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.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Enough Perfection!
I have a new obsession: Single Dad Laughing. I read a post by him about perfection. You can check it out here. He made me think about how imperfect I am, not that I need any reminders.
But I look around me and I see that almost everyone I know is infected with this disease of being perfect. We- collectively as Americans- need to be perfect. I think it stems from some skewed perception of capitalism wherein we have to go big or go home. Large houses with green lawns, big boats, fast cars, expensive clothes and hair and slim thighs and great skin and the right shoes...it's all part of the American dream.
Why do I sometimes feel ashamed and angry that I don't have all of those things? I'm an educator, for Pete's sake. What I do is important and it matters greatly, to offer other worlds and experiences to students and to take the opportunity to learn from them. I derive a great deal of self-esteem from teaching, from doing anonymous good works, and from looking for ways to be kind- especially to those who would be unkind to me. I live in a house and I have enough to eat. My car goes places. My dog and cat are always happy to see me, especially if they think I have something tasty. My friends are there for me when I need them most of the time and I am there for them, most of the time. So why do I so often compare myself to the appearances of others and feel as though I lack?
But I feel what I feel. Long ago I made a choice to be what and who I am and that means that the American dream with a white picket fence, a couple of kids and the ability to keep up with the Jones' is not in the cards. I could have chosen vet school; I was accepted in the top three of the hundreds of applications. Not that being a veterinarian is so glamorous- it's a lot of poop and blood if the truth were known, but it comes with a nifty white coat. I only applied because I wanted my husband to think I was good enough. When I just couldn't do it, I left behind the man and the life and the lifestyle and became a teacher.
Years later in a fit of anger, my ex husband said that I was his project and that he never really did think I was good enough. At the time it stung, and it made me look long and hard at my own actions. I realized that I am defined by my actions but not my family. More importantly, I am a human and like other humans, I deserve real love, unconditional love. It's a lesson I've never forgotten and try to practice; to try to understand rather than just change others into your image of them.
I cannot tell you my schedule without feeling exhausted. I am actually attempting to learn Italian amongst all other stuff I have to do in a week. I have downloaded language learning audio onto my iPod and listen and repeat in the mornings on my drive to work. I have no other real time during the week. I have this drive to do well in my classes, to teach well, to be a good colleague, daughter, granddaughter, aunt, sister and friend. Fact is, those things often slide. Or at least one or two slide since I do have to sleep sometimes.
It's not just our time and energy that's subject to perfectionism. Our bodies seem to be under the most scrutiny. Everywhere I go I am bombarded with advertisements for rejuvenating treatments "My wife looks ten years younger. I can't believe it!", liposuction "Get the beautiful legs, hips and thighs you've always wanted. You deserve it!", breast augmentation "Imagine how much more confident you will feel!", day spas, salons, gentlemen's clubs, gyms, diet pills and make up commercials just on the radio. I gave up television long ago but the images still haunt me.
Nothing makes me feel more insecure than women's magazines and snickering, whispering teenage girls. The fact is that I went to war with my body sometime in 1999. I could say it's because I was a big girl in high school, with petite and beautiful sisters. I could say it's because when I was 11 years old, my grandma-who was trying to be kind- said "Well, honey, you're not as pretty as your sisters, but you have nice child-bearing hips." I could blame my ex-husband for telling me the truth when I asked if my jeans make my butt look big. He said "I love you, but you've gained twenty pounds since we got married." I went to the gym that day. From that day to this, I cannot see what the scale at my doctor's office tells me. If I know that number, I will immediately go on a crash diet to lose ten pounds. And I'm not too picky about how I do it.
The fact remains though, that every day that I wake up, I make a conscious choice. I choose to just be myself. It's not natural. I want to be a reflection of what people want me to be. Especially since I'm single again. I want to be liked even though I have no fear of being alone. Actually, I prefer to be alone. It's way less complicated. My cat doesn't judge me for eating watermelon for dinner right over the kitchen sink so that I don't have to wash another dish. She just sits on my lap and purrs while I type. That's why I post pictures of me with bad breath, bags under my eyes, acne and no hair brushes... because I need to just be me for awhile. I need that to be enough. I need that to be enough for me.
