st. p.

p. has been taking care of me, these past several days. i'm still pukey and nauseous, and can't even bear to walk through the kitchen. so p. has been cooking and cleaning and bringing toast to bed. eating has always been one of our favorite things to do together, but food has lost all it's pleasure for me, and so p. has also been subjecting himself to boring things like bagels when he might otherwise be having mexican or thai or at least something not in the bread group. we cancelled our latin american christmas plans because of me. i feel terrible. yet he is saintly and cheerful and begrudges me nothing.

called the doctor's office the other day, mentioned i had job interviews coming up, asked if there was anything at all they'd be willing to do to help me with the nauea. they refused, on account of the fact that i am keeping some food and liquid down, and suggested i try any of the overthecounter stuff listed on a pink sheet they'd given me earlier, or having toast in bed, or ginger tea, or all the other things i've already been trying which haven't worked. so p. took me to walgreens, where i talked to a fatherly pharmacist who recommended-- "you're going to laugh," he said-- cola syrup instead. 2 tsp. over crushed ice, as needed. surprisingly, it does help a little, but only for a while.

i have seven interviews over the course of 2 days next week. really hoping i'll make it through without puking on someone's shoes.

aplogies... er, apologies

I've had a hard time writing here lately, and have grown tired of my own whiny postings. Apologies to whoever's been reading them. I know that these sick feelings will pass eventually, and I just need to focus on doing the best I can to get through the end of semester, parents' visit, the holidays, in-between-holiday MLA interviews, and preparations for next semester's classes.

I have 6 (interviews) so far, which is more than I've gotten in any other year. Now I just need to prepare for them. I'm naturally a bit of a shy person, and interviews can sometimes be a challenge for me. I need to be able to relax, have some confidence, and just talk about what I do and what I love. It's that engagement that really needs to come across, I think. Wish I could borrow a bit of P.'s charm to take with me, though.

Every time a call comes in (P. has received 3 interview requests for this big math conference in January), we start dreaming about what it would be like to live in New York, in Connecticut, in Pennsylvania, Minnesota, and other places. Finding jobs near each other will be a challenge, but when we're not stressing out about that, it's pretty fun to dream.

mortified

The nausea, unbelievably, is worse this morning than it's ever been. I have been trying to nibble on saltines and sip gingerale in the hopes that my stomach will settle down before I teach. And yet this image of me upchucking midsentence in front of the entire class keeps passing through my head. How mortifying would that be? Extremely.

return

Thanksgiving holiday at my brother's house, and with no parental supervision for the first time in many years. Somehow when my parents are around too, I never really get to connect with my brother. Conversation tends to be propelled by my parents, mostly my father, and I somehow get lost in the fray. When I left home for college, I missed my brother most of all. Some of the best memories I have of growing up involve these talks we used to have in his room in the afternoons before mom and dad got home. I'd sit on his floor, and we'd talk about all sorts of things. Often we'd talk about the parents and our frustrations at living in such a constricting environment, but we'd talk about relationships, too, and dreams for the future. However happy I am to be out of my parents' house, I still miss those days.

It was a foursome at my brother's house-- my husband and his wife along with the two of us, but there was a late night when we all sat up talking until we were about to fall asleep right there. My niece is a year an a half now, and adorable. She loves my brother. He'll enter a room, and she'll call out for him, even run to him on her short and wobbly legs. He's so gentle with her, and funny. And looking back on it now, I even catch a glimpse of my own father there.

Morning sickness reared its ugly head while I was visiting... and it hasn't gone away sense. I'd only had mild queasiness in the weeks before, but now it feels like something's squeezing some round ball inside me just below and between my ribs. This discomfort has also made me a bit anxious and even irritable, and now it seems I'm alienated P. This is the down side to pregnancy. I wish I could relax a little, that something could take the edge off of me, make it easier to go to work, to be around, to just be.

now things get complicated

email from birthmother today, wanting to know what my feelings are on her being a grandmother to the baby. She wants to be involved, but doesn't want to presume, since she was never really a mother to me growing up. That's nice on her part, I guess, but it feels pushy this early on, and really I wish she hadn't brought it up. It is uncomfortable to think about, I don't feel like thinking about it right now, and I probably won't feel like thinking about it for a while. Argh. My parents don't even know I'm still in contact with B., or at least they pretend not to know. We haven't talked about that in years, and probably won't, ever again. It would be terrible for my child to mention "grandma B." around my parents, and I don't really feel comfortable drawing her or him into my web of deceit. Of course this entire thread is too early-- I'm not even out of the first trimester yet. Maybe I opened my big mouth too soon? I'm not even sure what my options are. I try so hard to make everyone happy, and in this situation, (as in all circumstances involving my b-family), that's impossible. Clearly my parents' feelings have to take precedence over B.'s, here, but I have a lot more to figure out that I want. I'll probably end up ignoring the email for a few days and worrying B., but I'm not sure what else to do at this point. I could tell her it's still early, that I'll need some time to figure things out, I guess, but it's just easier to pretend it never came up.

I feel guilty already, because I know that unless I keep keeping secrets, someone's not going to be happy with the way things turn out.

Somehow I thought that by having a biological child of my own, I could avoid him or her growing up with issues like these. I'm starting to realize it's not quite that simple.

out

Last night I came home to find P., adorably, reading this in the kitchen and trying to make a fruit salad with yogurt (recipe in the book). He read some pages aloud to me. Unlike some of the other books for expecting dads (some of which struck me as extremely misogynistic!) which we saw while browsing the bookstore the other day, this one is senstive. P. is cooking. P. brings flowers home. P. tries to give helpful advice on what I should be eating. P. pours glasses of milk. P. brings me breakfast while I'm still in my pjs. I could get used to this.

Anyway, last night, it was just too much. We called our parents. His cried with joy. Mine were somewhat more controlled, but I could tell my mother was really excited. She called me back twice after we'd first talked. Everyone's excited. I can't wait.

still +

I can't believe this is really happening. I'm having a hard time concentrating. Why do I have to work today? P. and I have been trying to keep things a bit quiet until we know a little more (until I've been to the doctor), but I'm terrible with secrets-- especially my own.

I hope everything goes okay with us. There's so much I don't know.

I'm nervous/reluctant to tell my parents... for a while, at least. I'm not sure I can quite make sense of it.... but when P. and I called home to tell them that we were engaged, their reaction was less than enthusiastic-- they hoped it would be a long engagement, it was no shame to not get married if we decided that wasn't the best decision, cultural differences, cultural differences. Some months ago, when talking about another relative who'd gotten pregant again with her second child, my father said something about how there's no shame in not having kids, that it's not for everyone... not quite sure how I'm supposed to take a remark like that. The best thing to do, I guess, to read generously. And by "read generously," I mean, not read too much into it.

if I don't tell someone, I'm afraid I just might explode. So slowly, the secret is eeking out.

(sigh) back to work.

update

3 out of 3 varying shades of pink and blue lines seem to agree: the pink lines at Planned Parenthood were very, very faint, but the person who saw me read them as a positive. She said that many positive tests look that way--- very faint, sometimes so faint you almost have to squint to see the line. I guess she would know, right? She estimates I'm 5.5 weeks. Somehow I still feel very hestitant about this, though-- unconvinced, even. I want a darker line, darnit. So I'll test myself again tomorrow or the next day, and then must hie me to a doctor to find out if this can really be happening. Cross your fingers for me? I'll feel very silly if this all turn out to be wrong.

yowza. so much happening all at once.

faded blue lines

so it's a bit too soon to tell, but i just might have some big news. we're visiting planned parenthood later this morning to follow this up. could it be? i'm having a hard time thinking about much else.

it happened again

yesterday. up at 7, to work by 8, worked until class, taught, met with 4 students over the course of the afternoon, worked until 8:30 at the office, when P. picked me up, had dinner, worked somemore and graded a stack of midterms. went to bed at 1am, got up at 7, am scrambling to finish prep for the 3 courses i teach today. this is crazy.

the nose knows

I forgot to mention running into the federal building where we had the immigration interview. Literally. It was one of those revolving glass doors. Seems I went past the opening where you exit the revolving door and enter the building... instead I went a few steps further, then tried walking through the glass that was just past the entrance. I hit it hard. In the nose. It really confused me, and so then I was putting my hands out in front of me trying to sort out where the glass ended, until finally the door went around again, and I made it inside. It doesn't seem I hurt it seriously because there wasn't any bleeding, but there were tears and embarrassment, and my nose still hurts. It hurts when P. kisses me, and it hurts when my glasses slide down just a little, and it just hurts in general.

ouch.

good news

So P. and I drove up to Big City yesterday for today's Big Appointment with the INS (which they call DCIS these days). We'd read horror stories about these interviews; had heard of couples getting pulled apart; one sent back to Mexico, the other remaining in the US, five years before they sorted things out. P. got a book of INS askable questions, like "how did you meet?" and "when was the last time you and your wife saw her siblings together?" and "looking up at the ceiling, which side of the bed do you sleep on?" and "what color is your couch?" and "how often do you do laundry?" and "when did you last have sex?" and "what color underwear is your wife wearing?" and so on. In some of these interviews, couples get split up, asked a series of rapid fire questions, the answers to which are then checked for any inconsistencies. The book, written by a Nigerian who immigrated to the US and is now a lawyer of somesort, said, no pauses when they ask questions, said, be sure you and your mate have consistent and coherent narratives about how you met and how your relationship led to marriage, said, it's best you prepare for these interviews.

