Hello, friends and beloveds. I hope you are staying healthy, or recovering if you have been ill.
I have a big announcement: as of July 1st, I will no longer be an associate professor of English at Ohio Wesleyan University.
I have opted to take the early retirement package offered by the university as a measure to reduce the faculty size (in hopes of not laying off tenured and tenure-track faculty members).
It was a complicated decision, involving consultations with family members, a financial advisor, and my primary doctor. (The disability insurance company also had to be consulted by the university's head of HR.)
And I'm having complicated feelings about it.
On the one hand, it's kind of a relief not to worry about whether I should be trying to gear up to go back to work, trying to figure out if my body could withstand 15 weeks of teaching without breaking down again. My attempts at various projects at home have made it quite clear that I cannot make a commitment to 15 weeks of anything, much less the physically and emotionally and mentally demanding job of teaching college students. By taking early retirement, I can just focus on resting and healing now.
But it's also kind of sad. I miss teaching so very much. So much it's an ache in my heart. In the past two years of being on sick leave, I have been envisioning my return to the classroom, and it was always a happy vision, even when I knew I wasn't ready yet. I always saw myself returning to teaching because I love it.
It's scary, too. Leaving my tenured job means not just leaving THIS job, but leaving ALL of academia, the whole thing. There is no going back, and there is no getting hired by another institution. So leaving this job feels a bit like stepping off a cliff.
There is no going back.
But maybe it's less like stepping off a cliff, and more like... becoming something else.
There are quiet moments of hope, almost excitement, about what the future might bring. About the life I could build if/when I recover my health. About the fun things I could do with my knowledge and expertise, sharing them with people and helping them see the amazing world that opened to me in my studies. Maybe I could take up my writing projects again; maybe I could start new ones.
I know how lucky I am--to have a supportive family, to be able to take this step, to have tools that will help me deal with the fear and anxiety that such a change brings. I am deciding to make room for joy, as well, and hope and excitement.
I'm sure I will be processing this change, getting used to what it means, for months to come. After all, transformation takes time.
It's been a while since I posted, and there's a lot going on, but I wanted to get this out there:
Black art matters.
Black joy matters.
Black poetry matters.
Black physicians matter.
Black ballet dancers matter.
Black bus drivers matter.
Black mothers matter.
Black sons matter.
Black daughters matter.
Black fathers matter.
Black uncles matter.
Black aunties matter.
Black filmmakers matter.
Black restaurant owners matter.
Black transwomen matter.
Black transmen matter.
Black storytellers matter.
Black students matter.
Black teachers matter.
Black writers matter.
Black photographers matter.
Black birdwatchers matter.
Black waitresses matter.
Black ministers matter.
Black opera singers matter.
Black journalists matter.
Black knitters matter.
(Here is a link to a short video of Dr. Amy Acton, director of Ohio's Department of Health, giving a mini-lecture on the pandemic on Sunday, March 15: https://youtu.be/uloe-oC3z2U )
So much change to our normal lives, so much anxiety about what is coming, so much disruption to the most mundane of tasks (getting groceries, paying the utility bills, getting a haircut). It's a lot to deal with, and sometimes too much. I am still figuring out how to do this, even though I've pretty much been self-isolating for two years already, thanks to chronic illness!
My goal for the next couple days is to a) rest a lot (I am currently getting over a cold) (or at least I think that's what it is, but WHO KNOWS because there are no tests available), and b) transition from being obsessed with FB & Twitter to doing things that will make me feel less stressed and anxious, and that will bring more peace and joy. I made a whole list of possibilities! And they're all things I'm looking forward to doing.
One of them is writing--in my journal, in my notebook, or on my computer, using the mode that suits me at whatever moment I have the energy to write. I have seen several historians urge people to keep a diary of some sort, a record of what's happening and what you're feeling as we make our way through this unprecedented time. (The title of this post is a revised reference to a novel by Daniel Defoe, a fictionalized version published in the 1720s of one person's experience of the bubonic plague in London in 1665.)
I think, for generations to come, people are going to be interested in learning what it was like to go through this global event. If you're thinking, "I'm recording this for posterity, I'd better write about every single thing that happened today," let me tell you: that's not feasible! Especially with situations changing hour by hour.
So a format that limits or focuses what we do can be helpful. I am using a couple options outlined by Lynda Barry in her book Syllabus. The book provides materials from when she taught classes at the University of Wisconsin--her syllabus, but also class policies, homework assignments, classroom activities, all sorts of things. It's a really fabulous book!
One of her assignments for students is that they keep a diary--writing by hand about each day in a simple composition book. She offers two formats; I call the first one the "list" format. It looks like this:
From p. 63, the "list" diary format: what you did, what you saw, something you heard, and a sketch of something from your day.
The idea here is to make a couple of lists (what you did, what you saw), write down a couple phrases you overheard, and add a drawing. Don't spend a lot of time on any of it, including the drawing. These are just sketches from your day, verbal and pictorial.
The second format is what I think of as the "X" format; it looks like this:
From p. 132: The "X" format includes the same information, but in a different layout.
There's the same basic information, and drawing, but in a format that lets you use the page a little differently.
One excellent aspect of using these formats is that they're quick, focused, and limited. When I think about doing one of these pages, I don't feel preemptively exhausted.
One last note: I can't draw worth a DANG, never have been able to, except maybe for that time when I was a preteen and taught myself to draw horse heads because I was obsessed with horses and wanted them to adorn everything I owned. I am pretty much limited to stick figures, and always embarrassed by my efforts to go beyond that. (Especially because I have two VERY TALENTED artists for sisters, and my brother makes amazing technical drawings. Ahem.)
However, Barry's book has given me a way to branch out from stick figures. She teaches her students to make figures in the style of Ivan Brunetti, who describes using shapes for the body parts. They're still simple, but look identifiable as people, too.
From p. 69, Brunetti's formula: a circle head, rectangle body, simple features, and simple limbs. Voila!
Side note about Syllabus: at the heart of this book is Barry's overarching project of including students in the process of exploring profound questions about how ideas travel from person to person, how "the natural human instinct for storytelling [becomes] a means of transferring something from one person to another" (9). What is that something? Why does it seem to have a life of its own?
