"There are years that ask questions, and years that answer." Zora Neale Hurston Their Eyes Were Watching God
THE FIRST ENTRY.
[July 2018] This is my reflective space. Students, teachers, and curious souls are welcome. I will teach AP English and 10th Grade at Hauser Jr. Sr. High School this August. The rest of this website is devoted to the curriculum and assignments for those courses. On this page, I will post random thoughts, reflections, memories, interesting videos, journal entries, advice, book reviews, etc.
It all starts and ends somewhere... or that's what I've been led to believe. It is seven o'clock in London, U.K., as I start off this blog. "Blog," b-l-o-g, I really hate that word. It reminds me of a slug for some reason. Anyway, I guess I could say digital journal... but that sounds space-ageish and tacky. So, here it is: a slug blog. I am living in a flat overlooking a train station... which sounds vaguely romantic, but I assure you, it is not. About every minute or so, it sounds like a thunderstorm is rushing by my window. Concrete jungles are like mirrors. They reflect what you reflect. So, when I am in a good mood, I love London and its never-ending energy. And, when I am in a bad mood, I foster disdain toward a city that is constantly rewriting itself. Contrary to popular belief, the weather in London is not any worse than the bipolar qualities of Indiana weather. I am in a constant changing-my-mind battle as to whether I love it or hate it here. It is back-and-forth, day-to-day. Regardless of my pendulum moods, the city makes for a good place to read (and to be inspired to read). On the awkwardly confined tube rides (on the Central Line of the London Underground), reading becomes a good pass-time and escape from the drifting of eyes in the so intimate, yet so distanced atmosphere of a train.
Each time I open a book... or compendium of stapled-together papers, it does not matter where I am or what time it is. It has some kind of majestic power to allow me to time travel to unique places in the world, into the lives of people (fictitious and real), and into explorations of dimensions beyond the boundaries of my practical existence. My advice to you aspiring scholars is to embrace the ordinary, while balancing the curious and ambitious drive to discover everything. Read something every day. Write a page reflection every day. Get involved in the community. Listen to music. Dance. In all ways, strive to express the life that is reflected upon you, through you, and from you.
Journaling Disclaimer: There are minimal rules to this thing. When you journal, you must write... that means that the diamonds will be rough and unpolished, the words will, at times, be sporadic and unorganized, the syntax a little weird, and the spelling amateur. That is okay. The purpose of journaling or reflecting is not to create an immediate, perfect product or creation. It is just a sounding board- a collection of pieces that sometimes proves helpful in setting a foundation or putting to rest the anxiety of thoughts that need to escape.
It all starts and ends somewhere... or that's what I've been led to believe. It is seven o'clock in London, U.K., as I start off this blog. "Blog," b-l-o-g, I really hate that word. It reminds me of a slug for some reason. Anyway, I guess I could say digital journal... but that sounds space-ageish and tacky. So, here it is: a slug blog. I am living in a flat overlooking a train station... which sounds vaguely romantic, but I assure you, it is not. About every minute or so, it sounds like a thunderstorm is rushing by my window. Concrete jungles are like mirrors. They reflect what you reflect. So, when I am in a good mood, I love London and its never-ending energy. And, when I am in a bad mood, I foster disdain toward a city that is constantly rewriting itself. Contrary to popular belief, the weather in London is not any worse than the bipolar qualities of Indiana weather. I am in a constant changing-my-mind battle as to whether I love it or hate it here. It is back-and-forth, day-to-day. Regardless of my pendulum moods, the city makes for a good place to read (and to be inspired to read). On the awkwardly confined tube rides (on the Central Line of the London Underground), reading becomes a good pass-time and escape from the drifting of eyes in the so intimate, yet so distanced atmosphere of a train.
Each time I open a book... or compendium of stapled-together papers, it does not matter where I am or what time it is. It has some kind of majestic power to allow me to time travel to unique places in the world, into the lives of people (fictitious and real), and into explorations of dimensions beyond the boundaries of my practical existence. My advice to you aspiring scholars is to embrace the ordinary, while balancing the curious and ambitious drive to discover everything. Read something every day. Write a page reflection every day. Get involved in the community. Listen to music. Dance. In all ways, strive to express the life that is reflected upon you, through you, and from you.
Journaling Disclaimer: There are minimal rules to this thing. When you journal, you must write... that means that the diamonds will be rough and unpolished, the words will, at times, be sporadic and unorganized, the syntax a little weird, and the spelling amateur. That is okay. The purpose of journaling or reflecting is not to create an immediate, perfect product or creation. It is just a sounding board- a collection of pieces that sometimes proves helpful in setting a foundation or putting to rest the anxiety of thoughts that need to escape.
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF A WAITING SPACE. JUNE 2022.
There are times when I think I will never write again. Or read again. Or be able to focus again. These times can last for months... even if I have to write or read or focus in those times. I try to write, and the words are flat and empty and fall out sloppily on a computer screen. I try to read, and after five minutes in, I cannot recall a word I've read. I try to focus, and I have five narratives in my head all at once. I've lost the inspiration, the precision, the what's the word? So, I sit and wait... and work and wait... and plan and wait... and live and wait for that moment when I want to write something and the keys fly like a heartbeat- working without thinking... for that moment when I can absorb books in a matter of hours and remember the poignant details of syntactic glory or semantic depth... for that moment when my mind is clear and my thoughts are crisp like fall mornings and I can focus without even noticing the singularity of the moment.
I wait a lot.
But, I learn the spaces like I learn the winding backroads of Southern Indiana. I know a space like I know that 200-year-old tree at mile marker 39.5 or that river house that you can only see in the winter or that yard that has perfectly cut grass. I think that if you would want to know a lot about a person- you would want to ask about the space where they work- the desk, the bookshelf, the space. Because, those amalgams of interests are stored in such space. So, I cropped up the archived photographs of spaces gone by. From my college desks to my teacher desks to my home office spaces- and a few of my sister's photographs. Each one tells a story of a person from that moment. The space of waiting. The collage of a space.
My first dorm desk just captured pieces of home- The Oxford Book of American Poetry, The NIV Bible, a framed picture of a Japanese anemone, photo boxes, journals, a bonsai tree, a jewelry book without any jewelry, the Target owl that I bought with one of my early paychecks, the jar of Black Warrior pencils, a Dasani water bottle, Beatles prints, my favorite lamp, and the alarm clock that played the radio in place of an alarm... the kind of alarm clock we used before cell phones. My second dorm desk reflects the trenches of schoolwork- an article titled 'Culture in Common' and a textbook about legal precedents in public education. There's a lamp that my dad had when he was in the dorms at IU. There's a scarf that I wore to shreds and a ZIG writer (the year I switched to only writing in pen). My last semester desk was a bit more evolved.
The first teacher desk had the book purgatory and the black cat poster. The next year, my bookshelves started to grow and evolve along with a revolving display of flowers. In London, I made an origami crane each time that I was homesick.
Music filled my first apartment space whenever I was working. It was a space of every craft that I could think of- painting, sketching, charcoal drawings, silicone pours, double exposure photographs, macrame, crochet, scrapbooks, letter writing, collages, etc. My second teacher desk was a space of makeshift glory. I had that sorority girl tapestry, the dream catcher, the collages and every office supply you can think up.
These were my spaces- the waiting rooms. Yet, each placeholder tells a little story- like poetry collections, personal libraries, and the flowers that you pick.
Some questions:
(1) Do you keep a case on your phone?
(2) Which record do you play on repeat?
(3) Which ten books will you keep forever?
(4) Which is more important to you- the creator or the creation?
(5) What's your favorite writing utensil?
(6) How often do you write?
(7) Which verses do you know from memory?
(8) Name three things that make you think of home.
(9) What's your favorite type of tree?
(10) What's wrong with waiting?
I wait a lot.
But, I learn the spaces like I learn the winding backroads of Southern Indiana. I know a space like I know that 200-year-old tree at mile marker 39.5 or that river house that you can only see in the winter or that yard that has perfectly cut grass. I think that if you would want to know a lot about a person- you would want to ask about the space where they work- the desk, the bookshelf, the space. Because, those amalgams of interests are stored in such space. So, I cropped up the archived photographs of spaces gone by. From my college desks to my teacher desks to my home office spaces- and a few of my sister's photographs. Each one tells a story of a person from that moment. The space of waiting. The collage of a space.
My first dorm desk just captured pieces of home- The Oxford Book of American Poetry, The NIV Bible, a framed picture of a Japanese anemone, photo boxes, journals, a bonsai tree, a jewelry book without any jewelry, the Target owl that I bought with one of my early paychecks, the jar of Black Warrior pencils, a Dasani water bottle, Beatles prints, my favorite lamp, and the alarm clock that played the radio in place of an alarm... the kind of alarm clock we used before cell phones. My second dorm desk reflects the trenches of schoolwork- an article titled 'Culture in Common' and a textbook about legal precedents in public education. There's a lamp that my dad had when he was in the dorms at IU. There's a scarf that I wore to shreds and a ZIG writer (the year I switched to only writing in pen). My last semester desk was a bit more evolved.
The first teacher desk had the book purgatory and the black cat poster. The next year, my bookshelves started to grow and evolve along with a revolving display of flowers. In London, I made an origami crane each time that I was homesick.
Music filled my first apartment space whenever I was working. It was a space of every craft that I could think of- painting, sketching, charcoal drawings, silicone pours, double exposure photographs, macrame, crochet, scrapbooks, letter writing, collages, etc. My second teacher desk was a space of makeshift glory. I had that sorority girl tapestry, the dream catcher, the collages and every office supply you can think up.
These were my spaces- the waiting rooms. Yet, each placeholder tells a little story- like poetry collections, personal libraries, and the flowers that you pick.
Some questions:
(1) Do you keep a case on your phone?
(2) Which record do you play on repeat?
(3) Which ten books will you keep forever?
(4) Which is more important to you- the creator or the creation?
(5) What's your favorite writing utensil?
(6) How often do you write?
(7) Which verses do you know from memory?
(8) Name three things that make you think of home.
(9) What's your favorite type of tree?
(10) What's wrong with waiting?
THAT'S A WRAP. YEAR 6 IN THE BOOKS. MAY 2022.
"There are places I'll remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better. Some are gone, and some remain. All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends, I still can recall. Some are dead, and some are living. In my life, I've loved them all." -The Beatles
SUCH A LAUGH. MARCH 2022.
My family bonds through making fun of one another. You get us together in one room and three things are going to happen: (1) there will be spontaneous intervals of singing and dancing, (2) there will be accents, and (3) there will be inside jokes thrown around like a ping-pong match. Family bonding is a storytelling roast- one in which we re-live the past and make fun of each other throughout the entire narration.
I remember being home from college one summer and my sister brought home one of her high school boyfriends for the first time. I was enrolled in two psychology courses that summer- behavioral neuroscience and cognitive psychology. So, I decided to have a little fun of my own- a little social experiment. When he came over and introduced himself to the family, I told him that we were a "musical family" and shot Sarah a glance like 'I'm about to see if he'll pass the test.' He was a tall, lanky, introverted kid, clearly uncomfortable and afraid of making the wrong first impression. So, I went over to the desk in the great room and turned on "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," so that it poured out of the speakers into the great room. And, I started singing, because I knew my parents would join in if I got it started. They joined in, and then, I turned to the new kid and without skipping a beat, he joined in on the song. He passed the test. That's how we test people- how far are you willing to make a fool of yourself and then laugh at yourself.
Sarah and I have the same sense of humor. It's the thing that ties us together despite our differences. But, Sarah developed the nuances of stand up early on. She started studying jokes as a kid. She loved The Three Stooges when she was five and six years old. Then, my grandfather bought her a joke book. She would read her favorite jokes to him any time he called or came to visit. Then, every year on April Fool's Day, Sarah tried her best to pull practical jokes on my dad. In late elementary school, she decided she wanted to be a magician and would make the family sit through her magic shows. In middle school, she used acting as a medium for executing a joke. In high school, we had a DVD set of F-R-I-E-N-D-S that we watched on repeat. That really shaped our humor. We also grew up liking the classics- The Princess Bride, Second Hand Lions, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and other cameos of humor. Sarah was always studying how to exact a laugh. If you scroll through her FB, it is just an archived collection of jokes. In 2017, she told me that I needed to watch a stand up routine by Nate Bargatze. I liked some comedy routines- I liked Demetri Martin, Anjelah Johnson, Bill Cosby (I know, I know- but I did like his comedy), Dean Martin & Foster Brooks, and a little Kevin Hart (mainly just the ostrich bit). However, I hated anything political, anything with excessive and explicit language, and anything crude. So, in the world of stand up, that eliminates a lot. But, Sarah explained that I would like this guy because he did clean comedy. And, he immediately became my favorite comedian. In an interview Nate's dad explained, "He's not a joke teller, he's a storyteller." I think that's why I love his work. His routines feel like I am sitting at a family gathering listening to someone tell stories and making everyone laugh--- his comedy feels like home.
Whenever I'm having a particularly bad day, I always listen to Yelled at by a Clown. On our sister road trips, we always listen to Nate. Sarah and I went to Tennessee to see him perform in 2019- which was awful bc I was recovering from bronchitis and every time I laughed, I had to suppress a coughing attack, but also great because it was Nate. We decided that if we ever had a brother, it would be him. I think good comedy is the kind that feels like home. And, I think the art of being able to laugh at yourself is far too often undervalued.
I remember being home from college one summer and my sister brought home one of her high school boyfriends for the first time. I was enrolled in two psychology courses that summer- behavioral neuroscience and cognitive psychology. So, I decided to have a little fun of my own- a little social experiment. When he came over and introduced himself to the family, I told him that we were a "musical family" and shot Sarah a glance like 'I'm about to see if he'll pass the test.' He was a tall, lanky, introverted kid, clearly uncomfortable and afraid of making the wrong first impression. So, I went over to the desk in the great room and turned on "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," so that it poured out of the speakers into the great room. And, I started singing, because I knew my parents would join in if I got it started. They joined in, and then, I turned to the new kid and without skipping a beat, he joined in on the song. He passed the test. That's how we test people- how far are you willing to make a fool of yourself and then laugh at yourself.
Sarah and I have the same sense of humor. It's the thing that ties us together despite our differences. But, Sarah developed the nuances of stand up early on. She started studying jokes as a kid. She loved The Three Stooges when she was five and six years old. Then, my grandfather bought her a joke book. She would read her favorite jokes to him any time he called or came to visit. Then, every year on April Fool's Day, Sarah tried her best to pull practical jokes on my dad. In late elementary school, she decided she wanted to be a magician and would make the family sit through her magic shows. In middle school, she used acting as a medium for executing a joke. In high school, we had a DVD set of F-R-I-E-N-D-S that we watched on repeat. That really shaped our humor. We also grew up liking the classics- The Princess Bride, Second Hand Lions, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and other cameos of humor. Sarah was always studying how to exact a laugh. If you scroll through her FB, it is just an archived collection of jokes. In 2017, she told me that I needed to watch a stand up routine by Nate Bargatze. I liked some comedy routines- I liked Demetri Martin, Anjelah Johnson, Bill Cosby (I know, I know- but I did like his comedy), Dean Martin & Foster Brooks, and a little Kevin Hart (mainly just the ostrich bit). However, I hated anything political, anything with excessive and explicit language, and anything crude. So, in the world of stand up, that eliminates a lot. But, Sarah explained that I would like this guy because he did clean comedy. And, he immediately became my favorite comedian. In an interview Nate's dad explained, "He's not a joke teller, he's a storyteller." I think that's why I love his work. His routines feel like I am sitting at a family gathering listening to someone tell stories and making everyone laugh--- his comedy feels like home.
Whenever I'm having a particularly bad day, I always listen to Yelled at by a Clown. On our sister road trips, we always listen to Nate. Sarah and I went to Tennessee to see him perform in 2019- which was awful bc I was recovering from bronchitis and every time I laughed, I had to suppress a coughing attack, but also great because it was Nate. We decided that if we ever had a brother, it would be him. I think good comedy is the kind that feels like home. And, I think the art of being able to laugh at yourself is far too often undervalued.
FOREST GIANTS. MARCH 2022.
Bernheim State Forest. Sister Day Photography Trip.
In the forests of Copenhagen, Thomas Dambo, a Danish recycle artist and sculpture, brought to life six friendly, wooden giants (sometimes called trolls). When asked why he built these giants away from the tourist destinations, he said, "As humans, we often have a way of choosing the beaten path and the main roads. It seemed natural to make something which could get people out and explore the beautiful nature in the hidden outskirts" (Dambo 2017). In Danish folklore, there is a fairy tale about the forgotten giants that are friendly but hidden away from the humans. This story inspired Dambo's artistry.
93 years ago, Isaac Bernheim gifted land to Kentucky to create a space that combines nature and art. In 2019, the Bernheim association commissioned Dambo to come and build three forest giants (a mother and her two children) specific to the land that exists there. The wood is all recycled from scrap pallets, old whiskey barrels, recycled Louisville Slugger bats, and the trees that fell during the 2018 winter. After completing the project, they created a new fairy tale about the forest giants in Bernheim. So, naturally, I fell in love with this space of nature, sustainable art, and narration. As you walk through Bernheim, there are little educational trivia signs dotting the hiking/walking path. It's accessible and beautiful. Coming out of this Indiana winter, it was such a healing place to see the start of spring.
*I am always aware of the tragic history of land dispossession in my homeland in the Ohio River Valley. I would love to see Bernheim introduce some of the indigenous history in this sacred land.
In the forests of Copenhagen, Thomas Dambo, a Danish recycle artist and sculpture, brought to life six friendly, wooden giants (sometimes called trolls). When asked why he built these giants away from the tourist destinations, he said, "As humans, we often have a way of choosing the beaten path and the main roads. It seemed natural to make something which could get people out and explore the beautiful nature in the hidden outskirts" (Dambo 2017). In Danish folklore, there is a fairy tale about the forgotten giants that are friendly but hidden away from the humans. This story inspired Dambo's artistry.
93 years ago, Isaac Bernheim gifted land to Kentucky to create a space that combines nature and art. In 2019, the Bernheim association commissioned Dambo to come and build three forest giants (a mother and her two children) specific to the land that exists there. The wood is all recycled from scrap pallets, old whiskey barrels, recycled Louisville Slugger bats, and the trees that fell during the 2018 winter. After completing the project, they created a new fairy tale about the forest giants in Bernheim. So, naturally, I fell in love with this space of nature, sustainable art, and narration. As you walk through Bernheim, there are little educational trivia signs dotting the hiking/walking path. It's accessible and beautiful. Coming out of this Indiana winter, it was such a healing place to see the start of spring.
*I am always aware of the tragic history of land dispossession in my homeland in the Ohio River Valley. I would love to see Bernheim introduce some of the indigenous history in this sacred land.
YEAR OF THE BARN SWALLOWS. FEBRUARY 2022.
It's February. I hate winter. I'm over it. Everyone else is over it. We hit a heat wave today- 60 degrees before the cold front rolls in tomorrow. Indiana people were pulling out shorts and sandals. So, I am going to write about summer. This is the year of swallows. I've decided.
Since I was gone half the summer, my porch became the home of a swallow family. It was, admittedly, a little annoying... because I spend a lot of time on the porch in the summers. So, I had to sacrifice the space for awhile as to not threaten the parent birds. I waited a long time before I took down the nest, because I wanted to make sure they weren't nostalgic. I know I probably care too much about animals, but this is where I am in life. And, I had the privilege not to grow up on a farm where I would have had to see animals as a profit. Instead, I was able to see animals as quite distant pets to look after and care for. Plus, I just Googled 'swallow bird symbolism' and stumbled across the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918, which protects swallows in Indiana. They are migratory birds. So, they travel from South America all the way to Indiana each year. Sometimes they travel up to 10,000 miles each year (one way).
Anyway, one night, we had some really rough summer storms. The cumulonimbus clouds built up all day. I knew it was going to rough. I could feel the storm's energy in the air even before it arrived. I have always loved watching a summer storm roll in. I like the feeling of energy in the air. I always wait for the soft cool breeze that precedes the rain line by ten seconds. ANYWAY, it stormed one night. The baby birds were no longer in the nest- hadn't been for a week and a half. But, that night, they came back to the nest. And, I reminded myself that it was totally worth sacrificing the porch time for a couple weeks. These little swallows had a safe place- a home. This January, a couple of days after the new year rolled in, there were hundreds of swallows dipping between complexes and buildings, filling the skies above fields. It was magical. Then, in February, I was at a stoplight and same thing. They arrived out of seemingly nowhere and left just as quickly. So, this is the year of swallows. And, I'm going to need this month to wrap up so we can get onto the spring.
Since I was gone half the summer, my porch became the home of a swallow family. It was, admittedly, a little annoying... because I spend a lot of time on the porch in the summers. So, I had to sacrifice the space for awhile as to not threaten the parent birds. I waited a long time before I took down the nest, because I wanted to make sure they weren't nostalgic. I know I probably care too much about animals, but this is where I am in life. And, I had the privilege not to grow up on a farm where I would have had to see animals as a profit. Instead, I was able to see animals as quite distant pets to look after and care for. Plus, I just Googled 'swallow bird symbolism' and stumbled across the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918, which protects swallows in Indiana. They are migratory birds. So, they travel from South America all the way to Indiana each year. Sometimes they travel up to 10,000 miles each year (one way).
Anyway, one night, we had some really rough summer storms. The cumulonimbus clouds built up all day. I knew it was going to rough. I could feel the storm's energy in the air even before it arrived. I have always loved watching a summer storm roll in. I like the feeling of energy in the air. I always wait for the soft cool breeze that precedes the rain line by ten seconds. ANYWAY, it stormed one night. The baby birds were no longer in the nest- hadn't been for a week and a half. But, that night, they came back to the nest. And, I reminded myself that it was totally worth sacrificing the porch time for a couple weeks. These little swallows had a safe place- a home. This January, a couple of days after the new year rolled in, there were hundreds of swallows dipping between complexes and buildings, filling the skies above fields. It was magical. Then, in February, I was at a stoplight and same thing. They arrived out of seemingly nowhere and left just as quickly. So, this is the year of swallows. And, I'm going to need this month to wrap up so we can get onto the spring.
REAL TALK. FEBRUARY 2022.
Redacted.
A DREAM FROM DECEMBER. FEBRUARY 2022.
It was late summer and the grasses grew wild. The yard was over-grown.
It was so tall in places that it fell over on itself.
I sat in the raised garden bed in front of the bird feeders.
It was the place where I grew up.
But, it seemed like no one lived there anymore.
Or, if they did, they couldn't care for the front yard.
Nature took its course.
The Queen Anne's Lace (chigger weed) and grasses created a cove around me.
On the bird feeder, there were three birds.
One was a baby hawk that was not more than a week old.
He still had fuzz feathers and kept drifting off to sleep.
I worried that he was abandoned.
One was a bright orange bird, the size of a finch.
I had never seen it before. It was tropical.
One was a house finch. The kind that people keep in ornamental cages.
But, the caged bird was free.
I was at peace with it all.
I was sitting in the old lawn chair that had the webbing seat and aluminum folding legs.
I got up to get my camera. It was inside.
But, every time that I tried to approach the front door, something distracted me.
The scene kept replaying like a loop or a record record.
I walked through the grass toward the front door.
Then, my childhood cat kept leading me away from the door, down the driveway.
Reverse. I get up out of the lawn chair. I approach the front door.
Then, I hear Dad cutting the grass in the backyard.
I start to head around back, but there is a worm on the driveway.
I have to save the worm from the birds.
Reverse. I get up out of the lawn chair. I approach the front door.
I can hear Mom vacuuming inside. The front door is locked.
I keep knocking but no one answers.
And, it's in the future because I don't feel young.
I feel lost in the space.
So, I go back to the lawn chair.
I don't need to take a picture.
It's peaceful here in the middle of the tall grass.
I'll just hardwire the three birds into my memory.
The house finch is in the patch of four-leaf clovers now.
Not three-leaf clovers, four-leaf clovers.
The patch has returned after all these years.
The other two birds remain on the bird feeder.
It's high noon. The sun is at its zenith.
And I can feel the sunburn before it even turns red.
I wake up.
It was so tall in places that it fell over on itself.
I sat in the raised garden bed in front of the bird feeders.
It was the place where I grew up.
But, it seemed like no one lived there anymore.
Or, if they did, they couldn't care for the front yard.
Nature took its course.
The Queen Anne's Lace (chigger weed) and grasses created a cove around me.
On the bird feeder, there were three birds.
One was a baby hawk that was not more than a week old.
He still had fuzz feathers and kept drifting off to sleep.
I worried that he was abandoned.
One was a bright orange bird, the size of a finch.
I had never seen it before. It was tropical.
One was a house finch. The kind that people keep in ornamental cages.
But, the caged bird was free.
I was at peace with it all.
I was sitting in the old lawn chair that had the webbing seat and aluminum folding legs.
I got up to get my camera. It was inside.
But, every time that I tried to approach the front door, something distracted me.
The scene kept replaying like a loop or a record record.
I walked through the grass toward the front door.
Then, my childhood cat kept leading me away from the door, down the driveway.
Reverse. I get up out of the lawn chair. I approach the front door.
Then, I hear Dad cutting the grass in the backyard.
I start to head around back, but there is a worm on the driveway.
I have to save the worm from the birds.
Reverse. I get up out of the lawn chair. I approach the front door.
I can hear Mom vacuuming inside. The front door is locked.
I keep knocking but no one answers.
And, it's in the future because I don't feel young.
I feel lost in the space.
So, I go back to the lawn chair.
I don't need to take a picture.
It's peaceful here in the middle of the tall grass.
I'll just hardwire the three birds into my memory.
The house finch is in the patch of four-leaf clovers now.
Not three-leaf clovers, four-leaf clovers.
The patch has returned after all these years.
The other two birds remain on the bird feeder.
It's high noon. The sun is at its zenith.
And I can feel the sunburn before it even turns red.
I wake up.
PICTURE A WORLD. JANUARY 2022.
PICTURE A WORLD FREE OF VIOLENCE. But, what if I can't see it? What if I've read too much and lived too much to picture a world where there isn't any violence? No violence in the language. No violence in the thoughts. No violence in the actions. This cultural shift. This post-pandemic, but not really post-pandemic culture- the one where everything feels like a somewhat alternate reflection of an old normal that doesn't quite work anymore. This cultural shift is not free from violence. I hear the toxicity every day in the language- in the jokes that aren't funny- in the culture that grew from a world that was too overwhelmed to stay on top of the basic expectations for human propriety. I so badly want to picture a world free of violence... but as hard as I try, I just can't see it.
But, that doesn't mean there isn't still good. It doesn't mean that there isn't still a patchwork pattern of peace and violence. And, those moments of peace are still here- still in the moments where humans act in ways that show me the world is not without hope or love or faith or joy. (And, maybe, if I use enough double negatives in the logic, something positive will come from it, like multiplication in math. Maybe.) So, here's to the woman on her smoke break at Jay C that offered to take the cart back for me. Here's to the kid at the register who chased down a couple who left behind one of their bags of groceries. Here's to the two women that work at the State Heritage Site and happily share their wealth of knowledge with anyone who stops by to hike or see paintings by T.C. Steele. Here's to the guy that let me go at the four-way stop, even though we arrived at the same time. Here's to my students who call out other students when they say something so clearly over the line. Here's to the people who go above and beyond- to listen, to write a handwritten note, to ask someone how they are doing, and genuinely want an authentic response. Here's to all those people, because they exist. And, here's to the people that dreamed up a better world, even when they couldn't picture it in real time. Here's to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., all the ones before him, and all the ones carrying his dream despite all setbacks and all odds today. I'm going to keep trying to picture a world without violence.
But, that doesn't mean there isn't still good. It doesn't mean that there isn't still a patchwork pattern of peace and violence. And, those moments of peace are still here- still in the moments where humans act in ways that show me the world is not without hope or love or faith or joy. (And, maybe, if I use enough double negatives in the logic, something positive will come from it, like multiplication in math. Maybe.) So, here's to the woman on her smoke break at Jay C that offered to take the cart back for me. Here's to the kid at the register who chased down a couple who left behind one of their bags of groceries. Here's to the two women that work at the State Heritage Site and happily share their wealth of knowledge with anyone who stops by to hike or see paintings by T.C. Steele. Here's to the guy that let me go at the four-way stop, even though we arrived at the same time. Here's to my students who call out other students when they say something so clearly over the line. Here's to the people who go above and beyond- to listen, to write a handwritten note, to ask someone how they are doing, and genuinely want an authentic response. Here's to all those people, because they exist. And, here's to the people that dreamed up a better world, even when they couldn't picture it in real time. Here's to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., all the ones before him, and all the ones carrying his dream despite all setbacks and all odds today. I'm going to keep trying to picture a world without violence.
A WINTER'S DAY. JANUARY 2022.
in a deep and [bright] [January].
I want to give you two ideas to swirl around your mind like marbles in your hand. Two thoughts, like stones, like Urim and Thummim, to make you think of chances, of Frost's two roads in the woods, of McLean's verse on crossroads, of all those choices that lead one to this exact moment. (Thought 1) Mni Wiconi- translated to English: 'Water is Life.' (Thought 2) "Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss" (Eric Roth, 2008).
I collect snippets of thoughts like stamp collectors. Here are three: (Snippet 1) "[They] went to sea in a pea-green boat... / They sailed away for a year and a day... / They danced by the light of the moon" (Lear, 1897, ln. 1-2, 15, & 32). (Snippet 2) "The symbolic nature of the fish is as inseparable from that of water as the two are connected to life" (Allison Protas, 1997). (Snippet 3) "Limestone usually forms in deep ocean waters" (C.M. Davis, 1964).
On a winter's day, when the body froze despite the layers, when the wind was like a sand-blast on skin, when the sun danced for ten hours before handing the light to a full moon, I took a few photographs of moments with runcible spoons, fish weather vanes, and limestone stories. One of my greatest fears is the ocean- its vastness. But, all, of the things I've loved, tie to the necessity of water. Look at these buildings that housed stories of classrooms, lecture halls, and legends- they were built from the sedimentary rocks that formed when the ocean covered the land. Look at the house that became The Runcible Spoon, named after Edward Lear's poem about an owl and a cat that fell in love and went to sea. Look at the weather vane on the top of the courthouse- a fish no less, first crafted from a piece of copper from Louisville in 1826. Look at the sycamore trees that love the creeks. Look at Indiana Avenue- a street name that reminds us that this was the land of Indians- lands to Nations- the Wea, the Kickapoo, the Potawatomi, the Piankashaw, and the Miami, who all had Algonquin water songs.
I collect snippets of thoughts like stamp collectors. Here are three: (Snippet 1) "[They] went to sea in a pea-green boat... / They sailed away for a year and a day... / They danced by the light of the moon" (Lear, 1897, ln. 1-2, 15, & 32). (Snippet 2) "The symbolic nature of the fish is as inseparable from that of water as the two are connected to life" (Allison Protas, 1997). (Snippet 3) "Limestone usually forms in deep ocean waters" (C.M. Davis, 1964).
On a winter's day, when the body froze despite the layers, when the wind was like a sand-blast on skin, when the sun danced for ten hours before handing the light to a full moon, I took a few photographs of moments with runcible spoons, fish weather vanes, and limestone stories. One of my greatest fears is the ocean- its vastness. But, all, of the things I've loved, tie to the necessity of water. Look at these buildings that housed stories of classrooms, lecture halls, and legends- they were built from the sedimentary rocks that formed when the ocean covered the land. Look at the house that became The Runcible Spoon, named after Edward Lear's poem about an owl and a cat that fell in love and went to sea. Look at the weather vane on the top of the courthouse- a fish no less, first crafted from a piece of copper from Louisville in 1826. Look at the sycamore trees that love the creeks. Look at Indiana Avenue- a street name that reminds us that this was the land of Indians- lands to Nations- the Wea, the Kickapoo, the Potawatomi, the Piankashaw, and the Miami, who all had Algonquin water songs.
NOVELS AND SO COLD. JANUARY 2022.
Not novels in the traditional sense. Not novels like prose. Novels like new.
I never thought I liked modernist poetry. Something was just too simple. It seemed like comparing the Sistine Chapel to a banana taped to the wall. It felt like there wasn't much of a work ethic. It seemed. But, it wasn't.
Because, as much as I hated reading Stein, she taught me to read words as their own island. As much as I made fun of the red wheelbarrow, it made me think of the blue wheelbarrow that was my makeshift carriage when I was just a small child. As much as I didn't understand then, something post-but-not-post-pandemic makes me want to read "This Is Just to Say" and "Resume." I don't need "An Essay on Criticism" or "The Wasteland" right now. I need "cerebral popcorn." I need a small, pleasant set of words to make me laugh with their witty tones, plum-picked words, and dark edge to brighten an otherwise dreadful season.
"This Is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams (1938)
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I never thought I liked modernist poetry. Something was just too simple. It seemed like comparing the Sistine Chapel to a banana taped to the wall. It felt like there wasn't much of a work ethic. It seemed. But, it wasn't.
Because, as much as I hated reading Stein, she taught me to read words as their own island. As much as I made fun of the red wheelbarrow, it made me think of the blue wheelbarrow that was my makeshift carriage when I was just a small child. As much as I didn't understand then, something post-but-not-post-pandemic makes me want to read "This Is Just to Say" and "Resume." I don't need "An Essay on Criticism" or "The Wasteland" right now. I need "cerebral popcorn." I need a small, pleasant set of words to make me laugh with their witty tones, plum-picked words, and dark edge to brighten an otherwise dreadful season.
"This Is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams (1938)
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
PHOTOGRAPHY CLUB MTG. II. DECEMBER 2021.
We had our second photography club meeting today after school. Students starting to study the genres of photography and the types of lenses. They checked out their lens kit and received their 30 Day Photo Challenge and the Decade Challenge assignments. We will meet again in January!
photography_club.pptx | |
File Size: | 7445 kb |
File Type: | pptx |
DARLING, BE HUMAN. NOVEMBER 2021.
This is not responsible journalism. It is personal and complex and contemporary. It's biased. I’ll start with an anecdote as a pathetic appeal. Because, if I utilize conjunctions at the start of the sentence and maybe even break the fourth wall, I might seem approachable. In the twenty-first century classroom, the first rule is ‘darling, be human.’ Chemistry is culture. Character compliments content.
I’m in my late twenties, but I will ardently say that I am seventeen when a student tries to ask me my age. And, they will ask, because I am wearing clothes that dance along the lines of millennial and Gen Z fashion... and I'm five foot nothing... and I just don't care enough to wear make-up to make myself look older. I’ve learned to wear what makes me comfortable… because pencil skirts and heels were rather dreadful… and unfortunately, sweat pants, as professional wear, have not hit the mainstream. I can’t help but think that one day, my future students will laugh at the fact that shoulders with bra straps in 2021 were seen as sexually suggestive, much in the same way that they sarcastically discuss how ankles were once entirely scandalous.
I’m not a first-year teacher anymore… or a third year teacher… or a fifth year teacher. I am more confident in my ability to turn off my alarm three times (pushing it to the last minute that I HAVE to wake up) and still pull off an immaculate lesson plan that I whip up twenty minutes before first period. Yes, experience does have perks.
My classroom management style is more relaxed than it was in my first few years of teaching. I still won’t hesitate to write up a student… but, there is less tension when I write up students these days. It isn’t so much a power flex as it is a reminder that ‘hey, man, you crossed a line… let us re-establish it and move forward.’ I’ve learned to speak sophomore, which is a complex language system of snark, sarcasm, TikTok slang, and depression (both in tone and in content). Wit is pertinent.
I am honest. And, darling, I'm SO human (despite the vampire theories circulating these days). I will tell students that I don’t always love my job. There are days when I don’t have my life together. There are days when I am human, and I say things I shouldn’t say. And, I apologize. But, I will also tell my students that I love teaching. There are days when I have all my ducks in a neat, little row. There are days when I am human, and I say exactly what someone needs to hear at exactly the right time that they need to hear it. And, I am grateful.
I think most people, maybe even especially in the small towns of the U.S.A., notice this discrepancy between youth culture and ‘everybody else’ culture. However, here is the not-so-secret secret: most people learn to accept life as it comes to them and shift ambitions accordingly… It is all the same culture. We are all at the mercy of navigating through a personal narrative that is independent from the collective narrative but graded using common core standards. The other not-so-secret secret: you’re not going to remember or even care about the grade in the end. You’ll remember what you learned while you wrote it… and while you lived it. Confidence comes and goes. Creation is catharsis.
I love my content. I will spend hours working on lesson plans. Curriculum mapping is one of my favorite pass-times. If you ask me about culturally responsive pedagogy, I will straight up talk your ear off.... AND, I’ve sworn off coffee for the last seven years, because I didn’t want to get hooked on it. But, alas, the mocha coffee blend protein smoothies will be the death of my caffeine abstinence.
I feel I will be forever humbled by the realization that I am never enough. This is not self-doubt in the traditional sense. I’d like to say, generally, that confidence grows with age… that one cares less about what others think with age… that one develops a strong sense of self with age… But, much more realistically, confidence is a side effect of the moment. And, the moment is a rhetorical situation, bustling with an amalgam of factors, some beyond my immediate control.
I am always quite terrified by the aspect of writing for others. Perhaps this is because writing is the closest mirror to who I am behind the facades that I’ve learned to carefully build and construct in society, in my acquaintanceships, and in my profession. This is not lying. It is architecture. These walls are survivalist. In a world, where I might always offend someone, I’ve learned to be a chameleon. So, it is always a bit of a shock, when after a day of the normalized walking on eggshells, someone asks me to voice an opinion… and not just any opinion- my opinion... and for today (as with most days), my opinion is that darling, we're all human. Don't overthink it.
I’m in my late twenties, but I will ardently say that I am seventeen when a student tries to ask me my age. And, they will ask, because I am wearing clothes that dance along the lines of millennial and Gen Z fashion... and I'm five foot nothing... and I just don't care enough to wear make-up to make myself look older. I’ve learned to wear what makes me comfortable… because pencil skirts and heels were rather dreadful… and unfortunately, sweat pants, as professional wear, have not hit the mainstream. I can’t help but think that one day, my future students will laugh at the fact that shoulders with bra straps in 2021 were seen as sexually suggestive, much in the same way that they sarcastically discuss how ankles were once entirely scandalous.
I’m not a first-year teacher anymore… or a third year teacher… or a fifth year teacher. I am more confident in my ability to turn off my alarm three times (pushing it to the last minute that I HAVE to wake up) and still pull off an immaculate lesson plan that I whip up twenty minutes before first period. Yes, experience does have perks.
My classroom management style is more relaxed than it was in my first few years of teaching. I still won’t hesitate to write up a student… but, there is less tension when I write up students these days. It isn’t so much a power flex as it is a reminder that ‘hey, man, you crossed a line… let us re-establish it and move forward.’ I’ve learned to speak sophomore, which is a complex language system of snark, sarcasm, TikTok slang, and depression (both in tone and in content). Wit is pertinent.
I am honest. And, darling, I'm SO human (despite the vampire theories circulating these days). I will tell students that I don’t always love my job. There are days when I don’t have my life together. There are days when I am human, and I say things I shouldn’t say. And, I apologize. But, I will also tell my students that I love teaching. There are days when I have all my ducks in a neat, little row. There are days when I am human, and I say exactly what someone needs to hear at exactly the right time that they need to hear it. And, I am grateful.
I think most people, maybe even especially in the small towns of the U.S.A., notice this discrepancy between youth culture and ‘everybody else’ culture. However, here is the not-so-secret secret: most people learn to accept life as it comes to them and shift ambitions accordingly… It is all the same culture. We are all at the mercy of navigating through a personal narrative that is independent from the collective narrative but graded using common core standards. The other not-so-secret secret: you’re not going to remember or even care about the grade in the end. You’ll remember what you learned while you wrote it… and while you lived it. Confidence comes and goes. Creation is catharsis.
I love my content. I will spend hours working on lesson plans. Curriculum mapping is one of my favorite pass-times. If you ask me about culturally responsive pedagogy, I will straight up talk your ear off.... AND, I’ve sworn off coffee for the last seven years, because I didn’t want to get hooked on it. But, alas, the mocha coffee blend protein smoothies will be the death of my caffeine abstinence.
I feel I will be forever humbled by the realization that I am never enough. This is not self-doubt in the traditional sense. I’d like to say, generally, that confidence grows with age… that one cares less about what others think with age… that one develops a strong sense of self with age… But, much more realistically, confidence is a side effect of the moment. And, the moment is a rhetorical situation, bustling with an amalgam of factors, some beyond my immediate control.
I am always quite terrified by the aspect of writing for others. Perhaps this is because writing is the closest mirror to who I am behind the facades that I’ve learned to carefully build and construct in society, in my acquaintanceships, and in my profession. This is not lying. It is architecture. These walls are survivalist. In a world, where I might always offend someone, I’ve learned to be a chameleon. So, it is always a bit of a shock, when after a day of the normalized walking on eggshells, someone asks me to voice an opinion… and not just any opinion- my opinion... and for today (as with most days), my opinion is that darling, we're all human. Don't overthink it.
STARDUST. NOVEMBER 2021.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” -Mary Oliver
College is for those late night conversations… for those nights when you drag everyone outside to lay down on the empty basketball court by the dorm and watch shooting stars… for late night runs to the grocery store for raw cookie dough… for sharing stories and making friends and staying up until four in the morning. Marta Kauffman explained that F-R-I-E-N-D-S was born from the idea of creating a show that chronicled “that point in your life when friends become your family.” For me, it wasn’t New York City. It was Bloomington. It wasn’t a big city. It was a college town. Each memory made a star. Each basketball game made a constellation. Each grocery store run make a galaxy. Each conversation made its own universe. And, as quickly as it came, it was over like some cosmic blink of an eye. But, that’s the way of it, isn’t it? The meteor shower only lasts a night or two. The basketball season comes to an end. It’s closing time at the grocery store. And, at some point, when your phone shows you it’s four AM, you have to call it a night. It’s the temporality of the alternate universe that makes college memorable. It’s the finite nature of the golden years that makes up the weight of that one wild and precious life. It’s only the memory keepers that project the night sky and share the stories of all those constellations.
The Empty Basketball Court in Early December.
The Geminid Meteor Shower.
I remember the first night of stars more because that was the first time that I felt the temporality of college. I put on two pairs of pants- leggings and sweatpants. I put on two pairs of socks. I was wearing at least four layers of shirts under my winter coat. I pulled on my gloves. I pulled on the Target-brand, knock-off Ugg boots. I was ready for star-gazing. I shuffled with the three others to the basketball court. It was dark. The lights were turned off. I could feel the court beneath me- cold and gritty- as I looked up into the night sky and watched for shooting stars. And, in my mind, all I heard was the recording of Professor Frank Close on the Alan Parsons song, “Temporalia.” “When we are looking across space, we are looking back in time.” In that moment, I felt my greatness and my fallibility in the same moment. I felt that I was going to accomplish great things- that we all were… but somewhere in the lapse of time, it would all be over… and who then would tell our stories? I didn’t find the answer in the twins of St. Elmo’s Fire. So, I watched my breath hit the air like smoke and vanish into the crisp, cold night.
The C-Store for Raw Cookie Dough. Then, Back to the Dorm.
Any Given Weeknight.
I never cared about the freshmen fifteen. Hand over the cookie dough. The two that we were all trying to couple up were playing a board game. I’ve never liked board games. So, I sat on the outer circle and watched everyone else play. I asked a lot of questions and in-between the laughter and the strategies and the smell of the old carpet and popcorn, someone told me their story. And, I listened to the pain in words… not knowing what words to return. But, then, there was an understanding- an unspoken thing that existed without words. I didn’t find answers in the board game. So, I watched the glow of people under old, candescent linear lightbulbs. Twin flames reflected in the window as Bloomington stayed awake into the early morning.
The Grocery Store Runs.
The Second & Last Year.
When we look at the night sky, why do we only point out the constellations? What about the millions of other stars that exist there, in the background? I want to take those stars and store them in glass jars like lightning bugs to remind me of the little bits of summer nights that keep me warm in the heart of winter. Let’s drive to the grocery store with all the windows down and the bass threatening to blow out the speakers. Let’s go walk down the aisles and fill up the cart with food that we’ll make together. Then, let’s go back to some small, college rental apartment with the 90s fixtures and kitchens with dishes in the sinks. Someone play some music that I haven’t heard before. We’ll dance in the kitchen and make cheap food and pretend that the greatest years of our lives are in the future as we watch TV and talk about string theory and tell our stories. Because in those star moments, we don’t realize that we are living the story that we’ll tell later. Kindred spirits brought together for just a brief moment in time. It’s a beautiful idea. String theory.
Memory keepers store up stardust in the cellars of our past. We keep that dust from the stars that mapped the constellations that built the galaxies that made the universe. Blink. Cosmic. And, yes, sometimes in those dark drives to work in the mornings, I will imagine the night that I went star-gazing. Sometimes for a brief moment when someone tells me about their loss, I will think back to the board game. Sometimes when I am driving with all the windows down, I will hear a song that brings back a drive to the grocery store. Yes, these are memories that I will project onto the ceiling. These early stardust memories that no one else shares except for us.
College is for those late night conversations… for those nights when you drag everyone outside to lay down on the empty basketball court by the dorm and watch shooting stars… for late night runs to the grocery store for raw cookie dough… for sharing stories and making friends and staying up until four in the morning. Marta Kauffman explained that F-R-I-E-N-D-S was born from the idea of creating a show that chronicled “that point in your life when friends become your family.” For me, it wasn’t New York City. It was Bloomington. It wasn’t a big city. It was a college town. Each memory made a star. Each basketball game made a constellation. Each grocery store run make a galaxy. Each conversation made its own universe. And, as quickly as it came, it was over like some cosmic blink of an eye. But, that’s the way of it, isn’t it? The meteor shower only lasts a night or two. The basketball season comes to an end. It’s closing time at the grocery store. And, at some point, when your phone shows you it’s four AM, you have to call it a night. It’s the temporality of the alternate universe that makes college memorable. It’s the finite nature of the golden years that makes up the weight of that one wild and precious life. It’s only the memory keepers that project the night sky and share the stories of all those constellations.
The Empty Basketball Court in Early December.
The Geminid Meteor Shower.
I remember the first night of stars more because that was the first time that I felt the temporality of college. I put on two pairs of pants- leggings and sweatpants. I put on two pairs of socks. I was wearing at least four layers of shirts under my winter coat. I pulled on my gloves. I pulled on the Target-brand, knock-off Ugg boots. I was ready for star-gazing. I shuffled with the three others to the basketball court. It was dark. The lights were turned off. I could feel the court beneath me- cold and gritty- as I looked up into the night sky and watched for shooting stars. And, in my mind, all I heard was the recording of Professor Frank Close on the Alan Parsons song, “Temporalia.” “When we are looking across space, we are looking back in time.” In that moment, I felt my greatness and my fallibility in the same moment. I felt that I was going to accomplish great things- that we all were… but somewhere in the lapse of time, it would all be over… and who then would tell our stories? I didn’t find the answer in the twins of St. Elmo’s Fire. So, I watched my breath hit the air like smoke and vanish into the crisp, cold night.
The C-Store for Raw Cookie Dough. Then, Back to the Dorm.
Any Given Weeknight.
I never cared about the freshmen fifteen. Hand over the cookie dough. The two that we were all trying to couple up were playing a board game. I’ve never liked board games. So, I sat on the outer circle and watched everyone else play. I asked a lot of questions and in-between the laughter and the strategies and the smell of the old carpet and popcorn, someone told me their story. And, I listened to the pain in words… not knowing what words to return. But, then, there was an understanding- an unspoken thing that existed without words. I didn’t find answers in the board game. So, I watched the glow of people under old, candescent linear lightbulbs. Twin flames reflected in the window as Bloomington stayed awake into the early morning.
The Grocery Store Runs.
The Second & Last Year.
When we look at the night sky, why do we only point out the constellations? What about the millions of other stars that exist there, in the background? I want to take those stars and store them in glass jars like lightning bugs to remind me of the little bits of summer nights that keep me warm in the heart of winter. Let’s drive to the grocery store with all the windows down and the bass threatening to blow out the speakers. Let’s go walk down the aisles and fill up the cart with food that we’ll make together. Then, let’s go back to some small, college rental apartment with the 90s fixtures and kitchens with dishes in the sinks. Someone play some music that I haven’t heard before. We’ll dance in the kitchen and make cheap food and pretend that the greatest years of our lives are in the future as we watch TV and talk about string theory and tell our stories. Because in those star moments, we don’t realize that we are living the story that we’ll tell later. Kindred spirits brought together for just a brief moment in time. It’s a beautiful idea. String theory.
