Change. I like it; I crave it. And I resist it. Paradoxical? Maybe. Let me 'splain.
Change I resist:
1. Taco Tuesday-D.C. Edition: It began as a simple little dinner with me, Jane, and Laura Cannon and ended in a firey ball of hot oil (with Laura still faithfully stirring the beans). Our little family grew over the course of the next few months, newbies dropped in and out, but the core remained. Now?...now [sigh] the band is breaking up. Ali and Lincoln are heading to CA for the rest of the summer, Jane has gone and gotten herself engaged and will soon be adios-ing and, well, Taco Tuesday will never quite be the same. My inner-circle continues to depart, slowly but surely. Suddenly, I feel as if I am the last woman standing. It's no secret: when I love, I love deeply, and when bonds of friendship are formed, they are firm and loyal. So when changes occur (even happy changes) that change the dyanmic of those friendships, of course I feel a sense of loss. That kind of change is hard.
2. My deskmate at work just got moved to the third floor. Now I sit alone at a job I already dislike, left to entertain only myself. We were kind of like those two old muppets who sat in the box seats with their running commentary. They needed each other in order to be funny. I am now one old muppet guy, left alone in the box seat. Email just doesn't have the same kind of rhythm. [sigh] I guess #2 is really the same as #1 in this category...I'm kind of a predictable creature.
Change I embrace:
1. Hair color: I'm tired (yet again) of my hair. I always hated the red the girl put in it (grrr). Now that my hair is growing out, my original light brown/dark blonde color is clashing magnificently with this reddish hue that I detest so much, making it look like this yucky, mousy brown. I will be blonde again by the end of the week. My family will be pleased. Now if only I would grow my hair back out, they would really be pleased. But it just isn't going to happen. I tried. I felt ugly. I'm keeping it short. Sorry to disappoint.
2. Purging material possessions: This weekend I got rid of all the books in my room that I hate. I know, I know. Hate is a strong word. Here's the thing. A load of them were for this cultural studies course I had to take in grad school. The books we had to read could have been essays and made their points more effectively, and yet each author eked out 100+ pages so that they could charge poor grad students $20 to read about and potentially legitimize their ideas. I will admit, some of the class discussions were actually pretty interesting. Sadly, during my undergraduate career I mastered the art of skipping my way around books I didn't want to read, reading just enough in the right places to arm myself with enough information to get by. I didn't read one lousy book in its entirety that entire semester and ended up being one of the star students. I rocked an A and felt totally guilty about it. However, I did write an awesome paper on romantic comedies, so my guilt is slightly assuaged. Anyway, I convinced myself that I might really be interested in reading about reality television or a pseudo-utopian society in Florida when I wasn't both working and going to school full time, so I hung onto them. Every single book. But really folks, who am I kidding? I'm never going to read them. And having them on my shelf is just a reminder of the work I didn't do over two years ago. Therefore, they are being donated to a library so that people who actually care about popular culture, Foucault and Adorno can read to their heart's content. I am not one of those people.
3. Food choices: I have recently grown tired of all foods but cookies, smoothies, fruit leather and kabobs. Lately fried food has been strangely alluring. This craving is not normal. I need more variety in my diet with minimal impact on my time.
4. Educational opportunities: I feel the itch to return to school...
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Escapism
My father once asked me (a month before I started my grad program in English lit), "Julie, can I ask you, what is the purpose of fiction?" I was rendered speechless; I was embarrassed to discover I had no good answer. I fumbled around for something to legitimize my new course of study, but was never really satisfied with my answer. I mean, there are lots of good things about fiction. It can be highly instructional. It provides a forum for creativity. It's good for lots of things. Recently, though, I discovered, or finally admitted, that one more exists: Escapism.
I don't often use literature to escape because I'm usually reading for information or edification. It is still escaping in a sense, because it transports me from my current surroundings to the world contained in the pages of a book, but escaping my world is not usually my primary purpose in reading. However, my confession today is that there are two books (well, one book and one series) I use exclusively as escape-literature (one more than the other) and they both fall into the same genre: Fantasy.
