Sundays have always been special days in our family. When my siblings and I were quite young, our family began a tradition of having donuts after church. As kids we ate them while reading the Sunday comics and drinking milk. Over the years details about this tradition have changed -- where we bought the donuts, whether we drank milk or tea or coffee -- but the tradition itself remains. I think it is not an unusual practice, given how often the donuts we particularly liked were sold out by the time Dad would get to the counter. I remember that initially our donuts came from a bakery that was located just west of the university campus. This bakery specialized in making maple bars that were (I think) a foot long and shaped like feet. I loved that! I could rarely finish one, but I gave it a valiant effort (now the thought of eating something foot-shaped seems.... gross). When this bakery closed, we began frequenting the bakery at Super One, and our particular favorite was the half chocolate, half maple bar. I also enjoyed one donut that had white frosting with strawberry and lemon jam in stripes on top of the frosting with shredded coconut on top of that. Just thinking about it puts me into a diabetic coma.
But, contrary to what the first paragraph suggests, this blog is not about sweets. All of the above was simply to introduce the topic(s) of this posting. This past Sunday, my parents and I (yes, I am one of those spinsters -- I hate that word -- who socializes mainly with her parents) were sitting round the dining room table after church eating cinnamon rolls (shake things up a bit) and perusing the Sunday Seattle Times. I made my way through the comics, Parade, the Seattle Times' insert/magazine The Pacific Northwest, the travel section, the arts section, the front page (mostly reading headlines and looking at pictures). I had tossed aside the sports' section and the business section as well as the classified section, when I happened across the horoscopes (which must have been in a section I had previously skimmed but had missed). I'm not much of a horoscope person, but once in a while I read them. My horoscope on this particular Sunday read, "Today is a nine." It said more than that, but I don't remember specific details. Probably something about embracing opportunities and meeting new people, neither of which is an area of strength for me.
Interestingly, Sunday was probably pretty close to a nine. I had no obligations in the afternoon. I read or watched t.v. (why is there a period after both t and v when television is one word?) or chatted with friends. In the evening I made a foray into the world of socializing but was home in time for Downton Abbey. In many ways Sunday was much like any other day off. And it occurs to me that maybe this isn't what is meant by a "nine" type of day.
All those months ago when I started this blog, I mentioned that I had made an attempt at starting it the previous year. The blog was intended to be a way for me to lay claim to more "nine" days. My great and glowing hope was that it would motivate me beyond my current, rather staid, situation in life. To some extant, it has. There are great plans underway, but I am gravely concerned that they will remain only plans. The real issue, as I'm sure I've pointed out before, is my own lack of discipline, my frightening inability to care where I am or what I'm doing. Then, once in while, I'm given bursts of panic about my life, sudden rocket-glaring realization that I cannot always be here. I find it infinitely important that I try (at least) to make some forward movement in those moments.
Referring to my previous blog attempt was not pointless. In fact, my plan throughout all of this rambling has been to illuminate one small but important feature of this blog -- its title. My favorite book is, and has been for some time now, Howards End by E.M. Forster. It is a beautifully written novel which deals with the idea of spiritual heirs and connectedness, upper class and lower class, imperialists and idealists. I studied it and wrote about it as a graduate student for a portion of my ill-fated thesis, and, though not one person may ever know my astounding theories on this astounding book, I still find myself drawn to its timeless narrative. I say timeless because so many of the issues dealt with continue to be relevant. I won't go into detail; it wouldn't be as good as the real thing.
As I began to type that first, and now long-lost, post, I turned to Howards End for inspiration. I don't remember exactly what I wrote. Perhaps it was about connecting with our fellow human beings; perhaps I tackled the effects of education on class or Edwardian gender issues. Perhaps I did nothing more than quote my favorite passages. But, ultimately, I came upon a portion of narration of which I had taken little note previously.
Margaret Schlegel, who was meant to inherit the house Howards End, is taken there by the widower Henry Wilcox. Wilcox knows his wife left the house to Miss Schlegel in a last minute, hand-written missive before dying, but Wilcox supersedes his wife's wishes, burns the note, and leaves Miss Schlegel none the wiser. As Miss Schlegel makes her way through the house, she looks at the ancient wych-elm tree in the front yard and contemplates its relationship to the house. The narrator writes, "It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; ... It was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent. ... House and tree transcended any similes of sex. ... [T]o compare either to man, to woman, always dwarfed the vision."
The point is that Miss Schlegel understands the house in the same way that Mrs. Wilcox did and in which Mr. Wilcox never will. As Margaret is being shown the house, Mr. Wilcox talks about nothing more than remodeling the house, telling her in a "monologue" the "use and dimensions of the various rooms," all in terms which indicate to readers that the house is not really his, much as he would like to think so. The tree is a symbol of England and tradition. Often elms were associated with death in England, but the leaves were also used to feed livestock. In Germany, the tree was seen as a gateway between this world and the spirit world. The fact that Henry Wilcox does not see it for its tradition, even for its Englishness (Forster asserts that the house "was English, and the wych-elm tree ... an English tree"), suggests his own rootlessness; the fact that Margaret Schlegel sees its tradition and resists assigning it, and the house, a gender in order to avoid dwarfing her vision of the two suggests her own inevitable permanence there.
Often we are victims of the "Henry Wilcox" myopia. We look at our lives and our world in compartmentalized boxes and see just what is nearest. We have deadlines and to-do lists. We want to earn a certain amount of money by a certain age. Own a house; get on the ladder. We blast forward with our lives, leaving our traditions behind. All of these plans would indicate some thought, at least, for the future, but if something happens to a person's finances, to the housing market, to any of these mortal, transitory concerns, what is left? Wilcox, at the end of the book, having lost his wealth, is left a weakened man, so sickly that he needs looking after.
The "Seanse Ducken" myopia isn't much better. I may not be worrying about housing markets or Wall Street, but my vision is certainly fixed on the here and now, on what I feel like doing, on what floats my boat this instant. If I feel disinclined to apply for graduate schools or to look for jobs with benefits because Netflix instant play is calling my name, how am I any better than the Henry Wilcoxes of the world? It's far more likely that I'm worse. So, a full month after New Years', I have settled on a resolution. I resolve to create more "nine" days. Or perhaps more accurately, to redefine them.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
An Explanation as to Why I Don't Blog More Often
You spend your last two hours in bed half-sleeping, flitting from dream to dream and in and out of them. You go from a movie filmed in an old screen star's house in the Tri-Cities (of all places) to a play in a diner to a series of vignettes starring you and your colleagues at work trying on brightly colored silicone shoes. Each scene is brief and possesses for you an eerie sense of belonging -- which isn't supposed to and doesn't make sense. As you wake, you remember that last week you dreamed of someone comparing your writing to the voice of angels (wishful thinking on the subconscious's part), and once, years ago, you dreamed of snakes that sprang at you from tree branches. Then your mother showed you, in the dream, how by catching the snakes in paper bags and twisting the bag and snake together until they evaporated you could kill them. You turned that dream into two poems. Or was it one poem used for two classes?
On rising from your bed, you find yourself feeling like a metaphysical abstraction -- keeping with your dreams -- but a slice of reality cuts through your bedroom curtains, and you realize it is later than you thought. In the bathroom, leaning on the counter, you stare at yourself staring at yourself. You think about how months ago before the New Year people started talking end-of-the-world scenarios, climate change,
natural disasters, mass killings. You turn on the shower.
Funny how all this coincides with your upcoming 30th birthday -- a date you dread, not so much the number as the fact that people will go from saying, "I loved that age" to "Oh that was a tough birthday for me." Even if 30 is the new 20. Even if is 50 is the new 30 and 65 the new late middle age. Right. Tell it to the space invaders or the sea monsters or whatever harbingers of destruction will appear on December 21.
Once in the shower, reality settles down more firmly around you. Your shampoo smell like coconut but makes your hair limp.You keep forgetting to buy new body wash. And razor blades. And conditioner. Fortunately (fortunately!), you have the whole day ahead and to yourself. You have the bright, sunny morning which will unfold into either a bright, sunny afternoon, perfect for walks, or a suddenly dark, stormy afternoon, perfect for books, and both options perfect for plotting the future or overeating or watching too much t.v. Even now there is breakfast just ahead and two months left of being in your twenties.
Even now you realize that all along you've been saying "you" when you meant "I" or "me", but you won't revise as it would disrupt the narrative flow of your mental dithering. Things come together more quickly now: the outfit (or what passes for one), the hair (such as it is), the make-up (wait -- scratch that; it's your day off). You remind yourself to bookmark your morning insanity, to make physical note of at least some of it, to be divided and researched and expanded upon and, somehow, uniquely illuminated.
Writing them down is low priority though, and you go out and meet faces and carry on conversations. And the next time you come face to face with your computer, you've forgotten what you were going to say.
