Use-value

A friend posted an article about the experience women have getting older (http://www.refinery29.com/2016/09/121633/stacy-london-style-aging-story?mc_cid=1bcdc9acf6&mc_eid=9566b5b4f4), and also on non-traditional lifestyles for women. It’s just a little bit unfocused, declaring at one juncture, “Sociobiologically speaking, in caveman days, if we could no longer bear children our use-value dropped sharply and inevitably,” then, at the beginning of the very next paragraph, “What’s so bad about growing older when it’s revered in almost every society except ours?” Still, as an older … middle aged … woman who has gotten through most of her adulthood unmarried, unpartnered, and certainly unchildrened, I snug right into this demographic, even if my love of consistency and lack of fashion sense leaves me with an eyebrow raised at the article.

It brings out the right note of ambivalence for me. I never intended this path, but here I am, and truly, while it has a generous share of lonely, there are some very nice things about where I am and who I am. As the article says, you can’t imagine being 47 when you are 27. Maybe even those who ended up exactly where they expected to be get to this point have to reimagine their sense of themselves.

Articles like this bring all the niggly little questions up. I wonder if I should continue to take the occasional (surely it is only occasional) selfie or to ask friends to take photos of me, and then post those photos on social media. There’s that nagging doubt that perhaps I should apologize for the grey hairs that are appearing in my eyebrows, the lines appearing on my face, especially those in the middle of my forehead, my slightly crooked front teeth, my stomach, and all the other physical imperfections.

Seriously? Not a bit, but I do have to admit my own inner critic often has a lot to say on those topics, especially as I begin to see age creep into my face. Even when I recognize it’s ridiculous, getting beauty culture out of my head and that inner critic to pipe down is often tough. For women, being wanted and being worthy are so intermingled with being pretty. (see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0). Even when we know better.

While we’re at it, this.

Unfair Emotions

I found myself uncharacteristically furious in a doctor’s office this morning. I finally got in for a follow up on a bad rash on my hands. A rash bad enough that people would notice. I started telling people I had leprosy or mange. I started wearing bike gloves when off the bike to keep myself from scratching the skin off the back of my hands. There were days when I would have happily torn it all off to make the itching stop. I was furious because it took me a month of suffering to make the initial doctor’s appointment, and only then when I found myself explaining to yet one more person about the itch and the mange did I think to myself that this was ridiculous and a normal person would surely have gone to see a professional by now. I didn’t feel very respected or listened to by the first physician’s assistant, and he gave me advice to use nothing on my hands but water — no soap, no nothing — that is clearly not reasonable for the long term, and not really reasonable for the short term. Not even after using the restroom? No showers with soap for how long? When can I wash my hair again?

In addition to his unmanageable advice, he said he’d refer me to this other physician’s assistant with expertise in dermatology. Hope to hear from them by the end of the week. He saw it close to at its worst; surely it was obvious that this was an acute problem needing prompt attention? The wait ended up being about 5 weeks, and it might have been longer. Plenty of time for the rash to abate and get worse and abate again.

So there I was in this new PAs office, and I was angry. Angry for the unmanageable advice. Angry that it took me so long to ask for help, and when I finally reached out for help when I was suffering and that I got put off for 5 weeks, and had to argue to get seen as quickly as I was. Angry because the rash is not that bad this day; in its current state I’d never have bothered to make an appointment at all. Angry because she had nothing really new to say — I’ve heard this and read this stuff before — I know I have eczema on my hands, and I can easily Google the standard advice — I don’t need YOU for that. Angry because each practitioner you talk to has his or her favorite brands of lotion and soap, and is happy to advise you to use that. Not that any of them seem to make a difference. And what are you supposed to do with the other stuff you bought? Landfill it?

I know all this is unfair — not her problem, not her fault, not her job to put up with me when I’m not even slightly feeling like being pleasant about all of this. But there it was. It’s not even about the rash, or the wait, or the products, or the advice.

It’s about the other times I’ve been in crisis and I’ve reached out for help. To be told that it’d be 2 weeks or 4 weeks before I could see someone. When my phone calls weren’t returned. When I was not sure I could hold on. Those times I’d get in to see someone after holding on to hope for weeks and it would be useless. Each time feeling lost and alone, and left to struggle one day at a time forward, under my own power.