I should explain that I consider this admission a confession because I have been accused in the past of being a book snob. Maybe I earned that label. Maybe not. I will say this: There aren't many fantasy authors out there that are high on my respectable list of well-knowns. That being said, I may not look the type, but I did almost my entire master's degree on medieval literature, its appropriations in literature throughout history, and, more specifically, Tolkien and his creation of Middle-earth. I know I just said I "don't do fantasy" and that Tolkien technically falls under fantasy, but Tolkien really is in a category all by himself. Growing up, I had never given much thought to Tolkien or The Lord of the Rings and was only vaguely aware of the existence of The Silmarillion, though I had no idea what it was or what it was about. Fantasy lit just wasn't my thing. But I'll admit, the movies came out and I was mesmerized. I read LOTR for the first time the fall before I started graduate school. I loved it. Then I took this heinous research methods class required of all first-semester students. [A side note of little interest to anyone but me: My professor was frightening. I'm not kidding. She was severe, socially inept, and brilliant. I have never been more intimidated in all my life. Sadly, she was one of only two medievalists on campus and I spent almost my entire graduate career under her watchful, condescending, tactless eye.] When my professor assigned the class to choose an author and read the authorized biography, I chose Tolkien. I was curious to find out more about the creator of Middle-earth. I passed many lovely fall evenings in front of my fireplace learning about his many eccentricities and acknowledged brilliance. A top philologist (he was recruited to work on portions of the O.E.D.) and medieval studies professor at Oxford, he wrote in his "spare time" (usually between the hours of midnight and 2 or 3 a.m.). I had no idea such a brilliant individual would deign to write something that could be termed fantasy literature. Just goes to show you the trouble book-snobbery can get you into.
While everyone walked around calling Tolkien's creation fantasy, he declared his creation a "mythology for England." Since England had been conquered and reconquered so many times, no solid mythology exists, no great origination story for this tiny, powerful Island, so Tolkien took matters into his own hands and created one himself (The Silmarillion). The creation story in that book is one of the most beautiful I have ever read. I could go on and on, but I'll just say this: One of the reasons Tolkien's version of fantasy is so excellent is because it has just enough of the world I recognize and know, but with an other-worldliness that isn't so far out there that I have to work to imagine it. It just feels familiar.
I know many people make the jump from Tolkien to Harry Potter, and I do so here only to point out that while they are not on the same level academically, they are on a similar level of accessibility to escapism. While Tolkien doesn't require me to work to believe, he does require me to think. Rowling, however, doesn't demand that I think because she eventually explains everything, whether it's through Dumbledore or his Penseive (or a thorough explanation from Hermione or Harry). Regardless of the level it's written on, Rowling has masterfully crafted something that evokes some of the same feelings as Tolkien's world: it is just close enough to my world for me to relate, but creates another world so magnificent and fantastic (as in fantasy-like) that I am willingly led into believing that Hogwarts does exist and that Harry really is going to save the world. Which brings me to my next point.
Savior literature. Had I finished my thesis, you would have have 70+ pages on this (aren't you glad I didn't? ha ha). I think this is the reason these two stories resonate so deeply with readers, the reason these are two of the best-selling novels/franchises ever. Well-crafted stories about good vs. evil, about one individual in whose hands the destiny of the earth resides, resonate because it is the essence of our existence. It is the story that is being written every day. Savior literature. It's powerful.
Anyway, this posting started out discussing escapism because I was going to confess that I just spent the last two weeks reading Harry Potter from start to finish--2 weeks, all 7 books-- because I was emotionally escaping from the news that my dad has cancer. It was the only way I could think of to cope. Harry Potter is an easy world to escape to, and I went easily and willingly. I emerged from Book 7 just yesterday. I've been thinking a lot over the last two weeks and have come to a few conclusions [spoiler alert, fair warning]:
Book Conclusions
1. No matter how many times I read the series (I think this was my 4th time through), I will always cry when Dumbledore dies. Always.
2. This was my third time through Book 7, and I still cried when Snape revealed to Dumbledore that his patronus is a doe...And this time through it finally registered that the reason Snape asks Harry to look at him right before he dies is so he can die with the vision of Lily's eyes before him. I know, I'm a little slow.
