketch, by virtue of being a different medium than your statue, cannot portray every crevice of your marble goliath. What’s more? Your statue includes details, including garbs and symbolism, significant to your native culture that may not make sense or carry the same significance for the foreign viewer. Therefore, when this young artist ventures across the globe to share your artwork, its viewers will not have the experience intended for viewers by you.

As exemplified above, there are barriers in sharing the narratives of artwork with non-intended audiences. For when you construct your statue (or story, or whatever!), you are bound to employ details in your work’s narrative that may not hold the same weight for all audiences. Even something as simple as the type of clothing worn by the person depicted in your statue may affect how an audience interprets the work – a statue of a person with minimal clothing may seem outlandish to people who only know frigid climates while it would be nothing abnormal to audiences from tropical regions. And, if so much detail can be derived from the presence of clothes, imagine what could come from symbolism. If your statue was supposed to depict a pious person devoted to their God, you may likely include symbolism relevant to that person’s religion (e.g., a cross). Yet, such symbolism, in a foreign culture, may be seen as little more than funny squiggles, or worse – depictions of what the audience believes to be sinful. 

If you seek to create art to be appreciated by the world over, take this as a warning that what you see in your work will not be how all other people view it. Perhaps you could take this as a lesson to properly market your art, to find a target audience that will appreciate it to maximize the enjoyment of it, lest you create artwork that fails to ever see the light of day.

Passion Blog #7

Within the past week, I had the honor of writing – not one, but – two letters of recommendation for first-year friends applying for academic programs. The educational programs they applied to sought further description of applicants and wanted testimony from their peers of their presence in and out of the classroom. Through writing both letters, I came to realize a general narrative structure that works well within letters of recommendation of any kind; And, since narratives are the subject of my passion blog, I thought it fitting to base this week’s entry on what I learned.
When writing a letter of recommendation – or any purposeful work for that matter – you must consider the reason for your words. Why are you composing this letter? What message do you wish to share with the recipient? What is the theme of your narrative? Your first task is to identify this “theme;” Such is what the final letter should exude.

The first friend to enlist my aid asked me to submit a letter to the selection committee of an abroad program he wishes to attend this summer to speak toward his character and his work ethic – this was the theme I was to focus on. My task was to write a letter that described him as an individual the program would view as an asset to its cohort both socially and academically. Once I identified his traits that I thought best exemplified this, I had my theme.
Once you identify your theme, your next task is structuring the letter. A good letter should include an introduction of yourself (the author), a story about the applicant that conveys the theme, and a conclusive assessment of the applicant’s quality and fitness for the program/position.
The purpose of the introduction is to state the significance of your letter. Why should the selection committee care about your input? How is your word relevant to the applicant and the position in question? Once the exigence of your letter is made clear, you should quickly segue into the next section – there’s no need to waste the reader’s time with irrelevant information that may reflect poorly on the applicant.
Your story about the applicant should convey the previously identified theme and comprise the majority of the letter. In this section, be sure to “show, not tell” the reader the story’s message. Pick a situation wherein the applicant had demonstrated the trait about him or herself you want to share.
Finally, the letter’s conclusion should be where you clearly state the theme of the story and state that you believe the individual is fit for the position in question.

Let’s discuss fourth-wall breaks because any excuse to include Deadpool in one of my passion blogs is a welcome one!

Narratives, by definition, are enclosed series of events: A leads to B, which then results in C all inside a world that we call Z. This encapsulated progression provides the ideal environment to communicate thought-provoking themes or construct masterpiece stories because no external factors must be considered when developing the flow of the narrative – that is, you do not need to account for parts of your story that aren’t present when you write it. Such is an expectation audiences have when they pick up a book or turn on Netflix, giving more impact to actions that subvert it.

