I've always been a big fan of the great outdoors. When I was very young, my family spent a lot of time camping, fishing and hiking in the mountains around our home in Boise. When I got a little older, those trips became less frequent--but I started spending hours on my bike, long evening hours spent riding around the southeast side of town. This was long before the Ipod (or even the Walkman), so I just enjoyed the relative quiet of being alone on my bike. I come from a loud family; quiet time was hard to come by.
When I went away to college, I spent lots of time between and after classes hiking around the university's arboretum. I didn't have a car on campus, so I walked everywhere I went. But even when I went away to graduate school in Kansas and had a car at my disposal, I walked more often than I drove. Driving is stressful; walking is peaceful. I made good use of that time and did a lot of writing in my head before I sat down to put anything on paper. I slogged through a lot of snow, but I also kicked through many beautiful autumn leaves. I never thought about whether to walk or drive; I walked unless a mile on foot seemed impossible, as it did some sub-zero mornings.
One of my earliest memories of time spent with my husband Mike was the time we spent in Idaho when I brought him home from Kansas to meet my parents. My dad took us on a long drive through the mountains to look at the damage done by a recent forest fire. Eventually, we wound up at Redfish Lake. I remember standing ankle-deep in the lake with my mother, looking for pretty stones on the lake floor. I looked back over my shoulder at my husband, who was standing on the shore and staring at me.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said. "You just look like you belong here."
It made me irrationally happy to hear him say that. I felt like I belonged there, at the foot of the Sawtooth Mountains, and I was glad it showed in some perceptible way.
Lately, as I've started running outdoors more often than I run on the treadmill, I've been thinking about how much comfort I take from being there. Few things make me feel as content as taking a long walk or a good run on a beautiful day. I think this is something I learned from my dad--who was not a walker or (heaven forbid!) a runner, but who spent most of his time working outdoors, in his garden or in the yard. I helped him build the fence that still stands behind my parents' house one Saturday when I was in grade school, without being asked to do so, because I liked being outside. And I loved being with him.
My dad is nearing the end of his life. He's 83; his health is failing and his memory is fading. The last time I was home, for my niece's wedding in October, I worried that he wouldn't remember who I was, since I live so far away and don't see him often. He seemed to know me, though--until he turned to my mother at one point and said "That Mike's wife sure is a nice lady."
It made me sad, of course, to realize that (if only for a moment, until my mom reminded him) my dad didn't know I was his daughter. After I'd moved past that initial sadness, though, I realized that I'd been given a gift. My dad had just made a purely objective assessment of me, and it was entirely positive. He had nothing to gain by saying I was a nice lady; he didn't know he'd had a hand in raising me, so he wasn't giving himself credit for a job well done. I imagine there are very few people who have an objective sense of how their parents feel about them, and I'm one of the lucky few who does.
I think, too, this is nature's way of helping me get used to the fact that the people I love won't be with me forever. My dad is still with us in body, but the person he used to be--the man who knew everything there is to know about making things grow, who taught me how to bait a hook and mark a trail and build a fence--that person just isn't here anymore. He's lost somewhere inside the body that's been left behind in his place.
I've spent some time crying about this, but nature is giving me time to get used to the facts: my dad is not my dad anymore. I'm a middle-aged woman with half-grown children of my own; I don't really need a dad anymore. What I do need is a little time to say goodbye to one of the most important people in my life, and that's precisely what nature is giving me. Rather than fearing the inevitable, I need to recognize that gift and accept it with gratitude. Far too many people never get the chance to say goodbye.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
More than Words
Yesterday I offered the message during chapel services on campus. I'd been asked to do this in my official capacity as director of the Center for Women's Studies, because the student who's interning with the Center this semester is also very involved with Campus Ministries. I would have said no if I'd thought I could get away with it--but, alas, I knew I couldn't.
I stand up in front of people and talk for a living, so it's not performance anxiety that was freaking me out yesterday morning--I lecture in class, I give readings of my fiction, I give talks on the writing process. But I don't talk about my faith very often. The truth is, I feel like a bit of a faith phony. I grew up going to church, but I never liked going. In fact, I really hated church. I had to get up early on Sunday morning and dress well and act nice; I had to listen to things that didn't make sense to me, and then I had to pretend that I believed them. Faith felt completely irrelevant to my life, and no one really seemed to care--as long as I was getting up and going to church on Sunday morning.
I stopped going to church as soon as I'd left home, and I didn't go back again until I was almost forty years old. I've actually enjoyed church as an adult--mostly because of wonderful colleagues in the Theology department at my university, people who've encouraged me to understand that my faith is personal, that it involves both what I believe in my heart and what I know in my head. I can get on board with the idea of an intellectually respectable faith. I even enjoy Bible study, which now seems like a natural offshoot of what I do as a literature professor.
So yesterday, when I was asked to speak in chapel, I brought the two together. I talked about a poem by W.H. Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening," and I tied it to our scripture reading on the greatest commandment. (The full text of the poem is available here.)
Here's the text of my talk:
"A few weeks ago, my good friend Dr. Metereau reminded me of a poem I’d read many years ago and forgotten. It’s a poem I love—W.H. Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.” It’s a pretty long poem, so I’m not going to read you the whole thing today, though I do hope you’ll look it up. Basically, it’s about a person who goes out for a walk one evening and overhears someone singing of undying love for a partner—telling this partner, among other things, “I’ll love you till the ocean/is folded and hung up to dry/And the seven stars go squawking/Like geese about the sky.”
But not long after this, the speaker of the poem hears another song, as “all the clocks in the city/began to whir and chime,” and their song is much less optimistic: the clocks sing, “O let not Time deceive you;/you cannot conquer Time.”
The clocks continue this song, encouraging the lover to acknowledge their much greater power and to understand that no human being will ever win this battle: human love, unlike time, will come to an end. When it does, it will leave us with a feeling of emptiness—of empty time—where that love used to be. I’m sure we’ve all had that feeling at one point or another. It’s the feeling of loss that makes us question whether love is even worth our while.
The clocks in this poem offer three images of that kind of despair. They say “' . . . plunge your hands in water, /Plunge them in up to the wrist;/Stare, stare in the basin/ And wonder what you've missed.” And then: “'. . . look in the mirror,/ O look in your distress:/ Life remains a blessing/ Although you cannot bless.” And lastly: ". . . stand at the window /As the tears scald and start;/You shall love your crooked neighbour/ With your crooked heart.’”
Those last lines are my favorite. I think it’s interesting that Auden doesn’t say “You must love your crooked neighbor”—that would be a commandment. Nor does he say “You should love your crooked neighbor”—which would suggest that we don’t, and we need to get busy. Instead, Auden just says “You shall love your crooked neighbor.” It’s a statement of fact. It recognizes a very simple truth: human beings can’t avoid connecting with each other, even though we know that imperfect human love is going to leave us wanting.
Of course, Auden also points out that we’re going to love our crooked neighbors with crooked hearts. So what we have in common with one another, it seems, is our imperfection. And maybe that’s why we can’t avoid loving each other—because to love an imperfect person is to prove that you, as another imperfect person, are also worthy of being loved. Maybe we use our connections with each other to escape from the fact of our shortcomings.
The scripture reading for today tells us that we are to love our neighbors in the same way we love ourselves—but we all know that loving ourselves isn’t always an easy job. We live in a culture that’s devoted to pointing out our shortcomings. Women, in particular, are constantly being convinced that they need products that will make their imperfections less noticeable to others—which will make them more beautiful and, by extension, more loveable.
We also live in a culture that views some kinds of love as less perfect than others. Auden himself was a gay man, and a Christian, and he struggled to reconcile his faith and his personal identity, because he’d been taught that this kind of love was sinful—and yet, no matter how hard he tried to change his heart, that kind of love was what he found there.
I don’t think it’s an accident that, in contemporary culture, to be heterosexual is to be called “straight”; we used the word “crooked” to describe a person who is dishonest or immoral. But maybe, if we understand the “crookedness” Auden is talking about in this poem to be symbolic, not of immorality, but of the path that each of us walks through life—sometimes headed toward God, sometimes headed away from God—then we can begin to understand how crookedness is something we all share, no matter who we love.
In fact, sometimes the people we love the most—our friends, even our family—are the ones who lead us away from God. They do this by offering negative assessments of us, and they often claim to do this for our own good. Sometimes, our self-image is so warped by the negative messages we’ve taken in that they become a part of us: we honestly can’t imagine how anyone, even God, could love us. Our hearts move toward those negative assessments rather than toward God’s love of our glorious imperfection.
When we get to that place of self-loathing, we often lead ourselves even farther away from God. Auden, for instance, declared himself an atheist—but his poetry shows a consistent devotion to Christian faith, and he did eventually turn back to God and reconcile with the church.
Here’s a more contemporary example: in light of the recent decisions made by the ELCA’s church-wide assembly, many members of my congregation have simply stopped worshiping with our church family. They’ve just walked away. Before those decisions were made, I thought a lot about what I would do if I disagreed with the outcome of the church-wide assembly, and I thought I might leave the church. But I couldn’t get around the fact that we walk away from God anytime we’re too confident in our understanding of anything.
The truth is, I don’t know if the church-wide assembly made the right decision. I believe they did—I believe they acted out of love for their neighbors. But I don’t know. And I try to remember that I don’t know (which is hard for me, because I’m a professor, and I’m used to being the person in the room who knows things) so I’m not compelled to act unkindly toward my neighbors who disagree, because I’m called to love them, too.
What I do know is this: our imperfect human love is the best thing we have to offer each other, and it’s the only way we have to fulfill the greatest commandment: Love the Lord, love your neighbor, love yourself. None of these things are easy, but Auden seems to believe they’re inevitable. You will love your crooked neighbor, he says. Only remember that, when you do, you love with an equally crooked heart."
I got through my talk and hoped I hadn't made a fool of myself--that was really the only goal I had in mind. The adrenaline I'd built up left me shaking for a good half hour afterward. I got lots of hugs and pats on the back from my students and colleagues, but friends will say you've done well just because they know they should. It's what friends do.
But then, after I'd headed off to class, I thought I heard someone call my name. I turned around, but I didn't see anyone I recognized. A young woman was walking toward me--but because I wasn't sure I'd heard my name, I wasn't sure if she was just walking in my direction or walking up to me. I must have looked very confused, because she said "It's okay, you don't know me." She introduced herself, then said, "I just wanted to tell you that I really like what you said in chapel. It got to me." She was all choked up as she said this. I thanked her and patted her shoulder, and then we parted ways.
That young woman is the person who let me know I'd done more than just get through my chapel talk. I'd touched the heart of a complete stranger--someone who didn't know me at all, who had no reason to feel compelled to say anything kind. She gave me hope that my words make a difference in the world. And she can't possibly know how much her words meant to me.
I stand up in front of people and talk for a living, so it's not performance anxiety that was freaking me out yesterday morning--I lecture in class, I give readings of my fiction, I give talks on the writing process. But I don't talk about my faith very often. The truth is, I feel like a bit of a faith phony. I grew up going to church, but I never liked going. In fact, I really hated church. I had to get up early on Sunday morning and dress well and act nice; I had to listen to things that didn't make sense to me, and then I had to pretend that I believed them. Faith felt completely irrelevant to my life, and no one really seemed to care--as long as I was getting up and going to church on Sunday morning.
I stopped going to church as soon as I'd left home, and I didn't go back again until I was almost forty years old. I've actually enjoyed church as an adult--mostly because of wonderful colleagues in the Theology department at my university, people who've encouraged me to understand that my faith is personal, that it involves both what I believe in my heart and what I know in my head. I can get on board with the idea of an intellectually respectable faith. I even enjoy Bible study, which now seems like a natural offshoot of what I do as a literature professor.
So yesterday, when I was asked to speak in chapel, I brought the two together. I talked about a poem by W.H. Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening," and I tied it to our scripture reading on the greatest commandment. (The full text of the poem is available here.)
Here's the text of my talk:
"A few weeks ago, my good friend Dr. Metereau reminded me of a poem I’d read many years ago and forgotten. It’s a poem I love—W.H. Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.” It’s a pretty long poem, so I’m not going to read you the whole thing today, though I do hope you’ll look it up. Basically, it’s about a person who goes out for a walk one evening and overhears someone singing of undying love for a partner—telling this partner, among other things, “I’ll love you till the ocean/is folded and hung up to dry/And the seven stars go squawking/Like geese about the sky.”
But not long after this, the speaker of the poem hears another song, as “all the clocks in the city/began to whir and chime,” and their song is much less optimistic: the clocks sing, “O let not Time deceive you;/you cannot conquer Time.”
The clocks continue this song, encouraging the lover to acknowledge their much greater power and to understand that no human being will ever win this battle: human love, unlike time, will come to an end. When it does, it will leave us with a feeling of emptiness—of empty time—where that love used to be. I’m sure we’ve all had that feeling at one point or another. It’s the feeling of loss that makes us question whether love is even worth our while.
The clocks in this poem offer three images of that kind of despair. They say “' . . . plunge your hands in water, /Plunge them in up to the wrist;/Stare, stare in the basin/ And wonder what you've missed.” And then: “'. . . look in the mirror,/ O look in your distress:/ Life remains a blessing/ Although you cannot bless.” And lastly: ". . . stand at the window /As the tears scald and start;/You shall love your crooked neighbour/ With your crooked heart.’”
Those last lines are my favorite. I think it’s interesting that Auden doesn’t say “You must love your crooked neighbor”—that would be a commandment. Nor does he say “You should love your crooked neighbor”—which would suggest that we don’t, and we need to get busy. Instead, Auden just says “You shall love your crooked neighbor.” It’s a statement of fact. It recognizes a very simple truth: human beings can’t avoid connecting with each other, even though we know that imperfect human love is going to leave us wanting.
Of course, Auden also points out that we’re going to love our crooked neighbors with crooked hearts. So what we have in common with one another, it seems, is our imperfection. And maybe that’s why we can’t avoid loving each other—because to love an imperfect person is to prove that you, as another imperfect person, are also worthy of being loved. Maybe we use our connections with each other to escape from the fact of our shortcomings.
The scripture reading for today tells us that we are to love our neighbors in the same way we love ourselves—but we all know that loving ourselves isn’t always an easy job. We live in a culture that’s devoted to pointing out our shortcomings. Women, in particular, are constantly being convinced that they need products that will make their imperfections less noticeable to others—which will make them more beautiful and, by extension, more loveable.
We also live in a culture that views some kinds of love as less perfect than others. Auden himself was a gay man, and a Christian, and he struggled to reconcile his faith and his personal identity, because he’d been taught that this kind of love was sinful—and yet, no matter how hard he tried to change his heart, that kind of love was what he found there.
