Ahhh, PhDness smells of the sweet, pollen-filled summer air. The ants are on their way to invade my house, only to join the ladybugs up on the guest room ceiling; people are outdoors all day while they can be in this nice mid-80s heat before we hit the standard 95-100 degree days; it’s all here. Summer in Athens, GA is much different for an undergraduate student than a PhD student, of course, but at least there are only a few thousand bodies on campus and around town, rather than the 35,000 bodies who regularly take up 2 parking spaces with their Georgia lottery-funded-Hope-Scholarship-SUVs; those bodies who over-populate study rooms at the student learning center for 10 hours at a time so they can post fabulous “guess what I’m doing now” messages and (future) incriminating photos to Facebook while cramming for chemistry exams; and there are a few less bodies flailing around the bars downtown demonstrating their professionalism as under-aged drinkers who are consistently over-served.
I love summer. My 4th summer in PhDness. I can’t believe it. How time flies when you’re slowly chipping away at a deliberate and painful death via a doctoral degree. Summer doesn’t make PhDness any easier, (well, it does for those who totally disassociate themselves from PhDness in order to travel…as if they aren’t living on government loans like the rest of us), but it is more giving of time, let’s say. No classes to teach, no student teachers to supervise/observe, no classes to take as a PhD student anymore. (That was summers 1 and 2) Nope. Just a few 60 hour assistantships, working for and with professors to make some extra money, and my own dissertation work to attend to. Which, now that I think about it, is so much more than I’d like to be doing during a summer’s “rest;” but alas, I am engulfed in PhDness. Near the end of PhDness, mind you, with only one more school year left. Whew. What a ride it’s been thus far.
I liken my current PhDness to those moments when I lose my car in a parking lot (which I do more often now than I ever have for some reason). I use this analogy because I know I drove my car to that parking lot, and I know I parked it and left it in a certain spot, and I know it will still be there when I find it. But I wonder around aimlessly questioning what in the hell I could have been doing when I drove into the lot so that I, at the present moment, have no recollection what-so-ever as to where it could have ended up, as if it drove itself—all while acting like I know where my stupid car is so no one will think me odd to have lost my car in a parking lot of only 50 cars. You’ve done that, right?
Just like my current stage of PhDness.
I know I’ve been here doing a lot of challenging work for four years; I know that I have defended and “passed” my comprehensive exams as well as my prospectus (my dissertation proposal); and I know I spent a year “collecting data” for my dissertation research. I met with a group of 7th grade girls every week, talked about bodies in various ways, wrote about bodies, read about bodies, recorded it, transcribed those recordings, took lots of notes about what took place around “bodily enoughness,” and read a lot of philosophy during that whole process.
I know all of these things took place, just as I know I parked my car “somewhere.” But as I wonder aimlessly to find that cute little Subaru, I also wonder aimlessly in PhDness. I know I have to “analyze my data” and write a dissertation (maybe a few hundred pages?), but every time I think about it, I just look around and go….Hmmm, I wonder where I am. See? Just like losing your car.
My other interesting thought about PhDness is people’s continued reaction to an advanced degree in education, and more specifically, middle grades education. Anywhere outside of PhDness (meaning, anywhere outside of a circle of professors or PhD students IN education), when people ask me what I’m studying and I tell them I’m “working on a PhD in Middle Grades Education,” the first question is… can you guess? “Oh, so do you want to be an administrator?” (Nope.) “Oh, do you want to be a teacher?” (Already did that.) And the still-always-fascinating, most popular comment that I just got again at the eye doctor this morning from some of the office girls, “Oh, middle school. That is a challenging age, isn’t it.” (Not any more challenging than the high-maintenance 30 and 40-year-olds I know, sister.)
When I do give my canned response, “I actually want to do research concerning 10-to-14-year-olds, and I want to teach at a large university so I can work with people who want to teach middle schoolers.” I get the, “Oh yes, that’s important” Or the “Yes, we need that.” Which probably means, “Oh, she’s going to be a principal.”
But I’m not going to be a principal, people (not that there is ANYTHING wrong with that). And I’m not going to be a teacher of middle schoolers again (as far as I know right now…because it’s too much work). [Insert metaphorical soap box here] I am going to continue working with middle school girls and boys so we can talk and write about bodies. It is fascinating how much we as a culture affect those little bodies. They can be poor bodies, rich bodies, black bodies, brown bodies, white bodies, fat bodies, skinny bodies, short or tall. They are girls and boys, straight and gay, religious and searching. And they are affected by what our society does TO their bodies; so much so that it manifests itself in their bodies, on their bodies, and through their body movements and actions on a daily basis. And here we are—any of us—what are WE doing to help them? Some of us can’t even talk about bodies in a way that we feel comfortable (i.e., sex, sexual orientation, body image), so how can we help those little bodies re-define what “normal” bodies are “supposed to be” or “can be” when we have such skewed perceptions of what “normal” is ourselves? That’s my car in a parking lot right now. I know it’s there; I’m just having a hard time finding its exact location. But when I do it will be a joyful event!
So go talk about bodies, people. Be aware of your body and be willing to talk about it anyway you can. Push yourself. Be uncomfortable. Challenge your perceptions about what can be a “normal” body because what is “normal” now is NOT OKAY. And for the millions of us who don’t have those “normal” body-markers ( the thin, toned, blemish-free, white, middle-class, heterosexual bodies mostly represented in popular culture stuff), we spend much of life trying to make our bodies fit into those “normal” markers…even if we don’t know it….[OK, stepping off the soap box now]
Off to work on a “body” article I’m writing with a professor. (A professor who had her undergraduate students stand together in a circle during class last year, hold hands, and chant “penis” and “vagina” because it was so torturous for them to say those two words as future elementary education teachers.) Priceless.
Hope all is well with everyone! I get married in less than 5 months. Holy crap. I LOVE me some Thomas!
HEH
May 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Social Studies Lessons of Life, 101: Some Teachers are Stupid
Background context: middle school in rural area of Georgia, historically known as a place where some of Sherman’s officers swung by with their troops on the way to Savannah to have a bon fire, but they thought the town was too pretty to burn so they just beat up some people, stole some stuff, and rested a bit. Good, rich history in this place. Beautiful antebellum homes located in the Historic District; lots of families who have been there for generations, both black and white. I’m visiting a classroom of 20 8th grade students, about 9 whom are African American and the rest are white.
So there I was standing in the 8th grade social studies classroom observing one of my student-teachers deliver a lesson on Reconstruction after the Civil War. The date today was (supposedly) February 9, 2010. The day I felt I was in when I left: February 9, 1953.
I am minding my own white business, glancing over an African American male 8th grade student’s shoulder to skim the article he is reading on the internet about Henry McNeal, an African American preacher/politician who did a lot of cool stuff during the Civil War and after (to sum it up). The students are in centers today, which I like, learning about lots of different and interesting things pertaining to Reconstruction in the US and Georgia: amendments 13, 14, & 15 in one center; analyzing a political cartoon which included a KKK member shaking a white government official’s hand, some black folks who look sad, schools burning, etc. in another center; reading about good ol’ Abe in another….you get the drift. And I am wondering to myself, does this kid think it’s cool that he’s learning about an African American political and spiritual leader during the Civil War? Because I’m glad he’s not reading about one of the plethora of white guys during the Civil War. How refreshing…(and I really was thinking this…I didn’t just add it for re-telling affect of the story)
The (white) classroom mentor teacher (not my student teacher) comes up behind me while I’m minding my own white business reading the article about Henry McNeal and begins whispering in my ear. She laments her frustrations about social studies standards and pauses for my response. Still looking at the computer, I agree with her thinking we’re about to have one of those “our hands are tied as educators by standardized tests” exchanges; instead, she begins to tell me how “random” these standards can be and how she just doesn’t understand how some of them even get included. I diplomatically agree and add how nice it is, though, that they don’t tell us HOW to teach them, just what they want covered, and how we can add whatever we want and teach it however we want. I feel pleased enough with my response until I soon realize this 8th grade social studies teacher and I are not having the same conversation about “standards.”