So on the drive up, we tried to remember everything... he met my parents for the first time in November of 2001. I met his in September 2002. Our parents met each other in June??? 2004. We met each other June 12, 2001. We were embarrassed about the fact that most of the time we do laundry every 2 weeks and not once a week, and considered whether it might be okay for us to just SAY we do it (and clean the house, too!) every Saturday. We got outraged about the personal questions. My parents don't even know the real story of our meeting-- why must I tell it to some suited bureaucrat?

Our interview lasted less than 20 minutes. We produced photographs, birth certificates, our marriage license, pay stubs and dozens of forms. We were asked very few questions, and none of them were personal. We left with a red stamp approving us for a green card. It comes in two weeks.

Funny I say "us," when really it's only P. who gets the green card. But after all we've gone through, I kind of want one, too.

on the market

Someone's sure to understand what I mean.

D'you ever get the feeling, when you're reading a job ad, that THIS is the job that you're PERFECT for? The stars seem aligned, and everything the ad mentions wanting is something you have, something you already DO. You have the experience to prove it. And yet, the job's in such a lovely, sunny place that surely tons of people want to work in. It starts to seem like really, in the end, no matter how perfect you are for the job, the people behind the job just might not interview you anyway.


(sigh)..... if only.

today

at 7:00 am, woke up to alarm and mewing cat. Made groaning noises at cat and violently slapped alarm clock for about 30 minutes. Prepared for class, taught class, met with two students, copied material for one of these students (who's asked me to direct an honors project), returned work-related emails, did some work for a program I'm heading, ate (finally, at 4:30 or so), did more committee-related stuff, came home (after 8pm), did some reading/planning for class tomorrow, wrote up a paper assignment.

It's 10:44 p.m. now. I'm still not ready for tomorrow's 3 classes. Before 9 am I MUST:

• finish creating unit syllabus
• make photocopies
• finish reading play/ planning my Shakespeare class
• finish planning 2 other classes

I would like to, but may not have time to:

• grade response papers so I can hand them back (I'm behind)
• shower
• sleep
• cry
  

This is utterly insane/impossible. How on earth did this happen? Where did the time go? Clearly I should've let the committee stuff slide for another day... I was just feeling so excited/ energetic about it at the time...

I'm so, so tired.

what the... ?

In class discussion today, a student very suddenly got up and bolted out of the classroom. I'm not at all sure what was going on-- my back was turned when he stood up-- but it seems like something offended him. We've been talking about conversational styles, using the Tannen material I mentioned earlier, and how we've been able to see some of them playing out in our classroom (which is predominantly male). Mike (we'll call him) always has something to say in class-- many times, it's something with substance, too. Near the start of the semester, he would just blurt out his ideas, and since I instituted a hand-raising rule, he'll do the thing where he sometimes raises his hand and starts talking without waiting for me to call on him. Today he had his hand up for more extended periods of time. I noticed him, but would call on other students who hadn't said as much in class. When he'd blurt, I think he could tell that I (and other students in the class) weren't responding to him in perhaps the way he'd like.... he said something about feeling like other students were "looking at him funny." Maybe he felt singled out somehow? I don't want to shut this guy up; I only want him to be a bit more aware of his surroundings, and especially of the fact that other people in the room have things to say.

I've had a hard time with this class all semester, and while the hand-raising rule has improved things, it's not always being followed, and discussions still aren't running as smoothly as I wish they were... so we'll come at it again on next time and hope things go better. I'm trying to approach this problem in a calm and constructive way, and I'm trying to get them to think about the way they're interacting with each other. What I hope is that, as a class, we can draft a set of rules for how discussions are going to work from here on out. Maybe hearing their classmates' persepectives will make the problem folks more considerate?

And yet... enough is enough, really. I'm tired of having to yell over people when everyone starts talking at once. I'm tired of having to stop the interrupters from interrupting. I'm tired of students carrying on private conversations when others are addressing remarks to the entire class. Frankly, a number of people are being quite rude. I've tried to address this several times, and maybe they need a lengthier Come-to-Jesus lecture, too, like the kind Professor Bastard describes well (in a very offensively-titled blogpost, though, I must say).

Oh, damn it all. I hate having to discipline college students.

on parkinson's rule and gendered (?) teaching styles

Parkinson's rule, according to a bunch of folks over at the Chronicle (I can't recall which forum) means that tasks generally expand to fill the time available. So, if you've got one hour to prepare for class, you'll take the whole hour. If you've allotted yourself five hours, you'll find a way to fill the five.

Last week my division chair came to observe my teaching. In anticipation, I insanely spent at least six hours preparing for a fifty minute class. After all that, the class didn't go so well. I had too many ideas and felt like I jumped too much from topic to topic... the students were a little less engaged than usual.

Today, I gave myself a break, and spent less than an hour preparing for class (beyond reading the material), and things went swimmingly. It figures.

I think my big mistake was deciding to manage a more teacher-centered classroom the day the chair came to observe, when often, chair-less, I use a lot of group work, etc. to get things going. I can give a good lecture when I have to, but I like using groups in this class in particular because it forces the students to engage with the text in ways that they don't with full-class discussion (where more people can remain passive) or with lecture.

Today I brought in silly "Hello, my name is" nametags with characters' names (from the play we started to day) written on them. I assigned each group an act and scene, handed them the necessary nametags, and gave them 15 minutes to prepare a two-three minute version of their scene to perform for the class. Today was their first day back from fall break, and I anctipated not everyone had done the reading, so when I assigned groups, I made sure that each had at least one person who I was sure had done the reading (and usually does the reading carefully). Once in groups, they decided who'd play which part, then went to work trying to summarize their scenes-- they all seemed pretty involved, even those who hadn't read-- perhaps because they knew they'd be presenting in front of the entire class and didn't want to be embarrassed any more than necessary.

Turns out they did a great job-- the scenes were hilarious (especially thanks to the deadpan way several of them delivered their lines), and by the end of the activity, I felt sure that everyone in the class had a good sense of what was going on-- who the characters were, what their relationships to each other were, what the major conflicts/ threads were. What's even better is that I think most people were curious about what was going to happen next-- I think the activity helped convey to them some of what's interesting and fun about the play, and I'm hoping that will make for more readers next time. When their scenes were over, I sketched out a bit more information on the board, we talked about what the title might mean, and then class was over. Some of them left the room still wearing their "Hello my name is Alibius," etc. nametags. It was a silly activity, really, but I feel very good about how things went and about what the students were able to get out of the class.

In another class, my students are reading a bit of Deborah Tannen on gendered communication styles. And as much I as wince at some of the ways she characterizes "male" and" female" styles, a lot of what she says rings true to me. Tannen claims that in conversation, men often like to lecture/share information while women listen/ work to build connections. When women find themselves talking for extended periods of time, Tannen says, women often find themselves uncomfortable.

I know this is true for me... in the classroom as well as in my personal life. 50 minutes feels like an awfully long time for me to be center stage. And yet Tannen might say that teachers who don't take center stage for the majority of classtime may be looked at as less intelligent or less capable than commanding lecturers. It was this fear, that my own style might be devalued, that prompted me to try to put myself in the center last week, even when it didn't feel quite right. But if the chair (he's male-- and that probably matters) had come today, and seen my students in groups and then in front of the room for the majority of class time; had he heard me in lecture mode for maybe 15 minutes max, I wonder what kind of write-up that would have gotten?

When I first started teaching, it was fear of being at the center that would prompt me to have students in groups for a bit. But now that I'm more experienced, and I've had to teach one mostly lecture-style course, I think I'm much better at using them. They have a purpose, and they work for me. But would their effectiveness be easy to recognize by an outsider? I just don't know.

This is strange...

My dissertation is for sale via Amazon.com. I have no idea how or why.

fall

I've been absent for a while. It's been a stressful several weeks, and it doesn't look like it's going to end soon. But thank god for fall breaks.

