Fear Inventory
My greatest fear in third grade was hell. Not fitting in, a close second. When I said "God damn" on the bus, I said it because I was tagged as a sweet, quiet little girl, the bus driver's pet. But as soon as I uttered those two irretrievable syllables, I was seized by consequence. I thought it was blasphemy. The unforgivable sin. I felt the devil suck away my inheritance, my peace. I had crossed the line. Mom always said that cursing God was blasphemy. And the preacher always said blasphemy was unforgivable.
I couldn't ask my mom if I was going to hell now. It would break her heart to know that her little girl was doomed already. I couldn't ask the preacher because that's the same thing as outing myself. So I turned to my Bible concordance, collecting blasphemy references I didn't really understand. Sometimes I found relief, if I could tweak my perception enough. Cursing God, I learned is forgivable. Speaking against the Son, also forgivable. But blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is not forgivable "neither in this life nor in the life to come." I hadn't cursed the Holy Spirit, so I decided I was safe enough. But that took a bit of denial. I had to believe that God, Jesus, and the Spirit were three different beings, that sinning against one wasn't the same as sinning against all. I had always been told they were one. But I don't think "God damn" is blasphemy anymore anyway.
I might call hell tangible if I could see it. Now, though, it seems abstract like my fear of it. Rivers scare me too, and I see them all the time. Even though I know it won't happen, I imagine myself facing that fear, tracing the river from the bridge into the ominous unknown where there aren't any houses, only snakes and unharvested trees. The closest I've come was when I turned off my headlights while crossing the Tallapoosa river one night. It doesn't make sense, but I thought if I crossed the river in complete darkness that it wouldn't scare me anymore. I had a fudge brownie cake from the Dairy King in my hand at the time. It was all over my pants when I finally found the lights again.
The first time I remember being petrified by anything tangible, the nearest water source was the toilet near the playground at Folsom Elementary. Just beyond the door trapped between the tips of my black knee-high boots and a pair of tennis shoes belonging to Stephanie Foster stood the biggest, furriest brown spider I'd ever seen. I've not seen one bigger since. But I'm bigger now, so proportion might be to blame. I wasn't afraid at first. In fact, I was poised to stomp the life out of the beast when Stephanie shouted her wisdom. "My mama says spiders that big can bite you through the bottom of your shoe."
Monday, March 26, 2012
Peer Response 2, Week 2
Response to MacKenzie's Memory, Final Week
MacKenzie,
The way you put the words together in this piece make it beautiful. For example: "as the wind scrubs the cliff-faces smooth and teases the fire I’ve built." And I like how you take advantage of the absence of the standard explanatory plaque in order to imagine possibilities for the people groups who lived there before. It gives you a chance to reflect on the nature of curiosity--I wonder . . . I wonder did the Pueblos wonder. Also, when you write "If I had been a pre-Pueblo, would I be missing whatever made me afraid of heights?" you're still navigating the unknown, expressing curiosity about how your particular moment in time might influence even your fears. I really think curiosity is the link here through which you can expand. You started with the missing historical synopsis (the absence of the plaque) and this seemed to lead you directly and fascinatingly into an analysis of the unknown.
MacKenzie,
The way you put the words together in this piece make it beautiful. For example: "as the wind scrubs the cliff-faces smooth and teases the fire I’ve built." And I like how you take advantage of the absence of the standard explanatory plaque in order to imagine possibilities for the people groups who lived there before. It gives you a chance to reflect on the nature of curiosity--I wonder . . . I wonder did the Pueblos wonder. Also, when you write "If I had been a pre-Pueblo, would I be missing whatever made me afraid of heights?" you're still navigating the unknown, expressing curiosity about how your particular moment in time might influence even your fears. I really think curiosity is the link here through which you can expand. You started with the missing historical synopsis (the absence of the plaque) and this seemed to lead you directly and fascinatingly into an analysis of the unknown.
Original Prompt, Final Week
Kathleen Norris's "Celibate Passion"
In her first paragraph, Norris addresses two common views of celibacy, one a Conservative Catholic reading of it as "an idealized, angelic state" (396), the other a feminist theological view that "'celibate hatred of sex is hatred of women'" (qtg Uta Ranke-Heinemann). After this concession about tendencies in regarding celibacy, however, Norris shifts her focus to what she calls "celibacy that works," which she describes in this way: "[These celibates] manage to sublimate their sexual energies toward another purpose than sexual intercourse and procreation" (396, 397). Norris negates assumptions that such celibates are "perverse" or their lives "necessarily stunted" (397), and focuses instead on how these rechannelled energies invite deeply meaningful friendships with people of "all ages [and] social classes" (397).
Norris herself is a monogamist. When she develops a strong friendship with a man (she calls him Tom) who is pledged to celibacy, she recognizes mutual signs of infatuation and sexual attraction. But instead of grounding their love for one another in "utility," Norris says they ground it in grace, which encourages a "respect for each other's commitments" and clarifies the boundaries of their relationship (400). This "celibate passion" leads to "an underlying sadness, the pain of something incomplete," but Norris then says that "human relationships are by their nature incomplete" (400). She calls Tom's commitment "celibacy at its best, a man's sexual energies so devoted to the care of others that a few words could lift me out of despair, give me the strength to reclaim my life" (400). She ends with this sentence: "Celibate passion--elusive, tensile, holy" (400).
Prompt:
Norris makes an unexpected defense of celibacy which makes for an interesting essay in itself, but she gives herself credibility on the topic when she reveals the finer details of her relationship with Tom. Although both her and Tom found it "all too easy to fantasize about expressing [their mutual] responsiveness in physical ways," they rechannelled those energies to deepen their friendship and honor their respective vows.
With this in mind, can you think of a commitment that you feel strongly about in your own life, one that you're motivated to keep despite how difficult or misunderstood it might be? Marriage vows might be too obvious, but you could widen your scope by thinking about a commitment to purchasing only cage free eggs, for example, or of visiting a lonely neighbor once a week. Once you've got something in mind, jot down the obvious, go-to reasons people might list for keeping that particular commitment, as well as the most obvious defense and critique of your topic. Then move on to unchartered waters, so to speak, to make an unexpected compelling argument for your decision. If you have a relevant confession, make it in your argument to add credibility to your essay.
In her first paragraph, Norris addresses two common views of celibacy, one a Conservative Catholic reading of it as "an idealized, angelic state" (396), the other a feminist theological view that "'celibate hatred of sex is hatred of women'" (qtg Uta Ranke-Heinemann). After this concession about tendencies in regarding celibacy, however, Norris shifts her focus to what she calls "celibacy that works," which she describes in this way: "[These celibates] manage to sublimate their sexual energies toward another purpose than sexual intercourse and procreation" (396, 397). Norris negates assumptions that such celibates are "perverse" or their lives "necessarily stunted" (397), and focuses instead on how these rechannelled energies invite deeply meaningful friendships with people of "all ages [and] social classes" (397).
Norris herself is a monogamist. When she develops a strong friendship with a man (she calls him Tom) who is pledged to celibacy, she recognizes mutual signs of infatuation and sexual attraction. But instead of grounding their love for one another in "utility," Norris says they ground it in grace, which encourages a "respect for each other's commitments" and clarifies the boundaries of their relationship (400). This "celibate passion" leads to "an underlying sadness, the pain of something incomplete," but Norris then says that "human relationships are by their nature incomplete" (400). She calls Tom's commitment "celibacy at its best, a man's sexual energies so devoted to the care of others that a few words could lift me out of despair, give me the strength to reclaim my life" (400). She ends with this sentence: "Celibate passion--elusive, tensile, holy" (400).
Prompt:
Norris makes an unexpected defense of celibacy which makes for an interesting essay in itself, but she gives herself credibility on the topic when she reveals the finer details of her relationship with Tom. Although both her and Tom found it "all too easy to fantasize about expressing [their mutual] responsiveness in physical ways," they rechannelled those energies to deepen their friendship and honor their respective vows.
With this in mind, can you think of a commitment that you feel strongly about in your own life, one that you're motivated to keep despite how difficult or misunderstood it might be? Marriage vows might be too obvious, but you could widen your scope by thinking about a commitment to purchasing only cage free eggs, for example, or of visiting a lonely neighbor once a week. Once you've got something in mind, jot down the obvious, go-to reasons people might list for keeping that particular commitment, as well as the most obvious defense and critique of your topic. Then move on to unchartered waters, so to speak, to make an unexpected compelling argument for your decision. If you have a relevant confession, make it in your argument to add credibility to your essay.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Reportage, Final Week
I stalk people in the commuter student parking lots. It's innocent enough. All I want from them is a parking space. But as I creep along behind a young man walking to his car, I think I must seem sinister. I pause when he pauses. I start again when he starts again. But I learned to wait at the end of a lane, a trick I picked up from the more savvy stalkers.
After scoping out the two lots across from TLC last Thursday, I paused at the far end of the first parking lane behind the bookstore. That's when I saw the young man with thick-framed glasses and high-waisted jeans, his belt secured with a gold laptop buckle. I recognized his self-conscious gait, his free arm swinging out of rhythm with his pace. I thought "computer geek." I profiled him, but he was asking for it.
I felt lucky when he crossed in front of my car, heading to the black SUV just to my right. I backed up, turned on my blinker. I know he saw me. I have my own routine when I return to my car after class, so I was sympathetic to his. If he had no intention of leaving, I trusted him to tell me so. So I waited while he stood outside the driver's side door, his laptop open in the seat. I waited when he opened the rear door, shifting things around, taking a sip from a water bottle. I waited when he repeated the cycle. I wanted to leave, to move on to less obsessive prey, but I had that feeling you get when you just know if you leave after investing so much time, he'll drive off as soon as you do. Plus I know the odds are against me anyway. There are more students than there are parking spaces.
I exercised patience when he went to the rear door again, stripped off his laptop buckle, his plaid button down, his thick glasses. When he put on a gray athletic tee, untucked. By this time, I've got my phone to my ear though no one's on the line. I'm faking a conversation so that I can say with indifference on my face all the things I'm thinking. It looks more normal that way when I air my complaints. Less like a rant. Less mentally unstable. Though maybe it's both.
After he heads back to the front seat, he packs up his computer again, locks his doors, and heads back to class looking like one of those punks who bully computer geeks. I can see his smirk as he turns his back to me, strutting back to the TLC. I think "I could run over him." Of course I don't, I wouldn't. And yelling at him only gives him more power.
I've given away enough of that already. But what bugs me most is not that he stripped me of some of my own power, but that he reminded me of how fragile it was to begin with. So what if I can profile people, stereotype them based on recognizable markers. So what if I can say "geek" as though it shifts my social position somehow. Not that I consciously think "I'm better." But I'm not sure what else that could mean. Maybe just a kind of self-boasting, an idea that I'm observant, that I'm smart that way. But anybody might have made that observation.
He undermined my assumptions, pulling a Clark Kent in the parking lot. He's playing with people's assumptions on purpose, he has to be. And I don't blame him for the trick. It's not simply conformity, not simply rebellion, but power through the ability to disorient. "You can't know me." He used performativity--putting on opposing identities--to make alterable power. He also let me waste my time, a play made more powerful by changing personas in front of me. "You only thought you knew me," he suggests. I felt both amused and embarrassed. Amused because what he did was unexpected. Embarrassed because it felt like he did it to me. And because there were witnesses, I felt a heightened sense of vulnerability.
After scoping out the two lots across from TLC last Thursday, I paused at the far end of the first parking lane behind the bookstore. That's when I saw the young man with thick-framed glasses and high-waisted jeans, his belt secured with a gold laptop buckle. I recognized his self-conscious gait, his free arm swinging out of rhythm with his pace. I thought "computer geek." I profiled him, but he was asking for it.
I felt lucky when he crossed in front of my car, heading to the black SUV just to my right. I backed up, turned on my blinker. I know he saw me. I have my own routine when I return to my car after class, so I was sympathetic to his. If he had no intention of leaving, I trusted him to tell me so. So I waited while he stood outside the driver's side door, his laptop open in the seat. I waited when he opened the rear door, shifting things around, taking a sip from a water bottle. I waited when he repeated the cycle. I wanted to leave, to move on to less obsessive prey, but I had that feeling you get when you just know if you leave after investing so much time, he'll drive off as soon as you do. Plus I know the odds are against me anyway. There are more students than there are parking spaces.
I exercised patience when he went to the rear door again, stripped off his laptop buckle, his plaid button down, his thick glasses. When he put on a gray athletic tee, untucked. By this time, I've got my phone to my ear though no one's on the line. I'm faking a conversation so that I can say with indifference on my face all the things I'm thinking. It looks more normal that way when I air my complaints. Less like a rant. Less mentally unstable. Though maybe it's both.
After he heads back to the front seat, he packs up his computer again, locks his doors, and heads back to class looking like one of those punks who bully computer geeks. I can see his smirk as he turns his back to me, strutting back to the TLC. I think "I could run over him." Of course I don't, I wouldn't. And yelling at him only gives him more power.
I've given away enough of that already. But what bugs me most is not that he stripped me of some of my own power, but that he reminded me of how fragile it was to begin with. So what if I can profile people, stereotype them based on recognizable markers. So what if I can say "geek" as though it shifts my social position somehow. Not that I consciously think "I'm better." But I'm not sure what else that could mean. Maybe just a kind of self-boasting, an idea that I'm observant, that I'm smart that way. But anybody might have made that observation.
He undermined my assumptions, pulling a Clark Kent in the parking lot. He's playing with people's assumptions on purpose, he has to be. And I don't blame him for the trick. It's not simply conformity, not simply rebellion, but power through the ability to disorient. "You can't know me." He used performativity--putting on opposing identities--to make alterable power. He also let me waste my time, a play made more powerful by changing personas in front of me. "You only thought you knew me," he suggests. I felt both amused and embarrassed. Amused because what he did was unexpected. Embarrassed because it felt like he did it to me. And because there were witnesses, I felt a heightened sense of vulnerability.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Final Week
1) "The universe just defied its laws to pinch me." ~Emily Murphy
2) "My job is to swipe meal cards. Oh, and chase down football players who steal food." ~Cat Chandler
3) I recently realized that I say "I'm sorry" way more than I should. What bothers me is not that I don't mean it; it's that I shouldn't mean it as much as I do mean it. If that makes sense. Everything can't be all my fault. Surely the odds are against that. Of course I also use the phrase when I'm accidentally offensive or at least when I perceive that I might have been. I use it loosely to express regret or empathy when someone is experiencing problems or inconveniences of some sort. I say all this to get to the finer point: When I said "I'm sorry" yesterday (probably three times in a 20 second period, all to do with the same moment), a 23-month-old girl repeated what I'd said, and in a sad, self-defeated tone that I didn't realize I'd used. She said it more than once. I never want to hear that again. It broke my heart, coming from a voice of innocence. I said to her, "Oh, sweetie, don't say that," but the only way I can make sure she doesn't is to choose my own words more carefully.
4) Jeff: "What are you doing?" Me: "Nothing." Jeff: "Nothing?! Why are you doing nothing?" "Me: "I don't know. (Pause) What do you want me to be doing?" Jeff: "I don't know. Whatever." After this, I felt awkward (guilty?) for doing nothing and found something to do.
