Sometimes I've found in the academic writing world there seems to be one thing missing- sports. I have rarely had a conversation with friends who are writing majors about sports, save my friend who runs a zillion miles a day. But even then, we only talk about track and field. They don't start a conversation about the amazing game on television the night before, the steroids scandal with that tool Roger Clemens, they don't even talk about the possibility of Michael Phelps breaking Mark Spitz's record for number of golds won at a single Olympics. It's as if sometimes, I should be thinking about more cerebral things than sports- that sports are only meant for overweight middle aged men and frat boys.
But I want to talk about sports. I want to have a beer and talk about the Celtics coming back from 24 down in Game 4 to eventually kick the crap out of Kobe, and I want to talk about it while still at the same time being "academic" and "smart". I think it's possible to talk about with others, but I just miss having someone around like my Dad who always knows what's going on the world of sports. And even though he might not catch a game, or even like to watch certain sports (i.e. tennis, which he deems merely a 'recreational event'), he still knows what's going on. Same with me. I like to keep myself updated on just about everything in the sports world, even baseball (sooooo boring). It's a problem. But also comforting.
I love sports. I am a sports fan.
There.
When I was growing up, my dream was to be a sportscaster for ESPN. I'd be the girl on the side of the field talking to Brett Favre before he walked into the tunnel at halftime of the Super Bowl, I would be the one holding the microphone while being soaked with champagne in the locker room of the Chicago Bulls after they won their 15th Championship (bear in mind when I was a kid), and I would finally get to hit balls with Pete Sampras (14 singles Championships...how the hell do you do that?). Unfortunately, I am neither a former amazing athlete that got a job at ESPN after my career is over, nor am I a busty blond. So I'm out. Also, I don't really have much affinity for Com majors. That dream eventually had to fall by the wayside.
I have sports heroes, even though I suck at sports. I care when I see a terrible injury on the field, and I cry when a see a touching montage when a sports figures career has finally come to a close. I was watching the ESPY awards on Sunday and I got misty three times. I don't think that is normal. I have favorite sports movie moments, my most favorite being the end of Rudy- you can't help but cry like a baby during that- and I know odd facts and figures about athletes that are long gone. I don't particularly know why I care. I just do.
Again, I am a sports fan. Maybe it's because of my father, but I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I like to memorize facts. I think it might just be because I love my emotions going up and down like all good sports fans do while waiting for the underdog to finally beat the giant (Nadal-Federer Wimbledon 08). Or watching the statements that can be made on the largest of stages (Tommie Smith-John Carlos raising the gloved fist on the 1968 Olympic podium). I don't know why I got to love sports the way I do, I just do. So my husband better be ready to attend football games, buy me tickets to the U.S. Open, and get his ass kicked in Trivial Pursuit. That might be asking too much, but that would be perfect. He better be ready for me to cry during sports movies.
And yes, I will be buying cable so I can watch the Olympics. There's nothing my brother can do about it.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
unearthed opinions
kay ryan is the new poet laureate, i read about her today in the times and liked her poems. so much so that i printed out one and pasted it on my desk at work. i actually got misty a little after finishing one.
that is not what this is about.
what this is about is my long dormant opinion that she and i both share, thus i can feel validated in my opinion. she's the poet laureate, after all.
i hate workshops. she also hates workshops. i hate the fact that "workshopping" is now an acceptable verb nowadays in writing classes. it's not a verb to me. i will now tell you why i believe this, and am beginning with a typical workshopping/peer review mindset:
walking into the class. i know that most people (slackers, not obsessive types like me, etc.) have not prepared a fully completed piece of their writing at all. they probably believe that this is not a time they need to have anything done, because they assume that others will want to rip apart their work and give them an entirely new idea to work with. mostly they just want help with grammar mistakes. their stuff is usually unfinished, which pisses me off- i managed my time well enough to get something decent written down, a complete piece so that you all can read it and give me advice that i won't use. but NOOOOO, they clearly don't understand that this was an assignment. so i'm angry there, and my general distaste for the class session only declines when i have to read an 8 page story about someone's completely forgettable high school swimming career. please, if someone could stab me in the eye with a pen that'd be great.
