Naomi Shihab Nye

In light of recent attacks and some ridiculous idea from politicians to only accept refugees who are Christian (My God, do we not remember turning the Jews away during WWII?), I thought I'd share this comforting piece. 

Many thanks to David Kanigan for reminding me of this gem. 


Gate A-4 By Naomi Shihab Nye:

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well— one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her . What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, shu-bid-uck, habibti? Stani schway, min fadlick, shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late, who is picking you up? Let’s call him.”

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies— little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts— from her bag and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single traveler declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo— we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

Then the airline broke out free apple juice and two little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend— by now we were holding hands— had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate— once the crying of confusion stopped— seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

Assignment- Past, Present, and Future

Apropos of nothing, I thought I'd share an assignment I came up with for my honors college course. It's called "Adaptation in a Changing World" and uses an integrated approach to learning that also encourages reflective and creative thinking and combines it with developing research skills. So I thought I'd share it too. I think my students will like it. What are your thoughts?

Past, Present, and Future

DHC 270 Integrated Learning 

Research Assignment 

Adaptation in a Changing World

This research paper takes an integrated approach to predicting the future of a given field of study or work. 

Take for instance the field of aerospace engineering (also see “rocket science”).  

Introduction: You might look up some background and context for the field, and think of definitions related to this field.  You do not need to justify your interest in this field; your choice to research it is justification enough. In aerospace engineering, you’d look up terms like astrodynamics, electrotechnology, materials science, aircraft structural and design, avionics, software, and fluid mechanics. Maybe you’d like to see what sorts of jobs are available in this field. Narrow this a bit- instead of aircraft and spacecraft, think just of one field- spacecraft (because why not?)

Next, think of the history of your field. You should be creative here. For example, in aerospace engineering, there is a raft of history, cultural significance, and research; so much so that you’d have to pi ck and choose. I personally would begin with thoughts of Galileo, and Copernicus, then move to mythology and stargazing (astronomy? astrology?!) and flow into speculative fiction, such as the works of Philip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clark, Isaac Asimov, and Harlan Ellison. While I’m at it, I’d swing by the original Star Trek television show by Gene Roddenberry. 

This is not fancy, however, as art and speculation often prompt real world development. Think of the communicators from Star Trek, as seen below left. 

Visual elements are encouraged. 

Dr. Martin Cooper, who invented the first handheld mobile phone, credits the Star Trek communicators for his inspiration. Flip phone, anyone? Imagination and creativity are what spark innovation. Negative outcomes are still valuable outcomes. Do keep that in mind. 

There should be a point in your paper in which you describe the general trajectory of your chosen field. For instance, in aerospace engineering, they have gone from myth to speculation to steps towards space flight to actual space flight, landing on the moon and landing a rover on Mars. 

Then the paper gets fun. You’ll need to do some speculation of your own. You may consult the stars (not really), but perhaps your paper would be better served with primary and secondary research. Your speculation may take the form of where this particular branch is heading- in our example, I would consider space tourism, a colony on the moon, the likelihood of a manned space flight to Mars, and exploration outside of our solar system. This won’t happen in our lifetimes, but perhaps we can imagine what will take place eventually.  Incidentally, I recommend a book called “The Martian”, by Andy Weir. It’s speculative, as scientifically accurate as possible, and comments on the human condition, even when someone is stranded on Mars alone and far from home. 

In the conclusion, you might imagine your place in this field. My place in this field is to encourage others to follow their dreams and shoot for the stars. If my life were arranged differently, I might have been an astronaut. 

There is no minimum page count, though you may not exceed 15 pages not including the works cited.  Use MLA format and make sure you conform to the conventions of research and writing. 

Finals

It's that time again- finals week.
For some it's just the end of the quarter. For others it's make it or break it time. For a lot of professors this is a sort of blow-off week. I say this because I have seen a trend over the last five years. That's to say that the final exam isn't used to demonstrate the knowledge one has accumulated over the course of the allotted tim as often as when I was an undergrad.

Maybe this is one of those "when I was a young sprout" stories. Really, I did like it at the end of the semester we had a big test. I'd study my head off and get a great grade.  It was affirming, like a pat on the back and an 'atta girl'. But really, from a curriculum standpoint, a cumulative final exam can help students review what they know and help them to relate that new knowledge to other knowledge so it has a greater chance of sticking.

But teachers in some places, with far too many adjuncts, have a hard time investing themselves for a longer run. A favorite strategy in the English department is to give a take-home final and not even meet the day of the exam. The mandate rule is that you have to meet with your class and engage in meaningful activities for the final exam. But given the pay, the hours, and the lack of oversight, is it really a surprise that sometimes teachers give a final that can be turned in online and be done with it? You can get an extra few days of vacation and planning time that way. It's tempting.

Today I gave the second of three comprehensive finals. It took my class, on average, about 2.5 hours to thoroughly complete and it's mentally taxing. Their hands were tired from writing. I handed out gum and owl stickers to lighten their moods, played classical music, and reminded them every hour to stretch and look around to avoid eye strain. One of my online friends asked why I would do such a thing.  It's a good question. But I promise the answer is not that I enjoy twisting a knife and making my students uncomfortable.

Have you ever done something hard and found out you had more in reserve than you thought? A lot of times our curriculums do not challenge students enough.  When they walked out of that classroom, there was no doubt in their minds that they can write well enough to find success in college. 

This is not the only goal in my teaching life, but it's an important part of why I do what I do.

Now to go grade all the things. Finals is exhausting for more than just the students.

Keeping Quiet

It's the end of the quarter, thank goodness.

I am tired!  We have finals this week so I've been grading. I'm about halfway done. I'm doing some of it from home; we ordered a new bed and it's coming in two pieces. The first arrived on Monday; the second was delivered just an hour ago.  There are a million things going on. I'm trying to wrap and send gifts and do these other things. G is Amazoning his eyeballs out.  He's really adept at online shopping whereas I am still a novice.  And we work out every weekday. Eleanor isn't feeling well so we both are keeping an extra eye on her- she goes to the veterinarian on Friday for more bloodwork.  Poor kitty.

So I'm tired and busy and stressed. Sometimes I feel like I need a time out.

I will really miss my English 250 class. There are only 11 students, and we've become quite the close-knit group.  We talked this morning, I gave back some papers and then I talked about how we never have time - never make time- to just sit and be quiet for awhile.  As you can see, that applies to me too.  Our phones were buzzing and ringing and everyone turned theirs down.  I dimmed the lights and asked everyone, including my writing tutor and co-teacher, to put their heads on the desk. That's probably not something they've done since 5th grade.  Then I read them a poem by Pablo Neruda called "Keeping Quiet".  Here it is:

Keeping Quiet
by Pablo Neruda. (trans. Alastair Reid.)

