bathrooms: threat to moral society?

I love watching people navigate new spaces.Case in point - eclectic restaurant in Boulder, group of 4 (assumedly) upper-middle class, middle-aged, heteronormative whites walk in (this is Boulder, after all). One woman breaks from the herd to venture on her own insearch of the bathroom. I see her confusion, her pacing, craning her neck at all the wrong crannies. So I, charitable citizen that I am, announce "It's in the corner." "Thanks," she says, and disappears through the curtain. Only to reappear a moment later. "Uh...are they both unisex?" I have no idea, and tell her so, following up with "If they both have locks, it doesn't really matter." Because, to me, it doesn't. The restaurant is almost empty; no one's going to be banging down the door. But even if they weren't unisex, who's going to call her out for it? Does this mean she can't leave the house without wearing pink? That she is afraid of seeing a urinal? Was it really such a quandry that she had to reappear from behind the curtain to ask a stranger the correct place for her to pee? Reminds me of being in a dingy little bathroom in an restaurant in Italy when a woman walked in with her pre-teen daughter, saw there was no bathroom seat, and walked out to check the other bathroom. Only to find the same situation, at which she returned expressly for the purpose of observing that there was no bathroom seat, and asking what she should do about it. Again, my response was basically "deal with it." What other advice can you give in such a situation? Her response was to leave without using the facilities, assumedly to find one more befitting her sensibiltiies and those she was trying to pass on to her daughter. Ah, theymake me laugh; mainly because if Ithink about it too much, I'll cry from frustration. What narrow borders people must live in if such as a thing as a bathroom causes them to throw up their hands in alarm and defense of their sensibilities.

Slective amnesia would be nice sometimes...

I want to kick myself sometimes. Or just find a way to delete certain sections of my brian, a la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, only successfully. I want to forget that certain people affect me in certain ways - more accurately, I want to forget about them, and how to contac them. I want them out of my life, without the small hole that appears when they go. Too much to ask? Yes. Damn. What now? Oh yeah - there's that whole handling things like an adult and moving on, and up, and out, whatever direction gets you farther. And yet, there continues to be this small tether, rooting you to a particular point in time and space. Makes me think of a fly tied by a thread for a pet. Poor fly! Poor "owner"! My present self raelly wishes my past self had avoided certain times, places, people... Ah, so it goes!