i hate workshops because the only opinion i really take into account much is the professor's. i have respect for him or her, and i will listen to them. they matter to me because they're smarter than me. much smarter than me. (sometimes i don't listen). so, i don't understand why i have to listen to our unremarkable high school swimmer-friend about how to structure my piece of writing. i am not going to pander to her needs, and i don't think i have to. there are people's opinions i care about, and i will work with those people in my own time. if i want.
i also don't enjoy reading other people's crap. i know they don't care as much as me and that makes me feel ripped off. i could've been writing my own stuff, but now i have to come up with a nice way to say on the back of their paper, "you should probably be a math major...this whole writing thing isn't your cup of tea." that takes a lot of effort. i usually have a smiley face drawn somewhere instead and say something like, "you're on the right track...keep going!" (must add exclamation point in order to make them believe my excitement about their crap).
if i do eventually get to the point of letting other people read my writing, i know that it doesn't suck. it might not be the best in the world, but i know that it's not terrible either. so i take people's criticism with a grain of salt. by the time someone reads my work i also care about it a lot, and am pretty firm in my ways. i'm not going to change my feelings just because someone doesn't like it. oh well, screw them.
mostly though, writing is too personal. i'm too invested to have someone i don't know, don't care about, or don't have respect for give me advice i'll actually use. writing is something to be worked out in your head first: sentences cried over, quotes chosen specifically, words placed and re-placed based on the way they rolled off your tongue. and if it doesn't work out, it's just me i have to worry about, not a grade. your writing should make you want to try something else, learn something new for yourself, not someone else. and when i'm finally done with at least a first draft, i'll let someone read it. until then, though, i'll stay in my own workshop and hide for a little while.
kay ryan was totally right: "It doesn't really matter if their opinions are respectable. I just think the writer has given up way too much inside. Let's not share. Really. Go off in your own direction way too far, get lost, test the metal of your work in your own acids. These are experiments you can perform down in that old kind of workshop where Dad used to hide out from far too many other people's claims on him."
so no, i won't like to workshop with you. you might like it, it might help you- go nuts. but me, i'll hang out here and get lost until i appear with something i like.
that is not what this is about.
what this is about is my long dormant opinion that she and i both share, thus i can feel validated in my opinion. she's the poet laureate, after all.
i hate workshops. she also hates workshops. i hate the fact that "workshopping" is now an acceptable verb nowadays in writing classes. it's not a verb to me. i will now tell you why i believe this, and am beginning with a typical workshopping/peer review mindset:
walking into the class. i know that most people (slackers, not obsessive types like me, etc.) have not prepared a fully completed piece of their writing at all. they probably believe that this is not a time they need to have anything done, because they assume that others will want to rip apart their work and give them an entirely new idea to work with. mostly they just want help with grammar mistakes. their stuff is usually unfinished, which pisses me off- i managed my time well enough to get something decent written down, a complete piece so that you all can read it and give me advice that i won't use. but NOOOOO, they clearly don't understand that this was an assignment. so i'm angry there, and my general distaste for the class session only declines when i have to read an 8 page story about someone's completely forgettable high school swimming career. please, if someone could stab me in the eye with a pen that'd be great.
i hate workshops because the only opinion i really take into account much is the professor's. i have respect for him or her, and i will listen to them. they matter to me because they're smarter than me. much smarter than me. (sometimes i don't listen). so, i don't understand why i have to listen to our unremarkable high school swimmer-friend about how to structure my piece of writing. i am not going to pander to her needs, and i don't think i have to. there are people's opinions i care about, and i will work with those people in my own time. if i want.