And now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still. 

For once on the face of the earth
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much. 

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness. 

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands. 

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing. 

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about,
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death. 

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive. 

Now I'll count up to twelve,
and you keep quiet and I will go.

Afterwards, I left them in silence in the darkened room for maybe 3 minutes.  Nobody seemed to need to move. Nobody shifted or surreptitiously packed their bags.  Just quiet and friends and a few moments to ourselves as a group.  I was pretty touched.  We all hugged each other on the way out the door.  No doubt we will see each other again, but not in this way, not in this context.  

Here's hoping you have a few quiet moments of your own. 

Thank You For Sharing

I have published this elsewhere, but thought I'd share it on my blog for a wider audience.  I wrote it a little over a month ago.

I took a group of students on a field trip today. It’s fun when you can take college sophomores and juniors on a trip. They appreciate it so much and seem to take pleasure in the idea that as far as their youth is concerned, one or two more field trips for the purpose of education can still be in the cards.  I love it.

We went to a wind farm, up to the education center.  Had a tour, viewed the Ed Center and ate some lunch.  Then we got to go to a turbine and even go inside.  It kicked ass.  It was cold, but not as cold as I had expected.  It was heavy jacket weather. Lunch was catered and as they were paninis, I took along a panini grill and cooked for everyone.  It was a nice way to serve my students. They are an affable group, interested in knowledge and silliness and learning to write better.

We took several opportunities to stop and write in the moment.  The urgency and energy of writing when you’re there is one which comes across authentically later, is detectable months after the writing and activity are over.  Of course, we have to share, warts and all.  There’s something I always ask my students to do when they share their writing together.  At the end of the reading- out loud, of course- I ask them to simply say “Thank You For Sharing.”

I do this for several reasons. The most obvious is affirmation that someone took an emotional risk and shared their writing and a part of their soul with another.  To be vulnerable takes trust, to build trust takes risk and affirmation.

I have another reason, and her name is Diane.

Dr. Diane Holt- Reynolds to be exact. It hurts a little to say her name.

I met Dr. Holt-Reynolds in the Fall of 2002 as I was beginning a master’s program in English Education and she became my advisor.  I’d never been to graduate school before. I had no idea what to expect. No preconceived notions, nothing. Nobody I knew had ever been to graduate school. Nobody I knew did these sorts of things. That’s why I needed a mentor.  She was a calm soul, one I always picture by the ocean, clear blue skies and thin white clouds in the background and happy waves dancing at her feet. She had short, dark, curly hair and mischievous eyes, and a smile that put people at ease. My first class with her and a bunch of other first year students began with a bit of arrogance.  How hard could it be to learn to teach English? I already knew the stuff, right?

Heh.  Diane said “Let’s just close the door and admit that we don’t know everything about grammar.”  Yeah right. I did an internal eye roll.  Then she gave us a test. Every single student failed. Except for one guy- and the rest of us decided right away that we didn’t like him. Then she taught us to teach grammar. I wanted to be like her- a gentle soul bent on helping others be better at what they do.

It took me three weeks to realize that she was left-handed because her right hand didn’t exist.  She had had a prosthetic hand since she was a kid; her right arm developed to the elbow but that was it.  It did not seem to impede her in any way and my admiration for her grew even more. We went on writing marathons and Writing Project outings and conferences.  Everyone knew Diane and liked her immensely.  When we shared our writing, she asked us to say “Thank you, for sharing.”  So we did. No explanation, just a request.  One did not wonder why.

At the same time, I was in the throes of a nasty divorce and suddenly needed a job.  I might have to drop out to find work but I didn’t want to leave my program. She gave me a graduate assistantship and I worked for her for six months until she died.

Diane had a recurrence of ovarian cancer. It came on fast and hit hard.  I went to doctors and hospitals with her and a cadre of concerned friends. They shaved her legs and we brought cake and drew funny chicken pictures on blown up hospital gloves.  She did her best to help people around her.

One day she asked that I call the Social Security office for her.  I gave her ID number and they asked why I called.  ”Ovarian Cancer”, she said. I repeated it.

“What stage?” I relayed the question.

“Stage four.” I told the disembodied voice on the other end.  She drew in her breath.

“Terminal, then.”  I drew in a quick breath myself.  That’s when I realized she was going to die.  And there was nothing I could do. She opened her library to me and I selected a few books. She insisted I take “A Perfect Storm”, so I did. Couldn’t bring myself to read it.

And I couldn’t, and she did. But I did attend her memorial, with chocolate cake (and chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles) and strong coffee. After losing the ability to digest food, and between the delirium of morphine and the agony of cancer spreading unchecked through her body, Diane advised me to find the joy in all I do and to never eat a meal unattended. Before she died, the department established a scholarship in her name and she was thrilled.  I was the first recipient, and perhaps the proudest. I finished my master’s, taught for awhile, finished a doctorate and here I am.

Today, eleven years later, in bright sunshine of a visitor’s center, amidst two stories of clean glass, roaring wind and the bright faces of students and colleagues, we prodded our imaginations and wrote our stories.  My students took that risk with me, to write something authentic and to show that vulnerable side of themselves, and in the echo of their words I can almost hear her voice and the waves of the ocean.

My Finest!

When I first entered grad school, I met my friend Janis.  She was the co-director of the Oklahoma Writing Project, a National Writing Project site and a place where teachers teach other teachers to teach writing.  It's an amazing, wonderful and awesome organization, filled with thoughtful teachers, mentors and now, my friends.
We even went to Nashville, Tennessee together to the National Council of the Teachers of English (NCTE) annual meeting.  It was wonderful.  Janis and I and our other friend Shelly stuck together like glue and decided to go on a writing marathon one afternoon.  What a hoot that Janis got a tattoo that day! Would you like to know where it is? Because we hung out in a dusty old bar called "Tootsies" and wound up picking out tats together.  I got mine about a year later, but Janis is a trooper and got hers  on the spot. Shelly, well, she's a little more of a shy-away-from-bodyart sorta girl. That's good too. I was the "not today" girl.

And wouldn't you know it? Janis wrote a book. And in that book is a story called "You Go First"- featuring Janis, Shelly and yours truly.

Shelly and Elvis

Shelly and Janis

I think I might've taken that picture too

Janis asked her friends to write a review of "My Finest" and post it to Amazon.  Since I bought the book on Kindle and had already read it, I wrote a review. 

Damned if she didn't use it for the back cover.  

And there it is- a book review by a crazy redhead Wild Okie! 

She even sent me an inscribed copy.

And she signed it too! 

You can get your very own copy of her book at Amazon by clicking here. 

