Women poets and everyday moments

It’s been another round of grading papers and a lot of meetings after work lately… So I’ve been MIA. I’ve also been busy reading, though. I just finished two books, a novel by Ron Rash called One Foot in Eden, which I didn’t expect to like, but enjoyed very much. More interesting, though, is Eavan Boland’s Object Lessons: The Life of the Woman and the Poet in Our Time. The book has a wide and wonderful scope, and deals with many subjects, but the one I was looking for particularly is how does one become a poet when one is also a woman? Now this sounds like a simple question: write poems. But Boland thinks it more complicated than that, and so do I. Here’s an excerpt:

But where, says the voice in [the woman poet’s] ear, is the interest in all this? How are you going to write a poem out of these plain Janes, these snips and threads of an ordinary day? . . . . Suddenly the moment that seemed to her potent and emblematic and true appears commonplace, beyond the pale of art. (241)

According to Boland, being a woman poet means shifting from being the object of poetry, then, to being its subject. The nagging voice of doubt suggests how difficult this is. And so much of what I write I struggle with. Once, around one of our significant anniversaries, the tenth, I think, I tried for months to write a love poem to my husband. It was a disaster. I wrote a couple of poems that were just doggerel. I wrote one anti-love poem about falling out of love. Finally I wrote one small tight poem I was pleased with, but the work it took. And I’m still not sure if it’s any good.

I tried again earlier this year--in the winter my husband wakes up much earlier than the rest of us, and when I go outside to leave for school, he has invariably warmed up my car already and scraped the windshields. I’m somebody who believes in real love that’s a day to day thing, not one of those fuzzy romantic moments… I decided to marry this man when I had my tonsils out as a young woman. There I was, throwing up from the anesthesia, and this crazy boyfriend kept rinsing out the throw-up bucket and bringing it back. Don’t misunderstand--my husband is funny and interesting and wonderful too, but I want somebody who can handle the throw up as well. So we got married. And how on earth do you write a poem about this and defrosting the car? Rhetorical question, by the way--please don’t try to tell me. If I figure it out, I’ll let you know. I’m working on it.

Rain or shine

Laura came home from school today with our local meteorologist’s autograph: “You’re the best! Larry Sprinkle.” You just couldn’t make this stuff up.

100 love and germs

When Laura turned in her project for social studies last week, Chris said to me, “What are you going to do if you don’t get an A on your project.” Now this is just so unfair. I didn’t do that project! Poor Laura had to write it by herself, and most of the time we didn’t even help her type it. I just helped format it a little. But I did find myself doing something a little new after she turned it in: namely, asking every single afternoon, “Did you get your grade on your project yet?” Even Chris was asking. Finally (said the teacher who’s still sitting on a stack of ungraded tests) she got her grade back, and whoohoo! She made a 100. So luckily we don’t have to find out… At least this time.

In other news, my Sweet William has a cold and has thoughtfully passed it on to me, as everybody who’s had the chance to see my Rudolph nose can attest. He is so generous with his germs. This morning before school he walked up to me and buried his face in my skirt. When I asked him what he needed, he said, “I need you” and sniffled. Well, what woman in her right mommy mind would not ignore the fact that she’d just been snotted to get a good hug? So I’ve been sniffling all day—but at least I got to wear jeans today after my little wardrobe malfunction.

What can you do now?

When Will started his new school year as a Glowworm, we had to fill out the obligatory new school year paperwork. Same form we'd filled out the first year he was at the Center, when he was a Roly Poly. And then the next year when he was a Ladybug (I think he's going to be a Butterfly next year). But we had one new form this year in the middle of all the various phone numbers and who can (and can't) pick up your little one. This must've been something the classroom teachers wrote themselves, not a form from the Center. All kind of questions:

My favorite food is ___.
I love it when ___.
When I'm scared I need my ____.

Your basic getting-to-know you type form. I'm the appointed form-filler-out at our house, but this one question just stumped me.:

What can you do this year that couldn't do last year?

Will's two, so he'd already hit all the big milestones, walking, talking, etc. And I was pretty braindead from all the forms... Laura's too. So I asked my husband to help me out. He's been a vague and shadowy figure in blogland so far, but this should give you a good idea about him right away. Chris said, "Will can talk in funny voices now!" as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

Now this is hard to describe. My little two year old regularly has conversations with me or his dad in which he will say in a huge deep monster boy voice: "NO, IT'S NOT TIME FOR BATH." Or "I AM GOING TO EAT YOU UP." He is literally growling. So Chris was right. I dutifully wrote it down. By now the daycare's figured out what to think about us anyhow.

