Kat's Meow

stumbling blocks; or, what to do when everything is hard

2011-11-30T13:33:00.000-08:00

Computers hate me. No, really, they do. In my life I have six computers. Seven if you count the dead laptop I left in a closet in Chico, but I don't know if it is still there, so we won't count that one. I have two laptops and four desktops. Only one of them is technically mine, but I use the others. None of them works the way I need it it too. Most have one capability but not another; and some just refuse to play along.

One computer does not get internet or have a printer, one gets internet and has a virus so very little can be done (this one is my roomates, not mine), one cannot print, and another doesn't have Word on it. Sigh. The worst one is my work computer. Sometimes it allows me to log on and sometimes it doesn't.

Okay, Kat, so why all the whining? What is your point. The computers are just an example of how the little things wear a person down. How do you ever get going when it feels like the smallest things are a huge hassle?

I see London, I see France; or, priming the pump

2011-11-16T10:33:00.000-08:00

I have always wanted to be a rich aunt who is a benefactoress. As a child, I read stories about young girls who are pulled out of their families and sent off to live with the rich dowager aunt. I identified with the aunt, even as a child. One of the biggest frustrations for me as I struggle with money is that I can't do things for other people, but I still believe that someday I will be in position to do so. I have dreamed of paying for my neice(s) to go to Europe since I was 16-years old.

Ever since my niece, Kaya, was born a little over nine years ago I have been plying her with stories of travel. I sent her postcards of exotic places long before she was cognizant, much less literate. She has gifts and postcards from the UK, Europe, Boston, New York, Austin and others with fantastic tales of all the fun I am having that date back to times when we were still counting her age in months. She fetishizes the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben in a way that makes me proud, and I know it is only a matter of time before she begins to want to see them for herself.

When Kaya and I go on the internet I take the time to show her distant lands and all the joys of travel. She is an anxious shy little thing and is timid about everyday activities. She will not talk to strangers, and most social situations can send her into small panic attacks. I like the idea of showing her that her world is so much bigger than she can imagine because I know that seeing herself as a part of something so grand, and so vast, may just make talking to the grocery clerk seem a bit easier. At least that is the theory. As a result of my efforts, she has a pretty good handle on geography, world landmarks, and folklore; at least a good handle for a nine-year old American girl.

She and I were in World Market (of course) the other day and among the items she picked out as possible Christmas presents were an Eiffel Tower snowglobe, a Big Ben paper weight, and a wall-map of the world. I said to her as we talked about her choices, "Wow, you seem to really like those landmarks. Maybe I will take you with me the next time I go to Europe." You would have to know her to understand exactly how that statement both thrilled and terrified her at the same time. She looked at me with her eyes huge with excitement, "I don't think my parents would let me do that." And I thought, well, that isn't a no now is it?

lucky; or, the literary critic in me needs this to mean something

2011-11-11T10:26:00.000-08:00

In my last post, I wrote about the film Buck. I did so for more than one reason. The first is because I like opportunities to talk about our personal responsibility to be kind to one another. It is a lost art, kindness. The second is because of what happened after the movie.

As I was saying, we watched a film about horses and kindness. I enjoyed the film and walked out of class satisfied that the documentary was a good one and that it would lend itself to some good conversations for the rest of the term. I got into my car backed out and drove about three feet and then I saw something in the road that made me stop. In the road before me was a rusted horseshoe.

Weird right? This was about 5 minutes after the movie. I was moved by the experience. I mean, it has to mean something. Doesn't it? I brought the shoe to class on Wednesday and told them about it. I used it to teach a lesson on argument. I asked them to listen to a story, to briefly summarize it and to create a thesis statement of the story. I shared the story, and the students immediately asked me if it was true. I swore that it was. We talked about their summaries and thesis statements, but they wanted to talk about what it meant, or could mean, so we created this list.

It is a sign that I am doing something right.

It is a sign I am lucky and should go to Las Vegas and gamble all
my savings.

It is a message that I should take something from the movie learn from it.

It is nothing, and the shoe has been laying there for weeks, but I only noticed it because I had just watched a film about horses.

It is fate. Destiny.

It is a coincidence.

It is a conspiracy, someone put that there because they knew I was going to watch that film.

It is something very important.

It is nothing.

We discussed the possible meanings. A student added, "It is God." Which I wrote on the board, but would not allow the students to use in the argument exercise (yes, sometimes my ideology does seep into the classroom in interesting ways). The most intriguing side effect of this conversation was that as my classroom became a battle over the theory of fate and nothingness, the students began to invest themselves in the documentary. Students began to believe that the movie and the shoe and this conversation was important. They tuned in, there was that "click" that teachers wait for, and they connected.

For me, I need it to mean something. If not just because I want to feel lucky, or a part of some larger universe, but because if this were a novel it would mean everything. What do you think?

Buck: or, a lesson in love and kindness

2011-11-09T09:51:00.000-08:00

On Monday, we watched the documentary film Buck in my class. The film is about a man, named Buck of course, who is a horse whisperer. He was the inspiration for the 1998 movie The Horse Whisperer starring Robert Redford. Buck was a decent film, not the best documentary I have ever seen, but it seemed to hold my student's attention which is saying something. The core message of the film is what makes it worth seeing.

The movie is about Buck Brannaman's life as a horse trainer. But really it is about how being a loving person is better than being a jerk. That is an oversimplification, but essentially it is the message at the core of the film. Brannaman's father was a horribly abusive man who beat Buck and his brother unmercifully. Finally, they were removed from the home and put into foster care. Now, many years later, Buck trains horses. He is using the lessons he learned from his own terrible past to teach the horse community that using brutal training methods is ruining their horses, and maybe themselves, and teaching the horses to be afraid. He, and the film, makes explicit connections between his own childhood, the horse training, and parenting.

The film moves back and forth between stories about Buck's childhood, clips of his training clinics, and itneractions between Buck and his teenaged daughter. His history of abuse was so bad that a childhood friend, a man in his 50's, breaks down and weeps while talking about it. It is a touching and salient moment in the narrative when Buck points out that his daughter is just like him; and he is a little sad about the fact if he had been raised in love he would be as amazing as his daughter. Yes, I cried. It is clear that Buck grieves for his lost childhood, but also that he understands that he has to choose how to repudiate that history each day. He has to remind himself that he is kind, that the world is kind.

The big dramatic moment comes when a woman brings in a "demon colt" for training. Throughout the movie we see Buck gentle horse after horse. He begins with a frightened bucking animal and ends up with a pet following after him like the most loyal of dogs. It is amazing each time. But, back to the demon colt. The colt was orphaned and may have even suffered brain damage from a lock of oxygen, so the colt has had a tough beginning. But, the real damage, we are reminded again and again, was done by the trainer. She raised him with a pack of stud horses and let him remain a stud as well. Through her coddling of this horse she has allowed him to be spoiled and wild: She unintentionally trained him to be "a predator." The horse is so viscious that he attacks one of Buck's colleagues with pure malice. It is clear that this horse is not protecting himself, but is instead intending mayhem. The trainer is so badly injured he requires several stitches to his forehead. They decide to put the horse down.

It is an emotial moment when they decide to give up on this horse and sentence him to death. As the demon colt is being taken back onto the truck the owner tries to force him and is yelling at him and yanking the horse around. Buck, who clearly dislikes this treatment, and has already told this woman that she needs to get help for her own problems, firmly tells the woman to step away from the horse. When he takes over he gently and calmly works with the horse until he dociley walks into the truck on his own. In that moment, you can see the difference the film is talking about. You can see that if that horse had been raised by another, gentler hand his life would be different.

The next day, at the training, a couple of people ask Buck to talk about the demon colt. They want explanations, and he gives them. He simply says, "The horse was failed by his owner, yes he was disabled, but that is not what made him what he is." A woman--who had been crying the day before as they loaded the colt--asked him about his kindness in loading this doomed animal onto the truck. He said, "Just because we have decided to put the colt down doesn't mean he deserves to be treated unkindly."

It is such a simple message really, but one that needs to be repeated. And repreated. Kindness matters. Kindness is a choice. So, please choose to be kind.

Plans; or, you were gonna do what?

2011-11-07T16:33:00.000-08:00

I just returned from an unexpected vacation to wine country. My parents called me on Thursday night as asked me if I wanted to join them on a trip to Windsor, CA. They have a timeshare there and were being treated to a "party weekend" by the timeshare sales team. My Dad had a doctor appointment on Friday in San Francisco and they are not comfortable driving Bay Area traffic, so I was enlisted as a driver/navigator. They were supposed to be occupied by the wining and dining (literallyl) of the time share staff as they tried to talk my parents into buying more time in the timeshare, and I was supposed to be enjoying a quiet relaxing weekend alone. My dad doesn't like wine, so I got to be wined and dined and he got to relax.

Why does this matter? Well, I had plans. Twice. I was going to relax at home, watch tv, and blog this weekend. Then once I had been invited to Sonoma I was going to nap, read, and swim in the resort pool. In the end I ended up wine tasting and schmoozing with folks who were, on average, 30 years older than me. And it was awesome. However, I am not going blog every day. And that's okay.

dilemma; or, leap of faith

2011-11-03T19:48:00.000-07:00

In the movie classic Indiana Jones and The Search for the Holy Grail there is a scene where Indiana Jones must take a literal leap of faith. He has to step off a cliff and trust that he won't fall. Of course, it is Hollywood and Harrison Ford so everything turns out okay. There is a rock path that is the same color as the cliff face. It is in fact, not an empty chasm before him, but a narrow rock path that is just difficult to see. As Indiana Jones walks he throws sand on the path because he want to be sure that the path really is there. He does not want to have to trust that it will be there when he gets back, he just wants to know. Is that such a terrible thing? To know?

What comes first? The leap? or the faith? If you don't have faith you won't jump, if you don't jump there is no faith. Jones jumps because if he doesn't his dad will die. Perhaps faith works best when we are thinking of something else. When I was in high school, my church youth group took a trip to a local swimming hole called Hell's Gate (I know it's ironic, somebody call Alanis Morrissette). At one end of the pool of cold, green water there was a smallish cliff the older kids would climb up and jump off. Because I was a girl, and because I was young, I had never been expected to jump, but that day I had decided to.

I didn't really want to climb up the cliff, and I definitely knew I didn't want everyone looking at me while I stood at the edge. I was 14, and my body was curvier and bustier than I was comfortable with. The boys had suddenly developed a habit of staring at me. They would look at me, my body, and then look away. I finally understood what my books' had meant when they described a man as "leering." But a boy had looked at me and his green eyes sparkled as he asked if I was coming, I forgot my awkwardness for a moment and suddenly I didn't want to stay down at the bottom alone.

There were about seven or eight of us, and I was the only girl. I was the last one up the cliff and the boys had been standing at the top looking down into the water for several minutes. They were teasing each other and taking their time, pretending to push each other, laughing. I did not wait; instinctively I knew if I thought about it I would not jump. I reached the top of the cliff, made eye contact with those green eyes one more time, walked to the edge, and I dove into the water in one single motion. Once I bobbed to the surface the boys lost little time falling in after me.

Does it count as a leap of faith if you only jump because you are afraid not too? Or, maybe it just doesn't matter as long as you are in the water?

blogging for blogging's sake; or, words, words, words

2011-11-02T07:25:00.000-07:00

I have signed up for nablopomo (again). I remember being told once that it takes 15 days to make a new activity into a habit. At the time, that seemed like a big challenge, sticking to something for 15 days. I must have been very young, like 19, or so, and 15 days seemed like such a long, long time. I know I was young, because I believed it. Now, I know that 15 days is nothing. A blink. How can you undo a lifetime of habits in 15 days? It is silly really.

I am 39 now. I am standing on the brink of one of those ages. One of those birthdays that marks your life and changes the way people view you and you view yourself. It is a benchmark of how you have spent your time and what you have sown and what you will reap. But, I am still sowing. Yes, of course. We all are. And so with the idea that the teacher never really stops being a student, and that the harvest is never really at an end, and marking birthdays like they matter is silly, I commit to blog this month with the hope that it will stick. That this time it really will become a habit.

persistence; or, I get knocked down, but I get up again (and now that stupid song is stuck in your head)

2011-11-01T07:57:00.000-07:00

About 15 years ago (back in the health insurance days), I was seeing a new therapist. As is protocol she asked me to share my history, why I was there, and what I wanted from our sessions. She asked me to write out my story and then read it to her. I began listing the litany of failures that had led me to her couch. At the time I was not in school, unemployed, and completely supported by my parents. I had traveled a little and had tried many paths to independence only to land broke and broken at my parent's door. After I finished reading my list I started to sob. The therapist looked at me and said, "Why do you see yourself as a failure?" I looked at her and didn't really say anything, I just gestured at the list of failed attempts to build my life. She said, "Well, I see a very determined young lady who has amazing persistence. A lot of people in your situation would have given up long ago." I sat up a little straighter and stopped crying.

While in grad school, I was asked to participate in an experiment for the psychology department. I was asked to take a test in which I would take a silly test and then answer some questions afterwords. The test was simple there was a paper with rows and rows of dots. I would need to connect the dots and form boxes. The task was to guess how many boxes I could make in a given time. The test started. The administrator asked me how many boxes I could fill in 30 seconds. I said, "30." The administrator raised her eyebrows, wrote down 30 and started the timer. I did 20. The adminstrator told me that was "very good" for the first try, that most people get 15 or less on their first try. I barely heard her. I was frustrated that I did not get 20. Round 2. "How many do you think you can get in 45 seconds?" I said, "50." She didn't say anything and started the timer. I got 45. The administrator could see that I was frustrated. She told me that one per second is really great, and that is among the fastest anyone has ever done the task. I could barely hear her as I was too upset and frustrated. I just asked if I could do it again. She said okay, and asked how many I could get in 45 seconds. I said "55." She stopped and looked at me. Finally, she said, "Why? Why would you think that you could do that many?" I explained that now that I had done it a few times I felt like I was experienced and I had an idea for a strategy that would really work. She wrote something in her notes and started the test. I got 50. And once again, I was upset because I did not meet my goal. When the test was over the test adminstrator took me aside and said to me, "Listen, this isn't any of my business, but you are putting way too much pressure on yourself."

There is a scene in Forrest Gump where Jenny, whose goal is to become a singer, is working in a strip club. She takes Forrest to see her act which consists of her sitting naked on a stool and playing guitar. The audience jeers her as she sings. She is humiliated and embarrassed by this mockery of her dream. Forrest says, "Jenny had accomplished her dream, she was a singer." I wanted to become an American Literature professor. Instead, I am an adjunct composition instructor. I believe that somewhere in between the lines of these stories is enlightment. That between the person who is persistant and the one who sets her expectations far too high is the answer to how to improve my current life. It has to do with remembering to persist and remembering that failure is objective. It has to do with forgiving myself for my mistakes, complimenting myself on my successes, and picking myslef up and carrying on.

down; or, even these words will give me something to stand on

2011-10-24T11:39:00.000-07:00

I tried to give this blog away. I erased all my information, profile, changed the name, etc to give it to my brother. He was going through a tough time and was using facebook to vent. I told him that was a terrible idea and that he needed a blog. He is less tech savvy than I (which is saying something) so, instead of creating a new blog I just tried to give him mine. It didn't work out. And now I am glad that it didn't because I need it.

It is a small thing, I suppose, to be grateful that my blog is still here and recoverable. But in a life where I have made bad decision after bad decision it is nice to see that even this small thing has worked out. Small victories are still victories.

I am down. Down. Capital "D" Down.Coffee and licorice for breakfast down. Not even fresh coffee. Coffee that is heated up from yesterday. Coffee run through yesterday's grounds down. No shower wearing an ugly sweater down. The kind of down where looking up is hard because my head is so heavy.

So, here we are dealing with the demons of depression. Again. This is a fight that has gone far beyond a boxing match's 10-12 requisite rounds. I remember telling myself that things will get better, just hang in there. But really, better is so unquantifiable. What is better? Having the energy to brew fresh coffee? Taking shower? Having a life?

Down. Down. Down. Such a loaded word. Down for the count? I hope not. The counterweight to down is up right? So there has to be room to rise. There has to be steps leading up to the light. I just need to find that cellar door. That pep talk that takes me from here to there. I need to find the words that will pull me up. Again. And hopefully when I get there I can stay there for a awhile

tiptoeing around; or, when you need to vent, but you shouldn't

2011-05-25T09:48:00.000-07:00

I undertand how people get fired for things they say on their blog. Bloggers are writers. Writers process their experiences, emotions, their very lives through words. Some people can do this privately for themselves in a secret journal; but for some of us, these words are stories and they must be told. So, it is easy to see how a blogger could say too much or the wrong thing and cross an undrawn line. Blogs are still relatively new and the ettiquette is vague, at best. So, today this blogger is going to tell a story. If it seems lacking in details... that is on purpose.

It has been a hard, hard, hard year in my teaching. There has been student event after student event that needed handling. Legal things. Embarassing things. Ethical things. Sad things. A lot of things. Some of this became public, some much too public. And through it all, I did my best to handle my classroom, and the people in it to the best of my abilities. And really, I thought I had done a damn fine job. Then came yesterday. And an email. Sigh.

Sometimes, when people of any age are in situations of emotional duress they see things in a slanted way. A way that those standing a little less close can see in a calmer, straighter, different way. Who is to say which of these views is more true? Certainly not me. But, at times, it seems that our stories of our experiences can be florid and overwrought. So, when listening to such stories, I find it is always best to listen with calm. To try to avoid being caught up in the other's emotions. Especially, if you have to listen to more than one side.

So, if you find yourself listening to a single side from a crying girl it may be best to comfort her and say you understand. It is not a great idea to contact me with suggestions for how to teach. Because, it just may be offensive. An assumption that personal situations outside the classroom could somehow be alleviated with a better written syllabus is ridiculous, it trivializes my work as a teacher, counselor, and person. So, frankly, dear emailer. You can stuff it.

deaf ears; or, when the theatre is empty you have to leave the stage

2011-05-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

I am by nature a storyteller. I view the world as narrative(s). Even while in the midst of an activity I think about what story I will tell. I watch the world around me for images, sounds, colors, themes, sound bites so that I can create my story. I hold stories in my mouth until they are polished and glowing. I had a bit of low point yesterday when I realized that I have been shaping these stories for one person. Someone who told me long ago that he doesn't want to hear them anymore.

My realization that I think about this lost friend more than I ever realized came this weekend when I had a similar experience with a different friend I hadn't seen for a while. This weekend I went to San Francisco. I spent three days, mostly on my own, touring the city and then running in the 100th Bay to Breakers. On Friday, I drove to the city, I had dinner with some friends, and checked into my hotel. Saturday was spent touring Alcatraz and Angel Island, then on Sunday the race. As usual for those of us who watch for stories I had my share. I was supposed to meet this friend in the city and I was looking forward to sharing my adventures with him. I greedily gobbled up each interesting thing and sprinkled the details into the stories I was writing in my head. But then, we never met up (his fault). I was so intensely disappointed. I kept asking myself why this was so painful for me? This was just a friend, nothing romantic, and yet I felt like a jilted lover. And then it hit: I was disppointed that I couldn't tell him the stories I had collected for him. My disappointment was a reflection of the pain I have been feeling for another. I have been doing that for another for nearly 8 years.

Swallowing words can leave you ravenous. I am not able to stay silent for long, so eventually I tell my stories to whomever will listen. But, because they were crafted for one person I am always disappointed in the telling. I choose words and details that I know he would like. I am unfairly impatient with my audience, waiting for a reaction that can't ever come. It is a cruel life and hopefully with this epiphany will come change. I can't keep talking to someone who isn't there. In the words of Rihanna (sage that she is) its been quite a show, very entertaining, but this show is over it's time to leave the stage: at least for now.

an open letter; or, I wish

2011-05-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Student;

Thank you for your email explaining that you could not attend your mandatory conference with me today because your other (much more important) meeting ran late. I am so glad to hear that you are incredibly sorry, and that you would like to reschedule with me so that we can discuss your research project. I am sure that you would very much like to discuss your research project considering that you are well over the maximum number of absences allowed under my very clearly written and oft mentioned absence policy. I am equally sorry to have to notify you that, no, I cannot reschedule my appointment with you. I have every hour of the next week packed with conferences with other students, meetings, and a graduation. The thirty (unpaid) minutes I set aside for you was the only time I had available. I understand that your involvement with (insert student organization name here) is a passion for you, and I am glad you are so interested in the campus activties. I do want to remind you though that in order to get a degree in any major from any institution in the United States you will need to pass my class.

Cheers,

Adjunct Professor

100 Days, 6 million thoughts, and one 3 mile run; or, excuse me while I turn this blog into a therapy journal for a second.

