Being *a teacher* at school with a cold is like...
- looking up from the depths of a deep, deep swimming pool and knowing that you'll never make it to the light without sucking in a lot of water.
- trying to find your car in the mall's parking lot on a foggy day after spending twice as much time (and money) at the mall as you expected to spend.
- laying on the ground and inviting all domestic animals and small children in a three block vicinity to come trample you while you lay there, defenseless.
- being trapped under a sheet of ice/raft/enormous person while trying to emerge from the swimming pool/pond.
- looking through a telescope backwards.
-waking up the minute after you've gotten comfortable falling alseep, and then working a 10 hour day on so little rest.
- soggy noodles.
- soggy popcorn.
- stale bread.
- flat soda.
- losing 2 pounds and wanting to brag about it, but everyone else you know has either lost 10 pounds or is in impeccable shape.
- being stuck at the bottom of a well with a lot of creepy crawlers, yelling to the shadows who are walking by, but no one can hear you (or else, they choose to ignore your cries).
- participating in a spelling bee with ear muffs on.
- trying to scale a sky-scraper while wearing high heels.
it's, like... the worst thing ever.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
A Day in the Life of an ESOL Intervention Teacher
Today started just like any other day: I had arranged for silent reading, which my class of ~16 sophomores has been doing every Wednesday and Friday for the past month. So, when I arrived at school at 6:45, I hurriedly put our "Silent Reading" Expectations on the board, so students would know to grab their books as they entered the room at 8:15 (Wednesdays are late-start days at my school), I ran to the copy machine (then to a different copy machine because the closer one was out of toner), and I miraculously made it to my department's PLC meeting by 7:10.
The meeting was just like many other PLC meetings, unorganized. We each signed on to a student computer, pulled up data sheets for our individual students (which we'd spent a morning of PD compiling before school started), and reviewed the data. It took about 10 minutes to revise my data sheet: I have 2 new students and 2 students who have switched from one hour to another, and then I had 50 minutes to kill. I surreptitiously checked my personal email and favorite news sites, opened my school email, and eventually brought up the issue of some "problem students" across the room since there was no open dialog among my department members. It sounded something like this:
"Hey Mel, at this point in the year, how many of my students should still be struggling to get to school on time due to late buses?"
"Umm, that's not true to my knowledge."
(To self, "True? What's not true?")
"Who's the student?"
"M.S. She has a late bus stamp most days of the week, and she doesn't come to class until 5-10 minutes into class many days."
"I'll be in touch with her administrator."
Around 8:05, the PLC meeting closed, and I rush to my room to open the doors and make sure my expectations are still clearly mounted on the SmartBoard. (Yep, they're still there). I stand outside my door to greet each special student as he/she walks into my class, often reminding them to "Please get your silent reading book and be seated!" and then I wait as the last few students run through my door as the bell rings.
Upon entering my classroom, I ask the two boys who are mock-wrestling in the middle of the room to be seated (but I don't call them by their names because one of them has "behavioral disturbances" and doesn't like to be singled out, even when he's the only student off task), so it sounds like this, "Could the whole close (13 of whom are already in their chairs with their books) be seated, please?" After another couple of reminders and some calling-out of the sensitive student, I finally have all students seated, 4 off to the library to renew books, attendance taken, and said-sensitive student passively laying his head on his desk and waiting for my attention. Today I don't have the time or energy to deal with it. We've already had 2 hallways conversations this week about his decision to not participate in class, so for the remainder of 1st hour, he sullenly sits at his desk and fumes.
Second and third hour fly by; it is Wednesday, afterall, so classes are each 10 minutes shorter, and, before I know it, it's time for ACEtime - a designated time for students to meet once a week with a specific teacher, a time in which students are supposed to relax, feel at ease, ask their designated teacher questions about education beyond their current academic year, and review grades with their teacher. My ACEtime has 20 students, which is about as many desks are as in my room, and many of them are not college-bound (a decision not based on their preference, but on the fact that they are not legally documented citizens of our great nation). I quickly garner their attention by asking that they kindly stop talking, kindly ask again, then bark like a bulldog until they are all silent long enough for me to notify them that they will be taking a standardized test in 2-weeks' time; they need to be in my room no later than 8:20; and this test is important in predicting their future options. A few students wonder, "What will happen if we don't take the test," but no one listens long enough to hear my dejected response that "missing the test will not lead to any penalty other than not receiving important information about your future." One student who actually hears my scoffs and dismissively mimics, "FUTURE, HA!"
Before I know it, ACEtime is over, and it's time for me to puff up my chest and face 4th hour - my largest class with the most concentrated amount of learning and behaviorally disturbed students. I've recently reviewed my roster and come to the realization that ~4 of 20 students take up about 85% of my energy for this precious 45 minutes, but I don't know how to ignore their disruptive, inappropriate behaviors, so I breath deeply and wait for the next confrontation. (I don't have to wait long.)
Before the bell has rung, I've already reminded student A - a student similarly sensitive to aforementioned student from 1st hour - to be seated and have reading book ready. By the grace of god, he has found his chair, and, though I'm still having to beg the class to listen to my instructions, all the students in my room are seated (for once!), and in strolls trouble student #2 - puffy-eyed and late. As soon as I mention that she needs to sign in, her compadres undermine my authority by asking why I'm being so mean. (Mean? I didn't even ask why she was late?) I begin signing student-library passes, give student #2 permission to cry in the hallway with a friend, and, when I look up again, student A is missing. I quickly surmise he is in the hallway (without permission) with student #2 and go to the hall to retrieve him.
As I know student A is sensitive, in my calmest voice, I tell him, "(student) you don't have permission to be in the hallway," to which he immediately responds, "GOD! I hate it when you raise your voice at me! Quit yelling at me!" I wait for him to walk past me and intentionally avoid eye contact, which is the norm for poor ADHD-ridden student A, and then I defend myself by saying, "I'm not yelling at you. Am I yelling at you?" Student A insists I am, but consents to return to the class without much prodding.
The 16 on-task students who are reading as they are supposed to be receive little-to-no attention from me today because, after a few minutes of uninterrupted reading, student #2's friend calls me out to the hallway so student #2 can tell me she has to see the nurse. I try to ask if anything is wrong (I've had premonitions of relationship abuse in the past, and she's just recently asked about the regularity of her menstrual cycle), but she insists she'll be OK.
After no time, the bell dismisses 4th hour for lunch, but I'm still an hour away from having a break. A student has asked to come to my room at lunch to work on "something." Assuming he needs help with an English assignment (I'm a reading and writing intervention teacher, after all), I agree, so I wait for him to show.
When he arrives, he has court orders and documents from his probation officer which require him to write a letter of apology for a crime he committed in April to his parents and the person he committed the crime against. As any regular teenager would be, he is embarrassed about his transgression, and, therefore, does not want to tell me the nature of the crime so I can help him write, but, on the other hand, he is a struggling writer and needs an outline of how to organize the letter, so I open a word document on the smart board and write a "mock" letter which includes all the elements his probation officer has requested, leaving blanks in the spaces he needs to fill in (ie - the nature of the crime, the punishment he incurred, the people he affected and to what extent, why/how he will refrain from doing this in the future, and what he learned). While composing this letter, my angel-of-a-child who is on free-and-reduced lunch missed his entire lunch period.
Though 5th hour is my only plan period and is usually the most venerated time of my day, I recognized that this student's legal document (which, of course, was due the very next day) took precedent over both my personal time and his 5th hour Science class, so I allowed emailed his 5th hour teacher, allowed him to stay and finish, wrote him a pass, gave him part of my lunch along with a granola bar (which I always keep on hand for my undernourished students), and sent him on his way to find a proper lunch, since he revealed that he did not eat breakfast either.
I, then, ran to my assistant principal's office to schedule my 'formal' observation for next week. (Strangely, while in the office, I ran into the student who had just left my room with another principal. Ay carumba ! I can't imagine what he's done now, so I tell myself he just came to this AP to get help finding lunch). I return to my room, begin the process of filling out the "pre-observation" document my AP has given me, and await my 6th hour class, feeling simultaneously defeated and undefeatable.
6th hour goes as smoothly as it ever does; as the bell rings, I see problem student #3 walking the opposite direction of my class at the end of my hallway with his girlfriend (problem student #2 from 4th hour, mind you). I holler to him once, but don't see him again. He emerges into my classroom mid-explanation, walks in front of me, and tags my tardy board with his name. He then proceeds to make loud noises, "shuffle" distract his peers, and not do any work for the remainder of the period, all the while loudly listening to music, red-eyed, and unfocused. Hmmm. No (coherent) response when questioned about his red eyes, but he did manage to tag my board with the following phrases: "TJG" (Taylor Gang or Die), and "(I don't remember the name of his shuffling group)". After much prompting, most students, except student #3, completed some semblance of the assignment for the day, and class ended.
I take a deep breath and brace myself as I stand by the door greeting my last students of the day. Today I actually realized that 7th hour is my calmest class, and it's especially calm if any 1 of three students are missing. No luck with specific-student absences today. Before the bell rings, there have been 2 requests to go to the library and my proctor (ie- teacher aide) has asked "Is there anything you need me to do today?" (duh!), so I explain her duty of the day. Immediately after the bell rings, there are 2 requests to see the nurse. I deal with the library-goers and sort out which student can go to the nurse first (as the two male students can't be trusted to roam the hallway together), take attendance, and then take a seat on the back counter with my book of the week (Rebecca). Of all my classes, 7th hour is the only class who has ever requested to read for the entire hour, and today, I grant them that privilege And you know what? They use it! Not all of them; after 15 minutes, when our timer goes off, some of them fill out their reading logs and begin to work on the project that's due in December, but the majority of the struggling readers read for the remainder of class. I dismiss them when the bell rings, take a stroll around the room to pick up candy wrappers and used Kleenexes and remove the non-recyclable materials students have carelessly thrown into the recycling bin, then I sit down to grade some papers.
... and this is an easy day in my life as an ESOL intervention teacher because silent reading days require little to no lesson planning on my part. As I leave for the day, I feel thankful that it, for the most part, was eventless, and I shudder at the thought of what tomorrow's curriculum directives might be, but try not to worry about it again until I arrive at school at 6:45 tomorrow morning.
The meeting was just like many other PLC meetings, unorganized. We each signed on to a student computer, pulled up data sheets for our individual students (which we'd spent a morning of PD compiling before school started), and reviewed the data. It took about 10 minutes to revise my data sheet: I have 2 new students and 2 students who have switched from one hour to another, and then I had 50 minutes to kill. I surreptitiously checked my personal email and favorite news sites, opened my school email, and eventually brought up the issue of some "problem students" across the room since there was no open dialog among my department members. It sounded something like this:
"Hey Mel, at this point in the year, how many of my students should still be struggling to get to school on time due to late buses?"
