Another Excuse

I've started listing to an audiobook, "The End of Your Life Bookclub," by Will Schwalbe.  It's the author's account of his mother's last two years of life, as she battles pancreatic cancer (caught too late) and the two share and discuss books.  Just as Schwalbe's mom always read the last chapter in a book first, the author starts at the end and then goes back to her diagnosis and the beginning of their bookclub. Reading together helps change them from a sick person and a well person back into a mother and a son.  I've only listened to the first couple chapters, but I already love and am sad for these real people.

I'm a bit tearie, lately, and I mostly blame the season.  I always seem to get a little sad and tearie (you know, not actually crying, but tears hang out in the corners of my eyes) this time of year, even if life is otherwise pretty good.  Sundays I go to my grandma's house, and lately I've been thinking about how lucky I am to have been able to spend this time with her.  Usually it's just me and her--sometimes my brothers are there, sometimes my fiancé comes, sometimes my dad is home--but mostly it's just me and her.  We talk about sports, politics and religion (the latter two subjects, I mostly listen).  In small pieces, she's told me about her childhood and her marriage.  I've come to understand and admire her so much more through these quiet Sunday afternoons where we mostly sit and watch the Reds or Bengals, and she asks me to wait to fold my laundry until after she returns from the bathroom because she likes to see what I've worn throughout the week.  I think about how much this time has meant to me.  And thinking about that makes me cry harder, because I don't know how many more Sundays we'll have together because a) she's ninety, and b) I'm getting married.  It won't make sense for me to go there every week and do laundry as a married woman.  I'll have to find another excuse.

* * *

This evening I had a great meeting with my writing/critique partner.  Not only do I get detailed and helpful feedback on my own work, but tonight I also got to read the start of a new project of hers.  I'm impressed and inspired by her ability to create new stories and characters.  These meetings help me refocus on myself as a writer--most days, lately, I haven't thought of myself as one.  I have to stop waiting for inspiration and just do it.  Push through the tedious hard stuff of fixing my manuscript.

Photobooth

I have a cool app on my phone called "Pocketbooth" - it takes four quick pictures of you and stitches them together like one of those old fashioned photo booths. Here's some of me and my nana (not sure why I look so grumpy in picture #4).

Newt

My grandma is a fan of Newt Gingrich. As readers know, my nana is awesome. She knits me hats, bakes me cookies, and is generally the coolest 90yr-old ever. But she likes Newt. She thinks he's "so smart" and has "great ideas."

"Just listen to him," she says. "I know you like Obama but Gingrich knows how politics work and can get things done. We need someone like that."

She recognizes all his personal failings, with his three overlapping marriages. But she likes him. She likes Santorum, too--"The young guy," she calls him--but he's not ready yet.

I've stopped trying to argue with her. She'll never vote Democratic, anyway, because of the abortion issue, even though I think the President who got us out of Iraq is more pro-life than the one who invaded it.

It's just interesting to hear her perspective. Just as I started to wonder how anyone could ever in their right mind support Newt Gingrich for president, Nana gives me an explanation.

The Small Things

I received the kindest note from one of my former students the other day after I'd posted a link to the Writing Insight interview. She said she had really enjoyed my class and that I was "inspiring if at times misunderstood." This made me smile and laugh.

My grandma was tickled pink after receiving a call from her nephew; Tuesday he's going to take her to the casino. She'd left her home in California for Ohio more than sixty years ago. Her four siblings have all died. But her nephew (temporarily here for business) is the son of her favorite brother, Leo. When she hears her nephew's voice, she hears Leo. I wonder if her nephew knows how happy he's made her.

Last, the Reds won again. After being swept by the Cardinals--and looking absolutely awful in the process--we've won 8 of our last 9. Even the national press is starting to notice!

