the grammar-diarthrosis

The Oatmeal on Grammar

2010-05-23T12:26:00.000-04:00

I simply couldn't do this better myself, even if I had a kick-ass graphics background and a pet bear to help me with the pauses. I might even say the comic is perfect; however, I do realize it supposes that people can understand the term "independent clause."

For all of you who want to help others find their semicolon happy places, use this link to spread the joy.

How To Use A Semicolon--The Oatmeal

Moving Home

2010-04-25T22:00:00.002-04:00

I'm currently reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Dreams in stolen hours. I swear Kingsolver writes for a reader like me--one who is going to spend the time to really taste all of the images and themes, like rolling a piece of sugar-coated chocolate in your mouth instead of just chewing. Either that or she just can't help but write dense poetry every few pages, even when she's trying to write a novel. This is why it's taken me a month to get to this point in the book, and I'm only on page 235. This is not a complaint.

In the story Loyd is a Pueblo-Apache man with a half-coyote dog. At one point he explains that Apaches are wanderers and Pueblo are homebodies. Cosima, the point of view character, asks him which he is. Without hesitation, he says Pueblo. When he turns the question on her, Cosima makes a joke about how her friend once called her a "home-ignorer." It is pretty clear that Cosima is at least in her mind a wanderer. But ultimately she is neither. Home for her isn't the apartment she keeps now or the life of transitions and moving; home isn't in any of the versions of herself she's created over the years. For some reason she feels she isn't worthy or capable of home.

On an early date, Loyd and Cosima visit some "ancient condos" of adobe, and eventually during Christmas, the couple stay at Loyd's mother's home on the Pueblo reservation and watch the all-day dancing festival from the rooftop. I love how the architecture of houses, both literal and figurative, is such a diverse and detailed observation of Kingsolver's in this book. Cosima has been planning to leave since before she arrived--one year of teaching biology at the high school and she's out. Loyd sees this attitude as part of her life's pattern of running to something (which will inevitably not be the perfection for which you search) instead of creating it wherever you go. On the rooftop between watching the dancers in the village below, Cosima points out some adobe houses in a state of collapse:

[The following dialogue is pulled from a delicate weave of pacing which I didn't want to recreate here--sorry Kingsolver.]

C: How come those houses over there near the edge of the cliff are falling down?
L: Because they're old.
C: Thank you. I mean, why doesn't somebody fix them up? You guys are the experts, you've been building houses for nine hundred years.
L: Not necessarily in the same place. This village was in seven other places before they built it here.
C: So when something gets old they just let it fall down?
L: Sometimes. Some day you'll get old and fall down.
C:Thanks for reminding me.
L: The greatest honor you can give a house is to let it fall back down into the ground. That's where everything comes from in the first place.
C: But then you've lost your house.
L: Not if you know how to build another one. All those great pueblos like at Kinishba--people lived in them awhile, and then they'd move on. Just leave them standing. Maybe go to a place with better water, or something.
C: I thought they were homebodies.
L: The important thing isn't the house. It's the ability to make it. You carry that in your brain and in your hands, wherever you go...We're like coyotes, get to a good place, turn around three times in the grass, and you're home. Once you know how, you can always do that, no matter what. You won't forget.

In the book, this gets Cosima recognizing her own rationalizations as such for leaving at the end of the school year. In my life, it makes me think about the places I've lived since I left my mother's house. In this way, I relate to Cosima. If you were to look at the record of residences I'd have to put down in applying for a lease, you would most likely call me a wanderer.

I graduated college and moved back to my mother's place in May, 2004.
In July I drove what I could carry in my car and moved to Bethesda, MD, into a group house with 3 men.
7 months later, I moved again, to a grad student apartment with a friend.
8 months later, we moved into a DC apartment, closer to school.
7 months later, we split up and both got our own apartments within the same building.
8 months later, I moved back to Maryland, into an apartment with another friend.
7 months later, my friend's woman was moving in with her--which meant I moved out of that apartment and into another in the same complex.
1 year later, I moved to Long Island.
This summer, I will move again, after nearly two years here, in the same apartment.

In a span of 6 years, I will have moved 9 times and that's counting the 2-years of staying in one place. I can relate to Cosima, but I am not her. I feel her ease with moving and mine are of two different energies. I don't see any of my moves, except maybe the 3rd, as a "running away" from something. And, perhaps unlike Cosima, I do truly feel I've been at home in these places (except the 7th). I carry home in my brain and in my hands. I may move more frequently than others, but I don't wander.

And yet, the large summer move coming up is a scary one. It will be the first time I move for which my plans aren't completely solid. Yes, I already know where I'm moving to--I know which town, the physical building; I know it will be a new space with D, a kitten, a colder winter, a place with good cheese. I know all of this, and I know I will feel at home when I am in our apartment. But what I don't know yet is what Cosima does--she moves when and where she has work. She moves back to Grace--her childhood town--to check on her ailing father and teach at the high school for a year when the school is desperate for someone. I understand this type of moving. It is indeed the type of move that D is doing. But for me, this move will not be for work. Right now, without the promise of work, it is a move solely for love, for happiness.

I think I am not the only one who has nerves about this kind of move. American idealism may say freedom and the pursuit of happiness, but US culture says be street smart, have financial security, make decisions based on logic not emotion. In my heart of hearts, I believe that D and I will be together for a long time to come. I know that she is my favorite person and my favorite place. I know that I am hers as well. We already live together. There is nothing to indicate that moving this summer will change any of these things. But no one can read the future. And this is why Cosima is truly scared of staying in one place, making it work with Loyd. She is scared that what she loves will disappear. She speaks about a recurring nightmare wherein she hears a loud pop and is suddenly blind. She comes to realize that this dream is not just about losing her sight, but about her context. One chapter closes with "What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all." Moving for something ethereal as joy, or in Cosima's situation not moving, is scary because it has no set shape. We cannot map its perimeter or its parameter.

Fish Lover

2010-04-16T12:43:00.002-04:00

I'll admit it. I'm attached to my goldfish, Guy. [Disclaimer: the fish actually started as my partner's alone, but it came to stay with me one summer and then of course, I came to stay with him when I moved in with my partner a year later.] He's got a great personality. He recognizes our voices when we come home and knows when to act cute so we second-guess ourselves about if he's already eaten. (He likes to eat, a lot. Note picture of tiny Guy, followed by picture of Guy now.)