I don’t think it’s an accident that, in contemporary culture, to be heterosexual is to be called “straight”; we used the word “crooked” to describe a person who is dishonest or immoral. But maybe, if we understand the “crookedness” Auden is talking about in this poem to be symbolic, not of immorality, but of the path that each of us walks through life—sometimes headed toward God, sometimes headed away from God—then we can begin to understand how crookedness is something we all share, no matter who we love.
In fact, sometimes the people we love the most—our friends, even our family—are the ones who lead us away from God. They do this by offering negative assessments of us, and they often claim to do this for our own good. Sometimes, our self-image is so warped by the negative messages we’ve taken in that they become a part of us: we honestly can’t imagine how anyone, even God, could love us. Our hearts move toward those negative assessments rather than toward God’s love of our glorious imperfection.
When we get to that place of self-loathing, we often lead ourselves even farther away from God. Auden, for instance, declared himself an atheist—but his poetry shows a consistent devotion to Christian faith, and he did eventually turn back to God and reconcile with the church.
Here’s a more contemporary example: in light of the recent decisions made by the ELCA’s church-wide assembly, many members of my congregation have simply stopped worshiping with our church family. They’ve just walked away. Before those decisions were made, I thought a lot about what I would do if I disagreed with the outcome of the church-wide assembly, and I thought I might leave the church. But I couldn’t get around the fact that we walk away from God anytime we’re too confident in our understanding of anything.
The truth is, I don’t know if the church-wide assembly made the right decision. I believe they did—I believe they acted out of love for their neighbors. But I don’t know. And I try to remember that I don’t know (which is hard for me, because I’m a professor, and I’m used to being the person in the room who knows things) so I’m not compelled to act unkindly toward my neighbors who disagree, because I’m called to love them, too.
What I do know is this: our imperfect human love is the best thing we have to offer each other, and it’s the only way we have to fulfill the greatest commandment: Love the Lord, love your neighbor, love yourself. None of these things are easy, but Auden seems to believe they’re inevitable. You will love your crooked neighbor, he says. Only remember that, when you do, you love with an equally crooked heart."
I got through my talk and hoped I hadn't made a fool of myself--that was really the only goal I had in mind. The adrenaline I'd built up left me shaking for a good half hour afterward. I got lots of hugs and pats on the back from my students and colleagues, but friends will say you've done well just because they know they should. It's what friends do.
But then, after I'd headed off to class, I thought I heard someone call my name. I turned around, but I didn't see anyone I recognized. A young woman was walking toward me--but because I wasn't sure I'd heard my name, I wasn't sure if she was just walking in my direction or walking up to me. I must have looked very confused, because she said "It's okay, you don't know me." She introduced herself, then said, "I just wanted to tell you that I really like what you said in chapel. It got to me." She was all choked up as she said this. I thanked her and patted her shoulder, and then we parted ways.
That young woman is the person who let me know I'd done more than just get through my chapel talk. I'd touched the heart of a complete stranger--someone who didn't know me at all, who had no reason to feel compelled to say anything kind. She gave me hope that my words make a difference in the world. And she can't possibly know how much her words meant to me.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Gentle Giants
I went to the movies with my son yesterday--we saw Where the Wild Things Are, Spike Jonze's interpretation of the book by Maurice Sendak. I don't know what I expected from the film, exactly, but what I took from it was much different (and much more profound) than anything I could have anticipated.
People who haven't liked the film, as far as I can tell, went in expecting a lighthearted adventure fantasy. I'm not sure why anyone would expect that--at least, not anyone who's read the book. The monsters in Sendak's story were enormous, scary creatures who gnashed their teeth and bared their claws and rolled their eyes. They were the creation of an angry little boy, Max, who'd been sent to his room for misbehaving. Why would they be cuddly, fun-loving friends? Max isn't looking for someone to play with; he's looking for a place where he can finally call the shots. That can't happen in the human world, where big people boss the little people around, so it has to happen in an imaginary world where small people rule. And the occupants of that world might as well be big and scary, to illustrate just how powerful the small people are.
The film version of this story deals more with the psychology of Max's experience (and of being a child, in general) than with monsters or wild rumpus. The movie begins with several scenes of Max acting like a boy of eight or nine--first chasing his dog, then building a snow fort of which he's particularly proud, then trying to get his big sister Claire's attention so he can show off the fort. Her conscious decision to ignore him in these scenes obviously hurts Max, as does the fact that Claire and her friends don't care about his pain when the snow fort is destroyed during a snowball fight gone awry. Jonze is careful to show that the big kids, especially Claire, see exactly what they've done and choose to walk away from it without apology or concern. Max is just a little kid, after all. He has no power to shape the behavior of older people. He does, however, have enough power to trash his sister's bedroom--so he does. He pays particular attention to destroying a gift he made for her some time ago. And then he regrets that decision, as we all regret things we've done in anger.
There's a casual mention, in this early scene, of Max and his sister spending the weekend with their dad. So later, when Max's mother is entertaining a male friend, we're not entirely surprised to see Max throw a tantrum--once again, he has no power to change what's happening around him, to stop the gradual unraveling of his family. This time, though, the frustration of being put in that position leads him to run away from his mother and sail off to the island of the Wild Things, where some smooth storytelling skills help him to establish himself as the king.
The problem with being the king, of course, is that people expect you to fix their problems. To talk about everything that happens on the island would take far too long, and the events of that experience aren't really the point anyway--suffice it to say that Max's imaginary world is similar to the real world in meaningful ways. He meets a monster who's very much like himself; when Max arrives, Carol is throwing a tantrum. Carol is frustrated by situations he can't control, too, including his rejection by another monster, KW. Carol and KW have been romantic partners at some point in the past, it seems, but KW's lank hair and big eyes are also reminiscent of Claire's. KW just doesn't feel about Carol the way she used to--she has new, more interesting friends to hang out with--and Carol doesn't understand why this is happening, and KW can't really put her feelings into words. Maybe there are no words for what she feels. She just knows that she doesn't want to hang around Carol anymore.
At one point, Carol shows Max a model world he's created, a world in which he and KW ride a canoe together down a lazy river. Some time after this--after Max has to admit that he's not a king, just a regular boy who lacks the power to shield the world from sadness, as he promised he would--Max discovers that Carol has destroyed his model in another fit of anger. And Max knows what this means: Carol has given up on thinking things in his life will ever be okay again. He worries that Carol will turn that anger against him, as well. So in the rubble of that imaginary utopia, Max leaves Carol a sign that he loves him and hopes that will make a difference.
And it does, of course. Small acts of love are the only thing that can bring us back to each other those moments of intense frustration and anger. The end of the movie, when Max leaves the island to head back home and Carol watches him leave, weeping openly, is simply heartbreaking. Max has to go back--he's just a little boy, after all, and he misses his mom. But he doesn't want to hurt Carol. He knows how painful it is to be abandoned. Still, Max has learned that you can't rely on someone else to fix your problems, and you can't run away from them either. Sometimes, lacking the power to change a situation, you just have to live with things the way they are.
Any movie that's honest about childhood has to be sad. Both my son and I were crying our eyes out by the end of the film. Many people like to romanticize childhood as a carefree and magical time in our lives, but the truth is that it's the time when we learn the hardest lessons: Human beings are often unkind to each other for no real reason. There is no magic for solving the world's problems. There is only love--and love, sadly, can disappear without warning.
Like I said, I don't know what I expected from this film. What I got was a beautiful reminder of how scary it is to be a child, powerless in a world where small acts of caring are the only defense against the Wild Things that threaten to eat us up.
People who haven't liked the film, as far as I can tell, went in expecting a lighthearted adventure fantasy. I'm not sure why anyone would expect that--at least, not anyone who's read the book. The monsters in Sendak's story were enormous, scary creatures who gnashed their teeth and bared their claws and rolled their eyes. They were the creation of an angry little boy, Max, who'd been sent to his room for misbehaving. Why would they be cuddly, fun-loving friends? Max isn't looking for someone to play with; he's looking for a place where he can finally call the shots. That can't happen in the human world, where big people boss the little people around, so it has to happen in an imaginary world where small people rule. And the occupants of that world might as well be big and scary, to illustrate just how powerful the small people are.
The film version of this story deals more with the psychology of Max's experience (and of being a child, in general) than with monsters or wild rumpus. The movie begins with several scenes of Max acting like a boy of eight or nine--first chasing his dog, then building a snow fort of which he's particularly proud, then trying to get his big sister Claire's attention so he can show off the fort. Her conscious decision to ignore him in these scenes obviously hurts Max, as does the fact that Claire and her friends don't care about his pain when the snow fort is destroyed during a snowball fight gone awry. Jonze is careful to show that the big kids, especially Claire, see exactly what they've done and choose to walk away from it without apology or concern. Max is just a little kid, after all. He has no power to shape the behavior of older people. He does, however, have enough power to trash his sister's bedroom--so he does. He pays particular attention to destroying a gift he made for her some time ago. And then he regrets that decision, as we all regret things we've done in anger.
There's a casual mention, in this early scene, of Max and his sister spending the weekend with their dad. So later, when Max's mother is entertaining a male friend, we're not entirely surprised to see Max throw a tantrum--once again, he has no power to change what's happening around him, to stop the gradual unraveling of his family. This time, though, the frustration of being put in that position leads him to run away from his mother and sail off to the island of the Wild Things, where some smooth storytelling skills help him to establish himself as the king.
The problem with being the king, of course, is that people expect you to fix their problems. To talk about everything that happens on the island would take far too long, and the events of that experience aren't really the point anyway--suffice it to say that Max's imaginary world is similar to the real world in meaningful ways. He meets a monster who's very much like himself; when Max arrives, Carol is throwing a tantrum. Carol is frustrated by situations he can't control, too, including his rejection by another monster, KW. Carol and KW have been romantic partners at some point in the past, it seems, but KW's lank hair and big eyes are also reminiscent of Claire's. KW just doesn't feel about Carol the way she used to--she has new, more interesting friends to hang out with--and Carol doesn't understand why this is happening, and KW can't really put her feelings into words. Maybe there are no words for what she feels. She just knows that she doesn't want to hang around Carol anymore.
At one point, Carol shows Max a model world he's created, a world in which he and KW ride a canoe together down a lazy river. Some time after this--after Max has to admit that he's not a king, just a regular boy who lacks the power to shield the world from sadness, as he promised he would--Max discovers that Carol has destroyed his model in another fit of anger. And Max knows what this means: Carol has given up on thinking things in his life will ever be okay again. He worries that Carol will turn that anger against him, as well. So in the rubble of that imaginary utopia, Max leaves Carol a sign that he loves him and hopes that will make a difference.
And it does, of course. Small acts of love are the only thing that can bring us back to each other those moments of intense frustration and anger. The end of the movie, when Max leaves the island to head back home and Carol watches him leave, weeping openly, is simply heartbreaking. Max has to go back--he's just a little boy, after all, and he misses his mom. But he doesn't want to hurt Carol. He knows how painful it is to be abandoned. Still, Max has learned that you can't rely on someone else to fix your problems, and you can't run away from them either. Sometimes, lacking the power to change a situation, you just have to live with things the way they are.
Any movie that's honest about childhood has to be sad. Both my son and I were crying our eyes out by the end of the film. Many people like to romanticize childhood as a carefree and magical time in our lives, but the truth is that it's the time when we learn the hardest lessons: Human beings are often unkind to each other for no real reason. There is no magic for solving the world's problems. There is only love--and love, sadly, can disappear without warning.
Like I said, I don't know what I expected from this film. What I got was a beautiful reminder of how scary it is to be a child, powerless in a world where small acts of caring are the only defense against the Wild Things that threaten to eat us up.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
A Meditation on Gratitude
This morning the whole family got up early, packed into the car and headed downtown to St. Vincent de Paul, a shelter for the homeless. We went as part of a group from our church; my daughter had done this twice before, with her youth group, but it was the first time for me, my husband and our son. I kept expecting my daughter to back out at the last minute--she has an insanely hard class schedule this year, and a crazy practice schedule with marching band--but she never once suggested that she was too tired to get up and go. In fact, she was up before my son this morning (and I'm fairly certain that's a first.)
We arrived about 10:30 and got busy preparing lunch. My job was to cut up cakes and pies, all of them donated by a local grocery store chain. The desserts were only one day past their sell-by date, but looking at them--soggy, crumbling pie crusts, cakes with sprinkles bleeding into frosting that peeled away from the layers--I couldn't help but think that these were things my kids would just refuse to eat. They have that luxury. I stood over trays full of broken pie and disintegrating cake and thought, "We can't give people food that looks like this."
But when people made their way through the line, no one complained about the condition of the desserts. Most people, in fact, marveled at the selection. The chocolate cake went first; lemon meringue pie was a big hit, too. When I brought out a tray full of pumpkin pie slices, one woman rolled her eyes in disbelief. "You have no idea how I've been craving pumpkin pie this week," she said. "I saw it on a sign at Bill Miller."
I thought, then, about the pumpkin pie I'd baked for my daughter's birthday a week ago--because pumpkin pie is her favorite thing, and easy to make. I almost bought one from Costco, thinking myself too busy with the work of an ordinary week, but at the last minute I decided to drive to the store and get the ingredients to bake a pie instead. My daughter wanted pumpkin pie for her birthday, so that's what she would have; there was no question whether wanting would lead to having. That's just the way our life works, most of the time.
Not long after that, a little girl came through the line with her mother. "Hello, sweet girl," I said. "What would you like?"
She eyed the dessert tray, clearly overwhelmed by her choices. "Hurry up and pick," her mother said. "You're holding up the line."
"I can't decide," she said. "I want one of those football rings, but they're in the chocolate cupcakes. I want the vanilla cupcake with the red balloon on top."
The solution to this problem seemed obvious: I pulled a plastic football ring out of a chocolate cupcake and handed it to her, along with a white cupcake. The little girl looked up at me as though I'd just performed a miracle--no water turning into wine, to be sure, but wanting had suddenly been transformed into having. This was clearly not the way her life worked.
Her mother thanked me before they moved on and found a place to sit. A little later, a young man asked me for a piece of chocolate cake--but after I'd put it on his tray, he said "Oh, no . . . I didn't see that pumpkin pie you got there."
"You want the pumpkin pie?" I asked. He nodded, so I put a slice on his tray. He paused for a moment, apparently waiting for me take back the cake. "It's all right," I said. "Just take them both."
He gave me a look that indicated this was not the usual procedure, but I shrugged. What the heck. Plenty of people had passed by the dessert trays altogether--I was only letting him have what they hadn't wanted.
Just before closing time, the kitchen manager called seconds and several people came back through the line to load up their trays again. A teenage boy came by to ask for another piece of chocolate cake; he reminded me of my son, shy and soft-spoken, with thick hair and dark eyes.