“Yes, but they’re just so random,” she continues,” I mean, take Henry McNeal for instance. He did nothing that was significant during this time period and we still have to teach him. Just because he was one of the only black men, we have to teach the kids about him and he didn’t even do anything.” I lift my head up from reading the internet article and stare at the wall as if someone has just poked me in the back with a gun. She continues, assuming I am member of her secret club. “I mean, what about the really important men like Stonewall Jackson or Robert E. Lee? Men who actually did something significant during the Civil War. Or what about Jefferson Davis? He was the president of the confederacy and he’s not even in the standards. All of these men did something” she says with conviction in her hushed voice, “and this, this Henry McNeal is only in there because he’s black. You know?”
No. No I don’t know.
Hours upon hours I spend talking to my preservice students about helping middle school students feel included in their history: don’t let the standards rule your life, I plead. If there are “important people” you have to teach who are in the standards and they do not resemble the children who sit in your classroom, then either teach through a critical lens (e.g., Why do you think all of the people included on this list are all white and all men? Or ask who is not being represented on this list of “important people.”) Or I tell them to teach the “important people AND the others who are often left out of the texts---women and people of color. Multiple perspectives of history. Why not? Why not teach students to question and think and want to learn as much as they can?
(I guess this teacher was absent during those lessons in her education program at UGA 15 years earlier.)
It was one of those moments. Those knife-in-the-gut, missed-opportunity moments that keep my head spinning when I go to bed.
My response to the disgruntled social studies teacher? “Well, I guess someone thought Henry McNeal was important enough to put on this list, so he must have done something to deserve it other than being black.”
Lame. Copout!
What kind of social justice model am I being for my preservice students if I can’t even call a cracker a cracker?
What I wanted to say but instead wrote down in my observation notes one minute later:
Please don’t mistake me.
I may look like you
but I am not you.
We share a history:
a history of violence, inequity, and oppression.
But I am not you.
Don’t mistake me as part of the club,
the secret club to which you belong.
Because I am not you.
I believe in justice
and equality
and civil rights.
You?
You believe the battle is not over—
and you wage this secret war in your classrooms—
implicitly and explicitly through biased texts and silence,
you reinforce the institution of our shared history
which I am trying to disrupt.
You, a recycler of our unjust past,
Me, a hopeful disrupter of the present.
I am a liberator of oppression; you, simply a perpetrator of regression.
So please don’t mistake me,
because I am not you.
My whiteness may imply
some shared connectedness,
but my skin is off-white;
while yours resembles those to which you refer:
cloaks of stark white,
oppressive skin.
Anxious because “important men” aren’t included on some bullshit
Your men
Your leaders. Not mine.
You lament your bigoted discontent in my ear
as if I should be of the same mind as you
because my cause is masked by the white layers of southern skin,
unlike yours which you wear proudly.
But we are not having the same conversation, you and I.
Our unhappiness with how history is preserved
in a book—
yours longing for a war lost long ago,
mine longing to wage an intellectual war with those like you.
Your whispers echo in my ear,
your truth
your oppressive truth
assuming I am like you.
But I am not you.
So please don’t mistake me.
I guess I could email it to her later.
So there I was standing in the 8th grade social studies classroom observing one of my student-teachers deliver a lesson on Reconstruction after the Civil War. The date today was (supposedly) February 9, 2010. The day I felt I was in when I left: February 9, 1953.
I am minding my own white business, glancing over an African American male 8th grade student’s shoulder to skim the article he is reading on the internet about Henry McNeal, an African American preacher/politician who did a lot of cool stuff during the Civil War and after (to sum it up). The students are in centers today, which I like, learning about lots of different and interesting things pertaining to Reconstruction in the US and Georgia: amendments 13, 14, & 15 in one center; analyzing a political cartoon which included a KKK member shaking a white government official’s hand, some black folks who look sad, schools burning, etc. in another center; reading about good ol’ Abe in another….you get the drift. And I am wondering to myself, does this kid think it’s cool that he’s learning about an African American political and spiritual leader during the Civil War? Because I’m glad he’s not reading about one of the plethora of white guys during the Civil War. How refreshing…(and I really was thinking this…I didn’t just add it for re-telling affect of the story)
The (white) classroom mentor teacher (not my student teacher) comes up behind me while I’m minding my own white business reading the article about Henry McNeal and begins whispering in my ear. She laments her frustrations about social studies standards and pauses for my response. Still looking at the computer, I agree with her thinking we’re about to have one of those “our hands are tied as educators by standardized tests” exchanges; instead, she begins to tell me how “random” these standards can be and how she just doesn’t understand how some of them even get included. I diplomatically agree and add how nice it is, though, that they don’t tell us HOW to teach them, just what they want covered, and how we can add whatever we want and teach it however we want. I feel pleased enough with my response until I soon realize this 8th grade social studies teacher and I are not having the same conversation about “standards.”
“Yes, but they’re just so random,” she continues,” I mean, take Henry McNeal for instance. He did nothing that was significant during this time period and we still have to teach him. Just because he was one of the only black men, we have to teach the kids about him and he didn’t even do anything.” I lift my head up from reading the internet article and stare at the wall as if someone has just poked me in the back with a gun. She continues, assuming I am member of her secret club. “I mean, what about the really important men like Stonewall Jackson or Robert E. Lee? Men who actually did something significant during the Civil War. Or what about Jefferson Davis? He was the president of the confederacy and he’s not even in the standards. All of these men did something” she says with conviction in her hushed voice, “and this, this Henry McNeal is only in there because he’s black. You know?”
No. No I don’t know.
Hours upon hours I spend talking to my preservice students about helping middle school students feel included in their history: don’t let the standards rule your life, I plead. If there are “important people” you have to teach who are in the standards and they do not resemble the children who sit in your classroom, then either teach through a critical lens (e.g., Why do you think all of the people included on this list are all white and all men? Or ask who is not being represented on this list of “important people.”) Or I tell them to teach the “important people AND the others who are often left out of the texts---women and people of color. Multiple perspectives of history. Why not? Why not teach students to question and think and want to learn as much as they can?
(I guess this teacher was absent during those lessons in her education program at UGA 15 years earlier.)
It was one of those moments. Those knife-in-the-gut, missed-opportunity moments that keep my head spinning when I go to bed.
My response to the disgruntled social studies teacher? “Well, I guess someone thought Henry McNeal was important enough to put on this list, so he must have done something to deserve it other than being black.”
Lame. Copout!
What kind of social justice model am I being for my preservice students if I can’t even call a cracker a cracker?
What I wanted to say but instead wrote down in my observation notes one minute later:
Please don’t mistake me.
I may look like you
but I am not you.
We share a history:
a history of violence, inequity, and oppression.
But I am not you.
Don’t mistake me as part of the club,
the secret club to which you belong.
Because I am not you.
I believe in justice
and equality
and civil rights.
You?
You believe the battle is not over—
and you wage this secret war in your classrooms—
implicitly and explicitly through biased texts and silence,
you reinforce the institution of our shared history
which I am trying to disrupt.
You, a recycler of our unjust past,
Me, a hopeful disrupter of the present.
I am a liberator of oppression; you, simply a perpetrator of regression.
So please don’t mistake me,
because I am not you.
My whiteness may imply
some shared connectedness,
but my skin is off-white;
while yours resembles those to which you refer:
cloaks of stark white,
oppressive skin.
Anxious because “important men” aren’t included on some bullshit
Your men
Your leaders. Not mine.
You lament your bigoted discontent in my ear
as if I should be of the same mind as you
because my cause is masked by the white layers of southern skin,
unlike yours which you wear proudly.
But we are not having the same conversation, you and I.
Our unhappiness with how history is preserved
in a book—
yours longing for a war lost long ago,
mine longing to wage an intellectual war with those like you.
Your whispers echo in my ear,
your truth
your oppressive truth
assuming I am like you.
But I am not you.
So please don’t mistake me.
