a gift i should've given when i had the chance

I never asked him directly but I could tell from an early age, Christmas was my father's favorite time of the year. I, on the other hand, can't remember the last time I loved Christmas. I'm maudlin that way.

No. I was conditioned that way. For the most part. I don't know why receiving gifts always pained me. I remember, however, the felling of failure every time a recipient opened my gift. I was always a terrible gift-giver. I'm worse than your Great-Aunt Irene. But not for lack of trying.

I wouldn't mis-gift you in such a way that conveyed an utter lack of knowing you. But I am the sort of person, however, who would be slightly off the mark--to varying degrees. For example, I might buy you an Underworld CD when all you listen to is Carrie Underwood. "U" names can be confusing, eh?

So I fail. And I can tell by that dead look in your eyes. That tone of your voice. That stiffness of you hug. And I hate the occasion. The mandatory ritual of Christians and their non-practicing siblings. And I do as I've done for every Christmas I can remember. I cry just a little bit over my failure to live up to the blessed happiness my father always expected of my brother and me on this joyful day.

(My brother performed his inexplicable pain a bit differently that I. The last time I spent Christmas at my parents' house, my brother caused four accidents in three different cars in one day. And he overdosed. And he shooed away the paramedics and the sheriff who answered my mother's call. It's just his way of dealing.)

Today was my first Christmas without my father. Oh, I've spent Christmas away from him before. But today is the first Christmas he hasn't lived to experience. I did my best, Dad. I went to our friends' house and celebrated the day with friends and the families of friends. I applauded a four-year-old girl who sang and danced to Christmas carols. I made funny faces for a two-year-old who looked through binoculars the 'wrong' way. I taught a three-year-old how to pedal a bike.

I think I did everything that you always hoped to see. I helped create moments of bliss for the little ones in my life. I took part in a day that is designated for happiness. A happiness that neither you nor I could ever achieve--but you always had faith in and anticipated with such childlike fervor.

I promise to try and love my days the way you loved those moments around the tree. And I'll try to forgive my brother and me the trouble we caused when we thought we'd never be what you wanted us to be. I'm pretty sure this will be the best gift I've ever given you. Maybe even the best gift I'll ever give.

be still the buzz; batter my heart

Every session I teach, I fool myself into thinking that the constant demands of my students, my colleagues, and my superiors causes me stress. But like a recurring nightmare, I remember at the end of every session that it is the silence that shoves me toward the Terrible Place--the place of panic and depression. Ironically, the quiet, the stillness, accelerates my heart. Beat-starts my heart. Cruelly quickens my breath. My thoughts. And I hurt. Every bit of it hurts.

Wrongly, I long for the school breaks. I think, "I'll really get work done then." But the breaks break me, like crushes crush. The desirable attained is the final destination of the death drive. I fucking hate Freud.

If all I want is to get a couple more things published, and be awarded a prestigious grant that I think I have a shot at, if that's what I want, and I get it, what pain awaits me? How will my heart hurt then? What pain will threaten to consume me?

sometimes they come back

Unfortunately, some of my colleagues haven't learned that lesson yet.

And I, I haven't learned how best to deal with the return.

Since I've been at my institution, I have been on far too many Master's committees for students who had no business being in graduate school, let alone earning a graduate degree. They obtained a spot in the program via the Grad Director's adherence to the logic of "If we don't fill all these spots this year, we'll lose spots next year." No matter the crap GPAs, disturbing GRE scores, and three-sentenced "recommendation" letters. We need buns in chairs! So we accept them. But not with funding, of course.

And they take classes. And despite their embarrassing performance in these classes, professors reward them with grades that rarely fall below a "B+"--because, hey, "we" accepted them into "our" program, so we can't be too critical of them! And, really, a "B+" is pretty bad for graduate school. Like, who doesn't get a 4.0 in grad school?