"You want mine too?" his mother asked.
"You don't want it?"
"I don't need cake," she said, and then she looked at me. "Is that okay? Can he have my piece of cake?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded before I gave him the two biggest pieces on my tray. Then I noticed the cupcake girl lingering near the drink station, showing off her football ring. I gave her a wink and a thumbs-up, and she flashed me a smile before she ran back to her mother.
After the dining room had closed, we cut up desserts for the evening meal. We loaded nine trays with cakes and pies, wrapped them in plastic and left them for this evening's volunteers. Then we wiped down the counters and turned in our aprons. The kitchen manager gave each of my kids a bottle of Yoohoo, to thank them for helping out, and we all walked out the back door and into our regular lives. We drove home in our air-conditioned car, hot and sweaty and tired but knowing we were headed for showers in our own bathrooms and a lunch of our own choosing.
Tonight I will sleep in my own bed, in a house that I'm buying, between sheets I chose for myself, surrounded by walls painted a color I picked out. My life belongs to me in a way many people will never have the chance to experience. This is a fact I may have acknowledged for the first time today. I owe a debt of gratitude to that little girl with the football ring--to all the people at that shelter, really--for showing me that having follows wanting for only a lucky few of us, and I am lucky beyond all reason.
We arrived about 10:30 and got busy preparing lunch. My job was to cut up cakes and pies, all of them donated by a local grocery store chain. The desserts were only one day past their sell-by date, but looking at them--soggy, crumbling pie crusts, cakes with sprinkles bleeding into frosting that peeled away from the layers--I couldn't help but think that these were things my kids would just refuse to eat. They have that luxury. I stood over trays full of broken pie and disintegrating cake and thought, "We can't give people food that looks like this."
But when people made their way through the line, no one complained about the condition of the desserts. Most people, in fact, marveled at the selection. The chocolate cake went first; lemon meringue pie was a big hit, too. When I brought out a tray full of pumpkin pie slices, one woman rolled her eyes in disbelief. "You have no idea how I've been craving pumpkin pie this week," she said. "I saw it on a sign at Bill Miller."
I thought, then, about the pumpkin pie I'd baked for my daughter's birthday a week ago--because pumpkin pie is her favorite thing, and easy to make. I almost bought one from Costco, thinking myself too busy with the work of an ordinary week, but at the last minute I decided to drive to the store and get the ingredients to bake a pie instead. My daughter wanted pumpkin pie for her birthday, so that's what she would have; there was no question whether wanting would lead to having. That's just the way our life works, most of the time.
Not long after that, a little girl came through the line with her mother. "Hello, sweet girl," I said. "What would you like?"
She eyed the dessert tray, clearly overwhelmed by her choices. "Hurry up and pick," her mother said. "You're holding up the line."
"I can't decide," she said. "I want one of those football rings, but they're in the chocolate cupcakes. I want the vanilla cupcake with the red balloon on top."
The solution to this problem seemed obvious: I pulled a plastic football ring out of a chocolate cupcake and handed it to her, along with a white cupcake. The little girl looked up at me as though I'd just performed a miracle--no water turning into wine, to be sure, but wanting had suddenly been transformed into having. This was clearly not the way her life worked.
Her mother thanked me before they moved on and found a place to sit. A little later, a young man asked me for a piece of chocolate cake--but after I'd put it on his tray, he said "Oh, no . . . I didn't see that pumpkin pie you got there."
"You want the pumpkin pie?" I asked. He nodded, so I put a slice on his tray. He paused for a moment, apparently waiting for me take back the cake. "It's all right," I said. "Just take them both."
He gave me a look that indicated this was not the usual procedure, but I shrugged. What the heck. Plenty of people had passed by the dessert trays altogether--I was only letting him have what they hadn't wanted.
Just before closing time, the kitchen manager called seconds and several people came back through the line to load up their trays again. A teenage boy came by to ask for another piece of chocolate cake; he reminded me of my son, shy and soft-spoken, with thick hair and dark eyes.
"You want mine too?" his mother asked.
"You don't want it?"
"I don't need cake," she said, and then she looked at me. "Is that okay? Can he have my piece of cake?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded before I gave him the two biggest pieces on my tray. Then I noticed the cupcake girl lingering near the drink station, showing off her football ring. I gave her a wink and a thumbs-up, and she flashed me a smile before she ran back to her mother.
After the dining room had closed, we cut up desserts for the evening meal. We loaded nine trays with cakes and pies, wrapped them in plastic and left them for this evening's volunteers. Then we wiped down the counters and turned in our aprons. The kitchen manager gave each of my kids a bottle of Yoohoo, to thank them for helping out, and we all walked out the back door and into our regular lives. We drove home in our air-conditioned car, hot and sweaty and tired but knowing we were headed for showers in our own bathrooms and a lunch of our own choosing.
Tonight I will sleep in my own bed, in a house that I'm buying, between sheets I chose for myself, surrounded by walls painted a color I picked out. My life belongs to me in a way many people will never have the chance to experience. This is a fact I may have acknowledged for the first time today. I owe a debt of gratitude to that little girl with the football ring--to all the people at that shelter, really--for showing me that having follows wanting for only a lucky few of us, and I am lucky beyond all reason.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
100 Yards From the Trailer Park
Let me just say right up front that I waste way too much time on Facebook. My husband and I used to say that we'd love to have videotapes of our old friends' lives, so we could see what they were up to at the present moment--and now we have Facebook, which is pretty close to the same thing. Except you get daily updates, which is even better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it--see my confession about wasted time.
Lately, though, I've been noticing how many of my Facebook friends seem to be comfortable with the phrase "white trash." One of them recently moved to a new city and announced she had "discovered the land of whiny children and their white trash mothers." (Or something like that--I'm paraphrasing, but I know I got the relevant two words right.) Another took one of the millions of silly face book quizzes in order to discover her "white trash name." Those are just two examples, but I've seen or heard those words far too often in the last month or so.
My father grew up in a family that no doubt was referred to as white trash: absent father, numerous children raised in abject poverty. No one was paying attention to what he did, so my father did whatever he wanted to do and, as a result, got himself into lots of trouble. My mother grew up poor, but her family went to church and owned a farm and a home--they were probably a few rungs above what would have been called white trash, but they watched people slip back down the ladder during the Great Depression. My mother knew just exactly how easy it would be to lose everything, including her precarious just-above-the-bottom social status.
As adults, both of my parents lived in terror of being thought "trashy." I know this because I was cautioned against trashy behavior, clothing and talk throughout the years I lived at home. Being trashy meant many different things, but among those things were promiscuity (or even the suggestion of it, in either clothing or speech or behavior), cursing, and leaving the house without "fixing yourself up." That meant presentable clothing, good shoes, and make-up. (But not too much, lest you should veer into trashy territory again.) Not having money wasn't shameful, as far as my parents were concerned. Acting like you didn't care what people thought of you--well, that was beyond shameful. That was "trashy".
My mother used to say "As long I'm at least 100 yards from the trailer park, I know I'm doing all right." I don't think I knew what she meant by that, when I was younger; I'm pretty sure I thought she just didn't like the idea of living in a trailer. Now, though, it's clear my mom and dad were keeping an eye on class markers: As long as we stay on this side of the line, we know we're okay. My dad had pulled himself out of poverty on his own, with a career in the Army, and he was determined not to backslide into "white trash" territory. My mom had seen just exactly how easy that kind of slipping could be. They raised three kids on one very modest income, which couldn't have been easy, even all those years ago.
But I didn't know my family lacked money. I thought my parents were frugal--not incapable of buying me the clothes I wanted, just reluctant to spend that much money on a pair of jeans. They were frugal, of course, but out of necessity. Credit was harder to come by, for one thing, but debt was a one-way ticket straight back into the trailer park--not an option. So I wore my one pair of brand-name jeans to school every single day and scowled at my mother, thinking she was cheap. When I was old enough to get a job, it didn't occur to me that my parents encouraged it to ease the financial strain on our family; I thought they wanted me to learn responsibility. And they did, of course, but I can see now that this desire was probably secondary to the need to loosen up the family budget.
My parents would want me to be very clear about this: I did not grow up poor. We owned a house that was definitely more than 100 yards from the nearest trailer park. That house needed serious repairs when we moved in, but over time my dad made those repairs himself. He remodeled the basement so my brother and I would have a play room. He kept a huge garden in the adjacent lot, purchased with our house, until his back gave out and he had to sell it. My mother spent days canning produce so we'd have fruits and vegetables to eat throughout the winter. My dad went hunting so we'd have meat. Nobody ever went to bed hungry. If I claimed, now, to have grown up poor, my mother would say "You don't know what poor is," and she'd be right. My parents made very sure I didn't know what it meant to live in poverty, because they knew how people who live in poverty are viewed. They're trash. They're useless. They're disposable.
Over dinner last night, my husband and I were pointing out to our kids that the goal of families is to help each generation do a little better than the last. I have more education than either of my parents would have imagined was possible for one of their children. Together, my husband and I make three times what my father made in salary. We're paying off student loans and other debts we accumulated during graduate school, so a lot of our money isn't available for spending--money is tight, to say the least--but we live in a very nice house, in a very nice neighborhood. There's no trailer park in sight. And I know that's the way my parents wanted it for me. They worked hard to get me here.
So forgive me if I'm a little sensitive to the term "white trash," if I don't find it all that amusing when people play at being queen of the trailer park or make a disparaging comment about the woman at Wal-Mart, the one with the bratty kids. A few generations ago, at a local store somewhere in Iowa, that woman was my grandmother. One of those kids was my father. And if he was misbehaving, that's probably because he was starving. Or frustrated at hearing his mother tell him, again, No, you can't have that. Or very, very tired after a long walk into town.
Lately, though, I've been noticing how many of my Facebook friends seem to be comfortable with the phrase "white trash." One of them recently moved to a new city and announced she had "discovered the land of whiny children and their white trash mothers." (Or something like that--I'm paraphrasing, but I know I got the relevant two words right.) Another took one of the millions of silly face book quizzes in order to discover her "white trash name." Those are just two examples, but I've seen or heard those words far too often in the last month or so.
My father grew up in a family that no doubt was referred to as white trash: absent father, numerous children raised in abject poverty. No one was paying attention to what he did, so my father did whatever he wanted to do and, as a result, got himself into lots of trouble. My mother grew up poor, but her family went to church and owned a farm and a home--they were probably a few rungs above what would have been called white trash, but they watched people slip back down the ladder during the Great Depression. My mother knew just exactly how easy it would be to lose everything, including her precarious just-above-the-bottom social status.
As adults, both of my parents lived in terror of being thought "trashy." I know this because I was cautioned against trashy behavior, clothing and talk throughout the years I lived at home. Being trashy meant many different things, but among those things were promiscuity (or even the suggestion of it, in either clothing or speech or behavior), cursing, and leaving the house without "fixing yourself up." That meant presentable clothing, good shoes, and make-up. (But not too much, lest you should veer into trashy territory again.) Not having money wasn't shameful, as far as my parents were concerned. Acting like you didn't care what people thought of you--well, that was beyond shameful. That was "trashy".
My mother used to say "As long I'm at least 100 yards from the trailer park, I know I'm doing all right." I don't think I knew what she meant by that, when I was younger; I'm pretty sure I thought she just didn't like the idea of living in a trailer. Now, though, it's clear my mom and dad were keeping an eye on class markers: As long as we stay on this side of the line, we know we're okay. My dad had pulled himself out of poverty on his own, with a career in the Army, and he was determined not to backslide into "white trash" territory. My mom had seen just exactly how easy that kind of slipping could be. They raised three kids on one very modest income, which couldn't have been easy, even all those years ago.
But I didn't know my family lacked money. I thought my parents were frugal--not incapable of buying me the clothes I wanted, just reluctant to spend that much money on a pair of jeans. They were frugal, of course, but out of necessity. Credit was harder to come by, for one thing, but debt was a one-way ticket straight back into the trailer park--not an option. So I wore my one pair of brand-name jeans to school every single day and scowled at my mother, thinking she was cheap. When I was old enough to get a job, it didn't occur to me that my parents encouraged it to ease the financial strain on our family; I thought they wanted me to learn responsibility. And they did, of course, but I can see now that this desire was probably secondary to the need to loosen up the family budget.
My parents would want me to be very clear about this: I did not grow up poor. We owned a house that was definitely more than 100 yards from the nearest trailer park. That house needed serious repairs when we moved in, but over time my dad made those repairs himself. He remodeled the basement so my brother and I would have a play room. He kept a huge garden in the adjacent lot, purchased with our house, until his back gave out and he had to sell it. My mother spent days canning produce so we'd have fruits and vegetables to eat throughout the winter. My dad went hunting so we'd have meat. Nobody ever went to bed hungry. If I claimed, now, to have grown up poor, my mother would say "You don't know what poor is," and she'd be right. My parents made very sure I didn't know what it meant to live in poverty, because they knew how people who live in poverty are viewed. They're trash. They're useless. They're disposable.
Over dinner last night, my husband and I were pointing out to our kids that the goal of families is to help each generation do a little better than the last. I have more education than either of my parents would have imagined was possible for one of their children. Together, my husband and I make three times what my father made in salary. We're paying off student loans and other debts we accumulated during graduate school, so a lot of our money isn't available for spending--money is tight, to say the least--but we live in a very nice house, in a very nice neighborhood. There's no trailer park in sight. And I know that's the way my parents wanted it for me. They worked hard to get me here.
So forgive me if I'm a little sensitive to the term "white trash," if I don't find it all that amusing when people play at being queen of the trailer park or make a disparaging comment about the woman at Wal-Mart, the one with the bratty kids. A few generations ago, at a local store somewhere in Iowa, that woman was my grandmother. One of those kids was my father. And if he was misbehaving, that's probably because he was starving. Or frustrated at hearing his mother tell him, again, No, you can't have that. Or very, very tired after a long walk into town.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sometimes You Blog About Idaho
I've been feeling nostalgic for the Northwest here of late--probably because it's been so blazing hot in Texas this summer. (My mom tells me it's been hot in Boise, too, but I'm betting it doesn't feel as hot as 35 days of temperatures over 100.) My mom, sister and older niece went on a church retreat in an area near the Sawtooths last weekend. One of my nieces now lives in Montana. The pictures they've all been posting on Facebook make me want to just sit down and weep.
Which is interesting, because I was explaining to a friend just a few days ago that the Northwest doesn't really feel like my home anymore. Why, then, do I keep checking the Chronicle's job listings, hoping to see a job opening in Idaho? Or Montana? Or Washington? Or Oregon? Or even Colorado?
