There is a sense of confidence (or arrogance) in those riding horseback who've never been tossed on their butt in the pasture, the horse sauntering away laughing as much as any horse (other than Mr. Ed) could. Once you get tossed off the side of a horse (that you swear was going Mach 3) and crumple into a position uncommon to live bodies (where you swear the ground that was soft is now, umm, very much not), riding feels different.
When you get back on (because you damn well better, immediately, if you ever want to ride again--if you can walk), the wind in your hair mocks you, the rhythm that once was your body synchronized with the horse's now feels threatening--the same exact movements that were once enjoyable now all feel like the one that sent you over the edge. Nobody wants to repeat the action that hurt them.
But if the ride is the ride of your life--the thing you love--you soon find that you cannot ride again with any amount of pleasure if you ride in fear of falling off. Neither can you guarantee that you won't fall. In fact, it is more than likely that you will fall. You either stop riding, or you accept the fact that, at the end of the most beautiful ride, you may end up face down in some manure, while the horse--that you thought you knew better than this--trots off snorting.
There is something attractive about abandon. Not stupid abandon--not the kind where you jump a stray horse and ride it as fast as it can go over pasture rutted with badger holes. Neither the kind that takes a two year old untouched bronc and climbs on defiantly thinking you won't fall--with that ride, you better as hell know how to hold on--and more importantly, you better know how to leap off, fall, and roll the heck out of the way. Obviously, I'm not talking about that kind of an abandon.
There is a confidence that comes from assessing the risks, knowing intimately the temperament of the horse (yet acknowledging that it is an animal, and as much as you think you know it, it can do the unexpected at any time), being honest about your own riding capabilities--and how well you can take a fall.
Mount up anyway, seek the unparalleled enjoyment of educated--and still-risky--abandon. Enjoy the wind in your hair, and the momentum and interactive rhythm only achieved by movement that doesn't limit itself to the goal of being safe.
There is something breathtakingly amazing about that kind of abandon. Things can be accomplished by such bravery that never can be when you ride by fear's rules.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Rhetoric's God
When I was a child I knew You--I'm sure of it--though I didn't wonder about Who You were or what you required. It's sad to grow up, in that way. For somehow I thought there was a way to bargain answers from you, to give enough pennies that you'd give back a horse, to give enough kindness that you'd save my parent's marriage, to give up enough that I loved to convince You that what it was I most wanted--or even surely needed--was something You should give to me.
And so I studied prayer. I studied all the greats, and those who called heaven down to earth, I practiced their devotion, their diligence--and no soul was more sincere than mine. Teenager whose vice was not being able to recall the entire paragraph of biblical theology, teenager who left the only TV show parents allowed to go walk in the cool of the evening and talk to You.
And as years went by and requests went unanswered, it wasn't about the things. It was about righteousness--whatever that might be--and about devotion. Devotion because the one who gives up the most is the one that You esteem most, is it not? The one who asks with the purest heart, in earnest--and for the longest--it is they You will at last come to. So I lived. And arrogant as You might think, I still say none in my generation has tried harder or with more sincerity than I--me whose only goal in the end was for You to be my friend (because, as I was told, You didn't let me have friends so that You could be my best friend--and a privilege it was, I was told).
But though I, faithful, waited, no word came from your lips--and doomed I was to wait for Your words. Like I waited for the words of those who called themselves friends, and father, mother, and at last husband. And yes I've hated You at times, for the silence I was taught was holy--hated you because I played that role, in every torment--like it was mine. From You.
But over the years I've come to feel comfort, in You--somewhat like when I was a child: in topless skies, in bottomless oceans, in thoughts wondering and wild. I'm excited not to know for sure all those things I thought I knew, I'm happier imagining that You were not behind the silence nor the abuse.
But now and then my heart returns, to quest one thing again--I wonder what is prayer, and Who is the God it tries to reach?
It's a sneaky little feeling, that creeps into my heart when I'm alone, or when the dreams of my lifetime play out before me--so real I can see, but not quite ever touch. Prayer I once despised because it was to get something, now makes me curious once again.
For there is longing deeper than the BS of the world, there is hope purer than the feigned religiosity. Desire brighter than the lights of success, and love that grows where no one sees. In moments where these overtake my heart, and there is nothing I can do, I lay at night, in fields of flowers, and gaze up at the sky. Something like chords within me go, towards You Whom I do not know; aches of want, and hope--feared broken-- tumble about my head.
And I wonder.
I wonder what You value, that I could move your soul. I wonder what You desire, that I could persuade You so. I wonder what You lack, that I could offer in exchange. I wonder what You are, that I could reflect back to Your gaze. I wonder not how to get to heaven, nor sins forgiven, nor correct doctrine, nor all the things over which men war. I don't wonder who is religion's God--that one I know and refuse. But I wonder Who is rhetoric's God, and what ruler for measurement Hir might use.
What indeed do you value, so that to it I might appeal? When all I've done is not enough and on the future I must wait--it isn't bargaining, nor begging nor pleading--nor even answers, that I am after now. I just wonder if You'd hear me if I were to speak to You, wonder if You'd know all the dreams I hold inside. And I wonder if they matter to You--and why, or why not.
My parents said you value sacrifice--so to move you I should offer up something I love.
The church of my youth valued visible purity--and that is far past.
Others claim that asking and never giving up is what you find meaning in--it is to those who keep asking that You'll come and bend and give.
Still others said a clean heart, and a pure heart You desire--but what is that, and where is it found? I know only of one purity--transparency--and not many seem to think this moves You. For what is seen if You saw through me, is nothing that You rumoredly require.
But all of these they left a trail of broken faith in You. And I am not so much unwilling, as unable, to try again.
And so I lay here under stars, asking the unaskable, thinking the unthinkable--for that Christian girl anyway:
What if knowing You is more reachable, by looking down at me? For You have claimed to say I was made in Your image--and none of those things "Your" book claims you love, are true of me.
If I were God, I'd not want an innocent childlike love, but adult love--knowing and choosing. And I'd not want those I loved to give up all to prove their love to me--for this would show insecurity, or that I was some monster. And I'd not want pretense of purity--I'd rather get down in the mud. And the clean heart would be the one who didn't fear to be vulnerable with me anytime. And if I wasn't God enough, to be bothered with an answer, I'd hope the people would turn away, not destroy families and countries trying to prove I'd spoken.
So if I am anything like You, and You anything like me, I'd guess that interaction would be what You'd want--and that what moves You is what also moves me. I'd guess that, in rhetoric's way, You's see some of Yourself reflected in me--and I'd see some of me reflected in You. But I'd want to sit with You and talk about the oceans, explore the starry heights, understand the rocky clefts--I'd want to look in Your eyes and see through them. I'd want to feel You looking in mine. And I'd want You to ask--not merely know--all those things I hold inside.
But my heart lies damp and cold in a field, where silence is the only voice. Where love and curiosity, and dreams--all never met--lie in hope, in ache, in dread.
And so I studied prayer. I studied all the greats, and those who called heaven down to earth, I practiced their devotion, their diligence--and no soul was more sincere than mine. Teenager whose vice was not being able to recall the entire paragraph of biblical theology, teenager who left the only TV show parents allowed to go walk in the cool of the evening and talk to You.
And as years went by and requests went unanswered, it wasn't about the things. It was about righteousness--whatever that might be--and about devotion. Devotion because the one who gives up the most is the one that You esteem most, is it not? The one who asks with the purest heart, in earnest--and for the longest--it is they You will at last come to. So I lived. And arrogant as You might think, I still say none in my generation has tried harder or with more sincerity than I--me whose only goal in the end was for You to be my friend (because, as I was told, You didn't let me have friends so that You could be my best friend--and a privilege it was, I was told).
But though I, faithful, waited, no word came from your lips--and doomed I was to wait for Your words. Like I waited for the words of those who called themselves friends, and father, mother, and at last husband. And yes I've hated You at times, for the silence I was taught was holy--hated you because I played that role, in every torment--like it was mine. From You.
But over the years I've come to feel comfort, in You--somewhat like when I was a child: in topless skies, in bottomless oceans, in thoughts wondering and wild. I'm excited not to know for sure all those things I thought I knew, I'm happier imagining that You were not behind the silence nor the abuse.
But now and then my heart returns, to quest one thing again--I wonder what is prayer, and Who is the God it tries to reach?
It's a sneaky little feeling, that creeps into my heart when I'm alone, or when the dreams of my lifetime play out before me--so real I can see, but not quite ever touch. Prayer I once despised because it was to get something, now makes me curious once again.
For there is longing deeper than the BS of the world, there is hope purer than the feigned religiosity. Desire brighter than the lights of success, and love that grows where no one sees. In moments where these overtake my heart, and there is nothing I can do, I lay at night, in fields of flowers, and gaze up at the sky. Something like chords within me go, towards You Whom I do not know; aches of want, and hope--feared broken-- tumble about my head.
And I wonder.
I wonder what You value, that I could move your soul. I wonder what You desire, that I could persuade You so. I wonder what You lack, that I could offer in exchange. I wonder what You are, that I could reflect back to Your gaze. I wonder not how to get to heaven, nor sins forgiven, nor correct doctrine, nor all the things over which men war. I don't wonder who is religion's God--that one I know and refuse. But I wonder Who is rhetoric's God, and what ruler for measurement Hir might use.