And they finish their first year without falling into the Land of Academic Probation. And they've heard from everyone they know that, even if one isn't awarded funding upon acceptance, one merely needs to ask for funding after their first year and funding they shall be given. So, in my 5.5 years at this institution, I can't think of a single case in which one of these special students was denied some form of funding after their first year. (One particularly special student--who announced in a seminar I taught, "I don't know what a fucking 'thesis statement' is. I went to X College!"--was hired by the English Department to teach composition.)

And they finish their coursework without losing eligibility. Because professors continue to give them better grades than they deserve. And our department has "no mechanism to remove them from the program" (unlike the institutions I'm familiar with that have 2nd semester reviews for Master's students which result in a verdict of "Right-o! Carry on!" or "Let's not waste anymore of our time or your money, shall we?"). Then they take their comprehensive exams. And their committee reads them. And they're terrible. Then we meet for the defense.

And the committee chair says, "I know. These are terrible. Let's just ask for some clarification on these few points. Then I say, forget it. Let's just give a Pass. There's nothing more we can do. Besides, what harm will come from giving this person an MA?" Then the committee--including myself in my early years here--says, "Ehh, nothin'. You're right. I wouldn't want to deal with this student anymore anyway." So the special student is bestowed an MA.

And the faculty is relieved to be rid of said student. And a few months pass. Then the committee members get an email. It's from the now-former student and it is a request. "I'm applying for a teaching position at Soandso Community College. Would you please write me a recommendation letter?" Or, a year passes, and the committee gets a different email. "I'm applying for PhD programs [including our own]. Would you please write me letters of recommendation?" And these professors, these evaluators, these judges, these arbiters of higher education are confronted with the fact that THEY are responsible for these special students' self-misperceptions. And they must, simply MUST, fulfill their obligation to these students.

The question is, how?

let's pretend

Let's pretend that I haven't been gone for a month. And . . .

• That I don't have terrible circumstances I must endure at work.
• That I don't have to go up for tenure in 9 months.
• That I didn't ruin my chances for tenure by spending too much time ensuring the publication of others and standing up to department bullies who happen to be full professors.
• That I don't think I should get out of this place.
• That I don't think I may have made a mistake by not applying for a job for which I was asked to apply.
• That I wasn't majorly betrayed by my closest senior department advocate.
• That I haven't lost 4 departmental allies in the last 4 years and that I'm not about to lose 3 more.

Let's just pretend, 'kay?

my psychiatrist and me

The end of the session is nearing. Dr. Spanky has been up to his usual "tricks"--asking lucyrain to confront "the issues" and reminding her that medicine alone is insufficient in her quest for "better mental health." As Dr. Spanky speaks, lucyrain nods and smiles in a "You're right. I know. You're absolutely right" kind of way.

Dr. Spanky: So, all these stressors you've told me about--writing a textbook, preparing for a conference, dealing with assholes at work--those aren't really the problem. You realize that, don't you? It's all that other stuff that you try to push out of your mind--your grief, your anger, your resentment. That's what you're going to have to face.

lucyrain: [exhales and utters simultaneaously] Yeah.

Dr. Spanky: You're obviously very intelligent and accomplished and driven. You're more than capable of dealing with textbooks, conferences, and assholes.

lucyrain: [bites her lip and squints her eyes in a slight grimace at the compliments]

Dr. Spanky: [holds his eye contact with lucyrain, as he always does]

lucyrain: [holds her eye contact with Dr. Spanky, for about three seconds]

Dr. Spanky: I can feel it.

lucyrain: Feel what?

Dr. Spanky: You giving me the middle finger.

lucyrain: What?! I'm not giving you the middle finger.

Dr. Spanky: Yes, you are.

lucyrain: No, I'm not.

Dr. Spanky: In your mind you are. I can feel it.

testing . . .

Um, hello?

I can't see my blog and haven't been able to since yesterday afternoon. I can only infer from my Sitemeter stats, that others cannot see it either. Although, also via Sitemeter, I can access specific archived posts. That gives me a little hope . . . .

