i am startin this blog for many reasons:*i've been meaning to start
documenting my transition from adjunct life to grad school phd life*i want to
have an 'outside' writing environment, separate from my journaling*i want a
place to write where i can connect to others in the Blog-0-sphere
atmosphereWell, I don't know how much I've kept those goals. I really can't document my transition from adjunct-dom to phd-om because I'm not going anywhere. But this has been a place for me to document my travels from adjunct-dom to full time work to pregnancy to...who knows whats to come. This has become an outside writing environment, I tend to only journal at most once or twice a week now privatley. And as far as this being a place for me to connect to other bloggers, I guess I still feel pretty isolated. That isolation comes from myself in some respects, I have a few blogs that I do post comments on and occassionlay those folks visit me. But I've also got tons of blogs that I read and never write a comment on because I feel like the little kid on the blogging playground with the fake keds. Come on, you know what I'm talking about. The fake keds your mama would get you from Kmart, they looked like the real keds, they just didn't have the keds written on the back.
I guess I need to break out of my blogging shell. I'm always embarressed by my writing though. That could be why I hate to look back over my thesis or anything I did in school. Why am I so embarressed to see it? I dread the thought of trying to ever publish anything because I lack confidence in my words. No, not in my words but in the way I use my words.
So, I don't know how my goals have held up. At least I did have something.
Now, my goals for the next 100 posts:
-Continue to be honest about tracking my feelings.
-Spend at least once a week posting about something good. Even if I have to look real hard out of my evil little eyes.
-Just be.
*****
At lunch today, my bro gave me a really cool quote from a song (I'll have to look that up later), from Mos Def.
"how you got high expectations, with no patience?"
Taping that one to my head.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
100
This is my 100th post. I've had this blog since June of 2005 so its still relatively young and I am very much a newbie. That should be evident, I don't know html, don't have any pics, nor have I quite figured out how to do the blogroll. But on this 100th posting I wanted to reflect on why I started this blog in the first place. Initially, I cited my goals as the following:
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
And everbody sing...'Swing Down Sweet Chariot, and Let me Ride'
P Funk
That's the only thing that makes me feel somewhat like moving and feeling good. This morning, for like 2 minutes I forgot about everything, MIL's cancer, baby worries, money worries, dirty apartments, crap work, and I felt really good. It happened as I was walking into work, the sun hit my back and it warmed me up so much that I forgot it was winter, the wind blew and for a split second it felt like how it does on an early Spring morning.
Then I kept walking in and realized that was just a small reprieve.
I don't know. There is so much on my mind, I don't even know where or how to start. I feel sad, worried, and tired. MIL starts her chemo this week and I'm scared. I don't quite know what to say, so I tend to bumble:
Me: We can fix you soup.
Me: I can sweep your hallway.
Me: You want a silk or cotton scarf?
Its just scary because you hear the word chemo and of course you get the worse possible images in your head. I am trying to visualize it as something else though, not as your body breaking down and you feeling sick, but as your body trying to rid itself of the sickness and start anew. Fresh. Rebirth.
The way it looks now, her chemo should end about a month after the baby is born. That will be a real time to celebrate.
That's the only thing that makes me feel somewhat like moving and feeling good. This morning, for like 2 minutes I forgot about everything, MIL's cancer, baby worries, money worries, dirty apartments, crap work, and I felt really good. It happened as I was walking into work, the sun hit my back and it warmed me up so much that I forgot it was winter, the wind blew and for a split second it felt like how it does on an early Spring morning.
Then I kept walking in and realized that was just a small reprieve.
I don't know. There is so much on my mind, I don't even know where or how to start. I feel sad, worried, and tired. MIL starts her chemo this week and I'm scared. I don't quite know what to say, so I tend to bumble:
Me: We can fix you soup.
Me: I can sweep your hallway.
Me: You want a silk or cotton scarf?
Its just scary because you hear the word chemo and of course you get the worse possible images in your head. I am trying to visualize it as something else though, not as your body breaking down and you feeling sick, but as your body trying to rid itself of the sickness and start anew. Fresh. Rebirth.