2) "My job is to swipe meal cards. Oh, and chase down football players who steal food." ~Cat Chandler
3) I recently realized that I say "I'm sorry" way more than I should. What bothers me is not that I don't mean it; it's that I shouldn't mean it as much as I do mean it. If that makes sense. Everything can't be all my fault. Surely the odds are against that. Of course I also use the phrase when I'm accidentally offensive or at least when I perceive that I might have been. I use it loosely to express regret or empathy when someone is experiencing problems or inconveniences of some sort. I say all this to get to the finer point: When I said "I'm sorry" yesterday (probably three times in a 20 second period, all to do with the same moment), a 23-month-old girl repeated what I'd said, and in a sad, self-defeated tone that I didn't realize I'd used. She said it more than once. I never want to hear that again. It broke my heart, coming from a voice of innocence. I said to her, "Oh, sweetie, don't say that," but the only way I can make sure she doesn't is to choose my own words more carefully.
4) Jeff: "What are you doing?" Me: "Nothing." Jeff: "Nothing?! Why are you doing nothing?" "Me: "I don't know. (Pause) What do you want me to be doing?" Jeff: "I don't know. Whatever." After this, I felt awkward (guilty?) for doing nothing and found something to do.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Peer Response 1, Final Week
Response to Brett's Prompt, Final Week
Brett,
This prompt is timely for me. I started working on an essay Friday night about the evolution of fear in my life. I started thinking about the odd fear of hell that I had in grade school because I thought I had committed blasphemy, the "unforgivable sin." It was such a scary feeling because I didn't want to talk to anyone about it and ruin their dreams of Heaven for me. Instead I internalized that fear and read all the passages I could find about that particular sin and its consequences. Which, of course, made me a quiet, brooding middle schooler, edging into my second greatest fear--that of being a social oddity.
I hadn't looked at Martin's essay yet, but I think I'll look to it for inspiration now. And to your prompt!
Also, it sounds like you have a "childhood fear" essay asking to be written . . .
Brett,
This prompt is timely for me. I started working on an essay Friday night about the evolution of fear in my life. I started thinking about the odd fear of hell that I had in grade school because I thought I had committed blasphemy, the "unforgivable sin." It was such a scary feeling because I didn't want to talk to anyone about it and ruin their dreams of Heaven for me. Instead I internalized that fear and read all the passages I could find about that particular sin and its consequences. Which, of course, made me a quiet, brooding middle schooler, edging into my second greatest fear--that of being a social oddity.
I hadn't looked at Martin's essay yet, but I think I'll look to it for inspiration now. And to your prompt!
Also, it sounds like you have a "childhood fear" essay asking to be written . . .
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Peer Response 4, Week 7
Diamond,
Your writing voice is amazing. Only occasionally, your prose gets a little wordy, like in the first sentence of paragraph two. I don't think you need to leave that sentence out, but readability might benefit from a little trimming. Maybe just: I spent most of my Christmases and Thanksgivings with my mother's side of the family. But streamlining is an easy fix, and your prose overall is well-presented.
What strikes me most is the consistency of beautifully presented images/moments. For example: "I felt it like you feel a tugging at your shoulder, that somehow, we had fallen short in their eyes" and "more clumps and patches of rocky red soil than grass, sad little sprouts of limp green lilting out and smashing underneath light-up Nikes." Fantastic!
I hope you keep going with this draft. And with writing, in general. Your workshop piece was impressive, and this draft equally so. I think as long as you're taking time to write every day, you'll continue to produce sharp prose. I want to keep reading . . .
Your writing voice is amazing. Only occasionally, your prose gets a little wordy, like in the first sentence of paragraph two. I don't think you need to leave that sentence out, but readability might benefit from a little trimming. Maybe just: I spent most of my Christmases and Thanksgivings with my mother's side of the family. But streamlining is an easy fix, and your prose overall is well-presented.
What strikes me most is the consistency of beautifully presented images/moments. For example: "I felt it like you feel a tugging at your shoulder, that somehow, we had fallen short in their eyes" and "more clumps and patches of rocky red soil than grass, sad little sprouts of limp green lilting out and smashing underneath light-up Nikes." Fantastic!
I hope you keep going with this draft. And with writing, in general. Your workshop piece was impressive, and this draft equally so. I think as long as you're taking time to write every day, you'll continue to produce sharp prose. I want to keep reading . . .
Peer Response 3, Week 7
Jenna,
First--I'm impressed with your way with words, both in this piece and in your other work. Among my favorite phrases from this memory are "throwing his graduation cap in the air for eternity" and "as though she would continue to curtsy for her guests until the train came home." As I'm picturing what these characters/deer look like, dancing down the road or stapled to the door, respectively, your smart descriptions give me an intriguing visual, one that is both comic and sad, in both cases.
Brett touched on regional or at least locational bias as well as performativity, both of which I think are worthwhile avenues to explore with this piece. But I think, too, of the role the media plays in stereotypes about the south, etc. When you mention the news stations "interview[ing] the person wearing head-to-toe camouflage, you touch on what I'm talking about. Not that it's a character flaw or even, in the wider scope of things, a stereotype-worthy image. But we can make it one in order to inform our idea of, or need for, the "lesser," which you allude to in initially reading the Hiram dancing man as a result of "too much exposure to roadkill stew," a reading which, you suggest, was later revised.
So, one possible avenue might be the influence of outside sources in the formation of biases or stereotypes. How much is "us" and how much is being fed to us? But, if that seems too obvious a thread, how about the prevalence of these loner figures like the Hiram dancing man, defying social expectations to live on the margins? There have been two such characters in Wedowee and two in Woodland in my lifetime, and these are very small towns. I'm sure they're out there in New York, too, although they might not initially stand out in a larger crowd. What do you think?
I think this piece is fantastically presented! If you decide to keep going with this entry, regardless of which thread you decide to follow to expand it, I look forward to reading it. Great work!!
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Peer Response 2, Week 7
(A response to Ashley's Junkyard Quote 2, Week 2
Ashley,
This makes me think of an essay I read about a family that swore off purchasing or using anything made in China for an entire year. It was interesting to hear about their experience and really made me think about the origins of products, who makes them, their working conditions, etc., as well as the prevalence of China's products in U.S. markets. Also, your quote reminds me of Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," a food memoir chronicling her family's experiences when they moved to a farm and vowed (for a one-year period) to only eat food they grew or raised themselves or that came from farms in their community.
I know your quote emphasizes your reaction to returning to Wal-Mart after such a long time, and how your mom lightheartedly downplayed the moment. But what if you used your experience differently, to write about what it's like to boycott Wal-Mart for a year (or two). Wal-Mart is an interesting topic, anyway, I think. The chain has closed down a ton of mom and pop operations, as well as smaller chains all across America (in smaller cities, especially), with its low prices and promise of convenience. It has also caught a lot of flack in the last several years, receiving criticism for its purchasing policies, employee policies, etc. (best I can remember--I know there's a documentary on this somewhere).
I once tried to boycott Wal-Mart for a year; I can't stand to shop there. My husband loves it, so I still go about once a month (although I'm trying to gradually influence our shopping habits.) But if you managed two years away, I'm wondering if this was intentional or incidental. Changing the shopping habits of consumers (according to one of Target's marketing gurus) is typically only possible during a major life change, such as the birth of a child, a marriage, buying a first home, moving to college, etc. (And I guess also if a consumer makes a commitment to shop more deliberately.) Did you just decide you didn't like the chain? If it was calculated, were there moral reasons? Was it location? Personal preference? Anyway, after fleshing out the "why," I'd love to read a story about what it's like to banish Wal-Mart from your regular shopping haunts, as well as your thoughts on returning. Were you just a spectator? Or did this trip draw you back in as a regular patron?
This might not be an avenue you're interested in, but I would personally love to read about a Wal-Mart boycott, what was difficult, what was easy, what you missed, didn't miss, etc. Just a thought . . .
Ashley,
This makes me think of an essay I read about a family that swore off purchasing or using anything made in China for an entire year. It was interesting to hear about their experience and really made me think about the origins of products, who makes them, their working conditions, etc., as well as the prevalence of China's products in U.S. markets. Also, your quote reminds me of Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," a food memoir chronicling her family's experiences when they moved to a farm and vowed (for a one-year period) to only eat food they grew or raised themselves or that came from farms in their community.
I know your quote emphasizes your reaction to returning to Wal-Mart after such a long time, and how your mom lightheartedly downplayed the moment. But what if you used your experience differently, to write about what it's like to boycott Wal-Mart for a year (or two). Wal-Mart is an interesting topic, anyway, I think. The chain has closed down a ton of mom and pop operations, as well as smaller chains all across America (in smaller cities, especially), with its low prices and promise of convenience. It has also caught a lot of flack in the last several years, receiving criticism for its purchasing policies, employee policies, etc. (best I can remember--I know there's a documentary on this somewhere).
I once tried to boycott Wal-Mart for a year; I can't stand to shop there. My husband loves it, so I still go about once a month (although I'm trying to gradually influence our shopping habits.) But if you managed two years away, I'm wondering if this was intentional or incidental. Changing the shopping habits of consumers (according to one of Target's marketing gurus) is typically only possible during a major life change, such as the birth of a child, a marriage, buying a first home, moving to college, etc. (And I guess also if a consumer makes a commitment to shop more deliberately.) Did you just decide you didn't like the chain? If it was calculated, were there moral reasons? Was it location? Personal preference? Anyway, after fleshing out the "why," I'd love to read a story about what it's like to banish Wal-Mart from your regular shopping haunts, as well as your thoughts on returning. Were you just a spectator? Or did this trip draw you back in as a regular patron?
This might not be an avenue you're interested in, but I would personally love to read about a Wal-Mart boycott, what was difficult, what was easy, what you missed, didn't miss, etc. Just a thought . . .
Friday, March 2, 2012
Memory, Week 7
Note: This one takes an uncomfortable turn, but it's because the writing brought me back to a few questions I keep returning to in life, to a sort of rhetorical dilemma. Something, I guess, I just needed to unload.
Tough Enough
Tough Enough
When I was ten, an emergency room doctor admitted my father to the hospital with kidney stones. I decided to play nurse. If he yelped with pain, I pushed the button for someone to bring medication. When it took too long, I went looking for staff with access to a pain pill or a shot. My grandfather tried to stop me, succeeded actually, by telling me that some people exaggerate pain, that some handle it better than others. I accepted that. He's one of those people, I thought. He just needs to toughen up. I hate to admit that I thought that. But at age 10, I knew all about that concept. My father told me to toughen up all the time. The pills and shots still came of course.
I heard much later, years later I guess, that a man passing kidney stones is the equivalent of a woman giving birth, at least in terms of pain. Who decided that, I wonder? A man with kidney stones estimating the pain of childbirth? Or a mother passing kidney stones? When I was 21, I went to the ER with severe back pain, nausea, and a fever of 103. Four kidney stones were trying to pass at once, and there were ten others waiting to strike at some unknown future date. My father was there to demand Demoral on my behalf, and I who hated needles, begged for the fastest relief, shot or no shot. To help with the analogy, and speaking as a mother of three, I prefer childbirth to kidney stone delivery.
The wholly physical pain of stones in the urinary track forces the host to break routine. Housework goes on hold, employers get notified, driving waits for another day. The line between well and unwell clearly marked, the unspoken “man down” a given. Nobody expects business as usual when you're flat on your back, doped up on pain killer, the x-rays your proof, a tangible sign of your physical excuse.
Emotional pain works differently. When I was a junior in high school, one of my classmates was admitted to the hospital for a week of rest, a victim, I heard, of stress, a victim on the verge of a breakdown. How, I wondered, does one recognize the “verge of a breakdown?” Later, a friend of mine who taught kindergarten students for ten years was diagnosed with a stress disorder related to her job and given an early retirement with pay. She was only 35 years old at the time. I'm not discounting the emotional and mental pain of these friends. I know that pain well and I relate to the need, the desire, to be removed from the stressors, the sources of pain that won't show up in radiology. And, for me, that's the crux. I sometimes wonder if I've passed my mental breaking point or if I really can take more. There's no hard evidence, no clearly marked line I can say I've crossed. Am I sucking it up or am I really not broken yet? Of my closest women friends, I only know one who hasn't been prescribed a mood enhancer for either short- or long-term treatment of anxiety or stress, the idea that if we face our demons with a better attitude, none of the stressors need be dealt with. The medication equivalent to a mantra I picked up somewhere: "You are the master of your emotions."
I once visited a friend who'd just given birth, and looking at her in her white hospital gown I thought not of the baby she was now responsible for, not of the nine months leading up to the birth, not of the delivery itself, but only of that image of her resting in her hospital bed, her food prepared for her, her job on hold, her duties delegated. And I was jealous. That's an odd thing to admit. But that's what I felt. I wanted a few days of bedrest, a break from kitchen chores, time off from my job, time off from chauffeur duty, time to stop pretending that everything was okay, that I felt like keeping up my routine, that I didn't have hidden hurts or repressed desires, that I was up to sucking it up.
On a good day, I crashed into a solid glass door at the Kapalua Maui Resort, thinking for a good 15 minutes that my nose was broken. When it stopped hurting, I knew an x-ray was unnecessary. I know, too, that on that day, heading out to ride horses and tour a pineapple plantation, my emotional health was in tact. At the plantation, my assigned horse, Harrison Ford, took off from the path at a trot and I squealed, one of only two things our tour guide told us not to do. She and Fabio caught up to us, calming Harrison down and reminding me to gently rein him in, to stay calm, should he stray again. Later, I saw a baby pineapple, learning that it takes a full year for the fruit to mature. Back at the hotel, I paused at the glass door, a little disoriented by its sheer invisibility.
Stress, heartache, debt, suffering loved ones, hopelessness, the blues. They're all invisible, too. Maybe you'll cry and that's visible. Maybe someone says, “You've got an anger problem” or “you're overemotional.” Maybe you never say a word, only squeeze yourself into a ball in the dark, wondering if tomorrow you will really stand up again, brush your teeth, wash your hair, make the coffee, drive to your part-time job, apply again for a real job. Or will you wake, find yourself unable to rise, and get the diagnosis that mandates your withdrawal? If standing when the moment comes, will your knees buckle, your body landing helplessly on the concrete like others you have known? Or, if no diagnosis comes, will you say anyway, finally, I'm not tough enough?
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Original Prompt, Week 7
On Lia Purpura's "Autopsy Report":
Obviously we don't all want to write about death, naming what it is that killed a person, what the dead body looks like, what dead bodies en masse waiting for the knife look like, how "our skin [is] not at all the boundary we're convinced of as we bump into each other," because, in the end, "[we open] easily" (410). But what Purpura gives us (or my reading of one of the many grains she gives us) is access to a mystery, something we might not have even realized we were curious about. I've never before tried to imagine the details of an autopsy, but Purpura goes in and reports back images I wouldn't have conjured up even if I had thought to try. Never would I have conceived of "[laughing] out loud" at first sight of the bodies either, but what Purpura gives us is the unexpected (406). And she's able to give us that moment because she surprises herself and is willing to share that moment.