No Happy Business Day

Well, I've been quiet here lately because I've been swamped with paper--about 55 first-year comp essays and now a pile of American lit tests too. Plus conferences with each of those 55 students about their essays. Whew. Their first essay assignment is to write an autobiographical narrative: a useful introduction to a course, one that you can work on integrating detail at the same time that the students are working with comfortable subjects. My daughter's fourth-grade class has been doing a stepped-down version of the same project. Laura finished her essay tonight; I asked if I could post it here, and she said fine... She's interested in seeing her work a different way, I think. So here's her first formal essay.

The Day Nothing Went Right

It was a slow morning, and when I got to school that morning, Alondra said, “What are you doing? Aren’t you doing Dragon Network News this morning?” I totally forgot I was supposed to do DNN this morning! “Thanks Alondra,” I said over my shoulder. I had to hurry it hard. By the time I got to the library in our school, I barely had time to practice my role. I was so nervous that I would mess up. I was relieved when it was over because I didn’t mess up.

Then when I left DNN as soon as I walked into the door of my classroom we had to partner up with people to do a science work sheet. Kristen and I held hands to try and be together with the project. Kristen is my best friend. We like being together a lot. It did not work. I was stuck with two boys. They talked and played while I read, and they made me do all the work. I had to do every single bit of it. I was sad when I saw that Kristen’s group was quiet when it was her turn to read, so unlike my group. The project was long and hard without Kristen. Then when I was going back to my seat, I saw that the tag on my book bag had come off and broken. The tag on my book bag is a mermaid that I made in third grade. That made me really mad because it held lots of memories.

Then at Challenger Mrs. Lockridge gave my best friend 5 minutes on the wall for talking, so I didn’t have any one to play with. Then when I got home my brother started hitting me like crazy with his bat. We were having such a blast until then “ MOM DAD HELP ME PLEASE!! [OUCH THAT HURT WILLIAM!!!]” Dad didn’t hear me because he had his headphones on. Mom didn’t hear because she was outside. He stopped hitting me when I screamed until my throat hurt. Daddy heard me then and even Mom heard me from outside. Dad came and pulled William off me. We didn’t hit each other after that. Then just when I was starting to have fun, I went to give my hermit crabs some water when I saw a dead body hermit crab body lying in the sand! It was George. I was so sad. He was one of my favorites. I cried my eyes out until I could not make any more tears. After that I put him in a plastic baggy so we could bury him.

Then Kristen called and said she was moving to another class. She also said to keep an ear out for Amy Miller to tell me that I was moving to her class too. I didn’t get a call. I felt a little bit of anger and a little bit of sadness about that.

Later that night, my mom took me to Avanti so I could order pizza for dinner. It sure reached its goal. It cheered me up. After dinner, William requested to see the ducks at the pond near Avanti. Then we went to the bookstore. I got a magazine on one of my favorite animals, horses. Finally I asked mom what was so important about Friday the 13th. She taught me that there was a word called “triskadeckaphobia” and it meant fear of the number 13. I sure think that it’s true because Friday the 13th was no happy business day for me.

The End

Emerson

Last night about 20 American lit students were struggling through Ralph Waldo Emerson and probably cursing me the whole time. In some ways Emerson is best read sentence by sentence....

Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world, a heaven. Know then, that the world exists for you. Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

Why not?

Just a few days after Will’s first why question, I’m starting to wonder if he’ll ask another. Since then, though, he’s certainly got why not down pat. First thing this morning:

Come here, Will, we have to change your diaper. You can't run around in that wet soggy diaper all morning.

Why not?

No, Will, you can’t have a peanut sandwich for breakfast. (Well, it's peanut butter, but that's not what he calls them).

Why not?

No, Will, you can’t play in the big water right now; we’re going to school (the mud puddles around here really are getting big after all the hurricane rain we've had).

Why not?

No, Will, we can’t have an Icee every time we go to Target.

Why not?

Why not, indeed.

Diapers and costumes

Tonight is the first time in my children’s lives we actually ran out of diapers. Laura took her time before abandoning diapers for potty training, and Will is following in her footsteps there, so that means probably more than four, maybe even five, years of buying diapers, and tonight we really ran out. I put the last diaper on Will as we walked out the door to Target to buy more. (Economic note for the future: 104 diapers cost $24.00, minus the coupons).

So we’re at Target and just browsing around now, since this is our recreational activity. The Haunted Mansion section of Target is just now up, all Halloween all the time. I absolutely love Halloween, and every year we have this increasingly larger party complete with annoying (but really easy to make) Martha Stewart meringue bones and poison punch and the works, including dry ice in beakers one year, which was lots of fun for the kids (the benefits of having biologists for friends). We start down the costume row, and good grief.

