This article bugged me.
Look, I get that professors shouldn't air
their dirty laundry or too much personal information in class. Point
taken. But the idea that we shouldn't talk about our own academic
struggles or failures? Baffling--especially when it comes to writing
instruction. Maybe that's a misreading or over-reading of the
researchers' conclusions (and I suspect that it is the latter--their use
of the ominous phrase "engaged with caution" suggests as much). But if
it *is* an over-reading, then their message is, essentially, "Hey, don't
do too much of these two things." In this case, those things are
over-sharing and talking about your failures because they will damage
your credibility and lead to incivility in the classroom. But guess
what? I don't need a scientific study to show me that's true. Balance is
key. We get it.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Monday, October 7, 2013
Sunday afternoon pictures
Wesley looks out the window.
Bing looks at a picture of Wesley looking out the window. :)
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Brodkey's "The State of Grace"
I just heard this story for the first time today, on the New Yorker's Fiction podcast. I was listening to it while cleaning the bathroom. Here's my endorsement: its closing paragraphs, without being cloying or patronizing, made my eyes tear up. Give it a listen.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
"The Nullification Party"
As usual, Andrew Sullivan says it better than most. Give this post a read.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Thinking about River of Earth
Work on another project brought me back to River of Earth, by James Still. I first read the novel when I was in college, in a fantastic Appalachian literature class--the class that made me realize that there is this thing called Appalachian literature and that it's worth reading and studying. I remember loving the book so much that I wrote my final paper for the class on it. That paper turned into one of my graduate school writing samples. (At least one school wanted two samples.)
Anyway, although I hate to admit it, that college class was about 14 years ago, so it had been a long time since I'd read the book. So what a treat it was to return to it! And it amazed me how many lines and phrases I remembered. Still's writing is practically prose poetry in places (how's that for alliteration?), but it's poetry wrapped up in real life--life that is hard and complex and offers no easy answers, especially to those who are barely hanging on, like the characters in this novel. Still finds the beauty and poetry in the speech and lives of these people, much of it richly realized through their dialect.
This passage, which comes a scene in which the (unnamed) main character's parents discuss moving to a coal camp, gives a good sense of what I am talking about. Mother doesn't want to go. She wants to stay where they are, where they've planted a garden, where they can put down roots. But she also realizes how little power she has. Father will make the decision for the family, and he's made up his mind. As a reader, your heart breaks for the mother--you want them to stay--but you also see where the father, who wants to provide for his family, is coming from. And you know that he's also wrong about the mine providing stability. You suspect that he knows he's wrong, too. But he's desperate. And their debate--should we settle down or are we meant to roam?--is central to our culture.
Anyway, although I hate to admit it, that college class was about 14 years ago, so it had been a long time since I'd read the book. So what a treat it was to return to it! And it amazed me how many lines and phrases I remembered. Still's writing is practically prose poetry in places (how's that for alliteration?), but it's poetry wrapped up in real life--life that is hard and complex and offers no easy answers, especially to those who are barely hanging on, like the characters in this novel. Still finds the beauty and poetry in the speech and lives of these people, much of it richly realized through their dialect.
This passage, which comes a scene in which the (unnamed) main character's parents discuss moving to a coal camp, gives a good sense of what I am talking about. Mother doesn't want to go. She wants to stay where they are, where they've planted a garden, where they can put down roots. But she also realizes how little power she has. Father will make the decision for the family, and he's made up his mind. As a reader, your heart breaks for the mother--you want them to stay--but you also see where the father, who wants to provide for his family, is coming from. And you know that he's also wrong about the mine providing stability. You suspect that he knows he's wrong, too. But he's desperate. And their debate--should we settle down or are we meant to roam?--is central to our culture.
Mother was on the rag edge of
crying. “Forever moving yon and back, setting down nowhere for good and
all, searching for God knows what,” she said. “Where air we expecting to
draw up to?” Her eyes dampened. “Forever I’ve wanted to set us down
in a lone spot, a place certain and enduring, with room to swing arm and elbow,
a garden-piece for fresh victuals, and a cow to furnish milk for the
baby. So many places we’ve lived – the far side one mine camp and next the
slag pile of another. Hardburly. Lizzyblue. Tribbey. I’m longing to set me down shorely and raise my chaps proper.”