I also appreciate her thoughts on what happens when we abandon drawing as something we're "bad at," fairly early in life:
"Daily practice with images both written and drawn is rare once we have lost our baby teeth and begin to think of ourselves as good at some things and bad at other things. It's not that this isn't true, but the side effects are profound once we abandon a certain activity like drawing because we are bad at it. A certain state of mind ... is also lost. A certain capacity of the mind is shuttered and for most people, it stays that way for life. It is a bad trade." (115)
From p. 115, the passage quoted above in Barry's handwriting, with illustrations.
Reading through this book and thinking about my colleagues, I miss our students very much. I am grateful to be on leave still, as the additional stress of transferring classes to online modes would really be bad for my health right now. But I miss the opportunity to explore meaningful questions with a group of people who want to learn. It strikes me that this is a sacred exercise as we move through this perplexing, frightening, challenging time.
Stay safe, stay home, and stay well. Sending my love to all!
Karen
(Written on Feb. 7th, edited and posted on Feb. 8th, 2020.)
I haven't been writing much here, or sharing much about my day-to-day life on social media... for Reasons.
One reason: I think it might be too boring (?) or alarming (?) for my friends and loved ones if I posted about my health issues, which is a frequent subject of my focus. Suffice it to say: I am still sick, and this means every day, to some extent, I am in pain and experiencing crushing fatigue and brain fog, among other symptoms, and these all make it difficult for me to do normal tasks.
Another reason: did you know that disability insurance companies monitor the social media posts of people who receive benefits, and attempt to use the information therein to declare the person ineligible to receive benefits? (Insert "well isn't that special" gif here, HA.)
But today--my birthday--I wanted to sit down and figure out how to share some thoughts.
The day started out pretty rough--I didn't get enough sleep the past couple nights, and this morning the plumbers came by to replace our water heater. They gave us an estimate yesterday, but because of a change in codes, we needed a different model, and more labor, and we're going to need an electrician to add an outlet... and all of this added up to a really significant unexpected expense. Which freaked me RIGHT OUT.
When I was able to stop panicking, I realized we could pay for it. It wasn't going to interfere with our ability to eat, pay the mortgage, etc. We will be fine! But the panic was so visceral, the worry that this was TROUBLE and we were IN TROUBLE and BAD THINGS were going to happen because all of a sudden this expensive thing was happening in our house. Logic and reason were out of the picture, and all I could feel was DANGER! THREAT!
Luckily, through literally sitting down and breathing, and through talking with Patrick, logic and reason came back, hovered and landed, and the day looked a lot less scary. The sun came out (literally) and made the snow and the ice-coated trees look beautiful. I looked at some art online (about the exhibit "Hearts of Our People: Native Women Artists," which I really, really hope I get to see). I read a little bit in an amazing book (Saeed Jones, How We Fight for Our Lives). And my Mom called and we talked about our ancestors. And then Dexter came home for a brief visit, and we talked about the universe and relativity and memes and our wacky cats. I got a fabulous book, and some slices of cake for after dinner, and my dudes sang Happy Birthday to me, and I got lots of hugs.
(Here's the book: Lynda Barry's Syllabus. I've only read a few pages so far, but it's amazing!)
I made a point of noticing and soaking up the good feelings, telling my animal self: see? We are safe; we are loved; we are well cared for. Everything is okay. And we have lovely hot water that comes right out of the faucets. Miraculous!
(Happy birthday to me! Blue velvet cake with cream cheese frosting from Fresh Start cafe. Is it gluten-free? NO. Did it give me a stomach ache? YES. Totally worth it.)
Somehow, the falling snow today also helped me feel like something was in correct alignment. We always had snow on my birthday when I was growing up (in Maryland). If not snow falling from the sky, there was snow on the ground, beautiful and quiet, clean. The snow today--the first of the season to last more than an hour--felt like a reassurance, a kind of stability. We are safe. We are loved.
(The snow makes everything look lovely. Here's the view from my study window. It's falling again today--the 8th--like flour coming down from a sifter.)
There is plenty to panic about, every dang day, around here. But also plenty to enjoy, and plenty to be in awe of. I know I am very lucky, in spite of my troubles.
A few days ago, our cat Abby "discovered" one of the toys our cats got for Christmas, thanks to my Mom: a little plastic spiral, simple as can be but apparently Very! Exciting! on a grey winter afternoon. She batted at it, bit it, pushed it and ran after it, jumped over it, and generally made such a commotion that our other cats became curious and started playing with it, too. A good time was had by all! It was funny that the toy had been sitting around for two weeks without the cats noticing it, apparently, and then suddenly it was a Fabulous Thing.
Abby and her new toy. Thanks, Busia!
Around that same time, I got some test results, long awaited, from the Cleveland Clinic: the more accurate (and expensive) bloodwork than the test I had done before showed that I have four tick-borne diseases, including Lyme, and the CC lab also showed that I have four "co-infections" as well. The Lyme spirochetes are floating around in my system, burrowing their spirals into my organs, my brain, my white blood cells and red blood cells, making themselves at home in my body.
I feel validated--in part because I now have labels that I can produce when I tell medical professionals and insurance workers that I am sick and exhausted, that I feel terrible, that I am disabled, that my body struggles with the everyday tasks of being a grown-up human (cooking, showering, working, thinking). I have diagnoses to point to rather than being a medical mystery.
I also feel like my immune system is kind of badass; after all, it took EIGHT infections to take me down! And that's on top of thyroid problems, an autoimmune disease or two, and Epstein-Barr! My body worked really hard for a really long time to operate despite these problems, and it did a damn good job--I have (had) a career, I ran and rode horses and did yoga, I wrote things, I traveled, I learned things, I raised a kid with my partner. My body is amazing!