Most people who have experience with cats or dogs or other furry creatures you can hug or hold in your arms don't understand how people become attached to fish. People assume correctly that it is harder to build a connection with something you can't touch--so much of the traditional idea of intimacy in our lives comes from our experience of touch sensation. However, I think if we thought about it a little longer we would also agree that many of us have the ability to create intimacy without touch. If you've ever started a relationship with the help of online networking sites, or if you've ever sustained a long distance relationship with family or a love interest, then you know it isn't all about touch.

I don't have romantic feelings for my fish, by the way. But I have been observing him, caring for him, watching him grow for nearly two years. He has certainly become a part of the life I live with D. We enjoy trying to persuade him of who his better "mom" is almost daily. There was a point last year when we weren't on a good communication schedule about his feeding, and he got too big around the middle to swim between the side of his tank and the black filter tube and cut himself. The glowing red wound in the middle of his iridescent body scales reminded me of the animated Hobbit movie from the 70s. It looked like that one weak area on the soft underside of the dragon. I wondered if something else hit him there before he healed if it would be the end. I wondered if he would have the wound for a long time and whether or not fish wounds get infected. The scale grew back but it's a few shades lighter than the rest, evidence of his battle.

Then there was this random weeknight when I was sitting on the couch and D was working at the table on classwork when Guy was playing with his rocks--literally--and sucked one back into his throat. I looked over and his mouth was open wider than I'd ever seen it, his gills were pumping hard. He was choking and there was nothing I could do about it. I had the urge to put my hand in there and try some form of the Heimlich Maneuver. In 30 seconds or so, he'd managed to work it out himself and was back to his usual swimming. It was one of the most anxiety-ridden moments of my life. Watching him struggle gave me a flashback to the time when my parents were out of town and our dog Ginger had pneumonia and collapsed in my arms.

So, you can imagine that a week or so ago, when we realized Guy's tank filtration system wasn't working anymore, we were concerned and planned to get him a new system and/or new tank asap. We put him in the new tank last Sunday, and he seemed delighted--his usual outgoing self, showing off for our friends who'd come over to hang out. But Tuesday when we came home we found him not swimming but resting at the bottom of his tank, not wanting to move or eat. I thought he'd be dead within a few hours. So we took the new tank, rocks, filtration system, and plants back to store, not knowing exactly what the problem was/is. Guy is still alive, now Friday, but his tail and fins have started bleeding and deteriorating. What was once a much larger fin with soft, rounded edges like sugar cookie dough rolled out is now scallopped with loss, as if someone came along the edge with a cookie cutter and took deep cresent-shaped bites out of it. He has been living in the large bucket that is usually only a temporary home for tank cleanings. I don't know which is more difficult at this point: knowing that it must have been something I did in the set-up of the new tank that made him sick or having to watch his fins bleed and unravel before our eyes, slowly, without answers or solutions.

On top of these issues though, it sucks that Guy is a fish because I used to be one of those people who didn't get it, so I assume that when I tell people I'm sad about him, that they are rolling their eyes on the inside because I used to do that. I am different now. I am a fish lover.

Spring Relationshi[t] Reprise

2010-04-08T18:32:00.001-04:00

One of my friends recently wrote an article about being dumped in the spring, which made me reminisce to an earlier time in my life, a time when I too went through a break-up during spring. She had been a grad-school roommate for a moment before we started dating. She became my first live-in girlfriend, and the split was messy. Right before she had started dating me, though, she had met someone online and gone on a date or two with the woman, a woman with whom she would later really hit it off.

Now I won't go into gory details about how I should have been more independent and less selfish [read: I should have not used my ex's old roommie's expulsion from law school to squat in the then "free" second bedroom] and not dated her at all. Or at least I should have owned up to my true feelings and fears when it became apparent to me [and to her] that it wasn't working 7 or so months before we broke up. [I had a summer job that took me away from her for a while, and I wasn't too phased about it.] And I probably don't need to examine the awkward part in the end, when I was sleeping on the futon with the cats in the living room of our 1-bedroom when my ex starting dating the online girl again. Web girl didn't sleep over while I was there or anything, but I was still crazy jealous [read: an emotionally unstable email and secret blog voyeur] of something I didn't even want. No, I'll leave those parts out.

After all the dust settled, we did what most women-who-date-women do: we introduced each other to our new girlfriends and continued to grow the entangled web of friend[?]ship until it feels like there isn't a cool queer woman within a 53-mile radius whose intricate dating history we haven't already learned or been a part of. In my experience, I've noticed that besides an untimely death, there are only two real ways in which you can pull yourself off this map once you've started. 1) You move to another state to be with a woman who hasn't dated at least two of your ex's. 2) You and your girlfriend become recluses, shadows, rumors of your old outgoing selves. You stop answering any invitations from other queer women to socialize or celebrate, and you don't extend any invitations of your own. If either of these is followed long enough, you will have successfully been forgotten or labeled "too boring to remember."

Unfortunately, these two tried and true paths are becoming more and more unreliable with constant daily interruptions from the online social networking world. A few years ago I managed to find a woman outside of the DC women-who-date-women web [not entirely off the web, but on a distant enough ring that I felt comfortable] and moved to Long Island to be with her, thus taking myself onto a similarly distant outside ring of the DC web [pathway #1]. Now, my ex--from my version of the "Spring Relationship Shit-Can"--before I had moved from DC, had already successfully taken herself off the main web via pathway #2. And yet, years down the road with distance and life separating us, I hear from my partner, who saw it on the Facebook page of my best-friend's ex, that my ex and her partner now of several years [originally the online date] are now going to get married in DC because Maryland [where they live] will now recognize it.

Knowing that I've already taken myself out of the DC web, a chore in the first place, my question is do I now have a responsibility to congratulate these two old friends [the ex being one of them] via the new social media. Or do I continue to pretend that I don't know [ just because a cadre of my FB friends know and have made comments about the engagement doesn't mean I should, or does it]? I think what bothers me about staying silent is that it looks like I don't care. Not that I imagine they are in a huff about who has given them kudos and who hasn't, but if it were to ever cross their minds, they would have to assume that I did see it on FB [being the nature of the beast] or heard it somewhere, and that I just didn't give a hoot. This is not the case. I am excited. I am thrilled that "my kind" are getting rights and recognition somewhere. Yet, I'm not sure this is a large enough reason to get all web-stalky on their announcement [clearly?] unintended for me-types.