Nonfiction

I spent last night at my grandma's. I came home after watching the Reds lose (again) to the St. Louis Cardinals and found my downstairs neighbor, beer in hand, telling me "power's out." My bedroom's in the attic; the temperature midday gets to 99 degrees with the fan on. Without packing so much as a toothbrush, I got back in my car and drove the 30 minutes east of my apartment. It was worth it to sleep in an air-conditioned house, watch The Daily Show, and eat bacon and eggs for breakfast.

The wordpress site is coming together. I have a nonfiction page with a selection of posts from the past two years. I thought they were ones that could stand without context. I also have a "works in progress" page, where I'm posting pieces of a story as I write it. Of course, a story will get changed a hundred times--in ways big and small--before it's finished.

It's incredibly scary putting stuff out there: admitting, this is what I'm doing, this is who I am. It's just a start; I've got a long way to go. But I need to start somewhere.

Refudiation

On Sundays, as we wait for Reds pregame to start, my dad, grandmother and I often watch Fareed Zakariah and GPS on CNN. It's one of the few things we can watch on cable that doesn't seem to propagandize or make us less intelligent. He has on interesting guests with divergent points of view, and he asks very insightful questions. This past Sunday, he started his show by talking about the debate over the proposed Muslim cultural center.

"I can't believe they want to build a Mosque at Ground Zero," Nana said.

I replied that during the commercial break, I'd refute her.

"What did she say? Did she say that she'd refute me?"

(I certainly didn't say I'd refudiate her.)

But GPS, instead of going straight to commercial, went to its first two guests: former secretaries of the treasury Robert Rubin and Paul O'Neill. They discussed how difficult and complex economic recovery is, and while they disagreed what the correct course of action should be, there seemed to be some common ground. By the time the show went to commercial break, my dad said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Nana was asleep in her chair. Even if she'd been awake, I would have let it go.

I see fear and ignorance and emotion as the biggest enemies to progress. Because when we leave those things out of the discussion, the right answer seems clearer. I may be biased, but I believe truth has a liberal slant.

Complicated and Uncomfortable

Nana turns 90 this December. She's lived alone in the same house my dad was raised in since her husband died over fifteen years ago. She prides herself on her independence; not only is she able to drive and take care of herself, she's still what she calls a "productive member of society," baking cookies and coffee cake for her friends and neighbors (and granddaughter), stuffing envelopes for her church.

This week she visited a friend of hers in Kentucky, "Sally," who now resides in one of those "assisted living" places. Here's Sally's typical day, according to Nana: in the morning she gets up and dressed, eats breakfast, plays cards, and returns to her room to freshen up; in the afternoon she has lunch, rests for a bit in the room, and then has cocktails (Sally likes cosmopolitans); finally she eats dinner, plays cards, then returns to the room to go to sleep. By "room" I mean something resembling an apartment, complete with a tiny kitchen, living room area, and separate bedroom. Nana says that someone comes in to clean and change the sheets: there's nothing left for Sally to do.

My grandmother could not live in one of these places. She tells me, "Don't let me go there - I'd die of a broken heart!"

We read an article in class about "slow medicine," the idea that instead of providing elderly (those 80 and older) with drastic, expensive, and invasive treatment, doctors and their patients should have a conversation much earlier about what kinds of life-saving action, if any, they want taken. The article compares quantity of life to quality of life but also makes the point that tests and life-saving measures in older patients often make things worse. I recently heard this referred to as extending death, rather than prolonging life.

Anyway, I love visiting her on Sundays. When my brothers and I were little, we spent the whole weekend there. Saturday evenings, we'd get our hair washed in the sink, we'd watch Lawrence Welk in the family room, and we'd sleep between our grandparents in their pushed-together full beds. Sunday mornings, we'd all go to their church (where I'd try to count past one-thousand without having to start over) and then our parents would come and we'd all eat brunch. I can't imagine visiting her for hours on Sundays at a nursing home. When she was in the hospital and then recovering at a nursing home, she was so feeble and depressed. She couldn't do anything for herself or for others, feeling at best useless and at worse a burden.