So, I'll offer a prompt based on that last little bit:
Conversely to Purpura's unexpected and genuine laugh, is there a moment that you know without a doubt that you overreacted, either that your elevated emotion was fabricated because you felt it was expected or that you unexpectedly went all teary eyed at an otherwise carefree moment. She made an awkward admission, and I think this prompt might lead us to something similar and equally pen-worthy.
Obviously we don't all want to write about death, naming what it is that killed a person, what the dead body looks like, what dead bodies en masse waiting for the knife look like, how "our skin [is] not at all the boundary we're convinced of as we bump into each other," because, in the end, "[we open] easily" (410). But what Purpura gives us (or my reading of one of the many grains she gives us) is access to a mystery, something we might not have even realized we were curious about. I've never before tried to imagine the details of an autopsy, but Purpura goes in and reports back images I wouldn't have conjured up even if I had thought to try. Never would I have conceived of "[laughing] out loud" at first sight of the bodies either, but what Purpura gives us is the unexpected (406). And she's able to give us that moment because she surprises herself and is willing to share that moment.
So, I'll offer a prompt based on that last little bit:
Conversely to Purpura's unexpected and genuine laugh, is there a moment that you know without a doubt that you overreacted, either that your elevated emotion was fabricated because you felt it was expected or that you unexpectedly went all teary eyed at an otherwise carefree moment. She made an awkward admission, and I think this prompt might lead us to something similar and equally pen-worthy.
Peer Response 1, Week 7
*I'm responding here to Brett's Memory 2, Week 5, which I didn't get a chance to read closely until now.
Brett,
I haven't had the pleasure yet of reading all your posts on Korea, but of the ones I've read, this is easily my favorite. You happened upon, at the risk of my sounding predictable, the "perfect" hitchhike hosts. I'm wondering if hitchhiking is common in Korea, enough so that a family feels comfortable picking up strangers (although you seem nonthreatening enough). Or maybe I've just watched too many movies and have an uninformed fear.
The crux of the piece, for me, is the "gesture of erasure" made right by the idea that we are "contemporary people." Let's not talk about the history; we're concerned these days with "digging for razor clams in the mudflats off the coast," able to change course on a whim to tour Bomunsa. That's such a rich juxtaposition . . . the skirting of the news about the "mass graves of suspected leftists from the Korean War era" in order to live carefree as "contemporaries." But even though the gesture of erasure was made, that historical bit still hangs in the air, maybe like the smeared chalk in Beard's essay. Although you've moved on, the remnants of the moment suggest that you have to come back to it eventually, even if only to contemplate briefly on the significance of the past to the present. I LOVE this!!
Of course, I'm interested in the food, too, the crab on a stick. I don't think you necessarily need to expand on this moment, but I do think the piece benefits from this kind of detail, which you did a nice job of incorporating. Another rich moment is when you craftily show us the odd play between father and daughter, English teacher and student, and how, already, her English surpasses his. Great detail! Fantastically presented!! My best advice? Keep writing. I want to hear what happens next.
Brett,
I haven't had the pleasure yet of reading all your posts on Korea, but of the ones I've read, this is easily my favorite. You happened upon, at the risk of my sounding predictable, the "perfect" hitchhike hosts. I'm wondering if hitchhiking is common in Korea, enough so that a family feels comfortable picking up strangers (although you seem nonthreatening enough). Or maybe I've just watched too many movies and have an uninformed fear.
The crux of the piece, for me, is the "gesture of erasure" made right by the idea that we are "contemporary people." Let's not talk about the history; we're concerned these days with "digging for razor clams in the mudflats off the coast," able to change course on a whim to tour Bomunsa. That's such a rich juxtaposition . . . the skirting of the news about the "mass graves of suspected leftists from the Korean War era" in order to live carefree as "contemporaries." But even though the gesture of erasure was made, that historical bit still hangs in the air, maybe like the smeared chalk in Beard's essay. Although you've moved on, the remnants of the moment suggest that you have to come back to it eventually, even if only to contemplate briefly on the significance of the past to the present. I LOVE this!!
Of course, I'm interested in the food, too, the crab on a stick. I don't think you necessarily need to expand on this moment, but I do think the piece benefits from this kind of detail, which you did a nice job of incorporating. Another rich moment is when you craftily show us the odd play between father and daughter, English teacher and student, and how, already, her English surpasses his. Great detail! Fantastically presented!! My best advice? Keep writing. I want to hear what happens next.
Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 7
1) In protest of racial lines, my friend Tim says that underneath our skin, we're all red meat.
2) "I'm a vegetarian. But I do eat bacon." ~~Quote from a friend of a friend (I know roughly a half-dozen vegetarians, and oddly enough bacon seems as much missed as chicken. Very few miss beef.)
3) The Eggbeaters slogan: Unbeatable. That could be read positively, but I wonder if the public wants "unbeatable" eggs. Kind of an odd conundrum.
4) Fake meat. I know this isn't new or even that extraordinary. But I'm still intrigued. I eat veggie burgers sometimes. I even tried "Smart Bacon," which I thought would grow on me eventually, but in the end I deemed it eternally disgusting. You can get fake chicken patties, fake sausage, and even fake crumbled meat for stews and soups. The ingredient lists in these substitutes are often massive, the "chik patties" ingredients, for example, filling a 2" x 1.5" space (very tiny font). And although the "chik patties" are also labeled "veggie patties," only roughly 2 percent of the ingredients have anything to do with vegetables. (Yes, I have a box in my fridge at this moment.) I'm picturing the "chefs" in the labs/test kitchens scrambling to recreate the chicken sandwich, the hamburger, the slices of bacon, the sausage patty, etc. without the meat. And I'm wondering . . . are there any vegetarians out there who have always been vegetarians? If so, are they eating this faux meat (meat analogues)? Or is it just the former meat eaters buying this stuff up, trying to fill an absence.
2) "I'm a vegetarian. But I do eat bacon." ~~Quote from a friend of a friend (I know roughly a half-dozen vegetarians, and oddly enough bacon seems as much missed as chicken. Very few miss beef.)
3) The Eggbeaters slogan: Unbeatable. That could be read positively, but I wonder if the public wants "unbeatable" eggs. Kind of an odd conundrum.
4) Fake meat. I know this isn't new or even that extraordinary. But I'm still intrigued. I eat veggie burgers sometimes. I even tried "Smart Bacon," which I thought would grow on me eventually, but in the end I deemed it eternally disgusting. You can get fake chicken patties, fake sausage, and even fake crumbled meat for stews and soups. The ingredient lists in these substitutes are often massive, the "chik patties" ingredients, for example, filling a 2" x 1.5" space (very tiny font). And although the "chik patties" are also labeled "veggie patties," only roughly 2 percent of the ingredients have anything to do with vegetables. (Yes, I have a box in my fridge at this moment.) I'm picturing the "chefs" in the labs/test kitchens scrambling to recreate the chicken sandwich, the hamburger, the slices of bacon, the sausage patty, etc. without the meat. And I'm wondering . . . are there any vegetarians out there who have always been vegetarians? If so, are they eating this faux meat (meat analogues)? Or is it just the former meat eaters buying this stuff up, trying to fill an absence.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Peer Response, Week 5
Response to Melissa's Oddity, Week 5
Melissa,
I noticed that you used something from your junkyard in this piece, the admonition to "'go outside of Azeroth' with your friends." I thought that was a loaded quote and was glad to see you use it. That on-screen reminder to embrace life outside of the game speaks to the obsession-like interactive gaming trend, but also makes me think of manufacturer responsibility.
It reminds me of the warnings on alcohol and tobacco labels, or the notices at Six Flags about how pregnant people or those with back problems should avoid a particular ride. Certain warnings are required by law, others are there as a kind of voluntary disclaimer that might offer protection (to the company) of some sort in case of a lawsuit. I wonder if Azeroth's on-screen prompt hints at something similar or if it's meant only as a cute reference to its own addictiveness, one that holds no seriously intended meaning or concern. You could use that angle as a jumping-off point to expand your essay, I think.
Since warnings or suggestions such as this one are typically there for our protection (or to suggest that the manufacturer must think for us in order to protect itself), you could even bring in your junkyard quote about the squigly words meant to "prove you're not a robot." I guess it prevents spam? The same kind of screening process works when you're buying tickets for a concert or something, maybe to prevent ticket scalpers from scooping up all the good seats first. I would love to read a piece about these warnings and what they accomplish or don't.
Also, the details in this entry are fabulous. You give us the population groups I remember from "Lord of the Rings," and sprinkle in those I don't know, like Draenei and Worgen. The idea that you're "pewing" things is fun to think about. I think your prose might benefit in a few places (as would my own) by switching out some of your "is," "was," and "are" verbs for some beefed up verbs. But that's an easy fix. This piece, I think, holds a lot of opportunity for a longer, quite fascinating tale of "Warcraft" and "warnings."
Melissa,
I noticed that you used something from your junkyard in this piece, the admonition to "'go outside of Azeroth' with your friends." I thought that was a loaded quote and was glad to see you use it. That on-screen reminder to embrace life outside of the game speaks to the obsession-like interactive gaming trend, but also makes me think of manufacturer responsibility.
It reminds me of the warnings on alcohol and tobacco labels, or the notices at Six Flags about how pregnant people or those with back problems should avoid a particular ride. Certain warnings are required by law, others are there as a kind of voluntary disclaimer that might offer protection (to the company) of some sort in case of a lawsuit. I wonder if Azeroth's on-screen prompt hints at something similar or if it's meant only as a cute reference to its own addictiveness, one that holds no seriously intended meaning or concern. You could use that angle as a jumping-off point to expand your essay, I think.
Since warnings or suggestions such as this one are typically there for our protection (or to suggest that the manufacturer must think for us in order to protect itself), you could even bring in your junkyard quote about the squigly words meant to "prove you're not a robot." I guess it prevents spam? The same kind of screening process works when you're buying tickets for a concert or something, maybe to prevent ticket scalpers from scooping up all the good seats first. I would love to read a piece about these warnings and what they accomplish or don't.
Also, the details in this entry are fabulous. You give us the population groups I remember from "Lord of the Rings," and sprinkle in those I don't know, like Draenei and Worgen. The idea that you're "pewing" things is fun to think about. I think your prose might benefit in a few places (as would my own) by switching out some of your "is," "was," and "are" verbs for some beefed up verbs. But that's an easy fix. This piece, I think, holds a lot of opportunity for a longer, quite fascinating tale of "Warcraft" and "warnings."
Improv, Week 5
(testing my prompt for this week)
Gorilla Warfare
"Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me." My daughter, swept up in the latest app for I-phone, keeps getting bashed by primates in her pursuit of something I have yet to identify. But I relate to the ambush. My gorilla that day was laundry. I, for the moment, measuring my life in scoops of Tide. I used to proclaim, with some sense of originality, that while polishing one piece of my life, I neglected other pieces dissolving undetected into disarray. The mounds of laundry the product of dustless bookshelves, spot-free drinking glasses, tubs free of iron stains. Then I learned everyone feels that way. I'm no exception.
Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. The five-pager due on Tuesday, buried in the prose of the hundred-pager up for discussion on Monday. My brain itches the word "write," my planner etches the word "read." What, Milton, should I remember from your tale? It won't be relevant. The relevant gorillas sneak up behind me in the robust analysis of a classmate. I remember fire. And ice. Damn primates. Reading the prose was not enough.
A gorilla. The word still evokes an image of my sister-in-law's dad, years before I was born, climbing into the gorilla habitat at the zoo, looking for a fight. I'm not kidding. He was inebriated, Denise says. That's her retelling the story he told her. I didn't know smuggling alcohol into a zoo was an option. Or desirable. He climbed in on a dare. He lost the fight. Lost two teeth. And some blood. Roger woke up the next morning in his own bed, where his friends left him and his mom found him. The gorillas I've seen seem sedated, content to let their leathery palms rest on the ground, staring in one direction for drawn out intervals. They looked bored, uninterested in the gawking audience, unfazed by our hankering to see them do something. Anything. Roger, I guess, determined to test the quiet. I'd like to see them in the wild.
Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. Once, while buying groceries with my two youngest children, anxious to check out with the essentials in tow, I let drift through my ears Emily's quiet request to find a bathroom. I accused her many times before that of a bizarre fascination with restroom decor, certain that she only wanted to see what every toilet in every venue in every town looked like. Wasn't there anything original anywhere? But this day, comparing the fat content of fat-free refried beans and original refried beans, I failed to respond. I checked items off my list, Emily jogging my memory as I grouped cans, boxes, toiletries and produce on the checkout belt. "Almost done," I promised distractedly. As I handed my card to the cashier, a flood ensued, an embarrassing apology, an intercom call for disinfectant and mop. I was sorry. So sorry that I didn't heed to the gorillas behind me. I failed as a parent that day. I hugged her tightly, trying to undo her embarrassment at something she couldn't help, accepting all the blame myself, as I should. Tomorrow, I would do better.
Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. The empty dog food bowl. The postponing of another date night. Sebastian trailing me with a ball in his mouth, wagging his tail. The stained coffee pot. The empty wine glass in the upstairs shower. The $30 field trip fee due yesterday. The empty toilet paper roll. Missing the deadline for a group rate at the Hilton DeSoto. Thesis research. The weeds around the lantanas. Forgetting to call my best friend. The unmopped floors, unanswered letters, 2,000 emails stuck in my inbox. Sometimes I forget, when I beg for consolation, there are gorillas behind you, too.
Gorilla Warfare
"Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me." My daughter, swept up in the latest app for I-phone, keeps getting bashed by primates in her pursuit of something I have yet to identify. But I relate to the ambush. My gorilla that day was laundry. I, for the moment, measuring my life in scoops of Tide. I used to proclaim, with some sense of originality, that while polishing one piece of my life, I neglected other pieces dissolving undetected into disarray. The mounds of laundry the product of dustless bookshelves, spot-free drinking glasses, tubs free of iron stains. Then I learned everyone feels that way. I'm no exception.
Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. The five-pager due on Tuesday, buried in the prose of the hundred-pager up for discussion on Monday. My brain itches the word "write," my planner etches the word "read." What, Milton, should I remember from your tale? It won't be relevant. The relevant gorillas sneak up behind me in the robust analysis of a classmate. I remember fire. And ice. Damn primates. Reading the prose was not enough.
A gorilla. The word still evokes an image of my sister-in-law's dad, years before I was born, climbing into the gorilla habitat at the zoo, looking for a fight. I'm not kidding. He was inebriated, Denise says. That's her retelling the story he told her. I didn't know smuggling alcohol into a zoo was an option. Or desirable. He climbed in on a dare. He lost the fight. Lost two teeth. And some blood. Roger woke up the next morning in his own bed, where his friends left him and his mom found him. The gorillas I've seen seem sedated, content to let their leathery palms rest on the ground, staring in one direction for drawn out intervals. They looked bored, uninterested in the gawking audience, unfazed by our hankering to see them do something. Anything. Roger, I guess, determined to test the quiet. I'd like to see them in the wild.
Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. Once, while buying groceries with my two youngest children, anxious to check out with the essentials in tow, I let drift through my ears Emily's quiet request to find a bathroom. I accused her many times before that of a bizarre fascination with restroom decor, certain that she only wanted to see what every toilet in every venue in every town looked like. Wasn't there anything original anywhere? But this day, comparing the fat content of fat-free refried beans and original refried beans, I failed to respond. I checked items off my list, Emily jogging my memory as I grouped cans, boxes, toiletries and produce on the checkout belt. "Almost done," I promised distractedly. As I handed my card to the cashier, a flood ensued, an embarrassing apology, an intercom call for disinfectant and mop. I was sorry. So sorry that I didn't heed to the gorillas behind me. I failed as a parent that day. I hugged her tightly, trying to undo her embarrassment at something she couldn't help, accepting all the blame myself, as I should. Tomorrow, I would do better.
Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. The empty dog food bowl. The postponing of another date night. Sebastian trailing me with a ball in his mouth, wagging his tail. The stained coffee pot. The empty wine glass in the upstairs shower. The $30 field trip fee due yesterday. The empty toilet paper roll. Missing the deadline for a group rate at the Hilton DeSoto. Thesis research. The weeds around the lantanas. Forgetting to call my best friend. The unmopped floors, unanswered letters, 2,000 emails stuck in my inbox. Sometimes I forget, when I beg for consolation, there are gorillas behind you, too.
Original Prompt, Week 5
In "The Date," Brenda Miller anchors the piece with the first line: "A man I like is coming for dinner tonight" (381). Miller repeats close versions of this line four times at the beginning of paragraphs, then closes the piece "casually walk[ing] out to greet this man I like, this man who's coming to dinner" (388). The repetition of this loaded fact works to keep the writer focused on the anxiety and expectations permeating it, giving her a new opportunity each time to reflect on a specific association. For example, after the first mention, Miller admits to sleeping very little, getting up early and mulling over rearranging the photos on her fridge, the ones he might use to read her life in some way, to decide if she's worth pursuing. In other sections, Miller talks about "[choosing] and [discarding] recipes as if trying on dresses" (383), whether or not she should "wash the sheets, just in case" (384), whether to get ready early and how much effort she should invest, and, finally, when he's late, she stresses over the possibility that he won't show.
Especially since Dr. Davidson has pointed out the need to incorporate more reflection in our work, I thought a prompt taken from Miller's strategy might prod us (emphasis on me) in the right direction. Repeating an anchor line may represent the opposite approach to starting an essay with a thread that serves only as a trigger into something else, but as an exercise to trigger reflection, I see it as a positive exception. Besides, Miller found an escape into a brief exposition of the word "date," playing off the title to discuss date orchards and her memories of eating fruit on summer car trips as a child (386). In fact, the fruit paragraph may be the only one that mentions the word "date," and the context contrasts with and complements nicely the essay's primary focus.
Davidson (rightly, I think) cautioned us that trying to come up with a great idea for an essay can lead to anxiety and inhibit the writing process. Hence, the benefit of object studies and the like. Instead of pulling a one-liner from the air, revisit one of your essays or journal entries that you want to expand and look for a grounding sentence that you can repeat and reflect on every so often in your piece.
(Edited to add: You might find a loaded one-liner in your junkyard. Imagine using a quote you admire as an anchor for an essay.)
Especially since Dr. Davidson has pointed out the need to incorporate more reflection in our work, I thought a prompt taken from Miller's strategy might prod us (emphasis on me) in the right direction. Repeating an anchor line may represent the opposite approach to starting an essay with a thread that serves only as a trigger into something else, but as an exercise to trigger reflection, I see it as a positive exception. Besides, Miller found an escape into a brief exposition of the word "date," playing off the title to discuss date orchards and her memories of eating fruit on summer car trips as a child (386). In fact, the fruit paragraph may be the only one that mentions the word "date," and the context contrasts with and complements nicely the essay's primary focus.
Davidson (rightly, I think) cautioned us that trying to come up with a great idea for an essay can lead to anxiety and inhibit the writing process. Hence, the benefit of object studies and the like. Instead of pulling a one-liner from the air, revisit one of your essays or journal entries that you want to expand and look for a grounding sentence that you can repeat and reflect on every so often in your piece.
(Edited to add: You might find a loaded one-liner in your junkyard. Imagine using a quote you admire as an anchor for an essay.)
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Memory, Week 5
The Stanley Transplant
An unnatural respect for John Deere tractors gets you an honorary uncle title in my mom's family. We don't have a guidebook to family inclusion or an official ceremony of any sort, but experience shows this to be the case. We adopted Stanley, a country-solid lover of green farm equipment he never uses and the polar opposite to my Aunt Nora, the proper anecdote to unsightly manners and dirty boots. Stanley came to Christmas gatherings, once deducing "that ain't no shop vac" while manhandling a freshly unwrapped box clearly labeled "Shop-Vac" but housing rather facetiously John Deere salt and pepper shakers and a matching hardback picture book.
Once, on our way to surprise Uncle Hughey preaching at Highlands United Methodist Church in downtown Birmingham, our car in the lead, Stanley caught up to us, his head out the passenger window, his arm wildly waving a two-way, informing us that Aunt Nora needed coffee. It was a cruel prank of my mom's to put Nora and Stanley in the same car, Nora's lips pursed, her eyebrows perfectly painted, her consternation conspicuously awkward.
I remember Nora's outstretched manicured hand, the starched dollar bill poised to pay for her java, followed by Stanley's large labor-marked counterpart forcing hers down to her side. "Put your money up. It ain't no good here, woman."
Later during church service, Stanley went missing, returning a good half hour later with a steaming vessel of Starbucks between his palms, scooting back to Nora's side, her guardian for the day. I later learned he had offered to bring her a cup back, which she politely refused. Church concessions, I suppose, being too avant-garde for her taste.
An unnatural respect for John Deere tractors gets you an honorary uncle title in my mom's family. We don't have a guidebook to family inclusion or an official ceremony of any sort, but experience shows this to be the case. We adopted Stanley, a country-solid lover of green farm equipment he never uses and the polar opposite to my Aunt Nora, the proper anecdote to unsightly manners and dirty boots. Stanley came to Christmas gatherings, once deducing "that ain't no shop vac" while manhandling a freshly unwrapped box clearly labeled "Shop-Vac" but housing rather facetiously John Deere salt and pepper shakers and a matching hardback picture book.
Once, on our way to surprise Uncle Hughey preaching at Highlands United Methodist Church in downtown Birmingham, our car in the lead, Stanley caught up to us, his head out the passenger window, his arm wildly waving a two-way, informing us that Aunt Nora needed coffee. It was a cruel prank of my mom's to put Nora and Stanley in the same car, Nora's lips pursed, her eyebrows perfectly painted, her consternation conspicuously awkward.
I remember Nora's outstretched manicured hand, the starched dollar bill poised to pay for her java, followed by Stanley's large labor-marked counterpart forcing hers down to her side. "Put your money up. It ain't no good here, woman."
Later during church service, Stanley went missing, returning a good half hour later with a steaming vessel of Starbucks between his palms, scooting back to Nora's side, her guardian for the day. I later learned he had offered to bring her a cup back, which she politely refused. Church concessions, I suppose, being too avant-garde for her taste.
Reportage, Week 5
Gourmet Gas Station
I stumbled yesterday upon what Savannah's locals christened the "gourmet gas station." At Parker's Market, you can purchase a bottle of wine and cool it in the "chilling station" for sixty seconds, the equivalent (according to the signage) of three hours in your fridge. Grab your fruit of choice, cream cheese, a can of caviar, or sushi rolls, if you like. The deli boasts cullings of pasta salads, tabbouleh, fresh baked artisan breads, and seafood hoagies. The cheese station--all asiago, bleu, munster, gouda--contrasts with the two gas pumps, outside lane only, the modest parking splitting the fuel center from the double glass doors, open 24 hours.
Between the merlot and the rice rolls, you can indulge in the expected on the candy aisle--Snickers, Starburst, Skittles--and the unexpected chocolate-covered espresso beans sold by the half pound. The chip aisle, the cigarettes, gum, beer, lottery tickets, toilet paper, and bath soap grounding the genre. I needed maximum hold. "Sorry," the unibrowed clerk pronounced, ringing up condoms and caviar for a more satisfied customer, "we don't carry hairspray."
I hurried on to the Hilton DeSoto and into the cookie-cutter gift shop, all souvenirs and necessities, where I spent $4.89 on 1.5 ounces of TRESemmé. Taming my curls in the ladies' room, adjusting my skirt one last time before picking up my conference packet, my thoughts turned to gourmet dinner options.
I stumbled yesterday upon what Savannah's locals christened the "gourmet gas station." At Parker's Market, you can purchase a bottle of wine and cool it in the "chilling station" for sixty seconds, the equivalent (according to the signage) of three hours in your fridge. Grab your fruit of choice, cream cheese, a can of caviar, or sushi rolls, if you like. The deli boasts cullings of pasta salads, tabbouleh, fresh baked artisan breads, and seafood hoagies. The cheese station--all asiago, bleu, munster, gouda--contrasts with the two gas pumps, outside lane only, the modest parking splitting the fuel center from the double glass doors, open 24 hours.
Between the merlot and the rice rolls, you can indulge in the expected on the candy aisle--Snickers, Starburst, Skittles--and the unexpected chocolate-covered espresso beans sold by the half pound. The chip aisle, the cigarettes, gum, beer, lottery tickets, toilet paper, and bath soap grounding the genre. I needed maximum hold. "Sorry," the unibrowed clerk pronounced, ringing up condoms and caviar for a more satisfied customer, "we don't carry hairspray."
I hurried on to the Hilton DeSoto and into the cookie-cutter gift shop, all souvenirs and necessities, where I spent $4.89 on 1.5 ounces of TRESemmé. Taming my curls in the ladies' room, adjusting my skirt one last time before picking up my conference packet, my thoughts turned to gourmet dinner options.
Oddity, Week 5
Heavy
You can predict how much you'll weigh in the morning by weighing yourself at night. When I confessed to my best friend Patricia how I, impatient to track my progress, devised a way to celebrate or self deprecate a few hours early, all relative to the order of three weighty digits, she grinned in recognition. My confided secret, my unsound obsession, was hers, too. And Gina's. And Sherry's. And, I guess, a majority of our colleagues who add points, calories, or ounces of water in order, optimally, to subtract pounds from last week's tally.
Most any weight loss regimen promotes a once a week weigh in, on the same day, at the same time, and in the same clothes. Morning weigh-ins are the ones that count, at least for me. And I, like many determined to lose those last ten pounds or the first ten, ignore the once-a-week mandate in order to get the insider's scoop on just how detrimental that pint of ice cream was to a day otherwise fueled by spinach, diet soda, black beans, and brown rice. Or, perhaps I forgot to count the cashews or underestimated the calories in four fig newtons. Perhaps my run was shorter than planned or I never got around to "Boot Camp" intervals of body resistance and cardio.
I find my backbone softer than the women who, blogging about weight loss success, say they just stop eating once they reach their daily limit, even if they meet it at noon. Weaker than others who claim to up their workout duration or intensity to compensate for the sweet tea and red velvet cake indulgence at a Sunday afternoon baby shower. Unfazed by the revelation that each human tends to eat the same volume of food today as yesterday, rather than the same number of calories--a discovery meant to inspire us to eat the weight of a chocolate bar in lettuce or fruit, to make less calorie-dense choices.
And the mantra meant to nourish my will, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," fails by association because I've never been skinny. But I know how good "Moose Tracks" tastes, the fudgy imprints, the drops of coated peanut butter. I know the comfort of homemade french fries, the contentment of honey butter slathered yeast rolls, the creamy warmth of fettuccine alfredo. I know what it means to scour the pantry for something sweet, come up empty, and turn to the can of cocoa for relief, consoled to learn that I do indeed have all the ingredients to make the "'Perfectly Chocolate' Chocolate Frosting" printed on the back.
You can predict how much you'll weigh in the morning by weighing yourself at night. When I confessed to my best friend Patricia how I, impatient to track my progress, devised a way to celebrate or self deprecate a few hours early, all relative to the order of three weighty digits, she grinned in recognition. My confided secret, my unsound obsession, was hers, too. And Gina's. And Sherry's. And, I guess, a majority of our colleagues who add points, calories, or ounces of water in order, optimally, to subtract pounds from last week's tally.
Most any weight loss regimen promotes a once a week weigh in, on the same day, at the same time, and in the same clothes. Morning weigh-ins are the ones that count, at least for me. And I, like many determined to lose those last ten pounds or the first ten, ignore the once-a-week mandate in order to get the insider's scoop on just how detrimental that pint of ice cream was to a day otherwise fueled by spinach, diet soda, black beans, and brown rice. Or, perhaps I forgot to count the cashews or underestimated the calories in four fig newtons. Perhaps my run was shorter than planned or I never got around to "Boot Camp" intervals of body resistance and cardio.
I find my backbone softer than the women who, blogging about weight loss success, say they just stop eating once they reach their daily limit, even if they meet it at noon. Weaker than others who claim to up their workout duration or intensity to compensate for the sweet tea and red velvet cake indulgence at a Sunday afternoon baby shower. Unfazed by the revelation that each human tends to eat the same volume of food today as yesterday, rather than the same number of calories--a discovery meant to inspire us to eat the weight of a chocolate bar in lettuce or fruit, to make less calorie-dense choices.
And the mantra meant to nourish my will, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," fails by association because I've never been skinny. But I know how good "Moose Tracks" tastes, the fudgy imprints, the drops of coated peanut butter. I know the comfort of homemade french fries, the contentment of honey butter slathered yeast rolls, the creamy warmth of fettuccine alfredo. I know what it means to scour the pantry for something sweet, come up empty, and turn to the can of cocoa for relief, consoled to learn that I do indeed have all the ingredients to make the "'Perfectly Chocolate' Chocolate Frosting" printed on the back.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 5
~Q: "What's your favorite vegetable?" A: "Lima Beans! They're like little pockets of mashed potatoes."
~"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."
~"Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me."
~The phenomenon of people posting pictures of their dinner on facebook. It's just dinner, right? And pictures are a bit different than telling us about a great-tasting recipe you just tried. I'm talking a photoshoot featuring the pot roast and all its (apparently) newsworthy trimmings.
~"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."
~"Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me."
~The phenomenon of people posting pictures of their dinner on facebook. It's just dinner, right? And pictures are a bit different than telling us about a great-tasting recipe you just tried. I'm talking a photoshoot featuring the pot roast and all its (apparently) newsworthy trimmings.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Peer Response 2, Week 3
Response to Brett's Memory 1, Week 3
Brett,
I agree that your use of language is impressive. And I'm not following instructions here, but I have to say anyway that I love your play with words. When you say "insomnia often fastened me to the drawing table near my window," I'm jealous that you thought to say that. You consistently use concrete images that wake up the scene and you're setting the scene more thoroughly now that Davidson made that suggestion. I think you're also following through with trimming the prose and letting the sharper language say more than it could before. Maybe you could seek out a sister scene in Indy to make a connection and keep the story moving. Also, add some reflection. What does this scene invoke for you personally? That's all I can offer. I love what you're doing. And I want to hear more about Korea.
