One of the most interesting parts of writing my dissertation has been the surprising ways in which I find inspiration. The only surprise - in reality - is that my instinct is correct and it makes me wonder why I foster such gross insecurities about this fact.
My diss project has a mind all its own and is all over the place, but in a good way. It represents everything I hope to be as a writer, and that is really saying something. But as I was pondering birds in cages (one of the trace resonances of the headnotes to each major movement of the book), I found that I didn't have the last piece to complete the interludes. I realize that does not make sense to anyone unfamiliar with what I'm writing, but bear with me. In short, when I'm teaching, I seem to find myself constantly talking about the caged bird metaphor, which is a salient one, but I don't think it's dead yet. Now when I need one more bit of this, it seems to be nowhere that I can find, despite days of looking.
Then, as if from a divine parting of clouds, I'm teaching my Children's Lit course on Thursday night and there it is, the last bit about the birds in - of all places - Rapunzel. Even funnier is that I don't much care for this fairy tale because it is one that appears to be incomplete by the time it gets written down by the Grimms. Too many gaps in its logic and no clear point that I can find, so had I been aware that in the new version of the text book that story appeared in this chapter, I may not have assigned it at all.
And people laugh at me for jumping and hoping the net will appear...
21 September 2009
27 August 2009
I need to take leave of my senses to get a moment's rest
Thursday morning already! Guh. The weeks really do tick by at an alarming rate these days, and I also note how long it's been since I've written anything here. I'm at ACC this morning in the coffee commons where, much to my complete surprise, two maintenance men just came and opened the floor right next to me and crawled into it. I didn't even know there was such a space; what's worse is the the opening in the floor is quite tiny and watching a full grown man climb into it is far more than my claustrophopic mind can handle before 8 a.m. So I'm distracting myself.
Six classes this term between two campuses, the saving grace of which is that three of them are all the same course and one I've done a million times. But so far all of my students seem cool and this is also new. Usually by week two, the troublemakers have started in already, so I'm feeling hopeful that there will be no repeat of summer comp class.
And in general I'm feeling better; I cannot tell if it's because I started taking B complex every morning or because I have 130 pages of a dissertation written, or because I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, or all of the above. Who knows. I am starting to fantasize about life post-doc and it looks pretty good. Yesterday I actually calculated how much free time I'm going to have when it's done and I fear I may not know what to do with this kind of freedom. But I'm sure I'll figure it out. It's about time that my free hours got filled with things I love for once.
Can you tell I'm all over the board here? Too much coffee too soon and I can't focus. It's a good thing my teaching day - while long - is at least a no brainer across the board today. Taking a deep breath for the plunge in T minus 31 minutes and counting.
Six classes this term between two campuses, the saving grace of which is that three of them are all the same course and one I've done a million times. But so far all of my students seem cool and this is also new. Usually by week two, the troublemakers have started in already, so I'm feeling hopeful that there will be no repeat of summer comp class.
And in general I'm feeling better; I cannot tell if it's because I started taking B complex every morning or because I have 130 pages of a dissertation written, or because I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, or all of the above. Who knows. I am starting to fantasize about life post-doc and it looks pretty good. Yesterday I actually calculated how much free time I'm going to have when it's done and I fear I may not know what to do with this kind of freedom. But I'm sure I'll figure it out. It's about time that my free hours got filled with things I love for once.
Can you tell I'm all over the board here? Too much coffee too soon and I can't focus. It's a good thing my teaching day - while long - is at least a no brainer across the board today. Taking a deep breath for the plunge in T minus 31 minutes and counting.
22 June 2009
Mini-Me Strikes Again
I know that I should not be surprised to discover that my daughter turns more and more into me every day of her life, but I am. Perhaps what makes my heart glow is that as I watch her navigate high school - the very high school I once navigated - I note that she does so with such grace and aplomb. She is, in fact, me - but the me from my adult years and not the me of high school - and what a wonderful thing. Really. I do not hold many fond memories of high school; the ones that were good were great, like first kisses and a ton of band stuff and some good friends I made, but on the whole, it was confusing and stressful and full of self-loathing for me. I was insecure about everything and that often led to bad decisions, some of which remain irreparable. But Sami - I watch her in awe because at 15 she is more sure of who she is and her place in the world than perhaps I am, even at 37. No one pushes her around; no one judges her because she refuses to accept judgment from those she does not respect and love; boyfriends who don't make the grade get dumped quickly; her best friends are her second family and she could trust them with her life; and she does not even flinch at talking to someone else about a problem or issue that makes her entirely vulnerable as long as she trusts that person. And she trusts a great many people, some of whom are my friends (read: old enough to be her mother). She is open and honest and shockingly frank at times and I simply love it. She isn't necessarily forthcoming, but if I ask the question, she'll answer it, even if it's about sex or drugs or drinking.
Most of all, I smile at these things because I know she'll be okay no matter what. She's already solved so much angst that took me decades to negotiate that I know she won't suffer some of the same heartaches that I did. She'll have her own because life is like that, but I don't worry about her getting into an abusive relationship, for example, because she'd never make the kind of up-front compromises that other women do who find themselves in one down the road. She liked this guy for a while she just called "hot guy," but when she finally got to talk to him over MySpace, she found out he was not only self-involved but "kinda dumb" and she just stopped talking to him. All of this was discovered in about three email messages. Ha. I know she adores her good friend Josh, but after he broke up with her to go out with "a skank," she will no longer entertain the idea of going out with him, but she'll be his friend and regularly remind him in his woes with new girlfriend how foolish a decision it was to not stay with her. And she is clearly fine with it. Her mind is made up. He can do nothing now to return to her good graces except in the friend department. And they are good friends. I appreciate a girl with those kinds of boundaries, because it makes the people in her life have to match her and when that happens, one achieves lasting and meaningful friendships.
In many ways, I believe she came into this world with her personality and so I cannot take more than a small percentage of credit for how she is turning out, but the more I know her the more I feel certain that I can and am a decent parent to this determined soul I've been given watch over. I often suspect that had my own relationship with my parents been anywhere near as fruitful or understanding, I would have become the person I am now much earlier. But I forgive them sometimes for being young souls and not knowing any better than the life they accepted for themselves and still do. They never made any attempt to understand me and rather remained baffled by my lack of conformity to their ideas of the world and criticized it and they still do. I wonder what my life would have been like if either of them ever just listened to what I had to say, or if either of them decided to just be a cheerleader for whatever I liked at the time, whether they "got it" or not. Perhaps they would have been happier people.
Most of all, I smile at these things because I know she'll be okay no matter what. She's already solved so much angst that took me decades to negotiate that I know she won't suffer some of the same heartaches that I did. She'll have her own because life is like that, but I don't worry about her getting into an abusive relationship, for example, because she'd never make the kind of up-front compromises that other women do who find themselves in one down the road. She liked this guy for a while she just called "hot guy," but when she finally got to talk to him over MySpace, she found out he was not only self-involved but "kinda dumb" and she just stopped talking to him. All of this was discovered in about three email messages. Ha. I know she adores her good friend Josh, but after he broke up with her to go out with "a skank," she will no longer entertain the idea of going out with him, but she'll be his friend and regularly remind him in his woes with new girlfriend how foolish a decision it was to not stay with her. And she is clearly fine with it. Her mind is made up. He can do nothing now to return to her good graces except in the friend department. And they are good friends. I appreciate a girl with those kinds of boundaries, because it makes the people in her life have to match her and when that happens, one achieves lasting and meaningful friendships.
In many ways, I believe she came into this world with her personality and so I cannot take more than a small percentage of credit for how she is turning out, but the more I know her the more I feel certain that I can and am a decent parent to this determined soul I've been given watch over. I often suspect that had my own relationship with my parents been anywhere near as fruitful or understanding, I would have become the person I am now much earlier. But I forgive them sometimes for being young souls and not knowing any better than the life they accepted for themselves and still do. They never made any attempt to understand me and rather remained baffled by my lack of conformity to their ideas of the world and criticized it and they still do. I wonder what my life would have been like if either of them ever just listened to what I had to say, or if either of them decided to just be a cheerleader for whatever I liked at the time, whether they "got it" or not. Perhaps they would have been happier people.
19 June 2009
Bummer
It's a job interview. One guy is interviewing for a campus ministry at CSU. In my head, at least, they're gay and their love is denied and tragic.
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve; I have a history of losing my shirt
Daz Bog again. I am proud to say that I got up early, walked my ass down here and parked it to work on my dissertation introduction, which I have - quite remarkably - actually accomplished. I am uncertain what it is about being at home that prevents me from this one task, but it seems I can write on this project anywhere but there. Yesterday I was quite prolific despite being in the ACC commons with a gaggle of middle eastern students talking loudly (if I were better at knowing the subtleties of the languages of the region of the world, I would address them more appropriately) and watching some version of American Idol that was not American. In many ways, I am thankful for the large number of non-English speakers at ACC because it allows me to entirely tune them out. I cannot understand a word and therefore no temptation to eavesdrop exists there.
Alternatively, however, here at Daz Bog in Northglenn, everyone's middle class white and English-speaking. Like the two nondescript guys sitting across from me on sofas who just met here and had not met before because there was no recognition and a follow-up with "are you...[the person I'm waiting for]?" In between the steam of the cappuccino machine and the whir of the blenders, I cannot help listening to them. I can't establish the purpose of their meeting, but so far they've talked about nothing but their Christianity. It's like an AA meeting, "I was rebellious, acting out, .... and I called myself a Christian, but I was driving down the highway and realized that I wasn't living a Christian life." Sigh. And here I was hoping they were gay men who met on some tawdry website last night and thought they'd try to hide the fact that they're just hooking up by doing it in some innocuous burb coffee shop. Or why can't one of them be an Amway salesman? Perhaps I could tell myself that they ARE gay men, meeting to talk about the love of Christ so they can either (a) decide how they can be gay and Christian at the same time, or (b) how they can hide this fact from their families and churches. Or how they will stage a protest...
Why do all devout Christians use the same tired words and catch-phrases: "I handed my life over to Jesus." "I was washed in the blood of Jesus." "I was born again." Blah. I might be more interested if it didn't all sound like the same set of brainwashing phrases designed to make people feel better about their own lousy decisions. What if Jesus doesn't want to run your life for you? What if God gave you a brain so that you would use it and stop bothering him with every little thing? I always imagined that God had better things to do than worry about me and whether or not I keep that pen from the bank or give it back. Whether or not Jamison and I have sex without a piece of paper that sanctifies our relationship. Whether or not I choose to say 'goddammit' or 'gosh-darnit' - and if I choose the latter, isn't it really because I MEAN to say the former? What's the difference between intent and vocalization if God's inside my head?
Now they're watching a video that is so loud I can hear every word. I am tempted to ask them to turn it down - does that make me a bitch?
At any rate, I'm writing simply to keep the writing going. Now that I've done that, I'm going back to the real writing, which is my introduction. I'm on page 22, and that's saying something.
Alternatively, however, here at Daz Bog in Northglenn, everyone's middle class white and English-speaking. Like the two nondescript guys sitting across from me on sofas who just met here and had not met before because there was no recognition and a follow-up with "are you...[the person I'm waiting for]?" In between the steam of the cappuccino machine and the whir of the blenders, I cannot help listening to them. I can't establish the purpose of their meeting, but so far they've talked about nothing but their Christianity. It's like an AA meeting, "I was rebellious, acting out, .... and I called myself a Christian, but I was driving down the highway and realized that I wasn't living a Christian life." Sigh. And here I was hoping they were gay men who met on some tawdry website last night and thought they'd try to hide the fact that they're just hooking up by doing it in some innocuous burb coffee shop. Or why can't one of them be an Amway salesman? Perhaps I could tell myself that they ARE gay men, meeting to talk about the love of Christ so they can either (a) decide how they can be gay and Christian at the same time, or (b) how they can hide this fact from their families and churches. Or how they will stage a protest...
