Category Archives: Writing

Getting My Poop in a Pile, So to Speak

Posted on 9 January 2010 | 8 comments

I have spent the better portion of today in the bowels of Bracken Library, sorting out syllabi and preparing for the first week of my newest endeavor. I am really excited about my children’s literature classes, and I hope my students will love the class as much as I have loved putting it together. My hopes are that we will all benefit from our journey together and that we will all come out on the other side with a greater appreciation of literature and of each other. It seems like the class is going to be quite a bit of work for both my students and myself, and the key will be not to get behind.

The new scheduling device on my cell phone will help with time management because I have scheduled everything in and given alarms to each activity. At the very least, I will feel guilty for not doing what I am supposed to do at the right times, and I shouldn’t miss appointments like I did last semester. We’ll see how it goes. My office mate says my cell phone is fascist. I tend to agree. I may not listen to the alarms just to spite it, to stick it to the Verizon Wireless Man. I still call Deer Creek by its proper name for the same reason, sticking it to the man.

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I just signed up for a life-guarding class in March. I am more nervous about it than I ever am about teaching. I haven’t done any of those skills since 1999 or 2000. Wow. I haven’t used my life-guarding skills for ten years. I just made myself feel old, as in the age of rocks or dirt or air. Signing up for a class in which I have to wear a bathing suit and be groped by other people is a bit daunting as well. I am always embarrassed of my size. In my head, I know I can run farther than some of the people who will be in the class, and I can certainly swim farther than many of them. But, there is this element of fear at being stared at, picked last, shunned as a partner because of my pudge. Trust me, life-guarding class is always weird and there are bound to be several skinny, little bitches who only want to get good tans and sit in a chair in a bathing suit all summer long.

During the class, I will be in the middle of training for the Indy Mini, too, which means I will have to rearrange my running schedule to accommodate the weird-ass hours of the class. We meet on March 19-21 and 26-28 (Fridays, 6-10PM; Saturdays and Sundays 8AM-2PM). Swimmers are such freaks. I am hoping that by this time next school year, I will be fast enough at swimming to join the Master’s Swim Club at BSU, but I need to shed a few pounds (30-50 is my goal) before that happens. Although, I am unsure if I can stand the rigorousness of their practice and meet schedules. Maybe the swimming and running can help me accomplish doing it, but we will see. I suppose I should actually try eating healthy, too.

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Last night Bec and I tried to go to Puerto Vallarta for dinner, but there were no parking spaces, so we drove over to Victor’s Gyros, Pancakes, and Ribs. Yes, you read that properly: Gyros, Pancakes, and Ribs. An odd combination, I thought to myself. We started with the combination platter for an appetizer—mushrooms, onion rings, and cheese sticks (all fried and oh, so healthy)—and I had chocolate chip pancakes while Bec chose the gyros, as I knew she would. Bec enjoyed her gyros platter, which came with an insane amount of food: gyros meat, a pita, feta, onions, tomatoes, rice, vegetables, french fries, and tzaziki sauce. My chocolate chip pancakes came with chocolate chip pancakes. They were sprinkled with powdered sugar, but I was fine with that because they were pretty doggone tasty.

I enjoyed the place more for the atmosphere than the food. It has a greasy spoon sort of diner-y feel, with waitresses who argue over tips and a hostess—maybe owner-ish sort of person, but at the very least super tight with Victor—who constantly told the wait staff to be quiet and to wash and sanitize their hands several times throughout our meal. One waitress protested that she had just washed hers, so blondy, the hostess, said, “Go, do it again,” as she flitted her hands in front of herself like distasteful birds. If I worked there, I would kick her in the trachea.

As a customer, though, you have to love a place that will work a high school student, our waitress, for more than nine hours without a break, simply because she doesn’t smoke. And who wouldn’t want to go to a diner where more than once you could hear one of the seedy attitudinal waitresses say, “I swear on my three kids ….” You can fill in the blank with whatever you think she might have been swearing about. Once it was her credit card tips. I felt right at home, honestly. It reminded me a great deal of working at Pizza King and to a lesser degree, Starbucks. On some levels, it even reminded me of the English department as each waitress jostled for favor with the man I assume was Victor.

I will go there occasionally to write. simply because of the entertainment value.

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I am thankful for seedy, greasy spoon diners and for the people who work in them.