The fourth wall is a term used to describe the imaginary barrier between the events of a story and the audience witnessing it. Rooting from the ‘missing wall’ in the sets of television studios, the act of an actor staring at the wall (i.e., directly toward the camera) breaks the illusion of viewing an isolated reality – for what reason would the character stare directly at the wall? In more ways than one, that “wall” represents the boundary between the audience and the world of the narrative. 

Having characters pass the border into ‘our world’ opens a plethora of opportunities for authors to instill feelings or communicate ideas better than they might have been able to otherwise. The most common way this is utilized is comedically – this is likely something you have witnessed in movies before. Consider Deadpool, a famous example of shattering the fourth wall. The “merc with a mouth” notably (in both his films and comics) delivers jokes directly to the audience, often providing meta-commentary on his predicaments or referencing irrelevant pop culture icons for pure shock value. These moments of crossing the boundary between his world and ours are, as previously mentioned, outside the norm in storytelling and thus achieve greater comedic value (from the shock) than similar jokes would have otherwise earned remaining solely inside the narrative. 

The other kind of fourth wall break serves the narrative beyond comedic filler and adds to the story’s narrative themes or even progression. While this is difficult to achieve in non-interactive mediums, many narrative-heavy video games have implemented this concept well. Consider Doki Doki Literature Club, a game designed to give the impression of a harmless dating simulator that progressively transmutes into a psychological horror game delving into themes of loneliness and the unintended consequences of your actions. In one of the game’s possible endings, the character Monika confesses her undying feelings for the player, to which one is expected to think little of – this is a pre-scripted story after all. However, Monika will eventually disclose that she knows the player’s real-life name (or, at least, the one you used for your Steam profile) and uses that as a segue to delve into how she wishes she could join the player in “the real world.” Upon hearing this, the player is intended to momentarily reflect on their actions and how their choices could have actually hurt some or driven them to commit horrible acts. A little bit of shock is enough to make you consider the impossible (like having actually hurt someone that does not exist), making stories and their themes all the more impactful.

(Passion Blog #5)

Have you ever read a book or watched a film you had never seen before but nevertheless had some sneaking suspicion of how the plot and key events would be structured? For example, consider the structure of most superhero origin films:

First, the protagonist will face some unfortunate experience; Most commonly, this imbues them with the motivation to pursue crime-fighting (e.g., Tony Stark’s capture in Afghanistan or Steve Rogers’ knack for taking beatings from street punks). Then he or she is bestowed with an opportunity to gain strength (e.g., Bruce Wayne training under Ra’s Al Ghul or Peter Parker being bitten by the radioactive spider). For a time, the protagonist does well in the crime-fighting scene and develops a reputation (e.g., Wade Wilson’s hunt for Francis). That rise to glory places the hero on the radar of the film’s main antagonist, prompting a fight that the hero surely loses (e.g., Billy Batson’s foster family being taken captive by Dr. Sivana). Upon defeat, the hero is discouraged to continue fighting until learning a valuable lesson that they eventually use to defeat the villain (e.g., Mr. Incredible learning the strength that can be drawn from working with his family). Finally, the climactic fight scene of the film’s final act builds tension by having the villain’s success ensure catastrophe; But worries are soon put to rest as the hero quickly makes work of the villain using the strength of the lesson he or she learned (e.g., The Avengers easily defeating Loki after coming to understand the value of teamwork).

This story structure is not exclusive to the superhero genre, albeit its name may lead you to think otherwise. The “Hero’s Journey” is a general plot outline employed in stories from Beowulf to the Backyardigans, used to effectively draw the audience’s attention in the most efficient way possible. The Hero’s Journey divided stories into three “acts.” Acts are sections of the story wherein the protagonist goes through the developmental stages of confronting an obstacle, being beaten by said obstacle, and then growing to overcome it. Acts may then be further subdivided into specific significant moments that represent the gradual development of the protagonist. The stages that one may identify in stories vary widely depending on the genre and themes of the narrative – all the examples listed in the super-Hero’s Journey above do not strictly follow the whole outline of the previous paragraph. Therefore, general classifications of the Hero’s Journey beyond the three acts are disputed.

