Truth and Fiction

I guest taught a class earlier this week, one that the prof had titled “knowing the world through narrative.” I had mentioned in a conversation about my admin job that one of the things I miss about teaching is the opportunity to talk about books and the craft of writing and reading them on a regular basis. So there I was on Thursday, parachuted into a class of 100 students, with a plan to march them through literary analysis. I chose a few pages from Alison Bechdel’s graphic novel Are you my mother?, which is a memoir (though she terms it a comic drama) weaving psychoanalysis, Virginia Woolf, and Bechdel’s relationship with her mom into a pretty interesting text.

What I initially found so compelling about Bechdel’s book was her response to her mom at a point when her mom is asserting that there is no room for the individual, the personal, the specific in good literature. Bechdel says: but don’t you think that if you write minutely and rigorously enough about your own life that you can transcend your individual self? I thought that was spot on and beautifully put. Here, Bechdel shows you how hard it is to write about yourself and what you can hope to gain by it. It makes her project sound like self-ethnography, which fit in with what this class I was working with has been up to this semester.

The other notion I wanted to cover with the students, who had just been working with data collection and other quantifiable source material, was the notion of Truth vs. Facts. We can, if we choose, collect facts about a work of writing and these facts can bring us to a certain understanding of the work and influence our relationship to it. But good fiction is greater than the sum of its parts and, as Stephen King, Tennessee Williams and a hundred other writers have said–good fiction is the truth inside the lies they write. I wanted these students, most of whom would have had high school English classes that left them more or less cold and uninspired, to take the notion of reading literature seriously. So we talked a bit a about metaphor and symbolism (the apple I’m eating at lunchtime = the apple in Eden, for example) and get back to Bechdel and her notion of writing minutely and rigorously about her life as something that could become transcendent.

I thought it was awesome. And so good to talk about again. Ad as I write about it two days later, I may come to the conclusion that I am a better lecturer than I am a writer. My riff on my apple and Eve’s apple was pretty nice, I thought, and impossible to recapture now.

The other great thing about working with a graphic novel for this was the ability of that medium to visually display the layers of a text. Word bubbles, blocked off text that provides context/narration, and images of passages from other books (Woolf, Winnicot) that show the intertextual material Bechdel is working with. And then the images of the characters themselves. Are they happy, sad, regretful, confused? No adjectives needed–just those pictures. How challenging that work must be–to convey all of that with so little, really.

Incoming Me

(with credit & apologies to Havi Bell)

On a warm May evening eight years ago, or was it only seven, a friend of mine and I sat in my car in the driveway, engine off, and ran through what appeared to be her options to get out of a sticky situation. Well, I ran through the options; she batted each one of them away as too difficult, to painful, impossible. She was hurting and I was frustrated with the mess she found herself in and had no clue how talking to me was going to help her out. There are some issues, alas, which each of us must confront on our own: pistols-at-dawn and the responsibility rests on our shoulders alone. My feelings, my insights on her situation came from a place of compassion within me but, because they were mine, they did not resonate with her.

And in that car, I had a small flash, an insight both timely and useful–a rare combination, really. I asked her: “What would the person you would like to be do in this situation?” I thought maybe that question might sneak around all of the roadblocks she had constructed between herself and the solution (whatever it was) to her situation. Your best version of yourself, that image you have of yourself, dappled in sunshine, looking strong and capable and happy–SHE would know what to do here. She would behave with sovereignty and clarity, owning her decision and completely capable of managing the consequences. Why not talk to her??

It is easier to give someone unsolicited advice than to take it yourself. And I know there have been many occasions in the intervening years where I should have stopped tying myself in knots and had a conversation with the competent and sovereign version of myself. Frequently, I tied myself in knots and only came back to the realization of my own flexibility and control over my happiness with help from others.

But I am trying to listen to that version of ideal me now, and doing it consciously. Havi Brooks, who writes about “unstuckness” and yoga and shiva nata at www.fluentself.com, talks about this process, as well. She calls it talking to “incoming me” and she goes to her future, more knowledgable self for prompts, advice, and clarity on issues that are vexing her in the now. This makes sense to me, though it sounds quirky. In order to bypass that bitchy, nasty voice in your head that reminds you of everthing you’ve ruined, every mistake you’ve made, you might need to get in touch with a part of yourself that is beyond that and at peace.

Of course, there is a danger that I might be expecting too much from “incoming me,” “future me,” “idealized me.” And maybe that is why Havi talks about “incoming,” reminding herself that this YOU is always in process, always developing. There is no “future” or “ideal” to attain, because in that future moment, another “incoming me” will be in the wings, waiting to pull back the curtain and get new things in motion.

