presents! presents! presents!

I have a song that goes a little something like this: presents! presents! presents!

I really like presents, but I don’t like to open presents because, well, once I do, there won’t be any more presents. It’s the anticipation of surprise that’s so much fun; that’s really the gift that comes wrapped in pretty foil paper and topped with a bow. Last week was Steve’s birthday and I asked him in the evening if he was ready to open his present. Sure, he said. But honey, then there won’t be any more presents.

As I was walking to my life writing class the other day, I was thinking about how Thursday’s class is going to be like a present I’ve been waiting to unwrap. This class this semester has been the kind of class professors dream about and screenwriters imagine when they conjure scenes in college classrooms. On Thursday, the last day of class, we’ll all read an excerpt from a life writing piece we’ve been working on. And a big part of me doesn’t want that day to come because then it will be over. I don’t know how to bottle those feelings, to save them for later, for a time when I need to remember why I do the work I do.

My plan as I’m walking into the room is to tell them this, that I’m thinking of Thursday’s class as a kind of present waiting to be opened. But when I get there, these smart, thoughtful, self-aware students who have written their lives with grace and mettle begin asking asinine questions like, Where is your office again? When’s the final essay due? What are we doing on Thursday? Are we meeting next week?

I moan and groan in response. You’re kidding, right?

And I was just about to tell you all about how I think of Thursday’s class as a kind of present waiting to be unwrapped.

Harumph.

if only David Sedaris made movies...

This will come as no surprise to anybody who knows me, but I've got a knack for choosing really depressing movies. A while back on this blog, I defied anybody to find a more depressing movie than Savages with Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney. I mean, good lord, that movie just made me want to slit my wrists right then and there. Well, last week I went to Blockbuster by myself--I was hoping to get Synechdoche, NY, but it wasn't there, so I searched and searched and finally, when I got all the way around to the A section, I found and rented An American Crime. When S. and I would pause it to go pee or to get a drink or a snack, we'd just look at each other and shake our heads. Amy does it again. "You're no longer allowed to choose movies," he tells me. "This makes me want to go hang myself."

And it does. Make you want to hang yourself, that is. But it also made me want to do more research on this "true" account of the case of child abuse that brought child abuse to the nation's attention.

I have a similar tendency when teaching the personal essay course. It's not as severe, of course, but many of the essays I teach in that course are a bit, well, grim. Revise. On the surface, they're grim. But when we read and discuss them, they always make me (and pretty much all of the students, I think I can safely say) see the world differently. But I made a conscious decision to include a few essays on the lighter side. We began the course with David Sedaris' "I Almost Saw This Girl Get Killed," and today, we'll discuss the final two essays before moving into three weeks of workshopping student work. First, Sedaris' "Tricked," in which a young David shovels Halloween candy into his face rather than share it with the strange people next door, and then "Old Faithful," an essay about monogamy that begins with a lump. I don't think I meant to bookmark the course with Sedaris, but I did know that I wanted to make sure students had good models of how to articulate important insights in a funny way.

April came early this year

Let me say that one more time.

April came early this year. Waaaaaay too early.

How'm I gonna make it through the real April?

Exhibit A: S.'s oldest and closest friend died last week.

Exhibit B: Insanity in the department. People fall apart in April, yes, I know, but March? Must we be early with this?

There's more, I know there is, but the April fog has me all kinds of confused. Thing is, Exhibit B covers so much, but of course I'm not gonna dooce myself. Heh. Dooce as a verb. I like it.

But the teaching these days is so damn good. In both classes. I can't really even say which one I like better. But the combination of the two of them in the same semester--one on the personal essay and one on life writing--is exhilarating. I have so many ideas for essays I want to write. I just need to find hours at a time to sit down and do it. On that last point, let me recommend to you my colleague's new memoir: Talking Out of School: Memoir of an Educated Woman by Kass Fleisher. I haven't finished it yet, but the first half has made me want to write in order to continue her project of challenging what we think of as traditional knowledge. What do we make of the stuff we know not from facts or record books but from acts of imagining?

Can't wait for her to come to class next week. Even though it will officially be April.

lesson plan

Today I once again teach Cheryl Strayed's essay "The Love of My Life." The last time I taught it in my two sections of the course, things didn't work out so well. But every single time I read this essay, I see new things in it. New patterns. New meaning. Instead of going into class this morning with the assumption that everyone will have loved it, I'm going in with the goal of helping students articulate what this essay does. If they loved it, great. If not, I hope I can help them see some of its power.

This instead of deciding not to teach it anymore.

Someone once told a dissertator during her defense to "never teach your favorite things." But I can't not teach my favorite things. Isn't that why we're in this business? Because we love what we love and we want to share that love with students?

