1976 IS IN THE HOUSE
The cake my parents got for me says:
"Happy Birthday
Dr. RL!"
I am 33.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
THIS EPISTOLARY LIFE
Dear Readers,
What is with my medieval seminar? Holy hell, it's a thrill-a-minute. My own mother has asked, "when are you going to get MSW credits for the therapeutic work you have to do?"
The two pretty girls, who don't like the loud and hostile gamer chick,* didn't sit the midterm. So I think, "huh. The pretty girls are dropping. OK. Even after my attempt at intervention."
But no! They show up today. And then slip me a note! A full-on middle school style note!
The content of the note was essentially thus:
"Dear Dr. Lettriste,
This is really hard to write. We don't know why you don't like us. If you want us to drop this class, we will."
Then pretty girl 1 comes to talk to me, and the floodgates open. She is sick with sickle cell anemia, she is an orphan, she used to go to a tiny HBCU and it was fantastic and then she switched to Subtropical City U.-Very Urban, and it's awful. She won't ask for or accept any help or accommodation for her illness. She's wrecked her GPA. She just wants to graduate and make her dead parents "proud" of her. She doesn't understand why I "don't like" her. &c, &c, &c. She and pretty girl 2 missed the midterm due to a car accident. She didn't feel like she could tell me because, again, I "don't like" her. I have asked for her "opinions" and then "got mad at" her.
Finally, I said, "Look. My job here is to teach you how to think critically, to read carefully and to analyze. If I haven't made that clear enough, that's my fault and I will work to make my expectations more transparent. And if you feel like I haven't been open to your opinions, you are correct. Because I don't care about your opinions. I care about your ability to analyze medieval texts. And I do not want you to drop the course. And I genuinely do not 'dislike' any of my students. Come by tomorrow and sit a makeup midterm."
Lord! The drama is about too much. And all from the chicks. The boys--especially the tough, gangsta-style boys with baggy jeans who sit in the back and test me and cross their arms and write bullshit--are easy as hell. The boys with the felonies and the electronic anklets! I win them over every time. But it's the chicks who are killing me. Am I supposed to be more maternal? Less maternal? Angry? Nurturing? Confrontational? More 'moral' in my readings? More neutral? More fierce in my classroom persona? More casual?
I need to show up in suits more often, maybe. And heels. And regalia. Carrying my diploma before me. So that I shall be a resplendent statue of asexual authority, the more difficult to project upon.
Or maybe the plank is in my own eye, as ever, and I DO NOT LIKE these pretty girls and that's obvious and now it's come back to bite me. Maybe they irritate me, and I am less receptive to their unprepared-ness than I could be, because it's a seminar. Maybe I am not working hard enough to anticipate their inabilities and address them neutrally.
And yet, I know that this is anathema to critical pedagogy, but: is it not about me at all?
How does one proceed in such situations? Should I be afraid that they will axe me in my evaluations, and complain to higher ups? Should I be documenting every encounter? Should I regularly keep a box of tissues in my office?
Yours Til the Kitchen Sinks,
Dr. Rebel Lettriste
*Hostile white chick has also cried, openly, in this class. Because I didn't call on her. And then apologized. She has also, according to a colleague, made openly racist comments in another seminar. Good times!
Dear Readers,
What is with my medieval seminar? Holy hell, it's a thrill-a-minute. My own mother has asked, "when are you going to get MSW credits for the therapeutic work you have to do?"
The two pretty girls, who don't like the loud and hostile gamer chick,* didn't sit the midterm. So I think, "huh. The pretty girls are dropping. OK. Even after my attempt at intervention."
But no! They show up today. And then slip me a note! A full-on middle school style note!
The content of the note was essentially thus:
"Dear Dr. Lettriste,
This is really hard to write. We don't know why you don't like us. If you want us to drop this class, we will."
Then pretty girl 1 comes to talk to me, and the floodgates open. She is sick with sickle cell anemia, she is an orphan, she used to go to a tiny HBCU and it was fantastic and then she switched to Subtropical City U.-Very Urban, and it's awful. She won't ask for or accept any help or accommodation for her illness. She's wrecked her GPA. She just wants to graduate and make her dead parents "proud" of her. She doesn't understand why I "don't like" her. &c, &c, &c. She and pretty girl 2 missed the midterm due to a car accident. She didn't feel like she could tell me because, again, I "don't like" her. I have asked for her "opinions" and then "got mad at" her.
Finally, I said, "Look. My job here is to teach you how to think critically, to read carefully and to analyze. If I haven't made that clear enough, that's my fault and I will work to make my expectations more transparent. And if you feel like I haven't been open to your opinions, you are correct. Because I don't care about your opinions. I care about your ability to analyze medieval texts. And I do not want you to drop the course. And I genuinely do not 'dislike' any of my students. Come by tomorrow and sit a makeup midterm."
Lord! The drama is about too much. And all from the chicks. The boys--especially the tough, gangsta-style boys with baggy jeans who sit in the back and test me and cross their arms and write bullshit--are easy as hell. The boys with the felonies and the electronic anklets! I win them over every time. But it's the chicks who are killing me. Am I supposed to be more maternal? Less maternal? Angry? Nurturing? Confrontational? More 'moral' in my readings? More neutral? More fierce in my classroom persona? More casual?
I need to show up in suits more often, maybe. And heels. And regalia. Carrying my diploma before me. So that I shall be a resplendent statue of asexual authority, the more difficult to project upon.
Or maybe the plank is in my own eye, as ever, and I DO NOT LIKE these pretty girls and that's obvious and now it's come back to bite me. Maybe they irritate me, and I am less receptive to their unprepared-ness than I could be, because it's a seminar. Maybe I am not working hard enough to anticipate their inabilities and address them neutrally.
