User:KatrinaD

=Analytical Writing=

Personal Essay
KatrinaD 06:27, 21 November 2009 (UTC)

It seems to have taken forever, however I have arrived. The battle of I-5 past me, the car is now parked. I just want to finish this one song on the radio before I ascend to creative educational bliss. My destination floor number seven. Not too many of my classmates would appreciate my jamming to Def Leopards “Photograph”, BTO’s “Taking Care of Business” or Depeche Mode’s “Reach Out Touch Faith”. It is better for me to get it out of my system before the upward pull of the brushed silver vertical closet. I hate traveling in the closet. The closet takes you on a journey of superfluous stops and dead end conversations, until finally you reach the long awaited floor seven.

I got out of the car and made sure I had everything I need, including the ID badge issued to me first quarter. Spare change, cell phone, and assignment in hand I cross the cold impersonal pavement of overpriced parking made possible by Republic. Twenty years ago, they were overpriced and if you got The Art Institute of Seattle early, you could park on the street free of charge. Of course, that was before the city decided to “beautify” Belltown and the waterfront. The city is the city and there is nothing pretty about it. I tell myself to quit thinking about the past and press the magical button that summons the closet. I look above and wait patiently for the closet doors to open and allow me to enter. A bell sounds alarming me to notice that the closet has arrived. The doors open and I find three other student crammed in the closet with their numerous pieces of luggage.

“Think there is room for one more?” “Yes Ma’am. We can make room”

I smile because I know they are trying to be polite, but deep down I have to ask myself, “When did I become one of those scary adults that intimidates or scares others?” I am certain that there is some visual difference in our issued ID’s that says I am a student just like them. I look back to the doors of the brushed closet, praying it will open soon. The buttons on the panel are lit up from floor three all the way up to blissful floor seven. The others chit chat about wanting a cup of coffee or discuss projects they are working on. The doors of the closet and they disperse on floor six. Floor seven, here I come. A couple of more people get into the closet. We all exchange the awkward courteous smile. Then the innocent question is asked and I have yet to have formulated a befuddling answer, something that will leave them scratching their heads, and it won’t be until five minutes later until they have figured it out. Men know better to ask a woman what they weigh or how old they are. However, in the academic vertical transport system such as the closet, the manners of students, faculty and security guards seems to have gone to the way side. Who would have thought the question “are you a student or instructor?” would be such a loaded question. If they had asked me how old I was, I could give them the Simon and Garfunkel version and just say “older than I once was and younger than I will be.” The lyrics of “The Boxer” resonate. I am old enough to be their mother, in most cases. When the same question is asked by faculty or older interested persons, all I can seem utter is that “I could teach a few people a thing or two.” I think to myself, for the love of God, are we at floor seven yet?

The brushed metal doors open and we begin to get out when the security guard sitting at his perch asks every person for their student ID, except me. It is seldom I ever get asked for my ID anymore. As far as I am concerned it is just an additional key ring accessory that hides in the darkness of my backpack. I just keep walking on through the hallway where I begin to see the warm friendly faces of creative photographic talent. Once I get to the wondrous left hand turn, bliss. Photographic nirvana is here. The cage to my left and all of toys hiding inside call out to be played with. The studio, may to the untrained eye appear to be a large black hole which, in some cases, people get lost in for hours. This place is the reason why I agree to pay the price of a private education. I also agree to pay the price because since I attended this educational institution, they are the only place that will accept the credits I earned twenty years ago. Other accredited institutions would not give me one photography credit because the Art Institute of Seattle was not accredited when I got that degree.

Some things have changed in the photography department. The color lab is no more. Since the advent of digital technology, the need was no longer there. The space that the color lab was in was absorbed into the black hole also known as the studio. The standards have also changed to some degree. In some aspects that has been a good thing. However, the attitudes of the younger students and how they treat their instructors is something left to be desired. I was brought up in a time where students showed respect towards their teachers. If I had pulled half of the stuff these people pull I would have been sent to the principals office, suspended and or expelled. Every now and again I will find that they have rubbed off on me. My shut up filter falters and the one thing I was thinking is all of sudden out there in the classroom. Then in a flash, I think to myself “was that out loud? Damn!” Then I have to back paddle and re-state what I said but try to explain it politely. I will admit, I don’t always apologize for what is said. Sometimes what comes out is what everyone wants to say, but lacks the courage to do so. In these rare instances, the necessesity to enlighten another student or encourage an instructor to move on overwhelms me.