I've already written about the weirdly conflicted relationship I have with Boise--I know moving back there probably wouldn't be a good idea. Much as I'd like to be closer to my parents, especially now that my dad's health is failing and my mom needs all the help she can get, it's easier for me to be the person I am now when I keep some space between the me that was and the me that is. Last time I visited my parents, my dad said "I'm still surprised that you're a college English professor--I always thought you'd go into teaching the deaf. You were always reading books about that Helen Keller."
Yes, I was. When I was ten years old.
Another good friend of mine, a theology professor, recently wrote a blog entry about Mark 6:4, the Bible passage in which we're told that even prophets have trouble earning respect when they go home--back to the people who knew them as children tromping through the flowerbeds, terrorizing the cat, procrastinating on completing their chores. I suppose even Jesus's neighbors wondered if he'd ever amount to anything. I know it's hard for my family to see me as something other than a loudmouth teenager with lots of uninformed opinions--that's who I was the last time I lived at home. When I talk about growing up with my dad, sometimes my husband just shakes his head in disbelief. "That doesn't even sound like the same person I know," he says. And of course, it's not.
So I don't feel at home in Boise, in the sense of feeling like that's where I can be my honest self--but the Northwest is definitely a place I'm connected to. There's something about a horizon ridged with mountains that puts a big lump in my throat. Something about the smell of pine trees does the same thing. I often hear people talk about the smells they associate with their grandmothers' houses, but I didn't know my grandparents when I was growing up--it's the smell of the forest that catapults me back into my childhood, back into the camper with my parents and my brother. Sometimes, that kind of emotional response can get confused with the need to take some action, to make a change.
But just this morning my husband and I were talking about whether we'd really want to move farther north, out of the Texas heat, if we had the chance. We both agree that the Midwest is a place we don't feel compelled to return to--we've lived in Kansas, Iowa and Missouri, and none of those places has a hold on either of us. The Northeast might be a possibility; we've never lived there, so it would be a new adventure.
And the Northwest? Maybe.
"At this point,I just think I'm more of a live oak guy than a pine tree guy," my husband said.
I don't know if I'd get choked up over a picture of a live oak tree, but I do know that I'd miss the live oaks and their beautiful bonsai shapes if we left Texas. And the wildflowers growing by the roadsides every spring. And the great big storms with thunder loud enough to rattle the windows--those used to scare me, but now I find myself outside with the neighbors, watching the clouds roll in, welcoming the drama.
I suppose I may never feel about Texas the way I feel about Idaho, but I'm not sure I need to feel that way in order for this to be my home. Maybe what I'm responding to when I see a photo of mountains and pine trees isn't the Idaho landscape at all, but what it helps me understand: the enormity of creation, its ability to remind us of how small and insignificant we are in the greater scheme of things.
Which is interesting, because I was explaining to a friend just a few days ago that the Northwest doesn't really feel like my home anymore. Why, then, do I keep checking the Chronicle's job listings, hoping to see a job opening in Idaho? Or Montana? Or Washington? Or Oregon? Or even Colorado?
I've already written about the weirdly conflicted relationship I have with Boise--I know moving back there probably wouldn't be a good idea. Much as I'd like to be closer to my parents, especially now that my dad's health is failing and my mom needs all the help she can get, it's easier for me to be the person I am now when I keep some space between the me that was and the me that is. Last time I visited my parents, my dad said "I'm still surprised that you're a college English professor--I always thought you'd go into teaching the deaf. You were always reading books about that Helen Keller."
Yes, I was. When I was ten years old.
Another good friend of mine, a theology professor, recently wrote a blog entry about Mark 6:4, the Bible passage in which we're told that even prophets have trouble earning respect when they go home--back to the people who knew them as children tromping through the flowerbeds, terrorizing the cat, procrastinating on completing their chores. I suppose even Jesus's neighbors wondered if he'd ever amount to anything. I know it's hard for my family to see me as something other than a loudmouth teenager with lots of uninformed opinions--that's who I was the last time I lived at home. When I talk about growing up with my dad, sometimes my husband just shakes his head in disbelief. "That doesn't even sound like the same person I know," he says. And of course, it's not.
So I don't feel at home in Boise, in the sense of feeling like that's where I can be my honest self--but the Northwest is definitely a place I'm connected to. There's something about a horizon ridged with mountains that puts a big lump in my throat. Something about the smell of pine trees does the same thing. I often hear people talk about the smells they associate with their grandmothers' houses, but I didn't know my grandparents when I was growing up--it's the smell of the forest that catapults me back into my childhood, back into the camper with my parents and my brother. Sometimes, that kind of emotional response can get confused with the need to take some action, to make a change.
But just this morning my husband and I were talking about whether we'd really want to move farther north, out of the Texas heat, if we had the chance. We both agree that the Midwest is a place we don't feel compelled to return to--we've lived in Kansas, Iowa and Missouri, and none of those places has a hold on either of us. The Northeast might be a possibility; we've never lived there, so it would be a new adventure.
And the Northwest? Maybe.
"At this point,I just think I'm more of a live oak guy than a pine tree guy," my husband said.
I don't know if I'd get choked up over a picture of a live oak tree, but I do know that I'd miss the live oaks and their beautiful bonsai shapes if we left Texas. And the wildflowers growing by the roadsides every spring. And the great big storms with thunder loud enough to rattle the windows--those used to scare me, but now I find myself outside with the neighbors, watching the clouds roll in, welcoming the drama.
I suppose I may never feel about Texas the way I feel about Idaho, but I'm not sure I need to feel that way in order for this to be my home. Maybe what I'm responding to when I see a photo of mountains and pine trees isn't the Idaho landscape at all, but what it helps me understand: the enormity of creation, its ability to remind us of how small and insignificant we are in the greater scheme of things.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
What is the story of my Jeopardy audition?
I flew to Kansas City last Thursday to audition for Jeopardy. I was really surprised to receive an email invitation to the audition in May—the online test had been way back in January, and I’d long since given up on hoping that I’d hear from them. Plus, I really didn’t think I did that well on the test. But I did well enough, apparently.
I’ll admit that I felt pretty silly flying all the way to Kansas City. It was an expense my family really couldn’t afford, but my husband had encouraged me to go anyway. I was afraid that everyone at the audition would have driven in from suburban KC, maybe mid-Kansas or Missouri; I was afraid of looking like the ridiculous woman who’s so desperate to prove her intellect that she’ll travel BY PLANE to an audition that provides her with a 10% chance of being on a quiz show.
I needn’t have worried. My audition group comprised several people from Dallas and Austin, as well as a guy from Denver and another from New Mexico. I don’t think I would have won the prize for Longest Trip to the Audition. Several members of the group had already been through the audition process more than once. The woman who sat next to me at my table said she’d been invited to appear on the show in the 70’s, but turned down the offer because she was planning her wedding. “Turning down that invitation was the second biggest mistake of my life,” she said. I waited a moment, wondering if I should ask the obvious question. Then she added, “The biggest mistake was getting married to that guy.”
“I was going to ask,” I said, “but I thought, ‘That would be really rude, if I were wrong.’”
Our group met in a small ballroom in the lobby of a nice hotel on the Country Club Plaza. As soon as each of us entered the room, a contestant coordinator took a Polaroid picture for our files. I was dreading the photo as I watched it develop--Polaroids make everyone look pasty, and I really don’t need help in that department--but as the picture emerged, I was pleased to see that I looked pretty good. Certainly not the worst picture I’ve ever taken, in any case. (That honor is still reserved for what a former boyfriend called the Eyes Without a Face photo, featured on my military dependent ID.)
We filled out some general paperwork—no, I don’t know anyone who works for Jeopardy; no, I’ve never been convicted of a felony—and then we were welcomed by the Jeopardy crew, all of whom were very friendly and upbeat and encouraged us to be the same. They talked us through a sample game, during which we raised our hands to answer sample questions. Then we took a written test, similar to the online test we’d taken back in January, except this time we had only 8 seconds to come up with a response. Clues appeared on a video screen and were read aloud by a member of the Clue Crew. Some I absolutely knew; some I absolutely didn’t. Studying world geography for the last few weeks earned me one correct answer that I never would have known otherwise. We’d been encouraged to guess, since incorrect answers weren’t counted against our scores, so I did that when I could. When I couldn’t, I let it go and moved on.
While the J-Crew went outside to grade our tests, we all compared notes on our answers. Of course, as soon as people provided the answers I couldn’t come up with on my own, they seemed completely obvious and I was annoyed with myself for missing them. I’ve read in other blogs that the written test is mostly used to verify that you are, in fact, the person who took the online test—that you weren’t one of a group of ten people collaborating on the answers, or a super-fast Googler—so I hope that’s true, and I hope I did well enough to confirm my identity.
After the written test, the real fun began: we were called to the front of the room, three at a time, to play a mock round of Jeopardy complete with buzzers. Let me just say, I ruled the buzzer. I was first to ring in several times, got all my questions right, and on two occasions I rang in after the first-place person had given an incorrect response.
After the mock game, we introduced ourselves and did a little Q and A with the J-Crew. I’m assuming this part of the audition is to assess how well you can speak in front of a group—which is where being a professor comes in handy, since I do that for a living. Some of the people in my group had no sense of when a story had gone on far too long. Others thought their stories were much more interesting than they actually were. I tried to keep it short, sweet, and mildly amusing.
And then we were done. After so many weeks of studying and looking forward to the audition, I was a little sad to walk out of the room knowing it was over—and a little relieved. The last month has been vaguely reminiscent of the weeks leading up to my doctoral exams, when taking a moment to relax felt like a decision I might regret later. When I mentioned this to a friend, he laughed and said “What’s the big deal? It’s not like your career is riding on this.”
“No,” I said. “But my hardwood floors are.”
I’ll admit that I felt pretty silly flying all the way to Kansas City. It was an expense my family really couldn’t afford, but my husband had encouraged me to go anyway. I was afraid that everyone at the audition would have driven in from suburban KC, maybe mid-Kansas or Missouri; I was afraid of looking like the ridiculous woman who’s so desperate to prove her intellect that she’ll travel BY PLANE to an audition that provides her with a 10% chance of being on a quiz show.
I needn’t have worried. My audition group comprised several people from Dallas and Austin, as well as a guy from Denver and another from New Mexico. I don’t think I would have won the prize for Longest Trip to the Audition. Several members of the group had already been through the audition process more than once. The woman who sat next to me at my table said she’d been invited to appear on the show in the 70’s, but turned down the offer because she was planning her wedding. “Turning down that invitation was the second biggest mistake of my life,” she said. I waited a moment, wondering if I should ask the obvious question. Then she added, “The biggest mistake was getting married to that guy.”
“I was going to ask,” I said, “but I thought, ‘That would be really rude, if I were wrong.’”
Our group met in a small ballroom in the lobby of a nice hotel on the Country Club Plaza. As soon as each of us entered the room, a contestant coordinator took a Polaroid picture for our files. I was dreading the photo as I watched it develop--Polaroids make everyone look pasty, and I really don’t need help in that department--but as the picture emerged, I was pleased to see that I looked pretty good. Certainly not the worst picture I’ve ever taken, in any case. (That honor is still reserved for what a former boyfriend called the Eyes Without a Face photo, featured on my military dependent ID.)
We filled out some general paperwork—no, I don’t know anyone who works for Jeopardy; no, I’ve never been convicted of a felony—and then we were welcomed by the Jeopardy crew, all of whom were very friendly and upbeat and encouraged us to be the same. They talked us through a sample game, during which we raised our hands to answer sample questions. Then we took a written test, similar to the online test we’d taken back in January, except this time we had only 8 seconds to come up with a response. Clues appeared on a video screen and were read aloud by a member of the Clue Crew. Some I absolutely knew; some I absolutely didn’t. Studying world geography for the last few weeks earned me one correct answer that I never would have known otherwise. We’d been encouraged to guess, since incorrect answers weren’t counted against our scores, so I did that when I could. When I couldn’t, I let it go and moved on.
While the J-Crew went outside to grade our tests, we all compared notes on our answers. Of course, as soon as people provided the answers I couldn’t come up with on my own, they seemed completely obvious and I was annoyed with myself for missing them. I’ve read in other blogs that the written test is mostly used to verify that you are, in fact, the person who took the online test—that you weren’t one of a group of ten people collaborating on the answers, or a super-fast Googler—so I hope that’s true, and I hope I did well enough to confirm my identity.
After the written test, the real fun began: we were called to the front of the room, three at a time, to play a mock round of Jeopardy complete with buzzers. Let me just say, I ruled the buzzer. I was first to ring in several times, got all my questions right, and on two occasions I rang in after the first-place person had given an incorrect response.
After the mock game, we introduced ourselves and did a little Q and A with the J-Crew. I’m assuming this part of the audition is to assess how well you can speak in front of a group—which is where being a professor comes in handy, since I do that for a living. Some of the people in my group had no sense of when a story had gone on far too long. Others thought their stories were much more interesting than they actually were. I tried to keep it short, sweet, and mildly amusing.
And then we were done. After so many weeks of studying and looking forward to the audition, I was a little sad to walk out of the room knowing it was over—and a little relieved. The last month has been vaguely reminiscent of the weeks leading up to my doctoral exams, when taking a moment to relax felt like a decision I might regret later. When I mentioned this to a friend, he laughed and said “What’s the big deal? It’s not like your career is riding on this.”
“No,” I said. “But my hardwood floors are.”
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Price of Expertise
A former student sent me an email a few months ago, asking how he might go about getting his work published. (I resisted the urge to write back and say "If you'd paid attention during class, you'd already know the answer to that question.") Last week he sent me the opening 50 pages of a novel he's been working on. To his credit, he said all the right things in his email: No rush to respond. I know you're busy. Maybe just read the first few pages, when you have the time.
I'm sure the basis of that presumption rests on the fact that I'm a teacher. It's my job to disseminate information--why wouldn't I continue to do that long after my students have left my classes, or even graduated from the university? Students just don't make that connection between paying tuition and paying my salary. Many of them don't know anyone else who writes fiction or poetry; even fewer know someone who has successfully published creative work. It makes sense that they'd turn to me for advice, since I fit both of those categories.
Which leaves me wondering: is my advice presumed to be free after graduation because educators are notoriously underpaid? Perhaps the logic works this way: If I'm willing to work for so little money, why would I mind working for no money at all?
When I mentioned this to my husband, he was quick to point out that people are always asking for free advice: "Should I get this checked out?" they might ask the doctor who happens to live next door and gets paid much more than I do. In truth, that's not too far removed from "Can you tell me if I'm on the right track here?" It's a sort of pre-diagnosis they're asking for--not an expert opinion, not exactly. You haven't named the problem precisely, just indicated that it might exist.
