The Former Anne Spollen's Author Blog Is Being Retitled to "Notes from Living Upghetto": Say What?

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Say What?

After teaching online classes to homebound teens all winter, I got really good at the lol, omg, brb since we frequently used text chat. But now, I have to TALK to them again since they are home all day. So for those of you who don't have handy access to teens, I offer, in no particular order, part one of words and phrases I am learning:

A bromance = close relationship between two males, especially close if they engage in manscaping, or the shaving of any part of the male skin, and I'll leave it at that

Way = yes or I'll be there in a minute

Biters = people who copy from homework or tests

Flash, as in, "OMG, that was soo flash" = a really dumb or insensitive remark

Flashes are usually said by tools, or idiots. A wingnut would not necessarily say something flash as they are just flighty, sort of not all there. Rents, the quick way to say parents,
are very prone to flash comments.

When food is sick, it's delicious, but this is not usually said by a hater, or a pessimist. An "H" (abbreviation for hardcore)or an intense person (experiences, like watching a movie, can be H as well) is usually adept at asking the rents requestions, which is a new compound word meaning request and question at the same time. "Can you give me five dollars so I can hang out with Mike?" is an example of a requestion.

I still don't have clarity on the essential difference between emos and goths. I did get an email from a 14 year old girl asking if I meant to make my book "...you know, so emo?" I do know that Goths and Emos require three to five pounds of black eyeliner per day, and that includes the boys.

My fav might be the short form for guilt/apology, "Oh, dude, My B" which means, My Bad or Me Bad, which translates to I blew it -- sorry

I think that's it for today; in the words of the 14 year old who finally just got off my computer, "Got to bounce."

7 comments:

Mary Witzl said...: Wow -- these are great! I've been collecting teen vocabulary and doing my best to decipher it, but what you've got here is far more elaborate.

My kids have gone to some lengths to explain the difference between Emos and Goths. Emos, they claim, are Goth wannabes. They're full of adolescence angst and, according to my wise teens, tend to be spoiled. Goths, on the other hand, are the Real Thing -- genuinely dark and brooding and not posers. My kids have more respect for Goths than Emos.

Have you seen/heard that hilarious U-Tube clip called the Emo Song? My girls claim that it gives a very good idea of the Emo perspective.; Friday, 11 July, 2008
Anne Spollen said...: Thanks for visiting, Mary!
Yes, my teens here were very patient with me (which means only moderately exasperated). It seems you can ACT emo or FEEL emo without being a total emo, but true emos are more middle schoolish (grades 6 - 9) while Goths are the real deal and kind of scary. I think the sense is emos WISH they had the courage to be Goths.
Glad we got that straightened out!; Sunday, 13 July, 2008
Anne Spollen said...: BTW, the emo song was hysterical...; Monday, 14 July, 2008
Mary Witzl said...: What really gets me is that my kids respect Goths because (and I quote) "They don't just play around with suicide, they really do it." (Huh? And live to tell the tale?)
Emos, I am told, just muck around with knives and draw a little blood.

Boy, is youth wasted on the young.; Tuesday, 15 July, 2008
Anonymous said...: Exactly the bizarre response my two teens had. I call it the Nirvana syndrome, but that's a whole 'nother blog...Emos might cut themselves, but Goths...go figure.

"And live to tell the tale." - lol
:); Tuesday, 15 July, 2008
Anne Spollen said...: Wait - I wrote the above and it showed as anonymous. Not sure why, but it's that kind of day...

-Anne; Tuesday, 15 July, 2008
TerriRainer said...: OMG that was so funny!

""They don't just play around with suicide, they really do it." (Huh? And live to tell the tale?)"

I have often tried to get clarification on the difference between the two groups. My daughter (14) tells me that Emo stands for "emotional", and what teen isn't??? I guess they take it to the ninth degree. I tried to call them "punk" and I received looks like "you are so old, and don't understand anything".

:) Terri; Thursday, 17 July, 2008

Books

Light Beneath Ferns

"I have this strange sense that my silence is preparing me for something I can't name . ."

Elizah Rayne is nothing like other fourteen-year-old girls. More interested in bird bones than people, she wraps herself in silence. Trying to escape the shadow of her gambler father, Elizah and her mother move into an old house that borders a cemetery. All her mother wants is for them to have "normal" lives. But that becomes impossible for Elizah when she finds a human jawbone by the river and meets Nathaniel, a strangely hypnotic boy who draws Elizah into his dreamlike and mysterious world.

Only by forgetting everything she knows can Elizah understand the truth about Nathaniel—and discover an unimaginable secret.

Teen made trailer for Light Beneath Ferns.

Order Light Beneath Ferns here.

Foreword Magazine's Review of Light Beneath Ferns

Excerpt from THE SHAPE OF WATER

CHAPTER ONE
I discovered windows one afternoon and after that, nothing was ever the same. They had always been there, of course, glass panes shimmering in the color of rain, but that spring for the first time, I was able to open the windows in my room. For years, the locks had been painted stuck, and during the winter, heat from the radiator beneath my windows finally steamed off enough paint off the metal wings of the locks could be twirled open. Knowing that I could open the windows attracted me to them, and I began sitting under the windows, staring through the glass at the sky. From that position, on a chair in my room, the sky did not seem real; it seemed a place I was making up, so I watched it.
The white wood of the window panes acted as frames so the sky came to me slowly, and the huge openness of its space did not touch me. All the window glass in our old house had wavers and bubbles inside it, so at times the clouds moved like water, melting and blurring until they passed outside of the warp. After a few afternoons of sitting, the heavens seemed too quiet to keep watching so I began watching a small patch of woods next to our yard that housed little more than trees and a scatter of bony, mean-looking rabbits.
I started gazing at the sky and the woods in March when the branches were still wet and it was then, with nothing outside my window but trees and rain, that I noticed a shine inside darkness, I noticed colors glimmering within the darkness of the wood. I watched birds come and go, I watched rain nipple down from buds to the grass. The water dripping from branch edges and leaves created optical tricks; I could see that as I watched leaves melt.
Then one day I ventured into the space outside. I did not think about doing this much beforehand. I simply opened the window and dropped to the ground below, uncertain as to why this should be such a more satisfying exit than simply using the door; my father worked until seven o’clock and I could do whatever I wanted until then. But I liked the solid sound my legs made when I landed. Leaving via a five foot drop seemed so much more a decision than just using a door. The sense of escape made my heart pound, though all I escaped was the soundless spread of moss-colored light inside my house and the silence.
I had come to know silence well during those months after my mother died. When you sit in silence long enough, you learn that silence has a motion. It glides over you without shape or form, but with weight, exactly like water. Its color is silver. And silence has a sound you hear only after hours of wading inside it. The sound is soft, flute notes rising up like the words of glass speaking. There comes a point when you must shatter the silence, when you must shatter the blindness of its words, the blindness of its light. I did this by going into the yard. Once I stood there, in the grass next to the trees I had been watching, I found silence outside as well. But I was happier outside than I had been in the house, so I stayed for a bit. I stood beneath my bedroom window for a few minutes, looking up at the branches and the crooked pieces of sky colliding between the branches. I believed I could identify the scent of the sky as I stood there, a blue menthol fragrance similar to the scent of seawater that sprayed into my face when I first dove into the ocean. That initial scent smelled much more subtle than the ocean’s heavy, fishy aroma, a whiff of salt and mint that warned a more powerful scent would enter my nose just as I approached the water on a dive. It was the scent I dreamed in. And it was the scent of that spring sky as I stood in my yard.

***