Why do all devout Christians use the same tired words and catch-phrases: "I handed my life over to Jesus." "I was washed in the blood of Jesus." "I was born again." Blah. I might be more interested if it didn't all sound like the same set of brainwashing phrases designed to make people feel better about their own lousy decisions. What if Jesus doesn't want to run your life for you? What if God gave you a brain so that you would use it and stop bothering him with every little thing? I always imagined that God had better things to do than worry about me and whether or not I keep that pen from the bank or give it back. Whether or not Jamison and I have sex without a piece of paper that sanctifies our relationship. Whether or not I choose to say 'goddammit' or 'gosh-darnit' - and if I choose the latter, isn't it really because I MEAN to say the former? What's the difference between intent and vocalization if God's inside my head?
Now they're watching a video that is so loud I can hear every word. I am tempted to ask them to turn it down - does that make me a bitch?
At any rate, I'm writing simply to keep the writing going. Now that I've done that, I'm going back to the real writing, which is my introduction. I'm on page 22, and that's saying something.
27 May 2009
Detox just to Re-tox
I cannot believe it's the first day of summer term already. Really. Can I get one of those time necklaces Hermione had in the 3rd Harry Potter book? It does not help that I'm suffering a Rip Van Winkle effect of being in bed sick for four days. Mind you, I'm still sick, but at least now I present as one of the living. Barely. I have no idea how I'm going to talk for the next rest-of-the-day when I can barely be heard over the telephone.
19 May 2009
Turns out my all was just medium
Tuesday morning and I'm babysitting the kiddos. Well, not yet, but I'm waiting for them to arrive. I didn't think I could adore any child as much as my own but these two are close.
I had the strangest conversation with my Dad this weekend and I needs must vent. Methinks as far as kids with no supportive parenting go, I turned out just fine. Better than fine, in fact. I'm a healthy person with a nice home, decent job, great career, a Ph.D. (well, almost), people who love me, and a completely well-adjusted teenage kid. I'm hardly a Dr. Phil show candidate.
So I'm having lunch with Dad and he does this awkward conversation thing where he tells me something at a random moment that always seems uncomfortable. Example: mid-bite of my veggie salad (while watching him eat enough steak for two people and a potato that is hardly recognizable beneath the heap of butter, sour cream, and salt), he says "you have no idea how proud of you kids I am." To which I respond, "yes, I do; you tell me all the time." [Meanwhile, I think 'new subject, please.'] I mumble something about how great my salad is, and he keeps going "I'm most proud of you," he says, "because you did it with a kid." I'm sure he means my education, of course, but it's especially odd for him to say this at lunch, and because I know it really means that he thinks I need this kind of recognition from him - that I somehow need him to judge me favorably. Which I don't. And what's worse is that he thinks this is support rather than judgment and that he's doing me some great favor; I think it's because he is the one who needs to be constantly judged favorably and be reinforced as a "great Dad" even when we both know that he wasn't bad, but great is a real stretch.
In my father's revisionist history, he was always there for us, supportive in every way, encouraging, and lovingly attentive; in my far more accurate history he spent the bulk of my childhood at work or in front of the television set eating junk food without a single thought about my spiritual or emotional well-being. In my historical account, we hardly ever had a real conversation about anything at all, and the man scarcely knows me. And I scarcely know him. I cannot predict his moods, his thoughts, or even crack the code of what he feels about any situation ever. He is either the keeper of a medieval fortress or just an empty shell - and I doubt I will ever know which.
But our relationship as adults has been civil. He helped me with money and moving heavy objects, and occasionally spoke to me about how much he loves me, but I would not consider us close in any real way. Thus, after the awkward "I'm-such-a-great-Dad-right?" routine, he proceeds to tell me that both he AND Mom "were sure I was never going to make anything of myself." So on top of the unpleasantness of unsolicited praise, I realize that much of his pride rests in his complete surprise that I'm not a failure.
I had the strangest conversation with my Dad this weekend and I needs must vent. Methinks as far as kids with no supportive parenting go, I turned out just fine. Better than fine, in fact. I'm a healthy person with a nice home, decent job, great career, a Ph.D. (well, almost), people who love me, and a completely well-adjusted teenage kid. I'm hardly a Dr. Phil show candidate.
So I'm having lunch with Dad and he does this awkward conversation thing where he tells me something at a random moment that always seems uncomfortable. Example: mid-bite of my veggie salad (while watching him eat enough steak for two people and a potato that is hardly recognizable beneath the heap of butter, sour cream, and salt), he says "you have no idea how proud of you kids I am." To which I respond, "yes, I do; you tell me all the time." [Meanwhile, I think 'new subject, please.'] I mumble something about how great my salad is, and he keeps going "I'm most proud of you," he says, "because you did it with a kid." I'm sure he means my education, of course, but it's especially odd for him to say this at lunch, and because I know it really means that he thinks I need this kind of recognition from him - that I somehow need him to judge me favorably. Which I don't. And what's worse is that he thinks this is support rather than judgment and that he's doing me some great favor; I think it's because he is the one who needs to be constantly judged favorably and be reinforced as a "great Dad" even when we both know that he wasn't bad, but great is a real stretch.
In my father's revisionist history, he was always there for us, supportive in every way, encouraging, and lovingly attentive; in my far more accurate history he spent the bulk of my childhood at work or in front of the television set eating junk food without a single thought about my spiritual or emotional well-being. In my historical account, we hardly ever had a real conversation about anything at all, and the man scarcely knows me. And I scarcely know him. I cannot predict his moods, his thoughts, or even crack the code of what he feels about any situation ever. He is either the keeper of a medieval fortress or just an empty shell - and I doubt I will ever know which.
But our relationship as adults has been civil. He helped me with money and moving heavy objects, and occasionally spoke to me about how much he loves me, but I would not consider us close in any real way. Thus, after the awkward "I'm-such-a-great-Dad-right?" routine, he proceeds to tell me that both he AND Mom "were sure I was never going to make anything of myself." So on top of the unpleasantness of unsolicited praise, I realize that much of his pride rests in his complete surprise that I'm not a failure.
12 May 2009
Sometimes I want to quit this all and become and accountant now
The internet is out at my house, and I know this because I had to spend the better part of an hour on the phone with Qwest, listening to a person from Eastern Europe with a thick accent go through her script before she was allowed to use her brain at all. She was very nice and I do not complain about her per se, but seriously, I am sick to death of calling Qwest, or Direct TV, or whatever, informing them of the problem I'm having and that YES, I have already done all of the troubleshooting maneuvers only to be made to do them all over again. And after that, being told that oh yes, there is an outage in your area and that's why the internet doesn't work.
Never mind that this is the first question I asked and assumed was the case.
And don't even get me started on the infuriating Qwest computer that you are forced to speak to in order to get a human being at all, who will then ask you for all of the same information they just kept you busy with on the fucking computer. Argh.
I'm grouchy because I am now at Daz Bog using their internet - and while I like actually being in Daz Bog, their internet sucks and randomly asks you every five or so minutes whether or not you still agree to their free Wi-Fi use rules. And they play KBCO, which is also not bad, but radio in general is annoying since U2 is apparently back in style and I have to hear them on every station all day long. Am I the only one who is sick to death of this pompous band who hasn't made a truly great album since The Joshua Tree? Wasn't that 20 years ago or something? And Bono makes me generally want to puke, even if he is by and large doing nice things in the world.
This random ranting is just to keep the barbarians at the gate this morning. I'm tired and I feel like I should be working but don't feel like it. I have exactly three pages of introduction to my dissertation and I'm bored with it. I cannot possibly grade any papers in the mood I'm in because my snarky-ness has no bounds. And I'm hungry. Meh.
Never mind that this is the first question I asked and assumed was the case.
And don't even get me started on the infuriating Qwest computer that you are forced to speak to in order to get a human being at all, who will then ask you for all of the same information they just kept you busy with on the fucking computer. Argh.
I'm grouchy because I am now at Daz Bog using their internet - and while I like actually being in Daz Bog, their internet sucks and randomly asks you every five or so minutes whether or not you still agree to their free Wi-Fi use rules. And they play KBCO, which is also not bad, but radio in general is annoying since U2 is apparently back in style and I have to hear them on every station all day long. Am I the only one who is sick to death of this pompous band who hasn't made a truly great album since The Joshua Tree? Wasn't that 20 years ago or something? And Bono makes me generally want to puke, even if he is by and large doing nice things in the world.
This random ranting is just to keep the barbarians at the gate this morning. I'm tired and I feel like I should be working but don't feel like it. I have exactly three pages of introduction to my dissertation and I'm bored with it. I cannot possibly grade any papers in the mood I'm in because my snarky-ness has no bounds. And I'm hungry. Meh.
26 April 2009
You can only blame your problems on the world for so long before it all becomes the same old song
There's a show on WE called "The Locator" that I cannot get enough of. The sum of it: a man gets letters from people who are searching for lost loved ones and he finds them and reunites them. It sounds simple and -frankly- like typical reality show claptrap, but it's addictive. I might even say it's low on the added schmaltz factor because it doesn't appear to exploit people. When he puts people in the same room, he just turns and leaves and the rest of the show is about the two people, just talking. And I always cry because because for once, it feels like a reality show is doing something real.
I had a strange meeting with my dissertation advisor on Friday and it gave me wonky anxiety dreams all weekend. Guh. One of these days, I would love to know why my brain panics over every little thing and manifests itself in my sleep as (1) needing to get away from someone but being unable; packing useless things and never being done; or (3) trying to get someplace and never getting there. What strikes me most odd - and perhaps is the key - is that I no longer have a person to fear in my life and haven't for some time, I hate clutter and if I were going somewhere important, I'd likely abandon most of what I own without a second thought, and getting lost seems equally impossible because I have an uncanny ability to know where I am at all times. But these are things I naturally obsess over as well...
ANYway, we met Friday and I am feeling utterly stifled by the dissertation process, mostly because I don't entirely understand what it is. Sure, it's a "book" or series of essays, but I don't feel certain that I know what I'm supposed to get out of it, what readers expect from it, or why I need to do it at all. I am not intimidated by having to produce pages - I write easily and when necessary, can say in 100 words what could be said in 10; I don't fear rejection because I genuinely don't care what other people think of me anymore and certainly not snooty academic types. I just want someone to tell me: "do it this way" like I have the courtesy to do for my students. Perhaps it's the mathematical whiz in me that requires that sense of order, but vague expectation is not acceptable. Despite the fact they often ignore it, my students are at least informed about exactly what I expect of them, when, and how. It makes sense to me that at the advanced level this should not be necessary, and in some sense it isn't, but when it comes to the document that is ostensibly going to define you in the professional world, it might be nice for someone to guide me in the process.
Suddenly I am aware of what the problem is and it's not the answer I would have thought, either. Most of the people who are my so-called "superiors" in this game are not at all like me, and I don't mean that in a "duh" kind of way; what I mean is that most of the English profs I know are fretfully disorganized, artistic types who thrive on a certain kind of pressured chaos to function. And it makes them terrible leaders. Most of them couldn't tell me how to do a dissertation because they honestly do not know, or at least the way they do know does not resonate with my meticulously organized nature. For example, when I say, "I am feeling overwhelmed at writing 150 pages without knowing how it should be laid out," and my advisor responds with, "figure out what your priorities are and start writing; just send me something," he is not obfuscating. We are just speaking a different language and I need to translate.
Just what I need: one more fucking thing to do.
I had a strange meeting with my dissertation advisor on Friday and it gave me wonky anxiety dreams all weekend. Guh. One of these days, I would love to know why my brain panics over every little thing and manifests itself in my sleep as (1) needing to get away from someone but being unable; packing useless things and never being done; or (3) trying to get someplace and never getting there. What strikes me most odd - and perhaps is the key - is that I no longer have a person to fear in my life and haven't for some time, I hate clutter and if I were going somewhere important, I'd likely abandon most of what I own without a second thought, and getting lost seems equally impossible because I have an uncanny ability to know where I am at all times. But these are things I naturally obsess over as well...
ANYway, we met Friday and I am feeling utterly stifled by the dissertation process, mostly because I don't entirely understand what it is. Sure, it's a "book" or series of essays, but I don't feel certain that I know what I'm supposed to get out of it, what readers expect from it, or why I need to do it at all. I am not intimidated by having to produce pages - I write easily and when necessary, can say in 100 words what could be said in 10; I don't fear rejection because I genuinely don't care what other people think of me anymore and certainly not snooty academic types. I just want someone to tell me: "do it this way" like I have the courtesy to do for my students. Perhaps it's the mathematical whiz in me that requires that sense of order, but vague expectation is not acceptable. Despite the fact they often ignore it, my students are at least informed about exactly what I expect of them, when, and how. It makes sense to me that at the advanced level this should not be necessary, and in some sense it isn't, but when it comes to the document that is ostensibly going to define you in the professional world, it might be nice for someone to guide me in the process.
