A FIGURATIVE 46er

There's a list of 50 (?) things students "must do" before they leave this university. One of them is to climb 46 Adirondack Mountain Peaks. Those who complete the task (and there are not many) receive the title. They're "46ers." I've never climbed a literal mountain in my life, but I'd argue that I deserve the title as well. My time at this university has been like climbing one high mountain after the other. Long, hard climbs. The descents were worse. I never climbed down the peaks. Sometimes I slipped, but sometimes I was pushed. Descents were painful, wounding. No broken bones, but what a broken heart! Each time, even though I thought I wouldn't, I recovered. Battle scars healed after a bit. Slights and betrayals forgiven. Ready to move ahead and get to work.

This time it's different. The events of this last semester ruined my relationship to this place. I lost respect for it. The funny thing is that absolutely nothing happened to me. Perhaps my response is cumulative, and spring semester just pushed me over the edge of that last peak. The ethical and moral questions, the degradations, manipulations and humiliations of the semester were just inconceivable to me. So the consequence is (not that it matters) that, for the very first time, I have lost all regard for the institution. All regard. I've considered leaving this place hundreds of times. I've applied for other jobs in other places, but each time I considered leaving, I wondered if I could. I'd remember the best moments of my time here and announce: "This is my place." I have lived here longer than I have lived anywhere in my adult life. I have worked here longer than I have worked any where in my life. My mother died here. I've been loyal, and there are times when I have loved this place. Now, I feel nothing, empty. I'm not angry or upset. I'm not wounded or hurt. My life is actually easier now that I hold no administrative responsibility. But the depth of the injustice is just too much for me to accept. Furthermore, I'm deeply disappointed in the players.

Detached is the word. From the place, and from many of the people. Detached. The remarkable aspect of it all is that the events and outcomes freed me. I can pass the torch. Stop carrying the load. Be me and breathe. I throw off the shackles of tokenism and move forward. But I've got to do it elsewhere. Here isn't the place. Truth be told, I just don't want to be here anymore.

And so, I look toward the future. Another job and maybe even another place. And I'm ready to go right now--this very minute. I've done my time. 20 years hard labor. Parole sounds better and better each day.

JOBS AND JUSTICE

On June 2, 2010 (today), some of my colleagues suffered an "involuntary separation" from the university. In other words, they will be fired. One of my dear friends earns the whopping salary of $24,000. She's been here 3 times the number of years I have. I am, of course, untouchable in this situation. As one of my faculty colleagues suggested, I've earned the "right" of having a "job for life." I have tenure. I have pondered this situation for many months now, and I just can't make it right. And yes, I know many people have suffered tremendous losses during this recession. This, however, is personal. This institution tells my staff colleagues that they do not matter as much as I; their jobs are less valuable and less essential to the institutional operation.

My good "Christian" friends will tell me that God has "smiled on me." I'm "protected by the grace of God." That really makes no sense. No reason, as I have said before, for God to smile on me unless, of course, it also believes in the system of tenure and promotion. Other friends won't care; others will tell me that this is the way in which the world works. My heart hurts. I'm sorry. I hate a system that allows and sustains this kind of inequity. And that brings me to politics and political leanings--religious upbringing and values as well, but those are far too complicated to explain here (though I tried in an earlier post).

I am certain that I don't subscribe to capitalism. I don't think any of my historical heroes did or would have. I believe that all governments are corrupt. I abhor the fact of socioeconomic injustice. I don't believe that there must be a lower class. I don't believe that it's just or moral for some people to have millions of dollars while others don't have food to eat. I don't believe that I am more valuable or worthy than another person because of my education. I don't believe that I deserve more rights and privileges than any other human being. I would like to imagine a world without competition--one in which all people made roughly the same wages; all people had universal health care; no one was hungry. I would like for all people to enjoy the benefits and pleasures of citizenship.

I'm not against "big government" as I think the term is often defined. Yes, I believe the government should provide for its citizens: jobs, education, clean water and food, health care. Yes, I believe that the government is responsible for upholding the laws of the land. Despite Rand Paul's comments of late, I'm VERY glad that the government ended Jim Crow. And no, I don't believe that private business owners in the USA have the right to exclude citizens on the basis of race, gender, sexual orientation or ethnicity. No gents' clubs, racist and anti-Semitic country clubs. I don't mind paying big taxes for social welfare--the good of the whole. As a matter of fact, I think it's my moral obligation to do so.