And yet, I know that this is anathema to critical pedagogy, but: is it not about me at all?
How does one proceed in such situations? Should I be afraid that they will axe me in my evaluations, and complain to higher ups? Should I be documenting every encounter? Should I regularly keep a box of tissues in my office?
Yours Til the Kitchen Sinks,
Dr. Rebel Lettriste
*Hostile white chick has also cried, openly, in this class. Because I didn't call on her. And then apologized. She has also, according to a colleague, made openly racist comments in another seminar. Good times!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
THE TURTLE IN THE ARUGULA
There is a box turtle living in the back yard, who is eating my arugula and my morning glories. C. sees him some mornings and can't stop barking on high alert when this happens. "Over here!" he seems to be saying, "I have found the intruder!" The turtle is about the size of a big grapefruit, and rather placid.
There are amaryllis coming up in everyone's yards. Their YARDS. The azaleas are bright enough to burn the retina.
It's spring break, and I haven't gotten a damn thing done, what with being sick. Tomorrow I drive to a neighboring state to see an old friend and her husband, who teaches at the University of Neighboring State. I haven't seen them since they got married two years ago in Mpls. They asked me to write an epithalamium for their union, which was tough. (Occasional verse is mad hard.) But I was so moved to be asked!
In other news, I officially hate Gatorade. All flavors. Also rice. And don't even get me started on bananas. But I am now eating normal food. And I am still exhausted.
The hostile student in my seminar is still enrolled, but her two pretty girl antagonists did not sit the midterm. I don't know what it'll all turn out to mean. But the hostile student actually got an A on her paper, and the pretty girls got D's because they did not follow the assignment.
And my illness has perhaps meant that I have (almost?) kicked my coffee habit. I have switched to tea. And have only consumed tea for the past week now. And it seems to be going OK. If you knew me, you'd laugh uproariously at this admission, because I am SERIOUS about my coffee. (My brother and the Sewing Fool both perennially tease me, calling my coffee pot my "crack pot.") We shall see how this goes.
I wish that this break were more restful. And that I could get The Article finally submitted again for fuck's sake. But as the Ethnomusicologist sagely commented, "what, were you going to write from bed, in between hospital procedures? Give yourself a break!"
The turtle, it turns out, likes geraniums too. But marigolds and tomatoes are too strong smelling and so s/he leaves them be. Would that I owned a house, here, and could plant like crazy. Fruit trees! Collard greens! As many amaryllis as I could shove in the ground!
There is a box turtle living in the back yard, who is eating my arugula and my morning glories. C. sees him some mornings and can't stop barking on high alert when this happens. "Over here!" he seems to be saying, "I have found the intruder!" The turtle is about the size of a big grapefruit, and rather placid.
There are amaryllis coming up in everyone's yards. Their YARDS. The azaleas are bright enough to burn the retina.
It's spring break, and I haven't gotten a damn thing done, what with being sick. Tomorrow I drive to a neighboring state to see an old friend and her husband, who teaches at the University of Neighboring State. I haven't seen them since they got married two years ago in Mpls. They asked me to write an epithalamium for their union, which was tough. (Occasional verse is mad hard.) But I was so moved to be asked!
In other news, I officially hate Gatorade. All flavors. Also rice. And don't even get me started on bananas. But I am now eating normal food. And I am still exhausted.
The hostile student in my seminar is still enrolled, but her two pretty girl antagonists did not sit the midterm. I don't know what it'll all turn out to mean. But the hostile student actually got an A on her paper, and the pretty girls got D's because they did not follow the assignment.
And my illness has perhaps meant that I have (almost?) kicked my coffee habit. I have switched to tea. And have only consumed tea for the past week now. And it seems to be going OK. If you knew me, you'd laugh uproariously at this admission, because I am SERIOUS about my coffee. (My brother and the Sewing Fool both perennially tease me, calling my coffee pot my "crack pot.") We shall see how this goes.
I wish that this break were more restful. And that I could get The Article finally submitted again for fuck's sake. But as the Ethnomusicologist sagely commented, "what, were you going to write from bed, in between hospital procedures? Give yourself a break!"
The turtle, it turns out, likes geraniums too. But marigolds and tomatoes are too strong smelling and so s/he leaves them be. Would that I owned a house, here, and could plant like crazy. Fruit trees! Collard greens! As many amaryllis as I could shove in the ground!
Monday, March 16, 2009
ALIVE
Barely. This is day 6 of revolting blech.
Now the GI doctor thinks it's bacterially bad food poisoning.
I have had:
Two dawn procedures that my poor, gimped out (she just had her ACL repaired) colleague rallied for, taking me there and driving me home as I was on "do not drive!" orders.
One aborted CT scan. The machine broke, apparently.
Two doctor's appointments, and two emergency calls to those doctors trying to get things under control.
Three really cool photos of my innards.
Many dog walks facilitated by AKDP, who told me that the $20 I paid him for doing so was "real helpful" because it was enough to buy his prescriptions. He's lost his job.
The realization, upon buying apple-flavored pedialyte, that the local pharmacy keeps all the baby formula under lock and key. I found this heartbreaking.
Being told by one of my new "suitors" that really, a single lady like me definitely should keep a small pistol, especially if she's living alone. Being told also by aforesaid suitor that my dog should not be allowed to sleep with me or be permitted to sit on the couch, because "a dog needs to know who's in charge."
Another realization: when political beliefs (on immigration, on class, on gun control) emerge in conversations with suitors, and I ask questions about how and why a suitor believes what he does, he will respond as if I am requesting instruction. "You need to realize..." he will begin.
Four thousand phone calls to my parents, reassuring them that I was OK and that people were continually stopping by to check on me.
Two movies watched.