2011-04-21T13:29:00.000-07:00

For the past 64 days I have been participating in a 100 Day Challenge. I challenged myself to eat better, exercise more often, and to engage in more positive thinking for 100 days. I also signed up to walk/run in a 12k on May 15th. I am not sure what I am going to take away with me at the end of these 100 days. I was hoping for change. Drastic change. Right now, I am still waiting.

So far, this challenge has been interesting. I began walking six days a week beginning the last week of Jan and have been walking or jogging 3-5 days a week since. Today, I walked for one mile and jogged for 3 miles without stopping; the last quarter mile I actually ran. Now, if someone was watching me they may not have thought I was going all that fast, but for me it felt like flying. I wanted to be proud of myself. I really did. But, all I kept thinking was. God, how embarrassing to be so excited over such a small triumph. I know that I am stronger and healthier than I was 64 days ago and I am proud of that. But, I also can't believe how bad off I had let myself get when I started.

The switch to healthy food was easier for me than it seems to be for a lot of overweight/obese people. I grew up eating healthy food: whole wheat, organic, lots of vegetables etc. I also have binge eating disorder which means that those of us with this disorder tend to eat healthy in public and then binge on the bad stuff in private. The good part of this is that I have always eaten healthy food. Just not all the time. So, now I am focusing on not dieting and eating what I want publicly in order to eliminate the need for private eating. This way I don't feel deprived and don't feel the need to eat "bad food." I am also working through my feelings about good food and bad food. The running as helped a lot as well as when I eat food that is high in sugar or empty carbs I feel it in my legs when I run. So, it does help to be able to ask myself if the food I am about to eat is going to make me good on the trail or bad. So, I feel like these past two months have been really good for me as far as eating. The biggest challenge has been well meaning people who feel like they should say something if I am eating something they see as "bad." But that is a conversation for another day.

This brings me to positive thinking. This one is the toughest. I read a study that said that the average American woman has 60,000 thoughts a day, and of those 60.000 80% are negative. When I shared this with people most were shocked. My best friend and I had the identical reaction: That's all? As in we thought 80% seemed LOW. As a part of my work in this challenge I post a daily affirmation on a weight loss community message board. Usually I post it in the morning and then forget all about it. I go on about my day swamped in my negative thoughts, low self esteem, and terrible self image. I am so hard on myself. Really really hard. In the past two days I have been trying some positive self talk. Instead of my usual self criticism, I say things to myself like, " I am strong" or "I am a good teacher." I know that it is a small step. But, I think it is something.

I should not be surprised that the hardest part about this challenge is the positive thinking aspect. I suppose that is most likely at the core of all the rest and more. But for now, I am strong. I am a good. I can do this. There is three positive thoughts, only 57,997 more to change.

Ode to joy; or, Happy Opening Day

2011-03-31T08:21:00.000-07:00

Opening Day. For baseball fans it is a holiday. A day to play hooky from school or work and head out to the ballpark; or at least, to stay home and watch baseball on tv. For the past several years I have had to teach on Opening Day, so I would put the games on in my classroom. At the beginning of each class I would tell my students about Opening Day and the hooky tradition. Inevitably one or more would suggest that I would still have time to make it to Oakland or San Francisco if I let them out early. Silly students always trying to get out of work. Even if only for a few hours. I would use Opening Day to talk about traditions--national, religious, and personal. Usually, I would tell them stories about the joys of baseball and ask them to share their own stories. Then we would return to work with the Yankees, Giants, or whomever was playing that day flickering on the wall behind me. The day would mostly return to the normal lecture or discussion except for the interruption of occasional gasps of surprise or joy when a player did something amazing.

Happiness can be elusive. I remember being at a party as an undergrad, listening to a guy talk about his struggles with depression. I was listening intently the way that women do when they are into a guy. For the most part, it was the standard tortured-soul conversation like those that earnest english majors have in between quoting snippets of their favorite books and poems; but, there was one moment that has left its imprint and I remember quite clearly. He said something about seeking hapiness. I looked at him and leaned close, as I like to do when I think I am about to say something interesting or profound, or when I want to signal that I am into you. I said, "Fuck happiness. Seek joy!" He didn't get it, so I tried to explain, but between the booze, the noise, the night, and an unfortunate denseness on his part, it was futile.

What I meant that night, and what I now hold to be true is that happiness has an expectation of permanance. Joy is sudden. It is bright, and totally attainable. We have these sudden moments of brightness, warmth, and peace all the time: this is joy. It doesn't take a lot of work to attain as there is a multitude of opportunities for joy in the little things: And baseball is all about the little things. It is about sitting in the sun with friends eating stadium food and talking about your lives. It is about collectively holding your breath as you watch to see if what will happen on the field. It is about rising as one with hundreds (or thousands) of other people to praise or boo. Baseball is sunshine, green grass, sunflower seeds, and a couple of hours without care. It is caring about where your favorite player postions his feet, how far a small white ball can sail, and who catches it. It is about being carefree for a few hours in the sun. It is numbers, lines, statistics--ridiculous and otherwise--fences that are designed to be malleable. It is joy, personified: And that makes me happy.

kat fight; or, engaging in a class war with myself

2011-03-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

Warning: I come across as really snotty in this post. But, for some reason, I am okay with that.

I am having a small identity crisis. Well, it is prolly a part of the larger identity crisis that is a constant for me. But lately, I have been wanting to do something that I have always looked down on. An act that is the territory of folks on Jerry Springer, girls on trash tv, and the people in bars that I always feel sorry for. You see, a friend of mine has been hurt by his partner and I want to kick her scrawny ass. Okay, so that is prolly overstating it, but I would like to tell her off. For the first time in my life I really understand the idea of sending a nasty email, calling and chewing someone out, and other acts of emotional vandalism.

When I was in the fourth grade, Laura Mitchen was so angry at me that she stood up in class and called me a bitch. I remember being shocked that she would use such language in front of a teacher. A teacher! I don't even remember being hurt by her slander. I just felt so damn sorry for her. Ashamed for her that she would behave in such a vulgar manner over a petty disagreement (I can't even remember what happened). I do remember the image of an angry Laura standing up beside her seat in the back of the class framed by the light streaming in from a bank of schoolroom windows. Standing tall, her hair disheveled, without style, overly thin, her face red with anger as she spat out that ugly epithet: BITCH! Laura was the tallest girl in the school and like most from Hayfork she was poor, unkempt, and distinctly labor class. The emotional impact of being publicly attacked like that struck me as such a low moment for her that I have never forgotten it. None of the characters in any of my books would ever have done what Laura did. Well, okay, maybe Anne of Green Gables, but she would have been very sorry later, and prolly wouldn't have used that word.

My sister is family and I love her, but she is very much a product of the labor class that she lives and works in. My parents both come from poor working class backgrounds. My grandfather on my mother's side was a journeyman handyman without any real trade. I know that he bought junk and fixed it up to sell, but other than that, I am not sure he ever had a real job. My grandfather on my dad's side was a logger. He lived hard, worked hard, and apparently drank hard. My family definitely lives with a chip on their shoulder and the swagger of those who are quite proud to have escaped the effete fate of the manor born. I became middle-class in attitude and personality through books and education. I chose PBS, literature, and the classics because I did not want to continue the blue-collar life lived by my ancestors; and because of it, I am the black sheep. My sister, however, reminds me of that background often. Last week, she told me a story about getting into it with a "friend" at the bar. Apparently, she called her "friend" a tramp. When the girl asked her why she would say that, that they are supposed to be friends, my sister answered, "Well, because you are a tramp. I am just being honest." I cringed.

I am not perfect. I am a product of my milleu. In elementary school I got into a showdown with Annette Maroni. She was two grades below me and even then, I must have been 11 or so, I felt sort of silly "fighting" with a child. But, really, she was six inches taller and in a story that one could not make up it turned out that she was actually older than me. When she was supposedly 16, her parents found her birth certificate when she was applying for her driver's license and discovered that she was actually two years older than they thought. Yes. Two years. I never really understood how the mix-up occurred. They said it was due to a divorce and some confusion about records. I was so embarassed by the whole idea of not knowing your child's age that I tried not to talk or think about it much at the time. She came to me one day and asked my advice about taking the GED. She realized that she would, through no fault of her own, be nearly 21 years old as a senior. But, during our playground spat we all thought she was two years younger. I was yelling at her in the way that one was supposed to do these things. Posturing. Threatening. There was no violence other than verbal, but the boys were chanting my name and Annette backed down and I was declared the winner. Of course when I got home I was horrified with myself and it still ranks among my most embarrassing moments.

My friend is also not a perfect man. I have known him for several years and frankly some of his relationship blunders have been noteworthy. He is not always honest with himself, or with the women he is seeing. However, I am his friend, and I hate to see anyone get hurt. As a joke, he suggested that I send his heartbreaker a nasty note (email) and I replied that I would like to do more than that. However, in reality, I don't know what to say. I only met her once. But, I do feel the urge to say something. My tounge can be sharp and I know how to cut if I need to. I just don't see myself as the kind of person who would/could/should do so. Maybe I should ask my sister to do it.

more of the same; or, after the crash

2011-03-13T12:09:00.000-07:00

Last week, after recieving my rejection from UNR's doctorate program in English, I sort of half-jokingly asked for suggestions for how to "radically change my life" on my facebook page. The responses to my query (no offense to anyone who may have posted) were a surprise. For one thing, they weren't all that radical. Get a haircut. Change your diet (which I translated as "lose weight"). Get therapy. (Yikes.) Oh, and then there was the person who advised me to "get a doctorate" a bit of advice that was as ironic as it was unintentionally painful.

The advice was mainly about the kinds of things that no one really wants to be advised to do. Sort of like how I imagine those who find themselves on a makeover shows feels. In reality, I was really hoping for a lighter type of response. Become a roadie for Josh Groban. Only speak in proverbs. Begin referring to yourself in only the third person... you know, fun stuff. Instead, it became incredibly clear that folks genuinely thought that I needed to make some pretty solid life changes.

I am no stranger to change. I traffic in self-help and introspection. I am nietzchian in nature. I am constantly tearing and stripping down in order to rebuild. So much so that recently I have begun to think that perhaps I need to stop with the deconstruction and begin to build. Part of my reasoning for wanting to return to grad school was to finish what I had started. I rarely do that you see. So, a part of me thinks it is slightly hilarious that this time around applying to finish my PhD was one of the most mature decisions of my life; that I genuinely felt like I was on the right path for the first time in a long time. That decision is unfortunately one that is out of my hands.

As to my present, I have a job, and while it is part-time, it is still a job; so, I will continue working. I can apply to other PhD programs next year if I wanted to, or full-time community college jobs, or maybe another MA. Or, I could do something else. Right now the possibilities are a little overwhelming. Or, I could just get a cute haircut, and some therapy.

hope; or, the space between

2011-02-27T10:42:00.000-08:00

When I was a senior in high school, our senior trip was to a confidence building camp in Etna CA. We did a ropes course (complete with a zip line that began 100 feet above the ground). I was not really afraid to do the course, but as I began moving through it, I did find that I was physically unprepared. The ropes cut into my flesh leaving huge bruises on my arms and inner thighs. My soft hands were ripped by the ropes, and my recently rehabbed knee became a liability. The course was designed to challenge you emotionally, not physically. But, for me, it became not a matter of conquering fear for me, but of making my body do what I needed it too.

There was one part of the course that I remember very clearly. I had to jump from one platform to another. The platforms were about a foot and 1/2 apart. It wasn't supposed to be a physically challenging exercise, but for me it was. You see I have an injured knee. So, even though I was 100-feet up (in a harness of course) I wasn't afraid of falling. I was afraid that my knee would crumple when I landed on the other side. The coach was telling me to visualize myself landing on the other side, to take a breath, and to jump to the other side. She said, "By the time you release that breath, you will have made it. Inhale hope, leap with faith, land with confidence."

It took me about twelve minutes to be able to jump. In the end, I was fine. But, I couldn't explain to those watching and coaching that this was different for me. I was already in some pain and I had been hurt quite badly before. When I saw myself leaping, I didn't see a graceful landing. I saw my legs giving way. I felt the crunch that only those who have been injured truly know. I remembered what it was like to fall, to lie on the ground clutching myself in agony.

In some ways, what I learned from that ropes course is that life is a much different experience for those who have truly been hurt--as opposed to those who only imagine or fear the pain that might happen. I also learned that with some coaxing I will take a deep breath and jump anyway. I sure hope this time I land okay, because I have had enough crashing and I could really use a soft landing.

Day 8 of 100 Day Challenge; or, it's been a hard day's days

2011-02-24T08:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as I put the finishing touches on my prep for teaching, I was thinking about how deperately I wanted radical change. I want to be different. Something I think I have been trying to do for years. I am pretty sure it is why I have moved so much. New scenery = new me. Or something like that

I watched a movie a couple of months ago about woman who was diagnosed with a brain tumor and given 3 months to live. She changed everything: her boyfriend left her, she was fired from her job, and given a death sentence in one day. She moved into a loft threw all her stuff away and bought new stuff. She ate foods she had never eaten before and had affairs with men and women. Anyway, you get the idea. She became a new person. The movie ended when she returned to the doctor and she learned her tumor had disappeared. The doctor says, "sometimes a person can change so much that the cancer cells don't recognize the host anymore and they disappear." Such an intriguing idea. Complete and utter change.

For now, I am continuing to work on changing the unhealthy parts of me in healthy ones. I am eating better. I am exercising daily. I am focussing on the postitive. It isn't complete and utter change. It is more subtle, but, it is something. Yesterday, and today seem to be the hardest days of the challenge so far. The newness of the Challenge has worn off and I am in the trenches of the everydayness now.

Affirmation: There is no limit to what I can accomplish!

Day 6 of 100 Day Challenge; or, so six days is almost a week

2011-02-22T13:24:00.000-08:00

I recently began a 100 Day Challenge. Very recently, six days ago. My challenge is to be more positive, to be more active, and to eat healthier. I started on Feb 17th and 100 days will be May 27th. I began with the positive thinking because it is really easy to complain and yet to continue to do unhealthy things. It is more difficult to repeat a positive affirmation and then sabotage yourself. At least, so far, this seems to be true.

Okay, so I would like to update the 100 Day Challenge here now and again.

Today's affirmation: Today, I am improving myself and my life in every way!
Exercise: 3 mile cardio walk. 20 mins yoga.
Food: To eat at least 2 vegetables with lunch and dinner, and to eat one vegetable at breakfast and for each snack.

If you are interested joining my Challenge, even if only one day at a time. Then please do! And I am collecting positive affirmations, so share 'em if you go 'em.

fast; or, outrunning what used to be

2011-02-21T20:36:00.000-08:00

Until this week, I hadn't run since I was 17 years old. At times it is hard to imagine, but I used to be an athlete. In high school I played volleyball, basketball, softball, and ran track. Yeah, I know. In retrospect this was not the right identity for me, not really. I prolly should have been in theatre or student government. I did a little of that stuff, but not nearly enough. Playing sports happened for two reasons. The first, because my dad was an athlete and a coach, and I desperately wanted him to like me, which he didn't. The second was because I was fast, really fast.

In elementary school, we would have a school-wide track meet every spring. The whole school would go out to the track-and-field area and watch races and track events all day. The high school would send students to volunteer as starters and judges. It was a big deal The events themselves were for 4th-8th graders only, but everyone would watch. For many years, my brother and I were the fastest runners in school. We were minor celebrities. Kids would line up to watch our races. They would point to us and say things like, "That is Katherine Frye, she is the fastest girl in school." and " Yeah, the only one who can beat her is her brother." I was faster than most of the boys and for a very short time I was faster than my older brother, but that was short-lived.

I loved to run. I loved it. In the days leading up to the big school meet I would go outside and "train." Of course, even though my dad was coach, I had no idea what it meant to train, so really, I would just yell "go" and then run across the meadow as fast as I could. I didn't care about distances. I would just run fast. Stop. Then turn around and sprint back to where I started. Head up running like an idiot. Mouth open. Arms pumping.

When I was in the 6th grade a new girl moved to Hayfork. Tina Phares. She was new, and pretty, and kind of loose (fast), so of course no one liked her. Well, some of the boys liked her. She recognized the promise of school celcbrity that would come with success at the track meet. She bragged that she would outrun me. We signed up for all the same races. On the day of the meet everyone wanted me to beat her. She said that her best race was the 50-yard dash. It wasn't my favorite. I liked a little longer distance, I felt like that one was over too quickly. But, it was the first race of the day. Word spread about the duel. When we lined up for the race there were a 100 kids chanting my name. I pranced to the start line like a thoroughbred. I was cocky. I was basking in the glory. I beat her by a vast margin, at least ten feet. It was a complete trouncing. I thought I was a god. Tina limped away and pretended she had hurt her ankle, she didn't run again that day. She never recovered socially. I do not think she finished high school.

I hurt my knee playing flag football for the powder puff game during homecoming week when I was 16. I was the quarterback and the middle linebacker. The "stud" positions. I was injured when I chose to keep the ball instead of handing it off. I kept it because I wanted to run. I was tearing down the sideline headed for the goal line when I tried to jump over a girl and landed awkwardly. That was it. After that, I had to be cautious. I still played sports, but the running was different. It was careful. No more abandon. I injured my knee twice in high school badly enough to need two surgeries. I spent 45% of my high school days on crutches and a long 6-months in a full leg cast that spanned from hip to toe. I have had another surgery since, and need another, but without health insurance it will just have to wait.

I know exactly what day I would return to if I could go back. I would go back to the last Spring track meet of my 8th grade year. A teacher encouraged me to run a longer race than I was used to. I don't remember the length, but in memory even a mile seemed far to me then. I didn't want to do it. I wanted to save myself for the sprints. I didn't want to be tired. But, I am a middle-child who has always craved approval, so I said yes. I made my way to the start and waited. I didn't stretch. I didn't even take off my black hooded sweatshirt. It wasn't a sprint so there was no starting gun. A teacher just said, "go," I don't think she even yelled it. I ran for about half a lap and didn't want to run anymore. So, I veered off the course and ran straight into the open door of the back of the gym and into the bathroom. I hid until the race was over then I trotted out and said that I had suddenly gotten sick. Really, I just didn't want to do it and didn't know how to say no. Now, these two things have haunted me. Illness and an inability to be true to myself. I somehow feel like if I could go back to that moment I could either say no, I don't want to do that. Or, finish the race. And somehow, my life would be different. Better.

I ran for the first time since I was 17 years old this week. It wasn't fast. It was careful and plodding. But it was running. It felt so good that I just keep thinking about it. The weather has been sketchy so my workouts have been inside since then, but I just keep thinking about that half mile. It wasn't shuffling. It wasn't speed walking. It was running. And it felt damn good. I cannot help but think that I have signed up for this upcoming 12K in order to run in a race again. To get a new start, and a perhaps even a new finish.

Um, has it really been since May 2010? or; jesus, talk about inconsistency

2011-02-20T11:42:00.000-08:00

Oh blog. I have missed you so. It isn't as if I haven't been blogging... okay, well, I guess writing blogs in my head isn't really blogging: it's thinking.

Things that have been going on since May. Well, Egypt has changed its government. I started running and lost 30 pounds. I am still teaching at Shasta College and running the Puente program. Um, I cut bangs. Hmmm. you would think there would be more. Oh, I paid off my credit card debt (mostly).

I have not learned to speak French, worn my pink dress any where cool (not that I can't, I just haven't yet). I have not returned to grad school, or found a new job. Yet.

I am in the midst of a 100 Day Challenge. The challenge is to 1) Be positive 2) Be active 3) Eat healthy for the next 100 days. And, I think that this will be the perfect place to talk about it.

Fail; or, so close

2010-05-29T06:44:00.000-07:00

It is the 29th of May and I have blogged every day this month. It hasn't always been stellar... but it has been an act of discipline. I am heading out the door for a weekend vacation and I am relatively sure that I will not post over the next two days. So, well. I guess I tried.

Have a great weekend!

river trail; or, finding inspiration in good choices

2010-05-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

Today was a hard day. It's the end of the semester and today is the last day that students can turn in their projects. As usual too many of them did not do well. I want so badly for them to do well that I always get a little depressed at the end of the semester... I know, I know, I can't do it for them, but still. I always think about what more I could of done to help them. I listened to another instructor talking to her student about a paper at a depth that I don't feel like I ever do. I always feel a little like fraud at the end of the semester. That I failed them somehow. That combined with the fact that I am going to being seeing people that I haven't seen for couple of years (kind of like a reunion) and I was stress-o today. All this added up to the fact that I wanted to EAT. I wanted comfort. I wanted Ice Cream.

