Wednesday, August 4th. 10AM. The Aeronautics Student Forum.

My lab is lined up in the front row, fidgeting, exchanging nervous glances. We trade seats between the other students’ presentations, taking turns with the laptop to read over the half-done powerpoint.

The motion tracking camera system is set up (we were in the building until 10pm the previous night, testing our hardware and software, ensuring it’d all be ready to demo). One of the cameras lurks beside the white screen, ominous, a constant reminder that it’s our turn in an hour, and like or not, we don’t have our finalized slides and some of us don’t even know for sure whether we’ll be speaking.

It was nerve-wracking.

It was also remarkably exciting.

Presentations, preparation, control

I usually plan presentations out to the last sentence. I know I’m not an improv whiz, so I practice my talk out loud over and over. Any slides I have, they’re done at least two nights ahead of time. Practice, preparation, organization. No need to worry because I have everything under control.

This presentation at the aero forum was the opposite.

The previous week, to the relief of my labmates, I’d tried to organize everything (the slides, the talks, the demo). But our mentor, Garry, told us not to worry about any of it. He kept repeating that: don’t worry. It’s just a presentation.

None of us were convinced.

It wasn’t until Garry sat down with me and explained what he had in mind–how he was going to help compile photos and diagrams into a logical order–that I trusted he was right. No need to worry. He had given scores of presentations. He had good ideas. He frequently pulled things together last-minute. It’d be okay.

In short, when he explained that, I consciously relinquished control. I mentioned control (and the lack thereof) in the context of volleyball games with my lab. The same idea comes into play here: Setting perfectionism aside, trusting that someone else is competent enough to get the job done. Teamwork. All that good stuff.

Coming together last-minute

Garry showed up not long after 10AM, printed copies of the finalized powerpoint in hand. As our time slot approached, my labmates and I shuffled discretely through the slides, still worried, still anxious.

Our turn came. We trooped up to the podium, all nine of us. We spoke. Twenty minutes, all told (not too long, really), plus the demo. We explained our newly established Autonomous Vehicle Lab, its capabilities, and what the audience would see in the demo. We flew our quadcopter. We demonstrated object tracking and obstacle avoidance.

It went well. It went better than well: our presentation was splendid.

Everyone knew what to say. Everyone was clear, concise, and comprehensible. Perhaps it was because we were not prepared that we were prepared: rehearsing, in our minds, coherent sentences about our parts of the project. Recapitulating our work with the quadcopters, the DGPS system, the Vicon cameras, the many vehicles and pieces of software. Unsure of what we would need to say, and thus, preparing for the worst.

If not for Garry’s persistent “don’t worry about it”s, I would never have experienced a presentation this way. I’d have planned out that talk and every one after, never daring take a chance on not preparing enough and not practicing enough. Now I know. Our aero forum talk was proof: Things can come together last-minute.

That said, I think I still like having my slides done more than an hour before the presentation. As engrossing an adventure as it was, last-minute isn’t going to become my style.

One of the difficult parts of playing a new sport is that I’m not good at it yet.

My lab played volleyball this summer. Every Wednesday after work, we trotted out to the grass behind the conference center, doing our best not to complain about the humidity and heat. We greeted the other two teams in the league (both of which had clearly played volleyball before–not just in gym class in high school, or, in my case, once during a summer program five years ago), we helped set up the nets, and we began bumping a ball around.

Volleyball was not where any of us excelled. Sure, by the end of the ten weeks, everyone in the lab had improved. We could do what might be called a volley. I could be in the right place at the right time to hit the ball, even if the ball then flew off in completely unintentional directions. When I served, the probability that the ball would both get over the net and stay in bounds was greater than chance (if I remembered to stand on the right, that is, because my serves always flew too far left). It was great fun.

It was also frustrating. I knew that given enough practice, I could be a half-decent volleyballer. Instead of the game being a matter of physical skills and pure luck, it could evolve into a complex, strategic battle, with us setting up plays and plotting out how to outwit the other team. But ten weeks isn’t quite long enough to get us to that point. (Sometimes, I’m impatient.) We lost just about every match played against the other teams.

Losing is hard to watch

My lab had split into two teams and recruited a few extra interns, so most days, the five or six of us on my team rotated through four spots on the court. This meant that some games, I stood on the sidelines during the game point.

