Two -- or is it three now? -- days without cable and I don't miss it.
That's not entirely true. I missed it when I had to do laundry and iron. I hate both. I especially hate ironing, but ironing is kind of a self-inflicted pain since I do insist on wearing starched, white, men's shirts. In any case, I turn on the t.v. to distract me from the agony. Fortunately, Netflix exists to fill that role.
For the past year or so, except over the summer when I wasn't staying at my own place, I had fell asleep with the t.v. on. My t.v. has a timer that will automatically switch the t.v. off after 30, or 60, or 90, or 120 minutes. I'd turn on some ole show -- usually "Roseanne," or "Different World," or some other syndicated thing that wasn't too annoying (and, no, everyone does NOT love Raymond) -- turn the volume down to a point where I could still hear the dialogue, but could also let it turn into a hum of white noise that would lull me to sleep.
I used the t.v. as a sleep aid because it was both an external and an internal noise. It was something on which I could focus to distract that part of my brain that wants to keep on talking or -- worse -- obsessing well into the early hours of dawn. I could focus on Roseanne and Dan, or Earl and his idiots, or Carrie and her idiots, and derail whatever unpleasant trip my brain had decided to take that evening.
Netflix, I suppose, could fill that space, too, but not really. You see, I didn't really like going to sleep with the t.v. on. It felt a bit like taking some sort of pill or drinking just to relax enough to get to sleep: the t.v. did the trick, but left me feeling slightly mucky, like I had wasted time. I hate wasting time.
All along, I suppose I could have used a book in this capacity. A book is a different matter. A book takes a few minutes of concentration before I could truly enter it; and after a long day, a few minutes of concentration seemed too much of an effort. That, and I truly enjoy books, more, even than candy or cheap wine, and I have this weird neurosis that, when my life gets very busy and my "to do" list metastasizes over several pages, I deny myself things that I truly enjoy. Silly, I know! But, I feel that I haven't deserved any nice spaces in my day if I haven't CLEANED ALL THE THINGS!!!! (Thank you, Digger, for sending that one along!) Every spare minute must be devoted to CLEANING ALL THE THINGS!!! Hence, my hatred of wasting time.
Yet, there I am, at the end of the day, not devoting minutes to CLEANING ALL THE THINGS and tranquilizing myself with the television. Worse, with television shows I've seen about five gazillion times. If I'm going to waste the time by not CLEANING ALL THE THINGS, then I might as well do something that I truly do love, even if I have to take a minute to concentrate.
I can also rationalize the reading as being productive, even if I'm not really reading anything that contributes to my book or my teaching, which is all of the time if we are talking about bedtime reading. I don't know about you, but after grading a zillion freshmen essays (and, seriously, I have to grade 10 every day for the rest of the semester to stay on top of it), I start to question things that I know about writing, like the proper use of apostrophes, and basic rules of grammar, syntax. I feel my own vocabulary atrophy. I need to clean that out of my head. I need to read things that will expand my vocabulary, bring beauty to language, or, at least, not put me in a position to have to fix everything on the page.
So, I went back to reading. It does take a page or two before I am fully inside of the book; but once I am there, the story is much more encompassing than the t.v. So much so that maybe it keeps me awake longer than it should. I don't mind. I have gone to that same place that I need to go when I write shallow, or write at all, that bubble away from the noise of my own life and away from whatever frazzled knot I've wound myself into. That was something that the television never could do.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Shallow Things
I have resolved to write only about shallow things here until the end of the semester. I'm tired of my own bile. I soak in it all day, and then I spew it out in an occasional blog post, and I spew it out in my journal, and I spew it out to the Gentleman Caller, and I spew it out to my analyst. Yet, it goes no where. I keep secreting it and drowning in it. Then, I feel guilty for not keeping it to myself, for showing this ugly side of myself to the world who will then reject me as disgusting and unworthy of...well, whatever it is that I am unworthy of, and, let's face it, in that state you feel you are unworthy of pretty much everything.
Such fun!
Anyway, after writing two shallow posts and also after letting myself just read a damn novel in bed at night (I always feel so guilty if I do something nice like that, rather than do something for work when I feel so behind on work), I realized that perhaps I require some space where I can escape from the bile. Escape into a story, escape into a silly post, escape somewhere without bile -- or without my own bile. I envision it like coming up for air (which switches the bile metaphor, but whatever).
Thus, the resolution to write shallowly to warm up, and then into the rest of my day.
I suppose I could do the same with the research writing. I mean, I do, but there is a difference between journal writing and blog writing and research writing. The journal is simply stream of consciousness. The blog is pretty much the same but with more structure and an awareness of the audience. The research writing requires focus and concentration, two things that disappear as the semester progresses. How on earth do other people maintain enough focus and concentration to even read? I feel the onset of ADD by noon on most days, and I don't even have ADD! Throw in enough coffee and you can add the H in there, too.
This shallow writing is my new strategy to calm myself, like a meditation, but without going too deep. Feel free to take bets on how long it lasts. Put me down for two posts.
Still, usually by this time in the semester, working out has also fallen by the wayside and I've taken up heavy weekend drinking and replace actual meals with Reese's Peanut butter Cups (they do have peanut butter and milk in them, so they are sort of healthy, right?). I'm still working out, eating right, and haven't touched the Halloween candy. I confess, however, that I have started drinking again on the weekends, but not heavily. I also must confess that I do commit the sin of coveting my grocery store's Halloween candy display, too. You can find me pacing up and down, salivating, like a tiger at the zoo watching a flock of first graders on a field trip.
All of this is to say that, maybe, I can stay in the shallow end of my psyche for a while and try to maintain my sanity -- and by "sanity" I mean keep myself out of the deep, dark, existential funk that also plagues me -- for just a little bit longer.
Incidentally, last week my analyst noted that I used the metaphor of "death" quite a bit. I had noticed it, too. Not a good sign. This week, I seem to be using the metaphor of "sanity" and "insanity," meaning the states of "not being depressed" and "being depressed". By "depressed" I mean that state of wanting to run around shrieking and yelling until you collapse into a quivering lump of sobs, followed by near catatonia. "Sanity" versus "insanity," however, seems an improvement over "dead" and "alive", don't you think?
Now, I wonder what next week's metaphor will be.
Such fun!
Anyway, after writing two shallow posts and also after letting myself just read a damn novel in bed at night (I always feel so guilty if I do something nice like that, rather than do something for work when I feel so behind on work), I realized that perhaps I require some space where I can escape from the bile. Escape into a story, escape into a silly post, escape somewhere without bile -- or without my own bile. I envision it like coming up for air (which switches the bile metaphor, but whatever).
Thus, the resolution to write shallowly to warm up, and then into the rest of my day.