I had to go to the drugstore to buy some things for my weekend trip, so I decided to go for a walk and then to the store. Well, half-way there my need to eat took over. I decided that instead of walking, I would get a snack. Some ice cream. I went to the store picked up my few toiletries and then headed to the snack aisle. I walked up and down trying to decided what I wanted. After far too long I walked around another aisle to get ice cream. If it was ice cream I wanted then that what I should get I rationalized. As I turned the corner I froze. There trying to choose what pint of Ben and Jerry's to get was me: In 20 years. This woman had the same build (but bigger), her hair was pulled into a ponytail just as mine was (only hers was gray), and she was wearing "workout clothes." Only, she was not working out. She could barely walk, she had trouble breathing, and even standing was difficult for her. It was like being confronted with the Ghost of Ben and Jerry's Future. I walked out of the snacks with nothing and just paid for my toiletries and headed out to the car and then to The River Trail.

As I was walking I took some pictures. It was such a beautiful evening. I walked about 2 miles and then headed home. As I was at the half mile marker I saw a man walking in front of me. He was extremely obese and the half mile mark was clearly a struggle for him. As I walked behind him and prepared to pass him I had decided that I was going to say something nice and encouraging. He started talking first. We exchanged pleasntries and I slowed to talk with him for a bit. He said, "This is my second time on the trail today." I told him that was great and he said he had walked two miles this morning and that this would be another mile. Then he said, "And when I get home I can't even have any ice cream." I just about died. I told him that I had been craving it all day and had decided to walk instead. He said, "yeah, me too." I wanted to give him my number or offer to be a "diet buddy," but I didn't. Maybe next time.

This is the main part of the River Trail. The part that is near the water. It is more lush and green

The Rules

The Trail

The View

The Car

Derek Jeter Friday;or, see yet another reason to love america

2010-05-28T17:14:00.000-07:00

So, Memorial Day is kind of a patriotic holiday, isn't it?

food; or, look what I made

2010-05-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who posts pictures of the food she makes. I love it! I love seeing what real food made by real cooks looks like. I have always been meaning to take pictures of food I make in order to participate in this Real Food for Real People movement. I just figured out how to upload picture from my phone.So, here is some of my recent creations. (okay, the limoncello has been in the freezer for almost 2 months... so not SO recent.)

Limoncello

(the last bottle from the first batch)

Whole Wheat Raisin and Walnut Biscotti

(this jar WAS full)

Strawberry Shortcake

Fresh Strawberries, Whole Wheat Shortcake, Whipped Cream

And yes, we use "christmas dishes" all year round. Sigh.

pink dress update; or, hey look, shoes, and a head!

2010-05-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

So, here we are begining week 3 of the Pretty Dress Diet. Also known as The-Not-a-Diet-at-All-But-Just-a -Lifestyle-Change-in-Which-I-Try-on-the-Same-Dress-Over-and-Over-Just-to-See.

So, this week is exciting. First, I put on lipstick! And not only do I have a head, but my hair is brushed! Oh and and wait for it... I am wearing shoes. It is amazing how much those little things matter. You know how in all the before and after shots they magically look like they've had makeovers too. Well, I guess it isn't magic after all. Unless lipstick is magic... could be.

So here it is. I will say that I was able to tighten the belt a lot more this week. Also, the dress actually lays flat on my body (like it is supposed to) instead of bunching up under my bosoms. But most importantly, I feel a lot better. I have been meeting my overall goals (eating healthier and moving more) so I am happy. This week I am adding a third goal, which is to drink more water.

So.. Voila! Pretty Pink Dress

wishing for Scotland; or, rainy days will always make me think of you

2010-05-25T19:37:00.000-07:00

On rainy days when my hair is wet and my sweater is damp I crave Scotland. I want to have tea and scones(okay and sticky toffee pudding!). I want to walk for miles and miles and tour castles. I want to go to bed at night exhausted from having climbed hillsides, followed paths around the many lochs, and having run through rain soaked fields. I want to search for sea monsters and drink whiskey. I want to duck my head as I am led through the low doorway into my new favorite pub listening to lilting voices that sound nothing like mine. I want to lie in a hotel room in Edinburgh and listen to the rain on my window.

I have been to Scotland twice for a total of 11 days. The first trip was nearly 8 years ago and was lovely. A friend and I took a Haggis tour to the Highlands--which I highly recommend. The second was last summer and I was on my own. I cannot be sure, but I think it rained every day at least once. In my memory it is always raining in Scotland. This last trip, I stayed in Edinburgh mostly, but for a short daytrip through the countryside and a night's stopover at a new friend's. I love both trips equally, but for entirely different reasons. The first trip I love because one never forgets their first, and because the wildness of the Highlands will never leave me. But the second, well, the second I will always love because of a boy.

His name was Ben. I can't remember the last, and frankly I had forgotten his first until a friend had reminded me. He was a security guard at the castle and I met him while asking directions. I don't even know what I was looking for. But, what liked what I found. He was tall, blonde, wild curly hair, blue eyes, and the strongest Scottish lilt I'd heard. For the first two days I had to lean in close to catch words. I had to ask him to repeat things. That can be awkward while wooing. We hit it off immediately. He said he was a writer. He said he had been accepted into an MFA program in New York city, but for various reasons could not go. So, he was working and waiting. I often meet men while travelling, it is easy, clean, no strings. I am fantastic at walking away, so the touring love affair is natural to me. Being such a veteran of the vacation romance I was skeptical of his story. Sure, sure, what better courtship tactic than to tell the American English Professor that you are an aspiring writer. With those hands on her body and that voice in her ear she will believe anything you say. True or not, it was enough for me, I thought it was the best of stories, and a story was really all I needed.

It wasn't until I had returned to London that belived him. I found a note slipped into the pages of the novel I was reading. I was sitting at an outdoor cafe with my friend when I found the note. I didn't remember seeing him writing and thought that he must have written it to me while I was in the shower, and put it into my book without me seeing. I can't remember what he said, not exactly, but I remember reading it aloud and my friend and I both sighing. Whatever it was it was enough to convince us that he is a writer. Or maybe a poet. A wordsmith at the least. She was upset with me that I was so sure it would lead nowhere. I remember sahying how I would miss this one. This boy. Now, here I am nearly a year later in America, in a house that is not a home. My hair is wet from the rain. My sweater is damp and smells faintly of wet sheep. As I knew that it would, the affair has faded. The note is lost. Most of that trip is forgotten. I had even forgotten his name, but what I hope to never forget was the sound of the rain on the window and a Scottish lilt whispering "Oh my kitty kat, rainy days will always make me think of you."

Accounting; or, my life in numbers (travel edition)

2010-05-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

I love to travel. If pressed I would say it has something to do with the fact that I grew up in a tiny isolated town where I read books about other places and thought "someday, I'm gonna go there." Usually, I do it big. If it doesn't involve a passport and 9 hour flight or a cross country drive I wasn't all that into it. As a result I have been a lot of places, but never really explored my own back yard too much. Well, like most folks the economy has shrunken my wallet a bit and now I am really not able to afford the "Big" trips. So, in honor of my new back yard approach here is my Accounting Travel Edition.

Ten countries I told my high school English teacher I wanted to visit (in alphabetical order): Costa Rica, Czechoslovakia, England, France, Ireland, Italy, Morocco, Romania, Scotland, Spain.

Number of countries I have visited from that list: 5 (England, Scotland, Ireland, Czech Republic, France).

Number that have been added to the list since then: 62

Number of times I have visited London: 4

Number of countries I could cross off my list if I had gone there instead of London (Again): 3

When I realized that: Just now.

Prices for my plane tickets to London in chronological order:
2003: $521.00.
2007: $362.00.
2008: $534.00
2009: $967.00

Cheapest Flight Deal: Round trip London to Belfast for $4.00

Most expensive "cheap" flight: Round trip London to Czeck Republic $35.00 Plus nearly $350.00 in fees because I missed my flight both ways and had to re-book!

Total number of countries I have visited: 9

Number of US States I have visited: 41

Number of US States I have lived in: 5

US Travel Goal: To see a game in every MLB ballpark.

Number of parks I can cross off my list: Four

Number I visited only to have the team tear it down and build another one: Two

Number I was supposed to visit this summer but facist ticketing practices have ruled that out: 1 (yes, I am talking to you Los Angeles Dodgers).

Number of trips I still have planned for this summer: 3 (Reno, Ashland, TBD)

Trips I was supposed to take this weekend, but may be snowed out: 1 (In theory I am supposed to travel to Reno this weekend. In reality it is snowing... Um, I don't "do" weather, so we'll see how it goes.)

Sunday Stroll; or, what a walk looks like

2010-05-23T08:49:00.000-07:00

The River Trail: a walk up Hard Parts Hill in pictures.

This is one of the "arms" of the trail. This is one of the least crowded part and I have never seen a biker on this one (too steep I think). It doesn't have the separate lanes like the rest and it is in full sunlight. It branches off to the north and is only about a mile long, but it is just one steep hill. It doesnt' have an official name, but I call it "The Hard Parts Hill." When I want to do a really hard workout I park at the top of this hill, walk down the hill and then do the right side of the River Trail and back. Because of the hills, It is essentially uphill both ways! I called it the Hard Parts Version. I am not ready to the whole Hard Parts Version (YET!). But, I did do Hard Parts Hill all this week.

The Warning

The Shady Bend (This is my rest stop on the way back up)

The View (This is the canyon. It's hard to tell, but the river is down there)

Going UP

And --Hey there's the car!!

what it really means to be fat; or, "that's equally as hurtful as it is crazy, and that is CRAZY"

2010-05-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

Recently my brother has been doing some landscaping for my parents. My parents need their yard landscaped, my brother doesn't have a job, so it makes sense. A couple of times he has brought the kids. I usually walk in the mornings, so I offered to take the kids with me on my morning walk. My brother said no, and although I thought is was weird that he would rather have his kids underfoot while he worked than go with me to the park for an hour, I didn't think too much of it.

Yesterday, I had already walked when they got here, so I didn't offer again. I was standing in the kitchen about to make some chicken soup when my brother started talking about The River Trail. He said that his daughter wanted to go to Turtle Bay (a section of The River Trail) and walk the trail, go to the gift shop, maybe see the botanical garden and that I should be aware that she will probably start to bug me about it. I was about to say that I thought that would be fun when he said, "Well, here's the thing. And you tell me if you think this is reasonable, or not." I prepared myself for something terrible because in general most things my brother says are not kind. But, I couldn't really have prepared myself for what he actually said.

He said, "[my wife] and I don't think that you should take the kids on The River Trail because you aren't exactly very 'mobile'". I knew immediately that "mobile" was code for "fat." He continued "Because, well, if someone were to snatch the kids you wouldn't really be able to chase them down." I couldn't believe what he was saying to me. Then he added, "Do you think that's unfair?"

Slowly and carefully taking deep breaths in order to stay calm, I said, "Well, I am not sure very many people can chase down child snatchers. But, if this is really an issue, well, frankly I don't want to have anything to do with it. And, no, I do not think it's "reasonable" or "fair." I think it's paranoid. Does [your wife] think that she can chase down would-be-child-snatchers?" I fought to be as calm as possible as I did not really want to let my nephew see me get upset. My brother answered that yes, she does think that she could do that. I did not point out that she just gave birth a little less than a month ago. I did reiterate that the very idea that anyone would take the possibility of their child being snatched into consideration in this situation was incredibly paranoid. Then I threw up my hands, and said that I would not discuss it anymore and that I was not "going to take your kids anywhere ever again. I am not going to be told that it is my fault if something happens because I am just too damn fat." Then I walked into the bathroom and cried for five minutes.

I tried not to think about it all day yesterday. I tried to just put it out of my mind. I tried to think of a way to let it go. To not be upset. After all this is my family. But, it just kept getting bigger and bigger inside of me. There are two other incidents in my life that combined with this and I couldn't disconnect them and they bled into one another in my miond and it just became too much.

The first was a bumper sticker I saw on a truck this week. The truck was one of those jacked up trucks with the oversized tires. In the back window was the following: Lift it: Fat Chicks Can't Jump. Meaning that he had jacked his truck up to keep fat girls from getting into his truck. I drove behind that truck for a couple of miles on my way to class. In that stretch of road, I had a very brief insight into what true blind prejudice feels like. I felt completely othered and less than human. I had to sit in my car for nearly 8 minutes before I could walk in and face my class.

The second was something that happened to me nearly 12 years ago this week. When I was in my mid 20's my then best friend broke off a friendship with me. It is a very long story, but it culminated in her telling me that part of the reason why she could not be friends with me anymore was because she was pregnant and when you are about to be a mom you have to really think about who will have in your child's life. Then she said the line that I will never forget she said, "Katherine. I don't want my baby to know you." Years later she apolgized to me (through MySpace of all things), but I never really got over that.

When I told my current BFF what happened yesterday, she said "That is as equally hurtful as it is crazy, and that is CRAZY!" Knowing that other people see this as not a reasonable or fair thing to say or think has helped. But all in all, I can't help but think that there is a serendipity to this happening just as I begin to work on all the reasons that I have gained so much weight. Dr. Phil (yes I know, but I actually like him) says we don't do things unless we are gaining something from it. I know that I thought I was getting comfort from food and safety by being fat. But, in the moment that my brother had told me that I was unfit to care for his children because of my weight, I thought about how I had gained this weight as a protection for myself. I was hiding from the pressures of life, I was protecting myself from unwanted sexual attention, and I know that I was building a physical barrier between myself and the world because I didn't feel safe, and I didn't want to be hurt. Somehow, I subconsciously thought that if I became fat, no one would notice me. I could just fade into the back and be safe. When really, I was just making myself into a bigger target.

Derek Jeter Friday; or, who has the time to write on a Friday?

2010-05-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

I bet this is a homerun. Okay, prolly a single down the right field line.

Extreme Measures; or, trying to live the moderate life

2010-05-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

I am extreme. I was extreme before extreme was cool (is it still cool? prolly not). I don't do anything halfway. I am up. I am down. But, whatever I am, I am that thing all the way. I wrote a 109 page Master's Thesis in 9 days. Extreme. If I felt I wasn't doing well in a class (as in getting a B or C) I would fail it. All in. A therapist once told me to repeat the following mantra "It's okay to be average." I walked out and never went back.

As you prolly know, this is a very terrible way to live your life. Extreme ups and downs take their toll. And it can be a heavy one. The extreme behavior I am working on now has to do with diet and exercise. Eating and moving. I swore to myself that this wouldn't become a weight loss blog... oh well. Sometimes it will be.

When I was a senior in high school I changed my group of friends. I became friends with a group that was really into healthy living: Yoga, brown rice, miso soup, meditation, dancing as exercise and I was pretty healthy. I stopped the disordered eating that was the code of my earlier high school clique. When I started eating I put on weight. At the time I was told I was too heavy. Now, when I look at pictures I want to cry. I was beautiful. I was not thin, but I was curvy, healthy, and beautiful.

When I went away to college I had a very difficult time making friends. I was very shy and insecure. There was a lot of stuff going on, but a lot of it manifested itself in pressure to be very thin and the disordered eating returned. I lost 50 pounds. I really didn't NEED to lose any. I did it by eating less than once a day. On average, I would say that I ate five meals a week. And by meals, I really mean a package of Ramen noodles, or a turkey sandwich, or a candy bar. Not exactly healthy. I had a friend who also lost 20 pounds. She did it the healthy way: she ate small meals and exercised. Moderation. When people would ask her how she lost weight she would say "I eat less and I exercise more." We jokingly named it The Stacey Dumain diet. As if it were a revolutionary idea. When people asked me how I lost the weight. I would say the same thing. Even though it was mostly true... it meant something completely different.

The idea of eating for nourishment rather than as entertainment, comfort, or other reasons is one that I am struggling with. There is an episode of Friends where one of the Friends (I think it might be Phoebe) is dating a really annoying guy. He is a psychogist and they all hate him because he is a little too accurate at pointing out their personal pyschosis. He says to Monica--the former fat one who is now a Chef-- "Food is NOT love." While Friends has never been my favortie show, I always loved that moment. He calls her on her flaw and she hates him for it. I get it. For me, food is love. I cook food with love, I use food to nurture my friends and family. I use food as a reward when I succeed and as comfort when I fail. But really, without moderation I am not loving myself. I am feeding the toungue, id, and sometimes the soul; but I also need to feed my body too. I need to nurture my body, our bodies, with good and healthy food. So, here we are again. Back to moderation. Eating well. No extremes.

A friend was talking about scales in my comment area, and I started thinking about my own history of extremes with weighing. I also struggle with the whole "scale" thing. When I was in high school (and starving and throwing up regluarly) I would weigh myself constantly--like 20 times a day. I finally got help for that behavior and stopped weighing altogether. Then other things happened I gained a lot of weight and stopped weighing because I didn't want to see. So, at first I was going to try this whole once a week thing: Only on "dress day." But, after writing this whole treatise on moderation. I think I will just throw away the rules and weigh when I want to. No rules about scales. How about that? After all, do the numbers really matter? I don't think so.

No matter what. I know this: Today I feel better than I did last week this time. I know that is because I am making healthier choices. If the scale goes down: awesome. If I can wear the dress to Ashland: awesome. If not, I have another one to wear. I will wear the pink one when it fits, Ashland or not. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to have to find a reason to go out just so I can wear my pretty dress now would it?

pictures of a tight pink dress; or, yeah, still really tight

2010-05-19T20:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, so here is this week's picture. According to my scale I have lost a couple of pounds, but to me the dress actually felt tighter this week. Hmmm, okay. So, here it is.

Oh and I have a head, but no feet. Maybe next week: BOTH?!

Fat Kat; or, tales from the river trails

2010-05-18T19:15:00.000-07:00

My favorite form of exercise is walking. It's free, it's easy, it doesn't take any special equipment, and you can do it anywhere. I like to put on my ipod and set out on a series of trails here in Redding known as The River Trail. The River Trail is actually a series of trails. There is one main loop that is 6.1 miles and then there is a larger loop that is nearly 15 miles, and then a series of trails that shoot off from the main loop. This maze of trails is always being expanded and the ultimate goal is to have all the trail connect into a series of unending loops. Right now I like to walk half of the main loop which is about 3 miles long. If I am with my sister she likes to go to one up the northwest arms which is only about 2 miles long and nearly deserted.

The main loop of the River trail is busy. There is both bike and pedestrian traffic. On a sunny weekend it is packed. The main loop goes along the Sacramento river (what else?) and is connected by two bridges. Anyway, all that to say: there are a lot of trails, and there are a lot of people. Oh, and there are a lot of bridges. But, that is for another day.

I am pretty sure I am the fattest woman on The River Trail. Most of the people who are on the trails are pretty avid runners and take it pretty seriously. There are people who are out for a stroll, or just out with friends. But the rest are harcore runners. The bikers have more variety. I think maybe begining exercisers ride bikes. Anyway, when I walk on the trail I tend to garner attention. I think this is because I am an anomaly on the trail and because I tend to get into my music a little too much. Whenever I walk I try to say high to people, and while most are friendly, it seems like I always have a story when I get home. (Unless I go to the less crowded upper arm with my sister). This week I walked five times. I have three stories.

Story One:

The first one I talked about on facebook. But, it was so amazing I want to talk about it here as well. I was walking on the crowded three mile section of the trail and I was listening to little American Idol champ Kris Allen on my ipod. When I am in the crowded parts I tend to listen to my music low because I want to hear the bikers. On The River Trail the path is divided into lanes like a little mini highway and all traffic (foot and bike) each stays in the right lane. Walkers are to stay as far right as they can and bikers are to pass in the middle. They are supposed to say "on your left" as they pass you. One of my biggest fears is to be struck by a bicycle and die. I think it would be so humilating. So, I walk as far on the right as I can get and keep my ipod turned down, or sometimes take one earphone out to listen for these speeding death bikes.

Last week as I was walking two men jogged past. One was about 40 the other in his early twenties. I suppose they could have been father and son, but the "dad" would have had to have been really young when the kid was born if they were. I ogled them both, because that is what I do on the trail. I walk. I listen to music. I check out the runners. It's nice. I will say this. There is one guy. He is prolly about 32. Tall. Blonde. A little tanned. Clearly works out. He likes to jog with his shirt off. I actually tell people that he should never put it on again. Whatever his job is, I am sure they would understand if he just didn't put it back on. Really. No one would mind. So, I was ogling. When the older one says, "Hi" and then he and the kid who might be his prom night baby passed me. Before he was more than two steps past he says to the kid, "Always say "hi" to the fat girls, because when they get hot they're gonna remember you." I almost fell into the path of an oncoming biker I was laughing so hard. Either he assumed that I couldn't hear because I had on my ipod, or he is like my cat and thought that if I couldn't SEE him I obviously couldn't HEAR him. Either way. Hilarious. And classic River Trail. I espcially thought it was funny because I have said similar things before.