What indeed do you value, so that to it I might appeal? When all I've done is not enough and on the future I must wait--it isn't bargaining, nor begging nor pleading--nor even answers, that I am after now. I just wonder if You'd hear me if I were to speak to You, wonder if You'd know all the dreams I hold inside. And I wonder if they matter to You--and why, or why not.
My parents said you value sacrifice--so to move you I should offer up something I love.
The church of my youth valued visible purity--and that is far past.
Others claim that asking and never giving up is what you find meaning in--it is to those who keep asking that You'll come and bend and give.
Still others said a clean heart, and a pure heart You desire--but what is that, and where is it found? I know only of one purity--transparency--and not many seem to think this moves You. For what is seen if You saw through me, is nothing that You rumoredly require.
But all of these they left a trail of broken faith in You. And I am not so much unwilling, as unable, to try again.
And so I lay here under stars, asking the unaskable, thinking the unthinkable--for that Christian girl anyway:
What if knowing You is more reachable, by looking down at me? For You have claimed to say I was made in Your image--and none of those things "Your" book claims you love, are true of me.
If I were God, I'd not want an innocent childlike love, but adult love--knowing and choosing. And I'd not want those I loved to give up all to prove their love to me--for this would show insecurity, or that I was some monster. And I'd not want pretense of purity--I'd rather get down in the mud. And the clean heart would be the one who didn't fear to be vulnerable with me anytime. And if I wasn't God enough, to be bothered with an answer, I'd hope the people would turn away, not destroy families and countries trying to prove I'd spoken.
So if I am anything like You, and You anything like me, I'd guess that interaction would be what You'd want--and that what moves You is what also moves me. I'd guess that, in rhetoric's way, You's see some of Yourself reflected in me--and I'd see some of me reflected in You. But I'd want to sit with You and talk about the oceans, explore the starry heights, understand the rocky clefts--I'd want to look in Your eyes and see through them. I'd want to feel You looking in mine. And I'd want You to ask--not merely know--all those things I hold inside.
But my heart lies damp and cold in a field, where silence is the only voice. Where love and curiosity, and dreams--all never met--lie in hope, in ache, in dread.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Unexpected Love
I'm out on the swing again. It's earlier tonight--and warmer. The leaves on the tree are bigger. The wind sounds like camping now, roaring in the treetops while below there isn't much more than a breeze rocking the swing.
The kids started a new daycare today--and somehow didn't get naps. Made for a not-so-interesting evening for us. But we played in the new kidde pool I got for them (you wouldn't believe how many trips from the tub to the yard with a 2-gallon bucket it takes to even get 3" of water in the bottom of the pool!), and had a picnic dinner outside.
It didn't make up for the angst I felt all day, however, having them in the hands of new people who don't know them. I managed to only call once, and hear that they were doing well. But I know that no one there knows them, so to them, "doing well" might be my cause for worry because I know what those shy looks mean. So I asked a couple very specific questions.
Everything seems well and good about this place--I just don't know the teachers yet, and this morning and this evening no one went out of their way to greet me, show me where anything was, or assure me that they knew my precious babies were there. I initiated everything.
This irked me all day--but then, I'm admittedly resentful at having to initiate all the interactions in my world--to the point that, for the most part, I've left all relationships behind that didn't have an equal share of initiating. (And I'm not even talking about romantic relationships, but friendships.) And so I stewed over the treatment most of the morning. Professional life is different--like when I tutor I take most the initiative.
Tonight when I picked up the kids I started to wonder if at some point, these teachers did reach out to the parents, but have been lulled into indifference by the way the parents treat them. It was like an assembly line. Parents picked up their kids, gathered their stuff with hardly two words to the teachers. I want to know everything that happened today, and I want to know what I can do to make tomorrow better--for my kids and the teachers. I think this shocked the teachers. And I think I'm going to have to shock them more. Maybe I'll take them muffins or something--really freak them out.
Today made me think a lot about the school my kids have been at for two years--almost to the day. Not that I needed anything to remind me of them. Since my kids last day there a couple weeks back, there has been a feelable hole in our lives. Because they weren't just people who took care of my children--they were people who loved my children--and me--and who we loved in return. They cried when we left. They got misty-eyed when we even talked about leaving. And they offered their homes and their arms and their love for whenever we needed it.
And I think I learned something about love from them the past couple years--something about its beauty being magnified when you find it in places you never expected.
Because you just don't take your kids to school expecting them to be loved. To be fed and watched, taught and protected, yes, but not to be loved. I had just gotten to Montana, my son had just a few days prior been born for a year, and I just needed a daycare so I could go to school. I called every one I could find, and went to see the ones that sounded promising (while I changed phone carrier because AT&T lied--there was no coverage in my town, moved the weekend school started--because my insane landlady lied--about everything, and oh yeah, while I did everything else that is required of a military veteran to get into a university and get the paperwork straight, just to be able to go to classes.
I'll never forget the day I called that school my kids ended up at. A lady answered and promptly handed me over to her daughter, who was the director, of sorts. Twenty minutes later--in typical small-town style I grew up with--I knew her life story, and was amazed that two daughters and their grandma-aged mom could work together so happily.
I tossed the kids in the beater car we had and drove out there, to find this tiny, pristine Dutch community nestled in hills of wheat and potato fields. When I walked through the door, the places was clean, the kids were happy, and not only did my kids like it, but I wished I could go to school there too. It was bright and cheery with amazing murals painted freehand from floor to ceiling. Most of all, there was no clutter! (I've never been in a daycare that was uncluttered, and they make me crazy that way: if you can't keep your non-running-away art supplies together, how are you going to keep track of my three year old with a two year old attitude?).
We didn't have any friends here, so when she asked for an emergency contact number, I shrugged. Would my roommate in Hawaii work? Miss Lorna--who would be Gabe's teacher when he turned 2, and then was the acting director--offered herself as an emergency contact. I was floored--and distrusting person that I am accepted, because--what else were we going to do? We were all alone in a strange place thousands of miles from anyone we knew.
I'll never forget the first time Grandma Sherri gave me a hug. It wasn't for about a year, though I'd wanted one for much, much longer. I don't even remember why she did, I just remember being wrapped up in her strong, grandmotherly arms--it was as close to home as I'd felt in years. And ever after that I went to visit her in "the Baby Room" where Gabe was, just to hug her and thank her for caring for my Gabe so well.
When my grandma passed away, she was the first hug I got upon my return, and her hugs grew in importance because they had that same sort of quality that my grandma's had. She'd kiss me on both cheeks and ask me how I was. When I made the Presidents list at my school, she saw it in the paper before I even figured it out and told me she was proud of me.
Lorna reminds me of my (Dutch) friend Holly, from when I was growing up, so her laugh already put me at ease. But we are such different people, I doubt our paths would've ever crossed, and if they had, they might not have stuck. But cross they did every single day--twice a day--no matter what condition I was in: stressed for finals, terrified of my first conference-speaking, wondering if I had made the right choice in moving here, and worrying about my children missing their father. After the first 6 months or so I stopped giving her the pat answer when she asked how I was, and we became friends. Such good friends, in fact, that when I found out my best friend had cancer and Lorna wasn't at daycare, I went to her door and fell apart in her arms. She'd been down this road.
And time and space fails me, but I must mention Stacy--Lorna's sister--ever dealing kindly with my shifting schedule and not belittling me for getting there late a whole lot one semester when my last class ran too late for me to arrive on time. And Miss Kristy who we ran into out at the lake, who invited us to go rafting with them, Miss Leah who gave us a horse (!!!), Miss Emily who rocks the aviator glasses and will never let me giver her a ride home, even in a blizzard, because she had a bet with her cousin over who could keep walking home the longest last winter. Miss Amy who isn't there any more but remains a friend, and one of Faith's friends mom, Melinda, who never fails to leave me a gift bag of home baked goods and a card even if there is only a hint of a holiday.
And Miss Kathy. Beautiful Irish woman who never tires, and showed me by bubbly example how to reach my little Faith's heart when she was angry at the world--and me. Even when neither of my kids were in Miss Kathy's room anymore, I'd somehow always run into her on the days when I had to do something that really intimidated me. She'd always be so impressed with me, scared for me, and promised to send her prayers. She'd have her class pray for me, then she'd ask me in the evening how my presentation or test went. (I finally just commenced seeking her out on scary, high-pressure days, and she'd hug me too, an with an inner strength and a twinkling eye--she raised 5 boys, I think--she'd instill strength in me with a glance.)
I never expected to find love, that day when I walked through the door of this tiny town's only school. But I did. We did. For two entire years, the people of my children's daycare met us with open arms, laughed and cried with us, and became family for us in a place where we didn't yet even have one friend. It was a very tearful day, the day we left--and I was the last one to break. When I did, it was because I realized something that means "love" to me--that I'd wrestled with my whole life but never put my finger on:
We were known. Very much.
As a single parent, one of the most difficult things for me is not having one other person in the entire world who cares about my children like I do, who worry as deeply, who get as excited when they do well, who ache when they hurt. This family of amazing women at my kids' school came as close as anyone has come to that--and they could, because they took the time and effort to get to know my kids--and me. None of us expected love to be there between us, but we marveled that it was.