And if I don't say something now--because it would most likely be an awkward statement [less intimate wall post or more creepy e-message] at the end of an awkward pause [the time between when the announcement hit FB versus the time I choose to acknowledge it]--does there become a time when it would be awkward for me not to say something?

I realize part of this problem is the inherent issue of the queer women dating web in general and part of this problem is the way I am still somehow tethered to numerous communities all over the US. Any thoughts on when it becomes appropriate or not appropriate to congratulate the engagement of your ex to the woman who stole the girl you didn't realize you didn't want?

For now, I've taken the role of seemingly ignorant ex who overthinks the non-essential into 900 word articles on a self-indulgent blog. The only way I think I could be more annoying would be to start using ridiculous web-writing-only speech. Please advise.

Aiming The War

2010-02-25T22:25:00.003-05:00

On the way home yesterday, during a one-day fundraising drive of NPR's local station--WSHU, I heard a[nother] news story about Don't Ask, Don't Tell. After Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Mike Mullen came out in favor of repealing the law a couple weeks ago, Army Chief of Staff General George Casey is calling for slower movement, based on a future year's worth of researching by the Pentagon on the effects of GLB folk openly serving in the military.

A lot of men in my family have served or are currently serving in various branches of the armed forces. My brother, an Airman First Class, should be coming home from Korea within a month. My grandfather, a retired Major in the Air Force, died while Chris was in Basic Training. I have uncles and cousins who have served or are still serving. I say this because I do not consider my perspective to be only that of a queer woman. Rather I want people to know that my stance in favor of repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is more largely from the perspective of one who is connected to the armed forces through loved ones even though I'm not IN the armed forces myself. From this perspective, I find it insulting to the quality of soldier that I know my family members to be to say that GLB people openly serving will create havoc and ruin the focus, drive, and commitment of the various branches.

I'm really sick of hearing the same old argument about not knowing the "impacts on readiness and military effectiveness" (Halloran quoting Casey), as if that is the real hold-up. I mean, kudos, for finding some language that will persuade those who only spend 10 seconds thinking about the issues, but when are we going to stop using the war card to claim why our soldiers aren't ready for change, as if GLBs in the military would be a change anyway?

Casey's words are similar to saying that left-handed painters might not be ready to paint next to openly right-handed painters because they all have a project deadline. It's irrelevant. What does the dominant hand or the sexual orientation of your neighbor really have to do with how well YOU perform, EVEN if it's a group project? Just as painters are trained to paint, soldiers are trained for combat (among other things), and the smaller details of the next person's physique or eye-color or sexual orientation, have very little to do with either person's ability to do the task they are both trained to do. I refuse to believe that our military isn't trained enough to be able to deal with the tiny changes that will occur if some random Joe's and Jane's are now able to say who they are really dating. And likewise, I refuse to let "war"--the soldiers' assignments--be the reason that we can't let everyone answer truthfully about something that has and should have very little to do with war.

I think people are missing the target when thinking that the possibility of growing pains is reason enough to not grow at all. I heard a guy saying once to a reporter who had just reminded him that gays and lesbians are already serving in the military that being openly gay in the military will cause tension and crisis in the living quarters. Unfortunately, no one was there to remind him that it is not being openly gay that causes tension. If one soldier's orientation effects another soldier's performance, it is only indirectly. What is REALLY effecting the performance and focus of the 2nd soldier is his/her/hirs own fear and anxiety surrounding gays in the military. Hello, homophobia.

Instead of trying to sell lying as a virtue to our GLB soldiers and their families and loved ones, why doesn't the military focus on eradicating the homophobia, not the "homo's."

(The first picture is my grandfather in Korea. The second picture is from Vietnam. My grandfather is second from the right--the cowboy stance.)

A long post or a short autobiography: My life in slices

2010-02-10T13:52:00.003-05:00

Last Friday Drew and I had a play date in NYC to celebrate our three year anniversary. When I got home from work around 2PM, neither of us had eaten anything since breakfast and were quite hungry. The original plan had been to go into the city and straight to sushi happy hour deal before hitting up the MoMA. However, since we needed food at 2PM, we weren't waiting until we drove to the LIRR station, rode the 1.4 hours into the city, and spent another 20-30 minutes finding the restaurant to have a bite to eat.

Instead we changed our plans a little and grabbed a slice at Cataffo's, the nearby pizzeria. It hit the spot. The place is a little more than a shot-gun hole in the wall with a door up front and a door in back and four or so booths in between, across from the counter. And even though the large slice of cheese threatened to ruin my All-You-Can-Eat expectations for sushi, I was having a near perfect moment, sitting across from my favorite person, thawing as an authentic NY slice settled in my greedy belly.

It was such a meaningful start to our date that I thought about it hours later as Drew drove us back home from the train station, our MoMA and sushi and Penn Station tasks all completed. Pizza may be the food I've had more than any other food in my life. Hamburgers and chicken fingers definitely had a head start during my elementary school years when they'd be all I'd order at restaurants, but combined with years of not eating beef, and all those vegetarian years, and I think it's safe to say pizza makes the final cut.

My life seen through pizza's eyes is like a child's activity book page, a sequence of connect-the-dots which together form a crisp, if not rugged, image.

When I was growing up in a small Texas suburb, there was a pizza buffet place a block away--Mr. Gatti's. We lived on a the corner of a T-intersection and the only thing between the Mr. Gatti's and our house was a grown-over field with a baseball diamond. I remember being about as tall as the buffet line I was supposed to push my plate down. The tiny two-room restaurant was kept movie theatre dark because it was a movie theatre of sorts. The entire back wall of each room was screen, usually playing some film channel or sports event. I remember Sunday afternoons with extended family and birthday parties of friends and spontaneous week day nights. It saddened me to see it close after my parents divorced, a couple years before we moved away.

I hadn't known that Mr. Gatti's was a chain at all, but the next and last time I saw one, I was on a road trip to the 1999 State Wide Drama Convention in Corpus Christi with twenty other drama club teens from my high school. We had left the school early that morning, and on our way south out of town, some car stopped at a stop sign thought he had enough time to turn left in front of our bus to get on the freeway. He did not. The bus driver braked hard but we hit him anyway. My face slammed into the seat back in front of me. I thought my nose had fallen off. We all got out, walking slowly past the bloody car, and waited for emergency response vehicles. The teachers called our parents. Some went home, most stayed. We were told later that the man in the car died on the way to the hospital. We got a new bus driver, and since we hadn't planned on such a delay, ended up needing to stop off the highway to eat lunch before we arrived at the convention. There was some kind of chicken place and a Mr. Gatti's. I remember wondering if it had dropped down out of the sky, like Dorothy's house, to be a comfort on such a day.