I have no insight or grand conclusions. This stuff is complicated and uncomfortable. But I told her that I wouldn't let her go into one of those homes if she doesn't want to go. Hopefully we never reach the point where that seems like the only option.

* * *

Since my last day teaching and since my last grade was turned in, I've now had four consecutive days off work. I reread some of my writing samples and added a couple sentences to my application essay, but besides that I've used this time to visit family and reconnect with friends. Starting tomorrow, I'll devise my plan for the next few weeks

Edited to change "quantify" to "quantity." It's never too late to proofread!

Sorting Through the Clutter

My room is clean today. Not my bedroom, with pants thrown over my ironing board and the items I'd washed yesterday still residing in a suitcase (much more convenient than a basket for transportation), but my middle room - the place with my desk, laptop, printer, table, trolls, bookshelf, pens, coats, loose change, and other miscellaneous items.

I spent yesterday evening sorting papers, piling and un-piling some while disposing of others. And around 9:00pm, I vacuumed. We'll see how long it stays this way, but I think I'll be more inclined to hang up my jacket when I come home or put my shoes somewhere other than the middle of the floor.

Off to a coffee shop to grade (and to consume caffeine and bagel) and then the library to work - we get self-checkout later this week, which I had at my old branch.

I'm doing better. I've plowed through. My brothers and I spent Easter at my grandmother's, and she's moving around with more ease. She still gets tired very quickly, and slept a lot of the time we were there, but every day she feels stronger.

Entitlements

Yesterday, I went straight from class over to my grandma's. She'd returned after an out-patient procedure that "found nothing." Right now, this 88-year old is home-bound, reliant on others to pick up her library books and go to the grocery store. She doesn't complain, but I know she hates losing a bit of her independence (hopefully just temporarily, as she regains strength).

Medicare is paying for everything: from her trip to the ER to her week-long stay at the hospital, to another week at a nursing home as she regained strength, and to daily home visits from a nurse and, today, a social worker. She wouldn't have been able to cover all these expenses on her own, nor would my father and I have been much help. I've been thinking about this as the health care debate came to a head and then a vote.

Anyway. Korean food, beer fest tonight. Less than three more weeks in the quarter, and I'm looking forward to being caught up for three or four days.

Linguistic Change Doesn't Equal Linguistic Decay (Necessarily)

I've started reading a fascinating book, The Lexicographer's Dilemma, with the catchy subtitle, The Evolution of 'Proper English,' from Shakespeare to South Park. Click here for an excerpt, though I encourage lovers of the English language to buy your own copy or, better yet, borrow one from the library.

The writer, Jack Lynch, poses the question: How is it "wrong" if everyone speaks that way? Going back centuries, every generation has bemoaned the degradation of the English language. Kids these days, they don't know how to talk or write. But language necessarily evolves; the rules, he suggests, are less important than usage. We can't capture and crystallize the English language and say that this is the only way to speak it correctly. Technology changes, and the way we communicate changes; thus, focusing on what is "correct" puts undue anxiety on speakers and writers alike. Bad grammar, he says, can result in good writing, just as good grammar can result in bad writing.

As an English teacher, I read this book with great interest. I recognize the arbitrariness of the rules, the way language is used to impose and enforce a power structure. But I also recognize the power of language as a means of communication. I see the need for clarity and unambiguity in certain contexts. I see the importance of learning how to writing and speak "Standard English" because of the way our society works. Again, it's a fascinating book.

***

Nana is doing much better. She's still in the hospital but much closer to her old self. I've spent most days this week with her, and I'm lucky that my jobs afford me the flexibility to do that. I'll share a quote from my brother's godfather that my dad quoted on his own blog:

Loss, and the grief that comes from it, is one of the greatest occasions of deep and sad feeling, and it’s one that is socially acceptable. When we lose a beloved friend, wife, husband, child, parent, or maybe a possession or a job, we feel it’s okay to feel deeply. But we must broaden that. We’ve got to find a passion that is also experienced when we have it, not just when we’re losing it. And we have it all the time. Don’t wait for loss to feel, suffer, or enjoy deeply.