There is something sweetly beautiful about finding love in the arms of those you'd never ever expect it from. We'll go many places, we'll meet many new friends, we'll learn much more on our journey, but no one can replace our first family in Montana, at a little tiny school we don't go to anymore...
...Who are already greatly, greatly missed.
The kids started a new daycare today--and somehow didn't get naps. Made for a not-so-interesting evening for us. But we played in the new kidde pool I got for them (you wouldn't believe how many trips from the tub to the yard with a 2-gallon bucket it takes to even get 3" of water in the bottom of the pool!), and had a picnic dinner outside.
It didn't make up for the angst I felt all day, however, having them in the hands of new people who don't know them. I managed to only call once, and hear that they were doing well. But I know that no one there knows them, so to them, "doing well" might be my cause for worry because I know what those shy looks mean. So I asked a couple very specific questions.
Everything seems well and good about this place--I just don't know the teachers yet, and this morning and this evening no one went out of their way to greet me, show me where anything was, or assure me that they knew my precious babies were there. I initiated everything.
This irked me all day--but then, I'm admittedly resentful at having to initiate all the interactions in my world--to the point that, for the most part, I've left all relationships behind that didn't have an equal share of initiating. (And I'm not even talking about romantic relationships, but friendships.) And so I stewed over the treatment most of the morning. Professional life is different--like when I tutor I take most the initiative.
Tonight when I picked up the kids I started to wonder if at some point, these teachers did reach out to the parents, but have been lulled into indifference by the way the parents treat them. It was like an assembly line. Parents picked up their kids, gathered their stuff with hardly two words to the teachers. I want to know everything that happened today, and I want to know what I can do to make tomorrow better--for my kids and the teachers. I think this shocked the teachers. And I think I'm going to have to shock them more. Maybe I'll take them muffins or something--really freak them out.
Today made me think a lot about the school my kids have been at for two years--almost to the day. Not that I needed anything to remind me of them. Since my kids last day there a couple weeks back, there has been a feelable hole in our lives. Because they weren't just people who took care of my children--they were people who loved my children--and me--and who we loved in return. They cried when we left. They got misty-eyed when we even talked about leaving. And they offered their homes and their arms and their love for whenever we needed it.
And I think I learned something about love from them the past couple years--something about its beauty being magnified when you find it in places you never expected.
Because you just don't take your kids to school expecting them to be loved. To be fed and watched, taught and protected, yes, but not to be loved. I had just gotten to Montana, my son had just a few days prior been born for a year, and I just needed a daycare so I could go to school. I called every one I could find, and went to see the ones that sounded promising (while I changed phone carrier because AT&T lied--there was no coverage in my town, moved the weekend school started--because my insane landlady lied--about everything, and oh yeah, while I did everything else that is required of a military veteran to get into a university and get the paperwork straight, just to be able to go to classes.
I'll never forget the day I called that school my kids ended up at. A lady answered and promptly handed me over to her daughter, who was the director, of sorts. Twenty minutes later--in typical small-town style I grew up with--I knew her life story, and was amazed that two daughters and their grandma-aged mom could work together so happily.
I tossed the kids in the beater car we had and drove out there, to find this tiny, pristine Dutch community nestled in hills of wheat and potato fields. When I walked through the door, the places was clean, the kids were happy, and not only did my kids like it, but I wished I could go to school there too. It was bright and cheery with amazing murals painted freehand from floor to ceiling. Most of all, there was no clutter! (I've never been in a daycare that was uncluttered, and they make me crazy that way: if you can't keep your non-running-away art supplies together, how are you going to keep track of my three year old with a two year old attitude?).
We didn't have any friends here, so when she asked for an emergency contact number, I shrugged. Would my roommate in Hawaii work? Miss Lorna--who would be Gabe's teacher when he turned 2, and then was the acting director--offered herself as an emergency contact. I was floored--and distrusting person that I am accepted, because--what else were we going to do? We were all alone in a strange place thousands of miles from anyone we knew.
I'll never forget the first time Grandma Sherri gave me a hug. It wasn't for about a year, though I'd wanted one for much, much longer. I don't even remember why she did, I just remember being wrapped up in her strong, grandmotherly arms--it was as close to home as I'd felt in years. And ever after that I went to visit her in "the Baby Room" where Gabe was, just to hug her and thank her for caring for my Gabe so well.
When my grandma passed away, she was the first hug I got upon my return, and her hugs grew in importance because they had that same sort of quality that my grandma's had. She'd kiss me on both cheeks and ask me how I was. When I made the Presidents list at my school, she saw it in the paper before I even figured it out and told me she was proud of me.
Lorna reminds me of my (Dutch) friend Holly, from when I was growing up, so her laugh already put me at ease. But we are such different people, I doubt our paths would've ever crossed, and if they had, they might not have stuck. But cross they did every single day--twice a day--no matter what condition I was in: stressed for finals, terrified of my first conference-speaking, wondering if I had made the right choice in moving here, and worrying about my children missing their father. After the first 6 months or so I stopped giving her the pat answer when she asked how I was, and we became friends. Such good friends, in fact, that when I found out my best friend had cancer and Lorna wasn't at daycare, I went to her door and fell apart in her arms. She'd been down this road.
And time and space fails me, but I must mention Stacy--Lorna's sister--ever dealing kindly with my shifting schedule and not belittling me for getting there late a whole lot one semester when my last class ran too late for me to arrive on time. And Miss Kristy who we ran into out at the lake, who invited us to go rafting with them, Miss Leah who gave us a horse (!!!), Miss Emily who rocks the aviator glasses and will never let me giver her a ride home, even in a blizzard, because she had a bet with her cousin over who could keep walking home the longest last winter. Miss Amy who isn't there any more but remains a friend, and one of Faith's friends mom, Melinda, who never fails to leave me a gift bag of home baked goods and a card even if there is only a hint of a holiday.
And Miss Kathy. Beautiful Irish woman who never tires, and showed me by bubbly example how to reach my little Faith's heart when she was angry at the world--and me. Even when neither of my kids were in Miss Kathy's room anymore, I'd somehow always run into her on the days when I had to do something that really intimidated me. She'd always be so impressed with me, scared for me, and promised to send her prayers. She'd have her class pray for me, then she'd ask me in the evening how my presentation or test went. (I finally just commenced seeking her out on scary, high-pressure days, and she'd hug me too, an with an inner strength and a twinkling eye--she raised 5 boys, I think--she'd instill strength in me with a glance.)
I never expected to find love, that day when I walked through the door of this tiny town's only school. But I did. We did. For two entire years, the people of my children's daycare met us with open arms, laughed and cried with us, and became family for us in a place where we didn't yet even have one friend. It was a very tearful day, the day we left--and I was the last one to break. When I did, it was because I realized something that means "love" to me--that I'd wrestled with my whole life but never put my finger on:
We were known. Very much.
As a single parent, one of the most difficult things for me is not having one other person in the entire world who cares about my children like I do, who worry as deeply, who get as excited when they do well, who ache when they hurt. This family of amazing women at my kids' school came as close as anyone has come to that--and they could, because they took the time and effort to get to know my kids--and me. None of us expected love to be there between us, but we marveled that it was.
There is something sweetly beautiful about finding love in the arms of those you'd never ever expect it from. We'll go many places, we'll meet many new friends, we'll learn much more on our journey, but no one can replace our first family in Montana, at a little tiny school we don't go to anymore...
...Who are already greatly, greatly missed.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Motherhood
I'm writing to you from my swing. It's been too long a time since I did this. Mostly it was covered in snow, but then since it's been warm I've not written from here in the dark for other reasons. We've had more than one incidence of stranger rape near-ish to my home and I still haven't heard that they've picked the guy up (talk about 99%--that is how many go free, you know). But fear has never been a good enough reason for me not to do something I love, and my swing is my sweet spot. Besides, should this man venture near me, he'll not rape again--but I digress.
The evening light is fading in the east. The evening star is gazing contentedly over all, and what is this I hear? Oh it's leaves!! Yes, summer is here. On my right is a glass of (French) red wine from my brother--with a strawberry bobbing in it to the swing's motion, reflecting ripples of light from the tiny lights wrapped around my swing. On my left a piece of German chocolate cake a friend brought over this evening. The kids are finally sleeping.
Oh dear god, I love peace and quiet.
I actually sat down here earlier in the day--five hours or so ago--but life as a Mother prevented me from getting anything but the title composed.
I don't know how I lived in a family like mine growing up. Eight people, not even my thoughts were private--and only one bathroom. Home schooled, never allowed to go anywhere alone. And then I grow up and run across the word introvert and suddenly I make sense to myself. No wonder I was always angry back then. I just thought I was an impatient person, and my siblings just thought I inherited all of the temper from the spot O' Irish in our family tree. Turns out, I really, really enjoy peace and quiet. (Shoulda noticed something was up when I left home--where I yelled back at my dad a lot--and never yelled at anyone again until I became a single mom, where I again have no private anything.)