A conversation with the GI doc that went like this:
She: "Oh! You teach English at Subtropical City University! That's so cool! I am so impressed by what you guys do! I mean, English! That's so hard! Languages are impossible! I couldn't do what you do."
Me: "Aw, thanks. But I couldn't be a gastroenterologist."
Many favors incurred.
Barely. This is day 6 of revolting blech.
Now the GI doctor thinks it's bacterially bad food poisoning.
I have had:
Two dawn procedures that my poor, gimped out (she just had her ACL repaired) colleague rallied for, taking me there and driving me home as I was on "do not drive!" orders.
One aborted CT scan. The machine broke, apparently.
Two doctor's appointments, and two emergency calls to those doctors trying to get things under control.
Three really cool photos of my innards.
Many dog walks facilitated by AKDP, who told me that the $20 I paid him for doing so was "real helpful" because it was enough to buy his prescriptions. He's lost his job.
The realization, upon buying apple-flavored pedialyte, that the local pharmacy keeps all the baby formula under lock and key. I found this heartbreaking.
Being told by one of my new "suitors" that really, a single lady like me definitely should keep a small pistol, especially if she's living alone. Being told also by aforesaid suitor that my dog should not be allowed to sleep with me or be permitted to sit on the couch, because "a dog needs to know who's in charge."
Another realization: when political beliefs (on immigration, on class, on gun control) emerge in conversations with suitors, and I ask questions about how and why a suitor believes what he does, he will respond as if I am requesting instruction. "You need to realize..." he will begin.
Four thousand phone calls to my parents, reassuring them that I was OK and that people were continually stopping by to check on me.
Two movies watched.
A conversation with the GI doc that went like this:
She: "Oh! You teach English at Subtropical City University! That's so cool! I am so impressed by what you guys do! I mean, English! That's so hard! Languages are impossible! I couldn't do what you do."
Me: "Aw, thanks. But I couldn't be a gastroenterologist."
Many favors incurred.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
MAMA'S GOT A BRAND NEW BAG, AND A BLEEDING ULCER, TOO!
See, when I get dumped I get busy. And then, of course, I fall ill. Because I am a delicate flower in some ways. It's just the way it rolls, and it's boring as hell, and it can't be helped. I hate it. It's the reason that I cannot ever go without health insurance, despite the often great expense. The dog and I, we present like we're all super-tough linebackers, ready to hit the scrum, but we always lose our fights. We're the ones getting our ears stitched back together, while the other dog goes unscathed.
My colleague asked me if I was a hurricane, if this was just like me, to incur disasters, and I thought, well, yes and no. I do think a lot of these ailments are relationship-related, linked to both the possibility of intimacy and the reality of impending rupture. Intimacy and rupture are Janus-faced, of course. And perhaps my whole body just sort of panics when confronted with that fact. So out of nowhere, when I am in some stressful transition, I will develop: stress fractures! allergies! asthma! a horrifying UTI! a freak abscess requiring hospitalization! and now, a goddamned bleeding ulcer. I mean really. I am diligent with the self-care, the nutrition, the maintenance allergy meds., the sleeping enough. It's not like I'm a cracked out night owl five dollar hooker or something.
And yet, I do see a weird pattern that screams: "somebody! rescue me! I may be scary and intimidate you, but not if I am extremely ill! Indeed, if I am ill, perhaps you HAVE to take care of me, because that's the only way this deal will be legit! Not like you'd actually want to! Nothing to see, here! Moving on! I'm FINE! Help, please?!"
Anyway, my larger superstructure, like my pore pore teeth, is I guess a bit weak. Try as I might to care for those teeth, I just have to show up at the dentist's more often than most people. I can floss and brush those bitches eight times a day, and never eat sugar, and I still get cavities. Were I made of different stuff, I'd be stronger, more resilient, more physically capable. But I am not. And from what I can tell, this current rigamarole is occurring because I take ibuprofen to treat inflammation and joint pain, and I've been doing so for ages. Because I have inflamed sinuses that hurt, and if I can keep them from hurting, I can avoid blinding headaches. And because I grind my teeth, so my TMJ aches, the further occurrence of which I am trying like hell to prevent.
Therefore, when I felt a little dyspeptic on Monday, I took an OTC treatment that has an analgesic in it, and also over the weekend when I felt the twinge of a UTI bearing down upon me, I took those OTC pills that turn your pee orange and which are also analgesics. All of which, along with the regular advil, combines to create, somewhere in my GI tract, an NSAID related lesion. So don't be like me. Careful with the analgesics.
Lemme tell you, though. One of the surest ways to get seen by your doctor is to talk very accurately about your own shit. Like the presence of black blood, therein.
Tomorrow I go to get my sad guts scoped so that my new GI doctor can figure out what's what.
See, when I get dumped I get busy. And then, of course, I fall ill. Because I am a delicate flower in some ways. It's just the way it rolls, and it's boring as hell, and it can't be helped. I hate it. It's the reason that I cannot ever go without health insurance, despite the often great expense. The dog and I, we present like we're all super-tough linebackers, ready to hit the scrum, but we always lose our fights. We're the ones getting our ears stitched back together, while the other dog goes unscathed.
My colleague asked me if I was a hurricane, if this was just like me, to incur disasters, and I thought, well, yes and no. I do think a lot of these ailments are relationship-related, linked to both the possibility of intimacy and the reality of impending rupture. Intimacy and rupture are Janus-faced, of course. And perhaps my whole body just sort of panics when confronted with that fact. So out of nowhere, when I am in some stressful transition, I will develop: stress fractures! allergies! asthma! a horrifying UTI! a freak abscess requiring hospitalization! and now, a goddamned bleeding ulcer. I mean really. I am diligent with the self-care, the nutrition, the maintenance allergy meds., the sleeping enough. It's not like I'm a cracked out night owl five dollar hooker or something.