I blog so I can remember moments like these

In my life writing class this afternoon, in the building that is forever being renovated, the horrible stench of paint thinner or spray paint or SOMETHING forced us to go outside. It's a gorgeous seventy-degree day, so it was an easy choice to make. As we were walking out of the room, I told everyone that I just wanted them to know that I never cave and have class outside because it's so easy for everyone to get distracted. But since the smell is so bad and you guys are so mature, I think we can do it.

Once we round everybody up outside, we actually have a pretty productive meeting. We always have great discussions in that class, and that continued outside. We were running a little short on time, but then again, in that class, we're always running a little short on time. Too much to talk about. A lifetime's worth of material to try to fit into one semester: not easy.

With two minutes left to go, a doggie walked by. I could see him clearly. He was not on a leash, but he was obeying his person so well among the throngs of students walking by. I regressed to my doggie voice. Doggie! Look at the Doggie wog! Who's a good little doggie wog?

And as I was giving students their papers back, I noted that we'd had a pretty productive class outside. And I usually don't have class outside because students so often get distracted. Doggie!

this post is not about dogs

It's about the rest of my life, which consists of

a. teaching
b. writing
c. social commitments

Not much to say about c. these days. Been overwhelmed with what this post is not about.

As for a. and b., things are coming along nicely. Both of my classes seem like they're going to be a lot of fun to teach, and by fun I mean that I'm going to get almost as much out of them as I think the students will. In senior seminar, I've shaped the course loosely around the question of what can be bought and sold in an information economy. The other day in class I realized that the question could also be what can be bought and sold in a gift economy, but the more I think about it, the more I like the first version better. In any case, in just the first week, we've had some really engaging, productive discussions about what constitutes "fulfilling" work. And in my rhetoric course, we're investigating the rhetoric of "monsters" in public life, with an emphasis, of course, on the ways in which we define ourselves in contrast to the monsters that we create. This is why I love teaching: I get to investigate with students issues that matter, issues that change from semester to semester, issues that help me figure out what I want to say in my scholarship.

As I told my students--both classes--the other day, during a discussion of what David Graeber calls a psychological need to feel like we're doing good in the world, I have the best job in the world.

So what if my collection of personal essays on social class was rejected by three publishers? Maybe the essays need to be published individually. Maybe they'll never get published. But you know what? I had to write my essay on class to get to the ideas I have today. If you'd told me that two and a half years ago, I wouldn't have done it. Ah, the learning curve.

I'm such a dork

I preface my request for a class photo with the disclaimer, "I'm a total dork." But I'm not, really, I just want to remember the best part about my job. Plus, they wanted a copy, too.

Morning class:

Afternoon class:

And if you think I'm a total dork, get a load of my office neighbor:

Doesn't she look good with the pears? Her coat matches so nicely. Heh.

perspective

Last year at this time I learned that I did not win the University Teaching Initiative award that I'd been nominated for by the College. I was very upset. Heartbroken, in fact. I did win the College Teaching Initiative award, so that made me feel a little bit better. But I remember being just crushed the day I found out about the University award.

Today I learned that I did not win the University Research Initiative award that I've been nominated for by the College. And I honest-to-god immediately thought about how much fun I've been having in my classes and how the research award paled in comparison. It's hard to express this without sounding like I'm making use of a well-worn defense mechanism, but there it is.

At the end of my morning class today, one of my students came up to me and asked if it would be alright if she still came to talk to me next semester. About stuff.

And C., a student who put up quite a bit of resistance to the prospect of learning anything more about himself, just stopped by office hours to tell me that, for what it's worth, he's glad he took the course.

It's worth a lot. So much more than you'll ever know.

savoring the moments

At about this time every semester, I write on my blog about how much I love my classes and how I'm going to miss my students and how I'm feeling something like nostalgia in the present moment. I'm sitting in class, listening to students challenge one another to take more risks in their writing, to make themselves more vulnerable, to cut through all the bullshit and say something that really matters. And I wish I could bottle it. I'm beginning to realize that I don't really know what to do when I love something so much that I wish I could bottle it. I acknowledge how grateful I am to have the best job in the world. I tell my students how much I learn from them. I tell S. and my friends about these moments. And I write on my blog, knowing full well that many of my readers are probably going, come on, can it really be that good? I have been known to exaggerate.

But here's the thing. What makes it so great is how hard we've worked to push through the bullshit so many of us are so used to explaining our lives with. It ain't easy, let me tell you. Especially when you're 20 and 21 and 22 years old. So so so much easier to fall back on received wisdom to explain why you do the things you do.

I am so proud of my students this semester I could just burst. They make everything I do worth it.