A Good Day To-

Today I got my copy of Oklahoma English Journal in the mail. I have a new article in it on five books on teaching writing that I cannot do without. It came from a class I taught last quarter, a graduate seminar on composition theory. 

My friend Robin Murphy has another featured article and yet another friend, Eril Hughes, added a book review.

Tomorrow, I have been invited to give a keynote address for a conference on innovation.  I heavily considered calling it "Making shit up; hoping shit doesn't blow up", but ultimately I have discarded that idea. I will find a more appropriate title.

My classes are buzzing along and I am having a terribly busy quarter.  Teaching 4 classes back to back is exhausting but also keeps me on my toes. My students deserve the best I can give them, though by Friday it's much less wine and roses and much more top ramen and generic beer.

I'm off to grade and write that speech and then to work out and have some dinner with my partner and spend some time hanging out.  Ok, I'm pretty much going to torture him all night, asking his opinion on what to wear and how to inflect this observation and the wisdom of cracking this such joke.. poor Grey.

But for me, it's a good day to just be.

Teaching Writing Theory

It's Still Cold

I am having more fun than I thought in teaching my Writing Theory class.  Great group of grad students from a mix of disciplines. Smart, listening, reading and writing and critically thinking students.  More than you could hope for. 

My friend V is going to Skype with us next week. She's going to talk about language and recorded and digitized archives and cultural property and who owns what and where these types of artifacts should be kept and curated.  It's very exciting and I'm lucky to know someone who knows a lot about language and linguistics- which are both part of teaching writing. Hopefully, the week after that, my friend K will Skype with us too.  She has unique and extremely productive methods of teaching writing to at-risk kids.  Her students have passed their end of year writing tests with an average rate of 100%.  So yeah, effective.  And fun.  Ask her sometime about "salmagundi". 

This class has been productive too.  In and around talking about chapters from the theory book, we are also discussing relevant articles from Kinneavey, Vygotsky, Csikszentmihalyi, Bruner, Parker Palmer (yay!) and one of my favorite teaching writing mentors, Baines.  Sometimes we go off-book too.  Everyone knows that this happens in seminar and that usually it's a good thing.  I'm glad my students take the initiative in this. 

Yesterday, we talked about possible topics for a research article we are writing for the class.  I wrote with my students like a good writing teacher should, and came up with several papers I'd like to write:
How can I incorporate more writing center into my classroom? What are some "out of the box" techniques I have used as a writing teacher?
How can I incorporate more visual rhetoric into my teaching of writing?
What happens when I offend my students?
What do I do when my students are underprepared for the rigors of college or writing?
How can I design an awesome curriculum to meet department objectives?
Who are my students? How do I find that out?
How much is too much to share with students?
How can I encourage more creative and engaging "flow" activities with my students?
How can I engage freshman writers?
How can I get freshmen to care about writing?
How can I get graduate students to care about teaching writing?

Good topics, right?

Yeah, my students blew those out of the water.

I won't share their topics publicly because it would feel like a betrayal, and besides, their stories are not mine to tell. 

But they are good.  Really good. 

As we discussed approaches to these topics, I realized the ten minutes I had grudgingly devoted to topic selection discussion was woefully inadequate.  Besides, these people were "in the zone", and the creativity was rather palpable in the air. Carpe Diem- we would talk about the chapters another day.

I have also noticed a spark in my own creative process.  I wrote a short article detailing my five favorite books on teaching writing and sent it off for publication.  That's pretty cool.  I feel most alive and most effective when I learn and do while teaching and doing.

It's been a good week.

Forgive Me

Lately, I have been in a writing mood.

Just not a blog post writing mood.

First it was the end of the quarter at my little college, then the end of the semester for my online teaching job.  THEN the weather got cold and snowy (yay!) and the holidays sprung themselves upon me. And I got in a baking mood.

It sucks that I'm a good baker.  I'm going to make myself, my husband and anyone else I've been sending yummy treats to as fat as a tick.  Yep.

I have decided to not write about gun control or the massacre in Newton, Ct, or about mental illness for now.  Too many want to make a profit from the media attention given to tragedy.  Know that my thoughts and heart have been with them and I wish there was more I could do.

But anyway, bear with me.  I'm working on a memoir.  I have about 10k words down and hopefully I can finish a good portion prior to the commencement of the next quarter and semester.

Meanwhile, Christmas is coming. I'm in love with winter and reading imaginative fiction.  Life is too short to not love what you're reading.  Or what you're writing.

So happy holidays, or Merry Christmas, or Happy Chalica, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah (a little late) and Boxing Day.

I'll be holed up in my little computer room with a heating pad and a warm cup of something to drink, making stories and hoping I don't butcher it too much.

Game Changer

I'm sure that I've posted before about my kids who serve a "lunch detention" and come with their lunch to read a book in class with me.  Our first book was "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian".  The second one is "The Hunger Games".

I bought 5 tickets for kids to the Hunger Games and planned to do a raffle, ala Effie Trinket, to pick a winner. Each student could enter their name in the drawing once for each time they came to eat lunch.

I was bragging about this on Thursday night on Facebook. The drawing was to be Friday and the kids would meet me at the theater during our two week spring break.  Someone asked why I didn't take the whole class.  I explained that I can't afford to take everyone and that it was alright- I think the kids just liked reading at lunch and hearing me read it to them.

Then someone said "I'll pitch in for some tickets".

Then someone else.  And someone else and someone else.  I had 2 offers to pay for the whole thing and I started crying.  Part of me wanted to say no, we'd be ok.  But that would be wrong.  My kids will absolutely LOVE going to the movies as a group and seeing the book that we are reading in class!  So I got over it and said yes.  We will get to go on the 24th in Bricktown.  I am so excited and cannot thank my friends enough!

I shot a video of a thank-you picture we were taking.  Very cute.  The kids were so surprised and so excited! This was the highlight of my week and probably of my whole month.  I'm going to send it to our "sponsors".  If you read the book, that would make you smile...

On Friday I also learned that my students made gains of about 20-30% on their benchmark reading scores.  This blew away my principal, who was hoping for 10% or at least some movement.  This doesn't mean my students are passing, just that they have improved.  My kid who ate his library pass on the first day of class passed.  My student who I cannot for the love of God or money get to write more than a few sentences passed.  Several of them earned "exceeded" marks and most are on the edge between "below standard" and "passing" that I am certain we can get a 70% pass rate this year.  Right now the benchmark says that we are at about a 50% rate. These students work hard and know why I do the things I do- to give them a good chance of success through literacy.  I hope so, anyway. I have tried to ingrain it in them since Day 1.

In the not-so-awesome-but-kinda-so department, I taught a geography class for our deceased teacher on Friday as well.  It's during my plan period but the students really need help and stability so I've volunteered to teach it the rest of the year.  I hope it works out that I get to.  The awesome part is teaching geography.  The drawback is teaching it in the building while the demolition crews bang on pipes and raise dust.