(Passion Blog #4)

Think back to common criticisms you may have heard about films. Which ones tend to stand out as prevalent remarks made about poor films? Bad acting? Cheap sets? What else? – The common grievance I want to discuss today is “THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE!?!”

As discussed in last week’s Passion Blog post, audiences tend to become more engrossed in stories wherein the narrative flow follows logical development. The presence of sound logic allows the audience to (at least subconsciously) attempt to deduce the conclusion of the story. This intellectual investment makes reveals and narrative development all the more satisfying to the viewer – much like coming to the satisfying answer of a long math problem or placing the final brick down on your LEGO Millenium Falcon build.

Remember that most stories are told about characters, individual beings with often complex motivations and objectives. Unlike our example from last week, most stories you have read, heard, or seen likely construct their narratives on the development of characters from one state to another, whether that being learning a lesson and improving their lives as a result of failing to overcome an obstacle and facing their respective consequences. Moreover, the logical development of great stories is crafted from characters experiencing these types of changes (i.e., character development). Therefore, good storytelling relies on the actions and development of characters making sense.

Imagine watching Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and, as C3P-0 tells the fearless, go-getter mercenary Han Solo (steering his ship through imperial onslaughts!) that the chances of their survival are near to none, Solo assumes the fetal position and bawls like a child. That would not make any sense! At no point prior had Solo demonstrated that he was inclined to react to conflict in such a way – in fact, he behaves quite the opposite!

Character actions that betray the logic on which the character was built serve to undermine the investment of the audience in the story, defeating audience enjoyment. 

Consider this scene from Ghostbuster (2016):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoSzqHlvN6s

The second scene in the clip shows the first test run of the new and improved proton pack used by the gang to hunt ghosts. Upon testing the pack, one of the Ghostbusters is flung into the air and swept across the ground, which could be enough to kill someone in the first several seconds alone. Yet, the other Ghostbusters remain calm and collected about their friend’s likely demise, a reaction that betrays the reasonable persons they have been established to be. This contrast between their reactions and what would seem reasonable draws audience engagement away from the story, detracting from its quality.

(Passion Blog #3)

A story is a narrative that portrays a coherent series of events (not necessarily in chronological order – e.g., Beloved by Toni Morrison, or – heck! – even Star Wars) toward a logical conclusion. A “good” story is one in which every significant detail shown to the audience is incorporated into the development of that narrative, leading to a conclusion that compiles those events into a thematic conclusion. And a “great” story is a “good” story that keeps the audience guessing what those details mean in the context of the yet-to-be-disclosed conclusion.

To understand this, imagine you and I decide to shoot a film, a simple film you may be able to record on your own, right now. Find a round object and roll it across your desk as you begin recording with the camera on your phone. Watch the video. Your video portrays a series of events (i.e., the individual frames of the ball rolling from point A to point B), which, together, are coherent and lead to a conclusion (i.e., the ball making it to point B). Now, I ask you, was that entertaining? Did watching that clip give meaning to the time taken to create and watch it? 

My answers to those questions were all “no.” Yet, what you watched was still a story. So, what’s the difference between that and those stories that we willingly pay money to see? The “good” stories we read in books and see in theaters imbue importance into every moment of screen time or paragraph of reading time. Imagine you reshot that video, but with a greater budget – imagine if you had Bill Nye.

He could begin your video by explaining the mechanics of rotational kinetic energy and then roll the object down your desk and describe the effects of each component of rotational mechanical energy as it moved.