Whither me blog?

Will now try to publish this post.

ETA: WELL! I guess we just needed to republish the entire blog! Excellent! Now back to work on the frackin' textbook.

here's a little tip

Never write a textbook.

Unless, maybe, you're tenured and you REALLY feel the need to write one.

Otherwise, doing so will ruin you.

Okay, maybe not ruin you. Not if you work for an institution that values textbook-writing. And not if you are rewarded for writing one. And not if you really, really want to write one.

Otherwise, it will ruin you. If you find yourself in a position similar to my own, it will ruin you.

Unless, of course, you have an official guarantee from the Provost's Office that you will be granted tenure despite all the time you spent working on a textbook instead of doing other things like grant-grubbing.

Even if your textbook is the "most highly and consistantly praised" your editor has ever seen in his many years with Major Academic Publishing House, committing to and writing a textbook before you are tenured will ruin you.

Even if--or, especially if--you are co-writing said textbook with two of your colleagues.

Newly hired academic dearies, do not write a textbook. Unless you meet the unless-es of all of the above.

maybe i am or maybe i am

Seen first at Clare's.

The Wild Rose Random Brutal Love Dreamer (RBLDf) shmolorful, but unpicked. You are The Wild Rose. Prone to bouts of cynicism, sarcasm, and thorns, you excite a certain kind of man. Hoping to gather you up, he flirts and winks and asks you out, ultimately professing his love. Then you make him bleed. Why? Because you're the rare, independent, self-sufficient kind of woman who does want love, but not from a weakling. You don't seem to take yourself too seriously, and that's refreshing. You aren't uptight; you don't over-plan. Romance-wise, sex isn't a top priority--a true relationship would be preferable. For your age, you haven't had a lot of bonafide love experience, though, and this kind of gets to core of the issue. You're very selective. Your exact opposite: The Dirty Little Secret Deliberate Gentle Sex Master The problem is them, not you, right? You have lofty standards that few measure up to. You're out there all right, but not to be picked up by just anyone. "You're never truly single as long as you have yourself." ALWAYS AVOID: The Bachelor CONSIDER: The Vapor Trail. Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating.

will write soon

In the meantime, enjoy the ridiculous adorability that is Louie:

late 20th c. fears that seem to have disappeared from the public consciousness

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a while back about maladies that seemed so prevalent in the 1970s and 1980s but now, perhaps due to technological advancements, seem to have disappeared. I spent a good amount of time during my formative years worrying about falling victim to these afflictions. I've been anxious for a very long time, you see. Incidentally, I also believed I'd be un/lucky enough to encounter one of the monsters or eerie phenomena featured on In Search Of.

Currently, there's a commercial running that features some poor suit sinking in quicksand as his companions seem concerned only with making/investing/worshipping money. The first time I saw this ad, my brain nearly shortcircuited with a mess of memories. Quicksand! I used to be tortured by the thought that I may some day step into some and die a simultaneously slow and quick death. And I wasn't an anomoly. All my friends were tormented knowing that such a death trap existed in the world--despite the fact that we knew both tips for survival. One is "DON'T STRUGGLE." As you may well know, struggling makes you sink faster. The other tip, naturally, is to avoid any place quicksand can be found. We vowed never to find ourselves alone in any environment hospitable to the quicksand . . . though none of us knew which environments those might be. The woods in our backyards? The desert? The tropics? Central Park? I still have no idea where one is likely to find the sand of death.

So that commercial has got me thinking about all of these things, but also about the origin of my awareness. From where did I first learn of quicksand? Could it be from the episodes of Land of the Lost? Or at least one episode of Fantasy Island, as AP suggests? Perhaps from one of those Japanese monster movies I used to watch on Sunday afternoon? If anyone can relate to this post and/or remember how quicksand became a prominent feature of my generation's consciousness, please do throw me a bone. Or, a branch, I should say, keeping with the theme of "Save me from this gritty quagmire of death!"

the sunny outlook of our sparkly new chair

From Friday's Faculty Meeting

Chair: The Dean's Office is considering making a call for minority recruitment hires, so we should spend some time thinking about folks we'd like to consider.