"Umm, that's not true to my knowledge."
(To self, "True? What's not true?")
"Who's the student?"
"M.S. She has a late bus stamp most days of the week, and she doesn't come to class until 5-10 minutes into class many days."
"I'll be in touch with her administrator."
Around 8:05, the PLC meeting closed, and I rush to my room to open the doors and make sure my expectations are still clearly mounted on the SmartBoard. (Yep, they're still there). I stand outside my door to greet each special student as he/she walks into my class, often reminding them to "Please get your silent reading book and be seated!" and then I wait as the last few students run through my door as the bell rings.
Upon entering my classroom, I ask the two boys who are mock-wrestling in the middle of the room to be seated (but I don't call them by their names because one of them has "behavioral disturbances" and doesn't like to be singled out, even when he's the only student off task), so it sounds like this, "Could the whole close (13 of whom are already in their chairs with their books) be seated, please?" After another couple of reminders and some calling-out of the sensitive student, I finally have all students seated, 4 off to the library to renew books, attendance taken, and said-sensitive student passively laying his head on his desk and waiting for my attention. Today I don't have the time or energy to deal with it. We've already had 2 hallways conversations this week about his decision to not participate in class, so for the remainder of 1st hour, he sullenly sits at his desk and fumes.
Second and third hour fly by; it is Wednesday, afterall, so classes are each 10 minutes shorter, and, before I know it, it's time for ACEtime - a designated time for students to meet once a week with a specific teacher, a time in which students are supposed to relax, feel at ease, ask their designated teacher questions about education beyond their current academic year, and review grades with their teacher. My ACEtime has 20 students, which is about as many desks are as in my room, and many of them are not college-bound (a decision not based on their preference, but on the fact that they are not legally documented citizens of our great nation). I quickly garner their attention by asking that they kindly stop talking, kindly ask again, then bark like a bulldog until they are all silent long enough for me to notify them that they will be taking a standardized test in 2-weeks' time; they need to be in my room no later than 8:20; and this test is important in predicting their future options. A few students wonder, "What will happen if we don't take the test," but no one listens long enough to hear my dejected response that "missing the test will not lead to any penalty other than not receiving important information about your future." One student who actually hears my scoffs and dismissively mimics, "FUTURE, HA!"
Before I know it, ACEtime is over, and it's time for me to puff up my chest and face 4th hour - my largest class with the most concentrated amount of learning and behaviorally disturbed students. I've recently reviewed my roster and come to the realization that ~4 of 20 students take up about 85% of my energy for this precious 45 minutes, but I don't know how to ignore their disruptive, inappropriate behaviors, so I breath deeply and wait for the next confrontation. (I don't have to wait long.)
Before the bell has rung, I've already reminded student A - a student similarly sensitive to aforementioned student from 1st hour - to be seated and have reading book ready. By the grace of god, he has found his chair, and, though I'm still having to beg the class to listen to my instructions, all the students in my room are seated (for once!), and in strolls trouble student #2 - puffy-eyed and late. As soon as I mention that she needs to sign in, her compadres undermine my authority by asking why I'm being so mean. (Mean? I didn't even ask why she was late?) I begin signing student-library passes, give student #2 permission to cry in the hallway with a friend, and, when I look up again, student A is missing. I quickly surmise he is in the hallway (without permission) with student #2 and go to the hall to retrieve him.
As I know student A is sensitive, in my calmest voice, I tell him, "(student) you don't have permission to be in the hallway," to which he immediately responds, "GOD! I hate it when you raise your voice at me! Quit yelling at me!" I wait for him to walk past me and intentionally avoid eye contact, which is the norm for poor ADHD-ridden student A, and then I defend myself by saying, "I'm not yelling at you. Am I yelling at you?" Student A insists I am, but consents to return to the class without much prodding.
The 16 on-task students who are reading as they are supposed to be receive little-to-no attention from me today because, after a few minutes of uninterrupted reading, student #2's friend calls me out to the hallway so student #2 can tell me she has to see the nurse. I try to ask if anything is wrong (I've had premonitions of relationship abuse in the past, and she's just recently asked about the regularity of her menstrual cycle), but she insists she'll be OK.
After no time, the bell dismisses 4th hour for lunch, but I'm still an hour away from having a break. A student has asked to come to my room at lunch to work on "something." Assuming he needs help with an English assignment (I'm a reading and writing intervention teacher, after all), I agree, so I wait for him to show.
When he arrives, he has court orders and documents from his probation officer which require him to write a letter of apology for a crime he committed in April to his parents and the person he committed the crime against. As any regular teenager would be, he is embarrassed about his transgression, and, therefore, does not want to tell me the nature of the crime so I can help him write, but, on the other hand, he is a struggling writer and needs an outline of how to organize the letter, so I open a word document on the smart board and write a "mock" letter which includes all the elements his probation officer has requested, leaving blanks in the spaces he needs to fill in (ie - the nature of the crime, the punishment he incurred, the people he affected and to what extent, why/how he will refrain from doing this in the future, and what he learned). While composing this letter, my angel-of-a-child who is on free-and-reduced lunch missed his entire lunch period.
Though 5th hour is my only plan period and is usually the most venerated time of my day, I recognized that this student's legal document (which, of course, was due the very next day) took precedent over both my personal time and his 5th hour Science class, so I allowed emailed his 5th hour teacher, allowed him to stay and finish, wrote him a pass, gave him part of my lunch along with a granola bar (which I always keep on hand for my undernourished students), and sent him on his way to find a proper lunch, since he revealed that he did not eat breakfast either.
I, then, ran to my assistant principal's office to schedule my 'formal' observation for next week. (Strangely, while in the office, I ran into the student who had just left my room with another principal. Ay carumba ! I can't imagine what he's done now, so I tell myself he just came to this AP to get help finding lunch). I return to my room, begin the process of filling out the "pre-observation" document my AP has given me, and await my 6th hour class, feeling simultaneously defeated and undefeatable.
6th hour goes as smoothly as it ever does; as the bell rings, I see problem student #3 walking the opposite direction of my class at the end of my hallway with his girlfriend (problem student #2 from 4th hour, mind you). I holler to him once, but don't see him again. He emerges into my classroom mid-explanation, walks in front of me, and tags my tardy board with his name. He then proceeds to make loud noises, "shuffle" distract his peers, and not do any work for the remainder of the period, all the while loudly listening to music, red-eyed, and unfocused. Hmmm. No (coherent) response when questioned about his red eyes, but he did manage to tag my board with the following phrases: "TJG" (Taylor Gang or Die), and "(I don't remember the name of his shuffling group)". After much prompting, most students, except student #3, completed some semblance of the assignment for the day, and class ended.
I take a deep breath and brace myself as I stand by the door greeting my last students of the day. Today I actually realized that 7th hour is my calmest class, and it's especially calm if any 1 of three students are missing. No luck with specific-student absences today. Before the bell rings, there have been 2 requests to go to the library and my proctor (ie- teacher aide) has asked "Is there anything you need me to do today?" (duh!), so I explain her duty of the day. Immediately after the bell rings, there are 2 requests to see the nurse. I deal with the library-goers and sort out which student can go to the nurse first (as the two male students can't be trusted to roam the hallway together), take attendance, and then take a seat on the back counter with my book of the week (Rebecca). Of all my classes, 7th hour is the only class who has ever requested to read for the entire hour, and today, I grant them that privilege And you know what? They use it! Not all of them; after 15 minutes, when our timer goes off, some of them fill out their reading logs and begin to work on the project that's due in December, but the majority of the struggling readers read for the remainder of class. I dismiss them when the bell rings, take a stroll around the room to pick up candy wrappers and used Kleenexes and remove the non-recyclable materials students have carelessly thrown into the recycling bin, then I sit down to grade some papers.
... and this is an easy day in my life as an ESOL intervention teacher because silent reading days require little to no lesson planning on my part. As I leave for the day, I feel thankful that it, for the most part, was eventless, and I shudder at the thought of what tomorrow's curriculum directives might be, but try not to worry about it again until I arrive at school at 6:45 tomorrow morning.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Disappointment
You know that feeling when you're really looking forward to something, counting down the days and then the hours until it comes to pass, and then it's an hour until it happens... and then it's 2 hours later and nothing's happened still, and then... another hour passes, and what you thought was going to be really awesome finally happens, and it isn't as great as you thought it was going to be?
That's how I feel today. And at this point in life in general.
That's how I feel today. And at this point in life in general.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Waking Up Early
There's something to be said for the lazy Saturdays... you know the ones. The days where you roll over at 7:00 to the dog biting at your toe and you kick him away, roll over, and go back to sleep. You wake up again at 9:00 because your bladder is completely full, and you weigh the options of getting up to pee, which requires leaving the warm comfy bed, and staying in bed for another hour. You obviously choose the latter, and you only wake up again at 11:00 because your spouse is returning from the store, having already mowed the lawn, eaten breakfast, and run to the hardware store to start another project? Mmm, yes, there's something to be said about sleeping in.
I woke up early today, though - the one day this week that I could have slept in, and WOW! Now there's something to talk about! (Granted, I woke up at 4:00 because I couldn't sleep, not because I was dying to be productive, but I made the best of it). It's 7:00 am, and I've already showered, packed for a vacation, fed the animals, cleaned the house, crocheted until I ran out of yarn, and am halfway through my first cup of coffee. I think I saw the first bird on the birdfeeder this morning (a male house finch, if you're curious). I saw the horizon brighten and heard the birds awaken. I have a whole day ahead of myself; I could read, write, exercise, or even go back to bed. It's a whole different life pre-9:00 am on a weekend day.
I'll have to try this waking up early thing more often.
I woke up early today, though - the one day this week that I could have slept in, and WOW! Now there's something to talk about! (Granted, I woke up at 4:00 because I couldn't sleep, not because I was dying to be productive, but I made the best of it). It's 7:00 am, and I've already showered, packed for a vacation, fed the animals, cleaned the house, crocheted until I ran out of yarn, and am halfway through my first cup of coffee. I think I saw the first bird on the birdfeeder this morning (a male house finch, if you're curious). I saw the horizon brighten and heard the birds awaken. I have a whole day ahead of myself; I could read, write, exercise, or even go back to bed. It's a whole different life pre-9:00 am on a weekend day.
I'll have to try this waking up early thing more often.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Awesome Olfactory Auras
Is there anything better than the smell of Jasmine tea brewing? Mmmm, I love Jasmine tea pearls. I'm currently at a coffee shop that serves jasmine tea bags with actual jasmine pearls in "single silken satchets," very classy, if you ask me. The company is Harney & Sons: Master Tea Blenders - located in Salisbury, Connecticut.
