Things that Make Me Want to Throw in the Towel, Feminism Edition

Sandra Day O’Connor says she’s not a feminist.

The following paragraph in one of my students’ papers, brought to you with all errors intact: “The role of women has come and long way lets not forget the feminist movement. Through self expression and being able to be who we want through this has allowed us to surpass the sexiest opinions of the past and this has brought us to a better understanding of equality among genders.” Sexiest opinions, folks.

Being told by one of my colleagues that he overheard a group of my students (perhaps including the author above) complaining about how I “ruin” literature by making them talk about feminist issues.

The large, silver metallic faux testicles dangling from the bumper of the truck I drove home behind — with a bumper sticker reading: Gotz Balz?***

—

* The best part was the baby carrier visible in the back seat — because nothing says fine parenting like a pair of fake balls on the bumper!

** Trust me, if I had been able to snap a picture of the unbelievable sight of the fake balls, they would have been front and center on this blog.

Facebook Saga

First: Be friended over Facebook by someone you knew, but not terribly well, in high school. Have standard “whatcha been up to” FB reunion. Exchange usual insubstantial FB messages over the course of many months.

Second: Learn that Friend will be in your town for a business trip. Arrange to have lunch.

Third: Lunch — nice, a little uncomfortable. Realize that you haven’t seen or spoken to Friend in almost 20 years and you have almost nothing in common. A few awkward pauses. Leave thinking maybe people who knew each other in high school are not meant to be friends as adults.

Fourth: Receive a long, crazy message over FB from Friend in which s/he declares to have unsettled business with you from high school, including continued “feelings” and “lusts,” and professes a desire to revisit these issues — to discuss what might have been or might still be. Wonder what the hell has given Friend the belief that such declarations are welcomed or, you know, not totally fucking insane.

To be continued …

Still Complaining

By now, most of you will have read or read about Professor Zero’s “heretical post” in which she make the claim that “writing is fun and publishing is easy.” I first encountered Prof Z’s ideas in a response post on Moria in Excelsis and, I have to admit, they made me feel very defensive. (Hence the snippy comment I left; sorry Moria!) I am the queen of complaining about my academic writing – as my last post demonstrates – and I was angered by the idea that anyone would say my complaints were merely self-pitying indulgence rather than authentic expressions of pain.

I finally read Prof Z’s original post and found that I mostly agreed with it. And, happily I discovered that she is speaking of a particular category of complainer to which I do not belong. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Or, rather, Prof Z identifies two categories of complainers: The first is a person that I know all too well, the “woe is me, it’s so hard to think such brilliant thoughts” kind of academic. The “the world hangs in the balance as I develop my insightful arguments” kind. The “academic work is as hard as any other kind of work and if you don’t agree it’s because you aren’t working as hard as I am when I sit down to compose my groundbreaking scholarship” kind.

I hate that guy/gal too. But, this is really a form of faux compliant, isn’t it? The complaint is just the thin layer of chocolate (dark, of course) over the chewy center of self-congratulation and arrogance. S/he doesn’t really believe that his/her life is difficult, s/he just wants an opportunity for self-promotion. (And I hate those endless acknowledgements too!)

What I hate about this faux complainer is that they make real complaints seem equally trivial – a point to which I will return.

The second category of individual that Prof Z seems to want to bring to light isn’t really a complainer at all but more of a self-appointed guardian at the gate of success. This person tells others that they can’t develop original ideas, write well, or get anything published because it’s too difficult. Prof Z is pretty clear about the fact that this person is a patriarchal figure who is essentially saying, “you can’t do it, my little poppet.”

I have to admit I’ve never encountered this person – at least not directly. I’ve never had an authority figure, whether parent, professor, or colleague, tell me that I couldn’t think/write/publish because it was too hard. I think Prof Z is right, though, that there are figures in life and in academia who take it upon themselves to uphold what they claim to be “high standards” but who are really just trying to seize all the power, credit, and importance for themselves.

That guy/gal sucks too. S/he promotes an image of difficulty merely for the sake of preventing others from even trying.

Here’s why I think I don’t fit either of these categories even though I complain all the time, endlessly, tiresomely (even for myself) about my academic writing. And, yes, if you detect a note of defensiveness to this post, I hear it too.

I feel like I am struggling against an entirely different rhetoric around academic work – the belief that:

academic work is its own reward
academic work is worth any necessary sacrifice
academic work makes a substantial contribution to the world
academic work elevates your life and makes you a superior human being

I rail against these ideals and against my own shame at not being able to embrace them. I think they are a different but equally oppressive set of beliefs that get perpetuated in the academy.

Case in point: This week I went back to school after a really terrible spring break. I worked the entire week to finish my book revisions and it was hard, stressful, exhausting work. When I went back to campus on Monday, I was met by various colleagues who perkily asked me how my break was. When I complained about it being hard, stressful, and exhausting, I was greeted by embarrassed glances as if I had said something unseemly. I often feel like I am just not supposed to voice this experience – like I’m letting people down by not constantly celebrating my work or doing my part to uphold the facade of worth that covers the messy reality of the profession.

