Mary Versus the Trumpeting Legions of Apathy

Mary and the End of the World

2012-01-20T14:52:00.001-08:00

So it's 2012, which, if you believe some Mayan conspiracy folks and a terrible disaster movie, portends the end of the world. Naturally, the end of the world has been on my mind lately. I read World War Z, which is a great zombie book, in one day on my brother's insistence. The other book I read over winter break was A Distant Mirror, which eerily mirrored not just World War I, but also World War Z. Both of these books remind me of Holocaust books, especially Schindler's List, which are gripping and painful because (a) people are incredible skum-balls and (b) people are incredibly noble.

And most disasters--from ice storms to ends of the world like the the plague-- equally impact the good and the bad. In other words, we're all in this together. The rain and nuclear fallout descend equally on the righteous and the wicked. It's a fact that I noticed when I was reading 3rd Nephi concurrent with World War Z. Those people that Christ heals when he comes in glory? Many of them were probably injured during the calamities leading up to his coming. Recall that the people who survived were not overly cheerful about their survival. I imagine some of those people thought, "Couldn't you just have not dropped that bolder on me in the first place?" Unfortunately it doesn't get to work that way. Even the Second Coming, it looks pretty clear that the saints are going to have to suffer alongside the sinners for a while. You don't get raptured on Day One.

So we have to be prepared for that. I, especially, have to work on that preparation because no sooner did I get home (actually, sooner--in the airport) than I got called to be Ward Emergency Specialist, which is a unique challenge in a singles' ward anyway. We're transient. We don't have large reserves of food, and often, we are in the poorest times of our lives. We usually have family in areas that won't be affected by a tornado, or hurricane, or whatever. It's a fun puzzle for me to figure out how to help people to be prepared. I even came up with lectures, field trips and prizes for preparedness. (Give a mouse a calling...)

Turns out that not only is this overkill, but actually our ward theme for this year is kind of The World's Probably Not Going to End, but If It Were Would You Be Prepared? The idea being that if we procrastinate repentance, being the sort of people we want to be and just living, then we're falling far short. We want to be living good lives now, and getting prepared for whatever may come, which includes spiritual, emotional, physical, and zombie-shooting preparedness.

The biggest part of the this preparation, the scariest part to me, is when it comes down to survival, will I be as noble as I'd like to be? I don't want to be the one pushing people out of the lifeboat. I don't even want to be the person who's sweetly hysterical and incompetent. No, man, I want to be the freakin' action hero of disaster. I want to save others, have a plan, have materials, and occasionally throw out a roundhouse kick . I want there to be a made-for-TV movie based on my actions in a disaster situation.

I'm scared I won't be that person. I'm scared I'll be all "Eh, maybe I'll just die now." Sometimes I feel that way now when, for example, there's a rerun of 30 Rock or if vending machine soda costs a dollar. I need to prepare myself for that. And it takes a lot more than just some water bottles in the back of my car.

New Year's Posters

2012-01-02T15:00:00.000-08:00

For my New Year's resolutions this year I made a series of propaganda posters to motivate me...

Let's Give Thanks to the Lord Above 'Cause Santa Claus Comes Tonight

2011-12-09T06:57:00.001-08:00

Santa Claus and Christianity have rather a rocky relationship, don't they? Is he a saint? A decadant example of rampant commercialism? Does he encourage or erode faith in things neither seen nor heard? Are his gifts alms or mammon? It's no wonder that some Christians are rather skittish about the Old Man. Still, I consider myself a great Santa apologist. Here's why:

Santa Claus Knows That We're All God's Children. It's funny to think that being poor could have been such a stigma that the singer had to emphasize that Santa will love you even if you aren't rich. We've sort of come to take it for granted that gift reception shouldn't depend on wealth. There are enormous resources to mobilize all and any into providing "a Christmas" for the disadvantaged, and it's no accident that often these organizations are called Sub for Santa, or Santa's Helpers or an equivalent of that. Christian obligation to the poor fits in nicely to the Santa myth--everyone deserves to have not just what they need, but also what they want. While some kids may have a meager Christmas indeed, they wouldn't if Santa had his way. No, if Santa were running this show, if you aren't going to get any presents, it's not because you're poor, or because of who your parents are, but because you were naughty.
Be Good for Goodness' Sake. Admittedly, this is the element of Santa that I'm least comfortable with: good kids get gifts, but bad kids do not (and in some cultures, they get a sound beating, or the threat of it). In actuality, the material wealth of families matter in gift-reception (see above), but threat of reward and punishment is a part of the Santa myth--and of Christian doctrine. We don't really like to talk about heaven and hell, and especially not of a threat (it conjures images of a self-righteous Christian saying "do that and you'll go to hell), so we often talk about natural consequences. "You can't really be happy and sin," we say. But part of that is because blessings are stopped up through sin. Obey the commandments and prosper in the land. Hopefully, our goodness becomes something intrinsic rather than just a quid pro quo arrangement, but it's hard to see how doing good is its own reward all the time. Sometimes the reward or threat gets you through the day.
Leave a Peppermint Stick for Ol' Saint Nick. Santa wants to have a relationship with you. He wants your letters, wants you to leave a note with the cookies, wants you on his lap whispering in his ear. No one ever thought much about communication with the Easter Bunny. If Santa Claus isn't always checking in on you, it's because he lives so very far away. It's always about more than the Big Night, and I find that striking. He's an adult who wants to tend your needs, and unlike teachers, coaches or even parents, he had no other motive than making you happy. That's incredibly similar to what I imagine God's motives being.
Ho, ho, ho, Who Wouldn't Go?My favorite part about Santa is that he isn't your parents. He is, but he isn't. They can give their children all the gifts that they would like without any threat of appreciation or thanks. You don't even have to write him a card. Santa represents selfless service, the opportunity to give our alms not before men. Parents, especially, who sacrifice constantly for their children--not just for fun things like gifts and candy, but for heating bills and orthodontics--can pretend that they didn't sacrifice at all and that the children can just enjoy their gifts gratis. What applies to parents and children can apply to anyone. Want to donate money to a charity anonymously? Leave food for a struggling family? Santa is the perfect cover.

This isn't to say that I'm thrilled about all aspects of Santa-ism (he probably should lay off the cookies, and elf workshops sound distressingly like slave labor), but over all, I'm in the Old Man's corner.

Better

2011-12-04T20:16:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about it this week and I realized that I'm happy with who I am, but not content. It's a really good place to be in, actually.

I adore setting goals. I make New Year's Resolutions. And new semester's. And right now I have three pages of sticker-chart hanging on my bathroom wall. (Yes, one of the rows is for "write in journal/blog.") It's nice to keep in mind the things that I want to do, the person that I want to become.

And I understand that, while my intentions may be good and my effort admirable, I probably won't make all of those goals. I might not get to the Serengeti before I turn 30 to cross it off my list. It's getting to the time of the year when I can look at the goals I made for 2011 and realize that I probably won't lose 10 pounds before Jan 1, nor will I pass my prospectus exam, unless the university system radically changes during finals week. And similarly this week there are several rows on the sticker chart that are relatively barren. "Don't eat after 8:00" for example, and "do >15 min. of service." I still think those are worthy goals, but for one reason or another, it didn't happen this week, and I think that's okay.

After all, there are some pretty cool ones I did keep: I'm a regular flosser for 3 weeks now, and I've been pretty good about reading the Book of Mormon, getting to bed by 11:00 pm, tidying up and, yes, writing something on here or in my journal. This year I did lose weight, and I did pass my field exam, and I cross several things off of my "30 before 30" list this year, including a traditional hike through the English countryside and making a wedding cake. I like to look back on these accomplishment and think about them.

So why do I do this? Why do I have to set a goal on Goodreads for books to read this year, or try to visit 10 Christian denominations while I'm in Texas, or read everything Shakespeare wrote? Part of me worries that this is a "list-worth" problem, that my self worth is tied up in doing good things, proving to others that I've done cool things. For example, I read all those books, but was it close enough? Did they enter into my soul?

I love even my failed goals, though, and I don't want to hate myself if I don't achieve a goal, or if I end up modifying that dream. One reason I love my failed goals is that something is better than nothing. Even though I only did creative writing 3 times this week, one of those days was an obsessive day where I pondered a lot and ended up with 11 single-spaced pages. Even though I only did service for 15 minutes, it's 15 minutes more than I perhaps would have without the reminder. I got something from it.

Another reason why I love even my failed goals is I think that the goals I set describe who I want to be, and who I want to be determines a lot about who I am. The half-marathon I ran this year represents my becoming an athlete, a runner, which, if you had asked my 14-year-old self (the one, may I point out, on the track & field team) if she was a runner, or wanted to be, I don't think she'd concur. But, after running a half-marathon was on my "someday" list for several years, I actually started running more often and longer and I did it. That one I achieved, yes, but there are many failed goals, like my plan to do 100 hours of service in the summer, that still represent a good change in my intentions, an ideal that means something to me.

Finally, I think goals represent a sort of optimism. I can get better. I will get better. Of course, ideally the goals that you set will fall into those business school acronyms and be properly specific, measurable, etc., but any goal (and a real goal, not just a fantasy) suggests a path from where I am to where I want to be, a path that exists, that's a possibility, and that's wonderfully reassuring.

Also, it helps when you get stickers everyday. I love stickers.

Diary of a Wii Fit Mii

2011-12-01T19:50:00.001-08:00

What a great day! I started my morning with my standard run along the island. It's a good thing our island doesn't have any cars, because then it would be harder for everyone of us to go for a morning run. But then, who would be driving? Ha, ha. It was a great run. Guess who I saw? Everyone. Even old man Parkins was out there hitting the pavement, then fluffly grass, then pavement again. Do you know who else was there? Puppies. Lots of puppies. I love the herds of puppies that run around the island. It's so friendly.

After my run, I couldn't help but stand around the finish line and watch all the other people come in from their morning run. I clapped and clapped. I'm so proud of them for finishing. Sometimes I don't know which I enjoy more: running and waving to the people behind me, or standing and jumping up and down clapping.

When I finally got home, boy was I in for a treat! There was some crazy person walking a tightrope over my building! I kept frantically gesturing for my friends to come and see, but they never came to the window--I don't know why. It was especially exciting when that black blob tried to eat the tightrope walker--don't worry, she jumped over it!

After all that excitement, I was happy to enjoy watching some soothing hula hoop. I even threw a few hula hoops myself, after raising them up over my head. Great times.

And what would end the perfect day? Why, going to a step aerobics concert! I love watching that ensemble of diverse people rhythmically stepping on, then stepping off, then stepping on again onto a slightly raised surface! I got so caught up in it that I started clapping my stubs along with the rest of the audience--what entertainment!

This truly is the best of all possible worlds.

An Open Christmas Newsletter to the World

2011-11-29T08:48:00.001-08:00

It's funny to me that there are people who hate the genre of the Christmas newsletter. They seem to hate it for two reasons: (a) it's superficial, trying to capture the entire year in MAX, one page, front-and-back, and (b) it's overly optimistic, phrasing even sad events as if they were fantastic ("Frank lost his job this year, which means more time to play with Kitty!"). I think that these are actually interesting genre conventions to work with. Think about it: how often do you write a summary of the entire year in your journal? How often are blogs just grumblefests? I say, bring on the newsletter. So without further ado, and apologies to those of you who will get this twice:

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, all! This has been a great year for me, personally, and I hope it's been good to you, too.

I'm now in my second year of my PhD program down here in Austin, Texas. I'm getting far more comfortable down here and am getting used to the rhythms of the seasons (August=leave town or stay inside, November=go kayaking) as well as the unique culture of the hipster southwest. I went to my first music concert series in early November, and, earlier, I went to a taping of Austin City Limits. I bring my own bags to the grocery store in anticipation of the bag ban and I bought my first pair of skinny jeans this spring. I haven't bought Toms, though; the line must be drawn somewhere, usually around $70 canvas shoes.

School-wise, everything is going great. I read over 70 books this summer in anticipation of my field exam, where, naturally, my committee only asked me about one of them. Still, if you ever want to feel as though you really belong in a discipline, have someone make a canonical list and get cracking. I now finally know exactly what people are talking about when they mention Vygotsky and Feire and Murphy. Of course, this is all in addition to the standard school things I've been doing like taking great classes and teaching undergraduates writing, both of which I adore.

It hasn't all been work, though! I got into running this spring and in July I ran a half marathon with my sister, Emily. Granted, it was downhill and overcast, but it was still a wonderful experience. Five years ago, I wouldn't have thought I could do it. Now I'm gradually working on writing a novel. My friends and I meet each month for "Book Club"--where we write a book, not read one--and by the end of the next year we should have a full manuscript! There are plenty of things "I've always wanted to do" and it's great to actually do some of them.

(I considered a section here about my lack of relationship and encouraging other people to set me up with their brothers, cousins, classmates, etc. but decided that asking for favors in a newsletter was totally desperate)

I hope you have a wonderful holiday season! I enjoy and value our relationship, and the role that you have had in my life. Please keep me updated on how you're doing.

Best wishes,

Mary

Total Rant I Wrote at 6:00 am, to be taken with grain of salt.

2011-11-25T05:13:00.001-08:00

During the weeks leading up to the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, there was a lot of discussion about changing social attitudes. A law that had been generous at its time for allowing gay soldiers to serve their country was now oppressive because soldiers weren’t as intolerant as once they were; many soldiers in the same barracks as openly gay men have teachers, aunts, friends who are also gay. The law could progress to match social attitudes.

There’s another place where Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is still thriving, though: surrounding religion in public universities. One prominent class-discussion scholar calls the discussion of religion in academia “the last great taboo” and one of my professors described admitting her religious persuasion as “coming out of the closet.”

Why are we so anxious about the idea that academics can be religious? There’s a persuasive view in academia, like there once was about gays in the military, that all religious people fit an undesireable stereotype: unthinking, pushy, anti-intellectual. Sadly, to paraphrase the bumper sticker, when only anti-intellectual people openly identify as religious, the only religious people you’ll know will be anti-intellectual. I had a roomful of colleagues express utter shock to hear I was Mormon. In their comments was the underlying assumption that I didn’t fulfill their expectations of what a Mormon, or perhaps a person of faith should be.

This power of embodiment, of just being allowed to be who you are, is vital. Many people’s stereotypes are formed around a floating concept that isn’t actually present in the people around them. Whether in the Church’s “I’m a Mormon” campaign, or in the way soldier’s attitudes towards gay comrades changed with each openly gay person they actually knew, seeing the way lives are lived, the way we have more in common than not, is the most powerful force for acceptance. But not letting academics openly profess their faith, we are perpetuating hate and ignorance.

I’m not talking about preaching here. I’m talking about the way a room of PhD students freezes when I use the phrase “church potluck” in describing my weekend. Any admission of religion in a culture where we academics routinely sit around and mock the people who believe in the rapture or protest gay marriage is to open yourself up to the burden of prejudice. And do you want to know about the worst thing with our casual Evangelical-bashing? Many of our students come from that religious background. As professors, we’re comfortable calling our students idiots for believing what they believe. Some religions are more protected than others. Muslims are generally okay, because the Evangelicals in our minds are intolerant towards them, and Jews, if they’re not too religious. Mormons are probably not, because they’re all Republicans (there’s another whole blogpost in academic intolerance to the right-wing), and the worst of the worst are the many shades of Christianity right outside our door, particularly in the form of the Young Conservatives and the Texas Legislature.

The result is that ugly stereotypes are perpetuated and no one even knows that they’re stereotypes. One of my students recently wrote “Republicans and Christians would be against sex education” and she had a hard time believing that (a) those terms aren’t necessarily synonymous and (b) neither group is necessarily against sex ed. Another student wrote that “Christians all think that everyone’s going to hell.” No, we don’t. As a matter of fact, my religion says that very few, really bad people go to hell, and only then after multiple chances to repent. But I can’t say that. I have to just suggest that she is more thoughtful and research her audience. When I’m listing untenable, but still viable, claims, I can’t list the existence of God along with, for example, the declaration that all men are created equal or that animals deserve compassion. The most powerful evidence that I can give that religious people can be smart, articulate, restrained and tolerant is my ownself (aw, shucks) and I’m not able to share that.

I am, of course. (I think) there’s no law prohibiting me from letting my students, or my colleagues, know that I’m “openly” religious, but the social atmosphere is prohibitively icy. In addition to deep-rooted stereotypes, we’re terrified of anything like religious instruction going on. As Porthoro ???? points out, though, there is a crisis of religious ignorance in this generation. People seem to have no idea what Muslims actually believe, or who those guys with turbans are, or, as demonstrated when a cocky young thing graffitied “Jesus lives—Easter is cancelled,” the basic premises of Christianity.

This is a problem. First off, if college is about learning new things about the world around us, religion certainly out to be a part of that education, because it’s a big part of that world. And if college is also about expanding viewpoints and becoming tolerant, then people of all religious backgrounds should feel safe in identifying who they are. Finally, there are real dangers about our country becoming so alcoved that academics feel comfortable assuming they know what religious people think and religious people assuming they know what’s going on in the universities (yes, this door swings both ways).

I generally play my persona close to the chest. I don’t tell my students my political views (incidentally, I’m a registered “undeclared” who spends a week before elections with the League of Women Voters’ pamphlet) and I don’t talk about my personal life. But when, chatting with a sports journalist student, I mentioned that my school was the one whose player got ponytailed, there was a moment of tension as he put it together that I went to BYU, or when another student asked me what I did on a Saturday, and I answered kayaking, Comic Con, and church meeting, and of those three, Comic Con was not the most embarrassing.

Let’s just be cool about this, guys. That’s all I’m asking for, in the end.

Somethin' Pumpkin

2011-10-30T10:51:00.000-07:00

Here are some random pictures from the season interspersed with my own October Project: learning new pumpkin-related recipes. Here's the line up.

Week one: Pumpkin Curry.

My first pumpkin attempt was so nice & tasty that I had it for lunch several days running. It's very orange.
(Here's Bastrop, where I got to haul chainsawed trees and sort through ashes, and move rubble. Sad, but nice to see all the people helping out.)

1 chopped onion
1 can chicken bits
1 tablespoon yellow curry
1/2 cup yellow raisins
2 cups chopped carrots
1 raw sugar pumpkin, in big peices (like 1/4 a pumpkin each), seeds removed

In a crock-pot throw all ingredients, cook all day. Then scrape the soft pumpkin out of the shell (should be soft now), stir in and heat a little longer. The pumpkin makes the curry less kicky. Tis nice.

Week Two: Spice Pumpkin Seeds Party Mix
Gretchen says these are like crack. I altered another recipe and made them twice--once for practice and once for our Halloween party)
(6 Flags near Scooby Doo ride. The boy who took this picture was 14-ish and with his JROTC group.)

Cleaned, dried, roasted pumpkin seeds (325 degrees for 25 minutes and salt ought to do it)
3 cups corn chex
1 cup sugar
nutmeg
cinnamon
allspice
chili powder

Mix the sugar and spices together. Throw all ingredients in medium-hot skillet to caramelize and coat. When covered, place on wax paper to dry.

(At Diwali, this old man --back to us-- told me to go light some more candles, because Diwali is all about "catching the fire." Appropriately wise, mysterious kind old man.)

Week Three: Beef Pumpkin Stew

I made this for the missionaries for lunch. Of course it's like 80 degrees out, but it feels so homey and smells wonderful. If I lived close to a bakery, I'd serve it in those little pumpkin bread bowls. Feels like something Mom would make us eat to balance out all the candy.

2 lbs stew meat
1 large white onion
15 oz canned tomatoes
2 yams, peeled and chopped
1/2 cup yellow raisins
4 Carrots, ditto
cracked pepper, salt, oregano
water
1 sugar pumpkin, hollowed out

Brown beef and onion. Add water and other ingredients. Simmer for 4-6 hours. Put the whole mess in the pumpkin and then in the oven 350 deg. for another couple hours. When you scoop out the stew, scoop pumpkin with it.

(Here's my ringleader costume. Fun fact: I wear everything here pretty regularly, except the top hat and the whip.)

Week four: Pumpkin orange pie

(I haven't actually made this yet--it's for my last week, & tomorrow's ward party FHE. I'm psyched about it, though)

1/2 c pumpkin puree
2 Tbsp brown sugar
1 tsp pumpkin pie spice
3 cup vanilla frozen yogurt
choclate pie crust
1 1/2 c orange sherbert
whipped topping & oranges

Mix the first three and then add half the frozen yogurt. Put in chocolate pie crust. Then a layer of orange sherbert, then a later of the rest of the frozen yogurt. Finally, whipped topping and orange garnishes. I'm so excited about the pumpkin-orange combo. I'll let you know how it goes.

Over-impassioned Book Review of Globesity That Was Too Good for Just Goodreads

2011-10-26T15:01:00.001-07:00

Two very cool things about this book:

1). Coming from a French and British perspective, it's already a little more "globesity expert" just from situated authority. Even better, while most of the research for this book /has/ taken place in the developed world, Delpeuch is quick to remind us that the obesity epidemic is going to hit the developing world like a freight train. Carrying lard. Old "high energy density" eating habits with new urbanized sedentary lives, plus an increased desire among the upwardly mobile for red meat and sweets create the bizarre world where in one country, in one city, in one household, there could be both radical undernourishment and dangerous over-eating.

2). The answers to the problem are also very European. "Stop telling fat people to be more puritan about food and exercise," this book declares, "and start changing their environments!" Frequently citing how the anti-smoking laws in England cut smoking rates, the suggestions at the end include a measly 1% tax on sugary bubbly (which Delpeuch claims wouldn't even affect sales), to more walkable new communities, to business-sponsored sports facilities. Make the trail easier! Take political action! Talk with your boss!