I guess I could email it to her later.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Umbros Lead to Galoshes and Point toward the end of PhDness
11.20.09
Do you remember Umbro shorts? Were any of you part of those 90s? I was. I had a few pairs of Umbros, but my favorites were the black ones with the white stripes. Not-so-much the Adidas stripe, but the classic Umbro stripe: not too short, maybe 1 or 2 inches above the knee, and we wore them with whatever cool t-shirts and tennis shoes we had. But it was the Umbro shorts that made the statement; I’m not quite sure what statement exactly, but we were saying something, damn it! We did, however choose to put the Umbros away when the weather grew chilly so we could sport some other fashion feast, and I’m not seeing those same trends here in Athens, Georgia as our fall slowly creeps toward “winter.”
Oh, but it’s not the classic Umbros I bring to your attention today, friends. I mean, please. During this modern era and in this hip college town, the fashionistas are sporting a new exercise short as the iconic college campus supplement to one’s wardrobe. I’m generalizing here, but I believe the new hipster short belongs to Nike, the “Nike Tempo Track Women’s Running Short.” If you have not seen them, they are….well….Umbros. Just shorter. Now don’t get me wrong—I have a pair of these shorts which I bought (on sale) about 3 years ago at the largest (and only) outdoor sports store in town, and they are extremely comfortable. When I’m exercising. They breathe well, they are light, they come in a plethora of colors, and I have seen almost every color available on our campus since school began back in August.
The Nike short, shorts have been complementing t-shirts, tank-tops, tube-tops, sweatshirts, long sleeve tees; and more recently, as the weather has become a bit nippier, the shorts were sported with a really nice Cashmere sweater and (get ready) pearls. I know writers are supposed to exaggerate sometimes to make the story more intriguing, but I bring no fabrication with these words, people. I have seen all types of bodies advertising for Nike too, so these shorts do not discriminate, that’s for sure! I’m not sure how this fad began and who thought it might look good…maybe the same girl who started wearing rubber rain boots with the Nike short, shorts when the clouds came rollin’ in during the months of September and October. She was probably the one who decided Uggs were out and galoshes were in. So yes, the fashionistas went from the simple Nike short, shorts and decorated tops with appropriate jewels, to the Nike short, shorts with various and sundry galoshes.
Striped galoshes, plaid galoshes, polka dotted galoshes, green, pink, red, blue, yellow, purple, orange, they’re all represented. If you can imagine it, they are wearing them. But only when it’s cloudy or raining. Or maybe if there is a chance of rain—then they’ll have to wear them, right? You’re damned skippy that those galoshes match those Nike short, shorts. Perfectly. And those tanned and toned little legs (or not-so-tanned and toned) are covered with chill bumps, goose pimples, whatever you’d like to call it when it’s 50-60 degrees Fahrenheit and little girls are running around in paper-thin short, shorts and J-Crew or Gap (not Shoe Barn or Shoe Circus, mind you, because they have rather large signs in their windows reading, “WE DO NOT HAVE RAIN BOOTS HERE”). At least winter is around the corner. The Uggs are indeed coming back out now and I’m starting to think they look pretty good with the Nike short, shorts.
Yes, yes, they are wearing other things; it’s not all Nike and galoshes—that’s just during the school week for class! This season’s football divas retired the “that’s so last year” polka dotted and 80s dresses with plastic belts and instead spent papa’s money on these just-barely pieces of material that were supposed to represent dresses—some with really thick eighties-esque leather belts instead of plastic—and others that were just….well, pieces of material covering about 4 feet of those bodies running around town with those adorable cowboy boots. We did go to one football game this year, so I got to see a lot of those cowboy boots and just-barely-dresses holding each other up and rubbing each other’s hair professing their undying love for and friendship to each other as their dates proudly poured them one more bourbon and coke. (Diet). Oh, the golden days…
Me? I lost my cowboy boots about 10 years ago. And unfortunately my dresses are all at the cleaners, so I had to make sure my fiancé was OK with me wearing jeans and a fleece. Fiancé, yes, for those of you who haven’t heard, I got engaged! It’s a very exciting time for Thomas and me, as we will be uniting our love symbolically in front of a few family and friends next October in Panama City (I know I sound facetious—and if you picked up on that, you were spot-on, but I really am thrilled and can’t even begin to describe how perfect my partner is for me!) Phoebe Day will be my maid of honor and the ring bearer as well, and Thommy will be training her for the next few months so she can behave appropriately at the church. OK, not really. But I am getting married, so that’s pretty cool. Who woulda thunk it?
As for PhDness. What can I say? In these past 3 and ½ years, I have completed my course work, written and defended my comprehensive exams, written and defended my prospectus (research proposal), taught a few classes, supervised some future middle school teachers, had a real anxiety attack, been so dramatic one might think I was going for an Oscar, cried so much my tear ducts ran dry, laughed so hard my cheeks got stuck, and wanted to quit this freaking PhDness to bartend more than not. And now I am about to begin collecting data for my dissertation study during the spring semester. I can’t believe it. I thought bartending was SUCH a better option so many times, and now I’m beginning to think I can actually do this. (And if you ever want to jump into PhDness, I recommend getting yourself a Thommy—I now know what people mean when they say “he’s my rock.” I always thought they were referencing hard-headed/stubborn partners…..those damned idioms we use in the English language….)
My dissertation topic is the phenomenon of bodily enoughness. (That’s what I’ve named it). So I’ll be working with 7 seventh grade girls with whom I did a young writers workshop this fall because I missed teaching writing, and I’ll be following them around, kind of stalking them, asking them to write, talk, take photos of, moments when they feel like they “are enough” in, with, and through their bodies and other moments when they feel like they are “not enough” in, with, and through their bodies. And the spaces in between. Kinda interesting, huh?
It’s pretty amazing that I thought I was finished with all of the “body work” I started doing as a teacher in Colorado with the 7th and 8th grade girls, but it keeps coming up with middle school girls—and other women I hang around, and me---so it turns out to be a great topic to research. My study is going to focus more specifically on girls of color (African American and Latina) because they are not represented in educational literature in a very positive light. My hopes are to look at the intersections of how some girls (but not all girls) talk about bodies through race/ethnicity, social class, gender, religion, ability/disability, popular culture, peers, family, etc. as I gather my data during the next semester and stalk them for 5 months. Then I’ll write some cool book and use them as the fictional characters or something fun like that!
Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve had some of this essay in my head since September when the shorts and galoshes came out, but I’m just finding a few minutes today to sit down and write. Alas, I have to go get my theater seats for New Moon. I would have seen it last night at midnight, but damn that’s late!
I hope all of you are well and would love to hear from any of you who are up for writing!
HEH
Do you remember Umbro shorts? Were any of you part of those 90s? I was. I had a few pairs of Umbros, but my favorites were the black ones with the white stripes. Not-so-much the Adidas stripe, but the classic Umbro stripe: not too short, maybe 1 or 2 inches above the knee, and we wore them with whatever cool t-shirts and tennis shoes we had. But it was the Umbro shorts that made the statement; I’m not quite sure what statement exactly, but we were saying something, damn it! We did, however choose to put the Umbros away when the weather grew chilly so we could sport some other fashion feast, and I’m not seeing those same trends here in Athens, Georgia as our fall slowly creeps toward “winter.”
Oh, but it’s not the classic Umbros I bring to your attention today, friends. I mean, please. During this modern era and in this hip college town, the fashionistas are sporting a new exercise short as the iconic college campus supplement to one’s wardrobe. I’m generalizing here, but I believe the new hipster short belongs to Nike, the “Nike Tempo Track Women’s Running Short.” If you have not seen them, they are….well….Umbros. Just shorter. Now don’t get me wrong—I have a pair of these shorts which I bought (on sale) about 3 years ago at the largest (and only) outdoor sports store in town, and they are extremely comfortable. When I’m exercising. They breathe well, they are light, they come in a plethora of colors, and I have seen almost every color available on our campus since school began back in August.
