Circles

Two and a half years ago, Craigslist and an ever-expanding job search brought me inside a minimally developed Norfolk warehouse. I’d answered an ad posted by a guy we’ll call Pastor Tim, because I think that was his name.

Pastor Tim had a vision transform the warehouse into an arts center.  His feeling was that the church should be a strong supporter of arts and artists, a value I have long held but never truly seen in action.  Oh, sure, I have seen some wonderful drama programs, and have been invited to sundry crafting events or ladies scrapbooking circles over the years, but nothing really stunning in the visual arts department.

So I was thrilled by Pastor Tim’s vision of an art gallery and studio classes, and even his less-than-fleshed out thoughts about music and coffee houses.  I am not musical, but The Minister is a musician.  I knew he’d be eager to come on board.  It seemed so exciting, so urban, so full of possibilities.  Plus, the Minister would be leaving for school in a year’s time and it seemed a great way to spend some special time doing important work together before he was gone. Pastor Tim wanted to talk to another candidate.  I had a couple of pending issues myself.  We agreed to talk later in the week, although we both expressed excitement about our potentially shared vision. I left the warehouse thinking of all the amazing ways this ground-floor upstart could really work.

I never saw Pastor Tim again.  Having walked past the warehouse as recently as August and found it as empty as that summer morning in 2011, I can only assume things never got off the ground, at least in the way Pastor Tim expected.

And me?  I was to find out the following morning if I’d made the cut as a finalist for an on-the-air internship at a TV station.  I’d received an email the previous evening stating that at least one producer was interested in me and that I should send along some additional pictures and info for the production team to reference during the final, painstaking deliberations.  I picture an American Idol-like scene with the pictures all strewn across the table and the judges arguing the merits of their Top Picks. It probably wasn’t that exciting, but let me dream; it’s as close as I ever got to that particular action.

So the morning after the Pastor Tim meeting, I kept my cellphone close at hand.  Although the finalists were to be announced live on TV, I had an early morning errand to run.  My friend Cat was going to text me when it was all over.  My phone buzzed.

“Didn’t make cut.”

I was strangely calm.  The email from the producer had been a shock; I didn’t think I had been in the running, so it was one of those rare situations where it was truly an honor to be nominated.

 I had another interview later in the day, for a job I didn’t want.  I got in the shower to prepare for the interview, and my hair started coming out in massive, alarming amounts.  I had to go to the interview anyway, and I somehow nailed it, despite not wanting the job, and holding my head still, like an action figure, hoping my hair would stay attached to my skull.

I got into my car and drove out to the middle of nowhere, out to where we own acres of land, on which I was attempting to grow ill-fated pumpkins.  I cried the whole way there, the whole time watering my wilting crop in the near-triple digit heat, and all the way back home.

I cried on and off for the next week, stopping only to pack up the family for a vacation in Florida.  Although I was excited to get away, I was plagued by feelings of desperation until a message popped up on my phone with an unexpected offer for the job I have today teaching at U1.

I would find out weeks later that I had telogen effluvium, a temporary hair disorder that would likely resolve in six months, which it did, but not for almost ten months.  And not before I discovered first hand that the worst part of the disorder isn’t the hair loss but the secondary psychological issues—depression, anxiety, OCD—that somehow tend to accompany this crazy, senseless, ill-understood anomaly.

A thousand things happened—some recorded on this blog, but most not.  The Minister left for school.  The Baker left, too.  (my son and daughter, for those who aren’t regular readers) My Labradors died.  I thought my life was unraveling. I didn’t do a lot of art. 

Fast forward to today. My entire family participated heavily in a community celebration at church—a church we found about a year ago, because The Minister went away to school and learned that a church a quarter mile from our front door needed a music minister.

I didn’t know we had a church a quarter mile from our home, because it used to be a furniture store. It’s now the most wonderful, loving, open community you can imagine.  Today, as The Minister—my son!—led worship, I looked around and saw people of every skin tone, young, old, hipsters, vegans, ex-cons, doctors, scientists—some in shorts, some in suits, some pierced, others tattooed, singing as one.

The Baker was, well, in the kitchen, setting up a potluck as varied as the congregation itself.  As far as me….I held a little informational meeting about our arts ministry and the gallery show we’re planning for January.  It just so happens that our senior minister—we’ll call him Pastor Tom, because that’s his name has a huge vision for integrating art in the church as asked me, a couple months ago to head it all up.

So that vision I had with Pastor Tim in the Norfolk warehouse in 2011 has now been realized in a Hampton furniture store with Pastor Tom.  I don’t know why now is better than then, or here is better than there.  And I don’t know what happened to Pastor Tim, but I suspect that his vision came to life, too, in some other circuitous route.  Life has a funny way of working out just the way it’s supposed to.  And I’m grateful for that.

Note: I am attempting to post every day in November.  I'll have a better chance if you cheer me on :)

The Scandalous Bumping of Hunter S. Thompson

“You don’t rotate Hunter S. Thompson,” Patti snorted.  I’d just finished selecting books for my spring semester literature course The Great American Road Trip and Other Epic Journeys and thought Patti might be impressed that I’d “almost” included her hero on my syllabus. 