i also don't enjoy reading other people's crap. i know they don't care as much as me and that makes me feel ripped off. i could've been writing my own stuff, but now i have to come up with a nice way to say on the back of their paper, "you should probably be a math major...this whole writing thing isn't your cup of tea." that takes a lot of effort. i usually have a smiley face drawn somewhere instead and say something like, "you're on the right track...keep going!" (must add exclamation point in order to make them believe my excitement about their crap).
if i do eventually get to the point of letting other people read my writing, i know that it doesn't suck. it might not be the best in the world, but i know that it's not terrible either. so i take people's criticism with a grain of salt. by the time someone reads my work i also care about it a lot, and am pretty firm in my ways. i'm not going to change my feelings just because someone doesn't like it. oh well, screw them.
mostly though, writing is too personal. i'm too invested to have someone i don't know, don't care about, or don't have respect for give me advice i'll actually use. writing is something to be worked out in your head first: sentences cried over, quotes chosen specifically, words placed and re-placed based on the way they rolled off your tongue. and if it doesn't work out, it's just me i have to worry about, not a grade. your writing should make you want to try something else, learn something new for yourself, not someone else. and when i'm finally done with at least a first draft, i'll let someone read it. until then, though, i'll stay in my own workshop and hide for a little while.
kay ryan was totally right: "It doesn't really matter if their opinions are respectable. I just think the writer has given up way too much inside. Let's not share. Really. Go off in your own direction way too far, get lost, test the metal of your work in your own acids. These are experiments you can perform down in that old kind of workshop where Dad used to hide out from far too many other people's claims on him."
so no, i won't like to workshop with you. you might like it, it might help you- go nuts. but me, i'll hang out here and get lost until i appear with something i like.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
phantom
some of you have been in my car, affectionately and bad-assly named "Blue Steel". he's great. pretty reliable, some dents here and there with stories attached. most of those dents, especially one on the roof, are attributed to joe undem, a childhood friend of my brother and i. quite a large boy, the guy stood 6'3" 260 at the age of 14 and he decided it would be a great idea to relax on top of the car. poor thing, the car's roof didn't stand a chance- now it's a little concave.
but i digress.
my father used to drive this car. in fact, every time the car comes up in conversation now he has to reply with, "that's a great car" or "man i wish i could drive that car again." sucka.
anywho, because this was my father's car there wasn't a whole lot of music blaring from it in its past. the guy likes music, that's no lie, but he's not the one who opens all the windows and sings harmonies at the top of his lungs on the freeway. no no. instead, the volume on his stereo never went above levels three or four and the cd player never played burned cds. he never needed them, i suppose. because of that, i think the soul of the car got stuck on that volume level. i didn't realize this until i inherited the car.
not only is the seat worn down like an old couch due to my father's girth, the soul of the car is a phantom. sometimes the volume on the radio would go up, sometimes it would go down, and most of the time it took about 15 minutes to get the volume to the highest possible. whenever i got it to level 4 i would try as i might to keep it there. i wouldn't dare brush my arm past the knob, wouldn't think about turning it down, and NEVER, NEVER would i turn it off. if i did, i would have to make sure that the knob went straight back, or else the next time i turned it on there would be nothing. this turned into a needless stressor in my life, and i hated having to explain to newbies to my car that no, you can't change the volume, and no, you can't play burned cds. terrible.
the worst part is when someone would come into the car and try turn the stereo down i would stop everything and yell NO!!!!!! -now that's just not the way to treat a guest.
today i got a new car stereo. and even though it wasn't lil' wayne, i blasted my music nonetheless. no dog and pony show this time. just regular old white-kid john mayer.
ahhh......
but i digress.
my father used to drive this car. in fact, every time the car comes up in conversation now he has to reply with, "that's a great car" or "man i wish i could drive that car again." sucka.
anywho, because this was my father's car there wasn't a whole lot of music blaring from it in its past. the guy likes music, that's no lie, but he's not the one who opens all the windows and sings harmonies at the top of his lungs on the freeway. no no. instead, the volume on his stereo never went above levels three or four and the cd player never played burned cds. he never needed them, i suppose. because of that, i think the soul of the car got stuck on that volume level. i didn't realize this until i inherited the car.