And yet, I do see a weird pattern that screams: "somebody! rescue me! I may be scary and intimidate you, but not if I am extremely ill! Indeed, if I am ill, perhaps you HAVE to take care of me, because that's the only way this deal will be legit! Not like you'd actually want to! Nothing to see, here! Moving on! I'm FINE! Help, please?!"
Anyway, my larger superstructure, like my pore pore teeth, is I guess a bit weak. Try as I might to care for those teeth, I just have to show up at the dentist's more often than most people. I can floss and brush those bitches eight times a day, and never eat sugar, and I still get cavities. Were I made of different stuff, I'd be stronger, more resilient, more physically capable. But I am not. And from what I can tell, this current rigamarole is occurring because I take ibuprofen to treat inflammation and joint pain, and I've been doing so for ages. Because I have inflamed sinuses that hurt, and if I can keep them from hurting, I can avoid blinding headaches. And because I grind my teeth, so my TMJ aches, the further occurrence of which I am trying like hell to prevent.
Therefore, when I felt a little dyspeptic on Monday, I took an OTC treatment that has an analgesic in it, and also over the weekend when I felt the twinge of a UTI bearing down upon me, I took those OTC pills that turn your pee orange and which are also analgesics. All of which, along with the regular advil, combines to create, somewhere in my GI tract, an NSAID related lesion. So don't be like me. Careful with the analgesics.
Lemme tell you, though. One of the surest ways to get seen by your doctor is to talk very accurately about your own shit. Like the presence of black blood, therein.
Tomorrow I go to get my sad guts scoped so that my new GI doctor can figure out what's what.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
BLECH
Am sick. And I'd made it so far without the sickness! Alas.
Cancelled my class because I couldn't discern whether I'd have to flee, mid-lecture, in order to be, well, sick.
Tomorrow I must:
write a midterm
administer the midterm
grade a gazillion papers (during the midterm, most likely)
buy a plane ticket for going to Chicago on my birthday later this month
finalize my travel plans for K'zoo and for Leeds
finish drafting an abstract and submit it
pay all my damn bills
hassle my Rx people for reimbursement so that I can pay my taxes
compile my taxes and send them off
call my uncle who is experiencing post-retirement malaise
reply to a ton of email
figure out how to confront a hostile student in my seminar
figure out how to rejigger my pedagogy so that the other students in the seminar feel less oppressed by her hostility
arrange dog care
make sure I have my allergy meds refilled
determine questions for a standardized Basic Writing final
figure out my mental health benefits and submit them for reimbursement
perhaps socialize with the 7 foot tall Oil Rig Engineer
Am mad irritated that Chase bought WaMu, because I bloody despise that bank, and due to the restructuring couldn't deposit my check because my local branch is shut down.
Am also irritated by the number of hostile anonymous comments on my last post. To which I will say: dudes, it's not that I am bored. Nor is it that I am a sex addict. It's that YOU are boring me. So please, fuck off.
Am going to bed early.
Am sick. And I'd made it so far without the sickness! Alas.
Cancelled my class because I couldn't discern whether I'd have to flee, mid-lecture, in order to be, well, sick.
Tomorrow I must:
write a midterm
administer the midterm
grade a gazillion papers (during the midterm, most likely)
buy a plane ticket for going to Chicago on my birthday later this month
finalize my travel plans for K'zoo and for Leeds
finish drafting an abstract and submit it
pay all my damn bills
hassle my Rx people for reimbursement so that I can pay my taxes
compile my taxes and send them off
call my uncle who is experiencing post-retirement malaise
reply to a ton of email
figure out how to confront a hostile student in my seminar
figure out how to rejigger my pedagogy so that the other students in the seminar feel less oppressed by her hostility
arrange dog care
make sure I have my allergy meds refilled
determine questions for a standardized Basic Writing final
figure out my mental health benefits and submit them for reimbursement
perhaps socialize with the 7 foot tall Oil Rig Engineer
Am mad irritated that Chase bought WaMu, because I bloody despise that bank, and due to the restructuring couldn't deposit my check because my local branch is shut down.
Am also irritated by the number of hostile anonymous comments on my last post. To which I will say: dudes, it's not that I am bored. Nor is it that I am a sex addict. It's that YOU are boring me. So please, fuck off.
Am going to bed early.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
WAYS TO GET A SMART CHICK TO SLEEP WITH YOU
Firstly, be nice. Sadistic misogyny combined with the double standard DOES NOT SET FIRE to a lady's loins. Not if she is worth her salt and has been able to integrate all of her constituent psychological parts. And especially not if she reads feminist theory. And you know it. And, by the way, you've read some Catharine MacKinnon yourself.
Do not ask her unrelated, neutral questions, and locate some vague sexual metaphor in her response, and then scold her for "having sex on the brain." Do not avoid eye contact and withhold any compliments regarding her attractiveness, and then acidly accuse her of "knowing what you were doing by wearing THAT." Do not, if you initiate conversation explicitly about sex, chastise her for also talking about her interests. Do not complain wearily about the burden of having to meet her sexual needs. Do not discuss how angry you are that hot young 20 year old girls will "toy" with you. Especially if you are old enough to be the 20 year old's father. Do not say that your ex was "crazy." If the street is empty of people, do not check out the sole woman who walks by. Do not express anger at your mother for being pissed with your dad and not doing enough for you. Especially if she was a single mother and your father left her, while she was pregnant with you, because he'd knocked up a woman 10 years her junior.
What works:
Telling aforesaid lady, when she expresses concern that the double standard does exist and you may be mean to her if she responds to your advances with any enthusiasm, "um, all I'm thinking is that I'd be really grateful if you let me kiss you."
And: introducing her to your friends with pride and considerable pleasure as "Dr. Lettriste!" To the point where they don't actually know your first name.
