Sunday Walk

I'm working on a new poem about walks taken at the edge of evening, about the perfume of dryer sheets, of rot. About the air thawing. About February.

This Is Just To Say

I was hemming and hawing in front of the fridge today. A can of Diet Pepsi looked delicious, so sweet and so cold. (Williams gets that credit). But, I was resisting because soda isn't good, even diet soda. Then I realized that I swig diet cola most every Friday night at The Eagles, and THAT diet soda also contains lots of cheap whiskey; thus I drank 'er down. It was worth it. Sometimes, I just crave that caramelly, fake sugared, fizzy stuff.

You want more proof I am OCD? A new work laptop was given to me, and it's got Vista (which, whatev, it's fine). BUT, the icons for the folders are different in Vista. So instead of cute little closed folders on my desktop, I now have these icons that are open folders, so you can see stacks of papers inside.

It looks like this:



And it looks messy. And it is making Lu crazy!

More proof? You don't need anymore proof. You all know I am completely rulesy and crazy.

We're doing a Vermtown float this weekend, baby. Buckle up.

This Borscht Could Use Some Dill.

That's all I'm saying.

I think that my family is a bit surprised that I became a teacher; they all know I have no patience. None whatsoever.

And it's true. I have no patience for stupidity, for people who don't shovel their walks, for ignorance, for my idiot neighbor boy, for Dr. Laura, for energy drinks, for laziness, for Nancy Grace, for bad parenting, for the grandma-sweatered, flowery-smelling History prof down the hall, for dollar loan centers, for Elizabeth Hasselbeck.



In the classroom, however, I have the patience of St. Monica, the, uh, patron saint of patience. I will calmly answer the same question over and over again. I will explain next week's assignment in a billion different mediums: verbal examples, drawings on the board, written on the class blog, diagrams in sand I have truckloaded in. I answer e-mails professionally, when I really want to write, "YOU MAKE MY LIFE BAD." I will bend over backwards.



Except for yesterday, when I almost lost it. I was explaining, againagainagain, the rule for commas after conjunctive adverbs: commas go after the conjunctive adverb if said conjunctive adverb is more than two syllables.

(Did I know this rule before teaching basic writing? Nope. Will I stand in front of them and talk about it ad naseum and act like THE authority of comma usage and conjunctive adverbs? Absolutely.)

One student was just not getting it. At all. And I got frustrated. I raised my voice, let my irritation creep into it, leaned into her, jabbed my finger at her paper, and asked, a bit harshly, "How many syllables are in this word?" Silence from her. Then it hit me. She didn't know what I meant by syllables. I took a step back and softly counted it out with her, and she said, "Ohhh!! OK!" And she got it.

I could use this story to lament about education today. I could complain and raise my blood pressure. But I won't. In teaching, and especially teaching the unique student demographic that I do, you need to step out from behind the podium and meet them where they are.

She's a good student--she's going to make it. And I'll continue to work on hanging onto my patience, if even I am clutching onto a very, very, very thin thread.

St. Monica, pray for us.

Understood You

For the past three years of my illustrious teaching career, I have written "avoid 'you' in formal, academic writing" about a billion times on student papers. I talk about it in class nearly every week. I tell them it sounds accusatory and little slangy.

I tell them they are not Uncle Sam.

I tell them to find a title; to use "students", "citizens", "workers", "alcoholics". Anything but you.

I just got done planning my 033 class for next week, and guess what? They're writing a process paragraph which encourages, advocates on behalf of, and even glorifies the use of "you." Why would a writing text do that? I'll just beat "understood you" into them. Maybe that will help.

I like the understood you. It gets me, man. Because I'm a little bossy. And I like me some rules.



On a completely unrelated note, I am making homemade pizza tonight.

The Montgomery Flea Market

I had my advanced comp studs analyze commercials today. They all did an awesome job, but one student brought in a particularly awesome commercial:



How much do you love, love, love local commercials?

Accented Americans

Before beginning my teaching responsibilities at UC, my interaction with with people not born in the United States was pretty limited. If you can believe it, rural Dakota isn't exactly a hub for foreign-born people. The only unique accent I heard growing up was when my Oklahoma cousins came up twice a year.

Since teaching here, however, I've worked with and taught a number of people who speak with an accent. Currently, I have a Jamaican who loves to talk (and I love to listen to him), a Polish woman, a few Latinos, one Indian woman, and a number of Africans, mostly from Ethiopia. My classroom is like the United Nations. Or like an ad from the United Colors of Benneton. And I love it.

I, myself, have a Nor'Dakota accent. I say flayg, bayg, waygon. I say oh sure. I say oh yeah. When I go home to the local bar, my accent comes out thick. The first good friend I made in college was Hidatsa and Sioux, and I hung out a lot with her and her cousins. I loved their accents. It was like hills and grass. Once in awhile, I'll hear that accent down here and think of her, of them.

My friend L. does a hilariously fantastic impression of her Japanese mother. My friend S. has a completely addicting New York/Jewish accent. My friend K. slips very easily into her Mexican blood. My friend J. from Minnesota doesn't sound like she's from Minnesota at all. My moved-away friend N. has this great East Coast thing that I miss much.

B's parents have a bit of a Florida/Ohio accent, and it's a little Southerny. They say "darlin'" a lot. My dad will say things like "wort-less" for "worthless", and other things like "doggone it" and "you know, a guy could ..." when he is hinting that his three children should do something.

I like music an awful, awful lot, and I like the musicality that happens when a language is tackled by people who weren't born with it on their tongues.

“I think your wife is faking her psychosis”

I am sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring the CBS soap that I have turned on for the background noise (see title), making lesson plans, and watching it snow.

Boy, is that snow pretty today. A soft and slow snow.

We’re now on our second week of classes, but praise Allah, I do not teach on Mondays this semester. I wake up on Sunday morning and love the two full days I have ahead of me. I’ve got a good batch of students this Spring, I think. I’m teaching a couple sections of basic writing this semester, and am already in love with it. I’m working with people who actually want to talk about the placement of a comma; eager people who tell me the difference between there, their, and they’re.

Dreamy, dreamy.

Happy New Year! by the way.

This week will go by fast, as did all of 2005, 2006, 2007, and 2008 did. I am headed to Fargo this weekend. My brother has gotten his orders; his all-expense paid trip to the desert. (Thanks Bush. Thanks Rummy. Thanks Cheney. So glad you jokers are out. ) So, we’re having a big going-away bash with lots of friends and families. Keep him close in your thoughts, ok?

I’ve been waiting for the new Wally Lamb novel, The Hour I First Believed. By waiting, I mean I’ve just been hanging around the new release shelves at the local libraries. I finally snagged it on Friday. I love it. I love how Lamb and others like John Irving are like, “yeah, I write these 800 page novels that end with the most perfect lines ever, and yeah, they weigh 7 pounds and your arms will get tired, and yeah, they redeem and sweep and wrench. But you know what? You’ll wake up early just to get another 50 pages in.” I imagine they just walk into their uberfamous publishing houses, throw the manuscripts on the desk, and say, “you’re welcome.” Lucky bastards.

I’ve got about 1/3 of this final lesson plan done, so I best get back to it. I can’t wait to get to the point in my career when I can just get up there and talk, relevantly and coherently, for hours. When I don’t babble and tell my students things like, “I watch my neighbors all the time” and “I’m pretty good with chopsticks” and “Harry Potter is king.”