I've spent far too much time stressing out about work, but the afternoon walks home have been quite pleasant-- especially now that the leaves have started changing. Yesterday I saw two kids playing in a leaf pile under the most gorgeous yellow and red trees you can imagine. Gorgeous. In the past weeks, I've also seen a green millipede crossing the road, at least a dozen monarch butterflies alight on a flowering bush, a squirrel carrying a nut of somesort almost bigger than its head, and, my favorite thing of all, geese in flight, coming together to form a perfect V.

It's fall.

stupid spammers

Is there a way to delete those pesky comments? Can anyone tell me how?

drowning

so much anxiety this past week. i can't calm down. i am teaching and going to meetings and preparing for classes and trying to write annual reports and job letters and to finish finally this article... I feel like I'm rushing around even when I'm sitting still.

sometimes I really think I'm just not cut out for this job.

surely it's got to get easier... soon would be nice. even though i read ahead this weekend, i still feel behind, and i'm still tired. it's only tuesday. this job is sucking my soul away.

young at heart

I have wayyyyyyy too many papers to grade to be writing in my blog, but today's had me thinking about how much my being in this job seems to keep me still feeling like a college student. My little sister started college this year-- when I hear about what she's experiencing, that sense of excitement and wonder of my own freshman year comes flooding back into me...

I fantasize sometimes about being in college again, about which of my students I'd hang out with. I hear them talk about late nights spent doing and not doing homework, grabbing sandwiches and conversation at 1 a.m., and I feel nostalgic. Envious, even. Oh, to be a student! with so many possibilities still stretched out in front of me... all around me.

I was in an elevator sometime last week with a student I didn't know. She smiled at me and asked me what class I was going to. Clearly she thought I was a student, too. I didn't try correcting her. Sometimes it bugs me when I have to keep explaining (especially to other faculty or staff people) that I'm actually a professor.... but this time, it made my day.

insomnia

It's three-freaking-forty-seven in the morning. I've been trying to sleep for ages, and finally got so frustrated being in bed and having nothing happen, that I've come here at last.

These past few weeks, since school started, since New Orleans, since everything, I've had so many thoughts swirling through my head at one time that it's been nearly impossible to sit down and focus enough to write. I'm constantly writing down reminders on my hands, then promptly forgetting them, switch from thinking about class to other class to other class to other class as if my brain is some kind of tv screen which someone else is controlling by remote.

All this leads me to conclude a few things. 1. I really need to lay off the caffeine again. It doesn't matter how tired I find myself tomorrow, if I want to be able to sleep, it's a terrible, terrible idea. 2. I need to commit to getting some sort of exercise that can let me release some of this stressful build-up. Stop worrying about the possibility of seeing students at the gym. 3. I could try those sleeping pills, maybe?

I can feel the stress-- in my shoulders, in my neck, in my stomach. Soooo frustrating.

My classes are okay-- good, even, but I'm finding myself having so much anxiety about performing for students that I can't relax until class is/classes are over for the day. Or the week. I tried falling asleep tonight scrambling to think about the single 50 minute class I teach tomorrow. So far, I've prepared at least 2 hours for that said class. More than that, if you count the grading. And the ridiculous thing is that I'll probably spend at least 2-3 hours more in the morning preparing for it. Seriously-- who spends 5 hours (or more!) preparing for a 50 minute class? I'm ridiculous.

My freshmen know terribly little about what's going on in the world. Last semester, they didn't know Abu Ghraib. This semester, they're utterly clueless about the hurricane. The sad part of it is, most of them don't seem to mind not knowing. One girl last week said "I don't watch the news," in a tone that made it sound like that's a good thing. What?? I want to do something about this. I'm seriously thinking about devoting at least part of one day a week talking about the news (and requiring them to read about it). I can do this. It's comp. class, after all. I can make them write about it.

I'm so tired.

And so sorry.

I'm not feeling much like myself-- or at least, not like the calm and relaxed and thoughtful self I have been some few times in my life. I miss her.

recalled to life

Summer has ended, school has begun, and after some thought, I've decided to write once more. There's plenty now that I wish I'd written about before, like some of the beautiful places I've seen, solitary walks through meadows and over hills and among sheep, about the theater, and especially a few inspiring performances of a few of Shakespeare's plays-- most notably, an acrobatic Pericles at the New Globe. I could have written about a reunion with old college friends, about two wonderful nights with k. and r., swimming naked in the ocean and under a full and beautiful moon.

However much I long to share these things and others, it's starting to seem like the blog's not always the best place to do so.... but there's plenty else I think I can still do here, somehow. We'll see.

I've missed you folks.

gone

I'll be out of the country the next two weeks. Take care.

blogicide and poetry

I'm been feeling a bit blogicidal lately, but can't seem to bring myself to hit the delete button. I'm just taking some time to figure out what to do with this space. Many thanks to those who've inquired about my well-being.

anniversary

Two years ago, P. and I set off from midwestern parts unknown across the country. We were headed towards California. We made a number of stops along the way-- in Wyoming, in Colorado, in Utah, in Arizona, in Nevada, and we saw mountains and deserts and strange red rock formations neither one of us had ever seen before. When we got to the ocean, at last, we found a nice beach, got a marriage license, met with a minister, and then, June 14, we got married. It was a small ceremony. No parents, just a few friends and ourselves, barefoot in the sand and in the late afternoon just before the sun slipped down into the waves. We stayed in California for a month, studying, then packed up again and made the journey back again, which was just as beautiful, if not somewhat more rushed.

That trip and those days are still so fresh in my mind, it's hard to believe it's been two years.

The days before the wedding, I was jittery. A few of our friends had flown in to celebrate with us, and we'd gone out for dinner that night. In the confusion of deciding who was going to sleep where, a tired friend of mine got a little snippy with me. I felt terrible. And so P. stayed the night with me, the way he'd been doing so many time before, and he consoled me, and lay with me, and somehow made everything better. The next morning I was perfectly calm. Serene, even. P. still talks about it. We married just the way we wanted to, and it was perfect.

Months before that, we'd been planning a wedding in my parents' home town. Our vision and theirs just didn't resemble each other at all. Parents wanted their So. Baptist church and their minister which was particularly hard for P., who is not at all religious. The reception would be held in a stuffy location downtown. The night my father started asking me about colors, we decided to elope. We tried inviting my parents, but they didn't want to come. They gave us two choices: the wedding the way they wanted it, or eloping (which they were fine with) without them. I'm still a hurt they didn't want to come, but I'm so relieved we decided to do things our way. When I think back on our wedding, I have lot of good feelings about it, and that freedom that came from stepping away from the parents was part of it.

Tomorrow I'm flying in to see them and my brother, his wife, and my exceedingly cute niece. I'm nervous, as I always get with these parental visits, and this ache of wedding past I still seem to be carrying with me doesn't help things. But P., darling P. (who just stepped out of the bathroom, naked and spiky-haired to check on me) will be here when I get back, and there's really no one better to be coming back to.

returned

quite a busy vacation, with lots of driving. p. has recounted it all in Spanish on his blog & so I won't do it again here, but I do want to share a few highlights.

1. Oswald's Bear Ranch. We saw a number of adult bears napping under trees, then got to play with two of the adorable cubs. One sat on my lap, leaned back, looked straight at me. They're adorable animals, but strong! And they seem very intelligent, too. If they didn't grow, I'd love to have one as a pet.

2. P. & I rode a tandem bicycle for the first time. We rode it around an island-- literally traced the entire circumference. Beautiful scenery, and since no motor vehicles are allowed on the island, we were able to enjoy most of it entirely on our own. Splendid.

3. Saw a huge ship travel through the narrow Soo locks in Sault Ste. Marie, passing from the Huron into the Superior. Did you know that Superior is 7 meters higher than Huron? In the locks, they have to lift the ship to send it on its way. Apparently watching the ships go through is a past time for some of the locals as well as the tourists. Lots of loud teenagers there... can you imagine? Why? When the boats pass through sooooooooo slowly?

4. Camping. And though we've discovered that P. is not a camper, we had some bright and shiny moments. I loved how easy it was to wake up very early. At first light, I was awake. The first morning after we camped, we got an early start to the destination we were aiming for. The second, I got in a walk by myself through some dunes near the lake while p. slept. We made fires, cooked, pitched tents, skipped rocks, hiked a bit, and told each other stories once it got dark. P. invented a character called Peekaboo Crane.

5. Drive through some marshlands at a State park whose name I can't remember. Saw loons and swans and eagles nests, and families of ducks! 3 sets of 2 adults (mom and pop?) and 3 or 4 ducklings on family outings. Marshland is beautiful.