On rising from your bed, you find yourself feeling like a metaphysical abstraction -- keeping with your dreams -- but a slice of reality cuts through your bedroom curtains, and you realize it is later than you thought. In the bathroom, leaning on the counter, you stare at yourself staring at yourself. You think about how months ago before the New Year people started talking end-of-the-world scenarios, climate change,
natural disasters, mass killings. You turn on the shower.
Funny how all this coincides with your upcoming 30th birthday -- a date you dread, not so much the number as the fact that people will go from saying, "I loved that age" to "Oh that was a tough birthday for me." Even if 30 is the new 20. Even if is 50 is the new 30 and 65 the new late middle age. Right. Tell it to the space invaders or the sea monsters or whatever harbingers of destruction will appear on December 21.
Once in the shower, reality settles down more firmly around you. Your shampoo smell like coconut but makes your hair limp.You keep forgetting to buy new body wash. And razor blades. And conditioner. Fortunately (fortunately!), you have the whole day ahead and to yourself. You have the bright, sunny morning which will unfold into either a bright, sunny afternoon, perfect for walks, or a suddenly dark, stormy afternoon, perfect for books, and both options perfect for plotting the future or overeating or watching too much t.v. Even now there is breakfast just ahead and two months left of being in your twenties.
Even now you realize that all along you've been saying "you" when you meant "I" or "me", but you won't revise as it would disrupt the narrative flow of your mental dithering. Things come together more quickly now: the outfit (or what passes for one), the hair (such as it is), the make-up (wait -- scratch that; it's your day off). You remind yourself to bookmark your morning insanity, to make physical note of at least some of it, to be divided and researched and expanded upon and, somehow, uniquely illuminated.
Writing them down is low priority though, and you go out and meet faces and carry on conversations. And the next time you come face to face with your computer, you've forgotten what you were going to say.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Christmas, the Christ Child, and Me
Caramel corn, pop corn in general, is one of my favorite foods, and, as I am writing this, I am trying to pour the last remaining crumbs of a bag full of caramel corn into my mouth without getting it on the keyboard, the chair, the carpet, or me -- unsuccessfully I might add. The keys are already a little sticky and the dog keeps coming into the room to see what else I've dropped on the floor. Pleasant images aside, I am finishing off my treat from a day spent Christmas shopping. Ah Christmas, that lovely time of year that one-third of the population loves, one-third loathes, and about which the last third either hasn't made up their minds or just doesn't care. It's that odd combination of religious and pagan tradition, that peculiar concoction which mixes childhood fantasies with mistletoe and hard alcohol and church and purees it together to form a generally confusing ordeal. I, for the record, happen to love it.
I love every minute of it from advent wreaths and classic carols to kitschy, and apparently infinite, remakes of holiday standards. I love Christmas shopping (provided the crowds aren't too suffocating). I love Santa and his elves (though I never actually believed the whole Santa thing). I love Christmas trees, which have been known to hang around a tad too long (say, Valentine's Day) when I'm in charge of removal. The trouble with loving all of it is that when one thing goes wrong, everything else is thrown off-kilter. Suddenly, there isn't snow here and the thought of a white-less Christmas is depressing. But I find that I struggle far more frequently with the religious aspects of Christmas and how they align (or don't, rather) with the overzealous commercialism of the season.
Take this year, for instance. Way back in October, before Halloween, stores were pulling out the Christmas trees and ornaments and decorations. Thanksgiving occupied nothing more than a corner shelf in a florist's shop. It isn't a new problem. If you ever watch Miracle on 34th Street, you'll know that (the original; I don't do remakes). I think of Alfred and Santa down in the locker room at Macy's discussing commercialism after Santa's been handed a list of unpopular toys to foist on indecisive children. Alfred puts it well when he says, "Yeah, there's a lot of bad 'isms' around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn it's the same -- don't care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck."
I don't think that the idea of buying presents for each other bothers me at all. It's lovely to think about what other people might want. But the problem is that sometimes we just buy without thought, without real concern for what people may actually like or need. It seems more as if we're playing into some great, corporate joke, which, in a way, I suppose we are.Working at a store now, I see the off-handed way with which so many people approach gift giving. Husbands, husbands -- not friends or neighbors or co-workers or casual acquaintances -- husbands (and wives, if I'm being fair, though it is honestly usually husbands), rush in on Christmas Eve to buy their wives presents. And if that isn't enough, I'm somehow expected to reach into my cosmic goody bag known as "feminine intuition", which makes all women instantly know what all other women will want for Christmas, and come up with two or five brilliant gift ideas. I may also mention that I'm somehow expected to know these poor wives' sizes. (I ask: "what size is she?" He says: "Well, your size, but.... tighter." Or if he's desperate and trying to be nice: "Like you. Perfect." I head to the nearest rack of the most expensive sweaters and recommend one in every color.)
But, in the evenings, when I'm home, I remember the glory days of school and teaching (though I absolutely do not miss grading) when I got two whole weeks off at Christmas, when I could be the one home all day drinking cocoa, wrapping presents, baking cookies (watching them be baked -- I knew no one would fall for that) and, when I wanted I bit of exercise, I could wander downtown and assault sales clerks with my lethargic attempts at perusing gift options for my brother. Now I find myself having to make time for Christmas shopping. Suddenly, I'm excited by the prospect of four whole days off (not in a row) around Christmas. This depresses me even more than the lack of snow. How am I supposed to really invest myself, my time, my gift-wrapping talents, in the Christmas season if all I get are four lousy days? And then somewhere, over the crackling downtown speaker system or the fuzzy radio Christmas station, I hear "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..." and all else falls away.
"On a time when Rupert the Good King reigned over the City in the forests, he decreed that, throughout all his realm, there should be no sorrow nor lack of cheer on Christmas Day." Thus begins one of my favorite Christmas stories from childhood. Written by George Horace Lorimer, it is the story of a king who spends his Christmases waiting for the Christ Child to visit him. The king realizes the the Child primarily visits the poor, so the king sets about making sure the poor are cared for and happy at Christmas to further ensure that the Christ Child will visit him.
To say that this story was always my absolute favorite of all Christmas stories would probably be misleading. In fact, it would be a plain and simple lie. It comes in a slim volume of Christmas stories published by the Saturday Evening Post in 1976, and I grew up looking through it every December. It's one of those books that you open up and immediately you feel five-years-old again. The pages have a distinctive scent that pages don't seem to have anymore.The pictures are bold holiday illustrations by Guernsey Moore, J.C. Leyendecker, Norman Rockwell, and all those Saturday Evening Post artists. Stories that initially captivated me included "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa," O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi," and Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Christmas on the Prairie."
But when I was about twelve, and blatantly preoccupied with pretending to be an adult, I read Lorimer's story for the first time. It is not, I suppose, a feat of great literary proportions; it would probably not end up in a canon of "greatest short stories ever" (Christmas or otherwise), and I suppose it does come across as didactic (or just plain preachy, whichever you like). I think when I first read it, it appealed to me as being very grown up.The story seemed to be steeped in Old World traditions, though it was written in the 30s (I think) by the editor of the Saturday Evening Post. It was a step away from all the tomfoolery of paganism and St. Nick. Now, don't let me give you the impression that I ever had any issues with any of that -- I had just wanted, and often still want, a more overtly religious tone to my holiday.
As I mentioned, the king spends his Christmases preparing for the Christ Child by glaming up his castle and feeding his poor so they won't get in the way of his moment of glory. And, just when he believes he is finally going to receive a visit -- the star hovers over one of the castle's parapets -- he is infuriated and hurt to see it disappear with the Child. Angrily, he climbs the endless stairs (it really does take a while to get up there) to the tower only to find a poor orphan sleeping, happily, on the floor. "Wroth was the king with that one, " Lorimer writes,"the meanest of his serfs, had been preferred to him."
Giving, as I said, is not bad; Christmas presents are not wrong. We are taught at church that we give gifts to replicate that first, greatest gift of Christmas, and it is an extremely wonderful thing to remember. But that first gift was not off-the-cuff, last minute, or rushed. It had been planned well in advance. It came with sacrifice and sorrow, but also with thanksgiving and joy. I have always found it strange that we are so often caught up in debunking the myths of Christmas -- whether the nativity scene we traditionally see is accurate, what time of year Christ was really born, if the star was actually a star or something else. And, I wonder, why does it matter? We celebrate it because it is mercy and grace in its humblest and purest form; we remember because we must.
In Lorimer's story, when the king finally realizes his mistake, he picks up the poor orphan who stole his moment of glory and takes him back to the castle: "And when he reached the empty hall, there, too, was a radiance. From that brightness a little Child came running out to meet him, and lo! it was the Christ."
The message is fairly clear. When we finally learn to set aside our pride, our various resentments, our bitterness, our anger, our selfish interests, we find Christmas. It is, perhaps, a hackneyed message, but one which bears repeating again and again, endlessly, until, maybe, we get it at last.