Story Two

I don't know if it was the Madonna or if I just have more energy because I have been eating better... but on Sunday I was really hauling. I was on the same part of The River Trail and it was a sunny Sunday so it was crowded. I was feeling really good, so I pushed myself to really go after it. I always consider my walk a success if I pass people. Sunday I passed three groups. Okay, so one was an elderly couple who were pushing 90. And one of them was in a wheel chair. But still. I PASSED them. At the end of the trail before you loop back to return to the car there is a pylon.n. I like to really push it up the hill and walk around the pylon without stopping like I am a barrel horse. Well, maybe like I am on a barrel horse. On Sunday, as I went around the pylon and headed back down the little hill there was a couple in their 50's who were walking up. They were thin, but clearly not in shape. I was really moving and listening to the Madonna so I was smiling and kind of walk dancing (gee I wonder why I attract attention). The husband was panting and barely able to get up the hill and she was right behind him. She says to me with a look that I can only describe as incredulation, "Wow, you move really good." I said, "Thanks" and kept going. As I walked I was trying to figure out what she meant. Then it hit me. It was what she didn't say that was bothering me "Wow, you move really good... for a fat girl."

Story Three

I always try to say hi to the folks that I pass on The River Trail. Most people do that anyway, as a courtesy. Usually you say hi, or smile, give a little wave, or a head nod. Some sort of indication that you are both people and you value that. There is a certain population of people who do not say hi. In general these are the young and good looking. Well, specifically the young and the I think I am good looking. They like to NOT say hi. There is also just jerks. But, in general, most people say hello.

Well, one day this week, I forget what day. I was about 50 yards from my car. I love the last 50 yards to the car. I really pick up the pace and I get as close as I ever get to running then I walk right to the car and collapse in a panting sweaty heap into my car. It's my favorite part. Anyhow, so I always say hi to everyone in the last 50 yards a little more enthusiastically than need be. But there it is. On this day, I was nearing the car and I saw one of the I'm so good looking I can't be bothered jerks jogging toward me. I wasn't going to say anything, but Madonna was singing, and I was on the just about to the car high so I gave him a head nod. Nothing. He stared right at me, gave a little sneer and kept running.

I could have gotten my feelings hurt, or followed after yelling "hey, when I get hot, I'm gonna remember you," but I just kind of shrugged and kept walking. Right behind him was an older man in his late 60's. He was walking and pumping two small barbells. As I passed him, he said, "Don't worry about him Honey, he's a JERK."

***Pretty Dress diet update and note: My photographer says she is "too tired" to take photos of my dress today. So, I will post those tomorrow!****

Accounting; or, my life in numbers (diet edition)

2010-05-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

Number of...

diets I have "officially" been on since the age of ten, as in they have a name, and I paid some sort of monies to participate = 9

diets that doctors gave me that I now know are unhealthy = 2

diets I have lost weight on = 4

diets I have continued for less than one month = 5

less than 6 months = 7

almost a year = 1

pounds lost since I was 10 years old = about 300

pounds I would to lose for my current goal = 75

plus size clothing stores that I have visited this month that do NOT carry workout clothes in my size = 4

pounds that make up a size change for the average woman =15 (so to move from a size 12 to an 11 is usually 15 pounds).

dress sizes I will go down when I meet my current goal = 3

calories needed to create a calorie deficit in order to burn one pound = 3500

calories recommended for the average diet = 1200-1500

calories burned in one hour of walking at 3.5 mph = 534

calories I use on an average day (not including exercise) = 3000

miles I walked yesterday = 3

miles to go before I sleep = many, many, many

Puente Stories; or, a picture is worth... well, you know

2010-05-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

Group Picture @ UC Santa Cruz March 2010

Puente Stories: "Karly"; or, how one student has changed the "immigration debate" in our house forever

2010-05-15T10:11:00.000-07:00

One of the biggest differences between Puente and the other cadre of support services and programs for college students in California is that Puente services and advocates for undocumented students. I think it has to do with where the money for the programs come from, but I am not sure. I do know that Puente is my first taste of working with people who are living in the US without citizenship. This issue is a rabid one right now and it will only become more heated as we get closer to the next election cycle. I have always held the position that being born in the United States is like wining a type of global lottery. The resources we have available to us as Americans is equalled by few other countries. With this does come responsibility, something the US does seem to grasp, but I often disagree with the way we "share" our wealth. I have always held a vewpoint that we have to live in a way that shows compassion for our global neighbors. All this to say, I have been known to say that we should just open the borders. I understand now, after talking with students who are going through the citizenship process, that widespread corruption on the Mexican side of the border would make this impossible. But, I still believe that something needs to be done. I don't know what. But something.

I start with this discussion, not to argue or challenge anyone's belief systems or to begin a debate about immigration, but to just establish a context of where I am coming from. In my family, I am the only liberal democrat in a sea of conservative republicans. Sometimes I feel like the only liberal democrat in Shasta County! In my family, most everyone, but me, believes (or at least used to) in building a wall between the American and Mexican border (I think some may think we need one between Canada and America as well). There are some family members who believe more strongly than others, and even some who traffic in racist emails and jokes. Discussions about immigration have ended in angry shouted words, slammed doors, and tears. But, since my experience with Puente some of this has changed. Mostly because I bring home my student's stories. I share their victories and frustrations. Political discussions are different when they are about real people instead of abstract policies. This has changed the way we talk, but by fat the biggest difference for us has been Karly.

Karly's family moved to the United States from Mexico when she was 11 years old. She spoke fewer than 20 words of English, and she that was more than anyone else in her family. She started school in northern California where she was lucky enough to be enrolled in a school with a bilingual education program. At school and on her own she learned English. Within a year she was helping other recently arrived students and immigrants with their English. During the day she went to school, in the evening she helped her family pick fruit, vegetables, and almonds, and at night she studied.

Karly's family has been trying to gain American Citizenship for nearly eight years. There is so much corruption in the system that this process can take between nine and 13 years for Mexicans to gain American citizenship. Usually, what will happen is the Mexican government will approve one family member's paperwork and then demand bribes from the other family members. They put the paperwork on hold and dangle the hope of citizenship in front of them. This puts them in a situation where in order to live together in one country much of the family must live here illegally. And then there is a special problem for children. When Karly first applied she was a minor. Last year when she turned 18, and when she became an adult she had to file new paperwork. That means that the eight years that her paperwork has been in the system is now erased. It is incredibly frustrating.

Karly lives in a small farming community in another county. She rides a bus for over an hour to and from school everyday. The bus picks her up at a bus stop in town at 5am and returns her at 5pm every day. It is another 20 minute drive from the bus stop to her home. She has the best attendance of any student in my class. She is the best student in my class. She writes and speaks English with an accent, but her essays are clear and smart. I always know I can count on her to have done the assignment and to have done it well. If class discussion stalls I look at Karly and she says something smart and insightful and moves the discussion along. She revises her essays 3 or 4 times each until they are A's. She reads everything and more. She is inquisitive, earnest, hungry. She is a good student.

Now, the problem is that she is undocumented. This means she pays non-resident fees. Classes that would cost most people about $25 a unit will cost her nearly $200 a unit. The Puente program is 9 total units. She paid nearly $2000 to be in a program that most of the other students paid for litle or nothing. She cannot get financial aid or support from EOPS or TRIOS like the other students. Last semester I bought her books, something I couldn't really afford either, but I wanted to help. There are other challenges as well. We nominated her for the Puente leadership conference in UC Riverside this summer and she was accepted. She gets to go to UC Riverside for a week long leadership conference paid for by Puente. When she was chosen, we were ecstatic until we realized that she would have to fly there. She isn't a citizen, she doesn't have ID.The tuition at a four year university is going to cost her thousands of dollars. She runs the risk of some overly zealous person turning her into immigration at all times. She cannot get a driving liscence in this state. Of all my students she is the most capable of achieving her goals. She wants to get a Phd in Nutrition. But of all my students she is the least likely to achieve her goals. Because, the system does not want her here.

I often talk about my classes at home. How my day went. How certain students learn or how an assignment would work, or not work. Soon, my family began to "know" certain students. They know that Jason is a jerk. Jesus is a ladies man. Bill is shy. And that Karly is the hardest working student I have. I didn't tell them she was undocumented for a long time. It isn't something you want to talk about in Shasta County--where just being brown is enough to get you pulled over (or worse). But, as her situation became more and more frustrating to me I shared more and more. Slowly, the attitude of some of those around me has changed. The discussion of illegal immigration has become more compassionate. The wall isn't really seen as a viable solution. We all kind of see that there is this much bigger global problem and that deportation and walls aren't going to help Karly.

This story is a tough one. It is good because her situation has changed the attitudes of many people on campus and in my own life, but the tragedy of how difficult it is for her to make a life for herself is heart-breaking. In reality if she returns (or is returned) to Mexico she has nothing. Here she has a shot. It's just a long one.

Puente Stories: "Bill"; or, Disney ain't the only one in the business of tellin' success stories

2010-05-14T11:52:00.000-07:00

The program that I currently teach in and co-coordinate is called Puente. I have written about it before. I love the program, I (mostly) love the students, I hate the pay. The program is designed to service historically educationally disadvanted student populations (mostly hispanic and latino). I took the job because as an adjunct if someone asks you to do something you just say yes.

Anyway, we are about two weeks away from finishing the first year of the first cohort. Puente has three phases. Phase I is the Pre-Composition class, Phase II is the Composition class, and Phase III is the year or so that it takes the students to finish the rest of their Community College work in order to transfer. After that (the unofficial Phase IV) is when they finish their four-year degrees and become tax paying citizens who return to their community and act as mentors to other Puentistas. My job is to teach the English classes, organize events, and other administrative tasks. Each group of students who go through these phases together are called a Cohort. So, we just finished the first two phases of of our first cohort.

Over the next week or so I will be telling stories about this year. Some are stories of success. Some are stories of failures, some frustrations, and some may be funny (at least to me). All the names are changed for privacy (and to avoid lawsuits). I reserve the right to embellish for the sake of storytelling, to leave things out if it makes me look bad, and to talk about other things if I get bored.

__________________________________________________________________________________

At the beginning of every Puente year we have a mandatory Information Night/Orientation. This event is held on campus in the evening and the students are supposed to bring their familias. In Puente we want students to include their families in their education. Because the program has its roots in the hispanic community the idea of "familia" came about for two main reasons. The first is because family is so important to many hispanics and we want to include as many elements of our student's culture as we can. The second because so many Puente students are first generation college students, and we want to show our students familis what goes on on college campuses. We, at Shasta College, try to stretch the word "familia" as much as we can. To some this means a boyfriend/girlfriend, husband wife, kids, other is it parents, grandparents... and to others a best friend. To my most shy student, Bill, familia meant his mom. He brought his mom to everything. I quickly learned it was so she would speak for him. A habit that most likely started when Bill was a child and had continued into adulthood.

At the Information Night I made my way around the room and introduced myself to every person. Bill's mom was very shy and I had to talk with her for several minutes longer than any other person just to feel like we were comfortable. Her son, Bill, did not look at me. He mumbled his name while staring at his feet the entire time. His mom was trying to speak for him because even though she was very shy as well, she did not want me to think her son was being rude. I told her not to worry and joking said, "By the end of this thing we'll all be best friends." We all laughed, and I went on with the rest of the night.

As the Phase I class started, I noted that Bill sat in very last seat of the row that was in the furthest corner of the room. He spoke only when forced to, made no eye contact with me, and worked with the same student every day. As the semester went on I was careful not to push him too much. Puente is a big proponent of goup work and we put each student into a group, callled a Familia, who they work with the entire semester. I put Bill into a group with all guys that he seemed comfortable with. It worked, he made his way, talking to his Familia, to me when he needed to, and nothing more. In his group presentation he ran the projector. He never raised his hand or volunteered a comment. He was so shy that if he needed to talk to me or ask a question he would text a classmate and have them ask. I would make a point to talk to Bill at least once a day, even if it was just small talk and pleasantries, and I made sure to say hello and goodbye every class. Still, at the end of the first semester he was comfortable with only a very small group of classmates and could talk to me if he needed to.

As the Phase II class started, I took special care to push Bill a bit more than I had in Phase I. I put him in a Familia with students new and different students. I would call on him in class. When I would read his notebooks and essays I would highlight points I wished that he would have said in class. I emphasized over and over again that his viewpoints and ideas were welcome and desired in the class discussion, sometimes in a discussion I would say, "Bill, you said something about that in your notebook, do you want to share your insights with the class?" The first couple of times I tried this, I got a mumbled "Not really." But, usually, he would say something. And then one day, he raised his hand. I actually cut off another student in my desire to call on him. After that, he would share now and again, and while still shy, it didn't seem quite so debilitating.

I knew that Bill was becoming less shy, but I didn't realize how much until two things happened, the first was his mom stopped me one day while shopping to tell me so. I was shopping when I heard a shy voice behind me "Professor Frye." I turned and there was Bill's mom. She wanted to tell me how much her son enjoyed the Puente program. She said that she had seen a change in him over the past year and that he said that it was due to Puente. Now, this would be progress enough to please me. Just getting Bill to talk in class was enough for me. This student who was so shy that he would not even text or email professors was talking in class! The second was that Bill was sitting in the front of the class. He had slowly moved seats until he was in the front row (on the side of the room, but still). Victory right!. Well, then, he volunteered to speak at the Puente End of the Year Celebration.

I was asking for volunteers and jokingly asked Bill. I fully expected him to blush, laugh, and make a joke as he said "no way." Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "All right." At the Puente End of the Year Celebration he spoke in front of 75+ people. That night he talked about how empowering it was to attend the Puente Motivational Conference at Sacramento State with 800 other latinos who were all striving to better themselves through education. He talked about making friends in the program. He talked about how Puente has changed him for the better. He talked about how he thinks he has a better shot at the future he has always wanted because he is more confident and a better speaker and writer. So often, students say these things because they think it is what teachers wanted to hear, but in this case, it was clear that every word was true. The fact that he was standing in front of 75 people as he said it was proof that it was true.

And while I was touched about what he talked about, for me, the most impressive part was that he talked.

tribute; or, cheating a little

2010-05-13T22:23:00.000-07:00

So, this is isn't really a post. This is a tribute to the today's post. Here Here Post! You are awesome!

I'm tired. I want to tell you about how Puente is a changing people. The students. My family. Me. But I don't want it to be this tired tired thing. But, I do have stories to tell. So, this post. This post is a tribute to that other one. The post that I owe you.

OMG; or, because shirts are overrated (that's my favorite part)

2010-05-12T08:15:00.000-07:00

I don't have a lot of time today, but I still wanted to post (stupid committment!). I was looking for a youtube video from Derek Jeter's 2001 Saturday Night Live appearance... but instead I found a pop-up for this which promised "Derek Jeter Shirtless"! I thought it was the funniest thing I have seen in a really long time! On a side note, it took me a long time to find a picture of Derek Jeter that was an actual baseball photo and even longer to find an action shot. Hmmm, I wonder if it is a copyright issue, or if the poor man is just being objectified.

Enjoy.

Fat Kat; or, the pretty dress "diet"

2010-05-11T12:33:00.000-07:00

All this talk about pretty dresses has made me realize that I have a lot of pretty dresses that I can't wear right now, and the ones I can wear are a little tight and only getting tighter, and let's face it less flattering. Oh, and besides not being able to fit into my pretty dresses a lot of my health issues are returning. Hmm, funny how that works.

I am a person who has been in a lifelong struggle with disordered eating, weight loss, and food issues It is a long story with a lot of time invested on therapist's couches and a lot of money thrown away on the diet industry. It all began when my parents put me on my first diet at the age of ten. At the time when they said I was fat, I believed them. I look at pictures from my youth, and well, I was not fat. I didn't get "fat" until I was in my 20's. At ten, I was just an early bloomer. Breasts and hips on a ten year old girl can be mistaken for fat I suppose. I was watched, scolded, weighed and taken to see nutritionist and doctors for all of my childhood. Instead of "losing weight" I developed some very unhealthy attitudes and behaviors about food, weight, exercise, and body images that I am currently trying to work through in a healthy way. I want to have healthy eating patterns which, for me, means that Diet is a four letter word. I have struggled with anorexia, bulemia, and compulsive overeating aka "binge eating" for 27+ years. Wow, I have never said that out loud.

Last year around this same time of year (March-July) I lost 70 pounds. I was motivated by the knowledge that I was going on a international flight on Virgin airlines (they have the smallest seats in the business). I was really motivated and I will admit that I took it a little too far. I tried to lose too much weight too fast and I triggered some disordered eating issues that were always there, but not really full blown since I was in high school. Well, it shouldn't really be a big giant surprise that I gained the weight back. In fact, according to the scale today, I have officially gained back every pound plus 2. It happens. But, it is even easier when you have disordered eating. I know it happens because it isn't the first time I have lost 50+ pounds and then gained it back (and then some).

So, while it is important that I lose weight in order to feel better, look better, be better... it is even more important that I do this without "dieting." At least not in a way that makes me want to starve, throw up, or eat the entire refrigerator.

So this time, I am NOT going to diet. I am going to eat less and exercise more, but not diet. I am going to commit to walking every day. I am going to make sure I think about what goes into my mouth and why I am putting it there (yeah, that sounded dirtier than I meant) And, I am going to use my pretty pretty dresses as motivation. My first goal is to be able to wear this lovely rasberry silk dress to a play in Ashland in June. That is about a month away.

Here are the pics from today. I labeled them, just to seem scientific not because I think there is any real trouble distinguishing what they are of. Oh, and about my head, see the note below.

Front

As you can see... a little tight. Especially the girls and the belt!

Back

In case you are wondering why I am holding the belt in this one... it is because it kept popping off (a feature that the reviewers of this dress on JCPenney.com complained about, so it is a design flaw exacerbated by the fact that it is too small.) BTW: The dog is Zach and I didn't crop him out because I love how it looks like he is interested, but I know that really he just wants me to throw the ball.

Oh and I cropped off my head bcause I had not showered or put on make-up. Yes, I am that vain. Stay tuned for updated pictures next Tuesday! I may even include my head!

Accounting; or, my life in numbers (dresses edition)

2010-05-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

Number of...

dresses hanging in my closet right now = 11 (not counting skirts)

dresses in storage = 9 (too small 6, too fancy for everyday wear 2, not weather appropriate 1)

dresses coming in the mail because I ordered them this weekend = 3 (and one skirt)

dresses at Nordstroms.com that I am currently lusting after = 11

times a week I wear a dress to work = 1

times I have had my skirt fly up in the wind Marilyn Monroe style = 9 (most of these were in Reno)

times I have worn a dress with cowboy boots = 1

dresses I have worn until they literally fell apart and were rendered unwearable = 2 (a lime green satin dress with orange and green organza sleeves that was a flower girl dress at age 6 and a thrift store find J Crew black shirtdress at age 19).

times I insisted that I could wear the above dresses "one more time"= too many

bridesmaid dresses I have donated to Good Will = 3

bridesmaid dresses I have been able to "shorten and wear again" = 0

bridesmaid dresses I was able to wear as a halloween costume = 3 (princess, princess, and beauty queen)

times I have shut my skirt into the door of my car = 2 (that I know of)

Prom dresses I have worn after the age of 30 = 2 (prom party, halloween costume)

times I almost hit someone for making fun of me for wearing a prom dress after the age of 30 = 1

A Sunday in dresses; or, if my life had a costuming budget

2010-05-09T15:51:00.000-07:00

I have been obsessed with dresses lately. It got me thinking about my Sunday pictoral. In a perfect world I would be able to wear the perfect pretty dress to each perfect Sunday event.

Here is a Sunday in dresses.

Coffee

Remember this nightgown so you can compare my morning version to my "night" version--apparently in a perfect world I change in the middle of the night.

I love comfy mornings with my coffee. Most days, I get up an hour earlier than I need to so that I have time to linger over my coffee.

Champagne Brunch

This is currently my favorite dress. I love the way that the bright floral fabric contrasts against the softer muted version of the same fabric. This dress is from Nordstoms.com (most of them are) and it sells for about $200.00. There is one review of this dress. A woman gives it one star because "it just doesn't look good on me." Hmmm, how is the fault of the dress? Blasphemy.

Shopping, Matinee, Or, I don't know, a Baseball game. After all I did say this was a pefect world!

I love old reels of baseball games from the 1940's and 1950's. All the men wore suits and hats, and the women wore dresses, hats, and usually carried a handbag. Super glamorous. It always seems such a shame to me that we don't seem to dress up for anything any more. A few years ago a college volleyball team was criticized for wearing flip flops to a trip to the White House. Many people took offense to the criticism and defended the athletes saying that we don't live in a formal world anymore, and that at least the flip flops were "fancy."