We're home again, and it's nice to have returned here, though the rest of the summer will be incredibly busy. I'm teaching a course near the end of it, and before that, I've a lot of writing to do. My dissertation director hooked me up with an editor and seems there's some interest in publishing my manuscript... which means I've got to get that thing finished. It's all there, but revision is always an agonizing process for me. When I was on the job market, I revised those blasted cover letter and diss abstracts nearly every time I sent out an application. It was exhausting. I have a hard time letting go.

P. leaves to teach at a math camp July1, so hoping we'll enjoy each other some before he's gone, too. He jokes that it's very fortunate that there will be no real camping at mathcamp. No sleeping bags, no tents, and hopefully fewer mosquitos.

gone fishing

well, except for the fishing part. Had a traumatic experience seeing an Iron Chef behead a living squirming fish some time ago, and that officially took fish out of my (otherwise entirely vegetarian) diet.

but we're going. Our trip still isn't entirely planned out, but we're packed to camp. We're just going to drive in our desired direction and kinda play it by ear. We've got a book of campsites and phone numbers, and did enough checking about availability to find that it's really not crowded at all the week after memorial day.

I will be away from all phones and computers, and I'm pretty darn happy about that. No offense to any of you guys, of course. If you don't hear back from me in a few weeks, I've probably been eaten by a bear. Or something.

oh, oh, oh

haven't been able to write. been still a little down. p. is making me a milkshake. strawberry with vanilla. fresh. mmmmmmmmm.

tuesday we set off for the great to-us-as-yet-unknown upper peninsula and for our first camping trip together. i can't wait.

last weekend we went for a hike, in the woods, pretty darn close to home. took a trail we hadn't before and ran into all sorts of deer along the way. we ran into only one other person (and his dog) during our entire walk. the deer were very dear. fawns stared at us and even came closer. the mother, more cautious, put her body in front of them. turned a bend past the river and saw one no more than five feet away. it looked at us, curious. beautiful animals.

in michigan, in minnesota, there are chances of seeing bears and wolves and moose, and surely more sweet deer along the way.

right now i wish i could show you a picture of one of our cats, though. p. has finished milk-shaking, and lay down on a couch in my office. the cat is on top of him already, curled up dreamily, legs extended, head cocked. some day i'll post a picture.

can't wait to get out of town, to get all these anxious voices in my head (worries about my summer class, about next semester, about my manuscript) to quiet themselves down.

weekend

tonight's dinner:
grilled artichokes with tomato chipotle sauce
grilled mushroom & garlic tacos


P. is a god with the grill.

I'm still not done grading (I'm very close, though... have to be done by Wednesday, so this can't stretch on too much longer, anyway). We took a long drive today, listened to some Muriel Spark on audiobook, did some shopping (I have new pants, finally, and we have new camping gear), visited a bookstore to browse the travel books, made the drive home, chatted with elderly neighbor, did some cooking, lay in the hammock. This is what summer is about. We're hoping to go off camping next weekend for a while. Trying to decide between a tour of the Great Lakes (to Voyageurs National park via Michigan's Upper Peninisula and Isle Royale) or a somewhat further trek to the wonderous sights of Montana. We've never camped together, before, and P. is skeptical that I actually know how to start a fire that we can cook on, but it will be a blast when it happens. Can't wait.

i'm sad.

i'm not sure why. i'm just sad.

The visit with my parents was okay; sometimes even pleasant. We went for a walk Saturday after lunch, P. with my mom (who walks much slower than dad), and me with dad, who takes very long strides. Dad told lots of familiy stories, especially about grand-dad, his father, who I learned left WW II at the time he did because he won a hand of poker. (The squadron was sending 5 men home, I think; poker was how they decided who went.) He caught hops on cargo planes and toook a ship through the Pacific (where he saw a bit more action), and by the time he made it home he'd officially traveled around the world. But what a way to do it.

the glitch came Sunday morning, with folks insistance I find my diploma so they could have it framed for me. A sweet gesture, but it didnt' feel so good, being told to find it, them watching me pull out drawers of filing cabinets and rummage through my office before I finally found it sitting in its envelope on a book shelf.

They've called 3 times I think since they left on Sunday. Mom asked tonight (after a dozen questions I really didn't feel like answering) if I missed them. I couldn't bring myself to say yes, so I said "I've been really busy" instead. Am a bad person?

In an effort to make me feel better, P. called me to come and see a mess he made in the bathroom, pushed the button on his shaving cream and unintentionally shot it all over the mirror, the toilet, the shower doors. "You're not the only one who's clumsy," he says, adorably. His shaving cream is blue. It looks like toothpaste.

I'm still sad.

double life

My parents come to visit this weekend. I'm anxious. I have lived a double life with them for so long that it's hard not to turn into a different person when they're around. When they speak (especially dad) I find my thoughts wandering elsewhere. When I speak, it is stilloften with some crazed and juvenile desire to make them proud of me. There's not always much space for my speaking (because my folks are both talkers) and I'm thankful for that sometimes, because it takes some pressure off. And at the same time I wish it were possible to have an honest conversation with them, for them to know and like the person I am when they're not around. Of course the visits are a trial for P., too, who'se been pulled unwittingly into this double life with me.

I really should chill out a bit. There are masks I wear at school, and around strangers, and in uncomfortable circumstances. But they're starting to crack a bit. Will I be found out?

on mothers

There's no time like today to write about this, and yet when I sit down to do it, I'm not quite sure how to start or even what I want to say.

I started feeling more compelled to write about this today after reading Vindauga's blog here on birds, bees, and adoptees.

I can't remember a time I didn't know I was adopted. I don't remember any big talk about it. No rugs were every yanked out from under my feet; it seems I always knew. That's a credit to my parents. I guess they must have figured if they didnt' tell me, it might one day slip out, anyhow, and so it was never really a secret to me. I wasn't told very much about my biological parents, only that they were "very young" and wanted me to have a "better life," but I do remember fantasizing about my birth-mother when I was young, trying to picture what she looked like and what she was up to now. I never thought much about the birth-father in the picture.

In first grade, there was a picture of a pregnant mouse (and the same mouse later, with babies) in our science book. When my teacher told us that every one of us was born in the same way that the mouse was, I raised my hand to say that I wasn't born that way; I was adopted. As if it were something special. She thought I was joking, in the way that parents sometimes tell their biological children that they were adoped when they do something out of character or misbehave. She laughed. I went home from school crying. Mom cleared things up, and the teacher apologized, but I think that was the first time in my life that being adopted was something that made me different, but not special.

In 3rd grade, I was requried to do a project on family ancestry for some sort of "Christmas around the world" project that the school was pulling together. Not having any idea of where to go, I became an honorary Italian, because my father had lived in Italy for a while as a young boy, when his father was in the army air-corp. In 4th grade, I had to do a similar project. When I asked my parents where my ancestors were from, they said to just use theirs. I hated those projects.

In 6th grade or so I came upon the word "bastard" in a dictionary. It fit me. Child born to unmarried parents. I told a friend about it, and later when she fell out with me, she told it to a lot of other kids, laughing.

In 7th grade, I was required to write an autobiography of myself, from birth to present day. In itI said my birthmother had died giving birth to me and that's how I wound up adopted. My mom discovered what I'd written and had a long talk to me about it, and made me re-write what I'd written. I remember crying, almost hysterically, and her holding me in her arms. Before I turned the project in, I tore out those pages and replaced them with my original story. I was ashamed.

In 9th grade, when my grandfather died, a young and unthinking cousin said I couldn't be as sad as he was because he wasn't really my grandfather. Another, more distant cousin, my age, who hardly knew me, told him off. He's probably forgotten that. I never will.

In junior high and high school, the subject of my adoption seemed to become more and more taboo at home. When I dared ask about my birth parents, my parents didn't want to say much, and the snippets I got came with warnings. They were very young. 14, even. On the television talk shows, there were reunion stories all the time. When they came on, the channel was always changed. Birth families were called "white trash." Some were drug addicts.

My first year in college, I wrote a letter to the agency that handled my adoption (I found the address in an old address book of mom's) asking them for any non-identifying information they might have about my birthparents. It came back to me in about a month. I must have read through those sheets of paper hundreds of times. "Your birth mother was 18 years old when you were born. She was 5 feet 1 inch tall. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes. Her father was __ years old when you were born. He had brown hair and eyes. He was a banker and a farmer. Your birth mother's mother was ___ years old when you were born. She had ___ hair and ___ eyes. She was a secretary at a local high school. Your birth mother had three brothers. They were ___, ___, and ___ years old when you were born." There was information about my birth father, too. He was 18. He was planning to join the army after high school. There was information about what she wanted to do, too, and about lots of other things, too. My time of birth. My Apgar scores.

