The English Department
Wakefield High School: Summer Assignments, 2011/12
9th Grade: All Students:
Welcome to Wakefield High School. We hope you are ready to begin an exciting and rigorous year. Part of keeping your mind sharp and your curiosity honed is to read for pleasure this summer. Enjoy what you read. We’ll see you in September.
10th Grade Students:
10 Regular: We want you to return to Wakefield High School ready to begin an exciting and rigorous year. Part of keeping your mind sharp and your curiosity honed is reading for pleasure this summer. Enjoy what you read and please bring whatever you did read to class during the 1st week back, Th/S 8 or F/S 9. We’ll have an extra credit assignment waiting for you in the English Lunch Lab when we’ll see you in September.
10 Advanced / Read ONE of the following selections/Due Th/S 8 or F/S 9.
The Life of Pi by Yann Martel*
Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer
The Hunger Game by Suzanne Collins##
*Copies available for check out. / ##limited copies for check out
(See Mr. Lutz, rm. 143-A, but don’t wait…his room will not be around after 6/27)
Step 1 -- Choose one from among the following books:
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
fiction/ futuristic page turner / a healthy dose of dystopia – open wide
Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer
nonfiction/ Northern Virginia boy pays the price for individuality
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
fiction/ creative, philosophical, a wild ride/ co-star is a Bengal tiger, first name Richard
Step 2 – Read, read, read.
Step 3 – Using one of the topics listed below, you are to construct a personal response to the book you read. That means you can use the pronoun “I,” and your tone can be informal. We want to know what you think about your book and how well you can say it.
That doesn’t mean you abandon the standards of good writing, though. Think about what you want to say, how you plan to support it, and then sit down and compose. Here are the particulars:
Word processed, one page (double-spaced, 12-point font)
Use specific examples from the book to support what you say. It has to be clear that you read and read thoughtfully. Include a minimum of two quotations from the book with parenthetical (page) citations.
We’ve included a sample piece written about the book The Catcher in the Rye to help. Follow its format.
Choose one topic from this list. Implicit in each question is your duty to explain why:
What quality in the protagonist led him/her to succeed or fail?
Who was your favorite character other than the protagonist?
What was the most entertaining scene in the book?
What was the central conflict for the protagonist and how did he/she fare?
Due date is the first week we return to school….Questions? Mr. Brown: Clifford_brown@apsva.us, Mr. Mainor: email@example.com, Mr. O’Donnell: Robert_odonnell@apsva.us, Ms. O’Brien: firstname.lastname@example.org
September, XX, 2011
The Washington Post used to run a comic strip called Bloom County, which featured a scrawny, mangy feline named Bill the Cat. It never actually spoke but was famous for one sound it made, usually while coughing up a hairball: “ACCKKK!” I was reminded of ganging sounds and hairballs on each of the seven pages that Robert Ackley appeared in Chapter 3 of The Catcher in the Rye. What a disgusting creature!
Ackley, I guess, was a neighbor of Holden’s at Pencey Prep (he came into Holden’s room through a shared shower and bathroom, which sort of confused me). However he got into the room, Ackley left a distinct impression when he left, along with a lot of his clipped fingernails. Yikes.
Of course, Holden’s description of him is brutally honest.
Ackley’s teen looked: “mossy and awful” (19).
He not only had a bad complexion, but a “terrible personality” (19).
Ackley spent much of his time cleaning his fingernails with a match, then borrowed Holden’s scissors to clip those freshly cleaned fingernails, mostly ignoring our hero’s request to “cut ‘em over the table, willya” (23).
It would all be pretty funny if it weren’t so disgusting. What is hysterical is how Holden treats Ackley. When Ackley enters the room, Holden is trying to read. He begins asking Holden a series of annoying questions that distract him and finally asks first the title of the book Holden is reading. That is followed by “any good?” Holden’s response drips sarcasm: “This sentence I’m reading is terrific” (21).
The exchanges between the two are hilarious, and Salinger deserves a lot of credit for creating such an effective (and gross!) minor character. I don’t suppose it’s any accident that the name Salinger chose –Ackley—mimics the sound of gagging.