I love every minute of it from advent wreaths and classic carols to kitschy, and apparently infinite, remakes of holiday standards. I love Christmas shopping (provided the crowds aren't too suffocating). I love Santa and his elves (though I never actually believed the whole Santa thing). I love Christmas trees, which have been known to hang around a tad too long (say, Valentine's Day) when I'm in charge of removal. The trouble with loving all of it is that when one thing goes wrong, everything else is thrown off-kilter. Suddenly, there isn't snow here and the thought of a white-less Christmas is depressing. But I find that I struggle far more frequently with the religious aspects of Christmas and how they align (or don't, rather) with the overzealous commercialism of the season.
Take this year, for instance. Way back in October, before Halloween, stores were pulling out the Christmas trees and ornaments and decorations. Thanksgiving occupied nothing more than a corner shelf in a florist's shop. It isn't a new problem. If you ever watch Miracle on 34th Street, you'll know that (the original; I don't do remakes). I think of Alfred and Santa down in the locker room at Macy's discussing commercialism after Santa's been handed a list of unpopular toys to foist on indecisive children. Alfred puts it well when he says, "Yeah, there's a lot of bad 'isms' around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn it's the same -- don't care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck."
I don't think that the idea of buying presents for each other bothers me at all. It's lovely to think about what other people might want. But the problem is that sometimes we just buy without thought, without real concern for what people may actually like or need. It seems more as if we're playing into some great, corporate joke, which, in a way, I suppose we are.Working at a store now, I see the off-handed way with which so many people approach gift giving. Husbands, husbands -- not friends or neighbors or co-workers or casual acquaintances -- husbands (and wives, if I'm being fair, though it is honestly usually husbands), rush in on Christmas Eve to buy their wives presents. And if that isn't enough, I'm somehow expected to reach into my cosmic goody bag known as "feminine intuition", which makes all women instantly know what all other women will want for Christmas, and come up with two or five brilliant gift ideas. I may also mention that I'm somehow expected to know these poor wives' sizes. (I ask: "what size is she?" He says: "Well, your size, but.... tighter." Or if he's desperate and trying to be nice: "Like you. Perfect." I head to the nearest rack of the most expensive sweaters and recommend one in every color.)
But, in the evenings, when I'm home, I remember the glory days of school and teaching (though I absolutely do not miss grading) when I got two whole weeks off at Christmas, when I could be the one home all day drinking cocoa, wrapping presents, baking cookies (watching them be baked -- I knew no one would fall for that) and, when I wanted I bit of exercise, I could wander downtown and assault sales clerks with my lethargic attempts at perusing gift options for my brother. Now I find myself having to make time for Christmas shopping. Suddenly, I'm excited by the prospect of four whole days off (not in a row) around Christmas. This depresses me even more than the lack of snow. How am I supposed to really invest myself, my time, my gift-wrapping talents, in the Christmas season if all I get are four lousy days? And then somewhere, over the crackling downtown speaker system or the fuzzy radio Christmas station, I hear "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..." and all else falls away.
"On a time when Rupert the Good King reigned over the City in the forests, he decreed that, throughout all his realm, there should be no sorrow nor lack of cheer on Christmas Day." Thus begins one of my favorite Christmas stories from childhood. Written by George Horace Lorimer, it is the story of a king who spends his Christmases waiting for the Christ Child to visit him. The king realizes the the Child primarily visits the poor, so the king sets about making sure the poor are cared for and happy at Christmas to further ensure that the Christ Child will visit him.
To say that this story was always my absolute favorite of all Christmas stories would probably be misleading. In fact, it would be a plain and simple lie. It comes in a slim volume of Christmas stories published by the Saturday Evening Post in 1976, and I grew up looking through it every December. It's one of those books that you open up and immediately you feel five-years-old again. The pages have a distinctive scent that pages don't seem to have anymore.The pictures are bold holiday illustrations by Guernsey Moore, J.C. Leyendecker, Norman Rockwell, and all those Saturday Evening Post artists. Stories that initially captivated me included "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa," O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi," and Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Christmas on the Prairie."
But when I was about twelve, and blatantly preoccupied with pretending to be an adult, I read Lorimer's story for the first time. It is not, I suppose, a feat of great literary proportions; it would probably not end up in a canon of "greatest short stories ever" (Christmas or otherwise), and I suppose it does come across as didactic (or just plain preachy, whichever you like). I think when I first read it, it appealed to me as being very grown up.The story seemed to be steeped in Old World traditions, though it was written in the 30s (I think) by the editor of the Saturday Evening Post. It was a step away from all the tomfoolery of paganism and St. Nick. Now, don't let me give you the impression that I ever had any issues with any of that -- I had just wanted, and often still want, a more overtly religious tone to my holiday.
As I mentioned, the king spends his Christmases preparing for the Christ Child by glaming up his castle and feeding his poor so they won't get in the way of his moment of glory. And, just when he believes he is finally going to receive a visit -- the star hovers over one of the castle's parapets -- he is infuriated and hurt to see it disappear with the Child. Angrily, he climbs the endless stairs (it really does take a while to get up there) to the tower only to find a poor orphan sleeping, happily, on the floor. "Wroth was the king with that one, " Lorimer writes,"the meanest of his serfs, had been preferred to him."
Giving, as I said, is not bad; Christmas presents are not wrong. We are taught at church that we give gifts to replicate that first, greatest gift of Christmas, and it is an extremely wonderful thing to remember. But that first gift was not off-the-cuff, last minute, or rushed. It had been planned well in advance. It came with sacrifice and sorrow, but also with thanksgiving and joy. I have always found it strange that we are so often caught up in debunking the myths of Christmas -- whether the nativity scene we traditionally see is accurate, what time of year Christ was really born, if the star was actually a star or something else. And, I wonder, why does it matter? We celebrate it because it is mercy and grace in its humblest and purest form; we remember because we must.
In Lorimer's story, when the king finally realizes his mistake, he picks up the poor orphan who stole his moment of glory and takes him back to the castle: "And when he reached the empty hall, there, too, was a radiance. From that brightness a little Child came running out to meet him, and lo! it was the Christ."
The message is fairly clear. When we finally learn to set aside our pride, our various resentments, our bitterness, our anger, our selfish interests, we find Christmas. It is, perhaps, a hackneyed message, but one which bears repeating again and again, endlessly, until, maybe, we get it at last.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Plasticine Feminist
Lately, it seems, I've come across a strain of articles dealing with women.They deal either with feminism or singleness or plastic surgery or any two of those topics at once. It's odd to read about these topics now, at this stage in my life, when I'm not so concerned about applying them to pieces of literature or deconstructing them with students. I'm not even allowed the luxury of imagining that these grown-up women writing about grown-up issues are far removed from me because of my youth. People seem to assume that I'm an adult, so maybe I'd better assume I'm one too (but we all know what comes from assuming too much). What has been brought sharply into focus by these articles is the strange simultaneous rise of female empowerment and female augmentation. Contrast all of this with the idea of female heritage, throw in some abstract thoughts on Thanksgiving, commercialism, and food, and you just about grasp what's festering in mind at this moment.
I'm not sure fester is the word I'm looking for, it sounds so putrid, but cooking sounds too complicated and boiling sounds bland -- fester it is. First things first, though, what do I mean when I say "female heritage"? I don't suppose I'm referencing what is traditionally meant by that statement, which, I think, implies women's struggles for equality.In this instance, what I really intend with that phrase is the idea of passing down typically female traditions to succeeding generations of girls and women. I think, for instance, of my grandma teaching me (annually, I think) how to properly set a table. Fork here, knife, spoon; glass to the right above the knife. Don't set the space too wide or too narrow for the plate. Same amount of room between the silverware and the edge of table at all settings. Bread plate here; napkin to left and folded thusly (I've decided that's a word no matter what spell check tells me). By the time these impromptu lessons rolled around I was already spitefully tired of the silverware and silver candlesticks and silver tea services that my sister and I had spent the morning polishing. Somehow, I managed to listen and learn, and, yes, I admit I judge people (restaurants especially) who can't set a table. It's like etiquette (who knew that word was so hard to spell?) illiteracy. Do you really not know that the fork goes on the left? Do you really not remember that you use salad forks for salad (the clue's in the name)? Do you really believe that's where the glass goes? It's all very derisive and ungracious of me, but there it is -- my single fault.
Beyond these table-setting lessons worthy of Emily Post there were lessons (still from Grandma) on how to iron table clothes like a pro, how to tuck unfitted sheets in like a nurse (hospital corners to us professionals), how to vacuum carpets one way and then the other so as not to miss a speck of dust, how to wash windows with a formula of so many parts vinegar and so many parts ammonia (I think -- as long as I don't mix bleach and ammonia, I'll be safe). There are lessons from my mother too. Sitting at the kitchen counter while I'll gallantly let her do all the cooking, she tells me how to properly knead dough (she does let me do that). There are special instructions for mixing biscuits so they don't end up the weight and consistency of hockey pucks. There is a how-to-can-fruit lesson which, I believe, I even got from my mom and grandma at once, some time in the dim, foggy past. I have also learned just this Thanksgiving of something called roux, which is a combination of flour and butter and is used to thicken gravy and as a base in such favorites as homemade macaroni and cheese and hollandaise sauce.