The all boy side: Spiderman, Incredible Hulk, Ninja Boy, Death, and I don’t know who all else, but plenty of black and red, complete with a range of accessories designed for heavy hacking, including the orc sword. I think that might even have been the same one I had to take away from my nephew at one year’s party. Then, the girls: Disney Princess, Renaissance Princess, basic plain Princess, Cheerleader, lots of pastels and feathered boas, tiaras and gloves. For a little variety for the older girl, the vampy Diva and Black Widow Witch, both of which are a little too sexy for my nine year old, thank you very much. (Fortunately if you have very young children, you can get away from this a little, since these costumes are a little more gender neutral—you can’t go wrong with the pea in the pod or Pooh.)

We’ve always been into promoting gender equity in costumes (and life), and Laura has chosen costumes many times that don’t fit on the long pink row. She’s been a firefighter (her great-grandfather was fire chief), an entymologist, your basic baby pumpkin. Recently though she’s moved more towards girl costumes: two years ago she was a cat, wearing a leopard print leotard and black kitty ears, and then last year she was a hula girl (a very expensive costume that she ended up ditching halfway through the party because it was itchy). Basically it’s my experience that if you want a costume that departs from either the all black boy with hacking device or the girl princess model—you have to build it yourself. Could we please get a little creativity here for those of us who no longer have time to create your own?

In late breaking news, Will just peed in the potty! :)

Worried thoughts

As you come into Will’s daycare, there’s a little table in the lobby with two plastic Easter egg buckets, a small pad of paper, and a pencil. One bucket’s labeled “Take a Happy Thought,” and the other, “Throw Away Worried Thoughts.” The idea is that you take a happy thought out of the bucket if you need one, and you write your worries down and throw them away in the other bucket.

Today after we picked Will up, Laura went back to his classroom to get something she'd forgotten while we waited for her in the lobby. She’s occasionally been known to take her time, so Will and I were just hanging out. He started to color, and finally I started poking through the worry bucket. Somebody had written, “I hope my husband gets the job.” Another worry read, “I hope my mother is OK.” Someone else had written, “I wish he would at least call so I won’t worry.” It looked like one kid named Hayley had written her name on a sheet of paper every single morning since she’d been coming to the center.

The happy thoughts looked like plants to me—very proverbial. “Make a friend to double your joys and halve your worries,” etc. But there sure were there lots of them. I’m thinking maybe the work study student who staffs the sign-in desk had some free time and a book of Hallmark wisdom.

I’m not a big believer in happy thoughts (or magical thinking, as I would define it). When I send off a batch of poems to a journal, I start checking the mail for my rejection letters shortly afterwards. It’s not because I’m not an optimist, although I probably am not, but because I prefer to be prepared for the worst (and because realistically, you get LOTS of rejections and proportionally few acceptances when you’re a poet).

Anyhow, of course I didn’t take a happy thought out, but I decided to try throwing away a worried thought. So I wrote something like this: “I don’t want to be this busy.” Not a profound worry, and probably not my biggest, but one I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. As I folded the paper and threw it in the bucket, Laura came down the hall. Although I stirred the bucket after I added my thought, Laura reached in and pulled out my paper (from the bottom, mind you, the first piece she touched) and read it out loud. Then she looks up at me, sighs and says, “Boy, I know exactly what you mean.” Worried thoughts. My goodness.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard

So I took a little quiz, and I'm Captain Picard! I love that. I am an excellent leader, although sometimes boring. :) So Which Star Trek Character are you? (brought to you by Quizilla).

Beads, birch bark, and feathers

My poor sweet tired and grumpy daughter is finally in the bed. Her project’s due tomorrow, she finished it not long ago, and it looks beautiful.

Because I teach research papers every single semester, I know how much time they take, and I helped her start the project the day she got the assignment—and she worked on it faithfully every single day. So I can’t quite figure out how it got to be 10:00 the night before it was due and she was still finishing it. I can observe that hole punching seems to take slightly longer than eternity when you’re watching a nine year old do it.

She researched and wrote (not plagiarized) all five pages of the report and drew beautiful illustrations to accompany each section. I did manage to give up my bark paper, although it was tough—she used it for the covers and decorated it with a couple of feathers, a tiny piece of birch bark from the river birch in our back yard, and a strand of beads. It is truly a lovely book.

The only bad news is that she came home with a new project assignment due next Wednesday. Sigh.

Due diligence

Well, Laura made some progress on her project today. She has to cover at least five areas of the Mandan culture in her project; she’s been taking notes on houses, religious life, clothes, games, and I forget the fifth area. She got her games section written today. We actually had to have a little discussion about how changing one word in sentence does not mean you have successfully put the ideas from your source into your own words… they don’t seem to be covering plagiarism very carefully in the fourth grade. Finally I told her just to read her source material, then turn it over so she couldn’t see it, and then write her description. This worked considerably better (I recommend this method to any students reading too). I haven’t had the heart yet to tell her she’s going to have to rewrite the one section that she pretty much lifted from her original source; we can fix that tomorrow.