Father’s ears reddened. He
spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content
on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the
camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on
it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.” (51-52).
The language of this passage is worth lingering over--and it's not even close to Still's most beautiful passages. In fact, that some of these phrases appear right in the middle of ordinary, plain speaking dialect shows just how effortless Still's craft appears to be: "a place certain and enduring, with room to swing arm and elbow," "...never meant for a body to be full content on the face of earth," the syntax of the father's last words.
All that said, you know I'm going to recommend the darn thing. Read it. It's short, beautiful, and, perhaps especially in a week where half of Congress votes to cut the SNAP program, it lingers in your mind.
Work Cited
Still, James. River of Earth. 1940. Lexington: U of Kentucky P, 1978. Print.
Mother
was on the rag edge of crying. “Forever moving yon and back, setting
down nowhere for good and all, searching for God knows what,” she said.
“Where air we expecting to draw up to?” Her eyes dampened. “Forever
I’ve wanted to set us down in a lone spot, a place certain and enduring,
with room to swing arm and elbow, a garden-piece for fresh victuals,
and a cow to furnish milk for the baby. So many places we’ve lived –
the far side one mine camp and next the slag pile of another.
Hardburly. Lizzyblue. Tribbey. I’m longing to set me down shorely and
raise my chaps proper.”
Father’s ears reddened. He spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.”
- See more at: http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/2009/08/still%E2%80%99s-river-of-earth/#sthash.lfGOL1cg.dpuf
Father’s ears reddened. He spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.”
- See more at: http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/2009/08/still%E2%80%99s-river-of-earth/#sthash.lfGOL1cg.dpuf
Mother
was on the rag edge of crying. “Forever moving yon and back, setting
down nowhere for good and all, searching for God knows what,” she said.
“Where air we expecting to draw up to?” Her eyes dampened. “Forever
I’ve wanted to set us down in a lone spot, a place certain and enduring,
with room to swing arm and elbow, a garden-piece for fresh victuals,
and a cow to furnish milk for the baby. So many places we’ve lived –
the far side one mine camp and next the slag pile of another.
Hardburly. Lizzyblue. Tribbey. I’m longing to set me down shorely and
raise my chaps proper.”
Father’s ears reddened. He spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.”
- See more at: http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/2009/08/still%E2%80%99s-river-of-earth/#sthash.lfGOL1cg.dpuf
Father’s ears reddened. He spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.”
- See more at: http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/2009/08/still%E2%80%99s-river-of-earth/#sthash.lfGOL1cg.dpuf
Mother
was on the rag edge of crying. “Forever moving yon and back, setting
down nowhere for good and all, searching for God knows what,” she said.
“Where air we expecting to draw up to?” Her eyes dampened. “Forever
I’ve wanted to set us down in a lone spot, a place certain and enduring,
with room to swing arm and elbow, a garden-piece for fresh victuals,
and a cow to furnish milk for the baby. So many places we’ve lived –
the far side one mine camp and next the slag pile of another.
Hardburly. Lizzyblue. Tribbey. I’m longing to set me down shorely and
raise my chaps proper.”
Father’s ears reddened. He spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.”
- See more at: http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/2009/08/still%E2%80%99s-river-of-earth/#sthash.lfGOL1cg.dpuf
Father’s ears reddened. He spoke, a grain angrily. “It was never meant for a body to be full content on the face of this earth. Against my wont it is to be treading the camps, but it’s bread I’m hunting, regular bread with a mite of grease on it. To make and provide, it’s the only trade I know, and I work willing.”
- See more at: http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/2009/08/still%E2%80%99s-river-of-earth/#sthash.lfGOL1cg.dpuf
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Bad blogger (again) and life in general
I hate having these huge gaps with no posts. Here's another promise to try harder. I will say that I am pretty sure my absence doesn't have anything to do with a post-tenure lack of productivity. Truthfully, the end of the summer just flew by, with a conference, a (fun) vacation to Maine, and then all of usual the back-to-school madness intervened.
