Seven Miles to Nowhere

Children Are Not Adults

2011-07-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

In early June, Megan Cox Gurdon wrote what has become a much debated article for the Wall Street Journal about whether YA literature has become too dark. (You can read the original article here.) In the days and weeks that have followed, Twitter and the rest of the interwebs have exploded with discussions about the issue.

I haven't been sure what it is that I wanted to add, if anything, to the debate, but today, NPR had a feature about Ms. Cox Gurdon and her arguments, and for the first time I had a chance to hear the author of the article speak more about why she made the arguments. (You can listen to the interview here.) It made me, finally, want to respond.

During the interview, Ms. Cox Gurdon said one thing that caught my interest more than anything else. Considering her general condescension toward the genre and its authors, it should say something that this is what caught my attention. She said, "Children are not adults." Her point was that children do not have the ability yet to distinguish good from bad, moral from immoral, art from trash, and that it is the job of adults (parents) to help them make those distinctions.

I agree...to a point. I think that it should be the responsibility of parents to help their children make these decisions. How parents are supposed to help them if their resources include articles like the ones that Ms. Cox Gurdon wrote--articles with no substantive evidence to back up some of the claims that she made. Articles that rely more on anecdotal evidence and fear-mongering than on actual investigative reporting. Well, that's a different matter, I suppose.

My point is simply this: It is true that children, that teenagers are not adults, but it is also true that literature is not propaganda.

Many on both sides of the issue--those for and against what Ms. Cox Gurdon argued-- seem to miss this important fact.

Now I'm not saying that literature isn't powerful and that reading can't be a transformative act. Literature is immensely powerful. Every time we pick up a book and read, we change. We become someone we weren't before, someone who has now experienced things that he or she had not before. I've spent so many years of my life studying, teaching, and (now) writing literature, because I do believe in its power.

But here's the thing: Literature cannot be prescriptive.

In part, this is because literary language has a slipperiness to it that is nearly impossible to pin down. An author might have certain intentions about what a book is trying to say or trying to convey, but any literature teacher (or student) worth their salt can tell you that when you're interpreting a piece of literature, authorial intentions are a moot point all together. After all, how many racists were vindicated by Twain's use of a certain unmentionable word in Huck Finn when Twain's own intention in using the word was something else entirely?

More importantly, perhaps, literature cannot be prescriptive because reading is an intensely private and personal activity. Without the reader, no book and no experience of reading can be complete. The reader finishes what the author began in authoring the book, and because each reader brings to the book his or her own sets of experiences and assumptions, no book will strike any two readers the same way.
A book--whether we're talking YA or Romance or anything else--may save a reader or it may maim them, that much is true. But it may also do nothing at all. A book can change your life in any number of ways, but it does not do that simply by existing. To change a life, a book requires the reader's active involvement.

This is the real problem that I see with Ms. Cox Gurdon's argument and the arguments of so many of her opponents--they give the book itself a power that it just simply does not have.

For a book to injure a child in some way, the child has to finish reading it. And a child who cannot relate to some of these so-called "dark" subjects may not select those books or finish those books. But the opposite is true--for a reader to be saved by a book, it's the reader who is already actively searching for an answer. It's the reader who finds their own power within the pages of the book.

I think that what is most frustrating about Ms. Cox Gurdon's argument is that she claims that these "dark" books have the power to harm the teenagers who read them, as though teenagers are not savvy enough to see these stories as literature and not as propaganda. At the same time she accuses these books of ripping away the innocence of our children, she does no better by ripping away their agency as readers.

If YA does save--and I'm inclined to think that it might--it does not do so by preaching or instructing. If YA saves anyone, it does so by allowing teenage readers the power experience of interacting with beautiful, moving, and often challenging texts. YA saves by treating young adults not as the children that they might be, but as the adults they will eventually become.

Finding My Tribe

2011-06-27T12:29:00.000-07:00

See, here's the thing--I've been struggling with the idea of being a writer. I think that deep, deep down, part of me still wants to be a professor. (Probably the bossy part of me that likes assigning homework and making up exams.) Ever since last September, when I started making a real, conscious effort to write a novel, I've been very reluctant to call myself a writer. I just didn't feel like a writer. I felt like an unemployed professor.

Since September, I've been trying to figure out at what point I could say I was a writer, rather than just a frustrated SAHM who still wanted the Ivory Tower. It didn't feel like one when I sent off my first dues payment to RWA or even when I finished my first "practice" novel. I'm not even sure that it was when I got decent feedback on that novel in a contest. It wasn't when I was obsessively focused on finishing the real novel--the one that I was thinking about the whole time I wrote the practice novel. Maybe I felt a little like a writer when I was querying or emailing fulls and partials, but mostly I just felt like a fraud. I was sure that at some point someone was going to realize I hadn't been writing fiction or wanting this badly enough for me or my work to be taken seriously.

I felt like since that other thing failed so miserably when it should have worked, I didn't see how this impossible thing could possibly work. I thought that I was supposed to be a professor. For the last eight years or so, my entire identity was wrapped around that dream, that single goal. I think that was part of the reason why it's been so hard to wrap myself around this new dream.

This past Saturday, my local RWA chapter, Southern Magic, had a panel of YA authors that featured Jennifer Echols, Rachel Hawkins, Rosemary Clement-Moore, R.A. Nelson, and Chandra Sparks. They talked about their books, their lives as writers, and some of those quintessential moments that aspiring writers dream of. As they talked, I realized a couple of things. First-- there are a ridiculous number of insanely talented and very recognizably successful authors who live within a fairly short distance from where I now live. Apparently there's something in the water or air down here.

Second, and probably more significantly, as they talked I realized something that even getting an agent didn't make me realize--these really are my people.

Don't get me wrong--I was a pretty decent academic. I've got the CV to prove it, even if I don't have the job. But I always felt like being around academics was really, really hard. They're just so smart! All. The. Time. I am not smart all the time--at least not in that way. Being that kind of smart all the time requires an amount of brain power and focus that I'm not sure I have. No, I'm pretty positive I don't have it.

As I listened to the panel talk this past weekend, I realized that these were the kind of people I want to be friends with--and not in a creepy stalker way. These are the people I want as colleagues, and these are the people I want to be respected as a colleague by. When Rachel Hawkins talk about killing all the random smiling in her manuscripts, I knew exactly what she meant. I just got done doing the exact same thing. And when Jennifer Echols talked about being able to announce the first time she sold at one of the Southern Magic meetings, I understood what she was talking about. I had just been able to announce my new agent just moments before. They speak language that I understand--a language of books and literature that has nothing to do with being able to reference obscure German or French philosophers. A language that has everything to do with the difficulty of craft and the beauty of language.

More than any number of words written, or queries sent, or even offers of representation made, the writers I've come to know in the past few months are the reasons why I've started to feel more and more like a writer. And if I ever do become a published author, their books will have been the reason why.

A Virtue I Don't Possess

2011-04-04T10:51:00.000-07:00

So here's the thing-- I have the patience of a gnat.

No, really. I'm so bad that I tend to read the ends of books because I don't want to wait to see what happens. Sacrilege, I know.

I've never been much for waiting. In HS I got tired of waiting to get to college, so I started taking courses at Akron U during my senior year. I graduated from Kent in only 3 1/2 years. And then I went straight to grad school and got through that fairly quickly, too. Actually, I would have been done sooner, but the market tanked so I hung out for a while and pretended not to be done until J finished.

But the publishing industry is absolute torture for someone like me. I'm all about the instant gratification of knowing. I don't even care if it's bad news, as long as I know.

Right now I'm querying to agents, and let me tell you that as exciting as it is to still have 6 partials out there, the wait is k.i.l.l.i.n.g. me.

So I'm trying to figure out what to write next. Mostly, though, I just think about what to do if all 6 of those partials turn out to be a bust.

Also I discovered Twitter, which is like crack for someone who likes to know things instantly. Thank goodness I don't have a smart phone.

So how do you keep waiting from killing you?

Upon Penalty of Death

2011-04-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

I'd like to preface this post with a warning. You really, really shouldn't tell me any of the following:

Everything happens for a reason.
It's all part of God/Yahweh/Ganesh/whomever's plan.
You do have a job-- you're a mom.
Everything happens for a reason. (seriously- I hate that one.)

So it's been a while, eh? And while you've all been up to whatever it is you've been up to, I've been having a little bit of an identity crisis.

But I think I've worked my way through it finally. (insert applause here)

So the whole being a professor thing didn't turn out. And I'm not really cut out to be a housewife, no matter what the lady at the bank seems to think. So I've decided to go with something really realistic. That's right. I'm a writer!

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself until we run out of money and I'm forced to get a full-time job.

But seriously, I wrote a book. Okay, I wrote two books, but we're not going to count the first one since it was really just practice. The second one, though, we're totally going to count.

It's out in the world right now looking for an agent. I'm patiently (okay, not really patiently) waiting for it to send an email home to its mama and tell me it found a fabulous job.

(Did I mention I tend to go for careers that have little-to-no chance of taking off??)

But, hey, seven (out of you don't even want to know how many) people so far actually requested to see pages.

So stick around and we'll see what happens next.

Riiiight.

2011-03-27T16:47:00.000-07:00

Squeak: (out of the blue when we were driving home from preschool) God gave us things.

Me: Oh? Like what?

Squeak: Bushes.

Me: Bushes?

Squeak: And bridges.

The Bookshelf in Your Mind

2011-03-14T16:31:00.000-07:00

In my past life, I taught literature. I was an Academic. I looked down my nose at the Nora Roberts and other Fluff that my mom read each summer. I read real Literature. I read the Greats. I forced my students to wade through the greats. And I loved it.

Then I hit a rough patch back in 2008 and I needed happily ever after instead of "Isn't it pretty to think so?" at the end of the books I read. Someone handed me Outlander. Outlander lead to Karen Marie Moning which led to Mary Balogh which led to me bringing home 10 or more romances a week from my local library and devouring them. Eventually, I had to turn to Nora Roberts. I didn't have much else left. And I fell in love with her, too.

At first I told myself (and my husband, who seemed kind of concerned with my sudden change in reading habits) that it was research. I was learning the genre so that I could understand how it worked. Partially, I was still experiencing a residual academic shame for the scantily clad couples on the covers of the book I was checking out each week. But I was also partially telling the truth. I really did want to figure out how those writers managed to take stories that seemed like the same plot over and over and make them fresh and engaging. I wanted to figure out what drew me to those stories.

Read the rest of this post HERE.

Winding Down

2010-04-10T06:29:00.000-07:00

I have 11 more days in the classroom and just over a month until the big move. Then we're off on a 2300 mile trek across the mid-west and southeastern parts of the country. (400 miles of which will include the cat.) Yesterday, I submitted the final paperwork for the dissertation. Once I pay the $96 dollars to deposit, it will be officially done. Finally.

It's different than I thought it would be. I thought it would be a happy moment. Instead, I'm fairly indifferent. I have boxes of research that I don't know what to do with. Part of me thinks I should keep it, but another part of me knows that I'm never going to touch it again and probably shouldn't pay to move it. The thing is, I always thought that my dissertation would turn into the kind of book that people might read, that might be useful to students and other scholars. But then again, I'm sure everyone thinks that. Now, I know that isn't the case. I'm leaving academia and leaving that behind as well.

No one (beside my poor committee) will probably ever read the thing in its entirety, but there is one page that I do hope people get to read. Because while I am currently without career prospects, I am not without graditude.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Writing may be a solitary activity, but this project did not happen without support.

This project could not have been completed without the help of numerous libraries and librarians. I am grateful to the Special Collections Resource Center at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale for allowing me access to the Kay Bole and Caresse Crosby collections. Librarian David Koch was particularly kind and helpful in sharing his stories and answering my questions about these two literary women and their works. After his retirement, Melissa Hubbard made my work in the collections a pleasure. Sandra Spanier, of Penn State, helped direct me to the Kay Boyle papers, and other members of the Kay Boyle Society, including Thomas Austenfeld and Marilyn Elkins, were instrumental in pointing me to other sources for this project. Kay’s son, Ian Von Frackenstein, was generous enough to allow me to quote from his mother’s unpublished papers. I am indebted to the staff at the JFK Library for facilitating my access to Hemingway’s papers and manuscripts. Judith Baughman and Jeffery Makala at the University of South Carolina library helped me to access Matthew Bruccoli’s Fitzgerald collection remotely. The staff of the University of Virginia Library helped me to locate correspondence between Faulkner and his publishers.

I am also grateful to my committee for their assistance. Michael Rothberg, John Marsh, and Naomi Reed all read portions of this project at various times and added their expertise. Robert Dale Parker helped me formulate many of the ideas found in the Faulkner coda and Hemingway chapter. His keen eye and extensive notes helped me polish my writing. I am especially grateful for the guidance and support of Stephanie Foote. She always seemed to know where this project was going far before I did, but her guidance was never prescriptive. I’m grateful that she took a chance on a 20th century dissertation and allowed me the freedom to make this project my own. Her guidance was astute and made the final product here infinitely better. Any shards of brilliance contained within are directly the result of these scholars’ influence; any mistakes are, of course, my own.

Finally, I am grateful to those who had to live with me while this project was being completed. Aerin Hyun helped keep me sane when I dreamed of throwing in the towel and going back to retail. Mary Rose Cottingham’s excitement for completed chapters and publications was infectious. Max and then Harry kept me grounded. By being perfection themselves, they let me know that there was more to life than obsessing over the perfection of this project. Because they were my babies, this was always my work, and their presence in my life made the work here better. And last, but never least, Jason— my biggest cheerleader, who has been with me since day one of this project—the economist who now knows more about Fitzgerald and Hemingway than anyone should. I am grateful that he put up with trips to the deer-infested wilds of Southern Illinois and for holding down the fort while I flew off to Boston. None of this would have meant anything without him.

Stick around....something new is coming.

A Farewell to Arms...er, uh...stuff.

2010-03-08T08:44:00.000-08:00

There's a for sale sign in front of our house.

That was harder to take in than we thought it would be. Our little house isn't really ours any more. Starting Wednesday, people will parade through it to measure it up and decide if they want it.

I'm not really ready for this.

In order to get the house ready, I've started to sell books. Granted, they're books that I don't want to ever have to read again. bu-bye to Jameson and Adorno, to Veblen and Butler. They've been sitting on my shelf for the better part of 10 years now. I don't really want them--they're stuffy and difficult. They're not what you curl up with at night before bed. (At least they're not what I curl up with at night.)

I don't want them-- I just want what they represent. Selling them was a bit similar to selling the Camaro. I knew it had to go, but the idea of and then the sight of it driving away gave me a bit of a panic attack. Selling them means that it's really over. They were my reference books--the tools of my academic trade. Now they're going to grace the shelves of some young grad student (I didn't recognize the names of any of the people buying them in my department) who hasn't figured out yet that things have shifted in major and important ways in our discipline.

They're going to be someone else's future.

I'm replacing them with a single book- The Writer's Market. Because it's time for a new trade.

But hell if I know how that's gonna work.

PS- Stay tuned- The new blog is in the works.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2010-02-24T19:51:00.000-08:00

Big changes are happening. Big changes are coming.

Once I figure out a new title, I'll start a new blog.

I think it should have the word Dixie in the title. Ideas?

Best Album of 2009

2009-12-10T18:16:00.000-08:00

Biggest Challenge of 2009

2009-12-09T20:06:00.000-08:00

I could say that the biggest challenge was 3 months of morning sickness. I could say that it was being pregnant for a full 40 weeks. Or dealing with a three year old.

But the biggest challenge of 2009 has been dealing with the hand I've been dealt. That hand, it seems, does not include a) a job as a professor or b) a new Camaro.

We decided to have another baby last year when it was clear I wouldn't be getting a job, and for the last year I thought I was doing quite a good job of getting over that fact and mourning the career that should have been.

And it really, really should have been. I have a great project, multiple publications, and teaching awards. In a real market, I should get interviews. I should get offers.

That, it seems is not to be.

There's still the outside chance that I'll creep in through the back door. That J will somehow wrangle me into something when he negotiates his offer.

It's just not the same, though. I've never wanted to ride on anyone's coattails. I've never wanted anything handed to me, and I've worked my ass off these last eight years to be good at what I do--good enough that I should be hire-able.

I'd make a damn good professor.

J has 6 interviews already this December, and with each call he gets I realize more and more that I didn't really mourn completely, that I didn't really finish dealing with this. I want to be excited for him--I am excited for him--but every time he gets another interview, my stomach sinks and I feel like curling up into a ball and crying.

Apparently, I am not as ok with the whole situation as I thought. Apparently, I was just distracted by morning sickness, 40 weeks of pregnancy, a dissertation defense, and an increasingly whiny 3- year-old.