And so I've started to admit to myself this year that parenting small children goes against everything that is natural and normal to me--aside from love. I respect other people's houses and boundaries so much that it just makes me instantly annoyed when someone else doesn't respect mine. Newsflash: children have no concept of boundaries, nor built-in respect for people's stuff. Just ask my barely three year old son who is indeed potty trained, thank you very much, but decided to sit on my couch and pee anyway...and on the busiest day of my week--when I wasn't scheduled to use the communal laundry facilities here. (When I use the word communal, by the way, it means I'm not fond of the set-up of forced community here, not that I live in a commune. Just so we're clear.)
And despite an intense amount of pressure this semester, I'd been pretty good--I hadn't sat on the kitchen floor and cried with my kids for most of the semester. The pee on the couch got me. I melted into a puddle of tears while trying to tell my son that the couch isn't a toilet. I suddenly addressed my 3 and 5 year old as adults: "Don't you see that I spend all my time with you running around cleaning up after you? That is not my job! I want to spend time having fun with you, but I can't because everywhere you go, you just destroy everything. This is not okay with me!"
I wandered into the living room looking for my dignity and instead found my daughter's surprised eyes. "Why you crying mom?" She asked, having just listened to my falling-apart-speech. From the toilet my son declared with words I'd never heard him use before, "I won't ever do it again mom, I pwomise!"
Those are the moments that I get super frustrated with my (lack of) mothering abilities--because I know I can't expect little kids to grasp the concept of anything being sacred--least of all my time. But neither can I find a way to not be annoyed when they go overboard taking up every spare moment making messes of the house that, just before we walked in, I squeezed out a few moments to get clean. But at least I'm admitting it to myself, I suppose. Must start somewhere.
So, those are the frustrating moments (A little bit of transparency for those who think I'm such an amazing parent...)
But there are so many good moments that, like the spring without the winter, wouldn't be what they are without the frustration.
Faith lost her first tooth today (Oh don't let me forget I have to be the tooth fairy tonight!) That was kinda neat timing (I loved having loose teeth when I was a kid--gave my tongue something to play with and I was never bored). And yesterday, out of the clear blue, Gabe came up to me, crawled up on my lap and told me, "Mama, you are so bootiful." It was just one of those moments that melted me. He has no one in his life to tell him he should do that, but he picked it up from somewhere. (And thankfully, he didn't pee on me after...)
Mother's Day without family around is weird. I missed my grandma a whole lot today. When I was a little kid, we used to gather 4 generations of us after church and have dinner and festivities on Mother's day. The kids are too little to know what day it is or why (Clothes got peed on today too!), and I tried not to scorn the text from my Ex too much, with its "Happy Mother's Day" that was about the extent of the Mother's Day's in our marriage--though the Father's Days were pretty festive.
It was nice just to relax today. Then I realized it was my day and I could do whatever I wanted, so I took the kids shopping and got them new backpacks for their new school, new waterbottles, water guns, and new toothbrushes "that brush your teeth for you, Mom!" (Best $2.50 you'll ever spend--I couldn't get them to quit brushing their teeth!). And then we had strawberry shortcake for dinner--because I'm the mom, and I get to choose--that's why.
Oh, and I bought myself this really cool T-shirt today that has two thumbs pointing back at the wearer and says, "This is what a good DAD looks like." I kinda love it. And yes I will wear it in public.
Being a mom facilitates a lot of thought I wouldn't get otherwise (Except I never have any quiet time to think about the thoughts unless I fore-go sleep). Today I say outside and watched my kids play with my notorious upstairs' neighbor kids. Mostly I was listening. They scare me, and I want to know what's going on in these conversations. In the meantime, I saw a side of my children I've never seen to this degree. All four kids--mine and the neighbors--were riding their bikes as fast and as hard as they could up and down the sidewalk. I've never seen such determined abandon in my kids faces--nor so much competition. It was a beautiful thing--hair flying in the wind, big smiles, lots of "Come on, gang!" coming out of my daughters mouth, and wow was she going fast.
While my biggest frustration in being a parent is that my kids don't hear me or remember what I say (unless it can in some way embarrass me!), I found pure joy in sitting in the grass nearby today, noticing that they're not the least bit inhibited by my presence. That's beautiful to me. More than anything, I want my kids to feel they can be themselves around me--always.
I was the girl who wasn't outwardly defiant, but felt watched and ruled over every minute--an invisible sense of control I've struggled against my entire life. While I'm always wondering how to get my 3 year old under control, when I saw him and his sister so carefree today, it gave me words for something else I value as a person that I wasn't given as a child: abandon.
While there is always a balance, I'm finding more and more that I value letting my kids be kids, and feeling like a whole lot of the things I worry about are because I don't want people to think I'm a bad parent, not really about parenting. But parenting isn't about keeping up with the Jones-es--even if the they're great disciplinarians. Parenting is about nurturing little tiny humans to grow up to be healthy, happy, fully alive adult humans--and I'm starting to think half of parenting norms miss that in their hurry to control and protect every moment. There is something intensely gratifying to me to know that my kids are not changing their behavior because I'm around.
Yesterday I thought it was defiance. Today I think it is trust.
And my kids teach me things. Like what is at the heart of rhetoric.
We were at the duck pond the other day and Faith told me that she likes to throw big pieces of bread into the pond because she likes to see the ducks share. I laughed. "You mean you like to see the ducks fight?" She looked at me very assuredly. "No, Mom. I like to see them share. They're sharing." I never, ever would've seen it that way--but it is rhetoric's way--straight from a five year old's mouth.
And so I see my life as a non-motherly sort of mother, my conundrums with discipline, and how to meet my own needs enough to meet my kids' needs more than just marginally: rhetoric isn't afraid to go where binaries would only cause wars. All these things in my life that feel like they oppose each other really don't--they are the constraints that inspire the complex dance of life, as we have to step over and around, under and through, in order to move forward.
It's stuck in my head now: what looked like fighting to me looks like sharing to my daughter. I find myself suddenly very interested in how she views our world, and less interested in convincing her that the world would be right if she'd just clean her room.
Speaking of...I've got to go find some money and tip-toe through the landmine of foot-injuring toys in her room to do the tooth fairy's job for her (Him? It?). Anybody know how much a tooth is going for these days??
The evening light is fading in the east. The evening star is gazing contentedly over all, and what is this I hear? Oh it's leaves!! Yes, summer is here. On my right is a glass of (French) red wine from my brother--with a strawberry bobbing in it to the swing's motion, reflecting ripples of light from the tiny lights wrapped around my swing. On my left a piece of German chocolate cake a friend brought over this evening. The kids are finally sleeping.
Oh dear god, I love peace and quiet.
I actually sat down here earlier in the day--five hours or so ago--but life as a Mother prevented me from getting anything but the title composed.
I don't know how I lived in a family like mine growing up. Eight people, not even my thoughts were private--and only one bathroom. Home schooled, never allowed to go anywhere alone. And then I grow up and run across the word introvert and suddenly I make sense to myself. No wonder I was always angry back then. I just thought I was an impatient person, and my siblings just thought I inherited all of the temper from the spot O' Irish in our family tree. Turns out, I really, really enjoy peace and quiet. (Shoulda noticed something was up when I left home--where I yelled back at my dad a lot--and never yelled at anyone again until I became a single mom, where I again have no private anything.)
And so I've started to admit to myself this year that parenting small children goes against everything that is natural and normal to me--aside from love. I respect other people's houses and boundaries so much that it just makes me instantly annoyed when someone else doesn't respect mine. Newsflash: children have no concept of boundaries, nor built-in respect for people's stuff. Just ask my barely three year old son who is indeed potty trained, thank you very much, but decided to sit on my couch and pee anyway...and on the busiest day of my week--when I wasn't scheduled to use the communal laundry facilities here. (When I use the word communal, by the way, it means I'm not fond of the set-up of forced community here, not that I live in a commune. Just so we're clear.)
And despite an intense amount of pressure this semester, I'd been pretty good--I hadn't sat on the kitchen floor and cried with my kids for most of the semester. The pee on the couch got me. I melted into a puddle of tears while trying to tell my son that the couch isn't a toilet. I suddenly addressed my 3 and 5 year old as adults: "Don't you see that I spend all my time with you running around cleaning up after you? That is not my job! I want to spend time having fun with you, but I can't because everywhere you go, you just destroy everything. This is not okay with me!"
I wandered into the living room looking for my dignity and instead found my daughter's surprised eyes. "Why you crying mom?" She asked, having just listened to my falling-apart-speech. From the toilet my son declared with words I'd never heard him use before, "I won't ever do it again mom, I pwomise!"
Those are the moments that I get super frustrated with my (lack of) mothering abilities--because I know I can't expect little kids to grasp the concept of anything being sacred--least of all my time. But neither can I find a way to not be annoyed when they go overboard taking up every spare moment making messes of the house that, just before we walked in, I squeezed out a few moments to get clean. But at least I'm admitting it to myself, I suppose. Must start somewhere.
So, those are the frustrating moments (A little bit of transparency for those who think I'm such an amazing parent...)
But there are so many good moments that, like the spring without the winter, wouldn't be what they are without the frustration.
Faith lost her first tooth today (Oh don't let me forget I have to be the tooth fairy tonight!) That was kinda neat timing (I loved having loose teeth when I was a kid--gave my tongue something to play with and I was never bored). And yesterday, out of the clear blue, Gabe came up to me, crawled up on my lap and told me, "Mama, you are so bootiful." It was just one of those moments that melted me. He has no one in his life to tell him he should do that, but he picked it up from somewhere. (And thankfully, he didn't pee on me after...)