11th Grade Students:
11 Regular: We want you to come to Wakefield High School ready to begin this most exciting and rigorous year. Part of keeping your mind sharp and your curiosity honed is reading for pleasure this summer. Enjoy what you read and please bring whatever you did read to class during the 1st week back. We’ll have an extra credit assignment waiting for you in the English Lunch Lab during the first week back when we’ll see you in September. (see next pages for American Civ. and 11 AP assignments)…
American Civ: Required / 2011 Summer Assignment
Name: Date: Period
AMERICAN CIV. – SUMMER ASSIGNMENT
Portfolio of Political Cartoons
Assignment: For the next nine weeks you are required to create a portfolio of TEN political cartoons that specifically address current events from this summer, June through the beginning of September (Approximately 9 weeks). The cartoons must focus on political and cultural events that have had a domestic or international impact. Your selection of topics within your portfolio must be different. All cartoons and explanations should be contained and presented in a notebook or folder. Explanations can be hand-written or typed.
1. A copy of the cartoon must be attached with written explanation.
2. Explain the meaning the cartoon in one to two paragraphs.
3. Explain the symbolism, if any, within the cartoon.
4. Provide your reaction to the cartoon and the specific event that is the
focus of the artist.
5. The 10 cartoons must each focus on different topics.
6. Print and online media outlets that provide political cartoons:
A. Washington Post F. Fox News / MSNBC
B. New York Times G. CNN
C. New Yorker H. TIME
D. Wall Street Journal I. News Week
E. Washington Times J. U.S. News and World Report
7. The project is due: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16th
(Identify the significance of this political cartoon.)
ENJOY YOUR SUMMER
David_Sharp@apsva.us / Gregory_Keish@apsva.us
11 AP Students: Required Reading for ALL students enrolled in 11 AP English (includes students who register for 11 AP during the summer).
First: read the superb essay “Once More to the Lake” by E. B. White
E. B. White
Once More to the Lake
One summer, along about 1904, my father rented a camp on a lake in Maine and took us all there for the month of August. We all got ringworm from some kittens and had to rub Pond’s Extract on our arms and legs night and morning, and my father rolled over in a canoe with all his clothes on; but outside of that the vacation was a success and from then on none of us ever thought there was any place in the world like that lake in Maine. We returned summer after summer—always on August 1st for one month. I have since become a salt-water man, but sometimes in summer there are days when the restlessness of the tides and the fearful cold of the sea water and the incessant wind which blows across the afternoon and into the evening make me wish for the placidity of a lake in the woods. A few weeks ago this feeling got so strong I bought myself a couple of bass hooks and a spinner and returned to the lake where we used to go, for a week’s fishing and to revisit old haunts.
I took along my son, who had never had any fresh water up his nose and who had seen lily pads only from train windows. On the journey over to the lake I began to wonder what it would be like. I wondered how time would have marred this unique, this holy spot—the coves and streams, the hills that the sun set behind, the camps and the paths behind the camps. I was sure that the tarred road would have found it out and I wondered in what other ways it would be desolated. It is strange how much you can remember about places like that once you allow your mind to return into the grooves which lead back. You remember one thing, and that suddenly reminds you of another thing. I guess I remembered clearest of all the early mornings, when the lake was cool and motionless, remembered how the bedroom smelled of the lumber it was made of and of the wet woods whose scent entered through the screen. The partitions in the camp were thin and did not extend clear to the top of the rooms, and as I was always the first up I would dress softly so as not to wake the others, and sneak out into the sweet outdoors and start out in the canoe, keeping close along the shore in the long shadows of the pines. I remembered being very careful never to rub my paddle against the gunwale for fear of disturbing the stillness of the cathedral.
The lake had never been what you would call a wild lake. There were cottages sprinkled around the shores, and it was in farming although the shores of the lake were quite heavily wooded. Some of the cottages were owned by nearby farmers, and you would live at the shore and eat your meals at the farmhouse. That’s what our family did. But although it wasn’t wild, it was a fairly large and undisturbed lake and there were places in it which, to a child at least, seemed infinitely remote and primeval.
I was right about the tar: it led to within half a mile of the shore But when I got back there, with my boy, and we settled into a camp near a farmhouse and into the kind of summertime I had known, I could tell that it was going to be pretty much the same as it had been before—I knew it, lying in bed the first morning, smelling the bedroom, and hearing the boy sneak quietly out and go off along the shore in a boat. I began to sustain the illusion that he was I, and therefore, by simple transposition, that I was my father. This sensation persisted, kept cropping up all the time we were there. It was not an entirely new feeling, but in this setting it grew much stronger. I seemed to be living a dual existence. I would be in the middle of some simple act, I would be picking up a bait box or laying down a table fork, or I would be saying something, and suddenly it would be not I but my father who was saying the words or making the gesture. It gave me a creepy sensation.