Dan Pearce, from Single Dad Laughing, struggles with his weight and self-esteem. What we all struggle with is that feeling that we're somehow unlovable since we're imperfect. I'm glad to struggle with this rather than to delude myself that somehow the universe loves me above any others. My imperfections make me feel a part of the human race, rather than apart from it.
Please, please be imperfect. Those imperfections in the people I love are what make them human and therefore, accessible. It takes the pressure off of me too. Nothing is as real as me calling up a friend to say "Boy did I screw this up. Can you help me figure it out?", because I know that next week she's going to call me and say "Oh please help me dig out from under this mountain of laundry!" and together we'll heft the load.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Artichokes and Beer
When I was a little girl, I was lucky to have three older sisters to blaze trails ahead of me. When I was 8, my older sisters would have to take me with them and I saw a lot of crazy teenager stuff. My sister Patti gave me my first beer. It was terrible and I poured it out. I didn't do much beyond watch, ever.
I remember sneaking out with one of my sisters on a school night and dragging her in just at dawn, only to shower and go to school. I didn't really drink, but I did make sure we were alright. I must've been about 13.
None of them complained about my presence so I must not have been a pain in the ass sort of sister. My sisters were so rebellious that I could've gotten away with murder. I ask them once in awhile if perhaps I've got it wrong, but no, they generally say that I wasn't wild in the least and that I was kind of a boring kid. I'm sure my former classmates would concur. I'm good with that. I spent many happy high school weekends reading books or riding horses with my friends or working at Ski Bluewood. I showed sheep in junior high and high school and was an officer in FFA. Hell, I was a state officer in FBLA. I was a Columbia County Fair Hostess and acted in the school play every year.
Honestly, I'm not sure how all that happened. It's not like I was a great student or that I had great motivations. I was just a kid. Mr. Moore, Mr. Hodgson and Mr. Markus (God rest his soul) were good teachers. They gave me a lot of leeway, which I needed because life as a teenager sucks. And let's face it, I often smelled like a sheep ranch.
I attribute a lot of my happy childhood memories to my sister, Patti. She's four years older than I am. She was my protector, mentor, sister and friend. Later, she was my doppleganger since people confused us. Sometimes my Grandma calls me "Patti" and I answer with a smile because Patti is one of my favorite people and probably the best friend I ever had. Within the same family, siblings can have radically different experiences growing up, and I'm sure she saw the brunt of what I glimpsed. But she never complained and just went on and did what needed to be done. If you think well of me, please know that I'm a poor imitation of her.
When we were little girls, I got very sick. My mom was at work and couldn't come home. I had a fever of 104. Patti ran a cool bath but I wouldn't get in. She went first, to get me to do it. When I was sick to my stomach some months later, she took Pepto Bismol (which she hates) to show me it would be ok. Then she lit a fire to warm our feet.
Patti showed me how to make my bed and fold my clothes. I still employ those simple lessons. She also pulled me out the cherry tree I was climbing and made me put on a bra. I hated that. I wanted to stay a little girl forever. And she showed me how to play chess and how to cook. We made potato salads, pies, cookies and grilled cheese sandwiches. She demonstrated moxie too. In high school, she was the homecoming princess for some reason or other. Maybe tenth grade. We lived in Quilcene, Washington. But she heard this guy she dated was doing her wrong. Now, I don't know how anyone else does it, but I've never seen anyone in my family back down from a fight. We're not that kind of people. Not a whole lot of turning the other cheek, if you know what I mean. I almost feel bad for that kid. The story goes that she slammed him up against some lockers and kneed him between the legs. I had strong role models. Thanks to her and to my other sister, Yvette, nobody ever, ever fucked with me.
And artichokes. Patti taught me to love artichokes. We would cut the stems and the sticker parts, steam them in the microwave and mix butter, garlic salt and lemon and feast like queens on the delicacy. I didn't like them at first, but I trusted my big sister when she told me it was an acquired taste. And if she liked them, then by God I'd like them too.