At the same time, I am feeling a certain level of dread. It's Lyme, after all, which is "controversial" in its diagnosis (one reason it took 3 years for someone to order the more accurate blood test, which insurance does not cover), and in its treatment. (Here's an article that details some of the weirdness of having Lyme. I can also tell you that the closest "Lyme-literate" doctor--someone who has a clue about the latest research, which is changing swiftly--who takes our insurance is a 1.5-hour drive from here. The one closer to us, in Columbus, doesn't take insurance; the first office visit costs about $800, and that's without any treatment or testing.)
It's highly likely--pretty much certain, actually--that my trajectory from ill to well (or at least better) will look nothing like a straight line. I will most likely need to try something, see if it works, try something else, try a combination of things, try again, go into remission, experience a flare-up... Loops and loops of therapies, care-taking, ups and downs, good days and bad days.
I have long loved the image and metaphor of the spiral--coming back around to the point you saw before, but from a new perspective, the past carrying an echo of the present which in turn echoes into the future, like the seasons each year, or like rereading a favorite book. Looping back to a place you've been before, but with new experiences and new knowledge. Dancing a spiral dance and looking into the faces of your beloved friends, winding and unwinding connection and then winding it again.
Fiery spiral from the blog Ideas on Fire, which looks pretty great...
So today I am wondering how to take in and process this news about the spirals in my body that I will try to expel, and about how to proceed when I can't see around the bend. About how to hope for better times, if not resolution. About how there's no way to go but forward.
I'm not sure why I'm posting this blog entry, except that I feel compelled.
The other day I went to a doctor appointment. I sat next to a Christmas tree in the waiting area, and looked around at the wreaths and other decorations as I made my way to the examination room, and then the lab (for a blood draw). One of the office workers had a radio on, tuned to a station playing Christmas carols.
At one point, an older woman walked by; the scent that followed her was delicate, but hit me right in the heart. It told me, in less than the space of a blink, "Grandmom Poremski." A feeling of love swept through me, and I found myself smiling even as the tears started, thinking about holiday traditions at her house--the afternoon dinner, the candy and cookies she made, the visits we'd have at her house with cousins and aunts and uncles. Her smile. The songs she liked at mass.
The Goralski sisters and me on my wedding day: Aunt Agnes, me, Grandmom (Marie), and Aunt Frances.
I like to believe that our ties with loved ones are not severed, even after death. I like to believe that, in the moment I was reliving those memories, Grandmom was with me--the part of her that nurtured and loved me and planted itself in me bloomed, always there hidden but visible for just a moment.
I hope you have the chance to visit with your loved ones, even if not in person.
A lot of my beloveds turned their profile pictures black yesterday on Facebook. It's a powerful visual signal--black evoking darkness, silence, dread. It reminds me of the photos I've seen of protesters at the Supreme Court the past two weeks, women with black tape over their mouths, veils over their heads, being led away with their hands cuffed behind their backs. (Go here for a photo.)
Living through the news the past few weeks has meant, for me, reliving my experiences of being a high school and college student in the suburbs of D.C. in the 1980s. I am a contemporary of the people testifying before the Senate; their words have brought back so viscerally the atmosphere of power and privilege, the desire to be in the "in" crowd, the necessity of conforming to certain styles of dressing and talking and behaving. Even at my high school--a public school, in the "wrong" county--we mimicked the boat-sailing preppies in their pink Oxford shirts and topsiders.
Or at least I did up until 1980, when I discovered punk rock and decided that if "normal" meant adopting the values of the people in power--the ones that put profit ahead of people, and that brought us to the brink of nuclear annihilation--then I did not want to be normal. I decided, at the beginning of my senior year, to wear black every day. Not necessarily all black, but something black, every day, as a kind of visual protest, a way of saying no without having to say a word.
So I was inclined, at first, toward joining the "blackout" on FB. Early notices said that our black profile pics would be accompanied by our silence--women not posting anything, not explaining anything, just metaphorically disappearing and being replaced by a black spot. But a friend of mine expressed her objection: we have been silenced enough! Why should we silence ourselves? Isn't it men who should be silent now, and listen? Why should we make it easier for them to dismiss us? Her arguments were compelling.
I have a "Me Too" story, though it was only an attempted assault, hardly anything when I think of the pain and terror others have been through. My story involved a requirement to speak, again and again--to the RA on duty in my dorm, to the police officer who was called, to the courtroom full of people listening to my testimony weeks after the incident. Other women in my dorm who had been touched, groped, kissed by this stranger on that same night opted not to come forward--which was absolutely their right. But I was too angry to let it go; I did not think it right that a man could trespass in my home--no matter that it was a residence hall of cinder blocks and linoleum--and put his hands on me and say those nasty things he planned to do to me. If not for my anger, for my insistence that this was wrong, he would have gotten away with it. The process required that I show up and speak, again and again.
My friend's comment also made me think of people who are, in fact, standing up and speaking--screaming, even--to be heard: my beloveds who are Queer and Trans and shouting for someone to pay attention to the ways they are abused and hurt and killed; my Indigenous beloveds whose sisters, mothers, daughters are becoming the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women their deaths going unanswered by our justice systems. And I have learned, now, that some of my beloveds who are men have been assaulted. This is not just about (white) women; there are so many whose voices we have not listened to.
We need something like that for the survivors of assault; we need survivors to be visible, and heard. We need something loud enough to get through to those who are discounting or ignoring the stories of survivors. All the different ways we become prey to hatred and dehumanization are unacceptable. We need to speak, and we need to listen.
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the stories of the goddess Pele, and how she speaks, exploding with fire, raining down destruction. Lately, I feel less like shutting up, and more like speaking like Pele. We need a cleansing fire to burn away the lies and reveal the truth. And after that, maybe what's left can be the start of something new; maybe when the fire cools we will have a place where new ideas can grow--about what power is, about who is human, about how we treat one another, about what bodies are for.
Earlier this week, a storm came raging through, bringing tornado warnings and ushering in volatile winds that dramatically changed direction--in the morning, coming from the south, and in the evening, the northeast. Within another day, the weather cleared, the oppressive humidity of the last month broke, and we were left with a perfect autumn day: dry, sunny, breezy, the crickets singing and crows squawking.