The way it looks now, her chemo should end about a month after the baby is born. That will be a real time to celebrate.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Happy Love Day
***Warning, the following contains a very random memory that attacked my brain on the way back from lunch today***
When I was about 13 or 14, the summer before I started high school, every day during the week my cousins, brother, aunt, and I would go to the playground. The walk from my grandma's house to the playground was an interesting one. It took us about 15 minutes because at the time my cousins and brother were young, the youngest being 4 and the oldest 7 or 8. We had to walk through a housing project known as Ruffin Road. The name about sums up the area. It was pretty rough, the ditches were usually filled with empty beer bottles and trash, condoms, torn clothes, and discarded toys. Weird combination.
But we trudged away anyway, mostly because there wasn't much else to do. We had one car, a small Buick, and there were 7 of us. You do the math on that one. We could've taken the bus downtown, but with all those kids it was hard. So, we went to the playground.
We would leave home around 10:00 AM, any later and you'd run the chance of drug dealers and prostitutes being in the way, plus it would get hot and we'd want to be back in before noon to put the kids down for naps.
Once there, we all had a routine. My brother and cousin played with the other boys there, my aunt and I would take turns pushing the girls on the swings or catching them on the sliding board. After everyone was settled into their activity, I did what I loved the most at that time, I played basketball. And I played hard. Against myself and against any boy who was willing to play me. I had no idea, until a few years ago when we were all reminiscing about these days, that it was such a big deal for my cousins. They had a girl playing basketball. On a public court. In the middle of the projects.
The only thing that would break my playing and the playing of everyone else at the playground was lunch. Free lunch got served anywhere from 11:30-11:45. The city provided free lunch for kids at the local playgrounds. It was never good, but for some reason we were all addicted to getting it. Most of the time it was just a sandwich, juice, and honey bun. Really nutricious, gotta keep those poor kids growing strong you know. But what I remembered today when this thought came dancing in my head was how much we all shared. Everyone would sit in the shadiest part of the playground and spread out their feast. A breeze blowing, we'd eat the edible parts of the sandwich, gulp down the juice and devour the honeybuns. The days they had donoughts were the best. There were some kids who would try to take more than one lunch (the rule was one lunch per kid and you couldn't take it off the playground). They'd sneak the food in their pants or on their bikes. For them, it was probably the only meal they would get that day. We would take whatever we didn't eat and trade or give it away to one another. Why the city had a lock down on food- crap food, is beyond me.
Some days, they gave us popsicles.
We only went to the playground that one summer. My mom said she had bad feelings about us being there, and sure enough, months later a kid was shot on that court. But what I remember are the hot summer days, the heat rising from the court, and lunch.
When I was about 13 or 14, the summer before I started high school, every day during the week my cousins, brother, aunt, and I would go to the playground. The walk from my grandma's house to the playground was an interesting one. It took us about 15 minutes because at the time my cousins and brother were young, the youngest being 4 and the oldest 7 or 8. We had to walk through a housing project known as Ruffin Road. The name about sums up the area. It was pretty rough, the ditches were usually filled with empty beer bottles and trash, condoms, torn clothes, and discarded toys. Weird combination.
But we trudged away anyway, mostly because there wasn't much else to do. We had one car, a small Buick, and there were 7 of us. You do the math on that one. We could've taken the bus downtown, but with all those kids it was hard. So, we went to the playground.
We would leave home around 10:00 AM, any later and you'd run the chance of drug dealers and prostitutes being in the way, plus it would get hot and we'd want to be back in before noon to put the kids down for naps.
Once there, we all had a routine. My brother and cousin played with the other boys there, my aunt and I would take turns pushing the girls on the swings or catching them on the sliding board. After everyone was settled into their activity, I did what I loved the most at that time, I played basketball. And I played hard. Against myself and against any boy who was willing to play me. I had no idea, until a few years ago when we were all reminiscing about these days, that it was such a big deal for my cousins. They had a girl playing basketball. On a public court. In the middle of the projects.