Back to olfactory sensations; what are the best fragrances in the world? As I mentioned, I love the smell of jasmine tea - I would wear it as a scent if someone found a true-to-life parfume. Another of my favorite smells is gardenia, and you can find this for cheap at any parfumerie. Cheap or expensive, it's always delicious. I even ran across a gardenia tree at the local gardening shop in town and, despite the fact that the flowers were wilting, they still smelled just as delicious as my mom used to when I was a child and she wore gardenia (which is probably why I'm so fond of it in the first place).
As a sidenote, if you're ever in New Orleans and you're looking for perfume, I highly suggest Hove Parfumeur. I was first introduced to Hove in Tom Robbins' Jitterbug Perfume, in which it is thinly disguised as the "Parfumerie Devalier," run by the 'Queen of the Good Smells,' Madame Devalier, and is described as a producer of "moon medicine and jazz powders. Lucky root and come-together potent. Mojo cream and loa lotion. Hurricane drops, kill-me-not juice, coonass courting pomade and a special 'oil of midnight' that had nothing to do with overtime at the office" (9). Even more urgent than my recommendation that you visit Hove, I implore you to stop whatever you're doing, cast away whatever garbage you might be reading at the moment, and read Jitterbug Perfume. It's a lovely little ditty. And if you ever run across the Jamaican Jasmine so highly sought after in Robbins' parfumerie, buy all you can, and send me some!
I see I have again wandered away from my original intent, which was to compile a list of my favorite smells. I hope my list is slightly more interesting than the lists I have found online, which are predictable and cliched. A baby's smell, really? One's own smelly pillow? Though I've heard that smells are the most acute memory triggers, I will make a conscious effort not to let pleasant memories block my olfactory sensors. So, here's my valiant attempt:
- jasmine tea
- gardenia
- the aftersmell of basil after touching a live basil plant
- freshly baked granola
- the breath of a handsome man who has recently (but not too recently) smoked a cigarette and is probably drinking a cocktail as well...
(man, this is hard...)
I can think of a lot of disgusting smells:
-- a newly smashed lady bug
-- the rubber face of an old Cabbage Patch Kid
-- coffee breath
-- dog poo
-- cigarette smoke
-- sulfur at hot springs and other variations of boiled egg in nature (ie - showers in certain vacation locales)
And I can think of smells I, personally, like:
-- gasoline
-- sharpie
-- the sulfur of a struck match
But coming up with universally superior smells, maybe I should leave that to the professional smellers out there.
Back to olfactory sensations; what are the best fragrances in the world? As I mentioned, I love the smell of jasmine tea - I would wear it as a scent if someone found a true-to-life parfume. Another of my favorite smells is gardenia, and you can find this for cheap at any parfumerie. Cheap or expensive, it's always delicious. I even ran across a gardenia tree at the local gardening shop in town and, despite the fact that the flowers were wilting, they still smelled just as delicious as my mom used to when I was a child and she wore gardenia (which is probably why I'm so fond of it in the first place).
As a sidenote, if you're ever in New Orleans and you're looking for perfume, I highly suggest Hove Parfumeur. I was first introduced to Hove in Tom Robbins' Jitterbug Perfume, in which it is thinly disguised as the "Parfumerie Devalier," run by the 'Queen of the Good Smells,' Madame Devalier, and is described as a producer of "moon medicine and jazz powders. Lucky root and come-together potent. Mojo cream and loa lotion. Hurricane drops, kill-me-not juice, coonass courting pomade and a special 'oil of midnight' that had nothing to do with overtime at the office" (9). Even more urgent than my recommendation that you visit Hove, I implore you to stop whatever you're doing, cast away whatever garbage you might be reading at the moment, and read Jitterbug Perfume. It's a lovely little ditty. And if you ever run across the Jamaican Jasmine so highly sought after in Robbins' parfumerie, buy all you can, and send me some!
I see I have again wandered away from my original intent, which was to compile a list of my favorite smells. I hope my list is slightly more interesting than the lists I have found online, which are predictable and cliched. A baby's smell, really? One's own smelly pillow? Though I've heard that smells are the most acute memory triggers, I will make a conscious effort not to let pleasant memories block my olfactory sensors. So, here's my valiant attempt:
- jasmine tea
- gardenia
- the aftersmell of basil after touching a live basil plant
- freshly baked granola
- the breath of a handsome man who has recently (but not too recently) smoked a cigarette and is probably drinking a cocktail as well...
(man, this is hard...)
I can think of a lot of disgusting smells:
-- a newly smashed lady bug
-- the rubber face of an old Cabbage Patch Kid
-- coffee breath
-- dog poo
-- cigarette smoke
-- sulfur at hot springs and other variations of boiled egg in nature (ie - showers in certain vacation locales)
And I can think of smells I, personally, like:
-- gasoline
-- sharpie
-- the sulfur of a struck match
But coming up with universally superior smells, maybe I should leave that to the professional smellers out there.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Drinking Game for Overthinkers
The Drinking Game for Overthinkers struck a chord with me today, especially as I am in the early stages of trying to moderate my summer relaxation vs. indulgence for the next 70 days, as well as quitting my doctor-approved, Wyeth-endorsed medication of 1+ years cold turkey and suffering the dauntingly severe withdrawal symptoms.
Needless to say, I'm a doll to be around, and nothing sounds like a better idea than an intellectual drinking game, though my physical, psychological, and digestive systems are protesting. Therefore, I will compromise: one drink while I praise (or maybe sympathize with would be a more appropriate term), Leigh Alexander's latest addition to "Thought Catalog."
First of all, let me say that I love the way Ms. Alexander captures the mid-20's drinking conundrum in a vague yet incriminating way. She has not named me or my problems outright, but she may as well have when she suggests that I might feel "a vague sense of inequity or deprivation" but not "have a template for whether [my] expectations are fair." Right on, Leigh - given my upper-middle class upbringing plus white female college-educated privileges, I really have no other experiences to gauge the grandiosity of the inequities and deprivations either in my own life or that I witness on the street (or on TV, more likely). Therefore, I drink!
Needless to say, I'm a doll to be around, and nothing sounds like a better idea than an intellectual drinking game, though my physical, psychological, and digestive systems are protesting. Therefore, I will compromise: one drink while I praise (or maybe sympathize with would be a more appropriate term), Leigh Alexander's latest addition to "Thought Catalog."
First of all, let me say that I love the way Ms. Alexander captures the mid-20's drinking conundrum in a vague yet incriminating way. She has not named me or my problems outright, but she may as well have when she suggests that I might feel "a vague sense of inequity or deprivation" but not "have a template for whether [my] expectations are fair." Right on, Leigh - given my upper-middle class upbringing plus white female college-educated privileges, I really have no other experiences to gauge the grandiosity of the inequities and deprivations either in my own life or that I witness on the street (or on TV, more likely). Therefore, I drink!
Ms. Alexander also makes a number of astute accusations when she suggests I might not be sure "whether the lingering sensation that [I'm not] liked enough is a rational response to unfair circumstances or is in fact symptomatic of [my] tendency to blame [my] environment for [my] own failure to self-actualize," and that I just might "experience a sudden flood of shame at the realization that [I] haven’t done much to deserve really any of the things to which [I] aspire." I have often "come to an impasse about chaos and the innate unfairness of life," and I never know if my shortcomings are my fault because of "projecting unfounded qualities onto [another] person or someone else's fault for actually misleading [me], mistreating [me] or letting [me] down."
In addition to the horror of it all possibly being not my own fault, I will confess that I constantly "notice that [I] unconsciously but consistently put [myself] into situations that deprive [me] of [my] resources and move [me] further away from [my] goals," which, undoubtedly, causes me to wonder if "[I'm] actually in a negative situation or just an ungrateful person who blames everyone else for [my] problems," if I am, indeed, "assuming too much responsibility for [my] own current unhappiness or not," which leads to the question of whether "[I] am an overly-strict person with inappropriate guilt about normal human self-moderation behavior or an avoidant adult making excuses for [my] poor coping" who is persistently "failing to grow up."
In fact, Leigh, now that we are talking about it, considering I have a full-time job in the real world, whatever that means, and I am a mortgage-paying home owner, I do wonder if "[I am] repeatedly failing to reach a personal set of behavioral goals or simply consistently feeling inadequate no matter how hard [I] work." And if that, Leigh, is the problem, is the fact that I "don't want to talk to [my] friends about it because [I'm] not sure whether [I] am a reasonable person experiencing occasional insecurity or a neurotic person who cannot be soothed" also a problem? Might it be true that I do "not even have much reason to be unhappy and in fact just overthink everything and lack a stable internal compass," that "[I] might just feel lost because [I] drink too often, but then [I] think too much when [I'm] not drinking"?
Now that you've brought all those complications to light, I feel like "[I’d] rather not think about this kind of thing right now," and, on that note, Leigh, I think I deserve a second drink. What about you?
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
I Scream for Ice Cream!
I miss eating ice cream; I mean really eating ice cream.
I had a bad day today (entirely my fault - too much wine last night = pounding headache all day. Imagine a hangover when you're surrounded by freshman students a week before school's out. That was my day). Anyway, I came home knowing I deserved a snack. There was nothing salty in the house; my husband and I often have saltines or tortilla chips laying around, even though we try not to snack too much. In fact, I just acquired a tasty, locally made black bean and corn salsa last night and even considered stopping by the store to get some chips, but the headache got the best of me. I made it home with just enough energy to let the dog out, walk upstairs, pour a glass of water, and plop on the bed with a good book until my husband got home.
When he did, I immediately asked him, "What's for snack?"
We went through a few options:
"Pasta?"
"Ate it all yesterday."
"Cheese and crackers?"
"No crackers. And no chips for the salsa Cheryl gave us."
Which got us back to the original question:
"What is for snack?"
He left the room to finish cooking the menudo for dinner (but that's for another post), and I grudgingly followed him into the kitchen. And on the way down the stairs, it occurred to me - the perfect post-hangover snack in a snackless house: chocolate ice cream!
I rushed to the kitchen to see if we had any toppings for the ice cream (I was mostly checking for Hershey's Syrup), but to no avail. That's OK. Plain chocolate ice cream is good enough for me any day. In fact, being that we don't partake in artificial desserts very often, the pint of ice cream that's been in our freezer has been quite a treat lately. I scooped myself out a generous serving and settled in the dining room to enjoy it.
