Lectito

Sometimes you unexpectedly get a moment of clarity when standing in line at the Dollar General, wasting time on your phone while the lady three people ahead of you writes a check for a gallon of milk.

I came across an article on Twitter, "Closing the Book," by Dylan Landis. She starts off, "It didn’t surprise me, when my parents were dying, that I couldn’t write. But it shocked me, as a writer of fiction, that I couldn’t read." And that sums up what the rest of the article is about: losing the focus or ability to read after a parent's death--or in her case, the death of both parents.

"Holy shit," I muttered under my breath, as I started scrolling quickly, reading it as fast as I could. (Not that I needed to hurry. I am uncertain how fast I can read, but it turns out it's "faster than a check-out line moves on Saturday morning.")

This whole not-reading spell has been going on with me for nearly a year. Calling it not-reading isn't really fair. It's not that I'm not reading: I am reading. I'm not finishing. I still buy books and I sit down and start something and...then I stop. I don't mean for the night. I don't mean because it turns out it's not any good. I just slowly stop and don't come back.

Like Landis, I keep a list of books I've read each year. It's almost September. This time last year, I had read 36. This year I've only read 16. But six of those were for a class I took back in the spring, and in all honesty, I didn't completely read them. So that means only ten books I've read and finished by my own choice.

I've started so many. There's one right now that I love. I took it out of town with me and would stay up fighting sleep just to read a little more. Then I came back, and it's stayed on my nightstand, the bookmark in the same place every day.

Landis doesn't really know why she lost the comfort of reading. She thinks it has to do with a general loss of focus, or maybe that she "couldn't tolerate endings."

I thought about that. Was that my problem? Was it the fact that I'd start a story and it would end?

In some ways, this hypothesis could be supported by what I had been finishing, but not recording: A. Conan Doyle's "Sherlock Holmes" short stories. I didn't add these to my book list, because they are part of a larger work (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, specifically) which I would add once totally finished. But while each case ends, the overall story continues. I'm nowhere near the final thoughts of Dr. Watson, so these "endings" are not real.

But that doesn't sound right.

What I personally think is going on is that once Mom died, I lost the one person in my immediate circle who understood books and reading. She was the one who taught me to read, who taught me the pleasure of reading and being read to and reading to others. And we shared so many times reading together when I was little. We came full circle, even, as I read to her from The Beatrix Potter Treasury her last day in the hospital, towards the end of the last time she was really aware. 

Whenever we'd talk, we would discuss what we were reading. She kept up with my reading throughout school. Not because she was a helicopter parent, but because she wanted to tell me if she'd read it and liked it (The Outsiders, for instance), or if she wanted to read it with me because it sounded good (Bridge to Terabithia). And she told me what she was reading. There were always books laying around our house. Always.

It's not that we shared the same interests. I delved into fantasy and sci-fi, and she would read some romance. But we still talked about what we were reading and listened to each other. In some ways, that was more effective: if I told her what Harry Potter was about, then she was aware of the significance without having to pretend she liked fantasy and read it herself. Similarly, I am familiar with the Alex Cross novels' general plot (and still want to sit down and read those someday).

I know the obvious solution is to join a book club or discussion group, but that's not what we did so it wouldn't fill the hole. It wasn't planned or prompted: these conversations were natural. Reading was so important to us that it became part of each day's talk. "What are you reading?" was up there with "how are you doing?"

Over 30 years of that. And now, it's all gone.

It's hard, then, to find the focus to sit down and read, because when it's over, that's it. I guess in a way it is dreading an ending, just not like what Landis described. It's an ending of the experience where you have lived another life for 300 pages, and you come back to reality, and there's no one to share it with.

And why even mention it? If anything, the past 5 years have shown me how everyone has some tragedy, some misery, that they deal with every single day. I'm not special: we are all broken. The best thing you can do is to try not to contribute to someone else's brokenness. The best thing you can do is to try to help them keep the pieces together a little better. And for your own sanity, there are stories: music and movies and TV shows and books and plays and beautiful, wonderful ways to escape and connect. Thankfully I've still got movies and TV, but those were always more "my thing" more than "our thing." And conversations about those stories come up more naturally and often. So there's that, and I am thankful.