Afternoon Tea

While in London last summer, my BFF and I went to high tea in a relatively hoity toity teahouse. We tried our best to dress up, but between living out of a suitcase and needing to wear footwear that could handle the 5+ miles I tend to walk while in London we were WAY underdressed. Combine that with the dress of our companions (one a teenage boy who was in jeans, nikes, and a windbreaker, the others not much better), our American accents and lack of reservations, and well, the waiter was trying to be nice to us...but. It was what I call a Pretty Woman moment. You know the one where Pretty Woman tries to shop in the expensive boutique on Rodeo Drive...

I have a feeling that if we walked in off the street in this dress, I imagine that waiter would have been a little less snooty. Well, prolly not if we were BOTH wearing this, that would be weird!

Afternoon Walk (Jane Austen Style)

Yes, I know that if I really wore this--and the shoes that seem to go with it--I wouldn't REALLY want to walk very far. And certainly I would not want to walk over rolling hills covered with green grass that most likely has just recently been soaked by the rain... But, wouldn't it be lovely?

Dinner

When I was 19, I dated a boy with a lot of money. How much money? A lot. He took me home to Nantucket for Easter weekend. His was an "old money" family and when he awkwardly revealed that he had bought me some clothes for the weekend, I was a little offended: until I saw them. I have never worn such wonderful clothes before, or since. The relationship never really went anywhere--we were of a different class and religion. But, that experience allowed me to see a world that I had only read about. The day I walked downstairs into a formal dining room in a dress very much like this one changed me.

I lost the clothes when I moved home. I was flying back to California and I could not afford to take all of things on the plane with me. I asked a friend to hold some boxes for me until I could afford to have them mailed; even though I sent the money not too surprisingly the box with these beautiful clothes were never sent.

Cocktails

For my 35th birthday I had a birthday party with a cocktail party theme. My friend Tiffany wore a dress like this. I thought it (and she) was so beautiful.

And finally...

Bed

Going to bed is much sexier than waking up. I will let you draw your own conclusions as to how I get from this sexy white satin gown into the comfy pjs from the "coffee" photo above. Ahem, I did say this was a Perfect World ;)

Joe Buck can kiss my; or, if you don't like baseball don't take an announcing job

2010-05-08T20:27:00.000-07:00

Joe Buck is Fox network's number one sports announcer. He covers football and baseball. But, he has been overheard saying that he doesn't like baseball and implied that if he had his way he'd just do football. This has always bothered me. He is paid millions of dollars to watch baseball games from the best seats and talk about it on the air. This is a dream job, at least for me it is.

Today he threw this big hissy fit because the game he was covering took too long. On the air he sighed and rolled his eyes at having to watch this marathon game. I wanted to throw a shoe at him. I mean if you would rather be somewhere else...let me do your job.

I'm a princess;or, pretty dress day

2010-05-07T17:59:00.000-07:00

This is my eighth grade graduation. 1986!

little boys; or, the trouble with cute

2010-05-06T17:57:00.000-07:00

My nephew is four years old. He is incredibly smart, charming, handsome, and smart. As all nephews should be.

He is also obsessed with all things male and, well, a little digusted by girl things. This nascent anti girl sentiment is fostered by having an older sister and by his father's very mild case of mysogny (inherited from his father, yes that would also be MY father). Anyway, this four year old angel is going through a good old fashioned I hate girls phase.

The other day, I asked him what he would do if a second head grew out of his neck. He looked at me and said, "That would be cool." Then I followed that up by saying, "But, what if it was a girl's head?" Without a single pause he said, "I would cut that right off."

Aww boys.

baggage; or, what do you expect from Jerry Springer?

2010-05-05T21:17:00.000-07:00

I returned home from a day of student conferences and Cinco de Mayo festivities exhausted and plopped onto the couch for some good old fashioned mindless television. Lately, I have been watching the Game Show Network (GSN). It is extraordinarily mindless. Deal or No Deal is on every other minute wedged between The Newlywed Game and a really annoying show that is hosted by the other guy on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air (the guy who is not Will Smith). I like it because I don't really have to pay attention, I don't really need to watch the whole thing, and I definitely don't need to have seen last week's episode. But tonight. Oh tonight I caught the last few minutes of a show I have never seen before: Baggage.

Baggage is hosted by Jerry Springer, so you know that it must be all kinds of awesome. I missed most of it, but I think that the concept is that you reveal your emotional or dating baggage and then suitors decide whether or not they would still date that person. Sadly, I only caught the last five minutes. But, believe me, i will be back for more. In the part I saw a very attractive woman opens a suitcase and reveals a card that says "I choose my cat over any man." She smiles while Jerry Springer goes "Oh my god" as if it said "I am a black widow who has killed my previous four husbands." She smiles, and the guy, a plain looking man in his 40's, scratches his head and looks at this far more attractive woman with trepidation. She goes on to explain that her cat is very special. She says that the cat "talks to me and calls me mama, can do several tricks, she fetches..."

As this woman talks she starts to glow and gets really excited. The two men get more and more uncomfortable. Then it is time. Springer asks the man if he can live with her "baggage." He says, and this is my favorite part, "Well, you said you could put up with my chronic halitosis, the fact that I had my car re-possessed so that I have to ride the bus everywhere, and my three kids..." Dramatic pause. Then he reaches out and closes the suitcase and says, "I was happy you said you could deal with my baggage, but I can't deal with yours. I think your crazy." Boom. Suitclose slammed. Woman denied. Show is Over. I was left with Jerry Springer asking me to be sure to tune in next time. Oh yes, Jerry, I will. I will.

bitter; or, a cry for help

2010-05-04T16:59:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to hate my job.

Before I begin to complain, because I am going to. I need to starte with the following disclaimer. I know this is my fault. There are other folks who played their parts, but really, I accept that it is MY choices that led me here. I chose teaching because I wanted to do this. I chose English becasue I loved it. I chose this profession. I chose to quit my Phd program. I chose to work as an adjunct. I made these choices. I know this.

But...

I am becoming so angry and bitter that it is affecting my job performance. I resent the amount of prep, grading, reading, planning, meetings, events, just the sheer amount of time that my job demands. I am an adjunct instructor and a co-coordinator for the Shasta College Puente Program. I usually teach two classes a semester. This year I accepted the Puente Program Coordinator's position When I began doing Puente my workload trebled. In the fall, I was unhappy with the amount of extra work, but I thought I would be leaving at the end of the year (I am not) and I was being paid twice as much. This semester I only got one class. But, the work for the coordinator position has ballooned. Without having to get into details (see yesterday's blog for some of the numbers) I figure that I am paid $5.45 per hour. I don't really have enough money to pay my bills.

The real bitterness comes in when I think about my co-workers. My co-coordinator is a full time employee. He makes four times what I make, simply because he is salaried. Any event we do he is paid to do twice. He gets paid as part of his salary and he gets the same stipend I get. Whereas I work for nothing he gets double. I try to not say anything, but it gets really hard sometimes. I don't want to ruin my working relationship with him because I am so resentful and bitter. Some of the Puente kids have commented that I am not doing some of the activites. I have tried to explain without going into details to them that I get tired and overworked, but they just don't get it.

Now, no matter what, there isn't anything I can do about this right now. I can't ask for more money. I can't get a second job. I can't quit without destroying three years worth of work history. This is the situation. It is what it is. I have committed to the program for one more year. In this year, I am preparing to re-apply to graduate schoool, and look for full time teaching positions. So, I know that I have to finish this semester, teach a summer class, and then do the adjunct teacher/Puente program coordinator thing next year. I know this. The problem is: I have a terrible attitude. Awful. I am negative and resentful. I don't do anything extra. I refuse to do things that normally I would want to do. I come home at the end of the day and say things like, "Guess how much money I made today? Oh that's right $0." I shirk. I procrastinate. I complain.

I don't want to be l ike this. I don't. I hate when people tell me I should count myself as lucky because at least I HAVE a job. But seriously, how do I find a way to put the money issues aside? How do I separate teaching from the "job"? If I don't do this, I will be even more miserable. I will make people around me miserable. I could even jeopardize any possible work reccommendations from this school. Sigh. How do I learn to love my job again?

Accounting; or,my life in numbers (teaching edition)

2010-05-03T08:43:00.000-07:00

Number of..

years I have taught college English Classes: 9.

students I have taught (aproximately): 1080.

students I have failed (actual F's, not Oh they just stopped coming F's): 7

students I have made cry: 4

students who have thanked me more than a semester after my class was over: 2

teaching hours my adjunct contract pays per week: 8

office hours my adjunct contract pays per semester: 8.5

meetings per week I attend for my current job (on average): 4.

meetings I am paid to attend: 0.

dollars and cents in my checking account right now: $85.17.

degrees I have earned: 2.

degrees I still need: 1.

level of bitterness I feel about my current career on a scale of 1-10: 8 with a bullet.

Sunday Short; or, what a Sunny Sunday should look like (actual experiences may vary)

2010-05-02T08:59:00.000-07:00

Baseball (Shown here Oakland Coliseum)

Boats (actual boat may be smaller, yellow, and on a lake)

Books (and Coffee Shops)

And Buddies

There is also usually a little Booze involved... but no one wants to see a picture of that ;)

Happy Sunday!

May Day; or, sex sex sex

2010-05-01T12:32:00.000-07:00

Happy May Day!

Corinna's Going A-Maying

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming Morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

When I was a girl, our Sunday school class made and delivered May Day baskets. May Day is holiday I would love to bring back. With it's toes firmly dipped into sensuous waters, May Day is one of the sexiest of holidays. Damn those puritans and their fear of sensuality. Anyway, I digress... In contemporary America, if May Day is celebrated at all, it is usually associated with children. This ignores the fact that the young girls who were the original May Day Queens were in fact nubile and ready for a sexual awakening. It was their "Spring" if you will; but, now, we don't really remember that most girls are actually women by the time they are 12 or 13.

I am sure that my Sunday School teacher was oblivious of May Day's pagan beginnings when she planned our May Day adventure. The event took two weekends. On the first weekend we made May Day flower bouquets. They were little paper mache flower baskets. The next weekend was the first of May. Our class was divided into small gaggles of giggling girls and each of us was assigned to a jaded teenage girl who were either forced by their mothers, or had just gotten their driver's licences, and thus were eager to drive anywhere. We would park up the street a little ways and then this little gaggle of 8 year old girls would tiptoe, giggling loudly, as we tried to sneak up to the porch and place their flower basket on the doorknob. One brave girl, usually me, or my friend Michelle, would ring the doorbell, or knock. There was this fantastic moment of tension as I would linger on the porch my finger just hovering above the doorbell, and then, I would push the bell, or knock, and all of us would burst free and run back to the car squealing, running, panting, and laughing in a burst of released delight.

Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green;
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown, or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you;
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept;
Come and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night;
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

While in college, my boyfriend and I decided to deliver May Day bouquets of our own. I was living in a small town just outside of Boston Massachusetts where spring's coming is celebrated enthusiastically after the long cold winter. We made tiny paper baskets and filled them with flowers stolen from the campus gardens. We walked to a neighborhood just west of town that was populated mostly by the townies. These were folks who had nothing to do with the college and were unlikely to know who we were. The first couple of doors we did together. Giggling and running just as I had as a girl. After a minor squabble, something our relationship was marked by, we split up and decided to each go our own ways.

I approached a house, on my own, carrying my tiny bouquet. As I could get nearer to the porch I heard the unmistakable sounds of a couple having sex. I froze in my steps. I was not sure what to do. A part of me was struck by how apropos it was to be leaving May Day flowers on the porch as a couple made love. The flowers historically were tokens of wooing and symbolic of the blooming of a young girl's readiness to lose her virginity. As I placed my flowers on the door knob, I heard a noise around the corner of the porch. I should have left then, but my curiosity led me around the corner of the house. As I peered around the corner I saw my friend peering into the bedroom window watching the couple have sex. Quickly, and quietly I turned and walked away. I grabbed my basket off the door and left without being seen.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch; each porch, each door ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

The first boy I ever kissed was killed in a motorcycle accident before he was old enough to be considered a man. It wasn't May Day when I learned that he died, but it was Spring. I was 11 when we kissed and 15 when he died. He a mere year and a half older. Eleven seems too young for kissing, and 15 far too young for mourning. That kiss was the most sexually charged kiss of my life, even now, I look back on that event with wonder. His experience with his tongue makes me think he probably wasn't a virgin when he died. Even though a little past 16 is far too young for a death of any kind; it gives me comfort to think that he lived a little older than other boys his age because somehow he knew he less time than the rest of us.

There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden, home.
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream;
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth;
Many a green-gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

It was in a Surevy of Early British Literature class where I first read this poem. My friends and I were quite romantic and loved the Carpe Diem poems. Herrick, Marvell, Jonson, et al. We were young and we thought of ourselves and Julia or Corinna. We wrote lovely little papers on these poems and their fresh sensuality and flirting of innocence. One day I was put in a group with an older woman. She was very smart, sassy, and I looked up to her. At the time she seemed much older than I, but now, I realize that she was prolly about the age that I am now. We were choosing poems to write about for a group project and I suggested Corrina's Going A-Maying and To the Virgins to Make Much of Time. As we were working, the light and fun mood surrounding these poems darkened. She read them with the eye of a woman nearing 40 who was losing her bloom. She pointed to line after line and read them as an indictment of the uselessness of an older woman. I remember her saying "These poems are about a bunch of old men who are telling young girls to just do it with them because soon they will be old dried up hags and no one will want them." She was angry. I learned later that her husband had recently left her, for a younger woman, of course.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

by Robert Herrick

(1591-1674)

big fat liar; or, really, this time I swear

2010-04-30T14:49:00.000-07:00

I am committing to blogging every day in May. Why? Well, because I am sure that blogging during the busiest most hectic time of the semester is the bestest idea ever. Because, I blog in my head every day anyway. Really, I do. Because, I want to commit to something fun instead of committing all of my time to work. Because. Because. I ~~need~~ want to.

taking lessons from Better Off Dead; or, learning "Franch"

2010-03-03T14:15:00.000-08:00

I have decided to spend this pre PhD year in preparing for the foreign language requirement. In the past I always tried Spanish and it did not work out for me. I will write more about that another time. So, I am going to switch to French. I have a ton of spanish baggage, and really, French is a pretty happy language for me. So without further adieu: I present: Le Plan.

1. Immerse myself in all things "Franch" al la Better of Dead's Kim Darcy.

I will always love John Cusack. If, for no other reason than because of the classic comedy Better Off Dead. I think this may be the best movie in the history of extremely silly comedies. Some of my most quoted lines are from this movie.

Monique: He keeps putting his testicles all over me.

Lane Meyer: Excuse me?

Monique: You know, like octopus? Testicles?

Lane Myer: Ohhhh. Tentacles. N-T. Big Difference.

That scene is classic! And it makes me laugh every time I think about it. But the all time funniest thing is the scene where Kim Darcy puts together a meal for the Monique the neighbor's foreign exchange student. She makes french bread, french fries, and french dressing. She pronounces it "Franch" and then later the annoying neighbor lady blows herself up.

Lane: Sorry your mom blew up Ricky.

Have you seen Better Off Dead? Did you love it? I recently found out that John Cusack hated it. That made me a little sad. But, oh well.

2. Watch French films. J'aime des films de francais.

There are so many times when I am watching a decent american movie, you know, one that is okay, but not brilliant, that I think, "This would be so much better in French."

I have seen many french films, but if you have recommendations: lay them on me.

3. Get me that Rosetta Stone French program.

It's expensive. How expensive? Very expensive. But, hey, I hate language classes, so it should be worth it.

4. Develop a french alter ego. (Why yes, I AM taking suggestions for names!) When I travel I lie to people. Nothing to serious, I just know I a never going to see them again, so I give them an interesting person to talk to, I put on a show. It's fun, no one gets hurt. Naturellement, je suis la France.

5. Go to France and pretend to BE that person! Oui. I am serious.

And yes, you can come too!

6. Oh, and I'll pass the foreign language requirement in the process.

serenity now; or, god (that I don't really believe in) grant me the patience...

2010-03-02T13:51:00.000-08:00

to get through this day.

to grade as many notebooks, occasions, and essays as I can.

to understand that I may not be able to get them all done and that that is okay.

to compose an apology to my students for the shitty assignment I gave them.

to get all my emailing done.

to get my living space reorganized after the great spring cleaning episode this weekend.

to not kill my mother.

to stop snapping at people (my mother).

to not kill the dog.

to remember that it will take time to recover from this cold/flu.

to drink water.

to get back on track with my healthy living plan.

to view food as fuel and not as therapy.

to pay as many of my bills that I can afford to pay.

to not worry about those that are left unpaid, for now.

to forgive myself for my mistakes.

dotting i's and crossing t's turns out to be pretty damn important; or, taking responsibility

2010-02-27T11:08:00.000-08:00

I have never really been a "details" person. I don't really do paperwork all that well, or at all. At work if there is an email sent out to folks who are late turning in census reports, first-day-handouts, or grades... I am on it. I just don't pay attention to stuff like that. I am an idea person. Creative. A free spirit.

Well. Turns out that stuff matters.

A lot.

I wanted to blame people. And there are some who would do, I suppose. But, really, the biggest lesson to be learnt here is that I can't control other people. I can only take care of me and make sure that my world is together. And well, so far, in my life I haven't done that.

It is my own fault that I am not returning to Graduate School in the fall. It is never easy to fail. It is even more difficult to learn that you are not special. Not really. Oh no. I am not exceptional. I am not one of those students who has someone fighting for me. I am just a student who didn't fill out her application correctly. It's not personal. It is political, but that is something else altogether. It is a tough lesson to learn: No one is gonna fight for you, that you are on your own, that you don't have a corner man.

So, I will have to fight for me.

But, at least now I know that I must.

I am not giving up. Not yet. I'll apply again next year. I'll pay more attention to errant t's and i's and all of that. I will learn a lesson from this, because I need to.

Another year.

Another chance.

In this year, I have a lot of work to do: Both academic and personal. I have some addictions to work on. I have some fears to conquer. I have some wounds that need healing. I have some reading and learning that needs to be done. I have some growing to do.

Academically speaking I am not where I should be. I have not taken care of my language requirement (yes, it has been years, and no I still haven't done anything about it). I have a lot of reading in my field that I can do in a year. Some conferences, etc. Work that I have not done because of my own insecurities about myself as a scholar.

Personally, I have a food addiction and a lifetime of eating disorders that I have pretended don't exist. I have a major set of fear and anxiety disorders that I have self medicated with alcohol, food addication, and isolation. I need to learn to cope with life in a responsible way. It is too easy to set things aside and ignore them rather than take care of them. Putting my hand over my eyes will not make problems go away. (no, not even if you also sing the la la la I am not listening song).

So here it goes.
Another year.
The question is what am I gonna do with it?

Stay tuned... I know I will.

framing ben jonson; or, putting the shabby in shabby chic

2010-01-07T12:16:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago a literature professor gave me one page from a 17th century Ben Jonson folio as a christmas gift. I have no idea of its value, but I know it is something I needed to treat with care. My roomate at the time also recieved one, as did everyone in the seminar (which is prolly almost all of my readership, so you all know exactly what I am talking about here), and she framed hers immediately. I balked at the cost of framing and my page remained wedged between two pieces of cardboard in the flimsy plastic sleeve it came in, along with a photocopy of the folio cover to index its origins. I was beginning to notice some wear and tear on my page and that prompted me to get it framed before I did any permanent damage.

Yesterday, I finally had the thing framed. I chose a fancy schmancy champagne gilded frame and had it contrasted with a chololate brown velvet textured matte. It looks gorgeous. It is luxurious and rich looking. When the framer unwrapped the brown paper and revealed the work I could not help but exclaim, okay, squeal, about how gorgeous it was. It was easy to see how proud she was of her work, and she even took a picture of it to add to her portfolio. So, in the glow of such admiration, I brought it home and hung it over my World Mart-Cost Plus country white roll desk, next to my second hand olive green dresser, above my JCPenney "fall pattern" floor rug, next to a thrift store find framed print by one of my favorite romantic artists. And in the blink of an eye my room that had looked shabby chic just a moment before, now just looked shabby.

I do not come from money. My mother's family were vagabond okies who lived in trailers and drove cars that they bought totalled and then fixed up to sell. My father's were loggers and laborers. Not one of my grandparents graduated from elementary school. My mother was the first in her family to graduate high school, my father the first to go to college. I know that education does not always result in money, but usually those with money get college degrees. So there is a correlation, it just wasn't what I thought it was.