Apparently, this is an on-going challenge. One that doesn't seem to have any end in sight.

The problem is that I'm a planner. I decide what I want; I figure out how to get it; I make a bunch of lists and a bunch of plans; I follow through. It's what I do. I'm really not good at dealing with failing.

The biggest challenge of 2009 is to re-envision my future and who I am. It's not been going so well the last month or so.

Best Blog Find of 2009

2009-12-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

I actually have two:

Awkward Family Photos

and

My Parents Were Awesome

One makes me laugh on a regular basis. One just makes me smile.

Best Trip of 2009*

2009-12-06T12:55:00.000-08:00

I've wanted to drive down Highway 1 for a while now, but something about doing it in a blue Mustang makes it even better.

Last December I had flights and hotels booked to my convention back in July or August.

I assumed I would get interviews (and we all know what happens when we assume). The interviews never happened, but the tickets were non-refundable. J's convention was the following weekend in the same city, so we turned what should have been a depressing week into one of the best trips of the year.

We started in San Francisco, and when a problem with the rental car company meant that we got to drive a Mustang for the price of a compact, we knew it was going to be a great trip.

We headed down to San Luis Opisbo, where my baby brother lives. We saw the Misson

We ate at the Madonna Inn and I ventured into the men's room to see their waterfall urinals:

We rented a boat and saw the sunset at Morrow Bay, we saw the Monarch Butterflies, we went to Paso Robles and went wine tasting. And X got to have a great time with Uncle D.

But it was still 2008.

We left Uncle D and kept driving down to LA- Little Man was not amused. (And Judy Garland had freakishly small feet.)

After 2 hours in LA traffic.....

We saw 2009 in here:

We spent two days in the Magic Kingdom seeing it through 2-year-old eyes. We rode the Tea-Cups and the Elephants, we saw the Haunted Mansion transformed into Jack Skellington's house, we watched it snow, on demand in Southern California.

And then we headed North once again, back to San Francisco for J's convention. Little Man and I saw the sights of the waterfront while J went to meetings and panels. I peed on a stick and we celebrated the results in a private booth in China Town followed by cappuccino and cannoli at The Steps of Rome.

I could have picked our June trip to Florida with my extended family; that was also a trip to remember.

The best trip of 2009, though, took us up and down the California coast. It was the trip that helped to heal the pain of not knowing where life was going and the trip that gave us something to look forward to. It was the last trip we took as a family of 3, because when we boarded the plane back to the prairie, we knew we would be 4. And that, it seemed, was a portent of all the good things that had to be coming.

*I know I should be posting on best workshop or conference, but this year I haven't been to any, so I'm going back to the Best Trip post.

Best Book of 2009

2009-12-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

I read. A lot.

Let me put this in perspective for you-- I saw a woman on one of the news shows who was being interviewed for doing a blog on reading a book-a-day, and I thought, "yeah, and??"

I've always read a lot. When I was younger, I'd start devouring books before I even got home from the library. I would stay up until 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning to finish a book if it was compelling enough.

It's really no surprise that I eventually gave up the notion of being a lawyer and decided to study literature for a living. Once I started college, books got harder-- Faulkner, Morrison, Joyce, Woolf, Heller, Pynchon. The weirder, the better. I reveled in the difficulty of crazy modernist and post-modernist works. I tried to go back to Grisham, and I couldn't. It just didn't seem worth my time.

Then I picked up Twilight (no-- that's not the book of the year) sometime in 2008. Then a friend recommended Outlander.* And, between the two of those series, I remembered why I liked reading. I had been doing it so long for my work, and I had been reading so many wonderful "important" things, that I forgot that reading could just be fun.

After the great job market collapse of 2008, all I wanted to read was a happy ending. I was tired of reading about "isn't it pretty to think so," and wanted to read that someone got what they wanted and deserved. So, I started devouring romance novels.

I've never been the romance novel type-- but for the last year, I couldn't get enough of them. I've read hundreds of them, literally. I was reading one during labor to distract myself. If I think about it too much, I realize it probably verges on either pathetic or obsessive, but I don't watch much TV. Or, at least that's how I excuse it.

So the best book of 2009? Heck if I know. I do know that all of those fabulous, unheralded romance writers kept me sane this year, as I was suffering through morning sickness, dealing with pregnancy, and mourning a career that's a non-starter.

I used to look down on Romance, as a genre. It seemed too fluffy and "girly." (Heaven forbid!) But now I see it for something more. The women who write romance, and who do it well are masters of style-- they may never make it into the annals of literary history, but they're my pick for this year.

*If you have not yet read this go directly to your local library or bookstore and commence reading. As in now. It's fabulous and you will thank me for it later.

Best of 2009

2009-12-04T19:55:00.000-08:00

I found this fabulous idea via one of my favorite blogs-- It's a way to look back at a year I haven't really blogged about. 31 Topics to reflect on-- Stay Tuned!

I'm Back

2009-10-21T13:57:00.000-07:00

It has been months and months since I've felt like writing. They've been hard months of pregnancy and uncertainty and exhaustion.

Lately, though, I've been itching to write something. So just to catch you all up (is anyone even there anymore?):

Little Dude (H) was born on Sept. 13. He was not inclined to come out on his own, so we forced him along.
H is wonderful. He is the sweetest little thing I could have ever imagined. He rarely cries; he sleeps fairly well; he smiles and laughs all the time. I'm in love, again.
I have no job prospects, and I'm surprisingly ok with that. I defended my dissertation in August, and while it's sad that no one, besides my committee, will ever read the thing (There will be no Book without a Job), I'm happy to be done with it. I'll deposit it sometime in Jan., and call it a day.
J has been having some health problems with his Crohns. He'll have surgery for it next week.
We're waiting (hopefully) to see where J gets a job. He better get a job. If not, we're kind of screwed.
If he doesn't get a job, we'll move somewhere fun. Ohio is not fun.
Did I mention that I'm in love with little H?

Voices from Academe-Labor of Love

2009-03-10T16:39:00.001-07:00

Recently, there's been a slew of articles about the dire prospects for graduate students, especially in the humanities, on the job market. The New York Times last weekend ran an article about the job prospects (or lack thereof) in the humanities. In the Chronicle of Higher Education, a columnist that goes by the pen-name Thomas H. Benton has been warning prospective grad students of the danger of attending graduate school in English. "Just don't go," he says, unless you're independently wealthy, are supported by a spouse, or are independently wealthy.

Today, the most recent Chronicle has a part two to his original essay about avoiding graduate school. Apparently, he received quite a bit of mail that accused him of undermining the importance of the academy, the importance of intellectual life. And, in response, he brought up what I think is a truly important point-- that the rhetoric of doing this (i.e., academia) because we love it is at best naive, and worst, dangerous.

And he's right. For what other profession do people use the rhetoric of "love" to excuse the fact that there are no jobs out there. He makes an important point, that the discipline has lost its ability to take care of its own.

I see this happening in my own department. Surely enough, this spring will bring a wealth of new graduate students to visit campus. Next fall 20-30 new bodies will fill the seats in orientation. And, I can almost guarantee that no one will mention the fact that, in all likelihood, most of them will never become tenure-track professors. They may be told that we have "very good job placement" (I was). They may be told that we're an extremely strong program with a strong faculty (we are). But no one--I'd be willing to bet money on this--will tell them that they should be open to other options besides being a professor. (Other than adjuncting indefinitely, that is.) That would be tantamount to blasphemy in the hallowed halls of the ivory tower.

Trust me- I know this from experience. When I told my otherwise helpful and supportive dissertation director that I would go do something else if I didn't get a tenure track job, she gave me a look that indicated that I might, possibly, have lost it.

The problem, really, is that this isn't about my own piddly job market performance. It's really about a system that perpetuates cycles of exploitation--and not even on purpose. Our professors really do care about how we do--that much I know. But even they don't know how to help us do anything else but become research-oriented professors. And so, this rhetoric of the love of the profession becomes our reason for being, our entire identity.

I was struck by one specific thing in Benton's latest article-- that some of the letters he received from graduate students talked about depression, some about thinking of suicide. And that floored me.

But it also made me realize how very lucky I am to see this as both a vocation and a job. If I thought of studying literature as only a vocation--something so intrinsic to my identity that I could not do without it--my utter job market failure might well have been devastating.

It wasn't, surprisingly enough. I had a fine time in California at Disneyland while I should have been interviewing with people. And I think that is partially because I see this as a job.

I've never been one to think that work comes before family, friends, or other obligations. Especially not family. And I have an amazing family--both extended and nuclear. Every time my little guy comes up with some new idea or game, every time I tuck his small, freshly-washed body into bed at night, my career problems recede. Every time my husband holds my hand as we watch him play, or we laugh ourselves silly about something stupid, those problems recede.

I'm sure it's a bit Pollyanna-ish of me, and I by no means think that kids or partners are the answer to everyone's life problems. But for me they work, I guess. It makes me glad that I didn't make grad school or research my life, because they certainly haven't done a lot for me. It makes me glad that I didn't put anything on hold for the big dream of tenure, because that may never happen for me.

And having them makes that little problem, somehow, ok.

I Want This

2009-03-06T16:43:00.001-08:00

When Words are Personal

2009-03-06T13:03:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I forget that what I do can impact people in a very real way. I teach literature, after all. And, while I know that there have been books that changed my life, made me more of who I am today, I don't necessarily believe that it works that way for everyone. I don't believe in any inherent quality in books or stories that has that kind of power.

But then today, one of my students came up to me after class. We're reading The English Patient, this beautifully lush novel about identity and love and words and war, and my student is worried. Because in just over a month, her boyfriend will ship off to Iraq. In just over a month, the horrors that the novel depicts in poetically horrific language might become her horrors.

But she doesn't want to be rude, so she asks if it would be ok if she needs to step outside of class sometimes to get her bearings.

Just two days ago, we read a story from The Things They Carried. It's a story about the awful weight of war, the pointlessness of death, the end of moralizing stories. It's a story about a boy (because they were almost all boys over in 'Nam) who got his head blown off taking a piss. "Zapped while zipping," the story tells us. It's a story I've always loved for its ability to strip any of the romantic trappings away from war and heroism, combat and death. It has always seemed to me strangely innocent in its rawness. But it's a story that my student had to read knowing that her own reality would be intersecting with that fiction in very real ways very soon.

I forget sometimes that words matter. It's funny, really, considering that what I do is deal in words because I do think they matter.

I forget sometimes that I cannot control context, and so I selected a couple of war stories, because I happened to "like" them, for my class to read while we are in the midst of two wars. I'm conscious of the wars. I've had students who were about to leave, who had just come back from the hell that was Fallujah (where his base camp had a banner that said "will today be the day"). And yet, I so easily forgot to include that in my thinking, in my planning.

I know that The English Patient is about more than WWII, just as The Things They Carried is about more than Vietnam, but that isn't really going to help the young woman who sits in the front left side of my classroom. For her, those stories are going to be about her war, her boyfriend's war.

And every time she steps out of the classroom, I'll know it was just a little too much.

Decorating for the New Addition

2009-03-04T14:46:00.000-08:00

It's happened much faster than I expected--my clothes officially do not fit.

At first, I was kind of excited. Since I was pregnant with X, we've gotten a Motherhood store in the mall. Last time, I had to take a trip to the closest major city to do maternity shopping, because we had zip here in the middle of the corn fields. But for some reason, the designers have decided that maternity clothes needed a little something.

Like ruffles:I think the little flower detail really adds something, don't you?

Or- if ruffles aren't enough for you, you can also have a bow:
Because nothing says you're pregnant like wearing a shirt that looks like your kid's birthday present.

And the thing that's really irritating me about maternity clothes is that almost all of the pants have this ridiculous belly thing going on. Pea in the Pod and Mimi and Motherhood--the major maternity brands online all have something called the secret fit belly. It's basically like a big ole' piece of Lycra that comes up over your stomach. I can understand that some people might find this a good thing. I am not one of those people.

I'm going to be really big in the summer. The hot, sweaty, icky summer. So imagine my delight at learning that shorts mostly come looking like this:
Because a pregnant woman really needs that extra layer of polyester over her stomach when the temperature's hitting 90.

All in all, I'm wondering what these designers are possibly thinking. I don't want to look like I'm getting ready to go to the club or walk down the runway when I'm pregnant. I just want nice, simple clothes that don't accentuate the fact that I'm expanding by the minute.

More of Life in Limbo

2009-02-27T17:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I got an email telling me that an article I submitted a few months back has been accepted for publication. No revise and resubmit, just straight up taken.

I should feel good about it. It's not one of my dissertation chapters, but an old seminar paper that I reworked. It shows that I have more expertise in ethnic American lit. But it's hard to be excited about it. I can't help but think that it won't really matter in the long run. There's not much difference between 2 and 3 publications on a CV (or even much difference between 2 and 4 if I ever get around to revising and resubmitting another article that a journal has shown interest in.)

I'm trying very hard to distance myself from all of this, so that I'm prepared to move on in a year if I have to. But then a random article hits in a decent journal and suddenly I feel vindicated--that this is what I'm supposed to be doing.

But I'm not doing it--so something's wrong. The market. My project. Something.

I was one of 15 finalists for a generalist position at a small Catholic college in Wisconsin. They asked me to fill out a pre-phone interview questionnaire.

I never got a phone interview.

How much does that suck? Because you know, straight up, that it's something I wrote in those answers to the ten stupid little questions about "gifts" and "values." I'm hoping it was because I'm not Catholic enough, because I'm not sure that I could have answered the pedagogy questions much better than I did.

I keep hearing this saying about how it's all about "fit." That's all fine and good, but what if there are just not enough shoes in the store?

So I have another line to add to my CV. I should feel excited.

But I don't.

If I had a million dollars...

2009-02-26T10:43:00.000-08:00

I would certainly not spend it on a monkey.

But I would spend some of it on some lovely pills.

The midwife gave me two prescriptions for morning sickness yesterday. One, which costs me $5, will probably make me too drowsy to function. The other, she called "the Cadilac" of drugs for nausea. Apparently it's some special drug they give to kemo patients before they have their treatments. Apparently, it also costs something like $100 a pill. Oh-- and I don't have any prescription coverage (thank you big stupid prairie university who doesn't think I need it). The magic $100 a pill drug is one time a day with no side effects of narcolepsy.

Did I mention that it's $100 a pill?!?! That would be almost $1000 for a week of good days.

Now, the midwife said that she thought that there was now a generic form of the pill that runs more like $10 a pill, which compared to $100 a pill sounds like a steal.

Except that it's not. That's still over 300 dollars if this stupid morning--make that all frickin' day long--sickness lasts another month. (which it did with X).

So I think I'm going to try the sleep-inducing one first, because I don't know if I want to pay that much money to feel ok. For that much, I could buy J the stupid netbook he wants to thank him for taking care of me.

Seriously folks-- how much would you pay for a good day?

And the Award for Best Drama Goes To....

2009-02-24T11:25:00.001-08:00

What is it about drama?

Certain people seem to feed on it. They love the "scene"--that moment when all eyes are upon them, when grievances are aired, when catharsis comes at the expense of others' peace.

I've never really been one of those people.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not above confronting someone or opening my big mouth when I shouldn't open it. I don't mind biting back if someone comes after me. But usually, I don't seek out drama. I have too many other things going on to want more chaos and trouble in my life.

But even from 300 miles away, drama often finds its way on our doorstep.

And to be frank- I'm kind of tired of it. To be frank- I'm kind of tired, period. I'm really tired. And sick. And downright miserable. And my poor husband isn't fairing much better, because while I'm tired and sick and miserable, he's doing everything else. EVERYTHING.** And other people are worried about us, too. Because there's nothing guaranteed about this pregnancy and we're taking things day by day. Everyone's a bit on edge. And none of us need anymore drama.

**For which I love him immeasurably.

File This Under....Duh

2009-02-21T18:21:00.001-08:00

Apparently the NY Times ran out of real news to cover-- so they reported on this.

That Ain't No Etch-a-Sketch, Homeskillet

2009-02-17T07:53:00.000-08:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

No job prospects, stuck in the middle of the prairie for another year, and pretty disillusioned with the whole of academe, it seemed like a good idea.

I thought I remembered. I really did. I wrote down how awful it was last time. I read those journals. I really, really thought I remembered how much I really, really, do not like being pregnant.

I do not identify with those glowingly-rotund pregnant ladies who wax poetic about the mystical wonder that is pregnancy and childbirth. I wish I did, but I don't have time to wax anything. I'm spending far too much time trying to keep my food down or throwing it up.

