Almost finals. Almost.
Two weeks left of the semester and then finals.
Thursday I'm doing an oral history interview for the Clark County archives. Very nervous. Much anxiety. The subject is an amazing woman and deserves to have her story recorded in depth. Feeling a little overwhelmed by the responsibility.
Tomorrow will be blasting through research for my group project on ballet, body types, and the changing social role of ballet from the Victorian era through present day. Foucault will be regurgitated plentifully.
And more stuff. Archaeology. Linguistics. Math.
The maelstrom.
Two more weeks. Then tests and presentations.
And then. I will breathe.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
It's the Little Things
I spent all day working on school stuff (posting discussion material for History of Women in the American West, writing a paper on the power of words in the sexual marketplace, working on an Oral History subject - oy). Sat the kiddos in front of the TV most of the day. Went to my night class... and the dangling carrot, this whole time, was thinking of coming home, pouring a glass of wine, and parking my rapidly expanding bum on the sofa to watch digitally recorded episodes of Glee and Caprica. For some reason, TiVo didn't record them.
So now I'm feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm sacrificing so much with no guarantee that it will ever make anything better. In fact, sometimes the niggling suspicion arises that education is a Pandora's Box that will only make me feel worse about humanity and life in general - even as I feel it evermore compelling to keep staring into that abyss of knowledge.
I fantasize about wearing my silly cardboard hat and honor cords... holding a diploma it took me almost 20 years to earn. And I wonder why it matters to me. Why don't I just turn the other direction, immerse myself in housewifely pursuits, and say no to this? Why do I feel so damn compelled to finish this thing?
Right now I just want to watch Glee and pretend that my biggest event of the morning is packing lunches and shoveling kids onto school buses. Instead I'm worrying about the condition of the house and if the nanny thinks I'm a pathetic lazy slob and if the kids feel neglected and how Linguistics is going to ruin my 4.0.
Sometimes this sucks.
So now I'm feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm sacrificing so much with no guarantee that it will ever make anything better. In fact, sometimes the niggling suspicion arises that education is a Pandora's Box that will only make me feel worse about humanity and life in general - even as I feel it evermore compelling to keep staring into that abyss of knowledge.
I fantasize about wearing my silly cardboard hat and honor cords... holding a diploma it took me almost 20 years to earn. And I wonder why it matters to me. Why don't I just turn the other direction, immerse myself in housewifely pursuits, and say no to this? Why do I feel so damn compelled to finish this thing?
Right now I just want to watch Glee and pretend that my biggest event of the morning is packing lunches and shoveling kids onto school buses. Instead I'm worrying about the condition of the house and if the nanny thinks I'm a pathetic lazy slob and if the kids feel neglected and how Linguistics is going to ruin my 4.0.
Sometimes this sucks.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Where I'm From
I came across this in my old Facebook notes and thought I'd like to go ahead and have it saved here.
Where I'm From
I am from barn cats and owls, from Stampede Rodeos and staunch independence.
I am from the white house hidden in the Ponderosa and Blue Spruce shelterbelt of a young granite desert in the Rocky Mountains.
I am from the potatoes, the sugar beets and barley rows still weeded by hand. Occassionally those hands were mine. I was not a hard worker, but I got a glimpse of what hard work was.
I am from tribal loyalty and xenophobia, from (surnames) and (surnames), (surnames) and (surnames). From this melting pot of families and nationalities came a tribe that settled, mined and worked on ranches... From many, one.
I am from the skeptical and credulous. From distrust of outsiders while maintaining fierce defense of tradition and ways of the family and authority. I am from my family and the knowledge that, through all the good and bad, beautiful and ugly of the human condition, family is what matters. Family is always there.
From the certainty that the social worker who attended to arrivals and disappearances of foster children would inevitably take me too, someday, and that authority was not to be questioned.
I am from Mormonism. From nearly equal parts shame and euphoric faith. From fear that not feeling or thinking what everyone else claimed to think and feel meant that there was something defective in me. I am from the belief that women were for making babies and raising babies and in all ways deferring to men whose gender meant that they were the rulers and the doers. I am from resentful passitivity and soul-sucking censorship and the belief that old white men were never wrong.
I'm from Heart Mountain, from Easter hams with the Catholic relatives and Turkeys and Thanksgiving. I am from the bounty of hunting season where an elk for one became an elk shared with everyone. Where uncles would drop by with limp-necked pheasants or a haunch from a deer... From these gifts my mother fed us like royalty.
From the teenage boy who washed the engine of his car to impress his date, the teenage girl whose bet with her sister had given her an excuse to pursue him in the first place, and, years later, the woman who very much wanted another daughter whom she would name Sara because it meant "princess."
I am from handmade dresses. My daughters wear them now and I remember being that age with that innocence and trust. I am humbled and joyful for the opportunity to be the guide and solace for these little beings in their 30-year-old handmade dresses. I am from 8 mm shaky home movies, watched with my children, their eyes glazing at the unacceptable notion that I was a child. That I could ever be as vulnerable and new as they are. I am from late 19th century china and depression-era glass, cherished by grandmother and great-grandmother, softly lit in the cabinets in my living room, contrasting with my shells, rocks and old dried leis that anchor me - amidst this wildwind of motherhood - and remind me who I am.
