doctoral candidate in rhetoric and scientific and technical communication
Archive for April, 2006
Monday April 10, 2006
0
Cross-posted at my main site: life inchoate.
I’ve been listening to the NPR series, Fighting Poverty in America with a great deal of interest.
I think it shows how great the class divides are in this country and how there is a level of classism that is undermining the structure of our society.
I also think that this program is showing how difficult life is to be poor.
As long-time readers know, I grew up poor. There were times when we lived out of vehicles – a van, an RV, travel trailers. Not because we wanted to. Who, in their right mind, would want to live in a travel trailer or an RV (nevermind the van – that was poor)? Seriously. There is no room. I didn’t have running water and had to take sponge baths out of a sink in a local business for a year. A year.
One of the segments is about education. One comment was that if you’re poor, your chances of getting out of that are slim. Very slim. The Portland Community Colleges are working to help the poor get degrees so they won’t continue the legacy of being poor and won’t pass it down to their own children.
I count my siblings and myself as lucky. One brother practically has a doctorate. I’m halfway through my master’s. One brother is a fireman. My sister and her husband are doing fairly well. We got out of that “poor” rut. We climbed up, rung by dirty rung to make things happen.
But it wasn’t easy. And we weren’t sure it would happen.
Less than ten years ago, my brother Todd and I were living in a rental in Hungtington Beach, CA, living by the change we could find. There was a dollar store around the corner and we could buy boxed pasta for 2 for $1. We lived off of those boxes of pasta for at least 6 months. It was all we could afford in the very expensive Orange County.
This morning, a worker for the Los Angeles Convention Center said that he considers himself, at about $14 an hour, the rich poor. He considers himself wealthy in the poor range.
This is where I had always considered myself. I still have that “poor” mentality even though I make quite a bit more than that man.
I struggle. I worry.
I probably don’t need to have that “poor” feeling anymore. I’m firmly in the middle class.
But I still worry. I think about what would happen if I lost my job tomorrow. I would have nothing. I could lose my house within a month or two if I didn’t find a job right away.
And that is scary.
poverty
0
I’ve been listening to the NPR series, Fighting Poverty in America with a great deal of interest.
I think it shows how great the class divides are in this country and how there is a level of classism that is undermining the structure of our society.
I also think that this program is showing how difficult life is to be poor.
As long-time readers know, I grew up poor. There were times when we lived out of vehicles – a van, an RV, travel trailers. Not because we wanted to. Who, in their right mind, would want to live in a travel trailer or an RV (nevermind the van – that was poor)? Seriously. There is no room. I didn’t have running water and had to take sponge baths out of a sink in a local business for a year. A year.
One of the segments is about education. One comment was that if you’re poor, your chances of getting out of that are slim. Very slim. The Portland Community Colleges are working to help the poor get degrees so they won’t continue the legacy of being poor and won’t pass it down to their own children.
I count my siblings and myself as lucky. One brother practically has a doctorate. I’m halfway through my master’s. One brother is a fireman. My sister and her husband are doing fairly well. We got out of that “poor” rut. We climbed up, rung by dirty rung to make things happen.
But it wasn’t easy. And we weren’t sure it would happen.
Less than ten years ago, my brother Todd and I were living in a rental in Hungtington Beach, CA, living by the change we could find. There was a dollar store around the corner and we could buy boxed pasta for 2 for $1. We lived off of those boxes of pasta for at least 6 months. It was all we could afford in the very expensive Orange County.
This morning, a worker for the Los Angeles Convention Center said that he considers himself, at about $14 an hour, the rich poor. He considers himself wealthy in the poor range.
This is where I had always considered myself. I still have that “poor” mentality even though I make quite a bit more than that man.
I struggle. I worry.
I probably don’t need to have that “poor” feeling anymore. I’m firmly in the middle class.
But I still worry. I think about what would happen if I lost my job tomorrow. I would have nothing. I could lose my house within a month or two if I didn’t find a job right away.
And that is scary.
Sunday April 9, 2006
0Cross-posted at my main site: life inchoate.
It is 2:35 in the afternoon, on a Sunday, and I’m still in my pajamas.
Hell, I’m still lounging around in bed.
I’ve gotten up, straightened a few things, done a load of dishes, and eaten, but I’ve come back to bed.
When I’m stressed or tired or bored, I watch movies. They please me. They take me away.
My sister and brother-in-law recently traded me a 48″ widescreen HDTV for a laptop. So now I have the perfect television for movies – and it’s parked in my bedroom, along with my TIVO.