Mother's Day without family around is weird. I missed my grandma a whole lot today. When I was a little kid, we used to gather 4 generations of us after church and have dinner and festivities on Mother's day. The kids are too little to know what day it is or why (Clothes got peed on today too!), and I tried not to scorn the text from my Ex too much, with its "Happy Mother's Day" that was about the extent of the Mother's Day's in our marriage--though the Father's Days were pretty festive.
It was nice just to relax today. Then I realized it was my day and I could do whatever I wanted, so I took the kids shopping and got them new backpacks for their new school, new waterbottles, water guns, and new toothbrushes "that brush your teeth for you, Mom!" (Best $2.50 you'll ever spend--I couldn't get them to quit brushing their teeth!). And then we had strawberry shortcake for dinner--because I'm the mom, and I get to choose--that's why.
Oh, and I bought myself this really cool T-shirt today that has two thumbs pointing back at the wearer and says, "This is what a good DAD looks like." I kinda love it. And yes I will wear it in public.
Being a mom facilitates a lot of thought I wouldn't get otherwise (Except I never have any quiet time to think about the thoughts unless I fore-go sleep). Today I say outside and watched my kids play with my notorious upstairs' neighbor kids. Mostly I was listening. They scare me, and I want to know what's going on in these conversations. In the meantime, I saw a side of my children I've never seen to this degree. All four kids--mine and the neighbors--were riding their bikes as fast and as hard as they could up and down the sidewalk. I've never seen such determined abandon in my kids faces--nor so much competition. It was a beautiful thing--hair flying in the wind, big smiles, lots of "Come on, gang!" coming out of my daughters mouth, and wow was she going fast.
While my biggest frustration in being a parent is that my kids don't hear me or remember what I say (unless it can in some way embarrass me!), I found pure joy in sitting in the grass nearby today, noticing that they're not the least bit inhibited by my presence. That's beautiful to me. More than anything, I want my kids to feel they can be themselves around me--always.
I was the girl who wasn't outwardly defiant, but felt watched and ruled over every minute--an invisible sense of control I've struggled against my entire life. While I'm always wondering how to get my 3 year old under control, when I saw him and his sister so carefree today, it gave me words for something else I value as a person that I wasn't given as a child: abandon.
While there is always a balance, I'm finding more and more that I value letting my kids be kids, and feeling like a whole lot of the things I worry about are because I don't want people to think I'm a bad parent, not really about parenting. But parenting isn't about keeping up with the Jones-es--even if the they're great disciplinarians. Parenting is about nurturing little tiny humans to grow up to be healthy, happy, fully alive adult humans--and I'm starting to think half of parenting norms miss that in their hurry to control and protect every moment. There is something intensely gratifying to me to know that my kids are not changing their behavior because I'm around.
Yesterday I thought it was defiance. Today I think it is trust.
And my kids teach me things. Like what is at the heart of rhetoric.
We were at the duck pond the other day and Faith told me that she likes to throw big pieces of bread into the pond because she likes to see the ducks share. I laughed. "You mean you like to see the ducks fight?" She looked at me very assuredly. "No, Mom. I like to see them share. They're sharing." I never, ever would've seen it that way--but it is rhetoric's way--straight from a five year old's mouth.
And so I see my life as a non-motherly sort of mother, my conundrums with discipline, and how to meet my own needs enough to meet my kids' needs more than just marginally: rhetoric isn't afraid to go where binaries would only cause wars. All these things in my life that feel like they oppose each other really don't--they are the constraints that inspire the complex dance of life, as we have to step over and around, under and through, in order to move forward.
It's stuck in my head now: what looked like fighting to me looks like sharing to my daughter. I find myself suddenly very interested in how she views our world, and less interested in convincing her that the world would be right if she'd just clean her room.
Speaking of...I've got to go find some money and tip-toe through the landmine of foot-injuring toys in her room to do the tooth fairy's job for her (Him? It?). Anybody know how much a tooth is going for these days??
Saturday, May 12, 2012
WAW: Pedagogy Like Apollo 11
(...Continued from previous post--yes, with a different title!)
I don't feel like writing about Writing-about-Writing (WAW) tonight--so much else is on my mind, but I started this series and haven't yet forgot what I wanted to say :-), so let me finish it.
I've alluded to this before, but it bears repeating: It was a stunning day when I found out that what I thought was Writing instruction was really only a very small branch of Writing pedagogy called WAW. And every time I hear more about other pedagogies, I am reminded again how many ways to teach writing there are out there.
My final post in my 3-part series of thinking about Writing instruction and what it means to me as an undergrad who wants to teach writing at a college level is undeniably in favor of the pedagogy that changed my perception of writing, my educational experience, and my life. My goal is not to be fair--just fired up about my own experience. My goal is not to "stay in my own paygrade"--I realize I can't speak with a whole lot of authority on teaching writing until I've done it--but I've got to teach it at some point, so I look forward. I try to imagine myself as a teacher, through my student eyes--in hope that when I become a teacher, I won't ever forget what things look like from a student perspective.
Did you know that some Writing instructors feel that Writing should not be a content area? (This means--I think--that writing should just be taught as a tool to be used by other, very legitimate fields, but Writing itself is not a field or discipline of its own). While that makes sense to me from the aspect that every field's writing is contextualized to their needs, I don't see how this could be true overall.
The most obvious reason is that, it doesn't really matter what we want a field to be--it is what it is. This field already has research. It already has a history. Writing is a content area. To teach it as if it were not would be to ignore years of rich history, painstaking research, and many people who risked their careers to bring us to the point where writing is visible enough to be a meaningful field of study and work. Who cares what people want to imagine our field to be--we need to see what it is. Thank you to those who have come before me, Writing studies is undeniably a content area, and to teach it otherwise seems unthinkably unfaithful to those students who look trustingly up their writing teachers for the knowledge of the field. (Like I said, I'm not presumptuously opinionated or anything...)
From what I understand, another aspect of this mindset about writing is a resistance to Writing being focused on and lifted up--almost as if it would be arrogance to magnify our own field. In one way, this makes sense to me--it goes back to the idea of pedagogy being something of embodiment and I don't think I've ever met someone who considered themselves a writer who liked to focus on themselves in obvious ways. (Of course I'm overgeneralizing here, and I've not met all the writers in the world, but I'm just saying that this is the only way this makes sense to me.)
But that is where my understanding of this mindset ends. In fact, these ways of seeing the field of Writing are so bizarre and counter-intuitive to me that I barely feel okay mentioning them: I feel I must have understood wrong; such perspectives feel so much like an accusation to me, that I don't want to spend time on them. But if I make it to teaching writing, and I'm in an educational atmosphere that doesn't think my field of study is a legitimate content area, then I need to know--and be able to express--why I think that it is. Just this week I realized a new reason that I love the WAW pedagogy, and it has everything to do with the way it unabashedly lifts up our field.
This new way of understanding came to me thanks to the term user experience (that I mentioned in my previous post ), and the story I came across about NASA creating an event especially for social media lovers. I kept thinking, why can't we do X, Y, or Z with Writing like NASA has done with all it's wondrous exploration? And the answer I knew I'd get 9 times out of 10 haunted me: because they have spaceships. Spaceships are awesome. But I think writing is just as awesome as spaceships!! You might say, Well, that's just you. You like writing. That is precisely the point. I may not know how to teach writing yet, but I love writing--and that will drive me to figure out how to teach it. I don't think you can teach writing in an effective way unless you believe it is as cool as spaceships--and you present it that way, lifting it up in public to the level of admiration you hold for it privately.
Where would NASA be if the people running the show over the years believed that NASA's mission shouldn't be the center of attention, shouldn't be lifted up, and was only a tool for other fields? Oh, but you say, they are: they promote science, and technology and defense. Right. By focusing on their own field. They don't live in a vacuum any more than writing does. Of course writing is a tool that helps other fields (And, a-hem, NASA never uses writing or anything, do they?), but so is every field, by virtue of how they are all interconnected. But if the leaders of a field refuse to focus on it, then that field lags behind and doesn't have the strength to hold up those other disciplines that rely on it.
(And we end up with an entire culture that thinks writing is for the gifted, and that if you struggle with writing that must make you a bad writer--and who think they never write anything, when their daily lives are filled with writing.) If those who claim the field of Writing as our own treated it as if it took man to the moon, would our culture be so misled about Writing? Would our College Writing I courses be filled with students who have purposefully chosen other majors, solely based on the fact that the major didn't require any writing? I don't know, but the question holds me.)
And here's why I love my experience of WAW in this regard. WAW pedagogy walks into a room full of disinterested writers, and holds up in front of them this thing that is so amazing, it might as well be a spaceship. This thing may as well have carried mankind to the moon for the first time. This thing might as well have been one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind. This thing might as well have singlehandedly brought the U.S. back into play as a leader in space exploration. And this thing is Writing.
Do you realize what it is like to be a student in that audience? It's like, Wait, are we talking about the same thing? Because I thought you were talking about writing, and this is not a Writing I am familiar with. Do you know what it's like to be the student who is sure they aren't good enough to "be a writer," and have someone hand you a definition of "good writing" that brings the dream within reach? Imagine yourself a child, seeing for the first time whatever it was that would continue to awe you for the rest of your life, and being told you are good enough to be part of it: it's like that.
