It's Wednesday the 23rd, and it's the end of English 201A. No one else is in the room but him.
I can tell that the English instructor is busy, but I proceed anyway. "The reason why I'm asking you this is because I think the answer is no." I pause. "I was hoping we could be friends. I would like someone to talk about literature with."
"Yes, I will be your friend," he says finally. "But not tonight."
Somehow, that just strikes me as being funny.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
English 201A and The Experience of a Child
It's Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and most of the class decided not to show up. Of those who did attend in the beginning, after we had to change classrooms because the internet was out in our usual spot, well, almost everyone left.
Maria was there, sitting in the front, with her little girl in the next desk behind her. The child has a piece of paper and a marker, and is totally concentrating on her doodling. She doesn't look up or around.
The English instructor is one desk over from the little girl. He looks at her and says, "Are you going to help me grade? That's great." He's smiling.
For just the briefest of the trickle of time, I was moved.
Maria was there, sitting in the front, with her little girl in the next desk behind her. The child has a piece of paper and a marker, and is totally concentrating on her doodling. She doesn't look up or around.
The English instructor is one desk over from the little girl. He looks at her and says, "Are you going to help me grade? That's great." He's smiling.
For just the briefest of the trickle of time, I was moved.
Tales of Delusions, Brought to You By Patients At Stanford
It's the beginning of 2016, and I spent the holidays in Stanford University Hospital's G2P. We have groups with the patients from H2, the locked ward.
From the day I arrived, back in early December, he was there, always shoeless, always referring to himself as a "gentle giant" even though he was delusional and paranoid. Often, during group therapy, he would get into the same rant about how the doctors are holding him against his will, and that they are conspiring to keep him here as long as they possibly can.
During one particular session, he says, "This is like prison...right? Because we are held against our will."
One of the other patients turns to him, and says, "I've been to prison. This ain't nothin' like prison."
He shut up.
It was a beautiful moment in an otherwise dreary day.
From the day I arrived, back in early December, he was there, always shoeless, always referring to himself as a "gentle giant" even though he was delusional and paranoid. Often, during group therapy, he would get into the same rant about how the doctors are holding him against his will, and that they are conspiring to keep him here as long as they possibly can.
During one particular session, he says, "This is like prison...right? Because we are held against our will."
One of the other patients turns to him, and says, "I've been to prison. This ain't nothin' like prison."
He shut up.
It was a beautiful moment in an otherwise dreary day.
White and Privileged Too, Part III
"I call bullshit," says the grumpy, older student in the front. She's looking in my direction, but she isn't making eye contact. She then goes into an analogy about what if a man doesn't want to remove his ball cap or his sunglasses for his driver's license picture.
"That has nothing to do with his religion," I respond. Honestly, I don't care whether the Muslim woman removes her hijab for her DMV picture or not. What I care about is that somehow 9/11 got pulled into this discussion as rationale for discrimination against Muslims. I hear Trump in the back of my head--in the voices of my fellow classmates. "You're going to punish an entire religion for the actions of a few individuals?"
"That has nothing to do with his religion," I respond. Honestly, I don't care whether the Muslim woman removes her hijab for her DMV picture or not. What I care about is that somehow 9/11 got pulled into this discussion as rationale for discrimination against Muslims. I hear Trump in the back of my head--in the voices of my fellow classmates. "You're going to punish an entire religion for the actions of a few individuals?"
On Hamlet
It's the end of Engl 201B class, and the only people in the darken room are myself and the professor.
He says, distracted and looking down at the table, "How many students do you think understand it?" He's talking about the video we just watched based, line-for-line, on Hamlet.
I don't have a good answer to this, so I remain quiet.
He asks another question. "Are you having any trouble with it?"
"No, not really," then I admit, "I'm having to read over certain parts more than once."
"That's the way to do it," he says.
He says, distracted and looking down at the table, "How many students do you think understand it?" He's talking about the video we just watched based, line-for-line, on Hamlet.
I don't have a good answer to this, so I remain quiet.
He asks another question. "Are you having any trouble with it?"
"No, not really," then I admit, "I'm having to read over certain parts more than once."
"That's the way to do it," he says.
White and Privileged Too, Part II
I raise my hand, and the English instructor calls my name. "What I find to be so distressing is the other students' laissez faire attitude towards blatant discrimination against people with other religions."
I hear the whole class growl like some mystical, giant beast. I mention to them that they are "white and privileged." Several voices in the back are grumbling like heavy breathing from hiking up some intimidating hill.
"I don't think that's fair," the English instructor says to me.
I do. I see a whole class full of white kids with maybe one or two minority students.
I hear the whole class growl like some mystical, giant beast. I mention to them that they are "white and privileged." Several voices in the back are grumbling like heavy breathing from hiking up some intimidating hill.
"I don't think that's fair," the English instructor says to me.
I do. I see a whole class full of white kids with maybe one or two minority students.
White and Privileged Too
"Unfortunately, I have proven unable to take his sound advice."
--my last sentence in a very long email to the English instructor named "Yes, I'm White And Privileged Too"
The advice being what the Advisor said, rather indirectly and sympathetically, that I should toughen up my skin when I'm in the classroom.
"I'm mostly playing devil's advocate," the English instructor says to me as I'm already leaving the table in the classroom with my belongings slung over my shoulder.
"It's group think," I say as I'm walking towards the door. I half-expected the other students to shout "Heil Trump" as I was leaving.
Minutes later, I'm bawling in my SUV, tears streaming down my face, the whole ordeal. I haven't cried in years--the medication just zaps you of the ability to express your emotions that deeply.
But I cried anyway, and felt ashamed because I left lecture, and let my fellow classmates know that they got to me--that they struck some soft spot inside of me.
--my last sentence in a very long email to the English instructor named "Yes, I'm White And Privileged Too"
The advice being what the Advisor said, rather indirectly and sympathetically, that I should toughen up my skin when I'm in the classroom.
"I'm mostly playing devil's advocate," the English instructor says to me as I'm already leaving the table in the classroom with my belongings slung over my shoulder.
"It's group think," I say as I'm walking towards the door. I half-expected the other students to shout "Heil Trump" as I was leaving.
Minutes later, I'm bawling in my SUV, tears streaming down my face, the whole ordeal. I haven't cried in years--the medication just zaps you of the ability to express your emotions that deeply.
But I cried anyway, and felt ashamed because I left lecture, and let my fellow classmates know that they got to me--that they struck some soft spot inside of me.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Love's Labour's Lost
My grandmother and I are walking back from the restaurant in the dark.
"I don't want to lose my son," she tells me. She had asked me to contact him for her, to see if there was any channel that could be mended between them.
"I don't want to lose my son," she tells me. She had asked me to contact him for her, to see if there was any channel that could be mended between them.
The Mystery of the Lost Phone
Most of what Grandma wanted to talk about once I got there in Ridgecrest was my uncle--her son.
She had many complaints about him. "He ripped the phone right out of the wall in anger, now, why would he do that?" She tells me.
I have no response to this because according to my uncle and my mother, this is simply false--but I am curious as to how my grandmother with dementia falsified the memory. In other words, where did she get her inspiration for this fiction? Did it just come into her mind from some hidden, dust-laden corner of her psyche? Or was it based on truth--only a gross extortion of it?
She claims she has no phone--which is not true, and I show her where it is--next to the wall in the TV room where it's always been (at least as long as I can remember)--only the phone line isn't hooked up. I can't find the phone line at all. She has service--because Mom paid her outstanding bill and got it working again.
She had many complaints about him. "He ripped the phone right out of the wall in anger, now, why would he do that?" She tells me.
I have no response to this because according to my uncle and my mother, this is simply false--but I am curious as to how my grandmother with dementia falsified the memory. In other words, where did she get her inspiration for this fiction? Did it just come into her mind from some hidden, dust-laden corner of her psyche? Or was it based on truth--only a gross extortion of it?
She claims she has no phone--which is not true, and I show her where it is--next to the wall in the TV room where it's always been (at least as long as I can remember)--only the phone line isn't hooked up. I can't find the phone line at all. She has service--because Mom paid her outstanding bill and got it working again.
Delusions and Free Will
"Why would Uncle [name retracted] steal your TV? He has a TV, plus he has enough money to buy another TV if he wanted," I say to Grandma as I'm listening to her, trying to find the illogical reasoning behind her paranoia. We're sitting at a bench in a restaurant that literally has saw dust (or shavings) on the floor.
"Because he wants to hurt me," my grandmother responds.
"I don't know Uncle [name retracted] that well, but I have talked to him some, and he would never want to hurt you on purpose," I say, trying to comfort her.
"Because he wants to hurt me," my grandmother responds.
"I don't know Uncle [name retracted] that well, but I have talked to him some, and he would never want to hurt you on purpose," I say, trying to comfort her.
Discussions About Grandma, Part II
When I first arrived at my grandmother's house in Ridgecrest, I heard my Grandma mumbling something about not wanting to go out because of the [Thanksgiving] crowds.
Then an hour later, she forgot what day it is, and told me after I clued her in, "I didn't know it was Thanksgiving."
"Did you remember me telling you when I left that I was coming back on Thursday?"
"No," she responds honestly.
During the visit, Grandma keeps asking me if I'm hungry (which I'm not). Finally, she decides that she wants to go to the restaurant across the street. She hasn't had anything to eat since lunch, which she says she ate some soup.
Two people are smoking just outside of the restaurant's doors, and they politely say hello as we come closer.
"I'll have a piece of pie," I tell the waitress after my grandmother and I are seated. After all, I had a New York steak sandwich a few hours ago (which I shared with my dog, Beck) while I was on the road to Ridgecrest.
She looks surprisingly annoyed. "We don't have any pie."
"Okay," I say, undaunted. "Do you have any type of dessert?"
"Yes, we have a spice pound cake."
"I'll take that then."
Grandma lifts her head up, "Make that two." She hands the waitress the menu.
It's bad enough I'm eating it, which is perhaps the main reason why I didn't say anything to my grandmother, but as a diabetic, she really doesn't need the sugar--especially since she's not having anything with it like a protein source.
I watch in horror as she eats the cake and the ice cream that went with it. Like looking at an addict with a needle in her hand as she finds a good vein in the arm, poking around and finally diving right in, blissfully blind to the overwhelming consequences that are assuredly coming--a medical doomsday.
"This is even better than real food," my grandmother comments as she's shooting up straight sugar.
Then an hour later, she forgot what day it is, and told me after I clued her in, "I didn't know it was Thanksgiving."
"Did you remember me telling you when I left that I was coming back on Thursday?"
"No," she responds honestly.
During the visit, Grandma keeps asking me if I'm hungry (which I'm not). Finally, she decides that she wants to go to the restaurant across the street. She hasn't had anything to eat since lunch, which she says she ate some soup.
Two people are smoking just outside of the restaurant's doors, and they politely say hello as we come closer.
"I'll have a piece of pie," I tell the waitress after my grandmother and I are seated. After all, I had a New York steak sandwich a few hours ago (which I shared with my dog, Beck) while I was on the road to Ridgecrest.
She looks surprisingly annoyed. "We don't have any pie."
"Okay," I say, undaunted. "Do you have any type of dessert?"
"Yes, we have a spice pound cake."
"I'll take that then."
Grandma lifts her head up, "Make that two." She hands the waitress the menu.
It's bad enough I'm eating it, which is perhaps the main reason why I didn't say anything to my grandmother, but as a diabetic, she really doesn't need the sugar--especially since she's not having anything with it like a protein source.
I watch in horror as she eats the cake and the ice cream that went with it. Like looking at an addict with a needle in her hand as she finds a good vein in the arm, poking around and finally diving right in, blissfully blind to the overwhelming consequences that are assuredly coming--a medical doomsday.
"This is even better than real food," my grandmother comments as she's shooting up straight sugar.
Discussions about Grandma
My Mom is in bed. "There's a lot of shit that you just don't know!" she says, talking about her relationship with her mother.
"Yeah, must be because you lied to me about who my father was for twenty-one years!" I shout back, instantly regretting it.
"Yeah, must be because you lied to me about who my father was for twenty-one years!" I shout back, instantly regretting it.
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
I Realize My Own Quiet
"They are the sounds of the outsider. They annoy me for being loud--so self-sufficient and unconcerned by my presence. Yet for the same reason they seem to me glamorous. (A romantic gesture against public acceptance.) Listening to their shouted laughter, I realize my own quiet. Their voices enclose my isolation. I feel envious, envious of their brazen intimacy."
--pg. 33-34 of Hunger of Memory by Richard Rodriguez
--pg. 33-34 of Hunger of Memory by Richard Rodriguez
Monday, November 21, 2016
Realist on Suffering, Part IV
Mom did call the cops on Grandma, and asked them to pick her up on a 5150 (which also includes the possibility to be forcefully hospitalized if you are "gravely disabled," the condition my mother was hoping for).
The cops refused, saying there wasn't enough evidence to warrant such action.
The cops refused, saying there wasn't enough evidence to warrant such action.
Innately Priviledged
"Yet at the same time he is afraid his work is innately priviledged..."
--The Hidden Injuries of Class by Sennett and Cobb, pg. 6
--The Hidden Injuries of Class by Sennett and Cobb, pg. 6
Nature Had Instilled in Him
"Where the Renaissance philosopher Pico della Mirandola believed extraordinary men struggled to rise above the ordinary to produce the achievements of civilization, Enlightenment writers like Voltaire believed the capacity for civilized achievement to lie within the grasp of any member of the human race, if only he could develop the rational powers nature had instilled in him."
--The Hidden Injuries of Class, chapter: "A Flawed Humanism" by Sennett and Cobb
--The Hidden Injuries of Class, chapter: "A Flawed Humanism" by Sennett and Cobb
Measuring Excellence in the Person
"Today, the idea of ability has become a wholly different phenomenon. Excellence in the object is only a means to measuring excellence in the person. The demonstration of worth now has become a demonstration about inner capacity in the man greater than his tangible works, about a virtue which permits him to transcend situation after situation, mastering each but attached and identified with none."
--pg. 245 of The Hidden Injuries of Class by Cobb and Sennett
--pg. 245 of The Hidden Injuries of Class by Cobb and Sennett
Sunday, November 20, 2016
Realist on Suffering, Part II
"I believe in individual rights," My mom argues, providing justification that if Grandma wants to live alone and die out there without any family or support, then she should be allowed to just grow old and die of some complication from her diabetes or maybe from an accident or fall or E.coli and/or salmonella from the old, hot dairy she's consuming.
