<![CDATA[<body><script type="text/javascript">
function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) {
if(window.addEventListener) {
window.addEventListener("load",
function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false);
} else {
window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; });
}
}
</script>
<iframe src="http://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID=15709763&blogName=PurpleFontGirl&publishMode=PUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT&navbarType=BLACK&layoutType=CLASSIC&searchRoot=http%3A%2F%2Fpurplefontgirl.blogspot.com%2Fsearch&blogLocale=en_US&homepageUrl=http%3A%2F%2Fpurplefontgirl.blogspot.com%2F" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" height="30px" width="100%" id="navbar-iframe" allowtransparency="true" title="Blogger Navigation and Search"></iframe>
<div></div>]]>
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
More at the NYT on the boy crisis. Why, I wonder, are they so obsessed with this topic? Good quote from Sara Mead at Education Sector, wondering whether this is a symptom of feminist backlash: I'm troubled by this tone of crisis. Even if you control for the field they're in, boys right out of college make more money than girls, so at the end of the day, is it grades and honors that matter, or something else the boys may be doing?
Bottom line: being male is still an advantage in the workplace.
How could this be? Oh, I've got it. Just combine the Slacker Boy Phenomenon with the Opt-out Revolution that NYT is equally happy to pump. Boys don't *need* to be high school and college all-stars... they'll still have great jobs, because so many of the well-qualified, high-achieving women simply don't want to work!
I can't wait for the forthcoming article blaming the opt-out women for the slacker boys' choices to play video games 6 hours a day rather than study.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Sharp gusts of wind tugged at the joints of her arms as if they wanted to pull her into the sky, up and away from the Oregon shore where she stood. The clouds were all shades of gray, ranging from pure white to angry, thunderclap dark. Her kite was a lonely patch of bright against the dark of sky, reflecting a bit of light from somewhere unknown as it was pulled here and there in the blustery fall.
The dark sand was cold and firm against her bare toes, and as a bigger gust inflated the u-shaped patch of fabric, she dug deep into her spot, fixing herself to the ground as the kite pulled her arms further up to the sky. For a moment, she felt like a tree, her toe-roots strongly anchoring her to the earth, and her branch-arms reaching upwards, straining away from her body and its center.
It was the kind of kite with two long strings and two yellow plastic handles, the model that professional tricksters can guide into figure-eights and impressive loops. She had tried these tricks at the beginning of the summer, when the kite was new, but it only ended up in a tangled mess crashed into the sand. It took her a long time to untie the knotted strings, and the tip of the kite’s nose was pushed slightly off-center by the impact. Worried that she would wreck her fragile new joy, she decided to stick to a simple, keep-it-in-the-air strategy.
She liked the struggle this way better anyway. It was more primal, a battle-of-the-wills game, as opposed to the finesse required for tricks. She liked to know that it was her strength put her in control. On the beach, it was her against the wind, and the choice was hers: she could stay here, rooted firmly in the sand, or she could allow the powerful gusts to drag her away somewhere up into the sky, away from the earth and its weight.
