Category: Writing

Miss Bell talks briefly with a fellow teacher, Mr. Corbin, and notices a distinct odor associated with marijuana coming from Mr. Corbin. Is Miss Bell obligated to report this observation? Yes. Miss Bell is obligated to report this apparent violation of school policy. No. Since there were no other witnesses, Miss Bell has no obligation to report. No. Miss Bell is not obligated to report because she has no evidence that Mr. Corbin used marijuana on school grounds.

Take a look at the two images presented here. You probably recognize the first one: it’s the “Vitruvian Man,” by Leonardo da Vinci, regarded as a representation of “ideal man,” and as the perfect expression of Renaissance Humanism. Is there a “Vitruvian Woman,” also by da Vinci? Nope. Now, take a look at the second image, “Red Breasts Clemente,” by contemporary visual artist Dianna Cohen.
In this posting, compare these two images, and write about what their similarities and differences might tell us in terms of form, line, subject, coloration, technique, etc. Answer the questions:
What does da Vinci’s the Vitruvian Man tell us both about what “the male ideal” has been throughout Western history?
What does Cohen’s figure, which is suggestive of the Vitruvian Man, but obviously very different, tell us about one feminist’s representation of Woman?
If you are feeling a little stumped, then think about this quotation:
“Writing about art has traditionally been concerned with that which is interior to the frame, whereas feminism has focused primarily on what lies outside the frame…”
. How does this quotation relate to the da Vinci and Cohen images?
Find a third image that you would like to relate to the da Vinci and Cohen images. You might want to use the following online resources to locate an image: ArtStor, Wikimedia, Flickr. Please attach your image to your post and tell us why you chose this image. How does your selected image relate to the da Vinci and the Cohen images?

I remained a backyard snob to most of my class girls until the end of term. But I did not worry too much about that because I carried a bigger load—the worry of making sure I came first this term. It was like balancing a sack of gravel on my head every day at school and not being allowed to steady it with my hand. I still saw the print in my textbooks as a red blur, still saw my baby brother’s spirit strung together by narrow lines of blood. I memorized what the teachers said because I knew my textbooks would not make sense if I tried to study later. After every test, a tough lump like poorly made fufu formed in my throat and stayed there until our exercise books came back. School closed for Christmas break in early December. I peered into my report card while Kevin was driving me home and saw 1/25, written in a hand so slanted I had to study it to make sure it was not 7/25. That night, I fell asleep hugging close the image of Papa’s face lit up, the sound of Papa’s voice telling me how proud of me he was, how I had fulfilled God’s purpose for me.
DUST-LADEN WINDS of harmattan came with December. They brought the scent of the Sahara and Christmas, and yanked the slender, ovate leaves down from the frangipani and the needlelike leaves from the whistling pines, covering everything in a film of brown. We spent every Christmas in our hometown. Sister Veronica called it the yearly migration of the Igbo. She did not understand, she said in that Irish accent that rolled her words across her tongue, why many Igbo people built huge houses in their hometowns, where they spent only a week or two in December, yet were content to live in cramped quarters in the city the rest of the year. I often wondered why Sister Veronica needed to understand it, when it was simply the way things were done.
The morning winds were swift on the day we left, pulling and pushing the whistling pine trees so that they bent and twisted, as if bowing to a dusty god, their leaves and branches making the same sound as a football referee’s whistle. The cars were parked in the driveway, doors and boots open, waiting to be loaded. Papa would drive the Mercedes, with Mama in the front seat and Jaja and me in the back. Kevin would drive the factory car with Sisi, and the factory driver, Sunday, who usually stood in when Kevin took his yearly one-week leave, would drive the Volvo. Papa stood by the hibiscuses, giving directions, one hand sunk in the pocket of his white tunic while the other pointed from item to car. “The suitcases go in the Mercedes, and those vegetables also. The yams will go in the Peugeot 505, with the cases of Remy Martin and cartons of juice. See if the stacks of okporoko will fit in, too. The bags of rice and garri and beans and the plantains go in the Volvo.” There was a lot to pack, and Adamu came over from the gate to help Sunday and Kevin.
The yams alone, wide tubers the size of young puppies, filled the boot of the Peugeot 505, and even the front seat of the Volvo had a bag of beans slanting across it, like a passenger who had fallen asleep. Kevin and Sunday drove off first, and we followed, so that if the soldiers at the roadblocks stopped them, he would see and stop, too. Papa started the rosary before we drove out of our gated street. He stopped at the end of the first decade so Mama could continue with the next set of ten Hail Marys. Jaja led the next decade; then it was my turn. Papa took his time driving. The expressway was a single lane, and when we got behind a lorry he stayed put, muttering that the roads were unsafe, that the people in Abuja had stolen all the money meant for making the expressways dual-carriage.
Many cars horned and overtook us; some were so full of Christmas yams and bags of rice and crates of soft drinks that their boots almost grazed the road. At Ninth Mile, Papa stopped to buy bread and okpa. Hawkers descended on our car, pushing boiled eggs, roasted cashew nuts, bottled water, bread, okpa, agidi into every window of the car, chanting: “Buy from me, oh, I will sell well to you.” Or “Look at me, I am the one you are looking for.” Although Papa bought only bread and okpa wrapped in hot banana leaves, he gave a twenty-naira note to each of the other hawkers, and their “Thank sir, God bless you” chants echoed in my ear as we drove off and approached Abba.
The green WELCOME TO ABBA TOWN sign that led off the expressway would have been easy to miss because it was so small. Papa turned onto the dirt road, and soon I heard the screech-screech-screech of the low underbelly of the Mercedes scraping the bumpy, sun-baked dirt road. As we drove past, people waved and called out Papa’s title: “Omelora!” Mudandthatch huts stood close to three-story houses that nestled behind ornate metal gates. Naked and seminaked children played with limp footballs. Men sat on benches beneath trees, drinking palm wine from cow horns and cloudy glass mugs. The car was coated in dust by the time we got to the wide black gates of our country home.
Three elderly men standing under the lone ukwa tree near our gates waved and shouted, “Nno nu! Nno nu! Have you come back? We will come in soon to say welcome!” Our gateman threw the gates open. “Thank you, Lord, for journey mercies,” Papa said as he drove into the compound, crossing himself. “Amen,” we said. Our house still took my breath away, the four-story white majesty of it, with the spurting fountain in front and the coconut trees flanking it on both sides and the orange trees dotting the front yard.
Three little boys rushed into the compound to greet Papa. They had been chasing our cars down the dirt road. “Omelora! Good afun, sah!” they chorused. They wore only shorts, and each one’s belly button was the size of a small balloon. “Kedu nu?” Papa gave them each ten naira from a wad of notes he pulled out of his hold-all. “Greet your parents, make sure you show them this money.” “Yes sah! Tank sah!” They dashed out of the compound, laughing loudly.