Somehow I just can't ride that wagon train, feeling like it's a bit too convenient for the people around her who can now morally and righteously ignore her because she makes other people uncomfortable or even angry--but at least she can live the life she wants to, right? She has freedom from an assisted living center. Freedom, hmmm...
Somehow I just can't ride that wagon train, feeling like it's a bit too convenient for the people around her who can now morally and righteously ignore her because she makes other people uncomfortable or even angry--but at least she can live the life she wants to, right? She has freedom from an assisted living center. Freedom, hmmm...
Realist on Suffering
My Mom and Dad are lying in their bed, and I'm standing at the foot.
Dad says, "Do you feel compelled to do this?" He is referring to me telling my parents that I would move to Ridgecrest, CA to live with Grandma, watch her for her health and safety, and attend community college there. It would be a temporary solution, I acknowledged, since eventually "I will have to return to a four-year university."
I don't know how to respond. The idea of moving to the middle of the Californian desert, leaving my friends, the few I have, and staying with my grandma who needs someone to clean her house, pay her bills, manage her finances, and on top of all that, keep in check her diabetes by balancing snacks and cooking for her (because despite being one of those ol' fashion housewives, she's gone on strike and refused to make any of her own meals) and of course, her dementia. I answer honestly, "I feel compelled to act."
I asked Mom for us to set up a schedule between her and her brother and me that we would visit Grandma once every two weeks, rotating on the duties.
Mom is livid, "I have a job! And Uncle [name retracted] has a job. He works forty hours a week plus an hour and a half drive each way to work. Then, he has to come home on his days off and clean house and cook his meals and take care of his yard and his dog. He is living alone!"
How tragic for him.
She bites down. "Why are you staring at me pissed off? You are sitting there, telling me what to do, and you are judging me!"
It was late last night by the time I returned from Ridgecrest because it's a four hour drive one way. Beck went with me.
Mom and I got into an argument. Mom wanted to call the cops in the morning (this morning) to see if they would pick her up on a 5150. I countered that idea by asking Mom if I could talk Grandma into going to Stanford where there are better doctors and more resources.
"What are they going to do? Keep her for a few days, and then kick her out on the streets of Palo Alto," Mom tells me in anger.
"I was planning on picking her up," I retort. "They can do a lot of things in a few days. They can diagnosis her properly, they can tell you the extent of her deterioration and also there are social workers who can help find her help and a place to stay."
"She won't go."
"Just give me the time to ask her to go in voluntarily and if she won't go, then call the cops."
"She doesn't have electric, and she's eating dairy out of a warm fridge, do you really think that treatment will help? Do you want it to help? Is that really the kind thing?"
"That's horrible to say, and yes, treatment can slow down the deterioration for a while."
The next day I walk into my mother's bedroom to find her slouched in bed, surfing the internet on her computer that's resting in her lap. "Mom," I say. "This is not a problem that you can ignore and it will go away."
But everyone just wants the problem to go away without anyone getting dirty or messy. We have to minimize the situation through denial of one person's extensive suffering.
I knew it was a bad situation when I drove all the way to my grandmother's house, and her truck was not in the driveway--which means either she drove to the grocery store or the truck had been repossessed from lack of payment.
I have Beck at my side, and I knock on the door. No one is coming, and the blinds are drawn so there's no way to see into the house.
I knock again, and wait.
Grandma opens the door and invites me in like she was expecting me.
The idea thing I notice are the dead, dried leaves on the carpet near the door. Grandma hasn't vacuumed in a while.
"Oh, she's getting so big," Grandma says about Beck. She walks into the kitchen, and starts wringing out a shirt or a pair of blue pants in the sink as she has washed them there, I can't tell which.
"She's like me, she's just getting wider." I look around and see an Albertson's shopping cart that rests next to the dining table. Obviously, Grandma has been without a car for a while. "The washing machine isn't working?" I ask.
"There's no hot water out there, I have to get it hooked up."
"I just got in last night," Grandma continues. She mentions seeing her son, my uncle, the one who lives in Nevada. I don't know if she means she was there yesterday or during some earlier trip."Take Beck outside in the back," she offers.
As soon as I walk through the patio, I see something on the ground in the backyard. It's a half-eaten sandwich with rib bones scattered around. Beck nabs one of the bones before I have time to tell her to spit it out. I grab Beck so she won't perforate her stomach, and I march her back into the house.
The garbage is everywhere. In the back yard, some of it is in the front yard. Everywhere, and you can tell that the smell is only going to grow. No one has picked up the trash in a very long time.
I tell my grandma that I need to charge up my cellphone, and I head to my SUV to grab the charger. I plug it into the wall in the kitchen. No response from the phone. Then, I start to look around, and I notice there are no lights on in the house. I see the open carton of cottage cheese with the fork still left in it. I see an empty package for a microwavable dinner that proudly proclaims "6 grams of protein." There are other food articles clotting up the counter.
I open the door of the fridge, and notice how it's just above room temperature.
"Grandma, do you have electricity?" I ask innocently.
"No, I had it turned off because I have been in and out so much over the past couple of months." Later, she would tell me that she called the power company, and that they promised to turn on her lights "tomorrow or the next day." Which is odd because she doesn't own a working phone. She didn't pay the bill on her landline, and according to her, she lost her cellphone. Who did she call and from where?
I sit down on the couch across from her. Beck lays down at my feet on the carpet, obviously exhausted from being so excited in the car. Grandma looks smaller, shriveled even like how a sweater will shrink from all those wash cycles--like Grandma has been through one too many life battles where you just go 'round and 'round, spinning in some machine. "Have you lost weight?" I point out.
"I'm not trying," she responds. Her shoe laces aren't tied--and those happen to be my sneakers. She tells me that her son, my uncle, has been in and out of here, checking in on her--which I know not to be true. Neither of my uncles have been to Ridgecrest in months. Hence why I came--because no one else wanted to. No one wants to deal with an old, sick woman who reminds them of how they might end up someday in the not-so-distant future.
In a shocking display of irony, my grandmother confides in me that she feels like she can be honest with me, and not with the other family members. She wants to move away from this place because it bothers her eyes and her nose.
"Well, if you decide to move, will you tell me?" I ask. The question is ridiculous. She doesn't own a vehicle, and just where is she going to live?
As I'm getting ready to leave, she stops me on the sidewalk to my SUV. She says, "Be careful what you say to your parents about my life. I don't want them to know."
"What don't you want me to tell them?" I'm lying because the entire visit I was TXT-messaging my father about the "grim" picture of the house and Grandma's welfare.
"Everything," she says. "Uncle [name retracted] will come up here and harass me."
My mom decides this morning that she and her brother (my uncle) are going to Ridgecrest on Tuesday, to fix her electricity and to buy her some groceries. "We are not going to bring her back," my mother tells me sternly.
"Your uncle made a valiant effort," my Dad says, talking about how my uncle let Grandma live with him for close to six months--a time which was filled with conflict for the both of them. Grandma ardently and blindly denies having any memory loss or any dementia, despite the fact that her GP told her to her face that she probably had Alzheimer's. She also has refused treatment.
"I am more of a realist," my mother says, insinuating that I have my head in the clouds when I suggest that we try to get Grandma into treatment on a voluntary basis.
Dad says, "Do you feel compelled to do this?" He is referring to me telling my parents that I would move to Ridgecrest, CA to live with Grandma, watch her for her health and safety, and attend community college there. It would be a temporary solution, I acknowledged, since eventually "I will have to return to a four-year university."
I don't know how to respond. The idea of moving to the middle of the Californian desert, leaving my friends, the few I have, and staying with my grandma who needs someone to clean her house, pay her bills, manage her finances, and on top of all that, keep in check her diabetes by balancing snacks and cooking for her (because despite being one of those ol' fashion housewives, she's gone on strike and refused to make any of her own meals) and of course, her dementia. I answer honestly, "I feel compelled to act."
I asked Mom for us to set up a schedule between her and her brother and me that we would visit Grandma once every two weeks, rotating on the duties.
Mom is livid, "I have a job! And Uncle [name retracted] has a job. He works forty hours a week plus an hour and a half drive each way to work. Then, he has to come home on his days off and clean house and cook his meals and take care of his yard and his dog. He is living alone!"
How tragic for him.
She bites down. "Why are you staring at me pissed off? You are sitting there, telling me what to do, and you are judging me!"
It was late last night by the time I returned from Ridgecrest because it's a four hour drive one way. Beck went with me.
Mom and I got into an argument. Mom wanted to call the cops in the morning (this morning) to see if they would pick her up on a 5150. I countered that idea by asking Mom if I could talk Grandma into going to Stanford where there are better doctors and more resources.
"What are they going to do? Keep her for a few days, and then kick her out on the streets of Palo Alto," Mom tells me in anger.
"I was planning on picking her up," I retort. "They can do a lot of things in a few days. They can diagnosis her properly, they can tell you the extent of her deterioration and also there are social workers who can help find her help and a place to stay."
"She won't go."
"Just give me the time to ask her to go in voluntarily and if she won't go, then call the cops."
"She doesn't have electric, and she's eating dairy out of a warm fridge, do you really think that treatment will help? Do you want it to help? Is that really the kind thing?"
"That's horrible to say, and yes, treatment can slow down the deterioration for a while."
The next day I walk into my mother's bedroom to find her slouched in bed, surfing the internet on her computer that's resting in her lap. "Mom," I say. "This is not a problem that you can ignore and it will go away."
But everyone just wants the problem to go away without anyone getting dirty or messy. We have to minimize the situation through denial of one person's extensive suffering.
I knew it was a bad situation when I drove all the way to my grandmother's house, and her truck was not in the driveway--which means either she drove to the grocery store or the truck had been repossessed from lack of payment.
I have Beck at my side, and I knock on the door. No one is coming, and the blinds are drawn so there's no way to see into the house.
I knock again, and wait.
Grandma opens the door and invites me in like she was expecting me.
The idea thing I notice are the dead, dried leaves on the carpet near the door. Grandma hasn't vacuumed in a while.
"Oh, she's getting so big," Grandma says about Beck. She walks into the kitchen, and starts wringing out a shirt or a pair of blue pants in the sink as she has washed them there, I can't tell which.
"She's like me, she's just getting wider." I look around and see an Albertson's shopping cart that rests next to the dining table. Obviously, Grandma has been without a car for a while. "The washing machine isn't working?" I ask.
"There's no hot water out there, I have to get it hooked up."
"I just got in last night," Grandma continues. She mentions seeing her son, my uncle, the one who lives in Nevada. I don't know if she means she was there yesterday or during some earlier trip."Take Beck outside in the back," she offers.
As soon as I walk through the patio, I see something on the ground in the backyard. It's a half-eaten sandwich with rib bones scattered around. Beck nabs one of the bones before I have time to tell her to spit it out. I grab Beck so she won't perforate her stomach, and I march her back into the house.
The garbage is everywhere. In the back yard, some of it is in the front yard. Everywhere, and you can tell that the smell is only going to grow. No one has picked up the trash in a very long time.
I tell my grandma that I need to charge up my cellphone, and I head to my SUV to grab the charger. I plug it into the wall in the kitchen. No response from the phone. Then, I start to look around, and I notice there are no lights on in the house. I see the open carton of cottage cheese with the fork still left in it. I see an empty package for a microwavable dinner that proudly proclaims "6 grams of protein." There are other food articles clotting up the counter.
I open the door of the fridge, and notice how it's just above room temperature.
"Grandma, do you have electricity?" I ask innocently.
"No, I had it turned off because I have been in and out so much over the past couple of months." Later, she would tell me that she called the power company, and that they promised to turn on her lights "tomorrow or the next day." Which is odd because she doesn't own a working phone. She didn't pay the bill on her landline, and according to her, she lost her cellphone. Who did she call and from where?
I sit down on the couch across from her. Beck lays down at my feet on the carpet, obviously exhausted from being so excited in the car. Grandma looks smaller, shriveled even like how a sweater will shrink from all those wash cycles--like Grandma has been through one too many life battles where you just go 'round and 'round, spinning in some machine. "Have you lost weight?" I point out.
"I'm not trying," she responds. Her shoe laces aren't tied--and those happen to be my sneakers. She tells me that her son, my uncle, has been in and out of here, checking in on her--which I know not to be true. Neither of my uncles have been to Ridgecrest in months. Hence why I came--because no one else wanted to. No one wants to deal with an old, sick woman who reminds them of how they might end up someday in the not-so-distant future.
In a shocking display of irony, my grandmother confides in me that she feels like she can be honest with me, and not with the other family members. She wants to move away from this place because it bothers her eyes and her nose.
"Well, if you decide to move, will you tell me?" I ask. The question is ridiculous. She doesn't own a vehicle, and just where is she going to live?
As I'm getting ready to leave, she stops me on the sidewalk to my SUV. She says, "Be careful what you say to your parents about my life. I don't want them to know."
"What don't you want me to tell them?" I'm lying because the entire visit I was TXT-messaging my father about the "grim" picture of the house and Grandma's welfare.
"Everything," she says. "Uncle [name retracted] will come up here and harass me."
My mom decides this morning that she and her brother (my uncle) are going to Ridgecrest on Tuesday, to fix her electricity and to buy her some groceries. "We are not going to bring her back," my mother tells me sternly.
"Your uncle made a valiant effort," my Dad says, talking about how my uncle let Grandma live with him for close to six months--a time which was filled with conflict for the both of them. Grandma ardently and blindly denies having any memory loss or any dementia, despite the fact that her GP told her to her face that she probably had Alzheimer's. She also has refused treatment.
"I am more of a realist," my mother says, insinuating that I have my head in the clouds when I suggest that we try to get Grandma into treatment on a voluntary basis.
Hidden Injuries
"In 2008, Sean Quinn of the site fivethirtyeight.com told the story,
possibly apocryphal, of the voter in Western Pennsylvania who told a
canvasser, 'We’re voting for the nigger.' "
--by Robert Kuttner, article: "Hidden Injuries of Class, Race, and Culture"
(http://prospect.org/article/hidden-injuries-0)
--by Robert Kuttner, article: "Hidden Injuries of Class, Race, and Culture"
(http://prospect.org/article/hidden-injuries-0)
An Act of Social Withdrawal?
"Was my dissertation much more than an act of
social withdrawal?...I seemed
unable to dare a passionate statement. I felt drawn by professionalism to the
edge of sterility, capable of no more than pedantic, lifeless, unassailable
prose."
--by Rodriguez
--by Rodriguez
Blinkered Pony
"He rarely feels the reality of knowledge, of
other men’s thoughts and imaginings, on his own pulses . . He has something of
the blinkered pony about him."