Right now I am hoping that incoming me has clarity on a few things–things related to space and shelter, things related to words and creativity, things related to the relationship between body and mind. That’s a lot to ask of her, maybe I’ll start slowly.

Summer, Skin and Heart

Canada agrees with me. Anything that spared me from the infernal heat of the Midwest this past July would agree with me, though, so maybe I’m cheating. It gets hot here, too, southern Ontario is south of big chunks of the US so it isn’t actually the Great Frozen Icefield in the North all the time. There are lakes and rivers and it gets muggy and then we went to Quebec and the bugz were very buggy indeed. And bite-y. Damn bugz.

It’s hot out today and on my walk through downtown for iced coffee (to ameliorate the headache that comes from running for only the second time in three weeks AND doing noon yoga with someone twenty years younger than I) there was a lot of flesh on display. Kids and their parents at the downtown spash park. I envied them, especially the naked toddlers screaming and running through the fountains. Our journey to Quebec involved a large lake, with only us in attendance; one of my baths was a glorious skinny dip in the sunlight–clothes should always be optional at lakes in the summertime and damn the bugs.

The toddlers aren’t the only ones running around naked, though. In the amazing parade of ink that is any city walk in the summertime, I have discovered a formerly unknown-to-me site for a tattoo: between a woman’s breasts. You might smirk at my leering glance but allow me to assure you that I have seen not ONE, but TWO inter-booble tattoos today, sported by women clad in tank tops and shorts. I thought I had spied a third (in a three-block walk!) when I realized that this enterprising young lady had her cell phone stashed there.

I did not get close enough to read or interpret these tatoos–I figure they are some sort of territorial marking for a mate, much as the phone is a way to keep those to whom you wish to speak closecloserclosest to your heart. They were both green though, in that generic tattoo-ionk-green sort of way. I wanted them to be red and blue and floral and amazing–a stamp of some sort of power or joy center in the heart. That did not appear to be the case, though. My wish for a bright, colorful and joyful inter-booble tattoo on others does not, however, mean that I wish one for myself. Nosiree. I will have to open my heart and project the joy and centered-ness without a visual clue.

On the Dangers of Multiple Campuses

One institution with several locations can be logistically messy to navigate. The link that takes you “home” might take you “home A” when you really wanted “home B.” Everyone’s titles are longer, since geography has to be in there somewhere. People worry about redundancy (good) and duplication (bad).

Knowing that, though I have only my own stupidity to blame when I use the search box on the campus website to find “Health Services,” call them up and make a chiropractic appointment, only to realize when I show up for the appointment that I’ve gone to Health Services B (where I wanted to be) instead of Health Services A (where I evidently made the freaking appointment).

My back hurts. And I’m a moron. Awesome.

On Having One Boss, or Dozens

I am an academic. Although my work history includes being a TA, an adjunct, an assistant professor and an associate professor, I have always worked under the assumption that I am my own boss. The criteria for success in my profession have always been more or less clear: teach well, publish your original research in respectable venues, do the work of keeping your institution up and running in a sensible manner. Aside from an annual check-in with the head of department, I have been a free-range scholarly chicken, pecking at my piles of work until I considered them done.

Being your own boss, while it conjures images of independence from authority, flexibility of hours, and the ability to set one’s own goals and priorities, can be quite a bitch. When you are your Own Boss, there is never a day off. You are always there, peering over your shoulder, wondering whether  you should be knitting that Christmas stocking or perhaps reading a few articles for that research project you’re neglecting instead. You can be a very annoying boss indeed. I found My Own Boss to be a rather persistent off-hours stalker, who pestered me in a quiet, nagging way that grew tiresome.

In my current position, I am not My Own Boss, which is a good thing (see above). I have A Boss. But he isn’t really the Boss-y type, which leaves me in the position of being My Own Boss again, or, allowing each committee, team, project I work on to be populated by a small army of bosses, who each feel that they know what I should be doing. Dozens of bosses, daily informal performance evaluations (that isn’t what we wanted, Jennifer!), and no authority in sight.

Time to put on my Big Girl Boots and show that I know very well how to be My Own Boss.

Self Electrocution

Long ago and far away, a friend of mine and I discussed the interesting coincidence that the two of us, as well as many people we knew at university and considered “smart” had had some type of childhood run-in with an ungrounded electrical current. We pondered whether having been zapped at a young age contributed to our genius. (We had consumed a few beers by this point in the conversation, so forgive our arrogance.)

Then today I ran across this article in The New Scientist that suggests that electrical current to the brain can help us achieve “flow” state much earlier in our training in a specific skill. So now I’m wondering: How many of YOU have been zapped, either intentionally or unintentionally, by electrical current. Any good stories to share?