All in all, things are good. About four weeks in, my classes are fun, sometimes challenging and frustrating in good ways, and always rewarding. Bing and Wes are good, although they are blissfully unaware of my new fascination with getting at least one of them to wear a bow-tie. (I blame the Russians and this cat.) The house is fine, although I am about to spend a large amount of money on a new HVAC system. (That's okay, too--the current system, while still working, is on its last legs and pretty inefficient and fortunately, I have the money.) Fall TV is upon us, which means some great shows are coming back. The Yankees might not make the playoffs, but they've played better than I ever expected considering their challenges and injuries, so I am still (of course) a proud fan. So again, life is good.
.jpg)
All in all, things are good. About four weeks in, my classes are fun, sometimes challenging and frustrating in good ways, and always rewarding. Bing and Wes are good, although they are blissfully unaware of my new fascination with getting at least one of them to wear a bow-tie. (I blame the Russians and this cat.) The house is fine, although I am about to spend a large amount of money on a new HVAC system. (That's okay, too--the current system, while still working, is on its last legs and pretty inefficient and fortunately, I have the money.) Fall TV is upon us, which means some great shows are coming back. The Yankees might not make the playoffs, but they've played better than I ever expected considering their challenges and injuries, so I am still (of course) a proud fan. So again, life is good.
.jpg)
"What's a bow-tie?"
Monday, August 5, 2013
Wives in the Avocados
The latest episode of the "Poetry Off the Shelf" podcast is pretty terrific. Marjorie Perloff and Curtis Fox discuss "A Supermarket in California." It's a poem I know well and love. Give it a listen.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Ha!
Continuing to work on that pesky article has led me to The Real South:Southern Narrative in the Age of Cultural Reproduction, a book by one of my former grad school teachers, Scott Romine. You don't need me to tell you what a smart book it is. The blurbs on the back cover do that quite well. (Okay--just one choice cut: "With The Real South, Scott Romine shows why he may be the best critic ever to come out of the venerable Chapel Hill southern studies program." That's pretty good, right?)
Anyway, this one little chestnut made me laugh out loud so I thought it was worth sharing, a fine example of how funny this book can be at times: "But if Southern Living conjures a kind of imagined community, it is attenuated community that fails one of Benedict Anderson’s primary criteria for the nation: no one is willing to die for it. There is some comfort, I think, to be taken in that” (15).
Anyway, this one little chestnut made me laugh out loud so I thought it was worth sharing, a fine example of how funny this book can be at times: "But if Southern Living conjures a kind of imagined community, it is attenuated community that fails one of Benedict Anderson’s primary criteria for the nation: no one is willing to die for it. There is some comfort, I think, to be taken in that” (15).
Friday, July 12, 2013
The Fall
Holy cow, did I love this show! This article helps explain part of the reason why. Also, Gillian Anderson is amazing amazing amazing. Just wow.
So many TV shows that have thrilled me recently have been from Britain: Call the Midwife, In the Flesh, and now this. Keep it up over there, UK folks!
So many TV shows that have thrilled me recently have been from Britain: Call the Midwife, In the Flesh, and now this. Keep it up over there, UK folks!
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Zero
Zero. That's the number of emails currently in my work-email inbox. Every email has been answered. Every task addressed. Every document reviewed. All the stuff that needs to be printed has been printed. Amazing. This won't last long--probably not even twenty minutes, but still. Pretty cool.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Rainy Sunday evening links
Given what I've just posted, I am not feeling my (sometimes) usual Sunday evening melancholy, but I did find myself moved by these couple of links.
The first, a letter from Allen Ginsberg to Neal Cassady. This part kills me:
"I still have love longings and yet have not in my lifetime founded a relationship with anyone which is satisfactory and never will unless I change and grow somehow out of this egoistic grayness and squalor. Drifting like I am or could would leave me with no hope but stolen fruits. I had begun to get hung up on the metaphysical image and the subterranean peyotelites here. Must stop playing with my life in a disappointed grey world. Maybe go back to analysis. I am miserable now—not feeling unhappiness, just lack of life coming to me and coming out of me—resignation to getting nothing and seeking nothing, staying behind shell. The glare of unknown love, human, unhad by me,—the tenderness I never had. I don’t want to be just a nothing, a sick blank, withdrawal into myself forever. I can’t turn to you for that any more, can’t come to Frisco for you, because how much you love me, it is still something wrong, not complete, not still enough, not—god knows what not—you know how I was before and what I am, my hang-ups. Do you think that is all I shall get ever, so that is why I should come out? Maybe that is not bad idea but I still want to seek more. I suppose maybe I’m looking too hung-up at a simple sociable proposition."