When I was a child I dreamed of being upper middle class. I wanted to "dress" for dinner. Have season tickets to the opera, get my hair done, and travel to exotic foreign lands. Now, I know my imagination could only reach upper middle class, because I could not fathom what it was like to be truly wealthy. I took on the trappings of the rich through food, clothing, and books, and the arts. I learned who the great masters were so that I could talk about paintings and sculpture, I read Shakespeare, and watched foreign films. I was eight the first time I watched a black and white movie in french. I couldn't even read the subtitles quickly enough to follow the plot. It didn't matter I was hooked. I wore pearls and scarves to the dinner table. I learned to ride horses and was always secretly angry that I had to ride "western." In my head I connected this lifestyle to education and I vowed to go to college. Then in college, I decided to become a college professor.

It wasn't until I was in a PhD program that I realized that education and books were not going to make me rich. Books are just books. They do not mark a social cultural class. Teaching college is about teaching college, not wearing cashmere sweaters and driving volvos. A page from a Ben Jonson folio is a page, no matter the room in which it hangs. When I quit school and entered the job market I learned the hard way that I will never be rich. But, at least now, I understand my longing in ways that I never could before. Now, I am returning to school to get a degree to get a job, and not gain an identity.

being mean; or, sorry kid, the cat stays here

2009-12-21T19:57:00.000-08:00

Last spring my best kitty friend Mazzy died. I had had her for 12 years and having her put down was a very difficult decision, but she had diabetes and she was in kidney failure, so I do know it was the right thing to do. At the time, I didn't want to get another cat. My current life is very unsettled. I am not in my own place and I don't know where I am going to be living from one year to the next, so I thought it would be best to go sans cats for now. Well, life has its own ideas and now eight months later I have two cats.

I inherited these cats, a male Siamese and a female calico from my brother and his family. Last summer my sister-in-law joined the Army and after basic training she was stationed in Fort Bliss TX, so they packed all their stuff and drove to Texas. They had four cats, four dogs, and two kids, so to help them out her mother took two dogs, and we took two of their cats. It was not my idea. It was my mom's. The plan was that we would take the cats and then as soon as they were in Texas we would give the cats to my sister. It is a long story, but my sister-in-law didn't want my sister to have them. Because we have also have two dogs (one of whom HATES cats) the cats had to stay in my room. Within 48 hours it was very clear that these cats were not going to my sisters.Or anywhere. Ever.

The Siamese, who was named George, is my favorite. For the first two days he hid under my bed. The calico, Lola, was a lap cat from the beginning and cuddled all the time. I hated the name George and I wanted to change it. We brainstormed for a while, and at first we thought of cute names like Mocha and Smores because of his color, but within a week it became clear that he needed a name with attitude as he is quite a personality. After spending a morning chasing him around the neighborhood at 6am only to have him sneak in an open door and hide under the bed while I was still trespassing in my neighbor's backyard trying to "rescue" him. I decided on "Maui." Maui is the name of the Polynesian trickster god. Oh, and my Maui is quite the little trickster.

It turns out that the move to Texas and the enlistment in the Army were not permanent for my brother and his family. They moved back here in September. My sister-in-law did not want to be in the Army, and now she isn't. And that is all I am going to say about that. Anyway, when I heard that they were coming back I couldn't help but panic a little. I thought they would ask for their cats back. I made it pretty clear to my brother that I didn't want to give them back. They were in pretty bad shape when I got them (they were outside cats and had fleas, worms, ear mites, and they were malnourished), and it cost be several hundred dollars to get them healthy. Not to mention that now we have bonded. They both sleep with me at night, and that I am a little bit nuts about taking care that they are in at night, well fed, healthy, loved, and well, quite frankly a little spoiled.

Today, my seven year old niece looked at me straight in my face and asked for her cat back.

Dramatic Pause.

I felt bad as I said, "I'm sorry honey, but he lives here now."

Right now, as I sit in my green chair typing I can see both cats. Lola is in her bed on top of the dresser and Maui is laying on his back in the middle of my bed. They are both sound asleep. And even though it was hard to say no to a seven year old, I know I did the right thing.

What to do when an old friend disappoints you; or, Sense and Sensibility part II

2009-12-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

I am having a really difficult time finishing Sense and Sensibility. Yes, I am busy. Yes, it is difficult to find a quiet spot in this current life. Yes, it is easier to watch TV; and on and on. But, I think the real reason that I am struggling to finish is that I don't like it that much. Gasp. What? I know, I know, I am supposed to like Jane Austen. I am supposed to love Sense and Elinor and the romance and all that. But, I don't. I don't like how passiveness and suppression is rewarded, while honesty and emotion are punished. But, most of all, I don't like Edward or Colonel Brandon. Sigh.

I know that the girls end up with these two men. And I know that Austen wants us to approve of the matches. But, Edward is so bland. I hate that he picks fights with Marianne over her immature and overly romantic sensibilities. I understand that is done to highlight her flaws, but it makes him appear argumentative and peevish; traits that I am sure that I don't approve of. I am thinking of thes scene when Edward visits the Dashwoods in Devonshire and he and Marianne talk about the countryside. He tells her how to use language to appreciate the countryside. My book was kind enough to have a note explaining that the actual target of his satire is a book by William Gilpin called On Picturesque Beauty in which the book explained how to use the language of the sublime to describe landscapes. This book was so popular that it created cliches like "rugged hills" and "twisted trees" and so on. Austen is using this moment to zing those who have fallen into this linguistic trap. But, the argument is so annoying. I would become overtired of anyone who took the time to tell me how wrong I was all the time. And yes, before you say it, it is in reaction to the fact that Marianne does this to people all the time. She points out their lack of romantic sesibilities as well. But for some reason, her passion seems to make it slightly more bearable.

The other target of Austen ridicule in this text is Mrs. Jennings. I am a little bit sensitive to this one, because, well, I feel a kinship with her. I am fat and jolly, I like to tease, and have been known to play the matchmaker. I don't know when to shutup. I will kick a dead joke long after I should. But, while the Dashwood girls, who let's face it, are kind of boring, cannot stand Mrs. Jenning, I like her. She is kind and merry. She is right about how people feel and forces them to acknowledge their attractions. If we all lived like Elinor we would sit silently and wait and hope that someone would notice us. Which brings me to my main gripe. The value of silence.

If you want to be a good person then talk of nothing but the roads and weather. Don't enjoy your children too much (Mrs. Middleton), or hunting (Mr. Middleton). Don't have a sense of humor (Mrs. Jennings). Don't be passionate about art, music, or love (Marianne). Don't love anything too deeply. Don't feel. And if you do feel anything for goodness sake if you do feel anything don't talk about it!

I think I am just a little frustrated right now. I know how this all ends, and I don't want it to go that way. Marianne is broken by love and only when she is beaten down into a spiritless lump does she get to marry another character who was beaten down by love and is now a spiritless lump. It reminds me of what I hate about Jane Eyre. Jane only gets her man after he has been broken. She can't have him whole and vital. And yes, I am sure there is a point here. I used to believe that Austen was critiquing this world that silenced women, but after taking a Satire class a few semesters ago, now I am not too sure. I am not convinced that this is a critique... I want to be sure that there is a lesson for me here,so that I can go somewhere beyond my frustrated and angry Jane-Austen-seems-to-be-anti-passion-rant (especially because I know this topic comes again in later books, and is treated much more favorably)... but for now. I am having touble getting through to the end. Ah well, and in the words of Nemo's friend Dorrie "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming."

I am mrs. jennings; or, what to do when you realize you are an unpopular Jane Austen character

2009-12-06T12:07:00.000-08:00

Seriously. I am.

insomnia; or, a dickensian visit of a ghost from my past

2009-12-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

Tis the season for Charles Dickens' immortal classic A Christmas Carol; a story I never did like very much. As I see ads for this version and that version of this tale I can't help but think that what makes this story so universal--not to mention so malleable-- is that we all have ghosts. I have mine. And at times, like now, I am visited by my ghost. Yes, there is just the one for me, but it is not any less terrifying in its singularity. Even without Scrooges' power of three, it still has the power to haunt, to disrupt, to warn, and to terrify. Recently, my ghost has been visiting. Well, 'tis the season after all, so I should not be surprised really. But, no matter if expected or not, I am still overly dismayed and find myself unable to sleep afterward.

At three am when I awake from a colorless forgettable dream--or worse, a recurring one about a water tower, and raised voices, and goodbyes--and I am pulled into a cyclone of worry, I try to tell myself that this all of my own devising. The danger is not real. I tell myself to stop thinking and go to sleep. I tell myself that the perils that I imagine are all a part of a mild anxiety disorder heightened by a recent run of bad dealings that have battered my self esteem and my abilities to believe in hope and love. But still, I lie awake night after night, because those are just words. And I am not often fooled by words.

I traffic in words. I use words everday to shape meanings. I find ways to tell my students that their writing is kind of terrible using a vocabulary of hope on a daily basis. I offer status reports to friends and family that mask personal trouble almost daily. I smile and tell stories cloaked in laughter about wounds that have found their mark. I feel like Mercutio spinning wild yarns about Queen Mab while the lifeblood is seeping out onto the concrete below me as I mutter about flesh wounds. I know about the many guises of words; I know better than to put my faith in them.

When I was 9 years old I won a short story contest. I wrote about a little girl who frightened herself because she mistook everyday objects for darker more nefarious matter. A tree branch became a hand, an owl a ghostly voice, the night a terror. Even then, I think, I knew that I was a worrier. I know that in my mind, I make normal situations into something scary. But, on the other hand, sometimes a tree branch is a hand. The night is a terror. Am I worried or am I prescient?

The ending of the most important relationship of my life still shadows me. It has been nearly four years now. Friends and family are weary of these shadows and their burdens, and understandably they don't want to hear about them any more. In some ways they are right. If I can stop the story from being told, then I could forget, but whether I talk about it or not, I can't get it out of my head. Memories swirl around me like constant flashbacks. I replay conversations and then re-write them with better endings. I make plans for revenge: some benign, some too scary to share. I compose letters and emails. I imagine standoffs and confrontation. Reunions and reconciliations. A roomate of mine, who knew both of us, he and I, once asked me if I thought that this was a case of past life reincarnations. She said she had rarely felt such an intense connection between two people and more than once had dreamed that he and I were ageless companions. I laughed at the time. Because what else can you do?

The last time we saw one another I willed him to me. I was in an airport and I felt him there, I had no knowledge of his travel plans, nor he of mine. But I knew. For about an hour, I searched for him among the airport terminals and resaurants. And then I walked back to my seat and waited. He walked past within ten minutes. Even while we were talking, wasting the day with minutia and trivialities because I was so shaken by his presence that I could not say the things that I knew needed to be said. Deep down, I knew that was the last time. I was almost convinced that my plane was going to go down and that I had been given a precious last gift. I remember feeling genuine surprise when I landed safely on the other side. That was the last time. I don't know what he thinks of that last encounter. I am sure it was strange. I am sure his story of what happened is different than mine. But, he won't let me ask, so I don't know. Still, that is the most spiritual memory of my life and the one moment that makes me believe that there might be a god.

Somehow, I feel like if I could just silence these shadows the worrying would go away and peace would come. That somehow this ghost of a relationship past is stirring a soup of anxiety and self doubt, and that if vanquished my mind would still, sleep would come, and life would calm. I feel like this is a weight on my shoulders that gets heavier with time as I take others' words and paint them with his voice. I want to remember. I need to forget. I need a banishing charm. A spotless mind. A forgetful heart. I feel like something needs to be done. Closure. Understanding. Forgiveness. Or a rage. Something to take the words out of my head and heart and leave me in peace. But sincerely, I don't know what. How do you say goodbye to the ghosts of your past? Or do you? Or can you? I don't know, but I do know that it has been many miles through this snowy woods and I would like to sleep. I would like to sleep.

overeverything; or, the side effects of reading Jane Austen (both dangerous and otherwise)

2009-12-03T08:22:00.000-08:00

Now that I am fully engaged in re-reading Jane Austen, I am finding myself altered. The way that I speak, the way I see the world, the tenor of my cravings and desires: all are changed.

My sentences--spoken and written--are elongated and extended, they are longer and lusher; my words are enveloped in a slow languishing diction that rolls off my toungue like honey or molasses rather than my usual deluge pantingly spat out as quickly as linguistically possible. I choose words that are longer and more full: approbation, midsummer, unconcern, supplication. And, of course, everything is overthis-or-overthat. No, I do not mean that I am suffering from an onset of ennui or apathy. I am not as kids say "over it" in the sense that I am over everything in that I no longer care; no, instead, I am overtired, overhungry, overexcited...overeverything. The five mile drive from my home to the college is no longer "too far," it is, "overfar." The muffins I baked this morning are not "too moist," they are, "overmoist." I cannot point to exact Austen phrases that encourages this linguistic shift, but, I do know that is an occaision which always coincides with reading of Austen. And really, while I do not mind this alteration in vocabulary, it must be noted that my students are not overjoyed.

Another, side effect is that I also find myself craving tea and scones; well, technically speaking I crave any and all hot drinks and baked goods really. As a woman who is constantly trying to eat healthier, the plus side to these particular Austenesque cravings is that I want to dress up in long white muslin empire waisted gowns and walk 2 miles to my neighbor's house to imbibe said tea and scones. The downside is that often these indulgences come sans said lush 2 mile walk and thus result in only a plus backside. I do have a walking trail near my house, but there is something delicious about the idea of the lush, green, grassy knolls in Austen books and films that I can't find anywhere near me. American gardens and lawns are considered to be impeccable only when trimmed neatly down to their nubs. Many more English gardens, especially those in the country, tend to be wilder, verdant, with grass grown long enough beneath your feet that it seems to undulate with your movements. Ah, the differences between what we want and what we settle for, now, that is something Austen knows very well.

But for me, there is a danger that goes beyond words and walks. While, the formality of Austen makes her seem quite safe, for a single woman in want of a life she can disrupt even the most steadfast. Her books are rife with calling cards, social visits, matchmaking, promises, and romance; even in the most satisfied of hearts this much society and romantic intrigue can stir longing for a passionate, if very polite, intrigue. Oh, damn you Jane Austen for making me crave the dangers of love again, after working so hard on recovering from my last foray...Hmm, maybe I'll just settle for a very long walk and some very hot tea.

I am only on Sense and Sensibilty and there are many more Austen novels to go, so I'll read. I'll say my silly Austen words. I'll drink coffee and eat a muffin. I'll walk on the paved river trail next to a carefully manicured lawn while trying to think of ways to use approbation and disapprobation in a sentence. And, for now, that will have to be enough. For now.

promises promises promises; or, Sense and Sensibility part 1

2009-12-01T15:33:00.000-08:00

There is a line from the film Vanilla Sky that I quote quite often. Cameron Diaz says to Tom Cruise (yes, I know their characters have names, but really, does anyone ever really think Tom Cruise ever plays anyone but himself?) She says,"Don't you know that when you sleep with someone, your body makes a promise whether you do or not." (Then she crashes the car off a bridge, but that should be enough to get you to watch the movie.) I love that line "your body makes a promise, whether you do or not." It captures in one line something of the finer question that I think Jane Austen is asking in Sense and Sensibility (aha cue segue) in 5-4-3 2- and... now.

How do we make promises? And once made do we have to keep them? No matter what? Sense and Sensibility opens with the promise--a deathbed promise no less--by John Dashwood to his father that he will provide for his stepmother and stepsisters after the father dies. John promises to "do everything within his power to make them comfortable." With the words of this promise in his ears, his father dies, surely believing that the Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, Marriane, and Margaret will stay at Norland, have enough of an inheritence to be cared for, and hopefully enough to attract a husband. What really happens is, well, he gives them nothing. Readers will no doubt believe that he has broken his promise to the Dashwood girls, but to him, he is just whittling his words down to the size of his wife's heart (nonexistant). The process of shaving this promise to its barest form--from a decent allowance, to a small allowance, to helping them move, to checking in on them now and again, to what really becomes absolutely nothing at all--make up the first pages of the book. A promise of ambiguous words "make them comfortable" that is carried out with zero action. This is our first words vs. action scenario.

In Sense and Sensibility (and no, I am not done reading either) everyone is making promises. Some by word, others by deed. Like life there are two kinds of promises the stated and the implied. The types of promises are mostly the usual kinds: romantic promises of marriage, love and fidelity. There are promises of silence. Promises of friendships, visits, inheritence, care, and so on. The conflict, for Austen, seems to be about how we make promises, and how to keep them once made. I am not done re-reading, so more on this later, but I am interested in the idea that our bodies (our actions, body language, interactions) can make implied promises. (Edward Farrars and John Willoughby anyone?). In Austen, it seems that the spoken promises--no matter how bad the actual thing promised--takes precedence over the implied promises of the body. If you promise to marry Lucy Steele, well, then you should marry Lucy Steele. Even if your eyes, heart, and body made other kinds of promises to Elinor's eyes, heart, and body a hundred times. But, if your body (Willoughby) promises her body (Marianne) you'd better be damn sure you keep that promise too.

Damn she's good.

tomorrow;or, sorry, but the Jane Austen blog is coming soon

2009-11-30T21:06:00.001-08:00

Really. I swear. And remember, Jane Austen is all about patience.

Jane Austen Book Club; or, a total Jane Austen nerd fest in which I invite you to read with me

2009-11-24T09:29:00.000-08:00

I saw the movie The Jane Austen Book Club a year, or so, ago. Of course, I liked it. I didn't love it, but it was a good movie, I would watch it again and that says something. One of my students wants to read Persuasion after seeing JABC. I didn't discourage her, but I did warn her that it was a little different from the normal chick lit novels that I have seen her pull out of her bag on breaks from class. Persuasion was the first Austen novel that I read; long ago in one of my favorite undergraduate english classes. We read it alongside a gore fest of icredibly male books and plays: Titus Andronicus, The Crying of Lot 49, Fences, Buried Child, and the Bacchae were all companion texts. The sort of hidden theme was family dysfunction. Persuasion was not my favorite after than class, instead I became obsessed with Crying of Lot 49, reading it close to 80 times in the next couple of years. But, now, Persuasion is by far my favorite from that class.

After talking to my student and promising to loan her a copy of Persuasion, I looked through my books and sadly, I only have Sense and Sensibility and Emma. I don't know what happened to the others. Suddenly, I realized that I hadn't read Austen for a long time. When I lived in London in 2002--or was it '03 hmmm, how quickly things are forgotten-- I bought a complete works and I read them in Hyde Park on weekends. There was something so lovely about reading Austen in London, although I have been told since then that it prolly should have been in Bath. I left my book in London because I did not have room in my suitcase for such a large book. I regret it now. Well, not as much as I regret leaving my favorite blue raincoat. But it is close.

The last time I read Austen was in a somewhat infamous UNR seminar on Satire in 2007. We read Emma and that experience resulted in a spirited discussion between myself and the professor in which he asked me to stay after class to talk to him. He told me that "that is how I hope seminar discussions will always go, well done." Which was flattering, but odd, considering that everyone else in the class thought I was being reprimanded. Praise in public. Chastise in private. Or not. I wrote a paper on Emma in that class in which I compared the social risks in Emma to the political risks in Gulliver's Travels. It was an okay paper. I wrote a similar paper several years ago compaing Emma to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I guess I like the idea of emphasizing the very real social peril that Austen puts her characters in. Something that many filmakers (Gwyneth Paltrow I am looking at you) forget or miss.

I am very interested in the Austen films. I try to watch as many different film versions of the books that I can. I watch the films whenever they are on Masterpiece Classic, although the latest ones were a little wonky. I love watching film makers try to add more and more romance with each ensuing version. The Keira Knightly Pride and Prejudice had more kissing than all the Austen books combined. One of my favorite Jane Austen movie references is when Liz Lemon on 30 Rock says she got rid of all her Colin Firth movies just in case the woman who is doing her adoption interview "thinks they are erotica." That P&P was far more smoldering with far fewer changes to the text. But really, it might be best if film makers understood that Austen isn't supposed to smolder... no, she really is more about longing and propriety. But that is okay. I have to confess that I did love Becoming Jane. But, then maybe I just love James McAvoy, even if he could totally fit into my pocket. Now that film smoldered.

So, anyway, all this to say: I am going to nerd out on Jane Austen for the next couple of months. If anyone is interested in joining me, it would be really great to have someone to chat to. I am starting with Sense and Sensibility (because that is the book I have, and I will need to go find (buy) the others). Every Sunday, I will post a Jane Austen Post. Feel free to join me for Jane Austen comments, or if you have a blog post something too. I am by no means a book snob, so comments and insights based on books, films and quasi-Austen films including Bridget Jones, You've Got Mail, the wonderful Bollywood Bride and Prejudice, and yes, even Jane Austen Book Club are welcome.