I think it's worse this time. It's definitely harder, because this is a different kind of pregnancy. When we decided to have the first one, it was because I was convinced that my body was telling me that I needed to have a child. I yearned to have a child. I wanted to be pregnant and fat and round and then have a sweet little baby of my own.

This time, I am not so anxious nor am I so naive. I know what's coming ahead. I know that feeling the baby kick will be cute for all of 10 minutes, and then it will just get irritating. I know that the third trimester will just be uncomfortable and sleepless. I know exactly what happens during labor (although, I've gotta say, I'm getting kind of worried, because I also thought I remembered what it was like to be pregnant). And, I know that when that sweet little bundle of milk-breath finally makes his or her appearance, those first 6 weeks or so are just plain hell. Not that I even pretend to remember them-- we were far too sleep deprived.

But I think the worst part is that I kind of feel bad for this kid already. With X, I was soo excited. I took pictures of my growing belly. I kept a pregnancy journal for the baby. I anxiously read about each moment of his development.

This time-- not so much. I don't know why that is, though. I'm excited enough, I guess, but this pregnancy just seems different. It was planned very differently than the last one. Maybe it's because I felt like X was for me and this one is for him. I'd probably be perfectly happy to just have one kid, but I believe in siblings. I wanted to give one to him.

It's not that I don't want the baby-- lord knows after one miscarriage scare I was a wreck--but it's a different kind of want. And I wonder if there is something wrong with that.

If I could just concentrate on something for more than 10 minutes, maybe I could figure it out. Then again, if I could concentrate on something for more than 10 minutes, I'd start figuring out a way to grow babies on the counter like a Sea Monkey. I mean, according to the one book I have, at this point, they look pretty much the same.

Limbo

2009-02-11T20:03:00.000-08:00

Things have not gone as planned.

Ok. Some things have not gone as planned. (Others went off better than we expected.)

But big things did not go as planned.

You see, I had a plan. I'm a Virgo-- we do that. We make lists. We make plans. We persevere and see them through. In general, we're a fairly dedicated and goal-oriented bunch.

But here's the thing--I don't have any big plans anymore. At least not about my chosen career.

The market tanked. The market more than tanked--the market imploded in a not-so-brilliant display of festering puss. Seriously people. The MLA market took a 21% plus hit this year--the largest hit in its history--and those are just of posted jobs. I know that at least 1/3 of the jobs I applied for were canceled.

I look around, though, and people don't seem all that disturbed or upset by these trends. I have peers who seem happy that they didn't go on the market this year, because (in their estimation) it will somehow be better next year.

Right.

Students in my department are planning a charming little round table discussion about the future of the profession. They've proposed insightful topics like "the role of theory in literary studies" for the discussion. No one has proposed the "what if there are no tenure track jobs for the hundreds of us that are graduating" topic.

Maybe I should.

I would, but honestly, I'm too apathetic at this point. I was hoping that I was just being all gloom and doom unnecessarily-- that I was just over-reacting to a more than disappointing job search. But then I read this insightful piece in the Chronicle. If only I'd read it 6 years ago, I might have cut my losses with a Masters. At least then I'd have a better shot at Community College jobs, and I wouldn't have been spoiled by actually enjoying my research or teaching lit.

Ok. That sounds pissy. Which it is--I can't really help that.

But the bigger problem is that I am in limbo. I'll be 30 in 7 months and have no real career prospects on the horizon. I'll try the market one more time, but I'm not holding my breath on that one. I'm sticking around as a student (hopefully), even though it's really the last thing I wanted to do. But after the end of next year, come May of 2010, I will have a useless degree that I spent my 20s on and no idea what to do next.

Because I don't want to do anything else. Yet.

I hope it's a "yet" situation. If not, I could be in for a long haul.

So what does a 30-something mother of 2 with a PhD in the humanities do with herself if she can't be a professor like she expected?

Stay tuned-- one can only guess.

Inspiration

2009-01-27T07:36:00.000-08:00

It's been a rough couple of months. Dealing with the fact that I've probably just wasted 8 years of my life on a degree that I'll never use the way I meant to use it, the fact that there just aren't any jobs for me out there right now, and being sick as a dog. So, when I got a stupid chain email today, I didn't expect much. But I was pleasantly surprised. It contained a prayer-- one that struck me doubly, because St. Theresa was one of my grandmother's favorite saints.

St. Theresa's Prayer:
May today there be peace within.
May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content.
Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

Irreverent Nativity

2008-12-12T16:37:00.001-08:00

"Goat Uprising" or "Sheep Go to Heaven...."

Virtual Silence

2008-11-30T07:40:00.000-08:00

I haven't been posting much lately, because I have too much on my mind. The diss needs to be done in 3 weeks, I'm anxious about job prospects, and I still have 3 projects to finish sewing before Christmas. Add to that the fact that I won't be having a big fat Italian Christmas this year--and that my in-laws might not even be coming for a little tiny Christmas--and I just feel like a lot of what I have to write would be angst-ridden and complaint-heavy.

And to be honest, I don't really feel like sending all those negative vibes out into the ether. So I'm taking a bit of a hiatus. At least until January.

The One Where I Think Maybe the Suck A$$ Job Market is Just a Blessing in Disguise

2008-11-12T08:28:00.001-08:00

Today Rate Your Students posted this little gem of a survey:

The study asked approximately 400 undergraduates aged 18 to 25 whether they agreed with these statements:

If I have explained to my professor that I am trying hard, I think he/she should give me some consideration with respect to my course grade - 66.2 per cent agree

If I have completed most of the reading for a class, I deserve a B in that course - 40.7 per cent

If I have attended most of the classes for a course, I deserve at least a grade of B - 34.1 per cent

Teachers often give me lower grades than I deserve on paper assignments - 31.5 per cent

Professors who won’t let me take my exams at another time because of my personal plans (e.g. a vacation) are too strict - 29.9 per cent

A professor should be willing to lend me his/her course notes if I ask for them - 24.8 per cent

I would think poorly of a professor who didn’t respond the same day to an e-mail I sent - 23.5 per cent

Professors have no right to be annoyed with me if I tend to come late to class or tend to leave early - 16.8 per cent

A professor should not be annoyed with me if I receive an important call during class - 16.5 per cent

A professor should be willing to meet with me at a time that works best for me, even if inconvenient for the professor - 11.2 per cent.

Free Book Giveaway!

2008-11-07T07:49:00.000-08:00

Click HERE to Enter to Win a Free Parenting Book!

The Morning After the Morning After

2008-11-06T07:11:00.000-08:00

When I woke up yesterday, I did what I always do. I sleepily retrieved my son from his crib when he yelled for me and brought him into the big bed so we could have our morning cuddle.

"Guess what," I said to him, half expecting him to respond "chicken butt" (don't ask, it's a game I probably never should have started.)

"Guess what."

"Obama."

And I smiled, because he was right. Obama indeed.

I was moved on Tuesday night to see the hundreds of thousands who filled Grant Park in Chicago for Obama's victory speech. I wish I could have gone myself, but being a parent, I had other responsibilities. I was moved to see the people gathered at Rockefeller Center awaiting the election results, and happy to see so many young people excited about the democratic process.

That night, I was proud that we had a candidate that didn't win through the tactics of fear or the propagation of hate. Tuesday night's election was a victory because we had a candidate that inspired people to want to be a part of the process. More than 10% of voters on Tuesday were first-time voters. In a country that usually is apathetic about politics, that is a significant victory. Democracy can only be stronger with more people involved.

The next morning, I was moved to see images in the New York Times of civil rights workers' responses to the Obama victory.

How amazing that men and women who were beaten, arrested, and in some cases even killed, just so they could have the right to vote, could see one of their own elected to the highest office in the land. This is no small victory for the African American community. There was no Bradley effect. There was only a multi-cultural electorate that saw past racial divides to come together and elect a leader.

Yesterday, I couldn't help but be optimistic.

After the 2004 election, I was convinced that the country's problems weren't just Bush's doing. They were the problems caused by a majority of the population that believed that America was better that, superior to the rest of the world, and in that belief of superiority, they elected a leader who was unconcerned about being ethical or moral in our dealings with the rest of the world. They bought into his ridiculous rhetoric about Kerry's elitism (whatever the heck that meant) and voted for someone who couldn't manage to pronounce nuclear correctly, much less think past the false binaries that divide "them" from "us."

But yesterday I was proud of the people in this country. They proved that they were tired of being ruled by fear--the incessant "orange alerts" at airports, the constant warnings that the "evil-doers" are out there gunnin' for us. They proved that America might still be a land where anything is possible for anyone.

And then I realized that voters in three states voted to ban gay marriage. They same voters who believed "yes we can" also decided "no they can't."

In three states, voters decided to take away rights that the courts insisted were inalienable.

So today- the morning after the morning after, my optimism is tempered by sadness. Because we still have a long way to go to prove to the world that we believe all men really are created equal, that all men have the rights to life, liberty in the pursuit of happiness. That my son will have the right to marry whomever he deems worthy of his love.

It took until 1967 for couples of different races to be allowed to marry. Maybe someday we'll get to the point where we can truly see all people as equal. Where we can offer the same civil rights and liberties to everyone, regardless of age, race, creed, or sexual orientation. It may be a long time in coming still, but I have to believe that

Yes, we can.

Yes We Did

2008-11-04T21:36:00.000-08:00

For the first time in at least eight years, I feel like it might be possible to once again be proud of this country.

This Tuesday

2008-11-02T06:51:00.000-08:00

Because for the last eight years, our country has been focused on fear rather than possibility...

Because trickle-down will never work in an open economy...

Because forty-five years is too long to wait for a dream to come true...

Because we cannot afford another eight years of an ill-conceived and illegal war...

Because "women's health" is not a euphemism for killing babies...

Because activist judges come in conservative flavors too, and the Supreme Court is supposed to protect the Bill of Rights, not undermine it...

Because universal health care isn't just a pipe-dream...

Because ordinary people deserve a tax break--not the top 5 %...

Because abstinence-only programs just don't work, they just lead to more abortions...

Because community service should count as experience...unless you think the poor don't count...

Because same-sex couples shouldn't be denied the rights and privileges that I have...

Because parents do have a responsibility for their children's education....

Because energy independence and green power aren't just national security issues, they're ethical issues...

Because the office of the President shouldn't be above the law...

Because our seniors have worked too hard to put social security into the stock market...

Because the protection of our troops and their medical treatment once returning home have been shameful...

Because a more diverse electorate means a stronger democracy...

Because the sins of Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib need to be remembered and atoned for...

Because we're all a nation of immigrants, and we need reform that doesn't demonize new ones....

Because helping the poor isn't socialism, it's Christian. We are our brothers' keepers....

Because I want my child to grow up in an America he's proud of. One that takes care of those who can't take care of themselves. One that sees the environment as our responsibility. One that won't deny him his right to marry whomever he likes. One that won't keep him from attaining his dreams. One that sees America as part of a larger world, not the only think important in the world.

Because no matter how many years you spend in a rat hole in Vietnam, there is no excuse for race-baiting. There is no excuse for playing on the long history of racial fears just to get into office. There's no excuse for using fear to move into the future.
Because maybe, just maybe, hope can be more than a slogan, and change can be possible.

Boo!

2008-10-31T07:19:00.000-07:00

SCENE: A DARK AND NOT SO STORMY NIGHT

MAMA
Tomorrow's Halloween. Do you know what we do on Halloween?

LITTLE DUDE
Yeah! We det some tandy!

MAMA
And who are you going to be?

LITTLE DUDE
I be SUPER WHY!!! And you be NOTHING!

Random Bullets

2008-10-29T10:15:00.001-07:00

I love fall- love it. The trees are turning colors, the air is crisp, we have three happy jack-o-lanterns all ready for the trick-or-treaters, and it's almost time to put away the outside toys and furniture.
Obama is ahead in the polls--yipee. I'm still not holding my breath yet, but I'm hoping that in a week, maybe I'll be excited about this country again.
Now that my applications are all finished and mailed away, it's a matter of waiting. And waiting. But I did get a request for a writing sample and recommendation letters from a school I thought was a long-shot, so that makes me feel slightly better.
We have an opossum. It lives somewhere around here, but it comes to our backyard at night and uses it as its latrine. It's like having a dog--and I don't have a dog, because I have no interest in shoveling up something's cr@p. But here I am, shoveling up something's cr@p.
I should work more, but I'm addicted to reading. I keep telling myself it's just research for the book I'll write someday... you know, plan C and a half.
I need to get back to work--I have a conference to attend in 2 weeks and I haven't written the paper yet. Blech.

The Pursuit of Happy-ness

2008-10-22T11:32:00.000-07:00

In a recent post on RateYourStudents.com, a person responded to a question about whether to tell prospective grad students the truth about their job prospects by saying:

"Anyone who advises someone into graduate school should be sent to advise young men and women to volunteer for active military service in Afghanistan, because their chances of happiness are better there."

I'm feeling that right about now. But at the same time, I can't help but think that if I had known my job prospects would be so dismal, I still would have done the degree. I can honestly say, I didn't know. When Mountain State recruited me for my MA, they showed me an impressive list of their job candidates from the last 8 years--97% were in tenure track jobs within less than three years. You'll get a job coming out of this school, I was assured. By the time that I came to Prairie state to do my PhD, I knew that the market was rough, but I also "knew" that people who were well prepared, with publications and teaching experience, could still do just fine.

Maybe they can, in theory. I'm not so big on theories lately.

The bottom line is that I don't think anyone who wants to go to grad school should be dissuaded from going after an advanced degree. I have come to believe, at least for the humanities, that there needs to be a bit more honesty about what it is you're going to do with that degree.

In my field, people don't get non-academic jobs. Or at least, that's the myth. Instead, people stick around in adjunct hell, basically with about as much standing in the department (and funding) as a public school substitute teacher. But that's the dream, right? Just keep teaching part time to pay the bills and someday that little liberal arts college in the sky will learn of your existence and come to find you.

Once you're out, you're out. Right? And getting out means giving up on being an intellectual. Right?

I can see why people adjunct, really, I can. They get to keep doing what is comfortable for them--teaching, hanging out in academic buildings, reading obtuse theory. And if you're happy making a living doing that, then I think it's great.

But I also think that part of the misery of the job market could be ameliorated if grad students got more guidance with non-academic jobs. You know, the kind that only give you 2 weeks vacation a year and make you wear *gasp* suits to work. Five or more years of living the grad student life--even though you really do work around the clock--can make anyone nervous to leave it behind. The scheduling freedom is a wonder in and of itself.

I can't help but think, though, that hundreds, probably thousands, of smart, capable PhDs are adjuncting because they don't know what else to do. That to leave the halls of academia is to become a failure. There are moments, for me, when it surely feels like that. And then I think about how exciting it might be to get up every morning and go into an office, to have a job with retirement benefits and health insurance that includes a prescription plan and allows me to see a doctor that specializes in something other than mono and STDs. In a real doctor's office.

Because it's true that it would be miserable to be on the market for four years, as the writer above is/was. But it must also be true that it's possible to take your time in grad school as your first career, the one that most people aren't lucky enough to have, and to go out and find something else that makes you just as happy. Right?

Crafty

2008-10-13T17:04:00.001-07:00

I have a dissertation to finish, a job to find, and a house to clean. So what have I been doing?

And this too:

What is a Racist?

2008-10-13T08:18:00.000-07:00

Things on the campaign trail are getting heated. In rallies for McCain and Palin, supporters are getting downright mob-like. In different rallies people have chanted "kill him" and "off with his head," calling Obama a "terrorist." The McCain campaign's response:

"I think there have been quite a few reporters recently," said Mr. McCain's closest adviser, Mark Salter, "who have sort of implied, or made more than implications, that somehow we're responsible for the occasional nut who shows up and yells something about Barack Obama."

True. I don't think that McCain can be responsible for his supporters' preconceptions, but I think that the McCain campaign's decision to pretend that they aren't responsible for the anger emanating from these rallies is disingenuous at best.

We don't get a lot of political campaign ads out here in prairie state, so when I was in Ohio recently, I was surprised and fairly disgusted at the ads that I did see coming from the McCain campaign. In particular, there was an ad talking about Obama's goal to raise taxes for all Americans. As the ad lists the many, horrible taxes that Obama will raise, a dark shadow creeps over the image of Washington, DC, engulfing first the Capiltol, and then the rest of the city. The ad ends with that same dark shadow slowly engulfing a sleeping baby.

I really don't think it takes someone with an advanced degree to see the symbolism here-- dark shadow engulfing a white baby? What the heck does that have to do with taxes? It's a scary image, especially for a country that has a long history of fearing blackness and darkness.