not only is the seat worn down like an old couch due to my father's girth, the soul of the car is a phantom. sometimes the volume on the radio would go up, sometimes it would go down, and most of the time it took about 15 minutes to get the volume to the highest possible. whenever i got it to level 4 i would try as i might to keep it there. i wouldn't dare brush my arm past the knob, wouldn't think about turning it down, and NEVER, NEVER would i turn it off. if i did, i would have to make sure that the knob went straight back, or else the next time i turned it on there would be nothing. this turned into a needless stressor in my life, and i hated having to explain to newbies to my car that no, you can't change the volume, and no, you can't play burned cds. terrible.
the worst part is when someone would come into the car and try turn the stereo down i would stop everything and yell NO!!!!!! -now that's just not the way to treat a guest.
today i got a new car stereo. and even though it wasn't lil' wayne, i blasted my music nonetheless. no dog and pony show this time. just regular old white-kid john mayer.
ahhh......
Monday, July 7, 2008
fireworks
there i am, waiting for the ultimate fireworks of the year. all of the partying (which for me ended in physical disaster), the hooting and hollering, the millions of americans waiting for their moment to say, "hell yeah, go America!" is at hand.
the fireworks display on the fourth of july.
some people love the fireworks- they pre-funk the big city display with their illegal fireworks purchased on a reservation, they might even start a little bonfire on their porch (ask andy), and they give their small children sparklers- because what's better than children running? children running with something on fire.
but i have no bated breath this year, nor have i ever really had bated breath in regards to any fireworks display. i think i got it all out of my system when i went to disneyworld when i was 12. bum deal. and, to make the fireworks display all the worse and truly uneventful- you might even say painful- the organizers this year decided to pump up the patriotic volume by blaring the now classic and much hated american song, "proud to be an american." we've discussed my hatred for country music (see earlier post) and most of you already know that my idea of patriotism is writing about racism in america. not the most "put a boot in 'yer ass" to our "enemies," type of gal.
the only fireworks i like are the ones you can't see. the moment when you're watching the person you've just fallen in love with eat his or her eggs across the table from you, when you realize that there's nothing you want to do more than stay home all day with the same person and talk to them, kiss them, and watch a marathon of top chef. you want those fireworks to go off when you think, on paper, this person should be the one you start a relationship with. everything adds up- the brains, the lifestyle, the personality.
there are no fireworks, though.
some might say, "suck it up, this person's great for you and you're just too picky." others might say, "you're thinking with your gut and not giving this person a chance. see how it turns out." but then, oh then, someone comes and says the thing you wanted- the thing that validates your emotions. the fireworks inside of you telling you to run. "he just has a lot of life inertia. not a lot of spark," the brother tells you. and he's right. there really isn't any fireworks.
and you know what, sometimes you need fireworks in your life. just as long as there isn't an american song attached.
the fireworks display on the fourth of july.
some people love the fireworks- they pre-funk the big city display with their illegal fireworks purchased on a reservation, they might even start a little bonfire on their porch (ask andy), and they give their small children sparklers- because what's better than children running? children running with something on fire.
but i have no bated breath this year, nor have i ever really had bated breath in regards to any fireworks display. i think i got it all out of my system when i went to disneyworld when i was 12. bum deal. and, to make the fireworks display all the worse and truly uneventful- you might even say painful- the organizers this year decided to pump up the patriotic volume by blaring the now classic and much hated american song, "proud to be an american." we've discussed my hatred for country music (see earlier post) and most of you already know that my idea of patriotism is writing about racism in america. not the most "put a boot in 'yer ass" to our "enemies," type of gal.
the only fireworks i like are the ones you can't see. the moment when you're watching the person you've just fallen in love with eat his or her eggs across the table from you, when you realize that there's nothing you want to do more than stay home all day with the same person and talk to them, kiss them, and watch a marathon of top chef. you want those fireworks to go off when you think, on paper, this person should be the one you start a relationship with. everything adds up- the brains, the lifestyle, the personality.