I suppose I could do the same with the research writing. I mean, I do, but there is a difference between journal writing and blog writing and research writing. The journal is simply stream of consciousness. The blog is pretty much the same but with more structure and an awareness of the audience. The research writing requires focus and concentration, two things that disappear as the semester progresses. How on earth do other people maintain enough focus and concentration to even read? I feel the onset of ADD by noon on most days, and I don't even have ADD! Throw in enough coffee and you can add the H in there, too.
This shallow writing is my new strategy to calm myself, like a meditation, but without going too deep. Feel free to take bets on how long it lasts. Put me down for two posts.
Still, usually by this time in the semester, working out has also fallen by the wayside and I've taken up heavy weekend drinking and replace actual meals with Reese's Peanut butter Cups (they do have peanut butter and milk in them, so they are sort of healthy, right?). I'm still working out, eating right, and haven't touched the Halloween candy. I confess, however, that I have started drinking again on the weekends, but not heavily. I also must confess that I do commit the sin of coveting my grocery store's Halloween candy display, too. You can find me pacing up and down, salivating, like a tiger at the zoo watching a flock of first graders on a field trip.
All of this is to say that, maybe, I can stay in the shallow end of my psyche for a while and try to maintain my sanity -- and by "sanity" I mean keep myself out of the deep, dark, existential funk that also plagues me -- for just a little bit longer.
Incidentally, last week my analyst noted that I used the metaphor of "death" quite a bit. I had noticed it, too. Not a good sign. This week, I seem to be using the metaphor of "sanity" and "insanity," meaning the states of "not being depressed" and "being depressed". By "depressed" I mean that state of wanting to run around shrieking and yelling until you collapse into a quivering lump of sobs, followed by near catatonia. "Sanity" versus "insanity," however, seems an improvement over "dead" and "alive", don't you think?
Now, I wonder what next week's metaphor will be.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The One Sorry Thing At Which I Am Not Failing
The one thing in my sad, self-pitying existence at which I am not failing right now is working out. I've actually lost 17 lbs since the semester began. I'd like to say "without trying," but I've kinda been trying, or started out doing so.
Over the summer, my alcohol consumption offset any reduction in calories from my candy abstinence. I also wasn't working out with the frequency and vigor that I might have had I been at home with my gym or in a less hilly area (I don't really do hills when I run, at least not when I'm trying to get back into running). So, when I returned and visited the doctor in August, I found that I had gained a little weight and tipped the scales at a lifetime high (that I know of, I didn't weigh myself for about 15 years). No big deal, really, but obesity -- morbid, diabetic, high-blood pressure, heart disease, joint replacement inducing obesity, not just overweight but healthy obesity -- runs in my family. I try not to think about it too much because, as a result of that family history, or more accurately, the habits that produced that family history, eating disorders run in my personal history.
Anyway, aware of both, I decided that it would be best if I tried to get back into eating healthy, abstaining from alcohol and candy, and working out more to turn the tide in the other direction. Also, both my analyst and the psychiatrist who prescribes the happy pills (a new one, trust me!) both said that exercise was necessary for my mental health, which is probably in worse shape than my physical health.
I started running. That is, I started doing what could be called "running" but most runners would scoff at my pace and call it a fast walk. Whatever. My huffing and puffing and chugging along like the Little Engine that Could did the trick. Two weeks in, I weighed myself. Since the scale was not the one at the doctor's office and was a digital scale, I didn't believe it. There was no way that I had lost that much in that amount of time. Still, I figured that the digital scale couldn't be off by that much, so took it as a small victory.
Two weeks later I tried again. Whoa! More gone. Even if the gym scale said that I was lighter than the doctor's scale might, I at least had an idea. This number was lower than the previous number, so I know that I had lost the difference plus whatever the real difference was between the doctor's scales and my first gym weigh-in.
Last week, I had to go to a meeting at the Self-proclaimed Main Campus. In one of the ladies' rooms I found a scale much like that at the doctor's office. "What the hell?" I thought. "Shitty week thus far. Might as well get some reality splashed on my face to top it all off." Nope, the numbers there matched the gym scale. I felt like doing a Church Lady Superior Dance.
I tried again at the gym over the weekend. If this scale is giving me the same numbers as the doctor's scale would, I've lost 17 lbs. I don't think I've ever lost that much in my life, outside of being anorexic. I'm in below what I considered my target. I'm below what I considered "better" when I was at the target. Hell, I'm getting into "now THIS is my real body" range (as opposed to "o.k., I guess I can live with this being my body now" range).
Despite this success, somewhere along the way, the workout stopped being entirely about the weight. The weight is a nice little reward, but the goal has become that high that you get after you've run a good distance, and the satisfaction of seeing yourself able to run farther and farther.
You see, I started with three miles. Three miles has always been a good, healthy distance. Then, about a week into it, I felt a little extra energy one day and added a half of another mile. Within another week, I was up to four miles. By the end of September, I could run five. In October, six. I stopped doing weights because they bored me. I just wanted to run. The more I ran, the more I wanted to run. This weekend, I tried 6.5 on Saturday. Then, possessed, I got up to 7.5 on Sunday. I've never run so far in my life. I'm now setting my sights on 8 by the end of the year --just to see if I can do it, not to make a habit of it.
That feeling of satisfaction, of endorphins: after I run is sometimes the happiest moment of my week (unless, of course, I see the Gentleman Caller!). It's a wash of energy, of calm, of well-being, of strength, of power, of accomplishment. I'm afraid to give it up, so I keep going back to do it again and again, farther and farther, much like getting into a good writing groove. I do it for that, now, not the weight loss. The weight loss has been accomplished. Now, I just want to feel awesome.
Over the summer, my alcohol consumption offset any reduction in calories from my candy abstinence. I also wasn't working out with the frequency and vigor that I might have had I been at home with my gym or in a less hilly area (I don't really do hills when I run, at least not when I'm trying to get back into running). So, when I returned and visited the doctor in August, I found that I had gained a little weight and tipped the scales at a lifetime high (that I know of, I didn't weigh myself for about 15 years). No big deal, really, but obesity -- morbid, diabetic, high-blood pressure, heart disease, joint replacement inducing obesity, not just overweight but healthy obesity -- runs in my family. I try not to think about it too much because, as a result of that family history, or more accurately, the habits that produced that family history, eating disorders run in my personal history.
Anyway, aware of both, I decided that it would be best if I tried to get back into eating healthy, abstaining from alcohol and candy, and working out more to turn the tide in the other direction. Also, both my analyst and the psychiatrist who prescribes the happy pills (a new one, trust me!) both said that exercise was necessary for my mental health, which is probably in worse shape than my physical health.
