Sonya Ramirez is no stranger to success.
The Wilder High School honor roll student earned a trip to the basketball camp of her choice several years ago through the Tiger Woods Foundation Start Something program. And she was selected this summer to study medical careers in the nation's capital.
She also has served on student council and is working with students in Parma to bring a Leo Club -- sponsored by the International Association of Lions Clubs -- to her own school.
But Ramirez, a junior, said there's no magic key to good grades and opportunities for leadership. It's all about organization and hard work.
"I go to night school right after school, so I can get ahead," Ramirez said. "I get home about 6:30 and do my homework. You think of a person who's always studying, and that's not who I am. I just know how to utilize my time."
Read the full article.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Monday, September 20, 2004
Dog Hater
I hate dogs. I have always hated dogs. The worst kind are farm dogs. No chain or rope or leash. They roam free. As a small child, I was often knocked over by large, friendly, farm dogs. I remember hiding in the Bayberry bushes at Grandma's house. I'd spotted the Irish Setter crossing a nearby field, and I panicked. I couldn't make it back to the house, so I wedged myself into the stiff, scratchy cover. The dog sniffed me out, curse him. He licked my face. I almost cried.
There was the Dalmatian puppy my dad brought home when I was five. She liked to bite ankles. Dad wanted to name her Candy because of her sweet disposition. The irony. I prayed she would die. A few weeks later, God answered my prayer. That last afternoon as Candy suffered in our back yard, barely able to move, I petted her soft, soft ears. Sick dogs aren't so mean, I thought. I was almost sorry when she died.
My dad was always bringing home dogs. Rusty was a Cocker Spaniel with long, matted hair. Copper was a terrier or rat of some kind. We never really discovered which. They killed my pet rabbit and taught me about worms (little, white, wriggling masses in their fecies). I checked my own bowel movements religiously for a year to make sure I hadn't somehow contracted the parasite. Even now, 20 years later, I sometimes check (just in case). They were found dead on the highway with some cheap floozie of a German Shepherd, victims of a very lucky driver (three in one).
For my 13th birthday, Dad brought home a Doberman. We got along ok. She was quiet and well trained. On long walks, neighbor dogs atacked her instead of me. There were others: Shadow, who had a fresh litter every six or seven months; Bear, who attacked a friend in defense of my brother. (Along with the friendship, Bear also destroyed every Nintendo game controller in the hosue. He was put down by the vet before his first birthday.) Chewie wore a plastic dish on his neck and spit out pills for his skin problem. Louis liked our house better than his own. I carried him home (half-mile walk) at least once every other week or so. The Unnamed Puppy was run down by my schoolbus driver (along with two of our cats).
As I'm writing, the dog across the street is yelping. Her bark of welcome sounds more like a response to physical abuse, like the sound a dog makes when hit by a car or a heavy, blunt object. (Don't ask. I just know.)
I'm grown up now and have no dog of my own. Instead, I have certain understandings with dogs I know. Bingo is one of the less intellectual of my new friends. I watch him when the folks are out of town. He celebrates my visits with barking leaps and slobbery whines. I hate slobber. I get impatient and leave the room. Five minutes later, I return. Bingo, pleasantly surprised by my appearance, greets me with leaping barks and whiny slobber. I leave the room. When I return, five minutes later, Bingo goes through the whole act again as if I have been gone for years rather than minutes. We sometimes play this game (so much like Peek-a-Boo) for hours, or at least until Bingo is too exhausted to continue.
Mattie is an old, fat Dalmatian who tolerates my presence. She likes to bark. At her house, I never ring the doorbell. Instead, I lightly tap at the door. She barks in frenzied fashion. As she gains confidence that the house is secure, I tap again. We once tapped and barked to each other for 47 minutes. (Like the boy who cried, "Wolf!" Mattie's barks often go ignored.) She has amazing stamina.
Sometimes, I feel guilty. I wonder: If dogs are man's best friend, is it fair for me (a man) to hate them so? Is it just? Could I unwittingly nullify the prehistoric friendship contract? Then I remember something I saw on PBS and breathe a sigh of relief. In some countries, they eat dogs.
There was the Dalmatian puppy my dad brought home when I was five. She liked to bite ankles. Dad wanted to name her Candy because of her sweet disposition. The irony. I prayed she would die. A few weeks later, God answered my prayer. That last afternoon as Candy suffered in our back yard, barely able to move, I petted her soft, soft ears. Sick dogs aren't so mean, I thought. I was almost sorry when she died.