there are no fireworks, though.
some might say, "suck it up, this person's great for you and you're just too picky." others might say, "you're thinking with your gut and not giving this person a chance. see how it turns out." but then, oh then, someone comes and says the thing you wanted- the thing that validates your emotions. the fireworks inside of you telling you to run. "he just has a lot of life inertia. not a lot of spark," the brother tells you. and he's right. there really isn't any fireworks.
and you know what, sometimes you need fireworks in your life. just as long as there isn't an american song attached.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
mostly, i am just...
frustrated.
i rarely get frustrated, but my students today put me over the edge. there were good ones- the day started out swimmingly, talking about rhetorical analysis and what a commonplace is in an argument. i was excited. i was amped. then, my new favorite student, kendrick, came in and we talked about intercultural communication. we went through a whole chapter, i taught him a bunch of new words and concepts, and he appreciated what i did for him. i, like most people, enjoy being appreciated.
but sometimes this job is hard. athletes don't want to be in my office. they don't want to be tutored even though they know full well that i am able to help them. complaints and excuses come at me at every angle, and i'm getting a little frustrated by it. but mostly i'm frustrated because for the first time at this job, i've had to teach a white person comparative ethnic studies.
it's not that she's racist- not outwardly so. and it's also not that she doesn't understand the concepts. i could deal with her not understanding the idea of white privilege, or social identity, or something else. if that was the case, i would throw sweet books and articles at her, i would be the best damn teacher she ever had. no no.
she just doesn't care.
she did the age-old white person move when it comes to issues not directly relating to white people- "it's not like anything is going to change...i don't have the power to do anything about racism so there's no point in me caring." ARE YOU KIDDING ME????
that excuse for being ignorant, for choosing to not accept or even attempt to correct others in their stereotypes of others, is why racism happens. it's ignorant, and insulting to all people who are trying every day to open people's minds about issues beyond their little apartment. i felt like i was defending myself- and i pulled out all the stops. theorist after theorist, personal experience after personal experience. but she just gave me this look like she doesn't even want to hear what i'm saying. i just can't believe she doesn't see it. and that, on top of everything else going on in my life now, makes me frustrated.
in the words of my mother, "i just wanted to shake her."
i rarely get frustrated, but my students today put me over the edge. there were good ones- the day started out swimmingly, talking about rhetorical analysis and what a commonplace is in an argument. i was excited. i was amped. then, my new favorite student, kendrick, came in and we talked about intercultural communication. we went through a whole chapter, i taught him a bunch of new words and concepts, and he appreciated what i did for him. i, like most people, enjoy being appreciated.
but sometimes this job is hard. athletes don't want to be in my office. they don't want to be tutored even though they know full well that i am able to help them. complaints and excuses come at me at every angle, and i'm getting a little frustrated by it. but mostly i'm frustrated because for the first time at this job, i've had to teach a white person comparative ethnic studies.
it's not that she's racist- not outwardly so. and it's also not that she doesn't understand the concepts. i could deal with her not understanding the idea of white privilege, or social identity, or something else. if that was the case, i would throw sweet books and articles at her, i would be the best damn teacher she ever had. no no.
she just doesn't care.
she did the age-old white person move when it comes to issues not directly relating to white people- "it's not like anything is going to change...i don't have the power to do anything about racism so there's no point in me caring." ARE YOU KIDDING ME????
that excuse for being ignorant, for choosing to not accept or even attempt to correct others in their stereotypes of others, is why racism happens. it's ignorant, and insulting to all people who are trying every day to open people's minds about issues beyond their little apartment. i felt like i was defending myself- and i pulled out all the stops. theorist after theorist, personal experience after personal experience. but she just gave me this look like she doesn't even want to hear what i'm saying. i just can't believe she doesn't see it. and that, on top of everything else going on in my life now, makes me frustrated.
in the words of my mother, "i just wanted to shake her."
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