December 25, 2011
Feeling Christmas
December 18, 2011
Something to Say
December 11, 2011
Upon Reaching December
When Pandora opens it automatically restarts where it last left off: with “Jingle Bell Rock” and “O Holy Night.” Our house smells faintly of burnt wood. There are Ziploc baggies of cookies on the counter. My nightly ritual consists of plugging in lights at dusk and unplugging them before bed. Yes, such signs mean it is now December and the holiday season is in full throttle.
This year, though, it means even more. Having now reached December 2011 means I survived my first semester at my new job as an assistant professor. Some things are not so different, especially as I stare at the stack of essays and exams that need grading. Some things are only slightly different. I have still had the joy of Christmas baking and Christmas movie nights, though not with my long treasured friends, but with new friends I am quickly growing to love. I have a North Carolina Frasier Fir in my living room, though it was gotten in near tears in 40 degrees of pouring rain at the Home Depot.
And some things are vastly different. This year I won’t be preparing for MLA interviews, nor will I be frantically finishing a dissertation. I will, however, be putting together my tenure notebook for my first tenure review in January. When I look back at the last several Christmas breaks it does strike me that they have been defined by some of the most monumental milestones in our field. (I hope this causes people who complain about the long breaks professors get to give that a second thought).
Maybe that’s why it only feels natural that I have a make-or-break sort of project like the tenure notebook to keep me occupied during the holiday. Oh, don’t worry. There will plenty of festivities. I’m already slowly working through the Christmas movie list (The original How the Grinch Stole Christmas, check. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, check.). And I am nearly sick of eating Christmas cookies and listening to Christmas music. I am working my way steadily through Christmas cards, wrapping paper, and tape.
I do feel a sense of accomplishment that I completed my first semester here without major incident, or, in other words, successfully. Putting the notebook together will involve much reflection, so I suspect my posts throughout December on the blog will include more thoughts evaluating my experience. Right now, though, I am enjoying the feeling of knowing I finished, without dissecting it any further than that.
Thanks to all of you who have been “listening” to my thoughts this semester. I hope to be a little more consistent with my weekly posts. If there is anything you particularly want to hear about, professional or personal, about my transition from graduate student to full-time faculty, from North Carolina to Texas, just let me know.
November 27, 2011
continuing the conversation
November 19, 2011
Home is (?)
November 10, 2011
The Importance of Failing
November 2, 2011
Transitions Series
October 28, 2011
Women & Royalty
October 17, 2011
Peer Pressure
October 16, 2011
Women & Academia
Mostly, though, I wonder if abstracting yourself is such a bad thing? I actually love how the classroom and my research can help me block out everything else, especially if other areas of my personal life are going badly; or in a not-so-dramatic vein (read: emotional and feminine ha ha), I think abstracting yourself is also a form of diversifying, which I think is an important corrective to the old narrative that all a woman's value comes from her husband and kids (straight out of the 19c and still tenaciously holding strong!). I can't relate to the mother-of paradigm yet, but I know its really important to me that I exist in a world where whose wife I am is irrelevant. That is not to say that Justin himself is irrelevant, but just that my title "wife" doesn't matter, which is to say I am not limited to being defined as only a wife. Obviously I don't think one can completely abstract yourself from all the contexts that make up who you are, but there is a side of me that enjoys being a professional and only a professional while I'm in the ivory towers.
However, this does not mean I think one should have to create a persona devoid of all personal context in order to be perceived as a professional. Thus, I do agree with Clancy’s point about how its a shame we have to be wary of mentioning things about babies and blogs, those non-academic aspects of our lives, within the academic setting.
Clancy's battle cry is wonderful, but woefully untethered from reality. She asks: "So how does one be a radical when radical scholarship is hard to measure with current tenure criteria?" Which is a very good question, and the assumed answer, of course is "you can't." But I expected her to offer some suggestions for how we can. Instead, her answer is: "Be that radical anyway. Be the scholar you think you should be, bringing your whole self to the table, finding your passion and making it your scholarship, and having a plan that will help you become a leader in your field." To which she follows with how maybe getting tenure isn't all that important. This made me laugh out loud, as if the implicit connection here is "go ahead and be radical, but this means you won't get tenure."