I told my parents I'd gotten this information some time after it came. They were a little taken aback. I said things to them like "Did you know that....? " and they claimed they did know. Like how the birthfather had gone to court to try to gain custody but backed out at the last minute. They knew. They never told me. I think my mom cried. They both gave me lots of warnings about what might happen should I attempt to actually find my birth parents.

Some years later, in graduate school, I found them. A kind internet contact and a lot of luck made it possible. I made two separate trips, once to see each of them. I met half-brothers and half-sisters. 6 of them. It turns out I'm Swedish. With a pinch of Irish.

I wound up telling my parents about this, too. It didn't go over well. This time my father cried, too. They felt betrayed. I wrote them a letter, trying to explain. I sent them a book. Neither helped. They were betrayed. I ruined Christmas. When they'd calmed down enough to talk to me, I received more warnings from dad. They might take advantage of me. I should cut things off immediately. Not only that-- mom and dad had been assured this would be a closed adoption, that what I'd done couldn't happen. They'd been advised to leave the state shortly after adopting me, and to "never come back." If they'd had known.... (question trailed off into silence, but still haunts me.) Dad told me I should cut things off. To spare the feelings of him and mom, I said I would. Then I went about doing my own thing and talking about it only with C., and later P., and sometimes also with the brother I grew up with (their biological son) who seeemed to understand.

The relationship I've been able to form with my birthmother, and especially with her daughters, has been a blessing. It's striking how much they remind me of myself at their ages; they were/are involved in all the same activities I seem to have been. The relationship with the other side of my biology is a bit more tragic. I have really nothing in common with him or his kids. When I visited his house, it was dirty and falling apart. One daughter didn't have a bed. Another daugher had been molested as a child at a daycare. One son was in jail. None of the kids was good at school. I felt lucky I hadn't grown up here. I felt ashamed. This man had sold his cattle (he was a future farmer of America) to hire a lawyer and fight for me. When this happened, my birthmother's family decided they'd take me in before they let him have me (my b-mother says he drank a lot and may have used drugs, too). Eventually the lawyer told him he didn't have a chance and everyone signed the papers and sealed my fate.

Every mother's day I feel a bit uneasy. I always call and send flowers or presents to mom, but I've never been able to bring myself to do anything for b-mom, because it would feel like another betrayal. But I do think of her, and of what she must have gone through to make the decision she did. I don't know how she did it, frankly. She hadn't even told her parents she was pregnant until she went into labour.

This year, though, tonight, I sent an email. Thank you for what you did. For my life. For not letting the desperation get to you as I'm afraid it might have with me.... I feel good about sending this out to her. I feel good about having found her, and b-father, and their parents, to let everyone know I turned out okay.... and yet I still feel guilty, too.

I feel guilty also for how much I long for a biological offspring of my own, now that P. and I are trying. I know I'd be fine, happy, even, if we wound up adopting (which we might, depending on a lot of things), but I long for that connection to grow up with.... er, to watch grow.

I love my parents. I just wish it were okay to love all of them, in my way. There's more to say. But not tonight.

dry spell

I've had a hard time writing lately.

My Shakespeare students have been presenting their research projects the past few days. They're stunningly good so far. Very smart, and sooo different from each other. I'm having a hard time keeping them from going over their allotted minutes, though. Had to postpone two of Monday's to today. I'm going to have to act as time police today, and that isn't fun at all. If I have them present the next time I teach this course, I should really schedule at least 2 more days for it.

I'm up to my neck in grading and planning for a summer course I'm teaching. I almost mean that literally.

8 more classes to get through. Then exams. Then grading. Then peace.

oops

I don't usually read Crooked Timber, but p. pointed me to this link they have over there today to Louis Armstrong singing Britney Spears' "Oops I Did It Again." Lovely.

proofs

Looks like Timna is working on proofs this week, too. I hate it. There's so much I wish I could change, but can't. So many horrible sentences. I think, "did I write that?" and then look back at the original and find that yes, yes, I did. There are a few icky errors that are the fault of the proofreaders and not me, but this whole porcess is making me nervous. It's doubtful more than a dozen people will ever read this article, but I still wish it were better written. I even have a better revision (one I sent out with job application materials), but since those revisions were made post my article getting accepted, they won't make it.

aragah.

dream

P. gave birth to a cat. I helped deliver it in the backseat of a car.
Also, I dived deep into the bottom of a pool to bring up 5 copper coins.
Also, I won $10,000, but it was contingent on my returning all but 2 books I just got through interlibrary loan. Of course I had a hard time picking just two, but I had made my first choice at least when the alarm went off.

Even my dreams are scatter-brained.




edited to add this Usage Note, brought to you by our friends at Dictionary.com & my own "dived? is that correct?" moment. Very interesting stuff, I think:

Either dove or dived is acceptable as the past tense of dive. Usage preferences show regional distribution, although both forms are heard throughout the United States. According to the Dictionary of American Regional English, in the North, dove is more prevalent; in the South Midland, dived. Dived is actually the earlier form, and the emergence of dove may appear anomalous in light of the general tendencies of change in English verb forms. Old English had two classes of verbs: strong verbs, whose past tense was indicated by a change in their vowel (a process that survives in such present-day English verbs as drive/drove or fling/flung); and weak verbs, whose past was formed with a suffix related to -ed in Modern English (as in present-day English live/lived and move/moved). Since the Old English period, many verbs have changed from the strong pattern to the weak one; for example, the past tense of step, formerly stop, became stepped. Over the years, in fact, the weak pattern has become so prevalent that we use the term regular to refer to verbs that form their past tense by suffixation of -ed. However, there have occasionally been changes in the other direction: the past tense of wear, now wore, was once werede, and that of spit, now spat, was once spitede. The development of dove is an additional example of the small group of verbs that have swum against the historical tide.

edited again to add this. At dinner with C.'s parents long ago, somehow a question of the origin of the word "hooker" came up at the dinner table. C's is the kind of family that doesn't hesitate to get up from the table to bring back an encyclopedia, a dictionary, or any other book relevant to conversation at hand. I loved this. I want to be this. At any rate, the entry for "hooker" was quite lengthy, and I remember laughing hysterically as C's father read some version of the following:

hook·er²
n.

1. One that hooks.
2. Slang. A prostitute.

Word History: In his Personal Memoirs Ulysses S. Grant described Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker as “a dangerous man... not subordinate to his superiors.” Hooker had his faults. He may indeed have been insubordinate; he was undoubtedly an erratic leader. But “Fighting Joe” Hooker is often accused of one thing he certainly did not do: he did not give his name to prostitutes. According to a popular story, the men under Hooker's command during the Civil War were a particularly wild bunch, and would spend much of their time in brothels when on leave. For this reason, as the story goes, prostitutes came to be known as hookers. However attractive this theory may be, it cannot be true. The word hooker with the sense “prostitute” is already recorded before the Civil War. As early as 1845 it is found in North Carolina, as reported in Norman Ellsworth Eliason's Tarheel Talk; an Historical Study of the English Language in North Carolina to 1860, published in 1956. It also appears in the second edition of John Russell Bartlett's Dictionary of Americanisms, published in 1859, where it is defined as “a strumpet, a sailor's trull.” Etymologically, it is most likely that hooker is simply “one who hooks.” The term portrays a prostitute as a person who hooks, or snares, clients.

Who writes this stuff? Really, I'd like to know.

And the days are not full enough

And the Days Are Not Full Enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

Ezra Pound

These days my days are not full enough. And by full enough I don't mean that I have nothing to do; for here, at the end of the semester, I've definitely got plenty. Conferences with students. Papers to grade. Exams to make, to give, to grade. Meeting to attend. Proofs to read. Errands to run. Kitchens to clean, showers to take, hair to shampoo rinse and repeat.

By full enough I mean having some sort of meaning to them. Sometimes I feel like my life can just slip away (like that field mouse) if I'm not careful enough. I catch myself not paying attention to what's around me. I'm always missing steps, bumping into things, forgetting and misplacing things, but I feel like there's plenty else I've been missing in the rush.

The good thing about this detox program is that in the evenings I'm feeling calmer. I'm not coming home unable to wind down, though I am tireder (I think) than usual.