That was difficult.

I had no direct control over whether we won or lost. I had to stand there, watching, as hands missed the ball, as the ball smacked the dusty grass, or flew too far out of bounds. I had no power over how hard my teammates tried (whether they desired to win enough to dive after the ball; whether they were tired and sweaty and just wanted it to be over). I could be a cheerleader, but I could not actively influence the outcome of the game.

That was new.

My usual sport is fencing: highly individual, always solo. When you’re on the strip, it’s just you. If you mess up, if you lose, you only have yourself to blame. Even in team competitions, you’re just adding up the scores you and your teammates have separately acquired. You don’t realize, unless you’ve been part of a team, how important it is to trust your teammates. And that’s what made volleyball difficult: because none of us were that good, it wasn’t easy to trust my teammates to be there, backing me up, putting in their best effort to win even though the games were casual and couldn’t be taken seriously given our level of experience.

The thing about trust is, most times, it has to be earned.

Trust and control

Fortunately for my lab, playing volleyball is not what we did full-time. When working on our summer project–establishing the Autonomous Vehicle Lab–I learned I could trust my labmates to have my back. We all cared about the outcome; we could trust each other to each do our part. Not being in control of every little detail (and occasionally standing on the sidelines) was okay, because I knew my labmates were trying just as hard as I was to debug their programs and get the quadcopters flying.

I guess the moral of the story is (besides the obvious “teamwork requires trust”), if you ever have the chance to play a new sport, do so. You never know what you’ll learn.

Words are still great.

Having devoured the remainder of China Miéville’s Perdido Street Station and started on The Scar, I thought I ought to share my continued collection of wordly wonders. (Don’t forget to check out the first half of the list!) Some novel, some familiar but infrequently encountered and marvelous, and all commendable to have in one’s vernacular.

• palimpsest
• bonhomie
• jurisprudence
• desquamate
• abbatoir
• ululate
• prurient
• efflorescence
• phalanx
• salvo
• etiolate
• scurrilous
• conniption
• rictus
• ordure
• priapic
• agglutination
• ossified
• puissance
• stygian
• protuberant
• obstreperously
• pudenda
• phlogistic
• opprobrium
• aggrandizement
• tinnitus

Oh, and I have to ask: Do you have any favored words–unusual, rare, or just plain fun to say? I’d like to discover more!

Words are great.

The vocabulary I habitually utilize hardly taps the well of words available in the English language. This isn’t news: most people fail to employ the full range of lexical jewels stashed in their thesauruses. As such, I’m delighted to announce that the book I’m reading now is full of fantastic words.

I’m reading Perdido Street Station. No lie: The man who wrote this book, China Miéville, has a lexicon just as prodigious as the world he paints. Here are a few novel and infrequently seen words I’ve espied thus far:

• detumescing
• veldt
• sciolist
• eidolon
• vertiginous
• aesthete
• bombastic
• moribund
• inveigled
• oneiric
• febrile
• necrotic
• pusillanimous
• bivouac
• chthonic
• dissident
• querulous
• inchoate
• paean
• patina
• desiccate
• moniker
• nacre
• solipsistic
• autotelic
• liminal
• deracinate
• sepulchral

Aren’t these splendid? I didn’t start taking notes on words until a hundred pages in, and I’ve got several hundred pages to go. Just think what wordly wonders I may encounter next!

Faded squares of fabric, strung together in repeating blue-white-red-green-yellow chains, crisscross the branches of bare-limbed trees. The gentle wind makes them flutter. Orange-gold light filters into the grassy meadow, touching a row of canvas tents and the temple house beyond. Tsechen Kunchab Ling: Temple of All-Encompassing Great Compassion. This is the seat of His Holiness the Sakya Trizin in the United States, a Tibetan Buddhist monastery established nine years ago.

I spent the past weekend there. The field work office at my college arranges this retreat every semester. Everyone I’ve talked to who has previously attended says wonderful things about it; this semester, one of my friends told me she was going: I should join her! I like learning new things, so I signed up. A good decision: I didn’t return all chill and zen, as one friend told me his roommate had, but I certainly gained a few new ideas and approaches to mull over, and dipped my hand into a previously unfamiliar piece of the world.