Later on, after all of this has been made public, I will be accused of complaining, and (let me be very, very clear) I'm not. In fact, these spur-of-the-moment lessons are special memories and moments. They remind me of Alice Walker's short story "Everyday Use," in which Mama gives old family quilts to her daughter Maggie rather than her sophisticated, urbanized daughter Dee. It isn't quite the same, but, to me, that's the idea. Feminism is often seen as unseating these examples of female heritage (in my sense of the phrase). A struggle or belief system that had been around for decades suddenly seemed to erupt in the middle of the twentieth century. Its grand arrival coincided (or appeared to, I think) with other ground-breaking, earth-shattering developments: the sudden rise of a powerful television media, new forms of entertainment and shifts within those types, the civil rights movement, etc. (I may be making this up; I kind of feel like I am). Advances in medical science; plastic surgery. And all of these things grew and grew. Some for good. Others, not so much.
All of which brings us to the here and now (as one of Scrooge's ghosts might say). What do we have now? For feminism, the rise of females in higher ranking positions. There are now more women who enroll in universities than men. There are numerous examples of successful female CEOs. There are female cops, female politicians, female doctors, male nurses. And with all of this comes, on a parallel course, the rise of plastic surgery and the ease with which a newer, more aesthetically pleasing you can be granted is mind-boggling.
Our world now is, I believe, a world of dichotomies, even outside the female/plastic surgery dichotomy. We are at once constantly connected and increasingly globalized but more and more isolated by the very technology which seeks to link us. I almost feel that we are creating generations of people who are, or will be, incapable of speaking face to face, of actually physically exploring the overcrowded, wonderful world around them, without the buffer of a screen, but who are also equally as incapable of being completely silent, of finding value and refreshment in solitude. But electronics is not the name of the game today, so moving swiftly along, the first article I haplessly (but fortunately) stumbled across was published originally in The Guardian. It's really more of a column, and doesn't deal with feminism, but did get me thinking along the lines of women and their very historical struggle with self image.The column, written by Rebecca Front, addresses not only the safety issues involved with such procedures but the personal and future repercussions as well. Front states that she understands treatment under extreme circumstances, but she worries "that there is an increasing assumption that invasive procedures altering the very structure of one's face or breasts, or any other part of the anatomy, are no big deal." Going on, she expresses "worry because there is already far too much pressure on us -- men and women, but let's face it predominantly women -- to conform to some notion of unattainable perfection." I agree. All of this puts me in mind, for some reason, of all the women who run out and get Brazilians, then get thongs, then get infections. Hmm. Who saw that coming? Certain parts of our anatomy are there for a reason. God did make us that mostly because he knew best. But I suppose the argument for plastic surgery is that it alters things that can change, that don't need to be there: unsightly bumps on noses, moles, breasts that are too small, fat. All the things that make us, whether we like it or not, individual.
Writing for The New Atlantis, Christine Rosen cites some rather startling statistics. "In a mere decade (between 1982 and 1992)," she writes,"according to the American Academy of Cosmetic Surgery, the number or people surveyed who said they approved of cosmetic surgery increased by 50 percents, and the number who disapproved declined by 66 percent." Quoting The New York Times, Rosen further states that "'the overall number of cosmetic procedures has increased 228 percent since 1997.'" (Rosen's article was published in 2004.) Another article (again in The Guardian but this time by Decca Aitkenhead) states that 90 percent of all people who have plastic surgery (in the UK, I'm guessing, though I don't imagine it's much different here) are women. Later in her article, Aitkenhead again references the astounding rise in the number of cosmetic surgery patients, but she also poses questions about cosmetic surgery and feminism. She writes, "For feminism to offer a viable alternative to the surgical culture, it would have to risk reopening the argument about the entire continuum of the beauty industry. The exhaustive regimes sold to women today as 'pampering' would need to be re-examined as a possible tyranny rather than a luxury." Aitkenhead also notes the odd undercurrent of women who consider themselves feminists but also support plastic surgery as a way to create greater self-confidence. This trend is also commented on by Jennifer Cognard-Black in Ms. Magazine who notes advertisers use of the word "choice" as a way to appeal to feminists. However, she states,"it's feminists who have led the fight against silicone breast implants when research suggested they were dangerous. It's feminists who have pointed out that a branch of medicine formed to fix or replace broken, burned or diseased body parts has since become an industry serving often-misogynistic interests. ... To say that is 'feminist' is a cynical misreading; feminists must instead insist that a furrowed, 'wise' brow -- minus the fillers -- is the empowered feminist face, both old and new."
It is interesting to read about the struggle between feminism and plastic surgery. It seems so many women who never thought they could be seduced by the siren-call of a Botox filled syringe are actually drifting toward the rocks. Aitkenhead is right, of course, to mention the slippery slope of beauty regiments used by women. If I'm willing to whiten my teeth, wax my lip, tweez my brow, what problem could I have with a simple injection? An out-patient procedure? The problem, I think, begins once those beauty regiments start to reach below the skin. Once I progress from external, superficial cosmetics to more internal and permanent cosmetics, I think the line is crossed. And there is a difference. Aitkenhead also notes the number of women who say they feel more like themselves once the have the surgery: "They commonly complain that their external appearance is an impostor, obscuring the 'real' person they feel themselves to be." Ugh. Please. Not that I'm without understanding. Have I suggested that sometime in the future I may want to fix the excess of skin over my eyes, especially as it loosens? Yes, I have. Will I actually do it? I hope not, but I may just have to wait and find out.
But playing into all of this is the media, as is stated time and again in the articles I've just quoted (properly, I hope; no plagiarism here). I seem to recall a year or so ago, that an agency or department of some sort had decided to issue a new ideal body type for women, using one of the more curvaceous actresses from Mad Men as its prototype (maybe spokeswoman is a better word?). At first I thought, great, the less we idealize the swizzle stick body-type the better, but then I thought (and maybe it was because the article I was reading suggested it), hey, why do we need an ideal body type? Isn't this just the other side of the coin? Most women don't have hour-glass figures, and should they strive to if they don't? Why can't we shake the idea of body image? I would, just once, really like to go to a mall and not leave feeling like a lump of beige. I would really like to not notice the sudden prominence of my normally subtle double-chin in a dressing room mirror. I would love to never need to catch my reflection in glass windows as I pass just to make sure I don't look as awful as I think I do.
Feminism, of course, tried to do away with all of this at one point. My history with feminism is somewhat ambiguous. I'm pretty sure no one will ever refer to me as a feminist, but I have benefitted from the women's rights movement -- my life and education are a testament to that. But, I think my childhood was peppered with negative images of militant "femi-nazis". I'm not sure how or where the came from, but my impression of them was never positive. Perhaps part of it was my general, admittedly hazy, impression that feminists despised housewives. I'm not sure that's actually true. Of course they fought against women having to be housewives, but I think I believed them far more stringent about it. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, and she worked hard at taking care of us and the house. I think she's proud of it. Being a homemaker was what she wanted, and it made her happy. So I never understood why there was such a battle over women as homemakers. Once college came along, my ideas changed (of course, it was college). Feminism makes much more sense to me now when I think of it dealing purely with equality. If a woman wants to stay at home with her family, fine. If a man wants to stay at home, fine. But there must be equality amongst them in either situation. Women should be able to reach the same goals as men. I agree with that wholeheartedly. And I also believe that women continue, in spite of the progress made by suffragettes and feminists over the past decades, to be sexualized and objectified cross-culturally and that plastic surgery plays a role. It will play an even larger role in the future if the current trends continue.
Feminism, of course, tried to do away with all of this at one point. My history with feminism is somewhat ambiguous. I'm pretty sure no one will ever refer to me as a feminist, but I have benefitted from the women's rights movement -- my life and education are a testament to that. But, I think my childhood was peppered with negative images of militant "femi-nazis". I'm not sure how or where the came from, but my impression of them was never positive. Perhaps part of it was my general, admittedly hazy, impression that feminists despised housewives. I'm not sure that's actually true. Of course they fought against women having to be housewives, but I think I believed them far more stringent about it. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, and she worked hard at taking care of us and the house. I think she's proud of it. Being a homemaker was what she wanted, and it made her happy. So I never understood why there was such a battle over women as homemakers. Once college came along, my ideas changed (of course, it was college). Feminism makes much more sense to me now when I think of it dealing purely with equality. If a woman wants to stay at home with her family, fine. If a man wants to stay at home, fine. But there must be equality amongst them in either situation. Women should be able to reach the same goals as men. I agree with that wholeheartedly. And I also believe that women continue, in spite of the progress made by suffragettes and feminists over the past decades, to be sexualized and objectified cross-culturally and that plastic surgery plays a role. It will play an even larger role in the future if the current trends continue.
