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.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
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.
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