We talk about every week, for about an hour. Our lives are different but not particularly separate. I think that she lives a life I'd like to experience and she thinks I live a life she'd like, too. Patti finished a degree in system administration. She has two kids, 1.5 grand-kids and a husband who is a logger. They live on 9 acres with a huge garden. We talk and text and email. She keeps me up on family life in the Pacific Northwest and I fill her in on the single starving-dom of graduate school and red dirt living.
If you ever thought of me as a mentor, friend or good person, now you know where such things come from. I wouldn't say every good attribute is from my sister, but many of them are, including the idea of self-discipline and a strong belief in myself. I'm really just a facsimile of her own compassion. All of my sisters contributed to my upbringing in their own ways, but whenever I see an artichoke, I certainly think of her. And now, I hope you do too.
I remember sneaking out with one of my sisters on a school night and dragging her in just at dawn, only to shower and go to school. I didn't really drink, but I did make sure we were alright. I must've been about 13.
None of them complained about my presence so I must not have been a pain in the ass sort of sister. My sisters were so rebellious that I could've gotten away with murder. I ask them once in awhile if perhaps I've got it wrong, but no, they generally say that I wasn't wild in the least and that I was kind of a boring kid. I'm sure my former classmates would concur. I'm good with that. I spent many happy high school weekends reading books or riding horses with my friends or working at Ski Bluewood. I showed sheep in junior high and high school and was an officer in FFA. Hell, I was a state officer in FBLA. I was a Columbia County Fair Hostess and acted in the school play every year.
Honestly, I'm not sure how all that happened. It's not like I was a great student or that I had great motivations. I was just a kid. Mr. Moore, Mr. Hodgson and Mr. Markus (God rest his soul) were good teachers. They gave me a lot of leeway, which I needed because life as a teenager sucks. And let's face it, I often smelled like a sheep ranch.
I attribute a lot of my happy childhood memories to my sister, Patti. She's four years older than I am. She was my protector, mentor, sister and friend. Later, she was my doppleganger since people confused us. Sometimes my Grandma calls me "Patti" and I answer with a smile because Patti is one of my favorite people and probably the best friend I ever had. Within the same family, siblings can have radically different experiences growing up, and I'm sure she saw the brunt of what I glimpsed. But she never complained and just went on and did what needed to be done. If you think well of me, please know that I'm a poor imitation of her.
When we were little girls, I got very sick. My mom was at work and couldn't come home. I had a fever of 104. Patti ran a cool bath but I wouldn't get in. She went first, to get me to do it. When I was sick to my stomach some months later, she took Pepto Bismol (which she hates) to show me it would be ok. Then she lit a fire to warm our feet.
Patti showed me how to make my bed and fold my clothes. I still employ those simple lessons. She also pulled me out the cherry tree I was climbing and made me put on a bra. I hated that. I wanted to stay a little girl forever. And she showed me how to play chess and how to cook. We made potato salads, pies, cookies and grilled cheese sandwiches. She demonstrated moxie too. In high school, she was the homecoming princess for some reason or other. Maybe tenth grade. We lived in Quilcene, Washington. But she heard this guy she dated was doing her wrong. Now, I don't know how anyone else does it, but I've never seen anyone in my family back down from a fight. We're not that kind of people. Not a whole lot of turning the other cheek, if you know what I mean. I almost feel bad for that kid. The story goes that she slammed him up against some lockers and kneed him between the legs. I had strong role models. Thanks to her and to my other sister, Yvette, nobody ever, ever fucked with me.
And artichokes. Patti taught me to love artichokes. We would cut the stems and the sticker parts, steam them in the microwave and mix butter, garlic salt and lemon and feast like queens on the delicacy. I didn't like them at first, but I trusted my big sister when she told me it was an acquired taste. And if she liked them, then by God I'd like them too.
We talk about every week, for about an hour. Our lives are different but not particularly separate. I think that she lives a life I'd like to experience and she thinks I live a life she'd like, too. Patti finished a degree in system administration. She has two kids, 1.5 grand-kids and a husband who is a logger. They live on 9 acres with a huge garden. We talk and text and email. She keeps me up on family life in the Pacific Northwest and I fill her in on the single starving-dom of graduate school and red dirt living.