Memory keepers store up stardust in the cellars of our past. We keep that dust from the stars that mapped the constellations that built the galaxies that made the universe. Blink. Cosmic. And, yes, sometimes in those dark drives to work in the mornings, I will imagine the night that I went star-gazing. Sometimes for a brief moment when someone tells me about their loss, I will think back to the board game. Sometimes when I am driving with all the windows down, I will hear a song that brings back a drive to the grocery store. Yes, these are memories that I will project onto the ceiling. These early stardust memories that no one else shares except for us.
HOW TO MAP OUT FALL BREAK. OCTOBER 2021.
DAY ONE | CATCH UP ON SLEEP; CLEAN THE HOUSE; THEN GRADE AP LANG ESSAYS
DAY TWO | FIRST HALF: ARTS FESTIVAL, DONUTS WITH THE FAM, THRIFTING; SECOND HALF: FRIEND'S WEDDING
DAY THREE | HELP TEACHER BESTIE PICK OUT HER WEDDING DRESS
DAY FOUR | GET CAR READY FOR ROAD TRIP & CATCH UP WITH TEACHER FRIEND FROM THE EARLY TEACHING YEARS
DAY FIVE | VISIT FORMER STUDENTS AT IU'S MOTHER BEAR'S PIZZA; CATCH UP WITH A FRIEND FROM COLLEGE YEARS
DAY SIX | GRADE PAPERS, PACK FOR TRIP, & FINISH ART PROJECT- PHOTO CONSTELLATIONS
DAY SEVEN | GIRLS' ROAD TRIP TO NORTH CAROLINA TO VISIT COUSIN
DAY EIGHT & NINE | COFFEE, WINDOW SHOPPING, FARMER'S MARKET, VISIT GREENHOUSES, STAY AT THE FARM
DAY TEN | BRING OUT THE ULTIMATE ROAD TRIP PLAYLIST; TRAVEL BACK, LESSON PLAN, AND GRADE MORE PAPERS
NOW: WISH FOR ANOTHER FALL BREAK AS BEAUTIFUL AS THIS
DAY TWO | FIRST HALF: ARTS FESTIVAL, DONUTS WITH THE FAM, THRIFTING; SECOND HALF: FRIEND'S WEDDING
DAY THREE | HELP TEACHER BESTIE PICK OUT HER WEDDING DRESS
DAY FOUR | GET CAR READY FOR ROAD TRIP & CATCH UP WITH TEACHER FRIEND FROM THE EARLY TEACHING YEARS
DAY FIVE | VISIT FORMER STUDENTS AT IU'S MOTHER BEAR'S PIZZA; CATCH UP WITH A FRIEND FROM COLLEGE YEARS
DAY SIX | GRADE PAPERS, PACK FOR TRIP, & FINISH ART PROJECT- PHOTO CONSTELLATIONS
DAY SEVEN | GIRLS' ROAD TRIP TO NORTH CAROLINA TO VISIT COUSIN
DAY EIGHT & NINE | COFFEE, WINDOW SHOPPING, FARMER'S MARKET, VISIT GREENHOUSES, STAY AT THE FARM
DAY TEN | BRING OUT THE ULTIMATE ROAD TRIP PLAYLIST; TRAVEL BACK, LESSON PLAN, AND GRADE MORE PAPERS
NOW: WISH FOR ANOTHER FALL BREAK AS BEAUTIFUL AS THIS
ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL & MRS. A. SEPTEMBER 2021.
I am one of those storytellers. You know the type- the one that tells you fifteen different back stories so that you can understand the current story... and, well, sometimes, the current story gets lost in the cat's cradle of back stories. But, that's not the point. It's just that everything seems so overwhelmingly connected that I cannot avoid showing you how each puzzle piece comes together for the narrative.
Backstory: In high school, I was not a big reader. I need to preface with that because you need to understand that despite becoming an English teacher, I didn't "love" libraries and I was NOT a voracious reader at that point. But, during my junior year, my best friend (who skipped lunch every day because she thought she was fat) and I (who skipped lunch because the thought of having to spend an additional 30 minutes with tons of my loquacious peers seemed way worse than skipping a meal) would sit in the library. Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes we worked on homework. Sometimes we studied using the flashcards that I made for every. single. test. Sometimes she would be absorbed in the world of her phone, and I would sit absorbed in a book of poems or theories in my textbook for astronomy. My best friend knew the librarian well. Her grandmother and the librarian were pretty good friends. So, I kind of knew the librarian, because I stood there (probably awkwardly) when my best friend would chat it up with Mrs. A (the librarian).
Backstory: When we graduated from high school, Mrs. A took us out for lunch the summer before we went away for college. We talked all about our college game plans. My best friend was going to university out of state, and I was going to IU. We had both grown up in the same small town and we were both about to start our own stories. Mrs. A paid for lunch and wished us the very best.
Backstory: Three years later, after I finished my undergrad degree, and had secured my first official teaching job, I was in a staff meeting - still so full of life and still so nervous- as most first-year teachers are. I was scanning the room- looking at all the people. It was a big school. In the English department, there were twenty of us.... so the entire staff was like the size of Hauser. Across the room, I saw Mrs. A. I knew at least one person. I was saved from having to be that awkward wallflower in a sea of people that I didn't know. I quickly went over and re-introduced myself. From that day on, Mrs. A became one of my people. The first and second year of teaching can be brutal and overwhelming. However, during my prep period, I would retreat to the library and sit there with Mrs. A, while she listened to me vent about everything. In turn, she told me about her teaching years- about how she started teaching before schools integrated and about the climate of schools during integration and about the race riots. She told me about all of her travels- about Paris, Prague, and so many other places. She helped me lesson plan and teach research. She helped me structure independent reading. She was one of my strongest supporters through some of the most trying times in my teaching career.
Backstory: After two years of teaching, I really thought I was not meant to be a teacher. So, I applied to a few graduate programs to further study literature. I didn't think I would get into any programs, but I applied anyway. I was accepted into two programs- a local one and an overseas one. I went to Mrs. A for advice. I didn't know what to do. I loved the idea of studying abroad, but I was afraid of the financial burdens that would follow an experience like that. Mrs. A told me that I needed to go- that there isn't a price tag that you can put on the experience that comes from living in Europe during your twenties- that there isn't a way to fully understand other cultures without experiencing them. My M.A. program was in London. She told me all about her London travels. She told me about how she climbed all the way up the 528 steps in St. Paul's Cathedral to look over London.
Backstory: So, near the end of my year in London, I spontaneously decided to do it. I was going to climb up the 528 stair steps in SPC to overlook the city... Only problem: I was wearing a maxi skirt and sandals without backs. I did it anyway. And, when I was looking across London, I thought about how amazing it was that in my junior year of high school, I met an amazing person, who would one day led me right to that place, who would make me a better educator, who would inspire me to take great leaps of faith, who would teach me how to help students fall in love with books, research, and understanding the value of experience.
Current story: When I heard someone mention her name the other day, I knew I needed to write her a thank you. While words may never suffice, I am eternally grateful for her example. And, whenever I hear anything about St. Paul's Cathedral, I think about Mrs. A.
Backstory: In high school, I was not a big reader. I need to preface with that because you need to understand that despite becoming an English teacher, I didn't "love" libraries and I was NOT a voracious reader at that point. But, during my junior year, my best friend (who skipped lunch every day because she thought she was fat) and I (who skipped lunch because the thought of having to spend an additional 30 minutes with tons of my loquacious peers seemed way worse than skipping a meal) would sit in the library. Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes we worked on homework. Sometimes we studied using the flashcards that I made for every. single. test. Sometimes she would be absorbed in the world of her phone, and I would sit absorbed in a book of poems or theories in my textbook for astronomy. My best friend knew the librarian well. Her grandmother and the librarian were pretty good friends. So, I kind of knew the librarian, because I stood there (probably awkwardly) when my best friend would chat it up with Mrs. A (the librarian).
Backstory: When we graduated from high school, Mrs. A took us out for lunch the summer before we went away for college. We talked all about our college game plans. My best friend was going to university out of state, and I was going to IU. We had both grown up in the same small town and we were both about to start our own stories. Mrs. A paid for lunch and wished us the very best.
Backstory: Three years later, after I finished my undergrad degree, and had secured my first official teaching job, I was in a staff meeting - still so full of life and still so nervous- as most first-year teachers are. I was scanning the room- looking at all the people. It was a big school. In the English department, there were twenty of us.... so the entire staff was like the size of Hauser. Across the room, I saw Mrs. A. I knew at least one person. I was saved from having to be that awkward wallflower in a sea of people that I didn't know. I quickly went over and re-introduced myself. From that day on, Mrs. A became one of my people. The first and second year of teaching can be brutal and overwhelming. However, during my prep period, I would retreat to the library and sit there with Mrs. A, while she listened to me vent about everything. In turn, she told me about her teaching years- about how she started teaching before schools integrated and about the climate of schools during integration and about the race riots. She told me about all of her travels- about Paris, Prague, and so many other places. She helped me lesson plan and teach research. She helped me structure independent reading. She was one of my strongest supporters through some of the most trying times in my teaching career.
Backstory: After two years of teaching, I really thought I was not meant to be a teacher. So, I applied to a few graduate programs to further study literature. I didn't think I would get into any programs, but I applied anyway. I was accepted into two programs- a local one and an overseas one. I went to Mrs. A for advice. I didn't know what to do. I loved the idea of studying abroad, but I was afraid of the financial burdens that would follow an experience like that. Mrs. A told me that I needed to go- that there isn't a price tag that you can put on the experience that comes from living in Europe during your twenties- that there isn't a way to fully understand other cultures without experiencing them. My M.A. program was in London. She told me all about her London travels. She told me about how she climbed all the way up the 528 steps in St. Paul's Cathedral to look over London.
Backstory: So, near the end of my year in London, I spontaneously decided to do it. I was going to climb up the 528 stair steps in SPC to overlook the city... Only problem: I was wearing a maxi skirt and sandals without backs. I did it anyway. And, when I was looking across London, I thought about how amazing it was that in my junior year of high school, I met an amazing person, who would one day led me right to that place, who would make me a better educator, who would inspire me to take great leaps of faith, who would teach me how to help students fall in love with books, research, and understanding the value of experience.
Current story: When I heard someone mention her name the other day, I knew I needed to write her a thank you. While words may never suffice, I am eternally grateful for her example. And, whenever I hear anything about St. Paul's Cathedral, I think about Mrs. A.
THE COMPROMISE AESTHETIC. AUGUST 2021.
I hate being sick. But, the plus side (of being sick) is that it gives a socially reasonable excuse to slow down, to pause. And, it is a real pain when you hit the unpause button and get slammed with everything that you put off for a couple of days. Nevertheless, the ability to switch work mode on and off is a skill set that I've wanted to master for years. So, here's to practice. Cheers.
The last time that I spent four years in one educational establishment was high school (and before high school, it was like playing hot potato between schools- Lutheran school, Catholic school, public school one, public school two). So, entering my fourth year at Hauser is somewhat strange... comforting in its familiarity and unsettling because of its familiarity at the same exact time. Post-college, my twenties have been a rap sheet of rolling stone experiences. This is the longest I've stayed in one place. The further I trek into secondary teaching, the more and more I feel like an outlier. I think this is because I fell into the trap of specialization. I was thinking the other day... as I do many days... about the design flaws of twenty-first century educational paradigms. I was thinking about bureaucratic models, policy shifts since "A Nation at Risk," and the extreme differences between primary education, middle school education, and high school education... as one does. I remember thinking (when I was finishing my first degree) that I would have enough experience to understand secondary teaching after two years in the field... Seven years later, I think education systems change far too quickly for anyone to ever be completely confident in one's ability to fully understand the intricacies of secondary teaching. I think experience is the best teacher--- and that takes time.
I was reading a literary piece (by Rachel Greenwald Smith) on the compromise aesthetic in DFW's Infinite Jest. Since my educational training rests in contemporary literature and educational policy, the common ground and trending buzzword is always 'neoliberalism.' In the piece, Smith explores the chronological development of contemporary (code: post-45) literature. She remarks, "The experimentalists of the 1960s and 70s: [were] Language poets and postmodernists. These writers saw aesthetic difficulty and novelty as the hallmark of literary excellence and, in the case of Language poets, as modes of political refusal" (Smith 2021). Therefore, within the Western cultural revolution culture of the 60s and 70s, literature produced two standards: (1) aesthetic difficulty and (2) novelty. I would argue that the former confirmed the latter. The inclusion of some level of aesthetic difficulty (by dissent or divergence from the status quo) hallmarked novelty. However, Smith recognizes that, "On the other hand, there were the traditionalists, the conservative New Formalists, the Garrison Keillor populists, and the proponents of MFA programs, which were perceived to be grooming grounds for traditional, anti-experimental, marketable products" (2021). This divide between the "MFA programs" (cue: institutionalized education) with their "marketable products" (cue: neoliberal policy influence) created a direct contrast to what was happening in the literary world. This literary (and educational) rift set the foundation for the changes that followed in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. As Stephanie Burt asserts, by the 90s, "Writers 'sought something new: something more open to personal emotion, to story and feeling, than Language poetry, but more complicated intellectually than most of the creative-writing programs' poets allowed... Compromise was born as a solution to polarization" (qtd. in Smith 2021). So, the resulting space was an ecotone of aesthetic difficulty, novelty, storytelling, personalization, traditionalism, and New Formalism all channeled to make literary productions that were marketable in a free market economy.
WHY IS THIS RELEVANT? Because, that discussion is the parallel discussion to the evolution of secondary education practices and pedagogy. Why do I feel like an outlier in secondary education? Because I specialized in contemporary literature AND in education (which is a marriage of aesthetic compromise). On the literary side, I want to teach and study the nuances of aesthetic difficulty, the conceptualizations of "novel" approaches to writing, and the works of contemporary tales fused with intellectual musings, emotion-gripping rhetoric, and the by-products of Language poets from the 60s, postmodernists from the 70s and 80s, and contemporary writers from the 90s to present day. BUT, on the educational side, the academic state standards are the direct product of the New Formalism/New Criticism school of thought (which, if it doesn't erase, blurs the contextual knowledge surrounding a piece of literature)... which, in turn, manifests in standardized tests. The assessments that I have to utilize to "measure" the "products" of my "workers"... sorry, "students," is the structural basis of the "grooming grounds" for "traditional, anti-experimental, marketable products" a.k.a. standardized test scores, school letter grades, school ranking, teacher evaluations, funding, and salaries. And, I understand that the establishment of school accountability measures commenced with intentions to close the academic gap, to better educational systems, and to "rise up." I know that schools are inherently ecotones themselves of content areas and policies... of social justice and of business management. This is why I may never be completely confident in my level of experience... because while 10,000 hours makes someone an expert, how can one be an expert if the aesthetic compromise is always in play- always changing- always structured between two conflicting realms that always make the person in the middle feel like an outlier?
I'll post another entry about how I use both backgrounds to appeal to culturally responsive teaching that both explores alternative views of literary pedagogy but also meets that standards and precedents set by neoliberal policies. But, for now, I am going to snuggle up with a box of tissues and an umpteenth viewing of a Friends episode... and eventually finish marking those last few essays.
The last time that I spent four years in one educational establishment was high school (and before high school, it was like playing hot potato between schools- Lutheran school, Catholic school, public school one, public school two). So, entering my fourth year at Hauser is somewhat strange... comforting in its familiarity and unsettling because of its familiarity at the same exact time. Post-college, my twenties have been a rap sheet of rolling stone experiences. This is the longest I've stayed in one place. The further I trek into secondary teaching, the more and more I feel like an outlier. I think this is because I fell into the trap of specialization. I was thinking the other day... as I do many days... about the design flaws of twenty-first century educational paradigms. I was thinking about bureaucratic models, policy shifts since "A Nation at Risk," and the extreme differences between primary education, middle school education, and high school education... as one does. I remember thinking (when I was finishing my first degree) that I would have enough experience to understand secondary teaching after two years in the field... Seven years later, I think education systems change far too quickly for anyone to ever be completely confident in one's ability to fully understand the intricacies of secondary teaching. I think experience is the best teacher--- and that takes time.
I was reading a literary piece (by Rachel Greenwald Smith) on the compromise aesthetic in DFW's Infinite Jest. Since my educational training rests in contemporary literature and educational policy, the common ground and trending buzzword is always 'neoliberalism.' In the piece, Smith explores the chronological development of contemporary (code: post-45) literature. She remarks, "The experimentalists of the 1960s and 70s: [were] Language poets and postmodernists. These writers saw aesthetic difficulty and novelty as the hallmark of literary excellence and, in the case of Language poets, as modes of political refusal" (Smith 2021). Therefore, within the Western cultural revolution culture of the 60s and 70s, literature produced two standards: (1) aesthetic difficulty and (2) novelty. I would argue that the former confirmed the latter. The inclusion of some level of aesthetic difficulty (by dissent or divergence from the status quo) hallmarked novelty. However, Smith recognizes that, "On the other hand, there were the traditionalists, the conservative New Formalists, the Garrison Keillor populists, and the proponents of MFA programs, which were perceived to be grooming grounds for traditional, anti-experimental, marketable products" (2021). This divide between the "MFA programs" (cue: institutionalized education) with their "marketable products" (cue: neoliberal policy influence) created a direct contrast to what was happening in the literary world. This literary (and educational) rift set the foundation for the changes that followed in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. As Stephanie Burt asserts, by the 90s, "Writers 'sought something new: something more open to personal emotion, to story and feeling, than Language poetry, but more complicated intellectually than most of the creative-writing programs' poets allowed... Compromise was born as a solution to polarization" (qtd. in Smith 2021). So, the resulting space was an ecotone of aesthetic difficulty, novelty, storytelling, personalization, traditionalism, and New Formalism all channeled to make literary productions that were marketable in a free market economy.
WHY IS THIS RELEVANT? Because, that discussion is the parallel discussion to the evolution of secondary education practices and pedagogy. Why do I feel like an outlier in secondary education? Because I specialized in contemporary literature AND in education (which is a marriage of aesthetic compromise). On the literary side, I want to teach and study the nuances of aesthetic difficulty, the conceptualizations of "novel" approaches to writing, and the works of contemporary tales fused with intellectual musings, emotion-gripping rhetoric, and the by-products of Language poets from the 60s, postmodernists from the 70s and 80s, and contemporary writers from the 90s to present day. BUT, on the educational side, the academic state standards are the direct product of the New Formalism/New Criticism school of thought (which, if it doesn't erase, blurs the contextual knowledge surrounding a piece of literature)... which, in turn, manifests in standardized tests. The assessments that I have to utilize to "measure" the "products" of my "workers"... sorry, "students," is the structural basis of the "grooming grounds" for "traditional, anti-experimental, marketable products" a.k.a. standardized test scores, school letter grades, school ranking, teacher evaluations, funding, and salaries. And, I understand that the establishment of school accountability measures commenced with intentions to close the academic gap, to better educational systems, and to "rise up." I know that schools are inherently ecotones themselves of content areas and policies... of social justice and of business management. This is why I may never be completely confident in my level of experience... because while 10,000 hours makes someone an expert, how can one be an expert if the aesthetic compromise is always in play- always changing- always structured between two conflicting realms that always make the person in the middle feel like an outlier?
I'll post another entry about how I use both backgrounds to appeal to culturally responsive teaching that both explores alternative views of literary pedagogy but also meets that standards and precedents set by neoliberal policies. But, for now, I am going to snuggle up with a box of tissues and an umpteenth viewing of a Friends episode... and eventually finish marking those last few essays.
Make a bold, defensible claim. Run with it. The ideological state apparatus governing American, secondary, public education often fails to position teachers as academics. [I tell my students that the most important part of an essay is the thesis. It is the center of the universe for the essay. Everything else should surround it, build it, and enhance it. The next hardest part is defending the claim in the thesis statement(s).]
While most secondary educators in the United States are expected to earn their Master's degree in the first ten years of service, it is not sufficient for proliferating a cutting edge educational system. Why? Because most teachers are expected to teach full time and work toward their second degree. What is the result? Most teachers cannot devote their full attention to their graduate studies (because our students almost always come first). It should change. Professional development should be content-related, contemporary, and innovative. Teachers should not have to sit through another classroom management seminar (because trial by fire is pretty effective in the field). The simultaneous problem and saving grace of the English language is the subjunctive verbal mood- the ability to posit hypotheticals in language (would, could, should). So what? If the current paradigm continues, if teachers are viewed as subpar academics, then the American, secondary, public education system will perpetuate a system that shortchanges both educators and students.
Over the last six years, I sought opportunities to grow as an educator and an academic. There are wonderful programs that support the vision of teachers as academics, even when the system fails to scaffold content-specific professional development. For my student teaching practicum, the Global Gateways Program and Navajo Nation Program (through Indiana University) enabled me to live and teach in the Navajo Nation. I began to conceptualize a pluralistic curriculum and holistic approaches to teaching. After my first year of teaching, I enrolled in the Overseas Practicum for Experienced Teachers (through Indiana University) and spent a month teaching in England. I continued to understand the impact of neoliberal policies in the classroom. Then, after my second year of teaching, I enrolled in a Master's program in contemporary literature at King's College London in England. I began to conceptualize a pedagogical approach that promoted, scaffolded, and prompted rhetorical sovereignty. After completing an intensive M.A. course, I taught for three more years in Indiana. While I sought opportunities to stay current in literary trends and pedagogical approaches (especially with the rise of awareness in trauma-informed care and the distance learning initiative), it was hard to carve out time to conduct independent research. This summer, the Lilly Endowment provided the Teacher Creativity Grant so that I could continue researching my interests in pluralistic avenues for literacy, rhetorical sovereignty as a writing mode, and multimodal narratives (particularly the relationship between land, indigenous history, and national parks). I am abundantly grateful.
I decided to use this digital space to document the photographs and some of the working journal entries regarding the Lilly Creativity Fellowship. When we (Mrs. Tom and I) return to Indiana, we will initiate a photography club and help promote positive multimodal relations inspired by land relations and captured through a lens. Our trip is called: 'Through Our Lens: Parks, Photography, & Pedagogy.'
While most secondary educators in the United States are expected to earn their Master's degree in the first ten years of service, it is not sufficient for proliferating a cutting edge educational system. Why? Because most teachers are expected to teach full time and work toward their second degree. What is the result? Most teachers cannot devote their full attention to their graduate studies (because our students almost always come first). It should change. Professional development should be content-related, contemporary, and innovative. Teachers should not have to sit through another classroom management seminar (because trial by fire is pretty effective in the field). The simultaneous problem and saving grace of the English language is the subjunctive verbal mood- the ability to posit hypotheticals in language (would, could, should). So what? If the current paradigm continues, if teachers are viewed as subpar academics, then the American, secondary, public education system will perpetuate a system that shortchanges both educators and students.
Over the last six years, I sought opportunities to grow as an educator and an academic. There are wonderful programs that support the vision of teachers as academics, even when the system fails to scaffold content-specific professional development. For my student teaching practicum, the Global Gateways Program and Navajo Nation Program (through Indiana University) enabled me to live and teach in the Navajo Nation. I began to conceptualize a pluralistic curriculum and holistic approaches to teaching. After my first year of teaching, I enrolled in the Overseas Practicum for Experienced Teachers (through Indiana University) and spent a month teaching in England. I continued to understand the impact of neoliberal policies in the classroom. Then, after my second year of teaching, I enrolled in a Master's program in contemporary literature at King's College London in England. I began to conceptualize a pedagogical approach that promoted, scaffolded, and prompted rhetorical sovereignty. After completing an intensive M.A. course, I taught for three more years in Indiana. While I sought opportunities to stay current in literary trends and pedagogical approaches (especially with the rise of awareness in trauma-informed care and the distance learning initiative), it was hard to carve out time to conduct independent research. This summer, the Lilly Endowment provided the Teacher Creativity Grant so that I could continue researching my interests in pluralistic avenues for literacy, rhetorical sovereignty as a writing mode, and multimodal narratives (particularly the relationship between land, indigenous history, and national parks). I am abundantly grateful.
I decided to use this digital space to document the photographs and some of the working journal entries regarding the Lilly Creativity Fellowship. When we (Mrs. Tom and I) return to Indiana, we will initiate a photography club and help promote positive multimodal relations inspired by land relations and captured through a lens. Our trip is called: 'Through Our Lens: Parks, Photography, & Pedagogy.'
VISIT HANKSVILLE, UTAH. 16 JUNE 2021.
"Improbable events happened all the time, she tried to explain to her students, because improbability is an illusion based on our preconceptions. Often it has nothing to do with statistical truth... Likely does not mean certain. Improbable does not mean impossible" (Bennett- The Vanishing Half).
Before the gas station in the mountain, there is 'Carl's Critter Garden.' I planned to see the Big Five National Parks, walk through visceral landscapes, think deeply, walk on sidewalks of downtown shops... But, it seemed improbable that my favorite part of the entire trip would be an artistic garden on the side of the road in Hanksville, Utah. The sign reads 'Greater Hanksville Art Rehabilitation Initiative.' In the garden, there is an old Case tractor, a gas pump from Fort Wayne, Indiana, a replica of a love bus, jars, cages, dinosaur creations, a rainbow, two old cars, iron-wrought art, a hacky sack graveyard, and little signs that offer little words of wisdom. It's full of creative energy. It's inspiring. And, it's completely unexpected.
Before the gas station in the mountain, there is 'Carl's Critter Garden.' I planned to see the Big Five National Parks, walk through visceral landscapes, think deeply, walk on sidewalks of downtown shops... But, it seemed improbable that my favorite part of the entire trip would be an artistic garden on the side of the road in Hanksville, Utah. The sign reads 'Greater Hanksville Art Rehabilitation Initiative.' In the garden, there is an old Case tractor, a gas pump from Fort Wayne, Indiana, a replica of a love bus, jars, cages, dinosaur creations, a rainbow, two old cars, iron-wrought art, a hacky sack graveyard, and little signs that offer little words of wisdom. It's full of creative energy. It's inspiring. And, it's completely unexpected.
TURQUOISE MOONSCAPE OVERLOOK. 15 JUNE 2021.
Perhaps improbability is my niche. There is a place between Caineville and Hanksville in Utah that has landscapes that look like the moon. In the evening or morning hours, when shadows cover the desert like blankets, the surface of Moonscape Overlook looks lunar- like a different world. It makes me think of mindscapes and a little French storybook by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. There are roads- but not of the paved or sign-marked variety. Drive out these roads for a ten minutes and stop to look around. It'll feel like you are on a different planet. And, as the winds race across this world, fill your soul on the mystery and the vastness of a land that was once an ocean. The thought of water covering this land makes my stomach jump in the same way it does when I stand before a vast ocean. But, the solid earth under my feet, the brilliant wavelengths on the horizon, and the mountains that reach to the sky fill me with peace. There aren't any people around- no signs of houses or anything. Twenty minutes before this turn off highway 24, there was a lone cow walking through mountains with signs posted- 'Open Range.' You'll feel isolated and complete in the same moment.
Drive on toward Hanksville. There is a gas station built into the side of a mountain. Ask for directions to Moonscape Overlook. The woman at the cash register will look up from the monitor of various screens and her Spotify playlists, and look directly at the turquoise ring that was crafted by the Navajo artist W. Begay on your finger, and tell you that her grandfather had been in these lands since 1913. She does not know what you are talking about... Probably something the young people call it these days. An entire conversation occurs without words. Tourism doesn't always respect the sacredness of the lands. And, I want to speak to her in her native language, but I didn't learn the native tongue in school.
Drive on toward Hanksville. There is a gas station built into the side of a mountain. Ask for directions to Moonscape Overlook. The woman at the cash register will look up from the monitor of various screens and her Spotify playlists, and look directly at the turquoise ring that was crafted by the Navajo artist W. Begay on your finger, and tell you that her grandfather had been in these lands since 1913. She does not know what you are talking about... Probably something the young people call it these days. An entire conversation occurs without words. Tourism doesn't always respect the sacredness of the lands. And, I want to speak to her in her native language, but I didn't learn the native tongue in school.
OVID, LEO, & THE ASTRONOMY FESTIVAL. 13 JUNE 2021.
That moment when Ovid (slowly, without you realizing it) becomes your main literary man.
So this one is for Ovid, Edwin Hubble, my dad, and Mr. Jackson.
Let me explain: Every June, Bryce Canyon National Park puts on an Astronomy Festival (Astrofest). Covid precautions kind of threw a wrench in the plan last year. However, this year, the festival picked up where it left off. While waiting in line to reserve a spot in one of the constellation tours (because social distancing with the park is still a precaution), I heard the couple in front of me talking about their connection with the Astronomy Festival. After the solar eclipse in 2017, this guy developed a new-found interest in telescopes and viewing the night sky. He found other people, who were also into telescopes. So, for three years, all of these people (most likely brought together by FaceBook), would meet at Bryce and set up their telescopes for anyone and everyone who wanted to have a look at the night sky.
Bryce Canyon is home to astroscientists. Since the park works hard to control light pollution, it has one of the darkest night skies of the national parks. Last night, I looked out across the sky at millions of stars. You could see the moon hugging the horizon. You could see Mars just above the evergreen trees. Along the ecliptic, you could see Leo and Scorpio. You could see the Milky Way band. It was truly amazing.
I first took astronomy as a junior in high school. I loved the course. ‘Arc to Arcturus’ and ‘Spike to Spica.’ I remember the little sayings to help remember the sky. Always start with the Big Dipper (in Ursa Major), interestingly enough- not an official constellation, just an asterism. I remember the summer triangle of stars- Vega, Deneb, and Altair. SO MANY THINGS came flooding back into my consciousness. I have Mr. Jackson to thank for that. I also have to thank my dad for my love for space. In college, I was obsessed with Frank Close (a professor at Oxford) and his research on “nothing” after hearing a soundbite embedded into one of Alan Parson’s songs, “Temporalia.” The ideas in quantum physics, multiple dimensions, string theory, spectroscopy, etc. have always fascinated me.
Last night, as the park ranger told stories and facts about the constellations, he shared about his favorite constellation- Leo (the lion). THIS PART I DIDN’T KNOW. Anyone of my students could tell you that I don’t like Shakespeare as a person- like just from what I’ve read, not a fan. BUT, they would also tell you that I love A Midsummer Night’s Dream… and the framed narrative, “Pyramus and Thisbe” (because it is way better than Romeo and Juliet… because there is a lion). AND, THEN, I LEARNED THAT THE LION IN PYRAMUS AND THISBE IS LEO. So, rewind.
In about 8 C.E., Ovid, a Roman poet, wrote a compilation of folklore called The Metamorphoses. In this compilation is the story of Pyramus and Thisbe… which is the O.G. story of Romeo and Juliet (the story that most American high schools force students to read). BUT, in this case, I think P & T have a much cooler story. So, once upon a time, there were two families that did not like each other… but they lived in a townhouse. An earthquake left a crack in one of the conjoining walls. After a while, Pyramus (the guy) and Thisbe (the girl) started chatting it up and “fell in love.” So, they made a game plan to run away together and meet at this tree. Thisbe went first. They had to time it out just right so as to quell suspicions. On her way to the tree, a lioness was returning from hunting. Thisbe freaked out a little and dropped her cloak. The lion sniffed the cloak and moved on with her life. Pyramus, thinking the coast was clear, headed out. Then, he saw it (insert dramatic music). He saw Thisbe’s cloak covered in blood… and he thought the lioness killed her. So, being all impulsive and reactionary, he went to their meeting tree and stabbed himself. Thisbe, thinking it was safe to resume her journey, hobbled along to the meeting tree. There, she found the dead Pyramus. And, yeah, she killed herself too. I know this story well. I have to teach it so that my students know what the workmen are trying to present in their play for Duke Theseus and Hippolyta (in AMSND). However, what I didn’t know is that the constellation Leo is tied to this story- except somehow the lioness in Ovid’s tale became a lion in the Greek tale. So, Zeus threw Leo into the sky to remind people that lovers are crazy and impulsive.
Classroom application: I’ve decided that next year, it would be cool to do a constellation story unit. I want to find a grant to set up a small planetarium for my students. Then, I want to assign different constellations to different students. Each student will have to research the story (or stories) behind each constellation. I think this will be a new twist in my Greek mythology unit.
P.S. And why Hubble? Edwin Hubble worked at New Albany High School (the oldest public high school in Indiana) before going on to receive the honor of having the Hubble telescope named after him. So, gotta shout-out to my Indiana people.
So this one is for Ovid, Edwin Hubble, my dad, and Mr. Jackson.
Let me explain: Every June, Bryce Canyon National Park puts on an Astronomy Festival (Astrofest). Covid precautions kind of threw a wrench in the plan last year. However, this year, the festival picked up where it left off. While waiting in line to reserve a spot in one of the constellation tours (because social distancing with the park is still a precaution), I heard the couple in front of me talking about their connection with the Astronomy Festival. After the solar eclipse in 2017, this guy developed a new-found interest in telescopes and viewing the night sky. He found other people, who were also into telescopes. So, for three years, all of these people (most likely brought together by FaceBook), would meet at Bryce and set up their telescopes for anyone and everyone who wanted to have a look at the night sky.
Bryce Canyon is home to astroscientists. Since the park works hard to control light pollution, it has one of the darkest night skies of the national parks. Last night, I looked out across the sky at millions of stars. You could see the moon hugging the horizon. You could see Mars just above the evergreen trees. Along the ecliptic, you could see Leo and Scorpio. You could see the Milky Way band. It was truly amazing.
I first took astronomy as a junior in high school. I loved the course. ‘Arc to Arcturus’ and ‘Spike to Spica.’ I remember the little sayings to help remember the sky. Always start with the Big Dipper (in Ursa Major), interestingly enough- not an official constellation, just an asterism. I remember the summer triangle of stars- Vega, Deneb, and Altair. SO MANY THINGS came flooding back into my consciousness. I have Mr. Jackson to thank for that. I also have to thank my dad for my love for space. In college, I was obsessed with Frank Close (a professor at Oxford) and his research on “nothing” after hearing a soundbite embedded into one of Alan Parson’s songs, “Temporalia.” The ideas in quantum physics, multiple dimensions, string theory, spectroscopy, etc. have always fascinated me.
Last night, as the park ranger told stories and facts about the constellations, he shared about his favorite constellation- Leo (the lion). THIS PART I DIDN’T KNOW. Anyone of my students could tell you that I don’t like Shakespeare as a person- like just from what I’ve read, not a fan. BUT, they would also tell you that I love A Midsummer Night’s Dream… and the framed narrative, “Pyramus and Thisbe” (because it is way better than Romeo and Juliet… because there is a lion). AND, THEN, I LEARNED THAT THE LION IN PYRAMUS AND THISBE IS LEO. So, rewind.
In about 8 C.E., Ovid, a Roman poet, wrote a compilation of folklore called The Metamorphoses. In this compilation is the story of Pyramus and Thisbe… which is the O.G. story of Romeo and Juliet (the story that most American high schools force students to read). BUT, in this case, I think P & T have a much cooler story. So, once upon a time, there were two families that did not like each other… but they lived in a townhouse. An earthquake left a crack in one of the conjoining walls. After a while, Pyramus (the guy) and Thisbe (the girl) started chatting it up and “fell in love.” So, they made a game plan to run away together and meet at this tree. Thisbe went first. They had to time it out just right so as to quell suspicions. On her way to the tree, a lioness was returning from hunting. Thisbe freaked out a little and dropped her cloak. The lion sniffed the cloak and moved on with her life. Pyramus, thinking the coast was clear, headed out. Then, he saw it (insert dramatic music). He saw Thisbe’s cloak covered in blood… and he thought the lioness killed her. So, being all impulsive and reactionary, he went to their meeting tree and stabbed himself. Thisbe, thinking it was safe to resume her journey, hobbled along to the meeting tree. There, she found the dead Pyramus. And, yeah, she killed herself too. I know this story well. I have to teach it so that my students know what the workmen are trying to present in their play for Duke Theseus and Hippolyta (in AMSND). However, what I didn’t know is that the constellation Leo is tied to this story- except somehow the lioness in Ovid’s tale became a lion in the Greek tale. So, Zeus threw Leo into the sky to remind people that lovers are crazy and impulsive.
Classroom application: I’ve decided that next year, it would be cool to do a constellation story unit. I want to find a grant to set up a small planetarium for my students. Then, I want to assign different constellations to different students. Each student will have to research the story (or stories) behind each constellation. I think this will be a new twist in my Greek mythology unit.
P.S. And why Hubble? Edwin Hubble worked at New Albany High School (the oldest public high school in Indiana) before going on to receive the honor of having the Hubble telescope named after him. So, gotta shout-out to my Indiana people.
BIOS TA CHI BI KOOL. THE WIND PEOPLE. 12 JUNE 2021.
Bryce Canyon is the cat's cradle of stories. The Nungwu (meaning 'people of the land')/Southern Paiutes first inhabited the land. They still live in this area today. However, many other nomadic nations have connections with Bryce Canyon. The Hopi, the Zuni, the Dine/Navajo, and the Ute have ancestors that cared for and interacted with the land. Then, when settlers came, they brought Scottish stories and Norse mythology. So, the canyon whispers a plethora of diverse stories.
The Nungwu believed that the hoodoos were once people that were frozen into time immemorial. The Nungwu tell these stories in the winter (so be ready for an entry on that story this winter). The hoodoos (that were once humans) are called 'the legend people.'
The Dine/Navajo call the hoodoos 'bios ta chi bi kool.' The Dine believe that bios ta chi bi kool is home to the wind people, who brought sand from all their journeys and deposited it into the hoodoo formations. In Dine philosophy, each person is born with an in-dwelling wind. Other winds act as a source of communication from distant places and communicate directly with the in-dwelling wind. In this way, the wind becomes a language between the Dine people and the holy places.
You can read more HERE. The Hopi call the hoodoos 'sikyaatutukwi,' meaning 'the place of yellow peaks or points.'
The National Park Service created a video of indigenous voices in connection with the park. You can watch that video HERE.
On the Navajo Loop trail, there is the iconic 'Thor's Hammer' hoodoo formation. In Norse mythology, Loki is kind of like Coyote (Dine & Hopi) or Sinawava (Paiute). Like Coyote and Sinawava, Loki is mischievous, playing both sides for his own amusement. He ends up shaving off Sif's (Thor's wife) beautiful hair. When Thor threatens to destroy Loki, Loki sets off to find replacement hair for Sif. In his journey, he goes to the dwarf world and sure enough, he finds dwarves to fashion new hair for Sif. However, always biting off more than he can chew, he also taunts some lesser known dwarves betting that they can't make new creations worthy of the Norse gods (Thor included). The dwarves took on the bet... because if they accomplished the task, they could kill Loki (or at least have his head). Of course, the dwarves rose to the challenge and one of the end results was Mjollnir (Thor's hammer). If you want to find out how Loki escapes with his head and why Thor's hammer is smaller than intended, you can read that HERE. And, if you really like that, you should read Neil Gaiman's translations in Norse Mythology.
The Nungwu believed that the hoodoos were once people that were frozen into time immemorial. The Nungwu tell these stories in the winter (so be ready for an entry on that story this winter). The hoodoos (that were once humans) are called 'the legend people.'
The Dine/Navajo call the hoodoos 'bios ta chi bi kool.' The Dine believe that bios ta chi bi kool is home to the wind people, who brought sand from all their journeys and deposited it into the hoodoo formations. In Dine philosophy, each person is born with an in-dwelling wind. Other winds act as a source of communication from distant places and communicate directly with the in-dwelling wind. In this way, the wind becomes a language between the Dine people and the holy places.
You can read more HERE. The Hopi call the hoodoos 'sikyaatutukwi,' meaning 'the place of yellow peaks or points.'
The National Park Service created a video of indigenous voices in connection with the park. You can watch that video HERE.
On the Navajo Loop trail, there is the iconic 'Thor's Hammer' hoodoo formation. In Norse mythology, Loki is kind of like Coyote (Dine & Hopi) or Sinawava (Paiute). Like Coyote and Sinawava, Loki is mischievous, playing both sides for his own amusement. He ends up shaving off Sif's (Thor's wife) beautiful hair. When Thor threatens to destroy Loki, Loki sets off to find replacement hair for Sif. In his journey, he goes to the dwarf world and sure enough, he finds dwarves to fashion new hair for Sif. However, always biting off more than he can chew, he also taunts some lesser known dwarves betting that they can't make new creations worthy of the Norse gods (Thor included). The dwarves took on the bet... because if they accomplished the task, they could kill Loki (or at least have his head). Of course, the dwarves rose to the challenge and one of the end results was Mjollnir (Thor's hammer). If you want to find out how Loki escapes with his head and why Thor's hammer is smaller than intended, you can read that HERE. And, if you really like that, you should read Neil Gaiman's translations in Norse Mythology.
PHOTOGRAPHY LEARNING CURVES & ZION AGAIN. 9 JUNE 2021.
If you had told my high school self that I would go to Zion National Park not once, but twice, I probably wouldn't have believed you. If you had told me that I would climb 5,790 feet up a mountain with a chain to grab in case of slipping... twice in my twenties, I wouldn't have believed you. If you had told me that I would hike through a river to go see a slot canyon called Wall Street.... you guessed it, I wouldn't have believed it. Life has a way of sending you so many amazing blessings that you don't always see them coming.
Today's reflection: I am learning how to use my new camera (Fujifilm X-T3)..... Let's just say there is a learning curve. I shot about twenty blurry shots before I figured out which settings I wanted to utilize. When I told Mrs. Tom, she was like, well, what mode do you have it set to? AND THIS WAS THE MOMENT WHEN I REALIZED THAT I HAD A REAL CAMERA.... because there are no modes- just lots of dials with numbers. There is an auto function that allows me to point and shoot.... but I am learning what everything means. It is a little daunting... and exhilarating at the same time. There isn't a "landscape mode" or a "portrait mode." I have an aperture ring, an ISO dial, a shutter speed dial, a front command dial, and a rear command dial.
BUT, I LOVE JARGON... so here goes:
Aperture controls how much light enters your camera.
f-stop numbers control how much light can enter the camera.
Small aperture = higher f-stop (lets in less light) = larger depth of field (< landscape photography)
Large aperture = lower f-stop (lets in more light) = smaller depth of field (< close up photography)
Shallow depth of field (focuses on one thing and blurs the rest) = wide aperture
More to come!
Today's reflection: I am learning how to use my new camera (Fujifilm X-T3)..... Let's just say there is a learning curve. I shot about twenty blurry shots before I figured out which settings I wanted to utilize. When I told Mrs. Tom, she was like, well, what mode do you have it set to? AND THIS WAS THE MOMENT WHEN I REALIZED THAT I HAD A REAL CAMERA.... because there are no modes- just lots of dials with numbers. There is an auto function that allows me to point and shoot.... but I am learning what everything means. It is a little daunting... and exhilarating at the same time. There isn't a "landscape mode" or a "portrait mode." I have an aperture ring, an ISO dial, a shutter speed dial, a front command dial, and a rear command dial.
BUT, I LOVE JARGON... so here goes:
Aperture controls how much light enters your camera.
f-stop numbers control how much light can enter the camera.
Small aperture = higher f-stop (lets in less light) = larger depth of field (< landscape photography)
Large aperture = lower f-stop (lets in more light) = smaller depth of field (< close up photography)
Shallow depth of field (focuses on one thing and blurs the rest) = wide aperture
More to come!
THREE INCHES OF DIFFERENCE: ZION & THE NARROWS. 7 JUNE 2021.
There is something beautiful about those beginning moments- about those fleeting moments that are beautiful because they are temporary- because they are only a piecemeal fragment of some larger evolution. The first moments of feelings are always telling if we listen close enough.
“A town always looked different once you’d returned, like a house where all the furniture had shifted three inches. You wouldn’t mistake it for a stranger’s house but you’d keep banging your shins on the table corners” (Bennett 15- The Vanishing Half).
Three inches of difference. That’s maybe how time feels- maybe how we would feel if we went back and met our past selves only a few years before our current selves. How many first moments of change exist in the span of a lifetime? I first drove into this town six years ago. It was my first time living away from my state. It was my first year teaching full time. It was the beginning of a journey that I couldn’t have forecasted even if I had tried. It was the start of a chain reaction of accepting opportunities that deepened how I viewed the world- how I felt the world through always trying to be a simultaneous insider and outsider. I rode in the backseat of a car all the way from Many Farms, Arizona, to Springdale, Utah. I remember seeing a white farm house out in the middle of seemingly nowhere… and I remember thinking, in that moment, that I could make “home” anywhere- that “home” was a skill set (a conceptual noun verb) that we all carry with us—- the ability to transform a place into something significant- meaningful- a space of belonging. And, there is always a sort of homecoming when you return to a place that you’ve once been. It is a weird feeling- not one of beginning, but one of linear evolution- two points that make a line. On this line, I can look to the past or the present… and I can look at all the other stopping places along the way that make that line feel full circle and holistic. But, time does make things different.
The furniture is the same- mountains that are made of dust and to dust return from 270 million years ago. Court of Patriarchs- Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Towers of the Virgin- the Sentinel and the Altar of Sacrifice. The Pulpit and the Temple of Sinawava. The Spearhead and Mount Majestic. West Temple. The Mountain of the Sun. Angel’s Landing. The furniture is the same- even if it changes and shifts itself. TBC
“A town always looked different once you’d returned, like a house where all the furniture had shifted three inches. You wouldn’t mistake it for a stranger’s house but you’d keep banging your shins on the table corners” (Bennett 15- The Vanishing Half).
Three inches of difference. That’s maybe how time feels- maybe how we would feel if we went back and met our past selves only a few years before our current selves. How many first moments of change exist in the span of a lifetime? I first drove into this town six years ago. It was my first time living away from my state. It was my first year teaching full time. It was the beginning of a journey that I couldn’t have forecasted even if I had tried. It was the start of a chain reaction of accepting opportunities that deepened how I viewed the world- how I felt the world through always trying to be a simultaneous insider and outsider. I rode in the backseat of a car all the way from Many Farms, Arizona, to Springdale, Utah. I remember seeing a white farm house out in the middle of seemingly nowhere… and I remember thinking, in that moment, that I could make “home” anywhere- that “home” was a skill set (a conceptual noun verb) that we all carry with us—- the ability to transform a place into something significant- meaningful- a space of belonging. And, there is always a sort of homecoming when you return to a place that you’ve once been. It is a weird feeling- not one of beginning, but one of linear evolution- two points that make a line. On this line, I can look to the past or the present… and I can look at all the other stopping places along the way that make that line feel full circle and holistic. But, time does make things different.
The furniture is the same- mountains that are made of dust and to dust return from 270 million years ago. Court of Patriarchs- Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Towers of the Virgin- the Sentinel and the Altar of Sacrifice. The Pulpit and the Temple of Sinawava. The Spearhead and Mount Majestic. West Temple. The Mountain of the Sun. Angel’s Landing. The furniture is the same- even if it changes and shifts itself. TBC
WE STARTED THE ADVENTURE IN VALLEY OF FIRE. 4 JUNE 2021.
There are three. We, humans, have a really cool way of finding our people wherever we go. I have my immediate family, my extended family, my work people, and my friends. Of course, for anyone who knows me, my immediate family is comprised of my go-to and all-time favorite people. When I found out that Lilly was going to fund this adventure, I immediately wanted to share this experience with everyone in my inner circle. My sister flew out to Vegas and came out to the first part of my Zion adventure. It is so inspiring to watch her grow into this amazing person. She is able to add her vivacious energy into any adventure. And, there is something so cool and inexplicable about watching someone take in the Southwest for the first time. There is an energy here that is soul-reviving. When I started working at Hauser in 2018, I met two people that have since been main characters in my life- Kelly Dressler (agriculture teacher) and Stephanie Tom (APUSH teacher). Tom and I started working together to build an Advanced Placement program and horizontally align a writing program in AP Lang, AP Lit, and APUSH. We are both Type A overachievers and we love(d) the challenge of establishing an academically rigorous program. Dressler and I became close during quarantine when we went on daily walks, talked about plants, and shared life stories. Seeing these three people (that make my life better all the time) in one space made for an awesome memory. We started the adventure in Valley of Fire.
ZION & ANGEL'S LANDING (TAKE TWO). 5 JUNE 2021.
I walk into a Las Vegas gas station looking for a sunshield for my rental car that has leather seats in 108 degree weather. There is a bit of a line. Two guys in line banter back and forth. The cashier behind the counter prepares ten tacos. I wait my turn. When I get up to the register, the cashier asks me where I bought my shirt because she wants to get one. It's a shirt that spreads awareness about missing and murdered indigenous women. She knows about the movement. And, while I don't think a t-shirt necessarily stops anything, it does get people talking about something pressing- relevant- overlooked- and current.
I am coming down from hiking Angel's Landing, and my legs feel like jello. I hiked this same mountain when I was 22 and living in Arizona... I don't remember being this out of shape then. I am exhausted. My legs are shaking as I come down the switchbacks. My sister and my friend are behind me--- because when your legs are jello, controlling the speed at which you descend a mountain becomes, let's just say, "challenging." When I get to the next resting place, my sister is laughing. She says that a couple just passed me and the guy turned to his girlfriend and is like, "I don't get it." His girlfriend was like, "What don't you get?" He responded, "That girl's shirt. I read it like three times: 'Decolonize Education.' I just don't get it." Then, his girlfriend explains what decolonizing education entails.