I started running. That is, I started doing what could be called "running" but most runners would scoff at my pace and call it a fast walk. Whatever. My huffing and puffing and chugging along like the Little Engine that Could did the trick. Two weeks in, I weighed myself. Since the scale was not the one at the doctor's office and was a digital scale, I didn't believe it. There was no way that I had lost that much in that amount of time. Still, I figured that the digital scale couldn't be off by that much, so took it as a small victory.
Two weeks later I tried again. Whoa! More gone. Even if the gym scale said that I was lighter than the doctor's scale might, I at least had an idea. This number was lower than the previous number, so I know that I had lost the difference plus whatever the real difference was between the doctor's scales and my first gym weigh-in.
Last week, I had to go to a meeting at the Self-proclaimed Main Campus. In one of the ladies' rooms I found a scale much like that at the doctor's office. "What the hell?" I thought. "Shitty week thus far. Might as well get some reality splashed on my face to top it all off." Nope, the numbers there matched the gym scale. I felt like doing a Church Lady Superior Dance.
I tried again at the gym over the weekend. If this scale is giving me the same numbers as the doctor's scale would, I've lost 17 lbs. I don't think I've ever lost that much in my life, outside of being anorexic. I'm in below what I considered my target. I'm below what I considered "better" when I was at the target. Hell, I'm getting into "now THIS is my real body" range (as opposed to "o.k., I guess I can live with this being my body now" range).
Despite this success, somewhere along the way, the workout stopped being entirely about the weight. The weight is a nice little reward, but the goal has become that high that you get after you've run a good distance, and the satisfaction of seeing yourself able to run farther and farther.
You see, I started with three miles. Three miles has always been a good, healthy distance. Then, about a week into it, I felt a little extra energy one day and added a half of another mile. Within another week, I was up to four miles. By the end of September, I could run five. In October, six. I stopped doing weights because they bored me. I just wanted to run. The more I ran, the more I wanted to run. This weekend, I tried 6.5 on Saturday. Then, possessed, I got up to 7.5 on Sunday. I've never run so far in my life. I'm now setting my sights on 8 by the end of the year --just to see if I can do it, not to make a habit of it.
That feeling of satisfaction, of endorphins: after I run is sometimes the happiest moment of my week (unless, of course, I see the Gentleman Caller!). It's a wash of energy, of calm, of well-being, of strength, of power, of accomplishment. I'm afraid to give it up, so I keep going back to do it again and again, farther and farther, much like getting into a good writing groove. I do it for that, now, not the weight loss. The weight loss has been accomplished. Now, I just want to feel awesome.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Au Revoir Cable
They came and took the cable away yesterday. In the words of Charlie Brown, "SIGH."
Mad Men ended last Sunday night -- not yet dead to me, as Lost became, but really trying my interest -- and I really watch nothing else. Fifty dollars a month for a zillion channels that I don't watch, and for a service that I mostly use for noise. The first I need, the second I don't. In fact, if I could turn all of the noise in my life into dollars, I'd be filthy rich!
As ridiculous as it sounds, that fifty dollars is something. With our furloughs, each of my paychecks has been cut by $100. Something seems really off about that, and I probably should contact the payroll department to see if that is correct because I don't do math. Since we are paid every two weeks, that means I'm down $50 per week, and around $200 per month (I think, remember that I don't do math). That seems like so little, but my rent went up $100 just at the time the pay went down. Then, I have to pay for my own travel since it isn't directly related to school business. Even if it were, even if I were acting as official representative of the school, I'd still have to pay half -- and that after bargaining.
At least the extra work I'm doing for Women's Studies will pay off next semester with a little "overtime" pay. Yet, even that is on the chopping block. The work will still have to be done, but there will be no pay for it. Excellence Without Money, don't you know!
This isn't different from anyone else. I'm lucky that I have a job. I'm lucky that I have a place to scale back to. I don't have to worry about caring for a child, or putting one through college just so she can qualify for a minimum wage job at the end. I don't have to worry about foreclosure or repossession. I'm not facing bankruptcy. I am just trying to figure out ways to cut back because I am at my limits. Cable is one of those cuts.
The cable hasn't been out of the apartment for 24 hours yet, and already I hear the quiet. It's not a real quiet. I live above an intersection of two busy highways, and my windows are open because the weather is mild, and because central air/heating is another big expense. So, my apartment is pretty dang noisy at most hours. Still, the cable made some sort of silent noise, a hum and buzz at a level just beyond human hearing, yet still within human awareness. The internet does that, too, as does the cellphone.
I started to notice this in England. I had no internet. I had no computer. My phone was off, so no connection to e-mail or anyone who could call. England itself also seemed quieter. Not silent, or even quiet, mind you, but not as noisy. The trains seems to rumble and screetch less. Very few people had their cell phones attached to their ears -- and NO ONE walked around talking into thin air because they had a bluetooth device on.
Seriously, I think I could count on one hand the number of people walking down the street talking on their phones, and I don't think I saw one person paying more attention to texting than where they were going. In the train station, in the pubs, people sat and talked to one another, in person, or read. In the pubs, there was no music. The t.v. -- if there was a t.v. -- was muted with the closed captioning turned on. No one having a conversation paused to check their text or phone messages, and certainly no one did it while in the middle of a conversation with another person. Maybe it was just the places that I went. Maybe in London I would have been bombarded with that particular type of noise. Nonetheless, where I was, the quiet was comforting.
Now, I want more of that quiet in my regular life. The quiet seems to slow time down. I can concentrate. I can think. I don't feel like I'm being bombarded with pebbles (or eaten by minnows). I don't feel like I have ADD. I want more of it, to see what lies within that quiet, and see what I can carry out of it.
Don't worry, I won't become one of those self-righteous, "I don't watch t.v. because I'm so much better than everyone else," types of people. I will probably envy your cable, and lovingly flip through every channel in hotel rooms. I'm one of the wicked, idiotic masses in that regard. I just don't want to escape into the noise right now. I want the quiet.
If it also saves me $50 per month, all the better!
Mad Men ended last Sunday night -- not yet dead to me, as Lost became, but really trying my interest -- and I really watch nothing else. Fifty dollars a month for a zillion channels that I don't watch, and for a service that I mostly use for noise. The first I need, the second I don't. In fact, if I could turn all of the noise in my life into dollars, I'd be filthy rich!
As ridiculous as it sounds, that fifty dollars is something. With our furloughs, each of my paychecks has been cut by $100. Something seems really off about that, and I probably should contact the payroll department to see if that is correct because I don't do math. Since we are paid every two weeks, that means I'm down $50 per week, and around $200 per month (I think, remember that I don't do math). That seems like so little, but my rent went up $100 just at the time the pay went down. Then, I have to pay for my own travel since it isn't directly related to school business. Even if it were, even if I were acting as official representative of the school, I'd still have to pay half -- and that after bargaining.