I’m watching movies today. I don’t know if I’m stressed. Or bored. Or anything. I know I’m tired. Mostly because I fall asleep during the movies and wake up, pause, then fall asleep again. When I awake, I rewind and watch until I fall asleep again.
Today’s movies are full of artists. And they are making me think.
I’ve read in all of the blogging “how-tos” that you shouldn’t blog more than once a day. That you should keep to topics. That you should do this or that or whatever. Well, heck, my audience is so dang small and y’all pretty much know me that I’m guessing you’re okay if I don’t follow the “rules” of blogging.
So what does this have to do with movies? Writing, my dears, writing.
The first movie had nothing to do with writing but it was about an artist wanting to break free. Double Happiness (1994) stars Sandra Oh as a would-be actress growing up in a traditional Chinese home but in a very progressive Canadian life. She is trying to come to terms with being true to herself and her family.
The second movie, Bright Young Things (2003) is about a writer who is trying to save up money to marry his sweetheart. In the process of saving money, he becomes a gossip columnist, a down-on-his-luck writer, and a soldier. It is set in 1930s London and has all of the appeal of the decadent ages – lots of drink, money, witty repartee, and covert happenings.
Finally, I just finished watching Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle (1994). It is about the vibrant, amazing Dorothy Parker and her friends of the Algonquin Round Table, set in the 1920s.
And this is what is making me think. If I were alive during that time, would I have been writing and being witty with all of them or am I just not brave enough to do that? Do I live too far from where things are happening to make things happen? Am I not good enough to be recognized for the things I love doing? How do you start? How do you break in? How do you meet the people who do these things and how do you become a part of that inner circle so you can do them, too?
It’s not just about writing or photography or art, in particular. It’s about anything. What is your passion? What have you always wanted to do? Do you wonder how to get that “big break”? Do you wonder how others do it?
It always seems to happen in New York or Chicago or Los Angeles. Do I *really* have to live in a huge city to make it? Aren’t there other ways?
I’m blaming this post on Erin who has gotten me to think more about movies lately. While I’ve often thought about them and their messages, I haven’t often written on that. So I blame her. Heh.
And because it’s Sunday and I always post poetry on Sundays (and there is one directly below, if you haven’t already seen it), here is another. From the formidable Mrs. Parker:
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men….
I’m due to fall in love again.
a day spent
0
It is 2:35 in the afternoon, on a Sunday, and I’m still in my pajamas.
Hell, I’m still lounging around in bed.
I’ve gotten up, straightened a few things, done a load of dishes, and eaten, but I’ve come back to bed.
When I’m stressed or tired or bored, I watch movies. They please me. They take me away.
My sister and brother-in-law recently traded me a 48″ widescreen HDTV for a laptop. So now I have the perfect television for movies – and it’s parked in my bedroom, along with my TIVO.
I’m watching movies today. I don’t know if I’m stressed. Or bored. Or anything. I know I’m tired. Mostly because I fall asleep during the movies and wake up, pause, then fall asleep again. When I awake, I rewind and watch until I fall asleep again.
Today’s movies are full of artists. And they are making me think.
I’ve read in all of the blogging “how-tos” that you shouldn’t blog more than once a day. That you should keep to topics. That you should do this or that or whatever. Well, heck, my audience is so dang small and y’all pretty much know me that I’m guessing you’re okay if I don’t follow the “rules” of blogging.
So what does this have to do with movies? Writing, my dears, writing.
The first movie had nothing to do with writing but it was about an artist wanting to break free. Double Happiness (1994) stars Sandra Oh as a would-be actress growing up in a traditional Chinese home but in a very progressive Canadian life. She is trying to come to terms with being true to herself and her family.
The second movie, Bright Young Things (2003) is about a writer who is trying to save up money to marry his sweetheart. In the process of saving money, he becomes a gossip columnist, a down-on-his-luck writer, and a soldier. It is set in 1930s London and has all of the appeal of the decadent ages – lots of drink, money, witty repartee, and covert happenings.
Finally, I just finished watching Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle (1994). It is about the vibrant, amazing Dorothy Parker and her friends of the Algonquin Round Table, set in the 1920s.
And this is what is making me think. If I were alive during that time, would I have been writing and being witty with all of them or am I just not brave enough to do that? Do I live too far from where things are happening to make things happen? Am I not good enough to be recognized for the things I love doing? How do you start? How do you break in? How do you meet the people who do these things and how do you become a part of that inner circle so you can do them, too?