The meager scoops of joy I had served myself went quickly, though, more quickly than my desire to consume more ice cream, so I returned to the kitchen for seconds, and then it occurred to me, "And why shouldn't I? I'm an adult, and I deserve ice cream! And I don't need to explain or apologize to anyone! And so what if I want to put peanut butter in my ice cream and top it off with stale, sweet coconut flakes that have been in the fridge for more than I care to admit?" And then I did just that.
And that brings me back to the original intent of my post, which is to say that I miss partaking of gratifying meals (or desserts) unapologetically. So often, in today's Western society, simply because we are no longer children, and because we work full-time jobs, and because we are expected to be "responsible adults," we don't allow ourselves to indulge in such luxuries. No, we sell ourselves short and compromise for something we don't really want, like a Skinny Cow, or a Snackwell's cookie when what we really want is a ginormous ice cream sunday with chocolate AND caramel syrup, whipped cream, bananas, and nuts, or oozy, gooey brownies, soft in the middle and finished off with Vanilla Bean ice cream, full-fat, please! And what for? For a mote of the satisfaction we would otherwise get by indulging every now and again?
Now, I'm not saying we should give in to every unhealthy craving we have. No, health is a lifestyle, and being healthy is about training your body not to crave McDonald's and 44 oz. Big Gulp Mountain Dews from QuikTrip by not consuming these atrocities on a regular basis (or ever - ew - McDonald's and MD - the worst two foods I could think of!), but I don't see anything wrong with allowing yourself an ambrosial snack every now and then. In fact, I think it's detrimental to all of our children within every time we try to fool them into thinking a Snackwell's cookie is a gooey home-made brownie. Shame on us, society.
I had a bad day today (entirely my fault - too much wine last night = pounding headache all day. Imagine a hangover when you're surrounded by freshman students a week before school's out. That was my day). Anyway, I came home knowing I deserved a snack. There was nothing salty in the house; my husband and I often have saltines or tortilla chips laying around, even though we try not to snack too much. In fact, I just acquired a tasty, locally made black bean and corn salsa last night and even considered stopping by the store to get some chips, but the headache got the best of me. I made it home with just enough energy to let the dog out, walk upstairs, pour a glass of water, and plop on the bed with a good book until my husband got home.
When he did, I immediately asked him, "What's for snack?"
We went through a few options:
"Pasta?"
"Ate it all yesterday."
"Cheese and crackers?"
"No crackers. And no chips for the salsa Cheryl gave us."
Which got us back to the original question:
"What is for snack?"
He left the room to finish cooking the menudo for dinner (but that's for another post), and I grudgingly followed him into the kitchen. And on the way down the stairs, it occurred to me - the perfect post-hangover snack in a snackless house: chocolate ice cream!
I rushed to the kitchen to see if we had any toppings for the ice cream (I was mostly checking for Hershey's Syrup), but to no avail. That's OK. Plain chocolate ice cream is good enough for me any day. In fact, being that we don't partake in artificial desserts very often, the pint of ice cream that's been in our freezer has been quite a treat lately. I scooped myself out a generous serving and settled in the dining room to enjoy it.
The meager scoops of joy I had served myself went quickly, though, more quickly than my desire to consume more ice cream, so I returned to the kitchen for seconds, and then it occurred to me, "And why shouldn't I? I'm an adult, and I deserve ice cream! And I don't need to explain or apologize to anyone! And so what if I want to put peanut butter in my ice cream and top it off with stale, sweet coconut flakes that have been in the fridge for more than I care to admit?" And then I did just that.
And that brings me back to the original intent of my post, which is to say that I miss partaking of gratifying meals (or desserts) unapologetically. So often, in today's Western society, simply because we are no longer children, and because we work full-time jobs, and because we are expected to be "responsible adults," we don't allow ourselves to indulge in such luxuries. No, we sell ourselves short and compromise for something we don't really want, like a Skinny Cow, or a Snackwell's cookie when what we really want is a ginormous ice cream sunday with chocolate AND caramel syrup, whipped cream, bananas, and nuts, or oozy, gooey brownies, soft in the middle and finished off with Vanilla Bean ice cream, full-fat, please! And what for? For a mote of the satisfaction we would otherwise get by indulging every now and again?
Now, I'm not saying we should give in to every unhealthy craving we have. No, health is a lifestyle, and being healthy is about training your body not to crave McDonald's and 44 oz. Big Gulp Mountain Dews from QuikTrip by not consuming these atrocities on a regular basis (or ever - ew - McDonald's and MD - the worst two foods I could think of!), but I don't see anything wrong with allowing yourself an ambrosial snack every now and then. In fact, I think it's detrimental to all of our children within every time we try to fool them into thinking a Snackwell's cookie is a gooey home-made brownie. Shame on us, society.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Republicans, Get in My Vagina!
I'm not usually a proponent of funnyordie.com, but this is pretty spot-on. Plus, I like that it really twists the dagger with the imagery behind the women. Watch and I will discuss more.
First of all, I love Kate Beckensale with her faux-suit on (probably heels and Express slacks, wait, no, she'd definitely be wearing designer name-brand), her sensible brown hair, and her SUV, all posing in front of her undoubtedly suburban mansion.
Secondly, "I don't want government in my banks..." "I don't want government in my classrooms," are both well-said. Republicans DON'T want the government getting involved with the handling of their taxes (or tax breaks), their loans, or the handling of their children's education (as everyone knows the state can be trusted to tell teachers what they should and shouldn't teach -- i.e., the antiquated, Western WASP agenda), nor do they want the government dispersing the taxes from their wealthy zip codes to the districts of the less fortunate children of America. No, "I want the government way, way deep, up, up there in my vagina." And I love the gasp of fresh air immediately preceding the proud declaration: "In my great-grandmother's vagina."
Thirdly -- "What about my right to choose to not have a choice," is, unfortunately, the stance I feel so many females taking these days, especially conservative women who don't want to rock the boat in their relationship, their friendships, or the eyes of their colleagues and peers. I even hear high school-aged girls making statements that suggest they are proponents of "choosing to not have a choice." Why not let the old, white guys decide for us? Or our non-female spouses? Or, in the case of my high school students, the uneducated, poverty-stricken, not-yet-through-puberty-but-certainly-fertile-and-unwilling-to-wear-a-condom boyfriends choose? Why do (some) women so adamantly shirk the right to make our OWN choices?
Fourthly, though I don't really appreciate the lines about vaginas being "gushy... secret[ing] things... [or] looking like unshaven clown[s]," I know that some women feel that way. And some women honestly haven't ever "really looked at it." To those women, I'd strongly suggest immediately purchasing and reading The Vagina Monologues, if, at which point you become as hooked to Eve Ensler as I am, I suggest A Memory, A Monologue, A Rant and A Prayer as an immediate follow-up. Vaginas are not gross, gushy, scary, or unrelenting. They are delicate, intricate, delicious, individual, and complex. Check yours or your loved-ones out today!
Fifthly, I like that Judy Greer and Kate Beckinsale address the real issues at stake for women who choose to vote Republican on certain issues: restrictions on affordable birth control, futile vaginal ultrasounds, unwanted pregnancies, but I wish they weren't addressed so tongue-in-cheekedly; these are real issues, and while I agree that sometimes humor is the only way to recruit people to your side, I think women really need to know about these issues. I wish there was a link to a more informative website which compares democrats and republicans' views on women's rights (ie - Obama vs. Romney).
Finally - this quote at the end; whoa! Where did that come from? "The traumatic experience of rape causes a woman to 'secrete a certain secretion that tends to kill sperm.'" Really, Stephen Freind? Did you really say that?
So, yes, in closing -- Women -- defend your "oval office!" Don't let the government in! Vote Democratic!
(If this blog enraged you - I'm sorry. Please calm down by viewing a couple calming manatees on my new favorite tranquil site.)
First of all, I love Kate Beckensale with her faux-suit on (probably heels and Express slacks, wait, no, she'd definitely be wearing designer name-brand), her sensible brown hair, and her SUV, all posing in front of her undoubtedly suburban mansion.
Secondly, "I don't want government in my banks..." "I don't want government in my classrooms," are both well-said. Republicans DON'T want the government getting involved with the handling of their taxes (or tax breaks), their loans, or the handling of their children's education (as everyone knows the state can be trusted to tell teachers what they should and shouldn't teach -- i.e., the antiquated, Western WASP agenda), nor do they want the government dispersing the taxes from their wealthy zip codes to the districts of the less fortunate children of America. No, "I want the government way, way deep, up, up there in my vagina." And I love the gasp of fresh air immediately preceding the proud declaration: "In my great-grandmother's vagina."
Thirdly -- "What about my right to choose to not have a choice," is, unfortunately, the stance I feel so many females taking these days, especially conservative women who don't want to rock the boat in their relationship, their friendships, or the eyes of their colleagues and peers. I even hear high school-aged girls making statements that suggest they are proponents of "choosing to not have a choice." Why not let the old, white guys decide for us? Or our non-female spouses? Or, in the case of my high school students, the uneducated, poverty-stricken, not-yet-through-puberty-but-certainly-fertile-and-unwilling-to-wear-a-condom boyfriends choose? Why do (some) women so adamantly shirk the right to make our OWN choices?
Fourthly, though I don't really appreciate the lines about vaginas being "gushy... secret[ing] things... [or] looking like unshaven clown[s]," I know that some women feel that way. And some women honestly haven't ever "really looked at it." To those women, I'd strongly suggest immediately purchasing and reading The Vagina Monologues, if, at which point you become as hooked to Eve Ensler as I am, I suggest A Memory, A Monologue, A Rant and A Prayer as an immediate follow-up. Vaginas are not gross, gushy, scary, or unrelenting. They are delicate, intricate, delicious, individual, and complex. Check yours or your loved-ones out today!
Fifthly, I like that Judy Greer and Kate Beckinsale address the real issues at stake for women who choose to vote Republican on certain issues: restrictions on affordable birth control, futile vaginal ultrasounds, unwanted pregnancies, but I wish they weren't addressed so tongue-in-cheekedly; these are real issues, and while I agree that sometimes humor is the only way to recruit people to your side, I think women really need to know about these issues. I wish there was a link to a more informative website which compares democrats and republicans' views on women's rights (ie - Obama vs. Romney).
Finally - this quote at the end; whoa! Where did that come from? "The traumatic experience of rape causes a woman to 'secrete a certain secretion that tends to kill sperm.'" Really, Stephen Freind? Did you really say that?
So, yes, in closing -- Women -- defend your "oval office!" Don't let the government in! Vote Democratic!
(If this blog enraged you - I'm sorry. Please calm down by viewing a couple calming manatees on my new favorite tranquil site.)
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Language Challenge
According to this chart, it should only take 6 months to learn any of the following languages:
- Spanish
- Portuguese
- Italian
- Romanian
- Dutch
- Swedish
- Afrikaans
- Norwegian.