--by Richard Hoggart
--by Richard Hoggart
Fellowship Between a Reader and a Writer
"I sat
there and sensed for the very first time some possibility of fellowship between
a reader and a writer, a communication, never intimate like that I heard spoken
words at home convey, but one nonetheless personal."
--by Richard Rodriguez, Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez, chapter: "The Achievement of Desire"
--by Richard Rodriguez, Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez, chapter: "The Achievement of Desire"
PC Way of Saying "Dumbed Down"
I had just finished my poetry midterm from Engl 201B, and I walked up to the professor and handed in my test.
"How much of Hamlet should we read?" I ask since he had mentioned in the beginning of class that we were moving onto plays.
"Oh, we won't get very far. Probably to the first or second scene," he replies. He looks up at me, and comments, "It's a hard read."
I don't mention the fact that I read Hamlet when I was seventeen or eighteen years old in AP Lit, and I don't remember having any trouble with it back then.
The English instructor during a stray conversation held similar conventions about community college students in freshman comp having difficulties with Shakespeare, and how, instead, he chose to teach a text that "was more accessible" in order to ignite student interest.
I suppose there is a fine line between challenging your students, and overwhelming them to the point that they surrender and refuse to study anymore.
"How much of Hamlet should we read?" I ask since he had mentioned in the beginning of class that we were moving onto plays.
"Oh, we won't get very far. Probably to the first or second scene," he replies. He looks up at me, and comments, "It's a hard read."
I don't mention the fact that I read Hamlet when I was seventeen or eighteen years old in AP Lit, and I don't remember having any trouble with it back then.
The English instructor during a stray conversation held similar conventions about community college students in freshman comp having difficulties with Shakespeare, and how, instead, he chose to teach a text that "was more accessible" in order to ignite student interest.
I suppose there is a fine line between challenging your students, and overwhelming them to the point that they surrender and refuse to study anymore.
Friday, November 18, 2016
A Gift of All Things
The doctors through the ultrasound have found about a two-inch (5cm) tumor in my uterus.
My GP called me twice yesterday, first to break the news, and then he rang me again about fifteen minutes later to tell me that I shouldn't worry (he had said that already during the first conversation), it likely wasn't cancerous, probably just a large fibroid--and of course, don't worry.
My GP called me twice yesterday, first to break the news, and then he rang me again about fifteen minutes later to tell me that I shouldn't worry (he had said that already during the first conversation), it likely wasn't cancerous, probably just a large fibroid--and of course, don't worry.
Larry Summers: 'Political Correctness'
"I have made no secret over the years of my conviction
that the sensitivities of individuals or members of various group
should not be permitted to chill free speech on college campuses."
--Lawrence H. Summers, "Larry Summers: 'Political Correctness' Has Become a Codeword for Hate"
(https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/11/17/larry-summers-political-correctness-has-become-a-codeword-for-hate/)
I am talking to my mom in the front room about "safe spaces" on campus. My father walks up to our chairs and says to me, "You're too old for this, but you're sounding like an entitled millennial."
--Lawrence H. Summers, "Larry Summers: 'Political Correctness' Has Become a Codeword for Hate"
(https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/11/17/larry-summers-political-correctness-has-become-a-codeword-for-hate/)
I am talking to my mom in the front room about "safe spaces" on campus. My father walks up to our chairs and says to me, "You're too old for this, but you're sounding like an entitled millennial."
Thursday, November 17, 2016
A Bud, Perhaps?
"To love that well which thou must leave ere long."
--William Shakespeare, "That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold"
"Do I get a Corona out of this?" I ask to the English instructor after I won a quick round in class of a game based on The Bean Trees.
He's not looking at me, and he shakes his head. Apparently, I'm not very funny.
I try again, "A Budweiser, perhaps?" This is an allusion to the LSU Professor who, during his tenure, would frequently bring beer to class for the students who have excelled or accomplished something during either lab or lecture.
Again, the answer is another casual "no."
It's the end of class, and several students are milling around the English instructor, asking him various questions.
I'm standing there besides my desk waiting my turn when I notice another student who is wearing wool slippers. This is worse than yoga pants.
But yesterday, mostly, I was severely distracted and disgruntled. I was frequently overwhelmed with negative, ruminative thoughts, much to the chagrin of my case manager who told me to develop a positive voice in my head to counteract the other voices. Like that is an easy feat.
I contemplated Morpheus, and even sent him a TXT-message yesterday, and when I had returned from school to home, I called him on the phone and left a voicemail.
I read a quick summary of an article from a decent news source that said depression was partially caused by wanting everyone to like you. Obviously, some people just won't.
I can't make Morpheus like me or want to be with me, and somewhere in my brain, I recognize that I should just move on with my life like someone with a missing leg learns to walk again.
My eager, excessive academic performance slowly reveals a greater truth about my personality: I want to be liked by my professors, I want to receive special recognition and attention, and I have no similar feelings towards my classmates. I don't care if they ever talk to me, but I feel the need to develop some working relationship with my instructors.
We all want to draw a certain distinction about ourselves that is readily identifiable by others. We need to stand out or the world will swallow us whole. We will be consumed by the mass culture.
Many people give up on the idea that they are unique. I see this in my mom, who has a Master's in Accounting, but does, as she explains it, "data entry" for the state because she needs the health insurance. How is she challenging herself or how is she growing creatively? What opportunities are lost?
--William Shakespeare, "That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold"
"Do I get a Corona out of this?" I ask to the English instructor after I won a quick round in class of a game based on The Bean Trees.
He's not looking at me, and he shakes his head. Apparently, I'm not very funny.
I try again, "A Budweiser, perhaps?" This is an allusion to the LSU Professor who, during his tenure, would frequently bring beer to class for the students who have excelled or accomplished something during either lab or lecture.
Again, the answer is another casual "no."
It's the end of class, and several students are milling around the English instructor, asking him various questions.
I'm standing there besides my desk waiting my turn when I notice another student who is wearing wool slippers. This is worse than yoga pants.
But yesterday, mostly, I was severely distracted and disgruntled. I was frequently overwhelmed with negative, ruminative thoughts, much to the chagrin of my case manager who told me to develop a positive voice in my head to counteract the other voices. Like that is an easy feat.
I contemplated Morpheus, and even sent him a TXT-message yesterday, and when I had returned from school to home, I called him on the phone and left a voicemail.
I read a quick summary of an article from a decent news source that said depression was partially caused by wanting everyone to like you. Obviously, some people just won't.
I can't make Morpheus like me or want to be with me, and somewhere in my brain, I recognize that I should just move on with my life like someone with a missing leg learns to walk again.
My eager, excessive academic performance slowly reveals a greater truth about my personality: I want to be liked by my professors, I want to receive special recognition and attention, and I have no similar feelings towards my classmates. I don't care if they ever talk to me, but I feel the need to develop some working relationship with my instructors.
We all want to draw a certain distinction about ourselves that is readily identifiable by others. We need to stand out or the world will swallow us whole. We will be consumed by the mass culture.
Many people give up on the idea that they are unique. I see this in my mom, who has a Master's in Accounting, but does, as she explains it, "data entry" for the state because she needs the health insurance. How is she challenging herself or how is she growing creatively? What opportunities are lost?
Engl 201A And the Accusation of Cheating
I want to be a social worker, to help kids, Maria says to me outside of the Engl 201A classroom as we're both waiting for the English instructor to show up and start lecture.
She's almost to the point of tears as she tells me that the English instructor accused her of plagiarism, even though she told him "to google it" (her paper) to check. He brought up the charge that she had not turned in a work that came from her own words.
While she admitted to me that she had originally written the essay in Spanish, and then had help in translating, she is adamant that those are her sentences and paragraphs and ideas.
If she fails Engl 201A, she tells me, she will lose her financial aid, which not only provides for her registration dues, but also helps with child care--and she has five children to take care of. Her family is in Mexico, and they cannot help her out.
Maria is also working while managing four college classes.
Hearing her story, I didn't have any great advice. I did respond that she should talk to the English instructor--I want to tell her that he is a kind and understanding person, but I don't. I also inform her that if she did lose her financial aid, there is always an appeal process to get it back. And that I had to go through that same succession of steps myself because I did not pass enough of my classes to normally qualify (I provided documentation of my disability and a short letter explaining about how I'm all better now and ready to return to college--and the decision was overturned, and I got my money).
I did have to write the English instructor an email (and yes, those emails add up, I have an almost innumerable amount from him in my inbox) about the oral presentations, so I decided to include in that letter a quick word about Maria. I told him that while I knew he couldn't discuss other students with me, I wanted to say that Maria seemed to be "sincere in her attempts to be successful in this class" (thereby indirectly vouching that she didn't cheat).
If I had knowledge that a student was cheating in either of my classes (Engl 201A or Engl 201B), I would immediately inform the appropriate professor as I have no qualms about being "a rat." I have no loyalties to the other students.
But Maria seems to be particularly distressed, and while I cannot relate to her situation when dealing with racism for being a Mexican American, I can relate to her feelings of alienation and despondency. My coursework matters to me too despite the difficulties I face every day in class.
She's almost to the point of tears as she tells me that the English instructor accused her of plagiarism, even though she told him "to google it" (her paper) to check. He brought up the charge that she had not turned in a work that came from her own words.
While she admitted to me that she had originally written the essay in Spanish, and then had help in translating, she is adamant that those are her sentences and paragraphs and ideas.
If she fails Engl 201A, she tells me, she will lose her financial aid, which not only provides for her registration dues, but also helps with child care--and she has five children to take care of. Her family is in Mexico, and they cannot help her out.
Maria is also working while managing four college classes.
Hearing her story, I didn't have any great advice. I did respond that she should talk to the English instructor--I want to tell her that he is a kind and understanding person, but I don't. I also inform her that if she did lose her financial aid, there is always an appeal process to get it back. And that I had to go through that same succession of steps myself because I did not pass enough of my classes to normally qualify (I provided documentation of my disability and a short letter explaining about how I'm all better now and ready to return to college--and the decision was overturned, and I got my money).
I did have to write the English instructor an email (and yes, those emails add up, I have an almost innumerable amount from him in my inbox) about the oral presentations, so I decided to include in that letter a quick word about Maria. I told him that while I knew he couldn't discuss other students with me, I wanted to say that Maria seemed to be "sincere in her attempts to be successful in this class" (thereby indirectly vouching that she didn't cheat).
If I had knowledge that a student was cheating in either of my classes (Engl 201A or Engl 201B), I would immediately inform the appropriate professor as I have no qualms about being "a rat." I have no loyalties to the other students.
But Maria seems to be particularly distressed, and while I cannot relate to her situation when dealing with racism for being a Mexican American, I can relate to her feelings of alienation and despondency. My coursework matters to me too despite the difficulties I face every day in class.
"Faith Was All"
"Much
of institutional Christianity has failed us. It still comforts many
Americans, but it hasn't, on balance, made us better people -- kinder,
more loving, more Christlike. Instead, in various ways it has helped
prepare the ground for Donald Trump.
First,
it has devalued truth -- factual, scientific truth. A couple of
generations ago, the fastest-growing and most energetic of our
denominations gave up any claim to intellectual coherence, which they
conflated with the 'sin of pride.' Faith was all. People who belonged to
these churches might be as intelligent as anyone else, but they had,
for the sake of their souls, to believe in all sorts of things that
aren't true. And believing in things out of tribal loyalty, whether or
not they're true, became a habit; it made Christians vulnerable to other
kinds of lies. Scientists say human activity is changing the climate.
But scientists accept evolution too, so why believe them now? Why not
believe the energy companies instead, or Fox News? Why not believe
Trump?
Second,
the long Cold War against godless Communism led many American
Christians to over-value the free market, then to worship it. They may
have rejected Darwin the evolutionist, but they fervently embraced
Darwinian struggle, each against all -- hardly the original New
Testament message.The rich deserved to be rich; the poor deserved to be
poor. Any attempt by government to help the less fortunate was suspect
-- it bore the taint of socialism. Hucksters peddling the 'prosperity
gospel' only made things worse. Complaints about an unfair economic
system -- about things that the isolated individual couldn't change by
prayer and positive thinking -- were dismissed. As a result, when the
New Deal consensus began to unravel, when labor unions declined, when
jobs were offshored, when companies got 'lean and mean' -- when the
American working class, white and nonwhite, got shafted over and over --
there was no one to fight for them. Not the Republicans -- their
funders were making out like bandits. Not enough of the Democrats --
Ronald Reagan had frightened them into believing that America really was
a center-right country. And far too few of the churches, which were too
busy fulminating against abortion and gay rights to question the virtue
of unregulated capitalism.
Third,
Christians are indeed a tribe. Most refuse to accept the validity of
other faiths (or of no faith at all). Infidels, heathens, must be
preached to and converted -- even killed off, as our natives were, if
their souls are somehow saved in the process. The same infinitely
adaptable Bible that we once used to justify slavery and Manifest
Destiny can be turned against Muslims today in a heartbeat. All strongly
held faiths, by their nature, are intolerant -- I speak of Christianity
here not because it's worse than the others but because it's the faith
most Americans have, the one that still channels most of our impulses
toward goodness and transcendence. It isn't about to go away, nor should
it. But it's a channel that badly needs a roto-rooter to clear out the
crap."
--by Harry, via email sent yesterday
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
"All Things Can Tempt Me"
"All things can tempt me from this craft of verse:
One time it was a woman's face, or worse--"
--W. B. Yeats, "All Things Can Tempt Me"
"Yes, and in freshmen comp, you need to write a thesis statement," the English instructor mandates.
One time it was a woman's face, or worse--"
--W. B. Yeats, "All Things Can Tempt Me"
"Yes, and in freshmen comp, you need to write a thesis statement," the English instructor mandates.
One Bad Quiz Grade
I'm walking out of the classroom for Engl 201B, and the professor says to me, "Study, study for the midterm."
One bad quiz grade, and he loses all faith in me.
One bad quiz grade, and he loses all faith in me.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Blunt Affect
In psychiatry, there is a phenomenon called "blunt affect," or in other words, someone who lacks facial expression. It's considered to be a negative symptom of schizophrenia. People who suffer from this illness, or like me from schizoaffective disorder (which is of course related), gradually become more and more blank. Some of it is the drugs, but some of it is the disease itself, and people turn into modern day zombies.
I'm getting into my little SUV after studying and completing homework for Engl 201A, and I'm thinking, it's sort of like that--but only if that was normal. Someone who has the ability to turn off facial cues.
Everyone, I suppose, has that ability to some extent.