We went fishing the first morning. I felt the same damp moss covering the worms in the bait can, and saw the dragonfly alight on the tip of my rod as it hovered a few inches from the surface of the water. It was the arrival of this fly that convinced me beyond any doubt that everything was as it always had been, that the years were a mirage and there had been no years. The small waves were the same, chucking the rowboat under the chin as we fished at anchor, and the boat was the same boat, the same color green and the ribs broken in the same places, and under the floor-boards the same freshwater leavings and debris—the dead hellgrammite, the wisps of moss, the rusty discarded fishhook, the dried blood from yesterday’s catch. We stared silently at the tips of our rods, at the dragonflies that came and wells. I lowered the tip of mine into the water, tentatively, pensively dislodging the fly, which darted two feet away, poised, darted two feet back, and came to rest again a little farther up the rod. There had been no years between the ducking of this dragonfly and the other one—the one that was part of memory. I looked at the boy, who was silently watching his fly, and it was my hands that held his rod, my eyes watching. I felt dizzy and didn’t know which rod I was at the end of.
We caught two bass, hauling them in briskly as though they were mackerel. pulling them over the side of the boat in a businesslike manner without any landing net, and stunning them with a blow on the back of the head. When we got back for a swim before lunch, the lake was exactly where we had left it, the same number of inches from the dock, and there was only the merest suggestion of a breeze. This seemed an utterly enchanted sea, this lake you could leave to its own devices for a few hours and come back to, and find that it had not stirred, this constant and trustworthy body of water. In the shallows, the dark, water-soaked sticks and twigs, smooth and old, were undulating in clusters on the bottom against the clean ribbed sand, and the track of the mussel was plain. A school of minnows swam by, each minnow with its small, individual shadow, doubling the attendance, so clear and sharp in the sunlight. Some of the other campers were in swimming, along the shore, one of them with a cake of soap, and the water felt thin and clear and insubstantial. Over the years there had been this person with the cake of soap, this cultist, and here he was. There had been no years.
Up to the farmhouse to dinner through the teeming, dusty field, the road under our sneakers was only a two-track road. The middle track was missing, the one with the marks of the hooves and the splotches of dried, flaky manure. There had always been three tracks to choose from in choosing which track to walk in; now the choice was narrowed down to two. For a moment I missed terribly the middle alternative. But the way led past the tennis court, and something about the way it lay there in the sun reassured me; the tape had loosened along the backline, the alleys were green with plantains and other weeds, and the net (installed in June and removed in September) sagged in the dry noon, and the whole place steamed with midday heat and hunger and emptiness. There was a choice of pie for dessert, and one was blueberry and one was apple, and the waitresses were the same country girls, there having been no passage of time, only the illusion of it as in a dropped curtain—the waitresses were still fifteen; their hair had been washed, that was the only difference—they had been to the movies and seen the pretty girls with the clean hair.
Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible, the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable, the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever, summer without end; this was the background, and the life along the shore was the design, the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design, their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky, the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling, and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked. This was the American family at play, escaping the city heat, wondering whether the newcomers at the camp at the head of the cove were “common” or “nice,” wondering whether it was true that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse were turned away because there wasn’t enough chicken.
It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness. The arriving (at the beginning of August) had been so big a business in itself, at the railway station the farm wagon drawn up, the first smell of the pine-laden air, the first glimpse of the smiling farmer, and the great importance of the trunks and your father’s enormous authority in such matters, and the feel of the wagon under you for the long ten-mile haul, and at the top of the last long hill catching the first view of the lake after eleven months of not seeing this cherished body of water. The shouts and cries of the other campers when they saw you, and the trunks to be unpacked, to give up their rich burden. (Arriving was less exciting nowadays, when you sneaked up in your car and parked it under a tree near the camp and took out the bags and in five minutes it was all over, no fuss, no loud wonderful fuss about trunks.)