Although I'm wary of plenty of Delpeuch's claims (like that enjoying a diversity of food options--including fruits and veg--is a bad thing, and that people should eat only those things their culture has adapted to eat--which smacks of racism), I'm pretty convinced by much of his argument. If obesity is such a big deal and affects so many besides just those whom it afflicts, we ought to do something about it.

Take Austin's sidewalk problem for example. There is one corner of sidewalk on the way to the elementary school I run past. Let me say it again: one corner. The sidewalk disappears on one side into grass, someone's lawn and then fence, leaving you (or the school children) to brave the busy road full of barreling SUVs giving their children --what else?--rides to school. There is literally no way to let your kid walk to school with the injunction "don't walk in the street." My apartment complex is similar: although many people in my complex come from less car-obsessed cultures (like Pakistan, for example, or California), our complex has suddenly disappearing sidewalks and no lit walkways to and from the office building. People go out for a stroll through the parking lot.

Sometimes there are sidewalks, like in the Rutland neighborhood, but there are no lamp lights and people feel unsafe. I took the bus home a little later than usual and could barely make out the landmarks that herald my stop. Everything is dark and scary. Now, I know low rates of walking is the least of Rutland's poverty problems, but maybe we should at least take the basic steps of providing areas that are well-lit, safe and clean.

And the weird thing is that Austin prides itself in being "active," meaning that there are bike trails in parks that you can drive to (the park I like to use, Walnut Creek, has no access sidewalk. I run through the wild grasses, or sometimes on the road. I don't know what small children or people in a wheelchair would do.) and enjoy if you are rich. AND last year they approved a bill for more trails, all under the halo of that this will encourage more physical activity. As someone who uses the trail system several times a week, I voted against it. It seemed like a tax on poor people to benefit rich people. If we really were concerned with helping people be more active, we would, as Delpeuch suggests, stop making good health a hobby of those rich and vain enough to pursue it and make it an integrated part of everyday existance.

Field Exam Fairy

2011-10-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

Scene: Upper floor Calhoun Hall. One MARY, in a black turtleneck and grey skirt, self-consciously businesslike, is pacing the halls looking over her notes of her field exam and reciting her impassioned introductory speech in her mind. Near ENGLISH OFFICE, a YOUNG MAN, tall, black, in trendy clothing. He appears to be looking for something.

MARY: Hey, are you looking for something?

YOUNG MAN: I think so, but I haven't found it.

MARY: I wouldn't be much use for you. [beat] I barely know this building myself. {nervous laughter}

YOUNG MAN: What's that? holds out his hand for papers

MARY: Oh, these are just the notes for my field exam. [she hesitates, then hands them over]

YOUNG MAN: [looking them over] Hmm, hmm, hmmm..is that the last page?

MARY: Uh, these are my notes for my presentation. [hands over the last sheet] It's about, you know, being a specialist and a generalist at the same time. In rhetoric.

YOUNG MAN: [still thoughtfully engrossed in the papers, then, looks up, soulfully, into MARY's eyes] I think you're going to be just fine.

MARY: Uh. Thanks. [She takes her papers back from him and takes a few steps towards the room where her committee is still meeting. Then, over her shoulder.] I hope you find what you're looking for.

YOUNG MAN: You too.

End scene

15 Items I Am Unsure How to Store After Staying Up Until 3 am Cleaning My Desk

2011-10-16T01:13:00.000-07:00

1: beanie baby chicken

2: brown-and-pink hand-dipped candle

3: external hard drive that doesn't (as far as I can tell) work at all

4: several almost-finished novelty post-its

5: money tree seed

6: little tiny gift box someone gave me a USB drive in

7: henna inking kit

8: pen shells with no cartridges in them

9: foreign coins

10: post-it notes sketching out (far distant) prospectus ideas

11: WWKBD (what would Kenneth Burke do) rubber bracelet

12: Ex Libris labels

13: National Zoo wildlife conservation sticker

14: roll of 200 smiley face stickers (red left only)

15: really cool headphones that only work if the cord's in just the right place

Two Extremes (as usual) in Education

2011-10-02T08:57:00.000-07:00

As I go from adviser to adviser at UT as well as BYU, I seem to get two theories of the PhD (and education in general): either you jump through the hoops and get it over with or else you take joy in the journey and let your ideas build and ferment. In economic terms, the first embraces the Spense signaling theory, which declares that getting degrees and letters after our names is just a way of demonstrating WHO we already are (smarty pants), while the latter suggests that education is an accumulation of human capital--you're actually learning something you couldn't have gotten somewhere else. If I buy into the former, I need to graduate as soon as possible, under the bar, to prove myself and then just rush into the career I've been long prepared for. If I buy into the latter, I should take my time.

For a long time I was a "long, steady and intense" kind of girl. 18 credit hours a semester. Three semesters a year. I was 3 classes away from a 2nd major in economics and 2 away from a minor in film when I graduated. I took classes for fun. I scoffed at people who wanted to get GE's "out of the way" and graduate early. But now that I'm in grad school, I can see the appeal of wanting to finish--I want to apply for jobs. I want to have a career, not just be a perceptual student, doing essentially the same thing I've been doing for ten years (see my post of being unsettled). Also, I realize how much I've learned to teach myself. Some things, like learning Latin or statistics, are bone-crushing to try to do without deadlines and a teacher/tutor, but many things, like reading books in the field, thinking and talking about them, can take place if not on my own, then at least outside the classroom with similarly-minded people. I know how to learn.

The problem is,then, that I have advisers on both extremes on my field exam committee. So am I trying to get to my prospectus as soon as possible or letting my ideas slow-cook? I don't know. I do know that curiosity is my greatest academic virtue while diligence and consistence are my greatest failings. What do I do NOW to balance these? I don't just want to graduate, but I want to graduate prepared.

Mary Quite Contrary

2011-09-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

I can pinpoint when I started writing online—in the summer between my 7^th and 8^th grade years. I know because my typing scores went from 24 words per minute to 50 or 60. I learned that I had to think, compose and write quickly in the chat rooms on the Microsoft Network (this was before a unified internet when people were either on MSN or AOL) and I also learned that people who judge you based on your spelling and grammar (“If you can’t even spell Freud, you must not know what you’re talking about.”). I also frequented a “discussion board” called The Shout, or something like that. The Shout was a site based in England for teenagers to start arguments from posts titled things like “Abortion???” Even though we often had the same arguments and no one was likely to change their position, I loved the chance to full-throttle argue with someone and I definitely screamed and cried and paced in front of that screen many a time.

I hit my most contrary phase around 8th grade. I wasn't big on fighting with my parents, but debating the "big ideas." Some of my friends were wary of "contention" and I was a little contentious, sometimes. Or often.

I keep telling people that I'm over it. There are a number of topics that I'm just exhausted about, gay marriage being foremost, I guess, and I just kind of step back and let the argument go on around without me. People aren't going to change their strongly held opinions any more than those British teenagers at the Shout were interested in nuanced argument.

That being said.

Sometimes when I hear people make a claim, I automatically want to defend the opposite. Government military humanitarianism is bad. Can't a bad peace be better than a good war? Charter schools will save education. What about private and religious schools the charters displace? Vanilla is the worst flavor of ice cream. What brand and variety of vanilla do you mean? It's a reaction. Honestly, I rarely care about the position I take.

In some sense it's a good thing that I learned about rhetoric as a field of study, and can place my eristic tendencies in context. I can identify what it is that I'm really arguing and analyze my interlocutors' positions and tactics. It's Shout without the shouting.

I recently got in my first Facebook debate and it's been wonderful. Mostly because those involved are smart, respectful and our argument doesn't really strike at the core of people's untenable beliefs. We're debating the virtues and vices TV watching. It's been lovely, and I think I'm learning quite a bit, but I also watch myself, carefully. This time it's for fun and everyone knows it. I must remember not to strike up arguments for fun when I'm the only one who enjoys it.

Nature!

2011-09-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

I've had a good month for wildlife.

BATS! coming out of a bridge--seriously like a cloud.

ARMADILLO! I went on a run and I thought, "what a tacky yard decoration" and then it moved!

And vultures eating a road-killed cat.

Climb Every Mountain

2011-08-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

The title of this post comes from one morning after Jamie Z. hiked Y Mt. and stood in front of our apartment, looking up at the Wasatch range humming to herself.

The Y Mt. hike is steep and fast (esp. with Gregory S.), so I think it was as hard physically as any time I've climbed Timp. It's also a heck of a lot prettier once you get past the Y and move around to the back of the mountain.
This is where I live!

I saw Rise of the Planet of the Apes and Can't Stop Thinking About It.

2011-08-06T19:31:00.000-07:00

I don't want to spoiler you all, but while James Franco thinks Planet of the Apes is about how evil money is, I think he's just a little biased in favor of his character. Money may be the root of all evil, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions. A lot of times, we think we're doing good, and I don't just mean tampering in God's domain (although I never thought apes were adorable until last night). I mean sometimes we just go in blind trying to do the best we can. Usually it works out. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it leads to an army of super-apes.

Whereever You Go, There You Are

2011-06-26T20:54:00.000-07:00

So I've been thinking a lot lately about FOMO, or Fear of Missing Out, supposedly a psychological anxiety increasingly endemic to our society of Facebook posts, photo texts, and, even, blogs like this one. Everyone, it seems, is going around telling everyone, "OMIGOSH, I'M HAVING THE BEST TIME EVER!!!!" and this is making us look around and think, "I thought I was happy, but maybe I could be even happier."

"Rebekah Nathan" discovered in My Freshman Year that young people posted pictures of them having THE BEST TIME EVER!!! on their dorm walls and kept trying to one-up each other. Picture of you kayaking? Well, here's a picture of me skydiving. A picture of you fishing down by the lake? Check out my picture fishing for marlin...in Cuba...on a handmade boat...with George Clooney. Facebook encourages this kind of thing even more, consciously or unconsciously, because we need to defend out own way of life, especially those of us who are still in transition about what kind of life we're living.

Say someone posts about an AWESOME experience that they have and we don't. What do we do? Well, we stew and then we counter-attack with our own cheery coolness out on the web. Mothers counter-attack single women posting Venice pictures with pictures of their adorable children. Is snowboarding THE MOST FUN EVER or is surfing? Or giant lawn darts? Or alligator wrestling? Whatever it is, it's probably not the thing you're doing. And in the place where you use to live/go to college/work? They're having a blast without you--in fact, they keep sending you evites to events that you can't go to but are probably going to be SO FUN!!!

But you know what? Nothing is capslock fun all the time. Even the things you really, really want, they come with their own attendant difficulties. A. and her family wanted a baby and tried in vitro and really struggled, and the family fasted and prayed and put her name on the temple roll--and she got morning sickness. But she got pregnant. She's miserable, but it's the miserable that she long desired. I really wanted it to rain and prayed and fasted, and it rained and I got a lot of mosquito bites. And a staph infection. But, then, that's kind of the way it is with THE MOST FUN EVER...snowboarding takes time, skydiving takes money, being single is lonely, having kids is frustrating, lawn darts induce allergies. This isn't to be pessimistic. On the contrary, I feel a pretty big burden lifting knowing I don't have to have obscene amounts of fun, all the time.

Sidenote: although, don't you think blogs are often, if anything, a little more melancholy than real life? all that musing, I suppose

Mediation

2011-06-16T18:55:00.000-07:00

So according to a recent study out of Northwestern, minority kids use media 4 1/2 hours more than white kids. Turns out that they're also early adapters--using iPhones' new features--and listen to more music. Is that such a bad thing? I mean, this isn't 1970 when listen to music meant sitting down with LPs. I may be pulling up the average a little, but here was my day when I read about this study:

7:30-9:00 morning weight training, listening to music 1/2 hours, listening to Planet Money and Get Fit Guy podcasts, some shimmying
9:00-9:30 Showering, eating breakfast, reading the news on iPhone, 20 minutes
9:30- 10:30 Bus ride, 1 hr reading
10:30-12:00 Library, 1 1/2 hr reading
12:00-12:30 Lunch break. Also, walking around campus listening to music, 15 minutes
12:30-1:30 Internet--answering email, checking Facebook, looking up a Wikipedia article about Lizzie Borden
1:30-2:30 Library reading
2:30-3:30 Bus ride, on iPhone reading news, getting health tips from Jullian Michaels, flashcards, reading this article on PsycExplorer app
3:30-4:30 Pushing Daisies 1 hr TV
4:30-5:30 Reading in the pool
5:30-6:30 Dinner, cleaning while listening to music. After dinner stroll, listening to Chesteron mysteries from Librivox
7:00-7:30 Driving to activity, listening to podcast

Look at that--nearly 12 hours of the mediated life! I'm not saying that all of the kids are going around listening to Stuff You Should Know and checking the BBC app for news updates, but media use is relatively neutral.

Relatively. You may notice the dirth of social interaction (Facebook excepting) in that stretch of day. Sometimes I feel like I know Michael Brit or BJ Harrison or the Planet Money guys better than the people sitting next to me on the bus. Not that I'd be certain get all chatty with them, but maybe without so much media, I might. I'm glad to listen to other smart, rich people like me in my books and apps and podcasts, but I should learn something about the people around me.

The other concern is that I'm such a good consumer of all this media that it can be kind of paralyzing in terms of being a contributor of it. I tried to read for Librivox, once, but my inadequacies made me so nervous that my track ended up tinny and over-produced. I notice that I blog less than I did two years ago. I write less, in general, I think. I'm not saying that all of that is because of paralyzing media overload, but it may be related.

I don't know--is the unmediated life more worth living?

Solo Austin Adventure

2011-06-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

I must have texted a dozen people. Easily a dozen. No one, though, wanted to go to Roller Derby. This is partially my fault--I didn't let enough people know about it early enough and I didn't realize that this would be the last game I could go to this summer. But I had just met with M. nee M., who went to UT for her grad work and now is married with two wonderful daughters, and we discussed living the full life, so I decided I could go all by myself.

So I took myself on a Saturday date.

First I went to the library to return a book. Then I took a lovely long walk down to the convention center (read: was deceived by Google Maps as to its proximity). But on my way I ran into some British tourists, which reminded me to be a tourist in my own city. I witnessed a rally on the steps of the Capital. I read the historical markers. I wandered downtown to flat track derby.It was less like Whip It and more like a cute, minor-league baseball game. People chatted with their beers. Little kids ran around the bleachers. The husbands of the Hell Marys (punch-punch-punch-Hell, yeah!) all had "Widower" t-shirts, vuvuzelas, and homemade signs for their sweeties. The derby girls themselves we all having a good time. They were a physiognomically diverse group, but all seemed to have fairly respectable jobs. In fact, they were celebrating teachers that night and several of the players were elementary teachers themselves. For their tough names most of them behaved just like rec-level athletes--competitive, team-oriented, but rule-abiding and fun. Of course the best part of derby is choosing your name. I got to watch Smarty Pants (jersey number 4.0), Skank (jersey number C34), and Acute Angel (jersey number < 90*). And then I bought a t-shirt.

Of course they had a electronic musician in a bear suit. Also, free Soy Joys. So really, an Austin original. But I was getting kind of tired and I wanted to walk home before it got dark so, not having to wait for anyone else, I left when I felt like it.

Walking back down 6th street, I saw plenty of evidence as to the Republic of Texas biker rally. Turns out that 6th street bars appeal to biker clubs. For dinner I went to Pita Pit. Turns out Pita Pit doesn't appeal to biker clubs. The teenagers there said things had been kind of slow. "We're bringing a fly back to life," the older black kid said when I ask him about some excited comments he had made to the skinny little white kid with the faintly purple streaks in his hair. The purple-haired pierced kid explained to me that if you drowned a fly, you could bring it back to life by covering it in salt. "Makes you wonder," he said philosophically, "if they really drowned." They were such eager naturalists and made my black-bean whole-wheat pita with such relish that I couldn't help telling them that you can make a fly buzz around in circles if you tear off one of the very small halteres on the back. Perhaps it will lead only to further cruelty, but their enthusiasm for learning made up for any fouls to come.

So I took my pita and ate on my route back to the car. The light, by now, was truly lovely.
That was not the most magical thing of the day, though. The most magical was seeing a white squirrel.In UT lore, if you see a white squirrel on your way to take a test, you'll pass, even if you didn't study at all. It's the last resort of the indolent student. I don't have any tests, but I'm holding on to this picture for later.

I had an awful good time by myself. Could have been better with others, of course, but I wouldn't have given this evening up at all. One of the people I texted texted back that he had been on a date. I was almost hurt, but then I thought, "If I hadn't gone to the derby and just stayed home watching a movie, he would have gone on that date anyway." Hmm. cf previous post, I guess.

Going in and Getting Out

2011-06-05T08:46:00.000-07:00

There are some books and movies that take you to a dark place. And there are other movies that can get you out again. Sometimes it's correcting a philosophy, sometimes it's just a different perspective. Often it has to be the same kind of story, or an alternative view on the same thing. For example...

In Out
The Call of the Wild White Fang
The Road Peace like a River
Night Man's Search for Meaning
Whip It An Education
Tess of the D'Urbervilles The Silent Partner
All My Sons The Moon is Down

Does anyone else have suggestions of books, movies, plays that counterbalance each other nicely?

Switching Tracks

2011-05-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

Now I'm not saying that there aren't any other weird times in a person's life. The last ten years of old age when you've already written your will and planned your funeral have to be crazy, as do the middle "Men of a Certain Age" years when you realize that you aren't young in any stretch of the word any more. But young adulthood, real young adulthood, is truly bizarre.

For my purposes I'd like to define this period as ranging from the last couple years of one's terminal education until settling down stage. There are probably other indicators, but this is the the strange vagrant period between youth "being on track" (fourth grade comes after third grade, school follows summer, the people you see every evening around you are your family) and adult "being on track" (one year at your job follows another, you acquire seniority and climb the ranks, the people you see every evening around you are your family). We're unsettled gypsy wanderers, and what's more, we're starting to get sick of it.

The up-in-the-air of it can be kind of fun and kind of startling, but also exhausting. A year ago from the beginning of this month, I had no idea what state, or even country, I would be living in by now. If all had gone according to the plans of nine months ago, I'd be living with L. C. right now, but a year ago this week she met a boy. Now she's married and has a baby in the belly. If all had gone according to the plans of three months ago, I'd be moving out of this apartment to live closer to campus with E. R. Instead, she's decided to quit her PhD, take a job in translation in Germany, and pursue a boy she's long loved from afar (several time zones, in fact). I make my own plans, three year ones, in fact, but it's shattering how shaky such plans can be.

I'm fortunate to still be in my grad program. Many around me are finishing up school, poking around for jobs, wondering where they should settle. One friend told me that she's going to just move to Seattle. "Seattle seems like a cool place and I could a get a job there as well as anywhere," she said. Why not? I know several people who moved to Austin for the same reasons. And if you settle, do you settle?

If you take a job in business instead of becoming a writer, are you denying the muse, as Mom's old professor once said? If you buy your own house, or move out of the singles' ward, or get a cat, are you consigning yourself to spinster/bachelorhood? Is it possible to be considered a grown up without a 401(k) job and a family of your own or are you still just drifting along until the next cool job teaching English overseas, or moving to a cool new town, or backpacking service trip, or going back to school for another couple of years?

And you know what? That gets old. It'd be nice to have a real, permanent home of your own. (Because when you stay at your folks' place for longer than a week or two, your old friends are busy with their jobs and families, the family ward asks why you're still around, and your family start to suggest ways for you to get out and about.) It'd be nice to have a sense of stability, know where you were going to be, and with whom you'll be living in a year. I know nothing is certain in this world of change, but it's even less certain in the world of honest-to-goodness young adults.

In some ways, we're crippled by our capacities. We're smart. We're good. We had a strong sense of the need for dedication and duty to something, but we don't know what. We're full of potential in a world full of excellent opportunities, worthy causes and good choices. It's so difficult to choose something and go with it, and what if it doesn't turn out? Was it the wrong choice and we should go in another direction? These questions haunt us as we try again and again to figure out our identities and missions.

I'm not saying it's entirely gloomy; in fact, it can be a little exciting at at times. I'm just pointing out how weird it is, even from the inside. So be nice to us. Don't ask us awkward questions about things that we know we need to do (get married, get a job) because we want to do those things. Don't make us feel guilty about wanting to go backwards a little and enjoy the stability of home or school again, because we already do. And if we think we know what we want to do with our lives, for heaven's sake, help us to it, because we have enough doubt and second-guessing anyway. Our lives are weird, and we know it.

The Way It Goes

2011-05-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

First you think you don't need to journal because you blog.

Then you think you don't need to blog because you write long email.

Then you think you don't need to write long email because you Facebook.

Next think you know, you're expecting your posterity to go through your planner for insight.

Faith in (Pop) Culture II

2011-05-01T06:15:00.000-07:00

...but you know? No one's eternal life ever rested on a movie or a pop band. In the words of a pop band that thought they were hot stuff but is now part of the cultural fizzle of the 90s: please don't put your life in the hands of a rock and roll band/ and throw it all away.

The sublime of art, it can make you feel, but after that? You have to get up. You've got to start doing something for someone. Art can direct us to places we haven't been before, but there's nowhere that says artists have things figured out better than any of the rest of us. Someone's capacity to write a song that yanks out your heart isn't necessarily correlated with their knowledge of perfect truths that will bring you personally the joy you seek. If you meet Bob Dylan on the side of the road, to paraphrase the 70s book, kill him.

Art and film will access in you what you already have. Ranking Pixar films with my sister, we had a stand-off over whether Finding Nemo or Ratatouille was the better film. I told her how moving I found Ratatouille's gentle condemnation of criticism. It worked for me as an English major, as a writer. She told me how Finding Nemo struck all of her best parenting instincts and fears. We both couldn't see the sublime in each other's film, in part because those films' sublimity was half provided by us already. We were attune to receive the force of the messages we had been internally seeing anyway.