Will had something funny happen today, although he won’t appreciate this for a really long time. When babies are born, you can write to the White House Greetings Office and request a letter from the President welcoming your little newborn into the world; I read this in a parenting magazine when Laura was a baby, so I requested one for her, and she has it right there in her baby book, signed by Bill and Hillary. When Will was born, I requested one for him (although I wished it could’ve been signed by Bill and Hillary too instead of George and Laura). It didn’t come and didn’t come. So I emailed to request it again. And still it didn’t come. Finally, I wrote another paper letter, and some months later, they sent his greeting. He was born in April, and his letter arrived just before Christmas that year.

Well, he got another one today: “Welcome! The day you were born will always be a special day, celebrated with love and joy.” I don’t know whether I should be impressed with the Bush White House’s diligence—not just one, but two—or whether just to laugh about its arriving two and a half years later. I guess they get a lot of mail over there.

Laura's arrow

Laura drew this to illustrate the games section of her social studies project.

I can't tell you why

I can’t remember when Laura starting asking “Why?” but Will asked his very first why question this week. He’s pretty laid back and seems to just go along with thing easily… not a lot of asking why there. But he has never loved being strapped in his car seat. Shortly after he first started to talk—I’ll never forget—we were driving on the highway when he suddenly started hollering, “I stuck! I stuck!” We tried to convince him that he was supposed to be stuck. Periodically we have a conversation in which we review how everyone in the car is stuck. Yes, Mommy’s stuck. And Laura’s stuck. And Daddy’s stuck too. Everyone is stuck. This week, on the way home from daycare, he asked that first why question: “Why do I have to be stuck?” Nothing like explaining projectile babies on the way home from work. I can’t wait to see what his next question is.

Homework and bedtime

Laura's in the kitchen reading a story one more time before her reading test tomorrow. She's in the fourth grade, and suddenly her homework has become very time intensive (and a lot harder). We've been arguing for two days about whether she'll be doing her first social studies project about a Native American culture by writing a booklet (manageable) or by building a village (not manageable).

I love that she wants to build the village, but our lives seem to me a little too complicated for building Indian earth lodges with toothpicks and the tops of two-liter bottles. We've about compromised since I've promised her two sheets of my special woodbark paper--really made of bark, I think--and leather cording to bind it with. I'm going to go read off her spelling words to her one more time in just a minute.

Will is patiently sucking his fingers and playing with his sweet horsie's mane, waiting for us to finish. So I'd better get to it, cause it's bedtime.

Well, here goes

Ok, this is something I’ve been wanting to try for a while. I have a webpage, and it’s out there in the world, but it’s for my students, and that’s not quite the same thing as putting your every thought out there for anybody to see. Not that I quite intend to do that.

My reason for starting this blog now is as an example for my American literature students. We’ve just finished reading Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography. What an egomaniac! But the essential notion of the American autobiography is one I can’t get away from, and I think the blog represents the newest form of that. It’s more fragmented than traditional autobiographies—but so is much of contemporary writing published in more traditional venues as well. So since I’m going to make yall take a stab at writing American literature a la the weblog, I’ll keep you company in that enterprise.

But that’s just a reason for starting now. I’m really writing this blog for myself. I think every English teacher must have some part of a book squirreled away in a desk drawer—I certainly have mine. But it’s not something I’m likely to finish anytime soon, and in the meantime, I have been stumbling across many blogs recently. They’re fascinating reading often, and more than that, a record of people’s lives that I find compelling.

And finally, I’m probably writing this blog for my children. They’re really too young to read it now—although my daughter’s 9 and would read it if I showed it to her. But a lot of my writing is about them, so this can be one more thing I save for them so that one day they’ll know me better. I have often wished more people in my own family were writers; we tell stories always, but let’s just say my oral history skills could be improved. So since preserving family memory is important to me, and since I think words are just as good a way as photos, that means it’s time to write.

So this is an experiment. I’m going to write about whatever I’m interested in here—stories about my students, my children, myself. I’ve called this blog “On Comprehending Gravity,” which is the title of one of my poems. I worry a lot, and things often feel weighty to me. But the title doesn’t reference that—rather a sense of how the little things in life are so often more important than we think.

Probably this is not a stellar beginning—after all, this is not the most original thought you might ever hear. But I spent my day’s supply of creativity early this morning on a poem, so until my reserves kick in, here goes.