Academics-R-Us

The further I walk along the hallowed halls, the more I become aware that Academe is a world unto itself. We joke that the more degrees one accrues, the longer one's an academic, the more socially inept we become until finally the only people who can bear to spend time with you are other academics (and those people who remember what you were like before and keep hoping you'll come back to the "real world"). We have entirely different sets of vocabulary from many of those around us, which are of course dependent on which disciplines we identify with. I have seriously forgotten basic words I used to use in conversation, instead substituting words with far more syllables and loaded meanings. I would give an example, but I really don't remember what those missing words are until I find myself tongue-tied over them. It's bad enough that we can no longer think of the simple words to use, but there are those who forgo that whole process of drawing on existing words and instead make up their own: obscurantist, demythologization, grammaticalized, complexification, disambiguate... really? c'mon here, people - the least we can do is try to fit in!
Friends and I were talking the other night about the difference between conversations with friends in and outside of academia. The topics we discuss and the ways we discuss them are entirely different. I'm still learning how to navigate this minefield - forgetting the everyday words for things doesn't help. I dropped the term "discourse" on some unsuspecting soul the other day because I couldn't think of "talk" soon enough, only to spend the next 10 minutes trying to explain the term and subsequently correct their misinterpretation. (Perhaps I'm not such a good teacher after all!) I've found the word that sends people running or their hackles rising fastedr than any other is "feminist." It gives a whole new meaning to the term "f-bomb"; talk about a conversation stopper! My family figured out I am one, and now it apparently means I devalue everything the women in my family have done since the dawn of time because many of them did not work full time outside of the home. They often bear with me and feign excitement on my behalf as I try to explain the latest obscure and critically-themed research project I've started. I really must give them credit, because I know many academics who couldn't care less, even when they already know and use the theories and references I'm throwing out left and right.
"Academe" often seems a nameless faceless mass into which I gradually become more and more embedded as the diplomas on the wall multiply and my CV lengthens. Other times, the human element of it becomes starkly obvious. That there are larger social, economic, political, and physical structures supporting The Academy is a given, but within these frameworks scurry the literal flesh and blood and minds that make it what it is. We scamper down the halls with keys, full mugs of tea, books, notes, computers, sanity, lives and workloads precariously balanced. And sometimes a tipping point comes and we have a moment of clarity. From it comes the next great idea, the realization that the last one really wasn't so great, the reassurance that I CAN do this, the constant fear that you can't... whatever it is, it is the most human part of academia, the vital part. Some times this human element makes itself known in the profoundly supportive relationships among cohorts and friends, but at others it is the ugly green viper of jealousy, often unacknowledged. How does one admit to being frustrated by and jealous of what a friend has accomplished, when you know you should happy for them? It takes a big person to recognize this for what it is, accept it, and move on, all while trying to deal with the monumental pile of small stresses that we accumulate through everyday. Those things on our to-do lists often sound so inconsequential, but they add up quickly - read, write, research, check references, check email, write identity statement, teach, grade, attend meeting, attend meeting, attend meeting, class, class, more class, call family, make travel plans for conference, check email, prepare presentation, go to conference, make up work for missed classes while at conference, exercise, read outside sources for extra research project, go to dentist, take car in, do laundry, eat, grocery shopping, plan conference, reading, reading, reading, writing, research, find committee members, check email, office hours, sleep(?)...
I am a firm advocate for mental health days. I've found that when I get too much on my plate I just stop doing anything that I am supposed to. I may be found at a movie (or several!), parking along the side of the road and walking off, or leaving town just because. Whatever it is, I won't be doing the things I know I am "supposed" to be doing. I skip half my reading for a week or two, I pull a last-minute all-nighter to get that (first-draft!) paper in on time, I don't take the notes I'm supposed to be, all knowing it will bite me in the arse later, but that to preserve my sanity I wouldn't have it any other way right now. My present-self is not very nice to my future-self sometimes, but I think it's often because I want to remember that my past-self had a life once upon a time. I work very hard to maintain a semblance of life outside of the halls - now if only I could remember how the people there speak.






A note for you grammar nit-pickers out there: I recognize that I am switching tenses willy-nilly and hither and thither, but it's all in the name of trying to use gender neutral pronouns, so YES I am considering "they" appropriate to use in the singular. I can even provide references to support my claim if you need them... ;)

fallen behind

It would appear I'm not so hot on keeping up with this whole blog thing. The idea was to write just for the sake of it, but I find I don't know what to write about much of the time. All of the fleeting ephemeral thoughts aren't willing to settle long enough to congeal into a paragraph or two. My larger concern is whether said congealed mass would be in the slightest bit interesting, even to myself, once recorded.
I find myself in one of those phases in which I'm convinced there is something more worthwhile I could be doing with my life, but with no idea what that is. I found a fulbright scholarship for a 5 or 10 month teaching and reserach stint in Oman, which would be an amazing opportunity. Unfortunately, my degrees have no bearing on skills others find useful or are seeking. So without some very liberal and creative CV writing, there's not much of a chance of getting it. Not sure how I'll finangle the reference letters supporting such a creative CV either.... won't stop me from trying, though!
I really want a day at home for myself. I'm such a geek - I really want to play in the garden and reorganize my book cases. Yup, I said it - ridiculous, eh? I had forgotten how tiring and stressful two jobs is, even when neither is full time. The restaurant is so draining, probably because I've known it's not where I want to be for so many years at this point. Granted, there are a good number of positive aspects to it, the greatest being that it's the place I actually get exposure to non-academic friends. It's such a different world. Which is a problem sometimes, because I feel like a different person there - one who is a hypocrite compared to my academic self. I don't have the confidence at climbing to go out and seek new people to know down that avenue, and it's much harder (at least for me) to trust someone off the bat to climb with them. So it goes.

