Things...


Hmmm. Since I had two wisdom teeth taken out the other day, and then since I came down with the flu (so bad that Issac now imitates me by running to the toilet and spitting in it), I can't think. But I have spent a lot of time in bed reading, and had the good consideration to post some interesting tid-bits for your enjoyment. (#1 and #2 came from Harper's magazine.)

1) From Stanley Elkin in The Franchiser:

Maybe all that distinguishes man from the beasts is that man had the consideration to invent garbage can liners. What a convenience! We die, yes, but are compensated by a million conveniences. Hefties are just the beginning. We perfect ourselves, we reach toward grace--I foresee a time when there will be flowered sheets and pillowcases in motel rooms. This is a deflection to convenience and the magnitude of the human spirit, the leap to comfort. The chemical creams...the chemical creams. You know, the little sacks of powder you put in your coffee. I foresee the day--someone may be working on this right now--when coffee creamers chall be mixed with saccharine in the same packet! There you go: convenience! And do you think for one minute that the man now waiting for this great idea's time to come will have thought it up for mere money? No. Unthinkable. It will hit him on an airliner like an inspiration, for the grace of the thing, only that, for the convenience it would make, and if he profits by his idea, why the money will be only another convenience. Someday a visionary shall come among us. He will lobby Congress to legalize pot on the principle that it would be a terrific boon to the snackfood industry! Oh, friends, the quality of all our lives shall rise like yeast. I love this world, this comfortable, convenient world, it's pillow condition.

2) Did you know that scientists have found that homosexual sheep have peculiar brains? Did you know that there were such a thing as homosexual sheep? Did you know that astronomists are arguing over whether or not Pluto should be demoted as a planet or Sedna admitted? That new research suggests that medical x-rays cause thousands of fatal cancers every year? That 4 % of the 13,129 varieties of dirt in the U.S. are endangered?

3) Final thoughts: Do you think it is disturbing that one half of the world is living in a "pillow condition," fretting over fake sugar and garbage can liners, while the other half of the world faces events like those taking place in Darfur? We are so fortunate to live in the USA, and we could become unfortunate if we don't continue to excercise our rights to vote and to educate ourselves about current issues.

Breaking Point

Isn't there a Bob Dylan song that goes "something something something, every thing is broken!" ? I don't remember any of the lines except for the last four words, and it's been playing through my head all weekend, because EVERYTHING IS BROKEN! OR BREAKING! OR ABOUT TO FALL TO PIECES!

Hurricane Jeanne just finished making its way across the peninsula: the fourth hurricane in six weeks. This is the second weekend this month that I've spent without electricity. Makes me want to just pack up my bags and go live with the Amish. At least their lives are designed to accomadate frugal living conditions. Our houses are filled with toilets that don't flush, showers that don't work, sinks that don't scrub the dishes when the lights go out. Luckily my mom's boyfriend has the type of personality that makes sure that the tubs and buckets are filled with water before the storm, goes to town expressly to fill up his gas tank, get cash and ice, and stock up on batteries. I'm too overly optimistic about these matters, never willing to believe that the storm is going to actually wreak havoc with my life.

Now that the storm is gone, I went back to my house (a little less dramatically than last time) and found that I still have electricity! Yeah! I'm the only person I know who has it!

Back to everything breaking, though. My tooth is breaking--I need to go to the dentist. My last appointment was cancelled because of Frances, now it is cancelled again because of Jeanne! Because I didn't drive my car all weekend, now it won't start! Church was cancelled on Sunday, and I was planning on interviewing this woman from Peru for my "second language learner" project, which is due on Thursday! Now I won't be able to do it! AGhhhgghggghhhhh!

I feel so despondent. I'm constantly worried that some terrible disaster is going to come along and wipe me and Issac off of the face of the earth. I didn't get very many grants this year for school, so I am really struggling. I leave the house every weekday at 7:30 and don't get home until after 8pm or later. I have two late night classes and I'm working three jobs. Something's gotta give, and I'm worried that it might be me. I am the camel with an extra straw already on my back. If a flea jumps on me, I'll topple over. If there is a rock in my path, I might not be able to lift my foot over it.