I knew going in that it was a risky move.  Patti’s feelings for the 1960s bad boy journalist surpass the average tween at a One Direction concert. 

“Almost?” she deadpanned.  “Why almost?”

I hastily explained that he wasn’t out for good, there’s always next semester, maybe next time.  “I’ll rotate him in,” I offered, hastily. 

“He wouldn’t approve at all.  Hunter S. Thompson would rather NOT be on your syllabus at all if he’s going to be rotated.” Patti paused. “Who made the cut?” she asked, the hint of suspicion audible to my trained ear.

“Kerouac,” I retorted.

Patti was momentarily mollified. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, she asked The Question, the one I was hoping to avoid.

“Is there a reason he can’t be on the syllabus with Kerouac, right now?”

“Ummm.  I wanted to stick with books I’ve read. Recently.  Um, I mean, ever.”

“What?? You mean to tell me you haven’t READ Hunter S. Thompson?”

“Well, samples, sure…” my voice trailed.

“And they let you teach stuff?” Patti demanded.

The truth is, despite Patti’s passion for Hunter S. Thompson, he’s never come up on any syllabus in my entire educational history. No prof I've ever had has taught, or even mentioned the journalistic icon.

It's entirely possible that the omission of Thompson is a problem; a failure of the state educational system.  Of late, I’ve been amassing a secret List of Shame.  I add to the list of “educational gaps” whenever the name of a writer of which I’m unfamiliar pops up during the course of my nonfiction workshop MFA class.  Which happens almost every week.

But it seems equally likely that the bumping of certain greats from various syllabi is nothing but a statistical fact. I could, after all, make a list equally long of works I’ve mentioned that draw nothing but blank stares from my fellow workshoppers.  It’s become clear that I read different books, and, in the aftermath of the Hunter S. Thompson affair, I have decided that I just might be OK with that.

For instance, am I less literate because I’m not really familiar with Robert Yates—an apparent darling of the workshop crew, but my mention of Dany Laferrière draws quizzical glances?  Is it a problem that I voraciously read Anne Lamott, Lori Notaro, Sloane Crosley and Lisa Kogan but am not really sure what David Foster Wallace or Bukowski penned?  That I’ve devoured Steinbeck’s less-known Travels With Charley no less than a half dozen times but haven’t read The Grapes of Wrath?

Likewise, if Patti embraces Hunter S. Thompson and misses a few other authors from the Standard Canon, why should it matter?  The fact is, there’s a whole lot of books out there—an astounding, exponentially growing collection of tomes.  Even the best read of us will only scratch the surface.  By sheer necessity, we have to be selective—and open.  I, for one, am downloading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, yea even this evening.  Looking forward to it, actually.  After all, he’s up next in the rotation.

What classic books and authors have you bumped/missed/ignored and which ones have you embraced?

P.S. And yes, despite the HST flap, I am still allowed to teach stuff.  Here's the 411 on the new class:

Description:

The Great American Road trip and other epic travels hits America’s iconic highways and footpaths as well as the lesser-traversed landscape of the inner self.

Texts:

On the Road  Jack Kerouac 

A Walk in the Woods  Bill Bryson

Travels With Charley John Steinbeck

Travels Michael Crichton 

Into The Wild Jon Krakauer

In addition to a long paper, my students will make travel folders for each literary journey--so excited!

Update:
Prof Dan Not His Real Name asked our Nonfiction Workshop class to analyze our writing.  The results are in, and in this post:

I write like
Oscar Wilde

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

Sitting in the Student Lounge

9 am

Late for work.  Parking lot full.  See straggling student approaching the building.

“Will!” I shout from the spare car I was using because my normal car was on the fritz.  Again.  “Tell the others I’m coming!  The lot is full!”

Drive to the far away parking garage.  Walk from far away parking garage back to my building.

9:15

Teach two classes. 

11:00

Coffee shop.  Meet with two students while typing in grades for my students at University 2 (U2). 

!2:00

Teach a third class. 

1:00

Drive to U2 in North Carolina.

2:30

Teach a 4^th class.

4:00

Toss son the car keys and ask him to fill the car with gas.  He has difficulty with the card and pump.  Has to send me to get an attendant.

4:20

Eat dinner at Panera with son. 

4:45

Go to favorite coffee shop.  Change into exercise clothes, in hopes of making it to the gym back in Virginia in time for Bootcamp.

5:00

Drop son off back at U2.  Begin mental calculations to determine likelihood of making Bootcamp.

5:15

Hear familiar popping sound.  Car shakes.  Smell Rubber.

5:17

Survey scene.  Decide to ride shoulder to turn into local car-ish looking business.

5:20

Struggling to get to spare tire.  Nice man approaches.  Says he’d be glad to help.  Exercise class morphs from fading hope to instant no-go but at least I’ll make it home.

5:30

Man extracts spare from car.  Spare is blown to smithereens.

5:40

Park car by dumpster.  Call son, attempt to explain where I am.  Phone dies.  Assume son will come.

6:05

Worry that son has not arrived.  Nice men from car-ish business check on me, loan me phone.  Son found a ride but they are lost.  Redirect son and driver with help from nice men.