As a consequence, Friday night was a total bust. I had multiple asthma attacks and couldn't sleep.  Saturday was rough too and I even had an asthma attack at Grey's sister's birthday party.  I was so embarrassed to have to excuse myself to go take medicine and then I was so shaky that everyone thought I was just nervous.  I was not nervous- Grey's family is full of nice, kind and decent people and the reason I couldn't let go his hand was because I couldn't stop shaking.  I think his mom and dad think I am shy because I didn't say much.  And I'm sure I looked terrible, because I felt terrible.  More asthma attacks and finally some sleep and we went for a long walk on Sunday.  Today here in Tulsa, it's nice and sunny and warm.  I woke up at 3:15 with an asthma attack (sigh) and slept in for a bit.  Then, since Grey works till 6, I did the stuff one normally does to greet the day and then read a book outside in the sunshine.

You know, there is something I almost never talk about.  It's about those feelings one holds deep and dear.  I have a hard time expressing emotions rather than delight, anger or something that is right around arms length.  Grey says the nicest things to me- he is very good whereas I am terrible.  Something in me freezes up and thinks that if I really love someone, and I wish to keep them in my life, I would generally lose them if I opened up and they were able to penetrate that emotional armadillo skin of mine.  It seems that I have lost more of the people I loved or been betrayed or hurt other people too much to have a kind and loving relationship.  And Grey knows this and when I get tongue-tied, he knows that there are things I need time to work out and say.  Something like a time-delay clock.  Fifteen minutes after some declaration of love or a remark about the future, I finally untie the frozen strings from my heart and say what I really want to.

It's even harder to write about, to admit that to all, oh, say 10 of my readers.  I'm supposed to be a writer. I'm supposed to be fucking eloquent.  I'm supposed to be tough and smart and a lone wolf and all of the stupid cliches that go with someone who doesn't know how to accept love.

And how stupid is it that we've been engaged for over a month and I'm just now mentioning it?  And I'm not even going to give any details.

Who is taking her entire class to "The Hunger Games"?  This person!

Give me 15 minutes...

Pretty Well Settled

I had 12 students show up all week for lunch detention.  We finished Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian and all present agreed that it was the best book that they had ever read.  Six girls, six boys.  Most of them are low-level readers.  I am so happy.  Sometimes other teachers pop in at lunch just to behold the sight of these kids and I engrossed in our book and happily munching on cafeteria fare.  Some of these kids believe they will never be good readers.  Some of them don't follow the book so much as listen to my narration. That's ok too and that's also why I read it out loud.  They are interested in stories and in this book.  Every day they tell someone who was absent what is going on. It's normal and natural and this, I believe, is the way to encourage literacy. This part of the day is what reminds me why I got into teaching.  The big question is "What are we going to read next?!".  I offered the other Alexie book, Flight, and also The Hunger Games.  They picked Flight.  I'm not sure how they will like it since the story line is much different than the first book, so I offered to keep Hunger Games as a backup in case we decide to abandon the book.  I also tweeted Sherman Alexie to let him know how much we loved the book.

My regular classes are going well.  My 8th graders- cynical as they are- are just finishing and enjoying The Outsiders.  They like it and have done a good job so far.  They are impatient with reading and resist doing more than a chapter a day.  We are working on the attention span. I'm not sure if they know that part of it. Next up is Walter Dean Myers.  While Alexander Nazaryan may decry the usefulness of Myers, and insist that students would benefit more from Homer and Aristophanes, I advocate first getting children interested in reading.  Yes, perhaps Lysistrata with its overt sexual humor and Martial's epigrams are somehow elevated to high art and of benefit to readers, they can't get there from here.  I'm scaffolding.  Perhaps at the end of the year, as a reward. But until then, until my students understand how to approach a reading at all, I want them to learn to enjoy learning how to do that and Myers can help us farther along with his accessible language and stories that my students can identify with.

My 7th graders, having just finished up with an expository writing unit, are now eager to return to literature. They are perusing Virginia Hamilton novels and will seen become engrossed in the stories of early African Americans.  And for me, I have offered a school-wide initiative to help us get on the same page with vocabulary.  I'm selecting a word every week for the school, and we are putting it up on the marquis.  Then the word, definition and an example will be read every day with the morning announcements and the other teachers will join in to help reinforce the lesson.  I like it, overall. The faculty are seemingly behind the idea as well so we'll see how that pans out.  The first week was a success.

I have had some trouble with the construction.  I've had bronchitis twice since it began. I was sick over the whole holiday and have had to stop running.  Let me say that again: I had to stop running for the time being.  Running is how I stay in shape and it's how I keep my asthma in check. I cannot and should not be exposed to a dangerous work environment and I tried pretty hard to ignore or deny the implications.  But my last trip to my doctor- where he advised me to find a different job while giving me a steroid shot in the butt- that made me see the light.  The remodeling is going on all around us, and all precautions have been taken.  We are stuck with just dealing with the dust, mold and noise.  And probably some asbestos too.  There was a public meeting to address health problems for students and faculty and the companies told us we would need to transfer. That's what the environmental officer said, anyway. I met with my principal and we decided that if I can't get someone in one of the adjoining buildings to trade with me, he will transfer me to another school.  I'm just getting going in this school; why would I want to switch in the middle of the year? I feel as though I am part of things there and part of the force that will get us past the CRT gatekeepers at the end of the year. I'll keep you posted, but it's most important to be able to breathe and I'd rather just work with people rather than any litigious entities.

But what about my kids? Where can they go? How can they even know to ask?  To be continued...

The End of the Friggin' World

Almost there.  I was almost there.  Today was supposed to be my last day as a graduate student. 

I am sometimes a planner. There are things I am a little exacting about and with good reason.  Allow me to give an example using the graduate college at the university I am currently attending. 

As a master's student, I selected the thesis option and wrote about 125 pages of thesis, including three case studies and a self reflective journal with the requisite review of relevant literature and traditional five chapters. I met for the first time with my graduate college liasion during that summer. She instructed me to print out my thesis on 100% cotton paper and bring it to her for inspection prior to giving it to the library.  I did so.

It wasn't right.

I fixed what she told me to.

She found other things.

Each time I brought my revisions to her, they were on 100% cotton, acid-free paper.  It gets expensive.  After the sixth revision, I had to stop dealing with her.  I was so angry.  I spent over $100 on copying things so that she could make big changes that she should have seen the first time.  I got the paper delivered to the library with something like 20 minutes to spare.  Depositing the dissertation is the last step before becoming a PhD too. 