... and only 11 months to learn:
- Hindi
- Russian
- Vietnamese
- Turkish
- Polish
- Thai
- Serbian
- Greek
- Hebrew
- Finnish
... and a startling 22 months to learn:
- Arabic
- Japanese
- Chinese
- Korean
I have a number of complaints about this chart:
1. Where is German? With an approx. 98 million speakers (in 2005), more people speak German than Italian, French, or Romanian. Why didn't it make the list? (BTW - German is the one additional language I'm actually interested in learning).
2. I simply wish this information were available (though the math is easy enough to do): How many hours per week and per day does this study assume I'm studying? (It breaks down to about 5 hours per day, 5 days per week, or 3.5 hours per day 7 days a week.) So, for a working person like myself, who does not have 5 hours a day during the school year to devote to language-learning, but maybe 10 hours a week... I'm looking at more like 15 months for the first group of languages, 28 months for the 2nd group, and 56 months (almost 5 years!) for the 3rd group.
3. Where does English fall on the list for people from each group? Is it inversible? (Can I assume it will take a Vietnamese speaker 11 months to learn English because it's that different and a Japanese speaker 22 months based on the measure of differences between the two languages?) I understand the basis of the chart is how long it will take for an English Speaker to learn the language, but what about all those millions and billions of English Language Learners out there?
4. Also, this list is clearly for professional language learners, ie, CIA, or Air Force members for whom 5 hours of studying a day is plausible. What do the numbers look like for children? For students who are simultaneously trying to learn content matter in the 2nd language? For children who move from a 3rd world to a 1st world country with no previous schooling? For students who move from a 1st world to 1st world country with lots of previous schooling?
The numbers that are thrown around in the world of Secondary ESOL education are 2-3 years to develop social language, 5-7 years to develop academic language, and both of those numbers fluctuate based on the students' prior schooling experience and prior exposure to English.
Anyhow, the chart is interesting and inspiring. I don't have 6 free months to learn a language from the 1st group of languages, but I do have 11 weeks to expose myself to a new language, like German or Vietnamese (which would actually be helpful in my job, unlike German). For any mono-linguals out there, act now! Acquire a second language! I'll do it with you!
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Cisneros-Inspired 3
I wrote a poem about Pete last night, not following the format of Cisneros' original poem so closely, and I was able to keep it from sounding so sad. I'll post it later, if I remember. I also wrote a poem about Sassy today, which turned out quite well. I changed the cadence of a few of the lines, but I think it is pretty true to the original feel of the poem:
Sassy Who
Kelsie Baab
Sassy who grumbles threats in her sleep
and rolls over for belly rubs
who is dust and wet paws
who is a collar and a leash
whose hair is a brittle leaf
is too sleepy to go outside today
who spoons me when I'm curled in a ball
who follows me into the room just to watch
whose wise eyes are furrowed
can't get off the pillow
sleeps in her dog bed day and night
who used to wheeze and close her eyes
is sleeping
is a decorative pillow on a zoologist's couch
is tired dropped her head
doesn't want to play fetch
barely looks when I squeak her toy
whose tiny body keeps me warm at night
is blankets and treats and afternoon walks
who snores up and down up and down up and down again
is the gray smoke over my backyard fire
glowing, I love her
I love that dog.
Sassy Who
Kelsie Baab
Sassy who grumbles threats in her sleep
and rolls over for belly rubs
who is dust and wet paws
who is a collar and a leash
whose hair is a brittle leaf
is too sleepy to go outside today
who spoons me when I'm curled in a ball
who follows me into the room just to watch
whose wise eyes are furrowed
can't get off the pillow
sleeps in her dog bed day and night
who used to wheeze and close her eyes
is sleeping
is a decorative pillow on a zoologist's couch
is tired dropped her head
doesn't want to play fetch
barely looks when I squeak her toy
whose tiny body keeps me warm at night
is blankets and treats and afternoon walks
who snores up and down up and down up and down again
is the gray smoke over my backyard fire
glowing, I love her
I love that dog.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Cisneros-Inspired 2
Abuelito Who
Sandra Cisneros
Abuelito who throws coins like rain
and asks who loves him
who is dough and feathers
who is a watch and glass of water
whose hair is made of fur
is too sad to come downstairs today
who tells me in Spanish you are my diamond
who tells me in English you are my sky
whose little eyes are string
can't come out to play
sleeps in his little room all night and day
who used to laugh like the letter k
is sick
is a doorknob tied to a sour stick
is tired shut the door
doesn't live here anymore
is hiding underneath the bed
who talks to me inside my head
is blankets and spoons and big brown shoes
who snores up and down up and down up and down again
is the rain on the roof that falls like coins
asking who loves him
who loves him who?
Let's see if it looks any different when it's my musings on another person's life, not my own:
Madre Who
Kelsie Baab
Madre who pours love down the drain
and asks for nothing back
who is perfume and fingernails
who is a cup of coffee in the morning
whose skin is soft as satin
is too busy to come outside today
who tells me she's proud of my every move
who tells me you are my sunshine
whose button-eyes are shining
won't come out to play
stays in her little room all day
who used to laugh like a mockingbird
is away
is a budding flower in rainy May
is tired locked the door
doesn't come out anymore
is hoarding things beneath the bed
whose memories waltz inside my head
is sweat pants and jogging shoes
who runs upstairs and downstairs up and down and up again
is a cotton ball cloud in the sky
asking for nothing but love
nothing, love you.
Again, hm... I'm not sure how I feel that one turned out. I'll retire for the night and revisit it in the morning.
Sandra Cisneros-inspired
"Salvador Late or Early" by Sandra Cisneros
Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.
I read this today during an in-service training session. There is so much to be said about it on a literary level -- such ambiguous imagery, for example. Why is Salvador so sad? Where is the father figure? And, on another level, Salvador means savior in Spanish. Whose savior is he, and where is his savior? I don't want to talk about it on a literary level, though. I'd like to say, for one, that it reminded me so much of my favorite Cisneros poem, "Abuelito Who" in content and style, and got me to thinking...
What a neat writing opportunity either of these pieces would be as a culminating poetry project. Have your students mimic the vignette or the poem by replacing "Salvador" with images of themselves, or "Abuelito" with fragments of someone they know. So, after talking about this with a fellow-teacher today, I thought I'd give it a try.
"Kelsie Always on Time " by Kelsie Baab
How depressing. Maybe "Abuelito Who" will yield better results.
Salvador with eyes the color of caterpillar, Salvador of the crooked
hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember,
is a boy who is no one’s friend, runs along somewhere in that vague
direction where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind a raw
wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs
their hair with water, feeds them milk and cornflakes from a tin cup in
the dim dark of the morning.
Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of
younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of
the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because
today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons,
has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and
nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt
puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for
Salvador to collect them again. Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.
I read this today during an in-service training session. There is so much to be said about it on a literary level -- such ambiguous imagery, for example. Why is Salvador so sad? Where is the father figure? And, on another level, Salvador means savior in Spanish. Whose savior is he, and where is his savior? I don't want to talk about it on a literary level, though. I'd like to say, for one, that it reminded me so much of my favorite Cisneros poem, "Abuelito Who" in content and style, and got me to thinking...
What a neat writing opportunity either of these pieces would be as a culminating poetry project. Have your students mimic the vignette or the poem by replacing "Salvador" with images of themselves, or "Abuelito" with fragments of someone they know. So, after talking about this with a fellow-teacher today, I thought I'd give it a try.
"Kelsie Always on Time " by Kelsie Baab
Kelsie with eyes like burnt caramel, Kelsie of the short hair and immaculate teeth, Kelsie who always raises her hand in class,
is a girl who is everyone’s friend, jumps off the bus and begins the long trek home, lives behind not one but two iron fences, throws her bookbag down, eats the snack Mother has prepared, pets the dog, watches TV, and starts her homework.
Kelsie, always on time, arrives to school well-fed with a bagged lunch in her hand. Driven by Mother, who has nothing to do but dote over her beloved children. Runs up to Amanda, Emily, Kathryn, races them to class, because
today, like yesterday, the girls have finished their homework, drawn diligent portraits of their families: Dad, Mom, Sister, self, and dog, and are eager to show one another the collage of crayon, ink, and stickers they've adhered to the worksheet, to see whose is the best, to peek behind them to see if Ann, yet again, forgot her assignment and, if not, what kind of poor materials she scrounged up to finish her collage, her self, her mom.
Kelsie stifled in Oxford-tee with matching vest, behind the dark, doe eyes that beg for validation, inside that sixty-pound body of girl with peach-cream skin, its history of love, limbs covered in kisses and powder, in some part of her eyes, in some part of her heart, in that package of her chest where hope throbs with two heads and knows only what Kelsie knows, inside that body too cavernous to locate the tiny balloon of happiness, the hundred guitar strums of grief, is a girl like many other girls disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where Mother waits to collect her. She will climb into her car, away from the eyes of friends and teachers, cross her saddled-shoes with pink-lace socks. The schoolyard will disappear behind her. Grow small and smaller to her eye, as she rides into the bright horizon, ready to face the world like a matador staring his bull in the eyes.
Kelsie stifled in Oxford-tee with matching vest, behind the dark, doe eyes that beg for validation, inside that sixty-pound body of girl with peach-cream skin, its history of love, limbs covered in kisses and powder, in some part of her eyes, in some part of her heart, in that package of her chest where hope throbs with two heads and knows only what Kelsie knows, inside that body too cavernous to locate the tiny balloon of happiness, the hundred guitar strums of grief, is a girl like many other girls disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where Mother waits to collect her. She will climb into her car, away from the eyes of friends and teachers, cross her saddled-shoes with pink-lace socks. The schoolyard will disappear behind her. Grow small and smaller to her eye, as she rides into the bright horizon, ready to face the world like a matador staring his bull in the eyes.
Well. That was interesting. Sure takes on a different tone - almost sickeningly so as I deleted all the phrases which suggested Salvador's poverty and, thus highlighted my privileged existence, and it was hard to create a juxtaposing image in the line 15-16 about the balloon and the guitar, where Cisneros' poem so delicately suggests Salvadore's happiness despite his circumstances. It was hard to turn the tables around, to depict dissatisfaction amidst great wealth.
Is it beneficial to do so?
I can think of a few authors who have done so successfully: F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Berryman, Robert Lowell and other confessional poets, but is the message lost when the point is not to emphasize the underprivileged and the marginalized? It just seems so... grossly like the musings of a whining schoolgirl. I guess I'm asking the age-old question: Does art always have to be political? (to which I resoundingly cry, "No!" but, then, why does my recreation of "Salvador Sooner or Later" seem so insignificant? Is it my writing that belittles it? My life?)
