Finally Exams Are Over Quotes

What no school prepares you for is the fact that when you finally get to enter the adult world you’re just one of seven billion primates swinging from the trees, hurling your excrement at each other and fighting over the same tiny pot of job vacancies. Instead school teaches you everything that you don’t need to know, hands over your exam results and tells you to fuck off into the jungle to fend for yourself. No more handouts; no more free passes. Get out there and make a miracle happen. Or die.

Squatting over it, I pulled it open. My clothes were neatly folded at the top. Robb hadn’t stolen anything.

We say release, and radiance, and roses,” We say release, and radiance, and roses, and echo upon everything that's known; and yet, behind the world our names enclose is the nameless: our true archetype and home. The sun seems male, and earth is like a woman, the field is humble, and the forest proud; but over everything we say, inhuman, moves the forever-undetermined god. We grow up; but the world remains a child. Star and flower, in silence, watch us go. And sometimes we appear to be the final exam they must succeed on. And they do.

It was a generation growing in its disillusionment about the deepening recession and the backroom handshakes and greedy deals for private little pots of gold that created the largest financial meltdown since the Great Depression. As heirs to the throne, we all knew, of course, how bad the economy was, and our dreams, the ones we were told were all right to dream, were teetering gradually toward disintegration. However, on that night, everyone seemed physically at ease and exempt from life’s worries with final exams over and bar class a distant dream with a week before the first lecture, and as I looked around at the jubilant faces and loud voices, if you listened carefully enough you could almost hear the culmination of three years in the breath of the night gasp in an exultant sigh as if to say, “Law school was over at last!

He still has the same nightmares, ten years on. After Police College, exams, shift after shift, late nights, all his work at the station that's garnered so much praise from everyone but his dad, even more late nights, so much work that he's come to hate not working, unsteady walks home at dawn to the piles of bills in the hall and an empty bed, sleeping pills, alcohol. On nights when everything has been completely unbearable he's gone out running, mile after mile through darkness and cold and silence, his feet drumming against the pavement faster and faster, but never with the intention of getting anywhere, of accomplishing anything. Some men run like hunters, but he ran like their prey. Drained with exhaustion he would finally stagger home, then head off to work and start all over again. Sometimes a few whiskies were enough to get him to sleep, and on good mornings ice-cold showers were enough to wake him up, and in between he did whatever he could to take the edge off the hypersensitivity of his skin, stifle the tears when he felt them in his chest, long before they reached his throat and eyes. But all the while: still those same nightmares.

You ever choked? You know what I mean, fumbled at the goal line, stuck your foot in your mouth when you were trying to ask that girl on a date, had a brain freeze on the final exam you were totally prepared for, lipped out a three-foot putt to win the golf tournament, or been paralyzed by the feeling of “Oh my god life can’t get any better, do I really deserve this?” I have. What happens when we get that feeling? We clench up, get short of breath, self-conscious. We have an out-of-body experience where we observe ourselves in the third person, no longer present, now not doing well what we are there to do. We become voyeurs of our moment because we let it become bigger than us, and in doing so, we just became less involved in it and more impressed with it. Why does this happen? It happens because when we mentally give a person, place, or point in time more credit than ourselves, we then create a fictitious ceiling, a restriction, over the expectations we have of our own performance in that moment. We get tense, we focus on the outcome instead of the activity, and we miss the doing of the deed. We either think the world depends on the result, or it’s too good to be true. But it doesn’t, and it isn’t, and it’s not our right to believe it does or is. Don’t create imaginary constraints. A leading role, a blue ribbon, a winning score, a great