I've just finished reading David Treuer's most recent article called, "Return the National Parks to the Tribes: The Jewels of America's landscape should belong to America's original peoples" (May 2021). Each academic year, I assign the introduction of Treuer's autobiography, Rez Life, in my classes. So, I am familiar with Treuer's writing, stance on indigenous sovereignty, and platform that Native lit should encompass more than stereotypical portrayals of America's indigenous people. As Treuer writes in his most recent article, "We live in a time of historical reconsideration, as more and more people recognize that the sins of the past still haunt the present" (4). It is this "historical reconsideration" that makes my role as an educator both daunting and enthralling. This task involves reconsidering my own education and the information that I pass along to my students. It means questioning the historical stories that I mentally documented as fact. It also means analyzing the way I contribute to the passing down of stories. He goes onto assert, "America liked and still likes its Indians to function much like its nature: frozen in time; outside history; the antithesis, or at best the outer limit, of humanity and civilization" (Treuer 11).
Frozen in time?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
Outside history?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
Outer limit of humanity?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
Outer limit of civilization?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
You can take the little survey above. There is some kind of historical fog that surrounds indigenous sovereignty. It is almost like indigenous people and their history are only a story of the past. And, I know that the Dawes Act (the act the enabled Indian lands to be subdivided and land plots to be sold to outside landowners) and the Indian Relocation Act (1956) played major roles in the displacement of indigenous voice in America. However, indigenous culture is very much part of contemporary culture.
I am coming down from hiking Angel's Landing, and my legs feel like jello. I hiked this same mountain when I was 22 and living in Arizona... I don't remember being this out of shape then. I am exhausted. My legs are shaking as I come down the switchbacks. My sister and my friend are behind me--- because when your legs are jello, controlling the speed at which you descend a mountain becomes, let's just say, "challenging." When I get to the next resting place, my sister is laughing. She says that a couple just passed me and the guy turned to his girlfriend and is like, "I don't get it." His girlfriend was like, "What don't you get?" He responded, "That girl's shirt. I read it like three times: 'Decolonize Education.' I just don't get it." Then, his girlfriend explains what decolonizing education entails.
I've just finished reading David Treuer's most recent article called, "Return the National Parks to the Tribes: The Jewels of America's landscape should belong to America's original peoples" (May 2021). Each academic year, I assign the introduction of Treuer's autobiography, Rez Life, in my classes. So, I am familiar with Treuer's writing, stance on indigenous sovereignty, and platform that Native lit should encompass more than stereotypical portrayals of America's indigenous people. As Treuer writes in his most recent article, "We live in a time of historical reconsideration, as more and more people recognize that the sins of the past still haunt the present" (4). It is this "historical reconsideration" that makes my role as an educator both daunting and enthralling. This task involves reconsidering my own education and the information that I pass along to my students. It means questioning the historical stories that I mentally documented as fact. It also means analyzing the way I contribute to the passing down of stories. He goes onto assert, "America liked and still likes its Indians to function much like its nature: frozen in time; outside history; the antithesis, or at best the outer limit, of humanity and civilization" (Treuer 11).
Frozen in time?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
Outside history?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
Outer limit of humanity?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
Outer limit of civilization?
Nature [Yes] [No] Indigenous Peoples [Yes] [No]
You can take the little survey above. There is some kind of historical fog that surrounds indigenous sovereignty. It is almost like indigenous people and their history are only a story of the past. And, I know that the Dawes Act (the act the enabled Indian lands to be subdivided and land plots to be sold to outside landowners) and the Indian Relocation Act (1956) played major roles in the displacement of indigenous voice in America. However, indigenous culture is very much part of contemporary culture.
HIGHLY EFFECTIVE. MAY 2021
My school district utilizes the RISE rubric- comprised of four domains- to measure teacher effectiveness. The first domain is purposeful planning. The second domain is effective instruction. The third domain is teacher leadership. The fourth domain is core professionalism. Curriculum, skills-based and standards-based, mapping is the cornerstone of purposeful planning. Then, the measurement and assessment of those skills and standards comprises effective instruction. The third domain is relatively subjective. The last domain... attendance, dress code, and follows policies is pretty straightforward. From a linear, objective, manufacturing mindset, this is a strong system- planning, implementation, initiative/participation, and conduct. The first two domains- in a factory mindset- are essential for effective systems. The last two domains- in a factory mindset- are the harder to control because they deal with human behavior- which is sometimes harder to control due to confounding variables. HOWEVER, in a school setting, the first two domains are the most challenging to assess on a teacher by teacher basis because they are contingent on human behavior too- just in a slightly different way. Human behavior (student behavior) influences human behavior (teacher behavior)- what could go wrong in a standardized model?
Here is what the structure doesn't consider- (1) mental health; (2) culturally appropriate pedagogy; (3) teacher workload; (4) cohort psychology; and (5) probably several other things. Here are some scenarios:
-Result: Grades for the last set of timed advanced expository essays were delayed because a student was having a really rough time. Backstory: So, instead of grading papers, the teacher makes time to listen to the student, reach out to the counselor, and then create little pick-me-up gifts to carry this student through the next week. In turn, the essays weren't graded on time. So, the assessment of standards was not measured effectively- efficiently at least. Therefore, despite a strong domain one, domain two was seemingly unfulfilled. Or was it? Because, if said student, gets the attention they need it could (1) increase their performance and/or (2) prevent further unhealthy behavior that could have a negative impact on not only them, but others in the school.
-Result: A teacher with two preps- two courses that they prep for- two different lessons that they create each day- might receive a higher score than the teacher with six prep periods- six courses that they prep for every day- six different lessons that they create each day. -OR- A teacher that has smaller class sizes might receive a higher evaluation score because they have more time to devote to student growth and individualization. Backstory: Teachers do not pick (that I know of) how many students are in each class or how many or which courses they teach. Teacher workloads change everything.
Teacher evaluation systems are flawed. So, to all my teacher friends that did not receive highly effective this year- it is NOT your fault. I see how hard you work every day- how you navigate through seemingly impossible situations- how you support one hundred plus students every day and then turn around and support your own children- how you work sixty hour work weeks to make interesting lessons, grade papers, and go above and beyond- how you make time for everyone else expect yourself. For all the highly effective teachers that do not receive that label on a piece of paper after the MOST trying and challenging and exhausting school year, please know that you are highly effective regardless. And that BECAUSE OF YOU, so many students made it through this year.
Here is what the structure doesn't consider- (1) mental health; (2) culturally appropriate pedagogy; (3) teacher workload; (4) cohort psychology; and (5) probably several other things. Here are some scenarios:
-Result: Grades for the last set of timed advanced expository essays were delayed because a student was having a really rough time. Backstory: So, instead of grading papers, the teacher makes time to listen to the student, reach out to the counselor, and then create little pick-me-up gifts to carry this student through the next week. In turn, the essays weren't graded on time. So, the assessment of standards was not measured effectively- efficiently at least. Therefore, despite a strong domain one, domain two was seemingly unfulfilled. Or was it? Because, if said student, gets the attention they need it could (1) increase their performance and/or (2) prevent further unhealthy behavior that could have a negative impact on not only them, but others in the school.
-Result: A teacher with two preps- two courses that they prep for- two different lessons that they create each day- might receive a higher score than the teacher with six prep periods- six courses that they prep for every day- six different lessons that they create each day. -OR- A teacher that has smaller class sizes might receive a higher evaluation score because they have more time to devote to student growth and individualization. Backstory: Teachers do not pick (that I know of) how many students are in each class or how many or which courses they teach. Teacher workloads change everything.
Teacher evaluation systems are flawed. So, to all my teacher friends that did not receive highly effective this year- it is NOT your fault. I see how hard you work every day- how you navigate through seemingly impossible situations- how you support one hundred plus students every day and then turn around and support your own children- how you work sixty hour work weeks to make interesting lessons, grade papers, and go above and beyond- how you make time for everyone else expect yourself. For all the highly effective teachers that do not receive that label on a piece of paper after the MOST trying and challenging and exhausting school year, please know that you are highly effective regardless. And that BECAUSE OF YOU, so many students made it through this year.
OKAY. MAY 2021.
To my students... or to anyone really: It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to be a little broken this year- or next year- or whenever. You don't have to be perfect all the time. You don't have to be happy all the time. You get to feel things deeply. You get to ask for help. You aren't disappointing me when you have off days. You get to have those days. There are a lot of times when I want to be a recluse and just avoid all the anxieties of everyday life. I get it. I also want you to know that you all make my days better. I am so blessed to have come to know you all this academic year. To my sophomores: even though I say "there will be no happiness" on multiple occasions, you all make me laugh a lot. And, NO, you cannot fail just to have me again next year. You are going to like Caldwell- she is chill. To my juniors: you are dangerously creative. Use your powers for good. To my seniors: you feel like family at this point- watching you grow into awesome young people these last three years has been a privilege. There really aren't enough words to express how proud I am and inspired and grateful. Now, get ready to go live one of the most exciting chapters of your lives.
"OVERHYPED PIECES OF AMERICANA." MAY 2021.
Please don’t mistake being vulnerable for being weak. Oftentimes it takes more strength to be vulnerable than it does to be guarded. Don’t ever apologize for being too deep- for letting people see who you really are- for letting yourself do that. Yes, you will probably get hurt doing this. Yes, you will probably learn how to build walls. But, it is also the only way to truly get comfortable with who you are. There is a reason why self-help books sell.
I told someone that I always said my favorite holiday (when I was growing up) was Derby Day. It was the unofficial start of summer- the signal that it probably wasn’t going to snow anymore- the signal that I just had to make it through one more month of school. At the start of May, my family would gather together and bet money on horse races. The Kentucky Derby is a horse racing event characterized by obnoxious hats (a.k.a. art), bourbon mint juleps (a.k.a. chemistry), and betting money based on odds (a.k.a. math). Every year, I looked forward to picking my favorite horse, watching the races on the TV that sat on the back deck at my grandparents’ house, and eating Derby pie until my stomach hurt.
The Kentucky Derby is one of three horse races in the Triple Crown (the others are the Preakness (Maryland) and the Belmont (New York)). The day before the Derby is the Oaks- for three-year old fillies. Therefore, most of the horses that run in the Derby are colts. When I attended Catholic school, the majority of the teachers would be gone for the Oaks- it was a tradition.
It wasn’t until I went away for college (a two-hour drive north) that I realized that people didn’t celebrate the Derby all across the state- that it was just a “me thing.” I always laugh about that- because growing up, I just assumed it was like St. Patty’s Day- “everyone” celebrates that. I remember telling this to a guy once and he was low-key condescending about it- like ‘bless your heart’ you naive girl from Southern Indiana. I had another guy tell me it was just “an overhyped piece of Americana.” Sometimes people are the worst. They think that I was confessing something, like an embarrassing memory, but really I was showing them a part of my culture and history- a deeper part of who I am and where I come from- a part that doesn’t need pity or judgment- a part that is just what it is- a glimpse into personality… which is absolutely a product of Americana (and in a good way). Of course, for both of these conversations, I just let it go- because they don’t get it. Maybe they never will. But, I learned from them. When some guy is telling me about how he first got into video games or about his favorite sport or the first car he worked on (stuff that I personally couldn’t care less about in my own life- I don’t tell them they are naive for endorsing an “overhyped piece of Americana”), I listen to their recollections- to the piece of information that they are giving me- to those glimpses of who they are as a person and what cultural practices shaped them into the person sitting before me. And, I don’t shame them for these interests- these beautiful pieces of Americana. Passion is vulnerability.
I told someone that I always said my favorite holiday (when I was growing up) was Derby Day. It was the unofficial start of summer- the signal that it probably wasn’t going to snow anymore- the signal that I just had to make it through one more month of school. At the start of May, my family would gather together and bet money on horse races. The Kentucky Derby is a horse racing event characterized by obnoxious hats (a.k.a. art), bourbon mint juleps (a.k.a. chemistry), and betting money based on odds (a.k.a. math). Every year, I looked forward to picking my favorite horse, watching the races on the TV that sat on the back deck at my grandparents’ house, and eating Derby pie until my stomach hurt.
The Kentucky Derby is one of three horse races in the Triple Crown (the others are the Preakness (Maryland) and the Belmont (New York)). The day before the Derby is the Oaks- for three-year old fillies. Therefore, most of the horses that run in the Derby are colts. When I attended Catholic school, the majority of the teachers would be gone for the Oaks- it was a tradition.
It wasn’t until I went away for college (a two-hour drive north) that I realized that people didn’t celebrate the Derby all across the state- that it was just a “me thing.” I always laugh about that- because growing up, I just assumed it was like St. Patty’s Day- “everyone” celebrates that. I remember telling this to a guy once and he was low-key condescending about it- like ‘bless your heart’ you naive girl from Southern Indiana. I had another guy tell me it was just “an overhyped piece of Americana.” Sometimes people are the worst. They think that I was confessing something, like an embarrassing memory, but really I was showing them a part of my culture and history- a deeper part of who I am and where I come from- a part that doesn’t need pity or judgment- a part that is just what it is- a glimpse into personality… which is absolutely a product of Americana (and in a good way). Of course, for both of these conversations, I just let it go- because they don’t get it. Maybe they never will. But, I learned from them. When some guy is telling me about how he first got into video games or about his favorite sport or the first car he worked on (stuff that I personally couldn’t care less about in my own life- I don’t tell them they are naive for endorsing an “overhyped piece of Americana”), I listen to their recollections- to the piece of information that they are giving me- to those glimpses of who they are as a person and what cultural practices shaped them into the person sitting before me. And, I don’t shame them for these interests- these beautiful pieces of Americana. Passion is vulnerability.
TURTLE SHELL. MARCH 2021.
For better and for worse, my default is set to all-or-none. It's that quality that made me a good student. I committed completely to my studies... sometimes that meant forfeiting sleep or food or both. But, I was all in- giving a 120%. And, because I was SO DEDICATED, I learned A LOT in my schooling. It's this same default setting that can make me a really good teacher. I can channel all of my energy and pour it into lesson plans, into teaching, and into being there for each of my students. I can be HIGHLY EFFECTIVE.... I can give it my all. But, the problem with being all-or-none is that, eventually, I crash or burnout-- eventually, I have to experience the "none" part of the "balance"- skipping one too many meals turns into anemia -or- I catch a cold that turns into something a lot worse than a cold because I keep going full speed ahead -or- I forget to sleep because I am worried about something that is inevitably out of my control -or- I sleep too much because it is the only way to turn off my thoughts. I can overcommit. And, I can forget to take breaks. And, I KNOW that I can "do it all" as long as I sacrifice in other areas of my life. BUT, then there are times, when as an introvert in a world of extremely extraverted educators, I crash. I cannot keep up with all of the expectations- all the socializing- all the competition (I'm not trying to "win" anything. I'm trying to give everything.). I cannot keep up with my status quo of going above and beyond. Something breaks the system and I have to go all turtle mode. For introverts, we understand this defense mechanism well. We shutdown, go deep inside the tunnels of our minds, pull out all of the bottled up thoughts and unprocessed emotions in the vaults there, and just work through them... alone. It's destructive and cathartic at the same time. Above all, it's necessary. It is a renewal that gives me enough energy and mental space to go back in the game and give it my best effort again. But, the game doesn't have a rival- the rival is my default setting- the paradoxical quality that makes me who I am, but invariably requires times for turtle shell mode and playing Billy Joel's "Vienna" and John Lennon's "Watching the Wheels" on repeat. March is for turtle shelling.
OXYTOCIN-VASOPRESSIN PATHWAYS. FEBRUARY 2021.
[Question] What would you do if you weren't a teacher?
[Answer] In another life, I think I might have studied neuroscience a bit more.
Foundational Knowledge:
Amino acids are building blocks. Peptides are groups of animo acids. Amino acids form to make proteins.
Hormones (release typically controlled by pituitary gland) and neurotransmitters (release controlled by hypothalamus) both have receptors that trigger reactions. Oxytocin & Vasopressin are hormones that are usually controlled by the pituitary gland.... BUT, the cool part (at least to me) is that the hypothalamus sometimes has a say. SO, in my mind, I think of hormones as epigenetic molecules... since they are also chemical messengers. THEY ARE DIFFERENT. But, that is how I like to think about them.... because I think hormones impact 'expression' (a.k.a. behavior) just like epigenetic molecules.
A path that merits further study is the role of the oxytocin-vasopressin pathway from both a genetic and evolutionary perspective. Oxytocin-OT (the cuddle hormone) and vasopressin-VP are peptides (comprised of nine amino acids) that evolved from vasotocin (Chauvet qtd. in Carter, 1995 (2017)), which makes them "genetic and biochemical siblings" located on human chromosome 20 (Carter 2017). In recent years, scientists have studied the relationship (sometimes paradoxical relationship) between oxytocin and vasopressin in pair/social bonding, defensive behavior, parenting, and sex. Vasopressin is tied to defensive and sometimes aggressive behavior, but also to protective behaviors that result from pair bonding due to the relationships between the OT-VP pathway. Oxytocin is tied to social bonding, maternal bonds during nursing, and its relation to the release of dopamine (a 'feel good' neurotransmitter). Due to hormonal relations tied to biological sex differences, the OT-VP pathway reflects differences between males and females. Testosterone suppresses oxytocin. Estrogen increases oxytocin binding. SO, that leads me to think that vasopressin is the middle ground. VP is typically associated with the amygdala (the fight or flight response location- intense emotions hub of the brain). However, its relation to OT and the lateral septum (which is just this fancy word for connection to the hippocampus- the explicit/declarative memory hub of the brain) is also pivotal for social recognition.
Making it more applicable to everyday life (critical questions):
(1) Is everyone's OT-VP pathway different?
(2) For example, how do epigenetic traits (inherited traits) impact the OT-VP pathway in different individuals?
(3) How does historical trauma continuously impact social relationships generation after generation?
(4) If everyone's OT-VP pathway is different, and if historical trauma and epigenetic codes that result do impact the OT-VP pathway, then what happens when someone with historical trauma and someone without historical trauma have children?
(5) How would an epigenetic impact of the OT-VP pathway impact inherited personality traits?
Research:
Sue Carter's "The Oxytocin-Vasopressin Pathway in the Context of Love and Fear" (2017)
Christopher Gabor's "The Interplay of Oxytocin, Vasopressin, and Sex Hormones in the Regulation of Social Recognition" (2012)
[Answer] In another life, I think I might have studied neuroscience a bit more.
Foundational Knowledge:
Amino acids are building blocks. Peptides are groups of animo acids. Amino acids form to make proteins.
Hormones (release typically controlled by pituitary gland) and neurotransmitters (release controlled by hypothalamus) both have receptors that trigger reactions. Oxytocin & Vasopressin are hormones that are usually controlled by the pituitary gland.... BUT, the cool part (at least to me) is that the hypothalamus sometimes has a say. SO, in my mind, I think of hormones as epigenetic molecules... since they are also chemical messengers. THEY ARE DIFFERENT. But, that is how I like to think about them.... because I think hormones impact 'expression' (a.k.a. behavior) just like epigenetic molecules.
A path that merits further study is the role of the oxytocin-vasopressin pathway from both a genetic and evolutionary perspective. Oxytocin-OT (the cuddle hormone) and vasopressin-VP are peptides (comprised of nine amino acids) that evolved from vasotocin (Chauvet qtd. in Carter, 1995 (2017)), which makes them "genetic and biochemical siblings" located on human chromosome 20 (Carter 2017). In recent years, scientists have studied the relationship (sometimes paradoxical relationship) between oxytocin and vasopressin in pair/social bonding, defensive behavior, parenting, and sex. Vasopressin is tied to defensive and sometimes aggressive behavior, but also to protective behaviors that result from pair bonding due to the relationships between the OT-VP pathway. Oxytocin is tied to social bonding, maternal bonds during nursing, and its relation to the release of dopamine (a 'feel good' neurotransmitter). Due to hormonal relations tied to biological sex differences, the OT-VP pathway reflects differences between males and females. Testosterone suppresses oxytocin. Estrogen increases oxytocin binding. SO, that leads me to think that vasopressin is the middle ground. VP is typically associated with the amygdala (the fight or flight response location- intense emotions hub of the brain). However, its relation to OT and the lateral septum (which is just this fancy word for connection to the hippocampus- the explicit/declarative memory hub of the brain) is also pivotal for social recognition.
Making it more applicable to everyday life (critical questions):
(1) Is everyone's OT-VP pathway different?
(2) For example, how do epigenetic traits (inherited traits) impact the OT-VP pathway in different individuals?
(3) How does historical trauma continuously impact social relationships generation after generation?
(4) If everyone's OT-VP pathway is different, and if historical trauma and epigenetic codes that result do impact the OT-VP pathway, then what happens when someone with historical trauma and someone without historical trauma have children?
(5) How would an epigenetic impact of the OT-VP pathway impact inherited personality traits?
Research:
Sue Carter's "The Oxytocin-Vasopressin Pathway in the Context of Love and Fear" (2017)
Christopher Gabor's "The Interplay of Oxytocin, Vasopressin, and Sex Hormones in the Regulation of Social Recognition" (2012)
EPIGENETICS & TERROIR. FEBRUARY 2021.
In the summer of 2013, I enrolled in a behavioral neuroscience course at IUS taught by Dr. Kahn. My high school AP Psychology teacher, Mr. Clunie, and my biology teacher, Mrs. Lee, definitely set the foundation for my interest in the intersections between biology and human behavior. In the summer course, I read up on epigenetics and the aftermath of the Human Genome Project. I was hooked.
Epigenetics is the playground for the nature versus nurture debate. "Epi" means above or around and "genetics" means hereditary. So, epigenetics is the study of how chemical molecules around DNA activate or inhibit gene transcription (into RNA) and expression. In other words, how the stuff "around" the genes impacts/causes inherited traits. DNA (in a gene) is expressed when it is read/coded and transcribed into RNA. Ribosomes make proteins, which express genetic sequences. It is the protein that determines the cell's characteristics and function (Guerrero-Bosagna 2016). (You can go down a rabbit hole when you study the relationship between protein mutation and Alzheimer's- a research project that I explored as a freshman in high school- still so interesting... and depressing). While epigenetics do not change the DNA structure itself, epigenetic molecules can activate or inhibit the transcription and expression of a genetic code. Ways that this can happen:
(1) Epigenetic molecule inhibits gene expression by interfering with the cell's transcription process.
(2) Epigenetic molecule makes the gene inaccessible by causing the DNA to coil more tightly.
(3) Epigenetic molecule increases transcription and production of the associated protein by unwinding the DNA to make it more accessible.
(^Guerrero-Bosagna, 2016)
Epigenetic molecules can survive cell division. What this means is that it can be hereditary or generational. All cells start in the same genome- and forever share that same genome. As cells divide into one of the 200 cell types in the human body, some transcriptions are activated, while other transcriptions are inhibited. Each cell type has its own distinct epigenome (or the set of chemical molecules attached to the genome of a cell). This means that the epigenome is the place you want to study when looking for the interconnectedness of genes and environment. (Guerrero-Bosgna, 2016).
This is a pretty big deal right now in other fields- like plant science or agronomy... or posh wine studies. The French call this 'terroir,' which is the catch-all term for everything having to do with the place where a product is grown (including climate, soil, elevation, etc.) Experts in terroir study plant phenotypes. WHICH is, of course, tied to studies of genomes. Genotypes deal with the multiple pairings of alleles and not the expression. Phenotypes deal with the expression of a gene (possible end result of an allele pairing). I think there is most definitely a space for research regarding the insights found in terroir studies, epigenetics, and the connection to literary theory and concepts like 'grounded normativity' and historical trauma.
Research:
Here is a video about the basic knowledge of epigenetics
Here is an explanation about the differences between genotypes and phenotypes
Here is some information about what The Human Genome Project entailed
Here is some information about terroir
Epigenetics is the playground for the nature versus nurture debate. "Epi" means above or around and "genetics" means hereditary. So, epigenetics is the study of how chemical molecules around DNA activate or inhibit gene transcription (into RNA) and expression. In other words, how the stuff "around" the genes impacts/causes inherited traits. DNA (in a gene) is expressed when it is read/coded and transcribed into RNA. Ribosomes make proteins, which express genetic sequences. It is the protein that determines the cell's characteristics and function (Guerrero-Bosagna 2016). (You can go down a rabbit hole when you study the relationship between protein mutation and Alzheimer's- a research project that I explored as a freshman in high school- still so interesting... and depressing). While epigenetics do not change the DNA structure itself, epigenetic molecules can activate or inhibit the transcription and expression of a genetic code. Ways that this can happen:
(1) Epigenetic molecule inhibits gene expression by interfering with the cell's transcription process.
(2) Epigenetic molecule makes the gene inaccessible by causing the DNA to coil more tightly.
(3) Epigenetic molecule increases transcription and production of the associated protein by unwinding the DNA to make it more accessible.
(^Guerrero-Bosagna, 2016)
Epigenetic molecules can survive cell division. What this means is that it can be hereditary or generational. All cells start in the same genome- and forever share that same genome. As cells divide into one of the 200 cell types in the human body, some transcriptions are activated, while other transcriptions are inhibited. Each cell type has its own distinct epigenome (or the set of chemical molecules attached to the genome of a cell). This means that the epigenome is the place you want to study when looking for the interconnectedness of genes and environment. (Guerrero-Bosgna, 2016).
This is a pretty big deal right now in other fields- like plant science or agronomy... or posh wine studies. The French call this 'terroir,' which is the catch-all term for everything having to do with the place where a product is grown (including climate, soil, elevation, etc.) Experts in terroir study plant phenotypes. WHICH is, of course, tied to studies of genomes. Genotypes deal with the multiple pairings of alleles and not the expression. Phenotypes deal with the expression of a gene (possible end result of an allele pairing). I think there is most definitely a space for research regarding the insights found in terroir studies, epigenetics, and the connection to literary theory and concepts like 'grounded normativity' and historical trauma.
Research:
Here is a video about the basic knowledge of epigenetics
Here is an explanation about the differences between genotypes and phenotypes
Here is some information about what The Human Genome Project entailed
Here is some information about terroir
THE GIFT OF CREATIVITY. FEBRUARY 2021.
The American Southwest is a dream to me- one that I revisit in the contours of memories. Vast canvas skies. Land that unfolds before you for miles on end. Sunsets that last forever. The warmth and the cold in the span of one intense day. Is it June yet?
I must express my gratitude to the Lilly Endowment foundation for their generous support in the Teacher Creativity Fellowship. Photography has always been a passion. Now, I get to use photography as a platform to renew my energy and to create a platform for my students to capture moments in their world and continue to document their legacy. |
AESTHETIC. FEBRUARY 2021.
My sister would say that my aesthetic is boho eclectic with an emphasis on reds and oranges. My base color is always beige. My accent colors are always warm. Decorating is one of my passions. I like to scrapbook with real life things. Pick a color pallet (warm hues)- lighting is my best friend (warm lighting and accent lights)- work with the rule of threes- find the right music- make it smell good (kitchen spice, cinnamon spice, or pumpkin spice), etc. I went through the whole 'I want to be an interior designer' phase in middle school. However, I decided that most of my passions could and would collide and interweave in the world of education. I wanted to write, to create, to teach, to design, to draw, to paint, to plan, to organize, to research, to explore, to study, to .... well, you get the idea. If you are looking for a digital platform that will revolutionize the appearance of the handouts and posters you create, Canva is the absolute BEST. Last week, one of the journal prompts for my students was what's your aesthetic/vibe? Ever since middle school, I created spaces that felt like home- that were warm and welcoming- that seemed like the kind of place where memories are made and insiders are born. While Covid protocol definitely limited my options, I think the energy of a space is an important part of the learning process. Psychology meets pedagogy meets art meets cognitive science. Select the image below for an enlarged gallery view.
BOOK ADVENTURES FOR 2021. FEBRUARY 2021.
Sometimes I know exactly which books I want to read... Other times, the books have a way of finding me. When I go home for the the holidays, I like to see which books my family members are reading. Then, after the Christmas cookies (I always eat all the buckeyes) or movie marathons, I like to snuggle up late at night with four blankets and read the books that they are reading and see what interests they are exploring. This past holiday season, my mom was reading the The Autobiography of Charles G. Finney (1876) (a Presbyterian minister that led the Second Great Awakening, the Father of the Modern Revivalism, an abolitionist, and an advocate of equal educational opportunities for women). My dad was reading God, Country, and Notre Dame by Theodore M. Hesburgh (1990) (a Catholic priest that became the president of Notre Dame, a counselor to four popes and six presidents, and an advocate for the Civil Rights movement and co-ed. higher education). My sister was reading the fifth edition of the A.P.A.'s DSM-V (2013) (Diagnostic and Statistical Manuel of Mental Disorders). I was splitting my independent research between 'what hillbilly culture means to people' and how opioids continue to destroy cultural heritage for the Hillbilly Elegy unit (American Overdose: The Opioid Tragedy in Three Acts by Chris McGreal- 2018), RBG (Ruth Bader Ginsburg: A Life by Jane Sherron De Hart- 2018), church history (Christianity through the Centuries by Earle Edwin Cairns- 1996), and historical fiction set in France around WWII (The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah- 2015).
THREE THINGS MAKE A PATTERN. FEBRUARY 2021.
I am teaching synthesis writing in my Advanced Placement Language and Composition course.
Three things make a pattern. Since I grew up along the river, three things seemed like a normal part of my childhood culture: horses, floods, and music.
ONE (1) Kimberly Drew and Jenna Wortham recently published a book titled Black Futures (2020). It's an anthology of sorts- a postmodern creation that develops the "feel" of a text rather than the hard expectations of a text. Page 456 discusses Baltimore's arabber culture. In 2018, the Baltimore arabbers, who keep their wagons and horses at the Freemont Ave. Stable, paired up with a Mennonite farmer community in Pennsylvania to ensure the preservation of an old tradition. Arabbers are street vendors that sell produce from horse-drawn wagons. This tradition dates back to the turn of the century (the early 1900s). Today, few arabbers remain across the States. However, a 2004 documentary and and a 1994 preservation society have tried to secure awareness of this unique profession.
TWO (2) Lil Nas X and Blanco Brown, coming alive out of Georgia, released "Old Town Road" (2019) and "The Git Up" (2019), which fused together country chords and hip hop tracks. This connection between country and r&b roots back to the Delta and the conception of American music. However, the division between "country" (coded 'white') and "hip hop" (coded 'black') music goes back to the distinction between jukes and honky tonks and the implementation of "race records." Even the initial removal of "Old Town Road" from the 'Rolling Stones Hot Country Songs Chart' reinforced that division. Nevertheless, artists like Lil Nas X and Blanco Brown defy that division and successfully demonstrate that these genres have more in common than the limitations imposed by racial constructions/associations.
THREE (3) American turf history refers to the social, economic, and cultural history of horse racing. When I watched the 2020 Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs (on television), there was an interview that spotlighted Raymond Daniels and Greg Harbut, owners of Necker Island (a horse that ran in the Derby). A tribute to the first Derby highlighted the often overlooked role of black culture in the history of horse racing. In the first Derby, thirteen of the fifteen riders were black. The Project to Preserve African American Turf History raises awareness of this forgotten legacy.
We synthesize information every day. We put the pieces together. Just keep looking for pieces of information that harness new insights- that exemplify connection rather than division. You might learn a lot along the way. Three things make a pattern... especially in a Heinz 57 world.
Three things make a pattern. Since I grew up along the river, three things seemed like a normal part of my childhood culture: horses, floods, and music.
ONE (1) Kimberly Drew and Jenna Wortham recently published a book titled Black Futures (2020). It's an anthology of sorts- a postmodern creation that develops the "feel" of a text rather than the hard expectations of a text. Page 456 discusses Baltimore's arabber culture. In 2018, the Baltimore arabbers, who keep their wagons and horses at the Freemont Ave. Stable, paired up with a Mennonite farmer community in Pennsylvania to ensure the preservation of an old tradition. Arabbers are street vendors that sell produce from horse-drawn wagons. This tradition dates back to the turn of the century (the early 1900s). Today, few arabbers remain across the States. However, a 2004 documentary and and a 1994 preservation society have tried to secure awareness of this unique profession.
TWO (2) Lil Nas X and Blanco Brown, coming alive out of Georgia, released "Old Town Road" (2019) and "The Git Up" (2019), which fused together country chords and hip hop tracks. This connection between country and r&b roots back to the Delta and the conception of American music. However, the division between "country" (coded 'white') and "hip hop" (coded 'black') music goes back to the distinction between jukes and honky tonks and the implementation of "race records." Even the initial removal of "Old Town Road" from the 'Rolling Stones Hot Country Songs Chart' reinforced that division. Nevertheless, artists like Lil Nas X and Blanco Brown defy that division and successfully demonstrate that these genres have more in common than the limitations imposed by racial constructions/associations.
THREE (3) American turf history refers to the social, economic, and cultural history of horse racing. When I watched the 2020 Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs (on television), there was an interview that spotlighted Raymond Daniels and Greg Harbut, owners of Necker Island (a horse that ran in the Derby). A tribute to the first Derby highlighted the often overlooked role of black culture in the history of horse racing. In the first Derby, thirteen of the fifteen riders were black. The Project to Preserve African American Turf History raises awareness of this forgotten legacy.
We synthesize information every day. We put the pieces together. Just keep looking for pieces of information that harness new insights- that exemplify connection rather than division. You might learn a lot along the way. Three things make a pattern... especially in a Heinz 57 world.
CONCEPTUALIZING AGAIN. JANUARY 2021.
"This story is not recorded in the places where people learn the history of this country" -Angela Davis
This weekend, as I walked along the edge of the Ohio River, I saw history in the stones, in the exposed roots, in the shifting river bank, and in the driftwood that edges the Falls. Horn coral is one of the prevalent common fossils found in the Ohio River bed. It dates back to 488 million years ago- to a section of geologic time called the Ordovician period. The river valley- like a lot of places- is beautiful and harsh at the same time. It is constantly re-writing itself. In the summers, when the droughts hit, you can walk far out on the fossil beds and come back with a constellation of mosquito bites on your legs. In the spring, when the waters rise, the driftwood and trash push up along the shore- old tires, trash, buckets, etc. all wrapped in ripped out and smoothed over trees. It's a place to think in the daytime, and a place to avoid at night. I like paying a yearly visit during the winter. The water is low enough to allow a space for walking, but high enough to sing as it hits the shoreline and fisherman dot its contour. The statue of Lewis and Clark stands at the welcome center- and I always wonder if people see that as heroic or tragic- this memento of history standing on top of 400 million-year-old limestone, commemorating "the opening of the American West"......
I've been studying protest culture lately- particularly contemporary, post-45 protests to understand how I can best teach a theory of the shift in protest culture and significance from 1945 to present day. Peter Starr's theory of failed revolt keeps me thinking.... That is the thing with research- sometimes it just plants a seed and one has to wait for the revelation to come to fruition much later in the process.
Here are the protests that I've been studying through literature:
1910-1945 Japanese Colony in Korea (and movements toward Korean liberation) (Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee)
1942-1945 Japanese Internment Camps in the U.S. (George Takei's They Called Us Enemy)
1945-1953 The Korean War (Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee)
1948-1967 Israeli-Palestinian Conflict (Ghada Karmi's In Search of Fatima)
1955-1975 The Fall of Saigon and Vietnam War (Thi Bui's The Best We Could Do)
1950-1960- The Independence of Sudan (Tayeb Salih's Season of Migration to the North)
1978-1979 Islamic Revolution (Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis)
1984-1994 Apartheid in South Africa (Trevor Noah's Born a Crime)
2012 Taliban in Pakistan (Malala Yousafzai's I Am Malala)
Here are the protests that I've been studying without the context of literary reference:
1947 Cold War Protests
1964 Civil Rights Movement
1967- Black Nationalism (Malcolm X, Yuri Kochiyama, Angela Davis)
1968- May '68 Protests in Paris
2004- Orange Revolution (Ukraine)
2016- Standing Rock Protests
2018- Yellow Vest Movement
Critical Questions: How much of the narrative is demonstrated through these revolutions/protests? How much of the narrative is overlooked- unwritten or not studied? How much knowledge do most people hold in regard to these events? What is there to learn from these events? How 'Americanized' is the study of these protests? How might a multidimensional model better explain the complexities of protest culture- maybe a three dimensional model rather than a one-dimensional or two-dimensional model? What is the 400-million-year-old limestone that holds up the statue in protests?
This weekend, as I walked along the edge of the Ohio River, I saw history in the stones, in the exposed roots, in the shifting river bank, and in the driftwood that edges the Falls. Horn coral is one of the prevalent common fossils found in the Ohio River bed. It dates back to 488 million years ago- to a section of geologic time called the Ordovician period. The river valley- like a lot of places- is beautiful and harsh at the same time. It is constantly re-writing itself. In the summers, when the droughts hit, you can walk far out on the fossil beds and come back with a constellation of mosquito bites on your legs. In the spring, when the waters rise, the driftwood and trash push up along the shore- old tires, trash, buckets, etc. all wrapped in ripped out and smoothed over trees. It's a place to think in the daytime, and a place to avoid at night. I like paying a yearly visit during the winter. The water is low enough to allow a space for walking, but high enough to sing as it hits the shoreline and fisherman dot its contour. The statue of Lewis and Clark stands at the welcome center- and I always wonder if people see that as heroic or tragic- this memento of history standing on top of 400 million-year-old limestone, commemorating "the opening of the American West"......
I've been studying protest culture lately- particularly contemporary, post-45 protests to understand how I can best teach a theory of the shift in protest culture and significance from 1945 to present day. Peter Starr's theory of failed revolt keeps me thinking.... That is the thing with research- sometimes it just plants a seed and one has to wait for the revelation to come to fruition much later in the process.
Here are the protests that I've been studying through literature:
1910-1945 Japanese Colony in Korea (and movements toward Korean liberation) (Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee)
1942-1945 Japanese Internment Camps in the U.S. (George Takei's They Called Us Enemy)
1945-1953 The Korean War (Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee)
1948-1967 Israeli-Palestinian Conflict (Ghada Karmi's In Search of Fatima)
1955-1975 The Fall of Saigon and Vietnam War (Thi Bui's The Best We Could Do)
1950-1960- The Independence of Sudan (Tayeb Salih's Season of Migration to the North)
1978-1979 Islamic Revolution (Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis)
1984-1994 Apartheid in South Africa (Trevor Noah's Born a Crime)
2012 Taliban in Pakistan (Malala Yousafzai's I Am Malala)
Here are the protests that I've been studying without the context of literary reference:
1947 Cold War Protests
1964 Civil Rights Movement
1967- Black Nationalism (Malcolm X, Yuri Kochiyama, Angela Davis)
1968- May '68 Protests in Paris
2004- Orange Revolution (Ukraine)
2016- Standing Rock Protests
2018- Yellow Vest Movement
Critical Questions: How much of the narrative is demonstrated through these revolutions/protests? How much of the narrative is overlooked- unwritten or not studied? How much knowledge do most people hold in regard to these events? What is there to learn from these events? How 'Americanized' is the study of these protests? How might a multidimensional model better explain the complexities of protest culture- maybe a three dimensional model rather than a one-dimensional or two-dimensional model? What is the 400-million-year-old limestone that holds up the statue in protests?
QUIET ISN'T ALWAYS PEACE. JANUARY 2021.
"It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit. It’s the past we step into and how we repair it." -Amanda Gorman ("The Hill We Climb")
Watch It Here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wz4YuEvJ3y4
Read It Here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19EQvEzxtMu2JAxlA1mATlHX8JA0-oyPAUKG6z_hnRLw/edit?usp=sharing
It's an unfamiliar thing as of late. This feeling. This feeling of pride, of hope, and of immense joy as a young poet shines like so many in our nation- like so many who are overlooked by the images in the media. I NEEDED THESE WORDS. Watching Amanda Gorman recite her poem for the inauguration made me feel like we have a strong future, made me proud of our American youth, and made me feel proud that we still honor poetry as a form of expression. In a world of hate culture, hate speech, and hate rhetoric... in a world where the norms of hate somehow transformed into a "right" and a "freedom"... in a world where negative words and negative actions were applauded and encouraged... in a world that advocated division... in a world where people didn't remember to acknowledge Martin Luther King Jr. day... in a world where my students didn't know apartheid existed... in a world where we need something to heal this division- hearing something positive and unified and nondiscriminatory was like coming up for a breath of fresh air.
Watch It Here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wz4YuEvJ3y4
Read It Here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19EQvEzxtMu2JAxlA1mATlHX8JA0-oyPAUKG6z_hnRLw/edit?usp=sharing
It's an unfamiliar thing as of late. This feeling. This feeling of pride, of hope, and of immense joy as a young poet shines like so many in our nation- like so many who are overlooked by the images in the media. I NEEDED THESE WORDS. Watching Amanda Gorman recite her poem for the inauguration made me feel like we have a strong future, made me proud of our American youth, and made me feel proud that we still honor poetry as a form of expression. In a world of hate culture, hate speech, and hate rhetoric... in a world where the norms of hate somehow transformed into a "right" and a "freedom"... in a world where negative words and negative actions were applauded and encouraged... in a world that advocated division... in a world where people didn't remember to acknowledge Martin Luther King Jr. day... in a world where my students didn't know apartheid existed... in a world where we need something to heal this division- hearing something positive and unified and nondiscriminatory was like coming up for a breath of fresh air.
SONGS ON REPEAT.
Aside from the few people that "don't listen to music," I think most of us probably have songs for different people in our lives, different chapters of our evolution, different places, etc.
I could live without a television, but I couldn't live without music. (I realize the inherent privilege in that statement). Make a playlist of your life. It's a good assignment. Think about each year, its significance, the song that is tied to that year. Think about your songs on repeat.
I could live without a television, but I couldn't live without music. (I realize the inherent privilege in that statement). Make a playlist of your life. It's a good assignment. Think about each year, its significance, the song that is tied to that year. Think about your songs on repeat.
IT'S A FOOL'S DAY. JANUARY 2021.
It's the New Year, but it just feels like another day. I looked at the date and immediately thought, ahhh, it's January Fool's Day. My eighth grade science teacher, Mr. Smith, was one of those amazing teachers that I failed to appreciate because I was too young to fully understand his inherent genius and his snappy sarcasm. In fact, he is one of the reasons that I tactfully avoided teaching middle school level students. I am sure it has its perks.... but nope. Mr. Smith retired the year that I left middle school for high school. And, many years later, I still wish that I could have apologized for not fully understanding how great of a teacher he was at the time.
On day one, Mr. Smith told us he would not be putting up with anything that year. He stood in front of us and said that anyone, who aspired to achieve As and Bs that year, should take a seat at the front lab tables. Those, who aspired to ride in the C range, should take a seat in the middle of the classroom. Those, who wished to perform below average or not put forth any effort, should sit in the back row of lab tables. This was the year in school when I decided to get my life together and become a nerd. I sat in the front row of lab tables.
Before each exam, Mr. Smith would place the exams face down on the lab tables- placing a stack in front of each person in the front row. If someone tried to pass them back before he was said it was okay to do so, he would stop the class and say, "The last person who did that was called Stubby. Do you also want to be called Stubby?" He would then proceed to give his pre-exam lecture. "If you studied for forty hours, if you prayed to God that you might pass this exam for thirty hours, if you have a degree in biology or chemistry from Harvard or Yale, and if you personally thanked all the loving taxpayers of Floyd County for so generously providing you with a paper copy of this exam right here today, then you just might pass with a C. Good luck. You may begin." Papers were passed back and the race to finish the exam began. Later in the week, when we received our graded exams, Mr. Smith would call us up to his desk one by one- placing either a 'Brother' or a 'Sister' in front of our names. Then, he would proceed to announce the grade when we approached the desk. "Sister Fougerousse, 98. You can do better." I was rather introverted that year, and Mr. Smith intimidated me. So, my response was always, "Yes sir" as my shaking hand grabbed the exam and my nervousness propelled me back to my seat. I managed to always get 98s that year... always an answer away from perfection. Yeah... I can be quite melodramatic.
When Mr. Smith was upset/irritated/annoyed because students wouldn't listen (as was sometimes the case since the class followed lunch hour), he would stop the lecture, turn his back to us, and begin lecturing directly to the wall in front of him.... for the ENTIRE class period... announcing that the wall was a better listener than us. I once had to use the restroom. He gave me a minute and thirty seconds. The class timed me.... and I returned a minute and 40 seconds late- embarrassed and humiliated. But, I learned to never again ask to use the restroom during his class. On occasion, we received a lecture regarding the entitlement of my generation. He would start off, "I remember when Highlander Point was nothing but a field. Those were the days when hard work meant something..."
On the first of every month, Mr. Smith would say, "Happy [Insert Month] Fool's Day." If someone forgot their homework and tried to make up an excuse, Mr. Smith would say, "Oh, I see! ...said the blind man." Then, just stare at the student before strolling back up to the front of the classroom.
At the end of the school year, during course recommendations for high school, Mr. Smith called each of us up to his desk. "Sister Fougerousse." I walked up to his desk. He had a sign behind him that read, "I am not your mother. This is not your house. Pick up after yourself. This is a school." He told me that he was recommending me for Honors Biology in high school. He wanted to know what I thought. I told him that I didn't think I was smart enough to take Honors Biology. He said he disagreed, but respected my wishes and allowed me to enroll in the average level course.
I believe that high school courses and my high school teachers had the strongest impact on my work ethic, my foundational knowledge, and my life. But, I would be remiss to forget the valuable lessons that I learned from an eighth grade science teacher. I was just too young to respect his jadedness, his ability to deal with entitled pre-teens, and his commitment to a world of education that probably seemed in shambles at that time. His legacy still echoes every time I see the first of a month. Happy January Fool's Day.
On day one, Mr. Smith told us he would not be putting up with anything that year. He stood in front of us and said that anyone, who aspired to achieve As and Bs that year, should take a seat at the front lab tables. Those, who aspired to ride in the C range, should take a seat in the middle of the classroom. Those, who wished to perform below average or not put forth any effort, should sit in the back row of lab tables. This was the year in school when I decided to get my life together and become a nerd. I sat in the front row of lab tables.
Before each exam, Mr. Smith would place the exams face down on the lab tables- placing a stack in front of each person in the front row. If someone tried to pass them back before he was said it was okay to do so, he would stop the class and say, "The last person who did that was called Stubby. Do you also want to be called Stubby?" He would then proceed to give his pre-exam lecture. "If you studied for forty hours, if you prayed to God that you might pass this exam for thirty hours, if you have a degree in biology or chemistry from Harvard or Yale, and if you personally thanked all the loving taxpayers of Floyd County for so generously providing you with a paper copy of this exam right here today, then you just might pass with a C. Good luck. You may begin." Papers were passed back and the race to finish the exam began. Later in the week, when we received our graded exams, Mr. Smith would call us up to his desk one by one- placing either a 'Brother' or a 'Sister' in front of our names. Then, he would proceed to announce the grade when we approached the desk. "Sister Fougerousse, 98. You can do better." I was rather introverted that year, and Mr. Smith intimidated me. So, my response was always, "Yes sir" as my shaking hand grabbed the exam and my nervousness propelled me back to my seat. I managed to always get 98s that year... always an answer away from perfection. Yeah... I can be quite melodramatic.
When Mr. Smith was upset/irritated/annoyed because students wouldn't listen (as was sometimes the case since the class followed lunch hour), he would stop the lecture, turn his back to us, and begin lecturing directly to the wall in front of him.... for the ENTIRE class period... announcing that the wall was a better listener than us. I once had to use the restroom. He gave me a minute and thirty seconds. The class timed me.... and I returned a minute and 40 seconds late- embarrassed and humiliated. But, I learned to never again ask to use the restroom during his class. On occasion, we received a lecture regarding the entitlement of my generation. He would start off, "I remember when Highlander Point was nothing but a field. Those were the days when hard work meant something..."
On the first of every month, Mr. Smith would say, "Happy [Insert Month] Fool's Day." If someone forgot their homework and tried to make up an excuse, Mr. Smith would say, "Oh, I see! ...said the blind man." Then, just stare at the student before strolling back up to the front of the classroom.
At the end of the school year, during course recommendations for high school, Mr. Smith called each of us up to his desk. "Sister Fougerousse." I walked up to his desk. He had a sign behind him that read, "I am not your mother. This is not your house. Pick up after yourself. This is a school." He told me that he was recommending me for Honors Biology in high school. He wanted to know what I thought. I told him that I didn't think I was smart enough to take Honors Biology. He said he disagreed, but respected my wishes and allowed me to enroll in the average level course.
I believe that high school courses and my high school teachers had the strongest impact on my work ethic, my foundational knowledge, and my life. But, I would be remiss to forget the valuable lessons that I learned from an eighth grade science teacher. I was just too young to respect his jadedness, his ability to deal with entitled pre-teens, and his commitment to a world of education that probably seemed in shambles at that time. His legacy still echoes every time I see the first of a month. Happy January Fool's Day.