If you ever thought of me as a mentor, friend or good person, now you know where such things come from. I wouldn't say every good attribute is from my sister, but many of them are, including the idea of self-discipline and a strong belief in myself. I'm really just a facsimile of her own compassion. All of my sisters contributed to my upbringing in their own ways, but whenever I see an artichoke, I certainly think of her. And now, I hope you do too.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Housekeeping
Luke moved out today. He'd slowly been moving stuff over the last week or so and today he took the last two loads of stuff. I don't like the ends of relationships- so awkward. I think that Luke was planning to stay until October but just sort of changed his mind. The last thing he took was his dog, Mia. That's the only point at which I felt like crying.
I'd planned to spend the day working on a presentation for Curriculum Theory class over Henry Giroux. He is responsible for the idea of radical pedagogy, is still living and was a contemporary of my hero, Paulo Freire. I ended up rescheduling. What I did instead was call and text my girlfriends. Cathy came over, of course, and she brought her dogs and we all went to the dog park and hiked the three miles and sorted through issues of life, the universe and everything together. I called my sister Patti too, and my mom and other good friends just to ask for a little moral support. And they have given generously of their time and energy today. Much love, friends. <3
I spent the rest of today cleaning house. I mean dinging and slinging and throwing stuff out and moving furniture and vacuuming and generally sweeping and mopping and caring for my home. I was caring for me too. I took a scrubber to the inside of my eyes, sprayed Windex in my ears and cleaned out some of my psychic muck. I took on the living room, two bedrooms, the carpets and the front porch. I also swept out my feelings and allowed a few moments to just slump in a chair, have a cup of coffee and be quiet. I fed myself and worked myself out from the tight winding of the last few weeks of living in the same domicile with an ex and I feel both physically tired and emotionally unwound.
This is a good thing; it's not healthy to keep things bottled inside. The season is changing and we begin our descent from sweltering days to harvest and turning leaves towards winter, the time of the defiant. I have much to do this semester. We're five weeks in and I have another 11 to go if I'm to stay on track and graduate in the Spring. I'm still not sure how I'm going to break after that, but my opportunities have opened up. My head space and my living space are less cluttered and I am lucky once again. This time it's because the relationship ended on a "no harm, no foul" note.
Tomorrow I will get back on track. I'm resisting the urge to feel guilty. Soon, I will pull out my warm sweaters and hunker down for the winter to wait for a time of renewal and growth. Until then, I'll just sit still and lick my wounds.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Gratitude
My head spin sometimes with all of the work and obligations and pleasurable things I want to do in a day. Right now I'm pretty tired. I went to work, then mowed the lawn, then went to class until 10 tonight. Tomorrow I'll get up at 5 and do it again before lining up my work for the weekend.
I'm tired and I've got a lot to do before mid-December. I don't have time to go to a chiropractor for my neck. I need to find a roommate before I'm left eating top ramen for the next four months. Yes, being a professor-for-hire doesn't pay as well as you might think. I have 5 pages due Wednesday that I've not started. I hope my advisor isn't reading this. I need to sell that Miata so I can pay my tuition. I'm using this weekend to grade papers. Again. I should be preparing for general exams.
Frankly, I'm not entirely certain that I can pull this off. So, I am giving myself a little pep talk. It always works, always. All I have to do is think of things for which I am grateful.
I thank the moon and stars above for the solace and sanity of my friends. Old and new, male and female, they are the ones jumping over the edge to catch me. Sometimes they shake me a little and say "quit being so uptight. It's just a deadline." I scoff but relax a little in my uptight little shell. They also have problems and call me for a bit of sanity so we have to make it up as we go along. I like that part too.
I'm grateful for Michael Jackson because he makes me feel normal. Really normal and really fucking boring. I like that too.
I'm grateful for health- for me for my family and friends and for their families. I may not have time for a doctor but at least right now I have insurance! Two people I care about have family members in the hospital right now and I'm pulling for them too. The good thing about love is that it's not just restricted to people you know well. It's like Facebook; friends of friends can have some too. I'm glad that it also works both ways. My grandpa died this time last year. That anniversary is coming up quickly. I remember the outpouring of love and support and grace given to me by my friends and their loved ones. I found that accepting the care and love of another person is terribly comforting. Don't laugh; it's not in my nature to expose emotional needs to anyone. But I've been learning and I hope to remain open and not closed to kindness and care for myself. That's a blessing in itself.