Of course, if I wrote back to this student and said "No, you're definitely on the wrong track here," he'd want to know where and how he'd gone wrong. Without that information, my opinion isn't worth much of anything. It's just a reaction. As I tell my students, there's a big different between saying "I think this sucks" and "I got really confused after page three because . . . " One response simply indicates that the story didn't work for you; the other demonstrates that you've given some thought to why it didn't work.
As I said earlier, I'll probably read what my student sent me. I'll probably send him a response that is at least somewhat specific. And I'll probably feel better for having done this. Really, the bottom line is what's more important to me: to get paid, or to help bring good books into the world? As long as my answer is the latter, not the former, free expertise is the price I'll pay.
When I mentioned this to my husband, he was quick to point out that people are always asking for free advice: "Should I get this checked out?" they might ask the doctor who happens to live next door and gets paid much more than I do. In truth, that's not too far removed from "Can you tell me if I'm on the right track here?" It's a sort of pre-diagnosis they're asking for--not an expert opinion, not exactly. You haven't named the problem precisely, just indicated that it might exist.
Of course, if I wrote back to this student and said "No, you're definitely on the wrong track here," he'd want to know where and how he'd gone wrong. Without that information, my opinion isn't worth much of anything. It's just a reaction. As I tell my students, there's a big different between saying "I think this sucks" and "I got really confused after page three because . . . " One response simply indicates that the story didn't work for you; the other demonstrates that you've given some thought to why it didn't work.
As I said earlier, I'll probably read what my student sent me. I'll probably send him a response that is at least somewhat specific. And I'll probably feel better for having done this. Really, the bottom line is what's more important to me: to get paid, or to help bring good books into the world? As long as my answer is the latter, not the former, free expertise is the price I'll pay.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Like winning the lottery
Late last week I found out that I've been invited to audition for Jeopardy! on June 26th. So much time had passed since I took the online test, I'd assumed I had either missed too many of the questions (entirely possible) or just hadn't been selected from among those who did make the cut. Now, I feel like I've won the lottery.
I'll have to fly to Kansas City for my audition, which won't be cheap, but even my very frugal mother said "Oh, you have to go. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." She's right, of course. No telling whether something like this will actually happen again. Plus, I was freaking out about money just a week or so ago, trying to think of ways to get my hands on a big chunk of cash to pay down some of our bills--and, suddenly, this opportunity falls into my lap. I don't believe that's a coincidence.
So I'm taking this rather seriously. It feels like I'm being given a chance to do something here, so I'm going to do my best with it.
And it's kind of cool to feel like a student again, instead of a teacher. Right now I'm just letting myself browse among a variety of subjects, feeding my brain. For example: I've learned that the capital city of Zimbabwe is Harare; when Zimbabwe was Rhodesia, the capital city was called Salisbury. Over the weekend I taught myself to label all 53 African countries. (I'm too ashamed to admit how few I could label on my first attempt.) This morning I started going through my son's flashcards on U.S. Presidents and found myself fascinated by a subject that I'd thought would be a bore.
I think I've won the lottery in more than one way: not only do I get a chance to audition for my favorite game show and, perhaps, make some money for my family, I also have an excuse to sharpen my mind and freshen my knowledge of the world. I've always been curious, and I've always loved learning for its own sake, but life often gets in the way of such noble intentions.
Now, though, life itself is the subject. Last night, helping my son build an edible model of a cell for his science class, I realized I was studying as we worked. What might have felt like a waste of time (because, come on, do we need to build an edible model of a cell? Couldn't we just draw it on paper?) suddenly became an opportunity for the two of us to work together toward our own goals, to help each other out.
Maybe seeing connections like this will be the real reward of my Jeopardy! experience. Or, maybe, a chunk of cash. Either way, I'm a winner.
I'll have to fly to Kansas City for my audition, which won't be cheap, but even my very frugal mother said "Oh, you have to go. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." She's right, of course. No telling whether something like this will actually happen again. Plus, I was freaking out about money just a week or so ago, trying to think of ways to get my hands on a big chunk of cash to pay down some of our bills--and, suddenly, this opportunity falls into my lap. I don't believe that's a coincidence.
So I'm taking this rather seriously. It feels like I'm being given a chance to do something here, so I'm going to do my best with it.
And it's kind of cool to feel like a student again, instead of a teacher. Right now I'm just letting myself browse among a variety of subjects, feeding my brain. For example: I've learned that the capital city of Zimbabwe is Harare; when Zimbabwe was Rhodesia, the capital city was called Salisbury. Over the weekend I taught myself to label all 53 African countries. (I'm too ashamed to admit how few I could label on my first attempt.) This morning I started going through my son's flashcards on U.S. Presidents and found myself fascinated by a subject that I'd thought would be a bore.
I think I've won the lottery in more than one way: not only do I get a chance to audition for my favorite game show and, perhaps, make some money for my family, I also have an excuse to sharpen my mind and freshen my knowledge of the world. I've always been curious, and I've always loved learning for its own sake, but life often gets in the way of such noble intentions.
Now, though, life itself is the subject. Last night, helping my son build an edible model of a cell for his science class, I realized I was studying as we worked. What might have felt like a waste of time (because, come on, do we need to build an edible model of a cell? Couldn't we just draw it on paper?) suddenly became an opportunity for the two of us to work together toward our own goals, to help each other out.
Maybe seeing connections like this will be the real reward of my Jeopardy! experience. Or, maybe, a chunk of cash. Either way, I'm a winner.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I Am Nobody's Peach
Finally, finally we've reached the end of the spring semester--but not without several weeks' worth of Senior Seminar presentations. We had the usual variety of topics, ranging from media law to Stephen King to Miss America. There were excellent presentations and not-so-excellent presentations and downright awful presentations. Our students run the gamut.
The presentation that's sticking with me today, perhaps because it was one of the last ones we heard, came from a student who had done a psychoanalytic treatment of James and the Giant Peach. His basic argument seemed to be that, after losing his biological mother, James seeks mothering from the peach because he doesn't get it from his aunts--and because he gets what he needs from the peach, he's able to grow and prosper in healthy ways. One of my colleagues challenged this reading by suggesting that James doesn't grow as the result of climbing into the "womb" of the giant peach--that by the end of the story he's still living in the desiccated carcass of his "mother," Norman Bates-style, without having grown up at all. Separating from your mother is, after all, a necessary part of healthy adult life. Our student wanted to argue that, since we don't see James as an adult, all we can know is that he's happy and healthy where we leave him, which seems like the point the story wants to make.
Another colleague, however, pointed out that this dynamic isn't particularly kind to the mother/peach; essentially, she's just expected to give and give until she's sucked dry, at which point she becomes something completely different--a domicile--but still defined by the needs of her "child." Can we really claim that James grows into a well-adjusted person if what he's learned is that it's okay to use others for your own purposes, without thinking about what's best for them? The student's response to this question suggested that the noblest thing a mother can do for her child is to sacrifice herself entirely, and there's nothing unkind about that--it's just what good mothers do, and it's how healthy adults are produced.
This student and I have been butting heads in a relatively benign way all semester in the Senior Seminar course, but it took a good measure of restraint for me not to point out the utter absurdity of that argument. It's not new, of course. There are plenty of people who agree with him. But if they're right, then why are mothers directed to put on their own oxygen masks, in the event of a plane crash, before helping their children do the same? Because the airlines know what everyone else should, by now: a mother can't be helpful to anyone if she's unconscious (or, in the case of the peach, sucked dry of her vital juices.) She has to put herself first, not last, to be of any use.
Becoming a mother was the most liberating thing that has happened to me in my life. By liberating, I certainly don't mean lacking constraints; motherhood is, if nothing else, a long process of learning to be constrained by the demands of others. But those demands are liberating in their own way.
For example: when my daughter was only a few months old, I took her for a walk in her carriage one afternoon. Within the first few moments of our walk, a huge dog was bounding across the park toward us, off leash. I didn't know what to do. Running, I thought, would only encourage a chase--so I just stood still, hoping he'd lose interest in us if I didn't encourage his attention.
Instead, almost immediately, the dog stuck his head down into the carriage. I didn't wait to see whether he was going to harm my baby; I didn't worry that he was going to whip around and bite my hand off. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off his front feet. By then his owner was running across the park toward us, yelling "It's okay! He won't hurt anybody! He's very friendly!" Still, I held on to the yelping dog until his owner arrived with his leash.
Even now, almost fifteen years later, I have no idea how I lifted that huge dog off his feet with one hand. But I know why I did it: becoming a mother had freed me of the fears that would have plagued me otherwise--fear of injury, fear of looking like a silly woman who's afraid of a friendly dog. I was the only person available to take charge of the situation, so I did.
In other words, I put myself first. I trusted my judgement and went into action on the basis of that judgement, without a second thought. If sacrifice is the act of being whatever our children determine they need, mothering is the act of deciding what's best for them, putting our judgement before theirs.
Children need whole, vibrant, thinking people in their lives. They need people to take charge when they're too young and small to do so themselves, but they also need people to offer guidance and sustenance when they're old enough to be more autonomous. The only way we'll have something to offer them at every point in their lives is to hold a part of ourselves in reserve at all times--to refuse to give our whole selves, ever.
I am nobody's peach. And I'm proud to say it.
The presentation that's sticking with me today, perhaps because it was one of the last ones we heard, came from a student who had done a psychoanalytic treatment of James and the Giant Peach. His basic argument seemed to be that, after losing his biological mother, James seeks mothering from the peach because he doesn't get it from his aunts--and because he gets what he needs from the peach, he's able to grow and prosper in healthy ways. One of my colleagues challenged this reading by suggesting that James doesn't grow as the result of climbing into the "womb" of the giant peach--that by the end of the story he's still living in the desiccated carcass of his "mother," Norman Bates-style, without having grown up at all. Separating from your mother is, after all, a necessary part of healthy adult life. Our student wanted to argue that, since we don't see James as an adult, all we can know is that he's happy and healthy where we leave him, which seems like the point the story wants to make.
Another colleague, however, pointed out that this dynamic isn't particularly kind to the mother/peach; essentially, she's just expected to give and give until she's sucked dry, at which point she becomes something completely different--a domicile--but still defined by the needs of her "child." Can we really claim that James grows into a well-adjusted person if what he's learned is that it's okay to use others for your own purposes, without thinking about what's best for them? The student's response to this question suggested that the noblest thing a mother can do for her child is to sacrifice herself entirely, and there's nothing unkind about that--it's just what good mothers do, and it's how healthy adults are produced.
This student and I have been butting heads in a relatively benign way all semester in the Senior Seminar course, but it took a good measure of restraint for me not to point out the utter absurdity of that argument. It's not new, of course. There are plenty of people who agree with him. But if they're right, then why are mothers directed to put on their own oxygen masks, in the event of a plane crash, before helping their children do the same? Because the airlines know what everyone else should, by now: a mother can't be helpful to anyone if she's unconscious (or, in the case of the peach, sucked dry of her vital juices.) She has to put herself first, not last, to be of any use.
Becoming a mother was the most liberating thing that has happened to me in my life. By liberating, I certainly don't mean lacking constraints; motherhood is, if nothing else, a long process of learning to be constrained by the demands of others. But those demands are liberating in their own way.
For example: when my daughter was only a few months old, I took her for a walk in her carriage one afternoon. Within the first few moments of our walk, a huge dog was bounding across the park toward us, off leash. I didn't know what to do. Running, I thought, would only encourage a chase--so I just stood still, hoping he'd lose interest in us if I didn't encourage his attention.
Instead, almost immediately, the dog stuck his head down into the carriage. I didn't wait to see whether he was going to harm my baby; I didn't worry that he was going to whip around and bite my hand off. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off his front feet. By then his owner was running across the park toward us, yelling "It's okay! He won't hurt anybody! He's very friendly!" Still, I held on to the yelping dog until his owner arrived with his leash.
Even now, almost fifteen years later, I have no idea how I lifted that huge dog off his feet with one hand. But I know why I did it: becoming a mother had freed me of the fears that would have plagued me otherwise--fear of injury, fear of looking like a silly woman who's afraid of a friendly dog. I was the only person available to take charge of the situation, so I did.
In other words, I put myself first. I trusted my judgement and went into action on the basis of that judgement, without a second thought. If sacrifice is the act of being whatever our children determine they need, mothering is the act of deciding what's best for them, putting our judgement before theirs.
Children need whole, vibrant, thinking people in their lives. They need people to take charge when they're too young and small to do so themselves, but they also need people to offer guidance and sustenance when they're old enough to be more autonomous. The only way we'll have something to offer them at every point in their lives is to hold a part of ourselves in reserve at all times--to refuse to give our whole selves, ever.
I am nobody's peach. And I'm proud to say it.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Making Time to Forgive
You'll note that it's been over a month since my last blog entry. Between spring break, Women's Week on campus (immediately following spring break), and the usual mad dash toward the end of the semester, it's been a hectic month.
Today, however, with Easter on the immediate horizon, I'm making time to think about the nature of forgiveness. Several months ago I met a woman who'd lost a child as the result of a violent crime, and she told me how much she'd learned from that experience. For instance: you're going to have to forgive a lot of people, she said--not only the ones who hurt your child, but the ones who hurt you. They do this by directing conversation away from your grief (in order to avoid creating uncomfortable moments for themselves), or by ignoring you completely because they don't know what to say. Dealing with the death of her child was horrific, of course, but dealing with the requirements of her new life--that was downright exhausting, she said.
Forgiveness takes more time (and much more energy) than writing someone off; you have to forgive all over again whenever you think about the wrongs people have done to you. Perhaps that's why human beings tend to be quick to anger and slow to mercy. Whenever he's faced with someone's anger, my dad likes to say "They'll get over it. If they don't, they're going to be mad for a long, long time." And we do get over it, most of the time. We cool off. Anger is short-lived and very efficient in relieving the pressure of a moment. But that's about all it can accomplish. Held in place, it turns into a grudge--anger that accomplishes absolutely nothing. Forgiveness, on the other hand, is the choice to clear away the anger and put good will in its place, even when that's not what you feel like doing. Especially when that's not what you feel like doing. And it accomplishes much more than anger ever will.
Earlier this week, one of my students was telling the story of how her family had reached out to help a homeless man--who had then gone on to steal from her family, rather than showing gratitude for their help. "That's why we don't help homeless people anymore," she said. "You just can't trust them." It's a logical conclusion (albeit overgeneralized), but it's based in anger. Imagine how many others might be helped by that family's choice to forgive one person's selfishness.
This morning I was thinking about someone I find it very hard to forgive, but I stopped myself from running (yet again) through the catalog of his wrongdoings. I told myself to let it go and hope he'd find a way to be at peace with himself. I decided to listen to what I'd told my student: "You did the right thing. How someone responds to that has nothing to do with you--that's his choice. But if you use his behavior as an excuse to stop doing the right thing, then his choice becomes your choice."