Even after high school, a slice of zza was still a sign of safety. After a particularly rough school year, the summer between my junior and senior years of college I spent at NYU, reinventing myself as an artist and living off of the Sbarro two blocks away from my E 10th and Broadway apartment. The summer was unbelievably hot without air conditioning on the 9 floor sharing a space with four other women. Most of my roommates were already at internships or in class when I ate lunch. Sbarro offered air conditioning and cheap food outside of the NYU cafeteria, where eating alone was unusual. Sbarro, in that case, also offered me concealment, a way to blend into the city as just another independent on-the-go. Ever since, when I'm in an airport or breaking at an interstate rest stop--I always feel tempted to get the Sbarro, as if paying allegiance to a great mentor.

I ended up going to a small school for college in a town so close to Oklahoma you could drive there and back between classes. The newly manufactured Wal-Mart and the fact that we had KFC and Quizno's meant that Sherman, TX was on the map--the envy of rural towns to the east, west, and south of us. While small college towns are known for quintessential drunken party memories that "prove" college is the "best time in your life," my collegiate highlights are filled with the smell of baked cheese. Papa John's wasn't the only pizza place in town, but it was the closest at .5 miles from campus, and if you were a student, you could always get an $8 large. By the time I was a senior, and lived in a 4 bedroom apartment on campus with my best friend Amanda, the speed dial number for Papa John's was flaking off my cell phone. Our second floor windows always lit up late in the evening, were the frame for me working on a moquette or a Milton paper while Amanda bent over her neurobiology notes at the breakfast table. One of us would look up, decide it was time for a break, and order a thin crust, extra-cheese and green bell pepper pizza. We'd discuss the nerd projects we were so diligently attending and listen to The White Stripes latest CD. I imagine our silhouettes seen from the outside pulling away from the furniture and coming to life at the sound of the doorbell.

Drunken moments with pizza happened way more in graduate school than they did in college for me. And even then, I didn't have them right away. I finally left my home state when I went to graduate school in Washington D.C, and for a while there, I didn't eat much pizza at all. I was the brokest I've ever felt my first semester of graduate school, working part time checking at Balducci's to help pay for the extra class I was taking. Ordering pizza would have been a luxury that replaced grocery money for half a week. However, when a friend from college came to visit for her birthday, we hit the town. After a day on our feet, we had Sangria and tapas for dinner before finding an Irish pub in Georgetown. The night was still young when we wanted to leave, so we went to Adam's Morgan. This is when D.C's famous Jumbo Slice came into my life. Around 3AM the clubs were closing, my friend was even more wasted than I was, and we were waiting on a housemate of mine to pick us up. The light beckoning us like a herald angel lead to single pizza slices equivalent to half of a large pie somewhere else. My friend ended up loosing some of hers on the sidewalk, more in the car, and the rest in my bathroom, but I'm still a fan.

A few years after this first D.C. pizza experience, Drew, our friend Jean, and I get kicked off the penultimate Red Line train out of the city to Silver Spring because Jean took a bite of her (Dupont) Angelo's slice on the train. A literal bite. I still have a few pictures somewhere of us waiting on the platform for what we hoped would be another train. I've never been kicked out of a club, a bar, or even a party, so being kicked off the public transportation vehicle supposed to take me home was quite a shock. I remember planning the logically superior letters I was going to write about how unfairly we were treated and thinking I just needed to finish my pizza first.

After graduating with my MFA, living in Silver Spring, MD was cheaper than living in D.C, but I still had to find multiple jobs to help pay for bills. At one point, I was teaching three college courses, tutoring four hours a week, giving myself to Johns Hopkins research studies on malaria, and working as a hostess for a local Italian restaurant chain who sold pizza by the slice. The Germantown branch may have been in trouble for money laundering, and the place may have warranted my friends nicknaming it my Mob Job, but the food--as long as you stayed away from the salad--was excellent. I had a slice of pizza most nights I worked there and even got to take some extra pizza and rolls home. The chefs had crushes on me and the gelato maker was a sweet white haired Sicilian who smoked a cigar, sometimes inside the restaurant as we cleaned. At this time I was still broke, and I was a little scared of the men I worked for, but while it lasted, the smell of day old pizza warming in the oven was enough to make me feel content.

I left Silver Spring for Long Island, where most of my pizza experiences are Papa John's, with friends and games. These are all good memories, but the best two pizza moments so far since I've lived here have been the Brooklyn play date Drew and I had late last year randomly on a Monday--where we ate at a pinwheel, knish, and pizza joint near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge (photo above)--and last Friday's lunch right here near home. Maybe it's not so rare to have good pizza memories when the food has become number one in America for slumber parties, school day treats, and quick order meals. The vision of the USA that is touted on the TV is one where pizza is always eaten with a group. It brings a family together, it celebrates a little league victory, it takes the pressure off cooking and cleaning for a friends-night-in. And in my case, it can reveal illusions of family closeness, conceal temporary loneliness, and be a key part in celebrating my love of being in love. Once the memories are connected, the full image makes me thankful for having such a food staple in my life. Through thick and thin pizza will always be here.

Do you have a pizza memory to share? I'd love to read it!

Harmless Office Supply Or Identity?

2010-01-26T23:10:00.000-05:00

I'm slowly coming to grips with my newly purchased planner.

I finally went to Staples and bought a 2010 planner. I'd asked for an academic one from work back in September but kept forgetting to follow up with the guy who does the shopping. And by November's end, an academic year planner just seemed silly. And then New Year's came and went, and with each passing work day, I've been using that teeny-tiny "future planning" yearly spread in the back of my 2009 planner. This past Sunday was the day I finally decided things had to change.

Even though my old planner was a mere 'weekly' calendar with no bells or whistles, I had gotten used to it--used to not having the monthly spreads every four weeks or so, used to not having the super helpful month tabs on the side, used to the pre-printed meeting hours not matching up with my usual workday/week. If I was going to spend my own money on 2010 planner, though, I wanted to get the planner of my dreams.

So after about 10 minutes of ogling the aisle, I am deciding between a small brown weekly/monthly and a tall handsome green weekly [only], and I decide to go with "size." Saying that I went with vanity makes it sound like I am a beauty-over-brains kind of girl, but I knew that by choosing the green one, I'd get both vanity and size. I'd get to be business but not boring. And that makes me practical, right? A more-bang-for-my-buck thing.

