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.

This is Major Tom to Ground Control

Oh right. I had this thing I wrote in once. And then I stopped. Such is my downfall.

But thank the gods for technology, eh? Since I apparently can't remember to update from my laptop, Apple's taken care of adding a blogger app (which, annoyingly, is just for iphone...meaning I'm seeing it on a much smaller scale on the ipad, which I also have to sit upright rather than longways, otherwise I'm typing sideways. Man, first-world problems.)

Anyways, I've been reading some great stuff in the last...uh...two years. So I'm gonna get back on writing about that pronto.

Oh, and the ipad. I have to clarify this, because I usually don't own anything expensive brand-new. I won this sucker from a skill game for two dollars. Two dollars, man, and it was a buck a chance. I know the company probably made a few grand off of people trying for it, but I'm the lucky jerk who got it for less than the cost of a good cup of coffee.

What makes it better is I wanted one. But I wanted it like I want a moon rock, or a date with Ed Helms or something. Think pipe dreams, and then go beyond it. If I had that money to drop, I could never justify it because it is totally not a tool for productivity (hence, blogging).

So the reason I have this ipad (and the reason I am mentioning it) isn't because I am a hipster. It's because I have really good hand-eye coordination (thanks, video games!) and am sometimes just really, really effing lucky. Not a bad combination at the end of the day.

Pre-Semester Honesty.

Process of creating syllabi:

Stage 1: Denial (two weeks before classes start).  “There’s plenty of summer left!  I’ll do it later.”

Stage 2: Preliminary Acceptance (one week and 6 days later).  “Ah hell, class is tomorrow…I’ll get started now.”

Stage 3: Naïve Excitement (upon immediately sitting down at the desk).  “This will be the best semester ever!  I have so many ideas, and two months of sunlight and socialization have washed away last semester’s disillusionment!”

Stage 4: Confusion (after consulting Official Academic Calendar, which is completely different than Regular People Calendar).  “Wait, that can’t be right…there’s an extra week here…”

Stage 5:  Apathy (when it’s getting late).  “Eh, I’ll just change the dates on last semester’s calendar.  It’ll transfer.”

Stage 6: Anger (when somehow last semester’s syllabus dates won’t transfer to the current one).  “@&#$^$%!  It’s the SAME as last year!  Why is there still an extra #*$&ing week?!”

Stage 7: Paranoia (when it’s getting later).  “This is IMPOSSIBLE to do!  Weeks don’t just magically appear!  Who ARE these people – wizards?!”

Stage 8: Final Acceptance (after a few beers).  “Oh forget it…we’ll just watch a movie that week.”

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - Kate DiCamillo

I have been reading more than I've been writing, but such is the life of a mid-semester-er.  Summer's coming - today was the first t-shirt-and-no-sweater day this year.  I am a cold-weather person, but even I get excited when I feel that first hint of warmth in the air.  It's the same feeling as a good hug, and I always appreciate such changes, even if they also make me sick.

Spring, I mean, not hugs.

Anyway, the book I'm writing about (The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane) has been out since...2006, I think?  I first read it in 2008 - beginning of the new year, actually - and it's become something of a regular event.  When I can handle it, that is.  Reading Edward Tulane is not unlike sitting by your best friend's deathbed.  This is probably why the reviews are mixed...

Edward is a china rabbit - a entitled, pompous china rabbit, that is.  He gets lost one day, and goes through a variety of owners.  Throughout the years, he slowly changes into a toy that cares for his owner(s).  The problem is that if you care for someone and lose them, it hurts.  So Edward not only learns to care/love, but also has to handle separation and loss...many, many times.

Parents have voiced some real issues here.  First is the problem that the toy gets lost and is, at times, mistreated.  Losing a loved toy as a kid sucks, and parents have to lie and say how it'll be found and loved by someone else.  That doesn't always happen to Edward, which is the harsh truth for many lost toys.  Not the best thing for a young kid to find out.