I still miss reading, though.

Eventually, Landis said, she was able to read again. But it took time, and effort, and it's not the same. For me, maybe I've found my way back in. Yesterday I stumbled on a new graphic novel at the library. I hadn't read a graphic novel in a while, so I hit up the shelf and came out with 2 others. The same day, while in an empty movie theater, then sitting at Sonic, then lying in bed, I read half of one. Like TV and movies, graphic novels had always been "my thing" separate. They're not just novels; they are art. I still like them. Maybe they'll be the warm-up act, the thing that holds my hand and brings me back into the fold, even if I am alone this time.

"News is only the first rough draft of history."

There’s an article from the BBC about the Chattanooga shootings and the viral social media posts that have come out because of it. They discuss one in particular which claimed a connection of the shooter to ISIS, and it’s brief, but the reporter notes that the FBI has yet to state a motive, and currently nothing connects the shooter to ISIS.

What they didn’t note was how quickly this post, and others, came up. We’re talking within hours of the shooting. I know this for a fact, as I (and countless others) were glued to twitter as reports started coming in. And why not? It’s immediate, after all. If you can’t be in front of the TV, it’s a quick way to find information.

It’s also totally dangerous. I don’t know how many personal accounts with the hashtag #chattanooga came up saying stuff that was completely wrong. And then connecting it back to a news site. The teacher in me says, “well, go to the original and confirm,” but if you’re constantly refreshing your phone to see news of a city right next to your hometown, you’re not going to stop and fact-check.

And there’s our dilemma.

Social media is amazing as far as advancing news. 2009 changed everything. Remember Captain Sully and the plane in the Hudson river? Twitter broke the story first, from some guy on the ferry headed to pick up the travelers. Remember the Iranian elections? People world-wide changed their location to “Tehran” so the government couldn’t locate the real protesters. It all changed from there. The world got so much smaller, man, and in some ways that’s a really good thing.

Except for when we take everything we see online as truth. And in a panic, it’s easy to do. We are used to the immediacy now, so when a news agency waits to release information and updates (because there are many instances where they, too, release wrong information in haste) we turn to people passing along what they heard from someone else, or people making guesses.

Sometimes hearsay and guesses turn out to be the truth. But a 50/50 shot doesn’t make the person who said it right.

This is all coming from spending 10 months every year going over quality research in the classroom. And it’s also coming from coming of age in the '90s, when the mentality was “trust no one” (and thanks for giving us the slogan, Chris Carter). You want me to believe something? You better have credible facts to back it up. Pictures or it didn’t happen, as the saying goes.

But even too much skepticism is dangerous, because it leads to things like the Sandy Hook conspiracy theorists. It’s a thin line we tread these days, and on one side is ignorance, and on the other is mass hysteria. Somehow we have to stay in the in-between.

Title quote from Alan Barth

Civil War

When you grow up in the south - the actual south - no one knows how to talk about the Civil War. Especially not after the Civil Rights Movement.

You're ten years old, and you're sitting in a classroom, and the history book's on the Civil War chapter. Maybe your teacher is just out of college, or maybe they've been teaching for decades, and maybe they're from the area, or maybe they moved from somewhere else. Any of these elements could result in a completely different lesson, but what typically happens is "let's not talk too much about it."

There's a reason for this, and it comes down to the classroom. On the one hand, you have kids with kin who fought for the Union. On the other, you have kids with Confederate soldier ancestry. Then you have kids whose relatives were enslaved during that time. Do you as the teacher really want to get into the gritty details with that combination? Probably not, so it's easier to take the "it happened, here's the important bits, now let's move on."

No one wants to talk about the times we, as Americans, as southerners, screwed up.  (And let's put "enslaving a race of people for our own gain, fighting to keep the right to own them, and repeatedly denying them rights once freed" up there pretty high on the list.) We especially don't want to get into this with kids, because kids ask questions and that means we have to be prepared with some sort of answer. It's easier to just move on to another war, one where we were the "good guys" because that's what the kids want, right? We're the good guys.

It's hard to talk about being wrong. I get it.