So yes, I am a little more careful these days.  I tend to plan things out and read completely before taking any action concerning the grad college. I made an effort to go purchase my own cotton paper (with thanks to my friend Cathy for also providing her extra stuff) and went to the one place in Oklahoma City that carries specialty paper. 

I walked in the door marked "Will Call".  It was a little mystifying; I wasn't aware that a show would be playing too.  But what the hey.  The nice men in the warehouse-which is where I found myself- escorted me to the retail area.  A middle-aged and burly man looked me up and down and then addressed me.
"Did you need to buy some paper?"
"Yes.  I need a ream of 100% cotton, acid-free paper.  Of course, it would be cellulose free as well and that's important.  Do you sell that kind of paper?"
"Well, it's very expensive.  Let me look." He spoke slowly to me as though I were a scared rabbit.  "You know, we only usually handle commercial distribution."
"Are you saying that you can't sell me a ream of paper?"
"A ream is the smallest increment possible. How much do you need?" Didn't I just say what I needed?
"It's for my dissertation," I blurted out.  I wanted to say "I'm almost 40 asshole and I'm finishing the most important document of my life to date.  How's about you look up the paper before I rip you a new asshole," but I didn't.  I hate being patronized.  It makes me cranky. 
But the salesman wasn't done. He leaned forward.  "There's a nice gentleman outside who knows everything in the world about paper.  I'm going to ask him if this is the paper you need." I was standing so I just held up my hands, palm up and looked askance.  He went outside to some old fella who was smoking and talked to him a minute. 
"Well little lady, he says this is just what you need."
"Awesome," I said.  He looked at me carefully.
"A ream of this paper is $33.  Is that ok?"

Do I look poor, young and completely clueless?

I did get the paper, but I sort of feel bad for that man, what with his current inability to sit down anymore.

Today I visited the graduate college. 
Two weeks ago, I visited with all of my papers, to make sure before I printed on 100% cotton paper, that everything was indeed in order and that we would not have to make any revisions, reprints or anything else like that. 

It was fine. Everything was fine.

Until today.  Today they tell me that my signature page has the title doublespaced and it needs to be singlespaced. 

This is the third time that the grad college has seen my paper.  Seriously.  And do you know what the counselor tried to say? That I must have switched the pages since they would have completely caught that the first time through.

Do I look like I would make a stupid move like that?  Did I mention that they went through three different counselors this semester alone?

So they wouldn't accept it today. 

And there are implications.  I cannot graduate unless the dissertation- both copies- are turned in to the library. Graduation is Friday and I have no idea where my professors are.  I have taken off of work twice for this and now they are wasting my time.  This is not a simple mistake.  This has happened twice now.  It's happened with other graduate students too...almost every single one.  I am not uncareful.  I am not a slipshod person.  Right now I have no idea if I will be allowed to graduate.

I was able to get 2 of five signatures tonight.  My advisor realized as we were talking that he has doctor appointments on Friday and may not make convocation.  He said they don't do the hooding ceremony then anyway if his memory serves.  My other adviser told me he probably won't come.  He just doesn't want to.  I'm not sure how I feel about graduating with nobody to hood me.  I will go; my sisters are coming just to see this. 

In all of my panic tonight, I forgot my eye appointment.  My house is a mess and my sisters are coming tomorrow.  So I called a couple of friends to blow off steam and stop my shoulders and ears from meeting so often.  I sent an email to my committee and asked them to re-sign the paper. Hopefully it will all clear up tomorrow. 

Tonight, I was going to clean and straighten up and maybe do some laundry.  Instead, I'm writing and thinking and breathing.  Maybe I will go paint. Maybe I will watch television. Maybe I'll read a relaxing book.  The sun will come up tomorrow, life will go on and likely everything will be alright.  I didn't punch anyone and probably only hurt the copy paper guy's feelings.  Nobody died and if I have to spend another semester as a grad student, then so be it. 

It's not the end of the friggin' world.

The Ends Of Things

This is the season of the ends of things.  This is the week of the ends of things and the night of the ends of things.  I have to turn in my dissertation revisions tomorrow but instead I'm writing a blog post.  I should be revising. I don't have internet at home right now and have to get to bed by 11 at the latest and that's after a shower.  I work in the morning. 
This is the end of my homeless wanderings.  I've spent the last 6 months wandering all around Oklahoma as my house was rented out while I finished my teaching contract in Ada.  The contract was not renewed and I ended up getting a teaching job in Oklahoma City. I got my house back on September 1.  It was a terrible mess and will cost me thousands of dollars to clean up.  My contractor is installing new kitchen countertops and replacing drywall in the pantry because of the heavy urine smell.  I bug bombed since the roaches were large and singularly unafraid.  One of them looked like "Ponyboy" from The Outsiders. I think he was carrying a straight razor so I backed out of the room and called in a nuclear attack. My cat is happy to be home at least.  The livingroom, hallway and one of the bedroom carpets has been steamcleaned four times and spot treated several times.  While stained badly, they won't be replaced since I just don't have the $1,700 to do it. Then there are the dead trees and landscaping in the back yard and the garbagea dn assorted junk tossed into the yard here and there.  It's going to take several pick up loads to get rid of it.  Now you know where the roaches came from.  All of this on only 6 months.  The meager deposit didn't even begin to cover the steam cleaning. I feel relatively safe tonight and the house is rather stink-free save for the pantry. The contractor will take care of it.  I put the ball in motion.  The end.  My very nice ex-boyfriend is babysitting my Big Dogg and he will come home soon too. My happy little family will be home and in the same place.

This is supposed to be the end of my dissertation. I'm a little blocked.  I don't want this to be over.  I'm teaching full time during the day and in the evenings I teach an online class.  On Tuesday nights I've got an in-person class.  I'm not sure that I'm spending enough time on revisions. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. I'm not sure if it will pass. I'm not sure if it *should* pass.  I'm not sure what to do next. I've been a student for a long, long time. I don't want that to change. I don't want it to stop. Can't take it back now. I will finish this too and be done with it.

I am glad to be on the back side of summer and the end of the hottest season on record anywhere.  I thought I would die.  I didn't.  I complained a lot on Facebook and obsessed on the topic with my friends and family.  Wildfires raged and tempers flared. For four months I sweated and played ninja in my avoidance of the giant ball of gas in the sky.  I couldn't run more than 2 miles without getting heat stroke.  It went on and on forever until suddenly, like a puff of smoke, it was gone.  Today I turned on the heater in my car on the way to work.  It was all of 55 degrees.  I rejoiced. I reveled in it, rolling down the windows blasting the heater.  I love the descent into fall, bringing in the eaves and putting away the summer dresses.  I love putting the earth to bed, to sleep for a season of dormancy, of well deserved rest already after the long and winding dirt-road season under a burning sun.  And I feel an easing in my mind too, in my philosophy that things can wait and that there is time yet for me to think and to reflect and ponder some of life's greater mysteries. A season to compost my thoughts and plan and to dream.  To gather my wisdom about me like so much yarn to spin into the shawl of age.