I long for this summer, and for fuller days of thinking and reading and talking with people I care about, and for travelling and hiking and all sort of other filling things. But I also long for balance, and for the ability to make more of my moments not wasted. I want to live more deliberately, consciously. Somehow.

poetrymonth

addiction

I gave up coffee (and caffeine) in favor of baby-making this weekend. Over the weekend, it wasn't so hard. This afternoon... oh, mannnnnnnnnnnnnn I've got cravings! Headache coming on. Soooo soooo sleepy. Can't concentrate. Will sugar help? Let's find out.

weekendend

it's not been sooo long, but it feels like it's been ages since I wrote last. Busy week. After than depressing Tuesday, things looked up and down and up again a bit. Highlight of the week was a tornado warning during a class I was teaching. Some burly administrator came nearly running into my classroom, where some students had just finished a presentation, told us to get us to the basement. We went and talked some more Shakespeare there, huddled together on comfy couches & a less comfy floor. When the warning passed, another admin person came by and told us we could go back upstairs, but we stayed instead. It wasn't the most spectacular class ever, but it was fun. I like these students.

The weather has turned cold again, but at least there's no snow. p. & i have had a good weekend together. Saw The Interpreter last night. The story's not great, but Sean Penn is pretty amazing. Without saying a word, he can reveal such depth. His face.... so expressive. Wow.

Spent a lot of time looking at P's face too, this weekend, from closeup. My nose as reflected in his eyes looks HUGE.

thin skin

I have a student who sits in my afternoon class with a blank & angry stare most of the time. Sometimes she seems to be rolling her eyes. Is it me?

I've had a hard time getting this group of students to read, as I've said plenty of times already, and have finally dealt with it by pretending that everyone's read and breaking them into groups to answer some questions for discussion as that will force them to engage with the text on their own at least a little. This student, to her credit, is one who often reads, but she definitely doesn't seem to like me and her sighs and eyerolls bother me far more than they should. I'd like to sigh and roll my eyes at this class sometimes, too, but I've tried to muster up as much enthusiasm as I can just to get us through the end of it.

I need a thicker skin.

Last semester I had a student who exhibited similar body language when she came to class-- but at the end of the semester she wrote a very nice evalution for me (which I could identify because of her distinctive handwriting). Lesson should be-- can't always trust appearances. But the lesson I really need to learn is that it doesn't matter, they don't have to like me.

I wonder sometimes if I'm really cut out for this job. I dread the 75 minute class periods I have to teach every Tuesday and Thursday, and am even more wary of this compressed summer course I'm teaching for 4 hours daily (pre-travel). I do okay in shorter intervals, but being on-the-spot is still a very stressful experience for me. I love listening to people and learning about them. I've often felt very humbled reading papers for freshman comp of all things because of the details of their lives my students have chosen to share with me. I like watching them develop as thinkers. But I want them to like me, too, and that's a problem.

I think part of this stems from the total lack of friendships in this new place. I have some acquaintances at work, but none that I hang out with outside of work. I have P., I have some long distance friends, but in large part the students have turned into a primary source of emotional validation or stress. And that doesn't sound so healthy.

Punks. If they're not reading and we have poor discussions, it's not my fault, is it? So why do I feel so responsible?

blossoms

A student introduced me to this poet, who, she claims, is one of the best young poets alive today.

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bit into
the round jubilance of a peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

This poem comes from a splendid anthology called Staying Alive, which I picked up before a long plane trip once.

It is spring. I was sad when the magnolia blossoms (the first blooms of spring here) began falling from the trees and leaving naked branches in their stead... but then tiny green leaves started appearing on the trees, and white and pink and yellow and glorious deep purple came out on others. And then our yard broke out in an epidemic of wildflowers-- violets and whites and pale blues and yellows. I'd never seen anything like it. But then the neighbors started mowing their lawns. And then P. started getting antsy to mow ours...

I put him off for a week, saying, please, please, let it along a little longer, you're going to destroy all those flowers! This weekend when the mower came out, I took my camera outside and took photographs, and lay among those blooms and inhaled their scent and felt sad that they were going....

... but they didn't go. Although there are fewer blossoms than there were before, the white and the purple and the yellow blooms are still there, peaking up through the grass. And yet another tree has opened up its buds to spill forth blossoms.

O, I love this spring!

when i die

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

(Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself")

Some years ago, back when I was with C., a phone call came in the night. His grandmother had died. She'd been quite sick for a while. C's parents had been taking care of her, at home, and she'd finally passed away. They held a memorial service for her in the summer. It was the most beautiful thing of its sort I've ever been to. No priest and no body (she'd already been cremated), just all her family and friends, gathered in a white tent in her backyard, sharing memories. A string quartet played (she'd known the violinist, who once gave lessons to C.). She seems to have been an extraordinary woman. She was an avid birdwatcher. She took walks (in the mountains of Pennsylvania). She kept journals. She knew everyone. After her husband died, she took a bunch of classes at the college where C's father (her son) taught. One of the classes was an American poetry class. She loved Whitman.

In her last days, C's mother was spending a lot of time at her house. She'd read to her. Just days before her death, they finished Leaves of Grass. C's mother read this poem (an excerpt from "Song of Myself") at the memorial service. It's the most beautiful send-off I can imagine.

poetrymonth

clay and taxes

The Potter
(Pablo Neruda)

Your whole body has
a fullness or a gentleness destined for me.

When I move my hand up
I find in each place a dove
that was seeking me, as
if they had, love, made you of clay
for my own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing parts of me like the hollow
of a thirsty earth
from which they broke off
a form,
and together
we are complete like a single river,
like a single grain of sand.

poetrymonth

In the summer after my second or third year of graduate school, I signed up for a ceramics course at the university. We did a lot of handbuilding, but were briefly introduced to the potter's wheel, too. Since this was a summer course, I was spending hours and hours in the studio every day. The textures of clay became very familiar to me, and during the weeks we were working on wheels, I could see the swirling clay bottom of a cyllinder every time I closed my eyes. It was a magical experience, one that maintained quite a grip on my sensory life. My sense of touch became strangely hightened, and in the dark with my lover that summer, I saw and felt things differently than I ever had before. Skin became clay in my hands, I myself was claylike in his.

That summer, I rode my bicycle for a mile or so to the ceramices studio every day, and C. rode with me there in the early morning. One day the seat on my bicycle came loose on the way. By the time I got there, it was totally hanging off. When I left the studio that afternoon I found that the seat had been tightened. C. had ridden home and back with a screwdriver and fixed things while I worked.

He was always fixing things for me.

I messed up that beautiful relationship. C. is engaged now, and marries (I think) next month. I wish I knew more about how he's doing.

I'm very lucky to have found a good things with P., who is currently trying to pay our taxes online. It was P. who made me love Neruda and Garcia Lorca and Miguel Hernandez and all sorts of other poets I'd never have met otherwise. It is P. whose body I fall asleep next to at night, and P. whose hands.... well, do magical things. After a day such as this, though, even his paying of taxes is a terribly romantic and beautiful thing.




winging it?

When I started teaching, I was spending on average of 3-5 hours preparing for each class I taught. If that sounds insane to you, it should. These were new preps, but I guess the excessive time spent had more to do with my own lack of confidence.

Today I felt like I was winging it, but things went fine.... and then I realized that no, actually I spent4 hours preparing for the 3 classes (2 preps) I had to teach this morning and afternoon. I was going to say "good for me!I didn't spend too much time prepping today"-- but then I remembered that I spent a bit of time last night preparing, too, which bumps up my hours of preparation to at least 6 (sigh). So that means I've spent nine hours preparing for and teaching today's classes. No wonder I have no life. No wonder it's felt so hard this week to get everything done-- the teaching + the committe work + cooking dinner + half-hearted efforts at cleaning + an occasional shower.

Please, please, let next year be easier.

SupposedlyI need to be doing some research, too, if I want this to turn into a tenure-track position and/or if I want to go on the market again next year. The good news is that I have proofs for my first article (submitted over a year ago) coming my way. I'm nervous about it, want to slip more revisions into it, but I'm not sure if that's kosher at this point. The bad news is that one article's not enough to boost my chances of finding a job somewhere near P. next fall--wherever that may be.

Oh, sweet summer, come.

rescue me, part ii.

because this part of what i want to say is too ugly and inarticulate to put in the same post as a seamus heaney poem.

I had a conversation today that's completely caused me to rethink what it is I'm doing here at ______ college and whether or not I do fit in and/or should stay. Of course the conversation comes after I've already shut the door for another possible job opportunity for next year (at bigger state school in another state).

Even posting about it feels a bit dangerous. Maybe I'll wimp out (wise up?) and delete it, but right now I'm still trying to process things and it feels good to write.

This afternoon I had coffee with Dr. Feminist Outspoken, who is leaving _____ college and moving on to a better (and better paid and better located) job next year. The conversation disturbed me in ways I can't quite make sense of yet...

Except for on small incident which I thought I was blowing out of proportion, I've felt nothing but good things from my department. They are collegial, they are progressive, they are down-to-earth. For the most part, they also seem to not like Dr. Outspoken too much. Okay, that's a huge understatement. Several of them roll their eyes at her in department meetings.