How depressing. Maybe "Abuelito Who" will yield better results.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
On Teaching...
Please read. The Hardest Job Everyone Thinks They Can Do.
Dennis Hong got it right when he said:
If, on the other hand, you REALLY want to help your teacher-friends, here's some ideas that teachers would actually appreciate:
Dennis Hong got it right when he said:
- Teaching isn’t just “making it fun” for the kids.
- Teaching isn’t just academic content.
- Teaching is understanding how the human brain processes information and preparing lessons with this understanding in mind.
- Teaching is simultaneously instilling in a child the belief that she can accomplish anything she wants while admonishing her for producing shoddy work.
- Teaching is understanding both the psychology and the physiology behind the changes the adolescent mind goes through.
- Teaching is convincing a defiant teenager that the work he sees no value in does serve a greater purpose in preparing him for the rest of his life.
- Teaching is offering a sympathetic ear while maintaining a stern voice.
- Teaching is being both a role model and a mentor to someone who may have neither at home, and may not be looking for either.
- Teaching is not easy.
- Teaching is not intuitive.
- Teaching is not something that anyone can figure out on their own.
If, on the other hand, you REALLY want to help your teacher-friends, here's some ideas that teachers would actually appreciate:
- Buy them pencils, stamps, poster board, and other classroom supplies, just because you were thinking about them and you know how much of their own money they spend on school supplies.
- Offer to help them decorate their room on a weekend!
- Bring them used/old books, dictionaries, magazines, or any other items that might be useful in a classroom (of course, ask before dumping them on their doorstep).
- Offer to come present to their class about the importance of education or how their class is relevant in the real world.
- Go to a school function with them (think high school basketball, choir concert, or school play).
- Volunteer to help drive during a field trip.
- Get your office to sponsor a club or classroom that your friend is involved in -- some organizations offer to pay for technology in classrooms, class sets of books, redecorating a room, or scholarships for students. Be creative!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Dear Timothy McSweeney,
First and foremost, dear reader, I will initiate you into the inner circle of McSweeney-knowers; how many of you have heard of, read, and enjoyed the popular site www.mcsweeneys.net without truly knowing who the hell "Timothy McSweeney" is or was? Well, I have done a very minimal amount of research and, with a few flicks of my fingers, stumbled across the esoteric knowledge that you have all lacked until this very moment:
McSweeney's is a publishing house founded by Dave Eggers, and the name comes from a certain Timothy McSweeney who, confusedly, wrote letters to Eggers' family when Eggers was a child and claimed to be a relative of Eggers' mother. The original Mr. McSweeney is currently in care for mental illness, but, fortunately for us, his legacy lives on in the hilarious lists and articles produced by mcsweeneys.com.
Therefore, I say again, Dear Timothy McSweeney (as you are the namesake of the site which is my muse today), thank you for your recent article, "The Ultimate Guide to Writing Better than You Normally Do."
Mr. McSweeney (and to a lesser extent, Colin Nissan, the author of the article), thank you, thank you, thank you! Your advice on how to write better really is helpful and relevant to the lay-man's world of writers- to-be. As a teacher, I would love to and probably will share this article with my students down the road. As an aspiring writer, I will print out the main points and make them my mantra every morning. As a prophet, I will reiterate your main points and give you praise as needed below:
1. Write everyday. "Writing is a muscle. Smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger." I have tried to explain this to my struggling ELL students (English Language Learning) time and time again, but this quote is a very concise analogy that I think they can "get."
2. Don't procrastinate.
3. Fight through writer's block. (This is more for me than anyone else -- every day when I want to post a blog but think I have nothing to say, I should write anyway! I don't need to post every mundane blog I write, but better to write and "save as draft" than never to write at all!)
4. Learn from the masters. While Nissan says this tongue-in-cheekedly, I agree that aspiring writers should begin by reading, then imitating the masters. Only when we are comfortable enough with recognized genius can we form genius-thoughts of our own, at least, imho.
5. Find your muse. (and I would add, then worship it, idolize it, but keep it to yourself.) If your muse is your tiny dog, so-be-it, but keep it to yourself. You will sound much more intelligent saying inspiration struck than admitting that "Fluffy" breathed the words into your ear as you slept. Furthermore, if your inspiration is your neighbor's house, your neighbor's wife, or your neighbor's ass -- worship it, love it, write analogies of your praise, but, by all means, especially those of your with your own house, wife, and ass, do not pursue it. This is one way to get distracted from your writing, which leads to further frustration and procrastination (see #2).
6. Hone your craft. #1 and 3 and #6 might seem contradictory, as I blog to practice my writing muscle and fight writer's block, but I also keep the blog very private and do not advertise it, as I know I am simply flexing my intellectual muscle without really having anything to show. Think of it as intellectual jerking off. Until I can perform better than the average author, I would never ask that beautiful editor, neighbor, or friend to indulge in reading my meager blabberings. Not until I am confident I will make the reader squeal with pleasure will I pass this link on to anyone in any sort of a hierarchical position. (I apologize to those of you who've stumbled upon or committed to reading my blog prematurely).
7. Ask for feedback.
8. Read, Read, Read. (and I will say read more and more and more!)
9. Study the rules, and then break them. As much as we all admire Picasso, Pollock, and Miro, we secretly know that they were all artists in the traditional sense before they found their own medium and popularized it. In the same way, every writer should perfect the traditional arts of letter writing, the five-paragraph essay, mediocre poetry, and middle-of-the-road fiction before trying to re-create the wheel. Yes, you may have ideas of how to improve the world of fiction, or sci-fi, or romance, but until you've proved yourself as a true minion of literature, your efforts will rarely be taken seriously.
and finally...
10. Keep it together. Believe me, I know, we are all here on this writer's advice column because there is something a little off in our brains. "Average" joes don't fool themselves into thinking (period), or into thinking that their thoughts are worthy of other people's time. So, what makes us so different? Are we really more intelligent? (Maybe!) Is there something wrong with our brain's social perception such that we think people perceive us as smarter than they are? (Probably) And finally, is there something missing, or maybe something extra, in our brain that tells us that we are this generation's muse, and as such, we must proselytize to the masses, wake them from their ambivalence, and make them see the truth? (Yes!) And if you are with me on this last point... then you are just as demented as I am. That said, we're all of us authors a little demented, and we must nurture those demons that inspire us, use them for the good of Humanity, and also recognize when they are leading us astray.
Good luck, fellow writers, and I'll give you an 11th piece of advice that McSweeney and Nissan neglected to mention... -- Don't give up! Keep on writing. In the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:
"Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it."
McSweeney's is a publishing house founded by Dave Eggers, and the name comes from a certain Timothy McSweeney who, confusedly, wrote letters to Eggers' family when Eggers was a child and claimed to be a relative of Eggers' mother. The original Mr. McSweeney is currently in care for mental illness, but, fortunately for us, his legacy lives on in the hilarious lists and articles produced by mcsweeneys.com.
Therefore, I say again, Dear Timothy McSweeney (as you are the namesake of the site which is my muse today), thank you for your recent article, "The Ultimate Guide to Writing Better than You Normally Do."
Mr. McSweeney (and to a lesser extent, Colin Nissan, the author of the article), thank you, thank you, thank you! Your advice on how to write better really is helpful and relevant to the lay-man's world of writers- to-be. As a teacher, I would love to and probably will share this article with my students down the road. As an aspiring writer, I will print out the main points and make them my mantra every morning. As a prophet, I will reiterate your main points and give you praise as needed below:
1. Write everyday. "Writing is a muscle. Smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger." I have tried to explain this to my struggling ELL students (English Language Learning) time and time again, but this quote is a very concise analogy that I think they can "get."
2. Don't procrastinate.
3. Fight through writer's block. (This is more for me than anyone else -- every day when I want to post a blog but think I have nothing to say, I should write anyway! I don't need to post every mundane blog I write, but better to write and "save as draft" than never to write at all!)
4. Learn from the masters. While Nissan says this tongue-in-cheekedly, I agree that aspiring writers should begin by reading, then imitating the masters. Only when we are comfortable enough with recognized genius can we form genius-thoughts of our own, at least, imho.
5. Find your muse. (and I would add, then worship it, idolize it, but keep it to yourself.) If your muse is your tiny dog, so-be-it, but keep it to yourself. You will sound much more intelligent saying inspiration struck than admitting that "Fluffy" breathed the words into your ear as you slept. Furthermore, if your inspiration is your neighbor's house, your neighbor's wife, or your neighbor's ass -- worship it, love it, write analogies of your praise, but, by all means, especially those of your with your own house, wife, and ass, do not pursue it. This is one way to get distracted from your writing, which leads to further frustration and procrastination (see #2).
6. Hone your craft. #1 and 3 and #6 might seem contradictory, as I blog to practice my writing muscle and fight writer's block, but I also keep the blog very private and do not advertise it, as I know I am simply flexing my intellectual muscle without really having anything to show. Think of it as intellectual jerking off. Until I can perform better than the average author, I would never ask that beautiful editor, neighbor, or friend to indulge in reading my meager blabberings. Not until I am confident I will make the reader squeal with pleasure will I pass this link on to anyone in any sort of a hierarchical position. (I apologize to those of you who've stumbled upon or committed to reading my blog prematurely).
7. Ask for feedback.
8. Read, Read, Read. (and I will say read more and more and more!)
9. Study the rules, and then break them. As much as we all admire Picasso, Pollock, and Miro, we secretly know that they were all artists in the traditional sense before they found their own medium and popularized it. In the same way, every writer should perfect the traditional arts of letter writing, the five-paragraph essay, mediocre poetry, and middle-of-the-road fiction before trying to re-create the wheel. Yes, you may have ideas of how to improve the world of fiction, or sci-fi, or romance, but until you've proved yourself as a true minion of literature, your efforts will rarely be taken seriously.
and finally...
10. Keep it together. Believe me, I know, we are all here on this writer's advice column because there is something a little off in our brains. "Average" joes don't fool themselves into thinking (period), or into thinking that their thoughts are worthy of other people's time. So, what makes us so different? Are we really more intelligent? (Maybe!) Is there something wrong with our brain's social perception such that we think people perceive us as smarter than they are? (Probably) And finally, is there something missing, or maybe something extra, in our brain that tells us that we are this generation's muse, and as such, we must proselytize to the masses, wake them from their ambivalence, and make them see the truth? (Yes!) And if you are with me on this last point... then you are just as demented as I am. That said, we're all of us authors a little demented, and we must nurture those demons that inspire us, use them for the good of Humanity, and also recognize when they are leading us astray.