RE-VERSE. DECEMBER 2020.
"I'll rewrite this whole life and this time there'll be so much love, you won't be able to see beyond it" - Warsan Shire
I first bought the Oxford Book of American Poetry as a freshman in high school. I read through it- bookmarking the ones that stuck with me. Then, in my junior year of high school, my parents bought me another anthology of poetry. I was always interested in the ways that words worked together- the syntax- and how the syntax might impact the semantics.
I've been thinking about reverse- the word, the concept.
-Etymology | "Re" = again | "verse" = to plow a row in a field or to write. "Reverse" = to write again.
-Concepts | Reverse osmosis. Reverse transcribe in RNA sequencing. Reverse roles. Reverse poems. Reverse. There has to be a deeper connection between language and land... which means that the answers to my questions might be in the neuroscience of literature.
Plowing a field and writing a poem... I know the dangers of quotations without context... and for this one, context is important. But, for sake of thought alone, Booker T. Washington once wrote, "No race can prosper until it realizes there is as much dignity in plowing a field as in writing a poem." Reverse. Re. Verse. Land and poetry.
We say "modernist mindscapes" to represent cognitive landscapes in literature. What about the epigenetics of literary analysis? Of language? Could historical trauma be linked in the syntax? What are the phenotypes of literature? Is there a terroir in literature? Grounded (stable- land-based) normativity (standards). What are land-based standards, and how to do they interact with and inform formal writing standards?
Deconstructivism was the hardest branch of literary theory for me to understand. But, what Derrida was trying to say, at least I think, is that displacement occurs in writing. This is why "re-verse," as a concept, is probably deconstructivist. When something is transferred, re-written, re-plowed, re-constructed, then the secondary product loses something that the first entailed. It is less novel, more displaced from its original form, but is it less true?
I first bought the Oxford Book of American Poetry as a freshman in high school. I read through it- bookmarking the ones that stuck with me. Then, in my junior year of high school, my parents bought me another anthology of poetry. I was always interested in the ways that words worked together- the syntax- and how the syntax might impact the semantics.
I've been thinking about reverse- the word, the concept.
-Etymology | "Re" = again | "verse" = to plow a row in a field or to write. "Reverse" = to write again.
-Concepts | Reverse osmosis. Reverse transcribe in RNA sequencing. Reverse roles. Reverse poems. Reverse. There has to be a deeper connection between language and land... which means that the answers to my questions might be in the neuroscience of literature.
Plowing a field and writing a poem... I know the dangers of quotations without context... and for this one, context is important. But, for sake of thought alone, Booker T. Washington once wrote, "No race can prosper until it realizes there is as much dignity in plowing a field as in writing a poem." Reverse. Re. Verse. Land and poetry.
We say "modernist mindscapes" to represent cognitive landscapes in literature. What about the epigenetics of literary analysis? Of language? Could historical trauma be linked in the syntax? What are the phenotypes of literature? Is there a terroir in literature? Grounded (stable- land-based) normativity (standards). What are land-based standards, and how to do they interact with and inform formal writing standards?
Deconstructivism was the hardest branch of literary theory for me to understand. But, what Derrida was trying to say, at least I think, is that displacement occurs in writing. This is why "re-verse," as a concept, is probably deconstructivist. When something is transferred, re-written, re-plowed, re-constructed, then the secondary product loses something that the first entailed. It is less novel, more displaced from its original form, but is it less true?
COGNITIVE LITERARY MAPS. DECEMBER 2020.
The reviews that your books receive don't mean anything. Do people remember them years later? Does it embed some memory that reappears? Shall you remember this? Perhaps you should write it down. So here.
Alice Kaplan's French Lessons (1993), Lee Smith's "The Happy Memories Club" (1995), F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (1922) and Jean Webster's Daddy-Long-Legs (1912). Reflective autobiographical prose, contemporary short story, fictional modernist short story, and epistolary novel. Tragic deaths of fathers or negative or nonexistent paternal relationships, boarding houses and schools, older men with younger women, first loves, and coastal charms.
Jean Webster was born in 1876. Her mother and grandmother were tremendous advocates in equal rights movements in the early nineteenth century. Jean received a proper education, had an adjacent literary legacy from her uncle, Mark Twain (the "father of the great American novel"), and travelled with a posse of American friends that she acquired during a study abroad program in Italy. She ended up having a very Jane-Eyre love affair with a man, her best friend's brother, who was married to a woman that suffered from bipolar disorder. The man, a Princeton man, a lawyer that never lived up to his family's expectations, struggled greatly and turned to alcoholism to cope. Eventually, after a divorce from the institutionalized wife, Jean and Glenn married. She kept an apartment in the city and he had a farm in upstate New York. Jean ended up dying from childbirth in the summer of 1916.
Alice Kaplan's French Lessons (1993), Lee Smith's "The Happy Memories Club" (1995), F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (1922) and Jean Webster's Daddy-Long-Legs (1912). Reflective autobiographical prose, contemporary short story, fictional modernist short story, and epistolary novel. Tragic deaths of fathers or negative or nonexistent paternal relationships, boarding houses and schools, older men with younger women, first loves, and coastal charms.
Jean Webster was born in 1876. Her mother and grandmother were tremendous advocates in equal rights movements in the early nineteenth century. Jean received a proper education, had an adjacent literary legacy from her uncle, Mark Twain (the "father of the great American novel"), and travelled with a posse of American friends that she acquired during a study abroad program in Italy. She ended up having a very Jane-Eyre love affair with a man, her best friend's brother, who was married to a woman that suffered from bipolar disorder. The man, a Princeton man, a lawyer that never lived up to his family's expectations, struggled greatly and turned to alcoholism to cope. Eventually, after a divorce from the institutionalized wife, Jean and Glenn married. She kept an apartment in the city and he had a farm in upstate New York. Jean ended up dying from childbirth in the summer of 1916.
BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FOOLS. DECEMBER 2020.
Women from my birthplace wind up in F. Scott Fitzgerald stories hoping that their daughters grow up to be beautiful little fools. They harbor buried love stories until the past becomes visceral. Then, when hope seems even the slightest bit possible, they laugh away their silly dreams with a tear that looks like a sparkle. They resort to the life they know, with the man they love because of the convenience and with the convenience, the time. There's something about those border states- the ones in-between.
There is something about the confidence of old money. It's like when an American walks through the door of a European room. No words are needed to spot the American. The American is so confident in their established space of belonging that you could spot one from a mile away. That's how it is with old money, whiskey straights from charred oak barrels, and those crafted laughs to flatter at just the perfect moment. Language, of course, is a code. But, the most sought after orchestrations intersect at the dialogue between the unspoken glances and the languages that aren't comprised of words.
There is something about the confidence of old money. It's like when an American walks through the door of a European room. No words are needed to spot the American. The American is so confident in their established space of belonging that you could spot one from a mile away. That's how it is with old money, whiskey straights from charred oak barrels, and those crafted laughs to flatter at just the perfect moment. Language, of course, is a code. But, the most sought after orchestrations intersect at the dialogue between the unspoken glances and the languages that aren't comprised of words.
PARCE QUE JE VEUX ECRIRE EN FRANCAIS. NOVEMBRE 2020.
J'espere que tu vis une vie dont tu es fier. Et, si tu ne l'es pas, j'espere que tu as le courage de tout recommencer.
J'ai un vocabulaire limite en Francais. Mais, tout le monde dit que le practice (?) fais le parfait. Alors, ici- voila, c'est le practice. Un jour, j'imagine que je suis ecrire et parle en francais avec un peu fluency. Mais, maintenant, j'essai. Et, la langue [switches] cette [way] et comme ca. Mes mots est en Anglais et en Francais. C'est tres inconsistent. Alors, je [keep practicing]. J'essai [to piece together] idees et pensees... parce que un jour je veux une vie [in which I can write in two langues des meme temps?] avec confidence..... mais, "un jour," ce n'est pas aujourd'hui.
I think, as an English teacher, I find learning other languages fascinating. There are so many things that I take for granted in my first language. So many little rules and arbitrary things are simply ingrained into the way that I speak and think and interpret. Learning a different language- not just learning it---- but learning its prosody, its vocabulary, its structure, its interpretative templates---- is daunting and humbling and enthralling.
J'ai un vocabulaire limite en Francais. Mais, tout le monde dit que le practice (?) fais le parfait. Alors, ici- voila, c'est le practice. Un jour, j'imagine que je suis ecrire et parle en francais avec un peu fluency. Mais, maintenant, j'essai. Et, la langue [switches] cette [way] et comme ca. Mes mots est en Anglais et en Francais. C'est tres inconsistent. Alors, je [keep practicing]. J'essai [to piece together] idees et pensees... parce que un jour je veux une vie [in which I can write in two langues des meme temps?] avec confidence..... mais, "un jour," ce n'est pas aujourd'hui.
I think, as an English teacher, I find learning other languages fascinating. There are so many things that I take for granted in my first language. So many little rules and arbitrary things are simply ingrained into the way that I speak and think and interpret. Learning a different language- not just learning it---- but learning its prosody, its vocabulary, its structure, its interpretative templates---- is daunting and humbling and enthralling.
YOU GET STRONGER. NOVEMBER 2020.
Constant Variable in the Teaching Experiment: My students are so brilliant.
I should probably listen to them more often. No, this is not a revelation.
I had a student say that she would ask me if things get easier.... BUT that she already knew my answer would be that things don't get easier, you just get/grow stronger. Then, I'd send her off with a Dove chocolate to seize the day. I was like... hold up. That's so true. (1) This [insert all things 2020] will make me a stronger person and educator.... and (2) I need to buy some more Dove chocolates.
Dependent & Independent Variables in the Teaching Experiment:
When I first started teaching, like pre-service teaching, I thought lesson planning was the most tedious endeavor. I spent HOURS and HOURS trying to perfect one lesson plan. Just one lesson plan. Then, when I started student teaching, I thought it was hard to teach one course and ninety students. Just one course of ninety lesson plans. Then, when I started teaching for real, I thought juggling two courses and a hundred and seventy students was probably going to be too hard. But, I did it. Just two courses and three hundred and sixty two lesson plans. Then, when I started teaching four classes, two of which were AP courses, I questioned whether I'd be able to juggle that. But, I did. Just four courses and seven hundred and twenty four lesson plans. Then, I took on even more the following year with an Independent Study, Junior Class sponsor, and credit recovery monitoring. It didn't get easier... the workload continuously keeps growing- my responsibilities and the expectations keep accumulating.... but I grow stronger. When I completed my first e-learning day (without the virtual teaching component- just a pre-loaded video lecture), I thought- nope, this is so much prep work for five courses. Then, today, when I was able to just have office hours and conduct an e-learning day, I was like- this is the best day ever. It doesn't get easier, I just learn to appreciate what I once had more. I adapt- I evolve- I grow stronger. Two thousand, six hundred, fifty three ish lesson plans down... Only five hundred and twenty five more digitized e-learning and virtual combined lesson plans to go.... this year. I got this. Where's that Dove chocolate?
I should probably listen to them more often. No, this is not a revelation.
I had a student say that she would ask me if things get easier.... BUT that she already knew my answer would be that things don't get easier, you just get/grow stronger. Then, I'd send her off with a Dove chocolate to seize the day. I was like... hold up. That's so true. (1) This [insert all things 2020] will make me a stronger person and educator.... and (2) I need to buy some more Dove chocolates.
Dependent & Independent Variables in the Teaching Experiment:
When I first started teaching, like pre-service teaching, I thought lesson planning was the most tedious endeavor. I spent HOURS and HOURS trying to perfect one lesson plan. Just one lesson plan. Then, when I started student teaching, I thought it was hard to teach one course and ninety students. Just one course of ninety lesson plans. Then, when I started teaching for real, I thought juggling two courses and a hundred and seventy students was probably going to be too hard. But, I did it. Just two courses and three hundred and sixty two lesson plans. Then, when I started teaching four classes, two of which were AP courses, I questioned whether I'd be able to juggle that. But, I did. Just four courses and seven hundred and twenty four lesson plans. Then, I took on even more the following year with an Independent Study, Junior Class sponsor, and credit recovery monitoring. It didn't get easier... the workload continuously keeps growing- my responsibilities and the expectations keep accumulating.... but I grow stronger. When I completed my first e-learning day (without the virtual teaching component- just a pre-loaded video lecture), I thought- nope, this is so much prep work for five courses. Then, today, when I was able to just have office hours and conduct an e-learning day, I was like- this is the best day ever. It doesn't get easier, I just learn to appreciate what I once had more. I adapt- I evolve- I grow stronger. Two thousand, six hundred, fifty three ish lesson plans down... Only five hundred and twenty five more digitized e-learning and virtual combined lesson plans to go.... this year. I got this. Where's that Dove chocolate?
CONFLICT. NOVEMBER 2020
I tend to always mix up the same grammatical things. I switch 'every day' and 'everyday' as if they were interchangeable. I use 'quote' when I mean 'quotation.'
Everyday= adjective
Every Day= adjective, subject
Quote= verb
Quotation= subject
They say that conflict creates character. My secondary teachers described the climax of a story as the highest moment of conflict. How many people thrive on conflict? I've always wondered why some people need drama to keep their lives interesting. Is that something you inherit? Or, is that something you learn? I think I'll listen to "Peace Train" by Cat Stevens now.
Everyday= adjective
Every Day= adjective, subject
Quote= verb
Quotation= subject
They say that conflict creates character. My secondary teachers described the climax of a story as the highest moment of conflict. How many people thrive on conflict? I've always wondered why some people need drama to keep their lives interesting. Is that something you inherit? Or, is that something you learn? I think I'll listen to "Peace Train" by Cat Stevens now.
HOME FOR THE SUNRISE. OCTOBER 2020
This place was my safe haven growing up. It's where I cried and laughed and silently sat for hours trying to figure out why things happen the way that they do and what role I play in this bigger life picture. The sunrise on the lake is beautiful. The fog rolls over the water. Birds sing on high. The world wakes up, and I've never felt more at home.
LIVE GRADING. OCTOBER 2020
The tree falling in the woods philosophy is the worst. It is also the driving force for extrinsic proof.
[Other] Do you write? [Me] No. Maybe. Not really. Sometimes. Not as much as I should.
In that disaster of a thought process, so much is revealed: certainty (indicated by the binary yes or no), an uncertain subjunctive shoutout (thank you English verbal moods), offering a context, and then an admission of the significance of comparative standards (relational concepts). But, the truth is that I do write often. It's just not formal writing.... so somewhere in my mind, that kind of writing doesn't really count. This philosophy is basely flawed. If I study and write papers and such, but I do not get a piece of paper (degree/diploma), then does it count? The wide and large answer, at least on a resume, is no.
I'm grading papers. I feel like my tombstone might say just that, "Still grading papers." Even when I knock out 70 essays and provide valuable feedback, I just have to wait a week or two for the next set... and I have plenty of formative assessments to grade along the way. I think this philosophy is called "live grading." Grading mandates always somewhat annoy me... and the loop holes in standardization in any context annoy me too. UMMMM.... I could post a grade every day. I could do that... but it definitely wouldn't be the kind of feedback that I think my students deserve. PLUS, why does everything have to have an extrinsic tag? How am I supposed to be like, go life-long learning, when I immediately reinforce a point value after I assign something? Why are we so uncomfortable as a society with the abstract? The "crazy" thing is that this isn't just about grading. This is also about social communities. I don't play the social media game- for several reasons. I mean, I have an email. That is stressful enough. (1) It's overwhelming for an introvert. (2) My creativity is more like spontaneous bursts of productivity than consistent tasks like posting something every day. (3) The pressure to be "liked" is crippling. I honestly don't know how students survive in the hostile climate and culture of social media. (4) I don't think you have to be virtual to be an influencer. I think the biggest influencers are people that we have in our every day lives.
As I take a grading break, I just needed a space to reflect- to think in words- to explore why we are so driven by this extrinsic philosophy in American culture... Why does everything have to be immediate and "live"? There are pros. I cannot deny that. However, what does this imply culturally moving forward? Okay, break is over. Back to grading.
[Other] Do you write? [Me] No. Maybe. Not really. Sometimes. Not as much as I should.
In that disaster of a thought process, so much is revealed: certainty (indicated by the binary yes or no), an uncertain subjunctive shoutout (thank you English verbal moods), offering a context, and then an admission of the significance of comparative standards (relational concepts). But, the truth is that I do write often. It's just not formal writing.... so somewhere in my mind, that kind of writing doesn't really count. This philosophy is basely flawed. If I study and write papers and such, but I do not get a piece of paper (degree/diploma), then does it count? The wide and large answer, at least on a resume, is no.
I'm grading papers. I feel like my tombstone might say just that, "Still grading papers." Even when I knock out 70 essays and provide valuable feedback, I just have to wait a week or two for the next set... and I have plenty of formative assessments to grade along the way. I think this philosophy is called "live grading." Grading mandates always somewhat annoy me... and the loop holes in standardization in any context annoy me too. UMMMM.... I could post a grade every day. I could do that... but it definitely wouldn't be the kind of feedback that I think my students deserve. PLUS, why does everything have to have an extrinsic tag? How am I supposed to be like, go life-long learning, when I immediately reinforce a point value after I assign something? Why are we so uncomfortable as a society with the abstract? The "crazy" thing is that this isn't just about grading. This is also about social communities. I don't play the social media game- for several reasons. I mean, I have an email. That is stressful enough. (1) It's overwhelming for an introvert. (2) My creativity is more like spontaneous bursts of productivity than consistent tasks like posting something every day. (3) The pressure to be "liked" is crippling. I honestly don't know how students survive in the hostile climate and culture of social media. (4) I don't think you have to be virtual to be an influencer. I think the biggest influencers are people that we have in our every day lives.
As I take a grading break, I just needed a space to reflect- to think in words- to explore why we are so driven by this extrinsic philosophy in American culture... Why does everything have to be immediate and "live"? There are pros. I cannot deny that. However, what does this imply culturally moving forward? Okay, break is over. Back to grading.
TIMES THAT SHIFT LOGIC. OCTOBER 2020
Exulansis (n) the tendency to give up talking about an experience because people cannot relate to it (copied verbatim from something on Google images regarding MB research).
In the 1990s, psychologist Arthur Aron devised an experiment to see if love could be cultivated in a lab setting. In a series of 36 questions, one of the questions asks: "If you knew you only had one year to live, how would you live it?" Of course, this is a generic question. What's that one pop song that plays every other song on the radio right now? "If the World Was Ending." Wartime logic, terminal illness logic, end of the world logic- they all defy the normal rules of pace and standard behavior. And, I'm not a huge millennialist supporter of the "yolo" movement or the messages conveyed on "Live in the Moment" signs that dot the store-scape of Hobby Lobby. BUT, there is definitely merit in considering what you would change if time was explicitly finite (and not implicitly finite).
In the 1990s, psychologist Arthur Aron devised an experiment to see if love could be cultivated in a lab setting. In a series of 36 questions, one of the questions asks: "If you knew you only had one year to live, how would you live it?" Of course, this is a generic question. What's that one pop song that plays every other song on the radio right now? "If the World Was Ending." Wartime logic, terminal illness logic, end of the world logic- they all defy the normal rules of pace and standard behavior. And, I'm not a huge millennialist supporter of the "yolo" movement or the messages conveyed on "Live in the Moment" signs that dot the store-scape of Hobby Lobby. BUT, there is definitely merit in considering what you would change if time was explicitly finite (and not implicitly finite).
SOMETIMES. SEPTEMBER 2020.
Sometimes I forget to hear the house breathe. I forget to listen to its voice in the early hours of the morning or the late hours of the night- when all around me the world pauses except for those nocturnal few that write all night long or work second shifts at the factory and drive home on empty roads.
The sun gives me hope and energy and vibrancy. But, the night gives me rest and depth and peace.
I’m living in an apartment complex in an artsy Midwest town at this point in my life. It’s very nine to five and family oriented. It’s a place that I never thought I’d call my temporary home, but things and places and people have a way of changing your mind if you’re open to letting them change your mind.
It’s cold tonight for September. I fell asleep at five o’clock and woke up at midnight. I put the kettle on and listened until the water sang from inside. I made a batch of midnight pancakes. I started the fake fireplace with a flip of a switch and brought out the space heater. And, for the first time, in a long two months of covid-inspired anxiety, I felt a great sense of peace- the pervasive kind of contentment that comes with all the nostalgic feelings of home.
The streets are quiet tonight. The cars of all the engineers in this small town are parked in rows and the parking lot lights shine down on them with that Thomas Kincaid glow.
Sometimes I miss the city- London or Paris- just depends. Not usually though. Usually the big red sun that rises in the east as I drive through the alternating cornfields and soybean fields is exactly what my soul needs. Sometimes though, on crisp, but sunny mornings- when that fall breeze harkens the coming winter, I miss the diversions of crowded streets, of reading on a park bench- half engrossed in the ideas locked in prose and half people watching and wondering how magical and beyond comprehension it is that so many lives exist alongside each other and interweave even though we never fully understand that level of connection.
Sometimes, like people who say they can have triggers from LSD trips from the sixties, I will see something, and my mind will time travel through neuron paths to a memory that I forgot to remember for a while. I’ll miss those huge flocks of white birds that rose from freshly plowed fields of brown gold earth as the train cut through the northern French countryside and I listened to the cadence and brilliance of accents and languages fill the spaces around me. Sometimes I miss the feeling of being unnoticeably alone- of spending four hours in a café as if it were the way life was supposed to be lived- absorbed- noticed. Sometimes I miss the freedom of reading at two in the morning perched in window seat of a skyscraper building and watching people start to slowly trickle back from the pubs in the light drizzle of a late night shower… and the feeling of knowing that I didn’t have to be anywhere the next day and that there wasn’t an impossible list of expectations crushing my stamina.
Sometimes I miss a life I haven’t lived yet. What happens to latent energy if it’s never used? Is energy like the water cycle- does it cycle through again- never really leaving us-just transforming into different states of being?
I wish I lived in a culture that took their waking slow- that started later in the day- that made time for breakfast. I want long breakfasts. I want time in my mornings to soak in the world and watch the sun rise high in the sky. I want the time to refresh instead of hitting the snooze button five times before a rushed 6AM morning routine and knowing that I won’t have the mental capacity to grade papers that day because of the cyclical impact of sleep deprivation and the mental stamina needed to fully engage with intellectual work and marking.
But, then, sometimes in the early, early morning or late, late night, I will look around at this space I call home and realize that without all the hard work and privileges of employment, I wouldn’t have the moments of revelation when I remember to listen to the house breathe and listen to the voice of this beautiful and reviving space.
They say that you don’t know what you’ve got until it's gone. Maybe that is true. But, sometimes you do know what you have even as the time slips like grains of sand in an hourglass. Sometimes you do miss something before it's over. Sometimes you do have the power to harness and bracket appreciation for its finite capacity. If that weren’t true, then gratitude wouldn’t be true either.
The lateral plane of streams of consciousness is a map of dotted sometimes and ‘if, then’ statements with all its streetlights, and remembered forgotten memories, and the personifications of living moments.
The sun gives me hope and energy and vibrancy. But, the night gives me rest and depth and peace.
I’m living in an apartment complex in an artsy Midwest town at this point in my life. It’s very nine to five and family oriented. It’s a place that I never thought I’d call my temporary home, but things and places and people have a way of changing your mind if you’re open to letting them change your mind.
It’s cold tonight for September. I fell asleep at five o’clock and woke up at midnight. I put the kettle on and listened until the water sang from inside. I made a batch of midnight pancakes. I started the fake fireplace with a flip of a switch and brought out the space heater. And, for the first time, in a long two months of covid-inspired anxiety, I felt a great sense of peace- the pervasive kind of contentment that comes with all the nostalgic feelings of home.
The streets are quiet tonight. The cars of all the engineers in this small town are parked in rows and the parking lot lights shine down on them with that Thomas Kincaid glow.
Sometimes I miss the city- London or Paris- just depends. Not usually though. Usually the big red sun that rises in the east as I drive through the alternating cornfields and soybean fields is exactly what my soul needs. Sometimes though, on crisp, but sunny mornings- when that fall breeze harkens the coming winter, I miss the diversions of crowded streets, of reading on a park bench- half engrossed in the ideas locked in prose and half people watching and wondering how magical and beyond comprehension it is that so many lives exist alongside each other and interweave even though we never fully understand that level of connection.
Sometimes, like people who say they can have triggers from LSD trips from the sixties, I will see something, and my mind will time travel through neuron paths to a memory that I forgot to remember for a while. I’ll miss those huge flocks of white birds that rose from freshly plowed fields of brown gold earth as the train cut through the northern French countryside and I listened to the cadence and brilliance of accents and languages fill the spaces around me. Sometimes I miss the feeling of being unnoticeably alone- of spending four hours in a café as if it were the way life was supposed to be lived- absorbed- noticed. Sometimes I miss the freedom of reading at two in the morning perched in window seat of a skyscraper building and watching people start to slowly trickle back from the pubs in the light drizzle of a late night shower… and the feeling of knowing that I didn’t have to be anywhere the next day and that there wasn’t an impossible list of expectations crushing my stamina.
Sometimes I miss a life I haven’t lived yet. What happens to latent energy if it’s never used? Is energy like the water cycle- does it cycle through again- never really leaving us-just transforming into different states of being?
I wish I lived in a culture that took their waking slow- that started later in the day- that made time for breakfast. I want long breakfasts. I want time in my mornings to soak in the world and watch the sun rise high in the sky. I want the time to refresh instead of hitting the snooze button five times before a rushed 6AM morning routine and knowing that I won’t have the mental capacity to grade papers that day because of the cyclical impact of sleep deprivation and the mental stamina needed to fully engage with intellectual work and marking.
But, then, sometimes in the early, early morning or late, late night, I will look around at this space I call home and realize that without all the hard work and privileges of employment, I wouldn’t have the moments of revelation when I remember to listen to the house breathe and listen to the voice of this beautiful and reviving space.
They say that you don’t know what you’ve got until it's gone. Maybe that is true. But, sometimes you do know what you have even as the time slips like grains of sand in an hourglass. Sometimes you do miss something before it's over. Sometimes you do have the power to harness and bracket appreciation for its finite capacity. If that weren’t true, then gratitude wouldn’t be true either.
The lateral plane of streams of consciousness is a map of dotted sometimes and ‘if, then’ statements with all its streetlights, and remembered forgotten memories, and the personifications of living moments.
REVISIONIST POWER. AUGUST 2020.
I usually make it a New Year’s thing to make a collage of the year…. But it’s only August and I feel like I’ve lived a year already. If I was someone that cried a lot, I think I’d be out of tears at this point in time. And, while we’ve all been through a lot (and many more than others), I’m just going to keep suppressing that inherent pessimistic default and try to rein in the positivity. Before the vid, I watched my seniors win scholarships. I put on a Talent Show that wouldn’t have been possible without my junior class volunteers. I went to visit Johns Hopkins and saw Baltimore for the first time. I had never been that far up the East coast. This year, I was actually able to enjoy the spring- opened the windows, planted flowers, helped out my parents, and lived a lifestyle that wasn’t conventional- slept better, ate better, wasn’t as stressed. I took on the task of distance learning, low-key worried about the toilet paper shortage, and watched as protests uncovered systematic and unjust practices. I volunteered to help put on the strangest graduation ceremony ever. I never did throw a prom. I watched people debate about masks. But, my important parts of 2020 were/are the times that I was able to spend with my family- and for that, I am grateful. My sister tried to teach me how to sew. She helped me practice my pin-up hairstyle for the school yearbook picture. I decided that I should embrace the political this year and represent Rosie the Riveter. My dad and I made it a goal to plan a few photography trips. I went to visit the University of Michigan and see Ann Arbor (I hadn’t ever been to Michigan before). My mom got a new kitten... and then another one. And, honestly, sitting with my mom and just talking the night away is one of my favorite things to do. I learned more about my grandma and made more time to spend with her and listen to her stories too. I learned how to create double exposure photographs. I learned how to cut grass. I rode in a combine- winter wheat harvest. I celebrated a graduation- rooftop style, overlooking downtown Columbus. I went on lots of walks, took lots of pictures, and actually had time to read and write and clean out and declutter and hike and laugh without worrying about the stresses of a 6AM alarm clock… and thanks to the way some things turned out, I was able to be alone again. I’m not mad at Covid. I’m disappointed- I’m a bit jaded- I’m a bit heartbroken in my profession- I’m a bit worried about the future- and I am all the way stressed about teaching this year and trying to maintain unrealistic workloads without burning out…. But I’m not angry. Those five months were five months of family time, of memories, of sunshine- and yeah, a lot of really terrible things happened during those times, but I think the best thing about my written reflections of my personal history is that I am the revisionist. I get to decide which parts I want to remember, and which parts I want to edit out in my writing. So, I’m only going to keep the good parts for today.
ABOUT IU & COLLEGE ADVICE. JULY 2020.
I've only ever attended three universities (the local one while I was still in high school, IU, and King's College London). However, of the three, IU was by far my favorite place to be. I know it might be different in times of Covid, but I thought I would share some advice (it is mostly tied to IU, but some of it is universal to the college experience). (1) Walk everywhere. People are always talking about the freshman 15. Just walk everywhere. Bloomington is a beautiful place to be, especially in the fall and spring. (2) Soak in the limestone buildings, the Gothic architecture, and find your favorite place/building. (3) If you can't walk, know the bus routes. (3) Find your study space- whether it is in the Union or in the back room of Soma cafe off of Kirkwood Ave. (or the Pour House or the stacks in the Wells Library), make sure it is cozy, there's an outlet, and that it's a space where you can knock things out. Sidebar: there is/was a pretty cool record store attached to Soma last time I took students on a college visit. Always have good playlists. Always. (4) Find your guilty pleasure snack. Mine was pretzels and Nutella... and that carried me through long nights of drafting papers. (5) Find your favorite pizza place. Mother Bear's was about two minutes from my dorm freshman year... and they definitely had my name saved in their phone. The Munchie Madness deal was a staple in my diet. (6) Get cookies from Baked at midnight. (7) Find the gravestone that says, "She was an optimist." It says this because she thought she would die in 2000 something- had that engraved on her tombstone... then ended up dying in 1999. (8) Keep your dorm space tidy. There are worse things than a messy roommate.... but still. (9) If you have to get a roommate, go with a random roommate. Yeah, you run the risk of getting a crazy one. BUT, you also meet your best college friends that way. (10) At some point, turn your dorm room into a blanket fort... yeah, it's childish, but it's also a way to switch things up when life comes crashing down and things start to become mundane. (11) Watch the light show on the side of the art museum at night. (12) Find a building to watch the stars from- upcoming meteor showers: Perseids (August 11-12) and Orionoids (October 20-21). (13) Go to the basketball games if you can... even if it's in the nose bleed section... if they have them this year. Tailgate whenever you get the chance during football season. "Swim" in the fountain after a big win. (14) Take interesting classes with interesting professors. Ask around to find out which classes you want to take. Don't be afraid to go to office hours. College is all about networking. Don't let that aspect of college life slip past you. (15) I suggest at least one music history class. (16) Load up on the course load the first year. If you adapt to max. credit hours from the start, it'll be a nice change of pace when you lighten your course load later into the game. (17) Explore. Ask questions. Find new places. Meet new people. Consider new perspectives. (18) Remember that the alternate reality of college life is a privilege- and never forget to be grateful for it and to make the most of it. You get four years to live it up. Take the opportunity and run with it.
A YELLOW BRICK ROAD. MAY 2020.
I started writing this post in May. However, as I was listening to music, (Elton John, of course), I heard two gunshots go off, and I suddenly realized that there were important things happening around me than writing a reflective entry. A lot has happened in the last two months. I'm writing this now, at the start of July. You know what's happening- I won't be a broken record... at least not today.
When I was a kid, I loved watching The Wizard of Oz. The flying monkeys still revive slight PTSD, but overall, I appreciate that 1939 film. Now that I think about it, it was probably my first love of allegory. I wonder how many of the texts and narratives that we read and watch scaffold our futures. I wonder how much of the cultural DNA of society shapes the personal future.
I've recently realized that I already know where home is- it's in those rolling hills and farmlands of Southern Indiana. I know Hemingway said something about you know a place is home if you miss it before you've even left. That happens to me every time. Sure, it has its flaws... but so does everything on earth. The yellow brick road is just another way of saying taking the long way home. And, this adventure- this part of my narrative- this is all taking the long way home.
When I was a kid, I loved watching The Wizard of Oz. The flying monkeys still revive slight PTSD, but overall, I appreciate that 1939 film. Now that I think about it, it was probably my first love of allegory. I wonder how many of the texts and narratives that we read and watch scaffold our futures. I wonder how much of the cultural DNA of society shapes the personal future.
I've recently realized that I already know where home is- it's in those rolling hills and farmlands of Southern Indiana. I know Hemingway said something about you know a place is home if you miss it before you've even left. That happens to me every time. Sure, it has its flaws... but so does everything on earth. The yellow brick road is just another way of saying taking the long way home. And, this adventure- this part of my narrative- this is all taking the long way home.
IT'S WEIRD HOW THE SCHOOL YEAR ENDS IN SPRING. MAY 2020.
It's weird how the school year ends in the spring- the season of metaphorical beginnings- the symbol of new life- a commencement that follows the end. When I am old and gray, hopefully retired, wearing long, Navajo skirts, and gardening while reciting Chaucer from memory, and still telling everyone that I’m seventeen, I’ll stop for a moment, sit down on my front porch, and reflect on bygone Hauser times and Fougie & the Jets memories. Here’s what I’ll remember: (1) my young scholars and colleagues; (2) the stories; (3) the inside jokes; and (4) the academic epiphanies. These are what make Hauser such a great place to be. I’ll remember “making a freakin’ circle” and analyzing literature as we sat in my thrift-store-meets-coffee-shop-inspired classroom, under the fake trees that I rescued from the dumpster. I’ll remember that my students were not only academically impressive, but also people who were determined to change the world for the better. I’ll remember how humbled I felt to be a part of a chapter in their lives. I’ll remember loving the freedom I had to design my curriculum, to develop my pedagogy, to learn from my colleagues, and to embody the fact that teaching is the highest form of learning. I’ll remember the intricate weaving of inside jokes, sarcasm, tangents, and deeper reflections in a lesson. I’ll remember how I shamelessly integrated cringey slang into my vernacular. I'll remember listening to "Dancing in the Moonlight" way too often. I'll remember the time I was dancing after-school, because I had a terrible week, and a student came in and saw me dancing. He made fun of me for the rest of the year by imitating my "stellar" dance moves. Whether students were making fun of the way I said “orange,” discussing the six belly button types, sitting at our “campfire” while I read a gothic, Japanese story, having a Gatsby party, planning a Secret Santa gift exchange, getting way too competitive in a Quizlet Live session, stressing over a timed composition, overusing the word “imprudent,” bringing me a baguette or ice-cream, leaving me a jar of accolades, telling me about how they analyzed this new song or new film, sarcastically saying ‘go jets,’ perfecting the advanced expository writing structure, or blaming me for now seeing ALL THE SYMBOLISM, I’ll remember that I was in some place good.
SPRING READING. APRIL 2020.
I've been wanting to find more time to read. And, well, ..... [global pandemic]. I found time. I also realized that I haven't posted my 2020 want-to-read list. So, I should probably do that now. I know some people are all about that winter reading... I am all about that warmer weather reading. I like when I can read outside... and not freeze my hands turning the pages of the book. Privilege.
|
Current Fiction Reading List
1. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley 2. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens 3. There, There by Tommy Orange 4. Hospital Sketches by L.M. Alcott 5. The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards (<12C reads this one) |
Current Nonfiction Reading List
1. Janesville by Amy Goldstein 2. American Overdose by Chris McGreal 3. Walking to Listen by Forsthoefel 4. Freakonomics by Levitt & Dubner 5. Call Them by Their True Names by Rebecca Solnit 6. Quiet by Susain Cain 7. The Making of the English Working Class by E.P.T. 8. Songbook by Nick Hornsby |
I WAKE TO SLEEP. APRIL 2020.
I went to the school to pack up my classroom for "the summer." We have limited entry access. So, I had to knock out a lot in one day... because I am such a hoarder.... and being a teacher that documents and files is honestly a set-up for a packrat haven. The only thing I didn't get to was my desk. It needs an organizational make-over. I know that it is April- like I know that. But, it definitely doesn't feel like April. It feels like full-on June. I usually slowly go through student work, slowly box up things for the summer, etc., etc. English teacher side bar: I basically live Theodore Roethke's "The Waking." "I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. / I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. / I learn by going where I have to go. / We think by feeling. What is there to know?" Anyway, it was a nice sense of accomplishment to clean the classroom. BUT, it was also a little eerie, because there were signs of March everywhere- signs of things that weren't wrapped up- like I had just dropped everything at the start of March and planned on picking it right back up at the end of March... but I didn't pick it right back up. The calendar was still on March. The front board still said March 6. There was still a heroic journey chart on the board for our final review of Butler's Kindred. I still had a bunch of prom plans posted on sticky notes. And, there were reminders of my seniors everywhere. All of our group photos posted to the side of my filing cabinet- all of the notes they left on the dry-erase board- all of their AP portfolios- all of the books they lent me to read- all of the gifts they brought to brighten my weeks- the notes, thank-you cards, the jar of accolades, the song recommendations, the artwork, the mementos of high school days, the plastic babies that they hid everywhere in my room when they were salty that I had a sub for Google training sessions, the coffee cups from our failed coffee shop mornings idea, the folders from college visits, etc. It was all there. And, wow, I am both grateful and upset. Grateful for wonderful students. Upset that there isn't a proper celebration for them. But, I guess we just have to learn by moving on and appreciating everything for what it was.
Here is Roethke's poem if you've never read it: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43333/the-waking-56d2220f25315
Here is Roethke's poem if you've never read it: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43333/the-waking-56d2220f25315
YEAR WITH QUESTIONS... APRIL 2020.
I am an introvert by nature. I love... scratch that... I need alone time to regroup and be the best teacher that I can be. However, I also believe in the necessity of in-person teaching. I had to take one online course in college, and I hated it. I preferred going to class- actually listening to the professor lecture- actually hearing my classmates discuss and debate. There is something crucial about that component of education... or at least for me. When the end of Spring Break rolled around, I was still emotionally exhausted from a year of teaching a cohort of students that required a lot of patience, time, and attention. I sat on the front porch and wished I had a few more weeks to recharge. And, then, that's exactly what happened.... and then, I felt terrible for wishing that. They (the anonymous authority) say that distance makes the heart grow fonder and all these other platitudes about space and time. That's all well and good. But, maybe distance causes a chain reaction of other things as well. I have so many ideas all the time- like unbridled thoughts that are a cat's cradle at this point. I have so many questions. How do we move forward? What does this mean for America's working class (because while the "middle class" identity card trends, the reality is that there are still a LOT of working class people in the Midwest towns that I love)? What does this mean for our future children and our future grandchildren? What will this mean? I guess those are always the questions that bombard an American psyche that was raised as a product of the American Dream. But, it's not just an American thing now.
I remember watching the second Twin Tower fall when I was in school. I remember the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I remember Darfur. I remember the rise of activist movements to spread awareness about HIV/AIDS. I remember the ebola virus, H1N1, and zika. I remember the Henryville Tornado. I remember the injustice toward those at Standing Rock. I remember these moments. I remember when terrible things rocked the culture. How do cultures of fear evolve? Where is the line between fear-mongering and genuine concern? What is ideological warfare? What is ideological war culture? I have so many questions.
But, in the meantime, I will continue to grade electronic submissions of student writing. I will continue to check in on my students via email. I will continue to write lessons, read new texts, research, and develop my curriculum. I will continue. Because, at this point, we can look at the past as a reference guide, but we have to use it as a building block for the future. And, ZNH's quotation rings true more than ever: "There are years that ask questions, and years that answer."
I remember watching the second Twin Tower fall when I was in school. I remember the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I remember Darfur. I remember the rise of activist movements to spread awareness about HIV/AIDS. I remember the ebola virus, H1N1, and zika. I remember the Henryville Tornado. I remember the injustice toward those at Standing Rock. I remember these moments. I remember when terrible things rocked the culture. How do cultures of fear evolve? Where is the line between fear-mongering and genuine concern? What is ideological warfare? What is ideological war culture? I have so many questions.
But, in the meantime, I will continue to grade electronic submissions of student writing. I will continue to check in on my students via email. I will continue to write lessons, read new texts, research, and develop my curriculum. I will continue. Because, at this point, we can look at the past as a reference guide, but we have to use it as a building block for the future. And, ZNH's quotation rings true more than ever: "There are years that ask questions, and years that answer."
OTHERS BECOME THE SELF. MARCH 2020.
I wonder how many of the journal entries that I’ve written begin with ‘I.’ ‘I’ is the most personal, most real, most singularly complex pronoun in the English language. It encompasses the innate self-centeredness of each person. Its subjectivity makes it dynamic. Maybe this is what the deconstructivists meant. Maybe there is an inherent displacement because everything must be processed through the self. I am the medium through which I see the world, through which I process its information, through which I react to its stimuli. The goal then becomes to exercise the ability to see the other through the self and to understand the other as one might understand the self. The goal is always empathy.
When people go on holiday, they tend to seek spaces where they can relax, unwind, escape. When I go on holiday, I seek places that create dissonance- that spark those contradictorily old and familiar fears- the fear of being alone in an unknown place- the fear of talking to people that I don’t know- the fear of being played a fool- the fear of trust. I fly into places, catch rides with complete strangers, stay in houses with complete strangers, walk the unfamiliar streets, and have conversations with people that I don’t know from Adam. All for what? To learn more about the self- to learn more about others- to learn that comfort zones only expand if I take leaps of faith.
I’m reading Walking to Listen: 4000 Miles Across America One Story at a Time by Andrew Forsthoefel- a reflection about a guy that traveled by foot from his home in Pennsylvania all the way to the West coast. He records his stories- the stories shared with him- the stories of others. That is how the self becomes others and others become the self- that is the stuff of empathy- stories. In a way, or at least those of us that listen- that truly listen, sometimes, often times beyond the words- are the forever students of the humanities and of oral tradition.
When people go on holiday, they tend to seek spaces where they can relax, unwind, escape. When I go on holiday, I seek places that create dissonance- that spark those contradictorily old and familiar fears- the fear of being alone in an unknown place- the fear of talking to people that I don’t know- the fear of being played a fool- the fear of trust. I fly into places, catch rides with complete strangers, stay in houses with complete strangers, walk the unfamiliar streets, and have conversations with people that I don’t know from Adam. All for what? To learn more about the self- to learn more about others- to learn that comfort zones only expand if I take leaps of faith.
I’m reading Walking to Listen: 4000 Miles Across America One Story at a Time by Andrew Forsthoefel- a reflection about a guy that traveled by foot from his home in Pennsylvania all the way to the West coast. He records his stories- the stories shared with him- the stories of others. That is how the self becomes others and others become the self- that is the stuff of empathy- stories. In a way, or at least those of us that listen- that truly listen, sometimes, often times beyond the words- are the forever students of the humanities and of oral tradition.
BALTIMORE AS A CATALYST. MARCH 2020.
Maryland is the place you go to find answers. It always has been. Octavia E. Butler’s characters go to Easton to try and uncover the past. Zora Neale Hurston goes to Baltimore to process the death of her mother. It’s home of the Domino Sugar factory- something sweet surrounded by water. It’s home of one of the leading medical schools in the country. It’s home to divided neighborhoods- rich and poor and in-between- the markers of old cities. It’s home to a security guard at the Baltimore Basilica, the oldest Roman Catholic Cathedral in the United States, who made me feel a little more at home. It’s home to a homeless man that opened the door to the public library for me. It’s home to a little café that prides itself on something called the sweet baby Jesus. I flew there to see if I could find answers- find inspiration- find confidence. And, I did.
But, I came home. I drove along the old roads that I used to take back to Bloomington. The fields were blooming with purple blankets of weeds (maybe to up the levels of nitrate in the soil, but lovely all the same). The hills were slightly rolling. The land was ready for spring- for the vernal equinox. And, I found answers there too, and inspiration, and confidence.
While I was away, a cow prolapsed. I had never heard of this, because I am a child of suburbia and farming surrounded me growing up; but it was never my way of life. Sometimes when cows calve, their uterus collapses and comes out as well. The vet will come and use sugar (to decrease the swelling) in order to stuff back in the uterus and sew up the heifer. And, I thought about the Domino sugar factory.
While I was away, a growing culture of fear cultivated and gave way to a global pandemic. And, I thought about all of the researchers at Johns Hopkins working with the CDC, studying a virus that evolves like the rest of us. While I was away, gaps between social classes widened with the shutdown of the service industry. And, I thought about my job and how blessed I am to be a teacher on a number of levels.
Baltimore made me miss London, and I hadn’t missed it much yet. It made me hopeful. It made me want to spend a year in France perfecting my second language. But, it also made me want to see my parents, to have spontaneous dance parties with my sister, to check in on my students, and to talk to people that I didn’t really think were that important to me yet. It made me miss everything else- it made me grateful. It is my catalyst.
But, I came home. I drove along the old roads that I used to take back to Bloomington. The fields were blooming with purple blankets of weeds (maybe to up the levels of nitrate in the soil, but lovely all the same). The hills were slightly rolling. The land was ready for spring- for the vernal equinox. And, I found answers there too, and inspiration, and confidence.
While I was away, a cow prolapsed. I had never heard of this, because I am a child of suburbia and farming surrounded me growing up; but it was never my way of life. Sometimes when cows calve, their uterus collapses and comes out as well. The vet will come and use sugar (to decrease the swelling) in order to stuff back in the uterus and sew up the heifer. And, I thought about the Domino sugar factory.
While I was away, a growing culture of fear cultivated and gave way to a global pandemic. And, I thought about all of the researchers at Johns Hopkins working with the CDC, studying a virus that evolves like the rest of us. While I was away, gaps between social classes widened with the shutdown of the service industry. And, I thought about my job and how blessed I am to be a teacher on a number of levels.
Baltimore made me miss London, and I hadn’t missed it much yet. It made me hopeful. It made me want to spend a year in France perfecting my second language. But, it also made me want to see my parents, to have spontaneous dance parties with my sister, to check in on my students, and to talk to people that I didn’t really think were that important to me yet. It made me miss everything else- it made me grateful. It is my catalyst.
A BIT LATE. MARCH 2020.
My Junior Class prom committee did an amazing- phenomenal- extraordinary job pulling together Hauser's first Talent Show, selling Valentine's Day grams, and working the varsity basketball game concessions this year. So, I just wanted to say thank you to those of you who made everything possible. Even though it was stressful, you all did a great job raising money for the roaring twenties prom.
BECAUSE DOWNTON ABBEY. MARCH 2020.
I’d like to think that I will one day have the time to sit down and look back at all I’ve written and envelope the awkward feeling that comes with the passing of time. The feeling that makes me look at words like “cringe” or “my jam” with the slight humiliation that attends bygone slang. Nevertheless, until then, I shall continue to weave in the vernacular of seventeen-year-olds as I reflect on my affinity for the Public Broadcasting Station.
This past week, my accent took turns between the southern river style that I grew up speaking, the distinctive iambic cadence of well-formed British English, and the guttural French and German ‘R.’ If this sounds impossible, I’d urge you to bracket the idea that many forms of existence are inherently paradoxical in nature.
I find it fascinating that humans are able to connect with universal occurrences/creations on a personal level. Whenever I think of universal individualization, I think of “Silly Love Songs” by Wings. “You think that people would have had enough of silly love songs / I look around me and I see it in the soul / Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs / And, what’s wrong with that? / I’d like to know, because here I go again…” [Brief interlude for rhetorical analysis: [claim] [observation] [claim] [rhetorical question] [answer] [statement]] But, all that to reflect on how I sometimes feel that songs were written especially for the moment that I’m living or that a quotation is particularly tied to my day. I feel a connection to British television (especially PBS). I don’t really know why. Perhaps it is because I grew up with British-inspired classics like Mary Poppins, or reading the British romanticist writers, like the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. I hadn’t yet seen Downton Abbey, but I binge watched it this winter and loved it. Julian Fellowes is brilliant. And, Maggie Smith is phenomenal. It is amazing that someone like me from the Midwest can relate on a personal level with the evolution of a high-class family from Great Britain pre-WWII. But, I can relate. That is the brilliance of the writing- the relations that transcend time and cultural divides.
This past week, my accent took turns between the southern river style that I grew up speaking, the distinctive iambic cadence of well-formed British English, and the guttural French and German ‘R.’ If this sounds impossible, I’d urge you to bracket the idea that many forms of existence are inherently paradoxical in nature.
