Not Everyone Can Excel in Self-Awareness

One thing I've mentioned before is that many of my kind of freshmen tend to be a little socially immature. An aspect of their social underdevelopment shows in their inability to self-censor.

Just today, after class, kids milling about to ask me questions I'd already given answers to:

A girl: Hey, you know what would be fun?
Me: What? (thinking she'd say something about holding class outside or at the library coffeeshop)
Girl: To try to straighten your hair sometime.
Me: Yeah, my hairdresser has tried that before. It doesn't look so good.
Girl: But you have AN AFRO! I mean, your hair is an AFRO!
(An African-American student, on his way out the door, looks at me and sort of rolls his eyes, like "She obviously doesn't know what a real Afro looks like")
Before I can respond, another girl, in my defense: But I loooove her curly red hair! I think it's so cute!
Back to Girl #1: But, straightening it would be something different.
Finally, I interject: I think I look like a boy when my hair is straight.
Girl #1: I don't think anyone would think you look like a boy when your hair is straight. I mean, your eyebrows are done up and you wear make-up.

It's a very strange thing to experience, people having a conversation about you, while standing right in front of you, and barely participating in it at all.

And if things couldn't get any weirder, they did at lunchtime, when I was standing in a very crowded cafeteria attempting to pay for my salad. The guy behind me brushes up against my backpack.

Guy: Oh, sorry, sorry about that. I wasn't pushing you forward of anything.
Me: It's OK.
Guy: Whose picture is on those buttons on your coat?
Me: Elvis.
Guy: Elvis!? I LOVE Elvis.
Me: Me too.
Guy: I've seen ALL the movies Elvis ever made! Like I saw the one about Hawaii, and the Western one, and the one about the jail, and the one where he's a motorcycle guy in the circus... (he describes a few others-- possibly not realizing that in every movie Elvis ever made, Elvis stars as Elvis, so they're really all the same) Which ones have you seen?
Me: I"ve seen a few-- GI Blues, Blue Hawaii, Girls Girls Girls... a few others...
Guy: I can sing just like Elvis.
Me: Oh, you can?
Guy (bending down nearer to my ear, he was a pretty tall fellow): Love me tender, love me true, never let me go...
Me: Good work.
Guy: I don't sound like him, but I love all of his songs.

This guy gives me his card in case I ever want him to come speak to my classes. He is an attorney. I'm not certain his Elvis impression will win him any clients, or inspire others to earn jurisdoctorates.

(And a moment ago, at my office, Kris Kristoffersen was on the radio. Barf.)

And... they're off....

No, the title isn't in reference to my knickers.

The semester started on Monday, without any major headaches. All my copying was done, most of my students were where they were supposed to be. Not a cell phone rang during class, and not a single student slept while class was in session, just in the moments before. I did discover many embarrassing proofreading errors (like my office phone listed wrong, wrong room number, etc.) on the syllabus for my English class, but I clarified the changes, the students wrote them in, and all was well. I'm pretty sure they still like me.

And, for the first time in years, I actually had a good night's sleep before the first day of school. I dreamt something about sailing smoothly underwater; I wasn't suffocating or anything, just felt content and without the desire to emerge. If that's a harbinger of the mood for this semester, aces for me.

Unrelated, but interesting: an important question a friend recently posed: "Is it more valuable to be deep and meaningful or honest and caring?" Anyone want to take a stab at that one?

Bueller? Bueller?

No, I'm not Dead

This past week was a little on the easy and the uneasy side. After being told by the office of Academic Assistance and Advising that I would have to vacate my floor-to-ceiling windowed lovely office, which I share with only one other instructor, I felt sort of homeless-- but, I turned in my key and turned to the English Dept. to find somewhere else for me to go.

In the meantime, Acadmic Assistance and Advising investigated some other options for me-- and, like, I don't mean to complain, because I'm just temp faculty and am really surprised I even GET an office-- but the other options were pretty crap. My boss and I looked at them together and she was even like, "Ewwww." In the meantime of the meantime, the English Dept found me a small home with another temp faculty, who teaches opposite days from me. This other temp faculty is a nice person, but keeps office like he might have to vacate it in a second. I'm talking stuff in boxes. And not like two boxes, but firehazard-upon-firehazard stacks of boxes. It appears he's kept every paper his students have written since 1970. I was afraid I might topple over a pile of crap and suffocate under it. At least if that happened I have life insurance again.

(Oh! Good news! Medical benefits came through. I am a real person of value to society again. Had I sustained another type of injury from sharing an office with the Disarrayed-Disorderly One, that would've been totally covered too. And maybe I'd even qualify for Workman's Comp.)

So, the semester starts tomorrow. I am teaching five classes this fall. I'll be fine, I know, but I'll feel a little overwhelmed until it all starts up and I get a routine again. But, it turns out I can move back into my old Academic Assistance and Advising Office since they didn't need the space after all. My desk is permanently locked, and no one has a key to it, but it's MY DESK. And if the person who used it long ago and also lost the key put a bomb inside, then at least I'll blow up in MY OFFICE with MY old computer and MY meager stacks of teacher "resources".