So we don't talk about it, but then we still use the Confederate flag or name streets after Confederate generals, and we don't question it. Instead, we call it Southern pride and heritage. And we don't really understand what that means and the message it sends. And then we wonder why Black people think we don't understand racism, because as kids we never talked about what the war meant. Or what it means now.

History's usually taught as just memorization of facts and dates and names. Here's the Confederate general, here's the Union general, here's the battle, here's the start and end date. And repeat, and repeat, and repeat. But that's not how it works in reality. Modern pedagogy argues teaching history in context, as a series of events that build and build to create where we are now. Hindsight's always 20/20 but as a student you can understand things better if you see how they are all connected. Unfortunately, that means talking about the past - talking about it truthfully.

And y'know, maybe if we had that conversation early, it would be easier to understand where we are now. Why we are quick to dismiss what happened in Charleston as a "tragic incident" instead of a hate crime. Or why we can say it was an attack on Christians but not Blacks. Why we are fine with saying Dylann Roof was mentally unstable, but not agree that he was indoctrinated with racism left over from the 1800s and before. 

We can't admit this, because we never talked about how clinging to elements of "Southern pride" also means clinging to the idea of "the government shouldn't keep me from owning people," whether we mean for it to or not.

It's been 150 years and we are still failing at conversation. Well, more than that, we are failing to listen and see history beyond names and dates. We as white Southerners have this past that we only see from our perspective - the one we heard from our families and barely from school and in our street names and flags - and we can't see what this means to the Black community because we never talked about it in the first place.

Would talking about it stop hate crimes? Doubt it. There's definitely truth that Dylann Roof is mentally unwell. There are plenty of racists who do not kill people. So it isn't a definite solution. But, it would at least change our response when this shit happens. We wouldn't feel so defensive to proclaim "but not all Southerners are racist!" No, but it's a hard case to make when you happily, and without question, live in an area where your Southern pride effectively reminds a race of people that, at one time, they were owned. They were less than human. 

You can't go back and stop your ancestors from doing what they did. You're not responsible for that. But you are responsible for admitting we've done a terrible job of having actual conversation about our American, Southern history. And because of that, here we are. One hundred and fifty years later we're still fighting it, and everyone's on the losing side.

Milkshakes

I never understood the draw of vanilla milkshakes.

I don't mind vanilla ice cream, but usually it's best when paired with something else. Vanilla and chocolate. Vanilla and strawberry. It kind of cuts through the strong flavors and brings a creamier, calmer flavor. But on its own, it's kind of...bland.

And that is most often highlighted in milkshake form. You can look at the vanilla milkshake and think, this should be good. It's something that some people find pleasure in. I spent money on this.

But then yet, you realize, what the hell? It's really nothing special. It's like milk...really thick, cold milk.

Interestingly, the vanilla milkshake is somewhat symbolic of life when things, well, aren't so great. It's all a vanilla milkshake. You know it should be good. Other people are happy. But it all suddenly becomes sort of bland. It's not really worth complaining about, because, you know, you aren't going to throw the milkshake away. A lot of people have vanilla milkshakes. You remember you should be thankful you have one to begin with, even if it's not like you remember. Because you remember chocolate and strawberry and mocha latte.

And you're not giving up the milkshake you had, but you still remember: those were so much better.

---------------------------

There's not exactly a resolution to this. It's not some deductive analytic piece where the answer is already formed. I guess it's more of a thought on how many people get in this vanilla milkshake situation, where everything loses its flavor.

Because the funny thing about milkshakes is, they usually come in the same opaque container. You can never tell who has what flavor.

List 1: Live Concerts

Saturday time-waster: favorite live concerts (in the order I think of them):

1.  Paul McCartney, Atlanta, 2002.  This was my dad's anniversary present to my mom.  He told me he was going to get tickets and asked if I wanted in.  I did, but I didn't want it to be too Brady Bunch-ish.  Fortunately I said yes, get me a ticket, because it was the single best concert I've ever been to (and probably will go to).  Paul McCartney has every reason to act arrogant, and yet all throughout the concert he seemed genuinely appreciative of (and surprised by) the audience's response.  Sometimes you go to concerts and it's like a huge effort for the group - the band isn't into it, and they almost make you feel silly for being excited.  Really, the Beatles' front man had every right to be that way.  But no.  Every time he finished a song and the place went wild, he'd look up with this surprised smile on his face, like he was thinking "oh, you liked that?"  He played for three solid hours - no warm up act, no break - and gave three encores.  Finally he came out and said, "You have to go home!"  Everyone screamed "no!" and he laughed and replied, "Well, I'VE got to go home!"  All these years and he is still a fantastic musician and performer, but like I said, his attitude really made it even better.

