1. The most basic way to state the theory of evolution is that

a) natural selection always makes organisms better

b) species improve by modifying their behavior, like giraffes getting long necks

c) there is descent with modification

d) genes change

 

        This was a question on my Biology 116 exam one week ago. The correct answer is C, “The most basic way to state the theory of evolution is that there is descent with modification.” This was one of the easier questions on the exam, perhaps because my professor emphasized the concept heavily and repeatedly. Descent with modification. It is a phrase used commonly by scientists to describe the nature of evolution and natural selection. It indicates a passing along of traits (descent), but this passing along is not always exact (modification). Evolution is something that can happen randomly, by mutation, or specifically, in reaction to changes in the environment. Which traits still exist? Which are advantageous and which are not? Which are the product of environmental pressure and which are merely random? Current evolutionary status reflects not an ultimate product, but merely a point in time. Descent, while it can be, is not necessarily progress. And evolution is very rarely, if ever, linear.

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            I have tried to avoid biology classes throughout my three and half years of college. And I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for those meddling breadth requirements! I managed to evade this ghastly discipline until my final semester here at the University of Michigan. But alas, biology caught up to me (as it tends to do for everyone, one way or another). I’ve never particularly enjoyed learning about ribonucleic acid or cytokinesis—nor have I ever been particularly adept at it. Writing, however, is a different story.

            My love of writing began—as it does for most—with reading.  Before I could sound out syllables for myself, my mother would read us bedtime stories. My two brothers and I would drift asleep to the adventures of Harry, Ron and Hermione, the Pevensie children, Harold and The Purple Crayon, or Tikki Tikki Tembo.  Once I could read for myself, I spent evenings with The Moffats, Ramona and Beezus or Harriet the Spy. The characters filled my head and consequently, my stories.

            My writing began as a way to tell stories; a way to interact with and emulate the fantastical worlds of my childhood. Once I was scouring the filing cabinets in search of my birth certificate (my parents have never had a knack for organization, our house is one oversized junk-drawer). In the basement of my childhood home I found an old photocopied story I had written in Mrs. Sessa’s third grade class. “October 3rd 2003,” it read, “The Mystery Box by Catherine Livingston.” I go on to tell the story of how a large, curious package shows up on my doorstep. Inside the box is a portal that transports me into an alternate world. If this plot sounds familiar, now would probably be a good time to mention that my favorite childhood book was The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. A story in which a large, curious package shows up on the doorstep of protagonist Milo, who is transported to "the Lands Beyond.” Ignoring distinct notes of plagiarism, the tales of my childhood gave me a springboard from which I could jump into the role of storyteller: a springboard from which I discovered my love of writing.

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            My early love of writing allowed me to develop skills intrinsically. I loved reading and I loved writing. Consequently, and obviously, I did both of those things frequently. Exposure to a variety of literature instilled in me an arsenal of structural elements: vocabulary, grammar, syntax, and so on. My voracious appetite for stories exposed me to all different kinds of characters, plots, and voices. Writing often, on the other hand, allowed me to utilize those elements until I found my own voice.

            As some point in my formal education, I experienced subconscious change in school of thought. I transitioned from seeing writing as something that came to me to something that should be taught to me. It must’ve happened sometime in middle school when we began not just to ingest literature, but also to analyze it. Line by line, Mrs. Pullis dragged us through every stanza of A Midsummer Night’s Dream: painfully exposing me to the meticulous and purposeful decisions that an author makes. Nothing is accidental in literature. Everything has meaning. Every syllable is crafted carefully. Additionally, the formal grammar lessons that accompanied middle and high school indicated to me that writing was a skill, something to be learned, executed either properly or improperly. Not a method of expression, but a means to an end.

            Writing in such terms became daunting and blech. My love of writing quieted into dormancy as my creativity was stifled. Thoughts no longer spilled out of me, but had to be extracted with precision and executed in accordance to guidelines. Writing became more of a chore, rather than an outlet. As someone who is motivated by success, I now saw writing now as another way to achieve: something that required practice, dedication, progress, skill building.

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"My overall academic goal is to prepare myself for the fast-paced career world. I hope to graduate the University of Michigan with a major in Communication Studies and a minor in Writing. I will go on to work for a magazine; I know that much, as for my role at that magazine I am still unsure. I am confident that with an in-depth understanding of media in today’s society and an ability to clearly and strongly articulate myself with words that I will be able to tackle any task. This writing minor will not only help me to improve my writing skills, but also to improve my verbal articulation skills: it will help me formulate arguments concisely and convey my thoughts clearly. I hope to explore further the aspects of writing that will prepare me for the career world.”

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            Above is an excerpt from my application letter to the Minor In Writing. Cute, right? Annoying too. I was so goddamn chipper. As a jaded second semester senior, this is hilarious to me because—(spoiler alert)—I am not a Comm major, I do not want to work for magazine, I do not have an “in-depth understanding of media”—in fact I don’t think anyone does, and I know for a fact that I am not able to tackle any task…(I learned that last one the hard way when Econ 101 got the best of me). And that’s fine. I think one thing I’ve learned in this minor is the importance of niche. And the painstaking process of finding that niche. Don’t misread me, I think it’s important to try everything and never to doubt oneself, but I do believe it’s important to know one’s limits and more importantly, one’s strengths. It’s okay to admit a lack of mastery.