The Nike short, shorts have been complementing t-shirts, tank-tops, tube-tops, sweatshirts, long sleeve tees; and more recently, as the weather has become a bit nippier, the shorts were sported with a really nice Cashmere sweater and (get ready) pearls. I know writers are supposed to exaggerate sometimes to make the story more intriguing, but I bring no fabrication with these words, people. I have seen all types of bodies advertising for Nike too, so these shorts do not discriminate, that’s for sure! I’m not sure how this fad began and who thought it might look good…maybe the same girl who started wearing rubber rain boots with the Nike short, shorts when the clouds came rollin’ in during the months of September and October. She was probably the one who decided Uggs were out and galoshes were in. So yes, the fashionistas went from the simple Nike short, shorts and decorated tops with appropriate jewels, to the Nike short, shorts with various and sundry galoshes.
Striped galoshes, plaid galoshes, polka dotted galoshes, green, pink, red, blue, yellow, purple, orange, they’re all represented. If you can imagine it, they are wearing them. But only when it’s cloudy or raining. Or maybe if there is a chance of rain—then they’ll have to wear them, right? You’re damned skippy that those galoshes match those Nike short, shorts. Perfectly. And those tanned and toned little legs (or not-so-tanned and toned) are covered with chill bumps, goose pimples, whatever you’d like to call it when it’s 50-60 degrees Fahrenheit and little girls are running around in paper-thin short, shorts and J-Crew or Gap (not Shoe Barn or Shoe Circus, mind you, because they have rather large signs in their windows reading, “WE DO NOT HAVE RAIN BOOTS HERE”). At least winter is around the corner. The Uggs are indeed coming back out now and I’m starting to think they look pretty good with the Nike short, shorts.
Yes, yes, they are wearing other things; it’s not all Nike and galoshes—that’s just during the school week for class! This season’s football divas retired the “that’s so last year” polka dotted and 80s dresses with plastic belts and instead spent papa’s money on these just-barely pieces of material that were supposed to represent dresses—some with really thick eighties-esque leather belts instead of plastic—and others that were just….well, pieces of material covering about 4 feet of those bodies running around town with those adorable cowboy boots. We did go to one football game this year, so I got to see a lot of those cowboy boots and just-barely-dresses holding each other up and rubbing each other’s hair professing their undying love for and friendship to each other as their dates proudly poured them one more bourbon and coke. (Diet). Oh, the golden days…
Me? I lost my cowboy boots about 10 years ago. And unfortunately my dresses are all at the cleaners, so I had to make sure my fiancé was OK with me wearing jeans and a fleece. Fiancé, yes, for those of you who haven’t heard, I got engaged! It’s a very exciting time for Thomas and me, as we will be uniting our love symbolically in front of a few family and friends next October in Panama City (I know I sound facetious—and if you picked up on that, you were spot-on, but I really am thrilled and can’t even begin to describe how perfect my partner is for me!) Phoebe Day will be my maid of honor and the ring bearer as well, and Thommy will be training her for the next few months so she can behave appropriately at the church. OK, not really. But I am getting married, so that’s pretty cool. Who woulda thunk it?
As for PhDness. What can I say? In these past 3 and ½ years, I have completed my course work, written and defended my comprehensive exams, written and defended my prospectus (research proposal), taught a few classes, supervised some future middle school teachers, had a real anxiety attack, been so dramatic one might think I was going for an Oscar, cried so much my tear ducts ran dry, laughed so hard my cheeks got stuck, and wanted to quit this freaking PhDness to bartend more than not. And now I am about to begin collecting data for my dissertation study during the spring semester. I can’t believe it. I thought bartending was SUCH a better option so many times, and now I’m beginning to think I can actually do this. (And if you ever want to jump into PhDness, I recommend getting yourself a Thommy—I now know what people mean when they say “he’s my rock.” I always thought they were referencing hard-headed/stubborn partners…..those damned idioms we use in the English language….)
My dissertation topic is the phenomenon of bodily enoughness. (That’s what I’ve named it). So I’ll be working with 7 seventh grade girls with whom I did a young writers workshop this fall because I missed teaching writing, and I’ll be following them around, kind of stalking them, asking them to write, talk, take photos of, moments when they feel like they “are enough” in, with, and through their bodies and other moments when they feel like they are “not enough” in, with, and through their bodies. And the spaces in between. Kinda interesting, huh?
It’s pretty amazing that I thought I was finished with all of the “body work” I started doing as a teacher in Colorado with the 7th and 8th grade girls, but it keeps coming up with middle school girls—and other women I hang around, and me---so it turns out to be a great topic to research. My study is going to focus more specifically on girls of color (African American and Latina) because they are not represented in educational literature in a very positive light. My hopes are to look at the intersections of how some girls (but not all girls) talk about bodies through race/ethnicity, social class, gender, religion, ability/disability, popular culture, peers, family, etc. as I gather my data during the next semester and stalk them for 5 months. Then I’ll write some cool book and use them as the fictional characters or something fun like that!
Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve had some of this essay in my head since September when the shorts and galoshes came out, but I’m just finding a few minutes today to sit down and write. Alas, I have to go get my theater seats for New Moon. I would have seen it last night at midnight, but damn that’s late!
I hope all of you are well and would love to hear from any of you who are up for writing!
HEH
Monday, June 15, 2009
Marching Ants Lead Me to New Initiatives
As I was hiking up my skirt to hoist a leg over the rail and lean far enough over to pull out the screen of my townhouse’s front window, I took a moment to look around and see if anyone was watching, realized that indeed, 2 people were observing curiously (but not asking if I needed any help), and then suggested to myself that I might need to take a few days and rest. I’m not sure if you are familiar with the “comps” process (comprehensive exams) in PhDness, but before I endured it, I had only a limited grasp in my head. Yes, there are comprehensive exams for master’s degrees and I will not take away from the difficulty of that process—it’s stressful for sure! And in PhDness, there are several ways in which one can ‘take on’ comprehensive exams; so many, in fact, that they go beyond the scope of this essay (that’s a new, famous line I use in papers I write these days….good excuse to say, ‘yeah, I know there’s more…just not going to write about it).
Let me just say that my own comps process was…a learning experience? A life-changing experience? A melodramatic experience? Three written questions in the form of 25 page papers and four months of brain-draining (wonderful?)hell that brought me to tears, anxiety attacks in an MRI machine, picking apart my boyfriend’s whole being on any given day, and of course, several moments of “Why Have You Forsaken Me’s!” with the universe. And now it’s over. And it’s as if it never even happened. Well, that’s not entirely true…hence the hiking of the skirt incident mentioned above due to locking my keys inside my house, the remnants of the anxiety attack lingering here and there on any given day when I don’t like what I’m hearing on NPR, and my new attitude of, “Oh, I’ll just start working tomorrow; it’s summer. Today I’ll go to the pool and….read to prepare for my work tomorrow, yes, that’s it.”
Yet, as I try to pretend I’m not working for PhDness, my brain obviously doesn’t see it this way as the experience of comps still lingers and overlaps with the future of writing my prospectus (research proposal for dissertation topic), continuing to siphon all of the intellectual juice out of me. All of this suckage, of course, leaving room only for my absolute and unqualified initiative to kill every single ant in Athens, GA. But more on that later. For now, let me recap a few incidents from the past few weeks that I contribute to comps sucking the life out of me:
• Void #1
Totally convinced I lost my wallet while trying to leave the house, keeping me trapped there for an hour retracing every single step I had taken that day, and knowing I had used the wallet twice in my AM journey; only to finally give up, accept that it had fallen out at a gas station and some lucky jerk was spending the fifty bucks frivolously, and upon opening a random pocket in my computer bag found it lying there smiling up at me. How had it ended up in my computer bag, I asked my boyfriend later on the phone. “Oh, you had your computer when we left this morning, remember? You were going to go to Joe’s and do some work after you dropped me off.” Huh? That was me? What kind of work? Who’s Joe?