This film looks somewhat different than the previous: The film had a theme/lesson (i.e., teach its audience about rotational kinetic energy). Second, every moment of the film had some purpose (i.e., to contribute to the overall lesson of the film). Think of how this may carry over to your standard fiction story; perhaps the text’s overall theme is that the heroine learns the importance of friendship. And in accordance with such a lesson, she periodically loses her companions along her journey, each loss contributing to her eventual character development that demonstrates the theme of the story. In our film, those periodic losses draw equivalence to Bill Nye explaining the individual variables that affect rotational kinetic energy in action in accordance with his lesson on the subject at the start of the film. Now, you may start to see some connections between the model of storytelling we are developing and those that you are used to on the big screen. There’s meaning to what you spend your time watching as delivered to you via a pay-off at the end of the film of finally understanding Bill Nye’s lesson (or, eventually, seeing the heroine learn the importance of friendship). But, there are still some things wrong with this model of storytelling. Bill Nye told you what you would learn from the start, and the way he develops his lesson throughout the film leads to a conclusion you knew would happen from the beginning. Such a model of storytelling doesn’t engage the audience. And, since people tend to care for and appreciate more what they can themselves engage with, this model of storytelling fails to capitalize on aspects that could make stories that utilize it all the more extraordinary. So what can be done?

Reshoot your film. Ask Bill Nye to withhold from explaining the conclusion of the lesson until the end of the story and structure the narrative as smaller lessons on individual topics (e.g., inertia, mechanical energy, etc.). This structure encourages the audience to actively consider how events throughout the story may lead to a conclusion (i.e., Bill Nye’s most important lesson). And, by virtue of having the audience engage in the material throughout the narrative, they grow more invested and care more for the conclusion than they would have otherwise – everyone loves hearing the solution to a good riddle. This model of storytelling and narrative development is what makes foreshadow-ridden stories like Attack on Titan so popular and exciting to audiences the world over, and conclusions to once-good stories, like Lost, be so detested because they failed to stay faithful to the promise of a riddle-like conclusion offered to the audience through various “hints” dropped throughout the series.

(Passion Blog #2)

Children are simple creatures – provide them with some adorable icon, a catchy theme, and a call to action, and you will sell them (really, their parents) whatever knick-knack you have prepared. The champion of this game, or market, I should say, is Pokemon™. As the highest-grossing media franchise of all time, it has mastered its art to the extent of internationally outperforming some of our more well-known and domestic franchises, such as Star Wars™, Spider Man™, and the rodent of Disney™ himself.

The Pokemon Company™ and Nintendo™  have ostensibly found such success by following the strategy above to persuade children to buy into this market-amalgamation of films, toys, plushies, cards, games, comic books, and so much more merchandise. However, the key to the success of this marketing strategy is how it masterfully plays into the rhetorical situation in front of the television set every Saturday morning.

For those uninitiated, the world of Pokemon is one of mystical monsters with extraordinary powers that can be befriended and trained to do many things throughout society – though mainly combat-sports in much of the franchise’s merchandise. Your job as the player (or spectator of the TV show’s protagonist) is to help a scientific professor compile a catalog of every species of Pokemon; your job is to “catch ‘em all!”

This marketing powerhouse artificially constructed commonplaces in the minds of children worldwide by ingraining slogans such as “gotta catch ‘em all,” “I wanna be the very best,” and “I wanna be a Pokemon Master” in the minds of children through the aforementioned catchy tunes and entertaining programming. As a result, children, the audience, grow to recognize these soundbites and associate them with happy memories of cheering on Ash Ketchum during another skirmish between him and Team Rocket.

Please recall how I previously referred to a “rhetorical situation in front of the television set.” I ask you to consider the perspective of the spectating child. While watching, that child is likely becoming invested in the characters, journeys, and goals of the characters depicted on the screen to the extent that, if he or she were invited to help or take part in said task of “catch[ing] ‘em all,” he or she would likely jump at the opportunity. The commonplaces created for and presented to the child act as a strategic use of language that invokes a desire to go “be a Pokemon Master,” thereby inspiring children to plead with their parents to buy into this franchise. This feels like downright child abuse, but gosh darn do I love myself a good episode of Pokemon.

(Passion Blog #1)