time out

I literally took the time today to pull off to the side and just bask in the world. You know, smell the grasss, watch the clouds, listen to the birds. They're all stil lout there. I highly recommend taking a few minutes to rediscover them. Just sit, and breathe, and be. I found my mind wandering back to the paper I need to write, the teaching appointment I was just assigned and am disappointed in, the dinner I was going to make when I got home... all of those things that keep us going and going and going but never getting anywhere. But at least this time, all of those not-so-fun-to-think -about things were not at the forefront, clamouring for attention. Instead, they floated about in my brain, first one coming to the fore, and then another. All were softened, mellowed, brought back into perspective by the soft glow descending upon the world around me, and interrupted by the redwinged blackbird in the rushes, and diminished by the fresh, sweet, cool air that was so much more important than considering exactly how to word that introduction, no matter how pressing the deadline may be. I love rediscovering life.

Only in your dreams

I love afternoon naps - especially those with the rain dripping out the window. My bed puts out an extra oomph of effort to make itself inviting enough to tempt me from everything else I should be doing during the day. I heard just the other day that the time of day you are most craving a nap corresponds to the time twleve hours later during the night that you get your best sleep. How would one even go about checking this?

One of the best things about naps are the dreams - they feel so real! Your lover really is there next to you, that elephant really is in your backyard, and none of the neighbors seem to mind, and the fact that you're running around without your pants is inevitable, yet natural.
They feel so real because you're never quite sure when you crossed from waking to sleep. I'm convinced most naps start with an element of denial--I'm not sleeping, I'm : resting my eyes, checking my eyelids for cracks, thinking really hard and need to focus, writing the next great novel in my head, just blinking for a long time... No matter what it is I'm doing, however, you should probably not be asking me such an inane question, because can't you see I'm busy? I'll create a character that resembles you in that novel of mine, and they'll be the really annoying, nosy type of character that nobody is sad dies half way through.

Nap dreams are also more intensely strange. Part of this is because they feel so much more real, being half awake and all. But perhaps the strange storylines that come out of nap dreams are due to your brain still being up and at 'em, instead of curling into a corner for rest for the enveing. Every thought you tried to put on hold in order to enjoy the sweet abyss of sleep and rest really just hid behind the corner like an errant three year old, so you couldn't see that it intended to spend the next 20 minutes to an hour playing in its room with all the toys you try to hide because they're too loud, age inappropriate, or you have no idea to work them yourself. It is this pile that comes out of the toybox to run screeching and colorful through your nap dreams, like a small child who has discovered that you have no idea what to do when she takes all her clothes off and runs laughing through the house in front of those neighbors you just met. How exactly do you explain to another what it is that just happened, and why? Well, that's also the glory of it - you don't. Just learn to laugh along and close your eyes for the good part of the ride.

standing at the ready

With a few seemingly innocuous sentences, I am once again enveloped in a whirlwind of guilt, frustration, sadness, and anger. The sensations battle one another for dominance, generating a dusty veil of confusion over the lot. As the dust swirls, parts, reforms, I catch glimpses of the reds and blues that colour the warring emotions. My heart beats in my ears, I can't see straight, I can't sit still - I have to move, to pace the lines, to plan the next move. Is there a next move? Has there ever been a move but to sit and wait and occasionally extend a white flag, only to have it crushed underfoot not long after? The stretches of peace vary, and I spend every moment of them walking on eggshells. The tentative, relative sense of calm is simply the break between storms - I can always feel the clouds forming on the horizon, today a whiskey amber, tomorrow a rich burgundy. The hair on my arms stands up as I straighten my back to prepare for a battle I don't want to fight, have never wanted to. How can the cycle end when one side doesn't even realize there is something amiss?
I look beyond my own borders to see the sun shining upon lands of peace and plenty, where the people are happy, the place is healthy, and time is not spent strategizing how to make it through unscathed. My happiness for them manifests in tears of joy on their behalf, highlighting and mingling with my own tears of frustration. I never see the storm clouds cross the border, and I sense a tinge of green within the already swirling blues and reds. My only hope is to weave and wave a still larger white flag, and to slowly build up the neutral zone again, hoping my attempts to push back the incursions upon it go unnoticed. If I can go unnoticed, unremarked upon, indefinitely forgotten, the calmer waiting is infinitely better than tumultuous storm that signals the need to once again dive for the trenches.