Very, Very Quick hits

• I tied for second in the Oscar pool Sunday. Should've gone with the tide and picked Sandra Bullock!
• I went to bed at 8:30 last night and woke at 5am. More sleep than I've gotten in ages.
• My lovely nana is in the hospital with pancreatitis (the kind caused by gull stones, not excessive alcohol); she's in good spirits.

Zach, Nana, and Jonah a couple of Thanksgivings ago. My brothers have very nice smiles, but here they are making their "ugh my sister is making us pose" faces :)

Why We Need Reform

With all the back and forth and frustration over feckless Democrats and obstructionist Republicans, it's easy to forget the ultimate goals of health care reform. One of my favorite political sites, Talking Points Memo, posted a reader's email that serves as a reminder. Here is the key portion, though the whole thing is worth reading.

My story: My father is dying of Huntington's disease. Before he dies in 8 to 10 years, he will need anti-depressants, anti-psychotics and drugs that fight dementia and his tremors and convulsions. He'll need multiple brain scans and physical therapy sessions.

Current medical treatments can't save him, but they will give him a few more years before the slow death strips him of his memories, personality and control of his body.

There's a 50 percent chance the same slow motion death awaits me and each of my three siblings. If I ever lose my job I'll become uninsurable, permanently. My sister already lost her insurance.

That means whatever treatment is developed for Huntington's will be unavailable to us. There's simply no way we could afford it. Not only high tech gene therapies or other interventions, but the medications and treatments that exist now that would buy us enough time to see our kids' graduations or weddings, and would give them hope of not suffering their grandfather's fate.

There's a bill that would mean we'd never be rejected for health insurance or have it canceled. Health insurance that could ease our final years, or maybe even save us.

But liberals are refusing to support it. I know there are principles and politics at stake. I know people are tired of being told to shut up and take what's given to them. But in the end, there a thousands of people with Huntington's and millions of people with other serious or terminal illnesses who will never benefit from treatment because they are uninsured. Millions more who are otherwise healthy will die premature or unnecessary deaths because basic health care isn't affordable.

I'm off to Nana's - it's been a couple weeks, and my laundry is piled up a bit. We'll cheer on the Colts and Saints today, though I suspect the NFL is hoping for a Jets/Vikings Superbowl.

So there's that

The Bengals may have played yesterday, and I may have watched, but I have no memory of it. It's erased. Gone. Spring Training begins for the Reds in less than two months. So there's that.

My latest excitement comes from my new phone, a myTouch 3G. It's a "smart" phone that has access to the internet and a full browser. Also, I can download many apps, like bar code scanners and tetris and my personal favorite, "Coloroid" (I played it yesterday while the Bengals were imploding). Anyway, it was an impulse buy, and my hope is that it will make me less attached to being home at my computer. Instead I'll be at Starbucks, grading papers; or when the weather is nicer, I'll be at the park, grading papers.

Today I go to my grandma's to show off my new phone, grade some annotated bibliographies, and eat a home-cooked meal.

Gratitude on Thanksgiving Eve

Oh, things to be grateful for:

• both my brothers calling me yesterday, checking our Thanksgiving plans, making sure there wasn't anything else each could bring;
• my 87 year-old grandmother, insistent, relishing the chance to prepare another turkey dinner;
• my mom, hating parades, but enjoying getting her house ready for the Christmas season more than anything else;
• my dad, in Kenya, helping me to keep things in perspective, and technology, for allowing us to stay in such close contact;
• and my friends, near and far, showing me such kindness and warmth.

And can I be grateful for the Muppets, too? At a time when entertainment is often vulgar and based on the denigration of others, the Muppets are simply joyful.

Better late than never...