Dr. Outspoken tells me (over coffee in a public place with students and staff and who knows who else milling back and forth) that many if not all of the problems at _______college stem from sexism, that sexism is the reason our deparment has only one other tenured female. She tells me that Dr. Respectable (male) is actually the devil incarnate, that Dr. Other Tenured Female drinks too much and that... many more other things that I'm not supposed to know. Her comments make me rethink a comment made towards me by Dr. Respectable in a recent deparment meeting that somewhat embarrassed me in front of everyone, and they also make me feel a lot less secure about my job and prospects and ___ college than I did before.

Listening to all of this was rather unnerving, especially since, were her remarks overheard by the wrong people, I could be associated with those comments. I know I should take those comments with salt, too, but they did give me what I'm sure is a valuable glance at the dark underside of our department and college culture in general.

I imagine this is normal for most new profs, but ever since I arrived at ___ college, I've known that there's plenty about what goes on and what has gone on here that I don't know. I can sense certain rivalries between a few faculty folk, I've known the college has had some troubles in the past, but everybody does seem to put on a good show for the new folk. They don't talk about the bad times. You might see this as optimism, as commitment to move forward, but the not-talking about distasteful things also doesn't quite feel so good.

I've been curious, and now I know far more than I should. But balancing these comments against what I'm getting elsewhere... ? whew. It's all too confusing right now.

I'm sure I can't be making much sense, but hope/imagine the scenario might be familiar to someone out there. I'm not sure what else to write. I can't even formulate an intelligent question to ask. All I can say is... Wow.

rescue me

a short one today:

The Rescue
(Seamus Heaney)

In drifts of sleep I came upon you
Buried to your waist in snow.
You reached your arms out: I came to
Like water in a dream of thaw.

mysterious penguin dreaming

Today's poem, for a day I'd really rather be dreaming away.

In praise of dreams
(Wislawa Szymborska)

In my dreams
I paint like Vermeer van Delft.

I speak fluent Greek
and not just with the living.

I drive a car
that does what I want it to.

I am gifted
and write mighty epics.

I hear voices
as clearly as any venerable saint.

My brilliance as a pianist
would stun you.

I fly the way we ought to,
i.e., on my own.

Falling from the roof,
I tumble gently to the grass.

I've got no problem
breathing under water.

I can't complain:
I've been able to locate Atlantis.

It's gratifying that I can always
wake up before dying.

As soon as war breaks out,
I roll over on my other side.

I'm a child of my age,
but I don't have to be.

A few years ago
I saw two suns.

And the night before last a penguin,
clear as day.

I've always thought this poem would be great to teach in an undergrad poetry workshop (or a poetry class in general, as it provides a form that might be easily played with/imitated (like Wallace Stevens' famous "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" poem). And I love hearing about other people's dreams.

A friend who's now become a fabulous neuroscientist (and who also writes great poetry) introduced me to Jung's notion that in dreams, the rooms in a house represent different parts of your unconscious. I'd been dreaming about houses, with attics and basements, and dark narrow passageways through and around them.

Years later I went through a phase in which I was having a lot of intense and sometimes troubling dreams. My lover at the time gave me a book on interpreting dreams for my birthday. I loved the inscription: "Just in case you dream of something besides me." But it was very ominous book, and quite sexist, too, with different interpretations given for some unnamed (I suppose male) person and for "a young woman." I had to stop using it to analyze my own dreams for a while because it was quite distrubing. I was so hoping there would be an entry for "penguin," that I could write about, but sadly, there isn't. But here's the entry for "lizard" (to give you just a taste):

To dream of lizards, foretells attacks upon you by enemies.
If you kill a lizard, you will regain your lost reputation or fortune; but if it should escape, you will meet vexations and crosses in love and business.
For a woman to dream that a lizard crawls up her skirt, or scratches her, she will have much misfortune and sorrow. Her husband will be a victim to invalidism and she will be left a widow, and little sustenance will be eked out by her own labors.

Yikes. Guard yourselves against lizard-dreams. Especially you ladies.

poetrymonth

more poems... because it's addictive

This evening I bring you two poems by the fabulous Lucille Clifton. The first, a response to the Sharon Olds poem posted on jo(e)'s page, here. The second, for all you historians out there. (I'm starting to sound like a dj [deejay?], no? But if it's poetry & not discs I offer, perhaps a pj is a better word for it?)

I was inspired to collect African American women's poetry some years ago while prepping to teach an intro to poetry class. That's one class (and this is one poet) I'd love to teach again.

Poem in praise of menstruation

if there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon if
there is a river
more faithful than this
returning each month
to the same delta if there

is a river
braver than this
coming and coming in a surge
of passion, of pain if there is

a river
more ancient than this
daughter of eve
mother of cain and of abel if there is in

the universe such a river if
there is some where water
more powerful than this wild
water

pray that it flows also
through animals
beautiful and faithful and ancient
and female and brave

i am accused of tending to the past

i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother's itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.

poetry Rx: There are other poems of Lucille's here. I recommend the Lorena Bobbit poem & the Clark Kent series, especially if you're looking to put a little spunk back into your step.

poetrymonth

pretty how town

I was going to post this e.e. cummings poem for sunday, but then I found it here. So here's another one instead. You should read this one aloud.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

I love the rhythm of this one, and also the uses of anyone, noone, someones. This poem also triggers a memory from my childhood: When I was learning to read, everytime I came across the word "nowhere," I would read it (aloud, sometimes, in reading group) as "now here." I remember being disappointed when my teacher corrected me with "no where" and couldn't understand why the word couldn't be what I'd thought it was, too.

And this: In first grade, to demonstrate that I should go to second or third grade for reading lessons, my teacher wrote a short passage of about five lines or so on the chalk board and had me read it aloud to another teacher. It was a silly passage about the antics of some "pet." I was a good reader, but every time I came upon the word "pet," I would read "cat" in its place. No one writes a story about a "pet," I thought. Good writers will be far more precise-- it matters if the pet is a cat or a dog or a mouse or an iguana. The teacher tried to appease me by adding this sentence to the end of the passage: "The pet was a cat." It didn't work. They bumped me up a grade, anyway.


poetrymonth

advice?

I have a hunch some of you out there teach first-year composition, too. If any one has recommendations for textbooks (or "real books"), I'd love to read them.

amazing

In the very moments I was typing out the marigold poem for you, P., sweet P., was typing out the very same poem in Spanish on his blog, here. He carries his laptop to the bathroom with him (where he seems to do some of his best thinking), and when he came out, he caught me having just clicked the "publish" button. Check out the time stamps. We posted in the very same minute.

Last night we spent some time reading poems to each other (it's happened before, and it's one of my favorite things). He read Garcia Lorca, and since Williams seemed to match the tone, I read to him the marigold poem. And it seems those images stayed with both of us.

There are always moments of wonder like these with P., moments that make me aware of how much more deeply connected we are than I'm often aware of.

There's something about that poem... the first time I encountered it, it was read aloud to me, too. I can't remember all the details of the circumstance-- I think what happened was this: Zack and Roxanne (two people I adore) had come to visit me my first or second year in graduate school. We visited a used bookstore together, and I think we all came back with books. Picture from Breughel was mine. Somehow we wound up passing around books of poetry and reading to each other. Zack found the marigold poem. Bless him wherever he is.

The three of us had taken a poetry-writing class together in college. The class met in the evening, and it was always dark when we left. I remember walking out of class into the cool spring nights with them, looking up at the moon, filled with poetry and love for them and every other person in the class, and for Professor A., whom one would never suspect of being able to teach a poetry workshop in such a way as that. It was beautiful to me that, long after the class, the three of us would be reading poems to each other. It's similarly beautiful to me, that years and years after that, I still have someone to read and listen to poems with.

I don't want poetry month to end.

poem for spring...

and for YelloCello, who liked the plum poem:


A Negro Woman (William Carlos Williams)

carrying a bunch of marigolds
wrapped
in an old newspaper:
She carries them upright,
bareheaded,
the bulk
of her thighs
causing her to waddle
as she walks
looking into
the store window which she passes
on her way.
What is she
but an ambassador
from another world
a world of pretty marigolds
of two shades
which she announces
not knowing what she does
other
than walk the streets
holding the flowers upright
as a torch
so early in the morning.


Unfortunately Blogger won't let me reproduce the poem exactly the way it looks on the page, with the lines undulating in a back and forth movement.... they seem to be walking, each line a new footstep or few...

but you can still get a sence (or rather sense, since, scents) of it, and of why Williams is so often called an "imagist" poet, too.,





Marigolds for everyone! Happy spring.

poetrymonth

another poetry post

This poem is for jo(e), and for her own recent and marvellous post about a monastery:

The annals say: when the monks of Clonmacnoise
Were all at prayers inside the oratory
A ship appeared above them in the air.