I brace myself with reminders that I am very fortunate, and I thank God for protecting me. No car accidents! No sicknesses! No terrible life-shaking news! Humbly, I carry on. But I'm wary. Something could happen at any moment--my immunity is not what it used to be. I guess what I'm saying is that I am feeling very vulnerable right now.

Is that the feeling that one usually encounters just before turning the corner? Is that how one feels after having traveled for so long and having almost reached a desperately sought-after destination? That sickening feeling that reminds you that although you can see your goal, you could still trip and fall flat on your face, that you must keep your wits about you because you are not there quite yet? That unsettling feeling that anything could happen? That your fate is not entirely in your hands?

Bus # 1 (Downtown).

I visited the graduation coordinator today, and I'm not graduating this semester. Not much else to say. Got on the bus. Felt glum, angry, disappointed. Almost cried. I need 7 more credits. 7 more stupid credits! I never want to set foot on that stupid campus again. (People shouldn't feel this way about their school, but I do. UF hasn't been much more than one giant money-sucking black hole. I wish I could start all over again, do things differently, yadda yadda. I would have gotten to know my teachers better, I would have lived in a dorm, I would have gone to more than 2 academic advising appointments.)

Oh well. No time to look backward.

Something in my unconsolable gloom drove me to sit near the very back corner of the bus, where I held my backpack on my lap and laid my head on it in a physical expression of my wish to avoid the world.

I didn't realize that the seat I chose was next to a group of gospel singers. "'I'd rather have Jesus than silver and gold! Ooooooooh yea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ssssss, I'd rather have JE-s-uu-uus, than silver or goooooooold.' I Praise the lord, brother ,I send up praise, God, for Jesus! Hallelujah! Thank you sweet Jesus, thank you, thank you. Oh thank you Jeeeeeesus!"

They were really good. Two girls and a man were singing at the top of their lungs, with all their heart and soul and power and love. They had beautiful voices. "I feel the spirit on this bus, oh lord! I feel the spirit here touching this bus. Praise the lord! I tell you I feel the hand of the lord all up and down this bus right now, sho' 'nuff," the man kept saying, as he waved his hand along the windows. And then they kept on singing, and the one pretty girl said "Oh, you got to stop. I'm gon start to cry, it just so beautiful, just to know... just to know that the lord be right there for you. I'm 'bout to cry, you got to stop!" and she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her t-shirt.

Of course during this time I'd offered my two cents by raising my head off the pillow to enjoy the music, and asking if they knew any of the songs that I'm learning in choir (they did, but they were VERY different versions). I turned around in my seat to view the proceeding, while the front half of the bus stared straight ahead in their seats.

The back half of the bus continued to sing and tap feet and clap hands, and then the man started preaching and the back of the bus entered into a very intelligent and heartfelt theological discussion about God. When I got off that bus, I felt like I really KNEW those people. I wasn't so upset anymore (there couldn't have been a better day for me to encounter a cheerful, singing group of people). Like the pretty girl who dabbed at her eyes with her t-shirt, I, too, had to hold back fat drops of tears.

"The hand of God is always upon us," the man said. "He use us, you know. He use us to teach each other things we jus got to know," he said. "It might not make no sense to us, but we got to understand that God is always working through us, always working through us. If you don't understand, you got to ask God, 'God, what are you trying to show me, lord?' "

"When you feeling like you can't do nothing, that's when you need to call on the Lord," said another man, who piped up after being silent the entire time. "You got to just start praising the Lord, and then you will see, you will understand, and you will be able to move on," he said, leaning back in his seat.

"That's right," I said. "You'll be filled with the spirit. You've just got to open your heart and let it come."

"Mmmmmhmmm." "Ain't that right!" "That's exactly right." "Yep, you got to turn to him."


There's no other bus in town like Bus Number One, full of characters good and bad.

Inamorato


I hug the fictional haunt; the price
I pay is far greater than any expanse of
distance.

Nightly by the window singing, my
songs bespeak the absence. The white moon on such
doleful nights

illuminates the missing.

Distaste


I have muffins in a tin, left moldy.
Crumbs on the counter prove
I just cannot make my poetry into
a fine, sensible layered cake.