2.  the everybodyfields, Bristol, 2008 (or possibly 2007...not really sure on this one).  the everybodyfields is a now broken up Americana band from Johnson City (they say Knoxville, but don't listen).  They got a name for themselves, even getting picked up by Ramseur Records out of NC.  Every time I saw them prior to (and after) this concert, it was outside.  That's what I was used to - standing in the sun (or freezing at night), sweating, and probably smelling like beer because someone accidentally spilled it on you.  That's appropriate for some concerts - the Americana "newgrass" movement can get pretty raucous, and it's fun to be standing up and screaming like it's punk rock.  Anyway, I never realized that that was not the best way to see the everybodyfields until I heard them..in a library.  My JC friends and I all loaded up one day to see them, and I'm thinking we'll be outside, we'll be standing up...and then we go into a regular-sized room and sit in seats.  Already I am confused...we're going to sit down through the concert?  The only time I ever saw that was on VH1's Unplugged.  But man, was it incredible.  One of my favorite songs of theirs is "Lonely Anywhere," which was somewhat fitting for where I was at the time (just out of grad school, no idea what to do with my life).  Again, I was used to hearing it outside, but in this intimate, enclosed setting...it was incredible.  In the middle of the song is a brief pause, and I can still hear it in my head - the way the silence echoed around the room.  In that split second, you could hear a pin drop.  The performance nearly moved me to tears, not because of the lyrics, but because of how Sam and Jill sang them.  It was beautiful, and I'm never going to question a concert in a library again.

3.  Dave Matthews Band, Knoxville, 2001.  I think I've seen DMB a handful of times by now, and I've since stopped following them.  I still like the same songs I loved in high school, but honestly, they are a link to the past and not really part of my present.  Anyway, during my junior/senior year, my best friends and I went through a big DMB phase.  I don't know who or what started it, but we loved DMB.  And just before graduation, the group came to Knoxville.  We scored tickets, and even though they weren't together, we all shared that experience.  It was maybe the last big thing we did together as a group before going our separate ways.  I remember us being close to UT's campus, and talking with my friends who would make that their home.  We had fun, we always did, but it was sort of bittersweet - I knew in a few months we'd scatter.  I still remember feeling that way when I think back to that concert, but now it's followed by the comfort time brings, and the knowledge that just like good music stays good no matter your address is, your friends will always be your friends.


4.  The Avett Brothers, Knoxville, 2007.  My problem with seeing the Avett Brothers now is that they are too big.  I don't want to sound like one of those music snobs - someone who only likes bands no one else has ever heard of and drops them the moment one of their songs is played against a car commercial.  What doesn't appeal to me is the crowd that comes along, because I am not a fan of crowds (and unfortunately, the AB concerts get more and more like frat parties).  I was lucky to see the Avett Brothers a few times before they got big, which meant less people.  Probably this was one of the last times, and is definitely one of my favorites.  I caught it with a Johnson City buddy, and Seth and Scott (and Joe and Bob), as always, rocked.  Their albums are good, but part of the reason people like them so much is to see them perform live, because they always put on a show.  I think this was the first time I saw "Pretty Girl from Chile" performed live...and if you know that song, you know the transition at the end that makes it so memorable.  They always play it up!

