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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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.