The only thing that would break my playing and the playing of everyone else at the playground was lunch. Free lunch got served anywhere from 11:30-11:45. The city provided free lunch for kids at the local playgrounds. It was never good, but for some reason we were all addicted to getting it. Most of the time it was just a sandwich, juice, and honey bun. Really nutricious, gotta keep those poor kids growing strong you know. But what I remembered today when this thought came dancing in my head was how much we all shared. Everyone would sit in the shadiest part of the playground and spread out their feast. A breeze blowing, we'd eat the edible parts of the sandwich, gulp down the juice and devour the honeybuns. The days they had donoughts were the best. There were some kids who would try to take more than one lunch (the rule was one lunch per kid and you couldn't take it off the playground). They'd sneak the food in their pants or on their bikes. For them, it was probably the only meal they would get that day. We would take whatever we didn't eat and trade or give it away to one another. Why the city had a lock down on food- crap food, is beyond me.
Some days, they gave us popsicles.
We only went to the playground that one summer. My mom said she had bad feelings about us being there, and sure enough, months later a kid was shot on that court. But what I remember are the hot summer days, the heat rising from the court, and lunch.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Reasons Why Blogs Hurt Me
1. I came to the library today with the intention of working on RESEARCH not reading BLOGS.
2. Blogs come in colors that are much more fun to look at than journals.
3. Blogs are funny, laughing too hard hurts my ribs, and makes the baby punch my lungs.
4. Blogs make me question myself, being pregnant with raging hormones, its not good to read about how the rest of the world is making strides and progress while you can hardly roll yourself out of the bed (feelings of Gregor surface).
5. If I could stop blogging and reading blogs I could get home quicker, eat two huge veggie burgers w/ cheese and onions and relish, drink a ginger ale, watch TV and take a nap.
2. Blogs come in colors that are much more fun to look at than journals.
3. Blogs are funny, laughing too hard hurts my ribs, and makes the baby punch my lungs.
4. Blogs make me question myself, being pregnant with raging hormones, its not good to read about how the rest of the world is making strides and progress while you can hardly roll yourself out of the bed (feelings of Gregor surface).
5. If I could stop blogging and reading blogs I could get home quicker, eat two huge veggie burgers w/ cheese and onions and relish, drink a ginger ale, watch TV and take a nap.
Thursday, February 9, 2006
Things I am Thinking About...
*Pizza
*Going Home
*Public Education Policy
*Teaching
*Labor
*Cleaning my House
*Poverty
*Going Home
*Public Education Policy
*Teaching
*Labor
*Cleaning my House
*Poverty
Sunday, February 5, 2006
28 Week Update II: Cucumber fights back
ite thThis weekend I discovered a delightful thing. As I was stretching out to take a post breakfast nap on Saturday, I looked down and could see my stomach move out in two different spots. Cucumber must have been flexing and practicing her gymnastics routine. So, I gently touched the spot where I'd just seen movembet, and she moved again! I reached to the other side of my belly and said her name, "__________," and touched again, she responded.
This was the best weekend I've had in a long time, despite the constipation, heartburn, and leg cramps.
I really do love being pregnant. Its moments like that one that make you realize just how special and amazing this entire event is.
This was the best weekend I've had in a long time, despite the constipation, heartburn, and leg cramps.
I really do love being pregnant. Its moments like that one that make you realize just how special and amazing this entire event is.
Thursday, February 2, 2006
Does this border on the obsessive?
This morning, I put DH out of the car at his shuttle stop and I kept on driving to work. On my way I saw a student, nothing new there. She had her bookbag on her back and was buttoned up tight to brave the cold. And out of no where I just got insanely jealous. I wanted so badly to park my car, get a bookbag and go to a class. Any class, French, Math, Bio, a Chem lab, Western World lit, it didn't matter. I just want school.
So, it got me to thinking (and no, I'm not about to go into a lamentation about not being able to go start a PhD in the fall) am I addicted to school? And if so, is that bad? Are all addictions bad? At first I would say no, but then when I think about it a bit more I wonder, does an addiction mean you border on the obsessive? How would you know if you were addicted to school? What would you look for?
I do have the need to smell books, I can think of worse things to smell.
I do find myself looking at course schedules to find just one more class to take.
I love shopping for school supplies. I love picking notebooks out.
And, I can't imagine myself not being in a classroom, either as a student or teacher.