As I've mentioned, I go to my grandma's every Sunday. I do laundry, eat my one actual meal for the week, and watch old movies or sports, depending what time of year it is. This past Sunday was emotionally exhausting for both of us as we cheered on the Bengals, only to have victory ripped from their hands (or rather, deflected by Leon Hall into the hands of Brandon Stokely).

Ugh. Anyway, Nana always asks about the wine tasting: What did I eat? Who was there?

This past Friday's had a Spanish theme:

Station One:

• Pepper Soup with Lemon and Lime - this cold soup was rather hot, but would make a good salsa.
• Domino De Eguren Protocolo Blanco - a nice white wine that went nicely with the hot (spicy) soup.

Station Two:

• Black Bean Dip with Tortilla Chips - Just what the name describes, but very yummy!
• Vega Sindoa 2008 Rosado - a decent rose

Station Three:

• Pollo Con Salsa Fresca - Boneless chicken with white onion, garlic cloves, bay leaves, ground cumin, and ancho chili. Very tasty!
• Campos Reales 2006 - Nice, balanced red

Station Four:

• Carne Fajita Burrito - Skirt steak and all kinds of flavorful goodness wrapped up in a tortilla. Mmm.
• Atalaya Almansa 2007 - As far as I remember, this was a dry red. Went nicely with the fajita.

Station Five:

• Three Latin-themed cheeses:

1. Queso Asadero - soft, almost like mozzerella. It would be good for melting, but bland by itself.
2. Queso Cotija - tasted like parmesan.
3. Queso de Mano - this raw goat's milk cheese was very flavorful and easily everyone's favorite. According to the notes, it is aged for a minimum of four months, and it's generally produced on a small scale.

• Txomin Etxaniz 2007 Txakoli De Getaria - I think this was a light white, but usually station five is something sparkly.

Afterward we went to Lemon Grass for Thai Food. Mmm... Thai.

"Education is the path from cocky ignorance to miserable uncertainty"

~ Mark Twain

"Suck it up," my grandmother said once when I was complaining about all the things I had to do. She didn't say it meanly; she was rather matter-of-fact. And knowing all the sacrifices she's had to make -- all the times she's had to "suck it up" -- makes me feel sheepish.

I'm back at the wall. Behind it, with me, I have the life I've built. It's relatively comfortable and often fulfilling. But I know with greater and greater certainty that I don't want to be behind this wall in five years. I feel like I have been sucking it up for years.

This wall is not about happiness (which is overrated); it's about drive and motivation, passion, creativity, among many other things that have been sucked up.

Five years from now: The recession will be over, Obama will be well into his second term, and I will be... where? And how do I get there?

"A messy room is a messy soul."

~ Nana

It's so hard to make the big changes - careers, lifestyles, and life paths. It's hard to go from a person who goes about things just one single way to someone who goes about things a completely different way. Me, I've always liked clutter. Chaos surrounds me, whether it's piles of graded and ungraded papers or paid and unpaid bills. There are pens and rubber bands, too. A couple pairs of scissors. A paper shredder that's jammed and a stapler that no longer staples.

My version of cleaning involves me sitting in the middle of the floor, sorting and resorting, ending up with a stack of papers to throw away but somehow with no less volume in the end. I can hide stuff, though. I can make piles upon piles to put in corners; I can load my closet with egg crate cartons overflowing with old folders and binders and other things I can't categorize.

"A messy room is a messy soul" - this is what my nana says. She asks me about my apartment, if I'm keeping it clean. She must notice the hesitation before I reply, "It's ok." And she would also notice, if she visited, that my "cleaning" was actually just "stacking."

Back when I had two rooms - one at my mom's and one at my dad's - the one at my mom's was the disaster area. It was the one with sketches taped all over the walls and ten unfinished journals stacked next to my bed. It was the one that had the occasional visit from a mouse or scary spider. The one at my dad's, on the other hand, was spot free. Nothing was out of place; but then again, I didn't have all my stuff there - only the bare essentials. No furry creatures dared make an appearance in that room. While the room at my mom's would seem to be the more natural fit--chaos! clutter!--I felt equally comfortable in both rooms.