Back in the late 80s, when I worked in D.C. after graduating from college, this was the sort of day that would make me long for school again, envious of my friends who were starting new adventures and learning new things. Sometimes I think this yearning played a big part in my going to grad school, and pursuing a career in higher education--to be able to start a new year every fall! The wonder of it!
This week's perfect autumn day just happened to fall on the first day of classes. And I stayed home: I'm on sick leave again this semester, still experiencing daily pain and exhaustion to the point where going back to work would be a huge mistake.
It was a difficult decision to make; there are financial implications, not to mention having to admit the seriousness of what's happening to me. It's truly scary, on lots of fronts. But in the end, it felt less like a decision and more like facing the truth: my body can't sustain going back to work.
So I'm staying home, wondering about all the wonderful things happening on campus--ideas being thought, expressions finding their way into writing or paintings or movement, connections between people being forged, new ways of seeing the world being discovered. I am missing them all, but feel right that staying home--resting, continuing my treatments, seeking new treatments--is what I'm meant to do.
Sending love and light to everyone starting a new academic adventure!
Karen
I have two main projects today: a) don't get a migraine; and b) figure out what I can do about the intolerable situation of 1,500 children being "lost" by agents of our government. It was already intolerable that children are being separated from their families by agents of our government, which means more of them are treated as "unaccompanied minors" in judicial proceedings; now this, too.
I think my two projects are related. Every time I think about the children and their parents, I get dizzy and short of breath. I feel like my blood is thinned somehow. I am having a visceral physical reaction to this news.
Part of the reason: I am a scholar of American literature, from its beginnings to its present, and therefore think about a lot of moments in U.S. history that most people haven't thought about since they were in high school--or, more commonly, that most people have never heard of.
I know what happened during hundreds of years of chattel slavery; I know what happened during more than a hundred years of Indian boarding schools, and adoption policies that stole Indigenous children from their people. (This problem was so bad that the U.S. government had to make a federal law about it--in 1978. And just a few years ago, the state of South Dakota was sued for violating this federal law. So this particular problem is ongoing, friends.)
I know how this story goes; I know the horror of its details, and the trauma it will cause, not only now but in generations to come. I read stories and poems, some by the children and parents who live this nightmare, and some by their descendants.
I want a different ending, but I don't know what to do. So I'm going to try these actions, and am sharing them in case you'd like to try, too:
-- call the office of Senator Rob Portman (R-Ohio); he is chair of the Senate's permanent subcommittee on investigations, which has already pressed the HHS for solutions to this problem. Phone 202.224.3353 (DC office) or 614.469.6774 (Columbus).
-- call your congresspersons and demand they call for policy change, investigation, accountability, anything. Ask them what they're doing about this problem. The main switchboard in DC is at 202.225.3121 for House of Rep.s and 202.224.3121 for Senators. The people there can help you get ahold of the right offices. Or you can check these websites to find your senators and find your representative.
-- if calling people on the phone gives you the willies, you can use the script prepared by 5calls.org.
-- two recommendations from politicalcharge.org, shared on FB by my lovely friend Fiona Pearson:
The ACLU is gathering signatures to petition Kevin K. McAleenan, Commissioner of United States Customs and Border Protection to stop the government from abusing immigrant children. You can find the petition here.
You can contact ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) directly. Write to themhereor call them at 1-866-DHS-2-ICE.
-- talk to family members and friends, especially those who voted for this racistass president, about what's happening.
-- other things I will be doing today: sending good thoughts/praying. Sending love, love, love out into the world. Sending my wishes that those in power will really see what is happening, and practice their empathy skills.
The past year has dulled my confidence that telling my elected officials what I think will actually create change. But really, doing nothing would make me sick. I know too much to stay silent.
One of the chapters of the book of essays I'm reading right now* starts with the line: "Tell me a story you know by heart." As it happens, the 1970 version of Jesus Christ Superstar is a story I know by heart--its words, notes, rhythms, its instrumentation and voices. Tonight, when the live version airs, I'll be singing along.
When we were kids, my sister and I used to spend one weekend a month at my Dad's house as part of the custody arrangement after our parents' divorce. Until I was 13, he lived in a rowhouse in Baltimore, spare of furniture and food in the fridge, but thick with associations of our childhood; it was the place we all had lived before our parents split up. I still remember the wallpaper in the room my sister and I shared when she slept in a crib, the bathroom where Dad kept the ever-useful Mercurochrome, and the room on the third floor where my Mom had made a collage on the wall of images she cut from magazines.
One of my Dad's prize possessions was the stereo, which I remember being huge, a piece of wooden furniture that opened on the top to reveal the record player inside; it had black-and-gold woven fabric on the speakers that looked like upholstery. I usually joke that he had only three records at his house, where there was no TV for entertainment, so we pretty much memorized them: Carol King's Tapestry, the original London recording of Jesus Christ Superstar (not the film soundtrack), and one by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass (which one? I can't remember. But sometimes we could get my Dad to take out his saxophone and play along.). Now that I think of it, he probably had more records than that, but maybe those three were the only ones my sister and I were interested in hearing.
Listening to JCS recently, I thought about how influential that music was. What it meant for a child to encounter this way of telling a story central to my family's Catholic belief:
-- This version of the story is a political one, where the people in power are worried about the masses rising up and throwing off their oppressors. (Definitely not the slant of the story I was told in Catholic school.)
-- This Jesus is human. He is frustrated with his followers ("Look at your blank faces / my name will mean nothing / ten minutes after I'm dead."), tired of everyone asking him to solve their problems ("Heal yourselves!"), worried about whether what he did would matter ("will I be more noticed / than I ever was before?"). He is angry and afraid. His voice ranges from soft and tender to panther-like screams. He is more like us than the Jesus I learned in school.
-- Jesus is willing to go through with it, to let God (the real force behind everyone's actions, the only one who knows the plan) torture and kill him even as he feels fear and doubt. Even now, when I get to this moment in the soundtrack, I have to stop and just breathe.
-- The music surely influenced me--unusual chord progressions, unusual time signatures, a frenetically chanting chorus, wailing guitars and an insistent bass line, sudden silences. The organ's brassy tone sounds like a classical church organ but it's mashed all in with the rock instruments. The opening to Judas's first song is still compelling to me, still speaks of movement forward, something important beginning that will bring the world of these characters spiraling out of control.