It’s not just about writing or photography or art, in particular. It’s about anything. What is your passion? What have you always wanted to do? Do you wonder how to get that “big break”? Do you wonder how others do it?
It always seems to happen in New York or Chicago or Los Angeles. Do I *really* have to live in a huge city to make it? Aren’t there other ways?
I’m blaming this post on Erin who has gotten me to think more about movies lately. While I’ve often thought about them and their messages, I haven’t often written on that. So I blame her. Heh.
And because it’s Sunday and I always post poetry on Sundays (and there is one directly below, if you haven’t already seen it), here is another. From the formidable Mrs. Parker:
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men….
I’m due to fall in love again.
tangerine
05 years ago
american life in poetry: column 054
by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate
Poet Ruth L. Schwartz writes of the glimpse of possibility, of something sweeter than we already have that comes to us, grows in us. The unrealizable part of it causes bitterness; the other opens outward, the cycle complete. This is both a poem about a tangerine and about more than that.
Tangerine
It was a flower once, it was one of a billion flowers
whose perfume broke through closed car windows,
forced a blessing on their drivers.
Then what stayed behind grew swollen, as we do;
grew juice instead of tears, and small hard sour seeds,
each one bitter, as we are, and filled with possibility.
Now a hole opens up in its skin, where it was torn from the
branch; ripeness can’t stop itself, breathes out;
we can’t stop it either. We breathe in.
From “Dear Good Naked Morning,” (c) 2005 by Ruth L. Schwartz. Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press. First printed in “Crab Orchard Review,” Vol. 8, No. 2. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
saturday fun
0
I wake up early even on weekends. Sometimes I forget how early it is and call someone in my family and then realize that they are probably still in bed. Oy.
Today I watched the clock carefully. We had plans but I didn’t want to jump the gun or call too early. I wanted to call early enough to say there was a change in plans.
9 a.m.
I’m at my sister’s house to pick up my nephew, Kooper. We’re going on a play date with Willow. We’re off to see Ice Age 2: the Meltdown.
It is the perfect day for the park and if we hadn’t already planned on the movie, we would have done a picnic in the park.
9:30 a.m.
We pull up to my brother’s house to pick up Willow. Justice is excited to see his cousin and there are lot’s of hugs and kisses going around.
10 a.m.
We arrive at one of the 2 movie theatres in town. We like going to movies early in case the families want to spend time with the kids and to avoid the crowds. There is already a line for the movies but we’re in luck and get front row seats (this is the front row of the second section – very nice seats where no one sits in front of you).
Popcorn, Icees (for them – lemonade for me) and raisinettes (we all like them) in our laps and we settle down.
The previews come on. Future movie dates are planned (because, of course, they want to see all of the fun ones and I’m happy to comply – hey, it gives me an excuse to see animated movies!!!).
And it starts.
Giggles all the way through. And then, at some touching point (I won’t give it away if you haven’t seen it), Kooper says, “Awwwww…poor thing.” And he looks at me and points to the screen. I nod to him and say, “Aww. We understand one another (and are saps and feel – even for animated characters).
The movie is over and we’ve planned to have lunch together. We’re off to Galaxy Diner – a favorite because they have chocolate dr. peppers (and Willow LOVES those) and they make banana splits.
They order the exact same thing and laugh as they eat the eyes and ears and mouth off of their pancake faces. Then they proceed to eat half of my gravy-covered fries (but NOT my vanilla coke…that’s sacred).
We leave and head toward Willow’s house but decide to go through the carwash on the way because my car is so dirty. We’re in line for 20 minutes and then we’re going through. You would have thought that we were at an amusement park. They were having SO much fun! It was a crack-up.
We get to Willow’s house and Jennifer and Justice ask us to go to the park. We head out. An hour playing at the park and then everyone is starting to droop.
Kooper falls asleep in my car on the way home.
I get home and promptly fall asleep myself.
It was so much fun.
spring fever
0
Baseball has started.
The cherry blossoms are blooming in Washington, D.C.
I see the little green sprigs of daffodils and tulips coming up in my flowerbed.
I *so* want spring to be here. I’m so ready for it.
But it snowed yesterday. Snowed.
That’s not uncommon for Flagstaff. In fact, I remember one year when it snowed all the way into June (June 16th, to be exact). May snows are not uncommon whatsoever.
But I’m ready for spring. I want to see those beautiful beaming faces of daffodils leaning into the sun, declaring that it’s springtime.
I want to see people out walking around, enjoying the warmer weather.
I want to quit wearing bulky sweaters and big socks.
I want my gas bill to go down.