At least the extra work I'm doing for Women's Studies will pay off next semester with a little "overtime" pay. Yet, even that is on the chopping block. The work will still have to be done, but there will be no pay for it. Excellence Without Money, don't you know!
This isn't different from anyone else. I'm lucky that I have a job. I'm lucky that I have a place to scale back to. I don't have to worry about caring for a child, or putting one through college just so she can qualify for a minimum wage job at the end. I don't have to worry about foreclosure or repossession. I'm not facing bankruptcy. I am just trying to figure out ways to cut back because I am at my limits. Cable is one of those cuts.
The cable hasn't been out of the apartment for 24 hours yet, and already I hear the quiet. It's not a real quiet. I live above an intersection of two busy highways, and my windows are open because the weather is mild, and because central air/heating is another big expense. So, my apartment is pretty dang noisy at most hours. Still, the cable made some sort of silent noise, a hum and buzz at a level just beyond human hearing, yet still within human awareness. The internet does that, too, as does the cellphone.
I started to notice this in England. I had no internet. I had no computer. My phone was off, so no connection to e-mail or anyone who could call. England itself also seemed quieter. Not silent, or even quiet, mind you, but not as noisy. The trains seems to rumble and screetch less. Very few people had their cell phones attached to their ears -- and NO ONE walked around talking into thin air because they had a bluetooth device on.
Seriously, I think I could count on one hand the number of people walking down the street talking on their phones, and I don't think I saw one person paying more attention to texting than where they were going. In the train station, in the pubs, people sat and talked to one another, in person, or read. In the pubs, there was no music. The t.v. -- if there was a t.v. -- was muted with the closed captioning turned on. No one having a conversation paused to check their text or phone messages, and certainly no one did it while in the middle of a conversation with another person. Maybe it was just the places that I went. Maybe in London I would have been bombarded with that particular type of noise. Nonetheless, where I was, the quiet was comforting.
Now, I want more of that quiet in my regular life. The quiet seems to slow time down. I can concentrate. I can think. I don't feel like I'm being bombarded with pebbles (or eaten by minnows). I don't feel like I have ADD. I want more of it, to see what lies within that quiet, and see what I can carry out of it.
Don't worry, I won't become one of those self-righteous, "I don't watch t.v. because I'm so much better than everyone else," types of people. I will probably envy your cable, and lovingly flip through every channel in hotel rooms. I'm one of the wicked, idiotic masses in that regard. I just don't want to escape into the noise right now. I want the quiet.
If it also saves me $50 per month, all the better!
Friday, October 22, 2010
Turning a Comment into a Blog Post; or, more Feminism in the Classroom
Instead of commenting in my last post, I'm just going to write another post because -- well, that's just me and I'm well into my stream-of-coffee-induced consciousness and have no idea where the words will take me.
What fabulous suggestions on readings! Belle, I think you are seeing my reading list as it forms.
I feel sort of bad, like I've been cutting down my colleagues for their style of teaching, and some of that may just be my mommy issues making me very defensive. Still, I keep going over the afternoon in question to figure out exactly what my colleagues meant. I think I misunderstood something going on there, because they are all very smart and very knowledgeable and I've seen some of them in action and they are great. Whatever they think they are doing in terms of disavowing authority, they are clearly the ones in charge in their classroom and one is most certainly not as invisible as she might think she is. So, it's not that they disavow their own authority, but that they don't put it front and center. Again, that's not really the best method all of the time -- feminist or not.
To be invisible and non-authoritative is impossible and perhaps not even wise, which is what really bugged me about the conversation. Was that the ideal? It can't be, can it? I must have misunderstood something.
Anyway, in the comments to my last post, I liked Feminist Avatar's description of a feminist classroom as something flexible, something that doesn't have to adhere to a certain, rigid, definition of feminist. In fact, I grow very uncomfortable with people telling me what is truly "feminist" and what is not, but that is another subject. Like feminism in general and like teaching in general, you have to employ a number of tactics in order to achieve your end. Sometimes, you have to just stand up and lecture. Sometimes, you have to get the students to sit in a circle and discuss. Sometimes, you get them to do an exercise in identity. Sometimes, you start to lecture, and you end up discussing.
So, I'm starting to think -- as I write this -- that feminism isn't so much the pedagogy as the attitude. Perhaps "attitude" is not quite the right word. What I mean is that, whatever tactic you employ to teach, you employ it as a feminist, from a feminist point of view or way of looking at the world, which includes an awareness that there are multiple ways of looking at the world. Again, that's not precisely what I mean, either.
To illustrate: There is a debate on Tenured Radical post about that guy who was fired or not hired tenure track or something like that at Columbia, Thad Russell. Reading his own post on Huffington Post I could have a little sympathy for him, but not much simply because he seemed like That Professor, the one who has the red flag with the Che Guevara silk screen up in his office. The one who blusters about trumpeting his radicalism and his alleged sympathy with the working class, then hops in his SUV to go home to his house in the suburbs. The one who likes to say that he is a feminist right before he makes a big sexist joke.
I digress -- I'm actually describing one or two of That Professors whom I have known, not Prof. Russell, whom I never heard of before Tenured Radical's Twitter alerting me to her post. He may be fun to have a drink with, for all I know. Heck, he's even supposed to be a good scholar and might be good in the classroom for all of his bloggy bluster. So, my reaction to any discussion about him is really a reaction to the That Professors with whom I have had too much contact in the past.
Anyway, in the discussion on the post, Historiann chimed in with an (as always) sharp point: "Russell took for granted the unearned privilege of respect and deference from students, got 'cool points' that women and faculty of color couldn't get for behaving in a juvenile way, and then was surprised to learn that his colleagues didn't feel the same way as his students. Amazing!"
That seems to be quite relevant to this feminist pedagogy discussion. That Professor can go into his classroom and play this role of iconoclast anti-professor and the only stereotype he has to be aware of is the one that casts professors as boring old fuddy-duddies who can't function in the Real World. (Also, I think Russell is playing to that in his Huffington Post piece.) The rest of us? We also have to be aware of the millions of little misogynistic ways that everyone perceives women in positions of authority -- or people of color in positions of authority or aging people in positions of authority or out people or overweight people or disabled or at non-Ivy Leagues or non-near Ivy Leagues -- the rest of us.
That awareness that the rest of us carry around, well that is where the feminist part comes in. We feminists don't have to yell "shit" or "fuck" in the classroom to be "radical." If you start from an awareness of all of the ways that oppression has excluded women from power and authority, then questioned their power and authority much more harshly when women do attain such position, you've rather knocked the whole subject off "center."
Of course, you then have to point this out to the students and use it as a starting point to talk about the whole subject. Like I keep reiterating to my Women's Studies class, "this isn't so much about women as it is about power."
