Archive for February, 2009
Between conference sessions, I came home. The Little People had already had dinner, and were in the tub. Not long after I got home, Miss Baby abandoned that, so I went ahead and diapered her. She fussed at me, so I fussed back, which made her laugh. I read her a book about Whales, which she enjoyed. Besides identifying all the animals in the book — even the coral — she greeted the whales: “Hellooo Whaaales,” a la Dory. She’d held up her fishie to read the book, and then curled up in bed and was asleep before the blanket reached her shoulders.
I chatted with the Little Guy too, and told him that I was going to hear a writer read something she’d written. he was impressed, and wanted me to remember what she said so I could tell him. I told him that I’d heard a poet read his poems earlier, and he wanted me to tell him one of the poems. I could remember one line, but he wanted more. It was cute.
A pleasant break, all the way around.
Filed under: ramblingPosted: February / 28 / 2009
I went to Taco Bell this evening, and got my usual children’s meal. When I got up to the window, they gave me a large Dr. Pepper because they were out of medium size cups, there being no such thing as a small cup, apparently. I was insulted in a wierd, imaginary way. What kind of mother gives their child a large Dr. Pepper at 9:45 p.m.? The kind I am, apparently, even though I’m not, actually.
Filed under: literaturePosted: February / 28 / 2009
Tonight’s speaker at the conference was Jill McCorkle, and she was great. She read a short story from her forthcoming collection, and it was followed by a nice discussion. It’s rare for a writer to make me wish I could write, but she did. And this is the story that did it:
She told about a student of hers who wanted to write a memoir, but was afraid to do it. “What would my mother say?” McCorkle’s answer: “Put your mother in the closet and write.” Later, McCorkle overheard her telling another student about the conversation: “She told me to put my mother in the closet and brick her up!” She confessed to McCorkle, “OK, I added the bricks.”
So, this morning I got to the registration table for the conference and discovered that I was presenting this afternoon at 5:00 rather than tomorrow morning at 9:00.
Alrighty then.
The paper was pretty much finished, but I had imagined having a little time to tweak it, so I went back to my office and tweaked it instead of going to faculty meeting. I know, I know, I missed a rip-roaring time. There will be another (and another, and another, and another). (I was able to figure out almost exactly what happened from the various memos and e-mails that went out). Anyway, I rather expected a low turnout, so I was pleased when we had nearly 10 people there — and by “nearly 10,” I mean eight. There were only two of us on the panel, and the other presenter gave a somewhat vague and general paper that drew a few dissatisfied and vague questions. I talked fast, since my paper was too long, and it actually went over pretty well. I had some nice comments and a few people who wanted to chat with me afterwards.
Today, there was a letter to the editor in our local paper (and I can’t link to it because our local paper’s website is flat-out byzantine), thanking them for a story about a handicapped child and his family. No problem there; it was far more articulate than most letters to the editor. It contained the interesting sentence, “All families need to know that they are not alone and that there are resources available to them.” It was even a pull quote.
Since this is a military town, we hear a lot about supporting the troops and supporting military families. McDonald’s is decorated with paratrooping french fry guys, and there isn’t a store in town that doesn’t offer some kind of military discount. An Army wife has a column in the local paper, which I’ve had to stop reading because that woman gets on my nerves. The neighbor boy is my son’s age, and he is developing into that classic military kid — he has a sense of entitlement, part of which comes from being seven years old, and part of which comes from living in an environment where everyone goes out of their way for him.
Good, fine. Military families have a hard time. I’m glad I don’t have to go get shot at for 14 months at a time, or stay here wrestling children while my DH gets shot at. I understand all that; that’s part of why I didn’t sign up for it. But would it really be so terrible, every now and then, to suggest that teachers or librarians or scientists contribute to society, and that their families and children exist, or are maybe even — it could be true — a positive good in society?
Filed under: mediaPosted: February / 27 / 2009
Today, George F. Will linked to a very interesting article (his column was basically a shortened rehash of the original piece, which would have given him big trouble on turnitin). The article makes some interesting observations about how we have transferred all our cultural rules and guilt about sex onto food in ways that would have confounded our grandparents. I’m pretty sure that this is a class thing — but then, I did read about it in a George Will column.
Miss Baby has recovered from her brief illness, and is making up for lost time on the food front. Today and yesterday, she’s climbed up into her booster chair at around 3:00 (I’m told) and begged for food, calling out, “Dinner! Yummies! Hungry!” When that fails, she becomes more specific: “Cheese!” She’s consumed several square feet of cheese over the last few days (American slices are the cheese of choice for the small people); it’s becoming an alarming obsession. I guess her body knows she needs to replace lost fats and proteins, but it’s become almost obsessive.
Yesterday, when we finally did put dinner on the table, she burst into tears and left the room after my DH wouldn’t let her climb on top of him (oh, yeah, we’re looking forward to her teenage years). So we ate, and left the room, at which point she returned. She sat in her chair, looked at her food for a little bit, then climbed down (we were watching from the next room). She went over to the silverware drawer and found herself a spoon, then climbed back up and tucked in.
We’re thinking, for a few days there, lying on top of Daddy and weeping copiously was her standard position, so now, when she doesn’t quite know what to do, she does that. Obviously, we’d like to see her develop a different fallback, so we are taking steps to distinguish between throwing a fit and being ill. Tonight went better than yesterday, so we are making headway.
I have 2 sections of ENG102, which is sort of a literature/composition combo. I go way more into the literature, myself. I figure someone in the room should be having a good time, and if that’s going to be me, then so be it. These sections are at 11:00 and 2:00 on Tuesday and Thursday, and it’s hard not to compare them. The 11:00 group is way sharper than the 2:00; they ask questions, they have ideas, they suggest poems to discuss. It’s clear from their reactions that they are actually conscious, and may have done the readings.
The other class? One of these days, I’m going to in and conduct class in German, just to see if anyone notices.
Filed under: literaturePosted: February / 26 / 2009
I’m giving a paper at the Southern Writers Symposium on campus this weekend. My author is only barely Southern — he was born in Georgia, but moved to Oklahoma as a child. This novel was actually written in and about California. John Rollin Ridge was part of a very powerful Cherokee family — in fact, it was his father, grandfather, and uncle who signed the treaty that approved the removal. As a child, he watched as his father was killed for his this, and later in his life, JRR killed someone, probably in revenge. So he hightailed it to California during the Gold Rush, and wrote this novel, The Life and Adventures of Joaquin Murietta, the Celebrated California Bandit, there. There was a real Murietta –there were probably several, actually — whose head was kept in a jar after his “capture.” (A beheading isn’t quite the same as a capture).
Anyway, I’m writing a paper about this novel. Most people have used the rather obvious autobiographical approach — JRR lived a life of racial violence and revenge killing, and it’s a novel about racial violence and revenge killing, so it’s not a big stretch. I’m going in a different direction, and taling about it in the context of Gloria Anzaldua’s Borderlands/ La Frontera. I only figured out yesterday how to wrap it up — Murrietta as trickster figure! I wrote a lot last night, and am going to try to iron things out tonight, so I’m not scrambling at the very very last minute. Just the next to the last minute.
The Little Guy says to me, “Have you ever been to my world?” He’s referring, of course, to his imaginary train world. “Well,” I asked, “I’m not sure how to get there.”
“How to get there?” he says. “You get there by imagining it in your sleep. That’s how I get there. That’s how Miss Baby gets there.”
Well, now we know what he dreams about — as if there were any doubt.