I find it fascinating that humans are able to connect with universal occurrences/creations on a personal level. Whenever I think of universal individualization, I think of “Silly Love Songs” by Wings. “You think that people would have had enough of silly love songs / I look around me and I see it in the soul / Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs / And, what’s wrong with that? / I’d like to know, because here I go again…” [Brief interlude for rhetorical analysis: [claim] [observation] [claim] [rhetorical question] [answer] [statement]] But, all that to reflect on how I sometimes feel that songs were written especially for the moment that I’m living or that a quotation is particularly tied to my day. I feel a connection to British television (especially PBS). I don’t really know why. Perhaps it is because I grew up with British-inspired classics like Mary Poppins, or reading the British romanticist writers, like the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. I hadn’t yet seen Downton Abbey, but I binge watched it this winter and loved it. Julian Fellowes is brilliant. And, Maggie Smith is phenomenal. It is amazing that someone like me from the Midwest can relate on a personal level with the evolution of a high-class family from Great Britain pre-WWII. But, I can relate. That is the brilliance of the writing- the relations that transcend time and cultural divides.
A CROWD OF STARS. FEBRUARY 2020.
I stood at the front of the class just barely looking over the podium. I was shaking. It was senior year of high school- honors English. I wanted to disappear. We had to recite an assigned poem. I started to read, voice aquiver, "When you are old and grey and full of sleep and nodding by the fire." And, I imagined myself old and grey and sitting by the fire. I imagined that I would forget this moment. It would be a vague memory in ma histoire. So, I took a breath and continued, "Take down this book and slowly read and dream of the soft look your eyes once had and of their shadows deep." And, I hoped that the current dream would end- that unlike the shadows of the evening- of life- that the end in this situation would come quickly- that the moment would be over. "How many loved your moments of glad grace and loved your beauty with a love, false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you." Pilgrim soul. Then, I stopped. I forgot the next line. I stood there, wanting to start over again- trying to remember. I stammered, "How many loved your moments of glad grace and loved your beauty with a love, false or true. But, one man loved the pilgrim soul in you and loved the sorrows of your changing face." The sorrows of your changing face. And, as I spoke, I didn't realize that in that senior year recitation, I would tell the future through a poem. The forgotten line remembered. I continued, "And bending down beside the glowing bars- murmur- a little sadly how Love fled and paced upon the mountains overhead... and hid his face amid a crowd of stars." I looked up at the class, "by William Butler Yeats." Now, when I look up at the stars- those brilliant winter constellations on bitter cold nights- perhaps I see the constellation of an Irish man. But, the recitation ended. The fear lived out. And, now, was it the beauty or the love that was false or true?
MY FAVORITE I LOVE YOU. FEBRUARY 2020.
I don't say I love you a lot, because I want it to mean something. I don't curse a lot, because I want it to mean something. I don't want my words to be repeated into something that is ritualized, something that loses its significance. But, of course, I have a favorite I-love-you moment.
I used to watch two kids that lived a street over when I was in high school. My high school job was seasonal, so I didn't have to work from Labor Day to the start of March. So, I had more time to devote to the kids when I wasn't working four days out of the week. Life was always a little hectic when I was working and watching 'the boys,' but somehow I survived. The oldest was three years old, and the youngest was just starting to walk. My sister helped me watch them, because I was even more Type A than I am now. I always wanted to clean the house and get dinner going before their parents returned from work. So, Sarah would watch them while I cleaned and cooked. I remember that I was tidying up the basement, and the three-year old was "helping me" (aka trying to help, but really just making the process take ten times longer than it should have- but I was learning patience). He had already started to pick up on those 'I'm-the-man' qualities that American society engrains at a young age. So, he was convinced that he could carry this toy to the chest "all by himself." So, that whole ego and pride thing started pretty young. But, I let him. I just stood a few feet back to make sure he could handle it. If not, I'd be there to catch it before it fell on him. He placed- slammed- the toy into the chest and looked at me like 'I told you I could do it.' I went back to cleaning. After it was up to my standards, I sat down on the couch and watched as he started digging through all of the toys we had just cleaned up. Then, without prompting, without any context, he turned around and said, 'I love you.' He said it matter-of-factly, then turned around and started playing with one of the toys. There wasn't any expectation of reciprocal conversation. There wasn't anything else. It was just a simple- hey, thought you should know kind of moment. It wasn't charged with any ulterior motive. It wasn't something to say to fill the space. It was just a moment that was pure and fleeting. And, it will probably always be my favorite I-love-you moment.
I used to watch two kids that lived a street over when I was in high school. My high school job was seasonal, so I didn't have to work from Labor Day to the start of March. So, I had more time to devote to the kids when I wasn't working four days out of the week. Life was always a little hectic when I was working and watching 'the boys,' but somehow I survived. The oldest was three years old, and the youngest was just starting to walk. My sister helped me watch them, because I was even more Type A than I am now. I always wanted to clean the house and get dinner going before their parents returned from work. So, Sarah would watch them while I cleaned and cooked. I remember that I was tidying up the basement, and the three-year old was "helping me" (aka trying to help, but really just making the process take ten times longer than it should have- but I was learning patience). He had already started to pick up on those 'I'm-the-man' qualities that American society engrains at a young age. So, he was convinced that he could carry this toy to the chest "all by himself." So, that whole ego and pride thing started pretty young. But, I let him. I just stood a few feet back to make sure he could handle it. If not, I'd be there to catch it before it fell on him. He placed- slammed- the toy into the chest and looked at me like 'I told you I could do it.' I went back to cleaning. After it was up to my standards, I sat down on the couch and watched as he started digging through all of the toys we had just cleaned up. Then, without prompting, without any context, he turned around and said, 'I love you.' He said it matter-of-factly, then turned around and started playing with one of the toys. There wasn't any expectation of reciprocal conversation. There wasn't anything else. It was just a simple- hey, thought you should know kind of moment. It wasn't charged with any ulterior motive. It wasn't something to say to fill the space. It was just a moment that was pure and fleeting. And, it will probably always be my favorite I-love-you moment.
PIPE DREAMS. FEBRUARY 2020.
I'm not a modernist. The fanciful expressions of consciousness- the further fragmentation- the muddled dreams and shortcomings floating in a glass half empty. No, I am not a modernist. But, I'm not a romanticist either. The large estates of bygone times, the inclusion of supernatural, the bends and twists of the briarwood of nature. I'm not a romanticist either. I'm that pipe dream in between- the furls of existence between the two. But, when Nick speaks of those rare smiles, when my students fall for the drama of the lost generation, I cannot help but secure a bit of prejudice in their favor. Il faut reculer pour mieux sauter.
WHITE PAINTED LINE. JANUARY 2020.
It snowed this morning on my way to work. And, as I drove through the swirls of snow, the dark morning sky surrounding me- I glanced down at the white painted line on the side of the road and remembered how my mom taught me to look at that when cars were coming and their headlights blinded me. Just stare at that white line. It will keep you in your lane. It will give you a focused point so that you can keep moving forward. Then, she told me that her dad had taught her that trick. It's something that I've held onto for years now. Something simple- something so common place- that consistent white line that reflects in the dark morning or the late night. And, it brings me closer to that side of my family in a small, but larger-than-it-seems way.
THIS ONE MOMENT. JANUARY 2020.
"I want this one moment. It's what I want in a relationship, which might explain why I'm single now. Haha. It's kind of hard to... it's that thing when you're with someone and you love them and they know it, and they love you and you know it. But, it's a party! And, you're both talking to other people, and you're laughing and shining, and you look across the room, and catch each other's eyes. But, not because you're possessive or it's precisely sexual, but because that is your person in this life. And, it's this secret world that exists right there, in public, unnoticed, that no one else knows about. It's sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us but we don't have the ability to perceive them?That's what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess. Love..." [excerpt from Frances Ha- writer Noah Baumbach]
"It's never too late, or in my case, too early, to be whoever you want to be. There is no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it; I hope you make the best of it. And, I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you've never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point-of-view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. And, if you find that you're not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again." [excerpt from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button- writer Eric Roth]
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity" [excerpt from The Alchemist- writer Paulo Coelho]
"Love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away.. and this shows that the space around you is growing... be happy about your growth, in which, of course, you can't take anyone with you. And, be gentle to those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don't torment them with your doubts and don't frighten them with your faith and joy, which they wouldn't be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn't necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again. When you see them, love life in a form that is not your own. And, be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust... and don't expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without ever having to step outside of it" [excerpt from Letters to a Young Poet- writer Rainer Maria Rilke]
"You're five foot nothin', one hundred and nothin', not a speck of athletic ability, but you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for two years. And, you're gonna walk out of here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life time, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. And, after what you've gone through, if you haven't done that by now, it ain't never gonna happen" and "Son, in thirty-five years of religious study, I've come up with only two hard, incontrovertible facts: there is a God, and I'm not him" [excerpts from Rudy- writer Angelo Pizzo]
"I was going to say something good. Something that would have solved all our problems and made everything better. But, you know what? I forgot what it was." and "Tragedy is a foreign territory. We don't know how to talk to the natives" [excerpts from The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby- writer Ned Benson]
There are those literary moments when writers capture the essence that so often escapes the capacity of language. These are some of my favorite moments. They encompass fear, love, loneliness, change, solitude, relationships, and life--- concepts that are so much bigger than written expression. Nevertheless, the above quotations stick with me through time- revisit me in times that seem relevant and remind me why I fostered a passion for the literary arts.
"It's never too late, or in my case, too early, to be whoever you want to be. There is no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it; I hope you make the best of it. And, I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you've never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point-of-view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. And, if you find that you're not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again." [excerpt from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button- writer Eric Roth]
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity" [excerpt from The Alchemist- writer Paulo Coelho]
"Love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away.. and this shows that the space around you is growing... be happy about your growth, in which, of course, you can't take anyone with you. And, be gentle to those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don't torment them with your doubts and don't frighten them with your faith and joy, which they wouldn't be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn't necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again. When you see them, love life in a form that is not your own. And, be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust... and don't expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without ever having to step outside of it" [excerpt from Letters to a Young Poet- writer Rainer Maria Rilke]
"You're five foot nothin', one hundred and nothin', not a speck of athletic ability, but you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for two years. And, you're gonna walk out of here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life time, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. And, after what you've gone through, if you haven't done that by now, it ain't never gonna happen" and "Son, in thirty-five years of religious study, I've come up with only two hard, incontrovertible facts: there is a God, and I'm not him" [excerpts from Rudy- writer Angelo Pizzo]
"I was going to say something good. Something that would have solved all our problems and made everything better. But, you know what? I forgot what it was." and "Tragedy is a foreign territory. We don't know how to talk to the natives" [excerpts from The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby- writer Ned Benson]
There are those literary moments when writers capture the essence that so often escapes the capacity of language. These are some of my favorite moments. They encompass fear, love, loneliness, change, solitude, relationships, and life--- concepts that are so much bigger than written expression. Nevertheless, the above quotations stick with me through time- revisit me in times that seem relevant and remind me why I fostered a passion for the literary arts.
EMOTIONAL WARFARE. JANUARY 2020.
Okay, I'll listen. You think I don't listen, but I do. I listen to every word you say. Every. word. I don't just listen. It becomes part of my mental landscape. It resurrects its own presence in my consciousness. It sits in the back of my mind waiting for the moment when I'll process it. The moment when maybe I can put it in perspective. The moment when maybe I can let it go. And, no, it's not my voice. It's not just your voice. It is every voice. And, the deepest part of me wants to say that this is above my pay grade. But, hey, here we are, and there you are. And, your words rest in anxiety. Your endless string of critiques, of complaints, of insults, of backtalk. Emotional warfare. Sit and wait. Process.
I don't like the words you use. I don't like the energy you give. I don't like the life you live. But, it made me think about Childish Gambino's music video "This is America." Then, it made me remember J. Cole. I remember a student that used to sit in the back of the classroom of thirty students with his earbuds in, just listening. Just staring ahead into space. Just listening. He told me it was J. Cole. So, I listened to "Neighbors." He didn't think I would, but why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I try to understand? Emotional warfare. Sit and wait. Process.
I don't like the words you use. I don't like the energy you give. I don't like the life you live. But, it made me think about Childish Gambino's music video "This is America." Then, it made me remember J. Cole. I remember a student that used to sit in the back of the classroom of thirty students with his earbuds in, just listening. Just staring ahead into space. Just listening. He told me it was J. Cole. So, I listened to "Neighbors." He didn't think I would, but why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I try to understand? Emotional warfare. Sit and wait. Process.
THE YEAR BEFORE THE ROARING TWENTIES... TAKE II.
This year I lived in south central Indiana. I heard ice beds break on frozen creek beds and walked along the Adventure Trail in O'Bannon Woods. I watched the way the ice makes record grooves- just like an LP. I taught the best group of students. I had that one year that teachers always talk about and remember. We had a Gatsby Party. We went to a painting studio in Indianapolis. We had a picnic at Anderson Falls. I think I danced at prom. I watched my sister graduate from college. We skipped Abbey Road because life is getting too expensive. I taught summer school. Then, I flew out west to hike the Colorado Rocky Mountains. I went to my first ska concert. I have the best friends. I went to Indiana's first National Park- the Dunes. I went to Chicago to see Hamilton for the first time. I spent some time in the homeland. Family will always be my source of strength. Mom and I walked from Jeffersonville all the way to downtown Louisville to grab an impromptu lunch. I had blisters for a week, but it was worth every minute of it. I started a new year of teaching. I watched my cousin prepare to bring two beautiful lives into the world- an ultrasound with two heartbeats. I went to welcome them to the world and to this family at the start of the school year. Their entire lives are ahead of them- what an amazing and daunting prospect. We watched the sun rise over Kentucky, laughed as John Denver sang perfectly about West Virginia, and thought North Carolina didn't look all that different from home. I watched some of my close friends experience unimaginable loss. My dad and I rode our bikes in the Hope Ride. I flew to the West Coast for Fall Break to see one of my childhood friends start a new life. I saw Multnomah Falls and other surreal, fern-lined trails and waterfalls. I spent Harvest Homecoming with the family and grabbed donuts early on Saturday morning like we always do. I lost my two seventeen-year-old cats and continue to watch as the years seem to fly by faster and faster bringing unprecedented changes- loss and growth and trials and trails. I hiked a lot- Falls of the Ohio, O'Bannon Woods, Charlestown, Turkey Run, McCormick Creek, BCSP, the Mount. I was in a play, went curling, and decided to take on Junior Class sponsor. I watched as disrespect became the cultural norm, and laziness became common practice for students. I questioned a lot- was disappointed- let down. But, I ultimately learned that doors close, stings leave scars that will eventually fade, and life goes on all the same. And, even when doors lock and stings are scars and time keeps moving forward, there is still good. I watched two of my students receive full-ride scholarships. I am so incredibly happy for them as they venture toward this next chapter. I ended the year looking across the Blue River at an eagle sitting on a dead tree. The water looked green. The driftwood crowded the edges. Warm weather graced December. And, all of that teaches more than most people realize. This ushers in the roaring twenties like record grooves and breaking ice beds and time comes full circle.
EASTERN BLACK SWALLOWTAILS. DECEMBER 2019
They want to know if I have a tattoo. They will never know. They think it's a butterfly.
They think a butterfly would be like the basic white girl thing to do. They probably think that I like Starbucks and Disney too. I am not a big Starbucks person. Although, I won't pass up a hot chocolate. I am not really a fan of Disney, I'd rather read the original Grimm's fairytales. But, I do like butterflies... and not just any butterfly- I like Eastern Black Swallowtails. Tiger Swallowtails are pretty too, but Eastern Black Swallowtails and I go way back. If I analyze my childhood, there is a trend of things that take a lot of effort and scaffolding, but don't last long in the scheme of things. Daylilies- the blooms last one day. Eastern Black Swallowtails- in the books I collected on them, it said a 26 day life span. And, I guess that teaches that the human life (though sometimes it seems monotonous and slow) is just a brief snippet in the greater span of history- just like a daylily and just like an Eastern Black Swallowtail.
The entire concept of predator and prey really bothered me as a child. The whole circle of life- food chain things really bothered me as well. I felt that it was unfair. And, even if life was unfair, I decided it wasn't really any excuse to remain stagnant. Therefore, I set to making small changes. I decided to save the caterpillars. I had read in science class that some times wasps laid their eggs on caterpillars. Then, the wasps would feed on the caterpillar. In my experience at that time, wasps were already vindictive- natural antagonists. I had been attacked more than once by wasps and now they were killing butterflies (well- caterpillars- but you can see the leap). The only problem- I didn't realize it was only a certain type of caterpillar. It didn't matter to me though. I saved up to buy aquariums- I needed a safe space for them. I bought seeds. I asked for a garden in the backyard. I planted dill, carrots, and lantanas. I collected the caterpillars. I put them in the empty fish tanks- safe environments. I fed them each day. I monitored their progress. Gave them names. I waited for them to go through the whole chrysalis thing. Then, I checked each day to make sure they hadn't hatched yet. When they did, I let them go to live their 26 days. It was pretty magical. The increased population of Eastern Black Swallowtails in the Ohio River Valley from 2002 to 2005 was brought to you in part by my childhood self.
They think a butterfly would be like the basic white girl thing to do. They probably think that I like Starbucks and Disney too. I am not a big Starbucks person. Although, I won't pass up a hot chocolate. I am not really a fan of Disney, I'd rather read the original Grimm's fairytales. But, I do like butterflies... and not just any butterfly- I like Eastern Black Swallowtails. Tiger Swallowtails are pretty too, but Eastern Black Swallowtails and I go way back. If I analyze my childhood, there is a trend of things that take a lot of effort and scaffolding, but don't last long in the scheme of things. Daylilies- the blooms last one day. Eastern Black Swallowtails- in the books I collected on them, it said a 26 day life span. And, I guess that teaches that the human life (though sometimes it seems monotonous and slow) is just a brief snippet in the greater span of history- just like a daylily and just like an Eastern Black Swallowtail.
The entire concept of predator and prey really bothered me as a child. The whole circle of life- food chain things really bothered me as well. I felt that it was unfair. And, even if life was unfair, I decided it wasn't really any excuse to remain stagnant. Therefore, I set to making small changes. I decided to save the caterpillars. I had read in science class that some times wasps laid their eggs on caterpillars. Then, the wasps would feed on the caterpillar. In my experience at that time, wasps were already vindictive- natural antagonists. I had been attacked more than once by wasps and now they were killing butterflies (well- caterpillars- but you can see the leap). The only problem- I didn't realize it was only a certain type of caterpillar. It didn't matter to me though. I saved up to buy aquariums- I needed a safe space for them. I bought seeds. I asked for a garden in the backyard. I planted dill, carrots, and lantanas. I collected the caterpillars. I put them in the empty fish tanks- safe environments. I fed them each day. I monitored their progress. Gave them names. I waited for them to go through the whole chrysalis thing. Then, I checked each day to make sure they hadn't hatched yet. When they did, I let them go to live their 26 days. It was pretty magical. The increased population of Eastern Black Swallowtails in the Ohio River Valley from 2002 to 2005 was brought to you in part by my childhood self.
LAND OF THE TEN O'CLOCK LINE. DECEMBER 2019
How much of our pasts determine who we are? Not just our lived past, but the past that lived before us? Neuroscientists and researchers sought to answer this question through their research regarding epigenetics. Literary scholars study this in fields such as African diaspora, modes of violence, and historical trauma.
History- roots- places that nurture identity. Algonquin Parkway. Cherokee Park. Shawnee Middle School. Buffalo Trace. Muscatatuck River. I knew, growing up, that our house was built into Indian lands- that they had hunted buffalo in the place that I called home. I remember thinking that if I dug up the backyard, I might find buffalo and arrowhead spears and an entire narrative buried in the ground. Native culture fascinated me. Mom would take us to see Lady Hawk to buy organic food. I remember the floors being cool. I remember the beat of drums playing in the background. I remember asking to learn how to dance. The first book that I checked out from Holy Family Catholic School was a book that I found on the bottom shelf about boarding schools and a young Native American girl named Pretty Feather. I do not remember her nation, because I didn't understand national sovereignty at that time. My eighth grade research project focused on Navajo culture. My junior year research paper investigated The Battle of the Little Bighorn. How much does the land where I was born inform my identity?
There are a lot of movements in contemporary popular culture that want to exemplify mindfulness and mental health. You see yoga studios and hookah bars popping up left and right. Educators have read the numerous articles about meditation in classrooms that really started to boom a decade ago. People in the sixties tried to embrace the same things through Eastern philosophy and practices. However, what about grounded normativity?
What about indigenous practices? What about the part of Western culture that is Native culture? Today, the want is to make life so linear- compartmentalize- organize- divide- distinguish. Draw the line. Set the cut off. Everything is private property. But, that is only part of Western culture. What about the holistic part? What about the land? How might the shared land fit into this movement of mindfulness?
History- roots- places that nurture identity. Algonquin Parkway. Cherokee Park. Shawnee Middle School. Buffalo Trace. Muscatatuck River. I knew, growing up, that our house was built into Indian lands- that they had hunted buffalo in the place that I called home. I remember thinking that if I dug up the backyard, I might find buffalo and arrowhead spears and an entire narrative buried in the ground. Native culture fascinated me. Mom would take us to see Lady Hawk to buy organic food. I remember the floors being cool. I remember the beat of drums playing in the background. I remember asking to learn how to dance. The first book that I checked out from Holy Family Catholic School was a book that I found on the bottom shelf about boarding schools and a young Native American girl named Pretty Feather. I do not remember her nation, because I didn't understand national sovereignty at that time. My eighth grade research project focused on Navajo culture. My junior year research paper investigated The Battle of the Little Bighorn. How much does the land where I was born inform my identity?
There are a lot of movements in contemporary popular culture that want to exemplify mindfulness and mental health. You see yoga studios and hookah bars popping up left and right. Educators have read the numerous articles about meditation in classrooms that really started to boom a decade ago. People in the sixties tried to embrace the same things through Eastern philosophy and practices. However, what about grounded normativity?
What about indigenous practices? What about the part of Western culture that is Native culture? Today, the want is to make life so linear- compartmentalize- organize- divide- distinguish. Draw the line. Set the cut off. Everything is private property. But, that is only part of Western culture. What about the holistic part? What about the land? How might the shared land fit into this movement of mindfulness?
HOLD YOUR HEAD UP YOU SILLY GIRL. DECEMBER 2019
"Hold your head up you silly girl. Look what you've done. When you find yourself in the thick of it, help yourself to a bit of what is all around you, you silly girl." (Lennon & McCartney- "Martha My Dear" White Album)
Be careful. I always tell myself that when I begin writing. Don't look back too much. Remember Orpheus. Remember Lot's wife. Remember that looking back can be a trap. But, don't look forward too much. Don't write the end before you've lived it. Don't let the roses wilt without ever recognizing their existence. Don't live in the present too much- because it is informed by the past and perpetually drifting into the future. Worry about the words. Worry about the projection. Worry about what meaning will form in clauses and then in sentences. In paragraphs. In essays. Attempts.
There's the play book: (1) You'll never make everyone happy. Ever. (2) Change is hard, but it is good. (3) There's a difference between loyalty and letting go.
Pre-writing. They always encouraged pre-writing. But, everything is pre-writing... everything is drafting. It is all a part of some larger evolution. You start with a sentence, and your thoughts carry you to the next- keys flying almost subconsciously. Letters out of alphabetical sequence- just practice and tied up together. Because in this subconscious level of reflection, the other stuff is jumping back and forth- like the other stuff. The stuff I actually want to write about, but the stuff I won't write about- because it would get too real. It would be used. Because whether we realize it or not, paper is cheaper than bullets. And, that little red flag that says 'be careful' runs rampant. Ambiguity is also interesting because it means you have to read into it. You have to plant what you think I mean to say but won't say. You have to project your own level of knowledge and make it mean something. Make something that means one thing mean one million things. Find yourself in the thick of it.
Be careful. I always tell myself that when I begin writing. Don't look back too much. Remember Orpheus. Remember Lot's wife. Remember that looking back can be a trap. But, don't look forward too much. Don't write the end before you've lived it. Don't let the roses wilt without ever recognizing their existence. Don't live in the present too much- because it is informed by the past and perpetually drifting into the future. Worry about the words. Worry about the projection. Worry about what meaning will form in clauses and then in sentences. In paragraphs. In essays. Attempts.
There's the play book: (1) You'll never make everyone happy. Ever. (2) Change is hard, but it is good. (3) There's a difference between loyalty and letting go.
Pre-writing. They always encouraged pre-writing. But, everything is pre-writing... everything is drafting. It is all a part of some larger evolution. You start with a sentence, and your thoughts carry you to the next- keys flying almost subconsciously. Letters out of alphabetical sequence- just practice and tied up together. Because in this subconscious level of reflection, the other stuff is jumping back and forth- like the other stuff. The stuff I actually want to write about, but the stuff I won't write about- because it would get too real. It would be used. Because whether we realize it or not, paper is cheaper than bullets. And, that little red flag that says 'be careful' runs rampant. Ambiguity is also interesting because it means you have to read into it. You have to plant what you think I mean to say but won't say. You have to project your own level of knowledge and make it mean something. Make something that means one thing mean one million things. Find yourself in the thick of it.
SOME PLACE GOOD. DECEMBER 2019.
I’m in some place good. I don’t know where it is. I don’t know the hows or the whats; but in those dreaming hours, I’m in some place good. It’s summertime and the way the light hits everything gives it life. I’m with people I haven’t met- living a life I haven’t lived yet. And, I am older, but in a way that is okay. In a way that the wrinkles and the lack of youth don’t bother me because I’m content with the laugh lines and the greying hair and the sunspots and the extra weight. There’s beauty. The kind of beauty that grows from loss- the kind of strength that comes from the passing of time. There’s a porch and a swing and daylilies. There’s open pasture but trees up by the porch. I can’t make out everything- some pieces don’t add up. That’s how I know it’s a dream. As the alarm grows louder and louder, I wake up to a world that doesn’t seem to have the sun. I’ll drive to work in the dark. I’ll drive back to my place in the dark. I’ll overthink everything. I won’t let things go. I hold on. I’ll feel guilty and anxious and like I am never good enough. Then, there will be a moment of peace. I’ll be in some place good. I just don’t know where it is.
TAKE THE SHOT. NOVEMBER 2019.
I was in second grade when I received my first camera. It was purple and needed a new roll of film every few weeks. I loved it. My dad always told me that if I thought about taking a shot, I should take it. I would spend so much time deciding whether or not a picture was worth it. I only had a limited number of shots. I took pictures of seemingly basic things- the cat sleeping at the front door, my mom working in the kitchen, my dad working in the yard, my sister playing Barbies. I took pictures of the barn by the side of the road, of the pharmacy, of the mom-and-pop ice cream place, of the trees in the front yard, of a four-leaf clover that I found. Those photos mean something now. The pharmacy is gone. The mom-and-pop ice cream place is gone. The barn fell down several years ago. The four-leaf clover is probably dust now. They are gone, but they still exist in glossy 4x6s. These seemingly basic compositions comprised my childhood- something that is also gone, but still exists. There was such anticipation when getting film developed. It was like a holiday every time I went through the printed photographs. When I was in sixth grade, I received my first digital camera- it was a Kodak camera. Again, my dad told me that if I thought about taking a shot, I should take it. This time, I did without hesitation. I had so much potential with a digital camera. I shot everything. I had two more digital cameras throughout high school and college. I bought a nice camera before I decided to study abroad. But, I still print my photographs. I still love the anticipation of waiting to pick up prints. And, I still capture the little things- the sunsets, moments with the people I love most, and the world around me. I have a lot of issues with "Technology," but this is one part of technological advancement that I love.
MASTER NARRATIVES. NOVEMBER 2019.
It's the first Saturday that I've had off in a long time. When I say "off," I mean "free." "Free" from other commitments, from work, from catching up, from volunteering for something. What do I want to do? I want to sleep. Then, I want to put off grading those last forty essays and research new topics. I've realized that a lot of my knowledge (the knowledge that surfaces in my classroom) is tied to 2016. Weird, right? Except, not really. The last time I was teaching in a racially & ethnically diverse classroom was during the 2016-2017 school year. When I mean "diverse," I mean there was racial and politically-driven tension between students, and it was a platform for discussion. Then, I took a sabbatical. Then, I was teaching at Hauser (not as "diverse" as my former placements.. or so I thought- until the impromptu and spontaneous "political debate" last week). I think remaining culturally responsive as an educator is extremely important as we venture further into this millennium. Which master narratives connect with my current students? Which master narratives do not connect with my students? Of the two categories, regardless of connection levels, which ones do I teach?
I like teaching AP Language because it forces me to stay in the loop- to search for the master-narratives perpetuating through our contemporary society- both locally and globally. Because, I want my students to discuss the opioid crisis in Indiana as well as the Yellow Vest Movement in France. I want them to understand the Red for Ed movement as much as they understood the Standing Rock Movement (or did they even know about that?). I want to hear their political opinions, reasons why they like or dislike the current president. I want to hear their thoughts on climate change, on immigration, on feminist movements, on body image, on rape culture, on heteronormative culture, on bipartisan systems, on capitalism, on gender & sexuality, on socialism, on white privilege, on VSCO girls, on the psychology of lying, on modern dating, on vaping, on social media influence, on screen time, on the rise of podcasts, on texting, on current vernacular, on [insert whatever other topic] here. It's insightful. I learn so much from their conversations.
One of my students mentioned that she was talking about what we were learning in class- an argumentative assignment regarding one of Prince Ea's videos about climate change- at home. [Students were to listen to a spoken word piece and find three claims and three pieces of evidence used within the piece. Then, at the end of the unit, they could chose to agree or disagree with any of the claims.] She said that her family remarked that of course I was brainwashing students with that kind of stuff. This was insightful for me. Does exposure equate to brainwashing? Does offering a student the agency to critically analyze something equate to indoctrination? I mean, I guess, maybe? It's kind of a leap, but I can definitely see where they are coming from here. I am an authority figure. I am giving an assignment. I am asking for student opinion- backed with logic and critical thinking. But, see- the first two categories tend to overpower the last category. Why? Because banking educational paradigms still reign in the world of standardization and "traditional" teaching platforms. Because we still assume that there is always a "right" and a "wrong" answer- a binary model of thinking. Sometimes there is. Sometimes there isn't. We still (maybe even unknowingly) assume that the authority has the "right" answer. [And, before you get all critical about the problem with "fence-sitters" and murky realms of gray- I have my issues with that too. Don't worry.] So, I guess this is how you know that the issues discussed are controversial. But, what if I just stuck to the "safe" realms of discussion? Speaking of which, what are those "safe" realms? What would the fallbacks be there?
How do I teach history through literature? How do I catch everything? I don't. That's the simple answer: I don't. I am as much a solution to the problem of missed narratives as I am a contributor to the problem of missed narratives. As Rebecca Solnit, writer of the essay, "Twenty Million Missing Storytellers," says, "We live inside what, during postmodernism's heyday, we'd call master narratives- so there's always a question of who's telling the story, who is in charge of the narrative, and what happens if it changes." I guess, indirectly, I am the one telling these stories, because I find them, collect them, and integrate them into the curriculum. But, the writers are in charge of the narrative. And, my students are in charge of whether or not interpretations of the narratives change. So, as I search for new topics, I pay close attention to the TV shows that are trending. I watch out for the themes and plot lines and tropes inherent in Netflix originals or Amazon originals. I watch the Goodreads list of the best nonfiction books of 2019. I watch the trends, the conversations, the headlines- trying to catch a population sample for my students.
2019 Collected List of Master Narratives:
Murder Mysteries; Discerning America's Future; Empowering Women; Digital Millennialism; The Age of Trump; Working Class Narratives; Sexual Harassment Stories; School Shootings & Gun Violence; Obesity & Body Image Standards; Police Brutality; Political Platforms & Bipartisan Arguments; The Value of College Versus College Debt; Religious Cults; Tragic Childhood Memoirs; Epidemic of Stress & Anxiety; Crime & Punishment (Criminal Justice); Ruth Bader Ginsberg; Mental Illness & Mental Health; Drug Crises; Vape Nation; Elton John & Freddie Mercury (used to discuss sexuality); Transgender Movement & Pronouns; Out with the Hipster- Onto the VSCO Girl
What can we learn from these contemporary narratives? Which trends do we notice? How will these trends develop or change through time? What will an AP Language course look like fifty years down the road?
I like teaching AP Language because it forces me to stay in the loop- to search for the master-narratives perpetuating through our contemporary society- both locally and globally. Because, I want my students to discuss the opioid crisis in Indiana as well as the Yellow Vest Movement in France. I want them to understand the Red for Ed movement as much as they understood the Standing Rock Movement (or did they even know about that?). I want to hear their political opinions, reasons why they like or dislike the current president. I want to hear their thoughts on climate change, on immigration, on feminist movements, on body image, on rape culture, on heteronormative culture, on bipartisan systems, on capitalism, on gender & sexuality, on socialism, on white privilege, on VSCO girls, on the psychology of lying, on modern dating, on vaping, on social media influence, on screen time, on the rise of podcasts, on texting, on current vernacular, on [insert whatever other topic] here. It's insightful. I learn so much from their conversations.
One of my students mentioned that she was talking about what we were learning in class- an argumentative assignment regarding one of Prince Ea's videos about climate change- at home. [Students were to listen to a spoken word piece and find three claims and three pieces of evidence used within the piece. Then, at the end of the unit, they could chose to agree or disagree with any of the claims.] She said that her family remarked that of course I was brainwashing students with that kind of stuff. This was insightful for me. Does exposure equate to brainwashing? Does offering a student the agency to critically analyze something equate to indoctrination? I mean, I guess, maybe? It's kind of a leap, but I can definitely see where they are coming from here. I am an authority figure. I am giving an assignment. I am asking for student opinion- backed with logic and critical thinking. But, see- the first two categories tend to overpower the last category. Why? Because banking educational paradigms still reign in the world of standardization and "traditional" teaching platforms. Because we still assume that there is always a "right" and a "wrong" answer- a binary model of thinking. Sometimes there is. Sometimes there isn't. We still (maybe even unknowingly) assume that the authority has the "right" answer. [And, before you get all critical about the problem with "fence-sitters" and murky realms of gray- I have my issues with that too. Don't worry.] So, I guess this is how you know that the issues discussed are controversial. But, what if I just stuck to the "safe" realms of discussion? Speaking of which, what are those "safe" realms? What would the fallbacks be there?
How do I teach history through literature? How do I catch everything? I don't. That's the simple answer: I don't. I am as much a solution to the problem of missed narratives as I am a contributor to the problem of missed narratives. As Rebecca Solnit, writer of the essay, "Twenty Million Missing Storytellers," says, "We live inside what, during postmodernism's heyday, we'd call master narratives- so there's always a question of who's telling the story, who is in charge of the narrative, and what happens if it changes." I guess, indirectly, I am the one telling these stories, because I find them, collect them, and integrate them into the curriculum. But, the writers are in charge of the narrative. And, my students are in charge of whether or not interpretations of the narratives change. So, as I search for new topics, I pay close attention to the TV shows that are trending. I watch out for the themes and plot lines and tropes inherent in Netflix originals or Amazon originals. I watch the Goodreads list of the best nonfiction books of 2019. I watch the trends, the conversations, the headlines- trying to catch a population sample for my students.
2019 Collected List of Master Narratives:
Murder Mysteries; Discerning America's Future; Empowering Women; Digital Millennialism; The Age of Trump; Working Class Narratives; Sexual Harassment Stories; School Shootings & Gun Violence; Obesity & Body Image Standards; Police Brutality; Political Platforms & Bipartisan Arguments; The Value of College Versus College Debt; Religious Cults; Tragic Childhood Memoirs; Epidemic of Stress & Anxiety; Crime & Punishment (Criminal Justice); Ruth Bader Ginsberg; Mental Illness & Mental Health; Drug Crises; Vape Nation; Elton John & Freddie Mercury (used to discuss sexuality); Transgender Movement & Pronouns; Out with the Hipster- Onto the VSCO Girl
What can we learn from these contemporary narratives? Which trends do we notice? How will these trends develop or change through time? What will an AP Language course look like fifty years down the road?
ERO GURO NANSENSU & HALLOWEEN. OCTOBER 2019.
I've decided that these students are not allowed to graduate this year. This is my second year with most of these awesome people. I have a few new faces in the group, but overall, most of these kiddos were in AP Literature last year. They are the kind of people that will inevitably change the world. They will make people laugh along their paths to greatness, and they will always look to make sure that everyone they encounter feels accepted. I could not have hoped for a greater group of students to have two years in a row. I am not a morning person- at all. But, somehow this group always manages to kick off my day with a positive start. Each Halloween, I make a "campfire" (aka a collection of any spare lighting I have in my classroom) and have students bring snacks and blankets. We sit around the campfire and I read Edogawa Rampo's "The Human Chair." Edogawa Rampo, inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, helped start the ero guro nansensu literary movement in Japan in the 1930s. It was inspired by American Gothic literature and laid the groundwork for an entire field of fictional horror writing that would follow in the next fifty (plus) years. It is probably one of my favorite short stories (aside from Jonathan Nolan's "Memento Mori") because I never saw the plot twist the first time I read it. If you haven't read it, read it.
BECAUSE BLOOMINGTON. October 2019.
There are two places that elicit a sense of belonging every time I drive into town- my hometown and Bloomington. I know that I teach in a school with a lot of Purdue alumni, but I wouldn't change my IU choice even if I could. Attending IU was probably one of the best times of my life. I loved the rigor of college classes. I loved how passionate and driven and hopeful everyone was- it was an inspiring environment. I loved the people that I met- the roommates and friends, the fellow classmates, and the professors. Whenever two of my students expressed interest in IU, I decided to take them on a college visit. It was so much fun to go back. We had breakfast at The Runcible Spoon. We had lunch at Mother Bear's. We explored the campus. And, as we did, all of those past IU memories flooded my consciousness. I love the big trees that canopy the campus. I love the Gothic architecture. I love seeing students learning and collaborating and studying and drowsily waking up to go to a lecture because they partied a little too hard the night before. I love the weirdness of Bloomington. Even if these girls do not end up at Bloomington, I hope they find a similar place to spend some of the best years of their lives. I was all skeptical about how much people talked up college. But, that alternate reality is a really awesome opportunity. I am so happy for my amazing young scholars as they look forward to and fret over the next chapter in their lives.
MY HIPPIE AP LIT CLASS. OCTOBER 2019.
It was Decade Day at school on Friday. So, I told my AP Lit class that we should all definitely dress up and represent the 60s. They were all on-board. This is why I like them. Being a public educator in 2019 has its setbacks. However, it is students like this that make my day and remind me why I became a teacher in the first place. Look at this awesome group of young scholars that are just on the cusp of going out into the world and changing things for the better. And while we all want to change the world, I am confident that this group of students will.
WALK IT OUT. OCTOBER 2019.
I take one step one step forward. They were poor farmers, but they had a choice. I'll take one step forward, because I identify as American. I stay put. I stay put. I take one step back. I stay put. I take one step back. I take one step back. I take one step forward. Does Mardi Gras count? I stay put. I take a step forward. I stay put. I stay put. I stay put. I step forward. I step forward. I stay put. I step forward. I've always had a supportive family. I stay put. I step forward. I stay put. I stay put. I take one step forward. I take a step back. I step forward. I stay put. I stay put. I stay put. I stay put. I stay put. I step back. I step forward- didn't they already ask this question? I stay put. I take one step back. I stay put. I stay put. I take a step back. I stay put. I stay put. I take one step forward. I stay put. They are Indiana- born and raised. Is there such thing as a half step? One parent graduated with a four-year college degree. I take one step forward. I take two steps. I can walk.
Steps Forward: 15 Steps; Position Maintained: 22 Potential Steps; Steps Backward: 7 Steps
Steps Forward: 15 Steps; Position Maintained: 22 Potential Steps; Steps Backward: 7 Steps
LOLOMI. OCTOBER 2019
"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake." -Robert Louis Stevenson
As I stepped onto the curb at the Louisville airport, my mom (who is always there when I need her), gave me a quick hug and told me to hold on to my stuff if I decided to sleep before my flight. It was 4:30AM. I smiled and said something to the effect that it wasn't my first rodeo. Sleeping in an airport was never something that I intentionally placed on my bucket list. Nevertheless, it had happened before. And, I venture to assume that it will happen some time in the future as well. I flew into Midway. Then, I flew to Portland. I only laugh because ten years ago, I was convinced that I would never travel.
One of my best friends was waiting at the airport when I arrived. She had just moved out there this past summer with her fiancee. There were three of us that used to run around in high school. We were all neighbors. We all went to the same middle school and the same high school; but, I was the youngest. C was three years ahead of me. K was two years ahead of me. Nevertheless, we all tended to get along despite our vastly different personality types and age differences (which aren't that big of a deal now- but they could have been at the time). C went to Purdue and became a chemical engineer. K became a mom to three beautiful children. And, I went to IU and became a teacher. We spent summers watching Friends re-runs, playing ultimate freesbie, and having neighborhood water balloon fights and spontaneous dance parties. We went shopping, went to the movies, went to the mall, and went to the water park. We were there for each other through the awkward fashion phases, through the break-ups, and through the other seemingly unavoidable happenings of high school existence. C tutored students that struggled with math. K didn't work in high school. I worked at the local ice cream place. We rode the bus together until Mom started driving us to school. Later, C drove; then, I drove. C was the sensible and laidback one. She was the epitome of 'chill' and so intelligent that we knew she was headed for greatness. She never studied and still aced every test that she took. She was a minimalist at heart. K knew she was going to be a mom before she became one. So, she sowed her wild oats pretty early on. She was outgoing and full of adventure and always ready to take a leap of faith. I was introverted and had to study for those As. But, I was also the person that kept our group together. We were always at my house. I always planned things. And, when I say I planned, I mean I PLANNED (all caps, boldface, underline, italics). Whether it was a girl's day out or something super long-term, I had a plan. I planned each of our weddings down to the wedding china. I bought a baby name's book so that everyone was ready when and if they decided to have a baby ten years down the road. I planned our Halloween plans, our Christmas plans, etc. I planned our proms, even though C refused to go. And, with time, we each drifted away from intended plans and found our own paths. C moved to an apartment in Cincy. K moved to an apartment in New Albany. I moved to an apartment in London. Then, C moved to Oregon. K moved home. I moved to Indiana. And, even though we'll never be as close as we were for those seven years of our lives, we still cross paths from time-to-time. Sometimes I will see K's kids visiting their grandma across the street in my hometown. And, sometimes, I fly for six hours to see C and her new life and all of the promise on the horizon. We went wedding dress shopping, took the dogs on a hike, found the best food places, listened to live music, found the best waterfalls, and drove down roads lined with beautiful fall color. We went to Powell's bookstore, discussed old memories, looked forward to new memories, and the like. And, you know it's a true friend when they have a space heater for you in the guest bedroom bc they know you are always cold. When I went to see the wedding venue, above the door read the word 'lolomi.' And, my mind was trying to place that word to its tribal nation. It is Hopi for 'perfect happiness be upon you.' The Navajo term would be 'hozho,' which means 'to walk in beauty.' It's fitting that these words stand out in my life. They are about roots, about those inseparable concepts that accompany life in all its grandeur and shortcomings. And, as I flew out of Portland and then out of Vegas, I wished that for C & K- I wish them lolomi and hozho in all the plans that are lived out and re-written and dreamed up.
As I stepped onto the curb at the Louisville airport, my mom (who is always there when I need her), gave me a quick hug and told me to hold on to my stuff if I decided to sleep before my flight. It was 4:30AM. I smiled and said something to the effect that it wasn't my first rodeo. Sleeping in an airport was never something that I intentionally placed on my bucket list. Nevertheless, it had happened before. And, I venture to assume that it will happen some time in the future as well. I flew into Midway. Then, I flew to Portland. I only laugh because ten years ago, I was convinced that I would never travel.
One of my best friends was waiting at the airport when I arrived. She had just moved out there this past summer with her fiancee. There were three of us that used to run around in high school. We were all neighbors. We all went to the same middle school and the same high school; but, I was the youngest. C was three years ahead of me. K was two years ahead of me. Nevertheless, we all tended to get along despite our vastly different personality types and age differences (which aren't that big of a deal now- but they could have been at the time). C went to Purdue and became a chemical engineer. K became a mom to three beautiful children. And, I went to IU and became a teacher. We spent summers watching Friends re-runs, playing ultimate freesbie, and having neighborhood water balloon fights and spontaneous dance parties. We went shopping, went to the movies, went to the mall, and went to the water park. We were there for each other through the awkward fashion phases, through the break-ups, and through the other seemingly unavoidable happenings of high school existence. C tutored students that struggled with math. K didn't work in high school. I worked at the local ice cream place. We rode the bus together until Mom started driving us to school. Later, C drove; then, I drove. C was the sensible and laidback one. She was the epitome of 'chill' and so intelligent that we knew she was headed for greatness. She never studied and still aced every test that she took. She was a minimalist at heart. K knew she was going to be a mom before she became one. So, she sowed her wild oats pretty early on. She was outgoing and full of adventure and always ready to take a leap of faith. I was introverted and had to study for those As. But, I was also the person that kept our group together. We were always at my house. I always planned things. And, when I say I planned, I mean I PLANNED (all caps, boldface, underline, italics). Whether it was a girl's day out or something super long-term, I had a plan. I planned each of our weddings down to the wedding china. I bought a baby name's book so that everyone was ready when and if they decided to have a baby ten years down the road. I planned our Halloween plans, our Christmas plans, etc. I planned our proms, even though C refused to go. And, with time, we each drifted away from intended plans and found our own paths. C moved to an apartment in Cincy. K moved to an apartment in New Albany. I moved to an apartment in London. Then, C moved to Oregon. K moved home. I moved to Indiana. And, even though we'll never be as close as we were for those seven years of our lives, we still cross paths from time-to-time. Sometimes I will see K's kids visiting their grandma across the street in my hometown. And, sometimes, I fly for six hours to see C and her new life and all of the promise on the horizon. We went wedding dress shopping, took the dogs on a hike, found the best food places, listened to live music, found the best waterfalls, and drove down roads lined with beautiful fall color. We went to Powell's bookstore, discussed old memories, looked forward to new memories, and the like. And, you know it's a true friend when they have a space heater for you in the guest bedroom bc they know you are always cold. When I went to see the wedding venue, above the door read the word 'lolomi.' And, my mind was trying to place that word to its tribal nation. It is Hopi for 'perfect happiness be upon you.' The Navajo term would be 'hozho,' which means 'to walk in beauty.' It's fitting that these words stand out in my life. They are about roots, about those inseparable concepts that accompany life in all its grandeur and shortcomings. And, as I flew out of Portland and then out of Vegas, I wished that for C & K- I wish them lolomi and hozho in all the plans that are lived out and re-written and dreamed up.
INTELLECTUALLY NECESSARY EVILS. OCTOBER 2019.
"Generalities are intellectually necessary evils. Not philosophers but fretsawyers and stamp collectors compose the backbone of society" -Aldous Huxley (4)
If I had to pick a color for this text, it would, of course, be green. And, it would, of course, be tied to Gatsby in the tragic modernist way that most generalities are collected and arranged. While I love the stamp collectors and ornament makers, I will never underestimate the power of a philosopher in perpetuating the social DNA & RNA that contributes to the backbone, the strength, and the collective class consciousness, of any society.
I finally read it. Yep, I read Brave New World and, well, I read it. Here is the thing: I get so confused with my opinions of dystopian literature or dystopian anything... like I know that I am not supposed to like it. I mean, that is the point of a dystopian text- to highlight the shortcomings in contemporary society, add a dash more of oppression, one cup of depression, and several sprinkles of hyperbole to emphasize and warn about what might happen if we don't get. it. together. NOW. So, if I don't like it, does that mean I do like it because it effectively conveyed the point? Like Feed, like 1984, like The Handmaid's Tale, I like it for what it is, but I don't like it. On a syntactic level, Huxley is on it. There is parallelism and interesting direct object placement. The alliteration is on point. It is well-written. The back and forth dialogue was a creative and very modernist move on Huxley's part. The repetition of the title is well-thought out. Stylistically speaking- yeah, I appreciate the text. From a non-English major level, when I really want to read something like It's Okay to Laugh (And Crying is Cool Too) or Call Them By Their True Names, then, no, I don't like Brave New World. I don't like how uncomfortable it makes me- how distressed I feel when I sit it down to think for a second. I don't like that I read the whole thing without laughing or crying. I don't like the void and simultaneous nausea that rises in my stomach when I think about what I've just read. I don't like the discrimination and the objectification and the lack of any deep connection with any of the characters. So, if I am being an English major, then, yes, I value the text. But, if I am being non-academic and entirely solipsistic and obsessed with plaisir in a text, then, no, I am not a fan. Maybe dystopian lit. isn't for me... or maybe Huxley was right. Maybe 'generalities are intellectually necessary evils.'
If I had to pick a color for this text, it would, of course, be green. And, it would, of course, be tied to Gatsby in the tragic modernist way that most generalities are collected and arranged. While I love the stamp collectors and ornament makers, I will never underestimate the power of a philosopher in perpetuating the social DNA & RNA that contributes to the backbone, the strength, and the collective class consciousness, of any society.