It's the beginning of Engl 201A, and I've arrived after the English instructor--which is unusual. But I was down in the Writing Center, which is next to his office, waiting to see if he would show up for office hours. I had a paper to present to him--one he asked for because at the time I thought I would miss Wednesday's class, and its midterm.
I'm standing at the podium with my paper in hand (called "I'm a Doll: How The Bean Trees Reaffirms Female Gender Stereotypes") while he is writing on the white board. He turns to me, sees me standing up front of the class, and asks, "[Jae], do you have a question or a comment?" There's a given rhythm to this--the comforting words of assumed and designated roles. Professor and student. He says it to me multiple times during a typical class period--mostly because I obnoxiously raise my hand every few minutes, either to clarify something or to ask about something.
It reminds me of the doctors at Stanford Hospital's G2P, who have been taught to always ask, right before they leave your room to attend to another patient, "Do you have any questions or concerns?" They say it without fail, even when they don't want you to respond because they have other pressing and more important matters to give their attention to. But they say it because somewhere, someone told them it was important to check in with patients and to discern how they are feeling.
The English instructor says it to other students as well, regular decorum of class conduct. I'm assuming it's to encourage students to say what's on their mind on any given topic--to promote debate and intellectual pursuit--especially the comment part. A yes, go ahead with your thoughts.
After the English instructor finishes writing, he walks over to me, and gives me his attention. I explain about the paper, and say I don't know his time schedule, if he wouldn't mind going over it.
Today, in an email containing my homework for tomorrow, I write to the English instructor on the last line, I don't know if you enjoy talking to me or if you merely tolerate me (echo of similar words I've written on this blog). I was going to write, I don't know if you like me...but I figured "like" could be taken in too many ways.
Too much of my night last night was concerning bringing up the issue to the English instructor, either in person or through my writing. Was it simply my insecurities popping up--thinking that someone who I see several times a week, who indulges me in long conversations--that he doesn't like me as a person? I decided it wasn't just me (and rarely is it ever just one person).
After the class is gone, and the kidding around and joking about with the other students is gone as well, the English instructor will sit down in a chair, and sometimes look at me briefly, but mostly avoiding my gaze. He sits there, sometimes crossed legged, and he has a perfect reflection of polite distance. Even though I don't spend near the amount of time talking to the Engl 201B professor, he has been more forthcoming about his life, about his emotions than the English instructor has been.
At times, despite myself, I see Morpheus in the English instructor, although my professor is taller than Morpheus. When the English instructor gabbed proudly and briefly about his little boy to the class, I only thought of the pictures and the stories I've heard of Morpheus' son--a world I will never breach, and one in which makes me regretful and, frankly, sad. The English instructor's coolness in conversation and yet the multitude of his words brings back memories of Morpheus standing in his kitchen, talking excitedly about different projects he's into and so on--and yet, none of it has any lasting importance. We're not talking about our souls--we are just skating along on the surface of things--as if to dare one on into the depth of human deviant behavior would be a tragedy. It would be the entanglement of the cables that keep us in our place. And, most of all, it would be frightening.
So, do I believe that this is pathology on part of the English instructor? No, I don't. I believe that it is simply gentle guidance. These are the rules, and you must obey them.
I remember being eighteen years old, and almost completely new to the University, but I was new to the Animal Science Department, and all those times I walked into the Advisor's office. I would sit there in the chair, and he would talk to me--and if other students showed up, he would tell them to come back later. I always came first if I was there first. I told him all sorts of things that I had never dared to mention to someone else--and in my own way, I fell in love with him--if only that could be considered platonic. Our biggest hurdle was our age difference--but he still became one of my favorite people on this planet. The Advisor is not a particularly emotional man--not in the way that the LSU Professor is--but he showed me that he loved me, in his own way, at a time when I needed someone to care for me desperately because I had no one, and I was alone in my misery.
Most of the time, I feel that the English instructor is more intelligent than the writers of the books we are reviewing--and smarter than the writers of the articles we have in our textbook. He sees patterns and ideas in The Bean Tree that I don't believe was a deliberate act on the part of Kingsolver. He creates a better novel because he can envision a different world that few others can access.
"I have to go at five fifteen to the library," The English instructor tells me abruptly. The other students are gone, and have been for a while.
I glance at the clock. He talks about the book, and I start to gather up my belongings.
"Can I ask you another question?" I watch his face. He is neither pleased nor displeased. He remains completely neutral, and nods slightly.
We're outside, and it's surprisingly dark. He checks the door of the classroom to make sure it's locked.
I ask him if he wouldn't mind helping me analyze "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" when he has the time some other day.
We're walking down the road and through the parking lot. He's reciting poetry to me.
I don't know where the lines come from, but I'm assuming it's T.S. Eliot.
The words are rapid, and some of them are muttered.
I can't see his face for the darkness, but that doesn't matter.
I'm getting into my little SUV after studying and completing homework for Engl 201A, and I'm thinking, it's sort of like that--but only if that was normal. Someone who has the ability to turn off facial cues.
Everyone, I suppose, has that ability to some extent.
It's the beginning of Engl 201A, and I've arrived after the English instructor--which is unusual. But I was down in the Writing Center, which is next to his office, waiting to see if he would show up for office hours. I had a paper to present to him--one he asked for because at the time I thought I would miss Wednesday's class, and its midterm.
I'm standing at the podium with my paper in hand (called "I'm a Doll: How The Bean Trees Reaffirms Female Gender Stereotypes") while he is writing on the white board. He turns to me, sees me standing up front of the class, and asks, "[Jae], do you have a question or a comment?" There's a given rhythm to this--the comforting words of assumed and designated roles. Professor and student. He says it to me multiple times during a typical class period--mostly because I obnoxiously raise my hand every few minutes, either to clarify something or to ask about something.
It reminds me of the doctors at Stanford Hospital's G2P, who have been taught to always ask, right before they leave your room to attend to another patient, "Do you have any questions or concerns?" They say it without fail, even when they don't want you to respond because they have other pressing and more important matters to give their attention to. But they say it because somewhere, someone told them it was important to check in with patients and to discern how they are feeling.
The English instructor says it to other students as well, regular decorum of class conduct. I'm assuming it's to encourage students to say what's on their mind on any given topic--to promote debate and intellectual pursuit--especially the comment part. A yes, go ahead with your thoughts.
After the English instructor finishes writing, he walks over to me, and gives me his attention. I explain about the paper, and say I don't know his time schedule, if he wouldn't mind going over it.
Today, in an email containing my homework for tomorrow, I write to the English instructor on the last line, I don't know if you enjoy talking to me or if you merely tolerate me (echo of similar words I've written on this blog). I was going to write, I don't know if you like me...but I figured "like" could be taken in too many ways.
Too much of my night last night was concerning bringing up the issue to the English instructor, either in person or through my writing. Was it simply my insecurities popping up--thinking that someone who I see several times a week, who indulges me in long conversations--that he doesn't like me as a person? I decided it wasn't just me (and rarely is it ever just one person).
After the class is gone, and the kidding around and joking about with the other students is gone as well, the English instructor will sit down in a chair, and sometimes look at me briefly, but mostly avoiding my gaze. He sits there, sometimes crossed legged, and he has a perfect reflection of polite distance. Even though I don't spend near the amount of time talking to the Engl 201B professor, he has been more forthcoming about his life, about his emotions than the English instructor has been.
At times, despite myself, I see Morpheus in the English instructor, although my professor is taller than Morpheus. When the English instructor gabbed proudly and briefly about his little boy to the class, I only thought of the pictures and the stories I've heard of Morpheus' son--a world I will never breach, and one in which makes me regretful and, frankly, sad. The English instructor's coolness in conversation and yet the multitude of his words brings back memories of Morpheus standing in his kitchen, talking excitedly about different projects he's into and so on--and yet, none of it has any lasting importance. We're not talking about our souls--we are just skating along on the surface of things--as if to dare one on into the depth of human deviant behavior would be a tragedy. It would be the entanglement of the cables that keep us in our place. And, most of all, it would be frightening.
So, do I believe that this is pathology on part of the English instructor? No, I don't. I believe that it is simply gentle guidance. These are the rules, and you must obey them.
I remember being eighteen years old, and almost completely new to the University, but I was new to the Animal Science Department, and all those times I walked into the Advisor's office. I would sit there in the chair, and he would talk to me--and if other students showed up, he would tell them to come back later. I always came first if I was there first. I told him all sorts of things that I had never dared to mention to someone else--and in my own way, I fell in love with him--if only that could be considered platonic. Our biggest hurdle was our age difference--but he still became one of my favorite people on this planet. The Advisor is not a particularly emotional man--not in the way that the LSU Professor is--but he showed me that he loved me, in his own way, at a time when I needed someone to care for me desperately because I had no one, and I was alone in my misery.
Most of the time, I feel that the English instructor is more intelligent than the writers of the books we are reviewing--and smarter than the writers of the articles we have in our textbook. He sees patterns and ideas in The Bean Tree that I don't believe was a deliberate act on the part of Kingsolver. He creates a better novel because he can envision a different world that few others can access.
"I have to go at five fifteen to the library," The English instructor tells me abruptly. The other students are gone, and have been for a while.
I glance at the clock. He talks about the book, and I start to gather up my belongings.
"Can I ask you another question?" I watch his face. He is neither pleased nor displeased. He remains completely neutral, and nods slightly.
We're outside, and it's surprisingly dark. He checks the door of the classroom to make sure it's locked.
I ask him if he wouldn't mind helping me analyze "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" when he has the time some other day.
We're walking down the road and through the parking lot. He's reciting poetry to me.
I don't know where the lines come from, but I'm assuming it's T.S. Eliot.
The words are rapid, and some of them are muttered.
I can't see his face for the darkness, but that doesn't matter.
Yes, House is Smarter Than Me
"Can you think of a character that you believe is smarter than you?" the English instructor asks me.
Is this a trick question? I pause because I'm surprised. "I can think of several writers who are smarter than me."
Is this a trick question? I pause because I'm surprised. "I can think of several writers who are smarter than me."
Opinions And Everyone Has At Least A Few
"It was his opinion," my mother tells me while we're both watching TV. She's talking about the psychiatrist suggesting that caffeine withdrawal causes or has any correlation with suicidal ideations.
"Yes, but opinion should be based on data or research or clinical experience," I respond, standing firm in my belief that I had the right to tell the fucking doctor off.
"If he was that smart, he'd be at UCLA!" My mother says. "But he's not. He's at county mental health, and you know he was a 'C' student!"
"Yes, but opinion should be based on data or research or clinical experience," I respond, standing firm in my belief that I had the right to tell the fucking doctor off.
"If he was that smart, he'd be at UCLA!" My mother says. "But he's not. He's at county mental health, and you know he was a 'C' student!"
Failed Quizz, the First
The English 201B professor writes on my failed quizz, "Get these straight, [Jae]."
I'm actually a little embarrassed. So, I got metaphor and symbol confused. And I didn't know what "aesthetic dimension" means--I had a guess, but guesses can be more humiliating than just leaving a blank space.
I'm actually a little embarrassed. So, I got metaphor and symbol confused. And I didn't know what "aesthetic dimension" means--I had a guess, but guesses can be more humiliating than just leaving a blank space.
Monday, November 14, 2016
"A Confession of Liberal Intolerance"
"To me, the conversation illuminated primarily liberal arrogance — the
implication that conservatives don’t have anything significant to add to
the discussion...When perspectives are unrepresented in discussions, when some kinds of
thinkers aren’t at the table, classrooms become echo chambers rather
than sounding boards — and we all lose...Some
liberals think that right-wingers self-select away from academic paths
in part because they are money-grubbers who prefer more lucrative
professions. But that doesn’t explain why there are conservative math
professors but not many right-wing anthropologists...It’s also liberal poppycock that there aren’t smart conservatives or evangelicals."
" 'Universities are unlike other institutions in that they absolutely
require that people challenge each other so that the truth can emerge
from limited, biased, flawed individuals,' he says. 'If they lose
intellectual diversity, or if they develop norms of "safety" that trump
challenge, they die. And this is what has been happening since the
1990s.' "
--by Nicholas Kristof, "A Confession of Liberal Intolerance"
(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/08/opinion/sunday/a-confession-of-liberal-intolerance.html?_r=0)
Saturday, November 12, 2016
"Are Professors Too Liberal?"
"Colleges and universities have been devoted since the 19th century to
liberal education, which assumes and promotes the intellectual autonomy
of human minds, including respect for rational collaboration,
disciplinary methodologies, and rigorous research. This entails taking
the results of research seriously, even when these conflict with
traditional beliefs, values, and practices."
--"Are Professors Too Liberal?" by David Moshman
( http://www.huffingtonpost.com/david-moshman/are-professors-too-liberal_b_11366980.html)
--"Are Professors Too Liberal?" by David Moshman
( http://www.huffingtonpost.com/david-moshman/are-professors-too-liberal_b_11366980.html)
The Things You Forget
The LSU Professor and I are sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Yuppieville. I've been there for a while, coming into the cafe about an hour ahead of time so I could read through and answer questions in the Library Handbook, due for Engl 201A. Among other duties I have to attend to.
"Do you remember what grade I got in physics? Was it a 'B' or an 'A'?" I ask him because he was the one who taught the class.
He's smiling at me. "You got an 'A.' You were in the top of the class. That says something. Remember? You were going to get a Ph.D. in Physics 121."
"Do you remember what grade I got in physics? Was it a 'B' or an 'A'?" I ask him because he was the one who taught the class.
He's smiling at me. "You got an 'A.' You were in the top of the class. That says something. Remember? You were going to get a Ph.D. in Physics 121."
More on the Missing Souls
"You'll always miss [Morpheus]," the LSU Professor tells me. "I still miss [Greta]. And the longer time goes, the more you forget about the bad stuff, and the more you remember just the good. You think to yourself, 'No one will ever replace [Morpheus].' "
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Debate Bad Ideas
"I believe universities should debate bad ideas, not ban them..."
--"Here's What Happened When I Challenged the PC Campus Culture at NYU" by
--"Here's What Happened When I Challenged the PC Campus Culture at NYU" by
"...A Regular Guy?"
" 'He’s actually out there and hustled it and built it,' Hahn said. 'He’s a regular guy. He eats Wendy’s on his plane.'
But Trump owns the jet, a modified Boeing 757. How can they possibly call him a regular guy?"
--"Here's Who Supports Trump--And Why" by
More Analysis of The Bean Trees
"Names, names are important. So, they're driving in a Lincoln, what could that possibly mean?" The English instructor questions the class, referring to The Bean Trees.
I turn my head to both sides, looking to see if anyone else got the connection. Finally, I speak, "Are we talking about freeing slaves?"