Then there's this piece on recent biographies of Kafka. Andrew Sullivan highlights one of the more poignant anecdotes that stood out to him in Kevin Jackson's piece, involving Kafka, a little girl, and a lost doll. I love this part: "Stories can cure the sadness of small girls. They can also frighten, console, give courage. They can help even a sick and dying writer make some sense of what remains of his short life. Kafka seems often to have thought of writing as a curse or (to borrow a term from the literature of shamanism) a sickness vocation. And yet the thing that makes you ill may also, from time to time, make you powerful."
The first, a letter from Allen Ginsberg to Neal Cassady. This part kills me:
"I still have love longings and yet have not in my lifetime founded a relationship with anyone which is satisfactory and never will unless I change and grow somehow out of this egoistic grayness and squalor. Drifting like I am or could would leave me with no hope but stolen fruits. I had begun to get hung up on the metaphysical image and the subterranean peyotelites here. Must stop playing with my life in a disappointed grey world. Maybe go back to analysis. I am miserable now—not feeling unhappiness, just lack of life coming to me and coming out of me—resignation to getting nothing and seeking nothing, staying behind shell. The glare of unknown love, human, unhad by me,—the tenderness I never had. I don’t want to be just a nothing, a sick blank, withdrawal into myself forever. I can’t turn to you for that any more, can’t come to Frisco for you, because how much you love me, it is still something wrong, not complete, not still enough, not—god knows what not—you know how I was before and what I am, my hang-ups. Do you think that is all I shall get ever, so that is why I should come out? Maybe that is not bad idea but I still want to seek more. I suppose maybe I’m looking too hung-up at a simple sociable proposition."
Then there's this piece on recent biographies of Kafka. Andrew Sullivan highlights one of the more poignant anecdotes that stood out to him in Kevin Jackson's piece, involving Kafka, a little girl, and a lost doll. I love this part: "Stories can cure the sadness of small girls. They can also frighten, console, give courage. They can help even a sick and dying writer make some sense of what remains of his short life. Kafka seems often to have thought of writing as a curse or (to borrow a term from the literature of shamanism) a sickness vocation. And yet the thing that makes you ill may also, from time to time, make you powerful."
Just a little getaway
It has been a lovely weekend overall. Yesterday evening, I drove into my friend/"work husband's" Tim's house (about an hour away) and had dinner with him and his partner. Iyt was his birthday, which made it even more festive and fun. I crashed at their place for the night (sleeping on what I think of as a "Princess and the Pea" style bed in their guest room--I have to climb onto it!).
Today was the highlight--or at the least the main reason for my visit--a trip to Daedalus Books. Amazing. We were there for at least two hours. Eighty bucks later, I have a shopping bag full of books--new, awesome books. So much fun. Then lunch at a yummy lunch at an Indian restaurant and home again to WV for me.
I really needed this tiny little getaway. This summer seems to be flying by and I've been more busy than I anticipated. I feel like I am juggling a dozen different tasks and projects and not making much progress with any of them. But just a day away with people you love can really make a difference.
Tomorrow, back to work: Session B of this year's first-year advising and registration sessions gets started.
Today was the highlight--or at the least the main reason for my visit--a trip to Daedalus Books. Amazing. We were there for at least two hours. Eighty bucks later, I have a shopping bag full of books--new, awesome books. So much fun. Then lunch at a yummy lunch at an Indian restaurant and home again to WV for me.
I really needed this tiny little getaway. This summer seems to be flying by and I've been more busy than I anticipated. I feel like I am juggling a dozen different tasks and projects and not making much progress with any of them. But just a day away with people you love can really make a difference.
Tomorrow, back to work: Session B of this year's first-year advising and registration sessions gets started.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
"I'm not blaming the girl, but..."
Hey Serena: just some advice. In the future, go ahead and put a full stop after "girl" in the sentence above, quoted in this article where you discuss the Steubenville rape. And then just shut the hell up.
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