I flew back to the States in December of 1992 with conflicting emotions. I was excited to see my family and friends. But I was sad to be away from Steve. Part of the problem was that the process didn’t seem to make any sense. First I had to show up in the States and prove I was actually present, or I would never be allowed to immigrate back to Australia. And, oh yeah, the person to whom I had to prove my presence was not, at the moment, present herself. Checks for processing fees went missing, as did passport photos, certain signed documents. I had to obtain another set of medical exams, blood work, tuberculosis tests, and police record checks--and in response, I got lots of “maybe’s” and “come back tomorrow’s.” It would have been funny, in a surreal sort of way, if I had not been missing Steve so much. This was when we should have still been in our honeymoon days, not torn apart. A month stretched into six weeks. Steve and I tried keeping our love alive through long-distance calls, but I realized that Steve informing me over the phone that “our largest reticulated python died” or “the lace monitors are laying eggs” was no substitute for being with him. It was frustrating. There was no point in sitting still and waiting, so I went back to work with the flagging business. When my visa finally came, it had been nearly two months, and it felt like Christmas morning. That night we had a good-bye party at the restaurant my sister owned, and my whole family came. Some brought homemade cookies, others brought presents, and we had a celebration. Although I knew I would miss everyone, I was ready to go home. Home didn’t mean Oregon to me anymore. It meant, simply, by Steve’s side. When I arrived back at the zoo, we fell in love all over again. Steve and I were inseparable. Our nights were filled with celebrating our reunion. The days were filled with running the zoo together, full speed ahead. Crowds were coming in bigger than ever before. We enjoyed yet another record-breaking day for attendance. Rehab animals poured in too: joey kangaroos, a lizard with two broken legs, an eagle knocked out by poison. My heart was full. It felt good to be back at work. I had missed my animal friends--the kangaroos, cassowaries, and crocodiles.

LEE’S BREAD DIPPING SAUCE ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper 1 teaspoon ground black pepper 1 teaspoon dried oregano 1 teaspoon dried rosemary 1 teaspoon dried basil 1 teaspoon dried parsley 1 teaspoon garlic powder ½ teaspoon salt ¼ cup really good quality extra-virgin olive oil Mix all the ingredients except the olive oil. Put in a shallow pan or bowl. Pour olive oil over the spices. Serve with Italian or French bread. (You can add more oil if needed.)

Once back in Castine, I knew that I had to get serious. I was lucky that studying came easy for me. Perhaps in a way I should have seen it as a curse, since I could grasp what was required of me without too much effort. Although I had to study, I still always had time to fool around. During the final weeks I pored over my books, but on weekends when my classmates continued to study, I hitchhiked to Portland. Ann knew that graduation was near and mentioned that she wanted to go to New York, where we could remain closer to each other after graduation. It sounded good, but I reminded her that I would be going to sea and that it could be with almost any shipping company, and for extended periods of time. I had no idea where in the world I would be going and to me it didn’t really matter. We decided that after taking my Coast Guard Exams, we would take a bus to New York City and she could stay in a room at the YWCA near Journal Square.

Break the music into small, easy pieces. It is far better to learn a small section of music well than to learn the whole piece poorly. For example, take the first phrase and practice it according to the Principles given below. Learn that much well. You'll have a sense of satisfaction. Learning the entire piece badly will only leave you frustrated. Once the first phrase is done, do the next and so on. Do not worry that the whole piece may not get done before the lesson date. Remember, the lesson is NOT a final exam only a progress check. 2. Practice hands separately, then together. Begin any diffiuclt tune by working with each hand separately. When each hand has become fairly competent at playing its part, try playing slowly with hands together. SLOWLY! There are errors that will only appear once you try to play two-handed. Just as slow practice helps us overcome difficulties in each hand, it will fix these two-handed problems as well. This point, hands separately then together, and the next regarding slow practice are "sure cures for what ails you." 3. Practice slowly at first to gain accuracy, and then speed up a little at a time. This is another point of obvious common sense which most students don't heed. Since we can hear the music in our minds at full speed, our impatience leads us to repeat a section of music over and over and over at this speed with little improvement. Simply slow it down, whether playing hands separately or both together, learn to play well at that speed, and then increase the speed GRADUALLY while you maintain complete accuracy. Curb your impatience and make the hands slow down so that the mistakes disappear.