Cheap cliches, like icing, always dripping
from the sides. Icky sweet sentiments try
to hide behind the hale of carrot,
hearty whole-wheat,
fancy candles.

I taste only wax, chewy lumps of pre-mixed
formulaic batters, mindless chatter.
Euch! Blechk! Blurp! How thoughtlessly I pratter!
How carelessly put-together!

PICTURES PICTURES PICTURES!


Quick! If you want to see a picture of my adorable blond pumpkin visit my friend Marcy's site and scroll down until you see two little bandits with a backpack peeking through the slats of a fence. The one with white hair is Issac. Aren't they cute?

I have been so blessed with excellent babysitters.

TEACHING

I got the job teaching Spanish. I start on Tuesday. I'm thrilled, but a little upset that I don't know Spanish better. Ay ay ay! To avoid this issue, I am requiring each student to get a college-style Spanish/English dictionary. I've been babbling to Issac in Spanish as much as I can and now he will "da me un besito" when I ask for one. Cool!

THE FUTURE

Since I am supposed to be graduating this semester, I thought it might be prudent to talk to some of my professors about what I can expect from grad school. I'm trying to get my priorities straight and make a plan for the next few years of my life. Do I need to go to grad school? What is grad school like? What can it offer me? Why bother?

After speaking with Dr. Smith, a woman embittered with the belief that "the renaissance still belongs to men," I decided that I don't think I want a PhD in English. Not at this point anyways. Dr. Smith made it clear that she thinks that a PhD in English from the University of Florida is no more well respected than pink puke on the floor, and is pretty much useless in the academic world. She said that to teach at just about any state university requires a PhD from Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Brown, or Berkely. She then proceeded to make it clear that Berkely was out of my league, because she barely made it in and was a much better student than I seemed to be, since she had taken honors thesis classes and was Sigma Tau Delta (an English literary society) and yadda yadda yadda (she ran off a list of a hundred clubs that she belonged to). Bitterly, she stated that the only way to get into those good schools is 1)to have one or both of your rich parents be an alumni, or 2) to be insanely ambitious from a young age.

Dr. Smith = insanely ambitious.
Me= not so much.

She talked about the prejudice she encounters in the snobby academic world when colleagues at conferences find out that she works in a southern university, since in those academic circles to be southern is still equated with being stupid. She says even at UF, one of her colleagues with a PhD in English stopped attending English department parties because nobody would even talk to his wife, a high school English teacher. Snobs!

She asked me what I want from the program, from grad school. I said I wanted to learn things that I haven't learned yet--I want to know more about literary theories, I want to become an authority on the English language, I want to study more literature and know a specific genre inside and out. I want to improve my critical thinking skills and write essays on new and interesting literary topics. I want to completely and fully understand the literary terms I encounter and I want to use these terms to analyze the literature around me. I want to know all the things that I feel are itching right behind the surface, but that undergraduate studies never really addressed in any significant depth. I want to know more! I still feel empty!

She said that I should probably go for my Master's degree if I just want to learn more for personal reasons. What the hell does that mean? That after a Master's degree it ceases to be about personal learning and becomes political? Yes, I think that was her stance. Yuck.

When I was little I imagined myself going to Harvard, Yale, or Stanford. It was this vague fuzzy image of me walking through those halls of tradition, books stacked in my arms, wearing a pleated skirt, coat, pressed shirt and and shiny brown leather flats. Getting a very, very good education. I know I am of the caliber to be there--I deserve a good education, and I want one.

It really stinks that so much of your future is dictated by the decisions you make when you are fourteen years old. When I was fourteen I was amazed to learn that some of my upperclassmen friends were going on tours of college campuses all around the country--I didn't know that people did that. My parents never discussed college with me. When I was fourteen I was in ninth grade, and I didn't care about school. I cared about reading books. I was invincible and refused to believe that the world was such a political place that I wouldn't be able to charm myself into or out of any situation that would present itself before me. I was Melissa, afterall. Loved or hated by everyone, eccentric but never ignored.

Ignored. I hate to be ignored. And that is exactly what these snobby places would probably do if I tried to enter their ranks since I have nothing to show for myself but a 3.2 GPA, a healthy toddler, and a keen desire to know more about English.