Bonus points to anyone who begins using Approbation in everyday sentences.**

Oh...and one more McAvoy. Just for fun.

words words words; or, the healing

2009-11-22T10:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I read Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. I started at six am and finished at midnight. I didn't read all day, I also made apple butter, ginger muffins, cooked three meals, walked several miles, and cleaned the bathroom. But, in between things, in the hours of darkness that begin and end the day, I read. It was a good book, not great, but good. But for me, it was amazing, because I have stopped reading. This is a shock considering that I am ingrained in the culture of words. I am an english teacher, a writer, and a scholar. But, for years I have not read. A book here and there begun, but cast aside or read painfully slowly, yes; but for the most part, nothing. Recently, this has changed. Last weekend, I read Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero, a book given to me for my brithday two years ago, but until recently had lain unopened. Today, I have begun Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

Growing up, I read all the time. I always had a book in my hand. I did not watch tv. I played outside. I rode my horse: and I read. As a child I was obsessed with reading whole series' of books. I read the entire Wizard of Oz, Bambi, and Narnia series (twice) by the time I was 8 years old. In high school I was obsessed with high lit, Harlequin romances and Louis Lamour. I read War and Peace in a weekend on a dare. I read the entire Louis Lamour collection in a summer. I read a book a day, at least. I would stay up late into the night huddled under the covers with a flashlilght reading. Books were my food and joy--I would eat books consuming them as fast as I could and then suck their marrow. I would ingest them. Swallow them in whole bites. Once I picked one up I read until I was done. I had no need for bookmarks.

In the past 20 years, as I finished two degrees in English, and embarked on a third, the University was killing my appetite for reading. As I became essentially a professional reader, I lost my desires for them. My early habits had taught me the discipline that I needed to get all my reading done quickly, and for that I will always be thankful, but the joy was gone. Turned off by encounters with bad books, the pressures of seeing the books in a predetermined light, by reading them through academic eyes, and by the knowledge that I would be expected to write about them my passion was still present, but definitely cooled. The death blow came with a mentoring relationship that killed my joy for books, and nearly destroyed me. In the last years of grad school I read nothing that was not assigned, (and sometimes not even books that were). I lived in a book culture, but I was not interested anymore. I read less and less. Books disappeared from my life. I boxed them up. I gave them away. I smiled at friends as I slid great and wonderful books from birthday and christmas wrappings knowing that they would go unread.

Eventually, it all became too much. I left grad school physically and emotionally sick and tired. Too exhausted to think, read, or write. Televsion became my solace. I didn't have to think. I didn't have to explain what it meant. I could just sit and let these stories roll over me with no expectations or accountability. I associated books with a litany of professional and personal failures. Books were accomplices with personal disasters that were so painful that even the slightest allusion was a virtual dismantling. Moby Dick, Country of the Pointed Firs, anything about the sea, anything from the 19th century, anything with words, flayed me like lashes. Opening certain novels tore into unhealed wounds, and I was tired of nursing all those sores. It was easier not to. I turned my back on words.

In retrospect, I am grateful to those hours of television. The numbing healing power of TV's nothingness kept me from picking at those sores and allowed me to erase myself for a time. But now, I am ready to return to books. I have unpacked my boxes. When my nephew picked up my copy of Moby Dick and looked excitedly at the pictures of whales, ships, and ambergris I was able to tell him a story about each picture without much more than a twinge. I know now that I am ready to return to grad school. It will not be easy, this I know. I will always have the scars. But, with time, and with a returning to the innocence of words I am healing. I have not read The Country of the Pointed Firs or anything associated with my dissertation yet. For now, I am reading the fun stuff. Chick lit, decadent novels, pulp, I am eyeing that giant stack of Louis Lamour in my garage. The important thing is that I am back. I am reading.

old;or, the death knell of my cultural literacy (1972-2009)

2009-11-18T11:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, in a one-on-one conference, I told a student that her essay was like an ABC After School Special. She stared at me blankly. I said, "You don't know what that is, do you?" She said, "Nope." I just laughed. And then I explained, even taking the time to retell the plot of one of my favorite ones..."And then the kid from The Wonder Years throws Candace Cameron from Full House--who is also Kirk Cameron's little sister--in the bottom of a lake, and the lesson was to tell someone if you are being abused." She said, without any hint of irony, "And you watched these after school?" I returned to talking about her essay, just a little bit sadder than I was a moment before.

In a separate, and much more serious conversation, I asked a student to "Help ME, Help YOU!" and without a flicker of recognition he said, "Just do your thing, and I'll do mine." After I pointed out that "his thing" was resulting in a D, I couldn't help it, even in one of the most difficult conversations with a student of my entire career, I had to say, "Jerry Maguire? You haven't seen Jerry Maguire? Tom Cruise yelling at a naked Cuba Gooding Jr in the shower? Really? He won an Oscar..." I think I was more taken aback by the fact that he didn't know what I was talking about than the fact that this student was refusing my help. Much later in this conversation, even as he walked out on me--also a first for me--as I offered a weak and tired, "Just remember you are the one who is walking out." I was still thinking, really? Not even Jerry Maguire? Huh.

Now, it would take a pretty good bit of manuevering to classify Gulliver's Travels as pop culture, but still, my students have NO idea. At all. I said something about Yahoos, I may or may not have called my class this, I neither confirm nor deny this. Anyway, in explaining what the term meant, I asked about Gulliver's Travels. One girl had seen a film in her high school english class and described it as "This freaked out movie where all these weird and terrible things happen." I stopped her mid-sentence, with a perhaps overly harsh, okay, thank you Megan. After I explained about Hounyhnhms and Yahoos and Jonathan Swift and Gulliver and Satire they nodded and a few of them said,"That sounds like a cool story." And I just said, "Yeah, it is."

a success story; or, what happens when you believe in dreams (even the silly ones)

2009-11-08T10:05:00.000-08:00

I have changed a student's life. I know, that sounds grandiose and perhaps a little exaggerated, but really, this time it is true. As a teacher, I get my share of students who don't want to be there. They may not want to be in college, in english class, in MY english class, or just there, but whatever the geography of their disenchantment, they make it clear through a thousand signs that they do not want to be there.

Jose* was one of those. He sat in the back of the room, against the wall, as far away from me as he possibly could. He stared at the floor, out the window, at his books; he looked anywhere but at me. In the very brief moments that I could force his attention, I liked him. He seemed smart and funny, but totally disengaged, even a little bit afraid of me. He turned in little or no work and when he did turn in something it was late and wrong. Finally, after several weeks of trying to engage him, I scheduled a mandatory appointment.

He looked panicked when I told him I wanted to meet with him. He tried to get out of it and promised he would work harder and made all the promises and excuses that students make when they want to get out of something. I remained firm. Sometimes, they just don't show up and then you have to keep badgering them, thankfully, Jose did show up.

I was prepared to ask him the questions that I always ask students. How are you? How are you doing in your other classes? What is your major your career? Why are you in school? Where do you want to transfer?... etc etc. But, he didn't let me get that far. He said "Can I tell you something?" I assured him he could, and then he said the thing that I think all students feel in this situation, but that so few of them say. He said "I'm really scared right now." And just like that we began to talk. He didn't want to go to college, he wanted to move to Hollywood and work in the entertainment industry. He had secretly applied for jobs at TMZ and Entertainment Weekly. His family and friends made fun of his desire to be in show business and told him to forget about it and that he had to go to school. Yes, when he said he wanted to be the "next Ryan Seacrest" it was very tempting to laugh, and I am sure that he has been laughed at before, and often, for his dreams.

But I didn't laugh. Instead I talked to him about how to use school to get to Hollywood. I talked about needing to write well, and having the credentials to put on his application, I encouraged him to take drama classes, write for the school paper, and to apply for internships in local media.

Right then, in a matter of minutes, I watched him transform. From scared and unsure to boisterous and excited. Now, he is a top student in my class. He has begun talking to local radio stations about summer internships, he has started his own entertainment blog. He turns in work early and asks for feedback, and quite frankly, I can't get him to shut up in class. It is amazing. Will he be the next Ryan Seacrest? Who knows. But, I am pretty sure that he will transfer to a four year school, and that he will get a degree that prepares him to work in the entertainment industry at some level. And that is a long long way from the kid who was secretly trying to move to LA and who wouldn't look me in the eye.

*name changed for privacy

st. theresa; or, let nothing upset me

2009-11-01T08:53:00.000-08:00

I have been hanging by a thread these days; and that thread is my last nerve. I am out of patience. Everything annoys me. The dogs annoy me. My family annoys me. My students annoy me... My computer's latest habit of loading at a snail's pace and then randomly crashing makes me scream and pull my hair...Fox baseball announcers drive me to drink. I actually dropped the f-bomb in class last week because I called one of three identical blonde girls by the wrong name. Again.

I am not a good person right now. For the first time in my life I understand people who hit their loved ones. There are times when I have to restrain myself from smacking our overly exuberant slightly insane australian shepherd. Just for the hell of it. I snap at people for the smallest of offenses. I have road rage. I hate people for minor trangressions. I have yelled at my mother. I am just angry. All the time.

So it should come as no suprise that I got sick; and last week when I went to the doctor for Strep Throat my blood pressure was 40 points higher than usual. My doctor gave me a round of antibiotics and after our regular appointment I was standing in the hallway talking to the recpetionist and he turned to me and said "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, your blood pressure was a little high. What are you going to do about that?" I told him that I was dieting and exercising and had lost 50 pounds, but that in the last month or so, that had slipped and I had gained 20 back. I said that I was working on recovering from grad school, which almost killed me, and that living with my parents as an adult was really hard, and may very well finish off what grad school started. I was about to get to the whole "I teach adjunct for about 10 cents an hour" when he must have heard the warble in my voice, because he took me by the arm and walked me back into the examining room.

He told me all the things about stress that I already know. It isn't the events themselves that cause stress, it is how we handle them. I am the only one who can control how upset I get no matter the circumstances. And I nodded along with him, because this was not news to me. Even though I knew everything that he was saying. And that I had, in fact, heard it all before. I was moved. This doctor, with a very busy general practice, in the middle of flu season was spending 20 minutes, or so with me talking about meditation. I do not have health insurance, he knows this, he was only going to get the sixty dollars cash for the visit, no matter how long he spent with me. But, he really cared about me. He spoke gently and kindly about taking care of myself. He told me that I needed to build a life I was proud of. He was careful not to offend. This is a very conservative area of Northen California and he knew that he was taking a risk talking about meditation and he was careful to explain meditation in really neutral terms. He talked about native americans, and catholic nuns, the buddha, and christian philosphers who all meditated. He wrote out a prayer by St Theresa and had me recite the first two lines with him right there in his office,

Let nothing upset you.
Let nothing frighten you.

He recommended (prescribed) a book called God Makes the Rivers to Flow by Elanath Easwaran. Later I joked that this is what he tells all his patients without health insurance to do. But, in reality I think that 20 minutes may have saved my life. It is St Theresa's words that I use to calm me when I find myself getting upset. But it is the fact that for 20 minutes the busiest and most important man in the room sat down with me and reminded me that I am smart. I am special. I am worth something.

Since then, I find myself repeating those two lines whenever I start to get upset. It isn't a perfect system. I am still dealing with anger and impatience, but, I at least feel like I have a tool to help me out. I know too, that I was so touched by that doctor's kindness that it made my hyper aware of how little kindness and gentleness I get these days. It is as if being ministered to was so rare to me that when it came it was like a salve on my wounded heart. I am making changes in my life. I am walking and eating healthy again. I am standing up for myself at work. And there are other big changes in the works that I can't share here just yet. But, change is a comin'.

the secret keeper; or, my lips are sealed

2009-10-24T10:58:00.000-07:00

I have been avoiding this blog. It is not, as might seem the most obvious reason, because I have had nothing to say; instead, it is because I have had too much to say. I was afraid that the burden of other's secrets might be too much for me and I might give something away, but, now, after much soul searching I don't fear that anymore. so here I am, writing again.

In recent months, I have become a secret keeper. Friends and family have been confiding in me. This, in itself, is nothing new. I am a compassionate friend and a good listener; and frankly, I have been blessed with the gift of insight, so I am a natural sounding board. The problem is that with the blessings of positive attributes the balance of fate and nature demand that there will be negative ones as well. Thus: I am a talker. I process thoughts and feelings by talking or writing about them. If it happens in my head, it usually emerges from my mouth or pen into words, print or voice, but always a story. In my life, things are not real until they are a story. In the past, I have gotten myself in trouble for sharing secrets. Mostly, because I was young and trusted my chosen confidant to do what I could not: to keep my second hand confidences.

I justified this to myself, and to others if need be, by telling myself that I was the kind of person who just couldn't keep quiet. Now, I know, that more often than not, people will talk. Everyone has their own reasons for spilling, each thinks themselves justified in the telling. Some, like me, have a prediliction for storytelling, or tell secrets because they want to help, and yes, there are those who like the power of having secret--and perhaps dangerous--information to barter. I do not know all the reasons for blabbing, but I do know, that if you truly want something to be secret, you have to keep your own mouth shut. I have learned--mostly because of a couple of incredibly difficult experiences--that no justification is ever good enough. There is power in telling, this is true, but there is also power in silence. The real power though is in the choice. The power to do one or other. So, now, despite my seemingly natural instincts to share every thought and emotion that flickers across my personal horizon, I take responsibility for the decision to tell, or not to tell.

I have been saying that the act of silence is not natural to me, and for years I believed a story about myself as incapable of discretion that is not true. It began when I was about seven years old, maybe even a little younger, my father bought my mother a new living room set for her birthday. My mother, who is quite good at manipulating people, used my inability to keep a secret to her advantage and pressed me until I revealed too much. She kept asking me, until with the ignorance of a child, but the earnestness of someone who wanted to be trusted, I gave her a "hint." I said, "I can't tell you what it is, but you can sit on it." Well, that doesn't really leave too much to the imagination, but I was a child, so to me, it seemed enigmatic enough.

To this day, my family repeats that story alongside claims that I cannot be trusted. They cite the thirty year old story of my blabbing about that birthday gift as proof of who I am. For years, I too invested in that myth that I was not to be trusted. I thought it was funny to say that I had a big mouth and I still catch myself making jokes about my supposed lack of discretion. But, the truth is that I am a font of untold secrets. My own and others. The identity as a blabber mouth who cannot keep secrets is both unfair and untrue. Children do not often understand the importance of secrets, and now, I know, I am not a child, and definitely not that child anymore. I refuse to believe or comply with that story about me any longer. I refuse to reify a version of me based on a faulty premise.

So, here I am, brimming with secrets. My own, and others'. It is my choice what I will tell you, whether you are somone who knows me only through this blog, or you are a lifelong friend, a new acquaintance, whatever we may be to one another, know this: these secrets are my own, and like everyone I have the right to disperse them as I may. But, more likely, I will keep the lid on tight and let nothing slip through. The real power is not in the secrets, the real power is in the understanding that I an in control of my words, the words are not in control of me.

the importance of horizons; or, a poem by my best good friend Erik

2009-09-14T10:38:00.000-07:00

Three Early Letters to Edward Kennedy

Wednesday, August 26, 2009
By Erik Armstrong

I.
Today, sir, the harbor mourns
the loss of its longest sailor,
each sail drawn closed
tightly against night's slow wail
into dawn. Morning revealed
to us an entire ocean
shivering with the ripples
of some great stone dropped
from such a height
as to shake us all
gathered here on the shore, afraid
the water too rough to sail,
the mouth too far to reach,
the horizon now closed.

II.
So many have left us,
haven't they? Brothers
we have dearly loved
taken from us without understanding
and order we mortals require
to believe
it was all worth it.

III.

Is it enough
to be good
and decent?
To right wrongs,
to heal suffering,
to stop war?
Yes, you have said,
it is enough
in this long world
to devote yourself
to simple actions,
and in death you will not
stand larger
than you were
in life. You were large enough
without embellishment,
your booming voice
calling across the valley,
your shadow stretching long
across this great plain
teaching us
how to cry
against the night,
how to stand up
day after day
in this bright, warm,
and ever failing light.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My friend Erik wrote this the morning that Ted Kennedy died. I was not as stirred by Kennedy's death as it seemed that those around me were; but I was stirred by this poem. Especially the first stanza. The imagery of the closed horizon is haunting.

To me, the sea represents open spaces. Freedom. Escape. All things that I find pretty important. I love Melville's Moby Dick; or the White Whale (yes, that is where the "Or" in my blog comes from). And, I think one of the reasons I do, yes there are many reasons, but this is one, is because I know that I would run away to sea. Even knowing what lies before him, I am envious of Ishmael.

my coat of arms; or, pieces of me

2009-09-12T11:12:00.000-07:00

My friend V wrote a post the other day about what would appear on her coat of arms, should she ever have a coat of arms. It was inspired by a site called One Minute Writer. I am going to steal the concept. Sort of. I like the idea of quick writes, I make my students do them all the time; but, alas, I am not quick. So, here is my version of the Coat-of-Arms-One-Minute-Write the long version.

The Cat:

I feel an affinity with cats. I am sure that I was one in a past life--and prolly will be one again. I have always lived with at least one. We are alike. We share a desire to sleep in the sunny spots, we are unable to make decisions ( do I want in? or out?), and we struggle to balance our need to appear independent with an equal desire make sure we get our ears scratched.

To wit: Kat is Cat.

I was eight years old when I rescued my first cat. He was a little gray fluffy thing with white stockinged feet and no tail. My family and I were having lunch at the parsonage after church one Sunday afternoon when I walked in on the pastor's four-year-old son using the cat as a basketball. He was tossing the cat repeatedly through a four foot high plastic kid's basketball hoop. By the time I got there the kitten was dazed and bleeding from the nose and one ear. I said nothing, and in a silent fury, I scooped up the kitten and ran out to our car, locked all the doors, and refused to surrender the kitten. Finally, it was agreed that "Smokey" would live at our house. This was the first of many such acts.

The Apron:

I love the kitchen. I never feel quite as comfortable anywhere else as I do in the kitchen. I consider myself an amateur foodie, I love cooking, and I have the extra pounds to prove it. When I am stressed out, I head to the kitchen to chop, boil, and knead my cares away. My natural role is that of hostess and if I am going to have a party it will include a home cooked meal. If I love you it means I will ask you over to my house and serve you something yummy.

I was seven years old the first time I baked something on my own. It was a cake from scratch (an item I still haven't mastered) and I used salt instead of sugar. Oops. My parents were afraid I would be discouraged, so they did not criticize me (probably the only time in my life they have been supportive). Instead they covered the cake in gobs of supersweet icing and invited the neighbors over for dessert. Everyone was careful to eat their whole slice and to say things like "actually, it is kind of good. I like the whole salty sweet combination."

The Baseball:

I love everything about baseball. The grass. The pace. The symmetry. The sounds.The pants. Everything. When I am angry or upset you can find me at the batting cages bashing the heck out of as many baseballs that I can get my bat on. During baseball season there is almost always a game on at my house. If I had the time and the money I could live in the centerfield bleachers.

When I was 17, I went to my first MLB game. It was the Oakland A's and the Kansas City Royals. I grew up watching the Royals and idolizing their stellar Hall of Fame third baseman George Brett. My family still teases me because when I saw the outfield grass for the first time I started cry. My dad asked me what was wrong. I waved my hand towards the field and said, "It's just so beautiful."

The Sea:

I am obsessed with water. I didn't learn to swim until I was almost 9. But once I did it was impossible to get me out of the water. About five years ago, I learned to sail. It is a passion that I cannot forget. In recent years I have been land bound. It is a goal to change that.

When I was applying to PhD programs I visited New England to school shop. I had just discovered sailing and I was taking every chance I could to sail. I was sailing on a tourist boat in Salem Harbor when I met a couple from the area. We talked about nearby schools and she told me she hoped that I would get into the one that I want, because I seemed like a nice woman and that people should get what they want. She said that they were avid sailors and encouraged my burgeoning passion. She said that she and her husband used to sail all the time, but that her husband's Alzheimers was so bad now that they couldn't go out on their own any more. She started to cry a little as her husband, formerly the captain of his own yacht, asked the captain on a cheap tourist boat a question about casting off, an action he used to perform without thought. She said that he couldn't remember much anymore, but that she had promised to continue to take him sailing for as long as she could. As we disembarked she hugged me and slipped some money into my hand--I thought is was five dollars, but later I realized it was a 50--and told me to use it well.

The Pen:

I am a writer. It is a part of who I am. If I don't write about something it isn't real. I tell stories. It is who I am.

When I was in the fourth grade, I won a creative writing contest. I wrote a story about a girl who gets lost in the woods and imagines that everything she sees is something terrible: a tree branch is a hand, an owl is a bogey man, a cat a mountain lion, and so on. In the end, she goes home and her mother tells her that she needs to get her imagination under control, and the girl, who actually enjoyed being scared, just smiles as she imagines that her mother's shadow is really a ghost.