The list goes on; my car works, my cat is fine and doesn't puke a whole lot these days; I have a roof over my head. One niece had a baby this year and another just got married and is pregnant. Another niece got married too. And pretty much everyone is doing fine. None of my teeth have fallen out and I've got a great day of teaching planned for tomorrow. I'm going to use Jimi Hendrix and the Dixie Chicks to discuss the use of rhetoric. I'm employed, I'm a student (which is what I hope to always be) and I live in America.
I love being an American. My brothers and sisters go out and fight and die and keep me safe. My freedom of speech is protected through the efforts of others. And I've never had to seriously question it. This is not to say that I've never royally stuck my food in my mouth. Because I have, at least twice today. But thank God for grace because I'm still standing.
Not a bad night. Now, speaking of lesson plans and nights, I have to get up in five hours. Thanks for reading.
I'm tired and I've got a lot to do before mid-December. I don't have time to go to a chiropractor for my neck. I need to find a roommate before I'm left eating top ramen for the next four months. Yes, being a professor-for-hire doesn't pay as well as you might think. I have 5 pages due Wednesday that I've not started. I hope my advisor isn't reading this. I need to sell that Miata so I can pay my tuition. I'm using this weekend to grade papers. Again. I should be preparing for general exams.
Frankly, I'm not entirely certain that I can pull this off. So, I am giving myself a little pep talk. It always works, always. All I have to do is think of things for which I am grateful.
I thank the moon and stars above for the solace and sanity of my friends. Old and new, male and female, they are the ones jumping over the edge to catch me. Sometimes they shake me a little and say "quit being so uptight. It's just a deadline." I scoff but relax a little in my uptight little shell. They also have problems and call me for a bit of sanity so we have to make it up as we go along. I like that part too.
I'm grateful for Michael Jackson because he makes me feel normal. Really normal and really fucking boring. I like that too.
I'm grateful for health- for me for my family and friends and for their families. I may not have time for a doctor but at least right now I have insurance! Two people I care about have family members in the hospital right now and I'm pulling for them too. The good thing about love is that it's not just restricted to people you know well. It's like Facebook; friends of friends can have some too. I'm glad that it also works both ways. My grandpa died this time last year. That anniversary is coming up quickly. I remember the outpouring of love and support and grace given to me by my friends and their loved ones. I found that accepting the care and love of another person is terribly comforting. Don't laugh; it's not in my nature to expose emotional needs to anyone. But I've been learning and I hope to remain open and not closed to kindness and care for myself. That's a blessing in itself.
The list goes on; my car works, my cat is fine and doesn't puke a whole lot these days; I have a roof over my head. One niece had a baby this year and another just got married and is pregnant. Another niece got married too. And pretty much everyone is doing fine. None of my teeth have fallen out and I've got a great day of teaching planned for tomorrow. I'm going to use Jimi Hendrix and the Dixie Chicks to discuss the use of rhetoric. I'm employed, I'm a student (which is what I hope to always be) and I live in America.
I love being an American. My brothers and sisters go out and fight and die and keep me safe. My freedom of speech is protected through the efforts of others. And I've never had to seriously question it. This is not to say that I've never royally stuck my food in my mouth. Because I have, at least twice today. But thank God for grace because I'm still standing.
Not a bad night. Now, speaking of lesson plans and nights, I have to get up in five hours. Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Comfort
I want comfort today. It rained last night and made me sleep really well. I love rain. I've loved rain since my days in the Pacific Northwest. I love the rain smell. It reminds me of simplicity and happiness and not having perfect hair or make up. I slid my feet into my slippers this morning for office hours and had eight students come see me for discussion of their papers. It was normal and relaxing.
I want comfort food. I made my favorite pesto and pasta for dinner. I had lemon tea with a friend. It's good to have a good friend to talk to; better than a snuggie or a warm fire. The only thing that could be better is if it were raining and there was a fire, some tea and a snuggie and good company like that. Yeah.