I know most of my comments here seem against Clancy, but I'm actually pretty divided in my response: part of me feeling affirmed and encouraged, while the other part roles my eyes at the romanticized notion of "just do it." I think my hope is that conversations about women in the academy bring about more conversations about the academy itself.
October 7, 2011
Giving an Account
September 19, 2011
Strangers and Weeds
“Can I come in and use your bathroom? It’s a real emergency!”
I can count on one hand the number of times someone has used our doorbell since we moved in 7 weeks ago. When I answered the door, I had that slight air of confusion that comes with unexpected visitors, especially visitors that ask to use your bathroom. After what felt like a long pause to me where I was wishing the manners-book my mom read to my sister and I as kids had covered what to do when a stranger asks to use your bathroom, the college-age kid started laughing and said she was having to do something socially unacceptable for a sociology class. I was relieved on several accounts – that this was deemed a “socially unacceptable” request and therefore my hesitation not totally rude, and that she was not actually going to come in and defile my bathroom.
I love living on a college campus, in part because of the wacky nature of the people and activities. Case in point: sociological experiments. There was also the night Justin and I decided to walk around campus (it had finally dropped below 100 degrees) and we came upon a hoedown. I’m not kidding, there was a bull you could ride, line dancing, wagon rides, hay bales, and of course country music. I’m pretty sure you had to be wearing cowboy boots to get in, because the only people I saw wearing flops were the ones, like me, standing on the outskirts looking in.
Then there was the woman outside the library with what looked like a samurai sword doing what I can only describe as yoga. And the kid outside the English building with his own personal boom box performing several dance routines. I think I counted a total of 6 routines, which he rotated through for hours every day the week before school started.
I’m used to hearing campus bell towers chime away the hours, but only for a short period each day. There’s something deeply satisfying about having every waking hour marked by bell tolls. Living on college campus also has the added benefit of seeing green grass and flowers, which are not to be found anywhere else in this city right now. In fact, our front yard is dirt, but the center section of our circle street is carpeted in lush green grass.
The green grass on campus can only be accounted for by a budget that can accommodate astronomical water bills. Texas has been in the midst of the “hottest and driest summer in decades” (in quotation marks because of the number of people who said this to us in conciliatory tones when we moved here). I finally decided to plant a few flowers, 8 to be exact, and it took me about 2 hours to dig 8 little holes, the ground was that hard. I planted 4 of the flowers at the corner of our little patio, and all around where I watered them little green weeds started popping up. I was so excited to see green I have not had the heart to pull them up. In fact, I think they are the most beautiful weeds I’ve ever seen.
August 28, 2011
all other things being equal
I have taught for my first week now as a tenure-track professor, and if I am to fulfill my reason for starting this blog, I should write about all the transitions this week entailed.
Between that last period and this sentence there was a very long pause because in a strangely comforting way, life has gone on much as it might have were I still teaching in North Carolina. Granted, I am not sharing an office with 3 other people, and I am teaching 50 students instead of 120, but these new privileges have not yet accumulated enough traction to change the rhythm of daily life.
The effect of change rears its ugly head more often during the experience of living in a new place (opening 4 cabinets doors because I still can’t remember where I put the peanut butter, the same peanut butter that it took me 10 minutes to find in the grocery store), than during the experience of working in a new place.
I am homesick when I drive down Valley Mills instead of Wendover, buy my peaches from the farmers tent on Bosque instead of from Rudd Farm, sit in the courtyard of Harrington instead of the driveway of Roundup, eat at Sams on the Square instead of Lindley Filling Station, run around the Bear Track instead of down the Greenway, see the weather report for 108 with no rain (ditto for the next 7 days) instead of 80’s and scattered showers.
Whereas, I feel a sense of home when I am teaching, or running my finger along the call numbers on a library bookshelf, or listening to the chatter of students walking to and from classes along the stairwell. These things have a comforting air of familiarity about them.
This is not to say that there are not frustrating moments of figuring out a new work place. It took me a week and half to finally ask where the file folders were kept so I could walk to my classes without dropping scattered sheets of class notes along the way. I am about to find out if I can work the semi-ancient technology system in the classrooms this Monday, and I have my doubts.