The anchor dragged along behind so deep
It hooked itself into the altar rails
And then, as the big hull rocked to a standstill,

A crewman shinned and grappled down the rope
And struggled to release it. But in vain.
'This man can't bear our life here and will drown,'

The abbot said, 'unless we help him.' So
They did, the freed ship sailed, and the man climbed back
Out of the marvellous as he had known it.

(From Seamus Heaney's Seeing Things)

I have seen the ship, the monks, the abbot, and the sailor drag their anchors, say their prayers, and climb their ropes a thousand times in my head.

poetrymonth

confession

So inspired am I by National Poetry month, I've got 3 more poems saved in draft form to post tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Can't get enough of everyone else's poems, either. Thank you.

national poetry month, part ii.

mystery post-it note attached to my office door this a.m. :

I need to speak with
you about a class
in the next day or
two.

Stanley Fish (in an essay "Is there a Text in this Class?") once described a reading list he'd left up on the board from a previous class that looked like this:

Jacobs-Rosenbaum
Levin
Thorne
Hayes
Ohman (?)

He told his following class of seventeenth-century poetry students that this was a religious poem, and asked them to explicate it as such. They did. I like the idea of getting students to play with language, though something about Fish's excercise (something I can't quite put my finger on) bugs the hell out of me and reminds me too much of fellow graduate students who waved around names like Derrida as if they were magical keys that could unlock the meaning (or non-meaning) of everything. Maybe it's the names themselves (with maybe the exception perhaps of "Ohman (?)" that I find distinctly unpoetic.

The mystery student's note is much more to my taste. The hesitancy of those first and third line breaks, as if the student isn't quite sure of who he needs to speak with or when or how urgent his need is. The student is no poet, but those lines make me think of the doctor William Carlos Williams' scribbling poems onto his prescription pads. [I love the idea of a poem as a prescription. It's lovely how just the few I read in your blogs the other day uplifted my spirits. I don't know if this has ever happened, but I love imagining a physician handing a poem to a weary patient. "You'll be fine. Read this and come back in a week."]

I didn't understand or even like WCW until I took a creative writing (poetry) class in college. I couldn't figure out what that red wheel barrow poem was doing in every poetry anthology around. I couldn't appreciate the elegance. And then there was this one (which I like much better):

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

A note dashed off by a husband to a wife, perhaps. But what's the tone here? It sounds so playful to me, so mischievous. In class, the poem inspired more conversation than I ever thought possible. I started to see just how deliberate those breaks were, how much the breaks themselves could communicate. We practiced using them in poems of our own, experimenting with how else those breaks can convey meaning or tone:

We appreciate
your interest
We are unable to
include you

We were forced
to be extremely
selective

Thank you
for allowing us
to pursue your
credentials

Please accept our
best wishes
for the future

This "poem" seems to be sneering. The words are conventional, but there's still some fun being had. And unlike Williams' poem in which perhaps a joke is being shared between lovers, here it's at the addressee's expense. Putting the word "credentials" on a line by itself seems to convey exactly what the hiring committee might think of the rejected applicant. It's the tone I heard in my head when reading the numerous rejection letters (for grad schools, for jobs) I've received up to this point. Oh, sure, most of them seem nice enough, and some are even apologetic, but the perceived meaning "you're not good enough for us" was still there. I know better, now, how random the search process is, how much regret our committee really does seem to have that we can't hire or even interview more... but I digress.

I guess what I'm trying to say is... it's national poetrymonth. That's all.

in honor of National Poetry month

How uplifting to find this new meme out there.

I adore this one:

Halley's Comet
(Kenneth Rexroth)

When in your middle years
The great comet comes again
Remember me, a child,
Awake in the summer night,
Standing in my crib and
Watching that long-haired star
So many years ago.
Go out in the dark and see
Its plume over water
Dribbling on the liquid night,
And think that life and glory
Flickered on the rushing
Bloodstream for me once, and for
All who have gone before me,
Vessels of the billion-year-long
River that flows now in your veins.


poetrymonth

Nothing comes of nothing. Speak again.

It's a terrible feeling, having nothing to say. Work is sucking the life out of me again, and even though things are going okay, I fear I've become terribly boring.

Our department is hosting campus visits this week and next. I'm one of the first to meet the candidates; am picking both up from hotels and taking to dinner the night before their job talks and full day of interviews. I'm curious about them, especially the woman. But I'm done caring about how many publications they have or what they can teach. I wonder about their senses of humor, the way they talk, what their non-academic interests are. I find myself longing to meet (for us to hire) someone I might hang out with. I even worry, "will they like me?" How pathetic is that? Were I in a bigger town I might sign up for yoga classes or dance lessons or aerobics or a book club or a knitting circle or anything that might involve meeting new people. But in this small factory town, you'd be hard pressed to find any of those things....

So I go to work, I come home, I talk to P. and play with the cats and go to bed and wake up and do it all over again. And in between I read all sorts of far more interesting blogs & look at very cute pictures of other people's kids and feel encouraged and lonely at the same time.

What's wrong with me?

update

For all the cursing I did about having committed myself to organize a panel with students and present a paper at this conference, it was actually quite quite fun. I finished writing my paper after 1 am this morning and did some more revisions on it when I woke up at 6. Met my students, drove them to the conference, ran a red light along the way and endured much teasing about it. We got seven or eight people in the audience which was more than I was expecting. The students shined-- they came across as the brilliant, brilliant young women that they are, both in their delivery and in their responses to questions and comments from the floor. Folks in the audience were impressed and said so. One suggested these undergrad essays could compete with those of some of her graduate students. I beamed. The students had a good time and received what I think is some helpful external validation on their writing, and they said nice things about me and my teaching. They said my class changed the way they think about lit. and (in a few cases) their own future teaching careers. This was so worth it.

And I have no idea how I did this on so little sleep, but somehow I managed to have a pretty darn good Shakespeare class this afternoon, too.

It's been a good day.

still writing. less fine-ish.

O, grumble grumble grumble.

last minute paper writing... and I feel fine (ish)

I tell my students not to do it, and yet here I am. Up this morning trying to write a conference paper for a panel presentation I'm giving tomorrow morning (!). Finding time to write this thing had been nearly impossible. I stay so busy during the weeks I'm teaching, and find myself so burnt out and exhausted during the weekend I'm able to do fairly little. I graded a lot over break, but also slacked off quite a bit, so got no work done on the paper. Every day this week has been a constant rush of trying to finish things up. Search committee stuff. Grading stuff. All manner of little things that seem to have piled up.

This may all change, but this morning I'm feeling pretty non-plussed about the paper. It is a panel on teaching, after all, and as I started taking some notes from my sources and filling in a few other ideas, I realize how much I already have to talk about. I only need to speak for 10 minutes, formally. I do that all the time, don't I? I've drafted short lectures to give to students in far less time than 24 hours.

So all I need to do is say a few things about other approaches for teaching what I taught, give a few choice reasons why many folks hesitate to do what I did, and then just describe the class's progression and insert a few choice anecdotes along the way. The students I'm brining with me (to present their final papers from the class) will do the rest. And I feel perfectly fine moderating the conversation we hope will ensue afterwards.

I really need to chill out about all of this. The stress level I've been experiencing this week (ha! all semester, all year, really!) is just insane. The stress at trying to make myself useful so I'd still have a job next year (my position was officially just a one-year job) led me to take on FAR too many other things I probably didn't need to: volunteering for all sorts of committees, judging a contest, helping out in honors interviews, giving presentations at festivals, deciding I must go to this conference (since it's local) and take students, etc., etc. I got my contract (for next year) yesterday, but I think all my panic was very unwarranted. I'm still up to my neck in teaching and all the additional things I've volunteered to take on. I have a hard time hearing myself think... but that's exactly what I need to get back to now.

Whoo. Self pep-talk and venting over. Back to work, z., you slacker.

search committee blues

It's strange being on the other side of this whole process, having the fate of so many hopeful and highly educated, fine, fine people in your hands.

We narrowed our applications down to 5 today. The process seems so very random to me. Some not strong applicants are getting phone calls just because they can teach a specific course we want someone to teach. Some amazingly gifted scholars and teachers are getting passed over because their case for being able to teach the classes we need is a teeny bit weaker. The job market sucks. I feel for these people.

And then there's the question of whether any of these people are still available or if they'll even want to come here once they hear about how lousy the salary is. (Another assistant prof. in my department is having a hard time paying her monthly bills!)

And now I'm wonder what the committee was saying about me last year. Yikes.