Dr. Smith asked me what I want in my life. Do I want a job as a professor at a top-tier university? If so, I will have to practically sell my soul for 5 years (not to mention the rest of my life spent cranking out articles trying to establish tenure), and even then if I got my degree from a crappy state university nobody "respectable" would want me.

Do I want to enjoy my life, my leisure, my family, my ability to take my summers off and travel, my freedom, my making a difference in the lives of analytically-impoverished teenagers? Yes. And I decided I really would be happy being a high school English teacher. It fits me better. I'm not trying to impress anybody except myself.

But I still want to know more--all the things that they haven't taught me, and I know those things are out there. Remember the days when you could go to school for four entire years and emerge an authority on a subject? What the hell has happened to the level of expectations in our schools, secondary and post-secondary?

I asked Dr. Smith if she ever envied those people who just side-step all the bullcrap and hit it bigtime anyways--those people whose greatness emerges whether they get a phD or not, people who would be welcomed to teach at any univeristy, even Harvard and Yale. She said, not without sarcasm, "And...what people would that be?" I felt stupid because I couldn't think of any off the top of my head, but I knew they were out there. So I vowed to compile a list. To make the list I looked for respected members of the literary community who have no more than a BA degree.

Here is a start:

Chinua Achebe (BA, London)
W.H. Auden (BA, Christ College, Oxford)
Jane Austen
Maya Angelou
Samual Beckett
Willa Cather (BA, U. Neb)
William Faulkner (Noble Prize Winner, 1950--Never graduated U. Miss.)
Seamus Heaney ( A "first" in English, Belfast)



People who "made it" in general, against all odds and expectations:

Mark Whalberg
Pretty much ALL ACTORS


If you have any suggestions to add to my lists, please email me.

Why I'm Never Eating at McDonald's Again

McDonald's depressed me so much today that I've sworn never to set foot inside one again (as though that will put an end to my blues once and for all).

I drove around town looking for The Transitive Vampire, the book that I am suppossed to read and review for class tomorrow. I couldn't find it anywhere, but that didn't stop me from spending money that I don't have. An innocent trip into Target to buy diapers left me $27 none the richer. Sigh.

Since depression and anxiety inspire in me an urge to engage in self-defeating behaviors such as eating junk food and spending lots of money, and because I was too exhausted to make dinner (what can you make with broccoli and yogurt, the only two items in my fridge?), I decided to head toward the dingy golden arches on Archer Road. When I entered the building, the floors were dirty and the room was sort of smokey--not what I usually expect from the high standards of the place that invented fast food. Feeling especially self-defeating, I asked the nice, old, asian lady behind the counter to "supersize" it. She told me they don't do that anymore. Then I saw a sign that said "Choose options for happy meals! Apple slices, milk, juice!" So I asked for apple slices and milk, but they didn't have any. Then I asked for a newspaper, but they were out of those too.

My fish sandwhich was sqeamishly small and squished--about as thin as the plastic fountain-soda tops. Not at all like the fish sandwhiches of yester lore. I looked around the freezing cold room in disgust while Issac happily munched on his fat-filled, crispy chicken nuggets.

It's bad enough feeling like the only mother in the world who is too ________ to cook nutritious meals for herself and her children, but it is even worse to realize that hundreds of other people are choosing McDonald's for their meals too. In the twenty short minutes I was there, hordes of busy people came, got their bags full of self-defeating death food, and left.

The manager, a small black woman, wore a crisp white shirt and her hair was pulled back into a pretty bun. She had a black eye, and I imagined the violence she encounters at home.

An 8 year-old-girl and her mother discussed the drawbacks of this particular McDonald's location-- the wait, the dirty floors, the fact that no napkins were in the dispenser. When the girl reached up fill her soda, and I saw a huge, ugly rash all over the back of her thigh, I imagined it developed from a diet high in McDonald's foods.

I looked at Issac and felt very guilty.

I felt extremely pathetic as I drowned my woes in a soda while staring at the translucent french-fries on my tray. I ate them all, two by two, and then decided that come what may, I will never allow myself to set foot inside a McDonald's ever again. If I have to pack peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches with me everywhere I go, for the rest of my life, then I will! The place is just too disgusting.

