School has started and I can’t stand using Email and Blackboard to talk with my classmates. It is so hard to use on my phone and wastes my battery. Facebook isn’t much better because group chats are very limited! And I love group texting but it can become a hassle when you can only enter a limited amount of people into the chat. Thankfully, I found out that there is a smart and simple way to communicate with my groups. As a member of the Quad Squad, I’ve got the deets on how to simplify campus communication:
1. Don’t let your message get lost in the noise: With Quad, receive messages instantly and while you are on the go, plus you get a notification to alert you.
2. Make every communication interactive: Easily plan events, get feedback through polls, share documents and photos as well as receive important reminders.
3. Mobilize your group: With Quad, communicate with your group while you are away from your computer.
4. Download Quad and join my Quad Chat: Just download the app and find join my Quad Chat using this pin: QR759RLP
I hope to see you on my Quad Chat! And the more, the merrier! Don’t be afraid to relay this message to your friends and classmates and share my Quad PIN.
My creative writing professor told me to stop
writing about love. I asked him why and he said,
“Because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch,
every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science
and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole.
How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness
without being annihilated. What an exploding star
would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow
like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.
My creative writing professor told me that those poems
weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space.
Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again, he says,
“You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes inside
of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign
on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women
who give birth know a different,
more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented
and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty,
a walking circus with no animals inside
but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip
selling popcorn in the entrance-way.
He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why.
I pick up my books and my notepad
and I leave his office with my war stories
tucked under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever loved,
like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers,
the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in.
We are all carrying stones in our pockets
and tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love,
about black holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms,
inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem
I have ever written.
None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.