Exercise: walked the dogs

Food: banana, orange juice, chocolate milk, Pure bar, salad, Feng Shui rice chips, sloppy-jane (veggie sloppy-joe), spinach, chocolate milk, oat muffin

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Posted in Food, Literature, Running, School, Swimming, Teaching, Writing

Old Friends and Relaxation

Posted on 30 December 2009 | Leave a comment

I had the distinct privilege of having lunch today with two of my oldest friends, Tisha and Lyn. I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time! Right now, I am picturing Tisha twirling the ends of her imaginary mustache as she talks about how crazy someone is, and I am picturing Lyn’s very serious look she gets when she is trying not to laugh, which has always cracked me up.

We spent the majority of our time together talking about crazy people we know, and listening to Tish discuss her most recent surgery. The highlight of the day would be when Tish described her new “poop-bag,” installed because of the removal of her colon, as a play-dough factory for poo.  Her pronouncement of the play-dough factory for poo came complete with Lyn’s hand motion of pushing down the lever on a real play-dough fun factory while her other hand forms the play-dough squirting out. Tish then said, “Yeah, just like that, only the consistency of baby poo.” How much more amazing can you get? I would argue not much.

*

I spent the afternoon at Starbucks working on my dissertation proposal and reading. While I was there, three older people came in and sat down in the chairs just opposite me. I want to write a creative nonfiction piece from the experience because it was so endearing and unsettlingly common. This is what I have so far:

Circled Around an Apple Fritter in the Tillotson Starbucks

He pats her three or seven times, never more or less, always three or seven times. She whispers to him, “I love you.” Occasionally, she follows that proclamation with, “Thanks for all you do for me.” When she says this to him, he pats her left hand with his right, seven times. “I love you, too.”

She asks, “Are we going back to school after lunch?”

He pats three times and says, “No, I am going home with you to keep you safe, so you won’t have to worry.”

“I don’t want to go to Greensburg.”

“We aren’t going to Greensburg. We are going home. Here in Muncie. Patty is going to Greensburg.” He gestures toward the other woman who sits on his left. The three are sharing an apple fritter and two cups of coffee. He has poured a toddler’s portion of his coffee into a short cup and swirls it to cool it for her. He forks a too-big bite of fritter into her mouth. She smiles and chews, crumbs dropping onto her purple jacket. He wipes them gently onto the ground, squeezing her thick hand while her hot pink fingernails tapping the chair in time to her own music. I wonder if he paints her nails or if she gets them done at a salon.

“When are you going back to school? I want to go home.” He pats her hand three times and reminds her that they are going home after she finishes her coffee.

“It’s hot, but it’s good for you. Be careful. It’s still too hot,” he speaks gently to her like a kindergarten teacher talks to her students. He pats her leg seven times and caresses her cheek. As she lifts the cup, he reminds, “Hot. Hot. Hot. Careful.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dear.”

She looks across the table toward Patty and asks, “What school do you go to? Do you have to go back to school this afternoon?”

Patty’s eyes crinkle into a smile and she answers, “I quit school. I hated being a school girl.” They all laugh, but the woman seems bewildered, unsure about what is funny.

“Are we going home now? I don’t want to go to Greensburg.”

“One last swallow of coffee and we are going home.” He pats her arm three times while she swallows the last of the drink from the tiny paper cup. When he gets up to take the trash to the bin, she asks, “Are you going back to school now?”

*

I am thankful for people who exhibit more patience than I could ever muster.

Food: orange juice, grilled cheese, seasoned fries, cottage cheese, Christmas goodies, two decaf Americanos, plain bagel with cream cheese, salad with strawberries, garbonzo beans, parmesan cheese, mushrooms, and honey mustard dressing

Exercise: walked the dogs a mile

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Posted in Dissertation, Food, Grace, Reading, Relationships, Writing

Two Days and No Post. What?

Posted on 10 December 2009 | Leave a comment

Well, I’ve been lazy.

Bec’s mom asked me to define grace. Here is what I wrote back to her:

I think there is the theological concept of grace, which is sort of wrapped up with mercy, being the divine act of not giving someone what they deserve in payment for a sin they have committed, but I don’t really like to think of grace that way too much because it seems, then, like something you Lord over someone. It seems to cheapen it because you could then say, “Remember that time when I let whatever transgression you committed go?” I think real grace, Biblical or otherwise is so much more than that. Possibly the best way for me to describe the way I think of grace is that it is the anitthesis of shame. Too many of us live in shame all the time for whatever reason.