Secondly, the lives of the humans aren't that great.  Abilene, Edward's first owner, has a posh life.  That's all well and good, but becomes a harsh contrast to the two kids living in a shack with an abusive father, or the homeless men riding the trains.  Again, hard truths to learn, and maybe even harder to read it through the eyes of a toy.

I can understand the parents' concerns, but I wonder, if I read it as a child, would I have been bothered?  The toy is lost, yes, but he eventually makes it home.  And while the other characters' lives were tough, it was nothing more than reading, say, Bridge to Terabithia or The Journey of Natty Gann.  So, I doubt the concerns over young readers' emotional endurance.

Honestly, I think the discussion arises because there are multiple messages present in the book.  It's like A Series of Unfortunate Events: there were always jokes present (usually about books and authors) that only adults would get.  But those "inside jokes" didn't take away from the younger readers' enjoyment.

In Edward Tulane, readers get the same lesson as Edward: be open to love.  For young readers, this is something mostly unprecedented.  They can see that Edward opens up and cares about people, and that he experiences loss, but they're seeing it vicariously: they don't have the years on them to really understand.

Adults, on the other hand...we get it.  Edward, in the beginning, is hard.  He doesn't get hurt, because he doesn't care about anyone but himself.  When he starts to care, he also starts to hurt, and he tries to distance himself.  But he keeps hoping, and eventually is rewarded.  It's the most basic love story - that of friendship and loyalty and protection.  And when reading it, we remember various losses.  And we know.

I hate that parents don't want their kids to read Edward Tulane.  It's books like this that I treasure the most: the ones that have different meanings at different times in your life.  Even though I didn't read it as a kid, I know what my reaction would've been.  I would've been concerned about Edward, hoping he found his way home, and that his friends and previous owners all lived "happily ever after."

But as an adult, I get what Edward's lesson is: don't be afraid to care, and don't ever stop loving.

1/30 Out of the Pocket

I swear, I don't know what's going on with the sports literature - specifically, football.  I don't keep planning this.  And I still skim over the description of the games.  I ran across this one via my hometown library's e-book access (and if you use any library in TN, you oughta find out if they're a member of the R.E.A.D.S system).  It's about a gay high school quarterback (Bobby) dealing with the after-effects of being outted at the beginning of his senior year.

First, what I liked - the narrative was solid.  Never once did I fail to believe Bobby's voice.  And it's good to see gay characters breaking the stereotype, and his being gay becoming just part of who he is (his last spoken line at the end is wonderful).

But...I just didn't buy into the whole scenario.  I mean, ok, it's southern California.  I get that things might be a bit more progressive there than, say, at the high school I went to.  But really, it all just seemed too easy.  Bobby's  close friends are a little shocked at first, but just in the way that anyone reacts when told something so major (especially at 17).  Then they're fine.  His coach and mom, well, their reactions are less than perfect (mainly denial, but none of that "I have no son" business), but they come around quickly.  And his dad is completely supportive, but this could be because he is diagnosed with cancer halfway through the book.

Then the whole school finds out, and, save for, like, 6 of his teammates, people are clapping for the guy for coming out (which was accidental, though they aren't aware of that).  The whole concept was that the kids had less of a problem with Bobby's being gay due to being raised in a more gay-friendly culture than their parents.  That was true for some of them, but it seemed to Bobby's friends/teammates, that it was more because of who he was - their friend.

So while I believed Bobby, I didn't believe anyone else.  And that makes me wonder...is the author, Bill Konigsberg, writing about what would happen, or what should happen?  Most of the conflict Bobby runs into is in his own mind - it's his issue with being gay, not anyone else's.  At least, not anyone he's close to.  How is it that Bobby's coach can go from "you're just confused" to "hey, no problem, we're all a family!" in a handful of weeks?  Or that his mom can turn her perspective around overnight?

Then there's a major issue that was skirted over - Finch, the school newspaper reporter and all-around invisible man, is the one who outs Bobby in his column.  He does so to have an impressive writing sample to send in with his college applications.  He tells Bobby it was also to do him a favor (since Bobby was in agony over whether or not to tell anyone).  Bobby, understandably, is furious at Finch, but eventually realizes Finch gave him the opportunity to "change the world" for gay male athletes.