Coincidental? Perhaps...if it wasn't for the fact that it isn't a singular instance. In his Sunday Op-Ed piece, Frank Rich writes, "when the McCain campaign ran its first ad tying Obama to the mortgage giant Fannie Mae. Rather than make its case by using a legitimate link between Fannie and Obama (or other Democratic leaders), the McCain forces chose a former Fannie executive who had no real tie to Obama or his campaign but did have a black face that could dominate the ad’s visuals."

But here's the problem, in the same editorial, Rich claims unequivocally, "McCain is no racist."

Really? Why is that? Because he, himself, has not specifically called Obama a "terrorist"? Because he doesn't outright call him a "n*#ger"? Oh wait... we're not supposed to use that word, right? We're supposed to say "racial epitaphs were hurled." Right? Use that passive voice to remove all blame from the people doing the hurling, and of course, never mention that someone might still use that *gasp* word in public.

This is what is utterly frustrating about the whole issue of race in this campaign. McCain's campaign, especially through the seemingly-unassuming aw-shucks Palin, has succeeded in playing into Americans' fear of the other. It's improper to talk about someone's race, but we can replace race with the term terrorist. We don't need to call Obama a n*#ger. We have something much better at our disposal: we can call him a terrorist. Because, hey, it's permissible not to simply hate or fear terrorists, but to kill them.

So in one breath McCain says that Obama is a family man and a good person, and in the next he refers to his link with Ayers, a known terrorist. Connect the dots.

But McCain is nor racist, right? Haven't we gotten to the very enlightened place in America where no one is a racist? Or at least no one who doesn't where a bed sheet and burn crosses in people's yard. That must be the definition of a racist, right?

I don't think so, and I think that because being racist is so taboo, racism has become more insidious than it was before.

Obama can't bring up the McCain campaign's dirty games. McCain doesn't have to be responsible for the supporters that his rallies stir up. He's certainly not a racist, just because he is willing to come out on stage and pretend that nothing is amiss when a preacher giving a blessing in Iowa prayed,

"I would also pray, Lord, that your reputation is involved in all that happens between now and November, because there are millions of people around this world praying to their god - whether it’s Hindu, Buddha, Allah - that his opponent wins, for a variety of reasons...And Lord, I pray that you would guard your own reputation, because they’re going to think that their god is bigger than you, if that happens. So I pray that you will step forward and honor your own name with all that happens between now and Election Day."

Nope, nothing wrong with that. Obviously McCain's not a racist just because he benefits from the ire raised by these kinds of speakers and this kinds of crowds. He's just a coward.

Why was it that I didn't go to law school?

2008-10-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

I have the great pleasure of looking for a job in the middle of the worst economic meltdown in a very, very long time.

Oh- and did I mention that I'm in the humanities. You know, the "useless crap" courses that the "make" you take in college. So there's a big demand for me. Right.

At first I was fairly freaked out. ok, totally freaked out. I'm sending out 20 applications so far--not a huge number considering the 100s of us freshly minted PhDs that will be out there this year. That definitely makes me nervous, because even coming from a top-20 program, the odds are decidedly not in my favor.

I'm slowly, but surely letting go of that, though. I should know by Christmas if I have interviews. If I have interviews, I have a real shot. I'll know by March or so if I have campus visits. If I have campus visits, my odds just skyrocketed. And if I don't, or if I don't have very many, I have a good 2 months before the University stops paying me to find something else to do.

I'm lucky in one respect--I could stay on as a student next year. This might actually be a smart move if I took that extra year to add a chapter or two to my dissertation that makes me eligible to apply for contemporary or 19th c. jobs. The problems? 1) I don't want to pay for daycare if that's the case-we could use that extra $5000+ a year in other ways. 2) I'd still be a student--albeit with health insurance. 3) Doesn't really allow for a baby-- you really can't be showing when you're interviewing. 4) There's no guarantee that another year will make any difference and I'll just have more student loan debt to show for it.

But I have other options- I could adjunct. My department will supposedly "support" me for 2 or 3 years after I graduate. I don't think that includes health insurance, though. I also really, really want that to be my worst case scenario. Really. It puts me at a disadvantage in terms of scheduling, class assignments, and seniority. Blech.

But I could also go find something else to do. Right now, staring at 150 pages that badly need revising and another 50 or so to write, something else is sounding mighty good to me. Mighty good. Also a bit terrifying. But lots of people retrain and get different jobs, right??

Damn, if I only had some fabulously rich long-lost relative who could bequeath me their fortune, I could fall back on my master plan of moving somewhere near water and opening a B&B not decorated in the usual Victorian frillery. Not happening.

So I'm applying and waiting and wondering what comes next. But it's getting better. Really.

Random Bullets

2008-10-03T06:22:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, but I honestly just don't feel much like writing anything of real substance. So here are some random updates:

We spend most of the last week and a half back in OH for J's grandpa's funeral. It was a lovely service, but there seemed to be so little emotion. Just very, very odd for me.
Applications are going out daily now. I know I've proof-read them multiple times and gone over them even more just for content, but there's still that little voice in the back of my head wondering if I missed a typo that will make me look like a complete moron.
There still aren't very many jobs-- less than 30 right now, including post-docs or fellowships, but some of them are in decent places. I guess.
Little man is getting spots. Not bad spots, tiny little freckles here and there. He has 3 right now. I'm not sure when they popped out, but there they were one day. Strange to watch him change and to realize that he's not a baby anymore.
The "Steve Songs" on PBS is just kind of creepy.

Please, God, Shoot Me Now

2008-09-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

I just spent 8 hours trapped in a car.

For the last three of those, I had a two-year old talking constantly:

"Mama...memember went to car wash? Memember soap bubble? Green bubble. Pink bubble. I see towel. Mememeber see towel? 'ellow and bean towel? Memember?

Seriously folks. For three frickin' hours.

Solid.

Non. Stop.

He's still not in bed.

He's still talking. Standing here next to me. TALKING.

I thought this whole talking thing would be cute.

Not so much.

Job Market Blues

2008-09-19T11:56:00.000-07:00

I bought a big old box of envelopes. I figured it would be more economically frugal, since it cost just over twice what two small packets cost.

I bought the big box because I had expected to wake up on the morning of the 12th and sign into the magic database and see before my eyes a long list of places that I might someday work. I expected to need to send out 40, 50, 80 applications if necessary.

But on that morning, I was greeted with only about 15 places to apply for next year. Two of those are far out my league, and 3 or 4 of them having teaching loads that look downright dreadful. That leaves, so far, maybe 10 places where I have a shot.

It was disappointing, to say the least.

Every week the list is updated. Every week there might be more jobs.

Guess how many there were today?

2-- and those are both a stretch.

This could be a very, very bad thing indeed. I'm out of funding this year. I graduate this coming spring. And I really, really don't want to be an adjunct somewhere.

And Now A Word From My Resident Economist

2008-09-14T16:56:00.000-07:00

[Yeah- he's really an economist. Really. Like with advanced degrees and everything.]

The following is a guest post from J-

3 Simple Reasons to Vote for Obama

(All of which have NOTHING to do with Sarah Palin.)

1. For your own personal gain.
Obama’s tax plan will provide a larger tax cut for a majority of Americans. That means if you make less than $111,000 a year, you will get a BIGGER TAX REBATE under Obama. Meanwhile, the big winners in McCain’s tax policy are people making over $2.8 million a year. Obama’s plan also includes a $1,000 Emergency Energy tax rebate IN ADDITION to the tax cuts for next April. Unless you are a multi-millionaire, a Democrat in the White House is more cash in your pocket, which will certainly help to cover those rising energy and food prices.

2. To preserve your livelihood.
Ok, maybe this one is just for the teachers. In the realm of education policy, there are two ways to encourage better performance from our public school system: the carrot and the stick. McCain, with his strong support for vouchers, prefers the stick. If schools don’t perform they lose students, and more importantly, they lose money. Obama provides the carrot. Pay incentives for teachers who help to improve test scores as well as more of a focus on training and retaining good qualified teachers. The plan is comprehensive and effective, and the National Education Association agrees saying that when it comes to education policy Obama “gets it”. When thinking about our public school teachers, ask yourself, which would you prefer to face when you go to work—the carrot or the stick? And which ones would you want teaching your child?

3. For the future.
I could talk about a lot of things here. Obama has a superior plan to help protect the environment for future generations. He also has a well thought-out approach to foreign policy to ensure future stability and peace for this country while minimizing the harm to our youth in the military. But I think the most important issue facing us and our children is the issue of health care. Obama understands that government intervention is necessary to ensure greater access to health care. McCain believes the market can solve the health care crisis. Given these two approaches, I can say without reservation that McCain is wrong (and I can line up a whole bunch of economists and health policy experts to back me up on this). When relying on the market, individuals depend on employers to provide health care coverage. When I think about my child’s future, I want to know that he does not have to pick his career based on health insurance benefits. I want him to pick a job because it fulfills his dreams and aspirations in life and not because it is the only way he can provide health care for him and his family. Only with Obama’s health care plan is this vision for future generations even remotely possible.

So there you go, three simple reasons to convince anyone who is still on the fence, and I did not even mention Sarah Palin once---err. . .oops.

Call Me an Elitist. No, Really, I Want You To.

2008-09-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

The campaigns are spending a lot of time talking about "small town values" and people who are "real." The Republicans jump at any chance to call Obama an elitist, even as Bill O'Reilly took him to task in a recent interview for "stealing from the rich to give to the poor" when he talked about giving tax cuts to 95% of people. Doesn't sound all that "elitist" to me, but apparently there's something about arugala that I missed...

The whole draw to Palin is that she's "just like me." She "understands what I'm going through," because she's just a regular person. One pundit (I'm put the link up when I find it again) took Obama's camp to task for critiquing the fact that she went to 5 different colleges before finally graduating from one. See-- a regular person, just like you and me... oh, wait. Not like me at all.

Anti-intellectualism has been a cultural truth in our country for at least 100 years. They were already writing books about it back in the 1930s. Intellectuals were regarded with suspicion-- they couldn't be "real men" because they didn't make their living doing "real" work. Reading and writing and thinking didn't constitute the type of work that allowed someone to fashion himself as a self-made man--the epitome of American Manhood.

Fast-forward to the 21st century and not much has changed in terms of the American imaginary. But a lot has changed in practice. Since the end of WWII, an unprecedented number of people have attended and graduated from American Universities, but in many ways the degrees they've attained are not the same degrees given out 80 years ago. Rather than this new population rising to meet the challenges of a rigorous Liberal Arts education, University's changed to meet the needs of their new graduates.

Take English as an example--at one time, students were expected to know the classics, in their original languages, and understand how those classics informed literature. With the 1950s came a push for the "New Criticism." Suddenly, all you needed to know was in the text itself. It wasn't a straight causal relationship, but there was a relationship between that transformation. Don't get me wrong--I'm fairly happy that I don't need to know Greek and Latin to do what I do, but the overall effect of the influx of new students wasn't to make a more intellectual population. Instead, it made college into job training.

I see it in my own students every semester. They're not taught to see college as a learning experience for the good of their intellects or characters. Students most often pick majors that will make them money-- that's why business colleges are so huge in Universities. They give out practical, real-world information. (Except that they don't.)

This is a very personal issue for me. My family seems to be proud of the fact that I'm getting a Ph.D., but really only in an abstract way. For them, being a college professor will never really be any different than being a High School teacher. Actually, some of them think it makes me less qualified to be a HS teacher--less important than they are. They won't see a distinction between them, especially since I probably won't be getting paid that much more than one--at least at first. They won't understand that getting a Ph.D. in English doesn't prepare me to read a textbook--it prepares me to write them. They already don't like it when I talk about things that I know, because a HS english teacher shouldn't know any more about politics or history or culture than they do. It makes me into a know-it-all who doesn't know anything. Except that now, I really actually do know quite a lot.

But the ambivalent reaction of my family to my chosen profession is mirrored in the entire country's reaction to the Obama campaign and Palin draw. They forget that it should mean something to have gone to Harvard, to have been a constitutional law professor at the University of Chicago. That Palin's stupid quip about not knowing what a VP does should make her look ridiculous--especially since she has a polisci minor.

Instead, we live in a country where we strive to get our children into colleges--4 year, of course, because nothing less will do--but where we don't place any actual importance on those degrees. We live in a country so obsessed with the appearance of equality that we food ourselves into thinking that one type of education and knowledge can't be more important than another. How dare Democrats say that Palin's education isn't good enough?!? Obama must be an elitist. Except that the President is supposed to defend and uphold the constitution, wouldn't it be nice if they understood the history of Constitutional Law??

So call me an elitist. Because we've already had 8 years of a "just like me" president who barely passed his way through business school. Because that didn't work out so well. Because I don't want the average Joe-shmoe to lead our country. Because I want a president who has an extensive education that has trained him or her to think well and deeply about the complications of the world we live in, rather than relying on us v. them arguments. Because I believe there is value in intellect and silly chants like "drill, baby, drill, leave me cold and disgusted. Because I want my leaders to be better than me, smarter than me, more intellectual than me--not less.

Our founding fathers weren't everyday Joes. They were brilliant, learned men who had a specific distrust of the masses. It's why we have the electoral college; they just didn't trust that the average mass of people could really be trusted to make the best decisions for the country. I used to think that was fairly narrow-mined of them, but more and more I'm starting to think they were right.

In the end, though, wanting a candidate to be educated and intellectual isn't wrong. Sure, education doesn't make someone a better person than someone else, but it can and should prepare them for things in ways that "average folk" just aren't prepared to deal with.

Your Happy Baby

2008-09-10T05:57:00.000-07:00

I don’t have a baby anymore. Little Man is resolutely beyond the stages of babyhood, so I really don’t pay much attention to parenting books about infants as much anymore. Recently, I found a book that I couldn’t resist picking up....

Continue Reading...

Random Bullets

2008-09-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

I *heart* the new piano bar in town. J and I had a birthday date night on Saturday and we checked out the new dueling piano bar. The drinks could be stronger, but the bar itself was so much fun! The crowd was a little old at first--and not the fun old, the sit- on- their- buts- and- don't- even- bother- to- clap old. But it picked up as it got later. Can't wait to go back.
Speaking of birthdays, J made me this flourless chocolate tart for mine. mmmm.
The job search is on! and I'm absolutely freaked out by it. Because now I have to send out my materials, which are fine when they're just files on my computer. Once they're sent out, though, I have to just sit and hope. I'm really not the most patient person.
J is getting obsessed about the upcoming election. He's really worried that McCain will win. I just can't find any emotion to worry with. Not after 2004. The whole 2004 election completely confirmed to me that the vast majority of people in this country are either too lazy or too stupid for their own good. It confirmed that Americans, in general, are unintellectual and ill-informed, and gosh-darn-it, they like it that way. How else can you explain the fact that W won? So I can't even be worried. I'm just assuming that the Republicans will pull out some slimey scare tactics to play on people's fears (they're good at that, you know). And Americans will buy it, because it's easier to be afraid and to listen to someone's oversimplifications than to actually go out, learn about the issues, and THINK FOR YOURSELF.
Speaking of which, I'm currently in the market for a "My mama's for Obama" t-shirt for x to where around my family when we're back in Ohio in October. hee hee.
Speaking of Ohio- J may be taking an emergency trip back there this week. There's something up with his grandfather's health, and he's getting worried that no one is taking care of it because of family politics. J's not the most assertive guy, so when he starts raising his voice on the phone to his mom, you know that something is totally out of whack back there. I'm just hoping that someone takes care of something before his health gets any worse-- such a sweet old guy.
It all makes me realize just how formidable my own grandma is. She took care of her own father and father-in-law for so long. It must have been hard--very, very hard. Stay at home mom, high school grad, and republican--and she's probably more formidable than any feminist out there. Much stronger than I'll ever be, I'm sure.
Did I mention that the job market it starting up??

Would the real Dick Cheney Please Stand Up

2008-09-04T06:51:00.001-07:00

Dear Ms. Palin and republic cronies everywhere,

In last night's caustic speech, you criticized Barack Obama by claiming:

"Al Qaeda terrorists still plot to inflict catastrophic harm on America ... he's worried that someone won't read them their rights?"

Let me just say that if this is a country where we stop worrying about reading people their rights, I want out...immediately.

The moment we forget that our enemies are human, the moment we treat them as though they do not breathe and hope and hurt just as we do, is the day we become something truly evil. I do not want to live in a country where we are so weak, so afraid, so hateful that we cannot afford the most basic human rights to even the most despicable human.

That my dear Ms. Palin is what used to make us better than whatever it was lurking out there. That is what made America a land of promise--that we saw all people as...people. Humans that deserved the same treatment as any other human.

But when we strip away rights-- in the name of fear and of "protection"--we do not make America stronger or more safe.

We simply become one of the bad guys.