Suddenly I am aware of what the problem is and it's not the answer I would have thought, either. Most of the people who are my so-called "superiors" in this game are not at all like me, and I don't mean that in a "duh" kind of way; what I mean is that most of the English profs I know are fretfully disorganized, artistic types who thrive on a certain kind of pressured chaos to function. And it makes them terrible leaders. Most of them couldn't tell me how to do a dissertation because they honestly do not know, or at least the way they do know does not resonate with my meticulously organized nature. For example, when I say, "I am feeling overwhelmed at writing 150 pages without knowing how it should be laid out," and my advisor responds with, "figure out what your priorities are and start writing; just send me something," he is not obfuscating. We are just speaking a different language and I need to translate.
Just what I need: one more fucking thing to do.
23 April 2009
Throw your gauntlet...or a shoe
I was listening to NPR this morning on the way to work and there was a story about how India now has a problem with citizens throwing shoes at political candidates. So much so that some have installed nets to catch the shoes and others have asked people to take off their shoes before going into rallies and conferences for candidates. Apparently, this stems from the inspiration of the person who threw shoes at former (thank God) President Bush. I know that some people will claim that such acts are childish or inappropriate, but I think it's not only hilarious, but somehow apt.
Once I got so angry with a friend when he ditched me at a club that I chased him down in Capital Hill at one in the morning so I could take off a Doc Marten and chuck it at him. I can tell you it's quite satisfying. Too many people get away with bad behavior and corrupted ideology and while I of course do not decry the importance of a democratic government that does its level best to be fair and equitable, sometimes our need for this process goes too far. And sometimes not far enough.
Once I got so angry with a friend when he ditched me at a club that I chased him down in Capital Hill at one in the morning so I could take off a Doc Marten and chuck it at him. I can tell you it's quite satisfying. Too many people get away with bad behavior and corrupted ideology and while I of course do not decry the importance of a democratic government that does its level best to be fair and equitable, sometimes our need for this process goes too far. And sometimes not far enough.
22 April 2009
Why won't the world revolve around me?
I'm at the end of my semester and my rope all at once. I never liked the 10-week term at DU, but the 16+ week at Metro sucks just as much. My freshmen are killing me. Not all of them, of course, but a few who cannot seem to process even the slightest request or keep track of assignments and what they entail. One of them showed up today after a three week absence as if she could possibly catch up; two more had the nerve to come up and ask me about the detailed task we spent the last class doing - right AFTER I said that if you miss a day, you have ask a classmate because I'm done repeating myself. I'm sick of questions in general and I want to scream from the top of my lungs that if you don't get it - whatever it is - then you probably never will and I can't help you.
Mind you, I do have a great deal of patience for genuine students; the ones I'm talking about fall under the hopelessly dim heading. What's worse is that I'm trying to do edgy and cool stuff so as not to be utterly bored, and the class I am about to explain it all to is even dimmer than the one prior, so I'm sure it will be filled with more ridiculous, already-answered questions. Guh.
What really sucks is that I am in an otherwise good mood for once. I planted flowers yesterday for my flowerbeds (in pots of course because I don't trust Colorado to stay unfrozen just yet), and shopped for lilac and hydrangea plants for what will be our new front yard. I've lost 12 pounds in less than two weeks. I'm running again, reading for fun, and undaunted by my dissertation.
If I could only escape the persistence of my freshmen and the endless pile of grading, life would be pretty sweet. But alas. Sigh. And the teacher who lives next door to me in the English department gets on all of my nerves at exactly the same time. He insists on always listening to classical music - loudly - and it's always the same piece; he has a parade of student meetings with his writers and I know that he requires them to come because they all seem beleaguered by his excessive commentary about their writing. All of which I get to hear because (a) his door is always open and (b) he talks really fucking loud. I'm certain also that he is sure that others are impressed by his perpetual chatter. We (or at least I) am not. Mostly because I know that he is just wasting his breath, as cynical as that sounds. He is new to this and while I should admire his enthusiasm, I only scowl at it because it emphasizes my complete lack of it - at least where teaching composition is concerned.
I long for the day when I no longer have to teach such a course. I have never understood why having advanced degrees in literature qualifies me in any way to teach composition anyway. We don't ask mathematicians to teach accounting, after all.
Mind you, I do have a great deal of patience for genuine students; the ones I'm talking about fall under the hopelessly dim heading. What's worse is that I'm trying to do edgy and cool stuff so as not to be utterly bored, and the class I am about to explain it all to is even dimmer than the one prior, so I'm sure it will be filled with more ridiculous, already-answered questions. Guh.
What really sucks is that I am in an otherwise good mood for once. I planted flowers yesterday for my flowerbeds (in pots of course because I don't trust Colorado to stay unfrozen just yet), and shopped for lilac and hydrangea plants for what will be our new front yard. I've lost 12 pounds in less than two weeks. I'm running again, reading for fun, and undaunted by my dissertation.
If I could only escape the persistence of my freshmen and the endless pile of grading, life would be pretty sweet. But alas. Sigh. And the teacher who lives next door to me in the English department gets on all of my nerves at exactly the same time. He insists on always listening to classical music - loudly - and it's always the same piece; he has a parade of student meetings with his writers and I know that he requires them to come because they all seem beleaguered by his excessive commentary about their writing. All of which I get to hear because (a) his door is always open and (b) he talks really fucking loud. I'm certain also that he is sure that others are impressed by his perpetual chatter. We (or at least I) am not. Mostly because I know that he is just wasting his breath, as cynical as that sounds. He is new to this and while I should admire his enthusiasm, I only scowl at it because it emphasizes my complete lack of it - at least where teaching composition is concerned.
I long for the day when I no longer have to teach such a course. I have never understood why having advanced degrees in literature qualifies me in any way to teach composition anyway. We don't ask mathematicians to teach accounting, after all.
09 April 2009
Sometimes it pays to complain
I have to laugh, and not derisively, at the following story. One of my students who has frustrated me this term more than a little bit is a basketball player; he is apparently a good one, too, because he is here on scholarship for it. He is a sweet kid and not terribly bright, but I admit to having a bit of a snarky attitude toward sports folk because I know how the various systems they have encountered in their lives have more often catered to them than not. When I get requests for grade progress, I tend to be more irritated because I fear that I am expected to treat the student in question with some kind of special concern and I don't.
But here's where my own bias has proven to be both a good thing for all concerned and a lesson in assumptions for me:
When this kid started not showing up to class and giving me lame-ass excuses about practices and road trips for the team, I promptly (and somewhat defensively) told him that I didn't care what he had to do where - things are due for him just like everyone else. I was incensed at his near dismissal of the midterm project and when I got the opportunity to comment on his "progress" to the person asking, I let it all out. Held nothing back. Said that in no uncertain terms that if his butt was not in a seat come class time on the due date with his midterm in hand, I was giving him an F and that would be the end of it. I expected backlash and backpedaling.
What I got was a prompt response from the head of athletics and a personal phone call from the kid's coach, stating that this kid would be in class, with his homework, and if I had even one more ounce of trouble, that I was to report immediately to the coach. Somewhat shocked and still skeptical, I awaited class time; sure enough, he was there, with his project that he clearly did himself, in hand. And it wasn't half bad.
This past weekend, I got an email from the coach, who was "checking in" to make sure that his player was doing EVERYTHING he was supposed to be doing. I wrote back and told the truth: his attendance is still spotty and he is often late, but assignments are getting done. The coach just called me in my office to tell me that the ball player will never again be late or he will be doing the penance he is doing this afternoon: running laps with a medicine ball. When I told the coach he was on time today, his response was, "I'd go get him from the track, but it's probably good for him anyway."
If only we all had someone threatening us with medicine balls and laps in the hot sun...goodness knows my work would already be done and I wouldn't be sitting here avoiding it. Ha.
But here's where my own bias has proven to be both a good thing for all concerned and a lesson in assumptions for me:
When this kid started not showing up to class and giving me lame-ass excuses about practices and road trips for the team, I promptly (and somewhat defensively) told him that I didn't care what he had to do where - things are due for him just like everyone else. I was incensed at his near dismissal of the midterm project and when I got the opportunity to comment on his "progress" to the person asking, I let it all out. Held nothing back. Said that in no uncertain terms that if his butt was not in a seat come class time on the due date with his midterm in hand, I was giving him an F and that would be the end of it. I expected backlash and backpedaling.
What I got was a prompt response from the head of athletics and a personal phone call from the kid's coach, stating that this kid would be in class, with his homework, and if I had even one more ounce of trouble, that I was to report immediately to the coach. Somewhat shocked and still skeptical, I awaited class time; sure enough, he was there, with his project that he clearly did himself, in hand. And it wasn't half bad.
This past weekend, I got an email from the coach, who was "checking in" to make sure that his player was doing EVERYTHING he was supposed to be doing. I wrote back and told the truth: his attendance is still spotty and he is often late, but assignments are getting done. The coach just called me in my office to tell me that the ball player will never again be late or he will be doing the penance he is doing this afternoon: running laps with a medicine ball. When I told the coach he was on time today, his response was, "I'd go get him from the track, but it's probably good for him anyway."
If only we all had someone threatening us with medicine balls and laps in the hot sun...goodness knows my work would already be done and I wouldn't be sitting here avoiding it. Ha.
08 April 2009
"There's no need to be SNARKY"
I am shameless in my eavesdropping practices. It doesn't help that my office is across the hall from the hub of the English department, and thus as long as my door is open and I am quiet, I can hear various juicy bits of gossip. It also doesn't help that a few folks in the know around here must not realize how their voices carry, or they don't care in a more general sense who overhears. But I can still often follow even when they are using hushed voices. It's not that I'm opportunistic per se, just unbelievably nosy.
Apparently there is a person in the ED who does not know her place! This person wrote a SNARKY note to the person who runs the department and she did NOT like it one bit. Does not APPRECIATE being talked down to by some Affiliate faculty member. AS IF. After much debate over how to handle the snarky note in question, one asks the other to read the email aloud, to give it a TONE. The recipient of the note says, "I don't want to put my own TONE into it." Why is this hilarious?
And what does it say about me that this is the best I can do for entertainment of late? Perhaps I've already checked out to a certain degree and my mood is tetchy. My class was observed last week by someone I do not know well but have heard fairly unpleasant things about. I hate it when I have to endure the critique of one who (a) does not know me, and (b) is not himself a good teacher. I'm trying not to let my lack of a perfect score get to my core. What is this pressing need for affirmation all about, anyway?
Why am I so bothered by my 3.98 GPA in a freakin' doctoral program? Because it's not a 4.0 and therefore I am not validated. Why do I care what someone I don't like and don't respect thinks about how I teach my class? Because I need to be told that my class is great, without flaw, and I'm the best damn teacher in the entire universe. Same thing with students. I have one of the highest average student eval ratings - probably on campus - and yet if one even slightly critical comment shows up among the hundreds of pieces of high praise, I am reduced to pandering to current students for the remainder of the day.
I think what makes my ears tingle at the eavesdropped gossip is because I expect at some point to hear how much they think I suck too. Even though most days I'm sure I don't. And here's the best part about my evaluation for this year: it's NOT negative. At all. In fact, if I'm being given a percentage grade, I got a B+, but like many of my delightful newbie students might cry: "I don't GET B's!" Imagine that performed with crossed arms, welled eyes, and a puckering lower lip. The seven year old in me wants to go and kick the shins of that guy.
Apparently there is a person in the ED who does not know her place! This person wrote a SNARKY note to the person who runs the department and she did NOT like it one bit. Does not APPRECIATE being talked down to by some Affiliate faculty member. AS IF. After much debate over how to handle the snarky note in question, one asks the other to read the email aloud, to give it a TONE. The recipient of the note says, "I don't want to put my own TONE into it." Why is this hilarious?