I actually want to write more about what is going on in that class but am conflicted. There are things that I'm going through as the teacher and I'm feeling a deep need to discuss with other teachers of similar subjects some of my frustrations and ambivalence and fears and even outright anger that comes from the class. At the same time, I actually do feel like doing so might cast the students in a different position than in the usual "bitching about students and the stunning things they do" sort of posts or tweets. I'm lucky that my complete lack of time keeps me from putting anything on the page (see my drowning post for the results of not writing). I want to be able to write as the person inside the teacher, but I don't quite know how to address the role of the student in telling that story. I want to make it about my journey, not about theirs.
What fabulous suggestions on readings! Belle, I think you are seeing my reading list as it forms.
I feel sort of bad, like I've been cutting down my colleagues for their style of teaching, and some of that may just be my mommy issues making me very defensive. Still, I keep going over the afternoon in question to figure out exactly what my colleagues meant. I think I misunderstood something going on there, because they are all very smart and very knowledgeable and I've seen some of them in action and they are great. Whatever they think they are doing in terms of disavowing authority, they are clearly the ones in charge in their classroom and one is most certainly not as invisible as she might think she is. So, it's not that they disavow their own authority, but that they don't put it front and center. Again, that's not really the best method all of the time -- feminist or not.
To be invisible and non-authoritative is impossible and perhaps not even wise, which is what really bugged me about the conversation. Was that the ideal? It can't be, can it? I must have misunderstood something.
Anyway, in the comments to my last post, I liked Feminist Avatar's description of a feminist classroom as something flexible, something that doesn't have to adhere to a certain, rigid, definition of feminist. In fact, I grow very uncomfortable with people telling me what is truly "feminist" and what is not, but that is another subject. Like feminism in general and like teaching in general, you have to employ a number of tactics in order to achieve your end. Sometimes, you have to just stand up and lecture. Sometimes, you have to get the students to sit in a circle and discuss. Sometimes, you get them to do an exercise in identity. Sometimes, you start to lecture, and you end up discussing.
So, I'm starting to think -- as I write this -- that feminism isn't so much the pedagogy as the attitude. Perhaps "attitude" is not quite the right word. What I mean is that, whatever tactic you employ to teach, you employ it as a feminist, from a feminist point of view or way of looking at the world, which includes an awareness that there are multiple ways of looking at the world. Again, that's not precisely what I mean, either.
To illustrate: There is a debate on Tenured Radical post about that guy who was fired or not hired tenure track or something like that at Columbia, Thad Russell. Reading his own post on Huffington Post I could have a little sympathy for him, but not much simply because he seemed like That Professor, the one who has the red flag with the Che Guevara silk screen up in his office. The one who blusters about trumpeting his radicalism and his alleged sympathy with the working class, then hops in his SUV to go home to his house in the suburbs. The one who likes to say that he is a feminist right before he makes a big sexist joke.
I digress -- I'm actually describing one or two of That Professors whom I have known, not Prof. Russell, whom I never heard of before Tenured Radical's Twitter alerting me to her post. He may be fun to have a drink with, for all I know. Heck, he's even supposed to be a good scholar and might be good in the classroom for all of his bloggy bluster. So, my reaction to any discussion about him is really a reaction to the That Professors with whom I have had too much contact in the past.
Anyway, in the discussion on the post, Historiann chimed in with an (as always) sharp point: "Russell took for granted the unearned privilege of respect and deference from students, got 'cool points' that women and faculty of color couldn't get for behaving in a juvenile way, and then was surprised to learn that his colleagues didn't feel the same way as his students. Amazing!"
That seems to be quite relevant to this feminist pedagogy discussion. That Professor can go into his classroom and play this role of iconoclast anti-professor and the only stereotype he has to be aware of is the one that casts professors as boring old fuddy-duddies who can't function in the Real World. (Also, I think Russell is playing to that in his Huffington Post piece.) The rest of us? We also have to be aware of the millions of little misogynistic ways that everyone perceives women in positions of authority -- or people of color in positions of authority or aging people in positions of authority or out people or overweight people or disabled or at non-Ivy Leagues or non-near Ivy Leagues -- the rest of us.
That awareness that the rest of us carry around, well that is where the feminist part comes in. We feminists don't have to yell "shit" or "fuck" in the classroom to be "radical." If you start from an awareness of all of the ways that oppression has excluded women from power and authority, then questioned their power and authority much more harshly when women do attain such position, you've rather knocked the whole subject off "center."
Of course, you then have to point this out to the students and use it as a starting point to talk about the whole subject. Like I keep reiterating to my Women's Studies class, "this isn't so much about women as it is about power."
I actually want to write more about what is going on in that class but am conflicted. There are things that I'm going through as the teacher and I'm feeling a deep need to discuss with other teachers of similar subjects some of my frustrations and ambivalence and fears and even outright anger that comes from the class. At the same time, I actually do feel like doing so might cast the students in a different position than in the usual "bitching about students and the stunning things they do" sort of posts or tweets. I'm lucky that my complete lack of time keeps me from putting anything on the page (see my drowning post for the results of not writing). I want to be able to write as the person inside the teacher, but I don't quite know how to address the role of the student in telling that story. I want to make it about my journey, not about theirs.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Dr. Crazy and the Feminist Classroom
This actually began as a response on Dr. Crazy's post about a feminist classroom. Her post was rather timely because I have, in my role as Women's Studies Coordinator, just started a reading group focusing on feminist pedagogy and our first meeting was last Friday.
Now, understand, I know nothing about feminist pedagogy. The fact that I'm even using the term "pedagogy" is a new development of the past few years since we didn't really go in for that stuff at my graduate school (unethical bordering on criminal behavior, sure; but pedagogy and theory, not so much). Nor was it something that people at other places where I taught talked about. I'll also confess a little resistance on my part, too, due to my habit of shutting down when overstressed.
I digress.
The first reading that I chose was really from the only book I knew on the subject, which is about a decade old and which was on my shelf, Jyl Lynn Felman's Never a Dull Moment: Teaching and the Art of Performance. She came to speak at the school where I taught back when the book came out and I found her fresh and exciting (you know, not having been exposed to anything quite like her style). Also, going back through the book, I find that I was probably also attracted to the way she talks about teaching as a form of role play, of acting. This is something to which I can relate since I talk of playing the character of Prof. Bluestocking, which apparently is not something that everyone understands.
You see, not everyone in the group found her ideas quite so fascinating. Some even found her repellant for a variety of reasons, and the main criticism of her that bothered me (probably because they describe my own teaching style) had to do with the way that she presents herself as charismatic and authoritative in the classroom. Most of the teachers in the group found this to be wrong and non-feminist. She had too much of a dramatic presence in her classroom and she spoke more than the students, which they felt took away from the learning experience of the students.* One person in the group even seemed to think of this as damaging the learning experience of the students, and cited another professor who had led a talk and discussion a few weeks earlier as being too flamboyant and intrusive in that discussion.