My friend, one who came here because I wooed her with a "wonderful opportunity," lost her job today. It's really the second time she's gotten the shaft. The first was with the elimination of the job for which she came. Once that job was eliminated, she kindly agreed to accept another. Some weeks ago, she was assured she wouldn't lose her job. Much to her surprise, the call came early this morning. And what am I to say? Sorry? Too bad? Oh, this is the way the world works? Maybe it is, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

I suspect an integral part of aging is looking at young people and making generalizations about them. We idealize the "good old days" and talk about the "way it was when we were kids." Okay, I'm guilty. I love children, but I love them far less than I used to. Despite all the ways in which I can look back on my childhood and take stock of inadequate parenting, I'm particularly critical of parenting in contemporary, middle-class America. Though I don't have children, I certainly see enough children and young adults to make some observations. The first is that most parents shouldn't be parents. I wonder about the motivation for replication. In other words, the why of the compulsion for biological reproduction? I have a dear friend who has two daughters, both adopted. I was stunned many years ago when she, perfectly able to carry and bear children, decided that she neither wanted to be pregnant nor to have a biological child. She figured there are hundreds of thousands of children in the world who need homes, and thus, there was no reason for pregnancy. I kinda thought she was nuts, but I realize that I'm nuts. What she did makes perfect sense to me now. She is a parent--as much a parent as any other parent I know, and two kids who were in an orphanage now have loving parents.

Lots of people have children because they need them. There is a way in which being a parent fulfills a primal need to love and be loved, to feel special, bonded and complete. Parenting ranks among the most idealized occupations ever, and I don't think many folks sit down and look at themselves critically before deciding to have a child. How many people really ponder, prior to having a baby, their fitness for parenting; their reasons for parenting? How many folks take parenting classes or go to counseling to figure out their suitability for parenting? So this is what we get in far too many cases: Parents who are completely unable to separate themselves from their children; parents who suffocate their children with their own neediness; parents who refuse to let their children develop their own sense of self; parents who believe that discipline and good manners somehow harm children's "self-esteem." Parents who are "helicopters." Parents who try to shield their children from the inevitable vagaries of living life in this world. So how do you instill or encourage self-esteem when you don't have it? And how do young people who have always been sheltered learn to live in the world? Sometimes you gotta skin your knee. It's gonna bleed. You may not have a band-aid in the house, but you're likely to survive.

My students often tell me that their parents, particularly their mother, are their best friends. I find that concerning and not quite the way they ought to be characterizing the relationship between parent and child. Boundaries are fuzzy. Kids are confused. And as the intensive, middle-class, child-centered parents continue to parent, the rates of depression, mental illness and other maladies among children and youth soar. In general, I ponder the consequences of growing up believing that you are the center of the universe, the entire universe. What are the consequences of material excess? What are the consequences of a relative lack of discipline? And I'm absolutely against spanking or hitting children, but even toddlers know when their behavior is unacceptable. Who hasn't seen the sly glance of a toddler who knows she's doing something of which her parents don't approve? Is "time out" now also too damaging to the fragile self-esteem of kids?

I would not have been a good parent. I know that now. I didn't know that when I thought I wanted to have two children. I didn't have good models and many parents didn't. I loved my parents, my mother in particular, dearly, but my mother wasn't able to teach me how to be a good mother. I know that I thought I needed a child to fill the various voids in me. I know I would have tried to compensate for all of the ways in which I felt myself to be both emotionally and materially deprived. I'm too judgmental to be a parent. At the time I would have been parent to a young child, I would have been so completely emotionally inadequate that I would have failed miserably at parenting. The good news is that many children survive inadequate parenting, emotionally crippled parents. The bad news is that many children don't.

And then there are the parents, mothers in particular, feminists who are immediately transformed into mothers--just mothers. Defined by mothering. Defined by motherhood. Acquiring, in a moment's notice, the authority to take on the most incredibly awesome responsibility in the universe. The toughest job in the world gets the least training and attention. Parenting is something we just do. Make a baby; be a parent. SNAP!

Perhaps I adore infants because they haven't yet become... I love the feel and smell of them; the way they sleep, and the cooing sounds. I take it back. I love children; I mostly don't like parents. Some unsolicited advice:

Your child is not the center of MY universe. I don't want to witness the incredible numbers of rude behaviors that you find cute and charming. And yeah, I'm kinda shocked when they shout at you, spit on you, hit you, call you a liar, scream just because they can or, worse yet, because they're unhappy with you. I'm shocked when they make unreasonable demands to which you capitulate. I'm shocked by the ways in which parents indulge inappropriate behaviors and change plans because Jojo is misbehaving.