I have had the end of a relationship too.  My brother is not speaking to me, nor I to him. I got pulled in to some stupid drama where I did not want to be. I am not a tactful woman and did not pull my punches when I perhaps should have.  We argued and fought and said things we cannot take back and he did something he cannot take back.  For now, for this season, I am done.  I'm not angry anymore but won't open my heart for someone who has caused that much grief for me, knowing the stress it would cause. I hate the ends of relationships and really, really dread conflict.  I do love being healthy and now perhaps we can both be healthy on our own. 

Finally, I am going to end my relationship with Blogspot.  People clicked on the ads.  I was supposedly making money from my blog.  Then I made too much money- over $300 that I never cashed in over the course of a year- and the blogspot people decided to suspend my adsense account.  So now you can read my work but I cannot make money from it.  This is work, keeping a blog and trying to put something thought-filled out there every week.  As soon as I get a suitable new home for my writing, I will let you know and we will go from there together. 

Drink the last of the summer wine. Enjoy the leftover pieces of watermelon in the refrigerator.  Pick the remaining tomatoes from shriveling vines and watch as the squash and pumpkins grow and grow. 
I leave you today with the following from William Butler Yeats:

The Folly Of Being Comforted

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.'
Heart cries, 'No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze.'

Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.  

Paulo Revisited

In December, 2010, I visited the Seattle Museum of Art.  There was a special exhibition of Pablo Picasso's works.  His cubism, African inspired period, classicism and surrealistic phases, the women he loved and portrayed and the surprising sculptures, and drawings all showed a depth and breadth of a man who lived his life translating creativity into tangible , touchable, poignant and evocative art.

One painting in particular caught my eye and I stood and stared for awhile.  A portrait of his young son, Paulo, hung amongst others, waiting for me to discover it.  In it, Paulo is dressed as a harlequin and is portrayed just as one would view him in real life.  His face and hair are photo-perfect, with an expression not of joy or loving or youthful exuberance, but what I interpret to be patience.

Picasso does not fill in all of the details for the viewer.  Paulo's feet and the ruffle around his neck are merely penciled in, as is the background of the painting and the rest of the chair.

As I begin my dissertation, I will keep this in mind.  An authethnography is much like this painting.  Perhaps not a virtuoso, but a framework from which to work.  I will give best detail of the important and telling parts of the picture, but the reader must fill in the spaces with their own interpretation.  And we, like Paulo, must be patient and allow the viewer to come to their own conclusions.  It is perhaps best this way.  My work, this dissertation, is but one piece of the greater body of my research, creative writing, and attempt to make sense of the world around me.

Racism

I have had to take some time to think about this. Carefully. I still shake when I think about what happened yesterday and why I had the urge to slap a student so hard that her Grandpa felt it. Even in the prison system, my students didn't speak that way.

Let's set the scene. Every semester, rain or shine, regardless of how many students I have, I take time to meet with them individually about their writing and to allow them to ask questions. We talk about their papers, I offer suggestions for improvement and congratulations on the work they've already done and attempt to look like a human being for fifteen minutes rather than just some professor with a talking head. It works, generally speaking. I have about 120 students.

This week was conference week, and I went home from work every day with eyestrain from going over paper after paper and discussing the same issues. The student doesn't know that I've said it a million times, it's still the first time he or she has heard the part about where it's APA guidelines to use words like "Black", "White", "African-American" (don't forget the hyphen) and "Caucasian" to describe race. And if you're quoting Dr. King directly, you cannot take out the "N-word" where he uses it, even though it makes you uncomfortable. And no, we don't use the words "honky", "cracker" or "colored" either. My classroom is where we make those mistakes and one of the reasons I meet with students on this particular essay is so that those embarrassments can happen in private with low-risk of shame, but still offer the maximum opportunity for the students to learn.

Just for levity and for my own amusement, I follow up on some of our class discussions. I make it a point to say during the course of our class meetings to say that I dislike the use of the word "very" in their papers. It's unnecessary and redundant. We've discussed this many times by now and how it's alright to use in common speech but not in a formal paper (Don't even scan my other blog posts, I'm sure it's in there somewhere!). If I see the word in their paper, I'll pause briefly and draw a little box around the word. Smile a little. Put the pen in my left hand and scratch it out. Then take out a black marker and mark it out while discussing something else. Then finally, I'll get out the white out and make it disappear. I love the looks on student's faces. We usually laugh out loud and then the point is made and everything moves along.

I laugh a lot during conferences anyway. Sometimes my students relate the best stories from class or from life. They'll share trials and tribulations from their first months at college and make the most astute observations. And their writing is improving and they want to share that too, so we celebrate. Often, my students have never performed a rhetorical analysis and they're proud to have accomplished the task. I promise that the next essay will be a lot of fun. This week I've gotten to discuss Elvis (several papers on Elvis' letter to Nixon), Dr. King (two or three speeches), President Obama, JFK, Rhianna, Eminem, the Westboro Baptist Church and The Laramie Project. Overall, I'm pleased with the movement from brand new college writer to more sophisticated and complex projects. Speaking of sophisticated, one of my students writes a blog called blog.verysofisticated.com. Check it out if you get a chance.

A dark spot on this week is the death of my Great Aunt Earline. The identical twin sister of my Grandma, Verline, she had been taken off of life support and passed peacefully with her family (including cousins Lolly and Roy) at her bedside. I'll miss my second Grandma, and worry about the effect of this loss on Grandma. Last week was the first anniversary of the death of my Grandpa and the first wedding anniversary she celebrated without him- their 64th.

That brings us to Friday afternoon at 1:20. I had just three appointments left, then I'd be out the door for the weekend and on my way to Dallas for some fun and also time to read and do homework in preparation for my general exams. I met with D, who had done a particularly nice job on Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech. We discussed in particular the audience and the message of unity and brotherhood and what made his message of well-received. I felt revived despite having read 22 other essays that day. I promised this student, who is an athlete, to come to a game. My second student was right on time and had chosen to do her essay over a White supremacy website. She had written her proposal over it and I had approved. I didn't think that she had approved, but she did.

The essay was not an analysis or discussion of rhetorical strategies. I asked her why. She said she didn't want to sound biased. It's not possible to be unbiased. Plus, this is a hate group under watch by the government. How do you feel about this?, I queried. You mean do I agree or disagree with them?, she asked. She didn't want to say. I was surprised. It's 2010, she's an articulate White kid with multiple tattoos and piercings and a studio art major. I made an assumption about her being a hipster. Apparently it was a bad one. She said "Well, I think they're extreme and extremism is bad in any group (something I'd declared in class), but I'm also proud of my White heritage. I guess that makes me a moderate." She had learned the rhetoric of unity and was using it to further her racist argument. At least she had been paying attention a little bit in class.