Beyond these logistical transitions, the biggest change that looms over me, still largely undefined, is the role I will play in my new department. Because that’s the biggest difference I can sense so far, that as a full time faculty member I should have a place, a role, some niche that I fill in the department. As a student, that role is defined for you by virtue of being a student and as a limited term lecturer nobody cares (to be quite frank).
I have the feeling I am in a sort of grace period, being left alone to get over the logistical transitions of living and working in a new place. I suspect the transition to follow, which might be described as a more metaphysical one, will soon follow. Then I will have to settle down to the task of thinking and acting like a tenure-track professor without having someone first wave a wand over me and (abracadabra) turning me into one.
Until then, I will be content with pretending that misplaced peanut butter and hot temperatures are the real challenge, because of course "all things being equal" can only be a hypothetical.
August 12, 2011
The Art of Conversation
Jennie Willing, in The Potential Woman, tells her readers: “A woman ought to talk, as a real lady always dresses, simply, neatly, and with refined taste; her tones should be quiet, even, sure and steady.” In case you couldn’t tell, this sage advice is a wee dated. It harkens from the 1880’s, in fact, and represents the kind of anxiety that churned around what constituted proper conversation in the nineteenth century.
I’m feeling a bit of that anxiety lately. For the last week and half I’ve made it a point to go into my office for several hours every day with my office door open. Sure enough, this has led to many introductions and conversations ranging from 5 minutes to 20 or more minutes. At the end of every one of these exchanges I spend at least the next 30 minutes analyzing what kind of impression I must have left, going through several Homer Simpson “Doh!” motions over things I should have (or should not have) said.
It’s exhausting.
Everyone I’ve met so far has been extraordinarily nice, so I can’t imagine what this “meet and greet” process would be like in a place where people were snooty or grouchy. I don’t for a minute think that my panic attacks after each conversation is unique to me, I imagine its something most new faculty go through. Here is a glimpse of what goes through my mind when I’m in the middle of one of these casual drop-in-to-say-hello-to-the-new-professor conversations:
Should I stand up and go to the door or invite him to sit down? Don’t forget to have a firm grip when you shake hands. Boy am I glad I don’t have to courtesy any more, imagine doing that in this skirt! I can’t believe Kassie talked to me into finally wearing skirts. Focus, Kristen, focus. What was his name? oh Gosh, I totally missed him telling me his name. maybe I can look it up on the webpage. Ask him a question. Any question. No, not that question. His area, ask him what area he’s in. Am I slouching? I’m doing that weird cross-over thing again with my leg. Why do I do that? Make eye contact, am I making enough eye contact? Maybe I’m staring to intently, look away casually now. Uhoh. I don’t know the name of the author he just mentioned. Should I admit that or just nod and let him go on? He’s leaving now. Is that too soon? Was I boring? Oh, he just has to teach. Shoot. I already forgot what area he teaches in. Just smile. Just smile.
I could go on, but I thought a 30 second clip was enough.
I’m not sure if Jennie Willing would condone my conversation (or dress for that matter) as refined, but I hope this experience, if nothing else, makes me a connoisseur in the art of conversation.
August 2, 2011
Carolina in my Cooler
I threw out the cantaloupe when we were in Arkansas.
If I had thought of it, I would have tossed it as we went over the mighty Mississippi river, to be poetic about it and all. But I didn’t, so the cantaloupe went down the sink in our hotel room in Little Rock. Maybe this doesn’t sound like such a big deal, it just being a few pieces of fruit and all. But it was my last link to the Carolinas, my last link to home.
Over the last several years in Greensboro I had really started changing the way I thought about food. I wouldn’t really consider myself a locavore, herbavore, omnivore, or any other “vores” that have lately become associated with ways of relating to one’s food. But I have become more thoughtful about the purchasing, consuming, and preparing of my food. Largely due to the books I’d read (see the list on my blog) and the composition courses I’d taught themed around food, but also due to the readily accessible farmers markets, Earth Fares, Fresh Markets, and other food-conscientious stores in Greensboro.
This small food revolution in my life made it very important to me to have some fresh fruit on the long road trip. And, like I said, it was the last remnants of home to take with me. A few days prior to leaving I visited Rudd Farm, the local farmer just the down the road from whom I bought most of my fruits and veggies. I cut up the cantaloupe and peaches and put them into the tupperware I had saved for this purpose. After two days in a semi-cool cooler, the cantaloupe had soured a bit and needed to be tossed.