I know some folks who are exceptional parents--not many, but some. They love their children fiercely, but they have not let their children consume them. There is a healthy disinterest (not the best word, but I can't think of another). An undisciplined child is an unhappy child, and a child that no one wants to be around, except you, of course.

FEAR, ETC.

It's a nagging and recurring fear, a remnant of some time I can't remember but do. It's a remembering of a moment in another's life, but I can't shake it. I don't get it. We keep an open home 'cause it's kinda outside of town. Seems far, but it's not. We can see Gunnison's steeple. It's darker than dark at night, and when I stand at my kitchen window, I, for reasons that I simply can't fathom, think about the physician who was killed while standing at his kitchen window in the dark of night. Killed, according to the killer, because he performed abortions. I wonder what that has to do with my life and my fear. I think perhaps the incident reminds me of my own particular discomfort in this place, and this may be the manifestation of that long ago life in Mississippi.

This part of the world often looks and feels like the rural South. Pick-up trucks with guns, hunters, chewing tobacco. There are no drawls, but there are the shared sentiments. A couple of weeks ago, one of my students reported that her sports team was at a local restaurant in Madrid. She and her friends were stunned as a local noted that he saw "a nigger driving around." The man expressed his discomfort and alerted his fellow citizens. This is where we live. Athough it often appears that we are wrapped in the comfort of middle-class progressive politics, we are not. It is that man I see at my window; that man scares me with his possibilities and potential. He reminds me of that not so long ago letter: "Dear Mrs. Bass, You are a nigger ape from Africa...You are trying to turn St. Lawrence into a nigger school......." The rest, the prayer he (and I believe it is a he) prayed is too frightening to quote. Maybe the connection between this person and the killer is the sentiment, the mindless hatred of another human being just because.

There is the relative absence of black people that scares me. We're conspicuous, lacking anonymity, known. I'm a "troublemaker." Too vocal. Too black. And why don't I just go back to where I came from if I don't like it up here? That's not the point. If this were Mississippi or any other town in the rural South, I would not live here. An all white town in the rural South is that way because it wants to be. It has to work hard to achieve that goal in the South, and it ain't no place I wanna be. That reality and that remembering and the sentiment expressed in that letter fuels my "unreasonable" fear of standing in front of my kitchen window in the dark, dark night.

When I expressed my feelings to a couple "friends" a while back, they simply looked at me. It's so easy to ignore another's pain and fear. It's so easy to suggest that one is "irrational" or, worse yet, "paranoid." My grandfather was almost killed by the KKK. My cousin, a school principal in the newly integrated Mississippi, kept a rifle in the corner of his living room AND a pistol in the drawer of his office at school. Cross burned in the yard. Threats. The present reality is that racial hate groups are growing in this country. Hate crimes are on the increase. The Southern Poverty Law Center tracks this stuff. I've got to stop reading its publications. Perhaps I'll feel less like a target and more like a "regular" person.

So when I scream about radical factions in the nation or the ways in which the "teaparties" inflame and incite hatred or rail against the waves of right-wing conservatism, it ain't solely about politics. It's about fear for my personal safety and well-being, and, again, I use "my" to represent the individual and the collective. Is the fear a reflection of my generation? My experiences? My relative isolation? Is it simply the result of living under a microscope in a fishbowl? Do I long for a life without scrutiny in that racial/ethnic kinda way? I just don't know, but I do know that living here is hard. And it gets harder. I miss and long for deep connection and even more than that, deep understanding. I miss relationships that are not professional. Conversations that have nothing to do with SLU or the closing of the P&C. I long for those people who don't give a damn about PhDs or my last article or tenure or being full professor. People who live in a world where none of this matters. I long for a place with choices, and where walking into a room or restaurant won't draw curious and sometimes hostile stares. There are such places--places where I can stand in front of my kitchen window and fear less because I'm not the sole black person who lives on this road or in this town. I don't want to go to a basement in the Hermon Public Library to see my doctor. I don't want to "break new ground" or be "the first." Anonymity. Just one in a bunch. I do not want to grow old here. I want the freedom to stand at my window and not think. I want to be free to enjoy my happiness without the burden of recognition. Free to be me without fear..........