I'm such a...

People generally don't believe that I am shy. Why is it that one can't be socially capable and shy? Sure, I can enter a room and strike up a conversation - it's called small talk, people. It means I can pick topics that anyone can comment on - especially if it's related to what's actually going on around us. And when those painful moments arise in which we realize a) we would neverhave any thing to do with each other if it weren't for whatever event threw us together in the first place and b) neither of us can come up with more of these useless tidbits to pretend to be interested in, than I also am able to make an exit, often on the excuse of getting more food or finding the bathroom. Neither of which is particularly graceful, charming, or delicate, but then, I've never been those things anyway. Since entering academia, I've found this point is reached much more quickly, as so many people have no interest in talking about school, teaching, or research (unless they're also acadegeeks, in which case they want to talk about their research).
My method for getting along in a new group generally also involves telling stories that I cross my fingers they will find entertaining - this is more difficult when meeting new people cold, instead of through another acquaintance. Either way, you have to be very careful to read the situation and group you have currently landed in, to avoid offending. (For instance, talking about the best way to cook a rack of lamb is probably not the best conversation fodder when surrounded by vegetarians. Especially if they're bitter about being vegetarians and secretly crave said rack of lamb - they are then just more likely to declare you an enemy of all living creatures, but as long as your reflexes are fast enough to dodge the paint bucket, you should be fine...) But, the situation becomes exponentially easier if you have a mutual acquaintance, because then you can pick a story in which that person features. It's probably a good idea to avoid stories in which you or said friend feature as the recipients of extreme embarrassment, unless said friend is very forgiving.
Back to my original point - why is it that even though I can often get along fine in a room of people, and sometimes even manage to come off as competent (a difficult enough feat in itself), I am therefore told that I can't be shy?? I get nervous before meeting people, to the point where if I can find any way to do so, I will cancel, or find an excuse to not be there? Sometimes finding topics is a painful process that I'm not willing to engage in. Sometimes I really just don't want to talk to people. I was completely called out today by the poor man I had just met for the first time. I was distractedly staring off into space, possibly lesson planning in my head, but probably just staring off, as I am wont to do. I know I forget to smile unless I think about, and I must certainly have forgotten, because he actually pointed out how uninterested I looked in hanging out. Imagine my chagrin to a) be called out, and b) to have to try and explain that no,of course I wasn't uninterested, I had just started thinking about everything I needed to be doing instead of being here.... I know, sounds bad, right? I think I managed to pull it off without embarrassing both of us, but from then on, all I was thinking was, "See, I knew I should have called to cancel at the last minute... why'd he actually have to show... I hate meeting new people, it's so awkward..."
A lot of this awkwardness may stem from my ambivalence about meeting most people. I have been very fortunate in that there have been several cases where I just "click" with a person from the beginning. This is not just the ability to hold a conversation; instead, it is the inability to end the conversation. Both of you just get one another to the point that you can talk, easily shifting back and forth between topics, the layers of talk rippling over one another seamlessly, until you reach a point that you don't need to talk anymore. But even then, the conversation hasn't ended. It's just on pause for the moment while you simply enjoy the company. These are people who I make every attempt to keep in my life, because we can be apart or not speak for months, but when we do it's as if the gapnever happened. We still "get" one another, and fall back into an easy pattern to relating to one another. As much as I love this, it also means that when I meet people with whom this doesn't happen, I am highly ambivalent about them. I've heard the adage that some people need to grow on you, but I would prefer that the people I spend time around can not be compared to lichen.
When I came home today and my roommate asked about the date, as I shrugged my shoulders and made the face I worry she has come to know too well, she cried out, exasperated - "you're such a .....!" She doesn't even have to fill in the blank, because I know I am "such a..." so many things. I don't know if I am relieved or disappointed to hear from my brother that he is the same way - perhaps I can use the excuse that it's genetic? Something tells me that won't work, however. I don't know if my ambivalence is related to my shyness, but it may be in the sense that if I don't see an immediate result from meeting this new person, I am hesitant to put myself through the stress of seeing/meeting them again. All of this makes me sound so selfish, but I don't know how else to explain it.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