Never thought I'd see the day when the problem I had with managing emotions was one of pride and happiness and respect. I'm not really equipped for times like these, but I'm having fun figuring it out.

teacher's pet

Conferences with students yesterday and all day today. I meet with them in their writing groups, 3 students at a time. Yesterday 2 of the three had shown up, and we were waiting on Chris. We chatted for a few minutes and I said to them, "I know Chris isn't lost because he's been here before."

My phone rang. "Maybe this is Chris now," I said.

It was S. "Hey," he said.

"Hi."

"I wasn't sure if you were still in your meetings."

"Yup, I'm in one now."

"Okay, well, I'll talk to you later."

"K."

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

I hang up the phone and say to the two students in my office, "That wasn't Chris."

when teaching completely throws you off

I teach two sections of Advanced Exposition devoted to the personal essay. This is the third semester I've taught the course, but the first time I've had two sections. On Monday, I wrote here about how excited I was to be teaching Cheryl Strayed's essay, "The Love of My Life." And in the morning class, it was fantastic. It was essentially a love fest, all of us sitting around talking about what we loved about it. Sure, there were a few students who didn't quite love it, but they were able to see what she was doing and why she was doing it. The theme of that morning class became, in reference to the essay "how much honesty can we take?"

Well, my afternoon class couldn't take very much honesty. I was completely floored by some of my students' reactions to the essay. I purposely saved this one for toward the end of the semester because by now students have the vocabulary with which to articulate what's going on in a personal essay. But so many of my students couldn't see past the first line, "The first time I cheated on my husband, my mother had been dead for exactly one week." This is not to say that there weren't a few in the afternoon class--mostly females--who loved it. But lots of the men wanted to judge her even more than she was judging herself.

But there was a bright spot later that day. One of the men from my afternoon class emailed me to say that he'd just finished reading Strayed's other essay, "Heroin/e," and he liked it and thought perhaps I should think about pairing the two up so that naive students like him (his term, not mine) wouldn't be so quick to judge.

And that is what I shall do.

I feel a bit as though I've been pushed out of bed. My admiration for this essay has been challenged, and I feel therefore as though my own taste has been challenged.

I'm awake now.

oh, you know what they say about appearances

I'm teaching another section of the advanced writing course on the personal essay. On the books, it's not a course on the personal essay; I've just made it that each time I teach it. And each time I teach it, I love the personal essay even more. And I begin to think about how I can show my love for the essay. Duh, write one. Try to get one published. But that's a matter for another time.

One of the secretaries in the department has decided to take this class with me this semester. She'd been reading "on the sly" some of the essays I assign, and I keep telling her to just take the class already. So she is. And she's writing her first essay on smoking--why she does it, trying to challenge all of the cliched reasons that nonsmokers like me think we know about why she does it.

One of the requirements for this assignment is that students incorporate into the essay another person's perspective. Try to get into the other person's head as much as you can and write it how they would see things. Which is admittedly really hard to do. All the more reason to do it.

So in this essay that the department secretary is writing about smoking, lo and behold, I am the other perspective. And I am the other perspective because as she's thinking about why she smokes, she realizes that it is in part a crutch, a way to get through all the things in life she "has to" and is "supposed to" do. I come into the essay because I appear to need no crutches. I appear to have my life pulled together.

I truly was shocked when I read this. I'm not performing some kind of false humility (saying this makes it all that more likely that I am, of course, so I'm in a bind of sorts). I guess I can concede that it may appear that I've got things together. But lordie pie. Anyone who's read this blog for any amount of time has some idea of the ways I torture myself on a daily basis with constant work and constant guilt when I'm not working.

Anxiety. Guilt. Never feeling like I've done enough. It doesn't show?

Dang.

this new hobby of mine's getting in the way

Yesterday I was at S.'s place in the afternoon because a) he was home sick with a nasty sinus infection and needed to be taken care of; and b) my air conditioning was on the fritz on a 90+ degree day. I brought over all the stuff I'd need to begin crafting my syllabus for the Intro to Grad Studies course, spread it all out on the dining room table and proceeded to watch the Cubbies lose 10-6. I had it on mute at first. I'd read a sentence, look up. Read a sentence, look up. Um, this is no way to concentrate. Didn't get much of that syllabus written. And this is a new course for me, and I've got ideas. Perhaps the whole class could take a field trip to Wrigley. Or something.

They're on at 1:20 today, and I'm gonna allow myself to watch only if I've gotten a whole bunch of that dang thing done.

How'm I gonna get through September and October?

why summer is so hard for me

This piece from the American Scholar really hit home for me today, more than two months after the last day of class. I miss my students. I miss their energy, their enthusiasm, their very presence. "Teaching," Deresiewicz writes, "finally, is about relationships. It is mentorship not instruction.... The feelings we have for the teachers or students who have meant the most to us, like those we have for long-lost friends, never go away."