Brett,
I agree that your use of language is impressive. And I'm not following instructions here, but I have to say anyway that I love your play with words. When you say "insomnia often fastened me to the drawing table near my window," I'm jealous that you thought to say that. You consistently use concrete images that wake up the scene and you're setting the scene more thoroughly now that Davidson made that suggestion. I think you're also following through with trimming the prose and letting the sharper language say more than it could before. Maybe you could seek out a sister scene in Indy to make a connection and keep the story moving. Also, add some reflection. What does this scene invoke for you personally? That's all I can offer. I love what you're doing. And I want to hear more about Korea.
Peer Response 1, Week 3
Response to Susannah's Memory 1, Week 3
This story is chock full of interesting, ripe happenings. To start in the middle of the action, you might think of opening with "The house across the street from us was a drug dealer’s mansion" or a brief quip about how your neighbor's tiger crashed your cousin's coming-out party.
Also, you could make this memory pop by streamlining your prose. For example, what if, instead of saying, "I imagine the tiger must have been doped up on some kind of sedative because my father grabbed the chain that hung from its neck and walked it back to the neighbor’s house as if it had been a puppy Labrador that had come to join the festivities and beg for left-over meatballs," you shortened it to: "I suspected animal doping when my father led the tiger back home by its chain, as though it was a puppy Labrador, come to beg for left-over meatballs." That's certainly not the only option for cutting the prose a bit, but I think trimming the language allows the spotlight to remain fixed on this unexpected scene.
I'm fascinated with this background of yours. I imagine you have lots of other stories from this kind of odd neighborhood mingling. I'd love to hear them!
Reportage, Week 3
(This probably isn't a 'normal' response to a dead mouse. But it's mine and I own it, whatever that means.)
Lovely Mouse
Last Monday, I stooped near the steps in my back yard to take a closer look at a dead mouse. I didn't know he was dead. He looked on the verge of taking a deep breath, of expanding his warm round middle before turning over in his sleep. I wanted to touch his jagged chestnut fur, give him the only petting of his brief life.
The mouse looked friendly enough, as though he had always been open to human touch. I crept closer, attracted to soft, relaxed eyelids. I think I remember long eyelashes. Lured to his side by the pink nose, his fat center. All rolled up in a fleshy bundle, he seemed not to have a tail at all. Was it the tail that repulsed me?
I nudged the mouse, expecting his eyes to widen, his feet to hurry him away to the field at the edge of the yard. I was grieved when he didn't budge, disturbed that he could be stiff with no outward signs of abuse. When I remembered, abruptly, last week's creeping rodent scampering past my feet in our basement, hunched low to the ground, sniffing his way to safety, his whip of a tail trailing his path, I squeaked. Not the same shriek that called Jeff to my rescue, promising to save me from unwelcome droppings and certain contamination. "I'll take care of it," he promised, placing poison in the mouse's likeliest haunts.
The lovely mouse means something else to me now, lifeless and plump on a bed of gravel just beyond the basement door.
Lovely Mouse
Last Monday, I stooped near the steps in my back yard to take a closer look at a dead mouse. I didn't know he was dead. He looked on the verge of taking a deep breath, of expanding his warm round middle before turning over in his sleep. I wanted to touch his jagged chestnut fur, give him the only petting of his brief life.
The mouse looked friendly enough, as though he had always been open to human touch. I crept closer, attracted to soft, relaxed eyelids. I think I remember long eyelashes. Lured to his side by the pink nose, his fat center. All rolled up in a fleshy bundle, he seemed not to have a tail at all. Was it the tail that repulsed me?
I nudged the mouse, expecting his eyes to widen, his feet to hurry him away to the field at the edge of the yard. I was grieved when he didn't budge, disturbed that he could be stiff with no outward signs of abuse. When I remembered, abruptly, last week's creeping rodent scampering past my feet in our basement, hunched low to the ground, sniffing his way to safety, his whip of a tail trailing his path, I squeaked. Not the same shriek that called Jeff to my rescue, promising to save me from unwelcome droppings and certain contamination. "I'll take care of it," he promised, placing poison in the mouse's likeliest haunts.
The lovely mouse means something else to me now, lifeless and plump on a bed of gravel just beyond the basement door.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Original Prompt, Week 3
Text: "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" by E.J. Levy
Levy effectively brings in historical context (ie Julia Child's cooking show, the feminist movement, Watergate, Vietnam, and anxiety over oil prices) to help her establish associations between traditional family roles, her mom's culinary quirks, and her parents' marriage. Levy focuses in part on her mom's cooking of Child's recipes as a distraction from compromised desire (as Levy sees it). According to Levy, her mom--"widely read . . . an accomplished pianist and a gifted painter [who] speaks French and Czech, [and] is knowledgeable in art and history, physics, physiology, and philosophy"--had her "enormous ambitions . . . channeled by her marriage into a narrow course" (294-295).
Levy writes that her mom "was of that generation of women caught in the sexual crossfire of women's liberation, who knew enough to probe for their desires, but not enough to practice them" (291). Levy imagined or deduced that her mom was only waiting for the right moment to insist on her own liberation. She juxtaposes her mom's submissiveness to convention with her own schism against social conformity. Levy hints that although her mom never left (Levy had always expected she would), she did eventually throw in her apron, opting years later, for example, to order "a large, squat, hatbox-shaped vegetable torte with marinara sauce" in place of the traditional Thanksgiving turkey.
What impressed me about this piece is the way Levy chronicles the relationship between gustatory choices and the feminist movement, and ultimately her mom's subtle shifts in her role as the family's hash slinger.
Prompt:
Write about a family food tradition (or lack of) that embarrassed you when you had a friend over. Dig for a moment during your adolescent or teenage years.
Levy effectively brings in historical context (ie Julia Child's cooking show, the feminist movement, Watergate, Vietnam, and anxiety over oil prices) to help her establish associations between traditional family roles, her mom's culinary quirks, and her parents' marriage. Levy focuses in part on her mom's cooking of Child's recipes as a distraction from compromised desire (as Levy sees it). According to Levy, her mom--"widely read . . . an accomplished pianist and a gifted painter [who] speaks French and Czech, [and] is knowledgeable in art and history, physics, physiology, and philosophy"--had her "enormous ambitions . . . channeled by her marriage into a narrow course" (294-295).
Levy writes that her mom "was of that generation of women caught in the sexual crossfire of women's liberation, who knew enough to probe for their desires, but not enough to practice them" (291). Levy imagined or deduced that her mom was only waiting for the right moment to insist on her own liberation. She juxtaposes her mom's submissiveness to convention with her own schism against social conformity. Levy hints that although her mom never left (Levy had always expected she would), she did eventually throw in her apron, opting years later, for example, to order "a large, squat, hatbox-shaped vegetable torte with marinara sauce" in place of the traditional Thanksgiving turkey.
What impressed me about this piece is the way Levy chronicles the relationship between gustatory choices and the feminist movement, and ultimately her mom's subtle shifts in her role as the family's hash slinger.
Prompt:
Write about a family food tradition (or lack of) that embarrassed you when you had a friend over. Dig for a moment during your adolescent or teenage years.
Memory 2, Week 3
Friday Nights
Bailee chose a silver stone from the graveled driveway and etched a curvy line of gray into the green paint of my Saturn S-series. She was four and bored, waiting on her mom to take her home after a long day at daycare.
Bailee, blonde with Shirley Temple curls and a pageant smile, stopped only briefly at her mom's insistence. Lisa picked up her monologue where she left off. Something about an elk hunting trip she was taking that weekend. Lisa made small talk that evening, an attempt to smooth over the fact that she breezed through my kitchen door 50 minutes late for pick up on a Friday night. She made it up to me by keeping me an extra half hour with idle chat, ignoring Bailee's roguery and costing me a $500 deposit on a new paint job. I was distracted and nodding zealously, hoping to appear sufficiently appeased. Wanting Lisa to feel forgiven. To go home.
Friday nights meant laundering blankets and sanitizing cots, wooden blocks, Tonka trucks, baby dolls, manipulatives, and teething rings. Friday nights meant hiding toys under beds, stuffing cots in closets, and locking away art supplies for a two-day reprieve, a temporary reclamation of my space. Friday nights meant grocery shopping for juice, milk, applesauce, Lysol. Topping off the food program report and skimming the attendance sheets in case parents forgot to sign in cursive or log the drop-off or pick-up time. A slight that could cost me marks on my accreditation observation or dollars on my monthly food allotment.
I forged through my chores, sweeping the great room floor for the sixth or seventh time in a day, hiding the high chairs in the storage room, boxing up modeling clay and ABC placements, and taking down the pictures of people we don't know, photos illustrating babies and toddlers from diverse cultures and races brushing their teeth, washing their hands, or eating spaghetti.
Friday nights meant kitchen strike, according to my husband, who hoped that trend would change. Two-and-a-half days' reprieve from the black skillet, baking sheets, boilers, crock pots, and microwaves. Sixty hours of escapist lit, broken rest, American cityscape puzzles, apple-pie scented candles. Thirty-six hundred minutes of quiet.
By Monday, I would be ready to make toddlers into human circles, squares, and triangles in the living room floor. We'd make ice cream with a few ingredients and a ziplock bag. We'd turn the playset into a pirate ship or a firetruck. We'd make the letter 'A' out of play-doh or uncooked macaroni. We'd have an apple-tasting contest and name 'pink lady,' 'granny smith,' 'fuji,' or braeburn' our favorite. We'd read "The Three Little Fish and the Big, Bad Shark." And we'd start ripping apart orange and blue construction paper for Friday's pep rally.
Bailee chose a silver stone from the graveled driveway and etched a curvy line of gray into the green paint of my Saturn S-series. She was four and bored, waiting on her mom to take her home after a long day at daycare.
Bailee, blonde with Shirley Temple curls and a pageant smile, stopped only briefly at her mom's insistence. Lisa picked up her monologue where she left off. Something about an elk hunting trip she was taking that weekend. Lisa made small talk that evening, an attempt to smooth over the fact that she breezed through my kitchen door 50 minutes late for pick up on a Friday night. She made it up to me by keeping me an extra half hour with idle chat, ignoring Bailee's roguery and costing me a $500 deposit on a new paint job. I was distracted and nodding zealously, hoping to appear sufficiently appeased. Wanting Lisa to feel forgiven. To go home.
Friday nights meant laundering blankets and sanitizing cots, wooden blocks, Tonka trucks, baby dolls, manipulatives, and teething rings. Friday nights meant hiding toys under beds, stuffing cots in closets, and locking away art supplies for a two-day reprieve, a temporary reclamation of my space. Friday nights meant grocery shopping for juice, milk, applesauce, Lysol. Topping off the food program report and skimming the attendance sheets in case parents forgot to sign in cursive or log the drop-off or pick-up time. A slight that could cost me marks on my accreditation observation or dollars on my monthly food allotment.
I forged through my chores, sweeping the great room floor for the sixth or seventh time in a day, hiding the high chairs in the storage room, boxing up modeling clay and ABC placements, and taking down the pictures of people we don't know, photos illustrating babies and toddlers from diverse cultures and races brushing their teeth, washing their hands, or eating spaghetti.
Friday nights meant kitchen strike, according to my husband, who hoped that trend would change. Two-and-a-half days' reprieve from the black skillet, baking sheets, boilers, crock pots, and microwaves. Sixty hours of escapist lit, broken rest, American cityscape puzzles, apple-pie scented candles. Thirty-six hundred minutes of quiet.
By Monday, I would be ready to make toddlers into human circles, squares, and triangles in the living room floor. We'd make ice cream with a few ingredients and a ziplock bag. We'd turn the playset into a pirate ship or a firetruck. We'd make the letter 'A' out of play-doh or uncooked macaroni. We'd have an apple-tasting contest and name 'pink lady,' 'granny smith,' 'fuji,' or braeburn' our favorite. We'd read "The Three Little Fish and the Big, Bad Shark." And we'd start ripping apart orange and blue construction paper for Friday's pep rally.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 3
~"Would you rather be perpetually misunderstood or understood perpetually?"
~"She's already using your name in the past tense."
~Low Cost Spay and Neuter out of an RV in the Tractor Supply Parking Lot. There was a line. But I didn't see the first animal.
~(Quoting a tweet) "What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?"
~"She's already using your name in the past tense."
~Low Cost Spay and Neuter out of an RV in the Tractor Supply Parking Lot. There was a line. But I didn't see the first animal.
~(Quoting a tweet) "What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?"
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Memory 1, Week 3
Disclaimer: I think I've avoided writing about daycare because there's so much to unpack. I couldn't decide where to begin, so I just started with the waiting list, which always made me feel awkward.
Waitlisted
On the days that Christy won the showdown and left for the shop alone, Kenzie forgot all about her before the Yukon took a right out of my driveway. Sally managed me. I managed the children. The children managed the moms.
Waitlisted
When three-year-old Jake got waitlisted for daycare, his mom tried to bull open a seventh spot. Six was the legal limit. I don't recall the nuances of Janie's petition, but the sting underneath was painfully dealt: “Can't you fudge a little for your daughter's best friend's mom who's six months along and sits three pews back from you at Sunday service?” Then she sicked her husband Steve on me, who added the guilt of his wife's fragile emotional state and possible need for continuous bedrest.
In Woodland, Alabama—population 186 according to the aging town limit sign—there is one school, one bank, one gas station, one beauty shop, one-half of a restaurant, one recycling joint, roughly seventeen churches, and six daycares. At least there are six that anyone official knows about. All in, local parents have four basic options: Grandma, Rita's Little Angels Preschool, rogue underground home-based child depots, and licensed home providers like me. And there are three like me.
Parents in need of daycare hash out the ins and outs of center versus home care at t-ball games, Sassy Scissors, and at the Grapevine over pita bread and fried chicken. Moms drop words like “socialization” sometimes, but the buzz mainly falls to provider reputation, cost, structure, level of exposure to sickness, and preparation for kindergarten. No mom wants her child to be behind at five years old. Scholarly preparation for preschoolers falls reductively in the “learn through play” camp or the “whiz by worksheet” camp.
Janie—a stay-at-home mom—wanted socialization for Jake with minimal exposure to vomit, snot, and diarrhea. Also, loose structure, a provider she knew personally, and prep through play ranked high on her list. The best I could do was offer Janie a drop-in option for days that other children were out. She took it. When Janie dropped Jake off for the first time, he had his own stipulation. “I'll stay, but I ain't eatin' no beans.” Jake had a penchant for stomping the feet of other children when my back was turned. Sometimes I forgot to call Janie when a spot opened up for a day.
Waitlisted kids rarely got in anyway, most years. Spots generally only opened up when an enrolled child started school. Jennifer—eventual mother of three—once paid six months for a ghost child so that her as yet unborn son could get his sister Carley's spot after she started school. So Carley was replaced by Callen. And five days a week, 6:45 am to 4 pm, Callen, Cade, Kaylie, Kenzie, Kenzlie, and Mattie—this is not made up—played their way through my home into my family.
