First Time's a Bitch

Brainstorming ideas for week 61 of the Trifecta Writing Challenge is a real bitch.

I don't know where to begin.  Is it cold feet?  Lack of inspiration?  Awareness that these ramblings may actually be read by someone other than my mother?

They say the first time's a bitch.  Man, does that hold true here.

I looked to the writings posted by the regulars, the over-achievers, the authors, the been-there, done-that crowd.  That only threw more of a wrench in this bitch of a mess I'm making here.  They're composed.  Polished.  Confident in their fiction voices and characters.

(I stopped reading after four samples so it's possible someone posted something less amazing.  But I doubt it.)

Me?  I'm simply a girl that blogs about what strikes her.  Confident in MY voice and MY character.

But all the rest?  Who knows?  Can I write fiction worthy of reading (by someone other than my mother)?  Am I more poetic than Dr. Seuss (who would have rhymed 'bitch' with 'stitch')?

I'm still figuring it all out.  And it's a bitch.

Time to Go Forward

Moving forward.  Yet again.  Yes again.  Because what was behind, back, before simply weighed me down in a facade of progress and growth.  Confident words over-shadowed by festering weakness.  Seeds of indecision, as if defying their very core, blossom into hardened oaks, reaching forward with the strength of a women found.  Thus, every part of me says go ahead.  Further ahead.  Yes ahead.  Back to me.  The me I see ahead of me.  The me I left behind when I couldn't keep up with myself.  The me that waits, unchanged, for the epitome of me to rejoin me, not move backward. 




Submission for "100 Word Song"
Tame Impala "Feels Like We Only Go Backward"

Color of my Soul

Bruno. C. / Art Photos / CC BY

My soul is not shaded by dirt smearing my shirt.
Nor is it caged by the dilapidated pens surrounding me.
My soul burns white and confident, pink and passionate, blue and hopeful.




33 Words for Trifextra:  Week 51

From the Mouths of Babes

One of the courses of the overwhelming six I teach this year is junior-level American literature.  These juniors are, with the exception of my newspaper staff, my favorite group of kiddos at Wright City High School.  Yes, they exhaust me with their continual, not-so-fluid segues to topics unrelated to their studies, and their whining about how my heightened expectations conflict with their minimalist efforts exacerbates me, and another day of the two phone addicts texting, tweeting, surfing, booking, googling, liking, tagging, ruzzling, matching, wording with Apple or Samsung instead of absorbing Fitzgerald or Hawthorne could send me teetering into a classroom diatribe about respecting your elders, but I genuinely adore those 25 knuckle-heads to death.

Today we spent an inordinate amount of time in close-reading of this, one of my most favorite images in all of literature:

 “Instead of taking the short cut along the Sound, we went down to the road and entered by the big postern.  With enchanting murmurs, Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate.  It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees.”

After the prescribed scrutiny of color imagery and symbolism (yawn) [if students can seek guidance from ChaCha or Cliff, it's not stimulating enough], I shepherded their attention to the subtle ways Fitzgerald emphasizes the intimacy between Gatsby, Daisy, and Nick.  A brief moment later, a hand waved eagerly in the back of the room.

"Do authors really think all of these details out before writing?  Nothing would ever be written if every author took this long agonizing over fine points as you expect us to do," quipped the most inquisitively confrontational student in the room.

"Unless an author leaves behind an analysis of every, single, little idea, it is impossible to know precisely what he had in mind for every, single, little idea, but literary study and criticism identify universal concepts, patterns, symbols, and motifs that hold true for all writing.  The ideas you can Google tend to fall as universally accepted interpretation or analysis, but what I love about reading is going further, looking for more, developing ideas independent of the Wikipedia answer that, though different from established understanding, can be supported with evidence within the text.  So, what do you notice about these characters?"

This deflection did not satisfy him as he again inquired, "But how does anything get written?  It seems the process takes entirely too long.  You couldn't pay me to write.  Too much work."

"Well, people without a passion for writing or a pleasure for piecing every, single, little idea together to weave a story, don't become authors.  And not everyone acclaimed as an author is good at writing (as evidenced by the likes of Stephenie Meyer).  It is a lot of work."