I know I’m one of the privileged, and if I’m finding it this hard, how much worse is this for those who do not have my privilege?

Harper Lee

I started this a while ago and never finished it. It’s been bugging me since. Time to get it out there, imperfect as it is a tribute to the author of one of the greatest novels I’ve ever read.

Harper Lee passed away this past week. I’ve been talking about writing her a fan letter for … probably 30 (or more) years. And now it is too late. It was one of those things that never was quite important enough to do today, but that was something I wanted to do.

I first read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was 11 years old. It was the summer before the 6th grade, and I knew it would be required in school that next year. I couldn’t put it down, not that that was unusual for me with books. I remember crying when I came to the ending, not because it was sad, but because I would never have the pleasure of reading this book for the first time again.

I have read that book many times again. Perhaps 40 times or more. When it was assigned during my 6th grade year, the class seemed to make little progress on the book, with irregularly spaced discussions. My memory (perhaps faulty) says that I read the book 18 times during the period in which we were discussing the book, and then earned a D on the final reading comprehension test. My parents had nothing to say on the topic, but a friend’s mother was outraged, and felt this was a gross injustice. It might have been. I probably knew the facts of the plot reasonably well. It might not have been. I am not sure that at the time I truly understood the complexities of the rape accusation or what it said about the accuser, or many other subtleties in the novel. Those have seeped their way into my brain slowly over many years.

Adulthood and modern-day discussions of privilege, racism, and sexism have left me with mixed feelings about this favorite novel of mine. Yet another story with white person as the hero. I see this and I know that partly I am sad because I want to be that white hero, defending the oppressed. I can want this even while recognizing this robs the oppressed of their agency.

And yet. And yet. There is still much in this book to love, and much from it that I learned.

There’s Calpurnia, servant to the Finch family. She takes Scout and Jem with her to church one time when Atticus is gone. During the course of this adventure, Scout asks her,

“Cal,” I asked, “Why do you talk nigger-talk to the— to your folks when you know it’s not right?”

“Well, in the first place I’m black—”

“That doesn’t mean you hafta talk that way when you know better,” said Jem.

Calpurnia tilted her hat and scratched her head, then pressed her hat down carefully over her ears. “it’s right hard to say,” she said. “Suppose you and Scout talked colored-folks’ talk at home. It’s be out of place, wouldn’t it? Now what if I talked white-folks’ talk at church and with my neighbors? They’d think I was puttin’ on airs to beat Moses.”

“But Cal, you know better,” I said.

“It’s not necessary to tell all you know. It’s not ladylike—in the second place, folks don’t like to have somebody around knowin’ more than they do. It aggravates ’em You’re not going to change any of them by talkin’ right, they’ve got to want to learn themselves, and when they don’t want to learn there’s nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut and talk their language.”

Emphasis mine. Those words of Calpurnia are what started to teach my arrogant little know-it-all self to start pulling back and not having to show off everything I know. There’s a difference between being right and being kind. It started me thinking about meeting people where they are, instead of trying to force them to meet me where I thought they should be.

There’s the sharp-tongued neighbor, Miss Maudie Atkinson, who gave me another view of the woman I wanted to become. I want Miss Maudie’s generous spirit and incredibly sharp tongue. This is one of few portrayals of women’s efficacious and righteous anger. Miss Maudie is able to put people in their place with a single comment — a power I desperately wish I had. Her command of scripture is formidable, and she is able to use it to deflect the foot-washing Baptists who might criticize her yard. Yet she is generous to the children, taking Scout seriously unless Scout intends to be funny, honoring their experience and helping them see a world broader and more complicated than others portray it.

True enough, she had an acid tongue in her head, and she did not go about the neighborhood doing good, as did Miss Stephanie Crawford. But while no one with a grain of sense trusted Miss Stephanie, Jem and I had considerable faith in Miss Maudie. She never told on us, had never played cat-and-mouse with us, she was not at all interested in our private lives. She was our friend.