And that is unforgivable.

Let the Mommy Wars Begin

2008-09-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

I was watching Meet the Press on Sunday and I was struck by how much emphasis that certain journalists were putting on Palin's role as a mother. Specifically, DAvid Gregory, NBC's chief White House correspondent told the panel, "This is a woman who's got five children and is the governor of Alaska. I think she's figured out the work-life balance that a lot of women struggle with....She went into labor and got on an airplane to go back to Alaska. That's pretty cool. "

I did one of those double takes you see in cartoons.

First-- not "pretty cool." That's what I would call extremely, extremely stupid. What person in their right mind who thinks they're in labor and has a hospital nearby chooses to board a plane for a long flight to Alaska? Especially if this is your 5th child. Not cool-- stupid. Very, very stupid. It shows a complete lack of judgment about the safety of herself and her child--a child she already knew had medical complications. You're not supposed to fly your third trimester-- airlines won't let you on the plane without a doctor's note. You're definitely not supposed to get on a plane when you are in LABOR.

Her lack of judgment aside, though, Gregory's analysis is a lot like much of the statements I'm hearing about Palin right now. The one woman on The View this morning actually said that her being a mother of 5 was the only preparation she needed to run the country. It's very, very surreal to me.

Because here are the facts--in this country, at this moment, having a child--in most occupations--does not mean you get a promotion. It means that you are seen as a liability. I know this personally. I know that I need to keep any pictures or mentions of my little guy off of my web pages and out of interviews because, at least in my line of work, having a kid might cost me a job. In my line of work, where jobs are hard to come by, having a kid might send the wrong message--that I'm not serious about my work, that I won't be a productive part of the department, that I'll want to someday stop the tenure clock, that there are a lot of other candidates out there with similar qualifications who are more "stable" in terms of productivity.

It's not just my occupation that puts mothers at risk. The statistics don't lie. Women with children make even less than men than women without children do.

So I'm torn. Because part of me loves that finally the general consensus is that a working mother can be better suited for a job-- smarter, tougher, harder working. That her ability to balance work and family can be an asset rather than a liability. But I also know that rhetoric can be very, very empty.

News services can't exactly question her ability to perform her duties because she's a mommy. It's not PC. Sexism is bad.

But just because the media seems to be portraying working moms as the country's answer to everything doesn't mean that it changes the reality of working mothers.

Enter the mommy wars. It's already starting, as evidenced by this NY Times Article about mothers' reactions to Palin's candidacy. On one hand, mothers identify with her and admire her. On the other, mothers are speaking up and out about her decisions and the way she balances work and family.

I had many of the same reactions. Because the truth is that balancing work and family means making sacrifices. It has to. There are not enough hours in the day to be the kind of full-time mothers that women could be in the 1950s and the kind of full-time careerists that men have always been able to be. Maybe there is a superwoman out there that can do it all and never flinch. From my own experience, I doubt it.

I do good work-- I know I do. But I also know I could have graduated a year ago if I hadn't had my son. I also know that I don't--not can't, but won't--work as much as some of my peers because 3:30-8:30 every day and all weekend is family time. Period. I also know that I'm missing something by bundling my little guy off to daycare everyday. That someone else has a knowledge of his secret life that I do not. I only see the evidence of it later--things he says and does that I know I didn't teach him.

I'm not saying that Palin can't do it. I'm not saying that I don't want her to be able to do it (balance work and family, that is, not get into the White House). I'll be honest- I have serious, serious doubts. At only 4 months after delivery, she's still at risk for post pardum. With a child with special needs and a teenage daughter who is also expecting, one would thing that she'd want to be there for them first. Those are her choices- fine. But it disturbs me that one woman's political rise has suddenly made millions of other women's daily struggles seem eviscerated. As though they don't even exist.

I think that's the real reason the mommy wars are beginning. This Cinderella story is just that--a story. It may be Palin's reality, but the reality for women across this country is that it does matter if you have a child, but not in the way that journalists and the political analysts are spinning it.

Trust me on this one. Not a single person is going to be impressed if I tell them that my dissertation was completed with a two-year-old in the background. It's not a job qualification for anything else--why should it be for the Vice-Presidency?

Or maybe it should be a qualification, but I don't think that a single woman's rise is going to do a single thing for the rest of us.

So very, very tired

2008-08-31T07:16:00.000-07:00

Would someone please explain why we would want a maverick for president?

Is it just the raw sex appeal?

Really?

2008-08-30T07:09:00.000-07:00

Phyllis Schlafly was a Woman Too...

2008-08-29T22:31:00.000-07:00

And see where that got us?? Well, at least there aren't any of them un-i-sex bathrooms that will be the undoing of the American Family.

Oh... yeah... I forgot about those

But seriously, McCain's VP nominee is just plain insulting.

The woman has very few credentials. She's the governor of a state with less people in it than more than 10 American cities. Sure, she's pushed ethic reform, but she's also under investigation for ethic violations.

Yeah. Really.

So why did McCain pick a woman that he's only met six months ago and only met with once? hmmmm....could it be because she's a woman?? Could it be that McCain's camp is trying to get those disgruntled Hillary supporters by upstaging Obama's less-than-exciting pick of Biden?

Because if that's the case--and it sure looks like it is--McCain is playing a game of identity politics that are completely ridiculous considering the state this country's in. He, apparently, thinks that women can't tell the difference between policy and pandering.

I love that my mother-in-law is pissed off by his pick. hee-hee. So much for getting the second-wavers behind him. Now if the rest of them are just as smart.

But seriously, this is just ridiculous. If McCain's elected, and there's a good chance he will be*, this woman--with absolutely NO experience in the national or international arena will be second in line as president. And at McCain's age, with McCain's past health concerns, this is a real issue. She didn't even have a passport until 2007.** This is a woman who last month couldn't even answer a reporters questions about her prospects for being VP. She told a reporter:

"As for that VP talk all the time, I’ll tell you, I still can’t answer that question until somebody answers for me what is it exactly that the VP does every day? I’m used to being very productive and working real hard in an administration."

Um... they serve as president of the senate... shouldn't a person with a poli-sci minor KNOW THAT?!?!

Holy cr@p.

If his ant- women and anti-family policies aren't bad enough--voting against equal pay for equal work, believing that the market can somehow correct the health insurance issues our country faces, his anti-choice stand--he's now proved that he has very little respect for women's intellects. Because to pick such an unqualified candidate, he apparently thought that women would believe that simply picking a woman was enough.

In her speech today she said, "“It turns out that women in America aren’t finished yet and we can shatter that glass ceiling once and for all."

Um...no. Being used as a pawn in the big-boys' political games does not count as breaking through the glass ceiling. Being hand-picked by a man to help out his ticket because you have a vagina does not count as breaking through the glass ceiling. Being second in command to said guy does not count.

It's silly and insulting and downright scary. Because if McCain gets elected and keels over, this woman would be our president. And if that happens-- I'll be looking for jobs in some other country, because this country will officially be certifiable.

*After 2004, I basically have no hope left that the American people even pay attention to more than one issue at a time. Abortion? Gay Marriage? Of course- THOSE are the problems we need to really worry about!
**J keeps saying- "I have more

Please, Please Tell Me This is Just a Phase

2008-08-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

If only babies came with manuals and toddlers came with warranties.

That terrible whining noise that my two-year-old is making should definitely be enough to send him back to the manufacturer, if one existed. I take comfort in knowing that this is just a phase. That’s what people keep telling me, at least.

Wordless Mondays

2008-08-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

...when you're just too tired and overwhelmed to start anything...

The View From Our Room

Best Food We Had All Week

Our Last Day of Sunshine

All Smiling At the Same Time, For Once

Just in Case You Didn't Believe Me

X with his Cousin K

X and Grandpa by the Shore

Home at Last!

2008-08-23T19:25:00.000-07:00

Or... things we've learned about family vacations-

1. Don't go to the beach during a tropical storm unless you enjoy sitting indoors...a lot.
2. Four days is really the maximum that you should require anyone outside of your immediate family to be with you. Five is pushing it. Six and seven are right out.
3. Do buy alcohol in large quantities. Be sure that it can be blended into a fruity or creamy concoction once the kids are in bed. Trust me, there are some things that beer just doesn't work for.
4. Do bring a sharpie. Label your food. Label your stuff. Label your child if need be. It's disappointing when someone eats your child instead of their frozen pizza.
5. If a house has an elevator, you have a 50% change of not getting stuck between floors. Please see number 3 before entering.
6. Sand can, indeed, get into places you didn't know your two-year-old had. A diaper rash will make that worse.
7. Two-year-olds with southern accents are adorable. Be careful not to pick one up yourself. (The accent, not the two-year-old).*
8. Other people's children are not as cute/smart/well-behaved/clean/interesting/talented as yours. But that's ok-- sometimes the Silver is fine.
9. There should be treadmills attached to vacation food. Especially vacation food that is battered and fried or that comes with a side of melted butter. mmmm butter.
10. There's a reason that the Chevy Chase movies about family vacations are classics. Even if you don't have a Cousin Eddie.

*not that there's a thing wrong with southern accents-- you just don't want to look like you're mocking the poor thing

Thar be a Hurricane a Blowin'

2008-08-21T13:34:00.000-07:00

Ok- so it's mostly just a tropical storm, but being mostly trapped indoors might be its own little force of nature.

It's been interesting vacationing with a family that is only mine by marriage. I am completely used to my own family's craziness and ticks. Not that they don't bother me, but at least I know what to expect. Being with another family has been a...different experience. Usually, I only spend a couple hours all year with J's fam--right around Christmas. 24-7 for a whole week drudges up past wrongs, hurt feelings, and prejudices that remain unspoken but continue to simmer below the surface.

Mix that all together with the child from hell-- a 7 year old that is one of J's aunt's partner's grandkids--and you have yourself a certifiable time.

And now it's raining-- crazy hard raining.

I just want to go to the beach and sit in the sun and listen to the surf.

Drat.

Right-Wing Beach Vacation

2008-08-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

We're here enjoying the surf and sand at Folly Beach- and while the water isn't as blue and the sand isn't quite as white as where we go in Florida, we're having a great time.

J's family rented this humungoid beach house-- beautifully appointed with a game room up on the third floor and windows that face the ocean in every room.

Oh yeah-- and pictures of Dubbleya everywhere. It turns out that our gracious hosts are part of the republican "Inner Circle." I couldn't make this stuff up. There's apparently an inner circle and they give out little signed pictures of our fearless leader and the first lady with certificates-- you know, like the type that you get in elementary school for having perfect attendance or clapping the erasers well.

There are pictures of republicans everywhere in the living room-- all beautifully framed and matted. There's one of Regan leaving on airforce 1 for the last time. And my favorite-- one of
Bush looking over his shoulder in a cowboy hat looking, well, wrangler-y.

I wish I had a little picture of Obama. We could just sneak it in on the shelf-- as a little parting gift.

Well, At Least He's Determined

2008-08-14T20:02:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow J and X* and I pack for a week at the beach. We have to drive to the airport tomorrow night and spend the night at a hotel because our flight leaves at the most god-awful early time in the morning.

The stress of a 6AM flight has only been exacerbated by the fact that for the last three days, my dear, sweet, lovely little boy has had a sore throat that has kept him refusing food and screaming most hours that "hurt, mouf hurt." For almost 24 hours the kid just wouldn't eat or drink anything. He sat with his little mouth open, lips dripping with the drool he refused to swallow. For most of last evening, he used my shirt as the receptacle for that drool. Yuck and double yuck. I'll give him one thing, though-- the little guy was determined not to let anything at all pass that oh-so-sore throat. It got so bad that we finally had to give him tylenol, um... through the other end.

I think we're through the woods though. Tonight he finally broke down and ate a cookie. And then he followed that cookie with about 8 more.

I'm still not looking forward to the 6 AM flight. Oh- and the airport is in a different time zone, so that flight is really 5 AM our time.

And it looks like the beach we're going to is infested with Jelly Fish.

And because of X's little sore throat, I didn't finish the work that I needed to do-- so this is going to definitely be a working vacation for me. Thank goodness it's at a beach. Because there was some talk about some sort of family retreat house in the middle of nowhere Ohio. This is much, much better.

Beach. Sunshine. Ocean.

Ok- I'm going to my happy place now.

*Little Man isn't so little any more-- we're going to a new moniker

The Mother (and Father)hood Manifesto

2008-08-12T13:50:00.000-07:00

So, there’s an election coming up this November.

A big one.

And whether you are blue, red, or purple, the fact of the matter is that as parents, we face real challenges today. From health care, to family leave policies, to problems with our schools, American parents face real difficulties.

I don’t want to use this brief column to advocate any specific party or candidate, nor even to advocate for one policy over another. But I do want to use this small space to advocate one thing–

CONTINUE READING

The Race Card

2008-08-08T06:20:00.001-07:00

J and I have been following the presidential race fairly closely. J's all worked up and excited, but I'm more wary. I never thought that Bush could win a second time, and I'm not sure that I believe enough in the American people to be all that hopeful about this November. But for someone who was only a few credits away from a PoliSci degree, elections and politics are always interesting.

The recent development about the whole "race card" issue, though, is just plain frustrating.

Recently, McCain's team claimed that Obama played the "race card" when he made a speech claiming that his opponents were trying to frighten voters by saying that he had a funny name or didn't look like past presidents.

But here's the problem--that's exactly what's happening. That's why Obama supporters feel the need to organize a facebook group called "My middle name is Hussein,too." That's why the New Yorker decided to run that ill-advised "satire" on it's cover-- you know the one with a turbaned Obama giving a black panther looking Michele a fist bump.

It's also the reason that the New Yorker cover got such negative press. Because the truth is, conservatives and Republicans--if not McCain himself are playing on Obama's difference to remind voters that he is not one of "us." That cover was too close to what too many Americans actually believe about the Obamas to do any real satirical work to undercut those beliefs.

The fact is, bout 12% of Americans still believe Obama is a Muslim, just because of his middle name. That percentage rises to almost 20% among evangelical voters--the same voters who have been the Republican party's mainstay these past few elections.

The number of times that the mainstream news as confused his name with Osama is just absurd-- don't believe me? Check out this link.

Hilarious and sad all at once.

But here's the problem I have with the whole race card debate. Is it really the "race card" if it's the truth? White America has a real problem with the race card issue--especially ever since the OJ team pulled it out and apparently got their man off on all murder charges. Black man killing a white woman and getting away with it? Historically, that doesn't go over well.

But what if what Obama says is true? What if McCain's camp are using subtle--and some times not so subtle--reminders that Obama isn't white. (Forget that he's 1/2 white, apparently the 1 drop rule is still in effect.) Why is it that Obama can't call attention to it, if only to say that it shouldn't matter. Why is calling attention to racism a bad thing?

Maybe it's because no one is racist anymore. Right? The "n-word" is not something most people say out loud (or at least in mixed company) because we all know it's bad and demeaning and blah, blah, blah. Everyone has a black friend (or a daughter from Bangledesh), so no one is racist any more, right?

So to imply that someone is racist--or at least is playing on the racism of others for political gain--somehow becomes worse than actually being racist. It doesn't matter that John McCain voted against making Martin Luther King day a national holiday in 1983 and against the Civil Rights Act in 1990. Nope-- the bigger issue is that Obama played the race card. That is the bigger problem here. That is the real red herring. Right?

It makes me tired and it makes me irritated. Do I think that Obama should use race to get into the White House- no. It's not a job qualification. But do I think he should be allowed to call a spade a spade? Absolutely.

The term the "race card" carries with it tremendous emotional power. It is aligned most closely with the fiasco that was the OJ trial, and that trial with the long history of white Americans' fear of black men. (You know, lynching, Emmet Till and all of that? Remember?)

Obama has come out and said that ""In no way do I think that John McCain's campaign was being racist...I think they're cynical," he said. "And I think they want to distract people from talking about the real issues."

But, honestly, I'm tired of the whole issue. Why should it even matter? Only because there is still a significant portion of Americans who might have black friends and might never use the N-word that are afraid (even subconsciously) of darker skin, and there's a significant portion of Americans who are more than willing to use the N-word because they still believe that people are different from one another--that some people are less than other people--and those people are more than happy to have a reason not to vote for Obama.

It will be his own fault, after all--playing the race card and everything.

Strawberry Fields, Forever

2008-08-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

He gave me strawberries from a bright orange pumpkin, pulling them out one by one so that I could taste them, and then he went off to pick some more.

How he knows that you even pick strawberries is beyond me. The only kind he's ever encountered are in little plastic containers at the supermarket. But somehow he know.