I thought this would be a difficult task, but in the days leading up to our departure, and along the route, I kept reminding myself to stop looking behind and start looking ahead. This became easier once we left. For one thing, I literally had to look ahead, down the road, watching the signs declare “welcome to Tennessee” or “welcome to Alabama.” It wasn’t so hard, after-all, to throw out the cantaloupe, and I had a rather silly self-congratulatory feeling about my ability to look ahead.
Except that looking ahead no longer matters, because we’re here – now. When we crossed the Texas state line I had a sinking feeling that my earlier bravado about looking ahead no longer sufficed. I suppose this is something like what they call “living in the moment.” And I must say, it was a good moment walking the two short blocks from my house to the English department and turning the keys of my office door for the first time this morning. Here’s to more good moments, now and ahead.
July 25, 2011
Beginnings
I am terrible at titles. I agonize over them and generally spend more time coming up with a title than I do creating whatever piece the title is supposed to describe. So you can imagine what it was like to try and find an appropriate title for my blog.
Let me start first with what I almost called this blog: “Pierglass,” after one of George Eliot’s most famous metaphors (see above quotation). I am sure in some other post I will blog about the merits of George Eliot and why she is the most awesome writer ever, but for now I just want to point out what Eliot points out through this metaphor.
We tend to see life through our own perspective.
Radical stuff, huh? If you actually think about this for more than two seconds, however, you realize just how much this fact of our own egoism influences the way we go through life. It can be a jolting experience when we find someone with a similar perspective (if we thought we were alone in the world in feeling or thinking a certain way) and also just as jolting to discover that other people do not think like us and do not feel that things ought to be done the same way we do them (the “right” way of course).
Living a full life, has something to do, I think, with learning to hold someone else’s candle up to our mirrored reflection. I thought to name my blog this in an effort to keep the egoism, which has caused me to disdain blogging for so long, at bay and to indicate my desire to engage with many different ideas in these pages.
But that was a very long explanation of the title that I did not choose for my blog.
I came upon the title Lumia Compositions while reading one of those short articles in the “talk of the town” section of The New Yorker. It began describing the image that pops up at the beginning and end of the movie Tree of Life that has apparently been driving movie critics crazy. The image, entitled “Opus 161,” comes from light artist Thomas Wilifred’s “lumia compositions,” his creations that seek to sculpt light rather than use light to sculpt art.
Perhaps it was the fact that I have discovered this image, like many now will, through a movie set in Texas. I decided to start this blog in part to chart my transition from a medium sized town in North Carolina to a small town in Central Texas. I think why the title “lumia compositions” really caught my attention, however, was the way Gregory Zinman described the method behind Wilifred’s art. In his article Zinman says Wilifred’s artworks “are both feats of bric-a-brac engineering and ethereal works of art…to look inside a lumia instrument is to see an apparent scrap heap put to near-magical use.”
The combination of scrap and magic, bric-a-brac and ethereal captures, I believe, the very essence of life and being human. I am constantly amazed at the wonder that erupts from the most ordinary, mundane things (perhaps this is why I am obsessed with nineteenth-century realism). In a less momentous way, this combination also describes the process of writing and producing scholarly work: out of the bric-a-brac something ethereal, or at least hopefully something interesting, emerges. This, then, is the struggle every scholar and every person faces, how to turn the scrap heap into something magical. Or maybe we shouldn’t see it so much as a struggle but as the wondrous mystery of the creative process and of life.
This blog engages with that mystery by charting my academic experiences, transitioning from a recent graduate to assistant professor, and my life experiences, transitioning from the home and family I’ve been part of for eight years in Greensboro to see what awaits me in a new place.
You can read more about Thomas Wilifred and his art here:
http://wilfred-lumia.org/index.html
July 19, 2011
Tribute to Greensboro
To the city perfectly placed between Charlotte and Raleigh, the mountains and the sea.To the greenways, whose endless trails centered me one footfall at a time.
To the local greensboro breweries, Natty’s and Red Oak. You taught me how to drink beer.
To the downtown farmer’s market, where I witnessed what having a relationship with your food provider means. And to the I40 farmers market, where I got my Christmas tree every year.