My job in this world is to try to do the right thing more often than not--and to take the time to forgive the people who might keep me from doing that. It's hard to remember but absolutely true that forgiveness isn't something you do for the person who's done you wrong. You do it to empower yourself. You do it to change the world.
Today, however, with Easter on the immediate horizon, I'm making time to think about the nature of forgiveness. Several months ago I met a woman who'd lost a child as the result of a violent crime, and she told me how much she'd learned from that experience. For instance: you're going to have to forgive a lot of people, she said--not only the ones who hurt your child, but the ones who hurt you. They do this by directing conversation away from your grief (in order to avoid creating uncomfortable moments for themselves), or by ignoring you completely because they don't know what to say. Dealing with the death of her child was horrific, of course, but dealing with the requirements of her new life--that was downright exhausting, she said.
Forgiveness takes more time (and much more energy) than writing someone off; you have to forgive all over again whenever you think about the wrongs people have done to you. Perhaps that's why human beings tend to be quick to anger and slow to mercy. Whenever he's faced with someone's anger, my dad likes to say "They'll get over it. If they don't, they're going to be mad for a long, long time." And we do get over it, most of the time. We cool off. Anger is short-lived and very efficient in relieving the pressure of a moment. But that's about all it can accomplish. Held in place, it turns into a grudge--anger that accomplishes absolutely nothing. Forgiveness, on the other hand, is the choice to clear away the anger and put good will in its place, even when that's not what you feel like doing. Especially when that's not what you feel like doing. And it accomplishes much more than anger ever will.
Earlier this week, one of my students was telling the story of how her family had reached out to help a homeless man--who had then gone on to steal from her family, rather than showing gratitude for their help. "That's why we don't help homeless people anymore," she said. "You just can't trust them." It's a logical conclusion (albeit overgeneralized), but it's based in anger. Imagine how many others might be helped by that family's choice to forgive one person's selfishness.
This morning I was thinking about someone I find it very hard to forgive, but I stopped myself from running (yet again) through the catalog of his wrongdoings. I told myself to let it go and hope he'd find a way to be at peace with himself. I decided to listen to what I'd told my student: "You did the right thing. How someone responds to that has nothing to do with you--that's his choice. But if you use his behavior as an excuse to stop doing the right thing, then his choice becomes your choice."
My job in this world is to try to do the right thing more often than not--and to take the time to forgive the people who might keep me from doing that. It's hard to remember but absolutely true that forgiveness isn't something you do for the person who's done you wrong. You do it to empower yourself. You do it to change the world.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Koyaanisqatsi
This afternoon I was the guest speaker at a WELCA conference in Ander, Texas. (In case you're wondering, Ander is a tiny little town just north of Goliad and west of Victoria; I'm fairly certain the church I visited today constitutes the entirety of Ander.) I arrived just in time for an excellent lunch, then started off my presentation by noting how ironic I found it that I, of all people--the woman who's constantly driving to and from, trying to get people where they need to be with everything they need to have--was there to talk about living a balanced life.
In the 1980's, when I was in college, I remember seeing a film called Koyaanisqatsi. The title is a Hopi word meaning "a state of life that calls for another way of living" or, more simply, "life out of balance." The film itself is visually stunning; mostly it consists of time-lapse photography accompanied by music. I remember being impressed by what I saw, but the word and its meaning are what I remember most clearly.
That word came back to me today while I was talking to the women in Ander about living with integrity. That's certainly a word we over-simplify too readily; it doesn't only mean living with high standards, but also living in a way that allows our lives to be whole and undiminished--to experience the fullness of our own human experience. For women, especially, there are so many forces working to diminish us. We're constantly told what we lack--we're not pretty enough, or not charming enough, or not selfless enough. If we spend too much time thinking about ourselves, we're vain; too little and we've let ourselves go. Today I pointed out how a recent cover of Women's Day magazine (the one I'm sure you've seen every time you stand in line at the checkout stand at the grocery store) draws women into a vicious circle by encouraging them to eat healthy--then transforms that message, ever so slightly, to encourage them to "drop a size" in short order--then offers up a beautiful picture of the cupcakes those same women are apparently being encouraged to make. For whom? Not for themselves, if they're trying to drop a size. But who makes cupcakes without eating them? If we eat the cupcakes, of course, we're left feeling guilty for our lack of willpower--which drives us to resolve to eat healthy and lose weight.
And so the vicious circle continues, largely because we don't even realize we're caught up in the whirlpool. This afternoon we talked about strategies for making smart changes, tools for deciding when to put yourself first. That's such a difficult thing for most women to do, and it felt really important to me to help everyone in that room realize that, sometimes, it really is OK. I almost missed out on my first Ragdale experience because I was so worried about disappointing people by leaving home for two weeks. But if I hadn't gone to Ragdale--if I hadn't put myself first--I'm fairly certain my novel just wouldn't exist. Given that my son doesn't even remember me missing his birthday that year, I think that sacrifice turned out to be manageable for everyone.
Many women, at least occasionally, find themselves in "a state of life that calls for another way of living." I'm a big believer that God puts us where we need to be, so I'm confident there was someone in that audience today who needed to hear what I was saying. Whoever you are, I hope I spoke the words you needed to hear and gave you the tools you needed to make a change.
In the 1980's, when I was in college, I remember seeing a film called Koyaanisqatsi. The title is a Hopi word meaning "a state of life that calls for another way of living" or, more simply, "life out of balance." The film itself is visually stunning; mostly it consists of time-lapse photography accompanied by music. I remember being impressed by what I saw, but the word and its meaning are what I remember most clearly.
That word came back to me today while I was talking to the women in Ander about living with integrity. That's certainly a word we over-simplify too readily; it doesn't only mean living with high standards, but also living in a way that allows our lives to be whole and undiminished--to experience the fullness of our own human experience. For women, especially, there are so many forces working to diminish us. We're constantly told what we lack--we're not pretty enough, or not charming enough, or not selfless enough. If we spend too much time thinking about ourselves, we're vain; too little and we've let ourselves go. Today I pointed out how a recent cover of Women's Day magazine (the one I'm sure you've seen every time you stand in line at the checkout stand at the grocery store) draws women into a vicious circle by encouraging them to eat healthy--then transforms that message, ever so slightly, to encourage them to "drop a size" in short order--then offers up a beautiful picture of the cupcakes those same women are apparently being encouraged to make. For whom? Not for themselves, if they're trying to drop a size. But who makes cupcakes without eating them? If we eat the cupcakes, of course, we're left feeling guilty for our lack of willpower--which drives us to resolve to eat healthy and lose weight.
And so the vicious circle continues, largely because we don't even realize we're caught up in the whirlpool. This afternoon we talked about strategies for making smart changes, tools for deciding when to put yourself first. That's such a difficult thing for most women to do, and it felt really important to me to help everyone in that room realize that, sometimes, it really is OK. I almost missed out on my first Ragdale experience because I was so worried about disappointing people by leaving home for two weeks. But if I hadn't gone to Ragdale--if I hadn't put myself first--I'm fairly certain my novel just wouldn't exist. Given that my son doesn't even remember me missing his birthday that year, I think that sacrifice turned out to be manageable for everyone.
Many women, at least occasionally, find themselves in "a state of life that calls for another way of living." I'm a big believer that God puts us where we need to be, so I'm confident there was someone in that audience today who needed to hear what I was saying. Whoever you are, I hope I spoke the words you needed to hear and gave you the tools you needed to make a change.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Time to slow down
I don't know what it is about the spring semester of each year that seems to speed up the clock. The fall semester often feels like a long march into the dark, but spring always zips by without notice. And you'd think it would be the opposite, since spring semester ends with the start of summer break, and that's what everyone is waiting for.
This has been a particularly busy semester, though--partly because I had to get back up to speed after my sabbatical (which was harder than I'd anticipated), partly because I've had lots going on in addition to my classes. Last week I participated in a benefit reading at Our Lady of the Lake University, where my husband works; it was the third in a series of readings designed to raise money for the English department, which was hit hard last May when a fire destroyed the main building at OLLU. I was glad to give my time to such a good cause; my husband and all his colleagues lost pretty much everything that was in their offices when the fire broke out. It's been a hard process of rebuilding, but it's been full of good lessons about what's really important and what can disappear almost without notice.
Then, this week, I had to get my son ready for his Kids Jeopardy audition. He took an online test a couple months ago, and a few weeks after that we received an email inviting him to go through the in-person audition process in Dallas. So we've been studying flash cards and watching past episodes of Kids Jeopardy on YouTube (because many of the people who were on Jeopardy as kids want to immortalize that experience, apparently), and yesterday he headed off to Dallas with his dad. Mostly I'm hoping this turns out to be a confidence-building experience for my son, who is smart but shy and has a hard time expressing everything he knows. Just being selected for the audition was a big deal, and now he gets to spend a whole weekend in Dallas alone with his father, too. I want the experience to be a good memory for him, even if this is all the farther it goes. (I think it will: last night he sent me a text message that said "holy snot dallas ROCKS!!!")
Also last night, at the Board of Regents dinner, I introduced a colleague at my university who was receiving an award from the alumni association. Honoring him was particularly sweet this year because he had a very serious bicycling accident last summer: he ran into the side of van that pulled out in front of him while he was rolling along at 20 miles per hour. The accident left him with a spinal cord injury, nerve damage and temporary paralysis. But he still came back to teach in the fall, just a few weeks after the accident--first in a wheelchair and neck brace, later in a walker and neck brace. Now he's getting around with only a cane, and I'm just so glad he's still here with us. He was my first friend at the university. I worried that I wouldn't be able to get through my intro without dissolving into tears, but I said a little prayer that I'd be able to honor him the way he deserved to be honored, without calling attention to myself--and I think I managed to do that. Someone even told me that I stole the show. That was the plan, of course, to make it my friend's big night.
Next on the agenda: I'm a featured speaker at a WELCA conference next Saturday. But next weekend is also the start of Spring Break, so once I get through Saturday, I'm on the glide path to slowing down. I'm already having visions of sitting on my deck with a glass of wine when I get home Saturday night.
The second half of the semester, after the break, always goes even faster than the first half: senior seminar presentations, Easter weekend, final exams, and the usual sea of end-of-year paperwork. Last night, sitting next to my friend's wife at the awards dinner, we were talking about this very thing--the way time seems to move at a speed all its own, getting faster and slower without marking any difference on the clock. My friend's wife said "I've just given up on trying to understand any of this time passing stuff. I just do the best I can to go with it."
Which, as my friend would tell you, is much better than the alternative.
This has been a particularly busy semester, though--partly because I had to get back up to speed after my sabbatical (which was harder than I'd anticipated), partly because I've had lots going on in addition to my classes. Last week I participated in a benefit reading at Our Lady of the Lake University, where my husband works; it was the third in a series of readings designed to raise money for the English department, which was hit hard last May when a fire destroyed the main building at OLLU. I was glad to give my time to such a good cause; my husband and all his colleagues lost pretty much everything that was in their offices when the fire broke out. It's been a hard process of rebuilding, but it's been full of good lessons about what's really important and what can disappear almost without notice.
Then, this week, I had to get my son ready for his Kids Jeopardy audition. He took an online test a couple months ago, and a few weeks after that we received an email inviting him to go through the in-person audition process in Dallas. So we've been studying flash cards and watching past episodes of Kids Jeopardy on YouTube (because many of the people who were on Jeopardy as kids want to immortalize that experience, apparently), and yesterday he headed off to Dallas with his dad. Mostly I'm hoping this turns out to be a confidence-building experience for my son, who is smart but shy and has a hard time expressing everything he knows. Just being selected for the audition was a big deal, and now he gets to spend a whole weekend in Dallas alone with his father, too. I want the experience to be a good memory for him, even if this is all the farther it goes. (I think it will: last night he sent me a text message that said "holy snot dallas ROCKS!!!")
Also last night, at the Board of Regents dinner, I introduced a colleague at my university who was receiving an award from the alumni association. Honoring him was particularly sweet this year because he had a very serious bicycling accident last summer: he ran into the side of van that pulled out in front of him while he was rolling along at 20 miles per hour. The accident left him with a spinal cord injury, nerve damage and temporary paralysis. But he still came back to teach in the fall, just a few weeks after the accident--first in a wheelchair and neck brace, later in a walker and neck brace. Now he's getting around with only a cane, and I'm just so glad he's still here with us. He was my first friend at the university. I worried that I wouldn't be able to get through my intro without dissolving into tears, but I said a little prayer that I'd be able to honor him the way he deserved to be honored, without calling attention to myself--and I think I managed to do that. Someone even told me that I stole the show. That was the plan, of course, to make it my friend's big night.
Next on the agenda: I'm a featured speaker at a WELCA conference next Saturday. But next weekend is also the start of Spring Break, so once I get through Saturday, I'm on the glide path to slowing down. I'm already having visions of sitting on my deck with a glass of wine when I get home Saturday night.
The second half of the semester, after the break, always goes even faster than the first half: senior seminar presentations, Easter weekend, final exams, and the usual sea of end-of-year paperwork. Last night, sitting next to my friend's wife at the awards dinner, we were talking about this very thing--the way time seems to move at a speed all its own, getting faster and slower without marking any difference on the clock. My friend's wife said "I've just given up on trying to understand any of this time passing stuff. I just do the best I can to go with it."
Which, as my friend would tell you, is much better than the alternative.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Belated Thanks
Earlier today, making my way back to my office after a particularly awful meeting, I overheard a student saying this: "I had a really crappy day yesterday, so last night I started making a list of all the things I had to thankful for. I wound up writing down all these things from the past that I wasn't thankful for at the time, but I am now." We parted ways at that point, but I've been thinking about this all day.
So, in no particular order: my list of Things I'm Now Thankful For, Even Though I Wasn't At The Time.
1. Working at McDonald's. Possibly the worst year and a half of my life, and I'll do just about anything to make sure my own kids never have to work fast food, but dealing with the lunch rush at McDonald's pretty much convinced me that I could handle anything. Plus, I saw first-hand what kind of job I'd have if I didn't finish college. There can be no better motivation.
2. Personal Finance class in high school. I wound up taking this class when a schedule change left me with very few options for a particular time slot in my last semester. I would never have taken it of my own volition, but I learned a lot that I still remember. And speaking of that last semester of high school. . .
3. Parents who made me take a full load of classes even when it wasn't required. My parents were an odd mishmash of practical and illogical. On the one hand, they actively encouraged me to forget about college and go to secretarial school instead; on the other hand, they insisted that I take a full load of high school classes rather than only the required four or five and working more hours at McDonald's. But Personal Finance was one of those classes I wound up taking just to fill up my schedule, as was Typing 3. And excellent typing skills turn out to be very handy when you're a professional writer.