6:06

Son and friend arrive.  Head back to campus.

 

6:30

Husband says he’ll come to North Carolina when he’s done with his own class.

8:00

Sitting in Student lounge making bitstrip comics while a dreadful monster show plays in the background.  No end to the crisis in sight.

Ponder how to fast track purchasing my very own Spark like the one I rented several breakdowns back.

Well-Versed

I tried Grammarly's check grammar free of charge because using bad grammar is like trying to write with a broken pencil—your point is lost.

“Vacca is the worst,” Billy Not-His-Real Name scoffed in a less-than-subtle stage whisper to his fellow wrestlers.

I was Vacca, an insecure junior trying to up my social stock by trying out for the cheerleading squad.  Billy was rotten, mean, and equally insecure, but he was also right: I was dreadful. I had no business attempting on-beat, synchronized moves in my basement, let alone in a public forum.  I pretended not to hear Billy’s cruel remark and continued flailing my arms and executing jerky kicks across the gym floor. I bombed the tryouts in epic fashion, and returned to the newspaper room and the art studio at the opposite end of the campus.

My high school self didn’t know what I’d later learn as a teacher in a classical school: every discipline has its own “grammar” or essential principles upon which the whole body of thought operates.  The “grammar” of math, for instance, is likely plus and minus signs or the order of operations (I can’t speak authoritatively on numbers, though), and the grammar of my art classroom consisted of the elements of art (line, texture, etc.) and the color wheel.  The idea of knowledge as grammar-driven  --and this is my own twist—leads to the inescapable conclusion that a working knowledge of all languages is simply not realistic.

Which brings us to last week. Groupon and a 6-year struggle with flab led me to a bootcamp program across town.  It took all of 3 minutes for me to discover that the structure of the program was based on many of the same moves I’d fumbled through on the gym floor in 11th grade.  Accentuating my inherent gawkiness was the fact that I was a demographic minority on the floor.  Most of the women were African-American and wired with an inborn fluency in the grammar of movement.

Because this was a workout facility rather than a high school gym, I had a constant visual of myself in the wall of mirrors.  A sea of mocha-toned skin moved in unison while my gangly frame bounced to an inaudible inner rhythm.  I was having a good time, and more interested in fitness than popularity, a mature attitude that was challenged just days later.

I’d been struggling to find a class that fit my crazy, triple university schedule, when I notice that there was a late evening Zumba class listed, kind of off to the side on the gym schedule.  I’d heard of Zumba but have never experienced it.   Showed up ready to give it the good old college try.

The gym was aglow with disco lights in stunning range of hues. Lean, muscular dancers covered almost every square foot of the gym floor.  The instructor, a petite waif of a thing seemed surprised to see me.  She patiently explained that the Zumba party night wasn’t a part of the bootcamp program, but since I was there and dressed to work out I was welcome to join them.

I found a small patch of room waaay in the back of the room—at the doorway to the locker area, to be specific.  A deep bass beat rocked the room and the instructor began executing dance moves I’ve not often seen outside a screen.  The group mimicked her moves in mass as the gym rocked with the lyric “I Can Be a Freak,” which I took as a signal that my off-beat twitching in the closet was perfectly acceptable.

The tunes flowed one into another and the lyrics became more ambiguous.  At one point, we seemed to be keeping time to a query on the whereabouts of Beyoncé, which morphed into a refrain concerned with a grey goose dripping in the bathroom.

The moves were less ambiguous.  A several minute segment featured a fair amount of that twerking we’ve all heard so much about in the wake of that Miley Cyrus flap.  The crowd then began grinding in unison before breaking into a jubilant round of jumping such as is common on the summer music festival circuit.

I couldn’t see the mirrors, such was the crowd, but I did not need the feedback to know I was, hands down, THE WORST dancer on the floor.  But you know what?  Synchronized movement isn’t my first language.  Just like I tell my Eastern European students in my Basic English class, considering the second language factor, the work was rather impressive. So let's be a little easier on ourselves, readers.  We're all language learners in something.  My foreign tongue just happens to be coordination.  What's yours?

Grammarly.com asked me to try their digital editing service free of charge.  I gave it a test drive with the above post, which, in it’s current incarnation earns a score of 75/100. In my classroom that’s solidly a “C.”  The reasons for my lackluster score revolve primarily around context issues: the digital editor is unfamiliar with twerking, preferring I use tweaking.  Also out of favor is my exaggerated waaay…even though I set the editor to “creative” mode, as opposed to “academic,” “technical,” etc.) Other of my deductions are mystifying: evidently my use of the word “specific” was too “vague,” and although I really appreciated the editor pointing out overused words, it’s really inconsistent.  (it’s concerned, for instance, of over use of “rather”—which I can only find once—but ignored my frequent use of “grammar”). The service DID save me the embarrassment of using “crow” instead of “crowd,” something that MS Word missed, and reminded me that Zumba is capitalized.  Since my use is a freebie, I’m delighted to be saved the embarrassment, but I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to pay the listed sticker price for the information.  In all, the whole experience seems akin to using the virtual trainers on the wii Fit program—kind of fun and novel, but a bit low on results.