-- And while I'm thinking of Judas: he is a complex character, the costar of the story. His reasons for being afraid, for doubting the direction of their project together, seem totally reasonable. The story I heard in school focused on his wrong-headedness, his duplicity and intent to hurt Jesus. In the JCS story, Judas loves Jesus, and is doomed to by his love to play a part in everything coming undone.
I don't know if my parents thought about how much this record would influence my thoughts, beliefs, musical preferences; how could they have? We never know what sticks in the mind of a child, for better or worse. And they had so much else to worry about, as we grew up the only kids we knew with divorced parents. They were navigating a space unknown to anyone around us. I admire them for how difficult that must have been.
I plan to sing along tonight. But maybe quietly, as I see what this new production has to say about a story I know by heart.
May you sing something good today,
Karen
* I can't say enough good things about this book, Joni Tevis's The World is On Fire. If you like lyric essays, run right out and buy it now! Some of them are so intense that I have to let the book sit for a while before I move on to the next one.
you wake up from a nap that you decided to take because you couldn’t remember the word “scatter” for several minutes and anyway that stack of student papers can wait until later in the afternoon or maybe until tomorrow, and fighting exhaustion gets old after a while, after months and months of it sometimes you let yourself give in and burrow under the covers into oblivion until a cat comes to lick your eyelid.
So you wake up and wonder if there’s news about David Cassidy because he was your first crush, or anyway your first celebrity crush (there was that boy in first grade), and you find out he is still alive, still fighting, but you know what multiple organ failure means, and you know what “critical” status means thanks to December 1983 learning all about shock-trauma, and you imagine what his family members are doing, mostly crying in places that smell of disinfectant and then the weird moments where something is funny and they’re laughing and they think god, what a relief, and anyway if he were awake, if he could talk with us, he would laugh, too.
And you look on Twitter and accidentally find Shaun Cassidy, your other crush, the one you were devoted to after his brother disappeared for a while from the public eye though maybe you should have been too old for a celebrity crush at that point, but real boys were too scary and likely to make fun of you besides, so Shaun was a safe bet behind the tv screen, in the magazines, singing on your record player, trapped behind the shiny surface of the posters on your wall, and you imagined he would not mind that you wore thick glasses, and you noticed he was also kind of shy, less shiny than his brother (despite the satin baseball jacket), less outgoing and with a voice that had a roundness to it, like you imagined his butt did.
And you decide to look at his Twitter profile to see what he’s like now, and maybe he has aged well but you can't tell, that profile pic is so tiny, so you look at the Tweets and right there near the top is something he RTed that at first looks like support for the tax bill and your heart sinks because oh damn, he’s a Trump supporter, but then you read it more carefully and see that it is a joke, a rallying cry for this tax plan “for the people” only it’s the people who own private airplanes and want their deduction or else they will march in the streets so this means even though he’s rich, he’s got to be rich from that teen idol money, right, and anyway he has done other things since then in show business, behind the scenes, you remember hazily, but even though he’s rich he doesn’t support that horrible man and those horrible policies, so you keep scrolling and reading.
And you think: he seems like a nice guy, and you notice that’s surprisingly good to think about, a relief that has caught you unawares, and then because of the news lately you wonder if he has sexually harassed anyone and you hope not because Jesus Christ, internet, just give me this little small thing, just give me being able to feel secure that he’s one of the good ones, like the one who loves me, let it be true because you can see that he has kids he reads to and he loves the Dodgers like your friend the composer who is smart and funny and he has a sense of humor and is self-deprecating.
And you scroll down further and see that one of his Tweets uses the hashtag #WhyIWrite so he is a writer like you, yes, go ahead and say that, you’ve earned it by now, go ahead and claim it and know that you and that man whose lips you dreamed of kissing decades ago when you had never kissed a boy are both middle aged and have this thing in common, the struggle and frustration and mystery of putting words on a page and feeling good when it’s working.
And you remember where he is. And you remember why. And you send love as in a prayer of comfort this time, not desire. Love because none of us will escape heartbreak and loss. And all we have nowadays anyway is love. Go ahead and send it to this stranger.
The fine: I am going to work, getting my prep work done, making good connections with students, bringing them new information and teaching them how to read critically and how to write clearly. I'm making progress on my writing projects. I am still learning how to live whatever illness I have, and some days are really difficult physically, but I am taking care of myself, keeping myself moving.
The struggling: I don't half know how to write this part. I am negotiating the line between keeping track of what my government is doing (and objecting to most of it) and protecting my mental health. Just lately I've been feeling such dread. I could write a list here of the things that have made me feel worse and worse about what our country is doing--the pain and human suffering that it is causing--but that list would get too long. It's overwhelming, and it makes me feel panicky sometimes, other times like I'm going to throw up.
One of the worst parts, for me, something that broke me a little, was Charlottesville: white supremacists forcing their way onto a college campus, taking to the streets and killing a young woman and beating up a young man and shooting at people, spewing their hate all over the place. Their ideology feels like a rejection of everything I believe, undoing all the things I have spent my life doing.
And then Hurricane Harvey. And then DACA. And another hurricane on the way. Fires in the Pacific Northwest, fires in Southern California. People I know and love all being affected by these. Heartbreak after heartbreak.
In the backdrop there is the daily blanket of sadness over our household because our nest is empty now. Our son's moving to college has brought so much pride, and excitement about the future he is building for himself. But I also just plain miss him a lot. Like, a whole lot.
On Thursday morning of this week, I was getting ready for school and I couldn't get this one song out of my head. I've heard it in a commercial recently... but the unsatisfying thing about the commercial is that it edits out one of my favorite parts, where the background singers come to the fore and sing I'M TAKING, I'M TAKING, and DON'T YOU DO IT, DON'T YOU DO IT.
That part--the background singers making themselves heard--has always struck me as odd, but also awesome, somehow bold and unapologetic. So I went online, cued up the song, and started playing it.