And: cooking for her, with a capable ease, while saying, "keep talking. I like to listen to you."
And: matter-of-factly asking if she'd like "company" on her way to her car.
And: standing up to greet her when she enters a room.
And: saying that when you see beautiful women, there's an internal part of you that exuberantly wants to ask if there's anything you could do for them.
And: saying that part of your master plan was to make her breakfast, if she'd consent to stay the night. "Whatever it takes" to get her to stick around.
And: having a clean house, and not making a big deal about it in the least.
And: when she exclaims with a certain surprise that she can't believe she lives in the South, say, "I know, honey! Welcome home! We cleaned it up real nice just for you!"
And: upon hearing her reluctance that you go out of your way to take her back to her house and dog, say, "do you know how mad my mother would be with me if she found out I DIDN'T take you home? And my mom is NICE."
Also: if your first date is at--surprise!--a bar that happens to cater to dykes, express curiosity and good humor. But no prurient interest. Say absolutely nothing about anybody's physical appearance, there. Make friends with the bartendress, who's bigger than you are, and ask her about any good, nearby taquerias. Later, comment on how well the conversation was going that it took a long while before you noticed that everybody at the bar was a lesbian.
Last but not least: contribute to an equitable distribution of the sexual resources. If she does consent perhaps to some "Texas Sex," make sure it's mutually constitutive. Also, if she allows the fucking to occur, for god's sake, make it worth her damn while. And for real's yo, the day after, CALL HER TO SEE HOW SHE'S DOING. And say thank you.
It's only neighborly.
Firstly, be nice. Sadistic misogyny combined with the double standard DOES NOT SET FIRE to a lady's loins. Not if she is worth her salt and has been able to integrate all of her constituent psychological parts. And especially not if she reads feminist theory. And you know it. And, by the way, you've read some Catharine MacKinnon yourself.
Do not ask her unrelated, neutral questions, and locate some vague sexual metaphor in her response, and then scold her for "having sex on the brain." Do not avoid eye contact and withhold any compliments regarding her attractiveness, and then acidly accuse her of "knowing what you were doing by wearing THAT." Do not, if you initiate conversation explicitly about sex, chastise her for also talking about her interests. Do not complain wearily about the burden of having to meet her sexual needs. Do not discuss how angry you are that hot young 20 year old girls will "toy" with you. Especially if you are old enough to be the 20 year old's father. Do not say that your ex was "crazy." If the street is empty of people, do not check out the sole woman who walks by. Do not express anger at your mother for being pissed with your dad and not doing enough for you. Especially if she was a single mother and your father left her, while she was pregnant with you, because he'd knocked up a woman 10 years her junior.
What works:
Telling aforesaid lady, when she expresses concern that the double standard does exist and you may be mean to her if she responds to your advances with any enthusiasm, "um, all I'm thinking is that I'd be really grateful if you let me kiss you."
And: introducing her to your friends with pride and considerable pleasure as "Dr. Lettriste!" To the point where they don't actually know your first name.
And: cooking for her, with a capable ease, while saying, "keep talking. I like to listen to you."
And: matter-of-factly asking if she'd like "company" on her way to her car.
And: standing up to greet her when she enters a room.
And: saying that when you see beautiful women, there's an internal part of you that exuberantly wants to ask if there's anything you could do for them.
And: saying that part of your master plan was to make her breakfast, if she'd consent to stay the night. "Whatever it takes" to get her to stick around.
And: having a clean house, and not making a big deal about it in the least.
And: when she exclaims with a certain surprise that she can't believe she lives in the South, say, "I know, honey! Welcome home! We cleaned it up real nice just for you!"
And: upon hearing her reluctance that you go out of your way to take her back to her house and dog, say, "do you know how mad my mother would be with me if she found out I DIDN'T take you home? And my mom is NICE."
Also: if your first date is at--surprise!--a bar that happens to cater to dykes, express curiosity and good humor. But no prurient interest. Say absolutely nothing about anybody's physical appearance, there. Make friends with the bartendress, who's bigger than you are, and ask her about any good, nearby taquerias. Later, comment on how well the conversation was going that it took a long while before you noticed that everybody at the bar was a lesbian.
Last but not least: contribute to an equitable distribution of the sexual resources. If she does consent perhaps to some "Texas Sex," make sure it's mutually constitutive. Also, if she allows the fucking to occur, for god's sake, make it worth her damn while. And for real's yo, the day after, CALL HER TO SEE HOW SHE'S DOING. And say thank you.
It's only neighborly.
Friday, March 06, 2009
MAMA'S GOT A BRAND NEW BAG
For five years, when I lived in Nueva Jork, I was in classical analysis. Much of that time, I went three times a week to see my Analyst, in his air-shaft facing little office on the Upper West Side.
Analyst was himself a youngish guy, just starting his practice, which was why I could afford to see him. He was smart, and small, and of East Coast Irish extraction, and always exhausted because he and his wife kept having kids. I learned how to anchor myself in the vast sea of language that I always seem to swim within, with him. I also learned that I have choices, and integrity, and intelligence, and that I am not mentally ill. And also, that I am terrified of pissing off or hurting the masculine figures in my life. I am eager to please! I figure out what is required and get an A! And I never ever point out that my doing so is unfair. The fragile egos of others are on my radar. And I am self-preserving enough not to brush those egos in the wrong way.
Now I have a new therapist. An older, Southern Lady MSW, with a gorgeous office of orchids and sculpture and Judith Butler books on her shelves and the New York Review of Books in her waiting room. Who DRESSES. In spike heels.