Good luck, fellow writers, and I'll give you an 11th piece of advice that McSweeney and Nissan neglected to mention... -- Don't give up! Keep on writing. In the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:
"Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it."
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Response to Jim Berhle's "How to Write the Great American Novel"
"How to Write the Great American Novel"
Read the above article from theawl.com, then read my witty commentary below:
This article was my introduction to theawl.com, and I must say, it was love at first sight. While I do have some complaints about it, which I'll get around to later, and theawl in general, which I might write about in a future post, I found the article to be entertaining and, for the most part, spot-on.
That said, complaint #1 is that the article is WAY TOO LONG. I know, I know -- intellectuals don't complain about having to read too much, but come on! Isn't the point of the internet to get quick, immediate news "at your fingertips" when you want it? Well, yes, that is the point of internet news, but not the point of any creative form of writing. Yes, I get it. But an article's and article, and there's plenty of reasons an article is not a short story or a book, and I'm going to go ahead and say that one of those reasons is length. So, while the article is enthralling and worth your time, don't feel bad if you skimmed over 60% of it like I did. Who has the time to read all 4,726 words? (And yes, I really counted, or... Microsoft Word did.)
My second complaint is that the 11 suggestions could realistically be pared down to a meager five:
Berhle's tips that can go:
1. Move out of Brooklyn. Though I concede that there are far too many popular novels based in New York City, given that less than 3% of the population of the United States lives in NYC (pop. of NYC = 8,391,881 pop. of USA = 311,591,917: is my math right?), and I fully experience the feeling of exclusion when authors refer to specific streets and cafes in Manhattan as if all Americans should be familiar, I refuse to believe that this specificity is what is crippling certain authors from producing the next "Great American Novel." Who knows, perhaps these writers' goal is simply to become the next "Great Author from Manhattan." Additionally, if the purpose of literature is to explore universally experienced themes, does the location really matter? Again, I will reiterate that no, I cannot relate to the actual location of a narrator who is walking down a dark alley in the bad side of Central Park as vividly as a native New Yorker, but we can all relate to the feeling of being in a scary situation. Therefore, while I admit to Mr. Berhle that books about NYC are inundating our bookstores, I suggest that the reader appreciate the plot of the books for what they are and draw on universal experiences as much as possible. If this is impossible for the unimaginative readers out there, choose your books more carefully.
3. Stop writing in Starbucks. I am of the mind that it does not matter where one creates as long as one creates, and I think we all agree that different people require different working environments. For example, it behooves some folks to listen to soft music while they read or write; others, like myself, need utter silence for inspiration to strike. Still some people (strange as they are), get lost in loud beats, lose track of the world around them, and only then can they compose. Because I sympathize with those gentle souls who need silence to in order to create, it would be easy for me to say that this is the only road to true genius, but I am not so close-minded as to assert that there is only one recipe for creativity, and therefore, Berhle, I disagree that Starbucks is an impediment to creation. Maybe some authors thrive on others' banality, and who are we to judge?
7. We need more books written from the point of view of cats. I will not even comment on this tip. No, I will: Has anyone actually read A Dog's Purpose or anything written by Jon Katz? If you haven't, go find A Dog's Purpose, read the first paragraph, and then imagine this were written from a cat's perspective. The world does not need books written from the point of view of animals, period. (Unless they are analogies about humanity, ie - Animal Farm, Life of Pi...)
Though I reject the above three writing suggestions, I embrace the majority of his ideas:
1. Drop out of school. Brilliant. This one stays. Yes, Jim, "If being a great writer could be taught, it would have been taught by now," but I don't agree that every colleague and professor is "trying to destroy you." While, in my experience, that majority of people who study English will not write outside of their MA or Ph.D program, those who will break through the glass-window of publication really want to help you (if they think you're good enough). And if not, they truly want to weed you out of the field in order to rid the world of future Suzanne Collins and Stephanie Meyers (and no, not out of jealousy, but because the writing is awful).
2. Adultery is boring. Again, right on, but I think this could be generalized into a broader category of "Make it Interesting," or, in the words of Ezra Pound, "Make it New!" Though I don't believe that the best novel of the last few years is "Mad Men," mostly because I haven't seen most of it and do not equate TV with literature, I agree that the greatest love story (or story of adultery) has already been told. (sidenote: I do not believe it to be "Romeo and Juliet," but rather Love in the Time of Cholera; what a beautiful story of patience and devotion which doesn't end in rash decisions to kill oneself due to imbalanced teenage hormones!) Furthermore, I think "Stop Writing Books from the Points of View of Children" and "No more anti-heroes" could fall into this broadened "Make it New!" category.
3. Stop wasting time on the internet! Yes, yes, yes! How many novels have been abandoned due to an unfocused author's short attention span when multi-tasking on the computer? How many students' assignments have been neglected in lieu of twitter and facebook? How many dollars have been embezzled from employers by employees who waste company time on social networks or "surfing the web" when they should be doing something else? As a child of the 80's and 90's, I'm not certain what the office time-waster was before internet (Minesweeper? Newspapers? TV?), but, as an educator, I know that technology, in all it's glory, has impeded productivity as much as it has aided expedience. That said, it would be hypocritical of me to pretend I want you to be writing your novel instead of reading my blog, especially if your novel's better than mine. So, godspeed to all you internet Jedi's out there - waste away!
4. Stop drinking and doing coke. I only support this tip in so much as "just because you drink it doesn’t make you interesting," but I truly don't recall many contemporary writers who boast about binging escapades, not since Jack Kerouac. Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I am a child of the 80's and 90's, so I never romped around with the Beats or the Lost Generation as Mr. Berhle seems to have (there are an uncanny number of seemingly personal references to remembering anecdotes about John Updike in Berhle's article, don't you think? Or were those intended to mean, "I remember when I heard about John Updike doing the following?" Regardless, I'm not so sure this specific authorial flaw is endemic to contemporary authors.
5. Don't listen to anyone's opinion and Never Stop Writing mean the same thing to me, and they are both good advice. They both call to mind Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet in which he counsels the insecure poet thusly:
"You ask whether your poems are good. You send them to publishers; you compare them with other poems; you are disturbed when certain publishers reject your attempts... I suggest you give all that up. You are looking outward and, above all else, that you must not do now. No one can advise or help you, no one... in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity."
So, I saved this tip for last and say to you: "Reader, if you strive to write the next great American novel, keep writing, but only do so if writing is the only thing that keeps you going day to day. Do not contribute banal, second-rate discourse with the sole purpose of recognition, fame, or legacy. As a writer, it is not for you to decide the fecundity of your work, but it is rather your job to hone your words so they may go forth and prosper."
Best of luck to you, writers, in producing the next "Great American Novel," if that is, indeed, your goal. And here I leave you, 3148 words fewer than Berhle, but too long, nonetheless. Check in again to read a future blog which will review Berhle's Valentine's Day blog, "How to Write a Love Poem."
Read the above article from theawl.com, then read my witty commentary below:
This article was my introduction to theawl.com, and I must say, it was love at first sight. While I do have some complaints about it, which I'll get around to later, and theawl in general, which I might write about in a future post, I found the article to be entertaining and, for the most part, spot-on.
That said, complaint #1 is that the article is WAY TOO LONG. I know, I know -- intellectuals don't complain about having to read too much, but come on! Isn't the point of the internet to get quick, immediate news "at your fingertips" when you want it? Well, yes, that is the point of internet news, but not the point of any creative form of writing. Yes, I get it. But an article's and article, and there's plenty of reasons an article is not a short story or a book, and I'm going to go ahead and say that one of those reasons is length. So, while the article is enthralling and worth your time, don't feel bad if you skimmed over 60% of it like I did. Who has the time to read all 4,726 words? (And yes, I really counted, or... Microsoft Word did.)
My second complaint is that the 11 suggestions could realistically be pared down to a meager five:
Berhle's tips that can go:
1. Move out of Brooklyn. Though I concede that there are far too many popular novels based in New York City, given that less than 3% of the population of the United States lives in NYC (pop. of NYC = 8,391,881 pop. of USA = 311,591,917: is my math right?), and I fully experience the feeling of exclusion when authors refer to specific streets and cafes in Manhattan as if all Americans should be familiar, I refuse to believe that this specificity is what is crippling certain authors from producing the next "Great American Novel." Who knows, perhaps these writers' goal is simply to become the next "Great Author from Manhattan." Additionally, if the purpose of literature is to explore universally experienced themes, does the location really matter? Again, I will reiterate that no, I cannot relate to the actual location of a narrator who is walking down a dark alley in the bad side of Central Park as vividly as a native New Yorker, but we can all relate to the feeling of being in a scary situation. Therefore, while I admit to Mr. Berhle that books about NYC are inundating our bookstores, I suggest that the reader appreciate the plot of the books for what they are and draw on universal experiences as much as possible. If this is impossible for the unimaginative readers out there, choose your books more carefully.
3. Stop writing in Starbucks. I am of the mind that it does not matter where one creates as long as one creates, and I think we all agree that different people require different working environments. For example, it behooves some folks to listen to soft music while they read or write; others, like myself, need utter silence for inspiration to strike. Still some people (strange as they are), get lost in loud beats, lose track of the world around them, and only then can they compose. Because I sympathize with those gentle souls who need silence to in order to create, it would be easy for me to say that this is the only road to true genius, but I am not so close-minded as to assert that there is only one recipe for creativity, and therefore, Berhle, I disagree that Starbucks is an impediment to creation. Maybe some authors thrive on others' banality, and who are we to judge?
7. We need more books written from the point of view of cats. I will not even comment on this tip. No, I will: Has anyone actually read A Dog's Purpose or anything written by Jon Katz? If you haven't, go find A Dog's Purpose, read the first paragraph, and then imagine this were written from a cat's perspective. The world does not need books written from the point of view of animals, period. (Unless they are analogies about humanity, ie - Animal Farm, Life of Pi...)
Though I reject the above three writing suggestions, I embrace the majority of his ideas:
1. Drop out of school. Brilliant. This one stays. Yes, Jim, "If being a great writer could be taught, it would have been taught by now," but I don't agree that every colleague and professor is "trying to destroy you." While, in my experience, that majority of people who study English will not write outside of their MA or Ph.D program, those who will break through the glass-window of publication really want to help you (if they think you're good enough). And if not, they truly want to weed you out of the field in order to rid the world of future Suzanne Collins and Stephanie Meyers (and no, not out of jealousy, but because the writing is awful).