"Yes!" The English instructor exudes. He looks so happy and excited like I just got a 100% on my final. Or on all my English finals, ever, in my whole life.
I turn my head to both sides, looking to see if anyone else got the connection. Finally, I speak, "Are we talking about freeing slaves?"
"Yes!" The English instructor exudes. He looks so happy and excited like I just got a 100% on my final. Or on all my English finals, ever, in my whole life.
Just One Love
"You know I loved you not in spite of your faults and frailties but because of them--they made you a fuller, more complex human being."
--TXT-message sent to Morpheus yesterday
--TXT-message sent to Morpheus yesterday
Coffee is Bad
"I think you should cut out caffeine completely," the psychiatrist tells me.
I instinctively turn my head to look at the cup of Starbucks coffee sitting next to me.
I instinctively turn my head to look at the cup of Starbucks coffee sitting next to me.
Going Looking
I would accept the argument that possibly drinking six cups of coffee could affect my sleep (it doesn't). I will accept the notion that downing that much caffeine counteracts the sedating effects of the Seroquel. I'd even admit that caffeine is addicting.
But, really, the best you can come up with as advice is telling me to skip my morning coffee?
Why don't you tell me to decrease the amount of ice cream I eat or fight against the urges to binge on popcorn late at night?
It's not like I'm injecting heroin every a.m. or snorting cocaine to get through my classes--or taking Adderall so I can stay up all night and cram.
But, really, the best you can come up with as advice is telling me to skip my morning coffee?
Why don't you tell me to decrease the amount of ice cream I eat or fight against the urges to binge on popcorn late at night?
It's not like I'm injecting heroin every a.m. or snorting cocaine to get through my classes--or taking Adderall so I can stay up all night and cram.
Folk Tales in Medicine
"Just because a doctor says something doesn't mean it's christened like the Holy Spirit dictating the Bible," I say to my mother in frustration over the droll announcement that if I just gave up coffee, I would be suicidal ideation-free.
"I'm just saying to open up your mind to other possibilities. Maybe there's new research linking the two," my mother comments.
"No, Mom," I respond. "We know there's a link between caffeine and anxiety. That maybe caffeine contributes to anxiety, but some people feel the effects if they drink a little and some don't--so it's just better to give it up completely."
"I'm just saying to open up your mind to other possibilities. Maybe there's new research linking the two," my mother comments.
"No, Mom," I respond. "We know there's a link between caffeine and anxiety. That maybe caffeine contributes to anxiety, but some people feel the effects if they drink a little and some don't--so it's just better to give it up completely."
Be Careful with Coffee
I stand up out of my chair with my grande Starbucks coffee (already in holiday colors) in hand. I walk forward so that I'm standing right at the edge of his desk. I say, "I'm not an idiot. I've read a lot about psychiatric illness over the years, and never in my reading have I learned that caffeine contributes to suicidality."
"I said caffeine withdrawal is causing your suicidal thoughts," he corrects me, looking completely removed from my anger.
"Okay," I say as I head to the door. "Caffeine withdrawal is so minor compared to opioid or alcohol withdrawal." I'm still walking.
"Do you want to leave?" He asks like he can't see me already moving in that direction.
"Thank you," I respond right as I open the door into the hallway. I step out.
"I said caffeine withdrawal is causing your suicidal thoughts," he corrects me, looking completely removed from my anger.
"Okay," I say as I head to the door. "Caffeine withdrawal is so minor compared to opioid or alcohol withdrawal." I'm still walking.
"Do you want to leave?" He asks like he can't see me already moving in that direction.
"Thank you," I respond right as I open the door into the hallway. I step out.
Go Ahead--Do It
This morning at around eight-thirty, I explained to the county mental health's new psychiatrist that my suicidal ideations were becoming more frequent.
"Well, if you really want to kill yourself, there's nothing we can do to stop you," he tells me, looking stern and serious (is this the "tough love" approach that I hear about so much when dealing with addicts?). He pauses, and then continues, "But I hope that isn't the case."
"Well, if you really want to kill yourself, there's nothing we can do to stop you," he tells me, looking stern and serious (is this the "tough love" approach that I hear about so much when dealing with addicts?). He pauses, and then continues, "But I hope that isn't the case."
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Hey, I Didn't Say It
"Lower class whites are the new niggers," said one of the men at writers' group.
Whoa! Were the Puritans enslaved at some point that I am not aware of? (I'm sure there were some white slaves, but we were not targeted as a demographic.)
Whoa! Were the Puritans enslaved at some point that I am not aware of? (I'm sure there were some white slaves, but we were not targeted as a demographic.)
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Changing Clothes, Other Thoughts on Blogging
"I feel like this is the real [Jae]," Harry tells me as we're standing in a restaurant, referring to my blog.
Reading someone's blog is a bit like watching your neighbor across the alleyway, change clothes in the bathroom. There's some perversity in looking upon writing that is so intimate and vulnerable.
Reading someone's blog is a bit like watching your neighbor across the alleyway, change clothes in the bathroom. There's some perversity in looking upon writing that is so intimate and vulnerable.
Therapy and the Classroom
"You're preaching to the converted," the English instructor says during office hours, which instantly reminds me of my mother cautioning me not to "preach" about mental illness issues.
Isn't it ethically ambiguous (am I taking this too far?) to tell your students that if they know everything already, then they can skip out on class?
Well, if I knew everything already, I'd be God, and then, I certainly wouldn't spend my daytime hours sitting in freshman comp--I'd have bigger responsibilities like saving the world and other crap.
"We have an unwritten contract with each other," I explain to him. "You show up to teach, and I show up to listen. When one of us is not doing our jobs, then we have a problem."
Doesn't every lecture, no matter how redundant or remedial, have value as you never know what you can accomplish in a single hour or two hours? The same logic is used by Stanford to force you to show up to CBT group therapy, no matter how many times you've read from the same handout (a handout is read through in about two weeks, which means that many years ago, I went through all the material, and have just been reviewing it ever since).
Revoking Rights
"I was eighteen once," the English instructor tells me in his office before class, saying that he fucked up some of his classes too.
We were discussing journal topics during lecture, and the annoying student, the one I don't like, says, "I was sixteen once."
Can we just revoke his rights to speak in class? That was two years ago. Not twenty--two years.
We were discussing journal topics during lecture, and the annoying student, the one I don't like, says, "I was sixteen once."
Can we just revoke his rights to speak in class? That was two years ago. Not twenty--two years.
"Daystar"
"...--where she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day."
--"Daystar" by Dove
"I need to get a few things done before class," the English instructor says after we had been talking for a while in his office.
In other words, stop arguing with me, Jae, and do something useful with your time like reading a book. Yes! Read a book. Go now!
I don't know why I showed up to office hours, I did need to tell him that I would miss class on November 30th, since I had to go up to Palo Alto for a psych evaluation at Stanford's Outpatient Clinic. However, I could have written that in a couple-sentences-long email.
Mostly, I just wanted to watch his face when I told him that he made a comment which was "uncharacteristic" of him.
Shouldn't students show up to class? I mean, isn't that a truism?
"You took the comment much more seriously than the other students."
"Can I be frank?" I say.
"You haven't been?"
I can't tell if he's making a joke or not.
pure nothing, in the middle of the day."
--"Daystar" by Dove
"I need to get a few things done before class," the English instructor says after we had been talking for a while in his office.
In other words, stop arguing with me, Jae, and do something useful with your time like reading a book. Yes! Read a book. Go now!
I don't know why I showed up to office hours, I did need to tell him that I would miss class on November 30th, since I had to go up to Palo Alto for a psych evaluation at Stanford's Outpatient Clinic. However, I could have written that in a couple-sentences-long email.
Mostly, I just wanted to watch his face when I told him that he made a comment which was "uncharacteristic" of him.
Shouldn't students show up to class? I mean, isn't that a truism?
"You took the comment much more seriously than the other students."
"Can I be frank?" I say.
"You haven't been?"
I can't tell if he's making a joke or not.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Good People, Part II
"I have this sign in my office that says, 'This is college, not a day care center,' " the Advisor says to me over lunch.
I remember being eighteen in the fall of 2001, and sure my life was over because I was barely making C's in my classes. I had Parasitology in the classroom next to his office, so I saw him several times a week. Scared and alone, I would timidly walk up to him, always asking, "Are you busy?"
He would always answer, "Yes, but what's going on?"
I knew how serious the conversation was going to be by how far his office door was left ajar. Sometimes, he would close it completely. The Advisor always listened to me, patiently, as I talked about all my fears and anxieties and the pull of depression. He never said, "No, come back tomorrow or next week."
I remember being eighteen in the fall of 2001, and sure my life was over because I was barely making C's in my classes. I had Parasitology in the classroom next to his office, so I saw him several times a week. Scared and alone, I would timidly walk up to him, always asking, "Are you busy?"
He would always answer, "Yes, but what's going on?"
I knew how serious the conversation was going to be by how far his office door was left ajar. Sometimes, he would close it completely. The Advisor always listened to me, patiently, as I talked about all my fears and anxieties and the pull of depression. He never said, "No, come back tomorrow or next week."
What He Wants
"What don't you have that he wants?" The LSU Professor argues to me, telling me that Morpheus' decision to go away wasn't my fault.
She Just Wants to be Beautiful
She just wants to be beautiful
She goes unnoticed, she knows no limits,
She craves attention, she praises an image,
She prays to be sculpted by the sculptor
--"Scars to Your Beautiful" by Cara
The LSU Professor rubs his eyes like he just woke up, even though it's a little after eleven in the morning.
We talk about everything, politics, sex, more politics, physics theories, his two ex-girlfriends, Morpheus, and secrets.
"You're hoping things will change. I like to be around optimistic people," he tells me, referring to my undying hope that Morpheus will someday call and all will be well.
I share with him a secret of mine that I have been holding close to my heart, one that I've never shared verbally, and have only mentioned briefly on my blog.
"That's so sad. I think I'm going to cry...I feel like I peeled another layer off of you," the LSU Professor says sincerely. He wants to buy me a present, and asks, "What do you want?"
Right as we are leaving the coffee shop, he hugs me and calls me "beautiful."
She goes unnoticed, she knows no limits,
She craves attention, she praises an image,
She prays to be sculpted by the sculptor
--"Scars to Your Beautiful" by Cara
The LSU Professor rubs his eyes like he just woke up, even though it's a little after eleven in the morning.
We talk about everything, politics, sex, more politics, physics theories, his two ex-girlfriends, Morpheus, and secrets.
"You're hoping things will change. I like to be around optimistic people," he tells me, referring to my undying hope that Morpheus will someday call and all will be well.
I share with him a secret of mine that I have been holding close to my heart, one that I've never shared verbally, and have only mentioned briefly on my blog.
"That's so sad. I think I'm going to cry...I feel like I peeled another layer off of you," the LSU Professor says sincerely. He wants to buy me a present, and asks, "What do you want?"
Right as we are leaving the coffee shop, he hugs me and calls me "beautiful."
Pain, People, Please
My GP is one of those through doctors who personally calls whenever something is wrong with my lab results.
"...but I don't know the source of your discomfort," he says.
It's not "discomfort"; it's pain.
"...but I don't know the source of your discomfort," he says.
It's not "discomfort"; it's pain.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
The Waterfall
Last time I saw Morpheus, he re-told the story of how he asked for the Wife's hand in marriage.
"It was completely corny. I proposed to her by a waterfall," he tells me.
Are those kind of things in life important? Proposals of marriage?
Being traditional, for god's sake?
"It was completely corny. I proposed to her by a waterfall," he tells me.
Are those kind of things in life important? Proposals of marriage?
Being traditional, for god's sake?
Leaving Home
"You know if you stay at [the community college], you'll always be a lower level classman," the Advisor tells me. "Do you have any reason to stay local?"
"Yes," I explain that my parents, although I don't have to live with them, I do because they can acutely monitor me for signs of relapse, and then help me get to the doctor or to the hospital if need be. If I move up north like to UC-Berkeley, then I would lose my support system. I don't tell him the story I read about a woman with bipolar disorder who finally managed to get into grad school, only to kill herself far away from home after telling her mom that she couldn't move back and be with family (even though she knew she was sick) because she had to finish school. I don't talk about my dog. I can't imagine having her cramped in a small apartment somewhere--will she get enough exercise?
"Yes," I explain that my parents, although I don't have to live with them, I do because they can acutely monitor me for signs of relapse, and then help me get to the doctor or to the hospital if need be. If I move up north like to UC-Berkeley, then I would lose my support system. I don't tell him the story I read about a woman with bipolar disorder who finally managed to get into grad school, only to kill herself far away from home after telling her mom that she couldn't move back and be with family (even though she knew she was sick) because she had to finish school. I don't talk about my dog. I can't imagine having her cramped in a small apartment somewhere--will she get enough exercise?
Common Interest
The Advisor and I are having lunch at this hard-to-find creole restaurant that he picked. I've never eaten there.
"So, I'm having troubles in one of my classes--my grade is fine, it's good--I'm just getting upset over some of my classmates' insensitive remarks."
"What kind of remarks?"
I explain briefly.
"That's ignorance. You can't instruct it. Their brains haven't even finished developing," he assures me. "If you need to deal with it, do it outside of class."
I couldn't imagine approaching any of my fellow classmates outside of class, in between buildings or maybe stalking them as they go into the library or out into the parking lot to find their cars, and then chastising them like an angry fanatic who's attended too many NAMI meetings (not to say one shouldn't attend NAMI meetings)--for comments that they probably don't even remember making.
He continues, "You're going to deal with that all your life." He tells the story of his son, who returned to college after ten years in the Army and was in combat, and he said his son had to listen to eighteen-year-olds talk about war, like they knew something about it.
"I have nothing in common with them!" I say, partially hoping he'd say, yes, you do, Jae, you have the common interest of pursuing knowledge and becoming better equipped citizens of this vast, uncontrollable, confusing world.
"Of course you don't!"
"So, I'm having troubles in one of my classes--my grade is fine, it's good--I'm just getting upset over some of my classmates' insensitive remarks."
"What kind of remarks?"
I explain briefly.
"That's ignorance. You can't instruct it. Their brains haven't even finished developing," he assures me. "If you need to deal with it, do it outside of class."
I couldn't imagine approaching any of my fellow classmates outside of class, in between buildings or maybe stalking them as they go into the library or out into the parking lot to find their cars, and then chastising them like an angry fanatic who's attended too many NAMI meetings (not to say one shouldn't attend NAMI meetings)--for comments that they probably don't even remember making.