My jaw dropped and my face turned as red as a beet. My office door is always open and the students and I are visible to the casual observer just for instances such as these. It was then that I saw the feet and legs of my last appointment- a dark skinned Hispanic student who I knew was writing about a love song. Irony, anger, shame and more anger flooded through me. "Hey," I wanted to say, "Why don't you come in here so she can tell you why your DNA is inferior to hers. Go ahead, young lady, tell this young man why his little girl should never be allowed the same success in society as whatever offspring you produce, even though he works as hard or harder than you and even if it took more for him to get here today than it did you." But I didn't say that. I immediately checked my feelings, lest I shake the racism out of her thick skull. Had she not been paying attention the last four weeks as we dissected hatred, racism, and the dangers of separation and oppression? Bitch slapping wasn't the answer, even though it would be gratifying. Dr. King used the route of peace, love and brotherhood for his tools and I'll be damned if I'll let ignorance, and in this case, willful ignorance, get in the way of my educational objectives.

I got professional. At least the paper didn't have any blatant insults. No way could I have handled that. I explained what being a moderate was after showing her how to do the actual analysis of the website. What was their purpose? What rhetorical strategies did they use to achieve that purpose? How effective are they in their endeavors and how can you tell? I checked her language use, reminded her that there is no such thing as unbiased information and sent her on her way. Smiled broadly at my last student as he sat in her recently vacated chair, and walked into my colleague's office. I put my head on her desk and whispered my confession. She rolled her eyes. "Jesus, you need a drink. What did you say?" I told her. "I'd have kicked her out." It took a full minute to shake off so that I could be of good service to my last student.

I still have to grade her final paper. Our rubric will be decided by the class and hopefully will assist me in a less biased evaluation of her writing. This is America and as much as I disagree with someone's opinions, they have a right to them and a person in authority- in this case me- shouldn't hold power to control what another person thinks. Writing the essay in third person helps with the most flagrant abuses of opinion, but the things they choose to talk about and how they present that material will represent their world views and perceptions.

I'm not sure I handled that well. I'm not sure how to handle people who think so differently and in my strong opinion and experience, so fucking wrong. I sort of feel sorry for her because she's closed off her mind from growth, interaction and enlightenment and will be stuck in the perpetual cycle of restricted discourse and dialog with only those who agree or who have indoctrinated her into that mindset. One of the major benefits of attending college is to open the mind to experience new horizons, viewpoints and thoughts. I'm offended that she would waste such a privilege But then again, if I were being snarky, and just being myself instead of the professional educator and role model that I'd ideally want to be, I'd admit that she's getting what she deserves.

October

Finally it's Fall. I love this time of year above all others, except perhaps the dead of winter. It's time to put away the lovely summer dresses, pull out sweaters and sweats and corduroy and search the closet for a missing mitten.
Time to leave the windows open at night and put extra blankets on the bed.
Time to make chamomile tea with honey and settle on the sofa with a Jane Austen novel.
Time to write, to reflect, to gain wisdom from knowledge acquired during the year.
Time to rest and listen to the earth song as it turns from life and leaf production to mulching back to soil.
Make some stew, bake a crust of bread and watch a good movie. Light a candle and pray for humanity. Put away youthful exuberance and come study awhile. Write that novel you know you have in you. Practice sewing and baking and home arts; put something away for the winter months. Write a letter to a friend or loved one. Use long hand and pretty paper.
If Spring is the time of youth and vigor and summer is the time of harvest, surely Fall is the time we appreciate what we've been given and prepare for the winter ahead.

Every Rope Has An End

When I was a young woman, I was confused. I thought that I was defined by my family. I worried because I thought that secondarily, I was defined by the community I lived in. I worried even more because it seemed I should get married and that the person I married would be the definition of me. I spent a great deal of time in a church, praying that I would be someone good and that God would love me.

Sometimes my family is a little crazy. Sometimes I'm not in a great community. And it's 100% unfair 100% of the time to expect some poor man to do all of the work of defining me. Honestly, I wore men out with that one. Loaves of men. Those poor men, with their skeletons stacked to the ceiling of my closet. Metaphorically, of course. They just all fell short of the perfection I had to have within myself.

No, I pretty much define myself. Through the words that I say, the actions I take and the company I keep, I write the book of my own life. But let's dwell for a moment on my friends. They make me look pretty dang good. They sometimes make me look pretty damn crazy. I have a few very close friends that I can call in the middle of the night and they'll come over - or I'll go over there- and we'll talk it out. I return that favor, of course. When I moved from Washington back to Oklahoma, my friend Cathy steam cleaned my carpets for me, set up my bed, brought in flowers and potpourri and stayed up waiting half of the night to keep a light on for me. I'm just never going to forget that and hope I'm half that great as a friend. I have other friends who would help me hide a body. That's not a metaphor. I have friends who trust me with their children and invite me to a bridesmaid at their weddings.

I have a few friends who I have made through either Facebook or my blog. I find things in common with the most unlikely people. I think I love that part the most. I wrote to one friend:
"I write so much because I feel inarticulate in real life. I'm a..hider. I like isolation because then people don't get to come too close. And I never feel as connected to humanity as when I'm divorced from that noise, writing. As for teaching, well, it's a mask and persona that I wear so that I can feel close to people."
It surprised me because he responded that he felt the same way. It's hard for me to admit that I avoid crowds of people like the plague ever since I taught in a prison. It just seems so dangerous and it's very tiring for me. But when I write about it and share it with someone, it seems the burden is made light. I hope these are the kinds of people who define me, because they do often bring me into sharp focus.

It seems this semester that I will need my crazy, sane, safety release valve, intellectual, silly and supportive friends more than ever. It seems that I've finally found my limits as a human being. It starts at 5 a.m., when I get up. Yes, this night owl has to be a morning person for a bit. Seriously, I don't ever *want* to see 5 a.m. unless I'm stumbling out of a casino, having not gone to bed and perhaps missing my stockings.
I have to get up so early to commute to Ada, Oklahoma and teach at 8. It's a 70 mile one-way commute. I teach on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, five classes in a row. And it's all the same class. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I don't have to get up as early, but still make the commute to hold office hours. I'm also taking 6 graduate hours- my final classes in the program. Yeah! But they're also difficult hours. One is a teaching language class wherein I will learn some basic Italian and figure out how to teach English as a foreign language. I have a minimum of four pages due every week. I don't really "need" this class, but I do need two in order to remain a full-time students.
The other class is a curriculum theory class. The professor rotating into that one is very tough. I have had her before and got an A, but she worked us pretty hard. So minimum of a book a week there and some heavy research. And the class gets out at 10:15 on a Thursday night, so getting up at 5 on Friday mornings will suck even more.