I finally read it. Yep, I read Brave New World and, well, I read it. Here is the thing: I get so confused with my opinions of dystopian literature or dystopian anything... like I know that I am not supposed to like it. I mean, that is the point of a dystopian text- to highlight the shortcomings in contemporary society, add a dash more of oppression, one cup of depression, and several sprinkles of hyperbole to emphasize and warn about what might happen if we don't get. it. together. NOW. So, if I don't like it, does that mean I do like it because it effectively conveyed the point? Like Feed, like 1984, like The Handmaid's Tale, I like it for what it is, but I don't like it. On a syntactic level, Huxley is on it. There is parallelism and interesting direct object placement. The alliteration is on point. It is well-written. The back and forth dialogue was a creative and very modernist move on Huxley's part. The repetition of the title is well-thought out. Stylistically speaking- yeah, I appreciate the text. From a non-English major level, when I really want to read something like It's Okay to Laugh (And Crying is Cool Too) or Call Them By Their True Names, then, no, I don't like Brave New World. I don't like how uncomfortable it makes me- how distressed I feel when I sit it down to think for a second. I don't like that I read the whole thing without laughing or crying. I don't like the void and simultaneous nausea that rises in my stomach when I think about what I've just read. I don't like the discrimination and the objectification and the lack of any deep connection with any of the characters. So, if I am being an English major, then, yes, I value the text. But, if I am being non-academic and entirely solipsistic and obsessed with plaisir in a text, then, no, I am not a fan. Maybe dystopian lit. isn't for me... or maybe Huxley was right. Maybe 'generalities are intellectually necessary evils.'
NO WORDS FOR AUGUST. SEPTEMBER 2019
I'm going to write this because I need to write something. I have a million things to grade, a classroom that is disarray, and a house that needs cleaning, but I haven't posted anything in the last month. August is always crazy. But, this August was even more chaotic than the normal August-level of madness. I hate missing school; but, in the last two weeks, I've only seen my students five out of the ten days and it's not okay. I had "the plague" and even managed to go to work through that, but then the training, the family stuff, and the retreat happened. The phrase "when it rains, it pours" is definitely spot on. Nevertheless, I am ready to face September and try to revive an uneventful lifestyle (fingers crossed- only happy memories). To my current students- I'm sorry- this is so unlike me. We'll get into the swing of things. Sorry that it's been a rather turbulent start.
I dread the transitions. I always have... I venture to assume that I probably always will. I don't like the start of a new school year. I'm just not a big fan of starting from square one all over again. Some people find it refreshing and such. For me, it is nerve-wracking and stressful. But, that's life. I'll adapt. So, hello 2019-2020 academic school year... four and a half weeks in.
I dread the transitions. I always have... I venture to assume that I probably always will. I don't like the start of a new school year. I'm just not a big fan of starting from square one all over again. Some people find it refreshing and such. For me, it is nerve-wracking and stressful. But, that's life. I'll adapt. So, hello 2019-2020 academic school year... four and a half weeks in.
SPACES BETWEEN. JULY 2019
Impressions are just that- impressions. Nothing more. Nothing less. They can be accurate or illusive. They can be whatever we make them.
It was June in Colorado. I had to ride with some other people because I didn't have a car and the truck wasn't big enough to fit everyone and the dog. I had just met those people the night before at a ska concert where we listened to The Alcapones and The Slackers- both bands that I had never heard of before. I felt like Bob Marley met a New Orleans street band. I liked it.
Then, the next morning, we all decided to go on a hike about an hour outside of Denver. So, I sat in a car listening to R&B and rap, except not the R&B I like. I'm all about Marvin Gaye and even further back to the roots with Delta Blues and Muddy Waters. I still listen to Robert Johnson's "All My Love's in Vain" and listen to the resonance of recorded guitar strings and think about how much I like the sound of real instruments. I like songs with vocals too. I don't know much about the technical aspects of music or the language used to describe those aspects. Like, okay- four bars... and then I'm not sure. But, I like the singer-songwriters. I like listening to the spaces between the words and their relation to the words (literary training?). Miles Davis once said, "It's the space in between the notes that's important, not the notes themselves." And, in retrospect, I wish in most moments of my life that I had mastered the ability to realize the bigger picture- to see things more clearly- more deeply in the moment. I wish I could be a little less judgmental and a little more analytical. In two hours of listening to a reel of explicit language filled with not-so-good connotations and horrifying declarations of human objectification and an endless drive toward monetary gain, I finally did something that I didn't think was possible- I stopped listening to the words, stopped hearing the meaning locked and exuded by the vocals, and stopped thinking like an English major. I stopped; and, what I noticed were the technical aspects of the songs- the way the music sounded- the beats and the rhythms and the structure of the music itself. Maybe it's the structure of rap that makes it so relatable. It's pace is fast- like our lifestyles. There are so many things hitting you at once- like the increasing frequency of expectations and competitions for our attention every day (the cell phone buzz, the in-person conversation that's happening, the TV or radio that is on in the background, the awareness of the conversation that is happening next to you (that doesn't necessarily involve you in any way), the acknowledgement of the weather or the traffic or the deer in the field on the side of the road, all. at. once.) It's the same thing in a rap song- you have beats and bars and words and rhymes and rhythm shifts and everything hitting you all. at. once. You have to make meaning of all of it. Just like anything else- personal focus is what comes into play. While I've always focused in on the lyrics and the meanings behind the words- just like I'll always focus in on the in-person conversation that I'm having. The thing is that everything else becomes peripheral and secondary. The text message or the the bars- or whatever else is left- become(s) less noticeable to me personally. This is all great and what not- like keen observation- blah. But, what is even more insightful, I think at least, is the reflection that springs from the Miles Davis comment. What about the space in between the notes?
They've become shorter in a rap song- the silences or the negative spaces have been pushed out. Or have they? Because when we are listening to music, we are listening for sound-not necessarily the spaces of overlap- the ending of the note- the space in-between the last note and the next note. Pharrell Williams talks about the Mona Lisa in a lecture at NYU's Clive Davis Institute. If you go to The Louvre, you will most likely find the crowd of people around this relatively small and supposedly mysterious painting. But, he says he sees the space around it- the negative space- the space that's overlooked. I didn't notice that when I went. I noticed the anxiety of the crowd and this little kid on his dad's shoulders trying to see over the masses to glimpse this famous painting. Can we apply this to our current versions and approaches to literary analysis? Can we see prose as a rap song- fast-paced, highly structured, and compressed? Is it weird to compare prose and rap (since we always pair up poetry and rap)? If it is weird, why? What role does structure have in writing and comprehension and the expression of experience? How does poetry change our notions of comprehension? How does poetry use space? And, are the words (or notes) not important then?
If you haven't ever listened to Robert Johnson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BkPm8JIJJQ
Pharrell Williams Visit at NYU: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0u7lXy7pDg
Understanding the Intersection of Poetry & Rap: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWveXdj6oZU&t=3s
It was June in Colorado. I had to ride with some other people because I didn't have a car and the truck wasn't big enough to fit everyone and the dog. I had just met those people the night before at a ska concert where we listened to The Alcapones and The Slackers- both bands that I had never heard of before. I felt like Bob Marley met a New Orleans street band. I liked it.
Then, the next morning, we all decided to go on a hike about an hour outside of Denver. So, I sat in a car listening to R&B and rap, except not the R&B I like. I'm all about Marvin Gaye and even further back to the roots with Delta Blues and Muddy Waters. I still listen to Robert Johnson's "All My Love's in Vain" and listen to the resonance of recorded guitar strings and think about how much I like the sound of real instruments. I like songs with vocals too. I don't know much about the technical aspects of music or the language used to describe those aspects. Like, okay- four bars... and then I'm not sure. But, I like the singer-songwriters. I like listening to the spaces between the words and their relation to the words (literary training?). Miles Davis once said, "It's the space in between the notes that's important, not the notes themselves." And, in retrospect, I wish in most moments of my life that I had mastered the ability to realize the bigger picture- to see things more clearly- more deeply in the moment. I wish I could be a little less judgmental and a little more analytical. In two hours of listening to a reel of explicit language filled with not-so-good connotations and horrifying declarations of human objectification and an endless drive toward monetary gain, I finally did something that I didn't think was possible- I stopped listening to the words, stopped hearing the meaning locked and exuded by the vocals, and stopped thinking like an English major. I stopped; and, what I noticed were the technical aspects of the songs- the way the music sounded- the beats and the rhythms and the structure of the music itself. Maybe it's the structure of rap that makes it so relatable. It's pace is fast- like our lifestyles. There are so many things hitting you at once- like the increasing frequency of expectations and competitions for our attention every day (the cell phone buzz, the in-person conversation that's happening, the TV or radio that is on in the background, the awareness of the conversation that is happening next to you (that doesn't necessarily involve you in any way), the acknowledgement of the weather or the traffic or the deer in the field on the side of the road, all. at. once.) It's the same thing in a rap song- you have beats and bars and words and rhymes and rhythm shifts and everything hitting you all. at. once. You have to make meaning of all of it. Just like anything else- personal focus is what comes into play. While I've always focused in on the lyrics and the meanings behind the words- just like I'll always focus in on the in-person conversation that I'm having. The thing is that everything else becomes peripheral and secondary. The text message or the the bars- or whatever else is left- become(s) less noticeable to me personally. This is all great and what not- like keen observation- blah. But, what is even more insightful, I think at least, is the reflection that springs from the Miles Davis comment. What about the space in between the notes?
They've become shorter in a rap song- the silences or the negative spaces have been pushed out. Or have they? Because when we are listening to music, we are listening for sound-not necessarily the spaces of overlap- the ending of the note- the space in-between the last note and the next note. Pharrell Williams talks about the Mona Lisa in a lecture at NYU's Clive Davis Institute. If you go to The Louvre, you will most likely find the crowd of people around this relatively small and supposedly mysterious painting. But, he says he sees the space around it- the negative space- the space that's overlooked. I didn't notice that when I went. I noticed the anxiety of the crowd and this little kid on his dad's shoulders trying to see over the masses to glimpse this famous painting. Can we apply this to our current versions and approaches to literary analysis? Can we see prose as a rap song- fast-paced, highly structured, and compressed? Is it weird to compare prose and rap (since we always pair up poetry and rap)? If it is weird, why? What role does structure have in writing and comprehension and the expression of experience? How does poetry change our notions of comprehension? How does poetry use space? And, are the words (or notes) not important then?
If you haven't ever listened to Robert Johnson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BkPm8JIJJQ
Pharrell Williams Visit at NYU: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0u7lXy7pDg
Understanding the Intersection of Poetry & Rap: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWveXdj6oZU&t=3s
MATERIALIZATION & ABSTRACTION. JULY 2019
Here's a small reflection of my life (in the last ten years): I live between two modes- one is a teacher mode and the other is a student mode. I'd like to say they coincide... and maybe in some fashion, they do. However, one mode is for pedagogical thinking and the other is for my content area. One inevitably sparks the other. [That's insightful- but a topic for another day.] I haven't had the opportunity to realistically endeavor both at the same time. I studied for my Bachelor's degree. Then, I taught high school English. Then, I studied for my Master's degree. Then, I taught high school English. When I am in teacher mode, I miss the student mode. When I am in student mode, I miss the teacher mode. It's a fun loop.
I last studied modes of abstraction when I was in student mode. Here's another fun loop (or maybe I am just interpreting it incorrectly). We all know Marx and his theories (Communist Manifesto- Marxist criticism, etc.). Even when kids think they don't know Marx, I'm like have you listened to "Bad and Boujee?" Because 'boujee' comes from 'bourgeois'- the class that owns the economic means of production (and Marx was pretty sure that, with time, the proletariat class would stand up against the bourgeois class.... then, you know- anarchy and stuff... and then, voila, philosophy of communism enter scene). I remember studying Marx's views in my AP Psych class in high school while I was investigating Sir Ken Robinson's take on the current education paradigm. I remember citing something about work and alienation according to Marx (granted this is before I knew anything about Hegel or Fanon). So, basically, this developed into an interest in ideological platforms, materialization, etc. When you read about Republican Motherhood, or Walmart, or #MeToo, or the Yellow Vest Movement, you are reading about the actions (the material residues) of an ideological realm (the abstract thoughts that cumulate to create action).
This is all very simple to understand (and I use Althusser's essay on ISAs to teach it to AP Lit). If you see a tree in nature, you know that you are only seeing part of the tree. There are roots that you cannot see. They are just as important, because they provide support and nourishment for the tree. Ideological state apparatuses work in the same way. The roots are the abstract (intangible) ideas that support and nourish the actions (materialized results) of the given ideology. This is how ideological materialization works.
BUT, if we have materialization (idea to action) (intangible to tangible), we also have abstraction (action to idea) (tangible to intangible). It's another loop. I think this is what my professors meant by 'think laterally and holistically' as opposed to 'linearly.' Or, maybe it's another way to think about the relationships between ideas and actions. So, which comes first? The idea or the action? Or are they mutually exclusive? ANYHOW, all this to say that I will eventually reflect (in another post because this one is too long) on what Dr. Jane Elliott calls 'the micro-economic mode.' She was one of the main professors at KCL leading the Contemporary Literature, Culture, & Theory graduate program. Her latest book reflects on this mode. Here is the link to a quick introduction to the text: https://cup.columbia.edu/book/the-microeconomic-mode/9780231174749
I last studied modes of abstraction when I was in student mode. Here's another fun loop (or maybe I am just interpreting it incorrectly). We all know Marx and his theories (Communist Manifesto- Marxist criticism, etc.). Even when kids think they don't know Marx, I'm like have you listened to "Bad and Boujee?" Because 'boujee' comes from 'bourgeois'- the class that owns the economic means of production (and Marx was pretty sure that, with time, the proletariat class would stand up against the bourgeois class.... then, you know- anarchy and stuff... and then, voila, philosophy of communism enter scene). I remember studying Marx's views in my AP Psych class in high school while I was investigating Sir Ken Robinson's take on the current education paradigm. I remember citing something about work and alienation according to Marx (granted this is before I knew anything about Hegel or Fanon). So, basically, this developed into an interest in ideological platforms, materialization, etc. When you read about Republican Motherhood, or Walmart, or #MeToo, or the Yellow Vest Movement, you are reading about the actions (the material residues) of an ideological realm (the abstract thoughts that cumulate to create action).
This is all very simple to understand (and I use Althusser's essay on ISAs to teach it to AP Lit). If you see a tree in nature, you know that you are only seeing part of the tree. There are roots that you cannot see. They are just as important, because they provide support and nourishment for the tree. Ideological state apparatuses work in the same way. The roots are the abstract (intangible) ideas that support and nourish the actions (materialized results) of the given ideology. This is how ideological materialization works.
BUT, if we have materialization (idea to action) (intangible to tangible), we also have abstraction (action to idea) (tangible to intangible). It's another loop. I think this is what my professors meant by 'think laterally and holistically' as opposed to 'linearly.' Or, maybe it's another way to think about the relationships between ideas and actions. So, which comes first? The idea or the action? Or are they mutually exclusive? ANYHOW, all this to say that I will eventually reflect (in another post because this one is too long) on what Dr. Jane Elliott calls 'the micro-economic mode.' She was one of the main professors at KCL leading the Contemporary Literature, Culture, & Theory graduate program. Her latest book reflects on this mode. Here is the link to a quick introduction to the text: https://cup.columbia.edu/book/the-microeconomic-mode/9780231174749
DAYLILIES. JULY 2019.
I grew up with gardens. 1500 blooms at the end of June. That was daylilies alone. Daylilies are just as they sound- a lily that blooms for a day. It can take up to three years for one to properly establish itself. You can hybridize and cross different daylilies to attain different traits- a stronger eye, a more golden ruffle, etc. Some are sold for upwards of hundreds of dollars. Professionals will register their names. That's how my parents picked my name. There was a daylily called 'Kaylie Girl.' Each morning, my dad would go out and survey the garden show of our backyard. Each daylily had its own silver marker in the ground. Then, each evening, he would carry around a five-gallon bucket and dead-head all of the old blooms to make space for the new blooms the next morning. When he started traveling for work, my mom took on the work so that they looked good whenever he came back home. I remember following him around as a kid and acting all professional and being like- 'this one has a strong eye,' 'this one held up well in the heat,' etc. When I was younger, he would cross-hybridize. In the start of fall, we would collect the seeds and store them in old film canisters in the garage. Then, my mom, dad, sister, and I would work to collect all the old daylily stalks and cut them back for the winter. My sister and I would have daylily stalk fights (like a scene from Zorro). Then, we would use them as kindling in the fall for fire pit nights with smores and star-gazing. Daylilies can be a lot of work, but they also teach the important things: routine, commitment, consistency, and the idea that you have to appreciate things before they are gone. I guess I miss gardens the most. Consistent gardens that is. When you are a rolling stone, you can never fully establish roots or plant personal gardens that continue to impress you with years of work. So, when I decide to chill and settle a bit, I will plant a garden of daylilies.
SYCAMORE HALL. JUNE 2019.
Creative Writing Prompt: Think of an interaction between two people. Then, describe the interaction from each person's perspective. I decided to go from a first to third to second person point-of-view. However, you can do as you feel. Be sure to play with the notion of unreliable narrators. [Inspiration: Life Itself by Dan Fogelman (film) and The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby by Ned Benson (film) and a recent drive through Bloomington]
I liked Sycamore Hall the best. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was small. People piled in each day with their leggings and KOK t-shirts. I always sat closer to the back because I had to hurry from a former class. I walked with this tall kid who would push my five foot nothing self to get to class on time. We would loop past Jacob’s School of Music and down the little pass back to the building. It was a Chaucer class for English majors and English education majors (the less serious of the group). There were a lot of stigmas, but that’s not the point. We were discussing “The Wife of Bath’s Tale.” Alisoun (the wife of Bath) cites all the “authorities,” but then underlines with a question: who peyntede the leoun? Of course, this is an allusion to the Aesop fable. A lion points to a picture is of a man strangling a lion. The lion incites the idea that a man clearly painted the image; for, if it had been a lion that painted the picture, the lion would be mangling the man. Here it is, the greatest debate question of literary criticism: how do you identify an unreliable narrator (and does it matter)? Heroes and villains might be perspective if we invoke an ‘us-versus-them’ binary. Of course, we prefer binaries in our early stages of analysis- we save the dialectics for later. In the preface to E.P. Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class, he writes, “The blind alleys, the lost causes, and the losers themselves are forgotten” (12). But, how do we know about the blind alleys? Who is there to remember the lost causes? Is every person forgotten? Is every loser a person? Every person a loser? To what extent does subjectivity define the blind, the lost, and the loser?
We have something called a phonological loop. It takes in every sound within our threshold and stores it for thirty (ish) seconds before releasing it into an unretainable abyss. That’s why, we often say ‘what?’ and then answer the ‘what’ promptly after posing the question. It is still there in our potential vault of memory. If we don’t add significance to it, it loops out… it’s lost- forgotten. Every thirty seconds. So, how much of what I remember is the ‘true’ story? So, let’s have some fun with an uncertain narrator. [Writing prompt: write the same story two different ways- emphasize different details- let the reader decide who the heroes and villains are.]
She disliked Sycamore Hall the most. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was oppressively small. Shallow people piled in with their leggings and KOK t-shirts. She sat closer to the back because they were always late. He had all of the same classes. There was no escape. She wasn’t sure if she felt sorry for him or if she just chose to accept the fate of having to deal with him. He was the first one to make a move after all. They had been in class. He swiveled around in his chair and asked if she had Chaucer after class. She had said yes. So, he decided that they would walk together. That’s how he was. He seemed nice, but his over-confidence was sometimes less leadership and more control. He was a suck-up too. During the first day, he drafted a new syllabus for the class while the professor raved over him. She wanted him to disappear right there. He was so sure of himself and so inconsiderate of how his own aura overpowered those around him. He was driven- sure. He was passionate too. But, in the crossfire between drive and passion, he seemed to forget to notice how his energy eviscerated the others. Though he seemed compassionate, there was something inherently contradictory in his compassion. There was something about his humility too that came off as insincere or unstable. He was this walking paradox that always lagged too far behind even when she tried to walk slowly. And, despite all his flaws, he had a certain charisma. He asked questions. A lot of questions. He wanted to know what she was like as a kid, what her parents were like, what her friends were like. She hadn’t met anyone like that- someone so invested in her life without an ulterior motive. She thought maybe he liked her. So, she tested the waters a bit. She would say things to lead him on and then cut him down if he reacted in any way that indicated that he might have feelings for her. She decided to use him. She would take on different personas from television shows and play them out in real time. She would tell her friends stories afterward. He became a running joke. Her friends were so excited to meet him because he was the unknowing subject of her psychological games. The best part was that he didn’t know any better. He actually thought they were friends. She felt momentarily bad about this, but it faded. He could be mean too. He knew enough about her that he could retaliate if he wanted to. The more she learned about him, the more she could call his bluff, the more she could see that his drive was fueled by fear of inadequacy and his passion was fueled by an unrelenting idealism and moral code. He was flawed, but so was she.
He liked Sycamore Hall the best. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was intimately small and nostalgic. Sleepy college people piled in wearing their leggings and KOK t-shirts. He always sat closer to the back because they were always late, and he knew it was his fault. He came from a sheltered background. So, his first dating experience was tragic in a cringy, G-rated kind of way, to say the least. He decided that he was going to be different in college. He was going to be confident and driven and passionate. And, most of all, he wasn’t going to get hurt. So, on the first day, he decided to begin. He decided to talk. He hadn’t said more than ten words in front of a group in high school; but, today- today was different. So, he drafted a new syllabus for the class, he talked to the girl sitting behind him, he grabbed life by the horns in one of those terrifying moments of lucidness where everything seems possible. The problem with those moments is that they slowly fade away and the original person remains. Adrenaline wears off. Regardless of whether he choose to fight or take flight, he would eventually have to rest. So, at the end of the day, he sat alone in a dorm room and replayed everything in his head, and he felt like vomiting. He felt like a fraud. So, in the weeks to come, he put on his confidence and kept up a façade only letting bits and pieces of his true self out. He asked questions. Lots of questions. He wanted to know people’s stories- why they were the way they were. He wanted to know her story. She was conceited and smart and lazy. She grew up in a middle-class family, always had friends, had this charisma about her- the kind that showed that whenever she decided to turn her act on, she could have anything that she put her mind to. She had a cruel side too. He knew it even if he didn’t want to know it. She played games- mind games- and he would try to navigate through without stepping on a landmine. He didn’t like her the way he thought she thought he liked her. He would never date someone like her- someone with the capacity to destroy him- to completely disintegrate his confidence. He knew what it was like to be the running joke. He didn’t want that again. Her friends were excited to meet him. He tried his best to be amicable. He thought maybe, maybe for the first time, he could find that deeper level of existence- the kind that was true. She was flawed, but so was he.
You hated Sycamore Hall the most. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was small. People piled in each day with their leggings and KOK t-shirts. You always sat closer to the back because you had to hurry from a former class. You walked behind this guy who would hold back this girl from getting to class on time. You would loop past Jacob’s School of Music and down the little pass back to the building. It was a Chaucer class for English majors and English education majors (the less serious of the group). There were a lot of stigmas, but that’s not the point. You all were discussing “The Wife of Bath’s Tale.” Alisoun (the wife of Bath) cites all the “authorities,” but then underlines with a question: who peyntede the leoun? Of course, this is an allusion to the Aesop fable. A lion points to a picture is of a man strangling a lion. The lion incites the idea that a man clearly painted the image; for, if it had been a lion that painted the picture, the lion would be mangling the man. Here it is, the greatest debate question of literary criticism: how do you identify an unreliable narrator (and does it matter)? Heroes and villains might all be based on perspective if you invoke an ‘us-versus-them’ binary. Of course, you prefer binaries in your early stages of your analysis- you save the dialectics for later. In the preface to E.P. Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class, he writes, “The blind alleys, the lost causes, and the losers themselves are forgotten” (12). But, how do you know about the blind alleys? You walked them. Who is there to remember the lost causes? You saw them. Is every person forgotten? You remember them. Is every loser a person? Every person a loser? You remember the guy and the girl. To what extent does subjectivity define the blind, the lost, and the loser? To all extents.
You have something called a phonological loop. It takes in every sound within your threshold and stores it for thirty (ish) seconds before releasing it into an unretainable abyss. That’s why, you often say ‘what?’ and then answer the ‘what’ promptly after posing the question. It is still there in your potential vault of memory. If you don’t add significance to it, it loops out… it’s lost- forgotten. Every thirty seconds. So, how much of what you remember is the ‘true’ story?
I liked Sycamore Hall the best. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was small. People piled in each day with their leggings and KOK t-shirts. I always sat closer to the back because I had to hurry from a former class. I walked with this tall kid who would push my five foot nothing self to get to class on time. We would loop past Jacob’s School of Music and down the little pass back to the building. It was a Chaucer class for English majors and English education majors (the less serious of the group). There were a lot of stigmas, but that’s not the point. We were discussing “The Wife of Bath’s Tale.” Alisoun (the wife of Bath) cites all the “authorities,” but then underlines with a question: who peyntede the leoun? Of course, this is an allusion to the Aesop fable. A lion points to a picture is of a man strangling a lion. The lion incites the idea that a man clearly painted the image; for, if it had been a lion that painted the picture, the lion would be mangling the man. Here it is, the greatest debate question of literary criticism: how do you identify an unreliable narrator (and does it matter)? Heroes and villains might be perspective if we invoke an ‘us-versus-them’ binary. Of course, we prefer binaries in our early stages of analysis- we save the dialectics for later. In the preface to E.P. Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class, he writes, “The blind alleys, the lost causes, and the losers themselves are forgotten” (12). But, how do we know about the blind alleys? Who is there to remember the lost causes? Is every person forgotten? Is every loser a person? Every person a loser? To what extent does subjectivity define the blind, the lost, and the loser?
We have something called a phonological loop. It takes in every sound within our threshold and stores it for thirty (ish) seconds before releasing it into an unretainable abyss. That’s why, we often say ‘what?’ and then answer the ‘what’ promptly after posing the question. It is still there in our potential vault of memory. If we don’t add significance to it, it loops out… it’s lost- forgotten. Every thirty seconds. So, how much of what I remember is the ‘true’ story? So, let’s have some fun with an uncertain narrator. [Writing prompt: write the same story two different ways- emphasize different details- let the reader decide who the heroes and villains are.]
She disliked Sycamore Hall the most. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was oppressively small. Shallow people piled in with their leggings and KOK t-shirts. She sat closer to the back because they were always late. He had all of the same classes. There was no escape. She wasn’t sure if she felt sorry for him or if she just chose to accept the fate of having to deal with him. He was the first one to make a move after all. They had been in class. He swiveled around in his chair and asked if she had Chaucer after class. She had said yes. So, he decided that they would walk together. That’s how he was. He seemed nice, but his over-confidence was sometimes less leadership and more control. He was a suck-up too. During the first day, he drafted a new syllabus for the class while the professor raved over him. She wanted him to disappear right there. He was so sure of himself and so inconsiderate of how his own aura overpowered those around him. He was driven- sure. He was passionate too. But, in the crossfire between drive and passion, he seemed to forget to notice how his energy eviscerated the others. Though he seemed compassionate, there was something inherently contradictory in his compassion. There was something about his humility too that came off as insincere or unstable. He was this walking paradox that always lagged too far behind even when she tried to walk slowly. And, despite all his flaws, he had a certain charisma. He asked questions. A lot of questions. He wanted to know what she was like as a kid, what her parents were like, what her friends were like. She hadn’t met anyone like that- someone so invested in her life without an ulterior motive. She thought maybe he liked her. So, she tested the waters a bit. She would say things to lead him on and then cut him down if he reacted in any way that indicated that he might have feelings for her. She decided to use him. She would take on different personas from television shows and play them out in real time. She would tell her friends stories afterward. He became a running joke. Her friends were so excited to meet him because he was the unknowing subject of her psychological games. The best part was that he didn’t know any better. He actually thought they were friends. She felt momentarily bad about this, but it faded. He could be mean too. He knew enough about her that he could retaliate if he wanted to. The more she learned about him, the more she could call his bluff, the more she could see that his drive was fueled by fear of inadequacy and his passion was fueled by an unrelenting idealism and moral code. He was flawed, but so was she.
He liked Sycamore Hall the best. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was intimately small and nostalgic. Sleepy college people piled in wearing their leggings and KOK t-shirts. He always sat closer to the back because they were always late, and he knew it was his fault. He came from a sheltered background. So, his first dating experience was tragic in a cringy, G-rated kind of way, to say the least. He decided that he was going to be different in college. He was going to be confident and driven and passionate. And, most of all, he wasn’t going to get hurt. So, on the first day, he decided to begin. He decided to talk. He hadn’t said more than ten words in front of a group in high school; but, today- today was different. So, he drafted a new syllabus for the class, he talked to the girl sitting behind him, he grabbed life by the horns in one of those terrifying moments of lucidness where everything seems possible. The problem with those moments is that they slowly fade away and the original person remains. Adrenaline wears off. Regardless of whether he choose to fight or take flight, he would eventually have to rest. So, at the end of the day, he sat alone in a dorm room and replayed everything in his head, and he felt like vomiting. He felt like a fraud. So, in the weeks to come, he put on his confidence and kept up a façade only letting bits and pieces of his true self out. He asked questions. Lots of questions. He wanted to know people’s stories- why they were the way they were. He wanted to know her story. She was conceited and smart and lazy. She grew up in a middle-class family, always had friends, had this charisma about her- the kind that showed that whenever she decided to turn her act on, she could have anything that she put her mind to. She had a cruel side too. He knew it even if he didn’t want to know it. She played games- mind games- and he would try to navigate through without stepping on a landmine. He didn’t like her the way he thought she thought he liked her. He would never date someone like her- someone with the capacity to destroy him- to completely disintegrate his confidence. He knew what it was like to be the running joke. He didn’t want that again. Her friends were excited to meet him. He tried his best to be amicable. He thought maybe, maybe for the first time, he could find that deeper level of existence- the kind that was true. She was flawed, but so was he.
You hated Sycamore Hall the most. It’s medieval Gothic architecture- the big wooden doors, the window panes, the winding Jane Eyre stairs, the imposing limestone. The classroom was small. People piled in each day with their leggings and KOK t-shirts. You always sat closer to the back because you had to hurry from a former class. You walked behind this guy who would hold back this girl from getting to class on time. You would loop past Jacob’s School of Music and down the little pass back to the building. It was a Chaucer class for English majors and English education majors (the less serious of the group). There were a lot of stigmas, but that’s not the point. You all were discussing “The Wife of Bath’s Tale.” Alisoun (the wife of Bath) cites all the “authorities,” but then underlines with a question: who peyntede the leoun? Of course, this is an allusion to the Aesop fable. A lion points to a picture is of a man strangling a lion. The lion incites the idea that a man clearly painted the image; for, if it had been a lion that painted the picture, the lion would be mangling the man. Here it is, the greatest debate question of literary criticism: how do you identify an unreliable narrator (and does it matter)? Heroes and villains might all be based on perspective if you invoke an ‘us-versus-them’ binary. Of course, you prefer binaries in your early stages of your analysis- you save the dialectics for later. In the preface to E.P. Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class, he writes, “The blind alleys, the lost causes, and the losers themselves are forgotten” (12). But, how do you know about the blind alleys? You walked them. Who is there to remember the lost causes? You saw them. Is every person forgotten? You remember them. Is every loser a person? Every person a loser? You remember the guy and the girl. To what extent does subjectivity define the blind, the lost, and the loser? To all extents.
You have something called a phonological loop. It takes in every sound within your threshold and stores it for thirty (ish) seconds before releasing it into an unretainable abyss. That’s why, you often say ‘what?’ and then answer the ‘what’ promptly after posing the question. It is still there in your potential vault of memory. If you don’t add significance to it, it loops out… it’s lost- forgotten. Every thirty seconds. So, how much of what you remember is the ‘true’ story?
WHY HOPE? JUNE 2019.
"With all due respect to Thomas Wolfe, going home again has more to do with renewal than nostalgia, especially in the Midwest" - Tom Watson & Jim McGarrah (from Home Again: Essays and Memoirs from Indiana)
It needs to be said. I remember a conversation from high school.... which is rare, because I am pretty good at repressing high school memories... haha, the dark days and yet, I've come back. Nevertheless, I remember that I took an advanced Earth Space class. I did this because I had already taken astronomy and meteorology and I planned my senior year classes based on my favorite teachers. So, advanced Earth Space it was. I can't remember if it was the start of class or the end of class, but we had some time for unstructured chatting. We (fellow students and myself) were trying to label people as either more 'East Coast' or more 'West Coast.' It was one of those conversations that you have once you've pretty much discussed everything with the people around you, so you resort to trivial conversation starters, like an endless game of twenty questions. This is where I gathered my journal prompt ideas for students.
In high school, my family didn't travel outside of the Midwest. We went to Florida once (the summer before my senior year of high school) because that was Mom's favorite place and Dad saved up enough money so that he could give her that memory. So, my knowledge of the world, was well, south of South Bend, west of Cincinnati, east of Illinois, and north of outer Louisville. That was it. Make a rectangle. And, it was great- I had no big dreams of leaving like so many teenagers often do. I wanted to visit France at some point in my lifetime. But, the concepts of being more "East Coast" or more "West Coast" were all conjecture and all unknown... actually I've still never been to either coast. I thought maybe I was more 'West Coast' because I liked my idea of the 1960s and sunshine and that whole Berkeley vibe. But, they were all like: no, you are definitely, definitely 'East Coast'- politically independent, modest, drawn to academics, etc., etc. So, I was like: okay, I'm 'East Coast.' Then, my whole not-having-big-traveling dreams dissipated pretty quickly because Bloomington happened. Then, the American Southwest happened. Then, Western Europe happened. But, what I think is interesting about our 'East Coast' or 'West Coast' discussion is the null points- no 'Southern Coast,' no 'Northern Border,' no 'West,' no 'Midwest,' no 'Southwest.' Black or white. No grey. And, even though my rectangle has grown to be south of Canada, east of California, west of Germany, and north of the bottom of Alabama, I am not 'East Coast' or 'West Coast,' I'm 'Midwest.' This is where I want to be. I could live anywhere. But, I want to be here. I like that initial rectangle despite all its flaws. I like its people (for the most part). I like that I can talk about Foucault around a bonfire and deconstruct all the rules of class and the boundaries that academia tries to impose.
Flash-forward past high school and backward to grad school (part one). It was a spring day in London, and I was headed to the Virginia Woolf building for a scheduled appointment with Dr. Paul Gilroy to discuss the Blues aesthetic in Hurston's work. Dr. Gilroy's office window looked out onto the rooftop of a building where birds rested. After discussing the paper, I asked if he had always lived in London. He said it was his first home, but he had taught at Yale for a greater part of his career. I said that I was going back home to teach. He said it was good that I had found out where my home was- many people don't ever find that sense of place. Then, he talked about a certain bird that visited the other side of his window-- and for the life of me, I can't remember the type of bird.
So, today, when students asked me why I would give up London for Indiana, I knew they probably wouldn't understand that this is home. It's where I choose to be. And, while I might not be done flying about and exploring forever, I am going to stay right here for a bit and soak up the familiarity, reconstruct hope, and enjoy this place, these people, and this Midwestern culture. That, my young scholars, is why I chose Hauser. That is why I choose Hope.
It needs to be said. I remember a conversation from high school.... which is rare, because I am pretty good at repressing high school memories... haha, the dark days and yet, I've come back. Nevertheless, I remember that I took an advanced Earth Space class. I did this because I had already taken astronomy and meteorology and I planned my senior year classes based on my favorite teachers. So, advanced Earth Space it was. I can't remember if it was the start of class or the end of class, but we had some time for unstructured chatting. We (fellow students and myself) were trying to label people as either more 'East Coast' or more 'West Coast.' It was one of those conversations that you have once you've pretty much discussed everything with the people around you, so you resort to trivial conversation starters, like an endless game of twenty questions. This is where I gathered my journal prompt ideas for students.
In high school, my family didn't travel outside of the Midwest. We went to Florida once (the summer before my senior year of high school) because that was Mom's favorite place and Dad saved up enough money so that he could give her that memory. So, my knowledge of the world, was well, south of South Bend, west of Cincinnati, east of Illinois, and north of outer Louisville. That was it. Make a rectangle. And, it was great- I had no big dreams of leaving like so many teenagers often do. I wanted to visit France at some point in my lifetime. But, the concepts of being more "East Coast" or more "West Coast" were all conjecture and all unknown... actually I've still never been to either coast. I thought maybe I was more 'West Coast' because I liked my idea of the 1960s and sunshine and that whole Berkeley vibe. But, they were all like: no, you are definitely, definitely 'East Coast'- politically independent, modest, drawn to academics, etc., etc. So, I was like: okay, I'm 'East Coast.' Then, my whole not-having-big-traveling dreams dissipated pretty quickly because Bloomington happened. Then, the American Southwest happened. Then, Western Europe happened. But, what I think is interesting about our 'East Coast' or 'West Coast' discussion is the null points- no 'Southern Coast,' no 'Northern Border,' no 'West,' no 'Midwest,' no 'Southwest.' Black or white. No grey. And, even though my rectangle has grown to be south of Canada, east of California, west of Germany, and north of the bottom of Alabama, I am not 'East Coast' or 'West Coast,' I'm 'Midwest.' This is where I want to be. I could live anywhere. But, I want to be here. I like that initial rectangle despite all its flaws. I like its people (for the most part). I like that I can talk about Foucault around a bonfire and deconstruct all the rules of class and the boundaries that academia tries to impose.
Flash-forward past high school and backward to grad school (part one). It was a spring day in London, and I was headed to the Virginia Woolf building for a scheduled appointment with Dr. Paul Gilroy to discuss the Blues aesthetic in Hurston's work. Dr. Gilroy's office window looked out onto the rooftop of a building where birds rested. After discussing the paper, I asked if he had always lived in London. He said it was his first home, but he had taught at Yale for a greater part of his career. I said that I was going back home to teach. He said it was good that I had found out where my home was- many people don't ever find that sense of place. Then, he talked about a certain bird that visited the other side of his window-- and for the life of me, I can't remember the type of bird.
So, today, when students asked me why I would give up London for Indiana, I knew they probably wouldn't understand that this is home. It's where I choose to be. And, while I might not be done flying about and exploring forever, I am going to stay right here for a bit and soak up the familiarity, reconstruct hope, and enjoy this place, these people, and this Midwestern culture. That, my young scholars, is why I chose Hauser. That is why I choose Hope.
A SUPPOSEDLY THANKLESS JOB. JUNE 2019
"You choose a thankless job. You can't be upset when nobody thanks you. Don't start chasing applause and acclaim. That way lies madness." -Ron Swanson Parks and Recreation
My sloppy journal entry thesis: Yeah, I teach. Yeah, I complain. But, in the end, in the whole big picture view and all that sappy jazz, I am glad to be a teacher.
Please read into the tone here and secure yourself for a rant: I just "love" when students try to "threaten" me or "get at" me by complaining about my teaching style and how they want me to get fired just because they are being the epitome of lazy. Just for the record, this isn't a common thing. There is usually that one kid (or you know- those four kids or whatever it is any given year of teaching) each year that struggles with English class, decides to manifest that feeling of the struggle into a direct attack toward me and my teaching, and employs all the defense mechanisms and excuses to avoid the realization that we all struggle with something and that's okay. And, it's "cool," because four times out of five, I am going to get through to these kids. They might never stop complaining. They might never admit that they have accepted the situation of being stuck with me and learning stuff that doesn't come easily or naturally for them. BUT, by the end, there's a pretty good chance that they will learn something.
Whenever people ask me why high school? I answer: because they can usually take what they dish out. And, I keep it straight. I don't sugar coat. I am a pessimistic idealist or an optimistic realist at best. So, open note to those students who decide that it's cool to directly attack me and my teaching: Got an attitude problem? Cool, I can be sassy too. Want to play that sarcasm card? Cool, I'll raise you one. If you are looking for a show, please reschedule, I don't have time to waste. I didn't go into the profession thinking I'd make a lot of money, have "free summers," or get a ton of respect at first. When you try to "threaten" me with being fired, don't think I haven't ever considered getting a job that was just a job- getting a job that didn't require copious hours of unpaid overtime- getting a job that is respected- getting a job that doesn't involve emotionally draining situations- getting a job where I don't have to cut costs and budget all the time- getting a job so I can pay off the debts that I've incurred trying to be a bit better as a teacher---- don't think I haven't thought about it. Because I have- and most of the teachers out there have. But, I'm not going to step down just for you. I'm not going to fold and make it that easy for you to fold back into your own defense mechanisms. [Oh snap- look at that rhetorically-aware, point-of-view decision.]
Here's why I'm NOT going to throw it all away, pack up shop, or take the easy road: for every one of those kids that puts up a fight, I have another twenty or more (usually more- like this year I had 98) young adults, scholars, people, that truly inspire me- that truly motivate me get out of bed everyday, try my very best, work overtime, provide feedback and quasi-cursive, quasi-print comments in the margins, peruse through thrift shops to make our classroom a place where they want to be, spend hours planning an hour-long lesson, and seek out ways to be better. They cause me to count my innumerable blessings, for those students make me laugh and make me realize that teaching is all about learning. My greatest teachers are my students. AND, yeah, I know that is so trite and that it sounds insincere and what I would call "fluffy." BUT, those kids- those kids that have off days and are human and are teenagers and have attitude problems and have awesome sides too, those students that go above and beyond to show the people around them that they care and give a ton of effort regardless of the in-the-grand-scheme-of-things-fleeting grade--- that's why any time I think about getting a job that's "just a job," I won't do it.
So, open note to the golden ones: when they say you are going to change the world, the phrasing is wrong. You already changed the world- you are already changing the world- and you are the reason why teachers continuously take A LOT from others. You make it worth putting up with the rest of it. And, I'm not going to say this to your face, because it would be all weird and sentimental. But, you know it now, and that's the important part. You are awesome. Keep being you, keep pushing yourself to face new challenges, and always look back to see where you've been (and use that to motivate your goings wherever they may be or however they will look as you move forward). And, if you were in my class this past year, I'm talking about you. Just in case I didn't make that clear.
My sloppy journal entry thesis: Yeah, I teach. Yeah, I complain. But, in the end, in the whole big picture view and all that sappy jazz, I am glad to be a teacher.
Please read into the tone here and secure yourself for a rant: I just "love" when students try to "threaten" me or "get at" me by complaining about my teaching style and how they want me to get fired just because they are being the epitome of lazy. Just for the record, this isn't a common thing. There is usually that one kid (or you know- those four kids or whatever it is any given year of teaching) each year that struggles with English class, decides to manifest that feeling of the struggle into a direct attack toward me and my teaching, and employs all the defense mechanisms and excuses to avoid the realization that we all struggle with something and that's okay. And, it's "cool," because four times out of five, I am going to get through to these kids. They might never stop complaining. They might never admit that they have accepted the situation of being stuck with me and learning stuff that doesn't come easily or naturally for them. BUT, by the end, there's a pretty good chance that they will learn something.
Whenever people ask me why high school? I answer: because they can usually take what they dish out. And, I keep it straight. I don't sugar coat. I am a pessimistic idealist or an optimistic realist at best. So, open note to those students who decide that it's cool to directly attack me and my teaching: Got an attitude problem? Cool, I can be sassy too. Want to play that sarcasm card? Cool, I'll raise you one. If you are looking for a show, please reschedule, I don't have time to waste. I didn't go into the profession thinking I'd make a lot of money, have "free summers," or get a ton of respect at first. When you try to "threaten" me with being fired, don't think I haven't ever considered getting a job that was just a job- getting a job that didn't require copious hours of unpaid overtime- getting a job that is respected- getting a job that doesn't involve emotionally draining situations- getting a job where I don't have to cut costs and budget all the time- getting a job so I can pay off the debts that I've incurred trying to be a bit better as a teacher---- don't think I haven't thought about it. Because I have- and most of the teachers out there have. But, I'm not going to step down just for you. I'm not going to fold and make it that easy for you to fold back into your own defense mechanisms. [Oh snap- look at that rhetorically-aware, point-of-view decision.]
Here's why I'm NOT going to throw it all away, pack up shop, or take the easy road: for every one of those kids that puts up a fight, I have another twenty or more (usually more- like this year I had 98) young adults, scholars, people, that truly inspire me- that truly motivate me get out of bed everyday, try my very best, work overtime, provide feedback and quasi-cursive, quasi-print comments in the margins, peruse through thrift shops to make our classroom a place where they want to be, spend hours planning an hour-long lesson, and seek out ways to be better. They cause me to count my innumerable blessings, for those students make me laugh and make me realize that teaching is all about learning. My greatest teachers are my students. AND, yeah, I know that is so trite and that it sounds insincere and what I would call "fluffy." BUT, those kids- those kids that have off days and are human and are teenagers and have attitude problems and have awesome sides too, those students that go above and beyond to show the people around them that they care and give a ton of effort regardless of the in-the-grand-scheme-of-things-fleeting grade--- that's why any time I think about getting a job that's "just a job," I won't do it.
So, open note to the golden ones: when they say you are going to change the world, the phrasing is wrong. You already changed the world- you are already changing the world- and you are the reason why teachers continuously take A LOT from others. You make it worth putting up with the rest of it. And, I'm not going to say this to your face, because it would be all weird and sentimental. But, you know it now, and that's the important part. You are awesome. Keep being you, keep pushing yourself to face new challenges, and always look back to see where you've been (and use that to motivate your goings wherever they may be or however they will look as you move forward). And, if you were in my class this past year, I'm talking about you. Just in case I didn't make that clear.
2019 READING LIST.
Better late than never. Reading List for June-December. If it looks small, it is. I have too much course planning to do this year to properly read everything on my master list. So, this is the approachable and condensed version.
1. All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr (2014)
2. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (1932)
3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman (1973)
4. Normal People by Sally Rooney (2018)
5. French Lessons: A Memoir by Alice Kaplan (1993)
6. The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui (2017)
7. How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn (1939)
8. The Stopping Places: A Journey through Gypsy Britain by Damian Le Bas (2018)
9. St. Lucy's Home for Girl's Raised by Wolves by Karen Russel (2006)
10. Girls Will Be Girls: Dressing Up, Playing Parts, & Daring to Act Differently by Emer O'Toole (2015)
1. All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr (2014)
2. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (1932)
3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman (1973)
4. Normal People by Sally Rooney (2018)
5. French Lessons: A Memoir by Alice Kaplan (1993)
6. The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui (2017)
7. How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn (1939)
8. The Stopping Places: A Journey through Gypsy Britain by Damian Le Bas (2018)
9. St. Lucy's Home for Girl's Raised by Wolves by Karen Russel (2006)
10. Girls Will Be Girls: Dressing Up, Playing Parts, & Daring to Act Differently by Emer O'Toole (2015)
END-OF-YEAR REFLECTION. MAY 2019
If you were one of my students this past academic year and you're reading this, I just want to say thank you for a great year. I am really lucky to have been your teacher. You will go on to do many great things in your lifetime. And, if you are stuck with me next year, then have a great summer and I'll see you in August.
BITS OF CONVERSATIONS. MAY 2019.
Bits of conversations stick with me long after they are over. I also irrationally assume that the people who speak to me, know me. I always tend to forget that they don't really know me. Many people have an idea of me- and I guess that is true with and for lots of people. But, in the subconscious checklist that we all use when trying to figure someone out, I won't make a beautiful and complete dot-to-dot masterpiece. You can look at my resume or sit in a pub or coffee shop and listen to my finite collection of adventures and stories that I've stored up and polished on a literary level; but, if you think that I am this great, adventurous, A-team person, you are going to be disappointed. Sure, I do adventurous things from time-to-time. Yeah, I have brief and fleeting moments of greatness. If it looks like I have my crap together, I can assure you that it's taken a lot of hard work and practice to make it look (and even be) easier in that moment. And, more likely than not, if you stick around for awhile, you'll see that I'm still learning the swing of things, making mistakes, and retreating into my introverted tendencies when the stress of life comes crashing down.
I know my flaws. I know where my knowledge stops. I know that I have a small collection of experience in the grand scheme of things. I know that I have a lot of "potential for growth." But, those truths make me human- they are me. I also know that it might not seem like it to others, but I've come a long way and been very blessed on the journey by amazing people that have shaped who I am as a person. I once wrote out all of my flaws and experiences that I supposedly missed out on- just listed every single one that I could think of off the top of my head. It was a long list. Then, when I went back and read through the list like some trauma strategy, I realized that I am okay with most of those flaws and missed opportunities--- they are what make me me (and a lot of those missed opportunities are choices that I would make all over again). Sometimes societal pressures and other moments of doubt chip away at that confidence and contentment; and I am not saying that I am not constantly trying to be a better person, but I am okay with being human. I just have to remember that those bits of conversations that play like a broken record are inferences based on an incomplete picture. And, I have to learn that that's okay too.