I didn't have a problem with Felman's style of presentation, nor with the other professor's style. Call me a passive learner, but teachers in that style always engaged me. Call me egotistical, but that style also tends to be the way that I teach: a combination of lecture and discussion that varies depending upon the size of the class, the personalities in the class, how far we are in the semester, the weather, the subject matter of the day, and so forth. Sometimes, I need to talk more than the students do. Sometimes they need to talk more (about the subject) than I do as they try to put the pieces together. As I once wrote to Prof. Zero, it's like a live performance of music.
Nonetheless, as in any jazz combo, everyone can have their improvisational solo, but someone is the band leader. As I told the group, "I am the expert, they are not." Meaning that the students pay me to know this subject well and to share the the most current research on the subject with them, then they ask questions in order to understand the subject, and expect me to draw on my expertise to answer those questions that will help them understand the subject. This is might not be appropriate for an introductory writing class. It might not be appropriate for a literature class; but it seems to work for my history classes, as does my exuberant Prof. Bluestocking character.
I felt as if my claim to authority over my subject (not to mention personality) was considered not particularly feminist, at least not in the classroom, and that, in the classroom, such a claim was patriarchal. Yet, saying that I'm a patriarch and a non-feminist teacher, well, that's just didn't seem right either. Could a classroom that includes and authoritative teacher and contains lecture also be a feminist classroom?
So, I began to wonder if perhaps their commitment to their style of feminist pedagogy had more to do with the subjects that they teach, which are predominantly the introductory writing classes. Those classes deemphasize content and emphasize skill. Students really do have to do something to learn anything. They peer review and do group work and discuss from start to finish.
My classes, especially at the introductory level, emphasize content. All of our outcomes are content based (which has it's own set of problems, but that is another story for another time). Might that affect how I teach? Might also the level of the students determine the extent to which I could employ their techniques -- particularly given that they have more to say as the semester progresses and they have a greater base of knowledge from which to draw? I began to wonder how the conversation might have changed had we had people who teach social sciences, or nursing, or hard sciences, or math -- and in the sciences and nursing fields, the comparison between the sections designated lecture and the labs or clinical sections. The commenters Paperkingdom brings this up in Dr. Crazy's comments -- as does Anonymous.
Dr. Crazy's portrayal of a feminist classroom that is based just as much on principles of gender inclusion in the subject matter, respect of the students, allowing all to participate, and modeling feminist behavior -- "lived feminism" -- went quite a bit toward helping me to articulate what about my classrooms are, in fact feminist. Historiann chimed in, too, with the reminder that claiming authority over a subject that we have spent our adult lives studying is also inherently a feminist behavior.
That last one about authority in the classroom was the one that most confused me after the reading discussion last week. I fear that my own defense mechanisms may have come into play, but I did get the sense that to claim authority, and therefore become an authoritative presence in my classroom, was not in the spirit of feminist pedagogy. If that is the case, then I am in a very awkward position for over half of my classes.
One of the main courses I teach is African American history. Generally, I am the only white person in the class. When I walk in the door on the first day, you can feel the ripple of suspicion as 30 individual guards go up across the room. How could I, a white lady, possibly know anything about a subject? In the experience of my students, most people of my color don't consider black history to be important, and now here is a white lady presuming to teach it! I have to address that the second I open my mouth. "Yes," I say, "I am white," and then tell them about why I am interested in this subject and find it one of the most important things to study. Then, I have to establish my knowledge of the subject matter to maintain any level of credibility, trust, or respect. I also cannot be "invisible" because that would be unbelievably dishonest in a class about race in which the people in the position of less power are of color and the person in charge is white.
In the introductory to Women's Studies course, there is always that one D00d who takes the course more to work out (or display) his hostility toward women than to learn, and who therefore challenges the professor on every turn (got one now -- another story for another post). You have to claim your authority there, too, as Dr. Crazy writes, to stand up to that masculine challenge of anything that places women at the center.
In that class, what I realized that I'm teaching the students -- and what I emphasize in order to disarm their knee-jerk, antifeminist alarms** -- has less to do with women and more to do with the ways that systems of power work, where people fit within those systems of power and how they negotiate those systems of power.*** To ignore that the systems of power exist is to be, at best, naive, or, more often, downright dangerous.
To me (I realize as I write, so haven't clearly thought through yet), a feminsit teacher should recognize the system of power that is the classroom. That system of power will not disappear. The way the power is distributed and wielded -- the negotiation of the system of power in a way that is not abusive but facilitates not only an understanding of the subject but also perhaps and awareness of the other systems of power present in the room and certainly within the subject at hand -- that is where the feminism begins.
By the way, we are reading Chapter 1 of Paulo Friere's Pedagogy of the Oppressed for next month. If anyone has any suggestions, you'll be a lifesaver!
----------------------
*Some of this may also be her own account of herself, and her effort to deemphasize the students' experience because she did not want to violate their privacy or speak for them.
**You know, the ones that shriek "manhater manhater manhater!"
***This has actually been somewhat helpful in de-fusing the types of conversations that devolve into "but men get sexually harassed, too" and "but women can behave badly as men."
Now, understand, I know nothing about feminist pedagogy. The fact that I'm even using the term "pedagogy" is a new development of the past few years since we didn't really go in for that stuff at my graduate school (unethical bordering on criminal behavior, sure; but pedagogy and theory, not so much). Nor was it something that people at other places where I taught talked about. I'll also confess a little resistance on my part, too, due to my habit of shutting down when overstressed.
I digress.
The first reading that I chose was really from the only book I knew on the subject, which is about a decade old and which was on my shelf, Jyl Lynn Felman's Never a Dull Moment: Teaching and the Art of Performance. She came to speak at the school where I taught back when the book came out and I found her fresh and exciting (you know, not having been exposed to anything quite like her style). Also, going back through the book, I find that I was probably also attracted to the way she talks about teaching as a form of role play, of acting. This is something to which I can relate since I talk of playing the character of Prof. Bluestocking, which apparently is not something that everyone understands.
You see, not everyone in the group found her ideas quite so fascinating. Some even found her repellant for a variety of reasons, and the main criticism of her that bothered me (probably because they describe my own teaching style) had to do with the way that she presents herself as charismatic and authoritative in the classroom. Most of the teachers in the group found this to be wrong and non-feminist. She had too much of a dramatic presence in her classroom and she spoke more than the students, which they felt took away from the learning experience of the students.* One person in the group even seemed to think of this as damaging the learning experience of the students, and cited another professor who had led a talk and discussion a few weeks earlier as being too flamboyant and intrusive in that discussion.