Evan Smells

... really really strong. He was watching me put on my make-up this AM, and decided to splash on some of Dada's AXE Body Spray; then some of Mama's Patchouli-hippie-stink; then a few other perfume oils, just for good measure-- and, last but not least, some hairspray.

Later on we went shopping. He stunk up the dressing room. I'm pretty sure there were ribbons of pretty smell trailing behind him as we walked up and down the aisles in women's dresses.

I love Evan. He is my best friend. But, I would not want to be sitting next to him on a bus. At least not today.

Trying to be a better person...

So, here it is, my live and online pledge to you that I am trying to become a better person-- mostly through more rigorous dedication to fitness and nutrition.

Coming home from Dublin, I was a pretty trim gal-- and since being home, have put on probably 10 lbs. This is too much weight for my height and a massive swing in the wrong direction. I've also realized that I'll be less likely to put off exercise if I go to bed earlier and get up earlier-- before anyone else (Evan) is awake. For example, this AM I woke up at 6:00, jogged 2.4 (a little more, maybe) miles, and was able to cook and eat a lovely breakfast. I plan the same tomorrow.

This is what Po' Bastard cooked up:

Po' Bastard's Chocolate Sludge Oatmeal
(looks like dung but tastes a lot better-- Believe it or not)

Ingredients:
-1 c. skim milk
-1/2 c. quick cooking oats
-2 tsp. Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate cocoa powder
-2 tbsp. sugar

Bring the milk to a rolling boil in a small saucepan. Dump the cocoa powder into the milk and whisk until smooth. Dump in the oats-- turn down the pan a little bit, but continue stirring constantly (for about five minutes) until the mixture thickens, the oats have absorbed some of the milk, and are tender. Stir in the sugar.

Yes, as 30 looms on my horizon next May, I wanted to get all my ducks in a row. Not kidding there... I want to do 30 better than many people do. No control top hose for me! Instead, I'm gonna control what I eat and how I exercise! SNAP!

The Stars at Night are Big and Bright!

Well, here we are in Lewisville, TX-- a bit north of Dallas--spending some hellaciously (sp?) hot, but very entertaining days with Andrew's family. We're headed back to MI on Tuesday. I'll update more about the trip later, but until then, I thought it most fitting to share an entertaining tale of our travels, in light of the new liquids restrictions.

(This tale has nothing to do with carrying-on of liquids, but rather the culture of paranoia terrorist "alerts" elicit in many people.)

So, we get on the plane in Chicago to fly to DFW. Everything was scheduled to be on time. The plane boards. All seems good, until, a few rows ahead of us, a female passenger starts flipping out--the passenger next to her, a college student who is reading ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY (and who also looks vaguely Arabic)--and calls the stewardess. The stewardess then calls the TSA marshal. The marshal arrives to investigate, and the conversation goes something like this:

Marshal, flipping through the magazine: Well, ma'am, which article was it?
The woman, hyperventilating, gesturing like a monkey on speed: That one.
Marshal: Oh... I see.
(It's an article about the new James Bond film, and there's a picture of Jame Bond holding an Uzi)
More conversation ensues. The magazine is confiscated. The crazy ho wants the kid thrown off the plane. When they won't remove him from the plane, she removes her carry-on bag from the overhead compartment, and saunters up to the front of the plane demanding to be let off. She drags her very embarrassed husband along with her.

Everyone in the back of the plane is laughing at her. It's completely obvious to the rest of us that this woman's fears are completely unfounded and irrational. Even the stewardesses are trying to suppress smiles. When the woman leaves the plane, everyone breathes easier. We're relieved to have the college kid on board. Everyone else seems to know that A) James Bond is British and B) Entertainment Weekly is an American magazine.

I hold up one of Evan's books-- How Do Dinosaurs Get Well Soon-- and say to the guys behind me, "Are you guys afraid of this?" They threaten to get me thrown off the plane. We laugh heartily.

When the flight lands at DFW, one of the passengers calls his wife to tell her we've arrived. As he fills her in on what held up the flight, he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I think that woman's husband lost a bet with Satan."

I begin clapping. Let's hear it for traveling in America.

The Love of My Teenage Life Got Married

Once upon a time, when I was a moody early bloomer, my mom made friends with a family-- the Feinbergs-- whose son, Rhett, was exactly my age. Our families became fast friends (they also had a daughter, Anna, who took Suzuki violin lessons with my sister Angela), and we spent a lot of time together doing "family things", like visiting Greenfield Village, playing Pictionary, etc.

Rhett and I became pretty good friends, in a complicated teenage kind of way. I thought he was was a big nerd, and didn't have any compunction about making fun of him for playing computer games or watching Star Trek. At the same time, I thought he was completely brilliant, fun and funny and kind-- it didn't matter to him that I wasn't good at sports; or that I was a poetry-writing , glasses-wearing dweeb who tried too hard to be "cool". We bonded deeply in our shared awkwardness.