He continues, "You're going to deal with that all your life." He tells the story of his son, who returned to college after ten years in the Army and was in combat, and he said his son had to listen to eighteen-year-olds talk about war, like they knew something about it.
"I have nothing in common with them!" I say, partially hoping he'd say, yes, you do, Jae, you have the common interest of pursuing knowledge and becoming better equipped citizens of this vast, uncontrollable, confusing world.
"Of course you don't!"
Minor Reward
I checked Turnitin.com and noticed that my latest essay from Engl 201B was graded.
He applauded my title, which was especially rewarding because during peer review, both of the other students who read my essay said that the title didn't make sense. But he got it. Score.
He applauded my title, which was especially rewarding because during peer review, both of the other students who read my essay said that the title didn't make sense. But he got it. Score.
Academic Future?
I love the Advisor because he makes excuses for me.
"If you want to turn in your application for the UC schools, you need to get it in by the end of this month," he tells me over lunch.
"I don't think with my academic record the way it is now that I could get a transfer," I say.
"Well, you had an undiagnosed illness for many years...the question they're going to be asking themselves and so will [the University] is 'what's the prognosis'?"
"Interesting that you should say that. My mother asked the very same question to the doctors at Stanford during one of our family meetings last time I was there, and you know what they said?"
He hums.
"They said they didn't know."
"If you want to turn in your application for the UC schools, you need to get it in by the end of this month," he tells me over lunch.
"I don't think with my academic record the way it is now that I could get a transfer," I say.
"Well, you had an undiagnosed illness for many years...the question they're going to be asking themselves and so will [the University] is 'what's the prognosis'?"
"Interesting that you should say that. My mother asked the very same question to the doctors at Stanford during one of our family meetings last time I was there, and you know what they said?"
He hums.
"They said they didn't know."
New Policy
On Wednesday, before Engl 201A started, the English instructor made an odd comment. He said that if you were skilled at reading literature, then you didn't need to show up to class. Was he kidding? Was he having a moment of insecurity, like what do I have novel to teach this group of young adults?
Which I didn't understand entirely, does that mean if I only show up for midterms, finals and when I need to turn in my final draft, if I do that expertly and without fail, then is it possible to receive an A? Or does he hold to his policy of the 10% of the grade is participation, and therefore if I only attend lecture on said days, that the highest I can receive is a 90% or 89%, bearing that I get full credit for every test and paper due?
Is that a challenge or a form of dismissal, like Jae, if you think you're so smart...?
Or was he too just having an "off" day?
Which I didn't understand entirely, does that mean if I only show up for midterms, finals and when I need to turn in my final draft, if I do that expertly and without fail, then is it possible to receive an A? Or does he hold to his policy of the 10% of the grade is participation, and therefore if I only attend lecture on said days, that the highest I can receive is a 90% or 89%, bearing that I get full credit for every test and paper due?
Is that a challenge or a form of dismissal, like Jae, if you think you're so smart...?
Or was he too just having an "off" day?
Energy or Something Like That
"Being around someone who is mentally ill is sometimes scary," the Engl 201B professor tells us. "We use language to distance ourselves from them."
I've never been physically harmed by another patient while I've stayed at either Stanford University hospital or even at the residential program I attended earlier this year.
What's scary and what most people want to avoid is how the mentally ill reflect back on our humanity--what it says about us as humans.
While at the resident care facility up north, I saw everyday a man wandering the halls, always close to at least one of the water fountains, wearing the same dirty pair of jeans, the same thick, black coat, and his head was down. He never spoke. He never made eye contact, he just shuffled along, frequently taking drinks from the spigot to the point that I thought he might drown himself.
During mealtimes at this residential center, you had to just keep your head focused on your food, and not look around at the other patients--because if you did that, you would lose your appetite. It was not unusual to see people picking up food items off the floor and then directly putting it into their mouths. Other patients would steal food off of people's plates. What was the worst were the particles of bread or cheese situated on their cheeks like kitchen face painting. One woman, every meal, tried to force-feed her doll, which she placed directly in front of her on the table.
During the day, in between group meetings, I would walk the hallways or if the weather was nice, I would walk circles out in the courtyard, listening to my books on tape. In that facility, there were 68 patients, enough of them that you were never alone, unless showering or using the bathroom. It was difficult to listen to novels while you are passing by patients who are talking to themselves, even loudly, arguing with the voices in their heads--despite medical attention and psychiatric treatment. Their psychosis never left them.
My roommate slept all day, only waking up for meals, and to watch The Simpsons. She left her small TV playing night and day, all the while she snoozed on the little bed of hers, wrapped up in a sleeping bag.
Most of the fights were about the lines--there were lines for everything, including food (meals or snacks) or medications or getting spending cash from your account, and so on and so forth. Sometimes you even had to wait in line for the shower (even though there were three of them, only one had consistent hot water). Patients would cut in line, and then trouble would begin. One patient was especially known for this, and if the help from the residential center came to mitigate the situation, she would start crying and yelling like a two-year-old banging a shiny spoon on the table in demand for more sugar. She also begged the staff to let her have a pair of scissors so she could cut off all her hair--which she did.
One of the staff members, you could tell, just didn't want to be there. He was a little taller than me with black hair, glasses and was very thin. He led some of the games groups, which included playing basketball in the parking lot. Although you would see he hated his job, he was always polite and nice to me.
Coffee was used like a pet reward for good behavior. You were only allowed one cup in the morning at breakfast, and I was told that it was half-decaf and half-caffeinated. Otherwise, you had to earn your coffee by attending certain meetings or by climbing in privileges and being able to go out in a small group to a gas station and getting their old, acidic coffee. Even though I was on thirty-minute watch because I was chronically suicidal, I still managed to sneak down to the local 7-Eleven to buy the biggest coffee I could make--and then, I poured a bunch of sugar and creamer in it to kill the taste. But it was heaven, after going all week with rationed caffeine.
In the evenings, after all my walking, I would sit down in the only room with plush chairs, and read a real book from the residential care facility's library (which was limited, of course)--since I didn't have the permission to walk down to the city library. Frank would always join me, and talk incessantly about agriculture and professors at the University and how we needed more farmers, and I would ignore him as best I could while reading about a prostitute named Sugar, who is steadily rising in socioeconomic status thanks to her rich client.
I've never been physically harmed by another patient while I've stayed at either Stanford University hospital or even at the residential program I attended earlier this year.
What's scary and what most people want to avoid is how the mentally ill reflect back on our humanity--what it says about us as humans.
While at the resident care facility up north, I saw everyday a man wandering the halls, always close to at least one of the water fountains, wearing the same dirty pair of jeans, the same thick, black coat, and his head was down. He never spoke. He never made eye contact, he just shuffled along, frequently taking drinks from the spigot to the point that I thought he might drown himself.
During mealtimes at this residential center, you had to just keep your head focused on your food, and not look around at the other patients--because if you did that, you would lose your appetite. It was not unusual to see people picking up food items off the floor and then directly putting it into their mouths. Other patients would steal food off of people's plates. What was the worst were the particles of bread or cheese situated on their cheeks like kitchen face painting. One woman, every meal, tried to force-feed her doll, which she placed directly in front of her on the table.
During the day, in between group meetings, I would walk the hallways or if the weather was nice, I would walk circles out in the courtyard, listening to my books on tape. In that facility, there were 68 patients, enough of them that you were never alone, unless showering or using the bathroom. It was difficult to listen to novels while you are passing by patients who are talking to themselves, even loudly, arguing with the voices in their heads--despite medical attention and psychiatric treatment. Their psychosis never left them.
My roommate slept all day, only waking up for meals, and to watch The Simpsons. She left her small TV playing night and day, all the while she snoozed on the little bed of hers, wrapped up in a sleeping bag.
Most of the fights were about the lines--there were lines for everything, including food (meals or snacks) or medications or getting spending cash from your account, and so on and so forth. Sometimes you even had to wait in line for the shower (even though there were three of them, only one had consistent hot water). Patients would cut in line, and then trouble would begin. One patient was especially known for this, and if the help from the residential center came to mitigate the situation, she would start crying and yelling like a two-year-old banging a shiny spoon on the table in demand for more sugar. She also begged the staff to let her have a pair of scissors so she could cut off all her hair--which she did.
One of the staff members, you could tell, just didn't want to be there. He was a little taller than me with black hair, glasses and was very thin. He led some of the games groups, which included playing basketball in the parking lot. Although you would see he hated his job, he was always polite and nice to me.
Coffee was used like a pet reward for good behavior. You were only allowed one cup in the morning at breakfast, and I was told that it was half-decaf and half-caffeinated. Otherwise, you had to earn your coffee by attending certain meetings or by climbing in privileges and being able to go out in a small group to a gas station and getting their old, acidic coffee. Even though I was on thirty-minute watch because I was chronically suicidal, I still managed to sneak down to the local 7-Eleven to buy the biggest coffee I could make--and then, I poured a bunch of sugar and creamer in it to kill the taste. But it was heaven, after going all week with rationed caffeine.
In the evenings, after all my walking, I would sit down in the only room with plush chairs, and read a real book from the residential care facility's library (which was limited, of course)--since I didn't have the permission to walk down to the city library. Frank would always join me, and talk incessantly about agriculture and professors at the University and how we needed more farmers, and I would ignore him as best I could while reading about a prostitute named Sugar, who is steadily rising in socioeconomic status thanks to her rich client.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Losing the Battle, Part V
The English instructor mentions that participation is 10% of our grade. We can also miss four class sessions without it affecting our standing.
I've been wondering tonight, after Mom made the comment that she didn't go to school to make friends, why I do show up to class. And so far, this year, I haven't missed a single one (but after class began, I did leave on two occasions).
Most of the time with few exceptions, I actually want to go to lecture--not because of my grade, but because I'm genuinely interested in learning. I wake up in the morning and think, "I have school to look forward to."
Poetry isn't my main love, but I see it's value and therefore attend English 201B and complete the readings and take my "hits" on my in-class essays and write my papers. While I don't agree that "pop culture" (how do you define such a phrase?) is more important than literature, I still attend a pop culture English class because I recognize the topic's significance, and would otherwise probably disregard it as a study. I'm learning something new, instead of going over Robert Frost again. Or Hamlet. I never saw The Bean Trees as a great novel, maybe it's a good one, but I can respect the opinion of someone who does think it's outstanding because he simply has more education than I and maybe sees elements of it that I cannot. After all, I doubt I could convince any English professor to include Noonday Demon in their curriculum.
Stanford suggested that I return to college so that I would have more structure to my day, and simply, more to do that didn't consist of housework. They made no grand plans of me finishing my education.
Some students are there who don't want to be there--maybe a lot of them. I'm sure my professors have days when they simply don't want to show up either--but do because it's their job.
I told my mom when I came home from campus that I think about my disorder at least two times a day--in the morning when I take my pills and in the evening when I take more of them. Usually, I think about it multiple times a day. I also argued to Mom that no one wants to talk about mental health--that includes Trump and Clinton--and that it was not included as an issue in the debates.
"People should be concerned about the environment too, but they're not," comes my mother's response.
What started as a simple, beginner English class has now turned into all sorts of questions--should I go back to the University in Jan--should I be an English major--if I do change majors what will I do with my degree--will I go to graduate school? All the while wondering if going to college all those years will make me a better creative nonfiction writer? And is that fate, spending years in graduate school, better than my opportunities in the job market or staying on Disability?
But what really strikes at my heart are the overwhelming feelings of isolation, disconnect and alienation while attending English 201A (oddly enough, I don't have the same emotions towards English 201B). I simply have nothing in common with my classmates--including the older, returning students who still represent a large age gap. I feel like I've been thrown back into grammar school where I'm trying to survive against a seed of bullies. And I'm not succeeding.
Sure, I have B+/A- in the class (will know more after my American Sniper paper is graded), but that simply isn't enough. You have to walk in there and, excuse the word, dominate the group through knowing fuck more than they do. Otherwise, you get tossed to the wolves. You have all these voices competing for attention--white males to be exact--while the minorities like Maria make no sound. It's like watching a reality TV show (which, to be honest, I haven't seen many) about college. Someone shouts about a character, "He's a dick!" Like that's okay, using that kind of language in a college classroom! But who cares, they're all young, this is their first semester in college, they don't know how to act.
We can excuse them.
"Sometimes," Mom says to me while I'm on the phone with her just outside of class today, "You get a room full of idiots."
I hate labeling people like that because someone's idiot in one subject is someone else's genius in another. We can't judge students on one class. After all, I was eighteen once, and yes, even then, I thought I was special in the classroom--I could be a standout if I tried hard enough. I could impress any professor (this isn't true, one of the more poignant cases is of the University English lecturer I named simply "The English Professor," who's Facebook page I was staring at last night--he never liked me very much despite my efforts).
But I don't see any of those eighteen-year-olds trying to impress the English instructor, although maybe a few of them do through their writings on their papers.
What's sad about my story is--comparatively to theirs--I had to drop out of college after a few quarters when it became obvious that I was going to have my own troubles. I just wasn't the student I thought I could be--should be. I couldn't be the straight-A pre-vet gal. I was skating by with C's in my hard core science classes.
I've been wondering tonight, after Mom made the comment that she didn't go to school to make friends, why I do show up to class. And so far, this year, I haven't missed a single one (but after class began, I did leave on two occasions).
Most of the time with few exceptions, I actually want to go to lecture--not because of my grade, but because I'm genuinely interested in learning. I wake up in the morning and think, "I have school to look forward to."
Poetry isn't my main love, but I see it's value and therefore attend English 201B and complete the readings and take my "hits" on my in-class essays and write my papers. While I don't agree that "pop culture" (how do you define such a phrase?) is more important than literature, I still attend a pop culture English class because I recognize the topic's significance, and would otherwise probably disregard it as a study. I'm learning something new, instead of going over Robert Frost again. Or Hamlet. I never saw The Bean Trees as a great novel, maybe it's a good one, but I can respect the opinion of someone who does think it's outstanding because he simply has more education than I and maybe sees elements of it that I cannot. After all, I doubt I could convince any English professor to include Noonday Demon in their curriculum.
Stanford suggested that I return to college so that I would have more structure to my day, and simply, more to do that didn't consist of housework. They made no grand plans of me finishing my education.
Some students are there who don't want to be there--maybe a lot of them. I'm sure my professors have days when they simply don't want to show up either--but do because it's their job.
I told my mom when I came home from campus that I think about my disorder at least two times a day--in the morning when I take my pills and in the evening when I take more of them. Usually, I think about it multiple times a day. I also argued to Mom that no one wants to talk about mental health--that includes Trump and Clinton--and that it was not included as an issue in the debates.