            One thing Freshman Catherine was right about was that this minor would improve my writing skills. My naïve projections, however, failed to anticipate how my college career would allow me to grow as a thinker, editor and person. Throughout the program I’ve had so many opportunities for narrative. But even beyond this program and this school, I’ve had opportunities to rediscover my voice; the one that had been taken from me by the monotony of “academic” assignments.

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            When I arrived in Florence the sky was gray. I stepped hazily out of the airport after twelve hours of exhausting travel. A battle had taken place: Catherine vs. Altitude...the altitude won. Dried blood crusted the inside of my nostrils and I inhaled the chilly moisture of my new home.

  I have a faint memory of the cab ride from the airport to my apartment. With the measly ounces of energy I had left I dragged my body bag of jeans and boots and shampoo up three flights of stairs. I chose the room with the bigger windows for the natural light. Although today there wasn’t as much light as there was murky silver radiance. I collapsed onto the sliver of mattress and called my mom. The second I heard her voice I started to sob uncontrollably. My sobs vanquished my vocal chords and I heaved trying to regain the ability to speak.

                  “Relax” my mother cooed. “You’re just exhausted.” “No, Catherine. This wasn’t a mistake, take a nap and you’ll feel better.” I said goodbye and let the phone dim into sleep. I laid my head on a pillow that wasn't my own; in a city I didn’t know.

 

            In the spring of 2016 I spent four months in Florence, Italy. I took a travel writing class and the instructor spoke too slowly and her expectations were offensively low.  Even the desks in the classroom were irksome: my single notebook covered the whole desk and it was tilted downwards towards the floor so that my vending-machine cappuccino sat lopsided: slumped in defeat. Despite the stifling classroom and boring professor, I felt artistically free. For the first time in a while I was able to indulge in the flowery language discouraged by the American Psychological Association, whose guidelines I was typically prisoner to. The history and culture of the Florence awakened me. I felt weightless travelling to a different city every week; unencumbered by the stress of rigorous university life.  I felt my passion for writing come out of hibernation, like a bear stretching loudly from his long winter’s nap.

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November 18, 2015

Secretary of Defense Ashton Carter
1400 Defense Pentagon

Washington, DC 20301-1400

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Dear Secretary Carter:

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I hope that you are doing well. My name is Catherine Livingston, and I am a student of psychology at The University of Michigan. I am writing in regards to the issue of military sexual assault.

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Attached you will find an NPR podcast I scripted and recorded. The podcast details how and why the current investigational system deprives military sexual assault survivors of their constitutional rights. In a system where the commander is the sole decision maker over whether a case moves forward, victims are denied their rights to procedural due process. They are denied both their rights to equal protection and their basic first amendment rights to freedom of speech.

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            One of my favorite courses that I’ve taken at the university of Michigan was Psych 393: Sex, Sexuality and Public Policy. We discussed sexual education, HPV vaccines, sexuality, relationships, bullying, and marriage equality. In my evolution as a writer, this class was the perfect culmination of passion and trade. The project I cited above was one of the most difficult projects I’ve done because I had to record myself speaking and I hate the sound of my voice. As a supplement to the project, we had to draft a mock letter to a state representative, imploring him or her to take action about a cause of our choice. This project forced me beyond my boundaries and pushed against the niche that I had created for myself. It showed me that I can have a voice in an academic paper. I am not merely a messenger of information, but a character in the story. This assignment, and this course as a whole, stuck me directly into the content. There was no way to pretend that I wasn’t a part of the discussions that were happening; there was nowhere to hide. So with these set of circumstances I learned how to blend passion with discipline. I took the techniques and rigorous training of my apprenticeship as a writer and I used them to say things: things that I truly wanted to say.

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            Some traits that I have acquired over the years confer advantage, while other traits do not and either become extinct or lay dormant in my writer’s DNA. The dormant traits do not disappear, but instead slink into the shadows of my genetic code, undetectable. They reappear when they are adaptive to my environment. For example I use humor when I am writing narrative, but the same humor hides when I am writing a research paper on the use of pharmacological therapy to treat adolescent obesity.

            More importantly I have learned that creativity and trade are not mutually exclusive, but instead rely heavily on each other. I think there is a tendency to distinguish our right-brains from our left-brains. Separated by the corpus callosum, you are on one side or the other. Throughout my evolution as a writer though, I have been both. I have been all left at some points, and all right at others. But my best products emerge when I straddle the corpus callosum. My evolution as a writer has been both practical and creative. My choice in rhetoric, techniques, and voice vary depending on the context. But creativity and practicality don’t necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. You don’t have to be just one type of writer or write for just one reason. The writer evolves through a series of contradictions: quickly and slowly, randomly and purposefully, forwards and backwards: a writer’s work reflects not a finished product, but a unique moment in his or her evolution.