All of a sudden, I had to hear it LOUD. And sing along. And dance around the kitchen. And turn it up LOUDER.
I had a sensation I haven't felt in a while. It took me a second to recognize it: Joy. Just plain joy.
After the song was over, I started to wonder: where did this come from? Am I relieved about surviving a demanding week at school? Am I celebrating surviving the horribleness? I had so many questions.
But I stopped myself and just noticed: it's still here, still available. Joy is possible. Relish it when it comes. Just dance.
I guess 2016 and I never did get things quite right between us.
The year brought challenges I did not imagine were coming, and felt unequipped to deal with: a scary health issue for my son (and a long recovery process); really, really scary health issues for three of my friends; a mysterious health issue for me that remains unresolved.
And David Bowie's death early in the year (January 10th) made it seem like 2016 started in grief, for me. I cried for days--literally. I cut my hair, and got it dyed pink & purple & blue. The passing of the wonderful weirdness that Bowie was made January seem like a giant ending rather than a beginning.
And then there was the avalanche of celebrity deaths that followed: Prince, Alan Rickman, Muhammad Ali, James Alan McPherson, Buckwheat Zydeco, Gloria Naylor, George Michael, Gwen Ifill, Leonard Cohen, Carrie Fisher. And good lord, that's not even a complete list! Yes, there's always someone famous dying, but I felt genuine grief at these losses, that I wouldn't get to enjoy new work by them anymore, or just know that they were out there in the world seeing it through their artist eyes. Knowing that we lost them seemed so sad.
There were terrible deaths from gun violence--unthinkable, awful deaths. And we don't seem to know how to stop them, or be able to take the steps to do so.
The fall semester was, quite frankly, a struggle. My number one physical challenge was a near-constant feeling of exhaustion, like I was coming down with the flu every day. Every single day. I managed to do my job reasonably well (though I spent a lot more time sitting down while teaching than I ever remember doing before). The worn-out-ness meant giving up things that brought me joy. I stopped running. For a long while I stopped knitting. I haven't had the energy to sing with the band or go out dancing for a long, long while.
In the fall, one of my colleagues died--quite suddenly. I did not know him very well, as we worked in different departments and had not served on any committees together. But I knew his devotion to students, and to his family. I know that there are people who are devastated by this loss. He was only a few years older than me.
And amidst all this difficulty, the election happened. It brought me to a level of grief I didn't know was possible from an election. But it was so much more than that, of course; I wasn't just sad that the person I voted for didn't win. I was grieving the world I thought would be coming, the world I thought we were stepping into. Now we've stepped into a place I never wanted to live in, and I continue to grieve because the lives of my loved ones are put in danger by that man and his followers. Oh sure, I'll be fighting the things that are coming--the bad decisions, bad policies, harmful laws. In the meantime, knowing we're going down a wrong path is truly sad.
So it felt kind of difficult to turn to the positive at the close of 2016 as we hailed the arrival of a new year. But I had to remind myself: if 2016 was the year that my kid had a really scary surgical wound, it was also the year that that wound healed; his body performed its amazing, everyday miracle and grew tissue and created skin. My three friends are still here, more healthy than they were before their scary incidents, and doing amazingly well and looking beautiful.
Even in the face of 2016 hardships, I was thankful for the research and travel I was able to do to Portland, Neah Bay, and D.C. I got to see beloved friends, met people doing amazing work that makes our world better, and breathed in the beauty of the west coast--the ocean! the trees! the ferns!--and remembered how to navigate city life in D.C.
All through the fall semester, I was inspired and amazed by the work of the water protectors--people who came from all over the globe to stand with the Lakota people of the Standing Rock reservation and stop construction on an oil pipeline. No matter what the eventual outcome, here are the things I celebrate about Standing Rock: the people there were able to bring awareness to a "local" issue in such a way that people from all over the world cared about it; the water protectors were putting themselves in danger not only for their own access to clean water, but for millions of other people who need that water, too; they created a place where people were living in community, helping and serving one another; and in the face of increasing and terror-inducing violence being used against them, they maintained a prayerful resistance. What a beautiful and amazing and life-changing thing to witness.
And then recently as I was scrolling through Facebook and seeing all the holiday photos being posted, I realized something that finally convinced me that 2016 wasn't all bad: the babies. This year, there were babies arriving to friends who had hoped and wished for them, tried and prayed and struggled for them. The babies came, and made everyone fall in love, and became our best wish for the future, seeds that will carry us into a new world.
I'm not sure what 2017 will look like. I know it will bear some challenges, both personal and political, and that I should not count on it being any easier than 2016. Of course. But love continues on, that much I know. We will carry it forward.
May your year be beautiful.
Cheers,
Karen
P.S. If you're looking for a way to learn more about Standing Rock and its historical contexts, here's a great online resource: the Standing Rock syllabus. And here's an article that made me think that perhaps Standing Rock could teach us how to resist oppression in the near future by some very scary, rich, and powerful entities.
(I think it's apropos that Arcade Fire's "Ready to Start" came up in my random shuffle yesterday...)
I've gone to meetings, taught all of my classes once, and counseled my new advisees. I've reacquainted myself with the online registration system and the new version of the Blackboard site. I'm remembering how to use the photocopier. I've tidied up my office.
Aside from the logistics, I've been wondering for the past week or so whether I'm really ready to start--emotionally, physically. I kept thinking about our recent trip to Cape Canaveral, about our visit to the Launch Command Center, and the checklist they would go through to see if each department would sign off on being ready: GO or NO GO for launch.
(This is the Launch Control Center, the REAL THING. We were thrilled.)
I'm still having struggles with fatigue; at the end of a day of work, I feel as if I've got a low-grade fever. (I'm on it, don't worry--more doctor's appointments next week, more ideas for addressing this issue. And I've got a totally different attitude about saying no to things I just can't do. I have to take care of my body, or none of what I do will be feasible.)
(My heart is open; I hope its wings are ready.)