4. Fishing and camping. My family rarely took actual vacations, but we went camping almost every weekend in the summer. My dad taught me to bait my own hook, cast my own line, reel in my own catch; he taught me the value of sitting still, not saying a word, appreciating what was all around us. The first time I saw the Milky Way was when I was fishing late at night with my dad. But usually, in the evening, my parents and brother and I would crowd around the little table in the camper and play Go Fish or Yahtzee. I can't remember my dad ever playing a game with us at home, but on a camping trip, anything was possible. And what I remember now isn't all the times he said no when we asked him to play with us; I remember the games we played together when we were camping.
5. Growing up in Idaho. The whole time I lived in Idaho, I couldn't wait to get out. I made big plans for going to college somewhere else--ultimately impossible, given the cost of private school or out-of-state tuition--because I was so thoroughly convinced that Life was happening elsewhere. In those days (pre-Internet, pre-Southwest Airlines, pre-Demi and Ashton in Sun Valley), Boise was a very isolated place and Idaho never showed up on the evening news. But living in a small town makes you use your imagination--also helpful to a novelist--and growing up in Idaho makes you unique in most venues. I always have something to talk about when I'm first getting to know people.
6. Non-traditional students in my undergrad creative writing classes. At the University of Idaho, most of my upper-division creative writing classes were scheduled during the evening. As a result, many of the people in my classes were older, non-traditional students who worked during the day. It didn't take long for me to learn that if I was going to be lazy and turn in cliche-ridden crap, they were going to highlight those moments of laziness and ask me to justify myself. At the time, I thought they were taking themselves way too seriously; in retrospect, I can see that they wanted me to take myself more seriously. And along those same lines . . .
7. The horrible Dr. D. He was one of my professors during my first semester of grad school, and he was nothing short of draconian. He told me I was vacuous. I locked myself in the women's room and cried after one of his in-class interrogations more than once. And then, after I'd produced what he considered a halfway decent paper, he helped me revise it and encouraged me to submit it to a literature conference. It was accepted, and I gave my first professional presentation with him sitting in the audience. I would never, ever treat a student the way he treated me--and now, having a Ph.D. myself, I look back and wonder why I thought that gave him the right to treat me so badly--but he did help me to convince myself that I could be successful in academia. And he did help me to understand that, while being tough on a student can be helpful in the long run, being unkind does nothing good for anyone.
It's interesting to think about how time changes these things--or, rather, how we change the way we think about them, given enough time to see how they fit into a big picture of our lives.
So, in no particular order: my list of Things I'm Now Thankful For, Even Though I Wasn't At The Time.
1. Working at McDonald's. Possibly the worst year and a half of my life, and I'll do just about anything to make sure my own kids never have to work fast food, but dealing with the lunch rush at McDonald's pretty much convinced me that I could handle anything. Plus, I saw first-hand what kind of job I'd have if I didn't finish college. There can be no better motivation.
2. Personal Finance class in high school. I wound up taking this class when a schedule change left me with very few options for a particular time slot in my last semester. I would never have taken it of my own volition, but I learned a lot that I still remember. And speaking of that last semester of high school. . .
3. Parents who made me take a full load of classes even when it wasn't required. My parents were an odd mishmash of practical and illogical. On the one hand, they actively encouraged me to forget about college and go to secretarial school instead; on the other hand, they insisted that I take a full load of high school classes rather than only the required four or five and working more hours at McDonald's. But Personal Finance was one of those classes I wound up taking just to fill up my schedule, as was Typing 3. And excellent typing skills turn out to be very handy when you're a professional writer.
4. Fishing and camping. My family rarely took actual vacations, but we went camping almost every weekend in the summer. My dad taught me to bait my own hook, cast my own line, reel in my own catch; he taught me the value of sitting still, not saying a word, appreciating what was all around us. The first time I saw the Milky Way was when I was fishing late at night with my dad. But usually, in the evening, my parents and brother and I would crowd around the little table in the camper and play Go Fish or Yahtzee. I can't remember my dad ever playing a game with us at home, but on a camping trip, anything was possible. And what I remember now isn't all the times he said no when we asked him to play with us; I remember the games we played together when we were camping.
5. Growing up in Idaho. The whole time I lived in Idaho, I couldn't wait to get out. I made big plans for going to college somewhere else--ultimately impossible, given the cost of private school or out-of-state tuition--because I was so thoroughly convinced that Life was happening elsewhere. In those days (pre-Internet, pre-Southwest Airlines, pre-Demi and Ashton in Sun Valley), Boise was a very isolated place and Idaho never showed up on the evening news. But living in a small town makes you use your imagination--also helpful to a novelist--and growing up in Idaho makes you unique in most venues. I always have something to talk about when I'm first getting to know people.
6. Non-traditional students in my undergrad creative writing classes. At the University of Idaho, most of my upper-division creative writing classes were scheduled during the evening. As a result, many of the people in my classes were older, non-traditional students who worked during the day. It didn't take long for me to learn that if I was going to be lazy and turn in cliche-ridden crap, they were going to highlight those moments of laziness and ask me to justify myself. At the time, I thought they were taking themselves way too seriously; in retrospect, I can see that they wanted me to take myself more seriously. And along those same lines . . .
7. The horrible Dr. D. He was one of my professors during my first semester of grad school, and he was nothing short of draconian. He told me I was vacuous. I locked myself in the women's room and cried after one of his in-class interrogations more than once. And then, after I'd produced what he considered a halfway decent paper, he helped me revise it and encouraged me to submit it to a literature conference. It was accepted, and I gave my first professional presentation with him sitting in the audience. I would never, ever treat a student the way he treated me--and now, having a Ph.D. myself, I look back and wonder why I thought that gave him the right to treat me so badly--but he did help me to convince myself that I could be successful in academia. And he did help me to understand that, while being tough on a student can be helpful in the long run, being unkind does nothing good for anyone.
It's interesting to think about how time changes these things--or, rather, how we change the way we think about them, given enough time to see how they fit into a big picture of our lives.
Monday, January 26, 2009
A Meditation on Churchgoing
I have a friend who calls herself "very spiritual" and says she has "a close relationship with God." She likes to watch Ultimate Fighting Challenge on TV. She hasn't gone to church since her childhood; she says she doesn't think it's necessary. "What's the point of sitting in a room with a bunch of people and reciting a bunch of words?" she says. Still, every year she sends me a Christmas card with a Bible verse on the front.
I have a friend who's an atheist, who calls Christianity "a big fairy tale." He once asked me how it was possible that I could believe in God when "you're such a no-bullshit person in the rest of your life." He's a very kind and generous person--he once surprised a large group of us by picking up the check at lunch--and, after a tour of duty in Vietnam, he's opposed to war on principle. He tells me that he believes the Gospel is generally right; he just doesn't believe in an afterlife or a supreme being, the resurrection or the second coming.
I grew up in a family that went to church every Sunday simply because it was Sunday. If we missed a week, it was either because my mother was sick or the whole family was on vacation. My parents' church was in the older part of town and didn't have a strong youth program--it never felt like a place I wanted to be. Certainly it wasn't a space that allowed for exploration or questioning, and neither of my parents had the vocabulary for discussing questions of theology. The best my mom could do was repeat something that had once been said to her. When I asked her why people needed to go to church, she told me "Because God is our shepherd and we are his flock." For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what that had to do with church.
So going to church on a regular basis didn't bring me closer to God. In fact, it drove me away from church (and, in large part, away from God) for twenty years. I didn't see the point of spending time in a place that required people to be as easily led as sheep; I thought I was too smart for that. Instead, I spent those years looking for answers in other places. But none of those answers were adequate, either.
I tell people I started going to church again because my daughter once looked at a nativity scene and asked me "Who are those people? What are they doing?" That's partly true: she did say those things in response to the nativity. But I started going to church again because something inside me--call it my heart, call it my soul--heard those questions and thought "She deserves to have some answers." And I knew any answers I could offer would make sense to me but be as limited as the ones my mother had offered, and would probably sound just as meaningless to my daughter's ears.
So I started taking my kids to church. They were small enough that they don't remember a time before we started going; church is just a part of our routine now. We go more often than we don't, but we take the occasional Sunday off when we're all just too tired to think about getting dressed and leaving the house.
When my kids ask questions about God or faith, I begin my response with "Well, I think . . . " I don't pretend I have the answers: I tell them to look in the Bible, talk to the pastor, talk to God. Figure it out. When my daughter comes home from her Confirmation class and tells me that she disagrees with something the pastor said, I ask her questions about her opinion, help her clarify what she believes and why. I don't tell her she's wrong, or that Pastor knows best and she should listen to him because of course he's right.
I go to church now because it's a place for thinking. It's a quiet space in the middle of a loud, chaotic week, a place to remember who I am and who I want to be. It's a place to listen more than talk, a place where the still, small voice can be heard. In those moments of silence, I can see whether all the pieces of my life fit together or whether I'm acting in a way that's inconsistent with what I claim to believe. I know I'm forgiven, no matter what I do, but I also know there's merit in trying to do the best I can.
I go to church because I need God to remind me, on a regular basis, not to be complacent with things as they are. The world is broken, and I need to keep working to heal that divide if only because I can. Because I've been given the gifts of good health, a clear mind, and an articulate voice. Because what I have doesn't belong to me, isn't what I've earned. It certainly isn't what I deserve. Because God is love, and love in action is the only way to change the world.
I have a friend who's an atheist, who calls Christianity "a big fairy tale." He once asked me how it was possible that I could believe in God when "you're such a no-bullshit person in the rest of your life." He's a very kind and generous person--he once surprised a large group of us by picking up the check at lunch--and, after a tour of duty in Vietnam, he's opposed to war on principle. He tells me that he believes the Gospel is generally right; he just doesn't believe in an afterlife or a supreme being, the resurrection or the second coming.
I grew up in a family that went to church every Sunday simply because it was Sunday. If we missed a week, it was either because my mother was sick or the whole family was on vacation. My parents' church was in the older part of town and didn't have a strong youth program--it never felt like a place I wanted to be. Certainly it wasn't a space that allowed for exploration or questioning, and neither of my parents had the vocabulary for discussing questions of theology. The best my mom could do was repeat something that had once been said to her. When I asked her why people needed to go to church, she told me "Because God is our shepherd and we are his flock." For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what that had to do with church.
So going to church on a regular basis didn't bring me closer to God. In fact, it drove me away from church (and, in large part, away from God) for twenty years. I didn't see the point of spending time in a place that required people to be as easily led as sheep; I thought I was too smart for that. Instead, I spent those years looking for answers in other places. But none of those answers were adequate, either.
I tell people I started going to church again because my daughter once looked at a nativity scene and asked me "Who are those people? What are they doing?" That's partly true: she did say those things in response to the nativity. But I started going to church again because something inside me--call it my heart, call it my soul--heard those questions and thought "She deserves to have some answers." And I knew any answers I could offer would make sense to me but be as limited as the ones my mother had offered, and would probably sound just as meaningless to my daughter's ears.
So I started taking my kids to church. They were small enough that they don't remember a time before we started going; church is just a part of our routine now. We go more often than we don't, but we take the occasional Sunday off when we're all just too tired to think about getting dressed and leaving the house.
When my kids ask questions about God or faith, I begin my response with "Well, I think . . . " I don't pretend I have the answers: I tell them to look in the Bible, talk to the pastor, talk to God. Figure it out. When my daughter comes home from her Confirmation class and tells me that she disagrees with something the pastor said, I ask her questions about her opinion, help her clarify what she believes and why. I don't tell her she's wrong, or that Pastor knows best and she should listen to him because of course he's right.
I go to church now because it's a place for thinking. It's a quiet space in the middle of a loud, chaotic week, a place to remember who I am and who I want to be. It's a place to listen more than talk, a place where the still, small voice can be heard. In those moments of silence, I can see whether all the pieces of my life fit together or whether I'm acting in a way that's inconsistent with what I claim to believe. I know I'm forgiven, no matter what I do, but I also know there's merit in trying to do the best I can.
I go to church because I need God to remind me, on a regular basis, not to be complacent with things as they are. The world is broken, and I need to keep working to heal that divide if only because I can. Because I've been given the gifts of good health, a clear mind, and an articulate voice. Because what I have doesn't belong to me, isn't what I've earned. It certainly isn't what I deserve. Because God is love, and love in action is the only way to change the world.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Chaos Theory
My theory is that when everything seems to be in order, you're looking at the flip side of chaos. Which means that chaos is right around the corner.
I came home from campus today at 3:00. The plan was to have a snack, get the mail, let my son grab a snack when his bus dropped him off at 3:30, then take him to the orthodontist at 4:00. But when I got home, I saw the fencing company had sent out a crew to replace our fence today. We'd been hoping they'd come this week, so I was happy enough to see them--just surprised, because we'd been told they would call and give us notice a day ahead of time.
I walked around the back of the house to let them know I was home--no one there. Hmm. So I went inside, knowing the animals would be a little freaked out by the strangers in the yard. Sure enough, both the dog and the cat were sitting squarely in front of the door, looking worried, wearing their Oh my God there's a stranger in the yard Mom what do we do there's a stranger in the yard Mom I don't know if you've noticed there's a stranger in the yard but oh my God Mom there's a stranger in the yard! faces. I fed Miss Kitty and put Hailey on a leash, thinking I'd take her out the front door and down to the mailbox while I gathered the mail.
3:02 When I walked out the front door, I was met with two more worried-looking faces: the two guys from the fencing crew were standing next a gushing pipe just to side of our front porch. I tried to figure out what had happened, but neither of them spoke much English. It looked like the pipe (a PVC pipe that runs along the outside of our house) had just snapped clean in two. I figured they'd hit it with one of the fence boards. I did manage to determine that they'd tried to turn off the main water valve at the street, though that didn't appear to have done much good. Meanwhile Hailey, terribly excited by the presence of strangers, was barking her head off. So I took her back inside, called my husband at work, left him a slightly panicked message, and called the plumbing company to ask if they could come right away.
3:10 My daughter Jordan called. "Did you pick up Andy at school today?" No, why? "Because he's not on the bus." Well. Excellent. I tried to call him on his cell phone, but Andy wasn't answering. The phone beeped to let me know I had a call on the other line. My husband, Mike, finally back in his office after class. I brought him up to speed and he reminded me that we'd bought a tool to turn off the water at the street (during another moment of plumbing-induced chaos.) I went back out to the water meter and one of the fencing guys was quick to help me figure out how to turn the cut-off valve. Then I told Mike I thought I'd have to call the orthodontist and tell them we couldn't make it today. But Mike didn't want Andy to have to reschedule; he wanted him to go ahead and get his retainers today. So he said he'd come home and meet the plumber while I went to the orthodontist. It's a half-hour commute through downtown from his office to our house, so coming home in the middle of the day is a major headache. Plus, his graduate class met for the first time tonight, and he'd planned to use those late afternoon hours to prepare for class. I felt bad that he had to come home, but I didn't know what else to do.