I believe in the American people, but it's hard to watch them slowly killing themselves and paying too much to do so (me and Issac's greasy scant meals cost $8.47). I'd rather eat rabbit food. Maybe I could just pack pickles, ketchup, and mustard in my car for those times I'm hungry and craving a fast-food meal-- because that's about all there is in a McDonald's burger anyways.

Some Labor Day

It didn't feel like summer at all. In fact, it felt like it was 6:30PM all weekend with Frances in our backyard--all gray and icky outside. My mom pleaded with me to leave the mobile home, so I "evacuated" on Sunday morning. We waited for the show, but it never got too big. Mom's power was out and still hasn't come back on (2 days). We partied with the candles in the living room and Karina and I sang all the musical scores and Christmas songs we knew, because for some reason it felt like Christmas. Then we went to bed.

Today, I wanted running water and a shower, so I pleaded with my mom to let me go home. We debated the wisdom of such a decision, knowing that the road to my house is probably flooded and covered with fallen trees. I finally told her that if she didn't take me in the truck, I was going to park my car at the beginning of the road and hike home. I really didn't think the weather was too scary outside.

I was wrong. At my mom's house--deep in the woods--there are hundreds of trees surrounding the house to screen the wind. When I parked my car at the end of my road, on an open expanse of pasture under a powerline, I was terrified that the entire electric structure was going to fall over on my car. The wind was blowing so hard I could barely open the car door, and then when I got out it almost knocked me down. The tall grass was flat on the ground, bent over in the ripping wind. I love wind, but this was kinda scary. Then we hopped into the truck and she took us on an off-road adventure down my little dirt lane. When we turned the corner, there was a huge oak tree crossing the road and a bunch of thick vines blocking our passage. Since I was only a couple hundred yards away from my house, I decided to make a run for it. I didn't consider the fact that I'd be running into the wind. I was afraid for me and Issac's safety (who was laughing maniacally). I was afraid a waterlogged branch might fall on our heads as we made our dash for the house.

Anyways, that's my hurricane story. It's been raining for three days straight and it is really really windy outside. Lots of trees have fallen over (four in my brother's yard) and branches have fallen down. One oak tree on my road has been ripped over onto its side, exposing a stringy hand of roots, whick spike high up into the air. The ground is completely covered with a layer of medium sized branches, twigs, and leaves--I can't see any grass or dirt anywhere.

Fun. Part of me wants to run outside hooting and hollering like a wild thing, taking part somehow in the wildness that has ravaged our county.

PS--What's up with those weather reporters? Scene: roofs are blowing off houses, sea spray is flying over the surge, the reporter's jacket is almost blowing off of them, and yet they remain on-scene to report that "the police officers have all evacuated and moved inland--we're out here on our own. It's really wild! We're experiencing 65 mph winds! Wow! Did you see that roof blow by? We could get impaled out here!" -- Apparently, reporters are exempt from mandatory evacuation laws. Are they forced to go out there by mean bosses looking to get the edge? ("Get out there Thompson, or you're FIRED!") Or are they looking for their big break? ("Oooh, this will get me the anchor seat!") I notice it's never the meteorologists who are sent out there--it's always some person I've never heard of before, as though maybe they're not expecting them to come back.

Defeat


a) I have $62.57 in my bank account.
b) I still need to buy about $300 dollars worth of books.
c) My thursday night class requires me to read a 43 page research article and four chapters from two books I haven't bought yet.
d) I think I'm getting sick. I have a runny nose and yucky green stuff in my throat.
e) Issac is in a very bad mood this morning and I feel like throwing him out the window.
f) I'm menstruating. Generally, I'm a pretty good sport about losing 16 ounces of blood and having a horrible back ache and stomach cramps, but today I think I'm going to kill somebody. All of my clothes itch, I'm bloated, I have to go to the bathroom all the time, and this is pushing me over the feeling of defeat into a feeling somewhere between that of rage and despair.

Scenarios (a+b+c+d+f) e = one really crappy day.

(Boy, will I ever be glad when I wake up tomorrow.)