And what does it say about me that this is the best I can do for entertainment of late? Perhaps I've already checked out to a certain degree and my mood is tetchy. My class was observed last week by someone I do not know well but have heard fairly unpleasant things about. I hate it when I have to endure the critique of one who (a) does not know me, and (b) is not himself a good teacher. I'm trying not to let my lack of a perfect score get to my core. What is this pressing need for affirmation all about, anyway?
Why am I so bothered by my 3.98 GPA in a freakin' doctoral program? Because it's not a 4.0 and therefore I am not validated. Why do I care what someone I don't like and don't respect thinks about how I teach my class? Because I need to be told that my class is great, without flaw, and I'm the best damn teacher in the entire universe. Same thing with students. I have one of the highest average student eval ratings - probably on campus - and yet if one even slightly critical comment shows up among the hundreds of pieces of high praise, I am reduced to pandering to current students for the remainder of the day.
I think what makes my ears tingle at the eavesdropped gossip is because I expect at some point to hear how much they think I suck too. Even though most days I'm sure I don't. And here's the best part about my evaluation for this year: it's NOT negative. At all. In fact, if I'm being given a percentage grade, I got a B+, but like many of my delightful newbie students might cry: "I don't GET B's!" Imagine that performed with crossed arms, welled eyes, and a puckering lower lip. The seven year old in me wants to go and kick the shins of that guy.
07 April 2009
Jesus is my car insurance
Yup, that was today's bumper sticker joy all the way from 84th Avenue to South Santa Fe. At first I thought it was just funny, but then I realised that this truck had real religious stickers all over it and then it became HILARIOUS. I am beginning to have an odd affection for the uber-Christians of late because they provide such a great deal of entertainment; one of my students asked me the other day - in complete seriousness - whether or not I was worried about going to Hell.
I told her that not only am I going to Hell, but I'm pretty sure I'm a contender for future president of said location. After all, if Heaven exists and will be populated by these self-righteous Bible thumpers, then who wants to go there anyway?
Enough of that one...
My daughter wanted to set up one of our old desktop computers in her room last night; when I asked her why (because they are not wireless internet capable), she replied, "so I can keep writing." At the risk of sounding like I might pry, I gently queried, "Oh? So what're you writing?" as if it was nothing at all - as if I didn't want to jump immediately for delirious joy. "A story," she said. Ah, flesh of my flesh, feels the urge to tell stories. Could a mother be any prouder? I love that she is becoming Mini-Me, and not the version of me I was at her age, either, but the me I'm proud for her to know. I adore the fact that she falls in love with rock stars, writes poetry to her blog on MySpace, makes fun of me for sitting at jigsaw puzzles for hours but will soon be unable to resist the temptation to put it together and join me as long as we can sing along to Fall Out Boy songs together. I love that she tells people exactly what she thinks and does not fear the consequences; I love that she has boundaries she sets for herself and these override all others, including mine. I love that she is only fourteen and that I trust her judgment and ability to self-monitor more than I do for most people twice her age.
And I wish I could claim credit for any part of it, but sometimes I genuinely believe she is just an older soul than I and came to the world again with more wisdom.
I told her that not only am I going to Hell, but I'm pretty sure I'm a contender for future president of said location. After all, if Heaven exists and will be populated by these self-righteous Bible thumpers, then who wants to go there anyway?
Enough of that one...
My daughter wanted to set up one of our old desktop computers in her room last night; when I asked her why (because they are not wireless internet capable), she replied, "so I can keep writing." At the risk of sounding like I might pry, I gently queried, "Oh? So what're you writing?" as if it was nothing at all - as if I didn't want to jump immediately for delirious joy. "A story," she said. Ah, flesh of my flesh, feels the urge to tell stories. Could a mother be any prouder? I love that she is becoming Mini-Me, and not the version of me I was at her age, either, but the me I'm proud for her to know. I adore the fact that she falls in love with rock stars, writes poetry to her blog on MySpace, makes fun of me for sitting at jigsaw puzzles for hours but will soon be unable to resist the temptation to put it together and join me as long as we can sing along to Fall Out Boy songs together. I love that she tells people exactly what she thinks and does not fear the consequences; I love that she has boundaries she sets for herself and these override all others, including mine. I love that she is only fourteen and that I trust her judgment and ability to self-monitor more than I do for most people twice her age.
And I wish I could claim credit for any part of it, but sometimes I genuinely believe she is just an older soul than I and came to the world again with more wisdom.
06 April 2009
The drop-slip parade
The English department hums with activity today because it's the deadline for course drop; just outside my open door sit not one, but two, complete morons who feel justified in their indignation at their professor's lack of presence to sign said form. The young man grumbles about how much he "hates school" and the young woman agrees. I am tempted to poke my head round the corner and tell them that "school" - that is, COLLEGE - is completely voluntary, which is why you have to PAY for it. Sometimes I weep for the future.
Three times these two get up and knock loudly on the door next to my open one, as if they somehow expect that their part-time professor who lives in an 8x8 closet with no windows and three other part-time professors somehow didn't hear their knocking. Or that she teleported into the office. They grouse on about how she should be here (despite the fact she does not have office hours posted for this particular time of day) because they have THINGS TO DO. Not that they didn't have eleven weeks prior to this date to drop the course they dislike so vehemently. Or that they probably hate it because they see no value in educating their own dumb asses.
Can you tell I've kinda had it? I have to admit that even though I generally love to teach and find it - on the whole - quite rewarding, there are in fact days when it feels like polishing the brass on the Titanic. When I want to yell at the student who just sat through an entire class period of my explaining the assignment due in a week and still comes up after to ask me what the assignment is all about, and tell her that if she thinks my class is too hard and/or incomprehensible, then perhaps she should throw in the towel now. I believe in access to college for everyone, but in no way do I believe that college is for everyone or that everyone should go to college. I have no idea why this notion gets so much promotion, in fact; there is nothing at all wrong with NOT going to college if it's not your thing. One can get a whole host of perfectly respectable jobs without a degree, and I know many people who have. I don't look unfavorably on any person because of their education level.
I do, however, get ridiculously sick of people who are just plain stupid. Who don't bother to learn how to speak their own native language. Who never read a fucking book without being forced. Who have no idea what is going on in the world or that it doesn't revolve around their cell phones and personal drama. Who are not ashamed at their lack of ability to comprehend even the simplest narrative and have any insight at all about it. And plenty of them go to college for reasons I cannot possibly guess since their goals rarely seem to be about educating themselves.
There is a reason why Idiocracy is both funny and terrifying...
Three times these two get up and knock loudly on the door next to my open one, as if they somehow expect that their part-time professor who lives in an 8x8 closet with no windows and three other part-time professors somehow didn't hear their knocking. Or that she teleported into the office. They grouse on about how she should be here (despite the fact she does not have office hours posted for this particular time of day) because they have THINGS TO DO. Not that they didn't have eleven weeks prior to this date to drop the course they dislike so vehemently. Or that they probably hate it because they see no value in educating their own dumb asses.
Can you tell I've kinda had it? I have to admit that even though I generally love to teach and find it - on the whole - quite rewarding, there are in fact days when it feels like polishing the brass on the Titanic. When I want to yell at the student who just sat through an entire class period of my explaining the assignment due in a week and still comes up after to ask me what the assignment is all about, and tell her that if she thinks my class is too hard and/or incomprehensible, then perhaps she should throw in the towel now. I believe in access to college for everyone, but in no way do I believe that college is for everyone or that everyone should go to college. I have no idea why this notion gets so much promotion, in fact; there is nothing at all wrong with NOT going to college if it's not your thing. One can get a whole host of perfectly respectable jobs without a degree, and I know many people who have. I don't look unfavorably on any person because of their education level.
I do, however, get ridiculously sick of people who are just plain stupid. Who don't bother to learn how to speak their own native language. Who never read a fucking book without being forced. Who have no idea what is going on in the world or that it doesn't revolve around their cell phones and personal drama. Who are not ashamed at their lack of ability to comprehend even the simplest narrative and have any insight at all about it. And plenty of them go to college for reasons I cannot possibly guess since their goals rarely seem to be about educating themselves.
There is a reason why Idiocracy is both funny and terrifying...
26 March 2009
Last night I dreamt I'd forgotten my name because I sold my soul, but I woke just the same
I feel like a zombie version of myself this morning. Last night we had to take my mother to the hospital emergency room and she's still there. In case you don't know, she has MS and while she typically manages well, things get complicated when she gets sick with even a cold. Especially at her age. She takes a gazillion drugs, most of which have actual street value, and this also worries me and has for some time. So when she came down with bronchitis earlier this week, the coughing triggered her trigeminal neuralgia, which is a fancy way of saying the nerves in her jaw send shooting pains up the side of her face. It's quite debilitating. The doctors prescribed her a narcotic and something to calm those nerves, but did not tell her to cease any other medications in the meanwhile (this point is of course debatable because my parents do not listen well).
Two days ago, my father asked me to go over and take care of her but I declined; I said I'd get things for her and take anything to her she needed, but I didn't want to be at the house because I can't afford to get sick. I've become a total germaphobe - purell and handwashing make my hands dry and cracked and I refuse to touch anything from a student who is not well. Plus, I think my dad should be the one to take time off to care for my mother, not me, but that's yet another story entirely. I did call her yesterday to ask how she was and she told me she was "very confused" but I didn't think much about it when she said my dad was home for lunch.a
By suppertime, dad called to say that mom was barely awake and incoherent and could I come over. I asked if he had called an ambulance, but alas, he had not. Decided that a phone call to me was preferable to the one to 911. Ugh. Men of my father's generation didn't need wives, they needed mommies. Anyway, I go over there and she's sitting up but looks like someone who just came from a Dead concert - she's obviously OD'ed on something and when I talk to her she can only reply - if at all - with nonsense. She doesn't know what day it is, what month it is, nor how many grandchildren she has; in fact, she seems somewhat confused about the fact that she has them at all. I do mini Mental Status Exam on her and she scores zero. Can't tell me a thing. When I ask her who her own children are, she can only reply by spelling out the word "thing." I tell my dad that she is at the very least overmedicated and because she has twitching muscle spasms, I worry that she's having a small stroke. I tell him to get dressed because we're going to the hospital. Naturally, he opts for an ambulance instead.
Why is it that I'm the only one who can manage this situation?
It's me who rides in the ambulance because dad needs to "get dressed and wait for Tim" - my brother, who will undoubtedly ride in a white horse and save everyone and go home early because he needs his sleep. He will get all the credit for coming despite the fact he did nothing but grouse about bad hospital service and how much he has to do tomorrow. Yet another baggage item to be checked for later unpacking. The paramedics give her a drug to reverse the effects of narcotics in the ambulance, and by the time we get to the hospital, she is more like herself and can tell me that she has six grandchildren and clearly knows who I am and where she is. But she doesn't know why. It takes two hours to see a doctor, who basically only seems to know everything that I do about the situation and orders a million tests.
I have to teach at 8 the next morning (now), and so I excuse myself because my brother and father are there and call Jamison to come pick me up. During the time it takes for J-mo to get there, my brother decides he really needs to get home (but doesn't want to be selfish, he says), but he's the one who drove dad to the hospital. So instead of going home when Jamison arrives, I have to sit for another hour plus while my dad goes back home to get a vehicle. When he finally does get back, I finally go home and go to bed. It's after midnight and Jamison's got a yard full of fucking car parts that have to come into the garage tonight because it's going to snow. Make that three checked pieces of baggage.
So this morning I call dad's cell phone for an update because I knew they kept my mom overnight. Turns out, he went on home after all of that. He was so tired. I'm so angry that my mom spent the night alone that I could kill someone, and namely him. He was sleeping soundly at seven a.m. today. He mumbled that my mother has pneumonia at the very least, and they're concerned about her toxicity levels. That's all he knows because he's not fucking there. If I'd known that, I would have stayed there with her myself. She was still confused and there's no way she's going to be able to retell what the doctor says, and I still don't know what her head scan said. I doubt she had a stroke, but I want someone looking at important documents to tell me this and not just go on my educated guess.
And why am I here to teach anyway? I should be on the way to the hospital myself except I didn't know how to cancel this early morning thing without a whole class of folks being angry with me. Oy.