• Void #2
During that same time period at the house: I wasn’t only looking for my wallet, I was also looking for my phone, which I had just been talking to my boyfriend on, as acknowledged in the statement above. Couldn’t get online to tell anyone to call me so I could hear my phone because no one I IM with (Yahoo instant message…c’mon, people, get with the times) was online, because they were already at the location where we were all supposed to be meeting (the outdoor UGA pool to “swim laps”); sooooo I just kept walking around talking to myself, asking me where I would have put my phone, and responding to myself that I had no idea because I had just used it 30 minutes before. Checked all of the random places one would NEVER put the phone—the plants, the fireplace, the mailbox…I’m serious. It could have been there. The pool bag? Yep. It was there waiting for me, just where I had apparently packed it.
• Void #3
Same day after finding lost articles: arrived at pool. Looked over at the pool bag while chatting it up on the phone; turned off car, put keys in pool bag; grabbed school bag full of books (not pool bag); looked over to the pool bag and decided I’d walk around to get it out of other door due to bad back—can’t lean over and grab things—shut door, locked it, stood and stared at locked car with keys inside pool bag. Inside car. As small favors had been coming my way already that day, I had also cracked windows about an inch because of this horrid Athens (GA not Greece, Loretta) heat. So I grabbed a nearby stick and broke in to my car. Observers? Yes. But they can mind their own damned business…me, myself, and I are very busy over here trying to get through this day and we have had it with people staring!
• Void #4
Next day (not changing events taking place in time to make story more interesting…really was very next day): went on walk with house key in short’s pocket; returned home to shower and go do some work elsewhere; left with car keys. House key? Still in shorts pocket back at house. Thus bringing me to the hiking up of the skirt section at beginning of essay.
And just two days after while I was driving to the coffee shop to meet a friend to do (well, nothing) work, I got to the stop sign and had no idea where I was going. I reached down for my phone to call anyone to make fun of myself, and of course realized that again, with the best intentions, meant to bring my phone, but obviously left it in the plastic and guarded brain container back at the house. Or maybe the cat borrowed it?
This is just the beginning, folks. If you add the full-fledged panic attack I had while in the “open” MRI machine (but it was not really open, but they said on the phone when I asked them if it was really open because I might be a little claustrophobic that of course it was an open MRI because they had the latest technology and this was 2009 and they were one of the only open MRI labs in town and was I stupid or something?) two days before my last comp was due, to which I had NO IDEA what was happening because I’ve never had any kind of “attack” caused by anxiety, therefore, did not know the symptoms (rapid heart-beat…more like about to bust out of chest, heavy sweats, huge waves of nausea rushing over me like tidal waves…pretty sure death had arrived to take me but not sure why because we’ve chatted and I told him I have a few more things to do) and the MRI technician apparently thought it was funny to put me in that machine and leave the room for a snack. When he got back, he must have seen my feet flailing around like I was having convulsions, but he did not hear me, of course, because the intercom system in the high-tech machine was “broken” at this fine establishment that my limited and shitty health care provider told me to go to.
I think they hired the MRI tech, too, because that dude pulled me out of the machine, said, “Are you going to be able to do this? Because if not, I’ll need to get you some meds.” While I’m pale and pasty, dry-mouthed, and contemplating what I still needed to do in life (maybe get married, have a baby, go to New Zealand, write a young adolescent novel…you know, important stuff), and I’m still not understanding that I’m having a panic attack because he forgot to mention that….
Needless to say, the next day back with my doctor (I had already emailed her an extremely long and detailed letter the night I got home lamenting my intense displeasure that the MRI tech had obviously turned the machine up too high and was trying to fry my organs and kill me), she looks at me and says, “Um, MRI machines are magnetic; they can’t fry your organs. You had a panic attack. You know, sometimes people’s outside stress can manifest inside the MRI machine and cause panic attacks. Do you have any external stress right now?”
I chuckled. “A little.” I said. “Just a little.”
So here I am now and despite the crazy new void in my brain, my life is wonderful! Comps process, both written and oral defense, successfully completed. Only cried once during the 2 hour oral defense. Where my major professor jumped in, reminded me of some wonderful things, and then another professor on my committee reminded the other committee members that they obviously didn’t know me that well yet, because I was “pretty dramatic,” pulled it together, and moved on to verbalizing all of my newly learned information from the previous 4 months. Started physical therapy for my lower back and hips; will soon begin mental therapy for my panic attack (ok, so not really…but shouldn’t that go here?); and will enjoy my new roommate—Thomas Bryant Decatur! Prospectus needs to be written sometime this summer. But I’ve been too busy. Don’t have time to write my research proposal. Why?
Killing ants.
They have moved in to 116 Tamara Ct. and taken over. The ladybugs ain’t got nothin’ on these little bitches! They came around about the time I began my second comp and started their attack in the kitchen. They visited last year about this time, so I bought some do-it-yourself ant killer and they went away. This year, not so much. Do you know the Broadway musical, Les Miserables? There is this song where all of the people are singing loudly and it’s such a great song—“Do you hear the people sing” I think it’s called. That’s the song that the ants have taken up and they sing it every other week as they return in droves outside my front door. I spray and spray and they go away….then it rains…..then in a few days Phoebe and I go outside to chill in the morning….and there they are…..millions of them marching in a perfect line on 2 different steps. But these days, they seem to be all carrying something.
And singing.
“Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men.
It is the music of the people
who will not be slaves again.
When the beating of your heart
echoes the beating of the drums,
there is a life about to start
when tomorrow comes.
Will you give all you can give
so that our banner may advance?
Some will fall and some will live….”
Well, you get the drift. And believe you, me, most of those little warriors have fallen. But there have been a few that keep showing up in the kitchen…and then they fall too…
So that’s that. Resting the brain. Killing ants. Learning how to share space with my new roommate whom I love dearly (but who is a man, so I’m finding a whole new list of topics about which to write—bathroom habits, kitchen habits, Facebook habits…stuff like that). And preparing to write my prospectus each day I awake. And then preparing again the next day, due to the lack of writing that day. Two more years. Two more years. ONLY two more years! Wooohoooo. HEH
Let me just say that my own comps process was…a learning experience? A life-changing experience? A melodramatic experience? Three written questions in the form of 25 page papers and four months of brain-draining (wonderful?)hell that brought me to tears, anxiety attacks in an MRI machine, picking apart my boyfriend’s whole being on any given day, and of course, several moments of “Why Have You Forsaken Me’s!” with the universe. And now it’s over. And it’s as if it never even happened. Well, that’s not entirely true…hence the hiking of the skirt incident mentioned above due to locking my keys inside my house, the remnants of the anxiety attack lingering here and there on any given day when I don’t like what I’m hearing on NPR, and my new attitude of, “Oh, I’ll just start working tomorrow; it’s summer. Today I’ll go to the pool and….read to prepare for my work tomorrow, yes, that’s it.”
Yet, as I try to pretend I’m not working for PhDness, my brain obviously doesn’t see it this way as the experience of comps still lingers and overlaps with the future of writing my prospectus (research proposal for dissertation topic), continuing to siphon all of the intellectual juice out of me. All of this suckage, of course, leaving room only for my absolute and unqualified initiative to kill every single ant in Athens, GA. But more on that later. For now, let me recap a few incidents from the past few weeks that I contribute to comps sucking the life out of me:
• Void #1
Totally convinced I lost my wallet while trying to leave the house, keeping me trapped there for an hour retracing every single step I had taken that day, and knowing I had used the wallet twice in my AM journey; only to finally give up, accept that it had fallen out at a gas station and some lucky jerk was spending the fifty bucks frivolously, and upon opening a random pocket in my computer bag found it lying there smiling up at me. How had it ended up in my computer bag, I asked my boyfriend later on the phone. “Oh, you had your computer when we left this morning, remember? You were going to go to Joe’s and do some work after you dropped me off.” Huh? That was me? What kind of work? Who’s Joe?
