An assigned 25-page research paper my freshman year wasn't enough to convince me to go to the Writing Center. Neither were several history research papers, literary analyses and the inability to write a coherent cover letter. A senior thesis, however, did the trick. I signed up for a workshop. ?
There was a pile of brightly colored photocopies patiently waiting for all of us on a table. I half expected them to read something like UHS hands you when you've been diagnosed with strep—""So you've decided to write a thesis."" I would recommend that we reflect on why exactly we are inflicting 70 pages of painstakingly researched grief on ourselves our senior year, examine what could have been done to prevent this unfortunate situation and conclude with the recommendation that we drink lots of fluids. ?
The six of us—I was expecting more, for some reason—sat in the classroom in front of an overly chipper Writing Center instructor. This was the most exciting thing we could be doing for ourselves, he told us. Once we see all the exciting research we are doing, we'll be even more excited to start, he said. Then he had us go around the room—and that's when it happened.?
The first student was researching starvation themes in pre-Soviet Russia. The next, something about genes and disease and cell receptors. The third was an equally dour and serious subject and so it continued. Naturally, I was last to announce. I gulped. I was supposed to follow up someone researching rape undertones in Communist literature? ?""Hi."" My voice squeaked. ""Well, I'm looking at the changing content of celebrity gossip columns.""
?The entire room was aghast. ?
""Is that really academic?"" the starvation boy asked.?
""Do you, like, mean Lindsay Lohan?"" the communist rape whatever said.?
I had never felt so inadequate.
These feelings might have started with grade school science fairs. The ideas were always grand and fantastic—baking soda and vinegar volcanoes with lava flows, detailed experiments examining the effects of acid rain, tests to see which battery lasted the longest—but in the end, they were hurriedly done the night before.
The results? First grade: a model, made with the help of salvaged drinking straws and a Magic School Bus book, of how water gets to your faucet. Third grade: a groundbreaking look at tornadoes, complete with two two-liter soda bottles taped together that, when swirled correctly, made a tornado. Fifth grade: a volcano, made from cardboard and old Christmas tissue paper. They were all disasters. I lost to a boy who looked at the stretchability of pizza cheese, a girl who somehow got a cow heart and put it in a jar and a damn baking soda and vinegar volcano. I lost every year.
?Back to the thesis workshop. ?
After my introduction, the instructor awkwardly cleared his throat; paper after paper was passed out and now we were given a little break. The gene cell receptor thesis came up to me. His voice dropped to a whisper.
""So hey, what really is the deal with Lindsay Lohan? Is she in rehab? I just figured, you know, you would know.""?
Hey, maybe there is something to be said for academically reading online gossip columns religiously. ?
Have any profoundly academic insights about Britney Spears' new shaved head? E-mail Caitlin at cfcieslikmis@wisc.edu.