I know my flaws. I know where my knowledge stops. I know that I have a small collection of experience in the grand scheme of things. I know that I have a lot of "potential for growth." But, those truths make me human- they are me. I also know that it might not seem like it to others, but I've come a long way and been very blessed on the journey by amazing people that have shaped who I am as a person. I once wrote out all of my flaws and experiences that I supposedly missed out on- just listed every single one that I could think of off the top of my head. It was a long list. Then, when I went back and read through the list like some trauma strategy, I realized that I am okay with most of those flaws and missed opportunities--- they are what make me me (and a lot of those missed opportunities are choices that I would make all over again). Sometimes societal pressures and other moments of doubt chip away at that confidence and contentment; and I am not saying that I am not constantly trying to be a better person, but I am okay with being human. I just have to remember that those bits of conversations that play like a broken record are inferences based on an incomplete picture. And, I have to learn that that's okay too.
EVERY BLESSING. MAY 2019.
In The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho, a boy gives up being a shepherd to search for his personal destiny. The text is profuse with religious references and allusions. It is probably one of my favorite texts of all time. In one section, the boy sells all he owns and travels to an unknown land. In the unknown land, he struggles because he does not know Arabic. His intuition and instincts are momentarily blighted and he loses his small fortune. As a result, he begins working for a crystal merchant. The crystal merchant is a devoutly religious man. The crystal merchant knows that he should go on a pilgrimage to Mecca. However, since Mecca is his dream, he is held in place by the potentiality of losing the motivation that encompasses chasing a dream by achieving the dream. On the other hand, the shepherd- Santiago- is in full pursuit of his dream. He is not afraid of what happens after he achieves his dream. Of course, this text is an allegory- so everything is a symbol for something deeper. The deeper thing, in this case, happens to be the two types of dreamers: (1) those fueled by a dream and propelled forward and (2) those fueled by a dream and held in stagnant position. So, today, I asked my students which one they were: the crystal merchant or Santiago (?). Then, I had to stop and consider which one I would identify as in this life. I think up to this point, I am Santiago; but, I could easily see myself becoming the crystal merchant. It would be easy to take the less daunting, the more certain route, and just let dreams be dreams- far off distant sentiments that drift and wash further away in time. But, would those waves in the distance create haunting memories of unlived existences? Because, as Coelho writes and the narrator articulates, "Every blessing unrecognized becomes a curse." To realize blessings and to appreciate them fully and to still let go when intuition nudges us to let go- that might be one of the hardest arts to master.
OKAY INSTAGRAM. MAY 2019.
Okay Instagram. I am not a social media kind of person- like sure, I'll keep up with a website because it is like the android of phones- I have more formatting and programming freedom; but, like post-something every day and stalk on people isn't really my forte. BUT- I started looking at classroom design ideas, which spiraled into Instagram stalking sessions. When did everyone's classrooms become so adorable?! Then, I looked back at my former post about classroom design and thought to myself: I'm so old-fashioned. I don't think there is anything wrong with that. However, I like this idea of flexible and alternative seating. I like the idea of making a classroom a comfy and relaxing place where students want to be--- even if they would never admit it, and even if it is only on a subconscious level. So.... after a few days of Instagram searches and inspiration, I switched some things up. I'm sure that my classroom will continue to evolve. But, here is a window into its evolution. Also, not going to lie, I am terrified of going to all alternative seating. So, I am holding onto my desks. For one of the journal prompts I give students, I ask: How do you respond to change? Are you someone that likes change or dislikes change? Of course, the most obvious answer is both, but I like hearing the two sides to student answers. I am a spontaneous traditionalist. I like to maintain my comfort zone but step outside every now and then to force myself to see a new perspective and to keep learning something new. When we were learning about traditional and progressive educational techniques in college, I was all about the "old-school," banking education paradigm. I mean, I think progressive techniques are important at times, but I still love a lecture- I still love notes- I still love the idea and value inherent in dictation. I think the most challenging part is to find (and maintain) a balance between facilitating learning in innovative, flipped ways (the spontaneous side of my traditionalism) and implementing old-school techniques that work (the backbone of my pedagogy).
FOR HERSH. APRIL 2019.
When I was growing up, my dad was a dog person, and my mom was a cat person... So, naturally, we had cats. Mom brought home our first cat six years before I was born. She was a pre-school teacher and a farmer near her school was getting rid of a kitten that was deaf. The farmer was afraid the cat wouldn't last on the farm. Mom took in the cat, and that was that. She was the best cat, and she didn't know she was a cat. She had a temper though. She was always more Mom's cat than anyone else's cat. When I was in elementary school, the neighbor's cat had kittens. Mom and Dad both said no. So, I casually started feeding one of the cats that would wander over. Every day, after school, I would run inside, grab some of 'the beast's' (Dad's nickname for our first cat) food, and go feed Cookie (someone else named her, but it stuck). Life lesson one: feed people/animals, and they will keep coming back. Slowly, as time went by, on bad weather days, I would bring her inside "just for the day." Then, eventually, my parents said that I could take her in. Life lesson two: persistence sometimes pays off. The neighbors were just glad to get her off their hands. It was a cold day at the start of the year and we were all sipping hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. Dad was reading the paper and Mom was reading a book. Sarah and I were sitting on the floor with the cats. Cookie was all sprawled out, soaking up the heat from the fireplace. She was fattening up... I just thought I was feeding her too much. But, that wasn't it. We started seeing little paws push against her stomach. Dad was not too happy about this turn of events. She had kittens that spring. We were allowed to keep two- one kitten each. Of course, I picked the runt. It was a male calico, and those typically do not live very long. It is rare to have a male calico cat. So, after my kitten died, I couldn't pick between the last two... so, we kept three kittens. Life lesson three: plans do not always work out the way we think they will. I named one of them Hershie- we called her Hersh for short. She had a strong personality from the beginning. She was clearly the alpha cat, and lived up to that early reputation. She was smart and had a devious side. She tried to attack me once as a kitten, and I threw her across the room. After that, we had a mutual understanding and she became 'my cat.' She followed me around everywhere. My sister said that Hersh would bully her whenever I left the room. So, Sarah and Hersh had a strained relationship until I left for college many years later. Hersh has always been more like a dog in ways. She always greets me whenever I get home from whenever I'm living, and exemplifies loyalty. It's been seventeen years. So, when I was at the softball game this past Monday, and I looked down at my phone and saw that they had to put her down, it didn't feel real. I'm not one of those people who think their pets are their children. They are pets; and there is a difference. But, Hersh was there for the whole show of my childhood and early adulthood. Ugh, I thought writing all this out might conjure some semblance of closure, but it still doesn't feel real yet.
'BOUT TIME. APRIL 2019.
I've been waiting for forever and a day, and it is finally here. I waited until late April to say this, because we all know we have seen snow in Indiana as late as the start of May. But, at the risk of jinx, I will type up this entry. SPRING IS HERE. The daffodils didn't put on a great show this year, but the redbuds and dogwoods are showing off, and I love it. I went to Charlestown State Park a couple weeks back to check out the wildflower trail. It is so magical. I wish that I could take students to a wooded wonderland like that for our reader's theatre rendition of A Mid-Summer Night's Dream. It would be absolutely perfect. There is a little pass on the trail in Charlestown that always reminds me of a scene from The Princess Bride. I've only ever seen the movie. However, I've been hearing from multiple sources that I have to read the book. So, that alongside Brave New World are in the running for my first two summer reading adventures. Last weekend, I celebrated Easter Sunday by hiking at the Mt. St. Francis. It was the perfect day- seventies and sunny. Everything has that vivid spring green right now. The turtles were out sunning themselves. A father was teaching his son how to fish. It was one of those days that you just want to pause to experience a little longer. The weekend before that, I went to Nashville, Tennessee, for the first time to see Nate Bargatze with my sister. Aside from having bronchitis and not being able to partake in the road trip sister sing-off, it was a great trip. Sarah was exhausted too, so we didn't out-do ourselves. Also, Nate's opening act was his father- Stephen Bargartze- and that was probably my favorite part of the evening. His act was awesome.
It's been an eventful start to spring. My students are getting antsy because it's the end of the year... but we got a minute left, so I'm going to use it and they will probably kick and scream the whole time. But, welcome to teaching high school English. So, yep, I noticed that I'm behind in posting entries. However, some... a lot of my entries are not postable. I write a lot, but I filter before I post. In the Shakespearean spirit, I'll leave you with my two favorite MSND quotations: "Though she be little, she is fierce" and "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" Happy Spring.
It's been an eventful start to spring. My students are getting antsy because it's the end of the year... but we got a minute left, so I'm going to use it and they will probably kick and scream the whole time. But, welcome to teaching high school English. So, yep, I noticed that I'm behind in posting entries. However, some... a lot of my entries are not postable. I write a lot, but I filter before I post. In the Shakespearean spirit, I'll leave you with my two favorite MSND quotations: "Though she be little, she is fierce" and "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" Happy Spring.
I LIKE THAT PAINTING. APRIL 2019.
I like that painting with the branches that twist in a hundred different and same directions.
I like the way the sky is a subtle pink with specks of color like a Sylvia Plath poem.
I like the way the birds. Flock together without ever thinking about how Nature does that.
To us. It makes us twist in a hundred different places and the same moments.
It has a way to paint the backdrop a subtle hue. A way to make us flock together like birds.
I like that painting.
I like the way the sky is a subtle pink with specks of color like a Sylvia Plath poem.
I like the way the birds. Flock together without ever thinking about how Nature does that.
To us. It makes us twist in a hundred different places and the same moments.
It has a way to paint the backdrop a subtle hue. A way to make us flock together like birds.
I like that painting.
LET'S BE BETTER THAN IGNORANT. FEBRUARY 2019.
I am not a writer. I am a typist and at very best a drafter. I write. Read over the work. Maybe place the composition in an accessible location. Then, I move on. Writers don’t do that. They re-work the same sentence 150 times. They live by word count- by polishing- by perfecting-by doing the same things again and again. Is that why there is a connotative romance to writing? Maybe. Maybe, writing is the same as marriage- re-working, polishing, perfecting, and doing the same things again and again.
I tend to think I am a relatively consistent person. My life plans change and evolve, but my core values, my core dreams are still the same dreams that I held at twelve years old. Maybe it is this self-view that hinders a comprehensive understanding of the vast changes that plot my existence. I listen to the radio on my way to work as a high school public teacher in the mornings. I seek through the stations because I haven’t changed my set stations from the ones I use in my hometown. My clock in the car still reads the old time, because I never change it when we “fall back.” I am always on the “spring forward” time. I’ve listened to the radio most of my driving life. I am not savvy enough to listen to podcasts or my “own” music. Subsequently, I catch bits and pieces of radio talk shows, NPR, traffic and weather forecasts, and the like. And, here is one example of how my experiences have changed me without my ever realizing it.
The talk show people on the radios in the morning- not sure which ones- but they sometimes sound ignorant. Did I never recognize that before or have times changed? I never deeply, on a day-to-day level, realized the intense ignorance of the American people (myself included). My students were complaining about why guys always have to “get girls stuff” for Valentine’s Day and how that is “unfair.” I said that in Japanese culture, the women offer gifts to the men. I’m not sure if this is true. I’ve never fact-checked it. I just remember learning that in college. So, I prompted my students (a group of athletic, sophomore boys) to analyze why there might be that fundamental difference between Eastern and Western culture. My students said that I must be stupid- because we aren’t part of “Western” culture- they clarified, with condescension- we are in the Midwest (saying it really slowly). They, without realizing it, probably never think in a global mindset. They think America is the world. They probably never think in terms of global hemispheres. They are also so blindly sure of their own insight that they dismiss anything that might make them feel ignorant. Sure, I probably do that too. But, it’s something that has become even easier to recognize and identify since my return to the States.
Apparently, the big news of the week on early morning radio talk shows regarded a fight between two elderly women at a Bingo night. And, as the talk show hosts had their laughs, I just felt ashamed of society. The media is typically praised for articulating news, challenging political opinions, and stirring the pot. Think about Meryl Streep’s address at the Golden Globe awards ceremony in 2017. However, what happens when media sources align with the politics of the nation, with the increased ignorance of American society? What happens when unbecoming behavior of our elderly generation becomes the joke of the week? What happens when disrespect toward others becomes an inherent “right?”
And, I am proud to be American. I think we have a beautiful country, with a lot of potential, a lot of truly good people, a lot of positives going for us. But, when I saw that someone wrote, ‘Make America Smart Again,’ on a street wall in London’s east end, I had to agree. We are already a great nation, let’s be an informed nation- let’s be an intellectual nation- let’s be better than ignorant.
P.S. I think there are intelligent talk show hosts, students, and moments in this nation. I would be ignorant to think all could fall into one category.
I tend to think I am a relatively consistent person. My life plans change and evolve, but my core values, my core dreams are still the same dreams that I held at twelve years old. Maybe it is this self-view that hinders a comprehensive understanding of the vast changes that plot my existence. I listen to the radio on my way to work as a high school public teacher in the mornings. I seek through the stations because I haven’t changed my set stations from the ones I use in my hometown. My clock in the car still reads the old time, because I never change it when we “fall back.” I am always on the “spring forward” time. I’ve listened to the radio most of my driving life. I am not savvy enough to listen to podcasts or my “own” music. Subsequently, I catch bits and pieces of radio talk shows, NPR, traffic and weather forecasts, and the like. And, here is one example of how my experiences have changed me without my ever realizing it.
The talk show people on the radios in the morning- not sure which ones- but they sometimes sound ignorant. Did I never recognize that before or have times changed? I never deeply, on a day-to-day level, realized the intense ignorance of the American people (myself included). My students were complaining about why guys always have to “get girls stuff” for Valentine’s Day and how that is “unfair.” I said that in Japanese culture, the women offer gifts to the men. I’m not sure if this is true. I’ve never fact-checked it. I just remember learning that in college. So, I prompted my students (a group of athletic, sophomore boys) to analyze why there might be that fundamental difference between Eastern and Western culture. My students said that I must be stupid- because we aren’t part of “Western” culture- they clarified, with condescension- we are in the Midwest (saying it really slowly). They, without realizing it, probably never think in a global mindset. They think America is the world. They probably never think in terms of global hemispheres. They are also so blindly sure of their own insight that they dismiss anything that might make them feel ignorant. Sure, I probably do that too. But, it’s something that has become even easier to recognize and identify since my return to the States.
Apparently, the big news of the week on early morning radio talk shows regarded a fight between two elderly women at a Bingo night. And, as the talk show hosts had their laughs, I just felt ashamed of society. The media is typically praised for articulating news, challenging political opinions, and stirring the pot. Think about Meryl Streep’s address at the Golden Globe awards ceremony in 2017. However, what happens when media sources align with the politics of the nation, with the increased ignorance of American society? What happens when unbecoming behavior of our elderly generation becomes the joke of the week? What happens when disrespect toward others becomes an inherent “right?”
And, I am proud to be American. I think we have a beautiful country, with a lot of potential, a lot of truly good people, a lot of positives going for us. But, when I saw that someone wrote, ‘Make America Smart Again,’ on a street wall in London’s east end, I had to agree. We are already a great nation, let’s be an informed nation- let’s be an intellectual nation- let’s be better than ignorant.
P.S. I think there are intelligent talk show hosts, students, and moments in this nation. I would be ignorant to think all could fall into one category.
AP LANGUAGE. FEBRUARY 2019.
My AP Language and Composition course is comprised of four students. Yep---- just four students. It is one of the strangest compilations of individuals in one classroom. For the first two weeks of school, they would not speak aloud. I was truly terrified, because this is a discussion-based class. In my past teaching experiences, my smallest class size ever was made up of eighteen students. A class with four students was way more challenging than I thought it would be... especially with four highly introverted students. The best thing about introverted students is that they are super insightful. It is just a matter of creating a space where discussion can occur. Most introverted people have a lot to say to only a select few individuals. So, it was the case with this group. I never really know if I am teaching less or if it is contingent on the class size. After all, presentations do not take the entire class period. We have a lot of time to knock out work in class together. It is very strange- but in a good way. AP Language is a senior level course at Hauser, which is great. I think AP Language is probably more compatible with various fields of study outside of English language arts (even if my soft spot is inherently AP Literature). Nevertheless, I am so glad that these girls took on the challenge to push themselves and develop their writing. Even though it will be bitter sweet to see them graduate, I am so excited for them as they see the freedom of post-secondary studies on the horizon.
LIKE VAGUE ETCHINGS. FEBRUARY 2019.
Like vague etchings from the past. They answer. They answer at times when one would least expect the re-surface. Like opal memories forgotten. They remember. They remember the moments, the ambiance of the time. Like murky creek beds. They carry. They carry it all unseen into the same place. The cursor beating like a heartbeat. The blank page empty with latent potential. The kinetic energy on sabbatical. VOICE. Like the yellow diamonds at Tiffany’s. Like the rural places. Like the continuous story of religious conflict. Resurfaces. Ebbs and flows. The beauty of a hijab. The beauty of a rosary. The beauty of an education. Not more power. Just empower. Like encompass. Like encase. Like endear. And, so that I could do with words what you could sketch on paper. Both on paper. Both displaced. Both empathetic. And, so that I could do with language what you could do with notes on paper. To speak, to write. To play, to record. To be, to remember. Like vague etchings from the past. Moments. Memories. Time. Foug. Two fish. Stars and concepts that lack real grounding. The disconnect. The place from which we are born to be born again at different times, different moments, the same. Page 35. VOICE.
INDEPENDENCE IS JUST AN IDEA. NOT A REALITY. JANUARY 2019.
Today I am entirely grateful. Not every day as maybe I should be. But, today, I am. I am grateful to have a beautiful place to live. I am grateful for my family comprised of people that always go above and beyond to show me (and others) they care. I am grateful for the true friends that I’ve come to know through the years- for their words of wisdom and for their support. I am grateful to live in Indiana and in America at large. I just watched the National Parks Adventure on Netflix- America is truly a beautiful country. I need to save up and see more of it. I am grateful that I have a job that I love 80% of the time. I am grateful for good students that are going to do amazing things in their lifetimes. Being a high school teacher is like reading the preface before they write their novel. I am grateful for awesome colleagues that go above and beyond for our school and community. I am grateful for the sunshine that decided to hang out for a little while in this cold January month. I am grateful for all of the opportunities that I was given or worked for- because I have a nice little collection of stories that I’ll hold onto forever. I am even grateful for the times when things were darker than they are now- because they made me a stronger person and built my humility and patience. Guess that is always a work in progress.
I get that the world sucks. I know that pessimism is a nice defense mechanism. I know that sarcasm and cynicism are effective walls that can be used intensely to keep people from getting too close. I know that I spend money probably too much- way less than most- but more than other people in the world. I know that I can be entirely selfish, and egotistical, and even arrogant. I know that I complain about minuscule things or let moods cast over my behavior. I know that I am human. But, I also know that what I don’t often say is that I am grateful- for all of this- for this mess of life- for the people in it- and for the wisdom that comes along with it all. And, I know that I am in a continuous process of trying to listen a little more, trying to be a little more altruistic, trying to be a little more humble, and trying to be a little more grateful to others- because independence is just an idea.
I get that the world sucks. I know that pessimism is a nice defense mechanism. I know that sarcasm and cynicism are effective walls that can be used intensely to keep people from getting too close. I know that I spend money probably too much- way less than most- but more than other people in the world. I know that I can be entirely selfish, and egotistical, and even arrogant. I know that I complain about minuscule things or let moods cast over my behavior. I know that I am human. But, I also know that what I don’t often say is that I am grateful- for all of this- for this mess of life- for the people in it- and for the wisdom that comes along with it all. And, I know that I am in a continuous process of trying to listen a little more, trying to be a little more altruistic, trying to be a little more humble, and trying to be a little more grateful to others- because independence is just an idea.
A MEMENTO FOR THE FUTURE. JANUARY 2019.
I spend a lot of time thinking about the past. I had a strange thought the other day- I will be alive in the fifties. This is strange because I feel like the fifties were not that long ago. Are we really over half way through 100 years? Will my future children remember Elvis or Chuck Berry? I mean, do we remember music from 1919? Do we remember anything from 1919? How strange it will be for my kids who will grow up listening to The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, Elton John, Billy Joel, Carole King, Jim Croce, America, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Michael Jackson, Alan Parsons Project, and The Eagles.
So, I've been watching people reach retirement and listening to the way they talk, the way they think, the language they use, etc. And, it dawned on me that I've thought about things I would tell my past self, but I haven't ever considered things I would tell my future self from this point in my life. So, here goes: (1) I know the world is getting worse, but do not underestimate the potential of the upcoming generations. It is easy to find and point out their flaws (they aren't really hiding them), but it is a lot harder to find the positives. You like a challenge. Embrace the search. (2) Being open-minded doesn't mean that you have to endorse every social trend. People will call a close bond with 'old-fashioned' values "conservative." Ignore that label. There is nothing wrong with keeping your personal values regardless of the neoliberal revolutions of social culture. Do not prescribe to generalizations. Be an anomaly. (3) Listen more; lecture less. (4) Remind yourself of your own ignorance every day. And, never give up the desire to learn new information. Be humble. Always and forever remember that education is a privilege (and that 100 years ago, you could not have accomplished the things you've accomplished today as a woman). Be grateful. (5) Don't be jealous or envious of others. And, I know, this will be hard. (6) Don't ever feel like it is too late to start again. It might be harder to start again... but most things are possible. (7) Don't marry out of convenience. If it takes a long time, it is fine. There will always be that pressure. But, getting along with the person- twenty-five, thirty, forty years into the game will be well worth the wait. (8) Do not expect the guy you marry to be the same guy throughout the entire marriage. Life changes people. You have to go into a marriage knowing that up front. (9) You can raise multiple children using the same techniques and they will turn out to be different people. You can set the foundation and scaffold. You can be there. But, in the end, it is the child that chooses the life they want to live. Just give 110% and know that you did the best you could. (10) Keep the faith and stay true to what you believe... even when that gets increasingly difficult. (11) Remember that when this whole thing comes to an end, the most important things will still be relationships- relationships with family, with friends, with colleagues, with students, with people in the community, etc. That is what matters when we leave the rest behind. So, do not get bogged down in the details of the mundane or bureaucratic politics. (12) Always appreciate the outdoors, because nature shows us that change is inevitable and subjectively-judged. It's what we make of it. (13) Always take photographs. (14) Even when entitlement becomes the norm, always remember the past.
So, I've been watching people reach retirement and listening to the way they talk, the way they think, the language they use, etc. And, it dawned on me that I've thought about things I would tell my past self, but I haven't ever considered things I would tell my future self from this point in my life. So, here goes: (1) I know the world is getting worse, but do not underestimate the potential of the upcoming generations. It is easy to find and point out their flaws (they aren't really hiding them), but it is a lot harder to find the positives. You like a challenge. Embrace the search. (2) Being open-minded doesn't mean that you have to endorse every social trend. People will call a close bond with 'old-fashioned' values "conservative." Ignore that label. There is nothing wrong with keeping your personal values regardless of the neoliberal revolutions of social culture. Do not prescribe to generalizations. Be an anomaly. (3) Listen more; lecture less. (4) Remind yourself of your own ignorance every day. And, never give up the desire to learn new information. Be humble. Always and forever remember that education is a privilege (and that 100 years ago, you could not have accomplished the things you've accomplished today as a woman). Be grateful. (5) Don't be jealous or envious of others. And, I know, this will be hard. (6) Don't ever feel like it is too late to start again. It might be harder to start again... but most things are possible. (7) Don't marry out of convenience. If it takes a long time, it is fine. There will always be that pressure. But, getting along with the person- twenty-five, thirty, forty years into the game will be well worth the wait. (8) Do not expect the guy you marry to be the same guy throughout the entire marriage. Life changes people. You have to go into a marriage knowing that up front. (9) You can raise multiple children using the same techniques and they will turn out to be different people. You can set the foundation and scaffold. You can be there. But, in the end, it is the child that chooses the life they want to live. Just give 110% and know that you did the best you could. (10) Keep the faith and stay true to what you believe... even when that gets increasingly difficult. (11) Remember that when this whole thing comes to an end, the most important things will still be relationships- relationships with family, with friends, with colleagues, with students, with people in the community, etc. That is what matters when we leave the rest behind. So, do not get bogged down in the details of the mundane or bureaucratic politics. (12) Always appreciate the outdoors, because nature shows us that change is inevitable and subjectively-judged. It's what we make of it. (13) Always take photographs. (14) Even when entitlement becomes the norm, always remember the past.
THE LAST FOUR HOURS OF 2018.
This year I lived in London. I traveled to Amsterdam, was lost in a train station in Brussels, listened to a love story, stayed in a canal house, paid money to see Banksy art (how he would hate that), and froze in the February wind. I visited Paris, once, twice, three times. The trinity. I watched snow cover the streets of Paris, sipped hot chocolate in a café, tried macaroons, and turned another year older. I walked through the catacombs and realized how short the human life is. I danced Samba in the streets of Belleville and walked through a never-ending public park- listening to the language and imagining a life I could live but will most likely never live. It was Fete de la Musique. I watched the old and the young. Together and alone. I watched the Eiffel Tower light up on Bastille Day and watched people crowd the streets to watch the fireworks. I went to the Louvre. I rode the train through the northern French countryside and felt a great sense of peace- of belonging. I said a prayer at Notre Dame and bought a rosary for the future. Sarah kissed Oscar Wilde’s grave and we stumbled along cobblestone pathways to find the memory of Jim Morrison. People are strange. I went to Marseille and hiked Calanques National Park. I wore a Beatles shirt as I strolled down the alleyways of Le Panier and circled the old port. I paid respects to Notre Dame a la Garde. I looked into the uneven framed photos of ships on the sea and the stories that are forever sealed there. I went to Barcelona. I stayed with Italians who swore that I looked Irish. I went to see the genius of Gaudi’s mind manifested in La Sagrada Familia. I watched the Magic Fountain display a multitude of colors. I went to a nude beach and remembered the relativity of social propriety. I took strolls through St. James Park, frequented a few pubs, and knew the tube like the back of my hand—or at least the Central and Jubilee lines. I took classes taught by Paul Gilroy. I wrote an essay about Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. I wrote a thesis studying modes of abstraction, Luci Tapahonso’s poetry, and the pertinence of making a space for indigenous poetics in post-secondary institutions of renowned literary study. I watched the Brits complain about another royal reminder- the marriage of Prince Henry and Meghan. Will we get a bank holiday out of this? I watched the aftermath of the Brexit vote. I learned a lot about people… for better or for worse. I lived through five international flights. I moved back home… well, to Indiana at least. Home has gradually expanded from a small town to the vague parameter of the Midwest. I returned to the classroom. I taught five classes. I worked a lot; graded a lot; slept less; but, loved it nonetheless. I hiked through Brown County State Park during peak fall color, went back to Bloomington for Mother Bear’s pizza, watched some of my former students begin the next chapter of their lives, and found a niche. I watched IU make a Hail Mary shot as the buzzer rang. I watched people in Assembly Hall celebrate. I went on photography day trips with Dad, had long talks with Mom, and made time for sister bonding sessions. I finally had the courage to park on Bardstown Road. When did I forget how to parallel park? I met up with old friends, caught up on the adventures of their lives, enjoyed the close proximity to family, and concluded the year right here… writing this and watching a world of people around me- celebrating a new year. So, hello 2019. Let’s see what this year holds.
TIS THE SEASON. DECEMBER 2018.
Wednesday: Period 1 Exam [English 10C] and Period 6 Exam [AP Language]
Thursday: Period 2 Exam [English 10C], Period 5 Exam [English 10H], and Period 8 Exam [Prep]
Friday: Period 3 Exam [AP Literature] and Period 7 Exam [English 10C]
Okay, it's here. The dreaded finals exam week is here. Just a side note: no one is exempt from taking the final exam. Each of my classes are two-semester courses. So, if I am your English teacher, you are taking the final exam. If you maintain the pre-requisite expectations for next semester, you might qualify to be exempt come May. Below you will find study guides for the English 10C and English 10H final exams. AP Literature and AP Language final exams will be former AP Exams (the MC section- not the essay section). Final exams at Hauser account for 20% of your course grade. Remember: If you complete the study guide and submit it on the day of the exam, you can earn up to 20 "extra credit" points for demonstrating thoughtful reflection on cumulative ELA standards. I know I set up my grade book a little differently. I use a running total. Therefore, 80% of your course grade comes from the first and second quarters. The remaining 20% is calculated based on your final exam. So, if you would like to try and calculate a projected grade, you can multiply your current grade by 0.8. This will give you your course score (if you received a zero on the final exam). Then, if you would like to mess around and try to see how your grade changes based on assumed final exam grades, you take the score you think you'll get on the final and multiply that number times 0.2 and add it to your 'if-I-had-a-zero' score.
[Current Grade] * 0.8 + [Final Exam Score] * 0.2 = Semester One Grade
Disclaimer: I know the syllabus says that the final is worth less. I did not realize the school wide policy when I wrote my syllabi. That is my bad. Nonetheless, I am following the 20% final exam grade rule. So, above is the accurate way to determine your semester grade. I included a note about changes on the parent handouts. Let me know if you have questions.
Thursday: Period 2 Exam [English 10C], Period 5 Exam [English 10H], and Period 8 Exam [Prep]
Friday: Period 3 Exam [AP Literature] and Period 7 Exam [English 10C]
Okay, it's here. The dreaded finals exam week is here. Just a side note: no one is exempt from taking the final exam. Each of my classes are two-semester courses. So, if I am your English teacher, you are taking the final exam. If you maintain the pre-requisite expectations for next semester, you might qualify to be exempt come May. Below you will find study guides for the English 10C and English 10H final exams. AP Literature and AP Language final exams will be former AP Exams (the MC section- not the essay section). Final exams at Hauser account for 20% of your course grade. Remember: If you complete the study guide and submit it on the day of the exam, you can earn up to 20 "extra credit" points for demonstrating thoughtful reflection on cumulative ELA standards. I know I set up my grade book a little differently. I use a running total. Therefore, 80% of your course grade comes from the first and second quarters. The remaining 20% is calculated based on your final exam. So, if you would like to try and calculate a projected grade, you can multiply your current grade by 0.8. This will give you your course score (if you received a zero on the final exam). Then, if you would like to mess around and try to see how your grade changes based on assumed final exam grades, you take the score you think you'll get on the final and multiply that number times 0.2 and add it to your 'if-I-had-a-zero' score.
[Current Grade] * 0.8 + [Final Exam Score] * 0.2 = Semester One Grade
Disclaimer: I know the syllabus says that the final is worth less. I did not realize the school wide policy when I wrote my syllabi. That is my bad. Nonetheless, I am following the 20% final exam grade rule. So, above is the accurate way to determine your semester grade. I included a note about changes on the parent handouts. Let me know if you have questions.
CLASSROOM DESIGN HACKS- A FEW YEARS INTO THE GAME
Here is what you should know if it's your first year teaching: (1) You will spend more time in your classroom than you think. (2) You basically live there the first year... and depending on how many new classes you take on every year thereafter, every year thereafter. (3) Since you live there, own your space. Make it your niche. (4) Technology is great... but it also is inconsistent. So, always have a backup plan. Always. Hence, marker boards for daily agendas just in case the PPT. doesn't work or the server is down or whatever.
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Always start simple. Secure space for growth and style to emerge in your classroom. Classrooms quickly become pack-rat havens. Essential documentation and fancy words like that are just the key indicators of the cumulative nature of the classroom over the term. So, keep it simple to begin with and let it grow as the term evolves. When making classroom rules, keep them simple. Amendments will write themselves with time.
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The things you put in your room, on your bulletin boards, have more power than you think. Students subconsciously absorb those images every day. So, make it a conversation starter. Introduce students to writers or theorists that they may not have ever heard of before now. Don't underestimate them either. High school students interpret Foucault & Althusser just as well as college students.
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If you teach sophomores, I would suggest playing up your knowledge from psychology classes. I use warm/soft lighting at the start of class. I have lots of fake plants (because I don't have windows). I put that sorority-esque tapestry behind my desk to procure a "zen" vibe. Make sure your classroom smells good. Keep it slightly warmer. Play music. Sophomores are sophomoric, and they have way too much energy for drama and spilling tea. It's best to chill them out before starting the lesson.
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If you have the liberty to select your own curricular materials, let students pick which texts they want to read. Speed-dating with books is a great way to initiate discussions about potential reading options. Then, have students collectively decide the reading material. You get to pick the initial selection, and they get to decide. Always create a space where you would want to read. Cafe shops and bookstores use the same strategies. It's one-third the aesthetic, one-third the interest in the text, and one-third the implementation of the text. If you have to live in your classroom, create a space where you want to be and where you enjoy being everyday.
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The chair. I like to have a comfy chair in my classroom. This is my grading chair. Plus, students like the nostalgia of story time on occasion. However, if it's Halloween and students bring in snacks and 'campfire' style blankets, I like to use the hand chair while reading "The Human Chair." More pazazz.
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NON-FICTION NOVEMBER 2018.
Above ^ These are my top picks for non-fiction November 2018. Of course, your nonfiction picks will be different from mine for a number of reasons. This year's nominations include: (1) Nancy Isenberg's White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America, (2) Alice Kaplan's French Lessons: A Memoir (Barnes & Noble impulse buy- review pending because I'm only 50 pages in), (3) Trevor Noah's Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood, and (4) Jessa Crispin's Why I Am Not a Feminist. I also want to cheat, because I have three books that I want to read (that are not nonfiction): (1) Anthony Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See, (2) Melissa Harrison's All Among the Barley, and (3) Sally Rooney's Normal People. I also heard that there is a great book coming out this coming April called The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins. Looking forward to it! If you want book haul ideas, I greatly recommend listening/watching 'Mercy's Bookish Musings' on YouTube. She has some absolutely wonderful synopses and book reviews. (Here is the link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVptFL0H04tNBdJ6wW7vdYQ).
Afterword: Okay, here is my disclaimer: French Lessons is high school appropriate until part three. So, I recommend you read this in your college days or with the knowledge and disclaimer that there is mature content. I believe Crispin and Noah's texts both have explicit language- so heads up on that part. I still haven't finished White Trash. So, I will have to review that once I finish reading it.
Afterword: Okay, here is my disclaimer: French Lessons is high school appropriate until part three. So, I recommend you read this in your college days or with the knowledge and disclaimer that there is mature content. I believe Crispin and Noah's texts both have explicit language- so heads up on that part. I still haven't finished White Trash. So, I will have to review that once I finish reading it.
TRYING TO MAKE RESEARCH INTERESTING. OCTOBER 2018.
If you are anything like me, as an educator, you love (scratch that- adore) research. I love reading works of nonfiction. I loved the literary theory class that everyone hated in university studies. When I am lesson planning, synthesis is a prerequisite. It is always a challenge- like a puzzle- to weave and piece together texts and assignments to give a glance into a specific literary movement or genre. It's a challenge that I love. In our Indiana Academic Career and College Readiness Standards, I am required to cover three major composition types. First, I cover personal narratives. Then, I cover informative and expository writing. Lastly, I cover argumentative writing. Students like the personal narrative assignment. They want to share their stories. However, research is another playing field. Students hate research papers. So, I decided to switch things up a bit this year. I decided to include personality research to piggyback off of the personal narrative unit.
TEACHER GOALS. OCTOBER 2018.
https://ids.uni.edu/averageteacher/best-teacher-youtube-channels/
BECAUSE ADELE. OCTOBER 2018.
INTELLECTUAL COMING-OF-AGE. OCTOBER 2018.
"After all, that is, everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves. That is why writers have to have two countries, the one where they belong and the one in which they live really. The second one is romantic, it is separate from themselves, it is not real but it is really there." -Gertrude Stein (Paris, France 1940) (qtd. in French Lessons: A Memoir by Alice Kaplan).
I lost my confidence. It is perhaps one of the best things to do from time-to-time. Learning Objective: To feel ignorant enough to be inspired to push further- yes, perhaps, this is the best practice. I am trying to think back to the conception. To the beginning. When did I fall in love with the intricacies and challenges of the English language? When did I start seeing the structure? I think I have to thank the Shurley Method and Catholic school grammar lessons in Mrs. Rowe's class. I first learned cursive writing in a classroom with speckled floor titles, crank out windows, and an old yellow-hued, world globe above the hissing radiator. D'Nealian cursive to be exact. I remember spending hours trying to perfect the curve of each letter- trying to re-create a modeled letter to string together and make a word. My given name. My inherited last name. My mother's name. Practicing over and over again until the formation of the letter was second nature. Practicing over and over again until the words made sentences, and the sentences made thoughts. Loops and curves. No printing. Just cursive. My papers were only marked if they were written in cursive. My papers were only marked if they were written in pencil. These details were more important than I realized at the time- more symbolic than mere written structure. They were life guidelines. Life expectations even. Cursive is faster than print. It is more interconnected. Just like life- fast-paced and interconnected. More difficult to learn- more difficult to perfect, but more essence filled. And, pencil can be erased as quickly as it can be created. You have to put a lot of trust in pencil... a lot of trust that it will last. However, you can also change it more easily. You can erase it, and try once again and forevermore to perfect the curve of each letter, of each moment, of each thought, and re-create a modeled letter to string together and make something complex. Letters to words to phrases to clauses to sentences to lines to verse or prose. To an intellectual evolution of expression, of seeing, of being one and the same with a language. An intellectual evolution. An intellectual coming-of-age. A bildungsroman captured in the English language.
I lost my confidence. It is perhaps one of the best things to do from time-to-time. Learning Objective: To feel ignorant enough to be inspired to push further- yes, perhaps, this is the best practice. I am trying to think back to the conception. To the beginning. When did I fall in love with the intricacies and challenges of the English language? When did I start seeing the structure? I think I have to thank the Shurley Method and Catholic school grammar lessons in Mrs. Rowe's class. I first learned cursive writing in a classroom with speckled floor titles, crank out windows, and an old yellow-hued, world globe above the hissing radiator. D'Nealian cursive to be exact. I remember spending hours trying to perfect the curve of each letter- trying to re-create a modeled letter to string together and make a word. My given name. My inherited last name. My mother's name. Practicing over and over again until the formation of the letter was second nature. Practicing over and over again until the words made sentences, and the sentences made thoughts. Loops and curves. No printing. Just cursive. My papers were only marked if they were written in cursive. My papers were only marked if they were written in pencil. These details were more important than I realized at the time- more symbolic than mere written structure. They were life guidelines. Life expectations even. Cursive is faster than print. It is more interconnected. Just like life- fast-paced and interconnected. More difficult to learn- more difficult to perfect, but more essence filled. And, pencil can be erased as quickly as it can be created. You have to put a lot of trust in pencil... a lot of trust that it will last. However, you can also change it more easily. You can erase it, and try once again and forevermore to perfect the curve of each letter, of each moment, of each thought, and re-create a modeled letter to string together and make something complex. Letters to words to phrases to clauses to sentences to lines to verse or prose. To an intellectual evolution of expression, of seeing, of being one and the same with a language. An intellectual evolution. An intellectual coming-of-age. A bildungsroman captured in the English language.
IT'S TIME. OCTOBER 2018.
It's a trap. It doesn't seem like it; but, it is. This is how it always starts. It's the aesthetic. Slight nip in the air. Festivities galore. And, it's a nice change of pace... but it's coming. And I hate that truth. I hate Indiana winters. It's the same every year. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only one who feels like this year is going by too fast. But, how is it already October? When did that happen? I don't want time to drag, but I also want to enjoy this a bit more before it's over (because I know what comes next). I am currently debating on whether or not I should get a state park pass. They are only valid until December. Then, I would have to get another one in January. Let's be realistic for a minute, am I actually going to go hiking after I get home from work? If I don't stay after school lesson planning too long, I might have a good hour or two of daylight left. I need to get back outside. I feel like I haven't been hiking in months. I miss it. In my hometown, there is a nature reserve five minutes down the road. In high school, that was my sanctuary. It was run by the Franciscans, so there wasn't an entrance fee. I knew those trails like the back of my hand. It's where I went when everything seemed to come crashing down. When I was working in the southwest, my roommate and I hiked the national parks in Arizona and southern Utah every other weekend. We would be dead tired come Monday after those road trips and hiking adventures, but they were some of the most beautiful places that I've ever been.
DO YOU REMEMBER. OCTOBER 2018.
I mean it's funny, right? You say something is 'funny' even if it isn't because that is the primal defense mechanism. Humor. A distinctly evolved trait. It's funny how you can forget about something for years. Years. Then, something happens or you wake up from a dream and it all comes back to you. Whether you wanted to remember it or not, it's there. Forever there; just not always consciously. If you never leave home, you'll never understand. You'll never understand how so many pieces of places can become home. Then, with time, that dissonance, those millions of little pieces of home spread out across nations, across oceans, pull you apart until there is never one place that is fully home anymore. That's a heart-wrenching and freeing realization. It's a bitter sweet moment when everything and nothing makes sense. I can sit on the front porch swing in my flyover state home and miss the desert and the way the air filled my lungs like it never had before and never will again. I could sit in the desert and miss those trees that consumed my childhood- those huge trees that provided my shaded playgrounds of Barbies and "house." I could drive alongside the cornfields here and miss the anticipation of going out late at night in London when a slight drizzle made every color reflect on the paved streets and cobblestone walkways. Never again complete; but content. Content knowing that this feeling is something that I would have never known. And when it comes down to it, I think perhaps that's the best perspective to have... Yes, of course there is a price to pay for knowledge and for wisdom... But there is also a debt that weighs you down if you opt for the comfort zone, the unwritten finalized version, the ignorance. So, loss in a sense is gain. Or, maybe gaining is a loss. Maybe the entire concept of gaining and losing is collapsed in the realm of experience.
DUST IN THE WIND. SEPTEMBER 2018.
It is always within a social context that this conversation is born. And, it always starts after the first two ever-important questions- What’s your name? and So, what do you do, [insert name]? Now, those questions of course are prerequisite questions. If I am on the answering end, I say my name is Kaylie. It is very feminine- vaguely optimistic, mostly due to the second stressed syllable, a complete iamb. So, I am categorized, implicitly into a realm of femininity, optimism, and upbeat linguistics. Or, if they know another ‘Kaylie,’ then I am instantly stereotyped with that person’s characteristics. When I say I’m a teacher, people immediately assume elementary teacher. It’s because I’m petite. So, it goes against their conceptualization of the strong-enough-to-deal-with-high-schoolers stereotype. Then, once I clarify that I’m a high school English teacher. One of three things happens: (1) They apologize for their grammar, start using a more developed vocabulary, talk about their high school English class memories, etc.; (2) Offer a comment that is intended to be a compliment, but inevitably tumbles out as a backhanded compliment and insult; or (3) Remark something along the lines of, “Oh, I could never do that. Teenagers are the worst.” Then, after this, there is the third question: So, do you have a boyfriend? I have a few options here: (1) I could say yes. Then, we could ramble about boyfriend-related conversation; (2) I could say no. Leave it ambiguous. Then, they assume that I’m a lesbian or take pity on me, because I must have had a bad relationship in the past; (3) I could say no and clarify that I like my independence. Then, they assume I’m a feminist and give false praise; or (4) My favorite: I could tell them I plan on being a nun and watch their surprised, are-you-serious-or-joking expressions flash like a television set. And, at various points of my life, I’ve answered using all of my options. What's interesting is the sequence: name, job, relationship status. Of course, each of these are just utilized as short-cuts for coded identities. But, what continues to amaze me is how much power we have in sculpting the image of yourselves for others... how much power even one response has in "selling" a personality. It's entirely simplistic and simultaneously complex at the same time. Just one response can change an entire perspective. And people say words are dust in the wind... I say it's more like dust to dust.
IF I START A STORY. SEPTEMBER 2018.
If I start a story about a boy and a girl, it writes itself. If I open the story with ‘once upon a time,’ it sets the tone for the rest of the novel. If I start out, ‘it was a dark and stormy night,’ again, tone is fixed, and the reader already builds the story before I’ve even begun the narration. These are my archetypal circuit cuts. I can plug in this wire and know (most likely) how its energy will procure meaning. According to Roland Barthes, this meaning creates pleasure (or ‘Plaisir’)- a familiarity. Despite all of the adventure rhetoric and cringy millennial hashtags, there is something inherently joyous in the familiar, the usual, the status quo. This is why habits, the good ones, fill us with a sense of security or a sense of comfort or a sense of confidence. Superstitions, routines, traditions, etc. all centralize around a system of practice that is familiar – more certain – more stable. I keep the car radio volume on even numbers. I take the same backroad home – I know its turns and curves, the places where I can speed and the places where I need to take my foot off the gas (save those brakes for when you need them). I always listen to The Beatles in late May – the start of my summer. These are my familiars, my superstitions, my routines, my traditions.
When you write, you must think about your familiars and the familiars of your intended audience. I’ve tried to write a story about a boy and a girl that was non-romantic, merely platonic. But, my students protested and claimed that it was an unfinished love story. I’ve tried to write a contemporary tale with the archaic start ‘Once Upon a Time,’ but it was automatically read as a contemporary rendering of a fairytale. Thanks to Snoopy, I can begin a story with ‘It was a dark and stormy night…” and maintain the potential for multiple plot twists despite the initial tone. That is the catch. If an archetypal phrase is caught in détournement to the point in which the latter receives attention, then the potential is set for an overdrive of the expected tone of the written piece. However, what if I add in one historically hijacked phrase that diverts the expected potential of the others? Does the meaning change? Can I alter the familiars? Can I create jouissance?
When you write, you must think about your familiars and the familiars of your intended audience. I’ve tried to write a story about a boy and a girl that was non-romantic, merely platonic. But, my students protested and claimed that it was an unfinished love story. I’ve tried to write a contemporary tale with the archaic start ‘Once Upon a Time,’ but it was automatically read as a contemporary rendering of a fairytale. Thanks to Snoopy, I can begin a story with ‘It was a dark and stormy night…” and maintain the potential for multiple plot twists despite the initial tone. That is the catch. If an archetypal phrase is caught in détournement to the point in which the latter receives attention, then the potential is set for an overdrive of the expected tone of the written piece. However, what if I add in one historically hijacked phrase that diverts the expected potential of the others? Does the meaning change? Can I alter the familiars? Can I create jouissance?
IF I WERE A TEACHER. SEPTEMBER 2018.
This is always a fun prompt. I love reading student answers. "If you were a teacher, like you had to be a teacher, what would you teach and why? What kind of teacher would you be?" I wish I had reflected on this when I was in high school. My answer would have probably been the same as it is now. I would teach literature at the college level. I would be demanding (a.k.a. have high expectations for students), but also strive to be as responsive as possible. Sarcasm would be my ally. I don't know how anyone gets through life without a good dose of sarcastic nature each day. I like literature because it is so encompassing. I like science and art and history and music and so many other fields of study. Luckily, most of the knowledge of the world is recorded in some form of literature or another. So, literature is the key to an entire world of thoughts and ideas that are so foreign or so ingrained in my being or to my being, that I will inevitably learn something new. I have three thoughts/philosophies/goals that build the foundation of my teaching pedagogy and philosophy: (1) Do my best everyday. That will look different everyday. (2) Remember that confusion is the highest form of consciousness. Confusion is potential incognito. (3) Remember that teaching is the highest form of learning--- which is a never-ending job and a humbling profession.
LABOR DAY WEEKEND. SEPTEMBER 2018.
I have mixed feelings about Labor Day Weekend, because it marks the end of summer. Summer is my favorite time of the year, so there is a level of disappointment that is inherent in Labor Day Weekend. However, the three-day weekend is always nice and a great reason to powwow with the family and have one last summer-esque bonding experience. So, this past weekend, I drove home and caught up with my family (immediate and extended), grabbed lunch with a former student and listened to her plans for college (my kiddos are growing up!), and ran into a former neighbor and played catch-up.
*Need to write more
*Need to write more
NOTES TO PAST SELF. AUGUST 2018.
Freeze Frame. If I could freeze time and go back into time and talk to my past self, here is what I would say: The DON'TS (1) Don't get braces the day before school starts. You won't be able to say your last name when the teachers take attendance. Plus, I know what you are thinking. I promise that is not your only imperfection. You should learn to embrace those imperfections. (2) Don't lock your keys in the car the first time that you drive to school. You will have to call home and wait for someone to bring the spare key. Also, do not pull out in front of that truck. The resounding sound of their horn and the swirl of curse words are not very comforting in the moment. (3) Don't eat the blueberries... You will miss the first day of college classes and you won't want to eat blueberries ever again. (4) Don't pull into oncoming traffic. There are six lanes, not three. People will make "driving-over-the-median" jokes for the rest of the summer... and it will not be amusing. (5) Don't date people who live in the same building as you... It makes for awkward elevator rides if it doesn't work out. (6) Don't part your hair in the middle (in middle school). It's not cute, and you cannot pull it off. (7) Don't smart off to that professor. You will just end up ruining your chances to get an A. She doesn't understand the concept of feminism. It's okay to disagree, but keep your mouth shut and pick your battles. (8) Don't sit down for thirty minutes after you go rowing for the first time. You will just fall down the stairs and make a complete fool of yourself when you try to "walk it off." (9) Go out. It is going to snow and you are going to want to just hang out in sweat pants, sip hot chocolate, and feel sorry for yourself. Go out. You will always wonder what would have happened if you don't go. (10) Decline the invitation to the geography bee. You will get stage fright and be the first out. So, yeah. Avoid that.