• Void #2
During that same time period at the house: I wasn’t only looking for my wallet, I was also looking for my phone, which I had just been talking to my boyfriend on, as acknowledged in the statement above. Couldn’t get online to tell anyone to call me so I could hear my phone because no one I IM with (Yahoo instant message…c’mon, people, get with the times) was online, because they were already at the location where we were all supposed to be meeting (the outdoor UGA pool to “swim laps”); sooooo I just kept walking around talking to myself, asking me where I would have put my phone, and responding to myself that I had no idea because I had just used it 30 minutes before. Checked all of the random places one would NEVER put the phone—the plants, the fireplace, the mailbox…I’m serious. It could have been there. The pool bag? Yep. It was there waiting for me, just where I had apparently packed it.
• Void #3
Same day after finding lost articles: arrived at pool. Looked over at the pool bag while chatting it up on the phone; turned off car, put keys in pool bag; grabbed school bag full of books (not pool bag); looked over to the pool bag and decided I’d walk around to get it out of other door due to bad back—can’t lean over and grab things—shut door, locked it, stood and stared at locked car with keys inside pool bag. Inside car. As small favors had been coming my way already that day, I had also cracked windows about an inch because of this horrid Athens (GA not Greece, Loretta) heat. So I grabbed a nearby stick and broke in to my car. Observers? Yes. But they can mind their own damned business…me, myself, and I are very busy over here trying to get through this day and we have had it with people staring!
• Void #4
Next day (not changing events taking place in time to make story more interesting…really was very next day): went on walk with house key in short’s pocket; returned home to shower and go do some work elsewhere; left with car keys. House key? Still in shorts pocket back at house. Thus bringing me to the hiking up of the skirt section at beginning of essay.
And just two days after while I was driving to the coffee shop to meet a friend to do (well, nothing) work, I got to the stop sign and had no idea where I was going. I reached down for my phone to call anyone to make fun of myself, and of course realized that again, with the best intentions, meant to bring my phone, but obviously left it in the plastic and guarded brain container back at the house. Or maybe the cat borrowed it?
This is just the beginning, folks. If you add the full-fledged panic attack I had while in the “open” MRI machine (but it was not really open, but they said on the phone when I asked them if it was really open because I might be a little claustrophobic that of course it was an open MRI because they had the latest technology and this was 2009 and they were one of the only open MRI labs in town and was I stupid or something?) two days before my last comp was due, to which I had NO IDEA what was happening because I’ve never had any kind of “attack” caused by anxiety, therefore, did not know the symptoms (rapid heart-beat…more like about to bust out of chest, heavy sweats, huge waves of nausea rushing over me like tidal waves…pretty sure death had arrived to take me but not sure why because we’ve chatted and I told him I have a few more things to do) and the MRI technician apparently thought it was funny to put me in that machine and leave the room for a snack. When he got back, he must have seen my feet flailing around like I was having convulsions, but he did not hear me, of course, because the intercom system in the high-tech machine was “broken” at this fine establishment that my limited and shitty health care provider told me to go to.
I think they hired the MRI tech, too, because that dude pulled me out of the machine, said, “Are you going to be able to do this? Because if not, I’ll need to get you some meds.” While I’m pale and pasty, dry-mouthed, and contemplating what I still needed to do in life (maybe get married, have a baby, go to New Zealand, write a young adolescent novel…you know, important stuff), and I’m still not understanding that I’m having a panic attack because he forgot to mention that….
Needless to say, the next day back with my doctor (I had already emailed her an extremely long and detailed letter the night I got home lamenting my intense displeasure that the MRI tech had obviously turned the machine up too high and was trying to fry my organs and kill me), she looks at me and says, “Um, MRI machines are magnetic; they can’t fry your organs. You had a panic attack. You know, sometimes people’s outside stress can manifest inside the MRI machine and cause panic attacks. Do you have any external stress right now?”
I chuckled. “A little.” I said. “Just a little.”
So here I am now and despite the crazy new void in my brain, my life is wonderful! Comps process, both written and oral defense, successfully completed. Only cried once during the 2 hour oral defense. Where my major professor jumped in, reminded me of some wonderful things, and then another professor on my committee reminded the other committee members that they obviously didn’t know me that well yet, because I was “pretty dramatic,” pulled it together, and moved on to verbalizing all of my newly learned information from the previous 4 months. Started physical therapy for my lower back and hips; will soon begin mental therapy for my panic attack (ok, so not really…but shouldn’t that go here?); and will enjoy my new roommate—Thomas Bryant Decatur! Prospectus needs to be written sometime this summer. But I’ve been too busy. Don’t have time to write my research proposal. Why?
Killing ants.
They have moved in to 116 Tamara Ct. and taken over. The ladybugs ain’t got nothin’ on these little bitches! They came around about the time I began my second comp and started their attack in the kitchen. They visited last year about this time, so I bought some do-it-yourself ant killer and they went away. This year, not so much. Do you know the Broadway musical, Les Miserables? There is this song where all of the people are singing loudly and it’s such a great song—“Do you hear the people sing” I think it’s called. That’s the song that the ants have taken up and they sing it every other week as they return in droves outside my front door. I spray and spray and they go away….then it rains…..then in a few days Phoebe and I go outside to chill in the morning….and there they are…..millions of them marching in a perfect line on 2 different steps. But these days, they seem to be all carrying something.
And singing.
“Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men.
It is the music of the people
who will not be slaves again.
When the beating of your heart
echoes the beating of the drums,
there is a life about to start
when tomorrow comes.
Will you give all you can give
so that our banner may advance?
Some will fall and some will live….”
Well, you get the drift. And believe you, me, most of those little warriors have fallen. But there have been a few that keep showing up in the kitchen…and then they fall too…
So that’s that. Resting the brain. Killing ants. Learning how to share space with my new roommate whom I love dearly (but who is a man, so I’m finding a whole new list of topics about which to write—bathroom habits, kitchen habits, Facebook habits…stuff like that). And preparing to write my prospectus each day I awake. And then preparing again the next day, due to the lack of writing that day. Two more years. Two more years. ONLY two more years! Wooohoooo. HEH
Friday, October 31, 2008
What Would Freire Do?
So there’s this guy. You might have heard of him. (No, it’s not my main (political) man, Obama.) This guy, he’s been around for a bit longer than Barack. He’s been around in education and has dabbled in United States affairs, but mostly through translation…because his work is from Brazil (no, P-Gill-S, it’s not the BBT). His name is Paulo Freire. Cool dude, this Paulo. Major contributor to a whole movement of a theory we around here in PhDness like to call Critical Theory. Among other things, Freire talks (or really talk–ed, cuz he be d-e-d…it’s a joke, people…I obviously know how to spell dead, but you never know these days with who’s critiquing whom…) so anyway, Freire talks about teachers and how we should be working toward becoming constant pedagogues of justice (btw, a “pedagogue” to those of you who are not familiar is simply…a teacher…well, it’s not really simple in the etymology of pedagogue, because the Greek origin of the word (paidagōgos)was a slave who escorted his pupil to school—a guide of the male pupil, if you will. Huge issues there that still prevail in my recent town-of-residence…but that won’t be the focus of this essay…
So, Freire writes in one of his books Teachers as Cultural Workers: Letters to Those Who Dare to Teach, that we as educators need to constantly work on (well, many things…he has really high expectations for us all) our constant commitment to justice, liberty, and individual rights. He says that we should always defend the weakest when they are subjected to the smack-down of the strongest…and that we need to always show students in our daily teachings that there is amazing power and strength in ethical struggles. How awesome is that? Paulo is all about helping those who are “oppressed” in some way, rise up and learn the meanings of ‘freedom’ by educating themselves with whatever means necessary or whatever knowledge surrounding them. But, he says, when those who are oppressed are being nailed down by the oppressor, if you will, it is our duty as teachers to protect them, help them, aid them in any way we can. Powerful man, I tellya! I’m pretty sure if I would have read Freire when I was teaching I would have been in more trouble with my boss man than I already was…cuz this guy is really liberating to read! Power to all people! Woop Woop!