I'm not sure when this all happened, when I knew for sure that all of his baby-ness was gone. That he was a real little boy--some Pinocchio-like transformation that boggles the mind. Maybe it was when I realized that he takes up most of his crib now, when at first, we could lay him vertically just on one end. Maybe it was when I saw his long, lithe body in the bathtub and realized that soon he won't be able to swim in it. Maybe it was when he actually asked for a time out, because it was better than having to sit through dinner with us.

It's been cumulative, with no real point of reference for me to say, "ah, there it is--the end of infancy." It still surprises me--when he remembers where something is that J and I have long forgotten about. Off he'll go, disappearing into the other room while we sit confused, and then amazed, because he knew where he was going all along. When he sings me songs in the car--knowing all the melody and the words, even though he doesn't know what they mean--no frame of reference for "fleece" or the "live long day."

It always unsettles me at the same moment that it delights me, those small moments that show me just how much he's grown, just how much he really knows., but playing pretend has been the most startling and delightful of all. He loves to play drive through at this one playground we go to. Running back and forth to get me cheeseburgers and shakes, taking my money and making change. We don't really ever go to drive-throughs, I don't know where he gets these ideas from.

But he does, and they delight him. So off he goes to pick more strawberries for me. And I take them, invisibly in my hand and eat, wishing that I could pause this all just for a moment, but then also in wondering anticipation of what comes next.

Breaking Dawn

2008-08-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

My favorite thing about the book? That the spoilers were so crazy that no one on the various message boards believed them....

Turns out crazy wins :)

Work and Family and Work

2008-07-31T23:01:00.001-07:00

It's 1 AM and I've just finished typing out one-half of a two-part chapter. The other half is probably 2/3 done, but it's that last third that's going to kill me. It's been a rough, rough week. There's been a lot of cursing at the computer--

But the difficulty I've had just getting coherent thoughts onto paper has been made worse by the fact that I feel as though I am a horrible mother. I think my kid sees more of the daycare lady than he sees of me, and for the last week, when he's seen me, my nerves have been shot from cursing at the computer.

I know I'm not the first person in the world to worry about how successful the whole balance between work and family is going, but I also get the feeling that he's getting so big...and I'm missing it. It's summer, and I was planning on keeping him home for a day every so often. I haven't done that once. Not one single time.

Sure, I've had to teach a class and work on this god-awful dissertation, but in the end, I wonder if it will be worth it.

Do you ever get to figure that out?

Nation of Wimps

2008-07-29T19:42:00.000-07:00

I once had a student turn in an essay that I could tell wasn’t his. I brought formal plagiarism charges against him, but they were dropped… because his mother wrote a note.

The entire incident was frustrating, but I also had a sense that it was very, very sad. Here was a young man, away from home for the first time, who made a mistake. Rather than learning something from the whole incident, rather than becoming a better student and a more responsible person, this particular young man learned nothing.

I’d heard of helicopter parents. They’re a pop culture phenomenon, but they’re also a very real problem.

Continue Reading

Stuck in the Middle

2008-07-26T11:58:00.000-07:00

I haven't written much here, because for once I've been writing elsewhere. (You know, that dissertation-thingy I'm supposed to be about done with.) I've also been dealing with a lot--a whole lot--of cr@p dealing with the whole knife incident.

The last few days have made me realize just how ridiculous the position of a graduate student is. On one hand, we're supposed to be instructors and give our students the same as we would if we were faculty. On the other hand, we're not faculty, so we don't really count--either as employees or as students.

Because so many of you told me I should report the knife incident, I did. To the police, and I told them I wanted to remain anonymous when they talked to the student. I also emailed our associate department head to let her know that the incident had occurred and that I was contacting the police about it.

I didn't want the student to know it was me who reported the incident for a number of reasons. Class has been going well, and I wanted him to remain comfortable seeing me as an ally rather than an enemy. I didn't want him to think that my reporting the incident was a judgment upon him as a person. But I had other reasons: I didn't want to create an opportunity for him to say that my grading was prejudiced because of the event and, to be honest, the event scared me enough that I just didn't feel 100% safe having him know who reported him.

He wasn't happy about the police visiting, and I did not confirm that it was, indeed, I who had caused his discomfort. But his reaction also bothered me. He didn't seem to understand that it was wrong to have such a dangerous weapon on campus. He didn't agree with the police's visit and didn't feel that he "deserved it." And he didn't seem to understand that other people had a right to feel uncomfortable in the presence of such a large knife. We corresponded via email, briefly, over the course of the week, and he presented to me his belief that everyone should be armed. That September 11th couldn't have happened if everyone on that plane had weapons training and carried knives. I held back and didn't respond by saying that no one would have gotten killed on May 4th had guns not been present--even in the hands of highly trained people. Instead I remained neutral.

Then, on Wednesday (this is now almost an entire week after the original incident), I find out that the associate department head is no longer even at our University and that my email has been forward to the person who is standing in for the summer. That professor must have skimmed my original email, because he responded (again, 5 days after the fact) that I could go to the police if I wanted (too late), but then emailed a few hours later saying that the Dean said maybe I should wait (once again...too late). They wanted the student's name and information, and I complied, with the request that if anyone else were to contact the student that they let me know first so I could be prepared to deal with his response.

So yesterday, I received an email from the student saying that the campus disciplinary committee had contacted him. Great. This is exactly what I did not want to happen. I contacted the acting department chair--he didn't know what was going on. I contacted the dean directly--she was a complete idiot.

Somehow in the course of our conversation, she made it very clear to me that this problem and my fear of the student was all of my own doing. Had I been forthright about telling him that I contacted the police, he would not be upset now. Apparently, I am also naive (her actual words). At one point, she said that what needed to happen was for me, some dean of students, and the student to sit down in a room and mediate this. For me to work out my problem with him and for him to work out his anger at being reported.

Here's the thing--I know that there is only this itty-bitty nonexistent chance that said student is emotionally unstable or psychotic. I know that he may be the sweetest, gentlest man on earth. But he brought, into my classroom, the kind of knife that (as another of my students said) you use to cut someone into fish bait. I don't care how lovely he may be, I am not willing to risk my family's safety if said student might want revenge for what he perceives to be an attack.

The dean didn't quite see it that way. She implied that any anger or anxiety the student feels now was my doing for keeping the report anonymous. As a teacher, I had a responsibility to step forward and tell him that I was obligated to report him.

By the end of the conversation I was sobbing into the phone. Her gut may have been telling her that this was all a big misunderstanding, but from the very beginning of this whole situation, my gut told me that he shouldn't know who reported him. And I trust that instinct, no matter how much I may be scared for no reason. She saw things very, very differently. This will not be the last time, she told me, that a student would make me feel uncomfortable.

No shit. I've had students make me uncomfortable. I've dealt with crap from guys who didn't think a woman should tell them what to do, from women who thought they could get away with anything because they were cute and bubbly, from racists and homophobic students who had no interest in reading something critically and were only interested in spouting more hate into the world. I have not, however, experienced a weapon in my classroom before, and to be frank, I hope to hell I never do again. This is not the same thing.

Luckily, the disciplinary officer was more understanding. He agreed to leave my name out of the conversation. But in the course of his discussion with me, he mirrored the dean's feelings that I had more responsibility to make myself known than another student.

I understand that, I do. As the instructor, I am responsible for the class and I should be able to use that responsibility to say that I am obligated to do certain things. But I'm not really in charge. I can't even bring a student up on plagiarism charges unless my supervisor says that I can. I do want to be a professor and I will accept that responsibility when I have it, but as I told the disciplinary committee officer, I am not a professor yet. I don't have the benefits or compensation that professor's have. I have only the most meager of health insurance, no retirement or insurance benefits, and am pain less than 1/3 of what professors are paid to teach more classes, in some cases, than they teach at my institution.

More importantly, I am not willing to put myself or my family at any greater risk than I have to if those who are my supervisors and who are in charge can't even keep me in the loop about what is going on. I shouldn't have had to make those calls. Someone should have kept me abreast of the situation. But no, instead of contacting me, they contact my supervisor--fine, then let him be the bad guy from the student's perspective, because this was never my intention from the beginning.

The whole situation really underlined just how precarious a situation graduate students are in. On one hand they want me to step up and take the same responsibility and risk that a professor is required to take. On the other hand they keep referring to me as the student's TA (it's my class) and treat my like I am not a colleague--or at least, a partner in this whole issue.

It's a problem, one that ruined my entire day yesterday. Not only do I have to worry if the student will be disruptive in class (he was Thursday), not only do I have to worry about more weapons showing up...now I have this huge wad of self-doubt about what I did wrong. Is the dean right? I don't think so, but that question eats at me. Not completely a student and not completely a member of the faculty, I'm stuck in the middle. And it sucks, majorly.

I have 4 more days left in class, and it's been a great class, but I just want it to be over. I'm just tired.

And then feminism goes right out the window...

2008-07-18T10:35:00.000-07:00

So I had a student pull out a knife today. A great big, "I could gut you like a pig" knife.

It's not as bad as it sounds. OK, it is, but not in the way you're thinking. It was after class and he was admonishing us all to be safe around campus because there has been a rash of sexual assaults. He prefaced the knife by saying that he wouldn't usually have this, but he ordered it for his sister and it just came in.

He reached into his backpack, and for a brief moment I thought he might have a gun. Total paralysis set in.

But then he pulled out the knife, a six-inch weapon sheathed in hefty black leather. "If you pull this out," he said, "no one will mess with you." For a moment I was met with a strange sense of relief mixed once again with paralysis. He pulled it out of its sheath and for a moment I laughed. It looked fake with its black blade. A prank, I thought. Scare the would-be assaulter away with the idea of a big knife. But then he told us it was indeed real, and razor sharp.

I have never felt so uncomfortable and worthless in front of a classroom in my entire life. He meant no harm, but students were visibly backing away from him. What was probably only a few seconds felt like time stood still. And I did nothing but stare at him.

What could I have done? Part of me feels like I should have instructed him to put the weapon away. A bigger part of me knows that this almost seven foot tall man with a large knife scared me too much to even move.

I'm not even sure what to do with the whole situation--I'm hoping that my students aren't too uncomfortable to continue being open in class. I'm hoping that I didn't fail them by not taking control of the situation. I'm hoping a lot of things--many of them involving never seeing any weapon in my classroom again.

Random Filler

2008-07-17T13:57:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if THIS is funny or sad or what- but for your viewing pleasure, here ya' go.

The "Other" Mothers....

2008-07-16T06:29:00.000-07:00

They’re out there. Those “other” mothers. The ones with the perfectly pressed locks, bangs never out of place who just seem so, well, together. They are the moms that I imagine must have been those lucky creatures who glowed during pregnancy, who pushed twice and gave birth to a baby with a perfectly shaped head. Their children never had sleep issues, never had tantrums, never were picky eaters. They look perfect by the pool in their string bikinis while little Emma floats nearby. They know what’s up. They know somehow, some way how to make being a mom seem natural. No, they make being a mom look easy.

And they regularly make me want to throw a shoe at them.

Feminism- 21st Century Style

2008-07-14T09:40:00.001-07:00

Last Thursday, I did my brief spiel about feminist literary criticism in my class. I asked how many of them considered themselves feminists. Out of 8, only 4 raised their hands. Two women didn't.

That's fine. It's understandable even. We've gotten to this post-feminist moment (god, I hate that phrase) where most of my generation and the generations following me think that feminism equals bra-burning man-haters and that everything has already been fixed. These are young women who never grew up thinking that there were any limitations to their lives. No one told them that someday their brothers would go to college and they'd become mommies. No one tells them that they need to make a choice between being a partner and mother or having a career. And perhaps, for many, they never will.

But the cold hard truth is that someday most of those young, bright women in my class will hit the glass ceiling so hard that their teeth will rattle. Maybe they'll grow up and get married and no one will expect them to start having babies, so they'll be safe. Maybe their husbands will even "help" around the house--how lucky they will be to have such enlightened mates. Maybe, even, they will make more than their husbands.

The cold hard truth is that for many of them--feminist or not--they will reach a point where they have to choose. Where they have to make sacrifices that their partners never even think about making.

I've been reading some of my favorite bloggers lately, and it's made me curiously aware of my own situation. While they've been struggling along, I've been very, very lucky. My own husband is a partner in every sense of the word. I cook, he cleans the dishes. He gives little man a bath, I put him to bed. I nursed, he changed every diaper. He doesn't help around the house. He doesn't babysit for me. It's his home and he maintains it; it's his child and he cares for him. Period. There is no sense that we are anything but completely equal. And that's the only way I would ever have it. I've never been willing to be someone's maid, chef, and nanny.

He was raised by a second-wave feminist--one that marched on Washington for the Equal Rights Amendment and still curses Phylis Schaffley's name if it comes up in conversation. He wasn't raised to expect anyone to cook or clean for him. He's a better feminist than many women I've met.

But the job market it coming fast. Very fast. And I am very aware that his discipline makes more money than mine. If we have to choose between positions, I will loose if it comes down to money. It makes me angry. Very, very angry. And sad. Very, very sad. Because I've been reading the saga of another mother an wife who was denied tenure and who has decided to give up her hope of a research career to keep her family together. I can't help but see the pain and anger in her posts, and she should be sad and angry. It's not fair in a lot of different ways.

Studies have shown that women with families suffer in academia. In one study about the California system, the research showed that women predominantly hold those non-tenure track positions while men who were married and had children actually did better than their non-married counterparts. For women, having children is a liability. For men, it's proof that you're stable.

And I've been reading the blog of a local mom whose husband is a grad student and who stays at home with her daughter. Except that she, too, works as a freelance writer. And she laments being the one in charge of the household alone. It's a choice, I know, but she's also fighting against a society that sees her work as less valuable than his.

And it makes me sad and angry, because this is where we've gotten. To a place where the young women don't need to be feminists, don't identify with feminism as a cause, and won't fight for it.

We still don't have an equal rights amendment. We still have a presidential candidate that claims that women are paid less because they have less education and training. We still live in a world where I cannot put a picture of my son on my web page because it might cost me a job, when it will probably get my husband one. We still live in a word where smart women pick up their husband's messes, even when they have work of their own to do. And we still live in a world where it's a given that mothers will nurture, but its emasculating for men to nurture as well. We still live in a world where the media can call a presidential candidate a bitch or some other misogynistic slur, and there's not a thing she can do about it. We still live in a world where a woman is raped every minute and for the cost of one fighter plane we could test every one of the rape kits sitting on shelves because of lack of funding.

It makes me sad. It makes me glad I have a boy. I'm not sure that I could raise a girl in this world, because how do you tell her that she can do or be anything she wants, when you know that it just isn't completely true?

Post-feminist my a$$.

ok- maybe not the yardstick...

2008-07-09T15:46:00.001-07:00

I haven't written much lately, mostly because I haven't had anything I feel like saying. I feel like I should be writing my diss rather than anything here. And that's not really going right now. It will, but right now I'm a bit stalled.

Although, I think I've reached the point where I feel like I need to write-- like I'm ready. I just have to get a few more notes together an map out the argument. It's coming to me, though. Mostly right after I lay down in bed- zip!- inspiration hits, so I jump up and jot it down on a note card. Because there has to be a link between these things that keep popping--the canonization of big dead white men, the changes in the way americans read and understand authorship, the changes in the way books are made and circulate. It all has something to do with the 1950s and 1960s. Something to do with Postmodernism. And I think I'm almost there.

Despite my earlier rant about students not showing up for appointments, class is going well. I'm down to 9 students, which is fine by me-- I get paid either way. I really like teaching this course- it makes me feel useful. We've had discussions about grad school and what to do with an English degree and why or whether theory is important. And today, they thanked me for not making the class into a summer "fluff" course. But how could I? It's the course that should prepare them to be ready for any other English course. It would have been irresponsible to turn it into 75 minutes of sitting in a circle and singing "kumbaya" while we wax poetical on the way that meaning is, like, so impossible to obtain. Totally.

Nope- it's a class to kick their butts. And I've lost 4 already. That's fine- the ones that are staying I think are really starting to get it. You can see them starting to want it-- even though they tend to look dazed and drained by the end of the hour. It's been exhilarating to teach in that kind of environment. And the best part is that I feel like they should be ready when they leave- they'll know how to tackle any of the major genres, they'll know how to put together a strong argument, they'll know that there's nothing natural about the way we study English today, and they'll have a rudimentary understanding of the way theory has developed and progressed. All in 8 weeks. I call that a deal.

At first the class really took away from my dissertation work- it takes time to respond to daily responses and to grade papers. But I think it's getting to the point where it's inspiring me to get back to my work. Someone asked when it gets easier--the whole interpretation thing--and I told her that with practice it does eventually. But then it's harder again, because you're onto something new.

I'm onto something new- and it's getting harder. But little-by-little I'm figuring it out.