If you were a performance studies major at Northwestern University, which of the following class assignments might you have? to write a scholarly essay on some topic of performance history to adapt and perform a work of poetry or fiction for your class to research a non-Western culture and draft a research report for a scholarly journal 6 6

1. Does John Proctor Suffer?
Topic sentence: John Proctor suffers greatly when…(finish the sentence)
Context of Quote
Concrete detail:
Analysis:
Analysis:
Concluding sentence:

CommonLit PM3 Question Types 23/2. Due: Tue Sep 5, 2023 11:59pm Attempt 1 V In Progress NEXT UP: Submit Assignment
Which line from the poem best reveals the nature of the relationship between the speaker and Bellinglise?
How does the poem’s division into two parts affect its development?
Which lines from the poem use alliteration to emphasize the enduring positive qualities of the scene?
Which statement best describes the line breaks in lines 5-14 of the poem?
How does the setting of “the beautiful chateau” relate to the theme of this poem?
How does the poem’s first-person point of view reveal the poet’s relationship to his subject?

Where do students request and submit their onboarding requirements?
Via email to faculty
Via email to Office of Field Experience
Via Walden’s portal through CastleBranch
Upload in Meditrek

Which of the following sentences properly uses a reflexive pronoun?
a. I myself believe we can still work things out.
b. An argument between Nikki and myself caused problems in our professional relationship.

Why are posters not good as presentation aids? Question 19 options:
a) They can be affected by bad weather on the way to the
b) They are often not large enough for the audience to see.
c) They do not look as if they took enough time to prepare.
d) All of a-c
e) None of a-c

Joshua Tillman lives at 177 Misty Rd, in the Laurel Canyon neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, 90046. He married Nancy Chateau in 2015, but the couple divorced in May 2022. Joshua has not remarried, and he has lived in a townhouse that he rents from a local landlord since the divorce. Nancy decided to move to Seattle, Washington, after the divorce. Per his divorce decree with Nancy, executed May 2022, he has custody of their eleven-year-old daughter, Lana. While Lana occasionally visits her mom on the weekends, she spends most of her time living with her dad in Laurel Canyon. The divorce decree stipulates that Nancy must pay alimony to Joshua each year as long as she remains alive and single. It further stipulates that Nancy must pay child support for Lana. In 2022, Nancy paid $32,000 of alimony and $16,000 in child support. The decree gives Nancy the right to claim the dependency exemption, along with any associated credits, for Lana as long as Lana is eligible to be a dependent of either parent. Joshua and Nancy have already filed the necessary forms to make sure this happens. Joshua is a US citizen. He would like to receive any