Callen, carried in by his father religiously at 6:45 am every morning, slept on the couch while the seven-o'clockers ate a starch, a protein, and a fruit, my husband Jeff feigning a craving for their hot biscuits and milk, raising the decibel to an unbearable level before complaining in my ear that it's too loud and leaving for work.
Without fail, Mattie and Cade arrived at 7:45 am, their mom throwing them at me, their tongues and chins stained orange from popsicle juice, the standard bribe to hurry up and get in the van.
Kenzie's mom—who answered the phone at her husband's body shop for a living—brought Kenzie's 10 o'clock "breakfast" from the Grapevine every morning as a bribe for her to stay. A “salad” consisting of shredded cheese, banana peppers, thousand island dressing, and bacon bits. No lettuce. Christy stood next to Kenzie while she ate, putting off, or prolonging, the whiny exchange over her mom leaving a half an hour later. Sometimes Christi gave in and took Kenzie back to the shop with her. Sally Kelley, a provider mentor from Auburn University who visited me once a month for on-site training, had something to say about that. According to Sally, Christi was conditioning Kenzie to use negative behavior effectively.
Apparently, Kenzie has a timekeeper in her subconscious that allows her to record and remember how long she needs to cry to get mom to take her back to the shop with her. Here's how it works. If Kenzie cries for five minutes, and mom says no, then she cries for ten minutes, then fifteen, and so on. (Sally theorizes in five-minute increments). If, one day, after a 30-minute whine, mom finally caves and loads Kenzie back in the Chevy Yukon for the seven minute ride back to Andy's Body Shop, Kenzie's invisible clock tells her instinctively that thirty minutes is the ticket out of daycare. After that, it's up to Kenzie to decide if she's willing to invest that much time on any given day. Thirty minutes of crying is as long as it sounds.
On the days that Christy won the showdown and left for the shop alone, Kenzie forgot all about her before the Yukon took a right out of my driveway. Sally managed me. I managed the children. The children managed the moms.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Oddity, Week 2
Curious Consumption
The cochineal, an insect native to South America and Mexico, turns up regularly on the ingredient lists of foods we eat all the time. When you see carmine, carminic acid, cochineal, or natural red #4 sandwiched between modified corn starch and kosher gelatin, that's foodspeak for dried female beetle, a phrase you'll never see on the label of your strawberry yogurt. The cochineal's red dye, known as carmine, also makes ice cream, fruit fillings, and juices look more authentic. The ingredient is natural, not artificial.
If you can afford it, you can get your morning java from coffee beans tagged by CBC News as “Cat Poop Coffee,” labeled tellingly as “Good to the Last Dropping.” Coffee starts out as coffee berries; the beans are really the seeds. When Sumatra-, Java-, or Bali-based civets consume coffee berries, enzymes permeate the seeds, which reappear a few days later with a higher than average protein value and in need of a good wash. These civets, or wild cats, make coffee beans a delicacy, upping the value to around $75 per half pound.
I remember saying once after watching a documentary about odd delicacies around that world that “I would not under any circumstances eat chocolate-covered grasshoppers.” But I've heard the rumor that insect legs are common incidental additions to chocolate in general. My husband Jeff tells me not to worry about that. “Just think of it as extra protein.”
Peer Response 2, Week 2
Response to Susana's Memory, Week 2
Your first sentence, I think, is a strong one, effective for peaking our interest. But the parenthetical aside seems unnecessary. You've really fleshed out some intereseting details in this draft--I'm especially fascinated by the "walking catfish" and the "walking-catfish-sucking-machine," but there are others. A thinning-out revision might serve you well in this piece. Expositions like, "The imagination is amazing at age 11" and "We were homebound," your readers get for free, so you don't have to say it outright.Also, there seems to be an odd play here between fear and adventure. And I think you should take advantage of that juxtaposition. For example, were you just a little sad when the water receded and everything went back to normal?
Peer Response 1, Week 2
Response to Brett's "Oddity" Post:
You're right! Gatlinburg is the kitsch capital . . . and certainly the goody-two-shoes relative of Las Vegas. You made smart use of specifics in your post--The Donut Friar, The Happy Shack, and my personal favorite, Cupid's Chapel of Love. Even if I hadn't been there before, I could conjure up a telling image of what to expect should I make the drive. And without saying what a Gatlinburg vacation says about its patrons, you do a nice job of showing us. It's funny because when I think of going to the mountains, I think of spending time in nature. But Gatlinburg, seemingly uncomfortable with its association with nature, promises a kind of steroid-induced culture, a kind of hyperbole culture designed to claim the cash of the bored. Maybe when you swing to an uncanny connection, you could bring in the fake snow and transition to the downplayed beauty that the town attempts to distract from. What do the kitsch and bright lights keep us from seeing?
You're right! Gatlinburg is the kitsch capital . . . and certainly the goody-two-shoes relative of Las Vegas. You made smart use of specifics in your post--The Donut Friar, The Happy Shack, and my personal favorite, Cupid's Chapel of Love. Even if I hadn't been there before, I could conjure up a telling image of what to expect should I make the drive. And without saying what a Gatlinburg vacation says about its patrons, you do a nice job of showing us. It's funny because when I think of going to the mountains, I think of spending time in nature. But Gatlinburg, seemingly uncomfortable with its association with nature, promises a kind of steroid-induced culture, a kind of hyperbole culture designed to claim the cash of the bored. Maybe when you swing to an uncanny connection, you could bring in the fake snow and transition to the downplayed beauty that the town attempts to distract from. What do the kitsch and bright lights keep us from seeing?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Memory 2, Week 2
Catching Pop Flies
My brother Dan and I still argue over which one of us got shot in the butt with a bb and which one did the shooting. I think I pulled the trigger and got in trouble afterwards. He says it was me who got shot. I was maybe ten, so Dan was either seven or eight. I remember a large woodpile next to the propane gas tank in our backyard, the firewood thrown in a disheveled heap like there might be a bonfire later. I want to say that the wood was stacked one log on top of the other like an unsafe stairway, lower at the ends and capping out in the middle. But that's not how I remember it. I think it took up a considerable chunk of our backyard.
I didn't take a direct shot at my brother. I was aiming for the woodpile. My mom had warned me not to shoot at the wood, saying the bb could ricochet and hit me, hurt my dog Knuckles, or crack a window on the back side of the house. I don't think I believed her. Plus, maybe I saw a snake or a rat and that's why I took the shot. The bb ricocheted, beaming my brother on his right cheek. At least according to me. I wasn't allowed to play with the gun after that when Dad was away. Dan says what happened is that he shot me on purpose, that we both lost shooting privileges. He says it was to get me back for pinning him down in a wrestling move when our cousins Chris and Mike were over.
My dad warned me all the time that Dan would get bigger than me one day, that I would pay for bullying him. Dad wouldn't let me forget my genetic weakness. He fought hard against it, arming me with bb guns, pellet guns, baseball bats, bows and arrows. And fishhooks. I remember baiting hooks with earthworms I had dug up by hand from the damp soil in the pasture next to the creek, the way those slimy brown bodies writhed as I hooked them in sections, making each one into an 's.' Dad said earthworms might still live even if you break them in half or in sections. He said they have seven hearts and don't need them all to survive. And I think I do remember watching halved earthworms wiggle along different paths after being split apart. Minnows were baited differently, the point of the hook entering through the eye and coming out the other side of their thin heads.
My dad and I played catch, too, and not just for fun either. Dad insisted I not flinch when he beamed the ball at my worn leather glove, suspended between my chin and sternum. "Don't close your eyes. Watch the ball and you won't get hit."
When I dodged the ball, shifting to the left or right, he yelled at me, "Don't be afraid of the ball!" So I learned precision, snagging balls on a path with my face, my shin, or the propane tank behind me. I thought he was training me for something. I thought I might get to play on a team. So I sucked it up when he made me pitch til dark, refusing to go inside until I landed a fast pitch straight into his stationary glove. If he had to, he'd make me angry on purpose. He said it made me throw faster. If I was mad enough, I'd go in for dinner certain that the dull thud of cork against leather had stung his palm. Happy it might have hurt a little.
I stopped playing catch with my dad when he forbade me to try out for the baseball team. It was an all boy's team, he said. Still, when I was older, I volunteered to catch pop-flies for my brother when he practiced at home between game days.
*couldn't verify whether pop flys, pop fly's or pop flies is correct -- none of them seem right. :)
My brother Dan and I still argue over which one of us got shot in the butt with a bb and which one did the shooting. I think I pulled the trigger and got in trouble afterwards. He says it was me who got shot. I was maybe ten, so Dan was either seven or eight. I remember a large woodpile next to the propane gas tank in our backyard, the firewood thrown in a disheveled heap like there might be a bonfire later. I want to say that the wood was stacked one log on top of the other like an unsafe stairway, lower at the ends and capping out in the middle. But that's not how I remember it. I think it took up a considerable chunk of our backyard.
I didn't take a direct shot at my brother. I was aiming for the woodpile. My mom had warned me not to shoot at the wood, saying the bb could ricochet and hit me, hurt my dog Knuckles, or crack a window on the back side of the house. I don't think I believed her. Plus, maybe I saw a snake or a rat and that's why I took the shot. The bb ricocheted, beaming my brother on his right cheek. At least according to me. I wasn't allowed to play with the gun after that when Dad was away. Dan says what happened is that he shot me on purpose, that we both lost shooting privileges. He says it was to get me back for pinning him down in a wrestling move when our cousins Chris and Mike were over.
My dad warned me all the time that Dan would get bigger than me one day, that I would pay for bullying him. Dad wouldn't let me forget my genetic weakness. He fought hard against it, arming me with bb guns, pellet guns, baseball bats, bows and arrows. And fishhooks. I remember baiting hooks with earthworms I had dug up by hand from the damp soil in the pasture next to the creek, the way those slimy brown bodies writhed as I hooked them in sections, making each one into an 's.' Dad said earthworms might still live even if you break them in half or in sections. He said they have seven hearts and don't need them all to survive. And I think I do remember watching halved earthworms wiggle along different paths after being split apart. Minnows were baited differently, the point of the hook entering through the eye and coming out the other side of their thin heads.
My dad and I played catch, too, and not just for fun either. Dad insisted I not flinch when he beamed the ball at my worn leather glove, suspended between my chin and sternum. "Don't close your eyes. Watch the ball and you won't get hit."
When I dodged the ball, shifting to the left or right, he yelled at me, "Don't be afraid of the ball!" So I learned precision, snagging balls on a path with my face, my shin, or the propane tank behind me. I thought he was training me for something. I thought I might get to play on a team. So I sucked it up when he made me pitch til dark, refusing to go inside until I landed a fast pitch straight into his stationary glove. If he had to, he'd make me angry on purpose. He said it made me throw faster. If I was mad enough, I'd go in for dinner certain that the dull thud of cork against leather had stung his palm. Happy it might have hurt a little.
I stopped playing catch with my dad when he forbade me to try out for the baseball team. It was an all boy's team, he said. Still, when I was older, I volunteered to catch pop-flies for my brother when he practiced at home between game days.
*couldn't verify whether pop flys, pop fly's or pop flies is correct -- none of them seem right. :)
Friday, January 27, 2012
Original Prompt, Week 2
Text: "A Small Place" by Jamaica Kincaid
This essay excerpt works to broaden the reader's perspective by comparing the experience of Antigua's tourists to the experience of the natives. Kincaid doesn't mind painting an ugly picture of tourists (who could of course be you or me, but at any rate are certainly European or American). She captures the escapist expectations of an island holiday, only to inform us that the natives "cannot go anywhere . . . are too poor to go anywhere . . . [are unable] to turn their own banality and boredom into a source of pleasure (264).
It's all about challenging perception: tourists come for the promise of sunny, dry days, for example, while natives suffer the realities of drought. Kincaid often introduces a loaded image or fact with, "You may say" or "You may be the sort of tourist who would wonder" or "You must not wonder," a writing strategy that suggests what you should say or should wonder when you come to the island. If you are thinking and observing, she suggests, you will wonder certain things. For example, "You must not wonder what exactly happened to the contents of your lavatory when you flushed it" followed a few sentences later by "the contents of your lavatory might, just might, graze gently against your ankle as you wade carefree in the water, for you see, in Antigua, there is no proper sewage-disposal system" (262).
Prompt: What do you have inside information about? I've heard horror stories about hotel sheets not being changed/washed for weeks, food dropped on the floor in restaurants served to the customer anyway, and the tip of a finger being found in a package of ground beef. Is there something you want your audience to seriously rethink? Something about which we "must not wonder?"
This essay excerpt works to broaden the reader's perspective by comparing the experience of Antigua's tourists to the experience of the natives. Kincaid doesn't mind painting an ugly picture of tourists (who could of course be you or me, but at any rate are certainly European or American). She captures the escapist expectations of an island holiday, only to inform us that the natives "cannot go anywhere . . . are too poor to go anywhere . . . [are unable] to turn their own banality and boredom into a source of pleasure (264).
It's all about challenging perception: tourists come for the promise of sunny, dry days, for example, while natives suffer the realities of drought. Kincaid often introduces a loaded image or fact with, "You may say" or "You may be the sort of tourist who would wonder" or "You must not wonder," a writing strategy that suggests what you should say or should wonder when you come to the island. If you are thinking and observing, she suggests, you will wonder certain things. For example, "You must not wonder what exactly happened to the contents of your lavatory when you flushed it" followed a few sentences later by "the contents of your lavatory might, just might, graze gently against your ankle as you wade carefree in the water, for you see, in Antigua, there is no proper sewage-disposal system" (262).
Prompt: What do you have inside information about? I've heard horror stories about hotel sheets not being changed/washed for weeks, food dropped on the floor in restaurants served to the customer anyway, and the tip of a finger being found in a package of ground beef. Is there something you want your audience to seriously rethink? Something about which we "must not wonder?"
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Memory 1, Week 2
Backwards to Thirteen
I once answered the phone "I love you" by accident. It was a multi-tasking snafu. I'm not an "I love you" whore. I might be a little loose with "I'm sorry," but confessions of affection aren't my vice. So when I turned from consoling my daughter Emily to profess love instead to Garan Mason, our youth pastor at the time, I followed with "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I meant hello."
I've briefly loved a few doctors. David Cummings, a balding dentist, saw me through a painful ordeal with a wisdom tooth. And Dr. David Kline, a barely thirty urologist who saved me from fourteen stones blocking the right side of my deformed horseshoe kidney, I loved best of all. The half drunken "I love yous" were helped along by narcotics and gratitude. Dr. Cummings, I still see twice a year.
Once, at the end of an exhausting telephone exchange with my ex, I unwittingly tapped the template "I love you," the one reserved for my mom, my husband, and my kids--my only regulars. And God I want to say I hate him. But I've been brought up to say instead that I hate how he makes me feel.
Hate was like a swear word at my house. Nowadays kids have the swear jar. Say a bad work, put in a quarter. Done. There was no magic glass into which I could deposit my sin. I kept my quarters and my guilt.