2. Adultery is boring. Again, right on, but I think this could be generalized into a broader category of "Make it Interesting," or, in the words of Ezra Pound, "Make it New!" Though I don't believe that the best novel of the last few years is "Mad Men," mostly because I haven't seen most of it and do not equate TV with literature, I agree that the greatest love story (or story of adultery) has already been told. (sidenote: I do not believe it to be "Romeo and Juliet," but rather Love in the Time of Cholera; what a beautiful story of patience and devotion which doesn't end in rash decisions to kill oneself due to imbalanced teenage hormones!) Furthermore, I think "Stop Writing Books from the Points of View of Children" and "No more anti-heroes" could fall into this broadened "Make it New!" category.
3. Stop wasting time on the internet! Yes, yes, yes! How many novels have been abandoned due to an unfocused author's short attention span when multi-tasking on the computer? How many students' assignments have been neglected in lieu of twitter and facebook? How many dollars have been embezzled from employers by employees who waste company time on social networks or "surfing the web" when they should be doing something else? As a child of the 80's and 90's, I'm not certain what the office time-waster was before internet (Minesweeper? Newspapers? TV?), but, as an educator, I know that technology, in all it's glory, has impeded productivity as much as it has aided expedience. That said, it would be hypocritical of me to pretend I want you to be writing your novel instead of reading my blog, especially if your novel's better than mine. So, godspeed to all you internet Jedi's out there - waste away!
4. Stop drinking and doing coke. I only support this tip in so much as "just because you drink it doesn’t make you interesting," but I truly don't recall many contemporary writers who boast about binging escapades, not since Jack Kerouac. Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I am a child of the 80's and 90's, so I never romped around with the Beats or the Lost Generation as Mr. Berhle seems to have (there are an uncanny number of seemingly personal references to remembering anecdotes about John Updike in Berhle's article, don't you think? Or were those intended to mean, "I remember when I heard about John Updike doing the following?" Regardless, I'm not so sure this specific authorial flaw is endemic to contemporary authors.
5. Don't listen to anyone's opinion and Never Stop Writing mean the same thing to me, and they are both good advice. They both call to mind Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet in which he counsels the insecure poet thusly:
"You ask whether your poems are good. You send them to publishers; you compare them with other poems; you are disturbed when certain publishers reject your attempts... I suggest you give all that up. You are looking outward and, above all else, that you must not do now. No one can advise or help you, no one... in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity."
So, I saved this tip for last and say to you: "Reader, if you strive to write the next great American novel, keep writing, but only do so if writing is the only thing that keeps you going day to day. Do not contribute banal, second-rate discourse with the sole purpose of recognition, fame, or legacy. As a writer, it is not for you to decide the fecundity of your work, but it is rather your job to hone your words so they may go forth and prosper."
Best of luck to you, writers, in producing the next "Great American Novel," if that is, indeed, your goal. And here I leave you, 3148 words fewer than Berhle, but too long, nonetheless. Check in again to read a future blog which will review Berhle's Valentine's Day blog, "How to Write a Love Poem."
Monday, April 2, 2012
The Gift
"What is it?" he asked, as he turned it over in his hands.
"A gift," she responded dryly.
"Well, what's it supposed to be?"
"Hell if I know. You know how he is, always sending me strange widgets that make him think of me. He probably found it at a garage sale somewhere."
"I don't know, it seems like there's got to be some way to..." (turns it over in his hands) "I just feel like I could open it if I could only -- There!"
(silence - both stare)
"Oh," she takes it from him and turns it thoughtfully in her palm. "I still don't really know what it's supposed to be. I mean, a locket of some kind?"
"I've never seen a locket that... looks like that. It's kind of creepy."
"I think it says something on the back." (scrapes at the object with her nail) "K.E.P."
"Hmm... did he send a note or anything?"
"No, just that dusty box and some old newspaper. I wonder if it has any sentimental value or is just some trinket he found."
"You should ask."
"I doubt he'll even remember sending it. He's getting worse and worse. I was just over there yesterday and I had to tell him twice who I was. It's sad... we'll be in the middle of talking and he'll stop mid-sentence. I always know when it's going to happen because his eyes get really small. He looks around like something's going to trigger a memory, and then he uses that voice I'm not used to hearing, that meager voice he used to use in the hospital when the doctor was talking to him." (Sigh.) "I never know what to do. I'm sure he appreciates the company, but... it's hard to be there. Sometimes I feel like I make it worse." (Places locket back in box and then into a drawer with similar-sized boxes).
"Why do you hang on to all those if you don't even know what they are?"
"A gift," she responded dryly.
"Well, what's it supposed to be?"
"Hell if I know. You know how he is, always sending me strange widgets that make him think of me. He probably found it at a garage sale somewhere."
"I don't know, it seems like there's got to be some way to..." (turns it over in his hands) "I just feel like I could open it if I could only -- There!"
(silence - both stare)
"Oh," she takes it from him and turns it thoughtfully in her palm. "I still don't really know what it's supposed to be. I mean, a locket of some kind?"
"I've never seen a locket that... looks like that. It's kind of creepy."
"I think it says something on the back." (scrapes at the object with her nail) "K.E.P."
"Hmm... did he send a note or anything?"
"No, just that dusty box and some old newspaper. I wonder if it has any sentimental value or is just some trinket he found."
"You should ask."
"I doubt he'll even remember sending it. He's getting worse and worse. I was just over there yesterday and I had to tell him twice who I was. It's sad... we'll be in the middle of talking and he'll stop mid-sentence. I always know when it's going to happen because his eyes get really small. He looks around like something's going to trigger a memory, and then he uses that voice I'm not used to hearing, that meager voice he used to use in the hospital when the doctor was talking to him." (Sigh.) "I never know what to do. I'm sure he appreciates the company, but... it's hard to be there. Sometimes I feel like I make it worse." (Places locket back in box and then into a drawer with similar-sized boxes).
"Why do you hang on to all those if you don't even know what they are?"
Monday, March 26, 2012
A blog of first blog entries?
The thought of starting and maintaining a blog gave me immense feelings of hope; could this blog-o-sphere be the entrance to a world of fame hitherto unknown to me? A couple of times I got on blogspot.com and muddled over what to name my blog, what clever theme would it have? Like in many areas of my life, I could not commit to just one idea, so I abstained from even getting started. Why would I want to spoil my naive notions of what peace and satisfaction a blog might bring me when I could spend hours, days, weeks reveling in how great my (forthcoming) blog would be?
Inspiration overtook me this Spring, though. My curiosity grew arms and began typing itself with my last entry: "Let there be a blog!" my muse cried unto me, and who was I to argue? And a glorious entry it was, laden with Woolfian prose and witty asides. As I feared would come to pass, though, I was crippled by my bombastic entrance into the virtual world. None of my thoughts could surpass the arrogance of, "Let there be a blog!" What had I done? Again and again, I clicked on "New Post," only to produce what amounted to so much merde. Draft after draft was abandoned as I realized that I didn't want to divulge my mundane life to you, faithful readers. Having a blog is not about veracity and realism, but rather about pursuing one's fancies, finding like-minded followers who, so like your author, love to lose themselves in others' musings for a short while, and no amount of snarky sarcasm would satiate that goal.
Then it came to me, in a fit of desperation - when I was all but ready to start yet another, newer, better blog - why not create a blog of "First Blogs"? What subject could be more prone to enthusiasm and hope than the optimism of a first blog entry? It would be like making a New Year's Resolution every day! If, for some reason, I failed to post, what difference would it make when each entry is just a revelry of what is to come? An effervescent glimmer of hope? And what better time to start such a blog than the beginning of Spring, the season of rebirth? So here's to Spring, new beginnings, and whatever this (glorious) blog will bring!
Inspiration overtook me this Spring, though. My curiosity grew arms and began typing itself with my last entry: "Let there be a blog!" my muse cried unto me, and who was I to argue? And a glorious entry it was, laden with Woolfian prose and witty asides. As I feared would come to pass, though, I was crippled by my bombastic entrance into the virtual world. None of my thoughts could surpass the arrogance of, "Let there be a blog!" What had I done? Again and again, I clicked on "New Post," only to produce what amounted to so much merde. Draft after draft was abandoned as I realized that I didn't want to divulge my mundane life to you, faithful readers. Having a blog is not about veracity and realism, but rather about pursuing one's fancies, finding like-minded followers who, so like your author, love to lose themselves in others' musings for a short while, and no amount of snarky sarcasm would satiate that goal.
Then it came to me, in a fit of desperation - when I was all but ready to start yet another, newer, better blog - why not create a blog of "First Blogs"? What subject could be more prone to enthusiasm and hope than the optimism of a first blog entry? It would be like making a New Year's Resolution every day! If, for some reason, I failed to post, what difference would it make when each entry is just a revelry of what is to come? An effervescent glimmer of hope? And what better time to start such a blog than the beginning of Spring, the season of rebirth? So here's to Spring, new beginnings, and whatever this (glorious) blog will bring!
Saturday, March 24, 2012
It starts.
And she said to all who could hear her (mostly the sleeping dog at her feet and the pictures lining the walls), "Let there be a blog!" and there was... after a series of false-starts and serious intimidation. And it wasn't the greatest blog that ever existed, but it provided her with an outlet, a window through which she could look inside herself, if she ever figured out how to achieve that angle.
No, hitherto the creation of the blog, there had been a plethora of artifacts intended to serve this same purpose - journals, diaries, notebooks... friends and boyfriends to whom she whispered her fears and dreams, but the books sought shelter in the corners of forgotten drawers, years of insipid pondering abandoned in moments of glee. The friends and lovers, like the books, proved themselves selfish, and the conversation always one-sided. Neither form of companionship offered her the reciprocity that the potential commentators would, nor the confidence to explore writing as a form of expression, non-academic, non-functional, but simply writing for the sake of writing.
Perhaps sometime in the future she'd build a league of followers, inspire young people to spend time creating, not just consuming, be featured on a talk show or podcast, publish any number of her coherent musings, but for the time being, upon creating her blog and envisioning a glimpse of the future they might have together, the creator took a sip of latte, smiled to herself, and proceeded into the coming days full of hope.
No, hitherto the creation of the blog, there had been a plethora of artifacts intended to serve this same purpose - journals, diaries, notebooks... friends and boyfriends to whom she whispered her fears and dreams, but the books sought shelter in the corners of forgotten drawers, years of insipid pondering abandoned in moments of glee. The friends and lovers, like the books, proved themselves selfish, and the conversation always one-sided. Neither form of companionship offered her the reciprocity that the potential commentators would, nor the confidence to explore writing as a form of expression, non-academic, non-functional, but simply writing for the sake of writing.
Perhaps sometime in the future she'd build a league of followers, inspire young people to spend time creating, not just consuming, be featured on a talk show or podcast, publish any number of her coherent musings, but for the time being, upon creating her blog and envisioning a glimpse of the future they might have together, the creator took a sip of latte, smiled to herself, and proceeded into the coming days full of hope.
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