Medicine for one’s mind

The first evening, the twenty-something students–most from my college, four from another–gathered in the shrine room, sitting cross-legged on cushions as we listened to Khenpo Kalsang introduce Tibetan Buddhist philosophy. He began by telling us, “Do not take any of what I say on faith. Take it through analysis, if there is some benefit in it for you.” Religion, he said, is like a drugstore full of medicine. You do not go to the drugstore and buy everything in it–you just buy what would be beneficial to you now. You believe the other medicine may have just as much value, but in other situations, not this one.

We discussed the foundations: the Three Turnings of the Wheel of Dharma; the four noble truths; karma; defilements; the six perfections. When we talked about the giving, and how one should try to give what one could to other sentient beings (in the form of material items, kind words, protection, and so on), Khenpo Kalsang shared a story of the Buddha, and how the Buddha had given his flesh so that a family of hungry tigers could eat. “So,” a fellow student asked, “Giving one’s life for another being is the ultimate gift?”

Khenpo Kalsang, he smiled, and shook his head. “Only if you feel no regret,” he said. “If you feel regret, it destroys the merit.” Until then, preserve your own life, and do not give away anything that would cause you regret. This struck a chord. Self-preservation above all else, unless the right situation arises.

Knowing and understanding

Later, I talked to the resident nun, Ani Kunga, about psychology and cognitive science. She had studied psychology for a while in grad school, but now holds the view that psychologists are going about understanding the mind and understanding the knower and what knowing is the wrong way. “Psychologists,” she said, “study the brain and the self externally. Ever since the 1920s, their science has been about observation of behavior, questionnaires, recordings of electrical brain activity. But the mind can only be known by you, the person whose mind it is.” She said philosophy and epistemology were doing it right: looking at experiences from the inside.

A big overlap exists between Tibetan Buddhism, psychology and cognitive science. All three examine the distinction between the self and others, between the observer and the observed, between knowing and the knower. I agree with Ani Kunga to some extent–only so much can be known about the mind from external observation. But this doesn’t mean that there isn’t merit to such studies, nor that nothing of use can be learned in that way.

Tibetan Buddhist philosophy also approaches the mind and the self from the inside. During a second philsophy session, Khenpo Kalsang translated a sutra about a king who received advice from the Buddha. This sutra delved into some questions about the nature of the self, whether the self is a delusion, and how the clinging of self is a defilement. I intend to discuss it in more depth later, so stay tuned.

Compassion training and prayer flags

In the afternoon, a group of us gathered outside for a meditation session with Ani Kunga. Sunshine melted lazily through the tree branches above, a breeze animating the branches’ shadows so they danced between our cushions. Compassion and anger were the session’s topics. The key message:

“If there’s something you can do, why are you unhappy? Just do it. If there’s nothing you can do, why are you unhappy?”

Ani Kunga explained several off-session and one on-session technique for dealing with negative emotions (anger, hate, irritation, stress, jealousy, and so on). All the methods built off the idea that you are in control: anger is an emotion, and you can change your emotions. Stay tuned for a more in-depth post on the topic.

Another of the day’s activities was making prayer flags. As Ani Kunga explained, “Prayers, wishes, hopes, aspirations–someone, many people, may share those with you. Hanging the prayer flag shares your prayer with everyone else in the world. This may do no good at all, but it may–if everyone hopes and wishes and dreams and aspires, perhaps it will do good. It may not. But if no one shares their prayers, it will certainly do no good. So on the offchance that it will help, why not?”

Never done

This weekend reminded me that I’m not done learning. If I stay still long enough, if I’ve achieved a relatively constant level of happiness and satisfaction, I forget that I can and should continue to seek out new ideas and approaches, and incorporate beneficial ones into my life. A person is never “done,” and so, I’ll continue to observe and discuss and study, trying to pick the directions in which I’ll change, and trying to make tomorrow better than today.

Ever onward and ever upward.

Vassar’s varsity athletes may soon receive academic credit for participating in their sports during the school year. This proposal has been in the works for nearly two years, and at long last, folks are voting to approve it. Or to not approve it, but the former seems more likely.