If anyone else has the time or inclination to do this one, the template can be found at: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm
Where I'm From
I am from barn cats and owls, from Stampede Rodeos and staunch independence.
I am from the white house hidden in the Ponderosa and Blue Spruce shelterbelt of a young granite desert in the Rocky Mountains.
I am from the potatoes, the sugar beets and barley rows still weeded by hand. Occassionally those hands were mine. I was not a hard worker, but I got a glimpse of what hard work was.
I am from tribal loyalty and xenophobia, from (surnames) and (surnames), (surnames) and (surnames). From this melting pot of families and nationalities came a tribe that settled, mined and worked on ranches... From many, one.
I am from the skeptical and credulous. From distrust of outsiders while maintaining fierce defense of tradition and ways of the family and authority. I am from my family and the knowledge that, through all the good and bad, beautiful and ugly of the human condition, family is what matters. Family is always there.
From the certainty that the social worker who attended to arrivals and disappearances of foster children would inevitably take me too, someday, and that authority was not to be questioned.
I am from Mormonism. From nearly equal parts shame and euphoric faith. From fear that not feeling or thinking what everyone else claimed to think and feel meant that there was something defective in me. I am from the belief that women were for making babies and raising babies and in all ways deferring to men whose gender meant that they were the rulers and the doers. I am from resentful passitivity and soul-sucking censorship and the belief that old white men were never wrong.
I'm from Heart Mountain, from Easter hams with the Catholic relatives and Turkeys and Thanksgiving. I am from the bounty of hunting season where an elk for one became an elk shared with everyone. Where uncles would drop by with limp-necked pheasants or a haunch from a deer... From these gifts my mother fed us like royalty.
From the teenage boy who washed the engine of his car to impress his date, the teenage girl whose bet with her sister had given her an excuse to pursue him in the first place, and, years later, the woman who very much wanted another daughter whom she would name Sara because it meant "princess."
I am from handmade dresses. My daughters wear them now and I remember being that age with that innocence and trust. I am humbled and joyful for the opportunity to be the guide and solace for these little beings in their 30-year-old handmade dresses. I am from 8 mm shaky home movies, watched with my children, their eyes glazing at the unacceptable notion that I was a child. That I could ever be as vulnerable and new as they are. I am from late 19th century china and depression-era glass, cherished by grandmother and great-grandmother, softly lit in the cabinets in my living room, contrasting with my shells, rocks and old dried leis that anchor me - amidst this wildwind of motherhood - and remind me who I am.
If anyone else has the time or inclination to do this one, the template can be found at: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm
Thursday, September 16, 2010
History
So my History of Women in the American West class and my History of Sexualities class are providing a lot of overlap. Both can be a little emotionally overwhelming, and it took me until yesterday to realize part of the reason why that is: the subculture of my upbringing hasn't changed much. To be more accurate, being raised a female Mormon in a tiny town of the Rocky Mountain West bore an uncanny resemblance to the experience of women in the West a few hundred years ago. The detail that wrenches my stomach into knots is the roles women choose/chose in order to insure some measure of safety and prove their value to men and the community are all methods I attempted to employ in my coming-of-age/figuring-out-what-it-is-to-be-a-woman phase that only seems to be reaching some semblance of conclusion in the past few years.
The Cult of Domesticity is a particularly uncomfortable concept for me because I feel I'm only beginning to escape it and have a lot of accompanying anxiety about what it means to shrug off the limited social protection and respect afforded the "right" kind of girls. But I am also finally beginning to understand why feminism might not be so attractive to women who base their sense of safety, desirability and even humanity on concepts of domesticity.
The Cult of Domesticity is a particularly uncomfortable concept for me because I feel I'm only beginning to escape it and have a lot of accompanying anxiety about what it means to shrug off the limited social protection and respect afforded the "right" kind of girls. But I am also finally beginning to understand why feminism might not be so attractive to women who base their sense of safety, desirability and even humanity on concepts of domesticity.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Academia
Must-read guest post over at Shakesville: Standing in the Crossroads. I have to try to get in some review before my exam in an hour, so I don't have much time to comment on this now, but her discussion of classism in academia is brilliant.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Fading
Not much to say. Too much homework (and avoidance of homework). But I did get a webcam pic, today, that I'm really liking. So I'll share that.
Oh, and I've been trying to be a little braver with fashion/accessorizing so, here's one with my hat.
Guess that's all for today.
Oh, and I've been trying to be a little braver with fashion/accessorizing so, here's one with my hat.
Guess that's all for today.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Beyond Passivity
This is the difficult part. Well, difficult is relative. But, this, this sitting in my chair, on my computer, morning sun shining in the windows threatening a hot, lazy day... This is where I struggle. I love sitting in class, passively absorbing. Now it's time to do the work. That mountain of homework smelling up my peace of mind from within my 52 pound backpack jammed full of books and notebooks is taunting me. I haven't even eaten breakfast yet because that means standing up and beginning. I have fantasies of the brain fog dissipating in the heat of my mind afire. But I suspect it will only clear gradually as I slog through math problems, one at a time.
So I go.
So I go.
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