"Do you write?" interrupted a girl across the room.  "You seem to enjoy this stuff.  You should write.  Do you blog?  Can we read it?"

Her questions came flooding at me.  "Yes, I write," I stammered.  "I used to write, actually blog, frequently.  Weekly.  Daily.  But I don't so much anymore."

"Well you should," chimed in yet another student.  "I would read it."

The sentiments of encouragement echoed in me the rest of the day.  And here I am.  Again.  With something to write.

Under Pressure

My brother is always right about everything all of the time, mainly because he is so difficult to persuade otherwise that it is often easier to concede the argument than continue it.  But sometimes, if you have the wherewithal to endure, you might share an idea that gives him pause.  He may not admit defeat, but he will conclude that your point is worthy of consideration.  In these small victories, I find great pride.

One such victory occurred on a recent trip to Georgia for our sister's wedding.  At the rehearsal we observed the wedding planner bustling around, frazzled yet controlled, smiling yet glowering and Travis commented that he'd never want to be a wedding planner as the responsibility of making this one day (out of a lifetime of days) live up to a bride and groom's fantasy of a day was too much pressure.

To which I laughed. 

As teachers, Travis and I work under pressure each and everyday.  Pressure of AYP.  Pressure of NCLB.  Pressure of EOCT, MAP, AP, ACT, SAT.  Pressure of lesson plans. Pressure of differentiation.  Pressure of grading.  Pressure of stakeholders.  Pressure of parents.  Pressure of students.  And that's just the beginning.

Travis enjoys the added pressure of running the girls' basketball program for his school district.  As a former assistant coach myself, those are pressures I am thankful to no longer enjoy.

Add to local pressures placed on educators the pressures of a Nation who pinpoints failing education as a contributing cause of all our national woes.  Immigration, poverty, taxation, unemployment, violence, and welfare have all, at some point or another, been identified as a result of education's missteps.  When a problem arises and a scapegoat needed, education prevails, ready for blame.

The tears of a hysterical bridezilla pale when compared to those of Lady Liberty.  While I have no interest in planning weddings, in holding a bride's special day in my hand, it would be simpler than holding, as I do now, the Nation's future hopes of prosperity.  Constant scrutiny for little praise (and even less pay) would lead most to abandon the post altogether especially since all I do, according to the blame thrown at my feet, is futile at preserving and improving the station of our great Nation; yet I teach.

Good thing I work well under pressure.

A Pain in the Nose on My Face

When I was a girl of quite an impressionable age and imagination, I learned that a swift, forceful blow to the nose can kill a person.  I am wholly aware that the probability of death from this action is remote, that the force and angle of such a blow must be precise for the nasal bone to penetrate the brain, and that I should not worry about this impending doom; yet this knowledge has developed over time into a phobia that is equally hindering and laughable.  (A fear further complicated by the fact that my mom describes my nose as perfect, making me even more protective of my this, most promising physical feature.)

Because of my nose issues, I don't like sudden movements toward my face.  Games with balls make me nervous.  Braden and I do play catch, but I prefer baseball, where the glove serves as a barrier, to football, where a spiral pass could be fatal.  Of course, my athletic prowess ends at catch, but if I were to play sports, I would enjoy soccer, mainly because headers are optional, but don't even think about placing me on the net in volleyball.  (I played volleyball in the seventh grade. Lack of skill was not the only reason I wasn't a starter.)  Tennis I hate for all together different reasons, but that green ball propelled at you by a grunt and a racket makes it the worst of all the ball sports.

Crowded rooms are also a danger zone.  No, I am not claustrophobic; it is the worry of a rogue elbow in my face, not the crowd itself, that sets me on edge.  For this reason, I like to keep at least an arm's length of personal space between me and other people when I can.  I have to know you well to be comfortable enough to receive a hug or a kiss and I usually close my eyes during both in order to relax enough to accept it.