I didn't have a problem with Felman's style of presentation, nor with the other professor's style. Call me a passive learner, but teachers in that style always engaged me. Call me egotistical, but that style also tends to be the way that I teach: a combination of lecture and discussion that varies depending upon the size of the class, the personalities in the class, how far we are in the semester, the weather, the subject matter of the day, and so forth. Sometimes, I need to talk more than the students do. Sometimes they need to talk more (about the subject) than I do as they try to put the pieces together. As I once wrote to Prof. Zero, it's like a live performance of music.
Nonetheless, as in any jazz combo, everyone can have their improvisational solo, but someone is the band leader. As I told the group, "I am the expert, they are not." Meaning that the students pay me to know this subject well and to share the the most current research on the subject with them, then they ask questions in order to understand the subject, and expect me to draw on my expertise to answer those questions that will help them understand the subject. This is might not be appropriate for an introductory writing class. It might not be appropriate for a literature class; but it seems to work for my history classes, as does my exuberant Prof. Bluestocking character.
I felt as if my claim to authority over my subject (not to mention personality) was considered not particularly feminist, at least not in the classroom, and that, in the classroom, such a claim was patriarchal. Yet, saying that I'm a patriarch and a non-feminist teacher, well, that's just didn't seem right either. Could a classroom that includes and authoritative teacher and contains lecture also be a feminist classroom?
So, I began to wonder if perhaps their commitment to their style of feminist pedagogy had more to do with the subjects that they teach, which are predominantly the introductory writing classes. Those classes deemphasize content and emphasize skill. Students really do have to do something to learn anything. They peer review and do group work and discuss from start to finish.
My classes, especially at the introductory level, emphasize content. All of our outcomes are content based (which has it's own set of problems, but that is another story for another time). Might that affect how I teach? Might also the level of the students determine the extent to which I could employ their techniques -- particularly given that they have more to say as the semester progresses and they have a greater base of knowledge from which to draw? I began to wonder how the conversation might have changed had we had people who teach social sciences, or nursing, or hard sciences, or math -- and in the sciences and nursing fields, the comparison between the sections designated lecture and the labs or clinical sections. The commenters Paperkingdom brings this up in Dr. Crazy's comments -- as does Anonymous.
Dr. Crazy's portrayal of a feminist classroom that is based just as much on principles of gender inclusion in the subject matter, respect of the students, allowing all to participate, and modeling feminist behavior -- "lived feminism" -- went quite a bit toward helping me to articulate what about my classrooms are, in fact feminist. Historiann chimed in, too, with the reminder that claiming authority over a subject that we have spent our adult lives studying is also inherently a feminist behavior.
That last one about authority in the classroom was the one that most confused me after the reading discussion last week. I fear that my own defense mechanisms may have come into play, but I did get the sense that to claim authority, and therefore become an authoritative presence in my classroom, was not in the spirit of feminist pedagogy. If that is the case, then I am in a very awkward position for over half of my classes.
One of the main courses I teach is African American history. Generally, I am the only white person in the class. When I walk in the door on the first day, you can feel the ripple of suspicion as 30 individual guards go up across the room. How could I, a white lady, possibly know anything about a subject? In the experience of my students, most people of my color don't consider black history to be important, and now here is a white lady presuming to teach it! I have to address that the second I open my mouth. "Yes," I say, "I am white," and then tell them about why I am interested in this subject and find it one of the most important things to study. Then, I have to establish my knowledge of the subject matter to maintain any level of credibility, trust, or respect. I also cannot be "invisible" because that would be unbelievably dishonest in a class about race in which the people in the position of less power are of color and the person in charge is white.
In the introductory to Women's Studies course, there is always that one D00d who takes the course more to work out (or display) his hostility toward women than to learn, and who therefore challenges the professor on every turn (got one now -- another story for another post). You have to claim your authority there, too, as Dr. Crazy writes, to stand up to that masculine challenge of anything that places women at the center.
In that class, what I realized that I'm teaching the students -- and what I emphasize in order to disarm their knee-jerk, antifeminist alarms** -- has less to do with women and more to do with the ways that systems of power work, where people fit within those systems of power and how they negotiate those systems of power.*** To ignore that the systems of power exist is to be, at best, naive, or, more often, downright dangerous.
To me (I realize as I write, so haven't clearly thought through yet), a feminsit teacher should recognize the system of power that is the classroom. That system of power will not disappear. The way the power is distributed and wielded -- the negotiation of the system of power in a way that is not abusive but facilitates not only an understanding of the subject but also perhaps and awareness of the other systems of power present in the room and certainly within the subject at hand -- that is where the feminism begins.
By the way, we are reading Chapter 1 of Paulo Friere's Pedagogy of the Oppressed for next month. If anyone has any suggestions, you'll be a lifesaver!
----------------------
*Some of this may also be her own account of herself, and her effort to deemphasize the students' experience because she did not want to violate their privacy or speak for them.
**You know, the ones that shriek "manhater manhater manhater!"
***This has actually been somewhat helpful in de-fusing the types of conversations that devolve into "but men get sexually harassed, too" and "but women can behave badly as men."
Monday, October 18, 2010
Severe Burn-out
I want to write about my trip, but every time I try, I sink into a state of despair. Sometimes the problem with getting a break is that, when you return, you only realize just how miserable you are in your everyday life.
I spend every day feeling like I am at the bottom of a deep, murky pond in the middle of a dark swamp. My feet are tangled in weeds at the bottom and tied to weights. Tiny minnows nibble my living flesh. I struggle in death throes, trying to break free, too get to the surface, to breathe, and every thrash drains me of energy, makes the effort more futile. Yet, not struggling will only lead to the same inevitable end, except the end will be longer in coming; and, while I don't want an end, if it must come, let it come soon. Let it come now.
That's how my days feel. On my trip, I didn't feel a bit like that for even a fraction of a second. I felt alive, I felt intelligent, I felt like I was contributing to the world and experiencing the world. I felt alive. Coming back, I feel like I'm drowning and being eaten to death in very small bites, all at the same time -- tied to the bottom of a pond, nibbled by minnows.
Part of my problem is my situation, but part of it is the way that I deal with it. I have to find a constructive way to deal with it; but something has to be done to ease the pressure, even just a tiny bit, in various places. Just a little in even one place might sort a chunk of the rest out. I'm just too deeply in despair to figure out where.
At least I'm not binging on sweets and I am still working out. At least I am not thinking that I'm a total failure at everything. These are improvements; but I'm still at the bottom of the pond being eaten by fish.
I spend every day feeling like I am at the bottom of a deep, murky pond in the middle of a dark swamp. My feet are tangled in weeds at the bottom and tied to weights. Tiny minnows nibble my living flesh. I struggle in death throes, trying to break free, too get to the surface, to breathe, and every thrash drains me of energy, makes the effort more futile. Yet, not struggling will only lead to the same inevitable end, except the end will be longer in coming; and, while I don't want an end, if it must come, let it come soon. Let it come now.