The girl (I say 'girl', because she is - she can't be older than 13 or so) next to me on the bus is applying eyeliner while we're in motion. That does not seem safe, especially considering the stop and start nature of this bus ride. I'm concerned that the next time I see her she will be wearing an eye patch. Eyeliner pencils should come with warning labels. So should things like eyelash curlers, mascara wands, and various other implements of feminine beauty – they all look like torture devices.

Is it a sign of a civilized society when we (pretend to) choose uncomfortable standards of attractiveness? My reference to 'civilized' should of course be taken with a grain of salt,as it often seems those societies deemed most civilized are also those that are most oppressive to groups deemed “not them.” The idea of who counts as civilized is also generally,unfortunately, conflated with who is Western. More specifically, who are white, heterosexual, man, and western.

I think I disagree with my own question. Although many of the current beauty trends of the western world involve discomfort (a particular level of thinness, beauty products, cosmetic procedures, high heels, neckties, male circumcision), I also must take into consideration such practices as neck rings in Burma, labret stretching in parts of Africa, and bodily scarring in areas around the world, among others. (Although not for beauty pruposes, I don't think it fair to include scarring practices by nonwestern groups without including the physical scarring that western groups have inflicted upon others).

Without a doubt one must also include female circumcision on this list, as it is still deemed a desirable trait for women in many parts of the world. I'm not sure whether people would classify China as a civilized society at the time or not (I would, but as they are not western, I think others may disagree), but the former tradition of foot binding definitely qualifies as uncomfortable!

I would also argue that the western beauty practices I listed above involve a level of both physical and emotional discomfort. How does one feel when s/he cannot achieve the idealized/expected/enforced/preferred standard? I will never be a Rockette – in addition to not being able to dance or maintain a can-can line with precision, I do not have the correct proportions. Although being a Rockette has never been my life's ambition, I sympathize with those wo/men who did, do, will want it and can't have it.

There are so many more practices from both western and nonwestern traditions that I have not mentioned, and indeed do not even know about. Indeed, the few examples here are not even the tip of the iceberg, but are instead extreme examples of a system of practices that we often unwittingly conform to every day. Not all of them apply to women, I should note, but it appears that on the whole, women's bodies are interfered with far more regularly than men's in the name of what is desirable.

Scratching the surface

Sometimes it's great to see beneath the old coat of paint to reveal the true wood shining through. However, sometimes the veneer peels off to reveal only cheap, unwelcome particle board. It is this second instance that I hate. Especially when it is the people in my life showing their true colours. Perhaps I missed the signs before, or did not want to admit that you are racist, shallow, small-minded, bigoted, angry, petty, elitist... but when it becomes apparent, I question not only you, but also me, for not realizing sooner. What counts as a deal-breaker? At what point do I lose respect for you, or can I just avoid particular topics and we can pretend this didn't happen? Does that make me a bad person also? To whom do I owe my allegiance when you bad-mouth those people I thought were mutual friends?

It was not so many years ago that I finally realized that members of my family are not perfect. I think this is one of the hardest realizations a person can come to in her life. These people, to whom I have been taught to look up, are as capable of being mean-spirited and small-minded as those people they have taught you to criticize. There are many things they say that I am at least slightly disgusted by, but I stay silent to keep the peace. At what point is the peace no longer worth it? When do we learn to speak up in such a way that those who love us will actually listen, instead of nodding their heads sagely and staring over your head as they allow the words to flit through their heads without sticking? Why is it that it is often those we love who are the hardest to speak to, and with, and sometimes even about?