Two days ago, my father asked me to go over and take care of her but I declined; I said I'd get things for her and take anything to her she needed, but I didn't want to be at the house because I can't afford to get sick. I've become a total germaphobe - purell and handwashing make my hands dry and cracked and I refuse to touch anything from a student who is not well. Plus, I think my dad should be the one to take time off to care for my mother, not me, but that's yet another story entirely. I did call her yesterday to ask how she was and she told me she was "very confused" but I didn't think much about it when she said my dad was home for lunch.a
By suppertime, dad called to say that mom was barely awake and incoherent and could I come over. I asked if he had called an ambulance, but alas, he had not. Decided that a phone call to me was preferable to the one to 911. Ugh. Men of my father's generation didn't need wives, they needed mommies. Anyway, I go over there and she's sitting up but looks like someone who just came from a Dead concert - she's obviously OD'ed on something and when I talk to her she can only reply - if at all - with nonsense. She doesn't know what day it is, what month it is, nor how many grandchildren she has; in fact, she seems somewhat confused about the fact that she has them at all. I do mini Mental Status Exam on her and she scores zero. Can't tell me a thing. When I ask her who her own children are, she can only reply by spelling out the word "thing." I tell my dad that she is at the very least overmedicated and because she has twitching muscle spasms, I worry that she's having a small stroke. I tell him to get dressed because we're going to the hospital. Naturally, he opts for an ambulance instead.
Why is it that I'm the only one who can manage this situation?
It's me who rides in the ambulance because dad needs to "get dressed and wait for Tim" - my brother, who will undoubtedly ride in a white horse and save everyone and go home early because he needs his sleep. He will get all the credit for coming despite the fact he did nothing but grouse about bad hospital service and how much he has to do tomorrow. Yet another baggage item to be checked for later unpacking. The paramedics give her a drug to reverse the effects of narcotics in the ambulance, and by the time we get to the hospital, she is more like herself and can tell me that she has six grandchildren and clearly knows who I am and where she is. But she doesn't know why. It takes two hours to see a doctor, who basically only seems to know everything that I do about the situation and orders a million tests.
I have to teach at 8 the next morning (now), and so I excuse myself because my brother and father are there and call Jamison to come pick me up. During the time it takes for J-mo to get there, my brother decides he really needs to get home (but doesn't want to be selfish, he says), but he's the one who drove dad to the hospital. So instead of going home when Jamison arrives, I have to sit for another hour plus while my dad goes back home to get a vehicle. When he finally does get back, I finally go home and go to bed. It's after midnight and Jamison's got a yard full of fucking car parts that have to come into the garage tonight because it's going to snow. Make that three checked pieces of baggage.
So this morning I call dad's cell phone for an update because I knew they kept my mom overnight. Turns out, he went on home after all of that. He was so tired. I'm so angry that my mom spent the night alone that I could kill someone, and namely him. He was sleeping soundly at seven a.m. today. He mumbled that my mother has pneumonia at the very least, and they're concerned about her toxicity levels. That's all he knows because he's not fucking there. If I'd known that, I would have stayed there with her myself. She was still confused and there's no way she's going to be able to retell what the doctor says, and I still don't know what her head scan said. I doubt she had a stroke, but I want someone looking at important documents to tell me this and not just go on my educated guess.
And why am I here to teach anyway? I should be on the way to the hospital myself except I didn't know how to cancel this early morning thing without a whole class of folks being angry with me. Oy.
24 March 2009
Perhaps it's just overkill
I have a theory that at any given moment in central Kansas, one may hit 'scan' on the radio and find at least one Def Leppard song (typically, Pour Some Sugar on Me - beautiful in all its subtleties, or Rock of Ages) and multiple conservative Christian radio programmes. I find both of these equally amusing and despite the obvious reasons, it's because Kansas feels like the land that time forgot. There are places there that do not take credit cards, and this is wholly unacceptable. No wonder they're all still into Jesus and voting Republican; the last time they checked in with the rest of the world, it was reasonably prosperous under Ronald Reagan.
Please don't write to me and explain the virtues of Kansas, if you live there, or how everyone in the state is not necessarily this way.
My brain is all over the place today and I want to write like mad. I had a dream yesterday morning about the school building that is supposed to house the DU English department but it's not Sturm. I dream this building all the time; it's reminiscent of Sturm and while I know the ED is on the 4th floor, the building is labyrinthine and if you go the wrong way on the 4th floor, you cannot get to the ED and instead will be hopelessly lost, unable to even get back outside. The elevator is worse - it's the Wonka-vator and goes in any direction and no one knows where you'll end up. This place in my dream causes me great anxiety. I wonder if it's some kind of metaphor... haha.
I ran into Lindsay two weeks ago and it was good to see her. I don't think I knew that she was still at DU, and her presence there brings me comfort because she's been there a year longer than I. I don't know how, but we got to talking about my being a nerd - liking Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter; sci-fi in general; graphic novels; Scrabble and jigsaw puzzles. She seemed shocked to learn these things and when I joked that I just hide my geekiness well, she said "I never pegged you as a nerd; more like edgy." She went on to say that I am intimidating in my edginess and this positively floored me. Sure, I'm a grouch and sometimes an outright bitch, but somehow I thought no one really noticed this. Further, before I knew her at all Lindsay intimidated me because I think she's so much smarter than I am and because at first she isn't openly friendly. Little did I know that the feeling was mutual. How odd to think about the public personae we create for ourselves and don't even know it. Why can't I seem to intimidate the people in whom I wish to breed fear of me?
See? All over the board. I dyed my hair myself this time and it is some serious color of red, let me tell you. Not just red; but RED!
Please don't write to me and explain the virtues of Kansas, if you live there, or how everyone in the state is not necessarily this way.
My brain is all over the place today and I want to write like mad. I had a dream yesterday morning about the school building that is supposed to house the DU English department but it's not Sturm. I dream this building all the time; it's reminiscent of Sturm and while I know the ED is on the 4th floor, the building is labyrinthine and if you go the wrong way on the 4th floor, you cannot get to the ED and instead will be hopelessly lost, unable to even get back outside. The elevator is worse - it's the Wonka-vator and goes in any direction and no one knows where you'll end up. This place in my dream causes me great anxiety. I wonder if it's some kind of metaphor... haha.
I ran into Lindsay two weeks ago and it was good to see her. I don't think I knew that she was still at DU, and her presence there brings me comfort because she's been there a year longer than I. I don't know how, but we got to talking about my being a nerd - liking Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter; sci-fi in general; graphic novels; Scrabble and jigsaw puzzles. She seemed shocked to learn these things and when I joked that I just hide my geekiness well, she said "I never pegged you as a nerd; more like edgy." She went on to say that I am intimidating in my edginess and this positively floored me. Sure, I'm a grouch and sometimes an outright bitch, but somehow I thought no one really noticed this. Further, before I knew her at all Lindsay intimidated me because I think she's so much smarter than I am and because at first she isn't openly friendly. Little did I know that the feeling was mutual. How odd to think about the public personae we create for ourselves and don't even know it. Why can't I seem to intimidate the people in whom I wish to breed fear of me?
See? All over the board. I dyed my hair myself this time and it is some serious color of red, let me tell you. Not just red; but RED!
18 March 2009
Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy
One of the things I find probably most disturbing as I grow older is the repeated sensation of discovering that few things are what they seem to be, even after you've accepted that they are not what they should be. And that's hard enough. I had one of my students talk to me the other day about going to a graduate program, and he commented that he planned to start thinking about his dissertation now so that by the time he gets to his doctoral program, he'll be ready. I didn't mean to, but I burst out laughing. I apologized and told him I was not laughing at him but rather at the sudden realization that his comment brought to ME. Then, of course, I told him not to bother because it would be useless, and to focus on getting good grades, sending his creative work out to contest, etc. Focus on the stuff that actually may count for something.
I went into my doctoral program fairly sure about what I wanted it to be, what I would write my dissertation on, and how long it would take to do so. After a short while, I was sure who I wanted to work with, and what classes I would take. Now that I'm ABD and actually working on a dissertation, I laughed because it hit me that none of my so-called preparation or assuredness helped me a whit. My dissertation project daily morphs into something I can scarcely define and has little to do with anything it started out to be. This is the end of my fourth year, and instead of graduating, I'm still trying to figure out what to call my dissertation, let alone preparing to defend it. And this does not bother me in any real way because I know that whatever happens with my Ph.D. program, I'm fine. I love my jobs, my students (for the most part), and what I contribute to the world daily.
To illustrate this remarkable change, consider this: on the last day of Kiteley's class (the last class I will ever have to take in my life), I sat talking to Shawn and Kristy and the subject comes up again from hella-bitch Joan about how hard the first-years have it and how unhappy she is, blah, blah, blah. I name her openly here because I no longer care what gets back to her or if it does. She's an older student, supposedly having already achieved success, and she graces us with her presence in this program. She is sure that her writing is something special, but I have seen no evidence to support such a claim. She is hostile and also appears certain that she is above us all in one way or another. In short, I wish I could smack her and not be arrested for assault.
She's blathering on about disorganization, etc. and I find this offensive. It's never cool to bitch about your standing anywhere when others in the room have suffered more than you, and by a signficant amount. You don't tell a woman who's birthed ten children about how hard your one pregnancy is. Or stand in a Georgia church with secret rooms under the pews to hide slaves and tell the tour guide how your Irish people are just as put upon because they too were discriminated against (true but long story). While Joan is grousing, I pipe up and tell her she needs to be more grateful because the three classes before hers fought a hell of a lot of battles to make her life as good as it is. She looked over to me, in front of the entire room and said, "I was asking Brian." Dismissed me openly - again. Shawn looked at me and all but begged me to put her in her place and I might have, except that every time I went to put a scenario of what I'd say to her together in my head, I realized that I don't care enough to berate her. Let someone else fight a good fight; I'm done.
I went into my doctoral program fairly sure about what I wanted it to be, what I would write my dissertation on, and how long it would take to do so. After a short while, I was sure who I wanted to work with, and what classes I would take. Now that I'm ABD and actually working on a dissertation, I laughed because it hit me that none of my so-called preparation or assuredness helped me a whit. My dissertation project daily morphs into something I can scarcely define and has little to do with anything it started out to be. This is the end of my fourth year, and instead of graduating, I'm still trying to figure out what to call my dissertation, let alone preparing to defend it. And this does not bother me in any real way because I know that whatever happens with my Ph.D. program, I'm fine. I love my jobs, my students (for the most part), and what I contribute to the world daily.
To illustrate this remarkable change, consider this: on the last day of Kiteley's class (the last class I will ever have to take in my life), I sat talking to Shawn and Kristy and the subject comes up again from hella-bitch Joan about how hard the first-years have it and how unhappy she is, blah, blah, blah. I name her openly here because I no longer care what gets back to her or if it does. She's an older student, supposedly having already achieved success, and she graces us with her presence in this program. She is sure that her writing is something special, but I have seen no evidence to support such a claim. She is hostile and also appears certain that she is above us all in one way or another. In short, I wish I could smack her and not be arrested for assault.
She's blathering on about disorganization, etc. and I find this offensive. It's never cool to bitch about your standing anywhere when others in the room have suffered more than you, and by a signficant amount. You don't tell a woman who's birthed ten children about how hard your one pregnancy is. Or stand in a Georgia church with secret rooms under the pews to hide slaves and tell the tour guide how your Irish people are just as put upon because they too were discriminated against (true but long story). While Joan is grousing, I pipe up and tell her she needs to be more grateful because the three classes before hers fought a hell of a lot of battles to make her life as good as it is. She looked over to me, in front of the entire room and said, "I was asking Brian." Dismissed me openly - again. Shawn looked at me and all but begged me to put her in her place and I might have, except that every time I went to put a scenario of what I'd say to her together in my head, I realized that I don't care enough to berate her. Let someone else fight a good fight; I'm done.
02 March 2009
Did you think you'd escaped from routine by changing the script and the scene?
I read Jim Grimsley’s Dream Boy yesterday and it shook me, like all of his books do. Less so for the homosexual concerns and societal realities for gay men in the American South than for the simple staggering world of southern poverty in general. Both his male and female characters are always avoiding drunken fathers and husbands and homophobic classmates with no boundaries about violence and sex.