I want these things because Luke and I broke up a few weeks ago and I'm still sort of getting used to that idea. I mean, he hasn't left the house yet, but we've established our own spaces and routine over the last month and are taking time so that it's not overly traumatic.
Sound weird? I guess so. It's not a dramatic break up. I don't do drama anymore. In the grand scheme of things, drama lies pretty low at the end of the spectrum of things I'm willing to spend energy on. I like Luke. We get on well. I love his family~ they're all good people who have treated me very well. I'm going to to miss them and that part is painful. And the dog. Mia is so sweet. And so I'm not just mourning a relationship; I'm mourning the loss of several things simultaneously. I just hope they aren't angry with me.
It's a good reason for a break up though. His career and family are centered in Oklahoma City and my circumstances and interests lie outside of the area. Not much of a remedy for that. So we're calling it good without dragging things out. You hit a wall, you find a way around or turn and go in another direction.
So I've sought comfort in friends and solace in work and familiarity in routine. Eleanor has become much more affectionate. She keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, wanting attention. I've got scratches on my arms and one on the back of my neck. Silly cat. I know that anyone else would toss the kitty off the bed, but she really means well. She sleeps on the other pillow now too. And lately I want the things that are gentle and loving and bring me back to the here and now so I don't slip too deep into contemplation.
I don't often ask for anything from anybody. I've leaned on my girlfriends a lot lately to distract or to tell me things will be ok. Fact is that they will be ok. I'm alright being alone. I'm good at it. I need a roommate, so let me know if you think of anyone good. Or even ok, as long as they aren't slobs. :-)
I do have a question for my readers: what do you do for comfort? Do you cook, clean and read a good book or write maudlin poetry? Do you drink, party and get a pedicure? Tell me; I'd like to know.
Take care,
M
I want comfort food. I made my favorite pesto and pasta for dinner. I had lemon tea with a friend. It's good to have a good friend to talk to; better than a snuggie or a warm fire. The only thing that could be better is if it were raining and there was a fire, some tea and a snuggie and good company like that. Yeah.
I want these things because Luke and I broke up a few weeks ago and I'm still sort of getting used to that idea. I mean, he hasn't left the house yet, but we've established our own spaces and routine over the last month and are taking time so that it's not overly traumatic.
Sound weird? I guess so. It's not a dramatic break up. I don't do drama anymore. In the grand scheme of things, drama lies pretty low at the end of the spectrum of things I'm willing to spend energy on. I like Luke. We get on well. I love his family~ they're all good people who have treated me very well. I'm going to to miss them and that part is painful. And the dog. Mia is so sweet. And so I'm not just mourning a relationship; I'm mourning the loss of several things simultaneously. I just hope they aren't angry with me.
It's a good reason for a break up though. His career and family are centered in Oklahoma City and my circumstances and interests lie outside of the area. Not much of a remedy for that. So we're calling it good without dragging things out. You hit a wall, you find a way around or turn and go in another direction.
So I've sought comfort in friends and solace in work and familiarity in routine. Eleanor has become much more affectionate. She keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, wanting attention. I've got scratches on my arms and one on the back of my neck. Silly cat. I know that anyone else would toss the kitty off the bed, but she really means well. She sleeps on the other pillow now too. And lately I want the things that are gentle and loving and bring me back to the here and now so I don't slip too deep into contemplation.
I don't often ask for anything from anybody. I've leaned on my girlfriends a lot lately to distract or to tell me things will be ok. Fact is that they will be ok. I'm alright being alone. I'm good at it. I need a roommate, so let me know if you think of anyone good. Or even ok, as long as they aren't slobs. :-)
I do have a question for my readers: what do you do for comfort? Do you cook, clean and read a good book or write maudlin poetry? Do you drink, party and get a pedicure? Tell me; I'd like to know.
Take care,
M
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 11, 2001/ September 11, 2010
September 11, 2001
I wake up and go to work at Oklahoma State University. I teach an organic chemistry class and it doesn't start until 9:30. Before class I always go in my office and put on loud rock music to wake up. I don't have cable at my house. We don't watch it. I'm married and we live in Stillwater. Life is rather easy. I teach, run the chemistry store room and on some days, teach aerobics at the local gym. My husband works in Tulsa and leaves the house at 6.