And then there are my undergraduate students. The future teachers of America’s ten-to-fourteen-year-olds. The ones I teach. The ones I’m supposed to nurture and support. The ones who might not be oppressed as much as they are the oppressors, sometimes. The ones for whom I practice compassion and open-mindedness. Or I could. Or I should, and I could, and I do—sometimes—but other times…well…I need Paulo Freire to come talk to my students for an afternoon so he can see where I’m coming from here.
What I want is for my students to open their eyes and their minds and see the inequities that permeate many of the schoolroom walls if not in the country, at least here in Georgia. I want them to look beyond poverty as lazy people who just need to get a job; to try and understand that someone’s sexual preference may not be an “immoral choice,” to realize that the color white is not beautiful to everyone. I want a lot, as Freire wants a lot. And Freire asks me to be tolerant in my sojourn with my undergraduates. He tells me that without tolerance, no “serious” pedagogical work can take place and no kind of democratic experience is possible, because I am closing my mind and not trying to hear/understand my students…because some of them think differently than I do. And yes, of course I know that I used to think/act/live the way some of them do that come to my class at the ripe age of nineteen and twenty. But I don’t now. So I can judge all I want, right? As long as I’m working on being open and tolerant like Freire asks me to?
In order for me to be tolerant of my students, Freire tells me that I don’t have to give-in to intolerable acts, I don’t have to ignore disrespect, nor do I have to accept someone’s unacceptable behavior. In the most positive connotation I have read/heard in a while in relation to tolerance, Freire says it’s simply a virtue “that teaches us to live with the different. It teaches us to learn from and respect different.” I can do that. I can try and learn from others, get to know where they are coming from to help broaden my own understandings. Even with the nineteen and twenty-somethings.
Sometimes. Other times, well, not-so-much.
I mean, I can handle the, “Ms. Hughes, I was going to turn in that assignment today that was assigned three weeks ago (and is due today), but my printer ran out of ink this morning and so I couldn’t print it.” Because I know that they waited until last night AFTER they went downtown to the 14 bars to work on the social part of their teaching repertoire. I can do that one. “Sure. Just email it to me.” And I can handle the, “What? No we didn’t watch any of the presidential speeches or debates because we were too busy out on the town or busy doing work or because we don’t care.” (Yes, a few of them said that in class…to their instructor…during one of the most important times of our country’s history.) I can handle it because I’m working HARD to understand where they’re coming from and use those points as beginnings of strength. And because I know that some of them do care or will one day. And others, well, they really don’t care. I simply respond, “Well, if you’re going to become a public school educator, I would suggest you start caring. Right about now.” I know, supportive and gentle, right?
I have even learned to be more accepting of the, “I’m not sure I can do ‘hands-on’ learning with these kids…because….well….they’re too ‘low’ or too poor or too whatever" the new excuse is about children who do not come from their same backgrounds or do not look like them. Because I can say, “You can and you will. You will plan your lessons as if every child in the class is ‘gifted’ and then scaffold appropriately. I promise you it will be successful.” Because then it is successful and they never think that again. Or at least never say that to me again. All of these things I’m learning to open up to---I’m trying to “learn from and respect different.”
But like I said, only sometimes. One of the other times is represented below in an anecdote of “ethical struggle” presented to me recently, I’m sure, so I can practice compassion and open-mindedness with ALL students:
Ten Minutes into My First Meeting with Miss GA/FL
Me: So what days would you like me to come observe you teach this class? I will let you choose since it’s your first time being observed, so you feel comfortable.
Precious-twenty-year-old: Well, I’d rather you wait a few weeks so I feel comfortable with the class and the students.
Me: That’s fine. How about the first week of November?
Precious-twenty-year-old-southern-belle: Well, of course you can’t come on that Monday, November 1st because that’s the weekend of Georgia/Florida, and I’ll just be exhausted from the game! I definitely won’t feel like teaching that day! And the rest of the week, I’m pretty booked up.
Me: Huh?
Precious-obviously-confused-twenty-year-old-southern-belle: I mean, of course you understand. I’ll be in Jacksonville that whole weekend, beginning Thursday, of course, because we have fall break on Friday. I won’t get back until late Sunday night, so Monday just won’t work for me teaching.
Me: Oh…Um. OK.
I mean, what could I say? It IS the World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party. Who am I to get in the way of that?
I can see it now. It’s the year 2010. Miss GA/FL has her own class of precious 6th graders (probably in a private school so she won’t have to deal with the riff-raff) and there is a huge Halloween party in her little town. Unfortunately for her 6th graders, the party falls on a Thursday night instead of a Friday night. Miss GA/FL calls in and leaves a message for the front office: “Yes, office girl? I will not be able to make it in tomorrow because I have an event to attend tonight where I’ll be dressing as Minnie Mouse. I’ll not be able to make it in tomorrow because I’ll simply be exhausted! See you on Monday.”
Just today, I did observe Miss Georgia/Florida teach her class (mind you, today is the day before GA/FL game—we compromised…or…something like that), and when I asked if we could meet after the lesson for our post-observation meeting, she laughingly reminded me that it would be impossible because she had to rush home and meet people to get on the road for the game. She did tell me to have a good weekend, though, so that was nice.
Open-mindedness….learn from different….respect different….we’ll see, Paulo….we’ll see…..
Maybe I’ll move to Brazil and see how they do things there…without…football…
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Martians, Smoothie Queens, and Facebooking as a verb
Twilight Zone, Part I
Soooo I’m sitting at the restaurant bar the other night waiting for my dinner companions, and I begin (not meaning to, of course) eavesdropping on a conversation between two of the bar patrons and the bartender. This barmaid was all of a sprite twenty years, I would guess, and the nice-looking, agreeably dressed couple probably averaged late sixties, early seventies. I could hear the two beginning to question the young, female barkeep about her voting proficiency—if she was “even old enough to vote,” if she was registered to vote, where she was registered, and finally how she should immediately obtain an absentee ballot because she was not from Athens. After the five minute interrogation about the act of voting, the couple moved into a fantastically wonderful tête-à-tête for whom this twenty year old should be casting her vote.
“I mean, we’re not saying we KNOW this for sure,” the southern gentleman stated politely while smiling at the young college student, “but we’re pretty confident that he is backed one hundred percent by the
“Yes,” replied the silky smooth voice of the gentleman’s confidant, “it’s true. And, no matter what you hear about him being Christian, we know for a fact that he is Muslim.”
(….um…..…..keep a lid on it for now, Hughes. This could get even better……..)
“You know, I’ve heard that somewhere before.” The barely non-teen mixologist replied with a really confused look on her face. “But I was watchin’ TV recently and they were sayin’ how he left his church after that preacher guy said all that bad stuff about our country, so I just couldn’t believe he left his own church after all that time. That doesn’t really seem cool to do.”
“Oh he didn’t leave the church,” the old crotchety racist man retorted, cutting the probable-future-manager of Long Horn Steak House off as quickly as he could, “he just ‘denounced’ the church. You see, that’s why we know he’s Muslim. And it’s up to you and your friends to make sure he doesn’t get elected. You don’t know what will happen to our country if he ends up in the White House.”
(Ok, Ok, I get it…so he’s a planted spy for the other team…because certainly no one would be delivering this kind of propaganda and actually believe it…so he’s obviously being PAID to say it, right?)
“Mmmhmmm, he’s exactly right.” The probable-mistress of the old crotchety racist man chimes in with confidence. “You can’t even imagine the harm that our country will endure if he is elected.”
…Soooo I’m sitting at the restaurant bar the other night waiting for my dinner companions, and I begin writing down everything these native inhabitants from the planet Mars are saying because I’m…well….at a loss for words, as I am …not…..right now. I’m writing and writing all over these bar napkins, basically, so I won’t get up, meander over to their bar stools, and knock them off, one by one. A smile is now spreading slowly over my horror-struck face as I am logging voraciously what these two really disturbed (human?) beings are pumping into one of
“Oh, I totally agree,” says the distorted old crotchety KKK man’s house-wrecking-mistress. “I mean, I’m not racist,” she continued—(and you KNOW I love when people begin a sentence that way, revealing themselves as absolutely racist)—“but can you imagine what would happen if a black man was elected president of our country? I’d MUCH rather a woman who has similar values to me and who is Christian to be in the White House.”