There’s also the incredible craftsmanship of the writing, where one large story is told by the intricate interweaving of a thousand small stories. I open this book again and again and marvel at the seamless complexity of its plot and subplots, down to a few sentences in a half paragraph on any page you might open the book to.

These are the reasons that I owed Harper Lee that letter I will never send. So that, perhaps, she would read this from me, and know how much her book has meant to me for the past 35 years. Rest in peace Harper Lee. Few will ever hold a candle to the mastery of craft you displayed in your writing, and I will always treasure the delight of reading what you wrote.

Leaving Things Behind

I was at a big conference this weekend, and I saw a friend from graduate school. We remembered a few people, and she remembered some that I don’t. It made me realize (not for the first time), that I leave things behind. I move on, and I move forward. I might keep a few people in my life, a few things. I leave a lot of things and people behind. They fade from my memory as I stop thinking about them, and eventually they go away and it is as if they had never been there at all.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I have a good memory, in general, but apparently that is only for short-term things, and perhaps only the things I notice.

I wonder if I don’t bond with people the right way. That disrupted family of origin thing. Then I recall that I have one friend that dates back to when I was 6 years old, and other that dates to when we were 11 or 12. Maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s just that things are the way they are; you have to put your bad experiences behind you and move forward.

How much do people remember, and about what things? We all remember different things. Maybe I remember as much as anyone does. It is impossible to know for sure.

Leaving things behind can be a good thing, since everything changes. We cannot remain centered on our most negative experiences. Let them go and move forward. Forget the details. Forget the bigger things. Don’t stress about it.

Writing Habit

One thing that has gotten broken this past year is my writing habit, and it is one I would like to restore. When I was writing here regularly, I was better able to find things I wanted to say regularly. Out of the habit, today I am struggling with what I should write.

One thing I learned from Gretchen Rubin’s Better Than Before (and I didn’t even finish reading that book or count it as a book I read this year) is that I am someone who is great at keeping obligations to others, but not so great at keeping promises to myself, or just doing things that I should do. Meeting friends to exercise worked for me on so many levels. I bundled work with fun and social time. And I had a situation in which I was obligated to others to show up, which helped me keep an obligation that I wanted for myself.

I did finish reading Charles Duhigg’s Power of Habit which told me that when our lives are in flux, it is easier to change our habits — or have them changed on us. Habits are powerful. Mine are messed up. I am out of my groove, and wondering if I can get it back.

So, tonight, my goal is to post this post, regardless of quality. And for the rest of the week it is to make one more post. Regardless of quality. And to try to keep that up. If you are a reader, and an encourager, I welcome comments — and even reminders if you notice I haven’t posted in a while. I can’t guarantee a prod will work, but it sure won’t hurt.

One thing I learned when I started writing here regularly was the power of having a very modest goal. My goal is 250 words (and 200 is acceptable). Put together a 250 word post — that won’t necessarily take longer than a half an hour. And post it! That’s short enough that I can do that regularly. Maybe for a while I should cut that goal down to 150-200 words, until I feel like I am back in my habit. Will I ever be back in good habits in general? I don’t know. But if I don’t start, that’s a definite answer of no.

Some things I am grateful for today:

  • I am grateful that I made this post tonight.
  • I am grateful for warm slippers.
  • I am grateful that I haven’t had to shovel snow for about a week!
  • I am grateful for YakTrax which keep me from sliding around on ice and snow.
  • I am grateful for all the people who remembered me over the holidays when I wasn’t pulling myself together to send anything to them.

And that is 400+ words, so I guess even if quality is minimal, I am doing okay.

Quick Trip

When I was in my teens, maybe even into my 20s, maybe even beyond that, at every wedding I went to, I wanted to be a bridesmaid, to wear a pretty dress, to carry a bouquet of flowers. I never was, not until this weekend when I became a maid of honor at the ripe old age of 46. The bouquet was pretty, I was glad to support my friend, but somehow the experience wasn’t quite as exciting as what I had imagined at 17.