HERESY: OPRAH IS NOT MY FRIEND

I have consistently and persistently been neither friend nor fan of Oprah. I know this is a heretical statement in the minds of many women, in particular. My language is appropriate because many women, and fewer men, believe that Oprah is a goddess. She's so "in touch" with her feelings. Oprah is "so honest" and "generous." Just think of all the money and gifts she gives away. I'm watching her show as I write. I haven't viewed for a long time. Today's discussion is an old one for Oprah. The topic is weight, and Oprah has had yet another "epiphany" about weight. I can't count how many epiphanies Oprah has had about her weight since she's been a celebrity. As to the giving, what's the big deal? Do you know how much money Oprah has? She ranks among the wealthiest people in the entire world. The schools she builds; she cars and gifts she gives are simply drops of pennies in her huge bucket of money. Oprah often speaks irresponsibly. When she suggests that something is "wrong" with people who are poor or suffering; her "power of positive thinking" has devastating effects on the people who actually believe that stuff. In truth, Oprah's money could do a lot more than it does. The culture suffers from Oprah saturation. She chooses the books we read; Oprah sanctions our choices for President of the United States. She's the woman in the know. But what does Oprah know, and how does she know it? Credentials.......my dear. Credentials. Oprah makes people millionaires: Oz, Dr. Phil are two great examples. And, of course, there is best friend Gayle, who, by the way, is not a lesbian. Neither is Oprah. Oprah didn't begin this way. She began honestly. Her shows were honest; they increasingly became more sensational, and now she's turned to actually believing she is who so many of us think she is. Oprah has become an industry; she's a picture on the cover of the magazine that bears her name. I know I'm in a minority, but I'm so glad that God told Oprah to retire from her television program. That direct communication from God releases many American women from Oprah's psychoanalysis and Oprah's guilt-tripping. Perhaps women will learn that Oprah will not lead them from bondage. As I sit and watch Oprah weep because she has "gained the weight again," I realize that it must be tough to be Oprah. We expect perfection from our gods, and from time to time, Oprah fails. She's brilliant enough, however, to make her failings not simply failings, but shining examples for us all. Her conclusion today is that her "thin" self deserves the love and praise and accolades, and that speaking of her "fat" is her shaming self. With all her money and fame and connections, Oprah is a very, very sad woman who has capitalized on the sadness and insecurities of others who are just like her. I've had enough. Another women has been "moved" to tears because she "hates herself" because "I'm fat." What a world! Is there anything Oprah doesn't know? Is there any area in which Oprah has no expertise? She's a hoax, a sham, and the joke's on you. I say farewell and good riddance to Oprah.

"DREAM NOT OF OTHER WORLDS"

In Iowa this weekend for a special occasion. It's a symposium in honor of a dear friend and former colleague, Huston Diehl. She's a gem. Rare. Uncommon in so many ways, another example of the woman I want to be. Huston has a rare and virulent cancer with which she has lived for many years. In this, too, Huston lives always with dignity and grace. We've celebrated Huston's scholarship and pedagogy; her person. We, in our inadequate ways, told her what her life means to us. It was a collective lovefest for an incredible and brilliant person, teacher and scholar. I had the privilege of talking about her memoir, Dream Not of Other Worlds. It's an account of a 21 year old, white, middle-class Huston who lands her first teaching job at a segregated school in Louisa County, West Virginia. Read it. It will touch your soul. One of the speakers talked about successfully teaching Dream Not of Other Worlds in a college first year program. I'm going to give it a try. If you remember how I began this blog--ranting about "liberal" white women, in particular, Huston's memoir offers a glimpse of a white woman of a different sort. Committed, dedicated, searching, honest, HUMAN. Unapologetic, but remarkably and uncannily "knowing" with regard to race, human nature, social justice. Acutely and intuitively able to "get it" without self-congratulation. Able to see the big picture. Prophetic in vision and voice. She has touched my life in ways that she will never know, and I'm honored to have been a part of this occasion. Dream Not of Other Worlds................Huston Diehl, much respect and much love always.

IN ANTICIPATION OF MOTHERS' DAY

When Mama died, not so very long ago, writing was the last thing I wanted to do. The depth of my sadness overwhelmed me, and in desperation to find solace and an expression of my grief, these words came to me:

I want to don sackcloth and ashes, run down coal-hot cobblestone streets
with bare feet—stoic and without a whimper. I want to watch eyebrows rise when I silently tear my sackcloth, wishing all the while for a wardrobe change.

I want to look like the old church sisters, who wore their finest black spun-cotton stockings and freshly pressed black dress suit, complete with jacket and straight skirt or the long black dress with starched white collar and long sleeves. I wouldn’t forget the shoes, severe and laced, heels lifting the mourner just slightly off the ground. These were the recognizable signs of mourning—the visible signs of pain and loss.
When Mama died I needed a sign or symbol that set me apart from everyone else. I once thought of wearing a sign: “Did you know my mother died?” Seemed far more relevant than asking what Jesus would do.