Peace and goodness and jollity. The only thing that was wrong now, really, was the sound of the place, an unfamiliar nervous sound of the outboard motors. This was the note that jarred, the one thing that would sometimes break the illusion and set the years moving. In those other summertimes, all motors were inboard; and when they were at a little distance, the noise they made was a sedative, an ingredient of summer sleep. They were one-cylinder and two-cylinder engines, and some were make-and-break and some were jump-spark, but they all made a sleepy sound across the lake. The one-lungers throbbed and fluttered, and the twin-cylinder ones purred and purred, and that was a quiet sound too. But now the campers all had outboards. In the daytime, in the hot mornings, these motors made a petulant, irritable sound; at night, in the still evening when the afterglow lit the water, they whined about one’s ears like mosquitoes. My boy loved our rented outboard, and his great desire was to achieve single-handed mastery over it, and authority, and he soon learned the trick of choking it a little (but not too much), and the adjustment of the needle valve. Watching him I would remember the things you could do with the old one-cylinder engine with the heavy flywheel, how you could have it eating out of your hand if you got really close to it spiritually. Motor boats in those days didn’t have clutches, and you would make a landing by shutting off the motor at the proper time and coasting in with a dead rudder. But there was a way of reversing them, if you learned the trick, by cutting the switch and putting it on again exactly on the final dying revolution of the flywheel, so that it would kick back against compression and begin reversing. Approaching a dock in a strong following breeze, it was difficult to slow up sufficiently by the ordinary coasting method, and if a boy felt he had complete mastery over his motor, he was tempted to keep it running beyond its time and then reverse it a few feet from the dock. It took a cool nerve, because if you threw the switch a twentieth of a second too soon you would catch the flywheel when it still had speed enough to go up past center, and the boat would leap ahead, charging bull-fashion at the dock.
We had a good week at the camp. The bass were biting well and the sun shone endlessly, day after day. We would be tired at night and lie down in the accumulated heat of the little bedrooms after the long hot day and the breeze would stir almost imperceptibly outside and the smell of the swamp drift in through the rusty screens. Sleep would come easily and in the morning the red squirrel would be on the roof, tapping out his gay routine. I kept remembering everything, lying in bed in the mornings—the small steamboat that had a long rounded stern like the lip of a Ubangi, and how quietly she ran on the moonlight sails, when the older boys played their mandolins and the girls sang and we ate doughnuts dipped in sugar, and how sweet the music was on the water in the shining night, and what it had felt like to think about girls then. After breakfast we would go up to the store and the things were in the same place—the minnows in a bottle, the plugs and spinners disarranged and pawed over by the youngsters from the boys’ camp, the Fig Newtons and the Beeman’s gum. Outside, the road was tarred and cars stood in front of the store. Inside, all was just as it had always been, except there was more Coca Cola and not so much Moxie and root beer and birch beer and sarsaparilla. We would walk out with a bottle of pop apiece and sometimes the pop would backfire up our noses and hurt. We explored the streams, quietly, where the turtles slid off the sunny logs and dug their way into the soft bottom; and we lay on the town wharf and fed worms to the tame bass. Everywhere we went I had trouble making out which was I, the one walking at my side, the one walking in my pants.
One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In mid-afternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.
When the others went swimming my son said he was going in too. He pulled his dripping trunks from the line where they had hung all through the shower, and wrung them out. Languidly, and with no thought of going in, I watched him, his hard little body, skinny and bare, saw him wince slightly as he pulled up around his vitals the small, soggy, icy garment. As he buckled the swollen belt suddenly my groin felt the chill of death.
Next: follow the assignment choices below, being careful to complete one of them to show your skills in the deeper waters of education.
Once, Twice, Three More Times to the Lake…
English 11 AP (Burns/Lutz)
In the event that you are not already aware that the very best things come in small packages, if White’s essay were a piece of jewelry, it would arrive in one of those Wedgwood blue, telltale, Tiffany’s boxes...
Choose ONE of the following options (each worth 35 points).
The level of swimming difficulty ( = swimmer) that you select depends on your prowess in this lake’s waters. For all options, however, you will receive the same 35 workout points.
Required: all responses must be word processed, not hand written.
Due in class: Friday, 9/15 (Day 2) or Monday, 9/16 (Day 1).
Assignment Option 1:
Admittedly formulaic, but nonetheless a challenging option (35 points):
Consider the entirety of White’s essay; hopefully, by now, you have visited it enough times that you are as familiar with his words as he is with that lake in Maine. Now that you are sufficiently “familiarized,” try to identify a distinct purpose for White’s essay. You will display this “meaning” as a thesis statement in the space provided below.
Then, select any three of the rhetorical strategies listed below. For each strategy you select, suggest how White uses it to lead the reader to meaning. I will be looking for your understanding of the literary term in question, depth of thought, support of your premise and comprehension of the essay, in addition to the clarity of your writing.
Each strategy you examine should represent a complete, independent answer (think ½ -¾ of a page); each layer is worth 1/3 of your grade. However, unless the thesis statement you offer is both clear and valid, it will be difficult to work with the rhetorical strategies you select!
Thesis Statement: (5 points)
Choose any three of the following rhetorical strategies: (10 points each)
Point of View
Assignment Option 2:
Slightly less formulaic, but probably equally challenging option (35 points):
Choose any two of the above strategies of language and follow the directions as outlined in option 1 (25 points)