Chipper Zombie

Today was a little better, though I feel like a walking zombie. I need food and sleep. A couple of my students (they're total sweethearts) hung around after class this afternoon: "You seem down," they said. "Is everything ok? You don't seem like your usual chipper self!" Once I got over my shock at being called "chipper," I explained I was fine, but thanks for asking.

If I ever wanted to change my name from "Perfect Sand," maybe I could give "Chipper Zombie" a try.

My Happy Place

Today was just awful. I felt miserable and ineffective. I felt like I was a character in "Annie Hall," standing beside myself, watching myself be ineffective, unable to make things better.

I want to shout: You get out of a class what you put into it. I'm not going to stand there and shove information into your brains; I'm not going to sing and dance and entertain.

I see indifference and lack of effort from so many who of course will feel like they're wasting time. Awful, awful, and I get to do it again tomorrow.

(Deep breath - I'm fine. Just a little on edge... Below is a picture I drew a few years ago. It's me in my happy place. Setting my alarm for 5am because mornings are always better.)

Express Yourself (cont.)

The other day I wrote about Malcolm X's experience as he learned to express himself in more than one way. In class, I ask students to write about a time when they had trouble expressing themselves; how did they deal with it?

Me, I was immediately taken back to my first day of fourth grade. Even though I was in the same house as the year before, I had a new bus route. I wasn't supposed to ride the 113 anymore. Unsure of what bus I was supposed to ride--and too shy to ask--I stood, paralyzed, until I was approached by the vice principal.

"Do you know which bus to ride?"

"The 117, I think."

She turned to another teacher: "Does that sound right?" She turned back to me and asked which bus I rode last year.

"The 113."

She ushered me onto the bus, number 113. I saw some familiar faces, but only a couple, and none of the kids who got off at the same stop or in the same neighborhood as me. I had never ridden a bus with all white people before.

I knew I was on the wrong bus, but I didn't know how to say it. Instead, I took my seat. The bus took an unfamiliar path, and I got off at the first stop and began walking.

My shyness never went away. Every day, words choke in my throat. I am unable to say exactly what I want to. Whether standing in front of a room full of students or being introduced to a group of would-be friends, I feel a disconnect between my thoughts and speech.

But I am still able to express myself. The words that don't come out of my mouth come pouring through my arms and fingertips and to the keyboard and onto the screen. With a push of a button, those words are sent across the United States, to Scotland, and to Kenya. I am able to share my thoughts and feelings with a much larger audience.

Simultaneously, a strange thing has happened: the more I write, the less of a disconnect I feel between what I think and what comes out of my mouth. The fear will never go away--in some ways, it drives me!--but saying what I want when I want is a good thing, in whatever medium it takes.

Express Yourself

In his autobiography, Malcolm X describes how he received a "homemade education" while in prison. He had always considered himself an "articulate hustler," but the language he used on the street--"Look, daddy, let me pull your coat about a cat"--were insufficient within the prison walls. With only an eighth-grade education, he was unable to engage in meaningful conversations and correspondence. With access to little else, Malcolm X began to copy the dictionary. Starting with "aardvark," he wrote each word and its definition:

In my slow, painstaking, ragged handwriting, I copied into my tablet everything printed on that first page, down to the punctuation marks.

I believe it took me a day. Then, aloud, I read back, to myself, everything I’d written on the tablet. Over and over, aloud, to myself, I read my own handwriting.

I woke up the next morning, thinking about those words—immensely proud to realize that not only had I written so much at one time, but I’d written words that I never knew were in the world.... It went a lot faster after so much practice helped me to pick up handwriting speed. Between what I wrote in my tablet, and writing letters, during the rest of my time in prison I would guess I wrote a million words.

To listen to his speeches, to read his words, makes his "homemade education" all the more impressive. He felt unable to express himself, and he rectified it. He describes himself as never having felt "so truly free" in his life as when he was incarcerated, his eyes and mind and possibilities opened to the huge world contained in books. Language is power. Controversial as he was, Malcolm X was undeniably a man of ideas. His ability to communicate those ideas made him a leader.

I watched the Cincinnati Shakespeare Company perform his complete works (abridged). There were jokes scattered about crazy right-wingers, tea parties, and BP. At one point, one of the three actors--they performed hilarious versions of everything from Othello to Hamlet--said, "That's the craziest thing I've heard, at least since, 'Change you can believe in'... What, too soon?" There were audience members laughing and clapping. But I didn't get it. I still don't. I want to say, "Grow up! Obama is trying to govern!" I don't understand what more people want him to do. He needs support, he needs political capital to effect change, and by ridiculing him from the left, people are instead removing an important voice from the debate. Keep up the pressure, but let him lead.

We have so many opportunities today. Libraries, the internet, education: these should be equalizers! Good-natured people, myself included, worry about the widening gulf between the haves and the have-nots. But is anyone talking about the gulf between the "knows" and the "know-nots"? Am I just projecting here? The more television I watch, the more I read, the more I think about (what I perceive to be) rampant anti-intellectualism. Politicians, the media, appealing to our basest instincts, worrying about the 24/7 news cycle instead of truth and progress. Where are the intellectual leaders? Who has big ideas today, based on fact and reason, that has enough celebrity to garner attention? Will corporate media allow any other voices? And when will we be smart enough to demand better?

Grown-up Things (cont.)