I wasn't sure if I could transition out of the dreamy, thinking-big-thoughts, how-are-these-ideas-related-and-why-does-it-all-matter mindset I've been walking around in while working on my writing projects. As of right now, I'm still in that transition, remembering how to attend to the mundane (but important) daily tasks necessary for teaching while also occasionally ruminating over a writing issue. I hope I can hold onto some of that dreaminess, actually. And if it means that on some days I get to campus and realize my shoes are probably wrong for my outfit, that's okay. (That happened on Wednesday, and really, it was fine, we all survived.)
One good sign: I loved being back in the classroom. Just loved it. I think the classes went well--even the one we had to kind of limp through because it was 3:00 in the afternoon and 90 degrees outside and stiflingly hot in our classroom (no air conditioning) and everyone was sleepy. Even that one had some bright and brilliant moments.
Another good sign: I've decided to continue my multicolored sabbatical hair. This time around I was going for a slightly different color scheme. I think it's a song about peacock mermaids.
(green, teal, blue, purple)
So, even though I've got some worries about what's to come and how I will handle it, I feel optimistic and even excited. It's a new semester; the world starts over now. Let's go.
(They call this the rocket garden. I was fascinated, as we toured the visitor's center, at the combination of striving for technological achievement/exploration with a love and yearning for the stars. It was an interesting combination.)
I hope you find you're ready to start something new and exciting.
I'm in the D.C. area right now to do some field research for my project on museums, objects in museums, and Native artists and writers. I'm learning a lot, and having some good experiences, mostly thanks to Lakota artist and teacher Steve Tamayo. (Once again, I should express my gratitude for the Ohio Wesleyan University Theory to Practice grant that made this trip financially possible.)
Steve left a few days ago for his next adventure, curating an exhibit at the Rockwell Museum in Corning, NY. Exciting! We had various excellent experiences (at least some of which I hope end up in the book project), but one highlight of our time in D.C. was our trip to the Smithsonian's Cultural Resources Center, where objects for the National Museum of the American Indian are stored, restored, and studied.
OR RATHER, inspired by the museum staff and their approach to the objects they take care of, here's another way I could write it: this is the place where things like baskets become participants in research, where they become teachers and storytellers and help the humans learn. Artist Teri Rofkar, who works with the museum staff, suggested that they think about CRC standing for Cultural Relationships Center, because that's what the place is really about, making and enhancing relationships where the knowledge and value travel in all directions. (In the book project, I will be doing my best to convey WHAT AN AMAZINGLY REVOLUTIONARY SHIFT this language and approach represents in the world of museum studies; I need to figure out how to do that more gracefully--i.e., without resorting to all caps... )
Steve Tamayo and CRC textile conservator Susan Heald look at some of the baskets from a recent study.
Another highlight of the trip happened on the day Steve and his wife Susan (not the CRC staff member, that's another Susan) were leaving town: the sea-going Hawai'ian wa'a (canoe) Hokule'a arrived in the D.C. area. The crew aboard Hokule'a use only Indigenous methods of wayfinding--reading the stars and sky and seas to figure out where they are and where they're going. She has been traveling around the world--the entire globe!--since 2014. I had been tracking Hokule'a's World Wide Voyage for Malama Honua (caring for the Earth), and was really excited she'd be in town at the same time I was. (Click around the website for lots more information about Hokule'a and her project: crew member blogs, materials for use in classrooms, navigation reports and updates. You can even track her trip on a map! And support the voyage by buying a t-shirt or bag!)
Hokule'a's front mast
On our way to the airport, we went down to Alexandria's waterfront park, expecting to maybe look at her docked at a pier, and maybe say hello to one of the crew members, whoever was around. When we got there, I spotted a woman in a hula outfit that I recognized from last year's Hawai'ian festival at the NMAI; she said that Hokule'a was going to arrive within the half hour, and that official protocols would take place followed by dancing. Essentially, we accidentally got there just in time to see a full-on welcoming ceremony, with blessings offered in the form of chants, singing, dancing, and speeches. It was amazing and beautiful and heart-opening.
Some members of the Piscataway nation being interviewed before the ceremony
Whenever Hokule'a arrives to dock, she is welcomed by the Indigenous people of that place, who participate in the protocol that is followed whenever a voyaging canoe lands. In Alexandria, members of the Piscataway tribe offered welcoming songs. Once ashore, Hokule'a's crew members gave their chant. After that, there were more dances, singing, official speeches... which might sound a bit dry. But the feeling moved from one that was serious and respectful (more like a state visit) to one that was full of happiness and fun--more like a party, a celebration of people who were glad to see each other, meet each other, enjoy each other's company.
Here she comes!
This is part of the chant that crew members performed.
Halau Nohona Hawai'i present a dance to the crew of Hokule'a
Susan and Steve and I had to leave after a while to get them to the airport (in a huge traffic jam, which made me think maybe we should have hired a boat to get them up the river!). But I made it back to the park again in time for the last dances and songs of the day: the "end of the party goodbye song" "Hawai'i Aloha," and a big round dance song sung by the Piscataway people; during each one, everyone joined hands in a circle and danced. It was good to hold hands with strangers, laughing and smiling and dancing and singing and putting lots of good, happy energy into the air and ground and water where Hokule'a is docked for a few days.
The next day (Monday), I made the trek back down to take a tour of Hokule'a. I could not pass up the chance to go aboard!
There was a long line, but I passed the time by talking to the couple behind me, who were from Maui. As Hokule'a crew members passed by, they kept stopping and greeting the man. It turns out that he and a group of others are constructing a voyaging canoe on Maui. It was good to talk with him about a bunch of issues: how awareness of Hawai'i's history has changed, how language learning has changed, how traditional knowledge is being shared with a new generation. All the work in the 1970s is bearing fruit now; the world is so different--so much better--because of it.
The previous group disembarked and it was our turn. We handed over our waivers and climbed aboard, stepping carefully across the gap between the dock and the canoe. We gathered on the deck, people sitting on coolers and leaning on rails. I was overcome with emotion, so thankful to be on Hokule'a--she and her builders and navigators have done so much amazing work, that has meant so much to cultural revitalization. What a gift!
Linda Furuto tells us about the boat, navigation, and ancestors...