TRANSGENESIS & X-MEN. AUGUST 2018.
The X-Men could be real. I'll say it again: the X-Men could be real. All because of transgenesis. So, when scientist started trying to map out the human genome, controlled transgenesis thrived and we ended up with cats and rats with fluorescent genes and glow-in-the-dark mammals. Don't get me wrong, transgenesis is interesting. However, what about its applicability to humans. Again, I am overcome with a genuinely concerned level of skepticism. However, if I can turn off that too-real part of my brain for a time and bracket for a minute or two the cool aspect of transgenesis, I can think about which X-Men I would be and why. In college, a couple of my acquaintances said that I would definitely be Kitty Pryde. She first appeared in Marvel X-Men comic books in 1980. Her "mutant" ability is to phase through people and objects enabling them to become intangible. She also goes by the alias Shadowcat. I mean, all around, she is a pretty impressive X-Men. Bringing it back, I think intangibility or the notions behind intangibility as a "super" power is highly intriguing. My thesis research revolves around the concept of abstraction.
THE ERASURE OF MEMORIES. AUGUST 2018.
I don't know about all of that. I took a class regarding behavioral neuroscience while I was completing my undergraduate studies. I remember sitting in class listening to a lecture about protein PKM-Zeta (a protein inhibitor) that maintains the ability to erase memories. This took a minute to sink in... humans can erase memories. The grandiose implications of such a discovery was highly unsettling. I immediately start thinking about texts like Richard Preston's The Hot Zone: A Terrifying True Story (1994). I get all skeptical about how something like that might be used in global warfare, and it freaks me out. But, aside from all of that, I think our memories make us who we are. I believe that is a very real and true statement. However, I also think it is relatively easy for me to endorse that statement in my personal life, because I've benefited from multiple realms of privilege in my lifetime. I am not saying this to be braggy, but rather to keep it real. I have to humble myself by always and forever remembering that my viewpoints are backed by an inherent source of privilege that I didn't necessarily earn. This is not to say that there haven't been setbacks. However, I grew up in a supportive family (birth privilege); I bear almost translucent white skin (white privilege); my gender aligns with societal expectations (heteronormative privilege); my religious viewpoints are widely accepted in the States (cultural privilege); and with the dedication of great teachers and mentors and lots of hours in the workforce, I became one of the thirty-three percent of Hoosiers to hold at least a four-year college degree (educational privilege). So, I am fully aware of my privilege when I say that our memories make us who we are and I wouldn't want to change those memories that sculpted me into the person I am today. But, would I have the same viewpoint if my backstory wasn't privileged in those ways? I don't know. What if I didn't have a family growing up? What if I had lived in a repressive society and was tortured for being myself? I don't know if I would have the same answer. I think the erasure of memories is too unprecedented and experimental at the present (especially considering the human brain never fails to impress and teach us something new every decade). However, if erasure of memories becomes less experimental and more controllable and known, perhaps it could change the life of individuals suffering from PTSD for the better. I don't know. There is still an implicit, but very real source of skepticism that sprouts when I consider the possible implications of the erasure of human memories.
ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD. AUGUST 2018.
Anywhere in the world.... what a vast concept. If I could live anywhere in the world, I would live wherever my family congregated. I know that Indiana is a forgotten, overlooked, flyover state; but, this is home. Hoosiers are truly some of the nicest people you can meet. I'm not just saying that- we really are. I've explored a little in my lifetime and have yet to find people as hospitable and generally friendly. I'm not saying that Hoosiers (as a collective people) don't have issues... We have issues. Nevertheless, we generally uphold Midwest values: we are hard work oriented, faith driven, and usually built around a family first philosophy. So, yeah, if I could live anywhere in the world, right now, at this exact moment in my life, it would be here in Indiana- close to my family and close to my friends. If I wasn't such a family person, I could live in the northern French countryside or in a place like Moab, Utah. I like small towns that are accessible, but not too on the grid. I like open spaces of land and places to walk and see the stars late at night. I can handle seasons, but I'm all about mild winters. I don't like the cold weather all that much, but I deal with it if my family is close.
BUT WHAT IF WE'RE WRONG. AUGUST 2018.
I need to read Chuck Klosterman's book But What If We're Wrong (2016). I think the idea of false knowledge fascinates me. First off, the entire paradigm of true and false modes of perception is intriguing, especially in a postmodern society. If perception is reality, at which points do true and false sentiments diverge? Are there knowledge a priori like Kant tells us? Are there encoded archetypes as Jung declares in his theory of the collective unconscious? Secondly, the movement of time and culture alongside views of understanding are worth consideration. If neoliberalism as an systematic and institutional movement seeks to re-write systems of meaning in existence for the benefit of capitalism (even systems that seem anti-capitalist have been used to endorse capitalist schemes indirectly), then what will knowledge look like three thousand years from now? Two thousand? Five hundred? Just one hundred?
This is a very humbling thought--- an idea of an idea that we just might all be wrong. But, also that wrongness isn't a category of stability, but a fundamental result of change, of dynamic motion, of moving forward. Wrongness might only be understood in context. For, without a mirror, like Hegel's slave/master dialectic, without reciprocity, there might not be a notion of wrongness.
Here is a morning show interview with Chuck Klosterman:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22gblPGxxTY
If you haven't read any of his work, I would recommend finding one of his articles some time. Just getting inside this guy's mind when reading his work is fascinating in and of itself. Further, his ideas and topics and unwavering interest in contemporary pop culture are very relevant and very insightful.
This is a very humbling thought--- an idea of an idea that we just might all be wrong. But, also that wrongness isn't a category of stability, but a fundamental result of change, of dynamic motion, of moving forward. Wrongness might only be understood in context. For, without a mirror, like Hegel's slave/master dialectic, without reciprocity, there might not be a notion of wrongness.
Here is a morning show interview with Chuck Klosterman:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22gblPGxxTY
If you haven't read any of his work, I would recommend finding one of his articles some time. Just getting inside this guy's mind when reading his work is fascinating in and of itself. Further, his ideas and topics and unwavering interest in contemporary pop culture are very relevant and very insightful.
CREATIVE WRITING PROMPT. AUGUST 2018.
COLOR: CRIMSON RED
TIME: FIVE MINUTES AGO
PLACE: ANDROMEDA GALAXY
CRAZIEST ANIMAL: SPHYNX WOLVERINE
CELEBRITY: GREGORY PECK
I'm driving down the road. The road is swallowed by a fog bank. A world of clouds and the collision of my car- flying through Andromeda. Five minutes ago. Just like that- it's a tick-tock. Sixty tick-tock pairs times five. Increments of time passing in a space that might be an abyss for all we know. In the clouds of Andromeda five minutes ago, perhaps you would see a sphynx wolverine crossing sign or a version of Gregory Peck that exists in some kind of parallel universe. Some grandiose theory of string wrapped up in the clouds. And, who is to say that clouds and fog are a given color? They only look white because of my headlights. But, white is all the colors, right? The rainbow in one color. Crimson reds to rustic oranges to burnt yellows and sage greens to turquoise blues to deep purples all in one color- overwhelmed by the whiteness, the purity, the complete ignorance of a cloud bank- a foggy road- the notion of flying in time- five minutes ago.
TIME: FIVE MINUTES AGO
PLACE: ANDROMEDA GALAXY
CRAZIEST ANIMAL: SPHYNX WOLVERINE
CELEBRITY: GREGORY PECK
I'm driving down the road. The road is swallowed by a fog bank. A world of clouds and the collision of my car- flying through Andromeda. Five minutes ago. Just like that- it's a tick-tock. Sixty tick-tock pairs times five. Increments of time passing in a space that might be an abyss for all we know. In the clouds of Andromeda five minutes ago, perhaps you would see a sphynx wolverine crossing sign or a version of Gregory Peck that exists in some kind of parallel universe. Some grandiose theory of string wrapped up in the clouds. And, who is to say that clouds and fog are a given color? They only look white because of my headlights. But, white is all the colors, right? The rainbow in one color. Crimson reds to rustic oranges to burnt yellows and sage greens to turquoise blues to deep purples all in one color- overwhelmed by the whiteness, the purity, the complete ignorance of a cloud bank- a foggy road- the notion of flying in time- five minutes ago.
COFFEE DATE. AUGUST 2018.
If I could have coffee with anyone in the world, past or present, fictional or real, I would have coffee with my great grandfather. At some point, my cousins asked my great grandfather to record his memories from his childhood. In my lifetime, I've probably listened to that recording twenty plus times. He talks about New Albany, Indiana, in a time when cars were rare and street cars were still in use. He talks about the systems of trade, gypsies, tornadoes, and the Flood of 1937. The best part about listening to his recorded reflections is to catch his sense of humor. It's subtle- a very Fougerousse sense of humor. However, I love listening to his perspective (especially in the realm of politics). He went to every New Albany basketball game while he was alive. He turned his backyard into a basketball court for the neighborhood. He ended up having to install a water hose because my great grandmother was sick of teenage boys trampling through her kitchen for a glass of water after a game of basketball. My grandfather went on to play basketball for Hinkle at Butler University after serving in WWII. I am guessing that my great grandfather helped plant the seeds for that success and love of the sport. If I were able to ask him anything, I would want to know how he met my great grandmother. I would want to know what my grandfather and father were like when they were children and teenagers. I wonder how many character traits are passed through the generations. That kind of stuff fascinates me.
EAST LONDONERS. JULY 2018.
I went to the bank today. The banker asked me if I live in the area. I said, "Yeah, my flat's a couple streets up." He said, "Ohhh... this area is not so nice. How do you find it?" And, I said, "I quite enjoy it." East London is very distinct from the posh tea rooms encircling Buckingham Palace. Stroll down Brick Lane. Walk through White Chapel. It's the home of artists and foreigners. I love seeing the street art change- like a never-ending gallery. There is, of course, a lot of gentrification going on--- part of my being here feeds the problem. But, the graffiti talent is amazing. I've grown to like the edgy fashion styles, the thick accents, and the ebb and flow of East London. There is always something new and always something old- juxtaposed in one scene- captured in a still frame. Seemingly distinctive elements that somehow twine together and make sense- as if there should be no question as to why a masterpiece from two weeks ago is beside the building that stood through the bombing of WWII. It's the history that I love.
FRANCE, JE T'AIME. JULY 2018.
It all started with my last name. Fougerousse, which translates to 'red fern' or 'a bunch of red-headed people living in a land of ferns.' I always (like maybe eighty percent of American girls at some point in their lives) said that I wanted to go to Paris. However, it seemed like a pipe dream- something I said, but I guess never thought would actually happen. I think I first fell in love with the language, then the culture surrounding bread and cheese... then the arts and despite their reputations, the people. However, that tends to be how a lot of things unfold in my life. I can trace back and see exactly how the entire cat's cradle started out. I am always surprised when my idealistic nature is matched by real life experiences. I first went to Paris in October of last year. I took the train from London to Paris by myself- terrified and at great peace at the same time. Flying past the northern French countryside, I felt like I was home. I mean that on so many levels. It was a strange experience, because I felt very connected to the place without ever having been there. Then, on a more practical level, it looked like Indiana. I arrived at the train station and caught up with some of my friends who were meeting their Parisian friends. It was such a beautiful experience- like a sequence of film snatched right out of some independent hipster movie (the ones you roll your eyes at, but still manage to watch at least the first thirty minutes). The second time I went, it was my birthday. It snowed in Paris and I was freezing. But, that didn't stop me from running around everywhere. The third time I went, it was June and I made it in time for Fete de la Musique. I danced samba in the streets of Belleville. Then, my sister flew over and we adventured through Paris. We celebrated Bastille Day with the French and watched them claim the World Cup. It was one of those points in life were you just want to freeze everything- the laughter, the simplicity, and the simultaneous grand complexity of it all. I was so afraid that Paris would never live up to my expectations. But, each time I visit, I am always surprised by the vivacious energy surrounding the city. Paris, je t'aime.
BIT BY BIT. JULY 2018.
Generational Gaps. Achievement Gaps. Technological Divides. Fracture Lines. Mountains. Trenches. Division. This may be an overstatement, but I think Western logic is linked to finding meaning in opposition. I think without tension, without difference, Western logic as an entire mode of thinking would collapse. I've spent the last year really grappling with modernity and what that actually means. I've spent the last year trying to pinpoint the exact times in which things change. I've spent the last year trying to wrap my mind around potential catalysts for change. I've studied contemporary works that have been stripped so far down to the atom that now one-word can represent a sentence. This entire notion of downsizing, of shrinkage, of complete dissection is interesting to me. Is this an attempt to find purity? Is this deconstructivist strategy as insightful as it seems? At which point does ambiguity become a stumbling block as opposed to a realm of latent potential? If you were to write a letter in traditional prose (line-by-line, word-by-word, following the subject-verb-object form) then tear it up into tiny pieces and construct a poem from the remnants, would that be a masterpiece or a poor attempt to create something from something already in existence? Is mimesis creative or redundant? Or is this a paradoxical realm? Is high-art just that- an ambiguity that is dictated by spectrums so tension-filled that the meaning can dance along the lines of tension and avoid categorization, even in an ever-fragmented world of language and thought? It's always a question?
LONG-TERM POTENTIATION. JUNE 2018.
In 1956, George Miller published The Magic Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two. The text delineated the process of encoding memory into the short-term category. In our everyday lives, we encode vast amounts of sensory information. However, not all of the information is stored in our memory. For instance, when thinking about auditory information, we all have something called a phonological loop. This is to say that everything above the threshold (aka anything we can hear because the wavelengths reach the hair in our ears), is temporarily stored and reset, stored and reset (about every 30 seconds). If we do not consciously recognize the sound, it is lost forever. However, if we attach meaning to the sound, it is moved into our short-term memory. Our short-term memory capacity is about seven bits of information, plus or minus two bits. Of course, mnemonic devices and other “clumping” strategies work to expand how much knowledge each “bit” of memory holds. In order for STM bits to become LTP bits, they must undergo long-term potentiation (and official re-wiring of the neurons in the brain and a strengthening of the activity between synaptic spaces, or the spaces between two neurons). They say that it takes about 10 years of study to gain expertise in a field. In other words, it takes about ten years of study for English majors to read enough and write enough to expand the capacity within certain bits of encoded information. Cognitive psychologists and behavioral neuroscientists often use the analogy of chess to explain the paradigm. Chess players, the advanced ones, have committed to memory a series of patterns in the game. In other words, they know if I move this piece here, the most likely move from my player will be this (which will result in these highly probable next three moves and so forth). Gambling partly works in this fashion as well. And, of course, the study of literature and language. If one bit of information holds all of the standard patterns of a satire, then I still have six (plus or minus two) bits of information available when processing the analysis of a given piece of literature or the syntax of a given poem. And, this is the long answer as to why students have to learn “stuff they will never need in the real world.” I don’t deny that there is a level of accuracy in this statement. For most of my day-to-day endeavors, I probably only use a third of the information first attained in high school. Nonetheless, all of the connections strengthened the cognitive landscape of my brain. They consolidated faculties and worked to increase the capacities of each bit of information rushing into brief sensory holds. So, yeah, the learning objective might say learn the difference between a conventional and literary symbol. However, the overarching skill set is to learn the patterns, recognize recurrences, and strengthen the neuro-landscape of the brain. The frontal lobe (the area of the brain that stores implicit memories- procedural knowledge, habitual knowledge- as well as the spaces involved in critical thinking) does not fully develop until humans reach twenty-five years of age. Therefore, the more work a person does prior to that twenty-five-year marker, the better the person will be at encoding larger amounts of knowledge in a single analysis or act of recognition – in whatever the pursuit.
TOWARD RHETORICAL SOVEREIGNTY. JUNE 2018.
I am drawn to spaces of fracture. Within most four-year, university post-secondary institutions across the United States, there is an unspoken, implicit division and academic 'worth' of schools or colleges within the university. Being an 'English' major (College of Arts and Sciences) and being an 'English Education' major (School of Education) maintained two differing connotative social/academic positions within the university. English majors were viewed as more 'academic' and 'intellectual,' while English Education majors were viewed as more 'practical' and 'social.'
I see this division technique a lot in contemporary discourse revolving literary studies and educational studies. Even within Native American studies, there are fractures between anthropological studies and literary studies (and conflicts of categorization). However, I argue that to make real changes, you need both academic knowledge and praxis. I think both literary scholars and educational scholars find common ground within curriculum studies. Which texts are being selected? Which texts make up our canons? Which texts show up on the AP exams? Which 'objective' literary devices or building blocks do we implement to scaffold the study of literature and curriculum selections? And how do we know they are 'objective'?
However, a major issue with my understanding of both literature and education is that it is founded on the notion that there is one Western literary collective consciousness that I can tap into in order to understand the patterns, devices, and techniques used in a text. This wasn't just built by my exposure to what Yale students called a canon written by 'dead white guys' in the student protest of 2016. It was ingrained into my understanding of educational policies as well. I studied the mainstream literary products and the mainstream educational policies and believed that I had a relatively strong grasp on American public education and the implementation of literature at the secondary level. I knew all about the significant chain of events following the 1983 report 'A Nation at Risk.' I was well-versed in the setbacks of No Child Left Behind (NCLB), common curriculum mandates, and other neoliberal educational reforms. The rhetorics of literature and educational policy and legal forms were locked in a "rhetorically imperialist use of writing by white powers" (Lyons 453). With time and due to my sought-after exposure to different cultural spaces, I came to realize that my own self-proclaimed 'pluralistic' and 'multicultural' pedagogical approach to teaching literature and language was not as comprehensive as it could be. It is very much still a work-in-progress. However, I think to start moving toward a system of education that recognizes and upholds a heterogenous American literary consciousness, the curriculum is the first step. I think we need to teach rhetorical sovereignty through selecting texts that exemplify the notion -- exposing (even to the dismay of a mainstream ideological state apparatus that struggles to maintain control) historically peripheral and marginalized voices that maintain their own space and property within literary creations.
In 2018, a lot of what I study is abstract -- I understand it through paper trails, treaties, laws, educational mandates, curriculum selections, written works, etc. But, the violence of abstraction is a very tangible concept. There are ideological wars, 'secret and not-so-secret,' in play (and as Treuer asserts, 'paper is cheaper than bullets'). From the Dakota Access Pipeline to a lack of running water access and uranium/radon exposure on the Navajo Reservation, the powers that be are often at work to create narratives and pedagogical templates that overlook the 22% of Indigenous Americans still living on reservations and endorsing a cultural doctrine and literary consciousness that plays by its own rules and sets the terms of debate for anyone willing to recognize them and listen.
I see this division technique a lot in contemporary discourse revolving literary studies and educational studies. Even within Native American studies, there are fractures between anthropological studies and literary studies (and conflicts of categorization). However, I argue that to make real changes, you need both academic knowledge and praxis. I think both literary scholars and educational scholars find common ground within curriculum studies. Which texts are being selected? Which texts make up our canons? Which texts show up on the AP exams? Which 'objective' literary devices or building blocks do we implement to scaffold the study of literature and curriculum selections? And how do we know they are 'objective'?
However, a major issue with my understanding of both literature and education is that it is founded on the notion that there is one Western literary collective consciousness that I can tap into in order to understand the patterns, devices, and techniques used in a text. This wasn't just built by my exposure to what Yale students called a canon written by 'dead white guys' in the student protest of 2016. It was ingrained into my understanding of educational policies as well. I studied the mainstream literary products and the mainstream educational policies and believed that I had a relatively strong grasp on American public education and the implementation of literature at the secondary level. I knew all about the significant chain of events following the 1983 report 'A Nation at Risk.' I was well-versed in the setbacks of No Child Left Behind (NCLB), common curriculum mandates, and other neoliberal educational reforms. The rhetorics of literature and educational policy and legal forms were locked in a "rhetorically imperialist use of writing by white powers" (Lyons 453). With time and due to my sought-after exposure to different cultural spaces, I came to realize that my own self-proclaimed 'pluralistic' and 'multicultural' pedagogical approach to teaching literature and language was not as comprehensive as it could be. It is very much still a work-in-progress. However, I think to start moving toward a system of education that recognizes and upholds a heterogenous American literary consciousness, the curriculum is the first step. I think we need to teach rhetorical sovereignty through selecting texts that exemplify the notion -- exposing (even to the dismay of a mainstream ideological state apparatus that struggles to maintain control) historically peripheral and marginalized voices that maintain their own space and property within literary creations.
In 2018, a lot of what I study is abstract -- I understand it through paper trails, treaties, laws, educational mandates, curriculum selections, written works, etc. But, the violence of abstraction is a very tangible concept. There are ideological wars, 'secret and not-so-secret,' in play (and as Treuer asserts, 'paper is cheaper than bullets'). From the Dakota Access Pipeline to a lack of running water access and uranium/radon exposure on the Navajo Reservation, the powers that be are often at work to create narratives and pedagogical templates that overlook the 22% of Indigenous Americans still living on reservations and endorsing a cultural doctrine and literary consciousness that plays by its own rules and sets the terms of debate for anyone willing to recognize them and listen.
FAIRYTALE FORESTS. June 2018.
I am a rabbit trail researcher. I start reading a page from a book. Something will inevitably remind me of something else I've read. Then, I find a word that is intriguing. So, I'll look it up. This will lead to another article online, which will lead to another, which will somehow end up on a YouTube documentary about hermit life in the Russian taiga. Then, I will tell myself I really need to stay focused, but I always have a million thoughts in my mind all firing connections at the same time. The process is bound to repeat itself. Although it doesn't always end with the Russian taiga, sometimes it ends with fairytale forests. I blame James Hawes and his recent book The Shortest History of Germany, which I saw in the Waterstones display window two days ago. Why? Because when I think of Germany, I think of fairytales. And, when I think of fairytales, I think of enchanted and magical forests. And, when I think of enchanted and magical forests, I think of geography. When I think of geography, I think of National Geographic. So, all that led me to an article about the last fairytale forests in existence. I had never really thought about the forests that inspired these stories to begin with -- I have never thought to visit them and feel their inspiration. However, now that I recognize their existence, I might just have to draft up some travel plans.
Here is a link to the Goodreads Page for The Shortest History of Germany:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34757960-the-shortest-history-of-germany
Here is a link to the online article of real-life fairytale forests:
https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/mapping-europes-primeval-forests
And, below is the article in PDF form:
Here is a link to the Goodreads Page for The Shortest History of Germany:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34757960-the-shortest-history-of-germany
Here is a link to the online article of real-life fairytale forests:
https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/mapping-europes-primeval-forests
And, below is the article in PDF form:
where_are_europes_last_fairytale_forests__-_atlas_obscura.pdf | |
File Size: | 91 kb |
File Type: |
Other related texts include:
Grimm's Fairytales (Barnes & Noble)
Gossip from the Forest: The Tangled Roots of Our Forests and Fairytales (2012) by Sara Maitland
Grimm's Fairytales (Barnes & Noble)
Gossip from the Forest: The Tangled Roots of Our Forests and Fairytales (2012) by Sara Maitland
TEACHER TALK. June 2018.
When I was a junior in high school, I discovered that I loved Myers-Briggs personality tests. For some reason or another, I think it was either senior skip day or there was a bomb threat or something, half the student body was absent, so my psychology teacher walked us down to the computer lab and told us our assignment for the day was to take a Myers-Briggs personality test. Then, we were to write a one-page reflection on whether or not we agreed with the computer-generated result (which was a four letter label). Of course, I read mine and was like, yeah... that sounds about right. It was vague enough to be convincing. My friend's was completely off, so I assumed that made my vague connection absolutely legitimate.
If you've never taken one before, here is the link: http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/jtypes2.asp
I wonder what a Myers-Briggs teacher personality test would reveal. We all know there are different types of teachers... even beyond the 'good' teacher and 'worst' teacher categories. What would those teacher personality types be? I wish I could say that I'm that super inspiring, outgoing, overly enthusiastic teacher like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society, Julia Roberts in Mona Lisa Smile, or Hilary Swank in Freedom Writers, but I'm not. Am I passionate about what I do? Yes, definitely. Do I care about my students? Absolutely. Does every lesson go as planned? Nope. Do I have off days? Do I make mistakes? Are there days when I question everything? Yes. Yes. Yes. And, I think if you are a public educator, you get this. We love the ideals in teaching, but we live in a very practical world, where things challenge those ideals. It is super easy to become jaded. And, yes, we all have really bad years, where something is just off. The students don't connect. Something personal impacts our mood, etc., etc. Nonetheless, when a former student writes a thank-you note, sends an email explaining how much he/she/they love college, or just stops by the classroom to catch up, that makes all of the headaches of education worth it. Being an introvert and teaching is an endless battle. The world of education is built for extroverts. Nonetheless, you can still be an introvert and teach, you just have to work super hard to balance everything. Just like the multitude of MB personality types, there are so many different types of teachers, each type possessing their own compendium of personal strengths and weaknesses.
If you've never taken one before, here is the link: http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/jtypes2.asp
I wonder what a Myers-Briggs teacher personality test would reveal. We all know there are different types of teachers... even beyond the 'good' teacher and 'worst' teacher categories. What would those teacher personality types be? I wish I could say that I'm that super inspiring, outgoing, overly enthusiastic teacher like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society, Julia Roberts in Mona Lisa Smile, or Hilary Swank in Freedom Writers, but I'm not. Am I passionate about what I do? Yes, definitely. Do I care about my students? Absolutely. Does every lesson go as planned? Nope. Do I have off days? Do I make mistakes? Are there days when I question everything? Yes. Yes. Yes. And, I think if you are a public educator, you get this. We love the ideals in teaching, but we live in a very practical world, where things challenge those ideals. It is super easy to become jaded. And, yes, we all have really bad years, where something is just off. The students don't connect. Something personal impacts our mood, etc., etc. Nonetheless, when a former student writes a thank-you note, sends an email explaining how much he/she/they love college, or just stops by the classroom to catch up, that makes all of the headaches of education worth it. Being an introvert and teaching is an endless battle. The world of education is built for extroverts. Nonetheless, you can still be an introvert and teach, you just have to work super hard to balance everything. Just like the multitude of MB personality types, there are so many different types of teachers, each type possessing their own compendium of personal strengths and weaknesses.
TO MY NAHS GRADUATES. June 2018.
I have been blessed in the past to have some absolutely amazing students. If I hadn't decided to teach at New Albany three years ago, if the computer hadn't placed their name in my class, if a million things had been only slightly different, I may have never crossed paths with these amazing individuals. So, this entry is for all of my NA students as they graduate high school this month and move onto bigger and better accomplishments. I am so proud! This cohort taught me how to be a better teacher. They reminded me that we far too often underestimate the intellect of teenagers. They taught me that Beyonce's Lemonade album was just as important as reading Shakespeare... if not more important. They educated me on language- teaching me a multitude of slang phrases and inside jokes. And, as they graduate, I am filled with happiness for them. They survived the long haul of high school existence. They have their whole lives ahead of them. This is only the beginning, which is exciting and daunting at the same time. I wish them more than luck.
COOL STUFF IN INDIANA AS OF 2018.
20 Cool Places to Adventure to in Central & Southern Indiana. Obviously, the caveat is to be safe and smart about adventuring... (1) Jug Rock. Because who doesn't want to see a random rock in the middle of the woods? (2) Parke County. There are so many covered bridges. Plus, it is kind of like a scavenger hunt to find them... especially if you don't have a map or cellular bars. Real adventure. (3) Landlocked Records & Boxcar Books in Bloomington. Very "Indiana Hipster" places. Nonetheless, there are some great records and books waiting for discovery. (4) Little Nashville. For the cinnamon bread at the General Store. Hands-down best breakfast. Ask for extra icing. (5) Rose Island, Charlestown. It is an abandoned amusement park. Eerie, but cool. (6) The Falls of the Ohio at Sunset... and when the river is low. (7) Second Baptist Church in New Albany (a site of the Underground Railroad). (8) Spring Mill State Park in Mitchell. (9) Cataract Falls in Spencer. (10) McCormick Creek State Park, Spencer as well. (11) The Walking Bridge (Big Four Bridge) in Jeffersonville. Cross the Ohio over to the Water Front in Kentucky... then hurry back to the right side of the river. (12) Squire Boone Caverns. (13) Lake Monroe on a boat in the summer. (14) Clifty Falls in Madison. Waterfalls! (15) Marengo Cave in French Lick. (16) West Baden Gardens. (17) Starlight Strawberry Festival (best strawberries of your life). (18) Schimpff's Confectionery in Jeffersonville. Best red hot candy. (19) Loop Island in New Albany. It has a bunch of abandoned things (esp. railroad tracks and bridges) being overtaken by nature. Kind of cool. (20) Assembly Hall in Bloomington on game day. (I guess Indy isn't half bad either! I realize it didn't make my list. Walking along the canal is nice. Find the wall-art of Kurt Vonnegut. Columbus has some really awesome architecture and contemporary art too.)
MY 2018 READING LIST.
My bookshelves change every year, and so do my proposed reading lists. I try to read at least twenty books a year. I realize that is low for an English teacher, but it is what it is. I like to be in a reading mood whenever I read... and sometimes, when life takes over, finding the time to read (and simultaneously catch a reading mood) sometimes gets pushed to the back burner or just doesn't work out. Nonetheless, here is a collage of my former bookshelves from years past. And, below is my 2018 reading list.
|
MY 2018 TENTATIVE READING LIST.
(1) Born a Crime by Trevor Noah (2016)
(2) The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. DuBois (1903)
(3) The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man by James Weldon Johnson (1912)
(4) Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (1952)
(5) Clifford's Blues by John A. Williams (1999)
(6) Corregidora by Gayle Jones (1975)
(7) Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (1982)
(8) The Vegetarian by Han Kang (2007)
(9) The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (1929)
(10) Navajos Wear Nikes: A Reservation Life by Jim Kristofic (2011)
(11) The Age of Fracture by Daniel T. Rodgers (2003)
(12) Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman (2003)
(13) Riverine: A Memoir From Anywhere but Here by Angela Palm (2017)
(14) Rebel Music: Race, Empire, & New Muslim Youth Culture by Hisham Aidi (2014)
(15) Blue Horses Rush In by Luci Tapahanso (1997)
(16) Whereas: Poems by Layli Long Soldier (2017)
(17) Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani (2000)
(18) Half-Broke Horses by Jeanette Walls (2009)
(19) Outliers: A Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell (2009)
(20) How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster (2003)
(21) A Radiant Curve by Luci Tapahonso (2008)
(22) Feminist Readings of Native Literature: Coming to Voice by Kathleen M. Donovan (1998)
(23) Educated by Tara Westover (2017)
(24) The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by William Shakespeare (1603)
(25) Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition by Glen Sean Coulthard (2014)
(1) Born a Crime by Trevor Noah (2016)
(2) The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. DuBois (1903)
(3) The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man by James Weldon Johnson (1912)
(4) Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (1952)
(5) Clifford's Blues by John A. Williams (1999)
(6) Corregidora by Gayle Jones (1975)
(7) Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (1982)
(8) The Vegetarian by Han Kang (2007)
(9) The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (1929)
(10) Navajos Wear Nikes: A Reservation Life by Jim Kristofic (2011)
(11) The Age of Fracture by Daniel T. Rodgers (2003)
(12) Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman (2003)
(13) Riverine: A Memoir From Anywhere but Here by Angela Palm (2017)
(14) Rebel Music: Race, Empire, & New Muslim Youth Culture by Hisham Aidi (2014)
(15) Blue Horses Rush In by Luci Tapahanso (1997)
(16) Whereas: Poems by Layli Long Soldier (2017)
(17) Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani (2000)
(18) Half-Broke Horses by Jeanette Walls (2009)
(19) Outliers: A Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell (2009)
(20) How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster (2003)
(21) A Radiant Curve by Luci Tapahonso (2008)
(22) Feminist Readings of Native Literature: Coming to Voice by Kathleen M. Donovan (1998)
(23) Educated by Tara Westover (2017)
(24) The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by William Shakespeare (1603)
(25) Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition by Glen Sean Coulthard (2014)
OP HOOP VAN ZEGEN. May 2018.
It was a cold, like wind-hits-marrow-kind-of-cold, February day in Amsterdam along a road called Amstel by the canals and Skinny Bridge. And, there I was, freezing to death, shocked by the multitude of bicyclists that were flying past in this below zero weather. The people living on the canals told me to give it three days. Then, they would break out the ice skates and have a winter celebration on the frozen-over canals. I was snapping photographs as I ventured along the water, trying to imagine the beauty of spring replacing the frigid cold of winter… trying to forget that this was only a temporary thing. The temporarily of the thing always gets me. I didn’t know any Dutch nor did I know any German. My painfully American accent gave me away- tourist for sure… and that I was. Just meeting strangers as I went, sharing a moment, and moving on toward, what? I didn’t know the next chapter yet. My Type A sensibilities hated that truth- the unwavering reality that anything could happen. When I got back to the States, I took my memory card down to a photo print machine (so outdated I guess, but I still like prints). I printed a 5x7 of this little boat along the canal, which read: “Op Hoop Van Zegen.” And, I made some copies for my grandmother. While visiting my grandmother, my sister, flipping through the photographs, asked, “What does this one say?” I didn’t know. She quickly pulled up Google translate on her phone and read the English translation: “Hoping for the Best.” And, yes, that is what I was and am doing… A 2018 mantra of sorts, a little Hail Mary, as the water freezes and melts along the canals, securing, trapping, freeing the boats that rest, sure of one fact--- one indisputable truth: anything can happen. And, I am hoping for the best.
ALWAYS A TEACHER. May 2018.
It is a curse and a blessing becoming specialized in a particular field. For English majors, they can never watch a movie without analyzing it. The analysis trait is hardwired into their literary consciousness like the ability to breathe. It becomes an unconscious or at least a subconscious act. I've always sympathized with therapists. If they aren't married or in a committed relationship, I bet it is hard to date without running a standard psychoanalytic test on each person they meet and quickly identifying a multitude of red flags. Because, every person is a little messed up in some way or another. And, it must be hard to be a preacher or a priest, because one slip and you represent a downfall for an entire religious doctrine. That's a lot of pressure. But, I have always been a teacher... and I guess I always think like a teacher. I can't read a book without thinking about how I might teach a lesson on it. I was told once that teaching is the highest form of learning. If you can teach it, you know it pretty well. Of course, there is the old adage that those who can't do, teach; but that's a can of worms. Maybe there is some level of reality to that statement, but you kind of have to know how to do something in order to teach it to its full capacity... so there is a paradoxical realism inherent in the adage. I am the oldest in my family. So, at an earlier age, I started, without realizing it, the act of teaching. Then, when I started working, I quickly became a manager at an ice cream place, where I trained new workers (teaching). Then, because I really loved most subjects, I focused on education as a profession (so then I could integrate literature, languages, history, art, science, math, psychology, sociology, political science, composition, etc. into one category- a loop hole in the ever fragmented world of higher education). And, when people ask me where I see myself in the next ten years, I will most likely be teaching in some way or another. Always a teacher.
STUFF YOU'LL LEARN. May 2018.
To save you some time, there is a list of unwritten rules that English majors learn along the way (whether they realize it or not). (1) Russian writers and traditionally Russian literature is the hallmark for literary writers. (2) Critics you must know and quote: Foucault, Nietzsche, Marx, Lacan, Irigaray, Derrida, Deleuze & Guattari, Fanon, Said, Freud, Butler, De Saussure, Lorde, Cixous, and Althusser. (3) Footnotes maintain their own little culture in academic writing. (4) Aristotle was all about poetics. Plato banned the poet from his paradise in The Republic. (5) Influences include: The Bible, Shakespeare, Greek & Roman mythology, and the fairytales (Brothers Grimm). (6) Prose scholars and poetry scholars have different pedagogical approaches to studying texts. (7) There is a never-ending debate regarding the existence of postmodernism. Some scholars only believe that timeframe is late modernism... Some scholars believe postmodernism is, in and of itself, separate from modernism. (8) Catch phrases for leftist academic institutions: neoliberal agenda, heterosexual contract on language, ideological undercurrent, postcolonial impact, feminist discourse, binary limitations, dialectical models, the personal is political, neo-Marxist analysis, and "we need to be cautious when making inferences based on biographical information" --- new criticism/formalism is for life.
CONCEPT OF TEMPORALITY. May 2018.
I want to take a moment to think about the concept of temporality- both philosophically and tangibly. Time, as a cultural construct, is most ardently recognized as an intangible concept… an attempt to measure something we cannot see. Though we cannot regularly “see” time, we can feel time. We can track time through sight. If you are on the beach letting the sun turn your skin, you can see and feel time. Any person that burns easily can tell you they have felt the presence of time with a painful red memory. Every high school student has felt the painful tick-tock of a clock in their least favorite class. On the contrary, we all have moments that we want to last forever. We hold onto the moment in real time, even as it slips away. There it is, the concept of temporality. In moments of trauma or high intensity, people say time slows down- everything happens in slow motion- like a movie scene capturing the acts of Quicksilver. We cannot “see” temperature either, but we can see the result of latent heat processes. We can see the steam rising from a paved road on a hot summer’s day. We can see dew drops on the corn stalks in the early morning. Again, moments of time allow us to see things that are otherwise intangible- unseen. But, there is probably a mathematical formula somewhere for the timeframe of temporality. Of the three conceptual dimensions of time- past, present, and future, the present holds the shortest measure of time. However, the present is also the only realm in which we can mentally manipulate the time spent. I can dream about things that have happened in the past. For instance, on a dreary, early February day, when I think winter will never end and that I will never make it through the next month and that I should have known better than to get sentimental about Indiana again, I can drift back to sleep and imagine the memory of a mid-summer’s day, around eight in the evening, when the sun hits everything with a golden angle, and beneath the trees, there are patterns of shadow and light on the green grass. Or, I can imagine the future, “daydream,” and think about how different (or how similar) my life might be twelve years from now. The present tense is the only timeframe that I can trade in for the past or the future. It is the most immediate and real to me- to my existence. It holds the most power, but it is limited by the laws of time--- the components of a cultural construct that we often fail to realize--- the inherent qualities, codes, patterns, and laws that exist without a prescriptive definition or human appointed ideological realm.
THE PSYCH. OF AN INTRO. May 2018.
Here is a formula: Hook + Explanation + Overview + Thesis Statement = Introductory Paragraph.
This formula is perpetuated and utilized by major academic institutions, making it a property of sorts. So, here is my hook: What do the numbers 567, 326, and 4 mean to you? That is an example of a rhetorical question. I do not really want an answer. I want to grab your attention in several ways. First, I implicitly appeal to your cultural upbringing by using the pattern of three, something Western thought embraces from Christianity to scrapbook layouts to interior design. I didn’t ask about one number; I asked about three numbers. To be precise, I asked you to consider seven individual digits. What is the capacity of short-term memory? That’s right… seven pieces of information (plus or minus two). Already, I am conveying that there is a connection of some sort in the making. The power of the comparative conjunction “and” helps me, the writer, in this scenario. Your left hemisphere is searching, subconsciously, for a pattern. Secondly, I used the second-person “you,” speaking directly to you, breaking the fourth wall, making this journal entry a conversation with you, intellectually. Thirdly, by breaking that fourth wall, I am indirectly appealing to the millennial undercurrent of solipsism… in which everything in existence revolves around and for you. Fourthly, I make it rhetorical in nature. Notice that I am writing in prose, line-by-line, sentence-by-sentence, with only one space or one form of punctuation separating my words. If I wanted to give you a space for an answer, I would have left a physical space, a break in my writing, a moment of silence… for you. But, the truth of the matter is that I didn’t do that. So, I compel you, the reader, to give me your attention. I want to embed, subconsciously, the sense of the authority that I have in this survey. I know what 567, 326, and 4 have in common, but I want you to think about it, consider it, jump start your neurons, and ponder patterns. Even further, I want you to notice when patterns break, and why they are subverted.
This formula is perpetuated and utilized by major academic institutions, making it a property of sorts. So, here is my hook: What do the numbers 567, 326, and 4 mean to you? That is an example of a rhetorical question. I do not really want an answer. I want to grab your attention in several ways. First, I implicitly appeal to your cultural upbringing by using the pattern of three, something Western thought embraces from Christianity to scrapbook layouts to interior design. I didn’t ask about one number; I asked about three numbers. To be precise, I asked you to consider seven individual digits. What is the capacity of short-term memory? That’s right… seven pieces of information (plus or minus two). Already, I am conveying that there is a connection of some sort in the making. The power of the comparative conjunction “and” helps me, the writer, in this scenario. Your left hemisphere is searching, subconsciously, for a pattern. Secondly, I used the second-person “you,” speaking directly to you, breaking the fourth wall, making this journal entry a conversation with you, intellectually. Thirdly, by breaking that fourth wall, I am indirectly appealing to the millennial undercurrent of solipsism… in which everything in existence revolves around and for you. Fourthly, I make it rhetorical in nature. Notice that I am writing in prose, line-by-line, sentence-by-sentence, with only one space or one form of punctuation separating my words. If I wanted to give you a space for an answer, I would have left a physical space, a break in my writing, a moment of silence… for you. But, the truth of the matter is that I didn’t do that. So, I compel you, the reader, to give me your attention. I want to embed, subconsciously, the sense of the authority that I have in this survey. I know what 567, 326, and 4 have in common, but I want you to think about it, consider it, jump start your neurons, and ponder patterns. Even further, I want you to notice when patterns break, and why they are subverted.
SPOKEN WORD. May 2018.
My MA Thesis for KCL is focusing on poetics. So, I realized that I hardly ever post any of my poetry. So, I decided to conjure up some thoughts and put them into lines. If you are struggling with writer's block, a good way to jump start creativity is to keep a 365 photography project. Take a photo a day. Then, when you need a writing prompt, select one of the photographs and just start writing. If you decide to do this, let me know!
AN ORGAN.I love to feel the echo of a spiritual intensity.
The organ notes in St. Meinrad. Practice. Mistake. Start Again. The sight of my grandmother playing the organ before the end. The sound of music at St. Mary of the Knobs. The hefty tone of mass at Canterbury Cathedral. I love to feel the same moment. Different Place. Different Time. And, even when it doesn't play the notes of sound. I turn in surrender to a symphony of silence. The Notre Dame Paris. Chichester Cathedral. St. Paul's. Like music, like body- a sensorium of noise and silence. Essential as an organ. |
THE MOSAIC.In the chapel in Chichester, there is a glass realm.
And, in this realm, if you doth look, You shall see what I have seen. What time hath left and time hath took. Taken, took, taken again. Chalk, limestone, brick, Beneath the floor, unto the depth. A Roman matrix of lines thick With remnant past. Like a coffin or that which is interred Into a rectangle last looking box. For there is a glass realm conferred. A pane between the mosaic and me. |
CROW-FEET LAUGHTER.
Crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks are so confounded.
The sound of language furled and rolled up
Into some southern river style- in’n’ut
Seems to mean isn’t it?
The question of existence
Through the question of opposition.
Is it not? A challenge proffered. A prove-me-wrong.
Sitting on the front porch.
Laughing. That crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks so confounded.
Over questions of purpose, on the temporality of the thing.
The sound of a chickadee calling from the cedars.
Into some wind pattern, sonic radio of air.
Seems like a midsummer night’s dreamscape
The unrealistic surrealism of the moment.
Through the slipping degrees of the sun slant.
Is it not? A dare dealt. A play-the-odds.
Laughter ringing. This crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks so confounded.
Onto a line of distanced thought
The sound of laughter echoing imperceptible time.
Into some record groove of dust-to-dust.
Seems like a tone, but it’s really just a voice
The peal of unfurled and rolled out thunder of laughter
Through the years of good times and bad.
Is it not? A risk of offense. A rebuttal-defense.
Laughter chiming. Crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks are so confounded.
Here in this section of depraved breath.
The sound of I-can’t-breathe laughter.
Into forward position, folding like a clover at dusk.
Seems as though luck would have it. A four-leafer.
The anomaly picked from the rest.
Through all other cognitive frames of time
Is it not this one? A chance. A second.
To remember ever so fondly that your glistening
Eyes are framed by crow feet and crowned by that
Infectious laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks are so confounded.
The sound of language furled and rolled up
Into some southern river style- in’n’ut
Seems to mean isn’t it?
The question of existence
Through the question of opposition.
Is it not? A challenge proffered. A prove-me-wrong.
Sitting on the front porch.
Laughing. That crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks so confounded.
Over questions of purpose, on the temporality of the thing.
The sound of a chickadee calling from the cedars.
Into some wind pattern, sonic radio of air.
Seems like a midsummer night’s dreamscape
The unrealistic surrealism of the moment.
Through the slipping degrees of the sun slant.
Is it not? A dare dealt. A play-the-odds.
Laughter ringing. This crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks so confounded.
Onto a line of distanced thought
The sound of laughter echoing imperceptible time.
Into some record groove of dust-to-dust.
Seems like a tone, but it’s really just a voice
The peal of unfurled and rolled out thunder of laughter
Through the years of good times and bad.
Is it not? A risk of offense. A rebuttal-defense.
Laughter chiming. Crow-feet laughter.
You always look better when you’re smiling.
Your hard-thought looks are so confounded.
Here in this section of depraved breath.
The sound of I-can’t-breathe laughter.
Into forward position, folding like a clover at dusk.
Seems as though luck would have it. A four-leafer.
The anomaly picked from the rest.
Through all other cognitive frames of time
Is it not this one? A chance. A second.
To remember ever so fondly that your glistening
Eyes are framed by crow feet and crowned by that
Infectious laughter.
THE CENTRAL LINE.
The Central Line.
The title holds so much potential- A point of fixation, placement- Central. A linear connection of points- a Line. But, if you are a Londoner, The mystic potential evaporates. It is the worst Underground Line. It is the worst of all the lines of the tube. This is not hyperbole. It is easily 100 degrees Fahrenheit, In the summer, when everyone visits, And, in keeping with fashion, your dress suit becomes A hot box- washed with streams and rivers Of human sweat and a terrible stench. If you are wise, you stand near the back. You open that window. And you let the blast Hit you- ripping away the smell of the corralled Londoners, Living in one of the most sought-after cities In the world. A central line for sure. |
PARADISE MOMENTS.
Just everyday things. Never d‘known that these memories were any diffrent.
Skippin’ rocks along the dead waters of the Ohio.
Fish and driftwood floatin’ in the yella-white foam.
Wearin’ hand-me-downs and well-worn cotton
Fossil bed and sunset walkin’
Mosquito bites like a map on my legs
Lightnin’ bugs makin’ constellations at the tree line and in the fields
It’s a pink sunset makin’ everything look softer than it is
Drivin’ fifteen over, listenin’ to the wind scream through open car windas
Tryin’ to make my hand fly against the wind- catchin’ tyme
Music pourin’ outta the blown speakers- five decibels too many
Cool dew-covered grass on bare feet, ice cream drippin’ down the cone
The moon shinin’ so bright maybe I don’t need headlights
Oppossum crossin’ deer on the move raccoons wanderin’
Small town ways, never d’known that these were paradise moments until they was gone.
Skippin’ rocks along the dead waters of the Ohio.
Fish and driftwood floatin’ in the yella-white foam.
Wearin’ hand-me-downs and well-worn cotton
Fossil bed and sunset walkin’
Mosquito bites like a map on my legs
Lightnin’ bugs makin’ constellations at the tree line and in the fields
It’s a pink sunset makin’ everything look softer than it is
Drivin’ fifteen over, listenin’ to the wind scream through open car windas
Tryin’ to make my hand fly against the wind- catchin’ tyme
Music pourin’ outta the blown speakers- five decibels too many
Cool dew-covered grass on bare feet, ice cream drippin’ down the cone
The moon shinin’ so bright maybe I don’t need headlights
Oppossum crossin’ deer on the move raccoons wanderin’
Small town ways, never d’known that these were paradise moments until they was gone.
THE IN-LAW TEST.
It takes me years to work through memories, through experiences, through those big moments that I never realized were big while I was living them. So, for my thesis, as I begin to study the contemporary poetics arising from post-45 Navajo writers and poets, I remember my short time on the Rez and how I didn't realize it changed me or impacted me all that much... I remember:
Learning to make fry bread.
I failed at least a thousand times.
The dough was not right. Buy some Bluebird flour. Start again.
Learning to make fry bread.
I failed at least a thousand times.
The dough was not right. Buy some Bluebird flour. Start again.