Me and my messy soul. A part of me must think it true. Otherwise, I wouldn't worry about it so much. But like I said before, it's hard to make the big changes. I can take the garbage out each week; I can keep my dirty dishes from piling up too high; I can push things into corners. Unfortunately, my rooms and my soul have never been and will never be immaculate (or, let's say, "neat").

The trees for the forest

There are so many little things - details, chores, meals, tasks, meetings, misunderstandings, clutter, egos, and so forth - that I fear losing sight of the big picture: the whole forest for the trees dilemma. I decide, then, to ignore the little things - chores, meals, clutter, egos - and focus instead on that Big Picture (at least as I see it), making sure that I treat family, friends, and coworkers well; making sure that I live my life with integrity, that I'm the person I want to be. 

One of the ways I got over my shyness, so crippling in grade school and high school, was to think about that Big Picture: "No, people aren't going to make fun of you for talking; no one is examining your every word." I'm still quiet and shy, but those traits no longer define me. I think about That. I think about my place - all of our places - in the larger society, and what our responsibilities are to that society and each other. 

But for the most part, my Big Picture thinking doesn't get me very far. My dishes still aren't done, three of my ceiling lights are still burnt out, and I haven't picked up the Vanilla Bean that my sweet Nana has asked for week after week. I'm also the sum of the Little Things, many of which are broken.

Ugh - and I, I, I. I'm nobody! Who are you?

Director's cut

I love stories for many reasons. Stories of our own lives and stories of others' lives connect us to one another through their many intersections and diversions. We use our own stories to reflect and make sense of what has happened and its significance. These stories can be ones of regret, of joy and happiness, and of loss, but they're always part of something larger. They give us narrative control over our lives up to the present.

I love stories of yesterday: I surprised my mom with flowers while she tended to my headache; then I drove to Nana's where she fixed me breakfast (I feel spoiled!) and I carried a big bag of mulch from her car. We cheered on the Reds - twice Nana said, wrongly, "They won't come back" - unfortunately, the third time she was right. 

And I love stories of the day before: I went to the Reds game with great friends in a great crowd. We cheered them to victory. Later, when we met up with more people at a local watering hole, I had surprising feelings of community and civic pride. 

I know what to do with stories from yesterday and the day before. I know how to sort them and put them in a larger picture. But today? Tomorrow? These throw me. I'm anxious about these days and their narrative course. 

My old manager used to say, as I interviewed again and again for a position with more hours and benefits, that I was doing fine in my interviews: just keep doing what I've been doing, and one of these positions will pan out. He was right - eventually I got the job I'd been trying for. 

And so that's what I thought I was doing, now. I've been happy. I've been content. I've basically been the person I want to be. I thought that, if I keep doing what I've been doing, things will work out: Life, careers, love, etc. But I don't think I can be complacent. I don't want to just have a tenuous hold on some construct of happiness. I want something more tangible.

I realized that some of my past stories are still playing out, and it's thrown me. I'm thrown. 

"Isn't it wonderful to be alive and watching baseball?"

- Nana, today

I just finished reading my 33 student diagnostic essays. I ask them to describe themselves as writers: did they have positive or negative writing experiences, and how do they hope to improve as writers. I don't grade these pieces; rather, they serve as a baseline for the students, and give me an idea of what they each want or expect out of the class. 

At this early stage (going into week 2), there is so much I want to tackle. But I remind myself that I have my syllabus; I have the twelve weeks planned out, from the readings to the vocabulary to the due dates of essays. It's just a bit overwhelming when I start to consider the 33 students as individuals with their own needs and expectations. I shrink just a little bit.

I spent today (like every Sunday) at my grandma's. I did my laundry, and we watched Cueto dismantle the Pirates. She said, "Isn't it wonderful to be alive and watching baseball?" She reminds me to simplify.