Every field knows that they have to make their area of study relevant and interesting if they are to perpetuate it to the next generation. (This is where user experience comes in: if the user experience is horrible, why would the user want to have more of the experience?) People who don't love what they do can't light that torch in the heart and mind of another. It takes love--of your own field--to be able to lift it up to the light so that its marvelous angles throw rainbows into the dark rooms and minds of those who listen. Writing is no different.
I just don't see any way that writing can be taught (other than as something irrelevant to be resented) unless it is A) taught by those who love it so much that they, B) lift it up and show its worth to those listening. Writing is as exciting as Apollo 11. Don't take my word for it. How much Apollo 11 would we have without writing? (And nope, that doesn't prove that writing is not a content area). Just think about it for a minute.
Writing was there in the obscure night of someone's "insane" dream that man could walk on the moon. Writing was there as the calculations were made to see just how insane a dream it was. Writing was there as the plans were drawn. Writing was there as the support was garnered, and as government and funding organizations were convinced that it was logical and safe to set a man in a tin can on top of tons of explosive fuel, and explode him so precisely that he was hurled outside of Earth's atmosphere to land safely on the moon--and then return. Writing was involved every step of the way, even in the moment that was one step for man and one giant leap for mankind.
Why the hell isn't something that amazing (Writing) deserving of it's own credibility as a field?
If you read some of the experiences students are having in WAW courses, you will note the unmistakable excitement of those who have been shown something that is simply astonishing. Writing is breathtaking--when you see its research, its history, its deep questions and challenges.WAW elevates Writing to the place where it is this intriguing--and yet attainable (an attainability and sense of intrigue that the more boring versions of Writing instruction demand but don't provide a way to achieve).
And actually, it is terribly sad that Writing is so astonishing to students who have already had years of writing instruction. If the Writing that WAW introduces to students blows their hair back, then what was all that other instruction, and why did it make them hate Writing?
I dunno--I might think completely differently next year at this time--and that's okay--that is a beauty of learning. But this is just stuff I think about now when I tremblingly ponder the hope that in little more than a year, I might have to teach Writing in my own classroom.
I don't feel like writing about Writing-about-Writing (WAW) tonight--so much else is on my mind, but I started this series and haven't yet forgot what I wanted to say :-), so let me finish it.
I've alluded to this before, but it bears repeating: It was a stunning day when I found out that what I thought was Writing instruction was really only a very small branch of Writing pedagogy called WAW. And every time I hear more about other pedagogies, I am reminded again how many ways to teach writing there are out there.
My final post in my 3-part series of thinking about Writing instruction and what it means to me as an undergrad who wants to teach writing at a college level is undeniably in favor of the pedagogy that changed my perception of writing, my educational experience, and my life. My goal is not to be fair--just fired up about my own experience. My goal is not to "stay in my own paygrade"--I realize I can't speak with a whole lot of authority on teaching writing until I've done it--but I've got to teach it at some point, so I look forward. I try to imagine myself as a teacher, through my student eyes--in hope that when I become a teacher, I won't ever forget what things look like from a student perspective.
Did you know that some Writing instructors feel that Writing should not be a content area? (This means--I think--that writing should just be taught as a tool to be used by other, very legitimate fields, but Writing itself is not a field or discipline of its own). While that makes sense to me from the aspect that every field's writing is contextualized to their needs, I don't see how this could be true overall.
The most obvious reason is that, it doesn't really matter what we want a field to be--it is what it is. This field already has research. It already has a history. Writing is a content area. To teach it as if it were not would be to ignore years of rich history, painstaking research, and many people who risked their careers to bring us to the point where writing is visible enough to be a meaningful field of study and work. Who cares what people want to imagine our field to be--we need to see what it is. Thank you to those who have come before me, Writing studies is undeniably a content area, and to teach it otherwise seems unthinkably unfaithful to those students who look trustingly up their writing teachers for the knowledge of the field. (Like I said, I'm not presumptuously opinionated or anything...)
From what I understand, another aspect of this mindset about writing is a resistance to Writing being focused on and lifted up--almost as if it would be arrogance to magnify our own field. In one way, this makes sense to me--it goes back to the idea of pedagogy being something of embodiment and I don't think I've ever met someone who considered themselves a writer who liked to focus on themselves in obvious ways. (Of course I'm overgeneralizing here, and I've not met all the writers in the world, but I'm just saying that this is the only way this makes sense to me.)
But that is where my understanding of this mindset ends. In fact, these ways of seeing the field of Writing are so bizarre and counter-intuitive to me that I barely feel okay mentioning them: I feel I must have understood wrong; such perspectives feel so much like an accusation to me, that I don't want to spend time on them. But if I make it to teaching writing, and I'm in an educational atmosphere that doesn't think my field of study is a legitimate content area, then I need to know--and be able to express--why I think that it is. Just this week I realized a new reason that I love the WAW pedagogy, and it has everything to do with the way it unabashedly lifts up our field.
This new way of understanding came to me thanks to the term user experience (that I mentioned in my previous post ), and the story I came across about NASA creating an event especially for social media lovers. I kept thinking, why can't we do X, Y, or Z with Writing like NASA has done with all it's wondrous exploration? And the answer I knew I'd get 9 times out of 10 haunted me: because they have spaceships. Spaceships are awesome. But I think writing is just as awesome as spaceships!! You might say, Well, that's just you. You like writing. That is precisely the point. I may not know how to teach writing yet, but I love writing--and that will drive me to figure out how to teach it. I don't think you can teach writing in an effective way unless you believe it is as cool as spaceships--and you present it that way, lifting it up in public to the level of admiration you hold for it privately.
Where would NASA be if the people running the show over the years believed that NASA's mission shouldn't be the center of attention, shouldn't be lifted up, and was only a tool for other fields? Oh, but you say, they are: they promote science, and technology and defense. Right. By focusing on their own field. They don't live in a vacuum any more than writing does. Of course writing is a tool that helps other fields (And, a-hem, NASA never uses writing or anything, do they?), but so is every field, by virtue of how they are all interconnected. But if the leaders of a field refuse to focus on it, then that field lags behind and doesn't have the strength to hold up those other disciplines that rely on it.
(And we end up with an entire culture that thinks writing is for the gifted, and that if you struggle with writing that must make you a bad writer--and who think they never write anything, when their daily lives are filled with writing.) If those who claim the field of Writing as our own treated it as if it took man to the moon, would our culture be so misled about Writing? Would our College Writing I courses be filled with students who have purposefully chosen other majors, solely based on the fact that the major didn't require any writing? I don't know, but the question holds me.)
And here's why I love my experience of WAW in this regard. WAW pedagogy walks into a room full of disinterested writers, and holds up in front of them this thing that is so amazing, it might as well be a spaceship. This thing may as well have carried mankind to the moon for the first time. This thing might as well have been one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind. This thing might as well have singlehandedly brought the U.S. back into play as a leader in space exploration. And this thing is Writing.
Do you realize what it is like to be a student in that audience? It's like, Wait, are we talking about the same thing? Because I thought you were talking about writing, and this is not a Writing I am familiar with. Do you know what it's like to be the student who is sure they aren't good enough to "be a writer," and have someone hand you a definition of "good writing" that brings the dream within reach? Imagine yourself a child, seeing for the first time whatever it was that would continue to awe you for the rest of your life, and being told you are good enough to be part of it: it's like that.
Every field knows that they have to make their area of study relevant and interesting if they are to perpetuate it to the next generation. (This is where user experience comes in: if the user experience is horrible, why would the user want to have more of the experience?) People who don't love what they do can't light that torch in the heart and mind of another. It takes love--of your own field--to be able to lift it up to the light so that its marvelous angles throw rainbows into the dark rooms and minds of those who listen. Writing is no different.
I just don't see any way that writing can be taught (other than as something irrelevant to be resented) unless it is A) taught by those who love it so much that they, B) lift it up and show its worth to those listening. Writing is as exciting as Apollo 11. Don't take my word for it. How much Apollo 11 would we have without writing? (And nope, that doesn't prove that writing is not a content area). Just think about it for a minute.
Writing was there in the obscure night of someone's "insane" dream that man could walk on the moon. Writing was there as the calculations were made to see just how insane a dream it was. Writing was there as the plans were drawn. Writing was there as the support was garnered, and as government and funding organizations were convinced that it was logical and safe to set a man in a tin can on top of tons of explosive fuel, and explode him so precisely that he was hurled outside of Earth's atmosphere to land safely on the moon--and then return. Writing was involved every step of the way, even in the moment that was one step for man and one giant leap for mankind.
Why the hell isn't something that amazing (Writing) deserving of it's own credibility as a field?
If you read some of the experiences students are having in WAW courses, you will note the unmistakable excitement of those who have been shown something that is simply astonishing. Writing is breathtaking--when you see its research, its history, its deep questions and challenges.WAW elevates Writing to the place where it is this intriguing--and yet attainable (an attainability and sense of intrigue that the more boring versions of Writing instruction demand but don't provide a way to achieve).
And actually, it is terribly sad that Writing is so astonishing to students who have already had years of writing instruction. If the Writing that WAW introduces to students blows their hair back, then what was all that other instruction, and why did it make them hate Writing?