I wonder if this isn't related to the fact that grumpy people find things to complain about and critical people find things to be critical over and loving people find things to love.

I wonder also how this fits into "virtuous, lovely, of good report or praiseworthy." Maybe these qualifying works of art inspire us to be better people; maybe they just remind us of the better people we've known we could be.

Positive Graffiti

2011-04-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

Yet another thing to love about Austin: upbeat graffiti!

(Love your neighbor)

(Never Surrender)

(Love the Life You Live, Live the Life You Love)

And, of course...

It's not Banksy, but it does me good.

'Lanta

2011-04-17T09:06:00.000-07:00

Went to CCCC's with my mom again. So much good times. Here're photos!

Oh, dorky English teachers!

Dessert night at the hotel!
And a close-up of that pile of gooey goodness! There were cherries, Baby Ruth bars, cherries and caramel sauce besides the sweet tortillas, ice cream and chocolate sauce.

Also, I guess I heard some good presentations on writing...

Faith in (Pop) Culture

2011-04-01T13:24:00.000-07:00

I thought I was jaded. Maybe I had grown out of it. Maybe I had just been exposed to too much. Or I was out of practice. But the idea that when I was in junior high I would lie on a couch in the dark listening to a song over and over again, or could be moved to reconsider my life because of a movie has seems so far away for a couple of years.

I thought I had a good run. I had listened to songs that made me want to be in love, painted several pictures of the lead singer of a band, had actors and directors that I thought really knew me (aside from the ones that actually really knew me). And while I didn't just shrug off the way that I had felt back then, I didn't know if I could feel so strongly right now.

I mean, sure I liked Iron Man okay and, to a disappointing lesser extent, Iron Man 2 ,and Cage the Elephant. Yeah, I went through a phase where I watched almost all of CW's Supernatural (but on TNT--I'm not an animal). But was I ever deeply moved? Entertained, delighted, hyped up a little, but not really moved.

That was all in the past, the good ol' Lord of the Rings, vintage Eels, the heart of the Harry Potter books and About A Boy days. They all were sublime, which Longinus reminds us comes of a sudden, like a divine lightning bolt, or, in terms of C. S. Lewis' "joy" creates a sweet longing for something better. I felt like I was either deeper or entertainment was more shallow. I wasn't anticipating anything, not like how I had anticipated the next Lord of the Rings movie or Zwan's single, glorious album. After last summer's run of {ack!} Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and the A-Team, no wonder I was jaded. Even the best movies and music, like Inception, are cool, but not soul-shaking in the way, to keep it in perspective, Momento or Dark Knight were.

Enter the past week. I saw this movie, which I meant to see, just out of curiosity, when I saw the preview (in the dollar movie). It was really pretty beautiful. Also my brother introduced me to The Decemberists, whose new album makes me want to be a better person. Then I went on Apple trailers and guess what? I'm excited about some movies coming out. Not, heaven help me, Hop or The Hangover 2, but Super 8 and Captain America, even.*

I expect to be moved. I want to be changed.

*You may notice a lack of books here. I don't have any books I'm anticipating right now. Not with baited breath, I guess. So get on it, people.

You Must Bear Your Brother's Burden Within Reason

2011-03-27T07:15:00.000-07:00

After a week-long hike through the charming English countryside with my brother and sister-in-law I had a charming 7 hour flight home. The movie options were somewhat limited, so I watched three movies, two of which were about brothers and sisters passionately loyal to their siblings (the third was Monsters Inc, but that's just good entertainment).

In Conviction, Hilary Swank's character believes her lovable nogoodnik brother is innocent of the murder he's been accused of, so she decides to become a lawyer to overturn his conviction. Which means she has to go to law school. Which means she has to go to college. Which means she has to get her GED. (In other debates, I suspect Swank represents the kind of college student who perhaps doesn't need a lot of GE courses...) She never once entertains the idea that her sometimes violently angry brother might actually have committed the crime as she not only goes to school, but suffers economically, emotionally and even loses her husband and sons in her effort.

On the other channel of the itty-bitty screen, I watched some movie with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson on a revenge rampage to kill off the gang of criminals that killed his brother when he and his brother were in a gang of criminals. Lots of criminals. He guns them down, attacks them with ice picks, the whole gambit. He doesn't care how these scumbags live now, any more than he cares about the assassin and police tailing him. He's just going to drive that lonely highway in his Chevy Impala until he kills them all or gets killed himself. No one gets away with shooting his brother.

Watching these, I wonder what the limits of my fraternal loyal are. I mean, I certainly enjoyed spending time with my brother and I'd certain help him out if he needed emotional, financial, etc. help. I'd babysit as a live-in nanny, say, or pull strings to get him a job, or maybe even get in a fight with someone who wanted to fight him. But could I go on a killing spree to avenge his death? Probably not. Partially this is because he wouldn't want that kind of tribute. Could I dedicate (possibly ruin) my life and family to the faint hope of his innocence and exoneration? If my Dave were falsely imprisoned, of course, but if I had a brother as violent and unpredictable , with a criminal history as long as Hilary Swank's brother's? I don't know.

I guess all of this musing about limits of loyalty is all theoretical, and I'm probably more loyal than I think. In fact, in ordinary things, I'm very loyal, not letting people talk bad about my family members and calling periodically and supporting their goals and projects however I can. But these movies made me wonder how deep I could go if called upon to do so.

Arrival Protocol

2011-03-20T08:16:00.000-07:00

Okay, so here's me getting bossy again, but I was thinking about how I return from a trip and how to do this best. Here's my free advice, and you get what you paid for. You don't want to be overwhelmed and depressed by coming home, but you want to return peaceful, refreshed and happy to be in your normal life again with such good memories. To ensure this, I think a successful reentry from a trip requires as much planning and care as heading out. That starts even before you've left.

Before the Trip:

Get someone to feed the pets, get the mail, etc. You don't want to return to disaster.
Clean house, including making the bed & having some clean clothes. You want to come back and see your home at its best and you don't want to have to do dishes or pick up before you can rest after a hard day of travel.
Clear out any perishables, but have some non-perishable food ready in the cupboard. With airlines being so stingy these days, you'll probably be hungry when you come back, but too tired to go out.

Immediately upon Return:

Shower. Morning or night, even if you're way tired. This should be one of first things you do. You'll feel better, more at home, and you won't carry all the germs of you picked up on the trip and flight. Also, this may be the first time in a while that you've had some good "naked time," so look for moles, rashes, ticks or anything you might not have noticed while changing in your sleeping bag by flashlight.
Dump your laundry. Yeah, I don't even sort it, but really--if you rinsed it in bathroom sinks and sludged through mud it in, I'm guessing it's not dry clean only. And usually clothes are a big part of our luggage so unpacking won't be such a chore in the future.
Clean out electronic noise. Delete spam email and irrelevant texts all at once. You'll find it makes reentry so much less daunting without all that extra stuff clambering for your attention. You can deal with the important matters latter, but just commit yourself to deleting the special deals from J. Crew and evites to parties you missed.

Within 24 Hours:

Label or post photos. Even if you felt like you'll never forget your trip, you may find yourself frowning over a thatched cottage or pile of ruins thinking, "there was some reason why I needed to photograph this, what was it?" Labeling while you're fresh also helps you to digest your trip, reflecting on the whole experience.
Talk about it. Maybe while picking up your mail with a good friend or just calling your mom, find someone who is willing to listen to you talk for awhile about your experiences. It doesn't have to be a two-hour debriefing with slides, but you'll find that several weeks down the way, you most remember the stories you told about your trip soon after your trip. Describing the tropical bird that swooped down on you or the old lady who sold you garlic in the street cements those memories in your mind.
Thank all the little people. As soon as you can, send thank you notes to those who watched your house or financial supported your volunteer efforts or inspired your packing lists. It's nice, too, if you have some little gifts, like exotic candies or photographs, to send. Don't forget to post reviews on Trip Adviser or hostel.com for the good experiences you have. The people who work in tourism live and die by reviews.
Enjoy your home. Just walk around an reacquaint yourself with the books on your shelf, the ingredients in your cupboard, the view from your window. When I came home from this England walking tour, I looked in my closet and was awed by how many pairs of shoes I had to choose from. Everything will seem sparkly and new after your trip.
Unpack. The longer you leave everything in your bag, the less likely you are to find things you need, or look at what you brought home. Are all those ticket stubs worth keeping? Do you really want to keep that grocery bag from Taiwan? Which toiletries belong in your bathroom and which go in the 72 hour/gym kit? Get everything out and start airing out your likely smelling bags.

Over the Next Week:

Do what you can do at home. To keep my mind off how much I want to travel some more or how I miss the people I met, I like to cook a little, or go for a bike ride, or do something that I took for granted before my trip but is now new and fresh.
Embrace work. Answer all those email, finish up that homework, plan that lesson...it may seem like unpleasant drudgery, but remind yourself why you went into your line of work in the first place. Think about what you contribute to the good in the world and to your organizations. Ponder how what you've learned about gratitude or nature or humanity changes the way you do your work. My travel to radically different cultures has made me a more sympathetic teacher for my international students, and personally engaging with historic areas has eased my anachronistic thinking in my research.
Share with others. Don't be a snob, but there will probably be a lot of people asking you about your trip. Invite a few of them over to enjoy a meal you discovered on your journey and look at a (brief!) selection of pictures.. Don't make this a party all about you, but engage others in the questions and ideas you encountered. They can help you make sense of your experiences and see it with new eyes.
Keep contact. Facebook or email all those people you met and promised to touch back with. It's great to get a Facebook update from a Canadian I met in a hostel, or our Belizean cook long after we parted ways. Remind your new friends of where you met, so they don't think some creeper ended up with their email address. By contacting them soon, you'll minimize the likelihood of losing those bonds forever.
Adventure locally. There are plenty of good experiences to have even at home in the afternoons and evenings. Invite over friends for a movie night. Go to a restaurant you love. Visit a museum in town. You might even make plans for the weekend to hike a local trail or take a historic walk. Remind yourself that just because your trip is over, the good times don't have to come to an end.

The (Not Such an) Emergency Kit

2011-03-08T17:17:00.000-08:00

Far be it from me to use this forum to prescribe ways of living (except when I do), but sometimes I think we get the wrong idea about emergency preparedness. The point isn't that the world is about to end and we all need several 75 lb bags of wheat in our basements. The point is that we better be careful and prepared to be self-sufficient.

My brother-in-law once gave a genius talk about how there are 3 kinds of emergencies:
1) the world is going to end and, honestly, your wheat probably isn't going to save you, so better focus on being spiritually prepared to meet your maker
2) you're in a tough economic place for a long time and really what you need is money and good credit (and probably also some food storage, clothes, gardening and handiman skills, etc.)
3) something unexpected happens and it takes 2-3 days for Red Cross to show up and in the meantime, you and your family needs food, water, diapers (depending on age) and depends (depending on age).

This is pretty clever advice, but I'd like to talk about emergency level 4: when you're just too lazy and cheap. I've stocked the back of my VW Golf with a backpack and a half case of water for convenience, and, frankly, I've gotten a lot more use out of my 72-hrs kit than I would have if I had planned only for emergencies. In fact, I've probably gotten 72 hours of use out of it. Here's what I pack:

1-Food. Sometimes it's not the end of the world, but you did forget to pack a lunch. I like to pack nuts and dried fruit because they hold me over, are reasonably healthy and can withstand heat and cold pretty well.
2-Water. Ditto, really, but I mostly "rotate" my water because I don't like the way Austin tap water tastes (I'm sorry! I just haven't gotten use to it yet!).
3- Money. Yes, sometimes I drive my car and then realize I left my wallet (and license) at home. I pack a little cash ($10-20), a credit card and some valid, but rarely used, ids (my ISIC card, for example) just in case the lady at the donut shop wants to check on my credit card. Rarely happens. But the cash often comes in handy for a donation at the dinosaur museum or photobooth pictures.
4- Clothes. I used to just pack scrubbies, but under the non-emergency guidance, I now only pack what I would wear in public. Still, I pack jeans and a t-shirt for situations like when I used my emergency pants when I wanted to trim hedges, but was wearing a skirt. I've on-again-off again packed PJs, too, because sometimes sleepovers happen, but I often don't change at sleepovers. Instead, though, I do like to have...
5-Workout clothes. In case I have a couple hours and the gym is right there and
6-Shoes. Sneakers, usually, what with the workout clothes, but I've had hiking boots back there in the winter in Utah. Well, in the summer, too, when I might want to go for a hike after teaching in heels.
7-Leatherman. Man, I use this all the time. Screwdriver, knife. Some might say that usually when I use it I need it in my home, but then I ask: when am I home but my car is not? Now I always know where it is and don't have to search for it and if I ever need a can opener at school, I'm set.
8- Medicine. Day-quil, ibuprofin, baby aspirin, Pepto... I've made a lot of sick people happier and I've helped myself many a time.
9-Medical miscellany. Band-aids (used often) to CPR kit (thankfully never used), I have a lot of small random first aid stuff. I feel good having this, but I also like having my Red Cross handbook to refer to in case I do have to do something about a jellyfish poisoning. Oy, and my epipen. Important and relevant to a funny story I can never repeat.
10- Pen and paper. Important for leaving notes. Also for taking notes when you forgot to check for a pen in your bag this morning. Business cards, too, are useful to have so you can give someone your number in a hurry.
11- Kleenex and hand wipes. Tre useful.
12-Rope. I once wished I had rope in my car when we were sledding and trying to get back up a hill of solid ice. Ever since then I carry a roll of thin, strong rope. I haven't had much occasion to use it, but it feels pretty useful.
13- Toiletries. Should go along with the exercise stuff, but I often need to use a little emergency make up when I was in a hurry to get out the door and then arrive with a few minutes to spare. Again, try to pack stuff you'd actually use. And soap and shampoo from hotels works great for this. And lady products are super useful, too. Also, toothpaste and a toothbrush for sleepovers.
14- Playing cards, scriptures, mad libs. Because sometimes boredom is the enemy.
15-Gas. Okay, so this isn't in the kit, but it's a standard emergency preparedness thing that's also great for non-emergencies. If I always have a half tank of gas, I can always get down to 6 Flags (but not always back). I don't have to worry about if I have enough gas for something. If this seems like a weird thing to keep up, just make one day a week your "gas up and clean car" day. I make it Friday so I'm ready for adventures.
16- Flashlight. From Raid-over-Russia games to exploring a cave to taking a night walk by a busy street to finding an earring back, very, very useful. I like the windup kind so I don't have to worry about batteries.
17- Standard, wilderness-y things. Poncho, emergency whistle, matches, compass. You might never use them, you might find reasons to use them (the matches came in handy lighting New Year's fireworks a few years ago), but you'll feel better and smugger having them.
18- Blankie. Sudden cold spell at a star party or sudden urge to picnic, a good t-shirt-and-jean quilt is pretty useful in the back of the car.

After you build a not-so-emergency kit, keep thinking about what you wish you had in a certain situation, and then add that. I like to listen to music, so I keep a cheap, beat-up iPod shuffle and headphones in my trunk. I sometimes have random temple urges, so I keep my temple bag in the trunk. I sometimes for forget people's birthdays and holidays, so sometimes I keep a few note cards and cheap gifts, like pencils and yo-yo's, in my kit, too.

If you believe it, everything here fits into one backpack, minus the temple bag, half-tray of water, blanket and gas. (And hiking boots, when that's what I have.) Once you set it up, though, you need to keep it. It's a good rule of thumb to pull everything out and see what you need to restock, rotate or throw out every 6 months. I like to do it at Conference time, between sessions. This also works well because you can stock up on warm socks and herbal tea packets around October conference, and Clariton and flip flops in April.

I find that I not only make up for my absent-mindedness, but I actually live life better carrying around this bag of stuff. I do more because I can do more. I live life more abundantly.

Pink

2011-02-13T09:29:00.000-08:00

There is probably no color in the Crayola box with which I have so complicated a relationship as pink. Hot pink. Blush. Rose. Tickle-me-pink. All of them, really. When I was a little girl (and don't make jokes about a trip to Switzerland, because the emphasis here is on /little/), I had very, very short hair. Oft I was mistaken for a boy. So I clung to evidences like the pink lace on my black hightops (it was the 80s) for a while, but then kind of gave up and went the tomboy route. I could look cool, but not cute. I was the bodyguard, not the princess in make-believe. And I did not wear pink.

My mom protested, of course, that I looked so pretty in pink. And the kicker is: I do. I have that blonde hair, the blue eyes, and whether my skin is creamy pale or sun-cancered tan, my complexion looks great in pink. Especially pale pinks. Especially all pinks.

But no. No, no, no. I wore a blue prom dress, red t-shirts, even, somehow, an entire palette of earthtones for a season, but no pink.

Then there was the pink-and-orange skirt. Is there such thing as a life-changing skirt? Perhaps, if you're willing to allow that your life can change in more-or-less insignificant ways. And this skirt sold me on pink. Combined with orange, pink wasn't girly or weak--it was pop and spunk and--dare I say--sassy. So I became sold on pink-and-orange.

It's not just the skirt, though. Somewhere in the early years of college, I began to realize that you didn't have to choose between being smart and beautiful. Being "girly" didn't bridge some small gap between being weak and being a girl You could be the princess who is her own bodyguard, or, as my niece puts it, "a princess with four guns." In the Girl Power days of Spice Girls, I think I had equated strong girls with freakish imbeciles, but emerging into an academic world of all types, I saw that embracing your femininity (I can't believe I just used that word sincerely) didn't have to mean denying your capacities, quirks, or priorities to fit a mold of what is feminine.

So this last Christmas break I crossed several things of my "30 before 30" list, including "sew a skirt out of nice fabric" and "make a wedding-style cake." I'm proud of these accomplishments because they are just as meaningful and difficult as "run a 5k a month for a whole 4-month summer" and "read everything Shakespeare wrote." Pursuing these "girly" activities doesn't undermine me as a scholar or whatever, but merely represent another dimension of my personality, freely entered into.

Last Friday was the Pink Dance. Everyone was supposed to wear pink. I walked past my pink sheets, and pink wall decals (granted, my room is--you guessed it--pink and orange) and checked in my closet, where I found a pink skirt, a pink t-shirt, two pairs of pink-accented sneakers, three pink scarves, pink flip flops, and a pink running shirt,which is not to mention all the pink jewelry, hairclips, socks, etc. Even so, I went out to the quinceanera store and bought a tea-length pink dress and pink Converses. What can I say? I look good in pink.

What Ever Happened to Miss Independent?

2011-01-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

So I'm about to go home (to Texas) after a nice 1 1/2 month long vacation at home (in Utah) and I'm thinking: it's been dang nice to have my mom made me dinner, and buy all the food, and pick up my shoes, and my dad offers to buy my clothes, and drives me places, and my brother...does stuff for me, too, and shouldn't I be more, you know, independent?

I'm 26 and single, which means in my culture that you still sit at the kiddie table. I have a (part-time) job and I go to (graduate) school, so I'm pretty much doing what I've always been doing...so my fam helps me out sometimes. I'm kind of okay with this.

Don't get me wrong: I'm righteously indignant when I read about failure-to-launch types who enjoy an extended adolescence free from responsibilities to their parents or a future family, who don't work, really, or prepare for work, who just cruise. I work hard, manage my money, take extra jobs, watch my spending, and try to seek out new friends for emotional support. Still, sometimes I need my family to lend me a hand. Can there be a spectrum between having our parents pay for everything and pick up our messes and being entirely divorced from them?

My friend A didn't eat breakfast and lunch when he was short of cash to avoid accepting a loan for his family. D, another close friend, took out a loan from a "payday loan" place to cover his first house's down payment while he waited for his stock sale to clear (and he will never, never, never, let his in-laws or parents know he did it). Some of my friends are selling blood, couch-surfing, and spending a load on babysitters to avoid imposing on their parents. This strikes me as a little over the edge. Can't we let people do nice things for us? Even when they're our parents?

Writing My Own Obituary

2010-12-15T08:37:00.000-08:00

Mary Leah Hedengren recently passed away due to natural causes. For example, a heart attack. Lots of people die from heart attacks, very suddenly, and sometimes without any previous medical symptoms. Or a brain aneurysm. That's another good one. She could have died from a brain aneurysm.

Anyway, the point isn't which natural cause it was, but that is was a natural cause. Totally natural. Au naturel, as the French would say. Natural as could be. More natural than the produce section in a hippie co-op. That natural. Nothing suspicious about it at all. Just your run-of-the-mill, completely possible, however tragic, naturally occurring natural causes.

Ms. Hedengren lived an entirely normal, not suspicious, totally safe life. She was born on September 11, 1984 in Provo, Utah, didn't do anything that might cause chagrin to any unsavory characters, and served a full-time mission for the LDS Church. She loved laughter, writing, and not getting involved in over her head in dangerous enterprises. She attended the University of Texas at Austin, taught English to her beloved class and that was it. Just that.

She is proceeded in her completely unforeseen but natural death by several other people who also died of natural causes. All these people were entirely unconnected to each other, only through coincidental relation to Ms. Hedengren. And through possible chance encounters on the street. But then, everyone bumps into strangers on the street all the time; it doesn't necessarily imply that there's some sort of connection between them. And it definitely doesn't imply that their deaths to natural causes were somehow part of a pattern.

She is survived by many loving family members and friends who shouldn't definitely not investigate the causes of her death, which were natural, so there would be nothing at all to investigate. Period.

As there can not be a casketed funeral, a memorial service will be held at the LDS chapel at 1260 W. 1150 N. Provo, Utah. Friends and family may visit and mourn, but certainly not discuss any suspicious circumstances of her demise. In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation to your favorite charity. Just not the police.