3. Snape is Rowling's most masterfully crafted character. I had a lot of theories about Snape. One of them was true. The other half of the puzzle, though, that part that completes Snape, the part about his connecton with Lily, I never would have guessed. Never. But it makes perfect sense. Brilliant.
4. My imagination will never be as alive as Rowling's. Ever. Hallows, horcruxes, souls splitting and connecting, wand lore...never in a million years would I have come up with it. I hope I get more creative as I get older. Maybe my children will teach me a thing or two.
Life Conclusions
1. Sometimes your mind needs to shut down when it's traumatized. It's good to listen and give it the rest it needs for however long it needs it. Don't push yourself back into the real world before you're ready to be there. Don't worry about it - you'll know when you're done. Also, it's good to escape to something that gives you a happy ending. Harry's friends and family suffer, some die, but there is hope in the end. That's always a good note to emerge on.
I've had the urge to go back and start reading the series again, but I know it's time to be done escaping and time to deal with reality.
Go fiction.
I don't often use literature to escape because I'm usually reading for information or edification. It is still escaping in a sense, because it transports me from my current surroundings to the world contained in the pages of a book, but escaping my world is not usually my primary purpose in reading. However, my confession today is that there are two books (well, one book and one series) I use exclusively as escape-literature (one more than the other) and they both fall into the same genre: Fantasy.
I should explain that I consider this admission a confession because I have been accused in the past of being a book snob. Maybe I earned that label. Maybe not. I will say this: There aren't many fantasy authors out there that are high on my respectable list of well-knowns. That being said, I may not look the type, but I did almost my entire master's degree on medieval literature, its appropriations in literature throughout history, and, more specifically, Tolkien and his creation of Middle-earth. I know I just said I "don't do fantasy" and that Tolkien technically falls under fantasy, but Tolkien really is in a category all by himself. Growing up, I had never given much thought to Tolkien or The Lord of the Rings and was only vaguely aware of the existence of The Silmarillion, though I had no idea what it was or what it was about. Fantasy lit just wasn't my thing. But I'll admit, the movies came out and I was mesmerized. I read LOTR for the first time the fall before I started graduate school. I loved it. Then I took this heinous research methods class required of all first-semester students. [A side note of little interest to anyone but me: My professor was frightening. I'm not kidding. She was severe, socially inept, and brilliant. I have never been more intimidated in all my life. Sadly, she was one of only two medievalists on campus and I spent almost my entire graduate career under her watchful, condescending, tactless eye.] When my professor assigned the class to choose an author and read the authorized biography, I chose Tolkien. I was curious to find out more about the creator of Middle-earth. I passed many lovely fall evenings in front of my fireplace learning about his many eccentricities and acknowledged brilliance. A top philologist (he was recruited to work on portions of the O.E.D.) and medieval studies professor at Oxford, he wrote in his "spare time" (usually between the hours of midnight and 2 or 3 a.m.). I had no idea such a brilliant individual would deign to write something that could be termed fantasy literature. Just goes to show you the trouble book-snobbery can get you into.
While everyone walked around calling Tolkien's creation fantasy, he declared his creation a "mythology for England." Since England had been conquered and reconquered so many times, no solid mythology exists, no great origination story for this tiny, powerful Island, so Tolkien took matters into his own hands and created one himself (The Silmarillion). The creation story in that book is one of the most beautiful I have ever read. I could go on and on, but I'll just say this: One of the reasons Tolkien's version of fantasy is so excellent is because it has just enough of the world I recognize and know, but with an other-worldliness that isn't so far out there that I have to work to imagine it. It just feels familiar.
I know many people make the jump from Tolkien to Harry Potter, and I do so here only to point out that while they are not on the same level academically, they are on a similar level of accessibility to escapism. While Tolkien doesn't require me to work to believe, he does require me to think. Rowling, however, doesn't demand that I think because she eventually explains everything, whether it's through Dumbledore or his Penseive (or a thorough explanation from Hermione or Harry). Regardless of the level it's written on, Rowling has masterfully crafted something that evokes some of the same feelings as Tolkien's world: it is just close enough to my world for me to relate, but creates another world so magnificent and fantastic (as in fantasy-like) that I am willingly led into believing that Hogwarts does exist and that Harry really is going to save the world. Which brings me to my next point.