I get to work and someone directs me to a news website. We switch on a television. I watch the second plane hit and nausea and vertigo overcome me and everyone around us. It's a cartoon; it has to be. But no, the world has just tilted off of its axis. All flights are grounded and my friend Karla and Art cannot get out of Oklahoma to get to Poland like they'd planned. Classes at OSU are not canceled. Doesn't matter- we don't do anything in them except huddle and watch tv. I don't take attendance. We feel like gravity has shifted and the world isn't under our feet the way it once was. I gather my international friends to my home. Anyone who looks "vaguely ethnic" because this is the land of rednecks and when the Oklahoma City bombing took place, some yahoos shot up the local mosque- the one with the playground on the side of it. The world mourns with us. Outpourings of support come in from the world and from true Muslim leaders. The news outlets also report a few radicals who celebrate. The word "terrorism" enters our vocabulary in a way I would have never thought possible. I worry about overreaction. I was right to worry. We enter a war with unknown assailants and attack Iraq under vague pretenses. It is very expensive and we will pay for this for a long time. The Patriot Act is passed. The voices of minority dissent are ignored and eventually threatened. We are not silent.
Eventually, My students leave for Fall break and on the way back, one of my O-chem students is stopped by airport security because her textbook contains the symbols for trinitrotoulene- dynamite. She is held and stripped by two men and interrogated for days, and is probably beaten, but is eventually released. Her dad, a lawyer, settles for enough money to pay for anything she needs practically forever. She is not allowed to talk of the details.
September 11, 2003
My marriage is in shambles. We have moved to Norman and sold our house. Karla has committed suicide and Art and I attend her funeral in the same church where they had planned their wedding. Airport security is ridiculous and we now have to remove our shoes prior to boarding. I am searched every time I cross the threshold. Once, they find a pen recycled from an eating utensil and mistake it for a shank. I am almost held over. A scan of my bag reveals a pear and I am scolded and told not to bring such things to the airport. I tell the TSA that I am an American citizen, but she doesn't hear me. She asks about the Chinese symbol on my shoulder. I tell her it s a peace symbol. That's a lie. Hatred and racism against non-white persons is high and corruption and extremism in America becomes far more transparent. I begin celebrating Ramadan with my Muslim friends in order to understand the spiritual and peaceful aspects of Islam. They celebrate Thanksgiving with me. I still worry about them.
September 11, 2010
It's been nine years. I've made a conscious effort in my teaching practice to instill a sense of social justice and tolerance. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. I sometimes perform in "The Vagina Monologues" and take the part that Karla used to play. My performances are dedicated to her and I send the playbills to her parents. They never write back. I've gotten another tattoo, of a yin yang, but it's in black and red. One of my students in class yesterday said he thought the war in Iraq was completely justified. I'm tired of fighting. I want the wars to end. All of them. My students know that Bill Clinton had and affair with Monica Lewinsky and that he probably inhaled pot, but have no idea of this Nobel Peace Prize. In Oklahoma City, it's popular opinion that a gathering of the KKK at the Ford Center is preferable to one of the local Satanic group. My friend Brent went to see Deepak Chopra at the Civic Center. I wonder if any of my students know who he is. Perhaps they would think he's a heretic. Perhaps I am jaded and am still searching for peace.
A Florida pastor named Terry Jones first vows to hold a Quran burning, then calls it off because it will most definitely incite greater recruitment into AlQaeda and also place our troops in greater danger than they already face. President Obama himself has to call and talk sense into him. Perhaps the heat and humidity has soaked through Jones' hypocritical brain. Others declare today to be "buy a Quran" day. It's the one day a year I think to sit and pray and meditate on peace and cry for our country and for all people of the world, especially for those with anger and discontent in their hearts.
On this day, may you love those who hate you. May you not strike back but offer a hand in friendship. May you heal yourself. May you be a blessing to those around you and all who would hear you.
If we can make war and destroy the world, then we can most certainly find the energy for peace.