I want to see new life taking shape, green trees whispering in the wind, and the promise of a lush (monsoon-filled) summer.
I want spring to be sprung.
precious
0
Last weekend I spent time with Willow and Justice and Kooper.
On Saturday, Kooper and I hung out for a few hours, eating lunch and watching movies. He chose to watch Lilo & Stitch. He would giggle and point. He would talk to me about the movie. It was cute.
On the way to Phoenix, Willow was tracking the drive via her dad’s GPS system on his computer. Then she played mp3s off of his phone for us while trying to convince us to put in a CD for her to listen to.
She cracked me up when she was taking pictures of me and trying to shoot everything under the sun while we visited Todd at the fire station.
And the next day, as we drove to the stores and her dad was going through the Phoenix radio stations, she was telling us how old fashioned the music was or how we needed to put in a CD and not listen to the radio.
The way she uses language makes me laugh. She’s funny (even if she can’t tell a joke to save her life – much like her aunt Dawn).
But Justice was the one that made me smile from the heart this weekend.
The way he dances whenever music comes on – no matter what kind of music – is adorable. He does hand movements and wiggles his little bottom. He has this way of wiggling his way into your heart and you just want to love on him.
He wasn’t feeling well most of the weekend but he was a trooper. He didn’t let a runny nose or fever get in his way.
He fed the animals at the Renaissance Fair. He chased me across the grass at the fire station. He hugged on his uncle Todd and aunt Cathy.
Last night I watched Willow and Justice while their parents went out. There was one moment that made me want to hold on to him forever.
A commercial came on the TV and he started dancing to the music. He did a sort of wave with his little body and it was so fluid and so sweet that I wanted to jump up and hug him.
He kept going, though, and within a moment was on to something else – as any toddler should be.
But for that second, that little boy pulled on those strings to my heart and made me love him all the more.
soaking it in
0
There are things about family and life that you don’t realize until they happen.
This weekend, Shadow, Justice, Willow, and I went down to Phoenix. We went to Todd’s most recent fire station to see it, check out the trucks (they are different at the different stations), and to hang out with him for a little while. I, of course, shot lots of photographs while there.
On Sunday, we went to the Renaissance Fair.
It was so much fun. We all just hung out and enjoyed ourselves together. We bought “faire” food, walked around a lot, and did some rides. The weather was perfect. The company was excellent.
As we were packing up to go, Todd and Cathy came out to tell me that they really liked the photographs that I had taken and framed as a gift to one of his previous stations. They said that they were really good and that they thought the station would really like them.
Then Todd told me he’d like to sit down with me after they move into their new house to go through all of the photos I’ve taken of him and his firefighter career so that he can decorate his new office with photos from that.
It was nice to hear that he wanted my help doing that and that he likes my photographs well enough to want to hang them up in his house, where many people will see them.
As we were driving home, Shadow and I were talking. We were discussing our lack of religion in our lives and how we feel that it isn’t something that we miss because we have everything that we need. He says to me, “I have a best friend / spouse, wonderful kids, and siblings that make my life great. I probably have more than I deserve.”
And I thought about that. I’m in that group. And I feel the same way about him and Todd. They are my family and I feel so rich for having them in my life.
It’s not just my brothers, though. It’s their wives, who welcome me into their homes and make me feel like a part of their family. It’s Willow and Justice who I completely adore.
It’s a sense of something even bigger than all of us. It’s this thing that links us. It’s this bond that no one else can ever understand because it requires history, shared lives, and shared dreams. It requires respect and love.
And those, we all give in spades.
a pot of red lentils
05 years ago
american life in poetry: column 053
by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate
Writing poetry, reading poetry, we are invited to join with others in celebrating life, even the ordinary, daily pleasures. Here the Seattle poet and physician, Peter Pereira, offer us a simple meal.
A Pot of Red Lentils
simmers on the kitchen stove.
All afternoon dense kernels
surrender to the fertile
juices, their tender bellies
swelling with delight.In the yard we plant
rhubarb, cauliflower, and artichokes,
cupping wet earth over tubers,
our labor the germ
of later sustenance and renewal.Across the field the sound of a baby crying
as we carry in the last carrots,
whorls of butter lettuce,
a basket of red potatoes.I want to remember us this way–
late September sun streaming through
the window, bread loaves and golden
bunches of grapes on the table,
spoonfuls of hot soup rising
to our lips, filling us
with what endures.
Reprinted from “Saying the World,” 2003, by permission of Copper Canyon Press. Copyright (c) 2003 by Peter Pereira. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.