Faculty Member Who's in the Know: Actually, the Provost's Office said they're not likely to approve any funding for that this year.

Chair: Well, right. Like I said, the Dean's Office is considering it.

FMWitK: But the Provost's Office won't likely approve it.

Chair: You and I are saying the same thing.

FMWitK: I . . . . You're . . . . We're . . . . Uh, yes. We're saying the same thing.

[FMWitK is our only faculty person of color. She is accutely aware of the rhetorical stylings of the Dean's and Provost's Offices. We will not be afforded recruitment hires this year, despite our white male chair's optimism. Bless his heart.]

*****************

Chair: As you know, our main budget request for this year was the increase in GTA stipends. Aaannd, the Budget is now in. Aaaannnd, we didn't get the increase.

Faculty and One Graduate Student Representative: YOUHAVETOBEKIDDINGMENOFUCKINGWAYUNBELIEVEABLETHISISSUCHBULLSHIT
WHODOWEHAVETOFUCK?

Chair: I KNOW. I KNOW. And remember what our external reviewers wrote about our GTA stipend two years ago? How it is "pathetic" and "pitiful"? That report is the joke of the Dean's Office.

F&OGSR: YOUHAVETOBEKIDDINGMENOFUCKINGWAYUNBELIEVEABLETHISISSUCHBULLSHIT
WHOCANIFUCKUP?

Chair: I know. I know. We'll just have to try again next year.

[Our GTAs make less than $10,000 a year. They're not the lowest paid GTAs in our R1 university. But no matter! Our department has 900 majors and 16 faculty members. Our GTAs teach the vast majority of our curricula. We've been asking for a higher stipend for almost 10 years. Our new Chair seems to think that this simply can't go on for much longer. Bless his heart.]

death be not kind

Two lives were taken from our neighborhood in the past two weeks. The first belonged to a beloved man who dwelled in the house across the street. The second belonged to a magnificent reptile who dwelled in the pond that connects the innermost houses of our 'hood.

Alcoholsim took the first right before he turned 60.
Poison took the second before he turned 6.

But really, the root cause of these deaths is the same. Mankind was cruel to both. Death be not kind when it is sired by negligence and fear.

teach me, please

I've been watching an HBO Dane Cook special for over a half hour and I haven't even smiled. I know I'm all morose and shit, but I'm still capable of the occasional titter. I've even guffawed in the last eight months. More than a few times. But this guy? Nuthin'.

How and when did he become so popular? And, why? And what's up with that hand gesture? what does it mean? And--and I know you can't really answer this, but--why does his voice irritate the fuck outta me? It's not just his timbre, tone, and pitch. It's his inflection. His pacing. His voice makes me want to shovel-feed him ether.

And, yes, I do realize that I have readers who think that my little rant here is an attempt to out-funny DC as I diss him. But I don't care. Judge at will. I'm all morose and shit.

whither time?

Or, more precisely, whither my sense of time?

It's been eight months since my father died. But that quantification is my only sense of chronology between February 2 and October 2. I just read some of my posts from that period and none of them seem right. They all seem out of order. The written details conjure memories of the events I narrated. But the timing is off. Surely I didn't live those days between the death of my father and now. Surely I experienced those events before my father died. How could I possibly have experienced, felt, thought, written, you name it, anything since my father died?

I read the posts and I remember. But I don't remember. Not properly. Alongside my memories is an equally forceful dysfunctional ticking clock that tells me that my memories are a sham. That clock tells me that I somehow "went on" after the death of my father. That I re-entered my world of teaching and researching and writing. It's that twisted clock, the other voice, that equally forceful presence, that reverberates loudest in my head right now.

My time and memories aren't right.

I haven't gone on.

I'm still here.

And my father is only now gone. Over and over. He's only now gone.