I once said "I hate you" to my mom. I didn't mean it. I hated what she was doing, insisting I stay home on a Saturday night where the only things to do were write love poetry in my room or watch reruns about a magical island where recurring nightmares finally get resolved. My mom eventually gave in, though, and let me spend the night at my friend Sandy's house, where Nora, Claire, and Tori practiced french kissing with mason jars. Later, Sandy's cousin Little Don, fifteen I think, would judge their progress. I didn't play. Little Don said I was acting like a girl priest. And he said I looked like one too, my white ruffled collar buttoned all the way to the top, my glittery socks reaching way past the hem of my gold knickers.
I once answered the phone "I love you" by accident. It was a multi-tasking snafu. I'm not an "I love you" whore. I might be a little loose with "I'm sorry," but confessions of affection aren't my vice. So when I turned from consoling my daughter Emily to profess love instead to Garan Mason, our youth pastor at the time, I followed with "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I meant hello."
I've briefly loved a few doctors. David Cummings, a balding dentist, saw me through a painful ordeal with a wisdom tooth. And Dr. David Kline, a barely thirty urologist who saved me from fourteen stones blocking the right side of my deformed horseshoe kidney, I loved best of all. The half drunken "I love yous" were helped along by narcotics and gratitude. Dr. Cummings, I still see twice a year.
Once, at the end of an exhausting telephone exchange with my ex, I unwittingly tapped the template "I love you," the one reserved for my mom, my husband, and my kids--my only regulars. And God I want to say I hate him. But I've been brought up to say instead that I hate how he makes me feel.
Hate was like a swear word at my house. Nowadays kids have the swear jar. Say a bad work, put in a quarter. Done. There was no magic glass into which I could deposit my sin. I kept my quarters and my guilt.
I once said "I hate you" to my mom. I didn't mean it. I hated what she was doing, insisting I stay home on a Saturday night where the only things to do were write love poetry in my room or watch reruns about a magical island where recurring nightmares finally get resolved. My mom eventually gave in, though, and let me spend the night at my friend Sandy's house, where Nora, Claire, and Tori practiced french kissing with mason jars. Later, Sandy's cousin Little Don, fifteen I think, would judge their progress. I didn't play. Little Don said I was acting like a girl priest. And he said I looked like one too, my white ruffled collar buttoned all the way to the top, my glittery socks reaching way past the hem of my gold knickers.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Junkward Quotes 1-4, Week 2
1) "The devil will drink your kool-aid, eat your cookies, and make you like it."
2) Mother: "Your shoes are on the wrong feet." Daughter (6): "These are the only feet I've got."
3) "Loud children will be pressed between the pages of very large books." ~sign at Elder's Bookstore in Nashville
4) "She's an 'I love you' whore."
2) Mother: "Your shoes are on the wrong feet." Daughter (6): "These are the only feet I've got."
3) "Loud children will be pressed between the pages of very large books." ~sign at Elder's Bookstore in Nashville
4) "She's an 'I love you' whore."
Monday, January 23, 2012
Oddity, Week One
Fear
My dog Sebastian has a phobia. Even though I'm afraid of heights and have an unnatural fear of spiders, it never occurred to me that animals have phobias, too. Sebastian, a 15-pound shih tzu, has a few quirks that I find amusing. For one, he spontaneously sprawls out like a bear rug on the floor while walking across a room. Suddenly, I'm assuming, he needs a rest.
At first I thought his refusal to climb up or down the stairs was cute. He just wants me to carry him, I thought. Eventually, though, I put the pieces together. He, too, is terrified of heights. The three sharp intakes of breath as we descend the fourteen steps to the main floor remind me of the time I hyperventilated on the stairs of the rock tower at Mt. Cheaha, my mom swearing that it would be less painful for her to jump than to endure the unbearable fear of falling. I wonder if fear is hereditary.
I can't say Sebastian's phobia isn't convenient sometimes. We can let him out on the porch without fear of him running off and getting lost. There are ten stairs between him and freedom.
If we're late coming downstairs in the mornings, Sebastian braves the climb up in an attempt to be closer to his family. At first, he only made it as far as the landing. Now, on a good day, he makes it as far as two steps from the top. Those last two 6-inch obstacles are more than he can bear.
My dog Sebastian has a phobia. Even though I'm afraid of heights and have an unnatural fear of spiders, it never occurred to me that animals have phobias, too. Sebastian, a 15-pound shih tzu, has a few quirks that I find amusing. For one, he spontaneously sprawls out like a bear rug on the floor while walking across a room. Suddenly, I'm assuming, he needs a rest.
At first I thought his refusal to climb up or down the stairs was cute. He just wants me to carry him, I thought. Eventually, though, I put the pieces together. He, too, is terrified of heights. The three sharp intakes of breath as we descend the fourteen steps to the main floor remind me of the time I hyperventilated on the stairs of the rock tower at Mt. Cheaha, my mom swearing that it would be less painful for her to jump than to endure the unbearable fear of falling. I wonder if fear is hereditary.
I can't say Sebastian's phobia isn't convenient sometimes. We can let him out on the porch without fear of him running off and getting lost. There are ten stairs between him and freedom.
If we're late coming downstairs in the mornings, Sebastian braves the climb up in an attempt to be closer to his family. At first, he only made it as far as the landing. Now, on a good day, he makes it as far as two steps from the top. Those last two 6-inch obstacles are more than he can bear.
Improv, Week One
"The Pain Scale" ~Eula Biss
Relevant passage:
"Hospice nurses are trained to identify five types of pain: physical, emotional, spiritual, social, and financial.
The pain of feeling, the pain of caring, the pain of doubting, the pain of parting, the pain of paying" (30).
An itch is a kind of pain, according to Eula Biss' father. Being uncomfortable also, according to me. The pair keeps me awake at night. If there are indeed five types of pain--and I think there are at least five--then I propose that the emotional, spiritual, social, and financial types manifest themselves in the physical.
My first encounter with the Wong-Baker pain scale was a comedic one, likely because I wasn't in pain. Michael, my oldest son, also not in pain, attributed the pain-free face to my husband Jeff's face when he takes the family to McDonald's. The contorted "worst pain imaginable face," Michael asserted, represents Jeff's pain level when we eat at Applebee's. Proof, I suggest, that the pain scale is relative. After paying at Sea Captain's House in Myrtle Beach or the quaint Cajun cafe on the corner of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Applebee's might register a '5' or a '6.' Financial pain--the pain of paying. I didn't feel it personally.
Sometimes, though, I do feel other people's pain. Emotional pain--the pain of caring. When my mom was suffering from emotional abuse and refused to be helped or help herself, my chest hurt all the time. Every night, I rolled up a pillow to press against my heart, trying to hold my body together. To stop the constant sensation of exploding. Helplessness. The worst pain imaginable?
Sometimes, doctors say, we live with pain so long that it seems normal. This kind of pain, we don't acknowledge. Tyler, my best friend Patricia's oldest child, was diagnosed with severe allergies at the age of 13. He also needed sinus surgery. Patricia questioned the diagnosis, noting that Tyler never complained of feeling badly. His doctor said he had probably adjusted to the pain. He'd felt that way so long that he didn't know he felt badly. This, for Patricia, induced guilt. Another kind of emotional pain.
Relevant passage:
"Hospice nurses are trained to identify five types of pain: physical, emotional, spiritual, social, and financial.
The pain of feeling, the pain of caring, the pain of doubting, the pain of parting, the pain of paying" (30).
An itch is a kind of pain, according to Eula Biss' father. Being uncomfortable also, according to me. The pair keeps me awake at night. If there are indeed five types of pain--and I think there are at least five--then I propose that the emotional, spiritual, social, and financial types manifest themselves in the physical.
My first encounter with the Wong-Baker pain scale was a comedic one, likely because I wasn't in pain. Michael, my oldest son, also not in pain, attributed the pain-free face to my husband Jeff's face when he takes the family to McDonald's. The contorted "worst pain imaginable face," Michael asserted, represents Jeff's pain level when we eat at Applebee's. Proof, I suggest, that the pain scale is relative. After paying at Sea Captain's House in Myrtle Beach or the quaint Cajun cafe on the corner of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Applebee's might register a '5' or a '6.' Financial pain--the pain of paying. I didn't feel it personally.
Sometimes, though, I do feel other people's pain. Emotional pain--the pain of caring. When my mom was suffering from emotional abuse and refused to be helped or help herself, my chest hurt all the time. Every night, I rolled up a pillow to press against my heart, trying to hold my body together. To stop the constant sensation of exploding. Helplessness. The worst pain imaginable?
Sometimes, doctors say, we live with pain so long that it seems normal. This kind of pain, we don't acknowledge. Tyler, my best friend Patricia's oldest child, was diagnosed with severe allergies at the age of 13. He also needed sinus surgery. Patricia questioned the diagnosis, noting that Tyler never complained of feeling badly. His doctor said he had probably adjusted to the pain. He'd felt that way so long that he didn't know he felt badly. This, for Patricia, induced guilt. Another kind of emotional pain.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Reportage, Week One
(Just a quick disclaimer: I found the "reportage" entry to be the most difficult post so far. What can be left out? What can't? I noticed lots of things, and I'm pretty sure this gets especially boring. I cut a couple hundred words. And still . . .)
Annual Appearance
Annual Appearance
Once a year, my family shovels out five dollars apiece to watch Woodland face off against Wedowee in basketball. The rivalry is decades old, my husband's alma mater the former, mine the latter. That's not why we go, though. We go to watch the sons and daughters of friends and family, just like they come to dance recitals and concerts to watch mine.
Friday night, we take our seats midway up the bleachers on the visitor's side, near the exit, in Wedowee's new gym. I had forgotten about the latest mud tossing—the insistence that Woodland's fans have no class. They don't. I'm no fan, so I can say that.
Jeff and I spread out on the bleacher, taking up more room than we need, expecting lots of visits from children from both sides. One of the benefits of my twelve years in the daycare business. We have a large extended family.
Across the gym on the home side, the JV girls' from both teams get their pre-game pep talks. Carley (a former daycare baby) plays JV. Her siblings—Callen age six and McKenzie age nine—are sitting between Jeff and me. She'll come speak to us after the game. Seventh grade changes things.
Across the gym on the home side, the JV girls' from both teams get their pre-game pep talks. Carley (a former daycare baby) plays JV. Her siblings—Callen age six and McKenzie age nine—are sitting between Jeff and me. She'll come speak to us after the game. Seventh grade changes things.
On both sides, fans wear election shirts, spatterings of the Woodland crew sporting “Re-elect Paul Gay, Superintendent of Education,” while about as many of Wedowee's fans don “Vote for Change, Elect Rance Kirby.” Campaign cards are dealt.
Levi, my best friend's middle child, comes to chat before his game. After punching Jeff on the shoulder, he talks to me about his mom. “She's not coming tonight. Caylin has a gymnastics meet. That stuff is all the time.”
Woodland's JV girls take a fairly easy win, holding Wedowee to 15 points to their own 38. At halftime, McKenzie had predicted 38 to 16. She grins as Jeff tells everybody. He's impressed. So am I.
Wedowee's JV boys answer back, beating their rivals by a cool 19. While the varsity-B boys play, the crowd thickens, boys without shirts making their way to Wedowee's top right bleacher. One passes by on our side sporting a large blue “G” on his pale, hairless chest, his belly a little like jello. Girls in halter tops join the bare-chested, and I note their painted bodies shifting around to send our fans a message. “RCHS IGERS!!!”
Jeff wonders out loud, “Where's the 'T?'”
There's a girl in a white shirt standing between the “S” and “I.” “Maybe she has a 'T' sign,” I offer. But then the “T” guy shows up, and I realize the white shirt girl is the space.
When the varsity girls come out to play, the crowd gets animated, empty coke bottles thumping against legs, feet tapping against metal bleachers, fans identifying the players they know. Grandmas, aunts, uncles, moms, dads giving in to habits, biting nails, chewing bottom lips, readjusting hats. Rap music booms from the loud speaker while fans and cheerleaders form a human tunnel, dramatizing the girls' entrance.
Wedowee won't put up double digits. Both teams know it. Leading Woodland's lineup are the Strain girls—Leah, Shanna, Shalyn, and Amy. Coach Strain had these girls playing together from the time they could dribble—his daughter Leah, her twin cousins, and a cousin from another brother. Leah, a sophomore, is already being courted by Alabama, Florida, and Tennessee, her older sister Courtney on full athletic scholarship at Auburn. Jade Walker is the fifth starter.
A thinned-down version of Wedowee's marching band plays, “All I do is win, win, win, no matter what. Got money on my mind and I can never get enough. Cuz every time I step up in the building, everybody's hands go up.” I know this because my daughter Emily, behind me, sings along.
After the whistle, the girls' shoes squeak incessantly, like baby birds in a nest, impatient for their food. Jade's dad yells, “You're out there by yourself baby. You gotta shoot!” A reference to the Strain team.
Wedowee's white-jerseyed girls can't take a shot, the girls in orange dispensing with the typical one on one blocks, all going after the ball. Frustrated, the girls in white look more like spectators as orange blur after orange blur demonstrate layups. They don't miss. Three's. Two's. Foul shots. Swoosh. At halftime, the score is 44 to 4. The final, 79 to 9. McKenzie had predicted 80 to 10.
The varsity boys enter through their respective human spirit lines. “All we do is win, win, win.” The painted bodies start their chanting, “We, Wedowee, we we Wedowee.” The final game.
Wedowee rallies, driving up a 10-point lead. The Woodland boys step up, closing the gap to one, just as the halftime buzzer sounds. After the whistle, Woodland's Ricky Stevens, still mobile from chasing the ball, slices through the sandwiched fans on the guest side bleachers, a slave to his unchecked momentum.
In the second half, Woodland stays slightly behind, keeping their own Coach Jones animated and on his feet. He's tall and thin with a slight stoop. His mouth stays open, but his words get absorbed before they get to me. Except for the oft repeated, “You hear me? You hear me?” That part I get. He never turns his back on the court, following the ball like an orangutan running sideways. “You hear me?”
During a timeout, a Wedowee player chats with a ref. Behind me, a disgruntled fan shouts, “Stop talking to the ref! Hey! Number 14! Stop talking to the ref!”
At the final buzzer, Wedowee gets the win, 59-52. Shots of the scoreboard get uploaded instantly to Facebook. Noone posts the girls' score.
Peer Response, Week One
Response to MacKenzie's "Reportage" Entry, Week One
I'm a rookie writer, so I find it difficult to offer helpful commentary. But I'll give it my best shot. Across the board, your bits of dialogue are timely, breaking up exposition and giving your subjects a realistic humanity. Sometimes, when you're giving us inner dialogue, I think it would give your prose more of a punch if you let the visual speak for you. For example, when you say that Daniel demolished the cheese dip, it distracts a little from the familiar image of "the last bits of it [congealed] in the bottom of the bowl." Maybe there's a way to show us who the culprit is without that front bit of introduction. I have a pretty cool visual of the guy with the "metabolism of a frightened antelope." I know the type. Nice image. To me, the last two paragraphs are your strongest. The only other observation I have is that your introductory sentence seems to get a little bogged down. Perhaps simply opening with "Apparently the new thing is just meat on a tortilla," might strengthen your hook.