I was talking with one of my favorite professors the other day and we were talking about this idea in regards to people who had been abused (mentally, physically, sexually, etc.), women who have had abortions, etc. and the way people carry their shame—shame we bring on ourselves, shame we dole out to each other, shame that is part of societal structure, shame that is preached from pulpits, delivered from political lecterns, and spoon fed to school children by their teachers. It seems that shame helps keep people in their hierarchical places. Those of us who can usurp shame with grace break free from those cultural bindings. Grace turns shame upside down. I don’t want this to seem like I don’t think there are consequences for actions. There are. But consequences are one thing and life-long shame is another.

An act of grace could include the simplest thing like taking in your neighbor’s garbage can, talking kindly to a sales clerk, looking people in the eye and saying hello, not throwing a fit at the barista who screws up your coffee AGAIN!, caring about someone who is difficult to care about, or offering your expertise or time to someone else for no good reason. I do think the theological idea figures in to all of this because when we are doing these acts, which are also kindnesses, we are in effect heaping love and mercy onto another person.

Our world would be much better off if we practices “charis” or “hesed” every day as much as possible. “Charis,” the Greek that is usually translated as grace really means goodness, kindness, beauty, or even human creativity, and “hesed,” the Hebrew equivalent, is usually translated as compassion or loving-kindness. Both Biblical terms are used in situations where God empowers the act of grace in the person who is enacting it, or it is an act that God performs toward humans.

I would by no means limit grace to a Christian concept, though; the ideas of grace and compassion abound in almost all religious writings I have read. I think if there is one theological idea that is nearly universal, even among those with no theological ascription, the idea of grace is it. I mean, it seems to be an idea even my atheist friends can get behind.

Also, the great interest in grace is upsurging because I have been trying to write a creative nonfiction piece for about three years that has grace as its main theme. I’m collecting stories of grace form people and I have some pretty good ones to work in.

And, a large portion of my dissertation deals with grace and shame and the way Black women writers use preaching/healing figures with various forms of authority (juridical, ancestral, Biblical, and hybrid) in order to bring grace instead of shame to the Black female body.

Also, I try really hard to live this way, and I am trying to become more conscientious of it as I work with more and more students. If I believe something, I think I should behave in that manner. Obviously, it doesn’t work every day, but I think I am getting better at it.

So, there you have it: my thoughts on grace. I need to work on this essay over break, but I also HAVE to get my dissertation proposal finished.

*

This is for two days, the best I can remember:

I am thankful for people who challenge me to think about things in new ways.

Exercise: walked the dogs, ran 3 miles, walked from Burris to RB, etc.

Food: bananas, juices, cheese sandwich, too much pizza, salad, apples, clementines, cheese, pretzels, milk

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Posted in Dissertation, Food, Grace, Politics, Relationships, Religion, Teaching, Writing

I Know Why.

Posted on 16 November 2009 | 1 comment

I know why homeless people stay homeless. As I was riding my bike in the rain to the mission this morning, I thought to myself, ‘This is why some homeless people get stuck in poverty. If I didn’t have a job or a home, how could I get one?’ I thought about this because it was raining pretty hard and my tires on my bicycle were spitting water all over my pants. By the time I got to the mission, I was drenched, cold, and out of breath. If I had been a person who was unemployed and on my way to a job interview, there would have been absolutely nothing I could have done about my appearance. My pants were literally soaked through. My underwear are still a little soggy and it is exactly twelve hours later. How many people do you think would hire a person who can’t even show up for her interview looking halfway presentable? Is there anywhere that will let you work the first couple of weeks until you can afford to buy a uniform? What if you still can’t afford a uniform after the first two weeks? What if you can’t afford to pay your water bill and don’t have perfectly clean clothes each day? I think about this frequently because I wonder how people are supposed to get a leg up when we place such high expectations on people in the work force. Surely there is somewhere that helps people help themselves, but I don’t hold my breath.

*

Today was writing club: Write On! Huh? One of the students led the group today. He brought a prompt, which was a list of fifty words. We picked numbers between one and fifty, then used the words that corresponded with the numbers in a story of 300-500 words. The words were pretty lame, according to the student, but I made my first (lame) foray into writing fiction using these words:  plastic grocery bag, candles, large drink cup, mustache, and poster.