Great 4th of July Post

2008-07-07T09:53:00.001-07:00

I don't have one-- I'm too conflicted about the whole thing. Parades with the Clampets shooting guns as people still die and suffer thousands of miles away. And yet, the freedom to write all this and to say that I hate where we're going as a country, that I often want to leave.

So here's a better post than I could write.

I believe in assigned seats and I good, strong yard stick....

2008-07-02T10:47:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to write a first draft of my teaching philosophy-- one that doesn't sound too cliche, too grandiose, or too, well, anything but me.

This has not been going well.

The fact that I've had two students in two successive days make appointments with me (for which I had to rearrange both my and J's entire work schedules) and then not show the F$%* up.

This only causes anger, resentment, irritation, and the desire to write teaching statements about how even though I want to treat my students like the adults they are, I end up playing kindergarden teacher to a bunch of irresponsible and disrespectful brats.

Dude. I HAVE THINGS TO DO. Things which do not include sitting in a coffee shop waiting expectantly, like some sort of twisted blind date that I didn't want to go on to start with.

Now how am I supposed to sound pedagogical when I just feel like starting class with a stern lecture?

Really people, this is why I never wanted to teach High School.

uf.

If Only the Stork Came with a Personal Shopper

2008-07-01T14:28:00.000-07:00

I remember it like it was yesterday–parking in the special “mom-to-be” section, walking through the automatic doors, and encountering a space that seemed the size of a Target which held nothing but baby gear. It was overwhelming. Dizzying that there could be that much stuff to need, that much stuff to buy for a being whose biggest accomplishment to date was being able to provide sure and direct kicks directly to my bladder.

But overwhelmed or not, we marched on, scanner gun in hand, clutching our own list and the list that Babies “R” Us so handily provided for us. We had brought along my parents, and standing in front of the two-story high wall of bottling accessories, my dad asked, “you got enough nipples?” It was funny then, and it’s still funny to me now....

Continued

Just that kind of day

2008-06-30T14:04:00.001-07:00

It's only 4:00 in the afternoon and I just got done making myself a lovely mix of vodka, Starbuck's Liqueur and Cream.

It's just been that kind of day.

Proud to be an American

2008-06-26T07:17:00.001-07:00

Apparently, at the Miss Universe competition, there's some sort of national costume event.
Could someone tell me how a looking like one of those shiny doo-dads you hang up for Christmas parties represents the good ole' U S of A?

Amen to That

2008-06-25T06:53:00.001-07:00

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2008-06-23T14:19:00.001-07:00

Or- ways I know that I am officially getting "older"*

The station I usually listen to on the radio has changed from the "New Rock Alternative" to "classic" alternative. And while I think someone should tell them that Duran Duran is not really alternative, it does depress me when they announce "1994" before a song and I realize that it's a song that still feels as new as yesterday. Has it really been that long. Indeed it has, Smashing Pumkins, indeed it has.
So I've been reading the Twilight books--totally enjoyable fluff--and looking forward to the movie coming out in December. And then I realize-- they're all just babies. There's something about the book that doesn't read like teen-angst fiction, but when you see the cast all dolled up, it looks likes one of those teeny-bopper reality soap things- One Tree OC or something.
I went into a store called "Forever 21"--new at our local mall--because someone had said they had some cute accessories. Suffice it to say that I am no longer 21. Not even close.
Old Navy is out. Express is out. Banana Republic--totally in. Thank goodness we have one now.
Someone thought I was already 30 the other day. Sheesh- I get to go to Vegas before that happens.

*Not a bad thing- just an observation

Two for Five- and Then Some

2008-06-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

The flowers were dead. Not just a little wilted looking. Dead. And they were ugly.

I noticed the ugly before the dead. How simple bouquets of red roses could be ugly is beyond me, but they were. No pretty ribbon on the stems. Instead they were wrapped with what looked like the cheap plasticized ribbons you put on Christmas presents in a dull rusty red color. No bow, just an awkward knot. They were absurdly long for bouquets, and their ends were sharpened into points--dry, ugly diagonal points.

My mind raced--we could send someone down the road to the local Joanne's--they could buy some nice ribbon, we can grab a knife out of the church's kitchen and hack the ends off. Never mind that I was wearing a dress too ridiculously white for such a task. Never mind that the ceremony was going to start in less than an hour. My first thoughts were surprisingly calm, considering. It was all about fixing what was a cosmetic problem. I could handle it. We'd already lost one bridesmaid at the hair salon and duct-taped a flower girl's hem, this was just as fixable.

And then I saw it--the half opened bud wilted brown straight through where the stem met the petals, the flower's head drooping inconsolably. The rest zoomed into focus. They were dead. How can roses--the heartiest of flowers--be dead? I picked them for their simplicity and their ability to withstand the summer's heat, and the fact that I love deep, dark red roses. But these were not so much red as blackened, tinged with brown. My heart sank and panic set in.

I called the florist. I cursed at him on the phone and then cursed at him for making me curse in a church on my wedding day. I handed the phone off to my mom and she told the elfish man on the other end to come fix it. Now. I don't have much memory of what happened next. I was too panicked. We had spent far too much money on those flowers-- far too much money. But it was the one thing I was looking forward to. The girls picked out their own dresses, I backed down about wearing a veil and about having a white (rather than a deep, dark chocolate covered) wedding cake. The roses were for me. And they were dead.

I had to see J. My mom didn't want me to, but I do remember in the heart of that confusion, panic, and disappointment, I suddenly and quite clearly knew that none of it would matter if I could just see him. My brother, against my mom's better judgment, went to find him. My mom tried rigging up this thing where we'd be on opposite sides of the wall. It didn't work. I begged-- just let me see him. I knew that's what I needed.

And it was.

With his arms around me, it seemed simple: the flowers didn't matter. After a ridiculously long engagement, we were finally, finally getting married. In that moment, that was enough. That was everything. I would walk down the aisle with no flowers--it didn't matter if he was at the other end. I was fine.

And suddenly I was being dragged away--as though it mattered how much time we had together now that the grand "surprise" (one I was never set on in the first place) was "spoiled."

It's hard to believe that was five years ago. It feels like yesterday, and doubtless, many years from now I'll look back and truly know how short a time 5 years is. 50 years is.

It doesn't really matter that the elfish man came and I did have a (mostly) live bouquet, or that the great showbiz wonder--a family friend who was to sing for the wedding--didn't actually sing anything at all during the mass except the Ave Maria, which he belted out so ridiculously that it was all J and I could do to not visibly laugh while we were supposed to be praying. Or that we tore a hole in a flower girl's dress and the ring bearer's rented pants. Or even that we had the most fun we'd ever had at a party, dancing every dance together and leaving so exhausted that the walk into the hotel was excruciating.

It's easy to remember so much from that day, but really my favorite memory is that moment before the ceremony--just the two of us remembering why we were really there. And the feeling of complete calm and contentment that confirmed what I already knew many times over--that he's exactly, perfectly what I need, what I always will.

So happy anniversary sweetie. Here's to fifty or sixty more.
:O*

Um, right.

2008-06-19T17:55:00.000-07:00

I hate getting my class evaluations back each semester. No matter how many wonderful or glowing comments there are, I inevitably focus on the few students who were unhappy with the course. It's especially hard if the class they are evaluating is one that you put extra effort into and/or is one that is your subject. I got my spring evaluations today, and while J says that they are quite good--enough for our schools list of super duper incomplete teachers--they still bummed me out. For instance, if you wanted to read a bunch of British canonical writers, you should have dropped the course after day one--the syllabus wasn't going to change. And if you don't want to read that much, you probably shouldn't be taking a lit class at all. The worst was one student who called the class "ill-conceived." It doesn't matter that I can tell who it was--and that she wasn't even in class half the time, or that there were 10 others that said that the class was great and one of their favorites. I take it too personally, I know. The most frustrating?? The ratings of less than excellent for the consideration and quality of grading. You'd think that a page of comments would be enough-- apparently not.

But I suppose J is right; they really aren't bad at all--far above the average ratings for a university course here at Prairie U. It's still frustrating to see the amount of comments that claim there's too much work, that there should be only 1 essay question on the exam, and that I should make them read less. right.

But in the interest of finding the bright side- here are a few of my "favorites":

"I think the grading process is rather tough, but not impossible to obtain a good grade"

"Important notes for each work should be on slides. Taking notes by hand is out dated and too hard to get everything down"

"Love the outfits"

First Foods

2008-06-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

My stomach turns at the smell of most baby food. Not so much the first stages; bananas and apples are pretty non-offensive. Once they move on to the pureed version of turkey and noodles, though, I can’t quite conceive the yellowish gelled glop as food...

[continued]

Things I've learned in the last few days:

2008-06-15T19:11:00.001-07:00

1. One should not put too much energy into conference presentations. That way, when no one asks you a question and the moderator gets your thesis wrong in his wrap up, it won't matter quite so much.

2. Six hour drives are not that bad--unless you have a two-year-old, unless you're driving down a two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere-Missouri, unless the six hours turns into closer to 8, even if the two-year-old behaves like an angel.

3. Apparently kitty kibble gets stale-- or that's what the cat-sitter who replaced our bag of cat food thinks.

4. If you show a two-year-old "big boy" underwear, he will want to wear them...over his diaper...even at night.

5. I have now officially read so much "great"and serious Literature that I am officially done. It has now turned into work--work I greatly enjoy doing, but I miss trashy fun stuff. Especially now that Harry Potter is all wrapped up. So I've made it my goal to start reading fun stuff instead of watching what passes for TV this summer. My new favorites? The Twilight Saga by Stephanie Meyers and the Otherworld series by Kelley Armstrong. Who knew I liked cheesy fantasy stuff so much? I haven't read anything so fun since I discovered VC Andrews in 7th grade.

Random Summer Bullets

2008-06-06T05:49:00.000-07:00

The surprise retirement party for my mother-in-law went off without a hitch. Food was wonderful (if your ever in NE Ohio check out Vaccaro's). All I can say is, yum. And she was, I'm pretty sure, genuinely surprised. Plus, one of the guest's husbands works as a professional event planner, so if this whole PhD thing doesn't work out, I've got a contact
I still don't have my syllabus done, even though classes start Monday.
Little Man has been sick for a few days, and when he's sick, he turns into a whiny little snuggle monkey who has to be attached to my leg or hip at all times. I know I'll miss this phase when he's older, but did I mention my syllabus isn't done yet?
I have a book review due Tuesday. Oh- and I'm giving a conference presentation in a week that I haven't exactly written yet.
I have too much to do to even think about doing anything, so if you don't hear from me in a while, don't be surprised.

Take This Job and ....

2008-05-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

Today is the last day that my mother-in-law will officially be a guidance counselor. She'll always be one, of course; it's too ingrained in her whole personality for her to ever not be a counselor at some level. But today, around 3 or so Eastern Time, after thirty-five years of counseling and teaching, and counseling, she will walk out of a school building and be free.

She's ready. For the entire year, she's had a countdown. Beginning with the shiny red Mustang she bought last July to kick off the year, this year has been all about endings and looking forward to new beginnings. She has plans on the horizon--a wonderful way to end one journey, with the next road up ahead. And, it's been a trying year, with food fights in the cafeteria, with administrators that took her for granted, with the countdown ticking away slowly, slowly.

But the countdown is over.

She has her mix CD we made her for the last week. She has her shiny red car to carry her away at the end of the day. And because she was ready to retire, finally and truly finished with this part of her journey, she has nothing but possibility to look forward to.

So good luck. And be sure to do a victory lap around the parking lot--windows down, stereo thumping. Heck, go over to the middle school and do a lap or two there as well.

On to the next road.
~L

Random Bullets

2008-05-26T06:34:00.000-07:00

Every single BP in our small prairie town is now a Marathon. This would not be a problem if we hadn't just received a fairly large sum of BP gift cards from our credit card that we now have nowhere to use.
We're thinking about becoming a one-car family. We rarely use J's car and with gas prices being over $4 (apparently our state ranks only behind Alaska and NY in gas prices, go figure) and the town's bus system being super convenient, it just doesn't make sense to have two cars. If we sell his, we can pay off mine--that's two less payments a month (car and insurance.) And we were going to sell it next year when we move anyway. But the idea of being a one-car family seems odd to me. I've had my own car since I was 19. It makes a lot of sense financially, though.
We got to see the new Indiana Jones last night (thanks super-in-laws!) It's the first one I've ever seen in a theater. Even though it has kind of a strange premise, it's pretty good. Although there are a couple action scenes that are just ridiculous--surviving a bigger-than-Niagra waterfall with no one injured....right.
I've gotta start writing.
Something other than blogs.

Rules for the Perfect Beach Vacation (with a toddler)

2008-05-24T07:19:00.001-07:00

Always eat locally and in season. Stone Crab is taste-eee.

Make sure you're well protected from the sun. And that you look really cool.

Feel free to eat whatever you want- it's a vacation after all!

When encountering pirates, do not hesitate to join their ranks. Even if you don't quite know what to do with weaponry yet.

Restaurants are best at sunset. And if you must wait to eat, be sure to pick one with a nice waiting area, with plenty of room for the kids to play.

Be sure to get a little activity in each day. You are eating whatever you want, after all. And pure butter doesn't melt away as quickly as you'd think.

Sunsets are a must.

Back

2008-05-21T20:02:00.001-07:00

And it's 68 degrees out there. What's up with that.

I want to go back to the beach. Possibly for good.

Vacations should be at least 10 days.

More later

Rockabye

2008-05-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve never smoked a cigarette or gotten a tattoo. I don’t even have my ears pierced. My closet sports no designer clothing or shoes. I’ve never even lived close enough to a major city to be in the know about the hottest nightspots or newest underground bands. My pregnancy, like most other things in my life, was thoroughly and meticulously planned--mapped out and carefully rationalized. On the surface, my life and my experience with motherhood has very little in common with that of Rebecca Woolf...

Read the rest of this on GNM Parents.

Random Thoughts

2008-05-12T21:15:00.000-07:00

One more day and I'll be on a beach. A beautiful, warm, sunny beach far far far away from any work at all. An entire week off with no books, no email, no papers to grade. No dissertation. It's all staying home. But until then...
When did grades turn into something negotiable? I would have never thought to ask a professor to give me a higher grade just because I didn't want the one I earned. How do you even respond to those requests? They're absurd. And somewhat insulting.
Little Man is totally psyched about the beach. He tells everyone he's going. And that he's going to find seashells and dolphees. And apparently there will also be baskeeball on the beach. (He may be disappointed with that last one.)
I went to a job market meeting today. It's official. I'm searching this year. But the whole big mumbo jumbo secret stuff that they wouldn't let anyone come to until they were ready to search?? Beats me. I didn't learn anything I haven't already known or read in the handy dandy book that my Mountain U friends recommended. So much for mystery.
I have no summer clothes. Literally. Ok, almost literally. I do have one tank top. And one pare of capris with a big black stain on the leg. I think I must have purged my closet last fall of all the worn out semi- post pregnancy stuff. But I don't really remember. Next time I need to write myself a note: "Dear L- You threw out all your clothes. Yeah, really. I don't know why you would do such a thing. Well you're the one that did it. I can't help it that you're going to the beach in two days. Best wishes, you.
Right now I only have 10 students in my summer class. yipppppeeeeee. Let's hope it stays that way.
Did I mention I'll be on a beach in a couple of days? So no more posts from your truly for a while- But check out my review of Rockabye next week on GNMParents.

Mother's Day- or one that my mom can read all the way through

2008-05-12T05:32:00.000-07:00

The first time my mom and dad had a date, he backed out because the weather was bad. She got into her little yellow Duster and went out with friends.

I love that story. As much as I love the fact that she was always a working mom. As much as I love that she went to Europe, Panama, and Hawaii in her twenties with friends. As much as I love that in her twenties she drove a little yellow Duster with the back end jacked up and a thick black stripe down the side.

Growing up, I never had the idea that I couldn't accomplish whatever I wanted. I never worried that I couldn't be both fabulously successful and be married and have children. And it's really because of her example.

In High School, a counselor told her that she wasn't cut out for being a teacher. Two and a half years after she graduated High School, she graduated from college and got her first teaching job. Thirty-some years later, she's still teaching. She could retire at any time, but she's not ready yet, because she still is what she does-- she's still a teacher and isn't ready to give that up.

I'm incredibly lucky that I had her example to grow up to. She taught me that traveling is important, that I should do all the things I wanted to do before worrying about settling down. She wasn't married until her late twenties, so I always felt like I had time. And that feeling--that getting married wasn't the top priority of your teens and early twenties--allowed me the freedom to do the things that I wanted and to find the person that was really right for me. She taught me that you can have a marriage and a career--that one doesn't need to replace the other. And she taught me that you make your own choices and your own path in life--even if that means driving a little Duster out into the snowy Ohio night.