But before Bobby has this epiphany, he confronts Finch about the betrayal.  Finch says that Bobby doesn't get it - that everyone loves a "jock" and he can do no wrong.  But Finch will always be ignored, and basically, were the situation reversed, the outcome would've been different.

Now, that's something interesting to bring up - how maybe certain things only matter in high school if you're not top dog.  Or maybe if you don't act like they matter - or maybe if you're the one to break the news.  But the idea ends there.  Bobby writes a follow-up article explaining that Finch broken confidence, but ultimately says he thanks him for it.  And that's that - the whole "it wouldn't be like this for everyone" allusion is over.

Why didn't Konigsberg follow up on that one?  And if we're writing about how things should be - about how most kids will basically be understanding, and adults will come around - why give some unresolved mention that this is typically not how things are?

Maybe I'm wrong on this one.  Maybe there's been enough exposure to where, for the most part, the negative backlash for gay teens is inner turmoil.  Not that that makes life easy, but it's a big step up from the days of inner turmoil AND getting thrown out of the house AND getting beaten up at school AND being told you're going to hell.  That's progress...isn't it?

Still, though, I'm not sure this was the most realistic depiction of a coming-out story.  If Konigsberg was just going to depict a few months in Bobby's life (that just happen to overlap with his coming out) and not try and convey a message about sexuality, it would be one thing.  But the message is there, and it just seems to be lost in the idealism of what should happen when an athlete comes out.

(Sans the Fred Phelps scene.)

Overall, not a waste of my morning, but not the best thing I've read all year.

-B.

1/28 - The Catcher in the Rye

There are like four or five books I'm wanting to write about - one that's relatively new (published in the fall), and a few that are "older."

But I can't let today go by without acknowledging Salinger.

I will be honest - the only Salinger book I've ever read is Catcher in the Rye.  But it's not the only one I own, and so it's just that whole "scheduling" nightmare that Nine Stories and Franny and Zooey are caught in.  In light of Salinger's death, I'll probably expedite those.  When an author you love dies, you sort of have that weird "death of a friend" reaction.  Instead of wishing you had called him one last time, you're left wishing you had read [that book] when he was still alive.

It makes no sense, I know, but very little we think makes any sense (if you were to really think about it).

Catcher is one I go back and read once every three years or so, starting at age 12.  What makes this one of my favorite books is that it was suggested to me by my dad.  When I was a kid, Dad wasn't a big reader.  (This has since changed, but only recently, and still not fiction.)  He disliked reading as a child/teen, so if he were to recommend something to me, I knew it had to be good.  Catcher in the Rye was that book.  He gave me a copy when I was in middle school, saying "if you feel misunderstood and hate the world and everyone in it right now, you'll appreciate this."  I didn't hate everyone, but he was right.

Catcher's a book that I appreciate for different reasons at different points in my life.  The last kick was the fact that it was written for adults, but appreciated by teenagers.  I love books like that that get "adopted" by a young adult audience, without being written for them.  I think that's why - the author writes what is true, and teens are receptive to that.  Holden doesn't really know what to do with his life, which, I imagine, would be a refreshing narrative in comparison with YA books of "old."  Fifteen now is still like fifteen then, so no wonder it's still a favorite novel of teenagers each generation.  That's universality, man - it's the Dark Side of the Moon for literature.

Salinger was an old dude, so it's not like we can really feel cheated.  I think it was Homer Simpson who said "That's what old people do,  son.  They die."  But you still feel a loss in the literary realm.  Salinger wasn't publishing - and his quotes on why he stopped make a pretty interesting case for the definition of art - but he was still writing.  And even if he stopped sharing what he saw, the world still seems different without that perspective:

Among other things, you find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know.  Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now.  Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles.  You'll learn from them--if you want to.  Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you.  It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement.  And it isn't education.  It's history.  It's poetry.