She said something in our last session that I am still ruminating over. She had a biography of Camille Claudel on her desk, and we'd been talking about Claudel, how she was the lover of Rodin and the family friend of Lacan, and brilliantly skilled and terribly constrained by the expectations of her time. She didn't and couldn't fit them. And was therefore institutionalized. Motherfucking Jacques Lacan could have treated her. But he let her get put away, for the rest of her life. Because she was "crazy." Therapist was moved almost to tears, discussing this.
"Beautiful, smart women are rarely happy," she said. "A woman can be smart and homely, and not intimidate the men in her life. Or she can be beautiful and dumb, and get men to care for her. But being intelligent and attractive does not enamor a woman to our society." We discussed this as a feminist issue. That these exceedingly sexist realities might make a woman who is intelligent, and self-possessed, and not hideous, and creative, and driven, both really mad and really lonely. Might make her "crazy." And that that sucked. And that it wasn't self-indulgent whining to point that out. It isn't a question of "poor me, alas, I am HAWT and I am BRILLIANT, whatever shall I do?" It's a question of: "how am I going to be a fully realized self, who wants a equal relationship with an interesting man to whom I am attracted, and also survive getting the shit kicked out of me on a daily basis?"
Feminism just never stops disambiguating the bullshit under which we have to live. And it isn't new, per se. Just newly clarified.
For five years, when I lived in Nueva Jork, I was in classical analysis. Much of that time, I went three times a week to see my Analyst, in his air-shaft facing little office on the Upper West Side.
Analyst was himself a youngish guy, just starting his practice, which was why I could afford to see him. He was smart, and small, and of East Coast Irish extraction, and always exhausted because he and his wife kept having kids. I learned how to anchor myself in the vast sea of language that I always seem to swim within, with him. I also learned that I have choices, and integrity, and intelligence, and that I am not mentally ill. And also, that I am terrified of pissing off or hurting the masculine figures in my life. I am eager to please! I figure out what is required and get an A! And I never ever point out that my doing so is unfair. The fragile egos of others are on my radar. And I am self-preserving enough not to brush those egos in the wrong way.
Now I have a new therapist. An older, Southern Lady MSW, with a gorgeous office of orchids and sculpture and Judith Butler books on her shelves and the New York Review of Books in her waiting room. Who DRESSES. In spike heels.
She said something in our last session that I am still ruminating over. She had a biography of Camille Claudel on her desk, and we'd been talking about Claudel, how she was the lover of Rodin and the family friend of Lacan, and brilliantly skilled and terribly constrained by the expectations of her time. She didn't and couldn't fit them. And was therefore institutionalized. Motherfucking Jacques Lacan could have treated her. But he let her get put away, for the rest of her life. Because she was "crazy." Therapist was moved almost to tears, discussing this.
"Beautiful, smart women are rarely happy," she said. "A woman can be smart and homely, and not intimidate the men in her life. Or she can be beautiful and dumb, and get men to care for her. But being intelligent and attractive does not enamor a woman to our society." We discussed this as a feminist issue. That these exceedingly sexist realities might make a woman who is intelligent, and self-possessed, and not hideous, and creative, and driven, both really mad and really lonely. Might make her "crazy." And that that sucked. And that it wasn't self-indulgent whining to point that out. It isn't a question of "poor me, alas, I am HAWT and I am BRILLIANT, whatever shall I do?" It's a question of: "how am I going to be a fully realized self, who wants a equal relationship with an interesting man to whom I am attracted, and also survive getting the shit kicked out of me on a daily basis?"
Feminism just never stops disambiguating the bullshit under which we have to live. And it isn't new, per se. Just newly clarified.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
LORDY!
That Margery Kempe. She is SO HUNG UP ON SEX! And so freaking CATHOLIC! And that Julian of Norwich, all up in her cloister and shit, spiritually nursing from the side wounds of Christ. WHAT A NUTTER! I can't hardly wait until we all broach the shoals of SGGK, what with that super slutty Lady entering Gawain's bed chamber and talking to him like a mother speaks to a child. And gifting him with her GIRDLE. Her GIRDLE! Like, that's lingerie or something! That is so not proper!
And the intersections of work and life, they are always eliding, pressing up against one another, forming new words. Like how "ye" and "all" can thereby become "y'all." Or how the word that Margery's husband uses to describe their sex life is "meddle." As in the ways that artisans meddle with an object, or children meddle with one another's business, or two bodies meddle and mix via the sex act.
Anyway here's a list for y'all, of the masculine hotnesses that are currently permeating my life. Has there been bodily meddling? In some ways. Nothing worth going straight to hell over. Yet. I toss up the possibilities and consider the hellfires of damnation with:
1.) The Allergist. Jesus. If that man palpates the lymph nodes in my neck one more time I may faint on the examining table. Or at the very least, tell him that he needs to refer me to one of his partners so that we could have a goddamned drink or something. From our first visit, we have made eyes at each other. We have talked about relationships (my perennial goal with my allergy meds is to find a workable combination that I could take were I to become pregnant in the future. Because the stuff I have to consume, in order to function, is in that category of "teratological effects." The alternative and "safe" modes of treatment are shots, &c., that take years in order to reach effective treatment.) The last appointment included a LONG interlude in which we discussed the East Coast, NYC, Harvard, pomposity, "people's lives at stake," my professorial prowess, my newfound singleness and, as mentioned earlier, my seeming beauty. And then we both realized that he had to write me a scrip for my asthma inhaler. All the nurses ask, "So... Did you have a good visit with Dr. X?" And all I can do is nod. Yes, ladies-in-scrubs. It was a good visit. His beard is adorably salt and pepper. He has dreamy shoulders. And the tongue depressor that he uses tastes like grape Kool-Aid.
2.) The 7 foot tall Dude who works on oil rigs. Who calls me. From the platform of the rig. And then uses actual clicking lighters that I can hear to ignite cigarettes and takes long drags from aforesaid cancer sticks while he is talking to me? And who speaks Danish? And English, but with a molasses-y Southern accent? Lord almighty.