Furthermore, I'm not sure I really believe that feminism supercedes the kind of female tradition I mentioned earlier largely because that tradition is genetic in part as well as being gender-centered. While some of what my grandmother taught me may tend to reinforce gender stereotypes, it alse reinforces a strong sense of female community grounded in nurturing traditions. I suppose to many, the systems of table manners and table settings, of hospital corners and pillow shams, of dust-free surfaces and glowing silver seem hopelessly outdated. In our post-modernist, post-feminist, post-colonial world they probably represent old modes of class and gender delineation. They, those many who may or may not believe this, have a point. But, for me, beyond all of this complicated over-analysis, these old-time niceties represent memories, nostalgia even.
There is one last moment of my so-called "female heritage" upon which I would like to reflect, and that is the practice of imbuing one another with self-worth. It is that reaction from my mom, after I've had one of those awful mall days, when she reiterates that I look good again: a roll of the eyes and "you always look good! You don't need me to tell you that!" Or my grandma, placing her hands on either side of my face, kissing me, and saying, "you're beautiful." Equally as sweet; equally as important. The people who are always meant to say these things and who always do.There is, in those moment, the simple reassurance that someone sees me for who I am. Without fillers, without alterations to my face or body -- people who can look into my eyes (excess skin and all) and know me. And maybe one day (albeit a slim maybe), I will relentlessly reassure my own daughter that she is beautiful, even if, when she tips her head just so, she sees a slight double chin.
For further reading--
The articles I used:
Aitkenhead, Decca. http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2005/sep/14/gender.deccaaitkenhead
Cognard-Black, Jennifer. http://www.alternet.org/health/63683?page=2
Front, Rebecca. http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/sep/19/rebecca-front-cosmetic-surgery-fashion
Rosen, Christine. http://www.thenewatlantis.com/publications/the-democratization-of-beauty
Articles I perused:
Bolick, Kate. http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/
Cooke, Rachel. http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/13/gloria-steinem-interview-feminism-abortion
Faw, Larissa. http://www.forbes.com/sites/larissafaw/2011/11/11/why-millennial-women-are-burning-out-at-work-by-30/
Not exactly MLA, but you get the idea.
There is one last moment of my so-called "female heritage" upon which I would like to reflect, and that is the practice of imbuing one another with self-worth. It is that reaction from my mom, after I've had one of those awful mall days, when she reiterates that I look good again: a roll of the eyes and "you always look good! You don't need me to tell you that!" Or my grandma, placing her hands on either side of my face, kissing me, and saying, "you're beautiful." Equally as sweet; equally as important. The people who are always meant to say these things and who always do.There is, in those moment, the simple reassurance that someone sees me for who I am. Without fillers, without alterations to my face or body -- people who can look into my eyes (excess skin and all) and know me. And maybe one day (albeit a slim maybe), I will relentlessly reassure my own daughter that she is beautiful, even if, when she tips her head just so, she sees a slight double chin.
For further reading--
The articles I used:
Aitkenhead, Decca. http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2005/sep/14/gender.deccaaitkenhead
Cognard-Black, Jennifer. http://www.alternet.org/health/63683?page=2
Front, Rebecca. http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/sep/19/rebecca-front-cosmetic-surgery-fashion
Rosen, Christine. http://www.thenewatlantis.com/publications/the-democratization-of-beauty
Articles I perused:
Bolick, Kate. http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/
Cooke, Rachel. http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/13/gloria-steinem-interview-feminism-abortion
Faw, Larissa. http://www.forbes.com/sites/larissafaw/2011/11/11/why-millennial-women-are-burning-out-at-work-by-30/
Not exactly MLA, but you get the idea.
Friday, November 18, 2011
My Own Personal Sense of Snow
The other night, out of morbid boredom with the more educational pursuits like reading, I Googled "why we love snow" and was presented with a list of sites, the writers of which waxed poetical about everything from skiing and snowboarding to snow days to its beauty. Try Googling "why do people love snow," on the other hand, and the list of sites provided a, shall we say, shifted focus. A lot of the bellyache-rs seem to come from the UK, which might make sense considering the storms they had last year coupled with the fact that they all drive little cars that more resemble the plastic, remote control variety than anything else (except for the country set who drive Land Rovers -- I know it's true because that's what they drive in British mysteries). One Yahoo Answers UK and Ireland user posed the question, why do people love snow so much? The thought of people loving actually depressed her. Seriously? I said to myself, she has problems (and I hastened to agree with myself). Many users responded that they thought it was because people could get a day off school or work. Others said it was rare and beautiful. Still others called the people who liked it idiots. But the question remains, answerable for some, inconceivable for others, why do we love snow?
Anyone who knows me, knows this: I love snow. More specifically, I love it when it snows. Understanding this, it should come as no surprise that I was elated yesterday by the season's first real snowfall. Of course, it amounted to only an inch or two by the end of the day, but, still, I was happy to see it come. Inevitably, much of my time at work was spent staring out the large front windows of the store, just watching it drift down. (I was also watching the crazy guy across the street trying to mount his own personal protest against the local branch of Wells Fargo while wearing a V for Vendatta mask, which suddenly struck me as an alarmingly bad idea when the police arrived. Anyway...) Part of the fun of working in an outdoor store is that I'm not the only one who, from time to time, has to rattle myself back to an awareness of what is happening inside on days such as these. Not all of my co-workers love winter and its weather, but enough of us do.
Some of the Yahoo Answers users touched on a very basic reason for loving the snow: sentimentality. Ah yes, that hearkening back to childhood and all the promise of the first snow flurries. The problem with early snowfall, like yesterday's, is that it doesn't last too long. Today, much of what fell yesterday has melted and, by now, turned to ice. But more is falling, even as I type. Whenever it snows at night I am put in mind of my childhood anxiety about winter weather. I can remember going to bed, knowing that I could potentially rise to several inches of snow in the morning, or to mud and grass that looked like someone had come along and scattered powdered sugar here and there. I would lay in bed positively nervous about the outcome, popping up from time to time, pressing my face against the window or running downstairs to flick on the deck light just to be sure that it hadn't stopped. I would reassure myself that every flake in the air would land on the ground and it wasn't going to stop that instant, but then I would consider how quickly such an insignificant skiff of snow could vanish and the anxiety would come back.
Anyone who knows me, knows this: I love snow. More specifically, I love it when it snows. Understanding this, it should come as no surprise that I was elated yesterday by the season's first real snowfall. Of course, it amounted to only an inch or two by the end of the day, but, still, I was happy to see it come. Inevitably, much of my time at work was spent staring out the large front windows of the store, just watching it drift down. (I was also watching the crazy guy across the street trying to mount his own personal protest against the local branch of Wells Fargo while wearing a V for Vendatta mask, which suddenly struck me as an alarmingly bad idea when the police arrived. Anyway...) Part of the fun of working in an outdoor store is that I'm not the only one who, from time to time, has to rattle myself back to an awareness of what is happening inside on days such as these. Not all of my co-workers love winter and its weather, but enough of us do.
Some of the Yahoo Answers users touched on a very basic reason for loving the snow: sentimentality. Ah yes, that hearkening back to childhood and all the promise of the first snow flurries. The problem with early snowfall, like yesterday's, is that it doesn't last too long. Today, much of what fell yesterday has melted and, by now, turned to ice. But more is falling, even as I type. Whenever it snows at night I am put in mind of my childhood anxiety about winter weather. I can remember going to bed, knowing that I could potentially rise to several inches of snow in the morning, or to mud and grass that looked like someone had come along and scattered powdered sugar here and there. I would lay in bed positively nervous about the outcome, popping up from time to time, pressing my face against the window or running downstairs to flick on the deck light just to be sure that it hadn't stopped. I would reassure myself that every flake in the air would land on the ground and it wasn't going to stop that instant, but then I would consider how quickly such an insignificant skiff of snow could vanish and the anxiety would come back.
Well, having established that I was basically an unstable child and that I haven't changed much, I would like to proceed with what I'm sure will be a far more enlightening and meaningful discussion of snow. How can any discussion of snow be enlightening and meaningful, you ask? Good question, one I don't have an answer to because this is completely off the cuff. BUT I'm sure I can find a way to tie all of this into a heartwarming Thanksgiving message or an allegory on the pitfalls of plastic surgery. No promises, though. I will say that I am always shocked by the number of people who hate snow. They positively abhor it! How is that even possible, I wonder. Even when I was a child it seems there were little nine-year-old naysayers who didn't like being cold and wet. Okay, cold and wet on the one hand, snowmen, snow forts, snowball fights, snow angels, snow snacks, snow sledding, snow shoeing, snow skiing on the other. No competition.