Laughter:

I am funny. It is a gift. All around me is laughter. I know that I am funny and I enjoy making people laugh. The funny (ha ha) thing is that I don't even control it any more: mostly it is unintentional. I don't really tell jokes per se, usually, it is just the way I see things. Sometimes it is my tone, a gesture, or the way I have put my words together. I am often startled by large outbursts of giggles all around me. I do love the sounds of laughter. It forces people outside of themselves. It gives me a view of their secret self, the one that is a little bit out of their control.

My last year in Reno, while at a BBQ at a friend's house, I was excited to meet the girl that one of my best friends was crushing on. I was talking to her and all around me people were laughing. I was telling her stories about my friend, and trying to make him look good. I could feel that we were not connecting. I finally understood why, when after one particularly raucous moment she looked at me strangely and said, "Oh, you are one of those people who has to be funny." I instantly hated her.

patriot day; or, how do we remember the people w/o making things political?

2009-09-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

When I think about 9/11, I remember the flyers posted by family and friends on New York's walls and telephone poles looking for the lost. Picture after picture. Flyers that in my world until then, I had only seen used for lost pets, now used to find family and friends.There is one image I don't think I will ever forget. It was the image of a young boy in jeans and a t-shirt putting up a flyer of his dad. The picture was taken at the man's birthday party. He is smiling as a large flaming birthday cake was set before him. In the picture is a middle aged man in a shirt and tie. He was portly, with white hair, and his face is a little rosy from celebrating. Underneath the photo in shaky letters was the man's name and a description of what he was wearing that day. It said "Dad, if you see this, call us. We love you." I don't know what happened to that family. The odds are in his favor 15,000 people got out of the towers that day: but 2,800 didn't.

9/11 has been politicized. Two controversial wars are being fought in the name of justice (or vengeance). The design of the ground zero memorial has become a platform for New York politicians to gain votes. Former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani used our memory of his strong leadeship in a time of distress as political capital. The naming of the honorary day itself "patriot day" is distasetful to Americans who associate it with the Bush Adminstration and the Patriot Act.

I must admit that I write today with full knowledge that by writing about the politics of 9/11 I am just as guilty as those I am criticizing. So be it. But, I have to start there because the real stories of 9/11: the victims; those in the air and on the ground, in uniform and plain clothes, at ground zero and 3000 miles away have often been lost behind these discussions. I hate the term patriot day (and yes, I am refusing to capitalize it). I think the term is loaded and distasteful. It has been dragged through the muck and the mud and come out on the other side forever tainted.

Truth. On that day eight years ago people died. A lot of people. People from all over the world. Most of the 2800 victims were Americans, but some were not. There were victims from 8 nations in the final death toll. While the attack was in New York, the towers belonged to the world. On that day, many mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, daughters and sons died. Our assurance in our collective safety died. Our trust in our infallibility died.

But, it wasn't these deaths that made us into patriots. The first flags were about something different than the patriotism that was spawned after that day. The rhetoric of war and the language of "you either support our agenda of vengeance or you do not love america" was born. The word patriot was changed. The flag waving began to mean something else entirely. After 9/11 there were rules about how you can love your nation. If you were anti-violence--for any reason--you were unpatriotic. If you saw deaths of any kind as a tragedy that should be avoided you were on the wrong side. Critical discourse: not patriotic. Protest and dissent: not patriotic. Questions and doubt: not patriotic. (unless we are talking about healthcare reform, but that is for another day).

In talking about 9/11 we have conceptualized and nominalized our individual experiences until they fit into the collective story. The offical story, the capital "H" History is not about the people. It isn't really even about America. It is about changing the words to fit into the story you want to tell. It should be about how a group of people attacked another group of people. It should be about how we will always miss them. How we will always remember them. Instead it is about terrorists, patriots, heroes, enemy combatents, us, them. When we use these terms then people, like the man in the 9/11 flyer, become concepts. We have a lot less compassion for concepts.

I remember 9/11. I remember the people. I mourn the loss of my neighbors and friends. Not the loss of patriots.

the bridge; or, learning to hang in there

2009-09-09T14:44:00.000-07:00

I believe that I have found my calling, I am a Community College instructor; currently adjunct, but, with ambitions of a full time position. I think that I have come to terms with idea that this is my career. I can stop searching. I am not going back to my PhD in American Literature at UNR. I am not going to teach English in Thailand. I am not going to get a job in marketing somewhere. I am not going to get a high school teaching credential. And I am certainly not going to raise alpacas in my backyard. I am going to teach English, most likely first-year writing, in a Community College. Now, that being said, what I really want to talk about is Puente.

Puente is the program I am working in now; a program that is aimed at helping under-represented students tranfer to four-year colleges and universities. It is a UC program, so of course, they would prefer that my students transfer to UC's but we will all be plenty happy when they graduate with BA degrees from most anywhere. Most of my students are Mexican-American. A few are first generation immigrants, mostly second, and a smattering of third generation immigrants. Some are here legally, some are not; but all of them are struggling with such difficult circumstances. Reading levels are very low, writing even lower. Their personal lives are amazingly difficult. I listen to story after story about painful childhoods, abusive family members, citizenship difficulties, poverty, violence, and drugs. Daily. Many of them missed out on the educational foundations they need to do well in college. And now, they want to do well, but it is hard.

Puente means "bridge" in Spanish. Right now. I am the bridge; I am their bridge to the academic world. I am the one that is standing with one foot on their side of the gulf, and one foot on the universities' side; and I am trying to help them cross over. It has only been one month into the first semester and already I am tired. In the past two days I have I talked to five students in my office hours. Already there have been tears. Theirs and mine. Theirs were tears of frustration as they talked about struggling with words: reading them and writing them. Mine because their badly composed stories about drive-by shootings, abuse and abandonment were told so matter of factly. I tried to keep my tears to myself. I don't want to make these students feel any shame about their history, but as I talked about snapshot sentences, how to use imagery, and adding clarifying details in their writing, I could feel the weight of their lives growing heavier and heavier on my back. I want all my students to tap into the power of writing, but especially the Puentistas.

Today I am tired. But,this is my calling. Tomorrow is another class and another chance to move them farther away from one edge and closer to another. I am the bridge, and I just have to hang in there.

regrets; or, after all this time

2009-09-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

I still wish that things had turned out differently. And, now, even though I know that nothing can be done. I still dream about reconciliations. In my dreams (literally) I have long conversations where I get to explain myself. And he (the HE) nods as I talk, and says nothing. I know that his silence is because even in my subconscious I know that he isn't likely to play along. I mean, after all, he never did before.

so much for everyday; or, so,about this commitment thing

2009-09-06T09:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I watched a show on Lifetime (yes, it's for women and I love it), about a beautiful, blonde, model who dies and is returned to earth in a smart, fat, woman's body. It is calle Drop Dead Diva and, well, for various reasons, I like it. The episode last night was partially about a woman who was suing her maid of honor for banging her fiance right before the wedding. And yes, I do mean right before, as in while wearing her bridesmaid dress. Anyway, the gist of the show, and this post, is about commitment, and I guess, forgiveness. In the end, the bride drops the lawsuit and forgives her strayed groom and welcomes him back. she forgives him because she loves him, and because he tells her that he knows it was a mistake, but that he will try harder. Of course, there was more to it than that, but I am not going to retell the entire plot points of the show here (check it out if you have room on your DVR for a funny procedural law show about identity).

What I really want to say, is that, committment is hard for me. I tend to be ruled by how I feel. If I feel sad, or sick, or off in any way, I will use it as a reason to not do something that I know I need to do (work, exercise, pay bills, eat right, floss, etc). I commited to this blog just to practice my discipline. And well, I missed yesterday. In the scheme of things, this is not a big deal; but, then again, maybe it is. I tend to demand perfection from myself, and when I don't get it, I will give up. I normally would say, "Well, so much for September, I guess I'll try again next month." I seldom forgive myself. Or even worse, I use the small failures as an excuse to give up altogether. But this time I am taking my cue from Drop Dead Diva ( hey you gotta get your life lessons where you can, right?) and I am going to forgive myself and just go on.

So, here's to writing everyday, as best as I can.

beautiful: a list; or,hey, it's Friday

2009-09-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

The view of the Sacramento River from the Deistlehorst bridge at dusk. particulary if you walked the 5.7 miles to get there.

The bottom of a cat's foot (they claim that black pads indicate that your cat is descended from the egyptian cats that were once worshipped as gods).

Derek Jeter making his patented "jump throw" to first base.

Chico in spring (especally looking out the front window of the Naked Lounge).

That first post coital breath after really good sex.

The way you can tell that Autumn is nearing just by listening to the wind.

Scotland's forty shades of green.

The sound of someone's true laugh (the embarrassing one, the one with the snort, and tears, the one that surprises even you).

Me, on a good day.

Authentic questions.

Discussions w/o agenda or malice.

The joy on a student's face when they finally get it.

Homemade pizza fresh from the oven.

The view from London's Waterloo Bridge at night.

You being here. Right now.

beautiful; or, let's start with the intellectual and work from there

2009-09-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

The "theme" this month for NaBloPoMo is beautiful; and yes the word theme is in quotes because I don't get it. Beautiful is an adjective. It is a description. Beautiful is temporal. What is she? She is a woman.What kind of woman? She is a beautiful woman. She will always be a woman, whether or not she remains beautiful is unkown. I do, after all, make my meager living as a writing insructor, so I am more than aware that as an adjective Beautiful is limited by time. Nouns are permanent. What is she? She is a Beauty

Perhaps, I am struggling with this concept because I am in a career that is obsessed with Beauty.Yes, I do mean Capital B Beauty. And, no, not in the way you might think. As a student--and now an instructor--in the humanities Beauty has always been a much discussed topic. Writers, Poets, and Artists have been trying to represent Beauty since the beginning of of said writing, poetry, and art. In my own world in the field of English, there is a whole field of literary study called Aesthetics which is basically dedicated to the study of Beauty. So, I come to this word with a bit of history about the difference between Beauty and beauty.

I am not complaining, so much as I am going to take this month to explore this idea of the word beautiful. Today, I start with definition and contextualization. The word is an adjective meaning something that is pleasing to the senses, very good or enjoyable. Hmm. Such a light definition for a topic we spend so much time and energy worrying about. I understand the power behind this term and I do plan on getting to that later in the month.But for now, just think about how you use the term. To what do you apply the label of beautiful? What is beautiful to you?

The other One Art blog;or,it isn't cheating if you repost something w/a new introduction

2009-09-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

Orignally posted on 14 Jan 08
Orignal title: a poem I have been thinking about for a while now; or, the trip to bountiful

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster

He was so upset when they used the poem "One Art" in the film In Her Shoes. As we walked out of the theatre he just kept swearing. I laughed a little to myself because I know that he loved the idea of being a rebel, a romantic hero who doesn't live by any one's rules. To him, Bishop's poetry would always belong on a New Hampshire dock and the deck of other people's boats he had managed to talk his way onto for free sail. In his mind, teenage girls were rushing en masse to Barnes and Noble to get their copy of The Complete Poems of Elizabeth Bishop. I giggled a little as his rendition of imagined (but likely) future classroom conversations with those girls as they begin their analysis of this poem with "Well, when Cameron Diaz reads this aloud..."

As he continued to complain I watched him run a hand through his shaggy hair and put on his aviator glasses, and I was returned to a video store 15 years before. It was before we had hurt each other so badly, before he married someone else, before I had moved away. I had only known him a few weeks and we were picking a movie for a group movie night. He wanted to get the 1985 oscar winning "The Trip to Bountiful." I wanted to get Cameron Crowe's "Singles." We were talking about which one to get when he turned and looked at me. He watched me as I told him that it has Eddie Vedder, and it is really good, and I know a lot of our friends have been wanting to see it for a while, how I wasn't sure that everyone would like the one he picked, and so on.

He didn't address anything I had said. Instead in a quiet voice he said 'You are so aware of what other people think about you. You are afraid your friends will think you're not cool, you are probably even afraid of what the clerk thinks of your movie choices." He grabbed the videos out of my hands and put them both down and walked over to the New Releases and picked up the hottest new release, I think it was Prelude to a Kiss, but I can't be sure now, and without another word to me, he walked up to the counter and rented it. I just stood there and watched him walk to the car.

Write it!; or, just get something down

2009-09-02T09:24:00.000-07:00

For a woman who does not really consider herself to be a big fan of poetry, I certainly find myself influenced by the poems that I have had relationships with. Don't get me wrong, I like poetry; some of my best friends are poets. But, I am a prose gal. I studied the novel in grad school, and I teach the essay, but it is poems that follow me around.

One poem that takes walks with me and tugs at my sleeve trying to get my attention quite regularly is "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop. I only know two poems by Bishop "One Art" (reprinted below) and "At the Fishhouses." But both of them haunt me regularly. I have written about "One Art" before. I am including that blog here, as well. In the past, this poem appealed to me as a way of processing loss, but today, as I continue to struggle with writer's block (yes that is going to be a recurring theme here for a while), the parenthetical exclamation to just (Write it!) from "One Art" pops into my head.

Just write it. It is I am sure the probable motto if Nike were to make pens instead of shoes. It is also what I tell my students when they struggle with their writing. Right now, I hear my voice saying things like "it doesn't have to be good" or "it is easier to edit, than to produce, so just write something" and I hate myself a little.It is so easy to tell someone else to reach into their vault of words and to assemble them onto a page, but so difficult to do it myself. What is it about writing that seems so hard? What is it about words that seems treacherous at times?

NaBloPoMo; or, learning to commit

2009-09-01T18:08:00.000-07:00

Here it is. The first of my committed blogs to NaBloPoMo. NaBloPoMo is National Blog Posting Month. Thanks to my friend Vickie for talking about them in her blog. The theme this month is Beautiful. I am not completely sure how that constitutes a theme, but hey, I am the new guy, so what do I know? I do know that I have not been writing. Not at all. No emails. No letters. Papers. Blogs. Nothing. I can't really put my finger on why I haven't. It could because the -m- on my laptop is broken and has to be pressed with special care. Or, because I got two new cats and they are drawn to my laptop (and my lap) like moths to flame. Or, it could be because I don't know who I am writing to anymore. I used to have an audience. I knew who I was writing to/for. Not anymore. The ways and means to the loss of said audience is a story for another day. Today this is just about my announcement that I will post everyday in September. So, new audience, whoever you are (or may someday be), Hi. And I' ll see you tomorrow.

motivated reasoning; or believing what you want

2009-08-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

I just read a Newsweek article on a phenomenon called "motivated reasoning." The article was attempting to explain how people can continue to believe things even after they have been proven untrue. The original story was about people who believe the 9/11-Saddam Hussein link (which of course there is not one, was not one, will never be one, period). The article claims that people no longer seek information in order to learn or to engage in critical thinking, but that instead, they seek information to validate what they already believe.

My first response was "duh." I have been teaching college students for almost 10 years now. This is how my students think. It is the way many of them are being taught to write. They are taught to make a claim and then conduct research until they find someone (anyone) who will provide a quote or soundbite that backs up their claim. For the past five years I have abandoned the traditional make-a-claim paper and instead opted for an assignment in which they ask a question and then seek answers and then use their understanding of rhetorical situation to try to explain why people believe in, and write about, those answers. This assignment frustrates students. They hate it. In fact, I have three or four every semester who can not do it, and I am forced to change the assignment a little in order to make sure that they can pass the research portion of the course. I do so because I recognize that the format of my essay assignment is actually ideology. That seeking out others views is a progressive act. Supporting your own beliefs is a conservative one. Doing both is my goal.

Exta Change; or, what to do when itunes recommends Debbie Gibson

2009-01-18T09:41:00.000-08:00

18 Jan 09 Sunday

Today while charging my ipod, I was feeling tired of my music and wanted to look for something new; so, I browsed through the itunes recommendations. I feel a bit like I am in a rut, and thought a new song or album might be just the thing to reenergize me. Much to my chagrin, Apple recommended Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth. an album I abhorred when I was one of the youth she was talking to. I laughed at the idea of buying that album for the first time 20 years later. I didn't even recognize any of the songs.

Suddenly, I remembered a conversation I had with a group of my friends in high school when I was 15. We were talking about how sad it was when old people lose their cool (of course by "old" I prolly meant 25). I promised myself I would never be the kind of person who watched VH1. In it's early stages, VH1 was the "old people" channel, maybe it still is. I am not too sure what it is now, a dating service for washed up rock stars? Anyway, I remember promising myself that I would never let myself become too busy, too old, too whatever, to keep track of what was "cool." Of course at 15 I didn't realize that cool ages too. That what is cool for a 15 year-old isn't cool for a 36 year-old (thank god). I didn't know then that my definition of cool would grow up too.

Now, looking back, I don't think that promise was about always being cool. I think is was about being stuck in ruts. I think I was afraid of becoming one of the broken record people. You know who I mean: the ones who get stuck in time and can't seem to escape. I think I was less concerned with staying 15 forever and more worried about becoming a walking talking time capsule of my youth. I didn't want to become stuck. We have all seen those people. The ones that got stuck in an era. Usually 30-something women who look a lot like a much older twin sister to the girl they were in their senior portrait. Curled bangs. Acid washed jeans. Blue eyeshadow worn just so: 1992 personified. I have always been fascinated by these folks. I think it is because their looks often take a lot of effort. I am always pained by fashion victims. But, the ones I hurt for the most are those who have clearly put in a lot of effort. I am not talking about the people who have given up. The ones who slipped into sweats, tennis shoes, and scrunchies. You know the ones I mean.

I find my questions about this phenomenon have not lessened, but they have changed. I used to wonder where they got the clothes. Where do you buy acid washed jeans? Once, I asked my hair stylist what she does when people ask for time stamped hair styles. She said she used to try to suggest more comtemporary styles to her clients, but now she just does it. You want a red poodle perm with mullet bangs? Okay. But really, she said she doesn't have to deal with it all that often because usually those clients have a hair stylist that they have been going to for years.

Now, I wonder less about how they freeze time, and wonder more about why. What is it that makes someone hold on to a time so tightly. What happened to them that they hold onto that version of themselves? What, or who, are they holding onto? It can't be ignorance. It isn't difficult to look around and notice that no one else has mullet bangs anymore. One curl under. One curl up. Spray. Not a look you see all around you. Is it simply that they felt beautiful, confident, sure of who they were and so they just stayed there? Could it be that they stay where they are because they were/are happy?

I am a person who is terrified of ruts. So much so, that sometimes I mistake stability for a rut and have jumped off perfectly sound ships. My biggest fear is stagnation. But, today, as I thought about how there are those who still like Debbie Gibson, even as she keeps insisting that it is "Deborah" now, I wonder if perhaps I am the one who is wrong. Just as my 15 year-old self looked at VH1 people and said "god they just don't get it," maybe those that are "stuck" are holding on to something I haven't found yet: a best version of themselves

new year; or, beginning again, again, again

2008-12-30T12:26:00.000-08:00

It is soon to be a new year.

Again.

I am most likely not alone when I offer the declaration that"2008 was a bad year." I will have less accompaniment when I say this very bad year followed closely upon the bedraggled heels of yet another bad year, and the voices are likely to become even fewer when I say that one trailed behind another horrid year. In truth, I might be alone when I say that I would have to begin counting in leap years in order to find a good one. I am sage enough to note that when bad years become epidemic it might not be the fault of time or calendars, but perhaps the blame should be laid a bit closer to home.

This writing thing has become hard. I don't know if I am protecting myself from you or from me. But, introspection is difficult when you don't like what you hear. In years past I avowed change, betterment, and a nietzchian dismantling of self, and for the most part that has been my life. While I may count my past years as horrid, I can not count them as wasted. I have accomplished much and I think that considering how much I have demanded of myself, I do believe I have delivered. But just as a phoenix should not have to answer for itself as it is moulting, so too, I realize that this may not be the best time for self reflection. It is too difficult of an accounting, this one, as 2008 was the ultimate dismantling. In my on going struggle to become, I have done more than just prune this year, I have cut myself into pieces.

Some of these losses are permanent, some temporary. I have left the path to the PhD in American Literature and with that I have lost the rosy dream of a shared office on faculty row, a 4/4 teaching load, a yearly paper on Sarah Orne Jewett, a Volvo station wagon, the ivory tower, and an overly caffeinated reading of the latest Cormac McCarthy. I have given up my personal independence to live in a house that is not my own in order to pay off debts: fiduciary and physical. I have given up my social life in order to rest. I have cut so deeply that I feel hollow. I worry that I may have nicked something vital.

The part of me that has always been the voice of hope is pushing me with an optimism that I can not longer remember to make this last bit a glass half-full; something with a rising note that makes me and you think that all will be well. But, that voice with its pretty words about rebirth, wings, and discarded ashes is hollow this year and is easily quieted. I want to write about spring, I really do, but I cannot forget that it is only January after all.