That's how my days feel. On my trip, I didn't feel a bit like that for even a fraction of a second. I felt alive, I felt intelligent, I felt like I was contributing to the world and experiencing the world. I felt alive. Coming back, I feel like I'm drowning and being eaten to death in very small bites, all at the same time -- tied to the bottom of a pond, nibbled by minnows.
Part of my problem is my situation, but part of it is the way that I deal with it. I have to find a constructive way to deal with it; but something has to be done to ease the pressure, even just a tiny bit, in various places. Just a little in even one place might sort a chunk of the rest out. I'm just too deeply in despair to figure out where.
At least I'm not binging on sweets and I am still working out. At least I am not thinking that I'm a total failure at everything. These are improvements; but I'm still at the bottom of the pond being eaten by fish.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
A Meme!
Oooh, goody! A meme! I had just been thinking yesterday that memes were so popular around 2005-06, but not so much anymore. Maybe they are on Facebook, but I don't do that.
Anyway, this one is courtesy of the wonderful and kind Ink and is a good excuse to put up a blog post without resorting to the extreme burnout bile that I've been spewing on Twitter.
1. What is your favorite word?
Awesome! Although I'm having a growing infatuation with "pastry" these days. It just sounds yummy! That, and I really miss sugar.
2. What is your least favorite word?
Cunt -- but I do like to use it for effect in certain situations, like in the Vagina Monologues. Also, the N-word and any similar word that is used as a racial or ethnic pejorative.
3. What turns you on?
Laughing like Snoopy, kindness.
4. What turns you off?
Liars, willful ignorance, willful incompetence.
5. What is your favorite curse word?
Depending on the situation, "fuck!" or "shit!" A good "god-dammit" also works.
6. What sound or noise do you love?
Does silence count? Also, Don Henley's voice singing "Desperado" or "Come Rain or Come Shine." Bells, especially the jingly kind. Trains in the distance.
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Hateful voices. Yelling, especially if directed at me or at children. (Yeah, psychoanalyze that!) Children's painful wails -- not because of the children but because they are in pain.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Actor or linguist. Shakespeare scholar, which might combine the first two. I, however, know the dangers of pursuing the road not traveled. I love being a historian very much and can't imagine doing anything much different from it, despite my complaints (and my complaints have more to do with the load -- 5/5 teaching and b.s. -- than the profession itself).
9. What profession would you not like to try?
Grade school teacher and anything having to do with poo. The two can go hand in hand, too, can't they?
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"I'm sorry." God does owe us a few, doesn't he? For some of his more fanatical followers if nothing else.
Anyway, this one is courtesy of the wonderful and kind Ink and is a good excuse to put up a blog post without resorting to the extreme burnout bile that I've been spewing on Twitter.
1. What is your favorite word?
Awesome! Although I'm having a growing infatuation with "pastry" these days. It just sounds yummy! That, and I really miss sugar.
2. What is your least favorite word?
Cunt -- but I do like to use it for effect in certain situations, like in the Vagina Monologues. Also, the N-word and any similar word that is used as a racial or ethnic pejorative.
3. What turns you on?
Laughing like Snoopy, kindness.
4. What turns you off?
Liars, willful ignorance, willful incompetence.
5. What is your favorite curse word?
Depending on the situation, "fuck!" or "shit!" A good "god-dammit" also works.
6. What sound or noise do you love?
Does silence count? Also, Don Henley's voice singing "Desperado" or "Come Rain or Come Shine." Bells, especially the jingly kind. Trains in the distance.
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Hateful voices. Yelling, especially if directed at me or at children. (Yeah, psychoanalyze that!) Children's painful wails -- not because of the children but because they are in pain.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Actor or linguist. Shakespeare scholar, which might combine the first two. I, however, know the dangers of pursuing the road not traveled. I love being a historian very much and can't imagine doing anything much different from it, despite my complaints (and my complaints have more to do with the load -- 5/5 teaching and b.s. -- than the profession itself).
9. What profession would you not like to try?
Grade school teacher and anything having to do with poo. The two can go hand in hand, too, can't they?
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"I'm sorry." God does owe us a few, doesn't he? For some of his more fanatical followers if nothing else.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
We Take a Pause in Our Regularly Scheduled B!tching and Moaning
I've bitched and moaned so much lately that I couldn't even bear to write about it. I've felt downright guilty and mortified for how much bitching and moaning I've been doing, and have hidden away to protect others from my gloom.
Today, however, is different. Today, I am going overseas for the first time in my entire, tiny, limited, little life! I will get a stamp in my passport -- my sad little passport that I have had for so long that it expired and was renewed all before it ever got a stamp! I will endure the miseries of an overseas flight! I will step off not merely onto different soil but in a different day! I will expereience jet lag, and drink tea instead of coffee, and hear people talk in an unfamiliar accent! I will be the panel presenter with the foreign accent! I will have to look the other way before crossing the street! I will be an outlander!
I have this very funny perception of places that I will visit, however. When I've known a place only in books, and the books are either historical fiction or history books, then I tend to think that I'm not only going to visit that place, but that time. That means that I think I will not only be stepping off the plane into my destination city, but that I will also be stepping into 1960 in that city. Then, I will get on a train and travel to another town, and I expect to be travellling through a kaleidascope of times from the time of the Roman occupation through World War II, only to step off of the train into 1590. A friend asked if I were travelling in a Delorean. Ahhh, if only (and as long as I could get back)!
If you don't hear from me again, check the news for downed planes -- or a mysterious tear in the time/space continuum.
Meanwhile, here is an earworm for the occasion:
Today, however, is different. Today, I am going overseas for the first time in my entire, tiny, limited, little life! I will get a stamp in my passport -- my sad little passport that I have had for so long that it expired and was renewed all before it ever got a stamp! I will endure the miseries of an overseas flight! I will step off not merely onto different soil but in a different day! I will expereience jet lag, and drink tea instead of coffee, and hear people talk in an unfamiliar accent! I will be the panel presenter with the foreign accent! I will have to look the other way before crossing the street! I will be an outlander!
I have this very funny perception of places that I will visit, however. When I've known a place only in books, and the books are either historical fiction or history books, then I tend to think that I'm not only going to visit that place, but that time. That means that I think I will not only be stepping off the plane into my destination city, but that I will also be stepping into 1960 in that city. Then, I will get on a train and travel to another town, and I expect to be travellling through a kaleidascope of times from the time of the Roman occupation through World War II, only to step off of the train into 1590. A friend asked if I were travelling in a Delorean. Ahhh, if only (and as long as I could get back)!
If you don't hear from me again, check the news for downed planes -- or a mysterious tear in the time/space continuum.
Meanwhile, here is an earworm for the occasion:
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