"People should be concerned about the environment too, but they're not," comes my mother's response.
What started as a simple, beginner English class has now turned into all sorts of questions--should I go back to the University in Jan--should I be an English major--if I do change majors what will I do with my degree--will I go to graduate school? All the while wondering if going to college all those years will make me a better creative nonfiction writer? And is that fate, spending years in graduate school, better than my opportunities in the job market or staying on Disability?
But what really strikes at my heart are the overwhelming feelings of isolation, disconnect and alienation while attending English 201A (oddly enough, I don't have the same emotions towards English 201B). I simply have nothing in common with my classmates--including the older, returning students who still represent a large age gap. I feel like I've been thrown back into grammar school where I'm trying to survive against a seed of bullies. And I'm not succeeding.
Sure, I have B+/A- in the class (will know more after my American Sniper paper is graded), but that simply isn't enough. You have to walk in there and, excuse the word, dominate the group through knowing fuck more than they do. Otherwise, you get tossed to the wolves. You have all these voices competing for attention--white males to be exact--while the minorities like Maria make no sound. It's like watching a reality TV show (which, to be honest, I haven't seen many) about college. Someone shouts about a character, "He's a dick!" Like that's okay, using that kind of language in a college classroom! But who cares, they're all young, this is their first semester in college, they don't know how to act.
We can excuse them.
"Sometimes," Mom says to me while I'm on the phone with her just outside of class today, "You get a room full of idiots."
I hate labeling people like that because someone's idiot in one subject is someone else's genius in another. We can't judge students on one class. After all, I was eighteen once, and yes, even then, I thought I was special in the classroom--I could be a standout if I tried hard enough. I could impress any professor (this isn't true, one of the more poignant cases is of the University English lecturer I named simply "The English Professor," who's Facebook page I was staring at last night--he never liked me very much despite my efforts).
But I don't see any of those eighteen-year-olds trying to impress the English instructor, although maybe a few of them do through their writings on their papers.
What's sad about my story is--comparatively to theirs--I had to drop out of college after a few quarters when it became obvious that I was going to have my own troubles. I just wasn't the student I thought I could be--should be. I couldn't be the straight-A pre-vet gal. I was skating by with C's in my hard core science classes.
"Pro-Ana," Part II
I've seen people with anorexia during my stays at Stanford University hospital's G2P.
It's not pretty wandering around in the locked ward while you have a tube in your nose and down your throat that is attached to a pole where you carry around your nutrients because you still refuse to eat.
It's definitely not glamorous.
It's not pretty wandering around in the locked ward while you have a tube in your nose and down your throat that is attached to a pole where you carry around your nutrients because you still refuse to eat.
It's definitely not glamorous.
"Pro-Ana" And Losing the Battle
"Why are you preaching?" My mother says as we're both standing in the backyard, she's leaning down clipping and clipping away at haggard weeds, and I'm just standing there in my righteous anger. "No one cares but you."
The truth is sometimes difficult to chew up and spit out. Or swallow. Or whatever.
It's Engl 201A, and Maria is still up front with me. Strength in numbers.
"I'll remember that next time I want to skip class," I say to the English instructor after he explains that he doesn't forsee his 6:00pm class being full because members of the baseball team will be absent and watch the World Series instead.
"You don't need a reason to skip class," he says to me.
Okay. "Well, that's encouraging," I reply, but I don't think he hears me.
Other students join into the conversation, and honestly, it's nice to see my classmates take some personal interest in their professor, being that the person in front of the class has a life and priorities and responsibilities like everyone else.
"What if I don't want to read at all?" One of the students says. He's the one who likes to use the words "delusional" and "insanity" (which, as far as I know, doesn't even have a medical meaning anymore--it's outdated--even though in law, obviously, it's still used).
I almost turned around to face him, and say, "Then why the fuck are you in college, asshole?"
But I didn't. You can't blame other people when you're having a bad day, like being in love with a married man, who gets a divorce, only to not want to see you when he's actually available.
The English instructor comes up with a better, less aggressive response. "Try online courses?"
You still have to read for those too, but I keep my mouth shut--again.
As a class, we view a video about Eugenia, YouTube star, and change.org, who wants her off the air.
(http://www.medicaldaily.com/will-youtube-star-eugenia-cooney-get-kicked-vloggers-unhealthy-look-rumored-402940)
Why? Why are we discussing this? Are we advocating censorship?
"Why are we focusing on her? You can watch people die on YouTube," the same student comments.
For the record, anorexia and other eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness.
(http://www.anad.org/get-information/about-eating-disorders/eating-disorders-statistics/)
The news report argues that her videos are "triggering," which is completely true. Want tips of how to lose weight? Talk to "pro-ana's," and they'll share tips with you and with each other.
Another student, a woman this time, says, "Would we be saying this about her if she was overweight or fat?"
Well, being overweight or even obese is not a mental illness. As I told Mom, you can't die from being fat, you die from the complications of being fat, mainly from Metabolic Syndrome. You can die from being anorexic, like cardiac arrest--or passing out from hypoglycemia while you're behind the wheel, and then either killing yourself or someone else on the road--or a number of other reasons, including suicide.
But the first question is--is Eugenia an anorexic? And why does that matter?
When you see a man in ragged clothes who hasn't bathed in more than a week, who is wandering aimlessly down the sidewalk, all the while shouting that "I'm a god!" and talking to other imaginary deities, you can get the sense that maybe he has a fucking mental illness--and you can narrow it down from there like schizophrenia or possibly a psychotic manic episode.
As I told the class, I'm not a psychiatrist and I'm not a psychologist, and therefore I can't accurately diagnosis her. However, when someone is sickly thin, beyond even the normal "thin" beauty standards, you have to wonder and connect some dots. Of course, she's lying and saying she's just naturally that way. We all lie at some point in our lives about our mental illness--either to ourselves or to other people. (Interestingly enough, there are some genetic disorders that curb someone's ability to gain weight--I learned this little factoid while attending group therapy--so the possibility is there that someone can be deathly thin and not an anorexic or engaging in self-starvation)
Why does that matter? Well, we are products of our environment and under the influence of other people's fucked-up-ness. We see thin models in the Victoria Secret's windows or anywhere really, and we can't help but think about our waistline and how we're just plain bigger than what society says we should be. Almost everyone in America's consumerism recognizes this. My first English class at the University, first quarter back in 2001, discussed "heroin chic." The idea that looking strung out on opioids, wasted away from drug abuse--that it was attractive to the opposite sex.When do we take these messages too far?
The correct response to all of this is sensitivity to the issue, and discussing it in a full and enlightened manner.
But we can't have a straight talk about any type of mental illness because the only person who it's important to--
Is me.
So, after having a short conversation with my mother over my cellphone, while standing in the soccer field, I went back into class, gathered up my belongings and fucking left.
The truth is sometimes difficult to chew up and spit out. Or swallow. Or whatever.
It's Engl 201A, and Maria is still up front with me. Strength in numbers.
"I'll remember that next time I want to skip class," I say to the English instructor after he explains that he doesn't forsee his 6:00pm class being full because members of the baseball team will be absent and watch the World Series instead.
"You don't need a reason to skip class," he says to me.
Okay. "Well, that's encouraging," I reply, but I don't think he hears me.
Other students join into the conversation, and honestly, it's nice to see my classmates take some personal interest in their professor, being that the person in front of the class has a life and priorities and responsibilities like everyone else.
"What if I don't want to read at all?" One of the students says. He's the one who likes to use the words "delusional" and "insanity" (which, as far as I know, doesn't even have a medical meaning anymore--it's outdated--even though in law, obviously, it's still used).
I almost turned around to face him, and say, "Then why the fuck are you in college, asshole?"
But I didn't. You can't blame other people when you're having a bad day, like being in love with a married man, who gets a divorce, only to not want to see you when he's actually available.
The English instructor comes up with a better, less aggressive response. "Try online courses?"
You still have to read for those too, but I keep my mouth shut--again.
As a class, we view a video about Eugenia, YouTube star, and change.org, who wants her off the air.
(http://www.medicaldaily.com/will-youtube-star-eugenia-cooney-get-kicked-vloggers-unhealthy-look-rumored-402940)
Why? Why are we discussing this? Are we advocating censorship?
"Why are we focusing on her? You can watch people die on YouTube," the same student comments.
For the record, anorexia and other eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness.
(http://www.anad.org/get-information/about-eating-disorders/eating-disorders-statistics/)
The news report argues that her videos are "triggering," which is completely true. Want tips of how to lose weight? Talk to "pro-ana's," and they'll share tips with you and with each other.
Another student, a woman this time, says, "Would we be saying this about her if she was overweight or fat?"
Well, being overweight or even obese is not a mental illness. As I told Mom, you can't die from being fat, you die from the complications of being fat, mainly from Metabolic Syndrome. You can die from being anorexic, like cardiac arrest--or passing out from hypoglycemia while you're behind the wheel, and then either killing yourself or someone else on the road--or a number of other reasons, including suicide.
But the first question is--is Eugenia an anorexic? And why does that matter?
When you see a man in ragged clothes who hasn't bathed in more than a week, who is wandering aimlessly down the sidewalk, all the while shouting that "I'm a god!" and talking to other imaginary deities, you can get the sense that maybe he has a fucking mental illness--and you can narrow it down from there like schizophrenia or possibly a psychotic manic episode.
As I told the class, I'm not a psychiatrist and I'm not a psychologist, and therefore I can't accurately diagnosis her. However, when someone is sickly thin, beyond even the normal "thin" beauty standards, you have to wonder and connect some dots. Of course, she's lying and saying she's just naturally that way. We all lie at some point in our lives about our mental illness--either to ourselves or to other people. (Interestingly enough, there are some genetic disorders that curb someone's ability to gain weight--I learned this little factoid while attending group therapy--so the possibility is there that someone can be deathly thin and not an anorexic or engaging in self-starvation)
Why does that matter? Well, we are products of our environment and under the influence of other people's fucked-up-ness. We see thin models in the Victoria Secret's windows or anywhere really, and we can't help but think about our waistline and how we're just plain bigger than what society says we should be. Almost everyone in America's consumerism recognizes this. My first English class at the University, first quarter back in 2001, discussed "heroin chic." The idea that looking strung out on opioids, wasted away from drug abuse--that it was attractive to the opposite sex.When do we take these messages too far?
The correct response to all of this is sensitivity to the issue, and discussing it in a full and enlightened manner.
But we can't have a straight talk about any type of mental illness because the only person who it's important to--
Is me.
So, after having a short conversation with my mother over my cellphone, while standing in the soccer field, I went back into class, gathered up my belongings and fucking left.
Like I've Died
One aspect of the novel that I can relate to (since I don't connect with the theme of motherhood and female friendships because almost all of my friends are men) is Taylor's longing for Estevan, who is married.
"Mama, I feel like, I don't now what. Like I've died."
"I know. You feel like you'll never run into another one that's worth turning your head around for, but you will. You'll see."
"No, it's worse than that. I don't even care if I ever run into anybody else. I don't know if I even want to."
(pg. 296 of The Bean Trees)
"Mama, I feel like, I don't now what. Like I've died."
"I know. You feel like you'll never run into another one that's worth turning your head around for, but you will. You'll see."
"No, it's worse than that. I don't even care if I ever run into anybody else. I don't know if I even want to."
(pg. 296 of The Bean Trees)
Sirens Calling
I was walking down to get myself a cup of coffee at the stand just outside of the library when I saw her.
Long, pretty blonde hair, about a size 2, with a bare midriff, and wearing floral spandex pants.
Where do these girls come from?
Scandalous!
Long, pretty blonde hair, about a size 2, with a bare midriff, and wearing floral spandex pants.
Where do these girls come from?
Scandalous!
Constantly Cynical
With students like Dee expressing their attitudes (read entry: "7/10"), you wonder if the student population here at the community college is different from the undergraduates at the University, which is literally just down the road from here.
I busted my ass in high school, especially my senior year, to get into the University as a freshman with the expressed intent of going to vet school and possibly getting my Ph.D. You are surrounded by other students who had similar experiences, and it's not unusual anymore for young adults to have better than a 4.0 gpa (which is a fairly recent development--at least in my eyes as someone who's in her thirties). These high schoolers are taking AP classes with the idea that they will attend a four-year college.
Which brings up an interesting question for me, are the eighteen-year-olds here on a community college campus, did they take advantage of AP classes in preparation for college or did they more-or-less choose a less aggressive path in school? What are their motivations for being in college to begin with?
Some students here at the community college are here for mainly financial reasons; it's still cheaper to get your G.E.'s at this college than at a four-year university. Some students are serious, but are older in life, have other responsibilities that keep them from being full time at that level--at least for now. Again, I'm beating a dead horse here, but maybe some of the students have disabilities that affected their performance in high school, and therefore, they didn't have the grades to get into the University--but not from a lack of trying.
It's also difficult not to become cynical constantly running (either as a fellow classmate or a professor/instructor) into students who have no love or respect for their education--the sector of undergraduates who just want to finish their classes and move on in life to a job. Because having a job is extra fun.
Whenever the English instructor says to the class that he hopes "everyone is enjoying the book" (referring, of course, to The Bean Trees), I immediately wonder just how many students are actually enjoying the book. When I was a freshman at the University my second quarter in 2001, I was not only taking a full class load, but still had time to write in my journal and read books on my own volition--because I loved literature (which should have been a big hint that I needed to change majors).
In beginner classes like Engl 201A and Engl 201B, how many students are potential English majors? Probably not that many. You can be a science major, and still love reading fictional books--you can still love learning at any stage.
I busted my ass in high school, especially my senior year, to get into the University as a freshman with the expressed intent of going to vet school and possibly getting my Ph.D. You are surrounded by other students who had similar experiences, and it's not unusual anymore for young adults to have better than a 4.0 gpa (which is a fairly recent development--at least in my eyes as someone who's in her thirties). These high schoolers are taking AP classes with the idea that they will attend a four-year college.
Which brings up an interesting question for me, are the eighteen-year-olds here on a community college campus, did they take advantage of AP classes in preparation for college or did they more-or-less choose a less aggressive path in school? What are their motivations for being in college to begin with?
Some students here at the community college are here for mainly financial reasons; it's still cheaper to get your G.E.'s at this college than at a four-year university. Some students are serious, but are older in life, have other responsibilities that keep them from being full time at that level--at least for now. Again, I'm beating a dead horse here, but maybe some of the students have disabilities that affected their performance in high school, and therefore, they didn't have the grades to get into the University--but not from a lack of trying.