Other states also reoriented their telling of regional and national history. In Maharashtra, in the rewriting of history textbooks, a drastic cut was made in the book for class 7: the chapter on the Mughal Empire under Akbar was cut down to three lines.78 Uttar Pradesh simply deleted the Mughal Empire from some of its history textbooks,79 while the University of Delhi drastically reduced the study of this period in its history curriculum.80 In the syllabus of Nagpur University, a chapter that discussed the roles of the RSS, the Hindu Mahasabha, and the Muslim League in the making of communalism has been replaced by another one titled “Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) Role in Nation Building.”81 Alongside official examinations in Uttar Pradesh, the Sangh Parivar organized a test of general culture open to all schools in the state. According to the brochure designed to help students prepare for this test, which Amit Shah released in Lucknow in August 2017, India was a Hindu Rashtra, and Swami Vivekananda had defended Hindutva in Chicago in 1893.82 In Karnataka, after canceling Tipu Sultan Jayanti, the festival that the state used to organize to celebrate the birth of this eighteenth-century Muslim ruler, the BJP government also dropped the chapter dealing with this historical figure from the class 7 textbook in 2019.83 This decision was made in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic that had led the government of India to ask all states to reduce syllabi for students in classes 1 through 10 by 30 percent, in light of the learning challenges brought about by the lockdown.84 The decision of the Karnataka government, in fact, fit in with a larger picture. Under cover of the pandemic, the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE), India’s largest education board, decided that all over India “government-run schools no longer have to teach chapters on democratic rights, secularism, federalism, and citizenship, among other topics.”85 To foster assimilation of knowledge that amounted to propaganda, final exams have increasingly focused on the heroic deeds of Hindu icons and reforms initiated by the Modi government, even on the person of the prime minister.

An eccentric philosophy professor gave a one question final exam after a semester dealing with a broad array of topics. The class was already seated and ready to go when the professor picked up his chair, plopped it on his desk and wrote on the board: "Using everything we have learned this semester, prove that this chair does not exist." Fingers flew, erasers erased, notebooks were filled in furious fashion. Some students wrote over 30 pages in one hour attempting to refute the existence of the chair. One member of the class however, was up and finished in less than a minute. Weeks later when the grades were posted, the rest of the group wondered how he could have gotten an A when he had barely written anything at all. His answer consisted of two words: "What chair?

An eccentric philosophy professor gave a one question final exam after a semester dealing with a broad array of topics. The class was already seated and ready to go when the professor picked up his chair, plopped it on his desk and wrote on the board: "Using everything we have learned this semester, prove that this chair does not exist." Fingers flew, erasers erased, notebooks were filled in furious fashion. Some students wrote over 30 pages in one hour attempting to refute the existence of the chair. One member of the class however, was up and finished in less than a minute. Weeks later when the grades were posted, the rest of the group wondered how he could have gotten an A when he had barely written anything at all. His answer consisted of two words: "What chair?

I want to go on the pill,” I said. She sputtered, coughing the hot soup over the stove. I could tell she was tempted to make a quick reply, but she bit her tongue as she wiped off the stovetop. Finally, she said, “That might be for the best. The Women’s Health Center in Bar Harbor is very nice. I will make you an appointment; it’s been a long time since you’ve seen an obstetrician.” “Am I going to have to do the stirrups thing?” I made a face, remembering the last time. I was thirteen, and it was right after, well, you know. “A pelvic exam, yes.” “A lady doctor?” “Yes, there are no men working at the Women’s Health Center.” I flipped the toasted cheese, and said, “What kind of woman wants to look at coochie all day at work?” “Grace Coffin, for goodness’ sake! Not everybody gets to be a proctologist.” We both laughed at that, and she said, “Seriously, though, it’s something we have to do every couple of years, and you won’t get a prescription for the pill without an exam.

A little over a month later, on December 18,1972, I was listening to the radio while driving to campus to take one of my final exams. The announcer broke into programming to say that Joe Biden's wife Neilia, and their thirteen month old daughter, Naomi, had been killed in a car accident earlier that day, on their way home from buying the family's Christmas tree. Their young sons, Beau and Hunter, had been in the car but survived.