(Okay, another part of me says: they’re just tired of listening to you complain, you pathetic, insufferable Eeyore.)

But, it feels so dishonest for me at this moment in my life – as the Fucking Book continues to loom over everything that I do, sucking away all my energy and optimism, and generally making me feel like a big fat failure – to say anything else.

So, I do use this blog to complain and I plan to continue to. Because writing and publishing are both very, very hard – for me, anyway.

Spring Break

It’s Sunday afternoon, the last hours of spring break. You know you’ve had a working vacation if …

… your house is so dirty it would take days of cleaning to get it set right.

… your garage door opener hasn’t been working for weeks and you haven’t done anything about it.

… your security system is on the fritz and you haven’t called them about it.

… you haven’t raked leaves, fertilized, spread mulch or compost, or even taken your over-wintering plants out of the garage (see broken garage door above) even though the weather has been heart-breakingly beautiful.

… your bathtub is clogged and fills with water up to your ankles every time you shower and you haven’t done anything about it.

… your dog really, really needs a bath.

… your eyes are strained and your back is sore from sitting in front of a computer for hours every day.

… you have a stack of papers/exams from each of your classes but you haven’t started grading.

… you have broken all of your eating rules, allowed  yourself to have ice cream and sweets every night as a “reward,” and you are getting fatter every day.

… you been eating out way, way too much because it’s just too difficult to clean the kitchen.

… you can’t even remember what your book is about.

… your spring break is over and you feel more exhausted than you did when it started.

Yeah, it’s Sunday afternoon, the end of the break, I’m still not done with the fucking book and now I’m asking myself the inevitable question of whether it’s all worth it. Worth all the work? Worth the exhaustion? Worth being behind in everything else? Worth not enjoying life?

Gah.

Inaugurating: Journal Meme

While I was working on the previous post, the “influential authors meme,” I was frustrated by how few books I could recall from my early years. As I noted, I have a much better memory for recent reading than anything, really, before graduate school. Okay, so I’m getting older and this is probably just a function of memory but still …

So it occurred to me that I should just look through some of my old journals because one of the things I use my journals for is to record my reading. I began keeping a journal/diary in high school and have been doing so ever since. I keep my old journals in a cardboard box in the corner of a closet and rarely look at them; in fact, I have never sat down and really thoroughly read through them. Even my book search was pretty abbreviated — I just flipped through looking for titles. Still, I consider that cardboard box to be one of my most precious possessions and, in the event of a fire my list of priorities goes something like: 1) Golden Boy 2) cats & dog 3) laptop 4) journals. (As if, in this scenario, I would have the opportunity to go rooting through a closet for a very heavy cardboard box while the house burns down around me).

Here’s my personal archive — the BSG In Print edition:

I dug out my journals and while they weren’t very helpful in reconstructing my reading list (apparently I didn’t record my reading much before grad school — disappointing), it did get me thinking about journaling, why I do it, why these old records mean so much to me, and how my journaling practice has changed over the years. It also made me curious about other people’s journaling habits.

(I should mention that part of my scholarship includes working with women’s diaries and letters so I have a particular framework for thinking about private writing; I tend to view even my own rather embarrassing and undistinguished journals as potentially rich archival materials to some unknown scholar in the future who will find them as fascinating as I have found those I have worked on. Far, far in the future.)

I hereby inaugurate The Journal Meme:

1. When did you begin keeping a journal/diary?

2. Do you journal regularly or sporadically?

3. Which, if any, of the following things do you use your journal for?: recording dreams, creative writing, arguing with particular individuals (your boss, your parents, your lover, etc.), listing books/movies, tracking your weight/diet/exercise, composing unsent/unsendable letters.

4. What other purpose(s) do you use your journal for?

5. What kind of material text do you use for a journal? (For example: leather bound hard-cover, cheap spiral notebook, etc.)

6. Where do you keep your old journals?

7. How often, if ever, have you read through your old journals?

8. Have you ever allowed anyone else to read your journals?

9. How has your journal keeping changed since you began blogging?

10. Upload a picture of your journals (or as many as you can).

It’s difficult to tag folks for this meme because I don’t know how many of you keep a journal/diary. If you do and want to participate — please do and let me know! (I am going to nudge Jo(e), because I’d love to see a picture of all her journals.)

Authors Meme

I can’t resist a meme having to do with literature, so thanks to Undine for officially tagging me.