No one wants to admit that those people in their life are not perfect, and what skeletons are not worthy to be drawn from the closet vary by individual. I am more likely to reveal information about my family that many would deem highly personal and private, while holding to my breast bits and pieces that may appear mundane in comparison. But they are my bits and pieces to hold or drop, as the situation allows. Knowing me, I'll make the wrong decision about who I told what and when, so perhaps I should just let it all out? But where's the mystery in that?

I have had an inkling for some time now that however it is I present myself to others is not actually how I see myself. This has become increasingly apparent as I hear my friends mention things they think they know about me, and I find myself disagreeing. But how do you tell the people you have spent the most time with over the last few months that they seem to have no idea who you actually are? This was brought home to me as I spent time with my sister shopping, and as we pulled out the dresses I liked, I commented that none of the friends I was currently spending time with would agree that "that's my style." As my sister sagely pointed out, "well, perhaps I know you better than they do." I hope this is true, but it is still troubling. If they don't know who I am, and I don't know how I present myself to them to make them think thus, then do I really even know who I am? If someone scratched my surface, would they find oak or particle board? Would I shine with polishing and stand the test of time, or instead crumble as I am handled? I would hope the former, but perhaps I no longer know. How does one find out? Trial by fire, even if only metaphorical, does not sound particularly desirable. Introspection has obviously not worked to this point. Other suggestions?

A thank you to my friend, and reminder to myself

March 31, 2009

Writing for myself makes me happy, and stretching my imagination into the ether keeps me grounded. Unfortunately, this is something I have forgotten over the past few months, or seemingly tried to. I told myself that I have more important (scholarly) reading and writing to do. The result was not that I actually accomplished more, or better versions, of these things. Instead, I resented that these were things I needed to be doing, had said I would be doing; and so I spent my time procrastinating, pretending it was to relieve the stress of how I supposedly spent my time. By not taking the time for myself in the first place, I ended up trying to steal it from myself later.
I have a friend to thank for reminding me about the joys of simply writing for its own sake, although I doubt that was his intention at the time. In the two years since I met him, I have never known him to be angry or upset. This is not to say that he has not been, simply that I have not been aware of it if or when it happened. In this and in so many other ways, he is a far better person than I. It’s my belief that one of the reasons for this is because he takes the time to enjoy life, especially the simple pleasures, in the middle of everything else he does. He does not shove it to the margins, or under the bed to be ignored until one has time to dig it out, dust it off, and take it around the block. Because, let’s face it, if this is the case, you never find the time to actually live your life as you want it to be. The enjoyment of the simple things, the important things, the things one does for oneself, was brought home to me when he saw me writing, and asked what about. The truth of my answer hurt me- I was wrapped up in lesson and paper planning. I had resorted to this because I had the itch to write something, and I had put aside the rest of life for so long that nothing else could find its way from my fingertips. When did these become the only topics that I could think to put on paper?
So many times I have been tempted to write, but stopped myself when it became clear that I would have to work for the words. I forgot the necessity of priming the pump. As such, please bear with this disjointed and hesitant missive and take it for what it is – the jar of water needed to draw forth the rivers that flow below. I’ve not written - really written, feeling the words course from brain and lips and fingertips – for far, far too long. I have missed the sheer joy of word play, the lilting waves of prose, and the sense of simultaneous calm and excitement that the possibilities of a well-turned phrase can arouse. Here and there, I agonize over a word, but the agony becomes bliss as the sentences calm my roiling thoughts. I revel in the ability to dream about, obsess over, and be spontaneously inspired by the creation of tangible texts from ephemeral thoughts. I am grateful that, despite my negligence, the desire to do so has not thrown up its hands in disgust, leaving a “Dear Jane” letter on the way out.
And so, although chances of you reading this are slim to none, thank you, my friend, for reminding me (whether you meant to or not!) of the need for simple pleasures, for time for ones’ self, and the need to put living back into the middle of life.