Crew member Linda Furuto talked about what it means to be doing the work of sailing Hokule'a around the world to raise awareness about the health of our planet. Not only do they talk to visitors who come to the boat, they also broadcast to schools, and prepare materials that can be used in classrooms.
The ki'i wahine (female figure)
The ki'i kane (male figure)
The bow of Hokule'a, with garlands
The part I found most moving was when she talked about links between the past and future, all on board that small boat. The master navigator who taught the 1970s crew how to use Indigenous methods of navigation had taught them: you need to know where you come from in order to know where you are, and where you're going. You need to honor and acknowledge your ancestors.
She told a story. She was asked once: how many people are on Hokule'a? She counted 12. But her teacher said: no, there are thousands. Every person on the boat has generation after generation of ancestors that they carry with them when they come aboard.
Check out the masts and rigging! So many ropes!
She continued, asking a child if he could find a motor on board; he looked around, and answered no. She said: that's right. Our power to sail comes from the wind, the ocean, the universe, and the mana, or life force, of every person who comes aboard Hokule'a. When we're out on the ocean, we feel the prayers and support of all our visitors, and all the people thinking about us.
My heart felt full as I stood on the deck of Hokule'a, shifting with the rocking of the water. I felt the ancestors--how proud they are, how much love they feel for this boat and her crew. I felt the love of the crew for their teachers and ancestors, and for the next generation, who are the whole point of their enduring difficult conditions (being cold and wet, facing storms). I felt the love and admiration of the people visiting the boat, amazed by her journey so far and cheering her on for all the work she does.
Kapu Na Keiki: for the children
I felt the connections between ancestors and grandchildren--between my great-grandmother, whose house steps I'd stood on two days ago, and my son, who never met her but who knows of her through my stories. I felt the connections between people from places far away--momentary meetings, reunions, exchanges of news and knowledge and stories. I felt excited about the possibility that each person who saw Hokule'a on her journey would tell a friend about her, and that so many people would think about all of us living on our island the Earth and think about ways of helping her take care of us. I felt filled with love and promise and possibility.
I am so happy!
It's a new world. We are all relatives.
Cheers,
Karen
P.S. Here is a post from our "Learning in Hawai'i" blog about what our visit to the islands taught me about Hokule'a. One important realization: when you bring back the boat, you bring back more than just the boat...
My sabbatical this semester has not gone at all like I had planned, mostly because I was so ill with the mystery whateveritwas. Sick for weeks in January became sick again in February, which then became "what the hell I'm sick again" in March. I haven't gotten as much done as I'd envisioned: cleaning out offices (home and on campus), reading, writing, reporting my goings-on in this here blog. All was halved, it seems, while I tried to figure out how to take care of my body, how to just be still and rest, how to forgive myself for not being able to perform to expectations.
So I haven't gotten as much done as I'd hoped or planned. BUT I'm just back from the west coast, where I visited museums and talked to people about their work. I've had moments that make me stop in my tracks to admire beauty, or marvel at words. I've seen and heard how making art, sometimes the kind that comes in everyday objects, connects people and place and time.
A display of Native-made baskets at the Portland Art Museum-- among them, a contemporary piece made out of film rather than plant material!
Some meetings have gone as planned (like talking with poet Trevino Brings Plenty, whose brilliant work led me to the Portland Art Museum, and talking with Janine Ledford, executive director of the astounding Makah Cultural and Research Center); some have fallen through (Deana Dartt, curator at the Portland Art Museum, was out sick on the day I hoped to meet her, but we will talk by phone); and some have happened purely by luck (I dined with Makah carver Greg Colfax at his family's restaurant, where I got to see his latest sculpture and we talked about making art, writing, travel, and transformation; and my friend Kent Smith, an art expert and artist and former museum executive, opened my eyes to things I had overlooked). All in all, I have felt very grateful to be doing this work, and very lucky that travel funds from my university made all of it possible.
The welcoming figures outside the Makah Cultural & Research Center
I don't think I can share much yet about what I'm researching and writing about; those pieces are still somewhat fragmented--scraps of ideas living in different pages of my project notebook as I wait to see what kind of structure might emerge to connect them. There's a chunk here, and another chunk over there, and another a ways off... how best to tell the story so that you feel them as part of a whole? We'll see.
A giant display of Wendy Red Star's art on the outside of the Portland Art Museum
In the meantime, a smaller side-story: Last night I went down to the Columbus College of Art and Design to see Sherman Alexie give a reading; they had invited him because their first-year students read his book War Dances as their common text. (What an unusual choice!).
What he shared with us, though, was not really a reading; it was more like an evening of standup comedy through storytelling. I was smiling and laughing so much that my face hurt.
And the strangest part about his story producing face-hurting laughter? He was talking about having surgery to remove a brain tumor. He was telling us about the moments of fear, and anger, and shame, and ridiculousness that go along with such an episode, and how he found so many things hilariously funny (like when he found out his bladder was unusually large, kind of with an extra section to it, which he decided was his bladder's "man cave"; or how he had to cancel his family's "bucket list" burro ride down the Grand Canyon because they just couldn't, so some other family's vacation photos have four empty burros in them; or the way steroids made him horny and angry at the same time, so he was mad at his penis). We'd be laughing, and then he'd tell a detail about the surgery that made us gasp, and then we'd fall into silence as he talked about the kind of health care he'd received as a kid on a reservation.
He is a brilliant storyteller who had every person in that auditorium eating out of his hands; and he is also the chubby (his word), middle-aged guy walking back and forth on the stage with a kind of rolling gait, telling us about how he almost died, and what it felt like when he realized he'd survived. He was so very human. His story was funny and sad and awkward and scary and wondrous. It was a lot like life.
My face hurt. But I sure was happy.
I hope you hear a good story today--one that makes you glad to be here.
I am a retired associate professor of English at a liberal arts college; I knit, read, write, and deal with Lyme and co-infections. I live in Ohio, but part of my heart lives in South Dakota. And part in Maryland, by the water. And I think I left some of it in San Francisco.
You can contact me at k dot m dot poremski at gmail dot com.
Material on this blog copyright Karen M. Poremski. Please ask for permission before reprinting something from my blog!