25 Authors That Have Made Me Who I Am Today

(…in no particular order and with an emphasis on personal rather than academic formation)

1. Robin McKinley
2. Charles Dickins
3. Ursula K. Le Guin
4. Walt Whitman
5. Emily Dickinson
6. Cormac McCarthy
7. Margaret Atwood
8. Ann Patchett
9. J. K. Rowling
10. Jane Austen
11. Wm Shakespeare
12. Toni Morrison
13. Annie Proulx
14. Mary Stewart
15. The guy(s) who wrote the Bible
16. Laura Ingalls
17. e.e. cummings
18. L. M. Montgomery
19. Isak Dinesen
20. Alan Paton
21. Mary Norton
22. Iva Ibbotson
23. Elizabeth Speare
24. A. S. Byatt
25. Harper Lee

This is a curious exercise — it made me realize what a poor memory I have for books I read while young, despite the unquestionable impression they had on me. The list definitely favors more recent reading (college onwards). I had to work hard to recall anything earlier. So much for all that influential high school reading!

I hereby tag … YOU! But, only if you want to participate …

Big Night Out

Last night I began mentally composing a post that would have begun, “Tonight my heart is breaking …”

Today, I can begin this post with, “I am so relieved …”

Last night, one of my cats ran away. It was late and I had just taken the dog out. When we were coming back inside, suddenly the cat — let’s call him Wild Boy — ran outside. This is extremely unusual behavior. Wild Boy is a cat who loves his comforts. He was once a feral cat and he appreciates the benefits of domestic life. He’s never before tried to bolt the front door. My other cat is a major door-bolter, so I’m accustomed to keeping out an eye for him, but not Wild Boy. Last night, however, Wild Boy not only ran right out the door but off the porch and into the dark before I could even organize my thoughts to say, “Hey, come back here!”

I should mention: both my cats are inside only; Wild Boy has never been in our back yard. Ever.

Here’s the little bugger in his glory:

It was late. I was tired. It was very dark. And, to make the whole experience all the more interesting, our house is surrounded by woods. Not miles and miles of woods but a pretty good little stand of trees with some rocky hills, a creek bed, and lots of uneven places to step when your clambering around in the dark trying to find your lost cat. Naturally, I couldn’t find a working flashlight and, oh did I mention?, Golden Boy is out of town, so I got to embark on this search all on my own.

Initially, I caught a glimpse of Wild Boy but, of course, if I went towards him, he ran away — aren’t cats just the most perverse creatures? I was so frantic, I kept going towards him even when I knew I shouldn’t and the last I saw of him he was disappearing down a hillside and into the creek bed (thankfully dry).

Hysterical doesn’t quite capture my emotions last night. I was guilt-ridden, exhausted, terrified … I spent a long time looking for Wild Boy, a longer time sitting in the kitchen with all the doors of the house open and plates of wet cat food in every doorway, before I finally made myself go to bed. I knew I had to get up and teach in the morning — but, of course, I couldn’t sleep and spent the whole night tossing and turning, imagining all sorts of terrible traumas befalling my little kitty.

In the morning, I searched again but finally had to go teach my classes. I rushed home afterwards and spent more time standing in the yard, calling the cat and wondering what to do. I was a mess.

Then, this afternoon, I finally found him. He was underneath a shed in our back yard. I had looked under it earlier but hadn’t seen him. Imagine my relief. To make a long story short, I was able, after quite a bit of coaxing, to lure him inside and now he’s curled up in his regular spot in the bed — dirty but otherwise unaffected by his big night out.

What do you think he was up to? What do you think made him decide, “Hey, tonight I think I want to go outside for the very first time”? It’s all very strange.

This is one of those experiences that, in retrospect, seems so insignificant. Wild Boy is safe, everything’s ok, nothing to worry about. But, last night, just for a little while, I travelled down that terrible road when you realize that your family is not immune from danger, that the people and animals you love are not immortal, and that you are not infallible. It was a short journey for me, but an instructive one nonetheless.

Wild Boy, I welcome you back, you little pain in my ass adorable baby.

Sleep Teaching

Get it? Not sleep walking but sleep teaching …

I have often had the experience of laying awake in the middle of the night, thinking about the next day’s classes or obsessively replaying the previous day’s classes.

Lately, I’ve taken this behavior to a whole new level. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night realizing that I’ve been teaching in my sleep. My brain has been, on some level, engaged in lecturing my students or conducting discussion. When I’m “sleep teaching,” I’m actually asleep but I am nonetheless teaching away, my brain running like a spinning top.

It’s not that my classes are going badly or anything. But for some reason I cannot shut my brain off at night and what it’s glomming onto is teaching.

Stress is getting the better of me this semester, no doubt about it. But, boy, have I had some great, imaginary, dream classes! In my sleep, I’m witty, smart, focused, and knowledgeable. My dream students are getting a top-rate education. Unfortunately, my actual students are getting my tired ass, dragged into class after a poor night’s sleep. Doesn’t seem quite right, does it?

Fashion is Stupid, Case #572

I am coming out of my short-lived, self-imposed hiatus with this urgent public service announcement:

Ladies, do not believe anyone who tells you that gladiator sandals look good and are the most important wardrobe addition of the season. They don’t and they aren’t

Ugh. Who comes up with these things?