It Seemed Like Child’s Play

I stopped in front of the wanted poster hanging outside the candy store next to the grocery store on our town square. “Small Town USA,” our town motto rang in my ears. I moved here when I had a child, so she would be safe. I thought there was too much crime in the big city to raise children there.

Usually they wear leisure suits with wide lapels in these posters. Apparently, the perpetrator’s wardrobe updates end in the late seventies. This man was no exception. Movie villains are always well-dressed and looking for a good time. Slick mustache and hair combed straight back: every movie villain has the same style. Sometimes the hair covers a bald spot. Sometimes the bald spot shows through. But this wasn’t a movie villain. This was a man who had been spotted in our town.  This was simply a pervert looking for a good time.

I stood there looking at the poster, thinking about how it resembled a B-movie poster when the wind picked up, cold and fast, bringing with it a large drink cup wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. The whirlwind circled around me as if it was trying to tell me something, like Lassie explaining that Timmy fell into the well. I ignored the icy gust, and kept staring into the eyes of this man in front of me, shuddering and thinking about my beautiful daughter and how this man was loose in our neighborhood. All I could think of was his sleezy mustache and greasy comb over. They consumed me. They haunted me. They made my skin prick with cold.

The wind howled around the building, the plastic grocery bag crinkled and scraped its way across the parking lot, taking with it the cup, which must have been empty. The pair blowing across the pavement made me wonder about their former contents. Someone’s lunch. An after work snack. Halloween candy collected by a small child. I put my collar up to shield my neck from the sudden cold, and thought about the mustache and the hair. This man with his piercing stare could be anywhere, lurking, waiting for a small child to pass his way.

I began to question. Was the grocery bag clutched by small hands, greedily collecting falling leaves? Those could have been my daughter’s hands wrapped tightly around the plastic handles, waiting for a piece of penny candy. They could have been the hands of the boy next door, holding the bag for his father on the way home from the store. Had the pervert’s dry, cracked hands, having been run across his greasy hair, having caressed the ends of his mustache, gripped that large Styrofoam cup? Had his lips pulled the soda through straw to quench his thirst?

Now the drink was gone, the contents of the bag were gone, and the child was gone. I thought about how scared my mother had been that I would be kidnapped as a child, and now I had my own worries. But my morose imagination had run away with me. When the wind whipped past my collar and began to sting my eyes, I remembered I needed to pick up candles for my daughter’s birthday cake.

*

Exercise: biked to the mission then to Burris

Food: banana, milk, two Bliss chocolates, Clif bar, tea, apple, almonds, pumpkin spice steamer, sun chips, pasta with stir fry, M&Ms

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Posted in CW, Food, Grace, Homelessness, Politics, School, Teaching, Writing

Grading Again.

Posted on 15 November 2009 | Leave a comment

I spent the day grading essays, comics, and reflections. I am coming to realize that grading is more about my response to my students’ writing and creating of texts than it is about sorting the students into some predetermined category of A, B, C, D, or F. Does that make it anymore enjoyable? No. I still feel like I don’t get enough time to work with my students one on one in order to explain the remarks I put on their papers. I still feel like I am, with one letter, telling my students where they fit in the academic food chain. Even though I know that grading is about molding their writing writing into acceptable forms and structures, I feel like I spend more time considering whether or not I am meeting the grading criteria set forth by the rubric. I can be organic and work with them to revise and edit their papers, but at the end of the day their success comes down to one letter on a sheet of paper. I know I must give the grades, because I know my place in the food chain as well. However, I cannot grade without hearing my brother’s high school guidance counselor telling him that he wasn’t college material. I can hear that voice telling my brother, who now has a master’s degree, to give up on his dreams. I don’t want to be that voice, but I also don’t want to be the professor who passes people who have no business going on, who can’t write well enough to pass their other classes. It’s hard to balance ethical grading with my sort of hippie desire to see everyone succeed.

Here’s a link to an article by Mike Rose that sort of highlights part of my struggle and one of his books, The Mind at Work.

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Exercise: walked the dogs 1.4 miles, rode the bike to Burris to 505 to RB to home (I was supposed to run, but had to grade.)

Food: banana, juice, almonds, swiss cheese sandwich, milk, tea, apple, two pieces of veggie pizza, four breadsticks with nacho cheese

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Posted in Food, Pedagogy, Politics, School, Teaching, Writing