What makes me think and may disturb me even more is that parental sexual and physical abuse is not part of my life, but it easily could have been. And I do not mean that my parents are dodgy, either, but that I'm simply lucky to have been born to them and not someone else. I wish I could say I had the same luck with regard to boyfriends.
Nearly every woman I know has been in some way physically victimized by a spouse or boyfriend and I cannot help but feel it is a disturbing norm rather than exception. Some women learn early to embrace the kind of self-worth that intimidates and deflects these types of men, but sadly, most of us do not. Some women at least get the sense beaten into them at some point, when they have had enough and made the attempt to face down the demons and never ignore warning signals again, but most do not. The truth is, for whatever reason, women continue to accept everything from subtle coercion to overt sacrifice in the name of being with someone.
I think there are worse things than being single.
It is so easy to say “why doesn’t she just [fill in blank here: leave him, call the police, get a restraining order]” but if it were that simple, no one would need to pose such a question in the first place. Not many of said women I know are the passive sort; if a man hit any one of them at the start, she'd tell him to simply fuck off. But it never happens that way; it is always one tiny compromise after another that leads to larger ones in sum. And asking for help is admitting the problem and it too often sounds like weakness.
A friend I'm not close too just last week had to flee her apartment with a live-in boyfriend who raped her. She didn't even call it rape when she explained what happened. This is a man who used to take her cell phone from her and pry into her email and write text messages to friends and family posing as her. Another friend had to leave the state entirely to remove herself from a violent situation. I myself have sat up late into the night listening to every sound and erasing histories on my cell phone and having friends accompany me into the house to insure no "incident."
And I won't ever do it again. I made the decision when that person was out of my life that I would never allow another person to control me; that I would never make even the slightest compromise where my freedom to be myself was concerned. I refuse to be beholden to anyone in this way ever again. Sometimes Jamison has to remind me in subtle ways that I can give a little without giving anything up. Sometimes it's difficult for me to even go somewhere with him that he wishes me to go if I don't entirely want to without making myself feel bitter about it. Even if there is no coercion except a request for my presence that can be turned down with ease. It's one of the ghosts that haunts me.
Two weeks ago, one of my students came into class a half hour late and she had a black eye nearly swollen shut. I didn't confront her directly but sent a passive email asking if she was okay and to mention that if she needed to be pointed in the direction of help to say the word. She wrote back and thanked me for my concern but noted that the "situation has been dealt with." Jamison said, "hey, she's a smart college student; I'm sure everything's fine."
His naivete is refreshing in a way but I know differently; I was a Master's degree student when I had the ball and chain round my ankle. Both aforementioned friends have advanced degrees; intelligence, availability of help, and even knowledge does not change much about abusive situations. To my great chagrin, in fact, it actually makes them worse for this very reason. Educated independent women don't find themselves in these situations, right?
More than anything else, we need to talk about these things and not hide them away as secrets. The only secret being kept is that your abuser is not such a bad person and he/she does not have to face the shame of others knowing it. Why we afford these people this luxury is beyond my comprehension. Let's talk. Out loud and name names.
What makes me think and may disturb me even more is that parental sexual and physical abuse is not part of my life, but it easily could have been. And I do not mean that my parents are dodgy, either, but that I'm simply lucky to have been born to them and not someone else. I wish I could say I had the same luck with regard to boyfriends.
Nearly every woman I know has been in some way physically victimized by a spouse or boyfriend and I cannot help but feel it is a disturbing norm rather than exception. Some women learn early to embrace the kind of self-worth that intimidates and deflects these types of men, but sadly, most of us do not. Some women at least get the sense beaten into them at some point, when they have had enough and made the attempt to face down the demons and never ignore warning signals again, but most do not. The truth is, for whatever reason, women continue to accept everything from subtle coercion to overt sacrifice in the name of being with someone.
I think there are worse things than being single.
It is so easy to say “why doesn’t she just [fill in blank here: leave him, call the police, get a restraining order]” but if it were that simple, no one would need to pose such a question in the first place. Not many of said women I know are the passive sort; if a man hit any one of them at the start, she'd tell him to simply fuck off. But it never happens that way; it is always one tiny compromise after another that leads to larger ones in sum. And asking for help is admitting the problem and it too often sounds like weakness.
A friend I'm not close too just last week had to flee her apartment with a live-in boyfriend who raped her. She didn't even call it rape when she explained what happened. This is a man who used to take her cell phone from her and pry into her email and write text messages to friends and family posing as her. Another friend had to leave the state entirely to remove herself from a violent situation. I myself have sat up late into the night listening to every sound and erasing histories on my cell phone and having friends accompany me into the house to insure no "incident."
And I won't ever do it again. I made the decision when that person was out of my life that I would never allow another person to control me; that I would never make even the slightest compromise where my freedom to be myself was concerned. I refuse to be beholden to anyone in this way ever again. Sometimes Jamison has to remind me in subtle ways that I can give a little without giving anything up. Sometimes it's difficult for me to even go somewhere with him that he wishes me to go if I don't entirely want to without making myself feel bitter about it. Even if there is no coercion except a request for my presence that can be turned down with ease. It's one of the ghosts that haunts me.
Two weeks ago, one of my students came into class a half hour late and she had a black eye nearly swollen shut. I didn't confront her directly but sent a passive email asking if she was okay and to mention that if she needed to be pointed in the direction of help to say the word. She wrote back and thanked me for my concern but noted that the "situation has been dealt with." Jamison said, "hey, she's a smart college student; I'm sure everything's fine."
His naivete is refreshing in a way but I know differently; I was a Master's degree student when I had the ball and chain round my ankle. Both aforementioned friends have advanced degrees; intelligence, availability of help, and even knowledge does not change much about abusive situations. To my great chagrin, in fact, it actually makes them worse for this very reason. Educated independent women don't find themselves in these situations, right?
More than anything else, we need to talk about these things and not hide them away as secrets. The only secret being kept is that your abuser is not such a bad person and he/she does not have to face the shame of others knowing it. Why we afford these people this luxury is beyond my comprehension. Let's talk. Out loud and name names.
25 February 2009
Worries in my worry corner
I'm back to being obsessed with my weight. Even thought I've lost a lot of it, I still have a chunk to go and can't seem to get there. More importantly, however, is where I seem to locate stimuli to keep going.
I'm at ACC this morning, and my class is not until 8:30. Typically I get here around 7 so that I can (1) avoid major rush hour traffic, and (2) so I may sit in the coffee commons and have some solitude. Several other people regularly do this, and one of them is a man who appears to be about my age, grossly overweight, and in the nursing program here. He comes in each Tuesday and Thursday I am here, lumbers himself up the whopping three stairs to the first level and with his wheelie backpack in tow. The three-stair walkup winds him excessively, and while he is at least twenty feet away from me right now, I can hear him breathing even at rest. As if the fat in his body is weighing so heavily on his lungs that he has to work hard to do what the rest of us do unconsciously.
I do not stand in judgment of this man, by the bye. No one understands more than I do how hard it is to simply not be Jabba the Hut, let alone find a thin place to exist. Some of us - and I include myself in this - are not meant to be tiny people. I know that I've got boobs and hips and a good deal of muscle; I'm densely packed and the BMI scale is not realistic for me. At my thinnest point, which I cannot maintain by anything short of anorexia, I'm still ten pounds over the highest suggested BMI for me. I want to be honest with myself and not make excuses, but I would really like someone of the health profession to further examine this whole "ideal weight range" thing. Twenty more pounds can easily go from my body, I'll admit, but beyond that I have to wonder; are we all really supposed to fit into a thirty-pound ranged category based on our height?
Something about the logic of such things does not add up. It makes me wonder how well anyone understands the human body and its capacity for weight maintenance. Most people who are seriously overweight are so for lifestyle reasons - sitting too much, no exercise, and a parade of crappy food.
I don't always tow the line, but for the most part I take the stairs rather than the elevator, walk the dog, lift weights and do yoga three times a week, almost never eat fast food or red meat or whole milk anything; I never drink sugared soda, rarely drink alcohol and when I do it's a marginal amount. I don't eat after 8 p.m. I take vitamins. I order dressings for salads "on the side" and I count every calorie I put into my mouth. In fact, if I can't at least reasonably approximate something's caloric value, then I just don't eat it. I pass the cookies on in class. I don't stop at snack tables. Pass on birthday cake. Choose whole wheat instead of that six-cheese bagel. I get eight hours of sleep a night. I'll drink my coffee black if my only choice is half-n-half rather than skim milk. I sit on an exercise ball when I work at my desk so I can work my core while I'm sitting. I do crunches while I'm watching TV, yoga stances when I'm teaching. My blood pressure is 110/65, my cholesterol low, my resting heart rate spot-on. I get enough vitamin D and calcium; I get my antioxidants. I do not smoke or eat anything with hydrogenated oils in it. I use sunscreen and moisturizer.
You get the idea.
And yet any health professional or person on TV who works on a weight-loss show will tell me that because my BMI is what it is, that I'm fat and at risk for horrible diseases. Despite all evidence to the contrary in my life. I simply don't get it. And I don't buy it either.
I'm at ACC this morning, and my class is not until 8:30. Typically I get here around 7 so that I can (1) avoid major rush hour traffic, and (2) so I may sit in the coffee commons and have some solitude. Several other people regularly do this, and one of them is a man who appears to be about my age, grossly overweight, and in the nursing program here. He comes in each Tuesday and Thursday I am here, lumbers himself up the whopping three stairs to the first level and with his wheelie backpack in tow. The three-stair walkup winds him excessively, and while he is at least twenty feet away from me right now, I can hear him breathing even at rest. As if the fat in his body is weighing so heavily on his lungs that he has to work hard to do what the rest of us do unconsciously.
I do not stand in judgment of this man, by the bye. No one understands more than I do how hard it is to simply not be Jabba the Hut, let alone find a thin place to exist. Some of us - and I include myself in this - are not meant to be tiny people. I know that I've got boobs and hips and a good deal of muscle; I'm densely packed and the BMI scale is not realistic for me. At my thinnest point, which I cannot maintain by anything short of anorexia, I'm still ten pounds over the highest suggested BMI for me. I want to be honest with myself and not make excuses, but I would really like someone of the health profession to further examine this whole "ideal weight range" thing. Twenty more pounds can easily go from my body, I'll admit, but beyond that I have to wonder; are we all really supposed to fit into a thirty-pound ranged category based on our height?
Something about the logic of such things does not add up. It makes me wonder how well anyone understands the human body and its capacity for weight maintenance. Most people who are seriously overweight are so for lifestyle reasons - sitting too much, no exercise, and a parade of crappy food.
I don't always tow the line, but for the most part I take the stairs rather than the elevator, walk the dog, lift weights and do yoga three times a week, almost never eat fast food or red meat or whole milk anything; I never drink sugared soda, rarely drink alcohol and when I do it's a marginal amount. I don't eat after 8 p.m. I take vitamins. I order dressings for salads "on the side" and I count every calorie I put into my mouth. In fact, if I can't at least reasonably approximate something's caloric value, then I just don't eat it. I pass the cookies on in class. I don't stop at snack tables. Pass on birthday cake. Choose whole wheat instead of that six-cheese bagel. I get eight hours of sleep a night. I'll drink my coffee black if my only choice is half-n-half rather than skim milk. I sit on an exercise ball when I work at my desk so I can work my core while I'm sitting. I do crunches while I'm watching TV, yoga stances when I'm teaching. My blood pressure is 110/65, my cholesterol low, my resting heart rate spot-on. I get enough vitamin D and calcium; I get my antioxidants. I do not smoke or eat anything with hydrogenated oils in it. I use sunscreen and moisturizer.
You get the idea.
And yet any health professional or person on TV who works on a weight-loss show will tell me that because my BMI is what it is, that I'm fat and at risk for horrible diseases. Despite all evidence to the contrary in my life. I simply don't get it. And I don't buy it either.
Here I go again
It's time once more to have a come-to-Jesus talk with one of my classes. I'm tired of having to do it, but that is the price sometimes for instructing freshmen. Most of the time they jump on board but sometimes you get slackers. I don't care about them per se, but I care about the grief and stress they cause ME, and that's what counts.