5.  Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers, Owensboro, 2011.  This was one that I almost missed.  I kept seeing promos all summer that Steve Martin was coming to the ROMP Festival...and yet I waited until the last minute to buy tickets.  I cannot explain why.  I love bluegrass (especially "newgrass"), I love Steve Martin, I love music festivals that haven't been totally overun by people.  There was no reason for me to not go to this.  Finally I got my mind around that, and found myself sharing the same breathing room as Steve Martin.  I didn't have the best seat, but did make it up from when he first came out to get a photo.  After that, I was content to sit towards the back and enjoy the music.  And let me tell you, this man can play.  Forget comedian Steve Martin - this dude is a serious musician.  Well, serious until he cracks jokes between songs...or sings something like "Jubilation Day" or "Atheists Ain't Got No Songs."  Yeah...he's still Steve Martin.  And he gives one helluva performance. 

6.  Transiberian Orchestra, Johnson City, 2005.  My boyfriend at the time loved TSO, and introduced me to them 3 years before.  I immediately loved their albums, and when we were at TTU, we had a chance to see them live at the Ryman in Nashville.  It was a good concert, don't get me wrong...but the Ryman's kind of a big deal.  Which means, all you better do is play, because you don't want to damage the auditorium.  I didn't realize that until we saw TSO again two years later, at Freedom Hall.  Apparently when they are not in a historic venue, they have pyrotechnics.  And they also make it snow.  Again, not just a concert, but a performance!  The BF was part of the fan club, so we had close seats.  Ever since, nothing gets me in the Christmas spirit quite like power chords, headbanging, and fireworks.

7.  The Washington Sax Quartet, Chattanooga, 2000.  Now for something completely different!  On Leap Day 2000 (it's crazy I remember that), my Dad and I went to either Baylor or McCallie (private schools in Chatt) to see WSaxQ.  (Fun trivia - this is the group that plays the intro/transition music to All Things Considered on NPR).  This was back when all I wanted to do was be a professional musician and/or composer.  I had just turned 17, and that's what I wanted in life.  This group was pretty well-known in the saxophone world, so Dad and I shot down to Chattanooga to catch their performance.  What's cool is that they played all kinds of different stuff - classical pieces, covers of the Beatles, modern works they had written.  It was all over the board.  But two things stood out to me:  first, their cover of Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings."  Typically you hear that piece performed by, well, more than just 4 saxophones, but that group nailed it.  The build up to the crescendo and that four note climax is just incredible.  If you're familiar with the piece, you know that after the climax is a pause - a couple of seconds of silence.  Once again, the silence was deafening.  I forgot there was a number of people sitting in the same room, which makes me believe we were all captured in that same moment. 

Coda:
The second thing I remembered about that concert was what happened after - when I got the group to sign my CD.  "I play saxophone too," I told them proudly, as only a new 17 year old can.  "And I want to perform and write, just like you.  Do you have any advice?" 

At that, one of the members looked me straight in the eye and said, "Yes.  Get out now." 

At first, I thought he was being an ass...but 12 years puts things in perspective.  I have a complicated relationship with music - one built around obsession and neglect, which is now relegated, when I am the musician, to solitary basement concerts.  Such a relationship is flaky and possibly unreal, sure, but it also has nothing to do with my livelihood. 

Words - now, that's something stronger.  I can make a life with them.  But if I had made music my life, I would have hated it.  And too much of my life is invested in music for that to happen.

On Obi-wan

I had a teacher - one of those remarkable teachers that you know at the time is remarkable and know every moment you are in class, you are learning more than you know.  She taught us and cared about us: the tough love you need as a high school sophomore and the actual love you need as a graduating senior.  She was young, but she got sick during my senior year, when my friends and I had her for AP English (many of us taking that class just to have her one more time before leaving), and she died the next year.  And that day was ten years ago today, though it was late when she died and I would not find out until ten years ago tomorrow.

-  -   -   -

Today I taught class and planned some college events and lived life as I normally do.  I got home and saw the memorial on facebook, and that's when I remembered.  Then people started posting stories.  Memories.  And it hit me: she had written a poem for my class, and likely she did it for every class, but we were the last ones, the last ones to have her for the full year.  I have carried this poem with me always, because its truths become more self-evident with each step towards what I guess is adulthood, or, maybe more accurately, life.