3:20 Andy called right after I got off the phone with Mike. We agreed that he'd sit in front of the school until I could get there to pick him up. Then I called the plumbing company back, to tell them I had to leave for about 20 minutes. They said they'd send a crew to meet me at the house when I got back.
3:30 The bus dropped Jordan at the corner. I briefed her on what was happening, so she could show the plumbers where the problem was in case they arrived before I did. Then I left to pick up Andy.
3:45 Back home with Andy, but no plumber. I called Mike--still en route. I told Andy to have a snack, then told him to brush his teeth, then remembered we had no water.
3:50 The plumbers arrived. They couldn't figure out where the broken pipe was coming from or what it was leading to. "I've never seen anything like this before," one of them said, and the other could only shake his head at the absurdity of our plumbing.
3:55 Andy and I left for the orthodontist; Mike stayed behind to deal with the plumbers.
By the time I got back home, the plumbers had finished their work and told Mike what we really needed was a complete overhaul of our pipes--apparently, they're the creation of "some handyman who thought he knew what he was doing" when he removed a water softener and re-routed the pipes that supply our house. Mike and I talked about whether to call the fencing company and tell them what had happened. On the one hand, we didn't think we should have to pay the plumbing bill; on the other, if the company did agree to pay the bill, we figured they'd take it out of the workers' pay for the day. That, or they'd just fire the guys for being careless. In the end, we decided to just let it go. We aren't rolling in money, by any means, but I'm fairly certain we can cover that unexpected bill more easily than two guys who build fences for a living. (Maybe I'll change my mind about that when I see our water bill for next month.)
Mike went back to campus for his evening class. The fencing guys stayed until 7:00, nailing up fence boards in the dark--and this is one of those actually cold evenings we get in January, when working outside in the dark wouldn't be pleasant at all. Obviously, though, they lost quite a bit of time worrying over the gushing pipe and still needed to finish this job on time so they could start on another project on schedule tomorrow.
After they'd gone, the kids and I went to the grocery store. The first thing I put in my cart was a six pack of Shiner beer, which made my daughter laugh.
"Hard day?" she said.
Indeed.
I came home from campus today at 3:00. The plan was to have a snack, get the mail, let my son grab a snack when his bus dropped him off at 3:30, then take him to the orthodontist at 4:00. But when I got home, I saw the fencing company had sent out a crew to replace our fence today. We'd been hoping they'd come this week, so I was happy enough to see them--just surprised, because we'd been told they would call and give us notice a day ahead of time.
I walked around the back of the house to let them know I was home--no one there. Hmm. So I went inside, knowing the animals would be a little freaked out by the strangers in the yard. Sure enough, both the dog and the cat were sitting squarely in front of the door, looking worried, wearing their Oh my God there's a stranger in the yard Mom what do we do there's a stranger in the yard Mom I don't know if you've noticed there's a stranger in the yard but oh my God Mom there's a stranger in the yard! faces. I fed Miss Kitty and put Hailey on a leash, thinking I'd take her out the front door and down to the mailbox while I gathered the mail.
3:02 When I walked out the front door, I was met with two more worried-looking faces: the two guys from the fencing crew were standing next a gushing pipe just to side of our front porch. I tried to figure out what had happened, but neither of them spoke much English. It looked like the pipe (a PVC pipe that runs along the outside of our house) had just snapped clean in two. I figured they'd hit it with one of the fence boards. I did manage to determine that they'd tried to turn off the main water valve at the street, though that didn't appear to have done much good. Meanwhile Hailey, terribly excited by the presence of strangers, was barking her head off. So I took her back inside, called my husband at work, left him a slightly panicked message, and called the plumbing company to ask if they could come right away.
3:10 My daughter Jordan called. "Did you pick up Andy at school today?" No, why? "Because he's not on the bus." Well. Excellent. I tried to call him on his cell phone, but Andy wasn't answering. The phone beeped to let me know I had a call on the other line. My husband, Mike, finally back in his office after class. I brought him up to speed and he reminded me that we'd bought a tool to turn off the water at the street (during another moment of plumbing-induced chaos.) I went back out to the water meter and one of the fencing guys was quick to help me figure out how to turn the cut-off valve. Then I told Mike I thought I'd have to call the orthodontist and tell them we couldn't make it today. But Mike didn't want Andy to have to reschedule; he wanted him to go ahead and get his retainers today. So he said he'd come home and meet the plumber while I went to the orthodontist. It's a half-hour commute through downtown from his office to our house, so coming home in the middle of the day is a major headache. Plus, his graduate class met for the first time tonight, and he'd planned to use those late afternoon hours to prepare for class. I felt bad that he had to come home, but I didn't know what else to do.
3:20 Andy called right after I got off the phone with Mike. We agreed that he'd sit in front of the school until I could get there to pick him up. Then I called the plumbing company back, to tell them I had to leave for about 20 minutes. They said they'd send a crew to meet me at the house when I got back.
3:30 The bus dropped Jordan at the corner. I briefed her on what was happening, so she could show the plumbers where the problem was in case they arrived before I did. Then I left to pick up Andy.
3:45 Back home with Andy, but no plumber. I called Mike--still en route. I told Andy to have a snack, then told him to brush his teeth, then remembered we had no water.
3:50 The plumbers arrived. They couldn't figure out where the broken pipe was coming from or what it was leading to. "I've never seen anything like this before," one of them said, and the other could only shake his head at the absurdity of our plumbing.
3:55 Andy and I left for the orthodontist; Mike stayed behind to deal with the plumbers.
By the time I got back home, the plumbers had finished their work and told Mike what we really needed was a complete overhaul of our pipes--apparently, they're the creation of "some handyman who thought he knew what he was doing" when he removed a water softener and re-routed the pipes that supply our house. Mike and I talked about whether to call the fencing company and tell them what had happened. On the one hand, we didn't think we should have to pay the plumbing bill; on the other, if the company did agree to pay the bill, we figured they'd take it out of the workers' pay for the day. That, or they'd just fire the guys for being careless. In the end, we decided to just let it go. We aren't rolling in money, by any means, but I'm fairly certain we can cover that unexpected bill more easily than two guys who build fences for a living. (Maybe I'll change my mind about that when I see our water bill for next month.)
Mike went back to campus for his evening class. The fencing guys stayed until 7:00, nailing up fence boards in the dark--and this is one of those actually cold evenings we get in January, when working outside in the dark wouldn't be pleasant at all. Obviously, though, they lost quite a bit of time worrying over the gushing pipe and still needed to finish this job on time so they could start on another project on schedule tomorrow.
After they'd gone, the kids and I went to the grocery store. The first thing I put in my cart was a six pack of Shiner beer, which made my daughter laugh.
"Hard day?" she said.
Indeed.
Monday, January 12, 2009
All In
I'm wondering what became of my office while I was gone. Books I once owned (and used virtually every semester) have disappeared. I do not suspect theft. I suspect I loaned them out, for reasons that now escape me, and failed to get them back.
Returning to work has been harder than I imagined it would be. I knew I'd be tired, but I didn't anticipate the kind of mental energy that goes along with having the world slightly out of kilter. I'm just starting to remember what it feels like when you have a schedule in your head and everything takes more effort than you'd planned, so the schedule has to be revised. And then revised again. And then again.
But in spite of these moments of disorientation, it looks like I'm all in. I was back in my office by 8:30 this morning although, strictly speaking, I didn't have to be. Already I've been planning programming for the Women's Center, identifying missing books, shelving the stuff I accumulated during my sabbatical, working out class plans for the next few days. I've been talking to people about curriculum changes that need to happen in the fall. Forget easing back into the groove. This is how I operate: I'm here or I'm not.
Small wonder, perhaps, that I've decided against applying for a job in the Northeast. I just don't have the energy to take on one more thing, even if that thing holds the promise of more prestige, more money, greater focus. I love the West, but I know it makes no sense for all people who love the West to live and teach here. (Honestly, who better to teach New Englanders about life on the wide side of the Mississippi?) I also know I can't go into an application process feeling tepid about a major life decision. Either I'm ready to move, should I get the chance, or I'm staying put. I'm here or I'm not.
And for the moment, I'm here. Looking forward to seeing students tomorrow. To working in my back yard as the weather warms up. To planning the fall schedule, and to spending another hot summer at the pool with my kids. I know how my life works here, even when things are slightly askew, and I like what I know of this place. It's hard to imagine why I'd ever want to leave.
Returning to work has been harder than I imagined it would be. I knew I'd be tired, but I didn't anticipate the kind of mental energy that goes along with having the world slightly out of kilter. I'm just starting to remember what it feels like when you have a schedule in your head and everything takes more effort than you'd planned, so the schedule has to be revised. And then revised again. And then again.
But in spite of these moments of disorientation, it looks like I'm all in. I was back in my office by 8:30 this morning although, strictly speaking, I didn't have to be. Already I've been planning programming for the Women's Center, identifying missing books, shelving the stuff I accumulated during my sabbatical, working out class plans for the next few days. I've been talking to people about curriculum changes that need to happen in the fall. Forget easing back into the groove. This is how I operate: I'm here or I'm not.
Small wonder, perhaps, that I've decided against applying for a job in the Northeast. I just don't have the energy to take on one more thing, even if that thing holds the promise of more prestige, more money, greater focus. I love the West, but I know it makes no sense for all people who love the West to live and teach here. (Honestly, who better to teach New Englanders about life on the wide side of the Mississippi?) I also know I can't go into an application process feeling tepid about a major life decision. Either I'm ready to move, should I get the chance, or I'm staying put. I'm here or I'm not.
And for the moment, I'm here. Looking forward to seeing students tomorrow. To working in my back yard as the weather warms up. To planning the fall schedule, and to spending another hot summer at the pool with my kids. I know how my life works here, even when things are slightly askew, and I like what I know of this place. It's hard to imagine why I'd ever want to leave.
Monday, January 5, 2009
It's my privilege
I'll be back on campus later this week after eight months away, and while I'm wondering how in the world I ever juggled teaching and writing and family responsibilities--because it's not like I've been watching TV and eating bonbons for the last eight months, despite the break from teaching--I'm also looking forward to it. Last night I was working on syllabi and actually having a good time thinking about how to structure my classes.
I'm teaching four courses this spring, all courses I've taught before, but I never do exactly the same thing from semester to semester. Part of the pleasure I take from teaching is the fact that it includes a learning process for me: each time I teach a class, I learn something new about the subject matter and the way my students receive it. I've learned, for instance, that asking first-year students to workshop each others' writing just doesn't work; developmentally, most of them aren't in a place where they can separate their fear of hurting someone's feelings from their response to the writing. If we do workshop each others' writing, we do it briefly and with lots of direction. By the time they're sophomores and juniors, though, most of them can do this pretty effectively and free-form workshop discussions are the central feature of the class.
It's not easy to juggle four classes that often require four different approaches, but I actually prefer this to teaching two sections of the same course. (By the time I teach the second section, I'm out of gas. I've said what I have to say. And I feel like my lack of enthusiasm is contagious.)When I was in Boise a few months ago, one of my former BSU colleagues expressed surprise at my teaching load. "That's like a community college teaching load," she said. At one time, this may have been true--but when I was interviewing for tenure-track jobs, not one of them offered anything less than a 3-4 load, and 4-4 was much more common. Colleagues who teach at research-oriented universities (the minority of professors, taking the big picture into account) tend to forget that a 2-2 load isn't standard.
I'm not sure it's a privilege, either. Graduate students are taught to view it this way, but I think that's because they're often taught by professors who view teaching as an annoying distraction from their research and who can't imagine why anyone would want a job that requires they do more of it. (I have three graduate degrees from three different institutions, and this was almost universally true of the graduate faculty I encountered.) The 2-2 load does leave much more time for research and writing, no doubt--but are those really the most important activities a professor engages in? Scholarly activity informs the professoriate--but is it really more important than helping students create new knowledge for themselves? Is it more important than the kind of learning we do in our own classrooms? I'm not so sure.
I've missed being around students. I've enjoyed having the time to focus on my own reading and writing, but I remember how energized I felt after the class I taught at BSU--there's no denying that teaching gives me a kind of energy that research and writing just don't. When the semester gets frenetic, I'm going to try to remember that it's a privilege to interact with and learn from my students every day.
I'm teaching four courses this spring, all courses I've taught before, but I never do exactly the same thing from semester to semester. Part of the pleasure I take from teaching is the fact that it includes a learning process for me: each time I teach a class, I learn something new about the subject matter and the way my students receive it. I've learned, for instance, that asking first-year students to workshop each others' writing just doesn't work; developmentally, most of them aren't in a place where they can separate their fear of hurting someone's feelings from their response to the writing. If we do workshop each others' writing, we do it briefly and with lots of direction. By the time they're sophomores and juniors, though, most of them can do this pretty effectively and free-form workshop discussions are the central feature of the class.
It's not easy to juggle four classes that often require four different approaches, but I actually prefer this to teaching two sections of the same course. (By the time I teach the second section, I'm out of gas. I've said what I have to say. And I feel like my lack of enthusiasm is contagious.)When I was in Boise a few months ago, one of my former BSU colleagues expressed surprise at my teaching load. "That's like a community college teaching load," she said. At one time, this may have been true--but when I was interviewing for tenure-track jobs, not one of them offered anything less than a 3-4 load, and 4-4 was much more common. Colleagues who teach at research-oriented universities (the minority of professors, taking the big picture into account) tend to forget that a 2-2 load isn't standard.
I'm not sure it's a privilege, either. Graduate students are taught to view it this way, but I think that's because they're often taught by professors who view teaching as an annoying distraction from their research and who can't imagine why anyone would want a job that requires they do more of it. (I have three graduate degrees from three different institutions, and this was almost universally true of the graduate faculty I encountered.) The 2-2 load does leave much more time for research and writing, no doubt--but are those really the most important activities a professor engages in? Scholarly activity informs the professoriate--but is it really more important than helping students create new knowledge for themselves? Is it more important than the kind of learning we do in our own classrooms? I'm not so sure.
I've missed being around students. I've enjoyed having the time to focus on my own reading and writing, but I remember how energized I felt after the class I taught at BSU--there's no denying that teaching gives me a kind of energy that research and writing just don't. When the semester gets frenetic, I'm going to try to remember that it's a privilege to interact with and learn from my students every day.
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