Repeat after me: There is no such thing as bad weather

We used to live in New Haven, Connecticut, birthplace of George W. Bush. We moved there from Salt Lake City, Utah and I am pretty sure that I experienced less culture shock moving from St. Louis to Berlin. New Haven is small and gritty and post-industrial. Yale is all ivy and old masonry as one would expect; but for me, it’s beauty is marred somewhat by the close proximity to real poverty and its attendant dangers to personal safety. I was never a fan of New Haven. The excitement that we had built up before the move, in which we created visions of ourselves as East Coast People, fell  flat pretty quickly as we addressed the costs of childcare and housing one one income. We had one, and then two, small children. We did not jet off to Boston or New York City for the weekend, even though they were only two hours away. We did not enjoy the Off Off Broadway theater for which New Haven is famous–we were broke!

So, although New Haven as a city in which to live held and holds practically no charm for me, living there was in many respects like living anywhere else. You make or find a community of like-minded people–in our case parents with small children–and your life revolves in its own small orbit. Our orbit consisted of the families who were involved in our parent-run, co-op day care. It was a community forged in the fires of state childcare regulations and diaper changes and those moms and dads and their kids were my New Haven and THEM I loved.

The families in the co-op taught me all sorts of things. Don’t feed a toddler in diapers curry was one of those things but there were other gems, as well. The one I have been thinking of, and citing to others, frequently in recent weeks comes from my Danish friend Benedicte, who navigated much of her daily life with two (then three) kids without a car: There is no such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate clothing. She regaled us with stories of her Danish childhood, when children played outside every day regardless of the (frequent) grey skies and rain, or snow, or whatever else Mother Nature threw at the residents of a country that is dark dark dark and wet in wintertime.

As fall turns to winter here in the Great White North, I am constantly reminded of Benedicte’s edict. I have invested in a full-length coat (this one, by Patagonia, though my black one is decidedly less shiny) and it is not only incredibly toasty but does not make me look like the Michelin tire guy. Yesterday was cold and wet and dreary. Today’s wet may involve snow instead of rain, which is really the way the end of November should be, anyway. I know the long, grey months of winter still lie ahead of us and I refuse to let the weather get me down. We shall bundle up against the cold and the wet and the wind. I have knitting needles and wool, warm clothing, and a ready supply of tea and toddies. All will be well.

Mysterious ways

Most blogs I read–especially blogs written by women–come with some sort of “about” page, in which the author categorizes and labels herself for her readership. “I am a single mom and a lawyer.” or “I am a homeschooling mother of three and am also trying to get my own business doing letterpress tea towels up and running.” Dale made sure that our info page here points you, dear reader, in the direction of our favorite spirit, in case you feel like having a case of Hendrick’s gin delivered to my door. And, just as many blogs’ “about me” pages are woefully out of date, ours, too, could use some refreshing. The problem is, I don’t quite know what to say. We are not having another child, we are still married, I’m still way-out-there liberal, and I still love gin. But I am no longer working as a German professor and realize that I may never again fill that particular role.

After a certain age, I suppose one imagines that the “about me” page is pretty much done writing itself. Your profession, the number of kids or cats you have, your hobbies–I imagined those items as things you acquired or grew into during your young years, so that you could enjoy them in your middle and old age.
But such, it would appear, is not the case. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it has for me.

A Room of Her Own

Since we have downsized dramatically, if temporarily, for this move, I find myself without a dedicated office space (or nook, or corner, or shelf) in our home. This would not be so tragic if I had office space on campus, which would mean having a job here, which I don’t, so scratch that. Right now I’m typing at the dining room table. Fine for now, but not ideal for laying out the materials required for a large project, like a book. Not that my faculty office was every anything to get too excited about. At the university, I always shared an office with another colleague, which meant that my quarters ranged from completely cramped to merely slightly overstuffed.

I was bemoaning this at a BBQ with our neighbors a couple of weeks ago and my neighbor, whose first floor serves as the office for his wine importing business, told me he had extra office space to loan out to me a few days a week. It’s a lovely space and huge and well appointed and definitely more than any faculty office anywhere would ever be and after touring it, I had the vision of myself, spread out just a wee bit, perhaps with a small attractive hanging file cart with my research essentials off to the side, sitting at the dark wood desk, sipping coffee (or wine?) and writing. In this vision I am also slender and attractive, natch. Given the nature of the business whose office I’m borrowing, I also envision mid-afternoon wine tasting breaks, brilliant conversation (also in German), and, eventually, the offer to earn money by traveling the world and tasting wine. I mournfully kiss academia goodbye, but the parting is eased by my glamourous new life, the piles of cash I am earning, and office space all to myself. A beautiful vision, yes? My fantasy life is nothing if not rich and exciting.