As an adult, however, I understand it better. Snow, especially when it's falling and building up fast, can create painful driving conditions. Last year I had to drive over Snoqualmie Pass in a snow storm. First time in my life not being able to be a passenger and sleep through the ordeal. It was insane! And people would not slow down! According to the National Snow and Ice Data Center (http://nsidc.org/snow/) hundreds of people die in the US each year in snow-related deaths, traffic accidents in large. So, yes, I get the hazard there. But that also side-steps the necessity we have of snow. Way back in 1995, Cullen Murphy wrote an article for The Atlantic called "In Praise of Snow." In it he observes that "[s]now is a commodity we usually remember for either the pleasure it offers or the disruptions it causes." He goes on to point out that often we overlook the necessity of snowfall, particularly in the mountains and especially the American West, to provide for our both our agricultural irrigation and "urban life." Murphy also points out that, "[w]orldwide, at least a third of all the water used for irrigation comes from snow. In the western United States the figure is about 75 percent."
I think most people in Central Washington are aware of the importance snow plays in the lives of our communities. I certainly remember several years when farmers and ranchers had to worry about drought because the snow pack in the mountains didn't measure up (ha ha). I think it's important to remember this aspect of winter weather, but I don't think that will stop people from disliking it. Looking through the NSIDC website, it becomes obvious that people have always struggled with snow. It won't come as any surprise that early settlers in the American colonies had to face shortages of food and fuel during the winter months. As time went on, of course, settlers became generations of citizens of the US who learned how to better handle snowy conditions, creating sleighs with runners instead of wheels and stockpiling coal, wood, and food for the long months.
But onwards and upwards, we continue to try and control the weather. And I think that part of our dynamic relationship with snow is our desire for ultimate control over our lives, and snow represents a hindrance to that. Take the travelers on Snoqualmie last year, and every year, who couldn't be bothered to slow down for weather. I found myself wanting to roll down my car window and yell into the blizzard, "Respect the snow! Respect it, you #*$&%! idiots!" (That is actually how I swear, in case you're wondering.)
As Murphy points out. if snow isn't a hindrance, it's an opportunity for recreation or even metaphor: "We call upon snow, too, for its utility as metaphor: symbol of purity, uniformity, isolation, protection, transience." I see exactly what he means. Over and over again it is used in all of these ways, as all of these things. Google (again with the Googling) "snow symbolism in literature" and WikiAnswers will tell you that in literature, snow is a symbol of death. Okay, I suppose, but isn't that a bit too tidy for the literary world. If I remember correctly from my distant, and, yes, foggy, days of study, symbolism may be presented in two ways: one, as a universal symbol with a suggestion of meaning that can be lifted out of a work like a kernel; two, as a symbol which becomes specific to a particular work. Snow seems iconic as death: think C.S. Lewis's antagonist in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, where Narnia is always in winter, but Christmas never comes. Think, too, of Hans Christian Anderson's "The Snow Queen," in which the Snow Queen succeeds in abducting Kai only after he has had a piece of the evil troll's mirror embedded in his eye and where Gerda succeeds in freeing him from the icy castle only after she reminds him of her love. But beyond this are far more complex examples of snow as symbol in literature. Murphy himself points to James Joyce's short story "The Dead," at the end of which, Gabriel's (one of the main characters) "soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." Snow as equalizer, perhaps? Or Gabriel's bleak recognition that he too would one day be in the graveyard with those dead. It may even symbolize new life, a fresh start for Gabriel -- but I'm no James Joyce expert. Bring up the website companion to How to Read Literature Like a Professor and they'll tell you that on the one hand snow is "cold, stark, inhospitable, inhuman, death," but it's also "clean, pure, playful" (Foster, Nelson http://homepage.mac.com/mseffie/assignments/professor/professor.html --just to cover my bases). All of these ideas add to the complexity of this quite simple weather phenomena, which, like most things, is not simple after all.
As Murphy points out. if snow isn't a hindrance, it's an opportunity for recreation or even metaphor: "We call upon snow, too, for its utility as metaphor: symbol of purity, uniformity, isolation, protection, transience." I see exactly what he means. Over and over again it is used in all of these ways, as all of these things. Google (again with the Googling) "snow symbolism in literature" and WikiAnswers will tell you that in literature, snow is a symbol of death. Okay, I suppose, but isn't that a bit too tidy for the literary world. If I remember correctly from my distant, and, yes, foggy, days of study, symbolism may be presented in two ways: one, as a universal symbol with a suggestion of meaning that can be lifted out of a work like a kernel; two, as a symbol which becomes specific to a particular work. Snow seems iconic as death: think C.S. Lewis's antagonist in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, where Narnia is always in winter, but Christmas never comes. Think, too, of Hans Christian Anderson's "The Snow Queen," in which the Snow Queen succeeds in abducting Kai only after he has had a piece of the evil troll's mirror embedded in his eye and where Gerda succeeds in freeing him from the icy castle only after she reminds him of her love. But beyond this are far more complex examples of snow as symbol in literature. Murphy himself points to James Joyce's short story "The Dead," at the end of which, Gabriel's (one of the main characters) "soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." Snow as equalizer, perhaps? Or Gabriel's bleak recognition that he too would one day be in the graveyard with those dead. It may even symbolize new life, a fresh start for Gabriel -- but I'm no James Joyce expert. Bring up the website companion to How to Read Literature Like a Professor and they'll tell you that on the one hand snow is "cold, stark, inhospitable, inhuman, death," but it's also "clean, pure, playful" (Foster, Nelson http://homepage.mac.com/mseffie/assignments/professor/professor.html --just to cover my bases). All of these ideas add to the complexity of this quite simple weather phenomena, which, like most things, is not simple after all.
Perhaps, for me, it isn't so complicated though. Perhaps it is nothing more than a memory of those wonderful late night snowfalls; of playing in the the front yard with my sister, dashing behind hastily constructed forts to hide from passing cars; of family ski trips; of making the slickest, fastest sled run with my siblings; of the taste of it. Maybe, too, it's the utter, unbroken silence that comes with a snowfall. Perfect stillness, and nothing but myself and the soundless earth settling down around me.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
The Scheming Dreamer
In my never-ending quest for the next best thing, I've decided to attend graduate school in the UK. My reasoning for this decision is two-fold: first, to avoid getting another degree from the same school that granted me my others; second, to avoid having to tell people that I am enrolled in the MFA program through the University of Phoenix, or something like that. Of course, the whole process of getting into a program, getting over there, getting money seems extremely complicated, and I am looking for any kind of short cut(s).
I started hunting out information by Googling, of course. Sad to say, but I think Google is the new dictionary. I have very clear memories of my Grandma and Mom going after the old Merriam-Webster to look up obscure words or references. If I happened to be the one asking the question, then I was duly sent for the volume. It was always a good life lesson in seeking out, and finding, correct information, so it seems inevitable that I should now watch movies with my lap top or IPod Touch next to me. Not that Google necessarily yields sources of accurate information (wikipedia always tops the list), but sometimes just salacious details are good enough for me. I did become the proud owner of The Oxford Companion to the English Language just last night, and it's wonderful -- very heavy with lovely thin pages... but it doesn't have a browser.
All this to say that I Googled "Graduate School in the UK" a few days ago (it doesn't take me long to decide to change the course of my life). First, I looked at the University College London and went directly to their graduate (or postgraduate) studies page. Wowsers. My diploma reads quite simply "Master of Arts: English" or something along those lines. Of course, my school offers other English-area MAs, such as TESOL, MFA, rhetoric, but those words aren't in the degree name. UCL, on the other hand, offers three MA degrees: first, MA: English Linguistics; second, MA: Issues in Modern Culture; third, MA: Shakespeare in History. Fortunately, I'm not interested in anything like this. Probably good because I don't think they'd take me. And I can't help wondering what on earth will those graduates do with their degrees? Become really poor academics?
Next, I Googled "MFA programs UK." And, according to Kingston University in London, these programs are relatively rare. Apparently Kingston's is the first, but Oxford does offer something called Master of Studies -- whatever that is. You'll have to do better, Oxford, if you want to snag my American genius. The appealing thing, though, about Kingston is that they prepare a student for a "career as a publishing writer and as an accredited teacher of creative writing." Very nice. The problem -- just how do I manage the move? According to the Fulbright website, I would have to start applying now if I wanted to be in the UK and hard at work in a year's time. Not to mention the portfolio I would have to have ready for the school itself. Sheesh. Can't someone just invite me over? Couldn't some head of a university say, "Hey, we need someone over here to dumb us down a little! We'll pay your way!" That would be brilliant.