Bouquet

I got to see a few friends; I didn’t have a lot of time to try to see everyone. I also didn’t have the energy. I had breakfast with one last friend that last day before going home. I took some anxiety medication at breakfast. I think I might have almost shed a few tears in the airport. I knew when I moved out here that it might take a while to adjust, to make friends, to feel at home, but somehow I thought it would be easier than it is.

Last year was so hard, and I am dreading this academic year because of it. It’s got to get better, except that a wise person knows that things can always get worse. I will keep putting one foot in front of another. I won’t promise to do my best, because I don’t think any of us knows what that really is — if you do your best with one thing, in particular, it would be impossible to do it with at another at the same time.

I can promise to make an honorable effort at the things I am charged with. I will hope to start to feel like I belong, and like I am making a positive difference here.

One thing I try to teach my students about is grit — how to hang in there with a difficult problem, rather than giving up. This is my opportunity to have some grit.

Maybe some gratitude would help too. I will have to make a list for myself this day, and maybe try to make lists of the things I am grateful for more regularly too.

Radio Silence

Finally, the day comes for me to break radio silence. My last post was on February 5, titled “Are you okay?” and for a while, the answer was mostly no. I know I haven’t gotten that answer back to yes. Maybe it still is mostly no. But I recognize that it isn’t helping me to avoid doing things, like writing here, that just plain give me a sense of satisfaction.

It’s also hard to address an absence. Yes, if you are a friend of mine, I would be glad to hear from you. On the other hand, I don’t want you to worry. I’m not drowning, and I don’t need a rescue. Honestly, lately, I’ve been a not-so-great friend, I’ve been doing far from my best job at keeping in touch with people that I care about. That, too, is a symptom; one that I need to work on changing.

I think these depressive funks we all get into tell us that we do need to change something. Or several somethings. Having been through a year of big changes, it is hard to face more, and it is also hard to figure out what exactly to do. Some problems take time to solve. Some problems you cannot solve, you can only run away from them.

How do I get started doing things? I know to break big tasks into smaller tasks and do one small step at a time. I know the coping strategy of setting a timer for 5, 15 or 30 minutes and getting serious for that small amount of time. The harder it is, the smaller the time period you pick. I still feel myself dragging my feet, sitting and web browsing rather than typing, opening up computer code, scheduling tasks, unpacking, cleaning, chore-doing, etc. Sometimes I can even drag my feet on going to bed.

I’m looking at this post, and I’m not satisfied with it. And you know what? Satisfied or no, it’s complete. I’m about to hit publish, and I hope I can take some satisfaction from that.

Are you okay?

Yes. No. Yes. I learned a long time ago that when you don’t know the answer to that question, the answer is no. No, I’m not not okay in a way that requires you to do anything about it. But I’m not okay in the sense that I feel far from all right.

I dealt with my students today. I thought I was pretty light on them, all things considered. The first registered his protest but managed to be polite about it. The second, treated much more leniently, cursed at me. We were done at that point. He can talk to my department chair about it. I don’t have to take that from him. I don’t have to take that from anyone. And if he goes in with that to the chair, I’d be willing to bet that he’s going to land in more trouble than he was bargaining for.

Of course, little does he know that I consulted my chair every step of the way through this, from when I first saw it, to deciding what to do about it. I didn’t bother to tell him that.

Dealing with people is hard. Feeling their emotions (especially when they are being blasted at you) is hard. Having to make unpopular decisions is hard.

It’s also my job. To determine what grade a student earned. To determine when something looks fishy and requires a sanction. It doesn’t matter how much integrity or fairness is brought to that process; someone’s going to get angry at you for an outcome that they don’t like. Angry at me.

On the most part, I think I can deal with this, but lately, it’s been too much. Over and over. At something I used to feel like I was good at. And maybe I still am, but I no longer have my reputation preceeding me. The default expectation for female is often pushover, and when it isn’t, that quickly flips to rhymes-with-witch. If, especially as a young woman, you aren’t being called a certain name on occasion, you are probably being far too easy. Or you have a lot more finesse in dealing with people than I do.

