Hesitant Feedback

Today I got to read an excerpt from a student's paper for feedback, something I haven't done since the last semester I taught college in Maryland, spring 2008. I read a short section, took notes, and then we had a conversation about what was working already and what needed rearranging, tightening, and so forth to guide the lines into their resting places. It was... invigorating. But I'm not sure the student, my partner Drew, thought so.

She's working on her Masters thesis final draft which is due December 3--that's right, this Thursday. And when I was Skyping with my mother today, and she asked about how Drew's thesis was coming, I said: We don't talk about that right now. This was meant mostly as a joke, but it's true that Drew is not having a fun time drudging through the intro and conclusion.  It's like when you move--at first, it's all very exciting. You get your large pieces of furniture in place, and then unpack your clothes, dishes, bathroom stuff, and special photos and decorations to make the place feel like home--and it does, but you still have a few more boxes looming in the hallway that need unpacking. Well, Drew has saved her crap boxes for the end, like all of us, and is naturally not as motivated to tackle the part of drafting with which she feels least successful. Enter me, the once writing professor turned professional homosexual.

While Drew has been working on her Masters over the last couple years, multiple people have mentioned that she is lucky to have a writing teacher for a girlfriend, or that she's got an experienced proofreader on hand, but what most people either don't realize or haven't had the chance to know is that Drew is an organized, articulate writer herself. Therefore, I rarely have seen or commented on her writing before it has been turned back to her by a professor. (see Side Note below.)

And that's why I like today. Not only did I a) get to see Drew's writing in the raw, but I also b) positively impacted (even if it was a very small impact)  someone else's work. I felt, for twenty minutes or so, like a teacher. And it was the same sort of natural high I felt after I finished my last blog posting. But the look on Drew's face while we discussed her work reminded me why teachers aren't supposed to date their students. Even if I only imagined the hurt or annoyance or frustration I was causing, partly by being giddy and partly by being direct, I still imagined it, and I still felt hesitant to say what I thought.  Part of the inherent power of being in a teacher/guide role is having good information to share--and to have something from inside you want to hold back that information for personal reasons is thwarting to the mission at large.

~

As I finish this, Drew is across the room on her laptop with furrowed brow and strained sigh. She listened to my suggestions in stride, but I know that has no bearing on her rocking out this thesis. Writing is a love/hate/poop relationship. You have to deal with some s*** before finishing your revolution. And Drew has come a long way, baby.





(Side note: Rarely seeing an unfinished draft both makes me proud and somewhat sad, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I like being useful, but I don't want to be "needed" for simple assignments, or even complex assignments. I want to be included in a conversation about whether the syntax of her opening sentence should be inverted, but I'm never going to be the go-to answer key.)

Is being an Adult getting the best of you?

In September, I thought about blogging again, and attempted with this start:


"I've decided it is time to start writing again. The new school year is a reminder that we do start over, that I can start over. Sometimes I think I forget this, or shove it aside in favor of New Year's resolutions I won't keep or the renewal of spring. However, for as long as I can remember, the beginning of school has been the origin of my phoenix-ism. It was 9th grade that I became the girl  without a past, eleventh grade that I solidified my status as the popular non-popular girl. And again in freshmen year of college, I shed my high school feathers in favor of mystery, artistry, and good grades. In fact, the return to school has always been more reflective of my life-altering behaviors and moods than any other seasonal period.

"Unfortunately, each time I start to write, I have the fear that I've lost the ability. I guess I'm still under the impression that you 'snooze it you lose it.' And let's be honest: I haven't written a piece of non-fiction in a very long time.

"But I did start a piece this summer. I also started some poems. It will be three years this December since I've graduated with the MFA. Which means, three years ago, I was starting to teach my first college courses, and to finish my poetry thesis. I was also in therapy for being angry at myself and at my most recent ex. And, I was dating someone who was not good for me. I was living alone, struggling for a rent I couldn't afford, living off tuna and wheat thins. That semester was one of the best times in my life. And I know now that it was because I wrote and ran every day."


The question I'm asking myself today, as I sit recovering this blog here in bed, in too much pain to move, is if we know what makes us happy, why don't we do it more often? 


Is it that we honestly believe we can't? Do we all have such subtle self confidence issues? When I was in high school I knew a guy who was an oil change mechanic, dating a college student. Neither of them had any money. And when he told me they had decided to go to South America for a week, my first response was HOW? He just looked at me and said, we bought tickets; we like to travel; we're going. Since then, I've tried my best to be like that. I wanted to go to NY. I went. I wanted to go to grad school in DC. I went. I wanted to have a successful long distance relationship. I did. And yet, I still can't manage to do the little things on a daily basis that make me happy: writing, art-ing, exercising. 


Maybe I don't do what makes me happy more often because the little things don't cost money, and now that I'm an Adult these things which can always be there are the first to go. Maybe my life includes an unnecessary hierarchy of first giving up things that only sacrifice time (ex: jogging) before things that sacrifice money (ex: alcohol), even if both make me happy and one is technically much easier to get than the other. Is this our society's idea of what it means to be responsible? I feel like the motif in so many pieces of cultural literature between the Adult and the Child is one of the Child being told to sacrifice the dream for Adult responsibility.  Er, not that alcohol is an adult responsibility, but having a good paying job that gives money for food/rent/happy hour is more of an Adult classified thing to do than spending an hour outside with your sneakers on.


My stepfather is a firm believer in this cultural motif, which is why I think he is a fiscal Republican and I am a liberal. He keeps waiting for me to get a 'real' job and start voting with the elephants based on the 'logic' of what 'makes sense' for the white upper-middle class pocket book. Which is why on a lot of accounts, I've always felt that my adult-self hadn't given up the dream--because I haven't given into to some people's ideas for me. I'm realizing now that the scale I've been using to measure isn't the one that matters. 


Do any of you KNOW something makes you a happier you, and yet, still don't find the time for it in your routine?