There are a hundred thousand species of love, separately invented, each more ingenious than the last, and every one of them keeps making things. OLIVIA VANDERGRIFF SNOW IS THIGH-HIGH and the going slow. She plunges through drifts like a pack animal, Olivia Vandergriff, back to the boardinghouse on the edge of campus. Her last session ever of Linear Regression and Time Series Models has finally ended. The carillon on the quad peals five, but this close to the solstice, blackness closes around Olivia like midnight. Breath crusts her upper lip. She sucks it back in, and ice crystals coat her pharynx. The cold drives a metal filament up her nose. She could die out here, for real, five blocks from home. The novelty thrills her. December of senior year. The semester so close to over. She might stumble now, fall face-first, and still roll across the finish line. What’s left? A short-answer exam on survival analysis. Final paper in Intermediate Macroeconomics. Hundred and ten slide IDs in Masterpieces of World Art, her blow-off elective. Ten

(Back to our halls) Like a dumb ass I went to college, (assuming I pass all my boards. Senior year is almost over, and the calculation is the final test I will take. For the past four months, I’ve had all my various board exams-math, science, oral magic, and written proficiency, sociology and psychology, and photography (a specialty elective)-and I must be getting my scores one-time in the next few weeks ago it was not long ago or so it seems to me. Solitary of them will become my husband after I graduate, girls who don’t pass get paired and married right out of high school.) The evaluators will do their best to match me with people who received a similar score in the evaluations. As much as possible they try to avoid any huge disparities in intelligence, temperament, social background, and age. Of development you do hear occasional horror stories: cases, where a poor seventeen-year-old girl is given to a wealthy old man, is the delirium dream, which is dumb, dumb, dumb. The stairs let out their awful moaning, Jenny, appears before me. She is nine and tall for her age, but very thin: all angles and elbows, her chest caving in like a warped sheet pan. It’s terrible to say, but I don’t like her very much. She has the same pinched look as her mother did. The assessment is the last step, so I can get paired, paid, and laid, in the coming months, the evaluators will send me a list of four or five approved matches.

To begin, look over the chapters by glancing at the content on the pages. Set aside about 30 minutes every four to five hours or three times a day and look at the bold words, pictures, and highlighted sentences. Nursing exams generally test on multiple chapters so it is important you start this process as soon as you can. Ideally, begin immediately after you have taken your last exam so you can get a head start on new material. This step helps you recognize the words and familiarizes you with the content. After several times of looking at a word read the definition. As you read the definition notice how you are able to focus on what the word means. Doing this simple step can eliminate reading without understanding. We must see a word several times before our brain flags it as important. That is why after the third or fourth time you look over information you finally say to yourself, “Okay, I have heard and seen this several times and I must know more about it!” Once you have reached that point you will find yourself directing all of your attention to the word’s definition. And that motivation is because you have seen it so many times. There is still a problem though, because in nursing school there are thousands upon thousands of words. By just reading you rely on vision to get you through and retain all of this knowledge. Although this is possible, and has probably worked in the past, this is not an ideal way to study for nursing classes. After you look at the words and read the definitions a few times, go back and underline each word and definition. This helps you engage the body by adding movement. Then say the words and definitions out loud. Doing so engages the three senses of sight, touch, and sound. You are also using all three learning styles, which are visual, auditory, and kinesthetic. No matter what type of learner you are predominately, if you constantly use all three styles it helps to lock the information into your brain. I have also noticed that these steps train you to have a photographic memory. This is especially important when there is a long chart you need to memorize. For example, in pediatric nursing you need to know a very extensive growth and development chart, and if you do not have kids yet it can be extremely foreign. At first, incorporating this new study method may be challenging. But once you start using it and see your exam results rise, you will never turn back. After

Ariely’s book clearly gives empirical verification for what you and I know happens all the time. Here is a tiny example I hope you cannot relate to: Ariely says, “Over the course of many years of teaching, I have noticed that there typically seems to be a rash of deaths among students’ relatives at the end of the semester. It happens mostly in the week before final exams and before papers are due.” Guess which relative most often dies? Grandma. I am not making this stuff up. Mike Adams, a professor at Eastern Connecticut State University, has done research on this. He has shown that grandmothers are ten times more likely to die before a midterm and nineteen times more likely to die before a final exam. Worse, grandmothers of students who are not doing well in class are at even higher risk. Students who are failing are fifty times more likely to lose Grandma than nonfailing students. It turns out that the greatest predictor of mortality among senior citizens in our day ends up being their grandchildren’s GPAs. The moral of all this is, if you are a grandparent, do not let your grandchild go to college. It’ll kill you, especially if he or she is intellectually challenged.