It's not as though I'm counting the days until August 20. I'm not intellectually ready to begin teaching yet. I still need this down time. But it so often blows my mind how much of a funk I can get into when I'm not teaching--and how much teaching makes me feel so. much. better. It never fails. Even if I'm dreading going to class, I always feel better when I leave that day.

I have the best job in the world.

once again, she's back

Lots of small trips planned this summer. We're going to see the Cubs again in mid-July, then Keita will be in Chicago the following weekend for a conference, so I'll go stay with her and then bring her back here for a visit. Then in early August, we're planning a two-day trip to the Toledo Zoo to see the hippoquarium. Hippos! And finally, in September, my friends, it's Hawai'i! S. earned his CPCU designation by finishing up his exams this spring. Each year there's a CPCU annual meeting where new designees are recognized. State Farm pays for the entire trip, including a guest, and this year it just happens to be in Hawai'i. Holy shitters. Next year it's in Philadelphia or something. He picked a good year.

So, yeah, the Cubbies lost BIG TIME on Sunday. It was actually kind of painful to watch. But I had my hot dog (yummers) and I had my beer (or two) and we had a fun time in spite of their big loss. I took a few pics but haven't had time to upload them yet.

Oh, and the teaching anxiety dreams have begun. Class was in session, I told students I'd be back in five minutes--I just had to make copies--and it took me more than an hour. I got lost or something. Stuck in a ridiculously long line. And they desperately needed whatever it was I was copying. Ugh.

we had fun

ENG246: The Personal Essay
Originally uploaded by aerobil.

I took Liz's advice and took photos of the students in each of my two classes this semester. Happy I did this. Now when they come to my office on Tuesday to drop off their final projects, I can give each one a photo of our class.

This was one of the best teaching semesters EVAR. I'm proud to have worked with such fantastic students. Click on the photo to get to the others (someday perhaps I'll learn how to put more than one photo per blog entry....but I'm not promising anything).

uh-oh, it's that time of year again

That time of year when I get all nostalgic for the classes I'm currently teaching, not wanting them to end because we're all just at the point when the rapport is strongest and we're learning the most from one another.

These people teach me so much, not just about writing and about reading, but about living. I wish I had the wisdom at that age that some of them have now. Shit, I wish I had that kind of wisdom now, at this age.

I know I'm probably romanticizing all this even as I experience the last week or so with these two groups of students this semester, because surely it hasn't all been good. But more than anything, I think, teaching students who respond in the ways so many of these students have responded meets a deep psychological need to feel like I'm doing good. And I do. I feel like I'm doing good.

What more could a girl ask for?

one more thing I could write an essay about

Office hours.

The setting: yesterday I met with all of the students in my advanced exposition (personal essay) course to brainstorm/discuss ideas for their final personal essays. I met with 2 or 3 students at a time a) to get more students in to see me in a shorter amount of time; and b) to give them the chance to hear others' ideas and help one another. So it's about 9:25, and the first conference is wrapping itself up. I've got three young women in my office, so it's kinda cramped.

OUT OF NOWHERE appears the Julie Wonka. No hello, no greeting, no nothing. Simply, "I need you to cut my bangs RIGHT NOW."

I look at my students. They are in a bit of shock. I shrug my shoulders and grab my industrial scissors. I squeeze between the students and go to the Wonka, scissors in hand. And I trim her bangs. Right then and there. And she walks away without even a thank you. Nothing.

I sit back down and one of my students says, "That's the strangest thing I've ever seen during office hours."

I say, "Imagine an essay in which I write about my wacky relationships with my colleagues."

Pause.

"I should've cut more off."

on knowing and learning again the same old lessons

In her essay "Mirrorings," Lucy Grealy, author of Autobiography of a Face, writes

I once thought that truth was eternal, that when you understood something it was with you forever. I know now that this isn't so, that most truths are inherently unretainable, that we have to work hard all our lives to remember the most basic things.

I thought about this passage a few times this week as I slowly disintegrated from not teaching. S. worries about what I'll be like in the summer. Somehow I get by, probably because there are trips and deadlines and such that move the time along faster. Why don't I teach in the summer, he wants to know. Because if I did, I'd be completely burnt out and miserable. I need the time to reenergize, to focus on writing, to sleep as late as I want. Yet when I sleep as late as I want, I get depressed. In other words, damned if I do, damned if I don't.

None of this is news. I have to relearn it each time I take any kind of break from teaching. My students keep my energy up. The scientists have yet to find a way to bottle such energy.

the tootin' of my own horn

award022807
Originally uploaded by aerobil.

That, I believe, is the only way to describe this entry. This is neither a lying, a tirade, nor a fear. It's a tootin' horn.

Lyings and tirades and fears and horns, oh my! Not quite the same ring to it.