In the interest of self-preservation, then, I have to go to a class today and tell them - save a handful - how much they suck and how much I don't appreciate their wasting my time. It doesn't matter to me if they like me or not, but when I do this, it shuts down all conversation in the room and that's what I hate. In the Machiavellian spirit, it IS better to be feared than loved, but I'd like to think that their fear is inwardly represented rather than outwardly.
In the interest of self-preservation, then, I have to go to a class today and tell them - save a handful - how much they suck and how much I don't appreciate their wasting my time. It doesn't matter to me if they like me or not, but when I do this, it shuts down all conversation in the room and that's what I hate. In the Machiavellian spirit, it IS better to be feared than loved, but I'd like to think that their fear is inwardly represented rather than outwardly.
23 February 2009
I don't care what you think as long as it's about me
I've lamented this before and I'll likely do it again, but here goes. I'm sick of people who think that being purposely odd makes them somehow more interesting. That if they dress in costume every day and see their lives as art, they can be idiots and everyone will excuse them because they are "artists." I used to think that such folk were worthy of envy, that I could or should in some way dislike my own oatmeal-ness - my middle class, normal upbringing; that I should be ashamed of my Harry Potter obsession and simultaneous revulsion of literary theory. That if I cannot squeeze juxtaposition, a French film reference and at least one nod toward Nietzsche into a sentence in a grad seminar that I am less than cool.
But I'm here to tell you that I no longer give a flying fuck about such matters, and this is truly liberating. Love me or hate me; think I'm a bitch or a saint. I simply cannot care because something happens around 35 in which you realize that (1) life is speeding by quickly, and (2) that you are who you are and I feel a sense of great relief that I'm no longer making an effort at performing something else. I say stupid things, I don't always get stuff, and oftentimes my clothes are wrinkled $3 clearance rack items from Target, and yes, I will carry my real Prada bag with such outfits because I feel like it. My public persona is ever-changing, often caustic, and I don't care about this either. Hiding my disdain for people and things I don't like is simply too much work these days, and I'm starting to understand the in-your-face, no sugar people I used to shy away from for fear of incurring their wrath.
Yes. I watch television. A lot. And it's un-intellectual shite like Judge Judy and Bridezillas. I do read bestsellers and no, I haven't heard of that small press, whateveritis.
But I'm here to tell you that I no longer give a flying fuck about such matters, and this is truly liberating. Love me or hate me; think I'm a bitch or a saint. I simply cannot care because something happens around 35 in which you realize that (1) life is speeding by quickly, and (2) that you are who you are and I feel a sense of great relief that I'm no longer making an effort at performing something else. I say stupid things, I don't always get stuff, and oftentimes my clothes are wrinkled $3 clearance rack items from Target, and yes, I will carry my real Prada bag with such outfits because I feel like it. My public persona is ever-changing, often caustic, and I don't care about this either. Hiding my disdain for people and things I don't like is simply too much work these days, and I'm starting to understand the in-your-face, no sugar people I used to shy away from for fear of incurring their wrath.
Yes. I watch television. A lot. And it's un-intellectual shite like Judge Judy and Bridezillas. I do read bestsellers and no, I haven't heard of that small press, whateveritis.
19 February 2009
Meh, part deux
I'm grouchy this morning because I'm tired. I feel tired all the time now and it's because my schedule sucks. Part of me wishes I was the kind of disciplined person who just functions and gets things done in a timely manner; the sadder part is that comparatively speaking, I AM this person and still can't give myself a break. Whatever I'm not doing sits in the back of my brain, scowling at me without regard to what I am accomplishing. Alas.
I'm going to gripe about students, so if you're bored already, stop reading here.
For the duration of my being a teacher, I have marveled at the number of students who go to college, pay for books and tuition, and sacrifice the time they could be partying or working, only to slack off and pretend they're still in high school. I know that needs no direct response because it's a given that most people under 25 have no concept of the forest; only trees. Having said that, I'm sick to death of having to play Mommy with these people who need Mommies more than they need professors to teach them something. I must again undercut this by confessing that with dedicated students, I often enjoy mothering/mentoring; it's the fucking slackers that I can no longer suffer.
A is a girl who missed the entire first week of class, which is never a good sign. It also means that she has missed every single thing I said about how I operate, what the course is all about, and the grumpy syllabus rules that dictate all of the shit I refuse to accept. Then she disappears for another entire week, writes me a half-assed email about a death in the family - which, can I say, is the LAMEST excuse ever. Not that it doesn't happen, but I have a hard time believing that so many grandmothers can die in a single semester span. Seriously. Is there a dead grandmother epidemic I should know about?
Even if that is bitchy and sending me straight to hell, how does that death - if it happened - justify a week's absence from school? My grandfather died when I was a freshman in college and he was in Wisconsin; do you know how many days of school I missed for that event? NONE. Pam lost her husband three weeks before master's comps, and how many classes did she miss? NONE. Either school is a priority for you or it isn't. This is a simple concept, and my thing is, if school isn't or cannot be a priority for you due to personal life constraints, then quit and return when you can dedicate yourself. I don't know why so many people think I should have to hear about their lives and their supposed tragedies and make exceptions for them. Fuck their collective sense of entitlement. Grrrrr.
I'm going to gripe about students, so if you're bored already, stop reading here.
For the duration of my being a teacher, I have marveled at the number of students who go to college, pay for books and tuition, and sacrifice the time they could be partying or working, only to slack off and pretend they're still in high school. I know that needs no direct response because it's a given that most people under 25 have no concept of the forest; only trees. Having said that, I'm sick to death of having to play Mommy with these people who need Mommies more than they need professors to teach them something. I must again undercut this by confessing that with dedicated students, I often enjoy mothering/mentoring; it's the fucking slackers that I can no longer suffer.
A is a girl who missed the entire first week of class, which is never a good sign. It also means that she has missed every single thing I said about how I operate, what the course is all about, and the grumpy syllabus rules that dictate all of the shit I refuse to accept. Then she disappears for another entire week, writes me a half-assed email about a death in the family - which, can I say, is the LAMEST excuse ever. Not that it doesn't happen, but I have a hard time believing that so many grandmothers can die in a single semester span. Seriously. Is there a dead grandmother epidemic I should know about?
Even if that is bitchy and sending me straight to hell, how does that death - if it happened - justify a week's absence from school? My grandfather died when I was a freshman in college and he was in Wisconsin; do you know how many days of school I missed for that event? NONE. Pam lost her husband three weeks before master's comps, and how many classes did she miss? NONE. Either school is a priority for you or it isn't. This is a simple concept, and my thing is, if school isn't or cannot be a priority for you due to personal life constraints, then quit and return when you can dedicate yourself. I don't know why so many people think I should have to hear about their lives and their supposed tragedies and make exceptions for them. Fuck their collective sense of entitlement. Grrrrr.
18 February 2009
I don't need a single book to teach me how to read
I feel exhausted today; completely spent. I have never noticed the sense of getting older before, but I feel it now more than ever. And I'm not sure how I feel about it, either.
On NPR yesterday, I found myself completely involved in an interview with the Episcopalian Bishop who is openly gay. It's shameful that I don't know his name. Normally, I find little interest in listening to religious folk - particularly those who hold high church positions - but this man is someone I am actually inspired by. I don't necessarily admire him because he's not afraid to be all of the things he is without apology (though it's a factor); what struck me is the entirely practical approach he has to leading a spiritual life.
When asked how he responds to hateful remarks or challenges to his faith because of his gay status, he answered like a normal person. No rehearsed bible verses or platitudes; he simply said that he responds often angrily in the presence of those he trusts and then tries to be forgiving. He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "I believe God loves us all, and if God can find something about this person to love, then at least I should be able to think of that person as one of God's children if nothing else." And he admitted that it doesn't always assuage his anger to think this way, but that he tells himself this not to be righteous but to make himself feel better. He also talked about prayer in a practical way as well. He said he didn't need to tell God what is wrong in the world or to ask for anything; instead, he spends his prayer time simply meditating, by "letting God love him" for a little while.
There's something wonderful about this man and what he is putting out into the world; I love that he sees what he does in a real way and that what he had to say didn't sound like church. It sounded like a person who had found some peace in being himself and focuses on what's good in the world and how to spread that positively to others. No preaching. If only we could all be so balanced. I wish I lived anywhere near this church; it's one I might even consider going to.
And that's saying something.
On NPR yesterday, I found myself completely involved in an interview with the Episcopalian Bishop who is openly gay. It's shameful that I don't know his name. Normally, I find little interest in listening to religious folk - particularly those who hold high church positions - but this man is someone I am actually inspired by. I don't necessarily admire him because he's not afraid to be all of the things he is without apology (though it's a factor); what struck me is the entirely practical approach he has to leading a spiritual life.
When asked how he responds to hateful remarks or challenges to his faith because of his gay status, he answered like a normal person. No rehearsed bible verses or platitudes; he simply said that he responds often angrily in the presence of those he trusts and then tries to be forgiving. He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "I believe God loves us all, and if God can find something about this person to love, then at least I should be able to think of that person as one of God's children if nothing else." And he admitted that it doesn't always assuage his anger to think this way, but that he tells himself this not to be righteous but to make himself feel better. He also talked about prayer in a practical way as well. He said he didn't need to tell God what is wrong in the world or to ask for anything; instead, he spends his prayer time simply meditating, by "letting God love him" for a little while.
There's something wonderful about this man and what he is putting out into the world; I love that he sees what he does in a real way and that what he had to say didn't sound like church. It sounded like a person who had found some peace in being himself and focuses on what's good in the world and how to spread that positively to others. No preaching. If only we could all be so balanced. I wish I lived anywhere near this church; it's one I might even consider going to.
And that's saying something.
17 February 2009
You are at the top of my lungs, drawn to the ones who never yawn
Tuesday morning at ACC and I'm thinking about the whole world this morning. My distractability factor is off the charts lately and I always feel like the answer to this is more discipline, more regimented behavior, more schema building. Another part of me thinks that this kind of crackdown on myself is exactly what creates my cognitive dissonance. I know that I am juggling too many things and people often ask me how I "do it all" and then seem surprised that I devote as much time as I do to pointless endeavors like Judge Judy and Scrabble on Facebook. I often wonder the same; if I have so much disposable time, then why isn't my dissertation written and why do I feel like I'm constantly short-changing my students? There isn't a student alive who would notice, of course, as I believe nearly all of them would gladly take less over more. This includes me.
Speaking of my student self, she is getting to be quite bothersome. Yesterday, my one and only professor this term in the last class I will ever have to take stopped after class to get a reading on my state of mind. I know this move because I am a veteran of the student-whose-vibe-sours-the-room-and-should-be-dealt-with school. Ferreting out such individuals and speaking to them directly is the surefire way to prevent their shooting you when they finally snap. I was a bit surprised to find that I no longer bother to hide my disdain for the DU environment and felt a smidge guilty at forcing Brian to have to speak to me to ask "how it's going" in a manner suggestive of "you're not going to go postal and kill me, are you?"
My attitude, I know, is terrible. My criticisms of classmates is harsh and perhaps unfair; sure, at least three of them annoy me so badly that I cannot keep from glowering and rolling my eyes, but it is certainly a new thing for me to outwardly express this. I am normally not an unkind person; in fact, I used to consider myself relentlessly optimistic. Funny thing is, I still do. When I look out into my own classrooms, I see these people kindly, and offer them almost boundless patience. I hope that they will succeed, that they will embrace the concept of education for education's sake, and that I will have a positive and lasting influence on them. I think what makes me so angry in the grad school classroom these days is - perhaps - the complete self-centeredness, egomania, and exclusivity that pervades such programs and particularly creative writing ones.
There seems to be only feigned humility among this particular group, if it exists at all, and I have no time for nonsense I guess. No time to devote to discussion of matters that don't further my education or make me a better teacher, except by default of knowing what I never want my classrooms to be like. I'm angry that my Ph.D. journey has so jaded me that I cannot and will not respond to people who use "nom de plume" conversationally and without even a hint at irony. Who take pictures of themselves each day in ridiculous outfits and post them on the internet and do not know who Thomas Becket is. Prima donnas who think they can hand you a workshop piece of five packed pages of crappy prose and then defiantly defend the 10-point, single-spaced font because she can. I'm sick of people who insist on bringing in a dozen books to a presentation for a final project that is only 10-15 pages and talking about herself and her writing as if anyone cares a whit about it.