The Fine Art of Procrastination

2010-12-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

I'm a middling quantity procrastinator. An amaturcrastinator, as they say. But I think I have some useful quality procrastination tips.

Let us begin:

1. Don't procrastinate between something you love and something you hate. Either you can grade papers or you can work on your paper. Not grade papers or eat ice cream, because you know which one will win out.

2. If you must procrastinate with something you love, make it something kind of gross, and do it to excess. After 4 hours of reading People magazine, you'll be disgusted enough with yourself that writing a paper seems like a good change of pace.

3. Procrastination can be a fine creative method. Procrastinating by writing stories, drawing, etc. can inspire some of your best work. Your mind slips around looking for anything to keep you from filling out that application and sometimes it finds pure gold to distract you.

4.Two can procrastinate better than one. Visit someone who should be doing better things and you can distract each other. And if you think you might be ready to get back to work, they can hold you back and vice versa. And because you're helping each other procrastinate, working on building your relationship seems very, very important. (Note: this is especially useful if you are related to the person you're procrastinating with--then you can feel smug about "family time.")

5. Procrastinate with vigor. Don't dink around procrastination with 2 minutes here and 5 minutes there--no, take hours, the entire morning, this week. Then you'll feel like you did something (watched 3 seasons of Supernatural) instead of just drowning under a pile of quick Facebook checks and snack-preparing.

I hope these help you as much as they have helped me, especially in this busy Procrastinating Season. Happy Finals!

There You Have It, Kids.

2010-11-17T17:07:00.000-08:00

http://www.fourlokostories.com/?page=1

And therefore....

http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/11/17/alcohol.caffeine.drinks/index.html?iref=NS1

There but for.

2010-11-07T07:39:00.000-08:00

So it's Thanksgiving, when a young girl's heart turns to the destitute. In my neighborhood, we have a good congregation of homeless, because the street by my house connects the two major freeways. I always feel uncomfortable when they walk past my car, holding out a hand and a sign. There's the initial awkwardness of being panhandled, but also there's the awkwardness of being a Christian and, even more damningly, a Mormon.

In the Book of Mormon, King Benjamin said in no uncertain terms that we're beggars of Christ and that we can not ignore the destitute without jepardizing our own salvation. Of course, when this verse comes up in Sunday School, it always leads to some discussion of whether those who panhandle are really the worthy poor. Of course, I'm an economist at heart and so I'm skeptical of the incentive structure of panhandling generally. Am I paying off my guilt? Are the homeless earning money through emotional blackmail? And then I develop elaborate ethics and standards: eg, if they're a street musician, I pay up what I think they deserve because I like music a lot, and who cares if they spend it on booze? I don't worry about my dentist taking his pay and using it for self-destructive purposes. Some people have good "outs" in terms of what they give out--$5 gift cards, granola bars, water bottles.

Still, last month on a Sunday gathering of good people from my congregation, someone told the incredulous story of how they gave their really first-rate leftovers to the homeless until they once encountered a homeless guy selling chicken nuggets cheap--obviously the alms someone had given him. Again, the economic thought returns: we don't give people what they want, money, so they have to sell off the less liquid assets at a great reduction. Like selling food stamps, but really just selling food. That's not economical for the one buying the sandwich for the homeless guy and neither is it for the homeless guy who needs cash (whether for booze, drugs, bus fare, gluten-free food, insulin, or anything else on the spectrum of worthy or not). The person who happens to love getting cheap food from people without food handlers' permits, though, makes bank. Besides, since food is inelastic, couldn't the homeless person eat off of your donation and then have extra money available for drugs from cash donations?

So maybe I skip direct giving all together and just decide to give to a well-established homeless shelter/job training program/food bank. Easier said than done. And it's tough intentions when there's someone with hungry eyes staring at you. Right. Now. They should make out cards that say, "A donation has been made in your name to the Micah 6 Food Bank of Austin."

Speaking of which, I got to work at that food pantry this last week, which was a humanifying experience. Hmm, I think that's what bothers me: I become dehumanized into a source of money, and they become dehumanized into The Poor. Bagging groceries at the pantry, I could tell that some people wanted to just be ignored, the ones who weren't used to coming, but others were eager for hearing me ask questions like, "How do you like this bagged?" and "Did you find everything you need?" The ones that I made feeble attempts to communicate to in, say, Spanish or Sign Language were especially responsive. I liked working there a lot. I ought to go back. I want to go back, but it's hard to find the time to care as you really ought to care. It'd be easier to just give the panhandlers money and be done. Easier, but less comfortable.

A Very Mary Sunday

2010-10-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

First off, (I mean after the usual Sunday stuff, like translating for Natalia, a Russian sister in the family ward Relief Society), I was asked to give a talk in sacrament meeting. Don't get me wrong--not a problem. I love public speaking. This time, though, in addition to just mulling and then writing and outline and then winging it from the pulpit, I decided to try something new and actually write the talk down. Once, when I was a sophomore, someone asked me for a copy of my talk and I was obliged to admit that it was notes on a napkin. Not that I'm cocky enough to expect my 10 minute talk to go into circulation, but I wondered if I might experiment with the Spirit and seek the right words at my kitchen table in front of a computer, instead of the chapel in front of the congregation. Granted, this took a lot more time, hemming and reading aloud, trying to figure out the correct diction, but the plus side was, when, after the first speaker rambled just a little, the second speaker (who was actually quite remarkable and--I might add--working from an outline on a scratch piece of paper) went and then we sang all verses of "I Believe in Christ" and there was a high councilman on the stand who might be announced as a surprise speaker at all times, I was glad to have an excuse to stick to the length I had prepared.

It went well. I tried not to just read, but look up, and I did almost cry, but hopefully I didn't come across as overly emotional and afterwords, everyone told me how much they liked it. I never know what to say. "Thank you," of course, but then, I prayed a lot and I care about the subject--home and visiting teaching. So I tried to say something like, "Well, I worry about it." Home and visiting teaching, that is, and not speaking in church. Of course this leaves all my visiting teachees to feel like now I need to deliver the goods.

Then Sunday School where I tried desperately not to talk too much without looking like I wasn't supporting the teacher. Hard balance to walk.

Then Relief Society, where I wasn't anxious at all about the long announcements--for this one, too, I had prayed and prepared, but I was expecting plenty of sharing. Mostly we just read the story of the creation, shared what things we had done this week that we could "see it was good," and then I read a quote from Elder Holland's most recent conference address. I gave them a handout with "homework" encouraging them to see what they're doing right and not get overwhelmed and bore the testimony I had, although a little conscious of how often I've done this already. Then we moved the chairs back out of a circle and went home.

I don't teach again for 3 weeks. Hopefully by then they have regained their taste for me.

Aunty Mary's Guide to Being Sick

2010-10-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

1. Stay home.

2. Sleep a lot.

3. Drink tons of fluids. (what else can you drink? morphasolids?) I favor hot herbal tea, crystal light, a couple of those truly nasty Airborne things.

4. Get better.

(5. Play four hours of Plants vs. Zombies.)

In Praise of "In Praise of Folly"

2010-10-07T11:27:00.000-07:00

I remember Erasmus as an European-history-question answer, but I had never really read his stuff until this last week. And now I have another dead man crush. As you might suspect, In Praise of Folly praises folly. (Well, aside from a side-jot to satirize religious hypocrites.) But folly's become a bit of a bosom-pal of mine recently, now that I'm letting myself be foolish in important ways. Erasmus I ain't, but here's my own addendum to the praise of folly.

1-Folly makes me audacious.

It's folly that keeps me from "keeping my fool mouth shut" when meeting influential people. It's folly that made me track Walter Benn Michaels to where he was eating lunch and folly made my little first-year-graduate-student self challenge his economic assumptions. Folly made me submit to journals way above me, conferences I don't belong in, contests I can't win, and positions I'm not qualified for. And though there's been plenty of falling on my face, now and again folly makes me more successful than I could have foolishly imagined.

2-Folly makes me happy.

I'm weird, but I like me. Yes, maybe I whistle a little when I walk to my car. Maybe I spent $20 and a weekend to paint the classroom I'll teach in for one semester. Maybe I went swimming at 10:00 pm in October, trying stunts like an underwater cartwheel or keeping one foot aloft, like a mast to the stars. Maybe I dissected an owl pellet on my lunch break, cutting it open with a plastic fork to look for the small bones of animals. But you know what? I had a good time. Folly might not be suave or graceful or societally normal, but I got joy from it.

3-Folly gives me room for faith.

"Choose faith," Elder...who? Cook? Christofferson? One of them...said. Sometimes it doesn't make sense right now, but choose faith. Erasmus gets at this at the end of his book: the wisdom of men is foolishness to God, but also the seemingly foolishness of God (I mean, "love your enemies"--really?) is actually the wisest thing men can think. My criticisms may yet prove foolishness, so allowing myself to be considered foolish may create future, eternal wisdom.

All of this is to say, I'm trying not to take myself so seriously here. Sometimes, as a first-semester PhD candidate, and as a new member of a single adult ward (with plenty of Mormon Venuses and Mormon Athenas), I wonder if I don't come off as ridiculous, as utterly foolish even. Erasmus suggests that's not such a big deal. And that's why I love him.

School Shooting Holiday

2010-09-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

This morning I laid out my sweater and jeans for school (I don't teach Tuesdays) and went for a run in the wonderful early spring weather. "This," I thought is going to be a good day. I went home, showered and dressed, and found out a shooter with an AK-47 has fired 10 rounds and then killed himself on the 6th floor of our library.

There's plenty lucky about this: lucky no one else got killed, or even injured; lucky the police responded so quickly and thoroughly, checking all the buildings for a possible second suspect; lucky the administration used text, email, and loudspeakers to keep people inside and safe. Still, it's a strange, haunting experience to have this happen at my school. I had joked with the IT guy about the doors that automatically lock and how it wasn't much security for a school shooting. At BYU one of our PA's taught us how to organize a room in lockdown, but more as a novetly than a skill we'd actually use. And I had wondered, pragmatically, perhaps, at every school shooting on the news how it felt to stay home from school because of a wacko with a gun.

It's odd. A little bit like getting the day off for a funeral; you think there ought to be more public mourning, more time thinking about what happened, more meditating, but how much can you really do in a day? Then you try to do something normal--your homework, watch a movie, clean the house, but your thoughts are distracted and strange. I've been caught between and osillating back and forth between being fine and not fine. I'm going to watch a movie now with a girl who was stuck in her office during lockdown. She texted me because she didn't want the theoretical second shooter to know she was in there. Now we'll watch a movie because we both have more time than we anticipated and little mind to focus on our studies.

Not a snow day. Something else.

Third Freshman Year

2010-09-19T06:41:00.000-07:00

Okay, complete honest time: I have had a hard time adjusting to life here. I complain about the commute, the lack of creativity of bar culture, the bizarre gated-community city planning, the bait-and-switch of my coursework, the lackluster curriculum of the class I'm teaching, the dirth of good-looking and smart guys in my ward/institute class, everything. But you know what? I never have an easy freshman year.

Part of it is that I'm bad at adjusting to new places. Scratch that. I'm bad at adjusting to different life expectations. Growing up, for example. I wish I was cool and independent and vivacious, but I'm just really not. Each step is like pulling out a loosening tooth.

My most recent freshman year, when I first went to BYU, was far harder than it should have been. After all, my family was just down the road (and in their offices on campus) and I had plenty of friends both at college and PHS and I was raised around academia, around that very university. Still, I wasn't homesick--I was time sick. I felt tormented that as an adult now I was expected to take care of myself, manage my living expenses, avoid going home, and not let my roommates feel bad when I got to go home for Sunday dinners. I cried in the shower, so no one would know I was sad. Things got better after the first month: I figured out a balance between hiding at my folks' place and pretending I was at camp, unable to go home, and I assumed responsibility for what I could, still being willing to go to my folks' for help when I couldn't. My freshman year was tumultuous (my old car broke down that summer, I was rejected at call-backs for Divine Comedy, and I went to the hospital 3 times, which is 3 times more than I ever did in my life up to that point), but it was also wonderful--I bonded with my freshman year roommates (they made me a birthday cake that both broke and bound up my heart with unanticipated affection), had "pick-up line of the month" wall, hiked Timp and 80% of Arches, took Dr. Allen Christenson's Belle Epoch class, Science Colloquium with Griggs, Dibble and Evans, Dean Duncan's Children's Media class (upper division!), First-year Russian and hockey. I joined insight and felt valued and literary and made a few older friends. I went to dances, plays, an awful lot of International Cinema, and ward choir practice (with fully half of the ward). That first month or so was painful and strange, but somehow I settled in and made some friends that still haven't shook me and a lot of, cliche to say, good memories.

My freshman year before that was similarly tumultuous, although it didn't start out that way. When I first went to PHS, I was cowed by the size of the school, but excited by the many course and club offerings. Ms. Snyder's English class was easy and she thought I was clever. My junior high friends and I were all tight and eager to get involved in the wider world of high school drama. My expectations were, admittedly, frustrated, through the course of the year. Russian got canceled from PHS the day before classes started. I suffered a spiritual crisis in the midst of attending seminary. Most of the clubs I had anticipated were canceled. Worst of all, C., the leader of the junior high crowd, had gotten frustrated with trying to keep the peace with everyone in the group (now split between DMS and PHS), and so, when some of the people in the group found I was being arrogant and sarcastic, they decided instead to shun me. Because I wasn't good at reading people's signs, it wasn't until one of my longtime friends told me that we couldn't have a sleepover because she "needed to buy a journal" that I asked her if they were avoiding me. She told me, yes, she was. The next few weeks were bitter and terrible to me; it was the only time I literally lost sleep over a social problem. I couldn't talk with my family really, because they had seen my devotion to C through junior high as unequal and would have rather I hung out with different people anyway. But even P, who was and remains one of my closest friends, had been talked into simply avoiding me than telling my his grievances. It all worked its way out, as it does in these young, tender melodramas, with vehement notes and email and uneasy reconciliation. Some relationships were never fully repaired. Though I continued to be friends with C, I still felt awkward around her, even when we were in college. But while I stumbled through the end of the first year, things, again, improved. For the first time since elementary school, I was in school with my brother and he was kind to me and I knew his friends. Miss Cooper invited me to join her in Field Studies and I made some friends there. And in the fall of my sophomore year, I took Mr. Smith's AP European History and made some more friends there. And, somehow, I was re-befriended by the best of my old friends. I was not entirely deserted and ended up with a net increase of support.

All of this is to say both that I am unlucky in freshman years, so if I feel a little awkward, that's to be expected. This is also to say that my freshman years work out okay. I can anticipate great things this year among my insecurities; it's like in these situations that I can feel myself growing and changing. My BYU freshman year I often thought about my "core," my center, and what it was made of. When I was new to HS, my core was something thin, and soft, but tight, like twisted tissue paper. By my senior year, it was more like a roll of ribbon. In college, my core became sometime like wood, and now I am working on making myself something strong and flexible--titanium alloy or something. It would be a less painful process if I were less inclined to nostalgia, but it's worthwhile to remember that everything is not lost, no more than it was last time I thought it was.

Bertrum (Bertie/Birdie) Wooster

2010-09-19T06:34:00.000-07:00

So far I haven't seen him eat, but I've changed the paper 3 times--each time I see a poop. He hasn't uttered a peep, but he also hasn't been aggressive when I stick my hand in.

Bird-Brained

2010-09-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

As a natural response to having watched the excellent French Cyrano de Burgerac movie, I've decided to get a bird.

Back up. When I imagined myself in Austin, a new town, alone, friendless, newly indepenent, I always consoled myself with the fantasy of owning a gaudy parakeet named Bertie Wooster. I even emailed my future roommates to tell them of my intention. But then I arrived here and I had to buy a car, and my mom said, "focus on making human friends instead," and my sister said, "don't birds always stink?" and my roommate didn't say anything, but frowned a little (she had a French horn teacher who had a parrot that would always squawk if a student played the wrong note--she is unduly prejudiced.). In short, I got scared out of it.

But then I was watching this brave, gallant sort and I thought, "really? really, I'm scared about maybe I'll have to change some newspaper and find a pet sitter and maybe, just maybe, I'll have to give away my bird? How is it that a paperweight 5-minute/day pet is weighing so heavily on me?" So I'm going for it: I'm buying a bird. Don't even try to talk me out of it.

Now comes the worst part of it--what bird? I've spent several late nights researching online, and I don't know that I have any better idea. Some say parakeets live 5 years, some say twenty. Are finches ever happy alone? Do canaries hate people? How long are you expected to "play" with your bird each day? I'm wondering if I want a bird that will be more social, or quieter, or cheaper to care for, or tidier, or what. I had this same problem when I was deciding on a car--I researched enough to know pluses and minuses, but didn't know what pluses were really most important to me or what minuses were deal-breakers. I think I need to just go full ahead with a choice and remember that it doesn't really matter that much. It's just a bird.

The Todo Monologues: Part 2

2010-09-01T18:55:00.000-07:00

There is one word in Villanueva's Bootstraps that mentions Mormons. Literally just the word "Mormon." The context is that Mormons and American Jews operate in a middle ground called "autonomous minority groups"--distinct but mainstream. Not on the road to assimilation like immigrants, not in a caste they can't escape like minorities. I read it, wrote, "hey, that's me!" in the margins and figured that was it.

Then in class, the one reference to autonmous groups comes up. "But they aren't discriminated against," said K. "Yes they are," I said. "Maybe Jews," she said, "but not Mormons." "Yes we are," I said. Luckily things moved on before it got too awkward (I'm not even sure that counted as "outing" as a Mormon), but I couldn't help thinking about it.

Aside from Joseph Smith's martyrdom and the expulsion of Mormons from Illinois, there are people who are getting their houses egged over Prop 8, people being passed over for promotion, people who have to walk through a gauntlet of protesters just to worship freely, and even just that awkward air whenever it comes out that I'm a Mormon. We have been and are discriminated against. I don't push the issue, but I am irritated. Not mad, just irritated, like a blister in a shoe. This is example of the ethnic ignorance that Bootstraps is supposed to highlight, but it's not the time to pursue it. I understand a little, though, about how young Victor feels when he hears his heroes describe the "sneaky puertoricans" trying to run scams--uncomfortable, but unwilling to "out" that I feel uncomfortable. I haven't had many situations where I felt this way, which does show how Mormons are in a different category of minority, and I can't imagine how Villanueva and other "passing minorities" feel when these kinds of "present-company excluded" moments come hard and fast. Empathy. That's what I'm hoping to learn from this, even though I'm distracted for the rest of class and my heels snap unusually loudly when I climb down the stairs afterwords. I shouldn't be offended, and it's a new feeling for me.

Besides, Mormons don't usually play this game; it's not a competition of "the most oppressed minority wins." Obviously, we (and American Jews) have to good fortune of enjoying our distinctiveness (what I did on Sunday, ordering a coke during happy hour) without being completely unable to operate in the mainstream--no one has to know what I do Sundays, or why I prefer a soda. The Church doesn't play this game; they don't file slander lawsuits and they don't organize class actions. When do we get to fight back? Not today. Heck, I won't even explain my offense openly, even if it could be educational. Mostly, though, I think I don't defend my experience because it's not about me. It's not about Mormons. It's not even about the "autonomous minorities" off-handedly mentioned; it's about Villanueva's experience.

Some day I'll get my own say. It will probably be similar to Villanueva's--admitting my discomfort, trying to position myself in classes full of the "other" who think I'm the "other," marginalized in some sense. It will probably be just a little whiny, but maybe entertaining. Maybe even enlightening. I'll be sensitive to the majority, trying not to implicate anyone directly.

But even if the Church doesn't fight back as an entity, I want to leave people fair warning: discriminate against me, really discriminate in a legally significant way and I will destroy you to the best of my capacity. We don't deserve to be treated by academia as we are, which is similar to the way Villanueva describes. Autonomous minority or not, you don't treat people that way. We cheek-turn, but it only makes both sides (more conservative and more liberal) more cheeky. I wish I could be an activist.

But, really, this probably won't happen; it's not our way. Ours is a fleeting and apologetic offense to take.

The Todo Monologues: Part 1

2010-08-17T19:24:00.000-07:00

At first I thought she was looking for someone who was standing behind me, the way she kept leading with her chin towards my right shoulder to talk into my ear. "Did you get your Masters?" Oh, it's me you're addressing...Yes, I did. "What school did you go to?" Brigham Young University, in Utah. "I thought so--I remember you from the listserv. And then when I saw you were drinking a Coke, I knew it was you. See, I grew up Mormon."

But -- it was obvious from the way she was shouting towards my ear like we were inside the crowded bar instead on the outside porch, and the cigarette in her right hand-- she did not grow up to be a Mormon. "I know the culture you're coming from." I see; that's great. She told her name, and how it was a "typically Mormon name" and everyone at EFY had a name like hers and how she almost went to BYU, but something didn't work out, but she wanted to hear about the English department there. I loved it, but I was in rhetoric, of course. "We should talk sometime." That would be nice; we could have lunch. We should chat. "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to make you smoke a cigarette or anything." Ah, thank you. We'll be sure to talk.

I should have said something like, "And I'll try not to make you come back to church," which might have been witty. Glad I didn't, though, because I can't promise that I won't. I was going home at the time, granted, and she was a couple of beers into happy hour, also granted, but she did scare me just a little. I'm scared of becoming someone who "grew up Mormon" and while I believed her assertion that she wouldn't force me into smoking ("Inhale! Inhale, curse you!"), I wasn't sure that she didn't want to chat with me in order to tell me that the LDS Church was patriarchal and oppressive and narrow-minded, etc. Not that I can't handle a little criticism, but I'm not eager to set a dinner date for it, either. I'd rather just talk about things other than my religion with most of my fellow scholars.