I had a neighbor tell me once that the only reason I wanted to go to school was so that I didn't have to grow up, because as long as you are in school you can avoid 'adult' responsibilities. She also felt that I thought too highly of the academia and accused me of having Ivory Tower Syndrome. Now, two problems with this:
1. Being in school, at least for me at both the u-grad and grad level NEVER meant avoiding adult responsibilities. I worked the entire time because in my house, the rule was such that when you turned 18 you were on your own as far as school went. My folks paid for me to go to private school k-12 and figured that I should be able to handle what came next. So, I worked and took out loans. Both of those activities were very 'adult'. I had to learn about promissary notes, loan payments, consolidations, and at times had to debate whether or not I could afford an extra semester. I also worked 2-3 jobs at a time as an undergraduate student just to be able to maintain. And, I had no car. I depended on rides and had to schedule classes around that. I walked to work in between classes.
As a grad student, the responsibilities of course grew. In my program I didn't receive an stipend/TAship for grad work. So, I had to again make the decision as to whether or not it would be work$h it in the end. Taking out more loans and working (at times full-time) was difficult. The total of all my loans could buy me this to ride in or half of this to live on. You have to be very adult about making decisions regarding that much money.
The nature of graduate work (even at the MA level) also requires an adult attitude. I had to read, research, and write, on my own for much of the time. I had a wonderful advisor, but it was still up to me to actually do the work.
2. I don't have Ivory Tower Syndrome. First off, I'm not in any Ivory Tower. I'm in a building made of bricks and mortar, and technically as an adjunct I don't really have a building/office space of my own if you want to get into the spatial dynamics of the situation. I could go even a step further and discuss that issue: not having an office, or limited space, what does that say about how my work is valued? I lugged everything around in an old leather bag. But, I digress. The work I do and see myself doing in every way touches the world outside of academia. My research interests have me looking at issues of language politics and who gets to say what where, and how they say it, and how the message is received, and how this shapes our attitudes about culture/race/class. Why is this important? Well, in a world of sound-bites, you better hope that your 20 second relief gets cut and edited in just the right way.
I also see that we still talk about valuing language and writing but do we really? And what kind of value$ are we willing to put down? Many of our students (k-12) in poor urban environments still lack the ability to communicate effectively so that they can become active participants in circles outside of their communities. Who's responsible for this? Who's gonna teach them? How are we gonna teach? What approaches work best? I should also add that lots of our non-native speakers get more programs/funding than our natives speakers who could still be looked at as not holding enough English speaking skills to be effective communicators. That's not to say I'm against funding ESL research/work because that's another area I've been strongly committed to for much of my working life.
No, no, no. I don't plan to be locked in an office with books and coffee. Real academic work is not that easy. Working with language and writing and people means that your gonna get dirty. And I want to lather myself in the mud.
So, it got me to thinking (and no, I'm not about to go into a lamentation about not being able to go start a PhD in the fall) am I addicted to school? And if so, is that bad? Are all addictions bad? At first I would say no, but then when I think about it a bit more I wonder, does an addiction mean you border on the obsessive? How would you know if you were addicted to school? What would you look for?
I do have the need to smell books, I can think of worse things to smell.
I do find myself looking at course schedules to find just one more class to take.
I love shopping for school supplies. I love picking notebooks out.
And, I can't imagine myself not being in a classroom, either as a student or teacher.
I had a neighbor tell me once that the only reason I wanted to go to school was so that I didn't have to grow up, because as long as you are in school you can avoid 'adult' responsibilities. She also felt that I thought too highly of the academia and accused me of having Ivory Tower Syndrome. Now, two problems with this:
1. Being in school, at least for me at both the u-grad and grad level NEVER meant avoiding adult responsibilities. I worked the entire time because in my house, the rule was such that when you turned 18 you were on your own as far as school went. My folks paid for me to go to private school k-12 and figured that I should be able to handle what came next. So, I worked and took out loans. Both of those activities were very 'adult'. I had to learn about promissary notes, loan payments, consolidations, and at times had to debate whether or not I could afford an extra semester. I also worked 2-3 jobs at a time as an undergraduate student just to be able to maintain. And, I had no car. I depended on rides and had to schedule classes around that. I walked to work in between classes.
As a grad student, the responsibilities of course grew. In my program I didn't receive an stipend/TAship for grad work. So, I had to again make the decision as to whether or not it would be work$h it in the end. Taking out more loans and working (at times full-time) was difficult. The total of all my loans could buy me this to ride in or half of this to live on. You have to be very adult about making decisions regarding that much money.