And then I notice a smaller, same shade of green, monthly [only]. I'm thinking: I could get both weekly and monthly [yes], have vanity [yes!] , and spend twice the money for the inevitability of not wanting to lug TWO planners around [no]. So I tell myself again that I'm being practical and decide to take the weekly green planner up to the register.

And yet, three feet before the register is a small table touting a bunch of planners for the new year. I owe it to myself to look. I skim over everything quickly, still clutching my green goddess, and then I see the words "weekly/monthly" printed on one of the larger ones. I flip it open, and it has monthly tabs as well. Examining the 'week' pages, I see that a workday goes from 7am to 9pm--good enough hours for my unusual schedule. Everything about this new planner is screaming "I'm The One!" Every thing, except for the hot pink cover. It's Staples brand, so I quickly go back to the aisle, surmise that yes, indeed this planner is one of only two Staples weekly/monthly's left in the store--both 'pank'--said in my thickest Texan.

Part of me, a large part, doesn't want to look at a hot pink planner for an entire year. I don't want to see it on my desk, I don't want to pull it out of my otherwise sophisticated Timbuk2 during meetings with school principals or intern interviewees. In short, I don't want to be the girl with the pink planner. I don't want everyone in 2010 who sees me to think I chose pink, and what a shade it is, over all the other possible colors available to me, as if I'm some sorority princess turned law school student. I may have once been blond, but I am not that girl.

I wanted the muted, olive green planner.
But my shame in my own vanity made me buy the pink one. Who am I to care what other people think (perhaps my biggest character flaw)? I don't have to fall prey to the simple gender binary. So what if I'm not a girly-girl. By owning one thing that's pink, even owning and loving one pink thing, I am not redefining my gender. It's just a pink planner.

(If you've read this far, then you probably understand why this detail has turned into a blog entry. No matter how many times I think it, this post is evidence enough that this pink planner is not just a pink planner.)

Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe my choices weren't spurred by vanity after all but by self identity (probably both), and I've been giving vanity all the credit. Maybe I needed to write about my Elle Woods planner to confirm for myself that my gender identity is not made by things that surround me, that I can still feel and be the girl who likes green even though I'm also the girl who sports pink.

And then somewhere in this thought I can't help but see this analogously, minutely, to how some people feel all the time. Some people, whether they identify as transgender or not, feel consistently let down by their circumstances. Maybe the clothes they have to wear match society's views about how they should dress but don't match their internal sense of self. And once I'm here in my thought process I start to fester about how crappy society's gender prescriptions can be and about how I support folks being true to themselves as frequently as they can. And then that thought of course leads me back to feeling bad about my pink planner purchase. Pink isn't me, so why did I let myself not follow my self? And then I feel doubly the schmuck because now I've tried to liken my trivial office supply list to a person's experiences with gender variance or gender nonconformity. Will the self shame ever end?

So, as I'm trying to come to grips with my purchase of the hot pink planner, I am forced to remind myself just how deeply Gender effects confidence.

* * * * *

I used to think my planner said I was stressed but well time-managed, organized and yet fun. Now, I'm not so sure. What does your planner look like? What features are a "must?" What does your planner say about you? Is this an accurate description?

Head versus heart: When does passionate explanation go too far?

2010-01-14T23:16:00.008-05:00

One of the most rewarding parts of my job is getting to speak about GLBT human rights issues and with Long Islanders at school and in their places of work. I am always excited to see faces that had been stern or questioning come out on the other side of a workshop with smiles and understanding--even if the understanding isn't complete and some of the smiles are semi-forced. This happens often, but not always.

Last December I went to a faculty training, which went so well, that they invited me back for their next meeting. That was this past Monday. It was again an awesome meeting, one where hard questions were asked and discussions between thoughtful adults ensued. However, as with many workshops, we didn't have time to discuss ALL the questions. So, I've decided to email to the school my written response to the last question. As it is, I'm worried that it's a bit sharp, so, before I send it to an albeit 95% supportive school faculty/staff, I'd like to test the waters here.

Is the following question and answer set-up too "I used to teach argumentative writing for college students" in a bad way or a good way? The question originally in paragraph form, broken up into parts, reads:

1 Why are we addressing human sexuality issues with 10, 11, and 12 year old children?

2 Should we not give these children a chance to figure this out for themselves without putting labels on them and putting them into a situation that could cause them to be harassed and humiliated?

3 Are we not defeating the whole purpose of trying to protect these children from such [harassment and humiliation]?

In response to part1, part of reminding ourselves of heterosexual privilege means we need to remind ourselves of the pitfall of reducing GLBT issues to simple sexuality. Each straight person knows that his/her relationships and families are a HUGE part what we call our “lives.” GLBT people have spouses, mothers, and children too. GLBT people, as well as their family members no matter their ages should not be ignored or left out of times when it is expected or anticipated that we share about our families. And to speak specifically to 10, 11, and 12 year olds, don’t those children of GLBT parents have the right to see their own family structures represented and supported in school and society as well as the children of straight parents? So, we are not exactly talking about human sexuality, in terms of sexual acts. Indeed, I’m hard pressed imagining a time when middle school GSAs or classroom discussions of GLBT issues need to discuss acts of sex in any way, although I allow that there might be.

In response to part 2: First of all, I find the idea of letting the children fend for themselves, without guidance or support, is a very odd suggestion from an educator. Many people would agree that we shouldn’t just let a small child try to learn her ABCs or try to tie her shoes the first time, or try to brush her teeth for the first time without ANY assistance, support, or role models. As a society we don’t generally for anything let our children just fend for themselves (at least not right away). My experience shows that children understand faster when they receive encouragement and support and basic knowledge from adult models.

Secondly, GSAs (and classroom discussions around GLBT topics) are not places to LABEL the gay students as to separate them from others. I teach that every one has the right to label or not to label him/her/zie self; in fact, by definition and NAME, a Gay-Straight Alliance is a safe space where we come together and enjoy our differences and our similarities in a judgment free, harassment free zone. Most middle school GSAs are not political discussion groups or worked up about making waves in a school district. Middle school GSAs across the nation tend to be more socially focused. They are similar to other clubs: a space where friends with common interests and values can learn socialization and leadership skills by hanging out and or planning and implementing events together as a team. GSAs focus on eradicating the isolation and harrassment many students feel in adolescence.