Except as I got home and finished writing a postcard of the Prodigal Son for a student of mine serving a mission that I began to think less on the defensive. She sought me out. Maybe she wants a pretext to preach at me, but maybe she wants a pretext to have me preach. Maybe she wants to have a connection to something that used to (maybe) be important to her. Maybe she just misses being around Mormons. I don't know. I am, though, pretty sure she's not terribly fascinated in the departmental workings of our English program. Why assume the negative, as another slightly loose colleague had pointed out in another context. Instead of always assuming that everyone's rolling their eyes and preparing the tar-and-feathers, why can't I be as comfortable talking about my background as a Mormon as I am talking about my background as a part-Swede, or a comedian, or a rhetorician? Not everyone is waiting to pounce.

Away at College

2010-08-15T07:25:00.000-07:00

One of the few disadvantages of growing up in a first-rate university town where your parents teach is that you don't really go away to college. Not that this is much of a disadvantage: you can come home for Sunday dinner, enjoy free room and board whenever it suits you, and your mom will pick you up and take care of you when you get really sick. No, I might go as far as to say that living in your alma mater's town has its advantages.

Until you move away.

Then you feel a little bit like a doofus. You have to think, "If I pack these rollerblades, I won't have much space, but if I don't pack them, it's not like I can run home and get them." And you can't borrow tools from your dad, so you finally have to go to Lowe's and pick some up. Fortunately, my parents came down here with me and helped "set me up." Boy, howdy did they, because I don't know how I could have put together all that Ikea furniture, and done that car shopping, and gotten groceries by myself. Except some people do. I guess the effect of living in your hometown while you go to school is maybe that you can hold on to a piece of your adolescence a bit longer.

And, siblings of mine who may be reading this, it's not just that I'm the spoiled youngest. Students nationwide are more connected with their parents. Students at Michigan called home an average of 13 times a week (and this article is almost complete negative about it). Myself, I've never really been a teenage rebel or trying to assert my independence. I like help when I need it.

So I thought it would be really hard to come out here are try to do things on my own, things I never had to do in Provo, like try to make an entirely new set of friends (aside from my roommate, with whom I communicated by email, I didn't know a single person under 50 in Austin) or be The Mormon. Granted, this is day 1.5, so I may not be able to assess my ability, but I'm doing okay for myself. I bought contact solution at the SuperTarget. I got down to campus for a book discussion by myself (and a GPS, I'll admit). I went to dinner with my roommate's old mission buddies and we talked until 10:00 or later. Things are okay so far.

But I wonder how so many freshmen manage to do this so young. Newfound admiration.

Summer Runs

2010-08-09T06:01:00.001-07:00

This summer my sister and mom and I had a goal to run a 5k every month. We've done okay, but for August I had to sign up for a "virtual run." May's run was a benefit run for Now I Can! an NGO for kids who need physical therapy. June was the Weight Watcher's run (if you ever want a feel-good run, it's this one--every one gets a certificate of completion!). July's run, though, was just heartbreaking.

It was called Conner's Run. The Conner in honor of whom the run was named was three or four years old in August when, after swimming, he decided to warm up by lying down on the hot asphalt in front of his house. His aunt, who I guess feels worse than I can imagine, backed over him. There was nothing the EMTs could do. Instead of just blaming each other, the family decided to make the anniversary of Conner's death a date to honor the emergency response departments. Besides the run itself, there were firetrucks with the ladders raised and a lifeflight helicopter and half a dozen carnival games at the start of the run. Along the way there were hand-made signs encouraging us to give high 5 to a cop or hug a fireman, but there were also these tragic pictures of a little blond boy dressed up like a pirate, or in his Sunday clothes, or with balloons. We ran right past his house, and his family was all standing outside. It was a good show of support, and one of the most community-oriented things I've ever seen (Mom asked someone where the finish line was located and they said, "You know where Sandy Fisher lives?"). Everyone was there for love of the family.

Now as much as I love this, I think: this family had money. And friends. And community. What about all the kids who die needlessly and get no memorial at all? I can't fault Conner's family for arraigning a lovely tribute, but I guess I need to remember that it represents a lot of mistakes, a lot of accidents, and a lot of tragedy.

A Very Provo-fect Week. (ha)

2010-08-01T10:49:00.000-07:00

This has been my last week and a half in my hometown of Provo (for 4 months, anyway), so I really rocked it. Check out all the Utah-y things I did:

1) Hiked Giles Ranch up South Fork Canyon.

2) Bean Museum audio tour.

3) Ran in a charity 5k (more on that later).

4) Ate BYU Creamery ice cream--Graham Canyon.

5) Went to a Peter Breinholt concert.

6) Threw a little apartment-party.

7) Walmart pedicure.

8) FHE cabbage ultimate frisbee (actually, I just watched).

9) TRC at the MTC where I lied to missionaries in Russian.

10) Provo temple trip.

11) Bought a BYU bumper sticker.

12) Visting teaching with Dunbabin.

13) Bike ride downtown.

14) Thai Ruby for lunch.

15) Movie at University Mall.

16) Long walk with dog by river.

17) Pioneer Day activity in park.

18) World-record water balloon fight.

19) Parade in Spanish Fork--lots of tractors, lots of trucks with little kids on the back.

20) Just lie in the hammock and look up at the trees of the backyard of my home.

If you can think of quintessentially Provo things that I missed, that's okay; you can tell me, because I am coming back, but I'm still very pleased with my Utah adventures. I'll let you know soon about my forthcoming Texas adventures.

Me and Mini

2010-05-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

I flew in to Minneapolis yesterday--my plane arrived at 12:00, I got to my hostel by 1:15--but my conference doesn't start until noon today, which means I have a little bit of time to do what I will.

I hit the grocery store and then...
THE MALL OF AMERICA.

I had a really great time, but I'm glad I'm a short girl instead of a tall swarthy man because otherwise riding such rides as Jimmy Nuetron's Atomic Collider and Backyardigan Swing Along (hey, I love the giant swings) because, otherwise, I would have really come across as a creeper. I went shopping at H&M, and I guess there were some other stores there (psh...I guess!) and I had a grand old time. I got home too late to visit the Institute of Art, but too early to go to bed but that was perfect for...
TALKING TO HOSTEL FOLK.

(Which is very different from talking to hostile folk.) A Swede. A Welshman. An Australian. A Tamil Indian. And me. I told them I was the boring one, but actually, talking to them, I'm not too poorly traveled. Also, I got to start talking about the Church, by way of BYU, but I got as far as "there are so many of us at BYU that we have church meetings in the classrooms" and "BYU's president is kind of like a pastor, but you see, the organization of the Church is we have a a prophet--" and then we were interrupted because someone had to go pay for another night and we didn't really pick it up. I'm anxious about spreading the gospel in part because of a L. Tom Perry talk I listened to on the bus that said that most people don't have a clue of what Mormons really believe, and it's partially our fault because we don't speak up. I semi-spoke up, but then, I didn't insist we continue talking about Mormonism when the Indian came back and instead of explaining that I don't like Family Guy and South Park, I changed the subject to bemoan Simpson's late glory. Well, I can be a coward, but as long as I keep trying, I guess. Anyway, I was stomped last night (late night+early flight=9:45 exhaustion), but I couldn't sleep right away because I was nervous about how I had/hadn't represented the Church. No worries because...

I WOKE UP EARLY.
Because this room has no overhead lights, just thin white drapes over the windows to let in the sun, I woke up at around 6:20. I guess that's a good sign for when the conference starts in earnest and I need to be gone by 7:30, but today the museum doesn't even open until 10:00. I got up, enjoyed a nice run (although my iPod wasn't working, which is always a downer) through the shady streets of this neighborhood--the kids in hijabs at the busstops, the signs reminding cars where to park on even and odd plow days, the little houses pretending they're fairytale castles--got back and enjoyed a leisurely getting dressed and breakfast and Russian scripture study and...

I HAVE NOTHING TO DO.
I have an hour until the museum opens. Most people are still asleep or just getting up.
I'd lie down and take a little nap, but I don't want to mess up my hair and eye makeup, which look so nice for this time of day. I don't want to become one of those people who "travel," but then spend most of their time on the internet, watching music videos (although I did enjoy this one from Danger Mouse and that guy from the Shins this morning). I'm glad to have this non-conference time here to actually enjoy the city. Maybe part of that enjoyment comes by just hanging out in the hostel.

What You Get For Your Money

2010-05-11T12:58:00.000-07:00

So some people have been asking what these projects are that I'm doing. I'm thrilled to give you the low-down on what good you can do. Here's what your money gets you:

$12--Soccer ball and materials for an orphanage or residential school
$35--Crafts for a school
$45--A handwashing station for communities with poor sanitation (only about half of Belize has adequate sanitation)
$125--A course in sanitation so that principles can be re-taught by mothers and fathers and teachers.
$200--A community-use toilet. It sounds silly, but many diseases are spread by lack of good toilets.
$250--An adobe stove to safely let out the lung-aching smoke of fire cooking.

Whether you just like to know what the money goes for or if you want to sponsor an entire project (say, a toilet for your annoying brother), these numbers give you an idea of what it costs to make HELP projects a reality.
In fact, if you donate these amounts and send me an email (or just post here), I'll make you up a handsome card like this:

A donation of $ 125 has been made in your name. This amount funds a sanitation course in a community to empower the poor to help their families, living longer, happier and healthier lives.

Man, that sounds like a much better present than dry, rubbery sausages or another tie.

HELP Belize

2010-05-11T01:26:00.000-07:00

Everyone on this blog needs to know about this blog.

I guess it also wouldn't hurt if they knew about this donation site, too.

Le's do some gud!

Lack of Planner

2010-05-10T23:12:00.001-07:00

I hate it when I lose my planner. I have the vague sense that I have a lot to do, and an undefined worry that I've already forgotten something. Nuts.

?s for Rory

2010-04-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

This came from a whale notebook from last summer. I was preparing for interviews for the Scrivener.

1. Hi. How are you?

2. What are your duties?

3. What have you learned as a secretary?

4. What are your pet peeves?

5. What would make your job easier?

6. What do you love about working here?

Learning Scheme

2010-04-24T19:57:00.000-07:00

This week I'm cleaning out my room and old notebooks. Everyday I'm posting some random things I've written. Today, from a book that must date to my junior high days (when I wanted to be called Penn-with-two-n's among my friends, I found some academic plans from freshman year of college).

Very easy

Every month submit something

list of several BYU student publications

The 2nd of every month

Moderately hard

Stay on campus 8-4
-study pants off
-exercise (gym lockers)
-read
-study groups
-listen to good music
-walks with friends
-International Cinema
-Write letters

A couple of pages of lists of my favorite Russian composers, a key to Morse Code the Greek alphabet. Probably missing the "Very Hard" title page.

3 alphabets besides my own

4 constellations in:
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall

3 hymns may accompany
Identify 74 birds
Memorize 3 Shakespearean poems

finally, in a different pen:

Now is the time to be decent and kind
Who are you?
Must prepare to meet God today

Quite heartening to see how I've always been ambitious. Quite saddening to see how little of this I've accomplished. Very, very adorable.

The Highlights

2010-04-23T15:36:00.000-07:00

Best moments of my graduate experience at BYU:

+ Holding up "Your Great" signs when Lynn Truss visited.
+ RSA Conference @ Penn State
+Crashing Walter Benn Michael's dinner and getting him to admit that Dierdre McCloskey thinks his economist are faulty
+Reading Wilkinson's personal (and extensive) files.
+Researching identification in Divine Comedy audience members and RMMLA conference
+ Publishing my volume of poetry
+Working on the Scrivener
+Writing my novel
+CCCCs with my mom in San Francisco

10 Million Dollars

2010-04-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

As part of the process that starts with my graduation and speeds up with my mom's disapproval, I've started cleaning out my bedroom. This includes starting to throw out half-used spiral notebooks. Flipping through these notebooks, I discovered useless musings, half-formed ideas and pointless lists: in short, hard-copy blog posts.

So in honor of graduation, I'll be sharing something I found in the piles every day this week. This week, a gem titled "10 Million Dollars," probably circa 2004. And now, without further etc.

1. University hopping--never endingly at Oxford and Harvard & just collect degrees in things.
2. Make an orphanage in Russia after my own design, be benevolent dictator.
3. Arm a small revolution in a Central American country. Get Soviet Realist portraits made of myself.
4. Buy up the art from crowded, unair-conditioned European museums. Give it to BYU's Museum of Art. Get invited to galas.
5.Big old Chekov-esque orchard and let the fruit get stolen and go rancid or patronize gypsies and be a symbol of the tragic aristocracy.
6.Two words: plastic surgury

Springsomnia

2010-04-19T02:47:00.000-07:00

It's almost 4:00 am. This is my fourth or fifth time up. I tried watching TV, a little warm milk, reading "The Metaphors We Live By," the works. It may be the Coke I drank tonight, but I think it's clear: I've got springsomnia.

This happens every spring, especially when I'm not taking classes, not working. I lay awake at the end of the school year, thinking about what I'm going to do this summer. This sounds like a very prudent thing to do, but not at 4:00 am, not four hours before I'm due to give a final, and not when the summer plans tend towards the absurd.

That's the funny thing about springsomnia--nothing seems to make sense in the morning. In the evening, though, you're thinking, "This is the year I'm going to grow corn in the garden...and take up bocce...and learn Italian...and write a tour guide to BYU bathrooms...and hike Timp...twice..." And by a decent hour, you're wondering how you expect to do any of this, especially considering that you barely did your homeworking and visiting teaching during the school year. At least you were full of dreams (metaphorically, of course, literally, you barely got 1 1/2 hours of sleep).

Here's what I've got so far: From now until the end of May, I'll finish the Darkwater Grammar, volunteer at the Downtown flower plant-a-thon, participate in Brian's reading group, finish Wimmer's project (finally!), hike Timp caves, run a 5k or two. All the while, I'll be studying Spanish, because I want to go to Belize after my RSA conference to spend 6 weeks with an international aid/vacation program because I have a lot of money and no plans. Then with my last month or so I'll fondly spend time with my family, maybe go to Oregon/Washington with them to visit my old summer place, or head down the beach for a while, and then pack up and head out to Austin in a caravan of all the crap I've accumulated over the years. That seems perfectly reasonable for a summer.

...right?

Cue "Good Riddence" and Vitamin C

2010-04-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

Ah, the end of my BYUness.

I haven't really thought much about it, probably because I'm prone to nostalgia, even in the moment of nostaling: I cried my last week of high school. I hate the idea of moving on, leaving things, forgetting things. I'll turn in my last paper of BYU. I'll clean out my graduate instructor cubicle. I'll have to prepare to live far away from all my friends and family, in a place where I don't know the age and ownership of almost every building. Sigh...

The Dregs

2010-04-02T21:36:00.001-07:00

Wow. That was the worst BYU production I've seen in a long time. In fact, I'm kind of surprised that the director was able to enough unattractive, tone-deaf bad actors to stage As You Like It. How bad was it? Let me count the ways.

1. Muddled concept.
According to the dramaturge, this production was inspired by Eastern European coups. And homeless people? And, judging by the costumes and accents, cowboys and hipsters and biker gangs. And the prologue told us that this takes place in the United States. What now? The hodgepodge was a mess, with no clear direction or theme. Instead, it was as if the director had suffered indecision and just thrown every modernization concept into one production. In the program, she admits that when someone asked her if she was going to portray this play as romantic comedy or political commentary, she replied, "Why choose one over the other?" The answer, Ms. Mellon, is well illustrated by this disaster of a play.

2. Terrible casting.
In addition to not coming up with a clear direction, Ms. Mellon was evidently scraping the bottom of the BYU acting bucket when she cast. Now, in her defense, she was compelled to include as many seniors as possible, especially those many upperclassmen who admit in their cast bios that this is their first BYU production (ow!), but do we have to shell out $14 a pop in order to see leading ladies who are a foot taller than their romantic interests, and strikingly unattractive shepherdesses, and (and this is rather shocking) the entire Mellon family, including husband and, in a departure from tradition stagings of As You Like It, even her children. What? Has childcare really become that expensive?

3. A wretched lead.
It's hard to not take the opportunity to single out Ashley Bonner as the shining pinnacle of bad casting. Unfortunately, she also played Rosalind, the lead. At one point in the play, the evil Duke forbids his daughter to associated with Rosalind because "she is too subtle." Ah, if only. Ms. Bonner was subtle to the same degree as a air raid, and roughly as shrill. She meloacted her way through Shakespeare's witty lines with such extremes of response that it's surprising that she didn't fling herself off the stage in paroxysms of overacting. In her defense: you could hear her from the balcony and brought to the role the natural appearance of a man.*

4. A tone-deaf supporting lady.
Anne Shakespeare, as Celia, was correctly shorter than Ms. Bonner. If this had been a normal production, she could have acted her way through. Unfortunately, Ms. Mellon decided to inflict Ms. Shakespeare with two solos, the audience being caught in the unfortunate crossfire between her singing and the actual notes. Somewhere, the entire band of Death Cab for Cutie is weeping. And not for the typical reasons.

5. Shameless pandering.
Poor Death Cab was drawn into this play, and probably not willingly, thanks to fair use laws. Bright Eyes and Ingrid Michelson were also misused at various places in the production, but I'm afraid it didn't necessarily add much to the play except for all of the students who where attending to fullfill a class requirement were able to sit up and say, "hey, I know that song." (Not that they did that often--I watched two young students around me get comfy and doze off after a few minutes of darkness.) Misusing popular music may be low, but not as low as exploiting the children. Aside from an allusion to Jaques' famous "stages of life" speech, the small children that were constantly being paraded about appeared to serve no other function than try to distract from the childishness of the adult actors. Throw a few pop songs and three-year-olds in a play and the audience is sure to love it, right? Oh. And there was a singalong and dancing on the stage at the end. Only if they had thrown in a few Jones sodas could it have been more shameless.

6. Poor stagecraft.
Aside from the major faults, there was a cascade of minor ones that added to the whole jumbled effect of the production. The actors didn't know their lines (and this was the final night!). They spoke right over any laughter or applause that the audience offered them, often rushing through three or four lines without so much as a pause. They muttered and spoke quickly or levied heavy pauses in. Awkward places that. Didn't make sense. The stage fighting was laughable. At first, we though it was stylistic, but then it became obvious that comedy was not the intention. I watched Ms. Shakespeare raise a flat palm perpendicular to her chest before issuing the line that would evoke a "slap" from her father. It's okay to fake a slap, but do you need to prepare for two or three seconds before? It's not a fault of her ladylike disinclination to violence; the wrestlers weren't much better as they grunted before they were hit and kept a solid foot and a half between foot and stomach, hand and face. People tripped over sets, knocked into each other on accident, dropped things. It was sloppy all around.

Over all, it was outclassed by high school productions I have seen, and while I am disgusted that BYU's drama department would hoist this on an unsuspecting public (and season ticket holders), it did give me a giddy joy of criticism that I haven't had since the awful staging of Beggar's Opera in 2003, but without the well-designed costumes and "shocking" morals. Incidentally, As You Like It was concerned that we were going to be offended by the violence and double-entendres, even suggesting that this production was no appropriate for children under thirteen. There was no disclaimer for how immorally bad the quality would be.

*Now, I would feel some remorse over this characterization, if I didn't have it on good authority that Ms. Bonner was not as gracious a principal as behooves someone who lists only hailing from Texas on her bio. Having a prima donna in a production is never pleasant. It is far less pleasant when she is sub-prima.

Ninja Week

2010-03-15T22:11:00.000-07:00

I've decided this week is ninja week. Celebrate with me.

Ninja-y Things I've Done Today:

-wore a black sweatshirt and sandals
-ate sushi
-listened to a podcast about ninjas
-trained like a ninja (lots of balance and kicking at the gym)
-bled--okay, at a blood drive

It's just just about what you do for ninja week--it's about your ninjattitude. Whatever you do ask yourself: how would a ninja do this?

Who Be Beck? Julie B. Beck

2010-03-14T21:25:00.001-07:00

Turns out that Julie B. Beck lives in the same ward as the people who run our stake, so this last week we got President Beck fireside! I was actually really impressed with it. I say "actually" because when I was in the MTC she came to conduct a "Relief Society" with all the sisters and she kept doing really annoying things like asking an open-ended question looking for a specific answer. ("How can we become closer to Christ?" "Service?" "No.") But this fireside was like the complete opposite.

She started out by doing a sort of survey of the sisters. How many of us were RMs? How many of us were converts? How many of us were from outside the US? How many of us were going through difficult challenges? ("Only half? Well, just wait," she said.) Then she told us that we're doing this by the Spirit and opened the floor for questions.

Straight off the bat, someone asks about getting married. Beck responded with vigor and optimism. This is not the time for us to be skeptical and scared. She asked us how old we were. She scoffed. She told us that "if you have faith, the Lord will feed you faith. If you doubt, Satan will open more doubts." Rousing stuff, really.

She dealt similarly adroitly to questions women had about working and raising a family ("you choose eternal life... some women work and get off track, some work and are going straight the Celestial Kingdom"), divorce ("Temple marriage is a chance; some people blow it"), academic and career success ("When we die, we aren't buried with our credentials [...] it's not all about getting ahead and beating someone else"), lightmindedness ("don't be silly women [...] use the brain and the Spirit you were given to make right choices") and she even addressed the miniskirts-and-leggings question with grace and tact--she changed it into a policy question into a principles question.

"Where are they wearing these leggings?" she asked. The girl thought about it: "Uh....on their legs?" But then Beck talked about why we dress the way we do for Church, and reverence for covenants, and principles and by the time the answer was over, the question was no longer just about fashion and modesty.