Savior literature. Had I finished my thesis, you would have have 70+ pages on this (aren't you glad I didn't? ha ha). I think this is the reason these two stories resonate so deeply with readers, the reason these are two of the best-selling novels/franchises ever. Well-crafted stories about good vs. evil, about one individual in whose hands the destiny of the earth resides, resonate because it is the essence of our existence. It is the story that is being written every day. Savior literature. It's powerful.
Anyway, this posting started out discussing escapism because I was going to confess that I just spent the last two weeks reading Harry Potter from start to finish--2 weeks, all 7 books-- because I was emotionally escaping from the news that my dad has cancer. It was the only way I could think of to cope. Harry Potter is an easy world to escape to, and I went easily and willingly. I emerged from Book 7 just yesterday. I've been thinking a lot over the last two weeks and have come to a few conclusions [spoiler alert, fair warning]:
Book Conclusions
1. No matter how many times I read the series (I think this was my 4th time through), I will always cry when Dumbledore dies. Always.
2. This was my third time through Book 7, and I still cried when Snape revealed to Dumbledore that his patronus is a doe...And this time through it finally registered that the reason Snape asks Harry to look at him right before he dies is so he can die with the vision of Lily's eyes before him. I know, I'm a little slow.
3. Snape is Rowling's most masterfully crafted character. I had a lot of theories about Snape. One of them was true. The other half of the puzzle, though, that part that completes Snape, the part about his connecton with Lily, I never would have guessed. Never. But it makes perfect sense. Brilliant.
4. My imagination will never be as alive as Rowling's. Ever. Hallows, horcruxes, souls splitting and connecting, wand lore...never in a million years would I have come up with it. I hope I get more creative as I get older. Maybe my children will teach me a thing or two.
Life Conclusions
1. Sometimes your mind needs to shut down when it's traumatized. It's good to listen and give it the rest it needs for however long it needs it. Don't push yourself back into the real world before you're ready to be there. Don't worry about it - you'll know when you're done. Also, it's good to escape to something that gives you a happy ending. Harry's friends and family suffer, some die, but there is hope in the end. That's always a good note to emerge on.
I've had the urge to go back and start reading the series again, but I know it's time to be done escaping and time to deal with reality.
Go fiction.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
"God's Gift"
This last weekend was the Race for the Cure. It was an emotional weekend for me, as I got some very upsetting family-related news the night before. I didn't even want to run the race, but knew I had to do something to keep my mind busy, so I went. It was hot and soupy. I mean really hot. And really soupy. Even though it was only a 5k, I knew it was going to be a challenge. I did a quick warmup and realized that I was never going to make it wearing the shirt I brought (there is a reason I'm nicknamed "grodiemonster"), so I stripped down to my sport's bra, felt much better, and took off.
The race was terrible, I'm not going to lie. Aside from the heat issues, my mind would drift back to my family and I would start crying. Crying while running = difficulty breathing. No good. I came across the line at a depressing 24:30-ish (I didn't even run that when I was a lazy high school freshman) and just cried and cried. It was a pretty sad sight. I hung around at the finish waiting for the friends I had come with, but after about 30 minutes, I still didn't see them so I started walking, very slowly, to our designated meeting point. I felt completely spent, emotionally and physically. Depressed about my performance, depressed about the turn of events at home, depressed about the lousy weather, I felt it would be a miracle if I even made it down the mall to the Washington Monument, our meeting point.
I was so lost in my thoughts I didn't notice that two African American ladies came up on either side of me. They walked alongside me for a moment until I registered I had company. I looked to my right, down into a smiling face that said, "Hi, we're sisters and we're hijacking you." Her sister, who was on the other side of me, started laughing. I looked past the sister and saw there were two other ladies walking with them but apart from us, pretending to ignore them out of embarrassment. I tried to muster a smile and forced a little laugh.
"Hijacking, huh? What for?"