(In response to part 3:) So no, I don’t think silence or ignoring the identities of students or their families is the way to promote an open honest space in which to grow and learn. NOR do I think that silence is the way to “protect” children from harassment or humiliation. This is how the world has been doing it, and it hasn’t worked yet. The truth is that we cannot protect children from their own inevitable sexuality. At this point in time, children are harassed and humiliated every day whether we ignore the GLBT issues or not. And yet, we have seen across the nation, that schools with GSA clubs and faculty/staff trainings tend to have more positive campus climate perceptions than schools without clubs or faculty/staff trainings. It is only with education, open minds, and visibility that we can begin to undermine the ignorance that causes people to harass and humiliate children based on some GLBT-related idea.

I am used to being asked questions that in most situations would be offensive (and sometimes are intended to be offensive), but these workshops are set up as safe spaces so that people CAN ask questions like this. It's better to get an answer instead of stewing in silence, hardened. Normally though, I get to respond in person with my own inflection and pacing. But I wonder, might this written response do a disservice to what attempts at helping this question-asker understand? Is possibly putting him on the defensive worth helping possibly numerous others?

Why Movies and TV (and most books) Suck

2009-12-31T14:20:00.000-05:00

(Written Christmas Eve, Posted….today.)

Being in my mother’s house for the holidays has its advantages. I don’t have to get up or go to sleep on any schedule, like I imagine Snow White needed to do; I don’t have to see ANYONE that I don’t want to see and this is mainly because it would be hard to see them if I tried (which is the complete opposite of the main wife on Everybody Loves Raymond); and I don’t have to worry about wearing something cute and impressive each day like all those girls on The Bachelor (see previous list item). And this year it’s especially just TJ (my mother) and me, since she’s recently decided to divorce her ungrateful bum of husband, and my brother won’t be home from his tour in Korea until nearly April. Just us unwed girls.

One more advantage to a Texas Christmas is the number of TV shows and movies on cable I’ve been able to see. In fact, if it weren’t for movies, my sudoku book, and my recently purchased copy of Wicked the novel, I’d be terribly depressed--due to a sparse Internet connection and the fact that my partner and I once again are spending this holiday apart. But back to movies. Last night (23 Dec. 2009), after an all you can eat fried catfish special at The Flying Fish in Ft. Worth, TJ and I went shopping. And after driving our bags back home (with the windows down and not a jacket in sight) we cozied up to the movie Miss Potter with Renee Zellweger. It wasn’t my first pick of what we should watch, but my mother thought I’d enjoy it because it’s about Beatrix Potter—the children’s book author which I loved so much as a youngster.

I was fascinated to learn that many of the characters Potter created she did so while still a child herself, and that she’d always had a knack for painting and drawing. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the crux of the story lie not in the struggle of publishing and selling books, nor in the disapproval of her mother, but in the idea of marriage: for class or love or even at all. I’ll repeat that I did enjoy the film. It is only when being distracted while viewing or when contemplating the narrative arch afterward that I become exceedingly critical.

When the movie opens, Beatrix is a thirty-two year-old woman with an eighty year-old chaperone, unmarried and not seemingly unsatisfied with that. Her main goal is to find a publisher, which happens rather quickly.

The next phase of the story takes place as Beatrix plans the first book and becomes close with her publisher and his sister—another unmarried, unconventional, woman, Amelia. At first, I was excited to see a supporting lesbian character. I had secret hopes of Beatrix ending up with the sister whom it seems is very fond of her. Half way through the movie, though, the publisher asks Beatrix to marry him and she says yes, after asking Amelia for advice and blessing.

Beatrix here is right to ask the friend/sister of the would-be groom. Amelia initially based their friendship on the fact that they are both independent and unmarried. And yet, Amelia, put in this place has no other option but to say something like ‘it’s better to be loved’ and if you have that chance, take it.

The crux, as I mentioned earlier is that Beatrix’s mother and father do not approve of the marriage, for it does nothing for their standing in the world. And so, her parents cut a deal with Beatrix: she can keep the engagement and eventually get married with their blessing, IF she keeps the engagement secret through the summer. She agrees to this, and they take her to the country for the summer, hopefully to let her feelings for the publisher “cool.” In the meantime, the publisher gets sick and dies before Beatrix can even get back to London to sit by his bed.

Beatrix Potter stays unmarried, for the meantime, buys a farm or several in the country, and keeps making books and oodles of money. We know it is a happy ending to the movie because it says that eight years after Beatrix moved to the country, she married a childhood friend she met there. Oh, and by the way, she ended up buying 4000 acres to keep it from development and gave it to England for preservation.

What a major upset: the extraordinary accomplishments of this woman are mere margin scrawl compared to the power punch of not being able to live the life she wanted with the man she loved. And what is more upsetting to me is that I continually fall for this. Even though I was rooting for Amelia to get the girl, I was all mushy-hearted when the guy secretly gave Beatrix a beautiful ring in the lamp light of a snowy street. Mushy-hearted and jealous. And then I felt guilty for feeling that way and betraying my tie-wearing friend Amelia who couldn’t even ask the woman she loved to marry her even if she’d wanted.

What I can’t understand is whether my increasing want to get married (with a ring and dress and mostly all the other traditionally girly wedding things) is brought on by a bombardment of heteronarratives like the one in Miss Potter and most any other sort of drama—or if it is my increasing want to get married that is making me latch onto all of the wedding stories I hear/watch. I know that it’s an impossible chicken or egg scenario. However, I can’t help wondering if I’d feel the urge to tie the knot less if I were protected from watching any film or Television show with marriage as the underlying arch. (I know, I know—this wouldn’t leave much to see in network or cable TV, but it would help me from feeling like Monica from Friends, desperate for the day when I too can shop for a white dress.)

Faken Bacon

2009-12-03T22:01:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, before going to work, I had a lunch date with my partner. I later described this meal to my coworkers as our Kindergarten Lunch Time. We made grilled cheese sandwiches in a waffle iron and played along with the interactive Super Readers TV show on PBS. The only thing I think that could have made the lunch even better is if we had had bacon in our sandwiches. Well, maybe bacon wasn't the only thing. You see, I foresee a long and happy future with this woman, a future filled with all kinds of wonderful lunches, but my right to a recognized commitment of the nature my parents used to have, is not acknowledged. I can't get married, not to my partner, not to any woman.

So for me, getting married is like eating bacon.