It doesn’t feel good. Not one bit. Part of me wishes I could cry about it, but that’s not coming up and out of me. I just … don’t feel okay. No, there’s nothing you can do about it. I don’t need you to help. I don’t need rescuing. I just need to do my best to push through the rest of today, and then to get through tomorrow, and then get through the next day. I know that things come together, then things fall apart. That’s the natural cycle of being. Persevere through this stage, and things will get better again. They’ll get worse again after that, but no sense in worrying about that now. I have enough worries at the moment.

Cutting Corners

I was grading papers and computer code earlier today. When students’ code doesn’t agree with mine, I wonder why. When it looks nothing like the pseudocode in our book, I wonder where it came from. First hit, Wikipedia. There’s the same code with a few names changed to disguise it.

I’m clear in course policies that copying code is against the rules. It’s printed on every assignment that involves code. Do not copy code. It’s in the syllabus, noting that the minimum sanction will be a zero on the assignment.

On the flip side, you can go from the pseudocode in the book to actual code, and I’ve got no issue with that. That’s what the pseudocode in the book is for.

The first case was so blatant, that it’s pretty obvious what I need to do.

Then there’s the second case. This time the code from Wikipedia was modified to fit in an alternative environment, but it’s still pretty clearly the Wikipedia code, and certainly not the pseudocode from our book.

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. No, I don’t want to forbid students from looking at internet resources, I think you can learn a lot of valuable things that way. But, if you are assigned to code something we learned about in class, I expect your main resource to be either materials from class or from the book, not copying and pasting something off the internet.

It never occurred to me that I would have to spell that out. Maybe I need to spell that out.

I see an ugly situation in my future. I know I can handle it. But this year has been such a year of handling and struggling. Part of me just wants to hide.

Add to my mistakes: looking myself up on RateMyProfessor. Never got any feedback from Texas A&M. But the complainers are out from my new school. I give too much work and it is *so* hard. I don’t help enough in class, and I have a good teaching philosophy, but I just don’t use it.

Note to self: don’t look at that stuff. Haters gonna hate. Your job is to teach, and to ask hard questions. If you are only asking easy questions, something is wrong with what you are doing.

But another part of my job is to motivate students to want to try and do well. I wish I knew what I could do better at that. On that, I thought this was a good article. Rethinking Positive Thinking.

Painful truth

Dear Students,

I know I upset one of you today, and goodness knows whether I will upset more of you tomorrow when I actually hand back homework.

The student I talked to today worked very hard and felt he got robbed on his score. Unfortunately, he just got the math wrong. Scores in general were lower than I would have liked them to be. I know I caught some students out — they were not thinking that 2 weeks to do homework means 2 weeks of homework to be done. I know others got caught thinking that if a few problems were easy then they all would be easy.

I don’t know if I’m harder or more conscientious than other instructors. I do know that I believe that all of you can master this material and get it right. I know that I am going to push you to get to that level.

If I tell you that you got something right when you really didn’t, I am leading you into complacency when you are capable of doing more and doing better. I would rather have you angry with me and have you figure out how to make a stronger, better effort to get things right and understand why you are right than have you satisfied with your grade and mediocre at solving problems.

Would you rather believe a pleasant lie or know a painful truth? I have always lived on the side of painful truths. Today feels like one.

Honestly? I want you to like me. I want you to enjoy my class. I want you to learn a lot. I want you to grow. I know that all those things go together. If you hate me, and you hate my class, learning a lot and growing are less likely to occur. But if I have to give you a false sense of the merit of your work to make you like me, that won’t work either.

So, if you get this homework back and you need to be angry with me, I encourage you to be angry with me. Anger at me that keeps you motivated and working is better than anger at yourself that is paralyzing and makes you think, “Why should I even try? Why should I even bother?” Or worse, fall into inaction because of those thoughts.

I am a grown woman, with a strong soul. I can handle your anger.

That said, I hope that I can bring honesty and encouragement and grace and motivation to you. I hope that I can be someone who helps you to believe in yourself. I hope that I can hold you to high standards, and motivate you to hold yourself to high standards and help you see that you are capable of meeting them. Even when the work is far, far from easy.

That’s what I want for you. That’s what I want for me. That’s what I want for this class, and every other class that I teach.

With sincerity, and encouragement, and even, yes, with love,

Dr. Jinx