"Well," the shorter sister on my right said, "we just HAD to ask you"--she glanced across me at her sister who gave her an encouraging look--"what did you have to do to get that shape? Or is that just God's gift to you." She was dead serious. The storm cloud over my head parted briefly and I burst out laughing. Now you have to understand, I have been picked up on by Black men my entire life, in ways you would not believe (cars pulling over in the middle of the District, men following me into bookstores, cars full of men playing "I like big butts and I cannot lie" full blast as I've crossed the street...the stories are endless and ridiculous). But never have I been approached so bluntly by Black women. Sure, I've had plenty of girlfriends who have told me it's just not fair that a white girl like me got such a skinny waist and a butt like mine, but never a perfect stranger.
She was clearly waiting on an answer; it wasn't a rhetorical question. I laughed and said that I ran and swam and did a fair number of situps each day, along with some weight lifting, but that mostly it was just, ahem, "God's gift." Groans of disappointment followed as they realized there was no magic formula to acquire the way I was naturally built. I told them that as a white woman it was not always a "gift" (I've never met a white male who says outloud, "I just want a girl with some bootie") but that I've learned to embrace it. She clicked her tongue at my apparent ingratitude and told me that if she looked like me her husband would be counting his lucky stars. Everyone laughed. Then one of the friends suggested they cut across the mall to their car, the sister on my left told her taking shortcuts is why they will never look like me, more laughter, and then they were off. My cloud slowly settled back in, but their little ray of sunshine was the brightest spot in my weekend.
Here's to God's gifts...
The race was terrible, I'm not going to lie. Aside from the heat issues, my mind would drift back to my family and I would start crying. Crying while running = difficulty breathing. No good. I came across the line at a depressing 24:30-ish (I didn't even run that when I was a lazy high school freshman) and just cried and cried. It was a pretty sad sight. I hung around at the finish waiting for the friends I had come with, but after about 30 minutes, I still didn't see them so I started walking, very slowly, to our designated meeting point. I felt completely spent, emotionally and physically. Depressed about my performance, depressed about the turn of events at home, depressed about the lousy weather, I felt it would be a miracle if I even made it down the mall to the Washington Monument, our meeting point.
I was so lost in my thoughts I didn't notice that two African American ladies came up on either side of me. They walked alongside me for a moment until I registered I had company. I looked to my right, down into a smiling face that said, "Hi, we're sisters and we're hijacking you." Her sister, who was on the other side of me, started laughing. I looked past the sister and saw there were two other ladies walking with them but apart from us, pretending to ignore them out of embarrassment. I tried to muster a smile and forced a little laugh.
"Hijacking, huh? What for?"
"Well," the shorter sister on my right said, "we just HAD to ask you"--she glanced across me at her sister who gave her an encouraging look--"what did you have to do to get that shape? Or is that just God's gift to you." She was dead serious. The storm cloud over my head parted briefly and I burst out laughing. Now you have to understand, I have been picked up on by Black men my entire life, in ways you would not believe (cars pulling over in the middle of the District, men following me into bookstores, cars full of men playing "I like big butts and I cannot lie" full blast as I've crossed the street...the stories are endless and ridiculous). But never have I been approached so bluntly by Black women. Sure, I've had plenty of girlfriends who have told me it's just not fair that a white girl like me got such a skinny waist and a butt like mine, but never a perfect stranger.
She was clearly waiting on an answer; it wasn't a rhetorical question. I laughed and said that I ran and swam and did a fair number of situps each day, along with some weight lifting, but that mostly it was just, ahem, "God's gift." Groans of disappointment followed as they realized there was no magic formula to acquire the way I was naturally built. I told them that as a white woman it was not always a "gift" (I've never met a white male who says outloud, "I just want a girl with some bootie") but that I've learned to embrace it. She clicked her tongue at my apparent ingratitude and told me that if she looked like me her husband would be counting his lucky stars. Everyone laughed. Then one of the friends suggested they cut across the mall to their car, the sister on my left told her taking shortcuts is why they will never look like me, more laughter, and then they were off. My cloud slowly settled back in, but their little ray of sunshine was the brightest spot in my weekend.
Here's to God's gifts...
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Public Service Announcement
My father would like you all to know that he still believes in dowries.
Limited time offer on the Corvette-as-dowry. He's thinking of selling it. Do me a favor: help me give him a reason not to.
Limited time offer on the Corvette-as-dowry. He's thinking of selling it. Do me a favor: help me give him a reason not to.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)