I dunno--I might think completely differently next year at this time--and that's okay--that is a beauty of learning. But this is just stuff I think about now when I tremblingly ponder the hope that in little more than a year, I might have to teach Writing in my own classroom.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Why Is My Cell Phone Your Enemy?
(...Continued from the previous post)
I was saying that whenever I write "WAW" my friends remind me I've spelled Wow wrong again. But I don't think I have. I'll get to that.
The cool thing about being involved with the actual work of the field of writing is the incredible questions and thoughts it stirs up--and they're worth thinking about because they are real (as opposed to just a test question for a class, for example). (Hold onto that thought, if I forget to get back to it, it will apply to whatever I end up saying!) I find myself between two very different experiences that have made me think differently than I ever have about teaching (and learning) writing.
Recently, I've been thinking quite a bit about the part that reading plays in WAW courses. Then I was involved in a conversation where the topic was User Experiences, and I have to say, that one phrase has made me think differently. Today I ran across an article about how NASA held an event "at the Dryden Flight Research Center [and] invited over 50 social media users from around the country to tour the center and inevitably tweet, post, and blog about it. Each person invited to attend the event offered a unique look into the culture that has made up NASA’s most dedicated supporters." These three sources of input have had me pondering and puzzling all day. See if I can't make sense of why...
Before I was involved in the conversation on user experience, I wouldn't have admitted it, but I'd have thought very strongly that that phrase had to do with marketing, marketing had to do with making lazy, selfish "me-centered" consumers happy, and I'm not interested in that. The thing is, when you take away whatever your preconceived notions of user experience are, and merely look at how the user of something experienced it, you find whole new tracks for thoughts about teaching writing to run in. I did, at least.
So, I kept thinking the past couple days, what happens when we think of writing students as the users? What is their experience, and what could it be? I have to be honest with you, I wasn't sure how useful writing that question would be if I wrote it here, because I feel that much of the (not voiced) response would be, But they are just Freshmen--of course writing instruction isn't going to be appealing to them. They don't know what they need... In other words, when its freshmen taking a required writing course, why bother with the user experience? The teacher knows best.
Now maybe I gather such reaction from the couple of very pessimistic writing instructors I've overheard (on really bad days, maybe?), and don't know well. Maybe no other writing instructors in the world would react that way. But I was worried that would be the reception to my question. I'll leave it at that, it being obvious that one of the givens I'm working from is that teaching writing is all about the user experience--because teaching writing is about learning writing.
I'm unabashedly going two places with these thoughts, something like this:
WAW: Pedagogy, Apollo 11 Style, and
Why the Hell is My Cell Phone Your Enemy?
I'll start with the second one.
When you read the New Media Rockstars article I linked to above, you notice just how freakin' excited everyone is about NASA, right? But they are really excited about science, about technology, and about interaction--and the three are intertwined, even if the users having the experience aren't conscious of anything more than the good time they're having (and I'll get myself get stoned by a certain group of thinkers here, but I'll say it anyway: all these folks were writing, at this NASA event...)
I have a real, honest-to-goodness question for you: read that article, then answer me this: why can't we do that with writing?
If your answer is, "Yeah, but that's NASA, writing is not that exciting," skip to the next post. (And as a student of writing, I have to be particularly puzzled about what definitions people who associate themselves with writing are using for Writing if it isn't interesting enough to hold their interest--but I'm just an undergrad--what do I know?)
Because, here's the thing: anything can be cool, but there isn't going to be a buzz about it until people are talking about it. Old school buzz was gossip during ice cream socials or church potlucks. Current buzz doesn't exist without being transmitted via really cool electronic gadgets. So, logically, the best way to get students excited about learning is to forbid and frown upon the use of those gadgets that they interact with as natural as breathing, right? Uh-huh...
Faculty go to conferences and Tweet, Facebook, and otherwise broadcast what is going on during the presentations. The very act of sharing in this way not only stirs the interest of those not present, but it changes the way those who are transmitting the messages from the event think. Ever tried to assimilate and condense a 15 minute presentation down into a Facebook status? It's hard: you have to understand the subject matter--at least partially. This is a kind of learning, of assimilation, that only happens when you take knowledge and try and teach it--yet we have this dynamic available to us every moment, if technology of this kind were welcome in the classroom.
Getting back to the user experience, what if technology were more than just welcome in the classroom? What if the classroom was set up for users who interact via technology? Do you see what NASA did? They created a space where people who love to compose using new media's inscription tools were the entire point. Instead of the same old press releases and museum tours of old space shuttles, NASA looked at the way people who love technology are interacting with each other, and they built an experience around that love of technology. The experience was made for the user, not the user crammed into the experience. There's something to that.
What if today's freshmen love writing that is dependent upon modern technology? Rather than technology being a device that aids writing like it is for most of my generation and previous ones, what if writing is what comes out when you play with technology and talk about it to other people who love technology? Does this in some way defile Writing? Or does it grant those freshman (who compose all day and all night long--in various forms of new media--and yet claim they haven't written a word in several years and so are "bad writers") a way to see writing that is relevant to their lived experience?
I know that some classes and universities welcome technology. But some eye me suspiciously when I take my smartphone out in class. And I'm sure if technology were welcome in classrooms, there would be some students texting about unrelated topics--I'm sure there were some personal texts and tweets at the NASA social media event too. Question is, so what?
You mean the classroom isn't more interesting than the latest gossip to hit facebook via smartphone? Huh. You mean teaching and learning writing are so sacred and beyond the grasp of real life that they are threatened by someone checking to be sure dinner plans are set? Does this convey writing as relevant to life? (And if writing isn't relevant, how do we propose to stimulate interest in it, particularly to those who are required to be there, and won't take another writing class?)
There's this line that keeps going through my head--I made a hashtag out of it earlier, and for some reason, that helped it become a purpose in my head (research that one!): #keepwritingrelevant
But how do we do that? When (if) I become a GTA and get to try any of these (very consciously based on student observation, so probably idealistic) ideas, how am I going to keep writing relevant?
And if most students find College Writing I irrelevant, boring, and not worth even Tweeting, texting, or Facebooking about, I keep wondering of its instructors,
Have you showed your students Apollo 11 yet? No, I mean the Apollo 11 of your field? Because you have one--I have one--we have one. Every field does.
That's where WAW comes in--how I see it, at least. See you at the next post!
I was saying that whenever I write "WAW" my friends remind me I've spelled Wow wrong again. But I don't think I have. I'll get to that.
The cool thing about being involved with the actual work of the field of writing is the incredible questions and thoughts it stirs up--and they're worth thinking about because they are real (as opposed to just a test question for a class, for example). (Hold onto that thought, if I forget to get back to it, it will apply to whatever I end up saying!) I find myself between two very different experiences that have made me think differently than I ever have about teaching (and learning) writing.
Recently, I've been thinking quite a bit about the part that reading plays in WAW courses. Then I was involved in a conversation where the topic was User Experiences, and I have to say, that one phrase has made me think differently. Today I ran across an article about how NASA held an event "at the Dryden Flight Research Center [and] invited over 50 social media users from around the country to tour the center and inevitably tweet, post, and blog about it. Each person invited to attend the event offered a unique look into the culture that has made up NASA’s most dedicated supporters." These three sources of input have had me pondering and puzzling all day. See if I can't make sense of why...
Before I was involved in the conversation on user experience, I wouldn't have admitted it, but I'd have thought very strongly that that phrase had to do with marketing, marketing had to do with making lazy, selfish "me-centered" consumers happy, and I'm not interested in that. The thing is, when you take away whatever your preconceived notions of user experience are, and merely look at how the user of something experienced it, you find whole new tracks for thoughts about teaching writing to run in. I did, at least.
So, I kept thinking the past couple days, what happens when we think of writing students as the users? What is their experience, and what could it be? I have to be honest with you, I wasn't sure how useful writing that question would be if I wrote it here, because I feel that much of the (not voiced) response would be, But they are just Freshmen--of course writing instruction isn't going to be appealing to them. They don't know what they need... In other words, when its freshmen taking a required writing course, why bother with the user experience? The teacher knows best.
Now maybe I gather such reaction from the couple of very pessimistic writing instructors I've overheard (on really bad days, maybe?), and don't know well. Maybe no other writing instructors in the world would react that way. But I was worried that would be the reception to my question. I'll leave it at that, it being obvious that one of the givens I'm working from is that teaching writing is all about the user experience--because teaching writing is about learning writing.
I'm unabashedly going two places with these thoughts, something like this:
WAW: Pedagogy, Apollo 11 Style, and
Why the Hell is My Cell Phone Your Enemy?
I'll start with the second one.
When you read the New Media Rockstars article I linked to above, you notice just how freakin' excited everyone is about NASA, right? But they are really excited about science, about technology, and about interaction--and the three are intertwined, even if the users having the experience aren't conscious of anything more than the good time they're having (and I'll get myself get stoned by a certain group of thinkers here, but I'll say it anyway: all these folks were writing, at this NASA event...)
I have a real, honest-to-goodness question for you: read that article, then answer me this: why can't we do that with writing?