I was floored. Of all abilities, I am most impressed by someone who is able to give a smart answer to a dumb question. Dean Duncan is very good at this. So is Sherri Dew, as I found out when she came to BYU to talk about publishing and someone asked a question that essentially boiled down to "Isn't Harry Potter awesome?" I don't remember her response, but it was respectful and edifying for everyone in attendance. I remember thinking, "How'd she learn to do that?" From this Julie B Beck fireside, looks like being a representative of the general auxilories helps a lot. It's cool to have watched someone learn from their calling even when it's a very visible calling. Hurrah for eternal progression!

My Day As A Victorian British Man (In honor of a day of leisure)

2010-02-15T21:07:00.000-08:00

I woke up somewhat earlier than I am accustomed, and immediately put on my slippers and went to the lounge to read a little Aristotle. Thus I spent the morning, aside from a brief jaunt down to the gymnasium for my customary calisthenics. At noon, Miss Tamarin Hooper and Miss Erin Kulesus called, spending half and hour to discuss theological matters. Then, after a spot of dinner, I applied myself to my manuscript, appealing somewhat more to my readers. This occupied me for the great part of the afternoon, until my head throbbed with mental excursion. Since the weather has been so typically Londonian, I figured that I could take an early evening constitutional through the precinct without damaging my tender throat, which has been sore of late. So, tying my scarf in the fashionable manner and donning my hat, I enjoyed a stroll past the local townhouses and homes. Being much refreshed, I returned, enjoyed a spot of soup and reapplied myself again to my labors until the Monday night social hour at the home of Mr. James Reed. A good time was had by all. Then a bit more of Aristotle and then to retire early.

They Don't Really Make a Card For This Sort of Thing

2010-02-07T15:00:00.000-08:00

When I heard that Mike Leff was in the hospital for advanced cancer, I knew I wanted to get him a card. After all, he was the nice, Hawaiian t-shirted academic who had made me feel so at easy during my initiation into the world of rhetorical academia this summer at the RSA institute. I liked him a lot and wanted to let him know that I was thinking of him, so I went down to bookstore with all the cash in my wallet to look for a card for him.

Turns out all of the get-well cards assume two things: (1) You're not well because of either injury or virus and (2) you're going to get well. I didn't know that he was. Some of the cards were too flippant--hope this sexy nurse fixes you up, har, har--and others were too sentimental--a sleepy-looking puppy, I recall. It reminded me of an article I had just read in the New Yorker about what bad grievers we are in this society--extremely uncomfortable with the idea of death before it happens and somehow expected to get right over it once it comes to our loved ones. The card selection reflected this. Not that I'm looking for a wide selection of "I'm sorry you're dying" cards, but if we trust a card to express our tenderest feelings of love (and, with Valentine's coming up, there were plenty of those), couldn't someone make a sort of pre-sympathy card for those who know that they're on the way out? I even considered a "farewell" card briefly, but it seemed entirely too grim, especially because I wasn't sure of his prognosis. Besides, the farewell card was black.

Finally I settled on a some-what old-fashioned image of two bean-people that had the words "Bean thinking of you" written below. It seemed just weird enough to not be discouraging without being too cheeky, but, as it turned out, I was 18 cents of sales tax short, so I told myself I'd buy one after class.

Checking my email before class so that I could open up my students' reading quiz, I noticed Jack Selzer had sent a message informing us that Mike passed away suddenly. "Oh my gosh," I said out loud, and the students who were there early looked up, but didn't ask any questions. Still, I was staggered and was grateful to have the time it took for them to take a quiz so that I could regain my composure.

Sent a card today. Just a blank one with a landscape on the front. Turns out it's just condolences.

Yeah...That'll Work

2010-02-05T13:39:00.001-08:00

What I Like About Me

2010-02-01T10:36:00.001-08:00

My students are writing resumes and cover letters. I've just finished applying to my last PhD program. I think, all-in-all, this could be a pretty good time to get in some shameless self-esteem booting. I make my students finish this sentence: "I freakin' rock because..." They find it really hard. It is hard to toot your own horn. But here goes:

1. I have predictable favorite foods: popcorn, diet coke with lime, fresca, margarita pizza, gum, yogurt.

2. I make lists like this one. I make a lot of lists. I'm always trying to improve myself, define myself, relate myself to the world through lists.

3. I'm funny. Not just being "on" as a comedian, but in conversations, teaching, even academic writing. It just adds a little spice to things.

4. I like to try new things. I'm curious about stuff, so I go to lectures I don't have to go to, play new sports, buy new hair products.

5. I try. Typically, I'll apply for something, submit to something, and generally put myself out there. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh?

6. I've improved. Comparing the way I dress now to junior high, even high school, I have come a long, long way in the world of personal hygiene and aesthetics. When I was in elementary school, I wasn't much of an innocent, laughing at vulgar and, frankly, racist jokes that I would never tolerate now.

7. I don't tell people about everything I do. (I can't elaborate on this one, obviously.)

8. I sing in the shower. And the parking lot. And mowing the lawn. And if I think no one's around.

9. I'm creative. (I can't think of any other way to put it...ha!)

10. I'm a dang good public speaker. Of course, I can't take total credit for this, but I'm comfortable in front of crowds and I like working out a little speech or a talk or a lesson. Generally speaking, I can balance the time, include attention-grabbers and get to the heart of the matter.

That seems like enough for one ego-massaging post. Feels good, though. I highly recommend this practice to anyone on a Monday morning.

The Joys of Humanhood (based on a dream I had last night)

2010-01-31T07:00:00.000-08:00

Halfway through the second syringe of blood, emptying into the vein in the back of his mouth, Dennis's eyes widened suddenly and his stomped his foot against the floor. Of course, Dr. Shultz couldn't stop until the syringe was empty, and then he drew the needle out, pulled back his gloved hand from deep within the vampire's mouth and waited for him to speak.

"What," Dennis gasped out, cletching his chest. "Is that?"

The other vampires, who had already received the second infusion nodded. They probably had also had the question, but Dennis was the leader and they usually let Dennis speak first.

"It's probably your heart starting up again," Dr. Shultz explained. "It may be a little rusty, so the first few pumps can be surprising."

"But it's so loud," Dennis insisted. "I mean, I can hear it. Can you all hear it?" He looked around at the small cadre of vampires. "I can hear all of theirs."

"It's just because you're not used to it," said Dr. Shultz. "It will begin to fade into the background and you won't notice it."

"Hard to believe that! Not notice this thumping--and the breathing?" Dennis rolled his eyes and the other vampires nodded their assent, adding their own low murmurs to support him. "Really, I feel like I have to shout over the noises of my own body."

Dr. Shultz smiled to himself. He was looking forward to explaining flatulence to the vampire, but that would have to be a later lesson in being human. "This must be very exciting for you, I'm sure, but we're not quite done yet; we have one more infusion to go before you are fully and genuinely human. Now do you need just one moment to catch your newly found breath, or are you ready for the last needle?"

"Of course, of course, doctor, you must be on a schedule--trying to rush us out like this...what is it? Do you have another appointment of vampires coming in later? Or perhaps something much more important than just a handful of supernatural immortals?" Dennis could mock if he wanted, but he was still one injection away from being human again, so he left it at that and let Dr. Schultz change gloves and begin once more to empty enormous syringes of stale blood into thin vein behind the palentine velum.

As with the first two injections, this one went rather smoothly, except for one instance when the gag reflex of young teenage vampire unexpected kicked in and Dr. Shultz found himself sprayed in the face with who-knows-what kind of stomach content. The poor girl apologized profusely afterwords, by the dumbstruck expressions on the faces of the other vampires lightened the mood for him immensely as he wiped off his face and explained that it was quite all right, just a natural reaction, probably should have expected it. The last two left looked terrified that the same thing would happen to them, but they couldn't back out with Dennis already having received the third transfusion.

In fact, Dennis was already walking slowly around the office, picking up tongue despensors, cotton balls, glossy brochures and rubbing them between his fingers. "This is incredible," he said while Dr. Shultz was just finishing up the last injection. "Who knew that humans could feel so much?"

"You probably could have guessed; after all, you were human once. You've probably just forgotten it."

Dennis scoffed lowly while running his fingertips down a glass cabinet. "'I was human once.' I doubt it, or if I was, I've long forgotten it."

Dr. Shultz drew out the needle somewhat hastily and the vampire whose mouth he was in uttered an impromptu "Ow!" and then, startled, looked around at the others for approval. "Sorry about that," Shultz said to him, then turned to Dennis. "Well, you'll probably be remembering it soon. Being human will come back to you--like riding a bike."

"I never ride bikes," Dennis said. Pretentious undead git.

"Anyway, these next couple of days should be fun. You'll learn what it's like to be human--perhaps not a dashing and mysterious as a vampire, but it has its perks." He opened his filing cabinet and took out a stack of taupe-colored pages. He had made these up himself last night in preparation and, because he had a sense of humor, he used the same format on his computer that he used to explain mono and strep throat to patients. "These sheets should explain some of your follow-up concerns about rejoining the human race." He handed one to each of the vampires who immediately began studying it. "If you have any major concerns, of course, don't hesitate to call me on my cell--I've included the number on the bottom--but do consider first checking this sheet and observing those around you: many things you find strange may be quite natural after all."

"We know more about humans that you think we do," Dennis said. "We do have quite...intimate association with your people."

Dr. Shultz surpressed a shudder from the chill in Dennis' voice, but he smiled cheerily. "I'm sure you do. Speaking of which, now that you're off a ...liquid diet, you might enjoy engaging in the process of eating. I think you'll find it one of the more pleasant surprises of being human. I highly recommend Blue Tree Place on 8th--it's a nice west coast fusion place that will let you spread a little of that long-hoarded cash around."

Some of the vampires were taking notes, but Dennis caught the hint and went to his bag to removed a stack of bills. "I hope this will be sufficient for your efforts, doctor. We'll see you again in a few days, yes?"

"Yes, I hope so. Take care of yourselves out there: it's a dangerous world and, after all, you're only human."

Crass and Tawdry in Los Vegas

2010-01-16T08:32:00.000-08:00

After my first trip to Los Vegas, I came home and bore my testimony about how if there can be a beautiful, holy temple in crass and tawdry Los Vegas, any of us can keep ourselves pure and unspotted from the world. Unfortunately, all anyone remembers of that testimony is that I used the words "crass" and "tawdry." The guy in my ward who's from Los Vegas still gives me greif over it.

But you know what? I'm sticking with crass and tawdry. A couple of girls in DC got asked to drinks at a nightclub after repeated (and falsely) insisting that they were 17-year-olds from Arizona. Another person in our group was asked if she had an ecstasy to share with her interlocutor. The streets here are literally paved with porn and I can't begin to describe the t-shirts they sell here. Even the things that are beautiful--the Bellagio fountains, Caesar's palace, the rainstorm in the middle of the Miracle Mile Shops--are all facades, spectacle built on and supporting of greed, lust, and selfishness.

But I know that there's a lot of good here. Here's something: I got a temporary henna tattoo at one of the storefronts out in front of the Travelodge from a guy that I'm willing to describe as "sketchy." He wore a straw-snakeskin cowboy hat and had tattoos (real ones) snaking down his arms and crawling up his neck. In his garbage were several empty cans of alcopop and I could smell in on his breath as he leaned over my shoulder to trace my bird in ink. He kept muttering, giving low, repeating groans, and, while I can't prove that they were track marks, he definitely had a couple of dots of blood over veins on the top of his arms, which I know from physiology is a next step once your inner arms are scarred up.

Yet, maybe it was the fact that he was working on a part of my shoulder that few people see, much less touch, but I really felt a deep kinship with this guy. I could even say I love him, in that vague, undirected, love-of-humanity kind of way. What I really want to do is tell him that he's a son of God, who lived in the presence of God and was sent by God's love to earth. I want to tell him that he will live forever. But this is crazy stuff--this is what street preachers do. I don't even have, for example, a Book of Mormon to give him, not even a passalong card. I kind of have in my mind that I'll write him a thank-you note for the good job (and free touch up) he did on my temptatt and drop in there how loved he is of God but I don't even know his name. And I am scared.

But all of these people here, even the crass and tawdry ones, down inside, they have souls. That's pretty wonderful.

Carpe Thursday

2010-01-01T14:06:00.000-08:00

Margaret brought this to my attention, which made me start thinking about day-seizing. Thursday, perhaps. I got out my "Winter 2010 Schedule" Word document and figured that I could spare Thursday afternoons and evenings between 12 and 8 for wild shenanigannism and hijinks.* I started making a list in my planner of things I was to seize from my diem: peaks I haven't hiked, pedicures I haven't gotten, and a lot of International Cinema I've missed. This year I'll do the things I want.

Then I started thinking about the things I've done this year. I've pretty much been doing what I want all along. I have this year

...kayaked in the Potomac around Roosevelt Island,

...spent a few days in Tempe with Jen and Paul on a whim (And went to the No Doubt concert while there),

...went to a Gogol Bordello concert with Jen and Linsey,

...gone to Disneyland for my birthday--and on a a school day too!

...been ice skating, played racquetball, took a Hip Hop Hustle aerobics class, and learned to play tennis,

...invented an imaginary roommate, outfitted her room and pranked Heather for more than 2 weeks into thinking "Amber Cox" was real, and then

...adopted a "memorial flowerbed" on Center Street in honor of aforementioned fake roommate,

...doorbell-ditched a lot of cookies, flowers and soup at my neighbors' houses,

...went caroling along the street and at the widows/widowers in my ward (with treats, too!),

...took a run down to the cemetery on Halloween day--in costume,

...held a talent show at the Old Folks' Home wherein I participated in several talents, including a Coke-bottle choir,

... went to a Pilgrim Feast on Thanksgiving and a cabin retreat for Christmas (thanks Mom!)

...wrote a novel and

... bought a new,shiny, superlight laptop.

On the flip side I still have my peer review research, RMMLA paper, thesis and Dr. Wimmer's project to do. So may its time I stop gathering rosebuds and make sure that I'm getting the haymaking done.

Three Christmas Traditions that Would Make My Life Happy

2009-12-22T12:13:00.000-08:00

So I'm thinking about Christmas traditions, both the ones I do with my fam right now and what I'd like to do when I have my own family. Here are three things I like:

1. St. Nicholas' Day Gift Re-Discovery.

I like celebrating St. Nicholas' Day; in my family, we usually get some nuts and candy in our shoes and a Christmas book to enjoy for the season. But I think that the day BEFORE St. Nicholas Day would be a good opportunity to appreciate all the cool presents we got last year. Here's how I think we would celebrate it: go through the closets and cupboards and see all the neat things you've already received. Then, play with them. We found my sister's old harmonica, my mom's guitar, and some old puzzles and had a great time with them, so why not have a whole day to enjoy all the old gifts? And if you show St. Nick how much you like the stuff he gave you in years past, he'd probably give you better stuff this year!

2. Kiva.

If you're on a 12-month pay-back schedule, you can redistribute your Kiva money. It might be nice to find some Nicaraguan music or Ukrainian movie or Ghanan food to check out while your family redistributes the microloans to nice people like Filipino rice farmers.

3. New Year's Clean-out.

So you've gotten a lot of cool stuff for Christmas. Now it's time to go through those closets (again, right?) and clean out any old stuff that you don't use anymore. Vast amounts of stuff to bring to DI/goodwill/whatever. You can get rid of the things that nice people gave you to show that they care, but you don't particularly need (I'm thinking endless copies of Richard Paul Evans gift books). You can clear out the old coat to replace with your new coat. And then there's sweet after-Christmas shopping for everyone who goes down to DI.

Just so I don't have to answer again...

2009-12-19T11:08:00.000-08:00

Me ->

1. UT Austin
2. Penn State
3. Arizona State
4. Carnegie Mellon
5. Maryland
6. UI at Chicago

Relief Society Relief

2009-12-14T07:26:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I was released from my calling as Relief Society President and my roommate was was sustained. People keep asking me if I'm relieved or jubilant or sad or whatever. I guess it's the whatever. I know my secretary did a little dance in her seat when she was released from her calling (but I'm sure she learned a lot from it, right?), and I've heard of people having a hard time getting released, but I don't really feel that strongly.

Don't get me wrong: I loved many things about being RS President. I loved getting the burning inspiration of "Jane" over and over until I send Jane a note. I loved being able to look people in the eye in interviews as they recounted the miracles of their lives. I loved being able to ask, "What can I do to make your life easier?" knowing that I had the resources of that whole organization at my disposal, and the support of the Elders Quorum and Bishopric to boot. I loved being able to help sisters.

And I think I did a good job. Here's how I know: I was fasting and praying last week to know I did a good job and my roommate, not generally known for being overly cheerful, came up and gave me a hug and said, "You're a great Relief Society president." What more obvious sign do I need? I don't know that I had a huge influence in everyone's life, but I did my duty and prayed for inspiration and I feel good about what I did.

And now I'm going to be in the Spiritual and Temporal Welfare Council. For those of you not in a BYU student ward, that council picks up most of the duties that the other councils like Service and Temple and Family History don't really cover. We do safety and security (like safewalks or making sure that everyone can lock his or her windows). We do provident living (job placement, budgeting, etc.). We do emergency preparedness (first aid training and 72 hour kits). We do personal spiritual encouragement (scripture reminders, for example). In short, we do whatever the Bishop wants us to (and lately, he's asked us to prepare some dating firesides and activities).

So a lot of people think that this is a bit of a downgrade. Not so. Here's a story, maybe everyone already knows:

Eld. Eyring's dad was a high councilman in charge of the welfare farm, so he assigned himself to go pull weeds. He was almost eighty, and has bone cancer, I think, so he could only pull himself along on his elbows as he pulled weeds at this onion patch. At the end of the long day, someone says to him, "Wait, you didn't pull those weeds over there? Those ones had been sprayed--they were going to die in two days anyway." Brother Eyring thought that was funny and laughed and laughed. His son thought that was terrible and asked why he was laughing. "Hal," he responded. "I wasn't there for the weeds--I was there for the Lord."

I don't know what I'll be asked to for for God through the course of my life. After all, I've been a RS teacher, a Service Council member, a Mia Maid class secretary, a Family History instructor, a missionary, a Friendship Council Chair, a sacrament meeting pianist (somehow...), a senior Primary teacher, a ward newsletter carrier, a RS aesthetic coordinator (that means I brought the tablecloth and centerpiece) and, since I was seventeen, always a visiting teacher. I don't know what callings I'll have in the future--except for visiting teacher--but I do know that as long as I do my duty and pray for inspiration, I'll be able to be there for the Lord.

So I guess it's not a big deal for me to be released from this calling, because it's not like it's the end of my service to my sisters--now I'll just be serving them (and now the brethern as well), in a different capacity. I'm still open to divine direction, just as much in my last calling, and I hope that I'll be able to do whatever the Lord wants me to do. Even if that means just pulling weeds.

How I React to Cold Weather

2009-12-08T22:03:00.000-08:00

Step 1: Hop and say "Eeeeee!" in Matt-Meese-esque form.

Step 2: Breath in and out through my clenched teeth, like a woman in labor, in-and-out.

Step 3: Hunker into coat/hat/scarf muttering, "it's so cold, it's so cold, it's so cold."

Step 4: Begin to enjoy the cheek-pinching weather and wonder how I went 8 months without something like this.

98% Questions

2009-12-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

What does a discipline generally agree on? Almost every field has some knowledge that almost all of the members of the community, no matter their differences, find fundamental. Liberal economist Alan Blinder wrote this great book where he talked about the several principles (growth from free trade, damage from rent controls) that almost every economist, liberal or conservative, tend to agree on. The National Center for Science Education has compiled a list of scientists named "Steve" who believe in evolution (the idea being that people named Steve are a minority of the total population). Essentially every Renaissance scholar believes that Shakespeare really did write Shakespeare, even calling the controversy a "non-issue." So what are the great points of expert aggregation for composition studies?

I don't know. No one's done much reproduced, incontrovertible research. But what do we, as practitioners and occasional researchers, generally agree on? I'd love to be able to do a survey at the Conference on College Composition Communication this spring, if I could get IRB-approval (to say nothing of C's approval). Here are the statements I'd like to get a Likert-scale reading on (stacked, of course, because I suspect I'd be able to get a 98% on "agree," "strongly agree," and "very strongly agree"):

1. Creating multiple drafts of assignments improves writing.
2. Peer-review is an effective learning exercise.
3. Direct grammar drills are ineffective for making students better writers.
4. Straight "talk-and-chalk" lectures should not be the only form of writing instruction.
5. Students should be taught to write for discourse communities.
6. Requiring students to reflect on their writing experience improves writing.
7. Collaborative assignments improve student writing.
8. Short, frequent in-class writing (ie, "prompts") improve student writing.
9. Marginal or end-of-paper comments are more effective teaching tools than just assigning a letter or number grade.
10. Pre-writing activities (eg: brainstorming, discussion, lists, clustering, etc.) result in better writing.
11. Students need to write many pages of polished writing to improve: at least 10 pages a semester.
12. Students write better when they read examples of good writing.
13. Students who learn to write well in one genre do not necessarily write well in others.
14. Students need to learn "bottom-up": they must first learn to write sentence before they can write paragraph, paragraphs before pages, etc. [I actually think this will be 90% disagree, but I didn't want it to be an easy survey.]
15. An important element of good writing is good content.
16. Students need more positive responses to their writing than negative to improve.
17. Teachers should show students how writing skills apply lives outside of the class.
18. Writing can be taught.
19. Writing develops critical thinking skills.
20. Composition classes should teach more skills than writing (eg: speech, visual rhetoric, etc.)
21. Plagiarism is morally wrong.

Any other suggestions?