At 12 and 13 years old, if someone would've asked me who I wanted to marry, I would've said, "Ewww, gross"-- but inside, the true answer would've resounded in me like an echo in a concrete room, "Rhett! Feinberg! RHETT FEINBERG!" And the truth would sound so loud I'd be desperately embarrassed, like-- did he hear that? Geez, I hope not; but, I sort of hope he did, too. Back then, I'm pretty sure Rhett felt the same for me as I did for him. But what could we do about that at 13 years old? Not much: neither one of us could drive; neither one of us worked, so we didn't have money to go anywhere; and we certainly weren't going to confess to our parents that we were in love, because it might ruin their friendship (how selfless of us!). So we kept our feelings mostly concealed, with the excpetion of a few actions: I wrote him a volume of poetry for his Bar Mitzvah; we held hands once on my bed; and, when we got a little older, we kissed a few times.

Through the years, my mom and Rhett's mom have stayed in touch. I've heard about him through this grapevine, even though I haven't seen him or spoken to him in years. A lot has changed: Rhett's name is now Mike-- after college, he got a great job in the tech industry out in California; his hobbies there include jumping out of planes and other assorted reckless activity. Most recently, Mike got married at a swanky place in Hawaii. My mom forwarded me his wedding website address, and Andrew and I browsed the photos last night. I was so glad to see him looking so happy, next to his beautiful brunette wife. The peace and happiness between them was palpable, even in pictures-- and that complete sense of fulfillment is exactly what I would've wished for him... even when I was 12.

So, I wrote this poem as a reaction/response to my experience viewing the photos:

Looking at Mike Feinberg's Wedding Photo

I have long known the
essence of you-- the vintage version in
the Country Day sweater and creased dark pants--
how I loved you then!-- earnestly, deeply,
secretively-- an early bloomer
trying to conceal my breasts.
I hoped no one would detect either thing.
Back then, my love could've carried us
across The Bridge to Terabithia and onto
drier land where we would've been protected
from the inadequacies of other loves.
Had we walked together, hand-in-hand untouched
by sorrow, you wouldn't have everything
you never knew I wished for you;
I would not see your face as I see it now:
your eyes-- and hers-- glow with the
light of youth to come. Your heart is
finally home.

Many happy years to Mike Feinberg and his lovely bride!

The Facts of Life: "You take the good you take the [sad]"

With the short season of readmittance interviews nearing a close, I've come to realize a thing or two:

1. No matter what, some parents will always overestimate their son or daughter's ability to succeed in college.

2. No matter what, some students will always overestimate their ability to succeed in college.

3. How sad, 1+2, that these people are made to feel-- probably from some sort of societal pressure-- that college/education are the only keys to true success in life.

(I argue very differently from this, in fact-- a degree doesn't really guarantee much of anything in this life-- especially not total fulfillment. There seems to be this overinflated COLLEGE-IS-EVERYTHING sense with many undergraduate students because going to college, as we all well know, is the only way to get an interesting job in your field of expertise and interest. Get with the program, people-- college helps students become people in the world who can do things; but-- you can also do things in the world by doing things other than college-- like working, traveling, and investigating other-- hopefully legal and healthy-- interests. Why should someone be made to feel like putting off college is a bad idea? For some kids, it's the best route to take! Word.)

I Heart Panic

About this time of year, as the first day of classes draws nearer (Monday 8/28)-- the same feeling waves over me every time. It's a deep-seated, slightly disorganized panic: one of "Ohmigod, I have so many tasks to do-- where should I start?" It's not so much that I don't believe I can start the work (indeed, ask any of my colleagues from graduate school-- I was always ahead of due dates), it's more that I haven't done any work all summer long-- and when this happens, I begin to wonder whether or not I still have the "OOMPH" needed to push me into the productivity of fall. I will say that my summer's-end mini-panic dissipates easily, without chemical relief agents (like Merlot), when I actually jump headlong into work-related tasks and start "accomplishing something" as my mom likes to say.

I tend to start with the easy stuff: charting out course calendars, deciding what type of assignments I want to do, reviewing the textbook, revising wording on my syllabi, etc. Once I finish that stuff, I start the more complex stuff, like actually draft assignment sheets. In my opinion, it doesn't really take too long to get pretty prepared to teach a course. I figure about two-hours worth of work for each document-- most of my assignment sheets are just that-- one sheet-- so we're talking about a very short work week (18-20 hours worth) of drafting assignment sheets, miscellaneous homework, etc.

As always, even the most organized person can only be so ready for the start of classes. Sometimes syllabi don't get copied in full; sometimes you can't access your class lists, so you can't really take attendance or verify that the students in your class are actually supposed to be there.

And I know shit happens, but it's the shit I can't plan for (or panic about) that scares me/annoys me most.