3.) The hilarious Reporter. Who professes innate curiosity in all things, who tries to jump my bones the minute we're alone. Who, alas, has little hands, which I somehow cannot abide in men. But whose intellectual cajones and persistence remain nonetheless extremely appealing.
4.) The Architect. Who renovates his greatgrandparents' farmhouse. And then lives in it. With puppies. And grows okra.
5.) The oddly sweet Computer Programmer who prattles, and drinks whiskey, and smells amazingly good. And who is impressed that I drive a manual.
6.) The Post Punk overly tattooed single father who traffics in scientific equipment and who is sharply funny and thinks I am "fascinating."
7.) The Criminal Law Prof who drives this poet insane with his wordparsing and casualness and total lack of eye contact and repeated calling but not asking me out again. A man for whom language is a tool used to put fucking war criminals away. Who will only say what he means in the moment of its discussion. Who will, when asked as to his intentions or desires, blithely reply, "nothing." Who asked me why I wasn't some doctor's trophy wife, and when I replied, "because I am a feminist, most likely," merely nodded his head. And who clearly has prurient interest, otherwise he wouldn't check in on me and be all sweetly polite to me and want me to watch Wim Wenders movies with him. And make out. Who is addling my brain given the fact that, just the other day, as I was teaching Aristotle's Poetics, I realized yes! It's true! The poet speaks of what is POSSIBLE. What might or may or could happen. She tosses up the story in the air and bats it around until you can see it. She makes you hope for some more to the narrative, or at least a really bitchin' image that'll make your heart hurt for a second. Her words matter. But they don't mean, in a legal sense. They are doing some other kind of aesthetic work. But the prosecutor, like the historian, he speaks of what has ALREADY HAPPENED. And the prosecutor does so terribly, for when he speaks, his words wield civic and international power. The power, in some cases, of life and death.
All of which means to say: dang. Double dog dang.
At least I'm keeping busy.
That Margery Kempe. She is SO HUNG UP ON SEX! And so freaking CATHOLIC! And that Julian of Norwich, all up in her cloister and shit, spiritually nursing from the side wounds of Christ. WHAT A NUTTER! I can't hardly wait until we all broach the shoals of SGGK, what with that super slutty Lady entering Gawain's bed chamber and talking to him like a mother speaks to a child. And gifting him with her GIRDLE. Her GIRDLE! Like, that's lingerie or something! That is so not proper!
And the intersections of work and life, they are always eliding, pressing up against one another, forming new words. Like how "ye" and "all" can thereby become "y'all." Or how the word that Margery's husband uses to describe their sex life is "meddle." As in the ways that artisans meddle with an object, or children meddle with one another's business, or two bodies meddle and mix via the sex act.
Anyway here's a list for y'all, of the masculine hotnesses that are currently permeating my life. Has there been bodily meddling? In some ways. Nothing worth going straight to hell over. Yet. I toss up the possibilities and consider the hellfires of damnation with:
1.) The Allergist. Jesus. If that man palpates the lymph nodes in my neck one more time I may faint on the examining table. Or at the very least, tell him that he needs to refer me to one of his partners so that we could have a goddamned drink or something. From our first visit, we have made eyes at each other. We have talked about relationships (my perennial goal with my allergy meds is to find a workable combination that I could take were I to become pregnant in the future. Because the stuff I have to consume, in order to function, is in that category of "teratological effects." The alternative and "safe" modes of treatment are shots, &c., that take years in order to reach effective treatment.) The last appointment included a LONG interlude in which we discussed the East Coast, NYC, Harvard, pomposity, "people's lives at stake," my professorial prowess, my newfound singleness and, as mentioned earlier, my seeming beauty. And then we both realized that he had to write me a scrip for my asthma inhaler. All the nurses ask, "So... Did you have a good visit with Dr. X?" And all I can do is nod. Yes, ladies-in-scrubs. It was a good visit. His beard is adorably salt and pepper. He has dreamy shoulders. And the tongue depressor that he uses tastes like grape Kool-Aid.
2.) The 7 foot tall Dude who works on oil rigs. Who calls me. From the platform of the rig. And then uses actual clicking lighters that I can hear to ignite cigarettes and takes long drags from aforesaid cancer sticks while he is talking to me? And who speaks Danish? And English, but with a molasses-y Southern accent? Lord almighty.
3.) The hilarious Reporter. Who professes innate curiosity in all things, who tries to jump my bones the minute we're alone. Who, alas, has little hands, which I somehow cannot abide in men. But whose intellectual cajones and persistence remain nonetheless extremely appealing.
4.) The Architect. Who renovates his greatgrandparents' farmhouse. And then lives in it. With puppies. And grows okra.
5.) The oddly sweet Computer Programmer who prattles, and drinks whiskey, and smells amazingly good. And who is impressed that I drive a manual.
6.) The Post Punk overly tattooed single father who traffics in scientific equipment and who is sharply funny and thinks I am "fascinating."
7.) The Criminal Law Prof who drives this poet insane with his wordparsing and casualness and total lack of eye contact and repeated calling but not asking me out again. A man for whom language is a tool used to put fucking war criminals away. Who will only say what he means in the moment of its discussion. Who will, when asked as to his intentions or desires, blithely reply, "nothing." Who asked me why I wasn't some doctor's trophy wife, and when I replied, "because I am a feminist, most likely," merely nodded his head. And who clearly has prurient interest, otherwise he wouldn't check in on me and be all sweetly polite to me and want me to watch Wim Wenders movies with him. And make out. Who is addling my brain given the fact that, just the other day, as I was teaching Aristotle's Poetics, I realized yes! It's true! The poet speaks of what is POSSIBLE. What might or may or could happen. She tosses up the story in the air and bats it around until you can see it. She makes you hope for some more to the narrative, or at least a really bitchin' image that'll make your heart hurt for a second. Her words matter. But they don't mean, in a legal sense. They are doing some other kind of aesthetic work. But the prosecutor, like the historian, he speaks of what has ALREADY HAPPENED. And the prosecutor does so terribly, for when he speaks, his words wield civic and international power. The power, in some cases, of life and death.