The nature of graduate work (even at the MA level) also requires an adult attitude. I had to read, research, and write, on my own for much of the time. I had a wonderful advisor, but it was still up to me to actually do the work.
2. I don't have Ivory Tower Syndrome. First off, I'm not in any Ivory Tower. I'm in a building made of bricks and mortar, and technically as an adjunct I don't really have a building/office space of my own if you want to get into the spatial dynamics of the situation. I could go even a step further and discuss that issue: not having an office, or limited space, what does that say about how my work is valued? I lugged everything around in an old leather bag. But, I digress. The work I do and see myself doing in every way touches the world outside of academia. My research interests have me looking at issues of language politics and who gets to say what where, and how they say it, and how the message is received, and how this shapes our attitudes about culture/race/class. Why is this important? Well, in a world of sound-bites, you better hope that your 20 second relief gets cut and edited in just the right way.
I also see that we still talk about valuing language and writing but do we really? And what kind of value$ are we willing to put down? Many of our students (k-12) in poor urban environments still lack the ability to communicate effectively so that they can become active participants in circles outside of their communities. Who's responsible for this? Who's gonna teach them? How are we gonna teach? What approaches work best? I should also add that lots of our non-native speakers get more programs/funding than our natives speakers who could still be looked at as not holding enough English speaking skills to be effective communicators. That's not to say I'm against funding ESL research/work because that's another area I've been strongly committed to for much of my working life.
No, no, no. I don't plan to be locked in an office with books and coffee. Real academic work is not that easy. Working with language and writing and people means that your gonna get dirty. And I want to lather myself in the mud.
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
28 Weeks
I am entering into my 7th month of pregnancy.
Pregnancy. Month 7.
7 months, 2 more to go.
28 Weeks.
28 out of 40.
No matter how I say it, I can't believe it. My stomach is round and taught. What used to be my belly button is now a puckered navel. I have my dark birth line dividing my belly. I actually think my posture has improved, because of the weight of my stomach and breasts, I try to walk upright more. My hair has gotten longer, the hormones have blessed me with this. The rest of me hasn't changed that much, though its hard to see my feet and legs sometimes. I like how I look.
I'm utterly amazed at what my body has been able to do. And I didn't have anything to do with it. Jokes on me. I have no control over how much I would grow, when the baby moves, how I move, how often I have to go to the bathroom, or how often I can't go. I had not an ounce of control over any of these matters and yet everything still happens.
The baby now moves and shifts from side to side and I can feel arms and legs poke me in various places. In yoga class, there are certain positions she doesn't like (and I can't blame her). Downward facing dog gives me heartburn, but she seems to be comfortable with it. Any pose that requires me to sit or lay down still is not a favorite for her, she moves and kicks until you can actually see my stomach and shirt move.
I really don't know where the past 7 months have gone. Well, for 2 out of the 7 I didn't even realize I was preggers, so that leaves me with 5, and 2 more to enjoy.
Pregnancy. Month 7.
7 months, 2 more to go.
28 Weeks.
28 out of 40.
No matter how I say it, I can't believe it. My stomach is round and taught. What used to be my belly button is now a puckered navel. I have my dark birth line dividing my belly. I actually think my posture has improved, because of the weight of my stomach and breasts, I try to walk upright more. My hair has gotten longer, the hormones have blessed me with this. The rest of me hasn't changed that much, though its hard to see my feet and legs sometimes. I like how I look.
I'm utterly amazed at what my body has been able to do. And I didn't have anything to do with it. Jokes on me. I have no control over how much I would grow, when the baby moves, how I move, how often I have to go to the bathroom, or how often I can't go. I had not an ounce of control over any of these matters and yet everything still happens.
The baby now moves and shifts from side to side and I can feel arms and legs poke me in various places. In yoga class, there are certain positions she doesn't like (and I can't blame her). Downward facing dog gives me heartburn, but she seems to be comfortable with it. Any pose that requires me to sit or lay down still is not a favorite for her, she moves and kicks until you can actually see my stomach and shirt move.
I really don't know where the past 7 months have gone. Well, for 2 out of the 7 I didn't even realize I was preggers, so that leaves me with 5, and 2 more to enjoy.
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