I wake up and go to work at Oklahoma State University. I teach an organic chemistry class and it doesn't start until 9:30. Before class I always go in my office and put on loud rock music to wake up. I don't have cable at my house. We don't watch it. I'm married and we live in Stillwater. Life is rather easy. I teach, run the chemistry store room and on some days, teach aerobics at the local gym. My husband works in Tulsa and leaves the house at 6.
I get to work and someone directs me to a news website. We switch on a television. I watch the second plane hit and nausea and vertigo overcome me and everyone around us. It's a cartoon; it has to be. But no, the world has just tilted off of its axis. All flights are grounded and my friend Karla and Art cannot get out of Oklahoma to get to Poland like they'd planned. Classes at OSU are not canceled. Doesn't matter- we don't do anything in them except huddle and watch tv. I don't take attendance. We feel like gravity has shifted and the world isn't under our feet the way it once was. I gather my international friends to my home. Anyone who looks "vaguely ethnic" because this is the land of rednecks and when the Oklahoma City bombing took place, some yahoos shot up the local mosque- the one with the playground on the side of it. The world mourns with us. Outpourings of support come in from the world and from true Muslim leaders. The news outlets also report a few radicals who celebrate. The word "terrorism" enters our vocabulary in a way I would have never thought possible. I worry about overreaction. I was right to worry. We enter a war with unknown assailants and attack Iraq under vague pretenses. It is very expensive and we will pay for this for a long time. The Patriot Act is passed. The voices of minority dissent are ignored and eventually threatened. We are not silent.
Eventually, My students leave for Fall break and on the way back, one of my O-chem students is stopped by airport security because her textbook contains the symbols for trinitrotoulene- dynamite. She is held and stripped by two men and interrogated for days, and is probably beaten, but is eventually released. Her dad, a lawyer, settles for enough money to pay for anything she needs practically forever. She is not allowed to talk of the details.
September 11, 2003
My marriage is in shambles. We have moved to Norman and sold our house. Karla has committed suicide and Art and I attend her funeral in the same church where they had planned their wedding. Airport security is ridiculous and we now have to remove our shoes prior to boarding. I am searched every time I cross the threshold. Once, they find a pen recycled from an eating utensil and mistake it for a shank. I am almost held over. A scan of my bag reveals a pear and I am scolded and told not to bring such things to the airport. I tell the TSA that I am an American citizen, but she doesn't hear me. She asks about the Chinese symbol on my shoulder. I tell her it s a peace symbol. That's a lie. Hatred and racism against non-white persons is high and corruption and extremism in America becomes far more transparent. I begin celebrating Ramadan with my Muslim friends in order to understand the spiritual and peaceful aspects of Islam. They celebrate Thanksgiving with me. I still worry about them.
September 11, 2010
It's been nine years. I've made a conscious effort in my teaching practice to instill a sense of social justice and tolerance. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. I sometimes perform in "The Vagina Monologues" and take the part that Karla used to play. My performances are dedicated to her and I send the playbills to her parents. They never write back. I've gotten another tattoo, of a yin yang, but it's in black and red. One of my students in class yesterday said he thought the war in Iraq was completely justified. I'm tired of fighting. I want the wars to end. All of them. My students know that Bill Clinton had and affair with Monica Lewinsky and that he probably inhaled pot, but have no idea of this Nobel Peace Prize. In Oklahoma City, it's popular opinion that a gathering of the KKK at the Ford Center is preferable to one of the local Satanic group. My friend Brent went to see Deepak Chopra at the Civic Center. I wonder if any of my students know who he is. Perhaps they would think he's a heretic. Perhaps I am jaded and am still searching for peace.
A Florida pastor named Terry Jones first vows to hold a Quran burning, then calls it off because it will most definitely incite greater recruitment into AlQaeda and also place our troops in greater danger than they already face. President Obama himself has to call and talk sense into him. Perhaps the heat and humidity has soaked through Jones' hypocritical brain. Others declare today to be "buy a Quran" day. It's the one day a year I think to sit and pray and meditate on peace and cry for our country and for all people of the world, especially for those with anger and discontent in their hearts.
On this day, may you love those who hate you. May you not strike back but offer a hand in friendship. May you heal yourself. May you be a blessing to those around you and all who would hear you.
If we can make war and destroy the world, then we can most certainly find the energy for peace.
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