All of which means to say: dang. Double dog dang.
At least I'm keeping busy.
Monday, March 02, 2009
TEXAS SEX
That's what my colleagues call the whole evangelical, Red State, rather draconian practice of doing everything BUT having penetrative vaginal sex in an attempt to "save" or "keep" virginity for marriage. This is a method I am only just learning about, given that I am newly single and an inveterate Yankee who believes in evolution and the rights of women and all that jazz.
Any way you call it, the "Texas Sex" phenomenology is pretty medieval: vaginal penetration is the only thing that counts. That's why it needs "saving." Because the penetration of the vagina is like, totally bitchin' or something. It's like the be all and end all of everything in the patriarchal universe. Something that cannot be negotiated, but only forestalled. Something that merely and majestically ... IS. Your husband gets to have it. But only him. And you aren't ever supposed to talk about whether that is fair or not or actually benefits you in any way or not. And your pleasure? Immaterial. It's his happiness at having your vagina all to his damn self that matters most.
At least, when my female students talking about how wonderful it is to "submit" to their husbands, this is what I hear.
Everything BUT having vaginal sex is sodomy, and sinful, for evangelical Southerners and medieval folks alike. Apparently, a person should feel guilty about that which is fun and feels good and is mutually constitutive and doesn't get anybody pregnant and prevents the transmission of STD's and might actually benefit a woman if she is able to give the right directions to the right partner. There are no multidirectional sexual favors in "Texas Sex," I'm thinking. There is no giving AND receiving. There should only ever be the beneficent gift of your vagina to your husband and to God. Vaginal penetration stands on high, a city on a hill, beckoning with its miraculous alluring glow. And you should ONLY ever have the holy grail of sex if you have entered into the sacred and holy bond of marriage, and ONLY if you are doing it because and only because you want to procreate.
All of which means to say, if I read one more paper about how the Wife of Bath is a "disgusting," "stupid" woman of "loose morals," because she negotiates sexual favors, I may scream. Not to mention the crap about how "slutty" the Fairy is in "Lanval," on account of her giving up her body to the knight. I have taken to marking the margins in block capitals: "THIS IS A MAKE BELIEVE STORY. ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN. P.S. SHE IS A MAGICAL FAIRY."
Moreover, I thank the sweet little virginal holy gloriously dried up foreskin of the baby Jesus, nay, I VENERATE that little rubberband of Christian specialness, that I was born and raised a Quaker who has no idols or sacraments or creeds. Who thus can fuck with impunity, without my religious commitments getting all up in my uterus and stuff. Or not fuck, and merely trade various sexual favors, tit for tat.
But only if such trading actually benefits me. Shocking, I realize.
Hell, I don't come from abolitionist suffragette feminists for nothing.
That's what my colleagues call the whole evangelical, Red State, rather draconian practice of doing everything BUT having penetrative vaginal sex in an attempt to "save" or "keep" virginity for marriage. This is a method I am only just learning about, given that I am newly single and an inveterate Yankee who believes in evolution and the rights of women and all that jazz.
Any way you call it, the "Texas Sex" phenomenology is pretty medieval: vaginal penetration is the only thing that counts. That's why it needs "saving." Because the penetration of the vagina is like, totally bitchin' or something. It's like the be all and end all of everything in the patriarchal universe. Something that cannot be negotiated, but only forestalled. Something that merely and majestically ... IS. Your husband gets to have it. But only him. And you aren't ever supposed to talk about whether that is fair or not or actually benefits you in any way or not. And your pleasure? Immaterial. It's his happiness at having your vagina all to his damn self that matters most.
At least, when my female students talking about how wonderful it is to "submit" to their husbands, this is what I hear.
Everything BUT having vaginal sex is sodomy, and sinful, for evangelical Southerners and medieval folks alike. Apparently, a person should feel guilty about that which is fun and feels good and is mutually constitutive and doesn't get anybody pregnant and prevents the transmission of STD's and might actually benefit a woman if she is able to give the right directions to the right partner. There are no multidirectional sexual favors in "Texas Sex," I'm thinking. There is no giving AND receiving. There should only ever be the beneficent gift of your vagina to your husband and to God. Vaginal penetration stands on high, a city on a hill, beckoning with its miraculous alluring glow. And you should ONLY ever have the holy grail of sex if you have entered into the sacred and holy bond of marriage, and ONLY if you are doing it because and only because you want to procreate.
All of which means to say, if I read one more paper about how the Wife of Bath is a "disgusting," "stupid" woman of "loose morals," because she negotiates sexual favors, I may scream. Not to mention the crap about how "slutty" the Fairy is in "Lanval," on account of her giving up her body to the knight. I have taken to marking the margins in block capitals: "THIS IS A MAKE BELIEVE STORY. ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN. P.S. SHE IS A MAGICAL FAIRY."
Moreover, I thank the sweet little virginal holy gloriously dried up foreskin of the baby Jesus, nay, I VENERATE that little rubberband of Christian specialness, that I was born and raised a Quaker who has no idols or sacraments or creeds. Who thus can fuck with impunity, without my religious commitments getting all up in my uterus and stuff. Or not fuck, and merely trade various sexual favors, tit for tat.
But only if such trading actually benefits me. Shocking, I realize.
Hell, I don't come from abolitionist suffragette feminists for nothing.
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