To the man who alerts me to the beginning of football season. He sits front and center every Sunday morning, wearing his Redskins’ jersey from September to February. I hope for his sake that God is a not a cowboys fan!
To Rudd Farm, who helped me mark my personal first day of summer every year: fresh-picked strawberry milkshakes. Summer arrives in the all the glory of nature’s signature desserts.
Do you like waffles? Yes I like Waffles. And the Greensboro Grasshoppers. The all-American combination: beer, hotdog, and baseball. Whoop Whoop!
To Lindley Filling Station. My favorite place to meet up with people, half price Wildflower on Thursday nights, half price appetizers on Sunday nights, half price bottle of wine on Tuesday nights.
To seeing Christmas movies at the Carolina Theatre. I can’t think of a better way to bring out the holiday spirit than an old theatre decked out in holly and lights and a giant Christmas tree, clapping with a room full of fellow audience members at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life.
Every girl needs a night out. To my girls--thank you for those nights. You are all irreplaceable.
To the Triad Stage and my friends who have gone with me over the years to various shows from the amazing The Glass Menagerie to the oops-I-fell-asleep-in-the-middle-of The Night of the Iguana. And to the strange girl in the upper deck seats who laughed at all the wrong places during A Christmas Carol.
To tea at the O’Henry. I drive a truck to make sure I’m not girlie, but damn do I love scones and little teacups and fancy dresses.
To pool time with the Pell kids. I highly recommend to everyone who has a neighborhood pool: find some kids you can borrow and take them to the pool. Lounging in a chair with a book is for the birds.
To the giant wind chimes I discovered one day while walking in the arboretum; when the wind plays here I feel caught in the breath of God.
To the kids I tutored and to my car riders. You have taught me more than I could ever teach you. How big and beautiful life gets when I am not at the center of it.
To Grace Community Church. You embody all the foibles of organized religion, yet your unconditional love and amazing grace emanates from the way you live out the good news.
To softball, with a view from the bleachers. And for chick-fil-a nights afterwards.
To small group making Greensboro feel like home.
To book talks with the girls. You gave me the gift of doubting and asking and embracing mystery.
To UNCG, the reason I was here in the first place. I will miss the tree behind Foust. I will miss McIver, where it all began and where it all ended. I will miss the grass pathways I wore out with all the other students who knew the sidewalks were in the wrong place. I will miss not getting to teach the new students I saw taking a tour last week. Mostly, I will miss the amazing faculty and staff who saw me from 22 to 30, from terrified, newly-minted graduate student to assistant professor.To superbowl parties and cookouts and thanksgiving dinners and birthdays. To the laughter and the kids and the conversation and the food that defined these Greensboro family gatherings. You revolutionized my understanding of family and community. This tribute to Greensboro is really a tribute to you.
July 7, 2011
Reading, Summarizing, and Synthesizing
**Disclaimer: I promise not all posts will be this long**
I wish we talked more about reading scholarly texts and how to take notes. Because we don’t, I have this fear that it should be something self-evident. And I suppose one would assume that after being in graduate school for 8 years I would know how to read. But alas, I feel woefully inadequate when faced with a pile of library books, a document folder of “to read” articles, and a timer in my head that says I should have started writing by now, by yesterday as a matter of fact.
Although by now I’ve learned that the best way to resolve my writing issues is to actually write, I do think this was a worthwhile detour. So my mission right now (and I need to use a word like “mission” to reinforce to myself the dire necessity of doing this) is to gather some strategies together for improving my reading and note-taking strategies. I’ve listed below some guidelines I synthesized from two excellent sources: Joseph Harris’s Rewriting: How to Do Things With Texts and Wendy Laura Belcher’s How to Write a Scholarly Journal Article in 12 Weeks, as well as some tips I’ve picked up from colleagues along the way. Please add your own insights!
From various conversations with colleagues and my own trial & error:
· When a book is particularly hard to grasp, book reviews can often help as a launching off point for your own understanding.
· Another handy exercise: freewriting. Choose a quotation or two that seem important and type them up on a blank page. Write about them for a bit and you will find that through writing you come to understand the author’s main point. This enacts one of my mentor’s philosophies that we write to learn.