Our friends hosted a potluck dinner party last night. Mike and Nancy, who got married last summer, have a lovely suburban house with a great back yard, complete with swing set and hill (I did go down the slide, feet first, and I may or may not have rolled down the hill).

Many of my friends (myself included) are in periods of transition. We may have had college educations and post-graduate experience, but our jobs haven't been careers; or the positions were temporary. Mike and Nancy seem the exception. They not only have stable careers that will remain in the Cincinnati area, they also have put down permanent roots here. Mike loved showing off his composting and gardens full of peppers, onions, broccoli, and tomatoes. Nancy served a home-cooked meal, chicken, mashed potatoes, and dinner rolls; there were five dessert options.

Two months from now, my savings account depleted, I may be kicking myself for my decision. I had a kind of stability that is hard to come by these days. But obviously I don't think that will be the case.

(My first "Grown-up Things" entry)

January 30, 2010: The Last Time I Saw Jesus

Have I mentioned how much I love storms? The more the trees sway, the more the house rattles, the happier I get. Last night we had a doozy of a storm. The flashes of lightning were nonstop, and, for a time, the thunder was simultaneous. I got some shots from my porch, but this is the best I could get.

The big story in Cincinnati today has been the demise of Touchdown Jesus. Touchdown Jesus was a bit of a landmark off I-75, about 30 miles north of the city. Six stories tall, it was a sight to see. It was struck by lightning and, shortly thereafter, was only a steel frame. It was large and gaudy and slightly absurd; the statue was also referred to as "Butter Jesus" because, in the right light, it certainly looked like sculpted butter. Following his untimely demise, of course, the jokes poured in. "Don't worry," some said, "he'll be back in three days." Another said, "You're next, Creation Museum" (that Kentucky museum dedicated to refuting science). A friend said it's now "Corpus Crispy."

Below is a picture I took as I traveled north on I-75 a few months ago. You really don't get a good idea of just how big he is (was).

NPR wrote about it here; it includes some up-close pictures.

It's storming again tonight. I keep hoping the rain and wind will bring some cooler weather, as I'm still AC-deprived. I find myself lounging lazily around my apartment as any kind of exertion makes the heat unbearable.

One last note, and one I'll return to: just as my dad gets back in the next couple of weeks, my mom and her husband are preparing to go to Palestine. Paraphrasing what my mom told me, they will be part of a group working with children affected by the violence there as well as the adults who teach them. Because of the turbulence, many students have severe emotional and behavioral issues that teachers there may be unaccustomed to dealing with. Hopefully I'll be able to get a website and more information to link to in the future.

Edited to change "say" to "sway," although trees that talk are almost as cool as trees that bend!

The End of Men?

The Atlantic recently had a fascinating article, "The End of Men." Author Hanna Rosin chronicles and analyzes the shifting workplace and education dynamics and asks, "What if modern, postindustrial society is simply better suited to women?"

The gender imbalance at colleges has been growing: women make up something like 60% of the student body in 4-year bachelor programs. One reason, of course, is that men with a high school degree still make much more money than women with that same diploma. She needs to further her education simply to compete. But also, women seem better prepared for the demands of college. Rosin spoke to some students at the University of Missouri-Kansas City:

Burress, a cute, short, African American 24-year-old grad student who is getting a doctor-of-pharmacy degree, had many of the same complaints I heard from other young women. Guys high-five each other when they get a C, while girls beat themselves up over a B-minus. Guys play video games in each other’s rooms, while girls crowd the study hall. Girls get their degrees with no drama, while guys seem always in danger of drifting away.

This seems an apt metaphor: "drifting away." The comments following the article--many of them critical--suggested that our education system the past twenty or thirty years favors girls. Stereotypical masculine traits are devalued in favor of more feminine ones. Commenter Doug111 wrote,

This now begins in kindergarden[sic], with all male roughousing [sic] of any sort suppressed and belittled. Classes in first grade and on are taught so as to favor girls. Everywhere there are cheers when girls beat out boys and all is done to see that this happens time and again. The emasculation of boys really gets going by junior high when again girls are favored. Final exams are deemphasized. Massive grade inflation encourages diligent consistent plodding performance, which obedient little girls are good at, and gets them As and A+s now with no extra grade given for the ocassionally [sic]brilliant insight, mixed with less than total diligence in mundane assignments and pop quizzes that are typical of how brilliant boys tend to operate, and what the education system used to prize most of all.

He goes on to describe this trend as "positive discrimination." I think he raises interesting points. But I think this is part of a larger paradigm shift, one in which women--more than men--are adapting and taking the initiative. I see young women in school--they have one or two children and, sometimes, an unemployed husband. They are getting this degree to support their family, to gain stability, and more often than not they are working another job at the same time. I see young men--unattached, unburdened by children--drifting, unmotivated.

Toward the end of "The Poisonwood Bible," Orleanna Price, the mother, reflects on men, women, and history. Men, she says, are around for the beginning and the end; the birth and the death. They fire the shot that launches wars, they plant the flags. But women are there, too, between the lines. They're doing the laundry, teaching the kids, and comforting the ill. I think about those articles on marriage from a few months ago that I read and posted about. One of the writers suggested that, usurped of their traditional roles as providers and breadwinners, instead of adapting, many men will turn to hypermasculine behaviors. Violent, misogynistic. Orleanna described the danger of standing still, refusing to change--she was condemning the United States and men in general, and her husband in particular.

I do recommend reading "The End of Men" article in whole - it's long, but worth it.