I went to the spare closet, where I keep four liquor boxes full of paper-stuff.  This paper-stuff has traveled with me through the decade, accumulating with each new location.  Every new zip code and mailing address I'll tell myself, "I am going to sort through this."  But I never do.  So, I had to dump it on the floor, knowing that the poem was somewhere, because I had typed it up to tape up in my first office, the first moment of the first day of the first year that I had to teach.  I typed it painstakingly, making sure to keep the same punctuation and format, and proofing to make sure I typed "swift," which I rarely wrote, and not "shift" or worse, "shit."  I typed the poem and carried it with me because she taught us all so much and even if I didn't want to teach, or thought I didn't want to teach before I actually had to do it, I still wanted to be just like her.  It was a good reminder.

So I unearthed the paper-stuff and with each new layer, there was more to remember.  More than just her.  People found in clippings I'd kept.  These others had left too, checked out early either by their own choice or something else's.  Papers I'd written as a college student, a graduate student, a teacher, with handwritten comments left by individuals I respected.  Pictures of friends who had long since left, or whom I'd long since left.  Boxes of this.  All part of a past I'd collected for over ten years, and still don't know what to do with.

Why hang on to it, why cart it around from state to state?  It should all be recycled, it should be burned, it should be thrown away.  I know this.  Papers are not people.  Pictures are not memories.  But eventually they are a physical representation of who you are.  With each new face, I saw who I'd become since knowing them, since last seeing them.  Who I am still becoming.  Who I still was. 

So it remains a reminder, for now.  Not a shrine.

"Armed and Dangerous"'

May 7, 2001

By: Sherry Godsey

I have given all that was mine to give-

Knowledge 

Love,

An example of courage, and

Swift kicks in the shorts.

You are not ready for the real world...

(I know this, for no one ever is).

You are as ready as you will ever be, armed with your-

Faith,

Resolve,

Thirst for independence, and

An education fit for queens.

You are dangerous now,

Ready to take on the universe.

Try to remember the universe is also ready to take YOU on, with-

Lions, Tigers and Lovers,

More knowledge than will fit in your brains,

Sleepless, worry-filled nights, and

Demands that will scare you awake.

Remember.

Remember.

Remember.

It is all you really have to sustain you.

Mixed Metaphor Jamboree: What I think about when I think about writing

I couldn't run for shit five years ago.  Despite always being active and relatively in shape, I could not run.

That sounds weird, I know.  Running is basically fast walking, and people typically nail that down before they can remember.

But it's more than that, apparently, and if you're thinking about things like distance running, everything matters.  Like how your feet hit the ground and how far apart they are and where your arms and hands are and even how you breathe.  That stuff all matters.  The little stuff you never notice, it determines whether you'll get it or not.

Which is why it took me about four years to get it somewhere near "right."  And I only know it must be right - right for me, maybe - because I can do it regularly and I don't hurt after or feel like I'm going to pass out.  This is success.

All this to say, when I think about writing, when I think about teaching writing, I think about running.

Part of the problem of teaching is that we teach things we are good at.  Things we enjoy.  And unless you wind up teaching graduate courses, you will have classes that half of the students do not want to be there.  I've watched colleagues battle this and even thought it myself: they love the content, so why don't the students?

Because writing is like running.  Some people can do it naturally.  Some people can't.  If you can't do something easily, chances are it becomes something you do not care for.  Hell, I took a grade reduction in middle school gym any time we had to run the mile, because I didn't want to deal with the hassle of not being able to do it right (or do it at all).  And again, I wasn't the inactive kid - I was good at sprinting and biking and swimming and sports.  I just couldn't run.

But running is like writing, and the idea is that you have to start small and apply it.  You don't run a mile, you walk for five minutes and jog for one minute.  Then repeat.  Then repeat again the next day.  And you don't write a full essay, you write a paragraph.  Then repeat.  And repeat again the next day.

The trick is, you have to actually do it, because maybe half of these skills is mental but that's not the half that actively produces anything.  It's just the inspiration and motivation.  We're all authors in our heads, but the "real authors" put words on paper and show it to people.  That's a big step, but you gotta walk for five minutes before you can jog for five.

And those of us with the pen on the other side of the table?  We're the ones with the stopwatch, maybe not keeping time at first , just acknowledging the success of another lap as the runner passes by.  Because writing is like running: it gets easier with practice, but you gotta get your feet on the ground.