· I have recently tried switching to taking notes straight on the computer, but I am now reconsidering this strategy because something about writing down notes, either in the margins or on a piece of paper is a tactile activity that connects better with my brain. Several of my colleagues have also found this to be true and can even break down their marginalia commenting strategy into the two things they comment on most: they either identify the move the author makes at a certain point in the text or they identify how a particular passage or section relates to their own ideas.
· One colleague reads all the way through first simply marks significant passages along the way. Later, she copies the passages out and then writes a small summary paragraph for each of those passages.
· If you do nothing else, at least read the introduction (of the article or the book) then stop and write a summary of the what the writer is doing (ex: George Levine is doing x).
From Writing Your Journal Article in 12 Weeks:
The key things you need to glean from any piece: the topic, the approach, and the argument.After you read a few things, be sure to write them up and even begin incorporating them into a draft of your own text. Otherwise, you will forget the relevance of the pieces you’ve read. Belcher suggests the following principles of reading: “reduce articles to their essence, read and write in the same day, subscribe to journals, and learn to skim” (150).
The next step in reading and synthesizing according to Belcher is to figure out your entry point, or how you relate to the literature. Typical “entry points” include extending past research, filling in a gap, addressing a contradiction or tension in past research, or weighing in on one side of the debate. Belcher summarizes these entry points into three positions one can take toward previous research: 1) arguing the research is inadequate or non-existent, 2) using the research as a spring board to extend the discussion, 3) arguing something is unsound about the research and providing a corrective (152).
Belcher also cites Henry A. Giroux’s reading method:
“Whenever I read something, I mark off in the text those paragraphs that contain important organizing ideas. I might circle and paragraph and write an organizing idea in the margins. When I finish the piece, I copy it and go through a cut-and-paste procedure in which I type out the source on the top of a piece of paper, type in the organizing ideas from the piece (article, chapter, and so on), and place the paragraph underneath its respective organizing idea. Hence, I may read a twenty-page piece by, lets say, Fred Jameson. In that piece, I may find fifteen sections that I marked as important. I then reference the piece, type out the organizing ideas starting with the order in which I read the piece. I then paste the respective paragraphs under the typed heading. In the end, I may end up with a four-page cut-out of Jameson’s piece. I then duplicate it so I can have a clean copy and I file the original. When my research is done, I read all of the cut-and-past articles, one by one, and I write next to each paragraph in each article an organizing idea. I then type out a cover sheet listing all of the organizing ideas for each working article. I then paste all of the cover sheets on artist boards and try to figure out from reading the sheets how I might develop my arguments”
From Rewriting: How to do Things with Texts
One of the most helpful points in Harris’s book has to do with how to read a text and how you present your reading of the text. When you are including the argument of another scholar, Harris claims you need to do more than just explain the argument, you also need to explain the perspective from which you are reading the argument (by which he means the values you bring and the moments you notice). This creates a balance between respecting what the scholar actually said while admitting how you are using their research for your own ends. Like Belcher, Harris lists three key things you need to glean from each source to write an effective summary: the aims, methods, and materials. To help you find these, he suggests a reading practice that also includes three tasks: 1) define the project, 2) note keywords or passages, 3) assess the uses and limits. I especially like his explanation of number one because I have always had trouble picking out the thesis or main idea of a complex work. Harris argues this is because most scholarly articles and books do not pursue a single claim but instead “think through a complex set of texts and problems” (17). Instead of asking the static question “what is the thesis,” he suggests instead a list of questions that suggest movement (and I quote):
What issues drive this essay? What ideas does it explore? What lines of inquiry does it develop? What is the writer trying to do in this text? What is her or her project?
Understanding that you want to actually show your perspective on a writer’s work as you are summarizing them also helps with pulling quotations from the work. Harris suggests, “You don’t quote from a text to explain what it means in some neutral or objective way. You quote from a text to show what your perspective on it makes visible” (20).
What I like most about number three, assessing the uses and limits, is Harris’s more generous approach to agreeing and disagreeing. Rather than discount other scholarship in order to make your own seem worthwhile, he suggests showing what is both useful and limiting about other’s work. Although my own tendency has been to rejoice when I find an article that seems just flat out wrong, Harris has changed my thinking through his provocative statement that, “simply proving someone else wrong rarely advances your own thinking” (27).
Harris has much more in his book about incorporating other’s work into your own, but these few points encapsulate what he says that helps me think about how to read and take notes.