…..huh?
….what?
Oh, I remember, I’m in Mayberry. Hey Barney, arrest these ignorant Martian adulterers, wouldja? Oh wait, I’m not in Maayyyyberry! I’m in a “liberal” university town—one of the supposedly ‘blue’ counties in my predominantly ‘red’ (insert double entendre here for ‘red’) state. Dinner companion number one finally enters the Twilight Zone area where I’ve been apparently beamed to by Scotty for this brief period and I get to exit the scene leaving the sweet couple unscathed, thank you Lord Jesus!
Twilight Zone, Part II
I won’t go too deep on the Planet Smoothie experience I had the very next morning with the high school smoothie connoisseur, but let me just give you this visual:
With her dirty blond hair pulled back in two (a few days old) pig tails and her extra large and perfectly circular black glasses sliding down her nose every three seconds, Planet Smoothie girl is holding my morning’s future captive in one hand, its lid grasped tightly in the other, telling me about a three-legged dog she’s just saved, her twenty-year-old sister who smokes too much, and her four-year-old niece who, well, “She don’t even care ‘bout tellin’ mah sister how bad she stanks. She jus’ goes own n tells’er, ‘Yu stank cuz of them cigarettes! I ain’t ridin’ in
I stare at my smoothie, beckoning it to wiggle free from its hostage grip, but to no avail. Smoothie princess has made the conscious decision not to give up my breakfast until I’ve heard everything she can muster up about Tripod and each of her closest relatives. God, where is the couple from last night when I need them?
School? School is good. Just a few snapshot vignettes to give you an insider’s peek into my past few months of PhDness, year three.
EDMS 5020: Teaching Young Adolescents
(First class for preservice teachers in a series of four in the Middle Grades Program)
Instructor: Hilary Hughes
Class I, 8:00AM:
They file into the room both uncertain and ambivalent. Social justice is the premise of my course—I will open their eyes to a world they may not know; I will try and disrupt everything they think they know about education, middle school kids, and themselves, but I will try and use compassion during my quest. Race, class, gender, sexuality, religion, culture—we will cover it all. About twenty two of them are there ready and waiting with syllabus in hands, perusing their future semester with sleepy eyes. He walks in, all six-feet-five inches of him, with almost translucent white skin and a smattering of freckles. Immediately, I hear a student ask him if he plays basketball. “Nope.” is the only word that escapes his lips.
“Hey, are you
“Nope.” He responds looking put-off and/or shy.
“Oh, so then who are you?” I ask, confused because he’s the only one left on my roster who looks like he could match this name that seems to belong to a dude.
“I’m Kris,” he says and sits down, never making eye contact with me.
“Hmmm, so I wonder who this
EDMS 5020
Students: 25
White males: Kris, Matt, Brian
White females: 20
African American females:
Asian American females: Toni Rose
Nice start on the socially-just gendering thing…
Same Day, a few hours later:
“So which one of you is teaching Kris Durham?” My program coordinator asks my friend Lisa and me, because we’re each teaching a section of the course.
“I am. What’s his deal, anyway?” I answer, thinking she’ll tell me something juicy that I can use to make him like my class.
“Oh, he’s a football player. One of the starting players, I think. He assures us he’ll be fine in our program and won’t miss any classes, so keep us posted.”
Riiiight…A starting football player for the
Class II, 9:15AM—“Getting to Know You Activities”
Me: When getting to know your students, it’s nice to listen to the music they like, read the books they read, learn about the video games they’re into, see some of their after-school activities, you know, get to know them outside of school. So name a song that you’re tired of hearing on the radio over and over.
Student: “Lollipop” (Other students: Oh yeah, hate that one. Grumble, grumble…)
Me: Hmm, never heard of that one. Someone else? What’s another song?
Student: “Bleeding Love” (Other students: Oh yeah, horrible! All the time! So over it!)
Me: Hmmm, never heard of that one. (Good lord, what ARE these songs they’re talking about?) OK, so what’s another one?
Student: “Take a Bow,” Rihanna. (Other students: Ooooh, yeah, that one too! Sooo annoying!)
Me: Nope, haven’t heard that one either.
Student: So, um, what DO you listen to, Hilary?
Me: Obviously nothing. I apparently have been moving through life in absolute silence. Let’s move on, shall we?
Me: In this center, you are listing all of your strengths on these construction paper links and then you will connect them to see all of your strengths you bring into the class as a cohort. So what are some verbs you’ve listed here as your strengths?
Twenty-something: Well, let’s see…I put like running, cooking, laughing, and Facebooking.
Me: Umhmm and um, what’s Facebooking, exactly?
Her: ……………………….blank stare……………………
Me: I mean, what does that mean, since you’ve turned the noun into a verb?
Her: ………………………..blank stare…………………..
Me: So what does one do when one is ‘Facebooking’?
Another student (appalled look): Um, you go on Facebook, obviously. Like one of my verbs I put was Facebook stalking because I’m really good at that!
Me: OK, well, let’s move on then.
Class VIII, 8:47AM (a month and a half into the semester…each class three hours long…total time spent together with twenty-five students: approximately 24 hours total)
“So what does everyone think about what Kristyne (pronounced Kristeen) said about teaching in an inner-city school versus teaching in a rural school? Oh, I mean, Kristen, sorry, Kristen.”
Blank stares from twenty-five faces for what feels like two days.
“Um, no, you were right the first time, Hilary. My name is Kristyne (pronounced Kristeen).”
Laughing nervously, “Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry. I knew that. Of course I knew that. I just wasn’t paying attention. Could you repeat what you said, before, Kristyne. I’ve forgotten what you said now.”
ELAN 8950: Arts-Based Research Methodologies
Students: Hilary Hughes—art-deficient PhD student in middle grades program
Six others: Art Education, Language and Literacy Education, Design
something-or-other-that’s-really-cool-and-brilliant Program
Class I:
Professor: I’d like you to go around the room and introduce yourselves to us. Why are you getting your PhD? What are your obsessions? How have those obsessions influenced what you’re studying?
Me: Oh, well, I’ll start. My name is Hilary. (giggle out loud) That’s funny, I’m in a twelve-step program so I just felt like I was at a meeting, Hehehehe.
Them: ………………………
Me: So anyway, blah, blah, blah…….happy-go-lucky-giddy-oh-how-I-love-PhDness-and-my-family-and-teaching-young-adolescents-and-body-imagestuff-and-sexualitystuff-and-alcoholism-and-here-is-my-whole-life-story-to-all-of-you-whom-I’ve-never-seen-before…
Them: ……………………….
Professor: OK, so let’s try and keep it under about seven minutes while we go around the room so we can all have a chance to share.
Class II, Discussion on readings for class:
One of Them: Yes, and I really agreed with how Ellis talked about autoethnography and its avenues of allowing us to delve deeper into the self as well as the Other. I can see how the postmodern influence has helped Arts-Based research move forward in the field of education….
Me: ……………………………
Professor: So what does everyone think about scholARTistry being described as a hybrid practice that combines tools used by the literary, visual, and/or performing arts with tools used by educators and other social scientists to explore the human condition?[1]
Me: Um…it’s…pretty….cool? Maybe kinda like Facebooking?
Gooooooooo Dawgs! Sick ‘em! Woof, woof, woof!
Cheers! HEH
[1] Cahnmann, M. (2006).
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Celebrityhood and the Most Winningest Mascots Around: The Legend of the Ugas…
With the passing of one Uga there's always speculation regarding which bulldog will be heir to the throne, which comes with a few perks, including an air-conditioned doghouse, travel by Delta Airlines to away games, celebrityhood (Uga V was on the cover of Sports Illustrated in 1997 as the nation's best mascot) and a fanbase that's paparazzi-like in its obsession. "People pet him so much his head gets sore," Seiler once said of his line of Ugas. "He's like a politician who shakes too many hands." (AJC, 6/28/08)
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