I'm a rookie writer, so I find it difficult to offer helpful commentary. But I'll give it my best shot. Across the board, your bits of dialogue are timely, breaking up exposition and giving your subjects a realistic humanity. Sometimes, when you're giving us inner dialogue, I think it would give your prose more of a punch if you let the visual speak for you. For example, when you say that Daniel demolished the cheese dip, it distracts a little from the familiar image of "the last bits of it [congealed] in the bottom of the bowl." Maybe there's a way to show us who the culprit is without that front bit of introduction. I have a pretty cool visual of the guy with the "metabolism of a frightened antelope." I know the type. Nice image. To me, the last two paragraphs are your strongest. The only other observation I have is that your introductory sentence seems to get a little bogged down. Perhaps simply opening with "Apparently the new thing is just meat on a tortilla," might strengthen your hook.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Free Writing, Week One
*response to classroom prompt--moment when you felt awkward for your parent(s)
Errata
In fourth grade--a few months after donning a bright blue cast on my left leg that made me look cool, but before the chicken pox ordeal of spring--my dad walked into my math class to bring me roses on Valentine's Day. It was the handwritten card that made me blush for him. My dad signed his name to report cards--to everything--in print. EmmetT WhiTE--a cross between bell hooks' unconventional John Hancock and a first grader's. On notes to school, permission slips, and cards attached to Valentine vases, caps cropped up mid-word or at the fronts of words like At or LatE. Or LoVe.
Those rogue caps seemed magnified, making a spectacle, in my eyes, of my dad's unrecognized flaw, making him somehow vulnerable. There were things he should know, but didn't. That's what pricked me most. That's why I folded that card up like a paper fan and stuffed it in the back pocket of my Levi 505's.
People notice big things, making them spectacles because they're big. Think of Bigfoot, monster trucks, the fattest woman on earth, or General Sherman, the 3,000-year-old redwood in California's Sequoia National Forest thought to be the "largest--and oldest-- living thing on the face of the earth" (Burnam). But the large "V" squeezed between the "o" and "e" represents a different phenomenon altogether. Like my dad in a room filled with grammar school boys, the mid-sentence caps are out of place, mutinous, defiant, disturbing. Suggesting chinks in the painstaking onslaught of grammar drilled into our psyches from the time we can read "See Spot run."
The grade-school mantra "We have rules for a reason" brings to memory the perils of casually discarded gum, fights in the hall, or running with scissors. But the alphabet never hurt anybody. For the guardians of grammar, distinctions separate the dangerous from the rebellious, pitting the hard-nosed headmistress with a pointer, horn-rimmed glasses, and a scowl against the quaint protests of a young man, all grown up, finally beyond her reach. Playing with her rules.
Driving too fast, beaming baseballs at base runners, or choosing on a whim which side of the road to drive on can get you killed. An omitted comma might put you under suspicion. But THe rules goVerning caps only threaten to give or withhold reverence to nouns like the united states, Bumper Cars, or oliver twist. Maybe my dad didn't know better. Or maybe he didn't care.
No matter. I don't think my classmates were playing grammar police that day, anyway. As soon as my dad closed the door on my math class, Sherry Wier grabbed the sleeve of my Member's Only windbreaker to whisper breathlessly, "That's your dad? He so fine!"
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Original Prompt, Week One
Source Essay: “Getting Along With Nature” by Wendell Berry
Strategy Notes:
Although Berry's writing is heavy on the exposition and relatively lean on imagery, he uses enough rich instances of the latter to balance the essay and avoid an overly sermonistic presentation. The essay makes a case for communion with nature without painting a nasty picture of culture, although it includes pros and cons of both in specific contexts.
One strategy I see using for myself is that of investing ample research time before attempting to narrate something I care deeply about. It's not enough to want to advocate something, to write about something important. Berry's essay highlights the necessity of intimately knowing multiple angles of an issue if you want to a) take a reasonable position, and b) potentially convince your audience that some change is desirable.
Berry writes, “I knew a barber once who refused to give a discount to a bald client, explaining that his artistry consisted not in the cutting off, but in the knowing when to stop” (24). He seems to be speaking here to the art of writing, as well as to the advantages of restraint in general. Along these lines, Berry uses his prose in this essay to contradict the idea that arguing for change from an absolutist position is effective or advantageous. In fact, he posits that for the arguments posed by the staunch defenders of nature and of culture, “It is a dangerous mistake . . . for either side to pursue [the] quarrel on the assumption that victory would be a desirable result” (20). (For example, saving all the sheep by eradicating all the coyotes vs. protecting sheep predators to the degree that farmers lose their rights to protect their livestock.)
Prompt:
Your first visit to a zoo or to a campus habitat for a live college mascot (eg Baylor's bears or UNA's lions).
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Junkyard Quote Three, Week One
"Superheroes always call people citizens." From the mouths of babes . . . (after being asked to explain what "citizen" meant).
Junkyard Quote Two, Week One
"When I was maybe ten years old, my dad welded together something like a fireplace insert and installed it in the middle of our living room floor. The temperature hovered around the 80s in the common room after that, but the bedrooms were icy. Until, that is, a neighbor tore down chicken houses and gave my dad a few of those monster fans from the ends. He placed those fans in our bedrooms and used them to pull in heat from the insert. Our rooms were warm then. But I think I have some hearing loss from the noise." ~~Denise (sister-in-law) (I did paraphrase.)
Friday, January 13, 2012
Junkyard Quote One, Week One
AOL headline: "Braille Burgers From Fast Food Chain Wimpy Let Blind People 'See' Food"
To advertise that all its locations "feature menus in Braille for the benefit of the visually impaired," the South African fast food chain Wimpy "decided to launch a viral marketing campaign that would appeal to blind people." Apparently, the campaign consisted of distributing fifteen hamburgers in Braille-adorned buns (yes, the chefs manipulated the dough to inscribe the message) to fifteen blind people, filming their reactions, and making it into a commercial.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/01/12/braille-burgers-wimpy_n_1201622.html?ref=food
I chose this . . . a) because it is surprising and b) because it seems a bit exploitative.
To advertise that all its locations "feature menus in Braille for the benefit of the visually impaired," the South African fast food chain Wimpy "decided to launch a viral marketing campaign that would appeal to blind people." Apparently, the campaign consisted of distributing fifteen hamburgers in Braille-adorned buns (yes, the chefs manipulated the dough to inscribe the message) to fifteen blind people, filming their reactions, and making it into a commercial.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/01/12/braille-burgers-wimpy_n_1201622.html?ref=food
I chose this . . . a) because it is surprising and b) because it seems a bit exploitative.
Memory, Week One
My Last Steak
Dinner out meant steak or seafood. I chose steak. A ribeye, I'm fairly sure. I can't say that slab of well-done meat looked pretty on my plate. A charred measure of brown and black against the backdrop of overcooked broccoli and a microwaved potato. The smell, though, like fried butter, evoked backyard parties. Communion. Family night. Sometimes still, the scent wafts into memory, taking me back to a time when steak meant steak, not cow. I miss that.
And the taste? Something like sweet smoke, but with substance. A little chewy, but no blood. A tradeoff. Slicing away my third, maybe fourth bite, a thin string recoiled like a friendly snake caught by surprise. I put my fork and knife to work, attempting to bypass the offending reminder of life. A fruitless attempt.
Jeff, a little distracted by my shift from eating to disecting, offered comfort. “It's probably just a vein. You know, a blood vessel. Or a tendon. Just eat around it.”
A vein. A tendon. He said that out loud. I placed my fork, still warm from its foray into cow flesh, in a discarded napkin. I asked the waitress for a clean one and finished off my potato in silence.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Introductory Portfolio
Published by sixsentences, a not-the-least-bit-exclusive site where you tell a story in only six sentences, get published, and (sometimes) get feedback. Definitely not fitting the 80/20 ratio, but it's a sample, nonetheless.
Excuses
The urge to scribble overwhelms me once I hold the pen between my fingers. Before contact, an unnamed man—unsteady arms outstretched, unblinking eyes focused, approaches a red wooden door anticipating revelation but dreading the nothing he expects—distracts me from the faded oak floors in need of mopping so that I have no other choice but to sit down and write. My mind dumps its burden quickly into a tight-lipped vault, burying the man alive just as the threshold of breakthrough threatens to make public the private. So I write my name fourteen different ways, trying to perfect the signature that will claim my masterpiece. And I remember the four loads of laundry that need washing. As I separate the whites from the colors, I hear the knob of the red door turning.
Waking Up
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poetry samples from ENGL 3200:
Broke
When you're living on french fries
in your grandmother's basement,
tired of homemade biscuits
and casseroles, you learn
to value things like junk
mail and sweepstakes. You do stuff
like cut your own hair or charge
expensive clothes. Then
it snows for the first time in ten
years and you light the gas heat-
er, heat up the grease for the fries,
and your mom calls. Standing
too close to the heat, the phone
cord melts and cuts you off
just in time to stop the grease
fire on the stove. So you walk
up the stairs in your designer
pjs and eat a buttered biscuit.
London at Twenty-Two
Leaving Les Mis
in my red interview suit,
I duck into a sidewalk cafe
to eat molded cheese
with dry wine. I was on my way
to Kingsbury on a street
too proper for double-deckers
and superman booths, where
men in suits and their starched
women walk hand in hand
or arm in arm, laughing, loaded
with money or ego, moving slowly,
to be seen. Cathedrals, Tower Bridge,
and Jack the Ripper tours await
them, otherness at their feet, sitting
quietly on sidewalks without
outstretched hands, watching
couples pass, sensing them grip
their twenties tighter, hearing
ladies' heels click faster.
The warm bodies march
past in their London Fogs in London's
fog while a grown man sleeps
in a purple coat and bare feet, his neighbor,
warmer, eating peanut butter
with two fingers.
---------------------------------------
Prologue to Unbecoming
Look at the clouds. I know sometimes they look like cotton batting or dinosaurs or trains or shapes that can only be called cloud shapes. But look at them now, a succession of spaceships, maybe not perfectly formed, but still a multitude of similar casts resembling capsules for alien visitors. Some white, some the color of smoke, not drifting in one easterly or westerly direction, but seeming to descend lower and lower, threatening invasion. Wait a few minutes and look again. Those clouds get no closer, but still they descend. How odd. Tomorrow, the clouds shall be only layers of airplane streams all come together in a large mass of evidence. But that’s tomorrow.
I wonder how you like your coffee. Sugar? Milk? Sugar-free, fat-free hazelnut? No matter. I have none to offer, anyway. I'm currently without shelter or coffee pot. I will explain soon enough. On your way in, you might have noticed the town sign. Population 286. That's a little dated. I'm pretty sure we broke 300 back in 2007. There are no subdivisions here. No Dollar General, Publix, Walmart. No McDonalds. You can get authentic Greek food, though, at the Grapevine. Or chicken fingers, steak, popcorn shrimp, grilled cheese. I recommend the ravioli. Anyway, I want you to meet someone. Shortly, I mean.
Hear that music? That’s Luke strumming on his guitar. No. You can’t see him. Not yet. You’re outside on the wrap around porch of a cedar cabin nestled on a creek. Only you can’t see the creek from here. You can hear it, though, if you focus. Water rushing too fast over rocks, faster than normal because of all the rain and, just yesterday, snow. It's true. Just now the ground is a blanket of blinding white crystals, but if you look behind you away from the sun, you can appreciate the oddity of four inches of snow this far south. Thick sheets of cold white balance on tree branches and barbed wire fences. The cows--yes cows fenced in just beyond the yard on three sides of the house--the cows stare back at you when you look at them. What else have they to do when they can’t find their grass and their sweet feed is covered with snow? Stare as long as you like. They won’t look away.
Oh, the guitar. You still hear it, right? You can stand here an hour, two hours, three, and it won’t stop. The same blues song. B.B. King. You know the one. “Everyday, everyday I have the blues.” But there are other things to hear. “Pride and Prejudice” on the television, for one. Jane’s characters compete with Luke’s strumming for your attention, but don’t you hear poor rich Mr. Darcy getting rejected by prideful Elizabeth Bennett?
Speaking of women, take notice of the one just feet from your presence on the porch. See her on the bench? No, she’s not looking at you. And she’s not dead. She’s asleep in her housecoat, pajama pants and fuzzy socks. At least her eyes are closed. No, she’s not cold. Not right here where the sun is focusing its hot heat and light. She’s sweating, truth be told, and not sleeping at all, but thinking, remembering, being pulled by memory and potential in two very different directions.
Jo hoped Luke would be the one to find her here, but either her intuition or her familiarity with Luke’s habits warned her differently. If she knew a stranger watched her instead, felt your curiosity hovering so near, Jo might feel compelled to make excuses for her odd behavior, such being so out of character for her.
I could tell you how she came to be. How she was created. Oh, don’t laugh. You only think you know. But you don’t. I’m not talking about that, anyway. It takes more than a sperm and an egg to make the likes of Jo. A conception story. Ha! Not a chance.
Anyway, Jo doesn’t see you. So relax. Take a closer look. She’s not one of those china-doll types, not one whose bones are so minuscule they seem capable of splitting at too hard a footfall. No, Jo has good bones, fretfully curly brown hair, high cheekbones, and skin that suggests four decades of hard living. And if you could see through the house coat, you would see good legs. If you could see those, you might guess her to be a runner. And you’d be right. But she hasn’t always been. It used to be that at the mall, the dentist office, the park, strangers took notice. “You must be a runner,” they'd say. One morning Jo woke up and concluded that if she looked like a runner, she might as well be one. That's her way of becoming. Of conforming. At least it used to be.
It seems you made it just in time to find out what I mean, dear reader. I can take you no farther myself. Jo's stirring, so I'll leave you with her. You're in good hands, I trust.
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I think you've got the makings of an interesting juxtaposition here, all to do with perception: the gas station attendant's perception of the man with blood on his shirt seems strangely connected to your own perception of Waffle House. Both of you wanted minimal contact with someone or something that you found offensive or dirty or otherwise dangerous. This beginning seems ripe for self-critique of the sort that Davidson has been encouraging of late. You seem hyper aware of the gas station attendant's problematic assumptions, but how can you start to deconstruct your own assumptions? Not that I don't get your feelings about Waffle House--I completely agree. In fact, I won't eat there.
But I wonder if restaurants (or public spots, in general) that appear cleaner than Waffle House are in fact any less in need of a thorough disinfecting. I often think about who touched the ketchup bottle, the salt shakers, etc. How clean is my plate, really, before my order is piled on top? How about that fork? Did the person wrapping my silverware have clean hands?
Even more generally, you might question the idea of standards? The station attendant had his and so do you. Could you play with that and bring in reflection that might give this piece some depth? Maybe show you questioning your own assumptions? Even your son has expectations associated with Waffle House, which you could play with as well. When he says "this was the reason he likes coming to Waffle House," what exactly is he implying? That Waffle House invites interesting characters? If so, it reminds me of one of my own problematic assumptions: I've been in Wal-Mart a few times at 2 or 3am, and caught myself thinking "there are some crazies out at this time at night." But I was there, too, so hmmmmmm. Anyway, I think you have the perfect opportunity here to dig deep with reflection and self-analysis.