The problem with all of this is that I took it all to heart-- probably in ways she never expected. I'm probably not the daughter she expected--I'm certainly not the daughter that she is for her parents. She taught me loyalty to family, how important it is, and I've taken that as one of my primary goals to teach my own children. But I've never been able to muster the selflessness that she has for her own parents. I have too big a mouth. I'm far too opinionated.

But I blame her for that.

And as much as I'm sure I've driven her crazy more times than she cares to remember, I thank her for that.

Recently, she told me that there are some posts on this blog that she doesn't read. That she doesn't like it when I talk about my childhood sometimes or how they were as parents. And I feel bad about that, because I never write anything that's meant to hurt her. Even if it does. Everything I write about my childhood and my parents comes after deep and heartfelt thought-- and I hope that eventually she can see that if I disagree or if I make other choices for my own child, it's not because I'm rejecting my childhood. It's because my childhood--her motherhood--has been such that it deserves deep and heartfelt thought. That it serves as a touchstone for everything I do, even if what I do is to do something different.

But my ability to do something different, or to keep things the same, comes from her-- even if she doesn't realize it. She should have been a little less independent if she didn't want a daughter like me. (Although, I realize, that even Frankenstein thought his monster was a good idea at the time.)

She wasn't. And I am who I am today because of that.

So thanks mom.

And happy Mother's Day.

Hemingway's A$$

2008-05-09T11:16:00.000-07:00

Home.

Finally.

And yet, I'm kind of sorry to not still be in Boston. I told J over the phone, it's not that I wanted to be there on the prairie- I wanted them to move on out to me.

The truth is. I missed them both like crazy. Every time I walked through a park and some toddler crossed my path, my heart ached a bit for my own. I couldn't walk through the Public Gardens without picturing Little Man--a little smaller, perhaps, but chasing happily after ducklings.

The truth is, I loved being there. It really has underlined to me just how much I want to live in a city-- at least for a while. I never really took that chance. The first time I applied for MA programs, I applied only to big cities-- New York, DC, Philidelphia, Chicago. And I got accepted to schools in all of them, but the match at Mountain U was just a little too good. Their offer was too enticing. So I left behind cities to live in the middle of Appalachia--the only school I applied to that wasn't in a major metropolis. It was my choice, and I think now that it was a sound one. I think I'm probably better off because of it.

But I love cities. I love the musicians on the streetcorners. I love the families playing in the parks and the teenagers laying around on large, mismatched blankets. I love the subways and busses. I love the shopping and eating. I probably wouldn't love the rent, but I'd like to think I'd manage.

And I've decided that, even being completely alone and missing my boys terribly, I love Boston. Almost as much as I love DC. I love that everyone talks like a Kennedy and looks vaguely like Conan O'Brien. I love the history there--the cemetaries established in 1753. I love love love the North End--the little old men speaking Italian, their aloras ringing out through the streets, and the bakeries that make the italian bakeries of my childhood look like nothing in comparison.

And I love the people at the Kennedy Library. Never have I worked in so pleasant a library with such helpful people-- and that's saying a lot because, in general, rare books librarians are extraordinarily helpful. (Perhaps they're just lonley and are happy to see anyone) They took me down to the audiovisual area and let me look through Hemingway's actual family photos. Then they handed me a folder of photo-quality copies that people had requested but returned and said I could have any that I wanted. So I took a bunch- Hemingway as a 19 year old ambulance driver, the nurse he was in love with, Heminway in the Bull Ring, Hemingway in Paris with Hadley and Duff Twysden and HArold Loem--straight out of The Sun Also Rises--Hemingway skinnydipping off a boat in the Atlantic. yup- naked Hemingway. And how could I not take that one? Because who else has a picture of Hemingway's naked rear end, I ask you? Me. That's who.

Books on Potty Training

2008-05-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be doing reviews of parenting books over at GNM Parents every other week from now on. I'll be posting links to them on this site as well.

Click to Read

If you have to be in a library...

2008-05-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm sitting with the Boston Harbor out the window to my left, a lion carcass owned by Hemingway to my right, an impala head and paintings by Waldo Pierce in front of me, and piece of shrapnel from Hemingway's war wound in a cabinet across the room.

Did I mention that the window to my left is the Boston harbor and Atlantic Ocean, as far as the eye can see?

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2008-05-04T06:34:00.000-07:00

Last night, the three of us snuggled in the big bed after Little Man's nightly bath. I had been feeling run down and sore, the effects of a stupid tetanus booster, but all the frustration of feeling so cruddy melted away with the smell of his wet hair and his lankly body snuggled against me to read our nightly books.

"Pretty soon mama's going on an airplane, but I'll come back soon."

"Little Man airpain too."

"No, honey. Mama's gotta go by herself, but you and Papa will have fun together."

I know it's stupid. That hundreds and thousands of women leave their children for business--or for pleasure. I just never have, and this is hard for me. Rationally, I know this is the last big piece of the dissertation puzzle--working in the Hemingway archive. Emotionally, I want to take them both with me, even though I'll be unavailable from 8:30 until 4:30 every day I'm gone.

I'm not sure he understands I'm going tomorrow. I'm leaving too early in the morning to really say goodbye to him, and I'm afraid he'll be angry at me when I get back. We're buddies, he and I.

"But after I get home, then we all are going on an airplane. We're going to the beach."

"Beach. Oshee"

"Yep, the ocean. We're all going to go together and be together for a whole week. What will we see at the ocean?"

"Fishies. Dolphies. Ducky," he tells me, the tone of his voice raising for each word, almost question-like.

"Ducky? Oh honey, there aren't duckies in the ocean."

"Duckie oshee," he insists, shaking his head in the affirmative.

"But Duckies don't live in the ocean. Maybe sea gulls or pelicans."

He gets out his Spot Goes to the Beach book, and sure enough, there is a ducky--the blue and pink spotted inner tube that Spot wears. He's so smart that I can hardly stand it sometimes.

"You're right. Duckies. Maybe we'll get a ducky for you to have at the beach."

He grins in excitement.

"Just the three of us. One. Two. Three," I say pointing to each of us in turn. "Because we're a family."

"One, two, pee," he repeats again and again, pointing to each one of us in turn. Proud of his accomplishment. Seemingly, understanding.

Because we're in it together. We're a family.

Feeling Poetic as a Give an Exam

2008-05-02T13:12:00.001-07:00

a three hour final
why oh why oh why oh why
did i drink that Coke?

Ode to the end of another year

2008-04-30T07:40:00.000-07:00

last day of class comes
thirty five papers to grade
one more spring to go

Bithdays are the Best Days

2008-04-28T18:36:00.000-07:00

The grandparents came. The grandparents came. The grandparents had fairly inappropriate conversations about, well, poo. But that's another story entirely. And these are some birthday highlights:

One of the many reasons why I love The Cake Artist's Studio. And the best part? It tastes even better than it looks.

Little Man got a lot of presents. A lot. So many that the slide I bought him wasn't even interesting enough to open. He wasn't complaining. My personal favorite, though, were the little tiny tap shoes.

We had the singing lady come over for a little entertainment. Even the easily-spooked-toddler warmed up. Who wouldn't with a parachute and a bunch of flying balls??

Sometimes there's just too much party to keep your hat on straight.

Happy Birthday

2008-04-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Little Man,

I was reading my old journal the other day, and I realized that I sold my Camaro exactly a year before you were born. I still remember having a minor panic attack as I watched someone drive away in my baby for the last time. I loved that car. Loved it. It wasn't anything special as far as sports cars or even muscle cars go, but it was mine. I bought it when I was 19-a sophomore in college. I went to look at a used Buick and fell in love with a shiny red Chevy instead. It wasn't the kind of car I ever imagined that my 19-year-old self could own at 19. But it was beautiful. The day after I brought it home, I tried looking out a window--you know, just to make sure it was real--but somehow lost my balance and gave myself a black eye. I didn't care- I owned a Camaro. Not my parents, not someone else- me.

I loved driving that car. I loved people looking twice to see who was in it. I loved the way you rode only 6 inches or so from the ground, your legs far out in front of you, as though you were lounging in some sort of souped up La-z-boy. Boys were always impressed with it. Most girls drove around little Cavilers or Toyotas--not me. I would get out of class, exhausted, but my face would light up when I saw her there in the parking lot. And on beautiful spring days, I would roll the window down and turn up my music as I drove from campus to work. I remember one day, in particular-- I was curving down the road that led into campus, the sun was shining (a rarity in Ohio), the sky was blue blue blue, and suddenly Metallica's cover of "Whiskey in the Jar" came on. Perfection.

I always told people that I would keep the car forever. For. Ever. I would shove car seats in the back. I would rent a storage unit to just keep it, so I never had to let it go. I never let anyone else drive it-- until I let your papa drive it. (It was one of the ways I knew he was different- I was that comfortable with him).

On the day we got married I drove myself around all morning, because I wanted to be in my car. It relaxed me to drive it. People thought I was crazy that I wanted to pick them up to go get our hair done, but being in the Camaro made me calm. We drove away in it that night, my skirt fluffed up to my chin in the tiny bucket seats-- I remember that more vividly than the antique limo we paid to have drive us around all day.

When we decided to have a baby, I knew that my Camaro really had to go. I was excited, because I wanted a baby so badly, but I was so sad every time I looked at the For Sale sign we put in its window.

I never expected it to sell so quickly. I thought I would have a month or so left, but then one evening some guy came and took it away. And as I watched him drive off in what was still car, I could hardly breath. Literally. I'm not exaggerating when I say this--I had an unbelievably visceral reaction to saying goodbye to that machine--to that part of myself.

I bought a Toyta.

I couldn't possibly have known that it would be one year to the day that you would come into my life. You could have been born before midnight. Lord knows I was in labor all day--there was really no reason to wait. But you did wait. At 1:15 in the morning you came into this world. On the 25th of April. One year later. It was like you were telling me that something new and better had come along.

When I read that journal entry the other night, I couldn't help but to smile. It's like you knew that you were supposed to be born that day--three weeks ahead of schedule. (Thank you, for that, by the way.)

Part of the pain of letting go of that car was the pain inherent in letting go of a part of yourself--a time in your life. Looking back, that pain doesn't seem misplaced or even overdone. It seems very, very appropriate. And yet, reading over the journal entry, I couldn't help but smile back at my 25 year old self. Because she thought she knew, but couldn't possibly really know that giving up that car meant getting something infinitely, infinitely better.

You.

I used to look longingly at every red camaro that crossed my path. Wondering if that was my car. I don't anymore. Sometime around 1:15 on April 25, 2006 something changed. You changed it.

So I hop into my little black Toyota--the one with only a 4 cylinder engine. And I actually love it- because your car seat is in the back. Because there are wipes in the cup holders and cheerios in the backseat. Because there are little jackets and still the residue from yerps that I can't quite get rid of. Because it's your car--the one that took me to the hospital on the 24th and brought you home on the 26th.

So Happy Birthday Sweet Boy. I knew that having you would change everything. I just don't think I could have ever imagined that they could have been this much better.

Even better than a 19-year old feels with a shiny red Camaro.

Love Always,
Mama

My Life in Six Words

2008-04-22T11:56:00.001-07:00

I'm long overdue to finish a Meme from academama , but it's taken me a while to come up with one. I actually really love this meme- it's from a story that Hemingway once wrote a six-word short story: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." So here's mine-

"I'm still figuring it all out."

See, I always thought I knew what I was doing. I was going to be a lawyer, get married in my late twenties, finish the PhD in 5 years, want more than one child. And then life happens. And continues to happen. I decided law wasn't for me, got married years younger than I ever thought I would, have taken far more than 5 years finishing this PhD, and waffle about having any more kids. In the next year, I have huge changes to navigate. I'll be done with my degree and may or may not have a job. We'll have to decide where to move, where to settle, which jobs to pursue, if and when we want number 2. I have a lot of figuring to do. The thing is, I have finally reached the point where I understand that the changes aren't going to stop--that there's no finish line to cross that signals my life is as it should be. And I love that.

I don't feel like tagging anyone in particular, but if you want to play along- here are the rules:

1. Write your own six-word memoir

2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you like

3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere

4. Tag five more blogs with links

5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play along

Something About Elephants

2008-04-20T19:22:00.000-07:00

Little Man has a favorite animal- baby elephants. It doesn't matter whether the elephant in question is a mama, papa, or an actual baby-- they are all baby elephants in his book. And he loves them. Every. Single. One of them.

I don't know why he likes them better than cats or monkeys or crocodiles. I don't know what makes his little face light up differently when he spots a picture of one somewhere.

I do know, however, that they bring him pure joy.

It's one of my favorite parts about being a mom--that pure, unfiltered joy. When his face lights up and his entire being seems to jump into life because something has unexpectedly pleased him like he never expected, my whole world is right.

We saw lots of elephants this weekend. When the circus comes to town, the elephants camp out in the local university's parking lot. So we went to take a look at them on Friday. And then today, we saw them perform with their circus friends.

Did I mention that Little Man loves his baby elephants?

I know we didn't need to go to the circus again. (we just saw it in NYC less than a month ago.) I know I didn't need to take him over to the elephant area last Friday--he probably could have gotten his fill of them today. But I love seeing his face light up.

He goes all quiet, and grabs my hand tight, and then he realizes just how exciting it all is. And I melt. Absolutely melt. His entire being is suddenly aware that he is in the presence of a real live baby elephant. And really folks, what could possibly be better than that? What could you possibly buy that could give you that much joy? What could you possibly get that might give you even a twinkling of what his little 29-pound frame feels when he gets to see an elephant?

It's the same joy he radiates when he yells, "Watch 'is mama!" and then leaps off a step. (A new trick-- Papa is not amused.) It's the same joy that engulfs his little body when he sees that we've pulled into the park and the playground comes into view, or when he yells for me to swing him higher and then suddenly, giddily exclaims, "weeeeeeeeeeeeee!" To be honest, I didn't know that people really said "weeee" when they did something fun or exciting. And yet, he does it right on cue, without the tiniest bit of forethought or irony.

It's the spontaneity that makes his joy so wonderful. And it's his wonder at so many things that makes his joy so palpable. When I watch him, I can almost remember what it was like to feel that spontaneously joyful. I can almost remember what it was like when everything seemed taller and wider and the whole world seemed like an adventure waiting to happen. And then, I realize, I don't have to remember. It's still like that--and the same joy he gets from baby elephants, I get from him.

Mean and Stupid Comments

2008-04-16T18:46:00.000-07:00

I've never really gotten a mean comment before. (Not that many people really read this thing.) So when I got one today, I did what any sane person would do-- I deleted it.

And then I immediately regretted deleting it, because now it's gone and no one else will ever see it. No one else can respond to its stupidity and anger.* All because, in my last post, I suggested that the pope not act quite so happy to meet one of the "worst" leaders in the world.

Apparently it's the "worst" claim that got someone's proverbial panties up in a bunch. Because he only waterboarded three people. Because there are so many worse leaders, like Ahmadinejad. Apparently, the commenter thinks I'm a kool-aid drinking idiot for believing all the hype about Bush.

But honey, I've read the Parade magazine top ten most horriblest dictators article (congrats Mugabe, you're up 4 points!) I realize that compared to say, melagomanic psychopathic dictators Bushy is a walk in the park. Duh. But that doesn't make anything this administration has done in the way of crushing human rights, well, right. Only three waterboardings is three too many.* We're supposed to be better than that.

And damn straight I'm irritated at the pope. The priest abuse scandal was unequivocally unconscionable. Period. And the Church sat on its hands and protected those who abused rather than protecting those who were abused. I am a Catholic, albeit not the best Catholic around, so I have a stake in this whole mess. Every time I don't say, "I used to be Catholic," I reaffirm my stake in this mess. The Bush administration started a war that the last pope condemned. It is for capital punishment, something that the Church supposedly condemns. The social injustice that the Church just recently condemned as a new breed of sin is what this administration feeds on. Tax cuts for the wealthiest, anyone? Can you say Katrina? All I'm asking is that the pope at least address these things. He's the friggin' pope for goodness sake! You know, God's right hand man. He doesn't need to be polite. Lord knows he's not when it comes to certain other issues.

Give me a break. If I want to say that Bush is one of the worst leaders in the world it doesn't make me a brainless lemming. I'm not just following some bleeding-heart crowd without thinking through these things myself. I don't care if killing ten kittens is worse than killing one. The one is enough for me.

uf.

*but darn it, if I wanted to have people say nasty things about my politics I'd go talk to my family, the good conservative republicans that they mostly are.