Bad things seem to come in waves. My poor students seem to be facing an inordinate amount of personal strife--family deaths, deaths of grandmothers, unbearable menstrual cramps, and an infected piercing...
Goodness, but I don't remember my own freshman year being so traumatizing.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Diving in
Most people have two sets of grandparents; I was fortunate to have three sets, the extra one acquired not by remarriage but by proximity.
When I was about 9 years old, my family moved from one end of our block to the other; the move, though hardly remarkable in distance, was a vast improvement over the lower-income, high vacancy rental section we previously lived in. The end of the block we moved to was more stable, for the most part, comprised of retired couples who had lived in their homes for well over 30 years.
Our next door neighbors introduced themselves to us well before we even moved into the house; they fussed over both me and my deceptively cute two-year-old sister. They only had one grandson, and they looked forward to having two little girls to spoil. They loved seeing us play out in the yard, acting out small dramas and picking flowers and later playing with our cats. Even if our parents hadn't raised the two of us to be courteous to our elders, I don't think we could have done anything that wasn't precious. They encouraged us to come over anytime, and we did; my sister would frequently go over to swing with the wife on their front porch, sitting on her lap and practically melting in her arms.
The coolest thing they ever did, though, is probably part of why autumn is my favorite season. Because the neighborhood was an older one, many of the trees were massive; three such massive trees were in the stretch of front lawn our homes shared. The husband one fall brought out his leaf blower--not to clear the lawn of all the fallen leaves, but to condense them into one central pile. After doing so, they invited us to come over and play in it.
Know the joy of crunching through a build-up of crispy, crunchy leaves? Multiply that at least tenfold in order to understand the excitement of flinging yourself bodily into a huge pile of leaves, laughing with abandon, and heaving yourself out from underneath them to do it all over again. It's a full sensory experience--the feel of crackling leaves, the smell of them in the crisp air, the chilly nip that you only feel when you pause long enough to register the mild discomfort, the sight of the sky filtered through leaves above you and bare branches further above... There's nothing like it in the world.
It's one of my top favorite memories of childhood.
When I was about 9 years old, my family moved from one end of our block to the other; the move, though hardly remarkable in distance, was a vast improvement over the lower-income, high vacancy rental section we previously lived in. The end of the block we moved to was more stable, for the most part, comprised of retired couples who had lived in their homes for well over 30 years.
Our next door neighbors introduced themselves to us well before we even moved into the house; they fussed over both me and my deceptively cute two-year-old sister. They only had one grandson, and they looked forward to having two little girls to spoil. They loved seeing us play out in the yard, acting out small dramas and picking flowers and later playing with our cats. Even if our parents hadn't raised the two of us to be courteous to our elders, I don't think we could have done anything that wasn't precious. They encouraged us to come over anytime, and we did; my sister would frequently go over to swing with the wife on their front porch, sitting on her lap and practically melting in her arms.
The coolest thing they ever did, though, is probably part of why autumn is my favorite season. Because the neighborhood was an older one, many of the trees were massive; three such massive trees were in the stretch of front lawn our homes shared. The husband one fall brought out his leaf blower--not to clear the lawn of all the fallen leaves, but to condense them into one central pile. After doing so, they invited us to come over and play in it.
Know the joy of crunching through a build-up of crispy, crunchy leaves? Multiply that at least tenfold in order to understand the excitement of flinging yourself bodily into a huge pile of leaves, laughing with abandon, and heaving yourself out from underneath them to do it all over again. It's a full sensory experience--the feel of crackling leaves, the smell of them in the crisp air, the chilly nip that you only feel when you pause long enough to register the mild discomfort, the sight of the sky filtered through leaves above you and bare branches further above... There's nothing like it in the world.
It's one of my top favorite memories of childhood.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Show me the candidate who...
...abolishes Daylight Savings Time...
...figures out a way to make 18-year-olds straighten up and act like the young adults they should be...
...creates essays that grade themselves...
and
...finds a way to fit more than 24 hours into a day that would otherwise be to short to get everything done...
Do that, and I will vote and campaign for that person, bartering everything up to my soul to get him/her into office. I'm bushed. Can't believe it's only Wednesday and I'm already this tired...
----------------
Now playing: Hot Water Music - The End Of The Line
via FoxyTunes
...figures out a way to make 18-year-olds straighten up and act like the young adults they should be...
...creates essays that grade themselves...
and
...finds a way to fit more than 24 hours into a day that would otherwise be to short to get everything done...
Do that, and I will vote and campaign for that person, bartering everything up to my soul to get him/her into office. I'm bushed. Can't believe it's only Wednesday and I'm already this tired...
----------------
Now playing: Hot Water Music - The End Of The Line
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Perks
"You're college students--you could totally get your meals free today," I told my class. "Play your cards right, and you could have coffee and a doughnut for breakfast, have a late lunch/dinner of a chicken sandwich, and then have ice cream for dessert." I was talking, of course, about the freebies places were offering for people who voted. They laughed; I think they thought I was joking.
As I wandered about campus for this and that, I could feel a humming sort of energy. Shoot, in spite of my pessimism, I felt a bit charged after penciling in my scantron ballot. And it occurred to me: voting is as much social as it is political. It's a way of at least feeling like one is part of something bigger, like one has done what one has been obligated to do.