I know that I can survive without it, and part of me knows that I really shouldn't want it. And yet, I still do. I've looked into substitutes, like civil unions, turkey bacon, (or just plain not eating meat,) but it's not the same. While there are certain recipes when the replacement works just as fine as the original, there are always going to be times that only the real deal will do. And, there will always be the bottom line--the original just tastes better.

The question of the bottom line though is where we get sidetracked. America is so juiced up over the "why"--Why does 'real' bacon taste better?--that we don't see this is a red herring. All anyone needs to understand is that pig bacon and turkey bacon are different things, and therefore, not equal, right? Our Supreme Court already decided decades ago in the other civil rights struggle that separate but equal is inherently unfair. And yes, I'm waiting for all the fuddy-duds to come out of the cupboards and tell me that Life isn't Fair, that the World isn't Fair. Well, thank you Mr Dud, I do realize this. However, just because something is unfair doesn't mean that I should settle for it. Furthermore, when we are engaging in conversations about 'equality and justice for all'--about human rights and citizens' rights--we, in fact, are obligated not to settle for anything but fair.

So, when I watched 20 or so NY Senators yesterday, stand up, one-by-one and speak (overwhelmingly in favor) of marriage equality for same-sex[and gender] couples for two and a half hours, only to be flash frozen by the five minute roll call that destroyed the bill by eight votes, I couldn't help but be rubbed by the idea that here, even in NY state, I am not allowed to buy real bacon. Or at least, it's not available in any of the stores I'm allowed to shop. And this fact is enough to make me steam my way up to Albany and give them a little 'what for.' But in the end, whether NY state passes a marriage bill that allows the option to get married, my eyes will still be looking toward DC. Because I know that even if NY allows me to marry--and it would be an awesome appetizer--the real happy meal will be a federal law that allows me to have married rights, should I choose to get married, no matter what state I live in. Anything less is just another substitute.

Hesitant Feedback

2009-11-28T18:32:00.005-05:00

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?

2009-11-21T11:02:00.001-05:00

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?

new year?

2009-01-02T20:44:00.004-05:00

So, it's only a quarter until seventeen-hundred--meaning that the night time youth-group I'm working with hasn't been open even an hour, and I'm super bored and somewhat sick of being here.
Although I didn't really want to come in today, partly because it's one day of work sandwiched between four days off of work and partly because my partner and two of our closest friends are at home having a good time, I'm glad that I did come in today. There are a lot of youth here, somewhere between thirty and forty, and it's still early. If we weren't open tonight, some of these youth would not have a safe place, or a place at all to go. If we were not open tonight, some of these youth would be at home getting shit from their families, and some of them would be doing their best to try not to sound, look, or act "gay."

There is a new girl here tonight, an eighth grader, who has met a new support group. And there are a couple kids back from their first semesters of school away from home.---more later.

tracking

2008-01-08T18:15:00.001-05:00

In a new vein, I am starting to train again. 'For what' is yet to be defined. This holiday season has taken quite the hold on my thighs, arms, and cheeks. I could barely run yesterday. But I did try.
It was difficult without watch or ipod to give myself those little tiny goals and motivations. I may go to the gym tomorrow instead of running outside, to see if there is music (even horrible music would be okay at this point).

weight as of January 6: 126lbs
distance on January 7: 2-ish miles, maybe
time:? [too long for such a short distance]

Attempting

2008-01-08T18:07:00.001-05:00

So after I worked 5 hours or so on this rockin Introduce Yourself assignment (mandatory for online classes at MC evidently) I found out that, indeed, I actually do not get to create my own assignment. Instead I get to use the one they are giving me: create a bumper sticker mantra for your life and develop proof of its accuracy.---here is what I came up with:

Reduce, Reuse, Redefine

My world is colored with the idea that each person wields enormous power over others (whether she or he realizes it or does ‘good’ with it). I believe that a person’s family may not necessarily be that person’s friends but that friends are certainly family. I believe in recycling. I believe that Coke does taste better than Pepsi, that cats and dogs can get along, that Apples are better than PCs. I believe in the abilities of the NIH to find new help for old diseases. I believe in being a football watching lazy on the weekends. I believe in leaving home to understand how you feel about it. I believe in independent film, independent music, and independent thinking. I believe in continually redefining yourself. I believe that most of the time “we get out what we put in” and that there exists a deep sense of betrayal when we feel that this is not the case. I believe education transforms the world by opening windows. I like being a window opener.

The above paragraph is a belief statement patterned after Crash Davis’ “I believe” speech in the movie Bull Durham. It’s also an example of how I see and understand the world. My “I believe” statement is a random sampling of my thoughts about matters corresponding to varying levels of triviality and pertinence. Life also seems to be a series of minor and major occurrences, in no particular order but which seems to be ultimately (if not mysteriously) connected.

If my life were a car, the bumper might read Reduce, Reuse, Redefine, patterned after the 80s environmental slogan “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.” By using this phrase as a jumping off point I’m “reusing” something tried and true, something older which still means a lot to me and helps me focus my priorities. I’m connected to what I see is or has been the effort of Good in the past. Whether I’m revamping a syllabus or creating a new cookie recipe, I believe in seeking out the good from what has already been to help make the future better than the present.

As for the other two words in my slogan, ‘reduce’ and ‘redefine,’ I see reduction as a cutting principal on my life and redefinition like a brand new day. Reduction is what makes me want to find the only right word when I’m working on a piece of creative writing. Reduction is also what makes me battle my favorite store: Anthropologie. I want much more than I need. Redefining, by default, means to calculate again, to trace over taking into account new information, as if smoothing out the contours of a clay sculpture started a week ago. To me, redefining ourselves, our world, our views is the basis of learning. It’s what I mean when I say I am a life-long learner.

Holy cow, Batman!

2008-01-07T17:17:00.000-05:00

I am ashamed at the distance between this post and the last. And when I think about all the stuff that has gone un-blogged, it's just mind boggling.

Hence, I am making a New Year's resolution to do this more. Even if the quality is a bit lackluster.

(Case in point.)

October 15, 2007 ASSistance needed

2007-11-09T19:22:00.001-05:00

Meegs to Me: 12:34 PM

"Okay, miss english - I need your ASSistance (as courtney would say).

I'm an assistant editor for a communication journal and currently, I'm editing one of my professor's papers!! Its a bit intimidating. He's Chinese and so the language is a bit awkward. I'm having SUPER trouble with these two different sentences. Can you help?