My dad was always bringing home dogs. Rusty was a Cocker Spaniel with long, matted hair. Copper was a terrier or rat of some kind. We never really discovered which. They killed my pet rabbit and taught me about worms (little, white, wriggling masses in their fecies). I checked my own bowel movements religiously for a year to make sure I hadn't somehow contracted the parasite. Even now, 20 years later, I sometimes check (just in case). They were found dead on the highway with some cheap floozie of a German Shepherd, victims of a very lucky driver (three in one).
For my 13th birthday, Dad brought home a Doberman. We got along ok. She was quiet and well trained. On long walks, neighbor dogs atacked her instead of me. There were others: Shadow, who had a fresh litter every six or seven months; Bear, who attacked a friend in defense of my brother. (Along with the friendship, Bear also destroyed every Nintendo game controller in the hosue. He was put down by the vet before his first birthday.) Chewie wore a plastic dish on his neck and spit out pills for his skin problem. Louis liked our house better than his own. I carried him home (half-mile walk) at least once every other week or so. The Unnamed Puppy was run down by my schoolbus driver (along with two of our cats).
As I'm writing, the dog across the street is yelping. Her bark of welcome sounds more like a response to physical abuse, like the sound a dog makes when hit by a car or a heavy, blunt object. (Don't ask. I just know.)
I'm grown up now and have no dog of my own. Instead, I have certain understandings with dogs I know. Bingo is one of the less intellectual of my new friends. I watch him when the folks are out of town. He celebrates my visits with barking leaps and slobbery whines. I hate slobber. I get impatient and leave the room. Five minutes later, I return. Bingo, pleasantly surprised by my appearance, greets me with leaping barks and whiny slobber. I leave the room. When I return, five minutes later, Bingo goes through the whole act again as if I have been gone for years rather than minutes. We sometimes play this game (so much like Peek-a-Boo) for hours, or at least until Bingo is too exhausted to continue.
Mattie is an old, fat Dalmatian who tolerates my presence. She likes to bark. At her house, I never ring the doorbell. Instead, I lightly tap at the door. She barks in frenzied fashion. As she gains confidence that the house is secure, I tap again. We once tapped and barked to each other for 47 minutes. (Like the boy who cried, "Wolf!" Mattie's barks often go ignored.) She has amazing stamina.
Sometimes, I feel guilty. I wonder: If dogs are man's best friend, is it fair for me (a man) to hate them so? Is it just? Could I unwittingly nullify the prehistoric friendship contract? Then I remember something I saw on PBS and breathe a sigh of relief. In some countries, they eat dogs.
Printer Power
If you buy a Hewlett-Packard printer, and it installs flawlessly, there may be a high school student in Melba who deserves part of the praise.
Charlie Randall, 16, worked on the HP Warranty Incident Reduction team this summer. He focused on problems that could come up during installation of a new printer.
"First, what I had to do was understand the printer," Randall said, explaining that he worked to identify possible problems and recommend solutions to the rest of the team. "My whole goal was trying to save the company money."
Randall was one of about 40 high school and college students who were paid to complete summer internships at the high-tech company's Boise campus. Randall said the experience convinced him that he had discovered his life's calling.
Read the full article.
Charlie Randall, 16, worked on the HP Warranty Incident Reduction team this summer. He focused on problems that could come up during installation of a new printer.
"First, what I had to do was understand the printer," Randall said, explaining that he worked to identify possible problems and recommend solutions to the rest of the team. "My whole goal was trying to save the company money."
Randall was one of about 40 high school and college students who were paid to complete summer internships at the high-tech company's Boise campus. Randall said the experience convinced him that he had discovered his life's calling.
Read the full article.
Monday, September 13, 2004
No Gold Cords
Nicholas Reyes decided in third grade that he would wear gold honor cords at his high school graduation.
But now -- more than eight years later -- the Parma High School honor roll student might not be able to attend the ceremony. He might not even be in the country.
Reyes is one of only 50 U.S. students chosen to take part in the United World College's international baccalaureate program along with young scholars from at least 80 other countries. He leaves today for Wales, where he will spend the next two years at Atlantic College.
Read the full article.
But now -- more than eight years later -- the Parma High School honor roll student might not be able to attend the ceremony. He might not even be in the country.
Reyes is one of only 50 U.S. students chosen to take part in the United World College's international baccalaureate program along with young scholars from at least 80 other countries. He leaves today for Wales, where he will spend the next two years at Atlantic College.
Read the full article.
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