If your answer is, "Yeah, but that's NASA, writing is not that exciting," skip to the next post. (And as a student of writing, I have to be particularly puzzled about what definitions people who associate themselves with writing are using for Writing if it isn't interesting enough to hold their interest--but I'm just an undergrad--what do I know?)
Because, here's the thing: anything can be cool, but there isn't going to be a buzz about it until people are talking about it. Old school buzz was gossip during ice cream socials or church potlucks. Current buzz doesn't exist without being transmitted via really cool electronic gadgets. So, logically, the best way to get students excited about learning is to forbid and frown upon the use of those gadgets that they interact with as natural as breathing, right? Uh-huh...
Faculty go to conferences and Tweet, Facebook, and otherwise broadcast what is going on during the presentations. The very act of sharing in this way not only stirs the interest of those not present, but it changes the way those who are transmitting the messages from the event think. Ever tried to assimilate and condense a 15 minute presentation down into a Facebook status? It's hard: you have to understand the subject matter--at least partially. This is a kind of learning, of assimilation, that only happens when you take knowledge and try and teach it--yet we have this dynamic available to us every moment, if technology of this kind were welcome in the classroom.
Getting back to the user experience, what if technology were more than just welcome in the classroom? What if the classroom was set up for users who interact via technology? Do you see what NASA did? They created a space where people who love to compose using new media's inscription tools were the entire point. Instead of the same old press releases and museum tours of old space shuttles, NASA looked at the way people who love technology are interacting with each other, and they built an experience around that love of technology. The experience was made for the user, not the user crammed into the experience. There's something to that.
What if today's freshmen love writing that is dependent upon modern technology? Rather than technology being a device that aids writing like it is for most of my generation and previous ones, what if writing is what comes out when you play with technology and talk about it to other people who love technology? Does this in some way defile Writing? Or does it grant those freshman (who compose all day and all night long--in various forms of new media--and yet claim they haven't written a word in several years and so are "bad writers") a way to see writing that is relevant to their lived experience?
I know that some classes and universities welcome technology. But some eye me suspiciously when I take my smartphone out in class. And I'm sure if technology were welcome in classrooms, there would be some students texting about unrelated topics--I'm sure there were some personal texts and tweets at the NASA social media event too. Question is, so what?
You mean the classroom isn't more interesting than the latest gossip to hit facebook via smartphone? Huh. You mean teaching and learning writing are so sacred and beyond the grasp of real life that they are threatened by someone checking to be sure dinner plans are set? Does this convey writing as relevant to life? (And if writing isn't relevant, how do we propose to stimulate interest in it, particularly to those who are required to be there, and won't take another writing class?)
There's this line that keeps going through my head--I made a hashtag out of it earlier, and for some reason, that helped it become a purpose in my head (research that one!): #keepwritingrelevant
But how do we do that? When (if) I become a GTA and get to try any of these (very consciously based on student observation, so probably idealistic) ideas, how am I going to keep writing relevant?
And if most students find College Writing I irrelevant, boring, and not worth even Tweeting, texting, or Facebooking about, I keep wondering of its instructors,
Have you showed your students Apollo 11 yet? No, I mean the Apollo 11 of your field? Because you have one--I have one--we have one. Every field does.
That's where WAW comes in--how I see it, at least. See you at the next post!
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Shifting Thinking to a New Audience
One of the fortunate things about having your first college writing class be a Writing-about-Writing (WAW) course can also be a little unfortunate (the fortunate part FAR outweighing the unfortunate): not knowing how good you have it, or the value of expounding on your own experience.
I find myself thinking that all writing teachers value those same things that WAW does, and being shocked at how many don't. I find myself not realizing that, to be an advocate for a pedagogy I wish were more widely taught, I have to realize the value of my own experience as a student in WAW courses, through the eyes of those who don't already love and live it. This is a new way of thinking, and quite a bit intimidating, since, when I think about myself, I don't feel qualified to be talking about pedagogy, since I'm a student. But what the hell; feelings are what they are, I'm going to talk about it anyway.
A year out from graduating, I find myself thinking often about my hope to get into grad school, and more importantly, to have a chance to be a GTA. Even though the thought of being in front of a bunch of freshmen terrifies me, I think I've forgotten that there is anything to grad school besides teaching writing...it feels like cheating the system: I'm getting my undergrad so I can go to grad school so I can get my PhD, so that I can teach writing. But due to some oversight on a galactic level, I (hopefully) get to teach writing during grad school!
How cool is it to be able to try the thing you're learning to do before you get the final degree? (And not just because the realist in me wants to know earlier, rather than later, if I'm entirely too much an introvert to run a classroom, or if I can breech walls--mine and the student's--enough to enjoy it, but because, duuuuude! The entire point is to teach writing [okay, and research it] and I get to taste it before I'm officially qualified!) A freakishly scary and exciting thought.
I think a lot, lately, about my experience in College Writing I and why it was so powerful for me. I wonder often about the environment for exploration that my professor created and his ways of interaction that worked so well for me, and I wonder, realistically, how much of that my temperament and inexperience will allow me to duplicate--even in my own way. I return often to the question: how much of WAW is embodiment, and can it be taught otherwise?
I've started to move from thinking about what position my mentor would take on some pedagogical issue, to what I think that I might think about it, and then on towards what other ways there are to think about it, and how I can convey why I value one over the other--especially as inexperienced as I am (and then be open to finding value in others as well).
I've been tremendously blessed to have the instructing, mentoring, research, and audience that I have had, but I won't always have the audience the pulls from me what I didn't yet know I was capable of thinking--from a supportive stance. What if, at my next academic stop, I have leadership, instructors and an audience that opposes those aspects of writing that I already hold as irreplaceable? (And here's a question--are undergrads expected to graduate with opinions like I'm referring to, and if not, how are people going to respond to that?)
Of course, I always carry with me the openness to new ideas that I think characterizes, not only great students, but great teachers and great people as well. But the idea of having my own view on pedagogy and writing that I have to converse about rather than just (safely) blog about? Scary! And it seems that requires a little more thought on why I value what I value--as I understand it at this point in my journey.
I've been sold on WAW pedagogy from the moment I knew there was anything else. Ever since then, I've been trying to figure out why anything else makes sense. The more I try and find value in the others for myself, the more value I find in WAW. It has been very, very difficult to articulate why though. I even fail at defining WAW to (non-school) friends who point out that I've spelled "WOW" wrong again.
The thing is, I don't think I have.
(Continued into next post...)
I find myself thinking that all writing teachers value those same things that WAW does, and being shocked at how many don't. I find myself not realizing that, to be an advocate for a pedagogy I wish were more widely taught, I have to realize the value of my own experience as a student in WAW courses, through the eyes of those who don't already love and live it. This is a new way of thinking, and quite a bit intimidating, since, when I think about myself, I don't feel qualified to be talking about pedagogy, since I'm a student. But what the hell; feelings are what they are, I'm going to talk about it anyway.
A year out from graduating, I find myself thinking often about my hope to get into grad school, and more importantly, to have a chance to be a GTA. Even though the thought of being in front of a bunch of freshmen terrifies me, I think I've forgotten that there is anything to grad school besides teaching writing...it feels like cheating the system: I'm getting my undergrad so I can go to grad school so I can get my PhD, so that I can teach writing. But due to some oversight on a galactic level, I (hopefully) get to teach writing during grad school!
How cool is it to be able to try the thing you're learning to do before you get the final degree? (And not just because the realist in me wants to know earlier, rather than later, if I'm entirely too much an introvert to run a classroom, or if I can breech walls--mine and the student's--enough to enjoy it, but because, duuuuude! The entire point is to teach writing [okay, and research it] and I get to taste it before I'm officially qualified!) A freakishly scary and exciting thought.
I think a lot, lately, about my experience in College Writing I and why it was so powerful for me. I wonder often about the environment for exploration that my professor created and his ways of interaction that worked so well for me, and I wonder, realistically, how much of that my temperament and inexperience will allow me to duplicate--even in my own way. I return often to the question: how much of WAW is embodiment, and can it be taught otherwise?
I've started to move from thinking about what position my mentor would take on some pedagogical issue, to what I think that I might think about it, and then on towards what other ways there are to think about it, and how I can convey why I value one over the other--especially as inexperienced as I am (and then be open to finding value in others as well).
I've been tremendously blessed to have the instructing, mentoring, research, and audience that I have had, but I won't always have the audience the pulls from me what I didn't yet know I was capable of thinking--from a supportive stance. What if, at my next academic stop, I have leadership, instructors and an audience that opposes those aspects of writing that I already hold as irreplaceable? (And here's a question--are undergrads expected to graduate with opinions like I'm referring to, and if not, how are people going to respond to that?)
Of course, I always carry with me the openness to new ideas that I think characterizes, not only great students, but great teachers and great people as well. But the idea of having my own view on pedagogy and writing that I have to converse about rather than just (safely) blog about? Scary! And it seems that requires a little more thought on why I value what I value--as I understand it at this point in my journey.
I've been sold on WAW pedagogy from the moment I knew there was anything else. Ever since then, I've been trying to figure out why anything else makes sense. The more I try and find value in the others for myself, the more value I find in WAW. It has been very, very difficult to articulate why though. I even fail at defining WAW to (non-school) friends who point out that I've spelled "WOW" wrong again.
The thing is, I don't think I have.
(Continued into next post...)
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