I have also been considering registering for some Creative Writing classes at my alma mater. I did minor in Creative Writing when I was in college, but I seem to have rather pathetically lost my touch. The thought of scraping together twenty poems or a 50,000 word memoir/novel from my scarce and even dull life experiences seems altogether daunting. My real plan for re-enrolling, if I'm honest and I do try to be, is to steal someone else's work and submit it as my own. None of that over-the-top, I'm-going-to-shock-your-socks-off-by-making-as-many-drugs-and-sex-references-as-possible stuff. No, that's been done. Only top drawer for me. I'll know it when I read it.
There are several things, however, that could derail me from my plan, not the least of which is myself. If I really imagine myself as a student again, in a classroom half-way around the world with other writers, it simply overwhelms me. The Plan (as I now call it because, well, that's what it is) is very exciting in and of itself. What aspiring English-language writer wouldn't want to study in England? It's like Jerusalem, Rome, and Mecca all rolled into one for anyone who reads English Literature. But, I can just see myself having a bad first week and promptly booking a ticket for a return flight to Seattle. It's also just the audacity of hoping for something so different and, for me, so big. It feels as if I stand on the very cusp of greatness itself, and it's up to me whether I succeed or I fail. All of this, of course, is pure dramatics, most likely brought on by eating way too much sugar and not enough protein.
On the more practical side of the issue is the idea of the MFA itself. During my vague, somewhat aimless research on MFA programs, I came across blogs and opinion pieces that call into question the validity of the degree. Some argue that writers can achieve much the same result by simply attending writing seminars. And they cost a lot less. Others argue that MFA programs have a tendency to churn out cookie-cutter writing. It's an interesting argument that I hadn't considered before. Of course, it makes sense. If the people teaching these courses have developed similar types of writing, and show a certain proclivity for certain styles of writing, then it's obvious that the students attending these programs should alter their own voices to fall in line with the preferences of their instructors. The problem is that these instructors are, I imagine, people who have had some success in the world of literature and for that reason are products of their time. Twenty years from now, their way of writing will read as dated. But it could also be true that the writers of today will set the standard for what is popular down the road.
I have spent far more time contemplating the positive aspects. There are benefits to being in a group of writers, especially in programs such as these. I would imagine that spending a year or two with other writers and working with tutors would only benefit a person's writing, but it would also change it. From here on out, my train of thought gets convoluted and just silly. Enough is enough.
In conclusion, if I happen to approach you for a portfolio of your poetry or fiction, don't ask questions. Similarly, if I ask for new material or any updates to what I've already taken, just do it. I'm really looking out for your best interests. Just imagine the millions of dollars you could make blackmailing me after I've become famous off your work! Failing that, there is still the University of Phoenix. I'll let you all know what I think of cyber-classrooms and virtual-academics.
I started hunting out information by Googling, of course. Sad to say, but I think Google is the new dictionary. I have very clear memories of my Grandma and Mom going after the old Merriam-Webster to look up obscure words or references. If I happened to be the one asking the question, then I was duly sent for the volume. It was always a good life lesson in seeking out, and finding, correct information, so it seems inevitable that I should now watch movies with my lap top or IPod Touch next to me. Not that Google necessarily yields sources of accurate information (wikipedia always tops the list), but sometimes just salacious details are good enough for me. I did become the proud owner of The Oxford Companion to the English Language just last night, and it's wonderful -- very heavy with lovely thin pages... but it doesn't have a browser.
All this to say that I Googled "Graduate School in the UK" a few days ago (it doesn't take me long to decide to change the course of my life). First, I looked at the University College London and went directly to their graduate (or postgraduate) studies page. Wowsers. My diploma reads quite simply "Master of Arts: English" or something along those lines. Of course, my school offers other English-area MAs, such as TESOL, MFA, rhetoric, but those words aren't in the degree name. UCL, on the other hand, offers three MA degrees: first, MA: English Linguistics; second, MA: Issues in Modern Culture; third, MA: Shakespeare in History. Fortunately, I'm not interested in anything like this. Probably good because I don't think they'd take me. And I can't help wondering what on earth will those graduates do with their degrees? Become really poor academics?
Next, I Googled "MFA programs UK." And, according to Kingston University in London, these programs are relatively rare. Apparently Kingston's is the first, but Oxford does offer something called Master of Studies -- whatever that is. You'll have to do better, Oxford, if you want to snag my American genius. The appealing thing, though, about Kingston is that they prepare a student for a "career as a publishing writer and as an accredited teacher of creative writing." Very nice. The problem -- just how do I manage the move? According to the Fulbright website, I would have to start applying now if I wanted to be in the UK and hard at work in a year's time. Not to mention the portfolio I would have to have ready for the school itself. Sheesh. Can't someone just invite me over? Couldn't some head of a university say, "Hey, we need someone over here to dumb us down a little! We'll pay your way!" That would be brilliant.
I have also been considering registering for some Creative Writing classes at my alma mater. I did minor in Creative Writing when I was in college, but I seem to have rather pathetically lost my touch. The thought of scraping together twenty poems or a 50,000 word memoir/novel from my scarce and even dull life experiences seems altogether daunting. My real plan for re-enrolling, if I'm honest and I do try to be, is to steal someone else's work and submit it as my own. None of that over-the-top, I'm-going-to-shock-your-socks-off-by-making-as-many-drugs-and-sex-references-as-possible stuff. No, that's been done. Only top drawer for me. I'll know it when I read it.
There are several things, however, that could derail me from my plan, not the least of which is myself. If I really imagine myself as a student again, in a classroom half-way around the world with other writers, it simply overwhelms me. The Plan (as I now call it because, well, that's what it is) is very exciting in and of itself. What aspiring English-language writer wouldn't want to study in England? It's like Jerusalem, Rome, and Mecca all rolled into one for anyone who reads English Literature. But, I can just see myself having a bad first week and promptly booking a ticket for a return flight to Seattle. It's also just the audacity of hoping for something so different and, for me, so big. It feels as if I stand on the very cusp of greatness itself, and it's up to me whether I succeed or I fail. All of this, of course, is pure dramatics, most likely brought on by eating way too much sugar and not enough protein.
On the more practical side of the issue is the idea of the MFA itself. During my vague, somewhat aimless research on MFA programs, I came across blogs and opinion pieces that call into question the validity of the degree. Some argue that writers can achieve much the same result by simply attending writing seminars. And they cost a lot less. Others argue that MFA programs have a tendency to churn out cookie-cutter writing. It's an interesting argument that I hadn't considered before. Of course, it makes sense. If the people teaching these courses have developed similar types of writing, and show a certain proclivity for certain styles of writing, then it's obvious that the students attending these programs should alter their own voices to fall in line with the preferences of their instructors. The problem is that these instructors are, I imagine, people who have had some success in the world of literature and for that reason are products of their time. Twenty years from now, their way of writing will read as dated. But it could also be true that the writers of today will set the standard for what is popular down the road.
I have spent far more time contemplating the positive aspects. There are benefits to being in a group of writers, especially in programs such as these. I would imagine that spending a year or two with other writers and working with tutors would only benefit a person's writing, but it would also change it. From here on out, my train of thought gets convoluted and just silly. Enough is enough.
In conclusion, if I happen to approach you for a portfolio of your poetry or fiction, don't ask questions. Similarly, if I ask for new material or any updates to what I've already taken, just do it. I'm really looking out for your best interests. Just imagine the millions of dollars you could make blackmailing me after I've become famous off your work! Failing that, there is still the University of Phoenix. I'll let you all know what I think of cyber-classrooms and virtual-academics.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Heritage of Old Age
In 2009/10, I was in the employ of the local Christian school. My job, ostensibly, was to teach 8th grade English. Often, my students wanted to be sidetracked by other concerns, primarily the concern of their final year at the school and all the celebration and ceremony that came with it. I tried not to devote much class time to planning their 8th grade graduation ceremony or their 8th grade celebratory trip -- their send-off into the world of public education. Instead, I tried to focus on English (surprise, surprise). I had found that while they had been taught a lot of grammar (which is wonderful!) they didn't know as much about literature as I felt they certainly should by the age of 14. So I undertook that, with varying degrees of success. One portion of the class focused on mysteries, and within that section our "out loud book", the book I read to them in sections right after lunch, was Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express. The fun was listening to who they picked as the culprit and seeing their reaction when they learned the truth. Many of them had fingered the Princess Dragomiroff, an aging Russian noblewoman. After we finished the book, we watched the Albert Finney film version (painful as he is to watch in the role of Poirot, the rest of them are good).
When we first meet the Princess Dragomiroff in the film, she is in her compartment with her lap dogs and personal maid. The camera zooms in on her, so we can get a really nice shot of all her wrinkles and general elderly-ness. One of my students suddenly went, "Ugh!" and shuddered. A second time, when the Princess reappeared, she exclaimed, "I'm sorry! She's just creepy!" So I said, "I hope no one reacts like that to you when you're that age."