I never request that someone "toss me" something; I walk over and get it myself.  During a cold read of "Behind the Formaldehyde Curtain" by Jessica Mitford with my AP Langsters last Spring, I got lightheaded at the descriptions of what happens to a corpse's face during embalming.  I abhor the 'I got your nose' game that some sadist created to entertain toddlers (and yes, I deprived Braden of the cognitive experience the game supposedly elicits).  Unaware of the specifics (and compelled by a gift certificate), I once had a facial; I escaped before the torture set me to hyperventilating.

In addition to all the mental implications of my phobia (and the anecdotes above sadly only scratch the surface), it also impacts my corporeal health.  When I have a cold or sinus infection, I am physically unable to use nasal spray or a Neti Pot even though I know that both could ease my pain and save me the $20.00 doctor copay.  Merely thinking of shooting those liquids in my nose turns my stomach.  Instead, I invest in Puffs with Aloe and demand a prescription for Amoxicillin.  (My last doctor wanted to give me a steroid shot in the nose to ease my suffering.  She is no longer my doctor.)

Mine is not a phobia so debilitating that it prevents me from living life, but it obviously upsets some ease of existence.  Some people are irrationally afraid of speaking in public; I am just like them when it comes to irrational fear of being killed by my own nose.

Chivalry was Killed by the Women's Rights Movement

Each year I ask my Senior students to consider the following question: Is Chivalry dead in American teenage culture?

Typically, even after a two week unit on Chaucer and other Medieval literature, during which we address the concept of Chivalry and all its elements--Justice, Faith, Largesse, Humility, Loyalty, Courage, Franchise, Prowess, Defense, and Nobility--the majority of them are only able to muster: Chivalry is dead for some teenagers, but not for others.  These students then highlight how some teenagers hold doors or volunteer to be chivalric, but that those who are rude to teachers (or other elders) do not behave chivalrically.  (In my class, Chivalry also functions as an adverb.) Essays by these students revolve solely around the element of loyalty (or kindness in their modern perspective), and for that reason are quiet flat to read.  (And yes, they butcher the pronoun 'some' in the writing, making the essay vague as well as unoriginal.)

Occasionally a student successfully identifies possible reasons why American teenagers seem void of chivalric understanding and capability.  An eloquent commentary about Chivalry as a learned behavior that identifies a cultural shift away from serving a greater good and toward individual dominance transpires to show the student's awareness that the world just isn't what it used to be.  These essays stand above the previous example, but because they usually end with a trite claim that 'the world would be a better place if we all were a little nicer,' the cliche' squelches the argument.

And then there's the student whose perspective completely blows me away; a student whose depth of thought and understanding of culture far surpasses that of his or her peers; a student whose argument about the death of Chivalry compels me to question my own position on the topic.

This year a student presented such a claim.  The student--let's call him Dan--asserts that "Chivalry has become a concept absent in today's teenage culture and women are to blame....Whatever causes the increased promiscuity of females has made men lower their ideals of how to treat women.  Whether is it the media or just social pressure to accept the new 'norm,' when women lower standards of lady-like behavior, men will follow...If ladies refuse the lifestyle of loose dating and actually require guys to treat them right, they will get what they want.  What women fail to realize is that they hold the key to chivalry being reinstated in society."

Being a liberally minded, 'I am woman, hear me roar' kind of gal, my first response to Dan's position was that of annoyance.  How dare he place the blame for this problem on solely women when men hold equal responsibility in dating and relationships.  And then I reread the essay again and again and even again; the more I read it, the more logical it sounded.

Promiscuity and equality are not synonymous or contingent; having one does not mean accepting the other.  The Women's Rights Movement was founded on the principles of equality for women in regard to taxation, employment, property ownership, legal rights and responsibilities and other politically and professionally driven desires. (Want to know more about Women's Rights? Read The Declaration of Sentiments.)  Nothing in the historical documents indicates a correlation between these rights and the practice of Chivalry; yet many women, myself included from time to time, confuse gentlemanly behavior with domination and control, assuming that allowing (and even expecting) a man to treat a woman according to the fairness of her sex negates the progress made for women in the past 150 years when in fact, if what Dan declares is true, women hold the key to Chivalry in society.

If only all women could agree that females set the tone for equality and Chivalry; in that prospect lies great power--a manner of power that could change American culture in ways more profound the the Women's Rights Movement ever imagined.