English - not Chinese - Torture
PEOPLE WHO CAN'T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE DON'T BELONG IN AN ENGLISH CLASS WITH PEOPLE WHO CAN.
SERIOUSLY.
FUCK.
Okay, really? We had this assignment in English today to choose one of three sonnets and do a little report or whatever on them. Most people chose the Sonnet LV, by Shakespeare. So the first people to present it went up and wrote the iambic pentameter on the board.
Strike one: spelling "gilded" as "guilded". It was horrible, but I let it slide.
So they continue on with their presentation and they get to the part where they have to list off four poetic devices they found in the sonnet.
Strike two: the elision "besmear'd" being pronounced "bez-meered". That one made my eye twitch, but it was just a small slight. I laughed it off.
So the next people go up and do the same sonnet. They make the SAME pronunciation mistake. By now, my hands are balled into fists, my knuckles are white with frustration, but I do nothing.
Strike three: interpretting the poem as a poem solely about war. WRONG, DOUCHEBAGS.
So they go back to their seat and the next group resumes the horrible torture-fest and subsequent gangrape of the English language. Again, "besmeare'd" is pronounced with a somewhat Texan accent (and by now I'm banging my head against the wall to stop myself from slaughtering everyone in the class), and they interpret it wrong again. I really am about to scream.
I go up. I tell the class the RIGHT way to pronounce it, as well as correct the spelling error of "gilded" on the board. I also make a rather intellectual remark about the allusion to Mars and consequentially to Ares, Greek god of war. Then I say the correct interpretation, which is that memories will outlast the most lavish of luxuries. I take my seat, confident that I've taught these infidels a lesson about pronunciation, interpretation, grammar, and mythology.
The next group goes up. They have learned nothing. They say the poem is about "love, death, and war". Then, they drawl out "bez-meered" again, raking it across our ears like nails on a chalkboard. (Which, at that point, I actually would have preferred.)
Of course, all that was nicely topped off by Blair's (another person who interpreted the sonnet completely and soul-shatteringly incorrectly) comment: "I really enjoyed interpreting Shakespeare's work."
I lost it. I had a fucking attack. I started hyperventilating and wove my hands through my hair, wanting to peel away my own scalp if only to make the madness stop. When I say I started hyperventilating, I didn't do it jokingly. I really did. I'm that much of a grammar Nazi.
And it's not even solely the fact that I'm a grammar Nazi. I mean, poetry and I have a rather affable marriage to each other. What they did up there was HOMOCIDE to my MOST BELOVED SPOUSE. They dragged poetry up, tied it to a post, brought in a bunch of kindling, beat poetry with it, and then burnt it alive. And when that was through, they dragged the remains through cow crap and then spray painted a Marx Groucho disguise on it. Today, poetry was murdered.
And I'll tell you something else: by the time the bell rang, I wanted to BESMEAR THEIR GODDAMN FACES ACROSS THE GRAVEL.
I just went through a traumatic experience, and if it ever happens again, I will actually walk out of the class.
They all need to take remedial lessons in Not Being a Stupid Douche 101.
DIE, IDIOTS.
Pointsetta
SERIOUSLY.
FUCK.
Okay, really? We had this assignment in English today to choose one of three sonnets and do a little report or whatever on them. Most people chose the Sonnet LV, by Shakespeare. So the first people to present it went up and wrote the iambic pentameter on the board.
Strike one: spelling "gilded" as "guilded". It was horrible, but I let it slide.
So they continue on with their presentation and they get to the part where they have to list off four poetic devices they found in the sonnet.
Strike two: the elision "besmear'd" being pronounced "bez-meered". That one made my eye twitch, but it was just a small slight. I laughed it off.
So the next people go up and do the same sonnet. They make the SAME pronunciation mistake. By now, my hands are balled into fists, my knuckles are white with frustration, but I do nothing.
Strike three: interpretting the poem as a poem solely about war. WRONG, DOUCHEBAGS.
So they go back to their seat and the next group resumes the horrible torture-fest and subsequent gangrape of the English language. Again, "besmeare'd" is pronounced with a somewhat Texan accent (and by now I'm banging my head against the wall to stop myself from slaughtering everyone in the class), and they interpret it wrong again. I really am about to scream.
I go up. I tell the class the RIGHT way to pronounce it, as well as correct the spelling error of "gilded" on the board. I also make a rather intellectual remark about the allusion to Mars and consequentially to Ares, Greek god of war. Then I say the correct interpretation, which is that memories will outlast the most lavish of luxuries. I take my seat, confident that I've taught these infidels a lesson about pronunciation, interpretation, grammar, and mythology.
The next group goes up. They have learned nothing. They say the poem is about "love, death, and war". Then, they drawl out "bez-meered" again, raking it across our ears like nails on a chalkboard. (Which, at that point, I actually would have preferred.)
Of course, all that was nicely topped off by Blair's (another person who interpreted the sonnet completely and soul-shatteringly incorrectly) comment: "I really enjoyed interpreting Shakespeare's work."
I lost it. I had a fucking attack. I started hyperventilating and wove my hands through my hair, wanting to peel away my own scalp if only to make the madness stop. When I say I started hyperventilating, I didn't do it jokingly. I really did. I'm that much of a grammar Nazi.
And it's not even solely the fact that I'm a grammar Nazi. I mean, poetry and I have a rather affable marriage to each other. What they did up there was HOMOCIDE to my MOST BELOVED SPOUSE. They dragged poetry up, tied it to a post, brought in a bunch of kindling, beat poetry with it, and then burnt it alive. And when that was through, they dragged the remains through cow crap and then spray painted a Marx Groucho disguise on it. Today, poetry was murdered.
And I'll tell you something else: by the time the bell rang, I wanted to BESMEAR THEIR GODDAMN FACES ACROSS THE GRAVEL.
I just went through a traumatic experience, and if it ever happens again, I will actually walk out of the class.
They all need to take remedial lessons in Not Being a Stupid Douche 101.
DIE, IDIOTS.
Pointsetta