An Autosportography

2009-11-29T08:47:00.000-08:00

So sports don't come naturally to me. Not playing, not watching, not understanding their crazy rules. Partially this is just my family culture, although I did have a sister and a brother who played soccer in high school. I just would never be Sporty Spice is all. I've been trying to make myself more literate, like those Great Works requirements for the Honors Program: watch X number of games, play in X number of sports. I even subscribe to ESPN the Magazine, which, I'm willing to defend, contains some of the best writing in journalism. Here, by, is a brief psychological association of my experience with sport.

Tennis
I only learned to play tennis this summer. My awesome roommate Danger taught me. We'd practice together, play a little, and sometimes we'd play with her brother, and sometimes he'd bring his roommate. I'm not great at racket sports: I run fast for the ball, but never stretch my arms out.
My dad played tennis in high school--there are pictures, so there's proof--but I don't remember watching him play ever. My across-the-street neighbor played. I was best friends with his son "Davey", and sometimes he'd take Davey to play tennis in the park. Mostly, though, I remember getting yelled at with Davey for being too loud during a match on TV. Davey's dad got flesh-eating bacteria (really) and they almost had to amputate his arm, but he pulled through by a miracle. A few years later, he left the Church and his family anyway.

Track and Field/X-Country
Easily one of the things I'm most ashamed of. It was an open-team, so I decided to run track in high school instead of taking PE (in jr high I had dealt with a bully in PE, so it seemed reasonable to avoid the class later). I was lousy. Not only was I dead-last in most heats, but I didn't even practice that hard. It was the last period of the day and, regularly, when the bell rang I would just go home. I was pretty awful. This is even worse because my entire paternal cousin side are track stars. I think track was the worst grade I got my entire high school experience. I don't think I redeemed myself until a couple of years ago when I ran my first 5K and did pretty good. Really pretty good. Running is probably the sport I do with the most frequency now, although if running is a sport, couldn't elliptical also be one?

Football
Ah, heavens, football is also kind of shameful. I played in the powderpuff game as a junior in high school. "Played" is to strong a word. I sat on the bench and read a book about the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I don't remember why I signed up if I didn't care. I have been to my first live college football game recently. It was actually pretty great, but mostly because I had someone to explain what was going on to me. Games are just so long.

Basketball
I feel a lot better about my experiences with basketball. I was actually in the top six or so of players in my basketball class at BYU. It was kind of a surprise, but not too much. Basketball plays to my strengths (running around quickly, invading people's personal space) and I had a little experience with it. I used to fool around with "Davey" from across the street on his basketball hoop, but it wasn't until I was at the MTC that I really learned to play and like basketball. I was in the MTC in winter, and so it was either basketball or volleyball...

Volleyball
I am really, really bad at volleyball. I never know when to "call" for the ball. I'm timid about running into people. I have no idea when to hit the ball with the spike or the set or whatever. You do not want me on your picnic volleyball team.

Soccer
Soccer is probably the sport that I most enjoy, playing and watching. It helps that it's a short game--I have the attention span of a 4th-grade chipmunk--and I admit that I have the "Stuff White People Like" satisfaction of liking a sport that everyone in the world but Americans love. I played soccer against some young hooligans in Russia and --let me remind you that in Russia (and most places) soccer is not a girl sport--thoroughly impressed them. I took a soccer class and played intermural soccer, but I don't just like to play. I've been to a handful of Real games and have a Real sticker on my car. I watch European championships and follow the conference games and know who Donovan and Mathis and Beckerman are and their playing history. However, during the MLS championships, one of my roommates asked me about how many players are on the field at a time and I had to stop and count off positions. Lame.

Golf
My grandpa and Tiger Woods play golf. Not together--that's just about all I know about golf.

Racquetball
The sport I can never spell correctly on the first go. Also, I never thought that I could play racquetball, but Boy taught me how. Our second date was racquetball--he bought me my own racket! We played a lot, actually as percentage of dates. It was fun, he discovered that I'm a backsweater, and I never, ever, tried to do worse than I actually could. Racquetball is still kind of associated with Boy. I went yesterday to practice by myself and I thought of him.

Baseball
I still don't like baseball. Or get baseball. I'm willing to have my mind changed, people, but am still flummoxed by this sport.

Softball
Ditto.

Hockey
There is a special place in my heart for hockey. I watched the Women's Olympic Hockey semi-finals just a mile away from my high school. I followed the Capitals (still my favorite hockey team) as part of a statistics-gathering project my freshman year. I even took a hockey class at BYU (at which I was definitely in the bottom third, but it was a class of mixed skill-levels). I like to think that I could be a hockey fan, but it hasn't blossomed because I don't know anyone else who follows it.

Surfing
I'm not hip enough to surf.

Skateboarding
(see surfing )

Skiing/Snowboarding
I had long had the idea that I'd like to be a snowboarder, but it turns out that I'm too cheap. It's just so dang expensive. Still, I like snowboarding, and felt like I was getting better at it by the end of the season when I had a pass. If I had a sugardaddy, I'd probably still snowboard. Skiiing, though, is a disaster for me--I'm always crossing my skis, which reminds me...

X-Country Skiing
I actually love X-country skiing. My sister took it up out of desperation while her husband was at medical school in Wisconsin, but I find it very pleasant. All of the swish, swish of skiing without the lift passes and major bodily harm. Most of the major bodily harm, I should say, because I once fell and had to get stitches. The doctor who stitched me up asked, "so how'd you hurt yourself?"
"Skiing."
"Cool--I was a nationally-ranked skier in high school and skied by helicopter in the depths of the Alaskan wilderness." (I'm paraphrasing here.) "Where were you skiing?"
"Er, Aspen Grove..."
"Aspen Grove? Isn't that just a cross-country skiing place?"
"Yes"
The doctor proceeds to laugh at me while jabbing a needle through my bloody chin.

Now naturally you could say, "What about your experiences with sailing? And kayaking? and hiking? and roller-skating?" I'm sorry, but I've got to be a little selective here. This post is already too long. Maybe I'll hit some of these other sports later. Until then, though, it's amazing how much sports are a part of my life despite around 20 years of efforts to the contrary. I guess it's all around us, then...

Interview with a Manpire

2009-11-20T09:32:00.000-08:00

Slavoj Žižek, the grumpy Slovene Hegelian is possibly serious. Possibly not.

In any case, I suspect that The Guardian got these questions from one of those "fill in your answer and send to 10 people" email.

When were you happiest?

A few times when I looked forward to a happy moment or remembered it - never when it was happening.

What is your greatest fear?

To awaken after death - that's why I want to be burned immediately.

What is your earliest memory?

My mother naked. Disgusting.

Which living person do you most admire, and why?

Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the twice-deposed president of Haiti. He is a model of what can be done for the people even in a desperate situation.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Indifference to the plights of others.

Aside from a property, what's the most expensive thing you've bought?

The new German edition of the collected works of Hegel.

What is your most treasured possession?

See the previous answer.

What makes you depressed?

Seeing stupid people happy.

What do you most dislike about your appearance?

That it makes me appear the way I really am.

What would be your fancy dress costume of choice?

A mask of myself on my face, so people would think I am not myself but someone pretending to be me.

What is your guiltiest pleasure?

Watching embarrassingly pathetic movies such as The Sound Of Music.

What do you owe your parents?

Nothing, I hope. I didn't spend a minute bemoaning their death.

To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why?

To my sons, for not being a good enough father.

What does love feel like?

Like a great misfortune, a monstrous parasite, a permanent state of emergency that ruins all small pleasures.

What or who is the love of your life?

Philosophy. I secretly think reality exists so we can speculate about it.

What is your favourite smell?

Nature in decay, like rotten trees.

What is the worst job you've done?

Teaching. I hate students, they are (as all people) mostly stupid and boring.

If you could edit your past, what would you change?

My birth. I agree with Sophocles: the greatest luck is not to have been born - but, as the joke goes on, very few people succeed in it.

If you could go back in time, where would you go?

To Germany in the early 19th century, to follow a university course by Hegel.

How do you relax?

Listening again and again to Wagner.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

The chapters where I develop what I think is a good interpretation of Hegel.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?

That life is a stupid, meaningless thing that has nothing to teach you.

Statement of Intent: Draft 1

2009-11-16T09:24:00.001-08:00

Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please let me in.

Somewhere There is an Angry Head-Counter

2009-11-15T17:07:00.000-08:00

I'm not quite certain how it happened, but the young man who takes count of people in the rooms of the JFSB hates me with a fiery passion that I have never encountered, even with people who have more than a 40-second encounter with me. I thought I was being cute and flirty and funny when I invited him to stay in our class when he stuck his head in. Then he slammed the door. After class, I ran into him randomly and tried to apologize and he walked away. I think I have made a powerful enemy.

An Incident South of Campus

2009-11-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

So I was sitting at home, feeling lazy, when I decided that if I really wanted to take a long, leisurely bath, then I was going to need some trashy (in quality, not in content) fashion magazine. The neighbors being fresh out, I walked down to the local 7/11 and picked up my InStyle for $3.99 and while I was there, why not, got 5 bucks cashback.

I walk out, holding my umbrella in one hand, trying to put my money in my wallet with the other, and clutching my magazine under my arm, when I see this woman pushing a baby carriage, a man besides her holding on to the stroller with one hand, his other hand loosely holding one of those red-and-white canes. You know, the kind blind people use? The woman, passing me, says, "Excuse me, can you help us?" With my wallet now in my back pocket, but still navigating my umbrella and magazine, I lean over. It's drizzling and I might as well share my umbrella a little.

"Yes?" I ask, expecting her to ask where something is located.

"We're raising money for our baby's surgery tomorrow--would you like to buy a hair clip or a hair-tie or a key chain?" Ordinarily, of course, this is a hoax. But things are different here. For one thing, her blind husband is right there, keeping silent and just kind of staring around. It's probably for the best that he didn't address me first--not that I'm discriminatory, but it's dark, it's night, it's 7/11...I'd really rather a woman made first contact, you know? Secondly, she has the baby with her. I look into the baby carriage. Who can blame me? Everyone likes to take a look at babies, and the baby for whom the surgery was intended was right in front of me, so what if I looked over to check out the baby? It's not like I was judging the veracity of her story or anything.

I don't know exactly what's wrong with the baby, but something is wrong. She has a tube up her nose, helping her breathe, but that's not what I first notice. Her eyes are protruding out, staring around wildly with an intensity that I'm not used to seeing on a little baby, max, max, 10 months old. Every so often, she arches her baby back and flops her head to the other side.

I don't know if the mom knows I'm checking out her baby. I don't think she'd be mad; everyone likes to look at babies, right? Besides, I think she isn't under any delusions that everything is okay with her daughter.

Psychology aside, she probably isn't worried about what I'm doing, because she's pulling out these gallon-sized Ziplocs with the things she's selling. The hair clips are one dollar each, the hair-ties are two dollars. I think I say something encouraging like, "Oh, those are cute." Cute is an okay description, but I think the most accurate word might be pathetic, in the sweetest, saddest sense of that word. She's taken artificial flowers, artificial leaves, and connected them to bobby pins and elastic ties--maybe she's hot-glued them; it's hard to tell in the dark and the rain.

I had gotten out one dollar when she started her pitch, which I hadn't been able to put in my wallet easily anyway, but as she shows me the most expensive items, the keychains, I decide what I want to buy. "That one," I say, pointing to the first one that I can easily make out, a chain of randomly-colored pony beads on a metal ring.

"That's a special one," she explains appreciatively, helping me hold my umbrella as I negotiate my magazine to get out my wallet and remove three dollars. "My husband made that one." I look over to him, with his one hand on the stroller, but he doesn't seem to be paying much attention to either of us.

I think I say something like, "It's nice," and give her the money, sticking the keychain in the same pocket where my apartment key is. I could have given her 5 dollars, but what would I have said? "Here's a two-dollar tip?" "I hope these two dollars help you pay for your baby's surgery?" "These are going to make a big difference, I'm sure?" Anyway, she wasn't begging; she was selling useful items. I don't know if she would have accepted my lousy two dollars more. Still, when you're nickle-and-diming your way into medical procedures, don't the collection jars always say every little bit helps.

The money, though, isn't the half of it. She's a stranger. I'm a stranger. Her blind husband is a stranger. The baby's a stranger. I have nothing I can really give to these people. I can't hug them in the dark and the rain outside the 7/11 with my umbrella and my wallet and my $3.99 fashion magazine; besides, I'm not her Relief Society president. So I just say something sincere and ineffective like, "good luck." "Good luck," incidentally, is my default sign-out when I write email, a more than dozen email a day, to my students and acquaintances, "Good luck," or else "Best wishes". I meant it more when I said it in front of the 7/11, but that's all I can say. So I go home.

I don't end up taking my bubble bath. But it's not like I start taking up a collection, either. I don't know her name; I don't know her husband's name; I don't know her baby's name. I am a completely insufficient stranger. I don't even use my keychain.

On My English 150 Students

2009-11-09T21:07:00.000-08:00

They're learning...they're learning ...they're learning!!

(lightning, thunder, a wolf howls in the distance)

New Media in the Classroom /or/ "If We Don't Teach Them to Blog, Who Will?"

2009-10-30T09:15:00.003-07:00

English is both rest-home and nursery of the liberal arts. Whether a liberal art is fading from the general education (public speaking, applied civics, ethics and philosophy), or nascent (visual rhetoric, podcasting, webdesign), there is space for it at CCCC’s, in experimental First-Year Composition classes, in writing prompts. Sometimes we justify this broad interpretation of our discipline by adding the word “literacy” to the end of the field: studying music and the spoken word becomes “aural literacy” while a study of art and design is “visual literacy.” While this practice may stretch the literal (no pun intended) interpretation of “literacy,” it becomes the link that gives us the right to dabble in the specializations rightfully belonging to experts of both ebbing and flooding disciplines.

Despite our forays into oration and technology, we still base ourselves in the discipline of writing. Cindy Selfe rightly identifies in her chapter of Writing New Media that writing teachers are highly “invested” in alphabetic literacy (72). Yes, we are. We have invested in literacy through hours and hours of training and specialization and experimentation. We have become invested financially through paying a lot of money for advanced degrees in composition and writing, and joining professional organizations. We are also invested in alphabetic literacy through our academic practice in writing articles, book reviews, marginalia, and peer responses. We have become writing teachers in part because of some personal conviction that the written word matters and in part because our education has honed our capacities to identify methods and patterns of effective written communication. It is natural that we would feel comfortable coming back to teaching written text; this is what our job description and course description asks of us.

So if we are trained practitioners and pedagogues in word-literacy, what are we doing teaching outside of our specializations? Surely no one expects the biology faculty to stray into economics, or the business school to delve into natal development, so why is it “natural” for FYC instructors to wander so far afield of teaching writing?

One explanation may be in how FYC classes are situated: these classes are aimed at first-year students, and often these students are in their first semester at the institution. In this situation, FYC continues on the work started in first-year orientation week. We show them how to use to use the library and online databases; we expose them to research and writing resources across campus; we introduce them to practices of study groups, peer review, and, in many cases, orient them to the higher standards in collegiate work. In this setting, we are general education’s general education the way chauvinists used to refer to a “man’s man.” If our colleagues in Biology 100 and Economics 110 expect their students to know how to navigate the general facilities (library, academic counseling, writing center, etc.) and expectations of our institution, it’s because FYC has provided that general information.

Another reason why FYC picks up so many other disciplines could be that these too-old or too-new fields lack the institutional clout that “composition” enjoys. While no administrator, parent, or member of the board of trustees would object to a GE course on “composition,” requiring students to take a class just on visual rhetoric or civics may seem a wasteful drain on institutional resources as well as families’ meager college funds. These fringe fields are unlikely to receive the funds and support to become a GE. Without the administrative imperative to require a specialized class in these types of literacy, composition teachers (almost eagerly, without objection or call of exploitation) embrace all orphaned liberal arts into our discipline.

I don’t think we are jealous pedagogues. I think that we really do love the written word, in all its forms, more than InDesign, more than the categorical imperative, more, even, than the image. But we think that these types of “literacies” are important for our students. Some of what we teach is going to be applicable in combination with other fields. It’s true: our students are going to have to apply the stases to podcasts; they’re going to have to understand the kairotic moments of brochures; they need to apply principles of introduction and organization to the online communication in which they participate. However, these examples don’t require that we teach technology or design in FYC any more than our (ever great) hope that our students are applying principles of written composition to their other classes requires that we become specialists in nursing, theater, gender studies, or engineering. If we could rest in our cubicles over stacks of persuasive essays with the complete assurance that somewhere on campus there were diligent, well-trained, and well-educated instructors giving our students the background they need in ethics, visual design, civic responsibility, video production and every other new and old field we have sought to incorporate, I think that we would sigh a sigh of contentment and go back to evaluating thesis statements.

But, alas, we can’t. Most institutions can’t spare the money for extensive general education requirements. Most students resent every class peripheral to their declared major. Most parents and donors would like to see students graduating in, at most, four year, with plenty of “real world” skills to recommend them to the institution’s high job/graduate school acceptance rates. So while the title on the business card says “composition” or “English,” we must keep teaching all the fields that are either too grey or too green to be granted their own GE course.

BYU

And what does this mean to BYU in specific? We’re lucky, at least, in two respects: (1) We have an extensive list of GE requirements which successfully (mostly) frees us of teaching religion, civics, and civilization. The large number of GE’s (including classes in fine arts, oral communication, and technology) also takes off some of the pressure of providing “cultural induction” into the academic world. (2) Not only are we blessed with many GE’s in general, but we are lucky to have two required composition courses, while many institutions struggle under the pressure to teach students “everything writing” in only one semester course. We get to check-up on our freshmen writers as they advance in their fields and enroll in our Advanced Writing courses.

Still, with this relative good luck, teaching multi-modal assignments presents a challenge to BYU composition instructors. In deciding what assignments to teach, and how to teach them, instructors must, in a sense, perform triage of other disciplinary knowledge. It may be useful to ask a few questions while designing a multi-modal assignment:

Is this assignment worthwhile?

It’s not fair to create a multi-modal assignment for the sake of having a multi-modal assignment on the syllabus; make certain the assignment fits into the general objectives of the course.

Is this assignment useful for the student’s academic/professional/personal goals?

In Advanced Writing, you can have more direction in answering this question than in a general FYC course. For example, since many students in the Writing for Arts and Humanities Majors course may aspire to be independently-employed wedding photographers, theater actors, and documentary filmmakers, learning to design a self-promoting website portfolio may be more useful than it would be for the business and engineering students in a technical writing class.

Is this assignment likely to be reproduced in GE or major classes?

No need to reinvent the wheel; if you know that the Bio 100 class requires students to participate a poster conference, then you may decide this particular assignment isn’t necessary, or at least that you will be reinforcing, rather than teaching, principles the students may already have. This is especially important for “linked” classes, such as Freshman Academy. If you don’t know what instructors in other fields are requiring in terms of multi-modal assignments, this is important enough that it may warrant sending out a couple of email to other instructors or, if your institution is lucky enough to have one, a Writing Across the Curriculum/Writing In the Disciplines coordinator.

Does this assignment require students to do significant “prep work” with a specific program? Are they any alternatives that can teach the principle without the technical work?
Do you want to teach students visual design or do you want to teach them Photoshop? If you’re requiring them to educate themselves outside of class to complete an assignment or if you will spend a significant portion of time in class teaching technical navigation of specific program that may or may not change significantly by next year, you may consider finding alternatives that teach the same principles (say, using crayons and paper to design a website, or recording a “podcast” on a cassette tape). If you have to do intensive research and experimentation to manage a certain program, don’t assume that your students will, by benefit of their generation, have it any easier. If you really are intent that you want your students to be familiar a certain program, you might consider scheduling a professional to come into your class or have a “tech night out” to a Photoshop or Quark class. BYU’s Multi-media Lab has classes on specific programs offered at regular intervals, often in the evenings, in both large- and small-group formats. I’m willing to bet that they would be thrilled if you even told them about the specific project that your class seeks to accomplish.

In short, there’s no “multi-modal assignment fits all”; each class must create assignments that fulfill the literacy requirements for those students situated in that class, at that institution. Sometimes trying teaching all types of literacies to a class feels a little like turning on the firehose and having everyone line up for a drink. Be thoughtful and considerate of your students, and remember that even if your students don’t learn everything about every mode you find important, there are many resources available to them. Other GE or major classes, roommates, library classes, personal experimentation, workplace training, and a hundred other sources can aid your students to navigate the accumulating literacies for which they, like you, are increasing responsible.

Econ Rocks (or at least raps)

2009-10-27T08:49:00.000-07:00

This caught my fancy.

I miss economics...

Here you have it!

2009-10-22T16:08:00.000-07:00

Halloweennie

2009-10-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

Typically, I have a huge Halloween party planned by now, with handmade invites aand a plan for everything from my costume to which corny horror movie to watch to what shape of gummy anatomy to serve.

This year...less so.

So, if I were to organize my Halloween party in, say, less than two weeks, what kind of suggestions would you have for me? My place or my parents'? Food? Costumes? How do I get invites out aside from just Facebook and email? Oh, what a conundrum.

Almost Useless Post

2009-10-14T21:45:00.000-07:00

On the one hand, high heels make girls' legs look good. On the other hand, high heels hurt. Sigh...

Accomplishment of the Day

2009-09-28T12:11:00.001-07:00

Today I avoided thinking about Boy for five hours straight. Hurrah! I don't know how you romantic types happen to get anything done at all. Thank heavens I'm a late bloomer, or I never would have made it into graduate school.

"Gaustronaut"

2009-09-20T20:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you say something stupid in class. Sometimes you say something stupid that makes you bring a cake next time.

On Pranks

2009-09-15T22:29:00.001-07:00

For some reason (probably because of my incessant discussion of my nasty toenail), my roommates have decided to pull a prank on me.