Oh, and I'm taking my general exams this fall as well. That's where I'll get a list of three questions from my committee. In two weeks I will have written three 20-page papers. I will be required to defend my generals. Oh, and at the end of the semester, my language professor wants me to find the money to go to Italy.

I'm a little overwhelmed, but there are some benefits to these decisions. For one, I like where I'm teaching. I like them a lot. I will have my final semester of coursework and my generals out of the way by December. I will have the comfort of a good friend who is doing her generals this semester too- while pregnant and commuting to Norman from Lawton twice weekly. I'll have a regular paycheck that doesn't just stop in December and regular 401k contributions. And I'm hitting up a dentist, doctor and chiropractor as soon as I can. The first two are preventative; the chiropractor is to look at my neck. It's probably grad school-itis. All the knots will uncoil as soon as my advisor signs the last piece of paper.

Maybe it's my friends who extend the end of my rope. They throw me a line when I'm at the end of mine and I'm starting to sink. Yeah, that's about right. I appreciate you, friends, whomever and wherever you are. Sing it with me: Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming!

Why I Write

This is a rough draft. And it's going to be a quick one because it's bedtime.

They're all rough drafts, you know. That's what I like about a blog. I get to dialog with the readers. I like writing because it has a way of taking the random and dusty nuts and bolts and sometimes the blood and boogers rattling around inside of my head and makes some order from that chaos.

I had coffee with my friend B-- today. I love sipping something yummy and talking with friends about our lives, our experiences and children, pets, parents, pains and generally sharing the road for a time. It's nice to talk to B-- because he's a poet too. And a novelist, I hear. But despite his voluminous writings, he's yet to publish something. I'm not sure why. I'm not sure he knows why. I'm not sure it even matters to publish, especially if the pleasure lies primarily in the writing.

Maybe our motives are different. I write to communicate with a specific person or audience. If you've ever made a comment or talked to me about this blog, I'm thinking of you right now. I write letters to my Grandma because I want her to see Oklahoma and me from a nursing home in Washington. I take what someone offhandedly says and listen for that painful part, that question about existence. Then I do my best to articulate a position and hope it helps.

Sometimes I write because I am angry. I need to get things off of my chest. Injustice makes me angry. Unequal opportunities make me angry. Acting like I should and showing compassion and getting kicked for it makes me angry. So I write about it to remember that I'm not acting like a good or compassionate person because someone else needs me to be. I behave that way because I need to, in order to be the best person I can. That's why I write; to gain perspective. Otherwise I'm just drinking lots of coffee and cursing other drivers and not paying attention to the beautiful scenery that I've been afforded a slower look to see. You never know, that Indian Paintbrush plant may save my life someday.

It's often been said that writing is a solitary and lonely practice. After all, right now I'm sitting in the dark drinking water and typing. Quite alone, save for the cat on my lap and the two dogs in the other room (one is snoring, the other is farting). Images of Stephen King locking himself in his study with a big desk and Ernest Hemingway drinking himself to death in a house in Florida come to mind. Or Sam Beckett, who stopped having visitors, and Emily Dickinson whose father was the President of Amhurst but who lived the life of a recluse. Why do writers have to be so fucking crazy? I'm not alone metaphorically. Across time and space, you are reading this and knowing that you will makes me happy. Maybe if I were more crazy, I'd be a better writer. Maybe I am more crazy than I'm admitting right now..

I've never felt more connected than when I write. There are many other writers that I dialog with. I read my friend Ken Hada's book of poetry and borrowed the last line of one of his poems to complete my own. You should check out his blog by the way. Great fisherman/poet. Sometimes I feel the ghost of Mark Twain or Virginia Woolf creep in and read over my shoulder. Sometimes I think that if I print out everything I've written, it would spill off of the printer and make it's own little paper river, a small tributary leading to a larger river of papyrus voices that takes us out to a sea thoughts and random fun, dark, mysterious, silly, chilling and thought provoking writing from the rest of the world. I feel a kinship with people who drew on rocks and cave walls. They're gone, but I still think about them. I can stand in the very spot where someone once stood, thinking of the best way to convey just what the hell was going through his mind so it could be remembered later. It might be important, he must have thought. And he was right. I think it's very, very important to write and to read and to talk to each other the way we do.

I know my reservations about publishing my poetry. What if it's not any good? What if nobody cares? What if I hurt someone? What if I say fuck too much and offend my Great Aunt Dorothy? Worse, what if I write something that isn't true? I badgered B-- a little and he let me read a poem in his journal. And it was good. It was as rough draft, like this little ditty here, only it doesn't need much revision and I was able to easily grasp the scheme, repetition and some of the layers of meaning on the first few passes. I gave him some unsolicited feedback and told him what I liked about it.

That's it- it boils down to one thing and one thing only: vulnerability. How much risk do I dare take? Who is even paying attention? What if I write something and the world sees me naked, sees me as the person I really am? This is both the fear and thrill of writing.

Ada Bound

Welp, looks like I'll be rising at 5 a.m. on the weekdays to commute to my new job in Ada, Oklahoma. I've secured a one-year lectureship at East Central University while I finish my doctorate. Seventy miles one way means that my days will be long. Taking two classes and teaching 5 and writing my general exams will take its toll. I know. I don't mind. I've always been one who had lots of energy. At least I feel that way right now.

As much as I'm NOT a morning person (ok, I'm a total corpse before say, 11:00 a.m.), the morning drive is lovely and the people I work with are sweet and kind and for the most part thoughtful. My classes are practically back to back and I get done teaching at 2 in the afternoon.

But really, not a morning person. I don't look good all day when I get up that early. My hair is too fuzzy, my makeup runs and frankly, nothing fits right. Probably because I dressed in a haze in the dark and am wearing unmatching shoes with a runner in my pantyhose. This was the case today, when we had convocation.
Convocation is the welcome back howdy-ho that the administration gives the faculty. Lots of sparkly words and promises and a few admonitions. Really, seriously, nice people. A few weird ones too but that's to be expected in academe.

And one the English faculty, Steve Benton, took my picture. I look like Elvira. So I came home and promptly took the color out of my hair. Done. Now I'm sort of a pumpkin blonde. And I'm adding a photo of what I really look like, without all the make up and hair brushing (overrated) and perfume (necessary) associated with being a professional in my field. And he took down this blog information. This is me when I'm about to commit evil deeds in the yard in the Oklahoma heat. So yeah, now big brother is watching my blog. Fuck.