It took me a surprisingly long time to take the neighbor up on his offer. While the kids were at camp, I felt pretty comfortable spreading out here in the apartment and I didn’t need an escape from their spazziness. So it took me until this week, when the kids are at home and not at camp, to go next door and check it out. I only staid about 90 minutes–enough time to deal with all my handwritten changes in the monograph introduction. The office space is all that I would ever need, and sooo quiet. . . . . until the sounds of my shrieking children began wafting through the patio doors. The neighbor’s son, who is older than my kids by a bit, was playing tag with them in the yard. Ingrid’s screams, always a joy, are of the dead-wakening variety and I was certain that having my kids follow me into the realm of the precious office space was going to scuttle the deal for good. Then, the neighborhood children come traipsing into the office–they need a drink, they need to go pee. Christopher is leading the charge into his dad’s space, but it is my kids trotting along behind him and I just cringe. Gone is the fantasy of brilliant, slender me, writing away and taking occasional breaks to discuss wine or books or politics with the importers, supplanted by the reality of me hissing to my kids in the conference room: go to the bathroom at HOME! Be quiet!

Dad reacts pretty calmly, reminding Christopher that there are other places to drink and pee and that this is his work space. I cringe inwardly, wondering if my presence is really the reason for all of this kid tumult. We all go back to work. I breathe a sigh of relief. The screams from the back yard game of tag are ok now, since they mean the kids are at least outside having fun. I’m a bit chilly. The AC in the office is cooling the space to 22 degrees C (71 degrees F!) and the tips of my fingers are turning blue. The remote control that governs the AC unit has a dead battery and I’m too short to adjust it manually. At this point, there are only a few more pages that I need to deal with before I am done with this chunk of work.

Then, dinner obligations call, and maybe that glass of wine, too. I head home and the kids sense me changing location. I walk in to the kitchen, put down my bag, and they come in right after me, demanding my attention.

Life’s a Beach

Back in April, having parceled out my kids’ summer break (8 weeks) into equal parts week-long day camps and vegging about the house weeks, I envisioned camp weeks being the time during which I got loads of work done and house weeks being the time we hiked, swam, went to the museum, worked on math concepts, and read books. Three days into a home week, I am not quite willing to admit defeat but this certainly isn’t panning out the way I planned. The children feel the pull of the couch and the television and would gladly turn into house plants if given the opportunity. I need to go for a run most days (training for a ten-miler in August) and it’s been a bit too hot to contemplate hiking the trails with whiney children in tow.

Which leads me to reflect on the relative merits of “education, physical and otherwise” with a parent vs. “totally unstructured free time” for the kids’ break. I was reading a writers’ blog this morning and she commented on the need for creative children to have down time, time to be bored and even unhappy, so that they become aware of their feelings and reactions. Time spent in front of the tv, according to this theory (mentioned by her, developed by me), is time when kids are engrossed in other people’s feelings and reactions instead of their own. Of course, having my children engrossed in their own feelings and reactions does not always make for a peaceable kingdom around these parts. They FEEL a lot, you see, and they need to express these FEELINGS at high decibels. And generally, they FEEL like they need to watch tv. Oy.

And what kind of role model am I? I sit at my computer. I need to work on my monograph introduction, so that I can send it out to publishers before long, and then I try to do some free writing every day. So, to the uninitiated child, it might appear that I, too, want to spend my day looking at screens and that, unfairly, I get to do so while the poor child must amuse itself with non-digital technologies. Oh the humanity! And to top it all off, I resist when they ask me if they can paint, or dig something out of the basement, or do something else that sounds, to me, like: mess, annoyance, and work for me. Bad mommy.

This train of thought always leads to me feeling inadequate, which is entirely selfish of me, since it shouldn’t be about me but about my kids. Or something. Maybe inadequate isn’t the word I’m looking for, either. Disappointed, perhaps. Not in them, mind you, they are kids being kids and are gloriously kid-like in their FEELINGS, but in me. I fantasize about this life wherein I get up early in the morning and write or run before the kids are out of bed. With my own mental and creative house in order, I then devote my day to my kids, who are eager to explore and learn with each other and me. Sadly, reality bears little resemblance to this scenario! I am not a morning person, regardless of how diligently I fantasize becoming one, and my kids wake up less willing to learn and explore the world around them than eager to hang on my body, whine, and forgo breakfast in favor of sulking around on the couch and calling one another names. Obviously something went wrong here–was it my planning, perhaps?

I still want to hike and swim and do math and all those things with my kids, but I don’t relish the fight it’s going to involve. And it shouldn’t have to be a fight, should it? We live on a lake, I hear, and tomorrow is supposed to be gorgeous and the weekend is supposed to be hot (not Kansas hot, mind you, just Ontario hot, which is hot enough). So we shall explore the beaches of Lake Ontario, keeping an eye out for Blinky the Fish while we’re at it.