Here we go:
1. "The Chinese as well are reluctant to talk about death; they tend to believe that talking about death may lead it to come soon." (this one, the 'may lead it to come soon' i think is awkward. i can't change the language TOO much, but need it to make sense.)

2. "Since its establishment in 1996, Tzu Chi Body Donation Center’s, located at the Medical School of Tzu Chi University, campaigning for body donation has become one of Tzu Chi’s on-going endeavors." (this one is giving me EXTRA difficulty, for whatever reason.)

So...whaddya think?"

Me to Meegs 1:37 PM

"Original Sentences
1. "The Chinese as well are reluctant to talk about death; they tend to believe that talking about death may lead it to come soon."

2. "Since its establishment in 1996, Tzu Chi Body Donation Center’s, located at the Medical School of Tzu Chi University, campaigning for body donation has become one of Tzu Chi’s on-going endeavors."

What I Says:
1. is actually okay, even though I understand where you get the awk feeling... but if you want to change it, I suggest one of these endings (or something similar):
'The Chinese as well are reluctant to talk about death; they tend to believe that talking about death' encourages it to arrive/appear/etc--OR-- draws its inevitable appearance [somehow] closer.

2. this sentence is over crowded. It needs to be either split up into two sentences, or re-subordinated somehow:

'Since the establishment in 1996 of Tzu Chi Body Donation Center, located at the Medical School of Tzu Chi University, campaigning for body donation has become one of Tzu Chi's on-going endeavors.'---but this even feels redundant (of course this would be one of it's on-going endeavors; it is the main objective of the organization, or so says the name, right?). Or, did he mean this last clause to be first, kind of a cause of the Center's existence, that this Tzu Chi means business about body donation, which is why it started the center in 1996??

sorry if my comments are just as confusing as your own thoughts on the matter of these.
ugh. editing is fun."

Big Girls Don't Use Plural Pronouns Where Singular Ones Belong

2007-11-08T23:51:00.000-05:00

Okay. I can't stand it. Not only do I destest the saccharine tone of Fergi's voice and veiling the infantalization of the feminine with something that tries to show "independence"---and this is the benefit of the doubt---but the lyrics actually saying "I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket" making me want to sharpen my battle axe. I think we can all agree that when one uses the article "a" with a singular noun behind it, like "child," that we must keep refering to it (notice the singular pronoun) as a singular noun. It does not suddenly spasm like a Gizmo into multiple beings. A child stays a child, or should. Fergi, I don't know if I'm spelling your name correctly, and frankly if I did know better, I'd misspell it on purpose. Someone like you doesn't reserve my respect. Not after this.

If you or someone you love has problems with pronoun-antecedent agreement, please, get help.

i want one of these to cheer me up

2007-11-06T20:39:00.002-05:00

Complaint Mode

2007-11-04T10:53:00.000-05:00

Had a 10am appointment downtown at the research center today. It's Day 4 of the Dengue Vaccine Study for which I'm volunteering. Barb, the so-new-she's-horrible nurse at the JHU research center down in Foggy Bottom, is doing her post-grad work and needs help with her writing/grammar. She wants to know if I can give her the title of some very ESL user friendly grammar and composition books, so she can try to teach herself. I want to tell her that she would benefit more from seeking tutoring along side the harder books she already owns instead of purchasing a book that talks down to her, but I hold my tongue and promise to bring in some titles. I do this because 1) I wouldn't want to unwittingly embarrass/insult her since she was asking me in front of four other staff members, and some people think "tutoring" is a bad word, and 2) I'm kind of still holding the tiniest grudge against her from earlier in the fall.

Backstory #1: The first blood and urine screening, coupled with consent form signing, for this study had actually taken place in September. The study, which only started on Halloween last week, had originally been scheduled for at late Sept start date. I was tight on time, as I usually am since this place is not convenient to where I live or work and isn't open when I get off in the evenings. When I arrived, for some reason which I couldn't understand, they were running twenty or so minutes behind schedule, yet no other patients were in the center at the time. When someone finally saw me, it was Barb. She was bubbly and had a thick accent, perhaps of Korean dissent. She announced unnecessarily that she was new here, and then proceeded to run through the 8 pages of health history I had just filled out with the pace of a refrigerator magnet. She then left me with a ten question True/False quiz over the study logistics which took me seventy seconds to complete, for 15 minutes. When she came back in, she didn't just check my Ts and Fs with her answer sheet. She went through and read each question aloud, told me what I had chosen as the answer, and then read the correct (and same) answer from the key. Finally, once she had wasted my time to her best ability, I was sent back for HIV and pregnancy testing, controlled by a nurse who knew what she was doing. All told, my 30 minute appointment last nearly an hour and a half. Ugh.

Backstory #2: They had needed me in for a half-hour Re-screening appointment, once my original tests were no longer current for the new study start time, on a morning that I needed to be up in German town by 10ish. So I scheduled the appointment for 8.3am, as early as they could make it. But when I got there at 8.20am, I had to wait on her to finish a loud, personal phone call until 9.15. She was laughing and discussing her school work and lord knows what. At least I had brought in some grading. At 9.45 I scrapped my dreams of getting to school early and grumbled out of there.

I have never taught an ESL course, but I've tutored hundreds of ESL students, and my regular composition classes are heavily peppered with ESL course graduates. What I've seen is that the ESL student who is past ESL specific instruction needs to grapple with the non-ESL texts. Of course, I'm not advocating doing this blindly; the student needs someone else to help transition her into understanding the text, so that the student doesn't always feel like texts
are "above" her.

So, I am going to offer her this book, which I've taught to basic/developmental students. And, I guess I'll also perhaps contact the goddess of ESL at school tomorrow and ask her what she recommends.

What On Earth?

2007-11-02T15:06:00.001-04:00

I'm about to have a birthday.

Well, it's more like 6 weeks away, but that doesn't mean that my ever-pending doom to be a professional part-timer and die a grossly indebted teacher isn't weighing on my mind. Birthdays, from default of their annual occurrence, have a way of tricking us. By forcing us to ponder time and its relatively morbid fascination with our truculent growth, birthdays make us believe we are what we are not, or, that we can be what we want. It's been too long since I've been a writer, so I've decided to be a blogger instead. I intend to do the same things I've been doing in gmail, on myspace, and elsewhere in the 3d world--talk about writing and the teaching of writing and answer grammar or editing questions--but we'll see how long that lasts before I'm off on a tangent.