It's also difficult not to become cynical constantly running (either as a fellow classmate or a professor/instructor) into students who have no love or respect for their education--the sector of undergraduates who just want to finish their classes and move on in life to a job. Because having a job is extra fun.
Whenever the English instructor says to the class that he hopes "everyone is enjoying the book" (referring, of course, to The Bean Trees), I immediately wonder just how many students are actually enjoying the book. When I was a freshman at the University my second quarter in 2001, I was not only taking a full class load, but still had time to write in my journal and read books on my own volition--because I loved literature (which should have been a big hint that I needed to change majors).
In beginner classes like Engl 201A and Engl 201B, how many students are potential English majors? Probably not that many. You can be a science major, and still love reading fictional books--you can still love learning at any stage.
Secret Judgments
The LSU Professor and I are at a coffee shop in a nearby town, the same place we've always gone, and we're sitting across from each other at a table.
"When you said, 'he's only using you,' " I begin. "it hurt my feelings, not because of what you said, but because you didn't tell me you felt this way earlier."
"We all have secret judgments that we make of others," comes his reply.
"When you said, 'he's only using you,' " I begin. "it hurt my feelings, not because of what you said, but because you didn't tell me you felt this way earlier."
"We all have secret judgments that we make of others," comes his reply.
The Best Ever
I disagree with Dr. Foster, I don't believe that the opening paragraph to The Bean Tree is particularly striking.
The best beginning to any book I've ever read is Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon:
"Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one's self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection. It is the aloneness within us made manifest, and it destroys not only connection to others but also the ability to be peacefully alone with oneself. Love, though it is no prophylactic against depression, is what cushions the mind and protects it from itself. Medications and psychotherapy can renew that protection, making it easier to love and be loved, and that is why they work. In good spirits, some love themselves and some love others and some love work and some love God: any of these passions can furnish that vital sense of purpose that is the opposite of depression. Love forsakes us from time to time, and we forsake love. In depression, the meaninglessness of every enterprise and every emotion, the meaninglessness of life itself, becomes self-evident. The only feeling left in this loveless state is insignificance."
The best beginning to any book I've ever read is Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon:
"Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one's self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection. It is the aloneness within us made manifest, and it destroys not only connection to others but also the ability to be peacefully alone with oneself. Love, though it is no prophylactic against depression, is what cushions the mind and protects it from itself. Medications and psychotherapy can renew that protection, making it easier to love and be loved, and that is why they work. In good spirits, some love themselves and some love others and some love work and some love God: any of these passions can furnish that vital sense of purpose that is the opposite of depression. Love forsakes us from time to time, and we forsake love. In depression, the meaninglessness of every enterprise and every emotion, the meaninglessness of life itself, becomes self-evident. The only feeling left in this loveless state is insignificance."
I'm Joseph in This Scenario
You see, I'm Joseph in this scenario.
And I also owe the LSU Professor sushi because I lost our bet.
"Just block him for one month, just one month, that's the least of what he deserves," the LSU Professor pleaded with me a few weeks ago.
I didn't.
I had this dream last night that I showed up at his house, in the middle of the night, and I remember sitting on the edge of his bed, talking to him, and then finally saying, "I have to go." I have another thought--that I'm dreaming, that this isn't real.
"Some patients like to go on these drugs because they have vivid dreams," one of the doctors at Stanford University Hospital's G2P said.
What a stupid reason to abuse antidepressants.
He tells me to stay, to lie down in the bed--which I do.
This morning, I woke up in a particularly sentimental mood--which reminds me of Morpheus saying the last time we saw each other that being married to the Wife was some of the happiest times in his life, and that sometimes he "got sentimental" over the loss of their relationship.
So, I did a very bad thing, shame on me, I sent him a TXT-message this morning, asking how he and the kids were doing.
It's Monday, Oct 31st, and the English instructor is reading out loud to the class from The Bean Trees. He says, " 'Whatever you want the most, it's going to be the worst thing for you.' " (pg. 83) He asks the group, "Any of you ever been in that situation?" He doesn't pause long and is looking down at the book instead of looking up at everyone else. "No?" He answers himself.
I felt like raising my hand, and saying, "Does having sex with a married man, over the period of years, count?"
And I also owe the LSU Professor sushi because I lost our bet.
"Just block him for one month, just one month, that's the least of what he deserves," the LSU Professor pleaded with me a few weeks ago.
I didn't.
I had this dream last night that I showed up at his house, in the middle of the night, and I remember sitting on the edge of his bed, talking to him, and then finally saying, "I have to go." I have another thought--that I'm dreaming, that this isn't real.
"Some patients like to go on these drugs because they have vivid dreams," one of the doctors at Stanford University Hospital's G2P said.
What a stupid reason to abuse antidepressants.
He tells me to stay, to lie down in the bed--which I do.
This morning, I woke up in a particularly sentimental mood--which reminds me of Morpheus saying the last time we saw each other that being married to the Wife was some of the happiest times in his life, and that sometimes he "got sentimental" over the loss of their relationship.
So, I did a very bad thing, shame on me, I sent him a TXT-message this morning, asking how he and the kids were doing.
It's Monday, Oct 31st, and the English instructor is reading out loud to the class from The Bean Trees. He says, " 'Whatever you want the most, it's going to be the worst thing for you.' " (pg. 83) He asks the group, "Any of you ever been in that situation?" He doesn't pause long and is looking down at the book instead of looking up at everyone else. "No?" He answers himself.
I felt like raising my hand, and saying, "Does having sex with a married man, over the period of years, count?"
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Good People in the World
Everyone has the fear of being ordinary, but our art is our DNA, a spiral staircase to the gods.
I'm completely breathless. I used to run six miles a day, and now I can hardly jog across campus with my bag in tow.
His office door is open.
"I just wanted to say 'thank you' again," I say to him, struggling with my words either from the exertion or from the anxiety. "How about I buy you a coffee?" He's my hero for the day. I left my wallet in the classroom, and the Engl 201B professor had given it to campus police before I even figured out it was missing.
"No," he responds, smiling, looking a little embarrassed.
"Are you sure? It's the least I can do."
He tells me "no" again before finally relenting. "I like diet sodas."
"What kind?"
"Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke or Diet Dr Pepper."
I'm completely breathless. I used to run six miles a day, and now I can hardly jog across campus with my bag in tow.
His office door is open.
"I just wanted to say 'thank you' again," I say to him, struggling with my words either from the exertion or from the anxiety. "How about I buy you a coffee?" He's my hero for the day. I left my wallet in the classroom, and the Engl 201B professor had given it to campus police before I even figured out it was missing.
"No," he responds, smiling, looking a little embarrassed.
"Are you sure? It's the least I can do."
He tells me "no" again before finally relenting. "I like diet sodas."
"What kind?"
"Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke or Diet Dr Pepper."
7/10
I told the whole Engl 201B that I was a stripper because there was an argument in class about the difference between an "erotic dancer" and a "stripper." I stated simply that there was none; the terms were used interchangeably. Everyone laughed at me, thinking that was pretty strange.
"Were you really a stripper?" Dee, who's in the chair next to me, asks in a low tone.
"Yes, when I was younger and much thinner."
But before the professor arrives, some of us had settled into our seats.
"Maybe he's not going to show up today," Dee comments.
"No, he's here," one of the female students says. She looks like someone just beat her dog. "In office hours, he told me to re-write my whole essay."
Dee smiles, "You have no idea how little I care about this class."
"Did you ever turn in your essay?" Another student asks Dee.
"No, but I have a hundred on everything else, so I think I'll be okay." He's still smiling.
Me, on my in-class essay, I scored a 7/10.
"Were you really a stripper?" Dee, who's in the chair next to me, asks in a low tone.
"Yes, when I was younger and much thinner."
But before the professor arrives, some of us had settled into our seats.
"Maybe he's not going to show up today," Dee comments.
"No, he's here," one of the female students says. She looks like someone just beat her dog. "In office hours, he told me to re-write my whole essay."
Dee smiles, "You have no idea how little I care about this class."
"Did you ever turn in your essay?" Another student asks Dee.
"No, but I have a hundred on everything else, so I think I'll be okay." He's still smiling.
Me, on my in-class essay, I scored a 7/10.
At Least the Dog Loves Me
Every day (or early evening) when I come home from school, Beck is excited, thrilled to see me. I'll walk up to the house, and I can hear her whining like a giggle from a little girl. When I walk through the door, she'll run up to me, dance in a circle for me, and then dash around the house like the best thing in the world just showed up.
Yesterday, I said while I was petting her chin, "At least my dog misses me."
Yesterday, I said while I was petting her chin, "At least my dog misses me."
Leaving Empty
On Sept 26, 2016, during Engl 201A, we had this for a journal topic:
"What is one thing you know now that you wish you had been aware of four years ago?"
I wanted to get into a tearful dissection of my relationship with Morpheus, to tell myself that yes, he would get that divorce years later--but even when his circumstances changed, that didn't mean we'd be together in any meaningful sense.
But somehow, I just felt that was too revealing of a response, and I left my notebook page empty.
"What is one thing you know now that you wish you had been aware of four years ago?"
I wanted to get into a tearful dissection of my relationship with Morpheus, to tell myself that yes, he would get that divorce years later--but even when his circumstances changed, that didn't mean we'd be together in any meaningful sense.
But somehow, I just felt that was too revealing of a response, and I left my notebook page empty.
Bake Sale at UT
So, it was a bake sale at University of Texas (nothing good ever came out of Texas except for Morpheus, and even he doesn't like the place), protesting Affirmative Action.
(http://college.usatoday.com/2016/10/26/young-conservatives-ut-bake-sale-racism/)
(https://www.texastribune.org/2016/10/26/affirmative-action-bake-sale-ut-austin-met-protest/)
It's Engl 201A where we are asked to write responses to various new items in our journal to turn it at the end of the semester. I asked the English instructor if he actually read them, to which his answer was "sometimes." I hardly find the motivation to write material he isn't going to read without the guarantee of him not reading it. In other words, if he told me for sure he wouldn't read it, I would probably be more open and, possibly, more honest in my reply. I understand it is just writing practice, which is helpful--really.
I don't write a single word. I'm completely horrified, and I feel my pulse going up, pending anxiety. I instinctively put my hand to my mouth.
The students at UT are not hosting the mentally ill bake sale, where prices depend on how severe your disorder is (schizophrenics would get cookies for free!), but this is solely a race and gender issue.
So, why am I so upset?
I can't help but think about Maria, who sits next to me on my right, the only student in Engl 201A who bothers to converse with me and how she deals with racism as a Mexican American. Just before class, she told me a story about how she was in a supermarket and she spook to her kids in Spanish, and she was reprimanded by a white woman who told her to speak in English. She says she told the lady that she could talk in English as well.
"People say, 'oh you're taking our jobs,' " she tells me in a demure tone like she just expects people to treat her like shit.
I want to tell her that I understand discrimination, but I can't find the words. Something about how she is working, and raising her kids--and taking four classes in college--for some reason, I feel like I don't have much to complain about.
(http://college.usatoday.com/2016/10/26/young-conservatives-ut-bake-sale-racism/)
(https://www.texastribune.org/2016/10/26/affirmative-action-bake-sale-ut-austin-met-protest/)
It's Engl 201A where we are asked to write responses to various new items in our journal to turn it at the end of the semester. I asked the English instructor if he actually read them, to which his answer was "sometimes." I hardly find the motivation to write material he isn't going to read without the guarantee of him not reading it. In other words, if he told me for sure he wouldn't read it, I would probably be more open and, possibly, more honest in my reply. I understand it is just writing practice, which is helpful--really.
I don't write a single word. I'm completely horrified, and I feel my pulse going up, pending anxiety. I instinctively put my hand to my mouth.
The students at UT are not hosting the mentally ill bake sale, where prices depend on how severe your disorder is (schizophrenics would get cookies for free!), but this is solely a race and gender issue.
So, why am I so upset?
I can't help but think about Maria, who sits next to me on my right, the only student in Engl 201A who bothers to converse with me and how she deals with racism as a Mexican American. Just before class, she told me a story about how she was in a supermarket and she spook to her kids in Spanish, and she was reprimanded by a white woman who told her to speak in English. She says she told the lady that she could talk in English as well.
"People say, 'oh you're taking our jobs,' " she tells me in a demure tone like she just expects people to treat her like shit.
I want to tell her that I understand discrimination, but I can't find the words. Something about how she is working, and raising her kids--and taking four classes in college--for some reason, I feel like I don't have much to complain about.
Poetic Prose
The Engl 201B professor asks me during class, "Do you write poetry?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I write poetic prose."
Or at least should.
"No," I say, shaking my head. "I write poetic prose."
Or at least should.
The Midterm in English 201A, Part II
Despite spending equal amounts of time studying for both the Engl 156 midterm and the Engl 201A midterm, I still did substantially better in the latter. Instead of a D+, I got an A+ (9.7 out of 10, although I completely forgot the extra credit, and had I completed it, I would have received a perfect score).
Which just goes to show you how much your mentality plays into your performance.
Which just goes to show you how much your mentality plays into your performance.
The Legend of PeeWee, Part II (Or As My Mother Would Say, "Getting Old Sucks")
I'm in the front room by myself, watching TV and reading casually articles off of my phone.
Dad stomps down the hallway, through the room, holding PeeWee in one hand, mumbling to himself what seemed to be repetitive "Fuck you's."
I don't know if he was addressing the dog or Mom, who was in the bedroom.
Dad stomps down the hallway, through the room, holding PeeWee in one hand, mumbling to himself what seemed to be repetitive "Fuck you's."
I don't know if he was addressing the dog or Mom, who was in the bedroom.
Pumpkin Pie
We all agreed to go to Costco together. We generally make one trip a week, and the grocery bills add up when you're spending $150-$250 a week for food.
I join up to my parent's shopping cart mid-trip. We're in the dairy section. I point to the butter, "Do we need butter?" I ask.
My father hisses, "We don't have any money."
Mom ignores that remark and says, "We have plenty of butter."
I look in the basket. If we are so short of cash, why are we buying a giant pumpkin pie (it doesn't really cost that much)?
"Do you want me to buy?" I ask either of my parents.
So, I did.
I join up to my parent's shopping cart mid-trip. We're in the dairy section. I point to the butter, "Do we need butter?" I ask.
My father hisses, "We don't have any money."
Mom ignores that remark and says, "We have plenty of butter."
I look in the basket. If we are so short of cash, why are we buying a giant pumpkin pie (it doesn't really cost that much)?
"Do you want me to buy?" I ask either of my parents.
So, I did.
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