As a member of the Student Athlete Advisory Committee and as a long-time varsity athlete, you might say I have particular stake in the proposal. After all, I could get half a unit a semester for up to four semesters–a typical class is worth one unit, and a typical physical education course of any level is worth half a unit, with a maximum of two physical education units counting toward graduation requirements. It seems justified: Students can receive credit for participating in other extracurricular, faculty-supervised activities, such as the orchestra, the choir, and the repertory dance theatre, so why not varsity athletics?

My friend over at Carolyn Blogs agrees: from the above standpoint, sure, it seems fair to give credit to students. If you get credit for introductory P.E. classes, you should get credit for varsity athletics. But our school newspaper presents other arguments in favor, which Carolyn thinks are highly unjustified:

On top of everything, we must remember that varsity athletics present a considerable time commitment. It is rare to find another activity on campus—academic or extracurricular—that includes a comparable daily rigor and frequent overnight obligation. Varsity athletes regularly travel throughout the northeastern to participate in meets, games and tournaments, often gone from campus for an entire weekend at a time.

And you know what? Although it’s certainly frustrating to travel to Boston for an all-day competition on the same weekend as a good friend’s birthday party, a fascinating-sounding lecture, a dance party, and seventeen other campus events no one in their right mind would ever want to miss, I agree with Carolyn. The reason I participate in my sport is because I enjoy it. If I cared more about other activities, I’d do those instead. Simply being a huge time commitment is not a valid reason for awarding credit. Carolyn’s supporting example, that higher level courses with more difficult and plentiful homework are worth the same amount of credit as introductory 100-level courses, drives this point home. And she’s backed up by our school’s system of awarding units instead of credit hours:

This system—which in its most basic form allots one unit of credit per semester course, regardless of difficulty, hours in class and subject matter­­­­—makes Vassar relatively unique in its credit system.

According to Registrar Dan Giannini, “The rationale behind such a system is to try to send the message that all courses are equal in worth and that one shouldn’t try to distinguish between courses based on time spent in or out of class.”

The reason time commitment is highlighted is because, according to the authors of the article, the faculty “must consider what it can do to mitigate possible academic pressures on these students.” Um. No, I don’t think the faculty has any obligation whatsoever. Students choose to be varsity athletes of their own accord. If they can’t manage to balance their athletics and their coursework, then perhaps they should reconsider participating in a varsity sport in the first place. Athletes shouldn’t get special privileges simply because they’re athletes.

Personally, I like the fact that even though I dedicate huge chunks of time to my sport (more time than I dedicate to any single course, at least while in-season), I can still keep up with my classmates who are taking comparable course loads, minus the sport. Sacrifices must be made, sure: Dance party on Friday night, or overnight travel to a competition?

The question is, what’s more important to me?

You learn stuff, too

The article continues:

While athletes will continue to be held to the College’s rigorous academic standards, the athletics credit could discourage a varsity athlete from unnecessarily taking on five academic credits while in their athletic season.

With the proposed varsity credit, the athlete seeking to assume five courses in his or her athletic season will be checked with an overload form, thus encouraging the student to think twice about assuming such a large academic and extracurricular load.

I’d like to be known that students who have trouble balancing tough course loads and time-consuming extracurriculars have always had the option of taking a lighter load or dropping an extracurricular. Adding the option of a varsity unit to the list doesn’t make much of a difference. Students who aren’t varsity athletes could add an easy P.E. course instead. Students who can balance their work and their sport will continue to do so. And let it be known, varsity athletes don’t have to take a half unit for their sport… thus negating the need for an overload form if taking five courses.

Carolyn says, in response to the above quote, that “participating in sports is optional, and should always take second place to academics.” True, mostly. Academics are officially what college is about. Academics are what get graded. Students’ GPAs will, in part, determine what they are able to do with their lives. But academics are only one particular kind of knowledge. Carolyn’s statement assumes that a student can learn more important things from academics than from participation on a sports team. Personally, though, some of the most important things I’ve learned about persistence, goal-setting, success and excellence, effort, teamwork, leadership…. these I’ve learned from my sport and my coaches. It’s a different kind of knowledge than what one typically gains in an academic course, yes. But it’s no less important. And that, I think, is the best reason for awarding credit for varsity athletics.

Edit: Another article from the Miscellaney News noting some faculty concerns about the proposal.