It's... a cynic might call it brainwashing.
That said, I bought into it, voting across party lines and voting on a couple issues in a way that my 18-year-old-self would've been surprised to see. And I got a free, bitter cup of coffee that was worth every penny I paid.
As I wandered about campus for this and that, I could feel a humming sort of energy. Shoot, in spite of my pessimism, I felt a bit charged after penciling in my scantron ballot. And it occurred to me: voting is as much social as it is political. It's a way of at least feeling like one is part of something bigger, like one has done what one has been obligated to do.
It's... a cynic might call it brainwashing.
That said, I bought into it, voting across party lines and voting on a couple issues in a way that my 18-year-old-self would've been surprised to see. And I got a free, bitter cup of coffee that was worth every penny I paid.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Flip sides of the same coin
I've been accused of lofty idealism, and I've been accused of dour pessimism. Which is more accurate? Both, probably.
I have ideas of how the world should work, how it could work, could be better. I believe, remote though the possibility is, that a better world is possible. I once harbored the idea that I could even have some say, some contribution to that betterment. I think part of me still hopes that's true and hasn't entirely given up on the notion.
And, as they say, the higher you walk, the farther you fall. The zeal that led me to joyfully participate in my first presidential election in 2004 met head-on with the reality that I could vote either for a candidate who could be elected or a candidate whom I could believe in. That realization stung, and the pang has stuck with me. As with 2004, this year I am faced with a choice between two candidates, neither of whom I can in good conscience support--and neither of whom I want to legitimize with a ballot cast.
I will vote on state matters; I realize, pragmatically, that the local and state levels are ones I have some say in. But I'm leaving the presidential spot blank because my idealist wants a candidate she can believe in, and my inner pessimist thinks the whole process is a sham.
----------------
Now playing: Thrice - Cold Cash and Colder Hearts
via FoxyTunes
I have ideas of how the world should work, how it could work, could be better. I believe, remote though the possibility is, that a better world is possible. I once harbored the idea that I could even have some say, some contribution to that betterment. I think part of me still hopes that's true and hasn't entirely given up on the notion.
And, as they say, the higher you walk, the farther you fall. The zeal that led me to joyfully participate in my first presidential election in 2004 met head-on with the reality that I could vote either for a candidate who could be elected or a candidate whom I could believe in. That realization stung, and the pang has stuck with me. As with 2004, this year I am faced with a choice between two candidates, neither of whom I can in good conscience support--and neither of whom I want to legitimize with a ballot cast.
I will vote on state matters; I realize, pragmatically, that the local and state levels are ones I have some say in. But I'm leaving the presidential spot blank because my idealist wants a candidate she can believe in, and my inner pessimist thinks the whole process is a sham.
----------------
Now playing: Thrice - Cold Cash and Colder Hearts
via FoxyTunes
Sunday, November 2, 2008
On a positive note
I can't help but notice the trees lately as they've burst into their splendorous colors. The university I teach has a lovely variety of trees and accompanying colors--red, orange, yellow, green, brown, and blends of the aforementioned hues.
As painful and painstaking as yesterday's weekend excursion onto campus was, the quiet of a weekend enabled me to prance about and take pictures of the autumnal beauty once the torture was done. Only one shot turned out decent, and I realize it's one of those shots that one sees in a college catalogue, usually adjacent to the one with the smiling group of students sitting on the grass with notepads on their knees and sunshine in their hair.
See? Looks quite lovely from this angle.
As painful and painstaking as yesterday's weekend excursion onto campus was, the quiet of a weekend enabled me to prance about and take pictures of the autumnal beauty once the torture was done. Only one shot turned out decent, and I realize it's one of those shots that one sees in a college catalogue, usually adjacent to the one with the smiling group of students sitting on the grass with notepads on their knees and sunshine in their hair.
See? Looks quite lovely from this angle.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
[Insert anguished sob here]
I have seen the future, dear readers, and it en't pretty. I didn't see Orwellian dystopias or other totalitarian regimes. What I saw is far worse, and there's no going back once you've seen such nightmares.
I shall never be able to erase that imagery of the brutally maimed English language from my mind. The wanton mutilation and perverse lack of regard for propriety were heart-rending. I fancied myself hearing, within those endless pages of tortured prose, the death cries of a language violated beyond recovery. Much as the experience appalled me, I could not look away, could not remove myself from the scene of the crime, could not...
In spite of some attempted resistance from some of us few brave souls, our fight, we learned, has been for aught. In the end, we were overtaken, forced to admit that our attempt at rebellion was only triage at best.
I truly hope I do not ever have to participate in remedial-level, department-wide writing assessment again.
I shall never be able to erase that imagery of the brutally maimed English language from my mind. The wanton mutilation and perverse lack of regard for propriety were heart-rending. I fancied myself hearing, within those endless pages of tortured prose, the death cries of a language violated beyond recovery. Much as the experience appalled me, I could not look away, could not remove myself from the scene of the crime, could not...
In spite of some attempted resistance from some of us few brave souls, our fight, we learned, has been for aught. In the end, we were overtaken, forced to admit that our attempt at rebellion was only triage at best.
I truly hope I do not ever have to participate in remedial-level, department-wide writing assessment again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)