All of which brings me, finally, to today's topic: Old age and our reactions to it. My student was certainly not alone in her reaction to the aging. Certainly Christie even describes the Princess in her book as a rather poised and imperial looking toad. Nonetheless, I can't help but think of my student's reaction to seeing her on film as a reaction to the actress herself. Wendy Hiller was not, in her youth, an unattractive woman. She certainly had a different look to her, but not one that would have made the general population shudder in horror, and it seemed unkind to react to her in that way even if her appearance was altered by lighting and make-up, making her look older and more geriatric than she may have in real life. However, my student's attitude encapsulates perfectly our cultural reaction to old age.
When I write these blogs, my very vast experience, I like to have my IPod next to me, so I can Google things. As I started writing this, I Googled "Old age quotes". I'm telling you this so that when I start tossing out quotes by Somerset Maugham, Oscar Wilde, Aristophanes, and Hugh Hefner, you won't mistakenly believe that I'm really, really well read. But the page that I pulled up after my search, provides me with an interesting range on the ideas and ideals of old-age. The one quote that tops the list, literally and figuratively, is from Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. "The tragedy of old age," he writes, "is not that one is old, but that one is young."
His quote seems to aptly describe what I imagine it feels like to grow old. On my next birthday, I'll be thirty, not old by any means, but inside myself I still feel seventeen. I have felt that way since I was seventeen. Imagine my shock when one of the the first kids I ever babysat graduated high school last year? How can that be? I thought, I only just graduated a couple years ago myself... Eleven years ago, actually. But there it is. Imagine old age sneaking up on you like that. Suddenly, you wake up one morning and find that you need help putting on your shoes or eating appropriately healthy food.
Hugh Hefner believes, "that age -- if you're healthy -- age is just a number." Very insightful (I'm being somewhat facetious. I realize you can't hear my tone of voice). But so often health fails. And minds fail. In my work as a sales associate (it just sounds better), I get to help a variety of people. Recently, I've helped a couple of elderly customers find shoes that would offer support and stability. One man had just had a vein (I think) removed from his leg and placed in his heart. He was very weak, and his wife and I had to push the shoes onto his feet because he couldn't do it himself. Again and again he apologized: "You'd think that as old as I am, I could tie my own shoes." Yesterday, an elderly woman was brought in by her daughter-in-law to find shoes that would be softer on her instep. She had to use a walker and relied on the support of her daughter-in-law, who also took off her old shoes, put on the new ones, made sure they fit right, then filled out her check and took it over to her mother-in-law to sign. Throughout their time in the store, both women were light-hearted and joking. The daughter-in-law was sympathetic and kind.
That struck me especially. In a day in age when we so often brush past people who are slow and in our way, here was this quite beautiful example of service and love. In 2006, Billy Graham was interviewed by Newsweek. In that interview he stated, "All my life I've been taught how to die, but no one ever taught me how to grow old." The problem, I think, is that we arrogantly assume that we will be better, that if, like Hugh Hefner, we are blessed with good health, than we'll be fine. Just fine. But life so often seems more like a crap shoot. We don't and can't know that we won't be sidelined by heart problems or blindness or dementia. My own lovely Grandma had heart problems and dementia. By the time I was in high school she was not the Grandma I remembered from my childhood, and the really frustrating thing was that I kind of kept waiting for her to snap out of it.
There is a tendency to think of the elderly as second-class citizens. I know because I've done it myself. I was not as attentive a granddaughter as I wish I had been. I do get frustrated when I'm stuck behind an older person who's moving slowly. I often forget that what they are dealing with is irreversible. We value youth so much, and yet it is so far from formation (if that makes sense at all. It does to me.), so far from being any kind of a complete person. I don't know if old age brings that sense of completion, but I think it is our destiny. Somerset Maugham writes, "The complete life, the perfect pattern, includes old age as well as youth and maturity. The beauty of the morning and the radiance of noon are good, but it would be a very silly person who drew the curtains and turned on the light in order to shut out the tranquility of the evening."
Whenever I think back to that day with my 8th graders watching the Princess Dragomiroff shakily give her alibi to Poirot, I think about how easy it is to forget that life is more than just the present. That it is a very long, but also a very brief journey. My hope would be that when I grow old, people will treat me as a person -- without condescension or irritation. Aristophanes believes that "the old are in a second childhood." It sounds nice, but then I remember that, as a child, there wasn't a lot I could do on my own.
When we first meet the Princess Dragomiroff in the film, she is in her compartment with her lap dogs and personal maid. The camera zooms in on her, so we can get a really nice shot of all her wrinkles and general elderly-ness. One of my students suddenly went, "Ugh!" and shuddered. A second time, when the Princess reappeared, she exclaimed, "I'm sorry! She's just creepy!" So I said, "I hope no one reacts like that to you when you're that age."
All of which brings me, finally, to today's topic: Old age and our reactions to it. My student was certainly not alone in her reaction to the aging. Certainly Christie even describes the Princess in her book as a rather poised and imperial looking toad. Nonetheless, I can't help but think of my student's reaction to seeing her on film as a reaction to the actress herself. Wendy Hiller was not, in her youth, an unattractive woman. She certainly had a different look to her, but not one that would have made the general population shudder in horror, and it seemed unkind to react to her in that way even if her appearance was altered by lighting and make-up, making her look older and more geriatric than she may have in real life. However, my student's attitude encapsulates perfectly our cultural reaction to old age.
When I write these blogs, my very vast experience, I like to have my IPod next to me, so I can Google things. As I started writing this, I Googled "Old age quotes". I'm telling you this so that when I start tossing out quotes by Somerset Maugham, Oscar Wilde, Aristophanes, and Hugh Hefner, you won't mistakenly believe that I'm really, really well read. But the page that I pulled up after my search, provides me with an interesting range on the ideas and ideals of old-age. The one quote that tops the list, literally and figuratively, is from Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. "The tragedy of old age," he writes, "is not that one is old, but that one is young."
His quote seems to aptly describe what I imagine it feels like to grow old. On my next birthday, I'll be thirty, not old by any means, but inside myself I still feel seventeen. I have felt that way since I was seventeen. Imagine my shock when one of the the first kids I ever babysat graduated high school last year? How can that be? I thought, I only just graduated a couple years ago myself... Eleven years ago, actually. But there it is. Imagine old age sneaking up on you like that. Suddenly, you wake up one morning and find that you need help putting on your shoes or eating appropriately healthy food.
Hugh Hefner believes, "that age -- if you're healthy -- age is just a number." Very insightful (I'm being somewhat facetious. I realize you can't hear my tone of voice). But so often health fails. And minds fail. In my work as a sales associate (it just sounds better), I get to help a variety of people. Recently, I've helped a couple of elderly customers find shoes that would offer support and stability. One man had just had a vein (I think) removed from his leg and placed in his heart. He was very weak, and his wife and I had to push the shoes onto his feet because he couldn't do it himself. Again and again he apologized: "You'd think that as old as I am, I could tie my own shoes." Yesterday, an elderly woman was brought in by her daughter-in-law to find shoes that would be softer on her instep. She had to use a walker and relied on the support of her daughter-in-law, who also took off her old shoes, put on the new ones, made sure they fit right, then filled out her check and took it over to her mother-in-law to sign. Throughout their time in the store, both women were light-hearted and joking. The daughter-in-law was sympathetic and kind.
That struck me especially. In a day in age when we so often brush past people who are slow and in our way, here was this quite beautiful example of service and love. In 2006, Billy Graham was interviewed by Newsweek. In that interview he stated, "All my life I've been taught how to die, but no one ever taught me how to grow old." The problem, I think, is that we arrogantly assume that we will be better, that if, like Hugh Hefner, we are blessed with good health, than we'll be fine. Just fine. But life so often seems more like a crap shoot. We don't and can't know that we won't be sidelined by heart problems or blindness or dementia. My own lovely Grandma had heart problems and dementia. By the time I was in high school she was not the Grandma I remembered from my childhood, and the really frustrating thing was that I kind of kept waiting for her to snap out of it.
There is a tendency to think of the elderly as second-class citizens. I know because I've done it myself. I was not as attentive a granddaughter as I wish I had been. I do get frustrated when I'm stuck behind an older person who's moving slowly. I often forget that what they are dealing with is irreversible. We value youth so much, and yet it is so far from formation (if that makes sense at all. It does to me.), so far from being any kind of a complete person. I don't know if old age brings that sense of completion, but I think it is our destiny. Somerset Maugham writes, "The complete life, the perfect pattern, includes old age as well as youth and maturity. The beauty of the morning and the radiance of noon are good, but it would be a very silly person who drew the curtains and turned on the light in order to shut out the tranquility of the evening."
Whenever I think back to that day with my 8th graders watching the Princess Dragomiroff shakily give her alibi to Poirot, I think about how easy it is to forget that life is more than just the present. That it is a very long, but also a very brief journey. My hope would be that when I grow old, people will treat me as a person -- without condescension or irritation. Aristophanes believes that "the old are in a second childhood." It sounds nice, but then I remember that, as a child, there wasn't a lot I could do on my own.
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