I know that all of this is par for the course, and in some small way the fact that I don't fit in here makes me feel better rather than worse. Not one of these people could walk in my shoes for a single day and survive. When they started grousing about their 10 credit hours and shifts in the writing center as not providing them any time to write, I laughed out loud. I told them that I have been teaching more than full time, have a child and spouse, and a home to maintain the entire time I've been at DU, and I still managed to write a whole novel, compose a regular blog, and work on my dissertation. The whole conversation felt like, "bitch, please." Oh, and there's still time for Scrabble and Judge Judy. Take that, SoupandBread.
Speaking of my student self, she is getting to be quite bothersome. Yesterday, my one and only professor this term in the last class I will ever have to take stopped after class to get a reading on my state of mind. I know this move because I am a veteran of the student-whose-vibe-sours-the-room-and-should-be-dealt-with school. Ferreting out such individuals and speaking to them directly is the surefire way to prevent their shooting you when they finally snap. I was a bit surprised to find that I no longer bother to hide my disdain for the DU environment and felt a smidge guilty at forcing Brian to have to speak to me to ask "how it's going" in a manner suggestive of "you're not going to go postal and kill me, are you?"
My attitude, I know, is terrible. My criticisms of classmates is harsh and perhaps unfair; sure, at least three of them annoy me so badly that I cannot keep from glowering and rolling my eyes, but it is certainly a new thing for me to outwardly express this. I am normally not an unkind person; in fact, I used to consider myself relentlessly optimistic. Funny thing is, I still do. When I look out into my own classrooms, I see these people kindly, and offer them almost boundless patience. I hope that they will succeed, that they will embrace the concept of education for education's sake, and that I will have a positive and lasting influence on them. I think what makes me so angry in the grad school classroom these days is - perhaps - the complete self-centeredness, egomania, and exclusivity that pervades such programs and particularly creative writing ones.
There seems to be only feigned humility among this particular group, if it exists at all, and I have no time for nonsense I guess. No time to devote to discussion of matters that don't further my education or make me a better teacher, except by default of knowing what I never want my classrooms to be like. I'm angry that my Ph.D. journey has so jaded me that I cannot and will not respond to people who use "nom de plume" conversationally and without even a hint at irony. Who take pictures of themselves each day in ridiculous outfits and post them on the internet and do not know who Thomas Becket is. Prima donnas who think they can hand you a workshop piece of five packed pages of crappy prose and then defiantly defend the 10-point, single-spaced font because she can. I'm sick of people who insist on bringing in a dozen books to a presentation for a final project that is only 10-15 pages and talking about herself and her writing as if anyone cares a whit about it.
I know that all of this is par for the course, and in some small way the fact that I don't fit in here makes me feel better rather than worse. Not one of these people could walk in my shoes for a single day and survive. When they started grousing about their 10 credit hours and shifts in the writing center as not providing them any time to write, I laughed out loud. I told them that I have been teaching more than full time, have a child and spouse, and a home to maintain the entire time I've been at DU, and I still managed to write a whole novel, compose a regular blog, and work on my dissertation. The whole conversation felt like, "bitch, please." Oh, and there's still time for Scrabble and Judge Judy. Take that, SoupandBread.
16 February 2009
I don't have the patience to keep it on the up
Lost in thought this morning. Mondays feel both hopeful and overwhelming, especially when I leap from bed and face down the to do list and think: I can beat this monster this week. I will. I have to. But there is always the inkling in the depths of my conscious self that knows full well that it won't happen. That before noon today, I will have lost all sense of possibility and resign myself to another Sunday pep talk about how things should be going in my life.
What is this business with "should" anyway? I can only laugh at the concept when I unpack it at all because "should" is always self-imposed nonsense. It occurs to me that I should be working out more; I should cook at home; I should write; I should study; I should prepare more solidly for my classes. I should want success and the good feeling of a job well done. The problem is where this all ends. Should I feel guilty for ignoring my laptop in lieu of a bubble bath? Or tuning out to complete a jigsaw puzzle? Of course not. But I do.
And I think too much. About everything. What does it mean to be happy in the world? I have to wonder if part of it isn't turning off the television and radio and absorbing moments to oneself more frequently. I always find my center of gravity in the solitude of me time, whether I'm working in silence or simply staring at pieces of a puzzle. I find that my happy place is quite shockingly inside my own head sometimes.
What is this business with "should" anyway? I can only laugh at the concept when I unpack it at all because "should" is always self-imposed nonsense. It occurs to me that I should be working out more; I should cook at home; I should write; I should study; I should prepare more solidly for my classes. I should want success and the good feeling of a job well done. The problem is where this all ends. Should I feel guilty for ignoring my laptop in lieu of a bubble bath? Or tuning out to complete a jigsaw puzzle? Of course not. But I do.
And I think too much. About everything. What does it mean to be happy in the world? I have to wonder if part of it isn't turning off the television and radio and absorbing moments to oneself more frequently. I always find my center of gravity in the solitude of me time, whether I'm working in silence or simply staring at pieces of a puzzle. I find that my happy place is quite shockingly inside my own head sometimes.
15 February 2009
And the words have been spoken
Alas. Four weeks of teaching have passed smoothly: students are mostly on board with my variable nonsense and attrition rates are at zero. But then it happened.
Thursday night, I teach a delightful group of introduction to literature folk at ACC. The class is small at 17, and among them there are five high school students and at least that many more who are my age - all of which adds up to insightful and rich conversation. I know she meant nothing by this, but one such older person in the room uttered the phrase, "From a feminist perspective" and I think I might have visibly winced. I didn't have the heart to tell her that despite the intelligent thought backing her opening clause, those words in that order make me want to go postal. Those of you who've read my fiction know that I have composed entire chapters of work dedicatd to why I never want to hear those four words again after graduate school.
Not that I hate feminism out of hand, mind you, but Feminists (and I mean the capital F type) are a lot like Christians: most of them aren't bad, comprehend the often hypocritical nature of that to which they so desperately cleave, and seem otherwise quite normal; it's the crackpots and the diehards that one must categorically avoid, however. I'm sick to death of Feminists - and this category covers some women I know who are now in their late fifties and sixties - who internalize the issue to the point of hating all men. Who see any opposition to them on any level as a sincere threat to their hard-earned female "equality," by which they mean massive-insecurity-complex-manifested-as-selfish-political-power. Who see - ironically - younger women with any degree of intelligence as a threat and will stop at nothing to degrade and/or debase them. Certainly such irony is not lost on you.
Furthermore, I cannot fathom why we - and I mean the royal we - insist upon imposing the tenets of feminist thought on periods of literature which do not include such modern perspective. Is it really fair to call Chaucer a misogynist when the culture from which he arrived held women in a certain light? When he belonged to a political system where church and state are one in the same? I might actually make the same argument for Hemingway, but I don't wish to engage that battle. After all, we do not fault Mark Twain for referring to all black people as the N-word, do we? We accept that it was cultural norm for him to use this word, and even if he meant it derogatorily, there is also something of a cultural norm there too.
I know that much of my current status in the world is in large part due to the feminist movement and I do necesarily believe in equality - for ALL, not just women. However, that does not prevent me from recognizing certain principles of reality: men and women ARE different, and because of that lovely fact, it makes certain things true about the nature of relationships and home life and I'm okay with that. Chivalry should not die. Men should hold doors open for women, should offer a hand to stand up or get out of a car, offer to take a coat. I have a hard time getting angry about a man asking "are you PMS-ing?" when I'm being a bitch, because at least 98% of the time, it's true. Why is that offensive? At least where Jamison is concerned, I know that he's asking the question not to dismiss my anger, but to try to understand it.
Part of me will always have some feeling of pity for men when it comes to comprehending female behavior. It really is a large-scale mystery to most of them, and I've yet to meet a straight man who has the slightest clue what to do with a crying woman, be it friend, lover, spouse, sibling, or parent. When I ask Jamison what's wrong and he says "nothing," what he actually means is: nothing. When he asks me the same, and I reply with the same, he knows full well that it's not nothing, but has no idea what to do about this fact.
When people worry about a woman being president and that she might break down and cry when things get tough, this is an actual concern. Women cry, but not for the reason that most men think. I cry out of frustration, anger, sadness, happiness, and sometimes just because it feels good. I'm all Irish in this regard and my emotions are always at the surface of who I am at any given moment. If you anger me, I might verbally crush you or kick you out of my class, but that does not prevent me from getting choked up while reading Tennyson's Ulysses to students.
So, I am ~not~ a Feminist I suppose. I would like to think, in fact, that I am not anything that results in an -ist. I'm sure I am, but I'll always fight to avoid it.
Thursday night, I teach a delightful group of introduction to literature folk at ACC. The class is small at 17, and among them there are five high school students and at least that many more who are my age - all of which adds up to insightful and rich conversation. I know she meant nothing by this, but one such older person in the room uttered the phrase, "From a feminist perspective" and I think I might have visibly winced. I didn't have the heart to tell her that despite the intelligent thought backing her opening clause, those words in that order make me want to go postal. Those of you who've read my fiction know that I have composed entire chapters of work dedicatd to why I never want to hear those four words again after graduate school.
Not that I hate feminism out of hand, mind you, but Feminists (and I mean the capital F type) are a lot like Christians: most of them aren't bad, comprehend the often hypocritical nature of that to which they so desperately cleave, and seem otherwise quite normal; it's the crackpots and the diehards that one must categorically avoid, however. I'm sick to death of Feminists - and this category covers some women I know who are now in their late fifties and sixties - who internalize the issue to the point of hating all men. Who see any opposition to them on any level as a sincere threat to their hard-earned female "equality," by which they mean massive-insecurity-complex-manifested-as-selfish-political-power. Who see - ironically - younger women with any degree of intelligence as a threat and will stop at nothing to degrade and/or debase them. Certainly such irony is not lost on you.
Furthermore, I cannot fathom why we - and I mean the royal we - insist upon imposing the tenets of feminist thought on periods of literature which do not include such modern perspective. Is it really fair to call Chaucer a misogynist when the culture from which he arrived held women in a certain light? When he belonged to a political system where church and state are one in the same? I might actually make the same argument for Hemingway, but I don't wish to engage that battle. After all, we do not fault Mark Twain for referring to all black people as the N-word, do we? We accept that it was cultural norm for him to use this word, and even if he meant it derogatorily, there is also something of a cultural norm there too.
I know that much of my current status in the world is in large part due to the feminist movement and I do necesarily believe in equality - for ALL, not just women. However, that does not prevent me from recognizing certain principles of reality: men and women ARE different, and because of that lovely fact, it makes certain things true about the nature of relationships and home life and I'm okay with that. Chivalry should not die. Men should hold doors open for women, should offer a hand to stand up or get out of a car, offer to take a coat. I have a hard time getting angry about a man asking "are you PMS-ing?" when I'm being a bitch, because at least 98% of the time, it's true. Why is that offensive? At least where Jamison is concerned, I know that he's asking the question not to dismiss my anger, but to try to understand it.
Part of me will always have some feeling of pity for men when it comes to comprehending female behavior. It really is a large-scale mystery to most of them, and I've yet to meet a straight man who has the slightest clue what to do with a crying woman, be it friend, lover, spouse, sibling, or parent. When I ask Jamison what's wrong and he says "nothing," what he actually means is: nothing. When he asks me the same, and I reply with the same, he knows full well that it's not nothing, but has no idea what to do about this fact.
When people worry about a woman being president and that she might break down and cry when things get tough, this is an actual concern. Women cry, but not for the reason that most men think. I cry out of frustration, anger, sadness, happiness, and sometimes just because it feels good. I'm all Irish in this regard and my emotions are always at the surface of who I am at any given moment. If you anger me, I might verbally crush you or kick you out of my class, but that does not prevent me from getting choked up while reading Tennyson's Ulysses to students.
So, I am ~not~ a Feminist I suppose. I would like to think, in fact, that I am not anything that results in an -ist. I'm sure I am, but I'll always fight to avoid it.
12 February 2009
Gotta move back
I never got round to "feelin it" at WordPress. Something about writing in this space feels more authentic. It shall be as it was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