This incident caused me to reflect on what the appeal is to me of a really good prank. It occurs to me that pranks are just like gifts, except for the fact that they are irritating. Spencer's signaling theory says that sometimes the worth of something isn't intrinsic (like getting a rhinestone-encrusted blender), it's more what that thing signifies (that the person knew you always wanted a rhinestone-encrusted blender). Just as this works for gifts, I think this theory can be applied to pranks. I'm flattered that my roommates knew me well enough to wallpaper my room with pictures of conservative pundits. I'm thrilled that they knew I hate touching cotton balls. I'm still finding puffs in my sheets or in the toes of my shoes or in my pencil jar, but I remain thrilled. It's the little irritations that really mean so much in a relationship.

It's the thought that counts.

On the big toe nail of my right foot

2009-09-14T20:08:00.000-07:00

The toenail has got to go, I'm afraid. I dropped a full bucket of water on it in the summer, on the way to water some plants and while it hurt like the devil, I couldn't foresee that it would turn so black that I had to put several layers of nail polish over it or that, finally, it would start to die and come off from the left edge.

This is, of course, disgusting. What could be a worse topic on conversation than the moribund nail of one's foot? And yet.

I'm fascinated by this process, inspecting my toe nightly, thinking of it flapping slightly when I swim, choosing my footwear judiciously. I'm like my own science project. I haven't had a piece of me defect of its own will since I lost my twelve-year-old molars. And what's more, not only is the dead drying out and yellowing and flaking (in that last description, I'm certain I lost any readers I might have had, so can comfortably write for myself), but my old nail is also being pushed up by the regenerative forces of my own body. I am losing by my unconscious body's volition, and am being replenished by the same natural force. Somewhere beyond my scope of discovery, there is a nascent nail coming up from the nail bed, scaling and forming. Within the duly prescribed time (sadly, it will probably be 18 months, if WebMD can be trusted), a new nail will sit on my right toe, just as bright and lacquered and cheerful as any other piggy in the row. And who will know that I had another, perfidious, perhaps, toenail that has gone the way of the earth and nail clippings?

Restorative powers of my own body, I salute you!

In Defense of Stephanie Meyer.

2009-09-02T22:24:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that at this late stage I haven't lent my voice to the already cacophonous choruses debating the literary merits of Ms. Meyer's work. I realize that by making any sort of statement, I risk alienating good friends with strong opinions, but weighing that hazard against that of letting my friend continue in strong opinions unchecked, I have decided to go forth as originally planned.

I don't think Stephanie Meyer is a bad writer.

Now this isn't to say that I think her prose merits inclusion in the next Norton's anthology or that a world of Twilight would usher in the literary revolution we've been waiting for, but I've had enough of people calling her a talentless hack. Sure, maybe some lines of teenage angst strike the reader as perhaps overly melodramatic, or crudely hewn, but that doesn't make her talentless. In fact, if she's talentless, then may God bless me with the talentlessness to make the New York Times Bestseller Lists for seemingly marathon numbers of weeks. May God bless me with the talentlessness to create a public mania with more fan-allegiance, more marketing power, and more imitators than (dare I say it?) even Harry Potter. May God bless me with the talentlessness to inspire hundreds of thousands, and I might suggest millions, of "non-readers" to pick up a book, read it straight through, get to the end and then start it again. That seems like a nice kind of talentless.

Some people will claim that a novel can be "popular" without being "good." Usually what people mean by "good" is that some sentence-level eloquence or clever plot construction is present. I have in my mind some of the rules that "good" writing employs: varying your sentence length, creating meaningful characters, be consistent in your details, avoid the cliche or obvious, etc. These rules do, more often than not, create a pleasurable reading experience for someone who expects reading already to be a pleasure, but it seems like there are another set of rules at hand for mad, feverish popular success. It may have something to do with reading the zeitgeist. It may have something to do with fulfilling a psychological or socialogical need. But while "good" fiction adheres to some academic standard floating around among people who have read Moby Dick all the way through and a sufficient amount of the Latin American prose poems, popular fiction is good because people enjoy reading it. In fact, I'd venture that it's easier to teaching someone (or yourself) to write "good" fiction, than it is to teach them to write something that will be popular.

I don't think there's a magic formula to Twilight, or The DaVinci Code (and I admit that I'm not fond of the DaVinci Code, but I will say that"The Truth about DaVinci's Codes" lecture series filled our humble art museum to fire-marshal capacity, when actual DaVinci's had not had the same effect), or any other other imensely popular book that causes literary types to scrunch up their eyebrows and frown. If there was a formula, I'm certain publishers and editors and agents would put it on the back of their business cards. Still, though you may wince your way through Bella and Edward's dialogue, something about it causes a sudden bout of irresponsibility to other tasks and you inexplicably find yourself in the bathtub at 3:00 am wondering if Bella's going to become a vampire this time. This doesn't happen to everyone, but I'll admit that it happened to me.

And, finally (and this is the last refuge of the literary apologist) if you think Stephanie Meyer's written a bad novel, then I heartily welcome you to write a better one yourself. Having just finished my first novel(la), I can testify that it's a mighty hard thing to string together a beginning, middle, and an end, especially over the course of 300, 400 pages. Everyone who completes the task in the most primitive way deserves a gold star. If you write a better novel than Twilight, you may enjoy the same successes. It broke my heart to hear of Stephen King's denunciation of Stephanie Meyer; it broke my heart enough for me to cry out in spite, "yeah, well, Stephen King, the 1980s called--they miss you."

And if your novel doesn't break to the same wild acclaim, it won't be because the hegemony of Twilight has ensnared all your adolescent readers in zombie-like rituals of re-reading; there was once a book that was written precisely as the world of young adult fiction was caught up in adoration of a fantasy world that extended into bookstore release parties, clothing, movies, action figures, music, bedspreads, posters, themed birthdays, and seemed to hold the literary world in its iron, serial grip. It was the year 2005. The hegemony was Harry Potter and the underdog was a first novel by a housewife--you know it as Twilight.

In Honor of Shark Week, the Academy of American Poets Presents...

2009-08-03T17:05:00.001-07:00

Poems for Shark Week

Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water...
—from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman

In honor of Shark Week, the Discovery Channel's annual weeklong series of television programs devoted to sharks, Poets.org has compiled 35 Poems about Sharks, and examined how the animals have been represented in classic and contemporary poetry.

Described by poets as "death-scenting," with "lipless jaws" and "eyes that stare at nothing, like the dead," sharks have long served as a cultural symbol of mortality and looming danger. Despite the fact that sharks kill fewer than 20 people a year, their reputation as the ocean's most allusive and deadly predator continues to inspire fear and fascination in audiences throughout the world.

Included are poems by Carl Sandburg, Robert Graves, Martín Espada, Denise Levertov, Joel Brouwer, Walt Whitman, Tomasz Rózycki, Herman Melville, Alan Dugan, James Dickey, Vivian Shipley, Jamey Dunham, Nancy Willard, and many others.

On the web at: www.poets.org/sharks

Hurt Locker is the Most Realistic Film About War... I Think

2009-08-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

Last night I saw the war movie Hurt Locker at the Towne Centre in Provo, and if you live in Provo and you weren't in the theater with me, you probably missed your chance--independent movies with no big names, this is probably a one-weekend-only deal.

Too bad.

This movie, as far as I can tell, realistically depicts not just the fear and moral indecisiveness of war, but something also of the tedium and boy-stupidity (as illustrated when the company gets sloshed on whiskey and compete to see who can punch whom in the stomach the hardest). There were a couple of instances where I think the soldiers probably would have shot first and give warnings later--when a taxi breaks the perimeter of a IED scene at 50 mph, you can probably assume that he's not just a bad driver--but other than that, this film was remarkably true to life.

I think.

Because, you know, I haven't been to war. Not this war, not any war. I'm not particularly signing up at my local recruiter's either, because I'm pretty sure that I would be bad at war; heck, I'm bad at laser tag. I don't even know what a realistic depiction of war is, aside from what I can cobble together of my own generalizations on life, magazine articles, and the scenery in Call of Duty IV.

I do this thing, Soldier's Angels (yes, that's the correct position of apostrophe, though it drives me mad), which is all kinds of awkward for me; you're supposed to write encouraging letters to a complete stranger in the armed forces. I remember this kind of exercise in embarrassment from my Young Women's days, but sub "missionary" for "soldier." What do you say encouraging to someone you don't know? "Hope things are going well," "We're rooting for you," "Let me know if there's anything I can do." Then add to that the fact that, generally speaking, I have no idea what soldiers need to hear. "Don't get yourself killed." "Don't feel bad if you shoot a civilian terrorist." "Please don't commit any autracities that will reflect poorly on America."

But they tell me that things like this, giving support to soldiers, is one of the most important detirminants on a soldier's deployment and post-deployment mental health. And even though I'm not a big fan on the wars, I still think that the fewer really psychologically messed-up folk out there, the better. So mostly, I just send chipper postcards and packages filled with peanut butter and gaterade packets. Because, I can guess, as someone who's been in a foreign contry away from her family, that sometimes it's nice just to get a pile of mail from headquarters.

The Searchers

2009-07-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

I finally got a book back that I had lent out. I'm thrilled to have it back, in part because it's signed by the author, in part because, frankly, it's an interesting book.

It's called White Man's Burden and its author, William Easterly, probably is getting used to receiving death threats from Peace Corp types. His premise is this: our good intentions to save the poor are often the exact same colonial impulses that messed up these countries in the first place. In fact, instead of doing good, throwing gobs of money at countries probably hurts them far more than it helps them.

He divides his book into two sub-topics: Aid and Military Intervention. Both methods do equally miserably. The top-down approach of what he calls "Planners" create these utopian ideals of changing poor, oppressed countries into beacons of democracy and prosperity. In reality, these sudden, major overhauls, be they military or humanitarian, seldom work and often create corruption, famine, and discord. And this from a guy who was career World Bank most of his life.

So it seems like it's a case of "starved if we do, starved if we don't." What, then, shall we do? Easterly, in his Q&A at BYU said, "Nothing. Get a job, work hard, don't worry about it." In his book, though, he's a lot more optimistic.

In opposition to "Planners" (top-down outsiders with grandiose plans for transforming countries about which they know little), Easterly says that the fate of poor countries is best served by "Searchers" (bottom-up locals who want to change something that they need). Here's the thing about Searchers--one size doesn't necessarily fit all. While microloans was an idea that a Searcher came up with for his own Indian home, it may not necessarily be the pancea that it's been toted as. Or even the PROGRESA pay-families-if-their-kids-go-to-school program that Mexico and some other South American countries have adopted. The point is that we have to search-- come up with an idea, experiment with it (literally, like with controls and double blind analysis, etc), and then keep doing what works and drops what doesn't.

Ideally, Church humanitarian aid should work this way. (1) Bishops and Releif Society presidents see a need. (2) Service missionaries + Church humanitarian officials provide technical knowledge/resources and (3) lay members in the church provide the funds through fast offerings and donations. I didn't come up with these numbers; they correspond to Easterly's "(1) Social enterpreneurs close to the poor [...] propose projects to meet their needs; (2) individuals with technical and practical knowledge, and (3) donors who have funds they want to give away." I realize this is best-case scenerio, because the Church still moves like a beaurocracy, but I think the Church's humanitarian move away from growth towards disaster aid has either been influenced by or codeveloped with this growth criticism.

Information is a big part of this theory. We need information about the projects/places where aid is needed (if West African farmers are growing short-fiber cotton because it's easier on the soil and allows them to rotate in food crops, for heaven's sake, don't force them to grow long-fiber cotton). We need information about what the people want (is it more healthcare or more education?) and how they want it (year-round schools or only after the harvest season?). Once we have a project or an organization, we need to follow up with the people we're helping (were the teachers kind or abusive? were they diligent or lazy? were they qualified professionals or sinecured beneficiaries of nepotism?), and then, even if it hurts, adjust our projects based on what works or doesn't work. It's a lot harder than just playing a benefit concert to throw gops of money at some country already plauged with information failures (Bono's next aid concert should be "Another Mercades for Every Warlord," bless his soul).

One place to start implimenting this sort of thing (if you're not, you know, on the spiritual and temperal welfare council for your ward, or a Church leader), is locally. Create surveys and find out what resources are needed. I remember that my (now title 1) high school had plenty of money coming in for cheesy "self-esteem" banners and mirrors ("Look at a Winner--You!"), but no money to buy enough copies of "The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail" for the 35-odd students in honors English to be able to read them at home, or mixers for the home ec class. If someone had asked me what resources I wanted for my school, I'd have told them to buy us some paperback plays and nix the corny banners. But, then, no one ever asked me.

If you don't have time to become an activist (and that's okay, too), you can research where you give more. Ask for numbers. Find out what their aims are--is it to decrease landminds in Mozambique or is it to erradicate crime, hunger, and ignorance in Africa? (I have to admit, I'm beginning to sour on Heifer International as they begin to add ecological responsiblity, women's liberation, and national pride to what was once a pretty straightforward "fewer malnurished families" agenda.) You can also shop before you buy. Check out Kiva or Global Giving to find a project that you can fund like an investor-- giving to something that you think will yeild significant pay-offs in helping the poor.

Anyway, I'm willing to take suggestions if anyone else has a "searcher" idea. Man, I wish they'd put me on Service Council...

A No-Less-Wonderful Day

2009-07-23T22:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had a wonderful day:

I finished my novel (hurray!), at least a first draft.

My sister told me that she thought I was pretty.

I hosted a writing party that was surprisingly delightsome.

I met up with some old friends and had good chats.

TODAY, can you believe it:

I beat my personal best 5k time. It's an unofficial 26.07, but even unofficial, that's two minutes off my last time.

I got to go to the temple.

My reimbursement check finally cleared and I have a little money! (Until I pay first and last months' rent. Boo.)

I feel a little bad, though, when I know people who are having lousy weeks. I'm just living a dream

Hike that Waterfall!

2009-07-19T21:55:00.000-07:00

From Mark's and my hike the other day

The 80s Made Us Fat

2009-07-17T09:57:00.000-07:00

I just read the neatest article in the New Yorker where Elizabeth Kolbert reviews several new books with new theories about why we, as a nation, have gotten to be such porkers.

Kolbert points out that while there had been a gradual weight gain of the average american since the 1960s, the biggest jump took place since the 1980s. In the 1994 Journal of the AMA, Flegal et. al found that whereas 25.4% of Americans had been overweight in the 70s, by the early nineties that percentage was now 33%. Whoa, Nelly!

Among some of the familiar explanations (evolutionary "fat genes," dangerous urban centers), it seems like the 80s took their toll in a number of ways:

1. In Eric Finkelstein's "The Fattening of America," the eighties marked a time of cheap fats and sugars. Economically speaking, the real price (adjusting for things like inflation) of fats and oils decreased by 16% between 1983 and 2005. Soda pop alone got 20% cheaper. Since food expenses are income normal (meaning the more money you have, the more money you spend on food), the poorest people are eating the cheapest/least healthy foods. This is one reason why cities with more low-income residents (like Detroit and Philadelphia) have the highest obesity rates while cities with higher-income residents on average (like Denver and Portland, OR), have the lowest rates. ((Not that it's necessarily related, but I'd like to point out that Provo-Orem UT is in the lowest 5 cities for obesity! WOO!)) The eighties revolution in cheap fats and oils made it frugal to get fat.

2. David Kessler's book "The End of Overeating" is evidently far more sinister; he claims that big business goes into make food equal fun, and adding additive combinations of fats and oils becomes sort of a holy grail among junk food companies. Kolbert shares a quote from a products-developer who says that they try to "cram as much hedonics as you can in one dish." And when did these eatertainment companies start to fight each other to create the most novel junk? The eighties. (Remember Pop Rocks? And Push Pops? and all those new flavors of chips)

3.Marion Nestle and Lisa Young of NYU discovered that the amount of food that's "one serving" has jumped in supermarket packages and also in old cookbooks (like Betty Crocker or "the Joy of Cooking")--what used to be sixteen servings is now twelve, or ten, or eight. And when did the number of slices per cake go up? You guessed it--the eighties.

So, thank you, Elizabeth Kolbert for explaining to us how the eighties not only gave us electro-pop and crimped hair, but also expanding waistlines. It might take more than Olivia Newton John's "Let get Physical" to get our nation back on track.

Read the full article at
http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2009/07/20/090720crbo_books_kolbert?yrail

Freaky-Deeky Parasite

2009-07-16T18:15:00.000-07:00

AAAAAAAAA!

Please Don't Stop the Music

2009-07-14T19:23:00.001-07:00

It seems pretty obvious to me that music helps me work out. I'm super-tired, I want to die with foot-pounding tedium, I'm planning on walking the next block and then..."Get up, get up, put the body in motion!" and, shoulders shimmying, I'm good for another 5:52. I feel like music helps me get farther, faster, better. But is that what the studies support?

In the Journal of Exercise Physiology, Larry Birnbaum reported that when he made three groups of subjects (fast music, slow music, and no music) run at 5.5 mph for fifteen minutes, the fast music group showed a marked difference: their oxygen consumption (VO2s), cardiac output, number of breaths and other indicators were much higher than those in in slow and no music groups. That means that fast music actual may make you /less/ efficient than slow or no music. On one hand, being less efficient is bad, because then your body can't handle longer or harder workouts, but on the other hand, being less efficient is precisely why we do things like switch up our exercise ruitenes every couple of weeks--we don't want our bodies to be too comfortable with what we're making them do.

Speaking of shaking things up, the International Journal of Sports Medicine recently published a study called "Effects of Differentiated Music on Cycling Time Trial." This study, conducted mostly by H. B. D. Lim, also looked at three groups (but this time of 10-K cyclists): a no-music control group, a group that listened to music during the /last/ half of the 10-K workout, and a group that got to listen to music for the /first/ half of the workout. The scientists didn't find any huge differences between the groups in general, but they did notice that the group that had music introduced at the halfway mark started to bike faster, even 1 km/sec faster at the introduction of the music. Lim et al point out that this, "illustrates the behavioural influences that music can engender during self-paced exercise." In other words, a song can make me kick it up at the beginning.

Finally, the Journal of Sports Behavior challenged college students to ride a stationary bike for 45 minutes or to exhaustion (which ever comes first, right?). This test had four groups: one control group who got nothing, one group that was rewarded with listening to their favorite music, one group was reward with $0.15 for every forty pedal rotations, and one group of lucky dogs who got both music and money. Wanna guess what they found? Turns out money is all that mattered. The two groups that got money worked harder and longer than those who didn't, and the group that got money and music didn't do any better than the group that only got the money. In the immortal words of Puff Daddy, "It's all about the benjamins, baby."

Would I run faster, then, if instead of sweat tunes, I gave myself a quarter for every quarter mile I ran? Maybe, but if I get a dollar a mile, what if I spend that dollar a mile on a new iTunes song? Sounds good to me.

Just Don't Say They're Spineless

2009-07-05T07:06:00.001-07:00

I don't know what it is, but this trip to DC, I can't stop myself from going to every invertebrate zoo and exhibit--they're loose like a jellyfish!

Don't these look like evil geniuses?
Or genuses?

This is a cuttlefish. It has such good eyesight that it can see you as well as you see it.

I went to the butterfly house at the Smithsonian, where they feed butterflies rotten fruit. You do not want to mess their fruit; the butterflies will kill you.

I saw some other things (art, monuments, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of fireworks) but the invertebrates win this trip! Hurrah for invertebrates! Let's celebrate by not stepping on them today... too often.

Representative Women

2009-06-16T10:39:00.001-07:00

Mormon women's history moment of the day. I'll photoshop myself in later.

I'm Too Old for This [Stuff]

2009-06-14T22:55:00.000-07:00

One of the social inventions of the last twenty years has been the quarter-life crisis. As education before career takes longer, living with parents becomes more common, and our society continues to prolong adolescence, those of us heading up on twenty-five start to realize...what the heck have I even done with my life? There are some people my age with careers. Some people with families. Some people have careers and families. I have...a series of interesting experiences. I have only semi-direction in my life.

So now I'm trying to figure out how formal I want to make this crisis. Right now, I'm kind of even thinking about throwing a quarter-life crisis party in August (everyone wears businesswear and we watch My Dinner with Andre?). Right now, though, I'm still taking suggestions. One suggestion comes from watching How I Met Your Mother with Jen B. By which I mean The Murtaugh List.

Those of you unfamiliar with the episode/Lethal Weapon movies may not be aware of the catch phrase "I'm too old for this [stuff]" that the grizzled old Danny Glover character mutters through waaay too many sequels. So here's the beginning of my "I'm Too Old for This" list.

The Murtaugh List:

-Wearing backpacks to school on a regular basis
-Pigtails
-Complaining about people not doing the dishes
-Leaving the house disheveled and in sweats
- Blowing bubbles/snapping gum in public
- Junk food binges
- novelty pens
- watching the Disney channel/Cartoon Network (adult swim excluded)
- passing notes in church

others?

Please feel free to argue, suggest additional items or otherwise give me direction, but think about it before you make a knee-jerk "But Rainbow Bride dolls are totally workforce appropriate."

I'm in 17th Grade, but I Read at a 8th Grade Level!

2009-06-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

Having always wanted, but never read Philip Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? I shuffled off to my local Amazon.com and ordered

<--this

book. Oh, what a fool I was! Six weeks later, I open it up and say, "Wow! This is a lot shorter than I remembered. Oh well." and started flipping through it. "Neat! Pictures!" How cool and graphic-novel-y and post-modern. After the first chapter it dawned on me.

Nuts! I ordered the junior-high progressing-readers adaption! That's not to say, however, that I stopped reading. Something satisfying in reading a book in 2 hours. Still, I feel like I got the cliffnotes version. It probably lost a lot in dumbing it down (oh PLEASE tell me it was dumbed down), but it's a nice engaging story. In fact, this is probably a nice middle ground between cliffnotes and actually reading the thing. Junior high rocks!